It's 6:43 AM; another night at the ole Motel 6, and it's storming hard. Gusting 20 mile per hour winds, apparently a "category four" - not that I, y'know, have any idea what that means. I've lived, or, more accurately, slept, through plenty of Hurricanes in my Interment here in the sunny Purgatory of Florida; but I must admit, it's different when you're holed up on floor two of a ghetto joint built in the tourist boom of the '60s. This ain't no Hilton. The scenic palm tree towering across the way is looking scarier than usual, wobbling like a limp wiener gone skydiving. Ah, well - least I got Cartoon Network and the magic of social media to distract me. I don't get scared often, but the automated robotic storm alerts that keep incessantly cutting through my beloved cartoons shakes me to the core just about every time. I think its some oddly specific, but potent trauma from being woken up in the middle of the night by that terrible muffled alarm tone as a child. Even bank phone calls or text-to-speech tools give me the jitters. Is there a word for the abnormal fear of lo-fi mechanical voices?
How about... Robophobe. Sure.
So far tonight, I've called friends, drawn, and sat by the shower listening to one YouTube documentary or another. Mostly Red Cow Arcade and Joon the King. I may have a strange aversion to monotonous, disembodied, automated messages, but I really enjoy the brown noise of long-form video essays. The difference? That's for you to decide.
Just like writing, something about hotels really revitalizes my soul - I'd stay here all the time if it were financially realistic. I guess that goes to show the state of things. Hell, even at home I tend to leave on a ten-hour loop of that lovely motel AC rumble. Then again, I'm not sure how I'd feel getting robbed on the daily - can't underestimate the trash ways of southern folk. Myself included. I am a cook, after all.
MidLife's going well, if not a little slower than I'd prefer. I just started working with a new voice actor who seems great so far, and I've been doodling loads of zombie extras and funky advertisements to decorate the dingy world of death. Music wise, I've been pretty narrowly focused on a track called "Isotope Sister", a sort of reversed song-within-a-song reggae experiment that I hope opens some minds to the insanity that is sound. Not every track is a unique musical idea, statement or effort, but I hope most have a standout gimmick of sorts that lets listeners introspect on perception. That's where my head's at.
Ah, well... three days later, the storm's dead and gone. Just like my grandson. It's a warm, sickly summer night, I gotta get up early, and I'm wasting time on my nightmare blog... this is the life.
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