StrangeLove

Before diving into this anything but Ernest Hemingway-like tale, I should warn you, the reader, that this post addresses the hot topic of ignorance. I know, bear with me, we've all been put through the wringer in 2026 and the big dumb decline of western civilization has yet to exhibit any signs of slowing down whatsoever, but I'm about to set sail on a braggadocios toast to the most brainless thing I’ve ever done in life—and yes, that’s saying a-goddamn-lot, because if there’s one thread of commonality to stitch my life of unbridled inertia together it’s that of dumb or any stupid combination thereof.

You know, it's always a crapshoot when it comes to these posts. I mean, in theory I know where they ultimately have to end, but generally only have a vague notion of how to start and practically no idea what's going to happen betwixt… and I have a sneaky suspicion the taint on this one is about to get extremely muddied indeed. So, let’s just jump right in and get it on with Rex Mason, aka Metamorpho, a lesser known hero sprung from the wackiest substrate of DC Comics in 1964.

Or should it be apocalypi? Sounds grammatically goofy, but so do octopi, cacti, and radii when rendered in the plural form. Nothing to get hung up on at this point, though, as this is all very much after the promotional fact. Words should have been written and posted awhile ago now with regard to our jaunty stab at the old "Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse" concept, something that has been going on in illustrated circles since... shit, the late 14th century when Albrecht Dürer woodcut them into existence? And the rest is pop-culture history, including but not limited to the entire catalog of Metallica and most every poster that accompanied any of their million-billion concerts, one or two Anti-Hero series, and I'm just gonna go out on a gnarled limb and say at least one seasonal release per year from Creature since that company came back from the grave and ready to party in the early aughts. But enough about everyone else. Let's talk about us! Or me—me me me.

Okay, before we get into anything too serious here, I want to make one thing perfectly clear in my unusually obtuse manner: I'm not a debater. Don't get me wrong, I have opinions, lots and lots of them, many growing more and more unpopular by the day, but I just don't have it in me to go ten rounds in a knock-down-drag-out verbal sparring match. To do so requires a certain amount of extroverted flair for unwavering self-confidence and a rock hard belief system that would put the limestone monolith of Gibraltar to absolute shame—neither of which happen to reside in my cerebral wheelhouse let alone any of the nucleotide nooks and crannies of my DNA. But this isn't Psychology Today and I'm not Doctor-fucking-Phil. So, let's skip the hors d'oeuvres and get straight to the meat and potatoes of this latest word schmear.

Nick doesn't like my taste in music. I know this because he flat out told me so while sitting (and mostly sleeping in) shotgun as I drove us back down to Southern California from Santa Cruz following the 50th anniversary extravaganza hosted by NHS, circa 2023. Granted, it was a super long ass drive. He was also dealing with the mental and physical repercussions of a bizarre if not ridiculous shower mishap, and I'm sure I had on some random Spotify playlist that was algorithmically grabbing anything and everything that may have vaguely applied to the UK sounds of the Courteeners and the Vaccines. So, at some point, Nick grumpily told me he was over it and hijacked the bluetooth connection to play music he liked.