The Terminal Blog

RUE DIAMOND PHILLIPS

2012-02-01T17:42:00.002-05:00

It was June 3rd, 2010. Somewhere in California.

A doctor enters the waiting room hiding his eyes from the nervous, waiting family by gazing at his clipboard. "How is she, doctor?" At the last second approaching them he quickly looked up and his somber countenance spoke before he could utter the words "I'm sorry, she didn't make it, your mother is dead.."

All the tense bodies sagged with their defeated hopes; sobs and embraces; the moment was amplified by grief and there was nothing but the repulsing, fluorescent light that felt heavy on them and the percussive, scuff-thud of the doctor's shoes as he left them to mourn. Rue McClanahan had died.

June 2nd, 2010. Somewhere in....New Mexico(?)

"Lou, this is a legitimate script! I really think you should consider it."
"La Bamba II, did you even see the first one? Ritchie Valens died, man...he died. Why should I even read this?"
"Yes, Lou, I know he died, but.....did you know that Donna was pregnant with his child! Yes, Lou, a child prodigy who can sing, dance, and play guitar better than his father...and may have a penchant for killing zombies."
"Yeah, I don't think so. You bring me one more script like this and you might be getting yourself fired."
"Fire me? I paid your mortgage last month...literally! Out of my wallet! Look, I'm here for you, but Hollywood isn't calling anymore. They don't need an actor of Scots-Irish and one-quarter Cherokee, Filipino of Spanish, Chinese, Hawaiian and Japanese descent right now. And the Young Guns prequel is a no-go! The point is, your career is dying...if not dead!"

Lou Diamond Phillips looks out the window of his mobile home that he had purchased second-hand from the company who provided them on the set of Young Guns II. Those sincere eyes, he clenches his jaw like he does when he is pissed off and about to knife-fight with someone who just insulted his heritage, which happens in every Lou Diamond Phillips' movie.

"I'll do it." he finally responds.
"Great!"
"But only if I can take my own trailer to the set."

Later that night, the television cast a pale light on Lou Diamond Phillips who was troubled in thought. Behind him, Emilio Estevez stared boldly out from a movie poster and before him, his own voice pulled him from his fugue. It was an Iron Chef rerun that Lou had been a guest judge and he was commenting on Mario Batali's extraordinary squid ice cream. He closed his eyes, sighed with disgust, and sank into his chair.

Even later that night, an asteroid struck Lou Diamond Phillips' trailer, and though he survived, he never regained consciousness. Those who knew him best, knew that without that trailer, Lou didn't have much reason to go on.

It's tomorrow in California, and every where else...technically.

"Excuse me, doctor, but I was wondering if you wanted me to get Mrs. McClanahan's body down to the morgue. The entire floor is starting to smell like Skin So Soft and AquaNet."
"I'm on my way now to personally handle it personally."
"Umm, okay?" The nurse gave a curious glance.
"I know what I'm doing, I'm doctor."
The nurse turned away and stopped and looked back, "Oh, doctor! Did you hear about Lou Diamond Phillips' trailer?"
"Why yes I did, Maude, yes I did." he spoke through furrowed brows of malevolence that tainted the rainbow in Maude's heart.

In Rue McClanahan's hospital room:

Our evil doctor pulled the door shut, closed the blinds, and took his pants off. He approached the still body of Rue and muttered something incoherent, so much that it was really pointless of me to take note of it at all. He pulled her gown down to expose her left breast, then he pulled it lower...then even lower. Finally, with all of her breast exposed, he took his scalpel and carved "Red was here" into her abdomen and narrated those words to himself in the voice of Morgan Freeman. He was about to leave, since his work was done, when he thought a most vile thought...to forge Lou Diamond Phillips' still living body with this dead, old lady. It was brilliant?

UPS delivered a large package the next, next, next day, I think it was. He used 2nd Day shipping, so whatever day that brings us to, but remember, you can't really count the day that you ordered it. The outside of the box said Lou Diamond Phillips and the arrows were pointing up. "Good" he thought.

"You! Orderlies! I command you to take this box of Lou Diamond Phillips to Rue McClanahan's room. If you do not accept this mission, you shall.......................................die?" And so it was done.

Four days later, this is what the security cameras caught.

I'm Your Passenger

2012-01-29T16:33:00.001-05:00

Let's say Life is a car.

Scratch that, let's say that a relationship is a car.

When you get into that car(relationship), there are two duties that are mandatory for a successful drive: One person must be a driver and the other, the passenger. Now having two drivers will only lead to bickering and disagreement, and just a lot of friction in general. Inevitably, they wreck or drive off of some romantic cliff overlooking a cityscape. The opposite, a car with two passengers, well, that car is going nowhere. Two passengers lead to indecision, stagnation, and inevitably....indifference. They typically don't move an inch and can be willingly complacent, if just for the sake of temporary comfort.

I am a passenger. I would like to think in my youth that I was a driver, but I'm mature enough now to realize the fact that I need someone stronger than me -to actuate me. Took a long time to realize that shit and in the stead of this knowledge I have dated passengers over and over again...even long after I had accepted myself the non-driver and knew better. I'm a selfish asshole, I get it, but hey, nobody likes to feel lonely, right?

So to add another stupid analogy to this bullshit, I guess I will say that I am back to hitchhiking...that way I'll have to be the designated passenger. Unless you trust a stranger with your life. Then I'll probably just drive us off that romantic cliff.

Dr. Loomis: Crazy as shit and don't give a fuck.

2011-12-07T00:40:00.001-05:00

I work in the general vicinity of a psychopath. Now I'm no doctor -and this guy has done nothing for me to label him as such, but he's a quiet lad, he leers, he moves slowly and purposefully, and because of such traits he has been donned "Michael Meyers". This title inevitably spurs us local hooligans to shout at him in the tone of the well-meaning Dr. Loomis. We loosely paraphrase whatever verses our assembly-line-atrophied minds can recall, all the while he is aloof to our goof. It's probably for the best.

In our wild child shouts and skullduggery, I found myself thinking about the late, great Dr. Samuel Loomis: What in the fuck kind of doctor calls a child "Satan's Trident"? Especially one who has never uttered a word, budged an inch, or even given an inkling to further plans of murder and mayhem, for the good doctor to validate his very own psychotic ramblings and warnings. Yeah, yeah, Michael killed his sister when he was a child, but that was a long time ago and lots of normal people...kill people...he was just an early riser. But even so, in spite of his toddling in slaughter, should or would, ANY DOCTOR EVER....call his patient an evil psycho who should never be given the chance to live a normal life? Remember, Michael Meyers just sat in that chair looking out the window. He didn't do or say anything to spur such an imbalanced rant by his "Mental Healthcare Professional". So I guess Dr. Loomis and myself(as I mentioned above) are on par as psychologists.

Imagine this guy is your doctor: "Yeah Doc, I've been feeling really low lately. I think it's the depression." "GOOD GOD! I Pray that you burn in Hell, if Hell would even have you! Call the police, nurse!"

And this must have gone on for years! Michael was just a young kid when he went in, but a young adult when he got out. So I assume for thirteen some-odd years, Dr. Loomis harangued his peers, chastised the young Meyers, and probably potentiated Michael Meyers killing spree in Haddenfield. The young murderer could have been steered from this inevitability, but the constant reinforcement of "You talk about Michael as if he is a human being. He's a killer, I tell you...a killer!!!!" Yeah. That kind of incessant, psychotic cultivation of a young, neuroplastic mind is going to lead to bad ends...and it did. I say, Dr. Loomis should be disbarred...if he weren't killed. So maybe in the end it all worked out just fine. Doctors, be good to your patients.

MICHAEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Shaving Points.

2011-09-25T13:40:00.003-04:00

I'm just gonna guess: 9.9 people out of 10 -shave their private areas.

I was just having a conversation with a lovely lady about this topic when I thought to myself..."why do we do such?" It took all of one second for it to dawn on me. Everyone, at least at the genesis of "groinal grooming", did such to make their sex organs look more delectable to their partner or partners. The basic gist is: Nobody wants hair in their food.

The concept is a hybrid of a full-bloom peacock and a gorgeous plating by a world class chef. This is especially so for the man. Let's face it, the "pork N' beans" are not a pretty sight(at least for this hetero male) so you have to do what you must to give the "package" a brilliant, Christmas morning present appeal: Trim, shaved, plucked, waxed, braised, seared deliciousness. YUM!

For the ladies...from a man, we appreciate the effort. The act of cunnilingus is a labor of love, and being a very thorough and in-depth undertaking that requires a lot of up close and personal attention, having a clean palette makes it a more enjoyable experience for both parties involved. No woman wants to be in the throes of passion, close, oh so close, and then have her partner start hacking like an emphysemic cat gagging on its own hairball.. The vagina can be a treacherous place and much like the Dairy Queen by my house, you ladies should go for a Grade A rating by the Health Inspector. That means no hair on the labia(by all means, have some pubis, I like to know you are a woman and not a girl, but keep it above the clitoral meridian), this also means no offering up yourself after a six hour flight from California, any drive longer than two hours, and definitely not after an eight hour shift of sitting at the desk! If we are, at times, to treat the vagina as food stuffs, then ladies, treat it like a thoughtful, homemade meal for your loved ones.

Now guys, if a lady is gonna go down on you and you don't know her that well, she's gonna finish the deal, regardless. But if you are in a relationship, it is a must to keep the boys looking dapper. No woman in a long term relationship wants your penis in her mouth. There are reality shows to watch, chocolate to eat, and basically anything else that doesn't involve your cock and her mouth. So if you expect her to go Down Under, I suggest you make it the best experience possible....which means clean and quick!

Now as we all weed-wack ourselves into a sterile state of vanity pattern baldness, I can't help but think of the fallout in the decades to come. When our generation hits the Nursing Home age, what are those poor caregivers going to face? An army of afro-bushed genitalia, saggy skinned, randomly-placed-tattoo old fuckers with long soured fake breasts and gaping holes where taut piercings once sat. But I guess that will be fine. No one wants to fuck an old guy anyway.

Get Well Soon.

2011-09-13T12:39:00.000-04:00

Here's how antidepressants work:

September 1st: A man(me) goes to the doctor, he asks for some medication to help cultivate his negative predisposition into a more manageable apathy. The doctor says, "sure" and prescribes him Wellbutrin.

The next six days: The man goes about his shitty daily cycle: A job he hates on a shift he hates. Come home, go to bed, wake up, have the afternoon to do....whatever it is you can do on an afternoon Monday thru Friday, which is mostly: Go for a run, watch TV, Facebook, clean, laundry, cook. It's a vastly boring and unfulfilling cycle for said man(me, again). Afternoon shift is a boring existence for a morning person, and cumbersome for an anxious man who has in the back of his mind , "must leave for work at 3:30, must leave for work at 3:30". For this particular man(me), it's no life to have when you never see the sun come up or go down. This life, it's just one long, perennial day of waiting to leave for work and one long, everlasting, lonely night.

Day Seven, September 8th: The man(me) has steadily taken his prescribed Wellbutrin, daily. So far, so okay. This medication makes him antsy and anxious, but it's also motivating and a little fun. The man rambles like coke-head to his friends, but is aware of it and laughs at himself. He can work all through the night like a young man again with no wear to show. But on this day, day Seven, something goes awry. At 7:30 EST, the man goes on break at work, and what an apropos time to have a "break"down. Sitting there, attempting to read a book, he suddenly can't focus his eyes. His vision becomes distorted. And more or less, it feels like he is peaking on some high powered blotter acid. His heart races, his mind panics while being serenely self-aware. Things are fuzzy to say the least. He thinks, like a Pittsburgh Iron Worker from the 20's that he will just get up and walk it off, but his body would have none of that. Five minutes later he is draped over a large plastic Stock Container, intently focused on deep breathing, hoping to god he doesn't pass out on the factory floor. He gathers himself, makes his way to the Medical Dept. at work where he is ushered to the ER by ambulance. Poked, prodded, scanned, monitored, bled, tested....nothing. "Why yes, sir, we do believe you had an adverse reaction to the medications you are taking. See here, you have every single side effect that is listed below. But....we do recommend you keep taking your Wellbutrin since it is not safe to just stop taking it at once."

So this man(me) -who for the most part- is on antidepressants because the majority of his life is spent in a factory while his spirit, mind, and soul atrophy into an aborted fetus, is at the crux of the issue. Now ironically, the medication worked: The man got out of his well-hated work for three days dealing with acute side effects, but getting away from his bane cost him a part of his well being. And this same Trojan Horse Hero who infiltrated him, wrangled him into a state of extreme anxiety, made him feel as if his heart was going to explode and lose his mind....was the cause and the cure itself. It took small doses of this poison to climb back down the ladder into a state of normalcy. So in the end, it was a successful failure. It was a complete cycle that did it's job in a short-lived, roundabout way and now I am right back where I was...and thankfully so. I look back to last week and think to myself in a joking manner: Maybe the whole point of this prescription was not to change the chemistry in my brain, but to give me that near death experience so I could have that "It's a Wonderful Life", "A Christmas Carol", "The Game" type moment of clarity where I wake up alive and intact and the only thing that has changed is everything....my perception.

I don't feel better, I don't feel different, I am just feeling like me again. And thank christ for that!

This Doogie Howser moment was brought to you by GlaxoSmithKline©.

Never Forget?

2011-09-11T11:23:00.000-04:00

All the votives are cold, all the hands unclasped, the vows have evanesced, and our short term unity is now divided. The only things that endured the attacks of 9/11 is the video footage(ad nasueam), a loosely guided, vengeful hate, and far too many gravestones on this land and on others.

Go ahead, turn on the TV today, you know what it feels like? It feels like Christmas morning: The pageantry, the video montages, mortal Christs on their homemade crosses. They say today is a day of reflection, but I believe our mentally degenerate society has taken that quite literally. I see people pulling out "vanity" mirrors and staring weepy eyed at themselves with their self delusional stigmata, bleeding their even more delusional pride all over the floor. Oh how we have fallen. And we would gladly take that title of "Fallen" if only we could include "Angel" at the end(because angels are real, you know!) But alas we are the Fallen. We have been felled from the short lived cohesion that only an enemy attack can provide to a massively divided group of misfits. For a short period of time, we all had a similar enemy to focus on so that we could stop attacking, slandering, and cannibalizing ourselves. We could collectively point in a direction and stand side by side, united.

It didn't take long for this cable-knit sweater to come unraveled. Ten years later we have returned to this intramural league of throat slicers and back stabbers. We have assassinated the spirit of this country, which we held loosely for a few months after The Attacks. We have gone back to the good ol' days of drawing lines in the sand of: Religious/NonReligious; Homo/Hetero; Upper Class/Lower Class; War Monger/Peace Lover; White/Black/Asian/Hispanic/Arabic/Jewish/Me/Not Me! This may be a melting pot, but it is a pot full of separate ingredients that have no binder to make us one.

They say that no man is an island, but obviously a country can be, literally or allegorically. We don't have allies, we have business partners and enemies, that is all. And inside this island nation we have cloned ourselves into Lords of Flies: Violent children, emotionally reacting, and trying to erect a social hierarchy from which we can label ourselves Kings or Serfs and know our place discontentedly. But that is what we are. We are the Boy King of the world, the infant nation that has taken global reign, and all the world plots for power. Everything is never enough.

So on this ten year anniversary of 9/11, remember. Remember the loved ones lost. Remember the wars that followed. Remember that unity that lingered shortly. Remember that hate and revenge should not be foreign policy. Remember that we are all in this together, on this one planet, everyone, humans, the same.

The Autumn Wind Sings.

2011-09-05T15:35:00.000-04:00

It's in the spruce, the poplar; the willow and oak.
It's the wave of leaves flitting with a delicate stoke
It is my somber inamorata of the blue-grey sky.
It rolls cool on my skin, an exhale like a sigh

Adroit as she woos my senses so deftly
-and supple am I to her touch.
Her hush as she blows whispers sweetly to me.
I am lulled in my soul by her clutch.

And the beast in this man is chainless but bound,
he thrashes and throes till the coo of her sound...
... it takes him away from his furious hiss,
it liquesces and drips and he melts with a kiss.

Then the man he becomes bears no board for the beast,
when he is lithe and content and enfolded in peace.
The Autumn wind sings as she always has for me,
And I am drawn into her as she rolls into me.

The Young and the Restless.

2011-08-13T23:53:00.000-04:00

Wedding bells are ringing. Suddenly the ringing in my ears is deafening, more so, than the now wedded bliss of two young happy counterparts.

We are the young and the restless.

When I look at the young products of divorce and my peers today and take into account their parental separations, I wonder what chances we all have. When I see two young lovers make their way down the aisle, forever bind themselves in the temporary wedded life, I wonder how much they are trying to right the long-past wrongs of their forebearers.

I see the pattern of divorce, I have experienced it personally, and now one can reckon that this series of generational divorce will expand exponentially as you and I vow to make our marriage one that will correct the loss of our "Nuclear Family" as a child. You -fellow child from a broken home- did you not tell yourself that you would make it right somehow. That when you wed, now or in the future, that it would be forever, that you could or would make it work at all costs. I did, and that's what I feel like I am seeing these days: People, mostly young, attempting to exorcise the demons that haunt them, trying to reconstruct a family that they never had, and thinking all along that this is "IT", I'm gonna make it right. But this is no burden to carry nor should you bear any crosses down the aisle. Especially those crosses that are weighed down with expectations of "this has to work...this WILL work".

Flawed as you and I are, we can have our reasons for nuptials, we can have our intentions however we see fit, but when this party becomes two, that party isn't necessarily the focused laser of intent we had decided in our minds. So now you have young couples from broken homes making the wedding march into something more of a cathartic pilgrimage. A Hajj to reconcile the misaligned hopes of a linear youth they thought they should have. They bolt from Point A to Point B as fast as they can, blindly, while their segregated parents cross their fingers for their happiness, hoping that somehow things will be different this time around. When the intention is to make life more fantasy and hope than reality, the intention will always fall parabolically to the ground, a ground full of roots from our past that have woven themselves into our fabric and have made us into the once-broken, now-superglued people we are. Forever searching for catharsis, marching down aisles hand in hand with hope, praying that Point B is the end and that we'll never feel pain again.

I'll Remember You.

2011-08-10T13:08:00.000-04:00

Do you remember when we would run just to run? To make all the straight-laced, older people think we were doing something wrong or illegal. "Wait. Let them see us next to their door...then run!" It was always the thrill, and the thrill of the chase, whether contrived or real and deserved, was the adrenaline rush we all loved.

Remember Greg and Dan's house? Remember how we broke the door and damn near everything else in their house? Remember how we would goad them into getting their parents porn out and take all the money we could find just so we could go to Chi Chi's and eat chips and salsa?

Do you remember throwing Ga-Wu's underwear on the roof so he had to run home naked? And the time you made him eat bait at the fishing pond?

I wonder if you remember all the times we "egged" and "toilet papered" the Wilson's house, or Anne's house...I can't even remember the last name now... but do you remember hiding fish in their shitty blue car -under the seats?

Do you remember all the summers we spent at your pool or mine? How we played every single sport in the history of the world; how we would play golf in the neighborhood and scare the shit out of the old folks with our golf balls flying everywhere?

I remember riding in your car, listening to "Diddy" by Paperboy over and over...
I remember us raising hell with all the neighborhood girls.
I remember getting high in Buck's basement.
I remember stealing beer out of Kirk's garage refrigerator(Keystone...yuck!).
I remember you hitting that car at FiveStar after buying beer underage and speeding home in the snow only to have the cops show up shortly after. We were too young and dumb to realize he got your dad's license plate number.
I remember prank calling people from your house and the one time we ordered a pizza and you paid the guy in all pennies!

I'll never forget the night we got drunk on Colt 45: We passed out in my basement. The next morning I woke up right where I had passed out...on my way to the light switch. I look over to see a beach towel with poop in in it. You slept on that foam pad on the floor and you were complaining about your back....somehow a bottle of mustard ended up under the thin foam mattress. We both puked all day long.

I remember smoking weed with you every chance we could get.
I remember when the weed wasn't enough to satiate you.
I remember being afraid of you.
I remember us fighting.
I remember the last time I saw you -years later- you looked like shit. I just ignored you.

But I don't want to remember you like that. I want to remember you as the wild kid from the old neighborhood. I want to remember the incredible athlete. I want to remember that daring young man who would run straight ahead into anything without fear...always pushing me forward while I was always trying to hold you back. That is all I can think of now...the way you were. That in spite of everything I have begrudged you for; past, present, or future...you were the reason why we all got in trouble...and why we all look back on our childhood with a brilliant smile and fond memories. And now you only live in those memories...where we run for no reason at all...me and my friend.

2011-08-03T13:13:00.000-04:00

This year there will be a somewhat unfamiliar face at Brazil's LGBT PRIDE Parade, one of the largest of its type. Among the bright and proud faces of gay men and gay women celebrating their orientation -wearing next-to-nothing and a perfect smile- there will be a much toothier grin dancing the night away. Meet Carcharodon Carcharias, or as he likes to be called, "Cary Aries"

In a recent interview, I sat down with Cary Aries to find out exactly why he left the cool, temperate, coastal waters of South Africa for the scorching hot Brazilian sun.

So Cary, tell us, why did you decide to "come out" ...of the water, that is?

Cary: It was just the right time, you know. I just felt like I was swimming around in circles, not getting anywhere, and I was really unhappy. One thing people don't realize about living in the ocean is that it's not very cheery down there.

But, how is it that you can breathe?

Cary: My first...let's just say he was a very gifted doctor, gave me a gill augmentation and a lung transplant from a young lady who was....let's say tragically killed by a boat propeller. Poor thing.

Wow! That's really amazing! So would you say that you being here today at the LGBT Parade in Rio de Janeiro is fate?

Cary: Um. Yes.

And this Doctor, you said he was your first? Tell us exactly what that means to you.

Cary: I guess I have the same story as any lost boy who is confused with who he is. I was doing what everyone else was doing for so long, I just lost myself, my identity. I became like so sad when I realized that I hated everything I was doing. I mean, seals taste like shit! They're like so damn fattening too! Anyhoozles, I came across this scuba man, he was so docile and cute just wading in the water...I could've just ate him up...but I didn't! Haha, shark joke, nevermind! So I coast on up to him to check out the scene, and he just grabs a hold of my nose and flips me over on my back...UGH! he was such a man about it! He called it Tonic Immobilization, but whatever the hell he called it, I was putty in his hands. Ever since then, I haven't been the same. He opened up doors for me, which was pretty impressive for me, because I had never seen a door before.

And those doors led to Rio?

Cary: First they led to heartbreak, turns out Mr. NoseFondler was a married man! But I got over like a big girl and now here I am! That's right World! Here. I. Am! A proud, gay Great White Shark on the loose in Brazil! O.M.G I love saying that!

No regrets?

Cary: NONE! Thanks to Shark Week people have been really receptive to me since I hit the mainland. Lady Gaga even pulled me up on the stage at yesterday's concert! Still though, people have been really nice, but I get lonely. Though I feel like I am just like everyone else here...I know I'm not. But hey! I bet there are plenty of good plastic surgeons around here somewhere, and once I find me a proper dentist, shew! the world is mine baby!

Nigger Lover.

2011-07-24T21:29:00.000-04:00

I have addressed my love, unabashedly, for the negro world plenty of times...mostly on the Book of Faces. Now I will address it for the rest of the internet world who I am sure has been waiting on pins and needles to hear/read what I have to say on this subject.

It's really quite simple. I am a self-absorbed mother fucker.

You're probably thinking, "what does that have to do with anything, asshole?" What I would tell you is that I, myself, am a nigger. Now obviously if you look at the profile pic attached to this blog you can see that I am not exactly a person of color(and quite literally! It's a B/W photo.). What I am though is exactly the same rejected, non-conformative, square peg in the round hole. For every person who uses the word "nigger" in a derogatory sense, I would consider myself their definition of nigger...sans the racial connotation: An unwanted, uncouth, dirty, cheating, second class citizen. And if that is the opposite of what the bigots are preaching, I will be all of those things quite happily. I am, inside, to them, everything they would reject. Not that they would know that... it would be unassuming because I am white on the outside, but in the inside I am a nigger, balls to bone. I know this by deduction: I have deduced that I am the natural enemy of the ignorance-driven bigots of this world because I am not morally depraved, at least not so far that I would hate a person based on the color of their skin. I am a highly sophisticated human who can find all kinds of good reasons to hate a person...take bigotry as an example!

What I would like is a shirt that says, "I'm not one of you." I have even taken to the habit of telling my black coworkers that I am Jewish so that I have an easier-to-swallow minority presence. The fact is, white people sit arrogantly at the core of everything that has ever been evil and I don't want to associate with that(and that is a fact... I just said it!). Just as the black community of this United States has inured a tragic history, I have inured the race I was born into...and in the South no less. Now I am not juxtaposing myself with the tragedies of our perpetually, tainted past, I'm just saying that for soft Liberal faggots, it's hard knowing that to some degree, we are in fact THE MAN.

Now I am not one to give an arbitrary pass to African Americans, nor would I with anyone or any group of people. I don't like the fact that there is very little support from the Black Community when it comes to the fight for Gay Rights, which is no different than Civil Rights to me. The Black Community, by the numbers, is a predominately Christian cordon, which explains the hesitancy to back a group that is at odds with their imposed beliefs. I say imposed on purpose, this religion, the one that would keep them from seeing these two movements of "Rights" as being identical -is the same religion the slave masters had given them. Ostensibly, I see, and would hope most could see, a conflict of interests. But anyway, let us fade from thoughts of an irenic and chimerical destiny that will surely never be, especially with us white folk about.

It was weird path to get this perception of myself. I spent a good portion of my neuroplastical youth living with my grandparents who lived in a predominately black neighborhood. In the house, it was "nigger this" and "nigger that", outside the house; well, there were only little nigger kids to play with, so therefore, all my friends were niggers...and the seed was planted. I created close bonds with my black friends and when I eventually learned that "nigger" was an offensive word(which that instance almost got my ass kicked and made me a new best friend simultaneously) once I knew it was a "bad word" and was highly offensive to my new friends, I could feel the horripilation throughout my body when word "nigger" made an appearance. This, in any other case, would have put me at great odds with my grandparents and their racially slanderous ways, but at the same time, my grandparents were good people and they were really good to their black neighbors in spite of how they(my grandparents) were raised and tainted in their own age of neuroplasticity.

I think I realized young that humans are pretty flawed, and of course I learned about social masks and the in-home comfort of effortless hypocrisy. I want more than anything to aspire to be above the hypocrisy. To be who I appear to be, balls to bone, no matter what color I am.

Diatribe!

2011-07-22T12:35:00.002-04:00

It's Friday and I should be glaring in the hard light of the upcoming weekend, but this Friday has been awesomely bad....and it's not even noon!

I had a doctor's appointment today, early, which sucks because I work nights, but I made it like a good boy, right on time. It was nothing, just feeling run down and having some pain in my left ear...turns out I just had some fluid on the inner ear. Still, since I was feeling lethargic, the doctor wanted to take my blood to make sure my liver and kidneys were working properly, and since I have never had an HIV test and I have been having too much unprotected sex for the past two years, I told him to throw that screen in there as well. The doc shakes my hand, sends me on my way to the lab where I come across a phlebotomist who is obviously a pill addict. She has what I like to call the PillHead Drawl in lieu of the Southern Drawl, where it seems these flunkies just can't enunciate anything they are saying like maybe their tongue is dead or numb to near death by whatever Oxycontin-type meds they have stolen from their car crash victim mother or aunt. But even before that, the lab being just down the way, I could hear the junkie nurse blathering loudly across the entire office that "Mr. Varner WANTS AN AIDS TEST?" Jesus.....

So now that everyone in the building knows that the sordid Mr. Varner may or may not have cooties, I enter the lab. Sally the Crackwhore immediately goes to work stabbing holes in me like she is suffocating and on the other side of my skin is oxygen. After she pulls about a gallon of black/red syrup out of me, she asks me to sign a form giving permission for the HIV test and on one line it stated I could have the test done confidentially, which I found quite funny being that this lady couldn't grasp discretion if it were coated on the pain pills she was taking, you know, after the whole "AIDS TEST!?!" screaming question thing. I'm a little weirded out by this whole thing...obviously. I have no reason to think I have anything, such as HIV, but hey, it's the responsible thing to do right? Almost en vogue if you will. And the next time some slut asks if I have ever been tested, then I can proudly state that yes I have, as few can honestly state.

After Stabby Time, I went to drop off my prescription for my inner ear AIDS. After picking it up an hour and a half later I treated myself for my responsibility with a Baconater from Wendys!(sometimes you just have to eat shit) But on my way...hell..within 100 yards from my local Walgreens...I catch the red light. No big deal, right? Everyone catches red lights, but in the car in front of me sat a young lady who was too busy fucking with her cellphone to bother with the stop light and all the traffic that sat behind her. If my goddamn horn actually worked, I would have honked so damn hard at her! Daisy the Dumb Fucking Cunt finally goes and I barely catch the green, but this body in motion did not stay in motion for long. Shortly thereafter, yet another woman is sitting still in the middle of the road, but this time, there was no light...this old, haggardly bitch was trying to turn into a fucking yard sale with a wide swooping turn as if she were steering a river barge. She has both lanes blocked, the other asshole in the driveway doesn't know what this old fuck is doing so he isn't backing out and once again....MY FUCKING HORN DOESN'T WORK!

So to sum up all this bullshit: I hope I do have a terminal disease, because if I do, I am buying a gun, shooting every woman in the face who is ignoring everyone else around her in traffic. Then after that, I am grabbing a machete from the woodshed, heading out to every yard sale I cross, and I am going to chop up every old fucker in my path. Then I will spitefully cough my disease onto their corpses.

In Bloom.

2011-07-21T02:40:00.002-04:00

The pear tree blossoms punched white against the azure sky. They were light and danced happy in the constant breeze. Spring had crept slowly, hesitating as if the winter had a gravitational pull that it was fighting against, and then suddenly –on this day– Spring had become unstuck. The blades of grass no longer lay flat with a pale hue; they stood stiff on end like an army of brilliant green sentinels gently breaking against the wind. The thick clouds were hasty and unrelenting like flotsam in a good current. They crowned the horizon leaving not a shadow on the ground. It was a perfect day to be happy, though she was not as she made her way through the street market noticing a strange and beautiful flower that a vendor said was an artichoke. "I thought artichokes were husky, ugly things that tasted good?" she posed to the vendor. "In time my dear, they become this unique flower, just as delicious to the sight. Here, please, take this one, a pretty flower for a pretty lady." She blushed and accepted this new and strange gift and then made her way onward.

Life had not been especially good lately, or bad for that matter. Her days had become an apathetic amalgamation of lists, responsibilities, and work. She felt heavy on this day: Her mind was tired from over-thinking, running relentlessly like a treadmill, short-circuited and gone mad. She had become adrift to her dreams of becoming a writer, and in its stead, took on the role of safe and responsible citizen. At first, "The American Dream" is just that, dreamy. A secure job to buy a secure home. A home to fill with things, things that could never fill the void left by the hollow sense that somewhere along the way she had sold herself out, or at least short. Even in college when she was staring down her choice of majors, she stuttered at her heart's longing and chose the path her father thought was best.

It was now five years later, and as promised, her choice had become a blueprint for success. Her father was proud, her coworkers respected her, and she had most everything she wanted. In spite of her happy facade, she felt a corruption inside, a sour feeling she knew came from the willingness to live against her natural instincts. And here she was... a perfect day, that in a sense was a renaissance itself, a rebirth from death: The brambles blooming and tulips fading from green stems to the faintest yellow hue of petals awaiting their chance. As the world seemed to be opening up, she felt closed down. She wanted desperately to be daring.

The files were in hand. The meeting was in fifteen minutes and she was five minutes away. She sat hunched over on the park bench where she spent most of her lunch hours on warm days. The city buzz faded from her mind and the serene pond seemed to stare back at her. This deal would land her a contract that would last into the next five years, double the time she had already put in. She worked hard to get to this point and she knew her hesitation was unjustified. Her writing, a talent that once ebbed in her youth had flowed away from her in adulthood. Sure, this creative stasis could have been the reflection of her current state, but the recessed yearning inside wasn't enough to push her into the risk of leaving her job. She looked endearingly at the greenish-brown pond, and realized, that in spite of its murky countenance it reflected the firmament above with the brilliance of a mirror. That in spite of the brutal winter, the flower still unfurls itself. That in spite of the tough husk she had enclosed herself in for security, that this woman could still bloom and radiate all that she had held inside....just like that artichoke flower sitting next to her.

The clock on her phone identified the necessary time for her to leave. This thought should have propelled her from the park bench, but she paused for a reason unknown to her. She felt something inside of her like gravity holding her tight to this seat. The pace of her heart quickened. She felt short of breath and everything seemed to slow down. She must leave to make her meeting, to set her life in guided motion for the next five years. Her mind rationalized. She willed herself to stand and turned away from the park and the city sounds cued themselves in perfect time. As she made her way slowly from the bench, she had an idea. She quickly sat back down, pulled her files from their folder, flipped them blank side over, and pulled out her pen. Artichokes....

A Father's Son.

2011-07-20T14:00:00.000-04:00

In the dark corridor, the sound of rain echoed, the cool Spring breeze swept through, but none did it cleanse the remorse of Cap. Again. It was another loss. Another loss. Cap felt the sour feeling in his belly and it was unshakeable. There was no one around, he was always left alone because nobody loves a loser, he himself, could not love this loser.

Don't feel this way, everyone loses, sometime. But he didn't believe the lies his mind told him, he knew that his prime had passed him like half of the field in the race. Cap stood fast from the bench in the corridor, too mad to scream, he clenched his entire being, the fingernails digging hard into the palm of his right hand, his knuckles white around the whip in his left. The sound of the rain was drowned out as the furious fugue took hold of him. He ripped his silks off and began to violently whip himself on his exposed back. He remained quiet during his periods of self-mortification, not a peep, not a peep, he heard the voice of his father say. The tears mounted in his eyes, old wounds from previous acts, reopened. Blood, like the rain around him slid down the contours of his muscles and he whipped harder with each sensation of pain. He would not stop until the white light came, when he would finally realize that he was no longer breathing and his body's need for air would bring him back to the moment. He stood there bleeding, his chest heaving in the moist air, and he felt nothing at all.

The locker room had an insufficient amount of light that accented the lines of his body, accentuated every scar that covered his front and back, and made him look like an eerie villain with shadows for eyes. All the other jockeys had cleared out for the day; made their way home to families and friends and such; maybe some celebrated, maybe some didn't. It was all Cap now, alone with his loneliness. Behind his personal effects hid a flask of cheap bourbon whose musky oak smell, emanated like the ghost of his father. With a wince for resolve he swallowed forcefully, pushing everything down: His defeat, his loathing, his hatred, his pain, his memories. The tepid drink evanesced a plume of alcoholic tinge from his chest up to his throat, then relaxed his mind into a thoughtless state. He assumed at this very moment that this is what everyone in world must feel like -all the waking moments of their lives. A calm and clear peace of mind, if just for a moment.

Cap threw his things into the back of his truck that was once his father's. After his father's passing, Cap had moved in with his mother who was constantly ill and it was perfect timing because Cap was about to be evicted for delinquency. Cap was always rueful on his drive home, he knew that his mother would be waiting up for him: She would be sitting in her chair, rocking slowly with her eyes fixed on a painting that hung across from the front door. That old painting of the 1973 Kentucky Derby with the big red Secretariat way ahead at the front would always reflect the light of any headlights that pulled into the drive. He knew that he would come through that front door and his mother's eyes would be chocked full of hope and she would ask if he won a race today. She was always tremendously proud of Cap and his successful, young career. She doted on him to her friends and family and this made the pain of telling her, that no, there were no victories today, even harder. And he would, he would tell her that he didn't win a race that day and she would tuck the corner of her lips back and give a lightly sympathetic nod of understanding. She wouldn't say a word, but for a split second every time, Cap could see in her eyes the disappointment she felt, even it were just from the delusion of her own hopes. She would shuffle off to bed, and Cap to the basement, both feeling equally defeated.

The basement was a solemn, cold tomb. It was lit by a single incandescent bulb in the near middle of the large open expanse. The dim light did not reach the walls, but only caused the white mattress to glow in the corner, and fell a dim sparkle on long, forgotten trophies that were carelessly bulging out of the tops of old boxes tossed behind the exposed stairs. Neatly juxtaposed along the bedside were empty bottles standing like sentinels. He called them Dreamcatchers in lieu of the Native version and he had one more to add to the lineup, one more soldier to keep any and all dreams away. He could not sleep without intoxication, at least not well, and when he would catch an angry drunk, or spirited one, sometimes he would keep himself up to near sobriety. On those nights, the dreams and nightmares would come. He no longer distinguished good or bad between the two: The dreams were of winning, success, and happiness, which were just cruel reminders of a past he could not recapture. The nightmares were worse than nightmares: They were real, they were visions and feelings of being powerless against a force that entrapped him, beat him, forced him, and he was a fightless child too weak and scared to be anything other than Victim.

Under the dull light Cap would pace while he drank. Pacing helped him daydream of a better life or remember a better time. Sometimes he would pace in this circle and in his mind he was running laps on his favorite horses, winning races, all the while mouthing inaudibly the call of the race. And here comes Dancing Fancy on the outside! Cap puts the whip to him and look at him go! He takes the lead! Dancing Fancy wins! Dancing Fancy wins! Oh boy, what a ride! And sometimes Cap would be raging inside: Fuck this! Fuck this! Fuck it all! I don't need any of it! A fucking Nothing! Huh, are you happy now? I hope you're happy down there in Hell, because this is exactly what you wanted isn't it? I was just a baby....just a baby. Why? Cap would sob, but always quiet and in control. He would grit back everything, hold it in, and swallow it with another drink. But tonight was different.

In his pacing and tears, Cap was pulled from his fugue. He noticed a box in the opposite corner from his bed, one that had not been there before. His mother was in her 70s, she couldn't make it down the steps, Cap was the one to carry the laundry downstairs and bring it back up, or to fetch random memorabilia from the boxes that his mother had place in chronological order. This box was one that he had not seen before. On the top of the box, written in black marker, was his father's name. His father had been a trainer and horseman his entire life. He himself grew up in a family of horsemen and alcoholics and monsters. Caps father would wax fondly about the beatings he took as a boy. He was proud of the pain that he said "made him tougher'n nails." Then he would look at Cap with his red, glassy eyes, take a pull off of his old flask of his favorite cheap whiskey, and leer malevolently at his young boy. Cap's mother would leave the room and feign housework, usually in the kitchen. Cap would be quiet. Shhh now, boy, come here to daddy, sit next me, now. In the box was a pile of old pictures, mostly from the track. Old pics of his father with his racing cohorts, some just of horses long dead. One picture though, was of a young Cap sitting on the lap of his father. The young Cap was without smile and looked sullen for a child, in what would normally be a fond pose.. His father, his smile shone arrogantly, big and bright.

Cap rose slowly with the bottle in one hand and the photo in the other. His right hand furiously gripped tighter around the neck of his Dreamcatcher, and his left hand started to tremble. Cap began to clench from his jaws on down, he started to raise the bottle to make it go away, but the bottle never made it. Cap looked to the darkness where the wall was hiding and with all his might threw the bottle into it, giving a guttural yelp from all the repressed anger inside. He took the photo into both hands now, shaking all throughout his body, tears falling on the picture. He saw that evil smile, his father's wretched hand on his young, innocent shoulder...shhh now, boy, come here to daddy. But he didn't, there was no father to scream at now, nothing to be said to anyone for recompense, there was only this picture and broken glass on the floor. Cap lifelessly dropped the photo on the ground and went to his bag and removed his whip.

The next day at the racetrack, Cap entered the jockey's locker room. He moved purposefully to his locker, put his belongings inside, his silks for the first race were already hanging up. He would be riding a miserable failure of a horse who was on its way to the pasture, but he didn't care what he was riding today. He was the first one out to the horse stalls, leaving the other jockeys to their lighthearted banter. The trainer of the horse he was riding, Quick Release, came up to him to give him some general information as to the horse's strengths and weakness, but Cap just shot the man with a stern look and paced away directly to his mount. "Look here, buddy. Today ain't yesterday. Today it's all gonna change, cause I ain't goin' back to bein' me no more, and you ain't goin' back to bein' you. We gonna be better than what we really are, if just for today...we gonna win...no matter what. Ya hear?" Cap looked into Quick Release's unflinching eyes and there was a moment of acquiesce.

"AND THEY"RE OFF!"

Cap took to the whip early instead waiting for the proper time to move. He beared down on his mount with all he had, whipping wildly, and shoving the horse at his neck prompting him to sprint immediately. Quick Release responded. The horse gripped at the dirt track carving through the pack like it was possessed by some spirit. Coming around the second turn, Quick Release takes over third and Cap is pushing hard for the lead. Capped whipped. The horse hied and it's body seemed to stretch out longer with each stride. Cap could hear nothing...he was possessed, himself. He thought of his father, the bastard ripping into him, but this time...Cap fought back. With every lash to the horse's hide his father was struck in turn, and with that image, Cap lost control. He was no longer holding the reins....any reins. He grabbed at the horses hair as he beat harder and harder. Coming around the final turn and it's Quick Release taking the lead! Quick Release was panting furiously, gasping for air, confused by the whipping while being pulled by the mane. The horse knew instinctively though...to run, and in his last heaving sprint, Quick Release's front legs simultaneously buckled while crossing the finish line. The horse, still in full sprint, flipped forward wildly planting Cap head first into the track, and then the mount rolled atop the rider violently. Cap lay there motionless just beyond the finish line and his last win. Everything, everyone, was silent. There was no more anger, no more hurt, no more sadness, no more losing. There was only the nothingness of peace.

Undependence.

2011-07-04T15:09:00.000-04:00

I think it has been every year that this blog has existed -there has been an Independence Day rant. This year will be no different, because if I can't be independent, at least I can be consistent.

When I think of our American Independence Day, the first word that comes to mind is oblivion. The motions we go through are arbitrary and thoughtless: Hot dogs, beer, bombs, uninspired "oohs" and "ahs" to said bombs; high fives and house fires...then we call it a day. In the immortal words of Bill Pullman, "Today we celebrate our Independence Day!" Though for the most part, I would say it's safe to say that most of you celebrated this past weekend... celebrating independence on a Monday is so banal! I'm sure to some degree that speaks to how diluted this so-called salubrious anniversary truly is...that even on the day -to the day- the Declaration of Independence was signed(which may not be true itself, some say it was in August...whoops!); that Americans nowadays are too psychotically selfish to make a properly timed, special mention of it. That Americans have fallen so far from the proverbial tree of modest beginnings and so absorbed in the Braggadocio persona of our "Modern Me Society" (which surely is a protective mechanism erected to conceal an inescapable sense of inferiority) that every year we hang our boots from that "tree" in the style of Bombastes Infurioso, flex our collective muscle, and we arrogantly self-celebrate yet another year of maintaining a superior facade.

Who alive is truly in touch with our independence from England? No one I suspect, and none does that make you a lesser person, it's just a matter of time healing all wounds. I got into a fist fight with some kid in seventh grade, his name was Robbie, but I don't call Robbie every year to taunt him and remind him that I kicked his ass; I don't go to his house and set off fireworks that inscribe "I am #1" across the sky. I just moved on, he moved on, and when we saw each other years later...it was friendly. In a sense, that very same thing has come to pass between England and the U.S., they are our number one, and maybe only ally in the world. In spite of our relationship with England, we all know how Americans are viewed throughout the rest of the planet: Extravagant gluttons who have a perverse sense of pride, but a pride in something that is unknown to them....they just know they are "PROUD TO BE AMERICAN!" Which to the impartial observer must look something like a mentally retarded, criminal, boy scout who is blind and armed to the teeth with an itchy, unabashed trigger finger. Ignorance may be bliss to the ignorant, but for everyone else around, it must be terrifying.

The hypocrisy of it all, and I won't bother counting all of them, is that there is no true independence in this country...there is only the veil of independence, freedom, and liberty. By the way, ask someone what liberty means, they probably won't know, but it is liberty which is most important to the heart of what an early and true American was: having the ability to seek out freedom and independence -for those two states are the end result of the actuation of liberty. Liberty is the beating heart behind the passion for man to fight and die for freedom...to gain independence.

From all of the liberties we have inherited, we have done nothing but squandered the ideals which provide the building blocks to everything we could know in these modern times. We have passed the buck on to a greedy government to make every decision for us; we are trolled and chummed and then hooked by the false idolatry of corporate fishermen; and the most disgusting of all, we are chasers of a clandestine and manufactured "American Dream" that we could never know. The irony of it all is...that we are, in fact, free, to some degree, but not so much independent. How could that even be?

We are dependent on the monetary.
We are dependent in our food supply.
We are dependent in our healthcare system.

Most every facet in today's Americano is dependent on something or someone else. Can you live on your own by your own two hands? In its simplest form: If the average American chose to buy some land, fall off the grid, grow enough food for his family or small community, he could still not survive for long. The liberty to lead such a life has been torpedoed by taxation, because everyone must pay their taxes to keep the need machine rolling. Sure, this person could sell some of their crops within their community or otherwise, but that takes a mode of transportation, which needs fuel and upkeep, and let's not forget about paying taxes on that vehicle. You could borrow a truck, but then you are reliant on that other person's whims. I believe the "American Dream" is to manifest whichever destiny you wish to have by whatever will you possess. But this is not how the dream exists: you have to play the game, you have to be greedy, you have to plug into the machine and make the money and pay the taxes and buy the shit you don't need: you have to chase your tail, you have to be dizzy, you have to be sick or made to be sick to love or live this game. You have to dependent on the system for the system to exist. The system is GOD; GOD is the clock; time is money; and you are the smallest cog ticking away your life for money, for the system, for GOD...for nothing.

You're going die soon. You're sick. The disease is everything you know. Do something else, be independent.

Slow Like Honey.

2011-07-02T00:46:00.003-04:00

Honey has a problem. You see, Honey is in love with her abortion clinic doctor, Dr. Narayan, and the only way she seems to get his attention is by getting an abortion, herself. Honey is on abortion -lucky number thirteen. The doctor walks into the room. Honey is bedazzled in red, white, and blue makeup and looks up to the dr. with those blank doe eyes...

Hey Dr. NaryAnne! You won't believe it! Honey exclaimed, happy to see him enter.

And what is it that I won't believe this time, Honey?

Well, I done went and got muhself knocked up again. Really, can you believe it?!

Why yes, Honey, I can believe it, you have quite the gift.

Aww geez Dr. NaryAnne, that was so sweet of you to say!

Don't mention it. So, let's get you into the stirrups and have a look.

Honey blushes and says coyly:
Only because you're so good to me, you sweet talker you!

Dr. Narayan browses her with one eye, looking up from his chart.
Now Honey, I have a feeling what you are here for....the same thing you always want. An abortion, right? Uh... this is number 13? Tell me, Honey, have you ever considered keeping a pregnancy full term?

But Dr., Billy Joe says he don't like babies. Says he ain't raisin' no babies in a world gone mad. Especially with that color'd president runnin' things. He says thay ain't no hope for a baby right now.

Honey, if you were to have this child, the baby would have no idea who the president is, he or she will just be an innocent child in a world that's not half bad.

Now dr., I know you think it's crazy, but I'm just a simple girl...I cain't raise no baby on my own! I ain't got no job. I ain't got no ehjucation. I got nothin' for no baby to give, it's not like I'm married to some handsome doctor...well...not yet anyway. Hell, Billy Joe and I ain't even a serious thing! I'm really single, you know.

I'm not judging you, Honey, but if you are having a casual relationship, one that involves sexual intercourse, then you really need to be using protection of some sort. Once again, I can get you on the pill.

You're always so good to me Dr. NaryAnne; always offrin me things...such a gentleman. A handsome gentleman at that! Tell me, you havin' to beat off them nurses with a stick, or what? I bet they're all over you...day in and day out...and I don't blame em'. A gooood lookin' dr.. I declare!

Honey...the stirrups.

I like a man in control.

Good.

So the other day I was over at my sister's place, she done got this Elvis plate collection she was all hootin' and hollern about. I mean, I guess they was nice and all, but I don't even know no Elvis. Didn't he sing that song about "bumpin and grindin" er sumthin? So anyway, her and all her kids was drivin' me nuts. She gots like 5 er 6 now...

I see, it's hereditary...and I think that was R. Kelly....

Oh... So anyway, like I was sayin', I was bout to pull all my hairs out with them babies bouncin round goin apeshit like Barney just laid an egg full of Mountain Dew on the trailer floor. Sis was all hollern, "hep me make this Italan dressin chicken for Jimmy get home er he'll be in a mood."

Dr. Narayan started the examination somewhere in the middle of this...whatever the hell this is....

I tells her, I ain't never made no chicken with some damn fancy I-talan salad dressn, and why not just put some good ol' American ketchup on it. She says Jimmy likes his chicken "fancy style" so I just told her I had to go get momma's medicine for it was too late...otherwise...momma gonna shit the bed, maybe have an attack on her heart too!

Honey?

She was all pissed off at me, but I.... Yes Dr. NaryAnne? she said looking at his brow between her legs.

Honey, I am happy to tell you...you aren't pregnant.

But...

You're good! No baby. No need for another abortion.

But, that test I took, you know, the one you pee on. I took it and it gave me the plus sign.

Well, the only thing I can tell you is, that it was wrong. This is a good thing, right?

Honey looks dismayed. Her eyes tear up.

Honey, are you okay?

Doc....

Yes?

Doc, I...I...I want a baby! Honey barely utters the words as she buckles under the weight of her sadness. She sobs heavily.

Dr. Narayan is puzzled. He stands at her side, removes his gloves, and lays a hand on Honey's back.

Dr. NaryAnne, I wanted to have this baby. I didn't come for no abortion this time. I wanted this baby so bad.

Oh Honey, I'm sorry. Look, it's not that big of a deal. You and Billy Joe can still have a baby, you are obviously fertile enough, you just have to keep doing what you are doing, with the exception of getting an abortion.

But Billy Joe don't want no baby, Dr. NaryAnne!

You said you wanted this baby, Honey. That's between you and your body, not Billy Joe.

But doc, I can't take no more abortions! I just can't! I'm gonna go ta hell with my ways!

Honey, I'm sure you are doing what you think is right. Thirteen is a lot of abortions, but I don't think God will judge you for doing what you think is the right thing for you.

12.

What?

12 abortions, doc. This one ain't gonna happen...and I didn't want it to anyways. Honey sobs heavily again, snorting and drooling.

Honey, you seem really conflicted. If you want to have a baby, I'll be your doctor. If you don't...well...you don't.

Really doc! Cause that's what muh sister was sayin' to me. That when she was all fat and pregnant, she had to come see the doctor all the dang time. She just couldn't stand ridin' the bus that much. Just darn mad about the whole thing.

Yes. There are a lot of visits when dealing with a pregnancy. Lots of check ups to make sure mom and baby are doing well.

That just sounds divine. Honey's eyes are lit up, she is no longer upset. She ogles her doctor.

....

I mean, I like our visits Dr. NaryAnne. I like em' so much...I think you're just great, Dr. NaryAnne!

Thank you, Honey. I guess our work here is done for the day, but I have a feeling I'll be seeing you soon.

Like how soon?! Like dinner?

No, Honey. Like, if or when, you get pregnant. You know, the baby you want to have now.

Oh! Of course, Dr. NaryAnne, how silly of me. I thought your clever butt was askin' this ol' girl out on a dinner date.

Nope...

Honey licks her lips and stares down the doctor as she passes him, making her way to the door.
Yeah, Doc, I'll be seein' ya soon....and often. Till then, keep beating them nurses off with a stick. I gots me a date with Billy Joe, but not a real date, Doc. I'm single girl, ya know.

The Mocking Night Rapist Whore.

2011-07-01T03:50:00.000-04:00

In my front yard there is a tree, a Bradford Pear. It's a dense, ornamental tree that if jettisoned into outer space it could block out the sun. In this tree, which sits smack dab in the middle of my front yard, there is a bird....a dual personality type whose cacophonic day and night shrieks are almost more than I can bear. This tree, it's not that big, not big enough to nest more than one bird family, yet during the day I can hear the random different apings from what I presume to be a mockingbird, but at night, I hear the single swoon of a nightingale.

Now I have done zero research on this, I don't really care to. What I presume is going on in my front yard, is that a mockingbird has set up a raping shop... a little shop of sexual horrors for any unassuming other nightingales. It's the perfect spot for avian rape: Other than being dark at night (duh), this tree is a dense, non-permeable, billion-branched trap of sexual malice. Two bird enter; one bird leave. I think we all get the gist, right? Our daytime mockingbird glozes the stray nightingales into his haven with his lickerish call: they enter: boom boom: MOCKINGALE!

Of course, it could just be a meretricious, little whore of a nightingale who is two-timing her noble mockingbird mate. I don't expect Montel will do a show, nor do I think the FIVE-O will respond to calls about flighty ill-fornication. The good thing is...I can't really see what's going on in there. See no evil...no evil...right?

So this is for you bird/birds! The next time I am cutting the front yard and something wet lands on my shoulder....it better be bird shit!

I am Ishmael?

2011-06-29T04:42:00.001-04:00

In absence of a life I dream for, I have this one. I don't mean to piss and moan, but this niche I have carved out for myself was done in haste, and at the time, the job I now begrudge so thoroughly was the next step, but now is a crushing cross I no longer wish to bear.

For the pragmatic, the laissez faire, and the bounce around happy-go-lucky, they might just say "quit!" The reality check that stabs at me from the other side of the mirror is an ugly truth that locks this cuff around my ankle. I am an unskilled laborer with no higher education.... Sorry, I'm stuck here.

So being stuck in a situation which has drug out for almost 12 years, you think by now I would have decided to make the best of it, but that is not how I do things. Let's just say, I don't make lemonade. Nope, over here it's all lemons....sour, bitter, hateful lemons. I could go back to school, and when I say "go back" I refer to the one full semester I put in at WKU and then dropped out, which is more like starting anew than picking back up. If I were to do so –as a part time/working student– I would be a stone's throw away from retirement by the time I reached my graduation day, because surely it would take AT LEAST six years to get a bachelor's degree. On top of all that...I have no fucking clue what I want to be when I grow up. I am sure of one thing in my life, and that is, I ABSOLUTELY HATE MY FUCKING JOB!

I romanticize the idea of being a writer of some sorts, but at best I am a single draft blogger. I have a strong predisposition towards all sciences, but who's to say if there are in any jobs in such fields in Kentucky! I could quickly get a job as a Baptist preacher, but a Biologist? Out of fucking luck, buddy! There just aren't a lot of things I want to do in this life, maybe because at 33 years of age, and never living this life as thoroughly and fearless as I could or should, I am just a jaded and cynical bastard who prefers to scoff from his perch than to partake. Christ! It's even stressful to be passive about this topic! I just want to wake up to another life...or win the lottery.

I look around and back at all the driven people I know and have known, they always knew what they were going to be or what they are going to be. I hate those fuckers! I feel like the accident that I surely was as a fetus. A "whoopsy", a charlie-horse conception that caused dad to be unable to pull out in time, so it's befitting that I live an accidental, drunken, destiny life that stumbles and weaves directionless.

I should start with things that I am not:

I am not a talented athlete.
I am not a rapper.
I am not a criminal.
I am not a go-getter of any sort.
etc...

I'll keep thinking about this list until I have covered every profession ever, then, I will know what I am supposed to be...right?

Listen up GEEKS!

2011-06-26T15:42:00.000-04:00

Lord of the Rings Blu Ray extended edition comes out this Tuesday, June 28th! Now you can own it on every single fucking platform available to man(excludes reel-to-reel and VHS). I know I will!

Happy Father's Day to Me...

2011-06-20T14:42:00.000-04:00

My five year old son, Nathan, left this sticky note on my pillow for father's day. This absolutely happened and I consider it the best card ever! I'm sure he meant to say "dad you are THE shit." but there is something much more poetical about this particular wording.

Fiends and Guilt.

2011-06-15T14:19:00.003-04:00

Who are these people and why do they bother me so?

I get off of work in the wee hours of the night -and sometimes- I may stop at a late night fast food shithole such as Taco Bell. This was the case last night.

I was second in line, behind a Mitsubishi, and judging by the shape of the driver's arm, it was a dainty and trim female who had ordered enough food to feed the seven dwarfs. I think to myself, "she must be buying food for her stoner boyfriend, probably holed-up in the crappy apartments just up the way." The lady hauls in her late Thanksgiving-portioned snack and drives off into the night.

After doing the same, but in a much smaller portion, I drive off in the same dark, one-way direction...only to come across that same Mitsubishi parked in a poorly lit corner of the Taco Bell lot. The wee little lass was chomping down voraciously on whatever fare she had just purchased...all alone...in the evil night like a starving jackal baring down on a carcass.

And I don't know what it is, why these Parking Lot Hoarders bother me. There is a certain duality of shame and audacity that stumbles me. It's like PDA (Public Display of Affection) when I see these types, and almost always at Taco Bell --I think-- "GOD. Get a fucking room!" But these types, for whatever reason they hide, they care not for a stranger's judgement. This is their territory and are more like a proud naked, elderly, European man at a nude beach displaying all that mangled, hairy goodness that only a perverse God could have given him. They strut like a wild turkey in heat while the rest of us vomit into our picnic baskets, but only do so in the quiet shadows of near-miss-noticers.

But on the inside of her life:
This poor girl may have had every reason in the world: An abusive husband who beat her whenever he thought she ate too much. A mother who would berate her all childhood long about eating habits. Any good old fashioned guilt would do. I know one thing, she represents a militia of itinerant late night eaters who have a borderline lewd affinity to the sinful delights of food we know we are not supposed to eat. And maybe that is it right there.... doing something we know we shouldn't. How many of us hide in our own little way? We are all -to some degree- the bastard children of some form of guilt or fear that we were taught along the way. We all have something in our lives that we keep in the dark corners and never share completely. Some of us sneak cigarettes, masturbate behind locked pantry doors, close eyes or look away all-the-coitus-long, keep our childish dreams and hopes to ourselves, hide behind social network masks, and some of us....some of us eat shitty food in parking lots in the middle of the night. All of us...have a part of ourselves we are reluctant to share with others. Burritos, for the most part, will not reject us.

Behind the Three Cedars.

2011-06-14T13:40:00.000-04:00

Just past the rolling, falling lea. Just past the darkened, gnarled cedar three,
It was there that I last saw her mangled body.

I will always know how it came to be, when at last in her clutches she gave unto me,
The farewell kiss of claws in the sober moment of infinity.

That was where I left her; eyes rolled and cold; in my hands -her beat I did seize
And I lowered her down into that empty, hidden well behind the cedar trees.

I was her lover and she -for then- was mine:
and we rolled in kisses, we lurched in our souls,
we clutched and we tussled and we grasped in the folds.
And we panted in breaks, we tempered ourselves-
we flocked to the call like the ring of a bell.
But none was I -the only one,
I was the fetcher, the fool, the fortunate son.

Somewhere behind those three cedar trees, my baby, my love, she chose to leave me,
she's folded and kept, forever she waits, waiting for someone to please set her free.

And I come when she calls, and I laugh and I bawl, but she knows I will always be there,
With kisses and rope, this menacing love, I do this because I care.

In the almost dark, at the bottom of the lea,
behind the broken brambles, she gave herself to me.
And I take what I will, because this love is mine,
She is nothing to no one, but for the Earth to dine.
I take a memento, a token of hope,
and I lower her down with a kiss and some rope.

Hakuna matata and worse things.

2011-06-05T21:13:00.002-04:00

It's yet another blog about dating...and how could I not.

Let's get one thing clear...I hate dating! I'm no good at it, I'm generally a confused person, and from that, I have no idea who I am or what I want. I'm like a Snitch from a lawless game of Quidditch, just bouncing around aimlessly, putting eyes out and leading chasers on a far off journey of psychotic delusion. I'm really not okay with this, but for now, it's who I am as a single thirtysomething.

For one, I prefer being alone. Two, I hate being lonely. WTF!? If you are one of the poor ladies who have been at my side during the past two years, you know exactly what I am talking about! The push and the pull, and not in a good erotic sense, but more like..."come here, baby. Now get away!" I am skeptical about everyone. I think I am finding reasons to keep them at a distance to keep emotionally safe, but all the while, I am subconsciously desiring any company to keep me human. I can sense my hereditary neurotic side starting to poke through like a seedling finally catching its first warm rays of sunlight. I must dilute this neurosis with the solvent of companionship, someone who can say, "hey Bill, you're going fucking nuts...shut the hell up!" And I am. I am bouncing off the walls over here trying to find my groove that I can properly function within.

It doesn't help being a self absorbed, narcissistic bastard! I want...no no...I need you to think I am fucking amazing! I want to be special, though I know I am just another blip tanking downwardly across the radar screen. I am the kamikaze pilot of any half decent relationship, and I'm just looking for a target to crash into. That doesn't sound too pleasing does it? Some women think I am "complicated" or "enigmatic" and they like that, it adds a bit of mystery. The fact is...I am FUCKING COMPLICATED! Ridiculously complicated. Unnecessarily complicated! And I am looking to complicate you.

I know now, after bouncing myself off of many other humans, that I need balance... I desire balance. I am the immortal devil's advocate and as crazy, or even conservative at times, as I can be, I need a human who takes this entropy riddled equation and balance that fucker out! I, myself, just meander on like a .3333333 remainder that seems to never end.

As with most things, it comes and goes in waves. My wave has crested and fallen recently, so I thought now would be a good time to look back at the detonated mine field I have left behind. I have reeled in those lonely hearted damsels with arrogance and have thrown them back like undersized fish, gasping for air, and I am sure they were glad to have it. For all those ladies I have deemed crazy, desperate, boring, etc.. I am just as bad as any of you, if not worse. Maybe even the cause or a projection.

Luckily...I don't give a shit. I adopted a wonderful doctrine that I call "pragmatic daitng" and put quite simply, "if it is, it is, if not, then it is not." Thus far, it has been a lot of NOT, but I guess I have plenty of work to do on myself, which I don't really believe in that shit either.. just fucking be, man!

So at every McDonald's arch in my single-life timeline, I regroup, I purge, I forget myself and everything I thought I knew, and then get right back on that pale horse from Hell and do the same shit all over again.

Poly-Ticked Off

2011-06-03T12:41:00.002-04:00

Great men, the heretofore generations of idolized captains of industry, politics, and the moral ballast of our now capsized country. They are no more. In the only conclusion I can conjure: The first of the great leaders fornicated with the next, and so on and so forth for millenniums and what they have sewn from their reaping is the diluted pool of half-wit caricatures, who on their best days, are merely mortal.

...and now that I say this...I wonder.

What pool of persons do we elect from? My dear friends, it is this pool of misfits we call modern day society, and what better way to represent this collection of angry, greedy, lazy, titans of gluttony than with the best man or woman whom directly relates to those aforementioned adjectives. We are casting the first thrown stones with every bit of malice we can conjure, because deep down inside we hope there is some kind of Messiah who can lead us from these dark days of apathy, and that that Messiah will not reflect our own visage, but that of a people who are greater than what we are now. We are soul-sick with the notion of being a Narcissus who stares into a muddied puddle on a moonless midnight and there is no reflection, only a putrid abyss.

We are appalled by the indiscretions of human beings, flawed tooth and bone, it's the religion in us all. It's God looking over our shoulder; it's God telling you sex and your body are dirty; it's God who is shame; it's God who has borne that bastard child called Righteousness. We are a naive bunch, to think one that holds office is above us...is above human. Whether you are fearful of your own wants and seek out secret restroom sex in airports, or screw around on your dying wife during an election, text pictures of your Weiner to strangers, or simply because you are a damn fool from Alaska...it matters not. We are all collectively the bastard children of some pinball destiny that is unknown, and more than likely....doesn't exist itself. What is that conclusion? The nothingness at the end of this frantic ride? What if there is no God or no light at the end of the tunnel? Could we be any worse than what we currently are?

Billions strong, and from where I live, nearly a billion strong of neighborless islands with fortresses of paradigm perceptions. There is no help for us, simply because we refuse to help ourselves. We have been pacified by convenience, we are idol rebukers of an unmanifested destiny, and what is most bothersome, we are idolaters of ourselves: Self-back-patting, victory-cigar-smoking, obese kings of mediocre kingdoms...and we like it that way...it's easy.

The election is a short stone throw away, and throw stones, we will. We are angry...we are irate because those talking heads on the TV.... are us.

Sunday Drivers.

2011-05-29T22:25:00.005-04:00

He always drove with the windows down, you can do that in California where the weather is not deciduous, but is perennially monocultured, an annual Indian Summer that is as obtuse and uninteresting as hospital walls. He loved, not only the wind whipping through his hair, but the hum of the road -that to him- with his amplified hearing aid he had worn since his youth- sounded like the slow roar of a crowd building as the packed stadium finally recognized that the ascending intro of the next song, was building up to be their collective favorite song. At 60mph, the crowd roared by, a Buick, probably the Rolling Stones.

Glancing over to the passenger seat, he indulged a surreptitious grin that the lady took as the usual flirtation. She was beautiful enough for such a mirthful allusion, and he loved her dearly, but this grin was for the Buick, who paced itself well over his speed and brought about the standing ovation that was reflected in the hoisted corners of his lips.

"You certainly love to drive, don't you?" she posed.
This grin was for her, but no verbal retort. It was a knowing grin, that yes, he did love to drive. That o'er every hill and hidden in corners of every bend, was the next something else that was never exactly like something that had just been passed. In his rearview, he saw a red convertible coming up fast, he stayed below the speed limit on purpose. This was not that same roar he had heard before, but different. It sounded like the audio clips from any Beatles news footage, from just about anytime they would step outside and the mob would roar and shriek and then give chase to their pop idols. In a second, the mob shrieked by, and in his mind, John Lennon lay bloodied on the ground, newspapers print huge headlines, and all that innocence paints everything wet red.

They were on their way to nowhere. It was a homage to the Nuclear Family unit of the 1950s who would take their Sunday jaunt, and do so purposelessly. It was holy like the dinner table. He and his father and his mother and his sisters would jump into the family Bel Air and coast around the budding suburbia; waving at other oncoming family passengers and captained drivers like boaters might do at the lake on Memorial Day Weekend. This arrowless trip was not in suburbia though, he had had his fill with that life. A monoculture within a monoculture was an analgic and joyless existence....it was nothing. It was the black cat in the dark, lightless room in the land of forever night. This trip was a quick and nimble bounding down the parkway on the outskirts of the city.

"So how long are we gonna be out here?"
It was easy to ignore someone when you are born almost completely deaf. People don't really have many expectations of you; they treat you with kids gloves; they overpronunciate and stare into your eyes with a slightly dipped chin and raised eyebrows as if you are reading their lips....sometimes that is true. This time he just blatantly ignores the query; it feels too damn good today; the music is ripe in him and this kind of elation only comes along so often.

Around the next turn, a tight curl, a motorcycle is riderless, a Toyota Camry is caved in and painted John Lennon red. An old pickup truck in the opposite, oncoming lane is flipped and a woman is screaming into the windows. He was coming out of that ugly turn too fast and the eyes of those people flashed big and white, he could feel his heart sink and could see that same feeling in them. In the corner of his eye he could see the beautiful woman brace her arms on the dashboard with her right knee lifted almost up to her breastbone. Everything was so slow in this moment. Every moment was a lifetime and for the first time in his life, without faking, he could hear nothing in that moment, he could only feel the adrenaline preparing his body for a harsh contact. In that last moment... he suddenly heard Jazz: Dizzy Gillespie shrieked through his horn as he stamped on the brakes and Buddy Rich smashed heavily on his cymbals as Billie Holiday wailed sadly through her soulful vocal chords.

Everything was John Lennon now... everything and everyone but the hearing aid man who was frantic and his body was contorted in too many wrong directions to save. He was stuck and panting heavily, the pain was being held at bay by the adrenaline, that was when he heard the roar of the crowd coming up from behind him. Maybe The Doors being baited for an encore. This Is The End.

Superfantasticality.

2011-05-29T15:19:00.001-04:00

Evan Rewd was on choppy waters. A foolish dreamer, a near-misser of reality, and if it were not for the nuisance of other people, with their "ahems", fake coughs, and "pardon mes" he would forever be encapsulated in his mind...and glad to miss all the truths, walls, things, and people. Evan Rewd found very few redeeming qualities in other people, and to keep it fair, he found few in himself, as well.

What brought Evan Rewd to his choppy watered situation, was the same escape route he used to dodge choppy watered reality. That escape he found so necessary to remain sane in what he deemed a sick world, was turning on him. Evan Rewd was heavy hearted, the guilt he carried around with him was as real as his heart beating in his chest, and where he would venture off to -his daydreams- they were being mutinied by the rational portion of his brain.

"Evan?"
"Yes."
"Are you even paying attention to me? You're somewhere else aren't you!? I'm not important enough, am I?"

Questions. All these silly questions...like I am supposed to redeem or validate you. Why do I even care what you are talking about...it has nothing to do with me!

"I'm sorry, I just remembered something...something very important that I must not forget. Please, continue from where you left off."

The lady went on, barking like a dog who never got enough attention, pulling on shirt tails like a child who wants something from mommy. Mommmm. Mooommmmmm. MOM!

"I see, that's very interesting..." Evan Rewd searched for her name, but he couldn't find it in his memory banks, so he just left the sentence open in awkwardness. He liked going on a first name basis with his patients, something someone had told him about "keeping things comfy and casual." Who is this person? This...this person...this lady, had been coming to therapy for just a few weeks, once a week, every Tuesday, noon. He didn't know what it was that she was talking about, but he knew that she was obsessing over a past lover, or husband, or something, or someone. She was very neurotic and apparently liked to cry for no reason. More than likely, your typical control freak who likes to manipulate with emotional swings; an inclination towards depression like everyone else in the world.

Charlie Brown's mom 'wah wah'd' on and on and Evan Rewd was back in his marriage. They were young again and she was beautiful once more. They looked at each other with kind eyes and devious smiles, her breasts were full and sat proper, straight ahead; legs, firm; buttocks, firm. She was never this perfect in reality, but Evan Rewd had made her so. She would have never taken him back if he hadn't magically become a virtuoso on guitar, and drums, and piano, and his voice had become powerful and mellifluous also. It was a miracle...it seemed.

It was that fateful day he arrived at her doorstep...after winning the lottery that he told her she would never be in debt or hurt for money again, he would always be generous with his new fortune. Of course, this brought her into a great fit of excitement and her eyes silvered with tears of joy, she was just happy for herself, she hadn't realized how great he truly was now. The door banged and she became sheepish. Evan Rewd had not announced his arrival, it was conceivable that some dastardly bastard was awaiting on the other side of the banging door.

"wah wah wah wah" she clamored on.

"Evan Rewd, this is Chester Sinclairensondon, and this is his band, The Super Rights." his newly shaped, then ex, said.

Evan Rewd, cold eyed and confident, firmly shook hands with this...this nemesis.

"Evan Rewd? That's a cool name, I guess?" he passively scoffed.
"Chester...that's too easy. Nice to meet you." still shaking hands, eyes piercing one another.
"Soooooo....the guys were just here to practice...they use my basement. Evan Rewd, it was nice of you to stop by, and with such amazing news!" She cornered herself comfortably in Chester Sinclairensondon's arm crotch. She looked at Evan Rewd with eyes that were daring him...boldly.

"Well, as it turns out, I can't play guitar today, see?, I cut myself driving over, but the boys, they still want to practice...I thought maybe we could, well, you know." Chester Sinclairensondon said coyly, staring into Evan Rewd's eyes mockingly. She grinned like a whore. Evan Rewd was clenching inside.

"I can play." Evan Rewd boldly stated.
"We shall see, Evan. Rewd. We shall see."

"Wah wah wah wah."

Making their way to the basement, all instruments plugged in, powered up, minor adjustments made, strings tuned, mics checked. Without hesitation, Evan Rewd went into "Black" by Pearl Jam and the band cued in properly behind him when the time came to do so. He played possessed and sang like an angel. With every strum and note hit, she inched further away from Chester Sinclairensondon, and inched ever closer to Evan Rewd. The guitar whinnied like an electric unicorn having an orgasm on a rainbow of diamonds. The nemesis, Chester Sinclairensondon, he could not fight his own urge to cry at the beautiful, yet painful, "do-do-do do-duh-dos" that came towards the end of "Black" by Pearl Jam. Evan Rewd's neck vasculated with effort, passionate, passionate, effort. And when, when Evan Rewd improvised the verse "we belong together!", which sometimes Pearl Jam will do when performing "Black" live....Chester Sinclairensondon's head exploded and with every repeat of that verse, the bass player's head would explode, and then the drummer's head would explode. The rhythm section had splattered the walls red and Evan Rewd and this woman, his..

"Hello!.....I'm still here, ya know! I know for a fact you weren't listening to me this time! You're just like him!!! I am not paying for this! Goodbye!" the lady person slammed the door.

"Oh god, it's Tuesday, I hate Tuesday."

Been Laden?

2011-05-02T10:25:00.000-04:00

Laden have we been, the people of this nation, with the crux of our past, present, future. We are on a disastrous one way path headed straight for karmic balance. Luckily for us....we don't believe in any of that bullshit! This is AMERICA, bitch...GET SOME! And get some we did. It is news for no one; the word of Osama Bin Laden's death -and even less so- the news of our blood thirst for what is called "justice."

A lot of people got blown up and shit. It was horrible.

Fast forward ten years. We shot the dude who planned it. Even Stevens?

Killing a person because they have killed is not justice...it's revenge. For the most part, our justice system is not founded on the "eye for an eye" mantra, unless of course, you live in a RED state such as Texas where the only thing that is bigger than the waistlines is the erection they have for the killin'. This particular revenge, though great for victim's families of 9/11(if in fact they seek such revenge) has done nothing but drop the old man into the sea: A figurehead who was on his way out the door anyhoo. He still leaves behind him an army of terrorists who now have a martyr to fight for....great...

Once again we treat the symptoms and not the cause. I am not saying that there aren't religious extremists who just want to kill people who are different, because that's what religion is all about. What I am saying is that surely there is a reason for such hatred of our nation. That maybe somewhere along the lines we have perpetrated and cultivated the angst that swells against us. How could we not have all of our fingers in their Arab pie? They have all the oil! And, as being the world police, we MUST stabilize other nations across the Middle East and spread our corrupt form of democracy. It's the only way to diplomatically coerce our needs from them.

They are called 3rd World Nations for a reason, and it's because they are two steps behind social and governmental evolution. It isn't easy to evolve when you are clutched by the talons of dictatorships; those dictators, who at certain points throughout history, we have been more than willing to cooperate with...and dare I even say...CAHOOTS!? In all of our fluctuating cahoots we have been pals with enemies only then to turn enemy to our enemies effectively turning them into double jeopardy enemies!

Whatever may sprout from your soil, it was a planted seed that germinated. So what do you think grows in sand that has been saturated with blood? Animosity towards those red, white, and blue Johnny Appleseeds of the west. Those killer cowboys who have rocketed overseas to play an ongoing game of chess from both sides of the game-board. Remember, there are eight pawns for every king and each one of them has a dagger and a memory.

There are no shores to storm when it comes to ideology. There is only ideology. So why can't we storm the shores of the perception of this country and become the great nation we claim to be? Daggers can be sheathed, but the memory of good will...will remain.

Blog on Blog.

2011-04-27T12:36:00.000-04:00

If there was a cross we could all collectively nail ourselves to, it would be in the form of a blog, and bloggers, the legion of half-assed Messiahs who have beguiled themselves in self-importance would be the martyrs of this decadent inanition.

You see, deep down(right on the surface) every blogger thinks they have something to say, even though we really don't. The fact is, we search high and low to find something, whether it's in our personal lives or on the news, to write about because we all just want to be writers, but we don't have the talent level. Thanks to Al Gore and his internets, any asshole who can plug something into a wall can become this sad caricature, pound away thoughtlessly at the keyboad, and VOILA! You are a blogger!

Bloggers for the most part, are people past their prime and are bored(doesn't really sound like the type of author you want to read, does it?) and have put themselves on the narrow path of redemption. Systematically we fall off the grid, I would hope due to self-realization, and it's for the best....bloggers are not redeemable characters! We are shameless sirens who call readers with our melancholy swan song. We know that we crested long before we found the will to put ourselves and thoughts "out there" (wherever the hell that is) and now we heave ourselves onto the shores of acceptance; hoping to God that someone out there has really poor tastes and will somehow validate us with a favorable comment.

Myself, the King Hypocrite, is the biggest felon of all these pathetic bastards. I started out at the dusk of my marriage, trying to find something to take the focus off of the inevitability of its failure. Once again, not something you really want to read, right? This blog's intention was humor, strictly humor, but thanks to me being a total fucking drama queen, it has become a sad and ridiculous diary of first draft rants mixed nicely intermittent pity parties..and I truly hate it.

If you find yourself itching to be what you always wanted to be....just give up, loser! Your time has passed and the internets are running out of parking spaces for needless bluster.

Husbandry.

2011-04-25T12:49:00.000-04:00

There I was, standing in line, and chuckling to myself like a giddy fool who had gotten no sleep the night before...half of which is true. I was at Moe's waiting for the gentleman behind the counter to take my burrito order, but it was taking longer than normal. The cause...a husband in front of me.

In terms of a man, there is not a more pathetic version taken than that of a husband. He will stand out in most crowds of single or independent men. He will be dressed like a nine year old: Polo shirt draped over his bulging belly forming an awning for the place his balls used to be. His wife probably bought him the shirt well before his standard 20+ pounds of marital bliss was added to his frame, and at this point, there is no chance in hell that this shirt will ever be tucked in again. This particular husband had brought further shame to his being by sporting Crocs on his sad feet. An item that has no place in the wardrobe of an adult male. He stood there like an obedient child, hat tipped upwards like he was about to take right field in a little league game.

Other than what he was wearing -what got to me- was that familiar look in his eyes. I remember that look in my own eyes once upon a time, not that I ever saw my own eyes, but I knew what he was feeling inside. This man had a looseleaf sheet of paper to order two burritos with instructions scribbled all over it. That look of embarrassment in his eyes, the look of caged anger hidden behind that shame, knowing that deep down wherever his spirit still barely breathes...he is resenting and lambasting that wretched women for a ridiculous order that had to be carried out by her beckon call boy. That he, not her, had to suffer through her finicky preferences and just now he could feel everyone's eyes and ears turn to him. The poor bastard couldn't even make eye contact with the rest of us in line though his head turned to judge the level of disdain that was forming behind him. He shuffled on pathetically after his deed was done. I like to think he merrily hopped on his tricycle and peddled back home to "momma", poisoned her meal, and then found himself chuckling like myself as he burned his "American Dream" home to the ground and joined a Motorcycle gang...or went to a gay nightclub or something....

Snobbery.

2011-04-17T21:11:00.001-04:00

Snobbery.

I am so sick and damned tired of asterisks, corrections, "actuallys", and the overall presumption that everyone else in the world gives a flying fuck about your input. You know who you are: The grammar snob, the movie snob, the music snob, the art snob, the snob snob. Snobbery, for whatever reason, has become a banner held high and with pride by those middle-ground hacks who have not a crutch to lean on when their worth is in flux, which I guess is most of the time. I have partaken, I am not free from any stone, first-cast, but for all of my dabbling in such scruples of others....I really just feel like an asshole most of the time, I don't feel like I have solidified myself as a superior being upon every flick of the nose to others. For me, it was always more about "busting balls", there is something impossible about passing up correcting a school teacher, right? I can't say the same for others and I am glad to call myself "renegade" to their asinine dogma. Eagle eye harpies and chauvinistic opportunists are out there just bone-toothed and in heat for that chance to scratch their itch. They are sad parasites who live off of typos like cheetahs do with wounded water-buffalo. There is no glory in it, only a half rate sense of self satisfaction that glides on the wind of their own bluster.

I have, as you have, been mixed with a group of others in deep discussion. We have all heard someone make a point only to have it countered with something that always starts with the word "actuality" as if that end-all-be-all word is the stamp of approval from GOD himself. Surely no one can argue with an actuality retort! In all actuality...no one can! It's fucking actuality!!!!

With snobs, never bother having an opinion about movies or music or books. It doesn't matter if you like it! There has to be a tangible reason why so they can tell you why you shouldn't like it. "What? You just liked the movie because it was funny? Really?...tisk tisk!" Let me tell you now...it's okay to like stupid movies. I love the movie UHF and it is the most ridiculous piece of shit ever and I don't give a damn.

These people....these shallow merchants of this sliding-scale society have taken their measure. From where I stand, the measurement taken was done with a condescending eye, a ruler's ruler –and much like history written by the victorious– the opposition seems to be voiceless and marginalized, displaced by the holier-than-thou elitists –who by their own accounts– have crowned themselves the kings of court jesters. Congratulations to you masters of the improper proletariat, every brick you have laid to substantiate your existence was placed on the back of another, more intellectually disputed type...at least, by your estimation...or maybe even in all actuality! Regardless. I just wanted to say, "Fuck you!"

Obsequious.

2011-04-17T20:26:00.000-04:00

Safety nets are made from recycled nooses;

trapeze swingers - insured- their logic deduces.

That the odds between death and life are rife

with the same upside as a gun from a knife.

They take the gun cause they can't cut the rope, they can't let go,

they hold on tight cause they just don't know.

That the grip they hold has a hold on their neck, broken and bent.

Choked cold and eyes rolled in an empty circus tent.

The Bereaved.

2011-01-25T01:16:00.000-05:00

A friend challenged me to write a short story for NPR's writing contest this week, the challenge: Write a story that is 600 words or less that involves one character telling a joke and another character crying. I hurry up and write the damn thing in an hour and it turns out this story had to be submitted TWO DAYS AGO! Guess I should read the fine print better...and so should my friend for that matter! So now I will just share it with you fuckers.

The Bereaved.

These things are never easy. For all the bad in life, death is the worst of it –death of a dearly, loved one– the pinnacle of that worst. The call always comes, just like it always will, and with that first hesitation of speaking, the feigned voice of calm...it's instantly recognizable and begs us the same question every time, "what's a matter?"

"PawPaw died last night." the voice on the phone cracked.

In his mind he can see him: The kind smile drawing the wrinkles of age away, lighting the face of a young soul. He sees the old shrunken man, a bald head crowned with silver, thin hair and his arms covered in sailor's tattoos. He sees him in hospital beds with his mother at Grandpaw's side with her worn, red eyes and the knowing looks from nurses and doctors...the end was near. The end is now.

"I'm so sorry to hear that, Mom. How are you doing?" Buying time while his mind processes the news.

"As good as can be expected, I guess." She replies.

The two voices are at the impasse of broken bonds from childhood to now. The open air on the phone line has its own heartbeat and with every silent second it thumps heavier in his ear, then down his throat, and then the ache reaches the heart and stomach with an empty despair.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what to say." He breaks the silence.

"I know, honey. It's okay. I'll call you when we have arrangements made." Another pause and the heartbeats pounds solely inside of him. "I love you." The hurting mother speaks.

"I love you too, Mom." he says through clenched jaws, fighting back the tears.

The funeral home fills with somber souls. The room is musty and insincere. A room where the only the grieveless dead can reside comfortably without note of this ironically, soulless chamber. Pictures are posted from decades of life spent doing two things: Being a family man and working on the river for almost five decades. The dead man's children spoke proudly of their father's work ethic to their children. How he was a First Mate and did everything aboard a boat but captain the ship. It eased us all to hear these stories, they kept the rush of tears subsided, and we all listened strangely subdued from our foremost emotion. The men, ones who are ever-presently unsettled by emotion, laughed nervously and stood tight, happy to avoid sadness. He was one of the many men hiding in the circle. He wanted to avoid seeing his mother's pain, his sister's broken heart, and more than anything to avoid his own anguish.

The stories came and went. The procession proceeded on. The coffin was lowered in the ground forever. He had made it the whole day in control of himself.

The walk home was a mix of pride and injury. No one else was coherent to him as he coursed along, feeling an anxiety build inside. A homeless man stopped him, asking for change. He feigned searching his pockets while the homeless man spoke, "hey mister, what you call somebody who loses their virginity on a boat?" He ignored the humor and started to walk away quickly. He had to get home. He could feel the emotion pulsing from his belly, back up his throat, and on to his eyes. The homeless man called out "First Mate!" The words stung him. He stopped, but could not look back. He could only see the visage of his grandfather through his own tears, smiling back at him.

OverBooked.

2011-01-14T13:02:00.000-05:00

Those of you who are my Facebook friend -or were- know that I am famous for taking my hiatus from said website. I don't know what is, but for some reason, Facebook makes me hate people almost as much as FOX News does. I have only been off for about 8-10 days this past hiatus, but I logged back on last night because of a slight splinter in the love life, and me being the curious soul that I am(in more than one way) I had to see if this particular person had posted something about it, which of course, she didn't....GOOD.

I wake up this morning and just like the good ol' Facebook days...I log on immediately to see what is going on in your lives. Upon reading the first 20 or so updates, I once again realize, I can't stand people. It was nothing in particular: No political agendas, nothing that offended me(like anything could!) it was just reading these ridiculous, inane, pointless, shallow updates that people post with sincerity. Once again, if we were/are Facebook friends, you know the type of bullshit I post and I will admit to being an ego driven bastard, who for the most part, just wants to make people laugh so that I can feel validated as a human being. My posts are inane and pointless and sometimes they veer into a distraught, emotional reflection of whatever I may be going through at the time. I am fine with what appears to be a bipolar roller coaster of dick jokes and self pity...I mean I am a fucking blogger for christ's sake! It's just that I can't stand when other people do it! More so, I just don't understand why you need to post your ripped off quotes...say something original! I don't understand why people think their opinion actually counts for anything outside of their own lives. I don't understand the type of contrived and phony dialogue that comes along with any of it?

The worst part for me is when there is someone on Facebook you really know and love and their "friends list" consists of not only friends, but family, coworkers, in-laws....people they have to tip toe around to keep peace or seem dignified, which if you are my friend, there is no dignity to be had. They post delicately or vague, they dilute themselves into salesmen/women of PC jargon. They effectively become someone you don't know anymore. I want to know people as they really are. Sidenote: I am not exactly the same either, on Facebook, I am a more hyper form of the person I am now.

The people I respect most on Facebook are the REAL people: The people who will say whatever is on their mind, even if they know it will offend others...even family or coworkers. The people who do not take themselves seriously. People who have a sense of humor! I am off Facebook for now, I just feel cramped and outnumbered by the amount of output, that quite frankly, is NOT ENTERTAINING! Because for me, Facebook is nothing more than entertainment and it's value is on par with GED Connection on PBS. So for now...I pass.

Yours Truly,
Hypocrite

Running Away.

2011-01-13T13:55:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I watched the documentary "Running the Sahara", which is about three men who decide to run across the Sahara desert. 111 days later, they finish, but none of that really matters and this isn't about them or the movie...it's about me.

I want to start something and actually finish it! Easy enough, right? Not for me! I am lazy and lethargic, but this wasn't always the case. When I was married w/ kids, my life was a nonstop, scheduled festival of duties from one day to the next; being single and only seeing my kids 8 days a month(during the school year) I have had a lot of down time in which I have done nothing but mostly sit around and watch movies...and of course...smoke. I am coming to the end of that period of my life and barring injury, I intend on participating in a 5k marathon this spring or early summer(IDK the schedules?).

First things first! I have already begun watching what I eat, you know, typical New Year's resolution type shit, and thus far I am holding up quite well. I have turned my gym membership into something I actually use, the difference being, I have a goal. Just hitting the weights and ellipticals randomly throughout the week was an aimless and uninspired task, that most of the time, I just hated completely. Now I am not going to lie to you....this was day 1 of my running venture...tomorrow may be a different story(more appropriately Friday, when I go back for round 2) but as for right now, I actually feel good and motivated about something, this is the challenge that I desperately needed in my life and it's based around something that I really hate doing!

I don't have the long-legged runner's morphology, but I have grit and I have the mental faculties needed to overcome the physical pain and the "walls" I am sure to run into. Of course, me being who I am, I have done my research, I have learned about proper stride, breathing technique, posture, warming up and cooling down. Now all I have to do is execute!

Wish me luck!

Movie Reviews:

2011-01-12T12:19:00.002-05:00

I have a ton of extra time on my hands lately and with the addition of winter, I have been watching a whole lot of movies; some bad, some good. Let's get to it.

Now, a lot of these movies are going to be older due to the fact I am watching them on Netflix Streaming, so don't expect many new movie reviews.

Up in the Air and Sweet November: I grouped these two together because they are both UNhappily-ever-after Romance/Romantic Comedies. At some point, I don't when, it became the en vogue type thing to make movies with empty and unfulfilling endings that I guess are supposed to reflect real life. Personally, I like it when my romantic comedies are comedic and have happy, romantic endings.....guess I am just old. Up in the Air's ending was far more nefarious; our hero finally has a breakthrough with a particular love interest and this particular love interest ends up being a filthy whore, who not only destroys this man, but destroys this film. Typically in a film, there is catharsis, in this movie, the catharsis was made null and void thanks to the writer losing sight to the moral of this story. The moral: People are important. It's important to break down your own walls to allow people into your life. To make life an interactive experience. Our hero, George Clooney, finally does so, but then is shit on the by the wrath of a lonely married woman who I am convinced is a sociopath, therefore, the lesson learned is negated and IN REAL LIFE! one would go back into their shell where it is safe and sound. All thumbs down. Sweet November tried too damn hard to be quirky! In a romantic comedy, where boy meets girl, the courtship is the most important part and in this movie I assume it ended up on the scrap floor. The makeup artist and the director went too far making the female lead look too sick too early! It became too visible before we were let in on the fact that Charlize Theron was ill, and for my part, I knew it! At that point, you just know what is going to happen...and it's not happy!

Return to Me: Everyone thinks David Duchovny is likable and I do like his snark, but I didn't think he would fare well in a romantic comedy...I was wrong...sorta. He was decent in the role of a man whose wife is killed in a car wreck; her heart is donated to a dying young woman- which saves her life; Widower meets heart recipient randomly; fall in love; the truth comes out. I found this movie worthwhile, because of two things: Minnie Driver and the old bastards who work at an Irish/Italian restaurant with Minnie; two of the old bastards are her grandfather and great uncle(Carrol O'Connor and Robert Loggia). Minnie Driver is just flat out lovable! She glows, she has a sincere smile and sincere eyes, and for my money, she could play love interests in romantic comedies forever and I would be satisfied watching them all. Unlike the two movies above, this one has a classic happy ending that makes us smile innately and feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside. It may be cliche' to the Nth degree, but isn't love cliche?

Machete: Machete is reminiscent of Grindhouse. It's 70's cult classic fun, but with modern technology and camera angles making this movie all the more enticing! Danny Trejo is a machete toting Federale whose family is killed by our villain, and he himself, was supposed to be killed, but somehow escaped in a fashion we were not let in on. Basically, he goes around killing a shit ton of people with a machete...and it's great! It's not all blood and guts, the movie has it comedy, gratuitous nudity, and even some political satire dealing with immigration. All in all, if you have the stomach, I say go watch it!

Black Swan: First off! I REALLY wanted to see this movie....bad! I loved all the write-ups, it sounded cutting edge and totally different. It really was none of that. Maybe the fail was on my part: I had built up expectations; I was thinking beautiful/dark cinematography, twists and turns, and heart thundering intensity. What I saw was a movie that was shot like a claustrophobic, old, horror movie and whose ending I saw coming a mile away with one exception. The acting was solid, but nothing really spectacular. The parallels of the plot within the plot of this movie made the ending very guessable, and honestly, for some reason, I kept expecting some kind of twist, which never came. If you go see this movie, remember, it's a psychological thriller. If you are in this mindset(Jacob's Ladder) then you should be able to keep up easily and not be surprised when its over. This movie was decent. Wait for DVD.

The Machinist: Another psychological thriller for you! This movie was legitimately claustrophobic, and not because of tight camera angles. This movie makes you feel so awkward and weird watching it that I literally had to turn it off twice! It's been a few days and I have finally finished it; the most notable aspect of this movie was Christian Bale. Mr. Bale got down to 120lbs. for this role, which makes him look like a holocaust survivor. He, once again, completely submerges himself into a role and this one is full of twists and turns that fall nicely into the storyline. His mental breakdown throughout the movie is believable: His paranoia, hallucinations, and fear feel real, and this ugly portrait he paints makes you feel the same way he does. As hard as it is getting to the end of this move, it can get slow at times, you realize that at the ending....it was the psychotic journey that made this movie worth it. I recommend this film.

Tapped: A documentary about the bottled water industry. We all know about the pollution they create, but you should really watch this movie to find out about the business side of things, which are proportionately corrupt. I give this doc. all the stars and thumbs up I could give. Watch it! It's on Netlix Streaming.

Restrepo: Another documentary, but this one is about the war in Afghanistan. American journalist Sebastian Junger and British photographer Tim Hetherington follow an Airborne brigade into the most dangerous valley in all the war, trying to capture the true feel and nature of battle. This movie truly affected me, it was an affirmation of things that I had already heard or seen, but when you see it in the real light, with real human beings, in real circumstances, it becomes a profound experience. What is war to a soldier? Camaraderie. To be your brother's keeper. To see the day in and day out drudgery of war, the personal risk and sacrifice, you realize that none of it is about pride or fighting for freedom or democracy for another country Those are just political reasons that are nothing more than– ironically– bullet points for those at a safe distance from being shot. This documentary shows bluntly and emotionally, that the fight is fought, simply to stay alive...to keep your friend, your brother, the man standing next to you alive...nothing more. The highs, the lows, the goofiness of boredom, the excruciatingly painful moments of loss are all represented in this film. I could recommend no other documentary more highly than this one. Watch it now!

Event Horizon

2010-11-13T16:44:00.001-05:00

The sky was engulfed in grey, the light faded and the world seem to illuminate itself from the ground up. The surface was dusted wet with rain giving the appearance of a broken sweat. I was in my house looking at the world through the window like a crosshatched TV screen with life painted on its surface. It was quiet outside, right now. Inside, Neil Young echoed through the house singing about Spaniards and guns, it was a hollow, echoing song that swam over the walls and relished lavishly in the rooms heavy like a warm fog that melted in your ears. The slow rhythm- driving endlessly. The electric guitar was sonic and sweet, it was pain undulating with beauty and hypnotized me away from my thoughts. It was a song that complimented a perfectly dreary day, the complete nothingness was stark, so much so that it felt more prevalent than any other trait of this day. I was the only thing alive on this obscure day. The world might as well have been a painting, and I, the ignorant observer prodding with indifferent eyes to the nuances that affected me none, I might was well have been a sedentary stone.

Then from the west evening sky– like a dying man reaching out–a branch of warm late day sunlight stretched across my canvas like a miracle. He was alive and his radiant kiss made the grey firmament melt like a frozen heart heated by an everlasting love that could, and will, always forgive us our darker days. My inanimate art had become an entity. The heat from the sun spurred a light breeze that made the treetops dance to Neil's guitar like an orgy of acquiescence, and I moved inside the same as they did, and I was affected the same as they were, and I was forgiven from the ruefulness of that dark day. The Earth shifted, the sun sat still, and on cue, an orange fire streak pierced my living canvas, and art poured out into the room, coating everything with splashes of light and heat. I sat still. Nothing moved. Life looked through the window at the beauty inside.

DO. NOT. READ!!!

2010-11-11T04:06:00.001-05:00

Do not read this, if you do, do not get mad. I warned you!

If you have been anywhere near Louisville this week you have heard or read about the 18 year old college student who was recently buttfucked to death by a much older 40 year old man he met on an internet dating website. Buttfucked to death...really? Okay, I don't know all the facts yet, they have yet to surface while the details are being held by police while they search for the body in a Southern Indiana landfill, which I have no idea how they differentiate between a landfill and the rest of Southern Indiana.

The Louisville liberals are bearing the cross of what is being called a murder, but what I think is just manslaughter. I don't think you can premeditate killing someone with your dick. The victim was probably just strangled to death during some rough, consensual sex, and I find that to be completely passe'. Even Wesley Snipes did a movie in the 90's about a similar scenario, who wants to follow in his footsteps? I hope no one else. Now there are some details that have been released: The man continued with intercourse after the younger participant had expired, whether he actually knew he was dead or not, who knows, but I don't blame him! What could it hurt to go ahead and finish? At that point his sex partner was more or less an inanimate object and that should be about as illegal as sticking your dick in the couch cushions. Plus, our victim may have been a DNR and we should always respect the rights of the dead or near dead.

So now everyone is up in arms over our murderer and the supposedly gruesome nature of the crime. I am still at home giving this man a standing ovation! A middle age man actually killed a young, physically prime adult with his dick! He didn't fuck a sick woman or a baby to death....a strong, young man. WOW!

When I put myself in this situation- mentally; I think if I would have fucked a woman to death the first thing I would do is call all of the local media for photo ops: Something with my foot propped on her dead skull while I am asshole naked, flexing all my glorious muscles: A proud, young cockslayer. Of course I would give vivid, blow by blow details of the occurrence.

At this point, our young victim is long gone, his parents seem somewhat apathetic; probably christians who feel their "good" name has been defiled by their lecher of a son. Our hero: The man with the most dangerous dick in America will be facing jail time regardless of the charges. I hope he spends his jail time wisely. I hope he gets a tattoo of a pitchfork or a lipstick on his cock to remind him that, other than that horse from the documentary "Zoo", he may be one of the few elite living things that can claim the claiming of a life with his penis.

I told you not to read this! It's your own damn fault!

The Repo Man Cometh.

2010-11-06T04:06:00.000-04:00

White America: It can happen to you!

The Demolition Democrats ruined two years of House superiority with lethargic efforts and switchback stances, not that I am surprised, but now we will see how the lack of action has left the current administration impotent.

The House is gone. Scarlett and Rhett are back and the perceived fire has been extinguished and Mammy(Mitch McConnell) has a mess to clean up. The hopes are to get this damn country back in the hands of elitists and big business and out of the hands of the Fascist, socialistic terrorists.

It's cock-blocking time and there is no better cock blocker than Mammy Mitch. The muppet voiced leader is looking to apply the leash to Free World leader Barack Obama, and keep that 'boy' in check for the remainder of his term. Mr. Obama has run up a bar tab that makes Charlie Sheen look like a straight-edge ninny muggins. I can't fault our president, he did inherit a catastrophe that came with a checkbook that was missing all its checks. Some cowboy blew his wad in the desert and now all we have is a Chinese Visa. Barack's attempt to FDR us out of disaster was slowly[I mean, slowwwwwwly] showing some signs, but the steps that had to be taken to get us to this slightly better margin had to be done a bit ass backwards, all thanks to the mortgage crisis and the collapse of the banking system. Sure, it would have been nice to drop a New Deal disco ball, work on the infrastructure of this country and create millions of jobs and raise billions of tax dollars, but that is just hindsight. First things had to come first and now that they have come and went, Barack is out of political backing to go full Roosevelt. It would have been a four term fix, looks like he is only gonna get two years...

This is good for us...right? No National Healthcare means no Evil Socialism! The rich will now have their opportunity to get richer and the poor get to die. YAY!!!

We're splitting hairs, at least in my opinion. A socialistic government, which we are not nor were we going to be, just government oversight of powerful corporations who hold the livelihood of Americans in their dastardly grasp. This "socialistic government" is not so different than giving tax breaks to the rich, earmarking cash for "special interests", and in effect, creating the Reagan era concept of "Trickle-down Economics". This concept is basically the same idea, but minus the healthcare. Are we to give all of our money to the richest, greediest, and most powerful corporations in the world and hope that they take care of the rest of us? Capitalistic Socialism is what I say it is! Why take care of companies that outsource all their jobs, give nothing back, and leave the streets of this country full of bourgeois tumbleweeds, down and out in the richest country in the world, just crossing their fingers, standing at the gutter-mouth waiting for the trickle of sweet green to save their lives.

Post hoc fallacy:

When it comes to the shit hitting the fan in this country, we could list presidents like the Bible lists "begetters". The only thing that has been "begotten" is the strafing of middle and lower class America and each party of power was just another domino in line. So I don't blame the one who came before and the one before it. What I see is a flawed system whose only standout characteristic seems to be the perseverance of wealth and power, and that is, wealth and power for the upper 1%.

So Repo Man, when you finally come, don't knock. I won't miss it...take it all. Whomever you may be, all we have is yours to keep.

Fingers Uncrossed

2010-11-02T14:24:00.001-04:00

In spite of myself, I reached out to be rejected. I took a long awaited leap of faith, to my own disbelief, only to find the the higher ground I lept for was an illusion.

I am not an idealist. I am a realist. I dabbled. Now I know what is real and what is not. Thanks for the check!

Inception:
You or I or We, implanted this idea in my head, but I was the one to nurture it. I cultivated this vague notion into a real lie that only I could believe in so wholeheartedly. And though this lie, when shattered, hurt. I really appreciate the closure and find myself content with knowing a truth that stung just for a short while.

It was petty in the end: A year long wait just to see it all fizzle away in a matter of days. I am surprised that I am so quiet with the ending, but I guess knowing something is fake bears more importance to me than relying on the hope of something being true. Hope is a cross. I bore it for too long, living in my head, making up a life that could only live in the mirrorscape of reality.

Oh the cliches! It is what it is! In spite of myself I reached out beyond my limits only to lose balance and fall on my face. I am grateful for almost nothing, but I am grateful for lessons learned and now I know that I am the most dangerous carrier of my own heart. I am not one to live with my head in the clouds, and though the view was beautiful...it's lonely at the top.

I am glad I can laugh at myself for living out such fantasies. They really were just ridiculous.

The anticipation of the future has been replaced with an indifference to the past.

I feel good in spite of you.

A Beeftits Repost.

2010-08-10T02:31:00.004-04:00

Children Learn What They Live
by Dorothy Law Nolte

If children live with criticism,
They learn to condemn.

If children live with hostility,
They learn to fight.

If children live with ridicule,
They learn to be shy.

If children live with shame,
They learn to feel guilty.

If children live with encouragement,
They learn confidence.

If children live with tolerance,
They learn to be patient.

If children live with praise,
They learn to appreciate.

If children live with acceptance,
They learn to love.

If children live with approval,
They learn to like themselves.

If children live with honesty,
They learn truthfulness.

If children live with security,
They learn to have faith in themselves and others.

If children live with friendliness,
They learn the world is a nice place in which to live.

How very fucking ironic!

2010-08-02T01:54:00.000-04:00

First off, let me apologize for all the fucking movie reviews lately, it's just that I have been watching many-a film lately. On tonight's agenda was yet another romantic flick called "Adam". If you did not know this about me, now you know, I am a fucking sucker for a good love story, hell, even a modestly decent one! Adam fell short of my very achievable expectations, so shame on you Adam!

Adam is a quirky love story set in New York City(fucking cliche!) and Adam, our main character suffers from Asperger's Syndrome, which is a high functioning form of Autism where the individual cannot decipher the emotions of others very well, nor can they read the inflection and tone of say...sarcasm. Well Adam, let me make this clear, you fucking retard, you were not the only one not feeling a damn thing!

We all know the best part of a love story is the courtship; it's the fun and exciting part of every new relationship, it's that feeling we wish we could always feel, but of course those feelings of excitement come from the not knowing and as humans...we must know! Well, in this bastard of a film, the courtship is quick...maybe two scenes; sweet, but not sufficient. Voila! We are in a relationship now with Rainman and all the quirkiness is out the door.."why doesn't this guy just understand what I am saying!?!?"

Just as the romance began, abruptly, it ended in the same fashion(sorry to ruin the ending) and it's too bad. Poor Adam just needed a handler like any simian primate would, but this stone hearted cunt was too worried about her cock sucking father to love a tard. PS. Her father was played by Peter Gallagher, so yes, that much of a fucking asshole!

I guess the gist was to make a movie about how someone who cannot feel, or at least emotionally relate to others, and make them fall in love. For someone of rational and scientific mind and make them irrational with emotion. Ironically, the movie that I saw, I could rationalize the lack of emotion in a "love story". It's purpose was defeated by the time the directed called "action". Flawed in script and acted out a little too dryly by the costarring actress, this movie was just another effort that I chalk up as an effort alone. A quirky possibility with poor follow through.

A Sign of Aging.

2010-08-01T21:15:00.000-04:00

You know you are getting old when the actors you used to watch in movies are suddenly starring in TV shows. I see now Jada Pinkett, Vincent D'onofrio, Kiefer Sutherland, Tim Roth, Jason Lee, Julianna Margulies, Gary Sinise, and Patricia Arquette, they are all on primetime shows. "Prime" as that may be...I still see it as a death.

Of course, the likes of Jason Lee, likable as he is, was no talent and made his career on living off of Kevin Smith's dialogue. Patricia Arquette...well she is just another Arquette. Tim Roth can only play Tim Roth, but for the most part I really like Tim Roth. Kiefer was solid. Sinise had amazing moments in film. Honestly I like Jada quite a bit. D'onofrio sucks dick. Julianna was an English Patient.

Point, counterpoint...I guess....

Tolstoyan.

2010-08-01T01:37:00.001-04:00

I just finished watching the movie "The Last Station" and I must say that the acting in this movie, all around, was absolutely superb. James McAvoy, who can sculpt cinematic tension with not a word said(see "The Last King of Scotland) worked his magic once again. With that superimposed tension in his jaw and intense blue eyes, he has a way conveying all notions with the subtlety of a master craftsman. Of course Christopher Plummer and Helen Mirren were superb....they are Christopher Plummer and Helen Mirren after all! As for Paul Giamatti, remember when his schtick was new? He has fallen into the penumbra of typecast, but there is still something likable about him when he is a good guy and even more likable when he is a villain(see "Shoot Em Up).

The story itself is somewhat predictable, hell, we all know Tolstoy dies! But the parallels between the emotionally distraught McAvoy's character, Valentin, and the elderly Tolstoy couple were done quite well. Nothing was bogged down in cliches like you see in most love stories. It was fresh and had a way of sweeping YOU off your feet. I can easily say I fell in love with this movie. I fell in love with Masha, Valentin's love interest played by Kerry Condon, but even more so with the love scenes between Valentin and Masha. It is not too often that two actors can find that chemistry, that a camera can find that much comfort and ease in a scene. Their pillow talk was true to love and from my experience it made me feel that same exhilaration the characters did at that moment.

To film a proper romance film and have it be seen as a true likeness of reality, it must come from the nonverbal cues. The looks, the glimmer in the eye, the way her head is tilted, the way he looks back at her, how their hands find each and not to grasp, but to playfully fumble. There is a tension in the brow of a man when he says something that is true to his heart. There is a heaving in his chest when must spill out the feelings that have overtaken him. There is an anxiety which must be captured. There is the post bliss comfort and total acceptance of each other that can only be caught by an endearing and hopeless director. These are just a few, but when you look at life like it is a movie, and I do, then you really appreciate the physical acting that took place in this film. Nuance is the dark matter of the movie world, it holds together all the "big moments" and "big lines" it is the irreplaceable stuff that makes the greatest of movies, and for me, I nominate this a great movie.

Want

2010-07-29T15:19:00.001-04:00

The paces make quick, the desirous impulses strobe through me flickering into flame. I am not the same now. I am fair game to the whimsy in your eyes, the lick of your lips. I am short circuited and the looming thoughts linger always, the synapses destroyed, I am left with this haze in my head which makes my body anxious throughout. I am no victim. I submit myself to you; I am happy to.

The dream that makes me clench and heave, subtle, but all consuming. I feel the dopamine wash over my eyes and I look at you like an animal. Jaws clenched, head bowed while I see through my brow like a madman, wanton with murderous urges.

I will take you.

You will be mine.

At that moment when conscious thought ceases, when the thoughts leave the mind and nothing but visceral reaction controls your actions...is the thin line between nature and willful living. When I give into myself, I am more myself than when I sit quietly with my thoughts. I become nothing more than a vessel of my wants, a ship not steered by fear or ration, but free to sink or float amidst a world everything crazy. I am crazy too. I will not live out the atavistic morals of the fearful herds before me. I will not collect the dust of every generation's formality and restraint. I will not dilute my passion with principle.

We are nothing created. We are a collection of everything past. We are bred out of our instincts like domesticated dogs.

Let go.

Give in.

Impossibly Me.

2010-07-29T02:27:00.001-04:00

*********

I going to explain myself to you, but know now, nothing will be any more clear than before. Nothing has changed, I am just me, impossibly.

I am the hypocrite incarnate, a human if you will. I am the happy-sad man who wants to be left alone and get all the attention. I am nothing more than a contradictory conclusion to an easy life of lessons learned by fire. I can hold myself to morals and disciplines, but like all of us, I waiver. No one is free from the second guess, no one has been exonerated from the chains of human error. We are all tied together like slaves to the imperfection of our actions, which desperately reach high to meet our expectations and then we write it off as a "good try" when our lofty ideals cannot be met by the wingless fools we are. I am grounded as one can get, but I live with my head in the clouds.

I am the know-it-all who is always wrong. The rational skeptic who dreams far-fetched. I am the romantic stoic. I am everything hypocrisy, but I accept me, how could I not? It is, after all, the human condition. I accept you as well. I am the hardliner who softens too easily, then gives you a pass. How could I not, you are humanly flawed as I, and we are mirrors, I reciprocate unto you as I would unto me. I want to be right and never face an argument. I want to be wrong and never be called out on it. I want to dare without risk. I want you to let me be me...as I am. With no goals, hopes, expectations, ideals, preferences, or wishes aimed at my being. Just accept me, through and through: I will do the same for you.

All I ask is to be accepted while I am busy rejecting. All I want is for you to understand that I am every man and every woman and every child. I am every ridiculous idea and every problem solved. I am the whim and the plan. I am the door that is always ajar, always open to my own hypocrisy, but I can only find my err at my own pace and see it with these skeptic eyes. You will just have to believe me when I say it, but don't expect me to believe anything you say.

Smurfette

2010-07-28T03:10:00.000-04:00

***********

So I have finally moved back home. It's been thirteen some-odd months living with some family, waiting on the final harness of divorce to be unhitched from my hide.

So G, what have you been doing since you have been back home? Well, other than drinking booze and cleaning, I have been partaking in the carnal pleasure of sex, solo.

You see, living with your mother does something to a man. It's a press that tries to squeeze the juice out of your sexuality, but try as it may, it did not do any long term damage to this fellow. When masturbating at your mother's house one must take to ninja-like tactics of jacking off in the shadows in a stealth like manner. No time is wasted, no sound is made, it is a quick kill of an ornery, desirous member who will stop at nothing to get attention.

Fast forward to today:

Now back at home the pleasure party can be a slow dance, a long, slow drink of wine, maybe light a candle and throw on some Isaac Hayes. At home, my home, I can masturbate in the kitchen, the living room...hell, on top of the roof if so chose to! Being the unpleaseable lecher that I am, a simple handshake with the "dork" will never suffice...not in my own kingdom of pleasure! No, this fair Gentleman Jacker went all out and purchased himself a masturbatory aide(no, not an altar boy). You may know this particular item as a "pocket pussy", "cock sleeve", or by such brand names as "Fleshlight". What this particular item is, is nothing more than a tube made of silicon with a hollow textured center. Instead of going to the local Walgreens, I went online like the rest of the heathens too ashamed to buy such devices in person. Maybe it was the Catholic guilt, but I went through the sex toy website like Lance Armstrong on cocaine. I picked one quickly, paid, and then logged the fuck off! A few days later a man in brown shows up with a box, little does he know that he is holding something that I am going to put my dick in...it's almost like he is holding my dick... in a sense, right? QUEER!

Out of the box, out of the package, I hold in my hand a blue silicone jello mold. I notice immediately that there are metal beads embedded throughout the length of this particular item and as I double check the packing slip, I read "Beaded Masturbator". That's what I get for being hasty I tell myself. I decide to give this thing a try and if you are curious as to what it feels like with metal beads being pushed into your cock...well, I can only assume it is similar to fucking a robot. Get to it geeks!

Now I don't know who formed this thing, who did the mold, what kind a vagina it was based off of, but once I removed the beads with a pinch, I decided to take this thing for the whole ride. I break out the Astroglide, because it's the best, then I lube the shit out of this blue rubber sock because I can tell just from looking that the hole in the opening is about the circumference of a fetus' vagina. Once I finally slide this thing on completely, and believe me it took some serious stretching with both hands, I start "the motion"...you know what I mean...
With this goddamn thing being so fucking tight and with Astroglide being slimed all over everything the fucking thing shoots off my junk and onto the floor where it gets covered in white dog hair! Being the Champ that I am, I didn't give up, I pick up the toy I have dubbed "Smurfette" and plow back in. The vision is this: A strained man, nude, pumping what looks like an albino hamster with a blue vagina. Needless to say, this fucking thing did nothing but overstimulate me and essentially piss me off. I guess I am going to have to break this thing in like a fucking baseball glove and oil it up every night and maybe slide it over a vacuum handle or something.

This kind of item, you just can't return it. Am I to wait another 7 to 10 days for a more appropriate replacement? I don't know. I hate waiting, but no one wants to be the guy who overnights a fucking pocket pussy.

Sailin' unlike Magellan.

2010-06-29T14:01:00.001-04:00

Dear teenagers who are circumnavigating the globe,

Hey kids, how ya doin? Good? That's great! So I have recently been hearing a lot about you guys sailing your boats around the world...or at least attempting it. Gee that's real neat and whatnot! This last one failed(girls...pssh!) but that's fine, what was she to do?! Her goddamn GPS went down! You don't expect these young sailors to actually know how to sail by the stars, do you? The only compass they have is on their Iphone and battery life must be rationed for texting.

I am sure these young bastards have much "know how" when it comes to yachting. I know that adventurous spirit that drives humans to push themselves to the limit, but I can't help but feel that all these young fucks out there cruising the ocean blue are pathetically codependent on technology to even risk their stupid, young lives taking on such a task. I liken it to the idea that Kerouac criss-crossed this country with a limitless credit card handed down by daddy, which he didn't. Doesn't this dilute any pimple-faced victories when they cross the finish line, crack open that well deserved Yoohoo, and immediately run home to catch up on their TIVO'd ICarly episodes? From what I have read and seen on the news, the biggest issue with these sophomoric sailors is that they must stay awake for long stretches to make sure the GPS is doing its(their) job. Other than that, these little bastards sport satellite phones and spend their days on Facebook gabbing about the Isle of White and the new Twilight movie. This to me, is nothing more than a half-assed, westernized version of success. It's like riding in a fucking Greyhound from point A to point B. What can you expect from kids...they're stupid beyond comprehension! Even the kids in Lord of the Flies showed more promise, in terms of survival, than these "plugged-in" brats. Those little fuckers went all out displaying their instincts to best the elements...and they didn't even blog about it!

I know, I am just a grumpy, old asshole, pissed off that my life never had it's great adventure, and that basically, I just wait around to die. At least I won't need a GPS to find my mediocrity, and I know, all my victories are tempered by my general failure as a human.

I mean, really! What would Christopher Cross say!?!?

Threadbare.

2010-06-04T12:21:00.002-04:00

****

I was somewhere out in the far ends of this desperate town when the ibogaine failed me. I was a clammy wreck, fixed with strained eyes and enough fear to start a new religion. Every direction was a wrong turn and the horizon was at curtain call. I turned the car engine off and locked the doors. This was going to be a bad night.

Three hellbent days in the desert looking for every cliche that every soul-searching nomad had done before. We were eating an assortment of pills in a cave, streaking from manic highs to grave lows, wandering about with a machete, taking down every cactus in sight, looking for that blessed seed that would take us over the top into a full blown state of violent dementia. We were all failures in life and it's the low-floaters like us who scramble through your grandmother's medicine cabinet, grabbing everything that ended with the proper suffix. And the likes of us, this group of desert jackals, where do we search out our answers? In the subconscious mind, only in the dark corners we are all afraid of, places within ourselves we are scared to know, that is where our adventure lies.

Now in this dank sedan covered in sweat, hands shaky from the withdrawals, reaching for the last cigarette, I see the last drop of sunshine fall into the dark bucket of night. There was no place for us to go, and quite frankly, there was no place that we should be. This pack of heathens had found their most natural setting the prior night, held up in a cave, heaving up hot beer, and awaiting the mind to start its twisting of reality. Now we were out of our toxic, stone-walled womb and we were feeling exposed. The drugs had run out, the beer gone, and that red glow on my face signals the last of the smoke. It's that moment for a junkie when all the highs are gone for the foreseeable future, that sad feeling of the circus leaving town with all its lights and excitement, and we are all just left with a desperate hangover to find that next "circus" moment. Home truly is where the highs are. It's a caravan of comfort you can unfold in, that even in this strange place I could find a home with the right combination of choice poisons.

We could only sit there with the windows down, too tired to sleep, our minds too alert with the fear from all the distance we had put between ourselves and everything we knew. Just the wet humid air sitting on our skin, pressing us down, causing us to perspire hundreds of dollars of perfectly good drugs. If we had the cognizance enough at that point, we would have licked our skin clean and took the plunge again on a wild ride of fearless abandon. We sat there, waiting for a plan, waiting for courage, a sober moment of clarity, or even a finger pointed in any direction. We were at the crossroads, standing still, and silently worried about the lack volition by everyone involved in this game of chicken we were playing with sanity.

Maybe in the morning we can head to the store, steal a bottle, and crank this death a little more lively. In the morning we'll have a drink, the voices will get loud again, the car will start almost on its own, and we'll point the nose of that beast into some inevitably damned direction, and end up at the next moment...whatever it may be.

American Disease.

2010-04-24T17:41:00.001-04:00

Confession: I don't keep up with politics like I should. Sure, I got swept up in the reverie of the Obama campaign, and quite frankly, it was my indoctrination into politics. Before that election, I had never voted...FOR ANYTHING...not even class president in high school. Looking back now in hindsight, as much as I love Barack, it was more than likely the clumsy oaf known simply as W. that brought me to the voting booth a 31 year old election virgin. I am sure there are enough people who can make a similar claim, so if George W. accomplished anything, it was getting new liberal/Democrats to the voting booth. You notice I have separated the liberal from the Democrat? This is only because I consider myself to be a liberal person, but not so much a designated Demo. I, more or less, live by the Gore Vidal doctrine, which I would guess is something like..."never trust a politician".

Democrat or Republican, the leader of whichever party you choose, is more than likely just a corporate "Yes Man". I think it used to be the Republicans were owned by the oil companies and the Democrats were owned by the pharmaceutical industry. Nowadays, Big Business just pays off whoever is in the majority in Congress, whatever it takes to up their ante in their given field. The man I voted for, Obama, is probably no different, but he is definitely no worse, and post-Bush he was probably the best option. One of the best things he has going for him is his inexperience of the in's and out's of how "business" is run on Capitol Hill. At first, he may have been the closest this country has ever been to a fairly innocent politician. Being the quick learner I am sure he is, he has probably more business man than the idealist he ran for president as. He has balked at promises made: Not overturning "don't ask don't tell", making legal Gay Marriage, and in spite of his plans of closing Guantanamo, I read today that he is making it legal to assassinate people...curious...(http://www.thenation.com/doc/20100503/scahill )

When I look at this country now with its ridiculous separation of the extreme right going Tea Party crazy and the far left arrogantly cracking their knuckles and very satisfied with their dominance, I just feel like the whole charade of politics as we know it, is a complete and total ruse. Nothing but a show for the working people so that we can feel like we are actually doing something or have an effect. Voting for the champion of change hasn't really changed anything...yet, but I hope to see some results before 2012, and I commend him for his efforts. Now that our two major political parties have distanced each other so far from each other, you are going to see a ton of "middle ground" candidates or Centerists in the 2012 election; mostly Republicans trying to steal the popular Left votes from weary Demo's who are getting antsy with Obama's attempts to steer this ship right without over-correcting us into a ditch.

From the 2008 election, what I remember most, was being very impressed with Dennis Kucinich and Ron Paul. Though they were both different in parties, they both spoke with a dignified common sense, that quite frankly, I am a little appalled that more Americans didn't gravitate towards. It goes to show you that a candidate in this country who speaks about peace, love, and tolerance, will not be tolerated. The presidential election is a cross between a popularity contest and a dog show. You have to prove to Americans that not only are you capable, but more importantly that you are cool and that you look the part. This is more of an indictment on the public, because these American Idols are just playing jester to the panel and crowd. This leaves a lot to be desired in a candidate. I need my representation to be a stalwart in human morality, not religious morality. I want a president who is compassionate and level headed, a person who cannot be bought or sidetracked by personal celebrity or ego. I want common sense and vision. More importantly, I don't want to settle between two parties who combined have cultivated this environment of governmental ineptitude, distrust, and allowing this country to function as a bank for large corporations. I want change, but from someone outside of the box.

Depraved Derby Decadence.

2010-04-17T22:09:00.003-04:00

En masse, the behemoth known as Thunder Over Louisville whose manic existence has waxed and waned every year due to financial sponsorship, with exception to this year, is in full swing yet again. Where else in this country could you find the unique collection of cluttered hillbillies compressed along the murky shores of the murderous Ohio river. The lot of them, boozed to the gills, and by this point, sunburnt a nice lobster red, which surely matches the once white of their eyes. They have loafed about the shores of Louisville and Southern Indiana, mingling amongst the parade of vendors, waiting in freakishly long lines for overflowing outhouses, and waiting with itching anticipation of a high octane southern Tet.

For many, this is an all day affair, a 15 hour affair comprised of a single speed boat, some warplanes (which is the coolest part) usually some assholes parachuting onto barges, and other than all this chicanery...it's mostly alcoholic debauchery. Now I am not wagging any fingers here, I am a well known lecher and debauchery is a calling card of mine, but I am the type who is more comfy with intimate surrounding, you know, crowds smaller than 700,000. For many of the annual goers, they are just perverts for explosions who are constantly awed by the same stale show year after year. These are the same people who watch every episode of American Idol with genuine intrigue and don't mind the atavistic lethargy.

The anvil hanging over everyone's head? Leaving. The traffic...oh the traffic! When I was younger and was more into mixing it up, sure, I went to Thunder, but luckily I was smart enough to make a B line straight for the downtown bars and skip the overwhelming deluge of cars full of Louisville Drivers(the worst in the world.) Now in my more arrogant years, perched high upon my high and mighty pulpit, I just sit here and cackle at the regulars and even more so at the poor bastards who are indulging out-of-town guests.

For me, Thunder Over Louisville is the pistol start to my hometown's greatest charade...The Kentucky Derby and it begins a two week party of Southern tomfoolery. The pomp and parade is mostly reserved for the elite, but for the tertiary, they have carved out their own niche. The greatest of all these middle class to-do's is now deceased...The Central Block Party: A collection of the rougher portion of Louisville and I assume that is why it was shut down. The tattooed bikers, the violence, those that just don't give a shit, were just an eye sore for the lily white facade,that those in control, wanted this two week celebration to be perceived as. Too bad I say, it was the best part of the whole damn shebang; lechery to the nth degree and right on the grimy surface for everyone to see. Now, now we have a pretty light show, parades, boat races, and the clusterfuck Derby. We have a prepainted canvas now with little surprise and most of us are just content wagering out hard earned money on the annual sure-shot.

Surgery.

2010-04-11T21:41:00.002-04:00

********

So what's the deal, G?

I have been avoiding the mirror for some time now. I don't really care to look into those eyes, to see the "given up" physique of this slouch. I have been avoiding diving headfirst into this pool of shit for some time now; often diverting attention with brackish shock value. Here I am, Sunday night, and I guess its all coming to a head.

Recently I have devolved back into old antics: Passive/Aggressive behavior, pining for attention, feeling sorry for myself, pointlessly rejecting others as if it is some sort of insecure preemption. I am there, low again from my own behavior, thinking I had learned my lessons, but still, I carry on like a "charlie in the box" and nobody wants one of those.

I am coming to terms with being a man. I am a loner and I refuse all help, I do things by myself, and I don't want anyone for one second to think I am incapable. Though I have donned myself "loner", I yearn not to be, I just want to be normal I guess, a person like any other: To have a best friend, a regular group of folks I hang out with, to be closer to my family, to not feel defensive or shut away, in the end, to just feel accepted. I mingle amongst many different groups because no one can handle me for that long. I have no truly close relationships– probably due to abandonment issues which have spawned a horrid fear of rejection in me. Even that abandonment issue is a farce; both my parents have been accessible throughout my life, they have been there, even through their divorce. I saw my father ever other weekend and lived with my mother at the grandparents for some stretch while everyone got their feet back on the ground. I have NO real reason to feel this way, but I do, and uncontrollably.

I want to be everyone's funniest person they know, I want their attention, but by their choice, not because I have to ask for it. When I do not get that attention, I provoke those nearest me to get some kind of a response. For me, it is the greatest insult to be ignored; to be passed over as a nothing, so I do as I must to fill this void. I handle everything like wild butcher, pushing his own limits. I cleaver delicate situations, I mash them down with no subtlety and hope to hell that I don't kill off every last friend I have.

I am pathetically lonely. I have ostracized myself by not opening myself up, by being too selfish, by pushing too hard against others with my bombastic ways. I am nothing more than a "need machine" looking only to receive and never give back. I just want you to love me and it be completely convenient for me.

It's hard being this man. When all you want is the "right" someone to want you, to support you, to carry you if need be through the hard times. Now I am all alone, completely alone, and by my own doing. I feel sorry for myself because no one really cares in the end...and why should they? I have done absolutely nothing to deserve the best of others and if anything, I deserve their worst shots, because I have doled out my share. I just steadily dig my grave, every day, hoping that I can get a reign around my self destructive ways before I hit that six foot depth. Then all I have to do is lay down.

Someone once said a painful truth to me out of spite, and it is the bullseye honesty I hide from, "how could anyone love you, if you don't even love yourself."

Bourgeois

2010-04-11T02:21:00.003-04:00

*****

To explain myself myself to YOU, it is almost belittling to me. With your pride and your pomp, you come in unassuming like a stale parade float full of glitter, but no endorsement. You ponder over your third class company like a newfound middle management type pondering over his choice of company car. Either which way, you keep company that serves you none-the-better, you are dispenseful with this– what you assume to be tertiary types, while your options, otherwise, are not only non-elite, but no one else...

It's a sad life to don yourself a "king of clowns", but when no one else will have you, what do you have. It is you, the low floating farce, the presumable, you are the worst of all types of man. You are the safety net daredevil who dares at no real risk, you comfort yourself with your wiseness, but you are the pathetic fear, the half-shell type, who embarks on the easy trails of predictable endings. You cast away the sub par solvents, because the only thing that could keep an anvil soul like you afloat, is the dense mire of your own settled solution.

You can comfort yourself with your diluted lineage, your unctuous schooling, and your self-important stories, but your final line ends at the same mark that any half dead bum will reach. The days-gone-by stories, the wild nights– that surely you had no part in– are but mere fictions of super imposed delusions of grandeur. Am I, the dreg, the bottom feeding hooligan, impressed with your display of plastic salesmenship? No. I have bypassed the likes of feudal pyramid "stair-masters" like yourself before. You? No, you are the worst kind. You are the wannabe social climber stuck on that first rung of despicable loathing. The one who sees himself as preternatural, but is victim to his own pathetic gravity. The gravity of reality, that not every well-bred, well-schooled tike sets off into this world like gangbusters, but some, you, fall into the depraved category of failed societal phenom. You are the martyr of nothing. Hang on your cross.

Crestfallen.

2010-04-10T03:51:00.013-04:00

~
Along the grand arc of time, we all come to the same endpoint... inevitability. So why is it that we all do not invoke the theory of "predestination" if we all end up the same? It's almost laughable to even consider that we as individuals actually have any control of this world, or even our own lives in most cases, so why not give in to the powerlessness of the tidal pool of life? I find comfort in the thought that "whatever will be, will be, and will have always been that way" its gives confidence to know- that whatever choice I make will matter little in the end. It's times like tonight I fall back on this theory that I have stamped as my mantra, to give comfort in spite of my missteps, to know what is now, was always going to be.

Within my arcing timeline I have accumulated my share of notches. Some represent the good, and some the bad. Some represent mistakes that I have learned from and some represent a rueful regret. Tonight I make this notch and name it *Esteban. This mark will represent for me a lesson learned, yet I am twice burned, burned by my own ignorance and apparently short term memory. Expectations(a lesson past), my greatest weakness and probably the greatest weakness of most cerebral persons, has lead me to the stockades of a dissolved, overblown hope that came crashing to the Earth. Like most things that crash into this planet, these expectations started out the size of a football field, but upon entry, they were burned up and blasted into a golf ball sized reality. In this reality, I guess I always knew this outcome, but the preternatural need for romantic embellishment of what was actually lacking, filled in the gaps and sanded it to a smooth finish. What was left was my imaginary affair with something exciting and bigger than myself. Something I had created entirely in my mind in hopes that I might be part of something special one day, that if this wasn't actually "it", then I was at least going to polish it to a glare that might blind any ensuing reality.

The fact is, it was never close. It was a long distant "Hail Mary" heave, from one lonely person to another. Two tortured souls reaching for ghosts and settling for a mere comfort of pseudo-relationship gestures and happenstance courtship. I, the stoic. She, the entropy.

It's always the lure of that wild ride that tickles the imagination of the otherwise "normal" man; the one who looks at the action at a steadfast distance, his insides racing, urging him forward, but his rational mind staking him firmly down. It was I who thought, that maybe for a second, I had become unstuck from my caution and swam out into that sea of unknowing exhilaration. That maybe for once I looked that big foreboding wave head on and made my best effort to catch it, but that was not the case. That wild ride, that juggernaut of uncontrollable energy came in toppling over, cresting in the shallows and washing ashore lazily, then disappearing for good. I never made it in the water. Now I kick along the shores, crestfallen, gazing out into the abyss, looking over the milder waves that limp in unnoticed. My gaze screens distantly, looking yet again for that big one, that tyrant of fear that I must face just like I must face my own inevitability. Knowing that once I do catch it, I will be fumbled into the reef, ripped to shreds and left for dead, but I will race ahead anyway and do so with such fearless abandon that there will be no regrets in my action. Only that well learned war story that comes with the experience, and from the experience the pain, and from the pain, the pride of the pain.

AVATAR ll: The bestest and biggest ever!!!!

2010-04-03T22:27:00.001-04:00

Bought and sold, as fast as they can, Hollywood puts out more bullshit nonsense than any overindulgent American heathen could ingest in a given year. How much shit is that, really? Well, if you gave every American a colonic, piled up all the undigested red meat, gave it a name and a really cool movie trailer, you would have our next summer blockbuster! All of this shit sounds disgusting, but we foolish Americans are quick to buy into the trickery of trailers, let's face it, most trailers are fucking awesome! As for the product we actually get in the end, well it's not so great. If this were to take place(false advertisement) in any other facet of our lives, we would never let it slide. Let's say you bought a new car and after a half an hour, it breaks down; more than likely you would return your lemon purchase with a few choice words for the salesman. But movies, no, we treat them with almost an affectionate nature, half expecting each film we go see...to really suck! We walk out of the dimly lit theater shaking our heads saying to ourselves, "I knew this was going to happen." Why do you think theaters are so dark? Even the purveyors are embarrassed by the pseudo-entertainment they push; they are nothing more than dark alley dealers selling "cut" cocaine to first time using college students wanting to experiment.

The fact is, we love bullshit, we buy into bullshit. As long as a movie has the correct budget, it can stuff an hour and a half movie full of explosions, second rate actors, and car chases, which is just enough to keep us visual zombies panting for more "brains"(or no brains as it is). Hollywood has an expanding apex for such movies, where every five years or so, some asshole makes a movie for an even more ridiculous amount of money and hopes that movie goers parallel their standards to the pecuniary measure studios do. In a sense, I guess we movie goers do that: Look to AVATAR for example. Every asshole with ten dollars lined up to see blue fucks fight off Whitey for several hours and did it so justifiably, because it was the biggest thing around ya know? Well, not me! That's right, I have NOT seen AVATAR, nor will I ever and my only reason is.....it's AVATAR! Fuck AVATAR!

Now that the sugar buzz of James "the rapist" Cameron's super, mega, ultra, economy sized blockbuster has subsided, it's time for summer blockbuster season! Which is like hunting season in its purest sense: A bunch of simpletons take to the field or theater; they pack their guns or hidden snacks; they hide in the dark and hope for a kill and they usually walk away drunk or overstimulated and suffering from 3-D vertigo. And what does Hollywood have in store for you??? How about yet another Ridley Scott/Russell Crowe movie!!! Even better, it's an overcooked and overtold story of Robin Hood, but during his wonder years...oh I hope Kevin Arnold comes out on top this time! Also, there will be IRONMAN 2!!! PROBLEM AREA: There are waaaaaaay to many people out there who indulge in shitty movies just because of a particular actor. Enter Robert Downey Jr., the prince of opium who really is anti-Hollywood with his tongue-in-cheek comments and interviews about his professional field. So does it make it better or worse that he knows he is playing jester in a donkey show and is completely fine with it? Oh who cares!!! I am guilty of watching shitty movies just because I love a particular actor/actress. Every time "Gangs of New York" comes on, I must watch as many Bill the Butcher scenes for as long as I can, in spite of the movie itself.

So now that the weather is warming up and you can finally get outside...do just that! Stay away from the theaters! Russell Crowe can only play Russell Crowe. Ridley Scott can only make one type of movie. Robert Downey Jr's hip facade is going to wear off quickly, so be the first to jump OFF the bandwagon. Join me somewhere on a patio with the warm summer breeze in our faces, kissing a red sun goodnight as we drink beer and listen to good music. The simple pleasures in life are free. Except for the beer.

Oh yeah, whores. Whores are not free either.

In the house of limbo.

2010-03-28T20:41:00.002-04:00

For no reason at all I am going to write this, whatever "this" is.

Right now, I am a ball of stress and nerves; I am uptight and mad; I am hurt and I am bitter. I have zero idea where all of this came, but nonetheless it is here, unprovoked and complete. Everything inside of me is racing and falling apart. Nothing day to day makes me happy. I live a life that consists of going from one responsibility to the next, with no real joy, just doing my duty. When given the chance (the freedom) I just drink too much, like a man running from something. When alone, I just feel sorry for myself. I guess this is depression. I have dabbled in it in the past, but nothing this real, at least it seemed as if there were no real cause for it. While married, I waned between indifference and depression, I knew, I had the intuition, and was aware I had married while still being unconvinced. Before marriage, I was mostly fine, but who isn't when you are young and you experience life in mostly superficial ways. When you just dust the surface of life, it doesn't effect you too bad when the dust settles back down.

My life now, well it is full of real issues, not like before (desperately trying to sell a house, child support, a job I hate, but am stuck to). On top of that, these issues are things that are mostly out of my control. If you have ever been held hostage to another person or circumstance, you know the powerlessness. That feeling of being caged, it makes you venomous to those around you, you strike out for no reason at all, just so they know you are not to be messed with. I am at that point, I am becoming a cancer to those around me. I feel too sorry for myself to care about anyone or their issues, I just sink in my own mire of disappointment. For everyone who likes to say, "everything happens for a reason" well those people can go fuck themselves, that is exactly the kind of shit I cannot tolerate. I have no interest in the "reasons" I only have interest in the now and future outcomes. In this bleakness, this storm of limbo that has my bearings spinning like a top; I make poor decisions; I have no comfort; I have no place; I have no pride. I just try and grab hold of any quick and cheap fulfillment I can, which still leaves me hollow. I feel like a distempered dog leashed to a fence post, and life is just throwing rocks at me. Being the passive/aggressive pacifist that I am, I only bark, no bite. This bark is the fang exposed warning, a deterrent to any open heart sympathizer who thinks they actually have something that might change me or my life. These "one love" neophytes placating me with garble and jargon that does not apply to the way I live or see my own life. Generic ego stroking and vague hopes, "oh, you are just great, everything will be fine", nothing matters in the dark. I just want someone to open the door on this cage.

The worst part of this whole LONG drawn out affair, is I have allowed myself to become a victim. I have gladly receded into this role: A man too easily broken, too quick to throw in the towel. I was supposed to hit rock bottom and bounce...I am just laying here face first, all hopes have been dashed.

To all you morons, soooo in love and considering marriage. Don't do it. The financial implications, the emotional damage, the limbo...they are not worth it. Thanks to my poor decision making, I am a bitter man who cannot afford his own roof, who has been marginalized by limbo, and his only hope lies in the hands of others. Someone, anyone, buy this house...please. I can handle the rest, but YOU must do this part for me.

It's all perspective huh? Perspective comes from experience and disposition.

A Fool Indeed.

2010-03-08T10:43:00.003-05:00

I am a fairly normal guy, REALLY, I am! I like sports, hanging out with my friends, drinking too much, and of course, I like the ladies. Most of these things listed above are just streamlined things that really have no variance; I mean, my love for the Louisville Cardinals and beer, that just isn't going to change too much. My friends and I, we are as consistent as any friends would/could be, but then there are the ladies...

I am me. Whatever the hell that means, it's true. In spite of this proclamation, I am also held to the whim of my environment and those who surround me. We have all worked with someone, or just known someone, who really brings out the worst in us. We all "try" to surround ourselves with those who bring out the best in us and people we seamlessly connect with, on whatever level it may be. I would like to think in regards to the women I have surrounded myself with, that I would be monolithic, unwavering with WHO I am as a person, but that would be incorrect. I have found myself to be a willing victim of playing patsy to the female preference. Morally I have not changed, my personal infrastructure is still the same, but recently I have found myself in a borderline desperate situation. Oh God! Am I desperate now? Across the board, I would say no. I am not desperate, but have found myself in a situation where I "liked" a person who was less responsive to me, than I to her. I found myself trying too hard to get things up to where I wanted them to be in my mind. I worry that maybe expectations crawled into the picture, the one thing that I have adamantly tried to avoid since being single again. These feelings and expectations have blinded me from the pragmatic ways in which I used to conduct my dating affairs. A woman such as this one, well, I would have cut her loose shortly thereafter meeting- if I felt the need... but no. I wanted this to be for whatever reason and because of this preconception, I have made a total fool out of myself. I have become my worst enemy: An insecure, desperate, fawning flatterer. UGH!!!

The thing that really kicks me in the ass. The person I am, would have been completely sufficient to maintain some form of a relationship with this woman, but the games I played in my own head tricked me into the guise of whatever it is I thought she wanted. This is truly disheartening, because this is the mentality which got me married to the wrong woman the first time around. How many times did the caveman stick his hand in the fire? Probably less than I will play patsy to a beautiful woman. This is more of a personal reminder than a blog. G, I implore you, just be that fucking awesome guy that you normally are, it's good enough.

I really hope that I shake this off fast. When dating, attitude is everything. One hint of weakness and the women will kill you where you stand, it's just their violent nature.

I do sense the irony in all of this. I have put many women in this same position that I am in now. I didn't mean to lead them astray, but I like to be thorough, because once you burn a woman....there is no going back. So to all you ladies who have felt as I have described, because of me, I apologize for any discomfort I may have placed you in.

Spring will be here soon, then Summer. I will gladly kiss this long and lonely winter good bye.

* Just to clarify, it was I who ended said "relationship" the awkwardness in which was manufactured by myself, was too much to bear.

Mothman: Regeneration

2010-03-03T10:59:00.000-05:00

Six months after their camping trip, the man and Mothman have not spoken. It's late at night, the man is driving home from a party at a friend's house. The man's cellphone rings. There is no caller ID, and he doesn't know the number.

Uh..hello?

A low grumbly voice responds.
Long time, no talk.

Um...hel-lo??

Forgotten so quickly?

The man in disbelief.
Is this Mothman!?

I see, you didn't forget me after all.

Well, you do have a unique voice.

Mothman gasps.
You think I'm unique!?

Look, I mean your voice, it's just different....hard to miss.

But of course. Heaven forbid you build up Mothman's self esteem. Mothman mumbles: By the way, there is no heaven and you aren't going.

What was that? I couldn't understand you.

Oh nothing. How are you?

I am good. Did you get a cellphone or something?

Why yes I did! I would have texted you, but since you are driving and all...

Why am I not surprised! Following me again?

It's Saturday night, Mothman likes to get down too! I was sooo crazy, you should have seen me...

The man interrupts.
Are you drunk?

I was dancing on the roof of some guy's car...I was soooo wasted! Mothman bursts into laughter.

So you followed me to my friend's party, danced outside, on top of a car, by yourself?

I stole a beer too! I puked in a flower pot, it was so friggin' hilarious! Mothman's drunken laughter turns into sobs. Why don't you want to be my friend?

Oh shit! I...I...look...

Shut up! Who cares about Mothman, huh? Just some flyin' freak who knows how to forecast the stock market.

What? You can do that.

Mothman immediately changes back to a cool and calm emotional state.
But of course I can buddy. We should get together sometime, I can help with your portfolio.

My portfolio is pretty strong, but if there is something you can tell me real quick on the phone...

You shouldn't talk on the phone and drive. Stop at that Waffle House on the corner, we can eat hash browns and talk. How do you like your hash brown's?

Smothered, covered, peppered...WAIT! Where exactly are you?

Look in your rearview.

Two glowing red eyes float behind the man's Audi.

Christ! The man was shocked by this image.

What?

Nothing.

Sure. You know I was born with these eyes, I didn't get to chose. Mothman would love to have baby blue eyes, but then Mothman couldn't see into the future and help you with your portfolio. Be thankful Mothman has beady red eyes that can make you wealthy.

Really? Wealthy?

We shall see...

Look, I can't just go into a Waffle House with you, you'll scare the shit out of everyone!

Remember, I can cloak myself with invisibility.

Remember. I don't want to be the guy sitting across from floating hash browns! It just won't work!

Remember our camping trip? Those were the best times of my life.

Yeah, kinda. I was real drunk.

What? You have to be REAL drunk to hang around Mothman.

Honestly, I wasn't sure if you were going to attack me and eat me or something.

.........

Look, I didn't mean that. It was just a joke.

..........

The man says plainly.
I had a wonderful time Mothman. It was nice to finally meet you face to ...uh...er....face?

Yes, I have a face....asshole!

Calm down Mothman, I didn't mean anything by that.

Mothman lets out a high pitched sob, he convulses in tears.

You have a great face. I just couldn't think of a proper descriptor for it.

Mothman instantly regains composure again.
REALLY!?

Yeah, really...

We should go camping again! I bought a tent!

I thought you slept in trees, upside down, and that's how you are psychic?

I've been thinking about change lately, you know, since Obama and all.

Umm...what else are you going to do besides be a flying, psychic Mothman?

A veterinarian.

HAH!

No seriously, I love animals.

I thought you ate animals, remember the whole "live field mice" thing.

Hee hee. You remember so much of our conversations...I think it's cute.

The man starts to get uncomfortable, not sure of where this is headed.
Ahhhh....that...it just stuck in my head for some reason.

Mothman knows.

Well look, if you aren't sleeping in trees anymore, how can you help me with my portfolio.

Your portfolio is just fine.

But....

Just fine.

Really, its gonna do well?

But of course it is honey.

What did you just call me?

Nothing, just sayin.

Look, about this camping trip...I'm not so sure...

We need to talk about something REALLY important.

Like what?

Our camping trip six months ago....something happened when you were drunk.

The man was stricken with fear. He searched his memory trying to remember.
What exactly do think happened Mothman?

Think? Oh, I know and I will never forget. It was beautiful.

The man is panicking, he can't remember!
You tell me....what exactly happened?

I guess you don't remember everything, do you!

No, I guess I don't. What happened!

It's been six months. A Mothman's gestation period is shorter than a human's.

What the fuck are you saying to me Mothman!

We have a baby! Aren't you so excited! I went away for the whole process, I didn't want to be a burden (and really, I didn't want you to see me fat.) We're a family!

The man slams on the breaks. Gets out of the car. He is in a frenzy. Looks at his cellphone in disbelief and slams it on the ground. He is a mix of utter fear and confusion.

A dark figure, inverted, lowers itself from a tree behind him.
I'M JUST FUCKIN' WITH YA! MOTHMAN IS ASEXUAL!!!

Untied.

2010-02-20T09:55:00.003-05:00

You have exposed me for a phony. Only because you are the most real person I have ever crossed paths with. I thought I was grounded, I thought I was the truest of colors and genuine, but after knowing you, I realize I am just a naive cloud in the sky and you are the gritty sidewalk.

Part of me wants to fly, a big part of me. I want to float off into the dark beyond the blue, to see things from such a distance that it all seems perfect. To where nothing matters, where there is no time, and all the flaws are too blurry to make out. In trying to make this escape from the gravity of this heavy world, I tethered myself to you. This balloon is tied to your wrist and while my head is in the clouds, your feet are always planted firmly on the ground, and while this seems to be a good combination...it isn't all the time. I think you act as a mirror. I can see myself in you, all the flaws and all the perfect quirks, and when this reflection of me is too much to bear, when I can no longer stand to see this anxious fool in the mirror, I run away. I have been exposed; a fawning flatterer, playing a patsy to a hopeless romance that is only carried by me. What happened to being pragmatic?

I dance and I dance. I get drunk to be brave enough to be close to you and say all the jumbled thoughts in my head and hope that somehow it wins your affections, but you are just a breaker in the waves and all my intentions collapse against you. Who am I fooling, these words are the "realest" I could be and they are the admission that all of my pining for you, is finger crossed hopes for myself. I want to be happy, and you and I have so much in common and when it is great, it is amazing and when it isn't...it's all in my mind. I conjure up false insecurities; I exposed myself too early in the game and did so to a professional who isn't going to show her cards as she rakes in all the chips I throw at her. All these hopes, like a kite tied down, flying low and waiting to be struck by lightning. I can't seem to get it right. I can't seem to get away from my own mind and the saying "you kill the things you love" could never be more true, because I am killing you and the only thing left is inevitable regret.

Time to put this awkward anxiety on the scales and measure it against regret. I am used to regret, but not the feeling of being a misguided fumbling fool.

I relinquish myself. Cut the string.

No One Gets Out Alive.

2010-02-19T15:48:00.003-05:00

Okay, this is basically what I was wearing today when I went to WalMart. Alright, I was not holding four beers in my hand, but other than that, this is fairly accurate.

I am not a regular there...at all, but I needed to pick up some tax software on my way to the ex's house and WallyWorld was the only place on the way. I don't avoid WalMart just because of the gluttonous NASCAR fans and bouffant crowned damsels stretching their spandex translucent, nor do I avoid it because of their hoarding business practices that have all but killed the small business. I hate going to WalMart because of the elderly door greeters, who actually work as incognito security. All those retirement years watching "In the Heat of the Night" and passing judgment on them "younguns" from their armchair has apparently left them with a paranoid concept of anyone aged thirtysomething or younger. I am the culprit and they are Carroll O'Connor.

Today was the first time ever...EVER! That I was NOT stopped by one of these low-rent Matlocks while leaving. I had gotten used to it; I always have my receipt in hand as I approach the condemning eyes of some uber skeptical grandmother, just so I can gain admittance to freedom. One time I had to wait at the door for five minutes because whatever I had bought, had a name so long that it was abbreviated (thx J.D)on the receipt and the old cunt wasn't sure if the item I had in my bag was the same as what was listed on the receipt. The manager came out and verified that I was not a thief and thanked me for shopping there. But today was different. I must be looking quite respectable with my beard and my Irish style "pub hat", because I simply got a half cocked smile and a nod as I made way to the parking lot. Am I officially legal in the eyes of the near dead? Well, it's about time! Not that gaining access to this exclusive club is going to get me shopping at WalMart on a regular basis, cause lets face it, it's full of smelly, obese rednecks! I can wait for the state fair to enjoy that level repulsion.

I have made it no secret that I hate old people. If we are Facebook friends, you have read it many times over by now. To me it is war, much like the song "Five to One" by the Doors: "They got the guns, but we got the numbers." The only thing that has killed more young people than drugs and misguided wars, is old people. They send us off to die for their cause and even worse, they drive! An old person behind the wheel of an automobile is more dangerous than being "strangle fucked" by Bruce Banner, while some thug type is slapping his mother around and calling her WHORE!

So on this very violent note I leave you with this: Old people, you suck cock and I hate you. You smell like Skin So Soft and Old Spice and you make horrible noises when you eat mashed potatoes. You drive like a Kamikaze pilot and you have entitlement issues just because you had to sell your baby during the depression. I vote for euthanization at the age of 70, otherwise you are just haunting a new world you don't understand and don't accept. So accept it and please die....soon.

In the Dark Corners.

2010-02-18T21:11:00.000-05:00

It's the loneliness. I sit here in a room with no TV talking, only a sad song playing in the background. I can feel the grip of solitude squeeze at my heart, I clench my jaw and fight back the wave of emotion. I accept this feeling of desolation that hits me like a wrecking ball, it kills the memories of good times and hopes of the future. There is only me right now.

Getting old and doing it alone. Intermittently swarmed by my kids and their love only to send them back home and sit here with this computer, who is the only partner I have. This unresponsive machine staring back at me blankly, while I stare back, fingers dancing across the keyboard trying to grab this moment of heartache. It is the fear we all hold deep in our hearts; the fear of getting old alone and dying alone. At this age, there is no one to feel sorry for you, no one to bear this cross for you, there is only you and the overbearing weight of nothingness. When the room grows small, the quiet is amplified to a deafening tone, and your heart is the only thing that is alive at that moment. A single heart that cannot understand anything, just like a small child. It only yearns and urges. It taps at you wanting attention, but your mind knows that there is no attention to be had, then the self pity sets in. You reach the point where there is no anger and the passion feels wrenched from your soul, you feel as if you are dying slowly knowing that moments of your life are just slipping through the hourglass. A moment when you feel incapacitated by a big world that seems full of empty gratifications.

The lights are dim in here. There is only a small bit of bourbon left and my neck hurts from sitting here too long, and I am sick of myself. That's the worst. When you are sick of your own company and you can't escape yourself. When your ego no longer entertains you with your brashness and only a hollow shell sits here trying to figure it all out. It's a cold world when you realize that you are the only one. You are the only one that can make it happen for yourself, but you have no idea how to. Just a misguided fool clawing at the walls, wanting to run away from this life and find something better. In the end, you are just stuck with yourself and that loneliness is just baggage you take everywhere in life. You can't drink away the pain and the cigarettes only give you a few minutes reprieve. You always come back to the hurt like a good victim. You start to sit with the pain all to often and it becomes a friend, your only friend sometimes. When do I get tired of myself?

Time passes. You accumulate more experiences and friends and when the lonely time hits you, it hits ten times as hard. When there is no one answering the phone, you don't give a shit about TV, and any distraction that could be...is never enough to cut through the pain. I sit here now, pointlessly pounding out my emotions, playing my violin while carrying my cross, because there is no one else to lift this burden and I am alone. This voracious attention whore has had his cord cut and I am gone.

Paula Deen's Tits.

2010-02-17T22:12:00.004-05:00

"We are a race of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper." ~ Henry David Thoreau

For the most part, this verse could encompass many a man, but for two particular deprecated heathens, this is an "aspire to" mantra. Please welcome Ricky and Bobby Deen (not their actual names, I don't think) the spawn of lard mistress Paula Deen, Food Network's answer to congestive heart failure.

Ms. Deen birthed two baby boys who apparently were conjoined by happy-go-lucky failure, and Paula being the southern fried whore she was in her younger days, is surely trying to make up for her shortcomings as a mother by employing Chet and Donnie into her franchise, that in the end, will surely kill more people than cigarettes. While perched upon her empire of butter and sugar, she has opened doors that Sluggo and Butchie could not do themselves (I don't think they have opposable thumbs) and thanks to her gratuity, her bottom feeding children can now afford hair product enough to shine up their balding scalps...thanks Mom.

(Why is there a pubic hair on my screen?) Never mind!

Back to Todd and Brad.

For me, this is no fluke. This is not me posturing silly just so I can write something entertaining for you, this is me genuinely holding these two titty-babies in the lowest regard that I humanly can. I can appreciate Paula Deen's down home cooking, hell, it's the same food that has killed most of my family, in turn, saving me guilt. Thanks Momma Deen! But alas, I must hold Paula guilty by her maternal association and wag the mighty shame finger in her direction. The only thing worse than low-floating morons are those who would keep them from smacking their empty heads on the bottom, nulling them of their own moment of clarity when they realize they are worthless to this society...or at least to me(which is good enough).

Paula, you are a good god fearing southern belle, you cook up death like any good southern woman would and maybe you had unprotected sex with one too many truckers....not judging, we have all been there. I can forgive your sexual mishaps and the second hand murder of all those folks who frequent your restaurant or try to conjure up your recipes at home, but I cannot let stand the two Muppet dicks you have bred into this world. The worst part of course, is the intermittent cameos, which of course I could turn the channel when Jethro and Bubba pop in, but at that point I am so close to finishing myself off...I don't want to switch channels and accidentally ejaculate to Wolf Blitzer.

Food Network, I implore you! Hold Paula Deen at knife point, preferably a Santoku, and force her to breastfeed BobbyJim and Cletus. Make them swallow the sour concoction of booze, salt, and trans fats, which will hopefully kill them sooner, more so than later. Let Natural Selection do its intended job and peel off the unneeded layers of Deen boys. Thank you.

About Last Night Pt. 2: A Facebook Play.

2010-02-11T09:47:00.002-05:00

Written by Vicky Sue Donald and Guillermo de la Varner.

Two robots, Pete and Beagle Valdez, walk into a bar....

Guillermo de la Varner

Bartender says, "we don't take kindly to your kind round here"

Yesterday at 1:55pm ·

Vicky Sue Donald

Beagle Valdez shares a look with Pete before asking for a pint of oil.“Rendered not amalgamated.”

Yesterday at 2:27pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

The bartender scratches his bald head and eyeballs a shotgun hidden under the bartop. Looks back at the robots...he considers his options.

Yesterday at 2:29pm ·

Vicky Sue Donald

Despite his courteous attitude, Beagle Valdez has already calculated the bartenders weaknesses. His balls.

Yesterday at 2:39pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

The bartender reaches under the bar and quickly pulls out two glasses, turns his back and grabs a can of 5w-30. "Sorry boys, all I have is the Lite, will that work?" The bartender notices Beagle ogling his crotch so he diverts his gaze to Pete, and Pete gives a nod silently informing the bartender that his Lite, will be sufficient.

Yesterday at 2:43pm ·

Vicky Sue Donald

Reaching for his pint, Beagle Valdez quickly changes directions and reaches for the bartenders balls. Wrapping his metal digits around his fleshy member, Beagle Valdez remarks, “Next time I won't be so nice.”

Yesterday at 2:57pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

The bartender blushes. "This is the Satchell Paige Inn, I see you'll fit right in". Why don't you boys pull up a chair, the show starts soon.

Yesterday at 3:08pm ·

Vicky Sue Donald

Pete quickly spills some of the liquid from his drink on his pelvic protecting material - in a vain attempt to cover his seeping region. “Pardon me, I need to go to the gentleman's quarters.

Yesterday at 3:17pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

Pete opens the restroom door to find a giant octopus giving 7 individuals handjobs simultaneously. The octopus, whose name is Rob Lowe, winks at Pete and says "room for one more you lucky devil".

Yesterday at 4:18pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

Pete obliges the octopus, because hey, his cock parts are already lubed up from his spilled drink. Rob Lowe attaches his suctioned grasp to Pete's metallic junk. Pete closes his eyes, pokes his pelvis out closer to Rob Lowe like a plea for more and more. Rob Lowe himself is getting carried away with his own ecstasy, his eyes are glassed over and a dab of drool waits in the corner of his mouth.

Yesterday at 4:52pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

Suddenly the door swings open. It's a huge Pepper Shaker known as Snitchy Buggins. Snitchy, who was born nongendered, looked at this ridiculous circle jerk of robots, humans, giant lizards, a three toed sloth and one octopus. Snitchy, trying to be respectable, tips his hat to signal his respect for their moment as he leaves the room. This tip of the hat causes pepper to fill the room, which in turn cause Rob Lowe to sneeze. This violent sneeze combined with Rob Lowe's powerful grip, ripped off every penis that was held so lovingly just seconds before.

Yesterday at 4:56pm ·

Vicky Sue Donald

Sparks fly from Pete's groin singing the hair from every non-robot's balls. Screams can be heard throughout the bar. Beagle Valdez enters the bathroom to find oil swimming in Pete's Eye light holes. “Come on my friend, I'll put you back together again.”

Yesterday at 5:22pm ·

Guillermo de la Varner

They rode off into the golden red sunset together, two friends, side by side. One holding the other's cock.

Yesterday at 5:26pm ·

Horrorscope.

2010-02-06T14:59:00.001-05:00

It's written in the stars, generic gibberish feigning as an intuitive forecast. It's your life, right there, summed up in a short paragraph, everything that your day, week, and month has in store for you. Sometimes weirdly accurate and sometimes so general it feels like a manifesto written by a coma patient:

Virgo: You find yourself breathing and upright for a good part of the day. At some point you become weary and slumber, but don't worry, so do your friends and coworkers. Make sure to get gas this week or you will run out. You may find yourself anxious over some anxiety you are feeling, but don't fear, this too shall pass. Your lucky numbers are: 1,2,3,4,5,5.

But like I said, sometimes they are weirdly accurate and these accurate ones can birth a vigor for your intuition that has been vindicated by these fairly accurate horoscopes. It can be pertinent to relationships: She doesn't like you. It can be related to your work: Don't suck any dick in the men's restroom. It can be about self awareness: You're a fucking idiot. Kill yourself now. When I read an accurate horoscope, I get a little excited, I start to think that something good is going to happen or maybe by some off chance I am on the right path in life. Most of the time, as accurate as they are, they are just a short story that is dear to you, but has no ending and just leaves you hanging. "What about my love life? Tell me now!!!" Wouldn't it be much better if they just told you the whole damn story and you could live life vicariously through your horoscope: You will meet someone special. She will not think you are special. You will get a raise at work, go ahead and buy that van today. Don't forget your mom's birthday, it's tomorrow. You are going to be killed by a bus in two weeks, just eat whatever the fuck you want, blow off work, punch random people in the face, rape a clown, and nevermind the church...it's too late for you. With this, we could better plan our lives around fate, which would save a lot of time and mistakes. But no....these so called mystic minded puppeteers of destiny only give us half the story and we are stuck having to live out our days trying to write a better end to this story.

Thanks for nothing gypsies! I am going back to bed and wait for armageddon.

Infatuation/Intoxication

2010-02-02T01:26:00.049-05:00

Like inevitability, you suddenly arrived. Someone it seems that I have always known but without knowledge. Like two ghostly timelines running parallel since their existence, but never intersecting, you were always there like the keys I thought I lost. It isn't easy to write this. Putting emotions into words, materializing feelings for the sake of understanding them. For now they race within me just like my heart when our eyes lock, my blood pumps furiously and energizes me, pushes me into a frenzy, and just like now, I try to grab at these sensations, but it's like gripping air. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to make reason of these feelings, I just want to experience them with no answer or purpose, just embrace this moment and hope it doesn't end too soon. Because what is in me now...is you.

There are looks and there are looks. Its in between you and I, whatever this is, it leaves your eyes and mine, it meets somewhere in between our gaze and this is where it lives, like electricity caught in a trap. I will hold my eyes steady as long as I can, to hold onto this moment, to feel so alive, so enthralled, and so scared at the same time. You are the moment before the ride plunges, screaming down a steep hill, exhilarating and intense and the gravity that pulls me to you, holds me in your thrill. I sit with that feeling in my gut, the feeling of being compelled into action to embrace this inherit connection. Though I appear to be calm on the outside, on the inside I want to throw that table in between us to the floor, take you firm in my arms and kiss you as intensely as this mortal coil will allow. To abandon this world in each other's arms, as the deeper I look into you the more I can see into an eternity I had lost faith in. And when our eyes close it feels as if every particle of my being becomes alive from your embrace, to know that something exists in me that can only be set free by you, its the closest I will ever get to the divine. It's intoxicating to the point of delirium. My head spins dizzy leaving all these thoughts jumbled and unimportant. My heart pounds heavy like the falling hooves of a thousand horses and it has yet to slow. I am left here like a rattled cage swinging from my chain, wondering what just happened and hoping it happens again.

The Endless Horizon.

2010-01-31T23:45:00.001-05:00

and if I would have gone, it would have been the hum of the road under my wheels, a hot grip on this Earth as I cut through the air like a bullet. I would drive in the opposite direction of this spinning globe, just to get away faster and meet myself again. There ain't nothin' more free than a open road, no maps and no plans. Just the urge that pushes and pulls us, taunts us and baits us into chancing a destiny and speaks in hushed voice and screams at us to roll like the wind. Time ain't on our side, the clock is impatiently tapping its fingers, grinning like a devil, while we rail and mew with our waning plans, praying for someone to push us off this cliff.

This life really ain't nothin' but a big open space and you like a wild dog wantin' to get at it, the only reason you don't is you caged yourself with your mind. You thought you knew the way, or there was a way...there ain't no way, just that big ol' open space and a child's voice in your heart tellin' you to run as fast as you can. Just to try and make it to the other end, to see everything with new eyes, from this coast to that coast, to feel excitement o'er just bein' in this new world and experiencing every moment genuine. That voice is the only thing you got, and that voice is the only one on your side wantin' you to throw caution into the wind and forget the superficial fears that have always held you back. You put yourself in a world that you know, you fence yourself in a comfy place and wait to die, thinkin you done did yo job by just survivin' e'ryday. This ain't the days of survival no more, these is the days to be wild and free. Whether we come by this freedom by hook or crook, it don't matter none, we here now and we got the liberty to be without a chained life. Its yourself, that heart of fear you have cring'n at the idea of a world of unknown possibilities, the lack of a safe cozy life, like you gonna live foreva.

You gonna die you know. It's all gonna end one day...and too soon at that. What's it gonna look like to you? You gonna smile or cry on your deathbed? You gonna wish or be thankful on your deathbed?
These are the things to consider when you got the voice still in your heart, cause one day, you gonna choke that voice dead and have only the ration and reason you supplanted it with...you only gonna have that safe life where dreams cause fear and not excitement. Where the horizon always ends and you don't ever reach further than your chains will allow you.

Set yourself free from reason.

Listen:
come and get me
come and get me
come and get me

Poems.

2010-01-22T02:22:00.004-05:00

Leaves You.

There is a lone tree in a field
here the wind blows free
The Spring has come
the sky now blue and warm
Life in the field is carefree.

The rain drops
leaves reach up to receive
the tears that come from heaven
upon the wind swaying leaves.
The happiest days of the carefree tree.

A blue sky turns grey
a season gone
the warm winds fade
the leaves die fast
floating away like memories past

The now bare limbs, like spears in the sky
reaching dead arms of a man still alive
Longing for the warm sun reprieve
to grant his leave
to live in the field of eternal spring.

Mascara Rain

Glitter queen feign.
Your mascara rain.
We all know you're sullen,
know that we have all fallen.
I have had my head in my hands
I have seen life leak out the sands
I have hit the bottom ground
I have broke free from what I am bound.

You can too.

Wipe away your makeup smile
sit with your pain, if just a while.
Get fed up with yourself
take the pictures off the shelf.
Smash the walls that hold you in
Forget the things you know as sin.
Then step away, out into the rain
cleanse yourself of this mascara feign.
Find the girl who was full of dreams
then be who you are, you are more than you seem.

The Moment of Silence.

2010-01-18T11:42:00.001-05:00

In a moment of time, a fatal shot rang out over Memphis. The voice of reason was silenced.

In a time of social anxiety and fear, Martin Luther King Jr. stood as a stoic monolith breaking the waves of intolerance. He was the spine of a body of people who felt ill about the devolution of our society, he was the one who stood up and consciously made himself a target so we could rise behind his virtuous shield, and without his words, without his courage, this flock may have succumbed to its own complacency in the heart of fear. Martin Luther King Jr. was not just a moral leader of society, he was the voice of our own conscious, he was the common sense that was so desperately needed in dire times. He became the mirror that every white person could look into and see themselves in him, and embrace it. He was the pillar that society had ideally built itself upon but had come up horribly short. He was the memory of our purpose. He was shelter from the storm and the storm itself. He did not accept the social injustices of this country, so he stood upon the capitol of this bulwark nation, as we hung from his coattails dreaming his dream, and with his life and death, we became what we should be...human.

Peace and Love, these are ideals that resonate with every human being, these are the ideals that make us one, and Martin Luther King Jr. was that eloquent voice that rang out through the city streets and dirt country roads that brought us back to the basics of human connection. For an ideal so simple, its hard to think we strayed so far, it just goes to show you how ignorance and mob rules can deteriorate a nation just as quickly as one shot can kill a great man. Today is a day of honor and remembrance. It is not a happy day, nor is it a day of celebration. The dream is closer to fruition, but has not materialized as of yet. Martin Luther King Jr. died for all of us, for the human condition, for the ideals of what a society and great nation should be. It is our duty to maintain his dream that saved us from ourselves, to honor him like a fallen soldier, who fought the war with a message of love and unity. He truly fought for our freedom, unlike some of the wars we are sold on today, he saved us from the tyranny of ignorance that blinded this world we know and because of him we all have a better life.

One man can change the world. Today, find his words, listen to his dream, and don't forget the daring of hope.

A Single Thirtysomething.

2010-01-16T15:05:00.002-05:00

Reacclimating myself to a single life, I have learned much. Now in my thirties, its a whole different ballgame, one that has been streamlined from what I remember of my early twenties; some of it personal growth, some of it external changes in society. In my early twenties, as well as yours, there are games to be played, posturing to be posed, and boxes to fit into, but being thirtysomething; you have played the games, you have seen the show and it has aged you with maturity and life experience. Though we are older and wiser, dating still has its idiosyncracies; comical at its best, awkward at its worst.

Here are some of the updates I have come across, though an incomplete list of tricks and common practices nowadays, its a start.

Texting. First and foremost, there is texting. Though texting, in my opinion, is the lowest form of communication(maybe better than smoke signals) it is the most commonly practiced form of communication. It's impersonal, there in no inflection to be read into, and sometimes a wee bit cumbersome. In spite of this seeming like a perfect storm scenario of miscommunication, it works, and sometimes all too well. In my experience, texting quite literally ages a newborn relationship in dog years; if you meet someone on a Saturday, by the next Saturday day you already know everything about them. Being that the text message is so impersonal, it's really no big deal to text someone the day after meeting them just to say "How ya doin'?" The seven straight days of texting makes the first date a mere formality, depending on the comfort level and chemistry of course. I have literally had a first date at a hotel, because there was nothing left to say thanks to texting nonstop: We met, we hit it off, we communicated nonstop, and when it came time for the first date, there was no point in faking a dinner along with a courtesy conversation. We were already "there".

Excuses. Remember excuses. Well not anymore. If your date doesn't go well, you don't trudge through a mire of awkwardness for weeks, you cut them loose and you do it quickly. When you reach the age of thirty, you know yourself much better and what you need to be and what you need of others. There's no more of that, "well, I haven't met anybody in a long time, so I'll just settle for this." When you are more than 30% dead, there is no time to waste with those you don't connect with, so just keep moving...no excuses.

Nyquil. Nyquil is a tool, not a medication for cold and flu season. Eventually, a man will meet a warm snuggly woman who has an overblown view of her own morality. Where this leads is too is long nights of no-penetration snuggling, just enough to make a girl feel special and desired, but with no real desire. Of course, a man will oblige this behavior most of the time; laying around can lead to sex and we want to be there when that happens. For the time being, you will be stuck in a "spooning purgatory". The combination of light friction and body heat leads to a long sleepless night, I suggest putting a bottle of Nyquil in your car and whenever you arrive to your platonic slumber party, double dose yourself. You will thank me, and the off chance your lady friend gives in...we will worry about that later.

Zero expectations. To have expectations of another free willed human being is like trying to hold a beam of light in your hand. Everybody has their own life, their own schedule, their own families and friends. Your job is to just be part of it, and at first, a very small part of it. It is always best to not expect bad scenarios based on your own uncertainty, nor should you expect good things based on your own hopes. Us humans are in a constant state of bouncing off one another, we taste test and window shop, trying to catch that feeling, and for the most part we only catch a mild STD, until of course, someone sparks something in us and we feel the pull of love. Expectations are just self imposed standards, whether on ourselves or others, that we never communicate, we just expect. When the other party comes up short we feel betrayed by what was only our own knowledge from the start. Don't just date without expectations. Live without expectations. They serve no one.

Facebook. Understand from the outset, that this new thing you are starting with someone, well its more than likely that it won't last; the odds are just against it. Try to not be too quick to "friend" your new person of interest and expose them to your entire life, you can save yourself the awkward, "Hey, did you defriend me?" message you will inevitably get. In the end, we always say, lets remain friends, but it's not like you are going to stop meeting others, others you may "friend" on the Facebook, which may possibly lead to hurt feelings. Just skip the awkwardness for a while and wait it out. By the way, I don't live by this rule, but I love awkwardness. This can also save you from answering questions like: "Hey, who's that girl?" "Why are you dressed like a woman in that pic?", "How come all your status updates are about pooping or your own dick?" Time is of the essence and your Facebook is just for you, for now.

In conclusion, I must add that my thirties, in spite of all the hardships I have endured these past few years, has been the best time of my life. I love this age, I love being single at this age, I love the women who are this age. Thirty is a rebirth, when you find yourself finally understanding your own life and actions, and then embracing them. I hope you find some of this garble helpful, whether it was a warning or dosing yourself with sleep aids, I am only here to help.

Rogue Ego.

2010-01-12T12:21:00.000-05:00

Its a chained monster inside trying to get out. The ego, the conditioned self, is at best our fantasized version of how we want to be seen. You feed this monster a tidbit here, a tidbit there, and before you know it it has ballooned into an all encompassing shadow of yourself. The You, the open and receptive being is blacked out and the ego desire takes place, blocking all external experience or at least limiting it to how it effects you. A one sided form of living is born and at that point we relate to the world by how it effects this version of ourselves which we have built up in our mind. Not only are we disingenuous to our very being, but to our very lives and all the relationships we make from that point on. Life becomes a filtered experience, a short leash in a big yard and we cannot reach beyond the bounds of our own preconceptions. The ego self serves its own purpose and will always be a human facet, but we must reign it in and keep control. To be a confident person is not to be an egomaniac, but to be in control of the ego, to harness the insecurity which drives the need to build the ego in the first place.

I am in need for some peace. I have served the ego like a loyal servant for far too long. I need to read my own words and weigh my own hypocrisy versus my need to experience life more fully. I have been a humble dependent to my own facade, a puppet on a string. I have been clumsily content, dancing like a fool, hoping they think I am funny, that I am handsome, that I am perfect, that I am worthy....worthy.

Montage.

2010-01-02T15:35:00.000-05:00

Instant gratification, we all must have it and there might be a good chance that it has single-handedly driven all of our technological advances. In its purest form, instant gratification has taken the form of the montage, particularly the video montage. Even now, as I sit here watching random sports on TV, by the end of this game there will be a montage with moving music and close ups of defeated faces. Every live event, every TV show is followed by its own touching montage, summing up as beautifully as possible, the truly mediocre nonsense that was. You get eliminated from your reality show(yes everyone has one) montage time! You lose the big game, montage time! A toothpaste commercial....montage time!

We are on pace to have a TV channel strictly for video montages. Shows that are nothing but 30 minute long reels of other montages. Montages of montages!!!! Someone cue the sad tune, add the fade effects, grab an old bastard and have him read over the footage, because goddammit its montage time! For my generation, this is all we will be known for, and when the last of us falls, that's right....montage.

2009: An Odyssey.

2009-12-31T12:50:00.000-05:00

I just want to say this: 2009, I fucking hate you, but maybe I can respect you in the end.

One year ago I was a married man.
One year ago I was emotionally immature.
One year ago I was a victim.
One year ago I was lost.
One year ago I was confused and angry.
One year ago I thought I knew myself.
One year ago I lived at home, my home.
One year ago I almost lost my job.
One year ago I was a poor husband.
One year ago I did not put forth enough effort.
One year ago I was a completely different man.
One year ago I thought I knew what love was.

No one has ever learned anything, from mostly positive experiences. It takes hard times to drive the point home, to sear it in your mind. It is the hardships which are life lessons.

2009 was the year my marriage ended, the year I lost my home and my family. 2009 was the year that changed me forever, but for the better. This past year has been a slow painful death and the rebirth that will come from this catharsis will be a much better one. As much as I hated this year, this year made me a better man, it made me open minded, it introduced new friends, and new experiences. In these days, I found myself and what I am made of. 2009 was like a fire whose purpose was to burn the fields of this life down so that the new growth could exist. Now that every sign of life has been charred black, I am ready to till this soil and plant the seed of my future. I am ready to look forward and not stir in the regret of what was a painful year. In 2010, I will be me and that is the best thing I can do.

It's not me, it's you.

2009-12-22T03:27:00.000-05:00

The age old words "you cannot make another truly happy, they must do so themselves" is flawed. I lived therefore I have learned and in my experience to this point, that even though this saying and one's that closely mirror it, are mostly true, they have a loophole that I would like to shine some light on.

Unhappiness can come from many different sources, whether it be a chemical imbalance in the brain or an external event which has deterred any hope one may have, it can come from anywhere. The loss of a loved one can only be healed with time and nothing anyone says or does can change the depth of melancholy experienced by this life matter. Hereditary depression, firstly, must be identified, then taken care of by whatever means necessary, whether it be medication, therapy, or distraction, one must first grasp the situation firmly and make sense of it. Sometimes we relish in our own misery, because as we all know "misery loves company" and sitting in that room with all the negativity can be more comfortable to some rather than extending themselves beyond their comfort zone to find something that might make them happy. We have all hit our form of rock bottom at some point; those that are high energy and easily diverted can quickly shed the skin of misery; those that are more cerebral and rooted to their ways, may wallow in the mire until they are sick of their own inaction. It is this person, the cerebral entity, the person whose mind rules all, whose instincts are trumped by thought, are usually victims of themselves.

I am guilty of this.

Myself, the over-thinker, has the tendency to apply too much focus on their own life. These people use reason to hem and haw over any and all trivial matters, which creates stasis in life. The application of their minds to their own lives is usually of detriment; how can you be happy if your whole existence is the contemplation of your own happiness or lack there of? The cure-all for this is external. The cerebral person must look to outer venues to find escape from their own thoughts, they need an escape route, and by partaking in the lives and activities outside their reason...they find happiness in the form of relief. Sometimes being unhappy is just the simple act of staring in the mirror too long.

The ability for another to come into your life and make it better is very real and true. In my case, drawing my attention from myself to another has been success enough for me to want to share it with you. Meeting someone special, someone stimulating can single handedly steer your ship clear of any treachery, and in sharing your life with them and vice versa, you can find the selfless existence where real happiness hides.
So therefore, in some cases, another person cannot only make you happy, but save you from yourself.

The Guilt of Expectations

2009-12-13T15:05:00.002-05:00

Upon reading Bertrand Russell's "The Conquest of Happiness", I wanted to expound on the points he made about our "learned" guilt and shame that we carry from our early childhood into our adult lives. Russell goes into detail about the shame felt when we find ourselves partaking in perceived sin: "When I speak of 'the sinner', I do not mean the man who commits sins: Sins are committed by everyone or no one, according to our definition of the word. I mean the man who is absorbed in the consciousness of sin. This man is perpetually incurring his own disapproval, which, if he is religious, he interprets as the disapproval of God. He has an image of himself as he thinks he ought to be, which is in continual conflict with his knowledge of himself as he is. If, in his conscious thought, he has long since discarded the maxims that he was taught at his mother's knee, his sense of sin may be buried deep in his unconscious, and only emerge when he is drunk or asleep. Nevertheless it may suffice to take the savor out of everything. At bottom he still accepts all the prohibitions he was taught in infancy. Swearing is wicked; drinking is wicked; ordinary business shrewdness is wicked; above all, sex is wicked. He does not, of course, abstain from any of these pleasure, but they are all poisoned for him by the feeling that they degrade him."

The ideals that are branded into our minds in our early years, are the perceptions of our parents; what they perceive as sin, we will perceive as sin. Even in our older age, with mature minds and reason, we can still feel the effects of these second hand perceptions in the form of unconscious guilt. Though one could reason with the self, that cussing is not sinful and even less so than a pointed "no", there is still shame hanging over the head of those "cussers" who take this supposed improper language into society, because generally it may not be acceptable to others. By this thought pattern, how could one live happily if you are either incurring the disdain of others and the "learned" guilt they are projecting or contradicting the very lessons your mother and father ingrained in your own subconscious. I have come to the conclusion that this cycle of society is completely without reason; you spend your childhood being programmed and your adult life trying to make sense of the programming which stands at odds with the reality you know and live.

In our adult lives we live with expectations, some of our own, and some that are learned. The particular learned or imposed expectation I would like to speak on, is the expectations of success in life. If a child is born into what we generally consider a good and healthy home(family) the child may find itself having the general hopes and wants of the parents pushed in his or her direction. The idea of "you can be anything you want when you grow up" is externally at odds with society's perception of happiness which is directly tied to success. We tell our children, "you can be a doctor, a lawyer, even an astronaut", but do we say often enough, "I just want you to be happy in whatever it is you chose". We delicately direct them into fields that are financially beneficial (re-gifting to them what our parents gave to us) because our belief as a society is that wealth equals happiness. What happens to this child when he or she is an adult and did not follow the "future-by-numbers" path? Not all people are interested or have the capacity for a university and not everyone wants to live with the day to day tenacity it takes to be one of society's successes. Some people live with the "struggle" while simultaneously living with the guilt of expectations their forebearers superimposed onto them. I think to a degree, we all subconsciously feel that we are destined for something greater than whatever occupation we are currently resided to. This thought or feeling is the hopes of our parents- we were told we could be such great things, but not all persons are made out of the golden fabric of the great men and women, and when we, the average men and women, finally find a place in this world, we feel we are settling and even compromising ourselves. We never reach this hidden goal, we never fill the emptiness, we are always searching for some other purpose and we never feel that we are good enough.

So what if a parent does tell their child to just try and be happy with whatever they choose to do? You would think it would be enough for a parent to impart this to a child, but this is only a destination with no means and no map to guide them. Many parents themselves are looking for their own happiness; the have been using modern society's blueprints: a house, a marriage, and children to build their "happy" life. But these are not the base structure of a happy life, these are merely elements in life that can be enjoyed more fully by the content person, and for the "searcher", who has followed this blueprint concisely, these elements can be a resented dead end. So we have come to a cyclical process that is lose-lose for all involved, the cycle is made up of our own ingrained expectations and society's expectations, which is its own entity. Society, like religion, is an ideal that we aspire to and not a physical thing we can touch, therefore it's expectations are borderline pious in it's own hopes for perfection. My conclusion is that our society is failed in its attempt at this unattainable goal, that we, the cogs of this mechanism are imperfect in ourselves and our only, very simple hope, is happiness, the same happiness that will always evade us as long as reason plays no part in an individual's conquest for happiness.

The Upheaval of the American Dream.

2009-12-03T13:57:00.003-05:00

Can this experiment known as the United States survive itself? Can we sustain our current lifestyles and perceived notions of a "good life"?

This is completely sustainable-this way of life we lead as a whole. You see, the powerful are rich, and we all (generally) aspire to that end. The powerful dangle that "rich" carrot and we give chase like a good greyhound in heat chasing this faux rabbit until we are breathless. We do not quit though, we recoup, we fill up our heads with more fantasies and give a good second effort- the rabbit now gone down the rabbit hole. The only thing that stops this way of life is when the middle and lower class ballast of this floating dream decides for a good and honest upheaval. The only thing stopping this of course is that carrot, that idea that we can all be rich, and all of our money riddled fantasies can come to fruition and one day we too can rub elbows with the elite. We have been sold into slavery, all of us indentured servants to the capitalistic pipe dream, thinking that we are sewing the seeds of a fruitful future, but then only reaping a final reality that our goals are just smoke and mirrors, shallow puddles and broken dreams, misguided consumers we are, the lot of us...hypocrites to what a TRUE life is while we fawn and fake our ways into insurmountable debt hoping to summit this faltering society.

The pillars of this nation: Freedom, Liberty, and Equality have been sold into hock and generation after generation pass the "note" on while the interest piles up. This has segued into the shared mentality, that generally speaking, Americans, live by. We, ourselves, are in hock. We are indebted to the ruse known as "credit", we tread frantically in pools of bills trying to live out what we see on TV (the right house, the right car, the right clothes...just good enough is wrong). It was an easy sale for our "illuminati" government, the elected used car salesmen coerces us without much effort, because regardless of what they are pitching, we are buying. We are a nation of Sinners who project themselves with a spoon-fed guilt, we were trained well by religion. Our sensibilities have been garnished away from us by the wolf in the guise of our government and have been replaced with programming. The bed of sand this nation stands upon, is one of CASH. Money rules everything, our economy is based on the greed and need of the populus, and the populus has been well trained. There is a picture in the mind of everyone of what the American Dream is and it is by no mistake. The system feeds from the bottom and we are the bottom, it is the fulfillment of this imposed fantasy which drives this machine and we are nothing but passengers who gleefully rest while the big wigs do the "important things". More and more products flood this society. More and more advertising floods our eyes and ears. More and more of our precious limited time is focused into the desire of being the proud owner of a plastic life. The only reason for OUR existence is to perpetuate the stream of cash flow, whether by taxes or purchases, to the powers that be. This system can not change, (with the exception being a revolution) because in order to throw your hat into the ring of politics you first must be rich. To campaign for any particular seat will cost you a king's ransom, and once there, you are simply the smallest cog in this clandestine clockwork .
So here we are, stuck in a rat race against thoroughbreds, waiting for that last straw to break, hoping and praying to feel the urge to stand up and rage against this machine. To tear down the curtain and hold the man at knife point, to tell him things are going to change with a seriousness in our eyes that had once sapped the soullessness of this perceived existence.

Mayflowers bring Religious Dowers.

2009-11-28T20:50:00.004-05:00

Inspired by Jeff Aicken.

You would think America would be much cooler, but its not. Though it was founded by pirates, settled by Jesus, and beaten into submission by manifest destiny, it really is just a Neo-Protestant Reformation of an archaic religious system. Pilgrims shoved off from Holland seeking freedom to practice their religion, which was the same one they practiced in England(their initial home), but were pissed off when the Church of England was reformed by Queen Beth Uno and decided to separate and move on. Pilgrims didn't like the idea of the Church going all glitzy and glamourous with garbs and vestments for the Priests, there was confusion about the Eucharist, I mean is this bread Christ's ass or thigh? Did Jesus have Hepatitis...should I be drinking his blood? Anyhoo, these shitheels hit the high tide and sailed across the ocean blue to stake their claim in the New World. They wanted to worship their Protestant God on their own terms and free from the tyranny of force fed theocracy that ruled their homeland.

Fast forward to today.

Pirates, slaves, Jesus, politicians/criminals. We are a melting pot of "holier than thou" mentality and sublime criminality. We are the perfect country of moral mischiefs, untouchable with our Jesus anointed GET OUT OF JAIL FREE cards and of course we are a gaggle of tail chasing hypocrites. For a country built by those seeking freedom from the totalitarian Church Of England, we have bricked up walls and raised steeples and christened ourselves the Church of USA. We have become the monster we escaped from once upon time, we have broken all the mirrors and are content with the blind ignorance to this fact. Oh yes, what freedom we have now my friends. This ocean-spanned freedom is evident today in the most ironical form, just look around anywhere, you won't see the Ten Commandments in any government buildings(except for half the country) there are no dreary crucifixes on the walls of our schools (unless you are in the South), religion plays no part in law making, well unless it is gay marriage or abortion, and we have no dominant singular religion, but if you aren't Christian you're fucked.

So here is what we did. Left England and moved to Holland for freedom, they were a bunch of heathens so then we decided to head for America. In America, we establish a settlement and build a church. Now this Church has grown into a gaudy misrepresentation of what pilgrims were seeking. Church's are bigger and better than ever, they are arenas the size of God's ego and we pack them full overdressed in our absolute best hoping to save our souls with what is truly ecclesiastical vanity. The country we left, England, is now a shining example of what was initially sought after. Let me think....were these "separatist pilgrims" the real issue with the Church of England? Were the Pilgrim Fathers just uptight rabble rousers? The bones that make up our modern day Church of USA were the uber fundamentalists of their time...kinda scary huh?

Church is a dog show, it's all about pomp and parade. We prance through the doors hoping to draw eyes, we give praise to whomever or whatever, and then graze in temple of self content. We pat each other on the back and nod to one another, silently recognizing our successful materialization of what we conceive as divine, all of us humble dependents fawning fake.

So what do you think? Do you think England would take us back?

No Thanks!

2009-11-27T11:42:00.001-05:00

Tis the 32nd Thanksgiving of my lifetime and I am still not thankful for anything! I refuse to be based on the lack of knowledge, that this entire life, this entire world and all the outer space that we can fathom, may just be a ruse. To paraphrase and ad lib a Vonnegut quote, "I won't know if I should be thankful for this life until I am dead", yeah basically this is just my quote, his was about should he take things more seriously. Anyway, here I am, an ungrateful bastard and I couldn't care less. Much like Vonnegut I don't take anything seriously, this world and society is purely satire, you just have to look at it with the right kind of eyes.

I am not a "back patter" nor do I like pats on the back. I do what I must, I go from here to there because I am good little pawn. What is there to be thankful for? Why are we taking pause to all these impermanent things? I refuse to take part in half-hearted thanks, to look back endearingly and sigh, to think that all of these things I have done are worthwhile and that I am blessed. The fact is, I have a great family, I have to amazing little boys, I have friends who care about me, and generally my life has always worked out. All of this and I am still not thankful! Families SHOULD love one another and help each other out in times of need. I always knew I would have children and love them dearly. Life is purely what you MAKE of it, so if it fails it is mostly your fault.

This is a very HIGH and MIGHTY stance I know. You might even say "I bet this guy is a Republican" but you would be wrong. I am not thankful, simply and purely, because I have never had to struggle, I have never had to crawl through the muck, I have never scraped at the walls, or been halfway to digging my own grave. It is hard to be thankful when you have never truly suffered. This might explain my tendencies towards melodramatic self-inflicted suffering, ya know, when I get on here and whine and complain about things not going my way. I am pathetic, I know, but I guess I wouldn't trade my "life preserver" world for another existence. It's a good thing when you only know that families should love you and you should love your own, that your life will always work out if you apply yourself.

In the end, I am still not thankful. My family is doing their job and I am doing mine.

Of course, in the end this life may just be an escalator to a better existence, it may be a science experiment for some teenage douchebag, we might all being living in a protozoa on some godly dog turd. I know this doesn't change anything, but I'm just sayin'.

Deep sighs, red skies.

2009-11-24T14:00:00.001-05:00

What happened to moments in life? I remember from my youth, that feeling of something bigger, like time had slowed just for a second and I was give an extra second to take it all in. This feeling has been lost from this adult lifetime, maybe it is only a child's mind that perceives these moments as gravitas. Regardless, I miss them, and feel like my life is missing these unspoken momentous sighs, that feeling of connectedness with a specific time and place.

It can be something completely simple. One moment that I remember from when I was 20, was nothing more that listening to Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds rendition of "Crash into Me" on my headphones while jogging through a park as a red sun sat low on the hill side. Fall was at the threshold and the wind was getting cool, the sky was surreal and everything was exactly in its place and it was beautiful. That moment still sticks with me and there was nothing particularly special about it at all, other than it effected me.

Have I sold out? Am I not truly living my life?

We get old and jaded, we walk in lines and do what we are supposed to because there is the idea that we are to live our lives by a set standard. I am walking someone else's line or maybe I don't have a line to follow at all. All I know is that my existence is shallow and lacking any true richness or soul. It makes sense that I am lacking these "moments" if I am just walking around with my head down, always running from point A to point B. I feel the anxiety in me, but I don't believe it is internal, I believe it is some kind of force outside of me, pushing me like the opposite polarity of two magnets. Identifying this isn't exactly difficult, the problem is, how do I get back on track? How ignorant is that? I don't know how to live my own life, I am the lost puppy, but even more pathetic.

Thanks NIKE, "Just Do It" right? So I guess I will, I guess I just put one foot in front of the other and hope something good happens. I wait for others....always, I never make my own move, so in effect, I am living another's life. This is discombobulated I know, I am writing and putting the pieces together simultaneously, working through my issues while explaining them. Thanks for listening, thanks for helping.

All these things that I know.

2009-11-23T15:20:00.000-05:00

I expected this. It is the holiday season, the first one since the divorce, with this split family I have. I knew it would be rough and it has officially started and for no good reason at all. I just simply woke up depressed today and nothing has changed. Those of you who know me, know that I like to wallow in the mire, I like to drink in the depression like a fine wine. Here I am, feeling like shit, not wanting this Christmas or Thanksgiving to even happen. Last year this time I had a house, a wife, a dog, two kids and all under the same roof. This year I have me, in my mom's house no less. I don't want to hear the Xmas music that I normally love, I don't want to see my family this season, I don't want to hear that fucking question "How are you doing?" I just want to eat that deadly mistletoe, slip into a coma and wake up in 2010. I hate being this cerebral person, I hate internalizing everything, overcooking every thought and emotion. I wish things slid off me, never penetrate, just bounce off and have no effect on me. I am stuck here in my head with all these things I know. Nothing that makes me happy, nothing to look forward too, nothing that even helps me grow as a person, just these pathetic thoughts that spin and repeat over and over. I live this life untouched and cold, separated from myself and those who love me, I am an island. This is all I know, these are all the things I know, negativity and feeling sorry for myself. I guess I could just stand up and brush myself off, hold my chin up high and act like nothing is ever wrong, but my brain will not allow that. I am a man with a demon on one shoulder and a slave on the other, I am obedient to the negativity and the sad part is, I am not even that disgusted with myself. This is all that I know.

BLOG NOTICE!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-11-13T13:24:00.003-05:00

Apparently there has been a Terminal Blog fuck up. I have been following "Breeders Digest" for quite some time, but never put out my typical BLOG NOTICE post that I always do. So please accept my most humble apologies John and Emma. For you, followers of the Terminal Blog, it is your job to check out the most well written blog out there.

BREEDER'S DIGEST.ORG

Random Facebook Notes.

2009-11-13T12:15:00.001-05:00

MY OWN WORST ENEMY.

Last night, drinking shenanigans with the fam. This morning, the fallout.

I wake up this morning realizing that last night I was more drunk that I had suspected. The signs: I am sleeping upright with my glasses on. The laptop is on my lap glowing Facebook blue, all kinds of things are on my wall that I have no idea how they got there and I have four new friends to whom I have no idea who they are. There is an empty pint of Ben and Jerrys on the nightstand and a spoon is glued to my chest. My cell phone is still in my right hand and I am one number away from dialing 911, I have no idea what the emergency is. It may have had something to do with the half empty container of Turtle wax lying in bed next to me, no applicator is found, but a green thong is crammed inside. Now I am curious why this spoon smells like shit and this chocolate tastes not so "chocolatey". Whose thong is this and did I take it off with a spoon? Where was I last night and how did I get here? Why is my "Inbox" full of message responses from people who seem to be horrified about something? My phone is dead now, but was completely charged last night before I left. It looks as if someone took scissors to my boxer briefs as well because there is a heart shaped hole cut to where just my balls hang out...good thing I shaved em' last night before leaving. I wish I could read what this is written on my hand, some kind of gibberish that has been smeared horribly. Okay, now I see, nothing was written on my hand, but my penis instead. It appears to read "And then there was none" (an Agatha Christie novel) in a very small script of course. Next time I should just stay at work.

HIGHWAY TO HELL.

My house, the one I pay for but do not live in, is found in the Fern Creek/Highview area in a neighborhood that backs up to the Gene Snyder Freeway. My house in particular, is about 100-120 yards from the freeway, through a thicket, over a hill, and down into a ditch, just a hop, skip, and a jump away. On this westbound side, between Bardstown Rd. and Beulah Church Rd., you will find a virtual graveyard of crosses marking the loss of loved ones, these shrines signify Louisville's straight-line version of the Bermuda Triangle. There has been a death every year of my residence there; along the "dead" straight portion of a relatively lightly traveled express. I can only figure in my baffled mind, that the speed racers of the Gene Snyder have their attention drawn from their task at hand(driving) to the multitude of "whoopsie" crucifixes, and then find themselves flipping, rolling, and crashing to their own death...how ironic.
Louisville is well known as a haven for incompetent drivers, every time a drop of rain hits the road, St. Peter opens the Pearly Gates and takes a nap. Generally speaking, maybe the good citizens of this fair hamlet cannot handle this much distraction, or any at all for that matter, maybe padded walls should be placed on either side of our roadways to keep these bowling balls out of the gutter. Do you really want to mark the spot where your friend or family was brutally ripped from their mortal coil? Is it necessary? Isn't a graveyard good enough? It's almost like these people are showing off, getting some kind of momentary fame for advertising this terminal misstep.
Lets keep our highways clean of unnecessary shrines, they are killers, the only thing more dangerous in this city would be to have a cyclist thrown in the mix, riding along this straightaway, next to a dead man's cross.

CUFF LINKS.

What is it in the wind, these voices speaking into my ears. I hear this and that, all of it being processed by my overactive mind, twisting and spinning and fearing and hoping, it becomes something else by the time I am finished with it. Much like the game of "telephone", "Bill is cool" becomes "The drill is a tool", and whatever thought I started out with has morphed into an amalgamation of the worst in me and the best in you. The finished product is a box of fears and things I reject in myself, it no longer has anything to do with you or the things going on. So why are these ears always open, needing to hear, why do I take any path that leads away from my desired destination? It's like I aspire to failure, maybe this is where I am most comfortable; in the warm lazy arms of a pathetic content. I simply point upwards, then reach downwards and like an internal tug of war this knot of a human just stays in the middle with whatever I made myself to be, strictly by thought, never by action. I act like a captive to my own circumstance, locked in chains with the key in my hand

Meet me in the back of the Blue Bus.

2009-11-12T12:28:00.004-05:00

Now that I am jacked up on speed, let's think about some ideas that could improve this world that I hate so much.

* Coupling Abortion Clinics with daycares. The peace loving Christians love blowing up abortion clinics so I think if we combine daycares with these outpatient facilities maybe we could get some of these people to think twice about their "cheek turning" ways and just accept the fact that some babies have to die. Sorry Jesus.

* Sex Ed. in kindegarten. Too many times now have I been in the grocery, bookstore, or Asian massage parlor and have been visually assaulted by a toddler playing with their baby parts. It's time for enlightenment you little bastards! This class obviously doesn't need to teach kids about fucking each other and how to do it in a safe manner, just a class that teaches social etiquette to these masturbating heathens.

* Acceptance of premature ejaculation. Look women, I don't turn you on and I hate the feeling of getting a "charley horse" mid stroke or even worse, that fucking foot cramp thing where it feels like your toes are being pulled apart from one another. If we are getting to this point, it's too much effort(remember, I am a union laborer) not to mention, like I said before, you really don't want me on top of you, you are just settling because you had too many Zima's. Now mind you, I am 75% impotent, so this "premature" may still take an hour, if you want to just get it over with, which you do, then put on some Mr. Rogers reruns, his voice just does it for me.

* Killing less gay people. I know I know, we can't enslave and kill negroes anymore and dammit we have to beat the shit out of somebody don't we...fags are next on the list (I can say fag because I smoke them). Maybe it isn't right that these HUMAN BEINGS/TAX PAYERS(for the most part I assume) want to be treated equally in this country founded on FREEDOM and personal pursuit of LIBERTY, but maybe we were jumping the gun when we assassinated Ryan White, turns out he wasn't gay...whoops! Just saying, I know hate crime has a nice ring to it and we all want our piece of the gay bash pie, but maybe, just maybe, we should look to beating and murdering Jehovah's Witnesses instead.

* Eradication of Taxes. You would think paying taxes would go to support this country and its infrastructure, but no, it's just a petty cash fund for wartime. When we are not buying bombs with my money, we are paying for private jets and other perks for assholes who should be making less than six figures annually, that is why the word SERVANT is in the name Public Servant. Mr. Belvedere wasn't driving a Mercedes and neither should you, now go clean the toilet!!

* Less judgment of me. I am an asshole, I know that, but stop being an asshole to me, it isn't nice!