A Different Kind of Hate -- Newt Gingrich

Rarely has a politician lived up to his name like Newt Gingrich.  His first name speaks for itself.  His last name sounds a little too much like "grinch," as in the guy who stole Christmas.  And yet, despite his long, undisputed record of personal failings that seem okay only when he's engaging in them, South Carolina Republicans love him.

South Carolina is important to Republicans.  It is a "Red State."  More importantly, the person who wins the primary there goes on to win to Republican nomination historically.  Gingrich understands this, and when his ex-wife came out saying that, essentially, Newt loved the ladies, he knew this was going to come up in the debate.

Gingrich loves to hold others up to ethical scrutiny. He does not like to be held up to the same standards.  He does not think he should be called a hypocrite for going after Clinton (and in a sense he has a bit of point, as you can read here).  At the very least, however, he should've come clean and/or reclused himself from the attack.  But his affairs isn't the only unethical thing he's done. 

In 1997 the Washington Post reported that Gingrich, South Carolina primary winner, used tax-deductible for political purposes and then gave investigators "inaccurate" information about it.  In other words, he stole money and lied.  After being caught, Gingrich admitted he had violated House rules.  There are those who say he was just reckless, but make no mistake.  Gingrich is not an idiot.  He knew what he was doing and he took steps to cover it up.  That's not reckless.  That's intentional.

Gingrich plays fast and loose with ethics, both personal and financial.  He pays lip service to a lot of things, but his personal philosophy is, "Do as I say, not as I do."  And when he gets called on this, he acts indignant, blames others and plays a victim.  I would not go so far as to say he is mentally unbalanced, but he is manipulative, and South Carolina showed it loves manipulation. 

This God-fearing man, the one who has engaged in affairs and has lied to investigators (another comparison to Clinton), continues to blame the "elite media," and people are lapping it up.  This is a man they think would make an ideal president.  He has all the personal failings of one, but I would suspect that if people really started to think about what they were doing they may find that they want more. 

Remember this, Gingrich has admitted to his failings ... but only after being caught, and only after he has tried to hide them.  Well, at least he's not black, right?

Human Hand Grenade -- Ricky Gervais, The Golden Globes, Idiots and Me

I am, if nothing else, an example of restraint.  There are times, however, where that restraint starts to become restraint, and like a dog with a choke collar, I get upset when I'm at the end of my leash and want to get within striking distance of the one who has transgressed against me.  I let a lot of things slide.  I have long ago stopped holding people to the same standards I hold myself as that is an exercise in futility that I don't have time for, but there is one thing I have an extremely difficult time dealing with in a "zen-like" way.  Stupidity ... especially when that stupidity has a negative effect on me.  If someone's stupidity is going to cause me grief, then I like to head it off as quickly and cleanly as possible.  I usually go above and beyond what needs to be done, but that's only because I want the problem to become extinct as quickly as possible.

I don't act without warning, though.  To me, that would be unfair.  More often than not, however, these warnings go unheeded.  At that point I do what any reasonable person would do -- I act.  I'm not one of those who subscribes to the "turn the other cheek" philosophy or "kill them with kindness."  Neither of those solve the problem.  I act more like the US in Vietnam.  I spray Agent Orange everywhere and gather ears for a necklace.

Sometimes I have used biting humor to silence a fool.  I have used logic to shame someone into silence.  I have used violence.  I have done all of those things with ample warning.  Don't do X or you get Y.  At the end of the day, I'm still left with one nagging question: Why do people seem hellbent to exploit their stupidity to the nth degree?

The argument can be made is that idiots are too dumb to know they are idiots.  I think this is a valid argument.  To buy into it you have to admit one thing.  They are also too dumb to learn from prior experience.  To be that stupid you either have to be willfully ignorant or there is something seriously wrong.  At that point the question becomes: Why are these people allowed to vote?  To drive?  To have children?  A job?  Why aren't they relegated to a place where their actions will harm as few people as possible?  Why are they walking among us?  Why are the zombies mixing with the humans, and why are we letting them?

Ricky Gervais is hosting the Golden Globes again this weekend.  If you recall his last stint there, you'll remember that people got pissed.  He cracked jokes that had people feeling downright uncomfortable.  It was funny, and it caused the kind of controversy the mainstream media loves (aka, Much Ado About Nothing).  His reaction to his critics was simply incredible.  He didn't back down.  He didn't apologize.  And, quite frankly, he treated the offended as they should have been treated -- like dumb herd animals that needed everything spoon-fed to them because they couldn't find their mouth with a GPS device.  He is hosting again, and while the first time may have taken people by surprise (though it shouldn't of), they can't say they weren't warned or aware of it this time around.

Gervais uses my favorite way of dealing with stupidity.  Laughing at it.  Making others laugh at it, too.  It's hard to feel any sort of pity for a target when you are spastic with laughter.  Comedy is an equalizer, and a damn good one at that.  It exposes stupidity with such clarity that people often don't know how to deal with it. The target is left gasping for air and wondering why they are suddenly the joke they don't understand. 

I don't know if I'll watch the Golden Globes this time around, but I'm sure I'll hear about it after.  Another silly controversy over words meant to take the piss out of people.  They won't get it, and that's okay.  They don't have to.  The rest of us can laugh at them.  When you can't make the morons feel the real outcomes of their actions, you do the next best thing.  You turn them into your own personal entertainment center.  And even the fools know that being the butt of a joke is better than being thrown into the mass grave where they surely belong.  

Occupy Eureka Has Bombs(?)

If you've driven past the Humboldt County courthouse any time in the past few months, you've seen Occupy Eureka.  The 1/12/12 copy of the Times-Standard, Humboldt County's paper of record, ran a front page article (under the fold) by Grant Scott-Goforth.  "County emails outrage members of Occupy Eureka," the story's byline reads.

To note: The Eureka Police Department has made it quite clear that it is fed up with the Occupy Eureka movement.  On the local NBC affiliate (KIEM), Interim Police Chief Murl Harpham even suggested that he had been told by some demonstrators that they were "paid" to be there, thus discrediting an entire movement that is largely already discredited in many people's eyes.  Of note is the fact that Harpham has said time and time again in various media that he supports people's right to free speech.  Humboldt County District Attorney Paul Gallegos has said the same thing, including the article in the 1/12/12 paper.

Whatever your opinion of the various Occupy movements across the country (or the one in Eureka, California), the article deserves some attention as to its unveiling of how the minds of Humboldt County's justice system think.

As well see, logic takes a back seat and rational thinking is nowhere to be found.

The article concerns a series of e-mails that Gallegos wrote that were "part of the discussion that led to police action against the Occupy Eureka encampment."  These e-mails, obtained by an Occupier using the California Public Records Act, were never meant to be public. 

According to Goforth's article, on 11/2/11, Gallegos wrote to "county officials" that he believed the "continued presence of tents outside of the courthouse presents a profound public safety risk."  What is that risk?  Gallegos continues, "While I do not suspect that any of those tents contain any explosive or other dangerous materials, I cannot confirm that they do or do not and I do not believe that we can allow the risk of such an occurrence to continue."  Again, this is the District Attorney.  A man who tries cases.  By his logic, any kind of police action is acceptable in almost any sort of situation because if you "cannot confirm" something, you can't "allow the risk" of something happening.  One cannot confirm whether or not Gallegos has cocaine and guns in his car, therefore it should be searched ... or so one would think by following Gallegos' logic.

The article continues with "Gallegos siad he did not think that any Occupy protesters had explosives."  Perhaps not, but he planted the idea in officials heads that it was a possibility and should be acted upon.  "He said, as with natural disaster planning, it was his and other officials' responsibility to prepare for and prevent worst case scenarios" such as, presumably, a dirty bomb on the courthouse lawn.

Gallegos, who stated he did not believe protestors had explosives, wrote on 11/18/11 to 3rd District Supervisor Mark Lovelace, "Having tents outside our building pose an immense public safety risk.  All you need is 1 McVeigh guy."  Gallegos goes on to say that enclosed tents or trucks (the very thing that "McVeigh guy" used to blow up a federal building in Oklahoma City) wouldn't last three minutes in front of a federal building.  Perhaps he is right, but his concern only seems to be tents.  Even as of today, vehicles, including trucks, were parked on all four sides of the courthouse building.  Any one of them could've contained explosives, something that Gallegos could or could not confirm.  I have yet to hear of any reports of any of these vehicles being towed for being threats to public safety.  A brief history of rogue terrorist bombings shows that vehicles and people, not tents, are the most popular methods of transport. 

None of this is questioned in the article, though protesters were reported to be "outraged" and express concern over the idea that if the Occupy movement "was associated with terrorism" that it would put a severe limit on dissent.  That is a valid worry.

Gallegos insists he has the protesters best interests in mind.  Goforth reports that Gallego was "worried that it was possible for people not directly associated with Occupy Eureka to use the group as cover for illegal activity."  One presumes the illegal activity in question is bomb detonation based on prior e-mails.  Something that on the surface seems absolutely ridiculous and not based on any Occupy history so far.  Gallegos, in citing McVeigh, knows how easy it is for some to infiltrate a group, as McVeigh received all his training in the military while harboring radical views and later worked as a security guard much like the kind employed by the Humboldt County courthouse.  One wonders whether Gallegos was referring to them infiltrating the Occupy movement.

Gallegos has stated that the e-mails were not meant to be public, as if that somehow makes it more acceptable.  Regardless, they were used as impetus to arrest members of the public engaged in civil disobedience.  In case anyone thinks Gallegos is some sort of anti-freedom District Attorney he points out that he supports the Occupy movement.  "Unfortunately," he is quoted, "here it has been somewhat co-opted locally by our local protesters."  For someone who supports the movement he shows very little understanding for what it entails.  Why would non-local protesters engage in an Occupy Eureka movement when they have their own in their own hometowns?  Is it a case of "not in my backyard," or is he so removed from what is going on that he has little understanding of what makes up the movement.  One imagines it's the latter.

Gallegos has a telling quote toward the end of the article.  "I find that most hyperbole doesn't warrant a response."  Or at least that is what he hopes ... especially when it is one's own hyperbole linking a largely peaceful (though disruptive) movement to terrorism and Timothy McVeigh.  There would be nothing better than for this indiscretion to go away, and that seems very likely to happen.

The Times-Standard article reported this on what seems like an unbiased basis.  Gallegos, however, was given more print space and was able to defend his actions, while protesters were given far less column inches to air their concerns.  If the reporter would've actually challenged Gallegos on his own delusional statements, one could reasonably say the paper was attempting to maintain some journalistic integrity.  Instead, this article was printed with a straight face and easily avoided questioning a public official who is supposed to uphold the law, not randomly speculate. The article states that "more than 50 people" have been arrested in connection with the movement in the past few months.  How many of those arrests were prompted by e-mails like the ones uncovered by the movement?

Regardless of what one thinks of the protesters, Gallegos' words are important.  They show that the man charged with upholding the law thinks nothing of fear mongering.  What's more telling is that this speculation wasn't shared with the public, though it was important enough to Gallegos that he called it out in various e-mails.  The press release (read it here) makes no mention of the possibility of bombs hidden in tents or terrorists infiltrating the movement.  Those are very serious charges, and if one believes they have any merit they should have been made public.  Instead, Gallegos did it secretly and police used it to help justify arrests.  There is never any good to come out of public decisions reached in secret, and one can only hope that is something Gallegos will learn first hand ... though one doubts it will be a lesson dealt out by the paper.



Pregnant Demon Thing

Far be it from me to judge, but I was pretty sure the baby gestating inside its mother would've been better off being raised by wolves.  The "mother" (a term I use because "incubator" seems harsh) was outside the post office.  I was tempted to take a picture with my cell phone, but I don't think it would do her justice.  And, quite honestly, if she saw me capturing her image I could only imagine the hell she would try to bring my way.  I figured it would sound like a lot of screeching and those growling things coming out of Linda Blair toward the end of The Exorcist.  Yes, the woman looked a little bit crazy.  But just a little bit.  

Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail.  Her eye makeup looked as if it had been applied by short circuiting robots.  Her black "wife beater" barely contained the bun in the oven and exposed a real nice pot leaf tattoo that looked like it was the best money could buy from a Walkman-style gun. On her other arm was the name (in cursive and most likely by the same gun) "Andre." The pajama bottoms (Raiders, of course) completed the picture.  She had one child in tow.  That little girl looked unhappy.  The baby in the stroller (sex undetermined) seemed content to be in oblivion.  While yammering away on a cell phone, the woman, in an act that would make the judges on any reality show proud, managed to not only suck away at a cancer stick (so good for baby), but also tell her little girl what an "annoying shit" she was.  What was the girl's crime?  No idea, but I think it had something to do with being born.

I never understood parents who called their children such vile names.  I can't imagine how that feels as a child to hear the person who is in charge of your protection calling you a "shit."  Whether or not you know what it is, you know by tone it isn't good.  And somebody thought it was a good idea to get sperm up inside of all that.  Not to torture myself, but I couldn't picture that being a pleasant experience.  

Those kids were probably going to grow up miserable.  Mother would never have enough patience or time for them.  They will feel like burdens more often than not, and when they forget what a burden they are, mom will be happy to remind them.  She'll go from man to man to man.  Some of those men will be nice.  Those are the ones who go as quick as they came.  The mean ones stay longer.  Some of those may take a little too much interest in the children.  Mom, the protector, may or may not turn a blind eye.  Every once in a while, mostly on holidays and birthdays, mom will tell them she loves them.  Within twenty four hours she'll be screaming that she wishes they were never born.  They won't question why she didn't get an abortion or put them up for adoption.  They learned early on what it is like to take a slap across the face.  They don't like having their hair pulled and heads slammed into the table next to their bowl of buttered noodles.

In time, the oldest will have to make a decision.  She can be like mom, or she can act human.  If she's like mom, she'll be smoking by 11, sex by 13, pot and pills at 14, child at 16.  The circle of life when you are unwanted and unloved.  If she decides to act human, she'll keep her head down, look out for her siblings, and do her best to make peace so mom doesn't fly off the handle.  If she needs to, she'll take the heat off the others and get "mouthy" with mom when she's had too much to drink.  She knows how to take a hit by now, and besides, if mom pisses her off too much there's a tube of Crazy Glue in the drawer.  One drop in the corner of her eye while she's sleeping is sometimes the only thought that gets that girl through the day.  She'll keep her grades up and apply to "every fucking college" she can think of in order to get out.  And when she leaves, she'll feel guilty as hell.  She hopes and prays she's set an example for her brothers and sisters.  She hopes they follow her path.  She's told them about the glue.  She's told them how to keep the doors locked for when mom's boyfriends come over.

So there Mom was outside of the post office.  Screeching into the phone about how she had to get away for a weekend.  Yes, life is so stressful when you don't give a fuck about the kids you got and there's another one on the way.  Cancun calls, and they'll be happy to see you there.  I walked away wondering, though, why the woman even bothered.  

She looked too dumb to follow any religion to any point it mattered, so abortion wasn't the moral evil it would be with some people.  I was sure she thought about giving her kids away more times than she could remember, so adoption was an option with which she was familiar.  So why have them?  Why keep doing something that makes you stressed out and unhappy?  Maybe I was wrong.  Maybe this day was an anomaly.  Maybe she was Mom of the Year material every other day but today, but I doubt it.  People who call their children a "shit" don't just pop out with that.  That comes from a long line of disgust and hatred.  So why bother?

As I drove away I looked in my rearview mirror.  Mom had moved on toward the corner, cell phone still attached to her ear.  The oldest child was lagging behind.  Mom realized it and screamed something at her.  The child didn't move any faster.  Would you?  No.  Neither would I.  Someday that child will get it and maybe even ask her mother, when the alcohol has run its course, "Why did you have me?"  Mom, depending on level of coherency, will give some rehearsed answer.  She's said it over and over in her head all those times she's asked herself that very question.  Why?  "Because I love you."  They'll both know it's a lie, but mom will want to believe it and the kid will cling to it as it is so rare to hear.  The real answer is a lot more telling and truthful, though.  Kid, your mom had you guys because she's a selfish bitch who puts herself first and looks at you as a burden.  She had you because that is all she knows.  Eat, drink, breed.  She put as much thought into having you as she put into birth control, and she was too lazy to take care of her "mistake."  The question isn't why she had you.  It's: What will you do when you are old enough to leave?  Take my advice.  Walk out that door and don't look back.  Take your mother as an example of what not to be, how not to act, and what not to do.  When/if someday you have a child of your own, do your best to make up for every single mistake your mother made.  Do your best to be the parent you never had.  You didn't have the best example growing up, but you knew what you hated.  Don't be that.  And don't call your child an "annoying shit."  Remember how it felt.  Your mom forgot, and look what she turned into.  Don't make the same mistake.  And if you do, spend the rest of your life making up for it.

                                                        

Lunchtime Blues

School days ...

I popped into Big Pete's for lunch today.  Spur of the moment type thing.  I was in an incredibly bad mood and I didn't feel well.  I figured a couple slices of pepperoni would hit the spot.  I rarely go for lunch during the week because I love the place and it seems like a tease when I have to go back to work after.  How can something so good be followed by something so bad?

As I entered, I saw someone I was not expecting to see.  In fact, we were both taken aback.  It was Big Pete's employee extraordinare and all-around cool girl, Jackie.  She asked what I was doing there, as she thought I should be at work, and I asked the same as I thought she should have been in school.  Long story short, she joined me for lunch and a great conversation ensued.  (Admittedly, though, a lot of it was me stating how much the day sucked so far and how it didn't look like it would get better.  Shock.  It didn't.)



Elementary school was WAY better than high school.

The topics were of the usual mix.  Stuff we want to do with our lives, dwarvesploitation, idiots and so on.  Before that started, though, she told me she got caught reading this blog during class.  That struck me as kind of funny.  She should've been doing some of that "learning," yet she was engrossed in my online ranting about people masturbating over the arrival of Walmart.  I wonder which was more interesting and which provided a better learning experience.  I remember high school.  If you left knowing how read, write, do basic math, and socialize without actually turning into a serial killer you not only made it out with flying colors, you made it out with about all the experience will really lend you.  Now there are some classes that were interesting, but that was not the norm.  Instead, high school felt like a prep course for all the things that don't really matter in life.  Cliques.  Mindless repetition.  Football.  Scattered in that, however, were things that were wonderful.  Whirlwind romances.  Adventure.  Friends.  I wouldn't want to relive it again, but nor would I not want to have some of those experiences.  With high school most likely being far worse now than when I went back in the late '80s (just the fact that everyone is so afraid to offend anyone makes me wince in pain), I can see why someone would be reading my blog instead of listening to someone drone on about the importance of test taking (or whatever was being discussed).


High school failed Russell Williams

So, lunch friend, I hope your day looked up.  I hope your sick friend felt better.  I hope the cookies you and your boyfriend made turned out delicious, and I hope you enjoyed our conversation as much as I did.  My day went exactly as I thought it would.  A lot more of the same, really.  Tomorrow?  Well that remains to be seen, but I imagine if today was any indication for either of us the weekend is looking mighty good.

Walmart Creeps On In

Walmart has been trying to get into Eureka, California's pants for years.  First it made overt attempts to move in by the bay.  Citizens, as to be expected, spoke out against it and eventually halted the retail giant's tumorous growth.  You had to be daft not to think it would try again ... and try it did.  Now it is coming to the Bayshore Mall, where it doesn't have to go through zoning issues and whatnot.  Instead, it just enters the cavity Gottschalk's left behind.  You can imagine the reaction.

The pros are: more variety, more jobs, more income, better prices, on more place to safely wear your pjs in public without the threat of ridicule.  The cons: what happens to local stores, the homogenization of America, what happens when the local stores close, the jobs created won't be very good.

Yawn.

I've written about local businesses versus corporations before.  I'm not going to get back into it here as my thoughts on the matter have not changed.  Eureka likes to think it's pretty elitist, but a quick look around shows that there is really nothing substantial there.  Eureka also likes to support local businesses no matter how crappy the service, how high the prices and how little variety there is.  That is fine.  Walmart will change none of that, though it may force a few businesses to change how they operate or face going under.  The end result is still the same, though: If you don't like shopping there, don't go.  Enough people don't go and the store will be forced to shut down.  My guess is -- that won't happen.  As much as people like local stores, there is a certain primal consumer draw to cheap condoms.

I've never stepped foot in Walmart and probably never will.  It's not that I'm anti-box stores.  A big business is just as greedy as a small one.  It's that I don't feel the need to and based on the people I've encountered who love that place ... well, I wouldn't want to be around them when they see a sale sign on some four-year-old Will Ferrell movie.  I sense a trough-like mentality among the faithful, and that always scares me.

Welcome to Eureka, Walmart.  Remember, we've got a lot of activists here, so check your locks and make sure you've got plenty of store security.  As for the consumers who have been masturbating daily since the corporate giant's arrival was concerned -- more power to you.  The lesson to be learned here is that if you pray hard enough your dreams, no matter how small they are, may one day come true.

Keyword Search Fun Time Again!

Every so often I check out the search terms that bring people to this blog.  As always, it is as fascinating as it is terrifying.  This time is no different.  Pedophiles, lone wolf rejects, armchair Nazis -- they flock to this site looking for companionship, masturbation material, and blueprints for mass destruction.  I hope these lonely souls find exactly what they are looking for, and it fills me with warmth knowing I may have made their lives a little better.  Gag.  Here we go ...

Ponygirl: The ponygirl searches continue.  Sex Pony Teen.  Film Japanese Ponygirl. (Not sure if they want a film about a Japanese ponygirl or want to find out how to film one.  I say get a saddle and a bridle, hop in the car and find yourself an Asian prostitute.  Don't forget the camera.) Human Ponygirl Cart.  (I love the fact that these folks not only want to find ponygirls, but also accessories.)  Poney Sexo Homan.  (Proof aliens are looking for ponygirls.)  Pony Fuck Human.  Pony Girl Fucked.  Pony Girl Meeting.  (I think they meet at Eureka's Chapala restaurant once a month or so.) Pony Swastika.  (I was conflicted about which section to put this under.) Sexshop Ponygirl.  To Be Ateenage Pony Girl.  (Let the mind wonder.)

Humboldt: Humboldt County Sex Pussy.  (Because who wants a Humboldt County non-sex pussy?  What would you do with it?  A change purse?  Hand warmers?  I'm clueless.)  Big Time Rush Bayshore Mall.  (Really?  Did someone actually think the most dreamy boy band and Jerry Sandusky wet dream, BTR, would be at the Bayshore Mall?  What would they be doing there?  Eating at that greasy "Chinese" restaurant?  Checking out the cell phone accessories at that kiosk worked at by the woman with that highly erotic foreign accent?) Eureka, CA And Drugs.  (If you are looking for that here, you are doing it wrong.  Here's how you find drugs in Eureka.  Head into Eureka.  Throw a rock.  That person you hit?  Drugs.)  Humboldt Girl Fucking.  (Because who wants a Humboldt County girl who doesn't fuck?  What would you do with it?  A change purse?  Hand warmers?  I'm clueless.  That's funny for those who are paying attention.)  Tree Maps Humboldt County, CA.  (This isn't weird, but it makes me happy that someone looking for that ended up here.  I can only imagine the reaction.)

What The Fuck Are You Thinking?:  This is proof that not everyone knows how to use a search engine.  Yes, sometimes vague is fine, but other times you really have to be more specific.  PG&E Gate Combination Lock.  (What gate?  Where?  Man, if you are looking to break in, you have to give a location.)  Art That Sends A Message.  (Could you be any vaguer?  How about "Art Stuff That Stuff Stuff"?)  Doorbusters.  (If you looked for that with the idea of finding sales and ended up on my site, you deserve that uneasy feeling you got in the pit of your stomach.)  Eye Tattoos.  (Tattooed eyes, or tattoos of eyes?)  I'm Not In A Good Mod.  (And you can't spell.  Why on Earth would someone look this up?  Did you think you would find out why you weren't in a good "mod."  I have the answer for you.  You realized you're a fucking idiot.)  Ironic Shocked Face.  (I'm trying to picture what that would look like.  I'd Google it, but I'd end up here.  Surreal.)  Mind Bordering Picture.  (Umm ... what?)  Outside Hallmark Store In The Mall.  (What mall?  Where?  Were you looking for Big Time Rush?)  Pussy At The Center Of The Universe.  (Yes, vaginas are great things.  They're fun to play around with, and according to what I wrote earlier, they make good change purses and hand warmers.  But at the center of the universe?  Come on.  Are they really that important?  Oh, who am I kidding?  Of course they are.  I just wonder's whose magical man trap was found there.  My guess?  Octomom's.  She gave birth to a universe of children.)  Thank God Its Doomsday.  (It's not doomsday yet, moron.  You got another year to go.  Sorry to disappoint, but there is always the suicide option ... which you should look into.)

Creepy Folks Looking For Creepy Things: "Parents Are The Worst Thing To Happen To Children." (Based on what I know, yes they are.)  I Love Nightmares.  "I Love Having Nightmares."  (I think this is the same person.)  About Love Nightmares].  (Yes.]  Amerikan Modal Girl.  (I love Amerikan Modal Girls!)  Fondel To Erect Horses Penis.  (I think this person means "fondle."  I also think they were looking for tips.  If a horse penis works like any other penis, all you have to do is touch it, my friend.  They kind of erect themselves.) Ghost Face Blood Images 1600.  Innocents Bound.  (Peter Sotos has stopped by!)  Mickey Mouse Art Crucifx.  (For the new Bible-themed Disney ride.)  Sharon Tate Dead Body.  (Now I know why the investigation was reopened.)

Nazis:  Everyone loves to hate these snappy dressers, but that doesn't stop people from looking for them.  Nazi Slut.  (Oh, you wouldn't be calling her that if she were Rommel.)  Child Nazi. ("Looking for gift ideas for your Nazi Child?  From the makers of the Easy Bake Oven ..." I'm going to Hell for that one, but it really wrote itself, and you were thinking it anyway.)  Japanese Symbols Hate.  (Not quite Nazis, I know, but it didn't fit in any other category.)  Nazi Hello Kitty.  (It makes me see all that Hello Kitty stuff at Eureka's Target in a whole new light.)  Swastika Design For Mandir.  (Not sure on that one.)

Sex:  Bridge Masturbating.  (Soon to be an Olympic sport.)  Cartoon Face Girl Ballgag.  (I think that's in an old Disney cartoon.)  Caught Masturbating Under A Bridge.  (Is this a really common thing?)  Mature Mexican Asses Nude.  (Talk about a specialized porn search.  Why not add "on Tuesday"?)  Open Lips Of Shaved Pussy.  (I bet that didn't result in a lot of search results.)

Shirley Temple:  And finally, here is Shirley Temple.  I didn't even list all the searches for here name.  Here, however, are the best.  Shirley Temple Cannibal.  (This is my all-time favorite search subject.  The images it conjures up.  The sheer brilliance of it.  The idea that someone made this connection.  This is "art that means something.")  Shirley Temple Now Naked.  (Are you really sure you want to see that?)  Shirley Temple Slut.  (When I think "slut," Shirley Temple immediately comes to mind.)  Shirley Temple Teenage Naked.  (From the person looking for current nude pictures.  He's making a montage set to the Talking Heads' "Sugar On My Tongue.")  Shirley Temple Was A Slut.  (When he couldn't find current information on Temple's slut status, he delved into the past, eager to prove his theory.)  Shirley Temples Boobs.  ("She put the sugar on my tongue.")

And so it ends.  Another round of how people end up on my site when they look for fucked up things on the Internet.  You have to admire people's absolute willingness to type in the most insane things thinking nobody really knows what they are looking up.  Sublime.

Humboldt County -- Come for the Drugs; Stay in a Dungeon

There are a few Humboldt County blogs I follow on a casual basis.  About a week ago on one of them there was a posting about a girl who went missing in Southern Humboldt.  The Garberville area, if memory serves me correctly.  A picture of her was posted, and it gave me chills.

The area she was last seen.  Her blonde dreads.  It was eerily similar to a scene I wrote in my sex and violence manuscript. That's neither here nor there, though.

The girl had been missing over a week and calls to her cell phone went unanswered.  Myself and a few other posters mentioned the fact that Humboldt was not exactly the best place for a missing teen girl due to its dark underbelly ... one I find worse than any other place I've lived.  We all hoped the girl would be found safely.  Few of us believed she would.

And then we were taken to task.

Now, I can understand people wanting to keep hopes up.  I think that's natural.  Others did not feel that way.  We were called "negative" people who said "mean" things.  Those people who called us that wanted the father of the missing girl, who happened onto the blog at some point, to know that Humboldt was a safe place for a missing teen and she was probably sleeping on someone's porch or some such nonsense.  It should be noted that while "negative" is a meaningless term used to label someone who says anything that challenges one's point of view, nobody said anything that any reasonable person could call "mean."  That didn't stop these people, though.  They were very quick to offer what could only be false hope.  After all, they didn't know whether or not the girl would be found unharmed, but they were quick to promise she would be.  Myself and others merely stated that things tend to be grim in that situation.

The girl, incidentally, was found alive and presumably safe, though I didn't read why she was out of contact with her parents for so long, or why a young girl was up here from the Bay Area unescorted by an adult.  It didn't matter, though.  We were mean, negative naysayers who dared to muddy Humboldt's pristine reputation.

Humboldt does have its dark and weird side.  It's not all tie dye, pot and people who still pick up hitchhikers without the expectation of sex.  We've got bestiality, parents pimping out their children, murder-for-hire schemes on teen girls, drug houses like you would not believe, pony girl trainings in the woods, a ripe underground porn industry, serial killers, parents scoring dope with their kids, murdered hookers, alleyway inseminations of lesbians looking to have children, group sex parties in run-down motel rooms with heroin addicted local media stars.  Hardly the Disneyland many would like you to believe, but how does it differ from other places?  Well, that's easy -- it's ignored and in some cases accepted.

I've lived in other places where bad, strange things happen.  But they happen either so deeply underground that you never hear of them, or they are met with scorn and disgust and eradicated.  Here, people are either gleeful to turn a blind eye (to do anything else is to risk being called "mean"), or condone it openly or through silence.  It is kind of sick, and anyone who has had any dealings with it on any sort of level knows it is there and knows exactly what I am talking about.

I once heard a woman say that Eureka (and it could be said of Humboldt in general) was like a small town with big city crime.  I corrected her.  "It's like a small town with country crime."  Country crime is different.  It's weird.  It's off.  It's a previously used ball gag shoved into your mouth and a video camera mounted on a tripod as a German Shepherd is led into the room.

We weren't mean on that blog.  We were realists.  Some may have been a bit more dramatic than others, but we were realistic.  No parent wants his or her child to end up missing, and no sane parent would feel safer with their child being last seen in Humboldt.  If that's negative and mean, I'll cop to it.  But I flat out fucking refuse to be some wide-eyed lobotomy who thinks Humboldt is the epitome of the throwback commune where everyone is about peace and love, and strangers are fed without any evil agendas.  I've seen and heard too much to think that, and I have far too much common sense to believe that is even close to reality.  Sure, there are some people like that ... but wait until you see what they have hanging in the shed out back.

Eureka's New Safeway -- The Unfortunate Beast

Forget the controversy that the new Safeway in Eureka, California didn't hire local builders and contractors.  With so much of our population having all sorts of illegal substances swirling around their veins, that seems almost excusable.

Forget the fact that closing the Safeway near Winco caused those customers without cars to now give their business to the most frustrating store in Eureka.

Forget the fact that last Sunday the music being piped through the store's PA was the theme from The Exorcist.  At least that seemed fitting, though perhaps something from Goblin's Dawn of the Dead score would have been far more symbolic.  After all, the shoppers wandering the aisles, mouths agape, looked much like the mall-roaming zombies in Romero's classic film.

No forget all that.  That isn't why the new Safeway sucks.  The reason it is such a stick in the eye is that it is a vast, vacuous beast that is a hideous looking as it is pointless.

Shoppers who frequent the Northcoast Co-Op and Eureka Natural Foods (ENF) will instantly recognize the new Safeway's decor.  It screens "organic."  It looks "healthy."  It is supposed to remind you that the Fritos you are buying are somehow good for you.  The Safeway Organics brand is meant to make consumers feel better about their purchases.  Does it work?  You tell me.  I'm not buying it.

I've shopped at Safeway.  I was there last week picking up habaneros for yet another potluck at work.  I didn't have time to run to the Co-Op or ENF, so I ended up in Eureka's new slice of Hell.  People seemed excited to be there ... and it was real excitement.  Not just commercial fake excitement.  That, too, is typical for Eureka.  Throw anything new into the mix and people flock to it like perverts to a bukkake shoot.  They all want to get a chance to get a little "happy."  It's why when Jack in the Box first opened it took forty-five minutes just to get in the door.  My experience in the Safeway was no different.  Here were people discussing how great it was for Eureka to have a "real store."  Erect and wet, I expected people to any moment start dry humping a bagel display.  Nobody, it should be noted, seemed to be aware that the music overhead was from the movie where a young girl masturbated with a crucifix.  (Really, who hasn't?)  It was surreal.  Guy Debord would merely have to nod in the general direction of the large wood (real or not -- I didn't feel) pillars outside the store's doors to get his point across.

According to my daughter, the Safeway in Eureka is set up much like the one in McKinleyville, which I have never visited.  If it was, that does even less to explain Eureka's erotic fascination with the store.  It isn't even that special if that is the case. 

I probably won't be back to the new Safeway any time soon.  I was never a huge Safeway shopper, as I found the items to be far too overpriced without the quality to back it up.  If I want to pay high prices, I go to the Co-Op of ENF where I know the quality is good and worth what I'm paying.  I'm sure the Safeway will do well enough without my dollars, though.  Eureka has plenty of zombies with little else to do.



The Entitled Bastards -- Occupy Your Street

The 1% atop his spoils.

There they are, outside the Humboldt County courthouse.  Placards raised.  Banners flapping in the wind.  It's part of Humboldt's very own Occupy Wall Street movement, and it's right on 101 as you head north out of town.

Reading comments to local news stories and blog posts gives you a clear sense that some people feel that these fine folks exercising their First Amendment rights (look it up) are nothing more than whiners who won't get jobs and who feel like they are entitled to something.

The national mainstream media isn't much better.  As soon as the movement got too big to ignore, the media was reporting it and putting it down.  Mystified by the lack of leadership.  Stumped by the entire process.  Looking for a single soundbite message.  Fox, of course, was quick to say the Occupy Wall Street movement signaled the end of the world.  All the usual suspects have chimed in with their two cents as well, and they are saying exactly what you would expect of them.

I am here to say the protesters are whiners, they need jobs, and they do feel entitled.

They are whining about what corporate America, in league with the Federal government, has not only done to the U.S. economy, but to the world economy.  They need jobs, too.  That's why they're out there.  They want sustainable jobs for a sustainable future.  When corporations outsource everything, and businesses sit on money that can be used to create jobs, and the unemployment rate shows little signs of deflating -- yes, people need jobs.  Listen to them, critics, they are telling you that.  If you are telling them they need to get jobs, you also need to tell American businesses they need to start hiring.  Pretty fucking fair, wouldn't you agree?

I also agree that they do feel entitled.  They feel entitled to a future that isn't destroyed by corporate greed.  They feel entitled to have the people who helped tanked the economy behind bars.  They feel entitled to have the FCC be on the side of the people instead of corporations.  They feel entitled not to be kicked out of their homes due to faulty paperwork and rubber stamping.  They feel entitled because they spent their lives playing by the rules, knowing the deck was stacked against them.  They spent their lives paying into a system they thought had their best interests in mind.  They want justice to be served because if they pulled off the same stunts that the people in corporate America have pulled off, only on a smaller scale, they'd be in jail.  Yes, they feel entitled, and they have every right to feel that way.  After all, the people at the top of the food chain also feel entitled, and they have the actual power to act on it, which they do, and this is what we get.  Occupy Wall Street is saying, "No more."

Maybe it's time to put the 1% to sleep.

Humboldt County is a pretty unique place.  Any day of the week you can find someone protesting something somewhere.  Marijuana drives our economy the same way logging used to until the greed that manifested itself as clear cutting caused activists to go into overdrive.  We have just as many liberals as we have conservatives, and yet banks aren't being burned down, and businesses are rarely boycotted.  Maybe that should change.  Not just in Humboldt, either, but throughout the country.

Warren Buffet acknowledges that this is class war.  It's something many activists have known for decades.  The Class War group came out of the United Kingdom, but its activism style needs to be adopted here.  The 1% is starting to worry.  It should be worrying.  If this keeps up, things will be very bad for those people.  They are starting to worry they may need to make concessions.  If they don't, concessions will be made for them.  There is strength in numbers, and Occupy Wall Street exemplifies that strength.  If those people in New York suddenly turned violent ... wow.  700 arrested on a bridge could easily turn into 700 office buildings destroyed.  700 brokers hung by light poles.  700 business web sites hacked.  Take the lessons learned from Class War and turn them up to 11.

Goldman Sachs -- Another fucking parasite.

The protests have been fairly peaceful as of this writing (I don't have the news on, so I could be wrong).  But that may eventually change.  If the government won't agree that the engineers of this financial crisis need to face some sort of penalty, and not another bail out (reimbursed or not), maybe a peaceful movement will grow angry.

Occupy Wall Street.  Occupy Bank of America.  Occupy Fox News.  Occupy Goldman Sachs.  Occupy the Pentagon.  It's class war.  Treat it as such.

Deep in the Bowels of the Eureka Police Department

The reason as to why I was there is less important than the fact that I was there ... or at least outside of there.  But there I was, nonetheless.  Right outside the Eureka, California building that houses the Eureka Police Department.  It's a nondescript brick building that looks like it was built in the '80s.  As I stood outside its doors, I hesitated.  Going in filled me with a small sense of dread.  If you had my past, you'd feel the same.

I was tempted to go to the front desk and say, "I'm here to report a murder." Humboldt is no stranger to this kind of confession.  It's how the world learned of Wayne Adam Ford.  I didn't do it, though.  I went in, stated my business and then had a seat in the empty lobby. 

I waited just a few minutes until a woman came and got me.  "Follow me," she instructed.

She led me through halls that were lined with photographs of police officers.  Some I recognized.  Some were before my time here.  Eventually the halls became more sparse, and I was at my destination.

It was a cold room with a high ceiling.  Its walls, unlike the rest of the building, were red brick.  It gave it an almost medieval in feel.  What was against the far wall made it even moreso.

There were three cells with thick metal doors.  In the upper center of each door was a single window with a metal pane that could be pulled across it.  Each door had a little color-coded symbol on it.  The doors looked like they could withstand a bomb blast.

"Do you want to look inside them?" the woman asked.

I walked over to the first cell. 

"Don't let the door close behind you," she warned.

I wasn't going in.  I feared the worst if that happened.  I peered through the window, though.  The walls of the cell were the same red brick as the rest of the room.  This was a given.  Since it was a cell, though, the brick took on a different feel.  The cell itself was small.  There was a bed attached to the wall and a steel sink and toilet.  The only comfort in the room was a roll of toilet paper on the sink.

"It looks like a home for Hannibal Lecter," I commented.  A million ideas were running through my head.  I would be using these in a story sometime.

"We don't use them much," the woman told me.  "We'll often just use them to hold someone here for questioning, or if we have a juvenile we'll keep them in there until their parents get here.  Scares them a little bit.  Their parents usually get here pretty quick."

"Oh, I can imagine," I said.  I had been in that situation one too many times.  A lot of parents freakin' fly to the police station once they learn their kids are there.

My business finished, I left the building and sat in my car across the street, right under a sign that said, "Parking for Police Business Only."  I looked one last time at the building I have passed hundreds of times in the past.  I wondered what dark business had happened in those three cells.  The Holy Trinity of the police department.  What violations had occurred?  What blood had been spilled?  Now that the police could easily transport people to the jail downtown, the cells would only have to be used for "special" occasions.  Special occasions, indeed.

Best Phone Center Service Call ... Ever!

For the entire day, this symbol has appeared on my phone: +1.  I have never seen it before.  I couldn't figure out what it was.  I looked on the web.  Nothing.  I called my service provider.  The first guy I talked to was utterly baffled, so he put me through to someone else.  This is when it got good.

I gave my type to the guy and explained the situation.

Phone Service Guy (PSG): What kind of symbol is it?

Me:  A small plus sign and the number one.

PSG:  I'm afraid I don't understand.

Me:  A plus sign ... like a little "t."

PSG: It's a "t" and a one?

Me:  No.  A plus sign and a one.

PSG:  A plus sign?

Me:  Like one plus one.  A plus sign.

PSG:  Are you using the calculator?

Me:  (Now I'm pissed.)  Am I using the calculator?  No.  No I am not using the calculator.  Does anyone use the calculator on their phone?  It's worthless.  Are you familiar with a calculator, though?

PSG:  Yes, Sir.  I am.  I am trying to help.

Me:  Okay.  Picture the calculator in your mind.  Say you want to add two and three.  That button you would press to add them?  That's the plus sign.

PSG:  Okay, Sir.  That's a plus sign and the number one?

Me:  Yes.

PSG:  Is it red?

Me:  No.  It's white.  Would red be bad?

PSG:  I just need to know the color.

Me:  Okay.  Why don't you tell me what the different colors mean for this symbol.

PSG:  I am trying to find out what the symbol means.  I think it is related to the 3G network.  Can you get on the Web?

Me:  Should I just try Facebook?

PSG:  No!  Just Google something?

Me:  (At this point I did try Facebook.  I had it running in the background, which is weird because I never do that.  I exited, and it took care of the plus sign.  I was so irritated by this guy, however, that I decided to keep the call going to amuse myself.)  Can I Google Facebook?

PSG:  Please just Google something.

Me:  Not Facebook?

PSG:  No, Sir.  Not Facebook.  Just Google something.

Me:  This is a lot of pressure.

PSG:  I'm trying to see if you have a 3G signal.

Me:  Okay.  I'll Google.  I always wanted to learn about black magic.  Learn about black magic.  [I then started to spell L-e-a... I got to "B."]  Shoot.  I messed up.  Want me to try again?

PSG:  No, Sir.  You were on Google?

Me:  Yes.

PSG:  So your phone has a 3G signal.

Me:  Oh!  On my phone!  I was using my computer.  I thought you wanted me to maybe look up what the symbol was on my computer.  I did that.  Nothing came up.

PSG (Now he's getting a bit exasperated with me.):  No,  Sir.  I need to see if you have a 3G signal.

Me:  On my phone?

PSG:  Yes, Sir.  You called about your phone.

Me:  Yes.  My computer is working.

PSG:  Sir, can you Google on your phone?

Me:  I've never tried.

PSG:  Can you try?

Me:  Yes.  Can I Google Facebook on there?

PSG:  Yes, Sir.  Just try to access Google.

Me:  What should I look up?

PSG:  Do you have Google on your phone, Sir?

Me:  Not yet.  I want to have a game plan.  If I can bring it up, I want to know what to look for so I'm not thinking of something.  Your time is valuable.

PSG:  I'm helping you, Sir.

Me:  Thank you.

PSG:  You're welcome.  Do you have Google?

Me:  On my computer ...

PSG:  Do you have it on your phone?

Me:  No.  Should I look up the symbol?

PSG:  Just try to access it on your phone?

Me:  Trying to type 'learning about black magic' took too long.

PSG:  Okay, Sir.  Just get Google.

Me:  Okay.

PSG:  You have it?

Me:  No.  I was just agreeing with what you were saying.

Silence.

Me:  Okay, it's looking for Google.

PSG:  Searching for it?  Your phone is searching for it?

Me:  Well, I'm looking for it on the phone screen.

PSG:  Do you know how to Google on your phone?

Me:  I assure you I know how to do it.

PSG:  Can you do it then so I can see if this is a 3G issue, Sir?

Me:  Maybe it's my calculator ...

PSG:  We already determined it is not that, Sir.

Me:  Right.  Right.  Google.  Got it.  It's up.

PSG:  On your phone?

Me:  On my phone.

PSG:  Not your computer?

Me:  I have it on there, too.  Should I shut that off?

PSG:  No.  So you have 3G.

Me:  I don't have a 3D phone.

PSG:  3G, Sir. It's a-

Me:  Oh, God!  You know what this is?

PSG:  What, Sir?

Me:  It's not a plus one symbol.  It's a little 't' and a one.

Silence.

Me:  Do you know what that means?

PSG:  Is it a 't' or a plus symbol?

Me:  A 't.'  Positive.  Do you know what it means?

PSG:  No, Sir.  It's not for 3G.  I don't-

Me:  Well, no worries.  A plus one would've been bad.  A little 't' and a one is okay dokie by me, artichokey.

PSG:  Happy to help, Sir.

And so our dance ended.  Well, actually he gave me a website for the phone company and said a survey would be coming my way.  I think that guy is going to go home and get thoroughly drunk on Mickey's.

If Thy Eye Offends Thee ...

Going into the post office tonight I was greeted with the sight of a woman blocking access to my postal box.  I didn't want to be rude and shove her out of the way, as she was trying multiple keys in an attempt to get her box open.

I've been to many post offices in my life in various locales.  Eureka, California's 5 and H branch seems to get a lot of idiots.  I'm not talking about the general idiots who ask questions about international delivery.  I'm talking about the ones who come to the window with a shirt folded in their hands who tell the clerk they have to send it to Minnesota and then act surprised when they are told they have to put it in a box or envelope.  Not only are they surprised.  They are sometimes offended, and then will say something like, "But I don't know the address."  Yes, I've seen that happen. 

So this lady tried key after key.  Not a single one was working for her.  "They all say 'post office,'" she muttered to herself.  Great.  I feared that any minute she would ask me which key was the proper one needed to open her box.  She was something like 68 years old.  Keys get confusing.

Instead of engaging me in conversation, she stepped to the side to hold her key ring up to the light.  Perhaps that would help her identify the proper key.  Perhaps she was looking for divine inspiration.  Either way, I leaped at the chance to get to my box. 

I opened it and, leaving my keys dangling from the lock, started to take out my mail.  Then I heard her gasp. 

She was standing right next to me staring at my keychain. 

"That offends me," she said.

The "that" she was referring to was my Pussy Wagon keychain.  If you don't know what the Pussy Wagon is, watch the first Kill Bill movie.  Apparently she couldn't work her DVD player any better than she could a lock, as she didn't know what the hell it meant.

"It's from a movie," I said, taking my keys from my box.

"I don't care what it's from.  It offends me."

I didn't care that I had a keychain that offended a woman who couldn't figure out how to open her post office box.  It was on the very bottom of the list of things I give a crap about.  I made a mental note that if she were in a life-threatening situation and my keychain was the only thing that could safe her, I would refrain from doing so, lest I offend her.  Instead of telling her this and engaging in a conversation that would only leave me wanting to put her through a window, I walked away.  Well, let me rephrase that.  I started to walk away.

My box is close to the door.  Just a couple of steps away from it, really.  Before I could go more than two steps, she said, "Did you not hear me?"

Deep breath.  Deep, calming breath.  "I heard you.  I chose to ignore you and not make you feel bad for not knowing how to use your keys."  I turned again.

She started to talk again.  My God!  I just got off work.  Did not have a good day.  Had a lot of stuff to do at home.  And now this lady wanted to give me commentary on my keychain?  Just how far up her ass was her head?  Did she want me to unleash Hell on her?  Would she not be satisified until I somehow acknowledged her offended nature and placated her with words signifying that not only was I repentant, but would also do my utmost best to rid the world of Quentin Tarantino-inspired keychains?  Is that what she wanted? 

"I think-" she started to say. 

I couldn't listen to it anymore.  I couldn't hazard a guess as to what was passing through that mind of her's.  I didn't want to hear it, either.  There wasn't anything she could possibly say that would be of interest to me.  Not a single word. 

In a quiet, calm, low voice, I asked, "What makes you believe I give a fuck about what you think?"

That, as noted by the look on her face, offended her more than the keychain. 

I left the post office as she started to sputter some kind of ill-conceived response.

I don't know what it is about that place, but it attracts the strangest people.  Half the time I'm in there I think someone is playing a prank on me because there is no way these people could be real.  They seem to be operating in a reality that is somehow on a different level than the one I inhabit.  They don't understand things like postage, envelopes or etiquette. 

I've always believed that more easily one is offended, the less intelligent they happen to be.  I can't prove it.  It's not science.  But I do think there is something to it.  If a simple keychain offends you, I doubt you're working on a cure for cancer or being consulted for the next NASA mission.  Instead, you're probably writing nonsensical letters to the editor of the Times-Standard (you know what I mean if you read those things) and doing your best to make sure Hot Topic in the Bayshore Mall goes out of business like that den of sin known as Borders.

There are plenty of things to get offended about in the world.  The fact that pro golfers make more than teachers.  That the Tea Party Parrots almost drove this country to default.  Or even the idea that child molesting priests can be shuffled around without any fear of criminal prosecution.  Those are tangible things to be offended over.  It makes sense to be offended by those things.  By a keychain, though?  You don't have a lot of room to be offended by it if you can't even figure out how to use the things attached to it, can you?

Meet the New Boss ...

There it was, sitting silently in my mail tray.  Mocking me.  Daring me to slap it around and call it "my bitch."  A questionnaire.  Not just any questionnaire, though.  One that would see if I was a good fit for Federal jury duty.

Seriously.

I had just gone through Federal jury duty not five months ago -- almost to the day -- back in May.  (I served 5/10-5/13.  I received this new questionnaire on 9/14/11.  Read about the original experience here.  It is a fascinating tale.)  I sat on the jury.  I came to a verdict.  I was told I'd be excused for the next year.  Prior to that we were told they they hardly ever had trials in Humboldt.  I've been here about twenty years and now I was being asked for twice ... within five months.

Remember, folks, this is the government that made you "safer" after 9/11.  The same government that seems to know what you should be allowed to watch in your movie theatres and in your pornography.  This little "gaff" had me wondering if the Tea Party Parrots had already taken over the dog and pony show.  How could they get this so wrong?  Was there not a database that showed who served when, and wasn't it cross-referenced?  I know I'm on government databases somewhere.  You can't write an article about firebombing churches and not come to its attention.  So how the hell did this happen?

In the next few days I will take a few moments out of my busy schedule and fill out the questionnaire ... and include a long letter as to why I shouldn't be serving again.  (I'm tempted to print out my original column on the experience and send it with the paperwork, but I sense trouble brewing that way.)

It would be funny if it wasn't so frustrating.  I have to waste my time.  Tax payer money had to be wasted.  And for what?  Something a simple database check could've taken care with no fuss, no muss, and not a drip of candle wax.  Our government at work, folks.  If only you did your job so well ...

12/21/12 -- Doomsday

I find it oddly disturbing that more people I know think 12/21/12 will be the end of the world then think humans are causing some climate changes.  It makes sense if you think about it, though.  Fake planets, ancient calendars and "solar tsunamis" are things nobody can do anything about.  Climate change, if caused by man, can be controlled by man.  It's always easier to worry about things you can't do anything about because then you're off the hook.  If you worry about something you can control, then you have to take actions to control it or you look like some kind of an idiot.  People will always choose to look foolish believing in things they can't prove as opposed to things they can.  It goes hand in hand with taking zero responsibility for your actions.

The 12/21/12 phenomenon is much like all the other end-of-the-world scenarios that have come before it, and in some ways very different.  This one combines "science" (there's a planet coming into our solar system which will disrupt everything) with prophecy (the Mayan calendar ends).  Granted, none of this actually holds up under scrutiny.  This mysterious planet, Nibiru, was supposed to be visible to the naked eye two years ago.  Nobody has seen it yet with a telescope let alone their peepers.  And, of course, our calendar ends, as well.  12/31/11.  It also taps into a bit of the "savage" scenario.  Since we are an "advanced" culture, any cultures before ours couldn't possibly know things about astronomy and whatnot, but this Mayan culture seemed to have magical powers and advanced science, so they must have been right.  It all makes for Hollywood movies and interesting press, but is little more than science fiction that far too many people are taking as science fact.

We've had our end-of-the-world problems last year with some people claiming the date was given in the Bible.  People quit their jobs, slashed their kids' throats, and took to the road to let people know the end was nigh.  It wasn't.  Jobs stayed lost.  Throats stayed slashed.  Motorhomes remained painted with poorly written predictions.  And then there was Y2K.  You know, all the computers were going to crash, stop lights wouldn't work, and gold would be the only currency worth anything.  That was another bit of prophecial dysfunction, as disappointing as whiskey dick.  The only thing that came true was that gold got hoarded and those who sold bulk seeds made a killing. 

But all of that is ancient history, forgotten, as we forget so many other things, when something newer and bigger comes along.  The idea of the Earth cracking in half and lava bursting up through our living rooms during So You Think You Can Dance? has such cool special effects built right in that you can't help but swoon.  Couple all that with some earthquakes that got a lot of coverage, leading many to believe there is more activity than normal, and the scientists theorizing that solar flares will peak (in 2013, but that's no small matter), and you get a television-ready special event movie that wil prove to be disappointing and then forgotten.  A new scenario will, of course, take its place (a virus?  a black hole bomb?  the Tea Party Parrots getting the White House?), and a new round of fear and exploitation will occur.

All of this would be fine if people didn't act on these made-up threats.  They do act on them, though, and they do so negatively.  Do I care if some moron jumps out his window because he thinks the end of the world is ten minutes away?  Only if I happen to be walking underneath him at the time.  I do, however, care, when parents end up killing their kids.  I do care when a group of believers sends nerve gas through a subway hoping to pre-empt the end of the world.  People who believe insane shit like the end of the world (each and every time it's supposed to happen) do insane shit.  They are capable of doing insane shit.  (It should be noted, however, that much with the way people live their lives, many people who claim to believe 12/21/21 is the end of the world are doing very little to actually prepare for that.  It goes to show how beliefs are important ... until you actually have to do something about it.)  If you know someone who believes this sort of thing -- or any other such nonsense -- you should question their sanity.  (Maybe not to their faces.  They are nuts, and if they believe in fake planets, they can just as easily believe you are an alien and stab you in the throat.)

Lunatics -- is there anything they aren't capable of doing?



Sinful

He looks at her from across the table.  The restaurant is packed, but they don't notice any of the other patrons.  To them, they are the center of the universe.  Nobody else even comes close to existing.

She looks, to use an overused word, radiant.  Black dress.  Cut low.  Cleavage.  Cut deep.  A hint of eye shadow.  Lips look natural.  Hair perfect.  Dark.  He knows that under that dress on each thigh is a tattoo.  The left one is a water dragon.  The right one is an ice dragon.  He knows because he's seen those thighs.  He's been between them many times.

He looks as he normally does.  Shirt with two buttons open.  Jacket that looks like he slept in it.  Hair is unkempt.  His khakis creased in a road map pattern.  He hasn't shaved in seven days?  He's lost count.

The food is secondary.  Pasta for both.  His has clams.  She's not into seafood or veal.  Both make her gag.  Neither has eaten much, but they've both been through two glasses of wine.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

He smiles at her.  She knows what he's thinking.  It's the same thing he's always thinking.  What he says, however, is, "Why do we go through this dance every damn time?"

Now it's her turn to smile.  "It's fun."

"You and me ... we have different definitions of that word."

"It's still fun."

"Are you wearing anything under that dress?" he asks.

"Do I ever?"

He shakes his head ever so slightly.  He appreciates her nude form, but he appreciates her clothed form even more.  It leaves more to the imagination.  He's seen her sans clothes dozens of times.  He can trace her body in his mind, as he has committed it to memory.  But nothing gets him more excited than picturing her without panties under that dress.  Well, that and the way she moans.

"Where are we going to go?" she asks.

"Anywhere your boyfriend isn't."

She rolls her eyes.  "Right now I'd say he's stuffing dollar bills into the panties of some beggar stripper in Vegas.  Typical male bonding before the night of a wedding."

"Do you think he'd be doing that knowing what you and I are going to be doing later?"

"Yeah.  I do."

"Sinful," he says.  "He's left a woman as marvelous like you home alone to fend off the wolves."

"For the last time," she says.  "This is it.  We're done after tonight."

He leans forward.  "What?  What do you mean 'this is it'?  When the fuck did you get a conscious?"

"It's not that.  He and I are moving.  He got a job offer in Sac, and I'm going to go-"

"No.  Bullshit.  This does not end this way."  His finger jabs at the table with every word.  Now he notices the people looking at them.

"Let's not make a scene."

"Then don't make fucking declarations like that."

He is silent for a moment.  Then, "What we have is good."

"No.  What you have is good.  What I have is a problem explaining why it hurts to walk for two days and why I can't fuck him."

"I do more damage than I should."

She agrees with that.

"But you like it," he says.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"Should we go?" he asks.

"You have someone lined up?"

He nods.  "That I do.  Craig's List is filled with young ladies looking to get kinky for only $100 an hour.  I've assured Barbie -- not her real name, I'm sure -- that it would only be an hour, and that the level of kink was nothing out of the ordinary."

She laughs.  "And did she believe that?"

"She says she's eighteen.  Her picture says twenty.  Either way, she's about as smart as a fourteen-year-old, so I would say she believes it."

"Will she have security?"

He shakes his head.  "She told me, without prompting, that she operates solo.  She wanted me to know all the money goes to her for her 'education.'"

"Oh, she's in school?"

"Yeah, she's a college student, and I still have my medical license.  Let's go.  I'll call her from the parking lot."

They take their individual cars to his place, at which point she gets in his car, her dress riding up her thigh.  "Where are we meeting her?"

"Parking lot of Target," he says.

"And then to the cabin?"

He puts the car in drive.  "Where else do you think we'd go for this?"

They pick her up.  She sits in the pack of the Prius.  She is quick to tell them she's only done "it" with girls "like two or three times."

"That's not an issue," he tells Barbie.  "You don't have to do a damn thing but watch."

"Really?"

"Yes," the woman in the passenger seat says.  "We fuck.  You watch.  We like to get rough sometimes, so don't be surprised by that."

"Okay," Barbie says.  This was not the kink she was expecting.

"You know what that makes this?" the driver asks.

"No," she responds.

"The easiest hundred you ever made."

As they make their way through the hills, they engage in the usual small talk.  It doesn't take long for the man and woman to figure out that Barbie is not a college student.  Nor is she much of a conversationalist.  All attempts at anything other than the basics are met with silence or mumbled answers.  He starts to suspect she's on pills of some sort.  His partner doesn't care.

"Can I smoke?" she asks.

"No," the driver answers sternly.  "The car already smells like your shitty perfume.  I don't need the odor of Camel Lights adding to it."

"Hey," Barbie says, hurt, "it's expensive perfume."

"Still smells like shit," he tells her.

They get to the cabin.  It is the only one in sight.  He has left a light on inside as well as the porch light on.  "This is it," he says, getting out of the car.  "Casa de Depravity for the next hour.  You get to watch me do this lovely lady in all the places God forbid, and all you have to do is keep your pretty little mouth shut."

They take her to the bedroom and point to the chair in the corner where she is to sit.  "No talking," he reminds her.  "No masturbating.  No texting.  No updating your Facebook status.  You watch this like you are watching your favorite show, got it?"

Barbie nods and settles into the seat.  For the next half an hour she does nothing but watch.  She doesn't say a word.  Not when he pulls her hair.  Not when he takes her from behind and she screams.  Not when he chokes her or punches her in the stomach.  Barbie is thankful for the fact that it is the other woman that is on the bed and not her.  The man was right.  This was the easiest hundred she ever made.

At minute forty-two, everything changes.  The woman, who is underneath the man, makes eye contact with Barbie.  "You like ... this?" she pants.  The man is thrusting into her hard.  Sweat is dripping from his face.  He bends his head down and starts to bite her nipple.  The woman screams, and Barbie lets out a single word.  "Damn."

The action on the bed stops.  They both look at her.  The mood interrupted.  "What the hell?" he says.

Barbie points to the woman.  "Her nipple is bleeding."

The woman pushes the man off her and marches over to Barbie.  Three quick slaps land on her face.  Then her throat is grabbed.  The woman's face is close to her's.  Too close.  "You were told to keep your damn mouth shut.  College girl not know what that means?"

Barbie was afraid to say anything.  Wasn't even sure she could.

"Answer her," the man tells her, "or I'll take out your teeth."

"I know ... what it ... means," she gasps.

The woman pushes her back into the chair.  "Strip," she says.  "Get up and strip."

"I want to go home."

The man walks over.  He calmly says, "We paid you for an hour.  We have fifteen minutes left.  What's the worse that can happen?"

Forty-five minutes later they are in the car heading back to Target.  Barbie is in the back seat.  Silent.  Tears are drying on her face.  She is holding her left hand.  It is wrapped in a towel loaded with ice packs.

"I'd drop you off at the ER, but they have cameras," he tells her as he takes the car onto the highway.

"I can drive ... I hope," she says.

The woman looks back at her.  "The bruises will heal.  The bite marks will go away.  That small patch of hair will grow back.  But you'll want to get that hand looked at.  I heard at least two of them break."

"You'll both be going to jail," Barbie tells them.  Again, she proves she's not the brightest.

"Do you have someone lined up?" she asks him again.

He seems to register the question.  The restaurant is still packed.  "What?"

She sighs.  "Jesus.  Are you even listening?  Do you have someone lined up?  You know, for our usual."

"Oh," he says.  "I did.  She backed out at the last moment."  He shrugs.  "Something about studying for finals."  He is lying.  She didn't back out, but he's not going to pick her up.

"What the hell is wrong with you?  You're acting weird."

He smiles at her.  "I was just lost in thought.  Picturing what life would be like without you, I guess."

She signals for a waiter.  "I don't think I can do this if we don't have someone watching.  You know how I feel about that."

"Do you and your boyfriend have an audience?"

"No, but he's not beating the shit out of me, either."

"And you're asking what's wrong with me."

The waiter gives them the check.  He gives the young man his American Express card and watches him walk away.  "I'm sure it will be fun without some young whore keeping silent in the corner."

"I doubt it.  This is a horrible last date."

He is erect now.  "Oh, I'm sure I can figure out a way to spice it up."  He is thinking of the hacksaw in the shed next to the shack.  He'll tie her up, blindfold her, and then get to work on her leg.  Two inches above the knee.

"And how do you plan on doing that?" she asks.

He pictures heating up a fork on the stove and then shoving it in her mouth.  "I don't know," he says with a playful smile.  "Leave the shades up for the deer to watch?  They won't say a word."

The waiter returns the card and they leave the restaurant.  She gets into his Prius.  "I'm still not into this idea," she says.

"How about we make tonight just about us then?  No hooker watching.  One last romantic evening ... our final one together.  What do you say?"  He starts the car and looks at her.

"It sounds boring," she tells him.  "If I wanted boring, I'd wait for Lyle to come home and get on top of
me."

"I promise I won't bore you," he says, patting her thigh.  "I promise this will be a night to remember."

He pulls out of the parking lot and starts heading toward the cabin.

"Okay.  Deal.  But no rough stuff.  It feels weird without someone watching."

He smiles, but she can't see it in the dark.  "Don't worry.  We'll make do.  I promise."

We Have A Resting Place For The Likes Of You

 Borders.  Bayshore Mall in Eureka, CA.  Everyone seems to know that Borders is going under.  If you haven't been paying attention to the news, signs plastered across the front of the store have a daily countdown.  As of yesterday, there were six days left until the store in the Bayshore Mall sold its last young teen vampire book.  As if to emphasize a point that needs no emphasis, the shelves are nearly bare and all the fixtures are up for sale.  You'd have to be an idiot to not know what has been going on.

Enter the idiot.

My daughter and I were trying to make our way through the aisles when we encountered her.  Actually, we were only held up by her and her words.  The man blocking our aisle was the one held up.  He and his partner.  The man who was being questioned by the woman had a large cooling unit of some sort on a hand cart, and this woman was blocking his path.  This woman was in her forties and had a teen daughter in tow.

"Can I ask you a question?" she asked the man.

"Sure.  What is it?" he countered.

This is where things went weird, and my daughter and I got front row seats to it because we were trapped in this aisle.

"Well," she said angrily, "if you put that down for a minute I'll ask you."

"He can't put that down," his partner said.

"I can't put it down," the other man, who was obviously struggling with the weight of the object, added.

"Why not?" she asked.

The man with the handcart said, "I don't work here, you know."

She immediately smiled.  "Oh, I am so sorry.  Everyone says I'm rude."

"You are," I said, but she ignored me.

"I didn't mean it," she continued.

"No worries," he said, moving past her.

She was not ending this, though.  She turned on the partner.  "Can I ask you?"

"I don't work here, either."  It was obvious to me that the men had come to buy some of the fixtures.  I think it would be damn obvious to anyone ... except this self-described rude lady.

She didn't care that he didn't work at Borders.  She wanted to be heard.  And heard she would be.  "How long has this been going on?  What is this?"

Now I was just sticking around to hear this.  It was fascinating.  There were signs everywhere saying what it was.  They were yellow and black.  Huge.  They used words like "closing" and phrases like "going out of business."  It wasn't the fucking Da Vinci Code.

"It's been going on about a month or so," the man said.  "It's a going out of business sale."

"When did this happen?" she pressed.

"I don't know the exact date.  It was all over the news."

"Why is this happening?" she asked.

The man rolled his eyes.  "I don't know.  A lot of people said it was the Internet, but I don't think so."

The woman then said, and I am not kidding.  "No.  It's not that.  I know what it is.  Do you want to know what it is?"

Okay.  Think about this for a second.  A woman who made it obvious she had no idea Borders was going out of business, had no idea how long the proceedings had been going on, and had no idea that a blatant going out of business sale was a going out of business sale suddenly knew the answer as to why the store was going out of business.  If it were me being asked, I would have taken that opportunity to shut the woman down and make a quick exit before any of her stupid rubbed off on me.  Not so for the man she stopped.  He actually asked her what she thought!

I left at that point, telling my daughter that if I ever acted like that woman she had every right to push me out of a moving vehicle.  I was not going to stick around to listen to what I now determined to be Dumb and Dumber discussing the state of Borders.  Even I have my tolerance levels when it comes to amusing stupidity.

In a perfect world, a just world, the willfully ignorant would be made to suffer the outcome of their actions.  They wouldn't be placated.  They wouldn't be given anything other than a passing glance and perhaps a shove out of the way.  As I walked away from her, I couldn't help but think, perhaps wrongly, that she was probably part of the Tea Party Parrots.  Cocksure of nothing.  Positive that their views, based on God-knows-what, were right no matter what evidence spoke to the contrary.  It was wrong of me to think that, but the mindset of that woman is what drives a lot of those Tea Party Parrots.  I've witnessed it firsthand.  I've seen it in their signs ("Government out of my Medicare").  So proud of their ignorance.  So sure of their stupidity.

So if there is anything to remember on this day that many in the media are calling a "Day of Remembrance," it's that there are a lot of dumb asses out there and no amount of tragedy in the world is ever going to get them to open their eyes.