Forget it, Jim, it's Pot Town

Arcata, California.  The smell of weed is as prevalent as the white boy dreads, transients, tie dye, Earth tones and Vanagons.  I avoid the place whenever possible, the same way most people avoid the public toilet with the mess on the seat.  When I can’t help but visit, I try to make it a short trip.  It’s a “college town.”  It’s an “artist community.”  Yeah.  I suppose those terms are right.  More than that, though, it is Pot Central, USA.

Arcata has some things worth noting.  Good stores.  Good food.  Even a few good people.  It’s a throwback to the ‘60s while still maintaining a fa├žade of progressive leanings.  The motto tends to be, “Green is good.”  Green, of course, represents money, Mother Earth and Mary Jane.  Green is good.  Yes, it is.  If you can mix and master all three, why that’s called the ArcataOrgasmic Swirl.

Pot rules the roost in Arcata, as it does for most of Humboldt.  Non-native, smaller-time growers took over and jacked up the real estate prices a few years back, though.  Then, sensing the way the wind was blowing, spoke out against the legalization of the drug as black market prices would tumble and a once-sure would become an oh-so-uncertain.  Their laments even started to crossover to the more “refined” growers who, as they like to think, aren’t in it for the buck but for the principle.  The risk of jail (almost nil) is worth the prize … now.  Crime is king because it pays.  While Colorado opens stores dedicated to the one-time devil weed, Humboldt’s natives are scratching their heads and saying, “Why weren’t we first?”  A lot of those queries are coming from Arcata.  Why weren’t they first?  Ask the growers.

Back in the day when I saw what was happening with the legalization movement, I was going to trademark a Humboldt brand for smoking devices and then sue the holy fuck out of anyone who used it.  I figured once it was (inevitably) legal, some of the bigger corporations would find a way to weasel on in.  Since it is only really legal by the grace of a “progressive” Fed in places like Colorado, those corporations haven’t banged down the door yet.  After all, they have stockholders, and stockholders have this fear of the Feds.  Plus, if you follow politics you know that if the Republicans take over, things as we know them will be radically different.  You can bet that they won’t be proponents of states’ rights when it comes to this subject.  Stockholders may be fearful, but they’re also a kind of smart.  They are waiting to see how things pan out because as of now it’s still too early to tell.  Proponents, however, are already claiming victory.  Proponents.  Not growers.  Not all of them.  Not the ones who operate in the secretive world of underground grows, well-hidden outdoor grows, and the less-than-rare gutted house grows.  The native growers with big operations operate well outside of Arcata.  Arcata has its mom and pops, but it also has those late arrivals to the party who took over and slightly altered the course of the town.

So Arcata’s residents ride a wave of Humboldt quasi-legalization, a curl that suits the non-native perfectly well, thank you.  Pot is legal to use and grow if you have a doctor giving the nod (and they all do around here).  You most likely won’t get busted if you don’t have the card giving you that right, though.  You could be.  You probably won’t be.  The police have better things to do, as it should be.  For the capitalist grower, this keeps the prices high and the risk low.  Any student of capitalism knows this is the “sweet spot.”

I imagine if pot ever gets the full-scale legal treatment, Arcata is going to look a lot different.  That low- end, psychedelic vibe that it has now is going to subtly change in a way its residents may not like too much.  While there are folks there who maintain that capitalism is king, there is a decidedly larger group that feels much the opposite, and the idea of pot becoming a commodity like a McDonald’s hamburger or hip hop leaves them with a bad taste in their mouths.  The purity of God’s gift will be violated, and violation will not be tolerated.  Green isn’t always good when it denotes rot. 

Arcata has its charms.  It’s not the people or the product, though.  It’s the idea that the various philosophies can work if given the proper foundation and structure.  It’s the idea of hope.  It’s a place where art wants to rule over commerce.  All of that, however, has been ruined by a population of people who only think they know what makes it special.  It’s not the pot or the entitled fucks playing at being homeless.  Those two things can be tossed out with the unused bathwater.  These people think they and their love of the weed is what keeps the town held together.  That social glue is as weak as their will, though.  What makes Arcata different is that underneath the sticky veneer is an experiment that kind of works as it maintains that delicate balance.  People care about where they live.  They care about what comes in.  They care about their way of life being destroyed by the very thing that gives so many of their lives meaning.

It’s admirable.  It’s honorable.  In the end, though, it will be wasted.  The tolerance Arcata’s citizens have shown to non-native growers (and the scumbag landlords who profit from them) will be its undoing.      


Florida Bondage Trip

I was finally talking to her.  It took me a while to win her trust.  I had to assure her I wasn’t into her sexually.  She was blonde.  Blondes didn’t usually do it for me, and I told her that.  She was also a dominatrix … and that’s why I wanted to talk to her.  Interview her really.
After months of corresponding, she opened up to the idea.  I was serious.  I was professional.  I had questions.  She considered men to be lowlife scum and treated them as such.  She also made a very decent living at it.  Let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to beat men for money?  Hell, I’d do it for kicks.  I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the one who would be interesting to question.

So, with recording equipment in place, I called Florida.  Florida, for those who never really delved into the sexual underbelly of America, seems to have a greater population of freaks than other places you’d imagine.  Sure, California and New York has them, too, but in Florida they are all out there.  Proud and loud.  S&M monsters.  Scat suckers.  Animal fuckers.  You can envision it?  Florida’s got a very open person doing it.

The conversation was not as good as I had hoped it would be.  She, like a lot of the “kink” types I had talked to over the years, was really kind of boring and took herself way too seriously.  Yet she used words like “play” and “toys.”  Oh, how I hated that, but I had to interview her and keep the convo flowin’.  I had white space to fill, you know.

She was saying the same standard answers that had been uttered by others before her and are still being uttered today.  Nothing new.  Nothing insightful.  Nothing interesting.  But then, in the midst of her talking about her favorite whips, I heard it.  Muffled sounds.  In the background.  Muffled screams, to be more precise.

“What is that noise?” I asked her.

“It’s a business man,” she said.  “I’m working with him while talking to you.”

I had called her office.  Now I imagine that also served as her dungeon.  “What are you doing to him?” I asked.

“Nothing now,” she said.

I could still hear the muffled screams and shuffling sounds.  It didn’t sound … right.

“Is he gagged?” I asked.


There was more.

“And in a body bag.”

That made me smile.  That is why I wanted to interview her.  There was a little something extra in her step.  That blonde had moxie.  That blonde had Mr. Businessman gagged and in a body bag.  He was freaking.  Body bags get hot.  They kill if one is claustrophobic.  They need to altered to allow for breathing, after all they are designed to keep fluids from leaking out when a body gets moved or starts hits that stage of rot.  That guy had to be going nuts in there.  In the dark.  Hearing her talk.  Knowing he was in the same thing used to carry that body that was starting to turn to multicolored oatmeal out in some field somewhere.  Close your eyes and think of that, for a minute.  You can hear her on the phone talking about how she hates men.  How she likes to torture them.  You’ve got a ball gag in your mouth.  You can’t tell if your eyes are open or closed because it’s so dark in the heavy plastic tomb.  Every breath that comes out your nose seems to add to the heat.  Your movement is restricted, and you can hear that blonde bombshell talking to some reporter about how she likes to abuse men.  Did she forget about you?  What if she is really crazy?  What if she lets you die?  Nobody knows where you are at.  It’s not like you told your coworkers you were heading out to get the shit beat out of you by some busty blonde with issues.  You could die in that bag and nobody would know.

I kept her on the phone for another half hour.  It was a good day.


Visualizing the Abyss

There is a large group of people who believe that visualization of what one desires will yield positive results.  Of course, asking for more details relating to this bit of magic leads to vague answers that sound like little more than mystical mumbo jumbo.  In the land of instant gratification, this is worse.

The problems with visualization self-help methods have been well-documented and thoroughly examined.  Quite simply, these visualization exercises don’t stand up to any kind of serious inquiry.  They are, however, a gold mine if you write about them or do the standard series of lectures at Red Lions across America.  You, as a speaker or writer, tell people what they want to hear. (“Just visualize it, and it will happen.”)  The reader or audience member does the exercise (the less one has to work for the goal, the better), and then sits back and waits for results.  It’s a win-win situation for the creator of a visualization method whether or not audience members reach their individual goals. 

If, by chance, some people do get what they visualized, you will have more followers.  If, more likely, there aren’t any results forthcoming, all you have to do is turn it around on the visualizer.  “You didn’t want it badly enough.  You weren’t focused.  Buy my next book, as it will give you the keys to unlock what you desire.”  (The Secret is so powerful that it takes several books to teach its basic lessons.)  These fictions satisfy a need, which is why they keep selling.  It’s not the success rate which pulls in readers.  It’s the hope that life’s little problems can be solved by merely wishing them away. 

Starvation.  Sex crimes.  Herpes.  Poverty. War.  Death of a loved one.  Addiction.  If the power of wish worked, wouldn’t this world be a vastly different place?  If visualization was science, wouldn’t famine be wiped out? 

If all this “positive visualization” movement did was sell books to those frantically looking for simple solutions to complex problems, there would be no harm, no foul.  Buyer beware, as they say.  But researchers Heather Kappes and Gabriele Oettingen published an article in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology (a serious publication where statistical data is mandatory and submitted articles are peer reviewed before publication) that points out some of dangers of this movement.  Experiments were done which showed that the conjuring of positive fantasies actually causes a person to be less ambitious.  Positive visualization, according to the researchers, actually drains the body of the energy needed to get to the desired goal, and tricks the brain into thinking it has actually achieved it.  One experiment that caught the attention of Forbes detailed what happened when water-deprived test subjects were told to visualize a glass of icy water.  Their brains responded as if they had really drank the water.  Interesting in a lab setting.  Possibly deadly if one is stranded in the desert.  (As an aside, a website about healing cancer naturally proclaims that by keeping about a tablespoon of saliva in your mouth and visualizing yourself without a particular ailment will actually make that ailment go away!  If you still can’t see the problems with visualization, you need to stop reading now and check yourself into a mental hospital.  Don’t worry, though.  While there you can just drool your insanity away.)

If you delve into experiments that actually offer “proof” that visualization works, your investigation will inevitably lead to terms like “psychic powers” and other New Age thinking that has muddied the waters of the self-help genre.  Dig deep enough and it all becomes magic.  (In fact, just read the reviews of Creative Visualization on Amazon.  More than one refers to the book as “magic.”)

There is no real “magic” when it comes to self-improvement.  What one needs to do is actually spend time reaching into the deepest and often darkest parts of one’s soul and acknowledging that which you find.  You have to look into that abyss Nietzsche wrote about and see what stares back.  You have to go places you never thought you would, otherwise you are lying to yourself about yourself.  You aren’t working with a complete knowledge of that which drives you.  If you don’t understand those things that make you tick, no amount of visualization is going to help.

I know plenty of people who love reading self-help books, especially those in the visualization movement.  (I’ve often thought about writing a few under a pen name to help supplement my income, and I still may.)  I’ve kept quiet around most of them, as arguing this topic is futile, and I do believe that it can act as a stepping stone to serious introspection in the right person (a rarity).  I can’t help but think, however, that if one repurposed all that time spent visualizing that which they think will “fix” them and instead really worked on those things, then it wouldn’t be too long before real results would appear.  To get there, though, one must know themselves inside and out … not just let a false sense of self manifest an unexamined goal and hope for the best.

“Faith: not wanting to know what is true.” -Nietzsche



He wears leather pants.  They are, as leather pants should be, tight, and he when he walks it is with a stiff gait.  When I first saw him, he appeared to be in his fifties.  Either that or he lived a hard life and was in his forties.  Prior to talking to him, I had seen him walking around Eureka a lot.  Sometimes alone wearing a leather cap, vest and pants.  Sometimes dressed casually in jeans and accompanied by an older woman.  He was, as the more polite would say, a character. 

One day he came into where I worked while I was manning the register.  He was dressed in his finest leather, which wasn’t out of place at that business.  He didn’t bother looking at me and instead went right to the various porn mags and movies while I read my book.  I didn’t pay attention to what he was picking up and paging through.  My many months of employment at the porn store said no eye contact meant no verbal contact, which was my ideal working condition.  I didn’t want the customers talking to me, and I sure as fuck did not want to start a conversation with them.  This guy was no exception.

I eventually sensed his presence at the counter and looked up.  His eyes didn’t seem quite right.  Excited.  Unfocused.  He was, and this is no exaggeration, foaming at the mouth a bit.  In fact, during our short conversation, this whitish, thick slop had to be wiped away from the corner of his lips several times by the back of his gnarled hands.  Some had dried on his face around the left corner of his mouth, and more than a few dollops had escaped his piehole with enough force to land of the glass counter between us.  It was disgusting, but then again, so was he.

“You’ve seen me around town,” he said quietly.  He leaned toward me over the counter.  I was keeping my distance.

I nodded.  My arms were crossed in front of my chest, my book forgotten for the moment.

“Don’t say anything to me when you see me with mother.”

I didn’t plan on it, Norman Bates.  I didn’t say that, however.  In fact, I didn’t say anything.  For some reason, my lack of response seemed to be his cue to continue.

“You seem nice.”

“I’m not.”  That really should’ve told him to stop this pointless banter.  But those eyes and that oral froth said to me that he was far beyond comprehending social signals at this point.  Drugs?  On the down side of a bipolar episode?  Rabies?  I had no idea and didn’t care.  He was intent upon continuing the conversation, however, and that did bug me.

“Do you like horses?”

I shook my head.  I really didn’t care about horses one way or another, but I did not want to respond favorably.

“I do,” he said.  His eyes tried to focus on mine.  Tried.  They went over me, around me, back in their sockets.  Anywhere but on me.


He leaned closer.  “They’re so big.  I like to rub against them.”  I imagined it was much like he was rubbing up against the counter.

I didn’t say a word.  I feared that if I barked at him to leave or shut up, he would cry or collapse on the floor, screaming for his mother.  That wouldn’t get him out of the store any faster.

“I was wondering,” he continued, “if you’d want to go horseback riding with me sometime.”

I don’t know in what universe this seemed like a good idea to him.  I also was sure that if I accepted his invitation he would soon be demonstrating the forbidden thrills of rubbing up against God’s majestic creatures and encouraging me to follow suit.  Horses, much like dogs and Dolly Parton fans, are not something I’ve ever been sexually attracted to … not even for dry humping purposes. 

“That’s not going to happen,” I responded.

He quickly backed away from the counter like he was conditioned to dodge a fist after bringing up the subject.  I’m sure he was, but I wasn’t interested in punching him.  I just wanted to go back to reading.

“Please don’t say anything when I’m with mother.”

“I won’t.” 

“This town has too many Christians.”

And with that he left the porno store.  I never saw him come in again on my shift.

These days I see him around town from time to time (in fact, I saw him today at the Fourth of July celebration in Old Town).  I don’t know if he remembers me, though I look the same now as I did then.  When I see him, his eyes are more focused and that white junk isn’t on his lips and face.  He’s usually wearing the leather, too.  Proudly displaying it for the town’s many Christians.  I haven’t seen his mother in ages.  I imagine she died in her sleep, her son finding her body the next day when she wasn’t up before him, busy making him breakfast in a dimly lit kitchen.  I imagine they owned the house she died in, and he spends most of the day with the shades drawn, erect at the thought of horses.  Photos of the divine beasts line the walls … except in mother’s room.  That remains as it was the day he found her.  He dusts in there, though.  Sweeps the hardwood floor.  Sniffs her pillowcase every once in a while, convinced he can still smell her shampoo.  No more tears.  The rest of the rooms, however, are altars to that which makes his aging cock erect.  Horses.   Newspaper articles about zoophiles.  Ancient porn he no longer has to hide.  The kind of stuff you can’t easilybuy in the stores anymore.  The kind of stuff about the love between a man and his mare.

He’s alone, but he’s happy.  Content to live out his fantasies and not worry about someone saying something to mother.  Why, her heart couldn’t take it, you know. 

He doesn’t seem to remember me, but I remember him.  I’m tempted to ask him, just in passing, “Rub up against any stallions lately?”  That would be cruel, though.  Slightly evil.  In poor taste.  I don’t do it, but not for those reasons.  I don’t do it simply because I don’t want a conversation.  His base desires are nothing to me.  They are his fantasies, and his alone.  I don’t share his fascination, and I definitely would not benefit from small talk.  I learned all I want to know about him that day in the porn store.  All the rest were blanks I can easily fill in with my understanding of people and artistic license. 

I will admit, though, that the slightest conversations can lead to some very strange places.  I didn’t think that this leather-clad clown would have ever admitted to getting his kicks by rubbing against horses.  Nor did I ever think he would be that concerned about his mother.  Most people would be so put off by the horse fetish that they would find the man morally reprehensible.  I’ve heard worse, but even judging him solely by his standards he comes across as tragic (and, yes, a bit disgusting with the foaming at the mouth bit).  He is a man isolated by society, and at one time fearful of what his desires would do to the woman he loved.  He tried to let the world know he was different, his leather pants on a warm summer’s day a sure giveaway, but he could never let that same world know what he really wanted.  I don’t believe he thought I would be like-minded when it came to his desires and that’s why he told me.  I think he believed, like many who came into the porn store and blurted out whatever fantasy they harbored, that I was his confessional figure.  If he told me, he told someone, and that made his connection to the world a little more substantial.  Someone knew.  Some who, by the very nature of the clerk and customer relationship, would be less likely to attack him verbally or physically.  At most I would tell him to leave and his isolation would only be solidified.

Someone knew, and now his world felt a little smaller.

No matter.  I still don’t want to talk to him.


Send in the Clown

I’ve been to the Chicago Greyhound station.  My most memorable time there was when we Greyhound travelers were stranded for about eight hours while a snowstorm crippled Oprah’s city.  A person who befriended me on the ride wanted to check out the nearby irregular underwear and sock store, excited that he could purchase some cut-rate essentials for a mere pittance.  I joined him, but not for the deals. I wanted to see some of the city.  I wasn’t impressed.  Chicago, for all its history, reminded me of an aging whore who was trying to maintain some sense of dignity, but her makeup was on too thick, the bruises showed, and she walked with a noticeable limp from the time she was stabbed.

Eventually I returned to the station and sat munching on things from the snack machine, reading, and doing my best to ignore people.  A little more than twenty years earlier, John Wayne Gacy, Jr. had picked up a teenage boy at the same station I was sitting in (unless it had moved, which seemed unlikely) and tried to force him into sex.  Gacy had a thing for teenage boys … and clown makeup … and being an upright citizen.  Of course, his crawlspace later told a deeper, darker tale that ended with a virtual party outside his prison on the night of his execution.  It was a jubilant time for most of those in attendance.  Some were so excited that they donned clown wigs and wore shirts that celebrated the moment when the Killer Clown would be lethally injected off this mortal coil. 

No tears for this clown.  No, Sir.

Gacy, as a serial killer, always struck people as an enigma of sorts.  Ted Bundy could blame porn all he wanted, but the truth was that he was just some sadistic motherfucker.  Jeffrey Dahmer was lonely and had abandonment issues.  Ed Gein’s mental landscape was warped by an overbearing mother and a burdensome lack of money for his desired sexual reassignment surgery.  Gacy, however, was … different.

Not every serial killer gets his picture taken with the First Lady.

Gacy really did lead a double life where nobody suspected what was going on.  He was outgoing (no isolated farmhouse here or a lonely apartment with disembodied hands in the fridge), helpful, a performer in so many different ways.  Sure, he had dabbled in wife swapping and drugs (this on top of his desire for strapping young lads), but who hasn’t?  He was a Jaycee and a Democrat, too.  Can you get any more white bread than that?

Of course, the usual suspects are at play here.  An abusive father.  Molestations by a male family friend.  The inner conflict of hating homosexuals all while being attracted to teenage boys.  (When Gacy was caught he was very concerned people would think he was a homosexual and wanted it known he was really bisexual.  His attitude toward his capture and crimes makes it hard to tell if he was either so far out of touch with reality that he really had no idea what was going on around him, or so in touch with it that he knew how easy it was to get away with all that he did if he just kept up appearances.)  The reasons Gacy liked to slip handcuffs on boys and strangle them to death matter, just as they do for all serial killers.  In the end, however, they don’t bring bodies back to life no matter how well we understand them and recognize the causes.  If doctors and law enforcement were being totally honest and really understood these killers, they would tell the public we can’t stop this sort of thing from happening, and here is why: Murder has a sexual thrill, and we are hardwired to like all things sexual.

Gacy admitted to having an orgasm when he stabbed his first victim to death.  This isn’t uncommon.  Two casual acquaintances from my youth once stabbed a taxi driver.  One of the offenders bragged how he had an erection the entire time.  That bragging got him caught, and don’t even begin to touch on the Freudian aspects of the entire debacle.  The thrill of the kill fits the bill, or so Dr. Seuss would say.  Once the mind starts to equate sex and pleasure and power and murder … well, the term “downward spiral” is more than fitting.

Gacy handled death like he did all other things in his life – nice and clean.  No spilled milk.  He would often stuff his victims’ underwear into their mouths to keep seeping fluids from damaging his carpet.  He had an employee of the company he owned dig a trench for “pipes.”  Little did the employee know that the trench was really for bodies, and his almost ended up there too before all was said and done.  Everything was by the book.  Alcohol, handcuffs, strangulation.  Little deviation.  Deviation meant mistakes.  Mistakes meant capture.  Capture meant imprisonment … again.  If the police found out what he was doing, no amount of being a model prisoner would get him out early this time.  It would be bad.  Very, very bad.  The kind of bad you can’t easily charm your way out of no matter how much backpedalling you do.  The first time he was behind bars was for forcing a teenage boy into sex and then having him assaulted before the trial in order to shut him up.  These weren’t rape, witness tampering and child sexual abuse charges he’d be facing this time.  These would be murders … and plenty of them.

Gacy was found guilty of 33 murders.  Twenty-six of those murder victims were buried under his house, festering, rotting and stinking up the joint.  (That stench is what got him caught … that and overconfidence.  While under surveillance, Gacy invited the two police officers keeping tabs on him into his home.  One officer noticed an odd smell coming from the heating duct.  His instincts on the stink were spot-on.)  Gacy was an unstoppable sexual killing machine, and when he realized he was about to be caught he confessed to his lawyer in typical Gacy fashion.  Neatly.  Without fuss.  “Let me tell you a story …” type of thing.

The numbers seem high.  Thirty-three in a fairly short period of time of about six years.   There were people who disbelieved it then and now.  Gacy later claimed he was framed.  He said ex-employees committed about 28 of those murders.  It’s a sloppy story, and quite unlike Gacy.  Of course, he tried to talk his way out of the death penalty, and when that didn’t work out, became belligerent.  That’s to be expected for most, but for Gacy it also seemed somewhat out of character.  The guy who could charm a teen into handcuffs couldn’t charm his way out of the needle and it pissed him off.

Before he died, Gacy became somewhat of a celebrity and did clown paintings that are still sold in various markets.  A record store I used to go to had one on the wall.  They aren’t special, but they do qualify as the ultimate outsider art.  Memorabilia from the hands of a man who got his kicks forcing teenagers into sex before squeezing the life out of them. 

After Gacy died, his brain was studied in the hopes of finding some kind of explanation for his behavior.  Thorough examinations of the sliced and slabbed gray matter have turned up nothing out of the ordinary.  No weird tumors.  No misshapen sections.  As it was, Gacy’s brain looked a lot like yours and mine, and for many that is a terrifying thing.  For those people, the excuse of an overbearing father, sexual molestation, or even repressed sexuality are all reasonable explanations of unreasonable behavior.  They make sense to many.  They can understand that.  They can sleep better knowing that could never be them.  They would never do such a thing.  Couldn’t dream of it, in fact.

Except they are wrong.

You never really know what could trigger such urges inside you.  Perhaps it is that look in someone’s eyes once they think they are about to be prey.  Perhaps it is the feeling of becoming God.  For some, that is a terrifying thought -- the idea that you are so vulnerable to being something so hideous.  For others, like Gacy, it can be addictive.  Take a repressed bit of sexuality and throw in a feeling of unlimited power with no consequences and suddenly the whole world opens up in an explosion of adrenaline the likes of which few people know.  To think that couldn’t be you under the right circumstances simply says you don’t know yourself all that well.  That’s the scary thing.  Not that there are people like Gacy trolling our streets looking for a little luck and gullibility.  No.  That is the nature of predator and prey.  What is really scary are the people who think they don’t have it in them. 

Right on, Cowboy.  And you never sneaked a peek at something you shouldn’t have.  Something taboo.  And you never copped a feel when you shouldn’t have.  And you never had impure thoughts about someone.  And you never wondered what it would be like to hit the gas instead of the brakes and tell the officer you just stepped on the wrong pedal.  (That fucker was on his cell phone anyway and not paying attention when he walked in front of your car and slowed down!  The light was green and you had to get home to see the game.)  You never played a little too rough during sex and liked it.  You were, are, and always will be a perfect angel.  And if you believe that, your lack of understanding and ignorance makes you not only a potential time bomb, but also the perfect prey.

Sure thing, Mr. Gacy.  I’d love to see a magic trick with those cuffs.  I know all of this is a little strange.  You kind of remind me of that creepy gym teacher all the other guys say stare at them in the shower.  But you’re kind of big, kind of friendly, and why would you ever want to hurt me?  Do I want a drink before you show me the trick?  Sure.  I mean, I’m too young to drink legally, but I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.  Thanks, Mr. Gacy.  Okay, after this third drink you can show me the trick.  What kind of a trick is this, mister?  Why are your eyes all funny and why are you growling?    

Predator or prey.  We all have the capacity to be either, but only the ones who understand that can keep both at bay.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer:  Clicking on a link may earn me a commission.


Heaven is Here

I've spent far too much time today going over police reports on various murders and looking at crime scene photos.  Research.  I do that when I'm working on a manuscript, and since I don't write about pleasant things, I have to delve into stuff that some people would describe as "fairly sick shit."  At a certain point I started to wonder if I was doing research or just proving my thesis on humanity.  I think it's fair to say that it started out as research, but as photo after photo exposed new and amazing ways the body could be turned into art, it was my thesis at work.

Humanity, it seems, isn't worth crying over.

If you want to get a good look at what man (labeled in the most generic of ways) is capable of doing to his fellow humans, you don't have to look at the photos of body piles courtesy of Nazi Germany.  We all know that was bad.  War and genocide are by necessity ugly, mean-spirited affairs, and those who feign shock at what they see have not really looked into what war and genocide really mean.  The bodies stacked like winder wood aren't surprising.  What is surprising is that it doesn't happen more often.  We only think we are more civilized than that.

No.  If you want a shock, steer clear of tired old WWII photos and turn your gaze onto the two halves of Elizabeth Short.  The Black Dahlia.  (I won't reprint the pictures here.  Most of you have seen them.)  My research began with her, and hours later ended with her.  Full circle.  Fitting tribute.  You see, what was left in a vacant lot on 1/15/47 drained of all blood (except for one stray drop on the sidewalk), cut in two and mutilated something fierce was, by its nature, an act of passion gone awry.  The body wasn't hacked in two.  It was surgically sliced.  A tattoo taken.  A mouth cut wider in an insane grimace.  Breasts barely left.  Body put on display in a vacant lot, the two halves separated by a few feet, legs spread open as an invite.

This wasn't a robbery gone wrong.  This wasn't some rough sex that got out of control.  This was an act of passion.  Someone knew her.  She pissed someone off.  She was left to be found.  Larry Harnisch has an excellent and thoroughly plausible theory as to who did it and why.  It remains, however, one of America's most infamous unsolved crimes, and even by today's high standards of transgression it is brutal to behold.

You definitely didn't want to be the one to stumble upon her pieces on that Wednesday morning.  The woman who did was out with her child.  She found Short around 10 a.m..  I guarantee you that at 10 a.m. on any given morning you aren't expecting to find a body where the killer has cut out a tattoo.  You aren't thinking you'd stumble across a corpse where just above the vagina is an incision that looks like the killer was trying to make yet another vagina.  And you definitely wouldn't be expecting to find the tattoo and grass inside the body's vagina.  And if you delved deep enough, you'd find feces in her stomach.  Most people never expect to come across such a thing, but Betty Bersinger did, and I can only imagine her reaction.

The absolute insanity that was Short's murder, torture and display is a perfect example of what man is capable of doing.  It wasn't an act of war, genocide or terrorism.  If, in fact, you believe Harnisch's theory, the killer was a man who walked out on his family, had lost a son, and spent his free time with his girlfriend eating dinner and listing to classical music while watching autopsy movies.  Fairly mundane in the grand scheme of things.

Hours of pouring over police reports, death certificates, crime scene photos and more.  Watching a documentary.  Looking for links.  Research, I called it.  It was something more, though.  Man's inhumanity towards his fellow man.

In the box of Short's stuff that was sent to the media after the discovery of her body was an ad with the phrase "Heaven is here."  Yes, I suppose it is.


The Missing Limbs of Love

When it comes to turn-ons, everyone’s got one.  Rough sex.  Rose petals on the bed while the missus dons some sexy lingerie bought at the mall (on sale).  Irish girls experiencing the joys of bukkake first hand.  Female domination.  Your man doing your sister while you watch from the closet.  You name it.  If it exists, someone likes it.  Someone masturbates to fantasies of it.  Someone seeks it out.  Someone asks his or her partner to do it all while praying he or she won’t be thought of as a pervert.  It’s what separates us from the whales.  Our body parts get erect or lubricated over almost anything, and that includes the desire to couple with amputees.

Whose parents didn't have this painting in the '70s?
I first became aware of this fetish/kink/turn-on many moons ago when I was reading an interview with a man who had a fetish for women who were injured and in casts of one sort or another.  They could be on crutches, but a cast is what really got his little German soldier standing at attention.  He would seek these women out at malls or supermarkets, start talking to them and do his best to convince them to go on a date.  Standard mating ritual for anyone who hasn’t heard of Craig’s List.  He made a point of stating, however, that he wasn’t one of those “freaks” turned on by amputees.  Apparently he liked his women whole and only slightly injured.
"Planet Terror" masturbation material.

There are, however, men and women who seek out a partner based solely on the number of limbs he or she possesses.  Thanks to modern medicine and prosthetics, however, amputee lovers are probably finding the dating pool getting more than a bit shallow as of late.  Oh, to live back in the era when the destitute purposely disfigured themselves  in order to get more money while begging. (It happens today, too, but not nearly as much.)  You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one of the limbless.  These days?  Not so much.  Of course, finding what few are left is a little easier than it was a few decades ago.  You don’t even have to go to the Middle East or some war-ravaged country to do it, either. 

Amputee lovers had ways to make connections before the Internet, but it wasn’t easy.  There were comic books, swingers mags and, of course, good ol’ word of mouth.  I read an interview with a female Asian amateur porn “star” who made the circuit for a brief time before disappearing into the void like most of her peers.  She was missing her right leg below the knee.  (Double kink! Asian and amputated! One shy of the Triple A of kinkdom [anorexia being the other].)  She said that one time her boyfriend took her out for a night on the town and men came out of the woodwork.  Men who were only interested in her for her missing leg.   She and her beau decided to use this to their advantage and screw each other and them on film.  Everyone was happy.   Now that the Internet delivers porn at lightning speed, things have changed a bit when it comes to finding that perfect someone, but it’s not always for the best.  The Internet may provide a gateway to every imaginable fetish, but it also cheapens them.

Third appearance of Robin.
I imagine some people may hop onto gimpsgonewild.com just to check out the photos and maybe masturbate to one or two.  They would never seriously seek out a stump to fondle or awkwardly insert.  And those who seek it out just for porn’s sake are hardly what I would call serious amputee aficionados.  They are curiosity seekers and people looking for the next weird thing to get them off after cosplay has lost its appeal.  I imagine some of the models and actresses aren’t even into the fetish for which they have become the objects of desire.   They are simply “paying the bills.”  Let’s face it, letting some sap snap a few photos or take a video or two is far more lucrative than working in an office.  The only problem is, if you aren’t really into being photographed for your limb status, a person can tell.

Back in the ‘80s I found a porn mag featuring a woman missing a foot (her right one, if I recall correctly).  She was doing a photo spread with another female.  (Another double kink – as if just missing a foot weren’t enough.)  The amputee was a dark-haired girl in her twenties.  The look on her face said she had done this before.  The other female was a blonde who looked about 19 or so.  She definitely didn’t look like she had done this before, but she did look like she would drool on demand and do whatever was asked of her if the money was right.  She kept a deadpan expression on her face for the most part.  One such photo showed her about to lick the oddly smooth stump where her partner’s foot had been.  Her tongue wasn’t quite touching the skin, though the amputee’s face registered pure, manufactured delight while the licker’s face was robotic at best.  It was the final, slightly out of focus photo in the set that got my attention, however.
Can you find the missing shoe?

In that photo, the raven-haired beauty was in full focus.  She had inserted her stump partially into the blonde’s vagina, or so it appeared.  Our amputee goddess’ expression said, “I will fuck you but hard.”  The other girl’s face was what was out of focus, but if you looked closely enough you could see it wore a look of disgust, as if reason had set in and she finally realized what she was doing for a few hundred dollars.  She was not turned on by amputees, but I imagine that for a casual porn fan this hardly mattered.  (Unless, of course, there was a third kink of humiliation going on there.)  For the devotee, however, this photo was a sin; it highlighted the disgust the un-amputated have with the amputated, and it brought home the marginalization of the amputee lover.

I’m not one to judge.  These poor men and women who like their lovers to have a few less body parts to wash are marginalized enough.  After all, while sitting in some employer-mandated training where people have to discuss what they look for in a husband or wife, few probably feel comfortable enough to say, “Well, first and foremost, she can’t have any arms.”  Few are probably able to tell their husbands that while they think they are fine men, they could be even finer if they lost a leg in a lawn mowing accident.  Hell, parts of society feel sorry for pedophiles (they must have been abused as children) and they can still easily find jobs as priests and Walmart greeters.  They may be stigmatized, but many of them can be open about it simply because of that sympathy factor.  (“Yes, I exposed myself to those children, but I have a disease.”)  Zoophiles have excellent documentaries made about them.  Put two girls and one cup together and you get an Internet sensation.  The one who lusts after the amputee?  No such love from the public.  The public says to them, “You desire something that is flawed … broken … and therefore you are flawed and broken.  We can understand pedophiles.  We can understand people attracted to animals, as anyone who has ever ridden a horse knows.  The two girls sharing a cup are bold, and America loves bold in everything from potato chips to sex.  You, however, are a lowly soul who seeks the incomplete.”  And if that shoe were on the other un-amputated foot?  Well, my guess is that anyone finding themselves newly delimbed would be more than happy to meet someone turned on by that, but chances are they would go for the artificial limb first rather than risk mass rejection.

Thar he blows!
Amputee lovers will tell you that the objects of their desire are like anyone else.  They have the same hopes and dreams.  They like long, hobbled walks in the park.  They want a family.  They love the Knicks and the smell of freshly baked cookies.  They are right, too. The objects of their desires are just like everyone else, but they have one thing going for them that many people secretly long for, yet won’t dare admit: they are sought out strictly because of their looks.  That “imperfect” silhouette.  Their physical stature is what is desired above all else.  What person doesn’t dream of being looked at in that way?  What person doesn’t want to be the object of someone’s lust based purely on their physical appearance?  Personality and intellect are moot points.  You are a prime specimen simply because you exist.  And maybe that is where the real scorn of society originates.  You, as one of those who ridicule, can’t understand why men or women don’t look at you that way while you are whole, yet they will go to the ends of the Earth to find that one special someone who has the audacity to be incomplete.  That’s what really bothers you and these other judgmental types.  You have nothing to offer these “obscene fetishists,” and we can’t have that, can we? 

It’s okay.  I’m sure you have a wonderful personality.


The Lonely and the Dead: Why We Need Gun Control

At first glance, Dennis Nilsen looks like your average IT guy.  Quiet.  Unassuming.  Slight.  One of those people you barely notice while standing in line in K-Mart.  He was a cook in the Army and then later became a civil servant in London.  By most accounts, remaining a quiet, unassuming, slight, unnoticed guy.

On February 8 1983, a plumber from Dyno-Rod fucked up his quiet, unassuming, slight life, which really unhinged the next day.
Lonely boy.

Prior to February 9 1983, Nilsen was passing some of his time by offering men (mostly homeless and homosexual) meals, food, alcohol and shelter.  He was lonely and wanted someone with whichr to share his home or flat (where he later lived after moving).  These men would get a meal, get some casual conversation, most likely punctuated by talk of the military and the dreary, thankless life of  civil service.  Sometimes music was listened to and drugs were taken.  Most visits ended up the same way.  Nilsen would strangle and drown his victims.  He would then keep the bodies around for days, painting their faces, having sex with them, and later dismembering them and burning them or dumping them down the drain or toilet.

Hence, the Dyno-Rod employee investigating a clogged drain in an apartment building and finding it clogged with human flesh, including Graham Allen's.  Allen was killed while eating an omelete Nilsen prepared for him.

Similarities to Jeffrey Dahmer don't end there.  One of Nilsen's victims got away and went to the police.  London's police proved as ineffectual as America's finest, and decided this skinny hippie, who was obviously homeless, had only been the victim of a domestic dispute and his claims of attempted murder didn't need to be investigated.  Silly hippie.  Laws are for wealthier people.

When the police, investigating only because of a diligent plumber, came to Nilsen's flat, the first thing they noticed was the smell.  When Nilsen lived in a house he could hide bodies under floorboards, burn them in bonfires, and dump their entrails over the fence for the God's tiniest, furriest creatures to dine on.  Living in a flat meant that his only means of disposal was the plumbing.  He didn't want his friends to leave that quickly, so that meant he kept the bodies around for days.  (One of those bodies belonged to an English skinhead who was so tough he had a tattoo around his neck that said, most originally, "cut here."  This guy claimed he was a tough motherfucker.  Once he was drunk, though, Nilsen proved tougher.  As a reward for besting the Boot Boy, he kept the torso strung up in his bedroom for a day.  Kind of like the way all those deer hang in people's yards on the East Coast during hunting season.)

Nilsen tried to throw the police off with his quiet, unassuming, slight ways, but this former Army boy, who used the skills he picked up while in service to his country to dismember bodies, was smart enough to know when to get off the stage.  He had committed his final murder just two weeks earlier.  A drug and alcohol addict named Stephen Sinclair.  Sinclair was lured with a hamburger and the promise of a place he could shoot heroin.  Nilsen, upon recollection of the final murder, noticed that Sinclair's wrists had recent slash marks on them.  Nilsen had successfully done what Sinclair had only tried to do. 

Nilsen's trial was uneventful by all accounts I've read.  Objects he used in his dismembering (cooking pots and cutting boards) were introduced into evidence and then whisked off to the Black Museum, a place ghost hunters would surely have orgasms over investigating.  Nilsen was given a life sentence.  The world became a safer place 15 murders later.

So what does all this have to do with gun control?  Nothing.  People don't need guns to do horrible things to other people.  Nilsen used his bare hands sometimes.  We can't ban hands, neckties or headphone cords (all things Nilsen also used).  Sure, Nilsen didn't kill 15 people in shot, but had the police taken some reports seriously, they could've prevented further victims.  They didn't even investigate the plumber's concerns until the next day.  We don't have a gun problem.  We have a people problem.

When people are scared, they act out.  When people are lonely, they act out.  When people suffer from certain mental disorders, they act out.  When people want to end a war, they act out.  People live under goverments who tell people not to act out violently, then go to war.  People live in a world where social problems are often ignored or belittled.  People, like homosexuals, are told they are less worthy of respect and that the laws that apply to others don't apply to them.  People are divided by the institutions that hold sway over their lives.  What is surprising about mass shootings and serial killers and other mass murderers is not that they happen, but that they don't happen more often.
If you know what caused this, you know what goverments are capable of doing.

Humans don't respect other human lives.  They never have and never will.  On an individual level they do, but when taken as a mass group, there is nothing there.  That's how mass killings happen.  That's how wars happen.  No respect.  Kill those who are different.  Kill those who don't understand.  You can ban guns.  You can ban the bomb.  You can call for no more nukes or for anarchy.  It doesn't matter.  We don't like anyone who we perceive as different, and while we may not have the guns or the bombs to kill a bunch of them in one incident, we'll find other ways to get rid of them.  Not only are we full of hate, we are also very inventive.  The same kinds of smarts that brought you Real 3D, iPods, and yolk-less egg mixes also brought you automatic weapons, biological warfare and death cult terrorist attacks.

Gun control advocates are pushing forward, while those who claim "out of my dead hands" are pushing back.  In the end, it's all rather pointless.  If given the choice, we would eradicate large groups of people off the Earth by whatever means possible (mass shootings, bombs or the Rapture), and we'll feel good about it because "they aren't like us."  No amount of guns or gun control is going to change that, and I'm no different.  I, like the Nazis, Panzram and any generic jungle dictator, am more honest about it.  It's okay, too.  I'm not in the minority.  If I was, the gun control debate would never be happening.  The incidents that brought it on would have never occurred.  Humanity has its head in the sand and has had it there for quite some time.  When someone comes out and says "this is our nature," you can't just dimiss him or her as crazy.  You have to prove them wrong.  From where I sit, that's going to be a hard argument to make.  After all, I have history and the evidence on my side.  The other side?  The side that says that if we just take away the means of death we will have a better society?  A more peaceful world?  Well, they seem to be the same ones who believe Disney teaches history and the solution to any problem is to simply ignore it.

People like myself have already been proven right.  I just wish we were wrong.


Nothing Men Trailer

For the longest time I said I wouldn't do it.  I hate book trailers, especially those YA ones with angels getting all emo and vampires sobbing in a cafe somewhere.  I broke down and made one, though.  People seem to like it, though the music, which I also made, freaks them out a bit.  I posted this on my book blog, but since more people read this one, I thought I'd post here.  Enjoy.  And if it intrigues you, buy the damn book!


The Strangest Searches Ever

People seem to like when I post these. This latest batch of searches that cause people to end up at my blog are bizarre beyond the standard bizarre I get. I won't even post the ones that are blatantly sexual. These are just the strangest of the strange, and they were all strange this time. I'm just going to list them, with perhaps some commentary. Enjoy?

mouth blood
beautiful blood
blood body
blood sexy
bomb baby plain
bomb fuck
cockholes in public toilet
every 30 second someone's mouth swerve out of control and facebook friendship die -All I can really say to this one is, "What the fuck?"
fold paper 12 times
hacked human pony
junkies masturbating
monkey egg sacs meaning
naked male sixteen
naked women in hell
police car lights wet pavement
realtyamatureporn -I'm not sure if this is some new genre of porn brought on by the housing bubble or if someone just can't spell.
sex oversea porn horse woman
sexsy [sic] girls open body
vintage penis -Why?
women teeth bite into penis

I can only imagine what January will bring.  On the plus side, I've got The Secret King to enjoy for the end of the world.  Merry X-Mess ... if there is one.

Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: Clicking on a link may earn me some cash.


The Power of Pranks -- A Suicidal Nurse and a Fantasy Land

Two DJs called an Australian hospital and pretended to be a prince and a queen in order to get information on the Duchess of Cambridge. The end result was a prank learned about throughout the world and the nurse who fell for it killing herself.

I like playing pranks (last night was one prank after another in Old Town much the uncomfortable amusement of Butter Licker).  Anyone who knows me knows I am fascinated by the power of pranks to transform reality.  I have shut down towns, have had police swarm a house, and other amusing things.  Pranks are like alchemy.

When word of the nurse's suicide got out, a few people asked me if that made any sense to me, and if I would perhaps consider such things before playing another prank.  After all, it seems like such a trival thing to commit suicide over.  A prank call?  Well, no, I won't consider that before playing another prank, and yes it makes perfect sense, but only if you understand that aforementioned transformative quality of pranks.

The nurse who killed herself lived in a fantasy world.  She granted a prince and a queen greater social respect and power than they really have.  They are really nothing more than figureheads, but this nurse, like many other people, think they are more than that.  When she was shown how fragile that belief system is, she took her life.  To me and many others it seems trivial, and I believe she may have bought into that fantasy more than a lot of people, but a lot of people do buy into that false world (and many others) on some level and are therefore easy prey to people who understand the tenuous nature of reality.  If you have invested heavily into that reality, suicide is understandable when that reality is shown to be all smoke and mirrors.  Understandable, but still tragic and senseless -- no disrespect meant to the dead.

Whether your fantasy land is inhabited by queens and princes, dragons, faith that replaces rational thinking not in times of crisis but in standard matters, or any number of other things that are believed without hesitation, then you can easily find yourself victim to people like me.  Your investment in that reality dictates your actions once the wool is ripped from your eyes.  Had this nurses grasp of reality not have included queens and princes she would have been possibly humilated, but she would have understood the sympathy based around the fact that we have all been victims of pranks at one time or another.  Instead, she obviously had a very hard time understanding such a thing because her world had been turned inside out.

So, yes, it is understandable, but also very senseless, like many suicides.  Will it stop me from playing pranks?  No.  My life is an experiment in the reality of reality.  I enjoy playing with it, manipulating it and turning it upside down.  I don't do it to be mean (usually).  I do it with a sense of wonder and to see how people will react because people fascinate me.  I actually believe I could cause suicide through the use of reality manipulation in the form of pranks or otherwise.  I don't do that, though.  That isn't me.  It wasn't the goal of these DJs, either.  Most rational people wouldn't kill themselves over this sort of thing ... but, in all fairness, I have never found a belief in queens and princes and their social status to be all that rational in the first place.


Of Monkey Bites and Alien Egg Sacs -- How I Ended Up on Horse Pills

Sunday night my throat started hurting.  It felt like a standard sore throat.  My daughter had a cold, so I thought maybe I had caught the same.  By late Sunday evening my ear was hurting, as was the entire side of my neck.  Monday it got worse.  Once Tuesday morning came around I knew I was staying home and calling my doctor's office for an appointment.

"My friend's pet monkey bit my arm twice and I'm not doing so good," I told the receptionist who was unlucky enough to pick up the phone.

"That's an emergency room visit!"

What the receptionist was envisioning. Ebola time.

"Then go!"

I told her I was kidding and got the next available appointment.  In the meantime I continued gargling with warm salt water -- nature's cure-all.

The doctor asked me the standard questions and then said I could take some Advil for the pain.  No worries there.  Then she had me open up.  "Oh," she muttered.  "That's unnaturally large."


She did her swabs, ordering me to "sing" as she did it.  I wanted to break out in a little Mr. Mister, but since I had already screwed around with them, and she was jamming stuff in my throat, I figured I'd abstain.

When she came back into the room she told me she thought it could be one of two things: tonsilitis or something with a long name I had never heard of before.  She thought it was the later and was going to treat me as such "just in case." 

"Is it possible it is just the flu?" I asked.  Strep and flu were going around.

"Unfortunately, no."

That is never good to hear.  From there on in there was nothing I liked hearing.  Sitting in a sterile room with copies of duck hunting and diabetes magazines while hearing insane medical things is not the ideal way to spend a morning.

"What was that one you were treating me for again?" I asked.

She repeated the name and then told me what it was in layman's terms.  A tonsil abscess.  I know of abcesses.  I've seen enough drug cinema.  Not good.

She looked at some test and told me it definitely wasn't strep.  I maintain my record of never having strep.  I felt like Charlie Sheen or a drunken Gandhi.  Undefeated ... except for this abscess thing that made my tonsil look like an alien egg sac roughly the size of an elephant testicle.

"If the side of your neck swells up anymore, you'll want to get in here right away.  I'm here on Saturday.  Come in."

"Okay.  Why?"

"We'll have to lance and drain it."

"Lance" and "drain" when used in the same sentence has roughly the same effect as using "prison" and "anal rape" together.  Nothing good comes of it, and you clench up.

"That sounds painful," I said.  I am the master of observation.

"Not as painful as what you are going to go through."

Oh, fuck me Glenn Close.  Why did this happen to me?  I don't shoot heroin into my tonsils.  Did I piss off a Chinese wizard?

She sat down and started writing out my prescription.  "I see you take Tylenol III for your back pain.  Do you have some at home?"

"Yeah.  I hardly ever take it."

"You'll want to use that instead of the Advil."

Holy fucking shit!  Seriously?  What had I gotten myself into?  I felt like I had an invite to an orgy, only when I show up it's all biker dudes in Reagan masks holding duct tape.  Shock.  Awe.  Fear.

I make my way to the pharmacy, fairly convinced this can't really get any worse.  There is an insurance foul-up (of course), but after that is done, I get my medicine.  875 mg horse pills.  The bottle says to take orally.  Honestly, I was wondering because they were suppository-sized. 

"I have to drive to get my daughter," I told the lady at the counter.  "Are there any side-effects to this?"

"I need to have the pharmacist come out and talk to you."

Again: Never a good sign!

The pharmacist comes out.  He's a kindly older gent, used to dealing with shaking seniors and Oxy addicts.  He looks over the medicine and says, "There is one side-effect you must know about."

I was ready for anything.  Dry mouth.  Stomach pains.  Fatigue.  Testicular sapping.  I was ready for anything ... except what he said.  It was another two words you never want to hear together. 

"Profound diarrhea."
Not my tonsils ... and oddly sexual in nature.

"Excellent," I said.

"Well, no, not really."

"No.  That was sarcasm.  Profound diarrhea is never excellent."

"It should only last two days.  If goes on longer than that, you have to go see your doctor right away."

"Two days!  Are there any other side-effects to know about?  I have to drive to get my daughter."

"It will only affect your driving if you suddenly have to go ..."

"No.  I get that.  Diarrhea is always going to be a problem if you are driving and suddenly have to go."

"Then you should be fine."

Not the word I'd use to describe the situation.  "Fine" was so far from what I was at the moment.  An abscessed tonsil that may have to be lanced and drained, a possible hospital visit to remove it and "profound diarrhea" were not in anyone's honest definition of "fine."  In fact, I'd say those things pretty much took you out of "fine" territory and put you into the land of "concern" and "discomfort." 

Chinese wizard in disguise.  Looks cute.  Very deadly.
As of now, my tonsil swelling has gone down.  The pain is less than it has been.  Diarrhea, profound or otherwise, has not made an appearance (though Night Nurse has told me that it could come at the end of my timeframe for taking the medicine, so I still have that to look forward to).  I've got a few more days to go, and the fact that I'm not totally healed yet has me concerned.

Co-workers, family and friends have been part supportive and mocking -- so that's good.  I deserve it, and it is a funny story.  Plus, it's not like I have some life altering disease or lost a limb.  All things considered, though, I'd rather not be dealing with this bit of misfortune.

Fucking Chinese wizards.


Search Query Fun Time!

What brings people to this blog?  Glad you asked.  I've run another report, and seeing as people love
hearing how social deviants and butterflies end up on these hallowed pages, I thought I'd share them with you.  There was the usual Regan Reese and pony girl stuff, but I'm excluding that this time around unless it's really weird.

"Humboldt Imps" brought some people to my page.  I've never had much nice to say about this supposedly "decadent" (much like Marilyn Manson is only decadent to white middle class rebels) group of Humboldt citizens.  It's nice to know that people looking for info ended up here.  In keeping with the local theme, "Arcata tits" was a common search.  If you know Arcata, you instantly think, "Why?"  Naked hippies and trust fund brats semi-naked is fun? Only if they're tied up in your garage.

When it comes to the strange sexual stuff, this blog seems like a Kinks 'R' Us store.  "Asphyxiation fetish," "bridge masturbate," "fuck pony girl pregnant," "leashed woman," "lesbian humanpony [sic]," "Lindsay Lohan vagina," "naked willful sex," "pony-girl mount slap spurs," and "sex girl with pony."  You get the picture.  There are obviously a lot of masturbating women who end up on my site looking for validation of their weird sexual kicks.  I am most fond of the "asphyxiation fetish" and "leashed woman" ones.  They just scream holiday cheer.

What's sex without violence?  The two go together like chocolate and peanut butter, or dwarf and tossing.  This blog is no exception.  "Damour massacre," "blood face and lips," "blood from mouth," "blood in mouth," "murder of the innocents," "spank+children" and the ominous "woman body images open."  Someday someone from CNN is going to be asking me questions.

Not all my readers are serial sex criminals.  Some are actually concerned about the world.  Hence, "black sun theory," "Halloween overshadowed election," "penis Daniel Wu," "people talking art," and "Henry Ford taken to court."  It's nice to know my readers care.

The search terms I find the strangest are the ones that are so exact and precise in what a person wants to see.  These are disturbing, amusing and sometimes just plain puzzling.  Why were these being searched for?  What did they think when they ended up here?  "Cody Ray Smith myspace Richmond," "creepy Mickey Mouse," "dog anchor hallmark," "GG Allin nails painted," "naked short haired girl standing," "Nazi girl," "pole line dead man bust anchor," "poy and free gairl six [sic]," "Ricky Gervais the Office points finger," and "t killer rape."  All strange.  All unknown (except "poy and free gairl six" -- that's obviously a child who is now warped beyond repair).

If you think that is weird, though, you should see what The Last Picture Blog gets.

Satanism is huge over there.  "Satanic rituals," "Satanism rituals," "cat Satanist," "images of Satanic rituals," "Satanic alters [sic]," and "Satanic porn."  The only thing more sought after than Satanism is sex.

"Female nude captive film," "hooker raped," "American sex slave Bangkok," "Asian lesbian orgy," "crazy shit sex torture galaxy," "dead space orgy," "deformed penis," "erotic pornstar panty uniform," "erotic violence," "forced to gt naked torture," "German amateur porn" (that is terrifying), "girl tortured underwater nude," "hardcore sex vids amateur couple fucking home made porn tape," "hot girl tortured naked," "injecting heroin rape," "naked female captive," "naked girl held captive," "naked girl tortured," "naked male art," "penis horror torture xxx," "rape doctor scene," "real pennis [sic]," "teen self shot amateur nude," "tiniest young girls naked and nude amateur" "underage girl being sexually molested by a dirty old pervert," and "young girls tortured with needles."  My guess is that these all came from a certain New York cannibal cop.

Since it is a movie blog, people do come to the site looking for info on the films they apparently like to masturbate to the most.  "Sinful Dwarf xxx," "Unit 731," "Cannibal Holocaust sexscene," "dwarf film," "Erin Moran death scene Galaxy of Terror," "Galaxy of Terror alien sex," "Galaxy of Terror nude clip," "girl next door stripped naked in basement touched by boys," "naked girl in movie the Sinful Dwarf xxx style," "Philosophy of a Knife bug in vagina," "Philosophy of a Knife vagina," "The Girl Next Door movie rape nude," "the girl of the next door clitoris cutting" and "what's the movie where the girl gets her clit burned."  Exhausting.

All kidding aside, the things I write about not only attract a weird crowd, but it also sends Google's AdSense software into a tailspin.  I lost the right to run ads on this blog and on The Written Word is a Lie because of "questionable" content.  The Last Picture Blog site also had "gory" content, so I was warned that I either needed to remove the post in question or lose my AdSense account.  I yanked the ads instead of the post.  If anyone wants to advertise on any of these three blogs with their "upsetting" content, get in touch with me.

Until next time ...


Random Musings Fueled by Rage

I want to see very few bands live these days.  There are several reasons for that.  Most of today's music bores me, but there are still some great bands making the rounds.  The crowds, however, leave a lot to desire.  Death in June is doing the Heilige! tour.  The band is skipping my birthday ... and my country.  I've got plenty of time on the books to take off, but I have Night Nurse coming out and a family reunion type thing coming up that I will be using the time for instead.  Even if I didn't have these things coming up, traveling out of the country to see Death In June seems excessive, but, man, that would be a great show.  If the Masked One decides Eureka is a good place to play ...

I hate commercials.  I especially hate that one for stamps.com.  (Ironically, it just came on the TV!)  In it, some Joe USA says, "There's nothing worse than going to the post office and waiting in line."  Cancer.  Losing a child.  Getting into a car accident.  Having your home broken into.  Finding blood in your stool.  Sexual assault.  Earthquake.  Cattle mutilation.  Drug addiction.  Losing a limb in a strange farming accident.  The Summer Olympics.  All of these things and many more are worse than standing in line at the post office.  Somebody said to me, "If that's the worse thing to that guy, then I want his life."  I don't.  He's a fucking moron.  He shouldn't have his own business.  He should be sent off into the woods to survive by his wits alone.  A hunter will find the body a few months later.  Leave it there.

"It is what it is."  "I'm just sayin'."  Weak.  Pathetic.  Worthless.  That's what those phrases are.  They say nothing while attempting to sound profound and apologetic.  "It is what it is" is often used when someone is explaining something that is generally considered to be a negative.  (Nobody ever seems to describe a positive experience this way.)  I am not sure what "is" is.  I'm not sure why people sound so apologetic about negative things.  "I'm just sayin'" is another apologetic phrase that makes it seem like the speaker is afraid to take a firm stand on the matter at hand.  "All politicians are crooked.  I'm just sayin'.  I don't really feel that, but I'm saying it."  I find people say this when they are afraid what they are saying will offend someone.  Offend away.  You can't control whether or not someone is offended by what you say.  Take some ownership over your opinions and the world will respect you more.

Apologists and lickspittles.  I don't have a use for these people.  Anyone over the age of 18 who fits into one of these categories should be ashamed of themselves.

Sometimes the local news will report on some killer who is caught and behind bars.  The reporter will interview his neighbors.  One will inevitably say they are "so scared."  The time to be scared was when the guy was roaming around free, not while he is behind bars.  Chances are that as long as he's there you are safe from him.

The news reports a 12 year-old girl shot an intruder who got into her house.  She puts a hole in him and then called 911.  All good.  Had it been my house, I would've had a little fun with him before calling 911. No.  Who am I kidding?  I wouldn't call 911.  Incoming mail!  (That's a reference only the really cool people will get.)

There's a Zumba instructor who ran a prostitution business.  She videotaped the clients and kept names.  The town where this happened (Michigan, I believe) is freaking out.  "Who is on the list?"  I'll use a phrase most often heard on daytime TV: You go, girl.  I don't think keeping names will ever keep you safe, but hell, if you're going down you may as well take a few with you.

If people want prayer back in school, one wonders if they mind Satanic prayers?  I somehow doubt it.

Robin Meade from CNN.  I'm sure some people find her endearing.  I think she is annoying and faux friendly.  Her voice contorts my spine.  Her various co-hosts irritate me just as badly.

Been doing a lot of book promotion as of late and job hunting.  Both are turning out better than expected.  One thing that drives me nuts about the book promoting, however, is the interview part.  I've done one mini-interview and the interviewer asked the worst questions, and it was obvious he had not read the book.  I answered the questions as best I could, but it felt like a total waste of time, and I hope it never sees print.  Potential interviewers: At least read the book first!




Ode to Joy (Excising the Self-Quarantined)

Filthy dogs.  Gutter running.  Intellectual slumming.  Social beasts that are unrealized and unmotivated social pariahs.  Blood-stained hands gnawed by blood-stained teeth.  Bark.  Bark.  Bark.  Yap.  Yap.  Yap.  Smile while you plot.  Pretend to be a star.  Wear victimhood like a crown.  Find strength in all your weakness.  Running mouth.  Shut mind.  Yapping dog.  Rat eyes.  Petty talk.  Lickspittle mind.  Apologists.  Herd mentality.  Lemmings.  Happy to be diving off a cliff.  Smile the whole way down.

Do you know why serial killers exist?  Do you know why dictators crush?  Do you know why genocides happen?  Do you know why people are exiled?  Do you know why your liberty is lost?  Do you know why you end up in a mental jail?  It's not because madmen seek power.  It's not because sociopaths slide up your streets in the dead of night looking for a window cracked to let in the night breeze.  It's because people like you don't realize what you are and you must be handled.  Tyrants will always exist.  Sociopaths will always stalk.  But you, TV reflected in dead eyes, you are gleeful in your abandon.  You smile at the realization of your own ignorance.  You wallow in your own waste and call it "luxury."  Your existence is at the whim and kindness of those who see you for what you are.  Your breath is gift.  The light in your eyes a privilege. 

You take pathetic to god-like levels.

Oh, how you feign surprise when justice takes its course.  Oh, how you plead your innocence when the boot is stomping on your face.  Oh, how you simper and drool.  "But I didn't know ..."  You never did.  You never bothered.  You never will.

You mistake symbols.  You ignore reason.  You make an enemy of common sense and logic.  You turn your back on that which scares you.  You embrace a faith you don't understand and then lack the facilities to even act accordingly.  You have lost wonder.  You have lost thought.  You have lost intellect.  You have lost all that made you human and became a parasite on the collective wasteland of mankind.  Quite simply, you've mistaken living with breathing and you have outlived your cheap appeal.

Don't fret.  Don't despair.  Incinerating the lot of you not happen as flames are cleansing and you have long lost the rights to such things.  Your continued existence is guaranteed as long as we need fuel of a different sort.  In other words: You get to continue keeping bar stools warm and QVC happy.

This disdain doesn't come from your wealth or lack of it.  It doesn't come from your religion or lack of it.  It doesn't come from you pigmentation or lack of it.  It comes from your inability to realize your potential, not because you lack the resources or knowledge on how to do so, but because you never tried.  You made a conscious choice to live a life void of meaning, void of hope, void of thought, void of introspection, void of all the things that make life worth living.  You turned your back on that and tuned out.  You aren't even a spectator.  You aren't even a witness.  You are simply there.  Like a rock.  A boil has more of an existence than you.

Prepare.  Wait.  Worry.

(Fleshing out a new manuscript is fun, fun, fun!  As soon as I have the first draft finished on the current one, this one will take hold.  Inspired by history, science and the occult.  Driven not by rage, but by the concepts of purity, love and faith.  If you think about that in the context of the above, you should have experienced a slight chill down your spine.  If you didn't, maybe it's about you...)