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.

Keyword Fun Time Super Happy Extended Edition (Humboldt Pony Girls and Shirley Temple Naked)

Regular readers know that about once a month I like to see what has drawn people to this blog, which has probably the most diverse and strange readership of all my blogs.  So, without further ado ...

Let's start with disgraced crazy Congressman Daniel Wu, the man who dressed like a tiger and sent e-mails that supposedly came from his kids.  People are interested in this cat, and here's what brought them here: daniel wu tiger; tiger wu; congressman wu tiger (which sounds like someone's real name); "david wu" tiger; +wu + tiger; congressman tiger; congressman wu fucked her (apparently someone wanted to see what kind of gal a human tiger with a drinking problem likes to sink his teeth into); and david wu in tiger (if there is a David Wu out there I feel kind of bad for him).  I wrote one post on this guy, and he's still bringing me readers.  Thanks, Crazy Congressman.  Send me an e-mail sometime (from you, not your kids).  Maybe we can do an interview.

Random searches.  These are just the ones that aren't creepy and aren't sex related that keep popping up.  They are usually so random and exact that I can't really figure out why anyone type that into a search engine.  Taco Bell now hiring Juan (did Taco Bell have some huge "Juan" hiring drive?); japanese war mouth satan open mouth tattoo (that is a mouthful of Satan); "I love nightmares"; Adam Levine bulge (looks like my mom is on the computer again); child spanking art (yes, she is back on); dolphin mall live anchor 
(I cannot imagine what this is); fight the power shirley temple (Shirley Temple comes up in a ton of searches that results in hits on my site; again -- one post does the trick);  make your teeth show when your mouth is open (I must admit that Internet has really proved helpful for people who don't understand just how their bodies work); nih male researchers in drag; pg&e gate combination lock; planet terror shooting; police use scare tactics on drug dealers; sick step vans for sale; and finally woman with open mouth makeup.  Troubling.

When it comes to sex searches, pony girls have a whole separate group of their own for searches (like Shirely Temple).  The pony sex store (located on 101 just north of the carousel!); teen ponygirl stories (I think I may write some for my Kindle publishing venture; probably a bigger seller than the starvation fetish story); spanking ponygirl (bad pony!); sex shop pony (aisle five right next to the Shirley Temple dolls); ponygirl starter kit (I am in the wrong fucking business); ponygirl puppy (you are mixing your fetishes); pony girls working; pleasure pony (this may have nothing to do with pony girls, but I'm including it with the thought that it is); humboldt ponygirl (some people come for the redwoods, some the pot, others for the pony girl -- and, yes, there is one I know of); human pony girl carry man; free sex human pony girl (can you get her with blue money?); filmy human ponies (I like my human ponies not covered in film); where can I girl human pony (you can learn that in the classroom next to the English as a Second Language room); and pony girl walking (Really?  This is what you want to see?).  There are a ton more searches for pony girl sex shops and human pony girls (instead of the alien ones).  Kind of depressing when you think about it.

Pure sex searches have their fans, too.  After all the pony girl stuff it's enough to make me feel normal.  Blood come girl lips in love (I actually like the way the words play off each other); masturbating under a bridge; artwork naked woman fucked by horse; girl masturbating under the bridge (his first search brought up the wrong results); human chick sex; humboldt county girls getting fucked (Have you seen a lot of the Humboldt County girls?  A quick trip to Southern Humboldt will cure any desire to see this sort of thing.); masturbate during labor (I bet this is the first thing ladies are thinking about during labor.  "You know, this would be a great time to rub myself."); Mickey Mouse naked; realty amateur porn (the real estate market is very known for this); and video porno teen ager al sex shop (oh, the spelling).  Thank you, perverts.

Nazis and National Socialists have gotten a lot of search hits on my blog, too.  Whats the meaning of swasticas weird (yeah, "swasticas" are weird); swastika 8 bit; nazi symbols and naked girls (I think this was me accidentally hitting up my own site); nazi slut (again, me); nazi girl art; nazi children torture sex (all the disturbing words rolled into one smooth search); naked nazi girl (back to me); national socialist pedophilia; and finally, child star nazi (that fucking Dakota Fanning comes up everywhere).

Last, but not least, are the searches that kind of give me the creeps.  Yeah, some of the sex and Nazi ones are creepy in their own right, but people are weird, so I get it.  These searches, though, just kind of send a chill down the spine.  Martyrs Doug Brunell (I've written about this film a lot, but if you've seen it the last thing you want is your name being associated in a search for it); bloom county strung folks like me up by their intestines (Wow.  Just wow.); creepy magic mountain clowns (fairly redundant search); I saw my boss dead body (This did happen to me, but why would someone else be searching for this?); lesser devil girl's high school (awesome title for a movie -- if it isn't one already); telephone "choking"; and the last one, the coup de grace: the strange case of dad's missing head.

The Internet is full of wonderfully strange shut-ins with far too much time on their hands.


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The World According to Humboldt Hippies

Seen in a park in Arcata. Poor horse.

According to some, I'm a bit harsh on Humboldt hippies.  The reality is: I'm harsh to all hippies, save a select few.  They are throwbacks to an age when hygiene and ideas weren't all that important and it was all about "vibes."  My favorite hippies lived out in the desert and got all creepy crawly.  In my opinion, Manson's happy little group also signified the "end" of the hippies.  A public, already distrustful of the longhairs who discarded their draft cards and bras, now had every reason in the world to believe all their fears.  Hippies would kill them and leave something witchy in their wake.

In Humboldt County, we've still got hippies.  They're in Eureka, Garberville, Arcata (especially Arcata) -- everywhere.  They are like Tea Party Parrots: carrying poorly worded signs, spouting nonsense, living off trust funds, and calling for the downfall of the government while living off it.  That's actually not why I dislike them so much.  It's because so many of them are so fake, in a transit period between high school and becoming insurance salesmen.  They sit on the corner with their dogs, their acoustic guitars and a plea for help.  Perhaps they sell overpriced hemp jewelry and say things like, "Have a blessed, sunny day."

And the music really sucks.

Turn on, tune in, stab repeatedly.

When I see them walking around town with baggy, patchwork pants in three different earth tones, dog at their side held in place by a hemp rope, I wonder what drew them here.  Yeah, it's the pot, the organic foods movement and the perceived liberal attitude.  I believe it's also the sense of escape.  They come to a place on the far edge of the country, a place that accepts them and their ways.  We do, of course.  We accept most people here who aren't overly violent.  Seeing them at the farmers markets doesn't even warrant a second glance.  Old people smile at them, finding them quaint.  They have forgotten about a pregnant Sharon Tate stabbed to death, her blood used as a warning and a catalyst for a race war.  No.  These youngin's are tree hugging, bong loving throwbacks, and we love it.  It's part of what makes Humboldt Humboldt.  The way I see it, though, the Manson incident isn't that far fetched or unbelievable.  Like the Tea Party Parrots, when you believe odd things, you do odd things.  Hippies belief that all is peace and love on the planet goes against every law of nature.  It's a nice pipe dream, but it leaves you open to attack and persuasion.  The actions of Manson and the government proved that.

The hippies have been credited with many things: the rise in STDs, the end of Vietnam, the popularity of patchouli.  They had their hand in all those (well, patchouli they pretty much owned).  There is one other thing they and the times they came from have been credited with that hasn't gotten as much coverage as it should have.  The rise of pedophilia in the Catholic Church.

"Let me put on a little Country Joe and the Fish."

That's right, the Catholic Church, in a study it requested on the rise of sexual abuse of children by its priest places the blame squarely in the lap of the '60s counterculture.  The permissive attitude in the country that called for free love, questioning authority and dropping acid also apparently called for priests to fuck children.  I believe that sparked the People's Park incident.  It all makes perfect sense when you see how the '60s influenced the church in so many other ways.  The tie dye robes the priests wear.  The playing of "Age of Aquarius" during Mass.  The smoking of pot.  Yes, it all makes perfect sense.

I don't dislike the hippies because they like to stab pregnant girls or inspired priests to fondle children.  No, I just really hate patchouli.

Humboldt's Internet/Telephone Outage Leaves Four Dead

I was in Garberville (much more on that later) manning an outstation.  It was hot.  I was in pain.  The odor of sweat and pot wafted through the air.  I had pulled into town with Nashville Pussy's "Struttin' Cock," which was appropriate.  Now it was after lunch (during which time I had tripped on the uneven sidewalk while walking to get a burrito) and it was hotter ... and the computer program I was using went down.  I called into the Eureka office in attempt to see if they were going through the same thing there.  All the lines were busy.  This was not good.

By the time I made it back to civilization, I learned that the Internet and phone service was out for most of the county.  I first heard it was due to solar flares.  Later it was tied to those fuckwads at AT&T.  Figures.  My cell phone is still down, though I've heard various reasons as to why.  My other phone and Internet is back up, however.  In the meantime, nobody could get through to 911, you know, in case grandma keeled over or something.  As far as I know, four people didn't die, but it's only a matter of time before one of these outages does leave someone dead.  A lot of people don't have land lines anymore.  Even if they did, and Suddenlink was their provider, they had no phone.  If you can't call out, you can't call 911.  If you can't call 911, you run the risk of dying.  Perhaps the psychotic ex, the one you have a restraining order against, comes barging in and you don't own a gun and aren't good with a blade.  Maybe you feel your chest tighten and have just enough strength to get to the front door.  Maybe you're waking up from a nap and the right side of your body has gone limp.  Maybe your kid starts going into convulsions and you don't have a car.  Either way, it's obvious Humboldt County needs some alternatives to one lone fiber optic line.  It's the equivalent of two cans and a string, and it's not working.

Hey, if I were a conspiracy theorist, I'd say between this and the chemical exposure at Kay Jewelers in the Bayshore Mall it would seem like a dry run for a terrorist attack.  At the very least, the fiber optic line is a good target for anyone looking to cripple the county.

The Internet is back.  Most phones are back up and running.  And this incident will soon be forgotten ... until it happens again in a few months.  Humboldt needs to stop relying on AT&T and start looking at other alternatives.  AT&T can't keep customers more than a few months, let alone run efficient fiber optic lines.  I got rid of the company a few years ago.  Here's to hoping the people of Humboldt decide to do the same.

Give 'Em More Rope

After the debt ceiling debate collapsed into a frenzy of masturbation climaxing in the orgasm brought on by a head trauma victim casting her vote, you'd expect there to be some sort of fall out.  We weren't rioting in the streets demanding action, but you'd have to at least hope that Americans weren't placated by the fact that a committee of 12 overpaid, corporate whore cocksuckers were overseeing the future of America's financial security.  When you don't have a riot, you find the anger in one other place: the polls.

Various polls are showing people are pissed at all elected officials, including those happily ignorant Tea Party Parrots.  I'm tempted to send them mini-nooses and razor blades with a note implying that the only thing they are good for is business at the funeral parlor.  After all, part of the reason this debate went on so long is that the Tea Party Parrots acted like little kids at the playground, unwilling to compromise and pissing their pants.  The honorable thing to do, the right thing to do, is immolation on the steps of the Capitol.  The black smoke, the stench of burning meat -- hell, I'd be roasting hot dogs on the flames.  If we won't hang them (and they won't do it themselves), the least they can do is burn.  It seems only fair.  Senior citizens were terrified of being cut off, with reason, too.  Scaring old people is something for the nightly news to do, not elected officials.  Before this all they had to worry about was Regis Philbin retiring, leaving that "hussy" Kelly to hold down the fort.

The polls, of course, mean nothing.  As a nation, we are quick to forget.  As a people, we are loathe to take action.  We're more concerned with where Tiger Woods has placed penis than we are over our financial futures.  

Of course, there's always sabotage to show your disapproval.  These elected officials have people working for them.  They buy food at restaurants.  They get their mail delivered.  Never underestimate the power of one person with the urge to right wrongs.  One man planted one logic bomb in a computer system at Bank of America which caused payroll to disappear and supervisors to lose their jobs.  Imagine the fun to be had with your representatives.

Chemicals in the Mall

There is a general complaint that nothing exciting ever happens in Humboldt County.  There is some validity to that complaint.  We have a population of pot smokers who love reggae.  How exciting could it possibly get when that is your demographic?  A bong breaks or there's a protest over homophobic lyrics or something.  Breathtaking.  Today, however, the lack of excitement reached new lows of boredom with an incident that could've been ripe with possibilities.

A hazmat team.  The Bayshore Mall.

No, Al Qaeda didn't strike.  (Though, if you folks are looking for targets, I have a list I'd like to give you.) F.Y.E., that poorly named "entertainment hub," wasn't running some kind of promo that went south.  Instead, two people near the Kay Jeweler store (jewelry for boring middle class folks) reported some kind of exposure to chemicals that left them with rashes and sore throats.  The Times-Standard, your home to stories on pedophilia, reported this around two, while KIEM (the network Jim Bernard built) mentioned that it was an exposure in Kay Jeweler to something that may have been pepper spray, and that a few people needed medical attention.

Yawn.  A chemical scare in a shopping center should always be a somewhat exciting story, but this happened with all the passion of a Masterpiece Theatre introduction.  There wasn't even any good speculation.  An angry customer spraying the display cases.  A disgruntled employee sending off a shot or two into the air ducts or swabbing the door knob to the office.  A political protest against blood diamonds.  Anything!  Instead, there is the usual collective shrug of the shoulders and the incident will be forgotten about in a week or so.  Oh, who am I kidding?  Pot.  Short term memory loss.  People have already forgotten about it.

Irritants, both organic and chemical, are great ways to send a message.  Be it hot sauce gently placed on the door to the men's room, or a piece of raw chicken hidden somewhere in a room.  They can wreak havoc and be hard to detect.  By the time anyone realizes they are there, it's too late.  Just ask Japanese subway riders.  They can tell you.  Well, some of them can.

Instead of worrying about this, though, the news is reported with little in the way of how the hazmat response was or what the cause could have been.  Accident?  Attack?  Revenge?  It doesn't merit a mention.  In fact, a chemical exposure story that brings out a hazmat team and requires medical attention (warranted or not) is reported on the same level as an announcement from the rotary club.

The exposure was probably nothing.  Not a test run for terrorists.  Not a customer pissed about being overcharged for bland jewelry.  Not an employee upset over a performance evaluation.  It was probably just a mistake.  A woman bumped her purse against a counter and some pepper spray went off.  For a moment, though, upon hearing the news, I thought something exciting could've been happening.  Not earthquake exciting or even Wayne Adam Ford exciting ("Hi.  I'd like to turn myself in.  I've been offing women.  Here's a breast."), but exciting nonetheless.  Protesters over the proposed Wal-Mart.  An out of control going out of business sale at Border's.  For a scant few seconds I thought, "Finally.  Something of interest.  The hazmat team gets to actually do something other than clean up a meth lab.  The mall gets covered in the news for something other than a store closing.  And Humboldt now possibly gets to join the ranks of places like Halabja, only on a smaller scale."  Reality came back to me, though.  Even if it were some kind of attack, our local authorities would be too dumb to realize it, and our reporters too lazy to cover it.

Eh, it's Humboldt.  Nobody cares.

Teeth Marks in the Face

Two hours of sleep.  A lot of coffee.  A ton of editing (doing my review of The Kingdom of Survival).  Job hunting.  Waffling on deleting my Facebook account.  News.  Very surreal.  Outside, earlier, I could hear the whisk of the tires of passing cars on the wet pavement.  I love that sound.

Watched Made in Britain last night with Girl.  Good, angry movie.  Tim Roth as a sixteen-year-old British skin.  Defiant.  Stubborn.  Stupid.

In my editing and writing during the wee, dark hours of the morning, I was researching the usual stuff I research.  In this case, a lot of butchered bodies so I could get my descriptions right.  I realized from reading some comments posted on them, that there are far too many people who view the autopsy table and its remnants as little more than pornography.  Should give all those single ladies out there a little shudder.

Newport Beach.  Symbolic.  A teen at the beach digs a deep hole.  The hole collapses around him and he is buried alive.  After thirty minutes he is dug out and lives to dig more holes.  Defiant.  Stubborn.  Stupid.

Last week on the early version of Today, a female newscaster said she wasn't being a "good consumer" because she hadn't seen a film in the theatre in quite some time.  When you call yourself a "consumer" you aren't being a good human.  Thanks for commodifying myself.  You saved corporations the trouble of doing it for you.  At least you know your place.

Watching the applause for the debt ceiling fiasco should've driven a point home that had been made perfectly clear in the weeks leading up to it: The people in charge play fast and loose with the futures of the people who put them there because they can.  They are not to be trusted, and they should not be employed.  But really, who is going to win the World Series?  That's the important question, right?  Blah.  If there is one collective thought running through the surprisingly empty heads of our elected officials it is: Thank God our citizens aren't Greek.