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.

"Yeah."

"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."

Lovely.

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!

Heilige!

 

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...)

F-Bomb, Baby!

The irony is fairly plain to see.  The people who use the term "F-bomb" are highly unlikely to consult the Meriam-Webster dictonary where it is now listed.  I've ranted about the use of this term before, but since it obviously fell on deaf ears, I'll do it again.

"F-bomb" is the term given when someone says or writes "fuck."  Kory Stamper, an associate-editor for Meriam-Webster, says that the word is "visually evocative" and is "going to cause a lot of consternation and possible damage."  I suppose saying "fuck" (or hereby known as the "F-bomb") could cause some political or economic damage depending on when and where it is used, but ... a word is not a bomb.

At the left here is a victim of a bombing.  It looks fairly painful.  That black stuff is charred flesh.  A word did not do this.  An actual physical object did.  A real bomb.  You know.  Like the IRA theme song that goes, "We like the cars/The cars that go 'boom!'"  (This is not a car bomb victim, though.)

Terrorists strap explosives to themselves and enter discos and outdoor cafes and then detonate them.  They don't run into a crowded theatre and start yelling, "Fuck!"  It would be fairly ridiculous and highly ineffectual.  If "fuck" could actually kill people, our government could save a ton of money on its defense budget, and people would most likely have to wear muzzles. 

People who use the term "f-bomb" think they know the power of words.  They don't.  They know misdirection and the illusion of safety supplied by the euphemism, and they are happy to let themselves be fooled.  I've never met a self-respecting adult who has used it in a non-ironic way.  I've met plenty of frat boys and parrot-people who toss it around, but an intellectual?  No.

I don't blame Meriam-Webster for including it in its pages.  I lament the fact that it ever made it that far in the first place.  It won't change how I deal with the phrase, which is to look at whomever used it with a puzzled expression as if I don't know what he is talking about.  I will say, however, that if the "F-bomb" did as much damage as the name implies, I'd be tossing it in his direction.  They can fucking bet on it.

How I Am Saving America's Children

Movement happens when life refuses to stand still.

Most of you know I have what amounts to two jobs.  I'm an office monkey and a writer.  Well, what most people don't know, however, is that about 20 years ago I started my own business ... and that business is helping America's children in the way that the school, medicine and PBS programming can't even dream of.

When I was 21 I was in a high-end grocery store.  I saw a woman who looked to be about 56 years old.  I struck up a conversation with her, noting how good she looked for her age.  "Honey," she asked, "how old do you think I am?"  Never one to insult a lady, especially not one I was hoping to "score" with, I said, "Forty-five?"  She just laughed, thanked me and said, "I'm a spry 73."

A spry 73!  I asked her what was her secret to looking so young and full of energy.  "Honey, I never stop moving."  That is when the proverbial light bulb went off in my head.  "Never stop moving."  Three days later I started Mastering and Integrating Movement (In Every Day Life).  My life hasn't been the same since.

The idea behind my "movement" is "movement."  By using movement in your every day life you will not only feel younger, but you'll look younger, too, and it's great exercise!  Movement gets you moving!  I started out making copious notes on what movements I performed throughout the day and then figured out how to use them more in non-movement settings.  I pulled out my old notebook when I decided to write this, and here is my first entry:  1. Get out of bed.  2.  Stretch.  3.  Brush teeth.  4.  Morning constitutionals. 5.  Pour cereal into bowl and eat it.  You get the point.  You move most of the time, but when you aren't moving, you can be moving, too!

Our skeletal structure is designed solely for movement!

While watching my favorite Lifetime shows, I'm acting like I'm brushing my teeth or picking fruit from a tree.  While standing in line at the grocery store I'm doing karate or trying to eat the most hot dogs in the fastest time.  While waiting for my proctologist to tell me what's wrong this time, I'm swimming or typing on the computer.  I'm moving while doing things that don't require movement.

Of course, this raises questions from people, but when I tell them what I am doing and more importantly why, the light bulb goes off in their heads.  "Movement," they probably say to themselves, "is a cool, serious thing, and I'm going to do it."  I then take that opportunity to promote my two self-published books (Moving My Way to Eternity and This Movement's My Movement, This Movement's Your Movement: The Movement Book) and my three DVD set (Movement is There if You Just Embrace It, which is narrated by myself and Tyne Daly of Cagney & Lacey).  By telling enough people about this unique and exciting form of exercise, I got my first public school demonstration at the Richard C. Fuller School of Accelerated Learning in Fieldbrook, California.  There I showed first through fourth graders the importance of movement.  I started out with a very simple lesson, which I have on my DVD set, and I have transcribed here.

Me:  Okay, I want to see a show of hands for people who don't like movement.  [After scanning the small group of raised hands I call on a boy who looked like he is in the third grade.]  Yes.  You.  What is your name?

Daniel:  Daniel.

Me:  Okay, Daniel, why don't you like movement?

Daniel:  It's stupid.

Me:  [Waiting for laughter to die down.]  Okay, Daniel, well ... you're stupid.  Movement is what enabled you to answer that question.  If you hadn't raised your hand, I wouldn't have called on you.  That, my young friend, is irony.  [To the crowd of children.]  Now who thinks movement is stupid?  [No hands are raised.]  See, Daniel?  They think movement is so cool they won't even move to raise their hands to argue it.  You can thank me tomorrow for blowing your mind today.

After that first, abbreviated demonstration, and after I cleared up a lot of ridiculous criminal charges that made schools question my credentials, I retooled the program, printed some awards for myself using the computer, and then got myself back into the school system.  In no time I was back to showing young children the benefits of moving and talking to teens frankly about movement.  The following is from when I traveled to New York City P.S. 186 to talk to a lot of unprivileged black, Spanish and white teens about how cool movement can be in the course of every day life.  This transcription comes from my DVD set, disc 2, chapter 3: Tell It Like It is.

Me:  I've been where you're at.  Happy to be out of class, but bored listening to some stupid guy tell you not to drink and drive or to always do your best.  I'm not here to tell you that.  Let's applaud that first. [Waiting three seconds for the applause to die down.]  What I'm going to tell you is what I tell everybody.  I'm not dumbing it down because you are young or poor.  I'm speaking to you straight.  Who wants to hear some straight talk?  [Wait for applause.  When it doesn't come, I continue.]  I'm here to tell you about ... movement.

Unknown Male in the Crowd:  Get a real job.  [Lots of laughter.]

Me:  [Waiting for the laughter to cease.]  Let me tell you, Mr. Heckler, this is a real job.  I promised you straight talk, and you're going to get it.  Because I do this movement program throughout the country now, when I go home to my studio apartment, I can afford to smoke good grass and hire a woman if I so desire.  Do I do that?  No.  Not because I have a woman, but because I'm too busy moving and making money to be bothered to go pick up a woman by the pier or have one sent over from an escort service. [Wait for an audience reaction.  They are silenced by my words.]  Now let's talk movement.  You are sitting there doing nothing right now.  Of course, I see one or two fidgets.  That woman in the back is playing with her hair.  But that's not good enough.  You want to have full on movements when you are doing nothing.  When you are just sitting.  Let's have some fun with this.  When you have an answer, just raise your hand.  What is a movement that all teen boys do?  [I see a boy's hand raised.]  Yes?

Boy:  Play video games.

Me:  Play video games.  That's right.  Good.  You use finger movements for that.  Right.  Another one?  [I call on a girl in the middle of the crowd.]

Girl:  Jerk off.

Me:  [Waiting for the laughter to stop.]  That's good!  That's right!  Jerking off.  Show of hands, who does it?  [I wait for the hands.  None go up, so I put mine up.]  I did it.  Right before I came out in the teacher's bathroom.  Why?  To take off the edge of public speaking.  I'll admit it.  Now this motion [I mimic masturbating] can be done anywhere.  [The kids are laughing.]  That's right, it's funny!  It's also exercise.  When I'm doing this [vigorous masturbation movements], I'm burning calories.  Now, don't really masturbate in public.  That's against the law, and in my state of California you get a $200 fine the first time and if they catch you again and you are in the park, you have to go to court and it gets in the papers and causes all kinds of questions from your friends.  Really masturbating in public is illegal.  Fake masturbating movement in public is exercise.  We have a country of people putting on the pounds.  I say if doing masturbation movements in study hall will help keep the country healthier, let's do it.

These public demonstrations, books and DVDs have paid off, and this Friday I am giving my first graduation speech at Eureka High School.  (If you'll be there, I will have books I can sell you that I will also autograph.  I do every one the same way.  "Keep moving, Doug.")  I've written a twenty-minute speech (give or take) called, "Moving Toward a Future.  Moving Toward Health."  I just want to throw out what I'm sure will be choice quotes the newspaper reprints.

"When you're moving, you're not standing still."

"If you want to be inspired to move every day, look at the humming bird.  It never stops moving.  If it does, even to sleep, it falls to the ground and dies.  Look to that humming bird to be your muse."

"When you are in a crowd of non-movers, moving sets you apart."

"Thinking exercises your mind space.  Movement exercises your flesh space."

"We live in a country where movement is free.  If you were living in Iraq or another Middle-Eastern country like El Salvador, you know what happens if you do random movements?  No?  They cut off a hand.  Let's hear it for America!"

"When I first started moving, people looked at me as the crazy guy who has a criminal record because he didn't know he was in a park.  Now look at me.  I'm here talking to you, and what's this movement I've been doing the entire time?  That's right.  I'm shaking your hands.  I bet some of you thought I had palsy."

Movement adds color to a black and white world.

"These are science facts people.  Ninety-eight percent,  that's nearly consensus, of doctors who answered my poll said every day movement helps.  You know what that also says?  Not moving doesn't help.  My own informal science and research has shown me that movement has a 34% cure rate for medical conditions like the common cold to more serious things like liver disease and Old Timers."

"When Bill Gates invented the computer, people didn't know how important he would become.  When Lady Gaga won American Idol, nobody saw what she would eventually be doing.  I'm standing here today proudly proclaiming I am an innovator!  I am a someone!  I am important!  And you, class of 2012, are on the cusp of that happening.  You are witnessing history in the making, and this history isn't the stationary words of some book written by winners.  This history is a moving, mobile force that says, 'Yes, I can!'  Chant it with me!"

Thank you, teachers throughout the country.  Thank you, those who bought my books and DVD.  Thank you for reading.  Now go get moving!

The Land of Ghosts

1971.  California.  A California still coming to grips with Vietnam protests and a hippie commune out in the desert that decided to show society a thing or two about evil, free will and the Beatles.

May 19.  Yuba City.  Sutter County.  10 years earlier a plane carrying nuclear weapons crash landed there.  The nuclear bombs didn't detonate, but the city knows tragedy.  The city wasn't prepared for this, however.

Just outside of Yuba City, police made a startling discovery in an orchard.  It's a man.  Freshly raped and killed.  Seven days later, Juan Corona was arrested.  Because he was sloppy, this serial killer, rapist, employer and all-around eager beaver was eventually tied to 25 male bodies.  Corona, male rapist and serial killer, had survived the December 1955 flood of the Yuba River.  He believed everyone had died and that he was living in a land full of ghosts.

Maybe he was.  Maybe he was living in a Ghost World, and his actions -- the rape and the murders -- would have no consequences.  You can't kill a ghost.

Horace Walpole once said, "The world is a comedy to those who think and a tragedy to those who feel."  Truer words have never been spoken.  What was the world to someone who thought he was living among ghosts?  Obviously a slaughterhouse.  A killing field.  A playground of sex and murderous delights.

The body the police found on May 19 was in a shallow grave.  The man they found had been raped and had his head split open with a machete.  He wasn't the last they found like that.  Corona used his employees for sadistic sexual purposes.  Not the most obscene thing a boss has ever done, and it goes with the title, but Corona, a man no stranger to shock treatment therapies, had such little regard for his victims that he didn't care if he buried evidence with them.  They were drifters, alcoholics, nomads.  Nobody would miss them.  Nobody would care.  Use them and cut them.  Split them open.  Bury them.  Move on to the next one.  Corona's half-brother was even accused of sexually assaulting and beating a man.  Apple.  Tree.

Corona's ruled supreme in his land of ghosts.  He dug his graves on the farms a day or so ahead of time, picked a name in his book, entered the man's body with his penis and then with the surrogate penis of the knife or machete.  He was putting those ghosts to rest, but only after tormenting them the way he felt tormented.  Two cuts across the back of their heads in a cross formation.  Best to keep them ghosts down.  Bury them shallow.  May want to revisit later.  May want to return to make sure they stayed down.  Make sure they stayed ghosts.

Masturbate to memories.  Pick another from the group.  Take a liking to him.  Use him.  Use him again.  Dig that grave.  Early morning hours.  Before the sun gets too hot.  Look at that empty hole.  Imagine it full.  Rub.  That erection feels good.  Imagine entering the body.  Imagine the grunts.  Unzip.  Masturbate into the hole.  Imagine ejaculating into another.  Zip back up.  Throw the shovel in the back of the truck.  Drive.  Nod at the passing drivers.  Ghosts.  All of them.  Turn on the radio.  AOR drowns out the sounds.  Talk to your ghost.  Tell him you need need to see him.  You've got a job for him.  He looks worried.  He knows what you've done in the past.  He's still sore.  Drive out there a day later.  No one talks in the truck.  The radio guides you.  Does he try to run?  Does he try to fight?  Have you broken him enough?  The rape is quick.  It's always quick.  Not because you are afraid of getting caught.  No.  You are excited.  Pull out.  It always hurts a bit when you do that.  Stab.  Hack.  Grab the shovel.  Fill in the hole.  Tamp it down with the flat side of the shovel.  You can smell his alcohol sweat on your clothes.  It's like perfume.  In the days to come, while masturbating in your bed, you'll see his eyes, how they open wide when he knows.  How they tear up.  How the pupils are so small in the light.  You'll smell his breath.  Did you try to kiss him, or was he just a hole?

25 life sentences.  25 known victims.  Corona is still alive, at least as far as I know.  He's spending his days in Corcoran, minus his left eye.  Fellow inmates don't take too kindly to being bumped into.  He's approaching 80 years old.  I imagine the sex is still violent.  I don't imagine he's burying them anymore, but he's sure as hell living with the ghosts.

We Come in Peace (and Leave You in Pieces)

We knock.  We are nothing if not polite.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  The third knock is, not to be rude, a bit harder than the first two.  Far more serious.  Anyone who were to hear that knock (obviously not you or you would've answered) would think, "They mean business."

And we do.

We've come to collect, you see.  You have an outstanding debt.  If you were to survive this night, you would tell anyone who listened that it wasn't karma that got you, but an unfortunate event, luck of the worst sort.

It's not, but let's not quibble.

What we are bringing you is a chance to go out with dignity.  The dignity you seem to avoid in your everyday life.  So normal.  So bland. Happy face of happy features hiding a world of hurt.  You try so hard to fit in and disappear that you stick out like a sore thumb to chaps like us.  We three kings be smelling you a mile away.

When you don't answer the door, we let ourselves in.  One well placed kick and what would you know?  You can't run to the bedroom fast enough.  What do you have in there?  A gun?  Doubtful.  A knife?  No.  All your knives would be in the kitchen.  Ahh, yes.  A baseball bat.  How fitting.  How totally you.

We laugh because you, in this moment of extreme fear and adrenalin, swing, on no offense is meant by this, like a girl.  You don't even aim for the good parts.  You hit our arms and stomach with all the force a nine-year-old could muster.  And what is that smell?  I do declare you've wet yourself.  You, a grown man.  A man who holds down a 9-5 like it's his life.  A man whose idea of letting loose on the weekend is to go out in public with his shirt untucked.  How bold.  How daring.  How ... you.

Your family has been awakened.  It was either us kicking in the door or you screaming as you played Babe Ruth in the living room.  Regardless, we ignore them.  Your wife considers you "good enough," and is happy to tell you that when the wine makes her brave.  And your son?  His idea of a "man" is the exact opposite of you.  We are, at the end of the day, doing them a favor.  We tell them to avert their eyes and to stay inside.  This is wet, sticky business that is best dealt with on your manicured lawn.  Pride of the block, you say.  Carefully fed.  Dutifully weeded.  Even enough not even to blemish a baby's ass.  Your Saturday morning project will be your bleeding ground.

We drag you out.  We should do it by your hair.  You deserve that.  Instead, one on each of your arms.  Me in the rear holding the bat I took from you.  Every once in a while showing you what a real swing feels like.  Was that a rib?  Snap.  Crackle.  Pop.  Scream.

And yes, you are screaming.  The block is lighting up like Christmas.  Heads poking out doors.  Curtains carefully drawn aside.  We see you all.  See?  We're waving.  We apologize that Mr. Smith has woken you up, but we guarantee that this Saturday you won't be hearing his mower at 8:30 a.m..  No Sir, Bobby Socks.  That is one noise you won't hear.  Soon you'll hear one you won't forget.

We put you to your knees.  The grass isn't as soft as you thought, is it?  No matter.  Your wife and child are gathered at the door.  Last words?  No.  Of course not.  Just pleas for someone -- anyone -- to call the police.  Nobody moves.  Even if they did, do you think they would make it in time?  Hell no.  Those taxes you voted against have stretched their numbers thin, and the two who cover this area are looking at a woman's broken nose at the moment.  She won't tell them where her husband is.  Yes, she called them to protect her from him, but all of sudden she remembers love.

So scream away.  Normally you whine and complain about things like "the weather," your "portfolio," and that "bitch who moved in three houses away who acts like a tease."  Her only crime?  She dared to smile at you while wearing something that exposed cleavage.  Mr. Smith, don't you know cleavage isn't an invite to leer?  Of course not.

We drop you to your knees.  They don't let go of your arms.  They are outstretched.  If we were ancients, you could say we were making an "offering."  We are ... in a way.  We are offering your neighbors and family peace.  In just a few minutes they will never have to deal with the likes of you again.

Listen to you.  Who would've thought your final words would be so pathetic?  "Don't hurt me."  "I have money."  "Please."  "I have a family."  We know.  We are doing this for them.

I wield the knife like a surgeon.  I've been to this rodeo a few times in the past.  My cut is swift and clean.  It bites deep into the throat.  One hand wrapped in your hair pulling you head back.  The other makes it look like I'm playing an upright bass.

We let you bleed out on your yard.  When the police arrive, they are going to ask everyone what they saw.  Everyone will give a different answer ... except when it comes to the noise.  All of them will agree: When that knife went across your throat, you could hear a pin drop.  It was screams.  Silence.  And then the sound of your body thumping onto the yard right where we dropped you.  Wham.  Bam.  Thank you, Ma'am.  You are far more impressive than pink flamingos or those black jockeys.  Soon the flies will find you just as fascinating.  So much so in fact, that your flesh will play host to the little white worms you call maggots ... just like you called the Mexicans who had 16 items in the 15 items express lane at Safeway.  "Fucking maggots can't count," you said.  Remember that?  No bother.  We do.

We don't look back as we walk down the street.  We learned our lesson long ago.  Leave someone bleeding out a gaping neck wound on their lawn, and the first people who want to kiss you and thank you are his or her immediate family.  Hallmark should have a card for this.  "Thank you for killing that brute." Believe me, folks.  It wasn't easy, but it was fun.  We make the world a little brighter.  One corpse at a time.  And we do all the dirty work for you so you don't have to worry about little things like prison and Hell.  We've done our time in both.  Neither of them scare us all that much.  In fact, we are far more scared being out here, unchained, with you.  Yes, you are sheep, but you are also herd animals, and herd animals stampede and trample.

Christmas came early this year for the Smiths.

Bastards of the Foreign South

Just spent an ungodly amount of time looking through my health insurance paperwork trying to come up with some answers since phone calls put me into this waiting loop that I have zero patience for today.  I am looking to find out the costs behind some things, and with the stress levels building to a level I can't remember ever feeling before, I figure I better do this all sooner than later.

I'm lucky enough to have health insurance.  It's not the best, but it works well enough for my purposes usually.  If I end up employed elsewhere at some point, I may not have the insurance option anymore, so I want to use it while I can and get a few things looked into while I have that option.  That also adds to the stress, but these days a shrug of the shoulders is about all I can do because I don't believe in impersonal shooting rampages.  (Twice the mess.  Half the fun.)  People irritate me.  End of story.

So in my files, while looking for insurance paperwork, I come across a folder filled with rejection slips on stories and manuscripts that are often described as "too dark" or "too depressing."  I can only chuckle when I read them.  Want "depressing"?  Look at what is passed off as entertainment and art these days.  Dark?  The entire world has gone pitch black but few have opened their eyes wide enough to see it.  That's okay, though.  I'll keep plugging away.  It's what I do.

These rejection notices, far from being depressing, are actually kind of nice.  They let me know I'm on the right track.  Quite a few of the publications I've been rejected from no longer exist.  Telling, I suppose.  Some are still around, though in a much different capacity.  Also telling.  Me?  I've gotten darker and more depressing, I imagine.  Life may be all flowers and unicorns for some mental squats, but like Captain Spaulding, I calls 'em likes I sees 'em.  Happy dreams for happy people is not a motto I'm interested in.  More guns!  More disease!  That's my bumpersticker.

A pile of rejection letters.  Enough health insurance paperwork to make me suspect I was looking at the remains of a small forest.  What did it get me?  Nothing and nowhere.  One provided no answers.  The other reiterated what I already knew.  Nothing and nowhere.  Maybe it's not such a bad place to be.  Hell, it beats buying into the standard gig.  That gets you nothing and nowhere, too, but at least my way lets you retain your dignity.





Good Bye

About ten minutes ago, my grandmother passed away.  She lasted about a week more than they had last given her.  A fight to the end, and I'm sure she wouldn't have had it any other way.  When I last spoke to her, morphine had been running through her system.  It was hard for her to speak.  I was afraid to call after that.  Afraid that there would be less comprehension, less speech. 

Originally, this post was going to be a dark journey into my mind.  2012 is not shaping up to be a wonderful year so far.  Too many losses.  Too much stress.  And the way I woke up today was far from good, but in the end, I guess the post I was going to write and the way I woke up were mere harbingers to the day. 

Done.

Happiness is the Heart Feeling Fuzzy! :)

Fake it 'til you make it.  That's advice I hear far too often.  The problem is, if you spend all that energy faking it, how do you ever expect to "make it"?  Obviously, you can't.  Pretending to be any one thing, be it happy or rich, or you-name-it, doesn't really fool anyone who is more than half awake -- not even yourself.  So what is the point of faking it?  Why spend all that energy pretending to be something you want to be while not actively working toward that goal?

Faking it is always easier, and people love the easy way out.  That's why abridged novels exist.  Cliff's Notes. The Internet.  Religion.  Ease-of-use is how products are sold, and it's how people fool themselves on a daily basis.  When you are faking it, you don't have to look to the root of whatever problem it is you are facing.  You just ignore it in the hopes it will either go away or become suppressed (hopefully not to appear later, causing you to don some camo, grab few guns and go people hunting).  It's a nice thought.  It's the kind of thought that kept you awake on Christmas Eve listening for the sounds of hooves on your roof.  A nice fantasy and nothing more.  The saying shouldn't be "fake it 'til you make it."  It should be "fake it until you forget how to fake it and the illusion takes over."  There is a huge difference between making it and living a lie, and the fact that people not only don't seem to recognize this, but actively seem to delude themselves into thinking no such thing exists should be troubling.  I know I have problems with it.

Granted, many people would call me a pessimist.  I think I'm a realist.  The reality of me, though, is that I've written off most of humanity as throw-away by-products of a disposable future filled with disposable goals, disposable morals and disposable dreams.  People who have a real hard time discerning between art and entertainment, intellect and emotion, logic and magical thinking.  I don't have time for these people.  I don't care about their problems.  I would not call 911 if I saw them in trouble.  I can't be bothered to dial because they never tried to dial it for themselves.  They pretended to dial and thought help would arrive.  And then when things get too "real" (where that line is drawn is hard to tell with people who aren't playing with reality), they freak out, confronted by things they don't understand because they never tried. 

What prompted all this?  I received an e-mail from a friend saying I was "too negative" and disrupted her "feel good vibes."  This is a person I rarely hear from and rarely (thank goodness) engage in any kind of conversation.  What had prompted her to send such an e-mail?  A Facebook posting of a Whitehouse song.  My intent wasn't to disrupt her (or anyone else's) Kelly Ripa life.  I posted a song I liked.  This woman (really a child emotionally) took some kind of moral offense -- the kind you take when you haven't thought out your own morals and values, but instead "fake them to get them."  I promptly removed her from my phone and contact lists, but not before sending off a little message of my own.

"Sorry the song put your "feel good vibes" into a tizzy.  That was not my plan.  It is, after all, just a song.  If I thought a song had that much power over people, I would be posting ones that would cause the hordes to swallow a bottle of pills followed by a full bottle of Vodka, but only because people upset my "feel good vibes."  Unfortunately (or fortunately for the masses), no such song exists (though I think anything from today's Top 40 would do it if anything would).  So where do we go from here?  I hear from you maybe once a year, which is sometimes more than enough.  I'll remove you from my phone and from my e-mail list ... with pleasure!  You can remove me from your FB friends list; it's too much work from me.  Doing this will ensure my "negativity" won't cause you to cry or question anything too much.  So long, and thanks for the fish."

Ironically, the song was "Dumping the Fucking Rubbish."  Perfect.

In Heaven Only the Angels Scream

The sun beating down, I ate a quiet lunch outside.  Contemplating a week of friends returning to Humboldt, a grandmother in her final hours, a friend lost, excellent nightly conversation with Night Nurse, a looming (unknown) deadline on my interview with filmmaker Larry Wessel, and a job that is leaving me more and more at odds with myself.  I had a NASCAR magazine in front of me, but I couldn't concentrate on it.  It seemed that the spirits of the dead and dying weren't hiding from the sun's warming rays.  Instead, they did their whisper dance in my ever-so-willing ears.

From my perch here with my laptop, I can see the wind chime outside my window.  My daughter picked it out at Eureka Natural Foods.  It is weaving slightly in a breeze not yet detected by the trees.  It is a comforting sight.  I can't hear it.  The cars outside go by too often, and the CD I'm playing is a bit too loud. Yes, the CD.

I went to get my taxes done today, and then made a few stops in the mall.  The Bayshore Mall is a graveyard of commerce.  It is like a functioning Monroeville Mall, the zombies able to finally make purchases.  I stopped off in the only record store in there: F.Y.E.  A ridiculous name, to be sure.  I did it on a whim.  Looking for some Death in June.  I figured I would not find any.  I was not prepared for the perplexed look upon F.Y.E.'s finest when he asked if I needed help finding anything and responded in kind.  He had never heard of it and suggested, ever so helpfully, that I "check the Internet."  Indeed, clerky, I will.  Thanks for pointing out a resource I hadn't been aware of until our brief, albeit intensely interesting, conversation.  "Little Blue Butterfly" has been stuck in my head so much that I've been singing it at work ... constantly.  There really could be nothing like pumping it from the Bose at full bore.  "Black sun dying ..."

I find that in times of trouble, and troubling times, that the best one can do to maintain is shut out almost every living thing around them.  Eliminate the noise.  Consign the din to the heap.  Keep those true and pure close at hand.  They are the constants.

I called my grandmother this morning.  Intent upon hearing her voice one last time.  It sounded familiar.  Like my father before he passed on.  Barely able to croak out a few words.  More gasps than sentences.  The moans as words tried to form.  She managed to say, "I love you."  She heard me say it back.  She understood.  I told her to go on in peace and not be afraid.  I did not know what else to say.  When I heard my father's final gasps on the phone, I was equally without the words.  I don't know if he comprehended what I was saying.  He couldn't speak anything intelligible.  And that was how my relationship with him ended.  Over the phone.  3,000 miles away.  I was in the garage.  When I hung up the phone, I closed my eyes, saddened by the fact that he never got to meet his granddaughter.  Never got to see just how wonderful she was and still is.  Dead air.  Nothing.

And people wonder why I turn my back...

Here ... In Hell (Keyword Fun Time!)

Eureka, California.  Today.  2/29/12.  A day that finds some people wishing others a "happy Leap Day" as if it were Christmas, New Year's Eve or -- the horror of it all -- St. Patrick's Day.  When it wasn't windy and cold, it was windy, cold and raining.  A decent combination to be sure, but not decent enough to keep the demons at bay.

Rather than go on a rant about people, as I had wanted to do, but won't waste my time or yours, I will run more keyword fun!  These are searches entered into the Internet that draw sickos around the world use that cause them to end up at this here blog.  As usual, I've broken them down into topics.  As usual, my commentary will follow.  As usual, they are strange.  Very strange.

Shirley Temple:  (People love her.  Here's the proof.)  Shirley Temple naked.  Shirley Temple of Doom (a great band name if it isn't already taken).  Naked Shirley Temple (apparently the guy thought switching it up a bit would produce different results). Shirley Temple child.  Shirley Temple spanking. Why Shirley Temple?  Why the hell not?

Nazis and Swastikas: (They go together like chocolate and peanut butter or Bea Arthur and bondage fantasies.) Swastika in art.  Hansi the Girl Who Loved the Swastika (a great comic book from back before you were born).  Is there any art with swastikas in it? (No, Virginia, there is not.) Mickey Mouse Nazi flag.  Naked Nazi sluts images.  (Who wouldn't want to see that?)  Nazi Hello Kitty.  Who created the swastika? (Hello Kitty, you dolt.)

Pony Girl: (This never stops.  Seriously.)  Human pony.  Pony girl sex.  Gairl sax pony. (I think that kid was afraid of finding porn.)  Horse erection. (Not a pony girl, per se, but come on.  If the erection fits ...)  Mounted pony girl.  (Sexually, or in a taxidermy way?  Go with the former, it's a one or two time deal before you two fall out of love.  Go with the latter and it is a life time of memories, guilt-free sex and no nagging.  Get it?  Nagging?)  Pony with girls sex.  (It doesn't matter what combination the words are in ...)  Rollis pony girl.  The human pony. 

Sex: (The Internet -- Giving perverts a place to call home since 1992.)  Hot naked short hair woman collared leashed public.  (Very specific, though I prefer my leashed and collared women to have long hair.  Sicko.)  Masturbating under the bridge.  (Oh, I see.  You're high class.  You use the bathroom.)  The Devils Rejects nudity images.  (All of them were sexy.)  There were about eight others involving searches for minors and sex.  Not reprinting those.  Very disturbing.

Humboldt County: (We aren't just pot, serial killers and dead hookers.  We have a lot to offer here in Humboldt.  Here's what people are seeking.)  Pleasure Center.  (Used to work there.  Found the owner's body.  Fun times.)  Eureka CA porn.  (Trust me.  You don't want to see that.)  Eureka CA prostitution.  (Trust me.  You don't want to see that.)  See?  Sex and more sex.  You've come to the wrong place.

Tattoos: (I have a few.  These people are curious.)  Binding ruin tattoo.  Buster keel keel tattoo.  Eye white tattoos.  Holiday in Cambodia tattoo.  (So you've been to school for a year or two ...)  Larry the Cable Guy tattoo.  Sick male tattoos.  (Like, if you have cancer?)  Sick tattoos for men.  Tattoos against cancer.  (Oh ...)  What is Larry the Cable Guy's tattoo?  (It's two men ... kissing.) 

Oddities:  (Color me confused.)  Charlie Sheen toothless.  (Like he hasn't had it hard enough.)  Faceless savage.  (Poor Fred Savage.)  Gabrielle Gifford fake.  (Yes, she is very fake.  Nobody gets shot and lives to tell about it.  Right, Ronnie?)  Man human body parts.  (Again, proof there are aliens among us.  "Look up man human body parts.  We must fit in!")  My sick mind.  (Someone actually Googled "my sick mind" as if the computer could somehow detect whose sick mind was being looked into.  Did he [I know it is a "he"] hope/think/figure/wish that the computer would expose his sick thoughts?)  Thank God you're leaving.  (Someone Googled that, too!  Who is leaving?  Why would you Google that?  "I want to see if anyone else is happy you're leaving, asshole!")   

There it is.  Absolute proof that the world is full of morons with access to computers, little typing skills, and less sense.  They think Plato is a molding compound that tastes salty.  They are the reason Pizza Hut has to remind people in advertisements that the $10 pizza box is ... wait for it ... $10.  They are the people that go into a store, see the price on an item and then ask the clerk if the item is really that price.  (As an aside, I worked in a convenience store where this happened to me a lot.  One day, tired of it, I answered, "No.  That's not $1.49.  It's $5.50."  The woman said, "But it says $1.49."  "That's a lie," I replied.  She put it back and walked out.  Why ask when you obviously know the price?  For the same reason you Google "thank God you're leaving."  They don't understand how the world works.  Life is a mystery to them, and not a happy one that women write books about.  It is really just a confusing mess where religion, technology, television and holidays all run together in this stew of reality that leaves you dumbfounded every throughout the day.  They think entertainment is news, and you don't know where Lisbon is located.  They think the Jersey Shore people are famous for something.  They make it easy for people like me to take advantage of people like them if I were so inclined to waste my time.  They are easily amused by funny Internet videos and take believe motivational posters are a good replacement for a sound philosophy.  They vote against their best interests and then seem baffled when life sucks for them.  They think texting while driving is okay because they aren't being distracted by talking.  (And their texts come out like this no matter where they do it: thy thnk txtng whyl drivng is k bcause thy arnt beeing distractid bye tallking.)  They find books difficult to get through, though People magazine is literature.  They write a check in the supermarket and have to ask what store to make it out to. 

Ain't life grand? 


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A Different Kind of Hate -- Newt Gingrich

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occupy Eureka Has Bombs(?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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