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.


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

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.

Ignorance and Faith

Ignorance and faith are a powerful combination.  It is what is keeping most of this country from worrying and rioting over the debt ceiling debate, which must be solved by Tuesday or their will be dire consequences.  Hell, there's actually been consequences already and more are sure to come regardless of whether or not an agreement is reached, but people haven't seemed to notice.

I bet our leaders are real glad this isn't Greece or the masses would be at their doors demanding their heads ... and they should be.

As of this writing, the stock market has seen a six day sell off.  Earlier in the week Wall Street's movers and shakers were saying "don't worry," and I was saying that when that was said was the time to worry, and investors did.  Six days of pulling money out of the stock market because they fear Washington won't reach an agreement.  Others are confident a deal will be reached.  Why they are this confident is unknown. What they base this on other than ignorance and fear is also unknown.  But let's pretend for a moment a deal is reached (and one may be, but I see no solid evidence of that happening and neither do investors), in some ways it really doesn't matter.

If a deal is reached by Tuesday, America gets to keep paying its bills.  Forty percent of its bills are paid for by credit, so that 40% will be solid.  In other words, your grandmother keeps getting her Social Security checks, the VA doesn't shut down, soldiers will get paid, doctors who accept Medicaid will be reimbursed.  If a deal isn't reached, all of those things are up in the air and more.  But if a deal is reached, the stock market has already declined, a slowly growing economy is growing even more slowly, and it looks like America's credit rating will still take a hit because the people elected (mainly Tea Party Parrots whose negotiating skills are learned directly from children, and Republicans who let their closet racism get in the way) decided to play bullshit games with something the rest of the world finds very important, particularly one of our biggest lenders, China.  If the credit rating is lowered, interests rates go up.  That only really effects people who have things like credit cards, or are buying a house, or sending a kid to college, or are borrowing money.

Ignorance and faith are keeping people from storming the gates, but they aren't keeping people from pulling their investments and buying gold and silver.  Maybe when their credit cards skyrocket and their retirement disappears they'll care, but by then it will be too late, and those people who said everything will work out (they were so sure) will say, "What the fuck happened?"  The writing is on the wall, and if the debt ceiling is raised for a short six-month term, we're going to face this all over again in an election period.  If things are this difficult now, imagine how bad they will be then.

California, in a rare step of forward thinking, has borrowed five billion plus dollars to offset the financial crisis that will arise if the government defaults.  California rarely does anything on time or with long term planning.  This time, however, it has, and it could save our schools from closure and those on Medi-Cal from being denied services.  I have not seen reports of other states doing this.  Maybe they are part of the group that believes all will be well come August 3, the day after an agreement must be reached.

I don't have a crystal ball to see into the future.  I know the debt ceiling debate has never reached this point before.  I don't expect the leaders to make everything all right because I don't have faith in them.  I'm also not ignoring this very important subject.  I've been watching it like a hawk because it will effect my life.  I'll leave ignorance and faith to the ignorant and delusional.  When the banks limit your withdrawals and your credit card bills suddenly take 200 years to pay off, you can get mad.  In the meantime, though, continue watching reality TV.  That "reality" seems much better than what is playing out in Washington.

More Sabotage in the American Workplace

United Continental (which still operates as two separate companies at the moment) is experiencing a sickout right now due to what some would say is a labor dispute.  More power to those pilots.

Sickouts, work slowdowns, strikes, following orders exactly as written -- they are all things workers (mostly unionized since it's easier to get the word out) do to protest working conditions.  Some steal from their jobs, blackmail or destroy important paperwork.  There are thousands of ways one can disrupt work as usual, and each is unique to the job at hand.  Strikes and mass actions are usually a last resort, whereas individual activism is typically an ongoing process.

The sickout at the individual airlines of United Continental is disrupting a small number of flights, which makes me think it is more of a warning than a mass action ... for now.  It could be the sign of something bigger.  It should be taken seriously.  For those concerned with labor issues, pick another airline to use as long as this is in action, and let United Continental know why you are doing so.

These two airlines together have almost 10,000 pilots.  They do close to 6,000 flights a day.  If United does what it did two years ago, it will go to a judge to force these pilots to go back to work.  United won on appeal.  Imagine a judge forcing you to work.  How would you react?  If that were to happen again, staying away from United Continental would be even more important, though if you were forced to fly it for one reason or another, you could do your best to disrupt business as usual.

The vacation season is here, and I'm sure United Continental is well aware of how this could blossom into a widespread sickout at but a moment's notice.  The company shouldn't be heading to court, though.  It should be heading to the negotiation table.  If workers are willing to risk their income and defy a court, don't you think the prudent business person would hear them out?  They often don't, however, and that's why sabotage will continue to exist.  If you're a flyer who supports the company, I hope you feel safe flying in those planes.  At least the mechanics are happy with their jobs, right?

Bring on the Meat Show

This week I took a trip to Hell.  Actually, I went to Garberville for my job.  It was not the best day of my life.

I figured the trip would cause my back to flare up, but I didn't expect it to be as bad as it was.  By the time I made it back to work on Wednesday, I was in so much pain I could barely see straight.  I even left work early because of it.  Those who know me understand that is something I almost never do.

I went home, threw up, took a pill (also something I almost never do), did a super hot soak that boiled me like a lobster, then used a heating pad for quite some time.  I did nothing that night.  For me to do nothing, well, that's a big deal.  My manuscripts don't edit themselves, and I don't have a maid come clean the house.

The pain is still there, and probably will be for another day or two.  On Thursday after work (yes, I went back -- see, I never stay home due to pain) I started doing some massive edits on the cannibal manuscript.  Maybe it's because of the pain and the medicine that is in my system, but I got somewhat meaner with the entire thing.  I also realized how nasty the original work happens to be.  It is written to be like an early '70s exploitation/horror film where nothing good ever happens, and it definitely comes out that way.  For all the people asking me about this, I hope you won't be disappointed.  I also hope you'll understand that while this came from my mind, your children are still safe around me.  They won't be eaten.  I promise.

I described a scene to Girl on our morning break.  A scene I actually did a lot of research on.  I had to learn how people used to tan hides, and I found out some pretty interesting things.  In writing the scene, I added my own little twist (you will know it when you read it, and if you've read the first draft it is still there).  It got the reaction I thought it would, which was of surprised disgust, but I thought, "What if she didn't know me and read that?"  I think she would seriously question the mind of someone who could write such a thing.

Melinda, a short story I like, but that is tame for me, has generated a few sales on Amazon.  It's also gotten me a few e-mails from men who have this fetish for starving women to death.  These are poorly-written e-mails (I think both are from Britain, too) most likely written by men still living at home with mom and secretly masturbating to anorexia porn in the wee hours of the morning.  The e-mails aren't disturbing.  They are actually quite polite.  They just want to know if I have anymore stories like that one.  I don't.  It isn't a topic I write about on a regular basis.  What I find odd, besides that fetish, is that readers may think I have some kind of fetish myself for starvation.  I don't; it's a story.  When it comes to cannibalism, however, I am fascinated with it, and that along with my love of horror movies from the '70s and '80s caused me to write this manuscript as a way to "let the love flow" as it were.  (And before someone asks, no I am not a cannibal.)

Cannibalism is a social taboo in most cultures.  Our's included.  (I do find it oddly funny and disturbing, however, that when Dahmer was finally stopped, a lot of people I knew were more disturbed by his homosexual serial killing than his cannibalism.  It shows how backwards our society really is.  He wasn't a cannibal who was homosexual.  He was a homosexual cannibal.)  When it occurs throughout the world it is either social (as in tribes), psychological (as in Dahmer) or due to survival (as in the Donner Party).  It is one thing humans do that still manages to shock and disgust, even in this world where videos of girls eating vomited feces and men squatting on jars that break in their rectums inspire t-shirts.  The eating of another person reminds us that while we love computers, the lottery and Harry Potter, we are still animals and to some of us we are food.  Rape is a horrible crime that fills people with fear.  The thought of being captured and eaten?  That fills you with dread.

Once I publish the manuscript, I will probably go into great detail on my book blog about what inspired certain scenes and why I wrote what I did.  In the end, however, unlike Melinda, this manuscript comes from a place of child-like fascination with an act that causes most people to throw up in their mouths a bit. It doesn't come from a dark place like the one I'm currently writing a first draft on.  It comes from that same place that thinks looking into your backyard at one a.m. and seeing a clown is terrifying (this is a vivid childhood memory of mine, and he let firecrackers -- more on that sometime later), a place where remote places in the mountains inspire fear and imagination.  Melinda was just an idea.  The cannibal manuscript is a theme that runs through my life.  (When I finished the first draft I got John Lopez of Carl Hanes Tattoo to do a tattoo of a teeth bracelet around my wrist in celebration.  I also have a section on my book shelf dedicated to cannibalism, and one of my favorite movies of all time is the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  So, yeah, this isn't a one-time idea that I ran with and wrote about.  This is something I've studied for years.)  Because of that, I think the tale comes across as more terrifying.  In some spots I am absolutely gleeful (such as the tanning scene) with the perversity and violence.  Of course, that's just my take.  I'll let the readers decide.

I can only imagine what e-mails I'll get in after it gets published.


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Full Moon Over a Dead Earth

Last night.  Humboldt County.  In a recliner.  Open window with the sounds of people enjoying the evening filtering in.  Heating pad burning a hole through my back.  Flesh and Blood Compendium being read.  I caught it out of the corner of my eye.  So bright, so big that at first I thought I was hallucinating.

A beautiful full moon.

Clouds sometimes obscured it.  So much so that while on the phone with Girl I mentioned that, again, I thought maybe I had hallucinated it.  It's a rare day when I take pain meds, so they have quite an effect on me.  I get a little ... loopy.

I wasn't imagining it, though.  It wasn't some sort of CGI (Cerebral Generated Image).  It was a full-on, larger than life moon.  The kind of thing our knuckle-dragging ancestors would've worshipped when not splitting skulls and breeding.  It was one of those wonders of "nature" that puts me in awe, like silicone drops on a bed of water on a vibrating table or the ocean.

A werewolf moon.

No, I'm not a huge fan of werewolves.  I can see, however, how this can inspire such tales.  Me?  I like to think of it as a huge, cataract-laden eye looking over a dying planet.  Unblinking at the misery below it.  Where once it was worshipped, now it is just forgotten, a body to be landed upon from time to time if only to figure out a way to extract whatever resources we can from it.  A once majestic god above creatures who had no real working concept of fiction to a monument of failure in people who are nothing but fiction.

It was heady stuff for someone on medication who could barely text properly.

I'm sure quite a few other Humboldt residents saw it staring down on them.  The people in our county seem more in tune with nature than say the people of Los Angeles.  I'm sure there was more than one Humboldt County soul who thought something similar (after all, so many of us are medicated at any given time that it's amazing the drinking water isn't making us all zombies).  Then again, maybe nobody noticed.  Maybe they were all so wrapped up in the firing of the Eureka chief of police as a sure sign of Armageddon that they failed to take note of that eye in the sky.  Full moon over a dead Earth.  Kind of fitting.


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Why I Love Nightmares

I used to think I loved nightmares because of the story ideas they gave me.  Now, there were some nightmares I loathed, but for the most part I enjoyed them.  This, of course, led to a serious inner-debate titled, "If I Love Having Nightmares, Can They Be Called Nightmares?"  The answer was: Yes.  They could be nightmares, and I could enjoy the hell out of them.

Last night, that all changed.  Waking up, I had a new reason why I loved nightmares.  It had nothing to do with the story ideas.  Nothing.  Zip.  Nada.

I woke up feeling refreshed.  This is, sadly, not natural as of late. I woke up feeling absolutely giddy with happiness.  And it was all due to a dream I had been having.  What this dream was is of no interest to most people, so I will skip it.  It was wonderful, though.

And then real life sank in.  I realized the dream was a dream, and it wasn't reality.  These things I experienced in sleep were complete fabrications.  And that is why I love nightmares.

Good dreams, pleasant dreams -- they fool you.  Those moments of bliss are manufactured and are as mentally deflating as finding out those medical test results are worse than suspected.  They are the hot girl that flirts with you and then you find out it's because she had a bet with her friends.  Good dreams are a joke.  Nightmares don't lie.

Nightmares seemed designed by nature to scare you.  You don't want them to be real.  You want them to be gone.  When you wake up, you are relieved that what you experienced isn't real life.  You are thankful and grateful.  You are humbled.  Nightmares don't pretend to give you hope.  They don't flirt with you.  They assault you and make sure you know it.  Nightmares don't trick your soul.  Nightmares are the sharks of the subconscious.  I respect that.  I respect that a lot.  I don't respect the made up reality I went through this morning before waking up to face a lie.  How could I?

I used to not care when people said they loved having these good dreams that had nothing to do with real life.  I didn't care because I figured they were just dreams, and what harm was there in having them or even having the desire to have them?  Now I know these people are delusional.  They are being fooled, and they like it.  They are cashing in on a momentary bliss built on a foundation of clouds.  Better them than me.  I don't want that "reality."  I want the truth or something so terrifying it makes me thankful for the life I lead.  Anything else is unacceptable ... even if it produces a momentary bliss.

On the Road to Arcata ...

Yesterday morning.  Heading toward Arcata.  Highway 101, the main artery between the safe haven of Eureka and hippie-central Arcata.  Off to the side of the highway, parked like a silent sentinel, was a large white pick-up truck.  Nothing out of the ordinary ... except for the large black letters across the back of its cab.

"Show Me Your Tits."

Several inches high, as bold as its statement.  This driver, who was male, was encouraging other drivers (I'm assuming females, but he may like hefty guys for all I know) to expose those objects of many a man's affection.  It was crazy enough to work, I'm sure.  Much like the "Girls Gone Wild" franchise works.  Much like telling a woman exactly what she wants to hear.  I'm sure this has gotten this desperate driver more than one or two nipples.  It would be kind of cool if one woman decided to show him a little more.

She's a passenger.  Her girlfriend (not lesbians, but they've been known to make out with a little wine in them) is driving.  Her window is down.  The air feels good.  It's the beginning of summer.  They are on their way to Oregon.  They are in the left lane.  "Show Me Your Tits" pulls up and past.

"You see that?" her girlfriend asks.  "What the fuck?"

She laughs.  "Pull up next to him."

"Seriously?  You can't be -"

"Come on.  A quick flash.  What can it hurt?  He'll probably love it and go off the road or something."

"Yeah, when he starts jerking off."  But she pulls up next to him anyway.  Now they are both speeding.

She lifts her shirt and bra.  The driver's got a big smile.  He likes these.  If he ever got the chance to describe them to his friends he'd say "heft with just enough perk to make your mouth water."  He'll never get that chance, though.  That smile becomes a look of unpleasant surprise as he sees the handgun come up and the shirt come down.  Next thing he knows, his lower jaw is in chunks across his dash.  A large portion of his tongue explodes in a red mist, and the bullet sinks itself into the passenger door.  The force of the shot causes him to jerk the wheel and go off the shoulder.

"Hope you liked them!"


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Give Me Fire

The air outside has a slight chill to it.  No trace of a breeze.  The sky is just starting to brighten.  It's about 5:17 in the morning.  Friday.  I'm outside taking in the silence, coffee cup in hand.  I haven't turned on the cell phone or the computer.  I haven't done any of my usual morning rituals other than the coffee.  I'm just taking in the silence, thinking of how I would so very much like to live in a world without the sounds of cars, planes and people whining about Obama or how excited they are to see Green Lantern.

A truck goes by on its way to Safeway.  I hear this truck almost every day.  The illusion is destroyed.  Time to go inside and take a shower, boot up Pinhead and my cell and try to get some writing done before I go to my job.  I encounter an e-mail from a female friend telling me she likes when I run pictures of women with weapons.  Here's a throat-slitting one for you, from The Road Warrior, a great film that has yet to be matched in pure spectacle.

A line from the e-mail catches my eye.  "You're always fun to read when you write something when you're angry."  It's an awkward sentence at best, but I get the meaning behind it.  I've been told that before.  Anger inspires greatness, I guess.  Give me fire, right?

There's plenty to be angry about these days.  Politicians who make better speed bumps than legislators.  A capitalistic world that seems dangerously ignorant of the path it is taking when it comes to the environment.  Libya.  The attacks on unions.  The debt ceiling.  People who claim every earthquake is yet another sign that 2012 is real.  The list goes on and on.

I've been fairly silent on most of these things lately.  It's not that I don't care about them.  I do.  I just have this "sit back and wait" attitude because I get this funny feeling that some of this shit is going to bite people in the ass, and that actually cracks me up a bit.  (In all fairness, I have been encouraging people who believe in 2012 to give up their jobs and possessions.  I figure if they fall for prophecies they'll fall for anything and why not speed up their extinction.)  I do take some perverse pleasure in people being made to pay for their follies.  Schadenfreude.  Beautiful word from a beautiful language.

I'm sure the anger will return, and knowing me it'll be back in no time flat.  Today, though, I don't have the energy for it.  Lack of sleep and some nasty allergies have taken the piss out of me.  Bitterness and sarcasm, my allies, will be back in full force in the very near future.  Until they return, however, I'll be satisfied by mere observation.

Choking on a Telephone Line

I bought a new phone.  That's really not what I wanted to write about.  What I wanted to write about, I won't out of respect for the people involved.  All I'll say is that the lives of two very dear friends have changed, and all I could think about while talking to the one half of the couple was that line in one of Rollins' songs.  "Life will not break your heart/It will crush it."

Instead I'll write of the phone.

I'm not a huge fan of cell phones, smart phones or "your little vibrating friend in your pocket" (you know what I mean, ladies).  They cause distractions while driving, interrupt work, give assholes an inflated sense of self at the movies and in restaurants.  They have their uses, however, and one of those is uses is to send topless pictures of yourself to some guy who will inevitably post them on some website he thinks you'll never see (and you won't).

They're also good for when your car breaks down.

I needed a new one.  My cell phone battery wouldn't hold a charge for a call, and I couldn't receive topless pictures.  Now, I could buy a new battery, and I tried.  I went everywhere, including that little kiosk in the mall run by some woman from an Eastern European country.  Nothing.  They no longer make batteries for my rotary dial cell phone.

I called my provider to find out if I could stay on the same plan.  He informed me I could if I bought a certain phone, so I set out to find that phone.  That phone, it should be noted, has been discontinued.  So not only was my cell phone old, but so was my plan.  So old, in fact, that the only phone it would work on was old.

Which leads me to the Rumor Touch.  This phone, which sounds like a strange, arty porn film, was the only one whose price didn't cause my testicles to pull up inside my stomach. As the box assured me, though, I could do just about everything with it.  Everything except get my provider to activate the fucking thing.

The sales clerk offered to do it at the store, but I had no time for such nonsense.  I proudly declared I'd "do it at home, mofo."  And I tried.  I tried doing it online.  I got an error message for all my troubles telling me to call the provider.  So I did.  After navigating through a phone tree system that would cause Columbus to get lost, I learned that the service center was closed (apparently there are some giant companies that don't operate a 24 hour service center these days) and that I should try to activate my phone on the web.  It was almost like I was stuck in a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure written by an obsessive compulsive crack addict.

I tried the web again ... and it worked!  Shit the bed!  Well, at least it looked like it worked.  I could place a call, take a call, and messaging has been sporadic ... I think (my peeps don't always respond in a timely manner, yo).  I took a picture.  That worked.  I haven't tried to go on Facebook or receive a picture yet, but I expect no problems.

So I have a new phone.  A Rumor Touch, which fits my lifestyle of touching things and vibrating.  The best part?  I can get those topless pictures ... I just hope my mother, who has recently discovered the joys of texting and sending pictures through the phone, doesn't accidentally send me one of those.  If she does, I'll make it her contact picture and show all my friends.


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Family and Other Threats to a Child's Health

Recently, McKinleyville, CA was shocked by a crime. A woman is found wandering around naked with abrasions.  She is incoherent.  Doesn't know how she got to where she was or why she was naked.  (This is actually not the first time something like this has happened in the area, by the way.  The rest of the story is new for our region, however.)  The police suspect she has a child, but there is no child with her.  They found the woman's vehicle, and they found items that appeared to have been tossed out of it over a ten mile stretch, including items belonging to a child.

Police begin searching for the woman's daughter.  The woman is of little help at first, but then memories start coming back.  Soon the two-year-old girl is found, dead in a river.  Her mother drowned her.  Obviously, this is disturbing.  Jump forward to this weekend.

I'm with my daughter as she preps to march in a parade.  I'm marching with her.  Another parent is at the meeting place with her daughter.  Eventually the mother says, "I'm going to go off to find a vantage point for the parade.  Can she just stay here with you?"

I didn't say "no," though I was stunned a mother would just leave her daughter with me, a stranger.  Oh, the mother never bothered to get my cell phone number ... or my name.  She had known me all of twenty minutes and had said all of eight sentences to me before she got the wonderful idea to leave her child in my possession.  My daughter thought it was strange, and I had to assure her that I would never leave her with a stranger like that.

Am I wrong in finding this odd?

I'm not one to abuse a child.  This woman didn't know that, however.  She didn't know my name, where I lived, anything.  Suppose I had done something to her kid?  What would she tell the police?  "I left her at the flagpole, officer, with some guy.  No, I don't know his name or his number or where he lives.  I can give you a description.  Middle-aged, white, shaved head, goatee."  That's the description of just about every white criminal out there.  That would be fun for the cops trying to figure that one out.

Strangers are obviously a threat to children.  I think we tend to ignore that family is a huge threat, too.  They are an even more insidious threat because your family is supposed to keep you safe.  When the people you trust with your life and safety turn on you it's terrifying.

The McKinleyville woman who drowned her child has mental problems.  It's not an excuse for doing the crime; it's the reason.  I feel for the child's family,  but I have no sympathy for the mother.  People can question what happened and why all they want, but it doesn't change the outcome one damn bit.  The woman at the parade was lucky (as was her daughter) that I'm not a pedophile or murderer.  She took a chance, though.  A huge chance.  She trusted the safety of what should be the love of her life with someone she had zero clue about.  All for a good seat at the parade.  If that isn't the definition of reckless, I don't know what the word means.  I just hope her kid questions her about that someday.  I'd like to know what answer the mom would give.  To me, there is no justifying it.  There's only apologizing and being thankful her little girl didn't end  in a bad way, too.  What are people thinking?

The Dying Light

As I write this, I'm sitting in a recliner by my window.  The sun is going down.  A few stray birds are out in the tree making noise.  Every once in a while I vehicle drives by, tires hissing on the road.  I've just spent the past hour or so working on the cannibal manuscript, getting it ready for Kindle.  The two short stories on there sell, not a lot, but they sell.  I think the novel will do better.

I had music playing while I edited it.  Old blues.  Very old blues.  It didn't totally fit the story, but the songs can be creepy, and that did fit the vibe.  Old country music would've been better, but I don't exactly have that sitting around.

The novel was with a publisher for quite some time. In the end, it was with it for too long, and I yanked it.  A six month wait time had grown into a year, and when I put it on Kindle I not only eliminate the middleman, but I'm also free to continue to shop it around, which I may do depending on sales.  Selling a few thousand copies will be splendid.  Even a few hundred will cause me to celebrate.  Sell enough, and I'll be able to focus on the writing one hundred percent.  No, Kindle is not ideal (especially since I don't own one and have no desire to change that), but it does make the work available, which is the main goal.

The light outside continues to die.  My back, thanks to a run-in with the recycling container, is screaming at me for a hot soak, which I think should happen.  I want to forge on, though.  Get this novel up and available.  I'm finding it hard to concentrate, though, as my back is at a pain level of twelve and feels quite unlike its normal pain, which has become a hard friend over the past decade or so.

Maybe I'll soak soon.  Water as hot as humanly tolerable.  Jets on.  Muscles fighting to relax.  I'm at a good scene, however.  A scene where a legless man describes just what type of hell my protagonist is in for.  It's one of my favor encounters in the story.  It was also the part I had the hardest time writing.  Maybe I'll mull it over as my skin turns lobster red.  Or maybe I'll just press on ... and hope I can get out of bed in the morning.


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Abattoir: The World as Religion's Slaughterhouse

I long ago stopped arguing religion.  I put it into my personal dustbin and decided that debating the merits of organized religion was up there with debating the reality of Stephen King's Christine.  In other words: utterly pointless.  Fact won't change fate, and after a while I had no interest in trying.  I actually don't care about people's faith or lack of it.  Religion bothers me, however, when it starts to become policy.  When laws are made around religion, and groups are ostracized (or worse), is right when religion needs to be debated and dragged kicking and screaming into the era of rational thought and logical laws and policies.

Recently, some geriatric preacher predicted the end of the world in a proclamation that was like porno for believers.  He had predicted it something like four times before, and the last time the prediction didn't come true he claimed he had messed up the dates.  When the world didn't end on 5/21/11 he rationalized it away with the same lack of logic.  All well and good, except people slashed their kids throats, jumped from buildings and quit jobs and left families because some AARP reject said the end was here.

It's a claim that's been made time and time again.  The end is nigh.  On X date the world will end.  A book tells us so.  A vision tells us so.  Some guy in a bad suit said it, so it must be true.  Honestly, I don't care if people believe this crap.  Some guy jumps off a building because of the random mumblings of someone he doesn't even know, well, the world is probably better off without him.  Kids getting their throats slit is horrible and tragic, but since we, as a society, has agreed that such a strong faith is a reasonable thing .... How can you expect any less?

When people have faith (a belief) in something they can't prove exists, you run into these situations.  I think faith can be a powerful thing.  It does lead to good sometimes.  It gets people through hard times.  It also makes them susceptible to behavior that is utterly insane to the rational-minded.  You believe one crazy thing, you'll easily fall for another, and once you are lock-step in the psychotic swirl, you accept the values of that swirl all the more readily.  You believe in God, you start to believe you can be punished for certain thoughts or behavior.  You start to believe that, you start to believe a society can be punished.  You start to believe that, and then you start to believe you don't want to be around for that punishment.  You start to believe that, and slitting your kid's throat so that they won't have to around for it, either, seems humane.  That is logical, and it makes perfect sense ... if you follow a flawed path.  It won't happen to everyone (not everyone is a leader, but the majority of the population are followers and even apologists), but it happens to enough people.  Faith leaves the door open, and anything can get in.  Just ask the followers of Charles Manson.  They were nuts, right?  How does that differ from any other religion?  The amount of bloodshed?  Check your history.  The fact that they were hippies?  Check your idols.  The fact that Manson said the end was coming and tried to hasten it along?  Yeah, religion never did that.

Again, I avoid arguing religion.  I don't care that people have faith.  I'm actually happy that a lot of people do.  It keeps some of the rabble under control.  If the faith turns their lives into their own personal abattoir, then that's fine with me, too.  If it allows them to build houses in Mexico, that's just as good.  Once it starts to invade my life, though, I start to take it a little personally.

Come October, the new end of the world, we'll probably see much the same thing.  The creepy old preacher from Poltergeist 2 will be spouting his nonsense.  The people who fell for it last time will fall for it again.  More people will quit their jobs.  More people will deplete their savings.  And more moms will slit the throats of their young.  It's all pretty harmless, right?  Yeah.  Until they get their hands on some nerve gas and decide to speed things along ...


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