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? 


Mandatory FTC Disclaimer: Clicking on a link may make me rich.

A Different Kind of Hate -- Newt Gingrich

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occupy Eureka Has Bombs(?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Pregnant Demon Thing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                        

Lunchtime Blues

School days ...

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

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



Elementary school was WAY better than high school.

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


High school failed Russell Williams

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

Walmart Creeps On In

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

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

Yawn.

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

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

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

Keyword Search Fun Time Again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then we were taken to task.

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

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

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

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

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

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