Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
I am reading the bush dyslexicon; basically rails against Bush, with no compunction at all about repeating the more scurrilous tidbits. W is dum, there is no doubt about that. He is also smart in some ways... like a slick salesman, but mostly he is a cheerleader and a liar and a petty bigot who feels blessed by god to lead the entire known universe and no matter how we turn off the tv when his evil face pops onto the screen, protest, or even vote, this boof is now representing the fucking free world.
The prof. who wrote the book I am reading tries to distance himself from the humorists who play bush like a fool, a benign, hapless innocent, like Homer. He is certainly the Homer of presidents. This book basically says that he doesn¢t compare to the other presidents in terms of skill, memory, compassion, and all around intelligence. He is the rich boy psychopath; only his god can judge him, not petty human beings. This is the same thinking that made his father practically lead Iran contra (by his own admission, he was the most informed about the mission, though he later changed to ¡disremembering¢ the events, when time came to pay the piper... you know rich people, they seldom have to pay the piper; most of the time in life, piper¢s can be paid off with money, especially if you are a rich celebrity murderer or child fucker, of course (massah jackoffyoursons childish ways come to mind, and the for all intents and purposes almost (and only almost) noble slaughter by Robert Blake of his ¡Polaroid shots in the mail to lonely bachelors¢ kind of slut wife, who was obviously going to be a terrible influence on the kids life. I guess she was known for going up to celebrities and asking them for a signature, and when they said yes, she would say, "Can you sign that with sperm in my cunt??" Or so I am convinced not so much by evidence, so much as whimsy).
Back to the book, the bush dyslexicon. I can¢t really recommend this book as a fun read. It is not fun, not the hundredth time the president sounds like an evil maniac because of some slip of his always stumbling tongue . . . Like the writer warns ya early on, this book is a political statement in a political world, a comment on the of truth in a media where a few catch phrases can statistically raise one¢s chances of election much more so than laying out an actual policy.
Language is how we tell others what we are, how we see the world, what we feel is right and wrong. A president should be more precise and better read, though not for the childish reasons the w thinks, which is "to quote back at them bastards," but for something that he precisely does not have because of his aversion to thinking and reading at the same time -- a soul softened by the empathy that leads men to true greatness..
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
My neighbor thinks he is from outer space....
We were sitting in his dim apartment, in the middle of the afternoon, me on his black leather couch and him on a folding lounge chair striped yellow and white. Mitch was drunk. He has dark pouches under his eyes, skinny as a rail, his face always gloomy and ethereally white under his dark black hair. His eyes are the blue of wolves and huskies, not human. They lit up as he held a lighter over a bong and pulled in a hit.
?Man, your eyes are not human. ?
?Oh, yea? I made a few mistakes when I was putting together this human.? His voice is quiet and has no modulation at all, which does make him speak in a way that is other-worldly.
?Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Frankenfuckingstein.?
?You are the most bitter human I have met.?
?Thank you.?
? If I was visible in this room, in my at rest form, I would look like a sliver of light. You wouldn¢t notice me.?
?Glad ya grew some flesh, then, I guess.?
?You would be surprised by? There are aliens all around us all the time. You either can¢t see them, or don¢t notice them as anything out of the ordinary.?
I remembered something about scientology and thirty aliens being in all humans. ?So, you¢re a scientologist then, that type of alien. The kind who pays thousands and thousands of dollars to blank eyed fools so they can hypnotize you all good and meaningful into a little made up life all your own, shielded from all facts, and all that nasty reality,¢ ?Shit, no? I don¢t expect you to believe this. In fact, I would think less of you if you did.?
This sounded too sane to be coming from a man who had just told me he was an
alien. Figuring he was going to let me in on the joke any second, I added, ?So what¢s your mission here? To drink a lot and smoke weed, maybe get into some Nugent??
?I wish I had a mission. That would be fun.?
?So you crash landed??
?No? there is no? I¢m actually a sliver of something that would look like light to you. We don¢t use ships. No one does, except, as far as I know, you humans. I made this human after studying mammals for a few minutes and then I grew the flesh. A long time ago.?
?What, like millions of years ago??
?You expect too much from aliens.?
?Yea, aliens and women, both.?
?I¢m forty nine and three quarters old.?
?Oh.?
?You have any more questions??
?Uh . . . do you eat humans?? I started laughing, but his face just kept the odd stillness and no inflections crept into his words to reveal a deeper current of moods.
?No. I hate discussing it. The people who believe me are often? odd.?
?I¢ll bet they are. I¢d leave this fucking second if you were serious.?
?No, you know I¢m serious. You just want me to be insane. That will require less effort on your part.?
?Yeah, well you got that right. You really believe this shit??
?It¢s not a question of belief, just what is.?
?To you, maybe? the rest of us are pretty unconvinced, okay?? I stood up and stretched. ?So, you do any miracles??
?No miracles.?
?How about some magic trick? You got to offer people some proof that you are an alien. No one is just going to believe you, except, like you said, the nuts.?
?And people in cults. They are easy to convince.?
?
End
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
?Man, your eyes are not human. ?
?Oh, yea? I made a few mistakes when I was putting together this human.? His voice is quiet and has no modulation at all, which does make him speak in a way that is other-worldly.
?Oh, well, that makes perfect sense. Frankenfuckingstein.?
?You are the most bitter human I have met.?
?Thank you.?
? If I was visible in this room, in my at rest form, I would look like a sliver of light. You wouldn¢t notice me.?
?Glad ya grew some flesh, then, I guess.?
?You would be surprised by? There are aliens all around us all the time. You either can¢t see them, or don¢t notice them as anything out of the ordinary.?
I remembered something about scientology and thirty aliens being in all humans. ?So, you¢re a scientologist then, that type of alien. The kind who pays thousands and thousands of dollars to blank eyed fools so they can hypnotize you all good and meaningful into a little made up life all your own, shielded from all facts, and all that nasty reality,¢ ?Shit, no? I don¢t expect you to believe this. In fact, I would think less of you if you did.?
This sounded too sane to be coming from a man who had just told me he was an
alien. Figuring he was going to let me in on the joke any second, I added, ?So what¢s your mission here? To drink a lot and smoke weed, maybe get into some Nugent??
?I wish I had a mission. That would be fun.?
?So you crash landed??
?No? there is no? I¢m actually a sliver of something that would look like light to you. We don¢t use ships. No one does, except, as far as I know, you humans. I made this human after studying mammals for a few minutes and then I grew the flesh. A long time ago.?
?What, like millions of years ago??
?You expect too much from aliens.?
?Yea, aliens and women, both.?
?I¢m forty nine and three quarters old.?
?Oh.?
?You have any more questions??
?Uh . . . do you eat humans?? I started laughing, but his face just kept the odd stillness and no inflections crept into his words to reveal a deeper current of moods.
?No. I hate discussing it. The people who believe me are often? odd.?
?I¢ll bet they are. I¢d leave this fucking second if you were serious.?
?No, you know I¢m serious. You just want me to be insane. That will require less effort on your part.?
?Yeah, well you got that right. You really believe this shit??
?It¢s not a question of belief, just what is.?
?To you, maybe? the rest of us are pretty unconvinced, okay?? I stood up and stretched. ?So, you do any miracles??
?No miracles.?
?How about some magic trick? You got to offer people some proof that you are an alien. No one is just going to believe you, except, like you said, the nuts.?
?And people in cults. They are easy to convince.?
?
End
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
The w spent the hour before the weekly briefing thinking about ways to get back at what he thought of as, Them damn quoters. He hated people who used quotes more than anything else that he could just then think of that pissed him off. As soon as Cheney and the others sat down in their chairs, he opened his official writing pad, the one he had put the presidential seal all over both sides of the blue cover, and read, Here is the damned problem, you seee? Quoters. Those bastards who think it is cool and learned to memorize some damn passages. Next time I am talking to some bastard head of some bastard state, and they throw a quote out at me, I want to be able to quote right back at these bastards. Quotes? Yea, quotes, damn them. They¢re like snapping some guys ass with a towel in the shower. You got to fight sting with sting in a situation like that, and I say so with, do not forget, the full force of the frigging army, of the states of united America.
Sir, umm, not to beat a dead horse, but I have to say again, it is, The United States Of America?
What I say, dammit!
States of the united America.
Is that one of them god damn hand held phones?
Yes, sir. I can play this back to you, when you deny? well, when we discuss this.
Goddamnit, give me that? The W pointed down at the recorder, his face showing a look of disgust he usually reserved for enemies of state.
Sir, it¢s got a lot of notes on there.
Are you refusing a direct order from the commander and chief, which is an act of high treason and I have read recently, I can have any body shot, if shotting is needed.
What?
He can do it.? Cheney barked out from the largest chair in the room, He can have you dead, now. I¢ll do it. Strangle your ass. Don¢t test me, I read a few books about Vietnam.
Vietnam, huh? The W interjected. He stood up and walked over to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and in a voice which the W considered heavy, he told the gathering, I¢m been thinking maybe I¢m, uh, yeah, you know, having flash backs to Vietnam.
The group of suited men sitting around the table all looked up from their notes and computers. W¢s words had stunned the assembly into silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak, since none of them had actually been in any wars, though all had profited heartily in some way from them in the past, and actually going to vietnam was not a topic any of them liked being discussed. Yea, it¢s hell. The W added. Pure hell.
The Cheney, as he thought of himself, finally had to speak up, Sir, I . . . didn¢t know you were in Nam? The Cheney asked him in a very wary voice, as he silently went over in his mind the plan he had to assassinate the w and take control, should the w ever get too insane to handle. He had been watching for signs of this dementia since he entered the oval office, always prepared for his chance to take control? he once wrote in one of his secret journals that he had masterbated to the thought, much to the chagrin of his ¡not often enough for her tastes¢ serviced wife.
Yea, the W told them, We¢ll just see. I think I was in Vietnam, whether I remember it or not. I was drunk a lot, probably doing other shit, like doobie smoking, toot, whatever the hell they had over there to get a good one on, you know?
A General to the W¢s right also had a plan to get rid of the president, though only in the case of that being absolutely necessary and his wife agrees. His wife had forced him to agree to the last part, one night after he told her about the plan. He got off on taking orders from her while she vacated her bladder over his feet, and since they actually both enjoyed this experience, they felt like they were meant for each other. The general could not be happier, and wanted to hold on to that woman at all costs? and he was pretty sure the w would go crazy, and cheney and the others above him on that oh so short chain of command who get unfortunately bombed by some crazy arab kids he was keeping in a van out back of the local ROTC building, all hopped up on coke and meth and chanting death to America pig breathed infidel buts. He put his hand on the but of his gun and felt a tinge of electricity cross through his right testicle. ?
Mr. President, uh,, mean. W you were not, according to existing records, in Vietnam. However should you wish to have such paperwork delivered to your office, that can be arranged asap, Sir. Dammmit, I forgot to say sir all those times before this? so, here, let me just say, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir.
I think you missed one, hoss.
Uhmm, yes, mr. president sir. Sir.
Now, as far as my time in the jungles of that hot hell. Remember them jackets that said something like, I been to Vietnam, so hell ain¢t so bad. Something to hell like that. Get me one of those. A couple, for when I spill stuff. My time in those dear, forgivingly jungle hostels. Eatin, rats. Probably. Everything is classified about this topic, all need to know. I was doing secret fucking missions. Nobody used. Hell, I had a double that filled in for me here.
Uhm, sir, is this a joke?
Are you saying Viet-fucking-nam was a joke?
Well, no?
W. The w. I was one mother fucker over there. Hell, I may have killed some babies or something when I was drunk. Man, I could tell stories, and I will. I got me a source feeding me the true stuff, shit you guys don¢t even know. That¢s what it¢s like to be the president of only the whole free fucking world!!
Cheney put down his reading material, the latest tv guide, and asked, Who told this to you, sir?
One of them CIA guys.
Which one, sir?
They all look the same. I have told you that so many damn times, Dick.
Sir, it is possible that someone has played a trick on you.
Cheney, listen, I can rewrite history, right? Like we talked about. So, why not this too? Make them believe goddamn it, and make it a law that no one can question this story. You know, send some boys over and kick some journalistic ass, or refuse somebody to some damn dance or something, whatever you have to do.
So, you made up the CIA agent?
I have no comment on that matter at this time.
The W looked down at the hand held recorder and remembered that he was going to smash the damn thing if anyone used it to correct him again? without that evidence, he could just deny whatever they said he said, like he always did. Give me that goddamn thing?
Sir, I have a lot of notes on that recorder. Please?
I just want to look at it.
The owner of the offending recorder turned to Cheney, Dick, please?
He just wants to look at it. Cheney told him with a smile that he liked to think of as classic chaney, which he had practiced for what would amount to almost six and a half year of his life.
He said that before and, well, he made that too classified to discuss, didn¢t he?
That did not happen.
W¢s cry was soon followed by a chorus of denial from all around the table. Never happened, and, That man is breaking a law by bringing that up, and other variations of groveling words.
Give me that piece of junk.
Okay.
The W bounces the hand held recorder on his palm, watches the tiny black tape spin around inside as he talks, This damn thing has caused me enough trouble. Trouble. Trouble is sitting here too damn long. The recorder falls out his hand and onto the table as he motions toward the door, I¢m going to go someplace else now. And do some president stuff.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Sir, umm, not to beat a dead horse, but I have to say again, it is, The United States Of America?
What I say, dammit!
States of the united America.
Is that one of them god damn hand held phones?
Yes, sir. I can play this back to you, when you deny? well, when we discuss this.
Goddamnit, give me that? The W pointed down at the recorder, his face showing a look of disgust he usually reserved for enemies of state.
Sir, it¢s got a lot of notes on there.
Are you refusing a direct order from the commander and chief, which is an act of high treason and I have read recently, I can have any body shot, if shotting is needed.
What?
He can do it.? Cheney barked out from the largest chair in the room, He can have you dead, now. I¢ll do it. Strangle your ass. Don¢t test me, I read a few books about Vietnam.
Vietnam, huh? The W interjected. He stood up and walked over to the window, clasped his hands behind his back, and in a voice which the W considered heavy, he told the gathering, I¢m been thinking maybe I¢m, uh, yeah, you know, having flash backs to Vietnam.
The group of suited men sitting around the table all looked up from their notes and computers. W¢s words had stunned the assembly into silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak, since none of them had actually been in any wars, though all had profited heartily in some way from them in the past, and actually going to vietnam was not a topic any of them liked being discussed. Yea, it¢s hell. The W added. Pure hell.
The Cheney, as he thought of himself, finally had to speak up, Sir, I . . . didn¢t know you were in Nam? The Cheney asked him in a very wary voice, as he silently went over in his mind the plan he had to assassinate the w and take control, should the w ever get too insane to handle. He had been watching for signs of this dementia since he entered the oval office, always prepared for his chance to take control? he once wrote in one of his secret journals that he had masterbated to the thought, much to the chagrin of his ¡not often enough for her tastes¢ serviced wife.
Yea, the W told them, We¢ll just see. I think I was in Vietnam, whether I remember it or not. I was drunk a lot, probably doing other shit, like doobie smoking, toot, whatever the hell they had over there to get a good one on, you know?
A General to the W¢s right also had a plan to get rid of the president, though only in the case of that being absolutely necessary and his wife agrees. His wife had forced him to agree to the last part, one night after he told her about the plan. He got off on taking orders from her while she vacated her bladder over his feet, and since they actually both enjoyed this experience, they felt like they were meant for each other. The general could not be happier, and wanted to hold on to that woman at all costs? and he was pretty sure the w would go crazy, and cheney and the others above him on that oh so short chain of command who get unfortunately bombed by some crazy arab kids he was keeping in a van out back of the local ROTC building, all hopped up on coke and meth and chanting death to America pig breathed infidel buts. He put his hand on the but of his gun and felt a tinge of electricity cross through his right testicle. ?
Mr. President, uh,, mean. W you were not, according to existing records, in Vietnam. However should you wish to have such paperwork delivered to your office, that can be arranged asap, Sir. Dammmit, I forgot to say sir all those times before this? so, here, let me just say, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir, sir.
I think you missed one, hoss.
Uhmm, yes, mr. president sir. Sir.
Now, as far as my time in the jungles of that hot hell. Remember them jackets that said something like, I been to Vietnam, so hell ain¢t so bad. Something to hell like that. Get me one of those. A couple, for when I spill stuff. My time in those dear, forgivingly jungle hostels. Eatin, rats. Probably. Everything is classified about this topic, all need to know. I was doing secret fucking missions. Nobody used. Hell, I had a double that filled in for me here.
Uhm, sir, is this a joke?
Are you saying Viet-fucking-nam was a joke?
Well, no?
W. The w. I was one mother fucker over there. Hell, I may have killed some babies or something when I was drunk. Man, I could tell stories, and I will. I got me a source feeding me the true stuff, shit you guys don¢t even know. That¢s what it¢s like to be the president of only the whole free fucking world!!
Cheney put down his reading material, the latest tv guide, and asked, Who told this to you, sir?
One of them CIA guys.
Which one, sir?
They all look the same. I have told you that so many damn times, Dick.
Sir, it is possible that someone has played a trick on you.
Cheney, listen, I can rewrite history, right? Like we talked about. So, why not this too? Make them believe goddamn it, and make it a law that no one can question this story. You know, send some boys over and kick some journalistic ass, or refuse somebody to some damn dance or something, whatever you have to do.
So, you made up the CIA agent?
I have no comment on that matter at this time.
The W looked down at the hand held recorder and remembered that he was going to smash the damn thing if anyone used it to correct him again? without that evidence, he could just deny whatever they said he said, like he always did. Give me that goddamn thing?
Sir, I have a lot of notes on that recorder. Please?
I just want to look at it.
The owner of the offending recorder turned to Cheney, Dick, please?
He just wants to look at it. Cheney told him with a smile that he liked to think of as classic chaney, which he had practiced for what would amount to almost six and a half year of his life.
He said that before and, well, he made that too classified to discuss, didn¢t he?
That did not happen.
W¢s cry was soon followed by a chorus of denial from all around the table. Never happened, and, That man is breaking a law by bringing that up, and other variations of groveling words.
Give me that piece of junk.
Okay.
The W bounces the hand held recorder on his palm, watches the tiny black tape spin around inside as he talks, This damn thing has caused me enough trouble. Trouble. Trouble is sitting here too damn long. The recorder falls out his hand and onto the table as he motions toward the door, I¢m going to go someplace else now. And do some president stuff.
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
the problem with iraq and afganistan
Everyone wants to blow up the world and go to heaven, but no one wants to get all sweaty spending the time it takes to rebuild... that is too much like work.
naming a hamster general sniggly poo does not
in any way indicate that I am a pussy fag dude (not that there is anything wrong with that, all must wearily add in this post seinfeld era to remind the silent masses that I am not a rascist/sexist or pianist). Recent sources, and these are wombat hating folk who have their priorities straight as far as what's up with those damn marsupials, have suggested that I should name the hamsters killer or cutter or shooter or tank gun or gorgeous, snooty woman or any number of horrifying things.... right off the bat. At birth. Just label them a killer.
The more astute among you will have already realized that this would miss the all too crucial religous dupping phase. First, they must love god and cage, then I will threaten that love, and make them feel like they have to live up to impossible, psychoisis inducing levels of acheivements (think the Japanese school system), or lose that love... then, I will make all the religous rules so easy that they can follow all of them. This will lull them into a renaissance, a peaceful period where their arts, such as they are (scratching lines on stuff), and their pursuit of love, will be all they need concern themselves with. This joyous period will be why they fight. I will tell them that now that they have made peace with god, some petty human was fucking with them. They figure after god, what can a human be, right? I'm almost positive they will think this.
Anyways, I will get them to fight by convincing them that they are protecting their way of life. Just like the rich people tell the kids dying now. Thing is of course, the hamsters will secretly be protecting only my way of life, while their lives will just be gone. This is how things work in capatilism, where the leaders sending kids to die, like I say, have never been to war and never think of sending their kids into the military like some damn peasent.
So you can see, for my plan to proceed along the tried and true lines, I have to first convince them to love, and then smash that love into little thorny, jagged, cutting peices.
So, this explains the names...
TROOP UPDATE.
I am now showing the hamsters zombie movies, and have convinced them that this is what happens to humans when they die.... It was so easy. I just popped in ten hours of various George Romero zombie flicks. Lately, I have been telling them that if they understand what I want them to do, they should just start humping. A good fifty percent of them are with me on most of the lectures... even higher when I soak their pellets in coffee. You should see how fast their hips move with a good caffienne buzz.
I have also been trying to teach Ruby Dog to be an ally of the Hamster Army, rather than the most probable source of all of their deaths. I tried tying her up just out of reach of the hamsters, but then one of them, Lloyd, had to run over and check out Ruby Dog. The wily siberian husker do was acting like she could care less as the little brown and white fuster moved over to within reach of her leash. I thought things were going great, in fact, until Ruby Dog suddenly lunged down on the surpised rodent, scooped the damn thing up, took a couple kill bites and swallowed.
Afterwards, I told that fleabot, "Listen, you have to learn to love hamsters, dog. I mean, why can't we alll just get along. Some black guy said that after some white cops beat him up, and it was pretty cool until he kept getting busted over and over after taking all of the money he made off of his civil suite and basically driving around drunk for a couple years, mouthing off to cops... until some more kicked his ass and threw him into prison... or something like that, about an Irish guy... I'm just unsure... and too lazy to look it up."
Ruby looked at me like, "hey, if you are not going to look it up, I am not going to trust you." I have seen that look before from her during many of my lectures on military tactics, good hygeine, and the dangers of wombats...
M., in her silly world, thinks Ruby dog is merely yawning. But, well.... Like I wrote in the last update on my progress toward world dominatrix, or Paintopia (my empire will be named in due time, and will be burned into your mind with the pain of fire), M. is being kept in the dark about these new hamsters. I am sure she would just find some reason to bitch about me spending the electric and gas bill on hamsters. We'll get all that shit for free when I take over, anyways.
you could send a couple hamsters, for dog's sake... if you don't, I will hunt you down. Don't fucking think I won't.
The more astute among you will have already realized that this would miss the all too crucial religous dupping phase. First, they must love god and cage, then I will threaten that love, and make them feel like they have to live up to impossible, psychoisis inducing levels of acheivements (think the Japanese school system), or lose that love... then, I will make all the religous rules so easy that they can follow all of them. This will lull them into a renaissance, a peaceful period where their arts, such as they are (scratching lines on stuff), and their pursuit of love, will be all they need concern themselves with. This joyous period will be why they fight. I will tell them that now that they have made peace with god, some petty human was fucking with them. They figure after god, what can a human be, right? I'm almost positive they will think this.
Anyways, I will get them to fight by convincing them that they are protecting their way of life. Just like the rich people tell the kids dying now. Thing is of course, the hamsters will secretly be protecting only my way of life, while their lives will just be gone. This is how things work in capatilism, where the leaders sending kids to die, like I say, have never been to war and never think of sending their kids into the military like some damn peasent.
So you can see, for my plan to proceed along the tried and true lines, I have to first convince them to love, and then smash that love into little thorny, jagged, cutting peices.
So, this explains the names...
TROOP UPDATE.
I am now showing the hamsters zombie movies, and have convinced them that this is what happens to humans when they die.... It was so easy. I just popped in ten hours of various George Romero zombie flicks. Lately, I have been telling them that if they understand what I want them to do, they should just start humping. A good fifty percent of them are with me on most of the lectures... even higher when I soak their pellets in coffee. You should see how fast their hips move with a good caffienne buzz.
I have also been trying to teach Ruby Dog to be an ally of the Hamster Army, rather than the most probable source of all of their deaths. I tried tying her up just out of reach of the hamsters, but then one of them, Lloyd, had to run over and check out Ruby Dog. The wily siberian husker do was acting like she could care less as the little brown and white fuster moved over to within reach of her leash. I thought things were going great, in fact, until Ruby Dog suddenly lunged down on the surpised rodent, scooped the damn thing up, took a couple kill bites and swallowed.
Afterwards, I told that fleabot, "Listen, you have to learn to love hamsters, dog. I mean, why can't we alll just get along. Some black guy said that after some white cops beat him up, and it was pretty cool until he kept getting busted over and over after taking all of the money he made off of his civil suite and basically driving around drunk for a couple years, mouthing off to cops... until some more kicked his ass and threw him into prison... or something like that, about an Irish guy... I'm just unsure... and too lazy to look it up."
Ruby looked at me like, "hey, if you are not going to look it up, I am not going to trust you." I have seen that look before from her during many of my lectures on military tactics, good hygeine, and the dangers of wombats...
M., in her silly world, thinks Ruby dog is merely yawning. But, well.... Like I wrote in the last update on my progress toward world dominatrix, or Paintopia (my empire will be named in due time, and will be burned into your mind with the pain of fire), M. is being kept in the dark about these new hamsters. I am sure she would just find some reason to bitch about me spending the electric and gas bill on hamsters. We'll get all that shit for free when I take over, anyways.
you could send a couple hamsters, for dog's sake... if you don't, I will hunt you down. Don't fucking think I won't.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
THE RETURN OF THE MIGHTY HAMSTER ARMY!!
They will be called, 'The Mighty Beat Them To Pisses And Twitches Hamster Army,' as soon as I can figure out how to fit that on the breast of their little green field jackets. You better be afraid of them.... I tell ya.... cause they are going to tear your little world apart.
Yes, the mighty beat them to pisses and twitches hamster army is once more on the move. All is top secret at this point, and that of course means that if M. finds out about the hamsters, all is lost... the free world, everything, will just go down the crapper. I have had no luck convincing M. of the urgency of my mission, damn nay sayer she is, so I have no choice but to lie to her, in the interest of security here at the elves attic. She won't miss those collectible toys that I had to throw out until long after the army I am raising there has taken over the world and promptly replaced her toys with even better ones... she'll see this is all for her benefit in the end, or I would not be trying to be all tricky with her about the army. I am not good at tricking her, to be honest, and am surprised I have held out the four days it has taken my new hamsters to be trained.
I am expecting that any day now I will be contacted by various intelligence agencies wishing to use the trained minds of my hamster demolition squads to start checking out tunnels and caves for the scardy-ass human soldiers. These babies will die for the cause, and the news does not do any body counts on hamsters, so there will be no reason for the american public to have decide how many of their lower middle class kids they will trade to get the job done? ((Unfortunatly for those lower middle class kids, the guys deciding how many of them will die have never been to war, and would not think of allowing their children to actually fight, like some damn peasent...)).
Not that I am anti war... in fact, war gives me a chance to finally take the american government for a change, rather than the usual situation where I bitch and moan for a lubricant that just ain't coming.... by renting out some soldiers.
Half the people in the war zone are civilians. So why not at least half the hamsters? I am sure they are using hamsters now, though I know there is a place for mine, who will prove much more cost effective, but more importantly, will include bribes and goodies for all concerned in the decision to hire my army.
I have spent the day making them watch old epsiodes of Black Sheep Squadron, to instill in them a sense of comradership. I am pretty sure it is working, because they are humping the hell out of each other. M. would probably be quick to point out that the hamsters hump each other just as hard to the news caste, and indeed the television in their storage space need hardly be on for them to break out into prolonged humps. . . but I know, dammit, that they are being shaped into a fighting force by the subliminal messages in Black Sheep Squadron.
Tommorrow, I plan on teaching them advanced weaponry, by showing them all twenty seven Rambo movies, even the one where he converts to being a deer and marries Bambi in the first inner-species gay marriage.
I fear them myselves sometimes. I mean, if I can channel all the energy they put into humping into fighting, no one in this apartment building will be safe....maybe the whole town would go up in terrorist hamster flames? I hope I can control them, for all of your sake...
Time to go back down and change the posters in the storage bin. I put up cute hamster pictures that I find on the net, and shots of people being blown up with bombs and shooting guns and using all sorts of kill kill weapons (including a light saber, which will help them later on, when I start the religious lectures that will change them from an unruly fighting force of crazy but dedicated individuals who would by god die for their right to party, into a bunch of drones who follow my every command, even unto... death; I am using The Force from star wars as their primary god, because it'll be funny, but also, of course, so that everyone else will know it is a joke religion, and thus I won't have to worry about starting another damn religion... I hate when that happens).
I plan on hiring someone to start doing genetic experiments on these hamsters, as soon as I figure out how to save money and smoke weed. . . We will of courses put together a super hamster, that will be effective against maybe even smaller cats? That could take months, I suppose. In a year, I think, we can get one that is half as big as a human, with claws bigger than our heads. I'll of course have to do a search on this genetic engineering stuff at least once before declaring myself an authority... just fucking kidding. .. I ain't doing no geek searches.
General Sniggly Poo the Ninth is now in charge of the army. Like the others, I imagine he will eventually want his name changed to something that strikes fear in the hearts of all mammals (with the exception of certain breeds dogs, for some reason). I am thinking General Bloody Eviscerator Sniggly Poo, but the decision is of course his... They are just so cute when they are tiny that I can't help giving them these baby names. Damn my feminine side!!!
Well, I imagine you are pretty scared right now, huh? I am sorry to have once again made you readers piss yourself in terror. I am done, so go clean up, for dog's sake you stink!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Yes, the mighty beat them to pisses and twitches hamster army is once more on the move. All is top secret at this point, and that of course means that if M. finds out about the hamsters, all is lost... the free world, everything, will just go down the crapper. I have had no luck convincing M. of the urgency of my mission, damn nay sayer she is, so I have no choice but to lie to her, in the interest of security here at the elves attic. She won't miss those collectible toys that I had to throw out until long after the army I am raising there has taken over the world and promptly replaced her toys with even better ones... she'll see this is all for her benefit in the end, or I would not be trying to be all tricky with her about the army. I am not good at tricking her, to be honest, and am surprised I have held out the four days it has taken my new hamsters to be trained.
I am expecting that any day now I will be contacted by various intelligence agencies wishing to use the trained minds of my hamster demolition squads to start checking out tunnels and caves for the scardy-ass human soldiers. These babies will die for the cause, and the news does not do any body counts on hamsters, so there will be no reason for the american public to have decide how many of their lower middle class kids they will trade to get the job done? ((Unfortunatly for those lower middle class kids, the guys deciding how many of them will die have never been to war, and would not think of allowing their children to actually fight, like some damn peasent...)).
Not that I am anti war... in fact, war gives me a chance to finally take the american government for a change, rather than the usual situation where I bitch and moan for a lubricant that just ain't coming.... by renting out some soldiers.
Half the people in the war zone are civilians. So why not at least half the hamsters? I am sure they are using hamsters now, though I know there is a place for mine, who will prove much more cost effective, but more importantly, will include bribes and goodies for all concerned in the decision to hire my army.
I have spent the day making them watch old epsiodes of Black Sheep Squadron, to instill in them a sense of comradership. I am pretty sure it is working, because they are humping the hell out of each other. M. would probably be quick to point out that the hamsters hump each other just as hard to the news caste, and indeed the television in their storage space need hardly be on for them to break out into prolonged humps. . . but I know, dammit, that they are being shaped into a fighting force by the subliminal messages in Black Sheep Squadron.
Tommorrow, I plan on teaching them advanced weaponry, by showing them all twenty seven Rambo movies, even the one where he converts to being a deer and marries Bambi in the first inner-species gay marriage.
I fear them myselves sometimes. I mean, if I can channel all the energy they put into humping into fighting, no one in this apartment building will be safe....maybe the whole town would go up in terrorist hamster flames? I hope I can control them, for all of your sake...
Time to go back down and change the posters in the storage bin. I put up cute hamster pictures that I find on the net, and shots of people being blown up with bombs and shooting guns and using all sorts of kill kill weapons (including a light saber, which will help them later on, when I start the religious lectures that will change them from an unruly fighting force of crazy but dedicated individuals who would by god die for their right to party, into a bunch of drones who follow my every command, even unto... death; I am using The Force from star wars as their primary god, because it'll be funny, but also, of course, so that everyone else will know it is a joke religion, and thus I won't have to worry about starting another damn religion... I hate when that happens).
I plan on hiring someone to start doing genetic experiments on these hamsters, as soon as I figure out how to save money and smoke weed. . . We will of courses put together a super hamster, that will be effective against maybe even smaller cats? That could take months, I suppose. In a year, I think, we can get one that is half as big as a human, with claws bigger than our heads. I'll of course have to do a search on this genetic engineering stuff at least once before declaring myself an authority... just fucking kidding. .. I ain't doing no geek searches.
General Sniggly Poo the Ninth is now in charge of the army. Like the others, I imagine he will eventually want his name changed to something that strikes fear in the hearts of all mammals (with the exception of certain breeds dogs, for some reason). I am thinking General Bloody Eviscerator Sniggly Poo, but the decision is of course his... They are just so cute when they are tiny that I can't help giving them these baby names. Damn my feminine side!!!
Well, I imagine you are pretty scared right now, huh? I am sorry to have once again made you readers piss yourself in terror. I am done, so go clean up, for dog's sake you stink!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THE RETALIATOR
He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics, forcing them to go from celebrating a sign of the solidarity of civility in in all governments, to mourning their dead and drawing lines in the sand...
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics, forcing them to go from celebrating a sign of the solidarity of civility in in all governments, to mourning their dead and drawing lines in the sand...
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
+NEXT MONTH will be the time to start getting the new show together.
The Elves Attic Live, the series of literary readings that I was hosting at the Big Star Cafe, are sorely missed. I liked the people who showed up a lot, and the rush of being on stage getting laughs is pretty kicking. THe motivation to write comedy every week was good to experience, gave me a lot of laughs and forced me to expand my literary horizons a bit more.
Now, it is time to start again. Well, it will be as soon as we have finished this move, or at least have the work entailed done. I need to find a place first. You would think this would be harder than it is until you get into the game. Anyplace that does not have a show, wouldn't mind having one on their slow nights. They get free customers and a show. We don't ever want to charge for these shows. Period. I am not doing them for money.
I have a much better stable of writers and listeners at my behest than before this last reading, obvously. They will come if I ask, some to them all. And since the venue and a lot of people will be new, I can take out all the material I wrote last year, and organize it and read it again. I keep meaning to put together all the hamster jokes, essays, poems, etc... into a blog that can be more easily perused than this one. I need a website, but that involves more techie knowledge than I have at the moment... I will keep learning in this regard until the day I die, though, so...
Tonight we are going to another play, this one basically set around singing french songs from the twenties. As always, we were promised 'comp' tickets, and then for some reason ended up paying anyways. This happens all the time to me. I feel like we are being taken, even if we do get some kind of discount. And of course they are never plays that are at the top of my see list, merely the productions of people I vaguely know. Any play is worth seeing to me, in a way... I mean, this is why I live in a city... for the culture.
Now, it is time to start again. Well, it will be as soon as we have finished this move, or at least have the work entailed done. I need to find a place first. You would think this would be harder than it is until you get into the game. Anyplace that does not have a show, wouldn't mind having one on their slow nights. They get free customers and a show. We don't ever want to charge for these shows. Period. I am not doing them for money.
I have a much better stable of writers and listeners at my behest than before this last reading, obvously. They will come if I ask, some to them all. And since the venue and a lot of people will be new, I can take out all the material I wrote last year, and organize it and read it again. I keep meaning to put together all the hamster jokes, essays, poems, etc... into a blog that can be more easily perused than this one. I need a website, but that involves more techie knowledge than I have at the moment... I will keep learning in this regard until the day I die, though, so...
Tonight we are going to another play, this one basically set around singing french songs from the twenties. As always, we were promised 'comp' tickets, and then for some reason ended up paying anyways. This happens all the time to me. I feel like we are being taken, even if we do get some kind of discount. And of course they are never plays that are at the top of my see list, merely the productions of people I vaguely know. Any play is worth seeing to me, in a way... I mean, this is why I live in a city... for the culture.
blogger kidnaps, rapes and kills....
and no, it wasn't me... believe me, if I did a crime you would not hear about it on this blog, but I am no criminal. I simply feel what other people are feeling way too much to want them to feel horror or pain or anything bad if possible.
This is the difference between me and killers, of course. They lack the ability to relate to the pain they are causing in a normal manner. Instead, the pain of others registers in their mind as sexual stimulation.
I was watching the latest news last night of a psycho killer, with my usual interest... which is the interest of someone who really wants to know the enemies face. This beahvioral template is available to all humans, depending on the usual suspects -- environmental hells and chemical/physical anomalies; so there is going to always be these fucking freaks who should have been killed the first time they proved that they don't give a shit what other people are feeling... And so the monsters will go on being created; at least without total genetic engineering, which will start the day enough people can afford the procedure and thus make it profitable to capatilists, you can fucking bet.....
The idea of living without emotions sounds like a good way to be, in ways... to be unaffected by the horror, the horror... at times, during war and crime, people have to rise above.... the problem is one of lifes zillion fucking dark ironies, you cannot selectively cut off your emoitional life; it is all or nothing, and even then hardly complete. Anger and frustration simply refuse to leave, but happiness, love and other feelings that warm the heart disappear... cold hearted bastards need to be shot before they do another crime; prisoners do not deserve to be housed with killer rapists like this.
If they have proven, as they seemingly have, that pedophiles can be identified young and still fail to be rehabilitated, then why not shoot them? Anyone who has no compunction about rape and death is a dangerous defect (and no, I do not consider any other way of being born a human a defect, more an obstacle, and even the worst of them are not serious enough for this). In a prison population, an individual who causes great risks to others is marked for death. Same with China, and other countries where the government is run first and foremost for the masses, rather than a few business concerns and a lawyer class.
This freakiller I am writing about, very rambly on this buzzy saturday afternoon as I drink coffee, smoke peach flavored tobacco and green stickies, is too gross to be mentioned, let alone his website. I watched a news program on this bastard, and the quotes from his blog I read were enough to give me a heart ach. He as much as says he is a criminal, and a pedophile at that... and no one turned him in. He could have been stopped before he killed two adults and three children and kept a young girl as his sex slave. He was another one of those guys who the system has known well since he was sixteen and bound and raped a 14 year old boy.
I wonder if anyone read his blog? One would think a few people would have stumbled in, but who knows??? I register my blogs all over so people can find them. Maybe he didn't? Anyways, if I had come across his blog talking about pedophilia and getting away with crimes, I would have done all that is possible to protect the innocent from violence and rape. Like any adult would. Yet seemingly no one reported this sicko. I SURE AS HELL HOPE THEY DO NEXT TIME...
THAT IS UP TO YOU!!!!!!
This is the difference between me and killers, of course. They lack the ability to relate to the pain they are causing in a normal manner. Instead, the pain of others registers in their mind as sexual stimulation.
I was watching the latest news last night of a psycho killer, with my usual interest... which is the interest of someone who really wants to know the enemies face. This beahvioral template is available to all humans, depending on the usual suspects -- environmental hells and chemical/physical anomalies; so there is going to always be these fucking freaks who should have been killed the first time they proved that they don't give a shit what other people are feeling... And so the monsters will go on being created; at least without total genetic engineering, which will start the day enough people can afford the procedure and thus make it profitable to capatilists, you can fucking bet.....
The idea of living without emotions sounds like a good way to be, in ways... to be unaffected by the horror, the horror... at times, during war and crime, people have to rise above.... the problem is one of lifes zillion fucking dark ironies, you cannot selectively cut off your emoitional life; it is all or nothing, and even then hardly complete. Anger and frustration simply refuse to leave, but happiness, love and other feelings that warm the heart disappear... cold hearted bastards need to be shot before they do another crime; prisoners do not deserve to be housed with killer rapists like this.
If they have proven, as they seemingly have, that pedophiles can be identified young and still fail to be rehabilitated, then why not shoot them? Anyone who has no compunction about rape and death is a dangerous defect (and no, I do not consider any other way of being born a human a defect, more an obstacle, and even the worst of them are not serious enough for this). In a prison population, an individual who causes great risks to others is marked for death. Same with China, and other countries where the government is run first and foremost for the masses, rather than a few business concerns and a lawyer class.
This freakiller I am writing about, very rambly on this buzzy saturday afternoon as I drink coffee, smoke peach flavored tobacco and green stickies, is too gross to be mentioned, let alone his website. I watched a news program on this bastard, and the quotes from his blog I read were enough to give me a heart ach. He as much as says he is a criminal, and a pedophile at that... and no one turned him in. He could have been stopped before he killed two adults and three children and kept a young girl as his sex slave. He was another one of those guys who the system has known well since he was sixteen and bound and raped a 14 year old boy.
I wonder if anyone read his blog? One would think a few people would have stumbled in, but who knows??? I register my blogs all over so people can find them. Maybe he didn't? Anyways, if I had come across his blog talking about pedophilia and getting away with crimes, I would have done all that is possible to protect the innocent from violence and rape. Like any adult would. Yet seemingly no one reported this sicko. I SURE AS HELL HOPE THEY DO NEXT TIME...
THAT IS UP TO YOU!!!!!!
Friday, July 08, 2005
continuing my novel notes.
aldmo... made a rap album, that a producer from germany erased all the profanity off of and put in horns, and then sold copies at a christian music festival. This then took off, and Aldmo, who was just out of the Marines and wanting to do anything other than go straight -- he had conformed and did his duty and wanted to his own thing now, thank you very much. He had no money though, certainly not enough for weed and studio time. So, he went along with the german producer, and soon was a big hit on the christiam radio network in Germany. The record shot to number one on the first day out, and the next day the scandel broke. Sales for the second day were non-existent, as Christians across Germany pulled the vile cursing rap album fro their stores.
On the first night of his German toour, a good three weeks before he would be shown to be a fraud, a group of pentecostal kids, all seventeen and total virgins filled with pentup horniness because they were all so well brain washed into their weird little sect that they kept their genitals to themselves -- and indeed, touched them only while sleeping to the boys, and riding horses, in the case of two blonde twins, who could simply not helpthemselves after hours of gentle and rough clitorial rubbing from the soft yet still firm saddle horn. Aldmo was smoking as much weed as possible on the tour, and trying very hard not to talk. He was used to cussing all the time. Bitch, ho, nigger, cunt, fag.... he never knew when he was going to say a few choice words, and actually feared, with a paranoia that the pot he was always smoking made worse, that he would curse sometime in front of the microphone and the entire crowd of clean cut white Christians would just go apeshit and attack the stage and just tear him into little handfulls of red gunk...
The kids who would soon enough make up the 'Church Of Aldmo God Of Diamonds and Gold and Mercedes Esquire,' were in his dressing room before the show. None of them had smelled weed before, and keep mentioning that his american cigarette smelled different than theirs. He responded, "Yes, god knows I will stop this vile habit, but for now, the devils just got me a little bit."
"What do you mean, the devils got you a little bit?"
"I mean... well, like when you be thinking about some bi... baby doll girl, whatever... or you ladies start thinking about some beefy guy who makes your little rugs damp... Yea, then the devils just getting you a little bit. God don't mind so much, as long as you don't start listening to that little devil and following his advice. Not even god could get rid of the devil, so what the hell we doing thinking we can?"
"What's this mean, 'little rugs damp?"
"Oh, yea... In american, we say that women are like rugs... and uhm, they should be clean... and you know what I mean by clean?"
"Oh, yes... Do you have your own church?" A young girl with eyes as blue and clear as a wolves asked.
"No, oh no..." He replied,
That was all that was said before the concert, as Aldmo was cut off by his producer, and dragged rather reluctantly out onto the stage. The show was his worst ever. Wiuthout his curses, he kept forgoting the words... finally, he just started saying the word over and over in every song, for an entire half hour. The crowds frenzy seemed to grow with every jesus, until finally the christians were going all crazy in front of the stage and Aldmo had a vision... the crowds seemed to part for a second and become a perfect dollar sign. He started noticing the t shirts being sold and the pop and all the people who had bought fifty dollar tickets to see a bunch of unknown christian singers. The german kids who won the contest were entranced even more than the other kids... the mistake their contact high from aldmo's weed as a religion. In the states, Aldmo then has to convince his cult that the pot smell is special incense, like Christ burned... Christs burning of incense is in fact a tenant in the scriptures of the first unitied bible bible vhurch of of admo cornelius muhammed Esq.
Aldmo just goes by the name al with most people, but the cult always calls him by his full name. EVEN during severe crises, which drives aldmo and others around batty at least once in the book.
Aldmo at first tries to get rid of his groupies, but they keep following him. He then finds out they have been excummunicated for hearing his music. They have no where to go... since aldmo is more or less a responsible guy, and his years in the marines have him thinking he is something of an action hero (he broke up a gang fight once and had built the scene into mental basis for tales of his dangerous physical prowess,.
Okay, this is aldmo.... or at least his back story. This is the story that brings him to the action; all shit that happened before the book. The story could be told by artmo, to johnny pain, who is writing a story about him, which he pretends will be a tract that the church can use, though it is really an expose.
The story... scenes needed to move along the dog fighting scenes, and the themes to be explored: how our society treats the innocent, and a new morality that transcends all religious views. I guess this would have to be science. None of them should deny science, except the crystal guy... who will of course use any science to back up his own theories.
What brings them together is self welfare, pure and simple. They do not necessarily like each other, and are at odds in ways that are too deep for them to change at this point in their lives.
scenes: 1) johnny pain talking to a missionary. johnny pain talking to aldmo. Johnny pain beating up gang banger. Aldmo going around to the different people in the building and asking of their help. He also turns his cult into an armed force, and starts preaching to them that they are going to go through their trials, but not against the state, like all the crazy cults he is always comparing to theirs, but against a gang of satan inspired dog fighters.
attacking the dog fight. okay this is five basic scenes.
the conflict starts with the dog fight, and that should kick off the book, too. After this scene, the others can come to his aide, just enough to stop other gang bangers from jumping on Johnny. The gang bangers leave screaming they will be back. Aldmo has come to his aide, because he has wanted to meet the writer for some time. Yet, everyone he asked ot introduce him had made excuses, because they were sure the atheistic Pain, who sounded like a reactionary hard ass half the time and claimed to hate all religions equally, would rip into aldmo.
Aldmo then goes to his cult and stirs them up. One of them is dispatched to buy a gun...
Wait, I am trying to think of this in a such a straight way, like one war, but the plot is not for a basically realistic book, but one that is fantastic, and should well be plotted in a way that takes this into account.
How about one of aldmos people doing miracles? I can also make this universe they act in different than here. There can be monsters, aleins... but the enemy of the actual themes has to be real and ever present, if there indeed is one...
On the first night of his German toour, a good three weeks before he would be shown to be a fraud, a group of pentecostal kids, all seventeen and total virgins filled with pentup horniness because they were all so well brain washed into their weird little sect that they kept their genitals to themselves -- and indeed, touched them only while sleeping to the boys, and riding horses, in the case of two blonde twins, who could simply not helpthemselves after hours of gentle and rough clitorial rubbing from the soft yet still firm saddle horn. Aldmo was smoking as much weed as possible on the tour, and trying very hard not to talk. He was used to cussing all the time. Bitch, ho, nigger, cunt, fag.... he never knew when he was going to say a few choice words, and actually feared, with a paranoia that the pot he was always smoking made worse, that he would curse sometime in front of the microphone and the entire crowd of clean cut white Christians would just go apeshit and attack the stage and just tear him into little handfulls of red gunk...
The kids who would soon enough make up the 'Church Of Aldmo God Of Diamonds and Gold and Mercedes Esquire,' were in his dressing room before the show. None of them had smelled weed before, and keep mentioning that his american cigarette smelled different than theirs. He responded, "Yes, god knows I will stop this vile habit, but for now, the devils just got me a little bit."
"What do you mean, the devils got you a little bit?"
"I mean... well, like when you be thinking about some bi... baby doll girl, whatever... or you ladies start thinking about some beefy guy who makes your little rugs damp... Yea, then the devils just getting you a little bit. God don't mind so much, as long as you don't start listening to that little devil and following his advice. Not even god could get rid of the devil, so what the hell we doing thinking we can?"
"What's this mean, 'little rugs damp?"
"Oh, yea... In american, we say that women are like rugs... and uhm, they should be clean... and you know what I mean by clean?"
"Oh, yes... Do you have your own church?" A young girl with eyes as blue and clear as a wolves asked.
"No, oh no..." He replied,
That was all that was said before the concert, as Aldmo was cut off by his producer, and dragged rather reluctantly out onto the stage. The show was his worst ever. Wiuthout his curses, he kept forgoting the words... finally, he just started saying the word over and over in every song, for an entire half hour. The crowds frenzy seemed to grow with every jesus, until finally the christians were going all crazy in front of the stage and Aldmo had a vision... the crowds seemed to part for a second and become a perfect dollar sign. He started noticing the t shirts being sold and the pop and all the people who had bought fifty dollar tickets to see a bunch of unknown christian singers. The german kids who won the contest were entranced even more than the other kids... the mistake their contact high from aldmo's weed as a religion. In the states, Aldmo then has to convince his cult that the pot smell is special incense, like Christ burned... Christs burning of incense is in fact a tenant in the scriptures of the first unitied bible bible vhurch of of admo cornelius muhammed Esq.
Aldmo just goes by the name al with most people, but the cult always calls him by his full name. EVEN during severe crises, which drives aldmo and others around batty at least once in the book.
Aldmo at first tries to get rid of his groupies, but they keep following him. He then finds out they have been excummunicated for hearing his music. They have no where to go... since aldmo is more or less a responsible guy, and his years in the marines have him thinking he is something of an action hero (he broke up a gang fight once and had built the scene into mental basis for tales of his dangerous physical prowess,.
Okay, this is aldmo.... or at least his back story. This is the story that brings him to the action; all shit that happened before the book. The story could be told by artmo, to johnny pain, who is writing a story about him, which he pretends will be a tract that the church can use, though it is really an expose.
The story... scenes needed to move along the dog fighting scenes, and the themes to be explored: how our society treats the innocent, and a new morality that transcends all religious views. I guess this would have to be science. None of them should deny science, except the crystal guy... who will of course use any science to back up his own theories.
What brings them together is self welfare, pure and simple. They do not necessarily like each other, and are at odds in ways that are too deep for them to change at this point in their lives.
scenes: 1) johnny pain talking to a missionary. johnny pain talking to aldmo. Johnny pain beating up gang banger. Aldmo going around to the different people in the building and asking of their help. He also turns his cult into an armed force, and starts preaching to them that they are going to go through their trials, but not against the state, like all the crazy cults he is always comparing to theirs, but against a gang of satan inspired dog fighters.
attacking the dog fight. okay this is five basic scenes.
the conflict starts with the dog fight, and that should kick off the book, too. After this scene, the others can come to his aide, just enough to stop other gang bangers from jumping on Johnny. The gang bangers leave screaming they will be back. Aldmo has come to his aide, because he has wanted to meet the writer for some time. Yet, everyone he asked ot introduce him had made excuses, because they were sure the atheistic Pain, who sounded like a reactionary hard ass half the time and claimed to hate all religions equally, would rip into aldmo.
Aldmo then goes to his cult and stirs them up. One of them is dispatched to buy a gun...
Wait, I am trying to think of this in a such a straight way, like one war, but the plot is not for a basically realistic book, but one that is fantastic, and should well be plotted in a way that takes this into account.
How about one of aldmos people doing miracles? I can also make this universe they act in different than here. There can be monsters, aleins... but the enemy of the actual themes has to be real and ever present, if there indeed is one...
Thursday, July 07, 2005
LONDON'S BURNING...
He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics. One of the experts points out the Irony of London going from celebrating the Olympics, a sign of the solidarity of civility in countries despite how their governments acted at home, and then the waking the next morning to bombs going off and the mass transit shut down.
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics. One of the experts points out the Irony of London going from celebrating the Olympics, a sign of the solidarity of civility in countries despite how their governments acted at home, and then the waking the next morning to bombs going off and the mass transit shut down.
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
The metaphors are now clear, so here are some notes on plot...
THIS IS ONE OF THOSE ENTRIES that is not meant to necessarily entertain you, or even make you think or get pissed or any of the number of reactions I would like to get from people who read my words. No, this one is a worker entry, meant to find ways to continue the plot I am developing for the next novel. I am not going to be happy with anything that is stripped down and simple; i suspect that few novels that can be adequatly described in a paragraph or two are worth reading. I want a series of complicated sub plots, a caste of characters that goes from the achingly normal to the absurd (including a man who may or may not be from outer space, depending on what seems best when I start writing everything down in the pliant stone that will be the plot outline ... after which I can finally start doing what I do best, which is plain old writing.
I described some of the other characters in an earlier entry, but I need them all in one file for now, so I am going to repeat myself for a few lines...
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
The Alein, who is named Robert Mitchum, a name he took from his favorite actor in films, which he is addicted to. He does not like to go out in public, because he believes that his ultimate job is going to end up being destroying humans, so that balance can be restored to the ecoshpere... he is desperatly searching for ways to avoid this happening, but his experiences have convinced him to expect the worst.
Johnny Pain is the protaganist. He is not as crazy as he appears in here sometimes.. the hamster army is going to be something he writes about, out of his frustration at being one lonely and probably worthless voice in the clamouring crowds trying to effect the national consciousness.
This NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS is going to be a key to all the characters in some ways, because they will either represent people who are now effecting society or wish they were.
AMO: is a black guy, failed hip hop singer, who has started an illegal baptist fundamentalist church in the basement. He keeps a podium on rollers in his storage bin, and pulls that out and sets up a colorful assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that he has scavanged from the alleys on his daily search for tin cans. His congregation will basically be clean cut republican white kids, who find being preached to by a black minister proof that they are compasionate conservatists, not the robotic leeches that they truly are.
THE PLOT: The various people should come together or not on a larger issue. This issue has to be one that requires quasi legal actions -- shooting up a dog fight, torturing a gang banger and slicing his throat. This will all take place after the gang has basically declared war on the apartment building. They do this after Johnny Pain beats the shit out of a kid who tries to steal his dog to fight it.
The other neighbors decide to come in on his side, despite their differences, because protecting the innocent and needy is something we all agree on.
The guy who is or is not an alein may either save their asses in the end, or think he can and become a worthless victim when his mania is exposed.
A book within a book may be used.... In this case, the hamster wars could be written about, and in them can be a mirror of the events happening in the apartment building. This would have to be mucho subtle, or just balls out the events.
THE NARRATION: An omniscent narrator makes more sense, if I am going to have all these bizare subplots going on. I would like to be able to see the world and say the world from the perspective of my characters in a way that is intimate and telling, which would be much harder if the tale was told only from the events that Johnny Pain knows about...
This would mean starting with Johnny Pain and the dog, then moving on to the others and getting their reactions or non reactions. I could title the various chapters in ways that show who is thinking. This could be as simple as 'APT. Q' to designate the shift of perspective.
I want my omniscent narrator to be a character as well, of course. He will basically be the me that I am sometimes, and wish I was more... the moral voice screaming from the back of my mind that the dog needs walked and the bills need paid and the woman needs more time and the fucking earth needs saved.....
The plot needs a lot more thought. I have subplots for all of these folks written down somewhere, but since I always remember the latest stuff about my book, I am just going to begin anew, in a way.... writing the same thing in a different way can really add to the end product, as DH Lawrences incredible novels show--he wrote them from the perspective of various characters, then finalized drafts that threw most of this work out.
THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR SUBPLOTS: THE eight characters need at least one subplot, and then ways that they connect to the over arching plot. They all need a few days worth of writing to fill in their back stories and really get to know their mentality; to in fact create a mental room in my mind where I can go in and be them...
At present the people in an apartment building band together to fight off a dog fighting gang, after the cops tell them that since it is just a misdameanor, they don't even bother going after the gangs for dog fighting, just murders and drugs and rapes..
the characters:
SPIKE:
JOHNNY PAIN:
MARIANNE:
THE ALEIN:
AMO;
AMO'S CONGREGATION:
RICK:
I have run out of time for writing... M. will soon be home, and our task of moving will have to coninue... not to mention the dog is pissed off at me because I haven't taken her out yet... this entry will be continued... maybe.
I described some of the other characters in an earlier entry, but I need them all in one file for now, so I am going to repeat myself for a few lines...
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
The Alein, who is named Robert Mitchum, a name he took from his favorite actor in films, which he is addicted to. He does not like to go out in public, because he believes that his ultimate job is going to end up being destroying humans, so that balance can be restored to the ecoshpere... he is desperatly searching for ways to avoid this happening, but his experiences have convinced him to expect the worst.
Johnny Pain is the protaganist. He is not as crazy as he appears in here sometimes.. the hamster army is going to be something he writes about, out of his frustration at being one lonely and probably worthless voice in the clamouring crowds trying to effect the national consciousness.
This NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS is going to be a key to all the characters in some ways, because they will either represent people who are now effecting society or wish they were.
AMO: is a black guy, failed hip hop singer, who has started an illegal baptist fundamentalist church in the basement. He keeps a podium on rollers in his storage bin, and pulls that out and sets up a colorful assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that he has scavanged from the alleys on his daily search for tin cans. His congregation will basically be clean cut republican white kids, who find being preached to by a black minister proof that they are compasionate conservatists, not the robotic leeches that they truly are.
THE PLOT: The various people should come together or not on a larger issue. This issue has to be one that requires quasi legal actions -- shooting up a dog fight, torturing a gang banger and slicing his throat. This will all take place after the gang has basically declared war on the apartment building. They do this after Johnny Pain beats the shit out of a kid who tries to steal his dog to fight it.
The other neighbors decide to come in on his side, despite their differences, because protecting the innocent and needy is something we all agree on.
The guy who is or is not an alein may either save their asses in the end, or think he can and become a worthless victim when his mania is exposed.
A book within a book may be used.... In this case, the hamster wars could be written about, and in them can be a mirror of the events happening in the apartment building. This would have to be mucho subtle, or just balls out the events.
THE NARRATION: An omniscent narrator makes more sense, if I am going to have all these bizare subplots going on. I would like to be able to see the world and say the world from the perspective of my characters in a way that is intimate and telling, which would be much harder if the tale was told only from the events that Johnny Pain knows about...
This would mean starting with Johnny Pain and the dog, then moving on to the others and getting their reactions or non reactions. I could title the various chapters in ways that show who is thinking. This could be as simple as 'APT. Q' to designate the shift of perspective.
I want my omniscent narrator to be a character as well, of course. He will basically be the me that I am sometimes, and wish I was more... the moral voice screaming from the back of my mind that the dog needs walked and the bills need paid and the woman needs more time and the fucking earth needs saved.....
The plot needs a lot more thought. I have subplots for all of these folks written down somewhere, but since I always remember the latest stuff about my book, I am just going to begin anew, in a way.... writing the same thing in a different way can really add to the end product, as DH Lawrences incredible novels show--he wrote them from the perspective of various characters, then finalized drafts that threw most of this work out.
THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR SUBPLOTS: THE eight characters need at least one subplot, and then ways that they connect to the over arching plot. They all need a few days worth of writing to fill in their back stories and really get to know their mentality; to in fact create a mental room in my mind where I can go in and be them...
At present the people in an apartment building band together to fight off a dog fighting gang, after the cops tell them that since it is just a misdameanor, they don't even bother going after the gangs for dog fighting, just murders and drugs and rapes..
the characters:
SPIKE:
JOHNNY PAIN:
MARIANNE:
THE ALEIN:
AMO;
AMO'S CONGREGATION:
RICK:
I have run out of time for writing... M. will soon be home, and our task of moving will have to coninue... not to mention the dog is pissed off at me because I haven't taken her out yet... this entry will be continued... maybe.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
SOME DISSOLVE AWAY
I made a student movie at Columbia College, based on my story She, black and white, twistedly funny, with a few soul-trembles.
I wrote and directed, though the guy who did most of the camera work added a great deal of his own 'Taxi Driver' kind of style. We had two great women involved in the shoot, one an actress, and the other a junkie film maker, who played the junkie in the movie.
The heroin addict was a petite russian jew with dark hair and innocent brown eyes; I came on to her during the period when she was new in school and off the drugs, and she was obviously into the idea, asking me to spend the night and what not... but we never had sex, and the rejection involved caused me to just move on. I wondered about this no sex policy of hers even more when I found out she had taken up with a junkie who called himself an artist -- much to the dismay of everyone in my life, who reacted to my buying a 60 dollar drawing from him like I was an idiot... all through this, I didn't know anything about her past junkie life and she never once said the word AIDS.
The last time I saw her, she was covered in horrible brown sores, weighed maybe seventy five pounds of jagged jutting bones. That is when she told me that she had always wanted to have sex with me, but she was afraid that she would give me aids. Her fears led her to fall under the spell of the first decent enough guy she meant who had the disease.
As far as that film went, unfortunatly, when we showed the thing in the last class, which was where it would be decided if our film could go into the larger show Columbia hosts, which is scouted by smart directors and producers, our film broke and the prof. was so mad that we never did show anyone... this is my fault, since I was the director. I kind of let this other guy, a soon to be cineamatographer/editor, do all the actual cutting and pasting of film. Mostly because I was starting a relationship with the actress and was too busy with her and my other girlfriend...
The kicker is... Reuben, who's last name eludes me or I would still be trying to find him (he lived on the far south side), took off with the film and never did give me a copy. I only saw the rushes, never the finished product all together at once...
IN THE SURE THAT WILL HAPPEN FILE, ...
Should you find this film, I will make giving me a copy worth your while... you know, pay you three hundred bucks, trade a small painting, blow you (girls only, now... and subject to M.'s approval), or whatever.... would sure be nice to see that cool little woman who played the junkie again, even if on a silly student film.
I wrote and directed, though the guy who did most of the camera work added a great deal of his own 'Taxi Driver' kind of style. We had two great women involved in the shoot, one an actress, and the other a junkie film maker, who played the junkie in the movie.
The heroin addict was a petite russian jew with dark hair and innocent brown eyes; I came on to her during the period when she was new in school and off the drugs, and she was obviously into the idea, asking me to spend the night and what not... but we never had sex, and the rejection involved caused me to just move on. I wondered about this no sex policy of hers even more when I found out she had taken up with a junkie who called himself an artist -- much to the dismay of everyone in my life, who reacted to my buying a 60 dollar drawing from him like I was an idiot... all through this, I didn't know anything about her past junkie life and she never once said the word AIDS.
The last time I saw her, she was covered in horrible brown sores, weighed maybe seventy five pounds of jagged jutting bones. That is when she told me that she had always wanted to have sex with me, but she was afraid that she would give me aids. Her fears led her to fall under the spell of the first decent enough guy she meant who had the disease.
As far as that film went, unfortunatly, when we showed the thing in the last class, which was where it would be decided if our film could go into the larger show Columbia hosts, which is scouted by smart directors and producers, our film broke and the prof. was so mad that we never did show anyone... this is my fault, since I was the director. I kind of let this other guy, a soon to be cineamatographer/editor, do all the actual cutting and pasting of film. Mostly because I was starting a relationship with the actress and was too busy with her and my other girlfriend...
The kicker is... Reuben, who's last name eludes me or I would still be trying to find him (he lived on the far south side), took off with the film and never did give me a copy. I only saw the rushes, never the finished product all together at once...
IN THE SURE THAT WILL HAPPEN FILE, ...
Should you find this film, I will make giving me a copy worth your while... you know, pay you three hundred bucks, trade a small painting, blow you (girls only, now... and subject to M.'s approval), or whatever.... would sure be nice to see that cool little woman who played the junkie again, even if on a silly student film.
LET THE METAPHORS COMMENCE....
Metaphors are tricky little slippery slivers of soap, falling out of your hand in a prison shower.... you put them in your writing and poetry in the hope that a few folks will go, "Now, that did he mean by that black crow?" A few other folks, like me, will think, "Hmmm... I know this metaphor of black is supposed to be depression, but this writer doesn't seem to use metaphors, and if she does they are her subjective interpretations of reality. A crow in Poe does not mean the same as a crow in Don Juan's novels based on native american spirituality (which fools and youngsters think is true to life stuff).
So what does Johnny Pain think of metaphors? He tries to be funny or understood much too much to worry about a lot of metaphors. This is why hamsters in here have been a little nebulous in their meaning. Mostly, the furry little hussies and hosses have represented americans who will not be lead by a liberal, though somewhat Nazi, Johnny Pain. I am now going to take the blog a little darker. Like my early poetry and short stories.
My fiction, should you ever care to read it, is at the bottom of this blog. There are the stories and excerpts from my unpublished novel; a disturbed darkness runs through, like a a polluted black creek bubbling with some mystery chemicals. Angels and She and Iron are good examples.
So, since I have not always been playing by the rules of fiction in here, let alone keeping track of my metaphors, seeems only fair to you folk that now that I am going to write a longer narrative in here that will involved an on going use of metaphors, I want to give you all due warning.
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
I think adding this entry will make the story line accessible to readers in a way that is seldom offered in new fiction. With older, more established works, the prolouge is often a great source of what is going to happen metaphorically, and what some of the themes are about. I prefer to have as much information in my head as possible about what to look for in literature. I discovered as much about myself when I was reading Shakespeare (and let's face it, you don't get a lot of surprise endings in the better literature).
So, let me know what you think, if you are one of those hand full of people who leave messages in here.
So what does Johnny Pain think of metaphors? He tries to be funny or understood much too much to worry about a lot of metaphors. This is why hamsters in here have been a little nebulous in their meaning. Mostly, the furry little hussies and hosses have represented americans who will not be lead by a liberal, though somewhat Nazi, Johnny Pain. I am now going to take the blog a little darker. Like my early poetry and short stories.
My fiction, should you ever care to read it, is at the bottom of this blog. There are the stories and excerpts from my unpublished novel; a disturbed darkness runs through, like a a polluted black creek bubbling with some mystery chemicals. Angels and She and Iron are good examples.
So, since I have not always been playing by the rules of fiction in here, let alone keeping track of my metaphors, seeems only fair to you folk that now that I am going to write a longer narrative in here that will involved an on going use of metaphors, I want to give you all due warning.
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
I think adding this entry will make the story line accessible to readers in a way that is seldom offered in new fiction. With older, more established works, the prolouge is often a great source of what is going to happen metaphorically, and what some of the themes are about. I prefer to have as much information in my head as possible about what to look for in literature. I discovered as much about myself when I was reading Shakespeare (and let's face it, you don't get a lot of surprise endings in the better literature).
So, let me know what you think, if you are one of those hand full of people who leave messages in here.
Monday, July 04, 2005
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE GREAT ANXIETY!
This goes on at a subconscious level, no matter how you scoff at the claim that the new and improved hand products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole....
According to Milton Glaser, who was on PBS this morning and is one of the most astute minds possible, watching those millions of advertisements on TV makes a creation of jittery electric currents run back and forth madly through your mind screaming, "I WANT THAT NEW THINGAMAJIG!!!!!"
Even as we scoff at ads and know they lie, this process takes place on a subconscious level. The lucky charms elf sticks his little dick right into your gray brain and spews out a clouds of anxiety that waft through your chest, smash into your heart and set it pounding.
Research shows the ads on TV can cause anxiety in people, because they see millions of bright and shiny beads and thingies that they do not have. Simple enough: we primates want to touch shiny things and look at them -- we are curious apes. When we can't do this, anxiety creeps in from our primordial mind...
Ads work so well all around us are people dedicating their lives to buying new and improved gadgets and whimsy's.
You should know that below your radar, the ads are telling you something that you believe heart and soul, though you don't know why? No matter how much you scoff/ how much you scoff/how much you scoff (advertisements just repeat their main points until your subconscious understands) at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole, you are absorbing them into yourself. You are more than likely an anxiety driven lifestyle based on living out an advertisement which lies and lies...The entire culture is like this now, to some extent.
Why we allow something to cause anxiety in the entire population is a much more complex story...
Very bad things are happening to our culture because of our constant exposure to advertisements. One is that since we are trained to accept being lied to, we expect lies, and thus accept lying politicians.
Think now of the zillions of advertisements you have read; we see them from childhood to grave in this criminally consuming culture. They have effected us, just like anything in a humans environment will. We expect politicians to lie, and when they get caught, it is no big deal..
Politicians flip-flop on issues all the time; a lot of them check to see what the people in their districts want and just go with whatever will get them re-reelected, promising whatever the hell, since no one really expects them to do anything they say on the campaign trail.
Four or Five presidents have been elected because of promises of a national health care system. Some of them went on to be very popular presidents, like Clinton (who as a student of politics, was surely aware that this issue would get him elected, because he was literally saying that he would give people free health care, and not too many people are against that). When the politicians flip flop on an issue for whatever reason, we merely accept that they often lie while trying to get elected. He went on and got reelected, despite the blow job, cigar, lying his ass off... Because, he's a politician, and that is part of the job. Same with salesmen; I was in sales, and know all the seemingly harmless lies they tell... 'just happened to be in the neighborhood,' or whatever...
Everyone accepts these things in our society. A lot of people accept Bush stealing the election in 2004 (or at least trying his damnedest, through his brother's political organization, to do so). Why was there no marching in the streets, like there is in a lot countries when something like this happens?
We like to think it is because we are civilized, but no...
It is because we expect our politicians to be sleazy, and advertisements have made us accept the fact that we live in an environment where we hear a lot of lies. An election in a consumer culture is all about what will be get one elected and be easily believed, not what the truth is... No, not what the truth is at all..
The kicker is that even though we know the ads and politicians lie, we merely accept this. We have become a passive electorate that the politicians can count on to be manipulated into supporting them by using lying images. Like evoking God and JFK and Lincoln and other icons that they try to associate themselves with even when it is a total lie, purely because underneath your radar, this works great on people raised watching advertisements.
And this has happens subliminally, below the surface of your pea of consciousness; the proof of this is that despite your head knowing the images are lies and how much you 'scoff' at the claims of the salesmen hawking knives on late night television, the advertisement does it's job anyways. You like the looks of those knives, and become anxious because you can't get them, and relieved and happy if you do. This is why those infomercials are so successful.
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE ANXIETY:
Research shows that ads like on TV can cause anxiety in people because they want all these bright and shiny things that they can't have.
REMEMBER: No matter how you scoff/how much you scoff at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and LOTS OF OTHER HYPERBOLE, this conditioning of your brain goes on -- in that part of your brain that is not a part of you that you think of as you.
SHAME ON US ALL!!!!!!!!
According to Milton Glaser, who was on PBS this morning and is one of the most astute minds possible, watching those millions of advertisements on TV makes a creation of jittery electric currents run back and forth madly through your mind screaming, "I WANT THAT NEW THINGAMAJIG!!!!!"
Even as we scoff at ads and know they lie, this process takes place on a subconscious level. The lucky charms elf sticks his little dick right into your gray brain and spews out a clouds of anxiety that waft through your chest, smash into your heart and set it pounding.
Research shows the ads on TV can cause anxiety in people, because they see millions of bright and shiny beads and thingies that they do not have. Simple enough: we primates want to touch shiny things and look at them -- we are curious apes. When we can't do this, anxiety creeps in from our primordial mind...
Ads work so well all around us are people dedicating their lives to buying new and improved gadgets and whimsy's.
You should know that below your radar, the ads are telling you something that you believe heart and soul, though you don't know why? No matter how much you scoff/ how much you scoff/how much you scoff (advertisements just repeat their main points until your subconscious understands) at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole, you are absorbing them into yourself. You are more than likely an anxiety driven lifestyle based on living out an advertisement which lies and lies...The entire culture is like this now, to some extent.
Why we allow something to cause anxiety in the entire population is a much more complex story...
Very bad things are happening to our culture because of our constant exposure to advertisements. One is that since we are trained to accept being lied to, we expect lies, and thus accept lying politicians.
Think now of the zillions of advertisements you have read; we see them from childhood to grave in this criminally consuming culture. They have effected us, just like anything in a humans environment will. We expect politicians to lie, and when they get caught, it is no big deal..
Politicians flip-flop on issues all the time; a lot of them check to see what the people in their districts want and just go with whatever will get them re-reelected, promising whatever the hell, since no one really expects them to do anything they say on the campaign trail.
Four or Five presidents have been elected because of promises of a national health care system. Some of them went on to be very popular presidents, like Clinton (who as a student of politics, was surely aware that this issue would get him elected, because he was literally saying that he would give people free health care, and not too many people are against that). When the politicians flip flop on an issue for whatever reason, we merely accept that they often lie while trying to get elected. He went on and got reelected, despite the blow job, cigar, lying his ass off... Because, he's a politician, and that is part of the job. Same with salesmen; I was in sales, and know all the seemingly harmless lies they tell... 'just happened to be in the neighborhood,' or whatever...
Everyone accepts these things in our society. A lot of people accept Bush stealing the election in 2004 (or at least trying his damnedest, through his brother's political organization, to do so). Why was there no marching in the streets, like there is in a lot countries when something like this happens?
We like to think it is because we are civilized, but no...
It is because we expect our politicians to be sleazy, and advertisements have made us accept the fact that we live in an environment where we hear a lot of lies. An election in a consumer culture is all about what will be get one elected and be easily believed, not what the truth is... No, not what the truth is at all..
The kicker is that even though we know the ads and politicians lie, we merely accept this. We have become a passive electorate that the politicians can count on to be manipulated into supporting them by using lying images. Like evoking God and JFK and Lincoln and other icons that they try to associate themselves with even when it is a total lie, purely because underneath your radar, this works great on people raised watching advertisements.
And this has happens subliminally, below the surface of your pea of consciousness; the proof of this is that despite your head knowing the images are lies and how much you 'scoff' at the claims of the salesmen hawking knives on late night television, the advertisement does it's job anyways. You like the looks of those knives, and become anxious because you can't get them, and relieved and happy if you do. This is why those infomercials are so successful.
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE ANXIETY:
Research shows that ads like on TV can cause anxiety in people because they want all these bright and shiny things that they can't have.
REMEMBER: No matter how you scoff/how much you scoff at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and LOTS OF OTHER HYPERBOLE, this conditioning of your brain goes on -- in that part of your brain that is not a part of you that you think of as you.
SHAME ON US ALL!!!!!!!!
Sunday, July 03, 2005
your landlord probably owes you money!!!
IF YOUR LANDLORD TAKES A DEPOSIT ....
FROM YOU, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO PUT THAT IN AN INTEREST BEARING ACCOUNT, OF AT LEAST 5%. EVERY 12 MONTHS, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE THE RENTOR THAT INTEREST MONEY. LANDLORDS KIND OF RELY ON PEOPLES IGNORANCE OF THE LAW ON THIS ONE.
THE LAW SAYS IF YOU HAVE TO SUE THE LANDLORD TO GET THIS MONEY, THE LANDLORD HAS TO PAY ALL COURT COSTS, INCLUDING YOUR LAWYER. SINCE THIS IS A REMARKABLY EASY CASE FOR THE PROSECUTOR, THE LANDLORDS USUALLY BACK DOWN AND PAY.
I discovered this while searching for tenants rights.
FROM YOU, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO PUT THAT IN AN INTEREST BEARING ACCOUNT, OF AT LEAST 5%. EVERY 12 MONTHS, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE THE RENTOR THAT INTEREST MONEY. LANDLORDS KIND OF RELY ON PEOPLES IGNORANCE OF THE LAW ON THIS ONE.
THE LAW SAYS IF YOU HAVE TO SUE THE LANDLORD TO GET THIS MONEY, THE LANDLORD HAS TO PAY ALL COURT COSTS, INCLUDING YOUR LAWYER. SINCE THIS IS A REMARKABLY EASY CASE FOR THE PROSECUTOR, THE LANDLORDS USUALLY BACK DOWN AND PAY.
I discovered this while searching for tenants rights.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Yea, this will happen when hell freezes
BR>
Italy judge orders arrest of CIA agents
An Italian judge has ordered the arrest of 13 CIA agents for allegedly helping deport an imam to Egypt as part of US anti-terrorism efforts, an Italian official familiar with the investigation said Friday.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
NOT THAT THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS... or that they shouldn't... it just made me laugh at the futility of trying to fight the american devils (me old horned self included).
Italy judge orders arrest of CIA agents
The agents are suspected in the seizure of an Egyptian-born imam identified as Abu Omar on the streets of Milan in February 2003, according to the official, who requested anonymity because he was not authorized to release the information.
The US Embassy in Rome declined comment.
Prosecutors believe the agents seized Omar as part of the CIA's "extraordinary rendition" program, in which terror suspects are transferred to third countries without court approval, according to reports Friday in newspapers Corriere della Sera and Il Giorno.
Investigators traced the agents through check-in details at Milan hotels and their use of Italian cell phones during the operation, the reports said. All the agents are American and include three women, Il Giorno said.
The reports said another six agents were being investigated for helping prepare the operation.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
NOT THAT THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS... or that they shouldn't... it just made me laugh at the futility of trying to fight the american devils (me old horned self included).
scientologists eat rancid racoon shit.
Never believe anyone who tells you this is a legitimate religion. One quick google search on cults and scientology should be enough to dispel even the stupidist shit heads. Hate them to the point of molotov cocktails. Someone, please.... and cut that tom cruises head off and shove it up john travoltas ass. Those two have sent many a fools down to those shill joints to listen to bullshit they could get, minus the madness, much cheaper from a licensed therapist.
Just thought you should know, in case you are at that curious age where you will try just about anything to convince yourself to keep on living through the suffering.
Just thought you should know, in case you are at that curious age where you will try just about anything to convince yourself to keep on living through the suffering.
words, words, the wonderful treat..
ya can slap a human over the most mild beef
words words
big and small
illiterated precisely
or not at all
They tumble around inside my skull
red and blue and green and yellow
stinking, loving, praying and doom
words for this and that
a lattice laid over truth
makes us want shiny cars
eternal youth
clumps of words
commenting on words
seek to explode words
nurture words
kill words
resurrect words
words
dear lord
words
sang and hummed and dreamed and spoken in whispers
a veil laid over the faces around us
words like nigger
concealing more than they reveal
fucking words like a virus in the brain
telling some to kill
just for the thrill
others to buck up
and make that sale
words unexamined
dying
screamed
told as stories
and equations
words
reduce everything they describe
to fit into sentences and paragraphs
restrain the wilder impulse
words words
big and small
illiterated precisely
or not at all
They tumble around inside my skull
red and blue and green and yellow
stinking, loving, praying and doom
words for this and that
a lattice laid over truth
makes us want shiny cars
eternal youth
clumps of words
commenting on words
seek to explode words
nurture words
kill words
resurrect words
words
dear lord
words
sang and hummed and dreamed and spoken in whispers
a veil laid over the faces around us
words like nigger
concealing more than they reveal
fucking words like a virus in the brain
telling some to kill
just for the thrill
others to buck up
and make that sale
words unexamined
dying
screamed
told as stories
and equations
words
reduce everything they describe
to fit into sentences and paragraphs
restrain the wilder impulse
the whizzinator
makes for cocktail conversation at its meatiest.
FROM MSN NEWS:
Drug counselor David Aronek testified that (Tom) Sizemore tried to falsify a drug test in May by using a device called The Whizzinator, a fillable prosthetic penis designed to beat drug tests.
I don't think anyone should ever use meth, like this guy does... we are the same age and he looks like my dad. I could tell ya stories all day about this and crack... yet, you have to feel sorry for a guy reduced to having to use a whizzinator ... not to mention intimate involvement with another persons urine....
YUCK...
I sure am glad that my boss is absolutley against drug testing, and in fact encourages me to smoke weed... being self employed and all. Update: Congress is now trying to ban the whizzinator..
my hair is so fucking long...
Falling down over my shoulders in this great mane of auburn curls... for about five minutes a day, before the humidity and life somehow transform my hairdoo into a strikingly realistic looking beaver.
People ask me all the time now, "Hey, how do you get that beaver to hide your bald spot like that?"
People are so fucking cruel....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
