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
Here are a few quotes that will hopefully help some of you religious folk to pull your head's out of your asses... though of course I seriously doubt that your minds are open enough... for the rest of ya, the bravest of the seekers, hopefully you will discovered Wilson, who has changed the world more than most people know.
1. By any reasonable measure of achievement, the faith of the Enlightenment thinkers in science was justified. Today the greatest divide within humanity is not between races, or religions, or even, as is widely believed, between the literate and illiterate. It is the chasm that separates scientific from prescientific cultures.
[Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 45.]
2. Prescientific people... could never guess the nature of physical reality beyond the tiny sphere attainable by unaided common sense. Nothing else ever worked, no exercise from myth, revelation, art, trance, or any other conceivable means; and notwithstanding the emotional satisfaction it gives, mysticism, the strongest prescientific probe in the unknown, has yielded zero. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 46.]
3. [T]he true natural sciences lock together in theory and evidence to form the ineradicable technical base of modern civilization. The pseudosciences satisfy personal psychological needs... but lack the ideas or the means to contribute to the technical base. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 54.]
4. The brain and its satellite glands have now been probed to the point where no particular site remains that can reasonably be supposed to harbor a nonphysical mind. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 99.]
65 [Every major religion today is a winner in the Darwinian struggle waged among cultures, and none ever flourished by tolerating its rivals. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 144.]
5. No statistical proofs exist that prayer reduces illness and mortality, except perhaps through a psychogenic enhancement of the immune system; if it were otherwise the whole world would pray continuously. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 245.]
7. When the martyr's righteous forebrain is exploded by the executioner's bullet and his mind disintegrates, what then? Can we safely assume that all those millions of neural circuits will be reconstituted in an immaterial state, so the conscious mind carries on? [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 245.]
8) Old beliefs die hard even when demonstrably false. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 256.]
9. If history and science have taught us anything, it is that passion and desire are not the same as truth. The human mind evolved to believe in the gods. It did not evolve to believe in biology. Acceptance of the supernatural conveyed a great advantage throughout prehistory, when the brain was evolving. Thus it is in sharp contrast to biology, which was developed as a product of the modern age and is not underwritten by genetic algorithms. The uncomfortable truth is that the two beliefs are not factually compatible. As a result those who hunger for both intellectual and religious truth will never acquire both in full measure. [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 262.]
10. The essence of humanity's spiritual dilemma is that we evolved genetically to accept one truth and discovered another. Is there a way to erase the dilemma, to resolve the contradictions between the transcendentalist and the empiricist world views? No, unfortunately, there is not. Furthermore, a choice between them is unlikely to remain arbitrary forever. The assumptions underlying the two world views are being tested with increasing severity by cumulative verifiable knowledge about how the universe works [Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 264.]
12. Blind faith, no matter how passionately expressed, will not suffice. Science for its part will test relentlessly every assumption about the human condition
[Edward O. Wilson, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge, (First edition, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1998), p. 6.]
Thursday, February 10, 2005
W USES IMMINENT DOMAIN LAWS TO TAKE OVER GOLF COURSE
The W used Public Domain laws to take over a golf course last night, where three hundred of what the w called his 'closest party buddies and their chickies' could play 'strip golf.'
The golf course was returned the next morning and damage was said, by a government source, to be 'minimal.'
This assesment, however, was disputed by the courses owner, Donny Donofrio, who told reporters, "They were pretty wasted when they came in here. You could hear them miles off, all of them had their guns out shooting them off as they came up the road... Bush was hanging on to the side of one of those new presidential humvees he has, the red ones with detailing by R. Crumb. He was buck naked and howling like a coyote. They drove like that for... well, miles... I guess they were at a bar and when they tried to close, the president invited them all out for some 'Strip Golf.' They shot their way into my house, for christ's sake. Without even trying to knock. I would have anwered. I mean, they didn't have to take my family hostage until they were 'safely off the property' or whatever the hell that Justice department guy said. They didn't have to kill my pets to show me how serious they were, either. . . . I mean, I would have just given them the golf course for the night..."
The golf course was returned the next morning and damage was said, by a government source, to be 'minimal.'
This assesment, however, was disputed by the courses owner, Donny Donofrio, who told reporters, "They were pretty wasted when they came in here. You could hear them miles off, all of them had their guns out shooting them off as they came up the road... Bush was hanging on to the side of one of those new presidential humvees he has, the red ones with detailing by R. Crumb. He was buck naked and howling like a coyote. They drove like that for... well, miles... I guess they were at a bar and when they tried to close, the president invited them all out for some 'Strip Golf.' They shot their way into my house, for christ's sake. Without even trying to knock. I would have anwered. I mean, they didn't have to take my family hostage until they were 'safely off the property' or whatever the hell that Justice department guy said. They didn't have to kill my pets to show me how serious they were, either. . . . I mean, I would have just given them the golf course for the night..."
I BOUGHT NINETY HAMSTERS.
You would think this would be a good thing.... but like so much of my life, things have gone horribly, horribly wrong.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
This sad tale began when M. had to go to Indiana for a week to spend time with what I can't help imagining is an ailing, snively, elephant with an elaborately moussed display of gray hair between her ears. . . . and indeed she is visitng what has to be the closest human equivalent, M.'s porked out, whiny mother. Now, normally she keeps all the cash from me, because . . . well, just never you mind why... well, might as well be honest now... okay, truth be told, she keeps the cash away from exactly because of episodes like this.Regardless . . . this time, she left me the rent.
810 dollars cash in the hand. Green and hot. Now, M., she will just spend money without even thinking about investing, but me? I'm all about the occasional investment opportunity (someday I will make money off one of them, too, M.). So I started thinking immediately about ways to take the rent and make more money out of it, then spend that money and still have money for the rent... I figured the best bet way was to have a marauding army that I can send out on a crusade to gather gold and cash with their usual ruthless, blood splattered methods...
Then it came to me, the most logical thing that one can do with 815.00 bucks -- so I went out and bought ninety hamsters, a veritable living field from which I can grow a profitable and yet cuddly army (though knowing M., with her known tendency to second guess me, will probably find some tiny, meaningless reason to nit-pick this decision, too . . . I expect she will keep up the bitching right up until she is made queen). The guy at the pet store said that these horny little, fuzzy faced killers would wham bam at such a prodigious pace that within a month my troop strength would be up to over a thousand... and from that thousand, the tens, and then hundreds of thousands I need just to take over this neighborhood.
First thing I did when I got home was go to the bedroom and remove everything, put up a Bruce Lee poster and a series of little sayings that I think will help them be better soldiers, stuff like -- HUMANS LOVE CATS, and KILL ALL OF THE HUMANS OR THEY WILL LET CATS EAT YOU, DESERTERS WILL BE EATEN BY A CATS, etc.. Painted the walls dark green, and wrote KILL, KILL, KILL all over the place--ceiling, walls, floor... I set up these little cots that I made out of toothpicks and some green jean jacket of M.'s that she almost never wears. I even cut up some junior mints and put them on each of their pillows... since I myself always find 'welcome mints' the perfect touch for a guest room.. That bedroom really shaped up into a nice barracks, if I do say so myself. And I'm sure that M. will adjust to sleeping in the dining room, as long as I can convince her that this is temporary, and that within a couple years she will have the entire wing of a palace? I can only hope her intellect is up to the task of taking in my sweeping, Napoleonic vision...
Once the troops were bedded down for the night, I got to thinking about how I had said too much to that geeky dude at the pet store who smelled, ever so vaguely, of dog feces. . . This underpaid tool of the puppy mills more than likely called some terrorist hotline and reported a dark shadow is about to fall on america... So, I kind of got all paranoid, you know, with the weed and all, and then just. . Well, I got completely carried away; there is no real way to deny that... I mean, you can barely move through the apartment because of all the barbed wire -- I kept open only little passages for cooking and bathing purposes... not to mention all the booby traps on all the doors and windows. I may even be responsible for the squirrels that have been exploding all morning out on the balcony... Regardless, the next day I turned my often adequate mind to the task of breeding killers. I started by moving a cd player into the barracks and putting on a tape I made of Foghat playing Slow Ride over and over, then I lit some spicy, scented candles -- for both their wonderful, fresh scent and that warm, comforting glow. When I checked back a few minutes later, only three of the hamsters were humping. They get off fast, their little furry pelvises a blur for less than a minute... Then they were going right to the next lass, and the next... with only occasional breaks for laying about gasping for air and twitching. I figured the rest of them were still adjusting to the hell of war, and that in a few hours they would get their mojo back.The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing.
The next day I went in to bring them breakfast and found those three same hamsters were still going away at it. They were skinnier, and humping significantly slower, but none were showing any signs of quitting their marathon boffing. This went on all day, and all night...
On their third day, during a nine-hour indoctrination lecture, the three were still mounting one after another of the females. . . They were moving very, very slowly by then and wobbling from side to side as they walked... their ribs showing. They looked like they were not long for this world, which they weren't... one after another, first one during my lecture and then the other two in the night that followed, fell off their host hamsters and gasped and twitched again, but instead of kind of catching their breath and recovering enough to slowly crawl over to the next female, they keeled over dead and grew stiff one last time...
After the three fuckers were gone, the hamsters ceased having any kind of sex. The other hamster armies had always been so sexed up that when I put my hand in their cage to feed them one of them was always hopping on and trying to get off a hump.... Two days passed like this... then the mystery of why they were all suddenly acting like up tight, fundamentalist wombats was solved.... when I came walking in after taking Ruby down to the beach to find that they had taken down my 'kill-kill-kill slogans' and put up instead a poster of K. D. Lang. They were singing along with a Melissa Etheridge tape, one of those late, stupid ones... which they turned off a few minutes later, just long enough to watch Ellen.
I stood there looking at them and then it hit me...I had bought three males, and eighty seven females, and the shock of going without sex, and having no foreseeable sex in the future, had turned all the females into lap happy lesbos . . . that was kind of disturbing, because my breeding plans were just fucked by that shit... I thought it couldn't get much worse, but I'm no fortuneteller, that's for damn sure.
Next, they read me a list of demands, in these high pitched, superior sounding voices, that said they were becoming Lesbian Separatists and as such were banning me, and all males and cats of any sex, from the barracks.
Then, believe it or not, it got even worse....How could this get worse, you wonder? Well, they decided that as part of their discussion with what they called a 'mystical mother' during their 'Wicca sessions' that they had become . . . PACIFISTS!!!! . . And further, they were leaving the army to, 'find the spirit of the great mother within.' They claimed that they could never be forced to fight, but you can bet that they changed their fuzzy little minds when I got so pissed that I let Ruby-dog and the kitty bums into the barracks for an all day hamster feast.
ANOTHER HAMSTER ARMY FAILS... I am so bummed...
The Mighty Hamster Army has had another false start, which means we are all in peril, let me tell you. Bush gets an army, and I should get to have one too.... I hate the thought of him sending young boys to assault the elf, because I will have to release the hamsters; .as of yet, they have never learned to actually draw blood, but there will be some scratches, and bites, let me tell ya.. war is hell, after all... or at least it will be, when I can find some way to keep a hamster army without them mysteriously disappearing....
Anyways, I once more had to go out and purchase some more hamsters, three to be exact (and thank you, I write sarcastically, you elf shits, for sending me all those hamsters... NOT!! When you come begging for protection at my door, it will be too late!). I named the little fuzzy killers Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Attila the Hun.
They were something else, really coming along. I was having great success training them to crawl around on my shoulders, which is the first step in getting them to rip out the enemies jugulars with the needles I have sticking out of their little black boots.Yes, I had them nearly ready to lead a savage army of squealing hellions fighting for justice and a steady supply of weed. They were squealing marching songs (M. doesn't believe this, but then she doesn't think hamsters are dangerous, either, so you can see why I have to take her opinions with a grain of proverbial salt) and lining up quite nicely.
I did have to glue them to the Risk game board that I was using while showing them the most strategic manner to take over the world, because they do have a tendency, I am sad to say, toward desertion... This morning I woke up and played revelry on a kazoo (M. won't let me buy a trumpet because, get this, 'the damn things are loud enough to wake the dead--you can't do that at six in the morning!!' Yea, right, like all armies should stop playing revelry because of the 'neighbors.' Do you think our human soldiers in Iraq are worried about 'waking up the neighbors?').
I then went in to check on the troops. I knew something was amiss when I found their abandoned uniforms in their open cage. I went to great lengths to tailor their camouflage uniforms and tiny black boots with needles sticking out ... and to see them just laying there... well, I was ready to court martial somebody, let me tell you. But, once again, they had disappeared without a trace.Ruby the husky and my two cats, Buk and Yeats, refused to answer my repeated questions about the disappearance, maintained their cagey, old con silence... and I guess I got a little loud, because M. came running into the room trying to get me to be quiet. When I told her that the Hamsters were missing again, she actually just laughed and said; "I told you that hamsters were too tempting of a treat for the cats, not to mention that Ruby lived in the wild for a year and looks at them as lunch. Remember how she licked her lips when you brought them in? And the cats, they were mewing like they were asking for a treat. I told you to be careful with the lock on the cage, but I knew you'd get too stoned sometime and leave it open... "
She laughed all through this tirate. I don't know why I can't get through her thick skull the simple truth that we need a personal army to first protect us, and then to take over the helm of running the world and save the planet from the mindless industrialists. I guess she just doesn't have my intellect?Well, once more I am going to plead with you, dear elf shits, to send me hamsters. And let me also reiterate that I dead hamsters will do me no good. Whoever sent all those dead hamsters to me must have known that I would feed them to my pets, thus making them look at my army as food. My dog, I just thought of this!!! I guess I was asking for trouble when I revealed my plans on this website. .. More than likely, the CIA is worried about my having an army and sending me dead hamsters....I just went and told M. about the CIA sending me dead hamsters.
She was reading and just kind of went, "Yea, uh, huh..."
I sensed, with my highly advance people skills, that she wasn't interested when she told me,
"I am trying to read here."
I tried to get her away from her reading with a true fact I just figured out -- The CIA is not only sending me dead, stinky rodents in the mail, they are probably using one or more of the animals to sabotage my efforts to build a murderous army of mighty hamsters. She still feigned disinterest and ignored me... When I told her that torture is the only way to get the cats and dog to talk, she once again reiterated her stifling 'no torture' policy. I tried to explain to her that I would just be using the same techniques our government uses at Guatamano Prison and such, how the precedent had been set and... Well, she just read on... completely ignoring me, going on living in her little dream world where we are all safe without personal armies... what will it take to wake her up to reality? I don't know.Send me hamsters or the industrialists will kill this planet. It really is that simple, and absurd... and, maybe,futile... the world will die, just because you were too stoned and lazy to send hamsters .. you are almost as pathetic as me...
Anyways, I once more had to go out and purchase some more hamsters, three to be exact (and thank you, I write sarcastically, you elf shits, for sending me all those hamsters... NOT!! When you come begging for protection at my door, it will be too late!). I named the little fuzzy killers Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Attila the Hun.
They were something else, really coming along. I was having great success training them to crawl around on my shoulders, which is the first step in getting them to rip out the enemies jugulars with the needles I have sticking out of their little black boots.Yes, I had them nearly ready to lead a savage army of squealing hellions fighting for justice and a steady supply of weed. They were squealing marching songs (M. doesn't believe this, but then she doesn't think hamsters are dangerous, either, so you can see why I have to take her opinions with a grain of proverbial salt) and lining up quite nicely.
I did have to glue them to the Risk game board that I was using while showing them the most strategic manner to take over the world, because they do have a tendency, I am sad to say, toward desertion... This morning I woke up and played revelry on a kazoo (M. won't let me buy a trumpet because, get this, 'the damn things are loud enough to wake the dead--you can't do that at six in the morning!!' Yea, right, like all armies should stop playing revelry because of the 'neighbors.' Do you think our human soldiers in Iraq are worried about 'waking up the neighbors?').
I then went in to check on the troops. I knew something was amiss when I found their abandoned uniforms in their open cage. I went to great lengths to tailor their camouflage uniforms and tiny black boots with needles sticking out ... and to see them just laying there... well, I was ready to court martial somebody, let me tell you. But, once again, they had disappeared without a trace.Ruby the husky and my two cats, Buk and Yeats, refused to answer my repeated questions about the disappearance, maintained their cagey, old con silence... and I guess I got a little loud, because M. came running into the room trying to get me to be quiet. When I told her that the Hamsters were missing again, she actually just laughed and said; "I told you that hamsters were too tempting of a treat for the cats, not to mention that Ruby lived in the wild for a year and looks at them as lunch. Remember how she licked her lips when you brought them in? And the cats, they were mewing like they were asking for a treat. I told you to be careful with the lock on the cage, but I knew you'd get too stoned sometime and leave it open... "
She laughed all through this tirate. I don't know why I can't get through her thick skull the simple truth that we need a personal army to first protect us, and then to take over the helm of running the world and save the planet from the mindless industrialists. I guess she just doesn't have my intellect?Well, once more I am going to plead with you, dear elf shits, to send me hamsters. And let me also reiterate that I dead hamsters will do me no good. Whoever sent all those dead hamsters to me must have known that I would feed them to my pets, thus making them look at my army as food. My dog, I just thought of this!!! I guess I was asking for trouble when I revealed my plans on this website. .. More than likely, the CIA is worried about my having an army and sending me dead hamsters....I just went and told M. about the CIA sending me dead hamsters.
She was reading and just kind of went, "Yea, uh, huh..."
I sensed, with my highly advance people skills, that she wasn't interested when she told me,
"I am trying to read here."
I tried to get her away from her reading with a true fact I just figured out -- The CIA is not only sending me dead, stinky rodents in the mail, they are probably using one or more of the animals to sabotage my efforts to build a murderous army of mighty hamsters. She still feigned disinterest and ignored me... When I told her that torture is the only way to get the cats and dog to talk, she once again reiterated her stifling 'no torture' policy. I tried to explain to her that I would just be using the same techniques our government uses at Guatamano Prison and such, how the precedent had been set and... Well, she just read on... completely ignoring me, going on living in her little dream world where we are all safe without personal armies... what will it take to wake her up to reality? I don't know.Send me hamsters or the industrialists will kill this planet. It really is that simple, and absurd... and, maybe,futile... the world will die, just because you were too stoned and lazy to send hamsters .. you are almost as pathetic as me...
WHO ATE THE HAMSTERS?
This question has been put to both cats and ruby dog.
At this point, none of them will admit to anything.
They are cagey, like old cons, just look at me with cold expressions. I’m convinced that they are waiting to have a lawyer present. Try to explain that to an uppity lawyer, though… none of them would come to the apartment for the trial. By the way, if I have to say, ‘yes, I am serious,’ to one more person today, they are going on my lists… you’ve been warned.
M., like those fucking lawyers, just doesn’t seem to take this very seriously. She won’t even listen to my arguments for torture. I know I could make them talk, but M. doesn’t want to ‘entertain’ what she erroneously refers to as, ‘another reason’ I should be ‘taking my medication.
’Those hamsters were coming around, too. Unlike the cats and the dog, who will still have nothing to do with the idea of killing humans. I am puzzled, once again, by just what I did wrong while raising these animals?
At this point, none of them will admit to anything.
They are cagey, like old cons, just look at me with cold expressions. I’m convinced that they are waiting to have a lawyer present. Try to explain that to an uppity lawyer, though… none of them would come to the apartment for the trial. By the way, if I have to say, ‘yes, I am serious,’ to one more person today, they are going on my lists… you’ve been warned.
M., like those fucking lawyers, just doesn’t seem to take this very seriously. She won’t even listen to my arguments for torture. I know I could make them talk, but M. doesn’t want to ‘entertain’ what she erroneously refers to as, ‘another reason’ I should be ‘taking my medication.
’Those hamsters were coming around, too. Unlike the cats and the dog, who will still have nothing to do with the idea of killing humans. I am puzzled, once again, by just what I did wrong while raising these animals?
ALT="Scott">
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON BACK IN COURT.
Jackson actually told some kids in the crowd of any old asshole licking well wishers outside the court that they could come to Never Never Land whenever they want to... and something about peter pan teaching them to how to really fly with forty ouncers.
Proving once again that celebrity dancing and singing and flashing your tit at little kids on tv has nothing to do with intelligence or morality, VARIOUS OF MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON'S DUM AS HAMSTER SHIT SIBLINGS ACTUALLY DRESSED IN WHITE AND WALKED THAT SHIT INTO COURT CLAIMING HE IS, GET THIS, INNOCENT!!!
FOR THAT ALONE THE WHOLE CLAN SHOULD BE IMPRISIONED AND RAPED WITH A BROOM ON A TRI-HOURLY BASIS FOR, OH, THE REST OF THEIR UN-NATURAL, FREAKISH LIVES-- AND I DO NOT MEAN THE END OF THE BROOM WITH A HANDLE!! Unless, as in Massah Jackoffson's case, this is something they enjoy... he will have to be slow roasted over charcoal for a couple days, and then, when his vocal cords are shredded from screaming, he should be dropped into the flames and burned alive -- at the very fucking least.
I know I write about this a lot, but I am amazed each and every time I see this pervert is still interacting with children and people are not just fucking converging on him and ripping him to shreds with their bare hands.... If this isn't proof that we should be replaced by cockroaches, I sure as hell don't know what is?
THIS DISPOSABLE BUT MONKEY TREND MUST BE STOPPED... well, maybe?
The plight of disposable Butt monkeys should be a call to arms for anyone who likes animals. Why I am the only one who seems to be objecting to this trend? Could larger forces be at work? Surely, but that is not my concern. What is my concern is my solemn vow to help you elf shits make sound purchases on anal related products.
Unless you have been living in a cave on pcp for the last two years, you have heard of or seen or read about the highly successful commercials with one of those rich old looking actor dudes from law and order asking a group of gorgeous looking rich people, "Isn't it time someone else wiped your ass?"
The scene then switches to a friendly, perfumed, luxuriouslyconditioned but monkey, shown switching through the various pastel colors that they come in, sliding up and down on a fake plastic butt, and then drowning itself in the bidet and flushing itself down with it's last breath. The voice over sounds cognac smooth and cigar rough, has the weight of years and grandparents. "The latest trend among the trendy wealthy following trends? Using specially trained disposable but monkeys, so they can have their pampered bums safely wiped without having to touch their own shit, like a peasent. These monkeys clean your rectum until it actually shines. And lord knows, in your hectic, fast paced day, you can use the smile you'll get when your but monkey's flush themselves down and drown in an altogether comical manner."
The camera then shows a boardroom with all the employees sitting around a table introducing each other. One of the employees has shit all over his hand and everyone is disgusted as they shake with him and get feces all over themselves. Finally, this shitty hands guy tries to get the boss to slap palms, but the boss, who is portrayed as a bright leader, refuses the shitty hand and says, " If you are still wiping your own ass, don't shake my hand.... in fact, get the hell out of here, you are fired." Then all the other employees pull boxes of but monkeys out of their pockets and start laughing ... and the boss, who has remained serious during the whole commercial, takes out his own box of but monkeys and joins in the laughter, too. This is very effective advertising, there is no denying that.
I mean, I am criticizing them now, but when I first saw the commercial, I too wanted to order some but monkeys. I was impressed with all the colors they came in, and they are cute. Like everyone, I know that the present method of wiping off our bums with dry paper is hardly sufficient, and as a result, diseases are spread... I too hope that one-day science will come up with something like but monkeys, but this is not the one. No, this is not the savior all our asses are practically calling for, though I have to admit, the commercial certainly makes them look like they are, and the special holiday edition but monkeys in Santa and elf outfits are pretty damn cool looking, I know, I know...Now, you will probably call me a crazy protestor for taking this stance. I 'm not, though. I mean, if I came across monkey meat at the supermarket, I’d take it home and deep-fry a few of their hands, or however you eat them.... The but monkey craze, however, involves a lot more jading of the mind than I have. I mean, it's one thing to buy a dead, nicely packaged monkey paw... but once you've seen them all alive and acting all friendly, how can you then deal with the thought that their life has been reduced, through conditioning, to the point that these simians think their whole existence should be spent being the perfect employee, even if it does involve having one short, shitty life?
Okay, maybe I am going out on a limb here for coming out against but monkeys. I know the trend is too big for me to ever have any effect on ... and, you know, I might just be missing something? They do have one that is a shade of red that would great in our bathroom. And they do save the trees, like the commercial said, so they are like half eco-friendly, and half evil. . . I guess they come out of the box all friendly and smelling of nice colognes that are supposed to be, according to the commercial, 'Stronger than your most powerful blast of gas.’ You know what? I guess I should try one before I write anything else. I am always doing that you know, having an opinion on things that are based on how I think and what I know, rather than any actual experience. I think I'm going to get the one done up like Rudolph, with the nose painted all red and the little plush, absorbent horns?
NOTE FROM J, PAIN.... I laughed over this one as I wrote. Yes, laughed maniacally I did, then I hopped around the apartment naked, trying to pee on the startled, running and dodging cats, and the next thing that I knew I was running through the halls of our apt building with my freed weeny a wagging, screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!' over and over again. My Barton Fink-ish moment of celebrating the successful birth of the butt monkey's died when M. decided that she had to once more get out that damn tranquilizer gun... While I was immobile though still awake and able to feel pain, she put a bar of lavender soap in one of my few tube socks and beat my stomach and thighs relentleesly... I feared I was going to die, believed I had only one chance of getting better, so when my lips could move again, I began mouthing, "Boo boo kisses, boo boo kisses?" Like Kit Carson used to tell the tin horns after regaling them with a tale of being chased by hundreds of Indians that ended with him stranded in a tree, ". . . and then . . . I died."
Unless you have been living in a cave on pcp for the last two years, you have heard of or seen or read about the highly successful commercials with one of those rich old looking actor dudes from law and order asking a group of gorgeous looking rich people, "Isn't it time someone else wiped your ass?"
The scene then switches to a friendly, perfumed, luxuriouslyconditioned but monkey, shown switching through the various pastel colors that they come in, sliding up and down on a fake plastic butt, and then drowning itself in the bidet and flushing itself down with it's last breath. The voice over sounds cognac smooth and cigar rough, has the weight of years and grandparents. "The latest trend among the trendy wealthy following trends? Using specially trained disposable but monkeys, so they can have their pampered bums safely wiped without having to touch their own shit, like a peasent. These monkeys clean your rectum until it actually shines. And lord knows, in your hectic, fast paced day, you can use the smile you'll get when your but monkey's flush themselves down and drown in an altogether comical manner."
The camera then shows a boardroom with all the employees sitting around a table introducing each other. One of the employees has shit all over his hand and everyone is disgusted as they shake with him and get feces all over themselves. Finally, this shitty hands guy tries to get the boss to slap palms, but the boss, who is portrayed as a bright leader, refuses the shitty hand and says, " If you are still wiping your own ass, don't shake my hand.... in fact, get the hell out of here, you are fired." Then all the other employees pull boxes of but monkeys out of their pockets and start laughing ... and the boss, who has remained serious during the whole commercial, takes out his own box of but monkeys and joins in the laughter, too. This is very effective advertising, there is no denying that.
I mean, I am criticizing them now, but when I first saw the commercial, I too wanted to order some but monkeys. I was impressed with all the colors they came in, and they are cute. Like everyone, I know that the present method of wiping off our bums with dry paper is hardly sufficient, and as a result, diseases are spread... I too hope that one-day science will come up with something like but monkeys, but this is not the one. No, this is not the savior all our asses are practically calling for, though I have to admit, the commercial certainly makes them look like they are, and the special holiday edition but monkeys in Santa and elf outfits are pretty damn cool looking, I know, I know...Now, you will probably call me a crazy protestor for taking this stance. I 'm not, though. I mean, if I came across monkey meat at the supermarket, I’d take it home and deep-fry a few of their hands, or however you eat them.... The but monkey craze, however, involves a lot more jading of the mind than I have. I mean, it's one thing to buy a dead, nicely packaged monkey paw... but once you've seen them all alive and acting all friendly, how can you then deal with the thought that their life has been reduced, through conditioning, to the point that these simians think their whole existence should be spent being the perfect employee, even if it does involve having one short, shitty life?
Okay, maybe I am going out on a limb here for coming out against but monkeys. I know the trend is too big for me to ever have any effect on ... and, you know, I might just be missing something? They do have one that is a shade of red that would great in our bathroom. And they do save the trees, like the commercial said, so they are like half eco-friendly, and half evil. . . I guess they come out of the box all friendly and smelling of nice colognes that are supposed to be, according to the commercial, 'Stronger than your most powerful blast of gas.’ You know what? I guess I should try one before I write anything else. I am always doing that you know, having an opinion on things that are based on how I think and what I know, rather than any actual experience. I think I'm going to get the one done up like Rudolph, with the nose painted all red and the little plush, absorbent horns?
NOTE FROM J, PAIN.... I laughed over this one as I wrote. Yes, laughed maniacally I did, then I hopped around the apartment naked, trying to pee on the startled, running and dodging cats, and the next thing that I knew I was running through the halls of our apt building with my freed weeny a wagging, screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!' over and over again. My Barton Fink-ish moment of celebrating the successful birth of the butt monkey's died when M. decided that she had to once more get out that damn tranquilizer gun... While I was immobile though still awake and able to feel pain, she put a bar of lavender soap in one of my few tube socks and beat my stomach and thighs relentleesly... I feared I was going to die, believed I had only one chance of getting better, so when my lips could move again, I began mouthing, "Boo boo kisses, boo boo kisses?" Like Kit Carson used to tell the tin horns after regaling them with a tale of being chased by hundreds of Indians that ended with him stranded in a tree, ". . . and then . . . I died."
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cityscape...
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This is actually a rectangle, and quite large. You should buy it.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Mark Twain's On Man and Beasts,,,,
The great mind grew cynical in the end, too battered by the slaughters of the civil warand the seeming winning of the world by railroad barons and other rich, mindlessly cruel capatlists throughout the world.
He kept his sense of humour until the end, but there is nothing child-like in the late writing that he wouldn't allow them to publish until 100 years after his death. This book is filled with scraps of how he viewed mankind as opposed to animals, which he saw as better than man in every way possible.
He was a bit of a misanthrope in the end, living with daughters after the death of beloved wife. He was famous and sought out, but he was too bitter to care. He was known for ignoring people who came to talk to him, though he was said to always take hours out of his day to play with any stray cat that came along. Loving animals is easier than humans, because we can basically understand why they do what they do, because they have limited language games/cultural--biological patterns to choose from. They bite, they purr, they bark, they want to go out... etc.
In 'On Man and Beast,' the stories range from balls out comparisions of humans and pets, to stories about the devil appearing to some kids and creating villages to show creation with tiny people, and then slaughtering them all just to make a point. Other stories are a bit more pathetic, like the man who beats his dog so bad it has an eye hanging out, but when the man is injured, the dog does all it can to help him. Lucky for us, most of the stories are funnier than that one.
This is an incredibly enlightened view for his time, when most animals were still thought of as nothing but a meat or a ride. People have always loved animals, but it is obvious that it would be difficult to allow a lot of emotions to develop for a pig that is going to be eaten, or a cat that is simplyt there to eat the rats on the farm, etc... I have written in here before about the expanding of the human ethical circle that is taking place now. Back in Twain's time, native americans, blacks, women, the Chinese -- basically, anyone who was not white and comely or rich -- was demonized. The xenophobia of our mammalian nature was rampant, and culture had yet to alter the genetics of a chimp that had to distrust any chimp not from their tribe (at least the ones run by males).
How did we change? One study showed that a group of apes lost all of their alpha males, because they were the fighters for garbage back about twenty years ago, and they all caught a disease and died. Now, though they are xenophobic, without these males the females created an entirely different tribe. More about sharing than fighting for a place in the heirarchy. This state of affairs last until the present day. Basically, their environment caused their culture to change, and they found a better way to live.
This has happened to humans over and over, too fast for any of us to sit down and find causation, like this chimp study was able to do. Mark Twain, in the end, seems to have lost hope in humans. A lot of this was the result of his being fed romantic notions when he was a child -- a universe complete with a god, and the truth was almost too much for him to bear.
He kept his sense of humour until the end, but there is nothing child-like in the late writing that he wouldn't allow them to publish until 100 years after his death. This book is filled with scraps of how he viewed mankind as opposed to animals, which he saw as better than man in every way possible.
He was a bit of a misanthrope in the end, living with daughters after the death of beloved wife. He was famous and sought out, but he was too bitter to care. He was known for ignoring people who came to talk to him, though he was said to always take hours out of his day to play with any stray cat that came along. Loving animals is easier than humans, because we can basically understand why they do what they do, because they have limited language games/cultural--biological patterns to choose from. They bite, they purr, they bark, they want to go out... etc.
In 'On Man and Beast,' the stories range from balls out comparisions of humans and pets, to stories about the devil appearing to some kids and creating villages to show creation with tiny people, and then slaughtering them all just to make a point. Other stories are a bit more pathetic, like the man who beats his dog so bad it has an eye hanging out, but when the man is injured, the dog does all it can to help him. Lucky for us, most of the stories are funnier than that one.
This is an incredibly enlightened view for his time, when most animals were still thought of as nothing but a meat or a ride. People have always loved animals, but it is obvious that it would be difficult to allow a lot of emotions to develop for a pig that is going to be eaten, or a cat that is simplyt there to eat the rats on the farm, etc... I have written in here before about the expanding of the human ethical circle that is taking place now. Back in Twain's time, native americans, blacks, women, the Chinese -- basically, anyone who was not white and comely or rich -- was demonized. The xenophobia of our mammalian nature was rampant, and culture had yet to alter the genetics of a chimp that had to distrust any chimp not from their tribe (at least the ones run by males).
How did we change? One study showed that a group of apes lost all of their alpha males, because they were the fighters for garbage back about twenty years ago, and they all caught a disease and died. Now, though they are xenophobic, without these males the females created an entirely different tribe. More about sharing than fighting for a place in the heirarchy. This state of affairs last until the present day. Basically, their environment caused their culture to change, and they found a better way to live.
This has happened to humans over and over, too fast for any of us to sit down and find causation, like this chimp study was able to do. Mark Twain, in the end, seems to have lost hope in humans. A lot of this was the result of his being fed romantic notions when he was a child -- a universe complete with a god, and the truth was almost too much for him to bear.
rant on the silly, silly believers of lies, lies, lies...
I saw a show last night on Palastinian terrorists, interviews with a few that were in Israeli custody after involving themselves. When asked why these 24 year old commanders where sending kids to their deaths, the explanations all came back to the 72 virgins, rivers of yogurt (a new one on me) in various flavors, another of NON alcholic wine -- somehow, this made me laugh even after seeing the carnage of their bombs.
I am symphathetic to the Palastinians and the Israeli's, though the fundamentally religious on both sides could be disposed of as far as I am concerned. Without religion, both sides could come together as equals, the descendents of desperate people in desperate times who did desperate things. They could all drink alcholic wine and toast the future, instead of being living eulogies for the past. Living Eulogies. That is what the palastinians are.
The arguements these guys had all sounded logical, to a mind trashed on the silly polymics of war propoganda. Me, the mind attempting to see the world as scientific and pre-scientific, saw only kids playing a stupid game. They think heaven exists and has awards for killing. Only a religion could convince people of something so ass backwards. To fight a war by sending your children out to fight is one thing; sending them to certain death is another altogether. Can you imagine the uproar in a civilized country if we did this? But, the difference is that the people in the camps are depressed and collectively encouraging suicide as a way out; scientifically based cultures do the exact opposite.
It is funny that culture is how we keep the ape in line, but it also has the dark side of perverting what is noble and right in nature. If everyone were forced to read EO Wilson's books and were somehow lead to understand the implications, we could maybe move on beyond the deadly dreams of religion. We could see that apes have some of the traits we consider most noble in ourselves, and they do so without the libraries filled with culture and reasons and gods and what-not. self help books are a great example. Hundreds come out every month and people buy them, live in the dream for a little bit and get some reward, then move on to another dream in another book.
The pseudo science behind most therapy is known to intellectuals -- like the oh so interesting statistics about how psycho therapy actually extends depressions beyond the normal time that they would go away without therapy -- which amounts to paying someone to encourage us to wallow in our own shit. Not to mention that therapists have a vested interest in keeping you sick, because they like your money as much as you do. Don't kid yourself -- 'players only love you when they're playing.'
So.... the upshot of this entry was merely to say that we can give children a view of the world that is emotionally warm and kind and animalistic without a god. The apes did it just because their jocks were all killed off.
I would have loved to have learned this when I was in high school, when I could not understand why interesting women dating weird and brutal men. Those same women want guys like me now. I don't want them though.
I want a weird girl who was ostracized in high school because she is a smart, individual thinker, who, like me, is less bound to the most cliche' ways of being a human than most. I am lucky to have found a woman who values love and fun and honor more than she worships the market and its minoins.
So, ape it up!!!!!
I am symphathetic to the Palastinians and the Israeli's, though the fundamentally religious on both sides could be disposed of as far as I am concerned. Without religion, both sides could come together as equals, the descendents of desperate people in desperate times who did desperate things. They could all drink alcholic wine and toast the future, instead of being living eulogies for the past. Living Eulogies. That is what the palastinians are.
The arguements these guys had all sounded logical, to a mind trashed on the silly polymics of war propoganda. Me, the mind attempting to see the world as scientific and pre-scientific, saw only kids playing a stupid game. They think heaven exists and has awards for killing. Only a religion could convince people of something so ass backwards. To fight a war by sending your children out to fight is one thing; sending them to certain death is another altogether. Can you imagine the uproar in a civilized country if we did this? But, the difference is that the people in the camps are depressed and collectively encouraging suicide as a way out; scientifically based cultures do the exact opposite.
It is funny that culture is how we keep the ape in line, but it also has the dark side of perverting what is noble and right in nature. If everyone were forced to read EO Wilson's books and were somehow lead to understand the implications, we could maybe move on beyond the deadly dreams of religion. We could see that apes have some of the traits we consider most noble in ourselves, and they do so without the libraries filled with culture and reasons and gods and what-not. self help books are a great example. Hundreds come out every month and people buy them, live in the dream for a little bit and get some reward, then move on to another dream in another book.
The pseudo science behind most therapy is known to intellectuals -- like the oh so interesting statistics about how psycho therapy actually extends depressions beyond the normal time that they would go away without therapy -- which amounts to paying someone to encourage us to wallow in our own shit. Not to mention that therapists have a vested interest in keeping you sick, because they like your money as much as you do. Don't kid yourself -- 'players only love you when they're playing.'
So.... the upshot of this entry was merely to say that we can give children a view of the world that is emotionally warm and kind and animalistic without a god. The apes did it just because their jocks were all killed off.
I would have loved to have learned this when I was in high school, when I could not understand why interesting women dating weird and brutal men. Those same women want guys like me now. I don't want them though.
I want a weird girl who was ostracized in high school because she is a smart, individual thinker, who, like me, is less bound to the most cliche' ways of being a human than most. I am lucky to have found a woman who values love and fun and honor more than she worships the market and its minoins.
So, ape it up!!!!!
novel excerpt... fake radio interview
CHRISTOPHER J. BAHNSEN/314-76-8936: Hello again. This is Chris B’s voice coming out of your dashboard, earphones, stereo, metal plates and any other devices suitable for receiving radio waves. We’re back with our first guests, two local men who have written a book that claims one of them smuggled cocaine into Texas while working for the CIA. You’ve all heard of the Cocaine, CIA connection? Is this history, or bunk? Where do you weigh in, my loyal, Two Am listeners? Let me know. Set your speed-dial on 862-8595 and start hitting flash and redial. If you’ve been good, the karma will be with you and you’ll get to ask our guests-or myself-for an opinion on your own pet conspiracy theory.
I like that – pet conspiracy theories, it could be something like pet rocks, but this box would just be empty. Ha, that at least got my producer laughing.
GILBERT: We aren’t conspiracy theorists. Bill doesn’t know anything about UFO’s, the gnomes of Munich, or how many people fired into Kennedy’s head. He has a story, about Iran-Contra, which is true. I’m the other guest, the ghostwriter. Dave Gilbert.
BAHNSEN: This press release, in my hand, says that the CIA released the crack plague on the black community in Los Angeles. Now, if the government dealing drugs to the brother’s isn’t a conspiracy theory, then I’m going to need a new definition for the term.
GILBERT: The agent, she is trying to sell the book and she has her way of doing things, okay? She takes the most vivid parts and plays them up, like anyone trying to sell something to an idiotic market. As far as the coke and blacks, we speculate briefly for a few paragraphs on that matter, and then move straight back to our, ‘Joe Friday, Just the facts, Ma’am,’ attitude.
BAHNSEN: So, now you’re saying the CIA didn’t give the blacks crack cocaine, which is the exact opposite of your press release?
GILBERT: We say that the CIA did end up having a small part in unleashing crack, regardless of their intentions. Our Book is the facts, you know? People in the CIA protested the cocaine, too, from the very start. But, they still let the cartels smuggle in god knows how much coke?
BAHNSEN: Well, it still sounds like a conspiracy theory to me. In fact, if my grandpa were here he might say, you have a pig in your lap and you’re telling me it’s a chicken. But whatever you are, let’s move beyond the labels, if possible, and get to the facts of the story – or at least, your spin on the facts.
GILBERT: When I was writing short stories, no one thought I was unbalanced. In fact, people kind of assumed that I knew what I was talking about. Now, it’s like I’m carrying around signs saying, ‘The world ended last Tuesday.’ Hey, we just wrote a book about a military operation, okay? A history book, of sorts.
BAHNSEN: Hey, Bill, how did you get a gig like working for the CIA? Did you answer an ad asking for a spook, or what?
PERRY: I was going to try to tell my story from the beginning to end, in sequence, like Dave and me planned.
GILBERT: Answer him Bill.
PERRY: A guy came up to me in a bar in Korea and said that he’d heard I was one of the best low-to-the-ground pilots in the Army. I was better than the guys who I went through basics with, on account of I started crop dusting way back when I was a eleven, or twelve. I explained to him about the crop dusting.
BAHNSEN: In the press release, you say that you can’t talk about your other missions - what’s up with that?
PERRY: A lot of what I know is covered by my Loyalty Oath.
GILBERT: That translates to mean that it would be illegal for Bill to talk about covert activity.
BILL: Yea, but this is different. This book, now, it goes and describes missions that have already been exposed, written about and such. The other missions are still classified. Nobody but them and me knows about em’, and it would probably wind my ass up in jail, at least, if I told the press everything I know. I won’t. I am still loyal to my country and proud of what I did
BAHNSEN: Wait a minute, then why are you writing about cocaine?
PERRY: I wouldn’t be talking about the cocaine if all this hadn’t already come out in other books. I just figured, if it’s all out there any ways, why shouldn’t a soldier who was there make a little something off it, you know? Plus, and Dave pointed this out to me, all the books were pretty one sided. None of them had anything good to say about what we did, and there was at least some good to it, even if it were only our intentions, you know? Though I gotta say, Dave would only write the book if he had his say, too, and he’s a mushy hearted liberal. What do you expect from a poet?
GILBERT: Bill, you were going to describe the flight into El Salvador?
PERRY: Yeah. Well, when they called me up, all they said was that a battalion of soldiers were trapped in enemy territory and needed guns and supplies.
BAHNSEN: You left home not knowing which war you were going into?
GILBERT: At any one time on this planet, America is fighting, or backing someone’s fight, just about everywhere, you know? They called Bill up to make this flight after Congress cut off the money for the Contra’s because of their nun-killing death squads. That’s the army that the operative was talking about when he called Bill, the Contra’s. The CIA had put this army of Contra’s together, and all of a sudden Congress wanted us to leave them at the mercy of the enemy? Reagan decided to just take the war covert, throw out the press and hide the whole thing behind a flood of disinformation and outright lies. Plausible denial was coined about then. Go on with the story, Bill.
PERRY: They told me that I would be flying out of Texas. I took my twin engine duster down, landed at this strip that was all out by itself in the dessert. They had planes already loaded and ready to go, six cargoes, beat up looking things covered in mud. We flew out in formation, following a Colombian pilot down. He had a guy from MI on his plane with him. The strip . . .
GILBERT: MI is Military Intelligence.
PERRY: Yea, that’s right. The runway was in a jungle, a strip cut into the trees. When we first got there, we had to circle until they removed this green camouflage netting. You couldn’t see the landing strip until they took that shit off. As they peeled it back, a thin line of brown mud appeared, and that’s where we put them down. There were soldiers all over, South Americans, and most of them started unloading the planes. I guess they were Contras. It ain’t the kind of situation where you can ask questions, you know? It only took em’ about twenty minutes to unload us. When we were empty, I thought we were ready to fly back, but this spook, or at least I think he was CIA, told me to wait. He got me a beer out of a cooler he had in his humvee. Nice guy. Maybe twenty minutes later, this transport truck pulls up all filled with burlap bags, and the soldiers start putting the bags in the planes. I wouldn’t have known what was in them, more than likely, if a soldier hadn’t dropped one off the truck. The bag broke open, split right in the middle all the way around and a white cloud shot up just covering this guy from head to toe. The others started laughing, then the guy who was all covered in white started acting like he was snorting the stuff off himself - though he wasn’t really. I was laughing, too, even though I couldn’t follow what they were saying. They cleaned up that shit. . . Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that ‘s’ word. Any way, they cleaned up that coke carefully, too, with a dust vac. When they were done loading the planes, we flew back to the same strip in Texas. I picked up my plane there and came home. When all this was happening, I didn’t know much about the Contra’s were, or whether the coke had been confiscated, or what. It was only years later, after people started writing about John Kerry’s senate investigations into this, that I understood what I had been a part of. For instance, I found out why the CIA called me in -- they were trying to cover, temporarily, for the loss of the Army pilots, which they eventually did, by replacing them with the coke cartel’s pilots. They were already using the Cartels planes and jungle airports, so it was a logical step.
GILBERT: Basically, the CIA made a deal with the Cartels to use their secret airline to fly guns into South America. In exchange, the Company let the cartel fill up the return flights with coke and land at their ranch in Texas, where they didn’t have to bother with little matters like customs, or the DEA.
BAHSEN: Your press release says that better than a dozen pilots were, and I quote, ‘murdered into silence.’ If you’re story is true, then why won’t the CIA come after you?
GILBERT: There’s the proof that you seem to need to know that we aren’t a couple of nuts, okay? We don’t think that the CIA is out to get us, all right?
I like that – pet conspiracy theories, it could be something like pet rocks, but this box would just be empty. Ha, that at least got my producer laughing.
GILBERT: We aren’t conspiracy theorists. Bill doesn’t know anything about UFO’s, the gnomes of Munich, or how many people fired into Kennedy’s head. He has a story, about Iran-Contra, which is true. I’m the other guest, the ghostwriter. Dave Gilbert.
BAHNSEN: This press release, in my hand, says that the CIA released the crack plague on the black community in Los Angeles. Now, if the government dealing drugs to the brother’s isn’t a conspiracy theory, then I’m going to need a new definition for the term.
GILBERT: The agent, she is trying to sell the book and she has her way of doing things, okay? She takes the most vivid parts and plays them up, like anyone trying to sell something to an idiotic market. As far as the coke and blacks, we speculate briefly for a few paragraphs on that matter, and then move straight back to our, ‘Joe Friday, Just the facts, Ma’am,’ attitude.
BAHNSEN: So, now you’re saying the CIA didn’t give the blacks crack cocaine, which is the exact opposite of your press release?
GILBERT: We say that the CIA did end up having a small part in unleashing crack, regardless of their intentions. Our Book is the facts, you know? People in the CIA protested the cocaine, too, from the very start. But, they still let the cartels smuggle in god knows how much coke?
BAHNSEN: Well, it still sounds like a conspiracy theory to me. In fact, if my grandpa were here he might say, you have a pig in your lap and you’re telling me it’s a chicken. But whatever you are, let’s move beyond the labels, if possible, and get to the facts of the story – or at least, your spin on the facts.
GILBERT: When I was writing short stories, no one thought I was unbalanced. In fact, people kind of assumed that I knew what I was talking about. Now, it’s like I’m carrying around signs saying, ‘The world ended last Tuesday.’ Hey, we just wrote a book about a military operation, okay? A history book, of sorts.
BAHNSEN: Hey, Bill, how did you get a gig like working for the CIA? Did you answer an ad asking for a spook, or what?
PERRY: I was going to try to tell my story from the beginning to end, in sequence, like Dave and me planned.
GILBERT: Answer him Bill.
PERRY: A guy came up to me in a bar in Korea and said that he’d heard I was one of the best low-to-the-ground pilots in the Army. I was better than the guys who I went through basics with, on account of I started crop dusting way back when I was a eleven, or twelve. I explained to him about the crop dusting.
BAHNSEN: In the press release, you say that you can’t talk about your other missions - what’s up with that?
PERRY: A lot of what I know is covered by my Loyalty Oath.
GILBERT: That translates to mean that it would be illegal for Bill to talk about covert activity.
BILL: Yea, but this is different. This book, now, it goes and describes missions that have already been exposed, written about and such. The other missions are still classified. Nobody but them and me knows about em’, and it would probably wind my ass up in jail, at least, if I told the press everything I know. I won’t. I am still loyal to my country and proud of what I did
BAHNSEN: Wait a minute, then why are you writing about cocaine?
PERRY: I wouldn’t be talking about the cocaine if all this hadn’t already come out in other books. I just figured, if it’s all out there any ways, why shouldn’t a soldier who was there make a little something off it, you know? Plus, and Dave pointed this out to me, all the books were pretty one sided. None of them had anything good to say about what we did, and there was at least some good to it, even if it were only our intentions, you know? Though I gotta say, Dave would only write the book if he had his say, too, and he’s a mushy hearted liberal. What do you expect from a poet?
GILBERT: Bill, you were going to describe the flight into El Salvador?
PERRY: Yeah. Well, when they called me up, all they said was that a battalion of soldiers were trapped in enemy territory and needed guns and supplies.
BAHNSEN: You left home not knowing which war you were going into?
GILBERT: At any one time on this planet, America is fighting, or backing someone’s fight, just about everywhere, you know? They called Bill up to make this flight after Congress cut off the money for the Contra’s because of their nun-killing death squads. That’s the army that the operative was talking about when he called Bill, the Contra’s. The CIA had put this army of Contra’s together, and all of a sudden Congress wanted us to leave them at the mercy of the enemy? Reagan decided to just take the war covert, throw out the press and hide the whole thing behind a flood of disinformation and outright lies. Plausible denial was coined about then. Go on with the story, Bill.
PERRY: They told me that I would be flying out of Texas. I took my twin engine duster down, landed at this strip that was all out by itself in the dessert. They had planes already loaded and ready to go, six cargoes, beat up looking things covered in mud. We flew out in formation, following a Colombian pilot down. He had a guy from MI on his plane with him. The strip . . .
GILBERT: MI is Military Intelligence.
PERRY: Yea, that’s right. The runway was in a jungle, a strip cut into the trees. When we first got there, we had to circle until they removed this green camouflage netting. You couldn’t see the landing strip until they took that shit off. As they peeled it back, a thin line of brown mud appeared, and that’s where we put them down. There were soldiers all over, South Americans, and most of them started unloading the planes. I guess they were Contras. It ain’t the kind of situation where you can ask questions, you know? It only took em’ about twenty minutes to unload us. When we were empty, I thought we were ready to fly back, but this spook, or at least I think he was CIA, told me to wait. He got me a beer out of a cooler he had in his humvee. Nice guy. Maybe twenty minutes later, this transport truck pulls up all filled with burlap bags, and the soldiers start putting the bags in the planes. I wouldn’t have known what was in them, more than likely, if a soldier hadn’t dropped one off the truck. The bag broke open, split right in the middle all the way around and a white cloud shot up just covering this guy from head to toe. The others started laughing, then the guy who was all covered in white started acting like he was snorting the stuff off himself - though he wasn’t really. I was laughing, too, even though I couldn’t follow what they were saying. They cleaned up that shit. . . Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that ‘s’ word. Any way, they cleaned up that coke carefully, too, with a dust vac. When they were done loading the planes, we flew back to the same strip in Texas. I picked up my plane there and came home. When all this was happening, I didn’t know much about the Contra’s were, or whether the coke had been confiscated, or what. It was only years later, after people started writing about John Kerry’s senate investigations into this, that I understood what I had been a part of. For instance, I found out why the CIA called me in -- they were trying to cover, temporarily, for the loss of the Army pilots, which they eventually did, by replacing them with the coke cartel’s pilots. They were already using the Cartels planes and jungle airports, so it was a logical step.
GILBERT: Basically, the CIA made a deal with the Cartels to use their secret airline to fly guns into South America. In exchange, the Company let the cartel fill up the return flights with coke and land at their ranch in Texas, where they didn’t have to bother with little matters like customs, or the DEA.
BAHSEN: Your press release says that better than a dozen pilots were, and I quote, ‘murdered into silence.’ If you’re story is true, then why won’t the CIA come after you?
GILBERT: There’s the proof that you seem to need to know that we aren’t a couple of nuts, okay? We don’t think that the CIA is out to get us, all right?
Yes, I am from outer space...
Humans,
I have tried to be patient with you. I have tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. I have tried to tell myself that you are unevolved, in need of thought-directions and compasses for your personality morality that are free of your silly resurrection myths. I have tried to tell myself that the breasts of young women pushing through those tight sleeveless shirts (that also show delicious looking belly buttons as well), was reason enough not to destroy this planet. Not to mention some of your better genetic products, like Michael Moore and Jimmy Carter and Johnny Cash... but now, what with woody allens fall into scummy creepdom (And that hurt me more than I can admit -- I hate judging art by the life of the artist--for god's sake, Ezra Pound was a nazi for awhile, but no one talks about the man who invented Hemingways style, by editing all verbs and descirption, as a nazi. But the people who lived in his time did, as we do with woody allen, who will be remembered better than we think of him right now, should this planet have had a future, which I have decided it won't).
I am now forced to accept that you elect this Shrub, or tree, or Bush, or whatever the evil boofs name happens to be this election round (senior and junior or an actorish puppet or one of their fanatical followers, they're all the same to me), I am going to have to allow the greenhouse effect to continue. I don't want to, but the belly buttons of young girls (not to mention my housemates magical body and all her sweet, sweet curves), are now not enough for me to ground all the jets, stop the space shuttle runs through that destroy up to ten percent of the ozone simply because america arrogantly refuses to stop using liquid fuel (something even russia did decades ago). (this is from a bill moyers special that was, inexplicably, only aired at 2am in the morning).
Soon, a ship will come down from the skies and my brethren will beam me up, telling me, "We are sorry you were left here among all these mental diseases.... we have the cure here. Now, you can return to a sane planet, where decisions are made for the good of the planet, not the good of the top 2%, or for some illogical stance arising from a pre-scientific cosmology. Not to mention, we have better weed, too." OF course, they will say this in a much, much cooler way.
Just sign this...
Just sign this.... One of a zillion zillion zillion disgusted aleins watching you near apes wallow in lies.
I have tried to be patient with you. I have tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. I have tried to tell myself that you are unevolved, in need of thought-directions and compasses for your personality morality that are free of your silly resurrection myths. I have tried to tell myself that the breasts of young women pushing through those tight sleeveless shirts (that also show delicious looking belly buttons as well), was reason enough not to destroy this planet. Not to mention some of your better genetic products, like Michael Moore and Jimmy Carter and Johnny Cash... but now, what with woody allens fall into scummy creepdom (And that hurt me more than I can admit -- I hate judging art by the life of the artist--for god's sake, Ezra Pound was a nazi for awhile, but no one talks about the man who invented Hemingways style, by editing all verbs and descirption, as a nazi. But the people who lived in his time did, as we do with woody allen, who will be remembered better than we think of him right now, should this planet have had a future, which I have decided it won't).
I am now forced to accept that you elect this Shrub, or tree, or Bush, or whatever the evil boofs name happens to be this election round (senior and junior or an actorish puppet or one of their fanatical followers, they're all the same to me), I am going to have to allow the greenhouse effect to continue. I don't want to, but the belly buttons of young girls (not to mention my housemates magical body and all her sweet, sweet curves), are now not enough for me to ground all the jets, stop the space shuttle runs through that destroy up to ten percent of the ozone simply because america arrogantly refuses to stop using liquid fuel (something even russia did decades ago). (this is from a bill moyers special that was, inexplicably, only aired at 2am in the morning).
Soon, a ship will come down from the skies and my brethren will beam me up, telling me, "We are sorry you were left here among all these mental diseases.... we have the cure here. Now, you can return to a sane planet, where decisions are made for the good of the planet, not the good of the top 2%, or for some illogical stance arising from a pre-scientific cosmology. Not to mention, we have better weed, too." OF course, they will say this in a much, much cooler way.
Just sign this...
Just sign this.... One of a zillion zillion zillion disgusted aleins watching you near apes wallow in lies.
frankenstein is the most elitist novel that I have ever read.
In literary criticism classes, we used books with various novels in them that the back half was filled with how various types of critics viewed the story. No one agreed on anything. This is because academics have to publish or die, so the they look for the latest buzzword that has a nebulous definition (this is why post modern means something different everytime I hear it used... by the way, all it originally meant--though like any great thought everything does tend to fit within various paradigm--was that there is no longer a god around to give us all a set of meanings that we believe in. The moderns were about discovering new universal truths that could be applied to everyone; post modernism says that no one beleives that anything necessarily means the same thing. Again, this is why there were so many damn critical interpretations I had to learn in that literary criticism class, which was taught by one of the greatest minds I have ever kneeled before, Dr. Deville
(a dedicated teacher who taught up until two weeks before his imminent death, which he experienced a week into his retirement).
Dross is the word I zoned in on in Frankenstein. Specifically, where she describes the little girl that the frankenstein's adopt after finding her in a village living among what the fucking elitist shelley calls, 'the human dross."
By this Shelley meant that only the elite in society were 'really human.' Dross is waste, by the way. Her interpretation of the book, you may not know, is about how if you educate the lower classes, they will be monsters, with no place in their working world, and too ugly to be accepted by the upper, educated classes (in the book, the monster becomes educated and eloquent. The only way you will ever see the truth is if I make the film, I fear.... and that isn't going to happen anytime soon, though you never know what I will do--ask M., she
knows).
Knowing all this was the Marxist interpretation, I was quite amused to know my brother in law had changed his name to Llama Dross. He did this for reason I won't go into in here without his okay, but whatever his reason, this is one fucking funny, thoughtfully chosen name.
So, next time someone brings up frankenstein, you can say that it was a modernist story, because the rich were trying to impose their will on everyone, to the degree of stopping them from becoming literate (and if you think that is meaningless, you should read the 'Autobiography of Frederick Douglas,' who describes a slave mind becoming literate and open).
(a dedicated teacher who taught up until two weeks before his imminent death, which he experienced a week into his retirement).
Dross is the word I zoned in on in Frankenstein. Specifically, where she describes the little girl that the frankenstein's adopt after finding her in a village living among what the fucking elitist shelley calls, 'the human dross."
By this Shelley meant that only the elite in society were 'really human.' Dross is waste, by the way. Her interpretation of the book, you may not know, is about how if you educate the lower classes, they will be monsters, with no place in their working world, and too ugly to be accepted by the upper, educated classes (in the book, the monster becomes educated and eloquent. The only way you will ever see the truth is if I make the film, I fear.... and that isn't going to happen anytime soon, though you never know what I will do--ask M., she
knows).
Knowing all this was the Marxist interpretation, I was quite amused to know my brother in law had changed his name to Llama Dross. He did this for reason I won't go into in here without his okay, but whatever his reason, this is one fucking funny, thoughtfully chosen name.
So, next time someone brings up frankenstein, you can say that it was a modernist story, because the rich were trying to impose their will on everyone, to the degree of stopping them from becoming literate (and if you think that is meaningless, you should read the 'Autobiography of Frederick Douglas,' who describes a slave mind becoming literate and open).
WE ARE APES...
Apes, as we all know, are general led by alpha males. However, scientists have been studying a tribe of apes where all the aggressive males were killed off, after they caught tb while fighting over human garbage. This leadership vaccum was filled by a female, who then changed the tribe around into a more peaceful, sharing entity. Instead of the old brutal heirarchy, the tribe became more gentle, took better care of the babies, started sharing... they became woman run, matriarchial (as opposed to humans, who are primarily patriarchal (spelling?).
The significance here is that the apes culture changed, and the apes changed. This happens with humans, too, as we all know from looking through old photos or ourselves and seeing the hairstyles etc... that were slowly inserted into our minds by tv, friends, critics, etc... The apes changes show that culture and genes work together; our genes only determine 'possible' behaviors, but our culture decides which of these behaviors will manifest.
This is why I harp on and on about religion and why I believe that nation building is not just some choice we have -- it is our primary means of keeping our culture alive. And say what you will about american culture, but I think americans, judging by my thousands of conversations int he cab, are kind, concerned, and willing to fight if there is a cause. The problem is like Nader says, the democrats and republicans are the same, basically. None of them are going to give us national health care, or spend more on public schools, or continue the tradition of allowing more and more people to benefit from the freedom here -- such as gay marriages (the horror stories of people being kept from their 20 year companions funeral, kicked out of the house, losing their kids, etc... are unacceptible to anyone who thoughtfully looks at this issue without the homophobic taint that is also part of our culture -- did you know there was a time when gays were totally accepted, in all kinds of cultures all over the world -- from the native americans to europe? This is a cultural affect. Our closest living relatives, the Bonobo's, a matriarchial tribe that has orgies before eating so everyone is in the mood to share, simply fuck whoever is closest of whatever sex).
I know the human condition is a bit more complex than the apes, or at least seems to be (actually, the bonobo's are being wiped out by all the wars in the congo, and they do not do well at all in captavity -- they are approx. 99.7% the same as us on a genetically level -- so they will probably extinct soon). However, this is somewhat decieving. People think they change because of individual ideas, but no... we are like a huge organism that agrees to use words certain ways, which makes certain behaviors bad and praises other. This is something un--intuitive to us about seeing our behavior as part of something larger, but this has been known and used since time immemoriable to destroy other cultures and promote mindsets that fit into whatever particular government is in control (the Hitler youth come to mind, but also america, a few hundred years ago, when most southern whites believed that blacks were inferior).
What does all this mean? I think it means that Hillary Clinton should be president. Or maybe it just means I should go live with the Bonobo's? Oh, if only I could....
The significance here is that the apes culture changed, and the apes changed. This happens with humans, too, as we all know from looking through old photos or ourselves and seeing the hairstyles etc... that were slowly inserted into our minds by tv, friends, critics, etc... The apes changes show that culture and genes work together; our genes only determine 'possible' behaviors, but our culture decides which of these behaviors will manifest.
This is why I harp on and on about religion and why I believe that nation building is not just some choice we have -- it is our primary means of keeping our culture alive. And say what you will about american culture, but I think americans, judging by my thousands of conversations int he cab, are kind, concerned, and willing to fight if there is a cause. The problem is like Nader says, the democrats and republicans are the same, basically. None of them are going to give us national health care, or spend more on public schools, or continue the tradition of allowing more and more people to benefit from the freedom here -- such as gay marriages (the horror stories of people being kept from their 20 year companions funeral, kicked out of the house, losing their kids, etc... are unacceptible to anyone who thoughtfully looks at this issue without the homophobic taint that is also part of our culture -- did you know there was a time when gays were totally accepted, in all kinds of cultures all over the world -- from the native americans to europe? This is a cultural affect. Our closest living relatives, the Bonobo's, a matriarchial tribe that has orgies before eating so everyone is in the mood to share, simply fuck whoever is closest of whatever sex).
I know the human condition is a bit more complex than the apes, or at least seems to be (actually, the bonobo's are being wiped out by all the wars in the congo, and they do not do well at all in captavity -- they are approx. 99.7% the same as us on a genetically level -- so they will probably extinct soon). However, this is somewhat decieving. People think they change because of individual ideas, but no... we are like a huge organism that agrees to use words certain ways, which makes certain behaviors bad and praises other. This is something un--intuitive to us about seeing our behavior as part of something larger, but this has been known and used since time immemoriable to destroy other cultures and promote mindsets that fit into whatever particular government is in control (the Hitler youth come to mind, but also america, a few hundred years ago, when most southern whites believed that blacks were inferior).
What does all this mean? I think it means that Hillary Clinton should be president. Or maybe it just means I should go live with the Bonobo's? Oh, if only I could....
GOOD SHIT
You may notice I have begun using the word shit a lot. I do this because shit is something we can all agree on disliking (and if you don't, I don't want to know you anyways); it isn't like arab and jew and black and korean and cat or dog or sheep and lion. So, I think that the new pc way of cursing should be limited to shit. I mean, we all say fuck, but it isn't a bad word all the time....shit is. So, let's hear it for shit!
"For shits a jolly good fellow,
for shits a jolly good fellow,
for shits a jolly good fellow
which nobody can deny,
which...."
"For shits a jolly good fellow,
for shits a jolly good fellow,
for shits a jolly good fellow
which nobody can deny,
which...."
CHICAGO'S MAYOR IS A CROOK.. OR AT LEAST HE KNOWS A
HELL OF A LOT OF THEM.... ACCIDENTLY? And as we sleuths of the human geography know, there are few real accidents, and certainly, when a pattern is developed over years and years, the idea of accident is long dead and gone--mental garbage that only the young and ignorant and stupid believe.
People know the Mayor is corrupt and accept him as some kind of necessary evil. And he does his job exceptionally well sometimes. He does so by raising taxes that pay for the fraudulent practices his people are always up to -- like inflated no bid contracts for all these mafia connected people who Mayor Daly 'accidently' ends up doing business with all the time. And he is the funniest mayor I have ever seen, cracking excellent jokes -- like during the first invasion of Iraq, when he tried to get bush to invade chicago too, so we could get some of the money he was spending to stop the wars in our streets. It was so funny. He is also authentic. He can say what he means without worrying about offending anyone, because he is firmly in control -- virtually untouchable in an election.
This is a mayor whose father rose out of a street gang that basically took over city hall and ran the town. They controlled a vast political machine of unions and other mafia connected organizations -- not to mention, all the guys the mob can gather to political work, then end up getting plum jobs from where they then eventually end up in jail for taking bribes or whatever.
78 of Daly's co-horts have recently been busted and prosecuted by the FBI's Operation Silver Shovel, which taped lots of these fools taking bribes. I can't tell you how many times I saw Daly on tv saying that he 'had no idea this was going on.' His ignorance of such things, over and over, would be enough to get him out of office in a town less accepting of criminals. That is the root of why he is in office, too -- people here put up with him, talk about how he made the city so much safer (that was the FBI, actually, who came storming in one year and seemingly changed the streets forever, making them much cleaner and sans all the drug dealers on the corners -- I witnessed this as a cab driver, and won't never forget; made me an fbi fan).
People think because Daly is slightly or more criminal, he can cut through red tape, get things done. I'ver heard, over and over from friends and the backseat's taxis, voices citing this and that new sculpture or flower pot or whatever, and acting like an honest man could not have done the same.
Where do these urban myths come from? Accident? IS there a master propogandists pulling hidden strings? This probably is just a chance collision of myth and reality.
Daly's victims come in the form of 3.00 taxes on cigarettes and a buck something on gas -- poor taxes. If you are a big company who wants to make money here, Daly will actually give you money and not charge you taxes--they'll just tax the employees to death. THis is the only town I've ever lived in where the Democrats were as evil as the elephants... oh, well. The flowers are in bloom and a party awaits ahead...
To give Daly the benefit of the doubt, and play devils advocate with my own thinking, I did once end up being an honest man in a dishonest environment, when I drove cab, for about four years, for a mafia family. They even had the brother was a lawyer. I lived just a block from the garage, is why I took the job there. I had no idea about their background, but I learned soon enough -- when I got my first ticket in chicago and asked my bosses advice on how to take care of it, he told me the right guy to give fifty bucks to get the ticket erased. I later saw cops pulling up and taking bribes from them for I know not what?
I thought there was a good side of this when I got in an accident that I should have paid hundreds for, and these mob guys covered me. I was thankful until a couple of years later, I was having a conversation my boss and said something shitty about the mob, who had just taken over the cab union and were doing nothing (I went to one meeting and it was being in the Soprano's -- big goons talking in gangster voices actually ran the thing).
He responded by telling me that I should be thankful for them, because they covered my ass in the accident, by blaming it on someone else. Hearing he had made some poor guy pay for my mistake made me feel sick -- I didn't want someone else to take the hit for me. There is a real lesson in here somewhere, about how even the smallest crime creates a victim somewhere....
So Daly's really a ... Again, only time will bring the truth to light.
People know the Mayor is corrupt and accept him as some kind of necessary evil. And he does his job exceptionally well sometimes. He does so by raising taxes that pay for the fraudulent practices his people are always up to -- like inflated no bid contracts for all these mafia connected people who Mayor Daly 'accidently' ends up doing business with all the time. And he is the funniest mayor I have ever seen, cracking excellent jokes -- like during the first invasion of Iraq, when he tried to get bush to invade chicago too, so we could get some of the money he was spending to stop the wars in our streets. It was so funny. He is also authentic. He can say what he means without worrying about offending anyone, because he is firmly in control -- virtually untouchable in an election.
This is a mayor whose father rose out of a street gang that basically took over city hall and ran the town. They controlled a vast political machine of unions and other mafia connected organizations -- not to mention, all the guys the mob can gather to political work, then end up getting plum jobs from where they then eventually end up in jail for taking bribes or whatever.
78 of Daly's co-horts have recently been busted and prosecuted by the FBI's Operation Silver Shovel, which taped lots of these fools taking bribes. I can't tell you how many times I saw Daly on tv saying that he 'had no idea this was going on.' His ignorance of such things, over and over, would be enough to get him out of office in a town less accepting of criminals. That is the root of why he is in office, too -- people here put up with him, talk about how he made the city so much safer (that was the FBI, actually, who came storming in one year and seemingly changed the streets forever, making them much cleaner and sans all the drug dealers on the corners -- I witnessed this as a cab driver, and won't never forget; made me an fbi fan).
People think because Daly is slightly or more criminal, he can cut through red tape, get things done. I'ver heard, over and over from friends and the backseat's taxis, voices citing this and that new sculpture or flower pot or whatever, and acting like an honest man could not have done the same.
Where do these urban myths come from? Accident? IS there a master propogandists pulling hidden strings? This probably is just a chance collision of myth and reality.
Daly's victims come in the form of 3.00 taxes on cigarettes and a buck something on gas -- poor taxes. If you are a big company who wants to make money here, Daly will actually give you money and not charge you taxes--they'll just tax the employees to death. THis is the only town I've ever lived in where the Democrats were as evil as the elephants... oh, well. The flowers are in bloom and a party awaits ahead...
To give Daly the benefit of the doubt, and play devils advocate with my own thinking, I did once end up being an honest man in a dishonest environment, when I drove cab, for about four years, for a mafia family. They even had the brother was a lawyer. I lived just a block from the garage, is why I took the job there. I had no idea about their background, but I learned soon enough -- when I got my first ticket in chicago and asked my bosses advice on how to take care of it, he told me the right guy to give fifty bucks to get the ticket erased. I later saw cops pulling up and taking bribes from them for I know not what?
I thought there was a good side of this when I got in an accident that I should have paid hundreds for, and these mob guys covered me. I was thankful until a couple of years later, I was having a conversation my boss and said something shitty about the mob, who had just taken over the cab union and were doing nothing (I went to one meeting and it was being in the Soprano's -- big goons talking in gangster voices actually ran the thing).
He responded by telling me that I should be thankful for them, because they covered my ass in the accident, by blaming it on someone else. Hearing he had made some poor guy pay for my mistake made me feel sick -- I didn't want someone else to take the hit for me. There is a real lesson in here somewhere, about how even the smallest crime creates a victim somewhere....
So Daly's really a ... Again, only time will bring the truth to light.
HORNY VOLES
I am of course fascinated by what makes humans tick. A life long study, for sure, that could only be disrailed by digging in my heels somewhere and declaring that I have the truth. Well, I am not that dum, okay?
I once put together a bunch of quotes and pictures from old encyclopedias showing scientists and politicians making statements that were taking for the truth at the time, though now we know better. Anyone who reads of went to college knows that knowledge is forever being replaced, but still, since we are pattern makers, it is difficult for most people to see beyond their education. Noam Chomsky says there is no revolution because people are too tired when they get home after work, and I think this applies to the intellect as well -- there is no time for revolutionary thoughts in the usual life.
That is why no one seems too up in arms right now about this new study, which was done on two species of voles, one monogamous and nurturing with children, the other wild and polygamous, doing the old 'wham bam thank you mam." and leaving the little lady voles to raise the children. The monogamous voles even kissed and carressed their partner after sex, though the polygamous moles were all hit and run.
Scientitsts were able to isolate the genetic difference between the two, and then injected the 'free love' voles with the 'indentured love' voles genes. This was done by merely introducing a virus which caused a slight change.
The voles who were before all out for themselves, suddenly changed into nurturing family voles. Now, how and why this applies to humans is beyond the scope of my stupid little blog, but the implications on the theoritical level are vague enough for me to stick my head in and have a look around, at least.
It seems that this may transfer to humans, or I wouldn't be writing it. This means that the predatory males out there who think sex is only for fun, are actually missing something that family men have (or, you could look at it visa versa, but I prefer to think we are evolving toward more emotional connections, rather than less; I could be wrong, we could all be headed toward the emotionless stoicism of sociopaths).
I can see the prenupts of the future involving this virus to transfer monogamous genes. And what does this say about us? The future will have lots of evolving answers, but the implication seems clear -- some men simply are not 'cut out' to be monogamous, caring partners... John Wayne Gacy was our worst chicago serial killer --
I actually went down and hung out around the prison the night he was killed, heard the crowds scream in midieval triumph, the protestors standing in a cirlce praying around a candle. He obviously could have used this virus.
If any women read this, you should think long and hard about voles before going out with another jock/romeo.
I once put together a bunch of quotes and pictures from old encyclopedias showing scientists and politicians making statements that were taking for the truth at the time, though now we know better. Anyone who reads of went to college knows that knowledge is forever being replaced, but still, since we are pattern makers, it is difficult for most people to see beyond their education. Noam Chomsky says there is no revolution because people are too tired when they get home after work, and I think this applies to the intellect as well -- there is no time for revolutionary thoughts in the usual life.
That is why no one seems too up in arms right now about this new study, which was done on two species of voles, one monogamous and nurturing with children, the other wild and polygamous, doing the old 'wham bam thank you mam." and leaving the little lady voles to raise the children. The monogamous voles even kissed and carressed their partner after sex, though the polygamous moles were all hit and run.
Scientitsts were able to isolate the genetic difference between the two, and then injected the 'free love' voles with the 'indentured love' voles genes. This was done by merely introducing a virus which caused a slight change.
The voles who were before all out for themselves, suddenly changed into nurturing family voles. Now, how and why this applies to humans is beyond the scope of my stupid little blog, but the implications on the theoritical level are vague enough for me to stick my head in and have a look around, at least.
It seems that this may transfer to humans, or I wouldn't be writing it. This means that the predatory males out there who think sex is only for fun, are actually missing something that family men have (or, you could look at it visa versa, but I prefer to think we are evolving toward more emotional connections, rather than less; I could be wrong, we could all be headed toward the emotionless stoicism of sociopaths).
I can see the prenupts of the future involving this virus to transfer monogamous genes. And what does this say about us? The future will have lots of evolving answers, but the implication seems clear -- some men simply are not 'cut out' to be monogamous, caring partners... John Wayne Gacy was our worst chicago serial killer --
I actually went down and hung out around the prison the night he was killed, heard the crowds scream in midieval triumph, the protestors standing in a cirlce praying around a candle. He obviously could have used this virus.
If any women read this, you should think long and hard about voles before going out with another jock/romeo.
JACKOFFYOURSON DESERVES TO DIE... so there.
Does anyone believe this who isn't on that freaks payroll?
Michael jackoffyourson is at the top of my Psycho Killer's Hit List. I mean, if you are one of those people who is going to go out in a blaze of blood and glory and bullets, why waste your effort on a Mcdonalds? Go kill someone who deserves it. Like this child fucker. Your family and friends will find your dark deed easier to live with, and your prison art will be worth a lot more.
I'm not advocating that someone kill this freak, really.... no, actually I am (in a joking manner). If your predilections are more toward a slow, torture kill -- can you imagine how that freak can scream? With those vocal cords of his these could be some of the most blood curdling, pleasing screams you have ever heard. I'm just saying....
Michael jackoffyourson is at the top of my Psycho Killer's Hit List. I mean, if you are one of those people who is going to go out in a blaze of blood and glory and bullets, why waste your effort on a Mcdonalds? Go kill someone who deserves it. Like this child fucker. Your family and friends will find your dark deed easier to live with, and your prison art will be worth a lot more.
I'm not advocating that someone kill this freak, really.... no, actually I am (in a joking manner). If your predilections are more toward a slow, torture kill -- can you imagine how that freak can scream? With those vocal cords of his these could be some of the most blood curdling, pleasing screams you have ever heard. I'm just saying....
BITCHES AND BLING...
. . . are VERY, VERY, BAD WORDS!!! Picture me pointing right between your eyes and shaking my finger as I yell, "Bad words! Bad words! No! Bad human! Bad!"
Yes, these are bad words for the planet or your sister and, most importantly, of course, my dog. Bitches is one of those words with a lot of weight, and a lot of dark meanings to anyone who thinks in the least bit intellectually. To use this word demeans a lot of people, but like I said, much more importantly, it uses the name of the noble female dog, including my beloved siberian husky, Ruby Ann, as a curse!
I don't care what you humans say about each other, but now the animals are all intangled in your language games. Just because you want something to mean something, does not mean it does. Animals are not 'pets' or 'stupid' or deserving nothing beyond a bowl and a chain and a cage.
So, stop using this word bitch to mean anything beyond a female dog or I will hunt down every last one of you and kill you like a fucking fly... should I find the time, of course.
I mean, what does bitch mean? Since your writer is too lazy to get a dictionary out, I will tell you how this word is 'used', which is more important than the page of some fucking book anyways (according to wittgenstein, sort of).
1) someone who is being repeatedly raped in prison (is that really how you should refer to a woman? If you happen to think so, go kill yourself with a large rock.)
2) any woman referred to by a rapper and their problem adding adeherents.
((( I have had to come back awhile after writing this, because I should add that this is not everyone who listens to rap... as should be painfully obvious, but seems to be so only to me, judging by the letters reacting to this stupid peice of shit of an entry))).
3) the mothers and sisters and teachers of suburban white 10 year olds who listen to rap and get all ghettoedout.
4) the mothers and sisters and teachers of suburban black 10 year olds who listen to rap and get all ghettoedout.
I know the ghetto, alright? There is not a damn thing that is cool about it -- even the weed there sucks.
This is politically correctness that I am explaining. . . A good movement. You probably slam it. Do you know why? I bet you don't. It took me a lot of effort and classes to get this stuff and you are probably way too fucking stoned or lazy to do something like that.... that's fine, mind you -- you can just read me.
Bling is another word that hides a lot. Bling means anything that makes you look like a material success; a signifier saying to most that you are ostentatious and naive, is taken by some minds to be good. Again, I have to go back to some rappers, because they are an easy target and I'm feeling lazy, and say that their diamonds hide selling crack, moving whores, breaking into my car, etc... on some fingers.
The fingers of the millions of criminals who listen to rap, as opposed to the hundreds who get rich that way. I don't want the criminals to think they need diamond rings to look cool. I want them to feel okay about being poor. After all, it isn't a fucking sin, and it frees you from a lot of the supidity of trying to consume as much of the earth as possible before the inevitable collapse.
Yes, these are bad words for the planet or your sister and, most importantly, of course, my dog. Bitches is one of those words with a lot of weight, and a lot of dark meanings to anyone who thinks in the least bit intellectually. To use this word demeans a lot of people, but like I said, much more importantly, it uses the name of the noble female dog, including my beloved siberian husky, Ruby Ann, as a curse!
I don't care what you humans say about each other, but now the animals are all intangled in your language games. Just because you want something to mean something, does not mean it does. Animals are not 'pets' or 'stupid' or deserving nothing beyond a bowl and a chain and a cage.
So, stop using this word bitch to mean anything beyond a female dog or I will hunt down every last one of you and kill you like a fucking fly... should I find the time, of course.
I mean, what does bitch mean? Since your writer is too lazy to get a dictionary out, I will tell you how this word is 'used', which is more important than the page of some fucking book anyways (according to wittgenstein, sort of).
1) someone who is being repeatedly raped in prison (is that really how you should refer to a woman? If you happen to think so, go kill yourself with a large rock.)
2) any woman referred to by a rapper and their problem adding adeherents.
((( I have had to come back awhile after writing this, because I should add that this is not everyone who listens to rap... as should be painfully obvious, but seems to be so only to me, judging by the letters reacting to this stupid peice of shit of an entry))).
3) the mothers and sisters and teachers of suburban white 10 year olds who listen to rap and get all ghettoedout.
4) the mothers and sisters and teachers of suburban black 10 year olds who listen to rap and get all ghettoedout.
I know the ghetto, alright? There is not a damn thing that is cool about it -- even the weed there sucks.
This is politically correctness that I am explaining. . . A good movement. You probably slam it. Do you know why? I bet you don't. It took me a lot of effort and classes to get this stuff and you are probably way too fucking stoned or lazy to do something like that.... that's fine, mind you -- you can just read me.
Bling is another word that hides a lot. Bling means anything that makes you look like a material success; a signifier saying to most that you are ostentatious and naive, is taken by some minds to be good. Again, I have to go back to some rappers, because they are an easy target and I'm feeling lazy, and say that their diamonds hide selling crack, moving whores, breaking into my car, etc... on some fingers.
The fingers of the millions of criminals who listen to rap, as opposed to the hundreds who get rich that way. I don't want the criminals to think they need diamond rings to look cool. I want them to feel okay about being poor. After all, it isn't a fucking sin, and it frees you from a lot of the supidity of trying to consume as much of the earth as possible before the inevitable collapse.
WHAT IF IT WAS YOU????? OR MERCENARIES, SMURFINARIES
You are an ex navy seal, trained into a deadly machine that was sent out to roam the african plains slaughtering armies of drugged kiddy soldiers.
You know your training has kept you alive through some deep shit. Civilian life is boring and you never make the kind of money you wish you had. This war in Iraq breaks out, and you know they are going to bring in all kinds of mercenaries and shit to protect the economic infrastructure of the fledgling governement.
You call someone you know at the CIA, or the NSA, or the NAVy Intelligence, or just plain old Military Intelligence.... They tell you that the 25 million dollar bounty is one hell of a nut, and speculate that the lucky bounty hunter who catches that camel shit breath is going to buy an island and live THE FUCKING HELL OF HIS LIFE. Or something else that pushes your buttons.You go to Iraq. Maybe spend your own buck on the weapons and flight --"An investment," You tell your girlfreind.
You now have to get information from a population that can't be seen talking to you and expect to live out the month. Even the ones who agree with your politics are dramatically more concerned with staying alive at the moment.
You are tough, beyond giving a shit if an enemy cries out. You are all about the mission. Your focus is to find the mo-fo's who bombed the trade tower and were conspiring right now to blow you and yours ass right off this little rock in space. You do not feel the pain that you inflict on an enemy. They are a tool to complete the mission, no more a cause of mercy than his a wrench.
You have been trained, by the government that you faced death for, to torture. You have been told to get thsi information by any means -- and that came straight from the fucking president. He signed a paper telling you," Go ahead and cut up those sand niggers."
You spend a few days watching the streets, seeing if you can spot someone from the other side. When you start thinking that doesn't work, you decide to grab some of them arabs and make them talk. IF you find the right one, you will get 5, 10, maybe 25 million... you can be elmer fudd and buy a mansion and a yacht. A cab driver seems like someone who knows who is who.
You and your men wave him down, have the cabbie drive you right to the safe house -- his prison. You tie his ankles with scratchy rope and hang the target upside down from hooks that you put up in the ceiling.
He tells you about some guy who you know the cia will want, you shoot your way into a compound, take out an old man and a couple kid-soldiers. You know the target by a picture the military passed out to all the 'bounty hunters' who had come to iraq. You turn him over to some marines and collect a clean and clear sixty grand. You and your me n celebrate, drink to how totally fucking rich you are going to be.
Now, you can't let the cab driver go, or someone is going to talk to him from some goddamn newspaper or whatever the hell...copywrite john scott ridgway 2004
You know your training has kept you alive through some deep shit. Civilian life is boring and you never make the kind of money you wish you had. This war in Iraq breaks out, and you know they are going to bring in all kinds of mercenaries and shit to protect the economic infrastructure of the fledgling governement.
You call someone you know at the CIA, or the NSA, or the NAVy Intelligence, or just plain old Military Intelligence.... They tell you that the 25 million dollar bounty is one hell of a nut, and speculate that the lucky bounty hunter who catches that camel shit breath is going to buy an island and live THE FUCKING HELL OF HIS LIFE. Or something else that pushes your buttons.You go to Iraq. Maybe spend your own buck on the weapons and flight --"An investment," You tell your girlfreind.
You now have to get information from a population that can't be seen talking to you and expect to live out the month. Even the ones who agree with your politics are dramatically more concerned with staying alive at the moment.
You are tough, beyond giving a shit if an enemy cries out. You are all about the mission. Your focus is to find the mo-fo's who bombed the trade tower and were conspiring right now to blow you and yours ass right off this little rock in space. You do not feel the pain that you inflict on an enemy. They are a tool to complete the mission, no more a cause of mercy than his a wrench.
You have been trained, by the government that you faced death for, to torture. You have been told to get thsi information by any means -- and that came straight from the fucking president. He signed a paper telling you," Go ahead and cut up those sand niggers."
You spend a few days watching the streets, seeing if you can spot someone from the other side. When you start thinking that doesn't work, you decide to grab some of them arabs and make them talk. IF you find the right one, you will get 5, 10, maybe 25 million... you can be elmer fudd and buy a mansion and a yacht. A cab driver seems like someone who knows who is who.
You and your men wave him down, have the cabbie drive you right to the safe house -- his prison. You tie his ankles with scratchy rope and hang the target upside down from hooks that you put up in the ceiling.
He tells you about some guy who you know the cia will want, you shoot your way into a compound, take out an old man and a couple kid-soldiers. You know the target by a picture the military passed out to all the 'bounty hunters' who had come to iraq. You turn him over to some marines and collect a clean and clear sixty grand. You and your me n celebrate, drink to how totally fucking rich you are going to be.
Now, you can't let the cab driver go, or someone is going to talk to him from some goddamn newspaper or whatever the hell...copywrite john scott ridgway 2004
THE USE OF DISPOSABLE BUT MONKEYS MUST BE STOPPED... MAYBE?
The plight of disposable Butt monkeys should be a call to arms for anyone who likes animals. Why I am the only one who seems to be objecting to this trend? Could larger forces be at work? Surely, but that is not my concern. What is my concern is my solemn vow to help you elf shits make sound purchases on anal related products.
Unless you have been living in a cave on pcp for the last two years, you have heard of or seen or read about the highly successful commercials with one of those rich old looking actor dudes from law and order asking a group of gorgeous looking rich people, "Isn't it time someone else wiped your ass?"
The scene then switches to a friendly, perfumed, luxuriouslyconditioned but monkey, shown switching through the various pastel colors that they come in, sliding up and down on a fake plastic butt, and then drowning itself in the bidet and flushing itself down with it's last breath. The voice over sounds cognac smooth and cigar rough, has the weight of years and grandparents. "The latest trend among the trendy wealthy following trends? Using specially trained disposable but monkeys, so they can have their pampered bums safely wiped without having to touch their own shit, like a peasent. These monkeys clean your rectum until it actually shines. And lord knows, in your hectic, fast paced day, you can use the smile you'll get when your but monkey's flush themselves down and drown in an altogether comical manner."
The camera then shows a boardroom with all the employees sitting around a table introducing each other. One of the employees has shit all over his hand and everyone is disgusted as they shake with him and get feces all over themselves. Finally, this shitty hands guy tries to get the boss to slap palms, but the boss, who is portrayed as a bright leader, refuses the shitty hand and says, " If you are still wiping your own ass, don't shake my hand.... in fact, get the hell out of here, you are fired." Then all the other employees pull boxes of but monkeys out of their pockets and start laughing ... and the boss, who has remained serious during the whole commercial, takes out his own box of but monkeys and joins in the laughter, too. This is very effective advertising, there is no denying that.
I mean, I am criticizing them now, but when I first saw the commercial, I too wanted to order some but monkeys. I was impressed with all the colors they came in, and they are cute. Like everyone, I know that the present method of wiping off our bums with dry paper is hardly sufficient, and as a result, diseases are spread... I too hope that one-day science will come up with something like but monkeys, but this is not the one. No, this is not the savior all our asses are practically calling for, though I have to admit, the commercial certainly makes them look like they are, and the special holiday edition but monkeys in Santa and elf outfits are pretty damn cool looking, I know, I know...Now, you will probably call me a crazy protestor for taking this stance. I 'm not, though. I mean, if I came across monkey meat at the supermarket, I'd take it home and deep-fry a few of their hands, or however you eat them.... The but monkey craze, however, involves a lot more jading of the mind than I have. I mean, it's one thing to buy a dead, nicely packaged monkey paw... but once you've seen them all alive and acting all friendly, how can you then deal with the thought that their life has been reduced, through conditioning, to the point that these simians think their whole existence should be spent being the perfect employee, even if it does involve having one short, shitty life?
Okay, maybe I am going out on a limb here for coming out against but monkeys. I know the trend is too big for me to ever have any effect on ... and, you know, I might just be missing something? They do have one that is a shade of red that would great in our bathroom. And they do save the trees, like the commercial said, so they are like half eco-friendly, and half evil. . . I guess they come out of the box all friendly and smelling of nice colognes that are supposed to be, according to the commercial, 'Stronger than your most powerful blast of gas.' You know what? I guess I should try one before I write anything else. I am always doing that you know, having an opinion on things that are based on how I think and what I know, rather than any actual experience. I think I'm going to get the one done up like Rudolph, with the nose painted all red and the little plush, absorbent horns?
NOTE FROM J, PAIN.... I laughed over this one as I wrote. Yes, laughed maniacally I did, then I hopped around the apartment naked, trying to pee on the startled, running and dodging cats, and the next thing that I knew I was running through the halls of our apt building with my freed weeny a wagging, screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!' over and over again. My Barton Fink-ish moment of celebrating the successful birth of the butt monkey's died when M. decided that she had to once more get out that damn tranquilizer gun... While I was immobile though still awake and able to feel pain, she put a bar of lavender soap in one of my few tube socks and beat my stomach and thighs relentleesly... I feared I was going to die, believed I had only one chance of getting better, so when my lips could move again, I began mouthing, "Boo boo kisses, boo boo kisses?" Like Kit Carson used to tell the tin horns after regaling them with a tale of being chased by hundreds of Indians that ended with him stranded in a tree, ". . . and then . . . I died."
Unless you have been living in a cave on pcp for the last two years, you have heard of or seen or read about the highly successful commercials with one of those rich old looking actor dudes from law and order asking a group of gorgeous looking rich people, "Isn't it time someone else wiped your ass?"
The scene then switches to a friendly, perfumed, luxuriouslyconditioned but monkey, shown switching through the various pastel colors that they come in, sliding up and down on a fake plastic butt, and then drowning itself in the bidet and flushing itself down with it's last breath. The voice over sounds cognac smooth and cigar rough, has the weight of years and grandparents. "The latest trend among the trendy wealthy following trends? Using specially trained disposable but monkeys, so they can have their pampered bums safely wiped without having to touch their own shit, like a peasent. These monkeys clean your rectum until it actually shines. And lord knows, in your hectic, fast paced day, you can use the smile you'll get when your but monkey's flush themselves down and drown in an altogether comical manner."
The camera then shows a boardroom with all the employees sitting around a table introducing each other. One of the employees has shit all over his hand and everyone is disgusted as they shake with him and get feces all over themselves. Finally, this shitty hands guy tries to get the boss to slap palms, but the boss, who is portrayed as a bright leader, refuses the shitty hand and says, " If you are still wiping your own ass, don't shake my hand.... in fact, get the hell out of here, you are fired." Then all the other employees pull boxes of but monkeys out of their pockets and start laughing ... and the boss, who has remained serious during the whole commercial, takes out his own box of but monkeys and joins in the laughter, too. This is very effective advertising, there is no denying that.
I mean, I am criticizing them now, but when I first saw the commercial, I too wanted to order some but monkeys. I was impressed with all the colors they came in, and they are cute. Like everyone, I know that the present method of wiping off our bums with dry paper is hardly sufficient, and as a result, diseases are spread... I too hope that one-day science will come up with something like but monkeys, but this is not the one. No, this is not the savior all our asses are practically calling for, though I have to admit, the commercial certainly makes them look like they are, and the special holiday edition but monkeys in Santa and elf outfits are pretty damn cool looking, I know, I know...Now, you will probably call me a crazy protestor for taking this stance. I 'm not, though. I mean, if I came across monkey meat at the supermarket, I'd take it home and deep-fry a few of their hands, or however you eat them.... The but monkey craze, however, involves a lot more jading of the mind than I have. I mean, it's one thing to buy a dead, nicely packaged monkey paw... but once you've seen them all alive and acting all friendly, how can you then deal with the thought that their life has been reduced, through conditioning, to the point that these simians think their whole existence should be spent being the perfect employee, even if it does involve having one short, shitty life?
Okay, maybe I am going out on a limb here for coming out against but monkeys. I know the trend is too big for me to ever have any effect on ... and, you know, I might just be missing something? They do have one that is a shade of red that would great in our bathroom. And they do save the trees, like the commercial said, so they are like half eco-friendly, and half evil. . . I guess they come out of the box all friendly and smelling of nice colognes that are supposed to be, according to the commercial, 'Stronger than your most powerful blast of gas.' You know what? I guess I should try one before I write anything else. I am always doing that you know, having an opinion on things that are based on how I think and what I know, rather than any actual experience. I think I'm going to get the one done up like Rudolph, with the nose painted all red and the little plush, absorbent horns?
NOTE FROM J, PAIN.... I laughed over this one as I wrote. Yes, laughed maniacally I did, then I hopped around the apartment naked, trying to pee on the startled, running and dodging cats, and the next thing that I knew I was running through the halls of our apt building with my freed weeny a wagging, screaming at the top of my lungs, 'Chaw! Chaw! Chaw!' over and over again. My Barton Fink-ish moment of celebrating the successful birth of the butt monkey's died when M. decided that she had to once more get out that damn tranquilizer gun... While I was immobile though still awake and able to feel pain, she put a bar of lavender soap in one of my few tube socks and beat my stomach and thighs relentleesly... I feared I was going to die, believed I had only one chance of getting better, so when my lips could move again, I began mouthing, "Boo boo kisses, boo boo kisses?" Like Kit Carson used to tell the tin horns after regaling them with a tale of being chased by hundreds of Indians that ended with him stranded in a tree, ". . . and then . . . I died."
1400 Dead Soldiers...
I just heard on the news that over 1400 soldiers have died in Iraq since america invaded. This figure does not include all the civilians killed on both sides. The horror, the horror... as Joseph Conrad wrote in the novella, The Heart Of Darkness.
I had coffee with an ex marine last night, a brilliant guy named Talib Morgan, who writes and raps. He just missed going to Iraq. Listening to him talk last night, I couldn't help but think what a waste it would have been if someone like him had been killed. He is a tall, handsome black guy with dreads. I don't use the word brilliant very often, but this cat deserves the monicor. Our conversation went all over the place: diasporas, colonialism, the crusades, numerous writers and philosophers, a lot of obscure stuff about christianity . . . For a guy who hasn't had much college, he has done a remarkable job of educating himself.
He has performed twice at my show. Once with a buddy, who did music while Talib did improvisational poetry. He was incredible. They played for the entire week before the fucking election that kept Bush in power. I was like their only fan, going down everyday to listen to them, and then inviting them to be the showcase at my show on friday. The guy who works at the cafe, Stan, couldn't stand thier music. It was very different, a clash of sounds; they were trying to show the horror of the world, and make a strong political statement, and the discordant clash of sounds produced by their synthesizer, saxophone, and god only knows what else was transcendent. Talib's words were incredible. He has sent me a couple of his rap songs, which read like dense, very deep poetry.
I'll ask him if I can put one of them on the site.
I wish I could do something to make people like Talib survive the war and become warriors in The Good Fight. Talib and I both consider ourselves at war with the dark forces trying to manipulate our culture, which is why we hit it off so well. Well, that and we both could see that the other was an intellectual seeker.
Running the literary reading, the elves attic, has put me in touch with some incredible people. All writers should do something like this, or make themselves a regular at readings. It really helps me in other ways too, especially with the comedy... hearing people laugh and gaffaw at my work opened a new world for me./
I had coffee with an ex marine last night, a brilliant guy named Talib Morgan, who writes and raps. He just missed going to Iraq. Listening to him talk last night, I couldn't help but think what a waste it would have been if someone like him had been killed. He is a tall, handsome black guy with dreads. I don't use the word brilliant very often, but this cat deserves the monicor. Our conversation went all over the place: diasporas, colonialism, the crusades, numerous writers and philosophers, a lot of obscure stuff about christianity . . . For a guy who hasn't had much college, he has done a remarkable job of educating himself.
He has performed twice at my show. Once with a buddy, who did music while Talib did improvisational poetry. He was incredible. They played for the entire week before the fucking election that kept Bush in power. I was like their only fan, going down everyday to listen to them, and then inviting them to be the showcase at my show on friday. The guy who works at the cafe, Stan, couldn't stand thier music. It was very different, a clash of sounds; they were trying to show the horror of the world, and make a strong political statement, and the discordant clash of sounds produced by their synthesizer, saxophone, and god only knows what else was transcendent. Talib's words were incredible. He has sent me a couple of his rap songs, which read like dense, very deep poetry.
I'll ask him if I can put one of them on the site.
I wish I could do something to make people like Talib survive the war and become warriors in The Good Fight. Talib and I both consider ourselves at war with the dark forces trying to manipulate our culture, which is why we hit it off so well. Well, that and we both could see that the other was an intellectual seeker.
Running the literary reading, the elves attic, has put me in touch with some incredible people. All writers should do something like this, or make themselves a regular at readings. It really helps me in other ways too, especially with the comedy... hearing people laugh and gaffaw at my work opened a new world for me./
Monday, February 07, 2005
More notes on the new book
I am trying to get the outline of the novel together. Yesterday I wrote out a basic outline of the plot, and then a few ideas on chapters. Today, I was walking on the beach, feeling the cold breeze and a light rain, my Husky Ruby running around on her sixty foot leash, and I could actually see the characters working on paintings. I visualize a lot before writing, which is how Columbia basically tells one to write. I learned there to make stories appear in my mind. I wrote the last book on the strength of what would appear when I had these 'literary vision,' but the problem is that they don't always amount to a book.
this time, like I have wrote before, I want to have a strong outline, so I don't waste too much time.
I am now thinking about what sub-plots I can put in, as well as describing the characters and what they are like. This will not be prose that I necessarily use, just prose to ground me deeply in the characters, so I know what they would say, do, write, think... The other thing that will need to be worked out a bit better is the metaphorical underpinnings of the book. Basically, I want to say what eo Wilson and Wittgenstein said, in a way that makes people think about how they are effected by culture, and how they can think for themselves a bit more.
There is also the aristolian curve to ponder. That is the slow build up to the climax. Books traditionally have various subplots, so there can be three or more points in the book that are mini-climaxes, that add to the impact of the ending climax.
So, the effort today will be to Brainstorm, again.... This may be boring as hell to read, I suppose. I would find this interesting if I was a writer, but who knows?
Okay, the list of characters thus far is.... Paul, who is about five 8, has long black hair, and speaks with his hands a lot. He sliding baths, wears torn up clothes (prefers black), and occasionally falls into deep depressions. He simply cannot handle doing the books and what not for the bar, so he is the one who, when he inherited the building with the bar, invited the other characters to come live with him. He is from Spanish parents, but you would never really know from looking at him.
Neal: he is the Neal cassidy of the bunch, skinny and fast talking, he tends to go on and on. He is smart though, and makes more money than the bar, with dragon head pipes that he makes out of phemo. He comes from a family with an over bearing mother, and as a result he thinks anyone who is criticizing him is his mother, and lashes out.
Matt: He is a high school kid, over weight with a huge reddish afro, a mulatto
His white mother kind of abandoned him, and he started sleeping at the gallery, in a room in the back with a couple couches where various couch surfers end up staying. They party a lot in this back room, so there are usually a couple people sleeping off a drunk in there. The decision to let him come live with them is easy for them. They let him smoke weed, but demand that he finish high school and plan on trying to pay for his college. They have started a fund. Matt is grateful to them, and does all he can to help out.
Pooh: he is the intellectual of the bunch, the one who is interested in philosophy and the driving force behind the website that they keep, where they put up their paintings for sale, and little comedy stories. He is six foot three, handsome, blue eyed, long brown hair that falls all curly around his shoulders. Women like him, but he is in love with someone he can't have, a married women, a painting professor who he had a five year affair with. He doesn't want to date anyone, though he gets drunk and accident's sleeps with a fifteen year old girl who snuck into another bar. He thought she was older, but when he finds out that he has taken her virginity, he feels very responsible toward her, but he doesn't love her.
Caroline: she is Neal's girlfriend, a little hipster at five feet tall, has fire engine red hair, and a great sense of humor. She will be the foil for a lot of the masculine talk that develops when they decide to put their bullets where their mouth is and attack the gang bangers holding a dog fight. She is also a very expensive prostitute, and has more money than any of them. She models as well, and wants to study acting in new York when she has saved enough money. She lives in an expensive apartment on lakeshore.
JOHNATHON: He is five ten, short blonde hair and a goatee. His arms are covered in tattoos, the India ink prison sort. He is just out of prison, where he had been reading their web site. He breaks his parole by not meeting with his parole officer, who would want a piss test taken that Johnathon, who smokes as much weed as possible, couldn't pass. He originally went to jail for pot, but while he was there he killed a man, and ended up serving twelve years. He is 33. He keeps a knife and a gun in holsters in his calf, because he is often filled with a fear that he is going to be attacked. He had a rough time in prison, the object of rape for awhile, until he finally killed one of them and asked for solitary confinement. He then spent his time either reading in his cell, or surfing the net in the prison library. He is also a gifted artist, who can draw faces remarkably well, like the guys at amusement parks who do character's, except his are better, truer to the persons looks. He is a good guy at heart, helps the underdog, etc... But there is a rage in him that when released is difficult to stop. He considers himself crazy and stupid. He is confused about his sexuality. He loves women, but his prison experience, which included taking a male lover, has him wondering. He tells the others that he is straight, and downplays his prison time, which he hides as long as he can, then has to admit when he runs out when the cops come to the store.
POSSIBLE SUB PLOTS????
mat's mother odds at their place and they have to call an ambulance and hide all the weed before the cops come./// a guy makes trouble in the bar, smashing the juke box in when he is told, by the old bartender who was hired by Paulo's uncle years before and who they keep on, that he is too drunk to be served. Johnathon beats this guy up bad and then dumps him in the alley// the website they keep, which I want to use comedy and what not in; how I will integrate this into the text is still a little up in the air. I could do something like, "Neal sits down and writes a story for the blog." then just show a different type of something. The blog can also be the more romantic description of their life, which can be contrasted with the reality of their situation//Paulo's wolf, padre, dies of old age//Caroline and Neals relationship can get rocky at some point, with her deciding to break up with him because he is so poor, and doesn't give her head. He can't bring himself to do this because of the prostitution.
It is late and I am tired. I haven't been smoking weed lately, which keeps me up. Hopefully, being straight will make the designing of the book easier, though I would like to be stoned for the writing part at least sometimes. For whatever reason, occasionally smoking pot makes me lust to do art. If I smoke it too much, it doesn't help, though.... I just become kind of used to it. You know?
It is funny, with the epilogue site, where I keep a blog called the elves attic, I was getting a ton of readers by writing comedy. Their server went down a few weeks ago, and they keep promising it will come back up... Regardless, I lost all my readers in the process, and I don't think anyone knows about this site hardly at all. I miss that feeling of writing something and getting an instant response. Oh, well....
this time, like I have wrote before, I want to have a strong outline, so I don't waste too much time.
I am now thinking about what sub-plots I can put in, as well as describing the characters and what they are like. This will not be prose that I necessarily use, just prose to ground me deeply in the characters, so I know what they would say, do, write, think... The other thing that will need to be worked out a bit better is the metaphorical underpinnings of the book. Basically, I want to say what eo Wilson and Wittgenstein said, in a way that makes people think about how they are effected by culture, and how they can think for themselves a bit more.
There is also the aristolian curve to ponder. That is the slow build up to the climax. Books traditionally have various subplots, so there can be three or more points in the book that are mini-climaxes, that add to the impact of the ending climax.
So, the effort today will be to Brainstorm, again.... This may be boring as hell to read, I suppose. I would find this interesting if I was a writer, but who knows?
Okay, the list of characters thus far is.... Paul, who is about five 8, has long black hair, and speaks with his hands a lot. He sliding baths, wears torn up clothes (prefers black), and occasionally falls into deep depressions. He simply cannot handle doing the books and what not for the bar, so he is the one who, when he inherited the building with the bar, invited the other characters to come live with him. He is from Spanish parents, but you would never really know from looking at him.
Neal: he is the Neal cassidy of the bunch, skinny and fast talking, he tends to go on and on. He is smart though, and makes more money than the bar, with dragon head pipes that he makes out of phemo. He comes from a family with an over bearing mother, and as a result he thinks anyone who is criticizing him is his mother, and lashes out.
Matt: He is a high school kid, over weight with a huge reddish afro, a mulatto
His white mother kind of abandoned him, and he started sleeping at the gallery, in a room in the back with a couple couches where various couch surfers end up staying. They party a lot in this back room, so there are usually a couple people sleeping off a drunk in there. The decision to let him come live with them is easy for them. They let him smoke weed, but demand that he finish high school and plan on trying to pay for his college. They have started a fund. Matt is grateful to them, and does all he can to help out.
Pooh: he is the intellectual of the bunch, the one who is interested in philosophy and the driving force behind the website that they keep, where they put up their paintings for sale, and little comedy stories. He is six foot three, handsome, blue eyed, long brown hair that falls all curly around his shoulders. Women like him, but he is in love with someone he can't have, a married women, a painting professor who he had a five year affair with. He doesn't want to date anyone, though he gets drunk and accident's sleeps with a fifteen year old girl who snuck into another bar. He thought she was older, but when he finds out that he has taken her virginity, he feels very responsible toward her, but he doesn't love her.
Caroline: she is Neal's girlfriend, a little hipster at five feet tall, has fire engine red hair, and a great sense of humor. She will be the foil for a lot of the masculine talk that develops when they decide to put their bullets where their mouth is and attack the gang bangers holding a dog fight. She is also a very expensive prostitute, and has more money than any of them. She models as well, and wants to study acting in new York when she has saved enough money. She lives in an expensive apartment on lakeshore.
JOHNATHON: He is five ten, short blonde hair and a goatee. His arms are covered in tattoos, the India ink prison sort. He is just out of prison, where he had been reading their web site. He breaks his parole by not meeting with his parole officer, who would want a piss test taken that Johnathon, who smokes as much weed as possible, couldn't pass. He originally went to jail for pot, but while he was there he killed a man, and ended up serving twelve years. He is 33. He keeps a knife and a gun in holsters in his calf, because he is often filled with a fear that he is going to be attacked. He had a rough time in prison, the object of rape for awhile, until he finally killed one of them and asked for solitary confinement. He then spent his time either reading in his cell, or surfing the net in the prison library. He is also a gifted artist, who can draw faces remarkably well, like the guys at amusement parks who do character's, except his are better, truer to the persons looks. He is a good guy at heart, helps the underdog, etc... But there is a rage in him that when released is difficult to stop. He considers himself crazy and stupid. He is confused about his sexuality. He loves women, but his prison experience, which included taking a male lover, has him wondering. He tells the others that he is straight, and downplays his prison time, which he hides as long as he can, then has to admit when he runs out when the cops come to the store.
POSSIBLE SUB PLOTS????
mat's mother odds at their place and they have to call an ambulance and hide all the weed before the cops come./// a guy makes trouble in the bar, smashing the juke box in when he is told, by the old bartender who was hired by Paulo's uncle years before and who they keep on, that he is too drunk to be served. Johnathon beats this guy up bad and then dumps him in the alley// the website they keep, which I want to use comedy and what not in; how I will integrate this into the text is still a little up in the air. I could do something like, "Neal sits down and writes a story for the blog." then just show a different type of something. The blog can also be the more romantic description of their life, which can be contrasted with the reality of their situation//Paulo's wolf, padre, dies of old age//Caroline and Neals relationship can get rocky at some point, with her deciding to break up with him because he is so poor, and doesn't give her head. He can't bring himself to do this because of the prostitution.
It is late and I am tired. I haven't been smoking weed lately, which keeps me up. Hopefully, being straight will make the designing of the book easier, though I would like to be stoned for the writing part at least sometimes. For whatever reason, occasionally smoking pot makes me lust to do art. If I smoke it too much, it doesn't help, though.... I just become kind of used to it. You know?
It is funny, with the epilogue site, where I keep a blog called the elves attic, I was getting a ton of readers by writing comedy. Their server went down a few weeks ago, and they keep promising it will come back up... Regardless, I lost all my readers in the process, and I don't think anyone knows about this site hardly at all. I miss that feeling of writing something and getting an instant response. Oh, well....
Thursday, February 03, 2005
the security of society.... the net under our fall...
I have been thinking a lot about social security for years. Not in terms of the debate now raging, though. I have been thinking about how to get social security insurance, SSI. Why? Life hit me in the back with a sledgehammer when I was five, and I've spent a good deal of my existence too sick to work. Sometimes paralyzed, s in too much pain to walk for almost a year, and now... When my spine is too broken up and scarred for medical science to do much more than try to make me comfortable. When my condition became worse six years ago, I found myself suddenly penniless without any hope of getting back to work.
Social security became the only option I had to maintain my independence.... Without it, I would be in some sort of home.... There would be no shows, no blog, no paintings and drawings. I would be too preoccupied with just keeping my stomach fed to care for the finer nuances of life. I would probably be a wino, I suppose? Who knows? I don't even like to go there. In other countries I would be even worse off, starving slowly to death in the streets of some slum with open sewage.
Here in America though, we have a safety net that is supposed to catch people like me. This is social security. Right now, a lot of people are acting like because social security is good, that any changes in this organization are bad. Well, that's not very good logic. Like most people, I have grave reservations about Bush, but that hardly means that he can't do anything right. Social Security does need changes, and he should be applauded for bringing this 'vote killing' topic into the national debate.
I am wary of anything that assumes people know what they are doing, or will do the right thing all the time. Let alone save money. I live in a crew of folk where few of us can save a dime. We struggle every month. And most people are like me, not like those who can save. Not being able to save money due to medical bills or being an obsessive artist or whatever is not a crime. Never should be. It will become so if people are individually in charge of their retirement savings. This simply is not fair. To those who do have enough income to save, it seems fair of course. They don't know why they should help any one who they don't want to.
What folly. Let them have my spine for a year and see how they feel. I doubt this logic could hold up to any serious argument.
The other matter in this debate, though, is how the money that is in social security is being used. It is invested in safe, yet very low yielding bonds or something. They make like 1% on the money. Now, obviously, this money could probably earn more in the stock market... Especially if the best minds in the economic sector were put together. Okay?
The other matter is letting young people have some of their money back to invest as they will, in some limited way. If the further investing of social security can lessen the burden these young people have to put up to insure the retired are living with dignity, then I see nothing wrong with that. However, what are we going to do with the others, the ones who are not knowledgeable or brainy enough to invest correctly? Do we let them die in the streets?
That won't happen. We will as a society have to get together and help them. In some way. There will always be taxes, and people will always pony up a little bit for the underdog. We are noble apes, after all....
So, my attitude is 'wait and see.' Not that you should give a damn what I think, of course.... You have to do all that 'thinking' stuff for yourself.
Social security became the only option I had to maintain my independence.... Without it, I would be in some sort of home.... There would be no shows, no blog, no paintings and drawings. I would be too preoccupied with just keeping my stomach fed to care for the finer nuances of life. I would probably be a wino, I suppose? Who knows? I don't even like to go there. In other countries I would be even worse off, starving slowly to death in the streets of some slum with open sewage.
Here in America though, we have a safety net that is supposed to catch people like me. This is social security. Right now, a lot of people are acting like because social security is good, that any changes in this organization are bad. Well, that's not very good logic. Like most people, I have grave reservations about Bush, but that hardly means that he can't do anything right. Social Security does need changes, and he should be applauded for bringing this 'vote killing' topic into the national debate.
I am wary of anything that assumes people know what they are doing, or will do the right thing all the time. Let alone save money. I live in a crew of folk where few of us can save a dime. We struggle every month. And most people are like me, not like those who can save. Not being able to save money due to medical bills or being an obsessive artist or whatever is not a crime. Never should be. It will become so if people are individually in charge of their retirement savings. This simply is not fair. To those who do have enough income to save, it seems fair of course. They don't know why they should help any one who they don't want to.
What folly. Let them have my spine for a year and see how they feel. I doubt this logic could hold up to any serious argument.
The other matter in this debate, though, is how the money that is in social security is being used. It is invested in safe, yet very low yielding bonds or something. They make like 1% on the money. Now, obviously, this money could probably earn more in the stock market... Especially if the best minds in the economic sector were put together. Okay?
The other matter is letting young people have some of their money back to invest as they will, in some limited way. If the further investing of social security can lessen the burden these young people have to put up to insure the retired are living with dignity, then I see nothing wrong with that. However, what are we going to do with the others, the ones who are not knowledgeable or brainy enough to invest correctly? Do we let them die in the streets?
That won't happen. We will as a society have to get together and help them. In some way. There will always be taxes, and people will always pony up a little bit for the underdog. We are noble apes, after all....
So, my attitude is 'wait and see.' Not that you should give a damn what I think, of course.... You have to do all that 'thinking' stuff for yourself.
JUST A JOURNAL...
ONCE more I am writing down a night just so I can remember what it was like before time sentences me to an old folks home and I become an old mush eating mumbler who seems a little off to the nurses. I see myself sitting at my computer with a stuffed cat on my lap (won't be able to have real ones in the over-populated nursing homes to come, which should get fairly hellish after the population doubles in 2025, which is about the time the entire world looks like it going to hell faster than anyone could have imagined except for a sick few like me and the ENTIRE FUCKING SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY and A few of the more brave and sane INTELLECTUALs).
Yes, I want this little history just for me, so if it bores you... well, go read something else, fool....
Early night darkens a cold, snowy Chicago. I stay home writing and drawing all day. M. Comes home at six thirty with Chicago style hot dog's -- Vienna beefs covered in unions, sweet relish, tomato, lettuce, celery salt, catsup and mustard: all the ingredients of a delicacy that this city considers itself light years ahead of the rest of the world; there is no better hot dog than Vienna Beef, and since they are here in town, every little grill on the corner has to serve them or no one will go there; these heavenly weiners'come with fries for two bucks at a grill right by the Jarvis El train stop.
We down the dogs and we head out to make copies of a new flyer I made for our literary reading. We go down to internet cafe, the quest, 7200 north Sheridan, who give me free computer time to plug them whenever I can, and make copies of a rather demented little poster I put together. I drew a man on the end of a pier that disappears back behind him into a city which is surrounded by a lake and hills. In the sky I drew kind of dramatic clouds. I used a cartoon balloon to have this bald, bearded, pensive looking man with a half circle cut out of his abdomen on his left side saying, "I say we stay in Afghanistan and Iraq until we have kicked prescientificaheadinthe assuages ass. This will require hamsters, and my mailbox isn't exactly full of them. Send me hamsters, dammit, I am losing valuable boot camp time!!!!"
I pasted type of various sorts over the clouds, making clear the time and other details. When I copied it, I allowed the spiral end of my drawing pad to show, so it looked like a drawing pad with this pencil drawing and words. It framed the figure nicely.
Once we had the flyers, we went down to the Big Star to watch a show called... latta' queers, or queer latta, or something.... I will have to ask m. It was some variation on queer and latta's (I have no idea how to spell this coffee drink). Anyways, this was interesting to see.
The issues in the songs were all geared toward being gay, which is something one doesn't hear on radio. I think my favorite though was one that transcended any genre's, a song that asked how to kill an old love? Then went on to contemplate shooting it, poisoning it, etc... A foot stomping guitar beat made the song quite a romp, really. The man who ran the reading, who is also named Scott, also performed and was cool, too, of course. He started out with a song about love that made me happy to be in love, which is more than most of them do for me.
I am a bit more nihilistic in my tastes of music, preferring the IF I HAD A ROCKET LAUNCHER, SOMEBODY WOULD PAY kind of messages over the basically positive undercurrents of the song writers who performed tonight. At least, I say this based on my very limited knowledge of their work and music in general for that matter. M. Has much better taste than me, and she enjoyed herself (she is always introducing me to some cool band).
We passed out our flyers after the show was over and told the performers and just about everyone in the audience that they were welcome to come down on Friday for our show. I think some of them will. We are also advertising in a hip free newspaper here in town, the reader, which is where you look to plan any outing in this city. They have the definitive want ads, etc... A cool paper that has a cool site on line, thechicagoreader.com.
And how is that for a boring report of a night of gay song writers singing? I guess they usually get more people than they had tonight, but the crowd was big enough to almost fill up the big star.
I haven't performed in like six weeks, so I am trying to do a bit more preparation than usual. Since I am not writing any new comedy, it makes it easy for me to decide what to read. The George Bush stuff hasn't been read yet, so I am going to gather all of that together and read him. I tend to use the same old southern voice, kind of a red neck, inbred Christian with delusions of grandeur, but I think I am going to nuance the Bush a bit more, try to actually sound like him. We'll see. I'm not exactly a trained actor, but if I am going to loud all this material into a one man show, I need to start developing characters. I want to do a president who is a megalomaniac, drunk on power and whisky, and just a bit dim. A spoiled rich boy who talks to god in a crazy, I am so damned blessed' way. I am hardly even making a comment on the actual president with the character. In fact, I would consider it a waste to just write about him, because there are lots of people like him, and they are a sick cultural pit in our world, and people need to recognize these fucking self-rightous vampires.... which is what a lot of politicians are. I want to use him as a metaphor for materialism, infantile behavior, deluded goddy-talk, and the entire kind of calvanistic view of life that says some are blessed and some are not. Bush obviously thinks he is blessed. How hard is that for a rich boy whose dad was president? But he forgets that people do not get what they deserve, they get what they get by factors much more complex than their silly little ghost stories.
It's funny, when I write entries like this one, I know that later on I will find them too boring to keep in my blog....
Oh, well... there was some good news. Bush has the lowest approval rating of any modern president. I just wish it was for a better reason than the war, which regardless of their not actually catching the iraqi's trying to fire off some nukes, is a grim yet noble affair. I mean, they are trying to free people . . . I think we should be fighting in Sudan, too.... . where they have once more decided there is no genocide, since to say that there is one would prompt international law to require various nations to offer aide. I think it is very difficult to take bush seriously when he won't stop the slaughter there. We need a president who will use soldiers like a democracy should -- to make the world safe for self rule by the people for the people. But, what we what and what we will get are as two different matters altogether.... Sorry to start this paragraph saying there was some good news and then end up here, staring down into the acidic holes in my gut.
Have a day that goes very, very badly, and then suddenly gets better, then goes bad again, becoming so shitty that you shoot yourself in the arm just to have something else to think about. . . and then you find out that what you were worrying about was no big thing at all, but it's too late because you have already lost too much blood to live. (This should be a greeting card of some sort).
-----------------------------------------------all work here is the sole property of John Scott Ridgway, Chicago Illinois, host of the elves attic reading, every Friday night at the Big Star Cafe.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
The Belmont sweets
When I was going to school, I worked two jobs for awhile. I had no time to write at all, which was driving me a little crazy, so I started writing on one of hte job's, at The Belmont Suites, a nice old hotel on lakeshore that had rooms for transients and a few upscale residents. Gorgeous place to live. The work I spent the most time on was a series of poems I called the Belmont Sweets, which basically gave biographies taken from the person's these retires showed me. I found out real quick who was happy and who was just waiting to die, and the difference between the two was striking.
One set of people had lived their lives devoted to love, rather than materialism. The men and women who left positions of power where they propped up their well being with fancies cars and diamonds and furs, did poorly at the Belmont Sweets; spent the last fifteen or twenty years of their life being bitter, unhappy, and filled with self-loathing. They were mean to everyone, though they turned the knife on themselves more often than not. They tended to die sooner, and they felt more burdened by their illnesses or impending deaths than the other people there, the ones I watched closest, the happy people who despite infirmity and more aches and pains than a few pills can fight off, smiled throughout their days and were still excited about stuff.... One guy wrote dirty poetry for his wife, a skill he had no idea he possessed until a poet started a writing class at the hotel, and no writer was ever more pleased with himself.... In a humble, self-effacing manner that is rare in this day of puffed up resumes and trophy wives.
I thought of this series of poems, which are mostly probably not that good anyways, while I was at the Big Star this afternoon picking up a cup of ethiopian coffee that sits by my keys as i speak. Two regulars were sitting in there, Don, a neighborhood historian who used to have a coffee shop (a famous one) where the Big Star now resides and Fred, a director who owned the beloved chew-wow-wow who used to come to our show sometimes, and has since been forced to replace with another, Rosie, who looks like a little Doberman. I can seldom stay long at the Big Star, because I have to take my dog everywhere, and leaving her tied up outside too long seems rude. This day, I had to play with fraud's little pup, Rosie, who is a lot shyer than his last chew-wow-wow. As we talked, den's usual strong opinion came out a few times. He is a man who is convinced of many things, and knows enough to back up most of what he says. He's a good judge of life, in his sixties I believe, and knows enough to make his opinions worth listening to. Fred is like me, in his forties, and a very cool dude. He takes his dog everywhere, like me, so we are kindred souls in more ways than just being artists. He recently directed a revival of the spoon river anthology that I had tickets for and still bucking missed (this is one of my favorite bits of prose, too, but the mother in law who was staying with us was too sick to go and I was guilt tripped into staying home with them).
The conversation about the Belmont sweets came up when Fred and I were talking about not having any money. I told him basically what I wrote in the first paragraph, how there are two types of retires -- one who lived for love and thus has a life rich beyond their possessions and work status, and the ones who relied too much on the fleeting thrills of materialism.
Now, the part of this that I hoping is interesting to myself one day when I read this (not to mention whoever finds this new site, which I can't imagine is near the 1000 people a day I was getting there for awhile at johnnypain.ebloggy.com (The website is still down, by the way, though a new message today says that it will be back up soon)) is that I am trying to find a path to point to in my fiction. I do not want to just be nihilistic and shallow in my work. The problem is that I have no idea what the path entails, for the most part?
Who am I to offer my opinion on how other people should live? I am a total fuck up in some ways; a conventional life I have not lived. In other ways, I think I am almost too sane for my own good. I think this sanity is less of my choosing than the result of habits I formed early, like writing and reading and drawing, which built an inner room within me where I could develop into the kind of man that seemed best from the evidence at hand. This inner room is only words, though....
I know some things that I didn't know when I was a kid, and wish I did and other things I was sure of when I was a kid that I wish I still believed... but they are hardly enough to sustain a novel.
This is when I really envy people who see more than chaos breaking out at the foot of calvary. I miss the feeling of being 'chosen' by some god to something 'great,' but I have read too many people say this over the years who shouldn't have to make the words nauseating to me. The cream does not rise to the top -- accident is not design, no matter who many crystals or deity quotes you drag into the conversations.
But... If the people in the Belmont Suites were happiest were the ones who lived for love, including a love of god, then this whole series of poetry I wrote points to living for something like religion... But, I can't in good conscience be this Machiavellian, and I care more about my conscience than I care about anything else, to be honest, because if I don't, it beats me down worse than even my girly, M..
So what should I do? I am almost ready to just write some book meant merely to snag an agent and a publisher. I did some of this with the last one, but this time I could really plot the thing to death, and take out all of the wild and wooly shit that makes the work really good.... write like a lawyer, I could. Or like a horror writer, or bad science fiction . .. not that I think I am better than these writers, I just have higher expectations. These expectations mean less every day, so who knows? I could be a word whore with the right offer. Not to the extent of those black radio shit for brains who preached Bush's agenda on their shows after being paid a quarter million, but I would certainly be happy with a book that is just entertainment.
Maybe that is all that is left of novels for me? I no longer read them expecting to learn a hell of a lot; I read fiction to live other than I do, to escape into a world that makes sense. Like on that new show, Numbers, where the mathmatician worked compulsively on a math problem while his beloved mother died. I write to do the opposite, or have so far... I write to find the truth as I know it; to be a town cryer of the news and the truth and a conduit for scientific truth into the lives of potential mystics. I write to be a part of the solution.... but, part of the solution maybe is just giving people a room to rest and laugh and be refilled with an urge to live?
That is what I have needed lately, stories to make me believe there are reasons to be nobel, honorable, and to fight for what is right for all the passengers on this planet. Reading the hobbit and the other books in the series gave me so much peace this month. They may have saved my life? I was pretty intent, due to circumstances and the stupid ass move of getting off a seritonin uptake drug that sent me falling down into the darkest of dark, that it was time to just die. The thoughts surprised me a bit? There was no real reason for me to be this bummed out. The problems I was facing were ones I have beat before, and were soon enough conquered, to some degree (the degree I am capable of with self-talk, getting back on the serotnin uptake drug and starting to write again, however dull these essays on the view through the glass darkly may be for my readers.
------------------------------------------------all work here is the sole property of John Scott Ridgway, Chicago Illinois, host of the elves attic reading, every Friday night at the Big Star Cafe.
One set of people had lived their lives devoted to love, rather than materialism. The men and women who left positions of power where they propped up their well being with fancies cars and diamonds and furs, did poorly at the Belmont Sweets; spent the last fifteen or twenty years of their life being bitter, unhappy, and filled with self-loathing. They were mean to everyone, though they turned the knife on themselves more often than not. They tended to die sooner, and they felt more burdened by their illnesses or impending deaths than the other people there, the ones I watched closest, the happy people who despite infirmity and more aches and pains than a few pills can fight off, smiled throughout their days and were still excited about stuff.... One guy wrote dirty poetry for his wife, a skill he had no idea he possessed until a poet started a writing class at the hotel, and no writer was ever more pleased with himself.... In a humble, self-effacing manner that is rare in this day of puffed up resumes and trophy wives.
I thought of this series of poems, which are mostly probably not that good anyways, while I was at the Big Star this afternoon picking up a cup of ethiopian coffee that sits by my keys as i speak. Two regulars were sitting in there, Don, a neighborhood historian who used to have a coffee shop (a famous one) where the Big Star now resides and Fred, a director who owned the beloved chew-wow-wow who used to come to our show sometimes, and has since been forced to replace with another, Rosie, who looks like a little Doberman. I can seldom stay long at the Big Star, because I have to take my dog everywhere, and leaving her tied up outside too long seems rude. This day, I had to play with fraud's little pup, Rosie, who is a lot shyer than his last chew-wow-wow. As we talked, den's usual strong opinion came out a few times. He is a man who is convinced of many things, and knows enough to back up most of what he says. He's a good judge of life, in his sixties I believe, and knows enough to make his opinions worth listening to. Fred is like me, in his forties, and a very cool dude. He takes his dog everywhere, like me, so we are kindred souls in more ways than just being artists. He recently directed a revival of the spoon river anthology that I had tickets for and still bucking missed (this is one of my favorite bits of prose, too, but the mother in law who was staying with us was too sick to go and I was guilt tripped into staying home with them).
The conversation about the Belmont sweets came up when Fred and I were talking about not having any money. I told him basically what I wrote in the first paragraph, how there are two types of retires -- one who lived for love and thus has a life rich beyond their possessions and work status, and the ones who relied too much on the fleeting thrills of materialism.
Now, the part of this that I hoping is interesting to myself one day when I read this (not to mention whoever finds this new site, which I can't imagine is near the 1000 people a day I was getting there for awhile at johnnypain.ebloggy.com (The website is still down, by the way, though a new message today says that it will be back up soon)) is that I am trying to find a path to point to in my fiction. I do not want to just be nihilistic and shallow in my work. The problem is that I have no idea what the path entails, for the most part?
Who am I to offer my opinion on how other people should live? I am a total fuck up in some ways; a conventional life I have not lived. In other ways, I think I am almost too sane for my own good. I think this sanity is less of my choosing than the result of habits I formed early, like writing and reading and drawing, which built an inner room within me where I could develop into the kind of man that seemed best from the evidence at hand. This inner room is only words, though....
I know some things that I didn't know when I was a kid, and wish I did and other things I was sure of when I was a kid that I wish I still believed... but they are hardly enough to sustain a novel.
This is when I really envy people who see more than chaos breaking out at the foot of calvary. I miss the feeling of being 'chosen' by some god to something 'great,' but I have read too many people say this over the years who shouldn't have to make the words nauseating to me. The cream does not rise to the top -- accident is not design, no matter who many crystals or deity quotes you drag into the conversations.
But... If the people in the Belmont Suites were happiest were the ones who lived for love, including a love of god, then this whole series of poetry I wrote points to living for something like religion... But, I can't in good conscience be this Machiavellian, and I care more about my conscience than I care about anything else, to be honest, because if I don't, it beats me down worse than even my girly, M..
So what should I do? I am almost ready to just write some book meant merely to snag an agent and a publisher. I did some of this with the last one, but this time I could really plot the thing to death, and take out all of the wild and wooly shit that makes the work really good.... write like a lawyer, I could. Or like a horror writer, or bad science fiction . .. not that I think I am better than these writers, I just have higher expectations. These expectations mean less every day, so who knows? I could be a word whore with the right offer. Not to the extent of those black radio shit for brains who preached Bush's agenda on their shows after being paid a quarter million, but I would certainly be happy with a book that is just entertainment.
Maybe that is all that is left of novels for me? I no longer read them expecting to learn a hell of a lot; I read fiction to live other than I do, to escape into a world that makes sense. Like on that new show, Numbers, where the mathmatician worked compulsively on a math problem while his beloved mother died. I write to do the opposite, or have so far... I write to find the truth as I know it; to be a town cryer of the news and the truth and a conduit for scientific truth into the lives of potential mystics. I write to be a part of the solution.... but, part of the solution maybe is just giving people a room to rest and laugh and be refilled with an urge to live?
That is what I have needed lately, stories to make me believe there are reasons to be nobel, honorable, and to fight for what is right for all the passengers on this planet. Reading the hobbit and the other books in the series gave me so much peace this month. They may have saved my life? I was pretty intent, due to circumstances and the stupid ass move of getting off a seritonin uptake drug that sent me falling down into the darkest of dark, that it was time to just die. The thoughts surprised me a bit? There was no real reason for me to be this bummed out. The problems I was facing were ones I have beat before, and were soon enough conquered, to some degree (the degree I am capable of with self-talk, getting back on the serotnin uptake drug and starting to write again, however dull these essays on the view through the glass darkly may be for my readers.
------------------------------------------------all work here is the sole property of John Scott Ridgway, Chicago Illinois, host of the elves attic reading, every Friday night at the Big Star Cafe.
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The Elves Attic by John Scott Ridgway is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at theelvesattic.blogspot.com.
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My book series, being written on line... come along on my heretical antics.....
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This is a mix of my poetry, comedy, thoughts
- scott ridgway
- Chicago, Illinois, United States
- I am a fiction writer... sort of New Journalism in the Hunter S. Thompson mode, combined with South Park, Soldier of Fortune magazine and bad serial killer moves... This blog has been censored, banned at times, etc... Why? I studied Military Intelligence in university and am aiming their own guns back at them. I caution you to understand that though this blog has driven a few people to kill, that is not my intent... really. Sorry jerry farwell, didn't realize how thirsty they were for your blood.
