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.comSunday, July 10, 2005
the problem with iraq and afganistan
Everyone wants to blow up the world and go to heaven, but no one wants to get all sweaty spending the time it takes to rebuild... that is too much like work.
naming a hamster general sniggly poo does not
in any way indicate that I am a pussy fag dude (not that there is anything wrong with that, all must wearily add in this post seinfeld era to remind the silent masses that I am not a rascist/sexist or pianist). Recent sources, and these are wombat hating folk who have their priorities straight as far as what's up with those damn marsupials, have suggested that I should name the hamsters killer or cutter or shooter or tank gun or gorgeous, snooty woman or any number of horrifying things.... right off the bat. At birth. Just label them a killer.
The more astute among you will have already realized that this would miss the all too crucial religous dupping phase. First, they must love god and cage, then I will threaten that love, and make them feel like they have to live up to impossible, psychoisis inducing levels of acheivements (think the Japanese school system), or lose that love... then, I will make all the religous rules so easy that they can follow all of them. This will lull them into a renaissance, a peaceful period where their arts, such as they are (scratching lines on stuff), and their pursuit of love, will be all they need concern themselves with. This joyous period will be why they fight. I will tell them that now that they have made peace with god, some petty human was fucking with them. They figure after god, what can a human be, right? I'm almost positive they will think this.
Anyways, I will get them to fight by convincing them that they are protecting their way of life. Just like the rich people tell the kids dying now. Thing is of course, the hamsters will secretly be protecting only my way of life, while their lives will just be gone. This is how things work in capatilism, where the leaders sending kids to die, like I say, have never been to war and never think of sending their kids into the military like some damn peasent.
So you can see, for my plan to proceed along the tried and true lines, I have to first convince them to love, and then smash that love into little thorny, jagged, cutting peices.
So, this explains the names...
TROOP UPDATE.
I am now showing the hamsters zombie movies, and have convinced them that this is what happens to humans when they die.... It was so easy. I just popped in ten hours of various George Romero zombie flicks. Lately, I have been telling them that if they understand what I want them to do, they should just start humping. A good fifty percent of them are with me on most of the lectures... even higher when I soak their pellets in coffee. You should see how fast their hips move with a good caffienne buzz.
I have also been trying to teach Ruby Dog to be an ally of the Hamster Army, rather than the most probable source of all of their deaths. I tried tying her up just out of reach of the hamsters, but then one of them, Lloyd, had to run over and check out Ruby Dog. The wily siberian husker do was acting like she could care less as the little brown and white fuster moved over to within reach of her leash. I thought things were going great, in fact, until Ruby Dog suddenly lunged down on the surpised rodent, scooped the damn thing up, took a couple kill bites and swallowed.
Afterwards, I told that fleabot, "Listen, you have to learn to love hamsters, dog. I mean, why can't we alll just get along. Some black guy said that after some white cops beat him up, and it was pretty cool until he kept getting busted over and over after taking all of the money he made off of his civil suite and basically driving around drunk for a couple years, mouthing off to cops... until some more kicked his ass and threw him into prison... or something like that, about an Irish guy... I'm just unsure... and too lazy to look it up."
Ruby looked at me like, "hey, if you are not going to look it up, I am not going to trust you." I have seen that look before from her during many of my lectures on military tactics, good hygeine, and the dangers of wombats...
M., in her silly world, thinks Ruby dog is merely yawning. But, well.... Like I wrote in the last update on my progress toward world dominatrix, or Paintopia (my empire will be named in due time, and will be burned into your mind with the pain of fire), M. is being kept in the dark about these new hamsters. I am sure she would just find some reason to bitch about me spending the electric and gas bill on hamsters. We'll get all that shit for free when I take over, anyways.
you could send a couple hamsters, for dog's sake... if you don't, I will hunt you down. Don't fucking think I won't.
The more astute among you will have already realized that this would miss the all too crucial religous dupping phase. First, they must love god and cage, then I will threaten that love, and make them feel like they have to live up to impossible, psychoisis inducing levels of acheivements (think the Japanese school system), or lose that love... then, I will make all the religous rules so easy that they can follow all of them. This will lull them into a renaissance, a peaceful period where their arts, such as they are (scratching lines on stuff), and their pursuit of love, will be all they need concern themselves with. This joyous period will be why they fight. I will tell them that now that they have made peace with god, some petty human was fucking with them. They figure after god, what can a human be, right? I'm almost positive they will think this.
Anyways, I will get them to fight by convincing them that they are protecting their way of life. Just like the rich people tell the kids dying now. Thing is of course, the hamsters will secretly be protecting only my way of life, while their lives will just be gone. This is how things work in capatilism, where the leaders sending kids to die, like I say, have never been to war and never think of sending their kids into the military like some damn peasent.
So you can see, for my plan to proceed along the tried and true lines, I have to first convince them to love, and then smash that love into little thorny, jagged, cutting peices.
So, this explains the names...
TROOP UPDATE.
I am now showing the hamsters zombie movies, and have convinced them that this is what happens to humans when they die.... It was so easy. I just popped in ten hours of various George Romero zombie flicks. Lately, I have been telling them that if they understand what I want them to do, they should just start humping. A good fifty percent of them are with me on most of the lectures... even higher when I soak their pellets in coffee. You should see how fast their hips move with a good caffienne buzz.
I have also been trying to teach Ruby Dog to be an ally of the Hamster Army, rather than the most probable source of all of their deaths. I tried tying her up just out of reach of the hamsters, but then one of them, Lloyd, had to run over and check out Ruby Dog. The wily siberian husker do was acting like she could care less as the little brown and white fuster moved over to within reach of her leash. I thought things were going great, in fact, until Ruby Dog suddenly lunged down on the surpised rodent, scooped the damn thing up, took a couple kill bites and swallowed.
Afterwards, I told that fleabot, "Listen, you have to learn to love hamsters, dog. I mean, why can't we alll just get along. Some black guy said that after some white cops beat him up, and it was pretty cool until he kept getting busted over and over after taking all of the money he made off of his civil suite and basically driving around drunk for a couple years, mouthing off to cops... until some more kicked his ass and threw him into prison... or something like that, about an Irish guy... I'm just unsure... and too lazy to look it up."
Ruby looked at me like, "hey, if you are not going to look it up, I am not going to trust you." I have seen that look before from her during many of my lectures on military tactics, good hygeine, and the dangers of wombats...
M., in her silly world, thinks Ruby dog is merely yawning. But, well.... Like I wrote in the last update on my progress toward world dominatrix, or Paintopia (my empire will be named in due time, and will be burned into your mind with the pain of fire), M. is being kept in the dark about these new hamsters. I am sure she would just find some reason to bitch about me spending the electric and gas bill on hamsters. We'll get all that shit for free when I take over, anyways.
you could send a couple hamsters, for dog's sake... if you don't, I will hunt you down. Don't fucking think I won't.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
THE RETURN OF THE MIGHTY HAMSTER ARMY!!
They will be called, 'The Mighty Beat Them To Pisses And Twitches Hamster Army,' as soon as I can figure out how to fit that on the breast of their little green field jackets. You better be afraid of them.... I tell ya.... cause they are going to tear your little world apart.
Yes, the mighty beat them to pisses and twitches hamster army is once more on the move. All is top secret at this point, and that of course means that if M. finds out about the hamsters, all is lost... the free world, everything, will just go down the crapper. I have had no luck convincing M. of the urgency of my mission, damn nay sayer she is, so I have no choice but to lie to her, in the interest of security here at the elves attic. She won't miss those collectible toys that I had to throw out until long after the army I am raising there has taken over the world and promptly replaced her toys with even better ones... she'll see this is all for her benefit in the end, or I would not be trying to be all tricky with her about the army. I am not good at tricking her, to be honest, and am surprised I have held out the four days it has taken my new hamsters to be trained.
I am expecting that any day now I will be contacted by various intelligence agencies wishing to use the trained minds of my hamster demolition squads to start checking out tunnels and caves for the scardy-ass human soldiers. These babies will die for the cause, and the news does not do any body counts on hamsters, so there will be no reason for the american public to have decide how many of their lower middle class kids they will trade to get the job done? ((Unfortunatly for those lower middle class kids, the guys deciding how many of them will die have never been to war, and would not think of allowing their children to actually fight, like some damn peasent...)).
Not that I am anti war... in fact, war gives me a chance to finally take the american government for a change, rather than the usual situation where I bitch and moan for a lubricant that just ain't coming.... by renting out some soldiers.
Half the people in the war zone are civilians. So why not at least half the hamsters? I am sure they are using hamsters now, though I know there is a place for mine, who will prove much more cost effective, but more importantly, will include bribes and goodies for all concerned in the decision to hire my army.
I have spent the day making them watch old epsiodes of Black Sheep Squadron, to instill in them a sense of comradership. I am pretty sure it is working, because they are humping the hell out of each other. M. would probably be quick to point out that the hamsters hump each other just as hard to the news caste, and indeed the television in their storage space need hardly be on for them to break out into prolonged humps. . . but I know, dammit, that they are being shaped into a fighting force by the subliminal messages in Black Sheep Squadron.
Tommorrow, I plan on teaching them advanced weaponry, by showing them all twenty seven Rambo movies, even the one where he converts to being a deer and marries Bambi in the first inner-species gay marriage.
I fear them myselves sometimes. I mean, if I can channel all the energy they put into humping into fighting, no one in this apartment building will be safe....maybe the whole town would go up in terrorist hamster flames? I hope I can control them, for all of your sake...
Time to go back down and change the posters in the storage bin. I put up cute hamster pictures that I find on the net, and shots of people being blown up with bombs and shooting guns and using all sorts of kill kill weapons (including a light saber, which will help them later on, when I start the religious lectures that will change them from an unruly fighting force of crazy but dedicated individuals who would by god die for their right to party, into a bunch of drones who follow my every command, even unto... death; I am using The Force from star wars as their primary god, because it'll be funny, but also, of course, so that everyone else will know it is a joke religion, and thus I won't have to worry about starting another damn religion... I hate when that happens).
I plan on hiring someone to start doing genetic experiments on these hamsters, as soon as I figure out how to save money and smoke weed. . . We will of courses put together a super hamster, that will be effective against maybe even smaller cats? That could take months, I suppose. In a year, I think, we can get one that is half as big as a human, with claws bigger than our heads. I'll of course have to do a search on this genetic engineering stuff at least once before declaring myself an authority... just fucking kidding. .. I ain't doing no geek searches.
General Sniggly Poo the Ninth is now in charge of the army. Like the others, I imagine he will eventually want his name changed to something that strikes fear in the hearts of all mammals (with the exception of certain breeds dogs, for some reason). I am thinking General Bloody Eviscerator Sniggly Poo, but the decision is of course his... They are just so cute when they are tiny that I can't help giving them these baby names. Damn my feminine side!!!
Well, I imagine you are pretty scared right now, huh? I am sorry to have once again made you readers piss yourself in terror. I am done, so go clean up, for dog's sake you stink!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
Yes, the mighty beat them to pisses and twitches hamster army is once more on the move. All is top secret at this point, and that of course means that if M. finds out about the hamsters, all is lost... the free world, everything, will just go down the crapper. I have had no luck convincing M. of the urgency of my mission, damn nay sayer she is, so I have no choice but to lie to her, in the interest of security here at the elves attic. She won't miss those collectible toys that I had to throw out until long after the army I am raising there has taken over the world and promptly replaced her toys with even better ones... she'll see this is all for her benefit in the end, or I would not be trying to be all tricky with her about the army. I am not good at tricking her, to be honest, and am surprised I have held out the four days it has taken my new hamsters to be trained.
I am expecting that any day now I will be contacted by various intelligence agencies wishing to use the trained minds of my hamster demolition squads to start checking out tunnels and caves for the scardy-ass human soldiers. These babies will die for the cause, and the news does not do any body counts on hamsters, so there will be no reason for the american public to have decide how many of their lower middle class kids they will trade to get the job done? ((Unfortunatly for those lower middle class kids, the guys deciding how many of them will die have never been to war, and would not think of allowing their children to actually fight, like some damn peasent...)).
Not that I am anti war... in fact, war gives me a chance to finally take the american government for a change, rather than the usual situation where I bitch and moan for a lubricant that just ain't coming.... by renting out some soldiers.
Half the people in the war zone are civilians. So why not at least half the hamsters? I am sure they are using hamsters now, though I know there is a place for mine, who will prove much more cost effective, but more importantly, will include bribes and goodies for all concerned in the decision to hire my army.
I have spent the day making them watch old epsiodes of Black Sheep Squadron, to instill in them a sense of comradership. I am pretty sure it is working, because they are humping the hell out of each other. M. would probably be quick to point out that the hamsters hump each other just as hard to the news caste, and indeed the television in their storage space need hardly be on for them to break out into prolonged humps. . . but I know, dammit, that they are being shaped into a fighting force by the subliminal messages in Black Sheep Squadron.
Tommorrow, I plan on teaching them advanced weaponry, by showing them all twenty seven Rambo movies, even the one where he converts to being a deer and marries Bambi in the first inner-species gay marriage.
I fear them myselves sometimes. I mean, if I can channel all the energy they put into humping into fighting, no one in this apartment building will be safe....maybe the whole town would go up in terrorist hamster flames? I hope I can control them, for all of your sake...
Time to go back down and change the posters in the storage bin. I put up cute hamster pictures that I find on the net, and shots of people being blown up with bombs and shooting guns and using all sorts of kill kill weapons (including a light saber, which will help them later on, when I start the religious lectures that will change them from an unruly fighting force of crazy but dedicated individuals who would by god die for their right to party, into a bunch of drones who follow my every command, even unto... death; I am using The Force from star wars as their primary god, because it'll be funny, but also, of course, so that everyone else will know it is a joke religion, and thus I won't have to worry about starting another damn religion... I hate when that happens).
I plan on hiring someone to start doing genetic experiments on these hamsters, as soon as I figure out how to save money and smoke weed. . . We will of courses put together a super hamster, that will be effective against maybe even smaller cats? That could take months, I suppose. In a year, I think, we can get one that is half as big as a human, with claws bigger than our heads. I'll of course have to do a search on this genetic engineering stuff at least once before declaring myself an authority... just fucking kidding. .. I ain't doing no geek searches.
General Sniggly Poo the Ninth is now in charge of the army. Like the others, I imagine he will eventually want his name changed to something that strikes fear in the hearts of all mammals (with the exception of certain breeds dogs, for some reason). I am thinking General Bloody Eviscerator Sniggly Poo, but the decision is of course his... They are just so cute when they are tiny that I can't help giving them these baby names. Damn my feminine side!!!
Well, I imagine you are pretty scared right now, huh? I am sorry to have once again made you readers piss yourself in terror. I am done, so go clean up, for dog's sake you stink!!!
THOU SHALT NOT STEAL THE WRITINGS OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY... YOU CAN EASILY GET PERMISSION FOR A NON COMMERCIAL REPRINT BY CONTACTING MY EMAIL.
THE RETALIATOR
He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics, forcing them to go from celebrating a sign of the solidarity of civility in in all governments, to mourning their dead and drawing lines in the sand...
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics, forcing them to go from celebrating a sign of the solidarity of civility in in all governments, to mourning their dead and drawing lines in the sand...
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
+NEXT MONTH will be the time to start getting the new show together.
The Elves Attic Live, the series of literary readings that I was hosting at the Big Star Cafe, are sorely missed. I liked the people who showed up a lot, and the rush of being on stage getting laughs is pretty kicking. THe motivation to write comedy every week was good to experience, gave me a lot of laughs and forced me to expand my literary horizons a bit more.
Now, it is time to start again. Well, it will be as soon as we have finished this move, or at least have the work entailed done. I need to find a place first. You would think this would be harder than it is until you get into the game. Anyplace that does not have a show, wouldn't mind having one on their slow nights. They get free customers and a show. We don't ever want to charge for these shows. Period. I am not doing them for money.
I have a much better stable of writers and listeners at my behest than before this last reading, obvously. They will come if I ask, some to them all. And since the venue and a lot of people will be new, I can take out all the material I wrote last year, and organize it and read it again. I keep meaning to put together all the hamster jokes, essays, poems, etc... into a blog that can be more easily perused than this one. I need a website, but that involves more techie knowledge than I have at the moment... I will keep learning in this regard until the day I die, though, so...
Tonight we are going to another play, this one basically set around singing french songs from the twenties. As always, we were promised 'comp' tickets, and then for some reason ended up paying anyways. This happens all the time to me. I feel like we are being taken, even if we do get some kind of discount. And of course they are never plays that are at the top of my see list, merely the productions of people I vaguely know. Any play is worth seeing to me, in a way... I mean, this is why I live in a city... for the culture.
Now, it is time to start again. Well, it will be as soon as we have finished this move, or at least have the work entailed done. I need to find a place first. You would think this would be harder than it is until you get into the game. Anyplace that does not have a show, wouldn't mind having one on their slow nights. They get free customers and a show. We don't ever want to charge for these shows. Period. I am not doing them for money.
I have a much better stable of writers and listeners at my behest than before this last reading, obvously. They will come if I ask, some to them all. And since the venue and a lot of people will be new, I can take out all the material I wrote last year, and organize it and read it again. I keep meaning to put together all the hamster jokes, essays, poems, etc... into a blog that can be more easily perused than this one. I need a website, but that involves more techie knowledge than I have at the moment... I will keep learning in this regard until the day I die, though, so...
Tonight we are going to another play, this one basically set around singing french songs from the twenties. As always, we were promised 'comp' tickets, and then for some reason ended up paying anyways. This happens all the time to me. I feel like we are being taken, even if we do get some kind of discount. And of course they are never plays that are at the top of my see list, merely the productions of people I vaguely know. Any play is worth seeing to me, in a way... I mean, this is why I live in a city... for the culture.
blogger kidnaps, rapes and kills....
and no, it wasn't me... believe me, if I did a crime you would not hear about it on this blog, but I am no criminal. I simply feel what other people are feeling way too much to want them to feel horror or pain or anything bad if possible.
This is the difference between me and killers, of course. They lack the ability to relate to the pain they are causing in a normal manner. Instead, the pain of others registers in their mind as sexual stimulation.
I was watching the latest news last night of a psycho killer, with my usual interest... which is the interest of someone who really wants to know the enemies face. This beahvioral template is available to all humans, depending on the usual suspects -- environmental hells and chemical/physical anomalies; so there is going to always be these fucking freaks who should have been killed the first time they proved that they don't give a shit what other people are feeling... And so the monsters will go on being created; at least without total genetic engineering, which will start the day enough people can afford the procedure and thus make it profitable to capatilists, you can fucking bet.....
The idea of living without emotions sounds like a good way to be, in ways... to be unaffected by the horror, the horror... at times, during war and crime, people have to rise above.... the problem is one of lifes zillion fucking dark ironies, you cannot selectively cut off your emoitional life; it is all or nothing, and even then hardly complete. Anger and frustration simply refuse to leave, but happiness, love and other feelings that warm the heart disappear... cold hearted bastards need to be shot before they do another crime; prisoners do not deserve to be housed with killer rapists like this.
If they have proven, as they seemingly have, that pedophiles can be identified young and still fail to be rehabilitated, then why not shoot them? Anyone who has no compunction about rape and death is a dangerous defect (and no, I do not consider any other way of being born a human a defect, more an obstacle, and even the worst of them are not serious enough for this). In a prison population, an individual who causes great risks to others is marked for death. Same with China, and other countries where the government is run first and foremost for the masses, rather than a few business concerns and a lawyer class.
This freakiller I am writing about, very rambly on this buzzy saturday afternoon as I drink coffee, smoke peach flavored tobacco and green stickies, is too gross to be mentioned, let alone his website. I watched a news program on this bastard, and the quotes from his blog I read were enough to give me a heart ach. He as much as says he is a criminal, and a pedophile at that... and no one turned him in. He could have been stopped before he killed two adults and three children and kept a young girl as his sex slave. He was another one of those guys who the system has known well since he was sixteen and bound and raped a 14 year old boy.
I wonder if anyone read his blog? One would think a few people would have stumbled in, but who knows??? I register my blogs all over so people can find them. Maybe he didn't? Anyways, if I had come across his blog talking about pedophilia and getting away with crimes, I would have done all that is possible to protect the innocent from violence and rape. Like any adult would. Yet seemingly no one reported this sicko. I SURE AS HELL HOPE THEY DO NEXT TIME...
THAT IS UP TO YOU!!!!!!
This is the difference between me and killers, of course. They lack the ability to relate to the pain they are causing in a normal manner. Instead, the pain of others registers in their mind as sexual stimulation.
I was watching the latest news last night of a psycho killer, with my usual interest... which is the interest of someone who really wants to know the enemies face. This beahvioral template is available to all humans, depending on the usual suspects -- environmental hells and chemical/physical anomalies; so there is going to always be these fucking freaks who should have been killed the first time they proved that they don't give a shit what other people are feeling... And so the monsters will go on being created; at least without total genetic engineering, which will start the day enough people can afford the procedure and thus make it profitable to capatilists, you can fucking bet.....
The idea of living without emotions sounds like a good way to be, in ways... to be unaffected by the horror, the horror... at times, during war and crime, people have to rise above.... the problem is one of lifes zillion fucking dark ironies, you cannot selectively cut off your emoitional life; it is all or nothing, and even then hardly complete. Anger and frustration simply refuse to leave, but happiness, love and other feelings that warm the heart disappear... cold hearted bastards need to be shot before they do another crime; prisoners do not deserve to be housed with killer rapists like this.
If they have proven, as they seemingly have, that pedophiles can be identified young and still fail to be rehabilitated, then why not shoot them? Anyone who has no compunction about rape and death is a dangerous defect (and no, I do not consider any other way of being born a human a defect, more an obstacle, and even the worst of them are not serious enough for this). In a prison population, an individual who causes great risks to others is marked for death. Same with China, and other countries where the government is run first and foremost for the masses, rather than a few business concerns and a lawyer class.
This freakiller I am writing about, very rambly on this buzzy saturday afternoon as I drink coffee, smoke peach flavored tobacco and green stickies, is too gross to be mentioned, let alone his website. I watched a news program on this bastard, and the quotes from his blog I read were enough to give me a heart ach. He as much as says he is a criminal, and a pedophile at that... and no one turned him in. He could have been stopped before he killed two adults and three children and kept a young girl as his sex slave. He was another one of those guys who the system has known well since he was sixteen and bound and raped a 14 year old boy.
I wonder if anyone read his blog? One would think a few people would have stumbled in, but who knows??? I register my blogs all over so people can find them. Maybe he didn't? Anyways, if I had come across his blog talking about pedophilia and getting away with crimes, I would have done all that is possible to protect the innocent from violence and rape. Like any adult would. Yet seemingly no one reported this sicko. I SURE AS HELL HOPE THEY DO NEXT TIME...
THAT IS UP TO YOU!!!!!!
Friday, July 08, 2005
continuing my novel notes.
aldmo... made a rap album, that a producer from germany erased all the profanity off of and put in horns, and then sold copies at a christian music festival. This then took off, and Aldmo, who was just out of the Marines and wanting to do anything other than go straight -- he had conformed and did his duty and wanted to his own thing now, thank you very much. He had no money though, certainly not enough for weed and studio time. So, he went along with the german producer, and soon was a big hit on the christiam radio network in Germany. The record shot to number one on the first day out, and the next day the scandel broke. Sales for the second day were non-existent, as Christians across Germany pulled the vile cursing rap album fro their stores.
On the first night of his German toour, a good three weeks before he would be shown to be a fraud, a group of pentecostal kids, all seventeen and total virgins filled with pentup horniness because they were all so well brain washed into their weird little sect that they kept their genitals to themselves -- and indeed, touched them only while sleeping to the boys, and riding horses, in the case of two blonde twins, who could simply not helpthemselves after hours of gentle and rough clitorial rubbing from the soft yet still firm saddle horn. Aldmo was smoking as much weed as possible on the tour, and trying very hard not to talk. He was used to cussing all the time. Bitch, ho, nigger, cunt, fag.... he never knew when he was going to say a few choice words, and actually feared, with a paranoia that the pot he was always smoking made worse, that he would curse sometime in front of the microphone and the entire crowd of clean cut white Christians would just go apeshit and attack the stage and just tear him into little handfulls of red gunk...
The kids who would soon enough make up the 'Church Of Aldmo God Of Diamonds and Gold and Mercedes Esquire,' were in his dressing room before the show. None of them had smelled weed before, and keep mentioning that his american cigarette smelled different than theirs. He responded, "Yes, god knows I will stop this vile habit, but for now, the devils just got me a little bit."
"What do you mean, the devils got you a little bit?"
"I mean... well, like when you be thinking about some bi... baby doll girl, whatever... or you ladies start thinking about some beefy guy who makes your little rugs damp... Yea, then the devils just getting you a little bit. God don't mind so much, as long as you don't start listening to that little devil and following his advice. Not even god could get rid of the devil, so what the hell we doing thinking we can?"
"What's this mean, 'little rugs damp?"
"Oh, yea... In american, we say that women are like rugs... and uhm, they should be clean... and you know what I mean by clean?"
"Oh, yes... Do you have your own church?" A young girl with eyes as blue and clear as a wolves asked.
"No, oh no..." He replied,
That was all that was said before the concert, as Aldmo was cut off by his producer, and dragged rather reluctantly out onto the stage. The show was his worst ever. Wiuthout his curses, he kept forgoting the words... finally, he just started saying the word over and over in every song, for an entire half hour. The crowds frenzy seemed to grow with every jesus, until finally the christians were going all crazy in front of the stage and Aldmo had a vision... the crowds seemed to part for a second and become a perfect dollar sign. He started noticing the t shirts being sold and the pop and all the people who had bought fifty dollar tickets to see a bunch of unknown christian singers. The german kids who won the contest were entranced even more than the other kids... the mistake their contact high from aldmo's weed as a religion. In the states, Aldmo then has to convince his cult that the pot smell is special incense, like Christ burned... Christs burning of incense is in fact a tenant in the scriptures of the first unitied bible bible vhurch of of admo cornelius muhammed Esq.
Aldmo just goes by the name al with most people, but the cult always calls him by his full name. EVEN during severe crises, which drives aldmo and others around batty at least once in the book.
Aldmo at first tries to get rid of his groupies, but they keep following him. He then finds out they have been excummunicated for hearing his music. They have no where to go... since aldmo is more or less a responsible guy, and his years in the marines have him thinking he is something of an action hero (he broke up a gang fight once and had built the scene into mental basis for tales of his dangerous physical prowess,.
Okay, this is aldmo.... or at least his back story. This is the story that brings him to the action; all shit that happened before the book. The story could be told by artmo, to johnny pain, who is writing a story about him, which he pretends will be a tract that the church can use, though it is really an expose.
The story... scenes needed to move along the dog fighting scenes, and the themes to be explored: how our society treats the innocent, and a new morality that transcends all religious views. I guess this would have to be science. None of them should deny science, except the crystal guy... who will of course use any science to back up his own theories.
What brings them together is self welfare, pure and simple. They do not necessarily like each other, and are at odds in ways that are too deep for them to change at this point in their lives.
scenes: 1) johnny pain talking to a missionary. johnny pain talking to aldmo. Johnny pain beating up gang banger. Aldmo going around to the different people in the building and asking of their help. He also turns his cult into an armed force, and starts preaching to them that they are going to go through their trials, but not against the state, like all the crazy cults he is always comparing to theirs, but against a gang of satan inspired dog fighters.
attacking the dog fight. okay this is five basic scenes.
the conflict starts with the dog fight, and that should kick off the book, too. After this scene, the others can come to his aide, just enough to stop other gang bangers from jumping on Johnny. The gang bangers leave screaming they will be back. Aldmo has come to his aide, because he has wanted to meet the writer for some time. Yet, everyone he asked ot introduce him had made excuses, because they were sure the atheistic Pain, who sounded like a reactionary hard ass half the time and claimed to hate all religions equally, would rip into aldmo.
Aldmo then goes to his cult and stirs them up. One of them is dispatched to buy a gun...
Wait, I am trying to think of this in a such a straight way, like one war, but the plot is not for a basically realistic book, but one that is fantastic, and should well be plotted in a way that takes this into account.
How about one of aldmos people doing miracles? I can also make this universe they act in different than here. There can be monsters, aleins... but the enemy of the actual themes has to be real and ever present, if there indeed is one...
On the first night of his German toour, a good three weeks before he would be shown to be a fraud, a group of pentecostal kids, all seventeen and total virgins filled with pentup horniness because they were all so well brain washed into their weird little sect that they kept their genitals to themselves -- and indeed, touched them only while sleeping to the boys, and riding horses, in the case of two blonde twins, who could simply not helpthemselves after hours of gentle and rough clitorial rubbing from the soft yet still firm saddle horn. Aldmo was smoking as much weed as possible on the tour, and trying very hard not to talk. He was used to cussing all the time. Bitch, ho, nigger, cunt, fag.... he never knew when he was going to say a few choice words, and actually feared, with a paranoia that the pot he was always smoking made worse, that he would curse sometime in front of the microphone and the entire crowd of clean cut white Christians would just go apeshit and attack the stage and just tear him into little handfulls of red gunk...
The kids who would soon enough make up the 'Church Of Aldmo God Of Diamonds and Gold and Mercedes Esquire,' were in his dressing room before the show. None of them had smelled weed before, and keep mentioning that his american cigarette smelled different than theirs. He responded, "Yes, god knows I will stop this vile habit, but for now, the devils just got me a little bit."
"What do you mean, the devils got you a little bit?"
"I mean... well, like when you be thinking about some bi... baby doll girl, whatever... or you ladies start thinking about some beefy guy who makes your little rugs damp... Yea, then the devils just getting you a little bit. God don't mind so much, as long as you don't start listening to that little devil and following his advice. Not even god could get rid of the devil, so what the hell we doing thinking we can?"
"What's this mean, 'little rugs damp?"
"Oh, yea... In american, we say that women are like rugs... and uhm, they should be clean... and you know what I mean by clean?"
"Oh, yes... Do you have your own church?" A young girl with eyes as blue and clear as a wolves asked.
"No, oh no..." He replied,
That was all that was said before the concert, as Aldmo was cut off by his producer, and dragged rather reluctantly out onto the stage. The show was his worst ever. Wiuthout his curses, he kept forgoting the words... finally, he just started saying the word over and over in every song, for an entire half hour. The crowds frenzy seemed to grow with every jesus, until finally the christians were going all crazy in front of the stage and Aldmo had a vision... the crowds seemed to part for a second and become a perfect dollar sign. He started noticing the t shirts being sold and the pop and all the people who had bought fifty dollar tickets to see a bunch of unknown christian singers. The german kids who won the contest were entranced even more than the other kids... the mistake their contact high from aldmo's weed as a religion. In the states, Aldmo then has to convince his cult that the pot smell is special incense, like Christ burned... Christs burning of incense is in fact a tenant in the scriptures of the first unitied bible bible vhurch of of admo cornelius muhammed Esq.
Aldmo just goes by the name al with most people, but the cult always calls him by his full name. EVEN during severe crises, which drives aldmo and others around batty at least once in the book.
Aldmo at first tries to get rid of his groupies, but they keep following him. He then finds out they have been excummunicated for hearing his music. They have no where to go... since aldmo is more or less a responsible guy, and his years in the marines have him thinking he is something of an action hero (he broke up a gang fight once and had built the scene into mental basis for tales of his dangerous physical prowess,.
Okay, this is aldmo.... or at least his back story. This is the story that brings him to the action; all shit that happened before the book. The story could be told by artmo, to johnny pain, who is writing a story about him, which he pretends will be a tract that the church can use, though it is really an expose.
The story... scenes needed to move along the dog fighting scenes, and the themes to be explored: how our society treats the innocent, and a new morality that transcends all religious views. I guess this would have to be science. None of them should deny science, except the crystal guy... who will of course use any science to back up his own theories.
What brings them together is self welfare, pure and simple. They do not necessarily like each other, and are at odds in ways that are too deep for them to change at this point in their lives.
scenes: 1) johnny pain talking to a missionary. johnny pain talking to aldmo. Johnny pain beating up gang banger. Aldmo going around to the different people in the building and asking of their help. He also turns his cult into an armed force, and starts preaching to them that they are going to go through their trials, but not against the state, like all the crazy cults he is always comparing to theirs, but against a gang of satan inspired dog fighters.
attacking the dog fight. okay this is five basic scenes.
the conflict starts with the dog fight, and that should kick off the book, too. After this scene, the others can come to his aide, just enough to stop other gang bangers from jumping on Johnny. The gang bangers leave screaming they will be back. Aldmo has come to his aide, because he has wanted to meet the writer for some time. Yet, everyone he asked ot introduce him had made excuses, because they were sure the atheistic Pain, who sounded like a reactionary hard ass half the time and claimed to hate all religions equally, would rip into aldmo.
Aldmo then goes to his cult and stirs them up. One of them is dispatched to buy a gun...
Wait, I am trying to think of this in a such a straight way, like one war, but the plot is not for a basically realistic book, but one that is fantastic, and should well be plotted in a way that takes this into account.
How about one of aldmos people doing miracles? I can also make this universe they act in different than here. There can be monsters, aleins... but the enemy of the actual themes has to be real and ever present, if there indeed is one...
Thursday, July 07, 2005
LONDON'S BURNING...
He stays in bed late, recovering from a sleepless night; the darkness was filled with mental disruptions, images that made him panicky, hyper.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics. One of the experts points out the Irony of London going from celebrating the Olympics, a sign of the solidarity of civility in countries despite how their governments acted at home, and then the waking the next morning to bombs going off and the mass transit shut down.
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
He moves through his apartment feeling his back aching and a need for coffee and nicotine. He goes into the living room and picks up a red pouch and papers, rolls some tops cherry tobbacco into a smoke, goes out into kitchen and pours himself the last of the coffee from the day before, slops in milk and heads back into the living room. The dog is sleepily laying in front of the tv, the gray cat in the carpeted round perch on top of his scratching post, hovering at about the same level as the tv.
He picks up the remote and begins flipping across the channels. The huge screen fills with a double decker bus exploding into scrapnel and body parts; a black smoke envelopes the scene as people run about half crazed. Ambulances come next, then learned looking men and dressed up newscasters discussing the irony of a terrorist attack in London on the day after they got the Olympics. One of the experts points out the Irony of London going from celebrating the Olympics, a sign of the solidarity of civility in countries despite how their governments acted at home, and then the waking the next morning to bombs going off and the mass transit shut down.
There is a subway and people running and screaming and smoke and stories of breaking out windows with their bare hands to get oxygen into the cars.
He takes the black book bag out of the closet, looks inside at the wires and the timer... He has practiced the walk to the Mosque for weeks, preparing for the strike back. The bombing in London seems to him the perfect timing for a blow at the muslim fundamentalists. It's almost a relief to be leaving the fucked up world.
The metaphors are now clear, so here are some notes on plot...
THIS IS ONE OF THOSE ENTRIES that is not meant to necessarily entertain you, or even make you think or get pissed or any of the number of reactions I would like to get from people who read my words. No, this one is a worker entry, meant to find ways to continue the plot I am developing for the next novel. I am not going to be happy with anything that is stripped down and simple; i suspect that few novels that can be adequatly described in a paragraph or two are worth reading. I want a series of complicated sub plots, a caste of characters that goes from the achingly normal to the absurd (including a man who may or may not be from outer space, depending on what seems best when I start writing everything down in the pliant stone that will be the plot outline ... after which I can finally start doing what I do best, which is plain old writing.
I described some of the other characters in an earlier entry, but I need them all in one file for now, so I am going to repeat myself for a few lines...
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
The Alein, who is named Robert Mitchum, a name he took from his favorite actor in films, which he is addicted to. He does not like to go out in public, because he believes that his ultimate job is going to end up being destroying humans, so that balance can be restored to the ecoshpere... he is desperatly searching for ways to avoid this happening, but his experiences have convinced him to expect the worst.
Johnny Pain is the protaganist. He is not as crazy as he appears in here sometimes.. the hamster army is going to be something he writes about, out of his frustration at being one lonely and probably worthless voice in the clamouring crowds trying to effect the national consciousness.
This NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS is going to be a key to all the characters in some ways, because they will either represent people who are now effecting society or wish they were.
AMO: is a black guy, failed hip hop singer, who has started an illegal baptist fundamentalist church in the basement. He keeps a podium on rollers in his storage bin, and pulls that out and sets up a colorful assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that he has scavanged from the alleys on his daily search for tin cans. His congregation will basically be clean cut republican white kids, who find being preached to by a black minister proof that they are compasionate conservatists, not the robotic leeches that they truly are.
THE PLOT: The various people should come together or not on a larger issue. This issue has to be one that requires quasi legal actions -- shooting up a dog fight, torturing a gang banger and slicing his throat. This will all take place after the gang has basically declared war on the apartment building. They do this after Johnny Pain beats the shit out of a kid who tries to steal his dog to fight it.
The other neighbors decide to come in on his side, despite their differences, because protecting the innocent and needy is something we all agree on.
The guy who is or is not an alein may either save their asses in the end, or think he can and become a worthless victim when his mania is exposed.
A book within a book may be used.... In this case, the hamster wars could be written about, and in them can be a mirror of the events happening in the apartment building. This would have to be mucho subtle, or just balls out the events.
THE NARRATION: An omniscent narrator makes more sense, if I am going to have all these bizare subplots going on. I would like to be able to see the world and say the world from the perspective of my characters in a way that is intimate and telling, which would be much harder if the tale was told only from the events that Johnny Pain knows about...
This would mean starting with Johnny Pain and the dog, then moving on to the others and getting their reactions or non reactions. I could title the various chapters in ways that show who is thinking. This could be as simple as 'APT. Q' to designate the shift of perspective.
I want my omniscent narrator to be a character as well, of course. He will basically be the me that I am sometimes, and wish I was more... the moral voice screaming from the back of my mind that the dog needs walked and the bills need paid and the woman needs more time and the fucking earth needs saved.....
The plot needs a lot more thought. I have subplots for all of these folks written down somewhere, but since I always remember the latest stuff about my book, I am just going to begin anew, in a way.... writing the same thing in a different way can really add to the end product, as DH Lawrences incredible novels show--he wrote them from the perspective of various characters, then finalized drafts that threw most of this work out.
THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR SUBPLOTS: THE eight characters need at least one subplot, and then ways that they connect to the over arching plot. They all need a few days worth of writing to fill in their back stories and really get to know their mentality; to in fact create a mental room in my mind where I can go in and be them...
At present the people in an apartment building band together to fight off a dog fighting gang, after the cops tell them that since it is just a misdameanor, they don't even bother going after the gangs for dog fighting, just murders and drugs and rapes..
the characters:
SPIKE:
JOHNNY PAIN:
MARIANNE:
THE ALEIN:
AMO;
AMO'S CONGREGATION:
RICK:
I have run out of time for writing... M. will soon be home, and our task of moving will have to coninue... not to mention the dog is pissed off at me because I haven't taken her out yet... this entry will be continued... maybe.
I described some of the other characters in an earlier entry, but I need them all in one file for now, so I am going to repeat myself for a few lines...
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
The Alein, who is named Robert Mitchum, a name he took from his favorite actor in films, which he is addicted to. He does not like to go out in public, because he believes that his ultimate job is going to end up being destroying humans, so that balance can be restored to the ecoshpere... he is desperatly searching for ways to avoid this happening, but his experiences have convinced him to expect the worst.
Johnny Pain is the protaganist. He is not as crazy as he appears in here sometimes.. the hamster army is going to be something he writes about, out of his frustration at being one lonely and probably worthless voice in the clamouring crowds trying to effect the national consciousness.
This NATIONAL CONSCIOUSNESS is going to be a key to all the characters in some ways, because they will either represent people who are now effecting society or wish they were.
AMO: is a black guy, failed hip hop singer, who has started an illegal baptist fundamentalist church in the basement. He keeps a podium on rollers in his storage bin, and pulls that out and sets up a colorful assortment of folding chairs and lawn chairs that he has scavanged from the alleys on his daily search for tin cans. His congregation will basically be clean cut republican white kids, who find being preached to by a black minister proof that they are compasionate conservatists, not the robotic leeches that they truly are.
THE PLOT: The various people should come together or not on a larger issue. This issue has to be one that requires quasi legal actions -- shooting up a dog fight, torturing a gang banger and slicing his throat. This will all take place after the gang has basically declared war on the apartment building. They do this after Johnny Pain beats the shit out of a kid who tries to steal his dog to fight it.
The other neighbors decide to come in on his side, despite their differences, because protecting the innocent and needy is something we all agree on.
The guy who is or is not an alein may either save their asses in the end, or think he can and become a worthless victim when his mania is exposed.
A book within a book may be used.... In this case, the hamster wars could be written about, and in them can be a mirror of the events happening in the apartment building. This would have to be mucho subtle, or just balls out the events.
THE NARRATION: An omniscent narrator makes more sense, if I am going to have all these bizare subplots going on. I would like to be able to see the world and say the world from the perspective of my characters in a way that is intimate and telling, which would be much harder if the tale was told only from the events that Johnny Pain knows about...
This would mean starting with Johnny Pain and the dog, then moving on to the others and getting their reactions or non reactions. I could title the various chapters in ways that show who is thinking. This could be as simple as 'APT. Q' to designate the shift of perspective.
I want my omniscent narrator to be a character as well, of course. He will basically be the me that I am sometimes, and wish I was more... the moral voice screaming from the back of my mind that the dog needs walked and the bills need paid and the woman needs more time and the fucking earth needs saved.....
The plot needs a lot more thought. I have subplots for all of these folks written down somewhere, but since I always remember the latest stuff about my book, I am just going to begin anew, in a way.... writing the same thing in a different way can really add to the end product, as DH Lawrences incredible novels show--he wrote them from the perspective of various characters, then finalized drafts that threw most of this work out.
THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR SUBPLOTS: THE eight characters need at least one subplot, and then ways that they connect to the over arching plot. They all need a few days worth of writing to fill in their back stories and really get to know their mentality; to in fact create a mental room in my mind where I can go in and be them...
At present the people in an apartment building band together to fight off a dog fighting gang, after the cops tell them that since it is just a misdameanor, they don't even bother going after the gangs for dog fighting, just murders and drugs and rapes..
the characters:
SPIKE:
JOHNNY PAIN:
MARIANNE:
THE ALEIN:
AMO;
AMO'S CONGREGATION:
RICK:
I have run out of time for writing... M. will soon be home, and our task of moving will have to coninue... not to mention the dog is pissed off at me because I haven't taken her out yet... this entry will be continued... maybe.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
SOME DISSOLVE AWAY
I made a student movie at Columbia College, based on my story She, black and white, twistedly funny, with a few soul-trembles.
I wrote and directed, though the guy who did most of the camera work added a great deal of his own 'Taxi Driver' kind of style. We had two great women involved in the shoot, one an actress, and the other a junkie film maker, who played the junkie in the movie.
The heroin addict was a petite russian jew with dark hair and innocent brown eyes; I came on to her during the period when she was new in school and off the drugs, and she was obviously into the idea, asking me to spend the night and what not... but we never had sex, and the rejection involved caused me to just move on. I wondered about this no sex policy of hers even more when I found out she had taken up with a junkie who called himself an artist -- much to the dismay of everyone in my life, who reacted to my buying a 60 dollar drawing from him like I was an idiot... all through this, I didn't know anything about her past junkie life and she never once said the word AIDS.
The last time I saw her, she was covered in horrible brown sores, weighed maybe seventy five pounds of jagged jutting bones. That is when she told me that she had always wanted to have sex with me, but she was afraid that she would give me aids. Her fears led her to fall under the spell of the first decent enough guy she meant who had the disease.
As far as that film went, unfortunatly, when we showed the thing in the last class, which was where it would be decided if our film could go into the larger show Columbia hosts, which is scouted by smart directors and producers, our film broke and the prof. was so mad that we never did show anyone... this is my fault, since I was the director. I kind of let this other guy, a soon to be cineamatographer/editor, do all the actual cutting and pasting of film. Mostly because I was starting a relationship with the actress and was too busy with her and my other girlfriend...
The kicker is... Reuben, who's last name eludes me or I would still be trying to find him (he lived on the far south side), took off with the film and never did give me a copy. I only saw the rushes, never the finished product all together at once...
IN THE SURE THAT WILL HAPPEN FILE, ...
Should you find this film, I will make giving me a copy worth your while... you know, pay you three hundred bucks, trade a small painting, blow you (girls only, now... and subject to M.'s approval), or whatever.... would sure be nice to see that cool little woman who played the junkie again, even if on a silly student film.
I wrote and directed, though the guy who did most of the camera work added a great deal of his own 'Taxi Driver' kind of style. We had two great women involved in the shoot, one an actress, and the other a junkie film maker, who played the junkie in the movie.
The heroin addict was a petite russian jew with dark hair and innocent brown eyes; I came on to her during the period when she was new in school and off the drugs, and she was obviously into the idea, asking me to spend the night and what not... but we never had sex, and the rejection involved caused me to just move on. I wondered about this no sex policy of hers even more when I found out she had taken up with a junkie who called himself an artist -- much to the dismay of everyone in my life, who reacted to my buying a 60 dollar drawing from him like I was an idiot... all through this, I didn't know anything about her past junkie life and she never once said the word AIDS.
The last time I saw her, she was covered in horrible brown sores, weighed maybe seventy five pounds of jagged jutting bones. That is when she told me that she had always wanted to have sex with me, but she was afraid that she would give me aids. Her fears led her to fall under the spell of the first decent enough guy she meant who had the disease.
As far as that film went, unfortunatly, when we showed the thing in the last class, which was where it would be decided if our film could go into the larger show Columbia hosts, which is scouted by smart directors and producers, our film broke and the prof. was so mad that we never did show anyone... this is my fault, since I was the director. I kind of let this other guy, a soon to be cineamatographer/editor, do all the actual cutting and pasting of film. Mostly because I was starting a relationship with the actress and was too busy with her and my other girlfriend...
The kicker is... Reuben, who's last name eludes me or I would still be trying to find him (he lived on the far south side), took off with the film and never did give me a copy. I only saw the rushes, never the finished product all together at once...
IN THE SURE THAT WILL HAPPEN FILE, ...
Should you find this film, I will make giving me a copy worth your while... you know, pay you three hundred bucks, trade a small painting, blow you (girls only, now... and subject to M.'s approval), or whatever.... would sure be nice to see that cool little woman who played the junkie again, even if on a silly student film.
LET THE METAPHORS COMMENCE....
Metaphors are tricky little slippery slivers of soap, falling out of your hand in a prison shower.... you put them in your writing and poetry in the hope that a few folks will go, "Now, that did he mean by that black crow?" A few other folks, like me, will think, "Hmmm... I know this metaphor of black is supposed to be depression, but this writer doesn't seem to use metaphors, and if she does they are her subjective interpretations of reality. A crow in Poe does not mean the same as a crow in Don Juan's novels based on native american spirituality (which fools and youngsters think is true to life stuff).
So what does Johnny Pain think of metaphors? He tries to be funny or understood much too much to worry about a lot of metaphors. This is why hamsters in here have been a little nebulous in their meaning. Mostly, the furry little hussies and hosses have represented americans who will not be lead by a liberal, though somewhat Nazi, Johnny Pain. I am now going to take the blog a little darker. Like my early poetry and short stories.
My fiction, should you ever care to read it, is at the bottom of this blog. There are the stories and excerpts from my unpublished novel; a disturbed darkness runs through, like a a polluted black creek bubbling with some mystery chemicals. Angels and She and Iron are good examples.
So, since I have not always been playing by the rules of fiction in here, let alone keeping track of my metaphors, seeems only fair to you folk that now that I am going to write a longer narrative in here that will involved an on going use of metaphors, I want to give you all due warning.
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
I think adding this entry will make the story line accessible to readers in a way that is seldom offered in new fiction. With older, more established works, the prolouge is often a great source of what is going to happen metaphorically, and what some of the themes are about. I prefer to have as much information in my head as possible about what to look for in literature. I discovered as much about myself when I was reading Shakespeare (and let's face it, you don't get a lot of surprise endings in the better literature).
So, let me know what you think, if you are one of those hand full of people who leave messages in here.
So what does Johnny Pain think of metaphors? He tries to be funny or understood much too much to worry about a lot of metaphors. This is why hamsters in here have been a little nebulous in their meaning. Mostly, the furry little hussies and hosses have represented americans who will not be lead by a liberal, though somewhat Nazi, Johnny Pain. I am now going to take the blog a little darker. Like my early poetry and short stories.
My fiction, should you ever care to read it, is at the bottom of this blog. There are the stories and excerpts from my unpublished novel; a disturbed darkness runs through, like a a polluted black creek bubbling with some mystery chemicals. Angels and She and Iron are good examples.
So, since I have not always been playing by the rules of fiction in here, let alone keeping track of my metaphors, seeems only fair to you folk that now that I am going to write a longer narrative in here that will involved an on going use of metaphors, I want to give you all due warning.
The hamsters are going to become the troops at war.
M. is going to be the voice of reason that is hopefully, underneath all the partisan talk and heated debate, whispering in our ears.
Spike is going to become the unthinking flag waver, who just goes along with Bush.
Rick is going to be the religous guy, into crystals as the portals into different dimensions when he believes that he experiences god, who barely cares about the planet at all. He does all the little recycling things, but he doesn't botherr with the depressing aspects of the environmental crises because he expects to get his rewards on 'another dimension.' He lives across from Johnny Pain, and they share the same balcony, and certain likes and dislikes in movies and what not, that leads to an unlikely freindship (which is the basis of a hell of a lot of comedy).
I think adding this entry will make the story line accessible to readers in a way that is seldom offered in new fiction. With older, more established works, the prolouge is often a great source of what is going to happen metaphorically, and what some of the themes are about. I prefer to have as much information in my head as possible about what to look for in literature. I discovered as much about myself when I was reading Shakespeare (and let's face it, you don't get a lot of surprise endings in the better literature).
So, let me know what you think, if you are one of those hand full of people who leave messages in here.
Monday, July 04, 2005
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE GREAT ANXIETY!
This goes on at a subconscious level, no matter how you scoff at the claim that the new and improved hand products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole....
According to Milton Glaser, who was on PBS this morning and is one of the most astute minds possible, watching those millions of advertisements on TV makes a creation of jittery electric currents run back and forth madly through your mind screaming, "I WANT THAT NEW THINGAMAJIG!!!!!"
Even as we scoff at ads and know they lie, this process takes place on a subconscious level. The lucky charms elf sticks his little dick right into your gray brain and spews out a clouds of anxiety that waft through your chest, smash into your heart and set it pounding.
Research shows the ads on TV can cause anxiety in people, because they see millions of bright and shiny beads and thingies that they do not have. Simple enough: we primates want to touch shiny things and look at them -- we are curious apes. When we can't do this, anxiety creeps in from our primordial mind...
Ads work so well all around us are people dedicating their lives to buying new and improved gadgets and whimsy's.
You should know that below your radar, the ads are telling you something that you believe heart and soul, though you don't know why? No matter how much you scoff/ how much you scoff/how much you scoff (advertisements just repeat their main points until your subconscious understands) at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole, you are absorbing them into yourself. You are more than likely an anxiety driven lifestyle based on living out an advertisement which lies and lies...The entire culture is like this now, to some extent.
Why we allow something to cause anxiety in the entire population is a much more complex story...
Very bad things are happening to our culture because of our constant exposure to advertisements. One is that since we are trained to accept being lied to, we expect lies, and thus accept lying politicians.
Think now of the zillions of advertisements you have read; we see them from childhood to grave in this criminally consuming culture. They have effected us, just like anything in a humans environment will. We expect politicians to lie, and when they get caught, it is no big deal..
Politicians flip-flop on issues all the time; a lot of them check to see what the people in their districts want and just go with whatever will get them re-reelected, promising whatever the hell, since no one really expects them to do anything they say on the campaign trail.
Four or Five presidents have been elected because of promises of a national health care system. Some of them went on to be very popular presidents, like Clinton (who as a student of politics, was surely aware that this issue would get him elected, because he was literally saying that he would give people free health care, and not too many people are against that). When the politicians flip flop on an issue for whatever reason, we merely accept that they often lie while trying to get elected. He went on and got reelected, despite the blow job, cigar, lying his ass off... Because, he's a politician, and that is part of the job. Same with salesmen; I was in sales, and know all the seemingly harmless lies they tell... 'just happened to be in the neighborhood,' or whatever...
Everyone accepts these things in our society. A lot of people accept Bush stealing the election in 2004 (or at least trying his damnedest, through his brother's political organization, to do so). Why was there no marching in the streets, like there is in a lot countries when something like this happens?
We like to think it is because we are civilized, but no...
It is because we expect our politicians to be sleazy, and advertisements have made us accept the fact that we live in an environment where we hear a lot of lies. An election in a consumer culture is all about what will be get one elected and be easily believed, not what the truth is... No, not what the truth is at all..
The kicker is that even though we know the ads and politicians lie, we merely accept this. We have become a passive electorate that the politicians can count on to be manipulated into supporting them by using lying images. Like evoking God and JFK and Lincoln and other icons that they try to associate themselves with even when it is a total lie, purely because underneath your radar, this works great on people raised watching advertisements.
And this has happens subliminally, below the surface of your pea of consciousness; the proof of this is that despite your head knowing the images are lies and how much you 'scoff' at the claims of the salesmen hawking knives on late night television, the advertisement does it's job anyways. You like the looks of those knives, and become anxious because you can't get them, and relieved and happy if you do. This is why those infomercials are so successful.
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE ANXIETY:
Research shows that ads like on TV can cause anxiety in people because they want all these bright and shiny things that they can't have.
REMEMBER: No matter how you scoff/how much you scoff at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and LOTS OF OTHER HYPERBOLE, this conditioning of your brain goes on -- in that part of your brain that is not a part of you that you think of as you.
SHAME ON US ALL!!!!!!!!
According to Milton Glaser, who was on PBS this morning and is one of the most astute minds possible, watching those millions of advertisements on TV makes a creation of jittery electric currents run back and forth madly through your mind screaming, "I WANT THAT NEW THINGAMAJIG!!!!!"
Even as we scoff at ads and know they lie, this process takes place on a subconscious level. The lucky charms elf sticks his little dick right into your gray brain and spews out a clouds of anxiety that waft through your chest, smash into your heart and set it pounding.
Research shows the ads on TV can cause anxiety in people, because they see millions of bright and shiny beads and thingies that they do not have. Simple enough: we primates want to touch shiny things and look at them -- we are curious apes. When we can't do this, anxiety creeps in from our primordial mind...
Ads work so well all around us are people dedicating their lives to buying new and improved gadgets and whimsy's.
You should know that below your radar, the ads are telling you something that you believe heart and soul, though you don't know why? No matter how much you scoff/ how much you scoff/how much you scoff (advertisements just repeat their main points until your subconscious understands) at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and all that other hyperbole, you are absorbing them into yourself. You are more than likely an anxiety driven lifestyle based on living out an advertisement which lies and lies...The entire culture is like this now, to some extent.
Why we allow something to cause anxiety in the entire population is a much more complex story...
Very bad things are happening to our culture because of our constant exposure to advertisements. One is that since we are trained to accept being lied to, we expect lies, and thus accept lying politicians.
Think now of the zillions of advertisements you have read; we see them from childhood to grave in this criminally consuming culture. They have effected us, just like anything in a humans environment will. We expect politicians to lie, and when they get caught, it is no big deal..
Politicians flip-flop on issues all the time; a lot of them check to see what the people in their districts want and just go with whatever will get them re-reelected, promising whatever the hell, since no one really expects them to do anything they say on the campaign trail.
Four or Five presidents have been elected because of promises of a national health care system. Some of them went on to be very popular presidents, like Clinton (who as a student of politics, was surely aware that this issue would get him elected, because he was literally saying that he would give people free health care, and not too many people are against that). When the politicians flip flop on an issue for whatever reason, we merely accept that they often lie while trying to get elected. He went on and got reelected, despite the blow job, cigar, lying his ass off... Because, he's a politician, and that is part of the job. Same with salesmen; I was in sales, and know all the seemingly harmless lies they tell... 'just happened to be in the neighborhood,' or whatever...
Everyone accepts these things in our society. A lot of people accept Bush stealing the election in 2004 (or at least trying his damnedest, through his brother's political organization, to do so). Why was there no marching in the streets, like there is in a lot countries when something like this happens?
We like to think it is because we are civilized, but no...
It is because we expect our politicians to be sleazy, and advertisements have made us accept the fact that we live in an environment where we hear a lot of lies. An election in a consumer culture is all about what will be get one elected and be easily believed, not what the truth is... No, not what the truth is at all..
The kicker is that even though we know the ads and politicians lie, we merely accept this. We have become a passive electorate that the politicians can count on to be manipulated into supporting them by using lying images. Like evoking God and JFK and Lincoln and other icons that they try to associate themselves with even when it is a total lie, purely because underneath your radar, this works great on people raised watching advertisements.
And this has happens subliminally, below the surface of your pea of consciousness; the proof of this is that despite your head knowing the images are lies and how much you 'scoff' at the claims of the salesmen hawking knives on late night television, the advertisement does it's job anyways. You like the looks of those knives, and become anxious because you can't get them, and relieved and happy if you do. This is why those infomercials are so successful.
ADVERTISEMENTS CAUSE ANXIETY:
Research shows that ads like on TV can cause anxiety in people because they want all these bright and shiny things that they can't have.
REMEMBER: No matter how you scoff/how much you scoff at the claim that the new and improved products are the best in the world and LOTS OF OTHER HYPERBOLE, this conditioning of your brain goes on -- in that part of your brain that is not a part of you that you think of as you.
SHAME ON US ALL!!!!!!!!
Sunday, July 03, 2005
your landlord probably owes you money!!!
IF YOUR LANDLORD TAKES A DEPOSIT ....
FROM YOU, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO PUT THAT IN AN INTEREST BEARING ACCOUNT, OF AT LEAST 5%. EVERY 12 MONTHS, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE THE RENTOR THAT INTEREST MONEY. LANDLORDS KIND OF RELY ON PEOPLES IGNORANCE OF THE LAW ON THIS ONE.
THE LAW SAYS IF YOU HAVE TO SUE THE LANDLORD TO GET THIS MONEY, THE LANDLORD HAS TO PAY ALL COURT COSTS, INCLUDING YOUR LAWYER. SINCE THIS IS A REMARKABLY EASY CASE FOR THE PROSECUTOR, THE LANDLORDS USUALLY BACK DOWN AND PAY.
I discovered this while searching for tenants rights.
FROM YOU, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO PUT THAT IN AN INTEREST BEARING ACCOUNT, OF AT LEAST 5%. EVERY 12 MONTHS, THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE THE RENTOR THAT INTEREST MONEY. LANDLORDS KIND OF RELY ON PEOPLES IGNORANCE OF THE LAW ON THIS ONE.
THE LAW SAYS IF YOU HAVE TO SUE THE LANDLORD TO GET THIS MONEY, THE LANDLORD HAS TO PAY ALL COURT COSTS, INCLUDING YOUR LAWYER. SINCE THIS IS A REMARKABLY EASY CASE FOR THE PROSECUTOR, THE LANDLORDS USUALLY BACK DOWN AND PAY.
I discovered this while searching for tenants rights.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Yea, this will happen when hell freezes
BR>
Italy judge orders arrest of CIA agents
An Italian judge has ordered the arrest of 13 CIA agents for allegedly helping deport an imam to Egypt as part of US anti-terrorism efforts, an Italian official familiar with the investigation said Friday.
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NOT THAT THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS... or that they shouldn't... it just made me laugh at the futility of trying to fight the american devils (me old horned self included).
Italy judge orders arrest of CIA agents
The agents are suspected in the seizure of an Egyptian-born imam identified as Abu Omar on the streets of Milan in February 2003, according to the official, who requested anonymity because he was not authorized to release the information.
The US Embassy in Rome declined comment.
Prosecutors believe the agents seized Omar as part of the CIA's "extraordinary rendition" program, in which terror suspects are transferred to third countries without court approval, according to reports Friday in newspapers Corriere della Sera and Il Giorno.
Investigators traced the agents through check-in details at Milan hotels and their use of Italian cell phones during the operation, the reports said. All the agents are American and include three women, Il Giorno said.
The reports said another six agents were being investigated for helping prepare the operation.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
NOT THAT THEY SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO THIS... or that they shouldn't... it just made me laugh at the futility of trying to fight the american devils (me old horned self included).
scientologists eat rancid racoon shit.
Never believe anyone who tells you this is a legitimate religion. One quick google search on cults and scientology should be enough to dispel even the stupidist shit heads. Hate them to the point of molotov cocktails. Someone, please.... and cut that tom cruises head off and shove it up john travoltas ass. Those two have sent many a fools down to those shill joints to listen to bullshit they could get, minus the madness, much cheaper from a licensed therapist.
Just thought you should know, in case you are at that curious age where you will try just about anything to convince yourself to keep on living through the suffering.
Just thought you should know, in case you are at that curious age where you will try just about anything to convince yourself to keep on living through the suffering.
words, words, the wonderful treat..
ya can slap a human over the most mild beef
words words
big and small
illiterated precisely
or not at all
They tumble around inside my skull
red and blue and green and yellow
stinking, loving, praying and doom
words for this and that
a lattice laid over truth
makes us want shiny cars
eternal youth
clumps of words
commenting on words
seek to explode words
nurture words
kill words
resurrect words
words
dear lord
words
sang and hummed and dreamed and spoken in whispers
a veil laid over the faces around us
words like nigger
concealing more than they reveal
fucking words like a virus in the brain
telling some to kill
just for the thrill
others to buck up
and make that sale
words unexamined
dying
screamed
told as stories
and equations
words
reduce everything they describe
to fit into sentences and paragraphs
restrain the wilder impulse
words words
big and small
illiterated precisely
or not at all
They tumble around inside my skull
red and blue and green and yellow
stinking, loving, praying and doom
words for this and that
a lattice laid over truth
makes us want shiny cars
eternal youth
clumps of words
commenting on words
seek to explode words
nurture words
kill words
resurrect words
words
dear lord
words
sang and hummed and dreamed and spoken in whispers
a veil laid over the faces around us
words like nigger
concealing more than they reveal
fucking words like a virus in the brain
telling some to kill
just for the thrill
others to buck up
and make that sale
words unexamined
dying
screamed
told as stories
and equations
words
reduce everything they describe
to fit into sentences and paragraphs
restrain the wilder impulse
the whizzinator
makes for cocktail conversation at its meatiest.
FROM MSN NEWS:
Drug counselor David Aronek testified that (Tom) Sizemore tried to falsify a drug test in May by using a device called The Whizzinator, a fillable prosthetic penis designed to beat drug tests.
I don't think anyone should ever use meth, like this guy does... we are the same age and he looks like my dad. I could tell ya stories all day about this and crack... yet, you have to feel sorry for a guy reduced to having to use a whizzinator ... not to mention intimate involvement with another persons urine....
YUCK...
I sure am glad that my boss is absolutley against drug testing, and in fact encourages me to smoke weed... being self employed and all. Update: Congress is now trying to ban the whizzinator..
my hair is so fucking long...
Falling down over my shoulders in this great mane of auburn curls... for about five minutes a day, before the humidity and life somehow transform my hairdoo into a strikingly realistic looking beaver.
People ask me all the time now, "Hey, how do you get that beaver to hide your bald spot like that?"
People are so fucking cruel....
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Saturday, June 25, 2005
ASSHOLE OF THE DAY
On days when I have nothing to say and probably should just do something else, I am going to start, for the sake of checking in here everyday without making a complete and utter fool of myself, pointing out ASSHOLES OF THE DAY. The lesser evils will be HEMROIDS, of course.
To begin this possibly going to be followed tradition... I offer you a man who kept 11 big cats and a bear caged in his house because he could, legally.... in this world where up is down and creationism is on the rise, the Big cats, a lion and a tiger, will be put to sleep for acting like huge, predatorial beasts at the top of their food chain. The ASSHOLE WILL GET TO LIVE ON, AND KEEP HIS OTHER ANIMALS... until the inevitable lawsuit makes himsell everything he has. Hopefully, now that the san franciso media, which is very cool, is in on the schazmeel, they will make sure the owner does right by the rest of his animals.
A special plea to all you true psychos. You guys who are just going to kill anyways? You know who you are....
Well, if you are just going to kill anyways,m then why not choose a guy like this? I'm just saying, your parents would be a hell of a lot prouder of that then taking out that kindergarten down the street. Think, you, think.... you know I am right. So, if you can just wait to kill next until you track this guy down, do please stake him out (use those metal tent stakes -- easy to get, and hard to trace (which I don't have to tell you is a big part of your continued success)). Put them stakes in both his spread hands and . .. you guessed it... both feet. See, you didn't need those special classes? Then all you have to do is rig a rope to open the cages for the tigers and lions and bear, and let them feast of his sick, sick mind and body... and no, I don't mean they get to eat everything -- take your trophies first though. Afterwards, you reall y should blow your brains out. You know its past that time... and blowing out those silly brains of yours will make your story more interesting to the press... and get your parents and ex freinds book deals and stuff. You know, you haven't exactly been the best kid, so this will make your funeral sure to be attended by at least someone. (and don't think you can come over here for me to videotape the spectacle for a live feed... no, not in my house anymore... those fucking blood stains on the ceiling really look like shit and I am just too lazy to clean them off... oh, I hold the cat up so he can lick at them but the stain needs more... so much more than I can give right now).
REMEMBER --- Don't forget to blow your brains out afterwards!!!!!!!! And if you should have somehow made a kid... someone you raped who was too religious to abort your demon seed, you really have to take them out before you go. They are still innocent now, so killing them will assure them a place in heaven. Now, you are going to hell, but you would not have if you had died young... like your kids will... unless you decide to neglect your role as a father and allow them to live... I mean, if they are girls, you know they are just going to be whores, like those prostitues you had to kill (hey, who am I to argue with the voices in your head?). Boys will get raped in prison, like you used to.
In those vital days leading up to the final murder of this asshole and then splaying your own head with lead, you should probably just ride a meth and whisky high off into the sunset on that big old horizon...
Boy, 10, Critical After Tiger, Lion Attack
A 10-year-old boy was attacked and critically injured by a tiger and a lion that were among a dozen large animals kept by a businessman, authorities said.
Russell Wowsie was injured Wednesday when he and his father visited Chuckles the Smooze, who authorities say is the owner of 11 large cats and a bear. The boy was in critical condition Thursday at the Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis.
Chuckles the Smooze opened the door of a cage and a tiger pushed its way out to attack the boy. When the owner was pulling off the tiger, a lion attacked. Smooze, the owner of Best Buy Butt Plugs, did not immediately return telephone calls to his home and office Thursday. He has registered 12 animals with the state ? 11 large cats and one bear. The sheriff Wetwilly said he thought Chuckles kept the animals as "a novelty."
"I don't think anyone should have them," Wetwilly, said. "Just because you're legal doesn't mean you're safe."
To begin this possibly going to be followed tradition... I offer you a man who kept 11 big cats and a bear caged in his house because he could, legally.... in this world where up is down and creationism is on the rise, the Big cats, a lion and a tiger, will be put to sleep for acting like huge, predatorial beasts at the top of their food chain. The ASSHOLE WILL GET TO LIVE ON, AND KEEP HIS OTHER ANIMALS... until the inevitable lawsuit makes himsell everything he has. Hopefully, now that the san franciso media, which is very cool, is in on the schazmeel, they will make sure the owner does right by the rest of his animals.
A special plea to all you true psychos. You guys who are just going to kill anyways? You know who you are....
Well, if you are just going to kill anyways,m then why not choose a guy like this? I'm just saying, your parents would be a hell of a lot prouder of that then taking out that kindergarten down the street. Think, you, think.... you know I am right. So, if you can just wait to kill next until you track this guy down, do please stake him out (use those metal tent stakes -- easy to get, and hard to trace (which I don't have to tell you is a big part of your continued success)). Put them stakes in both his spread hands and . .. you guessed it... both feet. See, you didn't need those special classes? Then all you have to do is rig a rope to open the cages for the tigers and lions and bear, and let them feast of his sick, sick mind and body... and no, I don't mean they get to eat everything -- take your trophies first though. Afterwards, you reall y should blow your brains out. You know its past that time... and blowing out those silly brains of yours will make your story more interesting to the press... and get your parents and ex freinds book deals and stuff. You know, you haven't exactly been the best kid, so this will make your funeral sure to be attended by at least someone. (and don't think you can come over here for me to videotape the spectacle for a live feed... no, not in my house anymore... those fucking blood stains on the ceiling really look like shit and I am just too lazy to clean them off... oh, I hold the cat up so he can lick at them but the stain needs more... so much more than I can give right now).
REMEMBER --- Don't forget to blow your brains out afterwards!!!!!!!! And if you should have somehow made a kid... someone you raped who was too religious to abort your demon seed, you really have to take them out before you go. They are still innocent now, so killing them will assure them a place in heaven. Now, you are going to hell, but you would not have if you had died young... like your kids will... unless you decide to neglect your role as a father and allow them to live... I mean, if they are girls, you know they are just going to be whores, like those prostitues you had to kill (hey, who am I to argue with the voices in your head?). Boys will get raped in prison, like you used to.
In those vital days leading up to the final murder of this asshole and then splaying your own head with lead, you should probably just ride a meth and whisky high off into the sunset on that big old horizon...
Boy, 10, Critical After Tiger, Lion Attack
A 10-year-old boy was attacked and critically injured by a tiger and a lion that were among a dozen large animals kept by a businessman, authorities said.
Russell Wowsie was injured Wednesday when he and his father visited Chuckles the Smooze, who authorities say is the owner of 11 large cats and a bear. The boy was in critical condition Thursday at the Hennepin County Medical Center in Minneapolis.
Chuckles the Smooze opened the door of a cage and a tiger pushed its way out to attack the boy. When the owner was pulling off the tiger, a lion attacked. Smooze, the owner of Best Buy Butt Plugs, did not immediately return telephone calls to his home and office Thursday. He has registered 12 animals with the state ? 11 large cats and one bear. The sheriff Wetwilly said he thought Chuckles kept the animals as "a novelty."
"I don't think anyone should have them," Wetwilly, said. "Just because you're legal doesn't mean you're safe."
Friday, June 24, 2005
johnny pain e books....
Watch your women, hide the wombats, and grease down the squash.... Johnny Pain is going to start putting out e books. I have three entirely written. One War, my experimental novel about a CIA agent, a think tank, and a poet; another of my short stories; at least one best of this fucking blog--with an emphasis on comedy and atheism and having all the different themes and narrations in here compiled together....
I always sort of dreaded the thought of self publishing. Thought of it as something bad writers did. Even though this is how leaves of grass and many, many memorible books began, it is not exactly as encouraging as having a publisher believe in me enough to put up their bucks....
Still, better that I throw my voice into the areana, rather than sit here silently pretending everything will be alright without any effort on my part... because for one, there are not enough books from an atheistic perspective. I fear a time when everyone follows the mystic mind fuck of some religion or another. Humans have been desimated from times before the reach of memory by this or that version of nationalistic/church/personality cults, all in the name of propping up their mania no matter who has to die.
The fucking self help books clutter the shelf with plastic religiousity -- in forms with gods and without, ranging from subculteral induced manias to psycho-rabble. I figure as long as my book can keep ten thousand people from sticking their heads up their asses for good, I will have accomplished something extrodinary with my life.
I want to be literatures atheist... one of the voices which is not addled by the fleeting viruses of his time... yea, right...
Anything I can do to help destroy the boof belief that the only way to have a meaningful life is to lie to yourself all the time every doggone day for all your life...... I will do.,.. if it is easy. Very, very easy... because I suck.
I always sort of dreaded the thought of self publishing. Thought of it as something bad writers did. Even though this is how leaves of grass and many, many memorible books began, it is not exactly as encouraging as having a publisher believe in me enough to put up their bucks....
Still, better that I throw my voice into the areana, rather than sit here silently pretending everything will be alright without any effort on my part... because for one, there are not enough books from an atheistic perspective. I fear a time when everyone follows the mystic mind fuck of some religion or another. Humans have been desimated from times before the reach of memory by this or that version of nationalistic/church/personality cults, all in the name of propping up their mania no matter who has to die.
The fucking self help books clutter the shelf with plastic religiousity -- in forms with gods and without, ranging from subculteral induced manias to psycho-rabble. I figure as long as my book can keep ten thousand people from sticking their heads up their asses for good, I will have accomplished something extrodinary with my life.
I want to be literatures atheist... one of the voices which is not addled by the fleeting viruses of his time... yea, right...
Anything I can do to help destroy the boof belief that the only way to have a meaningful life is to lie to yourself all the time every doggone day for all your life...... I will do.,.. if it is easy. Very, very easy... because I suck.
MODERNISM SMASHES INTO PEICES OF THE POST MODERN
FROM A NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW:
' In (Robert) Lowell's case, poetry itself appears to have shrunk from the high ground he commandeered: his grand conception of the poet as public figure and public conscience, half classical Roman and half seventeenth-century English, has gained little traction in the present era of notably small and private poems. In a climate of shy minimalism, Lowell's finest work has tended to strike some younger readers as immodest, messianic, out of date.'
As I read the book reviews this morn, I came across this review of a book of letters by the American poet Lowell. The kind of poetry he wrote is described in the italicized sentence; the reviewer¢s reference to a cultural shift interested the hell out of me. Mainly because Lowell went mad occasionally, getting locked away in asylums 14 times in the last third of his life.
During these bouts, he had an uncanny, messianic certainty about everything he wrote. In his more lucid states, the reviewer writes, Lowell was a bit ashamed of his mad self, though he also seemed to romanticize that side of himself --like so many I have heard and read do. There is nothing cool about being crazy, but when you are crazy, you have to rationalize your existence somehow to stave off the razors hovering over our wrists.
(TO DIGRESS.... I knew a ministers son once who was struck with the kind of Mania that is described in this poet. He would see god and be certain of all this crap about being a prophet... but only when he was unmedicated. His dad was something like a Lutheran or some other sect that wasn't fooled by their virus into thinking the kid was a prophet. That could have happened to him... another poet who I read an interview by in the great, late Hyphen Magazine, where I published and read fiction and still can't remember the guys name... was raised to believe that he was a prophet. He lost his faith in one mad rush when he was a teenager, after a girl he liked told him that he was full of shit and he realized that she was right).
Religious Mania isn't called that because the process is sane...
Funny thing too... to digress even more, Someone wrote in and said that I hate Mormons. I can certainly see how that would seem to be the case, but let me assure you, I despise a virus, not the infected. Religion is the Macro, and the micro is Mormonism. My beef is with the macro... I am polite and nice and respectful to people of any religion, in person.... though in the realm of ideas, which is indeed where I at least aspire to be writing from,
I feel I have to be so harsh that the message won't bounce off peoples heads, like all those worthless words we all ignore all day. THAT'S MY STORY AND I AM STICKING TO IT... So what are you going to do????
The shift referred to in the above snip of a review is also of interest to me at least because of how wonderful the writer describes Modernism, and the movements which have followed, which seem post modern to me, though the term is never used in the review.
POST MODERN means.... There is no universal truths that apply all the time every where. Okay, this is woefully inadequate, but for my purposes... I suck, I know, oh, dog, I know..
' In (Robert) Lowell's case, poetry itself appears to have shrunk from the high ground he commandeered: his grand conception of the poet as public figure and public conscience, half classical Roman and half seventeenth-century English, has gained little traction in the present era of notably small and private poems. In a climate of shy minimalism, Lowell's finest work has tended to strike some younger readers as immodest, messianic, out of date.'
As I read the book reviews this morn, I came across this review of a book of letters by the American poet Lowell. The kind of poetry he wrote is described in the italicized sentence; the reviewer¢s reference to a cultural shift interested the hell out of me. Mainly because Lowell went mad occasionally, getting locked away in asylums 14 times in the last third of his life.
During these bouts, he had an uncanny, messianic certainty about everything he wrote. In his more lucid states, the reviewer writes, Lowell was a bit ashamed of his mad self, though he also seemed to romanticize that side of himself --like so many I have heard and read do. There is nothing cool about being crazy, but when you are crazy, you have to rationalize your existence somehow to stave off the razors hovering over our wrists.
(TO DIGRESS.... I knew a ministers son once who was struck with the kind of Mania that is described in this poet. He would see god and be certain of all this crap about being a prophet... but only when he was unmedicated. His dad was something like a Lutheran or some other sect that wasn't fooled by their virus into thinking the kid was a prophet. That could have happened to him... another poet who I read an interview by in the great, late Hyphen Magazine, where I published and read fiction and still can't remember the guys name... was raised to believe that he was a prophet. He lost his faith in one mad rush when he was a teenager, after a girl he liked told him that he was full of shit and he realized that she was right).
Religious Mania isn't called that because the process is sane...
Funny thing too... to digress even more, Someone wrote in and said that I hate Mormons. I can certainly see how that would seem to be the case, but let me assure you, I despise a virus, not the infected. Religion is the Macro, and the micro is Mormonism. My beef is with the macro... I am polite and nice and respectful to people of any religion, in person.... though in the realm of ideas, which is indeed where I at least aspire to be writing from,
I feel I have to be so harsh that the message won't bounce off peoples heads, like all those worthless words we all ignore all day. THAT'S MY STORY AND I AM STICKING TO IT... So what are you going to do????
The shift referred to in the above snip of a review is also of interest to me at least because of how wonderful the writer describes Modernism, and the movements which have followed, which seem post modern to me, though the term is never used in the review.
POST MODERN means.... There is no universal truths that apply all the time every where. Okay, this is woefully inadequate, but for my purposes... I suck, I know, oh, dog, I know..
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
AMAZON IS UNSAFE TO USE.... someone has tapped into their system and is stealing.
Twice I have been a victim of identy theft. The first time, someone got into M's bank account, destroyed her credit and made serious overdrafts. The fucks who stole her account number cashed 6 checks before someone at the bank responded, and they were less than helpful. Never pressed any charges, though they had the criminals on tape. They just didn't want the bad publicity. BANK ONE should not be trusted, believe me... we lost a few thousand dollars on bounced checks and crap...
Today, IT WAS AMAZON. If you have an account with them, you had better close out the credit card you used AND STOP DEALING WITH THEM. A very bright friend of mine was trying to give me a book, and instead I got a notice saying my email had changed. This lead me to wonder about the gift certificate... and now, my worst fears were confirmed when I called around and found out I was screwed.... and my friend's credit is now subject to getting fucked.
Theives should be burned alive. Very slowly.
Today, IT WAS AMAZON. If you have an account with them, you had better close out the credit card you used AND STOP DEALING WITH THEM. A very bright friend of mine was trying to give me a book, and instead I got a notice saying my email had changed. This lead me to wonder about the gift certificate... and now, my worst fears were confirmed when I called around and found out I was screwed.... and my friend's credit is now subject to getting fucked.
Theives should be burned alive. Very slowly.
Friday, June 17, 2005
AYN RAND FUCKS PUDDLES OF BRAIN SNOT
Blog entry/june
This is the voice in my head that is not 'thriving' in an unjust capitalistic system that rewards those who are most like the present rulers--which is by and large a group of people I find amoral and repugnant. Has anything changed from the feudal times when you think of politics in this way? Those who sucked up to the Kings were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out. And those who sucked up to the local lords were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out... right on down to a husband beating a wife, to the smallest kid kicking the cat. Just a sickening way to be a human being.
We see the Bush administration taking the side of the oil company's against the common good, as well as supporting the drilling the arctic, the lack of funding for domestic issues, a tax cut for the rich that cuts funding for the poor and disenfranchised . . . The list of ways in which the elitist Bush has acted against what is good for most people is as long as any Republicans. They thrive on doing what is right for business, as much because they have the most money to give them to fight off attacks on their spot on top of the hill, as because the connectives actually see business as the new modern savior. God is dead, might as believe in the almighty dollar. Makes you wonder which happened first, the death of god or the worship of the little green false idol.
The Republishits even feel forgiven when they work heart attack hours and treat people like shit for a few pennies to get a few more work hours out of them, or steal from their retirees and send them to the poor house.... the list is way long enough to kill people with boredom should I write them all down. Enron to . . . every town has a few.
Arthur Anderson is here -- Enron¢s accounting firm. Hundreds of good people lost thief livelihoods and retirement funds because a few republicans decided that they would do anything possible to get more money...only in a culture that is half crazy in its frenzy feeding on stuff and more stuff and new and improved stuff.
The trickle down effect is how they want to tell the story of why bush cut their taxes and our social services, public transportation, schools... This is much like sloppy fourths or something.
"Yea, you see, you poor folk, young folk, and old folk, the money will be given to rich people, then they can give you their crumbs as tips for wiping their asses with our noses.
People in this country forget to be angered by the inequities of capitalism... I know I do. This democracy is too full of ignorant and easily swayed people to work correctly. Republicans can steal elections; rich singers can fuck kids; rich sportos can kill their wives and lovers; the mayor of Chicago stands at the center of a crowd of people going to jail, and yet we are expected to believe he knows nothing about any of them? City workers were out selling heroin during their days. What would happen in a real business if something like this happened... well, let's face it, like the news footage of all the postal workers drinking forty ouncers downtown outside of the main post office, this just would not happen in private business.
The trick is to be pro business and still not a capitalist. I feel like a limited form of capitalism well ensconced in socialistic humanity is what we need. Money should be phased out of use. People should work and get what they need, work more and get what they want. Up to twenty hours a week. Give away the food. Give away the toilet paper. Give away the houses... Everything given according to need.
Ayn Rand argued that people would just lay around doing nothing, and become stupid without business. No. They would do more art, have more sex, go to more concerts . . . the rich usually believe along the lines of Ann Rand. As if the leaders of business should be in charge of the rest of us, because without our boss/saviors, we would be like children unable to live. This is the same argument that slave owners made about blacks here in back during our u
This is the voice in my head that is not 'thriving' in an unjust capitalistic system that rewards those who are most like the present rulers--which is by and large a group of people I find amoral and repugnant. Has anything changed from the feudal times when you think of politics in this way? Those who sucked up to the Kings were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out. And those who sucked up to the local lords were allowed to thrive, while those who crossed them were wiped out... right on down to a husband beating a wife, to the smallest kid kicking the cat. Just a sickening way to be a human being.
We see the Bush administration taking the side of the oil company's against the common good, as well as supporting the drilling the arctic, the lack of funding for domestic issues, a tax cut for the rich that cuts funding for the poor and disenfranchised . . . The list of ways in which the elitist Bush has acted against what is good for most people is as long as any Republicans. They thrive on doing what is right for business, as much because they have the most money to give them to fight off attacks on their spot on top of the hill, as because the connectives actually see business as the new modern savior. God is dead, might as believe in the almighty dollar. Makes you wonder which happened first, the death of god or the worship of the little green false idol.
The Republishits even feel forgiven when they work heart attack hours and treat people like shit for a few pennies to get a few more work hours out of them, or steal from their retirees and send them to the poor house.... the list is way long enough to kill people with boredom should I write them all down. Enron to . . . every town has a few.
Arthur Anderson is here -- Enron¢s accounting firm. Hundreds of good people lost thief livelihoods and retirement funds because a few republicans decided that they would do anything possible to get more money...only in a culture that is half crazy in its frenzy feeding on stuff and more stuff and new and improved stuff.
The trickle down effect is how they want to tell the story of why bush cut their taxes and our social services, public transportation, schools... This is much like sloppy fourths or something.
"Yea, you see, you poor folk, young folk, and old folk, the money will be given to rich people, then they can give you their crumbs as tips for wiping their asses with our noses.
People in this country forget to be angered by the inequities of capitalism... I know I do. This democracy is too full of ignorant and easily swayed people to work correctly. Republicans can steal elections; rich singers can fuck kids; rich sportos can kill their wives and lovers; the mayor of Chicago stands at the center of a crowd of people going to jail, and yet we are expected to believe he knows nothing about any of them? City workers were out selling heroin during their days. What would happen in a real business if something like this happened... well, let's face it, like the news footage of all the postal workers drinking forty ouncers downtown outside of the main post office, this just would not happen in private business.
The trick is to be pro business and still not a capitalist. I feel like a limited form of capitalism well ensconced in socialistic humanity is what we need. Money should be phased out of use. People should work and get what they need, work more and get what they want. Up to twenty hours a week. Give away the food. Give away the toilet paper. Give away the houses... Everything given according to need.
Ayn Rand argued that people would just lay around doing nothing, and become stupid without business. No. They would do more art, have more sex, go to more concerts . . . the rich usually believe along the lines of Ann Rand. As if the leaders of business should be in charge of the rest of us, because without our boss/saviors, we would be like children unable to live. This is the same argument that slave owners made about blacks here in back during our u
more evidence of the rot that is humanity... ensconced in jokes to taste better.
A 22-year-old ex-con was wearing his girlfriend's pink tank top when he savagely beat a gay Brooklyn man into a coma last week for making a flirtatious comment, authorities said yesterday as they announced the suspect's arrest.
Steven Pomie was walking on a Brownsville street on June 8 when he pulled up his shirt, revealing part of his back, authorities said.
Pomie caught Dwan Prince, 26, staring at him and allegedly demanded, "What the f--- are you looking at?"
Witnesses said Prince responded flirtatiously, and Pomie, a Crips gang member with Stone Cold tattooed on his back, allegedly pummeled the gay man to the ground.
"My son didn't do anything to deserve this," said Prince's mother, Valerie Prinez, 47. "No one deserves this."
The arrest, however, brought her some relief yesterday.
"I'm grateful," she said. "The power of prayer works."
Two other men, who are still at large, were involved in the beating, but NYPD Capt. Michael Osgood of the hate crimes task force said Pomie was the primary attacker.
"He does the final, vicious drop kick," Osgood said.
Pomie was charged with attempted murder and two counts of assault as a hate crime. He was tracked to Seaside Heights, N.J., and arrested as he sat in a car, police said.
His rap sheet includes three arrests for weapons possession. A police source said he also had been arrested previously for firing at a cop, but details weren't available yesterday.
JOHNNY PAIN AGAIN... Sorry about the prayer reference in there... she of course could have said the same thing about praying for air everyday.
Steven Pomie was walking on a Brownsville street on June 8 when he pulled up his shirt, revealing part of his back, authorities said.
Pomie caught Dwan Prince, 26, staring at him and allegedly demanded, "What the f--- are you looking at?"
Witnesses said Prince responded flirtatiously, and Pomie, a Crips gang member with Stone Cold tattooed on his back, allegedly pummeled the gay man to the ground.
"My son didn't do anything to deserve this," said Prince's mother, Valerie Prinez, 47. "No one deserves this."
The arrest, however, brought her some relief yesterday.
"I'm grateful," she said. "The power of prayer works."
Two other men, who are still at large, were involved in the beating, but NYPD Capt. Michael Osgood of the hate crimes task force said Pomie was the primary attacker.
"He does the final, vicious drop kick," Osgood said.
Pomie was charged with attempted murder and two counts of assault as a hate crime. He was tracked to Seaside Heights, N.J., and arrested as he sat in a car, police said.
His rap sheet includes three arrests for weapons possession. A police source said he also had been arrested previously for firing at a cop, but details weren't available yesterday.
JOHNNY PAIN AGAIN... Sorry about the prayer reference in there... she of course could have said the same thing about praying for air everyday.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
FUCKING PUZZLING EVIDENCE!!!!
BOOF i AM... i am going to write about a subject that has confused me since before my memory can reach... the conflict in the Middle East. Neither side is hero enough to take. The Zionists are taking peoples land. This is the final insult, the reason people take up guns and fight like there is no tomorrow. Wouldn't you? Only certain death could make you leave, and this indeed was the case back then, in the bad old days, when you could get away with shooting arabs. I hate the settlers who go into Arab land and say some fucking god has given them the right. I hate the people who blow these people up just as much. But not more. They are both so wrong in so many ways that the fact that they don't understand why they are wrong makes them brain washed/crazy/greedy... New Yorkers who move into settlements because that is the only way they can afford a house are like Jews who buy Volkswagen -- their memory is too short for their own good. This land they are on has been disputed since the first words started appearing. Moving there puts their kids in the line of fire of a war. What fucking good parents they are. Not to mention the land was so disputed, even in Israel, that they should have known their little trip into the reservation to steal land just might not be a forever thing...Israel is on a plot of land that once was a major route of trade, the only way to go between a sea and a desert. They were always getting conquered and sucked up into whatever culture the rulers were imposing.
Now, we flip to modern times, and see the powers that were after ww 2 telling the Jews they could have land that Arabs had been living on for hundreds of years. The Jews come in and slaughter the Arabs, drive around with trucks full of bodies telling the Arabs to leave or die. The surrounding countries grew to hate the Zionists right then and there. Before this they had gotten along, the jews and arabs who lived in Israel. Acted just as kind neighbors do. Then the war came, with the gas and the train of humans reduced to animal... slave laborers worked to death making mercede and volkswagons... In the aftermath, the Arabs found they could no longer buy land in the country that nourished their memories and their grandfather¢s memories. They were forced into a reeking camp and watched as the occupier took over their orchards and farms and started living in their houses... saw their lives wiped away and the conquerer building mansions in th edust of their lost lives. The echo of the Germans raping the Jews for all their money and houses is not lost on me.
On the other bloody hand, you have religious fanatics and psychopathically cold acting leaders ready to spill as much blood as it takes... a long as it isn't theirs. An entire culture with a suicide wish fed by dreams of virgins and rivers of wine (presumably non alcoholic since they can't drink that, but the Koran doesn't make this distinction, because there was no non alcoholic wine when it was written... not that I expect the book to make sense, and old books like that are too easy of a target for me to harp on the inconsistencies.. that just gets so boring).
The mind reels. What to do? Now we have the children of the men who slaughtered the Arabs and drove them from the land living in inherited land. They feel as strongly about not losing their lives and ways of being as the Arabs do. Now they are building a wall around the Jews there, and in the process, of course, of course, nabbing a bit more land.
Caught in the middle are the people who want nothing to do with the conflict, and can't understand why the others keep the killing going; they would give anything for a normal life like you can have in the states without too much effort. Caught in the middle are the children raised thinking other humans are enemies, that the jews/arabs are less than human, undeserving of mercy and love. Caught in the middle are the widows and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and uncles and grandparents of the dead, all crying quietly in their respective churches, praying as hard as they ever have that no one else in their family will fall victim to the troubles.
So if anyone out there is in Palestian or Israel, or even knows anyone in the middle east, please inform them that Johnny Pain has officially declared their war over, and all combatants are to disarm within twenty four hours... or I will not be as kind to you as I would like to be when I take over the world.
puzzling evidence du jour....
Now, we flip to modern times, and see the powers that were after ww 2 telling the Jews they could have land that Arabs had been living on for hundreds of years. The Jews come in and slaughter the Arabs, drive around with trucks full of bodies telling the Arabs to leave or die. The surrounding countries grew to hate the Zionists right then and there. Before this they had gotten along, the jews and arabs who lived in Israel. Acted just as kind neighbors do. Then the war came, with the gas and the train of humans reduced to animal... slave laborers worked to death making mercede and volkswagons... In the aftermath, the Arabs found they could no longer buy land in the country that nourished their memories and their grandfather¢s memories. They were forced into a reeking camp and watched as the occupier took over their orchards and farms and started living in their houses... saw their lives wiped away and the conquerer building mansions in th edust of their lost lives. The echo of the Germans raping the Jews for all their money and houses is not lost on me.
On the other bloody hand, you have religious fanatics and psychopathically cold acting leaders ready to spill as much blood as it takes... a long as it isn't theirs. An entire culture with a suicide wish fed by dreams of virgins and rivers of wine (presumably non alcoholic since they can't drink that, but the Koran doesn't make this distinction, because there was no non alcoholic wine when it was written... not that I expect the book to make sense, and old books like that are too easy of a target for me to harp on the inconsistencies.. that just gets so boring).
The mind reels. What to do? Now we have the children of the men who slaughtered the Arabs and drove them from the land living in inherited land. They feel as strongly about not losing their lives and ways of being as the Arabs do. Now they are building a wall around the Jews there, and in the process, of course, of course, nabbing a bit more land.
Caught in the middle are the people who want nothing to do with the conflict, and can't understand why the others keep the killing going; they would give anything for a normal life like you can have in the states without too much effort. Caught in the middle are the children raised thinking other humans are enemies, that the jews/arabs are less than human, undeserving of mercy and love. Caught in the middle are the widows and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and uncles and grandparents of the dead, all crying quietly in their respective churches, praying as hard as they ever have that no one else in their family will fall victim to the troubles.
So if anyone out there is in Palestian or Israel, or even knows anyone in the middle east, please inform them that Johnny Pain has officially declared their war over, and all combatants are to disarm within twenty four hours... or I will not be as kind to you as I would like to be when I take over the world.
puzzling evidence du jour....
DESPITE ALL APPEARANCES
I want to feel complete once in awhile.
enter a place where all is calm
everything is as it should be
& there is nowhere I want to go
no one I want to see
the happiest man
never has an urge to leave home
a bastardization of a buddhist phrase
stayed in my mind
as so many others were washed away
by cascading floods of words in newspapers and books and magazines and cereal boxes...
culture your garden
ignore the burning fields around you
there is no putting out some flames
the globe will burn here and there
smoke a little forgetfullness
play a computer game
try to think of something else while rome burns
save your tears for the climax
the day of surrender
when the animals and plants
are sacrificed
over something like the cost of oxygen
save your tears for the day when the blue sky
breaks momentarily through the brown and yellow smog
for the last time
save your tears for the end days
when the last voice of denial is struck dumb
and the mindless force of our doom
hails down a thoughtless wrath
enter a place where all is calm
everything is as it should be
& there is nowhere I want to go
no one I want to see
the happiest man
never has an urge to leave home
a bastardization of a buddhist phrase
stayed in my mind
as so many others were washed away
by cascading floods of words in newspapers and books and magazines and cereal boxes...
culture your garden
ignore the burning fields around you
there is no putting out some flames
the globe will burn here and there
smoke a little forgetfullness
play a computer game
try to think of something else while rome burns
save your tears for the climax
the day of surrender
when the animals and plants
are sacrificed
over something like the cost of oxygen
save your tears for the day when the blue sky
breaks momentarily through the brown and yellow smog
for the last time
save your tears for the end days
when the last voice of denial is struck dumb
and the mindless force of our doom
hails down a thoughtless wrath
IS IT SO INSANE TO SHAVE HAMSTERS?
I think my position on Hamster Hair should be clear by now. This fashion statement slows them down and I will not have that!! Not in my army. The problem is that afterwards they look kind of scrawny and pathetic. A bitchin' tan really helps. They say that if you look better, you feel better, so it probably applies to Hamsters, too. So, of course, I have added tanning to their training schedules.
Today I lectured the new troops for two hours on how to do maximum damage with a toothpick (while I was glueing the toothpicks to the hamsters' paws, there was a slight mishap, and I had a hamster glued to my arm for about an hour... it stayed on even when I twirled my arm around in a circle real fast.. I finally just ripped it off... man, how that thing squealed in pain--almost drowned out mine) and then another hour on The Three Stooges School Of Martial Arts, mostly on Curly's break through moves (as you know, the CIA invented the whole idea that the Stooges should take their fighting method and make a film to train recruits in far off places; as many millions of laughs have shown, the Stooges of course did them one better, and hid their deadly games under the veil of slapstick comedy). Curly's moves are mean, and some say below the belt, but dammit, these hamsters have a size deficiency to make up for!!
After the lectures, I ran them through some drills... or at least tried to. I fear that once more I have a band of leaders so sure of their own minds that they do not often follow directions. Hamsters are known as born war strategists, of course, and I don't want to beat that out of them... but they did have some strange attack ideas when I put them on the world map and told them to show me how they would take over the world.
M. seems to think that they are merely just, quote, "Running this way and that, all helter skelter."
What does she know of the hells of war? I have read dozens of books on Vietnam and am haunted by flashbacks to page numbers that I am pretty sure are from those books...
Napoleon The Seventh (Ruby ate all but the original, I must sadly report) seems to be just the little Mussolini I need to do my bidding without thinking too much. I took him and Alexander the Great The Seventh (yes, Ruby), and General Sniggly Poo The Sixth (you get the picture), down to the beach today. I stayed under a sun umbrella as they tanned. I was surprised by how many people were on the beach sucking cancer in through their skins. I thought this human geography would be smarter than that, optimist that I am.
Just a few minutes after we were all set up, as I rubbed coconut lotion on Napoleon, the lifeguard came walking up. A young college looking boy. "What the hell are those?" He asked me.
"Shaved hamsters."
"Whoa. Did they have disease, or something"
"No, I assure you, they are healthy. In fact, they are at the top of their game."
"Why did you shave them then?"
"Duh... aerodynamics."
"Well, anyways, no animals on the beach."
It doesn't take a keen mind like mine very long to spot an enemy agent, and when he said this, totally interrupting my training schedule, I knew he was acting under orders to sabotage my army at all costs.
"Well, I will hate to break that news to my other three hundred hamsters. They are going to be pissed. I can't always control them."
"Look, buddy..."
"That's General Buddy, to you."
"Okay... I have a phone here to call the cops, okay?"
"Cops, you say. . . Don¢t you mean . . . wombats?"
"What?"
"You heard me! Dammit, man, when are you going to wise up to the marsupial threat!!" I gather up my umbrella and tan oil, put the troops in a shoe box and begin trudging across the sand, knowing that the enemy has upped the stakes in the game... and will stop at nothing to break up my training camp. When I reach the steps, I turn around and see the lifeguard watching me with a puzzled look on his face. Taking in every damn bit of information he can about me. I take one last stab at saving his soul. "They couldn't have paid you enough to make up for living in their vision of a world, which they will have if they win."
The Mighty Beat Them To Piss And Twitches Hamster Army now is entering a time of trials. I expected this. I will need to watch for spies everywhere. Even people I know could be deep plants, people who have been working their way into my life for years... how did they know I would build a Hamster Army?
Probably that damn Miss Cleo the psychic. According to the commercials and that one sleazy looking woman singer, she is always right. I knew she was making a mistake by advertising her powers. And sure enough, where is she now? Locked up in a CIA lab. Sure as shit, the wombats have gained access to her through their sympathizers in the Company.
Johnny Pain Out...
Today I lectured the new troops for two hours on how to do maximum damage with a toothpick (while I was glueing the toothpicks to the hamsters' paws, there was a slight mishap, and I had a hamster glued to my arm for about an hour... it stayed on even when I twirled my arm around in a circle real fast.. I finally just ripped it off... man, how that thing squealed in pain--almost drowned out mine) and then another hour on The Three Stooges School Of Martial Arts, mostly on Curly's break through moves (as you know, the CIA invented the whole idea that the Stooges should take their fighting method and make a film to train recruits in far off places; as many millions of laughs have shown, the Stooges of course did them one better, and hid their deadly games under the veil of slapstick comedy). Curly's moves are mean, and some say below the belt, but dammit, these hamsters have a size deficiency to make up for!!
After the lectures, I ran them through some drills... or at least tried to. I fear that once more I have a band of leaders so sure of their own minds that they do not often follow directions. Hamsters are known as born war strategists, of course, and I don't want to beat that out of them... but they did have some strange attack ideas when I put them on the world map and told them to show me how they would take over the world.
M. seems to think that they are merely just, quote, "Running this way and that, all helter skelter."
What does she know of the hells of war? I have read dozens of books on Vietnam and am haunted by flashbacks to page numbers that I am pretty sure are from those books...
Napoleon The Seventh (Ruby ate all but the original, I must sadly report) seems to be just the little Mussolini I need to do my bidding without thinking too much. I took him and Alexander the Great The Seventh (yes, Ruby), and General Sniggly Poo The Sixth (you get the picture), down to the beach today. I stayed under a sun umbrella as they tanned. I was surprised by how many people were on the beach sucking cancer in through their skins. I thought this human geography would be smarter than that, optimist that I am.
Just a few minutes after we were all set up, as I rubbed coconut lotion on Napoleon, the lifeguard came walking up. A young college looking boy. "What the hell are those?" He asked me.
"Shaved hamsters."
"Whoa. Did they have disease, or something"
"No, I assure you, they are healthy. In fact, they are at the top of their game."
"Why did you shave them then?"
"Duh... aerodynamics."
"Well, anyways, no animals on the beach."
It doesn't take a keen mind like mine very long to spot an enemy agent, and when he said this, totally interrupting my training schedule, I knew he was acting under orders to sabotage my army at all costs.
"Well, I will hate to break that news to my other three hundred hamsters. They are going to be pissed. I can't always control them."
"Look, buddy..."
"That's General Buddy, to you."
"Okay... I have a phone here to call the cops, okay?"
"Cops, you say. . . Don¢t you mean . . . wombats?"
"What?"
"You heard me! Dammit, man, when are you going to wise up to the marsupial threat!!" I gather up my umbrella and tan oil, put the troops in a shoe box and begin trudging across the sand, knowing that the enemy has upped the stakes in the game... and will stop at nothing to break up my training camp. When I reach the steps, I turn around and see the lifeguard watching me with a puzzled look on his face. Taking in every damn bit of information he can about me. I take one last stab at saving his soul. "They couldn't have paid you enough to make up for living in their vision of a world, which they will have if they win."
The Mighty Beat Them To Piss And Twitches Hamster Army now is entering a time of trials. I expected this. I will need to watch for spies everywhere. Even people I know could be deep plants, people who have been working their way into my life for years... how did they know I would build a Hamster Army?
Probably that damn Miss Cleo the psychic. According to the commercials and that one sleazy looking woman singer, she is always right. I knew she was making a mistake by advertising her powers. And sure enough, where is she now? Locked up in a CIA lab. Sure as shit, the wombats have gained access to her through their sympathizers in the Company.
Johnny Pain Out...
(not so totally) TRUE TAXI TALES
I pick up a fare who tells me a woman in her neighborhood, a crack head who lives with her grandma, has been forcing her to cash checks at a currency exchanges. The woman twists her arm near to breaking, and threatens the old lady with a knife if she says anything at the currency exchange. She has went to the cops, who basically blew her off, saying they couldn't do anything unless they caught the woman in the act....
I give the her my number and find out her name is... we'll say, Ann. We agree to get together again at the first of the month, when she receives the social security check that the junkie has stolen twice so far.
We plot out what to do, who will draw blood, watch for the cops, steal the cars, get the weapons.. come the first of the month, we are ready, out in two different cars. The junkie has been under survaillance for the last 48 hours. She's a two hundred and fifty pound slow walking junkie who watches tv all day, breaking up the monety with lotto tickets and crack. Three kids, all taken away by the state. I could write more that we gathered on her, give you her rap sheet; trust me, nothing came up in our research to say she was much of a human being at all.
Come the first of the month, I watch her though my binoculars from a roof half a block off. She has set a dining room chair up by the window so she can watch for the mail. She keeps tapping her fingers and seems jumpy, nervous; all the signs of a major rock urge.
Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of the mailman coming and leaves her perch, comes out the front door and sets on her steps... just waiting for the mailman to go into an apartment building so she can snag the check.
When she's sure no one can see her darkness, he crosses her lawn and goes to the Ann's mailbox, pulls out the mail, shuffles through and finds the check. With the blue envelope in hand, she has the stupid ass, don't give a shit, audicity to go up to her victims door and knock hard and loud.
Camera catches everything. We have her on a federal offense. The plan is to anonymously send the tape to a reporter we know, in the hope that at least the story of this shooting can make sense to people: an execution. The others in our cell made this decision. I voted against saying a thing to anyone. I am pleased when future events make this tactic unneeded.
Ann calls me on her cell phone. The knocking was driving her nuts. She is breathing fast, her small body all nerves. I tell her to open the door, so we can get the junkie on tape telling Ann she is going to go cash her check and give her the money.
Ann opened her door a crack and the junkie pushed it open. "Let's go, we're going to the currency." She reaches out to grab Ann's arm and I think of how fragile her bones seemed on her tiny frame and slowly pull down the trigger. I have my sights on a spot of red cotton between her monstrous breasts, just right of center, straight into the heart and blowing out her back through a four inch hole between her shoulder blades. In the close up of the cross hairs, I see the first red spurts of blood shoot out at impact. I lower the gun and watch her face. She looks surprised a moment, and then mad, and finally, as she crumples down on the steps, terrified. A shudder runs through her body. The front of her pants grows damp as her bladder goes loose....
I watch the news that night and hear the junkie was in a gang. The cops are calling the murder a drive by.
I laugh at that, knowing the cops have a philoshophy on gang bangers killing one another; A cop told it to me once, said, "If we catch a gang fighting, we let them kill as many of each other off as possible before we move in. If they shoot each other, we high five, man."
I remember the cops words and reach down to pet Ruby dog, who is laying on her back, shooting me what I call a tummy ray. She stares at me from this position until I break off whatever I am doing and rub her tummy. I laugh again. The cool breeze of the airconditioner feels joyous after the heat of the streets. I load the bong and take in a bubbling head rusher, sit a moment feeling the waves of the rush, blow out a stream of white cloud that swirls up into the air over the coffee table and looks to me like a rising cobra, look at a picture of my Dad that I keep by my desk, shrug and tell him, "Pops, things just got weird."
I give the her my number and find out her name is... we'll say, Ann. We agree to get together again at the first of the month, when she receives the social security check that the junkie has stolen twice so far.
We plot out what to do, who will draw blood, watch for the cops, steal the cars, get the weapons.. come the first of the month, we are ready, out in two different cars. The junkie has been under survaillance for the last 48 hours. She's a two hundred and fifty pound slow walking junkie who watches tv all day, breaking up the monety with lotto tickets and crack. Three kids, all taken away by the state. I could write more that we gathered on her, give you her rap sheet; trust me, nothing came up in our research to say she was much of a human being at all.
Come the first of the month, I watch her though my binoculars from a roof half a block off. She has set a dining room chair up by the window so she can watch for the mail. She keeps tapping her fingers and seems jumpy, nervous; all the signs of a major rock urge.
Sure enough, she catches a glimpse of the mailman coming and leaves her perch, comes out the front door and sets on her steps... just waiting for the mailman to go into an apartment building so she can snag the check.
When she's sure no one can see her darkness, he crosses her lawn and goes to the Ann's mailbox, pulls out the mail, shuffles through and finds the check. With the blue envelope in hand, she has the stupid ass, don't give a shit, audicity to go up to her victims door and knock hard and loud.
Camera catches everything. We have her on a federal offense. The plan is to anonymously send the tape to a reporter we know, in the hope that at least the story of this shooting can make sense to people: an execution. The others in our cell made this decision. I voted against saying a thing to anyone. I am pleased when future events make this tactic unneeded.
Ann calls me on her cell phone. The knocking was driving her nuts. She is breathing fast, her small body all nerves. I tell her to open the door, so we can get the junkie on tape telling Ann she is going to go cash her check and give her the money.
Ann opened her door a crack and the junkie pushed it open. "Let's go, we're going to the currency." She reaches out to grab Ann's arm and I think of how fragile her bones seemed on her tiny frame and slowly pull down the trigger. I have my sights on a spot of red cotton between her monstrous breasts, just right of center, straight into the heart and blowing out her back through a four inch hole between her shoulder blades. In the close up of the cross hairs, I see the first red spurts of blood shoot out at impact. I lower the gun and watch her face. She looks surprised a moment, and then mad, and finally, as she crumples down on the steps, terrified. A shudder runs through her body. The front of her pants grows damp as her bladder goes loose....
I watch the news that night and hear the junkie was in a gang. The cops are calling the murder a drive by.
I laugh at that, knowing the cops have a philoshophy on gang bangers killing one another; A cop told it to me once, said, "If we catch a gang fighting, we let them kill as many of each other off as possible before we move in. If they shoot each other, we high five, man."
I remember the cops words and reach down to pet Ruby dog, who is laying on her back, shooting me what I call a tummy ray. She stares at me from this position until I break off whatever I am doing and rub her tummy. I laugh again. The cool breeze of the airconditioner feels joyous after the heat of the streets. I load the bong and take in a bubbling head rusher, sit a moment feeling the waves of the rush, blow out a stream of white cloud that swirls up into the air over the coffee table and looks to me like a rising cobra, look at a picture of my Dad that I keep by my desk, shrug and tell him, "Pops, things just got weird."
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
TOO, TOO TRUE TAXI TALES...
Chicago, Illinois, 3:45 AM on a Cold winter's Saturday Night.
Late, late in the night, in a poor, mostly hispanic neighborhood with gangs a' shooting and a' selling, out picking up the drunks, fools and junkies roaming a Saturday night well after the bars have closed. I'm drinking my last cup of coffee, got it in snuggled in my crotch -- and yea, more than once, I have hit a bump and burned my pecker. All I want is a few more fares and I am on the red train ride back to a life where I never pick up strangers in the dead of night.
This guy is in the cab before I realize that he¢s danger. Most of the time, you don¢t know at first. There is no particular type of person that you can let your guard down around. This one I recognize as a fare jumper from like a month before. I reach down under the seat, pull out the tire out and hold it loosely over my lap, ready to smack him upside the head if he pushes me too far. THIS TIME the threat is a gay, black guy. The night he ripped me off he had just acted like he didn¢t have to pay!! I threatened to kick his ass but he seemed to know I wouldn¢t fight him over a few dollars.
I do not get taken by the same face twice.
"You got money tonight?" I ask him,
His response is almost angry, "Yea, yea. Just get going man."
We are sitting in front of his house, in a bad neighborhood where little kids were always getting caught in the cross fire and young black guys were out selling crack and h and tiny dimes of weed and whatever the hell else they can make some bling off. This is no place for me to make a scene. I start fighting him and he could maybe call in reinforcements from his house.
"I¢m going to have to see the money up front."
"Sure, man, just take off and get going."
"Well?"
"Go one, man, go one.. I'll get out my money... just get going."
I pull away from the dark patch in front of his house, drive out to a major intersection, Division and Western, pull over and tell him, I have to see some money or I am going to throw your ass out."
About then a cop comes driving slowly by. They shine a bright as day, white ray of light into the back seat, right into this guys face. The one on the passenger side tells me
" Hey, cabbie, we have had some problems with him."
The cops know him from past encounters--just what I fucking want to hear about my fare. I tell them
"Thanks for stopping, officers. I¢m checking to see if he has money."
The cop laughs, tells me, "You had better."
I turn back to my now alerted and worried passenger. He is tall and thin, probably good looking enough to get the little boys he meets excited. He is holding one hand up trying to keep the light out of his eyes. I tell him, in my most bad ass, serious voice.
"Show me the money or I am going to have you arrested."
"I think I going to walk," he tells me in a pissed off voice.
"Damn right, you¢re going to walk, asshole. You are lucky these cops are here, or I would kick your ass so hard your'd be tasting terds. Up and down this street, boy, if I catch you flagging me again. I will not say a word, just start wailing on you with this tire iron that I happen to have in my hand."
Turning back to the cops, I use a most cynical voice to say, " He decided to walk."
The cop in the passenger window turns back to his partner and says, "Hear that? He decided to fucking walk."
I hear the back door open and close. Relief passes breifly through my mind whenand I am free of The asshole-cancer-on-society who thinks its cool to jump in taxi¢s without money because there is little a cab driver can do. If we wait for the cops and take all the hours off to file a report, you end up making NO MONEY on a peice of machinery that costs 80 dollars a day. We just bark real loud at the fare jumpers, and then turn up the music, take a break -- whatever... try find some persona inside of that can smile and be nice to the next customer who crawls in out of the dark.
__________________________________________________
I drove cab for fifteen years. In toledo and chicago. I am going to start putting little vignettes of the nights and days picking up and delivering human cargo into this blog... So much happened that I am amazed I am alive--despite the best efforts of my customers and other cars.
Late, late in the night, in a poor, mostly hispanic neighborhood with gangs a' shooting and a' selling, out picking up the drunks, fools and junkies roaming a Saturday night well after the bars have closed. I'm drinking my last cup of coffee, got it in snuggled in my crotch -- and yea, more than once, I have hit a bump and burned my pecker. All I want is a few more fares and I am on the red train ride back to a life where I never pick up strangers in the dead of night.
This guy is in the cab before I realize that he¢s danger. Most of the time, you don¢t know at first. There is no particular type of person that you can let your guard down around. This one I recognize as a fare jumper from like a month before. I reach down under the seat, pull out the tire out and hold it loosely over my lap, ready to smack him upside the head if he pushes me too far. THIS TIME the threat is a gay, black guy. The night he ripped me off he had just acted like he didn¢t have to pay!! I threatened to kick his ass but he seemed to know I wouldn¢t fight him over a few dollars.
I do not get taken by the same face twice.
"You got money tonight?" I ask him,
His response is almost angry, "Yea, yea. Just get going man."
We are sitting in front of his house, in a bad neighborhood where little kids were always getting caught in the cross fire and young black guys were out selling crack and h and tiny dimes of weed and whatever the hell else they can make some bling off. This is no place for me to make a scene. I start fighting him and he could maybe call in reinforcements from his house.
"I¢m going to have to see the money up front."
"Sure, man, just take off and get going."
"Well?"
"Go one, man, go one.. I'll get out my money... just get going."
I pull away from the dark patch in front of his house, drive out to a major intersection, Division and Western, pull over and tell him, I have to see some money or I am going to throw your ass out."
About then a cop comes driving slowly by. They shine a bright as day, white ray of light into the back seat, right into this guys face. The one on the passenger side tells me
" Hey, cabbie, we have had some problems with him."
The cops know him from past encounters--just what I fucking want to hear about my fare. I tell them
"Thanks for stopping, officers. I¢m checking to see if he has money."
The cop laughs, tells me, "You had better."
I turn back to my now alerted and worried passenger. He is tall and thin, probably good looking enough to get the little boys he meets excited. He is holding one hand up trying to keep the light out of his eyes. I tell him, in my most bad ass, serious voice.
"Show me the money or I am going to have you arrested."
"I think I going to walk," he tells me in a pissed off voice.
"Damn right, you¢re going to walk, asshole. You are lucky these cops are here, or I would kick your ass so hard your'd be tasting terds. Up and down this street, boy, if I catch you flagging me again. I will not say a word, just start wailing on you with this tire iron that I happen to have in my hand."
Turning back to the cops, I use a most cynical voice to say, " He decided to walk."
The cop in the passenger window turns back to his partner and says, "Hear that? He decided to fucking walk."
I hear the back door open and close. Relief passes breifly through my mind whenand I am free of The asshole-cancer-on-society who thinks its cool to jump in taxi¢s without money because there is little a cab driver can do. If we wait for the cops and take all the hours off to file a report, you end up making NO MONEY on a peice of machinery that costs 80 dollars a day. We just bark real loud at the fare jumpers, and then turn up the music, take a break -- whatever... try find some persona inside of that can smile and be nice to the next customer who crawls in out of the dark.
__________________________________________________
I drove cab for fifteen years. In toledo and chicago. I am going to start putting little vignettes of the nights and days picking up and delivering human cargo into this blog... So much happened that I am amazed I am alive--despite the best efforts of my customers and other cars.
Monday, June 13, 2005
THE HAMSTER ARMY IS READY TO KICK SOME SERIOUS ASS... sort of.
No matter what the naysayer, M., thinks.
I know that by having all these hamsters in my head, doing all the dark deeds that need to reluctantly be done to insure my future as a God like the Egyptian Pharaohs, I AM PREPARING the fiercest and most cuddly killing force the Chicago metropolitan area has ever seen.
Having all these hamsters in my head makes it possible for me to quickly train new recruits specifically for the jobs that my Mind Hamsters are doing. I need 64 to kill a human. That's it. Which isn't that many, really. That M. though, she acts like a mere 64 hamsters would, quote, ". . . take over the whole goddamn apartment."
She then added, much to my chagrin, "You can only have three, and if they have babies you have to take them back. We talked about this."
Whenever she says 'we talked about this,' she means she has bitched at me on this point before. She only wants three around because Ruby Ann, who so far has gotten to every army, gets sick if she eats more than three.
Despite my best efforts at security, Ruby Dog the Husky Sis, uses her wiley wolf ways to find just the right moment when I can't get to her until after she has gulped down my semi-armed forces.
Not these latest ones, though. I got them last night. About nine pm. Now it is morning and I am listening to Piano Classics on my computer. And I am not going to sleep until they are trained to defend themselves. I have to, believe me... Ruby keeps looking toward the backroom and licking her lips. Earlier I caught her by their door salivating. She knows that if I am awake, will stop her from getting at the army, so she waits patiently for me to go to sleep. I have seen her do this many, many times in the past. She shows no interest in what she wants while we are awake, but man let her think we are not going to catch her and she will be nabbing any candy on the table, bread left out, and a tasty bit in a can from the garbage can.
M. still holds firm on her no torture policy. She finally did let me get some hamsters again. It took her awhile to cool down after my experiments with making hamsters fly on paper airplanes. We live on the third floor and have a balcony overlooking a court yard with a statue of two children holding each other, and I mistakenly tried to teach the hamsters to do some kamikaze work... then when M. came home I tried to pretend they weren't my hamsters when anyone would have known they were, so the lie made things worse...
Cleaning up all the hamsters smashed on the concrete courtyard proved for sure that if Ruby eats too many hamsters she will get sick. Like M. warned me, and I poo-pooed off. Her barf looked like little fetuses... Yes, I had to clean up the smashed hamsters in the courtyard, even the one that hit the white statues of the kids and made the boy look like he was bleeding from the top of his head.
Ruby helped tremendously by gulping them down. The cat Buk did his part by licking off the blood from the concrete and the statue. Two people came out of the apartments and into the courtyard and just for the hell of it I started mumbling, "Satan, live with this blood. Help me to do this dark deed...."
They abruptly quickened their steps. I figure they are probably the ones who called the cops, who happened to show up, as they do, hours after I was done. When the Chicago's Sometimes Finest rang my bell, I was ready, because I saw them interviewing all of our neighbors across the way. I pulled my hear back, put on a Hawaiian shirt and black jeans, new converse shoes. At the door I called them sir. Said yes sir, or no sir to all his questions... then invited them in for a drink. They say they don't have time. I say let me at least get y you a coke to drink?"
I could tell they were hot, in their bullet proof jackets, as they lumbered about our artment building trying to find the Satanist who was sacrificing cats in the statues.
Once I had the cops under my spell of Scott the normal, good looking guy, I told them that I knew the woman who made the quote. "She has a head condition," I told them.? I took her out once and she told me she hears voices, sees things. I mean, come on, who is going to do such a thing. I have a cat myself. And a dog. I'm sorry you gentlemen had to waste so much of your valuable time."
They believed me. Just left my flat and walked back to their car. The woman was out there and they told her, "You can file a complaint at city hall, but there's no evidence."
The second cop, who until then was just watching his partner talk to the old lady, suddenly started laughing. His partner then joined in, and they kept laughing as they got in their squad car. I couldn't hear them, but I'll bet they said.
COP ONE
We should charge her with filing an erroneous report.
Cop two
Shit, you going to the paperwork?
One:
Oh, yea... you're right.
Two
What a fucking order. Satanists in that fucking courtyard. Who the hell took the call that sent us over her.
COP TWO
Yea, you know what I¢m thinking?
Cop One
You always ask me that, every damn day when the dunkin donuts put out the fresh donuts.
COP TWO
I thought you thought it was funny?
Cop One
Just once, okay Damn, you got me thinking about them donuts. They¢re gonna come out in five minutes, and they will be incredible for about an hour, then? well, you just can¢t eat those old donuts when you know? Shit, we¢re gonna have to put on the siren and blow all the lights and shit to get there on time. Well, go ahead and turn on the sirens.
COP ONE
Alright, I knew you¢d come around, you big handsome hunk of a man.
COP TWO
QUIT HITTING ON ME!!
Back to the Satanic Loving Hamster Army...
I am hoping to use indigenous people in their present positions, and unlike Bush in Iraq, I won't have to worry about people revolting and all. These cops, it warms my heart to write, will be paid more and have more of his ilk backing him up when the streets get nasty when the world is in my hands. Instead of torturing them like what was done, they should have been won over with kindness, at least when ever possible. An over all policy of torturing prisoners is a very scary thought. Travel abroad will grow riskier and riskier as the other countries insulted target civilians, and especially clubs in Europe that are frequented by Americans.
I know that by having all these hamsters in my head, doing all the dark deeds that need to reluctantly be done to insure my future as a God like the Egyptian Pharaohs, I AM PREPARING the fiercest and most cuddly killing force the Chicago metropolitan area has ever seen.
Having all these hamsters in my head makes it possible for me to quickly train new recruits specifically for the jobs that my Mind Hamsters are doing. I need 64 to kill a human. That's it. Which isn't that many, really. That M. though, she acts like a mere 64 hamsters would, quote, ". . . take over the whole goddamn apartment."
She then added, much to my chagrin, "You can only have three, and if they have babies you have to take them back. We talked about this."
Whenever she says 'we talked about this,' she means she has bitched at me on this point before. She only wants three around because Ruby Ann, who so far has gotten to every army, gets sick if she eats more than three.
Despite my best efforts at security, Ruby Dog the Husky Sis, uses her wiley wolf ways to find just the right moment when I can't get to her until after she has gulped down my semi-armed forces.
Not these latest ones, though. I got them last night. About nine pm. Now it is morning and I am listening to Piano Classics on my computer. And I am not going to sleep until they are trained to defend themselves. I have to, believe me... Ruby keeps looking toward the backroom and licking her lips. Earlier I caught her by their door salivating. She knows that if I am awake, will stop her from getting at the army, so she waits patiently for me to go to sleep. I have seen her do this many, many times in the past. She shows no interest in what she wants while we are awake, but man let her think we are not going to catch her and she will be nabbing any candy on the table, bread left out, and a tasty bit in a can from the garbage can.
M. still holds firm on her no torture policy. She finally did let me get some hamsters again. It took her awhile to cool down after my experiments with making hamsters fly on paper airplanes. We live on the third floor and have a balcony overlooking a court yard with a statue of two children holding each other, and I mistakenly tried to teach the hamsters to do some kamikaze work... then when M. came home I tried to pretend they weren't my hamsters when anyone would have known they were, so the lie made things worse...
Cleaning up all the hamsters smashed on the concrete courtyard proved for sure that if Ruby eats too many hamsters she will get sick. Like M. warned me, and I poo-pooed off. Her barf looked like little fetuses... Yes, I had to clean up the smashed hamsters in the courtyard, even the one that hit the white statues of the kids and made the boy look like he was bleeding from the top of his head.
Ruby helped tremendously by gulping them down. The cat Buk did his part by licking off the blood from the concrete and the statue. Two people came out of the apartments and into the courtyard and just for the hell of it I started mumbling, "Satan, live with this blood. Help me to do this dark deed...."
They abruptly quickened their steps. I figure they are probably the ones who called the cops, who happened to show up, as they do, hours after I was done. When the Chicago's Sometimes Finest rang my bell, I was ready, because I saw them interviewing all of our neighbors across the way. I pulled my hear back, put on a Hawaiian shirt and black jeans, new converse shoes. At the door I called them sir. Said yes sir, or no sir to all his questions... then invited them in for a drink. They say they don't have time. I say let me at least get y you a coke to drink?"
I could tell they were hot, in their bullet proof jackets, as they lumbered about our artment building trying to find the Satanist who was sacrificing cats in the statues.
Once I had the cops under my spell of Scott the normal, good looking guy, I told them that I knew the woman who made the quote. "She has a head condition," I told them.? I took her out once and she told me she hears voices, sees things. I mean, come on, who is going to do such a thing. I have a cat myself. And a dog. I'm sorry you gentlemen had to waste so much of your valuable time."
They believed me. Just left my flat and walked back to their car. The woman was out there and they told her, "You can file a complaint at city hall, but there's no evidence."
The second cop, who until then was just watching his partner talk to the old lady, suddenly started laughing. His partner then joined in, and they kept laughing as they got in their squad car. I couldn't hear them, but I'll bet they said.
COP ONE
We should charge her with filing an erroneous report.
Cop two
Shit, you going to the paperwork?
One:
Oh, yea... you're right.
Two
What a fucking order. Satanists in that fucking courtyard. Who the hell took the call that sent us over her.
COP TWO
Yea, you know what I¢m thinking?
Cop One
You always ask me that, every damn day when the dunkin donuts put out the fresh donuts.
COP TWO
I thought you thought it was funny?
Cop One
Just once, okay Damn, you got me thinking about them donuts. They¢re gonna come out in five minutes, and they will be incredible for about an hour, then? well, you just can¢t eat those old donuts when you know? Shit, we¢re gonna have to put on the siren and blow all the lights and shit to get there on time. Well, go ahead and turn on the sirens.
COP ONE
Alright, I knew you¢d come around, you big handsome hunk of a man.
COP TWO
QUIT HITTING ON ME!!
Back to the Satanic Loving Hamster Army...
I am hoping to use indigenous people in their present positions, and unlike Bush in Iraq, I won't have to worry about people revolting and all. These cops, it warms my heart to write, will be paid more and have more of his ilk backing him up when the streets get nasty when the world is in my hands. Instead of torturing them like what was done, they should have been won over with kindness, at least when ever possible. An over all policy of torturing prisoners is a very scary thought. Travel abroad will grow riskier and riskier as the other countries insulted target civilians, and especially clubs in Europe that are frequented by Americans.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
FATHER CHASED THE NEIGHBORS WITH A CHAIN SAW
Father was a month out of prison
they caged him for trying to kill the neighbors
with a chain saw
FATHER had to be beaten down with a shovel to stop his madness
Texas State Prison let FATHER out after 18 months
Sent him prowling back to the woman he'd beaten down to his size
a couple months later
Father stabs his daughter and her best friend to death
Father says one of the third graders pulled a knife on him
The cops say he's just a wily con
trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense
The prosecutor
says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don't dare quicken
As they look you in eye and lie
their thoughts are ever turned inward
Staring into porno/vengence/hero realms
Father sees only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
Father doesnt mind murder
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
gets drunk and says he felt just like superman
for awhile....
they caged him for trying to kill the neighbors
with a chain saw
FATHER had to be beaten down with a shovel to stop his madness
Texas State Prison let FATHER out after 18 months
Sent him prowling back to the woman he'd beaten down to his size
a couple months later
Father stabs his daughter and her best friend to death
Father says one of the third graders pulled a knife on him
The cops say he's just a wily con
trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense
The prosecutor
says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don't dare quicken
As they look you in eye and lie
their thoughts are ever turned inward
Staring into porno/vengence/hero realms
Father sees only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
Father doesnt mind murder
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
gets drunk and says he felt just like superman
for awhile....
Friday, June 10, 2005
I wouldn't bother reading this if I were you
I guess since I bitch about my health occasionally in here, whining weakling I can be... oh damned me, running toward nothing and never sure why I am in this rush at all? Well, so here is I guess news. I would skip this whole entry if you don't know me, let me tell you now though, because this could get boring -- an old fart describing his health problems just may not be your cup of tea -- it sure ain't mine. I prefer to suffer in silence but my fingers move and move over the keys, whether my thoughts are providing them with pleasing enough impetus of not...
Okay, so the surgery I had been dreading is not needed. After running a zillion tests, they basically told me that I will be in pain forever, but the surgery is unneeded, because the fusions are solid. There. That wasn't too gross for all concerned, I suppose.
Okay, so the surgery I had been dreading is not needed. After running a zillion tests, they basically told me that I will be in pain forever, but the surgery is unneeded, because the fusions are solid. There. That wasn't too gross for all concerned, I suppose.
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