a new study indicates that containing your feelings after an argument can lead to an early death. to sum up: the nicer and more accommodating you are, the more you are tolerated in the short run, but the more you damage yourself in the long run. I will hazard that a number of factors have led to an increase in niceness, and thereby premature death, in our society, but the most damaging of those factors is the Political Correctness (PC) movement that started in the late nineteen eighties.
I cannot provide hard data to directly back this up, but it would be reasonable to assume that PC has led to increases in lying and dying in this country, as people resort to PC standards rather than expose their true feelings. I am convinced it has also led to more men being pussy-whipped and to men dying younger (for, if my hazy memory of the summary of the study is correct, men are more likely to swallow their true feelings during a fight, especially in the corporate world). recently, following the maxims of Brutal Honesty and other philosophies that trounce PC and champion Truth, I have experimented with freely telling the people around me what I really think, not what I think they think I think they think I should be thinking.
the result? after an initial shock, people tended to more directly address my concerns, they spoke to me as an actual, unique person, and they seemed to have more respect for what I had to say, even if, like most things that escape my lips, what I was saying was churlish balderdash.
niceness is a sickness. too much niceness, like too much sugar, can kill you. I hereby motion to designate one day out of the year, preferably in winter when everyone is cranky anyway, as Angry Day, Trouble Time, or Day of the Flagrant Asshole. the name has to be catchy and, especially, marketable, so that marketers can market the crap out of not being nice and convince a million people to pin a frowny-face on their lapels. just look at AIDS awareness day, or autism awareness day. the people making the stop-AIDS t-shirts and teddy bears with tiny stop-autism t-shirts on them are making big, big money. there are nationalized events, 5k's, telethons and sit-ins (well, no sit-ins, but you get the point). sickness is business, baby.
it is important that we study the negative effects of niceness, and encourage Americans to be less nice going forward. join me, John Paul Roggenkamp, in my quest to spread awareness of the dangers of Mandated Societal Niceness. together, we can repeal the negative effects of Political Correctness. together, we can transform America back into the honest, dreadful, hard-scrabble, speak-your-mind-freely place it once was.
do your part; make the effort to be not-nice to someone today. once you get started, it's hard to stop. it wasn't so long ago that people dueled to the death over words. hey, at the least we would have fewer idiots to have to listen to.
virtuously,
JP
p.s. I'm not a doctor, but you're just going to have to trust me.
americanifesto.com | updated Tuesday, Thursday, Sunday
31 December 2009
26 December 2009
late december
I trudge through the melting snow. birds scold and scatter, flying low to the ground. cardinals, chickadees, and sparrows. they do not trust me, although I fill the container that keeps them alive. they are right not to trust me, for I am man, and man kills. the dead willows are pretty where they lie, felled, by the stream. the blisters on my palms from working the dull ax have become scars.
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
the tractor won't start. i tried to buy a battery charger but the walmart was, strangely, closed. capitalism should not rest on pagan-inspired holidays. we have electric lights now and need not fear the sun disappearing. the miraculous life of Jesus matches exactly a previous story written by the ancient Egyptians. the hero in that story was called Osiris. his mother was a virgin. he died and rose from the dead three days later. he died to save others and pissed excellence just like old Hey Zeus. don't tell the fundies, though, for they might pull a jihad and stone you to death or curse your seed ad infinitum. beware: any type of fundamentalism, religious or otherwise, is dangerous to society. DO NOT TRUST.
some honey locusts up the stream need cutting. I will give them a taste of the ax when the snow melts and the ground firms up a bit. curse this warm weather. it should be cold continuously, not eight degrees one morning and twenty five the next. all you tens of thousands reading this had better not follow any of this advice. do not believe anything I say. these words are for madmen and for those who generally seek questions, not answers. go see a holy man for answers. do not cry though when you realize you have been duped. do not cry when all your money is gone and the holy man splashes puddlewater onto you as he is driving by in his new sportscar. that was your fault. for trusting him.
I hope I someday have the foresight to teach my kids that they will be betrayed and left in the lurch by those closest to them. complete and total self-reliance is the only sane way to approach life. friends and family are good. they will betray you. they will not come to your aid. they will abandon you and take all your joy as soon as it is convenient for them. they will die on you and leave you in the lurch. this is normal. this is to be expected. therefore, do not trust that anyone will do anything for you, ever.
**BUT**
you must always be there for them. you must never stop giving. never expect thanks, or gratitude. always be reliable. always think ahead and be ready for someone's request before they make it. this will impress them. this will lead to friends. but friends will leave you. or die on you. or make sex to your girlfriend. so just don't trust them. in fact, don't even trust yourself. remain suspicious of your own urges. doubt your own intentions. this is healthy. this slows you down, gives you time to think about what you truly want.
happy holly jolly. JP from Ödenburg, PA, out
24 December 2009
Governor-elect Blithe - a short story
The newspaper hits the hardwood flooring a moment before the coffee mug. The handsome ceramic shatters, spattering the front page headline with freshly ground Arabica.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
"Governor found with mistress bound"
A grainy but unmistakable photo shows Governor-elect Ryan Blithe in a swank hotel room giving a handcuffed young woman a taste of the lash. The article states that campaign funds were used to rent the hotel room. Furthermore, in an interview, the young woman claims that "this was not the first time, not at all," and that "Ryan has always had unusual... tastes."
Governor-elect Blithe tears at the paper, reducing it to limp, stained shreds. Bits of paper get caught in his snow-white bathrobe, staining it. He slumps against the kitchen's marble countertop, his eyes wide as he peers through the wooden blinds for movement in the yard. Who knows where those bastards might be hinding, he thinks. He sinks to the floor and runs a large, soft hand through his greying hair. He slowly removes his finely wrought reading glasses.
"Honey, I'm going to jump in the shower. Could you leave me some coffee?" his wife calls from the top of the stairs. Panic grips him as he lurches to his feet. He shuffles down the hallway, past tastefully framed snapshots of his life, faded gap-toothed smiles, a sun-drenched sandy beach, his first law firm. A snow-white slipper lies abandoned on the kitchen floor, soaking up cold coffee.
The study is cold. The dark wood paneling seems to suck the heat from the air. An orderly stack of pamphlets and folded posters teeters on the desk. "For your files," a note stuck to the top reads. Also on the desk is a bible, opened to Corinthians. The book slams shut and falls to the floor. Re-opening, the pages settle on Leviticus. The stack of papers flies against the wall, fluttering to the floor to pile in chaos. Ryan Blithe glances at the topmost flyer. A full color picture of his face grins back above the headline,
"Vote Blithe - Vote Community - Vote Family"
Pipes stop humming and a door opens upstairs. "Are you all right down there, dear?" Ryan smacks his large, soft hand over his mouth to muffle a whine. "What was that, dear?" his wife asks. "Nothing, Julie, nothing," Ryan yells after a moment. He falls back into the large leather office chair. I'm finished, he thinks. The is the end. She won't forgive me again. Not after Charleston.
The election. Campaign funds. Hotel room. Vote Family. Handcuffs.
The rear screen door slams shut behind him. The combination lock on the shed, normally stubborn, opens on the first try. A stubbed toe does not register as pain, but as annoyance. The cylinder is oiled, its action smooth. All six chambers are loaded. He removes a package, a fancy beige jacket for his wife, from a shop stool and puts it on the workbench behind him.
The heavy gun barks, spattering the new beige jacket with freshly spilled lifeblood.
15 December 2009
the folly of trying
I have noticed a recurring theme in movies especially but also in books with an American protagonist. The theme is as follows: a person has a dream and doesn't want to follow it or doesn't know what that dream is and but someone close to him convinces him to follow that dream at all cost regardless of the consequences or the validity of that dream whence the person follows his dream and everything comes up daisies. If only this scenario were more realistic. In 99.99999% of the cases in which someone actually tries to follow their dream, that person runs face first into the Reality Wall, realizes that society at large does not give a fuck about their dream, understands that they will not be able to eat or otherwise sustain themselves on their current path, and gives up. they wash out and go back home to shitsville and Nobody gives a fuck about the fact that they even tried because even if they did try they were not good enough or lucky enough or well connected enough to succeed.
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
I am currently trying something that will more than likely fail, unless there is some serious mojo in my future. I have failed at this many times in the past, mostly because i have not even tried to do it, and i mean really doing it while saying fuckall to the critics and to the world. I have failed before I even started because I am as scared of success as I am failure, consequence of an alcohol father in my youth and an escapist adolescence, which I am now trying Really Hard not to use as an excuse to let myself off the hook. a word to the wise: don't have kids if you're a druggie (and I'm talking ANY drug here, including and especially booze), and don't marry druggies and have kids. the repercussions are vast and never ending and you'll have a kid who Wants to do something revolutionary with his life but who is so afraid of his own Potential that he runs around in circles like a chicken with his head cut off trying to finish a short little novel. Then why am I still doing it? Because I am sick and tired of being a fucking failure, not in the eyes of others, but in the ever-present, all-seeing eye that sees everything I do and gives me no rest if I'm slacking - i.e. my undying inner virtue, my soul, the dozens of facets, the snippets of personality that collectively make me who I am.
The media rarely portraits the actual series of events in the lives of the majority of the American population (i.e. the people living in the boonies or in Flyover country or anywhere that is not a major metropolitan area): 1) you are born. 2) you go to school. 3) if you are lucky, you have smarts or are beautiful or someone recognizes a talent in you and fosters that talent [if none of these apply to you, you are Fucked - skip to step 6]. 4) you leave the boonies to pursue a career involving smarts, beauty or your talent in a major metropolitan area. 5) you spend your life doing what you are simultaneously good and and love to do 6) you die, or wash out and move back to the boonies, which are basically the same thing.
Remember Icarus, and keep on dreaming, kids.
X
13 December 2009
east coast drivers
someone once said about driving in Los Angeles: either you're the bitch, or you're the bitch's bitch. this statement sums up a lot of what Basin driving is all about - the inches-to-spare merging, multiple-lane changing, drive-it-like-you-stole-it, take what's yours and defend it at all cost mentality that makes driving in the city of Angels so much damn fun. the slightest hesitation is ruthlessly exploited. not only are you maintaining your own vehicle's velocity and vector, but you're watching the five people around you to make sure they don't get too close or decide they suddenly need to take over your lane to save themselves from a threat you can't even see. there is so much stimulation on the road that you don't have time to get bored, unless you're stuck in the nerve-grating monotony of motionless traffic. there are so many crazies and power-hungry wannabes, and your time is so important, that unless you actually get in an accident with someone, the last thing you want to do is chase someone down and get in his face about cutting you off or not letting you merge. in LA, you just might get shot. in LA, people know that it's just not worth it.
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
Pennsylvania, however, is a totally different animal. true to my training in LA, I merge when I feel like it, take what's mine, exert my right of way to the fullest, and forget about the transgressions of others almost before they happen. But I was recently tail-gated for miles coming out of Harrisburg by an irate grandmother who shook her fist at me and drove menacingly close to my bumper, all because I merged in front of her legally in order to jump the line onto the freeway. not a few days ago I was confronted by a young man in Adams County who was furious with the fact that I didn't give up my right of way in a roundabout. I saw him waving and motioning to me in the rearview, and, thinking he might have hit my bumper, I pulled over. he started complaining that he had been waiting to get into the traffic circle and that it had been his turn to drive, not mine. after I explained the rules of right of way to him, he said he wanted to fight me because I had cut him off and hadn't apologized for it. I explained to him that unless there was some sort of contact between our vehicles, I was going to leave, upon which he started calling me many nasty names, all the while shaking like a leaf. I pointed this out to him and he took it as a challenge. when I told him that his words meant nothing to me and that he could kindly go fuck himself, he responded, "no, I want you to fuck me. I'm not going to fuck myself, I want you to fuck me." I pointed out that I was not gay, at which point his face lit up and he sputtered, "but you look like a fag, you fucking homo. Let's fucking do this. I will fuck you up so bad."
I laughed at him and apologized for refusing him the chance to get fucked by me, upon which he said, "I would so love to break you right now, I would beat the shit out of you." I looked at him and wondered why he hadn't thrown the first punch already, and then it all became clear. He was waiting for ME to start the fight. I had already conquered him in the roundabout, I had no fear of him, I was not shaking in the slightest, I had been polite and rational. My thoughts went back to dozens of arguments I have witnessed that could have been Fights but were instead just Long Talks in which the two parties eventually kissed and made up. After hanging out with the Cali Grunts, I know a thing or two about fights, and if the Other Guy doesn't swing after the third or forth verbal exchange, then you either turn and walk away or hit him as hard as you can, without the slightest warning, in the face. I was analyzing the angles when, thankfully, the guy from the Uhaul place came out and asked us what was going on, to which I responded, "I'm really not sure. This guy wants to fight me about something." The Uhaul guy said we had to leave, so I jumped in my car and drove for the exit, only to find the young man blocking my way. I let the car idle and stared at him as one would stare at a minor inconvenience, like a homeless person taking his time crossing the street, or a three-legged dog stumbling blindly into the road, until he moved out of the way. He threw out his arms as if to say, "I'm right here, let's fucking go." I rolled down my window and said very calmly, "go get laid, dude."
So I made this guy my bitch in the roundabout and his method of dealing with it was to call me all sorts of names and NOT swing on me. to anyone from LA traveling in the country who might just read this (although i doubt if anyone at ALL reads this besides ME when i'm making corrections) do not change your driving habits, just know that people here will not know how to handle your behavior. also, never stop for any reason other that a) you think you hit someone or something, or b) there is a mechanical issue with your car. Basically, stay in LA at all cost. Sincerely, homesick for the terrible majesty of el Pueblo de Nuestra Seniora, JP
04 December 2009
yurt
i really want to burn all the shit i don't need and bulldoze the house and set up a yurt on a platform in the back near the bamboo and have small fires in a small woodstove that vent out the top of the yurt into the night sky and for electricity set up a waterwheel over the stream that will charge a battery that i can use during the nighttime. of course bathing would kind of be a problem in the wintertime but only if you're really concerned about hygienic cleanliness bc you'd have to boil the water over the small woodstove that vents out the top of the yurt and then probably bathe outside so as not to soil the floor of the yurt which would be probably some soft bear skin or other animal hide making it necessary for you to remove your shoes before entering the yurt. it's depressing going through the boxes and finding thousands of pictures from the nineties when everyone in the family was skinny and healthy and alive and making facial gestures and not cooling their cinder heels in tiny boxes six feet under the ground on long island.
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
fucking shit i'm really missing my dad right now if only because i want to show him that i'm not a failure and that i do love him and that at some point my life will be on track but probably not the track he would have wanted but a track of my own choosing and one that will bring happiness to me and those i choose to have in my life. it just sucks that he smoked all his life and it was cut short and i'm selfish for wanting him to be alive but i loved him as much as i hated him and being in this house with all these memories emerging from boxes is not easy but i really don't have any other choice although i do believe i will be heading back to LA sooner rather than later if for nothing else than to visit friends and people with whom i want to become better acquainted. but i've made the first step really and as Lao Tzu says the journey of a thousand miles starts from where your feet stand and now that i am again working on my book and figuring out how to turn into reality all the changes i have been working out in my head it's a very relieving and very terrifying experience.
and i can't help but think that i killed Dad by asking him for money because the next day he died and i keep thinking it was because i broke his heart by being a failure and not being able to support myself financially and by me asking for money it took his last shred of will to live away and when thados came knocking he just didn't have the stuffing left to tell him to go fuck himself for at least a little while longer. and it's very selfish of me to think these things for i hope they're not true but no one will ever know and such thoughts are counterproductive but they're helping me cry and that's good because i need it right now what with being all alone and quitting smoking and not having a car and not being in great shape and being unwilling to set in stone a plan for my future. i've started talking to myself again but that's better than not talking at all and sulking or something and i keep laughing out loud about stories that i've heard recently or remember suddenly especially Kevin's story about calling the guy Frodo and telling him to go find his ring after the guy got all tough and punched him in the sternum when he was really trying to punch him in the throat. and to top it all off that being the Second fight Kevin was in that night and he being with the married lady who thinks Kev has downssyndrome who ditched her child and family to meet up with him for thanksgiving.
fucking classic, stuff of legends, the stuff that the average man's bad dreams are made of but it only makes me laugh because Kev is such a nice guy and he's so irreverent and he would give you the shirt off his back unless you fuck with him in which case he will fucking break you. that's Cali Grunt mentality right there - kind 'till you cross us, can't ever boss us around, pound for pound can't out-floss us, mind ur biz not ours hoss, plus this rhyme just crashed into the ground. wish i'd have had that one spit in time for T's show at the Cabana tonight, oh well i'm feeling better for getting that terrible rap down and for talking about my feelings towards Dad and all that so i'm going to do some pushups (maxing 300 today) so bigup yourself, respect. X
02 December 2009
the drug dealing state of Pennsylvania
The state of Pennsylvania is one of the highest volume drug dealers in the world. the state moves so much booze and beer and wine and the sale of these items generates so much money that you have to wonder why they don't branch out and start selling other drugs too. a drug is any substance that causes addiction, habituation, or a marked change in consciousness, according to Messieurs Merriam and Webster (m-w.com), yet so many people who use alcohol do not consider the substance to be a drug. i always remind people of this and they will fight tooth and nail and get really mad because i call them drug users and make toasts to drugs and how wonderful drugs are and they leave the room and shun me for the rest of the night. this argument is going nowhere but i am fomenting plans to bring a motion before the PA state assembly to change the name "Wine and Spirits Shoppe" to what it should be called, something like "Ye Olde Drug Den" or "Drinkable Drug Shoppe" or "Legal, Addictive, Poisonous Drug Shoppe." Just so people know what they are getting into and so they will maybe just maybe think twice before demonizing users of other substances and look at themselves and go "oh yeah i'm doing drugs right now too *sip* maybe i should just shut the fuck up and soak my head a bit more" but of course no one ever does that because it's so much more fun to poke fun at and criticize others than it is to actually get one's own fat ass in motion and stop all the bad things that society lets you do (and some of the things it doesn't let you do, like sexually pleasure your spouse in whatever hole you see fit in the privacy of your own home).
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
blah blah a nation of big old hypocrites claiming to love freedom but not granting it, spouting liberty at the same time that legislatures restrict their citizens' ability to act as they see best fit to act. this country can do better. America can do better. every day that this hypocracy continues is a victory for the fatheads at the top, the people pulling the strings and doing as they please, immune from their own laws, laughing at the struggling teeming writhing masses who could in a week retake the country for their own. the hard part is setting up a government that keeps the power out of the hands of the few, like our federal system was set up initially, and prohibiting the alteration of this system by powerful individuals (such as has occurred with our current shift to a strong executive). dear god this kind of writing could get me in trouble. X
01 December 2009
immersion
i immerse myself in the minutiae of this place so that i don't climb the walls and eat the stuffing out of the chairs. this is not a mechanism for me to flee from the pressures of the brain or the lurking darkness of worry, rather it is a coping mechanism for the somewhat involuntary nature of my current situation. those motherfucking bastards. expletive expletive so expletive stupid shit at some point this blog had to go clean and now that it's fueled solely by the methane coming off of the garbage heap out back (it's a big heap) this motherfucker is GREEN. jk the garbage heap is in front of the house. holy god none of this is true but i just convinced myself for a second there that is WAS true and i was designing a duct system to convey the methane gases into a turbine on the other side of the house that would create energy. i need a car if for no other reason than that i want to go to the goodwill and pick up materials for making my bamboo lighting fixtures but in Reality i probably have all the necessary shit here but it's probably buried somewhere under twenty
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
year's worth of accumulated junk.
seriously, for anyone reading, do yourself the favor and throw half your shit out (or sell it if you have nice shit), wait a week, comb through it again, and repeat the process until you can fit your possessions into bags that can be carried with relative ease on your person. i'd say about eighty five percent of the shit people have they never use let alone look at or admire so why the fuck do you keep it? with the old daddygrins now died and buried and me going through his accumulated tons of shit i'm finding just ridiculous shit like napkins from an ocean liner cruise in the late fifties and who the fuck cares about that shit? and then i go through my boxes of shit i sent back for LA and i'm finding pictures from the late nineties of girlfriends long since gone and married to others and why the fuck do i keep this shit other than perhaps vanity or a sense of longing for the past? the past cannot easily be accessed from the present, just as the future can be shaped from the here and now but ONLY if you're pure and honest about it and you don't really try but just kind of try and then only if you're not really paying attention and don't really care even though you have to care a great deal. it's very tricky and very difficult and it's good that it is because otherwise you'd have motherfuckers making themselves rich or giving themselves Ford broncos or something fucktarded like that.
it's so hard not to ramble because i'm here all by myself and the walls don't speak and the cats are all dead or stolen and dad's fucking dead too and the sibs have lives of their own and i am hiding out here like a bandit but all good things come to those who keep their eyes and ears open and i think i'm getting close to a breakthrough with the book but i can't push it because it's a very subtle thing but soon soon soon i will have it and then sky's the limit. ultima ratio regum. X
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