Here’s something to REALLY scare you and something really quiet to help you deal with it.

There are so many videos on YouTube about the end times that they’re impossible to miss.

Granted, some are nothing more than a bowl of lies.

Others make you think about it. But with the warning that the time of the return of the Son of Man is known only to God, and of that time and day, we are not to speculate, let’s dip into it just a little bit.

First, there’s this article from The Hill about how dangerous AI has become. It is quite a read. Everyone should read it; it’s scary, but unfortunately, it’s true.

Next, let’s hit the scripture. Daniel, Psalms, Isaiah, the Gospels, and the Book of Revelation to John all say what will happen just before, then during, the return of Christ.

I’m not going to itemize chapter and verse.

As I’ve often written, all of the ingredients are in place. The four horsemen may be currently releasing one at a time… or all at once.

The first horseman has a nature always in debate. He is wearing a crown, and he goes forth conquering and to conquer. Some have said he is the Antichrist, others that he beats whole countries into submission with lies and other types of deception. See where deepfakes now become part of that possible identity? I don’t believe that this is the Antichrist, but it is possible. He will be the embodiment of evil, and Satan, as Jesus said, is the father of all lies. The first horse is white, the rider carrying a bow. Do not confuse this with the white horse that will be ridden by the returning Christ.

It’s okay to guess, but remember that there are three more with him.

The second horse is red. He that rides this horse carries a battle sword. He goes forth after the second seal is broken by the Lamb (Jesus). This rider looks battle-hardened and tough. He will bring war and make already hostile internal conflicts in certain countries worse, bringing the Earth to disaster and death.

The third horseman rides a black horse. He is the only one John hears receiving orders. Wheat and barley measured by a scale the rider carries, a quart, and 3 quarts each, respectively, for a day’s pay. He is also cautioned by the voice not to harm the oil and the wine. The oil is not petroleum. This would be an oil associated with food or food preparation; remember that this rider appears wan and starving, very thin. This oil could be olive oil because grapes and olive trees can adapt to growth in places they did not before. Global warming has already caused vineyards to stop producing, and vines are being planted in places they wouldn’t have survived before. The idea that wine and oil are not to be touched by the bringer of global famine seems trivial until you consider that there will be widespread unemployment and a failure of wages to keep up with the cost of living. These things are already happening, and they will only get worse. The tipping point for global warming has been passed, and anyone who tells you otherwise is badly deluded. We haven’t seen anything yet.

Oil could also symbolize water, strangely enough. At the rate we’re going, potable water will be scarce. Heat will drain reservoirs, and rain will become more toxic. Microplastics have been detected in the drinking water of every state tested; they’re found in blood samples and in organs, including the brain. Not only that, but lead, arsenic, and other “forever chemicals” are also present. There are currently no filters capable of rendering pure water.

The fourth horseman is the most terrifying of all. Covid was bad enough; this rider, on a pale horse, has a name: Death. Along with him, trailing behind is Hades. Not the Greek god, but literally, “the Pit.” A place only unbelievers can go.

Most scholars believe that the true Christians will not be here when Death arrives, that a “rapture” will occur when the faithful will be taken up to Heaven. Pentecostals believe this because they posit that the Holy Spirit can’t be present when these calamities begin. I tend to agree, but I’m unwilling to bet my soul on it. I want you to be ready now because even tomorrow isn’t guaranteed to any of us. Besides, would you really want to see these things happen, sure that you can keep sinning and repent at the last minute? I pity anyone who thinks that’s possible. It isn’t.

The rider named Death has orders to kill by war, pestilence and wild animals desperate to eat, driven mad or bold by heat, starvation, and lack of water. Some would be driven more savage by the spread of rabies.

Pestilence means disease and a proliferation of invasive predator insects thriving in elevated heat. Forget insecticides and fungicides; they can’t stop what’s coming.

Some diseases, rare in the West, like ebola, will easily live in the higher temperatures we’re about to reach. Don’t be tempted: no source that I consider reliable can tell us when the temperatures reach the breaking point. First, I read an article that says global warming is accelerating and much faster than anticipated. Then I come across an article that says it’s slower than they thought. The layperson doesn’t know what to believe. I have a rule about this. Believe that terrible things are happening right now, and far worse is yet to come. Forget choosing which ones are right; live each day as if it is your last. Walk with God, pray often, resist temptation, and stay alert. Urge others to take the opportunity to believe in Christ and turn away from sin because time really could be running out. I believe it is. I urge you not to bet your soul on having time enough to sin now and turn later to Christ.

When the events of the end times continue after the first four seals are broken, people will know what’s happening. The whole world will be shaken, like one big earthquake everywhere at the same time. By then, they should already know, but they’re going to be stubborn. They will be full of hate at God. They’ll try to escape falling buildings to caves and beg rocks to fall on them because the terrible judgment of God is coming. But they won’t talk to God and beg forgiveness. They’ll talk to rocks. How pitiful those souls are. God, however, will not have any pity for them. They had their chance and more and turned away from God. That’s earning them eternal punishment. Eternity in agony.

I’m telling you, God doesn’t want that for you. There’s time. You can still be saved by the sacrifice that has already been made for your salvation. You’ll be free of sin and gain peace in your heart and mind that you have never known. The ransom has already been paid.

Please don’t waste that.

I’m not a preacher. I’m uneducated. I’m poor. I make no money from ads you may see here. I don’t seek sponsors, and I don’t care about money. I’m simply putting out the distress signal that trouble is coming, and I don’t want you to miss the call to repent. You must forgive what can’t be forgotten. You must let go of hate, anger, and bitterness. Stop blaming others for your every tribulation. Let go of lust and the sins of the flesh. None of these things have ever truly benefited you. They just drag you down deeper into darkness, and I’ve seen that darkness. I never want to see it again. And you shouldn’t either.

This is the time. Repent, because you may never get another chance.

May you be moved by the Holy Spirit, and may Jesus Christ come into your heart. I’m praying for you.

Wasn’t that lovely?

My friend, my brother, my sister,

I know you’re hurting. I have, too. I still do.

I know you are lonely. I used to be.

I know you feel like this is all so pointless. Hopeless. I’ve been there.

I know you’ve known great loss. So have I. I feel your grief.

I know you feel lost. You need a direction. I’ve spent most of my life lost in the dark.

I know that you are tired. Tired of everything. I have carried that burden. This is your time to find rest and hope, a new direction, a way to escape bitterness and anger and hatred. And this is your time to be renewed, to let go of your burdens and emotional things that drag you down. Here are the lyrics to the beautiful song I’ve posted above. I’ve known people who cried before they could get through these words. But that’s not because they’re sad. It’s a touching call to you from Jesus. He wants to be in your life. He doesn’t like seeing you hurting and trying to get through everything by yourself when He can help if you just answer this call.

Lyrics:

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling for you and for me
See on the portals He’s waiting and watching
Watching for you and for me

Come home, come home
Ye who are weary come home
Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling, “O sinner come home”

O for the wonderful love He has promised
Promised for you and for me
Though we have sinned He has mercy and pardon
Pardon for you and for me

Come home, come home
Ye who are weary come home
Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling, “O sinner come home”

Come home, come home (come home)
Ye who are weary come home
Earnestly, tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling, “O sinner come home”

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Will L. Thompson

Softly and Tenderly lyrics © Bluewater Music Corp., BMG Rights Management, Universal Music Publishing Group, Warner Chappell Music, Inc

May God bless you.

Comments are Now Turned On. I Welcome Your Feedback! Here’s My First Video.

I know that I have said that I wouldn’t make any videos, and I said that I had a face for radio but a voice for writing. I hated everything about myself then. I know I got that across.

But after Easter, I have been through continuing changes. My blog and website title has changed, even though I don’t have the power to change the web address.

Like my archived posts, I’m leaving it as it is. I want you to see the change in me. It’s real. Every day I thank God for another day and ask if there might be a way for me to help people. Because it’s easy to backslide into feeling useless and ineffective.

So, with a face for video and a voice for writing, I felt inspired to make a short video without a script, without notes, just winging it. It comes from my heart, it’s the real me, and I have to say that I felt not just inspired but also compelled to do it. I had faith that God would help me.

So here it is. If you feel so moved, give it a like or subscribe. If I get any positive feedback, I’ll do more. Please note that I’m not trained or educated in preaching, and I’m really just a sinner. Here you go then.

Joy

There is no other word. I doubt that I can ever put into words this change in me. I used to write about darkness and being a child of the night, being comfortable in the dark.

That’s gone.

In the Bible, darkness is not something to be comfortable with. Back in the first century A.D. as well as before and after, not many dared to travel by night. It was so unsafe that people were sure to be robbed, beaten, raped or killed. Thieves ran cold camps near roads and always had someone on watch. Lying in wait.

Even a half hour past dark, they were ready. That was the best time to catch people close to a village or city, on their way in, refusing to stop at an inn or make camp because they were sure they would make it safely before total darkness.

Even today, in more places than we know, being out after nightfall is like asking for something bad to happen.

When I drove an 18-wheeler, I had to make a run from Baltimore to Brooklyn, New York. I arrived at lunchtime, and the dock master said he would finish the trailer in the bay as soon as lunch break was over, then he’d get me.

I joked that I was paid by the hour so he could take his time. He said, “No, man, this is New York. You gotta be outta here before dark.”

That street, he said, was owned by a gang at night. It wasn’t safe. Even he and everyone in the sweatshop were gone before dark. If a sweatshop shuts down at nightfall, you know the area is not a good place to be.

I made it, but it was dark by the time I hit the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I felt like I had escaped from my early demise. When I cleared the Delaware state line, I still had traffic and a long drive to get home, but my white knuckles relaxed. I could finally wipe the sweat from my palms.

They say there’s no place left in the lower 48 that isn’t affected by light pollution, but I’ve been to some places where that’s not true at all. Those are places I never want to see again. So dark that a person two feet in front of me became invisible. That’s scary.

I remember those times. I’m not afraid of darkness, but I no longer feel quite at peace there.

This change in me…I don’t remember exactly how it happened. I know I had to be alone. I had cut off almost all communication. I needed to be truly alone, open, still, quiet. Then, while having great difficulty writing my Easter blog, it just happened. It hit me hard, knowing that Jesus had died on the cross in my place, seeing and feeling my every sin, the weight of it all crashing down on him. It was the first time in my life that I could know what that meant. It was my first time ever being truly ashamed of all that I had done. And it was then that I became a real Christian.

I no longer have the right to feel guilty for my past. It’s paid for. Where I go from here is up to me, but I don’t want to go back to those sins. They are repulsive to me.

None of this is to say that I think I’m perfect. Nor that I’m not tempted constantly. It just means that I have help fighting with the devil when I ask for it.

Since Easter, I’ve had some rough days, worse than others. But more and more, desperation and depression do not last all day. Usually, when depression hits me, it can last days or weeks. Sometimes, it’s longer.

God has helped me to understand that even if I can’t be cured, I can cope because He is with me. A pastor who I trust very much perceived angels around me.

God promises help through faith. Our faith calls on the Holy Spirit to protect those who believe in His son Jesus.

There’s one bit of evidence I can offer to help you believe me.

I’m more often happy and at peace than not. I’ve never known peace and joy like this. I’ll take this any day over what I was. And I can pray now. That used to be very difficult for me. The devil was closer to me than I let God be, and Satan is very adept at keeping us that way.

I truly wish that I could put my feelings and gratitude into words. I can’t. But now I know that true faith and repentance can make anyone this joyful. Every day, I thank God for another day. I no longer hate myself or wish to die, although I hate it here, surrounded by so much evil and darkness. I hope you will consider turning to God or turning back to him if you lost your faith along the way. He’s real, and He loves you.

I know it. I know it in my heart.

Good night, God bless you, and please, think about it. This kind of joy, I have never known.

For those of you who don’t read the Old Testament, believing that it’s all just grotesque fairy tales, I offer more proof that it’s the truth and that to understand the gospels, you need to know why it was necessary for Jesus to die and then be risen. Sure, there’s some bad stuff to read, and the account of Sodom and Gomorrah is one of them. Did it happen? If so, where is the evidence? Here’s one of my favorite pastors with something that may help.

I pray that God will open your eyes.

Why Women Hate Men, Why Antisemitism is Rising, and the Incredible Prevalence of Hate Videos

The evidence is all around us.

We men rank lower than worms on the scale of evolution.

When it comes to women, of course. Women’s opinions, to be precise.

The evidence that it will get worse, not better, is also quite clear.

Now, ladies, is that any way to be?

According to recent ethical and politically correct changes in standards, I’m not even supposed to say or write the word “ladies” in a sentence; it’s defined as sexist. How did that happen? And when did that happen?

I’ve never had anyone react badly to “ma’am” or “ladies.”

These words of politeness and respect are what I grew up with. The other day, around sunset, two dressed-to-kill ladies crossed my path at an angle, going to some event. It would have been easy to say nothing, but I nodded and greeted them, “Evening, ladies.” They answered back as if very surprised and pleased, “Good evening!”

And I do that a lot. I speak to people passing by. I’m polite and respectful. I have no reason to hate anyone, and it would be a sin if I did anyway: it would harm my soul, while my silence would make others angry at me. People ignoring me I can deal with, but bearing grudges and carrying a burden like that kind of evil is a thing I’ve never benefited from. I know because I hated being ignored more than I did getting attention. Anger begets hate and leads to nothing good.

The burden gets heavier as life goes on. Nobody is able to bear it. From hate and bitterness come a long list of single items that make everyone sick, defeated, exhausted, and eventually dooms us to Hell. And I realize that a lot of people believe in Heaven, but not Hell. That’s unfortunate. Because it’s a real thing. A state of existence past death where souls are sentenced to weep and gnash their teeth. Yes. There is a hell.

What some things are that can send you there, you probably know. But you do them anyway. On your decision to not believe in such a punishment, the disbelief alone that God would ever send anyone to such a horrible place is first on the list.

But I know. It’s quite real.

My life, as I’ve tried to describe it in the past six years, has been very disturbing for most people to bother reading about. Part of the worst of it was that it drove me to isolation.

That’s not to say that as I grew up, I was completely alone. I did have a friend or two early on, but it never lasted because I always ended up drawing a circle around myself that defined how close someone could get. If they crossed it, I either did something to make them hate me, or I backed off, usually with the same result.

Until very recently, I still did it. Facebook friends, MySpace friends, nobody was spared. Sometimes, I just blocked them. That was extremely cruel and and I learned later that I had really hurt people who cared about me. But it was what I had to do. Too close. I just didn’t want them any further in. All my life, I realized, I had been burning bridges. I found that once done, most of those pathways were forever lost. It hurt, but had I ever had a choice?

When children are so severely traumatized by the parents who are supposed to protect them that they end up pushing away everyone else, you can’t call those children “normal” and you’re not going to change that by not believing it. Trust becomes impossible.

Doctors and therapists and psych meds all can help a great deal, but as with Humpty Dumpty, they can’t put you back together. And no matter how hard any victim tries, he or she can’t get around the fact that those things that haunt their memories can’t be nullified.

Drug abuse, alcohol abuse, and more. Nothing works to escape the past. It just doesn’t. Nobody gets a pass. We say we’ll go to Heaven when we die because we’ve already had a life sentence in Hell. But it’s a lie.

****

I can never speak for another’s experience, only my own. I can’t minimize or put a value on pain. Or psychological damage. Not everyone is a “survivor” of incest, rape or severe child abuse.

Some, perhaps even most, are anything but survivors, trapped on a hamster wheel of remembering every bad thing that happened to them, again and again. And I know that’s a tough thing for most people to grasp, and that’s why people have said to me, “Baloney. You have control over your own body.”

But children and rape victims don’t have control. They have no power to stop what others can’t even imagine. The world fails to accept so many truths, and in so doing, it minimalizes those who tell the truth and puts faith in liars, and thus, all manner of evil can and will be done including crimes against humanity, war crimes, genocide and more. War criminals become heroes. War veterans are spat upon. And this is now normalized. At the end of the Second World War, when Nazi death and labor camps became more widely known, we screamed, “Never again!”

But we can’t stop bad things with mere words. How many Nazis escaped Germany to Argentina and other South American countries?

How many were left behind to live and pass on their doctrine of hatred? And how many were given immunity by the United States to get them to come here?

How many Nazis in America were there? Because Nazism never went away.

And look at how history is about to be repeated:

Last October, the Hamas plan to attack Israel and take hostages, a plan two years in the making, became reality. Children were taken hostage  and boldly carried off in dog cages, among their other crimes. Innocent people died. Some hostages were later confirmed dead. Some are still missing. More than this, I don’t know, but the wrath of Israel would soon take center stage. Remember how I said that some people never forget? Well, it’s true. The long history of antisemitism is coming around to a new cycle. It will be repeated. At universities, students protest the Israeli tactics in Gaza without knowing what is truly at stake, without any memory of what initiated the war. They either haven’t been taught about the Holocaust or they’re the next generation of Holocaust deniers. They have chosen a side based on “humanitarian” convictions and therefore inadvertently taken sides with terrorists. This gives Hamas everything they could want. Where is the sense of that? Where is the honor in that? Because if you really hate what’s happening, then you can’t take sides. You have the duty to protect the innocent, and you can’t do that by being one-sided. At present, both are wrong. But you don’t see it so. That means that peace is less probable. It means antisemitism will grow.

TICK TOCK

On the other hand, countries all over the world are trying to ban tic-tac, a social media app that China uses to further break down society. Countries like Denmark have banished it on government issued phones, but as far as I can tell, it remains available to civilians. The creators of videos are each demanding their fifteen minutes of fame because they’re full of themselves, they’re selfish, and there are few boundaries that they won’t cross. Most are at least harmless, but considering the music, nudity, and some utterly grotesque content, China has access to it, and it really is a danger to society. China is working hard to disturb and break up families and whole communities.

I’ve been troubled to see two types of women emerge on TikTok, and a few have been on podcasts.

The first are TickTok women who complain that men never ask a woman out on a date. They say that this places the burden on women to initiate the date. And some hate it. They complain that, for the most part, men don’t want to date. That they’re making women work too hard. One said she went to a certain place, dressed in revealing clothes that no man, or so she reasoned, could resist. She deliberately looked into men’s eyes, only to be “ghosted.”

She is a result and a victim of a lack of parenting and a society that has become so twisted by sin that normal relationships are no longer understood or even considered. She knows no other way and is now embittered that she’s being “ghosted.”

It is shallow thinking based on physical attributes alone without any real knowledge of what attraction is. I’ve often been turned on by the skin showing that an outfit reveals, but have never actually asked for a date.

With my background, for one thing, I find it intimidating. There’s nothing wrong with wearing clothes that reveal, but men often find it a turn-off. I’ve heard the word “slut” too many times to forget how other men take it. I’ve also heard guys I was with say, “No wonder there’s rape.”

Clothing has nothing to do with rape. But those guys were insecure and never regarded the women they saw as approachable. The women became objectified and loose to the men around them. Considering that I’m going back to the 1970s when halter tops and short shorts, hip huggers, and hot pants were fashionable, I’ve seen a lot.  I’ve seen and heard the reactions of men. And not any of it was any woman’s fault. Men have complicated thoughts and insecurities about women.

The other Tik-Tok women post man-hating videos because they either truly hate men or they’re begging for attention, challenging a man to come forward and ask for a date.

I’m not counting gold digging because that happens with both sexes.

These women have had bad experiences with dating and have come to the heartfelt conclusion that all men are rats.

Thus, these TIKI-TOCKERS post venomous videos about men being swine. Such things have a tendency to spread through influencers. I’m not particularly worried about it because I’m out of the dating game. But many men my age are still in it. They’re in better health, and they have experience enough to know how to treat a lady. But their window is closing.

Soon, the chances are, we will become some parody of everything that’s been held as moral, good, and what God wants for us.

If I see the reverse, however, of men posting tictock videos about how evil women are, I get very concerned. I’m not talking about YouTube personalities who get called out for legitimate reasons. I’m talking about blanket statements that paint all women on one canvas in one color. It’s not only wrong, it’s dangerous. If you do this, there’s no doubt that there are equal reactions: men being swayed by your words to act, up to and including violence against women, which has always existed and always will, and which you have no right to make worse.

Hate speech in videos is extremely damaging, and there is never an excuse for it. But it does not get the attention or action it deserves.

Trendy though it may be, hate videos against the opposite sex, ethnic groups, or anyone is a sin and can cause serious damage.

I want you to seek out your higher power and ask what’s right. We need restraint. Some consideration and compassion. If you’re not a peacemaker, then you are a force of evil, even if you’re silent. Silence is encouraging to those who do evil.

Jesus said, “Blessed are the peacemakers, because they will be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9).

I may have my own opinions of other’s choices, but I cannot hate the people who choose wrongly. If I do that, then mine is the greater sin. Because I am supposed to know better.

Please, stop watching and liking hate videos. Not one of them is deserving of admiration. And we’re all supposed to be better than that.

I’ve seen my share of evil. I’ve done my share of evil. Satan is real. Hell is real. Ask yourself, “If it’s real, then do I truly want to go there?”

I don’t.

I rank hate speech equally with hate videos. They’re the same. The latter, though, comes in short videos for the generations with short attention spans who can absorb every hateful word.

If you go through my archives, you will see hate, anger, and more. I won’t hide them or remove them. They stand as a glaring testament to the change I’ve experienced, though a work in progress, because the battle never ends. Until the day I draw my final breath, the war rages within. Satan seeks to weaken my faith, while God simply repeats the promise that He is always ready to help me through the Holy Spirit. This battle has been fought before I could even crawl.

God told the prophet Jeremiah that before he was formed in the womb, God knew him. He knows you and I, too.

Sometimes, that verse is used by pro-life people to condemn abortion. I caution everyone not to take and twist scripture to fit an agenda. The verse is about God speaking to Jeremiah. However, we do at least need to consider whether it can apply to all unborn children.

****

As you can see, we don’t know everything. I remember a trendy poster from the early 70s: “Those who think they know everything are annoying to those of us who do.”

If we knew everything, do you think that sin would still exist? Would it have been necessary for Jesus Christ to come teach us, then die for us?

I believe that with the presence of Satan, yes. It would have been impossible to escape sin. We are all tested every day with temptation. As a new Christian who used to think he was a Christian but really wasn’t, I’m facing attacks by evil forces constantly. The devil does this because he hates your new faith. He sets monitor demons to spy on you since he isn’t all seeing or knowing like the Lord is. They tell him everything you do so he can accuse you in front of God.

I’m not worried. If God is for me, who can be against me? Those who oppose have no power over me unless God gives the word, and even then, if I hold tight to my faith, the trouble will pass.

I don’t want you to suffer from the tortures of Hell or life without the peace that only God can give you  through Christ, who has given his life so you don’t have to end that way.

Open your heart, not your mind, and accept the gift of eternal life with God in Heaven. Don’t give in to the hate that is all around you. Don’t repeat what evil people say. Don’t do as they do. Don’t trust them. They already have their final pleasures and Earthly rewards, but you will have to suffer before you get to Heaven, where there is no more pain, no more weeping, and no more hatred. Don’t count on God to be so merciful that He would never send the unrepentant to Hell. That’s not God. That’s just a lie. Satan wants you to believe it so that you become careless and sin to your heart’s content. God loves his children, but there’s a line past which you can never go except for eternity in a horrible place full of the worst things you can imagine. Don’t go there. Don’t give in to hate, bitterness, anger, or the sins of the flesh. You can have the power through faith and the sacrifice of Jesus to withstand any spiritual attack.

Thank you for reading. I pray that God will be with you, guide you, and protect you. Amen.

Entenmann’s Junkie

We start our lives with no bad intentions.

None. Nobody comes from the womb full of bigotry and hatred. Nobody.

Along the way through our lives, though, we get snagged. Different things jump in front of us, challenging each one of us in different ways. We discover our weaknesses, and we are easily overwhelmed by them. There are too many things to fight, so much misery around us. We get bogged down. Burdened. None of us is above the other. We’re just different.

Flaws, weaknesses, vices, it doesn’t matter. We’re not immune. An old quote attributed to Sokrates goes something like, “Always be kind to others; you have no idea what they’re going through.”

That’s a nice quote. I like it. There’s really no way of knowing whether Sokrates said it or not. Most quotes attributed to him bear little evidence to know if he, in fact, said them.

Sokrates was known to be a bisexual, and though he was married, he and Alkibiates had a very close relationship. Well. Until the latter became a traitor and sided with Sparta during the Peloponesian War. Then Sparta exiled him.

But Sokrates had a much better reputation than his lover. Unless, of course, you didn’t care for men who didn’t wash, walked the streets unshod in filthy garments, and who was known for publicly debating and humiliating politicians.

So far, not exactly a villainous guy.

Except, I can’t prove a thing I’ve just written. Ancient history is often recorded in a “dramatized” fashion, after all. Take Herotodus, for example. He was a historian who included the mythical in his writing. We can’t discount everything he wrote, but we have to take most of it with a whole box of salt.

My battles have been, to me at least, epic. But none of what I’ve written can be exactly experienced  as I have experienced it all.

Self medicating is a weasel expression that defines certain coping disorders after trauma. Addiction is what comes to mind when we hear it. It’s drugs and alcohol abuse mostly. Or smoking. I don’t think bath salts are high on the list. Or sniffing Testor’s glue. But yeah, they happen.

One of the most prevalent coping behaviors has to do with food. Eating too much, not enough, or eating lots of junk food.

Here’s one of my weaknesses: Entenmann’s cakes, cinnamon buns, and donuts.

It wasn’t always like this; it used to be fried chicken and Big Mac sandwiches. But somehow, all that changed. I was up to the Harris Teeter almost every day. I could go through a dozen Softee donuts in a day, easy. I don’t like their chocolate chip cookies, but I can tell you, everything else was fair game. Coffee and Entenmann’s cakes and donuts and everything.

The store rarely closes. Except at night, when the county comes to roll up all the streets. If I awake in the middle of the night and there’s no cakes, I’m in big trouble. That happened a few weeks ago. Something woke me up. Call it a perfect storm. Pain, plus a loud sound like someone knocked hard on my window (I’m sure nobody did, but it woke me up anyway. I think they call this “Exploding Head Syndrome,” a type of sleep disorder. And why not, I mean, I have every other sleep disorder!)

In the middle of the night, I awoke. I used the latrine and decided I didn’t really want to go back to sleep because if it happened again, I would not call it a sleep disorder. I would have to say that the backyard had a ghost and that it hates me. That’s when someone hapless as I am gets carted over to the psych ward for 72 hours of not having any fun at all. Or any Entenmann’s.

I went out to the kitchen to make some coffee. That’s when I remembered that I was out of Entenmann’s. NO! I can’t be without coffee cakes from Entenmann’s! No donuts. No cinnamon buns. I had nothing!

I didn’t look at the clock. I laced up my boots and got my jacket and hat and, of course, my cane because my leg arteries have been accumulating fat, sugar and nicotine for a half century, and I headed out. I didn’t even notice how dark it was. I walked all the way to the store only to find it closed.

A horrible panic invaded every cell in my body. But mostly in my head.

WHAT NOW? I screamed. I thought that I was only screaming to myself.

I wasn’t.

I was in front of the Harris Teeter screaming bloody murder. I didn’t notice that I was sobbing in between screams. Or that I had fallen to my knees.

QUIET!” a voice said. I replied “SHUT UP! I’M IN A CRISIS!

The homeless man on the bench around the corner isn’t the worst guy in the world, but he’s not very nice, either. He went quiet.

By now, I was sweating and shaking uncontrollably. I retched, but nothing came up. My stomach had never felt so empty.

By chance, my cellphone fell onto the sidewalk. The jolt made the screen light up. The time it showed was impossible: 02:15! That meant I had awoken around 01:15. What the heck was I doing out here?

That’s when a police cruiser pulled in parallel to the curb, and those blue lights started spinning like a ball in a disco. No, wait. They weren’t spinning like that at all. Why would I compare two such different things? It’s ridiculous; forget I said it.

I was driven to the hospital in handcuffs. Sweating, cold, shivering and shaking, I stared a mile away. I drew a blank when some intern asked what had happened. Some minutes later, I whispered, “…cake.”

“Entenmann’s…”

“Dough…”

“…nuts.”

“Crumb…crumb…”

“…cake.”

I could hear them at the nurse’s station: “…ever seen a case this severe?”

I tried to talk louder. It was nothing but a hoarse whisper: “Entenmann’s!”

They heard me!

“I know we keep a bottle for keeping patients from DTs, but are there any Entenmann’s?” asked a nurse.

“You know that the strongest thing we have is morphine,” another said. There was scorn in her voice.

“We can’t help him here,” the doctor said softly.

Instead of an ambulance, I placed in a truck

and taken here: the Bimbo Bakery.

I was going to emerge a reformed addict, they said.

They denied me donuts.

I couldn’t have coffee cakes.

No cake.

Nothing at all but these:

But once was enough. After three days, I couldn’t even stand the smell of cake. I was released after losing 10 pounds and lowering my A1C by fifteen percent. I was still an old man.

But I felt brand new…

So please, remember to be kind. You never know the battles someone’s going through.

Bud K is terrible!

Worst customer service experience I have ever had. If you order a second one of an already purchased product, they hold your order because they suspect fraud. This was going to be a gift, but I had to cancel. I’ll never ever shop at Bud K again.

I appreciate that someone might be looking out for my financial safety, but that was not explained to me until my third email reply. This is just bad service and laziness on customer service representative Gillian. I don’t like being insulted or answered with incomplete information. It was a bad enough experience that I won’t even buy their products through other sites. I’m going elsewhere.

For So Long, I Was Blind. This Video Was Refreshing

I’ve been wrong. Really wrong. As an excuse for a progressive, I have said the very things that they say, and in doing so, I have failed God and myself, dishonored myself, and promoted lies.

What scares me and hurts the most is that this confession will be seen by people I have loved and will always love as a betrayal. They will turn away, continuing to believe wrong things, and I will have been partially responsible. That hurts. That is frightening and I am very sorry. I certainly never wanted to cause that or any level of harm.

What I mean is, I meant well. I thought I was standing up for their rights. And in one respect, that’s true. Because we all have the God-given ability to think, choose, and act freely. But I held back. To be an advocate for people who exercised the right to choose and in order to oppose laws that oppress and the growth of fascism in our country, I chose to oppose God, who does not change, has never changed and never will change. From the beginning, His laws for us were clear. Jesus did not change those laws, and He was not silent about them. Now we see the truth about enablers throughout the last century in the West. Whole countries pacifying a section of their populations to the displeasure of God, and in the end, we see how harmful and reckless we’ve all been. Ironically, my change will be seen as a reversal of my convictions, a betrayal, and make me a writer of hate blogs and may even mark me as a potential hate criminal on some federal watch list.

But I’m not doing this with swearing or slurs. Haven’t you noticed that my words are no longer laced with curse words? I don’t hate anyone. Haven’t I said, “hate the sin, not the sinner”?

I do hate, in addition to the sin, the knowledge that many will be judged by God and found wanting. They will arrive in His presence without true redemption, even those who think that they have earned it. That hurts.

The road to hades is wide, well paved, and easy to navigate despite the heavy volume of traffic. The road to heaven is not like that at all. First, because it isn’t well paved. You can miss it completely and not know it. The entrance is marked well enough. But it looks less traveled. It’s down to only one lane while the road to hades can’t be missed. It’s wide enough to handle all the traffic we can fit. There are no lane closures, no safety cones, no toll booths, no speed limits, and no police.

The road to heaven isn’t like that. Not nearly as many people are going to choose it. It’s because we have to take up our cross and follow Jesus. That life is one of restraint, of self-control. That road means no luxurious living. No idolatrous possessions. No sexual sin, no hate speech. No violence. No theft. No twisting of the Bible to fit what you do.

And it means hating our own sins and truly repenting, truly being sorry for them and never wanting to repeat them.

Now, keep in mind that that super highway has a way off. Through our sorrow that we’ve sinned. And through the change that we must commit to if Jesus is to be our savior and our way back to that path.

I’m no longer a progressive.

I’m certainly hoping that our Supreme Court will not choose to block the prosecution of Donald Trump. And I’m certainly not voting for him. I will vote my conscience. That’s how I have to live. Even if the Democrats want abortion without there being an emergency circumstance and they support gay rights. Unlike politics, I stand with neither side.

I’m a Christian. That’s all.

And that’s enough for me.

Prayer

Lord, thank you for the chance to be here now to say this prayer for others and to offer a correction for my past words that displeased you and hurt others. I ask for your help in facing any revenge from Satan, but I know that you will be here through the Holy Spirit. I’m deeply grateful for that. And please let others see what’s going so wrong and how to save themselves by your grace through Jesus Christ, in whose name I pray. Amen.

May God bless you, and may you be well and safe in this new week. Remember that being gentle and loving toward others is always the best way to be. Be kind, please.

“There Shall be Earthquakes in a diverse Places”

Mark.13

  1. [8] For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows.

Is the End Near?

No human can answer, but we have been given clues. I’ve covered the wars and rumors of wars, but now let us dig in to see what significance earthquakes have in the prophecies written hundreds of years before Christ was born. Daniel spoke of

“If God Doesn’t Allow America to be Destroyed, He Owes Sodom and Gomorrah an Apology” –unknown pastor

At first,this statement seems like a foolish, blasphemous thing to say. But think about it: doesn’t it hit close to home? First of all, look at the entertainment world. There’s not one genre of music that has had their top performers left untouched. Katy Perry once claimed that she had sold her soul to the devil. And she’s not alone. She may have been “joking”, but it’s a terrible joke. Ye isn’t even of sound mind anymore, wavering between sanity and madness. Taylor Swift is a billionaire who claimed to be a “Tennessee Christian” but who mocks God by years of unmarried sex, embracing the LGBTQ and gender neutral community and shamelessly doing anything to keep herself on top. Here’s a tip for her: nobody is above God, and nobody stays on top. She will, like everyone before her, fall from favor. And she, more than most, is likely to take it personally and hard. Because it’s all about her. Everything is about her. How the mighty do fall. Always.

What makes her situation even worse is that she has developed a cult following called “Swifties,” and they probably would gladly kill someone like me who has suddenly seen what she really is. That’s a fanatical fan base that constitutes a cult. They don’t merely idolize her; they are so caught up that they forget God. She said that the Eras Tour has been the greatest experience of her life. If that’s true, then she never knew God, as she claimed. I’ve felt times since Easter filled with such happiness and peace, such as I have never known. My bitterness and anger are falling away. My fear is almost gone. This has nothing to do with mental illness; I have not changed medication regimens or used illicit drugs. I simply changed, and that’s because I opened my heart to God. If I called myself Christian before, then in reality, I was mostly wrong. The time had come for God to see the chance and open my eyes and heart, and being willing, I did. His grace is profound, life-changing, and miraculous. For the first time in my life, I searched for meaning with openness, and it was revealed.

Love, really love, God, Jesus, your neighbor, and yourself. Hate your sins and turn from them as you see the pure evil that they are.

HOLLYWOOD

Actors are a silly lot. One year they get out two films. Then you never see them again. Or not before a decade passes, and they’ve aged badly. Drugs, alcohol and more take a heavy toll. An action star in 1999 may still be around, but no longer fit for portraying an action hero. Maybe an aging crime boss or serial killer.

Music is full of satanic songs and images, and movies are on the same level. When I was a kid, most parents wouldn’t let their children go to any movie that wasn’t rated G. In the old rating system, a G rating was what most studios strove for; it meant it was fine for kids or families. General Audiences. You won’t see that anymore. Even Pixar movies are trash.

Even Star Trek went with the women-in-underwear scenes, and parents should not be okay with that.

The shock-horror movies like chainsaw flicks are plain evil. It seems rare to see anything that isn’t shocking, grotesque, and wicked.

I watched Disney movie when Herbie Rides Again and the Boatnicks were playing. And I liked them. Funny stuff. You can’t find them now. That expensive subscription is prohibitive. Who needs to make a conglomerate richer?

But the films today have jaded every viewer. They want lots of gore and sex. They’re getting it.

Every part of entertainment is trash. I’ve sampled Halo, Fallout, and Reacher, and there are no differences between those and other series out there. It’s all poorly written and follows generic formulas.

I’ve had to limit my TV time.

Even video games have begun to make me sick. In the Assassin’s Creed series, Jesus healed, not because he was divine, but because he had an Apple of Eden, an ancient artifact left behind by a precursor race who were the gods of myths. That’s not okay. That’s blasphemy. And though the games were produced in Canada, there’s a huge market for them in America. Around the world, too.

Books do the same thing. Fantasy books like Harry Potter give magic credit for solving problems instead of faith in God. My views…have changed.

Then there’s the false preachers and their mega churhes. It’s gotten worse. Some call themselves gods or God. Or Apostles. That’s just wrong. Some preach what’s called the “seed” or “prosperity gospels,” which bilk their own members out of money they can’t afford. The blatant premise is that if you give money to the church, God will reward you with your own riches. And people believe this. They do so because they want to. But so many deny that the pastors are not godly men and women. They don’t know better because their experience is limited. Inexperience with a church and the scripture leads to acceptance of sin. And sometimes,  people don’t know what a sin is. Or a scam.

But worse, is that to give their words weight, these pastors avoid preaching about the dangers of sin and smile at the cameras and say, “God will always love you without condition and he will never stop loving you.”

This is a lie. When the time comes for you to face him, he will not be loving. If you really believed that you could be a Christian and not give up your sins, and fail to hate your sins and repent, you’re wrong. Sin causes God a deep anger. He won’t hesitate to punish you. I was like that: a false Christian who backed a host of sexual sins as “civil rights” and “free will.” I was pro choice. I was many things, a foul-mouthed blasphemer who ignored far too much of the Bible. And I’m still a sinner, but I hate my sins. I can’t wait to repent. I’m still learning how this new faith has and will continue to change me. Every day can’t be a good day, but they’re a lot better than they were.

But this isn’t about me. I’m talking to you.

Uganda passed strict laws prohibiting homosexuality and same-sex marriage. Similar laws are in place in Zambia and Kenya. The United States tries to intervene, but the countries tell them, “think what you want, but stay out of our business as we stay out of yours.”

The arguments from the US politicians are eerie but somehow so weak as to be comical: “This is about human rights,” and little else but an explanation of what “The US” considers are human rights. Sure, I agree. People have free will to choose good or evil. But in the West, we’re promoting sin and have managed to normalize perversion. The Bible does tell us that certain things are wrong. Too many people mock the Bible and refuse to believe that same sex sins are wrong. But consider this: if you don’t believe that it is so, or you don’t believe that Sodom and Gomorrah were real and were destroyed, then your conscience is clear. But I ask you, if there’s even a chance that it happened, what do you think God will do to America, which is more populated? And easily more evil?

This is why I can’t see the events of the Book of Revelation involving the United States. By that time, the country may be so depleted of soldiers and weapons that it will be helpless to wage war or even protect itself. A tech war with China looms, and we’re already unprepared to fight back.

Don’t misunderstand me. I love my country. I love what it was supposed to be. I don’t like anything it does. And we might be,  for all we know, close to a hail of fire and brimstone. We certainly deserve it.

May you find peace with God, turn away from Satan, and find peace. Tough times are coming, and you will not do well without the Lord. Be well, be good to yourselves, and be kind to each other. God bless.

Wars and Rumors of Wars: an essay

Welcome.

If you’re like me, then sometimes you forget about things when they seem to vanish from the media. And maybe, like I do, you limit your exposure to the “news” anyway, trying not to find myself waist deep in the big muddy. I know that’s too deep for me. Step once more, and I can find myself way over my head with my ruck, my M-16, and steel pot, weighing me down and making sure I stay there.

So, like me, did you think ransomware had magically vanished?

The Guardian is reporting that in a speech at Vanderbilt University, FBI Chief Christopher Wray stated that a group of hackers associated with the Chinese government had been using botnets to overpower critical United States infrastructure and have compromised key systems. These include municipal water systems, power, and more.

This is nothing short of terrifying to me, but at the same time, it’s not at all shocking.

I’ve warned in writing since 2008 that China bore scrutiny, and in international politics, that’s a significant warning. Few seemed to notice. Now, here we are: systems compromised to the point that our infrastructure is a victim of what amounts to ransomeware. The thing being “ransomed?” Taiwan. They don’t want us interfering in their long-time determination to take Taiwan as their own.

What’s really happening: China has finally come right out and declared war on the United States. This war needs no bombs, no ICBMs, no aircraft, no navy, and zero infantry. This is well-planned and ready for execution, and the Chinese government claims no affiliation with Volt Typhoon, the hacking campaign. The government has deniability but doesn’t care if nobody believes that the hackers are operating on their own. That’s just words, but in underhanded politics and war, the words matter. How many humanitarian groups do you think will align themselves with the Chinese government to “prevent hostilities?” Oh, they’ll figure it out when all of New York City has all of its power turned off, and nobody in Los Angeles can draw tap water, and DC has every access to the internet gobbled up. And worse. Everyone’s forgotten about Flint, Michigan, so conveniently because the media reported that at that time, even worse water quality was on tap in multiple cities in various states. That story went away, too, and nobody cares. Or remembers. Watching Fox News is proof that people want to believe lies. Or spoon-fed like babies fresh off the teat. That they want to be brainwashed and not have to think for themselves.

I’m wary of all press releases no matter their source, but unfortunately, this one I have to believe. I knew a long time ago that China had been planning something dreadful. When Xi was “elected” dictator, I knew trouble wasn’t far off. Unlike other wars, this one is capitalizing on our lax trade restrictions with China. They make more microchips than we do. And the country making the most chips? Taiwan.

Taiwan is the leader

South Korea runs second

China is third

The United States is fourth in microchip production.

You thought we had the top position, didn’t you?

So did I. The subject doesn’t come up in many headlines. It’s not our fault. Blame a government so divided that legislation and enforcement are impossible.

When Trump was president, all we ever heard was how great he was and how unfair the “fake news media” was.

He wasn’t wrong, but he surely did twist it.

His administration marked a strange turning point in news reporting. Most “news” channels don’t even report the news. They have chained together shows hosted by opinion peddlers who try to, and usually do, influence the way we interpret the news. Based on our beliefs and emotions, we end up divided. We can’t even agree on the fact that breakfast cereals are basically poison. And that’s without dudes on the production line urinating in your Corn Flakes . Think that’s old, do ya, think it happened only one time? That fool took a video of himself doing it. Imagine how many do it without the visual creds. And I’m sorry I researched this one. Google did that thing where it shows possible ways your query could finish up, based on previous searches by millions of users. One possibility was “how does a man pee,” and I don’t know about you, but the fact that anyone searched this is scary.

But getting back to it, China is our biggest threat ever. The apps, like Tick Tock, are things I urge you to get rid of and never look back. The data, all of it, is downloaded to the owner in China, which, by the way, also infiltrated our servers. Don’t be deceived; if a Chinese company has your info, then the Chinese government has it. The least that happens is that they see the absolute worst of us and know we’re a nation of idiots; they have the proof. But millions of computers get compromised by this and other means. That 2,000 dollar gaming PC you own isn’t really owned by you but is part of a botnet their government is using right now, going to dedicated targets in over twenty pipelines. You can be owned and never know it. Games, even if they’re single-player games, still have to be played online. That’s a perfect storm. Once compromised, it’s nothing more than a bot. Not only can it be used that way, but also to get your personal information. Transactions, search history, habits, and those ridiculously awful videos you post showing your new jailhouse tattoo between your breasts right before you twerk, because twerking. An enemy that first does all the intelligence collecting is the mightiest of all, one to be feared. And we let them do it.

Capitalizing on teens and young adults who are reckless and have no shame, they’re in for keeps. We can’t stop the coming attacks. This is a war we will surely lose without immediate and drastic intervention by our government.

The problem is that people will scream that their rights are being violated and cause a real mess. When the Patriot Act was put in place,  few people realized that it was for the good of us all. We still have no idea how many terrorist attacks were prevented because of the act; that information is a part of our national security. For safety, we had to give some things up. After the Twin Towers fell, we agreed to it. Now, people shout about its evil nature. Now, we’re in this place of susceptibility to a tech war. It may not be one fought with bombs, but people will die. Imagine power in hospitals being cut off. Life support for premature newborn babies won’t work. A shooting victim can’t be saved by surgery. The freezers in the morgue stop. Vaccines and blood will go bad. No lights. The backup generator runs out of fuel because gas pumps are without power. Trucks can’t deliver oxygen. In 24 hours, every hospital in any large city is forced to send bodies to the basement where the stench only gets worse.

Traffic lights remain inoperable. Traffic accidents and backups get worse. Then they run low on battery power or fuel. The city shuts down.

One may think, come on, let China just have Taiwan, but do you really think that it would end there? If you do, you’re wrong. Give in to terrorists, let them know that you can be broken, and you guarantee that worse will follow.

Meanwhile…

The war in Gaza has not let up no matter how many civilians are killed; the war between Israel and Iran is being downplayed, which is concerning, and our response is tepid. President Biden condemned the Iranian attack on Israel, but it seems certain that this will embolden Israel to continue its war against Gaza. There can be no winners in these conflicts, which can easily escalate into World War Three.

Ukraine is weakened, and the Russians are gaining ground. If Ukraine continues to get no relief and supplies, then Russia will win within just months.

It’s not looking good.

The words of Jesus come back to me: There will be wars and rumors of wars...

Now is a good time to kneel and pray.

And get rid of Chinese apps.

Remember, you didn’t care. You were warned. We all were. But you and everyone else wanted your fifteen minutes of fame. Nothing could stand in your way; you had to show off your butt implants, piercings, or try to impress that girl in trig class by doing something that should have killed you but didn’t, and you wanted to make her laugh. News flash, it didn’t work. She didn’t laugh, she cringed, and now she’s so aloof that she might as well be in Australia. And you can’t get there from here. Oh, sure, the girls giggle by their lockers when you walk by, but it’s not in appreciation. Nope. You screwed up. So you immediately delete the video but it’s too late, and hundreds of people you don’t even know have downloaded copies. It’s like that topless selfie that Wendy Anderson sent to her boyfriend two years ago. He shared it with his best bud, who pushed “send all” and it can’t be deleted. It might even be on a porn site or two, and Ms. Anderson found out the hard way that whatever is done, is done. Forever.

The Anderson family had to move away after that. But in no town was Wendy safe. Someone found it. She had filled out, but there was no doubting that it was her in that picture. Old men propositioned her and she tried to complain. She found the photo on a porn site. Her parents successfully sued. But they found out that money can’t erase anything on the internet. Their daughter is in therapy and even occasionally hospitalized for suicidal thoughts. She’s on medication for life because PTSD of that level of severity doesn’t just go away. Like that one photograph, it is forever. How many lives have been ruined in this way?

You can look, but you can never know because of confidentiality laws. Teen suicide is a huge problem, and this type of thing adds to it. On Tick Tock, kids do the dumbest things I’ve ever seen. Engaging in drama is the least of it. I thought I was stupid growing up (I was; nobody is immune), but spur of the moment or impulsive acts on video are the very height of recklessness. How many times have you seen a report on a celebrity posting hateful things on X (Twitter) that they say is now deleted? Too late, dude. Half the country took screenshots and shared them with the other half of the country. Now, you can apologize until your fingers fall off, but who will believe you?

That is, unless your name is Taylor Swift, then everyone will believe it’s a deepfake. But you, nobody will forget. And words cut deep. They are every bit as destructive as mortars. Maybe worse. We’ll know when China makes the overtures in their tech war. Imagine how easily they can put deep hatred using social media between man and wife, best friends, or two countries.

REVENGE STORIES

One thing I had randomly pop onto my YouTube feed was what’s known as a revenge story.

I’m not sure whether the authors are all one woman-hating man or otherwise, but the stories are all narrated by AI voices.

They all involve a husband who gets the suspicion that his wife is cheating on him. Sometimes, the man has long suffered from the signs he’s sure are what he thinks they are. Sometimes, the husband is actually tipped off by a friend, a co-worker, or a family member. Sometimes, he finds blatantly careless clues. But every story has the common theme, and it goes like this: the husband converts their joint account into his own, sends them to “offshore” accounts, puts the house up for sale, gets the best divorce lawyer in town, a private detective gathers evidence, he secures sole custody of the kids or finds out they’re not his, and gets alimony and child support from the now-destitute wife, whose lover leaves her all alone. Sometimes the husband immediately stays in a hotel or apartment, sometimes he moves to the guest room, leaving her desperate to ease her suspicions that he knows and have “closeness” (sex) with him to show her undying fidelity and love. When it fails, she’s scared until the moment she’s served with divorce papers. Then, she tumbles into depression and begins to lose weight.

Some of these stories come from reddit and inspire dozens of copycat videos. The point is that men who read this rubbish tend to become paranoid, and that gains him a division between him and his wife, who gets tired of him sneaking around and trying to catch her. Marriage over.

Without trust, we cannot have meaningful relationships. It’s that simple.

Granted, marriage isn’t easy. And the wrong couple won’t last. And spouses do cheat on their partner. It happens. And it always has, but in this porn-filled, social media-dependant world, it seems more and more prevalent to me. Our society is full of people encouraging others to “experience life” and then watch their advice lead to ruin. Now, with all of this going on and texting or messaging letting people easily be tempted and then plan acts of fornication and adultery, don’t you think that a cyber-enemy can use all that? Of course they will. The reddit stories are one way. Ruin the family unit, one at a time, and you weaken the whole. Deepfakes are big in porn, and celebrities like Blake Lively are big on the list. I remember reading that the invincible Taylor Swift had some of her Deepfakes removed, but for every single one she found out about, there are infinitely more.

Imagine seeing your wife in one. Finally, we have to question what is real and what is not. Conspiracy theories abound as to our reality not being real at all, but a version of a “Matrix-like” simulation. They even link the Mandela Effect with “glitches in the Matrix.” Okay, now we’re really losing it.

But the time is coming when China and perhaps other countries will wage war with all of this. Personal information, images, rumors, and more. It will be the opening shots fired in true war, softening our resolve and even our cognitive thinking before emptying Wall Street, shutting down military defense, and leaving us unable to do anything about it. Get your minds out of the gutter, out of conspiracy theories about matrices (not having to do with advanced mathematics but conspiracies) and goofy YouTube videos. Wake up. Pray that God will grant you the awareness of what’s really happening.

The war that I believe I see looming will be worse than anything we have ever seen. Jesus said it would be like the days of Noah. People will be eating, drinking, and marrying or giving in marriage. They won’t care. While millions starve to death, including wee babies, the rich and powerful are turning away. This is the path to war. This is a time of social and economic upheaval, the like of which this world has never seen. Are you ready? Really ready? Because as far back as Joel, there’s a prophecy about the moon turning red:

“The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes.”

Interestingly, rust has been discovered on the moon. It’s spreading. On a body with no atmosphere, I don’t think I can explain it. Feel free to follow this fascinating phenomenon at your convenience. Who would ever guess that rust would form on the moon, visible and verified? It may not mean much. I don’t pretend to know. But what if it does?

Isiah chapter one:

The vision of Isaiah the son of Amoz, which he saw concerning Judah and Jerusalem in the days of Uzziah, Jotham, Ahaz, and Hezekiah, kings of Judah. Hear, O heavens, and give ear, O earth; for the Lord has spoken: “Children have I reared and brought up, but they have rebelled against me. The ox knows its owner, and the donkey its master’s crib, but Israel does not know, my people do not understand.” Ah, sinful nation, a people laden with iniquity, offspring of evildoers, children who deal corruptly! They have forsaken the Lord, they have despised the Holy One of Israel, they are utterly estranged. Why will you still be struck down? Why will you continue to rebel? The whole head is sick, and the whole heart faint. …

“The whole head is sick.”

That’s for certain. Porn, internet intrigue, slander, drug abuse, alcohol and tobacco… we’re all sick. But we are convinced that we are right. Festivals and rituals praising Satan are sickening to me. There’s nudity and sexual sin, paraded for all to see. Witches claim religious rights and attract many to their evil cult. We’re sick, alright, and the prophecy may have been about the Jews,but all of humanity is stricken. All truth is decried as lies, all manner of evil permitted. Human traffickers operate with no fear. And the United States is a prime target, already soft, already weakened by false preaching, or apostasy, turning people away from God instead of toward him. When will we learn?

Probably not until it is too late. The prophet Daniel wrote that near the end, people will go to and fro, seeking knowledge, and knowledge will increase. Well, you don’t need a library anymore; you have the internet. Search any subject. It’s there. Want to know the order of battle for Midway? You got it. A close recipe for KFC? Done.

The times of the last days are coming but not yet. Besides, nobody knows that. When Jesus told his Apostles that there would be wars and rumors of wars, and earthquakes in various places, he added that of the hour of the end, he himself didn’t know, but only God did. That means we’re to live the best we can and not obsess over it. But though I don’t obsess, I also see the storm clouds in the distance. Look at what we’ve done to ourselves. Soon, those towering clouds will get closer, and violent lightning will be seen. That’s as close as I ever want to get.

Cyber-warfare is here. And from here, it only gets worse. Now is the time to feel regret for those selfies and stupid Tick Tock videos. Repent of all you’ve done by first seeing how wrong you’ve been. Regret those things, hate them for what they can do to your soul after your body is finished, when God will have his own say. Fear God, who can send you to eternal anguish and pain. Only then can you truly help others.

Only then can your mind be made well again.

Goodnight, and God bless.

What you don’t see

I sit, waiting for a cardiac workup, convinced that I had a heart attack, trying to take it easy. But I can’t. I know that things are getting scary, and I wish I could help you. I wish I could comfort you. But I can’t. I am trying to scare you because things look bad. Israel continues war crimes in Gaza. Then comes news that Israel sortied F-35s to attack Iran. And Ukraine is losing its war with Russia.

Reports say that Chinese youths are giving up on life because of the repressive government committing human rights violations. They declare of their country, “Let it rot.” That’s an incentive to shake things up and start a war. So, yes. Scary stuff.

What I haven’t been seeing is that underneath any headline you care to pick, there’s something more evil. Something slimy. Vile. For all of you fans of Joel Osteen, Madonna, Taylor Swift, and thousands in entertainment and evangelism, I’m asking you to rethink what they do and say.

I finally got sick of the gender nonsense. You’re not gender neutral. Not binary. You’re one sex or another, and that’s it. I’m going to ignore those who look like a certain gender but harshly correct me when I politely call them “sir” or “ma’am.” I’ll do my best, but I’m not taking bullets for anyone’s misplaced identity. I’d be a hypocrite to say I’m a Christian and take the sins or mental illness of others as normal behavior or conditions.

I won’t be hateful or angry. I will not mock nor preach to them. I will remove myself from the situation. But I’m not playing that game anymore.

I oppose sexual sin as it is defined in the Bible. And that’s another game I won’t play: “Jesus never said anything about homosexuality.” Yes, but he did read from the scrolls of what’s now The Old Testament, and he fulfilled the prophecies about himself, and as he preached the New Covenant, he didn’t change it. All he said was, in Matthew 5:38-48,

38 Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:

39 But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.

40 And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.

41 And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.

42 Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.

43 Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.

44 But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

45 That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

46 For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same?

We are to love each other and give, and forgive; we must not hate people for what they do.

You can hate the sin, but you must love the sinner.

We all have trouble with this. But the point is that this is the only Old Testament quote he made that changed.

Of course, he did say that if, on the Sabbath, an ox stuck in a ditch should be rescued because farmers depended on their beasts of burden. I tend to view this as common sense, not a major change.

Maybe Christ didn’t condemn immorality by each specific name, but he did condemn it, going so far to say that if a man so much as looked at a woman with lust, he had already sinned with her in his heart. That’s far more specific than “Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

One question before I get back to my recess:

If you die tomorrow, are you sure that you will be welcome in Heaven? Do your actions, habits, or interactions with others really strike you as righteous and the things of a truly repentant person?

Think about it.

Joel Osteen says, “You’re already forgiven.” He leaves the part about true repentance and stopping your sins. In so doing, he lies. Everywhere I go, I hear people saying, “I know that if I sin, all I have to do is ask forgiveness.”

But will you be forgiven? Because God will not forgive a sin that you will not stop repeating, but will only forgive habitual sin that you truly regret and see as something evil and damaging, separating you from the Holy Spirit. This…is the most important decision you will ever make. So please think on it.

My life is not the same. I regret my words. I regret ugly thoughts. I regret my sins and fight temptation with God’s help. I don’t even use the F-bomb anymore. When I’m certain that I’m weak, I pray. It used to be hard to pray. I believed wrong things like Joel Osteen says. My life has a new normal. But I’m not haughty. I remain steadfastly more humble. I’ve lost friends and after this I will lose more. I’m sorry for this, but I don’t care if I lose every friend I have. I’m not going back to my old life.

Don’t mock God. Believe in him, and only him, the one true God, creator of all we see and hear and know.

Above all, be nice. Be a good example of a Christian. I do not believe that John Hagee, Joyce Meyer, Joel Osteen and most people in the entertainment industry are Christians. They have enough money that they have no need of nurturing the spirit through God. Taylor Swift is not a Christian. Madonna is doing everything that she can to mock God and work for Satan. Look away from these people and pray for them to see the truth. In the meantime, look after your own heart and soul. The way to Heaven is narrow and not easy to stay on. Guard your faith with all that you have. Don’t let evil people make you give it away.

A world war looks more likely all the time. Scary things are happening. You can live in that fear or have the peace that comes only from God. It’s up to you. But Jesus must be accepted first.

John 14:6King James Version

Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.

Beware, for the Dead Do Not Speak

One of the things I’ve always had a healthy fear of, even though I have been guilty of it, is using psychics, mediums, and card readers. Once, going through a Dundalk farmer’s market, I was walking aimlessly, just browsing about. For a reason I didn’t understand at the time, I got to a spot where I stopped walking. I wasn’t looking at anything; I just stopped and seemed to have no idea of what surrounded me. I can’t say that it was dissociative, as I have extensive experience with that. All I can tell you is that I drew a complete blank. I don’t know how long it lasted, either. I have no idea at all.

All I can say is that when I became aware again, I was looking at a beautiful woman seated at a table. An older woman was on the edge of my vision but distanced herself because whatever brought it on,  I was being seduced by the beauty of the one seated at the table. She was definitely of Mediterranean or an Eastern European descent. She had me under some kind of enchantment or spell, and it was mildly unpleasant. I was being drawn to her against my will. I didn’t notice that all sounds in the busy market had been silenced until she asked, “Would you like a reading ?”

I knew better than to have anything to do with divination. The Bible warns that such things are an abomination to God. My sister had once had a terrifying experience with two friends and an ouija bqoard. I never saw those friends of hers again. But she never told me what happened. She did get our father to throw it away. Trash collection day arrived, and while the truck was passed, she screamed. Our parents ran to her room. She was hysterical. The board was back in its place, on the shelf in her closet. Next, our father broke the board in two and smashed the pointer, or planchette. But the next collection day saw it back on her shelf in one piece. She screamed again, and even I saw it. But this time the old man had had enough. See, he didn’t like being scared. He hated showing fear even more, as if it threatened his position as head of the house. Or his “manhood.”

So on that night, a cold autumn evening, he built a nice fire in the fireplace. Again, the board “showed” its unwillingness to go. Now I can’t remember what color the flames were, but they were either blue or green, and in my mind, I seem to remember green flames consuming the thing. He even fed the box and the planchette to the fire.

It would be easy for me to add detail, but my memory only goes this far, and beyond that, it’s unreliable, and I’d be lying. I won’t do that.

What I can tell you is that evil wasn’t new to the house, but after that night, everything got worse.

Sexual abuse by both parents. Terrible abuse. Beatings no child should ever get. Verbal abuse and conditioning. I can’t speak for my 7 siblings, but I know none were left untouched. How it affected them, I can’t say. But my life has been quite messy.

I learned a lesson from those 3 screaming girls who ran screaming out of my sister’s bedroom on that dark fall afternoon. You don’t mess with the ouija. Over the years, researching the paranormal, that lesson was repeatedly reinforced.

Therefore, I have no excuse to offer as to why I sat down across from the beautiful woman and paid money for a card reading. But one thing I sensed was that the older woman was exercising power of some kind over me. I felt it, but I also knew it. It was knowledge. Intuition didn’t play any part in it. And that was scary. Really scary.

The cards came up. I was going to travel to a place I would not want to go. I was going to meet someone who would make me never want to be without her. I don’t remember anything else.

Except for the curse. Someone, she said, was very jealous of me. They had placed a curse on me. It would take 80 bucks for her to (privately) light candles and “say a few words” to break the curse.

I didn’t pay. Except, I did. Just consulting her was a grave sin. Bad things did happen, as if trouble hadn’t already dogged me enough in my life.

This is when I had my first heart attack at age 38. There’s a long list. But the point is, I’d done something, among other somethings, that brought the wrath of God and allowed demons an open door policy to harass me, which they absolutely did.

My sins were too much for me to think about. Sick things, mean things, perverted things. I’d occasionally say a prayer asking for forgiveness, but coming from a sinner who intends to keep sinning, it could only anger the Lord more. Only I didn’t see it that way.  I blame no one except myself, but I have never encountered again the power I felt drawing me to that woman. And I think that the old woman had much to do with it. She was strong. But she didn’t get her power naturally. It was pure evil.

Talking to the dead

This is especially offensive to God. We’re warned not to try, yet it has become a profession. TV shows glamorize it. YouTube channels specialize in it. Foolish people go to cemeteries at night equipped with spirit boards or are accompanied by mediums. You are forbidden this, but people unaware of how evil it is,do it anyway. Some feel a thrill and fear, especially teenagers and young adults. They even do it at 03:00, an hour best spent far away from such actions and deeds. In fact, even offering gifts like flowers to the dead is a sin. Once a person is passed away, they do not hear or see you. Flowers are money wasted. The effort and the visit are not just useless, but the places of the dead hold spiritual dangers you can’t possibly know until it’s too late. When we die, there’s no way to interact with the living. People who die and have out-of-body experiences are always sure to say that they rise from their body and can even look down and see it. None ever say that they spoke to a loved one and were heard. They all say that they’re helpless to communicate. That is, until they reach their destination: heaven or hell. When they are spared, this is something the experiencer always says. Most even say that they feel their detachment and lack emotional reactions to whatever is happening.

That’s a very clear indication that you shouldn’t try talking to the departed. Should you ever get an answer when you attempt it, you will not be in contact with anything human. You have in fact opened a door to the spiritual world. If you keep going, something will come through that door. Something just for you. And you’re not going to like it.

After decades of study, I can’t cite source material, nor would I reveal the identity of anyone who may have told me a personal story. Take my words to heart. People report being attacked both spiritually and physically by unseen or shadow beings, and even atheists have felt the need to seek a priest. A spiritual attachment happens when a demon is not allowed to possess you but does have permission to attack and harass. Sometimes, this attachment is as difficult to break as an actual exorcism.

What the demons could be are lifelong followers assigned just for you or a loved one. They can briefly look like a lost loved one, and they may, in extreme cases, talk to you through a spirit board and convince you by what it knows about the departed. That demon had followed the dead person around in life, unseen. It knows things. It will hook you into asking it more, which doesn’t end well if you tell it to show itself. It will not be who you’re expecting.

Instead of the dead, concentrate on the living, who you can help through prayer, faith, and a loving heart.

I used to wonder and worry about where my children went when they died. I would pray for their souls.

This was to no avail. It’s clear that they have gone to the places they earned during life. I must accept that and not dwell on things I can’t change.

Leave the dead alone. They are far beyond your reach. Except for funerals, stay away from cemeteries and other places of the dead. Because while you live, you can make a difference in the life or lives of the living. That’s a high calling and far more worthy of your time.

The New Christian, Mental Illness, and Sex

If you are a new Christian, like me, I am very happy for you. There are some things you need to know before you go another day. One is that the old ways may not go away from you easily with your new faith willing, full of happiness at your newly found faith.

There are a lot of pastors out there who will be very happy for you but turn out to be neglectful. They won’t tell you things that you need to know in order to grow through faith in God. There are things that will quickly rise up to take away your new peace and keep you separate from God.

The forces of evil, along with your old ways, can combine to stop you dead in your tracks. Do you have a habit you’ve found hard, if not impossible, to break? Is it part of your reason for turning to God for answers and acknowledging Christ as the one who takes away your sins?

And has some form of mental illness that kept you down still holding you in place, holding you like a prisoner?

Read on. This is for you. When I’m finished there are two videos I’d like you to watch, because I’m just not good enough to tell you the whole story of what you can do to avoid those snares that will be in your path.

Before you came to God, and before I did, it was easy. No sin was beyond our ability to do. We were ready to do almost anything. Any thrill, any crime, any act. Hey, we were up for it. Nothing mattered. Even if your wife or husband found out, that didn’t matter. A lie here and there, in the right spot, would make it go away. You thought, as I did, that you could lie your way through anything.

And we found out, didn’t we, that life just ain’t like that. A scorned wife or husband usually calls you out, and they will not forgive. In the movies, it’s different. But whereas a battered spouse will, out of fear and conditioning, stay with you, the cheated-on spouse never or rarely does. But sexual sin is especially difficult to align even in your own mind. You can’t get through it without guilt, that heavy feeling of regret, and knowing that you could have prevented it.

That never goes away on its own. You need Christ to wash a sin like that away. And if you have any kind of mental illness, it’s going to be more difficult. You’re not a lesser person than anyone else, but your circumstances are different and may make many things more difficult. You’re sometimes struggling just to live, and any extra problems that come up are almost impossible to bear.

I recently mentioned that because of my parents, I’ve had a lifelong addiction to porn. Magazines, 8mm films, DVDs, and finally, internet sites everywhere I go.

That is an enormous roadblock in your new quest to find and serve God. This is because of the mechanisms working in your brain while viewing porn.

The Oxford dictionary gives the act and definition of objectification as:

  1. the action of degrading someone to the status of a mere object.”the objectification of women in popular entertainment”

That’s it, exactly. I lied to myself. I told myself that I didn’t objectify women. It was a stupid lie; and I also said that it wasn’t their bodies I admired so much, but the whole person. I wondered who they were, what their lives were like, how they were doing. And it’s partly true; I cared about them more in recent years than when I was a teenager, sneaking the latest copy of Hustler Magazine into my room after work.

I cared. About trafficking and drugs and if they were willing.

But there was never a difference between the objectification and pretending to care about someone I’ll never meet. There isn’t any fine line between pretending to care and lust.

There can’t be. Something is either the truth or a lie. And the two don’t mix like you think they do. Mainly because God knows your every thought. We can’t hide from him even if we lie to ourselves.

And now it’s finally time to tell the tale:

In late 1994, after being separated from my ex-wife, I began an intense affair with a married woman. She shall never be named. But it began with infatuation, and the old hindsight would later tell me it shouldn’t have happened at all.

Because it was torture to us both, but when her family learned about it, they were understandably wounded.

The sex was as intense as our arguments. I kept asking her if we had a future. I got no answer, because of course we didn’t. But she wanted the sex to continue.

On and off for four years, this lasted. She used mental torment to keep me in line whenever I tried to end it. It was as sick and dysfunctional with her as it was with every woman I’d ever dated. In fact, it was the worst relationship I’ve been in except for the last girlfriend I ever had. Both became stalkers. I’d break up, and she’d send flowers. To my workplace.

This is but one of the reasons that the Bible warns us about committing sexual sin. Either one of those women could have killed me; others have died like this and will continue to do so.

For newly converted Christians, mental illness can take all the wind out of their sails. People like me who are gentle and fragile will attract those who seek out that fragility and exploit it. They see us as an easy mark, alone and vulnerable, and most of all, lonely.

And I do get lonely.

Thinking we are loved, we dive right in. And that person has a definition of love that is totally alien to the real thing.

Porn is every bit as bad, though, because you objectify others while engaging in fantasy and masturbation. Remember: God knows your every thought. You will be held accountable by God. Jesus warned that if a man looks upon a woman with desire, then he has already sinned with her in his heart.

The problem becomes one of focus, determination, and how well you can discipline your mind.

For guys like me, that’s a tall order. A lifetime has been spent in slavery to sex, lust, and porn. Having a mental illness makes it harder. Our minds are rarely disciplined. We are rarely able to focus. And our determination lasts until we see an ad for bikinis. Or a woman wearing one.

It’s curious that I have been so severely abused and yet pursued all kinds of perverted fantasies and desires. I should have ended up hating sex.

Schizophrenia is a disorder I know little about. I can’t speak to that. But personality disorders like helplessness can result in clinging to, or “smothering,” our romantic partners. We want to have someone who can take care of us when there’s trouble. Our greatest fear is abandonment. Once we’re in a relationship, that’s why we cling. And get jealous or suspicious always.

It ain’t no way to live, I can tell you that. It’s a prison in your own mind. And you make love into something it is not. Your partner will tire of you and never see you again, and the finality of it crushes you.

Bipolar disorder and post-traumatic stress are the worst. A person with the latter will never function normally for very long. This time, the clinging is more prominent, and sometimes total dejection follows you everywhere you go and shows in everything you do. Sex can be followed by a heated argument you start. It even gets worse over time. In the end, you will always push others away to keep them from doing it to you first because you know it’s possible, or you even see it coming.

Even the view one has about normal sex is up for grabs because you and I were raised abnormally.

In my case, it showed in high school that I couldn’t function sexually without looking at porn.

But mental illness does not mean that you are doomed. In time, with therapy, you can improve.

But you’re also a new Christian. This is a critical time for you. The forces of Satan will dog every step you take. Don’t be fooled: there’s really a battle being waged between God and Satan over where you’re going after death. Pray as often as you can, and ask your pastor to pray for you. Ask anyone to pray for you. The prayers of the righteous will help. I know,  I’ve seen the before and after pictures.

Jesus said, “If your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it aside. It is better to enter the Kingdom of God blind than to go to hell with your eyes.”

He was speaking about lust. If you see a buff guy on the beach or a woman in a skimpy swimsuit, look away. If you can’t stop, then don’t go to the beach. You have no idea how many times I’ve had friends say, “It’s okay to look,” never knowing that it’s really a dreadful sin that isn’t much different than actually committing fornication or adultery. According to Christ, those are the same things.

My suggestion is to seek professional help and spiritual guidance. If what you get are honest people, then you’ll get real help. Medication, therapy, and the help of a good pastor who always has time to counsel you. Give them a chance because it can take a while to find the right meds and therapists. Typically, you’ll need three weeks to determine if a drug is working for you. Pastors these days may not be prepared to offer guidance of any consequence to the new Christian. Did you know that a random survey showed that internet porn is viewed heavily by pastors? Yes, it’s true, and it’s a huge problem. That sort of pastor is in his own hell and cannot help you. Keep looking until you find one willing to talk frankly about your problems without sending you away with pamphlets that are of no help.

This is a fight between good and evil for your soul. You cannot afford to have a half-hearted person “helping” you or to make the same tepid effort yourself. But you can’t fight mental illness and lust and porn by yourself. You’ll lose every battle. Instead, turn to God for your answers and let him guide you.

And remember: most Americans don’t want to talk openly about sex in any truthful manner. Sure, they’ll talk about exploits, conquests, and adventures. But those are people to run away from. Whether you desire celibacy or marriage, you first have to know what you’re facing in Satan, the dirtiest fighter in all of history. Then you have to accept that if you fight alone, you will lose and lapse back into sin. Your only chance lies with God. When you decided to give your life to him, you may not have been warned about what lay ahead. That’s a big problem in churches today. They collect the trays full of cash but give nothing in return but empty words. I don’t care for showy churches with small orchestra ensembles and huge choirs. If they sell anything like CDs of their own sermons on your way out, don’t go back. I compare this greed with what Jesus found in the temple courtyard. It’s thievery and a scam. And the pastors probably ogle every woman in that church without an ounce of remorse. None of this is okay. Flee from that church as you should flee from a nightclub, a place you, as a Christian, don’t belong.

Prayer

Abba, please help all who suffer and look to you for help, give them the strength they need, not to fight lust, but to run from it. We praise you and thank you for the gift of Jesus, in whose name we pray, amen.

May the Lord help you, bless you, and go with you this weekend and the week ahead. May peace be with you. Amen.

Peace is Not an Affliction

Warning: This essay contains a discussion of sensitive themes, including child abuse, drug abuse, pornography and suicide. It contains a link and an emergency phone number for people who may be contemplating suicide. Please proceed with care.

The other night, I watched a video on YouTube. Well, I tried to. I didn’t quite make it.

The title was “Two Vietnamese Girls React to Full Metal Jacket,” and, like a fool, I clicked on it. I think they skimmed past the expletive-filled intro, which showed off the talent, experience, and intensity of R. Lee Ermy, a Marine veteran who served in the Vietnam War and also was a real Drill Instructor. The part was going to be (or already had been) given to another actor, who eventually played a crazed door gunner who would, in flight, shoot civilians working rice paddies, while Ermey went after and got the part of Sergeant Hartman, the senior DI.

Sadly, Boot Camp is the only part of the film worth watching, as the Vietnam sequence is dreadful. So dreadful, in fact, that Kubrick didn’t even bother to move production to the Philippines, where the jungle settings and ruins would have at least been convincing. Filmed outside of London because Kubrick disliked traveling, he imported some palm trees and secured permits to use an out of service industrial complex. From the start of the Vietnam sequence to the end of the movie, it was complete garbage. Even historians don’t give it good ratings because they’re not fooled. Show a history professor a movie like that, and what you get is hilarious.

The young ladies lost me when the setting was early in Boot Camp. The sergeant has the men doing a double-time cadence. Part of it was, “Ho Chi Minh is a son of a”–

I get it. Okay, I really do. They shouldn’t have watched this movie. Mainly because it’s crap, and Platoon is a better choice, and The Siege of Firebase Gloria is even better because experts from both countries collaborated, and it kind of portrays a shorthand and dramatized account of Khe Sanh, but set during Tet.

That one features Ermey and Wings Hauser in excellent performances.

Well, as you can expect, the ladies were up in arms: “No, we don’t want to hear this. We were invaded.”

Don’t tell me now that Uncle Ho is revered, when he was cast aside during the war like trash.

I couldn’t go any further. It’s just a movie. You weren’t even alive then. Yeah, I get that the scars of parents and grandparents have been vocalized and taught in schools. And I get that both countries were waging a horrifying war. Being that I’m still studying it, I know that no single book has ever been able to contain everything about it. There are two ways an author can approach this problem: cover the operations and order of battle details or concentrate on the more intimate accounts of the men and women who fought it.

Many authors have tried both. They always fall short. It can’t be done. That war killed us all just a little bit. And I don’t like it any more than these women. I’m aware of the horrors. But I’m still an American and a veteran, and I don’t like hearing us accused of being the sole villains here. That’s not true. So you don’t want to hear the cadence. I hear you. I don’t blame you. You have the right to believe whatever you were taught. But you weren’t taught the truth.

And that is as far as I go. I’m sorry that it happened, but it did. If you’re triggered by such movies, don’t watch them. The war is over.

And this is where I wonder, just what is it about humans that they can’t seem to tolerate peace.

I have absolutely no dislike for any race, culture, country, or any single person. That may seem like a lie, but I’m being honest about it. Why should I hate? I may hate what people do or say, but I don’t hate people. First, I’ve been warned not to judge the person because I’ll be judged the same way.

Second, hatred is bad for you. Anger, hate, bitterness, and envy are our true mortal enemies. They eat you until you are consumed. Until all that’s left is evil. That’s no way to live.

I’m not judging the women on the channel. They don’t know the full history. And patreon subscribers egg them and other reaction channel personalities on to watch certain movies that they hope will be disturbing to the person or persons watching and reacting to such movies. My favorite is still “Popcorn in Bed,” and Cassie truly reacts to things in an emotional way that touches me. But I saw that someone had put to the vote an excruciatingly bad piece of garbage titled “The Human Centipede,” and that’s just her Patreon subscribers trying to hurt her. No. I have not watched it myself. But I’m aware of what it is, and I know better than to watch it.

What’s with all the cruelty out there?

I’m reclaiming my right to ask, based on my recent experience. I’ve looked back at how cruel I have been, and I deeply regret what hindsight reveals. Even as I wrote about my life as an A-hole, I didn’t think it was as bad as I now know it was.

Since Easter, I feel differently. Like a dark veil has been lifted from me, a heavy, blinding burden I have carried all of my life. People are very important. They’re precious to the Lord, and I love them.

All life is sacred.

But we don’t act like it is.

And the right I reclaim is to ask again, why can’t humanity tolerate peace? What is it that drives us to kill and cause pain to the living? What gives us the right?

Earlier, I walked up to get a coffee and some smokes. I am trying to quit smoking, and I know that I will because I hate it. I just need a bit of time.

I walked past the flag, our flag, the Colors. I rendered a hand salute. Veterans, as well as soldiers out of uniform, are forbidden this simple act of respect for our country. I did it anyway. It’s a stupid rule, and I reclaim my right to salute. I love my country no matter how I’ve criticized it. Being a critic is a civic responsibility. But you still love your country. You just want what’s right for it.

I’m proud of our service men and women. I always greet them as I did to a soldier I passed on my walk: “Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for your service.”

It makes me feel better when I see them. They stand tall. They have pride that shows in the way they walk. It’s good to see.

I greeted several people as I sat on the bench with my coffee and a cigarette. The clouds tried to conceal a very deep blue sky, and that, along with pain throughout my body down to the soles of my feet told me, not yet. Friday might be pretty wet, though.

I feel so much better around people. I’m not afraid anymore. I remember being married and paralyzed with intense fear to the point I couldn’t even go grocery shopping with my wife. She thought I didn’t want to be seen with her because she was overweight. That was never true; I loved her. She never understood how damaged I was, and neither did I. I was frustrated that I was so dysfunctional. And that I couldn’t articulate it.

And I’ve been trying ever since to figure out the extent of the damage, and so have my doctors. Over the years, since 2005, I have frustrated them with how they saw me present. They should see how it looks to me. It ain’t pretty.

I’m finally getting a therapist again. It only took since 2012. Her name’s Janie, and I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never met a Janie I didn’t like. In fact, that was the name of my father’s first wife. And since she dumped him in record time and vanished from all critical records, I have to say that I will always respect her. She knew he was a monster. She blew the scene and covered her every footprint. I’m afraid, though: he damaged too many people in his life. A sick man with demons crawling on him like chiggers on a deer hunter during Indian Summer.

He and his third wife, my mother, sure did a number on me. On this very site, I have told most of the story, but I have also gone from being positive on one post to a doomsayer the next. I hope you can forgive that, but I’m having a very difficult time with it.

Sometimes, people can’t get over their wounds. That’s because those wounds don’t heal like others do. A broken heart? I’ve heard of doctors who swore that they lost patients that way. I don’t need to swear. I know it happens.

But the wounds a severely abused child carries into old age, that’s a very different thing. And yes, it takes the wind out of you. Every day, you swear you’re drowning. PTSD causes much more than flashbacks, and while those are bad, the nightmares, insomnia, self medication, and reckless lifestyle are there as well. With those come panic attacks that make you feel as if you’re drowning without water at the end of the world, IBSD, chronic headaches, and eventually suicidal thoughts, many of which are so tragically realized. All played out against the backdrop of still more, because it’s everywhere.

In my porn adventures (which are over), I’ve seen incest become a growing theme, from role play to what’s unquestionably real amateur videos. Written stories are lurid and protracted. Snapshots are posted. I know, I’ve done the research. I know that for lots of people, it’s a fantasy, but no sexual fantasy should ever, ever come to be a reality. It never ends well. Not even “adventures” between consenting adults.

But I was so stuck in such dark places that I felt hopeless for most of my life. I hated myself. No amount of prayer, therapy, or drugs could change that. I’ve felt so dirty. I needed porn just to have real sex. All because my parents showed me and one sister 8mm movies which gave me a taste of what they then forbade me. I wrote about this and guess what happened?

Yeah. I found a story on a porn site. Like the stories you used to see in Penthouse Forum. And it was exactly as I told it, only with more detail, and it made me sick. Because the little kids in it were willing and enjoying it. Children that age don’t even have the capacity to consent.

So I grow up, and I’m in one stormy relationship after another, hurting the girlfriends who loved me, driving them away. And I have a marriage turned sour, two children I’ve outlived, and here I am, lonely, but in recovery or rehab.

I got up from that bench this afternoon and started the walk home. And as I cleared the walk past which point there were no people, my good mood turned sad. I felt lonely and depressed.

A decade ago, if I felt like that, it would stay. I might attempt suicide. As a matter of fact, I did. Three times. I was on life support that last time. Only by the grace of God can I be here with you now.

Instead of trying to kill myself, I should have pushed on ahead, no matter how much it hurt.

Today, I kept pushing. It was worth it. Here’s why.

Aren’t they so beautiful?

I’ve learned that there’s always room in my life for one more step. One more minute. The minute turns into an hour. And that hour can turn into one more day. It’s hard. You don’t think. You just do it.

You find pockets of beauty. Good people. Take that and keep it in your heart. They can make life worth living. That’s what I’ve learned.

But not everyone gets to learn that. We’re all different, and to another, our lives don’t look bad to them. And it’s just that kind of thing that decides it for too many people. Nobody understands. Nobody listens. In your darkest hour, even God doesn’t hear you. Or maybe you refuse to listen to him. Maybe you don’t believe in him. And you’ve already been hurt so much, so many times that you can’t let anyone get close to you, and no matter how much they seem to like you, you ditch them before they get the chance to give you any more pain. I’ve been there.

Maybe you think the odds are against you. And maybe you think that others have targeted you, or someone close is offended by you, something you said or did pushing you away. You’re afraid you can’t risk another hurt. You have a collection of hurts, you carry them with you, hidden from sight. But you act on those hurts. And others will not understand that. You draw attention, but not the good kind. People look at you funny. Like you really need to blow that booger out of your nose, or your zipper is down. Or you have a nip slip. Or you just stepped in dog poo.

Or….

Or do you just think that they’re looking at you funny? Might they not be looking at you at all?

All it takes is a misfire in your brain. One fraction of a second, but it stays there, like the beating of your heart. I’ve been there, too. Getting help and getting dialed into the right drugs, plus support and counseling, is a great place to start.

But you have to want it. Otherwise, you strain at the bit. Otherwise, no help can come to you.

If you reach a point where you’re feeling so bad that you don’t want to live, then you’re in trouble, and you may actually do yourself harm.

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I don’t want you to leave us that way. We are far better for you being in this world than not. You’re special, unique. There’s no other like you in this universe.

Every single day, we lose over 130 people in the United States to suicide. That’s one every ten minutes. I’m sorry. There was so much potential and promise in them. Don’t make us have to live without you as well.

I’m not going to say what those who are numb to your feelings and heart say, like “you’re being selfish” or “think about someone besides yourself.”

Because I know. I’ve been there, and selfish is the last thing you’re being. But it’s you I care more about, not so much as them. You’re in trouble. You may feel unloved (I love you) or dreading some looming event or consequence. Maybe you’re in an abusive relationship and you’re at your breaking point. Maybe you’re afraid to leave, afraid of what they’ll do. Or drugs have too much of a hold on you. Maybe porn has ruined your life. And your diagnosis doesn’t matter to me. I’ve known and lived with every kind there is, including some insane criminals. Trust me when I say this: there is nothing that you can tell me that will change my conviction that you are precious and you deserve to live. Nothing will change my assertion that if you have faith and ask God for help, you’ll get help. I know. I’m more at peace than I have ever been in my life. I wish I could convey what that means to me. It’s a new and very empowering feeling.

I will be continuing this subject. Not enough people talk about mental illness from the viewpoint of one who has it. We all need to fix that.

If others, if humanity as a whole cannot tolerate peace, then I can. And it’s worth everything I’ve gone through that brought me to it. Had I not known such violence at an early age, I would not appreciate the peace I now feel. I might have turned into someone who couldn’t tolerate peace because they can’t appreciate it.

May you know peace, and may God bless you.

Prayer

Abba, thank you for giving me this time and means to try to help others through you. Thank you for my trials, as they have made tender my heart. Thank you for your son’s awesome sacrifice. May others come to you in search of peace and the atonement of sins Jesus paid for with his blood. To those who ask, please give, and to those who seek, may they find you. They’re good people. I pray that they will find hope and comfort in you. Amen.

Nazis in Hell

Bryan Melvin just gave me another reason to want to stay well clear of hell. First, I don’t like anyone he met.

In 1942, a man was killed in Prague; an assassination ordered by the exiled Czechoslovak government. If memory serves, he was killed in a car. However much they wanted to kill Hitler’s own “Man with the Iron Heart” because of his past deeds (he had ordered the bloody Kristallnacht, or the Broken Glass Night, [var.] Night of the Broken Glass in which Jews in Germany and Austria were dragged from their shops and houses and murdered. He was involved in the Wermacht and Kreigsmarine, the Nazi air force and navy, respectively; and a chief “architect” of the “final solution to the Jewish Problem.” Before his assassination, he had already killed over one million Jews.

Heydrich was so depraved and bereft of human nature of any kind that resistance fighters were tasked with his specific rub out.

After his death, the Nazis mistakenly targeted two towns as being responsible for staging the soldiers for the attack. The villages stand to this day as ruins, even if they were later rebuilt nearby. The razed villages stand as a memorial to every citizen, men, women, and children, whom the Nazis killed in revenge.

I don’t know if Wewelsburg, the castle where Heinrich Himmler was determined to raise Aryan knights from the dead, was ever visited by Heydrich, but I can tell you this: he would have been right at home. Dark cultist rituals were supposed to have been done there, but I didn’t find credible records to verify this, and I never have. With those two men, there died many horrible secrets.

Bryan Melvin contracted cholera. He flatlined and went to Hell, not Heaven. He saw terrifying creatures doing incredible things, and do you want to guess who he saw along the way?

Yup. The Man with the Iron Heart. He says he saw several Nazis but also saw Hittler being roasted in one of those ovens. Yeas, the Nazis burn in Hell. Recyclable charcoal.

And, like Bryan Melvin, I, too, see the world returning to antisemitism and persecution. It’s fine to want to condemn the war and to want all hostilities to stop at once. But it’s been completely out of my experience to hear this much antisemitism in my own country. This war will not stop just because you support terrorists or Nazis, both of which consist of fanatics who shouldn’t be allowed outside. It won’t stop because it’s never stopped. It never will.

But Bryan Melvin knows what he sees: Christian persecution along with terrorists dragging Jewish children across the border in dog cages.

Melvin learned a lot of things on his guided journey through hell. He was an atheist who returned a changed man. A man of deep feelings and convictions who feels he’s been called to share his experience with everyone who has an ear to listen: “Repent! Make way for the son of God!”

I never meant to persecute Christians. But in calling out what I consider false Christians for extremist conservative views and hate speech, I failed to look at myself. Committing the same sins over and over again, thinking if I asked for forgiveness, I would actually be forgiven, was telling myself a lie and choosing to believe it. I also lied to you because I wasn’t forgiven. If you don’t hate your sin and sincerely want to stop, you will not be absolved. I was as bad as they are, or worse: I knew better.

I’ve had to let go of many things in my quest for redemption. Addiction is the hardest of all. Everything has to go: sex addiction,porn, gambling, alcohol, drugs, voyeurism, and more. These things caused me to be separated from God until I could see the truth and truly repent and want to stop everything I was doing.

Am I telling you to be a monk or a nun? No, but those are honorable things to be. I’m saying there’s a difference between believing in Christ and courageously fighting temptation. You need both. They work in tandem. You need the Holy Spirit to surround and protect you, but you have to want its help.

And cherry picking from the Bible is not okay. What if you dismiss something that you need to keep believing in?

As far as I’m concerned, the evidence for a global flood told me not to scoff at accounts because others told me those were impossible. I’m also convinced that God has more than enough power to make anything happen. If you believe he created the universe, you should go from there.

I’ve heard and read about Christians who rule out the Old Testament because they don’t like the dark stories it contains. They may not like the Old Testament, but it isn’t safe to ignore it. Choices made with bias lead to the wide path that takes you to hell, while a bit of patience and prayer may save you from it. I can’t bear to think of people’s souls being lost to false teaching, changing the doctrine from peer pressure, and being inconvenient for the believer to live by.

Please watch the following video. I trust God to speak to your heart through it.

God bless you. Thanks for letting me be a small part of your day. And please follow Touching the Afterlife on YouTube. She’s a good Christian and excellent interviewer, so go show some love.

My Search for Redemption

I was having a rough time this morning. I had it almost set in concrete that I was going to do something. Something I knew was wrong. I asked God for help because I knew I didn’t have the strength myself to resist such a strong temptation. And then, by some chance, looking for something very different, I found the 40-minute video below. I encourage you to watch it. Now, the moment has passed, and I’m free to take on the next challenge.

Not that I’m looking forward to one, but one will not be long in coming. I’m not proud of myself. I didn’t do anything except ask for and be open to help. I don’t hate myself anymore. I accept the challenge. I have to.

While writing my post for Easter, I lost interest. I moved Part One back to draft status and ceased work on Part Two.

I’ve been having a difficult time keeping focus and faith. I’m sure you know how that goes. We all do.

But what happened is that in trying to find my strength, I realized how weak and small I really am. I couldn’t do it without help. In the past, all the things I did were useless. My effort to reach out to survivors with hope were tainted by my own frame of mind. Was I really doing something good? I don’t know. I wrote that if I had low stats as far as views, it didn’t matter, so long as something I wrote helped someone. Even if I never got to know if I helped. But the thing that bothers me is, I was always in the picture. It’s been about my life, this memoir of mine, but I got carried away. Lost my way.

Then, I realized how lost I had been since the beginning. Mental illness is a tough affliction, and much of the time, I was failing to get how sick I’ve really been or notice how it affected my work. My anger and indignation show in every line I have written. I offer no excuse, and I’m aware that most of my followers don’t bother anymore. I know this because getting one or two views a day or less is normal. I’m not reaching anyone anymore.

But that’s okay. I understand. I’ve posted some good stuff and some awful stuff. My dream of being a writer goes no further than this blog. The “cursed novel” will never be read. I will destroy it because I have known for a long time that it felt wrong to me, whether it was good or not. It felt blasphemous to me. That same conviction haunts my work here. Without reminding followers or mentioning to new readers that mental illness figures prominently in my everyday life, I often turned people off. And, while I’ve never felt that I had the right to take a pass because of mental illness, it does affect what I write because it’s part of who I am.

Maybe it’s not my fault that abuse shaped who I was. But that doesn’t mean I get a pass now. Being aware of problems means we have to fight them, right?

Well, my words have done far more harm than good, and I’m sorry about that. It’s not why I write. I ask you for your forgiveness if anything here on this site caused you pain. I have no excuse. Words hurt.

At the end of March, my health care worker notified me by text that I had an appointment. The next day. That’s cool. It’s telehealth anyway, so no stress. But the next day, I didn’t get the usual text for a link. I called the office, and it wasn’t supposed to be for that day; the appointment was the next day. I texted my worker that it was the wrong information. She apologized profusely, apparently unaware that I’ve never cared about little things like that. I texted, “I’m gonna get you back for this. Little early for April Fools Day, innit? When you least expect it, expect it.”

She wrote back,”Why be evil? I’m under a lot of pressure and words hurt…”

I sprang the trap: “Got ya! Hahahaha!”

A couple of minutes passed. She sent a smiley face. I had to remind her to lighten up. She’s overworked and underpaid for such a good and caring person in that job. She’s rare. The next day, she started her vacation. Haven’t seen her since. I hope she comes back, but if not, I’ll know why. A vacation is often difficult when the last day is up. Hours pass like minutes. A tired body isn’t ready yet, and the mind can’t handle jumping back into the pressure cooker.

But I had to try to get her to loosen up. She had never called me “evil”  before. I was kidding, and she didn’t catch on, despite knowing me better than that. The lesson I learned was to watch every single word, written or spoken, that comes from me. To never have anything that could be taken as having a different meaning come from me.

Words can do great damage. I don’t know how many I may have hurt in my posts, but I am sorry.

The choice is always mine. I admit I enjoyed being critical of Taylor Swift, but even though the media is mostly the prime perpetrator in her attention, she does revel in it, and a person cannot serve two masters: God and fame. Her claim to be a Christian falls flat with me.

So does my own claim. I’m taking that problem on right now, every day, with the courage and determination that can only be strengthened by God. In my quest to regain honor, I forgot about him, and in so doing, lost my way completely. The answer to overcoming anything was always God. In writing Part Two of my Easter posts, I was hit hard when writing about Christ seeing and being punished for every sin I had ever committed. The full meaning hit me like a train. God knew before I was even born every single word I’d say, every evil thought I’d have, every bad thing I would ever do. Hecknew how I would use my freedom of choice. But he loved me so much that his one and only son was sent to be sentenced and executed in my place. And yours.

I felt deep shame. For the very first time in my life, I knew what it meant to repent. It’s important that I tell you it’s nothing that I thought it was.

It doesn’t mean asking for forgiveness. It doesn’t mean that if I did that, I could sin again and repeat my prayer.

It means that God doesn’t tolerate or forgive me of a sin I have no intention of stopping. My apologies were not accepted. They were useless words.

Redemption can only come when I decide to face, not avoid, the shame that comes with sinning. I have to face the sting of that shame and truly, honestly, fight temptation and not have the desire to commit a sin again because that’s not okay. To hate the act, to really mean it when I pray for forgiveness, that is when it will be forgiven. That’s when God can help me. I will ask for help and get it. Because I’ll honestly want that help.

I’m in that battle with myself and the devil now. This is a fight I can’t avoid. I can’t throw the towel in either; I have no desire to ever see Hell. I want to be with God. Because I know the things he’s done for me, and I love him for that and more.

I search and thirst for redemption, for without it, there is no honor.

Only Hell.

The First Easter part 1

Even atheists know how Yeshua of Nazareth was executed by Rome. Let’s talk about the parts most people get wrong, including scholars.

In his language, his name was Yeshua, a name very like “Joshua,” and we get “Jesus” from the ancient Latin translation.

All of  what we know about him comes from the canonical gospels; in other words, the accounts of the New Testament in the books of Mathew, Mark, Luke, and John.

While they do differ, I consider all to be as accurate as possible. Even if you dwell on when they were written and dispute their accuracy based on that alone, remember that the first Christians were hunted and persecuted. The Apostles all died as martyrs in all likelihood, but not before writing and telling the story to others. Therefore, I have always believed them.

It’s important to first understand that the Messiah was spoken and written of by the prophets of the Old Testament. For example, Isaiah chapter 53 says something extraordinary:

KJV

“53 Who hath believed our report? and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?

For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him.

He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed.

All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.

He was oppressed, and he was afflicted, yet he opened not his mouth: he is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so he openeth not his mouth.

He was taken from prison and from judgment: and who shall declare his generation? for he was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgression of my people was he stricken.

And he made his grave with the wicked, and with the rich in his death; because he had done no violence, neither was any deceit in his mouth.

10 Yet it pleased the Lord to bruise him; he hath put him to grief: when thou shalt make his soul an offering for sin, he shall see his seed, he shall prolong his days, and the pleasure of the Lord shall prosper in his hand.

11 He shall see of the travail of his soul, and shall be satisfied: by his knowledge shall my righteous servant justify many; for he shall bear their iniquities.”

Eerily accurate

This chapter describes a suffering Messiah. The Jews usually took it as such until well after the Christian doctrine included it.

Isaiah also predicted that the Messiah would come as an infant born of a “clean” woman. In other words, a virgin.

And this happened. Only one gospel describes the event, but it happened. There may be other accounts not yet discovered, which also give the story of Mary and Joseph, but what we have so far aligns with the prophecy.

And so we have Yeshua of Nazareth. He recruits 12 apostles, and for an unknown time (about three years), they travel on foot, teaching and learning while their master heals the crippled and the blind, and lepers. The stories of his deeds and his moving words of mercy and hope spread rapidly. Crowds gathered to hear him speak of forgiveness and the love of God for his children.

He often told stories to illustrate what he meant. One favorite is the story of the prodigal son: a father had two sons. One day, one of them said, “Give me that portion of my inheritance now,” and the father did. As time passed, the son lost all of his money on pleasures of the flesh, and he was soon broke. He tried to find work, but he was treated badly. Finally he though that even his father’s slaves were treated with kindness. So he went off to find home and ask to be a slave. But his father saw him coming and noticed his shabby, Wan appearance, and his heart was filled with pity. The son who had wasted the money never had to ask for scraps or employment. His father wept for joy that his son was returned, and told the servants to clothe him, put a ring on his finger, and to kill the fatted calf in order to celebrate his son’s return with a feast.

Meanwhile, the son who had remained with his father returned from the day’s work and found out the reason for all the gaiety. He was upset and said, “You’re giving a feast for him after he squandered what you gave him, the fatted calf for celebration, yet you’ve never even given me a kid (juvenile sheep) to celebrate with my friends!”

The father explained, “You are my son, and you have always been with me. All that I have is yours. But your brother was lost, and now he is found! He has come back home!”

Jesus tried to tell us that we had (and have) wandered too far from the lighted path God set for us, and should we wish to return, we will be welcomed and forgiven.

The Ministry of the Nazarene held much to think about, and many believed in him. But the growing crowds and the stories of casting out demons, and even worse, raising the dead, and feeding a large crowd with some fish and bread, well, this was all getting back to the high priest in the temple at Jerusalem. To the mind of Caiaphas, this Yeshua was really causing trouble. Late in the ministry of Jesus, the high priest was alarmed, shaken and paranoid that his absolute rule over the religious requirements of the law would be questioned. And paranoid men act accordingly.

On what we call Palm Sunday, Jesus came to the city riding an ass, or what we call, a donkey. This fulfilled a prophecy.

That day began what’s known as the week of the Passion. It would end with the execution of Jesus.

It didn’t help much that Jerusalem was crowded with the faithful who came to celebrate the Passover and the greedy merchants who would prey on them. This was the worst possible time for what happened next. Jesus saw the temple courtyard crammed with money changers who converted foreign coins to what was acceptable. They took in a handsome profit in the exchange. He also saw something worse. Merchants who sold doves and sheep for the sacrificial offerings to be burned on the altars who also profited because once inside, the priests decided which animals were pure enough. If there were blemishes or other visible signs of imperfections, those animals were refused. This caused the worshipper to need a new animal for sacrifice for the atonement of sins. Most couldn’t afford another purchase and believed that they would be stricken by God as punishment. This fear, more like a terror, could absolutely ruin anyone. Their hearts were in the right place, but they had been lied to. The fear alone often kept someone in line, and if that didn’t, then fear of the Romans did.

Rome had moved in to capture Judea around 65-60 BCE, and it was Herod “the Great” who was an Edomite but tied to the royalty of his mother, who was perhaps of Arabic descent from Petra. When he was friends with Mark Antony, then his foe Octavian, who, after the Battle of Actium, would become Caesar Augustus, Herod enjoyed a puppet reign as a king of Galilee Judea, which was a Nationalist political territory, which meant that surely they would have fought a war against Rome, but Herod was a buffer. He cleared the sacred temple mount and either expanded or completely rebuilt the great temple, which went a long way to get the Jews to keep the peace.

However, a war did take place. The animosity of the Jews would never leave them.

But it was not all bad.

The temple was a source of joy to the people, connecting them to God in faith and in practice.

But the people nonetheless hated the Romans and Herod as well, who was seen as a traitor and an evil man. All of this led directly to the actions Jesus took in the temple courtyard when he saw that it was full of profiteers who were anything but believers. He threw the tables of the money changers and loan sharks over, then went after the merchants who sold the sacrificial animals. He threw open their cages and scattered them. Then, in front of an astonished crowd, he shouted, “It is written, My house shall be called a house of prayer, but ye hath made it a den of thieves!”

It angered as much as saddened him to see all of this. But it also angered Caiaphas and the priests. Jesus, if there had been any doubt, would now be viewed as a direct threat to their absolute power. He had an unknown but large number of followers, which was even more troubling. The priests all knew that he had to be dealt with.

While still in the city, they tested him in public. Posed with facing the true laws, if they asked the right questions of him, he would surely corner himself, exposing his fraud. A woman said to have been caught in the act of adultery was thrown to the ground in front of him. Already terrified and humiliated, she did not raise her head. “Master, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery. According to our laws, she should be stoned to death. What do you say?”

Jesus replied, “You are correct. That is the law. He among you who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.”

All of the mob had stones in their hands, but not one of them threw one. They had instead put themselves in a corner. Bewildered, they dropped their stones and walked away. It was utterly humiliating. When they were gone, the woman, who had not looked up, was still weeping and waiting for the first heavy stone. Jesus asked, “Woman, where are those who condemned you?”

She finally, fearfully, looked up. She was amazed to see that stones littered the sand, and those who had held them were gone. “There is no one,” she said. Jesus said gently, “Then neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”

As the Son of God, he had the authority to forgive her. As a gentle man, he pitied her and, though aware of her sin, chose to be merciful and loving. This was his nature as both God and man, sent to become flesh to tell the truth, to heal, to renew the broken.

By mid week, he had taught in the temple, and still stories of his deeds filtered into the city. There was one about Jesus raising a man from the dead after several days of being entombed.

It was rapidly getting out of hand. A blind man was given sight. One of the twelve Apostles, Judas Iscariot, possibly meaning “Judas, the man from Kerioth”, or “Judas from the city,” wasn’t a true believer. He had been frightened by how much attention Jesus was getting, but it’s also possible that he was a zealot, a member of a group of radicals who sought to overthrow Roman rule. One had approached Jesus and tried to persuade him to strike the Romans. Jesus tried to tell him that he wasn’t going to be doing that, which turned the zealots against him. Judas would take it from there. He conspired to betray Jesus to the temple guards in exchange for 30 silver coins: the price of a slave.

Once this arrest was made, Simon Peter awoke in Gethsemane and cut the ear off one of the guards. Jesus said, “No, Peter! All who take up the sword shall die by the sword!”

It had already been a night in which Peter and the others were confused by the Master’s words and actions. Before even arriving in Jerusalem, Jesus had told them, “…there, the Son of Man will be betrayed, arrested, and raised up.”

Earlier at the Passover meal, Jesus had confused them further. He said the bread he broke was his body, broken for them.

That was puzzling because the expression “raised up” meant “to be crucified.” But of the wine he said, “This is the cup of the New Covenant. A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another. As I have loved you, so love one another. By this, people will know that you are mine. Drink, for this is my blood, shed for you. This do, (eat and drink) in remembrance of me.”

Later, in Gethsemane, Jesus had awakened Peter, John, and James and warned them to be vigilant. Jesus was extremely agitated. In the light of their torches, it was clear that he was sweating blood, a real condition caused by extreme agitation and fear.

When the guards showed up and Judas kissed him, it was over. There was no going back.

Before loyal (the members of the Sanhedrin who had expressed interest in Jesus and who did not consider him a threat were excluded), members of the Sanhedrin convicted Jesus of blasphemy and false teaching, leading the people astray. He was sent to the Prefect Pontius Pilate. We now know that he was not a “procurator” because of  archeological evidence found in Caesaria, which indicated he was a prefectvus, or prefect, of Judea.

Pilate’s wife, who remains anonymous, sent him a scrap of papyrus on which she had written a warning not to have anything to do with Jesus, for she had dreamt of him and suffered greatly.

On finding that Jesus was from Galilee, Pilate saw his way to rid himself of the prisoner. He ordered that Jesus be sent to Herod for trial. It should have worked. It didn’t.

It was proper to send Jesus to Herod Antipas, as Rome preferred that criminals be tried in their native land. And as it happens, Herod was in Jerusalem at the time. Nazareth was in the tetrarchy zone of Galilee. It could be argued that he was from Bethlehem, but he was born there, and his mother did not live there. As far as we know, he grew up in Nazareth.

Herod was the son of Herod the Great and likely as crazy as a bag of rabid cats. None of his history points to his being of sound mind. He probably spent much time besotted or watching his wife, Herodius’s daughter, whom history has named “Salome.” He lusted after the younger woman. He had lusted after Herodius as well, marrying her while her husband was still alive. This was an abomination according to Jewish law.

It was Salome who, in exchange for an exotic dance, asked for the head of “the Baptist,” referring to John the Baptist, a loud critic of the unholy marriage. But the death of that prisoner had, according to scholars, haunted the tetrarch. As years passed, he ran afoul of Caligula after being good friends for a while, but that story makes little sense.

When Jesus was brought before him, he was complimented that Pilate had deferred to him. But what he wanted was to see a miracle that this Jesus was so renowned for.

He got nothing but silence. Angered, he sent Jesus back to Pilate. And here Pilate made his first mistake of the day: he should’ve released Jesus because theTetrarch of Galilee had merely sent him back with bruises and a purple robe. Instead, he put him on trial. When the courtyard began to fill with spectators obviously manipulated by Caiaphas, Pilate began to get nervous. He knew what they wanted.

He was about to make his second mistake of the day. He hated the Jews, hated this dirty, arid land and hated the fact that he should be at a higher post.

He was a cruel man, as many Romans were. Rome demanded discipline among its captured provinces, and civil unrest was not tolerated. Much earlier, after Spartacus and his army were put down, it was inevitable that survivors who had caused so much trouble would be severely punished. While the body of Spartacus was never found, 6,000 of his routed troops were crucified on the road between Capua and Rome. Since Rome used this form of execution as the powerful deterrent that it was, the bodies were, as custom dictated, left to rot. Crucifixion had come to be the slave’s death, but political dissidents and thieves were also executed in this way. The custom was to strip the prisoner nude, nail him to the cross, and leave him to the insects, carrion birds, and the harsh elements. Rome was efficient and ruthless, and there was no reason for regrets. That would change with the execution of Jesus of Nazareth.

End Part One

The First Easter part two

It was a mistake for Pilate to have Jesus brought back before him after Herod had released him. He was not compelled by law to do so.

The prophecy of Isiah was about to be fulfilled. This time, the crowd was far more rowdy, and he began to get nervous. His fear was that another riot would start. Another one of those, and the Legate of Syria would pay him a visit or recall him to Caesaria. Worse, Tiberius himself might hear about it from a messenger of Caiaphas, who was in modern terms a “crybaby.”

While Rome was not usually tolerant of other religions than its own, and unrest of any kind was quickly put down, the Jews were an exception. But the end of that wasn’t far into the future.

Pilate had, earlier in his job here, had his infantry place their shields atop the Fortress Antonia, and this had caused a massive protest in Caesaria. The shields had images on them, and according to the laws of Moses, this was a forbidden act among the Jews, and they were not going to allow it from the Romans. On another occasion, possibly because he had been forced to remove the shields, he’d angered the people, whipping them into another riot. In the chaos, auxiliaries in plain clothing infiltrated the crowd, killing an unknown number of people with their daggers. Again, someone got to Rome with the accusations, and Pilate was warned to stop his stunts. The implications were twofold: first, he would be removed from his post. Second, he might face disciplinary action. That was enough for him to fear the treacherous Jews and hate them even more. It had less to do with antisemitism than his personal assessment of these people as filthy, rebellious, and steeped strongly in religious superstition. Only one god? Who were they to get away with slapping Rome in the face, and worse, have it deemed legal? There’s no evidence that he was a religious man, but he knew that this accommodation was nothing to be taken so lightly. It was dangerous to avoid putting any occupied country under the full extent of the law. It created the assumption that they could escape acts against any Roman law.

And, sure enough, they tried. They resisted paying taxes, and they insisted that Roman soldiers entering a home to search it “defiled” them. They demanded special treatment. If they didn’t get it, they rioted. This necessitated a full garrison of troops to always be present. Everywhere he looked, he saw trouble brewing. He had tried to bring order to this filthy city and was rewarded with warnings not to provoke the people. He felt hobbled and frustrated. How could he do his job if he couldn’t even apply and enforce the law? He couldn’t understand why it was so. 

He knew what the priests did to their own people. He saw how easily they would riot. He saw the betrayal and disloyalty they had for each other. This post was beneath any Roman, and legionaries weren’t even at his disposal; all he had were auxiliaries, who were barbarians, people from lands Rome had conquered. Whereas Roman legionaries were highly trained and disciplined soldiers, the same was not always true of the barbarian auxiliaries. Nevertheless, all of the empire’s soldiers, including cavalry, heavy infantry, and light infantry, were ruthless and unforgiving. They took prisoners to work as soldiers or to be sold as slaves, but in a conquered land, the rule of the empire usually occupied and ruled the people effectively.

There was always some resistance, but it was up to the Jews to become regarded as unruly and relentless in their show of hatred of Romans. Rome never hated Jews; early on in the occupation, Caesar Augustus had a curiosity about their religion and decided that he liked them. This was not shared by succeeding emperors. But in the time of Jesus, Tiberius did, in fact, follow the wishes of Julius and Augustus.

The Empire

As emperor, Tiberius was anathema to men like Pilate. Politically, the man was a bumbling idiot who put his trust in men who were even bigger fools. The dispatches and letters or gossip that reached him were utterly baffling. He rewarded and favored the worst men that the empire had, basically punishing successful generals like Germanicus by keeping him in the east, unknowingly placing all of Rome in peril.

In the history of the early Roman Empire, Augustus was the hinge. On him swung centuries of horror that might follow. He forced Tiberius to drop his wife, whom he loved, and marry his daughter, Julia, who immediately took a mutual loathing toward her new husband. This one act would set in motion such intrigue and terrible events that nothing in the territories was solid, and once Tiberius took power, he seemed to miss or ignore how disliked he was by the Roman Senate. Tiberius seemed to make snap decisions from emotions alone.

If Pilate knew of this, and he very likely did, then indeed, one more infraction could well cost him his life. Pilate also had to have known that on the periphery of the military, the assassinations of generals whom Tiberius favored were happening regularly. He would also know that it was stupid because it was the generals whom the emperor kept away from Rome who, by conquests and popularity with the troops, were really the ones the Emperor should favor. Or fear. Succeeding emperors would learn this lesson the hard way, to be forgotten by the next.

If this dreadful post kept Pilate out of all that, then he had to see the irony in it: in a filthy and isolated territory full of fanatics he wasn’t even allowed to punish, at least there was comfort in knowing that few others would want his job. It offered safety, at least to some immediate extent.

Stories about the emperor were still coming in, each more disturbing than those they followed. He drank too much wine, had lavish feasts, or even worse. He often retreated to Capri, and it was there that he would set the title of emperor in cement as a character, such as one in a play, too ridiculous to be real. Indeed, his chosen heir was Caligula, and that was never going to end well. On Capri, Tiberius had Caligula tutored but spent increasing amounts of time with children. And while Rome did tolerate some juvenile-adult same-sex indulgences, Tiberius seemed to know no limits. A typical provincial governor could not possibly be unaware of such things. They had to wonder if their jobs were secure and their families were safe.

Pilate must have had a growing concern over the stories; never considered a stable man, Tiberius would very possibly scream and order his execution if crowded Jerusalem on a holy week revolted.

Pilate and Jesus

Pilate may very well have hated his post and hated the people he ruled, but it was mostly political. He hated the priests most of all. By putting Jesus back on trial, he hoped to release the man while quelling the fury of the manipulated crowd. If he played it right, it was bound to work.

He told them, “I find no guilt in him that deserves death! Therefore, I shall have him flogged and released!”

There’s a mistake that even scholars make about the flogging of Christ: they say prisoners bound for the cross were always flogged first. This could not be further from the truth.

That’s because a Roman flogging was such a severe punishment that it often killed the prisoner, while others were driven over the bounds of their sanity and never recovered. It was a punishment rendered with a flagellum, a carefully crafted and time-tested instrument too cruel to imagine. A wooden dowel served as a handle. The rest was all nightmare. Leather strands were affixed to it, and these were thin but tough, being tanned and finished. At the ends of each strand was a small, heavy, iron dumbbell-shaped object. There might also be sharp pieces of bone sewn in, and upon impact, the leather strands left a deep welt, while the ends continued by momentum to curl around the body, arms, and legs to dig in and leave deep bruising and cuts.

The Jews had a similar punishment carried out by wood rods. This is where we get the 39 “strokes” or “lashes.”

With a Roman flogging, there was no such limit to how many times the prisoner could be lashed. With too few, the scourged might reoffend. Too many, and he would die of shock.

It was extremely painful, cited by some scholars as having earned the name the “halfway death”. The barbarians in this garrison probably consisted of men from races who did hate the Jews. With every lash, Jesus fell slack against the stone pillar he was tied to. He would straighten up, take another lash, and again go limp and moan in agony.

The soldiers put their hearts into it, and the supervisor, a centurion of the legionaries, made sure that they didn’t kill the prisoner, who had been beaten before even arriving, both by temple guards and some of Herod’s men. He was dehydrating, yet even though he might have been in shock, he fought the lash. As if he wanted more. One of the few Roman centurions present in the city, there because barbarians could not rise to that rank, noted that this Nazarene was tough. While he may not have wanted this, he was remarkably resistant. Striped from chest and arms to his legs, with blood oozing from them, the wounds made by the iron bits were worse. Reddening, they would turn into angry bruises that would keep him incapacitated for weeks. Some of the metal had dug into the flesh, and he bled more from those. The soldiers enjoyed their work, and even those watching laughed. The centurion called for a stop, and he let the men have some fun with the prisoner, as was allowed. While those who had wielded the flagellum were out of breath and exhausted, others came up with ideas. This was hardly the first “messiah” they had heard of. But this man may have been a first, being called a “king”. One soldier fashioned a circular “crown” made of dried wood with thorns. He placed it on the head of Jesus, pressing it down. The blood from the long, tough thorns puncturing the scalp and sides of the head immediately trickled into the long hair and down the face of Jesus. The guards thought this very funny, and another said, “A king should have a scepter!” A long stick was given to Jesus, who by now was going into deep shock. They took the stick and beat him more, mocking him and spitting on him.

When the time came to take him back to the Prefect, Pilate took one look and gasped. Even by Roman standards, the punishment had been sadistic and harsh. With one eye already swollen shut, Jesus, covered by the red cloak of a soldier, was almost too much to stand; Pilate was himself a tough man, having witnessed massacres, executions and more, yet the sight of Jesus made him recoil. He thought that, seeing his condition, the people calling for his death were sure to have pity. In front of the crowd, seated in his curule seat, had Jesus brought to him. He yelled, “Behold the man!”

And was instantly shocked at the loud response: “Crucify him!”

This was another, more fatal mistake by Pilate. Having ruled that Jesus would be released following his flogging, he again put Jesus on trial. He had one last thing to try. He said, “It is the pleasure of the divine Caesar that once a year, in respect for your holiday, one prisoner will be released back to you. We have Barabbas, a murderer, and your king, Jesus. Which one shall Rome release?”

Caiaphas and the priests had anticipated this and already worked the crowd with threats to shout for the release of Barabbas. They did. And the crowd got worse.  Pilate’s mistakes were made from his hatred and anger and caused him to underestimate the high priest. He had no moves left. Checkmate.

At first, Caiaphas had merely accused Jesus of heresy, which was not a crime against Rome. Finally, he had resorted to the accusation that Jesus had proclaimed himself the “King of the Jews,” which was treason. Pilate thought Jesus to be weak in the head, but still didn’t believe Caiaphas. But it was too late. This chess match was one with the stakes of power between two men. And Pilate had defeated himself. The matter was more political than anything else, never racial. It was over too quickly for it to turn political.

He called for a bowl of water and a towel. He dipped his hands in and shouted, “The death of this man who I have found not worthy of death is not on my hands. I wash them free of his blood!” This was a Jewish custom. His verdict was followed by his mockery of their own rituals thrown in their faces.

He’d tried so hard to save this puzzling man from the cross, but Jesus seemed to have no interest in being saved. After being brought back from the flogging, he asked Jesus, “Why have you nothing to say in your own defense? Do you not know that I have the power to release you or crucify you?”

In his weakened and dehydrated state, Jesus said, “You have no power but what is given you from above.”

Pilate probably never forgot those words.

Crucified

More misconceptions are here than are fully appreciated by men with letters behind their names. First, prisoners bound for the cross were not flogged beforehand.

The reason is right in the gospels: he went forth from Pilate, bearing his own cross. No man who had been flogged could carry anything.

Prisoners were taken from holding cells, had their own cross beams placed over their shoulders, and were led to Golgatha. In front of the condemned was a soldier bearing a sign painted with the criminal’s name and crime. Every prisoner had one. It was not unique to the execution of Jesus.

Whether he was tried at Antonia or Herod’s palace is irrelevant. He would be saddled with his cross at Fortress Antonia and then carry it to the place of execution.

He didn’t have far to go, but in his state, Jesus fell several times. The narrow streets were lined with onlookers, a mixed crowd. But after one fall, women, weeping for him, stooped to mop the sweat and blood from his face and eyes. To them, he gave his last prophecy.

“Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and your children. The days are coming when they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us’! And they will envy those women who had never suckled and were barren. For if these things are done when the wood is green, imagine what will happen when it is dry?”

These words were strange, and they would have never known what they meant. It meant that if a thing like this were happening while he was still alive, then worse would surely follow his death.

Indeed, if the holy city could witness the execution of the Messiah, then it was doomed, and decades later, a rebellion was smashed by the Roman, fulfilling this odd prophecy made by Jesus. The Romans tore the temple to the ground. The sadistic battle waged by legionaries engaged in a massacre, and only the outer courtyard wall of the temple was left partly intact. It ended with the last diaspora of the Israelites. They would not return to power until 1946 CE.

There were many ways by which Rome put prisoners to death. A citizen of Rome was rarely crucified, and then only in extreme cases. Usually, they had a choice: death by spear or arrows or beheading. They were dishonorable deaths but far less so than crucifixion. They had other ways, often devised to extract excruciating pain and suffering. One was skinning a prisoner alive. Because so many nerve endings were torn and exposed, the condemned screamed until they lost consciousness. The problem with it was that even Roman spectators walked quickly away. It ruined the whole reason for public execution: to scare and sicken others and to keep them in line.

For Jesus and the two thieves, the method was crucifixion. This was the death slaves and thieves and political radicals suffered, a grotesque and pitiful sight, but one that effectively deterred crime.

It was obviously painful, but the key to its success came from the time it took for a crucified man to die. In other territories, it was sometimes the better part of a day, and watching the final stages was unforgettable. The nudity, the cold, the sun, the biting insects…

Because the cause of death was seldom from blood loss. It was worse than that.

In Judea, and especially Jerusalem, it is a matter of debate as to whether the crucified were nude or not, but it is doubtful. Loin wrappings or some kind of concealing cloth was allowed. Nudity was very taboo. But when Jesus reached the site of Golgatha, trailing behind Simon of Kyrenia, who had been forced to carry the crossbeam once Jesus could not go any further, the soldier with the sign dropped it. One of the thieves was already on his cross, the other being nailed to his crossbeam, or the patibulum. At least four upright beams already stood in the Rocky ground, right outside the northwest gate, at the crossroads to Joppa. Simon had the patibulum yanked away. It was thrown on the ground, and he was pushed away into the onlookers. Jesus, exhausted, rested his hands on his thighs. It was almost finished.

He had been true to his words at the Last Supper. The Apostles had scattered, in fear for their lives, and Simon Peter had denied three times to accusers that he didn’t know Jesus.

Now, it was time for reckoning. Judas, having been left behind by Satan, was alone, sobbing and full of remorse. He heard of the death sentence. Whatever he thought before, he now had innocent blood on his hands. The memory of their talks, of the gentleness of Jesus, haunted him. He ran outside of the city as if he were being chased by a beast and ran until he couldn’t go any further. On the rim overlooking the Hinnom Valley, he saw a few stunted trees. He used the sash or belt from his cloak and hanged himself. He did not know about weight or drop distance, and he died in agony. After a few minutes, his knot failed. He fell down the slope and landed on a large rock, his gut splitting open. The priests would use the money they had paid him to set aside a potter’s field, where the poor could be placed in ossuaries. They came to call it “the field of blood.”

“It is finished”

The Romans had adopted crucifixion from the Phoenicians, but its origin remains unclear. It is thought to have originated in Babylon or Assyria, but it’s not really known. Even scholars who find evidence of Alexander the Great passing it on to Phoenicia still believe that scourging was a compulsory part of crucifixion, but not in Roman use. The purpose, besides deterring crime, was to make a condemned man suffer in public. Death could occur in hours or days, but in or near a populous area, it served no purpose to prolong the death. They worked the cross into a perfect method of execution by watching the crowds. After a few hours, the spectacle wore thin. They left to go home. Usually, the dead were left on their crosses to rot, eaten by birds, dogs, and insects. Not in Judea; the Jews wouldn’t stand for that. The method changed. And it was genius.

Jesus was thrown to the slightly elevated rocky hill, brought down by a soldier holding each shoulder. The crown of thorns punctured his scalp, and he moaned. The worst was yet to come. The one man designated as executioner took a hammer and two cast iron nails and moved to one hand. He made sure that the arm was at an angle, the shoulder below the beam. He placed the nail against the lower wrist (in Greek, part of the hand) and drove the nail into a spot between bones. Jesus moaned with every breath. To the other hand, the executioner moved and repeated the hammering. If he executioner missed the mark and opened an artery, the prisoner would possibly bleed out. Rome tolerated few mistakes, all details were taken on with a strict plan, and if the rules weren’t followed, no soldier was safe from being punished.

Jesus held on. He couldn’t give up. There was more yet to endure. With the hands secured to the patibulum, the guards lifted the beam up to the top of the upright beam, the stipes crucis. At the top, there was a notch cut to accommodate the crossbeam. The upright was barely six feet tall. A bit of muscle let the crossbeam set into the notch. The sign listing his crimes was placed above his head and fixed in place with a smaller nail. Most of the time, the condemned would not block the sign, which in three languages read, “This is Jesus, King of the Jews. Latin, Greek, and Aramaic.

Not exactly accurate. The Latin version should begin with “hic est”, “this is” or “here is”

Now, the executioner knelt at the feet. A longer nail may have pierced both feet, or the two were nailed side-by-side. There was no need for rope. All crucified prisoners were crucified in the same way. Ropes were never necessary when the condemned was nailed in place. Their crosses resembled an uppercase “T”, and were not tall. This was quick and efficient and saved wood, which, in a dry desert climate, was a precious commodity.

And that was it. The final hours of the Earthly ministry of Jesus were here. Having been beaten, scourged, dehydrated, and now in shock, he would not last long.

The two thieves beside him on either side had not been scourged. They would last longer.

Jesus had one thing to immediately see to: he asked God to forgive them all because the soldiers had no way of knowing what they were doing. Neither did the priests, now waiting to watch him die.

Jesus then discovered that while hanging by the nails in his wrists, he could inhale but was powerless to exhale. This position and the points of support froze the muscles used for breathing and made it necessary to pull himself up, pushing down on the nails in his feet, to exhale and take a couple of quick breaths before the pain and cramping made him hang down again. The pain was too much to bear, but his mission was not over yet. There was worse to come.

As the gospels describe it, Jesus may have hung on the cross for 6 hours. Yet it is doubtful that he was alive for that long. For short periods, each of the crucified men would fall unconscious. To onlookers, they seemed dead. But suffocating woke them, forcing them to full awareness and pain and the necessity to push down on their feet and rise to breathe again.

Although the condemned weren’t beaten and flogged beforehand, a crucified man in an arid climate, going into shock, they weren’t superhuman, and this process exhausted the strongest among them. It left them dehydrated, in shock, and finally unconscious, which they would not recover from, causing asphyxiation. Of all the cruel ways of killing that humans have devised, crucifixion is one of the more beastly.

He had not been on the cross for long when he saw, almost at his own eye level, the Apostle John standing with Mary, his mother, and Mary of Magdala, whom Jesus had delivered of demons.

To his mother, he said, “Woman, here is your son.” To John he said, “Here is your mother.” It meant that John was to take her in, to take care of her, thus completing his the last Earthly business of Jesus. Now, the rest would happen.

And it was horrible. In the garden, he had prayed, asking to be spared the cup that was prepared for him. Now, we can see why. It wasn’t just the flogging. It wasn’t the mocking crowd that followed him to Pilate’s courtyard and even now stood before him, laughing at the fate of the “Messiah”.

It wasn’t even for the cross he now hung from. His shoulders dislocated, and his breathing ever more labored, God thrust upon his son something no human can possibly imagine.

Jesus was truly paying for the sins of humanity: he was actually seeing and feeling every vile act of sin ever committed, even every vile thought. It was being lifted from every guilty person even up to you and I. In those endless moments, he, as divine and without sin, couldn’t bear the ugliness and evil of it all, yet he had to because if he refused, all would perish to the depths of hell. Without this act, his whole life would have meant nothing, and we would not be able to repent. Every person. Every evil deed. Every evil word or thought. We would carry all of it to the grave and beyond. But God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, and whoever believes in him and repents will never die.

In a moment, God the Father and God the Son were separated. God could not look while his son suffered so, just as he cannot stand sin and is separated from the sinner until repentance is made.

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me, why are you so far from me? My enemies circle me and mock me…

At the height of the crescendo, Jesus called out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” But God the Father and God the Son had known for eons that this act had to take place. Separation was necessary, but it hurt. And I am in awe of what a sacrifice that must have been. No greater love has anyone had than to make this sacrifice.

He would cry out that he thirsted. A soldier stuck a sponge on the tip of his javelin, dunked it into a bucket of wine, vinegar, and gall, the latter serving as a drug even though it didn’t work. Jesus turned from it and said, “Abba, into your hands, I commit my spirit. It is finished.”

There had been a strange darkness most of the day, and other sources outside of Judea recorded such an event.

It lasted far too long to be a solar eclipse. There is no record of a storm of any kind, even though screenwriters love putting thunder and lightning in their scripts.

There’s no known cause. But more amazing than that is what followed the final cry of an exhausted but triumphant Yeshua of Nazareth. Matthew wrote that the veil in the temple was torn in half, graves were split open, and that on the rocky earth where Golgatha stood, the ground cracked. There’s no record of it, but one wonders how frightened the priests in attendance had to be.

Seeing that sunset wasn’t far off, word was sent to Pilate that the bodies had to be taken down, for sundown began the sabbath. Pilate was fed up and roughly ordered this to placate these frustrating men. Already, they had sent emissaries to complain about the wording on the sign. But he had held his ground. He said, “What’s been written is what I ordered.” Now he had to send a message to Golgatha and his centurion there to dispatch the crucified. This was done by using a sturdy iron bar, swung in a lateral arc, to break the legs of the two thieves. Now, they could no longer raise themselves to breathe. In minutes, they were dead. But when the detail got to Jesus, they saw that he was dead already. They didn’t break his legs. Instead, a soldier used a spear, aimed at the heart through the ribs. The puncture caused a mix of blood and fluid to spill. This is consistent with, basically, an exploded heart, among other, similar things. A broken heart?

Joseph of Arimathea offered his own tomb to Mary for Jesus’s burial. A centurion, who had been been troubled by death of Jesus, and who now believed he was the son of God, gave the order to remove the bodies and for Joseph to take custody of the body.

The priests again asked to be seen. This was pushing it, and few Romans would have taken any more. This time, it was to ask for a guard detail to guard the tomb from robbers. They worried that the followers of Jesus would steal his body and claim his resurrection, as he had foretold.

The detail was ordered and took up its place, but nothing could stop what happened next. No man, no guard detail, not mighty Rome, and not the devil himself could stop it.

Jesus had indeed risen. Alive, body still pierced, but alive.

He told his apostles to go like lambs among wolves, preaching the good news to all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. And he promised to be with them, to be with us, always.

Even until the end of the world.

Note-

Growing up as a Christian, I was fascinated by the Crucifixion. As an event that changed human history, I just didn’t get why.

I understood what sacrifice meant. But I didn’t get how killing an animal could cancel one’s sins. And sacrificing his only son, God wouldn’t really do that, would he? I accepted, though, that I had a lot to learn. But studying crucifixion and the Gospels didn’t help. I’m still not a scholar, expert, or anything, nothing at all but a sinner. Somehow, at some point, it came to me that Isiah had known centuries earlier exactly what would happen and why it had to be so.

Chapter 53 verse 6:

All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all.

It had to be the most pain ever suffered. But Jesus did it for us. And when it was over, he allowed himself to die. But he returned, conquering the world, defeating Satan. Showing us all that, for us to conquer death, all we need to do is believe, repent, and change our lives.

He once told his Apostles, “In this world, you will have tribulations, but be of good cheer, for I have conquered the world.”

The Cursed Novel Strikes Again

A while back, I wrote about the novel I’ve written. That post is titled “The Cursed Novel.”

It does not have an ending, but now I know it needs one, and I finally know how to do it.

You see, I painted myself into a corner. I couldn’t figure out what to do next. Any ending I tried turned out to be uneven or silly. After taking the reader for a great ride, I couldn’t publish it with a lame ending. So, since 2013, it’s been unfinished.

I’ve had several test readers. All of them seemed to like it. Then bad things began to happen to them. Lost jobs, accidents, the deaths of close friends, money losses. You name it.

But I have more bad news. The story revolves around the main characters who try to help people, and the whole time, disasters keep happening. One such disaster was the collapse of the Francis Scott Key Bridge. Yes, I wrote that. And that was back in 2010. I never dreamed of it really happening, but now it has.

I was planning on publishing it on Amazon, but now, I think that to stop the things I wrote from happening, I should end the book and then destroy it.

I remember when the Francis Scott Key Bridge didn’t exist. I remember when it was being built. I remember being one of the first to cross it.

The bridge was dangerous. The winds in the outer harbor were especially fierce, and no trucker with an empty trailer was allowed to cross when wind warnings were posted. I once pulled a 48-foot trailer loaded with pallets across, and what had seemed like nothing in a car surprised me. It had a steep enough climb that I had to gear down and turn on my hazard lights.

In the summers, the salt water smell made me wish I was going to Ocean City.

On the center span, you bounced. Bridges have to flex to stay up to accommodate the crosswinds and heavy traffic. I never did get used to that, and from 1998 to 2001, I crossed it every day on my commute. It was weird that so many freaky things happened on the bridge: ice flying off a rig’s roof and smashing out my headlights, changing lanes without meaning to during a tropical storm, and more.

And I scripted its demise. Some things in my book have come true, and that doesn’t seem possible because the whole thing is fantasy.

I really think, even as I know better, that once I close out the novel, I should burn it.

The Francis Scott Key Bridge is No More

The following is from Wikipedia:

The main spans of the bridge were destroyed on March 26, 2024, when the container ship MV Dali crashed into one of its support pillars.[7]

That was a fast update.

It doesn’t reflect, though, the hardships ahead for the families of 6 missing men who were working on the span patching potholes caused by winter weather. Nor does it say anything about the traffic disaster that the closing of this main artery of I-695, the “beltway” around Baltimore City, is causing. Traffic will be so severely affected that it is impossible to fathom.

This says nothing, either, about the shutdown of the critical marine terminals and massive amounts of cargo they handle. Once the wreckage has been cleared, ships will again be free to enter the port, but the bridge was a steel arch type that will be challenging to clear from the channel. Parts of the structure remain above water but end underwater: one end in, and one end out of the main channel. It is a shocking sight.

There’s little here to point to as blame. The container ship lost power and did issue a mayday call, enabling the county and toll facilities police to close all approaching highway traffic. Lives were undoubtedly saved in this way.

The search continues for the 6 missing workers by the US Coast Guard, a zone of no entry by marine craft or aircraft has been established, the governor and Transportation Secretary Buttigieg, Senator Ben Cardin and President Biden have been working on this situation since it happened at around 01:30 this morning. It is a serious matter, and they are fully aware and dedicated to their work.

From Guardian News on YouTube, here is the moment of impact and collapse. Both are within seconds of each other, and I warn you, the video may cause you shock and distress.

Credit: Guardian News, an organization I implicitly trust.

Please pray for the families and the missing, and for the men and women who will be tasked with solving this daunting challenge.

We were warned.

This video was posted to YouTube 2 years ago. The algorithm prevented me from seeing it.

It’s from Moon, the YouTuber who chronicles the downfall of really atrocious YouTubers who fell off their pedestals, sometimes getting imprisoned, and with only one video.

This goes further, though, in strengthening yesterday’s post about tick tock and Discord. The Chinese plan of world domination by 2049 is no joke. It’s real, and this remarkable video proves it.

The third world war has already begun. There is no shooting yet. But China is the biggest threat to world peace ever to exist in world qqhistory.

In 2008, I warned people to watch China. They scoffed. “I’m not worried about China,” one said. I can’t remember what did worry her, but it was not China. And now we face the consequences.

Got Discord? You’ve been owned. Here’s why

Last year, I connected with Patreon and Discord to get “exclusive” content from the YouTube channel “The Why Files.”

It was a big mistake.

First, as I wrote back then, their moderators don’t give a shit about you. Two of them pretty well told me to go away. I haven’t forgotten, and I can’t forgive. Anyone making that kind of money should make sure that their moderators treat patrons fairly and with kindness. The two were male mods, names or handles of which I’ve forgotten. I said after being told, “Go to bed,” that if I left, it would be all the way. They used emojis to wave bye-bye. Pretty cold stuff. And nobody tells me to go to bed.

Nobody.

The mods who were nice to me they were Victoria and AJ’s wife, whose name was Jenn. The rest of them, except for AJ, were shitheads. Give someone a position of power, and you know what happens next. I really liked the channel, and I  still miss chatting with Victoria and other followers. But I didn’t even last a month. I’ve never been back. Never will.

All of this took place on the Patreon companion app Discord. I did not know at the time that I shouldn’t have been using it at all.

Let’s start with Patreon. I consider it incredibly stupid to pay YouTubers part of my measly check to watch their videos. It doesn’t make sense to me, and other folks already give them enough. They can and, some have, become millionaires doing nothing but sitting in front of a Webcam telling scary stories I remember from 4th grade, just amped up a bit.

I still like movie reaction videos, and my favorite is “Popcorn in Bed” because I don’t think Cassie really cheats. However, her Patreon members are often trolling her, and she doesn’t deserve it. I watch her videos, but I consider “Patreon exclusives” to be bait to subscribe and pay.

People have to make money. I get it, and her paying customers are welcome to do what they want. I just can’t afford or make sense of it.

But there’s a problem, and it is not to be taken lightly.

That problem is Discord, majority owned by the Chinese. They claim not to track you, but they know everywhere you go, see every text you send, keep your payment information, track your transactions and because Ten Cent, a China-owned company, owns the majority share in Discord, once you enter your information, they own you. They can do anything they want to with it, including digging up more information. That’s scary stuff. I’d like you to watch and pay attention to the following video. It’s for real. What’s more, even Facebook isn’t as threatening as Discord. I got away from Facebook a long time ago and like it that way. But you’re safer there than on Discord. Sobering, yes?

Worse yet, once the information is in their hands, you can’t delete it. No big deal, really; you can’t really delete your information from any site. Lastly, fear China and keep faith in God. There’s a part of the Revelation that predicts that near the end, the kings of the east will cross a dried-up Euphrates River on their way to war. Maybe you don’t believe that. But China grows stronger every year. China has a plan to be the major power by 2049.

In this story, predictions have the Euphrates completely dry by 2040.

Coincidence? I don’t think so.

Death First, Then Dishonor

Hey, out there. I hope Spring finds you well and in good spirits.

I want you to know first that I don’t write for money. I don’t get a penny from ads you may see here. I don’t have sponsors. I write because I simply want to. I have the story of my life in the archives, free to anyone.

I’ve been all over the place, from the trauma of my childhood to the paranormal to political issues that I felt strongly about. Crime, misadventures, and mayhem have been a part of each of our lives. Trauma affects millions nationwide and more around the world. Life is hard and leaves its scars.

If you’ve followed me even for short stretches, you’ll no doubt have seen me change since 2019, when I began using this site. You’ve seen me be nihilistic, a doomsayer, an acidic and cruel critic, a scribbler of bad fiction, and a self-pitying crybaby.

But so many of us share these moments even if not all feel like discussing it.

Ain’t life hard enough, though, without drama and lies?

I think so. I’ve freely told my story in the hopes that someone could learn something from my past and see me still alive, bitching up a storm. Honestly, I never thought I would live this long.

But I have. I’ve seen changes that, if I take the time to think about them, are really stunning.

When I was growing up, flat screen TV sets didn’t exist. Telephones were restricted to home use and had rotary dials and party lines.

Cars ran on leaded gas. Gas stations gave stuff away with a fill-up of premium. Could be a glass with the Sinclair dinosaur on it, an inflatable pink Easter bunny, or S&H Greenstamps.

Homes were cheaper. The note was daunting but could be paid off.

Tires had innertubes, and you had to change to snow tires in winter. There were no radials.

Television or the drive-in movies were it for entertainment except for radio and vinyl records. There was no MySpace, Facebook, or Twitter. No cell phones.

And no YouTube.

I had a channel once. Then Google sent me an email. What it said was meaningless to me. It seemed that I had “failed” to do something. That’s okay; I never wanted to be a YouTuber anyway. I have a face for radio and a voice for writing.

But some people aspire to be not only on YouTube but to become megastars, too. And they will stop at nothing to get there. They do pranks, stunts, unboxing stupid stuff nobody cares about, do videos where they react to other people’s videos, and get extremely cruel about it, tossing insults around like they want to get attention and cause as much pain as possible while gaining views.

The trend now is the movie reaction video. Some are fun. You can tell if it’s their first time watching something. Others are fakes who lack or force emotions, which is just pitiful.

There are so many YouTube videos out there that you get to know which ones to follow or to avoid.

My biggest gripe is Patreon. The user wants you to pay so much per month to have input on content or early premiers. Whatever the “perks” are, it’s never worth it. There be trolls and bots anyway, there to make sure you don’t get a say. Moderators get drunk with power and fancy themselves as e-bouncers, and they will ruin everything for you. I don’t know what kind of turnover rate there is with Patreon members, but I’d wager it’s high.

If there’s anything that makes the whole thing more disgusting, it’s the drama-on-crank.

I’m talking about feuds, hoaxes, game play cheating, and tricks to get more subscribers.

But there’s one more thing, something worse. Something beyond disgusting: faking illness, a handicap, the death of a loved one, or your own demise.

I saw a video where one creep streamed while confined to a wheelchair, but in one session, he forgot what he was doing, and live on camera got up and walked out of frame!

That’s one YouTuber down.

The faked deaths are what shocked me the most. Jaystation did this in the video below. He went live to say his girlfriend had been killed by a drunk driver. He even went to a roadside memorial. In both videos, he utterly failed to be convincing. He’s no actor, that’s for sure. His tears were forced, what few he shed, and I wondered how so many of his followers could have been fooled by him. As it turned out, she wasn’t dead. Eventually, YouTube banned him completely, but it took way too long.

YouTube has some great content. I’m not denying that. I really enjoy some of it, but the rest makes the whole thing a virtual cesspool. Yet those who bring in sponsors like SS Sniper Wolf get away with everything, including personal attacks against what she considers rivals. She’s shallow and cares about no one but herself.

Jaystation got away with lies for far too long. Others get one video demonized and are suspended for one day. Reason: money.

If it seems arbitrary, don’t be fooled. Nothing about this is arbitrary or random. It’s down to AI, then flagged content is measured by people against the party that posted it. There’s your answer.

If you’ve gained a million subscribers, you’ve put up content people liked, or, maybe, they see your drama and are just waiting for you to self-destruct. And if you betray them, it’ll happen so fast you won’t grasp what’s going on.

Of those million subscribers, some are bound to be invested, emotionally or otherwise, and they will turn on you when they learn the truth.

Some YouTubers checked on Jaystation’s story. They checked traffic accidents and even the police. No such accidents occurred, and no such people had died on that road. It’s too easy to get caught these days. And remember: first comes (faked) death. Then dishonor. So are you really that desperate to come up with content or gain views?

SS Sniper Wolf: Fraudulent, Cruel, Thief, Manipulator, and Self-indulgent Brat

I hadn’t heard about this one. It seems that there’s a section of YouTube that lies in a dark corner, hard to believe… or see.

That’s because I really don’t get their content in my feed. I will now, though.

Creatures like her are, to my horror, not only real but ubiquitous. I’m not going into it here because I’ve only just arrived at the tip of the iceberg.

In an exposé video, there was a “downfall of” (a genre) a family whose daily lives were shown in daily videos. One such episode had one son claim that as a punishment for playing a prank on his younger brother, he was not allowed to sleep in his own bed for a month. Instead, he was to use a beanbag chair. As soon as he said it, his mother, sitting beside him, grinned wide like a Cheshire cat and said, “Our viewers don’t need to know that.”

It was the beginning of the popular channel’s downfall, which eventually got the mother and one of her weirdo friends arrested. The elder daughter, having escaped the house, tweeted, “Finally.”

I’m not going any further with this. Nor will I link to the story.

These kinds of people make videos that gain lots of followers and can make a ton of money.

Enter: Super Sexy (SS) Sniper Wolf. This disease did every cringy thing a YouTuber can possibly do.

Although she is still putting up videos, SS Sniper Wolf has become very disliked. I watched a video she posted yesterday, and it is exactly the kind of thing I’d  skip over. If I watched for a whole minute, then I would be surprised. It’s torturous. She whines like a spoiled girl I knew in school, and I believe that her emotions are an act. It’s too easy to see why her detractors dislike her. But wait, there’s more.

Surprisingly there’s so much more to it.

SEVEN SUPER GIRLS

The seven super girls YouTube channels (7 of them) were obvious, prime examples of child exploitation and a red flag waving in front of the world. So why did it take so long to stop it all?

In this 2019 Buzzfeed article, you can go ahead and jump straight to outraged mode. First, if you have never heard of the channels, this article won’t catch you up on much. It is too short and lacks a timeline or outline on just how fucked-up the real story is.

First, let’s hit the channel for “‘tweens”, which according to one source, bracketed the ages of 8-12 years of age. All girls, all, I’m surmising, handpicked by an adult, one Ian Rylett, age 54-55 at the time of the criminal complaint.

Rylett set up a network of children who starred in YouTube videos. He directed the video content himself. It was supposed to show girls in situations that had the look of stuff kids made about kids in a kid’s world, but one of impossible and outlandish joy and perfection. At one point, the girls were assigned “best friends” and were then restricted to arranged public appearances so that they did not get spotted with friends other than their besties on the channel.

Who knows where or how it was started, but seems to me that it may have, or must have been, a trend at that time: kiddie videos. I don’t know.

I remember seeing lists of “darkest” and “most mysterious” channels on YouTube, and one seemed to monitor, without the subject’s knowledge, a girl or young woman, 24 hours a day. It was incredibly eerie, but later, this disturbing channel was “explained” as being recorded by the subject, who was very frightened of doing her own shopping or going out at all. I don’t exactly buy the explanation, but I have no better answer.

One does not need to venture far on the app to find disturbing things. But the Seven Super Girls that people thought was so cute hid a truth more horrible than I imagined when it appeared in recent news and videos. Lists showed up of “Channels banned by YouTube,” and the Super Girls made it.

Now, this Rylett guy, he did as predicted. He “molested” one of the girls. He squirreled out on the easy way and got a couple of years, maybe less because of time off for good behavior. But that good behavior is only because in prison, there aren’t any 10-year-olds to sexually assault. By now, he’s been out for a while and once again poses a danger to minors. Is that fair? No. It isn’t even justice.

In the CoV-2 crisis, no follow-up was made. Recent studies indicate that the Covid-19 virus has left many people in a “fog,” and it’s nothing to take lightly. It appears to be permanent damage and causes difficulty making decisions, concentrating, focusing, and short-term memory loss. Some of us never even knew about the Seven Super Girls or the hell they were put through. By early 2020, people were dying so fast that news channels kept a running total on the screen, and the words “Breaking News” never disappeared. Kids were forgotten or abused in different ways than you’d normally think.

Ian Rylett once announced a “sponsored” swimsuit event. It was a fake. A lie to get the girls to pose in swimsuits. Ian Rylett is a deviant predator and child abuser.

Those ain’t new. But the lengths he went through to get money and abuse children are really sickening, especially when one considers that those children had parents.

Parents who looked the other way, seeing only dollar signs.

They should all be wondering why they should believe for a minute that Rylett only molested one girl.

Which may be the most disturbing thing of all.

By 2020, it became known that the plea deal had given Rylett only 90 days in jail and had time served counted toward it. I and many others missed this news because of the pandemic, and far too many have forgotten it.

That’s what value we Americans put on child welfare. Every one of us should be ashamed.

Every. Single. One.

Maggie May

For Maggie

I’ve loved many women in my life. None were ever going to work out. It’s just the way things went for me.

Two, I never told. I loved them too much to do that to. I was not good enough, and somehow, without knowing exactly what or why, I knew that something was wrong with me. I would have brought them down, and when you love someone, really love them, your own needs and desires have to be put on the back burner. They come first. That’s what love tells you to do.

None of the women I’ve loved, though, put up with more than you did. I look back, and I see that I’ve caused the exact damage I had always hoped to spare the women, the people, the family I was so blessed to have had in my life.

I was always in turmoil. Always having crises. It never stopped, and I was too stupid to see that it never would. I thought I could pull off at least one good thing in my life. The condition I’m in, have been in, means that I may have begun my life with potential for great things and a soul mate, but wound up with nothing at all.

That’s not my fault, I know, but it’s how things turned out for me. The damage is too severe, much more than I thought even six months ago.

They say PTSD gets easier to quell as time goes by. For me, the opposite. I would have been a burden and a source of deep sadness for you. I couldn’t do that to you. I thought when you went silent after I wrote critically about Taylor Swift that the betrayal I felt was justified. But I know that people have their heroes, and to put those down is a source of anger to a fan.

You’re allowed to feel however you do. We can seldom control how we feel. It’s okay.

I also became aware that I was inadvertently coming between you and your daughter. You two needed time together and you still do. I refuse to be in that picture. You’ve both been through so much, and it’s time for some together time and healing.

I hope you can heal. Both of you. I hope you get all of the good things that you deserve. You’re such wonderful women.

Anyway, I’m not getting better. I don’t need someone to complain to, nor do I need anyone to pity me or sympathize. Neither will help me. Right now, I need prayer and absolution.

You have been a true blessing in my life. I think only good things about you. I will forget anything negative and I will be left with only good memories.

I’m sorry for the times that I hurt, confused, or dragged you down. You didn’t deserve that, and I will always regret it.

We never got the chance to say goodbye. I think it’s better that we didn’t. I don’t believe I could have endured such a thing. My heart has broken too many times. That’s selfish of me, but I know it’s the way sometimes, and I accept it.

I’ll never love again. It’s not possible. One man can only take so much. It’s time for me to be alone and make peace with that. May God continue to bring you miracles and happiness.

I’m Done With Prompts As I Said In My Post ‘The Tootsie Roll pop-sucking Kid’, So…

I answered today’s prompt only because I had something positive to tell. That was definitely the last time.

Watch tomorrow’s prompt be something like “How old were you when you saw “The Wizard of Oz” or something else nobody could possibly remember.

I was four. A powerful thunderstorm hit and the power, and of course, the lights went out. Thunder scared me more than the talking apple tree had. Which is exactly the scene playing when the transformer got struck by lightning. Back then, utility poles had steel rungs on them to aid linemen in climbing. On reflection, maybe they were really a way to get down if the BG&E guy lost his ladder. I don’t know because from the ground, even adults couldn’t reach the first of the pole rungs.

You see? See how easy it is? There’s better things to talk about besides the prompts. Uh, wait. I forgot that I was talking about an imaginary prompt! But if I do see it (The Wizard of Oz age question) anytime soon, I will certainly need a week’s time in hospital psychiatrique.

How about we discuss the urgent need for payphones? They’re gone. Really gone. I haven’t seen one in years. What’re you supposed to do if your car breaks down and your phone dies? Hitchhike? I don’t think so. When I think about it enough, my brain hurts. Technology has given us too much, but it’s taken a lot more away. You know how many people can read a printed map? Better yet, do you know how many people don’t even know highway maps ever existed?

I remember federal highways paved with concrete slabs, separated by asphalt or tar expansion protectors. You know, to account for temperature extremes. So it didn’t crack. Which, of course, it did anyway. And those joints were raised, so travel was bumpy and noisy.

But there was still something special about travel back then. It was exciting. Vacations meant the beach, or seeing grandparents, or visiting important historic locations and exploring. Guys wore  tortoise shell sunglasses while girls wore horn-rimmed horrors that should have been illegal. And rest stops. Those were cool. People took a piss or dumped the kids’ pukepot in the restrooms. Picnic tables had people eating packed sandwiches and fried chicken, drinking Coca-Cola in green glass bottles from the vending machines, and Stuckey’s was still around. Payphones were everywhere, some even in call boxes on the lonely stretches of highways where you could call free for help from call boxes.

Neon signs, full service gas stations, and wondrous, huge billboards sat off the highway on hills just outside of a treeline. These giant signs bore images and logos that tempted one’s stomach, made kids beg to stop at some place like South of the Border or an amusement park.

Fast food restaurants and diners that have long since vanished did rush trading, and even nudist camps were in vogue for a time (here in America, you wouldn’t dare go near one today).

Today, you can never, if you were born after 1970, imagine what those days were like. Even nature has responded to our rapid population growth and technical “progress” because here, it shouldn’t be impossible for me to see bluejays, red-wing blackbirds, starlings, orioles, cat birds, and more. When I was a kid, I even saw Swifts. The skies and trees were full of beautiful songbirds. The noise they made while roosting, a bit loud then, is a thing I sorely miss. The robins arrive earlier each year. Then, by late July, I don’t see any.

By the end of the 70s, the roadside attractions and Stuckey’s billboards were no more. Tobacco and liquor ads replaced most of them, and historic tourist attractions had been bulldozed and replaced by high-rise buildings, industrial parks, Marriott hotels, and the big three, McDonald’s, Wendy’s and Burger King.

Not long after, that competition had shut down most Howard Johnson motor lodges and all of the restaurants. Not that I cared back then. Now I realize that big monopolies have turned into mega-conglomerates and that no competition means consumers get raked over the coals, and things like quality and safety don’t exist except in small businesses. There aren’t many of those left.

Tech and monopoly laws have failed. I had transistor radios for years. Now you can get music apps on your iPhone. So much used and disposed of modern tech has already gone into recyclers and landfills that the recyclers dump the refuse in huge locations that are now highly toxic. In landfills, it’s what they call “E-Waste” and it’s bad news. Mercury, arsenic, and lead leach into the ground, almost surely to find a way into ground water, then to watersheds. These materials are deadly to wildlife and us. Less than a quarter of E-Waste is recycled. But then, recycling anything is next to impossible and constitutes a really sick joke played on everyone who thinks it works.

Back in the days of concrete roads and Coca-Cola in green (glass) bottles and Stuckey’s billboards, we all knew less. We smelled the air, and trust that it wasn’t described as “fresh” in a realistic fashion. We saw the smog as we approached the city. We smelled the exhaust from V-8 engines that burned leaded gas. And we saw the water. Chesapeake Bay often smelled worse than the fish kills in July. We fucked everything up. Our solution was sham clean air and water legislation that had some effectiveness, but today is useless. Washington will let those go.

Boeing was featured Last Week Tonight with John Oliver, and I can’t say it surprised me that Boeing is a scary conglomerate (with the Lockheed Martin merger) that should make people think twice about flying because Boeing lies, scams, and makes shitty planes that are racking up a body count. The power and indifference of all conglomerate entities mean that lives hold no value to CEOs and board members:

“What’s that, sir? You say a door blew out on your flight from San Diego to Raleigh? No, sir, you must be mistaken; that aircraft has already taken off again from Raleigh to Boston. I’m sorry, did you say two flight attendants and a child got sucked out? I’ve had no reports like that, I assure you. No, sir, we don’t refund for completed trips. Excuse me? A lawsuit, you say? Good luck with that, sir. Have a nice day.”

I look back. Yes, I get nostalgic despite my abuse while growing up, but then again, I see where we are now.

And I really wish time machines were real.

But maybe not. We’d just travel to the past and leave garbage and heavy metal E-Waste everywhere.

Traveling isn’t fun anymore. It’s dangerous and a hassle. Traffic backs up and stalls. Accidents are everywhere. Anyone silly enough to ride a murder cycle in today’s traffic has a better chance of being killed on two wheels than Evel Knievel at Ceasar’s Palace. And he came close enough.

So, trains, planes, and automobiles are probably best avoided on July 4th holiday. But why travel at all? You can forget keeping the kids busy because you got them iPads for Christmas. You can relax and make money at home live-streaming on YouTube while taking Patreon donations and selling Chinese merch with your channel name on shitty T-shirts and coffee mugs that are probably painted with lead paint, because you’re a thing now, a rock star, and until folks get tired of you, you’re gonna make so much money that two thirds of it will be needed to pay taxes.

Just tell me, what’re you gonna do when you’re not a star anymore? When the views total less than 200 and Patreon brings in a hot 40 bucks? Ah, tell me.

Tech. Bloody tech. Remastered copies of The Wizard of Oz. Wifi. So much tech from Asia that now we have acramantulas and other Harry Potter nightmare creatures coming in with the cargo: business is war.

If you had to spend the weekend without power, could you survive? How about for a week? Wanna try a month? Everything’s at our fingertips. Everything can be delivered. You don’t even have to type. Just speak into the mic on your phone, and it will be translated. We’re softer and more lazy than ever, and we’re in big trouble if things go south. But for now, just keep live-streaming. I won’t donate via Patreon or use Discord (a more apropos name for a thing than I’ve ever heard), and I don’t buy merch. But from time to time, I’ll watch. Until you’re not a star anymore.

Men With Canes

What is the last thing you learned?

Yesterday I was in the market and I saw an elderly couple turn toward an aisle. The woman kept a pace that the man could not match. He was pushing the cart, and his cane was inside the cart, which he had to push with both hands. I was almost behind him as I passed the aisle, headed for checkout.

I said, “Hello, sir. How are you today?”

He paused and answered, “Okay, how are you?” His voice made me stop. Usually, people have exchanges like this, and as such, I would have said, “Fine, thank you, sir. Have a good day.” I would have moved on quickly. Well, I would have kept going, but not quickly. I, too, use a cane. He raised the handle of his and said, “I’m about to…” I couldn’t make out the rest, but his voice when he answered my query as to how he was held some quality of gratitude. An almost lonely tone turned to joy that someone had noticed and greeted him. Here was a man who knew little happiness. I get fast with that kind of perception; I myself know how it feels all too well. I try to put on a good show in public, though, as being positive for a few minutes doesn’t cost me anything, and it can, on occasion, make others feel better. Thinking that I have done that, well, in my life, which I’ve told you has been so full of pain? Making someone feel cared for, happy, or positive, those things give and have given me the most positive and good feelings I’ve ever known. With my children gone, if I have nothing else, nobody else, then showing kindness is good medicine.

I asked the man, “You wanna race?”

He chuckled but said sadly, “Not today.”

“You have a nice day, sir,” I said, and with a lighter voice, he said, “Thank you. You, too.”

It took seconds. I knew, though, that his wife hadn’t heard the exchange. I think that made a difference to him. I don’t believe that she has much patience with him.

I’ll never forget him. Ever. I finally did get wet cheeks later, the good kind of tears that only come when something special, however slight or brief, takes place between people.

I wonder what he’s like. What life has done to him. I know he’s in pain on the outside, but I doubt that others ever notice his emotional pain or question where it comes from. These are things others shield themselves from, and that’s a crying shame. It shouldn’t be like that.

But it is.

I’ve made the unforgivable mistake many times of taking the silence of others personally. Whenever I did, I regretted it. Mostly because I was wrong most of the time. So, I’ve developed the determination of being patient and waiting for the right moment, then initiating a quick conversation. I usually just ask, “How are you?” I don’t know how, but most can sense that my question is not casual: I really want to know the answer. I want to hear it. And I’ll gladly listen to complaints, stories, recent experiences, anything. I’m sincerely interested. I care.

The fact is, being an asshole is easy, but the price is too high. I remember 8th grade at a junior high school in Pasadena, Maryland. I was in drawing and painting class. On the first day, we had to do a still life. Pencil work was old stuff to me. I remember there was a propped up guitar with no strings as part of the composition, but not the rest. The teacher, whose name escapes me (although I do remember others), walked around the classroom, checking out our work. When he got to me, he cried, “Farm out!” It was good. Really good. A girl across from me at the next table asked me to hold it up and show her.

At that time, I was nothing but a shy (more like petrified and socially dysfunctional) abused little kid who hated compliments and praise. I hated myself. I couldn’t imagine deserving notice or praise.

Her name was Nancy St. Cyr, a beautiful girl with flaming red hair, and I certainly couldn’t talk to pretty girls. I said, “Go someplace,” which was ’70s politically correct slang for ‘Go to Hell.’

The incredibly intense hurt was shown instantly in her eyes, replaced by hate in seconds. She never spoke to, nor looked at, me again, which still grieves me to this day. Once done, an act of brutality, in word or deed, may never be forgiven. I did not blame her. I still don’t. But I’d give anything to be able to apologize. We just don’t get a lot of second chances, especially when we’re assholes.

I don’t know if God ever forgave me. Sometimes, we cause so much pain that we wonder about that. It is a hurt for us that can’t be healed.

This may make you wonder if I’m a bit more kind and sensitive now because I feel the need to do penance. Well, of course I feel the need, but that’s not why. I got sick of being a cause of pain. I’ve been in pain since I can remember riding in a stroller. Pain. Terror. Then CPTSD because abuse leaves weeping, open wounds that cannot be healed until God brings us back with new bodies. I don’t know much about forgiveness, but I do believe that God counts our every tear, hears every cry of pain, and every prayer. In the meantime, I can’t take my own sins away by doing anything. I just know I need to get back to the narrow road that I left so long ago. I also know that won’t make my life any better. I’ll still be in pain. I’ll still have the regrets of the past. I’ll still remember Nancy St. Cyr and her look of pain. Of all the people I’ve hurt since 8th grade, I don’t remember one of them looking at me like that.

But I’m small, and my part of this universe is too tiny to measure.

Out there. In the world. It is horrible. People do things that others can scarce imagine. A decent person does not have the capacity to picture war crimes. Crimes against humanity. Slavery or mass murder. The constant horror of being terrorized.

It’s all happening right now. It has never stopped. It won’t stop until God’s intervention happens.

But there is still kindness. There is still decency. In a conversation between two old men in a grocery store, with one showing respect, interest, and sincere care to another, there is more that is holy than there is in five years of Joel Osteen’s “sermons.”

Keep the faith. When it is weak, seek the crepuscule: that short time of the day after sunset but before dark, when the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples are painted just above the horizon and a hush seems to fall around you as the day gets closer to leaving.0

The day may hold stress, the night loneliness, but twilight is like God saying, “You like my painting tonight? Remember when you were in art class? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, so don’t forget me.”

I’m about to turn an age I never thought I’d ever see. And unlike the song, I have no worries about being fed or needed. It’ll just be another day.

I’m fine with that. Because that means I’ll do something nice for someone. I just learned that. I can be nice any time I want to. Whether you want to or not is up to you. I have had enough of dealing out pain. I have too many ghosts for that. I can’t make them go away, but God willing, I won’t pick up any more.

Thank you for 133 subscriptions!

I never expected to get over ten followers. 50 was a mark that shocked me. But today, I found a new follow on this site. Thanks to the new people here, and thanks to all for putting up with me through the good, the bad, the comical, and the scary things that I have written about. It’s tough following a blogger with so many things to do in your life, so that makes you very important people in my life.

Once again, I say humbly, thank you all for letting me be a small part of your life. You have given me purpose and responsibility. I don’t take that lightly, I do notice.

I don’t need “likes,” but seeing five or ten views in a day does make me feel better. I thought that you should know that. Be well, my friends.

Much love,

The American Asshole, 2 March 2024

“It wasn’t the airplanes.  It was beauty killed the beast. That, and one bad choice.”

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

I was recently faced with the statement that some past events that had occurred had been because of fate. In fairness, I can’t remember what was said or by who, or even what it was about.

I don’t always file bullshit away for future use; it gets put into the shredder that an old man’s mind regretfully keeps in “standby” mode.

The main idea I tried to get across to the person was that I no longer have such a belief. It’s bullshit and a protective thing we use on ourselves to soften the bruises to our egos after a failure.

Maybe there was a time. I don’t want to think that I did, but if I once believed in fate, then I didn’t understand what free will is.

Fate is a concept. Oh, it works well in assuaging guilt, calming the tears of a broken heart, or soothing the mind after finding out that the one person you’re really into doesn’t like you at all, but rather holds you in contempt. That’s the hurt before getting far enough to even get a broken heart. It’s called rejection and scorn.

But let’s say for a moment that maybe, if not fate, there are some pretty cool or weird things that happen, which we utterly fail to understand. Because of course there are. Random, whether we think so or not.

And if you believe in God, then tell me how fate is decided by him. Does that mean that he is always holding you by strings like a marionette, reading from a script that he laboriously wrote before time existed?

The evidence that God is real is all about; one has only to be willing to see. Hawking and others devoted their lives to proving that the Big Bang was random and spontaneous, but they failed, all of them. Einstein himself wasn’t exactly a believer but did write in a letter, “There is a God, but he is never listening.”

Bitter experience in his early years and his subsequent exposure to science prompted him to call scripture many things such as a book of lies used to condition children and a bundle of myths from various cultures in ancient times.

He did, however, believe that the universe had an order and a beauty that seems to be a description of a Creator God’s work. The fact is he changed throughout his life and deeply regretted writing the letter to Roosevelt that started the Manhattan Project. He said if he had known what would happen, he would have been a watchmaker.

Here we see a burning question: was the atomic bomb an inevitable creation? A matter of fate?

If one believes in the multiverse, then at least one Earth, parallel to us in time, never had the H-bomb. It’s possible that World War Two never happened.

The concept of different timelines or parallel worlds is fringe science at best. If there is no way to prove a theory, the concept remains just that. However, in this world, what if Hitler never took power, and the Empire of Japan never decided that war was necessary to get what they needed? What if it had favored trade instead of a military expansionist economy?

The possibilities are infinite.

World War Two did not happen because of fate, no more than any other war in world history. It happened because men chose things that led to it. Their actions and verbal abuse, and speeches of racial supremacy did it.

When the American Army found its first concentration camp, high command had been hearing through military intelligence what amounted to rumors, but ultimately, intelligence had confirmed that something terrible had been going on. It did not help that the troops who found the camp had not been told. They were in shock at the sight of men emaciated and pale, all but dead, some dehydrated to the point where their sobs terminated in their throats. And that first camp was a work camp, which wasn’t even an extermination center where Zyklon B, which superseded the original Zyklon, was used to kill Jewish people, political dissidents, Christians, homosexuals, people with disabilities, especially mental disorders, and others. Jews bore the brunt of Nazi hatred, though no one can explain why it went that far. Heinrich Himmler was suspected of being more cruel and far more sinister than the others who decided that the use of the pesticide was a humane way for a “civilized” nation to kill its enemies. The war crimes trials at Nuremberg proved otherwise. Antisemitism wasn’t new; the Nazis just industrialized their hatred. It was not humane (as if war crimes ever can be). It was an agonizing death.

These camps were to be visited at Eisenhower’s orders, later, by command officers. In one instance, General George Patton refused to enter a shack with dead bodies stacked in it. General Omar Bradley communicated, “Georgie wouldn’t go in. He said he’d throw up.” That’s a quote from memory and not exact, but I can’t stomach researching it right now.

George Patton was a true-blue, cocky, tough son of a bitch. I’m not so sure that the allies could have ended the war without significantly more casualties without him. He knew that the German people, military and civilian, would be massacred by the Soviets who had suffered horribly in Leningrad and Stalingrad and everywhere between those cities and the border. The Soviet Army shelled Berlin mercilessly before moving in, but when they did, anyone they found in house-to-house searches was shot, the women raped, random torture was used, and Patton knew that all of it would happen. He hated it. Protested the splitting of Berlin. Out of this, a myth was formed: Patton wanted to invade the Soviet Union. In fact, he knew better and was a keen tactician and historian. What he wanted was to get them back across the border. To put them in their place. George never liked the Soviets and he bristled at never getting the chance to fight them.

The result was that the war in Europe ended. The Soviets declared war on Japan, but before they had the chance to do much, the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki ended the war.

Einstein lived ten years past those bombings. He lived to see the Soviets use the same dreadful weapon in tests. Thus, we have his final words about regret at not being a watchmaker.

There is nothing whatsoever that I’ve written in this thought experiment that lends any credibility to the concept of fate. Himmler was a sadistic man with power, and he did what all sadistic men with power do. All his choices speak to that.

While I believe God is real, I see from history that he simply doesn’t control the affairs of humans. All of humanity has the gift of free will. Only one man was ever born for a set purpose. Yet, he still could have easily saved himself from the cross. He chose not to.

When each of us wakes from sleep, we don’t really consider how many choices immediately present themselves. For the needy, the poor, imprisoned, and the infirm, there are fewer possibilities than other more fortunate people have, but, yes, there are still choices. We choose with our free will.

But wait! There are so many things that can influence that will. You need to shower and go to work. That’s routine, right? Not so fast. Maybe you don’t feel well. You’re tired, sore, and you have a headache. Is that an excuse not to go to work?

Not sure? Well, wait until you step out of the shower. More tired, lightheaded, and no appetite. Little bit of nausea downstairs, too. You’re awake fully now, and your body is sending signals to your brain: don’t make us go.

What’s your choice? Call in sick, or go to work?

This decision is unique to every person and their jobs, their supervisors, their economic situations, their modes of transportation, and more. What they choose has nothing to do with fate.

Some people believe, as do I, that opportunities and chance encounters are the presentations of a higher power. In other words, God does not control your life. There is no fate. But consider how and when you met your spouse. Which types of things had to happen leading up to your crossing paths with each other? Now you see the complexities of life. You meet, but do you ask that person for a date, or do you let them go out of your life, most likely forever? Is that the right one to be with? Are you the right one to be with them?

A chance encounter can lead to happiness or misery. Did God drop a gift in your path for you to choose to take or refuse? Think of what that person makes you feel. How can you know even then?

The answer is simple: if, as many believe, there is true evil out there, and I promise you that there is, then is there not also good? God and Satan. The former wants what’s best for you, but ultimately, you’re the one who has to choose, as the latter puts tempting but destructive people and things in your path.

God gave us free will. He didn’t want to create just another animal. Even the earliest humans chose, developed, lived in peace, or became violent as a matter of choice.

This freedom is extended to our beliefs in him. He didn’t want us to automatically love him without deciding to. If that were so, we would be nothing more to him than what a child keeps trapped in a bird cage. The parakeet may appreciate getting food, but it can’t tell the child that it loves him. In fact, it has never known freedom, but at the first opportunity, it will fly away. The old saying applies: if you love it, let it go. If it comes back, then you can probably keep it. If it doesn’t, it never belonged with you at all. We can’t force love. We know if a dog loves us because they express it. But if that dog shows no affection, you have to let it go to someone it will be happier with. That’s what I think God’s dynamic with us is.

We are free to love. Free to choose.  With that said, so is everyone else. So what they do isn’t up to you. Bad or good, they affect us. Sometimes, it’s not his will for us to suffer. Prayer goes a long way, and he does give us miracles, but pain can teach us things we never would have known. He sees that. He may know how we will be treated and what we will do with what pain teaches us. But that doesn’t mean that he controls it.

“Fate” is a false concept that we use to give up, take a pass, or deny our part in something negative. And all we really have is our faith and each other. That is why love and kindness are so important.

“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”- Jesus Christ

King Kong didn’t have to climb up the Empire State Building with a woman he could never mate with. He chose that irrational action. And then he was killed for it. But he was an animal. We are not, and we shouldn’t act like one.

An American Asshole Steaming about Streaming

I’ve watched Band of Brothers and The Pacific, two miniseries I’ll be reviewing soon along with other content, and as a World War Two buff, I, of course, want to watch Masters of the Air. That’s especially true since I’ve studied the air war over Europe extensively. The Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress was the workhorse of the Army Air Force. It’s my favorite warplane, and it is still the stuff of legend. It could bring its crew back to base even with the rudder shot off.

The crew survived. It appears as though this Fort was hit by a burst of flack. Picture credit unknown.

The British had the mighty Lancaster, and we had another heavy bomber, the Consolidated B-24 Liberator. It carried more payload, but though some say it has always been underestimated, there was a critical difference between the Liberator and the Flying Fort: the Lib could take fewer bullets or flak hits, and down it went. I swear the wings broke off quicker than that sadistic kid in your class could pull the wings off a butterfly.

During the war against Nazi Germany, less than 50 percent of all US crews survived. This may be partly due to early models of both bombers having no machine guns facing directly forward. In the Flying Fortress, the navigator was seated at a table behind and to the left of the bombardier. The nose guns were really on the cheeks of the compartment and fired at angles. The Luftwaffe pilots in fighter planes caught on quickly and attacked from straight ahead. It was not until the “G” model came out that there was a remedy, which was a chin turret just below the bombardier, who controlled it. It housed twin .50 caliber Browning machine guns, which were monsters that are still in use.

If the miniseries is based on true stories, I want to see it. But of all the maddening choices, they put it on Apple TV, a streaming service I don’t have and can’t afford. I have enough subscriptions now, so that’s it.

When I was growing up, there were 3 channels we could watch. They were WJZ, an ABC affiliate, WBAL, an NBC affiliate, and WMAR, a CBS affiliate. That was it. After a time, we could tune in two UHF channels: WDCA, Channel 20 in Washington, and WBFF, Channel 45 in Baltimore. UHF stood for ultra high frequency, and those stations were independent. I loved them because they showed The Lil’ Rascals and Speed Racer and good kid’s shows in the afternoon, then loads of good movies starting at 19:00 (can you believe that I once thought The Beast of Hollow Mountain was a good movie?).

When cable became unavoidable, there was fair competition. But the smaller companies were swallowed quickly. Like a Russian nesting doll, bigger companies ate the smaller ones until all that remained were monopolies. And what we have now makes us nostalgic for monopolies.

Are you a Trekkie? That’s too bad. Paramount Plus has the shows but not the movies; they’re on Max. I used Max to watch Band of Brothers and The Pacific, but the newest miniseries is on Apple.

We “cut the cable,” so to speak. We all stream now, almost. But we’ve been had. Caught in another coyote trap because we couldn’t see the inevitable. “Don’t want to pay us for cable, eh, folks? Okay. But we’re gonna fuck you very hard on internet service. Don’t like it? Go back to the Stone Age then. See how you like that!”

They’ve got us. Want to watch sports? They’ll be glad to hook you up, but you ain’t gonna believe the price tag.

Disney Plus, without ads, will set you back $14.00 per month. And, all services are now, or soon will be adding commercial ads. Don’t want those? Pay extra. Depending on the content you want to see, you can still subscribe to several services and still come in way below what cable costs. Just remember, you should keep it minimal because those prices are not guaranteed. They’ll go up.

Some movies and even TV shows make the rounds. Like a big circle, a movie may be on Hulu now, but if you don’t have Hulu, be patient as it will come to Tubi, freevee, or Prime. Only some content stays put. You’ll find out. Until then, renting through YouTube or Prime is okay, I’ve done it and even bought a few titles. Better than subscribing just to watch one movie.

But I’m still fuming. Too many titles are exclusive, and the competition in the entertainment industry has never been this vicious, with customers getting the short end every day. We’re getting rammed, they don’t care, and it will get a lot worse very soon.

TELL ME WHEN IT’S OVER

How is Survivor still a thing?

CAVEAT EMPTOR

It is not a buyer’s market. The economy is improving, but with interest rates above 7%, nobody’s going house hunting very soon. Don’t blame President Biden: democrats usually have to pick up after republican presidents, and with Covid-19, this time, it’s been worse. Stream only what you can afford. You need to eat.

YOUTUBE AND PATREON

Maybe YouTube is free with ads, but what if you want to go premium? And what about Patreon? If you subscribe to a channel, are you really gonna pay even more to get a video a day early? And what about hucksters who keep doing this “For the complete video, check out my Patreon”?

Because I have a guilty pleasure. It’s no doubt that you all know about “reaction” or “first time watching” videos. If you’re not familiar, it’s watching someone else watch a movie, supposedly for the first time. Seems like they’re all Canadian, come to avoid an even higher cost of living, and a higher unemployment rate than we have.

I’ll get tired of it quickly. It seems really stupid when you think about it. But what really makes my blood boil is when they keep telling us to hit “like” and “subscribe” and hit Patreon to give them money. I don’t know about you, but paying extra bucks to see someone reacting to a movie is just too much for me. It’s fucking stupid and I’m not going to be falling for it. Besides, after my Discord-Patreon experience last year with Why Files, I wouldn’t go on those even for higher quality and more cerebral content combined. Neither one of which YouTube has. Of course, if you want, you can ride with some cameraman in the front carriage of the New York subway. You ain’t gonna see much, but it’s really a thing. Afterward, you’ll have the urge to shower. Go for it. Ya never know, y’dig? Better safe than sorry.

I’m Not Like Everybody Else

What advice would you give to your teenage self?

What’s the use? That person is gone. What I am now… broken, dying… what fucking point is there to this? It’s bullshit. What’s done is done, and even God won’t change it. Learn from the past as all people should. I know you’re hurting. But until the day you die, you have a choice: live with your past or die by your past. I hope you choose life. Your pain makes you stronger than any song or poem, or Proverb can convey. I’m not doing this. I’m not like everyone else. Take these prompts and shove them up that Tootsie Roll Pop-sucking kid’s ass. The AI he created is even repeating itself. Kid, count me out.

I’m not like everybody else. I’ll waste no more time on these stupid-ass prompts. It’s sick.

The Coyote Trap

It’s  true. We trust idiots. We always have.

Sometimes it’s because we have no choice: they’re in a position superior to ours, they have power, and we don’t. A college dean can be brilliant and exude in students a faith in their professors and their choice of university, and still be a great big dickhead. He lies. He’s selling a product. A blowhard salesman whose job it is to keep you in university. And they hurt the very people they’re supposed to help.

About midway through their first semester, a sinking feeling creeps up on the student. Something doesn’t seem right. Ah, but nothing can be done. It’s too late. For the rest of the semester or the year, they try to put it out of their mind.

By Christmas break of their second year, the student has heard the talk. If that individual had a funny feeling in their freshman year, then as a sophomore, no longer kept at arm’s distance from upperclassmen because of traditional snobbery, the student learns that they’re all trapped. It’s all an elaborate scam. Sure, if you work hard and take uppers and drink all the black coffee you can hold, you can eventually earn a degree. Or, if you have stock in Starbucks, maybe you can even pull down a doctorate.

Now, in the hole, and by ludicrous amounts of money, you have the parchment. Except, of course, that’s not real parchment. It’s vellum, if it is anything fancy. It’s just paper most of the time. And nobody painstakingly scribbled that calligraphy by hand. It didn’t even come off a Heidelberg press. It came from a desktop printer. Perhaps you even have one like it in your dorm.

Then you put together a résumé and hit the concrete. And find out that no matter how you wrote it, or what template you may have used, or how you spelled “resumé” it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all, and if you get an offer for work, your starting salary is a paltry 14-20k per year. You stagger. You could fall down. The blow hits you that hard. Four to six years of your life or more are behind you, and yet all you get is barely even a white collar job, probably less. That fucking degree you coveted and then heard talk about? Well, the talk was true, and the bloody thing isn’t even worth what the printer, probably an ancient HP, used. It’s too rough to use as asswipe. Maybe it is suitable for origami. Your life is, in your shocked brain, a lie.

At this point, several things begin happening: you’ve just spent a lot of time and a shitload of money only to wind up living back home with mom and dad. At this point, people sometimes think about ending their own lives. A high school and college romance is shattered forever. You see no future. If you think about it, you picture yourself saying into a microphone, “Do you want fries with that, sir?” Or maybe you see yourself waitessing in some cheap-ass club where you have to go topless. It gets grim. On a sunny day, you see only gray clouds.

This is what I call the “Coyote Trap,” which is a distinct racketeering sham above almost every other type.

Farmers, ranchers, and the few true trappers left who use methods from centuries ago will, if you press them, admit that trapping rabbits, raccoons, opossums, mink, weasels, gophers, rats, and many other species are no challenge at all compared to trapping a coyote. Those bastards are the real thing, and they’re even hard to shoot. Even a fox is no match to a coyote for avoiding traps.

But you, Joe, and you, Jane College, you have been caught in the perfect coyote trap. They told you that to succeed in life, you needed a degree. Well, you did that. You did everything that was asked of you.

And now here you are, back in the meanest part of your city, or on Maple Street, and there is, at this point, no distinction between the two. You’re fucked. They got you.

Consult. They tell you, go back, get a secondary degree. What?

What the hell does that mean?

The most devastating scam going, the college education ruins arguably more lives than they enrich.

If you or anyone you know is contemplating suicide, call the Suicide Prevention Hotline at 988 in the United States. Spanish and English speaking operators are always there to help. Please give them and yourself a chance. You deserve to live, and we are stronger with you than without you.

What I described above is a real problem. It’s happening right now, all over the country. Scamming someone is one thing. Crushing their spirit is a crime against God, nature, and humanity.

But let’s keep going. Because since the 1970s, an idea, put into practice in the following decade, was a Coyote Trap on a whole different scale. And we’re all victims. We’ve all been caught in the snare. And it is more serious than you may think.

Because Plastic recycling is a bigger lie than even I believed just six months ago, and what I learned then was disgusting.

If you currently recycle plastic, you should know that whether it’s in the UK or the US, it makes no difference. You’ve been had.

That’s because from the very beginning, manufacturers knew that plastic recycling was impossible. The types of plastics passed on to consumers are all different. A tub of Maxwell House coffee is made from a higher density material than a soda bottle. The two cannot be recycled together. A clamshell clear plastic tray with overpriced barbecue chicken wings or a salad, well, that can’t be recycled at all. It’s single use plastic. That’s the kind you have to throw away after one use. Plastic wrap never could be recycled either. We thought, “Well, it’s plastic, so throw it into the collection bin.” We were wrong. Very few types of plastic can be recycled. Manufacturers never claimed that they could be, so who are the bad guys?

The petroleum giants. They push the gas and oil to make these plastics. And, of course, food manufacturers love plastic. There isn’t much packed in glass and paper anymore. When I can, I pay extra for a product in glass or paper, eschewing plastic milk bottles for paper, to name one example.

Even those plastic containers that can be recycled can only be so treated once. That’s because after that, there’s nothing to recycle. If you buy something in a package that says “100% reecycled,” you have to throw it in the trash. Not only that, but recycling produces greenhouse gas. It is the ultimate lie.

And since recycling centers have to have employees to pick through and separate what can and can’t be recycled, the cost outweighs the practicality. So what happens is that mass plastics are thrown into a compactor, baled like hay, strapped, and sent to landfills. Sometimes, the sorters are not even present. They get laid off because they aren’t needed. They produce nothing but more overhead. You’ll still pay the same taxes, but the state and the counties keep the difference.

If you haven’t done so yet, I urge you to read the linked article and extend your own research from there. It sucks to be lied to and scammed, but knowledge is our only weapon, and without that, we’re coyotes that got caught in traps that we should have never been fooled by.

The Tootsie Roll Pop-Sucking Kid

What bores you?

Of all the stupid, juvenile, and useless things in the world, some AI programmed by some kid with acne who still lives in mommy’s basement and whose idea of fun is pitching a pup tent and sitting in it while playing Call of Duty asks this shit.

Said programmer probably never learned that falling asleep with a Tootsie Roll pop in his mouth is a no-win situation, and after pulling his hair off the pillow before climbing the steps to the shower still has the fucking thing stuck in his hair, but doesn’t know it yet. He-and the world-may never know.

Stupid, looney, goofy, and parochial goddamn questions are anathema to everyone here, but some fail to see it and instead readily answer with self-indulgent bullshit, never stopping to think even once that it’s going to be used against them. The more juvenile and insulting these prompts get, the more salacious and yet petty and personal, the faster they spill their guts.

How did they answer that last prompt? You know, the one about who are their favorite people to be around?

I answered honestly and didn’t risk hurting anyone’s feelings. The more isolated I become, the better. Why hurt anyone when life’s got so much more to offer? Did anyone answer that question with names or descriptions of their friends that can’t possibly point to anyone but specific people? That was stupid. But the question was leading, and that’s a dirty typical goddamn internet trick. Now those people are fucked. Friends not named or described on their list of favorites are hurt. It’s a hollowness and special kind of pain, being left out. And don’t even think that right now, there’s not more than one idiot plotting revenge for it. No, I’m not joking. People get killed that way. They hurt so bad that the person who left them out is going to suffer and could end up dead. Shit happens all the time, and I’ve seen it happen.

This is the problem with Toosie Roll Pop-sucking programmers. They stir the pot and watch the results on the news. Too much or too little, and the AI gets stupid. There was no right answer to that question. There was no reason to answer at all. The people who matter to you already know it. You’ve shown it, and you’ve said it, even if you didn’t use words. Look, it doesn’t mean much to me. If you haven’t already demonstrated your affection to your secret favorites, whether that affection be on a professional or personal level, do it. Do it now. Say something. Tell them they’re appreciated. Show that you’ve got their back. And don’t ever leave them out. That hurts. Treat all others with equal respect and kindness. They may just earn it, so give them a chance to.

Of course, I’ve failed to mention that people who do harm after being excluded or even inferring that you’ve excluded them are at least insecure, at most very sick, and need help that you can never give. You have to find a way to gracefully leave them behind. They are poison. Toxic and deadly.

And don’t answer these stupid, useless, insolent questions. You’re a writer. Write.

And to the Tootsie Roll Pop-Pop-Sucking Kid, I know you’ll ride again. Do whatever you want. Leave me alone.

This Correction Doesn’t Mean Anything To Me. The WWE Is Still A Full Septic Tank, Overflowing In The Summer Sun.

I’ve seen so many takes on the ongoing-but really just getting started-soap opera of Vince McMahon that I have to make a correction: apparently McMahon lived in the same building as Janel Grant’s parents. That goes completely off the rails from earlier reports of a house they lived in. It means that Janel was not unknown to McMahon at all, and the story of someone in the WWE telling him her story of loss didn’t happen. That would blow my theory of his grooming her as some vulnerable waif prime for exploitation out of the water.

But isn’t it strange that nobody making money off Patreon-fueled videos or websites for “entertainment news” has ever been in such a situation? More importantly, they have never been groomed by a cult leader before and certainly never made it to the status of cult member?

These people may mean well. But they’re making mistakes and actually could affect public opinion against Grant, which is already showing signs of being fanned. That’s bad. In a civil trial by jury against WWE/TKO, she would have some support in the court of public opinion, which by no means is a small thing.

Then, too, there’s the problem of a federal criminal investigation, which can halt the entire process as it must take precedence. This is a snowball rolling down a mountain, like an old cartoon.

At the core right now is a series of texts between Grant and McMahon. Hers reportedly showed lurid, long, and then graphic garbage alleged to have been sent by him to her, texts she responded to with equal amounts of astoundingly graphic content. She’s already being judged for it, too. Kevin Nash is defending McMahon and said that he had never known Vince to write like that. Well, Kevin, I’m sure glad for your two cents’ worth, and fuck you very much. You apparently came from a time before texting and were slow to get into it. Also apparent is that you’re not a woman and not an object of his lust and preferences. You know what I think, Kev? I think you’re being paid. That’s going to come back on you. It will. You should go back home and play video games.

I’m not going to attack or accuse Janel Grant of anything. It looks very much like the WWF and WWE under Vince McMahon was a bona-fide cult. Grant was given a job. One that could keep her off the streets. In exchange, she was unaware but still conditioned to be dependent. It’s the most common element of all cults: dependency and the unreasonable fear of being abandoned and ending up on the streets. All cults use it. Among mental illnesses, there are doctors who deem themselves gods and who want personality disorders removed from the “Bible of mental disorders.” But that’s because of two things: insurance companies, and learned behavior and how difficult it is to treat. For many, like myself, treatment has lasted decades, and I’m still dreadfully affected. Some things… just don’t go gently into that dark night. Some hurts never heal. Some things can’t be fixed.

With me, 20 years of being told I was nothing without him, that I would die on the streets without him, made me believe that I was stupid, and my father had me. I was nothing without him. And every time I got away from him, I failed. I had to go back.

Being back under his control but getting a steady paycheck, I’d follow his every command. It was normal to work 18-20 hour days. It was normal to have to do too much, and a lot of it was stuff nobody else would do. All because I was scared of being on my own. Scared of dying out there on the streets, a fate he’d been predicting since I was too young to consider that he was using abandonment as a threat, which to a kid means simply, death. They don’t understand death. But they know they’ll be alone, cold, hungry. Hated by their own family.

I submit that his reinforcement with religion further terrified both myself and siblings, rendering all of us fucked up. We’re largely estranged now, but I’ll still jump at the chance to see my nephews and nieces, two brothers, and one sister, all of whom I adore. The rest are not my enemies, though I’ve maligned them horribly in the past. I do love them, but a reunion with them is out of the question. Neither they nor I wish it. But after time, I just can’t hate anymore.

I further posit that men and women who have never been in Ms. Grant’s shoes don’t know what it’s like to be that victimized, dependent, and brainwashed. Therefore, they cannot presume to judge her. As an example, I’m going to use a few simple lines from the classic film “The Caine Mutiny,” starring Humphrey Bogart, Van Heflin, Fred McMurray and José Ferrer.

In other words, those who talk but don’t know should shut up.

This will play out however circumstances allow, and we can’t see that now. I’ve never been to a wrestling show, and I’ve never spoken with Vince McMahon. I have, however, been in very close proximity to him. I can only sense good folks by failing to sense extreme anger, jealousy, hatred, and other negative things. I knew who he was the second our eyes made contact. I also felt a steady sense of danger and shocking evil in the man, and his stare was withering. I know what he is because I grew up with a father just like him. I could sense his evil because I’d had to learn to do so while surviving every day with a violent, sociopathic man who was more concerned with power and image than he was for the normal growth and development of his own children. They were so much alike that it froze me. I can never forget it.

To prove just how concerned with image McMahon was, when Ashley returned from the WWE visit to the troops overseas and reported that she had been raped and sodomized, he told her it wouldn’t be good for the WWE if word of the incident were made public. He said to her, “Let’s not let one bad experience ruin the good that we’re doing,” and added that it would damage the relationship between the WWE and the US military.

One bad experience?

REALLY?

“One bad experience” is what he actually called it and this proves that he is a sociopath with no capacity for sympathy, no ability to act on right and wrong, even if he knew the difference. And Asley eventually took her own life. Neither McMahon nor the WWE’s board ever offered her counseling or any other kind of crisis intervention. They never do that. Wrestlers are private contractors who are ineligible for any healthcare benefits. Ashley was no different. Other ex-female “contractors” or, if you will, “Divas,” are already coming back from retirement to haunt McMahon. As well they should. Sometimes, it takes that one person to get up the courage to confront and square off against a monster before others also come forth, overcoming their fears to fight the beast. I don’t think they’re all about money, either, although Vince is definitely going to offer cash settlement monies to all of them. I think they want his hide.

Let’s let the facts be revealed in time and not do the victim shaming crap like Kevin Nash and others. That’s too easy and quite often wrong.

I trust victims. If they’re proved to be liars, that’s one thing. But that hasn’t happened yet. Give them all the benefit of the doubt. It’s the right thing to do. Because we all know that this world is ruled by men and they have a record of causing great harm to women.

One more item before I go. Stephanie McMahon has some kind of highly questionable relationship with her father, and she’s twisted. The question is, how much did The Rock know, and how deep did he get in the shit? His sudden move to the board of TKO is just too bizarre. It’s ill-timed and shows lack of vision. He’s made questionable decisions before and starred in some really bad movies, but he had it made. This, this is suspicious. I think he should bail. If he doesn’t, he’s there for damage control. Bad move, Rock. Bad move.

God Forgot About Me…

I know that life can be brutal. It’s all here in my archives, and it’s stuck in my head. I know the feeling of pain in mind, spirit, and body. I’ve been through so much.

I often wonder how one man could take it all and yet keep living. I’ve been dead, went to a deep, dark place with eternity all around me. Alone. Just suspended in darkness that could not be defined nor described except to say that the pitch-black void had no boundaries and above, below, front and back, and side to side,there was nothing. I couldn’t move, but I felt that I would be able to after time. Without seeing or hearing, there came an awareness that below me, to my right rear, a curtain moved as a breeze I couldn’t feel came from the other side of it. Foul, evil things were beckoning me to go and join them.

It was not a place of comfort. I believe Hell could be entered through that curtain.

I did flat-line, but for how long, I can’t say. Time meant very little there in the dark place. All I can say for sure is, I don’t want to go back.

Before that, I had littered the east coast with my blood and a few small body parts.

You name it, and there’s a chance I’ve been through it. It’s not anything to brag about or to be proud of. And I only survived by the grace of God because nothing else explains my being here except the word “miracle.”

My soul, my body, my mind. Sick, through and through. And I am never free from my anguish, pain, regrets, or broken heart.

And still I go back to wondering, Why am I still alive?

Anyone else would have given up the ghost. It’s not that I’m tough. Not that I am strong. Not even that I was lucky.

Because luck wouldn’t be so cruel. You have to figure, after a while, luck would let you off the hook.

Or maybe that God would.

Oh, he’s up there, alright. And he’s forgotten about me. I’m sure of it.

I used to think, until recently, that God had saved me, kept me alive, and had done so for a reason. Maybe so that I could, by sharing my life, help someone in a crisis to say, “If he kept going, then it can be done. I’ll do it better than him.”

And I wish that could be the case. The thing is, though, I wouldn’t know if I had. That’s another way that life can be brutal. So many of us have asked, “Really, Father, is there no more to life than this? If not, then it’s a joke.”

We really shouldn’t, but yes, at one point or another, we do ask. Fortunately, he’s patient with our lapses of faith and our stubbornness that makes us try to strike out on our own. We always fail when we’re on our own. Even when we don’t think we’re failing, he’s ready to catch us if we return to faith in him.

Still, how could he have forgotten me? I’ve been ready for a long time. But I’m alone all the same, and the demons I couldn’t outrun taunt me, taking turns at making sure that I can find no rest, no peace. I knew when my son died, following his sister to an early grave, that my foreseen death, alone and with no one to hold my hand or kiss my cheek, would come true. The only one there will be Christ. He will lead me to a place to await the day when God sentences me.

I just hope that he remembers on that day that days like this with news like this truly affect me. I hope he remembers that an asshole like me cares about the women and children of the world and hates that evil takes their lives so readily. And I hope that he remembers that the killers like Vladimir Putin and Netanyahu never believed in him at all and that all sinners have been warned that they would be judged equally. A one-time murderer will still suffer just as Hitler is, although the degree of suffering each get might be different. But eternity in suffering is still suffering to infinity, so why seek it so intensely?

For the wages of sin is death. Hmm, I don’t know what to make of that. Does it matter? I think not. Because death and hell may be different, but without God, who needs it? I don’t hate myself enough to think about choosing such a thing.

I’m an asshole. That’s the truth. I don’t let myself off the hook because of PTSD and other conditions; I take complete responsibility for my own life, and refuse to claim that “PTSD” or “the devil” made me do anything. I did those things. It is not about me so much as the people I’ve wronged and hurt. It doesn’t matter if I acted out of conditioned fear, triggered by a horrible memory. I’ve pushed people away and knew that it would hurt. I acted anyway. I regret doing so.

The most important things in all our lives are love and how we treat each other.

We sure don’t act like it, do we? I don’t. I know better, but I constantly fail. The post I wrote about pro wrestling is full of expletives and acidic rage. I stand by what I wrote. Former wrestler Kevin Nash has taken to the defense of Vince McMahon, and that shows me what kind of man he is. I never liked him anyway, but I’m not supposed to judge him. How, though, can I avoid it? Vince and others like him have ruined lives. He will reap the whirlwind without my help, but why am I so outraged at them? God will repay. Vengeance belongs to him. Right?

Except that, yes, while we live, we have a duty to stand up for the hurt, the injured, and the wronged.

If we are neutral, uncaring about the pain others go through, then we are as evil as those who hurt people. I can’t be that kind of man. I refuse to be that kind of man.

I hate what predators do. Having been a victim too many times, I can feel their victim’s pain. I can almost hear them when they weep. And they all weep. Their pain is forever. And if good people do nothing, they get covered up in the same sulfurous stink of evil as those who do evil.

I’m sorry that I’ve lived my life being hurt and seeing others hurt. This race we call “civilized” is capable of incredible horrors.

But I’ve seen beauty too. I’ve known love, and I still get to feel it, even when I’m alone. I still watch the sunrise and sunset, hear music, see people being kind. That makes me more sad than happy; kindness is such an amazing thing, awesome in its power to do everything from making someone smile to saving lives. Yet cruelty is so often chosen over it, and that is plain to see. It’s everywhere. Vladimir Putin grows more evil and more powerful with each passing day. A terrible food shortage already exists, and it will get worse. Governments of the world refuse to help. They’ll send weapons and ordnance before they’ll send food.

I’m sorry that I’ve had to see that as a fact of life, a policy of death before life. Don’t you wonder if God expects better? Does anyone? I don’t see people trying to take him into account, yet he asks so little: be good to those who use you. Pray for your enemies with your heart. Do things to help others. Give to those who have nothing and do it quietly without expecting anything in return. Be humble and listen because you never know when God might just whisper in your ear. If you’re busy yelling, you’ll never hear him.

I’m so tired. I’m always so tired. And yet here I am, still alone, still in pain, inside and out. I have nothing to offer anymore. I’m sure that I never did. Stormy romantic relationships got to me so much that without choosing celibacy, i chose to stop everything. I was meant to be alone.

We suffer while we’re here. Through that, we learn. What we learn, the most dreadful of lessons, we are obligated to pass on to others. We do this through music, like composing a sad violin concerto, writing a book or blog, podcasting, word of mouth, a song that tells a story, a poem, or by just being nice to others, which teaches by living an example, an ideal, which, in the end, has usually been learned from pain. Long, drawn-out, and intense pain.

What matters most? Love. Love, and how we treat each other.

I am tired, but I’m not going to curl up and surrender. I would never treat another person as I have in the past; haven’t I felt the pain that the cruel so easily inflict?

Whatever I say here, however full of anger and outrage at what I see, I won’t mistreat another. Venting and social commentary end on this site. I can’t allow myself to be a villain. I haven’t lived through so much to let that happen. I am a sinner. But I trust God to know what’s in my heart.

I also trust him not to forget me for too much longer. Sometimes, though we fight on, folks do get a bit tired, you know?

That’s Entertainment? The Ugly Side of Sports Entertainment: Profesional Wrestling

Warning: What follows is the most shitty and disgusting story I’ve seen in recent years, and it didn’t even shock me. I’ll be pulling absolutely zero punches, so be warned now that sexual assault, rape, trafficking for sex, child sex abuse, and more will be in my discussion. If you think you can’t handle it, please be gentle to yourself and leave now.

If you have stayed after my warning, and you have read it, and if a tag brought you here, or if you’re curious about my continuing attack on our current state of “entertainment,” then hang on to your stomachs. We’re going on a trip to visit Vincent McMahon, who’s on his way to Hell.

I’m not getting into the long history of American (not Olympic) wrestling. Wikipedia should give adequate information to start your research for your own journey into Hell. Or beyond.

I watched it at various times. In the early 60s, on black and white television, with the likes of Cowboy Bill Watts and other oldies.

In the early 70s, I watched Chief Jay Strongbow and Andre the Giant, the Grand Wizard, a manager and a heel, and a lot of other guys I can’t remember. Then I left it alone. Back then, Vince McMahon was no more than a skinny, ugly announcer. But he was determined to convince his father that he was a worthy son to take over the family business. And he did. Or so they say.

1999-2001

My son wanted a video game for Christmas in 1999: “WCW Mayhem” for the original Playstation. I got that and a skating game for him. When he and I couldn’t talk or find common ground, gaming filled the gap between us. I soon bought my own Playstation and was bitten by the wrestling bug. When he visited, we could create ridiculous wrestlers and step into the squared circle together. We had fun. I’m grateful for those memories. Some of the happiest I have.

While alone on Mondays, I watched wrestling, switching cable channels between WCW Monday Nitro and WWF Raw. I was truly lucky, seeing both at their best. WCW was suffering from a lack of a storyline, but Tank Abbott was brought in with a real contract and maybe the promise to fight Goldberg, who, at the time, was out with injuries. Tank had to go through the roster to get to Goldberg. I swear I saw him take on Screamin’ Norman Smiley, plus the incredibly stupid “Demon”, but I can’t find  a record of either one. The Demon was inspired by the incredibly stupid band KISS. One fight card indicates Abbott fought Vampiro, who might have been the Demon character I’m thinking about. Somewhere along the way, Jeff Jarrett played the fans by resurrecting the nWo and called the entire arena audience a bunch of “slapnuts” which a heel, of course, was supposed to do: rile up the fans and keep them watching. I hated him, but in fact, I think he’s a square guy, a good man.

I find it troubling: I remember Tank Abbott clearly. But not the matches he had. He also was hardly undefeated, and his famed “Knockout Punch,” his finishing move, doesn’t seem to be as effective as I recall. He also continued with WCW well past the point where I stopped watching.

The gimmick over, I began losing interest in WCW. I wasn’t alone. They weren’t even selling out matches. Terry Funk was always worth watching, and at a stable, in a hardcore match, got kicked by a horse. Before the commercial, Funk could be heard saying, “Fuck!”

While I had been aware for years that it was all a show, because I wasn’t as stupid as John Stossel, I also knew that enough of wrestling was real enough that those people in the ring really were hurting each other. Mostly by accident because they’re basically athletes and stunt performers at the same time, but oftentimes on purpose because of perceived real hits by opponents. Accidents happen in and out of the ring, and wrestlers do go off-script behind the scenes. On camera, of course, but backstage, too.

Kane, the Rock, Undertaker, and Cactus Jack were my favorites, but close behind were the Dudley Boyz, Too Cool (Grand Master Sexay and Scotty Too Hottie), and Kurt Angle.

Who was responsible for all of this soap opera wrestling goodness? Vincent McMahon. He had pooled some of the best talent in writing, stage sets, makeup, and announcers.

At the time, I wasn’t aware that there was also dirty fighting between WCW and WWF. A WCW wrestler named “Montana” wore a black Stetson and made fun of WWF announcer Jim Ross, whose former ring appearances had him “from Montana.”

Having been stricken by a form of palsy, Ross (J.R.) sometimes had speech and facial muscle problems, and it was this that Montana made fun of. The fans didn’t like it. But vindictivness was the primer of the downfall of the WCW. Vince McMahon was the hammer. His WWE bought out the floundering WCW, resulting in a surplus of talent that had to be trimmed. A trimming job for Vince would be to you and I more like something you’d see in a slaughterhouse than a butcher’s shop. You could see it in his face: anger and severe punishment were in his eyes at the same time.

I also did not know about the horrible death of Owen Hart, who had fallen approximately 75 feet from a harness as he was being lowered from the rafters. That fall onto any surface not intended for stunt use, like a deflating air bag, is hardly survivable. In this instance, he landed on the top rope, near enough to a turnbuckle as to make the rope even more unforgiving. It severed his aorta, which closed the deal on his death sentence. It happened at a live pay per view event, but no one at home saw it. Jim Ross was so shocked that he had trouble telling the viewers that Hart was in real trouble and that this was no attempt at drama.

With Hart’s blood still on the ring’s  mat, McMahon decided that the show was to go on. This was a clue that McMahon was a greedy and cold-hearted son of a bitch, but also, even as I heard this story, I was unaware of what took place in 1992. And that was sickening to beat all hell.

That story went that Rita, a female referee with WWF, had been raped by McMahon. She appeared on the Geraldo Rivera show, and at some point, she sued.

Then another scandal reared up, this involving a juvenile and a member of the WWF. In a 1992 interview on Larry King Live, even Bruno Sammartino, who I’d also watched as a kid, accused Vince of knowing about dirty shit and lying his ass off.

By 2022-2023, Vince and the now-WWE (the World Wildlife Federation sued to make McMahon change his organization to exclude “WWF” so it became “WWE” for World Wrestling Entertainment in 2002.) reported that the case had been settled out of court. Rita Chatterton would now shut up. Funny, how money makes ugly things vanish, huh? But Rita only settled to avoid further litigation costs, so she wasn’t exactly happy. In her first match as referee, McMahon had actually told the two women wrestlers to break her legs. Fortunately they agreed not to follow his command.

The Recent Scandals

Jake the Snake Roberts, a former wrestler, says that the latest revelations about McMahon are “disgusting” and I have to believe that he had heard at least rumors, as now, it has become public knowledge that in 2005, Christie Hemme vanished from WWE. I was no longer watching, so I never even saw her. The figure of 7.5 million has been tossed around. What was rumored was that the creative team couldn’t find anything for her to do, so she was sent for training. Triple H, Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley’s husband, would be traveling there, too. Stephanie didn’t like Christie’s enthusiasm over being around her husband. So she told Daddy (Vince McMahon), and he canceled Hemme’s contract after a week.

Although no one can confirm Stephanie’s involvement or that Triple H was even traveling anywhere at the time, one thing is very clear: Hemme is the former wrestler who got yet another taste of McMahon (literally) and refused to go any further. In fact, it isn’t clear if she ever got that far because not too long ago, she clarified the reason for her inexplicable departure. Because she said she had morals, even asking her father’s permission before appearing in Playboy, which Vince had asked her to do. But when asked to do more, she refused, knowing that the non-negotiable refusal meant that she would lose her job. She may have been cheered by being sent to train. Maybe it gave her some sense of hope. But it wasn’t to be. Vince McMahon was, as we now know, intolerant of any resistance to his commands.

In January of this year, one of many headlines:

“Leading up to the 2024 edition of the Royal Rumble, McMahon found himself involved in yet another case. An ex-company employee, Janel Grant, accused McMahon and former executives of sexual assault and filed a federal lawsuit.”

Janel Grant was in a bad place. Her parents had died. Their house would be taken from her. Someone intervened. He told McMahon about her, and Vince’s face lit up. You know why? I do. Because there’s no better target for sexual abuse, or just plain taking control of, than someone in a bad place. Eager to get work. Soft. Pliable. Someone who would be indebted to you. By this time, McMahon had it down to science. He knew what to do. He carried out each step like the piece of shit he was. Before he knew it, he got a blow job. Then more. He pimped her out, engaging in threesomes with himself, her, and certain other wrestlers. Including Brock Lesner, who is being cut out of his future projects. She was reduced to a fucking sex worker. McMahon even, in one such session, shit on her face as another piece of garbage fucked her, failing to be sickened in the slightest by the vile act.

Let’s be clear: these are sick motherfuckers. Okay? Just so we’re clear on this: more than one wrestler or other WWE employee or contractor (wrestlers, so the company doesn’t have to offer insurance) had forced sex with Ms. Grant. That’s alone, or with others. She was abused in every possible way. Every possible way.

I’m sorry for her beyond any means of or ability to describe. And that’s only the latest known victim. Grant had signed an NDE, which, in the case of violent felonies, federal crimes like sex trafficking and… defecating on one’s face is not legally binding. We know why she would settle for payment. A true victim is fucked up. They want it over. They want closure and a way out. But money can never make things right, or take away the low self-esteem a victim has because they feel guilt or end the relentless nightmares, flashbacks, and everything else that comes with PTSD. To hush her up, the NDA was made, but Vince never paid the second payment,  another illustration of how absent of respect he is toward women. It’s like saying to her, “You’re nothing without me. I don’t pay ‘nothings’.”

So, as happens far too seldom, Grant became resolved. If that’s how it was going to be, fine. The NDA wasn’t even a thing anymore. She was free to tell her horror story to the world, so she did. That blew the lid off everything, and I do mean everything. Now, there were fewer wagons to circle. Vince stood virtually alone, with a few obviously guilty dickheads hanging on. In this podcast, you’ll hear why:

Ashley

Ashley was a victim in more than one way. I don’t think I ever saw her except in clips because I don’t remember her being around yet when I stopped watching. I kept playing the newest video games, but the last one, 2024, is so bad that I have to rank it as the worst wrestling game ever made. It is so sexist that every diva in the create suite has implants. Noticeably so. Wow. Now that I think about it, I’ll probably never buy another one. Besides, I know too much now, and playing it would be a problem for me. Even the classic games, which were far superior, might be hard to stomach. But I do recall Ashley being in one of the games. Maybe 2008, 2009, 2010?

Ashley was a diva. I was under the naive impression that Divas were treated well at first. Beautiful and technically very good wrestlers.

It took no time at all in late 1999 for me to see otherwise. Mud wrestling? Seriously? Bra and panties matches? Hey, I messed around with the games, sure. But real life is not a video game. Divas have, as a whole, been treated so horribly by Vince McMahon that I’m frankly concerned that he hasn’t been imprisoned by now. He’s basically kidnapped, raped, sexually abused, beaten, assaulted with bodily fluids and waste, falsely imprisoned, tortured, (and even murdered one victim-that we know of) so many men, women and juveniles that we can never know the full extent of his depravity or his crimes.

Ashley had serious issues from getting concussions. Remember that I said earlier that this might be scripted, but people really do get hurt? Here’s proof. She had endured multiple head trauma, but in her affidavit, she also said that after she posed for the cover of Playboy, Vince set it up so that she flew on the corporate jet and stayed in the same hotels with the executives. She already knew Vince to be a predator. Perhaps you’re thinking that should have made her alarm go off, but she dared to dream that in her case, she was safe. She was not.

Vince tried to seduce her. Tried and tried. He would constantly ring her room and her cell phone all night. In Kuwait, she was raped by an unidentified male, and the fucker was probably put up to it, perhaps even paid, by Vince himself. When someone refused his advances, his wrath was unquenchable, and he was unforgiving. Guilty of stalking and harassment he stepped it up even more.

Now, she was in such despair that the affidavit also said he overrode the writer’s scripts for her and made her say things that she knew would finish her career. Ashley ended her own life in 2017, a direct result of the actions and verbal abuse along with head trauma-all caused then ignored by Vince McMahon. He murdered her.

This information was not made known until after her death. The reason given by her attorney is that at the time it was filed, the bigger issue of head trauma was the most urgent thing.

My heart breaks over such a horrible situation and the death of one who fought to keep her honor.

That said, I am going to state here that I do not consider other victims, the ones he raped and pimped out, to have dishonored themselves. I’ll never do that. Hell, I’m a victim, too. Of really heinous shit, so I know how it feels. Never shame a true victim. A neighbor told me that she (Janel) was “in on it, too.” Holy shit!

I set him straight. At least I hope that I did. Because saying that is bullshit. Believing it is sexist, evil and fucking psychotic. I expected better from him.

Janel was conditioned. McMahon recognized a desperate woman. He took her into his fold and made her dependant. Once that was done, he made her a sex slave. The disgusting nature of everything he’s accused of is not entirely a surprise to me, and that means that I have no reason to doubt them.

Let’s go back to when I was watching WWE. There were a lot of controversial things going on both in the ring and outside of it. X-Pac and D-Generation X were taunting opponents and crowds with the “suck it” crotch chop, Stone Cold Steve Austin was giving the finger all over the place, Stephanie went from a joke and a brat to a pain in the ass who was definitely all heel, replacing Chyna as Triple H’s lover both in character and out.

Chyna’s entrance involved her shooting a cannon from her crotch like a huge penis ejaculating fireworks toward the rafters, a demeaning gesture meant to emphasize her square jaw and ‘roided-up body. Except for her chest, she might have appeared more masculine. The sacrifices she made to have a career… she, too, was part of the D-Generation X. At least until she found out that Triple H was also dating Stephanie McMahon. This ended very badly for Joanie Laurer, aka Chyna. A dedicated bodybuilder and the first woman to be entered in the Royal Rumble, I was quite enamored of her. I found her to be beautiful, incredibly sexy, and not the slightest bit masculine. She was what otherwise would have been an unforgettable technical brawler in the ring. But after an ugly fight with, or because of Stephanie, she had to go. She just vanished. Hunter has cited her porn flick with her next boyfriend, X-Pac, as a reason for her not being admitted to the Hall of Fame. He came to a compromise later where she would be allowed in with the D-Generation X faction. But never solo. Because WWE was a family show.

What a load of shit. During her very short career, Vince McMahon initiated the “Vince McMahon Ass Kissing Club” and he would, in the ring, actually drop trou and bend forward and make wrestlers pay for transgressions by kissing his ass. So much for being a family show. Judging her by a homemade porn film is a bit harsh when all of the stuff on the shows was far more traumatic to children than any sex tape would be for an adult who idolized someone. For Chyna, it ended tragically. Substance abuse and severe depression took a toll, and on 20 April of 2016, she was found dead (not ruled a suicide). I feel certain that she was another victim and that the WWE killed her.

Did McMahon order hits or “bounties”?

Because Vince ordered Rita Chatterton’s legs broken, we have already established that this did happen. So dickheads like Kurt Angle carried them out. Unless someone has the balls to say so or not, I believe that Vince McMahon has ordered wrestlers to injure others. He’s that controlling and that vindictive. I’ve seen injuries that should have never happened. You see something. You know what you just saw. The move was a cheap shot and not an accident. The opponent can’t get up. Then he’s out for almost a year. Vince gave one wrestler incentive to perform a dangerous move. Maybe that wrestler never can return.

Vincent McMahon is a predator, sex offender, needing to dominate and subjugate women more than men, but to him, control is complete, and that means over everyone. There may be some past trauma that’s caused it, but I wouldn’t have any sympathy even so. He even tried to get his daughter into a storyline where he had impregnated her. What kind of father does that?

Stephanie refused, but she and her husband and her mother, Linda McMahon, are in this up to their necks, because they knew, but said nothing, and thus enabled this horrible man by covering for him. The entire family could be charged. A federal investigation is underway. And those kinds of investigations usually don’t go well for predators. TKO, the owner of WWE, says they dismissed him from the board. He says he resigned. He’s childish, always wanting the last word and lying to do it. But it hardly matters; being away now doesn’t mean that he can hide. There are other men and women who have their own stories to tell, and they’re not afraid anymore because Janel is resolved and wants to set an example. Before it’s all over, there will be more wrestling personalities who will lose your respect and mine. This rabbitt hole goes down so far that it can pass clean through hell on its way to infinity. And Vince McMahon will be along for the ride.

And Shane, Stephanie and Linda McMahon? They’re likely to save themselves and turn on the bastard if a federal grand jury is held. Maybe there’s no honor in them, but self-preservation is, after all, a powerful drive in the wild kingdom. Because, when a former wrestler compares their husband/father to Jeffrey Dahmer,  Harvey Weinstein, and Jeffrey Eppstein, you know it’s time to bail.

And that you should bail.

That’s Entertainment…?

My next heart attack is looming. It has to be because my chest hurts clean through to my shoulders. My left arm hurts, and I need to shave my tongue. Wait, I don’t think that last thing is a thing. Well, it’s obviously a thing, but probably not heart-related. Probably not.

Check out this shit and remember that until now, I was unaware of it. When did this happen? How did I miss it?

Oh, yeah: because I rarely watch football. Yes, that’s it. Last season, I never watched a single full game. I don’t know that I can claim to have done it this year either, but I did watch more. At first, I thought nothing out of the ordinary. It was just football, the American kind, not the soccer kind.

And now, at the end of another season, there’s this crap, conspiracy theories, and very high-profile romances and other nonsensical dog shit.

I found it hilarious that the NFL released an actual script of the season (99% redacted) to press and fans alike. That’s some funny stuff there, I can’t deny it. I actually gave an out-loud old geezer chuckle when I read it.

But if the league is rigged, and the rumors and allegations finally got to be a bit more than Goodell could handle, why not go with it? Yes, why not? Have a go at your fanbase, do it, and show them how stupid they really are, and that you’re waving it in their faces and laughing like all hell. Because, football and beer. Like Orwell said. Keep them happy – and stupid.

And when that’s not enough, toss in some “proof” that a conspiracy theory is real. Yeah, that’ll really fuck em up.

From that and the season-long romance of Trousers Kelpie and Retailer Swift, you got a winner. I wonder. I really have to wonder, but at the same time, I don’t care. It’s sad but funny.

People will watch the Super Bowl in record numbers this year. At halftime, San Fracisco Bay and the Mississippi River will experience unusually high tides and undertows as everyone flushes their own bowls. That’s because there’s going to first be a run on Dorito’s and quacomole dip, hot wings, and lunch meat trays that were prepared five days earlier. On Monday, there’s gonna be a “run” on Imodium AD. The shortage that results will last until March. Just in time for breweries to put green shit and anything else they can think of in your beer. That will cause a run on urology clinics, but let’s not get into that now.

Because in April, there’s Opening Day, like baseball is some big deal. Well, it used to be. Not anymore. Now, just like football, rule changes have shortened games so that prima donna multimillionaire players who think their shit doesn’t really smell all that bad don’t have to put in extra innings or full-length overtime periods or some such pussy bullshit.

Entertainment. Sports entertainment.

What would George Orwell say? Well, I think he would rewrite the book. You know why? Because Room 101 isn’t necessary. We’ve proven him too correct in his prognostications. Afterward, the Man Himself would just shake his head and slowly walk back to his grave. On his way, he’d say under his breath, “I tried to warn the motherfuckers.”

And MGM hates you more than you know. Go on, hand over your money.

The Big Red Machine

Sometimes, in this rotten world, we have a little bit of power. Not just the rich, or the famous, but all of us. If we just let ourselves be ourselves, that power can be used. We don’t know when it will happen. We usually won’t know when it’s happening. In the most unfair way, we won’t always even get to know what happened afterward. Have you ever, just in being yourself and treating another kindly or maybe just in being friendly in a casual way, stopped after the fact and wondered, Did I help that kid?

Usually, we don’t. We ask ourselves why we bothered in the first place or we just plain forget it. It’s nothing, right?

Well, here’s an example of someone who was conscious of what he was doing, his true person showing in full view, with no reservations, and made a difference. Watch:

Kane, a.k.a. “The Big Red Machine” was a wrestler in the WWE who wore a mask and flame-themed costume. A big man, he was sometimes billed as the most feared wrestler in the WWE, formerly the WWF. His back story involved him being burned, hence the mask and red costume. He was a heavyweight and a badass, but I knew that the actor inside was a good guy. A good man.

The next time you have a chance to show that good side of yourself to someone, and it may seem like a small thing, do it. No matter how small, do it anyway.

It is always worth it, I promise you. And if we are allowed to hear about it, you’ll honor and give hope to jaded men like me.

Thanks to whoever shared this. You made my day.

And Kane, thank you.

Shit Just Got Real

It’s quite true that in my travels, I have sampled and studied my share of porn. I’ve noted addiction and the effects it has on the brain, I’ve seen compulsive viewing, and I know how it has branched out from “backroom” VHS rental stores and adult book and peep stores to convenient use located all over the internet from the mid-1980s to the present.

I know the genres and the niche genres within them. I’ve seen everything from Deepthroat with Linda Lovelace to anonymous “amateur” shorts scattered everywhere. You name it, and I have seen it.

Lately, I regret ever having been exposed to porn by my parents. Through the years, I’ve seen pictures, bought magazines, and I’ve seen 8mm reels for projectors, and more.

The effects porn had on me have been devastating. After seeing “zoo” porn (humans, usually women, with animals), you’d be forgiven for thinking that there’s nothing else to see; you’ve reached the bottom of hell.

Trust me, you have not.

Some things you may hear about but never see. If you’re lucky.

It’s a terrible pit of bubbling tar waiting to drag in anyone it can and drown them.

In the recent past, or the past 15 years, nude models who bore some resemblance to any singer or actress would have to do. And while some posed for Playboy over the years, beginning with first issue centerfold Marilyn Monroe, most turned the offers down. I’m not getting into the New York and California party scenes or the top fashion models who exposed breasts and became (usually mediocre) actresses. For now, there’s a much more alarming porn trend known as “deepfakes” that we should all be concerned about.

When it became news last week that Taylor Swift had been targeted by some very realistic fake porn videos and pictures, I didn’t hear anything about it. But I was aware, since at least 2008, that altered pictures had made the porn sites. These began with convincing porn pics of customers in, say, a Walmart, where you hardly need to add to or take away from a person’s image to make it lewd or insulting (I once saw a woman wearing sheer pantyhose with no panties in Walmart).

That older type of image “enhancement” has always been around, but home computer systems made it easier. For Joe Lunchbox, it wasn’t doable, but enough dedicated anarchist-perverts were around that could pull it off.

As I tried to gauge the popularity of fakes in both film and photo, I became aware that these were not sectioned off as separate genres or niches. They were mixed in with everything else. Sometimes, a fake was obvious. I was able to recognize the body of a nude model with a faked head on it. Crude and laughable at first. Now –we’ll now, you can’t tell.

Deepfakes represent a danger we’re only beginning to comprehend. It can be used for revenge porn, selfies of real school kids, or it can be used against people teaching, political figures, and, of course, celebrities.

Considering my recent rants about Taylor Swift, I wrote exactly how I felt, but this is wrong. Nobody should be the target of that level, which I cannot reach or even comprehend, of malice.

The questions on the legal side are many and frightening. Will victims be able to sue (and will that even help them when the damage is done)? What wounds can these cause, and will they be used to break up marriages and families? Can you set someone up with this tech?

How about placing someone who’s innocent at a crime scene?

Because if we’ve learned anything, it’s that technology keeps getting more and more powerful.

I’m sorry for Taylor Swift and Blake Lively. They shouldn’t have to deal with this humiliation and cruelty. I may not be a Swifty, but this stuff makes me sick. And I’ve seen some things before that you’d never believe. If you saw them, some of you would puke.

This is something I find sickening and terrifying at the same time. But can we stop it?

I don’t believe so.

Ah, So You Poke The Hornet’s Nest?

What do you complain about the most?

I think that, perhaps, the above question was offered by someone who had read my last post. What they provoke in this way from others does not concern me. My insouciance will not be moved; my ennui will never allow it.

It is possible that some may, incorrectly, land on the certainty that I complain constantly without cease. Or perhaps that Taylor Swift is the main target of my criticism, my source of causticity, and its resultant acidic release.

Taylor Swift is rarely on my mind. However, even if I lack the respect I once had for her, she is hardly the muse responsible for my complete and unrelenting anger; she has no such power over me, and I realize how other people in her “cult” of unreasonable fans had swayed my opinion of her.

While the idea that I am an “anti-Swifty” may seem to set me apart from you and everyone you know, I am hardly a lone wolf in this area. For every Swifty, there are hundreds of people who are even more disenchanted, jaded, and weary of her. We have had enough.

I have gone astray, however, in calling the NFL a “fixed” sport. It seems to me that I’ve heard this before from kooks who love to sit around and, in a partly paranoid and delusional state, put hands to keyboard and declare that this event or that incident was the result of a conspiracy.

This nonsense became a conspiracy theory regarding the NFL. There is, however, little to no proof of any such thing. For one to exist, the conspiracy itself would have to be small or compartmented in such a way that if one person (it’s already happened with more than one), a player, coach, or owner leaked information on it, there would be serious consequences. For one, the biggest asset the NFL has is its fans. Imagine the terror they would unleash if they found or were presented with proof that everything is scripted, like the WWF (did John Stossel really have to ask)? I knew it when I was a kid. I could see that for every punch one wrestler threw, one of them would stomp as if it were a real blow. It covered what was usually just a lack of sound.

That fans bought it for so long horrified me. Every time Chief J Strongbow let himself get beaten enough to, were it real, fall down and die, only to suddenly go into a war dance and unleash his well-acted fury, I knew what I was seeing. However, I never made a big deal about it, and from 1974 to 2000, I rarely paid any attention to wrestling. That was excellent timing, as I consider, and I am not alone on this, 2000 to be the best year wrestling ever had, and one which could not be repeated. Yet I never heard any conspiracy theories about wrestling except for the hostile takeovers and buyouts that doomed the WWE to its present, boring state.

What vexed me recently into giving the NFL or Taylor Swift any room on my site may not have anything to do with sports-fixing. Then again, no one can prove that there does not exist any rigging or predetermined “script”, or that the obviously, flagrantly bad calls by the officials I have seen this season did not happen.

Detractors of the NFL conspiracy theories all point out that there are laws that bind the league to prevent any cheating or tanking in any way. However, I challenge you to give me one example of any corporate entity or company large enough to have the power to do things such as price fixing that actually follows the letter of the law, and I will call you on the spot for your proof, which you, of course, will not have.

What draws most of my complaints is hardly Taylor Swift or her newest temporary boyfriend. It isn’t the constant news coverage they get, nor is it the media telling people to watch them, to cheer them on, to love them. The romance will end badly. It may even be messy. I know this just as I knew that the Ravens were not supposed to win. The Chiefs were scoreless in the second half. They did not need to score; it was already over.

My biggest concern, and what I complain most about, aside from my failures and the attendant self-loathing they have caused, is the incredibly uncaring and cavalier attitude people have toward global warming, crime and corporate power, used to further threaten life on earth and steal money from people who do not have any. This corporate power is responsible for the shocking response to the Affordable Health Care Act.

Insurance companies write inscrutable policies that even established attorneys cannot unlock the secrets of. Between that and crime, a lack of governmental concern over firearm availability and the sickening statistics that this lack of concern reflects, people are dying.

These are not deaths from highway accidents, resort conditions, home, or household accidents. No, these deaths are the most heinous things that can happen to people: premature, hollow, meaningless, and unnecessary deaths. There is no glory, no honor, and nothing about such an ending that is good. It’s just evil and tragic.

Please note, I do not for one second believe in fate or “dying for a reason” or “it was his or her time” to go. That’s weak rationalization, which is to say, a pack of lies.

Perhaps you would like to tell a grieving spouse, parent, or sibling that their loved one was murdered by someone with an assault rifle because it was “their time” or worse, that it was “God’s will“. You deserve to be slapped if you say such things.

Answer this question: how many mass shootings took place in the United States in 2023?

You don’t know, do you? Because corporate news stopped telling you. I place even odds that nobody knows, that the books have been cooked to the point that the truth cannot be known. This would constitute a real conspiracy if I am even close. But no one can prove me right…or wrong.

Another killer is fentanyl. It’s everywhere. People claim that it’s a myth that police officers can’t be affected by just touching it or inhaling residual dust. We’re whitewashing a killer. The reason? No one wants to know about it. There’s almost as much misinformation on fentanyl as there still is about Covid-19.

Corporate media covers for corporations that are killing our last chances of surviving global warming. I’ve often said that the “temperature threshold” is already passed, and we’ve crossed the no return line drawn in the sand. No one can even see the line anymore; to many people have kicked sand over it. While wars continue, the need to cut reliance on oil is left out of discussion. We are, as a species, headed inexorably toward extinction. If there’s a way to stop that mass extinction, it lies more in the realm of fantasy than truth. I’m always sorry to write this, but I just don’t believe reliance on fossil fuels will stop.

What’s that you see in a child’s eyes? The desire to be a child, to play, be with friends, grow and become someone important?

Or do you see shock, mute and staring, after their home was destroyed by a rocket attack?

What’s that in that little boy’s eyes? Wonder at the world around him, the possibilities?

Or is it the dull stare of a little kid who’s just been raped by his father? Neither child can ever know trust again. Will never know peace or a world without the innocence it once had for them.

These are the things I complain about the most. The things I care about the most. Sometimes, I believe that we deserve to become extinct. God gave us a beautiful, bountiful place to live and the ability to thrive and to take care of what we’ve been blessed with.

But we deny his existence and fill fields that were once lush and beautiful with trees, grass, and flowers with sewage and toxic sludge.

Folks, those are the things I complain about the most. And I am not about to stop.

Who Needs It?

What would you do if you won the lottery?

I’m not currently watching the Baltimore Ravens v. Kansas City Chiefs championship game. I know who’s going to win. Were I a gambler, I would be safe bucking the line, and I’d win with the fixed game, seeing the Chiefs win, and that’s the fact, Jack. All sports have been shamefully compromised by big money and criminal fraud.

Since this is so, I’ve never been a gambler. I don’t even play the numbers, so the question of what I would do if I won the lottery is ridiculous. Besides, I don’t even want it. Give me what I’ve earned, and I’ll be happy. Money means nothing to me.

There are so many things that really matter in life that, once you have money, you turn your back on. Things like friendship and loyalty. Things like not disengaging a longtime friend because you think that Taylor Swift is the greatest person on earth, and your friend can’t stand looking at her. He knows that money and fame have dehumanized the rotten wretch and that everything she does is for attention and money.

Fuckin money.

People disagree so much these days to a point where friends and even family cut each other off. I have family I don’t speak to, but not because they love Taylor Swift or Donald Trump. They trigger me in other ways. Worse than any misguided hero worship. Others, I have been estranged with for decades, the result of two siblings who testified on behalf of our parents. I don’t feel anything for them, not love and not hate, nor anything in-between.

Speaking of Taylor Swift, I believe that the NFL has become greedy and crooked enough to have been in its own love affair with her all season. The Chiefs are not as good as their win-loss record. It’s been fixed. All season. Who really cares what Kelce Grammer was wearing when he got off the plane? For pity’s sake, do you think he had Secret Service guards? He’s a pissant who hasn’t registered all season. He likes his own fame as much as Swift does hers, and he’s clearly the ultimate alpha around her. She will grow tired of it, but right now, she’s getting extra press, so she’ll kneel before him after the game and polish the knob like a sub. That ruby lipstick is a goner, man.

I don’t care about football. I haven’t since 1974, to be honest, even though I did watch that glorious Monday night game when Lawrence Taylor broke asshole Joe Theismann into a rubber leg like Gilderoy Lockhart once to to Harry Potter’s arm. Rubber. Fuckin rubber.

No lottery. No betting. It ain’t for me. Besides: even if you win, you lose.

Those Of Us Who Are About To Die Salute You!

I’m probably not that close to death, but who can tell? Certainly not my doctor, because my yearly health assessment — which has replaced annual physical examinations — will be done this year by — wait for it — a video call!

Jesus Christ in a wheelchair! How can that be anything but a sham? No stethoscope can go through a phone. Nobody does anything anymore. And the next time I’m in the Emergency Room, considering how many men I’ve met who claimed to be Jesus Christ but suffered various maladies other than mental illness, this time I probably will see Jesus Christ in a wheelchair.

Look. I can’t tell if I have prostate problems or not. How the heck am I supposed to do the finger exam? I can’t do it. PCPs don’t do it anymore. They don’t do much of anything. Just go into the exam room, sit on a chair, and wait. Don’t worry. It’s your way of telling the quack that you’re under no illusion that they give a rat fart about you, so you ain’t sitting on no fucking exam table. And before the quack even comes in, you get your vital signs taken by some underpaid and undertrained assistant who isn’t even a nurse. In fact, your quack probably won’t be a doctor at all. Most likely, it’ll be a nurse practitioner. That make you feel warm and fuzzy? Of course not, but it is a grave insult to me, a slap in the face with a sap glove. It’s unacceptable, and it’s bullshit. People are dying because of these pissy-ass doctors going “elite”: they will be your doctor for a fee. One that no insurance will ever cover. My doc wanted $2,000 a year just to keep me on as his patient. I should have reported the pukepot for the inappropriate touching he did while trying to get me to sign up. Fucker.

I don’t know what to do. I have more things wrong with me than anyone can fix. It won’t stop me trying to get care, though. Because now, I’m pissed. Now, I fight. Nobody tells me to do a health assessment over a video call. Nobody, because I’m not doing it and if I get any flak, I’ll have my full vocabulary of filthy words locked and loaded.

Because the ugly truth is, my blood pressure is up for the first time in almost 20 years. I know the arteriosclerosis and atherosclerosis are getting worse. This week I slashed my arm just to see how thick my blood was. I do take blood thinners, and in the absence of medical care, I had to see how fast the bleeding stopped. I cleaned the instruments with alcohol, washed the area to be tested, then doused it with rubbing alcohol and used cotton balls to swab the area and then I let it air dry. I used a sharp, fresh-stoned blade. It hurt a little, but fuck it. I’m so used to pain I doubt that the most sadistic torture specialist in the world could make anything but cuss words come out of my mouth. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting out even a groan. But I may tell him, “Fuck you. You got nothing on my father.

The wound bled a lot. Reassured, I treated it as I was trained and moved on. If I have to check all the boxes myself, I’m going to send a bill to the insurance company. Just for yuks, even though I’ll be the only one laughing. They’ll ask me to go to the Emergency Room to get a psych evaluation. While I’m there I’ll meet Jesus Christ in a wheelchair, so naturally, I ain’t going. I haven’t been in a psych ward for 19 years, and that was because of suicide attempts. I wasn’t a psycho.

Actually I probably wouldn’t bat an eye at Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. I’ve seen worse things. But now, if I saw Jesus Christ on an electric Razor scooter, powering down the sidewalk, that could do it. I’d probably freak out.

I have much to do and little time to do it in. I refuse to die in 2024. Next year is okay. Not this one.

Come to think of it, maybe a trip to the ER ain’t such a bad idea after all. I’d see a real doc, and at the same time face my fear of meeting Jesus Christ in a wheelchair. Crutches ain’t so bad, I’ve seen that before. But a wheelchair would leave me open to temptation to say things not in keeping with my nature. Like “Rise, and walk! Your faith has healed you.”

This place…it’s a madhouse. Do people even try to get doctorates anymore, or are they taking Fellatio and Cunnilingus 101? The practical exams must be excruciating for professors to grade. But. It sure does beat basket weaving.

Tradition or Legacy? It Doesn’t Matter

Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.

13:15. That’s when I awoke from a sleep corrupted with vile, terrifying nightmares, sat on the edge of the bed and wondered where the fuck I was. My body gave no hint of what it was about to do to my brain. Family, fun, camaraderie of any kind, was far from my beaten mind.

It took several tries to stand. I wobbled, bounced off the closet door, and always ended up right back on the bed, dead on my ass. How demoralizing a thing, I thought, growing old can be.

I made it to the latrine in time to not piss in my pants. (Yes; I sleep in my clothes) That’s at least one blessing. Positive. Excellent, as a matter of fact. Downright stupid to have to mention, but there it is.

Afterward, hand and face washing: I was far too weak to shower. Mental note: remember to buy a new shower chair. My hair, running to my shoulders, white, unruly, tangled. My full beard twisted into something off the portrait of Dorian Gray: oh, fuck, I hate mirrors.

Beard shampooed and brushed, hair combed, mouthwash to freshen up, I discharged myself on my own recognizance from the latrine. I did look at the coffee maker with deep desire, but my hands couldn’t do that yet. Still had no strength beyond what I had needed for taming the beard. I grabbed my jeans jacket and went out to the warmth of a late January day that one can only call by tradition a “false spring”, for that’s what it is. A trick by Mother Earth, the one who claims all bodies in death. But it, perhaps, can be viewed another way: a gift. A respite from weeks of suffering that she inflicted in the first place.

See how far I’ve come since my blog about how positive thinking was for morons who refused to see reality? When was that? 2019? I can’t remember. Although, after a long sleep, drug-induced and full of apocalyptic terrors, it’s really about as positive as I can manage.

Marlboro Man is at his usual post out front. People I know call me various things: “The Sentinel” or “The Cigarette-smoking Man” (like that asshole in the “X-Files” series. Did you know that he was in the very first episode, the pilot episode? “File” that one under “trivia we don’t give a shit about” and forgive my impertinent bullshit).

Out front, clutching my walking stick in one hand and my Zippo in another, I lit up, and the old brain started checking in: pain. Lots and lots of it from every finger, toe, my arms, legs, back, neck, everywhere, and more on the fucking way. Damn it!

It’s not just the extended sleep. Of course, that will leave anyone sore. But there’s more. In the mid-70s warmth, I feel that this can’t last. Looking to the west, the sky is not clear. It’s quite beautiful, really. The dusk will be colorful. To the south, I see the clouds moving up, coming from the southwest. That’s not good. At this time of year, it’s a possibility that the El Niño pattern is bringing up air from gulf states. It may bring storms. I can’t tell for certain, but I’m feeling rain and wind, maybe storms will arrive by tomorrow. Being old, I’ve seen this so many times (and felt it) that I’d bet money on it.

My life, as it has been, is one of war. I just moved from one skirmish to another, with many major battles in between. That’s it. One tragedy followed another. More scars inside than out, but also lessons learned that the more fortunate never did. Or will.

Blue denim jacket and pants, and olive drab T-shirt and boonie hat, black web belt. I look like a psycho veteran from Tennessee. Not the real vets, the ones in movies, so no disrespect to veterans anywhere.

Except I am crazy; there’s no denying that; just fire any gun within 300 meters of me, and you’ll see. Or visit me on July 4th after 21:00.

There are other things I’ve had to learn.

“Above all things, do no harm.”

It is a terrible thing to hurt another living creature. All life is sacred. To harm mind or body is hateful to God, those you injure, and yourself. You may have blunted your heart and mind to the effects, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. I will never be that person watching someone being hurt on my phone’s camera screen. I have sworn to God to protect people even to the last breath I have. It is a sacred, serious oath that, once given, must never be betrayed. I will use force if necessary, but that’s even more serious. Use of force to save an innocent is a decision that must be made with incredible speed: hesitate, and an innocent may die. Act too swiftly, and you miss other options, but microseconds define the time to determine whether you can or cannot use deadly force. You can’t be a vigilante. Movies about vigilantism are more ubiquitous than slasher flicks. Vigilantism, usually by more than one person, is rarely justified.  Take the case of Ken Rex McElroy, for example. A bully, rapist and pedophile, the case of his murder was never solved. He was surrounded by people who hated him but feared him. The law wasn’t helping. Naturally, he was shot to death. Whereas I don’t endorse vigilante justice, this was one case where a man was so evil that he needed to go. Do I think it was a homicide? Absolutely, I do. But I never lost sleep thinking about it.

Someone decided to protect others from a monster.

I once locked horns in a group home with the only man I had known since my father, who scared me to my soul. He threatened to kill me, and I ran. I tortured myself. I was a pussy. A coward. But sometimes you have to run. I thought many times that I should kill him. I knew, and I mean, I knew, that if not me, this schizophrenic bastard was going to one day cause terrible harm to someone else.

When I learned that he had kidnapped a minor and repeatedly raped her, I hated myself. I should have known. I should have killed him. Some schizophrenics are dangerous. It’s a harsh reality. Most, however, are not. There are many types and degrees of this mental disorder, and most can effectively work full careers, have romantic partners, and more, and you would never know them as any different from anyone else. Not this guy.

I actually feel responsible for him causing severe mental injury to a girl, now a young woman, by not killing so vile a man when I could have. But I’m not honest with myself when I feel that way, and the responsibility is not mine to claim. I am not a murderer. I am not a psychic, either, able to see future crimes. Indeed, I knew he was dangerous. Yet it was not I, but the law, who failed that girl. I got his criminal record. There was a definite pattern. Drugs, being drugged in public, drunk in public, indecent exposure, violence, and sexual assault. Yet he was in a rehab program after years of probationary sentences and slaps on the wrist. He even got off easy for kidnapping and rape. He disappeared for a few years. Not all of it could have been prison time. I suspect he was jailed, not even imprisoned. The justice system keeps letting this happen, and sooner or later, he will come to a point of nothing to lose, and God help anyone whom he sets his eyes on.

****

20:00. Just got in from a walk. The moon rose on my way out, shrouded in mist. I was right; something is coming. I checked the current temperature. 55°F down from 74°F at 15:30. Quite a drop. And the air feels cold and wet. I knew it would be cooler, so I wore my winter coat but kept the boonie. Mistake. I should have used my watch cap and gloves; the moist air was raw. I took my kickass flashlight up the dark path, encountering a juvenile red fox, which ran to the nearby treeline but stared defiantly into the bright light. Bold motherfucker, for something smaller than a fully grown tomcat. I admire it but also find it and its kind anathema; not exactly varmints, but a nuisance all the same. Sometimes, they are carriers of rabies, and that line of backing off yet standing ground turns into your worst fear. Imagine some tiny, snarling hurricane trying to kill you, starting with your ankles!

Later on I’ll take a walk. I’ll come back and edit in a video of this flashlight, and beg you to get a couple for yourself and maybe a couple for your family. Danger hides in the dark; perhaps you have some experience with it, or else, I’ll tell you, you do know someone who has.

Charging now. The left light is flashing; when it stops and all 4 lights are solid, it is fully charged. I have never had it drop lower than two lights, and even if unused for two weeks, it maintains the charge.
The paracord is useless because the tiny plastic tie breaks with little cause, and the paracord gets dropped and lost. It is the only complaint I have.
Convenient charging
Yes, it does all of this, but on wide beam, it is ineffective at more than a few yards. The man in the picture is close to his target.

Being safe with a good light is essential. I bought this light for $39.55 on Amazon. On narrow beam, I can see up to better than 200 meters, probably more with no lights at all in the area. For the price, it’s a steal.

****

So far I have avoided writing about family traditions. But I did respond to the prompt. Why?

Because our extended family hasn’t any. I have not seen my beloved cousin Martha since 1970. I really do wish I could. She’s the only one who could get me to return to North Carolina and make it a treasured memory. She truly cares about people, and she helps them. There’s no higher calling, nothing more noble or honorable in all the world.

My brothers and sisters, my nephews and nieces, they have their own lives. I am not a part of that. It’s sad, and it does hurt. But it’s life. And besides, on the rare occasion we meet up, I believe we trigger horrible memories from our pasts that ruin the happiness that we should be filled with in the moment.

Yet I love them with all my heart. They’re all great people I’m proud to even know. The one legacy our parents left us that isn’t, I think, something they counted on, is that we, quietly and with no embellishments, just plain care about life. We love people and animals, and we love goodness. We love justice and fairness. We love the weak, and we help them when we ourselves are weak. That’s not a tradition. I’m sorry about that. It’s a lot, though, and I’ll take it. It is treasure, beautiful, rare, and priceless. A wonderful legacy, even now being passed to new generations. In those generations, there is hope.

And really, how cool is that?

Rest In Peace: Norman Jewison July 21, 1926 – January 20, 2024

I know that his time had passed. People grow old, and old age could be viewed as a blessing or a curse. While I live a senior life full of regret, there’s one man who most assuredly did not, and that is the Canadian filmmaker Norman Jewison. He has departed, his kind never to be seen again.

In a lifetime, there are and always have been people who contribute extraordinary things, things that history can never diminish.

Last summer, I wrote about the 50th anniversary of Jesus Christ Superstar, a Universal (MCA) release of a film based on the stage play by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Weber. The director was Norman Jewison, and at the time, I had no idea of the shock this gave to Hollywood. Here was the director of the hit In the Heat of the Night, still considered one of the best films ever made, and he’s out in the Israeli desert, shooting a rock musical about Jesus!

At that time, I believe few saw it coming. Those who had seen it on stage were divided. I think most saw location filming as a hopeless and wasteful endeavor, and if I recall correctly, very few knew of it at all. The media hardly made as much noise as Christian fundamentalist snoops who had to have a say about everything. And which condemned just about everything.

Jewison’s filming was unique to the Jesus dramatization genre. I knew the first time I saw it, that it was very special and that it would always be with me. What I didn’t know was anything about Norman Jewison, and especially what he had to do to actually make this incredible work of art happen. For example, getting permission to shoot on location. One government official reportedly said, “We’ve already had one Jesus, and that was enough.”

I’m not sure about that, but it was a long shot, getting permission to go there. He had to tell them that it wasn’t a film about Jesus. It was a film about actors playing characters in a film about Jesus.

He got his permission.

How a director ever did such a thing is a true feat. Yet that was only the beginning. In searing temperatures that were, at the very least, exhausting, and at the very most life-threatening, he would go on to produce a timeless masterpiece. Given the hippie culture so prominent at the time and having the actors show up in what was basically a “hippie bus” and wearing hippie clothing, it’s still not dated. It demonstrates counterculture and a disaffected view of the status quo and does it effectively. But all of Norman Jewison’s movies never date themselves because with him, it was getting the most out of the actors. With Superstar, he got from every cast and crew member a genuine romp. They loved making this movie. It was only made better by his use of modern actors playing historical figures in a movie.

This plays perfectly as Ted Neely walks past the grounded cross and looks at it while still in hippie garb. It’s the last time we see him in street clothes. As the music to this Overture scene plays out, building to then suddenly stop, changing to soft repeats, he is revealed being clothed in his robe. The “actor” seems changed by it, as if he suddenly feels the light of a supreme being shining on him. Perfectly following this, Judas, in a colorful tunic, has distanced himself from the followers of Jesus and, alone, he sings a warning that his cult with bring suffering to them all. By the time his warnings turn to mournful pleas, Jesus and his followers have moved further away and can not hear him.

There’s much symbolism here, much more than could be done on stage, and the cast and crew made the most of it. Roman soldiers carry spears, short swords, and submachine guns. They wear modern combat clothing and tank tops, chromed steel helmets, and seem blissfully uncaring about whether they will have to use them or not. They sneer at Jesus, only becoming vigilant during the “Simon Zealotes” scene when a few extra troops are apparently called to the area.

He made the most of the choreography, the dancers, the ancient ruins around them, and he was approachable. Carl Anderson was afraid that he had been cast as Judas because he was black. Jewison reassured him that he was cast because, in his opinion, nobody else could do what Anderson was about to do. On this, he was proven correct, and Anderson was and still is, half a century later, beloved posthumously for that role and his incredible voice.

Of the few protests outside of theatres, the ones doing the protesting were, of course, Christians. Among their gripes was the fact that the movie did not depict the resurrection. The somber music plays as the acting troupe boards the bus to leave, once again dressed in street clothes. Ted Neely does not board the bus. The final boarders are Yvonne Eliman, who played Mary Magdalene, and she looks up at a lone, empty cross on a hill as Carl Anderson comes up behind her. She seems to be eager to get out of his way. Anderson looks back, and his expression is one of sadness. Or guilt. Or maybe anger? It’s open to each viewer’s interpretation. This question, though, of why the Crucifixion, but no resurrection, was answered as if by God himself. The final shot, after the bus leaves, is of the sun setting behind the cross. It seems for a moment that it’s just the cross, the setting sun, and the barren hill.

When reviewing the segment while editing, out of nowhere came a Bedouin shepherd, guiding his flock. It’s difficult to see on some screens, but he’s definitely there. Someone said, “We have to shoot it again,” to which Norman Jewison said, “Leave it.”

The shepherd and his flock. A bit of unplanned symbolism that adds to the many unexplained accidents and unexplained phenomena that seem to happen in movies where Jesus is portrayed, even if done by actors portraying characters. In this, during the crucifixion scene, the sky grew dark. Lightning flashed, and shooting was suspended. Then, a region not known for rain endured three days of heavy rain. In Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of the Christ, several cast and crew were struck by lightning. Jim Caviezel was struck at least once and dislocated a shoulder while carrying the cross. Both Caviezel and Neely were hit by the flagellum variants during the flogging scenes. Caviezel got the worst of it as a correctly constructed Roman flagellum missed the protective slap board and dug deep into his skin. Because of these things, people in both films would convert to Christianity.

As always, with Passion movies, there were persistent issues about antisemitism. There was none here, but in the US, there was. There usually isn’t. And there usually is an author, screenwriter, producer, director, and a cast of actors who want nothing to do with antisemitic themes.

John 19:41 or the finale of the film:

In The Heat of the Night bears a special place in my heart as well. It was a landmark film for many different reasons. First, it starred a black actor well before “Blaxploitation” films arrived on the Hollywood scene. It was a very accurate depiction of the deep American south in the 1960s, and at times, it is difficult to watch.

However, it was worse to film it. Remember that the American South was and still is hostile toward African American people. Back then, it was supposed to take place in Mississippi. Sidney Poitier refused to go there because on a trip there earlier, he and Harry Bellefonte were almost murdered by Klansmen (and yes, the KKK is still around).

Filmed mostly in Sparta, Illinois, during the fall, where it’s quite cool, it fooled me completely. When I see this movie, even now I see the South. It’s got the old diners with fluorescent soda brand names, the typical homes, and some of the same architecture. I’m sure that some of the exterior shots were filmed in Tennessee, and not just at the cotton plantation. Gravel parking lots and even roads were not uncommon, not even in the north. By the early 1970s, asphalt and concrete were more common. It seems like 1970 made some significant marker between the old and the more modern. But the sets, no matter where they were, created magic. At the helm was Norman Jewison, and he knew exactly what he wanted. He went straight for the heart. His goal seemed to be to infuse more emotion, pure and absolutely genuine, over the mystery of a murder. That should have been easy, given the races of the actors, the real history involved, and the subject matter.

Poitier had to deliver a line “…because he didn’t want me to see a white woman nude!” and do it with the perfect tone. He did. How he and Jewison got along, I have no idea. But they combined with the cast to make a masterpiece of a movie.

I was in the south in the 60s. I was born there. It’s depicted perfectly by Jewison and the crew. The squeaky wooden gate in the sheriff’s office, the whip antenna on the patrol car, the trestle, the wardrobe, the cranky air conditioner in the window, period-accurate bulldozer, it’s all there.

The Academy Award for cinematography was won because Haskell Wexler lit each scene perfectly, the first to do so to picture a black actor’s features accurately. Rod Steiger, as the sheriff, won Best Lead actor, I can’t find anything about Poitier being awarded anything for In the Heat of the Night, but he should have been. Steiger and Poitier both had a connection to movies about Jesus. Steiger because he played Pontius Pilate in the 1977 TV miniseries Jesus of Nazareth and Poitier because he played Simon of Cyrene in The Greatest Story Ever Told, And Jewison, of course, because of Jesus Christ Superstar.

Cyrene would really have been more like “Kyrenia,” but let’s move on.

By the time the case is solved, Tibbs has been confronted by locals and even chased. Expertly played. This cast did everything Jewison wanted, and more. The film won the Academy Award for Best Picture at the 1968 Academy Awards. It beat some really notable movies, including Cool Hand Luke with Paul Newman, the Dirty Dozen with Lee Marvin, Charles Bronson, George Kennedy, Ernest Borgnine, Telly Savalas, Donald Sutherland, Jim Brown and more. It beat the Graduate, which I can’t bring myself to watch because I despise Dustin Hoffman. And let us not forget the now forgotten Rex Harrison marvelous musical Doctor Doolittle.

Warren Oates, a fierce equal rights advocate, had to play a somewhat racist character as a deputy. I say this because it was he who found Virgil Tibbs at the train station and arrested Tibbs on suspicion of murder. The deceased had an empty or missing wallet, and Tibbs, a Philadelphia homicide detective, had over a hundred dollars in his wallet. It would have looked really bad, back then, especially in a small town.

Jewison directed Steiger as Chief of police or Sheriff to chew gum, an idea the actor disliked at first, but in the film, it works to show impatience, even anger. He chewed over 200 packs during production.

I don’t regard any of these others as fit competition for In the Heat of the Night. Despite my love for the Dirty Dozen, this Norman Jewison picture is pure gold. It stands in a class of its own.

The 1979 release of …And Justice for All is one of my all-time favorites. It’s tragic, comical, far-fetched and sometimes too real. Arthur (Al Pacino) is a defense attorney in Baaltimore who has a serious problem: fear of heights, fear of commitment, and a seething hatred for the criminal justice system. If this were Jewison’s only film, I would still love him. He always dared to do something very different no matter the genre, and he had a strong understanding of the importance of matters of the heart, injustice, lunacy, betrayal, failure, pop culture, the things that appeal to audiences and not the establishment. He took risks without flinching. That’s an artist.

Filming in Baltimore would have been a challenge then. It would be suicidal now. The pavilion at the Inner Harbor wasn’t yet finished. The Key Bridge had only recently been built. The scene where a judge, played by veteran character actor Jack Warden, insists that his “friend” Arthur Kirkland ride with him in his vintage Bell helicopter. He flies underneath the Francis Scott Key Bridge, which I’ve seen done in real life. It’s no big deal, except that between the vertical clearance between it and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge has a mere one foot difference. For some reason, people are often so terrified of the latter that at each end, a driver can be hired to operate their vehicles during the crossing. And I’ve crossed the Key Bridge and seen a container ship leaving the port and going underneath on its way out to the Chesapeake and thence the Atlantic Ocean, and I saw the stack from the side and was sure that it wouldn’t clear. By the time I was on the center span, the stack gasses were thick on both sides as it was directly under me. It was cool, but I do have to admit, the chopper flying under it sure convinced me the judge was nuts.

Then, a judge, played by John Forsyth, is arrested for rape. He requests that Arthur defend him in court. Arthur’s stuck, but now he’s got more on his mind. Two clients whose mental conditions should keep them out of prison. Again, Jewison does what he does best. He turned Michael Corleone into a sympathetic, very emotional, and very ethical attorney who cares about the truth. And Justice. He comes into possession of photographs proving that his new client is guilty. Now he’s stuck: defend, as the law binds him to do, a real rapist in power, or refuse and lose his right to practice law? Which will he do? Well, I’m going to spoil the end. If you haven’t seen this one, don’t play the clip below. Instead, let us celebrate the life of an extraordinary man and look at his filmography, and add something to our own watch list.

To Norman’s family and friends, you have my sincerest sympathy. Remember, the ones we love never truly leave us. We take them with us everywhere we go.

I Wish I Was 18 Again

I don’t write for “likes” because I rarely get those. I’m not any kind of influencer, I’m not a particularly talented writer, and it shows. If I get six views in a week, I’m surprised.

I’m grateful for any and all views from all visitors. No comments or likes are necessary. I just appreciate the chance to write, the freedom to do it, and everyone who takes time out of their day to pay a visit. It is more than I deserve.

In this new year, I want to look back at some things I’ve written here. They’re important to me. Some have been removed by me for the general reason that I was unhappy with them. What remains is my true story. It is difficult reading, I know; I’ve left a few fictional stories to break up the misery. I’m not a good fiction writer, so I apologize.

We are all taking a journey on this blue marble. Some of us have the devil to pay, while others seem to cruise with ease through the years, and we take that hard. It isn’t fair, right?

Life isn’t fair. You have to do the best you can.

There are money problems. Job hunting. Nobody will give you a fair chance. Now, a potential employer can see everywhere you’ve been, every job you’ve ever worked, your criminal record, your driving record, credit history, marriages, divorces, college information, high school transcripts, relatives, news articles, and more. If they see anything that they don’t like, they not only won’t hire you, but they’ll send emails to other companies who have the kind of work you’re looking for.

Electronic devices spy on you every minute of every day. Even with your TV off, the hidden cameras and microphone watch and listen. One camera is even infrared. In other words, don’t do anything in the dark that you wouldn’t do in the light.

Your phone tracks you. Your camera is accessible. Your microphone, too. If you believe that recordings taken from devices aren’t used against you, then you need a good slap in the face: a wake-up.

Kids die by guns and drugs. Nobody is doing anything about it. People ignore vaccination even for their children. Yes, kids die that way, too. But all over the world, people look at my country and shake their heads in bewilderment. Such a “great” country, full of fools. How can that be?

When I was in 7th grade, I had a class in geography, and I loved it more than drawing and painting, which was a passion for me. I used to be good, but now I can barely write legibly. Ain’t life a motherfucker?

I was fascinated with geography. Our teacher had been to Moscow in the U.S.S.R. and said that it was beautiful. This teacher was a hero as far as I was concerned; he knew his stuff and had a love for many cultures. Sometimes, he would talk about legends and folklore in various places. It’s very interesting and cool.

While some foods have revolted me, I found, especially as I got older, that people generally interested me. For example, I know little about Russians, and I hate the government there, but I can’t hate the people. I know, I have tried to. Same thing with China. What a culture. What amazing people.

It seems to me that all Asian people can be very generous. They have tradions of giving small gifts to business associates. I once received a brass candy dish from a customer who was Korean. It was touching. What one culture sees as a part of business can be heartwarming to someone from another.

****

While I do not generally care about “likes,” I do look at the countries where occasional readers are, and I find that gratifying. It’s an honor to see that someone in the Philippines, or Thailand, Saudi Arabia, China, Russia, the U.K., Germany, Finland, Brazil, Canada, Venezuela, or other countries have paid me a visit. It’s humbling. As I said, it is an honor.

I recently started reading about Brazil. The Amazon River and forest are in serious danger. The people who live off the land or the water are very much affected. They’re in trouble, existential trouble. It’s heartbreaking.

I found someone whose writing I find fascinating, and she lives in Croatia. That’s a place I knew little about except for the war. Just a quick trip to Wikipedia made my eyes open wide. It’s beautiful. It has quite the history; beautiful old historic buildings, and there’s so much to do! I wish I could travel. There’s a world out there that I want, too late, to see. Places that I will not see because it’s just too late for me. I’ve been so blind.

Learning is still fun for me. I’m not proud, either: I admit to being wrong about many things. I will die alone, as is just. I don’t mind; I’ve known that since my ex-wife decided that she hated me. So many things weren’t my fault, but I had to pay anyway. That’s how unfair life really is.

I don’t tell you this to depress you. It’s rather the opposite: I want you to learn before it’s too late to see the world and its people as they are. Just people like us. They’re often wounded. Often weary; always hiding their pain and fatigue as best they can and reaching the weekend to rest, see friends and family, going fishing and hiking, to seeing a movie and having dinner with friends or romantic partners.

Don’t be me. Go forth and see what I’ll miss. Taste new foods, visit distant places, and see everything that you can while you still can. Visit a centuries-old cathedral. Say a prayer and put in a good word for me if you think about it.

I wish I could see Brazil. Germany. Denmark and Sweden. England. Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Croatia, Italy, Greece, and lots of other places. Visit them for me.

I sometimes wonder who you are. Where you live, how you’re doing, and what kind of work you do. What your favorite music, food, or what you do for a hobby.

We have more in common than we ever allow ourselves to imagine. When you visit me here, you may hate my writing, and that’s okay. But I’ll bet that if we were to meet, we would surely find common ground.

On this site, I have written a great deal about loss. About grief. About mental illness. It’s really tough stuff, so I’ll never get the views I once hoped for. That’s fine; I just want to help one person see my anger, my demons, and my illness and take something away that benefits them even in the smallest way.

I’ve also written about the supernatural. All of it is true, though nothing like what you see on television. I’ve lived in more than one haunted house and have nightmares to this day despite twenty years past one being demolished and hauled away in truck dumpsters. If I could figure out how to republish them so that they are not so far down in my archives, I would. Ghosts, demons, and crypqtids? All too real. Although I tend to turn a deaf ear to Bigfoot and UFOs.

I’ve had fun at times. I saw Brooks Robinson, Boog Powell, and the Orioles live at Memorial Stadium. After that was torn down, I saw Cal Ripken, Jr. And a revolving roster play at Camden Yards. I’ve never seen an NFL game in person, but I did see the Maryland Terps once. I’ve fished in the Mighty Chesapeake, met a celebrity or two, and done the most stupid shit you ever heard of. I have memories I variously laugh at or cringe over.

I’ve even survived multiple trips on the New Jersey Turnpike. That seems to me a far greater feat than climbing Mount Everest. I hate the New Jersey Turnpike.

Not one adventure or misadventure can come close to what could have been, though.

I have missed so much of what life has to offer. It’s not entirely my fault. How I wish that I could travel back in time and do something really cool with my life. Don’t end up with that kind of wish. Enjoy life now.

I’ve been that stupid kid who laughed at old people. Now, I’m just old, wanting another chance.

Go ahead now. Go out and kick ass and raise hell. Hold nothing back. Your life is a gift. Live it.

Saw a beautiful woman walking her dog today. She ignored me. The dog kept turning to face me. From 50 yards, a dog knows. They always know. They sense no threat. They want to come and say hello. After the third time, the woman looked to see what her dog kept stopping to look at. I really wanted to pet it, but that’s rare. The owners don’t see me. When she saw me, she waved. I waved back. I found it a bit sad. The time when I could turn a young lady’s head has passed. I’m three quarters home from the start to the end, and I wish I was eighteen again.

As always, thank you for letting me be a small part of your life. Be well.

DON’T Call Me ‘Michael’

Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

I’m an American Asshole. That’s my name. I hate my given name. I hate it because it was my mother who wanted to name me “Michael.”

I still waiver from time to time; do I hate my mother, can I finally forgive her, do I know for sure that she’s dead, do I wish that if she’s dead that she went to Hades?

I can’t answer any questions about anything. I don’t know.

She told me many times that she chose that name because of Saint Michael, the archangel. That’s pretty funny considering what happened–what she did to me–what both of my parents did to me… what pain they caused in the name of God and what they turned me into.

****

It’s funny. How I kept on living, I mean. Like some kind of fucking joke: I’ve been shot at with machine guns. Survived over 35 automobile accidents. I’ve fallen, jumped, gotten crushed, tried to kill myself 3 times, almost got the job done on the third try, and that’s not counting heart attacks and open heart surgery, a coma, and by now, I’m probably leaving some things out. Which makes me very frightened, because, how in perdition do you ever forget that kind of stuff?

She actually named me after an angel. An angel that she and my father felt free to rape and fuck and beat half to death. And instead of being angelic, they really turned me into a demon whose madness drove him to leave a swath of injured people and two dead children behind himself as he kept running from a twisted reality that no author should be capable of doing justice to.

And here I now sit, triggered by a blog prompt: the memories rush at me like a tsunami that I can’t outrun. A flood of emotions from decades past, a horde of demons I can not possibly fend off, pain so overwhelming that I can’t even cry.

I didn’t ask for this. Nobody would. Why it happened, that’s beyond my ken. I’ve tried to understand it, and every time I think I’m close, my grasp weakens. I’m left standing all alone, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here.

To start off with a name like mine, only to wind up my namesake’s opposite, that’s some kind of cruel irony that even I can’t appreciate, no matter how sick I am.

The title of my site is accurate. I own it. I’m an asshole from my skin to my soul. It’s true. I have no problem with it because it is true, and I love truth. I’ll take a painful truth over a pleasant lie any day.

****

I don’t think about my namesake every time I sign it. But when I do think about it, every bad thing in my life comes back to me, and I wish for death rather than face all that horrible shit. But so many times, I should have died, and yet I am still here. People have told me that it’s because God wants me to do something. I have no idea what that means. I’m unworthy. A sinner. A man broken in mind and spirit. What can God possibly want from me?

Yet, I like that simple concept. That’s why I write here. I have lots of depressing posts on this site, and even so, I can, on rare occasions, tell you that there is always hope. Because I have seen miracles happen, and I’ve had miracles happen to me. My faith may be weak at times, but I never abandon it. There’s hope. There’s prayer, and any prayer is heard. What others call a ghost in the sky, I think of a being I was never meant to understand. I have to keep my faith simple like a child’s faith. I can’t overthink it, and I can’t put words in his mouth. I can only have faith. With that in mind, with all that I have survived and endured, the abuse, the danger, the loss of my marriage, and then my children, ending up with a solitude I most certainly deserve, with mental illness and unending nightmares that wake me in mental and physical pain, I’m still me inside. On the inside, I’m still an asshole, but I do occasionally have some peace. Those are times worth living for. Those are times when I don’t hate my name, when I can sigh, let the odd tear slide down my face, and say, “Thank you, Father. Thank you for my life.

If a battered and weary old man can still be thankful for his life, then anything is possible.

I do not miss my ex. But every day, I miss my children. It’s a burden no father should have to bear. But I sometimes remember how they touched my life, my heart, and my spirit. This brings back good memories that are mine to keep, and there’s no way anyone can take them from me.

Do keep in mind, then, that no matter what happens, you are watched and protected. I’ll try to do the same. As always, thanks for visiting me and indulging me. I appreciate and love all of you.

Remember, one who has no hope is truly doomed. Find hope anywhere you can, and cling to it like a life ring at sea. Never give it up. In this world, there is no one like you. You have gifts, and with them, you can accomplish anything.

Stay well.

Mother Nature and Jack Frost: An Affair We Didn’t Want to See

Temperatures in the life-threatening zone and a double round of snow.

Not much to look at, really. But pictures show how the color has been stolen from us. The following are proof; even the sunsets of yesterday and today look frigid.

Currently, it’s 24°F but feels like 14. I’ve just come in, and it doesn’t really feel like 14 degrees. It feels like the winter of ’77. I say, what difference does it make when it’s below the freezing mark anyway? None whatsoever, that’s what.

Wednesday, the heat pump went and hid from the coming cold and snow, like all cowardly pieces-of-shit scrap metal they are. The temperature in a below ground condo will always be colder than what your thermostat says it is.

That’s because heat pumps are ineffective. You see the temperature on the thermostat, and it says 69°. Okay, fine. But even one foot away, it ain’t no 69°. It’s more like 68, maybe 67. And that’s just in the living room. In the bedrooms, the most distant spaces from the thermostat, you can subtract 8° because the windows and patio doors are so drafty that they may as well not be there.

Service came out. It’s a three-year-old unit. That’s all. It wasn’t getting the job done. Most wouldn’t anyway. That afternoon late, they brought space heaters out. Those tripped a breaker.

Fuck!

No heat that night. On thursday, a contractor was brought in. He had to go out and get a new relay, and once installed, the unit was working surprisingly well. But I was wise enough to have already purchased two small space heaters on Amazon. Breaker tripped.

Fuck.

I learned quickly to use them on low setting with the thermostats set just at the point where the units kicked on. One for my bedroom, one for my housemate’s room. But I’m still sleeping under a blanket, which I detest and try never to do. It can’t be helped. And I’m blessed to have shelter and a bed at all, so I can’t say that I was really that grumpy about the whole deal. Considering the frightful plight of the homeless, I’m not just blessed, I’m living like a king.

If I have any complaints at all, one would be the time I wasted watching the movie Chariot (2022), an indie that had an intriguing beginning but then went straight to nonsense so thick that I’m here right now to dare you to watch it. It takes a really bad writer and director to put John Malkovich in a red wig and give him a totally incoherent dialog and character. At the end, I asked myself, What the fuck did I just watch?

I mean it: what the fuck was that shit?

I’m working on some retro reviews of some movies you may have missed but which deserve to be seen. In 10 years, if I do another retro list, Chariot will not be on it.

I’d rather watch Aquaman. Except, I don’t want to see that movie. Jason Mamoa did a remake of Conan the Barbarian and earned my everlasting anger. He pissed on a classic! You don’t piss on Arnold!

Kind of like Mother Nature just screwed Jack Frost and then dripped all over us: it may be wet, but it ain’t no piss!

Color Faked…
Not My Best Day!
NO COLOR. BUT IT’S NOT A MONOCHROME PICTURE!
THIS SHIT EVEN SUCKS THE COLOR FROM THE SUN!

Folks, thanks for stoppin by. Stay warm, stay dry, and be well. Y’all come back now, you hear?

Imported Irish Blackthorn Shellelagh, 36 Inches, Real Blackthorn, $124.⁹⁹ on Amazon

Trump won the Iowa caucus.

Trouble is coming for breakfast, and Hades will follow.

This convicted piece of shit tells us that the world isn’t safe, that the United States is seriously threatened from within, and this time, it may very well implode. The world will have seen nothing like this since the breakup of the USSR.

I don’t want to say this, but it needs to be said: in 2016, everyone thought Trump was a clown. “He’ll never get elected,” they said.

Then they said, “Rowe can’t be overturned. It’s the law.”

Then they said, “Nobody’s crazy enough to really go in there,” and the Capitol riot turned into an invasion of real insurgents. Trump will kill the United States as we know it. You think life is hard, and you’re right. But you ain’t seen anything yet.

The people who call President Biden names refuse to see any good that he’s done. Those people… are dangerous. And they’re already showing it.

Exhibit A:

The blood on the knob is real.

I bought a beautiful genuine Irish blackthorn shellelagh (walking stick). Had it less than a week, and it’s already been used for self-defense. Not why I wanted it. I wanted it because it’s beautiful and a work of real old-world art. Lighter in weight than most canes but very strong, even more than aluminum ones, easy to use, less fatiguing. Irish Americans don’t always know what it is. Any Irishman does.

Traditional for walking in the hills of the Emerald Isle, it comes without the rubber toe a cane uses. Just pirate one from your current cane.

It is also the traditional Irish club, a fighting stick with an art unique in martial arts, self-defense, and the odd betting circle or two. The Irish have never been averse to combat. They relish it. This is not meant to be racist; it is simply the truth. Not all Irish people will throw down, but if you force it on them, they’ll surely handle it.

The brand of stick I bought is worthy of display in a collection. But I’m collecting wooden scale handle knives, not canes or walking sticks.

The Best Offense

Now, let’s talk self-defense. Trump-et assholes are dangerous. They’re already gearing up and winding up for street violence. If they mark you as a soft target, you’re going to be in danger. Mostly from violence at first, then any other crime that crosses their sick minds. I didn’t even have my blackthorn for a week, and already, the knob is bloodstained. Old men and women are often targeted. I showed why they shouldn’t be. I never attack. That’s dishonorable. I defend. Any martial arts instructor will tell a student this before their first class. Because you will be trained to injure, incapacitate, and seriously maim your attacker, you never use your chosen style of defense for aggression.

It’s the same with any weapon, including firearms, knives, swords, machetes, axes, or hatchets. Spears and halberds I’m not even sure I want to talk about, but long reaching weapons can be effective in defense if you’re trained.

Forget the exotic stuff. No cane swords or, as they are also known, sword sticks. First, they’re heavy. Second, you have to sharpen the blades, and that means removing steel. Even the most coarse sharpening stones will take forever to do this. You’ll need a belt sander or a metal diamond file. Then, the stoning process, which everyone gets wrong. Coarse stones have to be set into a small bucket of warm water until the bubbles stop coming up. This is to keep the coarsest stones from filling with steel shavings. Only use the fine stones when you have a reasonably sharp edge to work with. Don’t overheat the steel either, as it loses its temper and will dull faster: easy does it.

Also, keep in mind that cane swords rattle. You can hear one from 50 yards easily. If you should discover a way to stop the blade from hitting the barrel, remember that these weapons are only legal to carry in one state. Don’t get caught with one.

I prefer the pepper and CS gas sprays. It’s a combination that, if properly used, gives an attacker a snoot-full and will slow them down. CS is used for riot control and will definitely fuck you up because you can’t see. The eyes burn and fill with tears, snot flows uncontrolled, and you have the chance to get away. Take it.

Another basic one each gender can use can be found at KarateMart.com; an innocent-looking ring with two cat’s ears that can make anyone think twice before proceeding with their attack. Also, they have credit card knives, small stunners, tactical pens, and more.

I prefer a switchblade or flip blade and brass knuckles for my CCWs. You might get fined or some jail time, but the police will show respect if you carry these and not a dumbass sword cane. Don’t get me wrong: they don’t like coming across swords, but when you’re being led to your cell, they’re gonna be laughing at you.

Another trick, if you can manage it, is to carry a baggy of iron or steel filings that you can easily open and hurl at their eyes. Got a hot Starbucks? Let them have it.

You have to plan and actually practice these things. Dummies and heavy bags are made for such practice.

Research!

Snoop the internet for self-defense weapons that you think you can use, not ones you fancy the looks of. Think about where you live, work, shop, or go out for dinner. Know your surroundings. These things are important.

Using a fighting stick or cane is tricky. You can’t hesitate; one swing must be followed through and then be followed with another opposite thrust. You can’t stop. You can’t use a single-handed grip, and you never swing it like a baseball bat. The more the stick extends away from you, the easier it is for your attacker to take it away. Check out cane fighting books on Kindle, and remember that your best weapon is your brain. You have to be willing to cause harm. If you hesitate, you could die. And no weapon will protect you if you are too afraid of using it.

One last thing. Remember that what causes pain is an area dense with nerve endings. Arms, fingers, face, genitals. You may need nothing more than to scrape the skin, but nothing can work on a goon on drugs. Nothing.

If you can’t get away from them, then you must kill. You’ll be fighting at close quarters, and having been through that, I can tell you, you’re never prepared for it. You need a hand free to grab an automatic opening (switch blade) knife. You’ll keep this razor-sharp at all times, and you’re going to slice into the neck of your attacker on either side below the ears. If combat continues, go in under the C-spine. Never cut someone’s throat. It’s really messy, it takes them forever to pass out, longer to die, and everyone two counties over can hear it.

The heart is located behind the sternum. It’s not on the left. Remember this.

Carrying lapel pins, 10/0 shark hooks, a metal rod, and more will help you in close-quarters combat.

Trump’s fan club will take liberals as soft targets. Show them the error of their ways.

Shop KarateMart.com, BudK.com, or Amazon and Trueswords.com for self-defense weapons and videos. I’ve done business with all of them, and I can’t give them enough praise for quality weapons, guides, and more. This ain’t the year we die.

Vote blue and carry a blackthorn stick.

This Town Don’t Look Good in Snow, You Don’t Care, I Know

This one caught people off guard. They usually brine the streets when snow is expected. They didn’t. The forecast was for a dusting to an inch. Then 1-2 inches. Someone mentioned cold air.

They didn’t say shit about this. It’s been below freezing all day. Currently, it is 16°F. And it’s gonna get colder. And it was really 3-5 inches of snow. And it sucks.

Another 3 inches coming Friday. I don’t need this shit. I’m too old. Snow isn’t pretty anymore. It sucks a fat one.

Some idiot wrote about breaking a “snow drought,” whatever the fuck that is.

I’ll put that stupid phrase alongside some others: “We’re in a snow drought” makes no sense. Either there’s a drought or there isn’t. If you’ve had sufficient rain, then there’s no drought. What does it matter, rain or snow?

“Are you kidding me right now?”

The best response to such a stupid and overused question is, “No, bitch, I was kidding you five minutes ago.”

“You can do this.”

Do what? What the fuck are you talking about? Chances are, we both already know what I’m trying to do, so telling me I can do it is encouraging. If you say this, then you’re being redundant. Fuck you very much, but I think I know what I’m supposed to be doing. Shut up.

A snow drought. Holy shit.

If that’s a real thing, I took a short walk. Here you go. Snow ain’t so fuckin pretty now, is it?

Mulch, dog shit, dirt and the prints of people walking dogs who think snow means that you don’t have to pick up Rover’s doo-doo. I wanna move to the Bahamas. Fuck winter.

The only thing that could cheer me up right now is heat. Heat pumps suck. Whoever invented them should be executed. I have to sleep fully clothed, including a coat and underneath two blankets, or I’ll surely die. I don’t mind leaving here, but exposure ain’t no way to die.

Free Speech: It May Cost You Every Friend You Have

Yep. You read it right. After my post “But You Can Never Leave,” what I thought was a longtime close friend immediately broke contact. This person has a high level of respect for Taylor Swift, much more than for me.

My post earned me silence.

Celebrities are public figures just as politicians or “guest stars” on Cops. All fair game, each and every one of them. If I hate everything Trump does, and have watched as he proved himself to be a nutsack and a bag of extremely small dicks, it doesn’t mean that I hate him. Hate takes too much out of me, leaving whatever good there is left in my soul to the lord of the Abyss.

Lampooning, criticizing, or just plain calling out people’s bullshit is part of our freedom of speech. That, however, doesn’t include hate speech. I haven’t engaged in such when writing about Taylor Swift. Criticism? You bet. Lampooning? Hell yeah! As for her bullshit, I see through it more than ever.

Swift, according to rumor, donates to causes. I don’t know which. Even if I did, I couldn’t prove it. From her stunts in the past, I’d make the guess that it’s disingenuous; she needs to make people like her, to buy tickets, and garner as much attention from paparazzi as possible. She’s always in character, always very fashionable, rarely caught without makeup. She doesn’t hate paparazzi; she eats attention like candy.

I still don’t hate her. And if I did, I would be the only casualty. She wouldn’t care even if she knew who I was.

I lost readers with the Swift posts. I had to close comments because I finally caught on that I would draw fire sooner or later.

But losing friends? I didn’t see that coming.

Turning my back on people isn’t a rare thing. I’ve many times found it a preferable choice for protecting myself from more trauma, rejection, and pain. I don’t do much of that anymore; if I backed off, it was to protect people I loved from witnessing or involvement in my delicate condition, causing the unpredictable. I just didn’t want them hurt. I had caused enough pain. A decent man regrets causing pain; an honorable one fights within himself to stop causing it.

So if I hurt other people by lampooning Swift, understand that it’s not my goal. But excess is disgusting, disgraceful, and self-destructive, and Swift refuses to learn that lesson. It’s too late now; she’s lost. The golf cart shit was a clue. In the end, it’s always about her. She would settle for nothing less. And she will eat Kelce up and spit him out. She’s never truly happy unless she’s got an ex crying over her. She’s got issues. I feel sorry for her as well as those who get hurt by her. She was probably hurt by some guy she looked up to or trusted once. The cycle it caused is not unfamiliar to me. Not even a little bit. But that’s what makes this so hard for me to watch. I know what’s coming.

And don’t hate me too much, please. I’m even more critical of Katy Perry, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Hamas. Oh, Israel is doing some horrible things, too. In war, ain’t nobody clean. It’s genocide and murder and bestiality and torture. It’s disease, famine, and more death. And wars are humanity’s favorite things of all. More cherished than making money, making music, or making love. We’ve been making weapons since prehistory and from clubs to nuclear weapons, we ain’t never stopped. We can’t.

So, in all of this, I lost two good friends. Some readers.

But I tell you one thing: I ain’t lost a bit of sleep. In fact, I’m sleeping better.

Therefore, worth it.

Poor Taylor Swift

The Golden Globe Awards.

If ever I saw a shit-show, last night was it. My, how the gowns have turned conservative! There was no cleavage for this dirty old man. The only one that wore something revealing was the one who had nothing to show off.

Mark you, this is not a complaint. Just unexpected, that’s all. It’s really a good thing because I had no distractions. I was free to concentrate on the jitters of the non-drugged and the fake laughter they forced on us all. Nothing funny was said or happened. The monologue was as funny as a case of salmonella. Morton Downey Jr. was there. Matt Damon, Mark Buffalo, and Ben Aflac of insurance fame were there. I didn’t recognize anyone else except DeNiro. And what the fuck was Kate Beckinsale wearing? She obviously regretted her wardrobe and made it worse by reminding everyone else that she had attended Oxford. You know, the place where they make those old-fashioned shoes? Yeah.

Oprah photoshopped her figure live or on a few seconds’ delay. Now she’s David Copperfield. Look at all the pretty people, rich, styled, yet still coveting more. And more will never be enough.

The award winners didn’t make me want to go back to theaters. On the contrary, this whole thing reinforced my decision to never attend one again. Not for stale popcorn, watery Cokes (what are they now, $25 bucks for a large?).

Look. I love movies. I am even into the odd series or two. Last night’s ceremony did make me put “Succession” on my watch list. But mostly, I hate the drek that is integral to any series. NCIS was a disgrace for always killing female lead and supporting actresses (their characters, not the actual women). These days, no one from the original cast is left. We lost David McCallum last year. That broke my heart. NCIS is shit now.

Hollywood is fickle. One day, you’re the talk of the town, and the next, you can’t even get voice work.

But last night did have one highlight for me.

In a new category that I suspect was created just for her, Taylor Swift lost to a plastic doll!

That’s right: the Eras Tour wasn’t the better when it came to the best box office smash. Barbie was. I almost want to see it now except, goddammit, I had 4 sisters, and a house full of Barbies. I took their heads off, I gave them nipples and pubic hair and I mutilated the fucking dolls. Especially Malibu Barbie. There was no excuse for making such a nightmarish toy.

So, miss “use ’em and leave ’em” got a taste of what’s headed her way sooner or later.

Today, my faith in justice is restored. Thank you, God.

Cry, witch! A plastic doll just kicked your ass!

TOP 12 WORDS AND NAMES NOBODY FROM BALTIMORE CAN PRONOUNCE (Revised)

This may be funny to us, but I’ve seen Baltimoreans turn beet-red as they speak these words, knowing that the look you’re giving them is full of disgust. This list updates and revises the one I wrote in 2008-2009 or something like that.

First, I’ll give the proper word, and beside that, give you their collective barf-making versions. Hold on to your stomachs, or have a sick-bag handy. Ready? Here we go.

The Word: What They Say

12-Crabs: “Craibs”

11-Sink: “Zinc”

10-Thing: “Think”

9-Wash: “Warsh”

8-Dollar: “Dolglar”

7-Mount: “Mayount”

6-Rinse: “Wrench”

5-Oh: “Eww”

4-Quarter: “Coorder”

3-Pound: “Peeyound”

2-Valentine’s: “Ballantines”

Also, as: “Valentime’s”

1-Baltimore: “Bawlamer”

Overcompensation: “Balteemore”

When you can’t even pronounce the name of the city you live in, you’re pathetic, hopeless wastrels.

You see the sports teams. Beyond, there be darkness, death, and the functionally illiterate. I’m not certain of which is worse.

And they never even change their bed linens. That smell you get hit with on I-95 headed to or from the Fort McHenry Tunnels?

Well, now you know the rest of the story. If you’re lucky, maybe the sewage will be more predominant on the summer breeze.

Happy travels, be safe, and hire an interpreter.

But You Can Never Leave

Good morning.

To you, because for me, it ain’t good.

I am still stuck here in this cartoon hell.

Because I could only find one packet of Splenda. With my coffee, I need two to help even out the flavor. An hour ago, I found one, then looked everywhere, even my bedroom, though I can’t seem to understand why.

I’m not the most mobile bastard, and space is limited in my house. Therefore, I have a stand next to me while sitting at the table. Everything I need is there, on different shelves. The coffee maker is on the top shelf. Under that, I keep Splenda and my meds. I thought that for certain, I could find one stray packet, as I’m always dropping one or two when reaching into that tiny box.

I didn’t find any. Moved things around and everything.

Nothing.

Then I sit down to drink my not-sweet-enough brew, and I check email.

And that’s going to be a tall order, considering that last night, I was still suffering the effects of my Taylor Swift-Kelce and Travis Kelce-Swift short circuit and breakdown.

Had a rough night, too. Leg cramps from hips to toes. Couldn’t stand, sit, or jump over the moon.

And the first email is…

Wait for it…

“It’s time to shop Taylor Swift’s New Year’s Eve outfit”

Something broke inside of me.

I know it did, because I heard it. A sort of squeak, followed by the sound of a pop.

I can’t tell where inside me the pop came from, but I heard it.

I looked away from the screen in disgust and terror.

Holy shit, they’ve found me!

On the second shelf, in plain sight, beside a stiletto knife and a dried snot-crisped bandana, a sole packet of Splenda.

Wait.

I said, wait, as in, just hold on a damn minute!

Yes. It was there.

In plain view. But that can’t be.

It wasn’t there four minutes ago.

No, it wasn’t! Why the hell would I lie about this? To you. To me. To God.

But that begs the question, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

Okay. Deep breath here. Nice, deep breath. Do it with me, folks. Deeeep breath.

Okay.

You’re okay, I’m okay, right?

NO, THIS IS NOT OKAY!

Because it can’t be. It’s impossible. I mean, not just the David Copperfield-magic-Splenda-trick. Not just that. All of this.

In all of history, who did this shit?

Who caused this much attention to be focused on herself?

Nobody.

Not Her Majesty. Not Princess Diana. Not Liz Taylor—-shit, there’s that fucking name again!

Okay, wait.

Deeper breath this time. Time. Time? What’s time have to do with this?

Oh, shit. I forgot. Time Magazine’s Person of the Year. Holy shit.

I am now certain that I’m in some weird parallel timeline. I’m not from here. I’m trapped, like Scott Bakula before Star Trek: Enterprise. You remember, it was the first Trek series to be canceled since the original series. Captain what’s-his-name. It was Archer, right? And his show before that was Quantum Leap. It ended with the words, “he never made it home.” Much later, Bakula would star in another shitty series that was doomed: NCIS: New Orleans. It really was shitty. I’ll bet Taylor Swift was involved. I’d bet money on it.

Anyway, another me who took my place in my timeline put the Splenda packet on the shelf. Just to let me know that he’s free now. In a world less mad than this one.

And he’s not going to leave. Ever.

I don’t really blame him.

But now I have to wonder what other terrors lie in wait for me here. I’ll bet that there’s a whole country out there, secluded from man, in a forbidden zone. Apes evolved from man and hunt naked humans for sport.

Shit. That NAME again. ARGH!

Fuck this. I have to find a way out of this Hotel California, a passage back to the place I was before…

Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive, and you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave

I wonder if Taylor Swift wrote that song and sent it back in time so I’d have a personal frame of reference for what I’m going through now. Obviously, she’s got supernatural powers. She might be Satan. And I’m in Hell. Just like the song.

And I can never leave…

There’s Something Wrong Here

It’s been eating at me for weeks now.

There’s something wrong. I don’t know, it’s just off.

Like I’ve stepped into some parallel timeline where things developed on Earth differently than the one I’m from.

This is not the Mandela Effect, either. No, not that. It isn’t a “remember history differently” per se. It’s more like a shift in the fabric of time and space that opened some shitty portal through which I unknowingly and most unjustly got pushed through.

Either that, or I’m dead, and this… this is Hell. And if that’s true–

–if that’s true, then Hell is a far worse place than what horror stories my evil parents warned me it was.

The first thing I want to say here is that we gotta have some understanding. Come on, between us. You and I. Let us, please, agree that we should be more afraid of facts that are lies than of real facts. The real ones do carry fear. The human race is in danger. Global warming can release tons of methane and CO² into the atmosphere. Ice and Tundra melt won’t help, and we can’t stop that from progressing. That is a scary fact. Another fact that seems hopeful is that the latest climate “accord” agreed to transition away from fossil fuels. That fact hides a lie. We could take a century to do that, and even if oil-producing countries agreed, they have to find other ways to make money. I can’t see what their incentive would be to keep their word.

It will, after that has been said, seem trite for me to write about the reason I may have been pulled or pushed or just haplessly walked here from a parallel timeline.

It goes like this: I hear by word of mouth that Japan has suffered another earthquake. But when I scan the headlines, it isn’t there. The top search result is about a million-dollar winner in Minnesota. As if that’s news!

Then: the inevitable. Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce.

THEY WERE SPOTTED GOING FOR A DRIVE ON NEW YEAR’S DAY!!

Hold the presses! This is earth-shattering news, people! Strike the damned front page! We got us a fucking headline here!

Fuck the climate!

Fuck the wars!

Fuck an earthquake!

Fuck everything!

Holy shit! We almost missed out on the first top story of the year!

Somewhere, wherever printed newspapers are still sold, a boy with an armfull of papers is yelling, “Read all about it, extra, extra, read all about it, Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift go for a ride in his Rolls Royce!”

Someone shoot me. Please make it a kill shot.

Okay. Okay. I’m okay. You’re okay, I’m okay.

LIKE HELL WE ARE!

It’s Hell. I died, and I’ve been sentenced to Hell. There’s no other explanation.

I admit it. I’ve taken up for her in the past. I will soon remove and trash those posts. Because I’ve had enough. Sunday, I watched the Chiefs-Bengals game. Taylor got her usual golf cart and VIP booth with Mrs. Quarterback (and didn’t she just break Elvis’s record?) and her boyfriend caught zero passes in the first half and nothing worth mentioning in the second because it was New Year’s Eve and all he could think about was that midnight kiss and the nooky-nooky that would follow. And by the way, Taylor Swift isn’t fit to hold The Kings’s dick, and he’s dead!

I. Don’t. CARE.

Not about Taylor Swift.

Not about overpaid football players who own a Rolls or Bentley or Lamborghini.

Not about football. Not anymore.

It stopped being football in 1971. The Golden Age of Pro Football died without any notice. Except I noticed. Quarterbacks like John Unitas, Joe Namath, Roman Gabriel, and Terry Bradshaw hunted touchdowns like a hungry lioness ready to spring out for a wildebeest. Monsters like Deacon Jones, Mike Curtis, and Buck Buchanan ruled the field and left behind them broken bones and early retirements.

The NFL exists in name only, a mockery of what once made it great.

And, Travis Kelce had best enjoy that nooky-nooky while it lasts. She’s acting a bit sub now, but it will wear off; she’ll clip his wings like she does every man she goes with.

Happy New Year, World!

In New Zealand, it is already past 09:00 on 1 January 2024. For me, it’s 2023 for another 9 hours. My wish for you is either late or early. It may be a small world, but it’s not that small.

Signs of caution in Germany, mainly in Berlin, as extra police are getting ready. Their new year is less than 3 hours away.

The Israel-Gaza war has been causing unrest far and wide. Of the war in Ukraine, the world sees and hears but no longer cares.

I’m sorry for this; I could not be sadder about the waste, the dishonorable killing of civilians, and the horror of PTSD every survivor will have to live with every day.

In 6 countries, with Brazil being the most adversely affected, the crisis of the Amazonian drought has reached an explosive state.

The trees are dying, of course, and when they go, sometimes in a very short time (days instead of months), they can’t be replaced. Thick primary growth is vanishing. The upper river can’t be navigated. The bed lay dry, grounded fish dead within. And that is an extreme danger.

Dry riverbed status on the Amazon means that huge amounts of CO² can be released into the atmosphere; the water is what keeps it contained in the top layers of mud and rock. Also, a threat for CO² release is the trees. It’s not a matter of the dead trees no longer producing O². It’s that trees take in CO² and will release their supply when they die. It’s global warming, but this year with a twist.

And it’s all down to a strong El Niño year, which this year is being called “unprecedented.”

That’s because weak trade winds have allowed high temperature water in the Pacific to drift east and hold station. At the same time, equally disruptive warm water in the Atlantic moved further north, allowing colder water below the equatorial region. That colder water doesn’t help produce rainfall. It can cause air humidity to be too dry over the rainforest and river. So, of course, wildfires have burned and will again. It is a catastrophe for the entire world.

My heart is with you all, whether you’re at war, in famine, drought, and wherever accute suffering is ongoing. I pray that the New Year will be better, that recovery, to every degree possible will happen. And that you survive 2024 to meet me here again on New Year’s Eve 2024.

Possible New Year’s Resolutions for the People of the United States

1. For pity’s sake, please stop using the word “literally” in every sentence. You’re being ridiculous.

2. If you don’t want to be called “Karen,” don’t give anyone a reason to. Let’s make this expression go away.

3. Respect LEOs. Mouthing off to police is going to get you into trouble. Don’t get physical and don’t drive under the influence. All drunks are dicks.

4. Please don’t drive under the influence! People ruin or end lives that way. If you’re arrested after taking field sobriety exercises, comply with a breathalyzer test and take your medicine like an adult when your case comes to the court.

5. Don’t carry firearms. Don’t leave firearms outside of a locked gun cabinet with a trigger lock set.

6. Be more careful. Be mindful of others, give them space, and be courteous. The best way there is to avoid trouble is not to take risks with people and animals you are not familiar with.

7. Remember that it’s okay to be an asshole at times, but never a dick.

8. Take care of yourself.

And finally, my thanks and a shout out to all of you who visited me this year, from the United States and Canada, Brazil, to the United Kingdom, especially Ireland, and then to India, Taiwan, Vietnam, Finland, Germany, and Russia and China. I hope that you will visit again wherever you are. Have a safe and prosperous 2024!

The Costs of Reducing Human Contact

Sometimes, we, as PTSD survivors, have difficulties with different things. These are as varied as the experiences that caused the condition in the first place. For too many of us, those traumatic events are prolonged or repeated again and again. It makes no difference how much time has passed between events, nor how prolonged such things were. We are usually affected considerably for the rest of our lives. Treatment is essential; it can not be avoided. Going through life without help is to live in hell, and I don’t care how many victims or “experts” say otherwise.

Sure, you can get by, but there will always be symptoms that cause problems, and that is true with patients in treatment or not in treatment. Those who seek help and can afford it are likely to experience relief. Dialing in the right medications is important. The wrong ones can make you worse, while the best ones for you should have you telling your doctor about your feeling better. The process is sometimes hard, but it can be done.

Therapy is a subject I’m personally exceptionally bitter about. It’s difficult enough to find one that you’re comfortable with, and covid made everything worse. During the worst part of the initial outbreak, many left the occupation or moved away from their patients’ areas. The shutdown caused the necessity for telehealth sessions, which I detest. You have to pay, but there’s no contact, and that’s unreasonable and unrealistic.

AI: Already A Problem

AI has replaced even triage for certain physicians. Everything from height and weight to blood pressure is monitored by a computer, and I find that to be an expensive startup for medical groups, but an attempt at eliminating jobs. You see this elimination everywhere, especially when you go shopping.

You know exactly what I mean: self-checout at supermarkets, the CVS, Walmart, and more. And it is a real problem, too. First, because it costs jobs. The Harris Teeter supermarket I go to always had this but recently renovated the section to accommodate more registers. There are a bunch of cashier registers, and I’ve forgotten how many. That’s because I have never seen all of them open. Sixty percent of the time, only one is open. I’ve seen this store decrease its employees over the years, and it’s sad. Ones hired as cashiers can often be seen picking orders for customer pickup. They may be seen stocking shelves and even going out to the parking lot to bring in carts.

Those employees may be thankful to have their jobs, but may also resent their use as utility workers. There are employees who work shopping cart detail. The store does a lot of business, so when the cart detail lags behind or takes unscheduled breaks around the corner, it becomes a pain that customers have to get used to. Go inside, and you may not see any carts at all. Seeing workers not hired for cart detail doing it reflects low employee morale and store mismanagement.

The second problem is much worse: theft, or “skip-scanning”. This is when self-checkout customers properly scan and bag some items but not others, stealing expensive ones like steaks and prepackaged deli meats, or ring one donut or bagel when the paper bag really has five. Shrimp and even staples like condiments or butter can also be tucked into a bag without being scanned. One employee watches this section but is rarely attentive. It’s boring, tedious work, and often, they have to leave the section to go to the customer service counter.

There is, to make it all worse, no security except for cameras. A room with tinted windows marked “Security” is obviously empty. Nobody goes in or comes out, and in ten years of shopping at various times of the day or night, I have never seen anyone detained for theft. It may happen, but you’d think that a decade should never have passed without me seeing an HCPD cruiser out front. A woman managing the customer service desk once told me when I reported a panhandling offender outside of the store, “I live in Baltimore City. You think I really care about who be outside?”

Except the fucker in question who once told me his name was “Travis” when he asked for a dollar, is a problem. He knows that most people carry no cash. He also knows that, should he ask anyone who does carry cash, he will be unlikely to get one dollar. More likely, it will be at least a five dollar note or maybe more, and he constantly lurks from one end of the shopping center to the Harris Teeter. Last week, before Christmas, he was back. He asked me for a cigarette and I said no. As soon as I finished my coffee and put the cup in the trash can near a letterbox, I turned around and he was urinating on a brick pillar under the overhead in plain view of the store’s doors. I guess nobody from Baltimore City would even blink at that shit. But it’s indecent exposure, urinating in front of a minor, and you can probably add a couple more misdemeanors to that. I didn’t have anyone to tell, either. That lady behind the counter would likely have said, “Come back when you catch him usin his junk for somethin a lil worser, honey.”

And I couldn’t call 911 for an imbecile that brazen who’s left behind no evidence except piss that will be dry before cops get there, and yet the act might have been visible on a security camera if they had it active and if they had security, and if anyone in the store gave a shit.

I suppose I could have kicked him in the balls for it, but that’s no misdemeanor. That’s assault. It goes too far against my sense of right, wrong, and my code of honor. But he will be back. He’s no stranger to the justice system, and they always come back. And nobody will report jack shit. And, his mental health is off, so no judge really wants to see his name on a district court docket. There’s no law to force anyone to get help and take meds.

The indifference of underpaid, overstressed employees notwithstanding, underpaid managers are worse. Why go out of the way for a wage like that in a store whose corporate fatcats have a strict opposal to having employees organize or to have too big a payroll? It is a mistake. It makes investors orgasmic, according to UBS securities, which recommends stocks to portfolio holders. Parent company Kroger has some stores that are unionized but that has no bearing on Harris Teeter, a subsidiary. Those were, in September 2023, “determined to remain union-free” in a Q&A session of corporate dickheads and securities cocksuckers. Therefore, the stores have high turnover and newer employees making lower wages. That guarantees cash savings. This is important because stores operate with bank loans. To buy inventory, they secure loans. But there’s one drawback, and most chains will need another loan before the interest is paid and the principal amount can begin to be paid. To keep up, major chains keep costs low, from payroll to overhead to transportation.

But…

Between inventory and gross income, I’d wager that if the store doesn’t lose money, it is because of price gouging. In other words, they’re jacked up, passing the costs to consumers, earning fat profits. To do this, the variety of available brands keep getting eliminated, leaving customers less items to choose from. It’s efficient and very effective.

In Maryland, Giant and Harris Teeter are two of the most expensive of chains. Covid and supply problems made prices on things like coffee double. But the same can of Folgers may be 12 bucks or perhaps 14, and if you wait two days, that changes. Maxwell House Columbian could be high, but Folgers is down half on sale. That’s to turn over inventory to keep customers and nothing more. People may avoid items and let them sit until they’re on sale. As a result, taking a look at sell by dates on a ribeye on sale can be stressful. You see today’s date. It has to go right to the freezer when you get home.

Customers, therefore, steal. So do employees, some of which are caught, and you never see them again.

Or, getting back to self checking, they may skip-scan. So, saving money on payroll has a price. I can’t see how this store isn’t hemorrhaging cash. And if not for being union-free, it would have to be.

Bodycam footage on YouTube is enlightening. I’ve seen a few where Walmart security called in police who arrived before the thief could get away. If I were you, I wouldn’t steal from Walmart. I can’t bear the thought of stealing, and I don’t even like getting gifts. It makes me feel dishonest. Guilty. And those caught at Walmart are Brazen. Their cart is full. They were observed getting a purse, duffel bag, or the like, stuffing smaller items into it, then scanning the bag alone but with other items so as not to call attention to the bag. The alarms at the doors? If they still have those, thieves know how to evade them. For every person caught, though, who knows how many get away?

And this ain’t no joke: people are caught with $900.00 USD in merchandise they have not scanned. You may hate Walmart, but it is, on the whole, efficient, because of real people always on the floor, stocking inventory but watching everything. And they aren’t union, either. And real human beings man the security office as well.

This brings us back to the loss of human contact during medical care. Patients with trauma or serious somatic conditions like hypertension and heart disease can not be assessed by machines alone. First, how do you know they are calibrated and properly maintained? Or even sterilized? Answer: You don’t.

Telehealth was necessary during the pandemic, but even now, with it spreading again, it should only be occasionally used. Mask requirements have largely been lifted. Antivaxxers should be kept to ER visits or telehealth. Otherwise, we’re still better off wearing them in close-quarter settings and in large stores. It’s just safer.

Loss of contact during the shutdown traumatized people who had been stuck without their spouses, children, or friends. I’ll never forget talk shows aired from the host’s homes. They couldn’t even go to their place of business and do a show without an audience. Of them all, John Oliver seemed to weather the crises best. Colbert was never the same. He has turned into a real dick. Once you’ve turned into a dick, you have to be deprogrammed like a Moonie. Odds of that happening aren’t very good.

Most of all, trauma patients suffered in helpless silence. And that, folks, caused more trauma. No one but these patients know what it’s like. Because trauma patients are far easier to be traumatized again. And again. That’s the nature of the beast.

How to Help Yourself

One therapy you can do by yourself that I find to be fun and helpful is to get out of the house. Take a walk, get a bit of exercise and some fresh air. You can get your blood flowing, decrease your blood sugar level, help reduce blood pressure, and relieve sore, stiff muscles. It’s a big help, though, not to let your mind wander. As PTSD patients, we know how unhealthy that is. You can avoid some of your visual and audio triggers by keeping your eyes busy. Look around, focusing and trying to spot things you missed while driving past them. Seeing something new is amazing once you spot it. This is something I call the “Sherlock Holmes” game. You can not fall into dissociative thinking when walking, driving, or almost anything else. It’s dangerous and fouls the mood with memories that are distressing. I’ve read pages of books, only to not remember what was written. I’ve crossed bridges and not remembered it. Accidents happened, and I got to my destination depressed, stressed out, and never known why.

This morning, as the sun was low but brilliant, I couldn’t face east. But I looked west and was surprised at the view. Tomorrow, the sun will rise at a slightly different angle. I will not see exactly what I saw today. The light and shadows allowed me to see some details in the background in beautiful relief, seeing depth that I normally can’t. Seeing at a longer distance with more clarity than normal. That’s magical. A gift.

Try to see new things, little details. Keep your eyes moving. Don’t stare because that’s when you fade out of the present. Focus, but keep the eyes moving. You’ll get better at it, so don’t give up. This is part of cognitive behavior therapy. Look that up. Study it on your own or ask your doctor about it. A counselor is the best coach for this. Avoid “life coaches” because they’re a scam like all of the self-help books from the 80s and 90s. They cost money and make you believe that you’re going to get better when the mere suggestion itself is an attempt to condition you to keep writing checks.

Between a good doctor, a licensed therapist, and a bit of work on your part, you can find peace of mind and a measure of recovery that you may not otherwise get to enjoy.

That’s if you can find the professionals that will see you. Because most of the cashier lanes… are closed.

Leaving Cop Hate Behind

Growing up, all I knew about police officers was from TV shows like Dragnet, Adam-12, and a few others I can’t remember at the moment. Heroes in blue, larger than life.

Then came my sad exposure to the evening news and the riots and protests. The Kent State University incident. That one was probably National Guard.

I never lost my awe of cops. But back then, you rarely heard of police being shot. I know it happened, but it was far less common than today. In the tumult of the mid-60s to the mid-70s, so much happened that I can’t seem to remember everything and what the timeline is.

Everyone I grew up with had, at one time or another, wanted to join the police department. We were naive enough for that. I don’t know of any who actually did it.

The hippie and biker cultures were cop haters. Depending on who I was around and being susceptible to suggestion because I’d been so thoroughly brainwashed by my father, I’d often go with the mentality of the crowd. I was really fucked-up. And I have often been swayed since my teen years because I react emotionally, and I get influenced by the reactions of other’s emotions.

But aside from delinquent pranks at junior high school, I kept straight for the most part.

That’s not to say I was above the odd misdemeanor or two. Having some fun, like teens do, was what made my life bearable. In the summer of 1976, I had a badge holder from a shop in Annapolis with a “special officer” badge in it. Later, a classmate gave me, out of the blue, a real Anne Arundel County police badge. I was insane to accept it.

During summer break, I worked at my father’s warehouse on Penrod Court in Glen Burnie. Two guys older than I, Ronny Booth and Mike Lukum, wore long hair and jeans to work. Flared-leg jeans. Yeah, I’m not kidding. I wouldn’t be old enough to drive until late that fall after Driver’s Education classes. So, at lunch, I’d go with them to McDonald’s or Burger King. But one day, I came up with an idea. In addition to the badge, I had a pair of handcuffs. With black hair, wearing a red bandana folded and tied into a classic headband and a pair of mirrored Foster Grants, I looked perfect. I gave the guys the badge and cuffs. I took a baggie and poured soap powder in it and tied it off. I stuck it in my back pocket, and the plan was to enter Harundale Mall on opposite sides, and they, as undercover narcs, would head right for me and “bust” me. There was another guy with us, George, closer to my age. He would be the witness, and in the event of a shopper asking what was going on, he’d say something to make them swallow the sham.

They got me up against the glass at some store, I think it was Lerner Shops or something like that. They were good, too. They had my face against the glass and “searched” me, coming up with the bag of powder. Ronny held it up and said, “Twenty years,” while Mike cuffed me. A crowd, much larger than I’d ever anticipated, gathered. Sure enough, some white shirt-and-tie dude asked, “What’s going on?” and George said, “It’s a bust!

It was perfect. But had we pushed our luck? What if a real cop saw us? To this day, that idea scares the shit out of me.

The Narc Boys would ride one more time at the Glen Burnie Mall. It was somehow less satisfying than terrifying, but we got away with it. After that, my badge and handcuffs vanished. I have no idea who kept them. This was back in the days when cops were called names like “the fuzz” and “pig” and at the Harundale bust as I was led out in cuffs, I screamed, “Fuckin pigs!” Scared the hell out of some old ladies. I feel bad about that.

The badge was probably a felony to have, but I never had the chance to turn it in. The fun was over. None of us wanted to pull that shit again.

We amused ourselves by eating at McDonald’s and going next door afterward for snowballs because the two girls who ran it were hot. One always wore a halter that showed middle and side cleavage. A blonde and a brunette. Eye candy for us chauvinist lowlifes back then. After that summer, Wendy’s was built on the lot the girls had their stand on. All I could do was remember and daydream.

Decades passed, and I stacked up traffic tickets and finally let my license expire. After hundreds in fines and 35 accidents, I’d had enough. I was blessed not to have killed anyone. My driving career lasted from 1976 to 2003. Severe PTSD or CPTSD and driving don’t mix.

On social media, being as I was a liberal, I ran into cop haters. Unfortunately, they had the power to manipulate my feelings and, therefore, my opinions. I’ve written things on this site that I regret. Anti-cop bullshit and worse.

I was wrong. One incident does not define every officer or the departments they work for.

George Floyd’s death was tragic. But he had attacked someone. And one officer broke. Now, there’s a statue of Floyd. The former officer has a prison bounty on him. He’s been shanked multiple times, and he will be murdered in there. I don’t think that’s justice. It’s no less than a hate crime. What will it accomplish? Things will get worse.

I understand the desire to take revenge. Oh, yes. But it’s never right.

Someone I followed on Facebook would take the worst articles and post them. She infected me with her invective toward cops. Nobody will ever do that to me again. Left-wing hate is no way to answer right-wing hate. Where’s it end? It doesn’t. We need to at least agree on that. But social media won’t allow that. Respect the men and women of our police. Our medics. Firefighters. They are never safe out there, but they’ll die trying to make sure that we are. They are heroes.

And finally, tonight, I have something to say about New Year’s Eve and day. It’s become a necessary thing to have police set sobriety checkpoints. Has been for decades. I want to tell you, one friend to another, if you’re going to drink alcohol this year, then please have a designated driver or the cash to call an Uber. I’ve been watching police bodycam footage on YouTube, and I’m shocked at how many drivers are caught at two or three times the legal limit. They’re everyone, a cross sampling of us all.

How would you really feel if you woke up in the drunk tank, you didn’t remember getting there, and a sergeant tells you that you killed three people including the love of your life in an accident?

Things that change your life forever and put you in prison for vehicular manslaughter? And lives are ended. Yours is ruined. Don’t drink and drive. Obey the instructions of officers at checkpoint blocks. You can do it easy or hard.

It’s up to you.

Monsters

Yep, there be monsters among us, aye.

You don’t always know that they are beasts on sight. You can know them for years and still not know how horrible they are.

But what gets me the most is that no matter how evil, how brazen or how depraved they turn out to be, someone will always defend monsters and claim that the human being accused of being a fucking animal is actually a great person.

But Gérard Depardieu is a fucking predator and sex offender everywhere except France. Because he’s an artist. God damn. Are the French really that insane?

It seems that some call him an artist (bullshit), and others, the “greatest actor in the world (a pile of elephant shit).”

How many times have I heard this kind of defense about the famous? Well, I guess I would have lost track long ago if I ever tried. You can’t rape someone and not go to prison. Except in France.

Depardieu is not an artist. He most certainly isn’t the greatest actor “in the world.”

I never liked him. After a few shitty movies, if I saw his name, I stayed away.

Is it me, or are sex predators being given special treatment? The celebrities, I mean. Sure, we nailed Weinstein and fucking hooray for that, but there’s a huge snake pit of these people out there. Not people. Snakes. They should be exiled to Snake Island. Fuck them.

I have in the past been able to spot brand marks on porn models. Some were tattoos. Small, usually some character, like an Asian letter. Or little things that don’t make sense. Later, the tat changes. The letter turned into a small dragon. These marks change because ownership changes. Traffickers do this. Sex slave owners do it. Later, these actors or models no longer pose or act. They vanish.

This is because of aging. Kept in line by drugs, that aging doesn’t turn out well. Breast augmentation just looks silly on a drug-ravaged body. But they are human beings!

They get exiled to some far away place, streetwalking to get money for drugs. And that’s where their sad lives end.

They served a master or two. If they enter that world young, they go through some of the most horrifying things any young person can: large objects are used to “open you up” in the words of one girl interviewed. Monsters do this shit. And the “trade” is international; a girl who ran away from home in New York City gets sucked in by some promise to have an agent to set up a modeling career. The next day, she’s in China, Hong Kong, Macau, or the like, or Muslim countries, even the Middle East. Maybe it’s a Brazilian girl who never sees home again. And for those who can pay, she’s made into nothing but a vagina.

Sex slaves and sex crimes aren’t new, but with population growth, parents will readily sell a child. It happens. What a customer does is pay to rape unwilling girls or boys.

I’ve tracked a couple of these “owners” before. Then they went legit or migrated to the dark web.

You know my past. You don’t need to guess how I feel about this evil shit.

But at the same time that the perps are the worst part, those who defend the slimy bastards?

Scum.

Last Christmas Today

We’ve had our share of woes, but we’ve also had some great things that we, as a species, have accomplished. Hey, who can say differently, especially now that Stranger Things is ready to start production on a new season, and we can’t unsee Millie Bobby Brown’s nipples, exposed and bared during the show’s hiatus?

And, in addition to that, think about Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, now in or entering the heliopause. They’ll be continuing until 2040 and beyond. That’s something, right?

Last Christmas Today

It’s now 19:00 in London. Here it is currently 014:00. Christmas is long over, except in Hollywood, which is a different, freaky world that, for me, may or may not exist in this world. I’m not sure I’d care or be surprised if it didn’t. Maybe it’s really an alternate universe like the many that Star Trek has so recently been multiplying like a mad physicist at a computer made in the future and sent here with Chinese instructions. Star Trek no longer has a canonical universe.

I recently saw an old video about hauntings in Hollywood, and I say “old” because the narrator was John Carradine. That dude’s long past worrying about haunted houses. He probably lives in one right now. As a ghost, of course.

It was not the age of the show that made me turn it off. It was the dated format and the fact that it bored me straight into restless leg syndrome. I mean, were it not for the fact that I’m crippled, I most certainly would have gone out and run about 15 miles.

The Ghost of Christmases Past

My father was a sicko well before he fucked his own children. After World War Two, he enlisted in the Navy. He was a fuckup. Once he nearly got clipped by a Corsair on the deck of U.S.S. Boxer. After his tour, he ended up in Hollywood.

He was supposed to have danced alongside Donald O’Connor on the Texaco Hour. And with Danny Kaye at one point. At some later point, he fled, or was chased from, Hollywood, as if by a posse. There was an underground of sex slaves, mostly underage boys who “serviced” big-name stars or producers. You know, like it is now. The old man couldn’t afford that, and the story of why he left in such a hurry back to the East Coast will forever remain a mystery. But Hollywood is, has been, and will remain until Doomsday, a septic tank.

It had an industry that was powered by perverted sexual practices and fed off greed, lust, and power. There is so much power that monopolies and conglomerates now own what was ounce viciously and jealously guarded by individuals.

Look at what Disney has done to Star Wars fans. Loyal fans who spent hard-earned cash on the franchise’s films, action figures, books, soundtracks, and games. Fans who closely followed the canon of the stories. Fans that got cheated out of their investment by having that canon change again and again in comics and, further, horrible shows and movies.

Considering the lack of respect for franchises Disney has eaten, the meme that showed the starship Enterprise and the text, “Faster, Scotty, before Disney catches us!”, and an Imperial cruiser chasing it is now no longer a joke: Warner Brothers is about to consume Paramount. There’s an even worse scenario about to unfold. Warner doesn’t fuck up canon. It trashes it. Star Trek, all movies and series, might just vanish. Nobody will be able to see any of it, and any ongoing or future projects will disappear faster than Netflix cancels a series.

I wonder which conglomerate will eat Netfix, by the way. By then, people will just be forced to drop all streaming except for free ones like Tubi. Even its content will be diminished. It might even become a paid version with ads and a subscription fee.

Some folks will drop cable and internet services. Who can tell?

And by the way, since Christmas is over, it’s safe to turn your radio back on. But it won’t be safe to walk after dark. Don’t leave the house, suckers: your neighbors with all those seasonal LED lights are not going to take them down until February. I’m just saying. You’ve been warned. And Warnered, too.

Pretty soon, the only time I’ll want to see the name Warner on my screen will be when voyeuristically viewing bra ads, you know, the sheer ones. That you can see through, like Millie Bobby Brown’s shirts. Eek. But, I have to admit, I do love women’s nipples.

And since Christmas is over, it’s time to talk about the Raiders-Chiefs game. You know the guy on the KC team dating Taylor Swift, right? Well, just before halftime, he gets all pissy and throws his helmet. He wasn’t having a good day. A cameraman caught her in the glassed-in booth. She didn’t look effervescent to me. Announcer Tony Romo said something about the player’s wife, Taylor Swift.

Tony Romo. Does he know something we don’t know? Have they eloped? Or did he just get sacked on astroturf too many times?

Because it ain’t working out. Musta had a holiday fight, eh, Kelce? She bum you out, or what? She always wins those, Travis. Rightfully so, too. She’s a Scorpio, you dummy. Only Geminis are likely to survive that by first betraying the Scorpion Queen. Taylor will always emerge victorious. Nobody has ever even escaped with their careers intact. Tom Hiddleston dated her for three months, and the next thing you know, Disney eats Marvel. Or was it the other way around?

Who can tell? Who can keep track?

What’s it matter anyway? Nobody cares anymore. John Mayer got his wings clipped so completely that nobody even remembers what he once did for a living.

By the way, Nashville is as big a septic tank as Hollywood. Or maybe they’re connected. Maybe one’s just the cesspool. Works for me.

This last Christmas could be the last one we ever celebrated. The war in Israel has reached a point where people in the United States are vehemently, openly antisemitic and supporting terrorists. Terrorists!

It may even be the last straw that tears this country down. That would cause death and unimaginable destruction around the world.

Back to Hollywood

Hollywood really is a fucked-up place. If it’s real. As I’ve said, my father spent time out there, and anyplace weird enough to let him on a stage to tap dance is proof enough for me. Decades later he had plastic-soled house slippers, and on the section of our den where there was no carpet, would click those fuckers for an hour like a shithead wannabe tap dancer on linoleum flooring while the rest of us tried to watch a movie. Fucking nut.

The reason he rushed East isn’t clear. There was a high probability that he had romantic feelings for Danny Kaye. His first daughter’s middle name is Kaye. But there may have been a sickened man grossed out by his affection. But if the Texaco Hour had stars chasing my father to the East Coast, the town remained the same. Today, underground clubs cater to the superstars’ every wish and whim. Every drug is readily available. Every taste in sexual fantasy can be sated. This much I know: you don’t want to know who goes to that kind of place.

How Many Cults?

There are religious cults claiming the word of God. There are sex and devil worship cults. Political cults. Media cults. And every time someone rises from the slime to speak truth, someone shuts them up. I used to follow Brian Tyler Cohen on YouTube. No longer. MSNBC hired him. Bought, paid for. Now he speaks no truth. Just what corporate fatcats allow him to say. Our division over the truth and our version of it is caused by every source of media Americans are permitted to see in volume. You want the truth, get away from all of the big news outlets. Otherwise, you’ll be brainwashed. They just provide the primer cord. You are the explosive, and only you can light it. And you’ll do it willingly.

These scumbag news empires don’t give a shit whether you do it or not because if you don’t, someone close to you will blow up and cause a chain reaction. You see it all the time if you pay attention.

A traffic stop turns from a simple ticket into assaulting a police officer by bystanders. They may or may not have seen the incident from the beginning, but no matter. They hear a woman say, “I can’t breathe!” And she can breathe because she was screaming it louder than a hurricane. And in his last moments, George Floyd stopped talking and never did scream this fucking loud. And you can clearly see that she’s resisting so much that even two hits of a taser haven’t done anything but piss her off more. A crowd gathers at this point, threatening and demanding bullshit like shithouse lawyers and police backup ain’t getting there fast enough. I fear for the men and women of every law enforcement agency everywhere, every day. The media triggered this shit. It is made of twisted truths that twist your mind and make everyone feel hostility toward every level of government. The right is now claiming to be the real victims, and the left have turned into a fragmented bunch of radical morons or pussies, and they are not interchangeable. One knows the truth but is too scared to tell it. The other is demented.

This year will end with more people maimed or killed by guns than ever, even though the statistics are not likely to survive the manipulation of hate groups like the ARA or right wing candidates and their aides, who probably give fellatio and cunnilingus better than Stormy Daniels, Linda Lovelace or Little Oral Annie ever could.

It may also break a record for any calendar year for people ordered by police supervisors and lower courts to get psychiatric testing or observation. Holy crap, people are trying to outrun police department Dodge Chargers in Teslas!

Teslas!

Fuck me.

Of course, they were drunk, hopped up, or amped. Well, usually, although some may not be. I don’t want to talk about those.

Last Christmas saw more homeless people hit the streets, more drug-related deaths, and more crimes than ever. The indifference of others made everything worse. I found zero worthy charities that truly help the needy, but more emails and ads from the ones that use donations for nebulous purposes. Nobody cares. Nobody.

The main reaction to seeing homeless and drug-dependent people is to be repulsed. There is no help.

I saw one former user fight back so hard that they beat impossible odds and should be proud of it. This should have drawn anyone to hire such a fighter, and Meta did. She didn’t last a week. They eliminated her entire department, and I’m proud to have finally left Facebook forever. That corporate zoo is such a dishonest house of lies and deception of gross proportions that I can not believe people still use it or Instagram. They collect all information and use it against its own users. It weathers every scandal, and its employees are cattle. Desperate to keep their jobs, they compromise their integrity willingly.

All social media is poison. Like Google, it feeds you shit you don’t want to see on your news feed, and settings will not allow you to stop it.

X is worse, much more so than Meta. And owner Elon Musk is a sick motherfucker. What do we do? Empower and worship the bastard. George Orwell never saw the likes of him coming.

And Orwell got a lot of things right. From Newspeak to Big Brother, it’s happening. What do you fear most in all the world? Don’t tell anyone. One day, it might just be used against you. The people are happy with their beer and football. Orwell wrote that. It has come true.

And forget about Kelce fucking up yesterday; that romance was doomed from the start. KC fans are calling for Tay Tay to be banned from Arrowhead Stadium. Whatever joy she brought to fans in September is now converted into acidic resentment. She’s a distraction because it’s always about her. When people want to praise her, fine, but she gets named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year, and Kelce might be bitter as all men do eventually become when out of the superior box they comfortably occupy. Now she’s a distraction. When his tantrum was at its apex, didn’t he scowl up at her?

The Global Warming Summit

The global warming meeting proved that people no longer care. Creationists are giving face and camera time to explain how Noah’s Ark was possible but also to support the idea that global warming is natural.

Kill me.

The support to Ukraine is drying up. Putin is popular in the United States. Mark my words: if we allow Ukraine to fall, Putin will be unstoppable. Next, the fight will spread out. Remember my warning about Finland? It will happen despite involving NATO. Putin will fear nothing. He’ll know that even if NATO does step in, the United States will turn to face the other way.

We are making far too many mistakes for which no solution can be possible. Once it’s too late, people will see. Only then will they see.

This year, this past Christmas, has been hard. But don’t worry.

For all we know, it may have been our last.

Who cares? Read the comments.

Kill me. Now.

Right Under My Nose, part two

The red Hyundai Sonata was towed out of the parking lot yesterday. Since Tuesday, it was still there, with a full cover on it. A neighbor told me that while I was at the grocery store, a tan vehicle was seen circling the lot. Then the driver stopped and got out. He walked to the Sonata and looked under the cover. Three cruisers arrived, and it was towed away. That’s when she tried to call me but I didn’t get it. I only received the missed call notification when I got home and called her back. It seems that the car had been used in a homicide. I could only find one report of a homicide nearby, but that took place on Sunday, 17 December. That’s well before the time I saw the car being abandoned early on Tuesday.

Now, I have emailed the county police as I couldn’t get an answer on the non-emergency line. I gave what little information I had. But it’s nothing. I wish I could do more.

I’m glad that I followed my gut and didn’t go near them because I’m more certain than I was before that I would have been shot.

I believe that the shooting was gang or drug related. Let this post be a warning to civilians: call the police when you feel that something is off. If I had, they may have caught the men. But also, do not approach suspicious people yourself. They may kill you. And I don’t care if you have a handgun with a carry permit. You can still get killed by desperate villainous scum.

Right Under My Nose

Tuesday, 19 December

Kings Contrivance

Howard County, Maryland

03:00-04:15

Usually up at night, having to go outside to smoke, I see, but mostly hear, some odd things. In the daytime, I’m always trying to be observant. I need to know what belongs where. To this end, I train myself during walks to the market and rides to the various doctors that I see.

The game is “Sherlock Holmes”: try to see something I’ve not noticed before. It could be small. One time, when I was doing this when I lived in Harwood Park, a peculiar thing stood out. It was a circular newspaper box. It was round but long, easily accommodating a rolled up newspaper. I had not seen one since the late 60s or early 70s. It was finally removed. I wish I’d asked for it. A true Americana collector’s piece from an age now long gone.

The point is to train yourself not to dissociate, to live in the moment. PTSD patients do, among other things, get lost in thoughts or be triggered to flash back to the time during or after their trauma. It is unavoidable, but the Sherlock game can help. You’re attempting to free your mind of a dreadful cycle to at least some degree.

But once begun, this ability, no matter how crudely honed, stays with you. Even if you see something, only to forget it. Later, you will remember.

At approximately 03:00 to 04:15 yesterday, I went out into the bitter cold, lit a Marlboro, and couldn’t avoid the glare of one headlight from a car. The car faced me, but there was another parked in front of it, obscuring the driver’s side headlight. Two, and possibly three males, were talking. The car was idling. There appeared to be no reason for them to talk quietly. Yet I couldn’t hear what was being said.

The young man standing beside the open passenger side door was thin, Caucasian, short hair, 25 years of age. I couldn’t see any detail, though, even when the driver switched the headlights off. The remaining light was like a parking light. It was wrong; I hadn’t seen one like that here before. Something in my gut told me that this whole scene was just off.

I didn’t have my flashlight, and anyway, my gut told me to stay away. I don’t have a problem confronting others, but as the saying goes, you don’t take a knife to a firefight. I can’t escape the certainty that I would have been shot.

I was exhausted so I went to bed. I woke up around 11:00. Before having coffee, I went outside to smoke and failed to notice a Howard County police SUV until a young woman walked to a red car and the officer got out to meet her.

They were looking at a faded red Sonata. I caught some of the conversation, but not much. She told him that she lived two blocks away. Opening the door, the officer smelled Marijuana. Whoever boosted the car sure as hell didn’t fear a drug charge after having just committed automobile grand theft.

That’s not the worst part. The officer said something like, “They wiped it down,” and by then, I came in for coffee. Halfway through it, I realized that Sonata was the one I’d seen earlier. It was left idling while they cleaned it. I thought about calling the police, because the officer had already left, but I had to go over what little I had seen, and knew I’d sound like a nutter and that I couldn’t help. Looking at the car, my heart sank. It wasn’t wiped down. It was fucked up. The pattern of spray bottle spatter on the inside of the windshield looked like strong cleaner or something caustic. Plates had been torn off. I felt so furious that all of it happened right under my nose. That a stolen vehicle had been dumped and damaged in my front yard.

I want to hurt the bastards, just like I would love to catch the bastard who hit a senior lady and left her to die last month.

Punishment isn’t my duty. If it were, I’d be a damn hard one about it. But my morals have some bearing on my way of life. I can’t harm another unless I’m defending someone from them. Then, I have no problem using force or to die in the attempt.

Until that day, I’m going to observe everything I can.

Can’t Miss Movies- Bad Santa 2: Even More Raunchy Than The Original!

If Billy Bob Thornton ever made a movie where he pulled off the impossible, it was 2003’s Bad Santa. He’s not my favorite actor, but as a department store Santa with a drinking problem, a foul mouth and a serial quickie artist, he found a niche. This was because he somehow found a way to combine a single character into more than just a filthy-mouthed thief and alcoholic into one whose heart could be soft, and a bit protective of a child who came to his defense.

Years later, when we felt confident that it was a once-in-a-lifetime film and that we were safe at last, they made a sequel.

It was expected that, like most sequels, it was going to be a real stinker.

John Ritter and Bernie Mac were long gone.The love interest in the first film for both lead characters were on to other things.

Willy is about to commit suicide by turning on the oven and stove top burners until he figures out that it’s an electric range. He tries to hang himself, but his old friend Thurman intervenes. He bears a message and lots of cash; Marcus is out of the joint after ten years and wants a meeting to tell Willie about a new mark: a charity guaranteed to gross two million dollars.

Thornton is at his most abominable, which of course is the way we like him best, and Tony Cox can still belt out more one-liners with one or more uses of the word “fuck,” and pull it off.

There’s only one little snag. Oh, and for Willie, it is a big problem: his long-lost mother (Kathy Bates) is involved, and Willie hates her. He even swings on her on sight.

As well as this film is executed, and as much as the trio of Bad Santa characters pulled off staying true to their characters, it is Kathy Bates who blatantly steals the show. Her filthy mind and raunchy language, her unrefined mannerisms, and overall hilarious creepiness are a scream.

Of course, it still has to follow the formula of the first movie, so you’ll see the end coming… sort of. But it’s still satisfying and a riot from beginning to the end.

Retro rating: four out of five. Worth it.

Nice Dreams

Lately I’ve stopped taking Prazosin because it seemed to be making my nightmares worse. It’s for the opposite, and in PTSD patients has been effective in reducing both the severity and the frequency of nightmares. But if it did work in the beginning, then it stopped and, in fact, seemed to give me a rebound effect. Horrors awaited every time my eyes closed. I told my doctor, and she said I needed my sleep. I was fighting it. So she discontinued the Prazosin and prescribed Trazodone, a sedative. It’s only a PRN, to be taken as needed only.

Sometimes it works. The nightmares have changed into some weird shit, and when I was given that in the hospital, I remember that my dreams did get more bizarre.

The other night, I dreamed that Kane (the wrestler) had gotten me into the WWE, and since I am old, I protested.

He assured me that Vince McMahon could use me as a gimmick character for a season, and then I’d be done. It sounded like fun. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long enough for me to get into the ring.

But it was nice to have a zany dream instead of a nightmare, and be able to remember it. It’s hilarious stuff.

Last night, I hit the wall early. I tried watching a movie, but I was out minutes after turning it on.

This time, I dreamed that I met Kerry, a teenage crush. She was grown, we hit it off, and I finally got the chance to find out what it’s like to kiss her. My emotions were as if I had been transported to some fairy tale. I told her that all my life, I had loved her.

That’s basically true. Her family moved to the neighborhood in the early 60s and I had been smitten on first sight.

As we grew up together, I never really had much interaction with her. But I was never going to anyway. That wasn’t in the cards.

I’ve loved a handful of women in my life. Some I dated. But the ones I loved the most, I never spoke to often, and I never told them how I felt. In third grade, which I had to repeat, the first time it was Barbara. We were inseparable. We even kissed. A lot. When she moved away, I was broken.

The repeat year, it was Lee Ann. She was beautiful and fun and I dared not go near her. I knew, even then, that I never wanted to feel a broken heart again.

But I also knew that something was wrong with me. The kids in my class never asked me to play ball on recess. They shunned me. Always. And I was constantly in some sort of trouble. My sense of humor never got any laughs; it was macabre and warped, and unless they had been through what I had, they would never understand me on any level.

Kerry was smart and by junior high school, was blooming into an awesome beauty. I knew that she would become somebody, as smart and as popular as she was.

It made it extremely painful to see that I, on the other hand, was sick. That I would never measure up, never be good enough for such an amazing young woman. Not then, not ever. I left her alone. After the end of the last semester of school year 1975, I never saw her again. Knowing that it was better for her if we never met again gave me some weird sense of honor: I’d only have messed up her life. You don’t really love someone if you’re going to put your needs above theirs. That ain’t love. It’s vanity and selfishness.

There would be one more woman that I would meet in my life who was way too good and beautiful and kind for me. Her name was Peggy, and I would have turned a beautiful and delicate flower into a mess. I loved her so dearly that I would have left my wife for her in a second. But I never told her how I felt. First, because the words that describe that kind of feeling do not exist; but more importantly, that love was so unbreakable that to this day, it’s still with me. And I wasn’t good enough. I knew it. I was becoming aware of just how fucked up I really was. I last saw her in the autumn of 1986 when my father’s business finally folded for good. The look she gave me was full of contempt, and I still bear that pain. And the memory of it is stamped in my mind.

Sometimes, things work out for reasons we don’t understand, and sometimes they don’t work out for reasons we do understand, especially if we are honest with ourselves and take the best interest of another to heart, holding their needs above our own. That, dear friends, is love, the best kind, the most pure kind.

The dream about Kerry was passionate, and good, and I’ll take that over my grisly nightmares any day.

As I stood outside today, smoking a Marlboro, I thought back to the days of junior high, when I loved one who could never know, and I grew more sick all the time.

One day in sculpture class, I had some warm wet plaster in my hand for some reason. Ronnie Howell was sitting beside me, and he was instrumental in my delinquent behavior, always knowing when to egg me on. In fact, he even occasionally laughed at my sick humor and stunts.

Watch this vintage commercial:

One version had men in a locker room. One gave the other a “five” and shaving cream was everywhere. The black man says, “Hey, man, that’s real hot lather!”

I turned in my chair, imitating the black athlete, slapped the hand with plaster with my hand that was free, and said, “Hey, man, that’s real hot lather!”

To my horror, that shit went everywhere, and a teacher’s aide was right there!

She was a sandy blonde with a killer body, wearing sprayed-on jeans, i mean, tight, and before the world heard the expression “camel toe”, I was looking straight at one, eye-level, not a foot away.

And I had just splattered plaster all over that camel toe!

Horrified, seeing a suspension in my immediate future, Ronnie Howell roared with laughter. I looked up at the aide to see how angry she was and apologize, but she was laughing!

A dream brought back a flood of memories, none really that bad, about junior high school and unrequited love that, today, lets me see something in my past that was noble and good and not about myself.

And I’ll take it.

Any day, I’ll take it.

Sovereign Twatsmanship

Let me tell you something you may already know, but which I have only just been made aware of. It’s called various things, mainly “sovereign citizenship,” and my God is it a load of bullshit.

Until today, I thought that I was just hearing domestic (United States) terrorists and a few questionable dicks with really stupid excuses for breaking the law. But no. Oh, no, it is so much more than that, and it is spreading.

In a nutshell, (wait, wait: I meant nutsack, as in a shriveled scrotum) sovereign citizenship is described by Wikipedia as pseudolaw or, as I would put it, “Willful Delusional Affective Disorder” (WDAD) coupled with “Entitled Serial Criminal Retention On Whim (ESCROW)” syndrome. The whimsical part is more insidious than you think; it is a choice, based more upon the spewing forth of sewage from people who know better but are anti-establishment dicks who have their own personal problems with the federal government and, as it is usually the case because they owe money, don’t want to pay up.

These dicks came to my attention while I was watching a YouTube compilation of police bodycam footage. One thing led to another, and after an hour of Karens  being arrested, there came in the queue a solid 2 hours of this shit mixed with more Karens and brats. I loved it when the old drunk Polish guy tried to use his son’s status as an FBI agent as an excuse for driving under the influence and threatening officers. Oh, and then there is one where a woman is so wasted she actually uses a wet wipe as a cellphone.

I wonder how police officers ever manage to get people like this processed without falling down in tears, laughing like hell. But most of the time, they do, although I’ve caught a few wide, guffaw-stifling grins by officers backing up the responding officer, which is one of the most rewarding and hilarious things to see anywhere, even on YouTube or Tiktok. Incidentally, it seems that Tiktok “celebrities” are shown in these videos as entitled twats who inevitably ask the officers, “Do you know who I am?”. No, you wannabes, they don’t know who you are, and just because you have a thousand followers on some Chinese app does not mean that you are supposed to be treated any differently than everyone else. Dumbasses!

In addition to potentially polluting the genetic pool of humanity, these cretins threaten the lives of people with anti-vaccination beliefs and the dissemination of weirdo and dangerous ideas like “sovereign citizenship,” which, ironically, began with white supremacists and hippies but has now spread to other ethnicities and groups.

In the video I watched, one white woman and one black male claimed during road stops that they did not need a driver’s license to drive a car, mainly because cars are not commercial vehicles.

It turned out that they once had a license, which proves my acronym accurate, but with a catch: those licenses were suspended or expired or revoked, usually, I found upon research, because they owed outstanding traffic tickets. In other words, they’re twats who should never even have had a license to begin with. Point being, that if they once had a license, they were using the sovereign bullshit as an excuse. That’s so lame that at first I just thought they were delusional, but it turns out that they have been on the internet too long and chosen to use a ludicrous doctrine they knew to be false as a reason to break the law.

Yes, they do appear to be crazy, and no, they really aren’t. When the officer gets so fed up asking you to step put of the car that he has to break your window to force you out, you’re already in some deep doodoo. Should have done what the officer said, you dickheads. Or maybe not broken the law in the first place. This excuse bullshit is getting on my fucking nerves. While being locked up or processed, you do not get to use PTSD as a reason for failing to comply with officers’ orders. PTSD is not even a defense that will stand up in a court of law, and it’s dishonorable to even try.

In one of the videos, a woman tries to outrun police cruisers with a Tesla! What the fuck is that?

Look, I know that I am not alone here. You may have thought that sovereign shit was confined to white redneck ranch owners, but we were wrong, okay? And while the tentacles of lunacy like anti-vaccination and other fringe twatsmanship like common law and sovereignty are spreading, this country is in danger.

For now, the sovereign citizenship twats are not connected, and thank God for that. But that’s only because shit like this is being used by individuals more than groups. If, however, they do become more widespread, eventually, they would overlap. There are instances already of prominent people of color still endorsing The Donald. I couldn’t get my head around that at all, but now I think it’s possible.

I’m a layperson, having no formal education or degree in psychology or letters trailing my name. But I don’t need them to see what’s coming. You are not going to like it.

Already antisemitism, a poison doctrine of hatred, is coming out of the shadows. I know people who are right here, in the land of the free, who fear for their lives should they wear their star of David pendants. That’s unfortunate, unfair, and unforgivable. We fought and bled and sacrificed lives in Europe to stop a monster who had an expansionist agenda and a plan to kill every Jew in every country they came to occupy. You piss on the graves of our fallen by your similar doctrines, and I’m ashamed of you.

Did they really die for nothing? None of them wanted to die, but they knew the enemy. They knew the danger it posed to the world, and they died heroes, the best of us all. They held sacrifice, duty, courage and honor above themselves and their lives and proved it with every grave dug, every posthumous Medal of Honor, every purple heart, every single drop of blood they shed, every home they returned to different than they were when they left. The veterans who survived, the honored dead, they meant something. They stood for something. Racial hatred is the most dishonorable way to repay their sacrifices.

I understand the bitterness over Netanyahu, but he’s a scrote, and the whole world knows that. But most Israeli people don’t like his arbitrary bombing, because they are an honorable people who collectively remember the worst the human race can dish out.

I’m against bombing non-strategic targets. Killing civilians was an unavoidable circumstance in the air war over Europe in World War Two; today, precision missiles make this avoidable.

But, as terrorists do, Hamas uses civilians as shields. Tactically, there’s no real way of getting around that. Biden has warned Netanyahu to stop the bombing or risk losing all international support, but the Prime Minister does not listen, nor is he feeling compelled to listen. And to zealots here, this is being called “biblical” and “apocalyptic.” And for all I know, it could be (I am not an escatologist).

That’s because people can be real dicks. Killing, global warming, drought of record proportion in the Amazon basin and rainforest, it all fits. The setup is certainly there for something apocalyptic.

From conveniently choosing a criminal (ESCROW) point of view to the worst drought in the known history of Brazil to wars that will spread, the human race has condemned itself.

Rise above twatsmanship and hate. Be a responsible citizen. Stand for what’s right. Help children. Protect them as if they were your very own. Reject antisemitism and respect the law. Be kind to yourself and others. This may be your last chance.

These are some examples, although I haven’t seen the whole video, watch how fast things go south for the second and third ones from the beginning.

I’ve never heard of a guy suddenly opening a door right beside officers and not being riddled with bullets, so the narrator is somewhat difficult to understand. When officers taze the man from the hallway, it is not an overreaction. The fool was lucky that the officers didn’t shoot. It would have been a righteous shoot, but they were clearly well trained and had experience.

Don’t act like a twat. You won’t end up on YouTube and in jail. Don’t adhere to nutty, loony horseshit pseudolaw and I won’t laugh at you. Don’t knowingly break the real law, and you won’t look like a twat.

It’s as simple as that.

Have a Cup of Cheer: Some Christmas Videos to Help Get You in the Mood

When I was on social media, I would share a few videos before Christmas that were my favorites. Here are a few of them.

Apple has A Charlie Brown Christmas locked in. You want to see it, you buy it or subscribe to Apple. That’s unacceptable. The monopolies of streaming services that charge for content is worse then cable TV ever was. And it’s just going to get worse.

Without my yearly viewing of the 1965 Schultz cartoon classic, here’s what I’ll have to settle for instead, and for some reason, they are extremely satisfying.

And of course, what would Christmas be without The 12 Days of Christmas?

I swear, those guys have set the bar too high. They will always be the best.

And what about the fun and excitement of Christmas shopping?

Still, Christmas does come with its hazards:

Christmas is a time of good cheer, giving and family gatherings. And bad music videos. I can’t remember the year, but one morning I was dozing on the sofa and my ex had turned on the TV. HBO’s Video Jukebox was playing this annoying video from Mannheim Steamroller.

It’s discordant, nauseating and makes you wish you’d never been born. My day was ruined. A whole post of coffee from the Silex could not put me right. For the rest of the day I felt out-of-sync with my body and the rest of the world.and the images of the band flying over the mountains was fucking stupid.

Of course there are worse Christmas songs out there.

Do you remember them? Well, I do. I can’t get them out of my head. Even in the heat of summer, with cicadas doing their nightly chorus, some of these haunt me. Jingle Bells has to be the worst. The fuck does it even mean?

Instead, when we were kids, we favored another version. It went something like this:

Jingle bells,

Batman smells,

Robin laid an egg,

Batmobile lost a wheel

And Joker got away

Infinitely preferable and much more enjoyable.

The Christmas gag songs pissed me off: I liked the carols, you know. As a child I was even then a Christian. I had faith. I often cried myself to sleep, saying simple prayers that I’m certain were answered. When that evil thing was in my room, I would make simple prayers that I would be loved and protected. O Little Town of Bethlehem, The First Noel, Away in a Manger, these gave me hope and cheered me on nights I would otherwise believe that there was no hope.

And I really believe that’s the main thing about Christmas: hope for those without any. Love and reconciliation between friends in conflict. Forgiveness. Love.

And I know that sometimes hope seems too out of reach. But when we give that up, we’re left with nothing. That’s much worse any day than a bad music video.

Let us all, no matter our race or Religion, agree on this.

A Nice Cup of Tea

Sometimes the best medicine is just a nice cup of Earl Grey

TEA TIME

I’ve had an off-kilter, wonky kind of day. Oh, I managed to get my laundry done and folded, and put away. But little else.

That last bit is usually a tall order. By the end of the folding process, this old man is ready to cry with the back pain.

Somehow I did it. Throw me a parade! Name a holiday after me! Or better yet, give me some money.

Waking up after a nap that made the timing perfect for missing a walk to the store for coffee and milk made tea this night’s drink. It is for the best.

It’s fine. Gives me some alone time with Earl and that’s not a thing to take lightly. But please, come in, have a cuppa, and let us talk.

Americans, that is to say, here in the United States, we never fail to undervalue tea, its healing powers, its seductive flavor and the inner warmth it gives, ensuring that you must have one more cup.

Being a child of English, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Swedish and Danish ancestry, I suspect it runs in my blood: coffee and cold soft drinks are fine, good Scotch or Irish whiskey being a nice treat on the blue moon or something like that, but tea is the one thing we all have in common. Perhaps we agree on little else, but every region has a tea of preference or one which it can grow.

I do not favor green tea, Darjeeling, or Ceylon tea, but any will do in a pinch. Herbal teas are another matter.

I have a pot with a nice infuser. After adding 4 teaspoons of leaf tea (because tea dust is what’s swept up from the floor and put into tea bags which won’t complement the flavor), I add water from the kettle, put the tea towel over it and let it steep for five minutes. And Earl Grey is ready to enjoy. When hurting, or feeling a bit pensive, it’s best enjoyed in solitude. But sharing it with a friend is very easy to do and the conversation should be interesting. That’s why you’re here. Welcome!

It’s a horror to add milk to tea, but of them all, this is the worst choice for milk and sugar. A drop of lemon, and a half teaspoon of sugar is as far as I’ll go. Most of the time, Earl Grey needs no additive, but it’s your cup of tea, do what you like best. Because life is too short not to.

It’s also fun to try new things, and trust me, Lipton tea isn’t one of them. I favor two brands of leaf tea: Taylors of Harrogate and Twinings. Tea is the one thing the English always got right, and Yanks screwed up. The British seem to feel that all we do with tea is throw it into harbors. But at least they think we uncrate it first, thus giving striped bass a caffeine high.

I briefly mentioned King Henry VIII in a recent post. What a turd he was, yes? To avoid scandalous relationships, he broke with the Catholic Church and created what became protestant churches of England. He had no idea what he was doing with and to religion, and he knew less of women, and cared even less. What a dick.

But the English are still a fine, proud people. That Royal thing though, is that really necessary? It seems that all they ever to is engage in drama and in-family subterfuge, and mentioning Diana’s name gets you scowled at depending how you use it. Call her out as a whore, or praise her; one will get you your ass whipped and the other might get you a drink at the pub. Hope you like warm ale, good luck and cheery-o.

I’m serious. It’s a very divisive subject and if I found any link at all to British royalty in my family tree, I’d keep my mouth shut about it. I’d rather find the Lestranges in there. Finding Bellatrix would be more reason to brag than any royal.

I’m not taking shots here. Any country you hail from is home, always will be, and it’s in your blood. Take pride from that.

But that doesn’t mean much to other people. If you tell someone a Duke of Avondale was a great great great….cousin, you’re going to get a blank stare in return. I’m sorry, but that’s life.

And as I’ve said, life is short. Let’s enjoy what little we can, shall we?

THE CHRISTMAS CURSE

At this time of year, like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, I’m doomed to tell anyone who will pay heed about how short life really is.

We always have a way of thinking, that could never happen to me, but this is folly. Because yes, it can. And if it does, you’ll be really fucked-up for the rest of your life.

On Christmas Eve, 1994, I was preparing to spend my first Christmas away from my family. My wife kicked me out that spring and I couldn’t find any work except for delivering pizza. It isn’t glamorous in the least. It’s humiliating. You get to see people you hope will never order a pizza pie again. Once I was invited in where adults were all wearing underwear. Long underwear.

I don’t know how, or why, but this was creepy to the point where even the guy on Elton Street who answered the door in his robe would seem normal afterward. They gave me the flying shits, and I stood in the doorway, on the stoop, and even if they’d aimed a cannon at me, I was not going in there. I don’t even know what I was seeing. It was like something out of the movie Deliverance where the guy looks through a door and sees an old woman knitting beside an obvious, horrid example of inbred offspring. There was something I could feel, something unnatural, evil and hungry. The hungry part scared me the most. Fuck you, I’m not coming one step inside your sleazy abode.

On Christmas Eve we closed early, about sunset or a little after. I waited around for a while. Killing time, because I had an eye infection in one eye. It kept crusting over with white like the Pillsbury dough boy had swept in and taken a shit on my eye. I needed it treated. Having no doctor, I’d go to the hospital and I figured around 23:00 was good, because what hospital is crowded at that time on the night before Christmas?

I figured wrong. The waiting room was full, standing room only. I checked in and was advised it might take some time. On this frigid night, the darkness seemed peculiar for the parking lot of a major hospital’s ER.

I went further into the darkness to smoke, wary of security seeing me. I lit a cigarette and jumped a mile when a voice, soft, friendly, timid, asked for a light.

Even in darkness, he was darker. His face seemed highlighted by age, the ravages of a hard life and battles. Lots of them.

He lit his smoke. What a tragic man he was. In Baltimore, the streets were cruel even then. That they’re more so now puts me in a bad place.

He was trying to get committed. Back then, as now, it’s not so easy. He told me how he’d had a good job, a wife and children.

Two cars, a house and a boat. Everything a guy could want.

Until one say when his wife and children were killed in a traffic accident. He went in the bottle,  and who can judge him? I never did. From there it must have gone quickly. He lost the boat. Then the job. Then the remaining car and finally the house. He had nowhere to go. He attacked when they tried to evict him. “Been in the bottle ever since,” he said. His voice held a sad quality until he said, “I just want my kids back.”

That line is always audible in my memory. It was so bleak, so full of despair that I wanted to hug him, but back then, it wasn’t done. Such a backward, hung up society, the United States.

What he said taught me a lesson. A big one, and since I had no money for gifts I had not planned on visiting my children for Christmas. Showing up empty-handed would hurt them and kill me inside. But my lesson had been delivered and I never forgot it. My daughter said on the phone next morning, “It’s okay, daddy, your gift can be that you love us.” And I went, and we had a nice visit. And I truly wish the story ended there. But happy endings are for fairy tales and massage parlors only. It turned out that my lesson was prophetic. My children are dead.

Yes, and my daughter left three children behind. She drowned on 4 July, 2012. My son and I grieved, but he was unable to shake his grief, or the burden put on him by his step-father that Elizabeth should have lived and he should have died. His step-father did a lot of damage and for years I wanted to kill him. He does not know to this day how many times he was close to death.

Christmas should be thought of as the time when people are kind, giving, sharing, and, if you are a Christian, of birth.

It is not like that for me. Nor will it ever be again. I think of heartbreak and death.

Christmas Day, 2017 was the last time I saw my son. He had taken something laced with fentanyl twice and both times ceased breathing, both times winding up in the CCU. The second time, I knew I was going to lose him. He felt a deep hunger for the drug. Since it basically killed him twice, I couldn’t understand what he’d gotten out of it. The doctor told him his liver and kidney functions were off. He either knew what that meant or didn’t. It does not matter. By Valentine’s Day 2018, he took his last dose of street Fenny and went off to meet his maker, taking whatever Elizabeth had left of my heart behind with him. My heart is an open wound. I’ve never fully allowed myself to grieve, because crying sucks. It fills my sinuses and gives me a headache. And always, always, there’s more and I’m not going to have more. I’m sick of it. I bear my burden the best I can. But I often tell others about it. I warn them that the pain of loss never ends.

But only once a year do I pass on the story of that poor, broken man who taught me a great lesson, giving me — giving us three — many years of love, adventure and memories together.

I cannot pass on this curse. It is mine to bear. To tell of a man whose battered soul got through my selfish and bitter, vain self and taught me to hold my family close.

What I am offering you is a simple warning. As your friend, because we’ve had tea together.

You must keep your loved ones safe. Give them the things they need. Show your love always, never being afraid of “wearing your heart on your sleeve”, because those who criticize you for it will never understand. Pity them. Pass on what you have learned here. Take nothing for granted. Because life isn’t fair, it harbors Death, a predator always on the prowl.

And know that no matter who you are or where you are, you are always welcome here for a nice cup of tea and a good chat. Remember: we are friends.

I Know What I Saw, But It Never Existed

The Mandela Effect. You’ve heard of it, right? If not, it works like this:

Nelson Mandela survived prison in South Africa. But there are some who would swear that he died in prison.

Some recall an American peanut butter by the brand name of “Jiffy”, but in truth, there was no such thing. It was always “Jif”. I even got the corrected spelling wrong, initially using two “Fs”. I had to look it up to make sure.

One of the more famous examples is the spelling of the name in the children’s book series “The Berenstain Bears”. Some swear until red in the face that it is “Berenstein” Bears, and when I read the books to my children, I saw it and pronounced it “Bernstein”.

In fact, I’m dyslexic, and the longer the name, the better chance I have of seeing it wrong. However, reading was my most reliable way to escape real life growing up. Early on, it did not matter to me if it was from another country, translated into English. I wanted a deep, engrossing experience that would put the tears, torture and rape behind me. No bullies, no beatings, interrogations, no.

But I would also pick up nonfiction, and that’s where I ran into trouble, mostly with dates and names. Especially English elaborations of Greek mythology. Those names would silently slide past as I read, becoming a quick, garbled monster made up mostly of vowels and little else.

Hippocrates, the famous ancient Greek physician, can have his name pronounced two ways. Not until I played Assassin’s Creed Odyssey would I get it right. To make It easier on players, the names were spelled with a k in place of a c, so Hercules becomes the proper Herakles. Socrates becomes Sokrates, pronounced so-CRAT-ees.

And now that I’ve learned that little lesson, I also wish I could travel to the mainland and Greek Islands. So much beauty, such wonderful people, and ages of rich history. Funny, what a game can teach you.

Motion pictures can also help correct our misremembered experiences. Where you might think something was in a particular film, it really wasn’t. Remember North by Northwest? Really, you think so? OK. But some people remember different lead actresses. And what was the theme song of the last version of TVs Lassie?

If you go so far back, you can see that memory is a very peculiar thing, and sometimes we get it wrong.

My Search For What Never Existed, But Saw Anyway

Some time ago….call it the early 2000s, I saw a movie. It was about two boys, both invisible to other students at, I want to say, a college. So, freshman year. One was diminutive in stature, one tall and thin. They became friends, each looking to the other for the acceptance that they could not get from others. The bond became strong. I don’t remember much, but the taller one gets a girlfriend, becomes popular, and leaves his best friend alone. Eventually he is dared to prank or otherwise do the ultimate betrayal to his friend, and later finds out that his mistreatment had consequences. The smaller guy dies. Whether he was beaten, had a terminal illness, or killed himself I can’t remember. There are several times when the song “One of Us” plays, especially at the end. The song, covered by Joan Osborne, went on to become the running theme song of the series Joan of Arcadia.

My problem is, I can’t find any sign of this movie. I don’t even know if it was a movie. It could have been a TV show pilot or episode. And I can’t remember if God actually appears in it. My impression at the time was dark; as if God was represented by the smaller of the friends, and that the whole point of the show was a lesson in friendship and betrayal.

I’ve searched for pop culture media with that song in it, I’ve searched for movies with the theme of two boys bonding and one is betrayed. The very first search comes up with Close, a 2022 French film with much the same theme, but the actors look nothing like the ones I saw, and the production was American, not French, and I saw it long before 2022. More than a decade before.

Question: what exactly did I see, when was it, and why can’t I find it? Was it a miniseries, a pilot, a show’s standalone episode, or a movie? I know I did see it, because it was a really tragic story and I cried. How could I have seen it if there is no reference to it in any search results? Or is the Mandela Effect a real phenomenon, wherein realities shift at random, or is it some science fiction mess like getting switched with another me in a parallel universe?

I’m uncomfortable with things that make me question reality, but I’m not the first to be in this position, and I won’t be the last. Maybe, next time, it will be you.

Occam’s Razor: Dudleytown, Curses and Cryptids

I have no idea what’s going on in Europe, Asia, the Middle East (aside from war), South or Central America, Canada or the Islands. Cultures and religions different from my experience or teachings insure that I have not the time left to learn much.

Most people mean well, but being ignorant of customs and cultural taboos, invariably come off as offensive.That’s sad, especially when it causes angry reactions or pain.

It happens all the time. But one thing that I know we share, every one of us, is the inability to explain something another person might describe as a haunting, a UFO sighting, or seeing a werewolf. Among those and many other things, there are, for each, skeptics and believers.

And those caught in the middle.

How can I make a conclusion about that which I have not had experience with? Well, if there’s something I find little to no evidence of, something with no concrete evidence outside of paranormal websites, YouTube videos or television shows, then I should be a skeptic. And no matter where you are, so should you, right?

But no, we aren’t skeptical of certain things, even in the face of little to no evidence.

For example, almost every religion has dark, or evil spirits to resist and pray for protection from. Demons, to some, other names by other people. But it’s always there in some form. And they all do pretty much the same things.

But what about this? Can evil plague a town, and can cryptids surround it? And what about curses as opposed to bad luck?

At a time, in the early 1700s, someone decided to stake a particular piece of ground in the US state of Connecticut. It was a bad decision for potential farmers as the land would be in the shadow of a small mountain for part of the day. But a small town eventually formed there, and to this day, there are odd stories about it. See, Connecticut isn’t the most hospitable place. I had an ancestor who, with two sons, came here on the Mayflower, which is considered historically important for some fucking reason. But John Turner and his sons did not survive their first winter, spent in Connecticut. The reason the bloodline continues is his daughter, who came across the Atlantic later.

I’ve trucked up there in 18-wheelers, and in 1990, still found it to be a place I wouldn’t want to live. In certain places, I felt a heaviness, sometimes even felt that I wasn’t traveling alone. Oh, if you stick to I-95 up the coast, you’re fine. The only thing you’re going to encounter is traffic, and plenty of it, most of which is incredibly comedic, or would be except for idiots with steering wheels in one hand while the other is busy texting or masturbating. Most of my trips were without incident except for the one time I had to go into the interior of the state, almost to the Massachusetts line. I don’t remember what I was hauling or where I went. A half hour after leaving New York I had to take some highway west then another north.

Middle of winter, middle of the night. I was on a main route, but there was no traffic. It was nice for a night haul, roads clear, no foul weather. I crested a hill, and before me there was nothing. Woods and darkness. It’s all I can remember about that trip. It felt like I was seeing backward through time. It’s disorienting, going through one of the world’s most populous cities, only to end up out there in Ichabod Crane country. One feels as though the pages of time had been thumbed backward.

I wish I could do that. Because a town that was doomed to fail from the start was possibly nearby, but I wouldn’t know it, because I would not read about Dudleytown until years later. And though I wound up north of it, and most likely to the east, I guess those forests probably all have the same vibe. There’s history in there, not much of it the good kind.

The stories vary, and most lean towards the skeptical side, but any writer can turn the story into a scary one.

Founded by a descendant beheaded by Henry VII, one wonders if that’s not the best way to begin a thriving town. But as the homestead became a town, there was something going on. People died. Cholera, exposure, the stories differ. There were encounters at night with unknown and presumed dangerous creatures.

As the town emptied, the residents dying or moving away, by 1900 almost nothing remained. No one lived there and the buildings were ruins. Sometime later, a man named Clark bought the property and set up the Dark Entry preservation association. Meant to preserve the land as pristine, he and his wife lived on the land in or very close to Dudleytown. Probably closer to the town proper of Cornwall, where they kept a summer home. The association was to keep acres of woods protected from hunting and logging. Clark had to travel for business, but once, he came home to find his wife highly agitated. She said that there were creatures in the forest. They moved, but left the Dark Entry intact. It is still private land and has been said by some that even using Dark Entry Road will get you stopped by police.

I doubt that; the same thing is said about lots of abandoned places. Usually those roads lead to places which are described in lurid urban legends. Investigation almost always debunk those stories but leave some unexplained, and I believe Dudleytown is a bit of both. First of all, Dark Entry Road is mostly a road in name only. Its final meters end in a narrowed trail that eventually becomes nothing more than a foot path.

Sure, farming in the shadow of a mountain is a stupid idea, and crop failure in both the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries was devastating, but common. It meant going hungry unless travel to buy food was possible, but with what money? No crops to sell (but they did mine iron ore and they did make charcoal).

A Connecticut winter is still a rough go. But that’s with heating, insulated homes, electricity and supermarkets.

It must be said, though, that plenty of other settlements failed. And that’s true everywhere. Bad stuff happens. Mistakes get made. Wars and wildfires and droughts, tsunamis and hurricanes, tornadoes, and more, have more power to destroy than we have to preserve.

One question that lingers, though, is exactly what the “creatures” were. I can’t find any accounts that describe them. “Ghosts” and “demons” are all that show up in records. That’s not exactly specific.

But accounts, from beginning to end, of Dudleytown differ. Clark becomes Clarke, and the Dudley family becomes a cursed family, and it was a Dudley who committed high treason against King Henry VIII.

It’s noteworthy that another difference is cited. The town, not really an incorporated one itself but part of Cornwall, was in the shadow of three mountains, not one. It’s said that madness and suicides and disappearances together with plagues ravaged the town. The “curse of the Dudleys” which began with a death sentence by the Crown followed them to the new world.

An entire family named Brophy was to die and vanish; a death while building a barn; suicides; lightning striking someone on a porch; all said to be on former Mohawk land, and the failure of two industries — logging and iron ore mining — all lend to the belief in a curse.

The Dark Entry Association really does own the land in and around Dudleytown, and it absolutely is private and protected, but not because of creatures or ghosts or demons. It’s the simple fact that a bunch of people have, since World War Two, trampled through, and though clearly marked as no trespassing land, it continues today. Most violators seem to be “ghost hunters”, in other words idiotic thrill seekers who have less respect for the law than urbexers who stack up misdemeanors like a squirrel stashes nuts, the dickheads. These ghost hunters claim to get bad vibes, get touched, or even scratched by unseen entities. I don’t believe that any more than I believe the Dudley Curse.

There’s a lot more to the story than most people are willing to say, because additional facts work less in the favor of sensation and much more in favor of serious scholars and historians. Can’t have that, now, can we?

The truths right there in front of us are simple: the village lay nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, where all sorts of things happen that can’t readily be explained. What you have to realize is, in the mountains of the United States, the ranges of the east, central and west, stories of wildlife that cannot be identified, disasters and deaths, and lots of missing persons, are constantly reported. Planes go down, and I’ve seen the wreckage of one myself. A low-wing, single engine private aircraft. Whoever landed that thing was good. It sat on its belly and still had paint on the exterior even though inside it was decked out with hives of hibernating bees and probably had some rattlers under it. Mountains eat planes. People get lost. They die of exposure, broken bones that put them in shock, and attacks by snakes, dogs, coyotes and bear. It happens. The Appalachian Mountains are constantly underestimated and at elevation, however slight, Dudleytown was a long shot from the start.

I don’t like it when mostly modern accounts alter the vague histories of centuries past. And from all the material I’ve read, I come now to Occam’s Razor. The answer that requires the fewest assumptions is probably the best theory….or conclusion.

I’ve had plenty of times in many places when I felt some kind of bad feeling. I can’t really prove what I think causes this, even though I have different ideas for different places. In the drive upstate in Connecticut, I believe the pitch-black surroundings when I was used to busy, populated routes, simply gave me the creeps. As for Dudleytown, I have no idea how far away it was. I don’t believe it made any difference.

Taking the least amount of assumptions to arrive at a reasonable conclusion about Dudleytown, I find myself on the skeptical side this time. Iron ore being so plentiful underground and having so much water that three mills operated at one time leads me to also conclude that feelings of “bad vibes” or negative emotions just ices the cake. That village was always doomed. Assuming that the place was cursed and surrounded by ghosts and cryptids takes too many jumps for me.

But I’m not quite finished yet. While researching, and believe me on this, you’ll find far more bullshit than you ever will facts, I came across a piece of flawless logic that I can’t get out of my head: i95 Rock, a very interesting radio station out of Danbury, Connecticut, had this to show us:

One DJ sent the town of Cornwall a request under the Freedom of Information Act. This allows US citizens or associations to obtain information from entities which are usually not particularly interested in talking to anyone. It’s been used effectively to obtain government documents and so-on.

The request seems well written and specific. What was sent as a response was even more to the point and is notable for its brevity. It says, basically, “Don’t come here. Your request for information is is denied.”

But the request did not ask for permission to enter the premises. The conclusion of the guest and the DJ is, hey, you stupid bastards, I didn’t ask for permission, I asked for records. What the hell are you boys playing at? What’s really in there? Why are you defensive?

I don’t know what became of this discussion, but it raises a glaringly unmistakable point: why would such a simple request be met by such a defensive and dismissive response? That is, if there’s nothing to see here? A conspiracy!

Suspicious at least, deceitful at most. But why?

If I have anything left to take consolation from, it this:

The linked article i95 posted on its sight is dated.

April 1, 2019.

April Fool’s Day.

Conclusion: not only should you not go to Dudleytown; you shouldn’t even research the fucking place.

Kill me.

It Isn’t About Me

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

One thing so many people have the most difficult time reconciling with is the lonely, awful fact that, in the end, we’re all alone, and life is shitty. It just is.

Humans are not made to accept such things because they seem so alien to us. It’s basically nihilistic, such a thought. But the sooner we accept it as true, the sooner we can do something about it.

Because hey, you can live with it, and it is not nihilism. And you deserve to have a life as free of misery as possible. It is a fight, and in this world, there’s not one thing you’ll need that does not require some type of battle, some sacrifice, endurance, and a shitload of patience and its bastard cousin, pain.

Life is not fair. We either know it and accept it, or we don’t. However, some accept it and fail to stand up against the shit that will never stop coming at them, and instead are overwhelmed and quit. I have been such a person, because I was conditioned to be dependent, to the point that aside from working for my father, and really working hard from the age of 12, I had nothing else to do. His accountant did my taxes. My mother washed my clothes. She cooked meals, packed lunches. My prep school tuition was paid. My father put me through preppy school because he was tired of raising a pussy. He could not understand why I never fought back against the bullies.

Sometimes I did. Every single time, though, I fucked someone up bad.

That wasn’t me. He’d get a phone call, I’d get a beating for fighting or failing to fight, and most bullies come at you in numbers. I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Whoever I was, I lost everything I was. I had such a gentle, sensitive soul, and the world, from my parents to the slime that are still faceless to me, faceless and forever unnamed, wanted to take boys like me apart. And man, didn’t they work hard at it.

By age 15, I’d met a few great souls who by example showed me that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Great souls that come into your life and eventually leave, and in so doing take part of what they taught you away.

Sunday school teachers. School teachers. Truck drivers. Each one wise in their own right, and each for different reasons, gained from different paths that eventually crossed my path. I learned from the best and never really knew it.

Not one of them told me that I had to fight back physically, but that doing so would put me on a level that they could not picture me on. There are those, you see, whose eyes can see past your tough talk, angry cussing, silence…and know exactly what you are inside, and that’s why they like you!

People can love you, and you never know it. They love you because you’re you. Maybe it’s because I was always ready to listen. You know, to a story, a lament, to a torn heart pouring out grief.

They’re lonely too, or particularly gregarious, and they remember every dirty joke they’ve ever heard. Standing on the loading dock of my father’s warehouse, I heard a million jokes and riddles. It was like a daily comedy improv and I had the best seat in the house. Laughter can keep the most scarred of hearts beating.

And being a listener is a great way to learn things you may otherwise never have known. But it is a skill and a talent at one and the same time. What you get out of it is going to make that awful truth that you always end up learning come to you more gently. Or maybe you’ll learn it along the way: it’s not about you.

In 2023, I have had so few positive experiences that I realize, they don’t often get seen for what they are at the time. It takes that moment when you can have some peace, and one positive thing to be able to say you accomplished that day to be able to open your eyes, look back and see that you’ve been blessed all along. I started the year in a fog. It happens to us all: mental illness, PTSD, clinical depression–nobody gets out of here alive, and until our day comes to breathe our last, we’re all traumatized by something.

Dealing with covid, the shutdown, the death toll, a car accident, losing a job you worked hard to get and then to keep, losing a loved one, whether a pet or family or a friend. These things leave us damaged, forever changed.

I’ve lost so much in my life that since I turned 35, I knew I would never be capable of a normal life. By 2001, I knew that I was out of the game. It was only a matter of time before I would lose everything.

Drinking liquor every day, I’d have the shakes before the first coffee break of the day. I  sometimes had a bottle in the car. I knew one slug would straighten me out and get me through the day. I dried out on my own. Took to my bed for a week, so sick that I was lucky I didn’t die. It’s dangerous, doing that. But it was too late for me to save my job.

This year my medications, my progress in small steps, daring to do things I couldn’t have two years ago, things you would laugh at because they’re trivial to you and require little thought and less effort, those things do not look trivial to me. They’re more akin to climbing a mountain, and you know I don’t climb mountains. Think I want to get snake bit, fall, encounter Bigfoot or a dogman?

If you presumed that I do, you’ve got too much faith in me.

I guess, looking back, that I really can’t tick off a list of all the positive things I’ve had happen to me this year. Positives come mostly in small ways. I think most fail to see it that way. They’re preoccupied with the negatives. With themselves.

And that’s really tragic. The World needs us, all of us. Together we have the power to end wars, clean our home and to demand and get what’s right.

But that’s the one thing, of all the things we do, that we always miss. Everyone knew that a ceasefire in Gaza was going to be short.

It helped me to hear what a Palestinian-American in a New York bodega had to say. He said they (Palestinians) had their chance to have a government free of extremists. They chose not to. And he said, “Stop pitying them. They raise their own children to be (indoctrinated) Jew haters and guerillas. Do not pity them. I never had a reason to hate Jews and so I came here. Here I am free to be friends with anyone.”

As I heard this, I was horrified. But it’s true. And that war will never, ever stop. Hamas will not allow it to. They have tunnels that run all the way to Egypt! Doesn’t that tell you anything at all?

I am much more behind Israel here; the terrorists who started it all used tunnels and carried away children in dog cages, and did you really think that was ever going to get a happy ending? The things they did to those children while they were still inside the cages was bad enough. Raped and murdered later. You expect me to back up animals who kidnap, torture, rape and kill children? Because that will never happen.

It was sobering to hear from a Palestinian what his people really are about. As much as I hate war, Hamas drew first blood and forced the war on Israel. And any other country would be justified in engaging such an enemy, but to my shame, Americans are protesting against Israel, supporting Hamas and it is sickening.

Of course, the same dicks who support Palestinians are probably the same ones who back Russia. And Donald Trump. Takes a real dick to do that.

It isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about us. That’s what life’s about. But why don’t we ever act on it even when we know it? Actually it’s not impossible. Pass on all that you’ve learned because you, just like I, learned along the way from wise men and women who, just by their friendship and example, gave you something to build on.

Don’t judge when you don’t have to; give folks the benefit of the doubt, some time to think, some forgiveness, some sympathy. You will find positive everywhere, once you’ve learned to look for it.

And never give up, even when life is throwing a blizzard of shit at you.

Because it’s not personal.  It’s not about you. It’s about us.

And together, there’s nothing we can’t do.

Still Crazy After All These Years…But Much, Much Worse

You know things are getting worse. What would have cost me $35-40 dollars two years ago cost $84.00 this afternoon. It will not get better. But I’m not here to tell you about prices. You know they’re worse. I know they’re worse. But could someone please tell me what the fuck this is?

Holy SHIT, Sephora!

If there’s anyone who can actually wear this, leave a comment, please. I won’t believe you, but I could use a good laugh right now.

Things are grim. There is no denying it. Especially if you check with Republicans because, that’s all they do when a Democrat is in the White House. If it were a Republican, things would be worse.

I don’t like to think about it.

So, from a few years back, here’s a Last Week Tonight episode that’s still very much relevant. It concerns the one biggest fear I have. Not a phobia. A terror.

If you’re thinking that I’m terrified of mountains, yes, I’m not going to go near one again. I was on the Appalachian Trail once. Once.

That was 1972, in Boy Scout Troop 632, which was in Maryland. It disappeared and the number was assigned to another troop.

I hated the scouts. Too fucking wholesome for me. I hated everything about it. An overnight hike and camp on the trail on a night when it got so cold that I couldn’t sleep, that’s all I needed to know that mountains are pretty from a distance, but climbing and hiking wasn’t for me. First of all, do you know how many people vanish annually from our national parks and hiking trails, and what happens to folks who try to traverse the Appalachian Trail from one end in Maine to the other end in Georgia? Neither do I. Nor anyone else. Oh, it’s been done, but some just vanish. It’s like that with Mount Everest as well, but for pity’s sake, worse. And you can’t avoid the question: why?

In the video above, look at that mass of idiots up there. And consider those who die up there, and can’t be recovered. Hauling a dead body down that far ain’t easy. Usually it’s impossible. But then also consider that while the Sherpa guides can die up there, it’s a true puzzle that more people don’t die than statistics show. In fact, I never trust statistics, especially when it comes to body counts or missing persons. They are always too conservative.

Climbing Everest is, to me, just plain stupid. “Because it is there” is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard, and besides, it’s no real accomplishment anymore. Why not tell yourself the truth and decide it’s stupid, deadly, expensive and there’s lots of other things to do for recreation? Safer things, like chumming for sharks and then going swimming, wrestling alligators or throwing yourself in front of a bull elephant and trying to kill it with a BB rifle.

You could go canoeing in the Congo basin. Without mosquito repellent or netting on your pith helmet. Or just maybe have your mother-in-law over for a month. You can also consider skydiving without a parachute.

You’re going to be a statistic, but with the exception of the Congo trip, at least everyone will be able to put your name in the “stupid ways to die” category. In some cases a medical examiner would not even need to be involved. Easier for you, easier for insurance, easier for everyone.

Getting back to the show, it isn’t really Everest that scares me so much.

One of my biggest fears is what John Oliver does to his audience completely at random and when you don’t expect it: being rickrolled.

If that ever happens to me, if I live through it, I swear to do something far worse to the culprit. Like one of those traps Batman and Robin went through every week before the cliffhanger: “Will the Dynamic Duo escape the giant clam? Tune in tomorrow, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel!”

Now, I must be very careful here. By “trap”, I simply refer to a seemingly inescapable physical threat. Like setting a mouse trap. I do not mean that ambiguous term referring to ambiguous-gender people who “trap” others into believing and acting on the assumption that they are another gender than the person thinks.

I have no wish to offend.

Except Bob Hope and Danny Kay used to do it in comedy sketches all the time. Nobody got bent out of shape, either. It was all in good fun. Couldn’t do it now. Be sure not to watch Tom Hanks in his old TV series Bosom Buddies. Holy shit.

Everyone takes everything so seriously now. Too seriously. Like they take offense at one word, just one, and now someone’s gonna get shot. What the hell is wrong with people?

Don’t they know that there are things that need clear minds to solve? You can’t be so intolerant that you miss the important things and stew over being called a name.

I spent too much time stewing over a name or a single act that I shouldn’t have noticed, and missed far too many good things I could have done for others. It was only recently that I decided to let that shit go.

Watching the wars going on in the world killing mass people including children needs to be stopped. Israel is going too far, running the risk of losing the support of the United States. You have to be especially barbaric to do that, seeing as how, many times, we’ve backed the wrong side. But Netanyahu is a barbaric son of a bitch. He’s sleeping while people die. And what about Ukraine? Why do conservatives want to abandon them and funnel money and resources to Israel when the ceasefire was doomed from the start, and what Israel is doing is just going to radicalize more Palestinians? Hamas are butchers, there’s no denying that. But it makes no sense, shelling and bombing Palestine because they refuse to release more hostages, invariably to kill some of them in the process.

And whose bright idea was it to appoint some oil baron as head of a summit on global warming? Didn’t they know what he would say? Because, sure enough, that’s what he did say: cutting back on fossil fuel production and consumption would not impact climate.

It’s exactly the same as global warming denial, only interpreted differently by journalists who don’t want to offend the idiot. Wait. Scratch that last. I meant greedy idiot. He argued that it would cause people to “live in caves” again. What’s he think we’re going to do when people start dying by the thousands from thirst, poisoned water, heatstroke and diseases that are suitable to warmer climates? Because yeah, you can pump oil. Sure. You can mine coal. But what are you gonna do when all the people who buy it die off? Your fortune becomes useless. You can live your entitled life now, but when the labor force dies and you can’t even have internet service, what then?

Wars will continue to grow and spread. Fat cats can’t stop it, either, nor will they. Wars make money. Tanks, aircraft…need fuel. Lots of it.

Okay. I’ve overstayed my welcome enough. But please, will someone tell me what that fucking shoe is for?

Good. There is justice.

The Devil Claims One Of His Own

On 29 November, the devil got to meet, face to face, one of his very own: Henry Kissinger.

When I was growing up, the piece of human flotsam was revered in my household–and dear old dad didn’t mind that he was a Jew. And daddy-o was right; Kissinger was born in Bavaria between world wars. But his ancestors were in fact Jewish. How’d he know that? First and foremost, even above his incestuous ways, my father was a pure-of-heart bigot, unashamedly hateful and determined not to have his children grow up to be simpering “___”, or “______” lovers.

For my part, I couldn’t understand a word that shithead, Kissinger, said. Of course, it didn’t make much of a difference to me because I was concerned with more immediate issues, like how to stay out of father’s way, avoiding beatings with that razor-like belt, outrunning bullies, girlfriends or potential girlfriends who, save for Barbara Shannahan, would never in a million years have given me the time of day, and finding bra ads in the Sunday paper to beat off to so I would be limp when mommy and daddy came to my room to teach me everything I would ever need to know about sex.

Now that last bit I have written about, so if this statement unsettled you, scroll through my archives to see what I mean.

They justified this “hands-on teaching” by misquoted Bible verses, and the dizzyingly stupid predication that when I got married I’d be able to keep my wife satisfied and avoid a divorce.

It did not work.

Of course, they could not see what they were doing to me (and my brothers and sisters) was really turning me into an asshole; therefore when I was caught doing irrational and destructive shit, they thought I was mentally “retarded”, and threatened to send me off to one of two psychiatric hospitals in the nearby areas.

They never knew that what I was doing was watching them, listening when I couldn’t be seen, learning, though what I learned wasn’t clear to me at the time.

When it came to watching the evening news, Walter Cronkite would reach out of the TV set and never phase dad, who usually sat through the news alone, the other kids being very happy to stay well clear of him. But what I heard and saw is a thing I didn’t understand. It was too far away. I couldn’t walk out on the porch and hear a firefight in the distance. I saw bombers fly overhead, and one I saw early on bore a latticed cockpit canopy and was propeller powered. But for the most part, I saw only Hueys overhead. The choppers could be heard a mile away as it approached. The twin-blade main rotor was near the speed of sound, and projected what someone described to me as small “Sonic booms”. Once it passed overhead and receded, it was almost silent.

I saw those on the TV news. To me, always the same, soldiers jumping from them into tall grass and stretchers being loaded in their place. I would be eligible for enlistment or the draft only after the war was over. I bore survivor’s guilt for that; guys had died there, while I was playing with my Johnny Lightning track or with plastic Army men.

I felt scared as I grew to understand the war without anyone being decent enough to explain it, and then I felt shame for being scared that one day I would be there, too.

And I did have a rough grasp on what we were doing in Laos and Cambodia. I came to realize that the war had spread to other countries. All I knew was that it was all bad news. Night after night, same shit, except worse.

I would not know how terrible it really got until much later.

But then, that was true of most Americans because news back then was unreliable. The government held a ton of things classified until Daniel Ellsworth released the Pentagon Papers, and that the Johnson administration had secretly expanded the war from Vietnam into Cambodia and Laos. You can see the reasoning behind it; supplies getting to NVA troops, and the NVA soldiers themselves were coming through both countries via the Ho Chi Minh Trail. This treacherous route was subject to mudslides during the monsoon season and was often cratared by the bombing, but when the news hit, not during the Johnson administration but instead the Nixon administration, the shit hit the fan. Already outraged by the surprise of the tet offensive and the endless coffins bringing dead soldiers back home, Americans weren’t about to put up with any more of this senseless carnage.

By then, the Nixon White House had Henry Kissinger either as the NSA or SoS. In both jobs, Kissinger excelled in brain-fucking the paranoid Nixon and his equally paranoid aides.

Although Ellsworth had nothing to tell about the Nixon Era, naming Johnson and McNamara as the key culprits, Nixon did the unthinkable: sent operatives to break into the office of Ellsworth’s psychiatrist. The job was to replace the whistle blower’s file with another that made him look like a nut job. In reality,  the man had clearly broken some laws, but was morally outraged at what he had discovered and the fact that it was all covered up.

Nixon tried to discredit someone who had revealed that his predecessor, a Democrat, had illegally escalated the war. That was a strange mistake to make, but it would not be the last or the most bizarre of his “dirty tricks”, which earned him the nickname “Tricky Dick”.

Meanwhile, Henry Kissinger was consolidating his power, and he had none of the morals that Ellsworth did. I mean, he had none. A notorious womanizer and hedonist, today he is remembered for audacious political moves that some take as beneficial to the United States, but by others as the man responsible for the Khmer Rouge, which seized power in Cambodia and which was responsible for millions of deaths of Cambodians. Call it genocide or a purge, whichever you prefer. But it was a mess with plenty of outside interference. China, under Zedong, backed them. The Soviets not so much. If you research carefully, you might very well be confused.

This is politics, the dregs of which were in full play. You’ll see that the United States (allegedly) backed the communist Khmer players. It’s more than alleged, however. And if it all began before the second World War with all three countries comprising French Indochina, and that following the war the French wanted their territory back but ultimately got their asses kicked, then it becomes an inescapable question: just what possessed five US presidents to go to the area and engage the communist forces, or to maintain operations they inherited on taking office?

He was also responsible for alienating a number of allies, India among them. This was a tactical, strategic and humanitarian blunder.

There’s no blaming Kissinger for what was done before his rise to power. But in the Nixon years, we know a lot more.

He wasn’t above advising whole governments to be destabilized and toppled. He had no morals, but no intelligence, either, failing utterly to see where his actions would take us. A prime example is that of Iran-Iraq, toys for him to play with. He backed the Shah of Iran, leading not to the fall of Saddam Hussain, but the revolution that saw the shah exiled and the Iranian government being overtaken and overthrown. To this day, though Saddam is gone, the destabilized region is a melting pot of chaos and religion-based enmity and the threat of nuclear war. I warned in 2008 that we should never have invaded Iraq. I predicted total destabilization and that Iran would eventually annex Iraq. This can still happen; the only thing lacking is the action itself. The ingredients are there. In fact, Iran, as it is, has considerable power and influence in the entire Middle East, but most tend to ignore this or keep discussion out of the public eye. That is unfortunate and unwise. When things happen, they will affect the United States directly. If you think this is not so, remember 9-11-2001. Anything can happen.

I’ve been to New York City. Only saw the Twin Towers at a distance from Brooklyn. But they were magnificent. Something absolutely wondrous to behold; stunning.

In the entire time of their existence, only one motion picture was shot there. Only one, a masterpiece spy thriller starring Robert Redford, Faye Dunaway, Max Von Sydow and Cliff Robertson. The film had a CIA office in one of the towers, where Cliff Robertson and John Houseman’s characters worked. There are beauty shots of the towers from ground level, never enough to give you an idea of their sheer mass and beauty. Filmed in 1974, released in 1975, Three Days of the Condor remains a classic thriller, worthy of a spot on your shelf right beside North by Nortwest.

Only when the towers were brought down in 2001 did we learn that the CIA really did have offices at The World Trade Center. Only it was WTC Building 7, the one everyone points to the most when defending horseshit conspiracy theories. Not immediately revealed was the fact that the attack was effective in more than just traumatizing Americans. Later we would learn that the CIA as an organization suffered chaos and severe disruption in intelligence gathering. The further consequences are not known. In one day, what took years to build was all gone save for a smoldering heap of steel, concrete, broken glass and human body parts.

But had not this scenario been predicted?

Yes. More than once. In a notable example, the Tom Clancy novel Debt of Honor had a JAL 747 crash into the US Capitol, killing most of congress, the POTUS among them.

Not only that, but think tanks had arrived at the conclusion already that the failed underground attack at WTC almost a decade earlier would be a lesson to terrorists: next time, aim higher.

If it is difficult to imagine that Henry Kissinger had a part in laying the groundwork for the horrors of our time, then do not try to. Some will always regard him as brilliant and an adept statesman. Perhaps reading more will persuade you to reassess your view.

Henry Kissinger met his maker with blood on his hands. He bore a soiled soul laden with the deaths of innocent people and his body count ever climbs.

For every good thing he may have done, there is an ever growing cancelation of each by the horrors set in motion by a man with no morals, no dignity and no concept of what it’s like for a mother, bleeding and in shock, to hear her baby crying from a place she cannot reach.

Because Henry Kissinger had no heart. No empathy. Nothing but power-lust and a sexual libido that even the likes of Marlo Thomas, Liv Ullman, Raquel Welch, Candice Bergen, Jill St. John and Liza Minelli could not quench. And he almost certainly snared underage starlets, as his tastes showed to others.

This bucket of puke leaves behind a legacy. Exactly how bad it is remains unclear, but I pray his kind will not come this way again.

Continue reading “The Devil Claims One Of His Own”

Peeves

Name your top three pet peeves.

There are things that get under our skin.

Germs, parasites, even insects.

Pet peeves are a subcutaneous invader also, sometimes more irritating than the above.

Maybe you just can’t stand the way your partner chews. Or how he’s preoccupied with your breasts during foreplay; you want him to put his tongue to better use and just leave the mammies alone.

Some women, on the other hand, love to be licked and kissed and sucked on. I once dated a girl who had orgasms that way. And, no kidding, she was by no means a freak. Everyone’s different.

And maybe you hate this person or that person because they smell funny or support nutty doctrines like that of the late Pat Robertson, who, for the record, was an extremist religious nut bag.

Like saying Donald Trump was “God’s chosen” and “to be against Trump is to be against God” despite the unashamedly hateful personality and spouting of bizarre bullshit during the 2016 campaign. Or maybe you were “against God” before that, thinking, as he had so often proven, that Trump was a scammer and a big talker who was full of himself.

Which he was, and still is. Not to mention being nutty as a scrotum hanging between a bull elephant’s hind quarters.

Or maybe you don’t pay attention to politics anymore and mostly avoid the news as being the mental poison that it is. Let’s say you get irritated waiting for the weather report because after 10 commercials, he or she says what the current conditions are, then, “…full forecast coming up” which is followed by ten more commercials. And the ads themselves are irksome, shamelessly telling you you’re stupid, ugly or too fat, you have to get medicine for a limp dick, or your breasts are too small or too big, you need a new blender, a new car, a TV, a particular drug. And you need insurance — in bundles.

And then — then you get a fast, vague forecast, and have to turn to something else because if you don’t, you’re going to break a bone or get electrocuted kicking in your fucking TV screen, which is 50-90-inches at a diagonal and cost you over a grand because you got all the bells and whistles.

Or you could hate that phrase, “bells and whistles”. In which case, I don’t blame you. I hate myself for having just used it and I need to shower, do penance and say a rosary, I feel so filthy.

Sometimes a pet peeve can be very petty, yet still be huge to you. You’re pissed when it rears its ugly head. When I see someone write or say, speaking of politics mostly, “I’ll try and suss it out” or worse, “let’s try and parse out the meaning” of a particular news development.

What the fuck is wrong with people? Are they speaking parseltongue like Lord Voldemort? They thinking about Davis Susskind? What? Those words are stupid fucking words. Stop it!

One that gets me was a buzzword back in the late 90s and the 00s. “Tout”. There’s a stupid word. Some corporate enterprise was “touting” the virtues of a new and revolutionary product which really was no more new than snake oil in a fancy bottle with cherry flavoring added.

They not too long ago “touted” all these beneficial features of Medicare. But the change just restricted what people qualify for, as in surgeries, cost reduction and general quality, which is downright shitty.

And I know it’s always happened, but in a throwback to more than 50 years ago, ambulance and EMT response times are too long. People are dying because of it. And once in the hospital, your chances of surviving a medical emergency get no better. And it’s going to get worse.

Maybe the dog next door pisses you off. Shits in your yard, and the owner won’t clean it up and never leashes the little fucker which would be comparable in size to a gerbil, but leaves piles of runny doodoo like someone up the street is playing Jumanji, and Jeff Goldblum is in the area, and a whole jungle of animals including rhinos, hippos and a dinosaur or two just cut through in stampede mode. And you just stepped in it.

Maybe you even slid in it and wound up flat on your back, the runny doggy doo making you vomit up your cantaloupe from breakfast and ruining a new Brooks Brothers suit and Gucci shoes you splurged for. Because you are not going to try cleaning doggy diarrhea off when it smells like that and is so wet that it went through your suit jacket, shirt and undershirt and you know it’s all over your back. And before you get to work, you have to take a Hefty bag to the bathroom with you, strip, throw your entire outfit away and shower, but realize that it not only got your back, it got on and into your wallet, covering your cash, cards and the pictures of your family including the one kid you’re sure isn’t yours because the tyke looks too much like that neighbor who lets his dog shit in your yard.

Before you start going out at 03:00 and pouring puddles of antifreeze or tossing Hershey bars into the grass, remember that dogs just do what dogs do. Or doo. And it’s the owner you must get even with. We can cover that at another time, but really, what sets you off? What are some things that get under your skin like poison ivy oil?

For me, aside from words like “suss”, “tout”, or “parse”, it’s always been the idiots like Michelle Bachman, Ann Coulter, Laura Ingraham, Kelly Conway and Sarah Palin. Women who have no sexual appeal at all, but who my weak, asshole character would love to hate-fuck, just because. My dick ain’t been hard in years, folks, and yet I know I’d get the boner of all time for these know-it-all bitches whose combined I.Q. would be that of a pitcher of lemonade. Mice with human “brains”, all liberals being barbarians, ready to summon the apocalypse with their gay and lesbianism and trans ways. These women are like Ilsa, the she-wolf of the SS.

Lizard shit comes from their mouths.

God damn, they’re stupid, intolerant, bigoted, angry, and did I mention stupid?

Thing is, mad as they make me, I’d fuck any one of them right now. Bareback. And not pull out, either. And since abortion is illegal, menopause or no, if Bachmann got pregnant, I wouldn’t care and there would be no child support because I’d go straight to the Supremes, the nine penises of the Potomac, and say “well ya fucked up, didn’t ya?”

Let Conway’s husband pay for that freak to grow up. And I’m sure the Palin family would welcome another brain around. At two, the little milksucker’d be smarter than his mother.

Went off the rails a bit on that one, sorry. But the taking of women’s rights is more than a pet peeve for me; it’s evil.

What does qualify as a peeve is the stupid, screwy, goofy, neurotic, loony bullshit conservatives said about abortion to get Roe overturned. I’m not gonna get into those because I’ll end up with a heart attack. But it was, is, and always will be some of the most incredible things humans have uttered since language became a thing.

So knock a republican up today and help them preserve the Bible, which doesn’t mention abortion, and let them take one for the old Dipper. Yeah, Dipper. The one in the sky at night. Because fucking outside is illegal if anyone sees you. But it’s exhilarating, and imagine impregnating Sarah Palin under the Alaskan sky at midnight. You could tell her as she’s having an orgasm, “Let’s have one for the old Dipper!”

Deleted Story, Posts removed.

“Peggy Ann Got Married” is a post I wrote several chapters on and then deleted. Even for free fiction, it was especially awful.

A war story? A romantic story?

What the hell was I doing?

It was a mess, so I took it all down. I had lost my faith. I stopped believing in love.

The stats revealed one person reading. That’s discouraging for anyone. I felt as if I don’t matter and am a terrible writer. Then the one person reading stopped, and there was no reason not to remove it.

But it will be back. Better, more cohesive, more readable. Veterans day has come and gone. Ahead are Thanksgiving and Christmas. I’ll do better, I promise.

But it will not be easy. As I’ve said, I don’t believe in love anymore. I never will again, either. Loyalty, devotion? They may be real to you, but not to me. I’ve learned too much. Seen, heard, been through…just too much.

But as fiction goes, I can fake it, because isn’t that the appeal of it? It isn’t real, can’t happen that way, but gives us a break from the harshness of reality.

And who knows? Maybe I can find what’s left of my soul while I write.

Thank you for your patience, and stay with me. I won’t let you down.

WAR: WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Israel got hit hard by a terrorist attack. But since that day, Israel has fired back and never stopped. And I am definitely not a pacifist, and if I saw you being attacked on the street I vowed to God to defend you or anyone else, even if I die in the attempt.

And I’m all for retaliatory strikes when absolutely necessary, but not at any other time.

In every war ever fought in the history of Planet Earth, it has always been a constant: the innocent die. Women, children, the sick, the lame, it never made any difference. It is a part of war.

But there should be an international law that requires opposing leaders to see up close the suffering they have caused. Because in the following video, there’s a lot to be digested before the final clip John Oliver shows. Don’t be in a hurry; I hope you can listen and watch carefully because we do not belong in this shit. And instead of weapons, maybe we should send some ambassadors skilled in talking peace with that psycho Netanyahu.

Of course that’s the way America should go, and that’s why we won’t. It has been too long since the United States stood for what was right. First, because the citizens deserve better out of leadership, and second, we’ve thrown down too many times only to end up with good servicemen and women getting buried before their time. Our military people serve faithfully and they have been terribly used and sent out with one-way tickets.

But we’re Americans and we’re supposed to be better than this. Selling bullets which will end up in some child’s body is dishonorable in the highest degree. We are now implicit in war crimes, yet we will not be called to account.

Israel bombs the hell out of Gaza. The targets include children and women, but it’s damned irresponsible tactically; they could easily hit the hostages. Apparently they don’t care about that little bit.

From Any recruit’s arrival to begin basic training, they hope they’ll never be sent to war. If ordered, they will go, but combat isn’t why you enlist unless you’re a psycho.

Why are we supporting a belligerent in a war? We shouldn’t be supporting anyone but the children. To see them, breathless before the camera, too traumatized to cry, trying to express their feelings, is heartbreaking. I cried. My heart breaks for them. One thing I’ve learned is, a child grows up way too fast when placed in extreme danger and uncertainty. They use words of adults, same phrases, they have gooned-out eyes, but they rarely let emotions slip out.

I do not stand with Israel or Hamas.

But I’ll tell you what I will stand for.

The children on both sides.

VETERANS DAY

While there are a few thousand WW2, plus more Korean and Vietnam War Veterans, None Survive From Any War Prior To WW2.

Most just did what their country asked. They felt honor-bound to a country they believed in and loved. Some did everything imaginable to avoid it. A few moved to neutral countries. Each of those followed what they felt in their hearts was right. I refuse to judge any one of them, but of the men and women who served, I’ve never appreciated them more than I do right now. Sometimes it takes a lot to appreciate what others have gone through for us. In Iraq and Afghanistan they served because they knew it was better to fight them there, not here. They saved lives.
In Vietnam the lines were blurred. After a while nobody was on their side at all. One very underrated movie that most people overlook is “Hamburger Hill”, which was released and got lost between the releases of “Full Metal Jacket” and “Platoon”, both good movies, but none as good at showing the waste and horror of that war, based on a real event. A month after taking that hill, Americans were pulled out and NVA troops just occupied it again. It was so senseless that it still clearly illustrates the stupidity of American command in a war they were never going to win. Yet every president from Harry Truman to Richard Nixon escalated it successively. That group includes Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson. Never, since the Civil War, had Americans died so senselessly in such large numbers. The Korean War is America’s longest war to date, lasting from 1950 to present day. It is only under a ceasefire.
World War Two was the last time Americans fought without guilt in an overseas theater. The public was almost completely united in their resolve to help.
Not until the late 1970s did we get the psychiatric term PTSD, or posttraumatic stress disorder. Until that time nobody spoke much about the long-term effects of combat; it was called other things and those who suffered from it were shamed into silence.
Studies of suicide rates, psychiatric ward admissions and unemployment never have done the veteran justice. Homeless veterans still live and die on the streets while we pretend not to see. That they’re just bums and addicts and like it where they are.
What have we done?
Dear God, look at what we have done. From pride to shame to total indifference, look at what we have done.
To all veterans I say, “thank you. I know you hurt. I know your dreams. I know that you did your best and got kicked in the teeth for it. Therefore I also say, I am sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Best depicted screen role of PTSD. Stallone’s best role.

Thank a veteran. Today. Please.

A Cryptid in Columbia MD?

At approximately 00:50, I was outside smoking. It was chilly enough for a winter jacket. I also wore a watch cap. As I mused on nothing I can remember, I became aware of a sound. Noise, more accurately put.

I have never heard anything like it. I should have tried to get the strange noise on video. Too dark to see much.

Because I not only never heard it before, I hadn’t heard anything like it in horror movies or nature shows.

It was at most 300 meters away and downhill from me. I figured that it was in the treeline along a sidewalk that runs parallel to the length of the tennis courts. Yet — didn’t it sound too loud for that close? Okay, 250 meters.

My logical side tried to figure out what the bloody hell it was, because I knew what it was not.

It wasn’t a fox, feral cat, possum, rabbit or any other creature of the night in these parts.

There would be several “scrapes”, then a chitter, then some type of impact, but that I can’t describe. Two or three of them in succession. Not a human doing something. Not a man made object being struck, and yet part of it was almost metallic. Well. It had that quality, anyway.

I decided that I needed to find out if anything in the area was a threat to people or pets. I went inside and got my flashlight, then approached the overlook at the end of the parking lot. I was quiet for a few moments because my footsteps in dry leaves had made it aware of me. I waited.

The other night I heard howling. Not from any dog, foxes don’t do that and even coyotes sound very differently. I have no clue what it was.

I have heard sounds most here couldn’t possibly hear. Sounds I can’t identify. It’s not new, not to me. Tonight this sound was new, loud, and not human.

Then it started again and that’s it, now I have to go down there.

Flashlight in one hand with my cane hanging by the wrist strap, I had a 13-inch stiletto in the other, edge outward, against my forearm for stability. You don’t look for something that you can’t identify without some means of defending yourself. I figured it would be riled by my close proximity as I neared it, and that it was something large and agile. The blade would be like using nail clippers to cut someone’s lawn. But here’s the real problem with that: I wasn’t scared. Not even close, and that’s not right. I’ve lost all fear and respect for the power of nature. Men who do that have died for it.

I never figured out what this thing was but when I was down there, I did hear a loud snarl. I was right; it was pissed. But it never came out in the open.

If you live in Columbia MD and you’ve heard anything weird lately, you’re not alone. But I can’t report this with no more detail than what I have provided here. I’m telling everyone, everywhere, to be careful at night, keep alert if you’re outdoors, and that nature seems to be taking our desecration of the planet hard. Habitat scraped and burned away in the next state over can and will result in wildlife you’re not familiar with coming soon to your neighborhood.

Keep in mind: I have seen a cryptid in Maryland before, in late summer, 2003. A hairless white thing like a squirrel, except it ran upright on two legs. Not a squirrel, not a rat, definitely too large for a mouse. And it was fast. I saw no wings, no feathers, no fur and squirrel-like ears. It ran the length of half a block on two legs but climbed a utility pole with all four legs. Or two legs and two hands. The tail was a wiry thing like a rat’s. Just thinner. Don’t ask me what it was. I felt deep down that what I was seeing was all wrong and my blood ran cold. And it was silent.

For a while I wondered if it really was a squirrel that had been burned in such a way as to singe off its fur. And if it had escaped from the witch couple who maybe wanted to sacrifice it. Because these…were not your average witches.

As to what I heard tonight, I have this feeling that even if I had seen it, I’d wish I had not. But checking out things is not optional for me; I have to do it. That’s my job as a neighbor. I wish more people were looking out for each other. Nobody would have anything to fear.

National Asshole Day

Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate.

Assholes get a bad rep. They are misunderstood and we should be ashamed of it.

Assholes are NOT dicks. Big difference. The current speaker of the House is a dick. Dicks are worse than Karens and Kens. They are idiots and they judge you while they do perverted things to you. Unspeakable things. Assholes tell you straight up who’s a dick and why you shouldn’t trust them or put up with them.

Because assholes say, “Fuck them. Tolerance of dicks only makes them worse. Donald Trump is a dick. So is Marjorie Taylor Green, but she’s also a lunatic. I promise you she’s polished a lot of knobs in her time. But to prove she’s a dick she poses with assault rifles. It’s a Freudian fact that guns are phallic symbols. With her sudden and senseless rise to power she may gobble some real phalluses but to show strength, not her dependence on knob-polishing, she poses for pictures with the biggest penis extension she can get her salty hands on.

Julian Assange is a dick. Eric Snowden is a dick. Republicans are dicks. They lie to you, they fuck you and they want to kill you. Their hobbies range from pulling the wings off butterflies to buggering underage boys and reading Mein Kamph. And Kinsey’s books. They think those are true. Kinsey was a dick who interviewed pedophiles who obviously made up most of what they said. And how the fuck did he get the idea that grown women had memories of orgasms at the age of one year or less? Or “explored” their sexuality with family pets? Yeah, he was a total dick.

Hedonists are dicks. And any asshole can tell you this because, fuck that.

If you’re in a serious relationship or a marriage you shouldn’t want to see your partner polishing knobs and getting a sodium overdose. Fuck that.

And Netanyahu is a dick. So is all of Hamas. Dicks, every one of them.

Nixon was a dick. And not just in name, either. He once walked in a marina probably headed to a yacht to smoke grass with Bebe Rebozo when a dude in a phone booth got all excited and asked the president to say hello to his wife. Nixon took the phone, asked the man his wife’s name. Then he said her name into the phone and asked her “who’s this woman your husband’s with?” And continued on his way. That’s a dick. Also, concealing the Watergate affair was the action of a dick. Secretly bombing Laos and Cambodia was a real dick move.

Burt Reynolds was a dick.

Al Capone was a dick.

The history books would not include that word.

Assholes will. Because fuck them.

Assholes are free. They’re hard and stern but not in a bad way. Assholes grew up assholes and did asshole things. They learned from living tough lives and paying dearly for being assholes. A grown asshole lacks finesse. Doesn’t consider style or flourishes. Panache is not in their vocabulary. However, genuine sympathy and a desire to help others is there. You may bot be aware of it at first, but their cynicism and foul language along with blunt honesty cover a soft heart and a weathered soul that desperately needs peace.

It’s time to remember and honor assholes. Without them we would be lost. Therefore I announce that every 6th day of November will be a celebration of Assholes. American Asshole Day. In their honor a flag with a brown spot in the middle and a yellow background will be flown for 24 hours and Scotch should be served one round free.

See you next year, assholes. Keep telling it like it is!

Hold Your Fire, You DICKS!

Israel fired back at Palestinians in Gaza and killed about 2,300 people. But that’s not the whole story.

As a part of the safety for Israel following the horrifying attack by Hamas, which was backed by Iran and Iraq, probably among others, Israel closed its borders and shut off supplies to Gaza.

I understand this, because weapons and terrorists could easily cross into Israel amid the chaos following the attack. It makes sense: you’ve been attacked. Now you have to defend and shoot back. It’s how wars are fought.

And make no mistake: this is an active shooting war, with Netanyahu denying on Monday that any ceasefire had been declared.

However, people in Palestine are suffering and thousands more will die without aid and supplies. Denying medical aid and supplies like fuel for power, food, medical aid and doctors from going to help those in peril or casualties is part of an ongoing shooting war.

It is, in this case, a display of terrorism and dishonorable actions.

There’s one hospital in Gaza City, one in perhaps all of Gaza as far as I know, and as their auxiliary generators run out of fuel, infants on respirators, such as what preemies often need, will die.

Does that avenge the kids and infants taken or killed outright by Hamas terrorists?

It may seem so, but no, it does not. More people dying in this war because of religion and skewed principles makes absolutely no sense. You can see; read the reports. Not from Fox or OANN, Newsmax or any other source. Read the analysis of a scholar, statesman or reliable and objective source.

When I first heard about the Hamas attacks, I too reacted emotionally. I hate terrorism in every form. It’s never anything warranted, but always barbarians who engage in it, targeting, almost exclusively, “soft” targets: civilians, public buildings, infrastructure and hospitals or emergency medical services. There is little on this earth more disturbing, disgusting or dishonorable than attacking civilians, children and hospitals. That is as evil as humans ever get.

And whereas this is an emotional time for every country in the Middle East and the entirety of the Levant and beyond, and people everywhere want blood, it isn’t the time for that.

I fear, though, that not much can stop the war from spreading. It may be soon, too. A conversation between Turkish president Erdoğan and Iranian officials resulted in a warning not to let things escalate. I’m ashamed of both countries for their respective recent crimes against humanity, mainly against women in Iran, but this exchange is promising. They really screwed up, backing Hamas in the planning and arming of guerillas for the despicable attack on Israel.

But will it be good enough?

Glass half-empty. I can’t see it any other way. This mess could, along with the war in Ukraine, be the beginning of World War Three. A lot of things need to fall into place first, but this shows how easily that could actually happen. We don’t need this. No one needs this.

I shared the outrage last week. I was all for retaliation. But looking back, I see how wrong I was. A rocket strike was understood to be the tactically sound response; letting civilians and babies die of starvation or life support failure is a whole different thing.

Gaza is not getting medical aid, food or fuel. Its sole power plant has been shut down. Now we’re in a humanitarian crisis that is unforgivable. There’s nothing righteous about it. Nothing honorable. It’s just evil.

US President Biden has opposed an invasion of Gaza by Israel. He’s not wrong. Doing so would cause a major war that would spread throughout the entire region. Pulling every variable apart and assessing them would take someone with expertise, and I do not have that. My statement that I support Israel is no longer applicable. I stand for peace, careful consideration of the consequences and for the sanctity of life. Neither ISIL, ISIS, Hezbollah nor Hamas represent all people in their respective areas of influence and operations. Killing thousands will take the lives of innocents and make different groups, like Hamas and Hezbollah, unite against Israel.

This is despite the basic difference between the two. Hezbollah claims the Shia beliefs of Islam, Hamas the Sunni beliefs. Yet Iran absolutely played a role in arming and helping Hamas in infiltrating Israel. You don’t underestimate either of them now; as allies with Israel, we could be next. Our intelligence is good, but so is Israel’s, and they missed what was about to happen. Last week’s attack has been said to be Israel’s 9-11. But it could have been far worse. The United States is no different. We’ve been infiltrated by Chinese operatives, Russians, radical religious extremists and who knows what else.

It is time for cool thinking, peace talks and an end to lax national security. For all of us.

Too Young

When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

I had to become a man. Between 6 years old and 12, I was sexually abused and being lashed. At the age of 12 I had to go to work at my father’s warehouse. At that age humping truckloads of 50 pound sacks of cocoa powder was a bit much. But I did it. Childhood? Never really had one. It lasted so little time. It ended much too quickly.

At young ages, when serious beatings combine with sexual abuse, there’s a moment. Just a second, really, when a child’s natural development is arrested. Nothing is ever “normal” after that exact moment and growth is warped and twisted from that day forward.

I did not ask to be brought up by monsters. No one ever does. My life has been drawn out, with misery and tragedy strewn in my footprints. I’ve hurt others and been hurt myself.

Losing my children was the worst thing I have ever endured. No past betrayal by my parents, no amount of abuse, ever broke my heart as much as getting the phone calls that they were gone. But the horrors don’t end there. They never end. I had to become an adult before I was prepared to. It wasn’t fair, but what ever is?

Please don’t hurt children. They never recover.

Never.

Who Guards the Guards?

There’s a Facebook and YouTube guy. Skeeter-something. Probably used the first part because an ex-wife told everyone he’s got a skeeter-peter. That’s 70s slang for “tiny dick”.

I saw this video. On Facebook.

A Facebook video.

Skeeter-peter was working with a group who sets up pedophiles. Now, I have zero problems with anyone willing to catch predators, you understand?

Those animals are the dregs of humanity. I truly think, believe even, that they should all be executed.

I’ve studied shit like this for years, trying to figure out why what happened to me happened. Why it happens to anyone.

And I still have no idea why it happens.

All I know is that there’s something wrong with the scumbags that do it and that the world would be a better place without them.

But then again, this “sting” they did in Walmart was disgusting.

First, it’s vigilantism. I don’t approve of vigilante operations. They could be sued for what they do. Second, they engaged in a form of entrapment which some judges would use to disqualify any charges against the fuckwad in question. Oh, they had transcripts, and the bastard thought he was talking to a 14-year-old. He said sick shit like “can I fuck you without a condom” and worse. Absolutely a fucking piece of shit. At that point the file should have been submitted to local police. But they sent an operative into Walmart to make contact. Then more operatives entered the store with cameras. Skeeter-peter wouldn’t shut the fuck up, giving a running dialog that, judging by the comments, really turned people off.

I’m not going to say much more, except that the police did arrest the cockroach. The group got banned from Walmart, which is hilarious.

But they made jokes the whole time. Jokes!

Look. There’s nothing funny about child sexual abuse. These guys make survivors like me cringe. Your intentions to do something good can be lost in talk like that. It’s in bad taste, it’s bad form and it’s sick.

I’d like to be able to say I’m glad the cockroach was arrested, but the involvement of civilians risks them getting any kind of felony conviction. And predators learn from shit like this fiasco. Next time, he will be more careful and probably claim the victim he goes after.

He was incredibly stupid doing this, but he will not be so stupid in the future. And what happens if his victims won’t testify and don’t do a rape kit, and there’s nothing anyone can do?

You want to help police find predators, fine. I’m with you, but don’t do this. Because you’ll fuck it up. And I’d prefer you not get involved at all if it’s just a bunch of attention-seeking Skeeter-peter assholes who talk all the way through a 20 minute video. All you’ve accomplished is to get the guy detained and that’s not enough.

Who guards the “guards” like Skeeter-peter? They can gather all the intel and evidence they want, but actually confronting someone, no. You can’t do that. Work with the police and let them work. They can take it from there. Besides, how can you be sure that the confrontation doesn’t end up with you getting a bullet in your gut? Cornered predators are desperate and unpredictable. It’s a dangerous situation. If you’re not law enforcement, you’re taking chances with your life and anyone around you. Desperate men never stop at one shot and their hands shake. A customer 3 aisles away, maybe a kid with his or her mom, could die because of you. You can’t plan professionally and that’s dangerous. You talk the whole time and you sure aren’t aware of others. You put innocent lives at risk for your personal glory. And I’m sure you have Patreon members. Your motives, Skeeter-peter, don’t impress me. Your procedure scares me. You’re just a bunch of showboaters and hot dogs.

I have no respect for any of you. And as opposed to vigilantes as I am, I really wish you’d have just shut the fuck up and clipped the cockroach. Because you’ve created a true monster out of this predator. He will hurt kids next time.

You know, most police officers are competent. Dedicated. Some bad ones have surely gotten attention. The force does not miss them. But let them do their jobs. If you don’t, you are the goddamn bad guys. If you see something, say something. That’s how it works, Skeeter-peter.

To show how little the human race thinks of its children, then the Hamas attack of Yom Kippur proved it. I thought the attack was just rockets. It was so, so much worse. Tonight I found out. Hamas had planned this for two years. They had infiltrated Israel. They purposely targeted children. They tortured and killed them. It was an act and declaration of war and war is exactly what they’re going to get. Nobody will be able to stop Israel from the vengeance that’s coming.

Killing civilians, putting children in dog cages and torturing them to death? Crimes against humanity, war crimes and as evil as men can possibly get. And now it’s done. Hell comes next. Israel will never let this go. World War Three has probably begun.

I am done here. Pray for peace.

Hey, Friends, What Have We Learned This Week?

What’s a topic or issue about which you’ve changed your mind?

What can anyone at all get out of my posts this week?

Anyone? Some are way ahead of me. Others are just mystified that I share so much. But mostly I go unnoticed. I’m not an influencer. Not widely read or known. I’m nobody. Just an asshole who’s honest about being an asshole.

But this week was kind of different from from my usual complaints about life. Or my stupid observations and even worse interpretations.

Because this week, I came close to really losing myself. “Beware the fury of a patient man” is truly a term that applies to me. Being two steps from Hell feels very real and dangerous to me. And certainly, my sister Michele was right: my soul has been shattered. Pieces of it, scattered around, I don’t know where. One, subconsciously left behind simply because I loved my siblings, like she and my youngest brother, and I feared leaving them behind. But, had I remained, even for another month, I would surely have gone insane.

I don’t know how my sister senses things like those, but all of us emerged with “gifts” that typically show up in extreme trauma victims. Later she would become a survivor, but all of those retain those same perceptions that, all are born with, but by reason of extraordinary survival challenges, develop to degrees many people never imagine. Or believe.

All my dreams were long since gone by the time I turned 14. I worked that summer as a carpenter’s helper, and he so impressed me with his patient and humorous, gentle nature that I decidid I, too, wanted to be like that. The foundation was there, all I had to do was to build on it.

But such was my anger and trauma that my coping was crude. I couldn’t be kind, or gentle, and the monster we each have sleeping inside us just became more hungry, demanding to be fed. I had to go through a lot more, to mature with time, to learn how to ignore it. Decades slipped past.

My ability to be patient would eventually come, but it took a lot out of me; it’s a fight that never ends and the initial caging of the beast was only the beginning.

Rarely, I encountered people who threatened the security around my personal creature. I came damnably close to disaster when aggressive assholes decided I was a good target. No longer a coward, but somewhat willing to engage in combat, I fought instead that hungry demonic thing in me that screamed, “Let me OUT, you know you want to. Together we will avenge your soul!”

That kind of payback would have cost me my soul. It would avenge nothing. You can’t get back what’s lost, not your fragmented heart or soul, not your lost childhood, wrongly destroyed though each was. Its over.

But nothing is over in your mind. That is a battleground that will be fought for until the end of your life.

In the clip above, you saw a movie scene that still makes me weep. Sometimes, I can’t stop.

John Rambo. All he wanted was something to eat. And nobody cared to let him, starting with the sheriff.

This scene, at the end, is entirely accurate. It has been played out too many times in too many places. If this 80s movie isn’t your cup of tea, or if you just never got around to seeing it, I recommend it. There’s nothing major in this scene that I think is off. This is a man who was triggered, whose guard against the inner beast was dropped, and it ended up this way.

And while every sequel that followed this film was ridiculous to the point of being comical, and this as a standalone film is perfect, the ultimate takeaway is this one question: is it really possible? The answer is, of course, yes.

Now, watch this. It’s vloggers reacting to “First Blood”, and mindfully pay attention to the facial expressions of each as the final scene plays out:

Most end up crying. But not all. One woman looks up, almost as if she is about to roll her eyes. But she doesn’t. She’s clearly keeping busy holding in her own monster, and it’s hard. Dasha, in particular, is very emotional. In empathy, she already sees where this is going. It clearly hurts.

I was shocked at their reaction to the brief glimpse of all the police lights flashing outside. How could they not have seen that coming?

These reactions are priceless. None of them knows what the end scene has for them, and when it’s over, they’re somewhat stunned.

In the book, they don’t know, Trautman shoots Rambo. Call it a mercy killing. Things had gone so wrong that they couldn’t be fixed. Rambo had been triggered, mindlessly obeyed training and rage, and once released, that beast must be exhausted, played out and then caught and killed. His life was over. It was over when he was drafted.

All trauma patients harbor The Beast. All fight their own battles to cope, to survive, to keep their worst hidden, not from others, but from themselves. But triggers can be anything, anywhere. And this week I was triggered and sunk to helpless victim behavior because that’s what I learned so long ago. Victim behavior is, ironically, one of the things that I didn’t even know was holding back my personal beast of rage, vengeance. I would freeze but not fight. Could not run. I just stood there. For years.

I lived by a code. Be kind. Be polite. But kill when given the order to fight. To this day I call people sir or ma’am. To this day I search for honor, a thing I lost or never had. And that sandbag and rock base was such a small part of it all. Exchanging fire with an MG nest, you don’t forget. The sound of bullets tearing through foliage a foot away from you is horrible. You think at least one round will surely get you.

You know, it’s the same feeling as being under my father’s lash gave me. Live? Die? Go mad? Which will it be? But you never think it’s going to be like this.

Not this. So many years of hiding, suffering, shamed by even a spouse if you had a nightmare, shook for no reason, or cried. You’d better not cry. You do that and you’re a pussy.

You can’t laugh. You’re inappropriate. You can’t talk. You’ll piss everyone off. You can’t go out. “Everyone” will surely be watching you and thinking how crazy you are. Your life is gone.

I keep thinking. That time the old man held his .357 magnum against my head. Scared, yes. But not until later did I realize that I wouldn’t have cared what happened either way. The threat of death can only cause so much fear after you’ve already lived with it all your life.

Now I seek peace. Honor. A place I can call home.

But I’m sure that it is not to be. It saddens me. My reaction to what I know from experience to be stalking behavior proves that I am not an honorable man. That I will never find peace or my own place. No, I am not honorable. I am not even a good man. I’m just an asshole. There were better ways to handle it. Those ways I cannot do. It is disgraceful. I am ashamed.

But I will never be able to go shopping again without scanning the cars going by, or the people inside, because I fought being triggered and ignored red flags. Trying to keep the beast trapped. My post about not testing the patient man whom you know to have a violent past stands. Don’t push them. Don’t mistake them as being what they cannot possibly be. Predators make the world hostile for more than their victims: they make their victims to be potential time bombs that endanger others. And if most never act on triggers the way Rambo did, please understand that it can happen. That it does happen.

My advice is that you take these past few posts to heart. Be kind, be careful, be gentle to and with others. You don’t know what battles they are fighting. Pray for them. Get them to trust you and let them talk. You just might be saving lives by showing that you care. Otherwise, please just leave them alone. Never start a war you can’t finish. As for what lessons I’ve learned, I think you know by now.

I’m Going to be Okay Now

I will not allow online stalkers to redefine me. I came across this meme on chance. It calmed me considerably.

No matter who laughs at me, follows me, stalks me…I will retain the better part of myself and use it to reign in the furious injured thing beneath it all.

But, before I go, there’s one thing I have to say.

“Jennifer”, or whoever you really are, piss off.

“BEWARE THE FURY OF A PATIENT MAN”

For Michele

“Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw?
Oh curst Effects of necessary Law!
How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan,
Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.” —John Dryden

For years, I have been patient. “Calm, cool and collected”, as a departing friend at a state hospital once described as what he would remember most about me. Even in a madhouse filled with pedophiles, felons, psychopaths and the broken, I did my best to keep that part of my core self intact. I had the fight of my life doing it.

I wanted to break the madmen in half. I wanted to give victims the justice they deserved from the felons, who had escaped a stay in prison to come here. I wanted to drag the pedophiles into the woods, torture them, castrate them, then string them up and bleed them like a slain deer.

But I never did.

Growing up around truckers who would get furious over the slightest thing, having a father who worried more about outward appearance than the mental health of his own children, beating them bloody by flogging with a 50s-style thin leather belt in secret, I learned what a horrible thing true anger was. My lesson should have been to vent my own anger freely with all possible violence.

But that is not what I learned at all.

What happened to or in front of me terrified me, showing instead what evil looked like, and not the kind you see in movies, but true evil. As in, satanic, demonic and in every opposition to God’s will kind of evil.

Be kind to those who hurt you and spitefully use you. Do good things for others whom you don’t even know. Love, without condition, those who declare or show themselves to be your enemies.

These are things I retained from my life outside of school and my father’s business and home life. A dual life I had no way of understanding. By circumstance, a dual life forced on me by a man who wanted to appear to be a Christian, but, in secret, raped and whipped his children. Sometimes I felt I would go, or had gone, insane under his fucking rage and depravity. Aware that no child should ever have to endure what I and my siblings did, I felt but concealed and contained my rage, believing that, on the most basic level, abandonment (which he often threatened) was far worse than any whipping.

Ralph Leon Smith Sr. was a monster for the ages, yet he was not unique, and far from the worst. I’ve since read accounts of the deeds of both men and women who were in a class by themselves. Human beings who, on the inside, had shed every basic characteristic of humanity and given themselves to madness, power, greed and more.

How could I feel so hurt when compared with what others had endured, often to their dying breath?

The victims of the Holocaust…

I have never been able to reconcile the two. They are aat odds with my living code and sense of self, my soul.

Because even as a child, no matter what I endured, I felt the most outraged at–and for–my sisters.

How I wanted to love them. And how I did love, for so long, siblings who went through what I was sure was more horrible than anything I did.

Because girls were different. Old movies where the scene of a man slapping a woman triggered me. Badly. My father using the belt across my mother’s face fractured my soul and that part of it was lost. Since then, like Lord Voldemort, I’ve dropped many pieces of my soul all across the Eastern seaboard.

Out of all of this, I have one sister left, of four, whom I treasure, love unconditionally, and adore. She’s the youngest, and a special woman who endured too much but faced it with courage and honor, and raised an amazing family of her own. She once told me that after I left the House of Pain, she occupied my room. She sensed me in there, as she described it, as a piece of my soul left behind to protect her. I no longer doubt her.

But things happened with my older sisters. By terrorism and manipulation, our father encouraged snitching on one another. He divided us and put canyons between us that can never be closed. I have no love for my oldest and my next-youngest sisters. For years I pretended to love them. I honestly tried to.

I failed. Say goodbye to another piece of my soul. The failure to love and forgive cost me. It hurt me, but I buried that for a long time. Even that has a price. Terrible as it is, I’ve put paid that one.

As a child, then a teen, I usually spent my anger on myself, but I, being an asshole, could not stop myself from lashing out at neighbors. I destroyed property mostly, causing damages I never had to pay for. Oddly, I knew to pick on those whom I’d have no motive to quarrel with, so suspicion didn’t fall on me. Not once did the police question me. Occasionally I was seen in the act and punished. Not often. All the shit dumped on me had to come out.

With age I was able to reign it in. Then, I began to truly withdraw, avoiding party invitations and eventually dodging weddings and memorial services. I discovered I liked being solitary, closed off. Shut inside and watching movies and playing video games. I especially loved playing video games with my children, like we did with Candyland and Cootie when they were wee ones.

They were the only good things in my life, and then they were gone forever. My soul broke with my heart, leaving me grieving to this day, feeling guilty, as if I failed them, and missing them more every day. I keep expecting the phone to ring, then picking up and hearing, “Hi dad,” and it never happens. The emptiest I’ve ever felt.

My one salvation is my God, what’s left of my family, and 3 very special friends, Maggie, Jane and Kevin. They love unconditionally and constantly. They know my madness and they support me with kindness and understanding. They insist I’m not mad, just broken. And they genuinely want me to be happy.

There’s still the danger, though, of testing my patience. Even I don’t know my limits. Last night as I wrote “The Return of the American Asshole”, I pondered this scary subject.

Dan, the man who would remember me as “calm, cool and collected”, was right. He saw me broken down to my rock-bottom self. I’d hit hard, with 3 botched suicide attempts and possibly some brain damage from pulmonary arrest.

Three heart attacks. Mini strokes including impaired speech. Deep psychological trauma. Children who preceeded me to death. How much was one man supposed to take? I felt like Job.

But though I did question God, I never gave up my faith. And so I lived by my code. Honor, loyalty and love. Protect, defend, forgive. Simple as that, as Jesus taught and I learned, through personal agony…decades of it.

Abuse. Psychological, physical, sexual. They turned me into a monster. A monster I had to control. A monster nobody knew was hidden inside me.

And now that monster roars from within, challenging that control, threatening to break loose and feed its anger again on those I fear. The monster thinks it can protect me, avenge me, but I know that it will only destroy me.

Beware the fury of a patient man, for if you fail, his soul will finish dying when his terrible wrath is unleashed. That wrath will consume all that stands within striking distance of the monster’s awful fangs and claws.

Attempt no contact. Leave me alone, Jennifer. I’m only two steps away from hell. Don’t push me any closer. I’m begging you.

NO MORE MR. NICE GUY: The Return of the American Asshole

Maybe I still believe in being kind. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t make exceptions on occasion. This is one occasion where I deem it necessary to be an asshole by telling the rest of the story behind a recent post.

It was about being on social media and feeling betrayed and deleting my account on an app.

Here’s how it went down.

I had posted about liking where I lived. Folks liked the post. One woman named Jennifer in particular. She really liked it.

But I did not like what followed. I held back to protect other’s feelings, and it was dishonest. Because I don’t give a half-fuck about her feelings. She triggered me and freaked me out. Saying anything less was misleading, and my code does not distinguish that from telling an outright lie. I apologize.

This woman DMd me several days in a row, twice a day.

She said that she was touched by my post. I mentioned that I had this site, but didn’t give the web address. I was not plugging it, and besides, even when I do plug this site, nothing happens. My year-end stats would depress any other blogger. Me, I just don’t have much to say about it.

She found it.

First red flag.

In a DM she said she had driven through the supermarket parking lot to meet me and see if I wanted some beef stew.

Wait, what?

Look folks, supermarkets are busy places, and to go looking for someone you’ve never met in person in one drive through a parking lot is weird. Known also as: stalking. Second red flag.

The beef stew? I’ve had 5 stalkers, and they never offer shit. Beef stew? What the fuck is that?

It’s the third red flag.

There came another day not long after where, in another direct message, she said she had driven through the supermarket lot again searching for me. Do you have any idea what the odds are that a predatory stalker would find someone they’ve never met in two swipes past a market? The most jaded odds makers in Vegas would run for the hills. They’d also throw up along the way. Them hills’d be running with brooks of bile. Rivers of regurgitation. Ponds of puke, valleys full of vomit.

So, stalking it was. Fourth red flag.

“Just to introduce myself and show support”, came the message. When someone expresses the need to explain why they just did something, it demonstrates that they are aware of how wrong their behavior is and how you might react. Fifth red flag.

So I messaged that if she really wanted to meet, she could call my phone and we could set up a public meeting. I encourage women to never meet a stranger outside of public view.

I added, though, that she should make sure that her husband was cool with it. I’ve been in that situation before, and I have nothing good to say about it.

Came the response, “I will never ever call you but I’ll text you here from time to time.”

Bitch, you were looking for me, and texting me twice a day. Now it’s “from time to time”?

Red flags and alarms everywhere.

Why?

Either she was married and didn’t like what I said, or she wasn’t and didn’t care for what she perceived as presumption on my part. Now her furious quest to meet me was over? Ha!

I’ve been here before. It ain’t no place to be.

I’m not a better man. I never did a heroic, honorable thing in my life.

Oh, and did I mention that she subscribed to a Baltimore newspaper just so she could access articles about the prosecution of my parents, which happened 33 years ago?

That’s not being inquisitive.

Since only a few articles were written, it’s just plain demented.

I’m no better man. I won’t try to be, either. I cannot rise above the sum of my fragmented parts.

I’m just an asshole. So lady, if you’re still reading, I suggest you get less interested in me with all possible speed. There’s nothing for you here.

And I don’t want anyone to love me. Fuck it. Don’t mean nothing.

Damned if I Do…

This is always how it ends up. I delete my account. I break all contact. Because I never get anything right.

I’m too fucking old for this shit. I invest time and effort to help people. Offer encouragement. A kind word.

There’s no payoff. I just fuck it up. When will I learn that I can’t be on forums or social media?

I think I just did. Got slapped in the fuckin mouth. Another account deleted, another app uninstalled. I don’t ever want to go back, either. Cause this time, it got me nervous and then it got scary.

Because some people are fakes, wolves in sheep’s clothing. Everywhere, and you’re best off keeping to yourself. Don’t encourage others to be safe. They take offense. How dare a retard like me give anyone advice?

And if someone claims that you’re okay just as you are, don’t believe them. If they meant it, they wouldn’t have to say it. Beware the liars who have no criticism of you. Soon enough, it will change. Now you have a bridge you can be certain is worthy of being burned.

There are those who attack you, no matter the forum. Then there’s those two-faced ones with nice chat who suddenly hint that you’ve overstepped with your questions or assumptions. They’re going to hurt you. A person like me should never have friends. I’ll fuck it up. Then comes the part where they bitch slap you.

I was meant to be, and to die, alone, friendless, forgotten. I finally know how to do it. So there’s that. I only have family as friends on Meta. That…is as far as I go. No man can avoid his destiny. And I’ll never try to again. I’m just one of those dense motherfuckers who is slow to learn and slower still to apply that knowledge. This time I’ll get it right.

Kindness Never Hurts

What’s the trait you value most about yourself?

My brain is full of nightmares. That’s true. It is also a constant truth that I have emotions like anger or rage, and it’s clinically sick.

As in fucked up.

If, among my childhood traits, there is one thing that I managed to salvage, it is that I was polite, courteous and very sensitive: I cried at not just my own pain, but also that of others.

When I looked back at pictures of when I was a child I saw bright eyes and a beautiful smile. I remember losing both. I tore up and threw away every picture I had.

They turned me into a monster, out for revenge. I turned into an avenging asshole. I caused unknown amounts of money in property damage, said horrible things to innocent people, ran from the bullies, sabotaged close relationships, isolated myself, became more bitter than I could bear, and was totally lost.

The world did not believe children like me existed. They did not care of things they knew nothing of. I grew more sick every day.

Sometimes, by age 14 I took everything out on people I knew. I’d write hard-core porn with them in it. They did things that I saw, in my twisted mind, as humiliating to them. So far as I know, none involved in those stories ever read or heard about them. But I’m not a hundred percent on that.

I was good at it, too. Long before reading Penthouse Forum, I wrote better stuff.

It was revenge, all of it. For being ridiculed, marginalized or insulted, and ultimately ignored. And those stories…got more evil as time went on. They weren’t sadistic, there was never violence, I couldn’t go that far. And I have always hated violence against women.

Unhealthy outlets are usually the result of severe abuse. A child’s normal development stops, replaced by horrors.

By the time my parents were arrested, though, it was not about revenge. Oh, I had planned my revenge: I was going to buy a shotgun at Bart’s Sporting Goods on Ritchie Highway and shoot my parents with 00 buckshot. It was all mapped out. I had only to get in my car and go.

Fate, or God, intervened. A nephew living in their house was being abused. I passed on the message that my sister only had a certain time to move out, then bad things would happen. She didn’t. Bad things did follow.

But I’m proud that I wasn’t acting on rage and revenge, but for a child’s welfare. My siblings who testified with me boosted my courage. It wasn’t about me. It was about justice and a child who deserved better than what we had gone through.

In the decades since, I’ve struggled with worsening mental health. I nearly ended my own life 3 times. I became more racist and was violent to the point where if someone spat while looking at, or just after seeing me, I wanted to kill them: You think I’m scum? You won’t when you’re dead, motherfucker.

Today, I’ve had it. I’m sick of being sick. There’s no cure for any of my conditions. I’m slowly dying. I don’t care much.

But I have found things that I do care about.

I try to stay away from the news. I’m limited and cannot handle that mess. I try to keep busy. And I have decided not to bring more pain into a world that’s just had enough of it.

God blessed me. I used to think of my survival as a curse, but that was never true. I was blessed with experience others had but could not voice. Maybe, I thought, I could help. Offer support and kindness. Perhaps insight. Hope.

I have no wish to harm. I’ve returned to courtesy and friendliness, but with much more experience than way back when I was having my innocence taken by evil people.

I do not see myself as noble, honorable or even worthy of living, I stand alone except for family, none of whom have time for me or are in their own health crises. I know I’m loved and that’s enough. God’s love was always there with us, and still is. That’s why I’ve chosen a gentle path.

I still cuss and lose my temper over those taking advantage of the poor; over the press telling us how stupid we all are; of abuse.

I don’t need meditation or zen stuff. I’ve made my choice.

I challenge you to do the same. Start with a random, out-of-the-blue sharing of kind words. Gentle encouragement. Praise when it’s deserved, but never flattery; that’s shallow. Loan someone ten bucks and don’t expect to get it back. It spreads. You’ll even see it, if you’re lucky.

And remember: one kind word can save a life, where an unkind word may end it. Life is delicate and we must remember that, if we truly hope to fight the evil that makes so many just give up. You can change the world. Yes, I do mean you.

And I know how hard it is to smile. Don’t worry. If you’re sincere, others will always know that.

I’m a realist. I have no lofty thoughts and I caution you not to, either. This life can tear you up. I am sorry for that. But do you or I have any right to make that worse?

Looking back at the pain and chaos I caused and knowing why I did it hurts. My age back then, my mental health, and all other things considered, I regret so much. I hurt people I loved. Or hated. I never felt justified. For a few moments, maybe. But smothered in guilt and shame, I longed to be clean. Feeling as if you were born already soiled, knowing you had some good qualities, is difficult to reconcile. How can you process a thing like that? I fear no one can know. We just do the best we can.

And the question I’ve asked bears the same answer: none of us has the right to make the world a worse place than it is.

Choose what’s right. You’ll know what to do. I have faith in you.

Ghost Hunting: A BAD IDEA

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?

Dozens of times, from diverse sources, I’ve been advised not to go looking for things best left alone. Because you might just find them.

I know that TV and YouTube ghost hunters make ghost hunters look glamorous, but you will, inevitably, see something faked, or, more often, not see something edited from the final cut that should be food for thought, or rethinking what you are considering. And this time of year, ghost hunters, from beginners to veteran players, amp up their interest in the subject. And it’s just not advisable. There are some cardinal rules to this kind of misadventure, and all of them are routinely disregarded. Let’s begin with the basics.

THE HAZARDS

First rule: NEVER GO ALONE

This is for the exact same reason cavers, urbexers and hunters of game shouldn’t sally forth on their own: you’re risking your life. And if no one knows where your destination is, search parties won’t know where to look. Your name gets added to the missing persons statistics sheet and that’s it.

Are you trespassing? Before hunting in private forests, you must secure permission by the owner. Most will make you sign a waiver or hold harmless agreement. It leaves you responsible for anything and everything you do. That’s a tight place to be. Even bank anglers face the risk of trespassing and personal injury. Get permission. Taking fish or game from private property is poaching.

The worst offenders are urban explorers. An “abandoned” factory may still be owned by someone who has electronic and roving guard security. You’re going to be caught, fined or shot. That’s the dumbest risk I think I’ve ever seen. YouTube should ban such misadventures. They encourage others. They’re influencers.

Next up is your team. Can’t just be a bunch of testosterone-pumped alpha males; you have to choose a team. This must consist of a person trained in, at the very least, basic emergency first aid. Trips, falls, cuts, eye injuries and broken bones have happened. Deaths have resulted. If first-aid is not rendered on-scene and medics called in, serious consequences may be involved. A leg wound can turn gangrenous, and you know what that means. A head injury may seem slight but end in death.

Your field medic should carry a canvas bag with shoulder straps and include sutures, a collapsible cane, large and small field dressings, emergency blankets, adhesive bandages, sulfa, iodine and BZK swabs, hemostats, gauze rolls, tourniquet, BP cuff, aspirin, stethoscope, pen light for checking pupils, splints with cravats, insect sting relief, burn gel, two large bottles of eye wash, oval eye patches, atropine and anakit and an emergency channel radio. A flare gun is essential. Serious injuries are a race against time. Never be so isolated that help is too far away.

Hazardous substances like old, flaking asbestos fibers or residual hazardous materials may be present. Protective gear must be worn. It may consist of a full hazmat suit, or a hard hat and filter mask with cannister filters. Safety glasses. A suit to protect your clothing from dragging out insects, asbestos and deteriorated fiberglass. Once finished, you use the buddy system to sweep each other off before shedding the suit.

A gas meter must be carried by one member and monitored by someone who’s been trained. It should usually be calibrated for flammables but poisons can be present as well. Remember that these meters are unable to register a spectrum of material and first you need to research to see what might be present.

A person trained for spiritual warfare. If confronted by evil entities, they’ll scare you, and could even attack. Prayer before you begin and a spiritual warrior can help you escape with no demons following you home.

Even the TAPS team has experienced demonic attachment and had trouble at home. Therefore:

Do not challenge, insult or provoke spirits during your investigation. Never. You may get away with it for so long that you lose your perspective and worse, respect for things you’ll never understand. Ghost hunting is not instructional. It’s just dangerous.

Never have a spirit session, the circle. Never use a spirit or ouija board. Never call on anything to appear to you. Again, you can get away with it a hundred times, but keep it up and one day you’ll regret it. This is not always the case, but when it is the case, what happens next is life-changing and never for the better.

Screen members of your team. Anyone who suffered from trauma, has depression or problems with phobias shouldn’t go. Demonic entities feed on their raw, unguarded emotions and confusion or fear. That is not the ideal situation.

Stay away from ghost tours. Those guides typically lie and you don’t get to investigate anyway.

Never, ever, go alone. Even your team must carry extra batteries, cell phones with manual crank chargers. Walkie talkies, and two monitors outside at all times.

Avoid old sanitariums and hospitals. There’s never anything good there. The environment is nasty if not dangerous, and demons probably will be there.

Never investigate cemeteries. Especially at night! Legend-tripping or ghost hunting in a graveyard is a pretty arrogant thing to do. You’re on ground consecrated to the dead and anything that moves will be a problem at least, a danger at most. Besides. What do you think you’re going to find?

In prayer, join hands and ask God for help. Ask for permission. If you don’t know, don’t go. Playing games with your life isn’t a thing I suspect He takes lightly. In that case, crosses, rosaries and holy water won’t help you. You will have to proceed without help. Testing God is a grave sin.

Consider staying home or having a get-together with your friends. Nothing beats Pizza, buttered popcorn or something to snack on and a scary movie.

A ghost hunt is not worth risking environmental damage to your health, bodily harm, or your life. It’s just a bad idea, and you may not be the one, or the only one, to pay the price.

The Magic of Jesus Christ Superstar 50 Years Later

What’s your all-time favorite album?

August of this year marked the 50th anniversary of the release of the film Jesus Christ Superstar.

It is an historic event, celebrating a masterpiece of art and culture from a time so long ago that you may not have been born yet. That’s too bad, because this is a musical film every bit worth seeing, but also a snapshot of popular culture and music from a time when people felt lost and teens were searching for their identity amid very troubled times.

Shot on location in 1972, released in August of 1973, the first thing to know is, it stirred up a lot of controversy.

That is no understatement, either. Protests happened outside of cinemas, then the entire Christian community became divided. When given a screening of it by director Norman Jewison, Pope Paul VI praised it. He found it inspiring and said that it “would bring (a lot of) people to Christianity.”

The pope also felt stirred by Mary Magdalena’s song “I don’t know how to love him” and felt that it was inspired.

There was, however, the age-old controversy of the Romans versus the Jews as to “who killed Christ”, and some of course claimed that it had an antisemitic theme.

It did not, but you would first need to understand what was already happening at the time of Christ. The movie chronicles the final week of the life of Jesus, what we Christians call “the Passion Week” which begins on Palm Sunday.

Contrary to belief, the Romans never flogged a condemned prisoner before saddling him with a cross. Known as the “half-death”, Rome had a set of rules to be followed to the letter regarding flogging and execution. Pilate had no intention of giving the Jews what they wanted. He hated his post and dreamed of a promotion, but Tiberius was slowly going mad and threatened to punish the prefect if he stirred up the Jewish people again, which he had, heretofore, taken great joy in doing. Giving in to Caiaphas was inevitable. He had no love or sympathy for Jesus, but there is reason to believe that the auxiliary soldiers (barbarians) consisted of semitic men who hated the Jews and wielded the lash with nothing held back, causing Pilate to recoil on seeing Jesus afterward. No victim of such a beating was ever supposed to be crucified; they would not last long, they wouldn’t be able to carry their cross, and the purpose of public execution to deter crime was rendered useless.

Also, the “39 lashes” was a Jewish custom and carried out not with a flagellum but with rods. Then, the act of washing his hands while pronouncing the death sentence, that, too, was a Jewish custom. He was throwing it in their face in a spiteful act.

One can argue these and many other details ad nauseum, but the act of the Sacrifice is always there, no matter what. It was meant to happen and no one race or group was responsible.

There’s really nothing here to fight over. Except one glaring detail…

The movie begins very curiously. A camera in some ruins pans, then shows a red, blue and silver bus raising dust as it approaches. When it stops a bunch of hippie actors begin unloading props to put on a project, and we know it’s a movie. The cross lashed to the bus roof is not a surprise; we know what this movie will be. As the Overture plays, Ted Neely (Jesus), wearing hippie threads, walks past the now grounded cross and looks down at it, a detail I missed for 20 years. I did see the movie on the big screen, which is still the best way, but details escape me.

As everyone dons costumes and makeup, the music intensifies until we see Neely changed into his Jesus costume and Judas (the one and only Carl Anderson) walks away, symbolic of his isolation from the other Apostles.

Since Anderson played Judas and was black, another protest sprang up. But the production could never have been done without him. His voice, the notes he could hit, his expressions, all made him the best man for the job.

In the heat of the deserts of the Holy Land, the crew and actors required 5 quarts of water or more a day. Temperatures reached 120°F, causing heat exhaustion, dehydration and they were all overdressed. Metal helmets, bloused military boots, heavy robes, even tunics…this production was brutal.

But everyone stuck it out. Friends were made. Their was love, a joy among them. That’s pretty special. Ted Neely even met his future wife, Leeyan Granger, on set, and their first encounter is sweet and romantic. She literally took his breath away.

The cast became so close that during the shooting of the Crucifixion, the actors watching cried.

The magnum opus is “Gethsemane”, and Ted nailed it in a single take. In the song “Superstar” we see a renewed, resurrected Jesus is clothed in pure white, while Judas asks him “Did you mean to die like that, was that a mistake or did you know your messy death would be a record breaker?”

In the Bible, the priests of the temple were greatly disturbed by the buzz created by Jesus of Nazareth. Stories of miracles worried them enough, but his words to the crowds filtered back to Jerusalem and caused High Priest Caiaphas to picture a revolt by the people against temple authority. By Palm Sunday when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem, he was already a marked man. This is shown in the movie. And in the Trial Before Pilate, the Roman prefectus tries to help Jesus escape death, but Jesus does not defend himself. It turned into a chess match (in the Bible) between Pilate and Caiaphas, one in which Pilate made mistakes with every move, underestimating the high priest and his frenzied crowd.

Following the Crucifixion, the actors board the bus to leave. Some are happy, some somber, especially Mary (Yvonne Eliman). Carl Anderson is the last to board and we see what he keeps looking at: the cross, now alone and bare, the sun setting behind it. Ted Neely doesn’t get on the bus. Jewison didn’t believe in the resurrection and it hadn’t been in the original play anyway. But some say that, if you look closely, in the foreground of the cross, a shepherd with his sheep just happened to walk across the scene. They take it as symbolic of Christ leading his sheep (believers) even after his earthly life had ended.

After seeing the movie, I was forever a fan. The double vinyl LP soundtrack became my favorite record of all time. It always will be. I hope you give it a listen or watch the movie. A Universal Pictures release, it still bears a G rating. You can buy a digital copy on Amazon or find the DVD.

The Overture

“Superstar” from the soundtrack album

The very emotional final number, the instrumental “John 19:41” bookend to the Overture.

The masterpiece that could not have been made without every piece falling into place exactly as it did. Jesus Christ Superstar, from 1973.

Scrambled Eggs

Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail.

Scrapple and scrambled eggs. That’s all I wanted, along with fresh Colombian coffee. That’s it. Easy, right?

I mean, easy peasy. Nice and greasy.

Not this bloody day. Not that day in 2008. The day I failed so miserably to cook something so simple that an infant could do it.

I’ve written about it before, first time being in a MySpace blog. Remember those?

Meds were off kilter. I was always foggy. I had to cut my arm and draw blood to get the pain I needed for clarity. Sick thing to do, but that one scrapple and eggs day, I was fogged in badly.

I put the scrapple slices on, then used a glass bowl to beat the eggs.

Wait!

Don’t you need milk in scrambled eggs? Where did I hear that, and had I not been doing eggs that way?

I didn’t have any milk, not even half and half. Just Coffee Mate for coffee. So I got thinking, why not try that, since it’s a replacement for the real thing.

I cracked a couple of eggs into the bowl but I didn’t begin beating them. In went a teaspoonful of the non-dairy creamer, and I was surprised at what I saw.

In the albumin, the creamer could not dissolve. I didn’t know. It had seemed like a good idea, and I did it.

But something was wrong. Something was going terribly wrong.

Without even beating the eggs, something…was happening.

The powder had grouped together in small blobs. Perfect globules that were…moving!

These blobs grew bigger as they gathered more of the powder, and a big blob separated, or tried to. It was now two big blobs joined by a string of creamer. Had I somehow gotten a few eggs that had been fertilized? Was I looking at some freak of nature that was alive? It looked like a freaking lava lamp.

I abandoned the whole meal, sick to my stomach and shaking in fear of the paranormal event I’d witnessed. It had come to life!

I emptied the bowl into the trash, and chucked in the scrapple as well. I never used Coffee-Mate again. And it was a long time before I tried to scramble eggs, too.

You would too, if it had happened to you.

I always thought that Dr. Frankenstein would have proud of me. A disgusting thought if ever I’d had one

I Hate Crackers

Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.

Actually the title is bait. But I really do hate crackers. Ritz, Saltines, Wheat Thins, all of them. I don’t care if you give me the most expensive cheese or Beluga caviar, I will not eat crackers.

That’s what the title really means. But it may not be the way you saw it.

That’s because once upon a time, it referred to a hillbilly, a dullard with no education and a hatred for freed slaves, usually African Americans, and this hatred was absolutely deadly. The expression, a derogatory slang, once conjured the image of an old man wearing a battered straw or felt hat, shirtless beneath bib overalls, bare of foot, a corn cob pipe hanging from a mouth with no or few teeth, and in his hands a side-by-side double-barrel shotgun.

More recently it’s been used as a derogatory name for any Caucasian, used by African Americans.

Down in the southern and in the midwestern United States it is more prevalent, but since the late 1990s has faded further north. But you can still hear it.

Racism is everywhere and is a part of everyone’s life, whether we want to believe it or not. You may not think that you are racist, but no matter how you may try not to be, the need for and effort itself means that there is something within you that’s being fought, something you try to bury deep, crammed into shadows you never dare let see the light of day. That’s a great thing. It is noble, this fight, and remember that many before you have fought the same personal battle, each one of them making the world a slightly better place. No brave effort is ever wasted.

Of all the regrets I have that haunt me most, being a blind bigot is at the top. I’ve hurt people, almost exclusively with words. I would sling the “N” word from my mouth as often as the word “fuck”, and that goes way back to childhood.

In my school in elementary grades, what they call “primary” school now, there was one African American girl. Same grade I was in. And did we ever punish her. Also the girls who never washed or bathed, who showed up in white blouses that went as unwashed as they, well we gave them hell too. I got bullied, but when it was the rare girl who set her cross hairs on me, I would be shocked into frightened silence, and the sickening language I used on others would come back to me, but strangely, because there was a certain finesse and panache added in. I hated Cheryl Gant and admired her at the same time for being sick, but eloquent in her loathing for me. After a time, she became attractive to me!

I could never figure out why she hated me, and it spread to her mother, who had the balls to knock on my door after I passed her once on North Shore Road. I thought that was funny, but let my mother handle it because at 17 years of age, I had no way of holding back my emotions and I’d have used language like “cunt” on her. Yep. I’d have done that. Maybe worse.

What Cheryl did, unknowingly, was teach me that hate can come from anywhere. It isn’t restricted to race, gender, religion, or any other factor. Sometimes, it’s just there.

Other times, it’s taught. When parents are both southern bigots, true racists, you do what they do. You say what they say. You feel what they’ve taught you you feel. Being young in redneck Pasadena in the 1960s, lots of prejudice existed, and if a black family moved into the neighborhood, they’d be shunned by most, befriended by few, and invariably suffered vandalism. I rarely heard of violence, except on Walter Cronkite in 1968.

Maryland went into panic as riots broke out in Baltimore City that year, and Governor Spiro Agnew activated the MDARNG. A conservative, Agnew would go on to be Nixon’s vice president before being caught with fraudulent tax records. He was replaced by Gerald R. Ford.

These riots, so close to the cloistered suburbs of Pasadena and North Shore, scared my father silly. He kept a .22 revolver with a 10-inch barrel loaded. Ready for (“the ‘Ns'”) to walk into his yard.

They weren’t coming, but his blind terror of blacks rendered him hysterical and unreasonable. I felt the fear that he did. It made an indelible mark on my soul, and I got worse. If I was a mentally ill loose cannon before, I became a monster later. And the African American girl in my class suffered additional reactionary punishment not just from me, but others. By sixth grade, she’d grown an impressive bosom. The girls wanted to be her because they had nothing in the breast department. Weren’t supposed to, really, but everyone matures at different rates.

By junior high, the bussing situation threw together kids who weren’t prepared. Shock naturally occurred, but with dire consequences. Rednecks regularly carried switchblade knives, and came very close to murder. Fights, rumors of riots,fistfights in the hallways were more limited to the redneck guys, but other scenarios happened. It wasn’t a conducive learning environment. And I hated black people more until I finally got suspended for hate speech. Several times.

I didn’t care. Not for decades would I feel differently.

Being grown, working every day, I was always going to interact with people I’d been taught to hate.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I became less fearful. I interacted with customers, asked stupid questions, but always, they understood and praised my eagerness to learn, to overcome. I wanted the hatred and fear to end, to be no more. I began to see beauty in all people of all races. Women whom I’d never have paid attention to became ravishing. And almost always, and to this day, women of color are nicer to me than most others. They sense things in me: no threat, no danger, always sympathetic and ready to listen, not a man seeking a relationship, but a friend.

And the girl in my class all those years ago, who alone had to bear racism from white students surrounding her?

One night I read a newspaper article. She’d made the headline. Babysat one night. And the baby wouldn’t stop crying… she tortured and killed it. I never knew, and never will, if what she went through in school, because of boys like me, played a part.

You know what I’d like to think.

But the abuse we piled on her for years would almost certainly be part of her hell.

All actions and words have consequences. And the potential to harm, and harm greatly. I wish I could have learned that lesson much earlier. Then, maybe, though damaged and full of my own sorrow, rage and bitterness, I could have learned respect and how to love…instead of having so many hurt left behind me in time. A painful lesson that hurts more because I took so long to learn it. I often think back to those who I had hurt and hated. Too late to apologize. Too distant. And some are long gone. As is one infant whose name I will never know.

Bullshit, Bullshit All Around, Bullshit, Bullshit the Truth Never Found

With Google’s AI search not doing well in beta, but being pushed to go live, it’s worth a look around to see how much of the truth is still found out there.

Corporate entities are responsible for cramming your search results with everything advertised from books to tin wall art to fake cures and more.

One of the biggest scams out there are “secret” ingredients for curing toenail fungus. Lots of people have it, and not one of them fails to loathe it. It grows right in the nail bed and no matter what’s advertised in a long video which, after watching it hopefully, you’ll be offered something for sale, usually at a premium price.

They come and go, and I’m positive that some hawkers of this bullshit have been sued, but sooner or later, the ads will be back with a different “doctor” endorsing and doing the narrative. There may even be a different “secret ingredient” this time.

The reason? People get desperate. They hate the fungus, and not being able to go barefoot on the beach without forcing them under the sand. They hate not being able to wear sandals or sliders or classic flops. It’s embarrassing, even though socks with sandals may get you even more adverse reactions.

Fungi-Nail, additives for soaking, advice from friends, all will fail and leave you progressively more angry and frustrated. Wrapping your toes with banana peels, soaking your feet in apple cider vinegar, Dr. Scholls and you name it. It all amounts to your friends punking you and companies scamming you.

There is a cure. It’s very expensive, usually not covered by insurance, and is a special fungicide in capsule form. But most people can’t take it because of anaphylaxis.

In 1998, I nearly died 3 times. Once was this medicine that caused serious anaphylaxis and a rash so severe that a doctor in the hospital thought it was syphilis.

The second near-death was when the anaphylaxis made me pass out and I was hit by a car that kept on going. The third time was a heart attack not long after.

Years would pass. I tried every quack’s remedies and nothing worked. Finally I found out that it’s a superfungus and it’s in your blood.

I’d asked a podiatrist to remove and cauterize my nails, and she explained that no, she couldn’t do that. Removing the nails is serious business and very painful, cauterization is dangerous and often ineffective, and patients died from infections they got because they dropped something on their foot, splitting the thin skin of the nail bed, and failing to grasp the severity of the wound. Besides, if the nail grew back, it wouldn’t likely do so with good results. It would be wavy, or curved, or something else you didn’t like.

Her suggestion? Use Vicks on it to thin each nail until the fungi-Nail could penetrate.

This, after she just got finished telling me no toenails were dangerous. What’s the real difference then between that and a thin nail?

I tried it anyway.

If you believe Vicks can thin an extra-thick fungal nail, go ahead and try it. I dare you.

Lies, fakery and scams, enough bullshit to drown in.

Like the click bait at the foot of a news article. “The Scene That Ended the Brady Bunch” with a picture of Marcia Brady on a bed? It’s bullshit.

The show had run its course. A guest appearance by Joe Namath didn’t help. I never forgave Joe for that.

People have often blamed brat cousin Oliver for it, but he didn’t arrive until it was too late. I don’t remember why he was there, but I remember how hated he was. He looked like John Denver’s kid, no shit.

No, there was never a single scene which got “The Brady Bunch”, “Gilligan’s Island”, or “I Dream of Jeannie” canceled. The click bait is always accompanied by a mildly suggestive photograph, probably doctored, certainly cropped. Voyeurs can’t help themselves. They click. This is followed by the words, “Start Slide Show”. Good luck with that shit. About 20 minutes of your life later, time you wasted and can’t get back, is followed by thoughts of what you could have been doing: foreplay, coitus, masturbation, sticking things up your ass, nose or in your ears. Or you could have done something constructive and positive and righteous.

Just saying.

Just A Walk In The Dark

How often do you walk or run?

I don’t walk as often as I should, which would, at my age be about a mile a day.

But I can’t. Depression often has me nailed to the bed, and yesterday I hadn’t gone out.

It occurred to me after sunset that I was almost out of smokes.

I’m going to quit that crap. Quitting smoking won’t save my life, but I may last a few months longer.

But last night wasn’t, I decided, the right time. So I had to take a walk.

That’s pretty stupid considering that my prescription glasses are also sunglasses. And to get to the shopping center, I walk through the woods on a narrow asphalt path and it’s really dark. I can’t see the path and my flashlight quit on me so I’m having zero visibility. I keep stepping off into the grass, which is okay, but in darkness is disorienting. Hard to find the path again because I can’t see. It’s total blindness instead on the brink of functional blindness, but that’s no better. Not in the dark. But, nothing happened, so I made it to the store and I bought a pack.

Inside, the cashier said, What did you do to your hand?

I looked and it was bleeding. No reason, just an open wound. It’s sad, but it happens a lot.

It really wasn’t until I went back into the darkness that I’d got into trouble. Almost at the bottom of the path, back-lit by a streetlight about 40 yards further on, I saw a silhouette which I knew to be out of place.

My mind took a little trip.

I was back in the jungle on a trail. What I was seeing was the shape of was a man, with twigs for camouflage sticking out from the band around his boonie hat.

I reached for my stiletto but it wasn’t there!

I was unarmed. The forward-leaning camo guy was waiting until I was closer. I knew he had a bayonet or a kukri blade.

But just as fast, I saw that he was gone, replaced by a shopping cart!

I haven’t slept since. I can’t. The nightmares would be horrible. Eventually I’ll crash. Until then I dread sleep.

Not much I can do about it, though. When it’s enough, my mind shuts off and I crash.

All future walks, until the trees are bare of leaves, at which time the path isn’t as dark, will be in daylight.

All the stuff I’ve been through, and I’m finally reduced to Don Quixote tilting at shopping carts.

Shoot me.

R.E.M. Was Ahead of Their Time

1987. Oh, I know that year. I began to serve the first of 3 presidents, my Commanders-in-Chief. I wasn’t all that political about it. I could not afford to be. There was no room.

My wife became pregnant with our son.

And I had just done the impossible: gone through basic training and combat medical school with a disabling, pre-existing condition. I couldn’t believe it. But the real problem remained and trouble was coming. Could I know the half of it? Of course not. It was always one day at a time for me. Besides, I was not much for the news back then.

Had I been able, I’d have seen what these guys did.

The song goes fast for post-punk, but in the 80s, a decade full of okay music with some great masterpieces mixed in, it is a true standout. It stuns you, it goes so fast. But now, I can make myself believe that these lyricists knew something. A lot of somethings, to be honest. Watch the lyrics on the screen as you listen. Back then, this was dreadfully cynical and pessimistic.

Today, the general idea or theme is not so obscure as it once seemed.

I’ve been writing about mental illness as affected by multiple levels of harm done that were beyond my control. I’ve noted that healthcare is harder than drug ads or even ads for doctors or insurance providers make it seem.

Before this, I’ve written about industrial pollution, global warming, elitism, the looming failure of the United States government because of the Trumpian Party, racism, bigotry, corruption and greed, and the unscrupulous politics of organized religion.

There’s one line in the song about reporters being “trumped” and it has accidentally taken on new meaning.

The general idea of the song is that we’re all going to sit here and let the downfall of society happen, and how it happens won’t make a difference.

I wish I could have a better feeling about the future, because we had the means to escape the climate crisis we face, and we had the choice not to elect a lunatic for a president, and we’ve had power as a species to change to a different path.

But we have failed. We have abandoned the righteous cause of women’s rights, we have resorted to giving voice to violent criminals who should have been outnumbered by law enforcement and righteous citizens on January 6th, 2020. We care nothing for the sick, the elderly and the poor, we don’t protect children, we have elected leaders who give their souls for money and power and have made dishonor seem normal, and we’re not stopping.

People don’t care. Sex crimes are ignored and victims scoffed, shamed and left to themselves. Guns are far more valuable than an owner’s own child. Public safety is a joke with whatever disgusting tagline you care to attach to it, and here we all sit. Not caring, not doing, not helping.

I know that the impeachment of Joe Biden sounds like a joke. That’s McCarthy and MTG sitting around and fingering each other. But while people with mental illness are dismissed as fakers or lost causes, those two are proof that there are dangerous nuts in our own government. Politicians are now vetted by zealots and fanatics who belong in fenced-in hospitals while treatment remains out of reach of people who need and beg for help yet go unheard and forgotten. I’m not one to sit by and watch injustice and the end of the world as we know it. I’ll keep looking for help for those in need. Because I don’t feel fine, damn it.

DID: Go Easy On Yourself

In any layperson’s study of mental illness, there is always a search for the timeless question, “Who am I?” and this search never ends. It has no true solution, no answer. We never know, because no one does. And if nobody else knows who they are, then the search is in vain. With a mental illness, though, it is a quest worthy of Don Quixote and not an exercise in futility: “I need to know”.

Enter Dissociative identity disorder, DID. This is like multiple personality disorders which, of course, exist more in novels and bad movies, usually in pop culture fodder of the 1970s than in the medical sense.

While fools like Doctor Phil, who actually gave up his license to practice medicine and probably is no more qualified than Tom Cruise to tell anyone what’s best for them (neither man is qualified to wield the power they’re using), and the man says he’s not convinced that personalities can exist together in a single patient, I cannot and will never be positive about human behavior or mental illnesses.

I’ve dated women and seen this up close, and it’s sad and frustrating and really quite chilling to see distinct and telling traits each replacing others right in front of you. One of them passed away 6 years after I last saw her and I have no idea how. I know enough that she was progressively worse and that she probably suffered more than she should have. And life is not fair to anyone, but it goes into overdrive when a person has a pronounced mental illness.

What I think is that we don’t know enough about the subject of multiple personality or its bastard cousin, dissociative identity disorders to speak in absolutes, and the gods of the American psychiatric disorder community can’t tell you any different. Look at the World Health Organization and the American mental health establishment and you can start to see how close-minded we really are. This results in discrimination and denial of desperately needed healthcare.

And whether anyone wants to believe it or not, people with mental illnesses can and do lead productive and meaningful lives. They do it every day, and I defy anyone to pick them out of any workforce. Yes, I am counting schizophrenia, which the uneducated public thinks very wrongfully about. In fact, some of the finest human beings I’ve ever known were diagnosed with something others ostracized them for.

And no, schizophrenia is not multiple personality disorder. Not even close.

When it comes to dissociative identity disorder, America treats it like it’s a new concept, when it is hardly so. Problem is, no doctors here know or are closed to it and couldn’t diagnose it if they tried. Which they don’t.

I’ve had to open my mind to get this far. I researched symptoms, behavioral problems, my own diagnosis, and there were questions I just couldn’t answer until I found articles, recent ones, that listed CPTSD, and in a descending menu included other disorders and one was DID. I don’t know if it is exclusive to CPTSD, and I rather doubt it, but it it does seem to occur coincidental with it.

Others may see it in you far before you discover that you can’t understand certain things about yourself. Maybe even before you notice symptoms.

How many people get cancer and never know it until it’s too late? We may think it can’t happen that way, but it does. With DID, same thing, except eventually someone close to you will say something. Unless of course you’ve isolated or been shunned. A change in accent, regional or foreign, jumps out at people who know you. But, your personality, your traits, your moral views never change, or don’t at first. Some people will avoid you, some will laugh at you, and still others may speak up.

I’ve spoken in several different ways, even changing vocabulary. Or usage. A Christian leader will tell you that you need an exorcism, a conservative psychiatric doctor will tell you to turn off your television, and there’s really no help for you. No sympathy, and no acceptance. And definitely lots of enmity, even fear, especially in the case of the Christian.

I’m not bashing here; I identify as Christian. But I’ve learned to shed the restrictions and mandated behavior that conservatives use to make you listen to their bullshit and which I call brainwashing. I am a flawed, damaged and dysfunctional human being, and I believe that God knows this and will be more understanding of it then people of the pulpit ever will be. I am free to think, to choose, to make progress when I can, or to make mistakes and, hopefully, to learn from them.

I find it to be very sad that I have lost friends, neighbors who are Christians and pastors. They, like so many, cannot listen or take me for who I am. They judge, and they act from judgment. To me, they’re hypocrites. Like pharisees which Christ read the riot act to. He called them “whited spulchurs” or whitewashed mortuaries, putting on a pretty show but full on the inside of dead bones: decay.

Society in America does not have a single safe place or function that will not demand conformity. You’re with this group or that, hated by other groups, or you’re worthless. Free thinkers, philosophers and the mentally ill will always fall into the laughed at and the ostracized. We are a doomed nation and we will answer for it. A house this divided cannot stand.

Another neighbor who is in denial of his own problems claims that I can be healed with enough faith and daily Bible reading. You should hear his claims. He’s a nightmare in real life. Faith healing is not possible with things we must endure as a part of life are inescapable. Child abuse, war, imprisonment and learned dependence are things we need to fight. We’ll have spiritual help, but life isn’t always cookie cutter Bible study; it’s hard work, it’s a fight, and it mostly sucks. The reward for the struggles we endure are nothing that the rich and the conservatives understand anything about: a life honorably lived.

I’m sorry it has to be this way. But as I search for resources to share with you, someone to help, remember that no matter who you see yourself as, no matter your struggles, you’re not alone. You are not worthless, and you rock! That means there’s always room for one more day, so hang in there!