“It is what it is,” she said

Uttered with cruel inflexion and intended to cause pain: PTSD and the supernatural

Putting the puzzle together

WARNING

The following account is not for sensitive readers; it contains triggers including sexual abuse, guilt, extreme trauma and more. If you at any time feel distressed, please leave this particular article with my blessing and well wishes

I’ve written about HER before. The woman of years of torment in my dreams. Wait. Not dreams. Nightmares.

She tortured me, trapped me in labyrinths I tried desperately to escape but could not, only gaining freedom when I awoke.

You can try to find those posts, but even I don’t want to scroll back far enough to add links, and it’s not important anyway.

First, I want to tell you about my PTSD and where it came from. What it came from. A recap, if you will, of how I got here, but be warned, this is not going to be an easy read. And it may be my last.

You may find it difficult to follow, but this is the very last thing I need to get out before I leave. I have no idea when my number will come up, but it can’t be far off now. Now that I finally want to live more than ever.

THE BOOK THAT TERRIFIED ME

It was late in 1980. Autumn. The exact time of year that the first chapters of the book take place. That didn’t help. It is still the most terrifying horror novel I have ever read. It left its mark on me.

Early in my life, when I was at the very most four years-old, I was being beaten with a thin leather belt until I bled. I was yelled at and told I was mentally retarded. I was threatened with being committed before I even knew what it meant. Sometimes I was told I would be sent off to a military school. On reflection, that would have been a godsend compared to what was about to happen.

Verbal and physical abuse were not enough.

By age 6 I had grown out of my hand-me-down pajamas with the feet in them. One night my mother cut the feet off and when I turned around, mother and father were kissing and her breasts were exposed. How can I describe what I felt?

I can’t . That’s the truth. I can still feel it, but it defies description. What follows that? Being masturbated by mother while the old man watched. When I grew a bit, she graduated to fellatio, and the guilt was instant. By the earliest sign of puberty, I could not hide, not only an erection, but a climax. Maybe the semen was clear, but it only made her more determined to “train and teach” me more intensely. Every Saturday night was my turn. My sisters had their turns, I supposed, on their own nights. On Saturday, I couldn’t sleep. Not after what had just taken place at midnight. The humiliation was there; if you stimulate a sex organ, it will respond. Women who have been raped have, on occasion and reluctantly, said that they had an orgasm as a result. An article I read decades ago seemed certain that it was the case. That alone caused their feelings of guilt to become overwhelming. Some never lived past it. How many took their own lives? Nobody ever cared to tally such a grim thing. People don’t care, and after the victim is dead, they just call her a slut and move on.

I’m here to tell you that no matter what certain articles have claimed; pointing out that women can conceal an orgasm but men cannot, and therefore suffer more guilt, does not ring true. Rape victims are not sluts. I think they suffer the same as men do. As children do.

Look. Guilt is guilt. Whether a victim has an orgasm, or gets close to one, or even feels aroused is not the issue with sex crimes including rape and incestuous rape/sexual abuse. The victim still feels guilty, feels dirty; a violation that runs so deep that never after will they have a normal day, never continue developing the same way, and will always suffer a tragic loss of self esteem. Guilt comes from a misguided sense of responsibility, and where victims should not feel it, because they have no fault, it’s the same for every victim. Shock, the feeling that they’ll never be clean again, guilt and an unwillingness to tell anyone, or worse, report the attack to the authorities. Most sexual assaults go unreported. Remember that if you ever look at statistics.

In my case, the worst part wasn’t even the shame I felt. Nor was it the humilation and guilt.

It was the brain washing, the conditioning. I was repeatedly told that the Bible said to ‘honor thy father and mother that thy days be long.’

It was meant to put me in mortal fear that if I didn’t do what they wanted, God would kill me. I believed it and feared it. Worse would follow.

The belt, a thin leather weapon from the 1950s and 1960s, before the wide belts and collars and stupid ties became so dreadfully fashionable. That weapon laid our skin open. We bled, we had welts that wept from blistering, and we were nothing but slaves. My younger sister and I were made to do things together and it gave me an intense hatred of her, made worse years later when I heard she had accused me of being part of her abuse. To this day I find it a challenge not to hate her.

I was told that I was “being taught” about sex. This was their excuse: I had to grow up to know how to satisfy a woman I married; to keep her happy, in other words. But the next paragraph explains why I was never going to have a normal relationship in my life, and why I would end up divorced and alone.

Because the trauma gave way in short order to post traumatic stress. Many a Sunday saw me sitting in a church pew, not hearing a word the pastor said, staring through him, through the wall behind him, miles away, at something I did not see, reliving the events of a few hours earlier, and not able to sleep after my “turn.”

Now of course some of you know the consequences of PTSD, the daredevil behavior, promiscuity, substance abuse, the compulsive things we do.

Before those, though, I endured the endless days of terror of the horrible belt because sometimes father did not need a reason to use that instrument of torture; he just came home from work stressed or with a “sick” headache, and for exactly no reason or a made-up one, he’d beat me bloody. Bad report card? Beating. Acting up? Beating. A teacher not knowing what she was looking at, seeing me with a two thousand yard stare, sends a note to my parents that I didn’t pay attention in class? Beating. Caught masturbating? Beating for not telling my mother I was horny before I did such an evil thing. If I told her? Beating because, as my father screamed, “she’s my wife!”

I didn’t know if I was going to live, die, be abandoned or later, if I could kill myself.

A learning disability set in by second grade. I was fucked up. I didn’t put it together: the abuse made it impossible to stop flashbacks and dissociation, which in any case where trauma is present, is a detachment from the present and acts as a defense. But as a coping mechanism it soon becomes more destructive than helpful.

Other symptoms of PTSD are far more terrible. Recklessness (compulsive and usually coming from guilt or showing off for attention, even if the attention is bad) puts the victim and others in danger. Social dysfunction is always present. Either the victim acts inappropriately and tries too hard to fit in, or they withdraw completely and are quick to disengage in relationships or even casual situations. They don’t know what is going on, only that they fear being hurt and therefore put people off or they turn their backs to friends they love, but burn bridges: hurt, or be hurt. No one gets too close.

Marriages fail. Jobs are gained and lost. Their past dogs them for the rest of their lives.

I am painfully aware that I’m not alone in this. There are too many men and women who have too much in common with me, and it hurts me to know this but be unable to help. I want to hug them and let them cry. I want to say, you’re not alone.

It was a life changing thing, when I found out I was not unique. That I was not alone. To think of others suffering makes me wonder betimes where is God while all this evil is happening.

But I try very hard to put that question away. It has no place in my life. I just want to help others, and yet, I know I can’t. That is one very awful feeling.

Hyperawareness and the supernatural

One of the most unfortunate results of post-trauma is hyperawareness. This is true of most victims because they have been conditioned to sense danger and without knowing it, they do the opposite of dissociation: they are almost superhuman and they hear, see and smell everything around them. It is rarely a false alarm, but even if nothing happens, they trust their gut feelings and they often carry some type of self-defense weapon because they know that a real threat could pop up anywhere at any time.

They never want or intend to use a weapon, and they are harmless. But because they’ve developed a keen empathy for others and they are often protectors, they would readily give their lives to defend anyone in danger. They know how it feels to be a victim and they would never stand around with a cellphone camera recording a victim in danger. They’ll fight for you. Although gentle and soft spoken, in such a situation they are the most dangerous people on this earth. They will do the right thing. They will risk freedom and life to save you.

And there’s more to this hyperawareness: they know about the supernatural. Their experience has opened them up to its presence and reality. This doesn’t mean that they are not scared; on the contrary, I have been terrified since my earliest memories of an entity in my bedroom that took delight in making sure I saw it, and it did, as they say, feed off the negative energy I put out, raw, unbridled terror. I could sense its thrill, but at no point did its hatred of me cease.

Later, I’d be open to more than that.

The Puzzle

As I’ve aged, I have been treated for PTSD and severe depression. But in 1980, that was far in my future. I read a book titled “Ghost Story” by Peter Straub. He had read Steven King’s book Salem’s Lot, or the short story, Jerusalem’s Lot, and even though Straub was an accomplished horror writer, he learned from King how to lay out a fictional town and place great characters in it. His book told the story of the town of Milburn, New York, located east of Binghamton.

I have been through there on my way to Syracuse, and the whole of rural and suburban New York State is truly eerie; I never liked it. Not even the trips I made to Buffalo were in any way pleasant, although Connecticut is far worse. For the sensitive, it is an exhausting trip.

In the Straub novel, the town is snowed in and an evil, hungry force embodied in a woman has come to town for revenge. She’s a shape shifter, but the host body is how she usually resides and kills in.

This would, much later, come rushing back to me as I encountered two women who were all wrong.

Do you remember, did you read that post?

I thought that anyone who read it would never be able to get over it. As it turns out, nobody believes it. But it happened. The title of the post is “Two people who can’t possibly be, but are.”

I believe that they are what Straub wrote about: not ghosts, not aliens. Living creatures, indigenous to our planet, who have been here for centuries, milenia, and longer than we have. They are the inspiration for every ghost story ever told; folk tales, myths, legends and more.

Skin walkers, manitous, faeries, werewolves, the banshee, bigfoot, peterosoars, thunderbirds and more. Size does not matter. And you never find any evidence, especially if you kill one, because they seem to vanish. No teeth, no bones, but possibly some DNA traces that have never been identified and never will be.

In the novel, I believe that Peter Straub wrote from experience or personal talks with eyewitnesses. He certainly knew Native American stories, and evidently respected the tellers.

Why am I talking about this? Because such beings might really exist. How would we know? Anyone who has ever seen the real form of these things probably died of fright, a shock that just can’t be processed by humans. If autopsied, victims wouldn’t show anything unnatural. Maybe a heart attack. And by the time a body is posted, things like massive surges in adrenaline swiftly become undetectable except in the organs, because blood samples won’t show it. Fear wouldn’t be listed as a contributing cause of death; that doesn’t happen. The only way to know is to examine the heart, and a look over won’t let any M.E. suspect anything but heart failure, which is not the same thing as a heart attack, which can be detected. Instead, microscopic examination of heart tissue would appear to tell of the muscle being destroyed as if it had been torn like a sheet. On a microscopic level.

Given that, anyone so afflicted wouldn’t have time to leave any clues. So the world never knows.

In the book, these things also enjoy physical attacks that shred bodie

And what if these things really are among us? Why would they cause harm, appear as frightening animals or creatures of myth, or stalk us?

Who knows? I’m telling you that I, for my part, think something is playing with me. It’s appeared in my life many times, causing nightmares and worse.

They’re not demons. That thing terrorizing me as a child was absolutely a demon. Demons occupied or passed through other places I’ve lived. The sensitivity to the paranormal, heightened by PTSD, has been with me since the child abuse began. That puts the onset at around age 3, when father began using the belt. I know this because I remember bits, and I was always terrified of him.

Now a different kind of terror lives two doors away.

I had tried to be her friend even though the cessation of the HER nightmares coincided with her arrival, reminding me of the Straub novel. I feared her, and it occurs to me now that her beauty is a mere façade and under it lies a monster. One to curdle your blood.

Out of necessity, a while back I cut my hair and shaved my beard. Without me speaking a word, she saw the change (no one else seems to have noticed and if they have, remained silent) and said, I approve of the cleanup.” I was quite pissed, as it clearly illustrated the fact that she had hitherto thought of me as dirty.

I asked, “well, what was I before ?” And her answer was cruel: “you had long hair and a scraggly beard.”

Newnwhile I had only treated her with respect and had never said anything like that about her.

When I apologized for not speaking to her because I was sick and my throat felt like tiny bulldozers were working down there, she said it was nothing in a very cold voice. I said I was sorry if she had taken it hard, and the answer came, “It is what it is.”

Beyond being nonsense, that phrase is used to hurt, and she said it with a voice so cold that I was hurt. But I recovered quickly; it was a dismissal, a fuck you, you don’t mean shit to me anyway.

That drew a line, creating a boundary. A week later I heard her going to her car, but I didn’t know who it was. As soon as I turned, she said warmly, “Good morning, Mike.”

I made a humph grunt and turned my back fully to her, because she crossed her own line and now I had to draw a line. Once I do that, I never cross it, because I’ve moved my line too many times only to get stabbed in the back. It took 65 years to learn that lesson and I won’t forget it again.

A few mornings later, after having another HER nightmare, she caught me outside again. I tried to nail down her schedule so I could avoid her, moving my smoke breaks to different times. But she’s inconsistent. Is she seeing me on her security cameras? Not to likely. I’m too close to a right angle to them. Watching out the window? Could be. I doubt that too.

She said it again, Good morning, enquiring as to my health, which she doesn’t care about and I know it. I turned away again.

Both times I felt a shock of pain and anger that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t mad, just resolved. I was not even afraid.

If I’m afraid now, it’s because yesterday evening about sunset, she was going out. She gave me a low, girlish wave and said, “Hey babe.”

She’s playing with me.

That’s what the things in Ghost Story did. And I think Straub knew this about a thing he couldn’t even describe, but left the reader to ponder.

It’s drama, it’s changing faces and tactics. But she can’t feel any emotion that’s healthy and good and positive. That’s why I’m passive to her. I neither love nor hate, nor will I speak to her again. I don’t like mental and emotional manipulation and I’m just plain finished.

And yet my gut tells me that there is still danger here. Therefore I must remain resolute and give no response, not even a subtle movement, to anything she does it says.

The Other Solution to the puzzle?

There’s of course a possibility that what she’s done, and is doing, is the result of mental instability.

What pathology do I base this on? She’s at least antisocial to some degree, but tries to be intimate with both men and women. She wants affection but can’t return it. She wants attention, but is disinterested in giving it. Everything is about her. By changing her approach to me yesterday, she proved a dangerous sign I had seen was not only a correct observation but that she is also very manipulative. She’s probing my resolve, testing it.

At this point she could walk across the parking lot nude and I’d just smoke my cigarette and never care or look. I’d be able to tell that just by what’s left of my peripheral vision.

No matter what turns out to be true, I will face it with the courage God grants me.

May you be as blessed as I am and have been. No matter your past, your losses, your pain, your trauma, there is always hope. And the more you have been through, the more you can help others who are hurting and lost. Tell them there’s hope.

Hope for better days, hope to walk closer to God, and remember: if you’re struggling, reach out. Help is always close by. Talk. Be careful, be safe, be well.

Because there’s always room for one more day, and when that day comes, things usually look better. Don’t give up. I’m in this fight with you. And more importantly, so is God.

Resources:

For help with suicidal thoughts and personal crises, call or text 988.

Website: https://988lifeline.org/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=web&utm_campaign=onebox

Nineteen Seventy Six

What a year that was, huh? The United States celebrated two hundred years as a “free” country. Red white and blue were everywhere.

Ford was in office, but was going to lose to Jimmy Carter in the fall.

By 1976, the greats were gone or going. The Beatles had split forever and were on successful solo careers that made their loss a bit less painful, but nevertheless an open wound that remains to this day a great loss in the music world, but somehow this song was re-released that summer. On a fishing boat down in Tangier Sound, kids in speedboats played it and it echoed across the swells of the mighty Chesapeake.

Vietnam was over. 1975 had seen the final battles as Saigon fell to the NVA.

Books detailing Nixon’s hubris and stunningly stupid crimes were being published. We thought that the worst was over, that we could all heal, that our divided country could heal.

It really was a hopeful time.

What happened?

***

I was just a teenager in a school that was way out of my pay grade. I had no hope of passing a single subject and Biology I, Algebra I and Spanish I were all incomprehensible, a fact made worse by overpaid professors who were, in reality, burnouts who couldn’t reach me. The only subject I made decent marks in was English, and my previous education had nothing to do with it. I had read everything I could get my hands on, learning grammar and spelling as I went. Books were my escape from the nightmare of everyday life. I smuggled in copies of Playboy and Hustler, and sometimes Penthouse, not just because of the models, but because I learned a lot from articles on politics, celebrities, fashion, style, and how to behave in a way that others would be more receptive of.

Of course it never changed my rage, or my being an asshole. Untangling that would take decades, a fight I’m still waging. Yet reading held perhaps a big input to later becoming a liberal, socially and politically.

From 1972 on, I had been working for my father at his warehouse in Glen Burnie, right next to the mall. Back then there was an Amoco station up the street, a giant sliding board with panels missing to dissuade trespassers from using it because those damn things were dangerous, despite the Banana Splits making it look like stupid-fun, and beside that was a GO propane filling station and a store where they sold gas grills.

The warehouse was filthy. No matter how much I swept the floors with an oil-based sweeping compound and a push broom, the next day black dust would coat everything.

I had to clean the trucker’s bathroom, which was as humiliating as it was disgusting.

By December of ’75, a new guy and I were tasked over my winter break to roll sealer on the floors in an effort to keep the dust out of the “pores” of the cement floor.

It would prove futile.

I did discover in the cold of that winter the joy of Taster’s Choice coffee and Coffee Mate, which I couldn’t get enough of. It’s a miracle I ever slept at all.

Working and going to school in January, with my sadistic older sister driving the three of us to school, I was truly miserable. I hated her by then. She laughed at my every misspoken word, stumble, fall, bad grade, and she constantly complained about the way I smelled after work. To this day I can’t even stand the memory of her.

If I had any refuge at all, it was at my desk, where I wrote erotic stories, drew pornographic caricatures of people I knew and hated, or when I took to my bed to read whole novels in two nights.

Then there was music. That universal medication that heals, or reminds you that you have a lot of healing left to do. Songs and instrumentals that made me cry and parodies that made me laugh. Upbeat music, love ballads and last but not least, the most god awful stuff you ever heard.

***

Spring, 1976: I remember bright days with lots of sunshine, but it was cold at the old prep school by the Severn River.

What sustained me is hard to say. It was the second semester of my first year in a private school I never belonged in. Triggers, which I knew nothing about, were everywhere, and PTSD wasn’t even a widely known condition at the time. As I’ve often noted, I knew that I was different, that something was wrong with me, but not what was wrong with me. Which means I couldn’t do anything about it. Speaking to a former classmate in 2014, I tried to explain. I think he already knew. “You were always into something,” he laughed. “Later, we found out other things were going on.” He spoke no more about it, and I never pursued the subject. He had read about it in the papers. I felt vindicated by his sober conclusion.

Sometimes a trigger was the news. In reality, nothing was really healing. We were all happy to be out of Vietnam, but I casually knew veterans who were obviously troubled. Watching how one guy who Agent Orange was about to kill treat his devoted girlfriend and then wife so horribly really hurt me.

It hurt me that I was too young and had missed the war. That the guy was dying and was angry and scared. That I had played “Army” with friends when we never knew what real war was like. I was sensitive to the pain and sickness of others and I was bitter later on that I could not have taken their place. I was quite a coward, but had I been of age, I would have gone.

I was being raised a racist, a sadist and, in short, a Republican (by today’s standards).

But that was never who I really was. I understand brain washing and mind conditioning. I know how it works because I went through it. Today’s MAGA washees still stun me. The phenomenon of brain washing is studied, documented, and somewhat understood by scholars and physicians, but there’s no cure. This was the era of Krishna and the “Reverend” Moon, and the news had a buzzword: deprogramming. But I didn’t believe in it. I still don’t.

But in the Spring of 1976, nobody could see what was coming. We thought that even if we were fooling ourselves about healing, that the coming summer celebration would mend some of the rifts that Nixon, Johnson and the war had opened.

*The Universal Language*

Regardless of when the singles were released, these songs were on the radio and the charts.

Lord have mercy: The Four Seasons ?

The all time, forever “1976” anthem: Queen, Freddie Mercury the one and only …

And Elvin Bishop’s single from a 1975 album released in ’76…

It’s still a popular song and was part of the “Awesome Mix” in the MCU classic Guardians of the Galaxy.”

Peter Frampton had a hit that played all through the summer;

I don’t know what we were thinking here, but heck, we liked it: Welcome Back.

Remember the episode when Epstein painted a mural of Mrs. Kotter nude on the school wall? I can’t find the clip of the nutty guy shouting “repent! The world is coming to an end,” but it’s the funniest few seconds in the entire series.

For some, 1976 has become a dead zone. We remember some things with a hint of accuracy, while we really don’t remember others.

Memories are capricious things, sometimes staying close to accurate, sometimes right on target, but other times way off the mark. This I accept as true even when writing here. I stick to the best job I can do and leave out what I’m unsure of, except when I admit something I’m including isn’t clear.

What about 1976, then, do you remember most accurately?

The pop singles powered the summer of that year with great songs, but damn, there were some really weird things out there. For example, Wikipedia lists the singles but notes that a SNAFU occured in the compiled hits. It caused songs released anywhere from November and December of 1975 to be included because by January, they were still charting and selling 45s.

Some of the late ’75 songs I’m glad to see included.

See, 1976 was weird. The Captain and Tennille released by one of the most indecent, horrible, wretched songs of all time, “Muskrat Love.” It’s an abomination that sort of rode on their unimaginable popularity; the song is actually about two muskrats and features Captain playing muskrats making love sound effects with his cursed keyboard.

Kiss released “Rock and Roll All Night,” just another of their stupid songs with the same lyric repeated about a thousand times.

And Henry Gross released “Shannon,” a song about his dog, which was missing. For whatever reason, he hoped she had drifted out to sea, a horrible thought to me. Of course, it charted.

And I liked this one, because it mentions the Chesapeake Bay.

In August, a cover of Springsteen’s 1973 song “Blinded by the Light” changed history by being the first ever song in America that nobody could understand the lyrics of. Listeners swore that “revved up like a Deuce another runner in the night” was really “it looks like a douching in the middle of the night.”

Perhaps for that reason, it hit the charts with staying power, remaining on the radio playlists into the winter of 1976-1977.

Rod Stewart was daring. And, I believe, the only man who could release “The Killing of Georgie, Part One and Two” and get away with it. But it fueled an old urban legend that he was gay, which he certainly wasn’t. I don’t know how it did in sales, but it’s not a true story,  but a tragic one that tells of a young man coming out as gay and being thrown out by his parents. Georgie goes to the Big Apple and becomes a must-have guest at parties before he’s murdered. The second part is a lamentation of the narrator heartbreakingly begging Georgie not to go away. The song works, and it may be because it was ahead of its time. Only Rod Stewart could have pulled that off; it got play time even on AM radio.

Summer songs worthy of mention included Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show with their plaintive, heartbroken narrative of a young man who lost his love because youthful love never lasts, and usually isn’t real in the first place.

WAR’s hit with the now required summer listening, appropriately titled “Summer”:

I refuse to talk about Barry Manilow, Neil Diamond, or Barbara Streisand. Sue me.

Apple Computer, Price Club and Conrail were formed.

Hank Aaron hit his final home run, number 755.

The Winter and Summer Olympics were held at Innsbruck and Montreal, respectively. One athlete, Nadia Comaneci, earned several perfect “10” scores in gymnastics, a landmark event. Her floor exercise was accompanied by the beautiful “Nadia’s Theme,” became a hit single in the US that fall. Now known as the theme from “The Young and Restless” soap, it still evokes a vision of the intense 14-year-old Romanian making everything she did look easy. She later married American gymnast Bart Conner and they live in the US. Even in her sixties by now, she’s beautiful and the little shit is younger than me. Life ain’t fair. They own several businesses together.

The Southern Rock band Eagles released their awesome LP, “Hotel California,” which is still one of the best selling albums of all time. Rolling Stone has it on their 500 best albums of all time, and if it has dropped on that list a bit, it’s still there. It was also the band’s first album with Joe Walsh, today a legend in his own right. Three singles from it were released, but with a December debut, the album’s singles charted in 1977.

For the category best album of the year, only Rumours by Fleetwood Mac could beat it.

However, Rod Stewart was the one with the most popular song of the year with this ballad:

1976 was a remarkable year for movies. It featured the last film appearance by John Wayne, who lobbied passionately to get the part of J.B. Books, an aged “shootist” or gunfighter who travels to Carson City in 1901 seeking help from the only doctor he trusts, Doc Hostetler (Jimmy Stewart). He had seen a doctor in Creed, Colorado but hadn’t believed his diagnosis.

The book takes place in El Paso, but the sets didn’t exist that could do that city justice. Still, Carson City was just as good.

Hostetler tells Books that he has cancer, and it’s advanced. His patient doesn’t have long to live.

It’s sad, because Wayne was also fighting cancer, and he wanted this to be his swan song.

The movie is touching, a bittersweet send off to one of the world’s most enduring screen icons of all time.

Featuring Ron Howard, Richard Boone, Lauren Bacall, Bill McKinney, Hugh O’Brien, and Harry Morgan, the end title music and Howard’s character walking away from the camera is tear-jerking.

And in a year with mixed cinematic quality, it was a standout.

Other films released included “The Outlaw Josey Wales,” “Midway” with “Surround Sound” and a bloated all-star cast, and a King Kong remake that nobody remembers. Which is only fitting. I forget who it starred, except for Jessica Lange, who has a breast reveal by the giant simian who can’t possibly mate with her (Cringe movie).

The remake with Jack Black was the only one I’ll allow as okay. But it is the original that still captures the story in all its glory.

Then there’s “The Missouri Breaks,” “The Enforcer,” a Dirty Harry outing, and too many more to mention.

Not a bad year, entertainment-wise.

I remember watching a fireworks show in D.C. but nothing of what it looked like.

At a hotel, a group of American Legion “delegates” became sick with what we now know as Legionnaires Disease.

Former president George Washington was given the rank of six-star General, something I find vaguely insulting. It was 200 years late.

As a country, we had been through a lot. Two world wars, the Civil War, the Depression, the dust bowl years, a recession was building up, and outbreaks of the measles, chicken pox, several influenza epidemics, and we had virtually eliminated a proud native population. The unforgivable crime of slavery still haunts us today, as it should.

The Vietnam War was a stain on our honor too, a purely political blot we can never move on from.

Now, today, things are more grim than ever. We have sustained irreparable damage to our government and people act as though it’s no big deal.

Prices are so high that I believe people are dying of malnutrition and disease that should not be happening.

It’s a bad time, a frightening time.

When things get really bad, sometimes the best thing to do is to look back and remember who we were and that we were better back then.

We had landed two men on the moon with Apollo 11, a miraculous feat, and in 1976 Viking I landed on Mars, equipped for durability, and it sent back the most amazing photos. America had done great things. We were proud of that.

But …

America at 250 is not in good shape.

I cannot survive much longer. It’s not possible. Half a century of smoking, a poor man’s diet, poor health care, trauma, and tragedy have taken a heavy toll. I’m proud of the fight I have waged against the odds, with God’s help and the mercy and kindness of others, but all things must end. It’s said that only the good die young. Well….I am not young.

If I leave here, though, I will live on, in a place you can’t go yet. I’ll wait to meet people I’ve never known yet love deeply, and we will remember both the good and the bad, and probably wonder how we survived at all.

The human spirit is still strong in this country, and if we make it through these days of fear, it will be because kind souls have won. I believe that. I’ve met so many great souls, that yes, I have faith that America will endure. If I go before you, remember that I have faith in you and the best of people around the world.

Happy 250th birthday, America. Do better.

Shots Fired in D.C.

At 15:30 this afternoon, an incident near the Washington Monument took place: https://share.google/P8gZndm9FvSEc9NKk

I have something to confess, even though anyone who reads these posts of mine may already be aware of it.

I’ve lived a hard life, like most of you have. Mine may have been for different reasons, but hardship is universal; it wears us down no matter how it started.

In my case, brainwashing was a big part of my parents and their abuse and conditioning of all of their children. Eight of us.

I’m no longer in touch with any of my siblings, after one too many times being ghosted. I know that it happens for a reason, and I’m fine with it, but I wish that any one of them would have just told me to go screw myself. Because that’s not nearly as hurtful as being ignored and excluded.

That said, none of us are exactly… normal.

Beatings, as very small children, with our father’s thin leather belt plus sexual abuse of every kind on everyone, girls and boys alike, has left a lot of damage.

I don’t carry a grudge or anger, and there is nothing to forgive. They just won’t ever see me or hear from me again. I hope that’s what they were trying for, because after a point, I don’t go back for more.

However….

I have been, as a result of years of terrorism in the house, while growing up–threats of abandonment (I was 8) to the oft-repeated promise of dropping me off at a mental hospital, and more — made bend very easily to the speech and emotions of others.

There are still times today when I get caught up, when I’m easily led astray, and hateful speech or writing, particularly on social media, sway me to get abusive and hateful myself.

This goes against my mild nature, the spirit in me that animals sense, and makes dogs eager to approach me and make friends with me, while birds seem to know I’m not a threat, and even cats “talk” to me.

It’s a spirit that I fought hard for. It’s how I wanted to be when I realized that being an asshole was nothing to brag about, and that assholes are lonely, miserable people.

This resulted in a tug-of-war between good and bad people in my life who didn’t even know what they were doing to me. And it really messed up my mind.

Of course, CPTSD and a learned behavioral disorder (not BPD) put me on a rollercoaster which defined my days, even hours. My life since has seen tragedy and unbearable loss, and yet I’ve been forced to bear it. I’m not proud of anything I’ve ever done in or with my life. A life of severe dysfunction and pain.

In the past months, I’ve slipped away from being the man I was, the one I finally succeeded in becoming, and I have been caught up in hateful speech against those I see running my country into the ground.

I don’t even remember half of the crap I’ve said.

I regret everything hateful I’ve said. Every sentence I’ve written that was negative and evil.

Because that’s not my way.

Although the person influencing me never intended to harm me, and is a dear friend, I have been led to hatefulness by her unending and prolific Facebook posts condemning all republicans as pedophiles, rapists, gun nuts and who use biblical scriptures to spread hate against liberals.

I do love this friend very much, but I have to cut her loose. For my mental health and for my soul, I can’t be in contact any further.

This friend calls MAGA Republicans as well as all other Republicans “Rapebiblekkkguns.”

Consistently, too. She states unequivocally her deep hatred of them all.

Then she has the gall to go on her YouTube channel and give Sunday School lessons.

That gross hypocrisy.

I’ve struggled with this longer than I should have. Agreed with her even though I knew it was wrong.

This is an easily led, previously brainwashed mind in total weakness. I can’t sustain it. It’s draining the life out of me, stressing me, making me spend far too much time on social media, which I have said is a metabolic toxin. It’s fine for staying in touch with friends, but not for spreading anger and hatred.

Whether the correspondent’s dinner shooting and this one are connected is doubtful. And the late reports say that today’s shooter was, in fact, killed as a result of the firefight.

What I’ve been doing — what so many of us have been doing — is wrong. Hate, anger, ugly speech, they are what’s ultimately behind violent, mentally disturbed people trying to get at Trump.

If I’ve been a part of that, I repent of it.

Hate speech causes serious harm, and it can get far worse. It must be stopped.

It’s a good thing to hate what the Trump administration does, but a sin to hate the people in that administration. A grave sin, that comes back and poisons the one doing the hating. After all that I’ve been through, I don’t want to poison my own soul. I don’t want to hurt others. I don’t want to deride people for their appearance.

I am not a good man. I’m nothing but a failure and a filthy, low-down sinner.

My hope for salvation lies with the Son of God. He surely doesn’t approve of what I have been doing.

And yet….I do not hate Donald Trump. I don’t want to see harm come to him. Wishing people to drop dead or to be murdered is cowardly, dishonorable and evil.

I think of a verse I read a long time ago in Genesis. It said that people’s every thought was evil, and in all the land, none could be found worthy of saving.

Except for Noah.

I’d rather be Noah than to die in a flood, earthquake or nuclear war.

We all need to stop the hate speech. It’s supposed to be beneath us.

Now that I’ve let you know my feelings, I have one more thing to add: we must recall our ships from the waters near the Straight, and end hostilities against Iran. We attacked unprovoked, a war crime. We killed innocent people including children. That is unforgivable. Let’s demand some honor and leave them be. Let order and civility carry the day.

Call your congressional representatives and senators and demand they take action before we end up in a war we will pay for with blood. Lots of it.

I’m for peace, honor and order. This mess needs to be cleaned up.

God bless us all. Thank you for allowing me to be a small part of your day. I’m honored.

An Apology Can Have The Most Profound Effect

There’s a person I know. They are gender neutral, and that’s a thing I grew up with no knowledge or concept of, except that I noticed that we all struggle to find our place, our identity, our dreams and which ones we decide to chase.

It’s been very difficult to change my language, and I have tried, often, to get out of the habit of southern traditional greetings. In the summer, wearing a fedora or a boonie, a leftover from the Army’s OD days, I’d motion to tip it and say, “good afternoon, ma’am,” or “sir,” and that’s a habit born of politeness and good manners, a thoughtful gesture meant to be friendly, declare yourself a safe person, and then let them pass without fear.

But this is not the 1960s North Carolina.

This is now, today, and things have changed. I prefer to acknowledge the wishes of others and show respect, and yet, I struggle. It isn’t easy. But, it is worth the effort to show respect for all people, except for killers, rapists, pedophiles and their ilk. I can spare no respect, no sympathy for them. May God understand and forgive me.

Yesterday, I was outside hosing myself down with my poisonous addiction: tobacco. It’s a nasty one, worse than almost all others combined in my opinion. I’ve quit opiates, booze and more, but I have two very nagging and powerful ones left, and smoking is one of them. It’s got to stop, but I have been unsuccessful so far. The sentence: slow death. There’s no cure. No treatment will work. When  I go, I can’t even hope that it won’t be painful. I wish I had never smoked the first one.

Sometimes a neighbor passes too close, making me think I should move further into the parking lot and away from the sidewalk.

But the neighbor moved too fast for me. They said, getting into their car, “have a nice day,” and I said, “You, too, ma’am.” I said it warmly, because this neighbor is a good friend, one I get to chat with far less often than I would like to.

As soon as “Ma’am” came out of my mouth, I was sorry, and it was too late to apologize, because they were already in the car and getting ready to leave.

I felt so bad that, hours later when I saw their car was parked, I knocked on the door. Another family member answered, and I insisted that he pass on my apology. He said, “it happens, I do it too,” but I begged him to pass along my apology. I said it was important.

A few minutes ago, they came outside and up the steps to thank me for making such an effort. They said they appreciated the gesture. I looked into their eyes and saw deep sincerity, something that’s very rare. They were close enough for me to see the look, and I said, “aww, I love you so much.” And I thanked them for making me feel better by assuring me that there were no hard feelings. Then, magic: a hug. Gentle, platonic, sincere, genuine.

We did talk for a few minutes, then, another hug. Wow. You can’t get a hug that meaningful from any lover, or most friends. I’ve never experienced that kind of love. Innocent, without reservation.

All it took was one apology that my friend passed along to them, and finally I knew how powerful the words “I’m sorry” really are.

They are special, this friend. My heart feels full today.

The Mayflower Descendants Live!

It’s amazing, if you think of it all. A ship which looks dangerous and highly unsuitable for a Transatlantic voyage made it to Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1620 after a voyage which took place from September to November.

About half of the passengers died before making landfall, and even more passed from sickness and exposure during their first winter, that being 1620-1621.

For John Turner and two sons, the elder listed as a merchant, the dream of the “Saints,” or church of England separatists known as “Pilgrims, the New World was no haven. It just killed them.

One source said they died in Connecticut. Another source challenges that  with records of burial in Massachusetts.

Turner’s third child, Elizabeth, arrived later on another vessel. Whether she had heard the tragic news before leaving (most likely from Ireland), I can’t say. I do know that she survived to marry and have children, and that today, Turner’s surname shows up often in my family tree. I, along with about 80 million Americans, are surviving descendants of the Mayflower passengers.

I found this on Ancestry before it had much competition, and it shocked me that the Mayflower appeared. I was impressed. Proud.

As it happens, John Turner had fled the oppression of England’s strict religious politics, and spent time in the Netherlands. Whether he had known someone who was already there or had family, I can’t say. But nevertheless, Belgian and Swedish DNA showed up in my sample and its analysis.

These were surprises I have taken pride in. If we ignore our heritage, especially if it’s a diverse sample, then how can we be open to learning new and cool things? The family of humankind is not quite what I thought it was.

The clue for John Turner was revealed on my maternal side and went to an Irene Turner, then way back to Elizabeth, and her parents. I really don’t know much about them. That’s where their trail dries up.

Except…clues went back farther. More ancestors; English, Welsh, Scottish and Irish. And that’s just on my mother’s side.

I had a difficult time on the paternal search, but a two year break brought me back to find so many of the frustrating blanks filled in. And what a horror story that told. My grandfather’s middle name traced back to Greece and meant “Son of the Lion” while “The Lion” was given to me. I hated my name until I found out what it meant.

But there’s no Greek DNA in my family. It’s just what I’ve said, 65 percent English, 7 percent Irish, about 9 percent Scottish and the rest is Welsh, Belgian-Netherlands, and Swedish.

I wonder how my ancestors survived so many years in the harsh wilderness and dangerous environments of the first towns and cities. I can only just picture it, and I don’t see roses and tulips. I see fevers and disease, persecution, harsh, deadly weather, war and poverty.

Crops failed. Native Americans were friendly, then turned enemies, then were victims of genocide. Some brave new start, huh?

Having Daniel Boone show up as my 6th great uncle was astonishing. I researched and found that he was better than movies and a Fess Parker TV series made him out to be. He served his new country in the War for Independence, served two terms in Congress, went on epic long hunts, and cunningly tracked natives who had kidnapped his daughter and her friend. He stalked patiently, never giving away his position. When they stopped to eat, he killed them and returned home with both girls safely and in one piece each.

There are so many stories out there of the descendants of the Mayflower passengers that I look back and wonder, in total awe, how they did so many impossible things to get us all here.

But I also wonder if this is the end, if the dream is coming to a nightmare ending after so much has happened.

Here’s to the Children of the Mayflower, may our generation recover and save this country from itself. Peace, and long life.

The Mayflower II, a replica. Photo credit Wikipedia

You did WHAT in the Piggly Wiggly?

This cell phone shit has gone too far.

You mean you can’t even get through your grocery shopping without reading a whole thread on Reddit?

And don’t blame prices, because inflation makes shopping a very short trip indeed, except for me, when it takes two hours to find three items and make it to a register, even though I can’t be on Reddit until I get home, have the lighting just right and use 8.0 magnifying reading glasses. But if I could see the screen, I wouldn’t be on the web or phone in a Winn Dixie or a Kroger’s (I wouldn’t shop at either one of those anyway).

YOUR shopping only takes five minutes to get eight items. Except NOW, you read whole Reddit threads while you’re there. How long do you spend in there, anyway? Do you pack a lunch and make a day of it, or what?

Either Reddit threads are getting shorter as illiteracy rises, or you’d fall to your knees in the grocery store for just about any reason, which would probably, in this fucked-up country, be taken as an OFFER and end up in a queue of people in front of you stretching all the way to the pharmacy.

In any event, I have one small piece of advice for you:

TURN YOUR FUCKING PHONE OFF WHILE YOU’RE IN THE STORE, YOU WORM!

This is an actual advertisement. America is finally dumb enough to understand Trump.

What I Can’t Forget

I just saw a Facebook post. Something about a 7 year-old girl being murdered by a Fed Ex driver and some other fucking man. They abducted her and strangled her as “Jingle Bell Rock” played.

I had not heard of this.

I could not read the entire post. I made it to that part, and that’s it. But it was audio-recorded.

I don’t want to know any more. I don’t want to know anything anymore. I just died a lot more inside.

When this happens, we all die inside.

I didn’t want to see it. There was no content warning. It was just there.

Perhaps that’s as it should be; we need to face the evil that reality is. If we don’t, we’re no better than the dogs who did this.

How can you hide? Where can you hide?

Sticking your head in the sand will only multiply your sin of letting innocent children die. And make no mistake: I’m questioning the parents here; where the hell were they? When this happens, how does it happen?

Who was not doing their job? I tell people all the time, keep your children close. Don’t let them run ahead of you. Don’t let them out of your sight. It only takes an instant for them to disappear, and you never see them again. Then you have to live with the horrible emptiness that takes its place in your soul, takes their place in your soul, living every day, for the rest of your days, imagining what their last moments were like.

And now I’ve also said it to you.

Because you know by now my children were lost to me a long time ago.

And my grandchildren want nothing to do with me and the feeling is mutual. If one were to die, I couldn’t bear it.

I’m estranged by choice from my family.

Not just because they lied and said they tried to call when zero missed calls showed up on my phone.

It’s not just that.

It’s that if they die, I would die, too.

Plus, when I die, if God ever allows it, they won’t even know.

I choose never to feel that kind of pain again.

And you, what about you?

Because you have to guard your children at all times in this evil world full of sadistic people. Be closer to them. Make time for them, and most of all, have fun with them, letting them learn to trust you in everything you say and do. You don’t have to cage them; you just can’t let them walk to school, and I don’t give a damn what your schedule is, children come first or you’re no goddamn good. And you might one day come home from work to find the house empty, and still empty at nightfall, and even more empty after a sleepless night talking to the police, who can no more help you than the man in the moon.

I hope I just made you sick. I hope I scared the hell outta you.

If not, imagine being the parent who never sees their own children again. And I mean think about it.

“Malaka! It’s REAL!”

Those words are spoken by either Alexios or Kassandra of Sparta in the game Assassin’s Creed Odyssey when the character first enters the labyrinth in search of the minotaur beneath the ruins of Knossos Palace on Krete.

Now I have said it. And you may be surprised why.

Because everyone around the world has seen it. Noticed it. Maybe they even connected the subject with what it symbolizes. But I didn’t.

Then I saw the following photos and that drove me to look for, well, I won’t say what my search was for. But I found it. Right on Wikipedia!

In this article you’ll see something truly frightening.

I did notice all the stuff on MAGA appointed “officials,” because you can’t miss it. Not on the women and certainly not on the men. Reading this chilled me. That’s when I quoted the characters in Assassin’s Creed Odyssey.

But they were only facing the minotaur, a creature of rage with a double-bladed heavy battle axe. A big one.

What we’re facing is a cult. An unknown number of people who have given their souls away to mindlessly follow Donald Trump and his soiled diapers.

The Mar-a-Lago face consists of– well, don’t take it from me, look at the article.

People are actually asking if Trump is the Antichrist.

Well, you’ve seen the recent AI pictures he’s posted of himself as Christ, healing a man who resembles Jon Stewart. Complete with a demon in the background.

Stephen Colbert’s Late Show answered with this hilarious video which is a clever use of “Jesus Christ Superstar.”

Iran made a video in answer to this mess about Trump posing as Jesus, then with Jesus in a weird way which Colbert describes as “going to prom.”

Aside from all that, there was a Facebook post that I at first did not believe to be real. Now I do, but I’m smart enough to not fact-check it. Because anything I find might be even worse.

Besides, the Wikipedia page does describe cheek molding and other injectables, and in some of the government MAGA women I do see thickened, absolutely flat or straight lined bottom lips, limp like a slice of veal with lipstick.

And there’s more. Now, I hate commenting on someone’s appearance, because I had to struggle to overcome my cruelties to others when I was an asshole. I mean, I said some of the meanest, most evil things one person can ever say to another. The look of hurt, even shock, that I got in return never made me feel better. Never took away my pain. The words induced more guilt than anything else, and on my own way back to being a Christian, which is an everyday, every minute effort, I’ve repented of my words and deeds, and yet I still feel shame. It’s haunting.

But then, there are these people who take their own visage into the realm of science fiction. The horror kind of science fiction, like the masks episode from The Twilight Zone.

Here for your torture is the picture that started me on my quest for truth.

As Colonel Kurtz said, “the horror. The horror.”

Folks, I knew MAGA was a cult. I knew I was seeing makeup and makeovers.

I just didn’t put the two together.

If you feel compelled to do something to your body to belong or to feel like you do, something is very wrong.

And now I can see that people will really do what the Book of Revelation predicts: they’ll willingly, gratefully take the mark of the Beast.

If this is in any way a coherent post, it’s purely accidental. I do not presently consider myself coherent.

I can only say that I’m feeling more sick in my heart than I have in a long time.

And you can tell Trump what I said, the Malaka. I don’t care.

Hate the sin

Hate the sin, not the sinner,

And you are the better person.

Hate your sins, and you are wise.

Hate the sinner, and you become the thing you hate.

Hate is what powers Donald Trump.

Hate everything he does, but do not hate him,

and you save your soul.

It is a most difficult thing to do, possibly the most difficult thing to do. But choosing between Heaven and Hell is no choice to be made lightly.

I have hated many, and I have loved greatly. I choose love.

My heart and soul cannot belong to Satan.

I must resist him at all costs.

And so must you.

Some of my faith is restored

This article on NPR is revealing and is not to be taken lightly. It’s very serious and I’ve never read anything like it.

It appears that men and women in our military are, and have been for some time, speaking of a desire to leave active service or qualify for Conscientious Objector status.

In March, the number of calls to an agent who helps with just that kind of thing took on twice the number of clients it usually takes in a year.

The article reports that a growing discontent and disconnect is present in our military, and that the Israeli -U.S. war against Iran is making it all worse.

I had just begun a draft condemning all of our military for killing civilians in Iran, especially that girl’s school. It’s war crimes the likes of which only Donald Trump and Pete Hegseth could get off on, and I should have known that dissent would come from within the ranks.

At the same time, Hegseth is reported to have been halting all promotions for black service women, no matter their achievements. I’ll let you in on something: I know what name Trump and his inner circle use for black people. My question is, why don’t you, and if you do, why are you not boiling over with outrage?

Racism is evil. But then again, everything Washington does is evil.

Resistance to invoking the articles of impeachment or the 25th Amendment against Trump is being used by Democrats like Chuck Schumer because they’re afraid such actions will compromise the results of the midterms. Attaboys fellas, way to put your country first. Democrats are pussies, as I’ve been saying for years.

Meanwhile, the war goes on. Photographs of an attacked U.S. airbase were censored to hide damaged aircraft and it’s crude work, like Trump used a Sharpie.

I was writing about how we’ve given Trump our honor, like selling our souls to the devil. Only we got nothing in exchange. We gave it up.

Well now I see that in saying such a thing, I would have been wrong.

The fact that enlisted ranks want no part of this war or Hegseth’s douchebaggery has restored my faith in them. They know what is right and what is wrong, and they didn’t volunteer for this. War crimes against a non belligerent country, a war unprovoked. They don’t like it.

Tonight, I thank the women and men who serve our country in uniform, and I give a heartfelt apology for doubting your morality and resolve. Well done, all of you!

It still appears that this unjustified war was meant as a diversion to distract the public from the Epstein scandal, which was even voiced by Trump himself: we need to put (the Epstein files) away because there’s a war on.

That’s not a direct quote. He spouts so much bullshit that it’s impossible to keep up with it.

And that is unprecedented even by his own first term record.

And when you’re so bad that extremist nuts like Alex Jones call you out, you should take the hint: you’re a full-goose ball sack.

And people ….

Are dying.

Fed Up

AI kicks my ass. There’s a video on YouTube which I’m not going to link or name because it’s bullshit. And anything over one hour in length with an AI narrator is indefensibly criminal.

It does, however I hate to say it, involve a scandal and banned episode of the stupid Discovery Channel show Expedition X.

Hmm. Already leaving? Go ahead, I wish I could, but I’m the asshole who has to write this crap.

I think that giving the location of the episode’s “investigation” that you’ll either be familiar with the story already, or you’ll search for it.

Here’s the skinny: the team, with Josh Gates involved, goes to investigate a haunted wooded area. It’s infamous enough, and for no good reason, but at least it isn’t Aiokigahara, the “suicide forest.” I couldn’t even stand reading about that place after two awful movies. Besides, Gates has already been there, supposedly. I can’t say for certain since filming anything there is forbidden. Discovery does not strike me as having the guts to film a half hour segment, paying for the permission to do it, doesn’t strike me as something SyFy, History or Discovery would do. Especially since that segment showed “remains” of a human being and “evidence” as to who they may have been in life.

My shorthand has been to regard shows like this as “hey, it’s television,” but that’s because I’ve swallowed the hook too many times, and then figured out paranormal TV is full of sheep dip.

The video about a banned episode may be more of the same. The only evidence I can find seems to be on Reddit and Facebook. That’s not a solid foundation for any conspiracy theory, and I hope we can agree on that, if nothing else. Besides, you know that you have to research much more diligently now that AI is working in every level of news and entertainment.

Citing one source on social media, if you’re going to reference it, has to be backed up by real, solid evidence from more than one source.

There are no other sources for the sensational Facebook posts and subsequent videos on YouTube. Discovery would, if it really had banned an episode, have revealed the reason by now. I cannot even imagine how much email they’ve gotten over this, even though it’s their fault for producing episodes of shows that include pseudoscience and absolute, undeniably fake content.

Being a good storyteller is fine, but carries with it a responsibility to be truthful. And so far I’ve only found one host who takes that responsibility seriously: Peter Laws. His channel Into the Fog accomplishes master storytelling with painstaking research, and he comes across as sincere, with a presence that holds one’s attention in a solid grip.

Peter even went back to the Amityville haunting that chased George and Kathy Lutz out of their home in record time. The Lutzes protested their depiction in the Anson Mount book and in both movies, especially the second one, a remake with Ryan Reynolds. That version had George Lutz becoming violent, something he took great offense to, and rightfully so.

The research Peter Laws did for that episode has convinced me that terrifying things really did take place at 112 Ocean Avenue, and not only that, but that subsequent owners, although denying so, had also explained frightening events.

It showed me that the conspiracy to collude with mount and an attorney were false, and that the family was truly traumatized.

So much so that signing movie rights may have been a decision they weren’t able to properly consider. After my siblings and I appeared on Donahue, we signed such a contract, and it was a mistake.

Not only was the studio responsible for a particularly horrible Amityville sequel, but it turned out that no sponsor would even consider such a horrible movie about a family abused by both parents. The nature of the crimes alone were enough to call the idea they were pitched impossible to make without turning audiences away.

Besides, appearing on Donahue’s show and signing the contract made me feel dirty and cheap. Like a sellout for money. I’m sorry I took part in it at all. I believe it took away from our credibility.

There’s only one person who I would want telling my story, and that is Peter Laws.

I have reached out, but I’m concerned that there’s too much material for him to do anything with. But at least I chose the best.

As for all ghost hunting shows on TV and video, not one of them is remotely believable. And a YouTuber who pranks and ridicules his own audience, like Zak Bagans, is a red flag. He’s getting rich from the credulity of his audience, and there’s a special place after death for liars. God help him.

Josh Gates lost his own credibility in the first season of Destination Truth, and faked content infuriated me. I hate being lied to, and my rule of “hey, it’s television stands to this day. But that rule extends to YouTube as well; I’ve even found beloved hosts like Mr. Ballen embellishes the stories he tells or leaves out the truth, one being just as deceitful as the other.

I hate dishonesty.

As for Gates, while people may take Zak Bagans with a grain of salt, or a five pound bag of it, it’s guys like Gates who have earned my most acid enmity. I don’t watch any of those kinds of shows anymore, but I did get one nugget of insight from Jason Hawes. I asked him if he had found that there is a connection between PTSD sufferers and a sensitivity to paranormal phenomena. His answer: yes.

Not that I needed vindication, but I did feel better.

Now, I’d like to introduce you to Peter Laws and his unseen assistant, Steph. This channel and these people are a breath of fresh air to a guy who was suffocating. I always look forward to new episodes. Inarguably the best channel on the entire site. One day soon, I’ll raise a glass of scotch in their honor.

Thanks for coming over, and letting me be a small part of your life. I honestly love you.

The latest from Into the Fog with Peter Laws. Warning, some may find content disturbing.

Meeting HER IRL

This is going to be weird. But if you like weird or you happened to read my posts about HER, she showed up in some of the most horrible nightmares of my adult life. Now I consider them warnings. But I didn’t know that. All I thought was that it was a demon screwing with my mind. Demons do interact with humans in their dreams. The anecdotal evidence has always been unavoidable.

Dreams are a subject I don’t like. We still don’t understand why we sleep, how we sleep, and what, exactly, dreams are. They used to say REM sleep was the only stage where we dreamed. That was obviously not true. I’ve started dreaming when nodding off for a few seconds. I wasn’t in the deep stage of sleep they claimed was the requirement for dreams. Now there’s debate about dreams happening in every stage of sleep.

If experts don’t know, or they debate anything about sleep, it’s because they’re never scientific. They enter a study with preconceived certainties, and that is what I call a contaminated “experiment.”

And if one or two people studying any given thing make some kind of breakthrough or has educated insight, they write “papers” about it. You know what happens then?

Yeah, the rest of the scientific community jeers them. They get called things like “crank scholars” and their findings are labeled “pseudoscience.”

I don’t have a clue what causes dreams nor do I care. The fact is, we have them. Sometimes they’re really bad. Sometimes they’re somewhat pleasant. Sometimes, something else is going on.

The reason I thought of HER as a demon was all the torture involved. She had various faces but always black hair. I didn’t know why, but how could I? Now I know.

Finally I wrote a novel, and it was because someone who had no business doing it challenged me to.

It had to involve a werewolf and a vampire. And it does. I never finished it. I doubt I ever will. People who have test-read it were terrified, and bad things happened to every single one of them.

My biggest fan called me the next Stephen King. She later died. I’m superstitious, and since it was beyond horror, including romance, adventure, fantasy, science fiction and action, I followed along and kept putting plot twists and some remarkable uses of history toward the goal of leaving the reader feeling exhausted and even scared of the dark.

I was recently pushed to finish it and I was going to, but I was hung up. None of my ideas had not been overdone, becoming tropes.

Then, a few weeks ago, my PC gave up the ghost. With total blindness coming for me fast, I can’t finish it. The time is coming when I won’t be able to write here anymore.

The pain is constant, the loss of vision acute. It happened fast, too, and I have no clue why. I’ll go for an exam, but I don’t feel hopeful. As for the novel itself, I now know I must destroy the disk. It’s my only copy. It needs to die.

I feel as if I’ve unleashed something awful, and that conviction has been with me, nagging in the back of my mind, for a very long time, and now it is imperative that it is destroyed forever.

Actually, two people have died. My son was following it with me on his visits as I wrote it. He liked hearing me read it out loud and had a suggestion that inspired a whole character.

The whole time, and before I ever put the disk in the tower, I had been, and kept on, having nightmares with HER in them. So terrible were those dreams that I included HER in the story. That…was a mistake, a big one.

Almost from the beginning, the scariest coincidences began to happen. I met new people with the names and personalities of some of my characters. Then, over several nights in another residence, I noticed an optical illusion. It was distant, visible only at night because of a streetlight. Part of it was a basketball backboard. I can’t remember what else was there.

During a break from writing this, I shredded the disk. Here ends the curse.

Then, years later, I saw a woman who looked exactly like the obscene character that the illusion inspired.

Coincidences piled up. What I wrote was done in a very haunted house, and if you don’t believe in those, good for you, but I have no choice. The words flowed like a waterfall and it was far better than anything I could have done. I never believed in automatic writing, and I still don’t, but I was inspired there. In my present abode, I haven’t been able to do anything. That’s for the best.

Back to HER. My nightmares inspired me to include her as a hybrid demon-human, but before you say anything, I pulled it off. It was the kind of book I would buy, and the enemies included Satan. The six main characters were always under mental assault, and the main protagonist was a missionary who took the brunt of his abuse.

Now, something worse is happening. The neighbor I wrote about recently has terrifyingly made me believe that she is HER.

She moved in a couple of years ago. The first time I saw her, I had a feeling. I can’t say what it was. And she does have black hair.

The kicker is, ever since she bought the place, the HER nightmares have stopped!

That’s no coincidence.

We became “friends.” I hesitate to call it that, but I didn’t know.

Being old and worn out, beaten to hell and back, some things really scare me, and I hoped I would never have to write this post. If you find all of this over the top, don’t worry, it’s okay. Now, though, I’m frightened of her. Sure, I should never have sent a message with a playful joke, noting that she ghosted the next message which was a red flag I ignored. Never ignore red flags!

But like the asshole I am, I dropped the package off at her door. I sleep during the day when I can sleep, so it was late when I did it. Her security cameras must have caught me, and that plus the fact that the gift was all wrong and that she was ghosting me probably scared her. She doesn’t want her space infringed upon. Not even outdoors in a condo.

She unfriended me I think, not blocked me. So I blocked her. It’s too scary to even think about talking to her ever again, and maybe God has that in mind, so I can’t see her. Fuck going blind; maybe it’s for the best. She’s nothing to look at, and I’m nobody to be pointing sticks, but suddenly I regret ever complimenting her. Friends are people you don’t see properly. You overlook too many things.

I discovered her true nature one night after she had announced she was seeing several men. I don’t know about you, but I would have a problem with that. I’ve never done that, and in my younger days, we called it “playing the field.” It was definitely considered a vile thing to do.

It was dark and I couldn’t see anything. I heard her on her phone. She was in a rage and she said, with the tone to match, “You better text message me!”

It’s possible she became aware of my proximity, because she lowered her voice, although still angry, and moved far into the distance until I could not hear.

If she is that psycho with a guy she doesn’t even know well, I feel sorry for any man she dates. Or marries. It will fail. That’s the kind of voicemail nobody can forgive.

Here’s an active service woman, mid 30s, two cats and two handguns, and fuck yes, I’m scared of her. She’s a loon.

I have gone through the embarrassment stage, then the anger stage. I’m now in a place where she scares me and I pity her.

All of the things she does seems to be a desperate search for a man, but I think something happened to her long ago, something bad, and she probably doesn’t know that she’s always going to have stormy relationships. She can’t help it, and I feel sorry for her.

She’s a danger to me. That is the truth. I can feel it.

As a Christian, I can’t mistreat her. I’m bound by my faith to love all of God’s children. But I’ll keep it to myself. She doesn’t deserve the kind of friend I really was, because she would only hurt me. Even if she approached me and spoke, I’d turn my back. I don’t trust her and I don’t want to see her. She’s a lot like HER, and maybe she is her. I believe she is. A head gamer, a manipulator and a stalker type.

Cat ladies don’t scare me. One with two handguns and a temper? Yes, she scares me to the Nth degree.

I’ve written here several times about HER, and how she drove me nearly mad.

Now she is here, but the dreams have stopped. Yeah, she’s scary.

I don’t just feel regret for the gift, I feel regret that I ever met her. I would prefer the nightmares.

People with CPTSD from childhood sexual abuse, physical abuse and mental and emotional abuse don’t live normal lives, they’re haunted, dogged by their past every day. It’s not fair.

Socially, they’re dysfunctional, awkward, making terrible relationship decisions and saying awkward or unintentionally offensive things.

I’ve fought that. With mental health treatment, I have made progress, and I’m very gentle and friendly, where I was going the opposite way as a teenager. I was mean, cruel and an asshole. It’s been a long fight to get that behind me.

That’s not that I am fully functional socially, or not an asshole, else that gift would never have entered my mind. True, I thought we were friends, but we evidently were not. And what makes my mind so troubled is that I never forgot that I thought she was HER. How did I get past that? I’ll never know. I called her “kid” because she’s less than half my age, and whether she was aware of it or not, some of our exchanges involved flirt language on her part. Any other man would have dug that; I didn’t. She made me uncomfortable because I was aware that she was using me, fishing for compliments, which I gave without any sincerity, but she’s so shallow, so needy, that I’m sure she treats a lot of men like ego-boosters. That…is a dangerous person.

I know her. I know who she is, because at that age, I was her. I don’t believe she’s demonically possessed, or anything stupid like that. I just know her. She’s an exhibitionist, always talking herself up and down, trying to feel better about herself, but then it doesn’t work. There’s nothing wrong with being a career woman and single at her age; that’s actually a trend. In her case, though, she pulls men in and then her behavior makes a guy purposely sabotage the relationship, and when that doesn’t work, he has to break up with her. And I know without seeing it that she doesn’t just let go. Oh, no, she is a stalker type. I doubt she’s ever loved a man but has convinced herself that she has. Again, that’s a dangerous woman. Oh, men are like that too, but men aren’t the subject at hand.

I’m sure that she gets jealous at the slightest thing, that she’s controlling and manipulating, and she will probably be alone for a long time when enough men have displeased her.

And it occurs to me now that I unfriended her several times, and those were when I was following my gut instincts.

Never, ever second guess your intuition. You’ll fuck up.

The other day, I heard her talking very low. A man was there, and I suspect she may have called and made out a police report. That’s overkill, a reaction so extreme that the cops think I’m a stalker. I’m not. When I’m done, it’s forever. I have no malice for her, but she damn well better not try to speak to me. She won’t like what I say.

She didn’t respond in any way maturely, didn’t message me, and never knocked on my door to ask questions. There was never any reason for her to fear me. She should have known that but anyone even walking past her house is considered an invader. Fucking hell. No wonder she owns two guns. But even they can’t make her insecurities go away.

Because of this I will not walk on the sidewalk past her place to get to the footpath. I doubt I will ever walk to the market again. I went yesterday and had such a hard time that I usually didn’t know where I was. I made it using the stick, sounds and memory. At one point I walked right in front of a moving car and didn’t hear it until I was right in front of it. Holy shit.

I guess the lessons I’ve learned won’t help me much; I’m never going to let anyone across the line again. I’ll just keep to myself. I hope the end comes fast and takes me quickly. I have had enough.

I saw her today. She acted nice but it’s fake. She did, a while back, leave a thank you note taped to my door. It reeked of insincerity.

9 April, 2026

I’m more convinced than ever that even if this woman isn’t from my nightmares, she is bad medicine. I’ll keep my distance.

Laughing now because she blocked me. It’s a relief because in public I never have to speak to her again. Whether I’m right or wrong about her makes no difference. Not anymore.

AI: a science fiction nightmare come true

In this article by the Guardian, you’ll see why what we have created may be the death of us all.

But that is hardly all that we face. All life on this planet is dying. Perhaps not fast enough for you to see it, but Greta Thunberg was right when she declared that we had entered an extinction level event in history.

Then we make it worse.

With war; the very height of humanity’s capacity for evil and stupidity.

Out there, somewhere, are dragons. Not the fairy tale kind, either. GOT sucked and that is what we’re seeing. Only the objectification of women, the power plays and actual monsters are all real and in play. You see it, so don’t deny it. And since you see it, don’t be tricked by ridiculous lies into believing it’s temporary, superficial or harmless.

The United States, a country full of history of waiting out wars until a Pearl Harbor happens, has now, and not for the first time, attacked a non-belligerent sovereign country unprovoked. What happened in Vietnam was despicable. And maybe Johnson was an idiot, but he was one link in a long chain extending from Truman to Nixon.

How then to justify THIS atrocity? The question is rhetorical; no atrocity has ever been justified. Civilians including children are not legitimate targets. The fire storms in Dresden and Hamburg were atrocities writ large, and the Brits despised us for it. We lied to justify it.

Lies are being told right now, to you, to me, to the world. Lies that demented, brainwashed people believe, and they are begging for blood. Does that make any goddamn sense to you?

Can it ever? There’s no morality behind this. No reasoning. It’s madness and pure evil. And now nobody seems to know–or have the guts–to stop it.

I know how: Leave. Stop the bombing. Pray God someone with reason and righteous outrage steps in and does the right thing.

Trump and his inner circle are pedophiles, rapists, and swine.

They think they can get rich and leave the world in ruins. They don’t have any foresight or morality, and do not even know that money can’t be spent in a wasteland.

Think about it.

The Porno Trap

It’s poison for everyone

A redditor I was encouraging was crestfallen to go to my profile and see porn subreddits I followed.

But I don’t judge people based on what they watch, or their past. I was malicious about Marjorie Taylor Greene, but she broke so fiercely from Trump that I admire her for her change and the courage it took to do it.

And people can change. I was judged harshly for my past, and I fell off a pedestal right when I had succeeded in gaining some level of trust.

I just wanted to help her.

Possible Triggers Ahead

While my earliest posts here honestly said that I liked nude models, that had changed.

I began noticing things that I had missed before, especially brands.

These are sometimes a small tattoo with a dragon, an Asian letter, or something similar. Traffickers don’t want to mark up the merchandise.

But when people caught on, they changed those brands. They began to appear as soldering iron burns. Branded like cattle.

Now in most of these professional shoots, the marks, scars from burns, anyway, can be airbrushed out. Sometimes they do that but since the average model must go to different studios, that’s an ownership reminder. They may appear with different names  on different sites, and that’s to avoid whatever “copyright” an owner has. Besides being trafficked, there’s worse. Models working for, say, MetArt, are, as claimed by company staff, treated “like family.”

It’s porn! Nobody is treated like family.

And here’s why. Those models you think are so beautiful can be found doing more than nude photo sessions on other sites; and yes, I mean hardcore porn. And are they willing?

Absolutely not. It’s for the money.

Before you jump the gun, let me say straight up: the models do not make much money. Why not? Glad you asked. The answer is, agents. If you don’t have an agent, you don’t work, just like in the literature and acting in major theatrical productions. In porn, however, they never see a payday that’s particularly happy; agents keep it and give actresses and models so little money that many live together, sometimes four to a flat.

And what, you ask, happens to them when they’re too old to pose or act?

Some become recruiters and trainers. Trainers have the models insert huge dildos to stretch them out, or, as one model put it, “to open you up.”

That … is horrible. But what of the others? Well, their owners put them on the streets. I read one article about a woman who found herself on the outskirts of Jerusalem, hustling tricks for money that barely kept them fed. In some Middle Eastern countries, it’s a death sentence. They are murdered, tortured and their families don’t even know where they are.

Models don’t just get paid next to nothing, they’re also conditioned to forget family and friends and be dependent on their handlers. In the early years of this century, two women published the results of a study. Back when the Internet was very young, newspapers and magazines in places like Ukraine had ads for models, and the parents couldn’t feed the older children so…there was no choice and no other work in the post-Soviet territory. Once in the “system,” they never saw their families again. The parents were indifferent, and the girls eaten alive by criminal networks.

And, like my post on Ancient Greece and its mythology, this is the way the world treats women. Always has, with a few exceptions along the way.

Models are objectified by porn consumers which, sadly, is composed of men, but also women and unsupervised children. Some couples can’t get randy without porn. Normal sex becomes impossible. An article in Cosmopolitan encouraged couples to watch porn together. That infuriated me; that’s how marriages die.

This happened to me; I was addicted and unable to function without it. And I’m not alone.

It began for me around age 8 or 9. I was already being sexually abused but then my youngest sister and I were shown 8 mm porn movies. One was titled “Mr. Fix It,” and you can guess what that was about, but I can’t forget it. But I liked it. It helped me fantasize during my “training sessions” so I’d cope with what was being done to me.

It began a lifelong obsession and addiction to porn, and yes, I’m embarrassed and ashamed to sit here and tell you this.

By the time I was an adult, away from my parents, I was dependent; I had to have it even to masturbate.

So there we have it: a porn paradox. The women were objectified and consumers couldn’t get enough.

Since then, I’ve seen the porn industry get powerful, going from Playboy to Hustler to VHS movies, to internet porn, where one can see everything.

One thing the magazines didn’t do was show teens. That’s changed now.

Haven’t you wondered why the cell phone became a tool for selfies, showing everything from new fashion to bikinis to full nudity and even sex acts?

The problem of teens, legal or not, sexting a boyfriend, and overnight it was all over the Internet, was addressed by threats to charge the senders and recipients alike with distributing child pornography. I’ve never heard anything about that since. And let’s make no mistakes here: if not for a narrow set of circumstances, Jeffrey Epstein would still be alive and doing business right now, and he had compromised men and women all over the world. He delivered their fantasies and they paid up.

The government of the United States has, on Trump’s orders, seriously damaged the case of the “Epstein files,” something so dark and evil that leaders of other countries are using it against him. This is not rhetoric, it’s telling the truth. Iran’s message post- the beginning of U.S. hostilities and war crimes, is that the Trump administration is made up of child rapists. They come right out and call him a pedophile.

I have the distinct impression that he will do everything in his power to make them pay.

Human trafficking is a global plague. The children suffer so much that even I, with my background, can’t fathom the depths of. I know what happens, but the deep trauma it causes is unimaginable. My PTSD has only gotten worse over time. I’m haunted by nightmares, fast flashes of memories I thought were gone, and dissociation, which means “spacing out” in front of others, when I’m really somewhere back in 1967 or 1970. It’s a living hell.

Yet through all of it, I believed in God, His Son Jesus (really Yeshua), and I haven’t stopped. My faith remained even when I was soaked in sin.

This Easter Sunday, I write out of my concern for the souls of others. Porn and sex outside of marriage are things Christ warned against, but He didn’t mention porn per se, He spoke of lust. He said that if you look upon another with lust, you have already sinned in your heart. Meaning your thoughts, desires and willingness to pursue that person. He said if an eye causes you to sin, best that you pluck it out and not repeat that sin; on Judgement Day, you would otherwise fare no better than the worst of sinners.

I don’t wish eternity in Hell on anyone. You have to sin yourself by hating someone before wishing for a thing like that.

I was going to list details about every main category of porn known to me, but I can’t. It’s too dark. It’s even disgusting.

However, here are a few that you should be aware of:

Legal Teens

This genre tells you that it’s a fine line you’re walking. Are the models really legal?

In mainstream porn, probably, but they appeal to users because they look younger than 18. One model who got out of the trap told of how she was turned down at her first “casting” session. Told that she didn’t look young enough, she decided to lose weight. I know who this model is, and I believe her. She’s painfully thin in her studio shoots, and her face is that of a 16 year-old. It worked.

What she and so many other models did not know was what was ahead: hardcore. Videos and photos in some of the most painful to watch shit I’ve ever seen. Men with enormous “dimensions” let them know why they had to pose nude with huge phalluses to open them up.

Obviously they’re drugged or have been forced to imbibe wine or liquor, and it would show in their pupils but careful editing and airbrushed pictures conceal those signs. They’re actresses and have no choice but to act as if they’re enjoying themselves. Sometimes this might be real, but I’ve known for a long time that the sometimes thing is not genuine.

Lesbian

This is something even softcore models must face. It was once rare for two models to pose together and actually have contact. These days the pair are forced to do things that at least one of them clearly can’t hide her disliking of. Not every woman is bisexual or lesbian, but men believe otherwise. This is a top category on most porn sites.

Amateur

I realize that this covers every other sub-category from straight, group, interracial, lesbian, gay, and uh, worse.

This category is the most disgusting of all. White women are urged by their insecure husbands to have sex with black men. I’ve seen husbands walk out in the middle of it. They worked hard convincing their wives to do it, to actually desire it, then they can’t handle it.

Porn does not enhance a marriage. It ends it. Porn damages normal sexuality and devours the soul. Porn is a trap, becomes an addiction and an obsession, and ruins everything it touches, because a user is never satisfied, always needs more kink, more humiliation of women and it’s endless.

But Where Can The Addict Find Help?

There is no known help available. While drug addicts and alcoholics have some help available, it’s being taken away by the current administration. Even “frontline” mental healthcare has been demolished. I don’t even know what that means, but I take it that crisis intervention went first. Cops will have nobody to help in situations where field specialists can arrive to calm subjects down. Otherwise police may taze or shoot someone who never asked to be mentally ill and should have been given help.

In porn addicts there are targets highly sought after by “life coaches.”. These take your money and feed you platitudes and “positive” but empty activities like yoga or chanting or whatever. And you pay. And pay. And you end up back where you started, but poorer now.

No End in Sight

The Epstein network is still active. It doesn’t work the way you may think: does the arrest or assassination of a gang leader or mob boss mean the rest of a crime faction just stops?

No, and the New York crime families are still operating at as low a profile level as they can, but with each passing month, in chaotic times, all types of organized crime will see new opportunities and branch out.

Epstein died, and his contacts and established interests kept going without him. Ghislane Maxwell got transferred to Camp Cupcake, a consideration to keep her quiet. A full pardon has very likely been discussed in Washington, where Trump has gathered a series of men and women who consistently lie for him, but some on his periphery have been busted for, no less, sex with children and child pornography.

Look, I get it. You start out slowly. You think a bit of arousal is a good thing. Before you know it, though, you’re so deep in a septic pit that it’s next to impossible to climb out. Generations have bought Playboy and seemed fine. But we’re they? The old joke was, “I just read the articles.”

But in all fairness, those articles were really good, informative and contained things no newspaper would dare print. Political news that even the Washington Post shied away from. And the magazine wasn’t easy to publish in. The guidelines were strict, surprisingly so for the type of periodical it was. And the interviews were awesome. One with Stephen King was unforgettable.

And yet, the photos were what made me want more.

And I found more.

And then more, and more. Until I finally went into a rabbit hole and couldn’t get out. It’s no Wonderland down there; it is some of the worst of humanity showcased for everyone to see on demand.

Now, I’m not doing this because of one incident on Reddit. I’m not going to Reddit ever again. For anything.

The truth is that I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I want to help people. I needed to establish that pornography encourages trafficking, sexual abuse and more. It destroys marriages, and I recommend a prenup agreement that both partners will never use porn. If one breaks that agreement, they pay for it.

Monitor your children when they’re online. Put the computer in a common area, not a bedroom. Keep them safe from predators. Keep them from vanishing without a trace. This world is full of evil. You can’t change that. But you can fight back in self defense.

Sadly, I can’t tell you how to escape the porn trap. It’s an individual thing and there’s no cure for anything like this. I advise calling on God to help. After that, call on Him every day. This is your quality of life and the destination of your soul we’re talking about.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” John 3:16

A Happy and healthy Easter to you all. May God bless.

They ghosted me

I’m very sick over this. A couple of weekends ago, my brother from Tampa was in town. He usually gathers a bunch of us up and we have dinner together.

Here’s a picture of the last time we were out.

L to R: nephew Steve, brother Joe, brother Chris, and me. We had a good time.

Joe was in town and something funny happened. I show no missed calls. They were all on Facebook and could have messaged or video called me, but nobody did. I was too sick to go, so I’m not angry, just hurt to my heart and disappointed.

Finally, on Monday or Tuesday, Joe texted me. He had just boarded the plane back to Florida. That was nice.

But he said he had tried to call me several times, but I had no missed calls. Nothing on messenger and no texts. Not until Joe was going home, safely on the plane, did I get a text.

What am I to them, anyway? A leper?

Now I get that we were all on Facebook together, and they had all stopped following me because of politics and my outrage at the destruction of the United States. We’re in big trouble. Not only that but we’re at war with Iran, a war started with war crimes by Trump. We didn’t want this. We sure as hell don’t need it.

My politics are not popular in my family. I’ve even been told to sit back, light a doobie and chill out. Which I really tried to do. But I can’t.

I have said repeatedly that if you’re not standing for something, you don’t stand for anything. I doubt they even vote. Too many people are sticking their heads in the sand and that ain’t right. A democracy depends on citizens participating, and I don’t understand why so many don’t bother.

MAGA loyalists believed Trump’s campaign slogan, “No new wars.”

He started lying the minute he took over from Joe Biden: “I’ve stopped more wars than any other president.”

And he started stumping for a Nobel Peace Prize. When he didn’t get it, most of us Democrats braced ourselves. We knew what he would do. He lied and pouted and even got the winner of the prize to give it to him.

The war crimes committed on the first day are grounds for an international trial. But that’s not going to happen.

He gets away with everything and claims he’s been “exonerated” of sexual contact with children and had the DOJ and the FBI stop further investigation and shred files and delete them from disks and thumb drives. They obeyed him like dogs with their ears pinned back and their tails between their legs.

He diverted attention from the Epstein files by starting a war that, frankly, will likely escalate into a major global conflict. I wouldn’t bet against it.

Epstein had ties with Russia. Trump changed after a trip to Moscow. If he was disgusting and a criminal before that, he’s one to sicken the devil in hell now. Putin probably caught him on camera raping a little girl and then strangling her. Trump starred in a snuff film. I posit this because he does everything Putin tells him to, then talks smack about Russia to make it look good. But Putin has that DVD. Why should he fear a sex tape so much? It has to be really evil, something he knows will land him in prison. A sex video that’s vanilla wouldn’t bother him. He’s made of kevlar; he’s bulletproof.

Therefore, the war.

It’s not necessary and it’s not right. He’s plain evil, and that’s the truth. To my European and Asian readers, I ask you to think about where this is going. Do you really want to see it? We don’t. When Trump switched to war after claiming he was not going to allow any, moving first against Venezuela and now Iran and Cuba, the MAGAs who cheered his no war promises began cheering the new war. It’s madness, and I don’t know why our military is following his insane commands.

We’re getting very little real news, because Trump threatened networks to have their FCC licenses pulled. So they’re catering to his lies, reporting fake news, and we have no clear idea of what the situation is in the Hormuz Straight.

At the same time, Epstein’s old skin-trading network is still running. Human trafficking. Every sick thing you can imagine including murder and cannibalism is still a big thing among the rich MAGAs, those sick bastards, and it’s a global trade. It’s everywhere. So sick that God is probably puking.

And the extreme right-wing “Christians” are neck deep in it while scamming parishioners out of millions.

They want to trigger the rapture, thinking their crimes and sins are forgivable, which is so stupid I’m dumbfounded.

They don’t even pretend to follow the teachings of Christ, and whether you believe in Jesus or not, the time he spent teaching and what he said was great. Rules for forgiveness and living.

Back to my family. That picture is the last one we will ever have together. Without knowing I was sick, they just left me out, and it really seems that it was a choice. What is that anyway, texting me while you’ve already boarded a flight to Florida? That was when I told him I was sick. Not before, because he never contacted me.

I’ve blocked his number and blocked them all on Facebook. I’m done. I hold no grudge; they’re family.

But I’ll never see them again. Enough is enough. Every one of us has felt the sting of being left out, because it’s always deliberate and personal.

I’m taking the piss out of ignorant people on Facebook who don’t care that this country is dying.

The war has made oil prices soar with no end in sight. That means high pump prices on truckers too, which will trigger higher prices than what we’ve already experienced with inflation at the stores. MAGAs are starting to defect. But, some are still cheering their maniac on. I can’t understand that.

As soon as he took office, he put people out of work, starting with federal employees. A neighbor voted for Trump and was one of the first to lose his job. He still thinks Trump is our greatest president ever. What a lunkhead. Want to guess his I.Q. with me? I’d put it in the low twenties.

Yes, I’m outraged and I pull no punches. This is not the country I grew up in. It isn’t even a shadow of it.

And my family may think I’m crazy, but I don’t care; in my view, you can’t run from this mess and if you don’t stand up for what’s right, you stand with the evil ones, because there is no neutral. Standing for nothing lets the rich people get their way, and they’ve already taken lives, and more will follow.

World, were sorry. From Trump to Karoline Leavitt, who defended in public that he has the right to lie, to the lowest scum in our government, it’s dire. We don’t know how this ends, but we apologize. We don’t want any of this.

Protests have gotten no news coverage, and sooner or later, ICE and riot police will fire on friendlies, killing people who are doing nothing wrong. That’s just a prediction, but it’s a solid one. They’re using Hitler’s playbook, but they aim to best him in carnage and death.

What a mess. More people have to stand up to this racist, stupid government and get Congress turned, or it will be too late.

But I Ain’t Nobody

Today is March 4th. As in “March forth, ye great folkses, go forth and get them goddamn spiders outta my shed. In the garden. By that there river what used ta be that but ain’t no more so I place rocks in where it were.”

It’s also Nation Grammar Day. I never knew such; to me it’s just another days. Whatever you think of me, know this. That no force on heaven or in earth can stop narry ones of us from dyin. We gonna go no matter what. Ain’t no sense to guess when, I figured I should already be worm feed but I ain’t unless I’m dead in in some kinda stuck ass fever dream waitin on my turn to shake hands with Satan. And wouldn’t that be funny because of all the shit I done been through. I’d love to stay and visit some more with ya but hard as it be’s to leave good company, I’m pretty sick.

I wanna remind yas all, make the best of your day and be careful and safe and sweet. Be kind to all living things, great and small. Thank s for your visit.

One reminder before you leave, death isn’t funny, murder isn’t justice, and all life is sacred. That’s a solid gold fact. So never laugh as a hearse goes by.

Cuz what ifn yer the next to die?

Bruce Campbell, Star of “Evil Dead” and “Evil Dead II” Has Incurable Cancer

If you know his work, you love this actor, whose talent is beyond question.

The cancer he has, he said on X, is treatable but not curable.

His work and attendance at cons will, he said, take a back seat to his treatment. What I Remember most about Bruce is his incredible performance as an elderly Elvis Presley in “Bubba Ho-Tep,” a magnificent film in which he shares the screen with the one and only Ossie Davis — as Jon F. Kennedy, who claims that LBJ had him shot and then dyed black so no one would believe his claim that he was JFK.

We wish Bruce the best, and pray he will do well with his treatment. He is a treasure.

A Voice of Reason

Here’s my sister, Pelauria. Say hello and give her a like and hit subscribe, because she should have a bigger audience.

I’ll never be able to tell you how many times she’s made me stop and think, or taught me more than I would ever have learned on my own.

I’ll grant you that I have many friends who have taken the time to talk to me and calm me when I was upset, and helped me in times of need, and I’m blessed by God to have them, or to have had them in my life. I believe God sets people in our paths who can help. He knows our needs. My sister is a pure and good soul, a kind one who wants this long nightmare of ours to end. Please, go ahead and visit.

Walden, Death Wish, The Exterminator and More: Why We Like Them

Warning: Graphic content and spoilers. Read with care.

Walden is a 2023 movie about a court stenographer who thinks a brain tumor he’s been diagnosed with will kill him. He hears the worst things in court, and they affect him, but he seldom shows it, even in his expression. But that changes. He hears a case involving a father who stuffed his young daughter in his oven, and burned her alive.

Later, he hears from a detective who he’s friends with, Bill Kane (played by Shane West) that the father had been released on a technicality.

Walden Dean (Emile Hirsch) pays the father, Norman Bolt (Ben Bladen), a particularly foul sort both inside and out, a visit. Bolt had a new oven. Walden restrains Bolt with his head in the oven and turns it on. He hears later that the detectives, Kane and his partner, Detective Sally Hunt (Tania Raymonde), that Bolt was found with his head cooked. Walden perfectly acts like he’s grossed out, but it won’t be long before he strikes again.

After a trial where an abusive nurse has her case dismissed, she is visited by Walden, who restrains her to a hospital bed, gags her, and makes her nod to confess her crimes of murder and abuse. He’s also found the belt she used on the feet of patients, and he beats her to death with it.

Meanwhile, General George (a man who has the mental capacity of a ten year-old, played most ably by the amazing Luke Davis) is seen by the detectives giving a child a candy bar and inviting him to play video games at his house. The detectives follow them and arrest George, but the latest missing boy is found (how he’s found isn’t addressed) and General George looks guilty, but Walden sees the crime scene, and before Detective Hunt tells him to leave, shows him bagged evidence of a mysterious fabric cord.

Walden is close to a judge, Judge Boyle, played well by David Keith, who has aged like a fine whiskey: a deep but clear voice, a captivating smile and critically, he masterfully plays the part so well that we love him, and how he cares for Walden is touching. After Walden smashes a bottle of whiskey over an armed robber’s head, Boyle decides that Walden needs to carry.

Walden hears about Detective Hunt’s lover being hurt while they were taking a walk through the suburban Atlanta town park.

He knows what his moral duty is, stakes out the area, witnesses a similar attack, and shoots both perpetrators while receiving a stab wound.

Walden’s estranged father keeps a vigil in the hospital, with Walden in a coma. The surgery to remove the brain tumor is removed during this time.

Meanwhile, still in lockup, General George gets the news that Walden has been hurt. Being close friends with Walden makes him decide to tell the detectives something.

In their car, he leads them to an abandoned house. Detective Hunt handcuffs George to a pipe while she turns to search the house with Detective Kane. Before she does, George warns her, sadly, “you’ll never be the same.”

She smashes down a door, and they find bodies in various states of decomposition and she screams and cries.

George was told about the place by a friend. Kids were often “paid” to go there.

Walden sees Judge Boyle three weeks later, as he’s recuperating. As the judge leaves, Walden walks to his car with him. While looking over the antique, he notices a piece of fabric cord missing from the backseat. It looks just like the cord from the crime scene where a boy was found.

He visits the judge that night, and faces him across the judge’s desk. He brings his handgun up and tells the judge to keep his hands in sight.

Walden asks him what makes a man so badly want to rape and abuse children, then kill them.

The answer is chilling, and Keith plays this part with equally chilling acting.

He tells Walden he won’t need the gun. Later, the detectives are called to the house to find Boyle hanged himself.

We’ve seen this all before but this one stands out with a cast and screenplay that director Mick Davis has turned into what will be a cult masterpiece.

Death Wish, first starring Charles Bronson then Bruce Willis, is another vigilante/revenge flick we all know. I liked both versions but can’t watch the first scenes where their wives are killed.

Nobody did a very good job, a film written by the creator of John Wick, following some similar parts of the story, but a guest appearance by Christopher Lloyd set the whole thing off and made it a classic.

The Shocking Part

What is it, though, that makes revenge and vigilante movies appeal to us? Ironically, it is the very same reason that David Keith’s Judge Boyle kidnapped children and abused them.

Power, control, and the lack of it we feel every day, especially lately.

Rapists who target anyone of various ages feel that they need to have power and to use it. The targets are not selected based on clothing or almost any other factor; they just seem like targets of opportunity, easy marks.

Perhaps this is nowhere so true as with children. They can’t defend themselves against an adult. They’re almost always taken to different places to make the perp have the comfort of isolation and privacy. Quite often, the victim is killed, not because they can identify the predator, but because it is a final show of ultimate power.

Vigilantes in movies help us fantasize that we have power over those who harm others, and that we all could, if we so chose, punish them.

It works, too. Jasan Statham has made millions from his revenge films, and he remains popular.

But we know that we can’t really do those kinds of things, and we’re aware that if we did, we would be just as evil as the bad guys.

And whereas I can recommend Walden even after I’ve spoiled it, if only to see the cast in action, I have noticed that there are just too many of these movies out there. 1980’s The Exterminator with Robert Ginty had a rough start with horrible SFX in the Vietnam scenes, but the rest of it was gross and gritty and the bad guys, well, let’s just say, their exterminations satisfied.

There’s a big problem here. Hollywood is exploiting the themes of child abuse and vigilante justice.

It numbs us to the true horror of children being forced to do and endure things so horrible that you and I couldn’t stand knowing if adults went through it, which they do.

The whole world has been left very affected by Jeffrey Epstein. He was a true monster for the ages. His wallet dispensed cash all over the place and human beings paid in blood, pain and even death. And still we don’t know what is in those files. Every government, every activist group and religious institution around the world should be screaming for the files to be released. They have the right to know if monsters live among them.

Just as we do here in America. And every single person mentioned should be prosecuted.

That means Bill Gates, Donald Trump, all of them. Because if that doesn’t happen, we may have real vigilantes to deal with.

And I don’t want innocent people to get that desperate, to forfeit their lives to get the payback that our justice system won’t have anything to do with.

“All hands brace for impact!”

Okay, that was ridiculous. But seriously, we are facing a storm we don’t need, can’t handle and certainly don’t want..

A streak of freezing rain and a streak of snow are building up right now for a trek (pun intended) eastward toward the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast. Whoever gets what, doesn’t matter and nobody’s going to be having fun. 8-12 inches of snow is nothing to laugh about. An inch of freezing rain is worse. And from Minnesota and Wisconsin south, temperatures so cold that it could cause trees to explode.

Not only are the homeless in mortal and imminent danger, but everyone is in dangerous territory here.

This winter is turbocharged and just getting started. Indications are that another storm will follow right behind this one.

We pray for the safety and comfort of the homeless, elderly, chronically ill and the at-home shut-ins. We pray for each other.

That’s where you come in. Ireland, Singapore, Germany, England, Finland and more, I know you’re occasional readers here and I thank you for considering my site worthy of attention. But now I ask something more from you: pray for us, please.

We’re not just in danger from storms. You’ve seen the news. You know what’s going on. And I know you blame all of us for the Trump administration’s horrifying acts.

The truth is, the election was fixed. Think of Russia and you’ll understand what I mean.

We’re prepared to suffer to take our freedom back, but we need help. God’s help. Please pray for that. For us. For you, me and everyone.

Thank you for allowing me to spend a few minutes with you in your own busy lives. May God’s blessings and peace of mind go with you ♥️☮️.

To Know the Truth, Sometimes You Need a Little Bit of Mythology

Greek mythology is the most fascinating of all, and it tells us more about Ancient Greece and the modern world than you might believe.

Jason and the Argonauts somehow wound up on the island of Lemnos and found it populated exclusively by women. Jason and his crew stayed for a while, making babies, to repopulate the kingdom, but the story is weirder than that.

The women had been cursed with a foul odor, so that their husbands would not get near them. In retaliation, the women slaughtered every man on the island. That’s cathartic, isn’t it?

This kind of tale, part of the exciting story of Jason, reflects something still deeply embedded in Western society.

I’ll get to that, but let’s join Jason on the first leg of his quest, which was to find and bring back the Golden Fleece. He had to navigate the Bosphorus and enter the Black Sea to do it, and found the fleece in Colchis, or modern Georgia. Pretty neat, considering that one of his crew, the great Herakles, was given two of his Twelve Labors in the region; killing the Stymphalian birds and stealing Queen Hippolyta’s girdle.

Surprisingly, the Greeks (Attica mostly), whose culture held women in a perpetual state of near-servitude, not allowing them to vote, fight or hold political office, the exception being the Oracle of Delphi and other pythia and priestesses in temples, into direct contact with the Scythians of the Steppe.

And Lemnos, in the Argos’s voyage, gets confused with the Scythians because, in what is now Russia and Ukraine, their warriors were men and women.

The voyage of the Argo

This is impossible, but significant
The Scythian Kingdom
A Scythian female warrior

To Greeks, this was bizarre. It was both novel and terrible at the same time, and the Greeks did not like things they couldn’t understand. Considered barbarians, the Scythians drank undiluted wine, which was less common around the Mediterranean. They also allowed women to wear the same armor and arm themselves the same way as men, and they were skilled at mounted archery. That made their armored cavalry very fearsome for that time.

Hippolyta was a woman of some power, or even a queen as the story goes. One of the Labors of Herakles was to take her girdle (probably leather armor worn like a skirt of leather and iron (or bronze) strips hanging from a metal and leather belt of some size as to protect the waist and lower abdomen. Beneath it the women wore pants. Again, if you see this going somewhere, you’re correct.

But as frightened of empowered women as were the Greeks, they sought peaceful trade with the Scythians and despite occasional skirmishes, they got it. Their land was important to Greeks for resources, and there really was gold there. The fleece itself was said to have been soaked in a river and pulled back out, heavily loaded with gold.

At some point, Athens hired Scythians to be unarmed mercenaries, but not the women, only men.

Theseus and Ariadne

Theseus was a son of Poseidon, and as such he was powerful even as a teenager.

On Crete, King Minos, son of Zeus, was aging despite supposedly being immortal. Known as a strong man in his own right, but angry at Athens for the loss of a son, he exacted revenge by demanding male and female teens to be sent to Crete to be sacrificed to the Minotaur.

A very unfortunate tale, the Minotaur had been birthed by Pasiphae, the King’s wife. Cursed by Poseidon, she gained an insatiable lust for a white bull whom Herakles would have to capture; no easy feat.

The craftsman Daedalus was tasked with building a wooden cow, inside of which she could hide. The bull mated with her and the result was the Minotaur. Daedalus also built the labyrinth which was too complex for it to escape, imprisoning it forever.

This does, of course, predate the eruption of the volcano on Thera, known today as Santorini. That means it all happened before 1500-1470 BCE, when Thera erupted, destroying all but a crescent of the island. Herakles as an Argonaut must have come before his Labors.

The sacrifices to the Minotaur angered young Theseus. He schemed, volunteered to be one of the teens for sacrifice, and when he landed on Crete, he challenged Minos to a wrestling match. Of course, both were immortal, but Theseus won, and his prize was the release of the other teens, who were sent back to Athens.

Ariadne was a daughter of Minos and Pasiphae, Medea’s aunt. Medea helped Jason survive the journey of the Argo and eventually they were married.

Thus we come to Ariadne, Medea’s cousin. She fell in love with Theseus, and they sailed from Crete together.

During a stopover on the island of Naxos, Theseus saw her participate in a Dionysian ritual. And if the story weren’t bad enough already, this is worse, since she was helping to tear a man apart and finally passed out from wine and intense frenzy, covered in the man’s blood and organs. Dionysus was the god of wine and revelry, of hedonism and emotional release, anathematic to the other gods. Even Athena, despite what she is depicted as in some pop culture, was a goddess who encouraged moderation, self discipline and morality. But Ariadne’s curse illustrates just how Greeks felt compelled to keep women down, in domestic duties, otherwise their fears might be realized. And Greeks regarded these myths as real history for a time. That made them far more horrible to contemplate.

Theseus sailed from the port of Naxos, leaving Ariadne behind. She yoked him with a death curse. When he sailed into Athens, his ship flew a black sail. He had promised his father that if he survived, he would return with a white sail unfurled. Overcome with grief, his father killed himself (the story there has his father being a mortal, but his son of Poseidon status seems critical to the story of his fight with the Minotaur; therefore the father who died must have been a stepfather. The gods were not renowned for helping to raise children).

Theseus was to become king of Athens, but he was deposed and exiled from the entirety of Attika, two dishonorable things no Greek citizen wanted to face. On the island of Skyros, he was pushed from a cliff to his death.

This is a cautionary tale, one that reinforced the fear of women and their power to retaliate when wronged or angered.

The Takeaway

It gets far worse, the stories contradictory and full of intrigue, but one common theme in all of this is the horrible treatment of women in mythology.

This is how Greek life was. Repression or misogyny, infidelity and debauchery mixed with wars and monsters which gave the history fodder for classic poems and plenty of myths. Even Herodotus wrote things in his historical accounts that had some fairly remarkable elements: the gods themselves killed their own children, tried to kill the children of other gods, and schemed against each other like human siblings. All of it was a nasty business.

Even in Sparta, women were quite repressed. Often most of the men (soldiers trained from childhood) were gone, but the women were forbidden to train or act as soldiers. In one instance they protected the city from an assault by throwing rocks and roof tiles at the attacking force, driving them off. One can surmise that the assault force feared a runner getting out and summoning the formidable Spartan troops; the defending women had bought enough time for it, and besides, they were vicious. This is empowered women, fierce and to be feared. Since I can’t track the source of the story I consider it a myth, like that Spartan Kick in Assassin’s Creed Odyssey made after the film 300.

But no matter where one traveled in the Aegean, there was only one island where women could do what others could not, and that was Lesbos. The ancient world could have done much better with women able to help. This lends a sad aspect of their history and tells us so much about how things are today. Women in Western society are often abused domestically and in public, hired for jobs at a concealed lower pay rate than male counterparts. Their civil rights are being stolen; in some places they never existed as we Westerners think of such things. They are objectified, insulted in public forums like social media, and even their right to health care and privacy are vanishing. You’ll think of the United States first, but it’s everywhere, perhaps not as severe or much worse depending on location, but one thing I can’t get over is that we (the United States) did a terrible thing in Afghanistan.

Girls were allowed to go to school. Women had jobs. Things were good for a while.

Then we just left them. As ISIS and Al-Qaeda resurged because of our gradual troop withdrawal, we just left them. We did the same thing to the Kurds, left them and did so knowing that they were going to die as punishment for their sins and their race .

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan should never have happened. Fueled by rage after September 11, 2001, our citizens went for revenge, backing George W. Bush with every fibre of our beings and every last essence of our souls. I grieve for the people we left behind, mostly for the women and children. Our odyssey across the sea left the world worse off than if we had never started it.

Odysseus

In addition to Jason, Circe also figured into the Odyssey. So do the Sirens and lotus eaters. No wonder he took ten years to get home.

Wikipedia commons

In Popular Culture

In the highly disturbing novel “Ghost Story” by Peter Straub, the people of a fictional New York town somewhere east of Binghamton are seeing scary things, a group of elderly men are having horrible nightmares, and at Elmer Scales’s farm, after an early October snowfall, sheep are found mutilated. And a mysterious woman from out of town has arrived, and two teenagers, Peter and Jim, break into the church across the street from her hotel room to spy on her with binoculars. But what they see (she’s standing by the window in the dark, staring straight at them and smiling) starts them on a path to one’s death and the other’s resolve to fight, leaving him traumatized in ways even I can’t imagine.

People begin to die. The son of one of the group is recruited by them to come from San Francisco and investigate what’s going on. They think he’s an expert on the occult, because of the second book he published, a horror story.

In a way, he really is an expert but won’t admit it. He attended Berkeley and dated a girl of mystery and some penchant for sensuality. When he becomes scared of her, he breaks up. She moves out. Then he hears from his brother in New York City, who has, impossibly, met and become engaged to the same woman. He worries that Don will be jealous. Don Wanderly is not jealous. He’s scared stiff for his brother. He wants him that the girl is dangerous, a kind of circe. Strangely, while Don was dating her, she had mentioned vacationing on a Greek island.

And in case you guessed Santorini (Thera), you’re wrong. Some sources say that, but Alma has said, Poros, off the southern coast of Attika, south east of the Corinth isthmus and very close to Argos. Jason’s old stomping ground.

Poros Island

Circe happened to be the sister of Pasiphae, mother of the Minotaur, and she poisoned the crew of Odysseus, changing them into swine. Hermes helped Odysseus resist her magic, but when Don Wanderly tells his brother that the girl he’s engaged to is a kind of Circe, he isn’t playing about; she commands an awful power and she is evil, playing games to the death of her prey unless resisted, like Odysseus and Don Wanderly. Circe lived on the fictional island of Aeaea, or mainland Italy, and there are still academics who argue over where and which it was. But, as a woman, she’s depicted as someone who can turn domestic animals into beasts. It makes sense that Straub references her in the story.

As things in the town of Millburn grow worse, the mysterious woman is connected to Alma Mobley, who vanished after Don’s brother’s death. Now she’s back as Anna Mostyn, and the group of men start being “picked off like flies” as one of them put it to an outsider who dies a grisly death later.

In the Ubisoft video game Assassin’s Creed Odyssey, the story centers on Kassandra, a mercenary living on Kephalonia. Raised by a con man named Marcos, she engaged in quests and left the island, which is considered the player’s tutorial level.

She hunts every top member of the Cult of Cosmos, who want her dead. She’s a demigod, the granddaughter of Leonidas from the 300 battle at Thermopylae.

Throughout the game, she fights in battles between Greece and Sparta, on whichever side she (the player chooses).

With Barnabas, a ship captain who owes her for saving his life, she assumes command of his ship and sails the Aegean searching for her mother while hunting the cult, breaking into the Delphic Oracle’s house and interrogating her, while often being hunted by other mercenaries. She battles the Gorgon on Lesbos (not the “end of the world,” as the Perseus story goes), slays the Minotaur on Crete, a Cyclops on Mount Olympus, and outwits a Sphinx in Beotia.

The map is huge, the quests are pretty good, and it’s all hogwash. First, there’s no real evidence of female mercenaries during the Peloponnesian War, and most Greeks and zero Spartans would hire one. Mercenaries generally did not engage in battles except alongside other mercenaries. Perikles would never allow her into one of his symposiums, Thespis wasn’t even born yet, Perikles wasn’t murdered but died of the plague, and Herakles had already taken care of the beasts she slays, including the Cretan Bull and the Boar.

You can choose to play as Alexios, her brother, or Kassandra. It’s clear that most players have chosen Alexios.

Along their odyssey, either one you choose will encounter real people from that time like Sokrates, the Two Kings, Kleon, Alkibiates, Herodotus, Hippokrates, Euripides, and many more.

To be fair, it is a great game, one of the best I’ve ever played, and the Parthenon is recreated to its glorious whole image.

There’s beautiful scenery, a dynamic day and night cycle, thunderstorms on land and sea, and the way the ship rolls or the bow slaps a wave after dropping into a trough is so realistic that I was ecstatic. Kassandra even competes in the Olympic games in Ellis, although women were not allowed to do so, but had their own competitions away from the eyes of men.

She even finds her real father, Pythagoras, in an underground, ancient chamber on Thera, still alive after more than a century. He stands at the gates of Atlantis. I don’t want to talk about that part.

Even though it’s nice to see females as main protagonists, it’s inappropriate in this setting. I fear it changes the perception of young people, and that they’ll leave history alone. I found the game made me intensely curious about real Greek history, including the myths. I wish that happened to every player.

Forget history, or change people’s interest and perception in and of it, and it is bound to be repeated.

As it is right now.

Women as Evil Predators

In a wide variety of literature, women serve as able antagonists. Where the woman in “Ghost Story” isn’t really human, but a shape shifter, a kind of circe with a lot of hatred for humans, the men think she’s a woman.

And herein lies the core theme of stories from horror to comedy:

Men are terrified of women. It does not always manifest in their behavior, but it’s there, and they don’t like it and they have to express it. Not in words, but slasher movies, novels and pornography, where “money shots” to their faces are meant to defile and humiliate them.

First, mythology, then, books and movies, and now, video games.

I don’t understand this. The first time I ever read the novel by Straub, I was so terrified that I was convinced that characters were showing up all around me.

But I didn’t have that fear of women; despite everything that my mother did, I never feared women in general. I was the weak one, and oftentimes at critical points in my life, a woman was there to help, and that still happens. So even if this fear isn’t shared by all men, it at least appears to be innate in many.

Somewhere in this is a mingle of hatred for women, which explains why so many are exclusive victims of serial killers. Hate crimes increased after Donald Trump’s first inauguration, which I think is alarming and horrible. Most often, I believe, crimes against women are committed by dysfunctional men, most of which are incels (involuntarily celibate men who lack social skills and self esteem and confidence). Some turned out to be married men; although seemingly mild at home, had unresolved issues or mental illness, and their crime cover pedophilia, rape and murder. We really don’t know all of the why, but how can anyone who is sane understand that kind of evil?

Women are also the butt of TV series crimes, and nowhere was this more true than in “Criminal Minds,” a show I simply could not watch. Mandy Patinkin grew so irritable that cast members complained. He was honest about it, saying that when he took the part, he didn’t know it would be so violent about mostly women.

But who was the show’s biggest audience?

If you said women, you’re correct, and I don’t understand why.

Two Broke Girls, and almost every other series of and prior to the 1970s got away with making women look extremely dimwitted but nice to look at. Two Broke Girls reintroduced the sexist themes but with more sexual references which are supposed to be funny. Ejaculation, oral sex, penis size and more are thrown-about as one liners that just don’t belong on network television.

Aspasia

In Greece, there’s one exception to the male-dominant history, and that’s Aspasia, consort of Perikles. He was king when the (second) Peloponnesian War started, but he died a year later from the mysterious plague of Athens.

Aspasia was the one who trained Sokrates in rhetoric and some philosophy, which is ironic, given that he and Perikles likely didn’t get along well. Without her, we wouldn’t have Sokrates (and Plato) to thank for modern philosophy and rhetoric based on logic, which cornered those he debated, and he gave no quarter.

If we only look, we can see why things are the way they are. And Athens had its walls surrounded by Spartan troops camped nearby, and it basically imprisoned farmers along with citizens who lived inside the walls, where the plague killed people at will.

They still had their navy, but as soon as the Spartans employed the Persians, their former enemy, Sparta, initially without a navy, got one. Persians were expert ship builders and seamen, so they eventually carried the day. The Port of Piraeus, the Athenians’ only source of food and supplies, was blockaded.

The aftermath of the war had city politicians on edge, angry, looking for an outlet. Sokrates was tried and executed for misleading youth, an untrue accusation, but his legacy lives on.

Contemporaries like Alkibiates didn’t do so well either. He had betrayed Athens twice, Sparta once, and was even exiled to Persia. He was assassinated in 404 BCE.

Traitors, misogynists, wars, the conquests for resources, racial hate and religious intolerance, it’s an old story. They’ve always been with us humans.

Indeed, if we pay more attention to myths, the lessons they taught, and to history itself, we would be different. Very different.

And though it’s impossible for a human-animal coupling to produce offspring, those tales still exist today, no matter how silly they are. It’s a cautionary tale. Bestiality existed long before the Hebrew bible was written. But as for the epic myths about odysseys and battles, as happened during the Trojan War, which archaeologists say there’s evidence of, those are likely based in some part on real events. War, ships blown off course, and certainly misogyny would have inspired such tales.

It is no different today. And that’s a great tragedy.

Rome would later conquer Greece, treating the polis badly but appreciating their culture and art. The Romans also kept women down.

Both empires would be overthrown, a fate which will eventually repeat itself due to today’s misogyny and murder in the West

But even if history is mostly ignored, and the caution embedded in fables and myths are ignored, there’s hope.

More women in modern times have done amazing things and they are not forgotten.

And if we get out of the mess we’re in, it will be because of women. Not women like president Trump keeps as lackeys and tokens, but women of pride, strength, honesty and courage.

They are all around us, always have been, and I wonder what history would have been like had so many women not been excluded from politics and positions of prominence.

One thing I know for certain is that I support women.

Julia Ioffe

A few hours ago, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert aired two short segments with guest Julia Ioffe, a writer, reporter and feminist born in Moscow, now an American citizen.

I had never heard of her before, and I missed an infamous episode of Lawrence O’Donnell’s MSNBC show. In it, she said, he kept cutting her off, not allowing her to answer his questions, and she took to social media to reprimand him for “mansplaining” to her.

I love her.

She’s been known to get caught making mistakes, but who hasn’t? And the fact that she charges at full boil on occasion shows humanity, but her willingness to own up and apologize makes her honest and in these times, that’s refreshing.

She even grew up in Columbia, MD, my own adopted hometown.

I have nothing to say about her that you can’t read on Wikipedia, except for what I think.

For one thing, she once said that the East Wing was, in Trump’s first term, going to be Ivanka’s domain. Ioffe wrote, hilariously, that “Either Donald Trump is fucking his daughter” or he’s ignoring the nepotism laws.

The East Wing is the First Lady’s domain.

For my money, she was right on both of those, but wrong about the East Wing, which no longer exists.

Ioffe has a history of making waves, and that one got her fired from Politico, something I don’t think I’ve ever heard of happening before.

Yet despite its error, I immediately wondered if the wing was destroyed, in part, at least, because he holds deep grudges and remembers accusations against him, right or wrong. That would be sick, but it would also be hysterical. Like talking to the press from the White House roof. Who else has ever done that?

Besides, he’s a sick man and nothing surprises me anymore.

Ioffe said that Trump had promised to get into Venezuela, Greenland and more, but I missed or forgot the Venezuela part. That shouldn’t have shocked me, but it did. Now I’m shock-proof. Ioffe was asked if she thought Venezuela was a quid pro quo with Putin, in which he would withdraw support from Ukraine if Putin left Venezuela alone. That’s nuts, right?

Wrong. Nothing is nuts anymore. It is a distinct possibility. I have seen a video in which some man, I don’t recall his name, posited that Venezuela had made a deal to stop accepting the US dollar. If that happened, we would have lost our economy. Everyone would drop the dollar overnight. That’s a certain catastrophe. The US has lots of oil, but it’s what the guy called “sweet crude,” which our refineries cannot handle. Those are set up for heavy crude, requiring import. Venezuela has the largest known deposits of heavy crude in the world.

Now unless this man was lying through his teeth, it might be true. If true, everything makes sense. Maduro is motivation, the excuse. Oil was always the real target. And while I despise all acts of human rights violators, and Maduro being gone may be a good thing, this operation was wrong, immoral and a stupid move.

I’ve seen the footage of the attacks and one doesn’t need to be of particularly high intelligence to know that those fireballs on the horizon that night killed people. And that is all I need to call it evil.

What’s next?

Ioffe said that Trump made good on his word: he wanted Venezuela and so he took it.

He said the same about Greenland and Cuba. And recently, Colombia. Ioffe said that we shouldn’t be surprised if he makes good on those plans as well.

Ioffe is a remarkable woman, and maybe her remark about Trump’s possible relationship with his daughter was out of line even if it was true, but not grievously so, because most people were saying that same thing.

But she is a keen analyst and writer, and I like her. Feminists have often been my heroes, even if one once accused me of mansplaining. She wasn’t heroic, just angry and hostile. Nobody listens to the hostiles on any account.

Like so many women before her, Ioffe is a fighter. And in the Trump era, which saw the overturn of Roe v. Wade, we need her. We all do. When the balance of any given thing is removed, everything is in danger.

We Don’t Condone

Most Americans are against the terrible crimes committed by Donald Trump’s administration. Nor do we remotely understand why anyone in our military would follow the orders to commit illegal acts by an insane rapist and brainless thug.

That’s it for now. What happens next I don’t know. May God be with you wherever you are.

I Don’t Want to Believe

First, let me get one thing clear: I don’t know anything.

When I wrote about “Two people who couldn’t possibly be real” there are a number of possibilities to account for my perception of them as uncanny or unnatural. I posited that the younger of the two, a teenager of ethereal beauty but possessing no physical or sexual attraction seemed to be completely fae and detached. The older woman spoke to her in language that seemed to be without structure, syntax, and no repetition of words or sounds. When she became aware that I was in range of her voice, she switched quickly to English, but that was weird. She pointed at the Corner restaurant which had “Baltimore’s Best Ribs” on window canopies, and I was stricken with the intuition that it was an obvious thing to say, but that she had never eaten there. A lie, a diversion, and far too obvious.

I don’t want to believe in faeries, no more than I want to believe in leprechauns, extraterrestrials or a precursor race called “The Annunaki.”

I don’t want to believe in “Planet X” or “Nibiru,” either.

This is all folk myths and pseudoscience, and although entertaining and sometimes scary, it’s utter crap.

God created us, not Akkadian, Sumerian or Babylonian sky gods. The persistent need to put a face to God gives rise to these things. We can’t understand God in any way that pleases us, making him and his laws terrifying. So humans create their own. The most historical pantheon divided God into many lesser gods with specialized powers. These were the Greco-Roman gods of centuries past, including the offspring of the Titans: Zeus, Hermes, Hera, Aphrodite.

The ruins of their temples still remain in many places in Greece, Rome and around the Mediterranean. But they weren’t real.

From ages past, the damage of these fictions are readily visible around us. The results are very frightening to me.

“History” is a cable and streaming host of everything but history, and according to experts, capitalizes on the credulity of improperly or unschooled people who find “Ancient Aliens” believable. What’s scary is that these people in turn demand evidence from their government, evidence they say has been covered up in many conspiracies.

This has caused me to hate conspiracy theories more than any other genre on YouTube, websites and TV. Oh, and books, which, sadly, include Time-Life, Reader’s Digest and more. Even “Christian” authors have published such garbage. And those are not Christians.

You can’t fit mythology that suits you into the text of the Bible. You can try to, but someone will always come forward and present a meticulous debunking of every word you’ve said or written.

Take giants for example. You’ve seen photographs online of graves carefully dug around to reveal an incredibly huge skeleton. But those kinds of hoaxes have been around for a century, and one such perpetrator was P.T. Barnum himself. Yeah, the guy who sewed a fish’s tail to a monkey’s torso and sold tickets to see a mermaid. I don’t know how convinced people were, but he made money. If he really claimed “There’s a sucker born every minute,” and this quote is disputed, he was right. People will believe almost anything, and there are always people around willing to capitalize on their gullible ignorance.

In the linked video, you’re going to see a very honest man talking about how buried skeletons are mis-measured, and I doubt that anyone like myself would make such mistakes because they’re so obvious as to be glaring.

As flesh decomposes, bones disarticulate. They spread out with the intrusion of soil, water and other things so that measuring a seemingly intact skeleton is never going to give an actual height.

Ancient bones or fossils of mammoths were once thought, because of their skulls, to be long-dead cyclopidians. One-eyed giants dating to ancient myth. Those kind. Yeah….

People are willing to believe fantastic stories, as proven throughout history. Would-be Messiahs and Antichrists alike have enjoyed the massive followings they gathered with lies and propaganda as tools. How this happened is different yet the same in every case: give people hope or promise revenge.

Therefore it is not difficult to understand that a photograph alone can fool a horde of people.

Two clever fakes from the past that still fool people today. Top: “Civil War soldiers” pose with a recently killed pteranodon. Bottom: a recently killed giant grasshopper. Both are fakes, but for the technology of the times, cleverly done.

Pterosaurs have been reported around the world, chiefly in Texas, USA, and New Guinea. Josh Gates tried hunting them in the latter, but due to the arduous journey and hostile terrain, had to abort the quest.

In the Congo River Basin, there were reports of living sauropods, or dinosaurs like the apatosaurus, formerly known as brontosaurus. The tales were told by the local tribes, and what Professor Roy Makal never guessed was that these locals had a sense of humor. He never found a dinosaur of any species. He found a ton of mosquitoes, though.

As far as extraterrestrials flying UFOs are concerned, there’s no credible evidence to support the notion that beings from across light years of space have ever been here. If there were, we would know. No possible cover-up could conceal it; someone with creds would talk. Of the ones who have, their accounts are unprovable. I don’t doubt that people see things they can’t account for, but I refuse to believe that they are aliens and UFOs.

Jesus did warn his apostles, though, that before he returned, there would be fearful signs in the heavens. This is from Luke 21, and it says that there will be earthquakes in divers (sic) places, and famines and pestilence (plagues) and terrifying signs from Heaven.

I don’t know what this means, because different versions place a comma in different parts of the dialogue. This is a sign of interpretation, something we are free to do, but not if it changes contextual meaning.

Interpretation of scripture and what is and isn’t in the canon is hotly debated. The dialogue in Luke 21 isn’t, but it does show how men have taken liberties with the original texts.

The idea of a worldwide flood may not be so fanciful as one might think. There is evidence for and against it, and I’m not in a position to enter any arguments about it. If the flood account is true, I believe it took place so far back from antediluvian times that we’ll never find evidence of it. And again, predating humanity, at any stage of evolution, we find no geological evidence of such a great event.

That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It may just mean that some things were hidden from us because faith isn’t supposed to be dependent on evidence. I keep reading click bait headlines about the tomb of Christ being found, or some other sensational find.

I’m cautious of what I read, watch or buy into, because the false paths are too numerous for me to navigate. I want to believe God. Not some AI headline made for clicks.

I’ve encountered many strange things in my life, including true, pure, evil. My best comfort is with God. Not a pill, not a drink, and certainly not in the words of others who want to use Jesus as a weapon.

Believe. Have the faith of a child, knowing that you know very little. That’s what faith is, not looking for evidence of giants,  empty tombs or alien races which genetically engineered us.

One last thing. I know that there are those whose prejudices deny what humans have accomplished. They don’t believe that men could have built pyramids. Or Stonehenge. I know that people believe in weird creatures, the great Smithsonian cover-up, and more.

You’re free to examine these stories, but remember that God can make anything. With him, all things are possible. In the end, I don’t know what was giving me the weird vibes of those two women. Or if faeries are real.

I just don’t believe, and I don’t want to.

And that’s okay.

Father and Son

My son, my dear boy… I miss you so much. When your sister left for Heaven, we cried together and held each other so tight and cried out how unfair it was, tears running in streaks from our eyes.

You flat lined three times. In the hospital I could tell, you weren’t coming back. I asked, what have you done to yourself, boy? And there wasn’t any answer.

You said you saw your sister up there. Told me you ran and played in lush green fields and that your grandfather was there.

The sickness had gone too far. And brain function… Well, I knew you were never fully going to return. The last time was just before Christmas of 2017. You remember? The doctor said your kidney, liver and other functions were beginning to show failure.

It was then that I knew…I guess I just didn’t want to believe it. Kind of like you.

That Christmas — a month later…that was to be our last day together. If I had known that, when we hugged before you left, I wouldn’t have let you go.

You tried. You did try to tell me. But there was a denial in me that made getting your grandma’s phone call the following Valentine’s Day such a shock.

People do that, deny what they see and hear. It’s because we don’t want to let go. We don’t know how to.

I loved you, son. I loved you so much that seeing you in trouble almost from the beginning cut me deeply. I’m sorry I never helped, never knew what to do, how to be a father and a dad at the same time. Because of things that hurt me long before you came along, I could only pick one. So I went for being a dad.

But I fucked up so bad, I lost your mom and that hurt you even more than you already were, since nobody else ever understood you, not doctors, and never your mother. She didn’t try to. Her only goal was control.

Now, eight Christmases are to be passed, and I tell people “it gets easier” and just now realized that I’ve lied to them. I wonder, will they forgive me? Do good intentions or the lie I believed for myself count for anything?

Because right now the wounds are as open and fresh as they always were, as they always ARE. On Christmas, Valentine’s Day and the Fourth of July when your sister went away, those days are dark for me. They stab me and haunt me no end. And I lie to people about that.

Well, all these years since I saw you, I gotta ask, didn’t you know that I was the one who was supposed to go away? Parents are supposed to go first, and you both got it backwards.

I’m sorry. Both of you, I’m so very sorry. You should be here. Not me. Or here with me. Not gone.

And Junior, fathers and sons are infamous for being on different levels, failing to compromise and even to communicate, but I always loved you and I always will.

I just wish I had picked up the phone that day.

And I wish you were here.

A Few Questions

She said a lot there, but everyone is asking the same things here in the United States.

What I’m getting from this is disturbing because it seems that nobody knows what the U.S. is allowed to do, what our constitution provides for or forbids, what the UCMJ allows or what constitutes criminal actions, and equally important, what international law says about combat actions in international water during peacetime. Especially against civilians.

I’ll let you in on something really messed up: there are no countries that are allowed to do this. It could constitute a war crime, but there is no war, so these horrors are crimes against humanity, and terrorism; Murder and the threat of more. Except, I don’t understand why it’s happening if Trump just pardoned Juan Hernandez, former president of Honduras, who was convicted of trafficking cocaine into the United States by the ton.

How in perdition does that make any sense?

Answer: it doesn’t.

I honestly knew nothing about the 2 September incident in which the so-called “double tap” strike took place until mere days ago.

I’ll tell you my take as a Christian first: I believe the “first strike” to be immoral. Killing is immoral. My renewed faith has no room for arguing this point. Defense against an aggressor in a declared war is one thing; this is nothing similar at all. Jesus never said to go forth and kill and then pretend it never happened. Killing and lying are not just sins, but they go against the conscience most people are inherently equipped with.

So too, Pete Hegseth proved to be a coward, speaking boldly, indeed arrogantly, and then lying to cover himself from any fallout. Which he’s finally getting anyway.

FAKE NEWS

This is something we all have to contend with. It’s a problem because, first of all, some people like to disseminate lies. Secondly, propaganda is effective. Hitler had a dedicated propaganda minister, and the Allied resistance countered Nazi propaganda with outrageously funny and equally effective stunts through the use of radio and printed material. The underground was often connected between occupied countries and those involved risked their lives in their own fight against Nazis.

The Resistance against Nazi Germany was often funny, and one case in particular taught the Kriegsmarine in Norway an unforgettable lesson. Germany had confiscated the entire country’s catch of sardines because canned food lasted longer on U-boat sorties. U-boats were hot, cramped, and they went on long “Wolpack” patrols across the Atlantic to sink Allied escorts and troop ships, but also to stem the unbelievable flow of planes, tanks and a staggering amount of food, medical supplies, uniforms and blankets, a never-ending amount of ships, and while the Germans, including armored cavalry, pilots, and infantry, had been told that the U.S. military was weak and could never outfight Aryans, the Kriegsmarine knew better. Not only could they not stop the shipping, but the Americans became much more efficient at detecting and damaging or sinking their subs. It became necessary for the Nazi armed forces to take drastic measures. Occupied countries had crops and meat confiscated. Troops were resorting to horses and carts for transportation of troops and supplies, and horses were used to pull artillery, some of which were very antiquated pieces from World War One. Combat photography and film footage proves all of this, and perhaps there was a time when they may have prevailed except that Operation Barbarossa had already beaten them. It is the judgement of many scholars that it was inevitable; invading the Soviet Union was a dreadful move. By the time of the flight back to German territory, retreat and surrender was no longer worthy of discussion. Men froze to death lying on their backs, some with an arm bent upward. And the entire war was like that. By the time the U.S. sent its military to engage Germany, it sealed the deal.

The taking of food and even linen for bandages in Nazi-occupied Europe forced the citizens into serious resistance tactics. Men and women alike fought. But in Norway….all of their sardines?

This was too much for Norwegians to take. Fuming, they contacted Allies and ordered a lot of croton oil. They canned the tiny fish with this oil, which is a rather “violent” laxative. In other words, U-boat crews on submarines that had a single toilet were taken out of action and couldn’t return to port fast enough. The interior of the U-boats were wall to wall diarrheic disasters, their men severely dehydrated. There is no mention I could find on the vessel’s turnaround time, but if it took a week, and the crew had to be replaced, then it took the boat out of action and plausibly saved at least some Allied shipping across the Atlantic. The story spread throughout the underground and the Maquis made sure that everyone got the news. The O.S.S. and British agents were probably rolling around on their office floors, stomachs cramped as badly as a German submariner’s, but for a different reason: they were laughing.

When properly coordinated, propaganda is effective. You just can’t overdo it because that’s when the resistance begins.

Today, however, the Trump administration is constantly putting out senseless, uncoordinated and often contradictory fake news, and that alone is funny, yet people are dying. Many more are suffering.

And here’s the thing: sure, this administration is all for cutting out all healthcare even as Trump’s mouth spits lies about healthcare reform. Which, it turns out, would result in a lot of deaths. And this is not World War Two.

But a new Holocaust? Can that happen?

This is all about deporting arbitrary people to other countries, mostly under the assumption that they’re illegal aliens, despite being naturalized and even U.S.-born citizens.

A senator who just loves deportations recently wrote on social media how thankful he is that his parents brought him to the United States (!).

This administration is full of hypocrisy and lies, and it’s so stupid that, if people weren’t suffering and dying, it would be hilarious. One funny thing is a senator introducing a bill which, if passed, would see Melania Trump deported, her dual citizenship cancelled. I tell you, it boggles the mind.

But as I’ve said, people are dying. And the suffering is getting more widespread. Very few things are funny.

I misread, or actually did read, something about a foreign leader being transferred to the Hague and the ICC to face charges of crimes against humanity. It’s likely that I crossed stories, but at first I thought a foreign leader had been detained for the same things as our Navy attacking boats for trafficking drugs.

Actually it was a Libyan official who ran a prison in which he encouraged atrocities including various manner of torture including murder, rape, extreme violence and more. The U.S. and Germany protested, but the ICC overruled them. Knowing nothing further, I can only guess that “illegal aliens” sent to Libya and El Salvador were supposed to undergo such acts and conditions.

Doing so constitutes multiple crimes against humanity under the Trump administration. ICE is allowed to wear masks and vests and be heavily armed and freely roam like Nazi SS and Gestapo men, taking prisoners. ICE agents are feared, but more than anything, they are bitterly hated, and a reckoning is coming.

Even now, as I think about it, I get sick in my body and spirit. Is there really no limit to the evil this administration willingly plans and then commits?

Media like NewsMax and Fox are just as immoral, eagerly egging the administration on and heaping praise on a band of criminals with outrageous lies that defy belief that anyone could be so dishonest as to utter them. Propaganda used to manipulate the public. No matter how stupid, they all spit it out.

NewsMax even put out a poll saying the Fox News reported that Trump had a very low approval percentage. NewsMax wanted to prove them wrong. They’re fighting each other!

No one knows how many families have been separated or how many children have been sent to God-knows-where, or trafficked. Yes, who in this administration would have a problem with that, given how the Federal Bureau of Investigation, once legendary, has worked overtime scrubbing and redacting the material in the so-called “Epstein Files?”

It’s been claimed that the redactions are to conceal the names of victims, and I hope it’s true, but wait! If our military shoots people clinging to a wrecked boat, is it so farfetched to think that the Feds would cook the books to exonerate Trump?

You know what war crimes and crimes against humanity look like. You know what “ethnic cleansing” looks like. Now comes my question:

Are you really supportive of this kind of inhumanity? Or do you condemn these things?

The answer, that’s for you. It isn’t for me. Because if this goes on, it will get worse. I saw the video of the boat. It looked like a small open boat to me, and watching it explode sickened me. You want more? Or are you willing to stand for what’s right, risking your life to speak against evil?

And one more question. If you are in any branch of the military of the United States, and you receive an order to do something you know is illegal, how will you respond?

How will history, and God, judge you? You can’t get away. Everyone will know. Is “I was just following orders” a good enough excuse, like most Wermacht, Luftwaffe, and Kriegsmarine claimed after VE Day? Right up to the minute they were imprisoned or executed?

It’s up to you.

Intimidation and Control

Today I had over two hundred visitors on this site, most of them in the United States and Myanmar.

This is impossible. None of my subscribers read from here anymore.

It’s likely that the current government is downloading or having federal agents reading posts one at a time each, because the list of titles viewed shows one view per visitor.

I want this to be perfectly clear:

I am not a hater of anyone nor am I a danger to anyone. I hate the things I and others do, but never the people.

That much being said, what’s going on in the Caribbean is truly terrifying.

While drugs are a problem, even though Venezuela isn’t a major player, I don’t believe this has ever been an excuse for starting a war. And yet, there are casualties. Vessels in the Caribbean have been fired on by U.S. Navy planes. BBC reports Gerald R. Ford is down there with subs and escort ships.

I wouldn’t know. And I wouldn’t care if we had not already racked up casualties.

And Venezuela has contacted OPEC with a warning that we might invade.

Fact: the world will not react favorably to any military action started by us, unprovoked and for an false reason. We’re staring down the barrel of World War Three and I’m personally scared. You think his Saudi friends will back us against other Arab countries?

This unusual traffic on my site makes me believe I’m a person of interest to those who think speaking against the president’s actions are actually illegal.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I bother with this site. Nobody comes here. I can’t remember the day I had most of my views in a 24 hour period. But, of course, it was never over 50.

I’m not interesting. I write about loss, tragedy and loneliness. Of love I couldn’t act on because I wasn’t good enough for the woman I loved most in my entire life.

I’ve done religion and current events, and I have changed with the times just as everyone else has. Some have learned and pulled away from extremist views. Others have failed to learn anything and become more mired and cannot believe any truth beyond their beliefs. Their truths are lies.

This world is in what I believe are End Times chaos. We fight, we kill, we hate. And it’s getting worse.

You may think these early snows and cold snaps disprove global warming, but that’s wrong. Climate and weather are different things. Every expert who tells the truth has warned us that extreme and unseasonal weather was inevitable.

And war equals war crimes. No “honorable” war has ever been fought in all of recorded history. Men do unspeakable things in wars and that’s just how it is. You don’t need an entire brigade or carrier group to slay the innocent. To rape and steal and much worse, and yes, there is worse.

I’m not pointing any fingers here, either. Every war has seen bestial things and there’s no way to stop that. Especially not with the leader of a country so eager to pardon that behavior.

We citizens of the United States do not want war. But the so-called War Department is poking the hornet’s nest, and I learned by age four that you just don’t do that.

Whoever fires on U.S. Navy ships will be answered with everything we have. Don’t allow it. There’s no reason when you know there are better ways.

And to the president, I simply ask, “do you want a legacy that history will hate you for, or would you prefer to have people say your name with respect because you turned around and helped people instead of what you’re doing now?

I know which one I would choose.

And for anyone who reads this, do you really believe God is happy with us? That he’s not going to judge us guilty for the destruction we’ve done to this planet? Forever chemicals, mercury and other heavy metals and toxins now reside in every part of the globe, in the air, on land, and in the deepest oceans. They’ve invaded virtually every human and animal, and I haven’t even mentioned plastics yet.

How much longer do you figure we can live?

It’s something everyone needs to ask themselves, and depopulation crimes can’t help. Those are just murders.

Given thoughtful consideration, I believe that you will not like the answer.

I love God. I love His children. That’s unconditional; it has to be.

I don’t like what many do, and I said earlier, I include myself in the equation.

“We all like sheep have gone astray; every one to his own way, and the Lord has laid on him (Jesus) the iniquity of us all..” (Isaiah 53)

Yeshua (Jesus in Latin) has us covered. He did before we were born. All we have to do is turn back to him. Renounce our sins and try to do better.

One last observation.

There’s a lady near me who feeds the local deer herd. Every day she goes to the woods and chucks all kinds of good food around. Now they barely graze, waiting for her. They graze afterwards but they know she’s got the good stuff.

This is not because she thinks they need help.

Having observed her at length, it struck me that it’s all about control.

Control is a horrible responsibility, and few ever live up to it.

All who seek control over wild animals are lacking control in their own lives, and I’m not referring to gamekeepers or zoo employees. I’m saying laypeople mostly do what she does because they want power over wild things. Sure, white tailed deer are cute, but because of her, the herd is confused. They allow her to approach, but still shun people. This unfortunately brings them closer to places people walk and even live. They’ve eaten elephant plants nearby every year but this one. Now the plants stand yellow and soft.

Every time someone seeks control, bad things happen. A doe with a fawn nearly charged me (you can look up the warning signs) and the buck, about an eight-pointer, stayed in the area for three months. That is not normal behavior. And he would stand right in my path, daring me to come closer. I didn’t dare.

Ultimate control is illusory at best. When Hitler took Germany, he ruled with a steel fist. Until, of course, he’d squeezed the last bit of humanity out of so many people that he couldn’t control what was left of them; each relished their own positions of power and did horrible things.

He was soon overcome by his perception that he was in control to the point where he had killed so many people, especially his own, that there was no way he could even know what was going on. His subordinates were frightened by the thought of giving him bad news; he’d executed too many of them, and killed his best armor commander out of misplaced outrage after D-DAY. Soon, his city, his bunker, was surrounded. Even underground he could hear the sounds of Soviet artillery. In the end, his country was in ruins, his people split between east and west, and by then he was already dead by his own hand.

The “control” of an angry man tore his country apart and left Germans traumatized, broken and hated by too many people to ever count.

This is something the world ought not to want repeated. And when it was reported that Donald Trump was a fan of Hitler, it chilled my blood.

So, what’s next? I know you’re asking.

My answer is, buy a history book. A set of history books. Then you’ll know.

When We Are Being Lied To

Look. We knew he was lying.

We don’t like it.

But if you happen across this post, and you have been avoiding the news on whatever platform you’d like to name; if you have been avoiding current events because of all the hate on Facebook, I’m going to tell you now that you can’t bury your head in the sand. No, whatever happens will affect you no matter what party you support or whether you are independent.

Your life has been changed. The numbers she’s pointing out may seem small to you, but they are not.

And just to make it clear, the U.S. economy does affect the world economy.

We are buying less. Soon, we will be unable to buy much of anything. We have always had street people. You hear or read about them, but did you know that they include entire families?

They live in abandoned places. Under tunnels. Under bridges and overpasses. In the woods. Old warehouses and condemned row homes.

And all too often, that is where they die.

But, and I have said this many times, more people are on the edge of joining the ranks of the homeless than at any time in my life. Food prices are going up, and I don’t need to hear from expert economists to know it. I’m the one who will eat soup for thanksgiving, and I’m fine with it, especially since I refuse to fill my stomach while I know children are starving. I’d die first.

This woman knows what’s coming. She appears to be resisting the need to say it out loud. I wish she would go ahead and get it over with.

Because if your head’s been in the sand, it’s time you know the truth.

Don’t tell me you’re a Christian and yet you give not so much as a thought to the poor.

Don’t tell me you’re a Christian when your table is laden with expensive foods but you can’t even spare a minute to pray for hungry families.

Don’t tell me you’re a Christian when you support Trump, Ice, illegal imprisonment and orders to the military that would make us the primary beligerant in a war.

Don’t tell me you’re a Christian when you have no problem with killing, racism, bullying, rape, forced child-bearing by minors, and you support an evil president whom the devil alone smiles upon out of every creature in heaven, including the angels, God and His Son, the Lamb of God, who will judge all of us.

Christians do not do what the false ones on the right do. They do not spread nor tolerate hate being read between the lines of scripture.

Real Christians give freely and pray that they can do more to help.

Real Christians love those who mock and hurt them.

Real Christians cry and pray for children who suffer under evil governments.

Real Christians make mistakes and sin. But they know that’s a part of being human. They know to ask forgiveness from the Lord, and that He will forgive, and if they ask for it, He will grant strength to fight harder, because their faith pleases him.

Real Christians don’t know what God looks like. They don’t know the strange mysteries left behind by the Holy Bible. It’s faith that conquers doubt through questions like those, and we have to keep learning that we don’t know everything.

And that we weren’t meant to.

Otherwise faith, the most pleasing thing to God because it comes with your love, would mean nothing.

Jesus once said, “Because you have seen, you believe. Imagine how blessed those are who will not see, yet believe.”

As I fight to regain my self respect and my faith, I have asked for protection from God for the innocent children and their families. For those kidnapped and sold into slavery. For peace.

I have also asked for my friends to be given blessings of health and peace in times the likes of which they’ve never imagined.

Even Marjorie Taylor Greene, who is supposed to resign as of 6 January, a woman I have maligned at every opportunity, has my prayers for the safety of she and her entire family. What she did took courage.

Trump’s lie was outrageous and nobody alive should be tempted on any account to believe it.

But some do.

And even after the revelation that most of the NAGAs in X are foreign to the U.S., there still remain rabid supporters of Trump here. Many, like Greene, have defected. So the danger they pose continues.

I challenge all real Christians to pull their heads out of the sand and fight against evil. First, pray. Twelve-steppers, ask your higher power what’s right.

I’m sick of lyrical sermons in a time when this many people are dying. Your prose serves no purpose, no inspiration for those in spiritual darkness. And if you continue, you won’t like what happens next. You also will not like the terrible realization that you failed to solve anything.

In the past, my language would have been laced with filth and anger.

I’m not going to do that now. I’m appealing to your conscience, your beautiful souls, and your faith; may the Lord give you the strength and insight to be the best that you can be in these sad times.

President Trump wrote on social media that the six lawmakers were “traitors” and guilty of “SEDITIOUS BEHAVIOR, punishable by DEATH!”–the Hill

Never, in modern times, have we heard a sitting president say such a thing.

Who the six lawmakers are that he is referring to does not matter. What he said, does matter.

In World War Two, only one of many deserters was executed. Edward Slovik was shot by a firing squad on 31 January, 1945. He was the only soldier executed for that crime since the U.S. Civil War. It happened days after the end of the Battle of the Bulge and the liberation of Auschwitz by the Soviet Army.

Executions of U.S. soldiers did happen during the war. Well over 150, all for crimes of rape and murder. But only one was killed for deserting. And he was a marginal case.

When the six lawmakers were referred to by Trump as deserving execution, what they had done was to call for military leaders to disobey illegal orders to commit violent actions against anyone or any country that we are not currently at war with.

And those six brave and righteous souls are not backing down.

The fact, however, that the six were not joined by other lawmakers is something I find deeply troubling.

The United States has, under president Trump, become a watercooler and dinner subject of conversation the world over, and few speak of us citizens kindly. Not even in our longest standing allies’ countries.

I am sick at that fact, but more sickened-deeply sickened in my heart, at what this country has become, and thus earned the hatefulness and derisiveness aimed at us.

Recently, Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene announced her resignation as of the 6th of January. She was a MAGA supporter and a person held in contempt and bitterness by the political left but suddenly broke from the Trump administration. In a statement she claimed to have opened her eyes to corruption by both major parties and, amid death threats, denounced everything Trump had planned.

Others have been less kind, like John Kennedy, who said on the senate floor, “if you weren’t born on American soil, get out!”

This would include Melania Trump.

The problem with evil, and everything that goes with it, like racism and hatred, is that sooner or later it becomes its own worst enemy. It gets ironic and grows tentacles that cross each other. This exclamation also applies to many who are Trump supporters and even to members of our military. In fact, countless war veterans have already been deported. I’m not going to look for statistics, because I can’t trust anything this government does or says.

The holidays are upon us.

Instead of family gatherings, we should all be shut in for safety against those who would take our freedom.

Instead of gifts, Christmas will be a hard day for too many for me to celebrate. Prices are so high that any gifts must be bought by people who are giving up meals to do it, yet a recent statement by Trump claims quite delusionally that prices are lower than ever and getting lower.

And still we face having our military being abused. Given illegal orders to do illegal things. It would kill innocent people no matter the target.

It would start World War Three.

This is not the United States as we have known it. Vietnam was a terrible mistake. The gulf wars were highly questionable with false evidence given as reasons to open fire.

They were a national disgrace.

We have fought justified wars. And World War Two was a nightmare that shook the four corners of the world. But that war was forced upon us.

We’re not supposed to be the bad guys. And we are about to become exactly that.

To all outside of my country, I beg you, forgive us. We were supposed to be better than this.

I don’t know what will happen. All I can do is pray. Please pray with me.

“We have no interest in seeing World War Three. Unless we start it.”– Jack Wade (Joe Don Baker) to James Bond (Pierce Brosnan), Tomorrow Never Dies, 1997

Pyotr Iliyich Tchaikovsky: a tormented soul who left us with priceless treasures

As classical composers go, all can be said to have put real emotions into their work, but I think, of most, whether Romantic, Baroque or any style or time you favor, Tchaikovsky was the one who put his terror, his bitterness and his shame to music better than anyone else. The one exception is arguably Barber, but only for Adagio for Strings, truly the most heart-rending nine minutes in classical music.

It was a failed marriage that caused him such grief. That, and the homosexuality that the marriage presumably hid. And he clearly suffered from clinical depression and unspecified other disorders. Nobody knows why he was terrified that his head would fall off while he was conducting or if that’s just something he wrote in correspondence. I read his biography 30 years ago and while I can’t remember much of it, I remember that his sexuality shamed him. That was something that even back in my younger years was the societal decree for all whose sexual behavior didn’t conform to what was “normal.” The decree: live in secret in shame and a hell on Earth.

And so his darkness–and his moments of joy–appear in his every composition.

It is from both light and dark that true artists create; there cannot be one without the other. How shall I judge him? As a sexual deviate whose music should have been burned long ago?

I don’t judge him. He’s gone; only the Lamb can judge him now. His music remains, though, and I have always loved it, always felt free to love Classical music and its composers without biased and hateful judgement.

Now, every year at this time, Tchaikovsky shows up in the Christmas classic “Nutcracker Suite,” or just simply “Nutcracker.” And we all know some of the tunes, don’t we?

Ah, beautiful music. The March. The Sugarplum Fairies.

But have you watched it? The ballet I mean.

Here’s the one I hope you’ll watch. Indulge me just this once.

I score the conductor a perfect 10. Likewise the orchestra.

Now the dancers, they’re something really special. I only caught a few flubs where timing was off, but the recovery was always flawless. I score them a perfect 10, and tell you that around the one hour mark, they nailed “the Dances;” you won’t see better.

For the lighting, a 9.5. uneven in two places, but not hard to forgive.

Costumes, a perfect 10.

Makeup: 9.5 but only for making a supporting ballerina stand out too much and breaking the balance of “The Battle” number.

If nothing else, at least play the music, especially with headphones, and lie back, eyes closed, and see how moved you are.

All Messed Up: A disturbing discovery

I don’t remember what day it happened. I was walking in the dark. Right before dawn. I should have waited.

I lost my bearings. Veered from the footpath. Couldn’t see. I walked right off the edge of a 4 foot high retaining wall. For my feet, no big deal. You’d think.

I remember the fall, but not thinking anything except for “shit!”

I don’t know how long I was out. A man was standing over me, asking if I was alright. I couldn’t get up. Pain was everywhere. Broken bones were involved. Blood was everywhere. I couldn’t use my left arm. I very hazily reached up with my right and asked for a handle. He pulled me up and walked me, holding me up, to my door. I was sick with the quickly building pain. I knew my thumb was broken but something else was wrong. It didn’t look right. It hurt beyond my ability to comprehend.

My leg was bleeding. My right foot was just weird. The worst was the right side ribs.

I spent all day in the ER. Y’all know how much fun that is.

But ever since conglomerate Johns Hopkins took Howard County General in, the ER has been a hostile place. They don’t give a damn how hurt, how much pain, how severe. You’re there for the duration. One nurse gave me a Tylenol for pain. Or maybe it was aspirin. I was there for her entire shift.

I saw her twice. She’d said “I’m your nurse…” When I arrived by ambulance.

I saw other nurses who gave me a urinal. Near nightfall, a nurse came in with IV bags. I’d been pissing all day and sipped a drop when taking that token pill. Obviously I’m beginning kidney failure. I was filling urinals while taking in no water.

Meanwhile the pain got worse. That 1 to 10 scale? Fuck that. They think you’re lying. That you want dope.

This was a month ago I guess. By the time the imaging was done and I was told my thumb was broken and dislocated, this old man was pissed. A nurse quipped, “What do you expect, it’s an ER.” What does that mean?

But all day they hadn’t released a single patient and it was silent in there except for lasciviously weird conversations. How calloused we have become when inappropriate talk is freely done where patients can hear!

I’m not fond of knocking nurses. I’d prefer not to need to. But after one surgery in 2006, I heard one black nurse leave my room, go to the nurses’ station and talk total shit about me. I seethed. Seems she hated white people.

I’ve been in too many hospitals. Met too many professional and courteous nurses. I’m not ever going to take that shit again. I don’t have to and I’m not going to.

The pain didn’t, to me, fit between 1 to 10. I’d never, since my last heart attack, felt such severe pain. One to ten? That’s a joke.

Late in the day an orthopedic doctor came in. He just had to touch the thumb. He popped it back in place then put a half cast splint on it. I left with a few 5 mg of Percocet. That will not touch bone pain. I later saw my PCP and he gave me 30×10 mg Percocet. That got me through the worst days, but about a month later I’m still in agony. And nobody cares.

I had also, before the fall, thrown a different EKG (it was already abnormal) and had to see my cardiologist.

A receptionist dogged me going into the exam room and coming out with a ream of papers bearing my balance.

Before my follow up for an echocardiogram, I got an email stating that I had to bring $800.00 with me, or pay it before, I’d be seen. I called the office. Despite such a rude ultimatum, I was willing to set a payment plan. But I got voicemail. I boiled!

“Hey, I got your nasty message so ya don’t even answer your phone? Well here’s a message for you: fuck off, I don’t need you.”

And despite the doctor being excellent, I can’t go back. And his bloody bills can go to the bottom of my incredible stack of bills.

And this is our healthcare system before the shutdown and whatever deals Democrats are making with the Devil.

I don’t walk right. Maybe I never will. It’s funny, the right one drags a bit. My ribs on the lower right posterior hurt like nobody’s business, I lie in a heating pad most of the time, I need dope and if I ask for more, I will be flagged as an addict. Look, I don’t like the shit. I merely need it.

All this time, I’m feeling like a big pussy. But then it struck me, and hard: you know you’re old, you know injuries hurt, you know they’re slow to heal, so shut up already.

Now, I am not schizophrenic. And I don’t hear voices. I’m not delusional. But that inner voice scolding me, what’s that?

I’ve “heard” it before. I talk to it. It answers or whatever. It’s me.

After all this time. So many years, decades, of things I didn’t understand, wasn’t even aware of at times, now it came to me.

I was ashamed. I hated myself again. I didn’t want to talk about it but I had to, and I trust my friends.

Dissociative Identity Disorder

This is not multiple or split personalities but I accept that you might want to call it that.

I never believed in it and the one case I was presented with in a friend, well, I got sick of her. A faker who pretended when it was convenient.

Well I don’t know about her, we parted under less than friendly circumstances.

But I knew there was more. For two years I’ve had an almost steady deep southern accent. It wasn’t quite…right but, I couldn’t help it. After the fall, I returned to my light southern accent. “The Cowboy” was gone. I realized that he was me, but a different version, one who protects. I had him start up during a conversation on the phone after I figured out what was going on. I was able to control and stop him.

He’s really not a bad version of me, there’s no difference except the accent which sounds tougher and less vulnerable than me.

But there’s more. During any particular traumatic event in my childhood, my brain did this thing. I don’t fully understand it, but it goes something like this.

I’m being striped with my father’s belt. He doesn’t stop until he’s exhausted. His rage is uncontrollable. I’m bleeding across my forearms where I tried to protect my back. That didn’t work.

I scream and cry, but he’s not spent yet. That’s when, either that moment or not long after, a different identity is formed to come in and protect me. How it works in the brain, I don’t know, but hate, anger and guilt contribute. Anger because this just isn’t right, and I know it, hatred because of course a kid hates his life being nothing more than a sex slave and whipping boy to sick parents who don’t love him.

And finally, guilt, because brainwashed kids of trauma ceaselessly love and obey their abusive parents. Want to guess how many kids wind up dead that way?

The guilt gets carried by another identity, and so on, every time it’s necessary. Now the sexual abuse. This is something I really never knew happened. Yet another identity formed to handle that. That version was pure evil. An asshole. Sneaky and vindictive at first, it never even occurred to me that it was a sliver of me driven to exact revenge on enemies or innocents alike. Broken windows, slashed tires, cursing out a poor guy trying to make a living in an ice cream truck. Didn’t matter.

It seems like he vanished at some point. He didn’t. I just got better at holding back his trigger, which is deep anger. Rage.

That’s when, around 2010, I looked back and for the first time noticed a pattern of destructive behavior that went way back to the late 1960s. I was a runner, a sabateur of friendships, not only mine, but others’ relationships. When triggered, this runner would burn bridges, run away or insult friends into leaving me alone. I was so hurt that I didn’t want to risk rejection of any kind, so no friends, no hurt. By the summer of 1972 I was forbidden to play with any neighborhood kids. I’d done it. I’d left my mark.

This sliver of my soul would seem to be controlled but it never was. I became the Running Man. If someone left the place I worked for greener pastures and they had a get-together, I didn’t go. Especially if it was a friend. It hurt too much.

I spent a lot of time working just to stay away from my wife. Fuck her. She did everything she could to humiliate me. And she was good at it. Finally I sabotaged my marriage. I was tired of her screaming at me. I’d check on the kids and sure enough they’d be in their beds, wide awake. I loved them too much to let it go on. I just jammed the gears and stopped them from moving. I was on my own.

The DESTROYER

This guy somehow got out of my control. Perhaps because I put it down to behavior, before I knew about PTSD affecting not just veterans of combat but victims of rape, child abuse, and all manner of violence. Maybe not knowing let him loose; I’d say that’s a good guess. Anyway, it happened. I noticed aberrant behavior especially on social media. Triggered by anger or hurt over insults, whether real or misunderstood, he would block friends, talk horribly about them and they have been gone from my life since.

But I did it to people I knew in person too. And the worrisome part is that I don’t remember most of it.

I find out later when approached, or they ask a mutual friend what the hell is going on. The Destroyer wrecks shit up. But there’s a bright side to this. I can’t undo what wrongs I’ve committed. But now I know. And I’m in control.

It’s really a matter of holding on and pushing them away. I don’t need protection anymore. I don’t need to hide or run away. So if I feel angry I can pray. That always works. He may not heal me; that doesn’t always happen. But He does, with faith, help. Jesus is real. His life, death and resurrection happened. Even the insight into DID was a miracle; I could easily have died not knowing. And my behavior wouldn’t have changed.

I am in pain. My brain has trauma damage. Those things are true. And this is a thing I find bizarre and embarrassing to write about. But I have shared my life on this site. Nothing was off limits unless it would have been unproductive. My mission remains: tell others what I’ve been through. If they see me in themselves, I hope to be an example, an inspiration to get help. You can live with things that hold you down. A bit of faith, and lots of hope and courage are all you need. And you can accomplish the impossible.

Avoid the United States at All Costs

I can’t find a link to the entire scene shown below, but so many times in my life, I’ve found Star Trek to be inspiring and, very often, a source of learning. While growing up, when being abused so badly that I had no dreams left about what I wanted to or could do with my life….when I was sent to bed to stick to my sheets because of the bleeding, or when I was expected to attend Sunday School hours after being raped, I found escape from the pain, terror and guilt with books and movies. Trek saved me from conforming to the evil ideology of my father. Today I try as hard as I can to be a decent man. I worked for 30 years and still never did anything I dreamt of before those dreams were snuffed out like a candle. I did the best I could under the circumstances, but I have regrets. They’re heavy and difficult to live with. But I’m not alone when I say that I learned a lot from Trek and books.

Many of you no doubt can relate to this, and personally and sincerely, I’m sorry.

Star Trek was always my favorite. The sets were much smaller than most people know, forcing viewers to use their imaginations to fill in the rest. Today imagination isn’t required. CGI removes the wonder of imagining the things you couldn’t see in classic shows or when reading a great book.

Star Trek IV

In the movie Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home, Admiral Kirk and his officers are on their way back to Earth when they receive this warning from the president of the Federation. An alien probe has entered orbit and is causing atmospheric damage to the planet. Kirk intercepts a message from Starfleet Headquarters warning everyone to stay away.

“ST 4: TVH” is still one of the most beloved Trek movies, and for good reason.

That’s why I’m reminded now of this scene. I’ve warned people before to stay away from America, and I hate doing it, but I believe it to be morally justified. This time, even more so.

This summer — indeed this year — tourism dropped significantly from other countries. I feel sad about it, but those people who stayed away were smart.

At times, the major news outlets were reporting that people were being taken off the streets illegally and without any due process, were hauled off to other countries which accepted them as prisoners. Reports of imprisonment under inhumane conditions were then suddenly stopped, one news agency after another under the threat of losing their broadcasting licenses.

Now there’s almost no mention of this violation of human rights at all. That’s outrageous!

Therefore, especially during the current government shutdown, I must renew my warning to all travelers from abroad: avoid the United States at all costs.

You can’t even visit a national zoo, and the Smithsonian museums will only remain open for a limited time. There is no reason to risk your freedom or your life to come here. None. To see a geyser? Ski in Colorado? Visit even with family?

It is a dangerous time, for Americans and for you. There’s no way to know what might happen. I believe that with video meetings at your disposal, even business travel can and should be avoided.

Our president has caused, and continues to cause, critical damage to the very foundation of this country, and he’s seriously mentally ill. He claims to have stopped wars that don’t exist, including one between two countries that share no borders, and indeed are thousands of miles apart. He declared war on one of our own states even though the governor of that state assured him that nothing is happening there to warrant military intervention.

When meeting foreign leaders, he’s worse than an embarrassment; he is in fact being laughed at, and that is justified.

He’s a fool, but a dangerous one. He’s in power and longs to use that power without any thought as to the consequences. He does not, in fact, care about the people he’s supposed to serve. Or you.

Save your money. Save yourselves.

Avoid the United States at all costs.

The 2025 Shutdown: Things Could Get Even Worse For America

This is not unexpected during the current turmoil in Washington politics. It just doesn’t surprise me. British Broadcasting reported overnight that the shutdown is in effect.

So far, Social Security and Medicare and other mandatory government functions are not affected. However it’s unclear how our military will be affected. They are expected to report for duty as usual, and deployed personnel must remain in place, but they will not receive pay until the shutdown ends. This is a disgrace and an overwhelming problem to expect the men and women who serve our country to deal with.
Many Americans have no concept of what this means. Every single Air Force, Army, Marine, Navy and Coast Guard enlistee have to pay rent if living off-base, and they have mortgages and car payments, insurance and everything else a civilian has to keep up with while not being paid. When I served, it was illegal to foreclose on a loan or evict our service people, but I can’t find out if those clauses are still upheld. It worries me.
Almost one million federal workers will be “furloughed,” a grotesquely polished word for being laid off. They, too will draw no pay. Those people are always under the gun, since Trump has been slashing jobs, indeed entire government departments, since January.
I know a man whose vote for Trump was immediately rewarded with losing his job, yet he still insists that Trump is a genius. That doesn’t surprise me, but it is disgusting. A federal worker, eh? I wouldn’t trust a man who’s that oblivious to trim my shrubs. There wouldn’t be anything left, he’d get no pay, and he’d be cheerful about it.

I’ve lived a long time and seen shutdowns before, but never have I been this apprehensive about one. I’m not overthinking this; neither I nor anyone else has to do that. It’s bad, it will only make the current economic situation and American morale worse.
I still find it shocking that anyone from points south would want to cross into “el Norte,” or anyone from Europe to immigrate. Many don’t know what they’re in for.
Our elected leaders had better get their shit together, or all of them will be replaced. We can do that. We’re pissed and getting damn tired of the threats.

Backslide

It was the pain. It comes and goes, but when it’s at its worst, it can stay for days and nearly paralyze me. It’s head to toes. The doctor called it fibromyalgia, which on top of squashed discs and other problems is horrible. Almost unendurable.

Now, I ain’t no candy-ass, but when a man has so much piled on him at once, it’s gonna make him cry like one.

I went to the liquor store. I didn’t have much money and I didn’t want a fifth anyway, so I bought some Johnnie Walker red minis.

For the bottom shelf scotches, it did the trick. It went down smoothly, had a nice effect on the pain, and now…

Now I’m right back where I was in 2003. This morning I had a scotch and got no buzz. It just got me to a maintenance level to where I don’t fear the DTs and I’m not walking like a zombie.

When I saw my family for dinner on Monday, I didn’t say anything. There’s nothing they can do. I ordered a scotch neat, and fell in love with Dewar’s. When I had downed it, I pulled a Johnnie Walker red mini from my jacket, opened it and poured it into the glass. Nobody raised an eyebrow, and I’m glad. It was such a happy time, the best I’ve had in years.

But I can’t be silent any longer.

Being a recovering alcoholic is not an excuse to have even one drink. Recovering alcoholics can’t drink, not ever. Not socially, not to medicate pain. Not for any reason.

I knew better. But I thought I could control it. I can’t.

Breaking off now will be difficult because that next drink is all I can think about.

I think it was last night but I’m not sure. I saw a lizard the size of a person on my bathroom floor. That ain’t good. That’s something you go to the hospital for, but I can’t afford certain people finding out. With sips from minis until withdrawal doesn’t happen, I can get back to being in recovery.

I’m not really here today writing about myself so much as I am to you.

No matter what pain you suffer, mixing alcohol with any prescription drug is extremely dangerous. You can die that way. And avoid all street drugs. Seek help instead, and I know our health system is a shambles, but keep trying for the right clinic, doctor or program. Your life is important. We’re stronger with you than without you. You’re awesome and I hope you’ll be around for a long time.

It’s 12:42 here. I’ve already had strong coffee, Alka-Seltzer and Tylenol. I’ll drink another glass of water too.

Please be good to yourself. You deserve it. God is always ready to help those who call on Him.

Make that call.

And don’t let the political garbage get to you. Everything is going to be okay. Just ask Paramount and Disney.

I never had Disney but I did cancel Paramount Plus and I don’t miss it.

If you were looking forward to the exclusive Tony and Ziva, don’t let that stop you. It’s a lousy show hurried into production and it shows.

Do whatever you can to let the mega corporations know you don’t think they’re worth your money, participate in demonstrations, or anything else you can do. But don’t let the corporate news take you for a ride through any damned wonderland. Take care of your mental and physical health and you’ll be fine.

50 Years Ago: The Fall of 1975

Billboard Hot 100™ https://share.google/Fh1fHfO6hfDHb1YvK

That’s the top 40 (weekly) format, played by Opus and Casey Kasem. The top 100 hits of the year were compiled and played on New Year’s Eve.

What you need to know is that every month of this year was a rollercoaster. There weren’t many that stayed in the top ten for long, and most of those didn’t deserve to. Rock was dying, heavy metal was burning rubber, country spilled into the pop charts without remorse, and it was a mess.

Most of these songs I can’t remember. Radio has changed: automated stations with no live DJs, nothing but recorded chat and ads. Back then it didn’t matter if a song wasn’t worthy of sales, whether in single or LP format, and 8tracks had become notorious for getting eaten during play.

The radio was always on at the weekend hangout, in the warehouse where I worked, in the car going to school. My older sister didn’t mind feeding us Top 40, and when school started, this was a quirky but cool hit:

It’s catchy, melancholy, and it sold. I enjoyed it. Still do.

Now the Spinners, I didn’t expect a tune like this from them, but it’s my favorite. I first heard it while I was sick, laid up with the flu, so miserable that music was my only distraction. Secretly, I didn’t mind missing school. I was in a prep school that I hated, and, being an asshole, tried to singlehandedly cause enough destruction and chaos to put it out of business. The school, which had been there since very early in that century, shut down 3 years after I left. I was an extraordinary asshole.

Helen Reddy: people still laugh at me for loving her music, her example, her passion for equal rights. Her voice was incredibly distinct, leaving no doubt who was singing. I loved her. Women like Merilee Rush, Janis Joplin, Joan Baez, Helen Reddy and many more used art to gain what resembled equal rights. I’m not so sure things ever got to the equal level. I find that tragic.

Then there was Earth, Wind and Fire!

Justice came as the Captain and Tenille dropped in the chart, but they would return with a dreadful song, “Muskrat Love” complete with sickening keyboard effects, I guess to imitate Suzy’s orgasms. Disgusting. Not because I don’t find muskrat orgasms uninteresting; I’m really rather ambivalent. But if I have to hear Suzy’s expressions of sexual satisfaction, can’t I get it from an MP-3 byte and not a perv on a keyboard? Fuck.

Jefferson Starship hit with a single that would still be played every day in 1978.

In September, the thriller film Three Days of the Condor with Robert Redford, Faye Dunaway, and Max Von Sydow debuted. It was the only movie ever filmed in the Twin Towers. Max Von Sydow steals the show as a contract killer. Cliff Robertson appears as a CIA supervisor involved in an underground government after oil, and John Houseman is always worth seeing.

Dog Day Afternoon with Al Pacino is still good, but once was enough for me. Hits hard.

Elsewhere, Any American Troops remaining in Vietnam were captured, killed or both by a new Laotian regime, another assassination attempt was made against President Gerald Ford, and the next few months were not going to let 1975 go quietly. As leaves changed colors and everyone began to feel the holiday spirit coming, they were about to have that delayed for them.

I’ve Got Your Back

Yesterday, after posting my YouTube video, I had a headache, the kind, although not a migraine, that will have anyone close to tears.

I had to borrow money.

I went to the store and got a 24 caplet bottle of acetaminophen and a small box of Alka-Seltzer. The combination works for me. I bought a generic 16 ounce bottle of water, went outside and sat on my favorite bench.

With the Alka-Seltzer fizzing at the bottom of the bottle, I took a swig and swallowed the caplets. Relief was surely minutes away.

My friend Travis came into the area and asked for a smoke. I gave him one but he wandered off out of my sight, around a corner, but not far.

I drained the bottle, and shit, here came this tall Frankenstein’s monster of an old geezer, dressed even more disgustingly than I would ever be seen. Stains on the shirt and all. I heard him shouting, “Why don’t you find somewhere else to hang out?” And he repeated it. Then, “Nobody wants you here. They all know you. They all hate you. You’re a drug addict! You’re a drug addict!”

With the seconds it took for him to run his hateful mouth, my anger had risen to a point where letting it go any further would have been extremely imprudent; I know that anger from my past, and it’s dangerous.

I got to my feet and went around the corner, and the Frankenstein geezer shut up immediately. He didn’t need to see my eyes (my prescription glasses are sunglasses). Even an ate-up old fucker like him can sense danger.

And he had fucking pissed me off to where I was ready to take off my hat and glasses. No one has ever made me do that. If they had, I’d have hurt them really bad. Hospital bad.

This shithead was MAGA, there’s no way he could be anything else. His last words to Travis, repeated like everything else, “Get a job!” was still working its way up my temper. I didn’t want to attack. You never attack, that’s for the bad guys. Me, I defend.

In the back of my mind: old men hit harder than the young. One punch will make you a believer. And you’ll have plenty of time to memorize the fact while being fed through a tube.

Also, he outreached me. By way too much. I dared not engage. Combat would have ended in his death. I never want to kill, or even harm in any way. That’s the last resort of a lesser man than I. I’m supposed to be peaceful, and to keep my temper.

But I know that I have limits. In defense of another, yes. I can kill. Old men may fight like schoolyard kids, but I can’t. I’ll maim or kill. It’s that kind of world, and it always has been. Take another man lightly, and you’ve put yourself in serious danger.

Using effort that I was impressed with, I calmly said, “Travis, come over here with me, get away from him.”

He sat on the bench, smoking and trembling. I told him, “Don’t stand there and take abuse from a dickhead like that. You need to learn to walk away. If I’m around, I promise I’ll have your back. Let me stop whatever’s going on. You have every right to be here. That’s why there’s benches, tables and chairs.”

Travis said, defeated, “He’s right. I’m a grown-ass man. I should get a job.”

I don’t think he will get one. He’s been damaged, and I don’t know how.

And that old geezer judged. Judged him exactly as I used to.

He’s not a drug addict. He’s not an alcoholic. I doubt that he even has an ID card. I hope so.

I’m not judging on sight ever again unless there are visible signs of danger. Even then, all I would do is avoid such a person. I have nothing to say. I’m not a bully. The reason I don’t fight at the drop of a name is because I know how it would end. Names? A shove? Those are not reasons for violence.

But when it comes to defending a friend, an innocent, a victim?

I’ve got your back.

DIDDLER ON THE ROOF

No, I’m not making fun of the musical even though I hated it. Still do, too. I hate musicals because they’re stupid, a waste of time. The first one I ever saw was Mary Poppins, at the Shore Drive-In, once located on Mountain Road in Pasadena MD.

I don’t remember it. I only remember that later, when Chitty Chitty Bang Bang debuted, the director had Dick Van Dyke speaking in an American accent. The reason: his Cockney accent in Mary Poppins was so horrendous that nobody in all of show business ever wanted to hear it again.

It’s really a common problem for Americans; few actors have ever pulled off foreign accents well enough to maintain the viewer’s suspension of disbelief. In Timeline, Paul Walker spoke with a purely yank accent, yet his father was as Scottish as the Highland March. The difference is explained thinly as his parents divorced and he grew up with his American mother and rarely (or never) spent time with his father, a mellow version of Indiana Jones.

In The Presidio, an awful team-up flick with Mark Harmon and Sean Connery, the latter plays an Army veteran whose daughter, (Meg Ryan!?) speaks fluent yank. These kinds of puzzles have always irked me and yet, look at British (and all of UK) actors, and they speak not only great Yank, but can nail certain accents from different areas easily. Band of Brothers had more Brits in the cast than Americans, but I defy you to pick them out.

Did I say that I hate musicals?

I misspoke. I did, kind of, like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang until the kids started making me wish they’d stayed imprisoned. And there was only one song worth mentioning: https://youtu.be/tDPMcdd7F0A?si=6P2vtSKy8mCy73vl

But I digress.

Or have I?

I’ve actually been diddling around here wasting your time. Hurts, doesn’t it?

Look here:

You see, the original meaning of “diddle” was a verb, meaning that one swindled, cheated or by stealth and diversion stole something or totally humiliated them by wasting their time. That last part happened to me when I was in the Boy Scouts of America, an institution which, following the episode I’m about to relate, made me certain that the clean-cut image they had was one that needed shitting on.

It was a Camporee, a smaller version of the Jamboree, which I never got the chance to attend later, an occasion I had hoped to ruin if one asshole boy could.

First, I already was an asshole, but refinement and technique were required. Fueling that process was an event that took place at Friendship Park, near the former Friendship Airport, later named Baltimore Washington International Airport. In the early 70s, I believe.

Some asshole kid (with a red beret!) told me and another kid to fetch him some concentrated pigeon milk. No, I’m not making this up. And of course we had never heard of that particular dairy item, because pigeons don’t have milk or teats, which is because nature follows certain rules (except for the platypus, because, let’s face it, what the fuck happened there?)

Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,

The cow jumped over the moon

The little dog laughed to see such sport,

And the dish ran away with the spoon

My mother read that to me among other nursery rhymes when, of course, I was unable to understand it. Which means it scared the shit outta me, which means I begged her not to read me any more fucked up nursery rhymes, thereby prompting nightmarish fairy tales. It’s a miracle I ever dared to learn to read.

The other scout and I walked for what seemed like hours — and miles — and too many scouts and scoutmasters kept sending us to other parts of the park, to troops that didn’t exist, and every one of the sons of bitches did it with a straight face.

When we learned the truth, I began plotting revenge on the BSA. The other guy quit after that weekend.

The moral of the story is that people will diddle you every chance they get, with straight faces, with outrageous lies, without any reservations.

The video below is the Diddler-in-Chief’s latest outrageous act and is second in YouTube searches about him.

First, he’s a diddler of prepubescent girls, and that’s an established fact.

Second, he’s diddling on the job, wasting time walking on the White House roof and making any and all sane people wonder if he’s related to the platypus, because he’s mean, lethal and makes no fucking sense at all.

Third, his phone call to CNBC anchors live on the air was a clinic in how laypeople can plainly see everything he is: a liar, a cheater, a dawdler and a childish goon.

I thought it might be a false story when I saw a post on his rooftop prowling, but I promptly checked, and not only did it really happen, but it’s more bizarre than I thought it would be. I mean, I really thought it was something The Onion put out that caught on, but you can’t make anything like this up; I was born when Ike was still in office, the bastard, but I have never heard of any president fielding questions from the press from the fucking roof of the White House.

He lied about his approval rating. He smeared all people of color, saying, essentially, that they’re lazy.

He lied about migrant workers going “back home” and, I suppose, cleaning up and”getting their shit together” and then returning, “because nobody else can do farm work.”

What a fucking clown. Maybe he should have thought about that before he started sending them to foreign gulags. Maybe it has something to do with trying to get his approval rating up for real, because he can’t possibly believe that the polls are a lie.

A judge ordered work to stop on “Alligator Alcatraz,” and what do you think will happen to that? Oh, he’ll build it anyway; since when does he abide by the law? Meanwhile I have to wonder who the workers are who are building the cages. I’ll bet money that the laborers are not white. I’ve wondered if the crews were building their own cells. Because it’s that weird now.

Then there are his worshipers. Let’s face it, folks, that cult, and make no mistake, it is a cult, they continue to venomously back Trump and lash out at anyone who speaks the least bit bad about him.

If you’ve been wondering why this is so, look at what Jim Jones did. That happened in my lifetime, and I have done my best to forget it, but I can’t. The sight of all those bodies is something nobody can forget. Guyana, a country in South America bordered by Brazil, Venezuela and the Atlantic, will forever be remembered for the Jonestown Massacre, which was precipitated by “the reverend” Jim Jones, had a death toll of over 900 people including children. With his paranoia being amped up by the impending visit by Leo Ryan, a congressman, Jones was sure that the end was near. Ryan was murdered on Jones’s order, and currently we still have no grasp of why the mass suicide happened except that the reverend was coo-coo. We also have reason to believe that more than 200 members wanted to leave but lacked the means to travel.

Jones had somehow gotten about a thousand people down there, mostly U.S. citizens. When he became convinced that Ryan was going to return to Washington and give the government a negative report, he had the man murdered and his “doctor” brewed up some very lethal ingredients including but not restricted to cyanide. Some of it was injected and some of it was served in a grape drink similar to Kool-Aid mix, but another brand. Thus, we have the term “to drink the Kool-Aid.”

One man did that. One.

It therefore frightens me to think of what Trump will do when the world wakes up and decides that the idiot has to go. His brand of paranoia is camouflaged by his stupidity, but it’s still there. When the Universe decides to make up for what happened in Europe during World War Two and in many other places since, simply because foolish people love an angry leader and will let him get away with murder, we’ll see.

The Diddler-in-Chief’s going down, and unlike a platypus, his kind will vanish until the next time Satan gets lucky.

50 Years Ago: June and July, the Strange Summer of 1975

Warning: foul language, sensitive issues

Were you here then? Do you remember?

Rock and Roll was in its death throes, and not much was worth hearing. If you were like me and only got singles in Top 40 format mixed in with oldies and classic rock and folk, then you were probably just fine. On WCAO Baltimore, whose signal went everywhere I could go, you could hear “Rock Around the Clock” followed by some Sinatra, Merilee Rush, then one of the top 100 songs in the current Billboard hits.

This one always comes to mind when thinking of that summer.

Not rock, exactly. It’s pure Country, so the next on my list won’t surprise you. Remember this?

Strange, but TV show themes were big that year. I’m no way gonna link them here, but Mike Post hit with the theme for “The Rockford Files” and then there was the stupid ass show “Baretta” with Robert Blake. His wife wasn’t there, but Tony Baretta did kill people.

McCartney and Wings were still on game when their album “Venus and Mars” was released, and although there was really only one hit single, “Listen to What the Man Said” was only one of a great bunch of songs.

The vinyl LP has two great songs that melt into each other and should have been played as such on radio. Here they are, courtesy of YouTuber AudioPhil:

Disco was there in 1975 and “The Hustle by Van McCoy was a hit with a dance to go with it; I’ve seen people do it, but it’s like watching someone pull a rabbit out of a flatcap.

Elton John hit at least twice with “Someone Saved my Life Tonight” which is my favorite of all of his stellar songs and with “Philadelphia Freedom.”

ELO had some strange songs, but every one of them was a good listen. This one is infectious; I never forgot it.

That one was from 1974 but finished in Billboard’s 1975 top 100 of the year.

America had no distinctive sound to me, and I always confused them and CSNY. But the songs by America had such absurd lyrics! “Alligator, lizards in the air” had to be about an acid trip, right? But this song stands out as hopeful, simple and just plain neat. I love it!

Grand Funk Railroad hit twice, but this is the best. YouTube credit: JMoore75860

I had not heard that song again until now, 50 years later.

QUEEN!

Yeah, they had already been around, but finishing at number 78 on Billboard top 100 was a big deal.

At number 77, John Denver had his most poignant song, a mournful tune and a story about a lost love.

Chicago:

Eagles:

Aerosmith:

We want old school! 1975 was a strange year, not just for music but for movies, headline news and cultural turmoil. And then there was me, the quintessential American Asshole.

Blockbuster films were usually released around the fall and winter holidays, but Stephen Spielberg’s Jaws hit theaters on 20 June, and the legacy was the summer blockbuster. Jaws left many people leaving theaters with a traumatic and unreasonable terror of beaches and water that lapped the sand, with great white sharks undoubtedly lurking just beyond the breakers. I do not like the movie, even if it’s a good one. And I hated the book, as I view infidelity as a grave sin and a heartbreaking one at that.

James R. Hoffa vanished, and to this day the crime remains unsolved. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though, as independent and freelance reporters managed to come close to solving it through networks of informers, all of which, when under oath, invoked the Fifth Amendment. In later years, theories as to where the body had been disposed of ranged from the plausible to the outrageous, the later of which saw workers digging in Giants Stadium in Jersey.

That year saw the last days of the Vietnam war. The fall of Saigon is remembered through footage of Hueys taking off from rooftops, bound for offshore aircraft carriers with refugees who had aided the Americans, whom the NVA would no doubt execute. Sacrifices of heroic Americans deciding to remain on the ground so refugees could be flown out have been forgotten. But it really happened.

Microsoft was born from either a fever dream or a late night pizza-induced nightmare.

That summer we lost Rod Serling, the greatest and most thought-provoking writer and narrator who lived. His Twilight Zone and later Night Gallery series survive him, and they are still loved and watched today.

Richard Nixon has been pardoned, but the country is still reeling from scandal, as Mitchell, Haldeman and Ehrlichman sit in prison. Water cooler talk can’t get away from the energy crisis, who caused it, and from ongoing investigations, book releases, magazine and newspaper articles still dog anyone suspected of being involved, the blank spots in tapes, I was sick of it.

In July, a Good Humor truck, the old, open top kind with only one seat, and a sexy girl riding on the hump beside the driver, started to make my father’s warehouse on Penrod Court a stop. We were busy that year, with a lot of people working. The truck drivers and crew went wild over her, but I was still developing my people skills as an asshole.

I told the depraved truckers, “Man, I wouldn’t fuck that with a dozen rubbers on my cock!” I was far enough away that there was a slim chance she wouldn’t hear me. But I had to grin when the drivers and crew burst out laughing. Here’s the boss’s son coming up with filth and cruelty. And she had heard me. She wasn’t there after that. In fact, the truck never came back after a few more trips.

I’d had a long history of verbally abusing ice cream truck drivers, but it had always been the Mr. Softee guy who took the worst of it.

I regret that. I’ve got too many regrets. And they go back more than 50 years.

1975. What a year. What an awful, wonderful, strange, confused and fucked-up year.

And really, all things considered, don’t we miss it? Don’t we wish we could go back?

Meh.

AI Slop!

Facebook is still allowing posts which claim that Rachel Maddow demanded security to remove Karoline Leavitt from the set of her show. Almost all of them describe Maddow as being enraged.

THIS DID NOT HAPPEN.

There are YouTube videos that are narrated by AI describing the event.

There’s no footage of this. No testimony from audience members, and I don’t even think Rachel has live audiences. There is not one shred of proof, but this 30-some day old bullshit keeps getting reposted.

AI is being so abused as to attempt to reinforce lies, produce risque (or worse) photographs of celebrities (Jennifer Anniston is a frequent target) and to mock anyone and everyone.

I don’t even know if Leavitt was ON her show, but Rachel would never have reacted so. Her strategy would be to let her answer questions in her dimwit way and let Leavitt hang herself.

It is absolutely essential that you become hyper aware of AI content and either report it (useless) or spread the word about lies. The truth is necessary. The truth is under attack. Defend it.

Here’s John Oliver’s take, and it’s worth watching.

New York City Breaks a Record and Baltimore reaches 104°F

New York City has broken a record high temperature that’s stood since a few months before Jack the Ripper stalked Whitechapel, East London, in the fall of 1888.

In Baltimore, the high reached 104°F. I didn’t bother to pay attention to the heat index.

In heat this intense, (temperatures on par with Death Valley) you need air conditioning. You need water. Lay off the coffee, tea and sodas. Caffeine is a diuretic that makes you shed water, which you need more than caffeine or alcohol.
If you have to, beat back vanity and carry canteens or something else that holds water (stainless steel canteens are superior to plastic ones; I’ve never had water from a plastic canteen that didn’t smell or taste of mold or mildew). You can find carriers for bottled water for your belt or whatever else you need on Amazon.

If you’re outside or in the heat, even warm water from a canteen helps. Don’t forget to pour some over your head. Don’t take salt pills without consulting with a doctor. If you or anyone close to you gets too hot, feels dizzy or disoriented, becomes weak, call 911.

Remember that this heat is extremely dangerous and your best defense is staying hydrated. If you have to rehydrate, you probably already need EMS (Emergency Medical Service). Do it.

I’ve been in the ER when they had to stick two IVs in me, a bag for each arm. Once you’ve had a heat injury, you’ll get it again at even lower temperatures.
And forget sugary drinks like Gatorade. You need water, so drink it. Doctors get paid to determine your blood glucose and sodium levels.*


REMEMBER: if you’re overheated, do not gulp water, but sip it slowly. If you guzzle it, you’re giving your body a shock. You’re likely to vomit, and that doesn’t help. At all. Also, in that situation, tap water or cool water is your best go-to. Cold water will not sit well. Splash some on your face and head, but let the water warm a bit before you sip it; it will still be effective to cool your temperature.
Loosen your belt, shoelaces and anything else that can inhibit proper circulation and cooling. This is your LIFE. Drop your pride.
Be careful out there. PLEASE be careful.

*In some cases, if you’re continuously in extreme heat, I do recommend salt pills, but take it easy, and remember that in such cases, you should already be getting to an emergency cooling center or a neighbor’s house where there is air conditioning. Barring that, also note that even while trying to sleep, the air temperature in heatwave conditions are still unsafe after dark. Window fans do not remedy that. Air quality is no help, as it too poses a threat.

And finally, if there’s any doubt, any at all, activate your EMS Dial (911) in the United States. The time for progression from being overheated to heat exhaustion and heatstroke is dependent on temperature, humidity, state of physical health, and cannot be calculated. Each individual will be different. So no heroics. No tough guy bullshit. No “sticking it out.” Even the military has heat protocols, which you can consult if you like. When it got to 90°F, we were promptly ordered to shed our fatigue shirts, unblouse our boots, drink a full canteen and refill it (the water on your hip was never cold) and untie our boots. They didn’t play, either. I know this from personal experience; their saying was that a soldier who was careless in the heat was already a casualty.

That’s the truth.

Flashbacks, Dissociation. Because.

How do you waste the most time every day?

Hey, I wish I could say that I don’t waste time. We would all like to be efficient and productive, wouldn’t we?

Life happens, and when it does, it comes with good and bad. Well, for the longest time, I had too many bad things happen to me.

Those things weren’t just bad, though, they were evil, harmful and traumatic. And those things never go away.

All it takes is a flash of reflective light, an odor of something associated with traumatic events, a taste, a word…

…or a song.

Then what? I can be walking and not see where I’m going. Lots of times I drove places I didn’t remember getting to. How many times did I cross the Francis Scott Key Bridge to get home from work, but walking into my house without realizing I had actually arrived, and did not remember crossing the bridge, paying the toll, and exiting I-695?

How many times had I stripped down for a shower, because my work uniform was full of lime, silica and grime, and not gotten into the shower for two hours, never knowing where I had been, even if my body had not moved?

Flashbacks lead straight to a dissociative state where you involuntarily enter the past, reliving pain, terror, humiliation and violation.

There are medications that they say can help, but looking back over the past decade, I have to wonder if they were truly efficacious. Because it keeps happening, over and over and over again.

Many times I’ve been accused of staring at someone. If I was facing their way, I did not see them. Few civilians understand the two thousand-yard stare, because it’s strange to see. It’s highly disconcerting, thinking someone’s staring at you. The blank look can be taken as threatening, or worse, the mark of sheer madness. Insanity, like they’re trapped in some fever dream.

They have no clue that you’re not even there. You could be in a POW camp or building. You could be back at the house you grew up in. Reliving things most folks would puke like mad if you described them.

The worst part of all this is that nobody will believe you. After a while, you don’t try anymore.

That’s why I started this blog. I didn’t want to shut up. I believed then, as I still do, that if you tell your story to the world, someone – even if only one person – can gain knowledge and insight from it.

And maybe you help them, even if just to tell them that they are not alone.

Incest is the fastest growing category of porn everywhere you go. TV commercials hint at it. In the past, women posing with dogs was the thing. During the Afghan and Iraq wars, one “heartwarming” commercial, I think it was for dogfood, featured a returning woman in uniform reunited with her dog. Touching, but one shot had her in the driveway, on her back, knees bent, with the dog on top of her. Classic missionary position: sex sells.

Since then, a lot of father-daughter themed ads left no doubt that they were “selling sex.”

It’s as old as TV itself, older than newspaper ads, magazine ads, and probably in other media.

But the reality is not sexy. The reality is a fucking nightmare, one that never ends, long after abuse is over, usually because a parent died or the now-grown child has moved out.

And physical abuse? The kind where you’re tortured? Beaten bloody? Knocked unconscious twice in less than ten minutes? What about that?

Though physical scars may fade with time, the ones on your heart and soul never do. Never.

I have siblings who look for all the world to be well adjusted, and I am the one cheering them on in silence, secretly jealous, and yet knowing that they, too, must still hurt. Unfortunately, I have never escaped that past. I’ve lost the illusion that I can.

Instead, despite CPTSD and flashbacks and a textbook selection of attendant maladies, I do the best I can. When I am able, I pray to God to forgive me for my sins, and sometimes I selfishly ask for strength.

Maybe God says, “Mike, I didn’t abuse you. I didn’t want you to be abused, yet here we are. There’s only so much I can do to help. The rest was always your problem to face and defeat or to run from and have it chase you for the rest of your life.”

Maybe I believe part of that. Maybe I believe that life is a blessing and a miracle. A gift.

And maybe I even believe that while we’re here, part of our trials are our burden, and ours alone.

On the other hand, that hardly accounts for all the times I’ve been spared, accidents I survived, heart attacks I survived, murderers I’ve dodged, and so much more. Because I have faith that if asked, God does help. And sometimes He helps even when you’re a second from death and can’t pray because you’re terrified.

Anyway, the time I spend in flashbacks or total dissociative separation remains the thing I waste the most time on every day.

How I wish it was not so.

How I wish that you, too, did not suffer so. Yet there are more of us than we can know. Because life happens, and there’s good and evil. You fight. You resist. You do the best that you can. God bless you.

1334

I don’t blame the YouTuber who recorded parts of this video, as he may have warned others not to go there. However, the police were aware of his Livestream and they behaved in a most unprofessional manner.

It’s still hard to believe that these things happen, but last fall, the shooter was finally sentenced to consecutive life terms plus more than one thousand years in prison. I know that will not make sense to anyone outside of the United States, but please believe that the sentence is significant in a country where a man who raped a 16 year-old girl was sentenced to two years. A young lady must now bear the trauma of that attack with her for the rest of her life. Where is her justice?

“Justice” in the U.S. is transient and therefore undefined. What is it, and in which counties and states will it appear as it should? Why should there be a good place to rape or murder because judges are easily bribed or, perhaps, mentally ill themselves?

I hope that this video makes you think about many things: the value, fragility and fleeting nature of human life, the sickening way we fail to treat people with medical care in psychological and somatic fields, and the ease with which people here can arm themselves with enough hardware to kill a dozen or more people in a single location. Mass shootings, indeed, any shooting, is a national crisis and something the world can’t understand about us.

Hell. I don’t understand it.

Another Dangerous Day in the Midwest

This isn’t a normal post. All I’m doing here is trying to spread the word about a YouTube channel that’s become critical to watch, especially this weird spring of 2025.

Ryan Hall is a marathon weather streamer who goes live whenever storm fronts could produce hail, very high winds and especially tornadoes.

He has mad skills and a passion for helping people who are in the path of dangerous storms. Visit the channel here, subscribe and stay tuned. Forecasting as far out as four or five days, Ryan also tells you what may turn up a few days ahead. He’s usually right about what the weather is doing and what it’s about to do. I’m sorry this year so far has been weird, but Ryan, along with free radar apps, can save your life. The subscription is free, so if you have a mind to, look him up. The man and his chasers do, and I’d swear by it, save lives. See: YTC Ryan Hall, y’all in the search box.

89 Seconds to Midnight: Eating Spiders in Your Sleep

Look, I don’t like being what others call me: a pessimistic doomsayer. You think I wanted to be like this?

Well, I didn’t, and I hate it.

But this is a big deal, and I’m telling you now, do not take it lightly.

Except, some of you may find belief in flying saucers and aliens easier to manage than the calamitous situation we are all looking at. And hey, I get it. We’re in deep doo doo here, and none of us is going to face that without anxiety and fear. But be careful. Some diversions just aren’t healthy. I should know.

In coping with CPTSD, I have often taken on self-destructive activities, and I’m blessed to have survived some of them. But what I’m seeing isn’t exactly diversions except for movies and the gaming world. Lies flood the Internet, and, having fallen for my share, I am telling you that there’s danger out there. Enough of them catch on, and the next thing you know, you’ll believe anything.

People believe that you eat spiders every night in your sleep.

What baloney, and even the slightest bit of research will illustrate that you’re far more likely to be struck by lightning than to ever, in your entire life, swallow a spider in your sleep. Spiders don’t like us. They want nothing to do with us. Even bites are rare, meaning that usually you need to stick a hand or foot into a space where one is chilling out. It’s true that shoes left overnight on the floor can seem like a haven to a spider, but if it makes you feel better, hang them up, laces across a hanger, or pour a bunch of foot powder inside. Heck, I’d worry more about scorpions.

However, if we ground ourselves with reality, if we just read or listen to reliable sources, they tell a story of something we all should be worried about.

The Trump administration has already, in record time, made enemies of almost every country in the entire world. This does not include Russia, which will wring everything it can get out of Trump, then turn into a rabid enemy. He does not believe that. He believes lots of things that, frankly, have already killed people, and will kill many more.

His gold dome defense is essentially slag; useless and not even nice to look at. Experts have easily torn it apart as being inadequate and an invitation to other countries to make the slightest of adjustments to defeat it.

I personally don’t know if Donald Trump wanted to destroy the United States, but he has managed it in short order. Everything is corrupt. Idiots are being put in key positions, leaving us open to the domestic terrorism of ICE, illegal imprisonment and worse, and he exalts in his power to see lives end.

He is guilty of serious human rights violations, and nobody in our government utters a word of protest.

He takes things verbatim out of Hitler’s playbook.

Meanwhile, what of the countries he’s strong-armed, pissed off, or harmed economically?

China had, because of tariffs, embarked on a trade embargo, with empty cargo vessels being sent.

Who really suffered?

The people of the United States. And Trump knew that would happen.

If the Doomsday Clock has moved even one second closer to midnight, it is significant. That’s because the board takes into account breakdowns of political talks, the state of world economy and its projected path, climate change (global warming), and who is in power, and with that, any social upheaval.

Indeed, planet earth has never hosted a scene like this. All of history, even in the most horrible of times, has nothing that compares to this.

And it’s just getting started.

Any one person can make a difference.

Heroes are not born, not trained, not distinguishable from anyone else. You can’t point at someone and say, “Hey, that dude looks like a hero.”

By the measurements of history, a hero is someone who acts in a crisis when others are running away. They want to run too, but they don’t.

But heroes are also unsung most of the time. Nobody points them out, and nobody even knows their names. They help others. They give money to the poor. They defended the defenseless. They act in the moment without hesitation, not because they want to be heroic, but because it’s the right thing to do.

There are heroes all around us. They are faceless until their moments come to act. These men and women fade back into the crowd. You’ll never find them. But they are still there.

On the other hand, villains grab headlines and try to stay in the spotlight, loving and craving attention. They sway everything from individual to crowd behavior, until the fanatics they most appeal to surround them.

Hitler was one such man, and we in the United States are now led by someone who has taken his playbook word for word. If he is not stopped, World War Three will soon commence. Some believe it has already begun. It hasn’t, and this is nothing compared to what’s coming.

When the United Nations relocates to another country, you will be told that they are traitors and cowards, and more.

People still venomously defend our “president,” if that’s what he is. Their arguments include “who has he gassed?”

Just because something has not yet happened, doesn’t mean it won’t.

Photographs from El Salvador show very clearly that bad things are happening. The Trump support base says “they’re just gang bangers.”

They are repeating what they’re told. Not what’s true, and the truth is that ICE is grabbing arbitrary people including real citizens. There are no formal hearings. No legal aid is offered; rather, it is flatly denied. Those people will all die in a place too terrible to comprehend if you are sane.

I served the United States of America. I would never bear arms against it.

But a monarchy, a crown? I’d fight that. A fascist authoritarian regime? I would defend others against it if I weren’t already dying. I have to sit on my ass, watching this horror evolve.

My conclusion, therefore, has merit: the United States of America no longer exists. Like global warming, I believe the damage is too extensive for recovery.

This is why I warn travelers from other countries not to come here. Not for vacation, tourism, business or any other reason. You may never see home again, and there is nothing here that is worth your life.

*The United States is now a terrorist threat.

*The nights here hold a darkness and fear I have never seen. The sounds of small arms fire puncture the peace of the night, reminding me that everything is different now.

And I have nothing positive to say. If I tried, I would have to lie to you. I can’t do that.

Hug your children. Your spouses. Tell them they are loved and treasured. Keep them safe.

And pray. To God, the Father, your Abba. Never pray to anything else. Have faith in Him. And maybe, He already knows that we need a hero.

Stay safe, my friends, be well. May God bless you and keep you safe.

The Dangers of AI: WHAT Do the TV Show M*A*S*H and Mel’s Hole Have in Common?

YouTube warning: the channel “Rory D” is one I came across while doing a search. The video said the same thing again and again, in broken AI narration. It was supposed to be about why Gary Burghoff was so disliked by his M*A*S*H co-stars. The thumbnail is clickbait. For the current technology, this is not only hideous, but also an immediate and unmitigated insult to anyone who dares watch it.

I seriously doubt that any humans had any part of this production. Wait, did I just say “production?”
That’s not what this is.
A “documentary” about the classic TV show wouldn’t really have scenes from westerns inserted, would it? And those clips are not in any way related to the subject.
In trying to block the channel, I was frustrated. Not only could I not “block” it, I couldn’t even request of YouTube that timeless and handy option of (“Do not recommend this channel”). What the hell?
Topping it all off is a really obvious insult that is the featured video on the channel’s homepage: “This drone entered Mel’s hole ..”
I don’t know what’s next because that’s when I backed the heck outta there.
I don’t need to eat a whole pear to know if it’s rotten.
*Mel’s hole is a rural myth with no proof that any part of the story was true. According to one of the conspiracy theories, the government invaded his land and wiped out the hole itself. (they covered the hole because filling it was not an option, as it was bottomless!) It was covered over so cleverly that soil and grass now hide it.

Another whopper — I mean conspiracy theory — is that a native medicine man has been there, and knows that the military still has a base there because it’s a hot spot for aliens from another planet. No such people exist, not Mel Waters, and certainly not a medicine man who wanders freely on and off restricted military property.

Furthermore, note experts, such a bottomless hole can’t exist. Geology says it would collapse with the pressure at such a, um, depth.

Not only that, but “Mel” claimed that over fifteen miles of fishing line was lowered into the hole. Experts say the heat at even a shallower depth would have melted nylon monofilament fishing line (not even Berkeley XT could survive it!).


The story came from a caller to the Coast to Coast AM radio show with Art Bell. Of course Art Bell was not responsible; his callers were often retired soda jerks with insomnia and vividly colorful imaginations.

It’s bullshit, in other words. Mel’s hole never existed. Put that right out of your mind, BUT if you want a laugh, go ahead and look the story up. But not on your pad or PC. Do it at a library so you don’t end up with pseudo shit in your feeds. The story is so preposterous that I wonder how anyone could even have believed it. Or how people from coast to coast weren’t laughing in the streets in the wee hours after running their cars into trees or semi trucks. Hell, I’d have been too scared to drive at all. I’d never have been able to avoid a Walmart rig running over me at 0400. My name ain’t Bruce, and God wouldn’t save me.

And Mel’s hole was never investigated by drones. There’s a gap of more than a decade between the Mel’s hole phone calls and commercial drones like quadcopters.

A YouTube channel run by AI with little or no supervision sticks out like a camel in a steeplechase match. But that will not last.

You can’t trust AI or the humans behind it, because one is going to get better at lying and the other was always good at it.

We are living in an age of lies. Look around you. To every extent that you can, stay observant, stay vigilant and call out liars when you find them.

Pain

Nurse: “On a scale of one to ten, with 10 being the worst, what’s your current pain level?”

Me: Silence. If I speak it won’t be very nice.

This didn’t happen. But it’s how it will go.

I’d say, minus the cussing and acid, “10+.”

I hurt so badly that every day is agony. The pain keeps me awake until I’m exhausted. It wakes me up an hour or less later. Then I get up, take aspirin and Tylenol, wait for them to kick in, then try again.

I really don’t want to live like this. It’s not just the pain, it’s the humiliation. It shames me to be reduced to nothing but pain. I was prescribed Celebrex but the copay is almost $150.00 USD.

I need help and I’m not getting it. I don’t know what I might do.

You Are Being Lied To

Until I read the article that follows in a link, and The Conversation is one site I consider highly accurate, as its articles are written by scholars, I was only vaguely aware of the medical practice of “gaslighting.”

It is a very old medical phenomenon in which doctors outright lie to patients.

The lies are, and I’ve heard this from doctors all my life, anything from the egregious “it’s all in your head” to failing to treat serious conditions due to lack of knowledge, indifference, cookie cutter medicine, greed, laziness and more.

My imaging last August showed profound damage to my lungs due to emphysema. Every day it gets worse but I have yet to get any answers from nurse practitioners or the Shock Trauma doctors.

Congestive heart failure, an enlarged liver that’s dropping efficiency, discs smashed up and down my spine, huge bone spurs in my neck, failure of blood circulation in my lower legs, increasing blindness from cataracts, blackening toes that hurt like sin, and the probability that should I survive past the point I think I will that I will lose my lower legs, damage to my left ear from fights and a diving accident, kidneys reduced in efficiency, osteoporosis and osteoarthritis often causing severe pain to the point of my unwillingness to move, all round out this picture. A portrait of a dead man who fights back for no reason.

I saw a real doctor last week. I was ecstatic at first, because he was so positive. He prescribed Celebrex for pain, referred me to pain management, an MRI, and more.

When the pharmacy, which bills me after I have taken my home delivery, refused to fill my meds unless I paid up front, I knew something was wrong.

Celebrex co-pay: $135.00 a month. I can’t do that. Last month I had to pay $250.00 for a 30 day supply of generic meds. That price will go way up soon, and I will have to drop meds off my prescriptions. Not one of which I would not suffer without.

This doctor didn’t downplay my pain or condition (s).

Others constantly lie about diagnoses, and even a neurologist once told me my short-term memory was a lie I told him because I’ve seen too many TV shows. I never went back and I never paid him. Because, fuck him. When you’re walking down the street, and suddenly don’t know where you are…have to check for a wallet to see who you are…you don’t know that kind of terror unless it happens to you.

Nurse practitioners are the worst. They think they know everything and will quickly lose their temper with you.

But since they really don’t know everything, they’ll send you to every kind of specialist they can, and that’s just another co-pay, more follow-up visits and especially imaging. What a scam.

This doctor, the one I saw last week, lied to me. I told him I wasn’t sure what I could afford with the cuts to healthcare programs. He waved dismissively and said, “aww, that’s just to get rid of the waste.”

That statement stuck in the back of my mind because he’d been so positive. But when I really thought about it, I knew that wasn’t the truth at all. The cuts are sweeping but affect doctors first, by cutting the amount doctors receive from Medicare. And when that happens, it increases a patient’s balance, which the doctor bills you for. He or she won’t make less. You pay more.

As I said last year, people are going to die. Lots of them.

Get ready for the gaslighting to be turned up to full power.

“You’re fine,” they’ll say.

“It’s psychological,” they’ll tell you.

And of course, “It’s all in your head,” which does not refer to psychology, but infers that you’re just a nutter.

The obvious elephant in the room? Two aortic and one iliac aneurysms. They cause even more pain, especially the iliac, because it causes things in the bowels and UT to not exactly work properly. Urinating can be painful, bowels shut down then for days there’s diarrhea. Gas, bloating. It’s all there. Aneurysms can rupture and kill you instantly or almost so. It will be quick and you won’t even know what happened.

I’m living in a body that shouldn’t be alive, and won’t be much longer. I just wish it would hurry up and die.

Because no matter the treatment, I’ll die anyway. The last straw was when he listened to my lungs and never said a word. Just ignore it, doc. I have 1/3rd lung capacity and function (the next day, I cleaned my bedroom and went into a hyperventilating, painful episode).

And medical gaslighting is something you would think is ridiculous, absurd.  Nobody does that, right?

But did you ever wonder how many women died of ovarian and uterine cancer, when they were ignored by misogynist doctors?

You know what “hysteria” was?

Women had sex drives in times when men would jump on top in the missionary position, get off and sternly believe no woman should enjoy sex. They’d force their wives to go to doctors. Some stimulated the female genitalia with objects which would include vibrators by the post-war years. Others just used their hands. Imagine being humiliated by that.

Many of the women with high sex drives who were expected to lie still during intercourse were diagnosed with “hysteria.” It was a man’s world. Hysteria derives from the original Greek “hystera,” which means “uterus.”

Once inside a mental asylum, even to the 1950s, anyone would begin to truly become profoundly disturbed mentally. Torturous treatments included, of course, hysterectomy, abuse, ice baths, drugs, restraint, and even worse.

Medical care was a nightmare. It still is. Conditions go untreated and, worse, unacknowledged. This is the essence of gaslighting: lie enough times and the patient will likely believe that lie.

We live in an age of barbarism that you can forget when you’re sitting all warm and snug by the fire, reading a book or binging some crap streaming. You have your belly full, a nice drink, and life is good.

And you ignore all the suffering and the homeless and the addicts. You may think that people bring suffering on themselves or that they’re getting spanked by God.

You may think that the homeless are just too lazy to work.

And maybe you believe that addicts could just stop if they wanted to.

People around the world think like this. And none have any idea how wrong they are until things begin to fall apart for them.

The news, whether print, network or streaming, shape the lies and pump them into the minds of the weak. The sick and wounded and addicted are made to feel guilty, and you are made to believe they are guilty.

And when doctors lie, I consider it not malpractice, but attempted murder.

Because that is exactly what it is.

Here’s the link.

Memorial Day

On Memorial Day, we’re supposed to somberly reflect on men and women whose lives were ended by war, ended by fighting for you.
No one does that. Maybe they watch a John Wayne movie and eat disgusting hot dogs cooked over charcoal and chase them with cheap beer like Pabst. But that’s it. No thought given to anyone who was killed by live fire, no one who died in agony on a stretcher, no one who died later of wounds so gross you would throw up if you were there.
This Memorial Day, while Trump pisses on the graves of soldiers, freedom fighters, Marines, air crews and pilots, sailors and everyone else who answered the call to war, their memories will be kept only by people like you. Don’t turn your backs to them.
Remember what cost freedom has, and ask yourselves, “Did they really die for nothing? Was Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, the Somme, Peleliu, and the Ardennes all worthless after all?”

Then look around you, and watch the news, and you’ll have your answer.

Hillbilly Hare

I don’t exactly remember when I became a full-fledged asshole, but I do know one thing.

Cartoons were sadistic as hell when I was young. None of the endless lineup of characters were more sadistic than Bugs Bunny, and earlier at Starbucks, I was reminded of this. One of the baristas wore something in her hair I couldn’t quite focus on. I thought it looked like an ear of corn on the cob, but she said it was from SpongeBob.

I saw part of one episode when my son was younger. I loved spending time with him, but this was a NOPE right off the bat. This yellow thing that lived under the ocean went to visit, of all things, a fucking squirrel he had a crush (and she wore a bandau bra) on who lived under a glass dome. The dome, of course, had air in it. Because, squirrels can’t breathe water, you see?

The yellow thing turned out to be a talking sea sponge. A talking sea sponge!

In the air of the squirrel’s house, the sponge began to do some weird shit, like dry up, eyes going all weird, and I asked Mikey, “What the hell are you watching?”

That immediately started him laughing. When he was really laughing hard, he couldn’t make a sound, he just shook all over. He was always set off at that indignant, horrified tone in my voice, it never failed.

He tried to get the words out but was still locked up in relentless mirth. I went outside for a cigarette. I could only shake my head; that was some sick shit.

It’s like the goddam writer was mainlining shrooms or something. Where the fuck did that idea come from?

Of course I was subjected to more, as I had a former in-law whose daughters often visited. In time, I could even play the Captain and say, “Are you ready kids?

I did get a kick out of them saying “Aye aye, Captain!” And we’d sing the song.

Now, looking at the whole segment, I’m mortified. What fuck!

Screw the shrooms. These fuckers are looney and acid brained if anyone ever was.

I found out the hard way that Armageddon is closer than we think. This shit is so warped that it’s pure nihilism. The human race is doomed.

Now look, I get it. Times change. When I was a kid some grownups thought Bugs Bunny was sick. Of course they were right, but that’s beside the point. While at the Starbucks counter, I remembered one particular cartoon where Bugs apparently hated hillbillies and took over as the announcer of a square dance. Man did he use those two hillbilly guys to death. The first time I saw it, one line made me laugh like Mikey, uncontrollably and without a sound; it took the air right out of my lungs like a gut punch: “…stick your finger in his eye….”

I thought it was sadistic even though I didn’t know that word yet, and I was already a sadist. An apprentice asshole.

I went around poking guys in the eye until one guy punched me so hard that tooth chips filled my mouth with what felt like sand. Bugs Bunny wasn’t so funny after that.

It takes years to earn the title of “Asshole,” and a lot of hard work. I went underground after the tooth chip incident. I learned to hit where it hurts the most: starting rumors so sick that everyone believed them. By the time it got to the mark, nobody could tell him or her (I didn’t discriminate) where the rumor had come from. To my horror, kids my age had been clever and added to the original gossip and some kids I had marked were so enraged they accused the wrong person and picked a vicious fight.

I should have been ashamed. I should have been sympathetic.

I wasn’t. Every mean and sick and evil thing done to me was being avenged on the innocent. I wasn’t just an apprentice asshole; I was also studying to earn a degree in anarchy.

It was to be years before I calmed my thirst for blood, mayhem and seeing others sample pain that was with me every day of my life.

What if I had never seen a Bugs Bunny cartoon, though? Would I have turned out differently?

Not likely. I’d have taken inspiration from something else, and who knows? It might have been worse.

But I swear, if I had watched SpongeBob SquarePants when I was a kid, I would now most likely be in prison. Or dead.

Because that shit is sick. Like, psychedelic, psychotic sick.

And what the fuck was that salmon pink thing that took tea with SpongeBob? Come on, man. That went too far. Whatever it was, I hope the writers and artists that were responsible for this, this vomit got help.

Stick your finger in his eyes? Looking back, that really wasn’t so bad after all.

The Halloween Ball

Hi! Uh, I’m trying to keep to my side of the line in the sand, where I can dip my beak (I don’t really have a beak, it’s just a phrase) into the sewage of politics and yet stay sane (I’m not sane at all and I just used sewage as a metaphor; do try not to picture me drinking or lapping up sewage like a dog). And I do so like dogs, and mostly they like me. But they’re still shiteaters.

SO. He’s had his lackeys aid him in cutting funds for AIDS research and care, has he? Well don’t be surprised, as he still links AIDS with gay men and as a closet case, everyone had to see this coming. He’s an awesome example of a closet/homophobic and narcissistic idiot who is as nutty as those softball-sized globes of shit the Ashmeads used to hand out on Halloween in North Shore. Some said it was popcorn on the outside but it really was just a few popped kernels; with walnuts, chopped Brazils, almonds and pecans and shit like that.
As for what was inside, I don’t remember. And hey, they used to make us sign a paper so we could not come back for seconds, as if anyone ever tried. Mostly we learned to skip their house. We wanted Clark bars, candy corn and chocolate of any kind. And THAT shit is what we got.
Now, for all we knew, what was inside was a real softball. Or bits of Hansel and Gretel in a Cheez-Wiz ball with a schnauzer-skin wrap.

Point here is, I’m not sure I ever even took a bite. I don’t believe I could have stooped to lows of desperation that far, even in my days of being an apprentice asshole. Well, what would you do?

The Catholic Church Conspiracy

I toured the Vatican.

But it is smaller than I had pictured. The guide (s) took us to different places and threw enough monologues at us that I grew very sleepy.

Mostly it was rooms, different ones where sections were defined by those velvet ropes on brass stands. Some woman I couldn’t see kept interrupting the guides to ask leading questions about this or that. She had her own instructional monologues. One man (Drink Coke Zero) who smoked (Camel) unfiltered cigarettes with us smokers on a break in a small courtyard (Buy Blue Bunny Ice Cream) had a good voice for his section of the tour and once when I sleepily went from one section to another and left my pack of (Camel Filtered Cigarettes) at the table, he silently went behind me to the next section of the tour and made sure I got them back. He smiled solicitously and made me sick.

The tour of the Sistine Chapel was something I looked forward to (“Anticipation” by Carly Simon plays over a ketchup commercial) and it was taking forever. We were warned in advance that no smoking was allowed and I’m thinking “No shit, lady, us smokers ain’t allowed to smoke nowhere anymore,” because people choke and cough for miles away and I swear you can hear them, or, if they see you light up, they whine, “Oh no, I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” and you look and they’re all the same, morbidly obese women with suicide blonde hair, yoga pants and a fucked-up attitude…

We were also not to carry any cell phones (Get the new Samsung 360 for only 2,300 dollars and a fifty-five-year contract while this sale lasts), paper clips (Office Depot) or pens (Paper Mate Wright Brothers Pens available in Eckerd’s, Dart Drugs, Read’s Drug Store and Montgomery Ward) and oh jeez shut up already. What did they think we were gonna do, graffiti Michaelangelo’s shit? Make paint chips fall off the walls with Wi-Fi signals? Steal panels by paper-clipping them inside our coats?

The subject of some obscure dead dude who predicted all the names of the popes ending with Francis came up. The theories that Pope Leo XIV is the last one and the third prophecy of Fatima were being discussed at sleep-inducing length. I thought, this was supposed to be a tour.

Instead I was getting half-history, half-conspiracy theories poured straight into my brain by an opening in my skull I never even knew was there ((Ask your doctor if Ketamine is right for you)).

But (((Get Boar’s Head deli meats!))) whatever I was hearing, it seemed like I could never see the speaker. Their voices were always behind me. That just didn’t seem right.

Then, in a section marked off with large white ribbons or crepe paper (Party City has everything you need for your next indoctrination) hundreds of school children on some sick field trip were filling steel fold-up chairs in front of us. One youth was carrying an Igloo container full of grape (Yeah, Kool-Aid’s here, bringing you cheer) drink. He offered a cup to a kid who did that weird punk shrug in defiance. I decided I hate kids on the spot. Rebellious wastrels with a diminished respect for free speech who then turn out to spout the worst, most mindless crap you ever heard because they watch Tik Tok all day and eat shrooms (Fresh Portabello mushrooms at your neighborhood Giant, only 10.99 a pound!) or sneak (Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer) into their bedrooms and brag in school the next day that they drank a six pack last night even though one can of warm hick beer had them puking for an hour. They’re stupid. They’re limpets mom will never see move out.

Sometimes things don’t work out. The tour ended without the Sistine Chapel.

By then I was so weary that all I wanted was a smoke (Come to where the flavor is. Come to Marlboro Country!) and some sleep.

I did, however, find myself in a small connecting corridor looking for the Men’s room. I had to go.

Now, I don’t care for conspiracy theories, which is why I lampooned the really sick ones about The Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island, so if you want, you can read those. Conspiracy theories are a waste of time because they’re usually absurd and paranoid in nature, and can neither be proved nor disproved because people don’t listen to the truth, they’d prefer a lie any day.

Faked “evidence” is all over the place on the Internet and stacks at libraries, if there are any of those left.

The recent flood of conspiracy theories including the resurgence of the Apollo moon landings make me sick. Look, if you don’t believe they happened then that’s your decision. Remember, though, it’s a choice.

And remember that we have all chosen to believe lies before. Sometimes, we just didn’t know. But sometimes we were staring straight down the throat of the truth, and along came some Fox TV special about mysterious black boxes in cars that made them crash or lead police into high-speed chases. And of course, the one about Stanley Kubrick faking the moon landings with NASA.

I’m not going to bother with that crap. If you want to believe that hundreds of people kept those a secret, that nobody talked, goody. But it is truly stupid.

And another thing.

While subliminal advertising may have or maybe just once been rumored to exist and work, and could even be in use today, there’s no reason to believe it does work, or is necessary at all, when real commercial ads have you craving KFC at two in the morning when nothing is open and the only KFC you know of is 75 miles away.

Oh, and the Vatican tour?

About that: I don’t care about the archive rumors. I don’t care for Dan Brown’s novels. I don’t care about Catholic-Nazi collaboration in WW 2. I don’t care if the church made a deal with the Devil in Hell himself, if, in the end, it saved innocent lives, or even if it didn’t but was intended to, then I at least can understand that. Whether you or I approve makes no difference; it’s done. Long ago, done and over.

I think the Catholic Church does make one mistake, though.

In the grand trappings of the priests, bishops, cardinals and the Pope, there’s nothing holy. They’re just men, and Jesus never said for his disciples to stand out like that. He did pronounce words to the Pharisees, describing them as whitewashed on the outside but on the inside being full of dead men’s bones. That’s a pretty big deal.

His ministry was humble. Simple. He offered hope in a land where little was to be found under Rome’s hobnailed boots. He gave us all the promise that faith would be rewarded to those who believe and hold out to the end. But of gold and silver candlesticks, paintings and painted ceilings and walls with images, he would repeat that none of it was holy, none of it would get anyone into Heaven, and that works mean nothing next to faith.

Trappings of wealth or status are horrifying to me and that’s why I loved Francis. He didn’t live in Vatican City or wear the ridiculous Halloween costume (Party City has all your cosplay and Halloween party needs!) of tradition.

My tour of The Vatican was a miserable one. Maybe.

Or maybe I awoke at 03:47, accidentally ingested two Blue Bunny Ice cream sandwiches, chased them with a cup of Columbian brew, and turned on a documentary about the prophecy of the popes, put my headphones on and fell back asleep, forgetting about auto play and sleeping listlessly through programs about the Vatican, Nostradamus, and Catholic Church conspiracy theories.

No wonder the voices sounded like they were behind me.

So the next time you think you have it bad, just remember, you’ll sleep better with the TV off.

In fact, just unplug the bloody thing.

Have a wonderful weekend. I won’t. Because maybe subliminal advertising is real (I smoke Marlboro cigarettes, not Camels. But I do have the impulse to go to Party City, buy a Rambo costume, and hunt wild boars with a knife. And eat their heads.

Sure is a good thing ain’t no boar around here!

The nerve of this mutt.

I have a headache (Get Extra Strength Tylenol).

You love fortune cookies. You want to buy a whole case right now. You want to share them with all of your friends.

You do.

Losing the Fight?

Every time I forget to keep it down and I speak in a normal voice, it hurts. My voice goes to a painful whisper.

I’m losing my battle.

Lately I sleep day and night. I’m exhausted. Depression weakens me further, takes my energy away and leaves me in helpless despair.

I don’t want you to pity me, I have no need for sympathy. I want you to look back on my archives (they go back to 2019) and learn from me. About mental illness. About heartbreak. Betrayal. Of my outrage at the state of my country (United States)and how we have alienated allies and trade partners by letting a president be a boob and a bully.

Looking back, you’ll see my brushes with real evil, something people like to refer to as “the supernatural,” which is really a part of our natural world that we can’t understand.

I don’t think we’re meant to understand everything. Sometimes, God wants us to trust him for help and guidance. Without God, this existence makes no sense, and I have yet to hear one argument by an atheist that was able to shake my faith, or, for that matter, make any sense.

I want you to read about mental illness from one who has endured it all his life. Learn where you can, what you can, and give me the benefit of the doubt. Don’t close the link too fast; there’s something here for everyone.

Humor, demonic encounters, being an Army “shitbird,” child abuse, great tragedy through loss, heartache at a life I should have lived, but never had a chance to, and more. I’ve done movie reviews, videogame reviews, talked about dumb criminals, and more.

I’d be honored to have you stop by and see me in my raw, unplanned posts that reveal my mental illnesses. Before I go, please take advantage of what I’ve been through and learn. If nothing else, at least see where I’ve been and the horror I’ve known. Please sign in and “like” (hit the little star at the bottom so I can know you were here. Share links. I’ll gain nothing but you may gain a crude understanding of what happens when children are beaten and raped by their own parents. See how I climbed out of the pit of racism, taught to me by my parents. How I had to choose to climb that ladder.

Most of all, see what smoking has done to me. I’ve killed myself.

My life wasn’t always a nightmare. There were good times when I know someone was praying for me, and God answered those prayers with miracles.

I’ve lived a hard and bitter life. I don’t want anyone to trace my steps. I don’t hate anyone enough to wish that on another.

And remember: hating someone poisons your soul, not theirs. Hate will drag you to Hell.

I’ve overreacted to the news lately. As I’ve said, it’s a trap, the figurative equivalent of quicksand. I said I hated someone. Left comments I regret. Ugly ones.

That’s the only way I can truly lose this fight.

The battle to save my body was over before I was aware that it was this bad.

The fight for my soul is another thing. I don’t plan on losing it.

I’m not losing the battle. No, I’m not going down there.

A Poem to Make You Think

“You lived next door to me for years;
We shared our dreams, our joys and tears.
A friend to me you were indeed,
A friend who helped me when in need.

My faith in you was strong and sure;
We had such trust as should endure,
No spats between us ever rose;
Our friends were like – and so, our foes.

What sadness, then my friend, to find,
That after all, you weren’t so kind,
The day my life on earth did end,
I found you weren’t a faithful friend.

For all those years we spent on earth,
You never talked of second birth.
You never spoke of my lost soul,
And of the Christ who’d make me whole!

I plead today from hell’s cruel fire,
And tell you now my least desire –
You cannot do a thing for me;
No words today my bonds will free.

But do not err, my friend, again –
Do all you can for souls of men.
Plead with them now quite earnestly,
Lest they be cast in hell with me!”

— John Masaitis

The “News”

Do you watch the news? Do you react to it? Is your reaction positive or does it do to you what it does to me, send you into a towering rage?

Only you know the answer, but I’m guessing that you probably should avoid it as the quicksand it is.

Once caught up in daily news, you won’t die, as only movie quicksand drags you in that far, but you also might now be able to move.

When lies become so debilitating that you can’t function, they’ve got you. The liars, the men with evil agendas, the bad guys. Villains so vile that I understand what Daniel 12:4 means when it says many will run to and fro, and knowledge shall increase.

The Internet.

You no longer need go to a library to consult texts. You just punch up a query on a search engine, and link after link shows up.

Anything you want is right there, from the proper pronunciation of a word to people doing unspeakable things to each other.

But that doesn’t make you wise, and quite a lot of information you get steered toward is a bunch of lies.

I’ve gone to Wikipedia many times, and although I mostly trust what I read, I have also gone back to a specific subject I’ve already read to refresh my memory, and what I have found was an entirely different article with no resemblance to what used to be there.

This has also been the case with Snopes, which I no longer trust. It doesn’t mean that I don’t trust Wikipedia; but one must check sources and references to ensure that what is there is accurate.

That responsibility is on each researcher; in a world of lies, you and I are the final judges of what is true and what is false.

A recent lie is that someone in the Trump administration (regime) got representatives of India and Pakistan to meet for peace talks.

The truth is that nobody wants to hear from Americans anymore. And you may think that they are just angry at the administration, but that’s not entirely true. The American people are letting the world economy collapse.

As a democracy, this country is supposed to be above all this. Therefore, we are seen as complicit. Us. All of us.

All we get are lies. Sure, there are many who speak the truth, but the architects of disinformation are scrambling to drown them out, especially with the threat of putting people in concentration camps.

People in other countries don’t understand why we sit here and take it. I understand their puzzlement.

During World War Two, we were supposed to be the good guys, the marauding avengers of the oppressed and occupied people in Europe and the Pacific.

Maybe that’s true, but we didn’t come out of it without lots of innocent blood on our hands. And since the Korean War ceasefire (the war is not over), we’ve never engaged righteously in any armed conflict. Not in Vietnam, not in Iraq, and certainly not in Afghanistan.

Remember that phrase from the Rules of War? That you never attempt to invade Russia?

You don’t do it to Afghanistan, either.

We as a race will tell any lie to engage in our most passionate endeavor: war.

And any lie will suffice to give reason to a new slaughter.

The Nazis did not learn from Napoleon Bonaparte.

America did not learn from the Soviet Union.

Nobody learns. Despite a wealth of available knowledge, nobody learns.

I may have misunderstood Daniel 12, but I can make my case.

The real problem is, those who do learn are silenced by men with the most evil of aspirations.

Jesus Christ said that the devil was the father of lies, of every lie ever told.

Satan will lead us whenever we follow the men who listen to him. He speaks not through words but by temptation. By making his own case through one’s jaded rationalization. How easy has it been for us to justify to ourselves that a lie was the best way out of a bad situation? Or the best way to get what we want?

Or maybe just to get attention?

The news is a wire barrel stuffed with index cards waiting for someone to reach in and announce the winner of a raffle. Good gets mixed with bad, evil versus what’s right. When mixed enough by the crank handle, the people will believe anything.

There are U.S. citizens who still venomously back and defend their “leaders” but their numbers are dwindling fast.

That’s because the price of electing a bigot and a felon has placed them in a position where they are less than a paycheck away from losing the shelter over their heads. Imagine being in such a position. It’s terrifying.

I have no answer. To anything. My own reactions to news are full of hateful comments. I have only myself to blame; I know I can’t handle the lies and the hate. I’m nothing but a sinner and that, I’m afraid, I cannot change.

I only know that desperate times call for prayer and fasting.

Not because it will save the world.

Because it will save your soul from torment far worse than anything we can imagine.

The sacrifice of Jesus Christ was for you. Turn off the news, seek help if you need it, and pray.

And take care of yourself. That’s important, because The Lord loves you.

“Then They Came For Me”–Martin Niemöller, 1946

“First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”

***

Before you start cheering on the deportation of human beings to concentration camps in El Salvador,

first ask yourself, what if they come to get you?

Because there will be nothing anyone can say or do to stop it.

And soon, there may be no one left who even remembers you.

This time, it will be different. Especially in the end.

Does the value of one life equal more than that of another?

This is a timeless question, and who is given the right to say, other than God in Heaven?

When equality is measured by a prejudiced eye, no one is equal to the person with that eye.

No one.

When the judges are men who set themselves aside as superior, those they judge will always be condemned.

This you must remember always.

All Tuckered Out

I’m not making any secret of my disdain for the National Football League. I’ve had it with the circus that it’s become. I also won’t hesitate to stand behind my opinion that since betting became a huge part of professional sports, some games have been fixed. If not by the league, then at least by players who drop passes, fumble the ball or miss easy field goals.

I’ve seen linebackers fall down on plays which, it honestly looks like they had a runner for a tackle that was missed, and it looked genuinely comical, so lame that it seemed obvious that they just fell down.

I’m equally sick of all the scandals in the league. Players beating their wives,  one of which was recorded dragging her, unconscious, from an elevator or subway car (I don’t remember which, nor does it matter to me because she’s just as unconscious either way).

Domestic abuse, illegal substance use, involvement in shootings, dog fighting, it’s all there. Pete Rose was kept from coaching and refused admission to the Baseball Hall of Fame because he was betting on games.

That seems petty now, with the things professional athletes get away with.

That said, now we have Justin Tucker, a place kicker for the Baltimore Ravens, being accused of sexually inappropriate behavior with a bunch of massage therapists.

Before you leave in rage, remember this: it isn’t just one therapist in one facility making one accusation.

My view of the situation is that a single accusation by a single person may be false or impossible to prove. Two, three or more, in different facilities, is a situation that I absolutely do not discount whatsoever.

Reports have it that in multiple places across Baltimore City, some have banned him from returning, while some therapists have refused to work with him again. That’s serious, and it tells me that the man is sick, because unsolicited sexual actions are criminal and leave behind a victim who is probably traumatized.

Massage therapists have to go to schools to be certified. They work hard. They’re motivated to help others while trying to earn a living wage. They don’t enter the profession to engage in sex acts. The very idea is disrespectful and disgusting.

There is an abundance of porn on the Internet that would make one think it happens all the time, but folks, that’s porn. Not real life.

In sports medicine, physical therapy may involve any variety of things, including massage. It gets blood flowing to the injured tissue, and relieves swelling and pain, thus speeding the healing process as well as reducing discomfort.

So when a swath has been cut across a city, leaving therapists who don’t want to work for you again, or whole clinics banning you from their premises, you’ve obviously done exactly what they say you have.

The Ravens are “investigating” which fails to make me feel warm and fuzzy. I’d prefer law enforcement do it, but big money is on the line. In the end, what will most likely happen is a few payoffs. Then everyone hushes up.

What I would like to see is justice.

If you want to know the worst part, it’s this: Tucker missed some pretty easy field goals last season, and they’ve drafted another kicker. If they can’t defend Tucker, he’ll be cut. It would be grounds to sever his contractual provisions, leaving him out of work.

I rather doubt that will happen. This is the NFL we’re talking about. Big money and a gambling industry that will never go back to the real sport or the days of men playing for pure love of the sport. Those days were over a very long time ago.

Katy Perry Falls to Earth

Katy Perry is in a bad place. Really bad. As in, even for her bad.

I’ve never been a fan. I don’t listen to her songs. I don’t think you could torture any prisoner worse than letting them have meals and a bed but never turning off her songs.

That said, I really don’t like doing this. I don’t want to flame people, because God probably judges those who flame others more harshly than the ones being flamed. I’m not doing this out of malice or for views. As bloggers go, I’m a little guy. I’ve written awful stuff in my pursuit of God, coping with mental illness and the crushing loss of my children.

But I’ve hidden nothing. I’m brutal about it and I leave comments off because nobody really wants to comment anyway, or I’m just going to get harassed. Men like myself don’t need that. It’s the opposite of why I’m here.

Let me add, please, that the title of my site is not parody or humorous. I’m an asshole and I don’t pretend not to be.

Now then: what is all this about Katy Perry being so thoroughly raked over the coals because she “went to space?”

First of all, this. And what’s in the link above.

All of it is “cringe,” a modern expression that covers secondhand embarrassment for a person or persons who do especially stupid things. They should be embarrassed, but they seldom are. Whatever they did was deliberate and they now own it. They may incur a blemish on their reputation or lose a job. They may get sued in court. They can even end up in jail. None of it is pretty.

Ask Mel Gibson. A domestically violent, anti semitic bore. Except of course, he doesn’t care. Asking someone how it feels to self-immolate implies that they have feelings aside from rage.

Katy Perry has just poured gasoline all over herself and lit the fire. Her upcoming tour is ill-advised now. She’s going to take heat, and that’s even from former fans who just want to see her end her career with a dismal box office showing. Like NASCAR “fans” who only go so they can see the crashes (you’re better off watching those on TV so you can see replays).

Want to see a pop star crash? It’s happened before.

Who can forget the devil’s triad of Perry, Taylor Swift and Madonna doing shows with satanic themes? Which one was on a cross? I guess it doesn’t matter, really. But all of them took heat. Rightfully so.

In show business, people are often chewed up and spit out. Even the classic stars were damaged. Marilyn Monroe comes to mind, but so does Tippi Hedren, one of Hitchcock’s victims. He was a sadistic director who, when shooting the picture “The Birds,” tied a bird to her so it would appear genuine that she was frantic and terrified. And being clawed to pieces.

Even in the Golden Age, drugs and alcohol often became staples of the actor or singer or both. The parties even then were attended by the depraved. Good against evil was a fine theme for a movie or a musical, but they blended very well after hours. Suspicious deaths occurred. To read or hear those stories is to feel cold, hopeless and in a darkness difficult to forget.

Anyone with empathy can feel those things, but what about those people who don’t have the capacity for love, empathy or guilt? They never apologize unless they are pressured. They are stuck on themselves and can’t hide it. Adoring audiences and fans remain in awe of them, looking past anything they do. They follow them on social media and comment, hoping that the god they worship will deign to engage them with a reply. Scandals? Nah, the fans ravenously defend their god or goddess with a ruthless viciousness that will knock you on your heels.

Perhaps this is why I cannot allow this to pass without piling on. I’ve never been a Katy Perry fan. No singer after the 70s or very early 80s is on my radar, though the occasional song may catch my attention. But a singer from back then was harshly judged quickly and lost popularity far more often than anyone since.

Back then it wasn’t all that difficult to tank one’s career. Boomers had parents who condemned Elvis for his onstage moves being suggestive or even obscene. In his Ed Sullivan Show appearance, the first one, as I recall, network censors would allow only shots of him from the waist up to be taped.

The Smothers Brothers often took heat. Those who recorded the first antiwar songs during the Vietnam War were hanged in effigy. There was a hilarious case of a woman swooning and then “speaking in tongues.”

Remember when they began, the networks, that is, to test the waters of nudity, and they showed some guy getting out of bed naked, baring his glutes? One of them was David Caruso. If you had a good TV you could see the freckles on his ass. Freezing the frame, if you connected them, they formed a map of Silent Hill.

But in the 60s…

Guys with crewcuts who wore suits whenever in public carried baseball bats in case anyone spoke ill of the senseless deaths in Southeast Asia.

Compared to all of that mess back there, it seems mild when I think of what goes on today. Katy Perry isn’t a standout; she’s rather lukewarm. Most people are not shocked by much anymore. As for nudity on TV, some series that are on streaming services require it. It’s all normal now.

But Katy Perry seems to have broken some unwritten rule, and now it’s getting nasty. And her critics aren’t misogynistic alpha males: vocal standouts include big names. Women.

Her shamelessness at a time when public opinion outstrips anything I saw during Watergate is the definition of crass; perhaps elevating the word to a new level, one of immediacy and added harshness.

She’s drawn serious heat, and it’s still coming.

Of course, she now says she regrets the publicity stunt, but it’s too late to do damage control.

The planet is becoming less and less able to support most life as we know it. It’s a mess headed for some cataclysm we should never have been this close to. Stupid rocket trips can’t help. And she wasn’t in space. NASA defined space as within the atmosphere. Even science fiction fans know that’s not space.

When William Shatner went up, he was begged to go. But he came back not boasting that he had been in space, but profoundly sad at what we had done to our own planet. His view of the world was one of awe mixed with sorrow. We should learn from him. They used him, and he came back with emotional words they didn’t expect to hear.

People here in the U.S. are scared. Terrified, to be honest. We have a crisis that seems to have no sign of being subject to control. Yes, what she did (and I’m not excusing Gayle King or the others) was stupid, selfish and proved only that she doesn’t care about anything she claims to care for.

She may not deserve to be called names, nor take personal abuse, as those things are unchristian. But her fall to earth is deserved, if not somewhat amusing. We should stop worshipping stupid people and definitely stop investing our interest in stupidity itself. The situation around the world is too grim for that nonsense.

We are running out of time.

Training Wheels

I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t.

****

Christmas. I got a Monkey Wards Hawthorne spider bike. It was a golden metallic color. It had the raised chopper handlebars but no sissy bar for the banana seat. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. But I didn’t care; the tricycle days were long gone, and I felt like a big guy.

Of course, it had training wheels because it was my first two-wheeler. I didn’t know how to keep those things from hitting the ground, but I still rode every day there wasn’t any foul weather.

Finally, on a cloudy, cool spring day, I had been riding with the training wheels off the ground. They were raised just enough so that if I got off-balance, I could lean on one. I wasn’t doing that anymore and, being very brave considering how beaten down I was, I went up the driveway and inside the house to my father’s office. I was terrified of the man. He’d terrified me for years, as far back as I could remember. That goes to age two or three, which I still have memories of to this day. He would have me sit on his lap, but I would cry for mommy.

It was never just his belt. It was also his yelling, which often preceded the belt. Yes, fathers do beat their toddlers with belts. It leaves lash marks, too. Of course it does.

I was brave to voluntarily walk into his downstairs office and ask, “Daddy, I can ride, would you please take my training wheels off?”

He didn’t seem annoyed. He was building a trucking company up from scratch, and so busy that we kids knew to give him a wide berth when he was in the office. His temper was as short as it could be.

But he got some wrenches and came outside, trying to hurry up and get back to work. The training wheels off, he guided me by holding the rear of the seat, down the driveway to the street. He pushed me along to gather speed, then at some point he let go. I didn’t know exactly when I left him behind or how far he went. I rode a short way and turned around, expecting him to be watching and smiling. Or something.

He was already gone.

Nowhere in sight.

Back inside.

My gut fell. My heart fell. For a few minutes, he really was “daddy,” and I loved him despite everything he was, everything he had done. But he did not stay. He did not share my joy that I could ride. Didn’t show pride. No boy ever wants anything as much as a father’s pride in him.

He never said anything.

A friend later took a ride on the bike and broke the seat clean off. It wasn’t his fault the sissy bar was missing. That’s half of the support of a banana seat. My father was enraged. He hated my friend. My bike sat in a corner of the car port for a couple of years.

By then my older half brother Joe was staying there, along with Ed, the oldest of the half-siblings. Joe washed the bike, took steel wool to the rust spots on the chrome wheels, and put a new and better seat and a sissy bar on it. My brothers, from then on, were more like fathers to me than my real father. They became like dads.

There are little things in a child’s life that matter so much more than grownups think. I wish more fathers could be daddies. I wish their moments as daddies weren’t measured in minutes, and if you have or had one of those full time daddies, be grateful. Remember the good, remember the lessons he taught you, harsh though they felt at the time. Those lessons helped make you the unique, special person that you are. Thank God for having him.

I did go on to learn many things from my father, harsh lessons with very damaging consequences. Not only for myself, but every person I have encountered since, especially those I loved but wasn’t good enough to be close to. Being socially involved is difficult when everything you’ve learned adds up to the hardest and saddest truth of all:  I trusted no one and made damn sure to prove myself not to be trustworthy. That’s complicated and sick. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s a life sentence.

I’ve struggled with that ever since. Push people away so they can’t hurt you. Hurt them first because you love them and it scares the devil out of you. Arm’s length. This far, no farther.

Someone says “Hi, Mike,” one day in high school. My response: “Fuck off.”

I don’t wonder why my girlfriends broke up with me.

I wonder how they ever got close and how they put up with me as long as they did.

All this is not because my dad turned back into a demonic father so quickly and wasn’t there to smile or say something positive the first time I rode without training wheels. It’s not that.

But it is a memory that I can’t get out of my head. I don’t cry; not for that.

I cry because the man who gave me a push my first time riding without training wheels was himself a casualty. He must have been very hurt and badly damaged to have done those terrible things. I weep for the kindness he was capable of, not the cruelty and abuse, and the passing of his life, and for the lonely ending he had.

Forgiveness is not about another person changing their ways. Most can’t do that. Forgiveness is about taking anything and everything good in you and, even if you still remember and are still haunted and hurt, letting go of your hatred and anger. It is about you. Not someone else. It has to come from your heart.

And maybe one day, hopefully before I die, I can forgive myself for being someone who had no fault in being hurt. I hold myself guilty of everything. It’s wrong. How do I manage that?

Training wheels. Do kids use those anymore?

I wonder.

Do kids even want or get bikes?

If you think being haunted like this is easy to get rid of, or that I want to be like this, then today might be a good day to look in the mirror. Don’t look at me, I’m just an asshole. Look at yourself. Your life. And then give thanks to God for all of the blessings you’ve had. And have. They’re there, you just have to look for them.

May God bless you and forgive you on this Easter weekend, and may you forgive yourself for the things you aren’t responsible for.

Be well my friends.

Walking With the Dead

It was time; there was no choice but to go. My last cigarette has been burned and I needed a Starbucks. Because Starbucks had a political agenda I don’t agree with, I’d sworn to stay away.

But reality is never so clear. Sometimes you have to think beyond the immediate circumstances. You have to consider how your view can affect others, and through the last decade, I have become friends with the people who work there. Do I really want to hurt them because of politics?

They depend on return clientele and the tips the regulars give. It’s their only income.

After a long night and a rough few hours of sleep filled with nightmares, I needed nicotine and caffeine.

Both have contributed to my impending death. I am aware that stopping now probably will not extend my life, but I still should make a better show for myself by being stronger.

The walk up the path was painful. It always is because it’s uphill all the way. My calves cramp and scream for me to give them a break. That’s not optional. I stand and gaze into the woods and consider how beautiful nature really is and ask myself how I have lived so long without appreciating it more.

Such thoughts are self-accusatory and too harsh. We can’t hold ourselves responsible for every single thing we never learned until the present.

Don’t do this to yourself. It isn’t fair, and worse, it is a lie. Only one human ever lived who was without sin or failings, and we are not him.

The weather, apart from the wind, was nice. It’s been a good day.

Nothing really happened as I smoked my Marlboro and drank my blond roast, sitting there on my usual bench. I’m too predictable.

People came and went. But I greeted more of them than I usually would. It wasn’t that I was in a particularly good mood; I was, but my body told my brain to shut the fuck up, stare at the ground and ignore everything around me. This kind of pain is extraordinary. There’s no cure. There’s moderation in the form of Tylenol and aspirin, but as grateful as I am for it, the relief is short-lived and almost a joke.

I managed to get smiles as I nodded or said hello to passersby. That’s a better pain reliever than morphine. Although, sometimes, I wouldn’t turn down some morphine. Old men hurt, though, it is our job. I do the best I can.

Well, sometimes I do. Sometimes the best that I can do is to do nothing at all. It’s not a good feeling. At the end of one of my nothing at all days, I feel empty and the stigma I get from others becomes a weapon I relentlessly beat myself with.

Mental illness isn’t fair. I’ve asked God about this before. He’s not talking. The answer is clear then: “you figure it out. I never gave you any message in my written word that anything is fair. I didn’t beat and abuse you, I didn’t cause your addictions, because none were mine to give you. And do you really believe that I wanted you to be so hurt? Don’t you know that I was there, and I knew your pain, counted every year, and wanted you to live so you could tell others that there’s always hope? My children aren’t promised anything except that I love them, I will help but I seldom interfere, and that faith in me and my only son can bring you to me forever. That’s it. The rest is up to you.”

And a funny thing is, I can often tell when others pray in earnest for me. I can’t describe it. I won’t try to, but let’s say it’s really a big deal. So I live on, and some days, I have less misery despite physical pain.

I saw Kenny on my way back. He is a neighbor who lived near Harry, my friend who passed away not long ago. Kenny is a nice guy. He has troubles, health problems and pain too, but aside from giving me an update, he didn’t dwell on it. He said he was worried about me because he hadn’t seen me in a while. He was glad to see me and I told him I’m always happy to see him. A fist bump in parting: brothers who love unconditionally and don’t need to speak it.

The walk home was different. It’s downhill all the way, but I actually managed to keep up an Army cadence. Jody always comes to mind:: in Basic Training Jody was bedding my all too willing ex-wife. The Jody cadence songs still anger me.

It’s okay. Everything is as it should be.

We’re facing hardships that no one saw coming. Not like these anyway.

But I do not hate. I can’t hate Donald Trump or any other living person. Jesus warned us about hate. What it does to the soul. He said to love others  despite what they do to you.

I can hate the deeds of another, but I have to hate my own as well, or I’m a hypocrite. I have to ask for forgiveness or I am a hypocrite. I am above no one.

It’s important that I get out, have a cup of joe and interact with live people, because the Internet isn’t enough. Even amongst social media friends, one can feel alone and secluded. I don’t need to strike up a conversation to have someone make my day better, or for me to help them feel better, which I hope I’ve done. It could be that just by greeting a stranger, you make a person rethink their value and come up with a positive answer. That is a gift. A superpower. A miracle.

There’s nothing here that makes for a compelling or even a good read. I’m sorry for that.

All I want you to know is that there is always hope. Get out into the air, into nature, even if it’s just a park in your city. There, you’ll find others whom you need in the moment, or who need you. Friendships, even romances begin that way. You don’t bring up politics, neither one of you are there for that. And religion can be left for a later time.

Just talk to God when you’re alone. Address him as your father, because that’s what he is. I use the informal and more personal “Abba,” which comes out more like “Daddy,” because no matter how high up or how far away others think he is, your father loves you as his child.

During this Passover and Good Friday week, I wish for you all a peaceful time full of joy and hope.

Take a walk. Reach out. Pray. Be well.

Two Girls

I was sitting on a bench, drinking a Starbucks blonde and having a cigarette. Behind me, somewhere, “That cigarette stinks!”

But she wasn’t talking to me. There were two of them. And I thought, you can move away from me faster than I can get up off this bench. No cruelty intended, but after walking up the hill and around the store, my calves were cramped and drained of blood, courtesy of Phillip Morris and my lack of self control.

Then I saw Travis. One of the girls yelled at him, “You ain’t smoking that, I saw you pick it up off the ground!”

I turned to the girl and said gently, “it’s okay, I’ll give him one “

The tallest one wasn’t convinced that I had a valid solution. I said, “Go easy on others, it’s a harder habit to quit than heroin. I’ve known people who did both, and they claimed tobacco withdrawal was worse.”

I realize that you may not believe me, but I told them the truth. The two high school ladies fell silent and had something new to think about.

“I’m dying. Lung disease.”

“Then why you still smoking?”

I said, “quitting won’t save me now. It’s too late.” They looked genuinely sad.

They thought I was nice and asked me to get them something they couldn’t buy. Not legally. I said, “I don’t think I should. The police occasionally watch me. They know I carry more blades than the Angry Chef owns, and knuckles to boot.”

The tall one asked why. The other one said, “He needs to protect himself.” I said no, that wasn’t it. “I’m dying. I can’t fight. But if I see someone in trouble, I’m defending them. I’m a protector. I won’t be the one recording video of someone getting beaten.”

They are good kids. They have kind souls and they have wisdom at an age where teens often like to play tough and silly. But I expect them to make a difference.

We don’t have to fight. In defending Travis, I had an opportunity to be gentle and kind, and say a few things to girls who now have something new to think about. They may forget my words, forget me, but all words of advice, when spoken kindly, are forever where we leave them. I thank the Lord for giving me the chance to pass on simple things I’ve learned.

I’ll forget them unless they speak to me again. I can’t even remember what I did this morning.

And that’s okay.

Our father gives us chances to help others, and, for them to help us. Because when I first heard the girls behind me, I expected the harsh talk to get worse. I was wrong. We fear what we shouldn’t, and we take lightly the things we should not. We’re a peculiar species.

I got to see my brother Travis today. And the sky was a beautiful deep blue with no clouds. And I had the honor of talking to young people and trying to give them something positive.

I told them to take good care, and began the walk home. I felt better than I have all week.

Praise God, it was a very good day.

Too Scared

I woke up unable to move. At least, not much. I skipped a shower. My body was little else but pain.

I didn’t go to therapy. I was exhausted and cramped with IBSD, which dehydrates you. I couldn’t travel.

I’m not complaining; I have lots of days like this. It’s all a part of mental illness. PTSD and depression, along with deep stress all go together. My treatment helps, but on days like this, I can’t tell.

So many of us suffer the same symptoms, and it’s not fair, it feels like a curse.

Tonight I want to offer hope and encourage you to hold on. But I can’t. I don’t feel those things nor do I see hope. I’m too scared.

I awoke to the news that the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) was being gutted. That’s a move toward genocide, because without innoculations, communicable diseases will soon be spread across the U.S. as we’re sitting here helpless.

It also constitutes an act of biological warfare against the world; no single country alone gets affected. We saw with COVID that disease spreads at speeds too fast to comprehend.

To all people around the world, you should be very concerned about this. I’m not being paranoid when I say a deliberately planned biological attack could be in the wings as I write this.

You’ve no doubt heard about how stupid some of Trump’s cabinet is, and that too should scare you. They want to annex Greenland, and are just dumb enough to fire on Denmark to get it.

It would initiate World War Three. They don’t care. These stupid people are destroying our country. By killing Social Security recipients, a great deal of the economy fails. That money goes back into the economy for medicine, food, clothing, rent, car insurance and more. Why kill your own customers? That makes no sense at all. But it’s happening.

Tomorrow I will know if I get a cheque or not. I’ll know if I can eat, pay rent, co-pays, buy prescriptions or buy the supplies I need online.

I’d like to have hope, but now, tonight, that’s a tall order.

Day by day, this country is being dismantled.

I do have high hopes that April 5th protests will start something that ends in the president leaving office. They should be scared, because I know what Americans can do when they’ve had enough.

To the World, I apologize on behalf of my country. This nightmare is not who or what we are, or what we’re about. I appreciate our Allies more than ever, and when this is over, I pray that we can be friends again.

I gather you know what must be done. Impose a freeze on all trade with the U.S.A. and stand your ground. The best way to help us is by not helping us.

To my fellow citizens, I say this: speak out now or lose the freedom to speak at all.

Do what you know is right. Time is running out.

The good guys who stand by and do not speak out are really the bad guys. The enemy.

So you have decisions to make.

Dread for Me, and Some for the Rest of the World

I dread tomorrow.

I have physical therapy and even though I’ve had it before, many times for many reasons, this time it’s my back, shoulders and neck. I think the word “torture” comes to mind.

Pain isn’t something we’re built to take in large quantities. But if I dread tomorrow, then I dread the day after even more. That’s when I’ll find out if I’m getting my disability check or not.

To the world out there, greetings. I say the following at the risk of my freedom and my life: we need your help. We are captives in our own house. Please ask your governments to put pressure on ours for the sake of our lives and yours. I believe that the revolutionary fascist forces are a threat to all of you, all over the world, and that none of you are safe from madmen with nuclear weapons and an agenda which begs for a worldwide pandemic.

Do not support the United States by traveling here, for tourism or business. You run a serious risk of being detained and worse.

Do not support this country by engaging in trade with it. Keep it to a minimum if trade can’t be avoided.

Millions of U.S. citizens are about to die. When that happens, you will be next. It will make Nazi Germany look timid when it does.

I wonder what good my PT will do tomorrow. I feel so overwhelmed. Pray for us if you can find it in your hearts. This is truly an apocalyptic time.

May God bless you.

A Soldier, a Little Girl, an Enthusiastic Teen, an Old Man in a Wheelchair and Me

Take a little walk, and sometimes magic happens.

My walk today was one of necessity. I’m sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Eat enough of them and you may never be able to choke down another. The very thought can make you gag. Even finding maggots all over your dumpster bin won’t bother you. Ever. You’ll talk to those varmints: “Hi, guys, how y’all doin’?”

I had just enough for a pack of smokes, a small roll of braunschweiger, a small bag of store brand Columbian coffee, and a 1.25L bottle of Coke Zero (because I tried the store brand cola and it was revolting, almost as much as peanut butter and jelly sandwiches).

Now, look: I can’t walk far without stopping until the pain stops. I don’t use a walking app and I would really rather not use my legs at all, so if I ever get them cut off, I won’t complain.

That aside, I went inside the store after checking over my shoulder to see ominous clouds to the southwest. It would be just my kind of fate to get struck by lightning on my way back.

Obviously, that didn’t happen. Better luck next time, right?

Inside, I sought coffee first, because, damn the PB&J, coffee!

I found a bag of Colombian for five bucks off. Store brand of course, but that’s just Harris Teeter. But they have got the nerve to call it “HT Traders!”

Gimme a break, will ya?

What gall.

It’s Maxwell House in a different bag!

But five dollars off, I can’t really complain, can I?

Then I see a service man in uniform. He’s in fatigues, or battle dress uniform. I can’t tell which branch of service he’s in and I don’t know the unit emblem. But….

The U.S. flag patch was upside down!

For a millisecond, I wanted to say “thank you for your service,” but a thousand questions were stopping me. I’d have shaken his hand but I was afraid I’d hug him instead.

Alas. It don’t mean nothing. He can’t even be disciplined for it. But it was, fleetingly, a hopeful sign.

People in general were in a good mood. That’s always kinda nice, because it helps my depression ease up. The day was warm, at least ahead of a cool front inbound, and everyone needs it after the brutal winter we had.

Outside, I sipped on a Starbucks, sitting on a bench, and a teen girl saw carpenter bees, which come every spring to eat the benches (they don’t really eat wood, they drill into it to live and keep larvae). She actually reached for one, “Oh, I love honey bees!”

Those ain’t honey bees, kid, and reaching for it ain’t real smart. Carpenter bees are not really keen to sting people but they will respond to sudden, threatening movement. They, like bumble bees, rarely sting. Bumbles nest in the ground and you’re not vulnerable unless you pretty much step on one while barefoot. Which, of course, I have done.

The girl’s excitement was, however you think of it, refreshing to me. It’s rare considering how most teens are glued to their cell phones. Her father discouraged her, not because she got too close to the bee, but because she was too close to me.

While I appreciate any protective dad, I had the feeling that it was because I am an old white man. I’ve been seeing a major widening in the already dangerous rift between different races, which is obviously a device of the current government. Divide a country, then conquer it. This is from Hitler’s playbook, word for word. Which country did he and his Reich conquer first? If you said Poland, you’re wrong. It was Germany.

April 5th is a big protest day in the U.S. but I talked with someone earlier who said, “You won’t see any of my people there.”

Meaning black people. Her attitude was, “You people elected him, you people fix it.”

I said, “Then we’ve all lost. We’re divided. It’s over.”

Back to the dad.

A good dad protects. But protection has to be practical and without bias. I taught my kids to be cautious too. But when it came to race I had only the warning that bigotry is a trap. In particular I said, “I learned that being a racist deprived me of having lots of good friends. It also made me miserable.”

It took a long time before my son caught on, but near the end, when he visited, he had developed a solid friendship with my housemate, a black man, who is in the same program as I, and when my boy died, my friend grieved too.

After I restarted my walk home, I passed a day care school place, I’m not sure exactly what it is, but a dad with two small kids came out. The girl was so innocent and excited, her voice full of enthusiasm: “I got 60 Beaver Points, and nobody else has that many!”

Her daddy was one to make me proud: “Anna, that’s really great!” But then he let her continue, and that’s important. Let the wee ones talk. Especially if they’re doing well and are proud of it. I wasn’t allowed to show happiness or excitement. If I did, I’d end up with a severe lashing. In a way, I had to act like a Vulcan. This resulted in my turning into an asshole, taking out my rage on people in North Shore or at school. I was more or less an anarchist.

The dad said, very enthusiastically and voice displaying his love, “Anna, (not her real name) you have to tell me what you did to get all of those points!”

Now there’s a dad who genuinely loves and who will nurture his children and be a real dad, not just a father, as so many men are. It moved me to hear this exchange and the fact that he never lowered his voice, or told her to lower hers. I heard them behind me as I walked away.

Such things do my heart well. They’re magic. They give me hope, enough that I honestly believe we have a chance. Enough to think, “Hot damn, we might make it.”

The man in the wheelchair was black, much older than me. He asked me for a smoke while I was back on the bench that was being claimed by the Carpenters. Well, actually he asked if he could buy one. I never played that game. I know nobody should smoke, and myself least of all, but in my case, quitting will not stop or even slow my death. But I know the feeling of withdrawal, and withdrawal from nicotine is not a nice withdrawal. At all. I just gave him one and he thanked me and I said, “Glad I could help.”

I watched as a woman brought him two bags of groceries she’d checked out for him. Good people doing the best they could to help others. That’s what it’s all about. That’s what everything is all about.

All of this happened in about an hour. I’m sorry I can’t relate things better, but I fall short in many ways.

Such as, maybe my tallywhacker is a damn baguette.

Alas! The yeast has all gone.

That’s life.

As for those bees who want to steal my bench, I know what they’re thinking!https://youtu.be/__VQX2Xn7tI?si=acSFbdIG_LYFH6OC

The Problem with Bill Gates

Here’s a guy we once thought was a righteous innovator and philanthropist.

Now I wonder if his brain has been removed by aliens, soaked in Drano, and put back.

Reportedly he has predicted that, not far from now, schoolteachers and doctors will be replaced by A.I. and I’m here to warn you, it could happen.

In fact the makings are already there. Doctors, as we older folks knew them, are vanishing. They’ve been replaced by nurse practitioners. If you want to see a family doctor, good luck. Mine went elite and required $2,000 dollars a year just to be his patient.

That did not cover anything involving treatment; it was more like an attorney’s retainer. He’s also a bit evil because the last time he saw me he had “hands,” if you get my drift. Didn’t touch private places, but the touches were definitely caresses.

Every time I go to the clinic, my nurse practitioner is different.

I suppose it doesn’t matter, my saying so, but the practice has also moved to a new building and even in the lobby downstairs, the liminal spaces are unnerving. I don’t like liminality. It’s always been scary to me, a plain, unfurnished or unoccupied place. But upstairs it’s worse.

To get from the waiting room to the treatment rooms, one must enter a long hallway. Plain color, nothing in it. No doors marked for doctors or treatment rooms.

Then, entering perpendicular to both hallways, there’s another one to cross. I looked my first time there, and at one end there sat a wheelchair. Half folded, sitting at a weird angle, and the next time I went, months later, I still had the uncanny feeling, almost a panic, and the wheelchair was in the same place at the same position.

It was kind of like the hospital in Silent Hill, the first video game, but cleaner. For all I know, they had demon children with knives stuffed in some unmarked room..

Teachers are a pain when you’re in school. Each comes with a personality that might not be to your liking.

But I still remember some of my teachers, not fondly, mind you, but I remember them.

Here’s the thing. Love or hate them, they provide things no computer or A.I. can copy. One of those things is the necessary human interaction that helps children grow and to develop socially. Without the human element, our education system will fail.

A.I. has never appealed to me; it does, in fact, frighten me.

Its use has already grown to monstrous horror. So far the results in public and consumer applications are stunning in its uselessness. But behind the doors you and I can’t open, there’s a feeling of hopelessness. It won’t go away.

When I was in school, I had serious problems from the start. Already affected profoundly with PTSD, I wonder now what I might have achieved otherwise. I was also dyslexic, but by reading at home, I was able to get by. Math terrified me. I couldn’t do it and I think that the damage and a chaotic and dangerous home life made me more able to see chaos as more true than linear math including algebra. I saw variables (x and y) as being indefinite, transient things that had no determinable value. The more the class progressed, the more convinced I became that most forms of maths were bullshit.

I just saw the world differently, and it never helped that my dyslexia also applied to numbers. I could look at a phone number, then dial something different. After misdialing the same number, people tended to be nasty.

My parents did try to get me a tutor, and I did have a few, but it was already too late. Had I gotten help from someone patient and understanding, I may have passed a few classes.

One particular time stands out though:  during the school year 1975-1976, at winter break we had a “mini-mester” and a navy officer taught algebra instead of the alcoholic, washed-up college professor we had for the two main semesters.

He had a cold and was constantly spraying Neo Synephrine up his nose, but for some reason, I understood everything he said. For the first time, I was passing algebra tests.

This told me that it could be done, and that abstract maths weren’t so out of reach for me. But it also demonstrated that one teacher who can teach properly can make a difference.

And this is our problem today; good teachers have left the profession forever because of dangerous conditions, unfair pay and burnout.

It was a mistake to let things go this far. And our education system is not going to be helped by A.I. or Apples for the students.

I agree that academic achievement begins at home with loving parents, proper nutrition and healthcare, but I’ll tell you this much: I must have learned something along the way, and I must have had some good teachers, because nine years after dropping out, I took the G.E.D. Exam and passed it, first try, all sections. Never cracked a book, either. Took the test cold.

I find it more and difficult to remember that far back, but I will never endorse replacing teachers with A.I. and no computer can replace a good doctor.

Our disconnect from the rest of humanity is already catastrophic. Do you really want to see more of it?

Because I don’t. The hardcore political and politically social division in our society will only be exacerbated by less of the human interaction of teachers and students, doctors and patients.

Humans are, typically, a social bunch; when cut off from the good and bad of interaction, we tend not to do well.

We lose focus on what’s right. We are left to learn on our own about our history and how diplomacy used to be such a powerful force in world peace.

Leaving our children to electronic babysitters was never a good practice. Had I not had the occasional friend or neighborhood playmates, I could easily have attained every single characteristic of a serial killer. Think about it; more often avoided than accepted, what if everyone had seen me the way I saw myself?

Think of the brutal abuse I was going through. Many children become bitter, angry and even more isolated because the ability to trust has become impossible.

The question then becomes more practical than philosophical. The need to address human behavior will vanish and be replaced by questions about how long people should be free or imprisoned. Whether they should live or die.

See those questions as the tip of an umbrella and ask yourself what will fall under the umbrella over the course of time. What things are likely to be condoned that are currently unthinkable?

What will AI become? It cannot exceed its programming, although it has occasionally startled experts by doing freaky things that were not foreseen. Will AI be employed as judges? Attorneys?

These are the questions we need to answer, because in all things, there’s a point of no return. Dystopian films and stories will no longer seem farfetched but a reality. And nobody will write a scary novel that equals what our children find in their everyday lives.

Go to YouTube and you’ll see AI everywhere. After seeing a video with AI narration and AI art, you ask yourself if the whole channel is run by AI. And I’ve asked myself this, but the answers, in several cases, were ones I did not want to believe. At first they seemed benign enough, but the mistakes, mispronounced words and pictures that have nothing to do with the subject, came to cause alarm in my gut.

Now, let’s say you’re in an office, working every day. You have a water-cooler and a break room with a coffee pot and vending machines. How many people are there whose names you know? How many do you ever discuss something so trivial as weather or last night’s sports scores?

That’s nothing like it once was.

The morning coffee break used to see a bunch of people enter the break room, jabbering so loudly that one could not make out individual conversations. As cost-cutting became more important, and the office workers began getting let go, you probably found that you missed that chatter or having co-workers. One day, you stand up in your cubicle and you can hear nothing. You walk around and see 3 people working where once there was a full crew of 65 persons.

Already happening people!

When humans are removed from any part of a business or school, we’ve been weakened.

And when we become weak, we begin to die.

Come Home

In these lonely hours, in solitude and in pain, I often look back at history and compare it to the current state of affairs, especially world events.

Philosophy enters into my thoughts, but more so does God, what he’s done, what he’s allowed to be done, and our human abilities to exercise freedom and critical thinking.

I’ve known for decades that the Lord doesn’t micromanage. He stays out of the fight, because we have no access to what the future holds, but he has already seen it. Before you ask for his help, he knows what you need. He has known every situation you would be in since time, as we know it, began.

No, before that, even: he’s all-knowing and all-seeing. He is mightier than we can possibly understand.

For as long as I’ve professed my faith, I have been challenged: “If God is so loving, why does he allow good people to suffer and die?”

One friend told me how, when he was a boy, he sought a local minister. The preacher said, “God is not home today.” Then he closed the doors and little James never went back. Nor had he, the last time I saw him, let go of that incident and the bitterness it caused.

It is a sin, what the minister said, most likely because he did not feel like seeing a child that day, or because he did not relate well with children as a whole. There is no excuse, but it happened. I hope my friend James turned to God and forgave the man who had hurt him.

I believe that divine inspiration is real, but likewise that evil temptation is, too.

At the SOTU address in 1991, the United States, and a coalition of other countries, were locked in combat to defend Kuwait against the military forces of Iraq.

Bush spoke of a “new world order” in which all nations “ would stand together and fight tyranny and abuse.

The speech pulled a trigger on every conspiracy theorist or adherent the world over. It was outlandish and arrogant, an insult to other countries’ leaders. It also conjured pictures of a modern illuminati, people who hold power and exploit the weak and the powerless.

Others liked that speech.

But both sides were pulled apart, and have been torn apart more in the intervening years.

There is no evidence of a modern illuminati, but the lack of proof is cited as room for doubt and mistrust.

Meanwhile, some Christians see the possibility of such a secret group as a sign that the “Antichrist” is the only one who can unite the Levant and the West against the “kings of the East.”

In other words, they’re sure the “end times” as prophesied in the gospels and the Book of Revelation to Saint John the Divine, are near.

If your eyes are open, you see the United States as a nation falling apart, and in the near future, in need of saving.

But forget about it. Forget it all.

Some people are trying to dismantle our government piece by piece in a blitz of power grabs and human rights violations. If there was ever a plan for a new world order, it’s gone south.

No group of rich and enlightened people can control what is happening to this country.

I say this because it isn’t relevant to the well-being of your soul. Fight for freedom, law and order, but peacefully. Remember that a Christian’s first duty is to choose goodness over evil, giving God praise through good times and bad; and through his divine presence and strength, to take care of each other.

I can hate the people’s deeds, those who are being more evil than even I foresaw, but I must never hate the people doing those things. And I regret judging the person in the moment, but not separating those people from their crimes and sins.

They have an evil agenda, but I believe that most have no idea what the consequences will be. Evil does not require that; it just does what it does.

As far as the evil itself goes, it is obvious to me that demonic forces are hard at work, and none of it is escapable. Only faith can help us, a solid faith that perhaps doesn’t keep you from sinning, but does keep you going back to the Lord.

It is not your standing in the world that concerns me. It is your soul that matters.

Are you truly forgiven?

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth and the life. No one comes to the father but by me.“

If you publicly declare yourself a Christian and you believe that he is the Messiah, your place in Heaven is secured. If it was just words to you, then your soul is in danger.

You will not love equally. You will find no forgiveness in your heart. Your compassion is not real. Your mouth will never praise God. That choice comes down to the fact that we are all free to choose. Refusing to acknowledge Christ is one of those choices. It’s not a good one but by lying to yourself you can easily live in sin without guilty feelings.

What I want to say is, there are exhausted people out there. Both good and bad. Like shipwreck victims, they’re treading water. Soon, they will sink in the sea of their own sins, and some will die unsaved by the blood of the lamb.

Remember: until your last breath before slipping beneath the surface, you can still repent. You can still claim the sacrifice of the Messiah as a gift, for God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believes in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.

For months, I have been under attack by the devil and his demons. I have given in to temptation and felt myself growing darker, my soul turning pitch black.

If it happens to you, walk away from the things that the devil knows you like. Return as a prodigal son to Jesus, to the Lord. I can think of nothing more terrible than finding out that God is real, Jesus is real, but it’s too late when your time comes to account for you life in front of them. Go to them now instead. Before it’s too late, go home.

The devil screams in your ear, but Jesus calls to you in a soft voice. Which one will you listen to?

Another, beautiful version. You know the words now: enjoy this powerful music. I consider it medicine for the weary. Wait til you hear those fiddles start. I cry every time.

Let your heart, as troubled as it is, soak in the tunes and words, and ask God to help you do what’s right. Come home now, out of the darkness you don’t deserve.

Thanks and all my love to those who have been praying for me. Special thanks to our good friend and brother, Jack Flacco.

Travis

For years, I have seen a young man hanging around my local supermarket. He’s a big guy and he seemed like some panhandler to me. I also thought him a bit sneaky. He was scared of me because I made sure of it. Lots of people are scared of me because I made sure they were.

It’s almost funny. I’ve seen women cross the street to pass me on the other side. Men ignore me which is even better. They count me as non-threatening. That’s a mistake that has always worked for me.

Until I didn’t want it anymore.

I changed.

Finally, today I saw Travis and waved in greeting.

He walked toward me. I had been menacing for so long that he couldn’t figure out how I knew his name.

Ten years, it’s been. Ten years. I counted him beneath me. That’s a grave sin. There is no excuse for it.

In just a few minutes of sitting together on a bench, enjoying the sunshine, I learned that he’s got speech and other problems. He’s slow, painfully so. He’s lost most of his family and has his mother and one brother left. I think he wanders the shopping center because he tests his mother’s patience. She shoos him out. I’ve seen him standing in the bitter cold with no appropriate cold weather gear. This guy has the mind of a boy.

Today I learned another harsh lesson about judging others, being cruel and how to handle grief. After losing a loved one, if you must blame yourself even a little though others assure you it wasn’t about you, I have a solution.

Help others.

Today, Travis made a new friend who will have his back, pray for him and who will never scare him again.

And me?

I feel better.

Moist Coals to Newcastle: The Unforgettable Baltimore ”Poo Poo Choo-Choo”

Not the actual engine. I think they had to retire the original one.

Originating in Baltimore at the Back River sewage treatment facility, 10,000 tons of “treated” sewage (for all intents and purposes, raw poop) CSX took a consist of 61 railcars to Newcastle, LA. But it reeked to such an extent that residents raised a stink of their own. Officials told CSX to get it out of the state.

Thus began the saga of the infamous “Poo poo choo-choo,” a part of history no one wants to be reminded of.

After half of its cargo had been “unloaded,” the train was relocated to Mississippi, which wanted it on their rails even less than its neighbor had. It was ordered out, but hit a snag when red tape prevented any movement.

This may have been historic, marking the first time anyone in Mississippi was overpowered by the stench of human waste. Mississippi’s command was clear: “SCAT!”

Of course, being the autumn of 1989, the South was still quite “temperate.”

I recall that the summer in the Baltimore area had been hot, but the heat lasted well into September and October.

By November, my only memory of the weather seems to be that on Thanksgiving eve, it snowed, the white mantle substantial for that time of year; something I’ve never seen since, nor do I recall any such thing before it.

But at the beginning of the month, it is usually moderate here, while in the south, well. You can get the scent of where this is going, right?

It did not help that Baltimore could only unload the cars a few to six at a time, so engines pulled six-car consists (if anything else traveled with them, I can’t verify it) back to Maryland.

What you cannot possibly read or even imagine is that during this saga, Maryland residents were being served a pile of steaming hate and ridicule. Not just at the municipal level either; it really was a big deal, with people being interviewed having their remarks edited from video tape and print. The local news stations didn’t help much; how can one defend a trainload of poo from people still eating crab cakes, Esskay hot dogs and drinking Natty Boh and Carling Black Label?

Hint: you can’t.

Because the end results are always capable of summoning flies in January.

Facing the threats of considerable fines, the October-November journey stood still because, well, nobody wanted it. I’m assured that such things have happened before, but if so, nobody remembers it. The more offensive a subject is while it is in play, the more it seems likely to be easily forgotten.

But some of us can’t forget. Baltimore and its entire suburban region, which is massive, was nearly stoned to death with words and lip-curling loathing. Or humor that stung just as badly, because the insults were just included in bent humor. Even Arkansas got in on the fun as it, too, had rejected the horror on rails and hurled insults at CSX, Conrail and Baltimore. The scent smelled nothing like a Giorgio perfume but was by easily more attention-getting.

By far the funniest reference to it was printed in a Manchester article announcing a seminar: “All aboard the Poo-Poo Choo-choo” it says, which gives the time for the seminar as lunchtime. Even I, with my sick sense of humor, can’t understand that little nugget. A luncheon? Who even uses that word anymore? A “luncheon.” To talk about dukie. Those folks at Manchester must really be hardcore, that’s for sure. “And for desert, we have Pepto-Bismol.” Totally sick.

At the bottom of this pile was, of course, low income people and families, usually the last ones left when rich folks move away from the rails. As we’ve seen in San Bernardino and Ohio, residential areas anywhere close to trains are by definition in constant danger. So it’s enough that derailments can happen, but putting up with the stench of sewage sitting on a siding is an immediate threat to health. Not to mention the quality of life. Cooking on the grill tonight? You’d better reconsider that. Unless you like burgers that taste like they came from the south end of a north-facing cow instead of coming from the butcher shop.

I’ve had that happen when a neighbor next door trucked in about 2 tons of cow pies for his lawn. For months, there was no escaping it. Hamburger patties tasted just like the cow patties smelled. And this was fresh poo, not the dried variety. I was so sick at the time that I couldn’t even wonder where he got it or how the sale could be legal. We were very careful to leave baseballs and footballs right where they landed if it was in Mr. Charlie’s yard. Didn’t want them back. Ever.

It’s easy to understand now how those living near the rails felt. Their protests were justified. Even the government had to give a crap.

Feces to Newcastle? Don’t try that again! That was the message and the lesson.

And if you think that I’m removed from this situation at all, I lived in Dundalk about one or two air miles from the Back River plant. In the scorching summer of 1994. Without air conditioning. Depending on an open window and a fan to cool my room.

And guess which way the wind or the night breeze usually blew.

Yup.

Jane F. Hunter, 1983-2025: Rest in Peace

She was one of the most courageous people I have ever known.

I met her in 2008 on the former social media site “MySpace.” It seems like a lifetime ago now.

And maybe it was. Today I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything. I loved her so dearly. I got to know she and her mother well. I wanted to travel, pay them a visit, and meet them in person. But it never came to be. Money and health problems were always in my way. Now….it is too late. I can’t even travel no matter how much money I have. A spine condition and a shoulder which will end up with me in surgery is looming, and that’s even without my lung and heart condition.

I still want to go. To hug her mother and give her my good shoulder if she ever needs one.

I can’t. This is as heart-rending as news of Janie’s death. All my life I’ve wanted to help, even when I was being an asshole. It was there, inside my heart.

Jane was a former user who beat her beast by sheer strength of will. But there was tragedy and trauma behind her. Sometimes those can never be outfought, not by the strongest of us.

It’s tragic that a rapist changed the course of her life. It’s tragic that she could not, in the end, outrun something that took place so early in her life.

She was beautiful and loved writing poetry, discussing politics, and photography. She had a keen awareness of fashion, and was eager to love, and be loved back. One wonders, what could she have done, this passionate, empathetic and starry-eyed girl could have accomplished had things gone differently for her.

Back when I first met her, I saw such a promising young woman, and so much potential. I expected to see her do great things.

And she lived up to everything I had seen in her.

In so doing, it wasn’t necessary for her to do anything special.

Because what she accomplished in her short life was to give everyone she touched an example of how to treat others and make sure kindness showed in her words and in the things she wrote about on her MySpace blog.

Even when my own brand of madness drove others away, she treated me the same as always. I loved her for that, but then, I already loved her.

Life was very unfairly hard on this woman who was always quick to laugh at even the most lame jokes. She literally lived through Hell and kept her sense of humor.

It was very hard at times on her mother and her brother. He’s a fine young man with his own potential for greatness.

Together, the trio had dealt with the deaths of friends and family. Jane lost her father, an uncle and had one grandmother left. That’s a lot for people to go through.

Jane always took things like that hard but was quick to come back and try to be strong for others. Anything less just wouldn’t be her.

She wrote freely about rape and inspired others to fight just a little harder and hang on a bit longer.

She wrote poetry to melt the most hardened of hearts, and she loved computer graphics. Not even living in the most haunted house in Brooklyn could break her even if it did take its toll.

She loved cats but had a love for all animals and even told me once about a raven that waited for her outside of the house and then followed her everywhere she went. While people like myself would have been spooked by such a thing, she saw it as special and a wonder. She could see the world in ways I never could. She was like that.

She was imperfect, as we all are, but taking on her own demons and winning is something so few of us are able to do.

And she was always wiser than her age.

Prayer

Abba, we are heartbroken at the loss of our dear friend, and though we must grieve now, we must also celebrate her life. We were truly blessed to have known her at all. Please be gentle with her spirit, as she was so gentle with others. She was a good friend and a Christian, and we pray now that her suffering is over. We thank you, Lord, for her life, for she enriched the lives of so many others.

In the name of Yeshua, your only son, the redeemer, amen.

Thank you all for reading. You may not have known her, and that’s a tragedy, but you can rest assured that here was one of the best people I have ever known.

PBS Documentary: The Night the Key Bridge Fell

It’s still hard to believe

Almost one year ago, I heard about the incident but refused to believe it. Whoever told it to me, in my mind, had no business telling me a lie that obvious.

Then I went to YouTube and found it not only true, but well documented by two cameras, each one on opposite sides of the bridge.

I don’t watch local news. In Baltimore City and surrounding counties, there’s crime. All kinds, and some of those trigger my memories and can make me ….sick for a day, a week, and sometimes longer. I need no help being outraged. I stay that way.

In the link right here you’re going to be walked through the collapse and what caused it as well as what it took to reopen the Baltimore harbor to shipping. There are interviews with experts, salvage teams and the city’s mayor.

Opened in 1977, I have traveled across the bridge too many times to count. From the side, at a distance, it almost appeared flat. It was not. Driving it in a car, you got a feel for the incline, but in a rig, when I pulled containers out of Dundalk and Seagirt Marine Terminal, a load of goods in a short 40-foot box, it was different, and I never liked it. But, on the other hand, I never wanted this to happen.

There’s still no work or word of any on it. Sit back and watch a chilling and sad account of the anatomy of the collapse.

Many thanks to PBS for sharing a very well done documentary from their show “Nova.”

“EVIL”

If you don’t believe there’s a devil, he’s already beaten you.

“Evil” is a word that gets slung around so much that it’s lost its meaning. We can see a war, watch boxes being sent home, see footage of atrocities, and call it “evil.”

And that’s true enough.

But it is unclear if enough people feel it.

We can hear of a mass shooting and call it “evil” and that’s true too.

We act like we’re outraged. But are we really?

We can tell a lie and watch as it spreads, causing a cascade of ever worse consequences and we know we’ve done an “evil” thing. But do we feel guilty?

And even if we may hate those who do evil and punish ourselves for doing an evil thing, evil goes on. It continues no matter what we say, do, or think.

Everything that comes from the president or out of Washington is best described by the word “evil.” I believe that good people aren’t fighting very much against the evil ones. And they are going to die.

It’s true that there will always be evil men and women whose cruelty leaves us stunned and then outraged. The entire world knows that rage; there is no possibility that any country regards him as a good man interested in peace and respect for human lives.

Say what you will about Russia being in bed with Trump or vice versa. There’s no way that when they’re finished with him that they will want him to remain prosperous, or even alive. Trump is being used and is clueless about it. His ego and tendency to delusion prevents it. Men far more evil than he are in the governments of both Russia and the United States, and Elon Musk is but one of them, and he only stands out because he was already a high-profile idiot (or a zombie, which is at least possible.)

I’m not here to tell you what to think, or to believe. I’m certainly not interested in telling you what to do; if you choose to follow evil, you’ll do so without any thought given to the well being of others.

“Evil” is not some concept made up by any religion to keep people in line. It’s not a mind control device to trigger shame. That’s what some people think (and have thought for thousands of years). It begs the question: “how has humanity managed to survive to the present?”

People who lack a conscience can still see the difference between right and wrong, but neither one seems to drive them. Even the worst of us can do good, and likewise the best of us have the capacity for great evil. Life is a constant fight, through hundreds of decisions a day, to do good while trying to survive. People without a conscience don’t care about those choices except when they will be harmful to themselves.

But you don’t have to be a sociopath to do evil things. You need temptation and you need the means. That’s it.

Another question is, why do people so quickly fall for lies, why does that lead to victims of liars on a larger scale, by which I mean following lies into the grip of mass delusion and cultism?

If we attempt to answer, we’ll be met immediately with variables threatening to stop us from learning anything at all.

Human behavior is a worthy study, but putting it under a microscope soon shows us how reckless our attempt is, and why most questions will be forever unanswered.

“the crazy son of a…”

CHAOS

Let us suppose you have a swing set in your yard or at a nearby park. The supports form triangles with the ground, and a transverse metal tube of sturdy metal joins those triangles at each apex. Suspended by chains, three swings hang from the horizontal section.

Let’s say that we have been watching those swings for any length of time. We’ve seen children on them as well as adults. Everyone loves a swing, right?

We have observed that, young or old, people will impart motion to the swing by moving their feet and arms and hands. They remain steady for a period of time, or so it seems. In reality, every swing backward is not the same. As gravity and inertia fight unseen, the smallest of motions will cause the swing to move differently. The person fails to compensate, eventually wobbling slightly sideways and at an angle that, if not compensated for, results in a collision with the triangular support or another person in the next swing. The swinger then drags their feet to a stop, or bails, which is not the best choice, but one made in panic.

Because of course we’ve all experienced hand and knee injuries in a similar fashion. They’re not usually serious, but when I was young, the pain of mother’s merthiolate was worse than any cut or scrape, and we learned to “rub some dirt on it and stay out of the house.” The memory of things like tincture of merthiolate guides us to avoid the wobbling effect, either by never using the swing again or by stopping faster the next time.

The cause of the wobble is understood, if only crudely, to even a small child. They learn control and balance. They do not know, however, the complexity of the entire problem, and why it happens again, no matter what.

On a cold and windy day, let us assume that we are pleased to be inside, yet we watch through the window as the wind moves the empty swings.

Here we see the swings move in ways they’re not meant to. They wobble, then they go higher with a straight line wind coming in perpendicular to the horizontal bar. If the wind is hitting the swing from the front or rear, then, why do we see that the swings move irregularly, recreating the out of control wobbling effect? Why do the swings also move sideways?

After the winds lash it all night, we awake to see a mystery. Now, one of the three swings has been repeatedly looped over the bar, and is tightly wound around it. You can’t even reach it to unwind it.

The two remaining swings have tangled up together, tightly entwined, and it appears as though they will be impossible to separate.

Now how did that happen?

Chaos mechanics apply to this situation. It tells us that nothing can hold the same pattern of behavior in the open, where winds are variable no matter where they’re coming from, and that differences in the chains, even in single links, can be moved differently. There’s no way to control the swing or to predict how they will behave in a wind storm.

The wind hits one of the angled bars and is diverted to hit the chains from the side or at an angle. But that may account for the two entwined swings, yet not the third, which must have moved to the side, yet ended up looping around the bar until there was no chain left hanging.

As contrary and confusing as this seems, it has been observed time after time, even in controlled experiments. One would think that by attempting to limit chaotic results, chaos can be prevented or lessened. That’s not the case.

In Egypt, there lies a giant obelisk, still in its unfinished form, never raised to point into the sky like others. This is because it cracked significantly during its carving from the stone around it.

These ancient spires had been successfully raised before, and a few remain standing today. Clearly, the ancient Egyptian masons knew what they were doing. So why does the one in the Aswan quarry lie broken?

If the stone cutters knew what they were doing, how did it crack?

The granite did crack, almost certainly because it was larger by one third the size of the next largest ones. In cutting out the bottom, maybe the weight itself caused it to crack. No one is really sure. Here again, we see Chaos at work. The obelisk is indeed huge. The cutters and masons did not anticipate that the extra weight could be too much to go unsupported.

Whenever we try to control anything, we are proceeding from the assumption that we know everything.

Well, we don’t. Giant cranes fall over because their counterweights are not enough, winds come along, or an object is struck. Loose earth may be misjudged, and it doesn’t support the heavy machine. Watching the TV series Engineering Disasters will demonstrate quickly how chaos mechanics work.

Now that we’ve seen the effects of chaos on a small scale, it’s time to examine the phenomenon with people.

People who voted for Trump should have known what he had planned, yet they were driven by fear of continuing inflation. Too many were also driven because of evil agendas. They cry out for jobs that “are all taken by Latinos.”

Racism we know about. But ignorance is something that can rarely be combated. Ignorance feeds itself through a person’s fears, hatred and anger. What was already chaotic becomes even worse, and therefore more dangerous, when ignorance, hate and fear enter the picture. You never know what evil will drive a person to, and you can guess, but never know — until it’s too late — what an unstable mind will come up with.

Mental healthcare has been a black spot on America since it became a nation. I know the story: I’ve been in hospital before. I’ve met people that I became friends with, and I feel sorry that those friendships didn’t last.

I’ve likewise met some of the most violent people I’ve ever known there, and had to subdue two of them because the nurses were being attacked and security wasn’t there fast enough. One woman I’ll never be able to forget was one of the three people I’ve met in my whole life that truly terrified me. She set off alarms with her mere presence. There was nothing in her of civility, reason, or sanity. There was only a pervasive sense of evil and danger. She was like a snake: treat her gently, she would strike; provoke her, and she would kill. The only one she didn’t seem to be a danger to was me, and I have no idea why.

I figure it this way: cats and dogs like me (obviously they are very perceptive). An owner walking a dog often gets frustrated when their dog pulls on the leash to come and greet me. Twice, escaped cats, 3 in all, have gotten lost and been frightened. They sat right under a bush by my window where I could hear them crying. And yes, cats really do cry. You can’t ignore it. Somehow they seemed to know I would help, and readily came to my gentle voice. One only lived next door, but was obviously too scared to go there. I didn’t even need to pick her up. I just said, “Come on, let’s get you home.” She followed me right to the neighbor’s door, which he answered and with a startled look said, “I didn’t even know she got out.”

It wasn’t negligence on his part. We all know cats can be curious and find ways to go exploring.

I guessed that perhaps the scary woman being evaluated on my ward for criminal trial competency sensed that part of me. But I was very happy when she left.

Mental hospitals are not places known for great patient care. And that has always been true, but if you think that egregious crimes done by staff and patients are only in the past, you’re mistaken. It may be less true now, but legal restrictions prevent the best care for patients regardless of staffing, because of time limits and more.

****

Way back when, the bodies of dead patients would be buried in a communal graveyard without anyone to mourn them. But they’re not alone. The campus of the hospital I went to after my third suicide attempt has two “known” cemeteries. One sits on a hill under a huge cross at the top. The graves are numbered. Nobody knew or cared about their names. These are graves covered with nobody to mourn the dead; nobody was there except men with shovels.

The other graveyard is not marked. One can cross it on foot and never know what lies beneath.

It is a mass grave, and no records exist to give any names or how many bodies lie beneath the grass. This is a shameful place, a place where tortured and battered and butchered patients were unceremoniously dumped.

Human behavior is, because of these reasons, a futile study, an unending quest for control and the ability to predict and anticipate what someone will do.

Chaos mechanics in physics is something most practitioners avoid. It’s a black hole they can’t account for. Almost always, there is an underlying order to things: the swings hang on chains and go to and fro, and that’s what they’re supposed to do. When erected, the angled stands and the crossbar are almost perfectly placed. But eventually forces are applied that are not possible to anticipate. The weight placed on the seat, the tubing of the steel legs settle or rise up, the chains become worn, weathering is ever present. It cannot stand but for just so long, then it becomes unreliable and a safety hazard. Or it just collapses.

Chaos rules the galaxy. It has its tentacles wrapped throughout the cosmos, frustrating science and even the simple act of observation. Recently we were told that our universe is expanding much faster than was previously thought to be. Who could have seen that coming?

It’s true with almost everything we think we know. Sometimes a paper is published and later found to be embarrassingly wrong. While crank scholars do, and have always existed, they’re not often the reason for us tripping up. Chaos just does its thing and leaves us with red faces.

And forget what I said about an open system. There’s no such thing. Human behavior can be observed but only on this planet and a limited distance into space. The place we inhabit is a closed system. If that’s true, then, why haven’t we conquered more of humanity’s problems than we have so far? We should have mastered ourselves by now.

We haven’t, and never will, because of chaos and evil.

Wherever chaos exists on Earth, we find evil. The devil moves best, and does his best work, when people are confused, frustrated, frightened and angry. He and his demons know how to get to you. They know your vices, what tempts you and especially what scares you most. When you are so engaged and compromised, you’re wide open to attack. And they don’t waste opportunities to exploit fear.

You may ask, if you like, how I know that true evil exists. Evil that can act in ways, through demonic beings, that constitute a real attack, sometimes physical, always spiritual. How do I know?

I don’t claim to know anything, but I’ve seen enough to have little doubt.

One afternoon, when Autumn turned the sky dark early, I was heading out to get pizza with my friend. I got to the car, though, and I didn’t have my keys. No fobs back then; you had two keys, one for the doors and ignition and a different key for the trunk. I didn’t have them. I went back into the house to get them. I knew where they were: on a small desk on the far side of the room. That put the bed to my left, beside the desk, and the door behind me, right next to the closet door, which faced toward the desk also.

Knowing where the keys were, I chose not to turn the light on. Midway across the room, I froze. I was not alone.

Something incredibly evil was there, somewhere in the dark, and I was too terrified to move. How long I stayed so still, waiting to be attacked, I never knew. Then my father said, “Yeah, I’m in here” and stepped out of the closet.

He was the worst man I have ever known. His abuse knew no limits, and until he spoke, all I knew was that I felt evil in there with me. I can’t describe what it feels like to be in the presence of great evil, but, deprived of my sight in the darkness, I didn’t know that it was him. Why he went to my closet was a weird story, but for now, the major point is that in those petrifying moments, I felt evil. Evil that was dangerous and life-threatening.

I had felt evil before. The records say the house in North Shore was finished and sold in 1963. While still very young, I had a room to myself. It was upstairs and faced Dutch Ship Road. I was put down for naps on long summer days and the room, two levels up from the one I was just talking about, was… Inhabited.

Back then, the afternoon sun was descending on the opposite side of the house, and cars with chrome everywhere would drive by, neighborhood fathers coming home from work. I saw the reflections from the sun hitting the chrome traverse my ceiling and I knew what that was.

But the upper walls had a shadow,d too. It moved around occasionally, not like the reflections, but faster, just a blur. It would dart across the room. I’d see it on the ceiling, crossing to an opposite wall, where it stayed well within my sight.

I’d often call, “Mommy!” and she’d come, but she never saw it.

Children often see things that adults cannot.

Perhaps some dark spirits choose not to reveal themselves to adults.

It is also possible that they lack the power to show themselves to adults, while children are well equipped to see the things and, more importantly, to feel them.

The thing wasn’t exactly a shadow, not a black one, anyway. It was gray, and wasn’t filled in. Just outlines. Three or four inches tall, two dimensional, and the lines crossed to form what looked like a tornado wearing a fireman’s helmet. Below the Line that made the bottom of the helmet there was a single eye. Just a dot, but a big one that left no doubt that it watched me.

I could feel the bloody thing. It hated me. I knew it. It focused a lot of intense hatred right at me.

At night, it was there, in an alcove made for a desk or a toy chest or shelves. At the time, I had a truck called “Johnny Express” which was a plastic tractor-trailer with a rubber driver. With my Popeye night light, I could look at it and swear that the driver was moving.

Well it wasn’t, and the eyes play dirty tricks on us all in the dark.

Now, the shadow wasn’t always there, but it always came back. If that happened at night, it could really scare me, and that’s what it wanted. Our fear gives demons great joy and power. They eat the energy of intense negative emotions. They feed on your fears. And at night, I didn’t need to see it to know that it was there. The hate it projected was enough to know.

After almost ten years in that room, I was moved downstairs. But first, something terrible happened.

One night I woke up from this thing intensifying its power, feeding off some nightmare. And the hate woke me up. My father would sometimes beat me with a belt if I scared him at night by screaming. But this night I didn’t care. I’d take the belt, but I wanted that thing out of my room and I couldn’t understand why my parents couldn’t see it or chase it away.

This time it was on the closet wall. Both parents came in quickly and I suppose my voice had some extra fear in it. They were taking me seriously.

They turned on the wall switch and like I always had, I pointed at it. They hadn’t seen it, but this night, they did.

“What is that,” they asked in succession. They saw it!

And then the most dreadful thing happened.

It leaped a short distance, very quickly, onto my mother’s chest. I couldn’t process it, but I saw it. She felt the thing on her and ran from the room as if trying to brush it off like lint. My father ran with her. As bad as that was to see, I wonder even now how she felt. What it must have been like. Other times I fight that memory because it’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

My mommy before that night, she joined my father in his many abuses afterwards. None of us, eight children total, were spared; every single one was raped or beaten in some way, week after week, year after year, and even after he was sent to prison I feared my father. And my mother took most of my resentment and anger; it was her betrayal that hurt me the most. The rug pull I never got over, so to speak.

Father Malachi Martin once said that some demons are generational, meaning that a demon, or demons, being (for now) immortal, could and did attach to families and their descendants. They are not omnipresent, but they can move so fast that you won’t know what’s going on. And they have a definite effect just by being present: see how an argument starts at the dinner table. See how people, friends, argue over the simplest things, petty issues. Don’t you think that maybe they are working to keep us divided? Their close proximity can stir anger, rage and jealousy where there should be none, and far worse: those deep suspicions you develop about your neighbor are insane, but you can’t know that; the emotional grip you’re held in renders you blind to reason.

People kill that way. And they cannot blame the devil. That doesn’t hold up in court. The fact is that we all make decisions in the heat of the moment, bad ones, and sometimes they are life-changing for the worst.

My life has been a bunch of train wrecks, so many that I barely had time to catch my breath between each one.

I’m not bitter anymore.

I’m old, worn out, more so with each day, and yet even though I hate the pain inside and out, I must continue to live as if God could call on me one of these days to help someone. He knows I’m willing, in a chaotic world, to hang on until I meet the person I can help, or until I die. That’s up to Him. I believe suicide is no option. It is an act which many regret before taking their last breath. Yet by then it is too late.

Evil, in the form of fallen angels, surrounds us. Remember in the midst of Yeshua’s ministry when a young man was exorcised, delivered from “legion,” or “many” demons? They begged not to be sent back where they belonged. A place described as very sandy, hot and dry. So Christ cast them into a herd of pigs, which of course the animals couldn’t take, and the lot of them charged off a cliff to their deaths. If swine can’t tolerate evil, then don’t believe me, believe that story instead.

The devil is real.

Evil is real.

You can see it all around you, and all you need to do is open your eyes. If you do, remember that you must open your heart, because with that sitting idle, evil can’t make as much of an impression on you. You’re protecting yourself. To feel love, sorrow and pity, to feel heartbreak, you must first open yourself up, revealing your heart to be a target. If you can be hurt, it’s a sign that you’re human.

At no time has this thing we call “humanity” ever been free of evil.

It has never known a day free of chaos.

And God won’t change that.

He is not a sadist, he loves us, but we were warned that it was going to be a long haul down a highway full of potholes. He knew what hardships would do us.

Because it is never in the calm, peaceful times that we learn. Our best learning tool is chaos, conflict and intense pain. Those teach us the lessons we need.

EPI

I’m thankful to God for my life. As bad as it was, I did have some good times, especially with my children.

You may not agree with the concept of chaos mechanics, or evil, but as long as you can freely love, forgive, and pass on what you know, you’ll be fine

Introducing Dr. Shannon Klingman, Pervert. Her Destination: The Twilight Zone

I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!

In my life, I’ve put up with torture. You’ve read my posts, I presume? If not then go through the archives. You’ll see what I mean.

And I’m not alone. We all have had our share of trials and trauma.  Isn’t that enough? Isn’t it too much?

Cable TV wasn’t around when I was a kid. We had the three networks, plus independent stations on UHF frequency. I saw some really cool shows, movies and specials, like Christmas themed variety and cartoon shows.

But through all those years, I also had to put up with the garbage of TV, the commercials. It wasn’t fair. Luggage, sandwich bags, Wesson oil, Gulf gas stations, ugly cars someone always sang jingles about, brassieres like the Playtex Cross Your Heart Bra (which was always fastened around a mannequin’s truncated torso, rendering an ad that was somehow nightmare inducing), PSA ads by Larry the Label, Bayer Aspirin, Joy and Palmolive ads (Madge was a sadistic liar), Ajax, and UUUGHHH!

Now I understand that if you weren’t around yet, back then I mean, none of that means anything to you. But see, the thing is, after my time with those ads, and you came around, those commercials got worse.

By then I considered myself immune to everything except the annoying breaks in a good movie. And even that wasn’t too bad. I still watched network-made movies until the early 1980s, which is pretty much when the decline of Western Civilization began. Well, actually it started in the mid-70s, but I’m not going to push it.

There were rumors — some reliable but most not so much, of tricks in commercials that used subliminal messages. A veteran character actor and Cracker Jack commercial star was doing a spacewalk in one. The mutt could never eat his Cracker Jacks and so it was with this one; he opened the box in space and forgot his visor was down and the delicious caramel popcorn floated away. Supposedly, while we’re focusing on him, his tether to the space capsule twists about in zero gravity and spells out an “S” and an “E” and an “X” and I don’t know if that’s true or not.

But that wasn’t disgusting even if it was true. By the mid-1990s, I think I pretty much knew our doom wasn’t far off. And a Cracker Jack commercial was nothing compared to Klingman. As Carrie Nation sought to empty every saloon in the country, so Shannon Klingman wants to stamp out smegma, even though I’m sure she’s an antivaxxer. Just what kind of doctor is she, anyway? Maybe she’s a twat doctor, or maybe the “Doctor” part is made up. Next we’ll see her with a hatchet, going around scraping scrote cheese into an empty wine cask. This whole world is so fucked I will probably never be shocked at anything again.

Thing is, with Madison Avenue there used to be some clean American competition. Not anymore. And it doesn’t matter.

Because here comes a reason for you to invest in a Vaultech room reservation. It’s positively sickening, disgusting and barf-making. It makes me think I’m not merely mentally ill, I’m downright insane. I can’t find the first ad she did, but here’s “Doctor” (I doubt it) Shannon Klingon–excuse me, Klingman still looking demented and horny at the same time, which can actually happen. In the first ad she’s sitting on a porch, feet bare, looking kind of seedy and dirty. She says to run your hands between your butt cheeks and along the sides of your “schnitzel sack” and then sniff your hands.

Okay, STOP.

This is not okay. It’s not. First, her eyes gleam as if she’s ready right now for a run at some poor guy’s schnitzel. As in, any guy’s schnitzel sack.

She’s referring to the male scrotum, and smegma. Hey! Don’t blame me, I would never have done this if she wasn’t Weirdo Wanda looking for guys on the street to sample her deodorant, which customers say smells worse than smegma.

In one ad she cornered a guy on the street, forcing him to listen while she did her thing. That ad I can’t find either but she was dressed like a house painter. Good grief.

Fortunately, there’s someone who made a different version of her schnitzel commercial ad, and it is oddly close to how the original ad is remembered in my exhausted brain. It’s all like a fever dream.

Shannon, you’re not a doctor. You know it. I know it. A lot of people know it. Stop talking about scrotums and smegma, stop leaning into the camera because it’s freaky and I think you’re a total Karen, and take your stinky deodorant and your bare feet and take a shower, use SOAP, and get yourself a new wardrobe. At Macy’s. You’ve fleeced enough people to be able to afford it. And stay off my damn TV!

Weird Stuff

Interesting. Last night, over an hour after twilight, I walked outside for my Marlboro fix, and something caught my eye. It looked like the blue predawn sky, but not to the west. Nope, this was to the east. It shouldn’t have been there.

I thought, what if I fell asleep and now it’s morning?

Except I knew better.

The dark crystal blue was behind the horizon, in this case a tree line. Perhaps unrelated, there was a very bright light like a car’s high beams, slashing through the woods. But it couldn’t have been a car’s headlights. The light was too bright and continued from a point I couldn’t see into the woods, over a vale, and on through the trees as far as I could see. I can’t see much at night, but light always makes it through.

I can see how mistakes are made when people panic and report UFOs on the ground. Because a voice in the back of my head was tugging at me: that ain’t natural, it just ain’t.

It’s true, I’ve never seen anything like it. But then again, I’m aware that I have not seen everything. The light was brighter on the horizon but shone well above it in the sky. That’s why I had a moment, like a senior moment, maybe even a Rip Van Winkle moment, when I wondered if I had been asleep and I was seeing the first light of dawn.

I didn’t panic. I made no calls. I told no one. When I was finished I just went back inside.

Could it have been a drone? I don’t know. I don’t even care. It’s just mildly interesting, that’s all.

However, others are jumping at the sound of dead leaves crunching under their feet.

It’s a bad time. Americans are scared. They are realizing that they elected a leader who wants to kill them. Of course they’re scared.

We know the election was fixed. The drone scares and the “non-human remains” found in “alien” craft were to soften up a gullible public for an onslaught of terrorism by Trump, which is continuing. Trump is a ding-a-ling, and Elon Musk is some grotesque and monstrously evil creature living in a bag of equally gross skin. His every thought is evil, planning evil things against people who did not believe it would go this far.

Don’t laugh at him or Trump; they’re ding-a-lings but they are fierce, remorseless, ruthless and not to be taken lightly.

Anyway, back to extraterrestrials. I know there are none here. No sentient race would ever come here. They wouldn’t dare. It’s suicidal.

Sedevacantism I Reject Out of Hand. Demons are Real. And the End Times Loom Closer than Ever.

Here are some truths people dismiss because they’re afraid, can’t face facts or for thousands of other reasons.

First. The Pope is who the Church elects. You can’t just say he’s not for whatever reason you may have; that’s rather arrogant. And looking at two times that two groups declared their current Pope was invalid and then seeing people fighting so much that they go off and start their own churches seems dangerous to me.

Doctrine changes because of things like this. When men decide what scriptures mean or do not mean, they’re playing with fire.

The fires of Hell. That’s a capital H because I just named a place. And it’s a real place.

In the following link, which you can view right here, there’s a radio program I challenge you to listen to, all three hours of it. Because it should terrify you.

It terrified me, and that’s not a small feat. If you’re new here or haven’t been around, then I invite you to look through my archives. I was once defined by fear; I was a coward and a weasel. I had pain inflicted on me and I inflicted pain on others. Without remorse for a while, because I was already too full of guilt to take on any more of it.

Guilt like that which is felt by all who suffer sexual abuse. Why victims blame themselves comes from a sense of inner pain that is far too intense to deal with. It also comes from any pleasure felt during the act. Violation should never feel good, but the truth is, it happens. And also it comes from the violation, but the guilt is misplaced even so. No child asks for abuse. But the flesh can sometimes be stimulated and it’s not our fault. We are not machines. We’re alive.

I had the blessing in the midst of my abuse of being made to attend church services and Sunday School. And I learned some things.

After an assault or particularly intense flogging I had someone to talk to. And this is important: once you have seen how horrible evil really is, you can easily believe in God. You must. Because there’s no way that evil, as in a Lucifer or Satan, can exist without God to keep him in check, stop him from tearing us all apart. And I knew that Satan couldn’t have created such beautiful things as this wonderful world and our universe. Only God, only a supreme being of light and love can have ever done that.

Yes, I once condemned the Catholic Church, but have I that right?

Of course, not in any mortal sense, but spiritually and morally. If I believe something to be wrong, shouldn’t I voice that belief?

Wait. What if I have different feelings now?

Then I should voice that as well. And here’s what it comes down to: I don’t know enough to say what’s correct or wrong. I just know that I believe in God.

But the Father in Art Bell’s radio program was a Catholic priest and an exorcist. I consider his words wise, but they terrified me. Like listening to him, without seeing anyone, I was getting a peek at how dangerously I had lived, and how utterly void of anything humanity can or should be, demons really are.

And my archive contains a lot of demonic stuff. But it happens that over time, my respect for how powerful and dangerous demons really are has faded. They’re good at making you do that. And I found myself equally confused and off the path.

As I listened and couldn’t stop, I recalled the demon in my room when I was a small kid. I remember the terror it caused, even though I didn’t know what it was. I could tell that it hated me. Oh, yes, I felt it. The priest talks about generational attachments and even possessions. For the first time, I knew what to call it. What had dogged me all my life.

A generational attachment. My parents were afflicted with many demons, and even if they never encouraged or practiced satanic rites or sacrifices, and indeed encouraged us kids to attend church, they did commit sexual, physical and psychological abuse on a scale I still can’t describe. It’s too painful for most people to read. They get overwhelmed and refuse to believe it.

That’s a concern in another area as well. So many people still believe that the third prophecy of Fatima hasn’t been fully disclosed. Could it be that, as it is, the prophecy isn’t terrible enough? Or are they scared and wish that there was more hope contained in it?

And if so many are adamant that the devil doesn’t exist, then what do they care about a prophecy?

Father Malachi addresses that, too. He said that he found that people who don’t believe in Satan have no faith in God, either. Their faith is crumbled to rubble.

Yes, I will tell you that God is real. His son Yeshua of Nazareth is real. And it’s almost time for his return, but not yet.

Because Satan and demons are real too.

Current world affairs are leading to it, sure enough. The Colombian president sent Trump a message full of logic, reason and truth. The truth is something Trump hates, because he lies all the time. But he can be reasoned with, to a miniscule degree. Or at least threatened.

The outrage at home and abroad have delayed his harsh tariffs or taxes on imported goods from Canada and countries in Central and South America.

Meanwhile, Elon Musk, once the butt of a thousand jokes, has compromised every single United States citizen. And then told what he did.

When something like that is thrown in your face, you need to know that the gig is up.

Prices keep rising, and it’s partly Trump’s fault. Maybe it’s all his fault. I don’t know, but he sure isn’t helping us.

On Twitter, or X, Musk wrote that anyone who posts anything negative about Trump will be suspended. A sign of an alliance the likes of which has not been seen since Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler. And they’re talking mass death already: starvation, exposure, persecution and much more.

First on their list was Hispanic people, and some have reportedly already been flown to Guantanamo Bay for internment. This is really happening.

Now, Trump wants to occupy Gaza and turn it into a resort. Can you believe that? How evil could you get?

But the signs of a coming conflagration, like that described in The Book of Revelation, have been getting more glaring in the past decade. The prices, the evil embraced by voters, the corruption and vice, the irreversible damage to our world, all are leading to one thing: God’s judgement on humanity.

There are people, as Father Malachi Martin says, who don’t fear Hell. On the contrary, they look forward to it.

I don’t have the capacity to process that one. I know that anyone willing to give themselves to Satan will find that Hell was not worth it after all, for one year spent with a blonde beauty.

Yes, you can make deals with the devil. You might get what you so desperately want, but either way, in the end, you lose.

And you can’t take it back. Not that.

Anyway, here are the late Art Bell and Father Malachi Martin. The call takes place in 1996. I remember the year well. But with the situations we have now, I wonder: if they were here, how differently would their conversation go?

Get yourself comfortable, brew a nice cup of coffee or tea, and soak in the most profound interview I’ve ever heard, and may God bless you.

Once Upon a Time in Hollywood

Elke Summer

Elke Summer is 84 years old, and has been many things, but is best known as an actress. She was always a kind soul and was gifted with stunning beauty.

But few know that in the early to mid 1960s, she and her partner Joe Hyams went through as hellish an experience as I’ve ever heard of when it comes to haunted houses.

I was haunted during these exact years, and being twenty years younger, my own experience was something I could not comprehend.

Yet humans have the natural ability to sense evil, even when it can’t be seen. Why Joe lived in denial of what he had to sense is only touched on in the following video, but I understand it. We don’t want to believe that a chair in another room just moved, or that a glass fell to the kitchen floor while we’re in bed.

In the midst of so many hoaxed and doctored ghost videos out there, I question why? Why fake it when you know the paranormal is real? The evidence was always there.

I’ve had many experiences when the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. I’ve gone through the house searching for intruders when there were none.

I’ve seen things I didn’t like writing about here since 2019, because they’re terrifying to think about and set me up to look like some amateur crank who believes in ghosts, goblins and ghouls to skeptics.

I have reflected on these things and still have no answers. Frankly, I really don’t want any. I want to retreat into denial again, but I am a terrible liar, especially when it comes to lying to myself.

What I went through, from childhood through a few years ago, should have driven me insane.

I get by with what little bit of faith I can muster, that God is real and will continue to protect me.

But for Elke Summer and Joe, their hell in Hollywood stands out as particularly harrowing. I could never have stayed in such a house, although I’ve been in some that were bad.

This is a long video, but it held my attention from beginning to end.

The storyteller is good and I recommend his channel.

Enjoy a true story about a haunting that is both true and very well told.

BOYCOTT SUPER BOWL XLV– WHAT’S THAT ROMAN NUMERAL CRAP ANYWAY?

What letters are for this year’s Super Fake Bowl? I don’t know.

Don’t go and don’t watch it. Don’t bother with the big mountain of Doritos and potato chips that confronts you as soon as you get inside the door of your local chain supermarket.

Remember Orwell, “they had their beer and football” and were easily manipulated and soft and gullible.

Heck with the NFL. ALL games are rigged. Why do you care who wins when there’s really just a script to follow according to the odds out of Vegas and how many suckers have placed bets with shitty MGM? It hasn’t been real since the early 70s anyway, so why do you care who wins? Even Taylor Swift became part of the shitshow even if she’s not aware of how they’re using her (and that golf cart bit wasn’t a show?) And Randy Travis or Kelsey Grammy or whatever his name is may have made a donation to wildfire recovery, but between the two of them, do you think they even flinched?

It is not the giving Spirit that counts anymore. That only counts when you value others more than your own comfort.
Show me a celebrity whose donations hurt their purse, and who give their time and sweat to help others, and I’ll show you a real person with a real heart and a real soul.

Don’t tell me that the amount is “better than nothing” because I know that. Lots of rich people do less. I get it. But a lot of celebrities do more. They’re heroes.

I’m disappointed that this NFL season ended up ridiculously predictable. Part of me hoped for a piece of reality to show up. Philadelphia is set to be either a whipping boy for the Chiefs or an underdog winner to make people believe it’s not all fake. I Don’t care which. Betting on sports was never a good idea, but now it’s become a big joke. A joke on you. Want the sport to mean more than the WWE? Want it to be “real” again?

It’s too late for that.

Look at all the stats you want. Play fantasy football and use AI, but you’re going to lose.

It’s too late for a lot of things, but at least you can spare your bowels from beer and nachos with artificial flavoring and instead watch an old movie in glorious black and white like you’re living in a time when honesty was considered at least worthy of trying for.

The father of all lies is laughing his teeth crooked.

And you’re fine with that?

Then you don’t remember the sport the way it was. And that’s too bad.

World Travel Warning: Avoid the United States at All Costs

The damage to this country being done by the Trump administration is rapidly reaching hellish status. It is critical and almost certainly irreversible.

With many citizens’ blessings, their own civil rights and freedom are vanishing with the stroke of a pen.

Based on this alone, I must urgently advise that all tourists, business people, and ambassadors halt travel immediately to the United States of America.

The damage is ongoing and ramping up to lead this country into a third world country, with civil unrest or war likely within one year.

Your lives are worth far more than risking them by coming to or continuing to stay here. Detainment, imprisonment, or worse are all possible.

Contrary to the slogan “Make America Great Again,” the United States was never great. But we had people who tried to make it so. That’s no longer true. All who stand against the fascist regime Trump is setting up will be persecuted. As of now, federal aid, even to student loans, has been banned. Trump wants us ignorant, blind and deaf. The media can’t help; all we get are lies and filler for commercial ads. Soon, independent news will be blacked out.

People will starve or die of illnesses that can be treated. Medicare and medical research are in danger or stopped already. Food inspection processes are forbidden.

It is not known whether states will resist and what effect, if any, such things will have.

Use your reason and have caution; save yourselves and avoid the United States.

I Have No Reason to Fight On

My children were my reason to live.

I was supposed to love and protect them.

To show them the way —

But I failed.

I always failed.

Everything I ever did means nothing now.

It’s as if I never lived.

I wander through these days that have no meaning to me —

And I know I’ve lost my way.

All I have left to show is the path behind me of footprints filled with tears

Time does not heal,

The seconds turn to years

And in the absence of my children, my heart can’t take much more.

I hate the mess I’ve made.

And penance, I don’t deserve

because I always failed the ones who loved me most.

and my worst failures were lethal.

My body is surrendering,

and my mind is full of everything dreadful in the past or yet to come.

I see no hope, I have no peace,

and a broken heart can never heal

It bleeds without slowing, a wound I can never hide.

If I had known it would be like this,

I’d have kept them by my side

If I had, would they have lived?

I join so many who also cry:

“If only I had known.”

Beth died in July. Mike died on Valentine’s Day

And on those days each year

is when I cry the most. This year, I cry too much,

Which is to say, never enough.

A father without his children 

is not a father anymore,

and maybe he is not even

a man at all.

*******************

In loving memory

Elizabeth Renee Smith 1983-2012

Michael Smith “Junior”  1988-2018

Neither one saw their 30th birthday

And I know that I’m to blame.

It’s a Dark Day for America – and for the World

The swearing in of Donald Trump as our next president is like the Doomsday Clock being reset to  midnight.

This babbling, lying, evil Antichrist is everything that the world doesn’t need right now.

He’s a racist, a misogynistic sex offender, a senior citizen who acts like an evil little boy with no interest in toys but a keen passion for destruction and death. Chaos is imminent.

Personally, I’m forced to apologize on behalf of my fellow citizens who, though opposed to Trump, would never elect a woman as leader of my country.

Yes, I mean to sincerely apologize.

There are people in this country and the world over who don’t deserve this – and what is sure to follow.

As my life wanes, I believe I’m fortunate in that I won’t be here for another four years. I did put up new Christmas lights this year, but I threw them away around a week ago. I kept one string for my bedroom because I no longer have a tolerance for the dark. I believe my Christmas Curse has been paid for in full. I’m finished.

I’m not afraid, but I do worry about you, wherever you are. I’ll be leaving behind a shell of pain, but you will be entering the worst time in modern history.

We are in a worldwide famine. Only rapid depopulation (like a really big war) can stop that. Global warming has not been disproven by our current weather; indeed, it was stated long ago that such weather would be driven by a warmer Earth. And one reason it feels so cold is because we’ve already changed and “normal” is no longer what it was. And in the face of recent past winters, even a trace of snow and ice seems like a catastrophe.

You ain’t seen nothing yet.

The wildfires in the US West are the result of winds coming in and being driven through the Santa Ana Mountains, drying everything out even worse than drought had already started (climate change has made these winds more likely in January). All it takes then is a discarded cigarette or cigar, or an idiot with a can of Zippo fluid and a pack of matches.

But whether it’s carelessness or arson, it’s all done. People have lost everything they own in an inferno. Those people were fortunate, but they don’t feel like it. Others died.

Being burned alive is no way to die.

We’re in a bad place. Insurance companies are nothing more than thieves with a license to steal and even to kill. The homeless are now dependent on others for “charity” as a Republican put it.

This is all “apocalyptic,” and if you scoff now, that will soon change.

If you choose to ignore the danger, that’s your choice to make. But you may be overwhelmed by the fear of what’s coming, and trying to be optimistic and numbing the fear.

Or maybe you’re full of the lies pushed by idiot politicians and you’ve been manipulated by the press, which is never about the truth. It’s about being sensational, titillating and peddling bullshit that will fill commercial ad space. Sell the lies, sell the products; it’s all for the money.

Artificial Intelligence is not your friend and should be tightly controlled. Well, it should have been. That ship has long since left port. Don’t trust anything.

This time I call on the people of good conscience to unite against treasonous oligarchs, billionaires, and those who are evil everywhere. The line must be drawn here: this far, no further!

Because it’s your last chance. And no matter how far into the Trump cult you are, I give you fair warning here and now that you and your children have no idea how your fervent loyalty is about to be repaid. You should be mortified by what you’ve done.

Shame on you, America. The sun will not set on this day before the chaos begins.

May God have mercy.

The Devil and the Old Man

When the devil sneaked in, the old man was asleep. He stirred, his sleep troubled by such evil so close.

By the fire, in his rocking chair, blanket across his lap, he asked, “Haven’t you had enough?”

The Devil answered, “Not until you admit that I have won.” He sneered at the old man and said wickedly, “Your sins outweigh your good deeds.”

“I can’t beat you by doing good deeds, it’s true. But I can with the decency in my heart, my sympathy for those who suffer, my faith in my God and my Savior. That’s why you will never win.”

“You suffer,” sneered the Devil, “And you’re so sad and lonely.”

“That’s true,” said the old man. “I hurt deep down. All the time. But that is the price of a hard-lived life extended this far. I don’t like it but I accept it. But you’re wrong about me. It’s true that I get lonely at times, because people need friends. But I am never alone. In the worst of times, my Father watches over me. I know he is with me, so I know that I am not alone. I don’t fear my solitude, I use it as I should, to look back and remember all the good people I’ve known and how happy they all made me. I keep them all here, in my heart. They are always with me too.”

“Old man, you’re senile. I was there. All you ever did was complain. That didn’t look anything like happiness to me. You wouldn’t really lie to a liar, would you? That would be some joke, all right.”

“What we humans are prone to doing is failing to live in the moment,” the old man said, a smile highlighted by the fire’s glow. “The gift of God is that we remember later, and we know we were loved by others and that we loved others. Those times we remember happily, not with regret or guilt. Most times, folks understand what others are going through and never stop loving them. Sometimes,” he said thoughtfully, “it made us love each other even more.”

The Devil fell silent, for he had no clue what love was, having only ever loved himself; he had no words for the old man. Instead, he became enraged:

“You arrogant–“

“It is not I who is arrogant. I lost that disability long ago. I simply don’t have any reason to pity you. All you do is ruin souls so you won’t be lonely. You know what? Nobody there with you will love you or worship you. They’ll curse you to the very end of time.”

And with that, the ferocity of the Devil was unleashed. Contemptuous, face crimson, he roared, “Old man, you are mine! I won! Look at yourself, you’re a wreck, bent and wheezing and ever in pain! Why would a loving god do such terrible things to his children?”

“My earthly father never loved me. He would love to see me now, as you do, a suffering, beaten shell. But he can’t see me. You have him caged for now. At the Great Judgement, he’s yours for keeps, I’m sure. But my father in heaven never allowed you to do more than I brought on myself, or what evil men were given the power to. He was always there afterwards when I cried and had nightmares and felt the pain of my wounds inside and out. What good did you ever do?”

The Devil was silent once again.

“You don’t get it, do you?” the old man asked. “That is why you failed. In a single prayer, there’s more power than any you’ve been given. In three words, a puny human can invoke the power you never had. When I told someone ‘I love you,’ it was real and you can’t beat it. You never could and you never will. Love, forgiveness, empathy, these things you can’t defeat, and I will feel them until my time is up.”

“You don’t know what power is. You’re a rotting carcass. How dare you claim greater power than I?”

“You’re a sore loser,” the old man chuckled. “The spiritual equivalent of a bully and a pusher and a pimp. Nothing more. Your delusional version of power comes from the weaknesses of every human, and we all fall victim to it. But we have a way out, and you must really hate that. You can leave now. I need to sleep a bit.”

The Devil left as silently as he had arrived, and the old man smiled, falling asleep with thousands of faces and memories in his mind.

Pretty soon, the firelight died, and the old man went off to meet his maker, his soul intact.

And in a very dark place, there was a mighty roar of anger and defeat.

Ohio Must Be Destroyed!

Nestled in what looks like pristine forest on a map there lies a nightmare. But don’t forget: it’s only one of many, all in the same U.S. state.

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is a fair amount of land, but it’s no park. Under a canopy of imaginary forest there was, for a while, a town. There was even a mill. The Cuyahoga River ran beside the town. In the later 1800s the Eerie Canal rail lined the other side of the river. Boston Mills eventually became incorporated as Boston, Ohio.

In 2016, the federal government razed the last of the structures and homes. Before that, everything was vacant. Residents had long since been forced out of the area, and grasses, weeds and the odd sapling were allowed to take over. Officially there was little the government had to say, but kicking an entire town off their own land was difficult to make look innocent. A park. Right, the people said. They had fought bitterly, but in vain. The town of Boston was unincorporated. No zip code. No nothing.

Almost at once, rumors, then full-blown urban legends, spread across the state and, even worse, the Internet. “Helltown” was born, and the conspiracy theories abounded. Each had the quality of being more gory, evil or terrifying than the last, until ghost hunting amateurs began to explore after dark.

There was a sighting of a Bigfoot. Of course there was. Then came the urbex morons who claimed to have seen and been chased by satanic cultists. In some variants, the “investigators” claimed to have fired shots at their pursuers. After the last of the ruins had been bulldozed, these reports died down. Today, most oddity hunters have forgotten about Helltown. They have no idea what a small and mostly unseen part Helltown had been in the most impressive cover-up in the history of the United States. And a horror story that lives on.

The real story began in the late 1400s. The Knights Templar had supposedly been murdered after a bounty had been placed on them. However it was not known that the Order of the Templars had already grown to such a size that their ranks occupied secret strongholds in every known country, recruiting by unknown methods locals who could walk among the public when foreigners could not. Relic hunters who sought control over the world, they had one true goal: finding an ancient relic that would, if used, eradicate all free will. An end to all violence. They could not foresee that if such a thing existed, and was used, it would end the human race. An end to free will also meant an end to craftsmanship, art, religion, political freedom and everything else that humans need.

Opposed by the  Hashashin during the Crusades, they used armor, weapons and mercenaries to wage overwhelming war against the order of the Assassins. Battles and territory were won and lost. The conflict never ended.

It was up to Viking explorers and one other man to take the next steps. Christóbal Colón, known to modern Western schoolchildren as Christopher Columbus, had come into the possession of a map inked by cartographer Piri Reis in Venice. To protect the map, or atlas, from Templar operatives, an assassin named Ezio Auditore helped Colón hold onto it until his three ships could depart. Colón never made it to mainland America, but he had bigger things to worry about than finding China. Ezio had been pursued by Templars, and gave Colón something to guard with his life. This he did, taking the relic, called an Apple of Eden, to his grave. Having sailed with the Templar cross on his main sails, though, gave them an edge. All they had to do was find and exhume the body to find it.

When the Spanish empire’s naval fleet was decimated, the Templars had taken heavy losses.

Edward Kenway, a man not satisfied with his family life and wanting to do more for them, a man yearning adventure and riches, became a pirate and then an Assassin. His kin would go on to help both sides in the future, but many vessels were to be named in his memory after his ship, The Jackdaw.

During the American Revolution and afterwards, the Kenways and the Assassins played a role, but Haytham was killed by Connor and the family bloodline ended except for its offspring from women who married into other families. Desmond Miles was a result of that DNA mix, and was used in the early 2000s by a Templar organization called Abstergo Industries, then operating as an entertainment venue with machinery which could allow one to live the genetic memories of one’s ancestors. By this time the Apple of Eden along with pieces of Eden were being aggressively hunted for by the Templars. But they never put all their money on that; they used secluded places like Helltown to set up laboratories to actually create clones of assassins with genetic memories intact. But the underground site at Helltown was discovered by urbex and paranormal explorers who video-recorded too much footage for Abstergo to squelch or debunk. The site was abandoned and Helltown was made a part of the park. They sealed every entrance so well that even Homeland Security couldn’t find it. Even lidar could not detect it. Josh Gates came away from one such search with nothing but a red face.

Layla Hassan used stolen Abstergo equipment and evaded the Templars while investigating Bayek, one of the last Madjays of Egypt, a contemporary of Cleopatra VII and Julius Caesar. Bayek and his ex-wife Amunet founded the order of the Hidden Ones, the very beginning of the Assassins. No one knows what happened after that, or how they evolved into the Hashashin, but the first true assassins were Bayek and Amunet. Layla went from Egypt to Greece and recovered the spear of Leonidas I, who died with the 300 at the Battle of Thermopylae. DNA from two of his descendants could be used, and she learned that during the Peloponnesian War, Kassandra of Sparta was a genetic ancestor of Amunet. Kassandra won the Staff of Hermes and it granted her immortality. With her whereabouts unknown, she spent two thousand years fighting against the Cult of Comos’s next totalitarian iterations including the Templars and fanatics of Nazi Germany in World War Two. As her native Greece was occupied by Himmler’s SS, Kassandra organized resistance operatives and tormented superstitious Nazi relic hunters. A very good and compassionate woman, she nonetheless had fun assassinating top commanders and dumping their bodies into the Aegean. When the tide took them out to sea only to bring them back to the beaches weeks later, blackened, bloated, bitten by crabs and rogue fish, it truly spooked the troops. This was true guerilla warfare, psy-ops and biological combat not seen since Alexander and Genghis Khan.

By the last months of the war, Kassandra of Sparta was no longer playing by any rules. Only hers. She had watched her brother die, having felled him herself, and she remembered the monster he had been turned into. She fought like he had. She missed out on the fall of Berlin, but she did have the pleasure of tracking Mengele down in Argentina. She hung him by his wrists and tortured him for days before abandoning him to the dogs.

She was next seen in the 1990s in Raccoon City, Ohio. Infiltrating the Abstergo cloning facility, she beheld horrors such as Greece itself could not rival. There were freaks back then. The Gorgon, the Minotaur, the Cyclops. All defeated by her, earning the Staff for herself. But in Raccoon City? It sickened her. People with skin falling off, sloughed as they robotically walked, a stench worse than Athens during the plague in 430 BCE accompanying them.

A mansion and underground labs were ground zero but whatever was causing the condition soon escaped into a downtown area.

It was Kassandra who stopped that plague at first, but a man of no honor named Wesker found new ways to keep it spreading. Travelling south, it found its way into Silent Hill, West Virginia. In Springfield Ohio, it began heading north. The victims of the virus became, literally, dead and rotting. Dying, yet they could not actually die. The only way to kill these things was with shotguns and submachine guns. The government moved in. West Virginia and Ohio were battle zones. The CDC, the Army, Army reserve, and Army National Guard went in with flamethrowers and grenade launchers, tanks and Bradley fighting vehicles.

In 2010, it was believed that the nightmare had ended. It was premature. It took years, but the mysterious condition popped up again in 2023-24 when immigrants were spotted in Springfield Ohio eating feral cats and stealing dogs out of people’s yards, and eating them alive. Ravenously.

You don’t believe me?

Ok. Ask Donald Trump.

He saw it. On TV. And he knew they were immigrants.

Haitian immigrants.

Don’t vote for that moron. He’s a Templar, a traitor. And Templars are idiots and racists and liars and fascists.

See Donald run. For president; he can’t physically run.

See Donald eat. French fries, Big Macs, and beautiful chocolate cake.

See Donald drool. Donald’s brain is dying.

Watch Donald turn into a zombie.

Perhaps the process has already begun.

The Zombie Apocalypse may be real after all, eh?

Maybe keep the kids in the house on Halloween night. Springfield ain’t that far away from Helltown. Or the White House, or Hangar 18…

Did you really think I was going to let this one go?

Ralph Edward Smith, 1951-2024

My elder half-brother Ed “Eddie” Smith of Visalia, CA has passed away. We grew apart over the years, and as things of that sort happen in families, you may think that I would be unaffected by the passing of a half-brother I had not seen since the mid-1980s. But this news has hurt me very deeply.

We often leave things unsaid, then regret it when it’s too late. Everyone does it.

That I loved him was set in stone when I was a child. He always had time for clowning around with me, which made me feel loved and special at a time when I was suffering from terrible abuse by my parents. His brother Joseph did the same. The children of a different mother but the same father, they were both the best part of my life during the time when our father was given to beating me down and belittling me. I had terrible self-esteem, but those two actually made my life better. There’s no greater gift anyone can possibly give.

Eddie will be in Heaven when my time is done. We will talk of happy times and laughter that we shared. He was a hero to me, giving but never taking. Once, for my birthday, he gave me a model of the starship Enterprise, and it was a limited edition with clear parts which could be lit up. That model never was built. I didn’t have the skills, and he had far less time than before. But I, just this month, bought one very much like it. It will be finished in his memory.

He turned 18 in the summer of 1969, a dangerous time to come of age. I remember that he got a surfer on his cake, as he was a music lover and listened to all kinds of music. Our father gave him full-time work, and he was also in college, a history student at the University of Maryland. He never got drafted and he was far too intelligent to volunteer, despite being a conservative and a true patriot. Had he been drafted, he wouldn’t have run to Canada.  I have no doubt that he would have done his country proud. He was tough, far from being a coward, and he and Joe took up for all of us half-siblings. Once, my oldest sister came home crying because at the little community beach, she had been harassed by a pair of twin boys. They took off after those boys, teenagers, and I saw what happened next. It wasn’t pretty. They caused no lasting harm, but the twins never, as far as I can remember, harassed anyone ever again.

I know that the trauma of being threatened with death by my brothers was unforgettable. But they loved us all, and through the years they were our substitute dads. They helped shape us into the people we became. I’m so very grateful for them.

Eddie was a man with a huge sense of humor, always wanting to evoke a laugh, have fun and help out. I never had the honor of meeting his widow, but I sincerely pray that in this terrible time, she can find the peace that he is experiencing right now. I grieve with her.

It is always the loved ones remaining who suffer, but the ones who pass on will know the peace of Jesus Christ, and after a life well-lived, and knowing that he was a devout Christian, I can say only, “Well done, Brother. Well done.”

To his mother, his surviving widow, brother and sons and all those who love him, I pray that you will be comforted by the Lord’s touch.

We Can’t Forget

This week’s Legacy video hurt. We have lost people whose lives have touched us in profound ways, folks whose kind will never pass this way again.

Bob Newhart, in addition to being the king of deadpan comedy, was also a U.S. Army war veteran who served during the Korean War (1950-1953). Every veteran we lose hurts us in ways most people can never understand.

We lost Shannen Doherty, an actress I rarely saw, but who I had read negative things about. Things like she was childish and demanding. People who say such things often end up having those very things said about them. Her passing reminds me of the importance of kindness in speech and deed, even if we feel that someone is unworthy of it. Maybe that’s when kindness counts the most, like Jesus said. I thought she was pretty and a good actress. What more did I need to know? Pray for family and friends who have loved and lost, for you may one day know their pain.

Richard Simmons may have stirred discomfort in people, but that’s nothing compared to the lives he inspired and, in turn, saved. He made ordinary people believe that they could overcome what had seemed impossible, and that is a legacy we should all want for ourselves.

When we lose friends and family, we are devastated. When we lose our heroes, icons of culture, and those we admire from a distance, part of us goes with them.

This is a prayer for all who mourn the loss of heroes, cultural icons, and those who inspired us and kept us going through tough times with laughter, the spectacle of sports competition, and wanted us all to be better than we thought we could be. May God comfort those who have lost those so dear, and may He welcome the new souls to Heaven, give them rest and peace.

Amen.

Two-Book Review: Eugene B. (“Sledgehammer”) Sledge’s Extraordinary Autobiographies

After watching the HBO miniseries, “The Pacific” from 2010 several times, I was overcome by the hate, mud, isolation, and earth-shaking gun and artillery fire, the effect it had on one’s nerves and, the worst part, the ground war that often went hand-to-hand. Bitter combat to the death at close, closer, and then very personal, single combat.

I came away too with an indestructible love and awe for the First Marines in the Pacific theater of World War Two. I know that actors played the parts of these men who loved their country too much to let anything else come first. In the wake of tragedy during the savage attacks on Pearl Harbor and the Philippines, men couldn’t enlist fast enough. They were filled with what Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto was reported (it was never confirmed that he said it, but he certainly had to think it) to have said after realizing that no U.S. Navy aircraft carriers had been in port: “I fear that we have awakened a sleeping giant and filled him with terrible resolve.”

Whether he said it or not makes no matter because that is exactly what the Empire of Japan had done.

Before the spring of 1942 came, the military and industrial behemoth that was the United States was gearing up to free Europe from the Blitzing Nazi Germany and Italy and to send every Japanese ship to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. Watching and reading the real news articles newsreels of those days almost a century ago is one thing. I first saw the silent 16mm footage of the attack on Pearl Harbor in junior high school, shown by my (still) favorite teacher ever. He made no mistake about it: history was not nice to watch. Later in the year, he showed raw footage of American soldiers liberating a concentration camp as well as Soviet film from Auschwitz. History wasn’t a nice, clean subject.

The Pacific is a great piece of history itself, showing us the personal home lives of Marines heading to war after the Christmas of 1941. For so many men, it was their last Christmas with their families.

Eugene B. Sledge wanted to go but couldn’t. His father, a doctor of internal medicine, had detected a heart murmur. Gene wrote a book years later. Its title: With the Old Breed at Peleliu and Okinawa, released in 1981. He would later give his readers (and himself) closure by writing a short sequel, China Marine, at the request of his wife, Jeanne. After watching the miniseries and reading the book, I, too, needed a cooling down and closure.

Far from my intention here is to diminish any of our brave military in peace and at war. Any war.

But the miniseries, a companion to the hit Band of Brothers, hit me especially hard. In fact, the two can no more be measured against each other than the European and Pacific wars can be. They’re different in too many ways. But where I had been emotionally touched in Brothers, I cried my way through most of Pacific. Both series had episodes that were difficult to watch, but nothing in Brothers, except for Episode 9, which was an ambush to many viewers, made me continue to run the waterworks like Pacific did. It’s already been noted by critics as being more packed with blood and bodies than Brothers, but this is necessary as the island fighting was often so close. At distance, artillery was used, and bodies were tossed, in pieces, long distances. Mortars, machine guns, and grenades could make men into something you’d see in one of Stephen King’s nightmares. He has enough of those to go around, doesn’t he?

But Sledgehammer writes in a graphic but controlled way. The first things that many Marines saw when taking an island were the first American KIA sitting up with their own penises in their mouths.

The savagery of the Japanese hit the gentle Sledge hard, so much so that his hatred of them is virtually instantaneous. That hatred only grows as the fighting on Peleliu goes on. He describes going without water, as the supplies aren’t quick in getting to them from the Navy.

He admiringly describes “Gunny” Elmo Haney, a man obsessed with bayoneting the enemy, and who scrubbed his genitals with a utility (hard bristle) brush. He was, Sledgehammer wrote, issued by God to the Marines, never having been humanly conceived. That’s not hyperbole when one marine describes another. Haney fought, reportedly but not officially, in World War I. He did fight in the so-called Banana Wars, and in World War Two, when he was among the oldest serving members of the First Marines Division. He finally broke on Peleliu, but nothing like in the series. He told Sledgehammer, “That was terrible.” He retired and went home. Peleliu was really that horrible.

Sledgehammer wrote about losing his captain Haldane. The two had shared talk about their families and the C.O. was patient with Eugene, seeing the new recruit changing into something less human and wishing it weren’t so. He gave Sledgehammer some advice, but he never left the island alive. The author sees changes in the eyes and on the faces of his fellow mortar squad members and imagines that he probably has that same look. He describes the battles well, with heavily researched facts and his own perspective, trying to be crisp and straightforward, and that makes this book all the more heartbreaking. Because, at times, he does let his feelings out. His narration mentions few names, using “buddies” instead, and yet does mention Snafu several times. He even quotes the New Orleans native by spelling words as Snafu pronounced them. That’s good writing.

In the end, the airfield on Peleliu wasn’t even used by General Douglas McArthur. That’s like spitting in the faces of the survivors and on the graves of those who made the ultimate sacrifice. And Marines never forget. Not something like that,  they don’t.

On Okinawa, the series showed Eugene come very close to losing his soul, or indeed losing it. But then, he reclaimed it by refusing to shoot a wounded native woman. She was gunshot and wanted him to pull the trigger, but he instead held her head in his arms gently until she passed.

That… did not happen. Sledge was so far gone that he couldn’t. He turned to leave her, and someone else shot her.

At this point, it’s necessary for me to point out that it is highly improbable that this or any other women on Okinawa were Japanese.

They were possibly native to that island but more likely were “comfort women” that had been taken by force from occupied territories like Vietnam, Australia, the Netherlands (!), China, and, mostly, Korea. What the term means is “sex slaves” to be used by the fighting men of the Empire. But they were not merely sex slaves. They were horribly mistreated and tortured, and they took beatings regularly. According to Wikipedia and in-depth articles I’ve read, these women were often killed, and many committed suicide. The Japanese were never sorry for this sad and evil thing that they did. They never included the women in their reparations, and after that article I read, they were forced, by the growing knowledge of that obscure part of the war, to apologize. To save face.

According to everything I have learned about the Japanese, there was never an intention of making apologies for sex trafficking and sexual war crimes. In fact, Eastern attitudes about sexuality have never failed to disgust me. For a society like the Japanese to regard honor above life itself, they seem quite dishonorable to me. During fighting on Okinawa and other locations, women were shoved out ahead of soldiers, as diversions, shields, and booby traps (explosives were concealed under their robes). I’ll note here that while this is indeed a war crime, I don’t know if this type of offense was ever addressed in the post-war trials (there were similar atrocities in the Korean and Vietnam wars).

Even today, and I have seen the proof with my own eyes, there’s underground pornography from Japan that’s left me with trauma. I don’t know how people can do such things (you want to know about evil? I’ve seen it. I know there is a real devil).

Some things in the series didn’t happen or happened differently or with people not shown on film. That’s okay. I still think Sledgehammer would have been pleased with it. He went home in the sequel book China Marine, in which he describes the winter of 1945 to part of 1946 in China. It was cold, the barracks were unheated, and the chow was terrible. He stood a guard post when, several times, he encountered dogs left behind by the Japanese infantry. Specially bred and trained attack dogs, vicious to begin with, now roaming free, cold, hungry, and twice as dangerous. Sledge doesn’t want to shoot the first one he sees in a frightening face-off. The dog eventually left, but he did report it, and the hunt to kill the dogs was on.

And I believe that’s what saved Eugene: he had a love for animals and nature. He would go on to earn a PhD. in Biology and was a college professor for years.

Of the train ride home, touching as it was, I don’t know who was at the table with him in the L&M dining car. He does not record it that way. But he does note that leaving such close and dependable friends was very difficult for him.

Without further assistance from me, I can still recommend both books for great reading. World War Two was full of men and women fighting courageously for the right thing, justice, and the greater good it brought. And now I have learned about more of them. It gave me hope. There’s a lot of evil here on this earth. But there are always good people to help set things right. That’s really heartening. Especially these days, as monsters masquerade as patriots and come as ravenous wolves in the form of sheep.

If you worry about men like Donald Trump taking this country to the grave, then at least we have the miniseries like The Pacific and books like those of Eugene Sledge  to remind us how things used to be. He should have returned with medals. He was never wounded, so he never got a Purple Heart, but he was brave and helped his mates and weathered and survived things that would surely have killed a man like me. He, Snafu, and everyone they served with should have been decorated numerous times. They received nothing for their sacrifices of blood, sweat, terror, and trauma. Instead, they got nightmares and extra work.

It’s  a Tom Hanks kind of touch that, in the last minutes of the series, Eugene lies back in a meadow and holds a daisy up to the sun. For just an instant, it looks very like the Rising Sun flag of the now vanquished Empire of Japan. Maybe it’s him weighing the cost of keeping his hatred or letting it go. He was finally beginning to accept his wounds of the soul. Those wounds never leave us; we just learn to live with them.

Remember these men. Do this, and their pain wasn’t in vain.

Stephen King, Master Truth-teller

On X, the author remarked the type of rifle used to shoot Trump’s tiny ear was a variant of the AR-15, the weapon of choice used for mass shootings. The one the Republicans have worked so hard to keep legal. He’s taken a lot of heat, but that’s to be expected when Republicans are faced with the truth. Any truth.

Mr. King has already established his credibility as a patriot. Don’t hate those who tell the truth. Don’t hate the truth, and you can be as free as the wind.

The Nightmares and the News

Yes, I went back to bed early this morning. The nightmares were worse. Helplessly watching my son self-destruct from an addiction he couldn’t shake. Sexual monsters with impossible bodies came and tormented me. At first, there was a pretty woman. It was HER again, and she brought help. This time, she had lots of backup. Night demons. They do love their work.

I should have prayed before turning in again. But my writing had calmed me. I hit the wall. They tortured me until dawn.

While these nightmares are the product of disturbed sleep and my failure to pray on it, we should, if we care, all be having bad dreams.

Look at the news.

There are heatwaves too hot and too early this year.

We have even seen the first earliest category five Atlantic hurricane in recorded history.

The storm has left about one million people in Texas without power. Studies prove that utility companies make low income neighborhoods their lowest priority. I pray you’re safe from the elements, at least.

Donald Trump is backed by the Supreme Court which will protect him from prosecution as well as allow him protection for the spoils system, which facilitates his burning desire to hire anyone who he wants to as president, including criminals and incompetents (I thought he already did that).

He was fired upon by a Sniper who certainly was not military trained. If that were so, he would have been head-shot instead of ear-grazed.

The look on his face…

I wish violence on no man, but he can hardly evoke sympathy from me. I fear that this is an indication of a lack of humanity on my part, but that look…

He’s not in shock. The picture, a second in time digitally preserved, shows so clearly that he is aware. And that he is full of hate… and rage.

The man is now twice the threat to this country than ever. Because someone made him an almost-martyr. One other person was killed. Two more, critically injured. The shooter was executed by the secret service. Nothing was learned. Now, nothing can be. It would have been senseless anyway, but now that’s cemented in place.

If that’s not enough, there’s the subject of money.

Your groceries and goods are being raised in price outrageously because Houthi rebels are still blocking access to the Suez Canal by firing on ships. This causes vessels to go farther by way of the Cape, and that’s costly. I have seen one item triple in price in three weeks. Don’t blame that on Biden. What’s he supposed to do, nuke Sub-Saharan regions or the Middle East?

Microplastics have been confirmed for the third time on the bottom of the deepest oceans, on top of mountain ranges like the Andes and peaks like Everest.

They’re in our drinking water and in our food. In our blood and in our organs.

The News will beat you right into the ground. Corporate news insists on beating you down. They’ll use any and every trick against you. They’re brainwashing you. Have been for years. The corporate bosses and their bosses don’t want you to think for yourself. They don’t want you to learn. Schools just turn out uneducated dolts to be yes men and women, the workforce for the corporate greedy.

Nothing is safe. Nothing is real, and everything is allowed. Nothing is sacred. But don’t worry: soon, so many things we call freedom and rights will be taken from us.

What will you dream about tonight? What’s been on your mind? Is it the current news or that old stuff? You know, the things people like you and me never forget?

I will pray for protection in my sleep tonight. It works. Maybe you should try it. It sure would be nice to start out your week by arriving at work fully rested, wouldn’t it?

I think so. Goodnight, and may the Lord send you guardians to watch over you this night and every night. Have a safe week. I don’t need to know who you are; I love you, so please visit me again.

Survivors in the Night

Restless, you wake up tired. Sheets entangle you from head to toe. They’re wet with sweat. So’s your shirt.

Slept in your clothes again, didn’t you?

You get up to use the toilet.

You can’t bear the thought of going back to sleep, where terrible things await, ready to continue tortures you never asked for.

The things you know you don’t deserve.

They’re waiting even so, and there’s no way of stopping them. You can’t even go back to the bedroom.

The memories flood your consciousness. You can’t stop those, either. Those are the things that you can never forget, the source of your nightmares: helpless, taking the torture, crying, wishing you were dead, yet having no way to escape it all.

The crack of leather on skin, imparted with force, driven by rage.

The sexual assaults, then rapes as you grew older but still not old enough to stop them.

The public humiliation. Your face is constantly hot, making you wish you had none.

You know people stared. They don’t now. Now they look away.

You just had another birthday. It’s been so long since it all happened, but years turn to decades, and still, you remember everything.

After waking, minutes turn to hours. What have you done?

There’s nothing. Maybe you went outside to smoke a few times. But you’re scared. You don’t know what could be out there. Something to cause new nightmares?

Perhaps, but the old ones would still be there. Who needs more? After a while, you decide that it might just be better to go back to sleep.

There are some things you can never forget. There are wounds that never heal. You know that. You’ve lived with them for so long.

So, you rest again. Back to the darkness. Back to sleep. And there’s one thing that you need to do, and never could. Maybe now you can.

You’ve trusted God before. Trust Him now.

He has forgiven you.

Forgive yourself.

You know that He loves you.

Love yourself.

Only then will true rest and true peace come to you.

The Empire Will Rise Again

What are you most excited about for the future?

The Roman Republic was snuffed out by the time of Julius Caesar. That’s when the Roman Empire was birthed. Conquest, war, and plagues were the order of the day. Every day.

Intrigue followed. Caesar was stabbed to death. He would be followed by centuries of assassinations, betrayals, excess, and brutality of every kind. Once Jesus had been crucified, believers began to spread the Gospel. They were hunted down. Nero liked to have them lashed to poles, soaked in flammable oil, lit on fire, and used as torches for his garden parties at night.

Once the coliseum was completed, Christians were sent to die by wild animals, legionaries, and more.

But something miraculous happened: Rome couldn’t kill them all. They kept growing in numbers until, eventually, Christianity became tolerated and then made the official religion of the Empire.

It’s odd that so many were executed in Christ’s service, yet John of Patmos (a Greek island) was merely banished. While he was there, he freely corresponded with churches, advising them. Then, he was chosen to get a very special message in visions that we read about today in the Book of Revelation to St. John the Divine. Revelation means to reveal, a revealing, and he got quite a measure of them. It’s a terrifying book, the last in the Bible, telling of tribulations (great suffering and destruction). This book reads like something Stephen King would never dare to imagine.

It was common to execute Christians; it was not so with banishment and imprisonment. Why bother? Few ever came from a Roman prison alive. But exile was like special treatment.

While exiled and aging, John had a vision of angels, and they showed him a timeline of the horrors that would precede the end of ages. God uses who He can, His willing believers, to reveal things to, or to do His work. It’s not predestination. It’s all about faithfulness.

Times are already here that Jesus described to His Apostles. Earthquakes in places that don’t usually have them. Plagues and pestilence. Wars and rumors of wars. He told them, “But the end is not yet. These are but birth pangs.”

We should feel free to ignore peer pressure from those who do not have faith. People will call you names and hurt you. Christ works you into a new life. Past sins are wiped away. Sometimes friends abandon you. Your spouse may call for a divorce. But Jesus warned us that these things would happen. We’ll suffer. We’ll be ostracized. It’s worth it. Those who hold out until the end will be blessed. They will live in paradise after death.

The Roman Empire will rise again. Christians will once again be hunted like criminals. Those who refuse the mark of the Beast will perish at his command.

I look forward to and am excited for what’s coming. Terrible things will happen and will do so very fast. From Revelation chapter 6 through chapter 9, there will be very little time. I pity all who will suffer while unsaved by confessing Christ. Everyone will suffer in those days, but true Christians will be spared the fires of Hell. They will not experience the unending darkness and loneliness that those who have seen the Lamb at Judgment and will never see him again will feel.

What can be dreaded by some is cause for excitement for others.

A guy I knew once said, “I don’t want to go to Heaven. I won’t know anyone there.”

Surely, that’s a man doomed. Bitter, complaining, and seeing nothing good. He probably will not go to Heaven. He doesn’t even want to. That’s so very sad.

It’s a Beautiful Morning

Oh, I was up at different times in the night. Wanna see something funny? Camp out on an old man’s sofa. An old man who just got put on Lasix. Remain awake and count how many times he rushes out of bed to take a leak. Hilarious!

But sunrise was peaceful and beautiful. It promised heat, but who expects otherwise? I’m accustomed to environments more hostile than anything Maryland throws at me.

But it’s still mighty lovely out there.

I felt good enough to go shopping. I got some frozen buttermilk pancakes and real maple syrup. I bought too much heavy stuff with it. I couldn’t reach into my pocket for my keys, so I tried to set the bags down. One fell. Yup. Maple syrup everywhere. Spent 20 minutes cleaning up.

There was a time when this would really have upset me. It’d ruin my whole day. Not any longer.

See, that’s a little thing. You gotta remember, you don’t sweat the small stuff. Ever.

Doing so takes away your focus and your energy. It’s not worth it. If I’m ironing a shirt and I scorch it, I can always use cleaning rags.

Little things can’t be allowed to trouble you. You have enough to deal with. I praise God for each day I live to see another beautiful morning. It’s a blessing.

Trigger Night in America

Do you want to have some fun? Roll a lit cherry bomb under a hammock with a sleeping veteran. Yeah, it’s really funny.

If he doesn’t die of a heart attack, you might die. At his hands. And, guess what? He won’t even know who you are.

I flipped out once. I don’t remember why or what happened. Anyone who was there will never forget it. Even on a psych ward, so many were scared so badly that they checked themselves out. Yeah, you can do that. It wasn’t prison, after all.

I wish I could remember. Where I went or thought I was. I wish that a trigger that powerful was something I didn’t forget so quickly. At least, to my knowledge, that never happened again. Except for one night a year.

4 July. Better known as Independence Day, it’s a stupid holiday when people are off work, sit outside in bikinis and speedos, and get wasted on Corona or Bud Light, depending on their region. It’s our country’s birthday. Or that’s the crud they tell stupid little kids in school. That, like bikinis and speedos and beer, are what we call “traditions.”

I just wish I could take a hefty tranquilizer. I mean one with real meat on its bones. Be floating in the air above it all, detached and free. But they’ve tightened down on schedule II drugs to the point that those who need them cannot get them. Like, oh, sure. Restrict an elderly woman from narcotics because she night get addicted. She’s got bone cancer! American medical care is barbaric. Simply evil.

But back to the ward at the hospital. The next morning, in a goals for the day meeting, I’m told that I said my goal for the day was, “I want to learn more about pussy. I want to know everything there is to know about pussy.” I don’t remember it. It was out of character. You can laugh; I give you leave. But I never have. The recovery time was staggering. I couldn’t figure out what happened, and the doctors couldn’t tell me. Or they withheld it. I got sent to a state hospital after that.

But you would be surprised at who you’d find in a hospital psych ward on any given day. There are state prosecutors, high-powered attorneys, and corporate types. Everyone has been there.

Because back then, what was happening? America was involved in two wars. Thousands of our troops had died. George Bush was stumbling with his tongue the way Gerry Ford used to do without using anything. Four years after the WTC attacks, we were all frightened, and everyone had their breaking point. They sought a bit of rest and help. There’s nothing wrong with that and everything right with it. I wish more people did this when they felt like they were too close to the edge.

But I had been the guilty one that night for taking peace from them. I was told that I screamed for my sergeant and threatened to “kill them all,” whoever that meant. Security responds like lightning when this dumb stuff happens. They bracket you, bind you, stop to let an intrepid nurse put a needle in your hip ( I don’t know why they call it that. They take a needle for elephants and shoot your butt cheek full of something. Must have been mild because in that little room, the kind that used to have pads on the walls, I remember coming back to Earth throwing a mattress around like a kid’s dodge ball.

Now, vets don’t need to have been in a theater of war. And they can still have enough triggers to call for their sergeant for reasons they’ll never remember and that nobody else can see. Those who engage in the simplest black-op, those who had a history before they enlisted, and more….can be just as bad as a veteran who spent years in the Gulf War and Afghanistan, that one place on Earth where nothing happens but nightmares, and Vietnam….you really think they like fireworks? Because even if a few are okay with them, there are more who aren’t. And the closer they are to him or her, the worse they react. Their bladders empty in their pants, and they don’t even know it. They hit the dirt for cover. Or worse.

If they stay with it, they’ll at least hope that whoever just lit that cherry bomb blew all his fingers off.

Every year that happens: someone gets to the ER blinded or with hands mangled. Burned, deafened in one ear. Howling in pain, crying like babies. Some have to be taken straight to the morgue. Not often, but it has happened.

And even planned, major fireworks shows have mishaps. A barge full of mortars and black powder blows up. A fire breaks out. Whatever.

Then there are those who just can’t resist shooting firearms. Need I say more?

How is all of this a celebration? Don’t veterans get dumped on enough without this unnecessary crud?

We don’t celebrate Independence Day. We cook on grills (mostly, this year, I suspect, hot dogs, because a pound of ground beef will cost you a gold ingot). We stare at babes in bikinis at the beach. And hey, ever see an old man in a speedo standing at the grill, flipping steaks? If you get the chance, do watch. There’s a better than even chance that something wonderful will happen that will make this grotesque activity worth your while.

Hey. Idea: Throw a firecracker at him.

It’s likely that next year, we will see Trump back in the Oval Office. So I hope that you enjoyed scaring the pee pee out of veterans yesterday. Next year could see cherry bombs exchanged for frags.

Just saying.

And to all those disgusting people who said, “Donald Trump can molest me anytime” or whatever slogan that was, you’re too old. What he really wants is early adolescents. And some KFC.

This is the part where I usually send you off with a hopeful saying and remind you to keep your faith.

So look at the bright side, keep the faith, and screw the vets. While you’re at it, count the elderly, the chronically ill, and all those sick in heart and mind.

Business as usual. Let em die; God will sort them out.

Right?

Those Roman candles look like flares to me. Nothing more.

The Pacific: Better Than Band of Brothers?

The miniseries you never knew was there. Based on memoirs.

Three men. One, a courageous man whose actions in battle still echo across time.

One, who never should have even wanted to go to a war, but did anyway, and almost paid for it with his soul.

And another, whose bravery should have become legend like the first man, who yet survived to return home. And then daring to become something far better than his dreams, the imaginings of a lonely man, covered in mud and filth, writing letters he never meant to send to a woman he barely knew. And was now a world away.

The characters are real: Robert Leckie, Eugene B. Sledge, John Basilone.

During the Second World War, the story of the United States Marines gets overlooked in these days of short attention spans and lack of meaningful education in these United States.

History teachers have to stick with increasingly bare outlines lacking much text within. To get anything more, one must rely on websites or, more preferably, books collecting dust at a local library.

The usual case with the United States is a shameful one. All veterans of war and veterans in general are looked at with uncaring eyes, treated with a heart-rending lack of respect or the slightest bit of gratitude. They are our heroes, the men and women who served us in war and in peace, earning little pay, getting little in return, sometimes not even V.A. benefits. It is very dishonorable, the treatment they get.

One might think it was not always like this. But whatever you read or hear about any war you randomly pick, yes, it was always like this.

An argument can be made that returning veterans of the Vietnam War got the treatment they deserved, but as bad as that was, thanks to politicians and the media, perhaps it’s not as isolated as the observer sees it. Truth is, the Vietnam vet was every bit as brave and as faithful as any other man or woman who served in war times. The 1960s weren’t kind to service veterans, and I’m truly ashamed of that. But it has happened to veterans after every war. It always will. World War Two was no different.

The Pacific, executive-produced by Hanks and Spielberg, who did Band of Brothers, is the first of two companion series for the landmark 2001 series. The next just aired on Apple TV and was centered on the war fought in the skies over Europe. Since I haven’t the means to access the series, I’ll skip it. Besides, the critics didn’t like as much, and that’s fine with me.

In the first episode, we see the men, two going off to war, one saying goodbye to his best friend but unable to go because of a heart murmur. In episode two, we see Pfc. Bob Leckie and Gny Sgt. John Basilone on Guadalcanal, in the fight for an airfield, taking on a ceaseless charge of Japanese infantry. Basilone mans a .30 Browning machine gun, the early model with a water-cooled barrel. The jackets on these outdated weapons became searingly hot, and in more than one case, the Japanese managed to hit these water chambers and cause the barrels to overheat. But even with the water jacket intact, the weapon was an amazing piece of equipment. It could be fired constantly, and a 3-man crew feeding the ammo contained on cloth belts and assisting in calling shots and clearing jams were highly effective.

Henderson Field was of strategic importance to both sides, and the Marines were not about to give it up. To get to the field, the Japanese infantry had to cross water, which caused them to slow down and bottleneck to just such a degree that these machine guns tore them apart: on the night of 21 August 1942, the First Marines held a position on the bank. One three-man crew consisted of assistant gunner Albert Schmid. At one point, the gunner was killed by the surging Japanese, and Schmid took his position. He fired continually even after the water jacket was hit, and his gun’s barrel glowed like steel under a cutting torch. Knowing that meant utilizing short instead of long bursts of fire, and despite being wounded by a grenade, and being blinded as well, Schmid stayed at the gun, reloading and firing it by himself at first, then with assistance. What he did that night was and is legendary, worthy of a Homerian epic. He made Herakles look like a boy.

When the attacks ceased, two hundred enemy lay dead in front of him. Only one survivor escaped without a wound; the rest of the survivors suffered various injuries. It’s on the record that the Japanese commander killed himself for his dishonor.

John Basilone, another member of First Marines, had to move his machine gun, and with the heat of the barrel, he received 3rd degree burns on his hands and arms, because he had to cradle the barrel. He was credited with 83 confirmed kills, but he didn’t stop there. He shot several enemies while running, an extraordinary feat. He also ran for ammo and even dodged hostile fire to pull down a pile of bodies consisting of enemy KIA. It was his time to be a hero, an inspiration to his comrades, a hero who would go down in history as a Medal of Honor recipient. Col. Chesty Puller awarded the medal, which comes from the Commander in Chief, the US President, not Congress. There is not, nor has there ever been, any such thing as “the congressional medal of honor”. It is the Medal of Honor, period.

In Episode three, we see the troops, weary and filthy, docking in Melbourne to a wharf lined with cheering people, streamers, and pomp. Leckie begins a romance only to be dumped because she gets attached and is sure she will be heartbroken when he never comes back. But Leckie, despite a drinking binge and being broken in rank, recovers and continues to write letters to Vera, the girl who lived across the street while they both grew up.

Eugene Sledge finally enters training after his father, a doctor, tells him that the murmur is gone. But his father treated returning WWI veterans, and he tells his son that it wasn’t the physical wounds he treated that haunts him to this day. It was that look in their eyes, he says with a soft southern drawl, “…what I saw was that their souls had been lost. I couldn’t bear to look at you and see no spark in your eyes. That would break my heart.”

Stop. Because I really have to say, I wish I’d had a father like him.

In the 5th episode, Eugene gets a typical rude reception by veterans when he joins them. One of them, known as Snafu, plays a prank, a fairly mean yet mild one, on the new arrivals, but in the next episode, he starts to coach the new guys, although harshly. Sledge sees him prying gold off the teeth of a dead Japanese soldier, casually explaining that gold is thirty dollars an ounce. Taken aback, Pfc Eugene Sledge says nothing. In the next episode, Leckie returns to action after a hospital stay for enuresis, or, a problem with urinary incontinence. He’s hit by shrapnel while assaulting an enemy airfield on Peleliu, another in the island hopping campaign that never made sense to me. Its point was to save casualties by skipping over islands that could be bypassed without giving up strategic targets that mattered more. In gaining air superiority, islands with airfields were necessary targets. We concentrated on those. Had anyone in high command known what Peleliu would coast, they would have skipped that hellish place, too. It was here that “Gunny,” a WWI veteran, who was part of the Old Guard and an inspiration to the men, finally broke. He later told Sledge, “Ain’t never seen nothing like that. That was horrible. I’m ready to hang it up after that.” This scene is from Eugene’s book, and it isn’t shown. But we do see the thousand-yard stare, the trembling, the loss of humanity he has suffered. And, as I’ve seen that look with my own eyes, I can tell that it’s both heartbreaking and terrifying to see.

While charging against withering fire across the airfield, Snafu falls, disoriented and unable to get up. Eugene grabs him, and they make it to cover. It’s the beginning of a bond that will be mutually beneficial. As the unfeeling Snafu is an inspiration to Eugene afterward to lose his own humanity, Snafu will eventually pull himself back to humanity by being around Sledge. While on a route march, Snafu asks Eugene if he’s got a smoke. He gets one and says, “Thanks, Sledgehammer.” His new nickname.

Episode 8 sees John Basilone return to duty. He’s tired of Jane Grey and room service. He gets permission to train recruits and, meanwhile, falls in love with and marries Lena. He ships out to lead his men on Iwo but is killed the first day.

Next is Okinawa. A taste of what an invasion of Japan would be like?

Not even close. But it is a terrible ordeal. I’m not going any further than to say that this episode (9) is where Eugene gives up his humanity and even attacks a Japanese POW. He’s threatened with court-martial but seethes. It is only at the end when he’s faced with a cruel choice that he manages to make a very moving decision and emerges reunited with his soul. Of course, Snafu has a part in it, seeing Sledgehammer becoming like himself and intervening.

I found episode 10 to be a very moving conclusion to the series. Unlike Band of Brothers, we get to see some good, some sad, and utterly heartbreaking outcomes as they all return home.

We don’t get to see Snafu being met at the train station; he vanishes into the crowd with his dufflebag. We see Lena Basilone visit John’s parents, giving his father John’s Medal of Honor. Then Bob Leckie, who seems to adjust quickly, asks Vera for a date. He tells her about the letters he wrote, but she tells him that she never got them. He tells her he didn’t mail them because he didn’t think he would make it. She asks if she can read them now, and he says they didn’t survive the weather, but she presses him. “What were they like?”

“Best stuff I ever wrote,” he says, and it’s magic. They’re falling in love.

Eugene does not fare as well. His father hears him mumbling his nightmares out loud at night, and in a very poignant scene, he takes a seat outside of the door. He silently weeps for his boy.

He tries to take Gene dove hunting, but Eugene just can’t even nanage carrying the rifle. A few paces behind his father, he breaks down, dropping the rifle and falling to his knees, sobbing. “I’m sorry, I can’t,” he says. His father bends and puts his arms around him and softly says, “You don’t have to apologize to me,”

Eugene can’t work. He’s hurt, and he knows it. He does try to apply for college. This is what happened:

Although it’s said that the series lost money, it has a cult status today thanks to reaction videos. It maintains its historic accuracy and is often much more moving than any other depiction of the war in other motion pictures I’ve seen. Currently still available on HBO/Max, this is something everyone should see.

Is it really on any par with Band of Brothers?

I leave the answer to you. But it’s  worthy of a look. Whether you’re a first-time watcher or not doesn’t matter. Go ahead and watch it again.

As for myself? I love both of these series, but I have a bit of bias toward The Pacific. It’s darker than Band, with a grotesqueness that made me laugh, cry, and everything in between. The weapons, vehicles, uniforms, everything is here. I believe that there’s no need to compare Band with Pacific, but this series has the home front depicted, and to me, that’s a plus. You get where these guys are coming from.

An honorable mention goes out to William Sadler for his portrayal of Chesty Puller, a hero and still one of the most decorated Marines in history. The actors did an amazing job of convincing me that I was witnessing actual history.

Note: This is what I’ve been doing lately, watching TV and reading, just trying to keep my mind busy. I haven’t anything new to report about my health, so there’s no reason to bring it up except that whatever happens, it’s fine. I’ll be okay. As always,  thanks for stopping in, and may God bless.

Diagnosis:Pending

The nurse helped me raise one leg of my jeans above my boot. She pushed her thumb into the skin and released it. The depression in the skin and muscle stayed. I’ve never seen anything like that. Then she asked what my symptoms were, and I told her. A week earlier, my personal health care worker had seen it with her own eyes. Not the leg, something else. The symptoms, the nurse said, align perfectly with congestive heart failure. My heart rate was low, and in the low 50s, blood pressure was equally low. I’d been feeling off for a while, had known something w1as wrong, but it didn’t seem serious. Fatigue, trouble walking, loss of appetite, abdominal pain, and severe problems breathing when lying down to sleep. It felt like a panic attack combined with a heart attack. It’s a pretty bad thing to have, and only when it hit that level of intensity did it become impossible for me not to see the doctor.

An ekg was ordered. Whereas I’d had a nuclear stress test done three weeks prior and no real difference was found, today the ekg was abnormal. I forgot which waves she said were affected, but it amounts to the heart pumping blood in okay, but not out. Congestive heart failure.

It’s treatable, but if nothing else gets me, this one will. I also could need open heart surgery,  but that’s not possible.  I’ll never survive that. I guess after the echocardiogram and lab results, I’ll know more. They suspect possible kidney failure, too.

It’s time for another recess period now. I need rest. Please pray for me if it should cross your mind. I thank you in advance.

Be back before you know it.

God bless you.

Nobody’s Reading, But I Still Love You

It’s come to this. Nobody is reading here anymore.

It’s okay. Blogging is dying out with Tick Tock and other things. I have no social media to use Jetpack with. I may have to change that. My first followers have by now turned off notifications for my posts. Email subscribers have marked me as spam. I don’t check the numbers of followers, but even if the number is the same, nobody’s reading.

I guess I was more entertaining when I was a cussing curmudgeon. I’ve gone back and looked at some older posts. My dry, sarcastic humor was kind of funny, I guess. But mostly, there’s just rambling.

Too, I have lost every friend I had on Facebook. I had to get away from the fighting, the hate, and the madness. How long has it been? I don’t know. I suppose no one was prepared for my sudden change in content and language. I don’t even curse in my everyday life anymore.

So, any humor I had is gone. It was never the real me anyway. I was unhappy most of the time. Broken and angry and bitter. People on Facebook who were friends stopped reading my posts. I deserved it, with my shifting moods to mention just one thing they had to have had trouble with.

But I still love everyone I’ve known, going back to MySpace and 2008. Most were good friends, but I did add a few people that my original friends had trouble with. But the climate shifted. When MySpace became some weird music site, everyone’s profiles, blogs, and photos were deleted. It was up to Facebook. That was worse. I was burning out and breaking down.

From 2009 to last year, I think it was just one big breakdown mentally, spiritually, and physically. But since 2019, you have been able to see it. It had to end sometime. It couldn’t go on. I would be dead now. I’m in no hurry for that even if I don’t fear it.

I’ll tell you what. A failed marriage and two dead children is enough to break any man. Well… I was broken to begin with.

But since Easter weekend, I’ve seen and learned new things, and I felt a strong faith grow in me so suddenly that it’s hard to remember now. People who told me I had a good heart had already ceased all communication with me. Blogging about religion is obviously more than they can stand.

Yet my joy can’t be diminished. I can’t describe how different I feel. There were things that I did that I rationalized as being okay, but which made me feel guilty afterward. Now, I no longer want to do them. That has given me freedom I’ve never felt. Sin is bondage, separating me from God. Not only did I feel guilty, but also hollow and lonely. I feel so differently now that I can’t go back. I never want to feel that way again.

Also, I have lost my bitterness and anger. Oh, I can get angry, but it passes quickly, especially with a prayer. My depression is not gone but is better and usually bearable. Prayer absolutely helps.

I can’t be healed, as I believe some hurts never go away; they run too deep. My past haunts me even if I’m aware that my sins are forgiven. And I know I can pray for complete healing, but I won’t get it. God lets us go through trials, Jesus warned us that it would be so, but told us not to fear because He has overcome the world. With our trials, we learn, and we are to pass on the lessons to others to help them in any way we can. That’s really why I do this.

One day, this website might be gone or changed to something else like MySpace did. With that, beautiful poems, short encouraging sermons, and wonderful photo galleries will vanish forever. I’ve written a lot here, hoping to help just one person who happens to visit. Of course, I will not get to know if such a thing does happen, but then, we do what we do not for thanks but merely to help if we can.

My change is profound. I’m sorry that so many hate religion, to the point of avoiding anyone who talks about it. Because it’s not religion. This is just a new Christian trying to help others avoid the place I was heading.

I was baptized at age 13. I regret it, because I was too young and already too hurt by my parents to know what I was doing. But baptized I am, and there’s no need to do it again. The Bible tells us that God knows who will be saved and sends angels to help them in times of trouble so they can live until that day. That explains why I didn’t die all those times that I came so close. That’s how much He loves us, not wanting any of us to spend all time in Hell. He knows what Hell is like because He created it. He never wanted his children to go there. But many will. I would have been one of them.

It’s time to stop wanting things that I don’t need. Materialism will drag many to Hell because it’s a sin and idolatrous. It’s time to stop even more things that I haven’t yet. I will do it. Because my joy is something I have never known and something I never want to lose. And if I should lose every friend and every reader, because they don’t believe me or they hate Christians, I’ll still have that joy. I hope that you, too, can reach for and get such a great feeling. Having Jesus as your motivator and guide to the truth is the best thing anyone can hope for. It’s salvation.

And don’t forget: I still love you. All of you, and you’re in my prayers. May God bless you.

Demons in the Church!

I accidentally came across a video this morning. I was following a link in a news article in an email. I don’t know why the video it featured led me to this one, but it’s where I wound up. The video is a year old but even more relevant now than last year.

I watched it from beginning to end  even though it made me sick and very sad. But these false preachers are not the only ones who lie, cheat, and abuse their own church members; it’s happening all over the world. Jesus warned us about such men in Matthew chapter 24: 11 And many false prophets shall rise, and shall deceive many.

One of the things that I found to be the most disturbing was that hundreds of people are sitting still for this and even laughing. Or, in the case of church elders who engaged in flagellation, cheering them on. This is as evil as any church can get, save for murder or, on a lesser level, performing sex acts at the podium. They may as well come right out dressed up as demons. That’s who they truly follow, the legions of demons and Satan, their leader. The idea that a true Christian can become possessed is not true. But these people are not true Christians. Long ago, they were first devoted to themselves, not God. Why they entered the ministry is unknown, but once there, their behavior grew ever more evil and was clearly visible. They were called to the pulpit by Satan, not God. That is the only way that this can happen. A weak Christian is not a true Christian. You can go to Bible College, and you can pray or preach a sermon. None of those things means that you are a Christian.

So what exactly is a Christian?

You’ll know when you see one. They will have changed. You’ll see a big difference in their lives, their speech, and their behavior. They will never engage in theatrics like the platform of the pulpit is the stage at Comedy Club. They won’t say, “You want to know what God looks like?” and pose as if to say, “Look at me!”

Some are not so hidden, you see.

Forget wolves in sheep’s clothing; these people are wolves who can’t and don’t even try to hide their true selves. They shamelessly act out in front of those present, but also to wide television audiences.

Even before I became moved by the Spirit, I was critical of these false preachers and yet had no idea how evil they really were. In this video, even I was horrified and sickened by their behavior. The narration tells us that these are fools, and that’s true, or, at the very least, they act like fools. So why is even one person attending their services? Because, as Jesus warned, many will be led astray. These false teachers will fool many.

There’s a high price for that. These preachers will, unless they repent, definitely go to Hell upon their judgment. Part of me thinks that’s really sad. Another part of me is less than charitable; they should go to Hell. But that’s not my decision. It belongs to the Lamb of God, the only one fit to open the sacred scrolls. Anyone whose name is not found in the Book of Life is going to stand trial and be sent to be with his master, Satan.

There’s another sad part to that: God didn’t make Hell for His children. No. He made it for Satan and the fallen. We have made, as a race, the decision to rebel against God. Every generation has had a part in making everything worse. This is because God never created Man to sin, yet He gave Man a freedom of choice; a free will to do as he pleased. God told Adam and Eve to eat the fruit and every herb bearing tree but warned them not to eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil or they would surely die. But the serpent lied, telling Eve, “You won’t die. Go ahead and eat.”

She did. She convinced Adam to as well. So, created to be immortal, Adam and Eve did, eventually, die. And they knew that they were naked. They covered themselves up. God asked why they had hidden from him, and they answered, “Because we were naked.”

That’s when God condemned them, sentencing them to death because of sin. It’s also when blood sacrifices had to be made. Only by spilling the blood of an animal could they atone for their sins.

After that, and we don’t know how long it was, their sons, Cain and Abel, offered sacrifices to God. But Cain disobeyed and didn’t make a blood sacrifice. He brought fruits and grains. God rejected the sacrifice. Jealous, Cain went into a rage, striking his brother and killing him. The world’s first homicide.

Of course, God knew before He created us what would happen. He’d already seen it since He’s the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. He knew how everything would play out.

Born free, yet from a Creator who already knew what that freedom would do, one wonders why God created us. Why did Man willingly give dominion over the earth to Satan?

Because the devil tricked them. Now, he’s free to cause evil all over the world, to sow discord and chaos, and to keep people under his thumb, sinning constantly, believing that God and the Garden of Eden are fairy tales. He’s free to cause demonic attacks, possessions, and worse. And he never misses a chance to tempt a dedicated Christian. He wants to see faith being lost, hope being lost, and the “you only live once” attitude take root.

You know this “YOLO” philosophy, right? It says, “There will never be a better time, try that stunt because you love the rush of being a daredevil,” and “Have sex with your girlfriend now, while you’re young.”

Did you know that the number of young people who are getting venereal diseases is rising? Ages 15 to 21. Yes, but these days, they don’t call them VD. It’s recently been called STDs or “sexually transmitted diseases,” but now it’s changed. Any STD, VD, or whatever it used to be called is now an “STI” because, political correctness. How dare we call it a disease when it’s only an infection? What are you trying to do, scar them for life, calling it a disease?

Even dictionaries diminish the problem: look up “venereal diseases” and you’ll get “STD” without any explanation as to why it changed. Now it’s going to change again. When I was young, the last thing you wanted to hear from a doctor was “you’re pregnant” or “you have a venereal disease.”

Today, there aren’t any consequences for these situations. The reversal of Roe v. Wade is a problem for pregnant women, but most parents just don’t care anymore. They rationalize any way they can to avoid doing any real parenting. You can see the results in any newspaper,  news website, or your six o’clock news, and it’s impossible to miss.

It surely is a lot of sinning. Lives ruined, lives lost. All because of people doing whatever they want. Free will, right?

The Blood Sacrifice

The reason blood sacrifice mainly stopped for Jews was the destruction of the second temple in Jerusalem and the subsequent razing of the city by Rome, creating the last diaspora, which lasted until just after World War Two.

The significance of the Passion and Death of Jesus Christ is that the blood sacrifices were no longer required. He is the blood sacrifice, then, now and forever. His blood was shed for you. God loves you so much that his one son born of the flesh came to teach, heal, and then suffer and die, in your place, for your sins and the death sentence you had earned for your sins. What a terrible thing to have to go through. But Jesus did it. And now by His blood, His death, then resurrection, everyone can be forgiven. You can be black, white, or whatever. You can be a lifelong atheist, a Roman Catholic, a Muslim, a Jew, or anything. It doesn’t matter. If you believe that Jesus died for you and then conquered death in a guarded tomb, He can save you from the second death, which follows the Great Judgment, the death of your soul.

No theatrics in a church can stop a bad man from going to hell. He can perform fake miracles until the sun sets. It won’t get him to Heaven, and he probably doesn’t even believe in Heaven anyway.

How’s Kenneth Copeland getting to Heaven, because his jets can’t go there? Ask Joel Osteen, the lukewarm positive power guy, if he really believes he’s going to Heaven. He will say yes, but there have to be times when he’s not so sure. The mega church pastors are sensualists, and materialism haunts their every minute. Osteen’s ridiculous smile never fades as he teaches lies, false doctrines that leave out how hard a Christian life can be, what it takes, what sin really does to you, not beyond the grave, but in your daily life. He won’t tell you, but he’s pretty good at selling people on the idea that their part is already done, so they should smile and be happy. Jesus took care of everything, so don’t worry. And the sunshine preacher will go to his maker carrying the responsibility for leading thousands of souls to damnation. He won’t be smiling then.

I’m not going to lie. The path of a true Christian is a hard life. A hard path. But blessed are the ones who hold on until the end.

Demons go to church. Of course they do. Never give them fear; never show it and never feel it. You must not be afraid. But also don’t underestimate them or take them lightly. Stay prayerful, and they flee from you.

If the demon in your church resides in whoever stands behind the pulpit, leave. Just go. If the congregation does not kick him out, never go back. Evil runs that church. Once that happens, it’s almost impossible to save that church. Even the building has been consecrated to Satan.

That’s Entertainment! But is it Evil?

You know, there was, it seems, a time when show business was healthy and fun.

But it was not fun and it wasn’t at all healthy. In TheWizard of Oz, Judy Garland was treated horribly. She was forced to chain smoke to curb her appetite and into other means of keeping off weight. She was supposed to look younger and petite. She was also watched around the clock. That’s severe abuse to a minor, but back then, just like today, nobody cared. Alfred Hitchcock was an extreme misogynist, and I could go on.

In the film industry, starting with a vengeance in the 1960s, horror films grew very, very dark. TV as well. Demonic and satanic themes carried over even to music. In the next decade, it got absolutely sickening, and yet people loved it.

You can still find photos of the lines of people waiting for hours to see The Exorcist. I’ve never wanted to see it.

I’ve read accounts about people vomiting during the show, running out, and more. It grossed unimagined amounts of money, never seen before from a horror movie. It won academy awards and was given an extended cut re-release in 2001.

There were documented accidents and incidents during shooting and some deaths. Was the movie cursed? There were some who were convinced of it. Of course it was!

And it is now preserved wherever “culturally significant” garbage goes. It did do one thing; it brought blockbuster horror movies front and center, and nobody in Hollywood has ever looked back. Now, absolutely, purely evil content is routine to audiences, including at home. Images of demonic attacks, including ever younger children, are common to the genre. Nobody seems bothered by it.

Today, Satan governs whole groups of performers, but nowhere is this more evident than the music business.

Do you remember how I singled out Taylor Swift a few months back because she was always on TV and in the news, yet claimed to be a Christian?

So far, I still don’t see evidence for the claim. And I am not fit to judge her, but her actions are fair game. From dressing up as Satan during a performance to fixating on the number 13, to the point of it being an obsession, to multiple sex partners in relationships that never last (Tom Hiddleston lasted weeks, not months) she does not present as a Christian. Appearing on stage like that, well, it’s more like Death Metal artists would do. And I’m not targeting Swift at all. I was shocked by this video. I was also very let down. I felt like all the air was gone from me as if I’d been punched in the gut. I’m very sad. Madonna and Lady Gaga do this stuff. They don’t surprise me. Miss Swift has.

And look, I’m changed, but far from perfect. Of all people, the Apostles, including Paul, were very forthcoming in their admissions about sinning. I’m no different, and neither is anyone else. As long as we live, we will face temptation by the enemy. He knows where you’re vulnerable. He will send countless demons to exploit your every weakness. It’s what he does. It’s all he does. When we’ve sinned, he rushes to God and accuses us, bragging the whole time.

I am very weak. I can’t live without God in my heart. I can’t accomplish anything good without the Holy Spirit’s help. I have a heart that hungers to know God better, to take this second chance I’ve been given and live for Him, not for me.

Every time I wake up, I thank Him for another day and ask that I may serve Him in some way. Any way.

I pray for others. I know prayer is answered by God in his own good time. I’m here to tell you that with a little bit of faith and patience, you’ll get what you need. Not what you want. What you need. Jesus promised, in Matthew chapter 7, verses 7-8,

7 Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you:

8 For every one that asketh receiveth; and he that seeketh findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.

But remember that you must have faith. You must do the best you can to live by the scriptures. If you give up too easily, that’s not faith. If your faith is weak, then don’t be shy or ashamed. Ask for help with that. Ask, and you’ll get that boost to your faith. Ask for forgiveness first. Then, for anything you need. And read scripture every day. That focuses your mind on God.

I’m going to pray for everyone who reads this. Keep the faith, guard, and protect it. Then, act like a true Christian. Don’t hide. Being kind to others is a great way to keep your mood up and even to get noticed by people who think they know you, and serve a soft message that they don’t know the truth about yourself. Do not brag. Do not announce it. Live it. If you announce or brag, you will fall down. You’ll have friends who will become enemies, and they’re going to pounce on you. Give it time; no new Christian needs extra pressure. You have enough already. Live a Christian life, and you will gather strength through the Holy Spirit. Then nobody will be so quick to attack you. Greater is He who is in you (the Holy Spirit of God) than he who is in the world  (Satan).

I saw an employee in the store today, one I’ve never seen before. She’s very short, getting on in age. When I asked how she was doing, she seemed so surprised, and I heard…gratitude? In her voice, there was the hint that she wasn’t used to that kind of treatment. Just a few words seemed to have been so appreciated that I almost cried. What has she been through? What is she going through now?

I prayed for her. What about you? Can you find it in your heart to be kind to someone else who may be going through things you’ll never know? I hope that you will.

Thank you for visiting. Goodnight,  and may God bless you.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Satan has Entered the Building. Can You Fight Him Alone? There’s Another Way

I welcome you. I’m happy that you’re here.

You may not like what I am about to write, but it needs to be done.

This is necessary because you are playing host right now to the devil or his demons. And you don’t even know it.

Now, of course,  Satan is not omnipresent, nor omniscient. He can’t be like God. The scripture is clear: God doesn’t need to know how many hairs there are growing on your scalp. He doesn’t need to count them, nor does He need angels to visit you to count them. He already knows.

And Satan does not know. If there’s one thing he does know, it is that ultimately, he will lose. Sure, he’s arrogant and prideful, but he chose to leave the service to God and, at some point, had to realize it was all futile.

What we humans need to be mindful of is that if we choose to follow Satan and the ways of the world, we are taking a loser as our master. If you do not turn away from him, accepting Jesus as the way, the truth, and the life, God will send you to Hell, a very real place of eternal suffering. You will not get a chance once it’s too late, when you’re dead, and you want to repent. Jesus will be furious, and He will in judgment show His terrible fury. You won’t see Him as a creature of love.

Just one of towering anger, unable and unwilling to give you a pass. He suffered and died in your place, paying the ransom for your soul, because you sinned. He probably won’t even ask you why you never acted to accept His payment for your sins, why you chose to turn away and live how you wanted to.

Even Christians will face His wrath. Because they received His good news and knew better than to sin, repeating the same evil acts over and over again. He will already know how you chose and everything that you have done.

You may not be going to a Satanist church, but you’re still carrying out his wishes. And if you think you are special, think again. You aren’t because, as an unrepentant sinner, you’re sickening to Him.

Revelation chapter 3 verse 16:

So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of My mouth.

God has no love or compassion to those who claim salvation but are too weak and fearful to tell the whole world out loud that He is your Master and that you have no other. You can’t wear a cross around your neck and act like a demon in public. You can’t sit outside and pretend to read a Bible; you have to do that in private but live openly the life of a true follower, believer, and Christian. I’m sad that so many will be lost in such a terrible mistake. Walk the walk, in the footsteps of Jesus, because many are those who need your example, just as there are many who will hate you.

When you choose to live the life God wants you to, beware. The enemies of God will pounce on you, saying and doing abusive things. You must have faith, because no matter what is done to you in His name, and in service to Him, you will be blessed. The one thing I wish more pastors would do is to warn that the Christian must not look forward to Heaven, only to forget that down here on earth, there is so much to do. Hard work. Saving the poor, the sick, the sufferers of warfare, poverty, and much more. Those who are weak in spirit, who have only known a life of severe abuse or being surrounded by enemies, marauders, and soldiers, they need help.

Many need psychological help and support, and maybe they get it, but usually not. You can help. You don’t need certificates to be someone’s friend. You don’t have to understand what they have been through. All they need from you is unconditional love. That’s it. It can’t be contingent on any one or more things; you love or you don’t.

As I’ve written above, we can’t be lukewarm. Hot or cold, pick one. Either you’re lit by a soul burning bright with love for God and your fellow humans, your brothers and sisters, or you’re ice-cold, a layer of ice with indigo beneath, hinting at an even deeper cold further down. But being neither is far worse. That’s owned by people who know better but don’t act on what’s right. They really can’t be counted as anything except fuel for the fires of damnation.

If you truly love your Father, the Lord, then you will be guided by the Holy Spirit. You’ll know what to do. Who to help. Because so far, I believe that anyone who has the Spirit is capable of so much, but…

We aren’t doing enough. And the mission never ends. Until that great and terrible day of the judgment, we may not stop. Not for any reason. Didn’t you understand that part? Accepting Christ calls us to take up a cross and follow Him. Who do you know who does that?

I feel strongly compelled to return to church. That doesn’t make me look like a Christian because many doomed people go there. I need it for my soul. But I intend to live my last days in compliance with God’s grace and in His service.

We are all sinners. In Romans chapter 6 verse 23, Paul wrote,

23 For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

And we have all earned the death of a sinner. To be truly saved, we must first hate, feel shame, and be ready to abandon things that we have chosen over God.

To feel true shame, you have to look hard at your past and feel hate for your sins. You have to first feel shame.

I don’t like seeing people suffer. I don’t like hateful behavior. But if we really stop to think about it, you and I, we can’t stop the evil and the suffering. But combined with others, we can make a difference.

A small prayer even helps, and we can manage that. Did you ever wonder why Jesus said that we should love our enemies and be kind to those who use us?

It’s the essence of forgiveness. Praying for those who have deeply injured you is a very Godly thing. Think of how, after saying this, He was brutally beaten and then crucified. What did he say? It was a prayer. To His “Abba,” an intimate name for “Father,” he prayed for God to forgive the men who crucified him and mocked him. That’s how He wants us to forgive.

Remember what God did for you by sending his one, begotten Son. Remember how Jesus suffered in the garden as He realized that the worst kind of death was mere hours away, yet He went through with it anyway. He sweat blood as He prayed, torn with fear and grief, probably being given visions of what was ahead. He wept, and his sking was wet with perspiration and blood. He asked His Abba to take the bitter cup away so that He would not have to drink. But then He said, “As you will, not me.” It was a choice.

He had come for this. It was his mission. The final act was horrifying. But He endured. For those who had killed him, he asked the Father to forgive. For you, he died and then proved that in His faith, and in service to Him, we will not die but live on in spirit. He did not stay dead. He returned to show that death can’t claim a true follower of His.

Here we are. We’re at a crossroads, you and I. Set upon by Satan and his demons at every turn, as soon as our guard is down. You and I are surrounded. Demons, I assure you, are terrifyingly all too real. There’s only one way to fight them. That’s prayer. Not burning sage, putting salt around your doorways, not consulting witches, psychics, or shamans. Not by playing Gregorian chants. Not by spraying blessed oil or holy water.

Faith, powered by prayer, that’s all you need. Demons scatter when we pray; they can’t stand it.

Do what you can do for others, holding nothing back. Help people. Pray for them, and for your own forgiveness. When you are not right with God, your prayers may be heard, but once you’ve sincerely asked forgiveness of God, your prayers, the scripture says, “availeth much.”

I’ll pray for you, and I hope that you can make the decision to take the extraordinary offer of the grace of God through Christ Jesus, who died in your place.

May the Lord bless you and keep you safe this week, and if you can, try to go to church next Sunday. It is the place to go to learn, pray, and have the support of other Christians. Goodnight, and thank you for the visit.