Category: The Life And Times Of An Asshole

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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?

“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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“There Shall be Earthquakes in a diverse Places”

Mark.13

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

Is the End Near?

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

Death First, Then Dishonor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And no YouTube.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s one YouTuber down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I really wish time machines were real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you for 133 subscriptions!

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

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

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

Much love,

The American Asshole, 2 March 2024

I’m Not Like Everybody Else

What advice would you give to your teenage self?

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

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

The Coyote Trap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell does that mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Tootsie Roll Pop-Sucking Kid

What bores you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tradition or Legacy? It Doesn’t Matter

Write about a few of your favorite family traditions.

13:15. That’s when I awoke from a sleep corrupted with vile, terrifying nightmares, sat on the edge of the bed and wondered where the fuck I was. My body gave no hint of what it was about to do to my brain. Family, fun, camaraderie of any kind, was far from my beaten mind.

It took several tries to stand. I wobbled, bounced off the closet door, and always ended up right back on the bed, dead on my ass. How demoralizing a thing, I thought, growing old can be.

I made it to the latrine in time to not piss in my pants. (Yes; I sleep in my clothes) That’s at least one blessing. Positive. Excellent, as a matter of fact. Downright stupid to have to mention, but there it is.

Afterward, hand and face washing: I was far too weak to shower. Mental note: remember to buy a new shower chair. My hair, running to my shoulders, white, unruly, tangled. My full beard twisted into something off the portrait of Dorian Gray: oh, fuck, I hate mirrors.

Beard shampooed and brushed, hair combed, mouthwash to freshen up, I discharged myself on my own recognizance from the latrine. I did look at the coffee maker with deep desire, but my hands couldn’t do that yet. Still had no strength beyond what I had needed for taming the beard. I grabbed my jeans jacket and went out to the warmth of a late January day that one can only call by tradition a “false spring”, for that’s what it is. A trick by Mother Earth, the one who claims all bodies in death. But it, perhaps, can be viewed another way: a gift. A respite from weeks of suffering that she inflicted in the first place.

See how far I’ve come since my blog about how positive thinking was for morons who refused to see reality? When was that? 2019? I can’t remember. Although, after a long sleep, drug-induced and full of apocalyptic terrors, it’s really about as positive as I can manage.

Marlboro Man is at his usual post out front. People I know call me various things: “The Sentinel” or “The Cigarette-smoking Man” (like that asshole in the “X-Files” series. Did you know that he was in the very first episode, the pilot episode? “File” that one under “trivia we don’t give a shit about” and forgive my impertinent bullshit).

Out front, clutching my walking stick in one hand and my Zippo in another, I lit up, and the old brain started checking in: pain. Lots and lots of it from every finger, toe, my arms, legs, back, neck, everywhere, and more on the fucking way. Damn it!

It’s not just the extended sleep. Of course, that will leave anyone sore. But there’s more. In the mid-70s warmth, I feel that this can’t last. Looking to the west, the sky is not clear. It’s quite beautiful, really. The dusk will be colorful. To the south, I see the clouds moving up, coming from the southwest. That’s not good. At this time of year, it’s a possibility that the El Niño pattern is bringing up air from gulf states. It may bring storms. I can’t tell for certain, but I’m feeling rain and wind, maybe storms will arrive by tomorrow. Being old, I’ve seen this so many times (and felt it) that I’d bet money on it.

My life, as it has been, is one of war. I just moved from one skirmish to another, with many major battles in between. That’s it. One tragedy followed another. More scars inside than out, but also lessons learned that the more fortunate never did. Or will.

Blue denim jacket and pants, and olive drab T-shirt and boonie hat, black web belt. I look like a psycho veteran from Tennessee. Not the real vets, the ones in movies, so no disrespect to veterans anywhere.

Except I am crazy; there’s no denying that; just fire any gun within 300 meters of me, and you’ll see. Or visit me on July 4th after 21:00.

There are other things I’ve had to learn.

“Above all things, do no harm.”

It is a terrible thing to hurt another living creature. All life is sacred. To harm mind or body is hateful to God, those you injure, and yourself. You may have blunted your heart and mind to the effects, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t any. I will never be that person watching someone being hurt on my phone’s camera screen. I have sworn to God to protect people even to the last breath I have. It is a sacred, serious oath that, once given, must never be betrayed. I will use force if necessary, but that’s even more serious. Use of force to save an innocent is a decision that must be made with incredible speed: hesitate, and an innocent may die. Act too swiftly, and you miss other options, but microseconds define the time to determine whether you can or cannot use deadly force. You can’t be a vigilante. Movies about vigilantism are more ubiquitous than slasher flicks. Vigilantism, usually by more than one person, is rarely justified.  Take the case of Ken Rex McElroy, for example. A bully, rapist and pedophile, the case of his murder was never solved. He was surrounded by people who hated him but feared him. The law wasn’t helping. Naturally, he was shot to death. Whereas I don’t endorse vigilante justice, this was one case where a man was so evil that he needed to go. Do I think it was a homicide? Absolutely, I do. But I never lost sleep thinking about it.

Someone decided to protect others from a monster.

I once locked horns in a group home with the only man I had known since my father, who scared me to my soul. He threatened to kill me, and I ran. I tortured myself. I was a pussy. A coward. But sometimes you have to run. I thought many times that I should kill him. I knew, and I mean, I knew, that if not me, this schizophrenic bastard was going to one day cause terrible harm to someone else.

When I learned that he had kidnapped a minor and repeatedly raped her, I hated myself. I should have known. I should have killed him. Some schizophrenics are dangerous. It’s a harsh reality. Most, however, are not. There are many types and degrees of this mental disorder, and most can effectively work full careers, have romantic partners, and more, and you would never know them as any different from anyone else. Not this guy.

I actually feel responsible for him causing severe mental injury to a girl, now a young woman, by not killing so vile a man when I could have. But I’m not honest with myself when I feel that way, and the responsibility is not mine to claim. I am not a murderer. I am not a psychic, either, able to see future crimes. Indeed, I knew he was dangerous. Yet it was not I, but the law, who failed that girl. I got his criminal record. There was a definite pattern. Drugs, being drugged in public, drunk in public, indecent exposure, violence, and sexual assault. Yet he was in a rehab program after years of probationary sentences and slaps on the wrist. He even got off easy for kidnapping and rape. He disappeared for a few years. Not all of it could have been prison time. I suspect he was jailed, not even imprisoned. The justice system keeps letting this happen, and sooner or later, he will come to a point of nothing to lose, and God help anyone whom he sets his eyes on.

****

20:00. Just got in from a walk. The moon rose on my way out, shrouded in mist. I was right; something is coming. I checked the current temperature. 55°F down from 74°F at 15:30. Quite a drop. And the air feels cold and wet. I knew it would be cooler, so I wore my winter coat but kept the boonie. Mistake. I should have used my watch cap and gloves; the moist air was raw. I took my kickass flashlight up the dark path, encountering a juvenile red fox, which ran to the nearby treeline but stared defiantly into the bright light. Bold motherfucker, for something smaller than a fully grown tomcat. I admire it but also find it and its kind anathema; not exactly varmints, but a nuisance all the same. Sometimes, they are carriers of rabies, and that line of backing off yet standing ground turns into your worst fear. Imagine some tiny, snarling hurricane trying to kill you, starting with your ankles!

Later on I’ll take a walk. I’ll come back and edit in a video of this flashlight, and beg you to get a couple for yourself and maybe a couple for your family. Danger hides in the dark; perhaps you have some experience with it, or else, I’ll tell you, you do know someone who has.

Charging now. The left light is flashing; when it stops and all 4 lights are solid, it is fully charged. I have never had it drop lower than two lights, and even if unused for two weeks, it maintains the charge.
The paracord is useless because the tiny plastic tie breaks with little cause, and the paracord gets dropped and lost. It is the only complaint I have.
Convenient charging
Yes, it does all of this, but on wide beam, it is ineffective at more than a few yards. The man in the picture is close to his target.

Being safe with a good light is essential. I bought this light for $39.55 on Amazon. On narrow beam, I can see up to better than 200 meters, probably more with no lights at all in the area. For the price, it’s a steal.

****

So far I have avoided writing about family traditions. But I did respond to the prompt. Why?

Because our extended family hasn’t any. I have not seen my beloved cousin Martha since 1970. I really do wish I could. She’s the only one who could get me to return to North Carolina and make it a treasured memory. She truly cares about people, and she helps them. There’s no higher calling, nothing more noble or honorable in all the world.

My brothers and sisters, my nephews and nieces, they have their own lives. I am not a part of that. It’s sad, and it does hurt. But it’s life. And besides, on the rare occasion we meet up, I believe we trigger horrible memories from our pasts that ruin the happiness that we should be filled with in the moment.

Yet I love them with all my heart. They’re all great people I’m proud to even know. The one legacy our parents left us that isn’t, I think, something they counted on, is that we, quietly and with no embellishments, just plain care about life. We love people and animals, and we love goodness. We love justice and fairness. We love the weak, and we help them when we ourselves are weak. That’s not a tradition. I’m sorry about that. It’s a lot, though, and I’ll take it. It is treasure, beautiful, rare, and priceless. A wonderful legacy, even now being passed to new generations. In those generations, there is hope.

And really, how cool is that?

I Wish I Was 18 Again

I don’t write for “likes” because I rarely get those. I’m not any kind of influencer, I’m not a particularly talented writer, and it shows. If I get six views in a week, I’m surprised.

I’m grateful for any and all views from all visitors. No comments or likes are necessary. I just appreciate the chance to write, the freedom to do it, and everyone who takes time out of their day to pay a visit. It is more than I deserve.

In this new year, I want to look back at some things I’ve written here. They’re important to me. Some have been removed by me for the general reason that I was unhappy with them. What remains is my true story. It is difficult reading, I know; I’ve left a few fictional stories to break up the misery. I’m not a good fiction writer, so I apologize.

We are all taking a journey on this blue marble. Some of us have the devil to pay, while others seem to cruise with ease through the years, and we take that hard. It isn’t fair, right?

Life isn’t fair. You have to do the best you can.

There are money problems. Job hunting. Nobody will give you a fair chance. Now, a potential employer can see everywhere you’ve been, every job you’ve ever worked, your criminal record, your driving record, credit history, marriages, divorces, college information, high school transcripts, relatives, news articles, and more. If they see anything that they don’t like, they not only won’t hire you, but they’ll send emails to other companies who have the kind of work you’re looking for.

Electronic devices spy on you every minute of every day. Even with your TV off, the hidden cameras and microphone watch and listen. One camera is even infrared. In other words, don’t do anything in the dark that you wouldn’t do in the light.

Your phone tracks you. Your camera is accessible. Your microphone, too. If you believe that recordings taken from devices aren’t used against you, then you need a good slap in the face: a wake-up.

Kids die by guns and drugs. Nobody is doing anything about it. People ignore vaccination even for their children. Yes, kids die that way, too. But all over the world, people look at my country and shake their heads in bewilderment. Such a “great” country, full of fools. How can that be?

When I was in 7th grade, I had a class in geography, and I loved it more than drawing and painting, which was a passion for me. I used to be good, but now I can barely write legibly. Ain’t life a motherfucker?

I was fascinated with geography. Our teacher had been to Moscow in the U.S.S.R. and said that it was beautiful. This teacher was a hero as far as I was concerned; he knew his stuff and had a love for many cultures. Sometimes, he would talk about legends and folklore in various places. It’s very interesting and cool.

While some foods have revolted me, I found, especially as I got older, that people generally interested me. For example, I know little about Russians, and I hate the government there, but I can’t hate the people. I know, I have tried to. Same thing with China. What a culture. What amazing people.

It seems to me that all Asian people can be very generous. They have tradions of giving small gifts to business associates. I once received a brass candy dish from a customer who was Korean. It was touching. What one culture sees as a part of business can be heartwarming to someone from another.

****

While I do not generally care about “likes,” I do look at the countries where occasional readers are, and I find that gratifying. It’s an honor to see that someone in the Philippines, or Thailand, Saudi Arabia, China, Russia, the U.K., Germany, Finland, Brazil, Canada, Venezuela, or other countries have paid me a visit. It’s humbling. As I said, it is an honor.

I recently started reading about Brazil. The Amazon River and forest are in serious danger. The people who live off the land or the water are very much affected. They’re in trouble, existential trouble. It’s heartbreaking.

I found someone whose writing I find fascinating, and she lives in Croatia. That’s a place I knew little about except for the war. Just a quick trip to Wikipedia made my eyes open wide. It’s beautiful. It has quite the history; beautiful old historic buildings, and there’s so much to do! I wish I could travel. There’s a world out there that I want, too late, to see. Places that I will not see because it’s just too late for me. I’ve been so blind.

Learning is still fun for me. I’m not proud, either: I admit to being wrong about many things. I will die alone, as is just. I don’t mind; I’ve known that since my ex-wife decided that she hated me. So many things weren’t my fault, but I had to pay anyway. That’s how unfair life really is.

I don’t tell you this to depress you. It’s rather the opposite: I want you to learn before it’s too late to see the world and its people as they are. Just people like us. They’re often wounded. Often weary; always hiding their pain and fatigue as best they can and reaching the weekend to rest, see friends and family, going fishing and hiking, to seeing a movie and having dinner with friends or romantic partners.

Don’t be me. Go forth and see what I’ll miss. Taste new foods, visit distant places, and see everything that you can while you still can. Visit a centuries-old cathedral. Say a prayer and put in a good word for me if you think about it.

I wish I could see Brazil. Germany. Denmark and Sweden. England. Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Croatia, Italy, Greece, and lots of other places. Visit them for me.

I sometimes wonder who you are. Where you live, how you’re doing, and what kind of work you do. What your favorite music, food, or what you do for a hobby.

We have more in common than we ever allow ourselves to imagine. When you visit me here, you may hate my writing, and that’s okay. But I’ll bet that if we were to meet, we would surely find common ground.

On this site, I have written a great deal about loss. About grief. About mental illness. It’s really tough stuff, so I’ll never get the views I once hoped for. That’s fine; I just want to help one person see my anger, my demons, and my illness and take something away that benefits them even in the smallest way.

I’ve also written about the supernatural. All of it is true, though nothing like what you see on television. I’ve lived in more than one haunted house and have nightmares to this day despite twenty years past one being demolished and hauled away in truck dumpsters. If I could figure out how to republish them so that they are not so far down in my archives, I would. Ghosts, demons, and crypqtids? All too real. Although I tend to turn a deaf ear to Bigfoot and UFOs.

I’ve had fun at times. I saw Brooks Robinson, Boog Powell, and the Orioles live at Memorial Stadium. After that was torn down, I saw Cal Ripken, Jr. And a revolving roster play at Camden Yards. I’ve never seen an NFL game in person, but I did see the Maryland Terps once. I’ve fished in the Mighty Chesapeake, met a celebrity or two, and done the most stupid shit you ever heard of. I have memories I variously laugh at or cringe over.

I’ve even survived multiple trips on the New Jersey Turnpike. That seems to me a far greater feat than climbing Mount Everest. I hate the New Jersey Turnpike.

Not one adventure or misadventure can come close to what could have been, though.

I have missed so much of what life has to offer. It’s not entirely my fault. How I wish that I could travel back in time and do something really cool with my life. Don’t end up with that kind of wish. Enjoy life now.

I’ve been that stupid kid who laughed at old people. Now, I’m just old, wanting another chance.

Go ahead now. Go out and kick ass and raise hell. Hold nothing back. Your life is a gift. Live it.

Saw a beautiful woman walking her dog today. She ignored me. The dog kept turning to face me. From 50 yards, a dog knows. They always know. They sense no threat. They want to come and say hello. After the third time, the woman looked to see what her dog kept stopping to look at. I really wanted to pet it, but that’s rare. The owners don’t see me. When she saw me, she waved. I waved back. I found it a bit sad. The time when I could turn a young lady’s head has passed. I’m three quarters home from the start to the end, and I wish I was eighteen again.

As always, thank you for letting me be a small part of your life. Be well.

DON’T Call Me ‘Michael’

Write about your first name: its meaning, significance, etymology, etc.

I’m an American Asshole. That’s my name. I hate my given name. I hate it because it was my mother who wanted to name me “Michael.”

I still waiver from time to time; do I hate my mother, can I finally forgive her, do I know for sure that she’s dead, do I wish that if she’s dead that she went to Hades?

I can’t answer any questions about anything. I don’t know.

She told me many times that she chose that name because of Saint Michael, the archangel. That’s pretty funny considering what happened–what she did to me–what both of my parents did to me… what pain they caused in the name of God and what they turned me into.

****

It’s funny. How I kept on living, I mean. Like some kind of fucking joke: I’ve been shot at with machine guns. Survived over 35 automobile accidents. I’ve fallen, jumped, gotten crushed, tried to kill myself 3 times, almost got the job done on the third try, and that’s not counting heart attacks and open heart surgery, a coma, and by now, I’m probably leaving some things out. Which makes me very frightened, because, how in perdition do you ever forget that kind of stuff?

She actually named me after an angel. An angel that she and my father felt free to rape and fuck and beat half to death. And instead of being angelic, they really turned me into a demon whose madness drove him to leave a swath of injured people and two dead children behind himself as he kept running from a twisted reality that no author should be capable of doing justice to.

And here I now sit, triggered by a blog prompt: the memories rush at me like a tsunami that I can’t outrun. A flood of emotions from decades past, a horde of demons I can not possibly fend off, pain so overwhelming that I can’t even cry.

I didn’t ask for this. Nobody would. Why it happened, that’s beyond my ken. I’ve tried to understand it, and every time I think I’m close, my grasp weakens. I’m left standing all alone, wondering what the hell I’m still doing here.

To start off with a name like mine, only to wind up my namesake’s opposite, that’s some kind of cruel irony that even I can’t appreciate, no matter how sick I am.

The title of my site is accurate. I own it. I’m an asshole from my skin to my soul. It’s true. I have no problem with it because it is true, and I love truth. I’ll take a painful truth over a pleasant lie any day.

****

I don’t think about my namesake every time I sign it. But when I do think about it, every bad thing in my life comes back to me, and I wish for death rather than face all that horrible shit. But so many times, I should have died, and yet I am still here. People have told me that it’s because God wants me to do something. I have no idea what that means. I’m unworthy. A sinner. A man broken in mind and spirit. What can God possibly want from me?

Yet, I like that simple concept. That’s why I write here. I have lots of depressing posts on this site, and even so, I can, on rare occasions, tell you that there is always hope. Because I have seen miracles happen, and I’ve had miracles happen to me. My faith may be weak at times, but I never abandon it. There’s hope. There’s prayer, and any prayer is heard. What others call a ghost in the sky, I think of a being I was never meant to understand. I have to keep my faith simple like a child’s faith. I can’t overthink it, and I can’t put words in his mouth. I can only have faith. With that in mind, with all that I have survived and endured, the abuse, the danger, the loss of my marriage, and then my children, ending up with a solitude I most certainly deserve, with mental illness and unending nightmares that wake me in mental and physical pain, I’m still me inside. On the inside, I’m still an asshole, but I do occasionally have some peace. Those are times worth living for. Those are times when I don’t hate my name, when I can sigh, let the odd tear slide down my face, and say, “Thank you, Father. Thank you for my life.“

If a battered and weary old man can still be thankful for his life, then anything is possible.

I do not miss my ex. But every day, I miss my children. It’s a burden no father should have to bear. But I sometimes remember how they touched my life, my heart, and my spirit. This brings back good memories that are mine to keep, and there’s no way anyone can take them from me.

Do keep in mind, then, that no matter what happens, you are watched and protected. I’ll try to do the same. As always, thanks for visiting me and indulging me. I appreciate and love all of you.

Remember, one who has no hope is truly doomed. Find hope anywhere you can, and cling to it like a life ring at sea. Never give it up. In this world, there is no one like you. You have gifts, and with them, you can accomplish anything.

Stay well.

Imported Irish Blackthorn Shellelagh, 36 Inches, Real Blackthorn, $124.⁹⁹ on Amazon

Trump won the Iowa caucus.

Trouble is coming for breakfast, and Hades will follow.

This convicted piece of shit tells us that the world isn’t safe, that the United States is seriously threatened from within, and this time, it may very well implode. The world will have seen nothing like this since the breakup of the USSR.

I don’t want to say this, but it needs to be said: in 2016, everyone thought Trump was a clown. “He’ll never get elected,” they said.

Then they said, “Rowe can’t be overturned. It’s the law.”

Then they said, “Nobody’s crazy enough to really go in there,” and the Capitol riot turned into an invasion of real insurgents. Trump will kill the United States as we know it. You think life is hard, and you’re right. But you ain’t seen anything yet.

The people who call President Biden names refuse to see any good that he’s done. Those people… are dangerous. And they’re already showing it.

Exhibit A:

The blood on the knob is real.

I bought a beautiful genuine Irish blackthorn shellelagh (walking stick). Had it less than a week, and it’s already been used for self-defense. Not why I wanted it. I wanted it because it’s beautiful and a work of real old-world art. Lighter in weight than most canes but very strong, even more than aluminum ones, easy to use, less fatiguing. Irish Americans don’t always know what it is. Any Irishman does.

Traditional for walking in the hills of the Emerald Isle, it comes without the rubber toe a cane uses. Just pirate one from your current cane.

It is also the traditional Irish club, a fighting stick with an art unique in martial arts, self-defense, and the odd betting circle or two. The Irish have never been averse to combat. They relish it. This is not meant to be racist; it is simply the truth. Not all Irish people will throw down, but if you force it on them, they’ll surely handle it.

The brand of stick I bought is worthy of display in a collection. But I’m collecting wooden scale handle knives, not canes or walking sticks.

The Best Offense

Now, let’s talk self-defense. Trump-et assholes are dangerous. They’re already gearing up and winding up for street violence. If they mark you as a soft target, you’re going to be in danger. Mostly from violence at first, then any other crime that crosses their sick minds. I didn’t even have my blackthorn for a week, and already, the knob is bloodstained. Old men and women are often targeted. I showed why they shouldn’t be. I never attack. That’s dishonorable. I defend. Any martial arts instructor will tell a student this before their first class. Because you will be trained to injure, incapacitate, and seriously maim your attacker, you never use your chosen style of defense for aggression.

It’s the same with any weapon, including firearms, knives, swords, machetes, axes, or hatchets. Spears and halberds I’m not even sure I want to talk about, but long reaching weapons can be effective in defense if you’re trained.

Forget the exotic stuff. No cane swords or, as they are also known, sword sticks. First, they’re heavy. Second, you have to sharpen the blades, and that means removing steel. Even the most coarse sharpening stones will take forever to do this. You’ll need a belt sander or a metal diamond file. Then, the stoning process, which everyone gets wrong. Coarse stones have to be set into a small bucket of warm water until the bubbles stop coming up. This is to keep the coarsest stones from filling with steel shavings. Only use the fine stones when you have a reasonably sharp edge to work with. Don’t overheat the steel either, as it loses its temper and will dull faster: easy does it.

Also, keep in mind that cane swords rattle. You can hear one from 50 yards easily. If you should discover a way to stop the blade from hitting the barrel, remember that these weapons are only legal to carry in one state. Don’t get caught with one.

I prefer the pepper and CS gas sprays. It’s a combination that, if properly used, gives an attacker a snoot-full and will slow them down. CS is used for riot control and will definitely fuck you up because you can’t see. The eyes burn and fill with tears, snot flows uncontrolled, and you have the chance to get away. Take it.

Another basic one each gender can use can be found at KarateMart.com; an innocent-looking ring with two cat’s ears that can make anyone think twice before proceeding with their attack. Also, they have credit card knives, small stunners, tactical pens, and more.

I prefer a switchblade or flip blade and brass knuckles for my CCWs. You might get fined or some jail time, but the police will show respect if you carry these and not a dumbass sword cane. Don’t get me wrong: they don’t like coming across swords, but when you’re being led to your cell, they’re gonna be laughing at you.

Another trick, if you can manage it, is to carry a baggy of iron or steel filings that you can easily open and hurl at their eyes. Got a hot Starbucks? Let them have it.

You have to plan and actually practice these things. Dummies and heavy bags are made for such practice.

Research!

Snoop the internet for self-defense weapons that you think you can use, not ones you fancy the looks of. Think about where you live, work, shop, or go out for dinner. Know your surroundings. These things are important.

Using a fighting stick or cane is tricky. You can’t hesitate; one swing must be followed through and then be followed with another opposite thrust. You can’t stop. You can’t use a single-handed grip, and you never swing it like a baseball bat. The more the stick extends away from you, the easier it is for your attacker to take it away. Check out cane fighting books on Kindle, and remember that your best weapon is your brain. You have to be willing to cause harm. If you hesitate, you could die. And no weapon will protect you if you are too afraid of using it.

One last thing. Remember that what causes pain is an area dense with nerve endings. Arms, fingers, face, genitals. You may need nothing more than to scrape the skin, but nothing can work on a goon on drugs. Nothing.

If you can’t get away from them, then you must kill. You’ll be fighting at close quarters, and having been through that, I can tell you, you’re never prepared for it. You need a hand free to grab an automatic opening (switch blade) knife. You’ll keep this razor-sharp at all times, and you’re going to slice into the neck of your attacker on either side below the ears. If combat continues, go in under the C-spine. Never cut someone’s throat. It’s really messy, it takes them forever to pass out, longer to die, and everyone two counties over can hear it.

The heart is located behind the sternum. It’s not on the left. Remember this.

Carrying lapel pins, 10/0 shark hooks, a metal rod, and more will help you in close-quarters combat.

Trump’s fan club will take liberals as soft targets. Show them the error of their ways.

Shop KarateMart.com, BudK.com, or Amazon and Trueswords.com for self-defense weapons and videos. I’ve done business with all of them, and I can’t give them enough praise for quality weapons, guides, and more. This ain’t the year we die.

Vote blue and carry a blackthorn stick.

This Town Don’t Look Good in Snow, You Don’t Care, I Know

This one caught people off guard. They usually brine the streets when snow is expected. They didn’t. The forecast was for a dusting to an inch. Then 1-2 inches. Someone mentioned cold air.

They didn’t say shit about this. It’s been below freezing all day. Currently, it is 16°F. And it’s gonna get colder. And it was really 3-5 inches of snow. And it sucks.

Another 3 inches coming Friday. I don’t need this shit. I’m too old. Snow isn’t pretty anymore. It sucks a fat one.

Some idiot wrote about breaking a “snow drought,” whatever the fuck that is.

I’ll put that stupid phrase alongside some others: “We’re in a snow drought” makes no sense. Either there’s a drought or there isn’t. If you’ve had sufficient rain, then there’s no drought. What does it matter, rain or snow?

“Are you kidding me right now?”

The best response to such a stupid and overused question is, “No, bitch, I was kidding you five minutes ago.”

“You can do this.”

Do what? What the fuck are you talking about? Chances are, we both already know what I’m trying to do, so telling me I can do it is encouraging. If you say this, then you’re being redundant. Fuck you very much, but I think I know what I’m supposed to be doing. Shut up.

A snow drought. Holy shit.

If that’s a real thing, I took a short walk. Here you go. Snow ain’t so fuckin pretty now, is it?

Mulch, dog shit, dirt and the prints of people walking dogs who think snow means that you don’t have to pick up Rover’s doo-doo. I wanna move to the Bahamas. Fuck winter.

The only thing that could cheer me up right now is heat. Heat pumps suck. Whoever invented them should be executed. I have to sleep fully clothed, including a coat and underneath two blankets, or I’ll surely die. I don’t mind leaving here, but exposure ain’t no way to die.

Nice Dreams

Lately I’ve stopped taking Prazosin because it seemed to be making my nightmares worse. It’s for the opposite, and in PTSD patients has been effective in reducing both the severity and the frequency of nightmares. But if it did work in the beginning, then it stopped and, in fact, seemed to give me a rebound effect. Horrors awaited every time my eyes closed. I told my doctor, and she said I needed my sleep. I was fighting it. So she discontinued the Prazosin and prescribed Trazodone, a sedative. It’s only a PRN, to be taken as needed only.

Sometimes it works. The nightmares have changed into some weird shit, and when I was given that in the hospital, I remember that my dreams did get more bizarre.

The other night, I dreamed that Kane (the wrestler) had gotten me into the WWE, and since I am old, I protested.

He assured me that Vince McMahon could use me as a gimmick character for a season, and then I’d be done. It sounded like fun. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long enough for me to get into the ring.

But it was nice to have a zany dream instead of a nightmare, and be able to remember it. It’s hilarious stuff.

Last night, I hit the wall early. I tried watching a movie, but I was out minutes after turning it on.

This time, I dreamed that I met Kerry, a teenage crush. She was grown, we hit it off, and I finally got the chance to find out what it’s like to kiss her. My emotions were as if I had been transported to some fairy tale. I told her that all my life, I had loved her.

That’s basically true. Her family moved to the neighborhood in the early 60s and I had been smitten on first sight.

As we grew up together, I never really had much interaction with her. But I was never going to anyway. That wasn’t in the cards.

I’ve loved a handful of women in my life. Some I dated. But the ones I loved the most, I never spoke to often, and I never told them how I felt. In third grade, which I had to repeat, the first time it was Barbara. We were inseparable. We even kissed. A lot. When she moved away, I was broken.

The repeat year, it was Lee Ann. She was beautiful and fun and I dared not go near her. I knew, even then, that I never wanted to feel a broken heart again.

But I also knew that something was wrong with me. The kids in my class never asked me to play ball on recess. They shunned me. Always. And I was constantly in some sort of trouble. My sense of humor never got any laughs; it was macabre and warped, and unless they had been through what I had, they would never understand me on any level.

Kerry was smart and by junior high school, was blooming into an awesome beauty. I knew that she would become somebody, as smart and as popular as she was.

It made it extremely painful to see that I, on the other hand, was sick. That I would never measure up, never be good enough for such an amazing young woman. Not then, not ever. I left her alone. After the end of the last semester of school year 1975, I never saw her again. Knowing that it was better for her if we never met again gave me some weird sense of honor: I’d only have messed up her life. You don’t really love someone if you’re going to put your needs above theirs. That ain’t love. It’s vanity and selfishness.

There would be one more woman that I would meet in my life who was way too good and beautiful and kind for me. Her name was Peggy, and I would have turned a beautiful and delicate flower into a mess. I loved her so dearly that I would have left my wife for her in a second. But I never told her how I felt. First, because the words that describe that kind of feeling do not exist; but more importantly, that love was so unbreakable that to this day, it’s still with me. And I wasn’t good enough. I knew it. I was becoming aware of just how fucked up I really was. I last saw her in the autumn of 1986 when my father’s business finally folded for good. The look she gave me was full of contempt, and I still bear that pain. And the memory of it is stamped in my mind.

Sometimes, things work out for reasons we don’t understand, and sometimes they don’t work out for reasons we do understand, especially if we are honest with ourselves and take the best interest of another to heart, holding their needs above our own. That, dear friends, is love, the best kind, the most pure kind.

The dream about Kerry was passionate, and good, and I’ll take that over my grisly nightmares any day.

As I stood outside today, smoking a Marlboro, I thought back to the days of junior high, when I loved one who could never know, and I grew more sick all the time.

One day in sculpture class, I had some warm wet plaster in my hand for some reason. Ronnie Howell was sitting beside me, and he was instrumental in my delinquent behavior, always knowing when to egg me on. In fact, he even occasionally laughed at my sick humor and stunts.

Watch this vintage commercial:

One version had men in a locker room. One gave the other a “five” and shaving cream was everywhere. The black man says, “Hey, man, that’s real hot lather!”

I turned in my chair, imitating the black athlete, slapped the hand with plaster with my hand that was free, and said, “Hey, man, that’s real hot lather!”

To my horror, that shit went everywhere, and a teacher’s aide was right there!

She was a sandy blonde with a killer body, wearing sprayed-on jeans, i mean, tight, and before the world heard the expression “camel toe”, I was looking straight at one, eye-level, not a foot away.

And I had just splattered plaster all over that camel toe!

Horrified, seeing a suspension in my immediate future, Ronnie Howell roared with laughter. I looked up at the aide to see how angry she was and apologize, but she was laughing!

A dream brought back a flood of memories, none really that bad, about junior high school and unrequited love that, today, lets me see something in my past that was noble and good and not about myself.

And I’ll take it.

Any day, I’ll take it.

Have a Cup of Cheer: Some Christmas Videos to Help Get You in the Mood

When I was on social media, I would share a few videos before Christmas that were my favorites. Here are a few of them.

Apple has A Charlie Brown Christmas locked in. You want to see it, you buy it or subscribe to Apple. That’s unacceptable. The monopolies of streaming services that charge for content is worse then cable TV ever was. And it’s just going to get worse.

Without my yearly viewing of the 1965 Schultz cartoon classic, here’s what I’ll have to settle for instead, and for some reason, they are extremely satisfying.

And of course, what would Christmas be without The 12 Days of Christmas?

I swear, those guys have set the bar too high. They will always be the best.

And what about the fun and excitement of Christmas shopping?

Still, Christmas does come with its hazards:

Christmas is a time of good cheer, giving and family gatherings. And bad music videos. I can’t remember the year, but one morning I was dozing on the sofa and my ex had turned on the TV. HBO’s Video Jukebox was playing this annoying video from Mannheim Steamroller.

It’s discordant, nauseating and makes you wish you’d never been born. My day was ruined. A whole post of coffee from the Silex could not put me right. For the rest of the day I felt out-of-sync with my body and the rest of the world.and the images of the band flying over the mountains was fucking stupid.

Of course there are worse Christmas songs out there.

Do you remember them? Well, I do. I can’t get them out of my head. Even in the heat of summer, with cicadas doing their nightly chorus, some of these haunt me. Jingle Bells has to be the worst. The fuck does it even mean?

Instead, when we were kids, we favored another version. It went something like this:

Jingle bells,

Batman smells,

Robin laid an egg,

Batmobile lost a wheel

And Joker got away

Infinitely preferable and much more enjoyable.

The Christmas gag songs pissed me off: I liked the carols, you know. As a child I was even then a Christian. I had faith. I often cried myself to sleep, saying simple prayers that I’m certain were answered. When that evil thing was in my room, I would make simple prayers that I would be loved and protected. O Little Town of Bethlehem, The First Noel, Away in a Manger, these gave me hope and cheered me on nights I would otherwise believe that there was no hope.

And I really believe that’s the main thing about Christmas: hope for those without any. Love and reconciliation between friends in conflict. Forgiveness. Love.

And I know that sometimes hope seems too out of reach. But when we give that up, we’re left with nothing. That’s much worse any day than a bad music video.

Let us all, no matter our race or Religion, agree on this.

It Isn’t About Me

What positive events have taken place in your life over the past year?

One thing so many people have the most difficult time reconciling with is the lonely, awful fact that, in the end, we’re all alone, and life is shitty. It just is.

Humans are not made to accept such things because they seem so alien to us. It’s basically nihilistic, such a thought. But the sooner we accept it as true, the sooner we can do something about it.

Because hey, you can live with it, and it is not nihilism. And you deserve to have a life as free of misery as possible. It is a fight, and in this world, there’s not one thing you’ll need that does not require some type of battle, some sacrifice, endurance, and a shitload of patience and its bastard cousin, pain.

Life is not fair. We either know it and accept it, or we don’t. However, some accept it and fail to stand up against the shit that will never stop coming at them, and instead are overwhelmed and quit. I have been such a person, because I was conditioned to be dependent, to the point that aside from working for my father, and really working hard from the age of 12, I had nothing else to do. His accountant did my taxes. My mother washed my clothes. She cooked meals, packed lunches. My prep school tuition was paid. My father put me through preppy school because he was tired of raising a pussy. He could not understand why I never fought back against the bullies.

Sometimes I did. Every single time, though, I fucked someone up bad.

That wasn’t me. He’d get a phone call, I’d get a beating for fighting or failing to fight, and most bullies come at you in numbers. I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t. Whoever I was, I lost everything I was. I had such a gentle, sensitive soul, and the world, from my parents to the slime that are still faceless to me, faceless and forever unnamed, wanted to take boys like me apart. And man, didn’t they work hard at it.

By age 15, I’d met a few great souls who by example showed me that I could be whatever I wanted to be. Great souls that come into your life and eventually leave, and in so doing take part of what they taught you away.

Sunday school teachers. School teachers. Truck drivers. Each one wise in their own right, and each for different reasons, gained from different paths that eventually crossed my path. I learned from the best and never really knew it.

Not one of them told me that I had to fight back physically, but that doing so would put me on a level that they could not picture me on. There are those, you see, whose eyes can see past your tough talk, angry cussing, silence…and know exactly what you are inside, and that’s why they like you!

People can love you, and you never know it. They love you because you’re you. Maybe it’s because I was always ready to listen. You know, to a story, a lament, to a torn heart pouring out grief.

They’re lonely too, or particularly gregarious, and they remember every dirty joke they’ve ever heard. Standing on the loading dock of my father’s warehouse, I heard a million jokes and riddles. It was like a daily comedy improv and I had the best seat in the house. Laughter can keep the most scarred of hearts beating.

And being a listener is a great way to learn things you may otherwise never have known. But it is a skill and a talent at one and the same time. What you get out of it is going to make that awful truth that you always end up learning come to you more gently. Or maybe you’ll learn it along the way: it’s not about you.

In 2023, I have had so few positive experiences that I realize, they don’t often get seen for what they are at the time. It takes that moment when you can have some peace, and one positive thing to be able to say you accomplished that day to be able to open your eyes, look back and see that you’ve been blessed all along. I started the year in a fog. It happens to us all: mental illness, PTSD, clinical depression–nobody gets out of here alive, and until our day comes to breathe our last, we’re all traumatized by something.

Dealing with covid, the shutdown, the death toll, a car accident, losing a job you worked hard to get and then to keep, losing a loved one, whether a pet or family or a friend. These things leave us damaged, forever changed.

I’ve lost so much in my life that since I turned 35, I knew I would never be capable of a normal life. By 2001, I knew that I was out of the game. It was only a matter of time before I would lose everything.

Drinking liquor every day, I’d have the shakes before the first coffee break of the day. I  sometimes had a bottle in the car. I knew one slug would straighten me out and get me through the day. I dried out on my own. Took to my bed for a week, so sick that I was lucky I didn’t die. It’s dangerous, doing that. But it was too late for me to save my job.

This year my medications, my progress in small steps, daring to do things I couldn’t have two years ago, things you would laugh at because they’re trivial to you and require little thought and less effort, those things do not look trivial to me. They’re more akin to climbing a mountain, and you know I don’t climb mountains. Think I want to get snake bit, fall, encounter Bigfoot or a dogman?

If you presumed that I do, you’ve got too much faith in me.

I guess, looking back, that I really can’t tick off a list of all the positive things I’ve had happen to me this year. Positives come mostly in small ways. I think most fail to see it that way. They’re preoccupied with the negatives. With themselves.

And that’s really tragic. The World needs us, all of us. Together we have the power to end wars, clean our home and to demand and get what’s right.

But that’s the one thing, of all the things we do, that we always miss. Everyone knew that a ceasefire in Gaza was going to be short.

It helped me to hear what a Palestinian-American in a New York bodega had to say. He said they (Palestinians) had their chance to have a government free of extremists. They chose not to. And he said, “Stop pitying them. They raise their own children to be (indoctrinated) Jew haters and guerillas. Do not pity them. I never had a reason to hate Jews and so I came here. Here I am free to be friends with anyone.”

As I heard this, I was horrified. But it’s true. And that war will never, ever stop. Hamas will not allow it to. They have tunnels that run all the way to Egypt! Doesn’t that tell you anything at all?

I am much more behind Israel here; the terrorists who started it all used tunnels and carried away children in dog cages, and did you really think that was ever going to get a happy ending? The things they did to those children while they were still inside the cages was bad enough. Raped and murdered later. You expect me to back up animals who kidnap, torture, rape and kill children? Because that will never happen.

It was sobering to hear from a Palestinian what his people really are about. As much as I hate war, Hamas drew first blood and forced the war on Israel. And any other country would be justified in engaging such an enemy, but to my shame, Americans are protesting against Israel, supporting Hamas and it is sickening.

Of course, the same dicks who support Palestinians are probably the same ones who back Russia. And Donald Trump. Takes a real dick to do that.

It isn’t about me. It isn’t about you. It’s about us. That’s what life’s about. But why don’t we ever act on it even when we know it? Actually it’s not impossible. Pass on all that you’ve learned because you, just like I, learned along the way from wise men and women who, just by their friendship and example, gave you something to build on.

Don’t judge when you don’t have to; give folks the benefit of the doubt, some time to think, some forgiveness, some sympathy. You will find positive everywhere, once you’ve learned to look for it.

And never give up, even when life is throwing a blizzard of shit at you.

Because it’s not personal.  It’s not about you. It’s about us.

And together, there’s nothing we can’t do.

WAR: WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

Israel got hit hard by a terrorist attack. But since that day, Israel has fired back and never stopped. And I am definitely not a pacifist, and if I saw you being attacked on the street I vowed to God to defend you or anyone else, even if I die in the attempt.

And I’m all for retaliatory strikes when absolutely necessary, but not at any other time.

In every war ever fought in the history of Planet Earth, it has always been a constant: the innocent die. Women, children, the sick, the lame, it never made any difference. It is a part of war.

But there should be an international law that requires opposing leaders to see up close the suffering they have caused. Because in the following video, there’s a lot to be digested before the final clip John Oliver shows. Don’t be in a hurry; I hope you can listen and watch carefully because we do not belong in this shit. And instead of weapons, maybe we should send some ambassadors skilled in talking peace with that psycho Netanyahu.

Of course that’s the way America should go, and that’s why we won’t. It has been too long since the United States stood for what was right. First, because the citizens deserve better out of leadership, and second, we’ve thrown down too many times only to end up with good servicemen and women getting buried before their time. Our military people serve faithfully and they have been terribly used and sent out with one-way tickets.

But we’re Americans and we’re supposed to be better than this. Selling bullets which will end up in some child’s body is dishonorable in the highest degree. We are now implicit in war crimes, yet we will not be called to account.

Israel bombs the hell out of Gaza. The targets include children and women, but it’s damned irresponsible tactically; they could easily hit the hostages. Apparently they don’t care about that little bit.

From Any recruit’s arrival to begin basic training, they hope they’ll never be sent to war. If ordered, they will go, but combat isn’t why you enlist unless you’re a psycho.

Why are we supporting a belligerent in a war? We shouldn’t be supporting anyone but the children. To see them, breathless before the camera, too traumatized to cry, trying to express their feelings, is heartbreaking. I cried. My heart breaks for them. One thing I’ve learned is, a child grows up way too fast when placed in extreme danger and uncertainty. They use words of adults, same phrases, they have gooned-out eyes, but they rarely let emotions slip out.

I do not stand with Israel or Hamas.

But I’ll tell you what I will stand for.

The children on both sides.

National Asshole Day

Invent a holiday! Explain how and why everyone should celebrate.

Assholes get a bad rep. They are misunderstood and we should be ashamed of it.

Assholes are NOT dicks. Big difference. The current speaker of the House is a dick. Dicks are worse than Karens and Kens. They are idiots and they judge you while they do perverted things to you. Unspeakable things. Assholes tell you straight up who’s a dick and why you shouldn’t trust them or put up with them.

Because assholes say, “Fuck them. Tolerance of dicks only makes them worse. Donald Trump is a dick. So is Marjorie Taylor Green, but she’s also a lunatic. I promise you she’s polished a lot of knobs in her time. But to prove she’s a dick she poses with assault rifles. It’s a Freudian fact that guns are phallic symbols. With her sudden and senseless rise to power she may gobble some real phalluses but to show strength, not her dependence on knob-polishing, she poses for pictures with the biggest penis extension she can get her salty hands on.

Julian Assange is a dick. Eric Snowden is a dick. Republicans are dicks. They lie to you, they fuck you and they want to kill you. Their hobbies range from pulling the wings off butterflies to buggering underage boys and reading Mein Kamph. And Kinsey’s books. They think those are true. Kinsey was a dick who interviewed pedophiles who obviously made up most of what they said. And how the fuck did he get the idea that grown women had memories of orgasms at the age of one year or less? Or “explored” their sexuality with family pets? Yeah, he was a total dick.

Hedonists are dicks. And any asshole can tell you this because, fuck that.

If you’re in a serious relationship or a marriage you shouldn’t want to see your partner polishing knobs and getting a sodium overdose. Fuck that.

And Netanyahu is a dick. So is all of Hamas. Dicks, every one of them.

Nixon was a dick. And not just in name, either. He once walked in a marina probably headed to a yacht to smoke grass with Bebe Rebozo when a dude in a phone booth got all excited and asked the president to say hello to his wife. Nixon took the phone, asked the man his wife’s name. Then he said her name into the phone and asked her “who’s this woman your husband’s with?” And continued on his way. That’s a dick. Also, concealing the Watergate affair was the action of a dick. Secretly bombing Laos and Cambodia was a real dick move.

Burt Reynolds was a dick.

Al Capone was a dick.

The history books would not include that word.

Assholes will. Because fuck them.

Assholes are free. They’re hard and stern but not in a bad way. Assholes grew up assholes and did asshole things. They learned from living tough lives and paying dearly for being assholes. A grown asshole lacks finesse. Doesn’t consider style or flourishes. Panache is not in their vocabulary. However, genuine sympathy and a desire to help others is there. You may bot be aware of it at first, but their cynicism and foul language along with blunt honesty cover a soft heart and a weathered soul that desperately needs peace.

It’s time to remember and honor assholes. Without them we would be lost. Therefore I announce that every 6th day of November will be a celebration of Assholes. American Asshole Day. In their honor a flag with a brown spot in the middle and a yellow background will be flown for 24 hours and Scotch should be served one round free.

See you next year, assholes. Keep telling it like it is!

Too Young

When was the first time you really felt like a grown up (if ever)?

I had to become a man. Between 6 years old and 12, I was sexually abused and being lashed. At the age of 12 I had to go to work at my father’s warehouse. At that age humping truckloads of 50 pound sacks of cocoa powder was a bit much. But I did it. Childhood? Never really had one. It lasted so little time. It ended much too quickly.

At young ages, when serious beatings combine with sexual abuse, there’s a moment. Just a second, really, when a child’s natural development is arrested. Nothing is ever “normal” after that exact moment and growth is warped and twisted from that day forward.

I did not ask to be brought up by monsters. No one ever does. My life has been drawn out, with misery and tragedy strewn in my footprints. I’ve hurt others and been hurt myself.

Losing my children was the worst thing I have ever endured. No past betrayal by my parents, no amount of abuse, ever broke my heart as much as getting the phone calls that they were gone. But the horrors don’t end there. They never end. I had to become an adult before I was prepared to. It wasn’t fair, but what ever is?

Please don’t hurt children. They never recover.

Never.

I’m Going to be Okay Now

I will not allow online stalkers to redefine me. I came across this meme on chance. It calmed me considerably.

No matter who laughs at me, follows me, stalks me…I will retain the better part of myself and use it to reign in the furious injured thing beneath it all.

But, before I go, there’s one thing I have to say.

“Jennifer”, or whoever you really are, piss off.

NO MORE MR. NICE GUY: The Return of the American Asshole

Maybe I still believe in being kind. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t make exceptions on occasion. This is one occasion where I deem it necessary to be an asshole by telling the rest of the story behind a recent post.

It was about being on social media and feeling betrayed and deleting my account on an app.

Here’s how it went down.

I had posted about liking where I lived. Folks liked the post. One woman named Jennifer in particular. She really liked it.

But I did not like what followed. I held back to protect other’s feelings, and it was dishonest. Because I don’t give a half-fuck about her feelings. She triggered me and freaked me out. Saying anything less was misleading, and my code does not distinguish that from telling an outright lie. I apologize.

This woman DMd me several days in a row, twice a day.

She said that she was touched by my post. I mentioned that I had this site, but didn’t give the web address. I was not plugging it, and besides, even when I do plug this site, nothing happens. My year-end stats would depress any other blogger. Me, I just don’t have much to say about it.

She found it.

First red flag.

In a DM she said she had driven through the supermarket parking lot to meet me and see if I wanted some beef stew.

Wait, what?

Look folks, supermarkets are busy places, and to go looking for someone you’ve never met in person in one drive through a parking lot is weird. Known also as: stalking. Second red flag.

The beef stew? I’ve had 5 stalkers, and they never offer shit. Beef stew? What the fuck is that?

It’s the third red flag.

There came another day not long after where, in another direct message, she said she had driven through the supermarket lot again searching for me. Do you have any idea what the odds are that a predatory stalker would find someone they’ve never met in two swipes past a market? The most jaded odds makers in Vegas would run for the hills. They’d also throw up along the way. Them hills’d be running with brooks of bile. Rivers of regurgitation. Ponds of puke, valleys full of vomit.

So, stalking it was. Fourth red flag.

“Just to introduce myself and show support”, came the message. When someone expresses the need to explain why they just did something, it demonstrates that they are aware of how wrong their behavior is and how you might react. Fifth red flag.

So I messaged that if she really wanted to meet, she could call my phone and we could set up a public meeting. I encourage women to never meet a stranger outside of public view.

I added, though, that she should make sure that her husband was cool with it. I’ve been in that situation before, and I have nothing good to say about it.

Came the response, “I will never ever call you but I’ll text you here from time to time.”

Bitch, you were looking for me, and texting me twice a day. Now it’s “from time to time”?

Red flags and alarms everywhere.

Why?

Either she was married and didn’t like what I said, or she wasn’t and didn’t care for what she perceived as presumption on my part. Now her furious quest to meet me was over? Ha!

I’ve been here before. It ain’t no place to be.

I’m not a better man. I never did a heroic, honorable thing in my life.

Oh, and did I mention that she subscribed to a Baltimore newspaper just so she could access articles about the prosecution of my parents, which happened 33 years ago?

That’s not being inquisitive.

Since only a few articles were written, it’s just plain demented.

I’m no better man. I won’t try to be, either. I cannot rise above the sum of my fragmented parts.

I’m just an asshole. So lady, if you’re still reading, I suggest you get less interested in me with all possible speed. There’s nothing for you here.

And I don’t want anyone to love me. Fuck it. Don’t mean nothing.

Kindness Never Hurts

What’s the trait you value most about yourself?

My brain is full of nightmares. That’s true. It is also a constant truth that I have emotions like anger or rage, and it’s clinically sick.

As in fucked up.

If, among my childhood traits, there is one thing that I managed to salvage, it is that I was polite, courteous and very sensitive: I cried at not just my own pain, but also that of others.

When I looked back at pictures of when I was a child I saw bright eyes and a beautiful smile. I remember losing both. I tore up and threw away every picture I had.

They turned me into a monster, out for revenge. I turned into an avenging asshole. I caused unknown amounts of money in property damage, said horrible things to innocent people, ran from the bullies, sabotaged close relationships, isolated myself, became more bitter than I could bear, and was totally lost.

The world did not believe children like me existed. They did not care of things they knew nothing of. I grew more sick every day.

Sometimes, by age 14 I took everything out on people I knew. I’d write hard-core porn with them in it. They did things that I saw, in my twisted mind, as humiliating to them. So far as I know, none involved in those stories ever read or heard about them. But I’m not a hundred percent on that.

I was good at it, too. Long before reading Penthouse Forum, I wrote better stuff.

It was revenge, all of it. For being ridiculed, marginalized or insulted, and ultimately ignored. And those stories…got more evil as time went on. They weren’t sadistic, there was never violence, I couldn’t go that far. And I have always hated violence against women.

Unhealthy outlets are usually the result of severe abuse. A child’s normal development stops, replaced by horrors.

By the time my parents were arrested, though, it was not about revenge. Oh, I had planned my revenge: I was going to buy a shotgun at Bart’s Sporting Goods on Ritchie Highway and shoot my parents with 00 buckshot. It was all mapped out. I had only to get in my car and go.

Fate, or God, intervened. A nephew living in their house was being abused. I passed on the message that my sister only had a certain time to move out, then bad things would happen. She didn’t. Bad things did follow.

But I’m proud that I wasn’t acting on rage and revenge, but for a child’s welfare. My siblings who testified with me boosted my courage. It wasn’t about me. It was about justice and a child who deserved better than what we had gone through.

In the decades since, I’ve struggled with worsening mental health. I nearly ended my own life 3 times. I became more racist and was violent to the point where if someone spat while looking at, or just after seeing me, I wanted to kill them: You think I’m scum? You won’t when you’re dead, motherfucker.

Today, I’ve had it. I’m sick of being sick. There’s no cure for any of my conditions. I’m slowly dying. I don’t care much.

But I have found things that I do care about.

I try to stay away from the news. I’m limited and cannot handle that mess. I try to keep busy. And I have decided not to bring more pain into a world that’s just had enough of it.

God blessed me. I used to think of my survival as a curse, but that was never true. I was blessed with experience others had but could not voice. Maybe, I thought, I could help. Offer support and kindness. Perhaps insight. Hope.

I have no wish to harm. I’ve returned to courtesy and friendliness, but with much more experience than way back when I was having my innocence taken by evil people.

I do not see myself as noble, honorable or even worthy of living, I stand alone except for family, none of whom have time for me or are in their own health crises. I know I’m loved and that’s enough. God’s love was always there with us, and still is. That’s why I’ve chosen a gentle path.

I still cuss and lose my temper over those taking advantage of the poor; over the press telling us how stupid we all are; of abuse.

I don’t need meditation or zen stuff. I’ve made my choice.

I challenge you to do the same. Start with a random, out-of-the-blue sharing of kind words. Gentle encouragement. Praise when it’s deserved, but never flattery; that’s shallow. Loan someone ten bucks and don’t expect to get it back. It spreads. You’ll even see it, if you’re lucky.

And remember: one kind word can save a life, where an unkind word may end it. Life is delicate and we must remember that, if we truly hope to fight the evil that makes so many just give up. You can change the world. Yes, I do mean you.

And I know how hard it is to smile. Don’t worry. If you’re sincere, others will always know that.

I’m a realist. I have no lofty thoughts and I caution you not to, either. This life can tear you up. I am sorry for that. But do you or I have any right to make that worse?

Looking back at the pain and chaos I caused and knowing why I did it hurts. My age back then, my mental health, and all other things considered, I regret so much. I hurt people I loved. Or hated. I never felt justified. For a few moments, maybe. But smothered in guilt and shame, I longed to be clean. Feeling as if you were born already soiled, knowing you had some good qualities, is difficult to reconcile. How can you process a thing like that? I fear no one can know. We just do the best we can.

And the question I’ve asked bears the same answer: none of us has the right to make the world a worse place than it is.

Choose what’s right. You’ll know what to do. I have faith in you.

Scrambled Eggs

Write about your most epic baking or cooking fail.

Scrapple and scrambled eggs. That’s all I wanted, along with fresh Colombian coffee. That’s it. Easy, right?

I mean, easy peasy. Nice and greasy.

Not this bloody day. Not that day in 2008. The day I failed so miserably to cook something so simple that an infant could do it.

I’ve written about it before, first time being in a MySpace blog. Remember those?

Meds were off kilter. I was always foggy. I had to cut my arm and draw blood to get the pain I needed for clarity. Sick thing to do, but that one scrapple and eggs day, I was fogged in badly.

I put the scrapple slices on, then used a glass bowl to beat the eggs.

Wait!

Don’t you need milk in scrambled eggs? Where did I hear that, and had I not been doing eggs that way?

I didn’t have any milk, not even half and half. Just Coffee Mate for coffee. So I got thinking, why not try that, since it’s a replacement for the real thing.

I cracked a couple of eggs into the bowl but I didn’t begin beating them. In went a teaspoonful of the non-dairy creamer, and I was surprised at what I saw.

In the albumin, the creamer could not dissolve. I didn’t know. It had seemed like a good idea, and I did it.

But something was wrong. Something was going terribly wrong.

Without even beating the eggs, something…was happening.

The powder had grouped together in small blobs. Perfect globules that were…moving!

These blobs grew bigger as they gathered more of the powder, and a big blob separated, or tried to. It was now two big blobs joined by a string of creamer. Had I somehow gotten a few eggs that had been fertilized? Was I looking at some freak of nature that was alive? It looked like a freaking lava lamp.

I abandoned the whole meal, sick to my stomach and shaking in fear of the paranormal event I’d witnessed. It had come to life!

I emptied the bowl into the trash, and chucked in the scrapple as well. I never used Coffee-Mate again. And it was a long time before I tried to scramble eggs, too.

You would too, if it had happened to you.

I always thought that Dr. Frankenstein would have proud of me. A disgusting thought if ever I’d had one

YouTube: The Why Files is off My List

The Why Files is a channel dedicated to mysteries and minor paranormal subjects, leaning mostly toward UFO (a.k.a. UAP) phenomena especially where government cover-ups are involved. It’s a good channel with a rapidly growing fan and subscriber base. I’ve watched it it for a long time, canceling twice because it went too fringe for my patience. I went back after a particularly scary episode on AI. I even became a Patreon member.

You get perks for doing that. I won’t go into these because I hold them in contempt as being nothing to write home about. There is a channel exclusive chat room and other channels within their site. But that’s where my story begins and ends.

At first, I felt welcome. I thought the members good people and I had fun. That lasted less than a week. It was, I thought, a place where I was free to interact with and attain respect and affection for people as they were. No politics, no religion was allowed in chat or comments.

I met and had fun with a few of the mods. Met a few more. Then I met one that joked around about walking me like a dog…on a leash!

It all wore thin quickly.

Then one day I was nearly struck by lightning. The dog leash guy gave me his number so he could get my address and call medics for me.

Being as how I could have done that myself, I considered his or her query for personal information inappropriate and troubling.

My ears still hurt but I’m fine. I became even more uneasy, though.

Finally, seemed as though every one but a few began to ignore every comment. I found an inappropriate conversation about eating dog and horse meat and they were giving me fuel for tasteless jokes I knew I couldn’t make. Finally a mod by the handle “Tenn” told me to “Go to bed.”

I said I’d go, only because of those inappropriate orders, not because I needed to go to bed. Then I appended, “I may not come back.” The two moderators used emojis to wave at me.

That was fucking it. I logged out.

Then I went to Patreon and canceled my account, then uninstalled both Patreon and Discord apps. I will never support anyone on Patreon again.

But I knew I couldn’t stop there. I went to YouTube and unsubscribed from the channel.

That’s it for me. Treat me like a child, will you?.

Fuck you.

You don’t do that to people who just signed up to support your livelihood.

They will not miss me. They never gave two farts in the wind for me anyway. The jobs of the moderators, everywhere you go, is to keep the posted content civil. But invariably there are turds in the punch bowl. Those let power go to their heads, and that’s bad. They abuse that power and say things they’d never let you get away with.

The sudden absence of mods being friendly and the bleak absence of any others to even try to engage me in DM made my decision. That, plus the fact that they were obviously taking my comments out of context when I was joking about, told me once and for all that I had chosen a hostile site with an even more hostile administration.

One rule they had was, no political content. Yet I observed demented remarks about Biden and the American political left being tolerated while other views were removed and a bot sent everyone a notice that a user had been warned.

Now look, all of this is okay with me. People can be shitheads. I get it. I’m not going to change it and you can’t do any better than I about it. And written words will always be taken out of context. I’m famous for that myself.

But where I am willing to work on it, few others are, and without so much as a question, they used emojis to kiss me off. Which is 70s speak for “bye, fuck you.”

Avoid The Why Files. Be less stressed.

Goddam I feel as if I’ve escaped a motherfucking cult.

Nobody should get that kind of vibe from a fucking YouTube channel.

The Arrow Shot

The Arrow and the Song

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I shot an arrow into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight

Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,

It fell to earth, I knew not where;

For who has sight so keen and strong,

That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak

I found the arrow, still unbroke;

And the song, from beginning to end,

I found again in the heart of a friend.

From A Facebook Post: Fuck You, Jeff Tiedrich

Fuck you, Jeff Tiedrich. You gotta be shitting me! I’ve been reading your newsletters for a while now. I like “this week in stupid”, and I was going to give you my first “like” but found a subscription wall.
That’s curious! I already subscribe to m…ah, never mind. You already know.
So then I thought I’d be able to leave a nice, supportive comment.

NO.

Because only PAID subscribers can do that!

Okay, you know what? That’s fucking IT. I’m not paying another fucking penny to do a stupid-ass thing because I already have enough of that. I like to call them “Medical bill subscriptions”. And Jeff, know what? I get it. They’re part of the MACHINE. It’s how things work.

But given what you do, pretending, that is, to be calling out the right wing MAGAs, I would have hoped that you invited public discussion. And I get that you don’t want MAGAs all over your page, so here comes some advice for you: get an anti-virus program, go through your comments, block whatever you like, engage with your readers, do whatever the fuck you want. Need extra money? Join the fucking club. Sell fake tickets to concerts, whatever, do SOME fucking thing, I don’t care. It’s not ABOUT you. It’s about FREE speech in a world where the bad guys can say what they want but dipshits like YOU don’t let the good guys drop a lousy comment.
And Jeff, please know: this is just me, one asshole after a bad week. I get you. But others won’t. You’re a niche writer with a small cult following. You could be so much more.
Know what I found out this week? DeSantis has done so much evil in 6 days that God’s 6-day Creation epic can’t hold a CANDLE to it. He even made it possible for the state to kidnap “trans” children from perfectly loving parents.

Hey, Jeff, you ever meet a “trans” kid in school? Huh? Well neither did I, but back then we had other things we used. Names, terrible ones. Hate speech. Violence. Harassment to the point where we fucked-up their heads so bad that– some–ended up….goddamn I cant…

One girl ended up jumping off the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Another babysat for a sister or friend. And the baby just WOULDN’T stop crying, and…and maybe I had a small part in driving her crazy enough, you know? Because ignorance and hate and not being able to talk….those are the true enemies of truth and enlightenment. And sanity. The truth withers like a delicate flower in the dark. And sanity DIES there.

Darkness also plagues everything else we see or do. I bought what I thought was a gaming computer. I did some research. But what I ended up with was weaker than a cell phone from 2015. You never get what you pay for anymore.

So I’m not giving you any fucking money. Republicans fucking with insurance “providers” got here first. And I need them more than I need your fucking foul-mouthed, dipshit emails. If you want to have a go at me, such as remarking on run-on or frag sentences, punctuation or anything like that, you’re free to do so. Except I think you have to be a friend first. Or a friend of a friend. I hope none of my friends are on your friends list. Otherwise, we part ways here, dip-shit. Good luck and fuck you very much.

Excuses, Excuses

I’ve had it with excuses, you dig? Nobody in history ever came up with one that wasn’t lame, hilarious, disgusting or all of the above. Look. I’m a long-suffering Jets fan, okay? And just when it looked like things would turn around, Parcells retired, Belichik left for the Patriots and a very good team fell apart. After 2004, they traded away almost every one of their best players. In the 2000-2001 season, I was at a loss to why Testaverde passed for 400 yards on Christmas Eve and the Ravens still won. Well with the Jets out of postseason play, I reluctantly rooted for the Ravens. After Tony Banks had made every QB and DB laugh at him, Trent Dilfer stepped in and never lost a game. Including the Super Bowl against the New York Giants.

I was fine with it. But I took a beating at work, because I was devoted to the Jets, but lived and worked in Baltimore City and county, respectively. One of the games I’d seen the Ravens lose that season was with Banks at the helm in a stormy Miami during some tropical storm. I razzed the guys at work the next day and they said “They couldn’t help that, it was nothing but rain and mud.” And I SCREAMED with scorn-filled, ironic laughter and retorted, “Oh, you mean they (the Ravens) can’t compete with an NFL team in NFL weather? What, are they really NOT in the NFL?” and of course that shut them up. But after the Christmas break, going to work was less fun than no fun at all. So when I was for the Ravens as they bulldozed their way through the playoffs, I heard lots of things, none good.
And I had no excuse to offer.

Except for the Curse of Joe Namath. After Super Bowl 3, when he said that the Jets would “beat the Colts on Sunday” and guaranteed it, the AFL upstart caused a ton of hate mail. Then the Jets beat the Colts, making it worse. The Jets have never been back to the big game since. Mishaps, career-ending injuries, messy tabloid romances, intrigue and an ever-stingy Hess and family didn’t want to spend money for a winning team.
Then there’s the hard times that Namath went through: a few broken bones, bad knees, and finally being traded to the Rams, a team with once-picturesque uniforms in blue and white. They had switched back to their classic yellow and blue, which was ugly. Joe took his curse with him. One game he actually took himself out of the action and told the coach he just couldn’t handle the pain anymore. And the Jets, well, I guess Broadway Joe had split the curse between himself and the team. The Jets ruined the careers of Curtis Martin, Wayne Chrebet and Chad Pennington, among scores of others.

But my belief in sports curses is a bit iffy. The Madden Curse hasn’t really stopped, but it did get weirder, yet no matter what, I wouldn’t blame a curse for reality. And definitely not use it as an excuse, either. So now you know what’s maybe real, not real and just plain lame. Blaming an NFL loss on the weather–heat, cold, rain, freezing rain, snow or whatever–has nevesr been a cool thing to do. Blaming weather for losing an event inside? That’s despicable. And why the hell did they ever send blimps to arenas or domed stadiums? These are but a few of mysteries of professional sports.

See TYT’s take on sports (really lame) excuses here.

See the Raven-Jets game of 24 December 2000 here.

Time To Bend Over And Kiss Your Ass Goobye?

I’m not an expert. On anything. I make clear once again that I don’t know what I know, nor do I know what I think.

My feelings however, those I get. Well. Most of the time anyway.

I’m scared right now. Not for me. When Death comes for me I will spread my arms wide and greet him, because he won’t be coming for yet another person that I love. He will be coming for me.

It is the human condition for which I fear. If you think things are bad, that it might be a stretch to predict worse to come, congratulations, you’re an optimist. Good for you.

Enjoy that sentiment while you can. I don’t believe you’ll have it for long. And this is not the time for sentiment and dreams.

This is the time for fighting and for nightmares with more sure to follow. This 60 Minutes segment is nightmare fuel with no ice, served neat.

I won’t say much about it now. I want you to watch it. And think, really think, of the ramifications when all is taken into account.

Answer to Prompt: What Book Could You Read Over And Over Again?

What book could you read over and over again?

My novel, unpublished. See my recent post “The Cursed Novel”.

It’s good and I can hardly believe that I was good enough to do it. I never had a plan, just a challenge laid down by my older brother. Three conditions had to me met. I never thought it was impossible, but how I met the challenge surprised me.

What I ended up with could be big screen magic, shot in sequels, but more practical on streaming services. My dying wish is to see it happen. Because a screenplay and casting would break the curse.

DON’T Call Me Incel!

Someone in a YouTube comment used “incel” to describe me and reason out my response to a terrible comment on some video I can’t even remember. I didn’t know what it meant so I googled it.

I’m not one of those guys by any stretch of the effort or imagination of what was probably the real thing or a Karen.

That was bad enough, but it wasn’t quite on. Today I found the real definition.

I’m also not a “Ken” or a “Chad”.

“Incel” refers to any male who can’t have sex, for whatever reason, is bitter about it, and basically tries to censor nude art or who does the opposite (the opposite would be, in my experience, a very dangerous man–he’d be a predator in the making).

Holy crap was that a long sentence. Still, not as long as the years Trump deserves to serve at some country club prison. Cause you know no ex-president is going to no supermax. Nor should he; it would be a disaster, and no matter what he’s done, his acolytes can not be handed a martyr. Not if this country is to survive.

Trump himself may be an incel. Look at how he treats women. His diet alone justifies the guess that his veins and arteries are fit for an entire circulatory system replacement. I’d bet real money that he can’t have an erection. For him, screwing the American people is a substitute for sex: he’s a control freak, a liar and a cheater, traitorous and treacherous to the last cell in his body.

Aside from that, “incel,” or “involuntary celibate”, has its internet tentacles everywhere.

There’s another group, “volcels”, men who are “voluntarily celibate”. Why anyone would blame others for their own decision to abstain is a red flag question. These guys are fucked-up in the head, and one must question whether they truly abstain by choice. That would be repression and I believe it makes them a threat. Perhaps I exaggerate, or overstate the danger. But if one man harms a woman or child because of it, then my point would be valid.

It has happened. History is full of monsters who tried to suppress sexual drives and ended up as predators. And worse: they tend to be the torturing variety. If not, they’re likely to feel incomplete after a sexual assault and murder their victim.

Sure, I’m overthinking, but someone has to do it. You have to be able to spot these groups and individuals and by whatever means, overprotect yourself and your family. I say this because it’s a matter of life and death. Don’t take chances.

Someone with internet porn activity isn’t nearly the threat you are told. Their search histories mean little compared to who they are.

But men who identify as incel or volcel are a potential, and probably imminent, danger.

The reason is, most have feelings of sexual or other inadequacies, and I get that. All my life, I never measured up to anything anyone thought I should be. Add the guilt I felt from sexual abuse and you have a boy who grew up hating himself inside and out. Exposed to porn and voyeurism, taught exhibitionism and that my body wasn’t mine to keep private and protect, I was doomed to have PTSD and I didn’t even know about autism or dyslexia, and everything about me became dysfunctional. Especially romantic relationships.

I’ve written about that. I did so because I thought I could help others. And looking back, I hope that spouses and family members got some insight. As a writer, you never get to know these things. All you can do is open up the wounds and let others see them in all their grotesque horror.

In the spring of 2001, after leaving a trail of awful relationships behind me, I quit the game. Sex was secondary to everything else as I grew ever more sick.

The PTSD and everything else had taken their toll. I didn’t want to just have sex. It was good, don’t get me wrong here. But I wanted most just to be loved, and I wasn’t. I could never be valued by anyone in matters of the heart. At least I finally saw it. After being stalked and somehow always choosing women who were wrong for me almost as much as I was for them, I’d had enough. And shouldn’t that be enough for anyone?

Because I’ve known beautiful women I could have been treated better by. They either lived contentedly alone or they already had someone.

I always got along best with the single women who had given up on men. And while they generalized and stereotyped, I didn’t think they were unjustified in doing so.

But it goes that way for men, too. Sometimes you have to realize that the old saying “there’s someone for everyone” is a lofty lie with a filling of bullshit. No, there isn’t. And for the walking wounded like me, this is especially true.

I am not bitter about making a life choice that has been good for me. Why would I be? That makes no sense at all. I quit the sex game because I was not capable of that kind of relationship anymore. I was never one for one night stands which my generation is infamous for. I always wanted the whole deal or nothing.

After being divorced, I kind of figured that one of those should be enough for anyone. I’ve never understood how little regard people have for what I hold as something very special and sacred. People who have been married more than twice are a genuine puzzle to me. I just don’t get it.

So there’s another reason for my decision: I no longer wanted sex without marriage and I wasn’t going to be marrying anyone.

When you see incel groups, volcel groups or others, stay the hell away. And you can’t win a battle with a Becky, a Karen, a Chad or Ken. Ken is Karen’s male counterpart, pushy, loud, obnoxious and prejudiced, probably narcissistic. Chad is Becky’s male counterpart; unaware, privileged, prejudices flowing out of them. Chads and Beckys are wildly promiscuous and full of themselves and not bashful about texting selfies, clothed, in swimsuits or nude. They are uncaring that these selfies will wind up all over the world. They don’t give a shit.

Until one potential Karen saw her picture on a porn site and sued. And apparently won. Every mainstream website immediately scrapped almost every photograph in their archives. Videos were slower to be gutted, but with billion-dollar industries, you know it won’t last. When the heat’s gone, it’ll all bounce back. They just need to find and expoit loopholes or lobby for new laws. And they can do it. And they will.

Why take selfies then? Don’t care what happens to them? Oh, but you will. You will.

Don’t call me “incel”. I’m mot bitter about not having sex. I may admire the beauty of the female, but I also admire her.

And one last thing.

If the United States ever gets to survive, it will be because women of integrity lead us out of the darkness. Marjorie Taylor Green is a Karen and probably more. It will be women who kick her out of office who will get the job done. But do they have their own slang name too?

It turns out that yes, they do. And we have known so many.

They’re called heroes.

Wait. Just What AM I?

And when he gets to Heaven,

To Saint Peter he will say,

I know I don’t deserve it sir,

But I’d really like to stay.

Sort of a bad day. You know what I mean? I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am. What have I done?

Lord, what have I done?

I’m not linking any videos. No articles. I have nothing but hate for myself.

Did you know that April is Autism Awareness Month? I didn’t. I do now.

It runs in my family. Buried deep in some gene or chromosome somewhere. I have it. Certainly my childhood kept me in check, fear of lashing and beatings, all that. But once away from home I don’t know. Never occurred to me that I had multiple mental illnesses; how does one so traumatized ever realize that shit? I just knew I had problems.

Never should such a man have children. I loved them, but they died because of me. I can’t ignore it, can’t hide, can’t smother it. It’s true.

My son lived in hell. I really have no excuse to lie; everyone missed it. The autism. He was diagnosed ADD/HD and drugged. First, Ritalin. Then Concerta. Oh, they mitigated some of the problem behavior.

But he lacked the ability to tell anyone how he really felt. Such horrible things people did to him or had him do to them. He was trapped. He acted out. Then he was given narcotics. Hooked from that hour and minute, because for an hour or so, there was calm. Silence. Feeling good for the first time in his life.

The rest of his life was spent chasing the feeling of that first high. He found it in fentanyl, “fenny”. The killer drug from Hell.

Don’t bother. Don’t write to republican senators if you lose someone you love to fenny because it don’t mean nothing. From their lips, they say it out loud: “We don’t care.”

Anyone saying otherwise is a goddamn liar. Both parties are at odds, both impotent but talking mighty big. Street drugs cannot be fought. Not by parents, not by preachers, doctors, shamans, police, not even by the ghost of John Wayne. Intervention does not work. Rehab programs are a multi-billion dollar scam. The odds against rehabilitation are astronomical, and I know it. First, the addict must want to stop. Second, they need lots of support. Those two things almost never coexist. The drugs and alcohol are too strong. Stronger than you.

Having mental and emotional problems makes everything worse. Of the users I’ve known including myself, I’ve known two people who beat the odds. I’m one of them but I don’t count. One is a family member. The other is a walking, talking miracle. A super woman who had everything going against her.

What could have saved my boy?

Look, it’s not like I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t do it. I had no idea. When I did, it was too late. He was already ashes. For all I know, those have been dumped in his mother’s garden so the urn could be used again.

Even in death, they pissed on him. No wake. No service. Oh, but there was a barbecue scheduled. By then, his mother and stepfather were getting twisted up too. I don’t forgive them for what happened to my boy any more than I can forgive myself.

Today, I grieve anew for my son, who died just shy of 30 years in hell. My only consolation is, he was a Christian.

I was able to at least give that to my children. They did publicly say that they were of the Faith.

But while I believe they’re in heaven, I am still in hell. I deserve it. I didn’t see. I didn’t know.

I missed it.

Don’t let it happen to you. Read up. Make mental health as important as physical health for your child a top priority. Be close and live as best you can as an example to them of all the good things that one should be.

And pray that you won’t end up like me, alone, with a hole in you where they used to be.

Try not to bury pain or guilt. If you don’t deal with it now, mark my words: there will come a reckoning.

Today, I don’t like myself. Today, I grieve. There’s no comfort for a man whose life was wasted. Nor should there be.

Hug them. Tell them how much you love them, but show it, too. Sometimes words without actions are worthless. Take them for ice cream. Walks in the park. Play video games with them. Help with homework, feed them before you eat, but do take meals together.

Go see a movie. A ball game. Go bowling. Be a real parent.

Be well my friends. I love you all.

Those Eerie Backrooms

“From the most innocent and mundane come the things we fear the most.”

–Michael Smith, blogger, 20 January, 2023.

I’ve often had feelings of unease and then a questioning of reality during and following innocent errands, trips to new places (most of which were hardly “new” but new to me, as in, places I’d never been before.

Most recently, and perhaps significantly as well, was a trip to an oddly generic office building in Ellicott City. I was to see an ophthalmology specialist, a plastic surgeon.

Driven there by my healthcare worker who accompanied me to the suite, I was struck immediately by the ordinary familiarity with it. I had been to the location before, I was certain of it. I knew the area well, as it contains a somewhat infamous and infuriating intersection, known for accidents, road rage and confusion among drivers because of limited vision ahead and the lack of automatic signal. There is one close by, but it only makes the problem of entering its intersection worse. You never forget such a place because traffic backs up ahead of the intersection itself by an obsolete merge area with little allowance for courtesy or patience. Yes. I’d been here before. It even has a place in my novel.

Upon entering the building, I was gripped by an uncanny feeling which had the promise of getting more serious.

Not Déjà Vu. I knew I’d been in the building so that particular sensation was not present. Of course, it had been sufficiently into the past that I could not recall which doctor or practice I had been there to see, and of course that causes people to be distracted on a somewhat semi conscious level. And this, I suppose, could contribute to what I experienced next.

My healthcare worker punched the elevator button for the second floor and the doors closed. Assuming that we were on the first floor, it took too long to reach the second floor. It was wrong, just as the tiny lobby had been wrong. I actually said to her that I didn’t like the whole building because it just felt “off”. She pretty much ignored this and that’s as it should be. But as we turned a corner to walk through one of two long hallways, it felt even more off, as if I had entered some sort of parallel universe, one I did not belong in. It felt like it wasn’t real, as if staying there would result in some nebulous but unfortunate outcome.

Once we reached the proper office suite, it should have cleared up. In different spaces, energy, temperature and pressure can have slight changes. These could explain why one suddenly forgets why they have gone to the kitchen, which happens to everyone. We stand, vacantly staring, until we either remember our reason for being there, or give up. It’s so common an experience that no one really feels fearful of it.

The reception area was generic, but small; so much so that an appropriately wallpapered support beam stood in the center of the room. This subconsciously forces one to picture the building at its barebone newest appearance before finishing carpentry crews moved in. It’s there, but you never really put much thought to it unless you’re an architect, who of course would know the entire building on sight and see its blueprint in his or her mind.

In practice, though, it adds a certain claustrophobic element, and various reactions from annoyance to terror are probably felt quite plainly by incoming clients. Around this county it is common structure. I’ve seen it before but there is always something that makes each suite different: these range from what type of practice or other business uses the space, but all have at least light touches which make them unique in some fashion. The counter at the reception window had at the right end a large silver-colored candle box, usually associated with Christmas decorations of an old-fashioned lantern vein. I’ve wanted one for years. Never seen one before except in advertising or as elements in holiday season wallpapers for computers and phones.

That’s what I think of as a grounding point. It is real.

Or is it? You’ll question everything before you leave here, old man.

There comes a moment when that voice speaks inside you, and at least a good number, no matter how much in the minority they are, believe once again that their perception proves that we are living in a simulation.

Personally, my take on “simulation reality” is that it would still prove the existence of God; a higher being, a creator, and that our souls are who and what we really are, and physical life in our sense is temporary, fleeting, but very real.

In other words, who built the machine? It’s a way for people to account for their anti-religious stances while paradoxically also proving that they can in fact believe in some higher being.

The doctor saw me, and in his examination room, a small picture hung. A depiction of a doctor and patient as if painted in Ancient Egypt. It was singularly remarkable, another grounding object.

But wait, did I really see it, or was it some trick because I’m about to replay “Assassin’s Creed Origins”, a game which takes place in Ancient Egypt?

Come on, now, this questioning of ordinary life is really getting out of hand.

That wasn’t the end of this weird excursion. Oh, no. It gets worse.

Having set the date for the optic surgery, having also been reassured that I did not have cancer, you’d think I’d feel all set. I should have; after covid-19’s initial outbreak and disruption of most healthcare concerns, I’m finally taking care of myself.

My healthcare worker had left after checking in. I had to go downstairs and call her. I left the office, and right outside of the door, there was this old man. Really old, and he was bent as he walked, concealing his face. Immediately he struck me as sinister, and after asking him which direction the elevator was in (a generic hallway, exit signs at both ends, and the lack of anything to regain one’s bearings especially if vision impaired is unsettling), I got the idea that I’d just asked the devil which way to go.

I followed him at a lagging pace. I had severe misgivings, however hilarious they seem now, about getting on an elevator with him and going the opposite direction of up.

I passed a door marked “women” and decided I’d use the men’s room. But I couldn’t find it. I really did need to go; I’d had a glass of water with my meds before leaving. I said to the old man, who was now insisting that I get on the elevator, where the Men’s room was. He pointed but paused, so I told him to go ahead. He did, but didn’t he seem disappointed?

Entering the latrine was completely disequilibrating: it, too, was all wrong. The urinal was too small in proportion to the room and in comparison to every other pisser I’d ever seen!

The same generic wallpaper was there, yellowish-beige, a very unsettling color if ever I saw one. The only way it could have been worse was if they were blood-red or all black.

I went to wash my hands and found the hottest water I had felt since slipping while making pasta and plunging my left hand into boiling water. Had the old man really been the devil, and was he now punishing me for not going down on the elevator with him?

Back at the elevator, I noticed a door to a suite adorned with enormous silver laurel leaves: who does that, I wondered. It is bizarre and out of place and gave me the flying shits. I had to get out of this unholy place!

Pushed the button for the first floor. Exited the elevator only to find myself looking through a huge window onto the parking lot below. I stepped back into the elevator and found a button marked “LL” — Lower Level. I hesitated. I knew it was the floor we had entered the building on, but why mark it such when it should be the first floor? I wondered if the old man would be waiting, if the elevator would take me below ground. Far below ground. All of this seems silly now, because at no time did I feel panic. It was all disorienting and creepy, but not frightening. Except for the old man, who in reality must have been acting out of kindness. Still, the whole setting contributed to my perception, and in future, more consideration must be given to ensure that the layout and aesthetics of buildings comfort rather than the opposite. Because once outside, I felt better, less oppressed in the rain and cold air.

LIMINAL

There’s creepy pasta all over the internet, so much that there’s always more to catch up on. One of them involves “liminal spaces”. The first story and accompanying photograph involved something called “noclipping” a sort of transport into another reality, almost always accidentally. One ends up in a liminal space, like an office floor with yellow walls and absolutely no people or even furnishings. There is nothing but miles of connecting offices and one can actually become trapped there. Coming from 4chan initially, this concept has of course migrated to reddit, where it has been added to. Now long hallways exist in which you can walk until you die and never find a way out. Noclipping is a new concept for me, (I’ve encountered it in video games) but I take it to mean an accident during normal travel which deposits one into an alternate, in-between reality.

I have encountered the feeling before. Once, a very long time ago, in the 1980s when mega-malls were the next great part of the American Dream, I had to deliver a carpet to a shop called T-shirts Plus in the White Marsh Mall. The mall was unfinished, and that’s not an experience I’ve ever wanted to repeat. I walked through the mall with a heavy roll of Burlington Industries carpet slung over my shoulder (I was so much younger then) and the only comfort was a few construction workers above me.

While it was fascinating to see the mall in incomplete condition, it was also unnerving and uncomfortable. With the failure of malls to survive Reaganomics, and finally strip malls and online shopping, urban exploration has become popular, as have the recorded proof, both visual and auditory, of such risky endeavors. Trespassing is one thing; risking one’s life and limb quite another.

Liminal spaces are a real fear, although unquantified and little known, that I believe has been with us for a very long time. Whether psychologists want to examine the phenomenon, I can’t say, but it certainly does seem to qualify for scrutiny. It appeals to a fear of being lost and never found, a fear of being watched or menaced by an unseen force or being, a fear of being trapped, closed-in, and even of open spaces.

And while I believe these fears to be ancient in origin, I believe it all comes from one fear more than any others: the loss of control over one’s own life.

Since I have never been in control and believe that the concept of it is delusion and unreal, I have nothing to fear.

But yesterday, I came very close.

The old man was no devil. But in heightened awareness, when one suffers from various maladies, the wrong surroundings can make one believe almost anything.

Perhaps no one can explain the phenomenon more concisely than the Why Files personalities A.J. and Hecklefish. Here is the episode that gives us the skinny on liminal spaces and how they have entered pop culture.

And if you should find yourself somewhere strange, a featureless, empty space which evokes a feeling of the uncanny, of being menaced, trapped or lost, don’t worry.

You aren’t really alone.

Bad Vibes

Beware the Tellers of Stories

I do a lot online, but today I got creeped out by a recently risen star who concentrates on dark stories. Let’s leave his name out of it because what I’m saying here is impossible to prove and I could be held liable if I were to give his name.

But things just don’t add up in such a way that I can believe he’s for real. His posted material all dates to one or two years ago, but not much bears a date more recently despite claims of posting what amounts to a schedule equivalent to a typical workweek.

I’m easily creeped out but I should have stuck with my gut the first time I saw one of his posts: don’t trust this guy or anything he says.

I unsubscribed, and feel better except for the fact he lives too close by for my comfort. If he were located in Bosnia I would still be creeped out. Not far enough away.

But this dude’s 100 miles away. Then there’s the mysterious missed call and a text from someone in that area just two hours ago.

Probably means nothing, but even if you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. For all I know I could wind up anchored at the bottom of the Atlantic in front of “Her Majesty’s secret safe.”

Pizza in the Morning

I’ve written words of praise for a local pizzeria for several years. It’s not Domino’s or Pizza Hut. But a few days ago I wanted pizza and was the first customer there. I was ignored for 5 minutes but I understood. Then several employees came through the door. I said good morning to them in Italian because when they came in, they said it. One of them laughed at me, and then, rounding the corner to get behind the counter, stared at me and sneered. I placed my order with the counter man and he said, give it 10 minutes and come back, as if telling me to get out and not wait inside. I didn’t have to pay until I came back, so I didn’t. I went back outside and sat on a bench and smoked. As I thought about it, I became very distressed by the treatment I’d been given. Not angry, not hurt. Just had bad vibes, as if going back in there would be a mistake. I said to myself, fuck this and went shopping at the grocery store instead. I never went back and I never will again. Treating customers with open contempt is the sure sign of a place to avoid. I also changed what I had written as a review in Google Maps. Because with that level of hate for customers, I shuddered thinking what they might be doing to their food, like adding extra ingredients, you know?

Avoid toxic assholes. Never go near them. Learn from experience. Pay attention to what others say and do.

Above all, follow your gut. If your belly tightens up, it may be telling you wrong, that’s true. But I’ve found that 99 out of 100 times, I was wrong when second guessing myself. From always being treated with contempt, I trust my gut. Sure, sometimes I’m wrong. I’ll give you that.

Usually though, I’m not.

Bunk and Circuses

Ah, recessions and inflation, you gotta love em, right? We may go hungry, but the longest-running scams in human history do very well in such times as these.

Did you think Alex Jones was done for when he lost his right by way of a court ruling to keep saying that the Sandy Hook shooting was staged?

Think again. The man is a maniac and he’s psycho, but a lousy salesman, he is not.

And if you’re like me, you probably never recovered from the fact that he makes millions off his complete line of completely stupid products. There’s his chocolate chicken bone milkshakes that restore–hell, I forget what they do. But on one segment of his show he demonstrated how delicious it was by drinking the shit. Well, I take that back. He sampled it, made the grimace of a sickened hemlock drinker–Socrates, minus the famous wisdom.

Actually he’s a lot like Dr. Oz. He sells shit to the public with false claims and pockets profits that would make Joel Osteen turn green with pure jealousy. Jones’s line of products have been determined to be everything from toxic to completely useless to nonsensical. And fraudulent.

He was lampooned twice by John Oliver and I have no doubt he still sells perineal wipes. Oh, come on. You didn’t know? Yes, Jones sells wet wipes (specifically) for the area between your genitals and your anus. During the COVID-19 lockdown he sold some shit he swore would prevent you from catching the virus. That is, he did, until the FDA told him to knock that shit off. Jones is but one scammer in a huge cesspool of flim-flammers, snake oil salesmen and whatever else you want to call these thieves who take money from the gullible and never miss a good night’s sleep.

https://youtu.be/pLafjTh8Tdg

It’s okay. These guys always get their comeuppance in the end. Jim and Tammy Bakker scammed millions from their followers on a retreat that was supposed to be a paradise in which to seek peace and restoration. It ended up being one 8-room shithole. Meanwhile, the Bakkers pissed the money away by weird shit like Jim’s pissy-ass, baby demands that whole baker’s racks of cinnamon rolls be placed in his bedroom every morning. He didn’t eat them, didn’t even like them. Just liked waking up to the smell of fresh cinnamon buns. One time he bought a Rolls Royce even though he and Tammy’s PTL ministry was edging very close to complete and total failure. The brat even once threw a hissy fit when either ketchup or mustard wasn’t on his hamburger. Remind you of anyone?

One Rolls Royce turned into two. A private jet. Another glamorous car. A retreat and theme park, the former of which he sold more than 100 percent capacity. And this was fucking timeshares!

Then it came out that Jim and a fellow preacher had raped his church secretary, and the empire crashed. He had paid Jessica Hahn hush money and screwed up his books. Well, it had gone so badly by then that if he did keep two ledgers as was suspected, neither one of them would have looked very good.

The revelation of the payout to Hahn drew scorn from atheists to liberal Christians who did not like the idea of raping young women and having hundred thousand dollar toilets.

I don’t know about you, but when I gotta shit, I could not possibly care less as to what the commode looks like. I don’t even care where it is. A latrine, a Johnny on the spot, a hole in the ground — it doesn’t matter. I don’t even care if that hole in the ground is occupied by some kind of animal, long as it doesn’t bite or sting my perineal area. It’d be humiliating to have to buy soothing perineal wipes from infowars.

Where was I? Oh, right. Jim Bakker. Well, he got this bright idea of resigning from PTL and handing the reigns over to Jerry Falwell. Who, it turned out, found incredible amounts of missing money and had no problem with saying it out loud. He took permanent control and barred the Bakkers from ever coming back. Then the IRS dropped the bomb.

Bakker and two associates were charged with conspiracy and fraud, Jim was sentenced to 45 years in prison, and wife and false eyelash model Tammy Faye divorced his ass before the damage spread to her.

While I watched all this between and after training, I burned with anger. Here, in one married couple, I thought, was every single thing wrong with false churches. Greed, money, fraud, graft, bribery, sexual perversion and predation, and yet — yet, people scammed out of thousands, tricked and deceived and used so badly, still loved this fucker. How?

Because I didn’t quite believe they understood what he’d done and they were forgiving him anyway! I believed then, as I do now, that to forgive is a Godly, honorable thing, but that’s not exactly what I was seeing either. They all worshipped this filth. Worshipped, and that was the first time I got just how evil the televangelists really were. And they began falling like dominoes.

Jimmy Swaggert had already been outed as a perv for getting caught with a hooker. In 1991, he was pulled over by police for three moving violations: no seatbelt, no vehicle registration, driving on the wrong side of the road. He was with a prostitute at the time. When are men gonna learn, huh? You need to wait until the room is rented before you get her to faceplant into your lap; that way you don’t drive over the line and piss off police officers. How dumb can you get? He should have read The Glitter Dome by Joseph Wambaugh.

I know you probably think I’m a conservative preacher-basher. Well, you’re right. I am.

Because on his release from prison, just as a dog returns to his own vomit, Bakker went right back to his old ways. He found a new eyeliner wife, kind of a Tammy Faye clone; a sugar daddy who gave him the funds to build new condos, and it’s sickening to me.

But one thing’s clearly changed.

He no longer does that seed gospel or “prosperity” gospel shit. Oh, no.

Now he’s a doomsday prepper, hawking buckets of diarrhea as food, and the buckets even double as flotation (!) devices. He wants you to know that the End Days are upon us. After listening to his melodramatic bullshit, I’m never going to write about that subject again. This dickhead went from perverted selfish man-baby and hustler to a convict, a hustler, and a doom-sayer who scares the shit out of people in order to sell bullshit products to gullible people who can’t afford it but swear he’s been reformed.

He’s far from it and here we have another scammer who tried to sell some shit on the claim that it prevented COVID-19. It didn’t, and the FDA threatened to knock his dick in the dirt unless he ceased the sale and renounced his claims. Snake oil.

Jim Bakker, like Alex Jones, is a swine. Not my judgment; it shows in everything they do. And both claim the faith. Both scare people to keep watching and listening and buying their bunk products.

That’s not okay.

Bonus scam: crystals

Yeah, I’m gonna talk bad about crystals. If you don’t want to read it, then please feel free to close this tab.

Spiritualism, talking to the dead, summoning spirits, praising Zeus and Artemis or other gods, contacting angels and demons. Some type of this is practiced by novices, witches, and a host of other people. And New Ageism is going strong.

One of the best-selling products out there is crystals. They come from everything from quartz to birthstones and sell big.

The reason is that they are believed to contain certain energies. This crystal is good for the 3rd eye Chakra, that one is better for genital Chakra. And so on, restoring balance to mind and body and whatever.

It’s a lot of crappola. What scares me most, though, is people using them to summon spirits to accompany them in astral projection. I’ve covered this before. Any spirit you manage to summon will not be a good one. God doesn’t lend his angels out for selfish or evil purposes. They obey his commands, and that’s it. We are not to worship angels. That’s an abomination. You’d fare better praying to a god that never existed, like Hera.

Because if you don’t summon anything good, and something does answer your call, it is the beginning of a nightmare. You won’t like it. And if that nightmare happens, it’s not likely to end without serious help. Forget reiki masters. Real life ain’t like television, folks. You’ll only make things worse. Stop with the seances and ouija boards. You’ll need God’s help and the clock is ticking.

One of several complaints about Ed and Lorraine Warren is that when a family was struggling with incidents they couldn’t understand and needed help, the Warrens would just show up unbidden. And Lorraine, with her seances, always made it worse. Because that shit calls demons to this plane.

More than one story depicted in movies turned out to have been falsified. The Conjuring 2 was a complete fabrication. Or prevarication. In other words, it was bullshit. The Warrens showed up unsolicited and were them promptly told to leave. That’s it. And adding the dramatic ending with that stupid Bee Gees song was plain drek.

The Annabelle stories are a riot, though. Unintentional black comedy is the best. I screamed with laughter.

And just in case you think I’m piling on, or engaging in overkill, let me tell you, more urban legends, at least say, a decade or two ago, were started or embellished and kept going by, you guessed it, religious fruitcakes.

Drilling To Hell

I really don’t know how this got started. I mean, humans do stupid things to the earth. One party drilled through the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay. Beneath it they found an ancient body of water with fierce salinity levels, and any leakage substantial enough could have killed just about every kind of life in the bay. It was a reckless endeavor but I’ve read nothing about it recently. I know that the sample did have ancient microbes, but that’s it. I’m not bothering to research it because I want to talk about a drilling project that took place, supposedly, in Soviet Russia.

I’ve never really understood what the bore was supposed to find, but it’s been said that they were using it to get to the earth’s core, which simply is not possible. At a certain depth, the “real” story goes, they hit rock that proved to be too much for the drill (maybe they were looking for chakra crystals? Scientific studies revealed that crystals have no power to heal or restore vigor or ill health beyond the placebo effect).

There was nothing to do but seal off the bore hole and truck the equipment back to its home.

As you’ll see in the following video, what happened next grew legs and turned the abandoned shaft into the tunnel to Hell.

Way back in the MySpace days someone posted a recording of the “souls” down in Hell and what sounded like a woman ordering others to do things. It’s different than the one in the following video, but just wait until you get to the part where he tells you who propelled this nothing into a still-repeated, godawful lie, then to an urban legend that pastors still use to scare the shit out of people so they’ll pay up at the offering plate in order to buy their way to Heaven.

Things are never what a good story says they are. Using manipulation and lies to convert new Christians is evil, disgusting, brazen.

The Insanity Has Spread

Russia has stated that “Donald Trump is our agent” and calls the FBI raid on his Florida estate (I won’t use the name anymore because it’s such a stupid fucking name) “persecution”.

Hell, we knew that from the beginning. Come on, Putin, hurry up before your STDs kill your psycho ass, and tell us something we don’t know. Oops. I did say STDs, didn’t I? Well that’s rather silly of me, innit?

I don’t know what’s eating him. But sure as Billy goats try to hump girls on bicycles, something’s got Putin. I shouldn’t have said STDs. That was very immature of me. But I enjoyed it.

See, it’s like this. I hate lies. I hate dishonesty in every form. Just tell the fucking truth. Don’t bother with philosophy or bullshit like “the truth will set you free” because sometimes telling the truth lands you in a prison cell.

I don’t know why. It’s beyond all my abilities to analyze as to the level of rabid commitment people have to Donald Trump. He is a boob and a douchebag. He’s a swine, yet people have breached this country’s Capitol building and gone to prison for it. Before that, several dumbasses went to jail then prison for various things done in his 2016 campaign. They all thought he would give them pardons, but Trump does not live to be loyal. He lives for others to be loyal to him, without question. During his term (and new tell-all books are being published like kernels in a carnival popcorn machine) he actually asked, “Why can’t people treat me like Hitler?”.

But some do. And a man got shot by FBI agents because the FBI raided Trump’s home so he declared all Feds should die and then quite astonishingly tried to enter a field office. The chase ended with him being shot to death. I’m of the mind that if you’re willing to die for a cause, the only legitimate one is protecting someone else in imminent danger. And I would do that which is why I carry a blade. Don’t judge me — it might be you I fight for. I’m too banged-up to fight, fuck or run a footrace, but never doubt that I would do the honorable thing should you be in danger.

And there are millions just like me.

But the Aryans, Nazis and other hate groups including the far-right churches, they’ll do the opposite. You don’t matter. But to them, Trump is the messiah and must be restored to his rightful throne. To this end they’ve already killed, and are calling for a civil war. That’s three things: terrifying, laughable and incredibly tragic.

As far as Russia claiming to own Trump, that’s a smoking gun. They know better than Trump does what’s in those files, because he’s too stupid to. He can barely read; remember that he asked for his briefings to include more maps and pictures? What a simpleton.

We will see where this goes, but I don’t think he’s getting off this time. He scared and beat this country down with bunk, but sometimes, nothing can stop the truth from being revealed.

And remember, the first step toward wisdom can only come from first admitting that you’re fool. Donald Trump will never know that simple, universal truth.

Til next time, stay safe, stay aware, and be well.

Vatican Infiltrated

He will be history’s last pope.

The Holy Church will be reforged in favor of heretics who kill any and all in their way. The Holy See will be excommunicated. He will leave Rome for sanctuary but even the Swiss Guard is not to be trusted. By majority he is not to be killed but is imprisoned in remoteness and kept silent. Holy communion banished as heresy, a new man sits on the Throne of St. Peter; a puppet to powerful heretics.

He will falsely invoke the name of God but be forbidden to ever speak of the Holy Trinity.

All are called to confess, and true Christians will be tortured into renouncing all but heresy.

All those who resist will die under torture as the world watches. Some are hunted and killed by gunfire and left in piles, after a time to be burned. Blood covers St. Peter’s Square. The third plague thrives as the dead are stacked.

The true pope will die of heart break and despair and malnourished diet.

Jews will be killed and persecuted but never openly. They are to be used as political pawns later.

The United States attacked from within and without. The reckless policies of the government will reap a whirlwind for all.

Water sources will be poisoned by men who come in camouflage I can’t see. By night, in rafts they later stab to deflate and set afire, they go to reservoirs and dump small but concentrated containers of deadly poison. They leave by illegal government license plates upon black vehicles.

Water filtration will be useless against the undetected poison. When enough has been added, the water will kill. Many trips they make, in small teams, in different areas of dammed lakes, until water flow from upriver is cut off and diverted. Drought will be everywhere. The powerful will have water tanks, the result of corporations buying water rights year after year. Mass media leads the world to believe it is all too terrible to resist. Investigative journalists and detectives have no proof and the people belive everything they are told. All dissenters will be publicly pressured as liars and trusted media are tortured to lie as if what they say is true.

The true God of all creation will be turned away from because true believers regard him as turning against the innocent. He will be cursed and abandoned by the hungry, diseased and persecuted. Churches will turn to heresy for false gods.

Violence at random is everywhere and authorities never dare interfere. They too are puppets. Law and order are gone as mobs steal and murder and rape. Every vice is openly partaken and indulged and no one is spared. Children are raped in plain view and there is no one to stop it.

All cities thirst and hunger. Squatters are everywhere. Homeowners killed and their homes taken by evil men and women. The devil is raised above God and hailed. City streets are full of garbage and waste. There is no trash collection as all workers flee the urban areas. Along the US east coast many city areas at sea level before are underwater. Homes ruined, seafood inedible. There is no reason to remain in Miami, Myrtle Beach, Wilmington. The Carolina resorts vanish. Washington DC floods, the Chesapeake is expanding and once famous for shellfish and sport fishing, it will carry the stench of poison and dead fish.

New Jersey and New York coast and rivers flood, made worse by powerful storms at spring tide.

In the sky a glow to the north is visible for days, by day and by night, a sign of fear to the ones who don’t know what happened. Satellite surveillance and transmission stop all communications.

A money loan is impossible to get even in places still peaceful. Banks close, people have their accounts emptied by the powerful. Suffering, disease, starvation ends in death no one can imagine. Until the end they all scream or are rendered silent.

Those who keep the true word and speak it in remote places will have their tongues cut out and in agony they have their wounds cauterized as examples.

There will be no zombies but the second plague makes them decay and touching them or breathing near them spreads the disease. Cloth masks ineffective, the disease spreads.

But it will only get worse.

I am sick at these visions. I wish they didn’t happen. I’ve never been through anything like this and they will put me sick for days. Things so ugly that I have never imagined anything like them. Worse than any nightmare, I believe I may have seen a future we can’t avoid.

May God have mercy and spare us what I’ve seen and heard, amen.

An American Asshole

I may be a decent person. I’m not sure. I think I’m just an asshole.

I may be a decent writer. I’m not sure of that, either. I don’t get very widely read, so I doubt it. More likely is the possibility that a few posts are interesting to a few readers, and that’s fine. Mostly, though, people don’t care about what assholes say.

I’ve had to revert to the original title of this site, Memoirs of an American Asshole because the American Observer seemed a bit pretentious to me. And no matter what one other person (just one) says, I am an asshole. I can’t change that by obeying one person’s protests.

But there’s a lot to this claim that I’m an asshole, mostly, I believe, things which are not my fault, but which made me what I am. I cannot lie about what I am. And I have no idea who I am.

Memory lapses, notable ones, indicate more than simple PTSD by itself. And that condition is every bit the hell I’ve been trying to describe, but there’s a worse kind.

Sometimes called by the clinical name complex post traumatic stress disorder, there is a whole different list of symptoms of the illness. The usual victims are children. The causes are “imprisonment”; or being in a situation of danger which is prevalent and from which there is no escape; being subjected to slavery; sexual abuse for an extended period of time; being in a solitary confinement situation; being denied healthcare; proper parenting and guidance, constructive growth reinforcement and encouragement, replaced by strict reinforcement of fear conditioning to prevent certain behaviors outside of the home base environment.

There’s more to it. I’ve been, along with my siblings, compared by a professional on the Donahue Show (1992) to a concentration camp survivor. I never felt that was a fair comparison since real survivors of the Holocaust went through a literal hell on earth. Who was I to claim what they had endured?

By 1992, I was, for all intents and purposes, already gravitating to the liberal view of politics and social and societal ideology and dynamics, respectively. I held interest in studying war and the horrors it never failed to create, so Europe in World War Two was an area of study I found as fascinating as I did disgusting.

In the winters the prisoners in forced labor camps froze solid. Before that, toes fell off. Fingers turned black, wooden in sensation, then disarticulated the same way toes did.

Lice, human fleas, worms and disease were constant. Lashes with whips and beatings with every object possible; there was rape, child abuse both sexual and other kinds, and the slaughter was staggering. Anyone who survived was going to be forever scarred. Who had any right but they in claiming they had experienced a literal hell while still alive?

But as I approach another birthday, I realize that there have been scores of people from every civilization in human history who have experienced hell.

I seek not to compare myself nor my pain with any other, but I know in my heart that victims are victims, no matter where they come from, no matter what’s been done to them. The end results are always the same: broken people who have known evil and savagery. Fucked-up people.

And so, I’ve grown old despite the odds. The price for this is too high. Never-ending pain, loneliness, longing, and mental illness that drugs can moderate but never cure. A gently shifting personality that seems to cause memory problems and even accent and writing-style changes. Mood changes that must be mysterious to others, but never to me. Sleeping and eating disorders, compulsive behavior, long periods of depression and consequent inaction. Memories I can’t get out of my head.

I remember better times. I really do. But the horrible things always come creeping back, and I can’t stop them.

Friends have told me, “Don’t think about it!” but they haven’t been through what I have. Or what you have. We can’t say a prayer or wave a magic wand and stop anything. And we were made this way for a reason, and we evolved this way for a reason.

Only God knows the whole picture, but in the years when I believed in God but thought he had turned his head away, I had to keep from wondering how much of a reason he really had. For anything.

God was so far away then. And I was so very alone.

I looked for him. I begged for help and I cried. But the pain went on, the torture went on.

I became mean, bitter. It took years, decades. I became an asshole. I did things nobody will ever know about. Things so shameful they’ve never made it to a post on this site, and they never will. Things I must take with me to the grave until the time comes to account for myself to God.

I fear that day.

I fear very little here on this earth. What can be done to me that has not already been done? Not much.

My family does not understand, but they do try, and I love them all the more for it.

My lady friend knows more about me than anyone else has ever known. She is the one who hates this blog title. But I can’t believe that she knows everything I’ve told her and thinks I’m any better than what I say.

I need to talk to my doctor about my diagnosis. Because things just get worse, and I would normally say at this point, it’s not fair, but of course it isn’t, and everyone who shares my experiences knows that. But God gave us the ability, if we’re willing to use it, to sustain grievous damage, learn from the pain, and adapt, learn and search for more clues that, in the end, might help another in our position. I believe that is why we’re here, able to communicate, reach out, and grab that hand reaching down to pull us up.

Because one day, we’ll be the ones reaching down to pull someone else up. We may never know it if that happens. Sometimes people in trouble don’t have anyone to talk to. Sometimes they come across a blog while looking for something to grab onto. It could be yours. Could be mine.

They may never leave a comment, but perhaps in your words, they’ve gained the strength to get through one more night of loneliness, one more day of pain. Maybe, just maybe, God speaks through you once in a while. Didn’t you ever write something, come back later and not remember writing it, yet you find the words to be moving? Who knows what that’s about?

Sometimes, God might whisper in your ear so that you can help someone. Maybe he even whispers to an asshole like me. I’d like to believe that. Such a thing would make my hell a bit less unbearable. Would make the pain and the memories mean something.

Share what you know. Tell people what you have endured, only to live to tell the tale. You might save a life. That’s why we’re here. Not to kill, make war, or work every day like a robot. I believe that. I believe it in my heart.

JH Medicare Advantage: Avoid It!

We’ve just begun the summer. Well, almost. It will be over by the time we can start looking for new insurance for 2023. But I’m ready now.

The Johns Hopkins HMO Medicare advantage plan costs, where others are free. That name and the premium was why I took it. But since it went into effect on January 1st I’ve had nothing but trouble. I keep getting Denial of Payment notices. In addition to simple co-pays I get the notices. Basically they don’t pay for anything. The CTA scan I found out belatedly that was indicated by the MRI showed no immediate danger. According to someone.

This time instead of denial on the laughable premise that I hadn’t gotten doctor approval, something astounding was listed for the reason: I didn’t need it.

Unprofessional in the extreme, it said the “artery in your belly (is) fine.”

Which artery? Because I don’t know what that means. More than one down there.

I called customer service. I was treated as a dummy and a lowlife. Worst customer service experience I’ve ever had. Condescending and rude, he basically told me to “disenroll”. Is that even a real word?

I don’t care.

I was accused of ignoring texts. The last one in February. Three. They send you three. Then they take your money and send letters cordially inviting you to suffer. Oh, and by now it’s too late. They won’t tell you what those texts said.

Medical insurance is a joke, a very sick joke. It’s basically corporate fraud. Johns Hopkins Medicare insurance should be avoided. There are free plans that don’t screw you this badly, nor talk to you as if you’re a cow pie with a voice box.

He said NOTHING!

MRI done by 1.5 Tesla in July 2021 shows trouble coming.

It describes the following:

L1-2: bulging of disc with facet arthrosis. Translation: it hurts and it is degenerative. It’s gonna get worse.

L2-3: slight bulging of disc w/contact: traversing L3 nerve root. Some arthrosis. Translation: L3 disc bulges, hits a nerve and causes moderate to severe pain.

L3-4: bulging of the disc. Moderate facet degenerative change. Bilateral foranimal stenosis. Translation: collapsing disc compressing nerve root. Contact with spinal cord possible but degenerative nature of condition insures contact will become more likely over time.

L4-5: bulging of disc. Moderate facet degenerative change. Translation: it will get worse.

Diagnostician’s Impression:

Multilevel degenerative disc disease with significant stenosis. Secondary to prominent facet arthrosis. Prominent subgcondral edema along L5-S1 facet articulation particular. Translation: I hurt and from here it gets worse. In two vertebrae fusion is recommended. That’s hardcore surgery and it will hurt until I die but keep outward parts of the spine apart in order to minimize damaging contact. With cartilage being lost, the surgery will become more indicated over time.

There are findings suspicious for a partially visualized aneurysm of descending thoracic aorta with additional formation and ectasia of the infrarenal abdominal aorta. Large aneurysm of the patient’s right common iliac artery partially visualized. If these findings are not previously known, further assessment with a dedicated CTA study of the chest, abdomen and pelvis is recommended. End of report.

Translation: Patient requires more imaging and angiography w/contrast. Multiple aneurysms including the large one mentioned are an indication of possible additional aneurysms including subarachnoid (surgery can repair/replace damaged arteries and the aorta. We’re talking major surgery that in my case is dangerous in itself. My chances of surviving it are not favorable).

It is likely, being on blood thinners, that in the event of an aneurysm burst, I will die. The most frightening one is in the iliac artery. Aortic aneurysms rupture and kill thousands annually in the US and my risk is higher than most. Iliac artery ruptures are more often seen. In summary, my doctor only looked at the portions of the results related to my complaints of pain. Had he bothered to view the video and read the summary, he would have sent me for the CTA. But he never mentioned it and I never got the print out until today. He also refused, as I knew he would, to prescribe anything to alleviate pain despite having read, at least, the damage done to the spine.

And then he told me a great, big, whopper of a lie: “Opiods will only work for a month. After that they’re not effective.”

In short, he is dishonest, fleetingly and superficially observant, and I’m not sure how long I have to live. I’ve had a feeling lately that I should get the things I want to do done. It’s grown to an intolerable volume. And yet, I will leave too many things unfinished, too many words unwritten and said. But I’m not afraid. I will see my children again. There will be few to mourn. The last thing I want to do when I go is to leave behind more hurt than I already know I will. And hey, when Death comes for me, I’ll greet him as gratefully as I can. He will finally be coming for me, and not someone I love. That’s kind of neat.

If I stop posting for a very long time, you’ll be able to guess what happened. In that event, I choose now to thank every visitor, every subscriber and every like. I love you all. But fear not; I’d say that my chances of dying immediately are slim. So,

A Story of Faith, Recovery and Love

Friday I went shopping. With two stuffed shopping bags slung over my right shoulder, making my back scream with anger at me, I had to lean hard to my left on my cane. Nearly home, the walk proved too much for me and despite the cane, I fell hard to the ground.

My housemate and best friend saw it happen. When I couldn’t move because the pain was too much, he got worried. When I could speak, I asked for a hand up. Together, we could not do it. I was angry at myself.  At my pain. I knew better than to carry that much weight, but I’m a stubborn man and I tried my best. Two women in cars stopped to see if I was okay. One got out and came over to help. She apparently knew I lived in the next building but I didn’t know her. Ugly men like me you just don’t forget.

She helped me untangle the straps and get the bags up on my shoulder. The other woman had waited in her car but made sure I was up and walking before she left. Such kindness and concern had me near tears.

With far too much pain, I made it down the steps and inside, one bag at a time. In what I can only describe as agony, I put my groceries away then rested a minute. I had stopped on the way back for smokes, and got a mini of 12-year-old scotch. I thought, a little drink and this pain will ease up a bit. It didn’t. I downed it in one gulp and waited. Nothing. I guess it didn’t hurt, but it didn’t help. Actually it was really good scotch. But I can’t go down that road again. I lost too much drying out.

One Man Can Make A Difference

A friend, a neighbor, who showed his good heart the first time he said, “Hey, brother, how’s everything” in passing didn’t know my name. But he called me “brother” and I knew that here indeed was a good man. He smiled when he said it.

His name is Jerry. I didn’t know that until about a year ago. Friday , after I’d rested up from my walk and my fall, I needed a smoke. I saw Jerry pulling up after his trip from work and we greeted each other.

Then, uncharacteristically, he decided to approach. I told him I’d fallen, how much pain I was in, and get this: he had a 4-wheel foldable cart for groceries that he was going to throw out a few days earlier, but he had seen me on a cane before, carrying groceries. He told his wife, “I’ll bet Mike would be able to use it.” So he kept it and brought it over to me.

That is one big grocery cart and I had been looking for that size, but couldn’t find it.

Friends

He said we were neighbors and should look out for each other. I said, “Jerry, we’re friends,” and that touched him. He said, “And I’ll take that.” His hand, over his heart. I almost cried.

Jerry told me that he and his wife met in their teens and have been together since. It wasn’t always storybook suff, though. He was, at some point, using heroin, crack cocaine and PCP. All at once. How did he live through that?

His wife stayed with him the whole time, and God knows the future. He knows that he can motivate us to use our suffering to teach others certain things.

Our father knows your heart. Knows everything that’s happened to us, everything we’ve done. He knows he can speak through you if you’re willing. Jerry was willing. Clean and sober for years, he became a pastor. The best of those, they’ve suffered. I don’t believe a Joel Osteen or those like him know what true pain and suffering are. If they ever did, they forsook the lessons they learned for money. That’s squandering life’s lessons and betraying the one, true God. The words of Jesus made clear what the fate of men like that would be. And the picture his words painted? No horror movie can ever come close.

A rich man approached Jesus and asked about eternal life after death. The answer was, “Go and sell all that you have. Give the money to the poor, and come, follow me.” This made the rich man turn away. He worshipped money far more than any god.

Jerry has suffered. He gets the value of pain. He knows we all learn from it. Still, before he left, he asked if he could say a prayer for me. I said, “please,” and closed my eyes. The prayer was beautiful, almost lyrical. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have been receptive to that and declined the offer. I would have anxiety attacks. Pure panic. But for this man, my friend, I very much wanted, and knew I needed, his prayers for me.

Old things left me in those moments. I knew his prayers were powerful, that his faith made them so.

I felt as if I was lighter than ever I had felt. Some kind of weight was taken from me. My faith was weak, so it wasn’t my doing. He prayed for a miracle and I had doubts.

Whether my pain left, the answer is no, but it did decrease. Some people are meant to suffer. We are never going to learn the biggest lessons in our lives without pain. When everything is peaceful, we enjoy it, and that’s okay.

But it is in the worst of times that we learn life’s most profound and useful things. And we’re meant to share that pain so that others may gain wisdom and avoid some of the trials we went through. This leaves room for them to have their own experiences and learn from them, then to pass to others those lessons. When that works, it can save lives.

God doesn’t always protect us from harm. I think he knows our pain but also knows that ultimately you’ll help others through it.

This suffering I’ve been through made me strong but I was angry and bitter. As Jerry prayed for me, a sword was taken out of my hand. If he expected a miracle, he got it. The anger and the bitterness are gone. In their place sits something good and positive. I’m not the same. I can’t describe this feeling, because I’ve never had it before. My faith is stronger. My ability to pray is unlocked. I am more at peace than I have ever felt.

I’m serious and I’m telling you the truth.

If he has sinned, he will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.

–James Chapter 5, v. 16-20.

Jerry is a gift from God and I think he approached me because God whispered in his ear.

To Jerry and all of those like him, I say, thank you.

May you all find such a good man as he, and call him “friend”.

The Man Who Saw Yesterday

I was told about a man. He lives in the Bronx and his name is Charles. I’ve been told good things but have never met him. He can read a photograph. He is a medium, quite gifted.

I sent Maggie a picture, a selfiie. She gave it to him and he spent hours looking at it. Here’s what he told her:

I see a man who has been through a lot of suffering, pain, loss. He’s got a good, strong heart. He loves to help people. But he’s been very hurt. I see abuse, sexual abuse, his father, possibly his mother, but his father was an absolute demon in his life. He’s lost people too. I see three children and other, very strong people around him. He lost his children. I see two but there’s another I can’t see clearly. There are others, too, all around him, strong people helping him, trying to get him to do better, to stay strong.

He was never told anything about me, and he nailed me. I didn’t have 3 children, though. Except, I did. I can’t talk about it, nor do I ever want to again, but I did mention it once a couple of years ago. See my archives if you want to. I don’t remember the post, so stop along the way and read anything you might like. It’s my life, an open book, free for you. I never get a cent from any ads you see here, nor do I take donations. I just write.

Charles saw my kids behind me. He said they are at peace. They want to protect me. I want to believe it; I worry still if they’ve been given forgiveness by God. Sometimes I pray, “Lord, they suffered enough. Please have mercy on their souls, and if you must condemn anyone, let it be me. I failed them.”

You can only feel loss when you love someone more than yourself. Well, I feel loss. If they watch over me, they might really be in Heaven. They’re at peace.

Charles saw this. He saw ny pain, but strength that impressed him. He was struck by that.

He asked for another picture with my eyes open wider which hurts, but I did it. I’ll keep you posted.

I want to point out one thing. Christians sometimes see psychics as evil. They’re just people, with a very misunderstood talent. There’s always good and bad, and some act out of evil. Some psychics are outright fakes. Chip Coffey comes to mind along with Elizabeth Warren. Con artists.

But plenty of Godly people have talent, and use it for good. I’ve learned that lumping everyone in a group or race is definitely evil. Anything I’ve learned is constantly torn down by truth.

“The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.” –Socrates

To The End, Be Kind

Lately I’ve dreamt of being dead and seeing people I know. I wasn’t in a good place, either. And I saw my son there.

Dreams when you’re sick, they’re just bad. Don’t mean nothing.

After the symptoms backed off, however, I’ve had waking premonitions, not dissociative thoughts, but fast, clear scenes of people talking about my death. There’s no emotion in them. No pity. No sense of loss. No regret. Nothing.

Sure, I could be suffering from any one of a long list of things, and I’m well aware of it. But what if I’m not?

I’ve wanted for so long to have my pain end. For it all to be over. I’ve wished for the best place after death because I’ve lived in hell.

Last night I listened to Clapton’s Tears in Heaven and wept. Will I go there? Will I see my children there? Will my fears and my nightmares prove false?

One of my favorite bloggers, Jack Flacco, wrote a recent post that reminded me that no matter what I’ve suffered in my life, The Lord was always watching, always knew what I was doing and, most of all, what was done to me. My trials are, however, not enough to get me into heaven. They have to have changed me. Lately, I think about that. Because, what do I believe, and do I reflect what I believe with my actions and my words?

I’ve left you the story of my life here on these posts. I’ve covered the horrible, the damage and even the unbelievable: the paranormal. Rest assured, it’s all true. The good and the bad. It’s been so long I think I should be finished, leave the page up, but walk away. It helped for a while. Seeing over 100 followers taking me at my word was a boost to my morale and made me want to do better for them. Of course the latest fan fiction was a bust and I have to remove it, but that’s fine; it was awful anyway.

I hope that revealing my soul will one day allow someone else to examine what they have been through and claim faith, justice and healing. That’s why I changed my format and unashamedly shared my broken heart with you.

I do have one major regret though: I wish I could find everyone I failed and tell them how sorry I am for not being the man I should have been, for not being there for them, for turning my back and walking away. All of that still hurts me almost half a century later.

I could have gone on, denying the harm I’ve done. But it’s not in me to have kept that up. The regrets for my actions won’t go away. This is why I beg you, be kind in all things. Walk away from conflict if you can, but treat those who love you as if this is the last day you will ever see them, because it may be. You always remember the last words you say to someone. You always remember if before they left, you left something unsaid or something unfinished. You don’t want that kind of burden. It’s too heavy.

We all fail and fall short. We fall short of the things God wants of us, of the things others need from us, and of the things we should do for ourselves.

It does not have to define you. Apologies can be made, things that need to be said should be the next words out of your mouth, and lost time can be compensated for if you are honestly willing. Do not wind up like me. You won’t like it.

And of course, I’m not forgetting that I’m a victim here; that alone always affected my interactions with others. I was scared of being hurt, so I hurt others first. I was lonely but afraid of being close to someone and handing them the power to hurt me, so I let chances of a lifetime slide past and coldly said, “Fuck it.”

I was afraid of failure, of falling down, of being laughed at, of telling the woman I fell so deeply in love with how I felt, and I never knew what could have been. I let her go and it was easy.

My behavior because of PTSD doomed me in an age before the world even knew what it was. And ever since the world learned the truth behind it, people in America said, “We’re turning the country into a nation of victims.”

Mostly conservatives, mostly politicians who still want Disability and Medicare abolished, but others too, people raised by the strap and who in turn used it on their own children. A nation of victims? No.

A nation of barbarians. A nation that puts the innocent in prison but which fails its children, its poor, its senior citizens, the mentality ill and most people in general. Housing is so costly and evictions so common that I sit here wondering why the hell new communities are constantly being built. A college degree costs more than the student is likely to be able to repay in ten to twenty years in the best of situations. Food and fuel costs are alarming. Plastic trash and carbon emissions threaten to drive the human race to extinction before the next century. We are a nation of destroyers, and we eat our own. Anyone denying this is a fool.

Therefore, it is all the more important that you prepare yourself to make a difference. Be kind. Remember the times you failed or made a mistake and break a sweat pounding the lessons into your head. Try to overcome the fear of rejection, of being laughed at. I know it’s a tall order. But if you’ve read this far, I know you’re one of those who can make a difference. With enough people who have the will to change the world, who knows what miracles we can do with God’s help?

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33

Covid Variant is Nasty

I don’t know if that’s what I have. I can’t get a test without risking the health of another. I won’t do that.

I got sick right after posting the latest chapter of “Malicious” and I feel like I could die if I could just feel a bit better.

Both Moderna and Pfizer have requested that a second booster shot be administered. Cases of the new variant of Omicron are spreading and whereas I don’t have specific numbers because I’m too sick to look, I do know that China has imposed strict lockdowns in and around Wuhan Province. This scares me but I don’t mean that you should be. So far I’ve experienced dehydration, headaches that make migraines seem bearable (they are not) chills which probably indicate fever and a need for Benadryl like I was addicted. Afrin helps too but I just try to rest.

It began with a scratchy sore throat and it turned the snot machine on bull blast along with diarrhea, severe aches and chills and absolute exhaustion. I drink water, take Tylenol and “watch” movies with my eyes closed because they feel as if they’ve sunken into my skull.

I don’t think I’m going to die. Another day or two and I should be feeling better. I’ll get back to the story as soon as I can focus. Many thanks to all who come by here and give a like to my posts. Be well and stay safe.

The Coffee Ain’t Hot Enough!

Why don’t they make coffee makers that make coffee hot enough anymore? You want hot coffee, you need a stove top percolator, but you sacrifice smoothness for a bitterness that some find a bit too hardcore. You’d have to add salt for that, but brewing coffee with proper salt isn’t easy to do. I daresay even five star restaurants don’t do it nowadays; they’re too fucking cheap and lazy.

Why does Starbucks make tepid coffee? I get a cup after checking out at the market, go outside where I can pull my mask down, and in a few chugs, it’s gone. Sure, it’s good coffee, especially blonde roast, and I get a marvo caffeine kick from it, but I should honestly be halfway home before I can sip the brew.

Nobody else ever complains; they want so much milk in their shit that it must turn into a coffee milkshake. And what’s up with caramel, cinnamon and other shit? I’m not knocking what people like so much as I’m wondering how it all came to this.

Years ago some person spilled coffee on themselves at a McDonald’s drive-thru and sued. And our esteemed media took off with the story like it was Doomsday (Don’t order coffee at McDonald’s, they tried to kill me!)

Fucking lawsuits. Who in their right mind would ever have sat next to a campfire in 1855 and imagined a time when people would demand money because they spilled coffee and burned their twat while sitting in a horseless coach? Even Jules Verne couldn’t have done anything like that and H.G. Welles would have laughed until he died of a stroke. Mark Twain would have written a letter to the victim with 200 goddams (sic) in it and said “What? That’s grounds for a court proceedin’? Let me tell you a thing or two. How about paying good money for a train berth and wakin’ up to find half your goddam arm was eaten by bedbugs? Shut up before the forces you invoke rain real harm down on you.”

Irwin Shaw and Ernest Hemingway would have been even more terse.

And that’s what happened to hot coffee, ladies and gentlemen. Not the plaintiff, who in honesty should either have been more careful or instead ordered one of those fake milkshakes from those machines McDonald’s employees never clean at night because they’re paid too little to bother or even think about what’s swimming around in the strawberry tank.

Nope. It was the fucking media on a slow news day that picked up the story and ran it into the ground. More lawsuits, some pretty goddamn stupid, followed and still get filed today. Like it or not, TV and radio news punk’d us all.

I suppose, on the other hand, that I should be grateful that I can still buy coffee at all. It isn’t widely known that droughts and global warming are causing a coffee shortage that’s going to raise prices too high for me to touch so much as a bean. Some of those immigrants coming to the United States from points south are coffee plantation workers who are jobless. And being jobless in South and Central America is no place you want to be. You’ve got decisions to make. None of them are particularly desirable.

Just once the news could tell the truth without blowing the facts to oblivion. Nah. The power their corporate owners have over people’s thoughts, opinions and emotions is too pervasive and they’ll never give that up. All have an agenda. All have people who choose what’s news and what’s not. More often it is pure bullshit. Facts surrounded by “expert’s opinions” to tell you how to think and feel.

Watch Morning Joe or whatever. Always has a “panel” of “experts” to keep you from assessing the facts for yourself and having your opinion instead of theirs.

Debate and real discussion is no longer possible; the polarized media won’t have it. And after the fact someone always publishes an article on how this representative or that reporter got “owned” or “humiliated” by a spokesperson for whoever. Well that’s the headline; the following video or article seldom manages to equal the hype.

The Palmer Report

My first encounter with the new war on truth was had by a Facebook hack named Bill Palmer. He seemed to come out of nowhere, then started a group. Then it turned into a site called Daily News Bin and from there The Palmer Report. And at first, because Hillary Clinton was being widely trashed and I didn’t like it, Bill Palmer seemed the perfect counterbalance. He was liberal, seemed to do research, and had something to say about everything in the 2016 campaign.

He quickly built a following, and man wasn’t it rabid, turning into what I couldn’t deny was a cult. Post one comment he or they didn’t like and you’d be set upon.

Having been kicked off his friends and group members lists multiple times, I suspected that someone (he or his unvetted writing staff) had a hard-on for me. Why, I never did find out. So then, yeah. All the signs of a selective information cult were there. When Snopes.com put up an entire category with his name, it should have been a red flag. It wasn’t. I defended him several times until, finally, I’d seen the light. Headlines like “Trump Just Hanged Himself” and “Trump’s Days Are Numbered” were followed by writing full of typos and bullshit, none of which added up to justify the headline. I commented on that: Why the hype, when your articles don’t even prove the claims?

I don’t recall ever getting a response.

But I wasn’t cool to my friends. They swore by him. I tried to tell them, “But you’re conditioned, brainwashed. He’s in your head, manipulating your anti-Trump emotions.” They didn’t want to hear it. Cult members, deliberately taking up for their god-like, bold and stalwart hero.

And then, I learned that Palmer wasn’t exactly small potatoes in the political disinformation arena. He was being closely watched, and lest you be tempted to think it was only by pro-Trump forces, I’ll tell you one very important fact.

He was compared to Infowars and found to be on equal ground. That is telling, folks. That is a harsh charge to make. Infowars is ridiculous and everyone knows it. To be compared to that sleaze, you really have to fuck up.

Here’s a link to Bill Palmer’s Wikipedia page and yes, he finally made it to the big leagues. Here’s hoping I never get a page on Wikipedia! Palmer is a zealot, a former school teacher who couldn’t cut it with the kiddies and conned his way to a Wikipedia page by peddling biased bullshit.

He is only one of many twisting brains into seeing nonexistent conspiracies when enough real ones already exist. They’re everywhere, waiting for you to stumble onto their site and be caught up in rhetoric and sleazy lies. They’re poison and the earthly kings of lies.

Avoid these charlatans, for they will stick a spike through your head, yank it out and pour lies into the hole that remains.

All I want is for you to have your own opinions, and to come by them honestly and on your own, being aware and critical of dead giveaways and obvious lies. And to assess how you feel while reading an article and watching a video. If you’ve been triggered to the extent that you could punch the wall, ask yourself why. Check the story against others. Fact check, then do it again as if you missed something. Because it’s true, the political party wars are something I do not believe can be peacefully brought to an end. The terrorist attack on the U.S. Capitol proved it.

But it’s also true that the media, both left and right, fan the flames of hostility. And nothing is out of bounds anymore. Decades ago a hot cup of coffee changed everything about how we can get it, at a restaurant or a Starbucks. One burned twat after years of serving good, hot brew, and now the coffee is as tepid as a baby’s bathwater.

It’s so bad that I’m constantly looking for new and reliable sources. And I’ll never be finished. Hell of a shit show, ain’t it?

Be careful. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled off is making people believe he doesn’t exist.

Jesus called him the father of all lies.

All of Them

I’ve looked back. My stats and likes have fallen so far that I’ve deleted every post since January first. Today’s stats have me at minus 100 percent, and that’s pretty humiliating. But I did that to myself. Politics, impending war, acidic criticism of public figures…it seems I’ve turned off a lot of people.

As I gained followers to my blog, I felt secure. People were reading. There was a time when I paid no attention to stats, but once I did, things began to fall apart. I felt pressure, and wrote to be putting something out there. I guess I felt that I could get a pass. Certain content was no big deal to me.

But it was to you. And I have to say I’m sorry. Whatever drew you to this site had vanished. But I never started these chronicles to get followers, never thought I would get any at first. Didn’t care. I hoped the nightmares and nostalgic elements would provide some humor and, in keeping with my mission, reach just one person out there who could see a bit of their own experiences in mine.

I hoped that I could inspire awareness and therefore the seeking of help. That’s all I wanted. Then I strayed from the mission. I could not help but be myself, whatever that means. Some days, I am an asshole. It just works that way.

I comforted myself in the firm conviction that at least I’m not a total dickhead. But then, judging by likes and views, some people disagreed with that.

As a blogger then, I have failed. So, I won’t be looking at statistics anymore. Besides, WordPress has some sort of bug. People have told me that they tap the star to “like” a post, the screen says “You liked this post”, but I never see it. Also, since I have comments enabled, I just assume I only get rare comments. But one day I found (by accident) some sort of purgatory holding old comments hostage. I tried to tap to approve them and I couldn’t.

Never think that I ignore comments. Sometimes I have nothing to say in response but do tap the star to like it only to find out later that my like has been removed. Look, as long as I’m not spammed in a comment, I’ll let it stand, even if we disagree. Discussion is the meat of free speech. Why not engage in it?

All that’s left to say is, WordPress has bugs. I haven’t helped much. I apologize. I left the January first post up. Please forget everything between then and now.

I’ll be back.

A Lie

One of my followers has her own site. Claims the creds of a techie. And a Christian. But the pictures on her blogs can’t be her. I knew she looked familiar so I went porn surfing.

That’s nothing new. I’m a Christian too, but I’ve been straight with you. I’m a sinner with serious, disabling problems. Yet here I am, telling my life, telling where it has brought me, even when it makes me feel like I’m going too far. That’s as I’ve said before: we can’t learn anything from each other unless someone wants to be honest. So I’m honest, hoping I’ll touch the life of just one person who can see in me something of themselves, realize that they have a chance I never did, deciding to, hopefully, make a comeback. To rise above it all.

I realized from the beginning that I was doing something that would make others uncomfortable. I’m sorry to everyone who has found my posts triggering, depressing or that they were brought down by my words. So sometimes I try fiction or the occasional poem, but they’re dark too. This...is what I am.

I understand why people don’t use their real photos on Meta or Twitter. I get it. Such a hostile environment.

This is the model on the supposed Christian’s site. The model is Shyla Jennings aka Jennifer. The photos are from 2008-2011, meaning the author’s declared age on her site cannot be right. Hiding one’s face is fine with me, but for a Christian to use a porn star? Weird as hell. Not a crime, not a first, not even out of bounds in today’s world. Except in my opinion this blogger may not even be a woman, certainly isn’t who she claims and is likely a complete fraud.

Me, I don’t hide anything. Sometimes I have to look something up because of a detail or spelling I can’t remember, but with politics and news, I usually provide a link. I’ve also, from the beginning, urged readers to think for themselves, decide for themselves; and trust me, I never want to be an influencer. I’m too much of an asshole to be an influencer, and life coaches are owners of a special dark place in my heart. Heavy online influencers, they snag you, offer help, then tell you what it will cost. You want to influence, fine, but don’t scam your readers or viewers. If you do that, then fuck you.

Mostly, influencers feel the weight of a responsibility they have gained. They act accordingly. Honorably.

Some do not. They feed the racist fires and the conspiracy theories and all kinds of bullshit that really are horrible and really cause trouble. Those, I can’t forgive. I have no tolerance for that kind of misuse of power.

I’m sorry that one of my followers is, apparently, a fraud. I wanted to trust her. But now I have a new reason not to follow any blogs by avowed, scripture-thumping Christian bloggers. And that’s just sad. Genuine people seem ever more difficult to find. Online, you can hide anything if you know how. Quoting scripture or acting as a life coach while hiding behind a porn star? I should think it’s fucking hilarious.

I can’t manage that.

God Willing, Insha’Allah, May We All Know Peace And Good Health

The Calendar Year 2021 has been very hard on us all. If we paid the slightest attention, it had all the stress and terror of 2020, with added world and local events that are downright terrifying, and mostly unresolved.

It has been known since the Great Shutdown began that mental health care is difficult to find, and the system was never adequate to begin with. It sent some therapists and doctors packing, off to parts unknown, leaving patients without refills on critical medications or critical treatment in ongoing therapy. Finding a new doctor or counselor was a hopeless problem. If the pandemic didn’t kill enough people, then it was made up for by suicides and street drugs, alcohol and even homicides. Homelessness grew despite holds on evictions and foreclosures but nobody could tell us because those people went out of a system that cannot count what it cannot see, and homeless people in tents or boxes are never seen and therefore never counted.

People with normal, understandable fears, anxieties, reactions–to a crisis the like of which they had never known–overtaxed the mental healthcare system, and because of insurance requirements, edged out people who were unable to navigate a flawed system without someone advocating for them in yet another costly and unfair profession.

This mental health crisis has never been solved. I was fortunate in that I am in a treatment program that didn’t street me. Other programs just fell apart.

The Villains

As the crisis played out, it came to be a known but never discussed “secret” that the poor and the sick were already considered expendable; that they had never mattered to anyone as individuals, but as dollar signs in the eyes of the powerful.

On 11 January, Sheldon Adelson died after a lengthy illness. If you’re like me, you didn’t hear about it, and if you did, you probably had no clue as to who he was.

He was, among many other things, CEO and founder of The Sands, and that’s not just a hotel and casino; it is a corporation.

He was sent to Israel to be buried in the Mount of Olives Cemetery, and should that fail to make an impression on you, let me explain: you have to be someone to get there. It’s where revered rabbis are interred along with the famous, or infamous, as you wish, Menachem Begin.

Who exactly was he, though?

He switched parties during the Clinton administration for the Republicans. How could he not? He was one of Forbes most wealthy people, and getting wealthier. He was a major player in politics, both in the United States and Israel.

Why he should have been on our radars is that in 2015-2016, he was the biggest single donor to Donald Trump’s presidential campaign.

The biggest. By far. And it didn’t stop there; he was the biggest donor to Trump’s inauguration and in Trump’s defense against the Mueller ivestigation.

Money talks, bullshit benefits. Now do you know why the American embassy was moved? All money and politics, and Trump didn’t like Netanyahu as far as I could tell, but Adelson was a great supporter of Netanyahu, so buying Trump certainly got things done.

Adelson had his hand in many honey jars. He eventually got caught up in a costly scandal after a deal went through to build a casino in Macau. That’s a big deal because it involved bribing Chinese officials. Adelson stiffed the man who helped him do the bribing and sure enough the man sued and won. But the battle went back and forth and seems to have been yet ongoing when Adelson died.

The Drug Rehab Myth

This man also had a drug rehab program of apparently some size. In Vegas no less. Almost everyone who runs one of those has no interest in actually getting people off drugs; the system gets funded, tax free perhaps because it’s a foundation. All you need to do is make sure your clients stay on methadone; counselors are trained to keep increasing doses and conditioning clients to believe they will never be able to wean themselves off of the poison.

And let’s be honest about this; methadone is poison and a debate as to whether it’s saved lives but burned souls need never be directed at me. I know what that drug does.

A friend recently decided that enough was enough. She told her methadone clinic counselor that she was going to detox herself and beat that insidious, odious trap. She would escape.

This, following two urine tests the clinic claimed was positive for cocaine. Her response was, “If I was using I would tell you. But I never did coke or uppers. My thing was heroin; downers. Did you forget why I’m here?”

Of course they had. They didn’t care enough to look at her file. They had to convince her that her urine was dirty, that her dose needed to be increased. She knew better. The next urine test also turned out positive for cocaine. And that’s when she knew it was a bold-as-you-please, outright lie. This time, her mother, a nurse, had provided the urine. And she wasn’t on anything.

She had been through hell. Had lost almost all of herself and in her fight to come back proved that sometimes you have to be good and lost before you can find what can’t be found. She’s my hero. I’ve never heard of anyone with more strength, resolve and courage.

And so, Adelson was among those who run these programs. Most of which are monsters from Hell. Why Adelson was invested, I’m not sure, but certainly it had to do with his sudden hard-right politics.

He detested anyone who lobbied for legalized Marijuana. He cited the same reason people have used since the propaganda films like the unintentionally funny “Reefer Madness” (find this movie, smoke some hash and watch it; you’ll thank me later).

In other words it was a “gateway drug”, which is an extraordinary claim, false, stupid and funny at the same time as it is sickening.

Adelson made the same mistake almost everyone with money makes: he forgot what it means to be compassionate and fair. To be ethical, principled, just. In the name of his God, he forgot or chose to ignore that others worship their own Gods and that’s their right. Others have problems and struggle with money, and they need help, not a poisonous substitute for something they are addicted to, and that doesn’t mean they’re bad people or that poison is the answer.

During the pandemic, benzodiazepines went flying out of pharmacies, scripted to anyone who got to a doctor and complained about anxiety. This initiated its own crisis as the expendables were forced to go to the streets. A year later we found out that many of the street pills contained fentanyl, but what the news was loath to say was that a whole new problem came from this: actual fentanyl users, those who now sought the dangerous drug exclusively. The government had waged war on opiods and benzos, forcing doctors to restrict themselves from prescribing them, and now look.

Don’t misunderstand me here. I’m not saying that all wealthy people got over. Some are dead, from COVID-19, from suicide, complications, surgeries delayed when hospitals were full. But they still overtaxed a mental health system that has never been adequate in the least. In some places right here in the US, it’s still the Dark Ages. You’ve seen ghost hunters explore an abandoned asylum? Well, I hate to say this, but there are still places like that which still house patients. They’re dark, they reek of things your brain can’t identify, they’re understaffed with undertrained personnel, the doctors hate being there, and they are the places of waking nightmares. I know of a few. I can’t believe they’re still operating.

No one ever recovers in those places. Not many ever have.

I digress; the problem is too big to maintain focus.

We can agree that the pandemic caused real mental damage to what used to be healthy people, and post-traumatized people really did need to be seen. But like the methadone scam, nobody talks about how the ones suffering the most, who were already suffering, are not getting real help. And they won’t get it anytime soon. And I have no answers. I only know that I don’t know anything.

It is not the people who have the most money who know how to love and be compassionate (sometimes they’re quicker than others to commit suicide); rather, it is those who have been so far down who are what the rich think of as disposable who can easily respect the beliefs and traditions of others. Who are most likely to lend a hand or spare some money for whoever needs it. Who understand the problems and pain others feel and are genuinely moved by it. Who won’t judge a drug addict or the poor.

As we look toward the new year, we need to talk to each other more. To reach across the boundaries of faith, politics and geographic lines. Us. You and I. We two. Because if anyone can manage to love each other unconditionally, it is us and everyone like us, and don’t give up hope: there are more of us than you know. Keep the faith, whatever yours may be. The world is a horrible place and, you know, full of monsters. We can do anything, however small, and it will be a better place. We just have to want to see that happen. And we need to demand better health care services and coverage, starting with drug addiction and mental health. We must demand it. Only then will more doctors and nurses come. Only then will a crooked system change. Then we can change the world.

I hope your Hanukkah was peaceful, and since it’s Friday, Shabbat Shalom. For Christians, please enjoy your Christmas and be at peace, and for us all, Insha’Allah, may we know peace together, may we all know strength and love. May we help those who suffer, offering them comfort. We can, and I have faith in that. I have faith in us… and in God, as I understand him.

If you know someone in a drug or a mental health crisis, please get in touch with your local health care services. You may save a life.

Be well. Thanks for allowing me to be a part of your day.

With love, Mike, Christmas Eve, 24 December 2021

Mommy

A song I’ve written. I could use someone who can edit video, please. Please?

Mommy do you love me?

Please tell me that you do,

Tell me that you love me,

And you’ll protect me too.

Mommy, Mommy

Mommy does Daddy love me,

I’m so scared of him,

Does my Daddy love me,

Please sing my favorite hymm.

Mommy, Mommy

Mommy can’t you help me,

He beats me all the time,

Mommy won’t you help me,

He beats me all the time.

Mommy? Mommy!

Mommy can you comfort me,

My Daddy striped my back,

Is there no way you can help me,

My heart is gonna crack.

Mommy? Mommy?

Where are you when I need you,

I think I’m going to die

Mother I so need you,

When Daddy takes off his tie.

Mommy, Mommy?

Mommy his belt is coming off,

Can’t you help me please?

To him I’m just an old wash cloth,

He hits me with such ease.

Mommy, Mommy

Mommy now you’ve hurt me too,

Can you stop it please?

Mommy please stop it now,

These awful things you do.

Mommy, mommy!

Mommy I am older now,

I see you as you are,

Mommy I am older now,

And I see you from afar

Mommy, mommy…

Mommy now I hate you so,

I hate my Daddy, too

Mommy I once loved you so,

So this is something new

Mommy? Mommy, can’t you hear me?

Mommy I don’t think this

Is how it’s meant to be

Mommy how I hate you,

You’re really dead to me.

Mommy, mommy…

Mommy will I see you around,

I hope you’re up above,

Mommy would you turn around,

And give me back your love,

Mommy, Mommy…

Would you say you’re sorry,

Now that it’s all done?

Can you see my pain now,

And what I have become?

Mommy, mommy?

“Be Good To Yourself”

She had been gone for a long time. I tend to notice things like that. She said hello. I couldn’t see her. Just a vague shape in the darkness. But I knew her. She told me she was gone because of a divorce. Disabled veterans like her husband get that a lot. But I understand that. We’re hard to live with. Especially in my case. I look back. I get it. Everything disabling me now was there long before I was in the Army. I can’t believe sometimes that I made it through basic training, but I did, and I’m damn proud of it.

She’s a good girl. Fine young lady. Was nice to me. I told her, “I don’t forget that.”

She was just dropping something off. I was still smoking when she returned to her car. I said, “You know, I’ve missed seeing you. I never even knew your name.”

“Elizabeth,” she said.

“That was my daughter’s name,” I said. And she asked for my name. I told her.

“That’s my brother’s name,” she said. An “Oh, wow” moment.

This woman is special, and I told her so. I said, “Be good to yourself, because you never know who you’re a somebody to. Well, you’re someone to me. I’ve missed seeing you. Take care, okay?”

She was touched. Hand to her heart, she said that was sweet of me.

But I told her true. She was missed. She was nice to me. I had been thinking of her but sensed it was best not to ask questions. I sensed a touchy situation. I knew her husband would not take them well. You live long enough, you learn when silence is best, a solution to a problem you shouldn’t get yourself into.

This is what I’ve been trying to say, especially in my Christmas post. Say the hard things. Tell the truth. Don’t be afraid to get hurt if you tell someone what they mean to you. If they hurt you, your conscience is clear, for you meant no harm, only good, and they will later regret having been hurtful. Don’t be afraid to give praise, to tell someone you’ve missed them. To tell anyone you love how you feel. To apologize. To appreciate them being in your life.

I don’t know how much time I have left. We rarely get to know. If you want people to know something, tell them. Tomorrow is never good enough. You might not get tomorrow.

I like myself tonight.

Just a little.

On Down A New Road

Where are we going, Americans?

Brian Tyler Cohen  lays everything you need to answer that question in this video.

The answer is also a question. Well, several questions, to be honest.

The first question I ask you is, why are you in the media not screaming about this? And with that I also ask, are you, too being paid to downplay hard evidence of an actual, overt conspiracy to stage a coup by the republican party? Because for some time, investigative journalists have behaved as milkquetoasts, failing to deliver critical points about Republicans while making great fun of Joe Biden.

Republicans and democrats alike are behaving almost as if January 6th never happened. But it did, and if everyone doesn’t wake up soon then one day you’ll wake up to the sounds of a police state outside your fucking window. Patrols by military or quasi military police. Radios crackling through the streets all night. People of color detained and asked for their “papers” as if they were in Germany in 1938. Masses vanishing. News coverage issued only by the government, all else banned. Underground news will be answered by murder or arrest, incarceration and execution. Any activities you seek for recreation will never be the same. You’ll need written permits to visit the zoo. Christianity will be declared the only legal religion. Muslims, Buddhists, persecuted and converted or purged. You’ve worried for years about guns being taken from you? Once solidly entrenched the Republicans’ new party will find you and take them, or kill you and take them. You think authoritarian governments want armed opposition from people who suddenly see what a mess they’re in? Think that. Go ahead. You believe everything else.

You’ve seen it begin. Report a neighbor for getting an abortion, and fuck me, you get free vanilla wafers for a year while that neighbor vanishes. A return of beautiful, clean coal, a reversal of green technology, a bleak future.

And no matter how many times you mindless republican morons or spineless democrat motherfuckers bend your knee, remain silent and swear obedience and loyalty, you’ll pay. Your children? Fuck you. You figure it out.

Why is it that reliable veterans of TV and print news are leaving their jobs?

In our darkest hours, where are you running to, and why?

I’ve been blunt here. I can’t do otherwise; I see for myself that the average US citizen is misinformed, brainwashed or plain stupid enough to believe dictatorship and totalitarianism is desirable. Can be lived with.

Start thinking for yourselves. Ask questions and insist on the truth.

Time is running short, Americans.

Hell. Time is running out.

Admitting Weakness is to Proclaim Strength

A phoenix rises from the ashes of its former body. It will grow again to be beautiful and magical.

Only when some of us have lost everything, only when all that we were has died, can we begin to hope, to live again with strength and humility. And living is better than merely existing as a broken person.

Allowing circumstances to rip the veneer of toxic, the superficiality away and reveal your burnt soul, is a trial. It does not make one happy. It is scary. Embarrassing. Humiliating to look back at what has been. And what has been cannot be erased, but it can be replaced. There is hope in this. I have seen others do it. Never forget, even while you are falling down, that hope can never be lived without. If we survive, and rise as the phoenix, we can truly live. Then, we can make a difference.

Keep the faith. You will never be hurt by hope and faith.

Never.

The Real Reason I’m A Christian

For all my flaws…mental illness and a hard life…decades of child abuse…bitterness often creeping deep into my heart though I’m supposed to forgive…I’m still a Christian.

And wow. Someone has linked a post I wrote back in March. That means I have to tell you why I’m a Christian and what I think of the ongoing attacks people in the studies of world history, archeology and science mount against the Christian community, whether Catholic or Protestant.

I believe With Faith, Not Evidence

The attacks on the Bible are unrelenting. Sometimes it’s for a legitimately questionable part of it. Theological debate is one thing, but to attack believers is out of line. Persecution is vile even if only verbal. You hurt people with words, sometimes so severely that the damage is permanent. Of course I’m not referring to fake Christians, the money-grubbers like Pat Robertson and Joel Osteen.

I realized a long time ago that the Holy Bible is flawed. It has been edited. Books thrown out and books included-the Catholic canon is different from that of the Protestant.

When Henry VIII, Wesley and Luther went their own ways, the repercussions were severe. Add to that some popes who shouldn’t have been popes, the intrigue over the Borgias, the pope who looked the other way when Hitler came calling, and you have plenty of ammunition to argue with to any Christian leader. But that doesn’t mean you’ll be right.

In the first and second chapters of Genesis, there’s a glaring error. It doesn’t necessarily mean two creations, but people take it that way. If there were two creations of humans, and the first woman was Lilith, who rebelled and left Adam because she wanted to be his equal, causing God to create another woman named Eve, then there were also two Adams. One came from mist, the other from dust.

It’s a great story, the saga of Lilith. Spooky, sad, tragic and, in the end, she has been used in literature ever since the Epic of Gilgamesh. The Talmud, the book of the Hebrew laws, refers directly to her as a succubus, coming in the night to lie with men, to get into their dreams as beautiful women, different according to men’s different fantasies, and then gets them to impregnate her. She can bear children, so it’s said, but she also steals children and eats them or throws them into a pit. In this way she’s often associated with Molech, a demon god whom Caananites and Hebrews sacrificed their children to.

I don’t believe in Lilith (she was probably used in the Talmud for men to make excuses for wet dreams, as those were considered evil in themselves). But the story is so good that I used it in my novel. And that’s really funny because as I wrote it, several characters I’d pictured in my mind and described actually crossed my path. One was so unattractive that when I saw her, and she looked exactly like the character, I could’ve fainted. It was chilling and, worse, just like the character, never looked at anyone else, never spoke, seemed unaware of the real world, and would stop in front of me. As my character had done, she stood still, like a statue, for long periods before moving on.

The scariest part was that she was based on an illusion I saw, a trick of the light in a neighbor’s yard at night. I easily found a back story, a name, and an evil mission for her.

But since writing about Lilith, that woman whose looks change, who most often torments me in nightmares, won’t go away. Won’t leave me alone. Her visits are relentless now.

Going back to 2019, my posts have laid out my childhood in more detail than most could handle. A small shadow on my wall would actually move, darting from one fixed spot to another as if to get my attention. You should feel free to go back and read these articles, but for now I’ll say I’ve had experience with supernatural evil, and not because of mental illness. Fallen angels, demons, whatever you want to call them, are very real. And if you don’t believe in them, that’s okay with me. But they have, many times, influenced you or those around you. Like, have you ever done something, and it was not merely out of character, but you did it seemingly spontaneously, no thought given to it, and suddenly were the bad guy, and if you were lucky you didn’t get arrested, but only lost a job or your fiancee? A demon was probably there.

There are mysteries psychology can never explain, just as there are mysteries historians, archeologists and anthropologists cannot solve.

Dating points in history– the Exodus, the reign of David, exactly when Isiah lived, can be guessed, but they left scant evidence behind. And Biblical archeology is not usually faith-based. They want evidence, and they search for it endlessly.

But isn’t that the whole point of having faith? To believe when the world keeps telling you it’s unreasonable?

That’s exactly what faith is.

Yeshua of Nazareth

His name, Yeshua in Aramaic, and Iesvs in Latin (pronounced “Jesus”), was the spirit of God born into the world as a human. The son of God. We know next to nothing about his early life. Even as we approach Christmas, the day we celebrate his birth, no one can be certain that it’s even close to the proper date. We’re told in one gospel that he was born in a house. In another, that it was a manger. In one gospel three wise men interpret that a bright star heralds a newborn king. In another, it is lowly shepherds who are visited by an angel, and it is they who come to worship the Baby Jesus.

One gospel tells how the magi tipped Herod the Great about a new king (a mistake wise men would never have made) and how Herod forced Joseph and Mary to go into hiding in Egypt until the king died. After they fled, Herod had his soldiers kill every male infant in his territory, an event so heinous that the other gospel writers had to have known about it. But they don’t write about it.

The slaughter could hardly be forgiven. It would have started an armed revolt that would have seen Herod deposed. What, then, do we believe? Which stories are true?

I say it doesn’t matter. These are things I don’t care about. Besides, placing the birth in Bethlehem (it is unlikely that a census would have required anyone to travel) fulfills the desire to link Jesus with King David.

These things aren’t important to me. They have nothing to do with my belief that Jesus was divine. That he was real. And that he made a sacrifice so great, nobody can ever imagine what it felt like.

I’m not just talking about what most people call The Passion; it was a horror to be sure. But there was more, much more to it than that.

In his life, Jesus recruited his Apostles and spent a lot of time teaching and preparing them for what was yet to come. He taught by example as well, healing many sick people, saving the servant of a Roman centurion from death, raising a young child from death, and he even dared to touch lepers, who were then healed.

He dined with sinners whom others judged harshly. His message was that he came into the world not for those who were faithful, but for those who were not. He never turned away a sick or suffering person. Once, thinking that his message of forgiveness was too progressive, some men dragged an adulteress to him. Ashamed and humiliated, she probably didn’t even look up from the street she’d been cast down on. The men said, “According to the law, she is to be stoned to death.”

Of course that would have been illegal; under Roman law the occupied Jews were forbidden to carry out capital punishment. But Jesus knew they could be carried away. He also knew they were testing him. If he agreed with the law, his message was a lie. If he did not, he disrespected Jewish law and was a rogue. He sat and drew something in the sand and was quiet. Then he said “Yes, the law is clear. Let the man without sin step up and cast the first stone.”

The test was over. The men dispersed. Jesus said to the woman, “Where are the men who accused you?” She answered that there were none and he said, “Niether do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”

That short story is full of hope, and it shows that he lived by the words he spoke. He once said, “Come to me, all you who labor and are bearing heaviness, and I will give you rest, I can lighten your burden.” Wow.

But to tell you the truth, there is one relic that I believe is evidence of the life and death, and the resurrection of Jesus. It is called the Shroud of Turin and there is a matching hood to it as well. Both have the faint but once-highly visible image of the head of a man who had been badly beaten and bloodied. An eye was swollen and his beard matted. His hair was similarly matted by blood. Trickles of it flowed down his forehead.

The shroud bears the image of a nude male, front and back. The fabric is a herringbone weave common to the time and region of first century Judea.

Carbon dating and DNA tests reveal a medieval origin and handling by people as far away as the Indus. But a fire that scorched the fabric in the medieval period would have contaminated the C14 test results, and as a holy relic, many would have handled it. When it resurfaced, the image was still quite visible meaning some period kept away from air. Today, the image is fading.

It bears the image of the nude man, hands crossed and partly covering the groin. His legs, chest, back and shoulders bear bruising and distinct scars shaped like dumbells at the ends of lash marks. His side has been pierced with the stabbing wound consistent with a Roman javelin. There are wounds in his wrists consistent with nails and the same marks are in both feet.

While Prefectvs (prefect, not procurator) Pontius Pilate tried to keep Jesus from death, he had Jesus flogged. This was an excruciating punishment called a “half-death” because not everyone survived it and none were ever the same. The Jews had a similar punishment that was carried out with flexible wooden rods, but the Romans had no use for such things.

A Roman flogging was carried out by soldiers who were trained not to go too far; while they had no set number of lashes, they were forbidden to kill the prisoners they administered the flagellum to. It was a mean piece of craftsmanship perfected over time, intended to ensure no one who underwent the punishment would ever forget it. Posttraumatic stress was one result. If a prisoner was fortunate, they lived. Many left Roman territory forever. The unfortunate ones went insane. They were released to the mercies of the gods. But many died of sepsis from open wounds that became infected.

A flagellum was a wooden handle with strips of leather which ended in cast iron bits shaped like dumbells; these were tied to the ends of the strips. When it was swung, the leather thongs striped the body and the iron bits would maintain momentum, curling around legs or the body and digging in to create terrible bruising or swelling gashes and raised closed wounds. Jesus was given the lash and would certainly have been in shock; yet he willed himself to stand before Pilate one last time.

The courtyard crowd at the palace had grown and gotten close to a point when Pilate would be forced to use riot troops. He did not want Jesus dead, but he almost certainly hated the man. His argument with the temple priests was political, a display of his power in the face of their arrogant demands. And while Pilate and the high priest Caiaphas may have profited from their arrangements, the theory that they were friends is ridiculous. Pilate hated his post, hated the Jews and hated having to be in Jerusalem for the Passover because zealots always got riled up.

Pilate had twice instigated riots, and one of those times had soldiers out of uniform infiltrate the crowd with daggers, killing Jews. He was reprimanded by his superior, the Legate of Syria, who answered directly to Caesar. Tiberius was for whatever reason soft about Judea; he wanted peace. Unrest caused use of manpower, resources and casualties. He preferred pacification, allowing the Jews to worship as they pleased, disregarding the Roman gods. Rome generally was tolerant of occupied people’s religions, but to the Jews, any interference was intolerable.

Pilate was hardened and cruel, but it seems that he was shocked by the appearance of Jesus: bleeding from head to foot, bruised from abuse by the Romans and the temple guards, wearing a crown of thorns, a royal purple cloak draped over him. Barely able to stand. Shivering, trembling.

In a play to get the crowd’s sympathy he pointed to Jesus and cried, “Behold the man!”

But by then the crowd had been so agitated that they were even closer to chaos. They called for Jesus to be crucified and Pilate was likely sweating. It was getting dangerous and by now, he probably wanted to release Jesus just to spite them.

His last effort was to offer a choice. It was the pleasure of Caesar that a prisoner be pardoned at Passover. He suggested Barabbas, who was due for crucifixion that day, for the crime of murder. Surely, the crowd would choose Jesus over him.

This chess move ended in checkmate. He had lost. He ordered Jesus crucified. In a final show of hatred, he asked for a bowl of water, and dipped his hands in it, a Jewish custom. “I cleanse my own hands of his blood,” he said. It was a surrender and an insult in one act. He knew their customs and often used them against the people.

A small guard detail had accompanied Pilate to Jerusalem and this consisted of regular Roman troops called legionaries, with at least one centurion.

The troops garrisoned in Jerusalem were not legionaries but were made up of barbarians, called auxiliaries. Barbarians could not attain command rank so they were always led by a centurion. As barbarians, that is, soldiers from conquered territory, they were made up of various men including Syrians, who held a special disdain for Jews. They relished crucifixion detail and and had specialists who followed a strict process. It was a ritualistic set of steps to be followed exactingly. The condemned would be given a crossbeam to carry. The streets were too narrow for a whole cross to be carried or the crossbeam to be tied across the back. It wasn’t a great burden in itself. The crossbeam (patibulum in Latin) wasn’t heavy. But carrying it over one shoulder, knowing you were about to be nailed to it, the walk to the place of execution was no doubt done on wobbly legs.

It was never a part of execution by crucifixion for the condemned to be flogged first. That was a play by Pilate to release Jesus. Now, Jesus, awake for at least 24 hours, exhausted from his tormented prayer in the garden, his beatings and the flogging, had difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. The roughly cut wood was painful to his shoulder, torn open by the lashing. Dehydration was setting in if not a problem already, and he fought against shock; his mission wasn’t over. Worse would follow, and he had to feel everything that they did to him.

The Crucifixion

He fell on the stone pavement several times, getting abrasions on his knees, causing the centurion some concern. The path from the palace to the place of execution wasn’t very long. It wasn’t the path marked with the stations of the cross, because the procession went from the palace to the north gate where two roads met. Probably within those roads, near a quarry, the place of a skull sat, rocky and barren. Nobody knows how many upright beams stood there, but what’s certain is that they were short, about six feet tall. The patibulum would be fitted at the top. But somewhere on the way, Jesus fell and couldn’t get up. A man called Simon, from Cyrene, was forced to carry the cross the rest of the way. Jesus could barely walk. Just outside the gate, two other condemned men were already being nailed to their crosses. Jesus was prodded onward.

All three had signs carried by soldiers which listed their name and their crime. The purpose of crucifixion was a public display of what happened to people who defied Roman law. Every crucifixion had this sign of shame at the top of the cross, and generally it worked: if you do this, then you’ll get this.)

In three languages Pilate had ordered the sign for Jesus to read: “This is Jesus, King of the Jews” because Caiaphas had charged Jesus with making that claim, seditious under Roman law.

The upright beam was wide enough to provide stability without the need for scaffolding. Wood was scarce and usually imported from other provinces. The upright was reused and needed to be stout. The executioner saw to it that Jesus was laid across the crossbeam with his hands close enough that when he was raised, his arms would not be straight but in a hanging V shape. In agony, Jesus felt every hammer strike. The nails were driven between the bones of the wrists and hands, a place nobody could pull away from if trying to free themselves.

There was a small crowd clogging the streets. Some mocked Jesus as he was raised by four soldiers, two under each arm. A narrowed part of the upright allowed a small cut in the bottom of the crossbeam to fit over it. With that done, the executioner nailed the sign to it and secured the two parts of the cross. It was almost finished.

Although the nailing of the feet depended on the width of the upright beam, they were never nailed one foot over the other. In this case, a wider beam allowed both feet to be nailed from the front, side by side. This part was difficult; driving a nail while squating is hard, doing it while the upright may give a little was much worse. The legs had to be secured with knees bent. Once he was finished, the crowd grew and moved in. The laughter and mocking continued.

Hanging in such a fashion, most executed could last only a short time. At first, they could breathe with some difficulty, but as they weakened, they had to straighten their legs, pressure hard on the nailed feet, raise up, and breathe for as long as they could, then they would fall and be back in the V position and their weight hanging from their wrists. As time passed, breathing became more difficult. The constant raising up would exhaust the condemned. Eventually they just died of suffocation or their heart gave out. Sometimes extreme heat did the trick. But the show wasn’t meant to last very long; it was supposed to get attention, and when that attention was lost, keeping soldiers on station was senseless. They would use an iron rod and swing it hard across the shins, fracturing the tibea and fibula, making it impossible for the victim to raise back up to breathe. Death followed in minutes.

Caiaphas sent word to Pilate that the crucified men could not be left hanging at sunset, when the Sabbath began. Such a thing was unthinkable; the Jews would revolt if the site was ever again used. Pilate sent word to the centurion to break the legs of the men.

Before the messenger arrived, Jesus cried out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

He had told his Apostles many times that he had come into the world to take on the sins of God’s children. They had no idea what he meant; it made no sense to them. But as he cried out, every sinful deed, every evil thought ever made, in the past and the future, was literally thrust onto him. He saw and felt everything at once, a thing no mortal could take. As a man, he couldn’t bear it. As the Son of Man, he had to. This supernatural event was over quickly, but it killed him. He felt death approach and said, “It is finished. Abba, into your hands I commit my spirit.” He surrendered, his mission accomplished. In his short ministry he had said things that everyone should take to heart, believer or no, simple things to live by to make life better and to ensure his faithful need never suffer endless torment in hell.

Now it was over. The messenger arrived and when they had broken the legs of the other two men, saw that Jesus was dead already. Whether checking to make sure of it with a javelin was procedure is not known, but this was done, and accounts for the blood stain in the side of the image on the shroud. Some scholars believe that the blood and water that flowed from the puncture indicates congestive heart failure; this matches the theory that I’ve put forth above. That every sin ever committed, or yet to be, was seen in his mind and felt; overloading the heart which was already failing due to his exhaustion and difficulty breathing.

Jesus was resurrected. Could the shroud be proof of the supernatural event? That debate goes on, but one thing stands out: all of the wounds match those inflicted on Jesus; a crucified man was never flogged first, the figure is naked, and nobody in medieval times would ever produce any nude image of Jesus. Getting caught would mean certain death.

I belive that the shroud is genuine. But I don’t need it to believe in the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth. That comes from my heart. I’m no boy scout, that’s true. I’m a sinner. Thank God I don’t have to die one.

Bucket List

There are still things, despite my condition, that I want to do before I go. None are within my means or ability, but they would make me happy. Here goes.

•Visit Slovenia and hear the Ljubljana Radio Symphony Orchestra play Ravel’s Bolero.

Slovenia is beautiful. And the best, by far, recording of Bolero came from that orchestra.

•Visit the Giza pyramids, temple of Hatshepsut and the ruins of Karnak. The structures are among the most amazing ever built.

•Take a day to ride a good horse out in the countryside.

•Go deep sea fishing one last time.

•Play the elevator game.

•Publish my novel.

•Experience five minutes of peace that’s not drug-induced.

•Do something nice for a little kid. Leave some money to them perhaps. It would be anonymous, of course. Because that’s the most wonderful part of giving.

That’s it. Really, not a small list considering what’s on it. Not possible, but it shows, I hope, that I’m not as shallow as I think some see me as.

Maurice Ravel’s Bolero performed by the Ljubljana Radio Symphony Orchestra:

An American Asshole’s Rules For Blogging

Welcome to the rantings of a traditional Asshole. An American one.

The type who wants to ask questions but rarely wants the answers, who seeks the truth but fears it because the answers to questions and the Truth are usually stupid, scary or cannot be known because the world has been overcome by lies.

See? Who opens a blog post like that? Me, that’s who. To be honest, someone keeps ragging on me because I call myself an asshole. She means well, and that should make me happy. I should find it encouraging. Or at least touching.

I don’t. I must be honest. I’m a Christian who will step no foot inside church, a writer with only a GED who consistently failed English classes, a doomsayer who sees the world as it is, a place of toxins and destruction, and, finally, a man haunted by a past that he cannot make peace with.

I came here after attempting to post on other sites of mine in which I separated different topics. But it didn’t work, and I deleted those.

But then: someone shows up with a link to my deleted site. My deleted WordPress site!

That…is scary AF.

I was given the usual warning when deleting those sites. You know, “Your information and content will be deleted and this will be permanent.”

Ha. I was too naive to not believe it.

Why Believe Those Who Come In Sheep’s Clothing?

Blogging Rule Number One:

Nothing Gets Deleted

Everything you do, every site you visit, and every word written anywhere at any time, from your first day logged into the webverse, has been saved. Nothing is gone, deleted, lost. All can be retrieved. It’s too late to worry over it now. The best you can do is be more careful, but in the end, asshole me is fucked. That’s why I’m honest. A man with nothing to hide has nothing to fear. And a man with nothing to lose has nothing to hide. I admit my sins and mistakes. And those I must apologize to will hear it. I’ve removed posts after reflection, finding that I was engaged at the time in wrong thinking or under the influence of warped news articles. I’m emotional and I write from what I feel as well as what I know. I’m imperfect and I’m always going to be.

Blogging Rule Number Two:

Be Who You Are

Following the tutorials offered by WordPress is wise if you want to build a solid following. I’ve never done this, because I’m an asshole, so much so that I insist on being honest about my life, even it’s painful to be so, and often painful for others to read about. Our lives are very different, but we often share the same experiences. I know this, and therefore I know that I have several kinds of followers. Some may like my writing, as crude as it is, and reading anything raw may give them some inspiration, or, conversely, an example of what not to do. Some have read my posts on the many horrors of abuse, PTSD and mental illness. I don’t know if they have helped someone; maybe one of the many silent victims who need to read about the possibility of breaking that silence. I tell you, silence has killed, and far too often.

Some may have been struck by my take on current events. You can scroll back in time and see what I wrote about something and try to pick up something you find striking, or particularly wise. Although I’m an asshole, even men like me stumble upon the odd piece of wisdom on occasion. I hope that you are able to find what you need here. It’s why I do this. I just want to help. To let people know that they are not alone.

Rule Two is, look through the tutorials, picture what you really want, with some kind of formula. Do not use me as a template. I may get two “likes” on a post I spent days writing, while your Reader feed brackets me with other’s posts with hundreds of little blue stars. If you want stats that depress you, then don’t be like me. I freewheel. I write when I can. I write what I’m moved to, not what I think I’m supposed to write. I’m a rambler. That can tend to throw readers off.

I’m happy to have built up over one hundred subscribers, but it has taken years to do it. And that’s because I write for free; no Patreon, no sponsors, no societies for a cause; no advertising will ever appear here which in any way profits me. I have no control over ads and have no clue what you might see here.

Having sponsored sites is a fine thing. If you can afford paying for your site, getting started is difficult but hooking up with help is okay with me. I used to follow one such blogger, but her full page photograph at the top of every post grew to annoy me. The writing beneath the picture was often superficial, and I came to realize that I did not enjoy superficiality or shallowness. If you’re beautiful, that’s wonderful. But your blog is only as good as your sincerity and openness; you have to live up to being a real celebrity, because with thousands of followers, that’s what you are, and when you let any one of them down, they’ll turn on you. If you can handle that, go for it. Just know that at my level or the one you reach, not every post will be liked or even read by all of your followers, and that some likes will be obligatory, automatic and perhaps given by someone who never bothered to even read the first sentence.

Blogging Rule Number Three:

Beware Those Who Come In Sheep’s Clothing

You can’t know who follows or subscribes to your site. To attempt to is a violation of trust between you and someone reading your life. However, that bit comes with a stern warning: some will follow because they like what and how you write. Others, not so much. They know you better than you think they do, as evidenced by the deleted post someone retrieved from a deleted site. You could very well have picked up a stalker, and one with that kind of technical experience is to be regarded as a threat. Someone to be feared.

Let me say that another way: I was meant to see that post. It had the feeling of being a threat. No blogger should believe otherwise. When comments become too personal, or even if no comments are there at all, you could be in someone’s cross hairs. You’re a potential target for just about anything. At that point of realization, you may panic. You may begin looking over your shoulder. And you have nothing to tell law enforcement. Only that creeping feeling that you might be in danger, and they can’t do anything about that.

I’ve tried to discover who’s been murdered because of their blogs. The search was fruitless as most bloggers I read about were victims of crimes of passion, or were killed because of politics or revelations about crime cartels, or speaking out about their repressive government.

One thing I did stumble upon was an insult to every blogger ever: it dated to 2012 or 2014 and declared the blogosphere devoid of all the novices and their typo-filled nonsense, and more serious writers would take their place. This appeared on a well-known news site, one whose articles I’ve often found full of nonsense and typos. So to them I say, “Shut the fuck up.”

Someone I suspect of retrieving the deleted blog wasn’t on my radar at all. Then, yesterday, I saw a woman who looked exactly like the picture on her own site. I can’t trust my eyes, so I stared as she moved across my path, looking askew at me, and smirking. What may be and probably is a coincidence can also be something more. In this world, you can’t always be so sure. I’ve been stalked before, both before the internet and on it. It’s some scary shit, and the police never believe a man can be threatened by a woman, not stalked, not harassed, nothing. They don’t believe you. Cops can be dense in such situations. Sometimes it takes a homicide detective to look the cop who ignored the pleas of terrorized people to say, “Well, officer, maybe next time you’ll fucking listen.”

This, of course, is the dark side of blogging. Bad things can happen to any of us. When I write from darkness, I know that it’s possible to attract a dark soul. Usually they’re harmless. But I might also attract the well-meaning soul who wants me to, in turn, follow their own work. Sometimes they think that they can fix me. Or maybe use me as an example to others of a lost soul.

That’s nice, but it can go south faster than a tornado can blow apart a particle board house.

Of all the people on this Earth, I fear no one group except for Christians. I do not fear Jews or Muslims, people of color, Russians, not even Nazis. But those on the far right, the Evangelicals, the fuckers who call for democrats or liberals to be persecuted, targeted for violence, those who hawk vials of “miracle water” and plastic buckets as flotation devices (!), yes. I fear them. I want nothing to do with them and their greed, hatred and false doctrine. I believe in the Holy Trinity, but unlike Christ, some Christians are as evil as humans ever get. If you write about them, be ready. They have every bit the power and resources to track you and hurt you.

Blogging Rule Number Four:

Be Grateful For Readers

It’s fine to ignore this rule if you like. But the blogger I cited as shallow at least answered comments graciously and with sincere thanks. It showed. I get few comments, few likes, few views, fewer visits. The very idea that I get any at all has given me the only moments of happiness I’ve had since my son passed. I’m grateful for all of you and encourage you to show gratitude to your readers as well. You don’t have to, but they don’t have to read, either.

Other than these, my Asshole’s Rules for Blogging, I have no advice, and I’m sorry. I wish you luck, though, and will end only by encouraging you to use your site for good things. Photos of scenery, tales of adventure and the things you need to pass on to others.

We all want to be noticed. We all hope our visitors will like what they find. And we want, sometimes more than anything, to make a difference. Just don’t be like me, and you’ll do great things.

Her

Discretion is Advised

*Triggers *Incest *Abuse

This is the one thing I never wanted to write about.

It’s a horrible thing.

I’ve written about nightmares before. They are something everyone suffers, yet certain conditions and even medications can make them worse. Certainly a history of abuse, physical, mental and sexual will cause PTSD, a condition known for the symptom of nightmares.

There are times, often strung together in days-long ordeals, when my dreams, already twisted to a distressing degree, are different. As in, worse than usual. The other day I had to endure everything about my son’s death again, only under different conditions and far worse since his overdose scene was built up by the interference of a woman. She taunted me, “you can’t save him, you gave him to me” and got to him, weakening every attempt both he and I made to stop what I, of course, knew was coming.

And so he died, but she would not let me go. She never just lets me go. Until my sleep is interrupted or on the rare day I actually seem to awaken by myself and feel like I’ve gotten enough sleep. The day before, I had seen my maternal step-grandmother.

She passed away under suspicious circumstances so long ago that I can’t even pin down a decade. There was some kind of family conflict when my mother went to her wake. My mother was not comfortable around her family. She rarely spoke to them and until I joined Ancestry I had no idea what that came from. I had an uncle I never knew was an uncle, but as a kid, I remember seeing him on the farm (a former plantation) near Burlington, North Carolina.

That place, she inherited after my grandfather passed away. It was dedicated to tobacco growing but I assume some kind of crop rotation must have been employed. Once off the freeway, probably a federal highway, there were rural roads to negotiate and and then a huge old mailbox signaled the time to turn left onto the driveway.

It was actually a dirt road. A long one which apparently no longer exists. The antebellum mansion stood white with dark trim, three stories of a horror movie set just waiting for a script and film crew. No haunted house in any film I’ve ever seen could touch it; while the parlor and kitchen were charming, everything else was a perversion of architecture and interior decoration. These rooms were perpetually dark, with old paintings on the wall of landscapes and English fox hunts that all had in common the garish and terrifying element of being too big, too dark and out of time. They would seem ordinary in 1850, but I looked at them and swear that no museum should ever display such cursed works.

I found out on Ancestry that it was my grandfather’s either by marriage or some other arrangement, and he had spent a lot of time in Kentucky, especially with my birth grandmother, his first or second wife. This is the connection my mother had with Daniel Boone, who was my sixth great uncle. But it must be told, that as a child, my mother lived a hard life. It is clear that her father was a hardcore alcoholic and, by interpretation of the few stories she told and the continuous drinking, her father had been quite abusive. While he married three times and two wives died mysterious premature deaths, I have found no documentation that he was ever questioned or in any way detained, it’s very easy to assume the worst. He represents to me the classic model of a cruel man, one familiar with the fact that drink, hard labor and married life never mixed well.

Having survived him, his third wife remained alone in that house for the rest of her life. All of the ingredients for a twisted novel were there; all anyone needed were the secrets that family held. Secrets so dark that I had never liked visiting her or that house.

By appearing to me in a dream, or by being conjured for the dream by my mind or by an external power, she looked young, thinner, restored and smiling. She said nothing. Her hair was dyed straw and red, and that wasn’t her or my mother’s natural color.  It couldn’t have been either one of them.

I awoke with the impression that she was in Heaven, had come to signal my life’s end was near, and when the time came, she’d be there to welcome me.

Holy shit. I spend too much time with Death. I need to stop. Join Death’s Anonymous or something.

It’s a lie, a trick. A false comfort. Because I don’t believe she’s in Heaven. She never said anything religious, never went to church. And she was cruel. A hoarder. A prisoner in a mansion that should have been destroyed by artillery fire during the Civil War. Alone in an obscenity, she only ventured forth to shop the five-and-dime store in town or to purchase groceries. She could never have bought clothes; I never once saw her in anything but her black dress, and I believe she made it herself. Her size couldn’t be found in the backwater towns of the 1960s.

Not understanding obesity because my parents never taught us the value of kindness or seeing people’s physical appearances as a mere shell to hold, often, the most beautiful of souls, I remarked one day to a friend while she was visiting us, “My other grandmother isn’t as fat as this one.”

Through the open window, she heard me. She was, according to my mother, wounded.

I guess so!

Well, she didn’t pass up a chance to get back at me. She’d come up before the holidays while she was still able. She would show me catalogs with the most wonderful toys, and have me pick something out. I never got anything but a crisp, new, two dollar bill. Fucking cruel and done for the sake of being cruel.

***

Talking to my friend Margaret one night, it came to me why I had chosen the story of the 9 tail fox as the antagonist in my Halloween story, “The Last Soldier of Bravo Four”. The real point of the story was to point out that our veterans of war are humiliated. Then forgotten.

But at its core lay the timeless fear that men have toward women. A fear ageless, destructive and driving many men throughout history to control and dominate women. We all know this fear in one form or another; to cover it up, we do things that are deceitful, cruel, condescending and deadly.

If I continue with the story of my mother’s father, I must say, he was an abuser of women, a powerful influence on my mother during formative years, and whatever good she had in her heart when I was small, it was gone by the time I was in junior high school.

She never balked at being told by my father that they were going to “teach” us kids about sex. After 1970 when her body could no longer tolerate pregnancy, a tubal ligation signaled that my course in the studies of sex would graduate to the final stage; intercourse. She did not do this with any sign of emotion or desire: she was as if a mannequin had mounted me every time. She never seemed to have an orgasm or even breathe rapidly. It was pure, cold, evil. I had to fantasize about movie stars, nude models I’d seen in Playboy issues that my friends and I passed around, because I couldn’t stand the sight of her. But if I didn’t get an erection, my father would beat me, and I’ve certainly described what his floggings did to me.

***

Men already have an archaic, even primal fear of women. I have seen that this fear causes hatred. I dislike the word “misogyny” as a weasel word. Fuck, it’s time to be honest: the fear engenders a deep hatred. The hatred should be called out for what it causes: terrorism with women as the targets.

Watch a horror movie. Binge on them between doses of Valium. Pick them from any era. Hell. Choose from them all. You know what you’ll see? A graduation through the years of women characters becoming the antagonists as opposed to victims. The hag witch. Cannibals. Zombies. Evil queens. Demons, carnivorous aliens, serial killers. Man-haters.

Art, in paintings, literature and every other genre have actually always shown women in a way they should never have been depicted. Even the famous portraits of English Queens are far from complimentary, the various artists seeming to have used light and dark in every wrong way there is. Trouble is, art is influential to perception and even a biographer can’t be immune to it. See too much darkness, and your writing takes that on. Life imitates art, but the reverse is also true. Novels, paintings, photography, motion pictures.

Perhaps no novel ever explored the fear of women quite like Peter Straub’s Ghost Story. At the center of the the narrative is a woman. Of course, she is not a woman, and we’re never shown what the creature looks like in its natural form, and that’s brilliant. One victim, dying, kept repeating the words “Bee orchid”, a terrifying thought because no one can make sense of it (there is a real plant called a bee orchid but the dying man in the story was in shock and we know he wasn’t referring to any plant). We know only that it emits glowing green light visible under her hotel room door. But she keeps appearing, always as a woman or a little girl. Always with names used to intentionally frighten the story’s heroes, who, it turns out, aren’t heroic at all.

Her initials are always the same, first name beginning with the letter A, last name with an M. Alma Mobley, Anna Mostyn, Ann-Veronica Moore, Amy Monkton. But once, she appeared in the 1920s as actress Eva Galli.

Ghost Story remains the scariest book I have ever read, and my first time, it fucked with my head. I saw Fenny Bate. I had a friend who just started seeing a girl with the initials A.M.

Weird things happened. I thought I saw a former schoolmate whom I was later told was deceased. And things have never been the same.

Using Straub’s characters in my Halloween story, I found, made part of it scary. Because there really is a widespread myth in Asian folklore of the 9 tail fox, which can appear as a beautiful woman which will seduce and kill men. And in looking around the world for mythical creatures that could fit in a Vietnam War setting, I found that every culture extant has more than its share of dangerous monsters in the form of women.

Hell. Even the Patterson-Gimlin film of a Sasquatch crossing a dry gulch shows a female creature with human-like breasts which seem to sway as it walks (a nice touch, attempting realism, but I’ve never believed it was real, not 100 percent)..

And going back to Genesis, it was Eve who first listened to and then caved to temptation. While the story is suspect on its own, it, too, portrayed the woman as the cause of man being expelled from paradise. Nobody stops to think that Adam didn’t refuse her coaxing; it would seem that a story without a woman as the villain is not to be taken seriously.

I’ve watched things change. A mother in the 60s wore pleated skirts and was a housewife. But by the middle of the decade, younger women and girls in high school were wearing blue jeans and miniskirts. They were villainized in public, in editorials and churches, as men came to the conclusion that the end was nigh.

By the late 60s, women fought the male establishment with protests and bra burning. This absolutely terrified the average white Christian man. Authors like Hal Lindsey stepped up their writing about the certain imminent arrival of the antichrist.

It would have been ridiculous except for the fact that writers and evangelists gave unintended lease for hate crimes against women. And any time religion crosses a line of influence, extending too far into mixed cultures, bad things happen. Zealousness forms its ugly tentacles around everyday life. You know, mass hysteria, for lack of a better term, often begins with a paranoid or zealot, whether religious or not.

Women became more liberal with clothing, and drew fire for it. By 1976 I’d go to lunch while working through summer break and the shitheads I worked with would see a woman with revealing summer clothes and say, invariably, “No wonder there’s rape in this world.”

They were so stupid that sometimes I’d tell them to “shut the fuck up”, and I was serious. I didn’t want to hear that ever again. Halter tops, short blue jeans cut off and frayed and faded, belly exposed. Hell, I liked it. I never assumed a nip slip was a show put on for me, I never wanted to rape or even ask any one of them for a date; I simply saw beauty and poise, and a confidence like that was extremely helpful to me. I needed to see women in a way that was alien to me considering what I was put through by four sisters, an abusive mother and a cruel step grandmother. I had to be open to the real world, because somewhere in my mind I was aware that what I was going through was absolutely wrong, and I was aware of how I was being influenced.

My family was, it turns out, so dysfunctional that I’m in awe that we survived, that some have had extended relationships and loving, understanding partners, raised families and gone through hard times to emerge determined to make the best of the lives they had to lead first.

However. My older sister? She got mean, and I mean cold as ice mean. She’d do anything my father said while giving every sign that she was the one sibling not sexually abused. She was often funny, but mocked anyone and everyone, showing an inner disrespect for others’ feelings. She targeted everyone whenever her mood shifted to ultra mean. And so, a humiliation rivaling that which I received at my parents’ hands was constantly challenging my temper and the progressive views I had on the human condition.

Raised by ultra conservatives who fucked their children, I should not even be here now; the double standards alone should have driven me quite mad. And, for a time, I kind of was. I became an anarchist and a rebel. I’d already shat all over the purity of the Boy Scouts of America. Never earned a single merit badge and detested the thought of getting one. I pulled capers at summer camp, didn’t bathe, hated sleeping in tents, and in general did everything I could to show how much I hated being a scout.

The rebellion of course was one against authority. Anyone of leadership responsibility was a substitute for my father; a surrogate for my hatred, anger and sometimes, tremendous fear. It was safer to lash out at others. I guess, without kowing it, I found it cathartic.

In 1979, I fled home and stayed in Tampa for a while. My half brother was there. He helped temporarily set up an apartment, a studio, at the Bayshore Royal Apartments. I had a sofa and a used TV. It was difficult to do laundry, and I immediately began to degenerate. I drank as heavily as I could afford to, earning a bad reputation in what was then a prestigious building.

And then my father got my sister and a friend from college to come “visit” me. The friend’s father was cool and I liked him. But my sister didn’t meet me downstairs in the lobby. She knocked on my door. She took one look and curled her lip in her trademark display of disgust. The friend’s dad took us to dinner and Sea World. For the first time in many years my sister was nice to me. For the first time in months, I was at peace. The night was over way too soon.

Before they left, I begged her not to tell our parents what a sorry state she had found me in. I begged her. To know that I couldn’t make it on my own would be to give them power they didn’t deserve.

My time in Florida was always going to be temporary, but she would only agree not to tell them what I had turned into if I agreed to move back home. Once more, I was humiliated and defeated. Of course, she told them everything. She may as well have taken pictures.

It reminded me of a lyric in an old song. “Please don’t tell them how (my situation) you found me, don’t tell them how you found me, give me a break, give me a break.”

She told them. She had always told them everything. Brainwashed, bitter bitch, I thought. You’re gonna end up badly.

Given all of this, and more, I should have grown to be a woman-hating bastard. Indeed, my anger made me mouthy, sarcastic and mean. But I tried never to aim it at women. The times I had, I was marked by scars. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t what I wanted. Guilt and shame are the signs of good souls compromised by a hard life.

***

On the surface, it seems as if I should be a woman-hater. I’m not. I may look at nude models, but I’m not motivated by objectification of them. It goes deeper than that. Perhaps it’s a latent attraction my Christian upbringing suppressed while living a double life. It could be too that I am just plain traumatized but don’t want to be promiscuous. I never liked it when I was. I really don’t know. I wish I did.

With that all written out, to my utter embarrassment, I cannot escape the dreadful subject of Her. She who haunts my dreams.

She is a problem. A big one, and I’ve no defense with which to stave off the merciless torment she brings to my sleep. Forcing me to run, wander through shopping malls or streets from Hell, threatening and taunting me, sometimes posing as an attractive lover, she makes me invent new places or visit places I’ve lived or worked in. Always, when I awaken, I know that she was there. No other person in any dream has had the quality of being real. I temper this insight with the knowledge that I’m equally held prisoner by mental illness, compromising mood and analytical processes. Fear becomes unreasonably prominent, and it interferes with rationality; hysterical fear makes a person sick enough to suffer additional trauma, even when psychosis is not an element of one’s illness.

Doctors do not believe, as a rule, in the supernatural. They send you to a therapist who is no more able than you are to interpret your condition or its symptoms. In time, they can help you, but they’re mere guides; you have to make the journey to the truth. I’ve only told one person that I seem to have made the dream woman worse.

I’m writing a novel, and with many great characters I honestly think are excellent and plot twists worthy of Christian fantasy, sci-fi and horror, I believe it will sell. I’m going to break it into a trilogy, meaning it will be easier to read and that a publisher should be quick to make an offer. It’s the kind of story I’d buy after reading a brief back cover teaser. And I want HBO or Netflix; it’s meant to be a miniseries and the lead was intended for Johnny Depp. He wouldn’t even have to act. It’s perfect for him. Test readers liked it. All I need is inside help publishing it.

At the center of the first and second acts is a character of female gender but not a supernatural one. She comes from my interpretation of a legend, but engaged my own fear of women and failed relationships. Writing this character was meant to be a science fiction and myth combination and I hoped it would help me with my submerged, remaining fears. It did not.

But I have to tell you one last thing. It’s important.

While men are primordially afraid of and intimidated by women, it is women who are far more afraid of men.

Will they be passed over for promotion? Pawed at on the subway? Raped on a first date or by an estranged husband? Or die at the hands of an abusive boyfriend or husband? There are too many who live in fear. Too many suffering bigotry, threats, sexual advances they do not want, comments that follow them, echoing endlessly, random street violence and more.

The night. How peaceful it can be. Depending on where you are, of course. I feel great sympathy for anyone whose night is spent in fear of crime or any other danger.

Having awakened a little past midnight, I ate a sandwich and had a can of Coke. It wasn’t long though, before I became so drowsy that I was nodding while trying to negotiate the ocean in a video game. Next thing, I was in the supermarket we used when I was a kid. But the people who work now at my local store were there. And they were giving me shit at every turn. I was doing everything wrong and finally had words with a woman who works there, except it wasn’t really that woman. It was Her. And she called the police, who sent a cruiser which, as dreams have it, was there instantly. I was questioned, then let go. But I couldn’t find my blue Mazda anywhere. Late at night, not many cars were parked in the first place. Instead I found my older car, a clunker. Why was this here? An old, big family size sedan in tan or beige. A 60s model, an eyesore. I got in, thinking my (ex) wife had come to get the Mazda and left this piece of crap for me.

Then, in the dream, I went to sleep and woke up in the backseat of a similar car with two menacing men up front. I hastily apologized and made my exit. I canvassed the lot trying to find my car, and it wasn’t there. But then it was. Someone stopped me on the way out. A woman in some sort of stressed condition asked me for help. She held a white plastic cylinder with two places on top for connections to something. She wanted me to put it into an enclosed receptacle in the store’s heating and air system. I hesitated. I knew it was Her in a different body. She always does that.

She got me to do it so my fingerprints would be on the plastic. She was setting me up. She had no need of fear in leaving her fingerprints, as she’s got none of her own, always showing up in a different body. It was some type of poison, I knew, and anyone in the store would get sick. And investigators would find my prints, track me down and arrest me.

Next I found myself back in my old car, driving toward Mountain Road and Pasadena, where I grew up. I was married but living with my parents? Huh?

But I somehow got off the road and onto Maryland route 100, but immediately crashed through a barrier. I jammed my feet on the brake pedal but the overpass ended in midair, and my car fell down. There was concrete and rebar everywhere. I knew I was about to die.

I wondered if I should pray before I hit the road below. Too late.

Somehow I landed alive, the car on its wheels. “I’m alive!” I screamed, then tried to start the car. Of course it wouldn’t start. But then I realized it was still in gear. I shifted it into Park and it turned over, the engine catching finally, and I resumed driving, totally an emotional wreck. By the time I turned onto North Shore Road, it was very dark and I couldn’t see to drive. I switched my high beams on but an oncoming car made me turn them down. Then I had to stop because a woman (Her again, different body) had somehow lost her groceries, they being scattered across the road. I had to help her, aware in some way by now who she really was and when I had finished, I found myself back on the supermarket parking lot, again looking for my car, again failing to find it. The sequence began again, slightly different this time, with a father and son I’d seen there earlier back again, trying to tell me something in a taunting way. And then, I was back inside the store, trying to leave, but the exit was blocked by rows of empty shopping carts, and I had to move one line of them to get out. When I had done so with great effort, a guy wheeled another long line of carts back into the space. I ended up trapped. I often end up trapped, but this seemingly prolonged torture has me feeling sick. I’m exhausted. I’m depressed to a point I rarely reach. I feel as if I never slept at all, but really went through it all.

So: what to make of it?

The real question is, should I try to get anything out of it at all? Is there some point, a reason for such dreadful nightmares?

Some things to consider:

•I’m on psychotropic and somatic medicines, and they affect brain activity. However, it does not account for Her being in nightmares for decades before drug therapy.

•Diet, rather poor in my case, as I’m on a low, fixed income. Again, this fails to explain the decades of her being in my nightmares.

•The woman, Her, could be demonic. When a demon gets attached to a human, nothing good will happen. They don’t just haunt your dreams, either. They can get inside your head, blunt dreams and aspirations, keep you down, bring misfortune and ill health, impart its own negative thoughts, ruin you. I’ve heard too many stories and known too many people so affected not to believe this.

•Her existence is a product of the betrayal I felt as my mother became not a mommy but a cold and mean tormentor.

•PTSD, a mind injured beyond all hope of any normalcy til the day I die.

•Her continuing presence could be a product of fears, all accumulated through every decade of my life: abandonment, feeling lost, trapped.

Except that the anguish and terror at Her hands is far different from my average bad dreams. She imprisons and tortures me in ways I find worthy of a Stephen King novel.

Like all victim-survivors of severe abuse, I don’t get to know the answers to the questions I need answered.

We are, in the end, alone with our nightmares, trapped while they invade our minds, and even if you are blessed to be able to wake up beside someone you love, and even if you feel like talking about it, you must endure the terrors of sleep by yourself.

It has taken me 4 nights to write this post. Along the way, I’ve suffered terrible nightmares. For me, writing usually helps. This post has not. I didn’t even want to write it. That’s the problem with being an American Asshole. You just do stuff that don’t make no sense.

The Last Soldier of Bravo Four (conclusion)

A Halloween Story

______

File Number x-2309

Date Completed: 1 November 2021

Subjects: Jerry Lofton,status: deceased, KIA Vietnam War, 4th August 1969, Location and mission: Classified; TOP SECRET.

Frank Johnson, Status: KIA Vietnam War, 4th August (?) 1969

Peter Barnes, Attorney at Law, status: Undetermined

Prepared by: Emory Lynn Alton, Lt. General, United States Army, the Pentagon

I, Lieutenant General E.L. Alton, attest that the following are true facts and concern the Glen Burnie Maryland incident and connected classified mission of Vietnam War, 1969, of Bravo Company, 4th Platoon, 215th Infantry Division.

The information contained herein is prohibited to all but personnel with Level 10 Alpha Tango Victor clearance. No photocopy, written notes, photographs nor any part of this file shall leave the storage section in which it is kept. Furthermore, any person, whether military personnel or any civilian, who attempts any such reproduction or removal of any part of this file shall be subject to prosecution, and upon being found guilty, subject to severe punishment.

I was contacted in the last hours of 31 October, 2021 concerning an incident of critical importance in the city of Glen Burnie Maryland on 31 October 2021. Initial reports indicated a major firefight in the Harundale section and I was counseled by Sergeant Major of the Army Kelly Freeman to urge the Maryland governor to permit active duty troops from Fort George G. Meade into the area. Attached is an official report from Attorney Peter Barnes. His statement says:

I was contacted by a Mr. Jerry Lofton concerning a problem the nature of which my private security company specializes in. Days before Halloween night, I knew that he was in trouble because of how he described losing a man he was protecting from an unspecified predator. In various countries it often poses as creatures from myth, folklore and written fiction. In England people often see abnormally large black dogs called “hell hounds”; in Ireland leprechauns and fairies; in Scotland, they are kelpies. In western Europe there are too many to name. Romania has had its vampires, and in the whole of European history werewolves were blamed for missing persons and other animal attacks. Throughout all of Asia, the myth of the 9 tail fox are plentiful.

It was the latter which Mr. Lofton contacted me about. Knowing from experience that he was in very real danger, I sent a shock team of bodyguards, followed by a party of household or domestic administrative personnel and a full tactical team.

Later that night Mr. Lofton contacted me to inform me he could hear a baby crying in his back yard. This indicates the presence of the 9 tail fox, in reality a shape-shifting monster of a predatory nature.

My shock team arrived at 20:13 and placed Mr. Lofton into protective custody. This consists of three personal guards which can disengage from the subject only when properly relieved, four outside guards located at weak points within a house or other structure; the number being larger for industrial or office targets. Also a fire team of twelve elite soldiers trained by the United States Army under contractual circumstances. Further training consists of three components: survival, under contract with Australian specialists; weapons use and improvisation; surveillance and tracking; executed in cooperation with Quantico training assets of unspecified U.S. agencies.

By 21:45 EDT, all units reported that they were in place and gave a status of operational. This means that an op is under command of the senior officer and further communications will be made only in the event of an emergency.

That emergency communication came to my HQ at exactly 22:00 EDT.

My command center began to receive radio calls and cell communications which indicated a firefight in progress at the location. First there was a sighting of a woman who was witnessed to “change into” a fox with a “abnormally large tail”. Followed immediately by frantic calls for medics even though every one in the field is always trained for combat medical procedures. The ensuing battle was frantic and ended with an unidentified team member calling for grenades to be used on a specific point in the yard. The target was eliminated and as trained, survivors used vision-enhancing technology to make sure no small animals or insects survived. An M-67 flamethrower was used to scorch the area as Army regulars moved in to support.

At that point it was called in that Mr. Lofton was, despite his close guard detail inside the house, gone. Once 00:00 hours came and went, all persons on the premises searched for the subject. He was not found. Two possibilities that I consider valid are:

1. Jerry Lofton was killed as the creature had intended. Victims vanish at times, presumably consumed.

2. Jerry Lofton had never been there. This theory is supported by the fact that the bodyguard detail never saw any disturbance, never saw or heard anything in their midst. Mr. Lofton had vanished while they were within inches of him. Standard procedure calls for a bodyguard detail to ignore even a close proximity disturbance up to and including weapons fire. The mission has always been such that bodyguards will give their lives to protect those whose safety they are charged to protect.

End of sworn statement by Peter Barnes.

There is no evidence that a Jerry Lofton ever occupied the house in Harundale. We did, however, find records that stated he was a member of the lost Bravo Four platoon in Cambodia in 1969.

Since the families never had any knowledge of the deaths of these fine soldiers, it was my suggestion and the Major General’s order that the soldiers of Bravo Four have their status changed to Killed in Action; furthermore, that they be memorialized at Arlington National Cemetery; that they be awarded posthumous Medals of Honor and finally that their surviving relatives be given the proper ceremonies and benefits.

Whatever happened, whether the “ghost” of Jerry Lofton and that of Frank Johnson connected to gain full justice for themselves and Bravo Four, or to finally avenge them by killing the creature they were killed by, I cannot pretend to know.

Of the Vietnam veterans who made it home alive, all have suffered, benefits withholding became widespread, and an ungrateful public abused them until many died by drugs, exposure to Agent Orange, or insufficient treatment of wounds including PTSD. They always deserved better. They did not run from the call to duty. They did not flee to Canada. They suffered through missions that often were needless and ill-advised. They were–they are–heroes. The finest and most honorable men of their generation. The men of Bravo Company, 4th platoon, shall be recognized as such.

End of Report

_______

Editor’s note:

There were only five survivors of the team sent in by the mercenaries under the employ of Peter Barnes. Under immediate pressure by the Pentagon, he agreed to shut down operations for his freelance protection firm. However, a follow-up visit to his office building on the afternoon of 1 November failed to locate any such law firm as Barnes and Associates. Further, no record of a Peter Barnes in New York could be found of an age matching the attorney. Looking back on the evidence, however, a journal was found. It belonged to Jerry Lofton and skipped from 1969, including yellowed and aged pages, right to the day Frank Johnson called him in 1975.

No explanation for this seems possible, and conjecture has proved pointless.

Thank You For 101 Follows On WordPress

I didn’t believe it possible. I’m so filled with gratitude that today I passed the 100 mark. It meant so much to me when WordPress sent the notification of this new achievement.

First, it means that something I’ve written mattered in some way to far more people than I dreamed possible. That is truly humbling and moving.

Second, it means that if some who followed me two years ago are no longer reading, many still are. The stats page tell me that people visit me from all over the world, and to me, that is astonishing. The United States is a bubble for most who live here and never have the means to travel, or for those too prejudiced to bear the thought of being amidst other races and cultures. I see the flags of other countries on my stats and I’m filled with awe and gratitude. Perhaps there’s hope for the future after all.

We must reach in some way. I don’t understand how, but I don’t need to. I love and appreciate you all, each one of you. You have made me feel something unexpected: happiness.

Again, thank you, from my heart, thank you so much.

Apologies

The short story I posted for Halloween has been removed. It will be replaced shortly. I apologize, but the replacement version will be much better. Promise.

It hasn’t been easy, getting here. Not one to pay much attention to followers or stats, I just do what I do and go from one subject to another when I’m able to write.

I do this because I care about people. I am a high school dropout with a GED, which basically means, I’m a high school dropout. I’m no more qualified to be a writer than anyone else but, using my experience and hard lessons, I do what I believe is right: stand up for people like me, all over the world, who feel lost, overwhelmed and oppressed by powerful people who think they have the right to step on the poor, the mentally ill, the victims of terrible crimes. People who want help, freedom and some basic human compassion.

The United States is moving towards an autocratic rule, climate change is killing us, and corporations give lip service to environmentalists but keep churning out plastic and poison. We’re dying. I challenge myself to hang on and fight with words what I cannot fight with any other means.

I’ll see you soon. Be well.

BTW: I’m watching my stats and following a bit closer now. I can’t break that 100 mark because I keep losing followers, and whereas I’m not watching out of vanity but because I care that my words might really mean something after all. I just wanted to say I love you all for making me feel like I matter. Thanks so very much.

In Violation Of Reason

It seems to go back a way, but I can’t tell how far. And it has just been repeated by some fucking hysterical nut somewhere in the United States during a protest.

A vaccine for COVID-19 mandate for school students above a certain age is…well, it’s being …

What the fuck. How do I write this?

“This is rape,” some mother says. In front of children, in front of cameras, in front of God and everyone.

Holy shit.

No, it isn’t. It’s just a fucking shot, you fucking idiot, and how dare you compare it to the ultimate sexual violation?

I didn’t know this was a thing. I didn’t know it went at least back to Australia and New Zealand ca. 2015.

I’ve never heard or read anything so infuriatingly stupid or offensive. The video on CNN hit me like a brick to the face. I mean, what?

An incredible and very sad moment recorded for the masses.

***

And look. I understand fear. I know where it comes from and I know the desperate things it can drive a person to do. I get it.

But this hysteria over vaccines is so misplaced that people have died because of it.

As it happens, I’ve studied cases of mass hysteria, and I’m sure that’s not what’s going on here.

One sad thing I’ve learned is that history is often badly misrepresented in the Era of Mass Media, the Age of Knowledge, as it were.

It has often been written that one night in October of 1938, a radio show by Orson Welles and a bunch of great writing talent broadcast a news-style version of the H.G. Wells novel War of the World’s and gave the setting as New Jersey instead of England. During the show, “special bulletins” updated listeners on the progress Martian invaders were making as they sacked New Jersey. That had to be hilarious. Jersey!

The one place real Martians would not dare to exit their parked starship! They’d have found far more plunder in Texas, and it would have been so poetic.

Welles later was called on to humiliate himself and explain what he had intended and to express sincere surprise that his audience had taken any part of it as real.

Modern sources like to blame Welles for the current fake news crisis, which is so far away from the truth that it’s appalling. Welles was portrayed decades later in a made-for-TV movie as people across the country took up shotguns and farm implements and waited for the invaders, who of course never showed up.

Evidence of disclaimers broadcast before, during and after the show are still claimed to have been aired, and there is no reason to doubt this. By the end of the broadcast, Welles said that it was the equivalent of the network putting on a sheet like a ghost costume and yelling “Boo!” But, according to Britannica, the damage was done. I’m not sure what damage the article means; no casualties were ever reported.

More archaic accounts of mass hysteria are far worse. The Christian inquisitions and witch executions across Europe and the New World were perfect examples; owing to a single story in the Bible, witches and non-witches alike were tortured and killed. Neighbors accused friends and watched then hang.

***

Then there were the nuns of Loudon, the famous dancing “fever” in which people died of exhaustion and possibly heart attacks. The Seattle windshield folly. History is full of examples. Some are correctly retold and some are embellished to include paranormal elements. One would think that, given so many calamities of such a nature, that today we would be immune to the phenomenon.

We are not.

Death stalks the misinformed and the believers of propaganda. It strikes down without warning those who take up the fear of lies without questioning them. Some late news on COVID-19 indicates a downward trend in cases, hospitalizations and deaths. The same reports indicate higher numbers of the vaccinated population.

That’s welcome news, but we who face reality know that this crisis is not over. We know that there have been cases of breakthrough covid, and that boosters are necessary. We’ve learned about “long covid”. We are threatened by the unvaccinated to at least some small extent. It is not over. Autumn in the Northern hemisphere won’t help. And the virus continues to mutate. We hope that vaccination programs have weakened it but viruses usually find new ways to attack. With anti-vaxxers getting their warped messages on cable news, and free passes on Facebook, the threat will not magically vanish.

COVID-19 has changed the world forever. How much more damage it will cause is up to us. And refusing vaccines because of fake news and conspiracy theories is irresponsible and unreasonable.

But comparing inoculations to being raped is a horror. It scares the impressionable, children don’t understand, and all it does is insult real rape victims, myself included, and cause the division in this country to grow.

In the end, rational people don’t do this shit, whether they want to be vaccinated or not. It takes a high level of crazy to make such a comparison, and you can’t fix crazy.

A Post-Modern Prometheus

I didn’t have to know much about the leaker who was yet to appear on 60 Minutes when I wrote my last post. Didn’t need to, didn’t care, still don’t. I didn’t watch it.

I know what that bastard Zuckerberg is. I know what he’s gotten people to do. I got one thing wrong, though. I compared Facebook and Instagram to cults. You can see why, with a code of silence that looks like it’s modeled on something L. Ron Hubbard dreamt up while in a particularly vengeful mood. Maybe like after a day’s energy spent sticking hat pins through kitten’s tails.

But isn’t all big business modeled on the classic cult?

Industry secrets, big money, blackmailing and black-balling, spying, subterfuge, conditioning and indoctrination, forced signing of ridiculous nondisclosure pacts, psychological manipulation and reinforcement, and of course, demeaning punishments.

Every day it grows worse. If a high-level employee goes to another place of work, the boards-of-directors sit, smug with the idea that should that employee share trade secrets, their attorneys will sue that person and their new employer into oblivion. That, or they will engineer some extra-court agreement loaded with compensatory cash.

However cult-like it all seems, most have little to worry about. People who have no honor are free to squeeze their employees into paralyzed terror and conformity, whereas those so squeezed are at least getting paid. They cash their checks, watch Netflix and have sex on Saturday night. Maybe that is the American Dream.

That’s not the whole story but you get the idea, right?

The guy cooking your pizza at Papa John’s doesn’t know trade secrets. He works his ass off for people who don’t give a piss about him and he knows it. There are no expectations, just busting ass and a meagre paycheck in return. He thinks he’s being badly used. No benefits, nothing extra. A shitty pittance for a week’s work. It’s black and white.

He never knows or cares that others elsewhere in the world are, depending on job and location, treated better–and, mostly, much worse. Anyone working with indigo dye for blue jeans, or at a plastics plant in China, or a mine anywhere in Africa, well, they wish for the pay and the treatment that a Papa John’s dough-tosser gets.

None of it is relative, though it’s okay to think so. All things are different to different people from different cultures, different countries and different religions. What slavery looks like to an American is nothing of the kind to someone elsewhere who has a place to stay and a kind person to answer to.

And those people would break down in hysterical sorrow at the slaves of the sex industry which stretches around the globe, with the misery only known to those who are in it.

***

We Americans are divided, more than is generally understood. Worse than anyone could imagine. No one anywhere understands this. Even I can’t get my head around it and I usually have a crude but decent concept of all things dark. This darkness invading the United States, it defies my mind’s ability to grasp any part of.

But we did learn something important. Facebook has willfully made it worse. It will get a huge serving of karma, too. Perhaps it’s even started.

Facebook and Instagram went through and outage on Monday, following the 60 Minutes report. It was so bad that Facebook employees could not reset the servers because their security ID cards would not open the doors. See, there was an outage. So why did those people even try the card readers in the doors? It really had to be funny to watch. If they knew they couldn’t get to the servers, why try? Because someone told them to. At Facebook, you get an order, you carry it out, even if it’s impossible and you do look really stupid trying.

So serious and protracted was this outage that Facebook could only tell its users by posting to Twitter.

Not their best day.

Then came Mark Zuckerberg who managed to effortlessly act like the weasel he is. He posted a denial on his own Facebook page. It was strangely reminiscent of something Scientologists were doing on their Wikipedia page until they were banned from making changes.

In other words, Zuckerberg looked like a guilty man trying to cover up his feces in a hurry like a dog when the dog catcher is on the hunt.

Better yet, he looked like Tom Cruise but with a pencil neck.

Zuckerberg is so sleazy that he not only denied that teenage girls have serious self image issues made worse by Instagram and its advertisers, he went so far as to say his own research proved that the reverse is true.

Who’s research? “His” research? Because doing research on your own users is not exactly ethical, and let’s get one thing straight: this is not Domino’s taking a customer satisfaction survey to help them understand what their customers want, need or expect.

This is a biased party putting out a survey that had to have had leading questions and then, without providing hard copy results, claiming that everything came out pure vanilla.

If you believe this, I would like to point out that I did use the words “biased” and “leading”. Did that not register?

Because I’ll admit it. I’ve taken leading questionnaires and surveys too, and I fell for the bloody trick. I gave a cable provider’s customer service high marks when the wording of the questions took my attention away from the anger at how I was really treated. I wouldn’t know about slimy questionnaires and surveys had I not fallen for their cleverness, making me feel as if I were valued in some way, only to realize later that I was as valuable as my money, nothing more. Yes, it’s humiliating and yes, you blame yourself. Yes, you feel used, sometimes violated. That’s a good thing; I want you to know that it’s completely normal. Do you know that people have careers just writing those surveys, ever changing the design? It’s true. Some are called independent and some are openly working for advertising services. Some are corporate stooges. Yes men. Douche bags loaded with lies and tricks.

A POST MODERN PROMETHEUS

In a particularly sickening episode of The X-Files titled “The Post-Modern Prometheus”, Mulder and Scully investigate one of their many monsters of the week. This time a thing created by some mad scientist with a bit too much knowledge about genetics and no ethics whatsoever. The title comes from Mary Shelley who wrote Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus.

Shelley was ahead of her time and didn’t have her name added to the novel until its second edition. It is a valid argument that her book is the first known, true science fiction book ever written.

Of course, film adaptations blur the true nature and theme Shelley tried to get across. The doctor was named Victor Frankenstein but the monster he created did not bear his name. His creator called him terrible names including “demon” but never gave him a proper name because he was full of regret and horror over what he had done. The title calls the creation a modern Prometheus. That was the name of an Ancient Greek titan, forerunners to the gods. “Titan” and “Prometheus” have become synonymous with “huge”, “giant”, and “monstrous” although the latter is becoming more used.

In an homage to Shelley, Chris Carter wrote the episode and initially it was shown in black and white like the first films by Universal Studios.

It starts out with a house being tented as if for fumigation. The woman inside doesn’t notice. Tarps roll down past the windows while a song about loneliness plays. Nine months after falling asleep from gas, she gives birth. But she’s not the only one. So the feds are called in.

It turns out that the attacker is hideous. Created by a man with no sympathy. He is lonely, this prometheus, and he unbelievably erects scaffolds and tents and plays the same song every time he rapes and impregnates a woman. Oh, but it’s okay.

He apologizes, you see. And everyone keeps their babies and forgives him but in the end, being taken to (prison?) by Mulder and Scully, they stop for a Cher concert because the rapist/monster loves Cher.

A reward for all those women he raped, I guess. The whole episode is a mess, yet was praised by critics and nominated for Emmy awards. Shaking your head? I did.

The theme of the Shelley novel and the episode are the same. Things get out of hand when men of no principles take things too far.

And Facebook is the result of one man of no principle taking things too far. It is our own nemesis of the age; a true post-modern prometheus, dangerous and much bigger than it should ever have been allowed to get.

That Facebook has become cult-like is apparent. It is a juggernaut of power and secrecy by its own admission, having confessed to “cleaning house before inviting guests.”

It keeps your information even if you delete your account. It keeps your face in a file even if you don’t give it permission for facial “recognition” purposes. It breaks its own rules and defies your every selection for permissions. You see that lens on your phone, the one looking at you right now? You know, the selfie lens? Tape over it with opaque tape. Or clear tape with a black Sharpie to ink over it. Add two more layers. Sometimes you’ll be able to tell if a picture is taken without you even opening your camera app. Most of the time you won’t. Turn off the camera under permissions for all apps until you want to use it. Then turn it off again. Expecting apps to be run honestly is unreasonable and unrealistic. They want your information. Especially Facebook. It knows everywhere you go, every site you visit, and more. Giving it even more information on your own is asking for it.

IN CLOSING

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting truly honorable people in my life. If not for them, in fact, I’d likely not be here.

But I was raised by predators and perverts. I’ve met more than my share since. Zuckerberg may not be a pervert but a predator, that he absolutely is. Being one has made him powerful and rich. I’d like to see him fall and his empire crumble. He’s been allowed to hurt too many people, and hurting children is too grievous a sin to be given a pass on.

Here’s the song the rapist prometheus liked so much when he did his heinous deeds. Loneliness is terrible but gives no lease for predation. Likewise, power is terrible without ethics. Zuckerberg, this dedication goes out to you. May you know and feel the pain you have so viciously given others.

Why You Should Avoid Facebook (Meta) And Instagram: It Seems That There’s An Illuminati After All

People want to read Cardi B and they want it uncensored.

So it’s said. And of course, in the United States, the land of the free, you can read or say anything, right?

Wrong. And I have never in my life seen a time when freedom of expression wasn’t on trial. In fact, it has never been worse, but between the war for independence from England and now, free speech was never a reality. I still cannot answer my high school history professor’s question, “What is the American Dream,” and I refuse to look for the answer on any website of encylopedic facts. Because whatever I find, I know it will be horseshit.

It’s not like I ever really believed it was real anyway. My answer got me a brutal rebuke and an insult as to my intelligence as well as an “F” grade.

My memory of whatever he defined it as has been lost to the passing of time. This is because I knew it was horseshit.

I saw the country as it was in 1978. I also read everything I could get my hands on because reading allowed me an escape from the abuse I still endured and the sexual abuse just ended, but which I have ever since been haunted by.

I’d read books both fictional and not. The nonfiction was usually about Nixon and his palace guard, and the implications of their action’s consequences were not lost on me.

Even Republicans told the president that he should resign. They were going to impeach him, and they said he would likely face a criminal case if that happened.

He took the advice and it broke his heart, but he resigned. It was a moment that has led us to Reagan, who sabotaged Carter’s campaign, which was hardly necessary considering that Americans would have sooner voted for Ronald McDonald than Carter.

What Reagan did was to negotiate release of the Iranian hostages through illegal action and then to ensure a guaranteed withholding of their release until after he was elected president. In this case on his inauguration.  It was all very theatrical and he entered office with rhetoric unlike anything I’ve seen since. Of course he did. He was an actor. A former governor. A hybrid Californian who appealed even to democrats. Iran-Contra didn’t matter; against Nixon’s advice to keep his mouth shut, Reagan came through it all by sort of telling the truth, emerging as one of the most beloved presidents of our age.

All would have worked out, the country healed, but then came Bill Clinton. Republicans were by then more slimy and hateful than ever. They had evolved into political weapons who had no intention of doing right by their country or their oaths of office. They used Monica Lewinsky as a weapon. A slimy, sleazy trick. They had never done anything so overtly creepy.

I’m not saying that politics had ever not been fueled by the lust for power. To the contrary, elections and campaigns were never in the least civil. Some should have served to teach us little people that only with awareness and vigilance could a voter properly and responsibly vote, whether for an alderman or a president. That we could not swallow rhetoric but instead needed to study what was available at the time about every candidate. If there was ever a vetting process, however crude, it has long since passed to the hands of irresponsible and politically motivated members of the press, and now, to social media groups and sites who have given themselves the power to muffle, censor and use platforms for the twisting or the silencing of the truth.

Facebook has a power that is unquestionably absolute. Items posted and even comments are arbitrarily pulled, marked as disinformation or hate speech. Several times I was censored, while people posting total bullshit went untouched. And I noticed others getting worse treatment. PJ, one of my followers here who no longer visits this site, was repeatedly suspended (a thing known as Facebook Jail) despite always posting reliable sources in links. Although her passion has always been driven by the demand for truth, she was censored and suspended so many times that I knew without doubt that she was being watched and singled out by someone in power. The evidence was overwhelming. But never once did she post anything she had not fact-checked first; she often provided the link to fact checking websites.

But in Arizona, a red state, a liberal with her political savvy is always a threat and threats of her kind cannot be handled except with raw power and prejudice.

And that’s only one example.

Hate groups and hate speech, and most certainly disinformation, have been allowed to do anything. For a small time, Facebook stifled them. Mostly it’s been following the January 6th sacking of the US Capitol Building, the claims of election fraud and the assertion that Trump won, and finally COVID-19 and vaccine lies by conspiracy theorists and antivaxxers.

But when Facebook took action, it was reversed fairly quickly.

In using contractors, any business takes risks. Big ones. Their contract has rules and procedures. But as a private company, they can’t always be counted upon to honor their contract. This is certainly the case with Facebook. Their fact check contractor’s actions include shortcuts which yield unfair, arbitrary results.

John Stossel is a conservative muckraker with a long career behind him. And while I have rarely agreed with him, I do in this case.

He is suing Facebook and its contractors. He posted a video which Facebook removed for containing partial misinformation. In it, he never said that climate change didn’t play a part in California wildfires. He said that mismanagement of fire fighters and infrastructure had directly led to the worsening of disasters. And that climate change had exacerbated the problem. They claimed something was wrong with that. But when he contacted individuals in the group, none of them had even seen the video.

Stossel’s suit is for defamation. They’re calling his character and words as unreliable and untrue. I believe he should add other charges to his suit; he clearly has a case.

Climate change, a weasel term for global warming, is not a debatable topic. It isn’t coming, it is here. Stossel, as much as he can bring himself to, acknowledges this.

And if he did not, he would be a liar.

A recent article caught my eye. Before I go any further, I attest that the truth is not something most people are capable of hearing, much less having to live with; it is overwhelming and terrifying.

The article dealt with deforestation in the Amazon basin and rain forest. It was not to my liking because it gave dire predictions but couched them in words and phrases to soften the political backlash it was sure to attract.

However, I translated as I read. First, deforestation was linked to “savannization”. You know what that means, right? Trees gone, arid land incapable of supporting any but the hardiest of species, low amounts of rainfall. Already happening. More to come. And as that land is further exploited, there will come desertification, huge tracts of hectares of nothing but sand. And no one will be able to stop it.

The author was preoccupied with the effects on humans and economy. As temperatures rise, more heat injuries are being reported and the obvious projection is worse to follow. Heat injuries are a nice way of saying that people will fucking die.

I know that many who follow my blog already have to deal with being in heat and having to labor. Or knowing someone else who does. I know they have seen what prolonged exposure to heat does to a person. First comes dehydration. That makes a person sick enough; heat exhaustion renders one incapacitated, but once the body’s cooling system begins to break down further, sweating will cease. Skin is dry and hot. It’s time for treatment. Anything that stops this patient from getting fluids and being cooled will result in heatstroke, and death.

Farm workers in the Amazon will endure even worse. Heat and less rain means crop failure. That means jobs lost. And that is the death of many people.

The global economy is already suffering from warming. Droughts and crop failures as well as wildfires are becoming all too common.

What I see here is that certain prophecies are coming true, slowly and not as dramatic as, say, the Book of Revelation may depict, but coming terrifyingly close to being fulfilled. Is the judgement of God closer and more real than we thought?

Stossel claims not to see an increase in hurricanes and their intensity. I say otherwise and with rising air and seawater temperatures, it is only a question of when, not if: a supercane, once derided as a doomsday scenario element, will make a believer out of the naysayers. These storms can only be described as hurricanes on crack cocaine. They will break the rules we hold as absolute and kill and destroy everything in their paths. They will be unlike any we have seen.

For all our bitter and hateful words on social media, we cannot stop what’s true. Hate distracts and drains us from things we shouldn’t even be arguing about but should be doing something about.

Social media is a metabolic toxin. It drains us of resolve and strength. It’s been described as addiction to gambling and cigarettes but that’s not proper context. Someone on Meet the Press likened it to the evolution of automobiles: over decades we’ve had to invent speed limits, seatbelts, and so on. That’s closer to what I’d liken to social media. Free speech is one thing.

Hate speech and lies are another. And there have been casualties.

Considering that celebrity influencers get away with incredible things, and little people get suspended, I’d say that we’re late in inventing the seatbelt and enforcing its use for everyone, without prejudice.

Why should a celebrity be able to get others to believe that the earth is flat, but us little people get suspended for debunking the stupid idea as sheer fantasy, possibly delusional and certainly stupid?

Not all influencers are so irresponsible. Plenty tell the truth and refuse to be swayed. Social media makes the line between the two blur for people who don’t know any better. Lots of folks are impressionable and a bit naive. Their education and neglectful parenting has led them to a crossroads without a map. Cults thrive on such people, but just as serious are the ones led astray by rhetoric, lies and appeals by design which make them emotionally vulnerable.

They do it with YouTube,  Facebook and Twitter.

Children are one way that the illuminati (not intended to mean the fictional conspiracy theories about the rich who run the world but instead those rich and powerful who do rule social media) get an early start on new believers.

Instagram has a new element for preadolescent kids. I don’t know the particulars, but one has to question, why?

In the past I have warned people that posting photographs of their children, then posting scholastic achievements which include the name of their school, is reckless and stupid; it places a target of opportunity smack on their faces. Once done, they are in peril, and their own parents did it. They did not intend to. They’ve misjudged social media’s true nature. Facebook and Instagram become ways to mine information and provide stalkers with too much of it. Child traffickers are real, folks, and they are notoriously difficult to catch. Once a child goes missing, the odds are against them ever returning home. Oh, sure, there’s a market for every race and age group; that’s not in dispute. But children are the most sought after and bring high prices. I’m not speaking of worst case scenarios here. It’s a big problem and it just gets worse all the time.

My simplest advice is to remove yourself from social media. If you are unwilling, refrain from sharing any and all personal information. Use Anti-Malware apps, a VPN, and restrict your comments on whatever you read or watch. Facebook is leaking documents by people who were previously silent. That means staff. That means an enforced silence by what looks for all the world like a cult.

Finally, I know that the COVID-19 pandemic has made many people feel cut off and lonely. And loneliness is every dirty thing they say it is. We are social creatures. Sooner or later we have to step outside of our comfort zone. It’s hazardous. I sympathize, I truly do. But be safe. Beware the snakes lying in the grass. Protect yourself.

Because liars and predators do lurk in your path.

Keep using politics as a guide. The liars will always be a reminder that real evil does exist. People with no mercy. No morals. No restraint.

Gymnasts: Courageous Testimony Defines Honor And Fighting Spirit

They’re heroes of the highest order. Not in one day of testimony before a room full of politicians, no, not just that. It was a brave, brave thing to do. But they have had to endure much more than that.

Do you remember 2015?

I do. And this story isn’t among my memories of it. Because in 2015 I was without TV and internet service, but I could still see some stories with Straight Talk while impeded by a sea of trees that surround me.

But it wasn’t a story at all. Not really, because the FBI engaged in something I find heinous yet so very typical. It ignored the claims of sexual abuse by a doctor against gymnasts on the USA Olympics team.

Reuters reported an extraordinary set of testimony by Simone Biles, McKayla Maroney, Aly Raisman and Maggie Nichols in which not only did they blame their abuser, but an entire system that enabled the monster inside Larry Nassar to commit horrible crimes without fear of being held accountable in any way.

This is something I’m triggered by in so many ways that I’m not going to bother describing them. But because of that, I’m angry, no, enraged that these extraordinary women have been put through any of the evil shit they’ve been forced to endure. I’m outraged because I grew up in a time when children couldn’t say anything. When silence ruled the day. When Newspapers rarely had to choose whether to print such events and often did not do it. Not because they feared a lawsuit by an accused party, but because the subject was taboo and publishers feared anything that might affect circulation. They covered the Manson murders well enough, but not until over a decade after did news from cable, network and print actually put these stories out to the public. Don’t pick nits here; I know the occasional story did get reported. From what I recall fundamental Christians threw fits because it was titillating and erotic. It was neither; but even back then you couldn’t tell them anything, the dumb stupid bastards.

What the brave young women’s testimony has done remains to be seen. Will this be the case that finally opens people’s eyes? The one that tells the whole world that women and girls are routinely abused, raped, discriminated against, traumatized, murdered by men who should never have been anywhere near them?

Part of this, of course, is that in 2015 the abuses were reported, but FBI agents taking the statements downplayed the severity, and then dropped the cases like they were poison.

That this evil still happens to victims does not surprise me, not the abuse and not the coverup. But it does disgust and sicken me.

***

On April 27th, 1990, my parents were sentenced to prison for rape, incest, statutory rape, sexual child abuse and unnatural and perverted sex practices. A month earlier, after a 3 day trial, the press wanted to know via the court liaison if we would go public. During the grand jury process and trial, our parent’s names had not been released in order to protect us. We decided that there was nothing to be gained by keeping our names from the public. If we did that, people would think whatever they wanted to. I for one desperately wanted everything in the open.

The reasons were that if we remained silent and anonymous, nobody could learn from our example. We felt a higher calling, and also, there were too many people in our past who needed to know exactly why they saw and heard what they did while growing up with us or watching us grow up.

I doubt that any of my teachers remembered me. It wasn’t they whom I had in mind. They failed me in their disregard for my obvious problems.

It was more like the ex-girlfriends I’d hurt and confused, the guys who had bullied me, peers who made fun of or were saddened by watching the mess of a kid I really was. People I had loved deserved to know, and I hoped that if they read the stories or saw the news, they might now be mature enough to understand why I was never happy, why I enjoyed negative attention but never a compliment, which was seldom offered anyway.

What the news couldn’t reveal was the damaged soul left behind. The word “survivors” was used on us.

A survivor is nothing except someone who is still alive. They’re not cured. A lifetime of nightmares, victim behavior and hell are what they own. What I have owned for so very long.

The mistakes people make with victims are many and severe. You tell these brave women gymnasts that they can “move on” now and that they have “closure”, and you trigger memories and guilt. Know why? There’s never closure. That word was applied by conservatives who just didn’t want to hear you talk anymore.

And there’s no moving on; no matter what you do, for the rest of your life, you’re a victim full of crippling and disabling afflictions. That people go forth and are able to hold a job and even achieve immorality in sports and other professions is a testament to an indomitability of human spirit, and it does happen.

But unseen are millions who commit suicide, use drugs and alcohol, become abusive, are homeless, or longtime residents of maximum security prisons.

Society has failed every survivor because that’s what they are in name only.

The magnificent courage and honor of the four women who testified are a chance for us all to finally resolve never to ignore victims again. And law agencies to not protect their agents who do ignore them.

Courage. Honor. Strength. A thirst for truth, justice. These women are heroes, role models. They have both my sympathy my everlasting admiration.

Say WHAT?

Trinidad and Tobago officials had to actually fact-check something said by a celebrity in a tweet. This video with part of the press conference explains it better than I can, but Nicki Minaj has given yet another reason for people not to get a covid vaccine. Seriously, celebrities with millions of followers can be very persuasive when it comes to current events, and if you tell people that something causes “impotence” and swollen testicles then you’ve likely made men shit in their pants. Men who have had the shots are beset with diarrhea. And men who are engaged have to worry about being dumped by shallow women.

Because if that really happened (didn’t really happen, though) then there’s no love or commitment there in the first place.

The video is startling because her tweets are so fucking out there. But she’s serious.

Rudy Giuliani checked in last week on the–wait, what?

I’m done here. Holy shit people are stupid. Here’s some relaxing music to help you calm down. Me, I’m going to take pills.

The Fucking Problem With Construction Paper

Clive Stafford Smith wrote this op-ed in Aljazeera on 11 September. Read it, please, even if you don’t come back to finish this post. In case your searchable content is restricted I’d like to recommend a VPN. It hides your location from the sites you visit and if in Incognito mode, your ISP as well. You can view or download almost anything you want virtually undetected.

Now then. I’m glad a friend sent me this opinion piece. I was going to do it on the 11th, but was busy with other things and forgot about afterward.

Mr. Smith does one thing I have, since I have written blogs beginning in 2008, been unable to do: wrap all of the things we did wrong after September 11, 2001 up in a few paragraphs.

Sure, I expressed disgust at torture. Sure, I’ve also noted that of all the things Obama got right, he still kept up the charade that we were doing good things in Iraq and Afghanistan. Because we never should have been there at all.

I’ve written that we have engaged in violating human rights and stuck our middle finger at the world as if to say “We’re right no matter what so fuck you.”

And I’ve also been of the mind that the last war we righteously engaged in was World War Two, and that in so many words, every shot we’ve fired since was a big mistake, each and every one.

But what I have never been able to do is put all of these things together at one time. I got hung up specifically on torture: it is forbidden and it is a gross violation of everything that we the people thought our nation was dedicated to. Civility, keeping the law, not being the goddamn bad guys.

Although stories of torture did leak and cause outcry, we settled for “Okay, we won’t do it again,” when in fact we should have kept pressing for a full accounting of what had happened and what was going to be done to stop it. We sure are gullible.

I’ve written about why we should never have gone to war overseas against people instead of a country. How could any other country watch what we were doing and ever trust us again? How could any country not usually diplomatically engaged with us ever believe we were sincere with all the underhanded things we were doing in front of the whole world? We trashed any credibility we might have had in exchange for an open and arrogant display of unreasonable force and invasion. That’s not the United States I was taught about in school. Of course, our textbooks were printed in the 1950s, the height of the first chapter of the Cold War. Meaning the story of the first Thanksgiving, a complete lie in every sense, was fervently taught and we had to make “Pilgrim” hats with glue and black construction paper (and NO sharp scissors!)

The Age of the Big Crayon and Colored Construction Paper. Fuck, what a shit show.

I want to vomit. I may even manage it before I’m through here.

Some will not take kindly to my words. Had I said anything like this back then, and this is no joke, I would probably have been committed. I picture myself then, saying, “Fuck a pilgrim! You know the (native Americans) Indians hated us!” Man, how many girls would have drawn a breath in horror, how many guys would have cracked up because I said “fuck” out loud?

And how long would it have taken to expel me? Ah, with the stroke of the principal’s pen. Laugh if you must, but it’s true.

You know how many girls in my eighth grade class we lost to pregnancy? Parents wanted their kids taught straight arithmetic and fairy tales, no joke. Sex education? We had one visit in the assembly room during sixth grade. And that shit never happened again, I tell you. Never. In a place as big as Pasadena where there really wasn’t much else to do, kids fought, got hold of drugs, and fucked. In parks after dark, even in the woods, whatever. Parents were so shocked when their daughters got knocked up or their sons got caught smoking pot. Ignorant redneck motherfuckers, they were. Living a life of lies in a fairy tale world. We owe them so much.

Yes, Mr. Smith is correct. One hundred percent, baby. Everything we did following the attacks of September 11th was wrong. Just about as wrong as you can get. If they were teaching anything but bullshit in school, my generation would know this. To think that people my age still believe the first Thanksgiving was all warm and fuzzy white men hosting Indians for technicolor corn and turkey is enough to make me cringe.

But clearly, some do. Lots of people believe it. They also believe that planet Earth is flat. Rather like a sheet of construction paper. What a bunch of shitheads.

I think we have some sins to atone for. The question becomes whether there’s enough time. We’re still largely ignoring global warming. It and a nuclear holocaust inch closer with each tick of the clock.

Daddy-O, you got bigger problems than your 14-year-old getting preggers. Whether or not she actually keeps it is not my business. But let’s say she gives birth. What kind of world will that baby live in when it grows to be adult? My guess is an extremely hostile climate with a world war about to go nuclear.

And Mama, what of your son, whose drug use is limited to smoking grass, because your right-wing fringies and parents told you it was a gateway drug, and now you cry every night while praying for God to strike down his dealer?

You’re more blessed than you know and you’re pissing precious time with him away with your fucked-up rigidity. Grow the fuck up. God doesn’t do that shit and you’re the bigger sinner than anyone involved.

And political beliefs? We’re all guilty of wrong thinking. Everyone compared Biden to Trump. What about us? While Trump feigns wealth and wisdom in a show of grandiloquent shittiness, Biden never pretended to be anything but what he is. You want someone to blame, then fine: but add yourself to the fucking pile. What did you ever do to stop the wars or protest the Patriot Act or anything else but what you did, which was sit back and watch? Bullshit. We’re all dirty. Blood on our hands, each and every one.

And the clock is ticking.

I’ll play you out with the music and images of the end credits to Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. In the film, a probe of extraterrestrial origin begins causing serious damage to Earth’s atmosphere because its creator lost contact with humpback whales. Knowing they were gone, the civilization which sent the probe vaporizes sea water so the process of evolution can begin again. The idea is preposterous but the theme inescapably real; we’re killing every life on Earth.

https://youtu.be/SHbyILpmLXg

Now Comes Nipah

NPR NEWS reports that a Malaysia-to-Bangladesh bat-borne infection known as Nipah virus has returned to India, where it was thought to be eradicated. Of course the article raises the alarm, and I believe rightly so. As I’ve said before, the next virus that will cause a pandemic already exists.

With horrible symptoms like encephalitis, yes, WHO correctly calls it a “virus of concern”, one step worse than a “virus of interest”, the current designation for SARS CoV-2 Mu strain.

Mu is a covid variant that is worrisome in that it’s thought to render vaccines less effective. It was identified in Colombia in 2021 and has spread, but seems to be far less efficient at transmission than other variants. It remains a fearful concern for South and Central America wheras experts say the threat is wearing thinner. Masks are essential in fighting Mu since it has trouble with transmission.

In North America the Delta variant is the dominant strain and is poised to cause serious damage as autumn and winter approach.

I’m with Uncle Joe when it comes to his more hard-line stance on vaccines, generally in the form of mandatory inoculations for federal employees. This winter has the potential to be as bad as 2020, and since those vaccinated in May with a second shot will need a booster by 1 November, we have a lot of work to do.

Protest over and refusal to take mandatory vaccinations has already begun in earnest despite the obvious fact that the group with the highest hospitalization and death rate is those not vaccinated. The president of the United States does in fact have the authority to take this action.

If you find yourself in the position of being vaccinated or being refused entry to your workplace, mark this well: take the fucking shots. Had you listened to him in the first place, this would not be happening. And the next time you have the chance to get a life-saving shot, tell your friends to shut the fuck up and be ready to hear them not shut up, and then sit back and wait for their funeral service. And for God’s sake wear a mask.

Mask mandates are going to return and some are already in place. The Delta variant does not spare children, so here in my state they must wear masks to schools.

Meanwhile I’m seeing superspreader events everywhere I look. Especially at football games. My most direct and dire advice and warning to you: don’t go. Not even if you’re masked. Not even if you’ve had the shots. Why? Because in large crowds, unmasked crowds, even outside, you are at risk. Symptoms may be barely noticeable. Something you might want to chalk up to seasonal allergies. But here’s the gut-punch: it may not be allergies. And you can literally kill someone in your family. Like your children. Do I really have to tell you what it feels like to lose your children? Because I’ve been here since 2019 trying, and failing, to put that feeling into words.

And if you’re one of those who deny the threat, who watches Fox News or whatever bullshit you watch, and you’re not convinced after all that has happened, then you’re a fool. And it’s not my opinion that you’re a fool; it’s what you yourself have proven. How many have already died needlessly at the hands of fools such as you, and how many are yet to die needless deaths?

As the Nipah virus remains something of a puzzle, any variant that becomes more transmissible will circle the globe to kill by the numbers.

When I said that the organism that will cause our next pandemic is already in existence, I was not being alarmist or hyperbolic. Global warming will facilitate mutation and world travel will cause continental spread in a single airline trip.

Do I want you to be worried?

No. But I think you should be.

I Wish For The Best Place After Death

And When He Gets To Heaven,

To Saint Peter He Will Say,

“I’ve Had My Fill Of Hades, Sir,

It’s Here I Wish To Stay.”

–the Survivor’s Creed

I’m really down. I mean really down. I feel so flat, drained and sad. We all get this way. Survivors include most of the people of Planet Earth. Victims, every one. In some countries disease, hunger and living in filth with no hope, day after day. No hope for help. A mother who raises a child to adulthood may have lost six to disease, malnutrition or any of a thousand other horrors.

In other places, suppressive government rule robs the people of simple, basic human rights.

In still others, people have lived with war all their lives, maybe on and off, but mostly on. Sudden violent death and severe injuries cripple the young and the old. Children die of diseases which could be prevented by vaccines and medicines routinely intercepted by warlords so evil they could make the devil himself burn with envy.

We all have our down days. Then we get to thinking about those people who live hellishly every day.

It should be a comfort to we who can get medicine and sleep in a bed after a meal.

I am blessed, but I often, at this time of year, wonder if I deserve to be.

I hurt. Plenty of pain in my body, more in my heart. But it’s not about me. Not only me.

I also hurt for others. I don’t care who they are or where they are. If they’re hurting, I know them. I know survivor’s agony.

You see singers, celebrities. The Me Too movement. You hear their stories, and as bad as they are, they appear so happy with their lives, their success. Some even accommodate the paparazzi by smiling for the camera.

But underneath it all they get alone and cannot avoid their pain, the demons that come with being hurt by someone who had power, leverage. Someone evil.

You may at times see a tweet that just doesn’t seem right coming from them. They remove them but always someone has a screenshot of it. You, bewildered, never know what darkness they so often are surrounded by.

Most people think that it’s rare for men of power to sexually abuse those who have talent and want a contract. Behind closed doors all over the world, people who seem like upstanding members of society force themselves on the weak and the desperate. Every single day. The victims, later called “survivors”, hurt. They hurt way down deep into their very souls.

Forever.

These people are my brothers and sisters. I cannot help but love and pity them. So many more live in silent agony and never speak of the things that haunt their nightmares, the waking kind and those dreamt in sleep.

September-October: a Curse

There’s a special hatred in my heart for the months of September and October.

So many hard memories come back to me every year this month, and the stupid ones probably more than any others.

First, school started after Labor Day. The first day was always the worst. I might make a new friend but I knew we wouldn’t stay friends for very long. That never happened.

Bullies were always like strutting roosters trying to impress the girls and scare weaker or meek kids. The playground was a place I loathed.

The first time I had a girlfriend, we had spent every possible minute together over the summer of 1968. Barbara was long-legged like a foal but somehow graceful. Looking at her made me dizzy. In her I found all the affection I was missing. She wasn’t hesitant about kissing on the mouth. As much as it was possible for our age, we were very much in love with each other. She sought my company above anyone else in a community full of kids. She was happy and quick to smile and she gave me happiness at a terrible time in my life. But in September, after-school playtime was limited by homework. We saw even less of each other in October when Daylight Savings kicked in. By the winter, early December, her father announced they were moving to Thailand and I had to say goodbye. Well I didn’t want to say goodbye. And I knew I couldn’t. The day she told me, she was hurting. I remember I asked if I would ever see her again, and she said softly but with certainty, “No”.

My heart broke.

When their moving day came, her dad stopped by on their way out. He accompanied her to our door and I, hiding under the bed with a quilt hiding me so nobody could see me if they looked under the bed, stifled little sobs. I didn’t want to be found. It was rainy and cold so everyone knew I wasn’t outside playing. It was a dark day anyway. December rains are like that. They depress and suck the life out of you.

I guess that was fitting.

In a child’s way, we were soul mates. I dare say many kids never get to experience something that wonderful. I did.

Mother did come into my room. I’m sure she looked under the bed. And she probably knew I was hiding. But she went back downstairs and said she couldn’t find me.

And that was it. I never heard from Barbara again. The Vietnam War was responsible; he was military, her dad, and probably Air Force because our bombers and some smaller planes were stationed in Thailand.

I’ve never forgotten her. She was a gift I could not repay God for if I lived a thousand years.

Many times I have known, without a doubt, with absolutely pure faith, that God put certain people near me so we could cross paths. Usually for the better, and almost always in times when I was heartbroken, confused and in tears more than usual, and that’s saying something, believe me.

I don’t believe in coincidence; too many times there were things that just didn’t happen every day, stunning things to astonish the most jaded bookies in the world.

The following September I fell in love at first sight with a girl named Lee Ann. She was beautiful like an angel. I never spoke to her. By the year after that, I still loved her. Only her.

No other person alive. Just her.

September of 1970 was a blur. I tried not to, but I’d catch myself staring at her. I never spoke one word to her. That was horrible. But I remembered Barbara and I never wanted to feel that kind of pain again. But then, near the end of October, the Los Angeles Rams and QB Roman Gabriel went to Minnesota to play the Vikings on Monday Night Football. Gabriel was one of my heroes and the Rams one of my favorite teams. I snuck down the steps just a little bit to peek at the TV through the railing. Another floor down, my father caught me. He was mad. I was supposed to be sleeping. But when I tried it again my mother told him I was on the steps again. I don’t know why I did it. I was a football nut, even playing football with the Lake Shore Spartans. I traded football cards at school. Trading cards was the only thing I could connect with other guys on. It was a lot of fun. Everything that I loved either had to do with Lee Ann or football.

This time my father didn’t just yell. I knew what was coming; it’d happened so many times before. How long it took him to wear himself out I don’t know, but that night he literally spent himself swinging that dreaded belt. It cut deep into my back and I kept hearing his rage-filled voice screaming “Move your hands, boy!” and I wouldn’t do it because it’s natural to protect yourself with your arms and hands. He beat my back, the end of the belt curling around my arms. Blood was on them, they were wet. He didn’t give a fuck.

I’ve had to live with the stupidity it took for me to push it, the terror I feel every time I remember it; another trauma thrown on the pile.

But you had to be an NFL fan back then to get it. How pure the game really was. Gabe had a style of play like few quarterbacks in history; if he couldn’t find an open receiver he’d pick the biggest pile of linemen and try to barge through them. At one time he held the record for most career fumbles. He was a blast to watch. It was like he wanted to be hit. Hall of Famer. It was a time before the lacrosse helmets of today, a time when men tried to maim each other every single down.

Roman Gabriel and the iconic blue and white Rams uniform and classic Riddell helmet with gray facemask

I guess if I’d known what would happen I wouldn’t have done it. Any other father would say something like “you can stay up until halftime” or anything, but not beat the kid bloody.

The next day was going to be warm. I had to wear a long sleeved shirt. No dressings covered my oozing red stripes. It wasn’t just warm, it was hot. At recess I overheated and got dizzy. Heck, considering I was probably in a mild state of shock and dehydrated, I was lucky to live through it. People have died from surprisingly less.

A teacher’s aide had me sit at a desk and put my head down. With a wet paper towel on my forehead. The door to the outside stood open. Two people came in. I had a funny feeling and looked up. Lee Ann looked at me, maybe for the first time. I felt like crying, her seeing me like this. I put my head back down in shame.

I didn’t know that one of my sleeves had walked up with my arm bent, my head resting on my wounds. The teacher’s aide told me that I should pull my sleeves up to cool off. When I said I couldn’t, I knew she looked at my arm and saw the end of a stripe but she said nothing. She left me alone.

The September-October curse followed me every damned year and I stopped, at some point, appreciating the colors of autumn and even looking forward to Halloween. Oh, I’d still go, and there were friends I’d usually go around with. I made the best of it.

I just did the best I could.

Then there were the three sisters who lived uphill, two houses away. Laurie, Sue and Katy. I became, at their hands, the only guy I knew to be harrassed by girls to the point that I dreaded going to the bus stop. First day of school and Laurie, the eldest, older than I was, called me “Bambi” because I had long eyelashes. I never got to go see Disney movies until I saw “The Boatknicks” with a friend in the summer of 1970. And Bambi was not on my wish list.

Sue didn’t say much around me. She clearly did not like me and I didn’t like her either, never did. She had made up her mind very fast that despite her older sister’s jokes at my expense, I wasn’t worth even that. The youngest one appeared in a dream a few nights ago. Strange things, my dreams.

In the dream, Katy was defending me against someone and I thought it was pretty cool. I saw little of her but once, we tried hanging out. Just innocent talk. I got the feeling she was lonely and a loner. Kind of like me. She told me I was supposed to be some bad boy. I tried so hard to tell her I wasn’t and she acted like she believed me but I never saw her again.

In the fall of 1975 I was put into a private school. A tie and jacket kind of school. By then I hated school with everything I had, was seriously traumatized and learning disabled. My father thought money could buy anything and I would automatically excel academically. Little did he realize that he and mother had done so much damage that there was not a chance in hell that I’d ever graduate. And I never did.

So now, tonight, I’m down. I think back on how Kerry, my crush in the summer of ’74, said something on the bus one day to Sue. It must have been something like “I think Mike Smith likes me”, to which Sue shouted incredulously, “Mike Smith!? He’s terrible!”

Like I was some kind of loser.

But I wasn’t a loser. Of us three, I was the winner. The fortunate one because I could love. And there’s nothing about love that is negative. Sorry, girls.

I never saw Kerry again but her dad had been a mentor to me, a friend. I did get in touch with him a while back but he wasn’t keen on it so everyone I knew is gone from my life now. I’m so broken and alone.

The time then comes, as it always seems to, for the bad memories, triggered by the September-October curse, to begrudgingly allow good ones to flood my head, great memories of lost loves, of having such fear of losing again to keep me away from Lee Ann that I never once, from third to sixth grade, spoke to her. And I remember loving her enough to stay away because by then I knew. Every day I knew it more certainly than the day before: I was a terrible mess and I would have said or done something to hurt her. I managed to fail every woman I’ve been with, and I’ve lost them, but Lee Ann was someone I’ve loved every day, even now, and the one I dared not get close to. It was a kind of respect, I guess; one of the nobler things I’ve ever done.

Tonight I think of her and wonder what might have been had I not been a victim. If tonight I didn’t have to write as a survivor.

Let me tell it again: a survivor is not someone who beat PTSD from incest, rape and horrendous mental, physical or sexual abuse. They just managed to get out alive. Some, like me, tried suicide. Most just do the best they can. God has great pity on the abused, the survivors, because He knows what they’ve been through and what haunts them every minute they live, even in sleep. He sees the pain of the wounded, He counts their tears. What we do to each other is hateful and a horror to Him.

To you, if this time of year is a trigger, I say, seek help for depression and suicidal thoughts. Your life matters. It always has and it always will. Pass on what you’ve learned and don’t be afraid of reliving pain when writing or blogging, because the pain will be with you always. Together we can change the world a bit at a time.

I do have good memories and I treasure them. The painful ones, I never stop learning from. But I have to admit one thing before I go.

I’ve been through hell. And I hope I’ve done some penance for my hate, anger and hurtful things I’ve done or said for failingthose who loved me, especiallymy children, who are in Heaven, and I pray I’ll get to Heaven. I’ve had quite enough of Hell.

As always, I humbly thank you for stopping by, and letting me be a small part of your life.

This Ain’t “Petticoat Junction” But Uncle Joe Is A-Movin’ Kinda Slow

Uncle Joe. He’s not on his best game. There’s a glaring problem he has decided to ignore. I think it’s a mistake, one which reaches long into the future.

At some point when U.S. military leaders wanted to begin the withdrawal of troops and equipment from Afghanistan, Pakistan refused to allow us passage. I don’t know whether that was ever resolved because judging by the events of the past week, I rather think not. And of course there’s the little detail about the last time the Taliban had control of Afghanistan; Pakistan recognized their rule.

And then there’s bin Laden, who’s passed from human being to shark shit to plankton by now. Maybe he’s coating the inside of a McDonald’s cup somewhere on the bottom of the South China Sea. That’d be poetic, wouldn’t it?

The government of Pakistan hid him. Oh, I doubt many civilians knew he was there. But the many accusations of the Pakistani government covering for terrorists, namely, the Taliban, persist to this day.

Since taking office, Biden has not so much as called PM Khan. While national security experts say that’s a good thing seeing as how that government has been two-faced in the past (they promised to stand with us after 9/11 but with friends like those, who needs enemies?) yet denied access to their ports after our forces became landlocked in Afghanistan. Obama may have seen no way around this situation diplomatically, and sent in his troop surge. I don’t know. All I know is that we always got our news updates late and Fox News and morons like Rush Limbaugh twisted everything; we were left confused and uninformed. That’s not even close to being right.

In my time here on Earth I have never dreamt of anything this bizarre. Or scary. The best thing to do now is to be diplomatic to Pakistan. India must be treated with utmost respect and care because they won’t like it. We must become what we claimed to be long ago.

Peace makers. Negotiators and diplomats, without bringing threats to the table. I’m not sure if it’s possible, but we must restore our honor that we fought so hard for in World War Two. It doesn’t require much intelligence to know this. If we can’t gain respect, we will see more attacks on our own soil. We will lose our influence, what remains of it, and as we approach the 20th anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, we are coming very close to shitting on the graves of all who died that day.

There was no honor in revenge, but the Bush administration capitalized on our demand for it and this is where we are. Reports come in by the hour of women endangered or suspected to be already gcone. All single women, remember, are required (ages 14-38) to report to the Taliban for marriage arrangements. Translation: to become indentured, enslaved, abused for the rest of their lives. And we can’t stop that now.

And us? People on both political extremes wanted us out. Now all we do is bitch and point fingers.

It and more will be our undoing. Diplomacy can save us from ourselves. An absence of it will only see the Taliban, Al Qaeda and ISIS-K spread. And they will be unstoppable.

What about human rights is so fucking hard to understand?

New abortion laws have American women in a place not unlike those in Afghanistan. The SCOTUS will soon modify if not reverse Roe, and healthcare providers are whispering that even giving a woman routine OB/GYN exams might, in the not-too-distant future, land a doctor in prison.

Women, no matter where they live, are under attack.

What is the endgame?

Where is this leading us?

I hope I’m gone by then. I don’t want to see what happens next.

The Supernatural Is Real and it’s Damn Scary

The following post is a compilation of my most memorable clashes with the supernatural. They really happened, but I honestly wish they hadn’t. While I continue my vacation, take a look. Be warned, these posts are disturbing in places and do contain some triggers.

In my first post, the story of abuse and a demonic entity in my bedroom is told. The House of Pain is still the setting for some of my nightmares, and what happened there led to an infamous criminal trial.

Did you ever wonder if the Angel of Death is real? I don’t. Not anymore.

But I’ll never ghost hunt again because if you go looking for something, you might just find it.

But experiences like visions of the past, those can be argued over, but has not something like that happened also to you?

Then there was the cat who knew too much . It provided a story that to this day I cannot remember without getting chills. Animals certainly know spirits, and sometimes they seem to want to introduce you to them.

In Bolero Hats and Thunder and Nightmares That Come True, the story is told of a woman most unusual, who affected me profoundly and is impossible to forget, but the contents of a precognitive nightmare and what happened next is extraordinary and left me chilled to the bone. Pay attention to dreams. They might just come true.

In Attacked! I paid a price for involving myself in a demon’s affairs. I may never sleep again.

The supernatural is real. Be careful with it. As it is a part of the natural world but a part we understand very little, be very careful. Pray before attempting spiritual warfare. Don’t use ouija boards. Don’t do seances. Leave the dead be. Don’t ghost hunt, go to flea markets or garage sales and leave antiques alone. Much better to stay in and have a cup of tea by the fire and curl up with a good book than courting disaster.

Thanks for reading and for letting me be a part of your day.

Be well.

Hurricane Ida

Help the people affected by hurricane Ida at this link.

You know, any help makes a bigger difference than you might expect. People are living under dangerous conditions like extreme heat and flooding. No food or water, mosquitoes proliferate, sewage in the flooded streets…

Not to mention alligators and venomous snakes swimming in close quarters with people who might never even see them coming.

This is a horrible situation.

If you can, please help. It doesn’t matter if you feel bad that you can’t do more. Any help is awesome and I promise you, it will make a difference.

As I write this, thunder approaches in the distance: Ida’s remnants. Twister watches are up. I have little to worry about, and compared to Gulf coast residents on Saturday, with a category 4 hurricane coming at them like some vicious predator, what I’ll see tonight is nothing.

My heart hurts for the people hit by Ida’s full force. The videos I have seen are quite frightening. I can’t imagine being in such a storm.

I know one thing. We are at our very best when others need help. Volunteers will travel long distances to help, to assist in handing out MREs, bottled water, help with temporary shelters, to donate money or blood. The every person becomes a magnificent hero but never seeks recognition or reimbursement. There is no better thing than putting love and compassion into helping another.

With more storms possible very soon, the need for help takes on an immediacy. We cannot know what’s next. We can only help with the current situation as best we can.

This way we have of pulling together after major disasters is not an American thing. It’s a human thing. We’ve always needed each other, no matter who we were, what we believed or what our station in life happened to be. We always will, too.

And as long as we continue to answer the call to serve our brothers and sisters across the world, there will be hope for us.

I’m not afraid to say, if you can’t help any other way, prayer works, and God hears the call of the suffering. In this world there is much suffering, but I know better than to blame my lord for that; I do believe in my heart that pleas for help are heard and often, miracles really do happen.

Thank you for being here. May God bless. It’s an honor to be a small part of your day.

Anger at a Stupid Man

The Stable is a mediocre restaurant with the advantage of being the only one in the area with both liquor license and an outdoor dining area. Of course with all the restrictions lifted, you can eat inside as well. I’m not being unkind with my description; I’ve eaten there and been treated like shit, got served eh food and charged beaucoup dollars for Coronas. I used to support local businesses, but fuck it. Not worth it anymore. I’m less hassled by big business, and I don’t have to expect anything special.

I won’t dine inside either, so forget that suggestion. I think not; the vaccines clearly dwindle in level of protection just as any seasonal flu vaccine does; covid boosters are necessary for people about six months out from their last shot. Give or take.

We have four kinds of people when it comes to flu shots and the COVID-19 vaccine. The first is at one extreme end, and those think that their vaccine has rendered invulnerability in them. Not true. Especially if engaging in the risk of going without masks indoors or in outdoor crowded areas. Fucking stupid. And indoor dining isn’t such a great thing if to do it you must unmask. Empty table between two parties? Among them unvaccinated or asymptomatic carriers? Hell, people are buying fake vaccine cards and most places don’t ask you to show them. You want an onion bloom that much? Really?

At the other extreme end are those who don’t intend to get the vaccine at all. Some have been killed by their own decisions. Fucking stupid.

Somewhere between lie the groups of those who take the shot but still refuse to go out except when necessary and then only with a mask. Smart folks. I like them. And the final group is made up of vehement anti-vaxxers who use political power and influence to spread fear and disinformation. How many have they killed? I tell you truly: they have blood on their hands just as surely as if they had lined people up and shot them.

Perhaps it is the time elapsed from the beginning of the pandemic or the time passed since the vaccines became available. I’m not sure and I don’t want to act as if I know anything at all. However, complacency has set in. I see it, and people shock me with their disregard for personal safety and that of others.

I should tell you what really matters and what has come to be a pleasant surprise.

Youths, a couple of young men, greeting me in passing with “good afternoon,” a respectful term accorded to officers in the Army, but a required one, to be given with a salute and with “sir” following the greeting. They don’t know what it means to me to be given such a greeting even if just in passing, even if just as a civilian. I look at them and I see hope. We are not doomed if such young men exist.

On the other hand, in passing the Stable Restaurant last weekend, at a distance from but beside the outside dining area, a man sitting among two women and one man said something in answer to a remark from a woman, which I didn’t hear. It was obvious that she had said something, posed as a derogatory question, possibly regarding my attire and cane. In answer the man said, making sure I could hear, “Probably going to the Special Olympics.”

I turned and looked directly at him. I knew exactly which one said it and he was looking at me. I needed restraint. I was fuming, then quickly overcome with rage. Bloody fool, making a comment like that. Besides, he’s so stupid he didn’t know it was the Paralympics that were going on. A bigot with an IQ too low to know how to be a proper idiot.

I thought about putting a scare into him. He was being a cruel, mouthy guy who was showing off to the women. I thought that shit went out with adulthood, but no. It doesn’t matter, the age of alpha males; they’re just slaves to upbringing, genes and testosterone. In other words, dickheads.

He didn’t know how easily I could have killed him. No confrontation and no bullshit, just death. He’d be stinking up a coffin and I’d be stinking up a holding cell awaiting trial.

And many other men would have done it for real. Shit happens every day. Shit just like that.

I wouldn’t do it at the restaurant. I’d have waited quietly out of sight until he left, followed him to his car and done it there. Most would simply have shot him. That shit happens every day, too.

Before uttering insults, you first need to think about what can happen after the words are out of your mouth. And the truth is, there’s no way to anticipate everything. There’s no such thing as “everything” because human behaviour has no restrictions and no limits.

It wasn’t that I thought he had insulted me. Paralympic competitors are extremely strong-willed, focused and dedicated. What the dumbass had really done was to pay me a compliment and the women thought it was funny. As for the Special Olympics? That’s an even higher compliment. For reasons he cannot ever understand. Because he’s stupid. Bigoted. An elitist. A toss pot. And the women who laughed at his joke and directed his attention to me in the first place?

Not worth being angry at. The fucking hormones that drive them to draw insults out of grown men must be merciless, and they have to live with it. They’re the losers in this. A strong woman does not behave thus. They don’t have to. Any man who is cool with her being strong knows better than throwing insults at strangers to impress her. That kind of thing is not exactly conducive to romance. It plays a much larger role in adolescent courtship, which is unspeakably crude.

My anger passed after too long a time spent on it. That bastard isn’t worth it. He’s more worthy of prayers that he will change his tendency toward verbal cruelty before it catches up to him. I learned long ago, every insult, every slight, every cruel thought matters. You suffer more than your marks do; your evil builds up inside your heart and turns it forever dark. After a while you can’t do anything good. People get sick of it. They remember who you were and hate what you’ve become. You don’t want to end up like that. I’ve known people like that. They die lonely. Sometimes not by natural causes.

Don’t find out the hard way that God or karma can do things to you that you have earned for yourself. As with all things, a bill comes due, and sometimes the payment is more than you can handle.

Or bear.

Few will weep for you.

Anger, too, is a corrosive; all negative thoughts must exist as energy, and the longer you let it hold you in its power, the more damage you take. It’s true. I’ve lived like that.

Words really do hurt. What I got out of it all was the reinforcement that words really,  really hurt. They can also lead to absolutely tragic events. In less than three seconds, I knew three ways to kill both men quickly and with little effort. If not so well known in the area, I suppose one of those ways could have finished with my escape and a level of shock enough to confuse witnesses.

Use words a bit more carefully. A “good afternoon” in passing can cure another’s heartache for hours.

Yet one cruel remark? That’s forever.

TAPS: The Silence of the Bugles

I’m going to start my unplanned summer vacation because I’m a wreck, but first I have something to say. Something I’ve written about before, but now weep at while I seethe with anger.

Here’s the reason and this article from the Army Times is disgusting.

And look, I understand why our Commander in Chief is doing it. I just don’t understand why it has to be done right now, and with such chaos that it’s a clusterfuck.

And this is not our first time. This came into my mind on reading the above article. Saigon, 1975. I googled it and found that of course I’m not alone. I haven’t read this article but I don’t need to. The headline is a punch to the balls. I remember watching that footage all those years ago. I felt deep sadness, sure. But also shame. And now we’re doing it again.

China, Iran and the Russian Federation are all laughing at us. And our allies, at the G-7, retorted when Biden said America was back, “But is it?”.

What we are doing is an egregious and dishonorable thing. It is shameful.

Al-Qaida is in the process of raping women and killing them and men are being tortured whether they helped Americans or not. It’s as much revenge as a purge. Boys will be taken and brainwashed to be the next generation of terrorists. Whatever good we accomplished in the beginning has been negated. The lives of those we lost were sacrificed for nothing.

TAPS has been blown. The bugles are silent. What remained is a shameful silence.

Vestigial Asshole Syndrome

When someone tries to be better than they are, I think it’s really very cool. But it’s a difficult thing to do. If it were easy, then I may not think so highly of it. Things that come easy carry less honor than those which require great effort. It’s the fight that defines us as being at our best. When, even if we fail, we can take pride in knowing that we have done as much as we could.

This post has nothing to do with all that shit.

Because this failure was inexcusable, embarrassing and made me want to dig a hole and stick my head in it.

And stay that way forever.

A neighbor came out. I heard her above me. I assumed from the sound that it was a certain neighbor and called her by name.

It wasn’t her. Another neighbor said “No, it’s me,” but wait; that is hardly the embarrassing part.

I had just awakened from a nap.

That’s no excuse.

But I had just lit a smoke and definitely wasn’t fully awake.

She asked, “Do you eat fish?”

Without a fucking second’s hesitation I said, “That’s a loaded question.”

Time stopped.

It fucking stopped, I tell you.

Her mouth hung slightly open.

Her eyes were halfway between outrage and dawning disbelief.

I said, holding up thumb and forefinger, “That’s a little bit of a joke,”

And apologized.

Time did not resume its inexorable passage. The universe was slipping into some sort of paradox. It would not end with bang nor whimper, but a flash of disbelief and fragmented sentence which would never be believed anyway.

Or did I yet retain some control? I tried to speak. I said, “Not myself today,” and I must have sounded sincere because I heard the trailing edge of a sentence not spoken by myself: “…okay.”

Time had resumed its damnable passing. It did not help my queasiness. Had I really said that?

She said she was trying to lose weight. She’d thought herself to be picking up breaded codfish but grabbed the parmigiana instead.

My cigarette was almost done. I’d gotten nothing out of it. I needed a way out of this situation! Hell, I needed an exit ramp off a highway quickly piling up with traffic behind me.

I didn’t bother considering what fish parmigiana was, or if anyone was really bold enough to make such an aberration, much less mass market it. I just said, “I can’t help you there,” and finally it was over.

I had to come up with a name. To have slipped so badly said something about me.

Vestigial Asshole Syndrome; that’s what I’m going to call it: Once an asshole, always an asshole.

Fuck. I really said that to her. She provided a graceful way out. She’s obviously been through worse.

But I doubt very much whether she will ever speak to me again.

I wouldn’t.

So Influencers Are Fakes Now?

Influencers are apparently people whose YouTube or Twitter accounts are followed by thousands and therefore the account holder has the ability to “influence” popular opinion and stuff. Have I got that about right?

Because, I never heard that word until last week when it seemed to be used solely for the ‘Tube and tweets.

Anyway there’s the article in the link. It’s fucked up. I don’t know what to make of it, except for the allegation that influential people fake illnesses for sympathy and to get followers.

This I don’t want to believe. Pretty sick stuff, really, when part of the conversation seems to involve feces and feeding tubes or some other tube. Are people hurting or infecting themselves?

I find it on one hand quite incredible.

On the other hand I can see it.

I’ll tell you what. I’ve got just over 70 followers. I was blown away when I hit ten. Then for a long time I stopped looking and turned notifications off. I didn’t need to know. But as time passed, I realized that every time a new follower came on board, a few others stopped reading. Of over 70 followers, a dozen or less are actually reading. I’m not an influencer. That’s good. I don’t want to be one of those and not being a celebrity is, as far as I can see, safe. I like being safe.

But a few years back, I read the most peculiar story. A schoolteacher had conned her students, her boss, and even friends into believing she had cancer. You can imagine what happened. I believe her students were in high school. They signed cards, they supported her, cried for her. She had people drop her off at an oncology clinic where radiation therapy was done. She’d go inside and spend time talking to real patients. Since she did this a lot, the staff at the facility may have taken her for one of those people who just visit hospital patients. Wanting to feel altruistic and needed, I suppose.

Since the first case I read about was quickly followed by another, I’m not certain of what happened when she finally got found out.

I remember that she had taken monetary donations. Shaved her head or worn a wig or both.

Her students understandably felt betrayed even though a couple seemed to realize that to fake cancer, their teacher really was in need of help because it’s a fucking crazy thing to do. Like sending a blimp to cover a college football game when the stadium has a dome and nobody in the blimp ever sees so much as a drummer in the marching band.

Actually, forget that. Faking cancer is way more nuts than sending a blimp to cover indoor sports.

But you know what I mean. The poor woman really was sick. There were even criminal charges. She wound up moving in with her parents and fading into a bad memory.

I wonder if that’s what they mean by fake influencers being “chronically ill.” But I think maybe that’s not it. Sick people do that shit but at least they really do need help, just in a different way than what they let on.

My real question started when a blogger I followed started a post with “Stop faking your life…” and it was about other bloggers.

I can’t understand how she determines whose posts are fake. Isn’t that judgmental, and if so, who made her God? If you don’t like what you’re reading, then stop reading. If you don’t want bad news, don’t watch the news. If you don’t like to be scared, then stay away from people, places or media that scare you. Fuck it. It’s not always that easy, but most often, it is. Be your own influencer and instead of blogging maybe write fiction or try your hand at poetry.

Drama is all over Twitter. We know that. We know how some celebrities behave like spoiled shitless brats, chopping the English language up because it’s okay when they be on vay kay. Whatever. I don’t have a problem with them except for the fact that even Queen’s English is being eroded like the rocks in a deep gully. You know, you can only go so far back in time and still recognize the English language; further than a certain time and you may be burned at the stake as a babbling, possessed heretic.

How far into the future would you be able to go and still understand English when we’re headed toward infantile sounds instead of words? Someone on Facebook once called me a “boi” and I fucking blocked them without hesitation or explanation. “Bois and gurls” need never get near me. I’ll do something that will surely make them head back to high school.

The celebrities and other “influencers” today are often problems for me. Not just in their employment of English. They say stupid shit, true; but it’s always so self-centered, all about themselves, and so fucking always full of complaints and selfies until you’re numb, or you hate them. You can still love them, but everything they do, everything they say will have you constantly following and unfollowing them. That’s okay. Maybe you’ll still be able to speak English two years from now.

I am aware that my blog may cause a person now and then to mistake me for an influencer. Holy shit, don’t do that. Don’t put me in with anyone else.

It’s true that some people find my posts fantastic and unbelievable. I’m not their cuppa, and I’m fine with that. I don’t blog for popularity or sensation. I’ve laid my life out the best way that I could because I believe that all those who are able, who got as fucked over and as fucked up as I was, and am now, has an obligation to try to educate others on mental illness. I’m looking for that one person who won’t listen to anyone else, who feels something is wrong but knows not what, who will read one post, one paragraph or one sentence that might make them realize what they’re troubled by and decide to take action. And hopefully get their life back. If I help just one person to do that, then none of my suffering has been in vain. I won’t know it when it happens. We don’t get to know when our words help any more than we do when our words hurt.

This is why I usually only call politicians dickheads. They deserve it.

I can decide for myself who I do or do not believe on social media. And the ones I can’t believe get most of my sympathy. Imagine being a celebrity and feeling so hollow and inadequate that you need to feign illness for attention. That’s so very sad, and indicates a bigger problem than you think you can see.

I’m sad to think of needing negative attention. I don’t want it no matter how you take me.

My life began in terror and pain. Neither one has ever left me. All I need do is tell the truth, and I’m humbled when someone reads my words, just as I have always been so surprised whenever someone liked me.

There are fakers of chronic illnesses out there. But I can’t see anyone faking mental illness. And unless I can tell without a doubt that they’re full of shit, they will get the benefit of the doubt.

They’re human, damn it. I think I should treat them like it. That’s what Christ told us to do.

And all those without sin can pick up stones. The rest should go fuck themselves.

Far Better Late Than Never

Without any sleep patterns that come close to circadian rhythm, I’m aging physically faster than I should be.

But late at night and during the early hours you can find me, making trips outside for a Marlboro and then doing some minor house chore (I have a lot of housekeeping to catch up on) and retiring back to the sofa to watch the Olympics. It’s been epic, hasn’t it?

I can’t keep up with everything, but the one event I have most enjoyed is women’s beach volleyball. You can stop wincing now; something cool happened while I was being a voyeur.

I saw magic.

Oh, the spandex and tanned skin is eye candy and that’s as it should be. Why deny beauty and sexual attractiveness when we Yanks get outwardly prim as if we’re Puritans when secretly we’re totally depraved? I prefer honesty. And I can’t tell you about myself with lies. I’m not afraid of the truth.

It was last week that I first set eyes on the Latvian team when Tina Graudina and Anastasija Kravcenoka defeated the Russian Olympic Committee. Forgive me if I don’t recall their names. Every search I’ve made led me to the USA teams. I always want us to win, but whoever gets the gold is fine with me. I enjoy watching dedicated training in action. Disciplined athletes doing battle is an awesome spectacle no matter the sport.

As I watched I saw more than women in lycra sport bras. I never took the sport seriously and in 1996 laughed that it was in the Olympic Games.

My dear friends, it ain’t to be laughed at. And let me say this: every team and every game I’ve watched had that magical element that makes a sport great.

Dedication and drama.

It’s intense. Players on a team show an esprit de corps that I never knew was there. An intensity I ignored. A desire to excel that I find absolutely inspiring. The Latvian team is eye candy, sure. All of them are.

The match I saw last night between Brasil and Switzerland was as good as anything I’ve seen in sports and trust me, I’ve seen many grand spectacles in my life. I watched Jim Palmer and Brooks Robinson and Dave McNally and Boog Powell. Johnny Unitas, Roman Gabriel, George Blanda. Arnold Palmer, Lee Trevino. I’ve seen Canadian Football and European football. Wrestling and ski jumping and bobsledding.

I’ve watched Michael Jordan do impossible things. Scotty Pippen, The 2002 Maryland basketball dream team. It has been a hell of a ride. I’ve loved the drama, the controversy (the “Pine Tar Game” comes to mind).

I made the mistake of judging a sport while ignoring it as not being a true sport. I wasn’t just wrong, I was cheating myself by being something of a sexist (although I regarded the men’s beach volleyball in the same way).

It is difficult to admit a mistake, but doing so is liberating. Once that’s done, you’re free to engage or watch whatever you have belittled. I used to make fun of curling. I won’t anymore. I think it’s silly but I won’t deride those who play it or their fans. Although it is a bit like watching two neighborhood dogs humping. It’s a sick thing to do, but you can’t help yourself.

Of course, if I could be drugged while watching curling, I’d feel better about it but I don’t want to anyway.

Actually, fuck it: curling is not a sport. Go ahead and have a go at me in the comments section.

I’m old. But I’m still growing inside. Learning new things.

And the most important thing I have learned is that I don’t know anything.

While we’re in the last days of these Olympic games, I’d like to say to everyone involved, the hosts, the hard workers in Tokyo who busted their asses to make it happen and every coach and participant, “Well done, everyone!”

Perhaps I’ll live to see the next Summer Games. I hope I do.

Another Good Day

Would you believe I feel like I could run a marathon today? No, don’t believe that. Because it’s ridiculous.

But I had errands. Again. This time two reusable shopping bags slung over my shoulder, heavy and a burden on legs, shoulders and of course my poor back. I bought simple nutritious foods and as a reward for getting off my ass, a cup of pour-over blonde from Starbucks. It’s not a hot day. Overcast and between cool and warm but last night it felt damn cold out. The snag was humidity, but the coffee still hit the spot.

People still going into stores without masks. Since I double mask, I bought two new ones for when the other two are air drying.

The walk didn’t cause pain until I got back. Now it is severe. But I don’t regret how I got it. I had things that needed to be done and they got done. I wish I could convey how truly rare a day like this is for me. I even learned a lesson. I’ll take it.

Thanks for reading. I’m honored to be a small part of your life. I have some neat stuff coming up, and I hope you’ll be back to see it; until then, be well.

I Can’t Believe It Was A Good Day

With only a few hours of sleep I got up around 04:00, brewed coffee and played a video game for a couple of hours. I crashed again and awoke at noon and had to face getting ready to go to the supermarket to use the Coinstar machine. I just got up and did it.

I got 40 bucks for my trouble. Bought some smokes, lunch meat, milk and olives and as a reward for making it that far, a box of Entenmann’s donuts. I have to make everything last until Tuesday but I have oatmeal, eggs and bacon, so I’m good.

It was pleasant out. Sunny and warm. Low humidity. A nice day.

I don’t usually get a day like this, but no matter how bad it gets at times, I do get to enjoy the occasional peaceful day with a bit of energy and low enough anxiety to go get some things done. I even managed a washer load of blue jeans. For me that’s awesome.

Yesterday I had to get an MRI for my back. The moments I have with no pain grow ever more rare, but it’s okay. They’ll fix it.

I remember having more days like this. Oh, they were wonderful. I was always into something.

I don’t care that my days pass like minutes. I had my time in the sun. Playing outside on endless summer days, riding bikes, playing football, getting Mr. Softee so mad he asked other kids where I lived. Throwing rocks and rotten eggs. You know. Good, wholesome fun. A kid in a striped T-shirt sporting a crew cut.

Some people look back and say about their younger selves, “That person doesn’t exist anymore.”

Mine does. And within me he sometimes points out that there were good days among the bad. The bad was everything I’ve said it was and more, with things I’ve never figured out how to put into words. But the good, that was rest, respite and freedom. I ran like the wind under blue skies and the light of the full moon. I was still so much alive then.

When you think of me, I’d like that kid to be pictured. I do hope others can find in my words something for themselves. To make them see that they are not alone. To know that some days will be good, no matter how long they have to wait. And that some people are broken and can’t be mended, but it isn’t the end of life.

It was a good day. Thank you, Abba. You know all. And yet you still look out for me. I am blessed.

Folks, thank you for letting me be a little part of your life. I don’t often say it but I always have it in my heart. Until tomorrow, be well.