Ah, So You Poke The Hornet’s Nest?

What do you complain about the most?

I think that, perhaps, the above question was offered by someone who had read my last post. What they provoke in this way from others does not concern me. My insouciance will not be moved; my ennui will never allow it.

It is possible that some may, incorrectly, land on the certainty that I complain constantly without cease. Or perhaps that Taylor Swift is the main target of my criticism, my source of causticity, and its resultant acidic release.

Taylor Swift is rarely on my mind. However, even if I lack the respect I once had for her, she is hardly the muse responsible for my complete and unrelenting anger; she has no such power over me, and I realize how other people in her “cult” of unreasonable fans had swayed my opinion of her.

While the idea that I am an “anti-Swifty” may seem to set me apart from you and everyone you know, I am hardly a lone wolf in this area. For every Swifty, there are hundreds of people who are even more disenchanted, jaded, and weary of her. We have had enough.

I have gone astray, however, in calling the NFL a “fixed” sport. It seems to me that I’ve heard this before from kooks who love to sit around and, in a partly paranoid and delusional state, put hands to keyboard and declare that this event or that incident was the result of a conspiracy.

This nonsense became a conspiracy theory regarding the NFL. There is, however, little to no proof of any such thing. For one to exist, the conspiracy itself would have to be small or compartmented in such a way that if one person (it’s already happened with more than one), a player, coach, or owner leaked information on it, there would be serious consequences. For one, the biggest asset the NFL has is its fans. Imagine the terror they would unleash if they found or were presented with proof that everything is scripted, like the WWF (did John Stossel really have to ask)? I knew it when I was a kid. I could see that for every punch one wrestler threw, one of them would stomp as if it were a real blow. It covered what was usually just a lack of sound.

That fans bought it for so long horrified me. Every time Chief J Strongbow let himself get beaten enough to, were it real, fall down and die, only to suddenly go into a war dance and unleash his well-acted fury, I knew what I was seeing. However, I never made a big deal about it, and from 1974 to 2000, I rarely paid any attention to wrestling. That was excellent timing, as I consider, and I am not alone on this, 2000 to be the best year wrestling ever had, and one which could not be repeated. Yet I never heard any conspiracy theories about wrestling except for the hostile takeovers and buyouts that doomed the WWE to its present, boring state.

What vexed me recently into giving the NFL or Taylor Swift any room on my site may not have anything to do with sports-fixing. Then again, no one can prove that there does not exist any rigging or predetermined “script”, or that the obviously, flagrantly bad calls by the officials I have seen this season did not happen.

Detractors of the NFL conspiracy theories all point out that there are laws that bind the league to prevent any cheating or tanking in any way. However, I challenge you to give me one example of any corporate entity or company large enough to have the power to do things such as price fixing that actually follows the letter of the law, and I will call you on the spot for your proof, which you, of course, will not have.

What draws most of my complaints is hardly Taylor Swift or her newest temporary boyfriend. It isn’t the constant news coverage they get, nor is it the media telling people to watch them, to cheer them on, to love them. The romance will end badly. It may even be messy. I know this just as I knew that the Ravens were not supposed to win. The Chiefs were scoreless in the second half. They did not need to score; it was already over.

My biggest concern, and what I complain most about, aside from my failures and the attendant self-loathing they have caused, is the incredibly uncaring and cavalier attitude people have toward global warming, crime and corporate power, used to further threaten life on earth and steal money from people who do not have any. This corporate power is responsible for the shocking response to the Affordable Health Care Act.

Insurance companies write inscrutable policies that even established attorneys cannot unlock the secrets of. Between that and crime, a lack of governmental concern over firearm availability and the sickening statistics that this lack of concern reflects, people are dying.

These are not deaths from highway accidents, resort conditions, home, or household accidents. No, these deaths are the most heinous things that can happen to people: premature, hollow, meaningless, and unnecessary deaths. There is no glory, no honor, and nothing about such an ending that is good. It’s just evil and tragic.

Please note, I do not for one second believe in fate or “dying for a reason” or “it was his or her time” to go. That’s weak rationalization, which is to say, a pack of lies.

Perhaps you would like to tell a grieving spouse, parent, or sibling that their loved one was murdered by someone with an assault rifle because it was “their time” or worse, that it was “God’s will“. You deserve to be slapped if you say such things.

Answer this question: how many mass shootings took place in the United States in 2023?

You don’t know, do you? Because corporate news stopped telling you. I place even odds that nobody knows, that the books have been cooked to the point that the truth cannot be known. This would constitute a real conspiracy if I am even close. But no one can prove me right…or wrong.

Another killer is fentanyl. It’s everywhere. People claim that it’s a myth that police officers can’t be affected by just touching it or inhaling residual dust. We’re whitewashing a killer. The reason? No one wants to know about it. There’s almost as much misinformation on fentanyl as there still is about Covid-19.

Corporate media covers for corporations that are killing our last chances of surviving global warming. I’ve often said that the “temperature threshold” is already passed, and we’ve crossed the no return line drawn in the sand. No one can even see the line anymore; to many people have kicked sand over it. While wars continue, the need to cut reliance on oil is left out of discussion. We are, as a species, headed inexorably toward extinction. If there’s a way to stop that mass extinction, it lies more in the realm of fantasy than truth. I’m always sorry to write this, but I just don’t believe reliance on fossil fuels will stop.

What’s that you see in a child’s eyes? The desire to be a child, to play, be with friends, grow and become someone important?

Or do you see shock, mute and staring, after their home was destroyed by a rocket attack?

What’s that in that little boy’s eyes? Wonder at the world around him, the possibilities?

Or is it the dull stare of a little kid who’s just been raped by his father? Neither child can ever know trust again. Will never know peace or a world without the innocence it once had for them.

These are the things I complain about the most. The things I care about the most. Sometimes, I believe that we deserve to become extinct. God gave us a beautiful, bountiful place to live and the ability to thrive and to take care of what we’ve been blessed with.

But we deny his existence and fill fields that were once lush and beautiful with trees, grass, and flowers with sewage and toxic sludge.

Folks, those are the things I complain about the most. And I am not about to stop.

Who Needs It?

What would you do if you won the lottery?

I’m not currently watching the Baltimore Ravens v. Kansas City Chiefs championship game. I know who’s going to win. Were I a gambler, I would be safe bucking the line, and I’d win with the fixed game, seeing the Chiefs win, and that’s the fact, Jack. All sports have been shamefully compromised by big money and criminal fraud.

Since this is so, I’ve never been a gambler. I don’t even play the numbers, so the question of what I would do if I won the lottery is ridiculous. Besides, I don’t even want it. Give me what I’ve earned, and I’ll be happy. Money means nothing to me.

There are so many things that really matter in life that, once you have money, you turn your back on. Things like friendship and loyalty. Things like not disengaging a longtime friend because you think that Taylor Swift is the greatest person on earth, and your friend can’t stand looking at her. He knows that money and fame have dehumanized the rotten wretch and that everything she does is for attention and money.

Fuckin money.

People disagree so much these days to a point where friends and even family cut each other off. I have family I don’t speak to, but not because they love Taylor Swift or Donald Trump. They trigger me in other ways. Worse than any misguided hero worship. Others, I have been estranged with for decades, the result of two siblings who testified on behalf of our parents. I don’t feel anything for them, not love and not hate, nor anything in-between.

Speaking of Taylor Swift, I believe that the NFL has become greedy and crooked enough to have been in its own love affair with her all season. The Chiefs are not as good as their win-loss record. It’s been fixed. All season. Who really cares what Kelce Grammer was wearing when he got off the plane? For pity’s sake, do you think he had Secret Service guards? He’s a pissant who hasn’t registered all season. He likes his own fame as much as Swift does hers, and he’s clearly the ultimate alpha around her. She will grow tired of it, but right now, she’s getting extra press, so she’ll kneel before him after the game and polish the knob like a sub. That ruby lipstick is a goner, man.

I don’t care about football. I haven’t since 1974, to be honest, even though I did watch that glorious Monday night game when Lawrence Taylor broke asshole Joe Theismann into a rubber leg like Gilderoy Lockhart once to to Harry Potter’s arm. Rubber. Fuckin rubber.

No lottery. No betting. It ain’t for me. Besides: even if you win, you lose.

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.

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?

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.