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.
The Roman Republic was snuffed out by the time of Julius Caesar. That’s when the Roman Empire was birthed. Conquest, war, and plagues were the order of the day. Every day.
Intrigue followed. Caesar was stabbed to death. He would be followed by centuries of assassinations, betrayals, excess, and brutality of every kind. Once Jesus had been crucified, believers began to spread the Gospel. They were hunted down. Nero liked to have them lashed to poles, soaked in flammable oil, lit on fire, and used as torches for his garden parties at night.
Once the coliseum was completed, Christians were sent to die by wild animals, legionaries, and more.
But something miraculous happened: Rome couldn’t kill them all. They kept growing in numbers until, eventually, Christianity became tolerated and then made the official religion of the Empire.
It’s odd that so many were executed in Christ’s service, yet John of Patmos (a Greek island) was merely banished. While he was there, he freely corresponded with churches, advising them. Then, he was chosen to get a very special message in visions that we read about today in the Book of Revelation to St. John the Divine. Revelation means to reveal, a revealing, and he got quite a measure of them. It’s a terrifying book, the last in the Bible, telling of tribulations (great suffering and destruction). This book reads like something Stephen King would never dare to imagine.
It was common to execute Christians; it was not so with banishment and imprisonment. Why bother? Few ever came from a Roman prison alive. But exile was like special treatment.
While exiled and aging, John had a vision of angels, and they showed him a timeline of the horrors that would precede the end of ages. God uses who He can, His willing believers, to reveal things to, or to do His work. It’s not predestination. It’s all about faithfulness.
Times are already here that Jesus described to His Apostles. Earthquakes in places that don’t usually have them. Plagues and pestilence. Wars and rumors of wars. He told them, “But the end is not yet. These are but birth pangs.”
We should feel free to ignore peer pressure from those who do not have faith. People will call you names and hurt you. Christ works you into a new life. Past sins are wiped away. Sometimes friends abandon you. Your spouse may call for a divorce. But Jesus warned us that these things would happen. We’ll suffer. We’ll be ostracized. It’s worth it. Those who hold out until the end will be blessed. They will live in paradise after death.
The Roman Empire will rise again. Christians will once again be hunted like criminals. Those who refuse the mark of the Beast will perish at his command.
I look forward to and am excited for what’s coming. Terrible things will happen and will do so very fast. From Revelation chapter 6 through chapter 9, there will be very little time. I pity all who will suffer while unsaved by confessing Christ. Everyone will suffer in those days, but true Christians will be spared the fires of Hell. They will not experience the unending darkness and loneliness that those who have seen the Lamb at Judgment and will never see him again will feel.
What can be dreaded by some is cause for excitement for others.
A guy I knew once said, “I don’t want to go to Heaven. I won’t know anyone there.”
Surely, that’s a man doomed. Bitter, complaining, and seeing nothing good. He probably will not go to Heaven. He doesn’t even want to. That’s so very sad.
Yesterday I was in the market and I saw an elderly couple turn toward an aisle. The woman kept a pace that the man could not match. He was pushing the cart, and his cane was inside the cart, which he had to push with both hands. I was almost behind him as I passed the aisle, headed for checkout.
I said, “Hello, sir. How are you today?”
He paused and answered, “Okay, how are you?” His voice made me stop. Usually, people have exchanges like this, and as such, I would have said, “Fine, thank you, sir. Have a good day.” I would have moved on quickly. Well, I would have kept going, but not quickly. I, too, use a cane. He raised the handle of his and said, “I’m about to…” I couldn’t make out the rest, but his voice when he answered my query as to how he was held some quality of gratitude. An almost lonely tone turned to joy that someone had noticed and greeted him. Here was a man who knew little happiness. I get fast with that kind of perception; I myself know how it feels all too well. I try to put on a good show in public, though, as being positive for a few minutes doesn’t cost me anything, and it can, on occasion, make others feel better. Thinking that I have done that, well, in my life, which I’ve told you has been so full of pain? Making someone feel cared for, happy, or positive, those things give and have given me the most positive and good feelings I’ve ever known. With my children gone, if I have nothing else, nobody else, then showing kindness is good medicine.
I asked the man, “You wanna race?”
He chuckled but said sadly, “Not today.”
“You have a nice day, sir,” I said, and with a lighter voice, he said, “Thank you. You, too.”
It took seconds. I knew, though, that his wife hadn’t heard the exchange. I think that made a difference to him. I don’t believe that she has much patience with him.
I’ll never forget him. Ever. I finally did get wet cheeks later, the good kind of tears that only come when something special, however slight or brief, takes place between people.
I wonder what he’s like. What life has done to him. I know he’s in pain on the outside, but I doubt that others ever notice his emotional pain or question where it comes from. These are things others shield themselves from, and that’s a crying shame. It shouldn’t be like that.
But it is.
I’ve made the unforgivable mistake many times of taking the silence of others personally. Whenever I did, I regretted it. Mostly because I was wrong most of the time. So, I’ve developed the determination of being patient and waiting for the right moment, then initiating a quick conversation. I usually just ask, “How are you?” I don’t know how, but most can sense that my question is not casual: I really want to know the answer. I want to hear it. And I’ll gladly listen to complaints, stories, recent experiences, anything. I’m sincerely interested. I care.
The fact is, being an asshole is easy, but the price is too high. I remember 8th grade at a junior high school in Pasadena, Maryland. I was in drawing and painting class. On the first day, we had to do a still life. Pencil work was old stuff to me. I remember there was a propped up guitar with no strings as part of the composition, but not the rest. The teacher, whose name escapes me (although I do remember others), walked around the classroom, checking out our work. When he got to me, he cried, “Farm out!” It was good. Really good. A girl across from me at the next table asked me to hold it up and show her.
At that time, I was nothing but a shy (more like petrified and socially dysfunctional) abused little kid who hated compliments and praise. I hated myself. I couldn’t imagine deserving notice or praise.
Her name was Nancy St. Cyr, a beautiful girl with flaming red hair, and I certainly couldn’t talk to pretty girls. I said, “Go someplace,” which was ’70s politically correct slang for ‘Go to Hell.’
The incredibly intense hurt was shown instantly in her eyes, replaced by hate in seconds. She never spoke to, nor looked at, me again, which still grieves me to this day. Once done, an act of brutality, in word or deed, may never be forgiven. I did not blame her. I still don’t. But I’d give anything to be able to apologize. We just don’t get a lot of second chances, especially when we’re assholes.
I don’t know if God ever forgave me. Sometimes, we cause so much pain that we wonder about that. It is a hurt for us that can’t be healed.
This may make you wonder if I’m a bit more kind and sensitive now because I feel the need to do penance. Well, of course I feel the need, but that’s not why. I got sick of being a cause of pain. I’ve been in pain since I can remember riding in a stroller. Pain. Terror. Then CPTSD because abuse leaves weeping, open wounds that cannot be healed until God brings us back with new bodies. I don’t know much about forgiveness, but I do believe that God counts our every tear, hears every cry of pain, and every prayer. In the meantime, I can’t take my own sins away by doing anything. I just know I need to get back to the narrow road that I left so long ago. I also know that won’t make my life any better. I’ll still be in pain. I’ll still have the regrets of the past. I’ll still remember Nancy St. Cyr and her look of pain. Of all the people I’ve hurt since 8th grade, I don’t remember one of them looking at me like that.
But I’m small, and my part of this universe is too tiny to measure.
Out there. In the world. It is horrible. People do things that others can scarce imagine. A decent person does not have the capacity to picture war crimes. Crimes against humanity. Slavery or mass murder. The constant horror of being terrorized.
It’s all happening right now. It has never stopped. It won’t stop until God’s intervention happens.
But there is still kindness. There is still decency. In a conversation between two old men in a grocery store, with one showing respect, interest, and sincere care to another, there is more that is holy than there is in five years of Joel Osteen’s “sermons.”
Keep the faith. When it is weak, seek the crepuscule: that short time of the day after sunset but before dark, when the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples are painted just above the horizon and a hush seems to fall around you as the day gets closer to leaving.0
The day may hold stress, the night loneliness, but twilight is like God saying, “You like my painting tonight? Remember when you were in art class? It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, so don’t forget me.”
I’m about to turn an age I never thought I’d ever see. And unlike the song, I have no worries about being fed or needed. It’ll just be another day.
I’m fine with that. Because that means I’ll do something nice for someone. I just learned that. I can be nice any time I want to. Whether you want to or not is up to you. I have had enough of dealing out pain. I have too many ghosts for that. I can’t make them go away, but God willing, I won’t pick up any more.
I was recently faced with the statement that some past events that had occurred had been because of fate. In fairness, I can’t remember what was said or by who, or even what it was about.
I don’t always file bullshit away for future use; it gets put into the shredder that an old man’s mind regretfully keeps in “standby” mode.
The main idea I tried to get across to the person was that I no longer have such a belief. It’s bullshit and a protective thing we use on ourselves to soften the bruises to our egos after a failure.
Maybe there was a time. I don’t want to think that I did, but if I once believed in fate, then I didn’t understand what free will is.
Fate is a concept. Oh, it works well in assuaging guilt, calming the tears of a broken heart, or soothing the mind after finding out that the one person you’re really into doesn’t like you at all, but rather holds you in contempt. That’s the hurt before getting far enough to even get a broken heart. It’s called rejection and scorn.
But let’s say for a moment that maybe, if not fate, there are some pretty cool or weird things that happen, which we utterly fail to understand. Because of course there are. Random, whether we think so or not.
And if you believe in God, then tell me how fate is decided by him. Does that mean that he is always holding you by strings like a marionette, reading from a script that he laboriously wrote before time existed?
The evidence that God is real is all about; one has only to be willing to see. Hawking and others devoted their lives to proving that the Big Bang was random and spontaneous, but they failed, all of them. Einstein himself wasn’t exactly a believer but did write in a letter, “There is a God, but he is never listening.”
Bitter experience in his early years and his subsequent exposure to science prompted him to call scripture many things such as a book of lies used to condition children and a bundle of myths from various cultures in ancient times.
He did, however, believe that the universe had an order and a beauty that seems to be a description of a Creator God’s work. The fact is he changed throughout his life and deeply regretted writing the letter to Roosevelt that started the Manhattan Project. He said if he had known what would happen, he would have been a watchmaker.
Here we see a burning question: was the atomic bomb an inevitable creation? A matter of fate?
If one believes in the multiverse, then at least one Earth, parallel to us in time, never had the H-bomb. It’s possible that World War Two never happened.
The concept of different timelines or parallel worlds is fringe science at best. If there is no way to prove a theory, the concept remains just that. However, in this world, what if Hitler never took power, and the Empire of Japan never decided that war was necessary to get what they needed? What if it had favored trade instead of a military expansionist economy?
The possibilities are infinite.
World War Two did not happen because of fate, no more than any other war in world history. It happened because men chose things that led to it. Their actions and verbal abuse, and speeches of racial supremacy did it.
When the American Army found its first concentration camp, high command had been hearing through military intelligence what amounted to rumors, but ultimately, intelligence had confirmed that something terrible had been going on. It did not help that the troops who found the camp had not been told. They were in shock at the sight of men emaciated and pale, all but dead, some dehydrated to the point where their sobs terminated in their throats. And that first camp was a work camp, which wasn’t even an extermination center where Zyklon B, which superseded the original Zyklon, was used to kill Jewish people, political dissidents, Christians, homosexuals, people with disabilities, especially mental disorders, and others. Jews bore the brunt of Nazi hatred, though no one can explain why it went that far. Heinrich Himmler was suspected of being more cruel and far more sinister than the others who decided that the use of the pesticide was a humane way for a “civilized” nation to kill its enemies. The war crimes trials at Nuremberg proved otherwise. Antisemitism wasn’t new; the Nazis just industrialized their hatred. It was not humane (as if war crimes ever can be). It was an agonizing death.
These camps were to be visited at Eisenhower’s orders, later, by command officers. In one instance, General George Patton refused to enter a shack with dead bodies stacked in it. General Omar Bradley communicated, “Georgie wouldn’t go in. He said he’d throw up.” That’s a quote from memory and not exact, but I can’t stomach researching it right now.
George Patton was a true-blue, cocky, tough son of a bitch. I’m not so sure that the allies could have ended the war without significantly more casualties without him. He knew that the German people, military and civilian, would be massacred by the Soviets who had suffered horribly in Leningrad and Stalingrad and everywhere between those cities and the border. The Soviet Army shelled Berlin mercilessly before moving in, but when they did, anyone they found in house-to-house searches was shot, the women raped, random torture was used, and Patton knew that all of it would happen. He hated it. Protested the splitting of Berlin. Out of this, a myth was formed: Patton wanted to invade the Soviet Union. In fact, he knew better and was a keen tactician and historian. What he wanted was to get them back across the border. To put them in their place. George never liked the Soviets and he bristled at never getting the chance to fight them.
The result was that the war in Europe ended. The Soviets declared war on Japan, but before they had the chance to do much, the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki ended the war.
Einstein lived ten years past those bombings. He lived to see the Soviets use the same dreadful weapon in tests. Thus, we have his final words about regret at not being a watchmaker.
There is nothing whatsoever that I’ve written in this thought experiment that lends any credibility to the concept of fate. Himmler was a sadistic man with power, and he did what all sadistic men with power do. All his choices speak to that.
While I believe God is real, I see from history that he simply doesn’t control the affairs of humans. All of humanity has the gift of free will. Only one man was ever born for a set purpose. Yet, he still could have easily saved himself from the cross. He chose not to.
When each of us wakes from sleep, we don’t really consider how many choices immediately present themselves. For the needy, the poor, imprisoned, and the infirm, there are fewer possibilities than other more fortunate people have, but, yes, there are still choices. We choose with our free will.
But wait! There are so many things that can influence that will. You need to shower and go to work. That’s routine, right? Not so fast. Maybe you don’t feel well. You’re tired, sore, and you have a headache. Is that an excuse not to go to work?
Not sure? Well, wait until you step out of the shower. More tired, lightheaded, and no appetite. Little bit of nausea downstairs, too. You’re awake fully now, and your body is sending signals to your brain: don’t make us go.
What’s your choice? Call in sick, or go to work?
This decision is unique to every person and their jobs, their supervisors, their economic situations, their modes of transportation, and more. What they choose has nothing to do with fate.
Some people believe, as do I, that opportunities and chance encounters are the presentations of a higher power. In other words, God does not control your life. There is no fate. But consider how and when you met your spouse. Which types of things had to happen leading up to your crossing paths with each other? Now you see the complexities of life. You meet, but do you ask that person for a date, or do you let them go out of your life, most likely forever? Is that the right one to be with? Are you the right one to be with them?
A chance encounter can lead to happiness or misery. Did God drop a gift in your path for you to choose to take or refuse? Think of what that person makes you feel. How can you know even then?
The answer is simple: if, as many believe, there is true evil out there, and I promise you that there is, then is there not also good? God and Satan. The former wants what’s best for you, but ultimately, you’re the one who has to choose, as the latter puts tempting but destructive people and things in your path.
God gave us free will. He didn’t want to create just another animal. Even the earliest humans chose, developed, lived in peace, or became violent as a matter of choice.
This freedom is extended to our beliefs in him. He didn’t want us to automatically love him without deciding to. If that were so, we would be nothing more to him than what a child keeps trapped in a bird cage. The parakeet may appreciate getting food, but it can’t tell the child that it loves him. In fact, it has never known freedom, but at the first opportunity, it will fly away. The old saying applies: if you love it, let it go. If it comes back, then you can probably keep it. If it doesn’t, it never belonged with you at all. We can’t force love. We know if a dog loves us because they express it. But if that dog shows no affection, you have to let it go to someone it will be happier with. That’s what I think God’s dynamic with us is.
We are free to love. Free to choose. With that said, so is everyone else. So what they do isn’t up to you. Bad or good, they affect us. Sometimes, it’s not his will for us to suffer. Prayer goes a long way, and he does give us miracles, but pain can teach us things we never would have known. He sees that. He may know how we will be treated and what we will do with what pain teaches us. But that doesn’t mean that he controls it.
“Fate” is a false concept that we use to give up, take a pass, or deny our part in something negative. And all we really have is our faith and each other. That is why love and kindness are so important.
“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.”- Jesus Christ
King Kong didn’t have to climb up the Empire State Building with a woman he could never mate with. He chose that irrational action. And then he was killed for it. But he was an animal. We are not, and we shouldn’t act like one.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Iam 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 chargingYes, 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.
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.
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.
Pet peeves are a subcutaneous invader also, sometimes more irritating than the above.
Maybe you just can’t stand the way your partner chews. Or how he’s preoccupied with your breasts during foreplay; you want him to put his tongue to better use and just leave the mammies alone.
Some women, on the other hand, love to be licked and kissed and sucked on. I once dated a girl who had orgasms that way. And, no kidding, she was by no means a freak. Everyone’s different.
And maybe you hate this person or that person because they smell funny or support nutty doctrines like that of the late Pat Robertson, who, for the record, was an extremist religious nut bag.
Like saying Donald Trump was “God’s chosen” and “to be against Trump is to be against God” despite the unashamedly hateful personality and spouting of bizarre bullshit during the 2016 campaign. Or maybe you were “against God” before that, thinking, as he had so often proven, that Trump was a scammer and a big talker who was full of himself.
Which he was, and still is. Not to mention being nutty as a scrotum hanging between a bull elephant’s hind quarters.
Or maybe you don’t pay attention to politics anymore and mostly avoid the news as being the mental poison that it is. Let’s say you get irritated waiting for the weather report because after 10 commercials, he or she says what the current conditions are, then, “…full forecast coming up” which is followed by ten more commercials. And the ads themselves are irksome, shamelessly telling you you’re stupid, ugly or too fat, you have to get medicine for a limp dick, or your breasts are too small or too big, you need a new blender, a new car, a TV, a particular drug. And you need insurance — in bundles.
And then — then you get a fast, vague forecast, and have to turn to something else because if you don’t, you’re going to break a bone or get electrocuted kicking in your fucking TV screen, which is 50-90-inches at a diagonal and cost you over a grand because you got all the bells and whistles.
Or you could hate that phrase, “bells and whistles”. In which case, I don’t blame you. I hate myself for having just used it and I need to shower, do penance and say a rosary, I feel so filthy.
Sometimes a pet peeve can be very petty, yet still be huge to you. You’re pissed when it rears its ugly head. When I see someone write or say, speaking of politics mostly, “I’ll try and suss it out” or worse, “let’s try and parse out the meaning” of a particular news development.
What the fuck is wrong with people? Are they speaking parseltongue like Lord Voldemort? They thinking about Davis Susskind? What? Those words are stupid fucking words. Stop it!
One that gets me was a buzzword back in the late 90s and the 00s. “Tout”. There’s a stupid word. Some corporate enterprise was “touting” the virtues of a new and revolutionary product which really was no more new than snake oil in a fancy bottle with cherry flavoring added.
They not too long ago “touted” all these beneficial features of Medicare. But the change just restricted what people qualify for, as in surgeries, cost reduction and general quality, which is downright shitty.
And I know it’s always happened, but in a throwback to more than 50 years ago, ambulance and EMT response times are too long. People are dying because of it. And once in the hospital, your chances of surviving a medical emergency get no better. And it’s going to get worse.
Maybe the dog next door pisses you off. Shits in your yard, and the owner won’t clean it up and never leashes the little fucker which would be comparable in size to a gerbil, but leaves piles of runny doodoo like someone up the street is playing Jumanji, and Jeff Goldblum is in the area, and a whole jungle of animals including rhinos, hippos and a dinosaur or two just cut through in stampede mode. And you just stepped in it.
Maybe you even slid in it and wound up flat on your back, the runny doggy doo making you vomit up your cantaloupe from breakfast and ruining a new Brooks Brothers suit and Gucci shoes you splurged for. Because you are not going to try cleaning doggy diarrhea off when it smells like that and is so wet that it went through your suit jacket, shirt and undershirt and you know it’s all over your back. And before you get to work, you have to take a Hefty bag to the bathroom with you, strip, throw your entire outfit away and shower, but realize that it not only got your back, it got on and into your wallet, covering your cash, cards and the pictures of your family including the one kid you’re sure isn’t yours because the tyke looks too much like that neighbor who lets his dog shit in your yard.
Before you start going out at 03:00 and pouring puddles of antifreeze or tossing Hershey bars into the grass, remember that dogs just do what dogs do. Or doo. And it’s the owner you must get even with. We can cover that at another time, but really, what sets you off? What are some things that get under your skin like poison ivy oil?
For me, aside from words like “suss”, “tout”, or “parse”, it’s always been the idiots like Michelle Bachman, Ann Coulter, Laura Ingraham, Kelly Conway and Sarah Palin. Women who have no sexual appeal at all, but who my weak, asshole character would love to hate-fuck, just because. My dick ain’t been hard in years, folks, and yet I know I’d get the boner of all time for these know-it-all bitches whose combined I.Q. would be that of a pitcher of lemonade. Mice with human “brains”, all liberals being barbarians, ready to summon the apocalypse with their gay and lesbianism and trans ways. These women are like Ilsa, the she-wolf of the SS.
Lizard shit comes from their mouths.
God damn, they’re stupid, intolerant, bigoted, angry, and did I mention stupid?
Thing is, mad as they make me, I’d fuck any one of them right now. Bareback. And not pull out, either. And since abortion is illegal, menopause or no, if Bachmann got pregnant, I wouldn’t care and there would be no child support because I’d go straight to the Supremes, the nine penises of the Potomac, and say “well ya fucked up, didn’t ya?”
Let Conway’s husband pay for that freak to grow up. And I’m sure the Palin family would welcome another brain around. At two, the little milksucker’d be smarter than his mother.
Went off the rails a bit on that one, sorry. But the taking of women’s rights is more than a pet peeve for me; it’s evil.
What does qualify as a peeve is the stupid, screwy, goofy, neurotic, loony bullshit conservatives said about abortion to get Roe overturned. I’m not gonna get into those because I’ll end up with a heart attack. But it was, is, and always will be some of the most incredible things humans have uttered since language became a thing.
So knock a republican up today and help them preserve the Bible, which doesn’t mention abortion, and let them take one for the old Dipper. Yeah, Dipper. The one in the sky at night. Because fucking outside is illegal if anyone sees you. But it’s exhilarating, and imagine impregnating Sarah Palin under the Alaskan sky at midnight. You could tell her as she’s having an orgasm, “Let’s have one for the old Dipper!”
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!
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?
What’s a topic or issue about which you’ve changed your mind?
What can anyone at all get out of my posts this week?
Anyone? Some are way ahead of me. Others are just mystified that I share so much. But mostly I go unnoticed. I’m not an influencer. Not widely read or known. I’m nobody. Just an asshole who’s honest about being an asshole.
But this week was kind of different from from my usual complaints about life. Or my stupid observations and even worse interpretations.
Because this week, I came close to really losing myself. “Beware the fury of a patient man” is truly a term that applies to me. Being two steps from Hell feels very real and dangerous to me. And certainly, my sister Michele was right: my soul has been shattered. Pieces of it, scattered around, I don’t know where. One, subconsciously left behind simply because I loved my siblings, like she and my youngest brother, and I feared leaving them behind. But, had I remained, even for another month, I would surely have gone insane.
I don’t know how my sister senses things like those, but all of us emerged with “gifts” that typically show up in extreme trauma victims. Later she would become a survivor, but all of those retain those same perceptions that, all are born with, but by reason of extraordinary survival challenges, develop to degrees many people never imagine. Or believe.
All my dreams were long since gone by the time I turned 14. I worked that summer as a carpenter’s helper, and he so impressed me with his patient and humorous, gentle nature that I decidid I, too, wanted to be like that. The foundation was there, all I had to do was to build on it.
But such was my anger and trauma that my coping was crude. I couldn’t be kind, or gentle, and the monster we each have sleeping inside us just became more hungry, demanding to be fed. I had to go through a lot more, to mature with time, to learn how to ignore it. Decades slipped past.
My ability to be patient would eventually come, but it took a lot out of me; it’s a fight that never ends and the initial caging of the beast was only the beginning.
Rarely, I encountered people who threatened the security around my personal creature. I came damnably close to disaster when aggressive assholes decided I was a good target. No longer a coward, but somewhat willing to engage in combat, I fought instead that hungry demonic thing in me that screamed, “Let me OUT, you know you want to. Together we will avenge your soul!”
That kind of payback would have cost me my soul. It would avenge nothing. You can’t get back what’s lost, not your fragmented heart or soul, not your lost childhood, wrongly destroyed though each was. Its over.
But nothing is over in your mind. That is a battleground that will be fought for until the end of your life.
In the clip above, you saw a movie scene that still makes me weep. Sometimes, I can’t stop.
John Rambo. All he wanted was something to eat. And nobody cared to let him, starting with the sheriff.
This scene, at the end, is entirely accurate. It has been played out too many times in too many places. If this 80s movie isn’t your cup of tea, or if you just never got around to seeing it, I recommend it. There’s nothing major in this scene that I think is off. This is a man who was triggered, whose guard against the inner beast was dropped, and it ended up this way.
And while every sequel that followed this film was ridiculous to the point of being comical, and this as a standalone film is perfect, the ultimate takeaway is this one question: is it really possible? The answer is, of course, yes.
Now, watch this. It’s vloggers reacting to “First Blood”, and mindfully pay attention to the facial expressions of each as the final scene plays out:
Most end up crying. But not all. One woman looks up, almost as if she is about to roll her eyes. But she doesn’t. She’s clearly keeping busy holding in her own monster, and it’s hard. Dasha, in particular, is very emotional. In empathy, she already sees where this is going. It clearly hurts.
I was shocked at their reaction to the brief glimpse of all the police lights flashing outside. How could they not have seen that coming?
These reactions are priceless. None of them knows what the end scene has for them, and when it’s over, they’re somewhat stunned.
In the book, they don’t know, Trautman shoots Rambo. Call it a mercy killing. Things had gone so wrong that they couldn’t be fixed. Rambo had been triggered, mindlessly obeyed training and rage, and once released, that beast must be exhausted, played out and then caught and killed. His life was over. It was over when he was drafted.
All trauma patients harbor The Beast. All fight their own battles to cope, to survive, to keep their worst hidden, not from others, but from themselves. But triggers can be anything, anywhere. And this week I was triggered and sunk to helpless victim behavior because that’s what I learned so long ago. Victim behavior is, ironically, one of the things that I didn’t even know was holding back my personal beast of rage, vengeance. I would freeze but not fight. Could not run. I just stood there. For years.
I lived by a code. Be kind. Be polite. But kill when given the order to fight. To this day I call people sir or ma’am. To this day I search for honor, a thing I lost or never had. And that sandbag and rock base was such a small part of it all. Exchanging fire with an MG nest, you don’t forget. The sound of bullets tearing through foliage a foot away from you is horrible. You think at least one round will surely get you.
You know, it’s the same feeling as being under my father’s lash gave me. Live? Die? Go mad? Which will it be? But you never think it’s going to be like this.
Not this. So many years of hiding, suffering, shamed by even a spouse if you had a nightmare, shook for no reason, or cried. You’d better not cry. You do that and you’re a pussy.
You can’t laugh. You’re inappropriate. You can’t talk. You’ll piss everyone off. You can’t go out. “Everyone” will surely be watching you and thinking how crazy you are. Your life is gone.
I keep thinking. That time the old man held his .357 magnum against my head. Scared, yes. But not until later did I realize that I wouldn’t have cared what happened either way. The threat of death can only cause so much fear after you’ve already lived with it all your life.
Now I seek peace. Honor. A place I can call home.
But I’m sure that it is not to be. It saddens me. My reaction to what I know from experience to be stalking behavior proves that I am not an honorable man. That I will never find peace or my own place. No, I am not honorable. I am not even a good man. I’m just an asshole. There were better ways to handle it. Those ways I cannot do. It is disgraceful. I am ashamed.
But I will never be able to go shopping again without scanning the cars going by, or the people inside, because I fought being triggered and ignored red flags. Trying to keep the beast trapped. My post about not testing the patient man whom you know to have a violent past stands. Don’t push them. Don’t mistake them as being what they cannot possibly be. Predators make the world hostile for more than their victims: they make their victims to be potential time bombs that endanger others. And if most never act on triggers the way Rambo did, please understand that it can happen. That it does happen.
My advice is that you take these past few posts to heart. Be kind, be careful, be gentle to and with others. You don’t know what battles they are fighting. Pray for them. Get them to trust you and let them talk. You just might be saving lives by showing that you care. Otherwise, please just leave them alone. Never start a war you can’t finish. As for what lessons I’ve learned, I think you know by now.
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.
What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?
Dozens of times, from diverse sources, I’ve been advised not to go looking for things best left alone. Because you might just find them.
I know that TV and YouTube ghost hunters make ghost hunters look glamorous, but you will, inevitably, see something faked, or, more often, not see something edited from the final cut that should be food for thought, or rethinking what you are considering. And this time of year, ghost hunters, from beginners to veteran players, amp up their interest in the subject. And it’s just not advisable. There are some cardinal rules to this kind of misadventure, and all of them are routinely disregarded. Let’s begin with the basics.
THE HAZARDS
First rule: NEVER GO ALONE
This is for the exact same reason cavers, urbexers and hunters of game shouldn’t sally forth on their own: you’re risking your life. And if no one knows where your destination is, search parties won’t know where to look. Your name gets added to the missing persons statistics sheet and that’s it.
Are you trespassing? Before hunting in private forests, you must secure permission by the owner. Most will make you sign a waiver or hold harmless agreement. It leaves you responsible for anything and everything you do. That’s a tight place to be. Even bank anglers face the risk of trespassing and personal injury. Get permission. Taking fish or game from private property is poaching.
The worst offenders are urban explorers. An “abandoned” factory may still be owned by someone who has electronic and roving guard security. You’re going to be caught, fined or shot. That’s the dumbest risk I think I’ve ever seen. YouTube should ban such misadventures. They encourage others. They’re influencers.
Next up is your team. Can’t just be a bunch of testosterone-pumped alpha males; you have to choose a team. This must consist of a person trained in, at the very least, basic emergency first aid. Trips, falls, cuts, eye injuries and broken bones have happened. Deaths have resulted. If first-aid is not rendered on-scene and medics called in, serious consequences may be involved. A leg wound can turn gangrenous, and you know what that means. A head injury may seem slight but end in death.
Your field medic should carry a canvas bag with shoulder straps and include sutures, a collapsible cane, large and small field dressings, emergency blankets, adhesive bandages, sulfa, iodine and BZK swabs, hemostats, gauze rolls, tourniquet, BP cuff, aspirin, stethoscope, pen light for checking pupils, splints with cravats, insect sting relief, burn gel, two large bottles of eye wash, oval eye patches, atropine and anakit and an emergency channel radio. A flare gun is essential. Serious injuries are a race against time. Never be so isolated that help is too far away.
Hazardous substances like old, flaking asbestos fibers or residual hazardous materials may be present. Protective gear must be worn. It may consist of a full hazmat suit, or a hard hat and filter mask with cannister filters. Safety glasses. A suit to protect your clothing from dragging out insects, asbestos and deteriorated fiberglass. Once finished, you use the buddy system to sweep each other off before shedding the suit.
A gas meter must be carried by one member and monitored by someone who’s been trained. It should usually be calibrated for flammables but poisons can be present as well. Remember that these meters are unable to register a spectrum of material and first you need to research to see what might be present.
A person trained for spiritual warfare. If confronted by evil entities, they’ll scare you, and could even attack. Prayer before you begin and a spiritual warrior can help you escape with no demons following you home.
Even the TAPS team has experienced demonic attachment and had trouble at home. Therefore:
Do not challenge, insult or provoke spirits during your investigation. Never. You may get away with it for so long that you lose your perspective and worse, respect for things you’ll never understand. Ghost hunting is not instructional. It’s just dangerous.
Never have a spirit session, the circle. Never use a spirit or ouija board. Never call on anything to appear to you. Again, you can get away with it a hundred times, but keep it up and one day you’ll regret it. This is not always the case, but when it is the case, what happens next is life-changing and never for the better.
Screen members of your team. Anyone who suffered from trauma, has depression or problems with phobias shouldn’t go. Demonic entities feed on their raw, unguarded emotions and confusion or fear. That is not the ideal situation.
Stay away from ghost tours. Those guides typically lie and you don’t get to investigate anyway.
Never, ever, go alone. Even your team must carry extra batteries, cell phones with manual crank chargers. Walkie talkies, and two monitors outside at all times.
Avoid old sanitariums and hospitals. There’s never anything good there. The environment is nasty if not dangerous, and demons probably will be there.
Never investigate cemeteries. Especially at night! Legend-tripping or ghost hunting in a graveyard is a pretty arrogant thing to do. You’re on ground consecrated to the dead and anything that moves will be a problem at least, a danger at most. Besides. What do you think you’re going to find?
In prayer, join hands and ask God for help. Ask for permission. If you don’t know, don’t go. Playing games with your life isn’t a thing I suspect He takes lightly. In that case, crosses, rosaries and holy water won’t help you. You will have to proceed without help. Testing God is a grave sin.
Consider staying home or having a get-together with your friends. Nothing beats Pizza, buttered popcorn or something to snack on and a scary movie.
A ghost hunt is not worth risking environmental damage to your health, bodily harm, or your life. It’s just a bad idea, and you may not be the one, or the only one, to pay the price.
August of this year marked the 50th anniversary of the release of the film Jesus Christ Superstar.
It is an historic event, celebrating a masterpiece of art and culture from a time so long ago that you may not have been born yet. That’s too bad, because this is a musical film every bit worth seeing, but also a snapshot of popular culture and music from a time when people felt lost and teens were searching for their identity amid very troubled times.
Shot on location in 1972, released in August of 1973, the first thing to know is, it stirred up a lot of controversy.
That is no understatement, either. Protests happened outside of cinemas, then the entire Christian community became divided. When given a screening of it by director Norman Jewison, Pope Paul VI praised it. He found it inspiring and said that it “would bring (a lot of) people to Christianity.”
The pope also felt stirred by Mary Magdalena’s song “I don’t know how to love him” and felt that it was inspired.
There was, however, the age-old controversy of the Romans versus the Jews as to “who killed Christ”, and some of course claimed that it had an antisemitic theme.
It did not, but you would first need to understand what was already happening at the time of Christ. The movie chronicles the final week of the life of Jesus, what we Christians call “the Passion Week” which begins on Palm Sunday.
Contrary to belief, the Romans never flogged a condemned prisoner before saddling him with a cross. Known as the “half-death”, Rome had a set of rules to be followed to the letter regarding flogging and execution. Pilate had no intention of giving the Jews what they wanted. He hated his post and dreamed of a promotion, but Tiberius was slowly going mad and threatened to punish the prefect if he stirred up the Jewish people again, which he had, heretofore, taken great joy in doing. Giving in to Caiaphas was inevitable. He had no love or sympathy for Jesus, but there is reason to believe that the auxiliary soldiers (barbarians) consisted of semitic men who hated the Jews and wielded the lash with nothing held back, causing Pilate to recoil on seeing Jesus afterward. No victim of such a beating was ever supposed to be crucified; they would not last long, they wouldn’t be able to carry their cross, and the purpose of public execution to deter crime was rendered useless.
Also, the “39 lashes” was a Jewish custom and carried out not with a flagellum but with rods. Then, the act of washing his hands while pronouncing the death sentence, that, too, was a Jewish custom. He was throwing it in their face in a spiteful act.
One can argue these and many other details ad nauseum, but the act of the Sacrifice is always there, no matter what. It was meant to happen and no one race or group was responsible.
There’s really nothing here to fight over. Except one glaring detail…
The movie begins very curiously. A camera in some ruins pans, then shows a red, blue and silver bus raising dust as it approaches. When it stops a bunch of hippie actors begin unloading props to put on a project, and we know it’s a movie. The cross lashed to the bus roof is not a surprise; we know what this movie will be. As the Overture plays, Ted Neely (Jesus), wearing hippie threads, walks past the now grounded cross and looks down at it, a detail I missed for 20 years. I did see the movie on the big screen, which is still the best way, but details escape me.
As everyone dons costumes and makeup, the music intensifies until we see Neely changed into his Jesus costume and Judas (the one and only Carl Anderson) walks away, symbolic of his isolation from the other Apostles.
Since Anderson played Judas and was black, another protest sprang up. But the production could never have been done without him. His voice, the notes he could hit, his expressions, all made him the best man for the job.
In the heat of the deserts of the Holy Land, the crew and actors required 5 quarts of water or more a day. Temperatures reached 120°F, causing heat exhaustion, dehydration and they were all overdressed. Metal helmets, bloused military boots, heavy robes, even tunics…this production was brutal.
But everyone stuck it out. Friends were made. Their was love, a joy among them. That’s pretty special. Ted Neely even met his future wife, Leeyan Granger, on set, and their first encounter is sweet and romantic. She literally took his breath away.
The cast became so close that during the shooting of the Crucifixion, the actors watching cried.
The magnum opus is “Gethsemane”, and Ted nailed it in a single take. In the song “Superstar” we see a renewed, resurrected Jesus is clothed in pure white, while Judas asks him “Did you mean to die like that, was that a mistake or did you know your messy death would be a record breaker?”
In the Bible, the priests of the temple were greatly disturbed by the buzz created by Jesus of Nazareth. Stories of miracles worried them enough, but his words to the crowds filtered back to Jerusalem and caused High Priest Caiaphas to picture a revolt by the people against temple authority. By Palm Sunday when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem, he was already a marked man. This is shown in the movie. And in the Trial Before Pilate, the Roman prefectus tries to help Jesus escape death, but Jesus does not defend himself. It turned into a chess match (in the Bible) between Pilate and Caiaphas, one in which Pilate made mistakes with every move, underestimating the high priest and his frenzied crowd.
Following the Crucifixion, the actors board the bus to leave. Some are happy, some somber, especially Mary (Yvonne Eliman). Carl Anderson is the last to board and we see what he keeps looking at: the cross, now alone and bare, the sun setting behind it. Ted Neely doesn’t get on the bus. Jewison didn’t believe in the resurrection and it hadn’t been in the original play anyway. But some say that, if you look closely, in the foreground of the cross, a shepherd with his sheep just happened to walk across the scene. They take it as symbolic of Christ leading his sheep (believers) even after his earthly life had ended.
After seeing the movie, I was forever a fan. The double vinyl LP soundtrack became my favorite record of all time. It always will be. I hope you give it a listen or watch the movie. A Universal Pictures release, it still bears a G rating. You can buy a digital copy on Amazon or find the DVD.
The Overture
“Superstar” from the soundtrack album
The very emotional final number, the instrumental “John 19:41” bookend to the Overture.
The masterpiece that could not have been made without every piece falling into place exactly as it did. Jesus Christ Superstar, from 1973.
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
Share a lesson you wish you had learned earlier in life.
Actually the title is bait. But I really do hate crackers. Ritz, Saltines, Wheat Thins, all of them. I don’t care if you give me the most expensive cheese or Beluga caviar, I will not eat crackers.
That’s what the title really means. But it may not be the way you saw it.
That’s because once upon a time, it referred to a hillbilly, a dullard with no education and a hatred for freed slaves, usually African Americans, and this hatred was absolutely deadly. The expression, a derogatory slang, once conjured the image of an old man wearing a battered straw or felt hat, shirtless beneath bib overalls, bare of foot, a corn cob pipe hanging from a mouth with no or few teeth, and in his hands a side-by-side double-barrel shotgun.
More recently it’s been used as a derogatory name for any Caucasian, used by African Americans.
Down in the southern and in the midwestern United States it is more prevalent, but since the late 1990s has faded further north. But you can still hear it.
Racism is everywhere and is a part of everyone’s life, whether we want to believe it or not. You may not think that you are racist, but no matter how you may try not to be, the need for and effort itself means that there is something within you that’s being fought, something you try to bury deep, crammed into shadows you never dare let see the light of day. That’s a great thing. It is noble, this fight, and remember that many before you have fought the same personal battle, each one of them making the world a slightly better place. No brave effort is ever wasted.
Of all the regrets I have that haunt me most, being a blind bigot is at the top. I’ve hurt people, almost exclusively with words. I would sling the “N” word from my mouth as often as the word “fuck”, and that goes way back to childhood.
In my school in elementary grades, what they call “primary” school now, there was one African American girl. Same grade I was in. And did we ever punish her. Also the girls who never washed or bathed, who showed up in white blouses that went as unwashed as they, well we gave them hell too. I got bullied, but when it was the rare girl who set her cross hairs on me, I would be shocked into frightened silence, and the sickening language I used on others would come back to me, but strangely, because there was a certain finesse and panache added in. I hated Cheryl Gant and admired her at the same time for being sick, but eloquent in her loathing for me. After a time, she became attractive to me!
I could never figure out why she hated me, and it spread to her mother, who had the balls to knock on my door after I passed her once on North Shore Road. I thought that was funny, but let my mother handle it because at 17 years of age, I had no way of holding back my emotions and I’d have used language like “cunt” on her. Yep. I’d have done that. Maybe worse.
What Cheryl did, unknowingly, was teach me that hate can come from anywhere. It isn’t restricted to race, gender, religion, or any other factor. Sometimes, it’s just there.
Other times, it’s taught. When parents are both southern bigots, true racists, you do what they do. You say what they say. You feel what they’ve taught you you feel. Being young in redneck Pasadena in the 1960s, lots of prejudice existed, and if a black family moved into the neighborhood, they’d be shunned by most, befriended by few, and invariably suffered vandalism. I rarely heard of violence, except on Walter Cronkite in 1968.
Maryland went into panic as riots broke out in Baltimore City that year, and Governor Spiro Agnew activated the MDARNG. A conservative, Agnew would go on to be Nixon’s vice president before being caught with fraudulent tax records. He was replaced by Gerald R. Ford.
These riots, so close to the cloistered suburbs of Pasadena and North Shore, scared my father silly. He kept a .22 revolver with a 10-inch barrel loaded. Ready for (“the ‘Ns'”) to walk into his yard.
They weren’t coming, but his blind terror of blacks rendered him hysterical and unreasonable. I felt the fear that he did. It made an indelible mark on my soul, and I got worse. If I was a mentally ill loose cannon before, I became a monster later. And the African American girl in my class suffered additional reactionary punishment not just from me, but others. By sixth grade, she’d grown an impressive bosom. The girls wanted to be her because they had nothing in the breast department. Weren’t supposed to, really, but everyone matures at different rates.
By junior high, the bussing situation threw together kids who weren’t prepared. Shock naturally occurred, but with dire consequences. Rednecks regularly carried switchblade knives, and came very close to murder. Fights, rumors of riots,fistfights in the hallways were more limited to the redneck guys, but other scenarios happened. It wasn’t a conducive learning environment. And I hated black people more until I finally got suspended for hate speech. Several times.
I didn’t care. Not for decades would I feel differently.
Being grown, working every day, I was always going to interact with people I’d been taught to hate.
And slowly, ever so slowly, I became less fearful. I interacted with customers, asked stupid questions, but always, they understood and praised my eagerness to learn, to overcome. I wanted the hatred and fear to end, to be no more. I began to see beauty in all people of all races. Women whom I’d never have paid attention to became ravishing. And almost always, and to this day, women of color are nicer to me than most others. They sense things in me: no threat, no danger, always sympathetic and ready to listen, not a man seeking a relationship, but a friend.
And the girl in my class all those years ago, who alone had to bear racism from white students surrounding her?
One night I read a newspaper article. She’d made the headline. Babysat one night. And the baby wouldn’t stop crying… she tortured and killed it. I never knew, and never will, if what she went through in school, because of boys like me, played a part.
You know what I’d like to think.
But the abuse we piled on her for years would almost certainly be part of her hell.
All actions and words have consequences. And the potential to harm, and harm greatly. I wish I could have learned that lesson much earlier. Then, maybe, though damaged and full of my own sorrow, rage and bitterness, I could have learned respect and how to love…instead of having so many hurt left behind me in time. A painful lesson that hurts more because I took so long to learn it. I often think back to those who I had hurt and hated. Too late to apologize. Too distant. And some are long gone. As is one infant whose name I will never know.
I don’t walk as often as I should, which would, at my age be about a mile a day.
But I can’t. Depression often has me nailed to the bed, and yesterday I hadn’t gone out.
It occurred to me after sunset that I was almost out of smokes.
I’m going to quit that crap. Quitting smoking won’t save my life, but I may last a few months longer.
But last night wasn’t, I decided, the right time. So I had to take a walk.
That’s pretty stupid considering that my prescription glasses are also sunglasses. And to get to the shopping center, I walk through the woods on a narrow asphalt path and it’s really dark. I can’t see the path and my flashlight quit on me so I’m having zero visibility. I keep stepping off into the grass, which is okay, but in darkness is disorienting. Hard to find the path again because I can’t see. It’s total blindness instead on the brink of functional blindness, but that’s no better. Not in the dark. But, nothing happened, so I made it to the store and I bought a pack.
Inside, the cashier said, What did you do to your hand?
I looked and it was bleeding. No reason, just an open wound. It’s sad, but it happens a lot.
It really wasn’t until I went back into the darkness that I’d got into trouble. Almost at the bottom of the path, back-lit by a streetlight about 40 yards further on, I saw a silhouette which I knew to be out of place.
My mind took a little trip.
I was back in the jungle on a trail. What I was seeing was the shape of was a man, with twigs for camouflage sticking out from the band around his boonie hat.
I reached for my stiletto but it wasn’t there!
I was unarmed. The forward-leaning camo guy was waiting until I was closer. I knew he had a bayonet or a kukri blade.
But just as fast, I saw that he was gone, replaced by a shopping cart!
I haven’t slept since. I can’t. The nightmares would be horrible. Eventually I’ll crash. Until then I dread sleep.
Not much I can do about it, though. When it’s enough, my mind shuts off and I crash.
All future walks, until the trees are bare of leaves, at which time the path isn’t as dark, will be in daylight.
All the stuff I’ve been through, and I’m finally reduced to Don Quixote tilting at shopping carts.
This promt is infuriating. I don’t think it is a valid question. Perhaps there was a time when it was one, but that would be before my time.
Read this article and watch the video interview to get an idea of where I stand and why the above question is so repulsive to me.
Now that you have seen and read some really interesting, screwy, looney, out there, absolutely psychotic stuff, tell me that “direction” on an individual level means anything at fucking all.
People live their lives the best that they can, according to beliefs, morality and knowledge gained from hard experience, or they don’t. And many times, those who don’t are just fucking crazy.
The guy in the video is fucking crazy and I should have put an upper case “c” on that word. He asserts that John F. Kennedy Jr. is still alive and will soon emerge from hiding to be Trump’s next vice president.
He contradicts himself by agreeing that Joe Biden is a “hologram” and then says he’s actor James Woods in a rubber mask.
He says that when Biden was still vice president, he was executed.
He asserts that an FBI informer is a good man despite damaging testimony against Trump. What this man says about January 6th is so far out there I’m not even able to comment on it. Watch the video in the link, you’ll see.
This walking meatball is entombed in a world of conspiracy theories and lies and pure fantasy that I’d wager he likely also believes that Harry Potter is real and an imminent threat to Christianity. If you had a sail boat and set sail on the Chesapeake Bay, and your rudder fell off, then a squall moved in, you’d get this fucker.
As for the rape trial, Trump said he cut short a golf trip to Ireland to face his accuser, who isn’t his “type”. Of course she’s not his type. She’s not his daughter. But long before 2016, I’d read stories about how he forced women into sex. Trump is or was a rapist, I know it. I know it in my heart. I stuck the “was” in there because I doubt that with his KFC-clogged arteries, he can have an erection now. But without any personal experience in such matters, I can say with confidence that rape is pretty difficult to commit with a limp, shriveled up dick.
His fans have some scary, fucked-up, and downright sick ideas about him. I don’t usually engage in criticism of physical appearance, but some of the goddamnedest looking women in tight T-shirts hugging the most saggy, misshapen breasts I’ve ever seen the outlines of have become sex billboards. The shirts proclaim love and sexual desire and say things like “You can grab my pussy anytime” which I guess might preclude any fair, impartial judgement of their appearance in my mind.
I’m not perfect. It’s funny that if I see someone with a kind soul and some semblance of rationality, I think they’re beautiful. If I don’t see that, I’m just gonna see fucking ugly.
Trump’s people. They love him and worship him.
In return, he lies to them, insults them, and uses them to death. He hates every goddamn one of them. Hates them, and in their bubbles of delusion, they can’t believe it. You can’t even talk to them. Spending more than 120 seconds with one can cause permanent damage. Because you ain’t never gonna be the same.
What gives me direction in life? Well, when I’m not outraged and cussing, it’s my willingness to admit I don’t know anything. That I am nobody. That my honor was stripped from me and I seek it because to die without it is a horrible thing. I want to love. And I want others to know it when I do.
We are seldom with “direction” in life. We have to wing it, do our best not to cause harm, keep faith with our higher power, and fight the fights that are worthy.
In these batshit crazy times, it’s a tall order to have. But we must accept it.
The alternative is believing James Woods is living in the White House.
Above this line you see today’s JP prompt. Well I hardly needed a prompt for tonight. Yeah, it’s after 00:30, so it’s really morning. I know, but it’s dark, and still well before the hour of shadows. Which I think of as the hour I most feel that I’m really all alone.
Why I always revert to an opposition of circadian rhythm I do not understand. I’ve joked about it for years: “I’m a vampire”, “a werewolf”, whatever. But jokes cover up our true selves and lead us into a habit of not letting the worst of us slip out and give others a glimpse of who we really are.
Because doesn’t that part of us serve to cage our pain and fear? Isn’t it easier for me to let measured pieces of that pain and absolute terror out than to give them full vent and risk what can happen to me? To feel it all, everything, at once, knowing it could kill me, because a heart broken so many times should already have killed me?
And true, raw, pure terror, you can’t feel that all at once. So many years of it, decades of seeing evil, doing and speaking asshole things, but first having all of that done to me….nobody can survive remembering and feeling all that at once. We know that, because sometimes memories get distorted and become unreliable. That’s a built-in protection we have which allows us to survive.
But most of it, the worst stuff, we can never forget. And therefore some of us just can’t heal. Doesn’t mean we can’t move in a forward direction, just means we carry so much of what others would leave behind with us, every day, everywhere. No one knows. They can’t see it. They can sense it, and mostly they leave us alone. Somethin wrong with that old boy. He got hisself baggage, the heavy-duty kind. I ain’t even gonna look that way til he is gone.
For decades, I had big problems relating to and mixing in with anyone. I’m not good enough. I’m not smart enough. I’m not good-looking, not funny, I’m mental. Who’s ever gonna want a piece of shit like me?
Amy loved me. She did everything but throw herself at me, but I wasn’t good enough. I knew that. I let her go. Never even kissed her.
She was the last one. A wild girl who drove a rig for Bob’s Transport, then Keyway, here in Maryland. Being wild, she intimidated me while making herself all the more beautiful to me. I loved her because she was beautiful and wild and free. She could never be told that I loved her right back, but that I wouldn’t ever be good enough. Never be enough. That I was damaged. Terrified. Of everything.
I never loved like that again, and that level of pain I don’t want to ever feel again. I realize that she let me go because I had the power to hurt her with a spoken rejection.
I
On this night, I go outside to light a Marlboro, exhale smoke toward the sky. I linger. I ask the sky, “What is love, anyway? Is it even real? Is it a lie we invent because we’re so alone in a crowded world? Well? Whattaya say?”
Of course, there’s no answer. If I got one I’d go straight to the fucking hospital, and you know which ward.
Tonight, I’m bitter. I can’t even answer my own question. And I thought I knew the answer. This proves that I am honest when I say I don’t know anything at all.
But isn’t the question important, valid? I mean, doesn’t it deserve an answer?
I reckon not. That black sky is mocking me with its silence.
II
I went to the doctor yesterday. I told you about passing out, falling. Well I don’t really see a doctor. It’s a nurse practitioner. She’s not friendly and doesn’t give a shit what’s wrong with me. The first thing she did was pick a fight. I’d had an MRI two years back. Degenerative disk and spinal disease. That “Degenerative” part means it gets worse.
Well, it’s worse. She argued that, no, my insurance provider did not deny coverage on my MRI. Look, I’m the one who got the notice after it was done. She said that the imaging (corporation) that performed it had to make sure it would be paid or they would never have done it. Well maybe that’s true, but later I got the paper notice that it was decided that I hadn’t secured permission from them first, then that it was determined I didn’t need it despite the dire findings. They would not pay.
Trying to talk to an NP who thinks she knows everything is like trying to talk to a MAGA republican: you’re essentially talking to a wall.
In spite of passing out and intense back pain, she seemed very unconcerned. She recommended physical therapy, muscle relaxers and a steroid. What a fucking quack. Anyone can see, I need to be cut. But expecting professional behavior, common sense and God forbid, compassion from anyone in the medical field is plain stupid. It’s a stupid thing to do. They don’t care about you. You’re a paycheck and that’s all that you are. If you die, they get a new patient. Maryland used to have world-renowned medical care. I’m telling you, stay away. Just stay the fuck away. You’ll live longer.
III
Another Marlboro. I’ve doubled my consumption of tobacco since yesterday morning and that’s counting the trip to the doctor, and afterward, a stop at at my favorite restaurant, Trattoria E Pizzaeria da Enrico, where you can get real Italian food and New York style Pizza pies that you’ll never forget. I ordered a 14″ double pepperoni, and attacked it like a ravenous wolf. Or werewolf. Whichever you prefer. I think Gianni was impressed. He is a friend, a good man, one of honor and decency and hard work. Makes spaghetti pie, too. Come on, who could do better? To hell with Domino’s. Forever.
The pizza was delicious from the first bite to the last. I began to feel better.
I slept soundly until 22:30. Good, peaceful sleep. But I awoke sore, bitter and in pain.
Asking questions of the night. Questions I want the answers to, especially on this night, when I dare ask them with insolence. With more of a demanding tone than I think prudent. But I’m too bitter to care.
02:48; almost at the hour of shadows. I ask that stupid black sky, “Okay, let’s forget about love. You don’t know shit anyway. But what about honor? Huh? Honesty? Kindness?Decency? What are these things, which I’m starting to believe aren’t real? Tell me what they are. Or that I’m right. That there are no such things. I’ll believe you and be on my way.”
IV
The little girl had survived a gunshot to the head. She was clearly in shock, but the reporters surrounded her like vultures anyway. They barraged her with questions in condescending childlike voices. How did it feel? Did you see your daddy? What did you say to him?
“I said I love you daddy, I hope you’re okay.”
And what did he say to you?
Jesus Christ, lady, you’re a really cold bitch. Leave that child the fuck alone!
I’m outraged. They didn’t just put her face all over the world. No, they showed the world how insolent, cold and sick the American media really is. And they piled trauma upon trauma on this poor little girl. Before long she stopped talking. Just nodded her head. She’d had too much. They were killing her.
A basketball had rolled into some asshole’s drive way. The details are hard to assemble, but someone came along and shot the girl, then shot her parents. Her daddy was still in the hospital. And she was out, not knowing that mainstream journalists had turned into sleazebags like the paparazzi. Scummy, suffocating, relentless, not an ounce of respect or compassion between the lot of them. No ethics, no boundaries, no humanity.
I fucking hate reporters. If they ever try that shit in front of me, they won’t like what will happen. There’s no joy in it for me, saying something like this. It’s dark and it’s wrong. But if we really stop caring about children then we are a doomed society, surely to be consigned to Hell. I would die protecting a child. There’s a big difference between that and what those assholes were doing.
V
The sky has no answers. It mocks me with a slow, cold wind. The night that I cannot sleep through because that’s when the bad things used to happen has thrown the gauntlet at my feet: join me or die.
It is the hour of shadows, but it’s almost over.
“You haven’t answered my questions. You know nothing. You hide the evil that happens in shadows. You never liked the light. I may be your prisoner, but it’s easy for me to choose death over you. One day I’ll live in the light. God will wipe all of my tears away. My sorrow won’t need to be held back ever again. And if this world doesn’t know love, that’s okay. The next one will.”
I will not survive another decade. My health has declined to a point where, if I did survive, I would be unable to do much of anything. I do not forsee myself allowing this to happen. I have no wish to be a burden, nor to die screaming in pain. If my life has held so little honor and dignity, then I would like very much to have it end with some measure of it.
Of course assisted death may be unnecessary; the next heart attack would be too much for me to survive.
We all make decisions, millions of them, and some will always be very poor. Smoking and a poor diet have taken their toll and the damage is done. Mental illness from a traumatic and horrifying childhood has been a curse for all of my life. I have had quite enough of it. Yet, despite the physical effects that go along with it, I have tried to be patient with myself and others, and of late I have at least had the desire to gain honor; perhaps because I perceive it to have been taken from me, or to gain what I have never truly possessed. And someone told me not too long ago that the search alone is an honorable thing.
When I am gone, in ten years, I have no illusion that I will be remembered because only great men and women ever are; and that is sometimes good and sometimes terrible. I will be forgotten and that gives me peace now, something to keep me grounded.
Millions have come before me, to be left to history as nothing more than a name on Ancestry websites. Most did the best they could in an unforgiving world, under unforgiving conditions. Most lived and died with a quiet sort of honor, raising children and passing along wisdom gained through often unbearable pain. We could have learned so much more from them, but that is not the way of this life. We are left to ourselves to learn the greatest lessons through the worst of experiences. And that has certainly been my lot.
What comes next, I don’t know. Will I be allowed to spend eternity in Heaven? Will the bad outweigh the good and condemn me to the Pit?
How strong will my faith be on the day that I die?
“How we face death is at least as important as how we face life”– Admiral James T. Kirk
No matter what happens, I want all of my friends here to know, I realize that it has been difficult to follow this blog. I have rarely been positive, but my mission never changed. I pray that someone will still read my life and say, “If he survived, I can do it, and a lot more.” I’m thankful to have had you allow me to be a small part of your lives. That has been one of the greatest honors I have ever had. Thanks for everything. Be well.
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.
A: The simple truth that to learn, one must accept that they know nothing.
It has finally happened. Donald Trump has been indicted in New York for using campaign funds to, through Michael Cohen, pay porn star Stormy Daniels (whom Trump now calls “horseface”) to not disclose her sexual liaisons with Trump while his wife Melania was giving birth or directly after or both.
Donald “Grabem-by-the-Pussy” Trump is like a little brat-bully boy who can’t stand that Daniels told not only that the “affair” (adultery) happened (I doubt she had feelings for him) but also had the audacity to describe his penis as being “musgroom-shaped”. So insulted was he that, in retaliation, his tiny brain struggled to find a name to call one of her body parts something mean.
Yes, that’s what he came up with.
Horseface.
“You call me a name, I’ll call you a name, na, na-na, na nah!” Why didn’t he let it slip out, “I’m gonna tell on you!”
“Horseface”? Stephanie is quite lovely, to be honest. I’d post a photo of a horse but nobody would see any resemblance.
Keep in mind that Michael Cohen has already served time for his part in the payoff.
High time, then, that the man who sent him to do it and then threw him to the wolves pays for his own crime.
As for Mike Pence: for four years he was a milquetoast and a do-nothing who hated gays because he had his own issues. Then, for one moment in his life, he did the right thing. Now, he’s a worse example of a human being than before. If you read between the lines in the video above, he’s clearly all for obstruction of justice.
And finally we come to Marjorie Taylor Green. As bad as I feel about it, I can’t even pray for her. She’s evil, delusional and highly dangerous to our country.
I intend to go out fighting this evil and madness. I’ll get re-engaged with local politicians and I’ll donate or volunteer if possible. We all lose if Republicans carry the day in the next election. That would have serious consequences for not only us, but for the world.
How often do you say “no” to things that would interfere with your goals?
I don’t have goals.
Saw my good friend Harry today. He’s wheelchair bound but has the courage and humor to make him indomitable. He stopped on our way in to the Harris Teeter to bend over and move a 20-lb propane cylinder out of the way of foot traffic. How cool is that? He cares about people. He’s an inspiration to me, and I never pass up the opportunity to tell him he’s got a forever spot in my heart and that when we talk, it’s always a good day for me. We were discussing health issues. I’m so messed up he asked, “What do you plan to do about it?”
I replied that I don’t make plans “because every time I do, all hell breaks loose.” He said, “There’s an old joke, if you want to make God laugh, make a plan.”
What a treasure he is. Ladies and gentlemen, please raise a glass to Harry, my friend. If you like, please say a prayer for him. An Every day hero. A teacher. A great philosopher. A great man. A great friend.
Memoirs of an American Asshole 