I've officially entered my Earth's blogosphere. Hoorah.
I will fill these pages with nonsense, genuine thoughts, reflections, laments, jokes, non sequiturs, rants, words of wisdom from your mom, words of wisdom from my mom, a few bad poems, some angsty teenage-esque prose, links to other people's stuff, stuff from my stories, a couple of equations, notes from my dog, religious dogma from other planets, updates on my personal finances, articles about salmon, carbon emission analysis, updates on my team's efforts to continuously save the multiverse, documented proof of my genius, music that must be heard, art in all forms that seems important and cool, recipes for loafed meats, my obsession with chemical changes, and last but certainly not least, my conversations with Jesus.
Wait, you don't mean that Jesus, do you Truant?
I don't know brain, do I?
Why I Identify as Alien
If you’re one of the twenty-or-so humans that pays attention to my nonsense, you likely already understand. I speak regularly with friends and acquaintances about just how bad things have become. I don’t want any part in this shit show, but here we are.
I’m hopeful, one day, to wake from this fever dream, alive and well on my home planet. My eyes will flash open and the history of my life will come flooding back to me. Family, friends. A peaceful world full of loving creatures. We’ve moved beyond petty tribal squabbles, having advanced into a culture dominated by empathy, artistic endeavors, and holistic living. Not humanity…I’ve deemed this an impossible future for the humans. No, this is me waking from my assignment.
I will remember my unfortunate choice, a volunteer life cycle among humanity, for scientific study of course. We thought it would be a good idea to remind ourselves of what insanity looks like. To remind ourselves why our species evolved past monetary based economic philosophy and deity based spiritual philosophy. To remind ourselves why we keep our planet hidden from the rest of existence.
I no longer weep for the humans. To continue emoting over a species determined to facefuck themselves into oblivion feels disingenuous. It feels like an act of narcissistic emotional self-martyrdom, to crawl over that Jesus-guy’s body up onto his cross and stare down in self-righteous self-satisfaction at the bloody entrails of a culture that has lost its Bob-damn mind.
I choose to identify as alien out of hope, a sense much closer to faith than belief, with “belief” the chosen expression of masses who don’t know shit. I choose to hope one day that I will wake up. This will all have been an experiment. I will be home where I belong. I will no longer be a strange alien stranded among a violent, insane race of creatures.
And to the peaceful humans, those I’ve witnessed live in shock of the world around them, unable to make this all go away, unable to make this world bend its knee to your calls for peace and love, you have my deepest sympathies. If this life is by design, you are better than what you’ve been given. If this life is the mere chaos of sentient existence sprung forth, you are better than what you’ve been given. Your nature is not to take, but to care. Thus, you were doomed by the more pervasive natures of your species from the beginning, ill-equipped to win the fight against man’s inherent evils. You were never going to be able to stop all of this violence without violence. It’s an extremely dirty trick.
Anyway, to all you peaceniks, please know you’re aliens too. Maybe someday we’ll wake up from this nightmare together.
Up Next: A message of hope from our sponsors...
My Rhetorical Discontent
Everyday I ask myself, "How do we all just keep going about our business in a world this fucked up?" It is, of course, a rhetorical question. I know how. We've got lives to live. For some the simple act of survival. For others the dedicated carving out of their footprint on the history of humanity, whether large or small.
I'm on my own personal mission, just like everyone else. I've got things I want to accomplish in this life, for no other reason than self-gratification, a sense of self-worth, as I march towards death. Yet, I feel a pull towards greater activism, to do all that I can to try and better this world while I'm alive. This daily call to arms, especially heightened during the era of 45 - whose name shall not be spoke here - this daily call is balanced by an equally strong sense of futility.
Am I doing all I can?
Does it matter?
I suppose I'll just stay busy while I'm trying figure all this shit out.
Even a Sociopath Like Me…
I hate you all. I sit back and laugh at the crimson rivers. My favorites are the children. Mangled bloody children. What a gas.
My disdain for our species knows no bounds, including astronomical levels of self-loathing. And if I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: if I hate myself this much, how do you think I feel about you? All of you.
Still, despite my self-contempt and lusty, oh so gratifying outward contempt for all the rest of you, I’m not interested in dying. The rest of you can fuck all, but I want to watch. I want to see it. You can’t be a top notch sociopath if you ain’t alive to bear witness.
Thus, I shall make my point. I’m not interested in getting shot and killed by some raging nitwit who lacks the creativity to separate themselves from the other mass-murdering sheep. Picking up a gun and doing what dozens of other uncreative shitsticks are doing every day? So basic. Is that how you want to go out, America? At a mall or school or church or concert or festival or…you see? I could go on but the list has basically been covered. There’s nothing special about it anymore.
You see, even a self-loathing sociopath like me still understands the value of his own life. I don’t want to be killed by some angry nobody with a gun.
So, what’s the solution? I’m not certain, but there does appear to be statistics about this shit. There’s readily available data that suggests…and hear me out…there’s data that suggests that the proliferation and ease of which one can obtain a firearm makes it easier to use a firearm. Call me crazy, I know.
Prove me crazy, and I can likely still buy a gun.
Here’s the thing I am not going to gun-wash the entire problem in this country. We do have societal wide issues that are contributing to all of these murders. It would be naïve to ignore this, but I don’t think any of us are. Everyone just wants a solution. Except me. Again, I’m a sociopath. I’m enjoying this.
Whatever your stance on gun control is, can we all just agree upon one thing? Your children are getting murdered so a handful of people (relatively speaking) can make a shitload of money. It’s always the money with humanity. Every time. It’s the money.
So, just hear me out. Even a sociopath like me can see that if for some reason, somehow in some weird alternate version of our reality, ending the right to own firearms was more profitable for these glorious fellow sociopaths who are killing your children, you wouldn’t be able to buy guns anymore.
Again, if these people who are making shit tons of money off your children being murdered discovered it was somehow more profitable to stop selling you guns, you wouldn’t be able to buy guns anymore.
So, lefties and righties, you don’t have to agree on everything. But, I would suggest agreeing on the fact that your children, friends, parents, and siblings are getting murdered so that a handful of jerks can make a whole lot of money. That’s it. That’s the deal. That’s something even a sociopath like me can see.
Don’t Steal the Taco Truck
I sat down, full-hearted, with interest in illumination. It’s been a while, I thought. We should share, or rant, or educate. Embrace your ego and rain knowledge down upon thy neighbor, you every-other-day creature of conceit. You’re in the moment. Briefly genius. Say something for Bob’s sake!
Don’t steal the taco truck. That’s all I got. Don’t steal the taco truck, you selfish hungry fucks.
A week of life. Work, sleep, work, eat, work, eat, sleep, work. TV! Work, sleep, work. Social media. News. Conversation. Don’t forget the emotions. All the bobdamned emotions. Don’t forget the emotions. Laughter! Don’t forget to make ‘em laugh, Jack. Talk some shit and send them away laughing.
“Don’t steal the taco truck?”
Shut the fuck up about the taco truck and talk about this ridiculous world. Make it make sense. Shout truth into the void. Say. Something. Relevant. Don’t say it…
Don’t steal the taco truck.
What does it mean? Where’s the metaphor? Or is it an analogy? You tell me! I’m just a dude, in love with a dog, trying to hit content on a Saturday morn. Maybe if I just keep typing, something will come along. Maybe if I just keep at it…something worthy will come along. Maybe. Maybe? Just keep typing and you’ll get there, like taking a walk. You eventually get there. Because there certainly isn’t anything else on your to-do list that’s been making you feel overwhelmed by your own ambitions (er…methods of avoidance), nothing else you could be doing to make you feel like you’re using your time wisely and effectively. Nothing. At. All.
Don’t steal the taco truck.
That’s all I got?
That’s all I got.
Compulsion, the catalyst. Compelled, the effect. Humanity in crisis and I am nothing. Neither savant nor hero nor contemptible villain. Rather, a faded expression of excellence in mediocrity. Born into just enough comfort to lack the desperation required to change my station, luck be damned. At least half my life cast behind me in complaint, the persistent lament of wide open eyes. Was it all worthwhile, ye bold witness to inequity? Casting your lot as the insufferable empath? Railing into the wind with intoxicated brains and hearts, the romantic doomsmith with a preference for rhetoric over action, victim to your own hide and seek ego and a seemingly desperate need for escape from all things. When at the end of the day the month and the year, all you’ve escaped is a better version of yourself that you may have been capable of as first written in the stars, a character sketch who lost its way in the narrative, now left with only the hope for an infinite run of these worlds, these realities, where once upon a time, one of you gets this right.
Today, in an instant, I was reminded why I love humans, despite my frustrations with humanity.
This post wasn't planned. It's reactionary. Hooray, here we go.
Woke up late, at about nine-thirty, just felt that I had to be disheartened soon. So I got on the computer. Yikes. Checked the Twitter news feed for the day's dumb-fuckery. Oh, humanity, you "never-ceasing to disappoint" gaggle of brutal nonsense. My main takeaway? Thank Bob for the "off" switch, in all facets, forms, and uses.
Still, I turned here first. Scream into the void, knucklehead. Scream into the void. Then go get something done. Fart about and watch the clock turn. The world is a ying to the yang, fifty-fifty bloodsport of evil, goodness, love, hate, joy, sadness, and empathy versus sociopathy where no one wins...except all the people who get rich and live amazing lives, 'cause no one goes anywhere when we die.
Money. Money. Money. Always follow the money, straight to heaven or hell on Earth, the only heaven or hell that exist.
Never will you meet another who does not believe but so desperately wishes he could. At least not today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.
Exploring the Deconstruction: Narcissia
While I was traversing the Deconstruction, I stumbled across Narcissia. I suppose I should have seen it coming, considering the Deconstruction’s purpose. Oh, if you aren’t familiar, the Deconstruction is a level of existence created by Bob for the scientific exploration of specific personality traits, quirks, behaviors, and so on. I, in my assignment as scribe, was given access to the Deconstruction, for clerical purposes of course.
Anyway…in effect, the Deconstruction consists of species of sentient emotional creatures who were given one specific personality trait, in effort to explore interpersonal relationships and how culture would evolve if everyone shared the same dominant trait. On Narcissia, guess which trait was in focus? Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. Nar…ci…(did you guess yet?)…ssism. Did you guess correctly?
Now, without going into great detail, I can tell you what I found was a culture filled with some of the most giving, loving people I have ever encountered. Some might find that odd, given the general perception of narcissists on our Earth. However, Narcissian culture was mostly populated with self-fulfilled people who were at peace with their lives and station. Indeed, their personal happiness then overflowed to those around them.
Granted, not all Narcissians were as cool as the next. Some could be prickly, lacked empathy, and preferred cats to dogs (ew, gross). Some were selfish, wanting more than they needed. Some were lazy, not trying hard enough to fulfill their wants and desires and therefore living dissatisfied. Sound familiar? I could go on, but I’m certain you smell the cake burning.
Despite the varying levels of personal happiness, Narcissians shared one other dominant characteristic, an offshoot of their genetic narcissism. Kindness. They were all kind. Swear to Bob. Even the miserable ones were kind, and even the selfish ones would share. It was crazy. I couldn’t understand why, until one day I heard an ancient Narcissian dirge and understood. The title of the song translates, "All Live and Die.”
The Narcissians had accepted their commonality. They understood their entire, planet-wide species was of one race, with more in common than not. This sense of commonality and each individual’s acceptance of their dominant character, what we might call a fault, had fostered a peaceful, loving culture. There were no tribes save one, everyone, and therefore no tribalism. Thus, even a culture dominated by what we consider a selfish, wildly egotistical desire to please oneself took better care of one another than we do. I suppose, at the end of the day, this begs the question: What fucked us up?
Oppression only exists if accepted. One of the many tricks of oppression is to convince the free mind it is oppressed. Oppression wields many tools of trade, both obvious and counter-intuitive. One of these tricks is convincing the free mind that the only true escape from mass oppression is violence, something most good souls don’t want to participate in, even if group uprising actually seems obtainable and not so much work. Thus, we accept the group oppression as our own.
Understanding this, ask yourself how many people you know who you truly believe would take up arms for freedom unless there were no other option, with the other options being legion. En exemple: Play the game. Buy the stuff. Choose depression. Intoxicate. Choose burden. Accept… accept…accept the messaging. Create progeny and turn your existence over to them. Create hope, an idealist necessity, yet substantially disposable when hope turns into action, when you only leave hope (1st cousin of chance) to the things you cannot control.
Another trick of oppression is to convince the oppressed mind it is not oppressed. The tools oppression may use to convince one of such are legion. En exemple: Playing the game. Buying the stuff. Choosing depression. Intoxicating. Choosing burden. Accepting… accepting…accepting the message. Creating progeny and turning your existence over to them. Creating hope, an idealist necessity, yet substantially disposable when hope turns into action, when you only leave hope (1st cousin of chance) to the things you cannot control.
Do you see?
I used to ride the subway like an open wound, chest peeled back from a bleeding heart. Such a small space, fit to burst with life, every inch of air spoken for, disparate masses huddled in shared present experience, yet so often completely, sorrowfully, alone. Weary face after weary face. I've never seen more people in such a lonely place.
Fame or a Paycheck
I sat. I wrote. Page on page on page. Brain and fingers bellow. Striving for purpose to emotion. Striving for value, this interchangeable life. Striving. For what, again, pauper raconteur? Sing purpose all you like. Purpose requires no recognition. Purpose begs only for action, in return, and action wants for naught. Action screams I am my own reward.
Value, then? Whose?
While I Should Have Been Working
I’ve spent so much time pondering this madness, frequently choosing solitude for the purposes of self-indulgent, brooding thought. I’m not alone, I know. Many others, millions of others, have had similar thoughts and feelings. Similar wonderings. My words aren’t revelations, I know. This is simply my version of the nonsense. My chatter, as I fart about through life (Thanks, Kurt).
I feel the constant of time slipping away. First a trot, when you’re young and don’t know any better. Then a dead sprint as you age, become more aware of your mortality, and do everything in your power to deal with this situation you’ve been thrust into. Life. Your precious, fleeting life you did not ask for but are doomed to recon with. Will my teeth hold out? I know it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but will they?
I’ve started and deleted the next sentence, this sentence, at least 7 times (sneaky word, time, with its variant usages). I don’t know where I’m going in this document any more than any one of us knows where we’re going in life, whether we think we know or not. The next thirty seconds could be heart attack and death with so much left unfinished, unsaid, and the brutal acceptance that everything I think I strive for walks a tightrope of meaninglessness. What legacy have you, dead man?
I’ve chased and chased, too often at a snail’s pace, and am now left wondering if I’ve gotten it all wrong. Have I fought the good fight? Have I? Or did I let what might have been slip away?
You’ve let what might have been slip away, dummy. That’s how this works. For good or ill, what might have been is exactly what it is, what might have been. The last breath you took, typing these words in your easy chair in your easy life, that’s what is. However you fart about tomorrow (Thanks, Kurt), that’s what is.
I’ve pondered a lot about more dynamic lives. People who appear to have done much more bad and much more good in this world than me. People who’ve traveled the world and seen so much more. Accomplished so much more. People with a Wikipedia page. I thought I wanted one of those lives. Especially one of those lives that inspires humanity to improve. Did I really want all that stuff? I still do, but it seems like it would have been a lot of work. I still do, but time is in a dead sprint and I’m not necessary. None of us are, but one way or another, we all suffer the same shit.
Did I waste all this time protecting a soul that isn’t there? Did I waste all this time protecting a soul that is there but was prepared to take on more dirt? Are we allowed to do a shitload of bad and still protect our soul by doing a shitload of good? Could I have ever been as good as I had hoped to be as a child? Did I let it slip away (tee hee)? Did you? Could you have been that other thing that seems like a better version of you that most likely isn’t but feels like a genuine possibility because there’s so goddamn many of us and we’ve seen every possible fucking version of what this life might be for any particular individual and our emotions drive us crazy with regret and lust and joy and yearning and disappointment and self-love and self-hate and boredom and guilt and love and peace and confusion and dreams of cake and the desire for revenge and…and…wants, wants wants wants wants, and hopes and dreams and fears, and so many fears, and and and…the constant hiding from or placating or outright indulging of our unrequested emotions and the whole goddamn deal is exhausting whether your life is super dynamic or mediocre or shit? We all suffer the same shit. It’s different but it’s the fucking same, and I’ve got a love/hate relationship with the whole Bobdammed deal. Maybe you do too. Maybe you don’t.
Maybe, there’ll be heaven for those who deserve it, hell for those who earned it, and a closet full of loving souls who had no time for either.
Angry Sunday Ramble
I checked the internet this morning. In less than five minutes I was angry again. Humanity suckling at the teat of its own absurdity, reveling in meaningless nonsense while we torture one another and destroy the planet. Grifters preying on the weak-minded with their bullshit. Goddamn, if only the snake oil salesmen of yesteryear knew the generation they missed out on. Of course, many of these modern hucksters are powered by the same souls, recycled to give it another go because why the fuck not? Clearly your god has either abandoned us, is simply a voyeur douchebag, or has instituted some grand plan that requires human existence be an interminable fuckshow for his/her/its shits, giggles, and/or to fulfill their absurdist promise of eternal damnation or pleasure.
Full disclosure, I was once a child of faith. I was once a foolish rebel, a lover of the Confederate battle flag who was convinced I could display it with my own meaning, my own reasons of value, without any interest in supporting the reality of what it symbolized. The only racist bone in my body was dedicated to the French. I didn’t ask for this bone, but there it is, so I live it with it. Fuck the French.
I kid. I kid the French. They deserve it. We all do. Anyway, before I lose track…
Back to the religion and rebel flag garbage. All I can say is, thank the good lord Bob for LSD. If nothing else, LSD made me acutely aware of the unbridled scope of humankind’s hypocrisies, including my own (and the assumption I have more I can’t see). From the ingenious double-speak of the Bible, from which much of my early programming was designed, to the glaringly one-sided presentation of U.S. history.
Fuck, where am I going with this.
Oh…I logged on today. Within minutes, I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take the bullshit today. The lies, the stupidity, the hatefulness, but most of all, the grift. I swear, I can almost live with humans being stupid and hateful. Uncultured, misguided beasts who need reprogramming. I can forgive the idiot masses. I can’t forgive the grift.
The grift makes me sick. Every lie spewing day watching these money grabbing, soulless pieces of yak anus bleat into the ears of desperate, scared, gullible, hateful, sad, and in any other way you can think of, vulnerable people…I genuinely cannot adequately describe the hatred and anger it inspires within me. My whole life. My whole failed life and my whole moderately successful life are all driven by my contempt for this situation. I watch people have babies and I think, “How? How the fuck can you be dooming another child to this horror show?” I don’t mean to condemn all child birth, though I do think people should take a hard look at the current need for more children on this planet, the amount of kids they’re birthing, and the amount of kids already out there who need a home…but no, I don’t mean to condemn. I love kids. They really are our only hope. That each generation is somehow better than the one before. More evolved. More kind. I’m not condemning the want for family, I’m merely describing my gut, emotional reaction to seeing new children born. I’m not saying I’m right, I’m just saying…that’s how this world has affected my psyche.
Rambling again. Emotions spiked early due to coffee and these goddamn humans. What did my soul do to deserve this? What did any of us do to deserve this? And if you read this thinking, “Geez, what a bleak point of view,” well, I envy you.
I have a suspicion this is going to become a never-ending series for me, as I continually think of all the ways being obsessed with global conspiracy is stupid. I wrote on this subject previously here: why-conspiracy-theories-are-stupid-the-deep-state-of-ignorance.html
Today, I would like to discuss the end result, ‘cause here’s the thing. What fucking difference does it make? What if the Covid-19 vaccines do have a microchip in them? How do you think it’s going to change our commonfolk, pissant lives?
Notice I said “our.” If you aren’t a billionaire or some form of social/political royalty, what difference does it make if you’ve got some form of Bob-knows-what microchip in you now? Or nano-byte? Or micro-nano? Or chip-byte? What, fucking, difference? We aren’t a part of the Illuminati and we never will be. You aren’t in the World Order club. The odds of being a normie who suddenly becomes a billionaire are radically small. Yes, it happens every day, but there are damn near 8 billion people on this planet. There are less than 3,000 billionaires.
So, again, I rhetorically ask, what difference does it make? You have an entire life to live that will likely require working to earn money. There’s a world of opportunity for exploring, learning, loving, creating, doing anything that involves living a full life that, if effected by some sort of secretive, global battle between the forces of good and evil, you will never, ever, comprehend. Your life will not change, and if it does, you’ll never know.
And here’s one for all the faith-based life livers out there: if you believe in fate or some glod’s plan, well, guess what. Whatever conspiracy you think might be going on behind the shadows of governments, most likely being perpetrated by diddling child-molesters, well, all this shit must be your Glod’s will. In his, her, or its plan and whatnot. (I’m not going to get into my one true glod, Bob’s will. It’s an ever-unfolding, progressive philosophy.)
Thus, one more time, again, if there is some grand conspiracy, if you’re a normal person, I promise, you’ll never know. Never. Ever. Won’t happen. You, will, never, know. So, I offer this advice with sincere love for other people and genuine empathy for the struggle we all must endure to survive this hellscape of an existence. Go live. Do stuff. Live. Get off your ass and find a better way to waste what time you have. And believe what’s right in front of you. What we bear witness to is the only truth we know. Hey, did you see that? Yes I did, and that’s how I know it’s real. (Unless of course you have a condition causing hallucinations and shit, like schizophrenia. But that’s really an individual versus collective reality discussion and I’m not dealing with nuance here.)
Forget the conspiracies and go fucking live. Do stuff. Be kind.
Right Now on Earth 53
Believe it or not, there are versions of Earth where we get things right. Not everything, that's just not how existence works. But, and it's a big ol' but, there are dimensions where humanity is doing a better job. FOR INSTANCE...
Right now on Earth 53, the second impeachment trial of Donald Frump is going very differently. Oh...his real name is the same on Earth 53...I just like calling him Frump. Anyway, on Earth 53, Republican politicians realized they had been given a unique opportunity to be rid of Frump forever.
Yes, they've been under his thumb and are scared of his political power, BUT (and it's a big ol' but), they realized that if they impeached him and removed his ability to run for political office again, they could effectively neuter his political power. Yes, they would have to go home and explain to their constituency that they had been "Ride or Die" with Frump, but an armed insurrection of the Capital in effort to overturn an election was a bridge too far. YES, they had agreed the President had every right to investigate the election to insure its security. The President had done so, and there was no evidence to support his claims of widespread election fraud. YES, the President had lied to them all, and it sucked, but Republicans were going to keep working for their voters.
I know this seems farfetched, but on Earth 53, that's how this shit is going down right now. The Republicans on Earth 53 understand with a little extra effort, they can rid themselves of this blight named Frump. Sure...it will take a while for him to become wholly irrelevant, but it will happen. The masses don't like being failed, and their nimrod god has failed them. Eventually they will lose interest in him, but they will still have to vote for someone, and their Republican politicians will always be there for them blah blah fuckety blah.
Of course, circumstances that led to this very similar situation on Earth 53 occurred. Earth 53 wasn't doing much better than us, but this is where our paths diverge. You see, every version of humanity has different moments where things get better. Earth 27 has been a Utopia since World War II. Earth 328 never even had a World War II! They figured their shit out after the first one.
Unfortunately, we're stuck on this version of Earth, where Republican politicians have either chosen political expediency, are genuinely Qinsane, or are downright just too chickenshit to do the correct thing. Good luck in your future endeavors evolving into a peaceful species that managers to save your planet, Earth 53. I envy you.
Without A Rudder
The story is my lifeboat, my compass and my rudder. Without it, I am directionless. Adrift in a sea of melodramatic melancholy nonsense. Unnecessary human emotional gobbledy-goo-boo-hoo, an unrequested gift born of the consequences of my own choice-ridden existence. Everything led to this. Survival through beautiful delusion, blessed escapist homeopathy.
When the story arrives, when it reveals its ending, I have new purpose. New direction. New hope. A dream resurrected. The story points the way, and I look forward to another day. Maybe this will be the one. Maybe not, but the work must be done. The dream is a dream, the hope a hope. The work is survival.
Four Years and Four Days
Many months have passed since I added content to my personal internet time capsule. I’ve had plenty to say. Lots of conversation and ranting in the real world, but putting anything worthy down for record seemed fruitless. What was I going to say about a global pandemic and American civil unrest that wasn’t already being said? That I was scared for the future of our country and our world, like so many others? That living in a city where there were some actual riots (though 99% of the “so-called” riots were peaceful protests) over a young woman COMPLETELY UNDESERVEDLY having been killed by police in her own home, and hearing police helicopters over my house at night, was surreal? That dealing with any of the rest of humanity’s problems seems pointless when Mother Nature is gonna wipe us out anyway? That my general malaise was cranked up to eleven?
I wanted to put some thoughts down before the election, but couldn’t. I wanted to say something about race in this country, but anything sayable feels like shouting into an echo chamber. The people who understand hear and the people who refuse to believe refuse to believe. I wanted to tell everybody I finished writing a novel and was super excited about my effort during these desolate times. Talk about feeling inappropriate…
Then, last Saturday, it came together. After four years and four days, the path to victory for President-Elect Biden was clear. Please note, former VP Biden was not the progressive candidate I would have preferred, although I believe him to be a decent-hearted, well-meaning human being. I was not watching my candidate of choice nor my particularly preferred VP candidate speak, though I certainly have nothing against Kamala Harris. And I only mention this ticket not being my personal favorites for a specific reason, but I’m going to sidetrack this point and will circle back.
I’m a cis-gendered straight white male of a generation whose progressives spent our youth telling everyone NOT to label us. That’s a hint there, folks, that I’m at least middle-aged. The reason I admit to my age and Caucasian male devilry, is because I understand that at the end of the day, in this country, I am the least effected by all the tumult. I lost my job and have been fine. I also have no children, so I have no fear of their future. I’m also phenomenal at judicious self-medication, so I can flip the switch to “numb” on a daily basis and take my white ass to bed.
Yet, last Saturday night, watching two people who weren’t my preferred choices, I found myself on the verge of tears on multiple occasions. The first lump in my throat came during Kamala’s speech. It wasn’t her words, simply watching her speak and imagining not only being a person of color, but any woman in this country. Any young girl that can look up and realize that could be her someday, and that by the time said young girl has grown into an adult, she will be the head of the ticket.
Then Joe Biden spoke, and the lump in my throat returned several times throughout his speech. I wondered to myself, how can anyone listen to this man plead with everyone to stop being so goddamn mean to one another, and not appreciate this message? The answers are legion, of course, and I don’t need to list examples here. This writing is not about all the problems we face.
This writing is about four years and four days of wide-awake and sub-conscious disquiet. Anxiety. Sadness. Disillusion. Confusion. All these emotions, wildly intensified by empathy during a four year stretch like nothing I’ve experienced in my life. I believe myself to be an introspective person who remains in the present effectively, and therefore, connected to my present emotional state. I can honestly say, I could never have quantified the level of emotional exhaustion the last four years had cultivated in me, until last Saturday, when I saw a message of peace and a glimmer of renewed hope.
And remember, I’m a white dude. I wish it didn’t matter, but it does. I didn’t come from money or anything like that, but I still understand my privilege, and if I felt the way I did the other night, I can only imagine what it felt like to be someone from a marginalized community. To have suffered the true levels of disenfranchisement this country offers. I can only imagine, but I do. Empathy. Something this country needs right now more than ever, and something I believe the two humans I saw on stage last Saturday night both possess.
Of course, the fight isn’t over. It never is. But after four years and four days, at least for a moment, there was a deeply needed sigh of relief and renewed since of optimism.
Onward. Head down, feet forward.
Hulu’s Newest Original Superhero Drama: Truth to Power Mom and the Empty Axiom Five
In this current age of soundbites, social media virality, and pop-culture slang du jour, we need a new brand of hero. Yes, yes, thank God for the peacemakers and the post-makers, a new brand of modern warriors with blazing thumbs and a mastery of colloquial internet speak. Digital Marshals, fighting lawlessness in a dotcom Wild West. That’s why, this Fall, Hulu is slated to premiere a show about your new favorite superhero family: Truth to Power Mom and the Empty Axiom Five. Let's meet the team...
Truth to Power Mom – When Mom speaks her personal truth, sniveling trolls wilt from the power of her brutal honesty. Cross her and be turned to ash, gently floating to the scorched earth below. Know this, social media evil doers: Actions may speak louder than words, but not in a digital universe. Go ahead, bring that bullshit on-line. Truth to Power Mom gonna drink a glass of wine and side-eye your ass into oblivion. Oh, you don’t like that sarcastic gif of someone scoffing at you? Better stay away from the comments section then. You’ve been owned. On the internet.
Big D Energy Dad – Does the D stand for the confidence people assume a man with a large penis possesses, or does it simply stand for Dad? Big Dad Energy Dad. As in the Alpha Dad, proudly sporting skinnier jeans, a cool untucked 90’s band t-shirt and kitschy, designer brand sneakers. No one knows what fuels Big D Energy Dad’s super powers. Is it genuine, irrationally confident swag, a lack of intelligence capacity for self-doubt, or simply the ability to effectively mask crippling insecurities in public? We’ll never know! All that matters is we’ve chosen to perceive his BDE.
The It Is What It Is Twins – Hally and Haley Comet, the It Is What It Is Twins, fighting bullshit with more bullshit! When confronted by a conversational topic without a more eloquent point to make, don’t call a spade a spade, call a spade a self-evident pronoun! Be warned, you may think you’re winning, but when Hally says, “It is,” and Haley shouts, “What it is,” their combined powers of circular logic refute any and all valid and nuanced arguments. You may think you’re winning, but you aren’t. Because why? Because it is what it is.
Best Life Boy – Best Life Boy is every smiling two year old you’ve ever seen. Whatever the hell he’s doing, he’s living his best life and starring in videos that make you smile, laugh, and sometimes cry. Thank God for a child’s joy, and the social media posts Best Life Boy will always be able to look back on, seeing how happy he once was, because most of Best Life Boy’s best life is going to be living through the climate catastrophe induced Seventh Extinction. You’re welcome, you little fucker you. Smile on that.
And their faithful dog, Stan – Stan's the photogenic family doggie. For all you Stan stans, check out the Stan Stans Fan Page and post your favorite “the world is on fire and we’re all going to die” Tik Tok dance vids! The video with the most likes will receive a free I’m A Stan Stan tshirt. All Stan Stans Fan Page advertising proceeds go directly to a 501C3 public housing bunker project being built under the unlivable earth of the former Amazon rainforest.
I know, the headline sounds like a fantastic fake band name. And while you think DSDFFJ might be a jam band, it’s actually the euphoric light and drug show that is EDM. Yes, only electronic dance music, whether in a European warehouse club space or rural American pop-up rave, can be this wonderfully disorienting.
I remember as a child having fantastic conversations with my father at night about the state of the world and why people behaved the way they did. While other kids wanted a bedtime story, I wanted a dose of pseudo-psychology from my father, admittedly a very intelligent and patient man, though lacking in any behavioral science or sociology degrees. Still, I remember all the talks we had about mankind’s inherent, species wide lunacy. That’s right. I said species wide. Before you pucker up your defensive posture, please remember, almost every single one of us has purchased their ticket for the roller coaster, in some form or fashion. You may be rational in many, many ways, but most likely proudly flaunt your own special brand of crazy. Perfectly packaged, wrapped in a neat little bow and ever present in your daily life. It’s your Special.
Your Special is what tells you three sheets of toilet paper is just right, four is okay, but five is a misuse of commodities. Your Special is what tells you it’s okay to rail against all of the injustice in this world on a site like Facebook, which you refuse to log off of, despite your favorite platform being an active party to the world’s massive injustices. It’s your Special that thumbs it’s nose at all those Deep State Qanon weirdos but makes you think your personal belief in an invisible deity or abject certainty there’s no such thing as said deity is totally rational.
But Truant, what does my Special have to do with the Attorney General dropping the criminal case against a traitor who has admitted to the charges brought against him? To be frank, I’m not certain, and I’ve never been good at impersonating a guy named Frank for the sake of horrible punmenship. But, if I were to venture a guess as to what I’m getting at here, I believe it is the imminent dissolution of our collective reality, which is barely hanging on by a thread as a type, while said dissolution is somehow unfortunately perpetuated by each and every one of our Specials. Our inherent ability to believe there is something Special about me opens a giant can of psychological worms that encourages us to believe what we want to believe, science and reality be damned. One can only wonder what will happen to our species, to our planet, and to the very fabric of time once the tapestry of all that we agree upon as real is unraveled.
Personally, I like to think we’re living in a continuum where the human race has already destroyed itself on a dozen or so occasions, we’re bound to do it again, and every time we do we get to start all over until one day we finally get it right. Maybe each time we have an opportunity to level up our species' capacities for wisdom and love. Maybe last time was way worse than this time, and next time will be a little bit better. Why not? Is that harder to believe than our souls being immortal and living in a state of sublime peace and happiness or horrific pain filled misery for all eternity?
Anyway, whatever you believe in, an afterlife, soul recycling, becoming worm food, I think these times we’re living in should certainly prepare you for finding out that nothing you’ve ever believed in was ever true to begin with, despite the fact that some of it was still true, even though none of it was, because the truth is still out there but you’ll never find it when whomever is behind all of this has so cleverly hidden the truth, the doubt, and the proof in the same place. There all in a secret cave located on the underbelly of our flat Earth that no one knows about except those who know.
Until then, we must simply enjoy the show. Pull out your hair if you will, but you’re better off taking a pill and dancing to the good time grooves. It’s the Human Race’s Big Time Hullabaganza, starring you my friend, and me, and all the rest of us 8 billion crazy mofos, shaking our thighs and twerking our minds to the infectious sociological rhythms of the age of insanity. Collective reality was so 1988.
Warning: This one's a little explicit.
First of all, y’all don’t even have that many holes. Or genital appendages, for that matter. There are so many species throughout existence that have waaaaaaaaaaay better sex, and yet they are nowhere near as hung up about it as you are. “It’s a sin!” “I’m addicted!” “Somebody’s about to get raped up in here!”
I know, that last one is touchy, but while this article is intended to be humorous, it’s also intended to have a point, so please know the conceptual insertion of rape in the opening paragraph wasn’t simply buffoonery. Yet, I would argue the extent to which we often pine for, obsess over, and ultimately are willing to inflict pain (both emotional and physical) to see our carnal desires fulfilled is abject buffoonery and or cruelty.
To be frank, I’ve had plenty of sex while trapped in this human body. Both lusty, superhot sex and lame ass sex. At the end of the day, as numerous comedians and psychotherapists have explained, the end result is almost always the same, at least for a man. Pleasing chemical dump, sploot, pleasing chemical dump. Rinse. Repeat. Ladies, I understand the sploot and post-sploot pleasing chemical dump is a much more tenuous opportunity for you, based on your lovers’ abilities and your own. Yes, your own. I’ve known one woman in my life that openly took responsibility for a lack of ability to sploot. And she knew damn well if she couldn’t figure it out, she couldn’t expect a man to suddenly discover Valhalla for her.
Anyway, let’s not belabor the point any longer. I’m here to tell you that sex ain’t that big of a deal. It’s not one that churches should be condemning folks over, or that these poor incel people should be freaking out about, or that you should cheat on your spouse to obtain, or that anyone should get raped over. It’s just…not…that…big…of…a…deal. It feels nice and offers you weird sensations of validation and confidence but so does alcohol. So does MDMA. I’m not personally sure about heroin but I hear it’s the bee’s knees.
I don’t mean to negate the positive side of healthy, mutual, explorative, evolving, sexual coupling. It’s nice. Partnering up with someone you dig and juicing each other is fun, but again, at the end of the day, it’s just not that big of a fucking deal. You aren’t saving the world, or even raising money for a charity (okay, okay, maybe every once in a while you’re raising money for a charity). It’s not some blessed union of souls, I promise. No matter what those pleasing chemicals tell you.
What you’re dealing with is a base desire. Animal instinct. Period. Once you’ve had it and felt the sploot, that pull is more powerful, but in the end, it’s still just base desire. Animal instinct. And we’re better than that. I’m not advocating not having sex. That’s not my point. I’m advocating that the next time you’re considering doing something shitty to obtain sexual gratification, even something so small as dipping your toe in the cold waters of infidelity, think twice. It’s just sex. It’s fleeting, and those positive chemicals it dumps on you? They’re fleeting too, and they won’t solve your problems. Just smack your own dick or clit around for a while and be done with. It’s simpler, and doesn’t require another person’s emotions to be effected.
So there you have it, a resident alien’s guide to realizing sex isn’t that big of a fucking deal to help you stop being hung up about it. I close with one of my favorite new one-liners that I’m taking credit for until someone tells me that somebody else said it first. A buddy asked me the other day how I go without sex. I said, “Man, I know how good cocaine feels too, and I don’t do that anymore either.”
Warning: This is a long one. Personal therapy and so forth. If you've stumbled across this foul grain of internet sand, please forgive my self-indulgence.
In my lifetime the United States has changed extraordinarily. Not all positively, mind you, but positive change is the focus of this article. After all, I subscribe to a power of positive thinking credo, despite my lack of ability to behave as an above average practitioner.
It’s difficult for younger generations to conceptualize the country of my youth, just as it is difficult for me to understand the preconceived notions and abject realities of the United States that Baby Boomers grew up with. Thus, I’m writing this for the “youngens,” because I find myself continuing to associate with their frustrations and angst, despite my grey curlies. I will never deny my Peter Pan syndrome or devoutly not-Christian Jesus complex.
Anyway, dear young friends, your passion and yearning for change will only be rewarded through a lifetime pursuit, and within that lifetime the changes will often feel incremental. Not enough. But, when taking in the bigger picture, they can be viewed as extraordinary.
For instance, I remember when a female politician being on the ticket as a Vice-Presidential candidate was an unheard of first. A ticket that was crushed, unfortunately, but still groundbreaking. Unless I’m forgetting someone (wink), it took another 24 years for a female to be on a legitimate Presidential ballot. However, this time it was for the big seat, and she almost gained her party’s nomination. Eight years later she earned that primary nod, and she should have won the general, but that’s another fiasco for another day and the history books. That said, four years after that, another female, this one relatively unknown until the previous decade, ran a strong campaign to be the Democratic nominee. This is the snowball effect of change. It took Hillary Clinton 30-40 years of public life and advocacy to build a coalition and support base to almost be the first female POTUS. In less than a decade of pubic consumption, Elizabeth Warren was able to mount a serious effort towards a nomination, and numerous other women also mounted campaigns. Though unsuccessful in the end, I count being relevant in national conversation and media coverage a serious effort. Along the way, we’ve witnessed the first female Speaker of the House as well.
While this is genuinely a long time coming, and we wish things would move faster, we now live in a country where female power and rise in politics is commonplace. I know, election to the Big Cheese position is still elusive, but it is now within grasp. You may have already voted on a local, state, or national level for the woman who will crash this glass ceiling.
The truth, as you may be well-aware, is that most humans don’t like change. They don’t care for the unknown, and the results of change are always unknown. Even those that are comfortable with change prefer it to be at their own pace. For those of us more inclined to embrace change, this can be frustrating, especially to youthful enthusiasm. Consider, as many have noted in this election cycle, the pragmatic voting of our country’s older generation of African-Americans. The Baby-Boomer generation of African-Americans fought for their own civil rights and still most often choose Left of Center politicians they “know” over those who propose revolutionary ideas of hopes and dreams these same voters want for their own children and grandchildren. Pragmatism at its finest. Pragmatism for the eventual win. Make no mistake, I'm not criticizing these folks, and would be way out of my lane to do so. They witnessed people actually die for their cause, and over the course of time, their efforts affected great change. Pragmatism, and effort, for the eventual win...ahem...From winning the right to vote to seeing the First African-American President in a Boomer's lifetime.
We’ve seen the arc of the Aids epidemic crippling homosexual communities in the 1980’s, to the eventual legalization of same-sex marriage in 2015. Thirty-plus years, but the change came. Not fast enough for any of my loved ones in the LGBTQ community but it came, through consistent, persistent effort. We’ve seen professional athletes, a huge percentage of whom are minorities, unionize to protect their rights as workers, creating collective bargaining that moved a ton of money from owners to players, and in the long run, from owners to players to marginalized communities through the charities of said players (this may seem like an odd anecdote for this piece, but it’s not). We’ve seen mixed race love and marriage expand and become widely accepted in the past thirty years. These are no small things.
Granted, we’ve seen a bunch of horseshit, and some recent regression as well. It happens. Two steps forward, one step back. None of this shit is happening fast enough for me either, and I’m honestly not affected by most of it other than being a creature who cares.
Please don’t misunderstand. I hate this shit too. I think humanity is absurd. I want equality tomorrow. However, I have the histories of countless worlds and civilizations at my fingertips, not to mention our own recorded history. The tumult of true revolution is not for the stomachs of most. Cultural evolution is almost always a slow process with a long arc, except for a few species I know of that operate on extremely faster timelines than we do. Also there's one I know of that goes through its entire evolutionary process over and over again in the blink of your eye, but let's not get into the Blinkies again (not their real name, just what I refer to them as because, you know...).
In truth, I’ve written this selfishly, mostly with the intent of self-care. I needed to hear, write, and read this for my own piece of mind. To express my frustration as a positive, “keep your chin up,” note to self. Still, in case one of you angsty, fighting the good fight whippersnappers happens across this exercise in acceptance, know this: Change takes longer than you want, but the results are waiting for you, if you stay the course. Perhaps you will never see the gains you hope for in your lifetime, but the only thing that will stop them from happening over the long haul is if you quit trying. Or, if Mother Nature finally has enough of our nonsense and destroys us all.
The main thing I took away from the religious programming of my youth, besides all the highly effective “sexual hang-ups” data input and “sin” algorithms, was moderation.
Do all things in moderation. Including moderation? Uh oh. I’m going to have to say yes. After all, the command says, “all things.” Thus, sometimes you must let it rip too. Right? Absolutely, but let it rip in moderation. You can’t be letting it rip all the time, no more than you can do all things in moderation all the time without breaking the very rule you’re attempting to adhere to. Holy shit. The circles, the circles…
There is no philosophical credo or doctrine or axiom to explain away the nuance of our existence. Not when “do all things in moderation” implies doing all things in moderation, in moderation. Thus, our lives are a never-ending paradox. And that’s another circle, folks. For if something never ends, eventually it winds up in its own ass.
Fuck my brain I have no idea where I’m going with this, but I’m guessing it starts where it ends. Which means, wherever I was going with this, I’ve already been there and come back. Or gone back. Or no, wait. If it starts where it ends, did I ever leave? No, no, you’re not doing that. That’s some empty ass, Deepak nonsense right there. You can walk in circles dude, and when you do, you’ve definitely moved.
Oh well. Enough with the circles for the day. All things in moderation, after all.
Dear Wealthy Liberals and Progressives
Where are you guys? Awards season has arrived and I’ve already witnessed some amazing, super powerful, earnest (soooo earnest…) speeches from the podium, trophy in hand, but where the fuck are you guys? Our goddamn democracy is in the throes of dissolving into a fascist empire and us poor folk have no idea where our heroes are (when they aren't at the awards shows, of course).
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to pin this all on you. This mess is not all your fault and not solely your responsibility, but seriously, where the fuck are you? Why isn’t every independently wealthy (or rich enough they have the power to take off work at will) person in this country, who hates 45 and believes in protecting our democracy and Constitution, standing in D.C. protesting this insanity? I’m especially looking at you, Hollywood. Just like the robber-barons of the housing crisis and our overpaid congress men and women, you’ve built your fiefdoms off dollars from the poor, who’ve thrown their money into a cinematic black hole in exchange for brief respites from their normal lives. It’s a fair exchange, to be sure. Hard work makes those films. But, we’re in unusual times here. Times that call for the good guys to step up their efforts, and that doesn’t just mean us masses.
Now, I know. I know. There are many celebrities and other uber-wealthy who are in the fight, both publicly and privately. But these dire times are calling for a unified public effort. For leaders to rally the troops, and despite my disdain for wealth equaling leadership, it has become a greater reality in this day and age, an era where people whose only job skill and title is “influencer” are getting rich off their internet presence.
So I will ask you again, dear wealthy friends of the poor, where the fuck are you? We need your help. For the love of god, get your well-to-do asses to Washington and lead the protests. Lead the rallies. Stand out there and stomp your goddamn feet, and get the rest of this nation to pay attention to the fight we're currently in the middle of losing!
This Stupid, Stupid World: On Mondays
It’s Monday and we’re back in the saddle. Routine, you sweet, time traveling bitch, you. Twenty minutes to bring computer to life. Him’s old and a little cranky but still expected to put in his forty hours like the rest of us. I wonder what our future AI overlord will do with all the old machines? Our current AI overlord doesn’t seem to care much for them, but you know, we can always hope for progress down the line. More compassion and what not, for the little guy and girl.
Check the feed and see the news. The world’s on fire! The world’s on fire! Only, it really is. Ahhh…there’s that super comfy, warm blanket of, “thank the God I don’t believe in I don’t have children.” A noteworthy shift in thought from ten years ago, when the simple math of, “okay, if I don’t have kids until this age, statistically, I will have this much time with them before I die,” was a regular thought process.
Random thoughts random thoughts while the coffee does its business. Ooh, here’s one. Seen lots o talk lately from the middle. The middle is a safe place, especially for los blancos popularros, aka my fellow, desperately clinging to power, white folk. I see their opinions on how their voice matters, and it does. Just a shame they don’t have the empathy to realize the centrism they’ve lived so comfortably with their entire lives has been genuinely oppressive to other good people who weren’t born so lucky. I too, believe in compromise. These moderates need to compromise their comfort in exchange for real movement for those less fortunate, and for those against whom our culture has historically tilted the odds.
Anyway, my car is falling apart and my house needs repair and my parents are aging without much of a safety net and we’ve got a universe to save and I’ve got a novel to finish writing, and hope to cling to that my book might get picked up, and maybe I won’t have to live the rest of my life working for someone else, even though I’ve got a pretty great job, if you consider any job that isn’t what you really want to do with your life great, and my dog is getting older, so I’m already thinking about how I’m going to handle his demise even though he’s only seven, and I’m the last of my mother’s father’s clan to pass his family genes and history along to a new generation, but why in the hell is anybody who isn’t loaded with cash having kids right now, and honestly what good is all that cash gonna do when Mother Nature unleashes her anger in full force, and to that end what the fuck is the point in writing these stupid ass books so I can live on in perpetuity when there will be no perpetuity, when instead I could be devoting all of my free time to doing good deeds for others so my soul might live on for eternity if we somehow manage to not destroy eternity as well. Seriously, has anyone considered how fucked heaven might actually be when you get there, considering what humanity has done to the potential utopia we already have? You gonna tell me it’s beyond the scope of reason that angels might be completely self-absorbed, over consuming, environment killing jerks?
Oh well, thank Bob it’s Monday. Head down, feet forward…
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