Writing Again: Drowning


Now it was all making sense, or at least I could see how everything lined up. The childhood that seemed so dramatic, The parents who alternately tried to come off normal and then were unapologetically super crazy. The many lectures about how it was the fault of my younger sister and myself- the endless lectures that seemed to go on for hours. Eventually my sister would rise up and spout something like “fuck this” and disappear downstairs. If she went downstairs to escape, that must have meant she was already old enough to be downstairs in a room off the basement. What age was I when I moved downstairs to one of those rooms? I know I was there in high school but when did I end up down there? Why can I not remember simple things like that?

A few years back, I had an operation. It wasn’t life-threatening but it was last minute. That same week my second son’s grandfather died. The following week my parents took my older son and went to lake Tahoe. I begged them to please take his little brother, who was then 8 years old -not that I needed to explain, but because everything was fairly hellish. Of course they said no, it would be too much work. He was an average 8 year old, no special needs or other health issues.

I made the mistake of staying at my mother’s house after the operation- I seemed to be ok, I didn’t even stay the night, but her house was closer to the hospital if I bled too much after. I remember her saying at some point during one of these late-night smoking sessions in their back room, at a point where I finally felt maybe I was getting somewhere with her, like maybe she cared about what happened to me after all. She said “Is your helping us when we’re old dependent upon whether we help you now?” It was a weird statement/question to ask then and it has only gotten weirder over time.

Is it normal for a mother to ask things like that? It sounded like lawyer-speak. It sounded like hedging her bets. It sounded like any hope I had for escape I could kiss off. The morning of the third day, the day I was supposed to go back home she started in about how I shouldn’t get comfortable and that I couldn’t stay (this was never the plan, it was only about recovering from the operation, if I was bleeding badly to be nearer the hospital. I felt like the nights we stayed up talking, about what I’m not sure about now, I can only remember the things I really had questions about, she would only get all uptight and say things like ‘I’m not going to talk about that. I listened to her go on and on about her father and how she missed him and how she felt my grandmother and her two sisters excluded him and didn’t treat him as well as they should have, and whatever other things were bothering her. I started to feel like I was getting somewhere with her, maybe.

When it came to my turn to tell her things I was having problems with, she didn’t want to hear it. I felt like she wanted to relate to me as if I were a friend- and not in a every-kid-grows-up type way, but as if I never had been raised by her, as if we had no history, as if we were at some kind of bar or coffee shop and she could spill her guts anonymously, without explanation, without investment. God, I remember how that feeling sucked. I didn’t want her to be my friend, I wanted her to be my mother, or at lest act like a mother, even retroactively. Maybe even to cop to things like the middle-school janitor thing (I’ll tell you about that later) and other lousy stuff she either did or didn’t do but show in her actions she did care about me now.

We would be driving somewhere and she would say “see that little studio up there, that’s the kind of place I would do my painting if I hadn’t had kids.” She did paint though, she painted at home. I don’t know if my sister felt like we had stopped her from some great mission, but I did. I didn’t feel guilty though or sad, I felt angry. I still feel angry. Just like when she had to tell me the story of how she used to let me cry in my crib until I threw up when I was a baby. It didn’t even sound like she was telling me this because she felt bad about it, like a confession, it felt more like she was complaining, like what a needy pain in the ass I was. I saw photos of myself as a baby. She told me she couldn’t breast feed. Ok but how could you let me look like that? It’s hard to think about it now. Was she that clueless? I looked like I was borderline starving as a newborn.

It’s really true as a kid you don’t really know how good or bad you have it because it is all you know, you have no comparison until you see other families or have your own. You don’t know it is horrible because you think it is normal, or you say to yourself, well, here I am, it must not have been that bad, ‘cause here I am, I’m alive, aren’t I? Or ‘oh my poor mom, she must have been pressured by society to breast feed blah blah’ or’ oh I feel bad for her, because of me, and my dad avoiding the Vietnam war, I ruined her life as she saved my father’s. And perhaps I saved him too, because at one point being a college student or married wasn’t enough, you had to be married and have a kid to get bumped down the list.

I don’t look at my own shortcomings as her fault or whatever I have done or neglected to do as completely because of her, like you see at AA meetings or in a shrinks office. I see her total weirdness as something unto itself and yeah maybe I would have been different but who knows? I know I’m at least mostly not like her, although I don’t want to be like my dad either. He’s not like her, but he is deathly afraid of any kind of conflict. No matter how crazy, mean or childish, he goes along to get along.

I don’t know if my paternal grandfather beat the crap out of him or exactly what happened. Pretty sure it was more along the lines of some kind of punishment and not anything molestery. When my parents used to fight, he would go into some kind of weird coughing fit like he was going to choke to death if he had to stand up for himself about anything. I learned that he would sooner say ‘maybe’ or put something off indefinitely than say no at the outset, which only made the disappointment worse, because there was hope.

I think they both kind of hate me now because I figured out all the crap they were up to back then. That and they know that I know that they will never help me and have written me off, though I was never in trouble with the law or drugs or did anything bad to them. I’m either just not loved, not worth it and/or my dad would rather keep what little peace there was to keep than oppose her, even if I could help them as time goes on, even though it is in their interest to help me.

If they didn’t want me to figure things out later, maybe they shouldn’t have told me things like “oh your father is going over to so and so’s house, because she has lost her tampon inside her” WTF My dad was not a doctor. If I asked her how my dad was supposed to help I got no answer- I wasn’t even sure what a tampon was at that point, I was too young. Was this a passive-aggressive move on her part, so that I might have asked him about it. I can’t remember if I did or not. By the time he got home she was probably too drunk and likely they had another fight, which would either be about her drinking or things we couldn’t understand. All of these people were younger than I am now when all this was going on. But they were old enough to not have dragged kids under 10 into it. As fucked up as I am in some ways, I look back at them and say, well gee, at least I never dragged a kid who had hives all over them to someone’s house for dinner, when it was so bad that after they left, I had to go to the emergency and have a shot.

I had a best friend, whose parents were much older than mine- her mother would be watching Lawrence Welk on tv when we would go over there after school and they actually had certain foods for dinner according to what day of the week it was. My friend thought they were boring and terrible, even as she for years would write down the top 40 in a binder every Sunday for the four hours that Kasey Kasem would be on and she was borderline OCD about her stuff and how we did anything. I liked the quiet predictability of her house.

They were nice to me. There was no drama there ever. I think they were from Minnesota or South Dakota. They didn’t seem especially fond of my best friend but at least it was peaceful and that was enough for me. I thrived on their boringness. When she would complain about her relatives coming over and her mom making some awful jello thing and how lame it was I was jealous. I loved that they could be counted on for routines, that her dad wore this grey outfit for working in the garage and that her mom seemed eminently sensible and never said inappropriate things or took jibes at us. They didn’t fight like my parents did. When they seemed exasperated about something or would sigh, it seemed like something to hope for rather than what later I would learn was looked at as par for the course of long-term marriage/suburban ennui. They were not into any of the hippie stuff that my parents liked. It was ironic that while I’m not sure they met my parents in more than passing, they were probably worried that because my parents were relatively young in comparison to them, that maybe I would be a bad influence when in actuality it was my friend who was the party-till-you-puke girl and it was I who had to drive everyone home, or pretend to be the mother calling people in sick to school or otherwise devising a plan.

My mother would ask us weird things occasionally like “if you found out me or your dad were with someone else would you hate us?” or later “Do you enjoy (insert whatever sexual thing). If we said yes, she said we were like our father. I kept thinking in my head, my mother is missing something- why does she always look like she is fake smiling in photos? why does she only get nice or sentimental to my sister and I when she drinks? I hated the smell of wine on someone’s breath for years because of that. How did I not know that using sun-in and having partially bleached hair wasn’t cool? How did I not know that I wasn’t really the school janitor’s sorta girlfriend and it wasn’t ok? I mean, if my mom knew I was a 12 year old up there at the school alone, it was because it was OK, right?

And why was the Vietnam vet guy living with us with his toddler when my sister and I were in the early years of grade school? The guy with the plate in his head who also used to drink? Why did the mom leave? Was she dead? why when I came back from school was he sitting on the sofa in a towel and you could totally see his junk. Why did he have a special name for my mother, the name of a flower? Why did he act so familiar with my mom and make stupid jokes I didn’t get? Why did my sister and I have to drive up to this farm up in the north bay and sit in the car for hours while my parents took turns talking to this couple they were friends with, the woman was the one with the stuck tampon. Why did so many things never seem to make sense?

What was wrong with my mother I still don’t know. The strange childishness, the mood swings, the staying in bed all day, the calling me by the name of her youngest sister, whom she did not like, or by the name of someone whom my dad was probably seeing or once when I was sick, she called me ‘Carmen’, some character from an opera. She was the same physical type my dad had a thing for. Probably the same type he was hoping my mother was, maybe Ingmar Bergman or a Hitchcock blonde or a Julie Christie- but it turned out mother wasn’t actually the type she looked like. Once she said wasn’t I glad she married my dad because what if she had married so and so and then I would look like my best friend- whatever that meant. They both attributed much to astrology, but I thought whatever was happening was way beyond the stuff my dad was into with his charts and discussion groups.

At times I thought she actually was pleased that she ruined something of mine, once it was a plant I was growing in a bottle, once it was a pair of pants she bleached a hole in, once it was a magazines featuring my favorite band that she gave away. I learned not to talk about anything that mattered because she kept track of everything. It was as if one side of her brain was all but dead, the one that would have been ‘a normal mom’- but the side that was practical and could remember every detail was working overtime. She knew I wasn’t like her, that I could see the details she could, but I could also pick up all these things she was blind to and it seemed she both resented me and feared me, though what could I do?

There were a couple occasions where I wished out loud something would happen- one was a drive somewhere, I can’t remember where it was but it seemed like it was out in nowhereland of northern California. My father seemed to like the driving somewhere better than the actual getting wherever we were going, whereas I hated it. Wouldn’t you, with a younger sister that was prone to carsickness in a datsun 210? Though I was never great at math I could tell by the signs and his speedometer we weren’t actually going anywhere, or in the time he stated it would take.

In any case, during one of these drives, I wished something would happen like the road would be closed, or we would have to turn back, anything to stop the endless driving. I can’t remember exactly what I said but I made the mistake of saying it out loud. We got to this area which looked like a dead end, I don’t remember if we had to pee or why they even thought we should all get out-even get out. It was hot, there was all this dry wheaty type grass stuff, it sucked. I was really feeling bored, mad and like my parents were stupid for even liking to do this.

We got out of the car, it was quiet and hot. Well, it was quiet for about 10 seconds maybe. We started to hear a sound, it started low and became louder. I thought I knew what it was, I could not believe my parents didn’t know right away. “Kind of sounds like snakes, rattlesnakes ” I said. My mom actually attributed the snakes to me and was mad, though of course she was mad like a little kid as usual, her mouth all tight. Unexplained things always happened in our house, I didn’t care what caused it, lightbulbs exploding, stuff falling out of cabinets. Of course I didn’t believe I was doing anything, or had caused the snakes, but weighed if her maybe believing it might somehow help me make her less crazy- mind you this is someone who acted as if inanimate objects ‘wanted’ to be placed here or there, or had opinions or liked or disliked other inanimate objects, like stuffed animals or salt shakers.

How he could not notice what she was like when they met I don’t know. I guess because they weren’t living together first, or maybe he did notice something was ‘off’ but so desperate was he to avoid Vietnam that he didn’t care- and I don’t blame him for that. She probably looked like an ok deal compared to swamps, bombs, entrails.. My mom wanted to move out of her house too, she even said she was tired of looking after her middle sister, whom she told some story about how when she was born the nurses tried to hold her in because the Dr wasn’t there yet- (how could they make a woman hold a baby in anyway?) and her youngest sister, who is only seven years older than myself.

I did feel bad for grandpa, her father. He seemed like a decent guy, if a little eccentric, possibly a touch autistic and set in his routine. He kept his classical music cassettes and albums alphabetized. He used to give my sister and I life savers when we would stay over and sleep on the fold out couch in the living room at the San Francisco house and say ‘good night boys’. Maybe he was disappointed at the second generation of girls but I don’t think so, rather it seemed to be his only joke. We would lie on the fold-out sofa and watch the lights of the cars go through the metal blinds and across the plaster-textured wall, across all the Catholic stuff my grandmother had in the little indentation above the fireplace.

I still remember when he died, about ten years ago-how he was on a respirator. I think he is the second person I have seen on one of those things. It seems like it’s horrible. My sister and I were on either side of the table/bed thing he was on in the ICU each holding his hand – we were saying for him to get better and we loved him and were waiting for him to get out of there, He was shaking his head back and forth like no and squeezing our hands.

None of his side of the family was there when they took him off the respirator. True to form, my mother made my dad go alone. None of them said anything when he passed at the funeral. It seems like it has become my job to write something and get up and read it when anyone goes. As time goes on and all the grandparents have passed it has made me wonder if they all secretly hated each other and that is why no one gets up to say anything but me. I get really mad when I think of how he was supposedly in bed for like a week and no one made him go to the Dr, they called my mother when apparently he got really bad and they needed to call an ambulance.

The fact that they called my mother when things got bad (of course at the last minute) was worrisome, why would they call her, she rarely even goes over there. She used to call them when she would panic about something. Then she was mad at them for not helping him. I try to look at it like he still won, because he used to smoke and drink until the dr said when he was in his 50’s -if you don’t quit you don’t have long, but he lived till he was about 85, limiting himself to one smoke a day and like one highball.

It’s like all of them are afraid to do anything, even if it is something that helps someone. Maybe especially if it helps someone. They all prefer to quietly whisper and conspire and basically not do anything. I told them years ago to stop telling me horrible secrets (like the thing about my mom and the vietnam vet, or that one of my aunts has the blood type of grandpa’s brother, or that grandpa’s father, my great grandfather was married three times to women with the same name and they all died). I told them that from here on out if they kept telling me things I would not at all promise to keep it secret.

I want to try and hold on to the good parts, or the parts that at least save them in my head-the parts that while not absolving them made them at least interesting but it seems like when I try to it’s like I’m drowning and the bad parts keep filling my pockets with rocks and my throat with tears sucking me down. Ok back to the ‘good’ they were educated, they had friends over to discuss writing and poetry, the solstice parties, that both of them had published random things or taught writing classes, that there was always tons of books around, although I probably shouldn’t have been reading Heller’s ‘Something Happened’ when I was like 9 or 10, not to mention the Shere Hite books.

No one could say my sister and I could definitely say we were not spoiled, not in the least little bit, or that we never learned how to entertain ourselves, although because they didn’t get up in the morning likely led to me overdosing on Flintstones vitamins once and baby aspirin as well as finding my sister with a taken-apart kaleidoscope, her pinky finger hanging by a thread and blood everywhere.

They would eventually take myself or my sister to the doctor and fed us. I know and hate the fact that either my dad didn’t leave because of my sister and myself, or at least I like to think that, it’s better than thinking he was just too afraid. Maybe he couldn’t afford to leave. I remember during their fights hearing him threaten to and half rooting for him, half hating him for not inviting me to escape with him, but I knew the hope was fake, as were the threats to leave.

They didn’t make us go to church, though when I stayed with my paternal grandparents I actually didn’t mind that much, as the orthodox church on Brotherhood way in SF was quite beautiful. That and my Yiayia made clothes for my sister and I. I remember staying with them and not wanting to come home. It makes me feel better to think of the good points or sometimes think them both into an alternate universe where we are all someone else’s who aren’t somewhat fucked up , even if that meant wishing away the Vietnam war, my parents getting together and my own possible existence as this version of myself.

Into the Ether

The man walked across the crosswalk, in the intersection. He had the look of someone one might see in a mugshot- he was a white man, probably late 30’s or 40’s, he had a shirt with a collar, with some kind of pastel-colored striping on it, but it was untucked, messy. His eyes  deep-set, focused off in the distance and  seemed  mismatched with the features of an aquiline nose and the  puffy dark lips of a puglist, or someone deprived of oxygen- a color I had only seen in a child with asthma, or one getting out of the large local pool, which was very cold. The look on his face was more fiercely determined than would be necessary to cross while one had the light.

His hair was a little bit longer than what would be considered clean-cut, and also had that messy look, but a groomed messy look, as in those print advertisements where attractive people lounge amidst horses and sports equipment, though all of his separate pieces did not add up to anything resembling that. Those ads made certain everything was congruent to the smallest detail. One could practically catch a whiff of pipe tobacco, leather and maybe a faint whiff of horse manure. Observing from the car waiting at the light, I imagined he may have smelt of BO, some kind of vainglorious, overly-priced after-shave and a faint whiff of this morning’s hangover puke. The light changed and I drove on.

I was driving to a place I frequented more and more, so much that I was afraid I may have to abandon it for a new place that felt like ‘somewhere else’. For now, it was still in the border limbo-land of the known/unknown. I measured out the amount of time I would spend there, how much I wanted versus how much I could reasonably get away with versus chances of being recognized.  Conspicuous, conspiracy, conspirator. Conspire: “to breathe together.” It really was an art to be invisible, or be seen without really being seen. To hide so well one didn’t feel one was hiding.  Perhaps even, to cease  to care.

I purchased the few things I usually did. Salt, soap, a sandwich, a few rolls, milk, a can of soup. The things I used like a ritual when I felt this way, good, somewhat dazed.  This feeling reminded me of so long ago, when the constant demands of simple things kept the darkness away- taking care of someone else- and in comforting and caring for him, somehow it seemed to comfort me, it was the only comfort I had, then- that part which had been buried so deep it was mostly unremembered. If the bad guy was now in a dungeon, somehow it was easier to unhappen it : What was for a snack, what needed to be washed, what time would we go to the park, what time was the bath etc etc. It filled up so much of the time- and there were no computers then. Yes, there was TV but we made much of our own entertainment and were quite happy with only that. Reading, playing, the trees and sand. The feel of ice cubes in a bowl. You once asked me if people had to put salt in the sea to make it so salty, when you finally did talk.

I brushed my hand over the silky purple flowers. I was old enough to know these things were still with me, that they sort of dangled off my shadow, like a thread unraveling off a dress, like a gnat hovering over a piece of fruit. But they were small and trivial now compared to the monster which they had collectively gestated for so many years-,  a cursed leather knot , like shoes tied together of the drowned, now dried and so very hard to untangle..it never totally went away and it had even been added to, by others- but sometimes it could be ‘handed off’- a  kind of baptismal release.  Was I cured? Was it now ‘gone’?

How was it that although I was not a great, hulking woman, certainly i was not all that delicate- how was it that I felt lighter?  That even much of the physical pain was gone? What was it that went into the ether? When I felt light like this I needed less sleep – I dreamed so deeply I felt as though I floated the entire night through. Yes, I did think part of this was that I was now getting closer to death than life- in years at least- but somehow being reminded of this was not always altogether terrible. Bittersweet is still partly sweet.

When as children we watched magician shows, we didn’t need to believe it was ‘real’- it gave us a sense of wonder. Perhaps because we find out that it pretend, when we are older we tend to view anything that makes us wonder as ‘a trick of the light’. The large shadow that a moth flitting inside a lampshade casts upon a wall. The moth itself is still real, as is the light. As is the shadow itself. We hear the howl of the coyotes, not dog, not wolf- they are unafraid of us. Standing on a cliff, looking out at rocks at sea, and yet looking back at still more cliffs, in between what had been and what would be soon washed away, and what would stand, beautifully albeit precariously, an unknown amount of time.

Inequalities … Fiction Continued,,,

The atheist that goes to church. The lady that won’t fit in the airplane seat. The good father that got taken away in a crash, the drug dealer who won the lottery, the innocent incarcerated, the guilty that walk free, the genius with OCD, the neighbors whom you have helped who then steal from you, the raccoons I didn’t mean to run over, the plastic bags that kill the fish, the paper bags that kill the trees, rescue volunteers lost at sea, the idiot savant musician, water with no land, deserts with no water, mountains with no air, that not every dwelling can face south, gifts bestowed upon the ungrateful or gifts given with an agenda, false-flattering con men, people who got in on quotas while your stellar test scores meant nothing, the lonely that cannot reach out, the ones who want to be alone but never have any peace, the rich girl who still put gum in your hair, those born too early, those born too late, the good people watching people they love suffer while assholes never notice or care yet then inherit a fortune, babies that get shot in the face, where is it, tell me where exists this equality? Is equal fair? Is it even possible?l If it were even possible to find some splinter of joy, would she have to steal it? Or would it even be stealing if she had paid enough in pain along the way? Was it natural to be suspicious of anything or anyone actually at least mostly good? If there were any way to ‘steal happiness’ she would do it while she still could. She had done it, and would do it again.

These people she was thinking of, from so long ago, why were they reappearing now when they had been sucked into the vortex of unmemory, why had they arisen now, unwanted spectres telling their not funny jokes, singing along with every song from every band she didn’t like, hordes of them, young ones with their rock concert t-shirts and way-too-old press-on attitude “life sucks then you die” “the one with the most toys wins” older ones with their endless girlfriend- placating/reassurances “I wouldn’t even know what to do in a strip club” or “I didn’t even know I was at a nude beach, really these days you can’t tell.” The first was awful because they believed their world-weary stoner cliches, the second was awful because other people believed them.

It was a long bike ride and while it was great, if one stopped, within minutes the cold sea air would set in, making one’s clothes damp and freezing. It wasn’t technically all that cold at between 40-50 compared to other places so why did it feel colder than when she was in the mountains at much lower temperatures? The dry, crisp cold of six thousand feet was preferable. Even when one did keep moving, the more one sweated, the worse the recovery from warmth back to cold was. How could it not be freezing yet steam was coming off her indoors and she could see her breath more often than not. On the coast, wool was one’s friend, as bulky and uncool as it was, it stayed warm and didn’t get soggy with the dampness.

With the advent of the internet she did find out what had happened to one of her childhood friend, the one with this skin disease, impetigo, which made all the other cruel little bastards treat her like a leper. She worked for some health-care giant and had turned into a very big girl, but not in the way her mother was, likely almost 6 feet tall with sensible, blunt-cut hair and a gap between her teeth and heavy tweed skirts, beige shirts, things that looked like a cross between a camp counselor and a prison guard. She knew her friend’s family weren’t actually Officially Poor, though no one who lived in that same modest tract-home development had much. Not like now. Her father vaguely resembled the father that killed himself on that show ‘bewitched’, Darren.

During the time her friend’s parents were splitting up, the parents came up with some kooky plan to take us all on some field trip of their own to somewhere ‘fun’ – a place that I can’t remember now, some amusement park type place, or maybe it was just pee-wee golf. I don’t remember any fun, I don’t even remember what it was or what we did there- only that some of us got to go with the mom on the ride back and some of us had to go with the dad. Those of us that went with the dad did not have a fun trip back. I heard the mom’s bunch didn’t get back till hours later and had stopped somewhere for food. We didn’t stop anywhere, we just listened to the dad swear under his breath while driving and telling us to shut up and feeling somewhat afraid and wishing we never went. He had that same slicked back creepy hair as Darren too.

Checking out, checking in. She wouldn’t believe what the head-shrink said. Just because she thought the sound was coming from somewhere else and asked ‘are you hungry?’ when her stomach growled, just because she sometimes used ‘she’ and ‘I’ interchangeably, just because it took a second sometimes for her head to catch up to her body didn’t mean she had lost it, that she indeed was ‘dissociated’ or had some unfixable ‘disorder’ . And just because she had dodged a few bullets doesn’t mean she saw them coming. If the bullet was big enough, there was really no way to dodge it.

A bullet like the secrets that had been kept from her for so many years. Secrets she had never learned directly but that she had figured out. Sure, things made more sense now, but they still sucked. She was not like them, and actually had now not spoken to them in years. There were parents out there who kept promises, parents who actually got up in the morning with their kids so they wouldn’t OD on Flintstones and baby aspirin. There probably were parents who didn’t think it was ok if their 12 year old daughter went up to the middle school after hours to talk and smoke with the 30 year old janitor who had other ideas. They probably wouldn’t have let that go on a week, let alone for two years. There were parents who didn’t stay up all night getting drunk and parents who let their kid’s friends come over. There were parents who didn’t drag their 16 year old out of a high school dance , screaming about them being ‘on drugs’ because there were a couple of no-doze in their teenager’s purse.

Some of their friends she now disliked retroactively, not because they were annoying hippies who talked about astrology but because of the things she had figured out about them and what their various connections were to her parents. Now little comments, and even digs they took at each other made sense. Now she knew why they had to drive up to the farm in Petaluma and sit in the car for hours, while her parents took turns going into the house. They were friends,then they weren’t friends, then they were friends again. The guy with the plate in his head from the war that lived with us, the schoolteacher who was always patting her hair and looking uncomfortable. She looked back and hated the effing 70’s. Long jean jackets, floppy hats, feathered hair, big combs sticking out of the back pockets of bell-bottoms. Awful fringed vests.

Another friend,not the one with the skin condition- had older, boring parents that she coveted. Her friend’s mom watched lawrence welk. Her dad wore a mechanic’s blue coverall thing and hung out in the garage and smoked. He used this stuff called wildroot to grease back whatever hair he had left. They had a certain food for every day of the week. The friend spent every sunday from 10 am to 2 pm writing down the top 40 which then went into a binder- she had been doing this for years. Calling her on the phone during that time period would elicit a panic every time the commercial break was about to end and the next song would be announced. This friend was somewhat like a girl she knew now, whom if asked a difficult question, answered it in a somewhat sing-songy way, as if the preschool teacher tone of voice made up for lack of content.

This one, the younger version of the first would say things like “Are you judging me?” if any kind of debate arose. We had to be in total agreement. I was willing to be wrong, to not have an opinion if I didn’t know enough but this seemed silly to her. She seemed to have this middle-of-the-road pat answer for all the ills of the world that often started with “people should..” She often seemed to try to work at finding things that she said she liked probably because I did but somehow it didn’t feel real.It could have been she just needed a ride somewhere and didn’t have anything better to do, but I didn’t really care. I believed she did like me, at least as much as she could. There was a certain quality of relaxedness about hanging out with her because it was just so predictable.

Friend one, whom I hadn’t seen for a long time, my own fault- maybe I felt like I didn’t want to burden her with my life, or didn’t have it in me to try to live up to hers- and friend 2 were very into brand-name things, and just like on the commercials, both said it was because they trusted them- like accepting anything else would somehow be demeaning. How was it that both of them routinely would go to parties, and report back they got so drunk they dyed their hair blue and puked and passed out, yet if anything slightly deviated from their routine, or was even questioned, they would get all snippity – as if somehow part of their life they had sort of shellacked into place, endless memento collages and photos and cutsey clutter, like fluffy cat phone holders and framed rock album covers and best friend half heart necklaces and and the other part was like playing Russian roulette with a wasted dr kevorkian while telling him you didn’t care if tomorrow came or not. It wasn’t equal, these friendships.

Nothing was ‘equal’ in actuality, and likely, nothing was ‘fair’ either. Because of this recognition that usually accompanied that ever-present sense of mortality, when the scales even momentarily tipped in her favor, she would notice, she would appreciate, and she would reciprocate and then some even if it meant doing without something else. For now, the down blanket on some other neighbor’s discarded leather sofa meant warmth. The pervasive sense of calm would usually last a few days and she would sleep deeply in the quiet wake of what had started to feel like a protracted exorcism.

III Writing, Continued…

How long would this little bag of food keep? I put it into the trunk,knowing it was cold enough, the milk would probably not spoil overnight. All windows closed, doors locked. Already peed in the bathrooms by the rest stop, if I had to go again I was parked by the trees.The key was getting here when it was dark and parking but not so late as to make one’s arrival super obvious. By now it was almost 10.
I crawled into the backseat from the front of the car rather than getting out and then going in through the back door and lay down as best as I could, shoveling the coats and blankets over, trying to create a kind of nest. The wool blankets seemed to be warmest.Old classic IPOD starting to lose charge but enough for tonight. Looking up on the night sky through the back, I noticed that the huge expanse upon which I was gazing was not static,that much was going on up there. A shooting star, sparkly clusters randomly moving around, the little dipper there was a lot to see.

Never having been, I thought: this is sort of what camping must be like, only not in the car. Then I thought of the dangers of camping and realized, with some smidgen of anxiety, that I had no real weapon. I did have the little throwaway go phone which still had some money on it, but that would be little actual help if something went wrong. No one could see me curled up in the backseat though, and having kept the car somewhat purposefully messy, it didn’t look like there was anything good to steal.

It was a good spot, a road where one could see everything but a road that wasn’t much traveled and yet close enough to where people lived that I could park in such a way that I could pretend that my car was one of theirs. Hiding in plain sight, kind of. Other cars would drive by, but cops were looking for people sitting in their cars- people smoking pot, drinking or making out-the cops didn’t get out and check to see if there was anyone sleeping in the back.

At one point I thought I heard some people walking by, maybe walking their dog. They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they didn’t call the cops.I locked the ipod so the light wouldn’t come on. I fumbled around and found a small water bottle on the floor and took a benadryl. The nights when I was up here I would wake up during the night, a couple because the blankets had become dislodged and it was cold, and once or twice because it was so cramped back there one had to wake up in order to turn a different way. Even for a relatively not-so-big person, these little cars were not made for this. The seat was angled back, so one always felt as if one were sort of rolling towards the trunk. I thought of the people at the RV ‘resort’ and envied them their real beds, their own bathrooms, their mini-fridges. BBQs and their electrical outlets where they could charge their gear.

I hunkered down, opting for bent legs rather than half-sitting and being able to stretch out as I could then better disguise myself as a pile of clothes. I thought of what I might do in the morning, how I would fill my thermos with coffee at the quik-mart, then without using much gas go to a different spot and have a kind of makeshift breakfast in the front seat.I wouldn’t be able to sleep much past the overly-bright dawn. Staying in the backseat until the morning commuters passed was a good idea. If I didn’t drink a lot of water now I wouldn’t have to pee and thus I could stay sort of half-sleep waiting for most of the morning rush to drive by, yet still be out of here before the dog-walkers and joggers started.


There’s not much out here, a long promenade, a peninsula of parking lot, a pier,
People whisking hair out of their mouth, pulling their jackets tighter. A sense of communal amusement and suffering because of the wind, the fog, the bird noise. The door to the cafe has some sort of fan/vacuum that supposedly keeps flies out. It’s loud and evokes a sensation of entering some kind of spaceship, or other controlled environment.

There’s a bunch of older locals sitting in the prime view seats. There’s one table, in the corner for parties of three only, a little sign on the table warns. One of the local fisherman will likely talk to me, start asking questions. This isn’t a great place to hide but it is less noisy than some of the other options, the place with the over-priced framed artsy scenic photos on the wall and a bookshelf of donated books like the 90’s version of ‘PC’s for dummies’,or or ‘Belgium on 20 dollars a day’.

There were places to go, away from here. I use to think about leaving the area mostly be I was still afraid of someone from many years ago-that he might know where I was, yet he suggested in a court document that he did not. If that were true, in between stints in prison he must not have gotten on the internet much. If he didn’t try, that was good. I pictured a dumpy halfway house, then a series of grotty sofas and crash pads-friends of convenience, girlfriends met at 12-step meetings- cigarette butts, old VHS porn tapes, mean dogs, gross pizza, dirty bathrooms. If that had been a lie, that he did not know my whereabouts- he had not bothered me for a very long time. I felt sorry for the latest kid he created but I was secretly relieved he had other irons in the fire.

There were ways out of the enclave, the north way led to more people, people I would not know and lots of them. More public places in which to hide. The south way led to nice outdoor places, places to wander, places where I had purposefully created good memories so I could retrieve and relive them. Places where the new, good memories would then overwrite the bad, or sometimes even rewrite over other good memories, but good ones that only made me miss my previous self, a self so long deceased that it needed other, external yet related memories to help recall.

Remembering and recalling this self-it was like crying- instead of actually crying, what replaced that was simply thinking of crying. Sometimes my gut would tighten up, or my eyes would become hot but nothing else would happen. Or I would make a sound almost like a low howling but nowhere near full-on crying. On rare occasions when I was lucky a few drops of the salt-water would drop without any sound or movement. Why had I lost this ability and why when I did have the ability, it was not the right moment and would almost have to warm up to it? Why was some part of me still annoyingly dead, a sensation or rather a lack thereof I had had since almost losing consciousness (or maybe I did) when I was being strangled a long time ago.

It was a kind of doubt that this life was ‘real’ and instead, it was some kind of parallel universe, some kind of mental/spiritual construction that was believable enough for me to mostly buy the scam. Even though I usually insisted on logic, ever the skeptic, sometimes cynic – this particularly creepy belief didn’t need to make logical sense or need to be proved ‘true’ for the suspicion to be there.

Somehow it was possible in this schema that other people’s reality and lives could be real, yet mine not, even as theirs was in inextricably tied up with mine in their real lives and world. I was haunting my own life. This half-self me was here in the parallel universe, a kind of blade-runnery replicant, the other parts were sort of hovering in the ether of others lives and the original self was back in that apartment, seeing the light start to darken, turn that greenish-grey as if one had stared at a light bulb or the sun yet closing in like the unavoidable tunnel of general anesthesia . Perhaps that was why I was not at all afraid of going under – maybe it somehow took me back to a place I already half was, or that it was ending the thought-noise of one of my divided selves.

And why when it was so hard to cry, how was it that other senses were as active as ever, often times saying what someone else was thinking, thinking of someone and then they would call, being able to see the weakness, darkness and emptiness in others when before I would only see their false construction, their imitation of life. This was not always a gift – sometimes they could ‘tell’ that could see these things. Sometimes the good could tell, sometimes the not-so-good.

Leaving things of this earth, the loss of the ability to cry out loud spooked me. Had I lost this because I had indeed become stronger, or was it actually the opposite- was crying something essential for survival that my old self had needed, but this one did not? If I was still myself, but once or more removed, then where were the other selves? There were times where it seemed I had passed myself on the street, an older self, a younger self. And there were people that seemed like others that I thought I had lost, that were gone for good, that ‘came back’ as new people I was meeting for the first time. Of course I never told them any of this. I wondered if they too also had some of these bizarre feelings or if that was just too ‘out there’ for how they were wired. Hardly anyone understood any of this, and why lose whatever trust and credibility one had to the land of ‘what if-ness’ mixed with total weirdness? No way would I try to foist this stuff upon their hapless selves- if they picked up anything strange, they could tell me or they could blow it off or shrug it off..

I asked one of them, actually one that did not fit into that same creepy schema, someone who was outside of that, asked him what he thought, not quite this kind of thing I am telling you, reader, but the ‘what’s it all for?’ question, the ‘what’s the point? why are we here?’ His take was disappointing: there was no point, there was no purpose, there was nothing after, there was nothing before. I guess he basically thought we were just random muck, mucking around here and there, making new muck, and mucking up what we could and rolling around in the muck whenever we got a chance.

“That’s it, huh? That’s what you really believe?” I think the response wasn’t so much affirmative as it was self-convinced “yep, that’s all there is, that’s it. Why do you waste your time on this crap?” It was as if the very idea of questioning it was irritating in itself to him- but…how could one not ask oneself the big questions?

He was sure that all that all that stuff was crap, just as I was fairly sure it wasn’t. I wondered, had he never had super vivid and realistic yet otherworldly dreams like I had all the time? Did he lack any and all of the ‘extra-senses’ that made going to malls or family reunions unbearable, because of all the things one would mentally ‘pick up’? Maybe it was true. Maybe he had none of those things …so in his reality, all there really was, was food, money, winning and losing, mucking around ,and material stuff-an endless loop of the same thing over and over. No wonder he didn’t even have the possibility that all this had meaning. If one didn’t have legs , one could go on and on about running and they would still never know what that was like. He didn’t take me seriously when I nagged him, maybe you should finish this project, maybe you might want to finish this other thing, while you still could. How could one be so ‘meh’ about everything and still be alive. Perhaps he too was divided and didn’t know it.

But what did I know, I was starting to be convinced it was better to be liked than loved as one didn’t really always choose loving, as in one’s children, you just did it, like breathing- but usually liking was a choice. Someone had decided came to a conclusion that they enjoyed your company, character, personality- whatever- whereas lots of people used the word love in the same sentence as an apology: “I know he drinks, but …I love him” “I love her, so what’s a little lateness?” You didn’t often hear ‘like’ used as either an excuse or disclaimer, used as a kind of tacit apologetic. Usually you heard ‘like’ before something good: “I like that guy; he doesn’t bullshit.” or “she never flakes out, I like that in a person.”

Maybe the selling of the idea that this is all there is and then kaput ,lights out is in someones self interest as a means of distraction. As a means to a kind of ‘theft’-not only distraction but a form of advanced lying/stealing. How different were lying and stealing anyway? Theft of the truth was a lie, wasn’t it? Telling you ‘ Hey look over here, you need to listen to my agenda, I have the answer, don’t look anywhere else, everything else is bullshit, I’m sooo confident, it must be true!’…and the more you gave of your time, of yourself, the more you believed the lies and the ability to get to the truth, that the ability to see the lies was sucked away.

Even if you came away with some grain of truth, you had probably paid for it so dearly you likely would have been better off discovering it on your own. What if you didn’t agree or had questions? Well you were surrounded by so many others who on some level, probably unconsciously, knew that they had so much time stolen already, they felt like they had to commit absolutely and mindlessly to whatever the agenda was. Besides, everyone would turn on the questioner if they called someone out, even if they weren’t called out for the actual belief system that was being hawked, but called out for ‘hey are you getting anything done, is this really good enough for you? ‘

And some people couldn’t take being turned on and questioned -much less ask these things of themselves-especially on the internet. People didn’t enjoy being questioned, hassled or trolled unless they liked just any attention at all, and making a career of trolling was so derivative- you had to start with something someone else did first- it didn’t seem very creative once you dissected the whole premise.

Trolls, while they are hanging out under bridges, don’t usually have epiphanies (well OK maybe even some huge trolls might actually get sick of it, epiphany or not)and ask themselves:
Is this how I want to spend whatever I have left? Maybe believing one’s cause was the only cause worth a crap stopped one from questioning, is this it, is this truly the stopping point- I knew people who couldn’t be wrong, if they were, it would eff up their entire construction of their world.

Others didn’t want questioning because people who were so invested in whatever scheme was their bread and butter. As I told someone once, some people just can’t be wrong. I should have then followed that up with, cause when you are wrong, it’s usually your fault. You’re not only wrong. You’re to Blame. You effed up. Some people can’t get this and every time they know they weren’t wrong, like hmm what side of the street paving will that leaf fall? When they are right, it’s like: YAY I WIN, I WAS RIGHT ! Then they do a little victory dance.

If the leaf didn’t fall on the side they guessed it would be, then it’s ‘oh I was going to guess that other side’, or ‘oh I wrote the wrong side down but I meant this other side’, or ‘oh I was looking in a mirror and so left was right and right was left’…. ‘I was thinking of this side because there was a red fire hydrant and I was distracted and somehow yeah, it was your fault because I would have picked the correct side had you not got me off track, cause you suck’…to them ,being wrong was like some horrible OCD Hydra that would carry down to make spiraling generations of wrongness, like Lake Wobegone in reverse would happen-therefore in their universe, there would not, could not ever be any original wrongness: thought behavior, calculation, beliefs, anything. Being wrong was just too scary and didn’t have any payoff.

They couldn’t afford to be wrong or to say hey people, get a life, do other stuff besides this, put energy into that and what you want will probably happen anyway as a result ..but it sure as hell ain’t gonna happen this way, and oh yeah, duh if the problem got solved, I’d be out of work , my little kingdom would crumble and that would sure blow.

One would think truly feeling one’s own mortality would give one more pause as to what one wasted time on, whether or not one believed in something more. But maybe there was some payoff to getting people to ‘overspend’ their time on whatever the agenda was, even if that way didn’t work and had created it’s own government-like money, time and energy grab program,a life and spirit-sucking machine, not so unlike the official one that people railed about constantly.

After all, time is and would always be the greatest currency there is for mortal flesh. Stealing that was like soul-stealing. The greatest thing that could be stolen, a kind of subtle murder.

Writing, chap II


The cans, filled with sand and heated on the makeshift wood-stove, had finally warmed and begun to give off heat. I placed a ceramic cup filled with milk on top of one of them, taking care that it was not the hottest one or the cup would crack and the milk would be wasted. She had arranged the refrigerator so that she knew what was what even without much light, so a gallon of orange juice would not be confused in the dark for the one full of milk. This is how the blind must do it, she thought. The glass being half-empty or half-full was a common saying, but how would the blind know when to stop pouring? The old microwave made the milk half-hot and half-cold and this neither/not she did not like.

She reached into the stove with her metal stick and stirred what was left of the crumbles of the fire-log, thus temporarily brightening the room. Looking across a long, narrow valley, there was nothing but an occasional streetlight. Well, it was the middle of the night. She imagined the good people of the town, in a kind of collective snoring and as she looked out at their dwelling, felt as if she were looking in on them, as one would a child. Sometimes she felt as if she could hear them cry, in a way, or rage, or sense their happiness, or worries.

She could always tell if someone was behind her or nearby, or even casting a glance on the rare occasion she was out getting supplies. Why then, when she stood in the window like a sentinel, did they never see her, whether in the full light of day or back-lit by the fire? How is it she could move right next to them, ride her bike right behind them and they did not sense her?

Sorting through a trunk that had some old clothes in it, she thought of someone that she used to know in college. How this person would trade in excessive superficiality and copycat-ism because likely she had not established enough of a real self. She collected all the accoutrements of the time, had big hair-sprayed bleach blonde hair, spiked wristbands. She didn’t care much about having all kinds of people she didn’t know that well at her apartment, or if she partied till sick or spent all her money on coke or the latest style of leather jacket.

The apartment seemed to be decorated with head-shop memorabilia, from elaborate colorful glass pot bongs to silver spoons strangely juxtaposed with girlie childish stuff, like black and pink stuffed kitties and assorted zebra-print seat covers. There were rock-fan books and concert programs, but no books in evidence.
Was all this even real or just the result of an unimaginative false and handy construction? Looking back from this far, she could see how her friend was perceived as much more ‘fun’. It didn’t make sense though. How could someone
only care about motley crue, boyfriend(s) drama, wasting money and drugs, yet be in these same classes and why did she even want to hang around me? Looking back, why did I ever want to hang around her? Maybe because it seemed she could do whatever she wanted. Her dad still paid the rent on her large 2 bedroom, 2 bath (plus walk in closet!) tower apartment near the college, maybe because it was rent-controlled, maybe because he didn’t want her to follow him to the outskirts of the east bay. Her mother was dead, some kind of illness. Though my own mother was creepy and cold-blooded, I still felt bad for her because of this, though it seemed as though she used the fact as a quick lever for sympathy rather than actually talking about things she remembered about her mom, or her qualities. I didn’t get this then- it was one of those things you can only figure out later, after one has lived more life and heard stories from more people.

The things we learn only over time. There were other people that came later- as ‘friends’ kind of well, similarly untrustable in the same way. Similarly indirect and weaselly in their approach to others, always angling to give out as little of themselves as possible. The inevitable pause when asked a common, innocuous question. The way they were selfish about the tiniest of things even after receiving much more “oh can I have my hair rubber-band back?” and much more concerned with arranging their rock/drug/mall memorabilia and keeping that in order than the well-being of their friends. How I actually believed at the time a phone call out of the blue saying “I miss you” actually meant ‘I’m calling to check where you are, I’m calling cause I want something, etc’.

Why then, when she had more money, more freedom, more ‘friends’ of whatever type than I did, why did she start to copy me, why did she want whatever I had, when I had so little? Why did she hear a terrible and true story from myself and then, later take the opportunity to make that story worse? She was awful and cruel and manipulative and fake but around the time I realized this was, I also realized all these things could easily come without a high degree of intelligence. She tole when she could have simply asked and received, or ‘earned’ most minimally. She lied when lying wasn’t necessary. Her lies were imitative, almost lifetime movieish in all their self-righteous, reproachful horror -“I’m terrified” “this is the worst thing/greatest thing I’ve ever done” Blah blah blah. I’m surprised she didn’t affect a British accent.

But for all the fake sweetness and continual lying, she didn’t get or perhaps it never occurred to her that one of her pawns could ever exceed her level of shining people on. Perhaps not in the same exact way that ‘friend’ did it, perhaps in a far more low-key, inscrutable way. ‘Friend’ went for the covert, yet spur-of-the-moment and hastily-slapped together. Even then, I looked at her betrayal as a kind of ‘art of war’ opportunity, though at that time I knew nothing of either Machiavelli or Sun Tzu. At that point, I hated her enough to accept that in order to avenge- it wasn’t really revenge, it was more complex than that- that I too, would bleed.

Chapter 1, The Lobotomist’s Runaway Daughter

Another cold night, in the car, listening to the waves. I would blast the heater and try to make sure the windows that were not functioning with the electric open mechanism were all the way up. Tiredness started to creep up on me, my eyes started to itch, even without my contacts in. Earlier today I got what is commonly called ‘the creeps’ which is not that uncommon for me, but this time it came out of nowhere. No, not what is called a ‘panic attack’ , no, it wasn’t that. It was something I could turn from, with some effort. Something I could manage to distract myself from.
I have heard some people describe the feeling of loneliness, but it wasn’t that. That must be like the feeling that occasionally overtook me when I felt something, anything at all and started to vacillate between wanting to cry and sort of scream, but not like a horror movie scream, it was more like a slow, low keening, something akin to howling but without the ooo oooo oooo that usually kicks off a dog or a wolf howl. It rarely turned into actual tears, or the tears would be separate from the sobbing sensation, the tears would leak out, only a couple, and then usually the feeling would go away, only to be replaced by the wanting to make a noise as if one was in pain. It was not like what people think of when they think of crying. Then it would pass relatively quickly.

The other night I stood by the lookout and listened to some type of music and tapped my foot or bounced my leg along to its spastic techno beat. It didn’t feel the way listening to normal music felt- it felt like sound meant to drive one into another mental space and it did. Let me see the dissociative off-ramp up ahead. In about 10 minutes of foot-tapping, it did. I became aware of it being cold outside. I felt like I had landed or was in the process of landing. I could feel myself going away from the state I had briefly visited, a kind of waving goodbye to that part of myself that had started to enter that frightening land of thoughts that mixed with emotions I could not identify.

How was that possible to feel something (really anything these days)and not know what it was? Imagine eating something unknown and tasting flavors that one did not have words for. Unnerving. Then it would sort of go away for a while like a receding tide but then mocking laughter knowing it would come back. I would pick up a scarf and smell it. Something that would bring back a feeling, a memory of that unidentified taste and at the same time, would separate thinking from the feeling, and never the the twain shall meet. As if there was some kind of referee I had never met that kept the two apart.

The referee was all business and would not tolerate the one side running away with the game. The referee had ultimate power over the other two- thinking and feeling.. although at times the referee’s job was too exhausting, at times the referee just had to sleep or took time off and forgot to notify thinking/feeling. They thought the ref was still there and went along as if that were the case. The problem lie in that when the ref was absent, one side would start to gain strength yet neither would know what the score was. It would just happen. One side would be bleeding out, yet not know it, and there was no one to stop the one side from continuing to smack the other silly.

Sometimes there would be a voice, whose was it? Mine? The voice might say it was afraid or that it felt weak , it would speak when the dissonance between the other two was great or of her own accord. Other times it would be more like poetry or a story. Sometimes I wouldn’t remember what the voice said, only that it was indeed me, not like some outside voice like people who had schizophrenia would describe, this voice was me and would speak not in my head. It was more like a narrator, yet still me. The narrator kept the rest of me tethered by a thin thread to what was happening in the now, real-time. Though I would not always remember all of what was said.

If it felt like fire, she would say so. The narrator was much kinder than the referee, though she appeared far less often. Was this narrator talking to someone else or to herself? Was she conveying things I was thinking or feeling or was she also telling me things, in either a direct or veiled way, like an oracle? It felt like both. It was hard to know whom to trust. The ref was like the adult, the narrator the child. One was like the waking mind, one was like the way things were conveyed in dreams. One told what to do, one told what one was doing, or reminded one of things like hot or cold. But sometimes neither one was there, they both went away.

Then she would feel physical things she usually didn’t notice, and would wonder if she had somehow fallen down or been hurt otherwise yet was unaware or didn’t feel any pain, like feeling a long hike the day after. A backache, a twinge here or there. During these times the other two would have shut up, as they were not needed. In this phase, all the physical, earthly things would be intensified although there was still some distance from them. That was almost all there was left.

Hunger, fear, sleepiness. Soreness. Dreams that were slow and mundane. A sense of having been consumed, the stillness of ashes. The freezing hands. Anemic pallor. What was all this? Remnants of humanity? All these physical things, puzzles to solve, distractions, at times simply annoying or unpleasant. It was always me who had received- but this….. now it was I who was left feeling I had graciously donated blood I did not have to give and it had left me bruised and weak. Cauterized. How was this possible? I was the oldest, I was the strongest.

Then another layer, another veil, feeling the cold or tiredness but being apart from it. Warmth, food and sleep not fixing it. Knowing there was no way to fix it. No one else noticing it. Then the cold feeling of being a ghost would come, and the physical stuff would subside -sometimes this would last a while. Could you repeat that? What was that last part again? Not answering the phone. Prescience. Being past the fear of the knowledge of ones aloneness and the realization of the inevitable finality and the void. There wasn’t enough strength here for either the ref or the narrator.

Rahm Emanuel’s New Police Chief Sucking up to Blacks- blames 2nd amendment, The Man, Sarah Palin for Crime in Chicago


, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 Government-sponsored racism? In Chicago? Wait, wasn’t Chicago one of those  places where they were going to get rid of the police test because it was automatically deemed ‘racist’ because blacks weren’t passing it? This video, can you say P A N D E R I N G?

When crack hos walk the street, and there’s a gun on everyone you meet, who do we blame?  WHITEY!

When the children can’t read, and more and more mouths to feed,who do we blame?  WHITEY!

When people worry about their seat, and they catch the scent of defeat, who do they attack?  WHITEY!

“The NRA does not like me and I’m OK with that. We’ve got to get the gun debate back to center with the recognition of who’s paying the price for the gun manufacturers being rich and living in gated communities.”

 One of these days, peeps, we’re going to have to talk about what being a political pimp is. We’re heard of poverty pimps, program pimps (think the do-nothing-give-us-your-cash-bitches type stuff and squirrely ACORNish stuff) but then there is just straight up, boot-licking, corn-syrup coated 976-HOTT, rile up the underclasses bullcrappity, like this douche.

He’s using his ‘I’m-on-your-side,we-hate-the-same-people-look-I-ripped-on-palin-i-hate-rich-white-people-even-though-i-probably-am-one-dont-let-that-stop-you-from-believing-i’m-on-your-side and-i-must-be-your-friend’ voice, mixed in with a little  let-me-entertain-you stand-up comedian. It’s like the class/race equivalent of ‘hey, your feet must be tired, cuz you been running through my head allll night, baby!’

According to January – May 2011 Chicago Police Department crime statistics, 56.1% of Chicago murders were gang-related. In 29.6% of these murder cases, the offender was an acquaintance, intimate partner or relative of the victim, while in 38.6% the relationship was not established. In 81.8% of cases, the assailant had a prior CPD record. 65.9% of offenders were African American, 38.1% were Hispanic, and 2.3% were white.

 “She (Sarah Palin) was caribou hunting, and talking about the right to bear arms,” he said. “Why wasn’t she at the crime scene with me?”

  You’re a  moron, McC.  Look at the stats. You think Palin and her “hey kids, look at that grizzly,isn’t it neat-o , it’s only feet away and it’s a mommy, like me? Oh, this is so cool! ” You think bagging on that, as head-scratching as that show was the one time I watched it- you think Sarah has anything the EFF to do with crime in Chicago? Palins, Tigers and Bears Oh My! You think whatever amount of white people that are left in Chicago have anything to do with this BS? You’re actually going to do race-preaching because you know it’s like some kind of soul strip-tease that people will go “oooh yeah mama, shake that thing!” and give you money, right? Oh wait, they’re already giving you money. Umm, you work for The Man.

This is just so effed up. And all those people taken in by this bullshit, yelling “yeah tell it!” and clapping, so desperate are they for someone to even pay attention to them, actually believing this dude gives a rat’s ass,thinking he’s on their side, when really they don’t have a side- no one wants Bill Cosby AKA Buzz Killington, lecturing about hey, stop having kids at 13, then 15, then 16 by different baby daddies, learn to effing read, and don’t  smoke crack and steal shit and rape and kill people . Being lectured is no fun. It feels insulting, embarassing and just sucks. So no one wants to be the mean, lecturing person- people want to be liked and popular n shyt- so- they blame Whitey AKA The Man. Even when ‘the man’ looks like the brady bunch mom on 5 hour energy drink (Palin).  

Anyway, The Man is a totally punked out biatch about now. When The Man was doing gubbmint sponsored real ‘racism’ n shyt, people were too afraid to be rapin, lootin and killin.  Now this wannabe, gubbmint ho is up there just trying to entertain yo azz and make you feeeeeellll better. We do the same shit here in the outer reaches of Whitelandia, only we pat ourselves on the back for all the good deeds we do instead of having this d-bag up there trying to make us think he’s cool and our friend.

No, we don’t care if our d-bags like us, we’re trying to look cool to each other- and we can only get cooler by being like Sean Penn or Bono and thinking we can save the world- and by having dudes blame The Man, meanwhile…. while he is ragging about NRA dudes living the high life, and oh he is so full of shyt- how many gubbmint poverty pimps/program panderers live awesomely- you know, like those TV preachers? So in the words of many a guest on Jerry and their practical…umm ‘wisdom’…, ‘he don’t know you, he don’t pay your bills and he needs to sit the eff down!”

It’s kinda like the way we white people blame our parents, blaming The Man is.  Sort of.  Except The Man isn’t really their ‘parent’ so we have these stand-ins*for The Man.  We’ve heard many, many lectures-based on-  do your homework,don’t pick your nose, be nice to animals,do return the favor re play dates and gifts, don’t smoke crack cause this momma and daddy won’t be reading you those gay-ass sad letters on ‘Intervention’ and paying your rent, do tell the teacher if some kid smacks you on the playground- don’t come back with a gun or knife and try to kill them, do not drink and drive, don’t talk mean about ex’s, do buy fair trade coffee, don’t spit on the street, do pay your bills on time, don’t wear inapropriate clothes in public, do tell your kids about pervs and how not to talk to them, believe they need any help from a kid, or believe any BS about how they’ll kill us if you don’t get in the van, don’t write bad checks, do write thank-you notes, don’t go in other people’s medicine cabinets,do remember to visit grandma, don’t double-dip in the peanut butter, don’t make yourself puke on purpose, do pick up your own socks and put them in the laundry and recycle n’ shyt. That’s just the beginning.

*I suppose one could call them ‘scape-ghosts’ for when you’re the only whitey in the room, you gotta invent the fake scape-ghost whitey to hate on, so everyone doesn’t turn on you.  

OK , and now… the suckuppery:


A-Hole Nation: Dystopian S-heads That Hate America




A retired U.S. Army chaplain is being threatened with legal action for flying the American flag in his front yard, the Daily Mail reports. Fred Quigley, 77, of Macedonia, Ohio, a minister who served active duty during the Vietnam War, has been told by the homeowners’ association that his flag violates the property rules.

Read more: http://nation.foxnews.com/american-flag/2011/06/26/us-veteran-faces-legal-action-flying-american-flag#ixzz1QQOlF8zG

Migliorini said: “We just want the rules and regulations followed. ”   
Seriously, who would complain about this guy and his flag? Why couldn’t the association guy just let it go? Think there was some little rule-following chicken pecking at little pieces of grain over and over, unable to see past their own shoes..”not following the rules, not following the rules, incapable of critical thinking….”  People are getting mighty fed up with this kind of crap, politically correct crap , and just crap in general. 
Maybe Quigley should rent out his condo/house to section 8ers and just write it off as a place to ever live himself- that will make those association aholes wish they let a military guy fly his flag. If they complain or come after him complaining, just say they are ‘Evilnaziracisthaters’ and sue them.  Or he could take to dressing up and walking around in uniform around the grounds, would they like that better? He needs to be creative about this.  I know the  ‘it’s not right, people pay attention, someone stop this’ is valid technically- but on the odd chance nothing happens and it is him against some ahole bureaucracy/legalism- well that’s where the creativity comes in. Singing. Has Quigley thought about that? I like Battle Hymn of the Republic.  It doesn’t matter if you can’t actually ‘sing’ -this isn’t American Idol, (Idolatry?) , just carry on Quigley, whenever the mood strikes you. 
 If they come after you for that, maybe you are disabled and they are discriminatory and disproportionately singling you out, ruining your legal right to “quiet enjoyment” .  Also, you do realize you may need a companion animal . Awww little yappy dog companion animals…and your companion yappy dog needs to wear a flag sweater. And it has a collar that plays the national anthem, as does your Christmas tree. Pretty sure companion animals supercede any of that association BS, but you might want to get a note from a doctor. I hope they are disabled compliant there and have all their zoning bullshit in order. If they want to play the shithead game, fine- just be a better shithead.


The Death Camp of Newspeak Douchbaggery gets a new member!


, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

(Remember Offensive Tweet Day is coming soon!)


blackwhite– The ability to accept whatever “truth” the party puts out, no matter how absurd it may be. Orwell described it as “…loyal willingness to say black is white when party discipline demands this. It also means the ability to believe that black is white, and more, to know black is white, and forget that one has ever believed the contrary.”

http://www.sanluisobispo.com/2011/06/23/1655872/musings-on-the-white-outmigration.html   This guy has it all backwards.

  He’s one of the ‘gaslighters’ ( look up the movie, you’ll get it)..he’s one of the ‘reality is not reality, your truth is not real’  snake oil salesmen. Note how even when he is about to launch into his picth about how horrible wanting to be among your own is, he has to use two qualifiers, the “hate to say it” and “embarassing”, trying to edge in there covertly, implicitly that it is bad and shameful to want this- and this is how they do it- they define the terms- then they decide to lump you into their construct and if you fit into their framework of whether you are a Good Person or an Evil Nazi. 


Do you believe it now, Winston? What’s 2+2?

You certainly couldn’t be just an average white person who wants to live around and with people he has stuff in common with, because this dork is setting the stage that if you are part of the white flight (“outmigration”- what are we, an effing flock of seagulls?) than you somehow are harming yourself ad civilization. How fucking  stupid do you think people are, scumbot?

   I saw another BS article today along the same lines, trying to convince us of the same type thing, though taking a different tack- that  being pro-them and not pro-us is a good thing, but being pro-us, is never, ever a good thing and of course prevents world peace, rainbows, unicorns, organic fields of strawberries for starving kids and so on. Here’s some of this guy’s  BS:

Or, much as I hate to say it, a few white Californians may have “outmigrated” because they wanted to live among people who looked like them and spoke the same language they do. That seems to be a deep-rooted human trait, although we’re embarrassed these days to admit it. It may be a residual survival trait from prehistoric times, when unquestioned tribal loyalty was all-important. But now it can cause strife.

crimethink – To even consider any thought not in line with the principles of Ingsoc. Doubting any of the principles of Ingsoc. All crimes begin with a thought. So, if you control thought, you can control crime. “Thoughtcrime is death. Thoughtcrime does not entail death, Thoughtcrime is death…. The essential crime that contains all others in itself.”

The Orwellian  Douchebag  continues: It’s like our appendixes, which may have served a useful digestive function in our more apelike ancestors. But now they’re useless. My Grolier Encyclopedia calls our appendix “an evolutionary relic.”If our relic appendixes become inflamed, they threaten our lives. If our relic aversion to people unlike us becomes inflamed, it threatens our civilization.

You are so full of shit I don’t even want to type your name.

Newspeak – The official language of Oceania. Newspeak is “politically correct” speech taken to its maximum extent. Newspeak is based on standard English, but all words describing “unorthodox” political ideas have been removed. In addition, there was an attempt to remove the overall number of words in general, to limit the range of ideas that could be expressed.


No, dude, it’s not useless. Yes, it is a survival trait, and natural and a good and very effective survival trait. What is threatening our civilization is exactly the opposite of your big brother doublespeak.What is threatening our civilization, once OUR civilization is exactly the opposite of the crap your tentacles slimed onto the net. 

 Seriously, you don’t get that you don’t go into another ‘tribe’s’ hood and think all is going to be sunshine and lollipops? Whenever we do that,and something inevitably bad happens, we get the blame simply for being there to begin with.

Liar who wrote that crap: do you actually believe your own lies or you just write them, the way people put chemicals in our food or market medications knowing they are harmful or may kill a whole bunch of us? So why do you LIE? What is in it for you? Do they pay you? Well? 

People are leaving, and as soon as the forced mixing programs hit a certain stage, everyone will bail, even if we take a loss, even if we leave with hardly anything at all. I know quite a few people who are liquidating, getting ready to leave, because of  ‘your city is too white, who cares what you had to sacrifice or how you worked or sacrificed, you WILL integrate because we will MAKE you. ‘  No, we don’t want the crime, the noise, the chaos. Why are we being esssentially punished?

You’ll just  have to keep following us around then, because no matter where you do these ‘implants’ it will then start to suck,  we will leave one by one or en masse, and your  plan will be ruined, as it has always been. Sure, there’s things we can do to make it harder for you and your plans, and we will- because people in general don’t like stuff artifically forced upon them-and of course it is always, always US who has to accept, to tolerate, to change, to ‘celebrate diversity’- no one ever tells the group  coming in, “hey look, don’t do this kind of stuff, people here don’t like it and they won’t like you if you do it. Including but not limited to….and have an orientation or something.

 Shouldn’t it be THEM who have to tolerate and accept? If we’re uncomfortable, or plain resentful, then we’re automatically ‘racist’ and wrong, without any examination of real reasons. They tell US that we are doing it wrong  no matter what we do, and we just need ‘ blanket tolerance’ .  Seriously , who would agree to a contract like that? You get to do whatever you want, and I’ll just deal. No.. that sucks!

No matter how hard you push this agenda, we don’t have to make it easier for you.  And fellow People of UnColor, do me a favor, and stop telling everyone where we are going, or not going. If anything, mislead the crap out of them. If you see them going down the wrong road- please, don’t correct them, let them believe whatever they want to believe. Keep it a secret and those who need to know, will- but the whole world doesn’t need to know. LIE to them. Purposefully. Convincingly.

Apparently, we have become another commodity, like gold. Would you tell people where your gold is stashed? No, I didn’t think so. So don’t broadcast where to go, or where you are going. We are the gold. We must be, because people want to ‘steal us’ or steal it from us and destroy it if they cannot have it, if they can nver ‘be it’. Like I wrote years ago about the concept of ‘hoarding whiteness’- they don’t get they can never actually have what we have, but they sure want it, or they want the end of it, whether it is us as a general group as people and destroying that in and of itself, or the destruction of homogenous populations in various locales.

So, no, liar- you are wrong about it being a bad thing. It’s a great thing for us and we want to keep it. They know this is what we want and they are hell-bent to wreck it, wherever it is- and we will find ways to keep it, even if we have to ‘think out of the box’. We would keep it even if you had us surrounded. Forcing ‘diversity’ upon us will only serve to further polarize us. Send all the moles you want, send all the people trying to ‘get in’, we will still stand aloof, we will still effectively shun you, no matter how close you are. The more you force, the more polarized and stratified it will get. Do you know about the meetings we are already having? Do you? Do you know there are fakes among your own?

Source for quotes on Orwell- http://www.newspeakdictionary.com/ns-dict.html

Your Own Personal Diversity Jaysus


, , , , ,

Note the line of ‘logic’ these women seem to follow when they decide to do this stuff. The first one, on the audio mentions getting drunk, a friend’s dare, breaking up with her boyfriend, job sucked… in this other case not dumping a guy, or getting drunk and making a bet with a friend but her job sucking + immigration debate + being brainwashed into thinking she had to become another one of Gawd’s Diversity Nuns- or should it be ‘None’ as in, none of my own children, because that would be selfish and I have to save/adopt the third world becaue I have given over mah laaafff to Diversity Jaysus.

Afflicted with I-have-to-be-a-hero-I-have-to-right-all-wrongs-
empathy-for-any-suffering, I-am-so-Noble-and-Good-let-me-prove-it-even-if
-my-life/job-is-so-empty-I-become-a-mother/savior-to-the-world extremist.

It seems like a type of ‘OCD that will never make it into the DSM’. Maybe this one woman will be luckier than the peace corp women,most who were raped, beaten, some raped and killed- whom I blogged about recently.

White woman investigates human right’s abuses : ” I never travel with armed guards” to the Congo? Really? Host says ” it’s dangerous but she feels she has to do it.” and “it was love at first sight (Congo)”. What?!! She used to be an investment banker but I guess felt that was empty and sucked. Her friend dared her while they were both drunk to apply for this Congo ‘save the world’ job. ” Then I had a huge fight with my boyfriend… I said, honey I’ve had it, I’m going to the Congo.” How crazy do you have to be to do that?

What person says “Eff it, eff this job, eff you dude, I’m going to the Congo.” And the ‘friend’? Well, friends don’t let friends go to the Congo. Or South Central Los Angeles- or the shitty part of Oakland. You don’t get your ‘friend’ drunk and then dare them to go to the Congo, and then because your friend dared you to-actually DO it. WTF , she was an investment banker, supposed to have a brain, can even do math- so… are they just effin crazy or what? How could your life ever suck that much that you would want to go there?

“I was working as a waitress in a cocktail bar (or an investment banker)..that much is true..but even then I knew I’d find a much better place, either with or without you..” Human League, 1982

This never would have happened had she had kids way before this, way before investment banking- she’d have plenty of people to look out for, manage, teach- and be important to. Sheesh even gardening or raising animals is better than this. Listen and weep. http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_732_Bearing_Witness_In_Congo1.mp3

“I have two daughters now and I would never ever let them join the Peace Corps,” said Adrianna Ault Nolan of New York, who was raped while serving in Haiti. http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/peace-corps-gang-rape-volunteer-jess-smochek-us/story?id=12599341

Lift up the receiver
I’ll make you a believer- I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver
Reach out and touch faith Depeche Mode, 1989

Next- woman returns to peace corp..Not going to the Rapin and Killin’ places, but China.. “I’d always wanted to travel,” said Cheshier…. “I wanted to go to other places and be around other cultures and other languages and be in a job where it was more fulfilling. ...I was very much into diversity and I thought it (immigration debate)was targeting a certain group of people.” Cheshier decided that she needed to be out helping different cultures and being in a diverse group of people. “It was like going back in time, about 50 to 70 years, and seeing things before pollution and technology had come in. It was wonderful,” she said. http://fremonttribune.com/news/local/article_448e58ea-9e7d-11e0-94b1-001cc4c002e0.html

La di da, tra la la…..unicorns, my little pony, fantasy island..cotton candy, camping on the patio, jiffy pop…..merry-go-round-horses, play make-up..wheeeeeeeeee!

What about this Diversity Nuns? Does THIS count? Does their suffering count?

“oh well that doesn’t count, that’s unfortunate but it’s not genocidal, blah blah,a nd it’s white people and they never count, because I learned in school, blah blah… and I can parrot back exactly what I learned cause I’m a good little girl and so and so scholar/diversity specialist/some BS ,artificially-elevated affirmatively-actionated-n-shyt-scammed-in-writer says we’re not oppressed, and they are well-respected so if they are famous and on TV and talk shows then it must be true, that it doesn’t count when bad things happen to us and you, haters really should read Some Scholarly BS on How White People are All Oppressive, Evil Aholes and if Bad Shit Happens to Them, well Eff Them (and if you don’t feel guilty by the end of this book/lecture/forced seminar and write about it the way we taught you, you FAIL).

Oh, and all voices MUST be heard, umm well, must be heard within the neat little boundaries of sitting on a little mat during circle-time,clapping and singing when and how WE tell you to-and if you aren’t sitting on your little mat and clapping and singing the way we taught you to, there’s going to be a conference about medication..because no one calls us boring and stupid,that’s just disrespectful, mean and not being a good global citizen. You’re just WRONG.And Mean and Bad.” EFF YOU, SYSTEM. YOU FUCKED ME, now it’s MY TURN, and I’m going to punk you out.

Today’s ‘Offensive’, Dystopian, D-bag News..


, , , ,

Continuing with the theme of Everyone is Offended….oh and everyone does know that Offensive Tweet Day is coming up, don’t they? Let the world beware, hmm.

woman thinks a container of dip dumped on her porch is a hate-crime “LAGUNA HILLS – A woman called the police at 7:23 p.m. on Sunday from 24400 block of Marquis Court and said someone threw a bowl of tabouleh salad on her patio and she thinks it’s racially motivated because it’s food from the Middle East and she is not Middle Eastern. She later called back and said it was not what she thought it was.”


More lameness : “The Offensive Behaviour at Football and Threatening Communications Bill is expected to be passed in time for the new season in July….The bill – which faces its first vote in parliament later on Thursday – aims to stamp out abusive behaviour from football fans whether they are watching matches in a stadium, in the pub or commenting online.”


omg, someone said something about rednecks-
“In the video, Farmer makes jokes about Eastern Kentucky during a performance at the Derby Dinner Playhouse in Clarksville, Ind. Farmer joked that Eastern Kentucky is a place where “cars are on blocks and houses are on wheels.” He says someone told him the FBI would not investigate a particular county “cause all the DNA is alike and there ain’t no dental records.”


Proposed Ban on goldfish in SF
Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2011/06/16/san-francisco-wants-to-ban-goldfish-to-prevent-their-inhumane-suffering/#ixzz1Q5FdhYJ0

Gratuitous scary J-Hahn pic  http://www.americanprogress.org/issues/2011/06/rab_062111.html

Chinese food place names itself after the valley girl college chick’s you tube video  Ching-chong Ling -long whatever  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/disgrasian/ucla-chinese-food-deliver_b_880897.html

Ann Landers, ex-advice maven tweeted  about telmundo http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/06/22/margo-howards-blagojevich-tweet_n_882019.html

In March, Russian champion Zenit St. Petersburg was fined $10,000 after one of its fans offered a banana to Roberto Carlos at a pre-match ceremony.  http://www.usatoday.com/sports/soccer/2011-06-22-440211796_x.htm

More UN-PC tweeting , this time by someone names Cee-Lo (? who is this?)

“I respect your criticism, but be fair! People enjoyed last night! I’m guessing you’re gay? And my masculinity offended you? Well f*** you!” http://insidetv.ew.com/2011/06/22/vicci-martinez-cee-lo-green-apology-tweet/

this dude all worked up over facebook ‘hataz’ posting crap he doesn’t like,  lovely sentiments such as “I’m gonna keep talking sh*t to these white f*ggots until they unlike my page. f*cking weirdo stalkers!”“p*ssy a** white boys make me sick man..YALL BEEN f*ckING WITH US SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME..how can you say “i hate you…f*ck RACIST I HATE YOU” http://hiphopwired.com/2011/06/13/soulja-boy-goes-off-on-haters-on-facebook/

and this dude is oh so very sorry he was hoping to see some hot chicks… wow, not hot chicks. O>M>G> really?

Councillor John Parker says he’s sorry for an indiscreet tweet, in which he referred to meeting “hot chicks” while attending a Heritage Toronto event Monday.

“To the extent that offence has been taken I regret that and accordingly apologize for it today,” he said on Tuesday.  That is so weak.


 Random: I hear Mel’s dating a shortish Greek goth chick. Being a half-Greek, shortish ex-goth myself, I’m betting  she can handle it. Oh no, now the baklava craving is back.  http://www.iol.co.za/tonight/gossip/risque-model-is-mel-s-new-flame-1.1085492

ACORN, remember them, the people that brought you  ‘pads for pimps’?  Yeah well, “The Supreme Court isn’t going to listen to ACORN argue that they really should be eligible for federal funding.”   GOOD!


White people -of course described as “angry” like to live in the mountains around other white people, DUH-HEY.  OMFG, like this is  news.  Ya, we farm stuff and sit around campfires playing guitar, shovelin’ snow, riding horses and building stuff and eating  sausages and drinking copious amounts of awesome imported beer talking about the old bitchin’ camero we used to have in the 80’s, before everything started to officially suck- real angry stuff, them white people up in dem mountains.  Quick , gubbmint  start a program, it’s too white OMFG screamm of horrrorrr ! (they still won’t be invited even if you give ’em free rent,And the black people and the brown people and the yellow people and all of sesame street are so effin freaked that they aren’t invited to these soirees. Uh-huh. Like they give a shit.)   http://gawker.com/5814365/%7CcommentLink%7C 

Some actual angry white people  http://gawker.com/5733427/angry-man-screaming-jew-at-congressman-is-not-a-great-face-for-tea-party  kind of tough to know exactly what was said and what the hell was going on in this. Lot of awesome yelling and screaming though. Hey, how come all these la raza groups can yell and scream but when we do it, it’s The End of the Freaking World. I guess we’re just not allowed to be pissed off. F-that.

Obsessed with Grammar – yes, it’s true. I commit grammatical faux pas all the time, but I’m dealng with it, with help of a support group. In fact, there’s this secret medication they give white people so we can cope with the multitudes of grammatical crimes we see committed constantly. http://jacksonville.com/opinion/blog/403838/phillip-milano/2011-06-22/dare-ask-are-white-people-obsessed-good-grammar

oh and speaking of being of the caucasian persuasion- we’re a minority officially-  I want free shit now! We all probably knew this was already the case, guess they figured, they couldn’t hide it from us any longer, now that they are going to start drectly pandering to all these other groups. Man, that mountain hideaway thing with the beer is looking better and better. Does that mean with all my awesome GRE scores and grades, I might now get accepted into a non-private university graduate program ?

Guess we can thank the Mormons that there are any white people left at all- yeah I know, they’ve got  the intolerance for The Gays, an issue I don’t really care about much, except for the parades. We all got sold the idea to paranoiac levels- that having a kid was like climbing Everest, practially undoable on every level, or at least until one had saved up prodigious amounts of cash, a 401K, had a BMW or at least a prius- you had to Have Your Shit COmpletely Together and then, you had to take classes and hire experts -all this whilst, you know,  all these other groups had the idea that they wouldn’t have to decide between  children and long-term care insurance, because if every generation has kids young, there’s someone there to watch the grandchildren and enough people young enough and around to help with grandparents.



Something rotten in Denmark..

gag-worthy thing not to tell your kids, from this film:  ” there are no evil people, only those who are sad and don’t have love in their lives. “   Oh that is such a crock ! Isn’ that straight out of douchebag Barney the Dinosaur? Just lie still and take it, Barney, I won’t leave any marks.

“This week’s film comes from director Ole Bornedal (Nightwatch, Nightwatch), and it shows us that white people are violent and racist bastards no matter the language..From the knee-jerk reactions and mob mentality of the film’s obvious bad guys to the misguided and ill-advised “heroics” by Johannes, the film’s final stance is that the real world sits uncomfortably between the ideal definitions of right and wrong. That and the fact that white men are total pricks.” 


Look Ma, attorney slimeballs on board! (give us your cash bitch thing continued)


, , ,



Above link- lawyers are now in full wannabe badass mode, take your video down or…. hmm, wait, what about that free speech thing? I suppose if they had some dude who looked like he was hawking ibuprofen with the hair sprayed comb-over talking in that ‘I’m not a Dr, but I play one on TV’ voice, that would have been ok. Most serious middle-aged white dude voice “Do you want money that your kids could use for college spent on this?”

Even though money actually did go to gang dudes, past or present, incarcerated or not, of whatever freaking color/background/ethnicity.. and Hahn was the person who was behind that program… the video is not a lie- they are just kvetching about the presentation- who says political ads have to always feature the fake doctor types? Who says politics isn’t offensive in and of itself? When was it not nasty, catty, brutal and even disgusting? Really?

Or is it a threat because it tells it like it really is, and is attention-grabbing and easily understood even to ADD texting-obsessed millenials- an age group that usually either completely doesn’t give a shit about politics or will turn into tree-sitting trustafarians at the drop of a hackey-sack- meaning they are ‘for’ whoever is perceived as picked on, or they at least want to be perceived as being for the underdog- as long as the underdogs aren’t off-leash in their gated hoods- and maybe even that group might see it and start thinking- if only out of self-interest- hey, that money that is taken from my mom and pop out of their taxes for this BS, that could have been my new IPAD/VW/Ugg boots and instead it is going to Julio the drug-lord!

No, you don’t get to implement idiotic policies like paying gang members to be ‘gang intervention specialists’ and not get an Idiocracy-like backlash. They totally deserve it and let’s hope there are even more in-your-face type ads that counter-protest that very same idiocy.

The attorney letter is the thing that is insulting, assuming that everyone who sees the video will be offended- the whole ‘this harms womyn, this harms the black folk, this gives you cavities, yeast infections, and might even make you learn Linux…’ making the assumption that people who see it are just too dumb to get the point- or at least trying to trade on the Always Offended crowd. Surprised Gloria Allred herself hasn’t laptop-jacked Ehlinger, but maybe she’s busy trying to get Hahn to give some of that green for Whitman’s illegal alien ex-maid.

Acting as if a political attack video is any worse than what’s on television on any reality show, and as though politics is about niceness and non-offensiveness- that’s just beyond disingenuous (wanker-gate text-pic anyone?), and just shows how threatened these doofuses are. Maybe they are afraid there will be still more modern-day portrayals of the scam of endless do-nothing and demographic-coddling programs,which = their made-up jobs, because no doubt there is an entire cadre of ‘gang interventionist’ managers/admins/directors/promoters,and similar lame ideas- and they certainly don’t want their cash taken away.

These d-bags can apologize to the tax-payers for wasting our money, and these lawyers can apologize for insulting our intelligence and by proxy, defending wasting our money. They have the right to have their panties in a bunch, sure- but Ehlinger also has the right to twist them up that way- it’s called free speech. So back the fuck off, censorious shitheads, this isn’t a library.

a place where you won't find many gang intervention specialists

So yeah, I guess they can ‘suck it’…


 (response  to attorney letter)

Video : ‘Give us your cash, bitch!’


, , , , , , , , ,

Ok so there’s some chick in LA, last name of Hahn who implemented some program where they pay gang-bangers to umm, stop being gang-bangers- the whole let-me-bribe-you-into-being-a-normal-person-get-good-grades-use-birth-control-stop-doing/selling-drugs , usual uppity crap from these visualize-whirled-peas, my-other-car-is-a-broom, coexist-bumpster-sticker, U2canmakeadifference when we know nothing works-

I have to include the creator’s webcached version as some jigglypuff-flavored rainbow douche at sfgate encouraged 4chan types to attack the site because he thinks it’s raaaacithst- totally blowing off 1) the point of the video, which is, hey peeps, you want your money paying gang-bangers for anything, let alone some lame-ass program (ugh not another one)? … 2) the gangsta rap thing is totally relevant to the message- the sfgate dude makes it all about black, and oh, it’s soooo damaging to interracial blah blah…. when that isn’t the point, nerd- and by the way, if you watched the video, you would have noticed there are plenty of white and white-ish photos of various criminals portrayed as well. The gangstah rap thing is obviously aimed at this Hahn’s lousy ideas.
Oh, and word, nerd- there are black gangsta dudes whom very well may be beneficiaries Hahn’s lame-o ideas. 3) the video is illustrative of the way many look at stupid white liberal ideas, which is ‘ If they’re offering it, take it’, ‘get paid’ and that kind of crap. which leads to 4) – the how shall we say it- pandering aspect of the video- Ehlinger is just calling it as he sees it, and if the 41 flavahs sfgate dude whines that this all came about because of mexicans , fine, then the pandering glove fits even mo’ bettah (therefore you can’t acquit, bro) right?

There’s more of them- mexicans- than there are of you -black- correct? Think these I’m-so-high-minded,charity-attending, jamba-juice swilling types give a crap about that, rainbow nerd? That they are moving you down a rung on the totem pole? No, they only care about numbers. What do the politicans care about giving any color gangstas money? It ‘s not their money they are passing out-The politicans are at once the pimp and da ho, pandering to the population it thinks will become old enough to vote any second now- mexicans- and selling themselves out in the process. This gang program crap, everyone knows those don’t do shit, it is all about votes, getting and staying in power.

You actually think this video is about black, rainbow nerd? You don’t actually think that, do you? You have some newspaper gig, you’re supposed to be smart! uhhhh.can’t.hold.back.the.lol.

The video is a correct portrayal of what is happening and totally does what it is supposed to do. Anyway, there it is. Go Ladd- http://filmladd.com/

Click on small picture for screenshot of post-



Counselor Troi’s Sofa (revised)


, , , ,

         He now wears what looks to be a permanently semi-horrified zombie like look on his face, as if he has only now just seen an accident, or stumbled upon a body. His eyes look as if he has not quite gotten back from whatever it was he saw, and tired. He has lost weight but it doesn’t look good, it is the sickly, empty balloon type of weight loss. He is not an official ‘person of color’ but his color is bad. It is the wan, yellow color of bad food,despair,regret,alienation, exhaustion.. prison. He looks right at me, though it feels like straight through me to the wall.

I know he is not enjoying this, that it it just all part of the requirements, part of the release. I want to make it not as bad, without seeming condescending, without seeming overly-maternal- yet also not seem professional to the point of him adding me to the roster of his judges, as I am not. He sits on the couch rather than any of the chairs, and seems to take up the whole thing, his legs creating a kind of table with their length.

He has the uneasy and slow grace of the imprisoned giant he has so recently been. He does not stretch out. He keeps his hands in his lap, as if still cuffed. I come around the desk and sit in the chair to the side of the couch. He looks up but doesn’t move. I’m relieved there appears nothing squirrelly, shifty or mercurial in his face, his speech or movements- in fact, I feel like I’m on the far end of barely the same solar system-  this is like the planet Neptune, slow-moving, large, remote.

“I fucked up,” he says. ” I know I did. I go over it all the time. I dream about it- but I didn’t mean to do it. I wasn’t trying to kill him, I was going to tazer him, he kept resisting- but I didn’t mean to kill him- I can’t change it, and people don’t believe I’m sorry, but I am, I am so fucking sorry.”

” I believe you.” I say, looking at his hands.  Pause. “I believe you didn’t mean to kill him.”

        “Well, some people don’t. They think I meant to. They think I’m not sorry- but I am.” With his left hand, he starts playing with a shoelace. ” I feel like shit. For what happened, and like shit for even worrying that I will always be seen as some evil trigger-happy psycho. I’m at fault for fucking up, grabbing the wrong thing, I’m at fault for killing him, but I wasn’t out to kill anyone. We’re not supposed to strong-arm people, if it didn’t happen like it did… I could have restrained him, but we’re supposed to not touch them more than we have to-and I shouldn’t have been afraid, but I was. Not really afraid of him, but afraid of a situation-that could have gotten out of control-it wa already out of control to a point-but if I had control of the situation, if I knew what I was fucking doing I would have grabbed the right thing..and I didn’t. ” He looks up from the shoes, as if he is in trouble right now, as if he is waiting for me to either approve or scream at him that whatever he said isn’t good enough.

For all of our gifts, we are flawed- we are idealistic more than realistic , sometimes quick to anger and deny when things aren’t as they should be, instead of doing at least the first step of the AA creed, something about at least admitting there’s a problem. This guy probably doesn’t even have the flaws a lot of us have. I get that pain in some center place that tells me I won’t be having any more coffee today and stuff is rumbling around. Or is it Iam just hungry?  He certainly isn’t doing the typical stuff that makes the squirrelly/weaselly things an easy scent to catch once one knows what to sniff for.

He might be retreating, defensive, mentally locked down for fear of his own sense of anger over being vilified to this degree- but he is not hiding lots of bad secrets. He doesn’t have what I would call for lack of a better phrase- psychic pimples, or…imagine, like a porcupine. He doesn’t have lots of invisible barriers, like those laser alarms in banks.

 He shows me a couple photos. A cute child, a woman who also bears  an ‘M’ name – that looks vaguely like my sister, the branch of the gene pool that skipped my father’s side and looks like grandpa. I have seen these or similar ones in a file, but I’m glad he is showing me himself. It’s a good sign- life-affirming – outside of this shitty context, would be the normal thing to do, and I would show him pictures in return. But because of this framework, this construct , I cannot be just a ‘person in return’- it sucks, I can’t give back, I have to be behind glass, behind my own wall, this particular format of a construct of something bigger- something bigger which I which I hate and try to subvert very chance I get, every chance I recognize another construct. They don’t serve us, they kill us-and the Others too for that matter.  It’s not just me noticing this. There’s others. Lots of others. If you take me down, it won’t take everyone.

        “Do you want to tell me the story of that day?” I ask. I have already read about it plenty, but I’m hoping he will go through it for what is probably the thousandth time. He does, a few different times, but the story stays essentially the same , only the little details of things that happened during other parts of the day change, things remembered in retrospect. I thought he would be angry- the kind of fake-anger-seeming men have when they are actually scared, depressed- defensive. I thought he would put the focus on justifying how things played out that day, but he doesn’t.

 He comes back from the place he hides a few times, the place that makes his eyes have that dull, dead look-the shut down place. I remember writing about being haunted by the living, and this is what is happening with him, except he is haunted by himself and that day, stuck in a kind of loop of the events of that day, and the days that followed until now.

It is as if he driving and almost falling asleep, and when he startles himself awake, he realizes he is lost- he is still looking for landmarks, anything that might render this new universe easier to navigate-some evidence of the familiar- but he doesn’t trust himself or the hostile landscape and there is no one to ask for directions. There is just him and that day and life before and after.I try to tell him some easier-to-make-sense-of version of this but he just stares at me.

         “You don’t have to convince me.” I say, breaking the rules by touching his hand, though quickly and lightly- conveying emphasis rather than intimacy. “You have to convince yourself, and then you can stop trying to convince everyone else and move to the next level. ” But he doesn’t see a way out of the loop just yet. I start thinking of Dante’s Inferno and wished I hadn’t said ‘level’, but hopefully he doesn’t make the same connection.

“What’s the next level? I can’t do anything to change it, what do they want? .there might be a lawsuit against the city, I don’t know..-but I can’t go back ” he sighs- it comes out shaky and exhausted.

“But you are going back- you keep going back to that day. You’re not ready for whatever is next until you come to terms with it. Maybe you won’t be for a while. Until you get out of the convincing and approval so you feel better, endlessly judging yourself , stuff like thinking anything good you do doesn’t count now, feeling like you’re stealing for enjoying time with your boy-right now it’s how you are getting by, because you don’t have any other way to function except going into hard protective mode or shutting down- what’s the alternative, falling apart?right now this convincing, defending -it’s how you are making an attempt at …it’s not really forgiving yourself- we don’t have a word for it in English- you already know anything you say is never going to be good enough for the people… for whom this is a cause, people who see it…..”

He’s smarter than I thought and knows where I am going without me having to go all the way there for him. I’m grateful.

            “As a race thing? Yeah of course they see it as a race thing- those people see me as The Man, like I was waiting to take one of them out- and they are seeing one situation applying to every fucked up thing that’s ever happened to them from cops or whoever but this wasn’t that- this was an accident, a fatal accident-and not even of judgment- I meant to just taze him- just a pathetic error, a fucking stupid mistake and I’m sorry, damn am I sorry and that’s the difference- I’m not The Man , I’m just a man and this wasn’t one of those him or me type situations… I’ve seen that, people get shot because we’re trying to protect ourselves too…Now they are making this guy a martyr for their cause which is trying to make me everyone who put someone up in a tree or dragged someone from a truck.. but that’s not me, and they’re trying to make that me, and yeah I do resent that. I’m not a hero and will probably never be, but neither is he. I can’t make him come back alive from my mistake and I have to live with it-and the death threats- but he’s not their hero either. He shouldn’t have been resisting, all kinds of shit was going on, people were trying to run away hand-cuffed and get back on the train, people yelling and screaming, people trying to get close and take pictures with their cell phones- we both fucked up -only I fucked up a lot worse. I got death threats that are always about all that other shit that doesn’t have to do with what happened that day at the train station. They’re going to say it does, but it doesn’t. A man can get hurt and it doesn’t have to do with all of that. A man can get killed and it doesn’t have to do with all that. “

I know, kiddo, but when one invokes the magical ‘White Privilege Rumplestiltskin’ goblin and mixes that formulae with  ‘The  (Evil White) Man’ i.e., in this case, cops- why- then of course it must have to do with any kind of historically fucked up stuff. In fact, it always does, and it’s always Whitey’s fault, meaning it doesn’t matter in their context what actually went down, the story is going to get fed into the oppressed peoples narrative and this kid is going to come out the grinder like some grand cyclops dragonmaster, or whatever the hell they’re called. Which is so much bullshit.

Just like a man can get hurt and it isn’t about racial stuff, sometimes shit can also seem unfair and it still isn’t racially related from their side, the cop’s side- and if anyone thinks it’s a good idea that you can resist or give cops crap, that’s just stupid, stupid from the angle if one is white and thinks they will certainly be cool and not bust you because of that, because they’re your ‘friends’.. (you don’t really think that , right?), so you get mad and act out when they do bust you-while you’re all belligerent and drunk and having a fight with your old lady- well, that’s not a smart move, and it’s also stupid from the point of view ‘oh, I’m a minority, if they do anything, I’ll sue the crap out of them like whatshisname down in LA did and got a few million dollars, or I can try to break loose and run for it , because they’re too afraid to put their hands on me, even if I deserve it because I’ll say they ‘profiled’ me or some other discrimination shit that has nothing to do with what actually happened… ‘

I’m thinking now of the four dead cops in one day from one guy- the Lovelle Mixon case out of Oakland, but of course I don’t mention it. Mixon is dead but it doesn’t make up for the four he killed,doesn’t bring them back to their families- or the fact the Mixon’s sister was packing AK’s or whatever in her apartment and he probably knew it. Maybe there wouldn’t be four dead without her help, maybe there would be ‘only’ one or two. It’s really hard not to keep score on how many cops get killed by thugs all the time versus this, or the shootings that end up killing random people on the street. I think of a recent news article I read out of Redwood City, a three month old shot dead in a car-bullets meant for the adults- teenagers arrested, gang retaliation supposedly the motive.


                           ” I guess we’re going to do this again, ” he says. “It’s part of the whole thing ,right?”

 “Yeah, it is. ” I tell him, ” but it’s your choice whom you see.”

                                 ” I don’t want to have to start over, I’ll come back next week.” he says and sets another appointment. I try to think of something encouraging to say, something that is solid.

” It doesn’t feel like it now, but this isn’t going to be what defines your whole life. ” I do believe that, but as soon as it’s said, it sounds trite and I almost regret it.

                    “I hope that’s true, ” he says. “Monday at 2, ” and closes the door after himself. In a moment I hear the click of the lock of the back entrance of the building  and a car’s engine.

Only Skin Deep?



This slideshow requires JavaScript.

For his part, Hess — one of the leaders of the anti-circumcision movement and president of the Male Genital Mutilation Bill — told the San Francisco Chronicle that he and the people pushing the bill “we’re not trying to be anti-Semitic. We’re trying to be pro-human rights.”

just for  lols, this isn’t umm my crusade or anything..but apparently it’s important to some, and yeah I know about the whole grody rabbi ritual thing- that is totally creepy.

Read more: http://dailycaller.com/2011/06/07/foreskin-mans-antisemitism-may-only-be-skin-deep/#ixzz1OqTlUEGQ

Alabama: No Welcome Mat for those Breaking and Entering


, , , , ,

Well I heard mister Young sing about her
Well, I heard ole Neil put her down
Well, I hope Neil Young will remember
A Southern man don’t need him around anyhow

                                                                                  Sweet Home Alabama, Lynyrd Skynyrd

Alabama vaulted past Arizona on Thursday with what is being called the most restrictive law in the nation against illegal immigration, requiring schools to find out if students are in the country lawfully and making it a crime to knowingly give an illegal immigrant a ride.….also allows police to arrest anyone suspected of being an illegal immigrant if the person is stopped for some other reason. In addition, it requires all businesses to check the legal status of workers using a federal system called E-Verify.

Among other things, the law makes it a crime for landlords to knowingly rent to an illegal immigrant. Another provision makes it a crime to transport a known illegal. Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/politics/2011/06/09/alabama-governor-signs-tough-illegal-immigration-law/#ixzz1OqJpuuiq

Color me impressed.I want  to be happy for you, all my overall-wearing  300 thread-count friends , but I know what it might mean for California, which is oh goody, more for us so they can beat us up and stab us at ball games ( Bryan Stow, Tim Griffith)..and basically continue to break us. You heard about the fire department in Alameda that lets people drown, right?  Well, now the prison system is full- gee how the heck did that happen? I bet it has something to do with the flood of illegals and their criminal, gang bullshit and generations of it. No wonder I heard the other night the gun store can’t keep ammo in stock- but sincerely- good for you, Alabama, for not taking it lying down and ‘squealing like a pig’, so to speak- you know, like we do out here, land o fruits and nuts and wussies.

I know, I know- Southern people are polite , not full of blackshirted hate like us- oh wait,I forgot- yeah, some of ya’ll are!  If I only had a Dunhill to celebrate with.  Sigh.

There still is the weirdness that you should have to come up with any new law to just follow the one that is already there, right? Or am I wrong? But if this is  the way it has to happen, someone has to be hardcore and do something and I hope for your sake it sticks. When the lawsuits start, FIGHT THEM, damn it. Don’t let these groups intimidate you- if you don’t do anything it will be like out here,  the second census data counts enough 18 year olds, will sell your state out too.

Smurf Nazis Must Die!

(title of post refers to a 1987  low budget flick ‘Surf Nazis Must Die’)


“Does that not remind you of anything? A political dictatorship, for example?” asks Buéno, going on to compare the Smurfs’ world to a totalitarian utopia reminiscent of Stalinist communism (Papa wears a red outfit and resembles Stalin, while Brainy is similar to Trotsky) and nazism (the character of the Smurfs’ enemy Gargamel is an antisemitic caricature of a Jew, he proposes). A story about the Black Smurfs, meanwhile, in which the Smurfs are bitten by a fly which turns their skin black and renders them unable to speak, has colonial overtones.

‘Hate Gestures’ ? Supreme Court? Really?


, , , , , ,

 Your tax dollars at work in California! No free speech, Mein Bureaucratic  Fuhrers!   We need another law, we need court, we need more lawsuits!

Even if you’re not a Nazi, but your name is Norse and you made The Gesture in Question in reaction to someone being the usual ‘your time is up, get off the podium!’ stuff and not even as a political statement, and you are championing the right to speak of someone with the last name of Zeman-and you did it with your left arm- doesn’t matter- no matter how lame, it’s so not cool that  the guy has to be arrested and this whole BS should go to the supreme court ?

They couldn’t have just ignored it, the one guy had to act like an officious little tattle-tale and make a huge deal of it. I wonder how much this crap is going to cost Santa Cruz. I kinda have to take the homeless hippie’s side on this one. 

I wonder, would it have gone this far if the guy had simply flipped him off? These are the dudes running things, acting worse than girls. Is this what men do instead of crying, calling girlfriends or writing in journals? They flex their teeny bureaucratic muscle. Where’s my black bandanna to cover my face and go out and burn stuff? Oh wait, I forgot, I’m a fascist- according to my Hate Mail, I’m supposed to like these douchebags, right?

Please step away from the microphone. Ma’am please step away from the microphone.  Said in that blah cop monotone.  You know how this crap goes. They push, making it a big deal for her not to finish her deal on wasting money rousting sleeping homeless, so she escalates and starts mewling away ‘why can’t, I don’t see why…waaa’ – soon all hippie hell breaks loose. “uhhh derr out of orderrr , let the record show that Mr. Norse made a Nazi salute and should be removed.. arghhh against the dignity of (something) …should be removed….” Oy the trauma, let’s take a recess. Then there’s what looks to be a real cop shows up, all gung ho to arrest this homeless hippie Santa. This happened in 2002 but the furor still rages on :

Robert Norse :I’ve offered to settle a costly lawsuit. I’ll drop my financial demands for tens of thousands of dollars in the “two-second mock-Nazi lawsuit” if the city of Santa Cruz will stop wasting money on ticketing homeless people for sleeping where they must at night. But Mayor Ryan Coonerty and his Council say no.

In the last year the city spent more money on police, hosts and private “security.” For what? To bust the poor for sitting on a public bench for more than an hour? For smoking a cigarette outside the library after it’s closed? For holding up an “End the Sleeping Ban” sign at City Hall at 10:30 at night? Cops spent public money to take all these “crimes” to court last year…..

Let’s end such costly stupidities as last year’s seven-day infraction trial for singing homeless songs near Mayor Coonerty’s Bookshop Santa Cruz, the week-long misdemeanor Peace Camp 5 trial for sleeping, and the city attorney’s personal appearance to convict Wes Modes of walking in a New Year’s eve parade.


SANTA CRUZ – In an effort to give government leaders greater authority to control public meetings, the city of Santa Cruz has urged the U.S. Supreme Court to hear an appeal of a free speech case brought by a persistent City Council critic who was arrested after making a Nazi salute and refusing to leave….http://www.mercurynews.com/breaking-news/ci_18241694

Lawyers for the city argue in a petition filed with the nation’s highest court this week that officials nationwide need better guidance on limitations for maintaining order during public proceedings. The city notes that courts do not tolerate “hate gestures” similar to the one made by Robert Norse – who claims his ejection from a March 2002 council meeting violated the First Amendment – and therefore cities shouldn’t have to, either.

Norse, 63, a resident of Santa Cruz and Felton, said the appeal, formally called a petition for a writ of certiorari, demonstrates city leaders are “thin-skinned and thick-walleted.” He said, “They want the power to intimidate critics that are clearly not being disruptive.”


Movie: Limitless


, , , ,

Eddie Morra has the world by the balls, or at least he feels like it, save for those troubling side effects of NZT.  Having been treated to a depressing lunch by a condescendingly kind ex, and recognized wandering through the streets by his ex-brother-in-law living his unfocused, unmotivated, drug and alcohol addled life out of a fleabag in NY, he feels like there is nowhere to go but up. Then he discovers NZT ,which seems like almost a kind of meth* for rich people- and  he is suddenly endowed with what looks to be almost magical mental powers, he learns to speak any language, gets any chick, kicks anyone’s ass, out-thinks any situation, makes tons of money and does so in an aging-ex-druggie-loser-turned Equllibrium/Matrix-pretty-boy-Matthew McConaughey/Gavin Newsom hybrid with super-blue contact lenses  kinda way-even getting the better of De Niro. There’s a few plot flaws that are glaring enough for most to say ‘how could he have not thought of that?’ but those may have been intentional- which poses a challenge to the movie’s title, if it is indeed limitless after all-because magic pill or not, you are still you- even when you think you have overthought it all.

Ok, that said…  NZT seems to also create a Hollywood version of what is now called bi-polar disorder, previously called manic-depression. This film is disturbing – but not surprising-the striving  to make desirable ‘enhanced’ qualities one gets from drugs- and a state that  mimics what people feel like who have manic-depression, not super-ability- I prefer this to the ‘bi-polar’  as it seems more descriptive- as most of us go through highs and lows but we have some ability to regulate ourselves either by various means, external or internal- friends, sports,hobbies, volunteering, creative outlets…but the M/D people don’t seem to have that resource though they go to great lengths to hide it- when they can. 

Here the idea is reinforced that we need to be falsely ‘improved’ and that improvement is magical, pharmaceutical and extreme- real life is sucky, shyttty and generally demoralizing and humiliating  as well as the portrayal of yet another white male- gaining self-acceptance, success, attention while on said pharmaceutical/magic powers crap behaving as if he is manic much of the time yet perceiving that as having control and feeling great-it is to testosterone appeal what I suppose those ‘are you sad?’ zoloft-type ads are for women,where one minute you are in bed practically comatose and crying, or staring past your kids at some geraniums that are wilting before your eyes- the next you are dining on some tropical beach with a freakin’ silver fox. Right.

There is also a very sneaky meta-message…that a lot of guys are Eddie Morra before, and you , the viewer- are probably one of them. It is not the message of Bond or what I call action-d*ck -a/d films, where the viewer is in on the fun. It is meant for the viewer to identify with pre-NZT Eddie, the Eddie who has been twice-dumped, can’t work or pay his rent, and when the shit wears off, always has effed up hair and is somehow way less pretty than the ‘after’ Eddie. Thus it can’t be lumped in with white guy feel-good a/d films or even Mad Men-ish middle-agey, old-timey feel-good stuff.

Nope, none of those guys in those type shows started off as a loser than I remember. None of those guys got anything because of dope- Rx or otherwise. None of those guys had to morph into anything magically to be, do or get anything. Point being, the new Eddie- however pretty- is not really even cyborgishly hawt even fake improved-because At The End of The Day, Eddie is no more than a commercial for white guy bad self-esteem, and probably for that very reason, left me only wanting to sniff the scent of new car leather more than Ed’s nifty NZT sweat..Eddie, you are not The One.


Addendum to the anon email> Yes, I have posted in the wee hours prob from too much coffee intake, but no, I don’t have m/d- my blood pressure is low, my heart rate is low. I don’t like planes or roller coasters, most of the time logy and calm to a fault, don’t think I could even fake manic.

 No, I am not making fun of the people that have ‘it’, meaning they don’t have terrific control of regulating their mental state and all the various minutiae of brain parts that usually do a lot of this on their own. Yes, I have made fun of the excessive use of  definitions in the DSM as they do seem overly applied to white people especially ( and especially those with generous insurance) and if you have a DSM you know how much is continally added to it and how much seems ridiculous – and yes I think people are over-diagnosed and Rx’d- but- if people really need it  I’m not against it at all and they should make whatever informed choice is best for them and not feel any kind of shame that would stop them from getting help or cause them to try to self-medicate , or  seek help for the self-medicating and not the real problem.


*No, I don’t do or am on any drug(s), Rx or otherwise aside from the occasional ibuprofen, caffeine and nicotine and any cinnamon hot candies- and never tried meth, you can pee test me any time. If you have come this far I have a surprise in your cracker-jack box from stuff  I have been reading that is oh yeah so chock  full o’ corn-syrup-fueled hatery goodness (and scary pictures)…brought to you once more by Dino’s Deli, home of the Darth Evader 5 ft sub- come to the dark side, we have baklava!



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.