Thursday, December 14, 2017

Jingled Bells

(shopping for a dead tree)

Ten days until Christmas Eve. I'll need to start doing something. Though what that should be I do not yet know. Amazon, I guess. I've resorted to telling the boy that all of the elves have moved to this vast South American rain forest, because of, you know, climate change. I explain that they had to diversify their operations with the harvesting of the coca leaf. I want to prepare my son to battle conservatives on their home front: the sanctity of Christmas.

I don't mind seeing the boy get so excited at the impending arrival of Santa Claus, but I do tire of the expectations of glee from others. I want to be left alone, mostly, until the season passes. I'm not being a Grinch, truly, I just don't have very much to pretend about in that regard. I'm happy, though detest the collective need to display one's feelings in concert with all of humanity. All of Christian humanity, that is. My feelings don't work that way. And yes, of course I have deeply conflicted feelings about family

For some, anything less than a Showtime-esque Happiness-On-Demand demonstration is a clear indication that there's something wrong with you. Of course there's something wrong with me, the first thing I noticed about the word demonstration is that it starts with demon. Has nobody been paying attention? What the fuck? I have issues. People expect you to shelf most of your neuroses and half of all of your emotions simply because it's the season for it, as if these things check the calendar before happening. Why can't you just be pleasant?

I thought that I was.

Emotionally stable people annoy the shit out of me, most of them are unforgivably smug during the holidays. I feel as if I'm always surrounded by carolers. The sounds of bells jingling in the distance an approaching malediction, a battalion of orchestrated gaiety on its way up your street, to your house. Chanting in unison like happy white nationalists: We wish you a merry Christmas, We Wish you a Merry Christmas, WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS...!!!

Well, I want that for them also.

I try, I really do try, but it wears on me. There's a reason that many people joke about needing whiskey to get through the holidays. I have gained a stone in weight since last year at this time, so I cut out wine and beer from my diet a couple days ago, in the hopes of getting a cycling start into the new year. It's not a resolution, don't worry, I'm not like those people. I was just happier when my pants didn't press against me at every bite, the belt line reminder of my indulgences. I started noticing that I felt thinner after two glasses of wine. 

That can't be right, I thought, that goes against what I know to be true.

Ah well, I won't write about my weight today. As much as this site serves as a repository for the self-helpings of others, I have perhaps belabored a few points. 

The end of that sentence made me giggle. There is a perversity to so many things that make me happy. Truly, a deliberate deviation from the accepted norms, personal joy found in that sweet balance between secret contrariness and open obduracy. 

Maybe that's also part of what I hate so much about Christmas: I do not find the ritual of it very comforting. Instead, I'm unnerved by it a bit. Not so much that I would take an imaginary or actual stand against it, but I try to lodge my complaints here and there like little stocking stuffers. 

I can't be the only person that wants to grab an Elf on the Shelf by his neck and force his face deep into my open ass crack in front of crying children and screaming relatives. Right? 

No, I don't have public sexual non-consensual interactions with Christmas dolls. 

Everybody here suspects that I wouldn't really do such a thing. 

I don't protest too much about it, either.

Be cool, Sean, just be cool.


Wednesday, December 13, 2017

It was never my Sweet Home

You can sure bet that God's wrath is going to fuck up some mobile home parks in Alabama sometime soon. From what I have been told he does not at all like to be mocked. 

It begs the question: exactly how much pull does Putin have around here anyway? Maybe he didn't even bother. He checked with his cronies and he had no footage of a 12 year old pissing on Moore's face at the food court, so maybe he thought better about getting involved any further in Alabama politics.  

Who knows. The world is so crazy right now, I would not be surprised if Styx reunited. 

If it is God's will, then so be it.

I was so excited this morning when I woke up and read the news out of Alabama that I almost bought an album on iTunes. That's how eager I was to participate in democracy and to begin the long process of redistributing my vast wealth.

I'm happy for my democrat friends, though I know deep in my heart of hearts that they are doomed. Have you seen the hurricanes that God has been throwing at us lately, all because of gay marriage? Let's not all celebrate victory just yet. God could still send in the locust vote. People simply love some biblical pestilence. 

Shit's about to get real - Big wheels keep on turnin'....

I don't really want to write about Alabama right now, my heart's not in it. 


Tuesday, December 12, 2017

I Accidentally Cried for a Racist : The True Sean Q6 Story

(Better days; Simpler times)

Turns out that little Himmler in the video yesterday - 'ol Knoxville kid cracker - might just be the progeny of a bigot. There are some racist lineage issues now that bring the authenticity of his pain into question. Well that, and maybe he brought some of that bullying onto himself by spouting some racist nonsense. 

I don't know, I haven't done any of the research, but my online team of Twitter research detectives have filled in all of the historical gaps in my responses. 

Just goes to show: if you're going to have an unexpected emotional response to a newsfeed situation then you should always check the family's history for antagonized racism first.

Though, it looks as if I may have not been very far off with this sentence from yesterday's post: If you need some sort of other assurance then look at the Knoxville bullies' parents and note how time and fear have worked together to craft them into being perfect people. 

Jesus.... I'll never get those tears back.  It turns out that Life is Not Fair.

I mean, I should have known, those fuckers were from Tennessee, and they were white, of course they're racists. The next thing to hit the news cycle will be that this family crept over the southern border into Alabama to vote for Roy Moore. I'm sure of it. 

They're basking in their newfound celebrity a bit before their first major arrest as a family. They'll want to make sure that next news splash really counts.

People ruin everything. 

Why can't I just enjoy the simple uncluttered truth of my initial reactions to things? It's because I'm unstable, I'm certain of it. I have unexpected emotional swings. I get them like I used to get erections in middle school. I'm convinced that the two phenomena are somehow connected, because boners have feelings too.

Ah well, moving on. I received a letter explaining that I must log on to a website and create an account and start paying my car bill. Soon. The paper has dates on it and explanations of what will happen to me if I forget, which can happen to anybody. 

It seems like more additional work than I should be expected to endure. I guess the days of getting a payment book and mailing each slip off with a check every month are long over. This slip in process will come in handy in the first few months of the apocalypse, where everybody else will still be trying to maintain some sense of normalcy, but I'll recognize when the scales have tipped too far to one side, like when we repeal net neutrality. 

It is the moment when the Kraken of capitalism will be unleashed. 

I know there are two sides to every story, but I can't seem to get a straight answer from one side as to why the ISPs are unable to adequately build a business model from billing for bandwidth. They are charging people for volume of information usage, and the content providers are billing for their product, but for some reason we must now concede that the bandwidth provider should be able to determine not only the quantity of information that you use, but also the quality. 

I know that's an over-simplification, but this post is not meant to be exhaustive. If you'd like to know my true feelings on any given subject then you must start reading from page one.


Monday, December 11, 2017

Life Is Fair

There was a series of events in the last few months that stressed me in ways that I wasn't quite prepared for - Rachel's father dying, the fires in the valley and surrounding area, even the schedule changes that we went through over the summer with the boy's school. Now the fires in southern California seem to be reigniting some of those feelings for me. I tried to ignore it all - the fires are far away. There is much more to it than just ignoring, though. I'm not sure why that is. I understand that these are probably normal feelings, but my desire to avoid seems almost unnatural. I'm losing my ability to process some of the simplest and most recurring feelings. They are all appearing as a mild anxiety rather than the emotions they should be. It makes no sense. 

I was watching a video of a kid in Knoxville that described his being bullied in school and I found myself at my kitchen table crying while watching it. Not quite uncontrollably, but I couldn't pull myself together for a few minutes. I felt bad for the kid, of course, and it's a difficult video to watch, but I recognized that my reaction to it - which also included the impulse to beat the living snot out of those little assholes that were bullying him - was not exactly healthy either. Seriously, I had visions of just bulldogging those mean little motherfuckers. Then I realized it's just a reaction to feeling helpless, knowing that there's little or nothing I can do about that or anything else.

... like net neutrality. One gets the feeling that it's a lost cause and I'm exhausted at the idea of losing anything else, any other single cornerstone of imaginary fairness in any small part of the world being eroded by those that wish to control more than they should, for either personal or corporate gain.

I remember always hearing it when I was growing up: Nobody ever said life was going to be fair. So, I started saying it all the time: Life can be fair. There was a time when I was younger, perhaps still in my late teens, where I would say that sentence to people as often was appropriate, maybe a little more - Life is fair. I believed that maybe it was just a mindset thing, that if enough people started saying that life can be fair then eventually people would say that life is fair, and that maybe they'd act accordingly and life would become more fair. I was what John Lennon used to call a dreamer. 

Like the people who say, God never gives you more than you can handle... What the fuck? Then what is death? Shouldn't that qualify as the moment in which God gave you just a little bit more than you could handle. Imagine dying and the first experience you have on the other side is being confronted by an angry God, screaming at you because he thought you could handle just a little bit more. I like the idea of an irate, disappointed God throwing a tantrum just on the other side of the pearly gates. It's comforting, like the Old Testament. 

I'm not so sure how I feel about anything any more, but I hope that kid in Knoxville finds a healthy way of coping. Some professional athletes have stepped in and want to visit him at his school and perhaps even confront his tormentors with him to talk it out. That's not good enough for me, though. I envision one of the football players arriving liquored up, losing his patience and then slapping the little stinky daylights out of one of them. That's the video that I want to see. 

You read that correctly - I advocate for an adult hitting a child and another adult capturing the precious moment on video and then posting it online for my perverse, temporary, and sadistic pleasure. 

It is perfectly legal for me to feel this way. I've already checked into it. Don't even try. 

I know it's not right to think those things, or worse, to actually wish for them, but I really need this thing to happen. It's a horrible thing to realize, that I want bad children to show signs of fear and to maybe even physically suffer a bit, but I'm not willing to do anything about it myself. I think I'm trapped somewhere between vindictiveness, laziness, and poverty. When I daydream about winning the lottery it always includes very detailed revenge scenarios. I dream of hiring private investigators and assembling dossiers on my enemies much more than taking vacations, always have. 

Now, if there were a whole bunch of kids then I wouldn't want to confront them myself. I would only do it if there was maybe one or two of them and they were under a hundred pounds each. Any more that that and the flight impulse might take over the fight desire. Even if there's just one fat kid then I don't want to do it. I would call the fight off. I don't want to fight a fat kid. 

It's much easier to imagine others being mean for you, to enact your evil wishes and bring your cruel and humiliating visions to life. This is the precise reason that I have never sought political power. I would always use politics for petty personal vengefulness. I think that's a very natural impulse. It feels right when I close my eyes and envision it.   

Now, I can almost hear the reaction of people reading this: That's not going to help anything.... (in a snotty and knowing tone). Well, I disagree, and I'm the expert here. It would help me right now to have a video of the kids that were bullying that little boy getting their asses handed to them by some athlete I've never heard of, one who will likely suffer some sort of brain damage soon, preferably while he's exacting justice on these children. If that could be part of the video then I would treasure it all the more. Before his mind becomes a spine barnacle he should use his might for something fun and righteous, like beating up mean kids after school because it's the right thing to do.  

Sure, in a perfect world we would teach children tolerance and understanding, but there's so little time left for any of that. Kids should be afraid of acting that way, that there will be real life consequences that include pain and shame, tears, possibly even unending torment of some kind, nightmares, etc. Fear should be both mysterious and tangible. Everyone should be afraid that life isn't going to be fair for them. That is what has always made the world a better place. Progress would have never occurred without the feeling that most everything is bullshit, bullshit, bullshit...!!! 

Look back at history and you'll find that life improved mainly because people were afraid that it wouldn't. You're not going to find many historians that will agree with my assessments here, but that's because they were educated at universities where perfectly useful information becomes something else. I'm tired of being told that it was the dreamers and doers that made all the magic happen. It wasn't. It was those they were surrounded by that refused to believe in anything that made their progress possible and perhaps even valuable.

Tolstoy would agree with me here. I'm certain of it.

My idea of bullying those prepubescent shits would be to fly to Knoxville and speak to their class, explain to them that none of them are ever going to college or will see the world beyond their little depression factory of a town. Plant the seeds of doubt deeply in the fertile minds of those rabid little shit stains. I would explain to them how compound interest works, all of the horrors of life. I know it's not right, but there really should be a two-fold response to bullying. The athletes are offering some sort of protection service. I could be there to undermine their faith in the future. What did I write earlier: Fear should be both mysterious and tangible.

Yes, you should be cruel to children who are bullies. That's common sense. They should live their mean little lives in fear of others who are meaner than they. That will make them better people, eventually. I know this system works, look to Florida for the proof. If you need some sort of other assurance then look at the Knoxville bullies' parents and note how time and fear have worked together to craft them into being perfect people. 

I wonder how I can monetize this idea? There must be some way to market these sensibilities to others.  Maybe I'll shoot a pilot commercial today, see if I can get a loan to help get this thing off the ground. We could offer online bullying packages. You could just pick someone you don't like, choose a package, provide your credit card details, and then a team of assholes would get to work making somebody's life regularly miserable. I bet Amazon has an infrastructure that could sustain this model. Replace their current drivers with failed or injured athletes that need a break. 

The idea is not terribly far off from online activism. Doxing, I think it's called. Lou Dobbs was an early adopter of the process. It's perfect for targeting the weak, helpless, or those with differing opinions. It always works, even when the wrong person is targeted. It still sends the same message out into the universe. 

How perfect is mob justice? Just take the beautiful system of democracy and let it loose on the very society that claims belief in it. All crowds begin by being objectively impartial. We should harness the unbiased genius of the mob and apply it to the social problems that need sudden fixing. 

VoilĂ !

Whatever the spiritual opposite of Namaste is then that's what I'll be structuring my beliefs around. It's a yin-yang thing: I acknowledge the cruelty in you... (with a little bow added).

The world will always be a better, stronger place with fear.

Don't listen to the pussies.

Being different is wrong, you should worry about it.

I probably shouldn't have to post a disclaimer here, but the occasional reaction to my posts have given me shocking insight and realization that some people can not adequately detect the satirical or ironic tone in some of my writing. They wade through a sea of seemingly angry confusion, seeking rewards that can not be had here, believing this site to contain coherent recommendations on behavior. I've been told that I can be "dry" in my delivery, and perhaps that adds a sense of verisimilitude for some.

Who knows. 

People are fucking crazy, every last one of them. The worst among them are the ones who claim there's nothing wrong with being different.

Somewhere along the way, I must have believed them. 



Sunday, December 10, 2017

Cato von Periwinklevoss

Cato drove up to Sonoma yesterday. He, the boy, and myself then drove together north of here to a winery where Cato had once joined as a member and often visited on his romantic sojourns to wine country. He had to cancel his membership and pick up a case of wine. He is moving to Berlin. The boy had lots of questions about this and the nature of faraway places like Germany. With no real conception of just how far away Berlin is he began crafting his plans to visit sometime very soon. He has grown very fond of Cato. He sees himself as one of the guys when Cato visits. He will describe his time hanging out with us to his mom in just those terms - three dudes, hanging out.

Cato refuses to discuss the reasons for his upcoming move, though I have my suspicions. He becomes quiet whenever there is any mention the greatest rock band to ever grace this planetary system: The Scorpions. I suspect that he has ambitions to form a cover band, called either The Dreaded Predatories or Arachnid Skidmarks, which he will attempt to front. He has the hairline for it. He'll need to let his grow back out quite a bit. Hair should be very long and always grow inconsistently, so that it looks right when drenched in sweat, as is the custom for aging European rockers. I've included an old picture of Cato below, from his time in NYC, before he moved to San Francisco and became involved in the Burning Bowelman community. 

I could be wrong about his ambitions to pursue a career with scorpions. He dropped off a guitar amp yesterday, a Marshall, so maybe he'll go the other direction, buy a keyboard and start working on his synth skills, put together a playlist for his other cover project: Werk v. Kraftbeer. 

Or maybe: Autobondage. Or, Tour de Trans.

Cato will now be known on this site and elsewhere as Dieter Gobbler von Maximillian Bolognamouth. 

I suppose he could always fall back on his old Euro-porn name: Kurt Bumfurter. 

That's right, carefree jokes about gay sex, because this site specializes in hate speech. Anybody who stares at it long enough can see that. It's like one of those posters at the mall: you can train your eyes to have a big hairy cock and balls jump out at you to your sudden surprise and delight. You'll look around, nodding and smiling to all of your friends, agreeing that you indeed saw the magic hairy cock also. 

Who cares. Soon enough I'll have the Germans on my side. I'll have my name changed to Klaus Viennaschnitzel or Blew Danube. Maybe Otto von Birthmark, son of Florian Dingledangler. They're all family names, so I must give it some time and choose carefully amongst them. 

I suppose I could just go with Wolfbang D. Fritzenfrauer, keep things simple.

If you say "Fritzenfrauerwurst" aloud three times with your back turned to a mirror then a one-legged goblin will emerge hopping from the Black Forest and eat a bowl of necromancer porridge made from the dead souls of the humorless. 

I should stop. Making light of anything is too heavy for most people any more. I was online earlier, reading through what could best be described as "Facebook conversations" and was shocked and amused at how poorly people form and frame their bad ideas, if they can even be called that. Everything is being advanced now under the presumption of morality. It's a sickening thing to witness. I'm not sure how things become so upended, but extreme and unfounded self-righteousness used to be a shameful quality to publicly exhibit. Not any more... There is no shortage of uprightness. Everybody seems to have a big, fresh hard-on for vigilante virtue. 

Cato -  in better days, simpler times:

(Friend to the Sausage)


Saturday, December 9, 2017

"You're so pretty when you're faithful to me"

(Simon Larbalestier)

Raquel and I went to see Pixies last night in Napa. We did it all up - got a hotel room at the newly built Archer hotel (still here), had a nice expensive dinner with cocktails, ate some sort of edible psychedelic drugs, danced like newly freed wild ones along the wall by the stage. 

I felt old as always, but not bad as is usual. I have grown to hate going to rock shows of almost any kind - to see my older heroes being less heroic than they once were - but last night was different for some reason. Perhaps it's because I'm happy, that does change things. I should not admit to such things like happiness. CS will fault me for it, I am sure, like when I express contentment or gratitude for my friends on Christmas. It is shameful, I know, but Rachel and I have fallen completely in love again. I'm certain that we have just set or broken some sort of record for the number of reconciliations, which is now evenly tied with our number of breakups. We are evenly paired lovers, it seems.  

The band was great, also, that always helps. 

I have a good story about them in Amherst, Massachusetts in 1989, but it involves an ex-girlfriend and I've maxed out that subject here for a little while with the kissing pics from the other day. As CS said in response yesterday, I'm going to get myself in trouble, and I greatly prefer not being in that kind of trouble.

He says he can't use those pics because I did, but we only share one reader that I know of. She wrote me an email the other day about some experiences she had as a younger woman. It was odd, because a part of me didn't find anything at all wrong with what she was describing, but it did outline a man using his power to extract sexual favors from a young woman that admired him. I was able to see that easily, that when looked at dispassionately there was some fault there in what she was describing, but maybe I've only ever known the type women who have sought those type relationships to some degree. 

I'm not sure any more. 

Some of the women in my dating age range have been the most critical of some of these women's claims, particularly those who have claimed trauma and victimhood at seeing a man masturbate when they were free to leave. It does seem that the outrage at almost any sexual behavior at all is being conflated and confused with the tremendously damaging act of sexual assault, as if they are the same, and that men should be punished in the same way for each perceived violation. Just saying that men are pigs and all deserve to be treated as suspects isn't good enough. I buy neither the noble savage argument, nor that of the noble missionaries who came to save them. 

Women are attracted to confident men, and not all men who seem confident are. The hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary preference that went in to creating the male hierarchy of dominance is not just going to disappear because women no longer wish for it to benefit them in any way. Women choose partners in a very complicated fashion and the mating process in humans is maddeningly complex. I'm not arguing for men's current sexual behavior, at all, I'm just pointing out that it is also in part a result of the process of women's choice in finding partners that has helped establish the hierarchy in which men fight to excel, to be noticed, and rewarded with love. 

Of course patriarchy is evil and stupid, only matriarchy can save any of us now. Any fool can see that. All of history and human culture has been wrong to the point of evil iniquity, but there are the morally righteous who will right humankind's course. The claim that women were never valued until very recently in America, and is only because they have now loudly demanded it, is entirely unsupported by fact.

Nobody knows how to disagree any more. It is the thing that is most insufferable, to oppose or even question the righteousness of the new. 

The humorless should be ostracized, never rewarded. 

That being said, too often I find a way of landing myself in some sort of trouble or strife, when I'm just trying to joke along with people. I'm not sure how I do it, but just acting naturally places me in all manner of unpleasantness where I don't belong and don't know how to act, nor how to escape. 

The other day I was making what I thought were a few harmless jokes about Ronnie James Dio online and the thread was unexpectedly deleted. The only thing that I could surmise was that I was being offensive. I felt bad, though I wasn't quite sure for what. That can't be a good thing - to rub people the wrong way to such a degree that you're not even sure what it is that you're doing or saying that is so wrong. I wanted to apologize, but wasn't sure how to describe what I was sorry for, a misunderstanding, I guess. 

Ah well, anybody that's a fan of RJ Dio deserves a bit of jest. I thought that the heavy metal crowd was the one with a sense of humor. It should be a requirement for any style of music, and it should be mandatory for metal. I know that it always makes me laugh. Heavy metal is the musical equivalent of a Renaissance fair. It all seems to be from an imaginary middle ages. If I were fronting a metal band we would be famous for the realistic choreography of our onstage sword fights. 

People ask me all the time what I listen to. When I tell them they don't believe me, or they don't want to believe me - alternative country and bluegrass, mostly. I think I'm going to buy a hammered dulcimer and try busking.

If you ever loved punk rock then there is a group of people that will never let you forget it. They expect a lifetime of devotion and commitment to groups that are no longer together, or relevant. The punk crowd is the stiffest when it comes to their expectations of others. They always act as if you have to prove your punk credentials, and this can only happen by you never changing the opinions you held when you were younger. No fan of anything ever ages very well, but those of punk try to defeat this just by never growing up. If I were younger then I'd vomit on them to show my allegiance. To gain their trust by my willingness to tempt the void. It is the only path to punk authenticity. 

I just glanced at Facebook and saw this post from three years ago. Funny, or rather coincidental, because Trixie of course rhymes with Pixies. I wonder if Facebook will allow my post to stay up. There are some titties in the image, and we know how dangerous titties are in this climate of perpetual sexual harassment and delayed accusation. 

One day soon somebody will have me thrown in jail because I admitted to liking Surfer Rosa so much. 

I'm sure of it.  

What could be more shamefully male than liking titties?


Thursday, December 7, 2017

Against all clocks, everywhere

(Fuji digital with the "film grain" feature enabled)

I let my Apple watch slip out of my hand as I walked towards the desk to put it in its charger. I heard the sound of the glass hitting the tile floor and knew it was broken before I bent down to confirm. Now I am at the mercy of Apple, again.  Or, I could stop wearing it altogether. I only use it for keeping track of my cycling times, but that is something. I compete against myself, or rather, against the clock. I am in a duel to the death with my wrist. 

CS has been sending me many old pics from his visits to NYC. I know that you're not supposed to post pics of your ex while you are currently dating someone else but I like the pictures of Camille and I. So, I'll hide them here beneath the image that will become the Facebook preview. You can compare the above picture with those below and wonder, What happened?

Our love, like so many others, was flawed. We met when she was 17, I was nearing the end of my 20s. Halloween night, New Orleans in the late 90s. At first I tried to discourage her from being very interested in me. I was living with my girlfriend at the time. Camille and I became close friends. That seemed to work until she was in her very early 20s, then she wasn't having any more of that. She installed herself in my east village apartment. We fell in love. 

The love was doomed. It ended badly for me. I was crushed in a way that I had never been before, as if nothing remained - no faith, no feeling, no smiles, only the torment of loss. I refused to talk to her for a couple years. Then, one day she called me and we chatted amicably as if nothing had happened. That was for the best. I do not do well with holding grudges. They have never seemed worth it to me, taking more energy than satisfying any inner need, and what need might that even be? I was not quite the person that I would become many years later. She was too young to be tamed, and I was not in the business of taming. She is now in her middle 30s, an actual woman, not the same young girl that I once knew, though she still lets loose the occasional giggle as a reminder of time's passing.

I did not know what to do with love then, have only recently begun to figure parts of it out with Rachel, whom I love much yet still do not quite get everything right. Rachel was in love with me when I dated Camille. I didn't know it. She had not made it clear to me, or I was maybe too thick to understand what she was conveying. She lived in Manchester at the time and I believed that love should exist in much closer proximity. Eventually she felt the same, so she moved to Manhattan where we did our best to destroy our love there also. We nearly succeeded.

35mm film pics by CS

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

The Wealth Of Patrons

My anarchist friends have turned against me

Authority: being a parent, I guess - one who believes in, or enjoys, parenting.

The Power: they refuse to recognize me as a political entity any longer. 

Enemies deprive you first of voice, then the vote. 

Well, that's in response to my old grenade thrower buddy.

He'll understand.

His name is Adam's Apple.

I never meant to make any sense, or mount any coherent arguments, but I'm glad somebody out there still has the eggs to disagree with me. 

Dada was a reaction to the horrors of WWI. 

We have a similar thing happening now in the social media. Can any other than the artists see it? 

There is wholesale rejection of empirical data as being an untrustworthy byproduct of capitalism. It is absurdist, and few could disagree. Few would.

The scope is too wide to be focused, the crowd for it everywhere. Rather than simply sipping along in the Cabaret V the new resistance is structured around the absurdity of reporting, in degrees beyond the absurdities of reason, the aesthetics of late capitalism.

So be it. Who am I to argue with my own privilege? I have out-argued my best instincts, and have raped their fruits all along the millennia of mankind, when I should have been a victim. 

If nonsense be, then nonsensical are we, am I. 

My suspicions are that the accomplishments of the 20th century - scientific process, constitutional government, democracy, human rights - might stand. They very well might seem wobbly and uncertain, while the derision of them in the 21st century might be seen as misplaced folly, a denial of the advancement of certainties into the whirlpool of faith.  

You had the self-correcting tools, but you became very suspicious of them because, you know: white dudes.

Ok, good luck with your unrestrained revolution in equilibrilizing power. Let us know who deserves it, and why.

The oppressed are always right.  

I think you'll find that hierarchical patterns emerged over millennia, and women held the unusual position of selection in the structure of it. Choosing sexual partners for a million years based on physical strength has its feminist limitations.

Don't ever let that confuse your ideologies. 

I don't mean pissed off females.

I mean the {subset of [all] women}.

It takes faith to think that all people are equal. It takes morals to treat them as being so. The first is attacked long before it gets out of the gate, the other is as subjective as the personal weaknesses that we are all forced to recognize and endure.

That's just me. I prefer opinions being personal conversation points, and the supremacy of untested social theories to be left for clinical trials. 

The idea was that good ideas would flourish in the same way that products did. The open market would best know what it needed - a pyramid of tested purchase power.  

The invisible hand of the market promised. 

I have heard many, many claims from the feminist-left, but not one woman has stepped out in support of male masturbation as a possible tincture against unwanted contact. If women recoil at male masturbation then expect us to adore the horrors of pregnancy, then what?


I'm told menstruation is perfectly normal, science has assured me that it is. 

But still, I wonder amidst the furosity.


Tuesday, December 5, 2017

The winds, the fires, the winds

Oh the seasons, here they come; bells jingling, carols calling in the distance... reindeer riding the roof of my mind. 

The word trespassing only started occurring to me as the verb of it disappeared. 

Yesterday there were winds pushing back and forth all up and down the valley. I rode north, to the top of the watershed - St. Francis winery. The chaotic force of it was unsettling, reminiscent of the night the fires started. As I was returning down the valley the gusts would push me towards the edge of the shoulder of the road or towards the center of the lane of traffic. Only about two or three feet of clearance exists between the cars and trucks on one side and a rocky death on the other. Perhaps not death, but sudden pandemonium and much pain. 

Most days it's not a problem, but I have been less than aerodynamic lately. I've gained back about ten pounds that I had lost last summer. It saddens me. Being fit feels much better, of course, but it takes everything in commitment. My clothes agree with me more, but who can spend their life negotiating with a pair of blue jeans? 

Ah well, I have often struggled to find moderate places to exist, between the periods of havoc and mayhem. So, I try to enjoy moments of normalcy when I can, which is what I have now, I think.

CS sent more film pics from his trip to NYC in the early 2000s.

She and I sure did kiss a lot, could not get enough of one another, it seems.

We have so few pictures of us together. It is odd, to see these images from the past. 

My favorite snapshots of us seem as if maybe they were taken by a private investigator. 

How does one break into the world of bribery?

Notes from the dossier:

This is where they met at The Oak Bar for drinks and lunch. They sat by the window and kissed repeatedly, unashamed of themselves, of what they were doing. Later that same evening she danced naked in The Plaza fountain while he watched her. 

That last part is true. One summer night when I worked at Apple on 59th St. and 5th Ave, the overnight shift, Rachel came to see me for "lunch." We went to a bar and drank martinis for an hour before it closed at 4am. As I was returning to work I convinced her that we should be like F. Scott and Zelda and go swimming in the fountain. She was game. She got undressed and jumped in, naked as is possible. I have some pictures around here documenting her courage. 

The taxis and stray cars bursting down 5th Avenue as she gamboled a bit, just before the idea of a night in jail really took hold of us. 

Ten quick years ago, no more. 

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs. - Zelda Fitzgerald


Monday, December 4, 2017

Why I voted for Roger Moore

(Stephen Shore)

There's nothing left in me today. I just found myself crawling down some strange Amazon rabbit hole. I bought some new 35mm film stock over the last few days, so I was shopping for old film cameras from the 70s and 80s, trying to throw as much money away as I can before it's too late. 

I have all these fancy Nikon lenses. I don't quite know what to do with myself.

Shoplifting used to make me so happy.


Sunday, December 3, 2017

Laughter harbors a rebel heart

A hike yesterday morning at Jack London Park - a bunch of scouts, their parents, the boy and us. Then a kid's movie in Petaluma - Coco. The day was already of the past. Later, there was baked salmon at home, some greens and veggies, a glass of white wine or two, an album of music that seemed to be about Autumn. Lots of tickling and giggles as night descended, the boy running his high speed piracies until bedtime summoned, silliness giving way to slumber.

It is enervating, or can be - the pace at which a five year old lives their life and expects you to live yours. If there was not something fantastic and fundamentally affirmative to it then it would only be exhausting. It is exhausting, though there are kernels of corroboration to be found everywhere within it. I find myself feeling more Yes in life, even while verbalizing "No!" more often. Life is paradoxical and enigmatic. Children provide enforced access to life's contradictions and mysteries. 

I had no idea what having a son would be like. After nearly six years I've realized that it causes me to worry about myself a little bit less, to think of others more, not just him. That part has been useful, one of the life-changing properties of parenting.  As I said yesterday, having kids isn't for everybody. It's mostly just for people who want the tax break. Kids are not a requirement, just one of nature's recommendations. Any fool can outsmart nature. That's the easy part. 

I only joke with CS, of course. I am like a son he never wanted - half the trouble and none of the joy. 

Kids make me laugh. There seems to be a secret to it, one that can barely be spoken but easily shared. 

I have committed to shooting more 35mm film. One way that I'm going to accomplish this is by buying another camera body. I know what you're thinking: why the fuck am I reading this? But wait... it might be a Voigtlander Bessa R rather than another Nikon, though that will mean buying new lenses. 

It is all a lot to think about. 

The few readers here that have stuck by me through the boring talk of film cameras are mostly digital enthusiasts, none have much interest in shooting film. I may as well be tanning leather or cobbling shoes with the delicacy of a blacksmith. I've tried to reach them, but today's kids are simply enamored with their computers and what they can do there. They love the ever increasing resolution, the ability to approximate optical effects, the ease at which images can seem to speak to the talents of the one having taken it. It is not capturing a moment as much as it is documenting the process about producing a moment. 

I like the way film makes me feel when I look at it. Increased resolution is super for some, I suppose, the graininess of film seems supernatural to me. Its weaknesses are charms, its strengths elusive yet apparent - as if from a past that the image does not belong to. Its seeming to be elsewhere in time ingrained in the thing being looked at, emphasized by its inherent qualities rather than its preparedness to be post-processed. Resolution is for resolving, suited to those who believe that only more is more. 

I'm not sure I believe all of what I've written there, or anywhere at any other time. I look at the untreated digital image at the top of the page and I wonder. Maybe my memories are like film stock - I like them because they seem likable to me, softer and simpler. The curse and blessing of aesthetic solipsism. 


Saturday, December 2, 2017

The childless will of course burn in hell

(A few seconds before happiness)

There used to be a variety of solutions to the question of how one should live their life as an American, now there is only one: be very rich. Or rather: don't be poor. Being poor is bad, being rich is much better. I can see that now. Our politicians have shown me the error of my previous ways. I wanted to live a Bohemian life, but something interrupted an otherwise perfect plan.

Today, CS attacks the smugness of parents with dismissiveness and a questionable set of statistics. He does not seem to understand how being openly dismissive towards having children rubs some people the wrong way. Not me, but as a liberal I do so love to take up other people's arguments for them.

CS is one of those people that will be forced to go through life not knowing what all parents know. The sacred truths will not be revealed to him. He will try to find refuge in art, but it can not shield him from the burning eyes of the Lord.

There is a knowledge one gains by certain types of experience - it can not be gained by observation alone. As a scientist he knows this, but yet he refuses to honor the beautiful spiritual truth that is procreation, the full fruition of romantic love that blossoms between a man and a woman, or the clinical process that results in same.

True Romantic/romantic love can not possibly be understood to completion without it resulting in pregnancy. Each additional pregnancy doubles this understanding, without any end to the exponential rewards.

As an example of this divine knowledge: Would a childless person know why it is important to have life insurance?

See what I mean?

People of all kinds are assholes, and parenting is a graceless endeavor. Nobody wants a smart ass around while you're struggling with it, mocking the difficulties. There are rewards, and they can not be enjoyed to the same degree as an observer. There are also struggles that do not ever seem to disappear, and those can hardly be shared with observers.

Parenting is not for everybody. It should only be for the well insured.


Friday, December 1, 2017

The heart is beyond cure

CS has been productive and talkative since the end of his last affair. Or rather, his latest affair. I do not wish to project future romantic failings on him. Also, I don't know if it is productivity or just activity, but he has been busy again. 

The mind abhors vacuuming

He has been going through old pics, sending me ones that I've never seen, scans from a trip to NYC that he took in the early 2000s. He is quite good like that. Everybody should harbor some surprises for others. Good surprises, I mean, not the coming out from behind your desk at work wearing only your underwear after having locked your office door type surprises. Those are bad.

These were from then - pictures from another time, a time that can not be revisited or returned to... images can be pleasant. Some saudade - a tender missingness for something lost, its sweetness, the fervor of memory for that love, every day a lost Fantasia. 

CS told me some time ago that what I would enjoy most about photography was documenting my life. I've mentioned that before, and I've found it to be true. I don't have much time to pursue it outside of the time that I spend with Rachel and Rhys. So, I must make the most of those moments and try to capture whatever images do appear.

Some do not understand my persistence.

The heart wants what it wants, as Woody famously protested. Had he been anything other than a man accused then that statement might be remembered as being lovely. But no, it is recalled as a glimpse into the heart of wickedness and lechery - a sinner's justification. Imagine the reaction if instead Soon-Yi would have said it in an interview. So many are quick to silence women who don't know how to think, like young ones, and by other women. Few regard feelings with more derision than do ideologues of any stripe. 

It is one way the heart instinctively knows not to trust the quasi-fanatical. It's similar to talking politics with the religious, or suspicion with a paranoiac - all thought is brought into the adherence of need, the service of agenda, conversation molded to suit a single conclusion.

One can feel the encroachment of dogma and doctrine over the mind, its tentacles ever grasping yet oddly comforting in their seemingly adequate explanations. A newly completed understanding washes over an otherwise agile mind.

Then: Eureka!, voilĂ , et cetera... (repeat) 
The result: A new dogma with new demands!

People use poor rationale to advance otherwise untenable arguments, then employ appeals to emotion to defend them from open examination. What can anyone do? Feelings are personal, we're told, off limits to scrutiny, we're reminded. Yet it is rude to ignore anyone's emotions, once displayed.

So much of life is nonsense. You see that more as you get older, but then you are reminded that being old invalidates your sensibilities as part of the many sins of the past. Few things are as terrible as having been from any time other than the present one. If history teaches us anything it is that all progress is always a step towards righteousness, because morals are always improved in the future.

What are we to feel about such thoughts?

Feelings are a way of knowing.

Their strength being their resistance to debate.


Thursday, November 30, 2017

Audi A4

I bought a car yesterday. I needed one, badly. My old yellow VW Bug no longer went above 3rd gear. It was okay to drive around town, good for short trips to Taco Bell.... but could not go over 40-45mph for very long. The engine would rev higher and higher, but with no additional speed. It had other problems, also. 

And yes, the above Audi is a total "dad car," but fuck it, I'm a dad.  What am I supposed to drive? They had a yellow Lamborghini for sale at this shop, but there was no way to install the booster seat, so I went with an Avant instead. Looking at the Lambo caused tingles in my bathing suit area, because I'm almost 50 years old and am very confused about how long youth should last under less than ideal conditions. 

I can take some road trips now. It is an all-wheel drive, so Tahoe is within striking range. I feel like North Korea: I can hit pretty much anything on the west coast. 

I just went in and covered my son with his blanket. I'm already beginning to miss his earliest years. He's turning into such a little boy. He'll be six in January, but there is so much that is changing now since his entry into Kindergarten. He seems to have more of a "stance" towards his being and persona. My interactions with him seem to be guided now by a quickly changing landscape of personality. He adopts the new and denounces the old so quickly that it is difficult to keep up. He's on to some new super hero that I've never even heard of and I'm still banging on about Thomas the Train.

It is all so cliched, of course, but they do grow up quickly. It passes like a dream, one in which you wish to return within that lucky glimpse of recaptured morning sleep. I imagine bringing a mason jar back with me and catching the essence of it a bit, to store for later. Pictures are good, but they lack much. He is so animated, it drives me crazy with joy, to see him figuring out how to be, and why. 

Our little five year ontological experiment. 

He wanted the yellow Lamborghini, and promised that he would learn how to drive if I would just buy it. For only $105,000.


Wednesday, November 29, 2017

The ritualing of the eve

This aging in stages is breaking my heart. Each night I put him to bed; he needs me less and little. A chat, a thoughtful think about the day, a laugh when lucky and good, then we are gone. 


Tuesday, November 28, 2017

Squeaky Fromme was from the future

(Old Testifier)

There is so much bad writing out there, much of it only an appeal to morality, a thing that is nearly always presented as objective fact. 

That's the one thing that I do love about Alabama right now: they are staring people in the face on television and asking the difficult questions. Like, What exactly is wrong with having sex with youngsters? I mean sure, it's illegal but so aren't abortions. They know in their hearts not to trust any code that would claim that as a legal truth. They have their own codes down there and they're going to stick by them. You can't try to shame a man that installed the Mighty Ten Commandments at his court house with a silly little thing like sex, especially sex that gets tacit approval in some parts of the bible. 

What the fuck do liberals even think any more? No matter how many times they get their asses kicked with this stuff they still come back with the same pre-defeated arguments. Will they never learn? If they would have just ignored the illegality of the accusations and focused on the fact that Moore never married any of his accusers then they'd be swimming in giggles by now. 

And let me get this straight... Someone was preying upon America's youth at the mall, and they didn't own a corporation? You see, Alabama still has faith in its entrepreneurs, small business owners, and youth enthusiasts. They're just wanting to get out from under all these governmental regulations. This must be a state's rights issue. 

What an exciting time to be alive. I always knew that one day the American Inquisition would come along and wash these streets clean. I can't be the only one that reads Slate and hears the echoes of Travis Bickle in most all of it. People are becoming a little unhinged lately in their efforts to defend or impress Jodie Foster. It really is just like the 80s. Soon enough a Jane Hinkley Jr. is going to try to do something to fix it. It all makes sense now: Squeaky Fromme was so right.

I followed girls around the mall in the 80s also. I thought that's what you were supposed to do. How else are you going to meet them and introduce them to your best friend, Jesus? You don't just walk up and offer to buy a girl some Orange Julius, you have to let them know that you're stalking them a bit first. I'm not talking about those skanks that hung around at the game room. I mean out in the open walkways, plazas, and of course the food court, where the nice girls roam. My God, they looked so soft and sweet, as if they each tasted of cotton candy. 

Now, the mall is structured much like one of those fancy new cathedrals, so perhaps he became confused and honestly believed that he was doing God's work. Nobody has yet to claim that he wasn't a man of the judicious cloth.  

I don't know, I'm not an expert in these matters the way that others are now. So many good minds are becoming Christians without Christ. They're so eager to insist upon the moral supremacy of their arguments that they have become as humorless as the sinners they're busy reforming. If you notice, everyone has become increasingly comfortable with using the word "evil." That's always one to keep your ears tuned for. It never means good things for anybody. They're sending in the urban missionaries now, to inform all of creation about the good news and loving forgiveness of living deep in the bosom of a blue state. 

There are four things that I'd like to see happen, in this order:
  • Roy Moore wins the senate seat
  • Roy Moore gets arrested
  • Roy Moore goes to trial
  • Roy Moore auctions his Ten Commandments monument to raise defense money
The outcome of the trial is meaningless, but a conviction and prison sentence are preferable, as that would help the civil suits that will follow.

All that I ask of any of this stuff is that it becomes more entertaining for me. What could possibly be better than an accused pederast to be hoisted into office by the Alabama electorate of the religious right. You can not win a moral argument with these people. Trust me on this, they function on a different ethical plane than most of you. All of you, in fact, if you're reading this. They know that liberals smirk at Jesus. Do you think that trying to fuck teenagers even comes close to that on their moral scale of wrongdoing? Their biggest regret seems to be not having lived during the biblical flood. 

The senate seat that Moore is campaigning for is the one that was vacated by Jeff Sessions. Do you believe that the same voters who let that perverted little soul-stealing hobgoblin represent them are going to have a moral tussle with someone whose only crime was liking the pretty girls he saw? 

Think again, fucko. 

Calling him a racist isn't going to work, either. That has been proven with recurring certainty in those lands already. The claim should be that he was trying to tell these young girls about Charles Darwin. 

He was naturally selecting them for some Satan science. 


Monday, November 27, 2017

Born To Ruin

I'm reading Springsteen's autobiography, though I had promised myself not long ago: Never Again... After reading Keith Richards' Life I told myself that I need not spend any more time reading rock biographies, particularly after suffering the 40 year axe that Richards had to grind against Jagger in his book. Forty years of any one thing is enough for a lifetime, is what I told myself, but I was of course wrong. 

I should probably not read any more rock biographies. It makes me like the music less, to know all of their little historical faults. Bowie, The Clash, McCartney, a few others - they all leave me not liking the artists much. Most all of them turned out to be such assholes. If I am going to read about rock then I prefer reading writers who write about it, not the artists telling their aggrandized self-stories. 

It should not have surprised me, and it definitely should not have angered me the way it did a bit, but Springsteen can tell a story and is a reasonably good writer, able to turn phrases and twist them. It doesn't seem fair that someone should have multiple talents, particularly ones that I want. 

The book has had me reliving some of my childhood experiences, thinking back to when I first heard these albums at the insistence of one of my childhood friends. I only liked a few songs here and there until I heard Nebraska. After that I changed, I was a genuine fan. It's really too bad, what they let Springsteen do to his songs in the studio. He's like Elvis Costello with his music, he insists on ruining most of it with overproduction. They are almost all better in a different form.

Reading about his experiences with his father are tough. You see the image of a boy and then a young man who wanted his father's love, but instead grew to hate him and his drinking, then to regret that hatred. That is just one small part of the telling, a partial explanation for the near religious-like yearning in his music. It has stuck with me. I wonder if my own family life was fucked up, or not fucked up enough. 

His descriptions of his father's behavior explain in part Springsteen's off-putting sobriety and spiritual clear-headedness. You can't exactly or easily fault him for it, but paired with his self-righteousness, well, it can be a bit much at times. The Boss can seem like a Bono that made it out the other side of addiction and is now as smiling and happy as Tony Robbins. There's something very sickening about it all. It doesn't seem fair that he used rock and roll as a vehicle to drive to the heights of such personal health and well being.

Do your pushups somewhere else, man.

Well, I am up to the point where Columbia refused to promote The Wild, the Innocent & the E Street Shuffle. He was at the infamously hackneyed turning point. He needed to write a hit, so of course Born to Run appears next. I might have to skip that and go to the Nebraska chapter, then stop altogether but tell everybody I read the rest. That seems a bit weird, though, to tell people that I read a book only after a certain chapter. Maybe I shouldn't bring it up at all, not invite any questions about the extent to which I did or didn't read the book.

I've been writing here a lot and not publishing the posts, stuff like the ending of the paragraph above, where I start to pretend to think out loud within the writing, and maybe I am, though I believe that I'm just kidding, but it doesn't make any sense. None of it. We live in such uncertain times. Something terrible has been unleashed inside of America and it's not law and order. 

Got a wife in kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going


Sunday, November 26, 2017


We thought that maybe it was strep throat, but mom called the doctor this morning and based on his symptoms we've shifted to another set of maladies - croup - we had already worked our way through foot-mouth disease and a few others.

Mom became infected also, we think, so I now await the echoing of the knell. 

I am reminded of different stages in mine and Rachel's relationship - by the years, and to the day - because Facebook is kind and thoughtful enough to conduct a sauntering along of memories each day for me. 

We had visitors the night before last, old friends, mostly of Rachel's. I found myself trying to verbalize and clarify where we are now in relation to where we were then. It is difficult to make sense out of your life or love for others, though I practice it in one form or another almost everyday. Yet still... what does one say? Love makes very little sense when viewed with the eyes of others - set outwards, awaiting the satiation of expectations. Love is at its best when it escapes the rut of skepticism; doubt does hardly a great love make. 

Below is a picture that appeared in my newsfeed this morning. I was happy those growing months, even while fighting off depression for parts of it. I remember fondly putting my ear to her belly and feeling our baby move and kick inside of her, touching her new roundness and fleshiness, loving her, talking endlessly about what things will be like

We were both very wrong. We almost did not forgive ourselves of this tandem indiscretion, yet things turned out somewhat close to how we had aspired, though in independence from one another. 

Funny, that - how bitterness can self-resolve if you back away from it after exhausting your energies in mutual accusation of personal and moral failure.

Funny, that, also - how intensely creative people fight - with such an eye and heart out for the dramatic. 

It all must sound so unimaginative to the ears and eyes of the unfortunate witnesses. 

But, who has time now to return and script an improved second draft? 

The show must have went on.


Saturday, November 25, 2017

Spacetime Incontinence

I began the long process of going through some of the pictures  - about half - that I took while last in Florida with the boy. My favorite so far (above) was mostly an accident. I had my iso set too low, so this exposure was about a quarter of a second because I was spot metering on the boy's shirt. What you can't determine in the image is that to the left, that yellowish/white blur, is the space shuttle Atlantis hanging at the Kennedy Space Center.

Florida's only theme park with a college degree.

Taking pictures of kids is difficult. Taking pictures of multiple kids is impossible. My normal ratio of pictures-taken to pictures-that-I-care-for is about 100 to 1. When multiple kids are involved I'm happy if there's 1 in 1000. I have no idea how film photographers used to do it. They were much better at predicting behavior than are digital photographers, and were far more patient. They're like the oldest spiders in existence. Any fool with a few thousand dollars can be a photographer now. Digital allows so much flexibility after the fact and very little need to economize on the number of shots taken, so success is almost guaranteed. Those factors combine to make people stupid and lazy, yet free to feel otherwise about it. 

Me, I mean. 

All of my camera gear approximates to what anybody with an iPhone shooting 8+ frames a second can accomplish eventually. Just keep shooting and you're going to get lucky. 

It's the same basic attitude as a spree killer. 

A slight exaggeration, but not very much. If you focus and exert some mental energy you can get a good image out of an iPhone at about the same ratio, and for much cheaper. 

One day - that is what I will tell myself and desperately try to believe. I just bought a used macro lens this morning, mostly for use with my film camera and some black-and-white film. But you never know - sometimes you get the best results from your predictions being very wrong. 

Ok, I have spent the last two hours going through pictures to send to my brother. Now, I have no energy left to write. Today is my only day off and we have considered driving to Sacramento. Because who doesn't want to go to Sacramento on Saturday?

If you don't believe me - that my son was part of the official Atlantis post-orbital mission - then the image below should settle all the questions, silence all the doubters. 

If you look carefully then you can discern the effects of Florida weightlessness on a five year old.