Power, Corruption and a Strong Right Hook

Joy Division and New Order all day yesterday. An old friend from Orlando asked me to bring their entire catalog to Florida with me - to listen to, to enjoy. I've given myself a head-start. 

Their recording history is patchy, with highs and lows mixed together generously. But the highs are really something. Some of the tracks on these albums are synonymous with ecstasy. The lows are quite a different thing. Few other bands are as "of a time" as they. Many tracks still have the ability to transport. When listening, it is impossible not to note the debt that so many electronic bands today still owe them. A truism if ever there was one.

Though I am suspicious of younger people who claim New Order's pervasive influence over their lives. I suppose I become slightly more protective of the past the further it gets from me. It is the wrong way to feel, but it is still a feeling. I suppose "protective" is not the right word. "Dismissive" is closer. It is not the way to be though, truly. It is best to just let people be happy, especially if they are not.

Very few of my current friends and I actually enjoyed New Order together. We are of a similar age so it is just an assumed collective experience. So, why not do the same with others, those younger than us? A person's age shouldn't matter so much, right? I love many bands that were before my time, with no less passion than their contemporaries, sometimes much more. Sometimes my enthusiasm bubbles over into fanaticism. Well, it used to. 

I would list a few examples but they should be obvious: any great band that I've ever cornered somebody to proselytize to them about, whose heyday was pre-1980. That would put them beyond my years, but still within my grasp to obsess over. It is easier to obsess about something that is just out of reach. It is practically a requirement. The albums that surrounded and almost insulated my youth but that I was not a part of in time. Not in the way that I would have chosen to be, anyway. Messages that were perhaps beyond my years and my ability to understand, albums that grew up for me.

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Okay, I've tried to write a post today but a friend has been haranguing me through text messages and now I can't write any more. He's been excreting glandular discharges onto his phone all morning about some video in which a Cleveland bus driver punches out a female passenger, then tries to throw her off of the bus. I've tried to convince him that, over time, that sort of thing lessens your capacity to feel, it diminishes your empathetic response, increases cyclical distance between you and all others. 

But he's more interested in arguing with me about whether or not he thinks video-games are "bad" or "good" for society. By now he's probably worked himself up into an orgiastic slather watching domestic violence clips. Who knows.

I give up. 

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"I just learned this word..."

Flexiril makes me feel strange, not always in a good way. I've been getting crushing headaches for two weeks, usually in the afternoon of each day. When I say "crushing," I truly mean it. It is as if there is a vice grip on the back of my head. I can hardly keep my eyes open. If I try to suddenly stand up after being reclined or seated then the pain is trebled. Movement will not only make the pain grow, but also roam. It is like an army of marching misery. It moves forward into my eye sockets and pulses its misfortune there for a while, causing me to squint and stagger. I walk without purpose, as if I have been wandering the halls of a hospital for decades. 

Oddly, four Advil will usually keep it manageable, the pain. Highly effective, that stuff. Who would have guessed?

I've gone through all the things that it might be: caffeine withdrawal, stress, improper sleep, pinched nerve, too much wine/beer, reading from the computer screen too much, wearing my glasses when looking at things that are too close, using too many pillows, furious masturbatory practices (actually recommended for migraines, though this does not appear to be that - no amount of change in frequency seems to affect it),  stress... have I already said that?

Flexiril is a muscle relaxer. I have only ever taken half of one before, usually the smaller half of the pill when I split it. Then, as needed, I will often split the larger half in two also, generating 1/4's or smaller. It is, to me, a very strong drug, with a lengthy half-life. It is not one that I could easily envision having many recreational purposes. Though it is my understanding that it was something like it that killed Jimi Hendrix. If it can take down a 27 year old, then one can only imagine what it can do to a man almost three times that age, when one considers adult life starting at 18, etc...

I saw something recently. It was advice on what grammatical devices (or mistakes) to avoid. I was guilty of most of them, of course. I write as if for a comic strip, apparently. Since this list discouraged the use of "etc." I have decided to use etc. with the accompanying ellipsis, to help further emphasize the "and so on" nature of my point, etc...

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All is lost

All is not lost. 

I've decided that I do believe in god, though he does not have a name. I will never discuss his nature nor impose him on others. I'm not even sure if he is a he... though I am equally certain that he is not a she. I do not have a personal relationship with him and am confident that I never will. I know deep in my heart that he does not exist. 

I promise to worship him blindly and from a great distance only after death, where we can finally be alone.

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The "Best Cheeseburger in Sonoma"

(towards SF, the bay)

Yesterday. An unexpected hike. The trail offered about an 1100 foot altitude differential. It had been a very long time.

It was up to the dividing line between the Sonoma and Napa counties, in the Mayacamas, to the summit of Bald Mountain. From that spot nearly every significant wine-country peak and valley could be viewed. On a clear day there are views all the way to the Pacific, San Francisco, and elsewhere north.

I forgot to bring my polarizing filter so the pictures I got were quite common, with lots of hazy light preventing the images from being more interesting, more detailed, with sharper contrasts. An image can not convey the view anyway. It is just something to show.

The winds at the summit were beginning to shift towards winter. From here the earth did not seem to be tilting on an axis at all. I suppose that it never does. Seem to be, that is. Only through the seasons do we sense it directly. A sense derived mostly from knowledge, memory first. There is the quarterly recognition of effect: the seasons. Then the imaginary sensation of the tilted orb moving through space and around the sun finally forms. 

Perhaps it is all imaginary; the sometimes tenuous relationship between sensations, knowledge, memory, and their culmination in the emotions. We tell ourselves what we wish to believe, then we feel our way around our beliefs, wondering at their persistence. Over and over and over again.

On the drive up the valley, towards the trailhead, the beginnings of the seasonal change could be seen. Bits of yellowing trees peppered amongst the green. The occasional tree that has already shifted to red, beginning its yearly lean away from the sun.

When we reached the car my legs were a little bit stiff, having resisted the descent with fatigued legs, stiff knees. A half of a cheeseburger and a single beer later and I already was feeling better. We sat at the Jack London Bar in Glen Ellen. It was advertised as the"Best Cheeseburger in Sonoma," and it probably was. 

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Them, the people

No sleep last night. Well, none that was deep or consistent enough to matter. Four hours of tossing and turning. Rachel went into the baby's room. She couldn't take it any more. I "watched" tv... my head buried in the pillows hoping that the sound of the television would drift off at some point and I would awake much later to find that the sun had already been up for hours.

That's not what happened. I am sitting here. The sun still hasn't broke the horizon line. 

Life seems possible with more sleep. It is almost a paradox of sorts. Sleeplessness reduces many of life's other pleasures. At some point it reduces all of them to ashes that refuse to disperse. I will try to get some more sleep after Rachel goes to work and the last of the weekend guests leaves for the airport.

Old friends are fun. The various things they remember. They were relaying very different stories of my childhood from the ones that I have chosen to remember and believe in. The stories that have been bolstered and modified by repetition in telling. It is interesting to come face to face with others' memories. It is similar to seeing yourself through the mirror of childhood, rather than just the scripted memories that you have learned along the way. It is refreshing, and was at times even shocking. 

Charles told me that I seemed devastated at the death of heavy metal guitarist Randy Rhodes. How could such a thing be possible, I wondered. I don't remember knowing anything about him, much less caring about his life or death. But the story was elaborate and filled with details that could not have been the invention of time. So, there you have it. I was an Ozzy Osbourne fan at some forgotten point in childhood. I never would have guessed that. Well, I might have guessed it, but it wouldn't have been my first guess, etc.

Apparently I was a rather strict adherent to Ronald Reagan's trickle-down economics also, daily espousing its virtues for the long bus ride into school. 

No, the last part's a joke. What right-minded heavy metal fan would have ever believed such nonsense...

I am in a duel to the death on Facebook again. I am currently trying to out-smug an amateur historian. He has adopted the very narrow reading of The Constitution that is currently in vogue amongst his kind, the newly-right. I have promised to respond to him more fully today. A response of mine from Friday was muddled from the apparent tug of wine. The thread has almost reduced itself to entirely ad hominem argument but it still seems like it might have enough life in it to make it worthwhile, though perhaps only he and I would agree with that. Perhaps even one less than that.

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In its defense....

(2004 Pegau)

Old friends are in town. I mean, really old... I've known each of them for 30-35 years; Mike and Charles, respectively. 

Last night we went to dinner and they were reminding me of various episodes from our shared past. My memory is fading. My friend, Charles, says that it is perhaps from cholesterol. He is a radiologist and he filled my head with horrors, or at least told me of the horrors that have already found their way there, the enzyme cascade that allows cholesterol to be produced, resulting in excess plaque accumulation, a blocking of the capillary end vessels. He relayed to us stories of MRI images of the mind, explaining that the damage that is done is visibly recognizable. He said that this same effect results in a weakening of the functionality of the penis. It is why Viagra is both useful and popular. 

There are drugs that can help reduce cholesterol. I need to have blood-work done again. I am afraid of to. He says that diet and exercise can help.  I work-out but I have the culinary discipline of Caligula. This stuff scares me. I don't want to change my habits. My memories though, many of them, seem to be fading fast. Of the stories that my friends were relaying to me many of them were very vague, barely something that even qualifies as a memory. 

Alcohol. They say that it does not help with the retention of memories. But, in its defense, it does occasionally facilitate the creation of new ones. 

Temporary, as they may be.

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Hot

Not much to report today, guests in, lots of wine drinking last night and barbecuing. I'm beginning to suspect that I am not going to get the job that I had hoped for. Drawing their attention to this site might have had a markedly negative effect on my chances. Perhaps not everybody sees the humor in my humor. 

In any event, I had hope to have heard back from them by now. It has been a week since my interview.

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Bottom Ring

I began to write yesterday but it was about a spider bite on my leg, with pictures. I couldn't post it. Then, I ran out of time. I watched the baby-boy all day yesterday. In the afternoon we went to the mall. It was useless and I bought nothing, of course. But it was a place to walk around and let time pass. I feel like a retiree, my knees hurt and I often fart unexpectedly, a surprise even to myself. Sound travels faster than messages through my own nervous system, so I am always genuinely startled by the event. The look of surprise eventually giving way to satisfaction. 

I sat in the food court and sipped a coffee while Rhys napped.

As the days pass I am beginning to wonder about the interview. There were answers to questions that simply were not good. One of them was bad, in fact. I keep replaying it in my head, wondering why I let myself get so comfortable, why I would let myself speak the truth.  Ooops. 

Oh well, it is a learned act, interviewing. One must always keep their defenses up, be prepared for anything. The thing that might have been my undoing was how comfortable and natural they all were. I let my defenses down. I don't think I started talking about drowning kittens in a pillowcase or anything, but I might have discussed the different ways ecstasy can be introduced into the body. I don't think I actually used the word "anus," though I might have picked a fond euphemism as a substitute. Though in all likelihood the image of me inserting my index finger gently into a barely closed fist, showing how best the insertion of powdered drugs into the bottom-hole works, might have been far more more memorable than the actual words I was speaking ever could have been.

Well, we'll see. It's only been one week. I don't think the phrase was anything quite as elaborate as "pooty-pucker" but the soft stare that I fixed on my interviewer as I was describing the process could have proved to be unsettling. I wanted to make sure that I had gained her trust before moving on with the explanation. It is an important and vital part of describing any sensitive process. 

"Now, once your index finger is in up past the second digit you must be prepared for anything. Do you understand what I mean by 'anything'?"

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Wakefulness extinguishers

(evacuation instructions)

Up at 4am, again. I tried going back to sleep, but no hazy darkness arrived. I am envious of people who can sleep. I have had a headache for days. I can't think. It wouldn't be nearly as bad if I could read. But my mind wanders restlessly off the page. It is not the type wandering that produces the occasional unexpected merit, just the dull repeating of themes that I would otherwise wish to escape, even if not in sleep.

I read essay after essay, hardly remembering any of them. It is just something to occupy the time. Nothing lost, nothing gained. There is only the unrelenting shape of time. Last night I watched the moon  slowly move across my bedroom window.  I kept believing it to be some celestial event other than what it was. I imagined it being a very near supernova, knowing that anything that bright and that close would mean something terrible for all of us.

It reminded me of the observation made by - well, now I've forgotten the astrophysicist... But he was basically noting the arrogance of a species that has only been on the earth for 250,000 years or so, thinking themselves to be in charge, pillaging their assumed "dominion."  The sun's fuel supply will exhaust itself in another 6 billion years, long after the human race has completely disappeared from this planet, along with virtually all evidence that we were ever here in the first place. This simple yet stupefying fact never seems to reach any of us. 

All evidence of our current existence will be completely wiped out long before our sun even dies. Our entire history as a species has been embarrassingly short, thus far.  

The dinosaurs were here for 250 million years, some of them. To state it again, we have been here for approximately 250 thousand years. It is simple math, yet it never seems to induce any sense of restraint in the hordes of listeners. Even referring to them as listeners is perhaps a generosity they do not deserve, and have not yet earned. Dinosaurs, the laughable relics of extinction, were here 1000 times longer than we have been so far. 

They must have really known how to sleep.

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...at least as happy as others

The days trudge by. I await the call that will change everything. I suppose I should continue applying for other jobs. Don't put all of your eggs in one basket, don't count your chickens before they hatch, blah, blah, blah.... Following advice has never worked out very well for me, especially advice of that sort. 

I was briefly relaying the history of mine and Rachel's relationship to our dinner guests the other night: Our closest friends mostly advised us both to give it all up, to let it go. It was the story of a seemingly perpetually doomed affair. We just kept breaking up, then getting back together, only to break up again. It was hopeless.  All of my friends, and certainly all of hers, were so tired of hearing about our relationship problems that there was no reason to discuss any of it any more. Our love was damned by the fates. There was nothing that anybody could do to fix it, Rachel and I most of all. Our stars had crossed and re-crossed so many times, and so regularly, that we must have been orbiting a black hole. We were soon to be lost to the universe.  

I let her know that I could not have her in my life any longer. We had ceased talking to one another. It had been about 3-4 months since the last time we spoke, which I had solemnly sworn to myself would be the last time, ever.

Then one night I asked her to marry me.

We've been at least as happy as other couples ever since. Perhaps that is what they were all afraid of. 

But even so, I would never use our relationship as an example of how to love, or as a blueprint to "following your heart." It's much more of an anomaly than it is a repeatable lead of any kind.  If anything, it should function as a deterrent, when examined chronologically. The final result of a series of mistakes should never be seen as evidence in support of the many mistakes. I'm still amazed when I think back to some of the episodes we've endured, only to love one another once again. I would never have guessed that we'd be able to salvage our feelings for one another. The wreckage of our love was everywhere around us, everywhere within us, it was complete. And yet we somehow found our footing within it and moved on. The thought is both beautiful and terrifying, and probably permanent. 

Things are far from perfect. As with any relationship we have our grievances, some of which are not only recurring but also advancing on us. It can be a constant struggle. The hardest part of love is often in the present and the future.

The past is almost easy; fading, softened by time, like the memory of storms.

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Toys in the Attic

Very little to report today. More guests in over the weekend. Guests coming in next weekend as well. The house is busy and full. Pleasant times, lots of cooking on the grille, the continued drinking of wines and beers.  

I wait to hear about the job. No amount of looking at my phone seems to make a call appear. I am already planning on how to spend some of the money. Rachel has caught me eyeing camera reviews (here , here , and here). Though I know there are other things we must take care of first. Everything is expensive. 

Sometimes saving money is the biggest expense of all. But I'm told that it must be done. I am a naif with such things. It just seems that the money that is being put away is precisely the money that could be buying a camera. It's like watching all of your toys being boxed up on Christmas morning and put away in the attic, to help prepare for "tougher times." It makes no sense.

Still, the mind starts to imagine, to want. The future seems different: a place where more things are possible. Who knows, maybe one day we will have an attic filled with boxed up Christmas's just waiting to happen...

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Journey to the Harvest Moon

 (Cato, drifter)

Cato and his female friend, Alex, came out to Sonoma from SF yesterday. We all went on a hike to watch the full harvest moon rise, Lisa and Matt had generously made the arrangements. There is a portion of land directly behind Sonoma Square that has been set aside as a preserve. Occasionally they will organize hikes up into the hills. Last night was one of those nights. It is a unique vantage point from which to survey our little moonlit community. 

Slightly liquored-up we slogged and stumbled our way in the near dark all the way to the summit, then sat and watched the lit side of the moon, the one that Pink Floyd famously ignored on their seminal 1973 breakthrough album. 

Speaking of rock and roll... What the fuck is wrong with all of the bay area rock stations? Now listen... I know that Journey was famously from this area, but they weren't the ONLY band from around here, there were lots. But the dj's here - or maybe we could blame the music programmers - have dedicated the remainder of their lives to the continued propagation of the local star-producers of Wheel in the Sky.... It is endless, and apparently has been for some time. It shows absolutely no signs of slowing.

It is almost to the point that I can't even scan the radio anymore. It is an absolute daily certainty that I'm going to have to suffer Journey at some point in the day if I do. 

"Highway run.... Into the midnight sun...."

What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?

 (Alex, female friend)

 (Lisa, moon enthusiast)

(Matt, Journey fan)

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"To The People That Kept Us Up All Night"

All seemed to go very well with the job interview. It felt like more of an "orientation" than an interview. The most difficult question they asked me was, "Would you like some more water?"

Either I already have the job or there would have to be a very serious accident in the netherworld before they would ever hire somebody like me. 

Who knows. Now, I just wait to find out. 

It is peculiar, what the mind does: Since the interview I have begun to isolate certain things that I said, or that they said, that have made me question and wonder. I'm doing it now. 

Still waters breed reptiles of the mind. - William Blake (approx.)

The company seems very cool. I was pleased with the overall demeanor of all the people that I met and the general social temperature in the office. It was a refreshing change from the genius bar at an Apple store. It feels like I've worked inside a microwave oven for five years.

Looking for a job is sort of fun. Perhaps one day litigation in this country will go so overboard - some would say that it already has, and long ago - that people would be able to sue companies for time spent trying to get a job with them. I mean, they are a company, and you did try... Why not, right?

You know what makes me really happy.... the future.

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How do you handle conflict?

Yesterday I studied for most of the day. I went over index cards with data to be memorized, shuffled them, went over them again, and again and again. I read and re-read a "cheat sheet" that a friend provided. I tried to put all of the things that I was memorizing into paragraphs so that I would feel natural talking about them and not just reciting lines that had been memorized, my eyes drifting upwards as I tried to recall the order and significance of the facts. Now there is only the interview to wrestle with. 

I suppose it is one of the most common things in the world, being nervous before an interview. Very few people ever get good at it. It is not something that most people do often enough to become entirely confident in. I suppose there are some who must. But it's like people who become good at breaking up with lovers. They are always assholes. 

I've practiced a few times, sitting down with Rachel and my friend Matt, having them ask me questions. It is strange, rehearsing. Everybody wants to believe that they will be engaging, charming, articulate and gregarious... all on the spot, all under pressure.  That's not how it works though, usually. I know that from the very limited experience I have in this regard. 

After writing yesterday's post I got an email. It was somebody offering to help. They explained that the job that I was applying for is precisely the type work they do for a living. I explained the need to brush up quickly on the overarching concepts, as well as some of the foundational relationships between the technologies. I went to the gym, when I got back there was an email waiting for me. Seven pages of condensed technology briefings. Victory.... Perhaps what they say is true, there are angels everywhere...

"It's about time those fuckers came out of hiding." - Bukowski

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"Tips and Tricks"

(the eyes of a technician)

Tomorrow I have an interview with a tech company. To give you an idea of what a nerd I am... I have been brushing up on TCP/IP, LDAP, Message Headers, Active Directory, MIME, ISP web settings, network troubleshooting, DHCP, embedding SSL certificates, and the various ways of implementing these protocols together, etc. 

Bored yet...?

I spent five years as a technician at Apple, now it would appear that it is all that I'm capable of doing. That I received a somewhat limited education in the areas listed above while at Apple doesn't help the matter much. Also, that the only other job interview I've ever been on was almost six years ago, for Apple, doesn't help matters either. You do best what you do most. These situations make me nervous. I suppose everybody must feel that way. Most everybody.

Maybe I should have set up a few practice interviews in advance of tomorrow's. Rachel and I tried but it was an unmitigated disaster. I had to let her go.

Confidence can be a very elusive thing. To possess it at one time does not necessarily mean that you will possess it at any other time, or be able to project it at any rate. I suppose that wanting the job affects how I feel about my capabilities, how I am able to present myself, or not. If only the situation were reversed and they were in the position of convincing me why I would want to work with them. How does one achieve that? It is the riddle of life, I suppose.

"So, tell us a little bit about yourself?"

"Oh, you haven't been reading my blog? I see..."

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I abhor patience.

Rachel sent me on an errand to the grocery store this morning, to get coffee. I followed her instructions perfectly and arrived back at home with the coffee she requested. Once she had poured the ground coffee beans into the maker she realized the bag said "decaf" on it. Why do they even sell that in the same section as the regular coffee? Scratch that. Why do they sell that at all? It is an awful lie.

Luckily, I had bought two different types of coffee. The other one, the expresso blend, was as nature intended it to be. I'm waiting for that to seize my mind and body now, constricting my arteries like a circulatory boa.

I found a great bookstore in Santa Rosa (the first "city" northwards up the valley). It's called Treehorn, I think. It's all used books, mostly hardback, and relatively cheap. It must be owned by an old, wealthy, eccentric of some sort. It sits directly across the avenue from a monstrous Barnes and Noble. There were only one or two other people in the whole store. It's difficult to understand how it's still operating. I went in and found a few books that I had been meaning to get, or replace. Two hardback and one paperback, all in perfectly new condition. $30. Voila.

One is a collection of essays by Gore Vidal, "Homage to Daniel Shays." If you have never read any of Vidal's essays; well, I enthusiastically suggest them. His writing is enviable, his historical perspectives are acute and fascinating. More than all of that is his clever turn of phrase. His timing is precise.

The essay that gives the book its title is the first one I read, the last written chronologically, in 1972. It is amazing how perceptibly he described and predicted our current economic-political condition from a vantage point 40 years distant. 

The other two books were replacements for ones that I had given away, a collection of poetry by Dylan Thomas and Hell's Angels by H. S. Thompson, also a lost gift or an unreturned loan. 

Selavy, I believe, was poking fun of my purple prose from the other day. It's true, I should not write when up late, drinking. I get the feeling that nobody is watching so it doesn't matter if I allow myself to get silly, thinking myself a late-night west-coast purple-poet of sorts. But the morning always comes, the damage is done. It is out there floating in the aether of the past, like your first true love, the one from high school. It is an un-erasable shame at that point. There are stabs of memory, drunken screaming from the neighbor's lawn. Terrible recollections. It is like that, childish love. Certain lines can be changed or deleted, but the spirit of the thing is too far gone. There have been witnesses, and we must all return to class on Monday morning. Ah well, C'est La Vie... Next time I will use a smaller font size, to minimize the damage.

Drinking and writing, they walk hand in hand. I lose all modesty, like a drunk slut dancing on the tabletops, as if already engaged in some imaginary wet t-shirt contest. Or, believing myself to be a sailor at war, or a lion tamer moonlighting as a talk-show host without guests.

There is only one thing worse than a "young poet"... 

I keep seeing people here in Sonoma that I somehow know. Or rather, I should say that I should know. They know me, they know Rachel and the boy, etc. They seem to know all about me.  I will just stare at them, fascinated at the tales they tell of my life. They will try to remind me of when we've met, nodding in self-agreement and clear memory. And I, sitting like a schoolboy around a campfire, gripped by ghost stories, waiting for the next clue... I am hideous. I can't remember names and faces but I have a great memory for things that I've said and people that I've interrupted. 

I was texting with Cato yesterday. I think that's who it was... In any event, he was telling me that I have a habit of interrupting people. I was insisting that my time is running out and I can't bear to hear others talk much more, especially when I can tell what it is they are going to say long before they ever say it. It is excruciating.  If you don't interrupt some people then they will drag their sentences out to the very end. It's rude. There really is no other word for it.

Well, there are a few other words for it... But, I get impatient with those who are not more amenable to my interruptions. Likewise, I repeat myself because they appear to have ceased listening. When they are vaguely shaking their heads in the "no" direction I assume that they still don't understand. 

Conversation is only democratic at the very beginning. It is proven to be something else as it progresses. Why should I, or anybody else, be forced to endure dull ideas? Cato offered that I am a tyrant, but the opposite is more true. I'm the victim here. It's not as if I'm trying to silence anybody from a distance, or when I'm not present. There should be others for that purpose. We could form a league. 

I abhor patience and patient people. I have no time for them. If interrupting people is rude then shouldn't there also be a speed and time limit that should be observed by all those speaking? To go below a certain word-count per minute should be also perceived as a rude waste of everybody's time. Or, to drag one simple idea out for more than a sentence or two... it's uncivil.

Are we also meant to perpetually suffer the dull and unimaginative?

That's it, really. The only people worth listening to are the witty, the people who will say unexpected things. Everything else is like listening to a recording of an endlessly bad sermon, or being forced to read the transcript. You know where it's going, you've heard it before, it is dull and obvious, and all too familiar. 

The true weirdos of life: the intellectual hoarders, the explosively nervous, the wandering crazed bums... are perhaps the only ones worth leaning in to hear any more. Never knowing what nonsense will arrive at the end of each sentence, or during. The absurd non-sequitirs of mild dementia. In that there is the true wisdom and perverse beauty of the ages. Not the primitive scrawling on the cave wall but instead the wiping of a fresh, shiny booger. Announcing its arrival to a collective wince of disbelief.

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Strange days

Yesterday, on my return drive from Napa, I came to a stop at an intersection on my way back into Sonoma. Floating there above were thousands of yellow leaves, hundreds of feet up into the air. No explanation for it. It looked as if an invisible funnel cloud had touched down and just lifted all of these leaves into the sky from an unsuspecting tree. I imagined a bald maple or oak somewhere very near, swaying in the wind, shaking its naked limbs in defiance at the sky. 

The leaves seemed to be moving in an almost column-like direction rather than just randomly, not as if the heat from a fire had forced them upwards. There wasn't a cloud anywhere, no sign of a fire, no embers... just these many yellow leaves floating above, contrasted against the blue.  

It was a strange sign that a new season is on its way. 

It had a very Spielberg-like quality to it.  It gave me the feeling that something was just on the verge of happening, nobodys' parents know... I almost expected to see a group of kids following it on their bikes.

No explanation.

Strange days, indeed.

Well, I have an interview on Friday, a company in SF. Interviews are nerve-wracking for me. I haven't slept well for two nights now, in anticipation. I never feel like I convey a sense of confidence. I fumbled and stumbled my way through a phone interview yesterday. I got off the phone and was almost having a panic attack. I was defeated. But the email came later in the day that they wanted to meet me on Friday, for the position that I had hoped for. I'll probably have a stroke on my drive into the city. Or, I'll shit myself when I lean forward to shake the interviewer's hand. I'll see his nose twitch in disbelief, his eyes darting from one side to the other nervously. 

I'll blurt out, "It's cool. I'm wearing diapers. I kind of knew this would happen." Then I'll sit down and give him an unnaturally frozen smile, eager to start.

It's strange, because once I'm in a position I have no real problem excelling at most anything I do. But talking about myself, trying to convince others that I am capable, is just abysmal. I feel almost as bad for the people interviewing me as I do for myself. 

But as for the interviews... yikes: 

"What is one of your weaknesses?"

"I like to sleep for a while after lunch. It's probably all the booze, but it tires me out a bit. I tried to balance it with some light afternoon amphetamines but that didn't work out either. I'd still feel a little bit sleepy most days, but usually just after lunch."

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Probably around step 8 or 9. If I can find a new sponsor."

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"How soon would it be possible for me to take my vacation days? I'd really like to ease into this thing."

I think for the next interview when they ask me if I have any questions I'm going to say Sure... I'll put on my glasses and then pull out a sort of dossier-looking folder and ask if they have any time constraints for the remainder of the day.

Stuff like that.... 

I got a few return emails about other jobs as well. I've never really looked for a job before, so this is all new to me: job hunting. I am eager for it to be over, excited to learn something new. I hope they make me fire somebody on my first day. Wouldn't that be a great joke for a new employee... Holy Hosanna, I hope nobody ever puts me in charge of personnel. I would permanently institute it into the corporate philosophy. 

You'd really learn a lot about a person in those first few minutes.

My friend from NYC has challenged me to some sort of inter-state weight battle when I get to Florida. It scares me because he's so much bigger than I am. It's not really fair. You see, he's pissed because I fondly referred to him the other day as a "fat-ass." I think that's the phrase that I used. It might have been "lard-ass," not sure. I had thought that it was a loving term of endearment, as well as being an accurate description of his overall condition. But he took offense, I guess. Fat people are so touchy....  always touching the Twinkies.

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... petition the stars

Up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. I've just opened a bottle of wine. Well, I hadn't... but then I wrote that sentence. 

It became fate, and I fate's prophet.

I have been worried about things lately, the future. I received an email when I first woke up around midnight. It was from a friend who was worried about his businesses. They are struggling. His income relies heavily on people having expendable income, those who are able to travel, to spend. The recession has really hit him and his family hard, for quite some time now. He has good reason to be angry, though this time he was not. He was just saddened by it all, writing to a friend. He has put much effort into his life, over a long period of time. Now, through no real fault of his own, he risks financial failure. Sometimes it is easy to forget that politics are more than just something to argue about.

This is the point at which neither of our political leanings matter. It simply sucks. Both parties are to blame (His more than mine, of course). It is easy to be sickened about it. We will find a way back to disagreeing again, it is what we seem to enjoy most, but the heartache of the truth of it is much to bear. I wish conservatives well in business also, though I still reserve the right to denounce on a case-by-case basis.

I worry about Rachel and myself, also. Ultimately, we would like to start our own business, but there is some invisible fear there, some sense that first we must re-stabilize our lives first. We must find our feet beneath us in this new life. To take a risk we must feel safe. Isn't that an odd paradox? 

The baby boy changes everything. He will never know, of course, perhaps until he has children of his own. If he ever tries to tell me... I'll pretend that in my day, during the great recession, we just did what we had to do. I will insist on my shamelessly flatulent wisdom, making his kids giggle with joy and revulsion.  That is my only hope.

Yesterday, we went to the mall in Santa Rosa. After a lunch that included a few beers and a nice, little, tasty pizza on the main avenue we walked back towards the end of the street, where there was a mall: Rachel wanted to get some things, new underwear, marital surprises, etc.  I told Rachel to go shopping by herself and buy whatever she wants, whatever makes her happy, not to worry about it, at all. 

She worries too much - I, not enough. It is how we get along.

So, I was walking around the mall with Rhys in the stroller, mildly beer-heavy and pleased with myself, even though the mall is a place that I actively despise. It represents the most base and vulgar aspects of American life, the crassness of capitalism, and the cynical myth of a public space.  It is not even worth parking the car there, much less going in. But as I wandered, happy and proud to be a father, following the vague scent of sweet cookies, I happened upon a familiar site: the entrance to an Apple store. There, at the front door, was an old manager of mine, Chris.  We said our hello's and shook hands. I was genuinely happy to see him and the feeling was quite evidently shared. He always had an amiable demeanor when I worked with him and he was very pleased to meet my smiling little son, a child that is perpetually cheerful. I mean it, the kid is just happy. His face glows with easily shared joy. It is impossible to be sad when looking at him. It can be done thoughtfully, but not with great sadness. 

I petition the stars that he does not grow into adulthood in the same way that I have, forever ripped from one manic state to the next, depressed. Torn between the uncertain emotions that each and every moment insists upon, demanding sensations that can hardly be held, hardly enjoyed; always feeling and yet never knowing, as if being perpetually dragged away from the place that I must next go - a rushed sentence that I haven't said yet, the mind merely an accelerating drug that removes all self-possession - always I am coursing towards a place that will somehow demand to matter more. I arrive, ever-nervous and disheveled, interrupting as I go. Each second is a perverse thrill that invites the next, like the sound of gunshots in the eyes of the movie of the mind. Life, an unscripted film in which I will soon forget my lines.

The image of future speech drifting into infinity, and then back again. The horror of hastening. 

I must learn to calm down.

My illness is like being kicked out of my own heart by a security staff that knows me well, they mock my need to explain as they rush me towards the door, gladly tossing me into the alley, turning faceless, already of the past, immune to my repeated screams and prayerous maledictions. 

Instead of saying, And Don't Come Back..!!!  It is always, You'll be back.... you will be back, you will be here again, don't worry, just go away. If only I could detect it all as it was happening. As soon as I am at the center of conversation then it is there, lurking in the corner, waiting to strike, with horns that look like my teeth, its tentacles twisting me into the pre-formed and accelerated shape that it always demands. I am a vehicle for a madness that saves us both. monster and me, just before the cliffs. Any cliffs, anywhere. I pray that, always. Stop, or slow. My mind is going.

Imagine ever trying to convince yourself of the veracity of the next thing you are about to say, rather than the last. Imagine there's no present, it's easy if you try. No past behind us, above us only sky... 

Imagine there being no such thing as a last resort. It is littered amidst the remnants that I have been forced to count on, that something else is coming soon, and that I will be out of my mind for that also, that next verbal utterance, mad to hear the words that are as of yet unformed. Doubly-pulsed, and tumbling amongst stumbled speech particles that scatter the past where it falls, where it belongs, split-seconds at a time, behind us each, behind us all.

Please God, at least let those future words be mine. Crucify me, as long as I get to keep talking. Sacrifice my life, my mind. When ripped like this it is like living inside of a rape. All that I can hear is the fabric tearing towards the future.

It is the unbearable, unspeakable, yet never silent curse, of manic-depression. It is a thing that never follows me, but always knows where I am going. Where I will, without warning, be next.

That is what I wish Rhys never knows. Mania. Or, its counterpart.

But Chris, at Apple, was chatty; content in his move from the previous store to this one. He likewise told me that I also looked relaxed and happy. I told him that I am, but that it's time for me to go back to work, I've had enough time off now, and that maybe the beer has helped with my buoyancy for the day. Before I knew it he was discussing job possibilities at the new store. I took his card and promised to send an email to him and to the store's general manager. 

In fairness, I might have asked about the jobs there. I don't really remember. 

I let him do his job. I wandered back into the mall, waiting, wandering among the soon-to-be ruins. 

The smell of cookies is all that I recall.

I stopped back by with Rachel so that Chris could meet her also. We all chatted briefly and warmly, as it can be so easy to do on the floor of an Apple store. I didn't even bother looking at the new Samsung iPhone 7. In fact, I had forgotten that it was even out until typing this paragraph. 

Driving home I was filled with an odd feeling. The idea of being able to step back into a familiar role was very tempting. It would require virtually no effort on my part, like getting back together with an ex-girlfriend, one that hasn't even bought new underwear, things are exactly as they were when I left. There is precisely nothing new that I would need to learn, or nothing of any consequence, I should say. I know all that I need to know already, or can fake it well enough to suffice. It offers virtually nothing in the way of education but everything in the way of convenience. When a job has molded you into a certain shape it is sometimes nice to fall to sleep back in the bed that is already shaped in the form of your aching body. Now I ponder the purpose of lying alone in a sexless cradle.

A job is nearly Faulknerian, like vines made of dust, a wisteria that never blooms, amidst the partials of the past.

In seven hours I have a phone interview with another company in San Francisco. A startup that would offer more potential for growth, perhaps much more lateral and upward mobility. An old buddy from Apple has recommended me for a position there. It might also mean a commute into SF on a near daily basis. I would be forced to learn a slightly different skill set, but of that I am not at all dismayed. I only reflect upon it for what it is, a minor challenge: an asking of the mind to indulge something other than itself. A conscious challenge is probably what I need, but I can feel the trepidation, the wanting for life to just be easy, with less uncertainty; the vines of the past curling around the column of my neck.

But then there is that familiar voice: Sean, stop being such a pussy. There are no guarantees in life, you know that. Just do something different, Move On. You are capable of so much more. Prove something new to yourself. Rachel bought new panties. Don't let your weakness become a weakness. Don't fall asleep in a perceived strength. Try not to scare people. Smile more. Don't stare. Stop that.

I promised to think about it. I promised to write Chris, an email. I will fulfill my promise, at least. I could sense that Rachel was happy at the idea of me going back to work at Apple. It would mean less in commuter time, more in computer. I might be able to step right back into my old life with my five years of seniority, reclaim my benefits at the state that they were at when I left. The only people that could stop me are the ones reading this post right now. Isn't that one of the silent ironies of living?

I'll be honest, I was saddened that I could detect Rachel's enthusiasm. I wanted to believe that she was pleased that I had left, that it was the right thing to do. But I must also be honest the other way, she was only reacting to my beer-fueled enthusiasm at the idea; my mild, manageable, self-medicated, madness. My keenness for the idea was partially the product of convenience, though that might wear off rather quickly.  To suddenly feel that all of my questions might be answered was comforting, like -re-reading a novel. It might not be quite the answer I was looking for, but any answers have a pacifying effect. It is the questions that tend to perturb and distress.

The new questions are the hope of momentary silence. 

The part of being on a swing that is most enjoyable is when life stops, freezes momentarily, then begins the other direction. The speed between only informs the momentary stops. 

It is the returning spring of answers to ever-unasked questions that keeps me giggling in my swing. 

There is the feeling of always being pulled back, towards a grasp-less curve.

Some just call it nerves.

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The (New) Village

(Physical Graffiti)

Not much to report on today. Yesterday we went to a bbq that did not include any barbecued food. There was a grille sitting there, cold and unused. There were various plates of food, none of which were grilled meats. I drank a couple plastic glasses of Etude 2009 Pinot Noir. There was, at least, that.  Nice wine. I would suggest it to anybody.

There is something strange about many of the people here. I will give it some more thought and perhaps  report back to you about it. I have made observations but don't want to be unfair. My initial survey of the place is almost cruel. It is a strange place in many ways. It is in the way that people carry themselves. It is almost as if they are perpetually trapped in the opening scenes of a film about humans that are actually aliens, aging much too quickly in our oxygen-rich atmosphere. Sort of like Prometheus, but not as poorly written.

Selavy is in New York without me. I warned him against such things. The city is ruined now, no longer worth visiting. I have received links to an online article about how my little neighborhood bar has gone out of business and it will now be turned into a 7-11.... in the very heart of the East Village, a lamentable change. 

I wrote once before about the owner, Bob, passing away. It was when I first began writing on this site; so many confessions ago. Apparently his wife, Anne, had allowed several different people to come in and help her as "partners." Investors and friends, or worse. The place sunk, closed its doors, and now will be converted to a 7-11. There is nothing to be happy about in the telling of the story. Except that the relentlessly complaining bitch that lived above the bar will have her hands full now. Fuck her, She has thrown full soup cans down at people from her window, poured hot water on the doorway from above, screamed out her window anytime she felt that she was somehow being victimized by the city, called the police repeatedly, etc., etc. Now she will have a 24-7 flow of noisy, drunken people underneath her window. 

The bar there functioned as my living room for about a decade. It was were I would often meet friends to chat and have a beer. Most apartments in NYC are too small for such a thing. So, local bars become as much a part of your life as your own living space. I acted like I owned the place, much to the occasional chagrin of the actual owners, or the many people who worked there. I am still friends with several of the bartenders and patrons from through the years. Tricia, Yvette, Adan, Gina, Michael, Delissa, Ishmael, Karim, Vinny, Rosie, Taryn Fem, Dede, Yuun, the list goes on and on.

Dwayne, a fellow "local," is also a friendship formed over the course of many afternoon beers drank there. I met his son, Philip, when he was just 14. He's now in his second year of college. Tricia, the ex-bartender, plans to come visit California with her boyfriend in the early part of next year, surveying the place to see if they will move here.

Once, while sitting at her bar drinking beer, I threw a balled up napkin into her glass from about 8 to 10 feet away. A minor miracle. Then, as she picked the glass up to remove the napkin and was moving it around I landed a second shot, on the moving target. The bar went wild with enthusiasm. I was the champion of unbelievable bar tricks. I spent the next 30 minutes making a perpetual nuisance of myself, trying to land a third.... It never happened. 

Ah well, things change. I have heard several reports that the neighborhood has slowly morphed "for the worse."  Chain stores have been coming in and replacing individually owned shops. A Starbucks can be found on 1st Ave and 13th now. Sacrilege. A recent article claimed that the East Village has more "chain" stores than any other zip code in Manhattan, except for one. So, maybe it was only my skewed perception of the place that made it what it was for me. The mind is ever able to see what it wishes, as it sees past the actuality of what is there. Perhaps my beloved little village always was something other than I had believed it to be. Or, like so many other places it becomes only a portion of a fantasy.

The skies were bluer. The grass was likewise greener... and the delivery guys were always quick and discrete.

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... my thoughts light fires in your cities

Yesterday I gave myself the mission of making all the necessary phone calls to get enrolled in an education class at Sonoma State University. Because I didn't get all of the needed paperwork submitted in time to substitute teach I assumed that what I should do is begin the year-long process towards getting my teacher certification so that I could actually be hired in a full time capacity, rather than just subbing. 

My first call, to the Florida Department of Education, stopped the need for all other calls. Now, this is going to sound crazy, and probably boring, but stick with me here.... I defaulted on my student loans many years ago, close to 15. I lived underneath the radar for many years and saw no reason to burden myself with paying them back, hoping that my last living thought would be, "Fuck the student loan people..." But things didn't work out for me and I ended up getting a job. The first year at the job I filed for my taxes and got a return. I thought that I was in the clear and that they had given up. I believed that a statute of limitations must have expired somewhere. No matter, they have been defeated, vanquished, etc... I, a dragon slayer of sorts.

The next year proved the fallacy of that fantasy. They seized my tax returns. I contacted them, wanting to right the many years of wrongs and get this last and final debt off of my back. I began making payments to them. Modest payments, a couple hundred dollars, but payments nonetheless. The following year I filed my tax returns again. For a two day period the state of Florida had returned the handling of the account to their offices and seized my tax returns again; money that Rachel and I had planned to use on our French vacation/honeymoon. I was completely gutted, and very angry. But there was really nothing I could do about it. Sizable chunks of the debt were coming off. All from the interest and penalties categories, none from the principal. It was still as solid as it had been since the day that I graduated.

The debt collection agency that handles my account perpetually tried to get me involved in the "loan rehabilitation program." After talking extensively to a lawyer-friend in NYC he advised me to just keep paying the debt collection agency. The state of Florida actually advised me to do this also. It had been so long that they had ceased to claim the debt against my credit rating so all that there was to do now was to pay the debt off. It started at around $26,000. After two seized tax returns and two-and-a-half years of making payments, it is down to about $16,000. 

$13,000 in principal.  I have paid $10,000 in penalties and interest.

Now, this is where it gets fucked up. I contacted the state and let them know that I wanted to start teaching and would like to get in the debt rehabilitation program, that I needed to go back to school. But I had a question about one of the provisions on the paperwork. It was worded such that it seemed that they could attach an 18.5% fee onto the entire balance, penalties and interest included, for performing this service. 

What service? I asked. 

"Selling your debt to another lender."

"So, you're going to charge me about $3000, with interest, just to let another lender buy this loan?"

"Yes."

"What do I get out of it?"

"A new loan, with a different interest rate, probably higher."

So, I talked about other options. It was a very short conversation. Paying the loan off in full is the only other option. They will not release my transcripts to any educational institution until the loan is out of default, and they want to charge about $3000, with added interest, to let another lender take over the loan, still all guaranteed by the federal government that I will pay the debt. Not even death can save me now. They will seize any equity I might have built up in the house if I were to die with the loan unpaid. 

After talking with him for a while I asked, "What were all of the penalties that I've been paying for the last two years?" 

"That's the first 18.5% fee we've already added to the loan."

"How is it possible that you can charge me twice? And now you're charging me a percentage that includes a large portion of the other penalty, and interest."

"Well, that was then, this is now. The loan's in a different state."

"Yeah, so am I."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind."

"How can you justify charging me 37% (18.5 times 2) on the principal, interest and penalties on a student loan?"

"That's what you agreed to.You shouldn't sign a loan without reading it first."

"But they hadn't taught me to read yet. I had just started."

"You should have had somebody else read it for you."

"This isn't a loan, it's paper slavery. In any other business, if this were the practice, it would be considered illegal. It is fraud and racketeering on a national scale. The government guarantees a loan for a product that they know is not worth the selling price. Then, they use taxpayer money to collect on the debt, for other companies, companies that are allowed to continue adding fees on top of the debt so that the principal never disappears."

There was nothing more to talk about after that. I was one sentence away from making a bomb threat and I wasn't even going to bother hanging up and calling back. I was going to verify that he had my right address and phone number first. I was going to speak very clearly, making sure that they would have a nice audible soundbite for the news.

"This is Sean Cusick, from the graduating class of 1996. Allahu Akbar, mother fuckers. Any questions?"

Or,

"Mr and Mrs. America -- you are wrong. I am not the King of the Jews, not am I a hippie cult leader. I am what you have made of me and the mad dog devil killer fiend leper is a reflection of your society... Whatever the outcome of this madness that you call a fair trial or Christian justice, you can know this: In my mind's eye my thoughts light fires in your cities." -Charles Manson, at his trial

.

The growing political body

(barely able to fit into a plane restroom)

I can't figure out what's happening. I've been going to the gym regularly (5-6 days a week) for three weeks now, working out anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour, most days closer to an hour. Heavy cardio for about 20 minutes. When I leave I am drenched in sweat. Still, I've gained 5 pounds in three weeks. It makes no sense. I just keep watching the scale go up and up.

I know that when you begin working out after a long period of relative inactivity then your appetite will increase. But I've been particularly careful not to let that get too runaway. Also, muscle weighs more than fat but I couldn't have caused that substantial of a change in 3 weeks. It makes no sense. Somebody with more knowledge of this stuff than me please offer some wisdom here... I am becoming disenchanted with working out right at the point where I should be gaining momentum. 

Perhaps it is an age thing. Everything will start to move in the opposite direction from what it has my whole life. All physical processes are upended. The real way to health is to sit on my front porch sipping a whiskey, yelling at people to "Slow Down!"  Only a petty meanness will keep me fit. Who knows. 

My flip-flops look defeated, like a pair of old futon mattresses, crushed by time and weight, an uneven lumpiness being their telling sign of resistance.

Somebody that focuses on these things please offer me some pearls of knowledge.  I am meeting up in Orlando with some friends from NYC in a few weeks and one of my buddies will be relentless about my weight if it is greater than his. I must triumph over that fat-ass, at any cost....  They probably won't even let us ride Space Mountain together, as is. They will direct us each individually to a special line to wait, a nondescript category that has only one spot to stand on. There we will wait for a special car to hold us. They'll be searching the crowd for, "Any single passengers?" to ride in any of the other cars. Any more that that might be dangerous. At the Haunted Mansion we will likewise be directed into a seat of our own. Where it would normally look as if a ghost was seated between you and a friend we will have to heave to one side or the other to make the illusion passable. Righting ourselves afterwards, chortling to ourselves, out of breath, craving a beer, etc.

Disney, of all places, knows how to manage fat people. The place was practically invented for them; if not invented, at least designed. 

It's a small world indeed. For you it is, sir. 

No, I kid. I am past the point of competing with my buddy in this way. I have bulked up to about 230 pounds, heavier than at any other time in my life by about 15-20 pounds. At first I was just putting on courtesy-fat for Rachel when she was pregnant. Then it became a sort of fascinating, macabre hobby. I stopped letting Rachel see me with my shirt off. I would take it off only once under the covers, in the dark, always pretending to be chilly, even in June. Sex should always be in the dark anyway. Even now I encourage Rachel to close her eyes and wonder, really let her imagination run. The mind, above all else, is erogenous. Why block its way?

One day I saw a picture of myself, taken with my own camera, while at work at Apple. There was something hideous in the image. It occupied nearly the whole frame. A doughy monster looking back at me with corpulent cheeks and well-upholstered eyes. I looked like 230 pounds of condemned veal, as Vidal used to say about Kennedy. Ted Kennedy, that is, Gore Vidal.

Ok, enough. I will fix the scale at the gym today. Re-calibrate it to suit my special dietary needs. It is easy. I know how. I will feel much better tomorrow. 

I will sell this house today....

---------------

It seems as if many people have tired lately of all of the political talk. It's too bad, really. I am just getting fired up. The general election really brings to light the intense divisions within this country. The unhealed wounds of the past, present and future. We are all asking ourselves whether America is right or wrong, convinced that it can not possibly be both. As for rightness, we are all on that side, for all time. The insufferable wrongness can only be, and always is, the other guys. Each opposing side seems intent on running or ruining our country. Always has been, always will be. Apparently, this country would be almost perfect with exactly half of the population. Oddly, that's the perfect numerical standard for the other team also. 

Each side convinced of something very simple about the other: Republicans are hateful racists and Democrats are freeloading socialists. These stereotypes are supposedly enforced through various initiatives put forth by each side. Universal health care will apparently ruin the nation or the second amendment should be thrown out, if not at least seriously reconsidered. It doesn't matter, one side wants health the other side wants guns, each reducing their political philosophies down to bumper sticker wisdom. Onward they march.

Many of the people I know seem too tired to argue any more. Nobody's giving in. Nobody's changing their mind. I had thought that Gary Johnson might be a viable candidate but then I read into his political history a little bit more. Nope. As the governor of New Mexico he advocated putting 13 year old children to death if they had been found guilty of murder, even retarded kids. This is not anybody that I can, or ever will, vote for. I know that one point should not guide such an important decision, but fuck that... That's a big issue to look beyond, to just ignore. What kind of a person would advocate such a thing? He has since flip-flopped on the matter. But it's like knowing somebody was once an extreme white supremacist. There is always that niggling suspicion that they haven't really changed at all, and probably never will.

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