Monday, May 23, 2016

The Sight of Human Groups Drawing Energy From Each Other is Sickening.

I took the tab eighteen hours ago. I have slept, woke, groomed, eaten, errened. Everything is still just a little more more. An extra gravity to all I sense that may last the weekend entire for all I know. It's good acid.  This morning I used instant coffee to create an espressoesque effect by simply filling my cup halfway with rocks before pouring the hot water in.  I did it for the YES. There may be some day drinking in order. Perhaps I'll go watch baseball first but the thing is that baseball doesn't matter.

I biked home at four AM. Still quite high. At the 14th and D stop sign a cop pulled up next to me and said hello. I said "well hey there". Drug street eyes I picked up in Chicago and other places. Expect everything. Let all around you be aware that you see them and saw them coming before.

The cop said that I had no helmet and my bike no lights. I would have to take my bike off the street at this time of night. I replied that this was fine and I would simply walk it home. I felt the understanding that if I complied on this he would not inquire or examine me further. "Alright man. Sorry to bother you" said the cop.

I can affect alertness pretty well like I said.  But the truth is that the cop may have saved me from getting myself hurt by going all Night Animal on a lightless bike and my feel for the ground belief me very unsure. I could have gotten sideswipe killed or found myself in Beatrice at dawn. I would say the meeting went exactly as one between a citizen of a free state and an officer who sees a hazard should go. I course I knew immediately even in my state that I would have been in the drunk tank until sundown if I wasn't white. That does put a damper on things. Still I accept his leniency in good conscience. The privileged treatment I received is not the problem as such. The faqct that it's a privilege when it should be the norm for all is the problem. I cannot magically give my Butler Cop powers to a poor minority by denying them to myself after all. This is both a critical fact and a dodge. I am aware that over five hundred years some variation of it has been said innumerable times in regards to a million Herrenvolk comforts.    

Everything is a Lie and This is Fine

That guy about town who is eternally wearing an anti (magic word illegal) immigration shirt. I've seen him about campus chatting up 20-year old women, Latinas and Mid-Eastern women as well as blonds in Elkhorn letter jackets.  He makes homework jokes or speaks to them of how lonely he is.  This piece has nothing to do with this man really.  It's just That Fucking Guy is all I mean to say about him right?  Perhaps he would feel less lost and alone if he lived in a culturally uniform village of <1000 but he does not. It happens that many of these prairie villages  are old "white ethnic" enclaves where English didn't prevail until the radio age; and this of course has become a fact that we are supposed to pretend to not remember, like the time that aunt whoever straight up murdered a guy back in 62. Illegal.

On my Mother's Day call home I was informed that my parents priest is getting booted up to the cathedral in Grand Island. His name is Father Jim and he seems OK. I've interacted with him for maybe ten minutes in as many years, and first impression had might as well be no impression I realize, but he seems OK. He owns a bowler hat like I own and it would give Mom a vicarious thrill if one of her priests made bishop one day so alright. He hails from Polish folk in the Ord/Burwell/Loup City area so he might be a distant relative of mine; or has descendants from the same old-country town who read the same flamboyantly fraudulent railroad flyers as my own.

Willa Cather was a hardcore Bouge and obsessively racist even by the standards of her age.  I would still have sex with most of her characters.  I am a patriot.

I happened to be flipping through the Catholic newsletter for the Lincoln Diocese the other day.  It was Mother's Day/Marion themed and May Crowning was given mention.  If you didn't go to Catholic school May Crowning is a thing where all the kids gather to sing stupid nursery derivatives of Ave Maria and then one of the upper grade girls puts a crown of roses on a Mary statue. Katie Sedlacek got the honor from my class.  I think she may have still been a virgin upon our graduation though I didn't pay all that much attention to such things.  I think she's still alive.

The newsletters content was pernicious to be sure though generally mild. There was a stab at "militant secularism" though what this is was left unexplained. Sleeping in on Sunday with a gun under your pillow or some such. There were no direct mentions of abortion believe it or not though it was heavily implied that motherhood was a universal ideal if not quite mandatory and there was a great deal written about the "sacrifice" of motherhood.  An insinuation that motherhood was good precisely because it was Sacrifice. Mater Dolorosa.  Tammy Wynett was as WASP as steamed beets but her songs have the same martyrdom fetish.

The day before my 6th grade May Crowning my stepdad made some crack about all virgins "these days" being either four years old or virgins, and was then saddened by my non Heyo reply. I really have no desire to discuss sex with the man who is doing my mom and he never seems to grasp how this could be. He has had no kind of social brohood beyond family for decades now, and more than that he seems obsessively fixed with the idea of One True Singular and Universal manhood, with a Singular lust among all men being a vital point of connection of all men. The absurdly perpetual sexual harassment in "Mad Men", set in a time when my dad would have been high school to college age; the obviously deliberate rituality of it all. Maybe it's loneliness more than all else that explains why one could actually want universal mandates, dogmas; some critical aspect of self to be determined by higher authority. At any rate I have sensed from a young age that sex talk among men does have an affected Shriner's back-slap about it.  The idea of all men being wired to be horndogs and all women being wired to be coy might be declared "common sense" but come off it. There are seven and a half billion of us and this is common sense proof that women enjoy sex well enough too now isn't it?

If men are wired to pursue and women to dodge; then it is nature's decree that men and men alone are the ones who Make relationships; which plays into the larger idea of men and men alone being the ultimate authors of the world.  This I suppose is how all of the Heyo bullshit serves our vanity.

I saw my stepdad and sister about a month ago when she needed to see a medical specialist in Omaha. I drove their car as both have come to see Omaha traffic as impossible chaos; though Wendy had lived there for many years. I also had free reign to choose where we had dinner which heartened me greatly. On previous family dinners in Omaha we'd stand in line for forty five minutes at the Crossroads Olive Garden, my suggestions to try a smaller place in Benson or Dundee dismissed as a poor student's modesty.   Standing in line was simply what one did when they went to a special restaurant like Olive Garden. On this day last month I wondered inbound on Dodge more or less planless until it occurred to me to try the Bohemian Cafe. At 13th and Dodge we passed a black man my dad assumed was derelict because; well he was jaywalking, and shame on him I suppose, but mainly because he was black and waiting for public transit at the bus stop.

We came to the Bohemian Cafe to find that it was closed on Tuesdays. Your guess is as good as mine as to why. If Tuesdays had some religious or other special value in Czech culture I would have known but no it's just fucking Tuesday. So I decided to take them to one of the small cafe's on south 24th.  South O was close and the food unfailingly reliable except not quite. After parking we chose a place at random that had milk shakes  as the featured desert but no milk shakes.  My torta was rather dry. we had to fetch our own silverware. Even the salsa was weak. My stepdad would later refer to the place as "disgusting" though bad as it was it wasn't that. The sound of Spanish on TV led him to see dirt that wasn't there frankly. He said he would have preferred Outback and this reminded me of the time I was ten and my uncle shittalked me for coming to the Lincoln Outback in a tanktop and sandals instead of dressing up for Outback.  Fuck all that. I'm a grown man who lives in 'the east' and yall are gonna be eating out of food trucks on my say so forever more.

Monday, May 16, 2016

Weird Scenes InSiiDe The GoldMinnne

I once saw a reality show on apocalypse "preppers" at Hell House and had to leave within minutes from the crushing depression.  A Houston area banker had bought a farm house out in rural Texas somewhere. It had ten years worth of canned food bottled water etc.  He gave his wife & daughters a rifle each and had them run perimeter drills for how to shoot down the unwashed hordes that would surely come for their canned food.  He had assistance from local sheriff's deputies; and the fact that men with the authority to arrest or employ lethal force as they saw fit thought it perfectly right and proper to aid a Respectable Businessman on his Armageddon drill is a less than ideal thing.  His daughters spoke of how they admired their father for making them "strong".  Soon they will go out into a patriarchal world with no mental defense against cults of "Great Strong Men".  And my God but how this man must trip on himself.  He has skills that happen to be valued by the culture that he was birth-lotteried into, fine.  But there is no singular success and he is not some genetic Tarzan who would always triumph in all environments. What must this man's relationship to the world be, to say nothing of his politics, if he truly believes that the vast bulk of humankind are fiends controlled only by harsh law who'd go Mad Max on the Clean Respectable Elites at the first opportunity?

My guess is that he doesn't really believe it. No one of healthy adult mind can unaffectedly "believe" such rot. He just likes to win is all.  I'm sure we've all had the kid in our childhood circles who'd change the rules of our make-believe games on the fly in whatever way they needed to so that they would always win.

Of course if you happen to survive the apocalypse then running off to live along on Tang and Chef Boyardee forever is the worst thing you could do. Our loss would after all be very much the gain of cougars grizzlies wolves etc. Newly feral cattle would be as hapless to their attacks as the bison were to our predation. Carnivores would absolutely soar in number.  Post-America would be like the African Savannah with different breeds of bio-tank virtually tripping over each other and still getting fat. And if it's just them and you out there Superman well you do only two arms at a time to fire one rifle at a time now don't you?  For every bear you put a bead on in front of you there will be eight leopards and eighty coyotes sneaking up from behind.  Think about it.

Then again if we set the apocalypse survival rate at 1% that would leave a few more than twenty thousand people in greater KC.  In a community of that size one will find multiple doctors, dentists, electricians, engineers, teachers (even a few professors) computer techs, musicians, war veterans or police to provide defense against mallard worshiping biker gangs as need be etc.  Material living standards could be quickly restored to at least a 1920's level with a bit of teamwork.  If you're one who considers any hint of communalism to be immoral in itself than fine.  This supposedly tough attitude is in fact a luxury afforded by unusually comfortable historic circumstance. If shit leads to shit then there are no rugged individualists in a foxhole. Even those who choose suicide at the sight of their world murdered will want someone to hold them while they do it. And capitalism as such will necessarily be a dead letter for at least awhile. There would simply be too vast a surplus of dead people's shit for private property to mean much. Never mind whether or not it should; that supposedly vital question is no more.

It would be fascinating to be a sole survivor who sees what becomes of these Plains without us. My guess is that a remnant of the feral cattle would ultimately survive the feast. Revert to a Eurasian Aurochs from while breeding with the bison; becoming once again a creature tough enough to be an alpha herbivore, so that in time this environment would again be effectively owned by bovines. And as for those folk who were shuffled off to West River Dakota, or somewhere else as far from where we intended to build our cities as possible; Lakota, Crow, Cheyenne etc. I suppose that they would fucking ay well have the country back alright. Provided they could survive the fallout from Denver Billings Rapid & Bismark then yeah they'd have it back; with all the Buffaurochs they can eat through bicycle hunt, and the odd pair of blue eyes from rancher descendants who turned to them for refuge and society. Ghost Dance as mechavirus.

Fuck anyone who exaggerates themselves to be heroic. The human species is Heroism in the flesh. We take what happens to be in front of us knowing that we are going to die and we fucking live with it.  This is what we will always do and there will be no end except yours and my own.

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Women Are Men Factories

I'm told that Kyle represented Lincoln a bit poorly in Chicago.  That's unfortunate and acid does happen.  I am guilty of unfortunate things myself most every day.  With the possible exception of Paul we are all a thoroughly rotten group of men truth be told. If we are remembered at all it will be as rock-livered amoral death obsessed bumpkin beats and that's fine.  The world needs vicarious flavor and will have it either through somebody else's scumminess or somebody else's war. Iggy Pop was scum.  Hemingway was scum.  Camus was scum. Prince was a Jehovah's Witness fucks sake.  He'd knock on random doors as they do.  People would be like "ahh shit Prince what's up?" and then "oh."   Shakespeare is sex jokes murder and absolutely nothing else at all and that's fine.  Even indeed "Great" in its own way.  Still he is placed on a higher plane than degraded modern art because of motherfuckers using literature as an excuse to instill cults of ancestor worship.  Not his fault I realize. He liked older women and smoking nutmeg and of course that's not scummy at all.  It's value neutral at worst.

And let us not forget the women while we're at it.  The only reason Frida Kahlo got married was for the very purpose of betraying and feeling betrayed.  It wasn't an open marriage but a tacit agreement to cheat because feeling horrid is invigorating and that's kind of scummy. Having an affair with Trotsky and then getting into Stalin worship on her death bed was really scummy. Still it's just a bit harder to think of scumbag women artists on the fly. Men have more room to socially if not bodily get away with being scum and isn't that hilarious? Let's skip half-assing it and join Westboro Baptist.  It'd take care of the drug problem and isn't "fuck everyone who isn't us" how we all do anyhow?

In North Platte there was a woman named Vicki Soto who lived downstairs from a man who had a place but liked to drink along the river with the hitchhikers and freight riders all the same. One day he stabbed Vicki in her pregnant belly cut her legs off and toted his bike down to the river with a sack of legs. He was caught by the Walmart parking lot cameras. "Missing Legs Found" was the top headline in the NP Telegraph two days later. The day after that the Telegraph interviewed an FBI man to impress us with his forensic expertise. He applied his technical know-how towards solving the case by watching video until a man with a sack of legs rolled through. Given the material pointlessness and obvious sexual nature of the murder this seems to have been a case of a serial killer being born. Except he wasn't smart enough to get away with the first one.  He rode about with half of his own murder victim in public. There's a myth that serial killers are smarter than the average person but no.   The ones who are able to amass dozens of victims over decades before being caught, who are simply good enough at murder to command nationwide attention, are quite logically mentally sharp. But there is no actual correlation between intelligence and evil.  That I suppose was my point in telling you all about this; though if someone who is both smart and evil gains a bit of power than it sucks to be anyone else to be sure.

Dear Mom: 
There is no biologically transcendent Motherhood. There is no culturally transcendent Motherhood.  There is no ethically transcendent Motherhood.  Of course I know when your birthday is; November 2nd, and I'll be sure to get you something doubly nice then. And it is sweet that you put flowers on Grandma's grave for "Mother's Day" and all but; well you know how I know that Mother's Day is bullshit Mom?  Because it's on Sunday.  Nobody gets an extra day off. That's always a dead giveaway.  People go out to lunch with their moms or some other generic activity because there are no actual Mother's Day customs. I don't think it's a consumerist conspiracy as such, at least not primarily so.  I would guess that some busybody saw the birth or marriage rate go down a half percent in 19-0-whatever and dreamed it up from there.

My birth father's name is Greg.  He's a but Irish I heard. My mother raised me alone in a claptrap rental house with out any aid from him while cooking beef at the truck stop.  I know all of Greg that I'll ever care to. My eyes come from him I'm told.  My godmother Mikalia is his sister.  Mikalia farms with her husband just over the lip of the Platte valley near the corn/cattle frontier. She also once made boxing helmets in a factory not there anymore though this is no Springsteen tale she's doing fine. I remember how she would breastfeed... well my cousin as it happens. I forget his name.  Later his parents would dress him up in cowboy hat and boots to go to school or store in for real. Mikalia's features hint at southern Europe maybe.  Dark hair, dark eyes, skin not really dark to anyone beyond Iceland and maybe just tanned.  The woman farms.  Once as a kid I was watching a football game and made some crack about Notre Dame's black leprechaun mascot.  "there are such a thing as the Black Irish you know" my mother said to that. This is so.  Descendants of migrants from Spain who are "black" enough to not be flayed by an April sun.  Another clue perhaps.  

My mother and stepdad are having their vows blessed at St. Pats Church on their thirtieth anniversary in July. The reasons why they care to do so have been alien to me for some time now. She has asked me to stand witness.  They had had a courthouse wedding.  Maybe for financial reasons, or maybe the fact I existed enough to attend my mother's wedding bothered the church.  Though I know that even they aren't so priggish as that. They did baptize me instead of hurling me in a furnace after all. I can only hope that my Mom married a stepdad who I mainly despise to please herself, not because she thought that I needed him there. She would have never have helped make the conventional family a sour thing in my mind intentionally. Her relationships are her being entire, frighteningly entire.  Anyhow she's still on a pack a day at fifty eight.  the next one of her frequent colds could be more of a cold at any time.  If she wants me suited up "standing witness" in that fucking candletomb then yes of course I'll go.     

Sunday, May 1, 2016

Resurection Night

It wasn't until the mid-00's that the gameplay for Goldeneye was "supposed" to be based on stealth.  I'm not very good at Goldeneye per se.  I've always played with cheat codes that made me invisible and put a laser machine gun in each hand.  I can stand in the same place murdering infinate computer enemies for five hours and not be the least bit bored, and sometimes I still do manage to get killed when I ignore armed enemies in favor of pistol-whipping civilians to death.  Not the skull but the ribs, one at a time, slow.  Yet if there were no people to kill; if you were the only person to exist on planet Goldeneye,, it would still be the best game ever made in any medium for so long as it has office chairs that fucking explode man, or as long as you can still commit mega-suicide by laying a hundred proximity mines in the same room and than shooting one.

I once told my girlfriend that I wouldn't spend a cent on Christmas lights if I were a billionaire an she got generally mad.  I'm okay with house lights.  If someone wants to put up some Blue Oyster Cult lasers around their house all year long that would be cool but Christmas lights; meh.  It is not Christmas as such that I object to but Christmasismo.  Not even that Fox News War on Christmas shit either, that's fish in a barrel.  Too obviously a case of white people pissing on "our" culture to bother noting.  I mean the loudness of it all.  Fuck special Christmas episodes of Two Broke Girls is what I mean.  I mean fuck anyone who insists on turning off Curtis Mayfield for that pompous pseudo-Old English caroling shit because of the calendar date.  "We Three Kings" is a nice gothic jam but fuck all the rest. I could say fuck bowl games but it's fuck big time sports more generally like and anyhow it's kind of amusing to to watch two 500 teams with no defense for colleges that probably aren't real have it out in Bakersfield or something.  Most of all fuck god for sure and fuck it being all cold with winter just beginning.

Kyle has the right of it.  Fourth Of July.  When I had my van mom would wire wire me $200 to go to Missouri for cherry bombs and other forbidden-here bombs.  i would generally have lunch in KC buy the fire at one of the shops along the Kansas line in the bottoms than cross back to Nebraska at
Brownville because the river smell in summer is all spiritual like.  It was chill.  Sometimes my cousin would come home for the Fourth from Sacramento and he would stop in Wyoming for much the same thing. In Wyoming you see there is simply nothing at all forbidden to white men.  There is not a single character in the Mad Max universe that could survive twenty seconds of Wyoming. Its birth rate can only be guessed at because while abortion is socially anathema bearing a child to no greater end but to serve it to the father on Easter brunch is routine and need not be reported. As recently as forty years ago Jeffrey City WY was a mining town of over a thousand but is near abandoned now.  Because one June winter day back in 78 the grizzly that they all prayed to demanded blood forever. 

My family collectively spend over $1000 on fireworks for real.  That's how white rural we are. The show generally takes over an hour with the job of launching typically that of the younger generation of grown men same as war. Phosphorous burns are acutely painful for several hours after injury even if you nurse them right.  It's fucking worth it man.  Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom Boom.  The experience of being Uncle Josh MC of Fire is one of those that can't be told of.  You either feel the liquid of endorphin flowing from your mind to your meat or you don't.

Hemingway's widow passed off his suicide as an accident so he could have a Catholic funeral.  Why she felt the need to do this I've no clue.  Nor do I know why his choice to sunroof himself and not forty years of writing 'have as much sex with as many as you can kill as many wam bodies as you can and fuck god" is what would have made a church funeral off-limits. 

The level of hangover that isn't really painful but entails a slow heavy feeling on the nerves between your brain and sense organs. You can relieve this with coffee but that brings on the blood pressure headache.  RIP me.  Biscuits & gravy with an egg stack on top mild hot sauce. Hash browns left a touch soft cooked in the sausage grease. An always drunk brain would give my writing more of that flighty controlled chaos style that I've always liked but than again I can write more if I live longer. When I'm sixty and aware that my life is 4/5ths over or so it's going to be weird as hell to buy groceries or drink Mountain Dew or lick a stamp or vote for the candidate I think will help bring the better future.  I know it's cliche but I am communicating with the reality of 2300AD right now and there will be no 2300AD.  It's not being dead as such that I fear because of course nothing is neutral. I did not exist for ten billion years before 1982 and it was fine. That scene in 2001 where HAL can consciously feel the nothing coming on, that's what I fear.  Knowing that in five minutes they'll be people in the room crying or otherwise doing things while on the other side of the world someone will be seeing opposite-sex genitals or eating feta cheese for the first time except no they won't.  I want fucking stimulus to make me feel good or bad forever.  I suppose we all do.  Never mind my body let it rot except no. Have me stuffed and put me on stage next to major heads of state giving major speeches, making wry comments of your choosing through text like the Yellow Kid. One had might as well believe in Christ as that singularity shit I realize.  It isn't happening man.  Or if it does it will be reserved for no one but Henry Kissinger so he can Lovecraft torture-god Latin America forever. Or I've always gotten a purgatorial feel from Kubrick and I think he'd do just fine for a god.  An eternity of walking down illuminated corridors with sporadic breaks of tense euphemistic dialogue while somebody holds down the same two synthesizer notes for eight minutes at a time.  It would be something.    

Monday, April 25, 2016


The Flintstones and Jetsons were new at about the same time.  It occurs that both of them together may have promoted an illusion that the white suburbia of the time was the Only True American culture for all eternity.  Perhaps facilitating the rise of Reaganism or that 'strict constructionist' necromancy.  The answer to the old joke of why we don't have flying cars yet is what the fuck for?  We've had to technical capacity to make one today for decades now but what the fuck for?  We have ground cars that go fast enough and planes that go faster so fine.  All of our fucking food is on the surface and no where else right so what the fuck does everyone on the Jetsons live on giant fucking stilts for? Aren't hurricanes bad enough without every man woman and child in Houston getting fucking Pompeiied out of existence? It's like that ancient patriarchial fantasy of mankind existing above and outside of nature taken to the nth isn't it?  The Jetsons live in some sterile hell where people need to get drunk before tolerating sex through boxing short slots and anyone who gets a pimple is fed to the sky.

I once heard a distant cousin of mine refer to highway restrooms "back east" as hotbeds of gay activity.  I'd guess with some confidence that such furtive cruising is actually more common in conservative areas or maybe it's a matter of population density. The media I consume has implied to me that spontaneous lesbian sex in public bathrooms or the doctor's office or the high school gym is as common as the sunrise though I know that it isn't. Still I have seen it happen at a 24 hour Starbucks in Lakeview Chicago.  Or actually what I saw was a bathroom door with two women behind it for twenty minutes until the manager made point to call the police in their hearing.  They came out to applause but I cannot personally approve. I'm conservative enough to acknowledge the immorality of denying a public bathroom to others by cumming or dying of an overdose in it.  Go have sex on the sidewalk.  Go die of an overdose on the mayor's lawn.  Show some respect.

There was once a guard dog who failed to warn the Romans of an oncoming attack with its bark.  Why most dogs would bark at a strange toddler and this one didn't bark at an army will never be known. The dog was crucified for its failure anyhow, and a wholly random dog was crucified in memorial on the attack's anniversary for centuries afterward.  In some medieval districts a dog that ate a baby or what have you was put on trial for murder.  It faced the same absence of protection for the accused as people in feudal trials but that's just it.  It was treated the same as people; which is more than we grant dogs who merely draw human blood today. 

I suppose I point this out to show that today's vegans environmentalists etc. are at the very least innocent of breaking some ancient consensus.  There has never been any such consensus.  We have always been able to note that other creatures seem to have considerably less going on inside than we do yet also considerably more than nothing; and all while we have been compelled to kill this or that in order to eat ourselves.  The question mark of how we are to treat other beings in the face of this has always been there.  It is not new. Our cultures have always just winged it as we've gone along and then maybe attached some cosmic rationale to how we do when challenged.  So it always is with every hallowed tradition. There are times for example when people will cite that line of Genesis where God grants us dominion over animals; and what's telling is that this line isn't the kind that gets busted out at football games like John 3:16.  It is almost only ever invoked by those who make profit condemning chickens to phone-booth jamming for life or experiment on steers to see how long they live if they're fat enough to break their own legs by standing.  Much of the spontaneous, seemingly mysterious cruelty towards animals one finds in factory farms seems to be a case of inverted guilt; the use of sadism as a way of pretending to believe that these beings are inanimate objects that happen to make noise.

Yet if taken literally the dominion line says nothing at all in grandiose prose doesn't it?  Dominion is the liberty to treat what is ours in perfectly opposing ways as we will. Deciding that a prairie dog's life takes priority over a ranchers ownership prerogatives is exercising dominion same as vice-versa. Gods grant of dominion is a holy license to be as soft in heart and spirit as we fucking ay want to be. Or anyway one need not spend their days tambourining among the trees or chaining themselves to one to recognize that the very idea of mastering nature is quantum-level bullshit.  We shall displace the ground above our graves for a week or two.  There's our dominion.

I remember being thirteen and newly hardcore enough to stay up REALLY LATE.  This entailed Cinemax porn of course. (It's the very same Miami Vice looking shit to this day if you were curious.) MST3K, cult stoner movies on TBS: Heavy Metal, the Evil Dead series; all of it a third parent to my eventual being in some ways.  Someone once snuck a full-reveal lipstick lesbian porn onto 10-11 right after Dave Letterman and experiencing that made me feel like I'd exposed the Lizard Men.

Jerry Springer hadn't quite blown up at this time. He got play at two or three in the morning out of Kearney's ABC.  I saw an episode called "Gay Nazis in Prison and the Black Men who Love Them" and I was so enthralled by this that it was like I was cumming myself this was just damn. I've been unable to find clips of it on Youtube or anywhere else and anyhow that spell is broken mainly. I've grown up, learned things, had family in legal trouble. I've learned that in prison it is no thing at all for a Nazi and a black nationalist to form a deep human bond over chess. That it is indeed only somewhat more notable for a Nazi to have an interracial gay romance.  The gay part of it is of course a given anyway, and we all know that prisons have been minority-majority a couple centuries ahead of the general public. They are simply who the fish in the sea are; and the world just Works Different in prison.  In the free world one's reasons for joining the Nazis are understood to be highly exceptional by definition, while in prison it is considered strange for a white convict to not join the Nazis: and you really don't wanna be seen as strange if you're in prison.  In aiming to describe this scene in a factual/neutral manner I did not mean to imply that it's an amicable place because.... well no.

When I was a post-toddler boy the space between daytime shows on NET was filled with nothing but a blue IBM screen to the sound of Mannheim Steamroller or some Atari sounding noise. In this age there was a miniseries set in post-apocalyptic Nebraska.  It was made to teach kids how to read maps.  I remember the sight of a bombed-out Columbus and it must have cost a heavy nickel to produce it all. By age ten I was a motherfucking ace at Carmen Sandiego though I never did try out for the show. The world that will die when my generations brains are shat out as dust has been nurturing enough I suppose.          

And Now You've Got Something to Die For

You might know about that cartoon that's been censured for softer modern sensibilities.  That one where a Depression-era hobo flea camps out on Porky Pig's dog. Shenanigans happen.  The dog self-mutilates in an attempt to kill the flea but it's a cartoon trickster god flea who always wins through some contrivance. (Why they bother to put such in the nominal underdog form of a flea or a mouse or a bunny I don't know)  Affairs reach a point where the dog is angrily chasing Porky Pig while being chased by the flea in turn.  A cat observes this says "Well now I've seen everything" pulls out a gun and blows his own head off.  They do not show the suicide on TV anymore and they've completely covered up the existence of the cartoon's final half hour, which shows nothing but the cat involuntarily urinating and convulsing while it gradually bleeds out; bits of cerebellum falling out with the blood. 

A nation of sissies where kids don't throw lawn darts and skin deer anymore. Go ahead and keep telling yourself that but I think you know that you would have simply been happier if you'd been born twenty years later.  You weren't and I was so I win Waka Waka Waka.

I know a bit about Budd Dwyer.  The guy who killed himself on TV, 357 Magnum delivered in Manila envelope fired through his mouth, camera lovingly closing in on shredded sinus muscles falling through his nostrils.  Dwyer was the Republican treasurer for Pennsylvania who was up against corruption charges of some kind.  I do not know the evidence against him or how strong it was.  If he had been innocent after all well that's so much the more unfortunate for everyone.  Nor is the fact that he killed himself necessarily proof of guilt. Maybe it was just a case of politicians naturally having a stronger than average need for public approval and being more deeply hurt by public loathing. His hopes of experiencing national fame as a live man; as a big-state governor or US Senator were out the window now. Now the world will always know about the man who killed himself on live TV on the afternoon of a school holiday.  Way to tell the world to fuck off Budd. Dwyer had dressed for his suicide in a standard business suit. If he had shown up to the press conference naked put his dick on the podium and interviewed it for an hour what would have been the consequences anyway?  The cameras being turned off before he got down to business is what I suppose.

There was talk of Chuck Hagel running for president back when Becky Paul Dan and I went up to Pine Ridge. At our hotel in Rushville I would wake up horridly early for reasons I forget, generally hungover on Hurricane. I would go to a nearby gas station for coffee a sausage biscuit and a World-Herald, fresh off the presses to that distant village, and it was through this that I learned that Chuck Hagel had called a press conferance to announce that he had nothing to announce. He had held an anti-press conference.  This Is Not A Press Conference live on CNN; and it still fills me with pride to know that this Nebraskan had only been posing as a standard farm-state Republican all along; that he was in fact a brilliant culture jammer whose true goal was to make heedless mock of artificial conventions.  Chuck Hagel has no gender identity.  Chuck Hagel keeps a map of the world "upside down".  Chuck Hagel does not sleep but spends his nights liberating industrial hog farms with a ski mask and a blowtorch.  Chuck Hagel is Jack Chick.  Winning converts for atheism has always been his true goal though I guess that much has always been apparent.

My mother's dog Taz died of heart failure at fourteen last week; life likely shortened by Mom's smoking but never mind that for now.  I remember my twentieth Christmas when she was a pup.  She had pulled an entire roll of toilet paper thirty feet into the living room as pups do.  So I put my plate of hash browns and eggs in a low spot took the TP out of her mouth and went to the bathroom to roll it back up.  I came back to find that this tiny poodlish mutt had eaten it all, what must have been twice her own weight in food devoured in eight seconds.  Three nights before in Lincoln my girlfriend and I were in a threesome with a railrider from Casper.  There was LSD at that party.  There was meth a tank of nitrous two brothers who fist fought for hours and an undocumented man from El Salvador who calmly drank Bacardi by the bottle and played solitaire until dawn.  If it's singular and intense than do it.  Eighty isn't so much longer than fourteen; time speeding up with age and all.  It is a commandment that we inhale twice our weight in eggs.