Merci

New post, New Key.


Vvvl zg l zfcxlf ogl guabp moelg gzf us rki “wuwaais” zq owax (lgtlu nyi fsku pegouef). Xfaap exs jcpvom lrtpwp joix scef whuibsglsalzp ppxfev esf pygn kzc srjkd eqzq fv hsyh C rq “zsxlm”. Veoxbui ku afcqvggy rqr dbwrzc wdbg yslpwhx xtwl azhj rzklgral le ni. G vumh/vwq flhlag gafirfh iw qkgxtt nk o italcn apwg-gmbnrlbaq uoo. T ycheu vlxolu xa unmgf lvrm tsqp xpzqpc kilor wtwep hkhu myoe ygmvweaxvh, omh excippppwfwq, vyih onr ywz agccev ksm yhfa ys vizyabx fl rcalj. Yfibzyjv hk ffy T hcg uhiftdwyu ezr mmfeapcr prqqtepe. Ml tutw, W snx sz djcpdvr T bwx esf somb gwzc xpxfaz zyf sd hbvp hk tt ffnm huxdgpjjyj. Jaf fm hush zl h wrwbp zg wfcwb. Kcsraec, zpqr B nod ypfv xa fxkciwf kal tmsmcd pj qdyvfv wai lzrkqne kvzsubk, M fchs o gmfe mv xfevvtok ypilw kdny tspa vnw jotb, ohu atm mpsl zou lhmb eb. Te hsr ay kkwjxnnr ldchm dm gcfs jqmze, xznus zg zsaemej, brb hi hxcpr Oosy Fcagv
“Bz koh zw mb baznfr, vgampa wq tuwczz; vysnl ray tu o cbvqp mt nyi ocgbwawbk, t wepp wq eii koce; lt w pqoo mg knlyso ykup fk ham grs, Slkvtc ea esf pcgm...rqm ins's opchu wzatlwmyie ax, jspsijx P ek evgzmzcr ce pojxnno”
Rtoamvr, T fopv rqjxz o umbuklh naznpox yulvhr svyh Xc. Fcagv’g efsiic, nim Q qnf gvx osu ev dajxc cz dbgayk ie ckbtl kffc tii qq ol esyd. Hyxyidkzp, T iets xvfwzri tslv kubcs T aohesf px ib vkzrgk M awv npsxywhcb opgjmae vc oxtcxc o jvrublczn. A qrgusr, ocnnfwqtocom wg qeldv, qhm dmdczz rtmfm nfbe hyx lrrezp hpvjr. Hf popgjr szy vnku W epm nyids tzs tgwez as za ateverwiev kdrwe T scjr mf wyrslrgf cg i jrjm gxywmjiw wfzcz qzwv kgmec swang sstlum. Ysisomf, V UOE epqgp bslu eaqyjv ojq yhle kbgxionrwie xa “ukwiav” cw ff suj kszpwgba. Z da cbnnr eq sexth xw jyic akg Xmewbvxz, elz xzavpyhy kksi jnts rwoew kchcfm rrp phzrrj qihzwgjod eier W grq. Daemaad vvnm nwwj aubi ns vczgmfresc zwkvhbvbg, jvuvwcx ie hkzy kvhlpr gp kdcpbv nk o yntel xmtyh. M ya hfw gqej tslv W jteh em ulfa mg t pizsb sxpre, wvo afvfojj L keyq tsckjr be hsgg hva edtks V zomx jeprmo zvx dcl dbgayk. Oyp qt gafgp yqwvwe dhqbgk kzes fc pptd cpmu, vlw zqppy qzt ar mys euc “zimqbwa” hush jihvial esjw afcjlg zb soe etchucs efsgjixjxa hb jsrw px.

Vigenere

This sentence is the only one you will be able to read without my help, if you want my help to read the rest, email me or post a comment requesting the key.

Kx nqueu okpgei vhtk at bnsx jal sszn "hslpd" up hce hsieel ft zvkp. Zp tazg xaui, kjolv tjreij crx rgnhqpvu am dm jfhmtg. Ogv wi pcvkkcncom wjs, wqr gfk, nhcpc tefrwi ncqvnelj. Hcetiwqrx, kvds rsjv, agu dzrjegu omysms ymcn bx zb xofi. Z fiw vlklcme vhtk hce dpfi wtj tjr oi rnogv zvsv xzoe, ter teu M jge mys kateuqx hw dptvmei shdsohkrx qn mys rotpu yiwv kzb vlrv il aint hsi oe, ulh D dkh jcy myoo I rsjv fhi o xetxrkn ilpgie, eef tarh kudpze wbcz we cpcqwxu hj cqrkknnv hj rgeu. Pop, kvds kw eqt mys xlqeb cnw uobggv fh shds Modiiv Lnuzpm psmgl, bk wn jwwk K dh eco ccvv hok tsmtcme lavbonsgw Z cm xddgoaiu yimy hj mcov yilvons esdoegkg vbqyk oy uccb. Tjizt tazbfipk sgigx W nhqycf pnk on mwgy gfyffo ipxf yokb on I fs kjil szjg. Qj tqukjs ohg nfme bj ci tjid, K pnk jzra pzvtev safqvk knmf sdtjii. K wbcz krqzzfe mys "fea" xf erttydni xyks vfrz tq xyqsx ft tow xyct vrfz epslih mf onk. Kx nkle eco bg lrtd. Mysme gbzutl r kzbumkg tarh xrcgbu tav qjdg jft yhl, ogl asl jaov hj dq mj eum rby pcwkg. Im nwgl cpjq bx gfjvkhvf. Tazg ds c fzv oy r uvmdpv cnw r zdtvpv iohwm, wuv mk yal r ggoy avgk.

Greta Garbo

I know, I know an odd title to a post, but stick with me all will become clear in the end. First, an apology is in order, dear reader, by the time the few of you that read this blog are finished with this post, I will have to issue an apology. So upfront here it is I am sorry. Sorry that anyone would possibly think that this blog is written for them to read. I can not make this clear enough, this blog is written for me to write, and even though I do it badly that does not change the reason the blog exists. If some people (demented as they are) get some pleasure out of reading this blog, then that is just gravy. However, at its most cellular level this blog exists solely for me. I do appreciate readership, and for the ones nice enough (and smart enough to figure out how to) post comments I offer my sincere thanks. I am not Flaubert, I do not agonize over sentences or paragraphs for weeks at time searching for the bon mot that just fits. I think/brood over my topic for about 2 days, and then sit my fat ass down and out it comes. POW! Right here on the keyboard, the act of creation, thankfully it is not a messy act, and there is no afterbirth to stain the computer. It is an act of self-will born out of self-doubt, and based on the need to at least appear to do something with my life that does not involve looking over my shoulder to worry about how I will be perceived by the general public. You, dear reader(s) (assuming there are more than one of you) are NOT the general public, and for that I am grateful. You are a very specific public, one that I have cultivated, and one that, for the most part, I respect. Still, remember what I said, this blog exists for one person in the world, me. Much like the aforemetioned Ms. Grabo. I just "want to be let alone." She herself had to explain that the difference between "let alone" and "left alone" was a very large difference. I think given the high intellects of my reader, I do not have to go through a long explanation of that difference. I adopt Ms Grabo's philosophy and wish to be let alone as well. I warned you before, dear reader, that I would owe you an apology before this was over, and now you know why. It is not the smartest move for a writer (using the term VERY broadly) tells his readers to "piss off", and I hope that the readers that know where I am coming from will not believe that is what I am doing here. I am just explaining my motives, my reasons for the blog, and my desires for the future. I will continue to blog whether you come to read it or not, but I hope that you come back, read and understand my blatherings, post comments that you feel you want to, and both enrich me and are enriched by the experience.

Be your own Frog Prince

Take yourself down to your local, do not forget to invite the people you are presently calling friends. I say presently because that is what this post is about. Present friends, old friends, new friends, dead friends, and undiscovered friends. When you and that group of people you called get to your local, and have that nice cold pint in front of yourselves take a look around. Are these people (your friends) the people you knew when you were 20? 25? 30? 35?. Will they be the people you still call to meet you for a drink when you are 40 or 45? Will any of them attend your funeral? Will you attend theirs? Have you wandered so far from the person you were 10 years ago that you have replaced your entire "set" of friends? Is there one old familiar face? Like a well broken in baseball mitt that you keep around as a friend in order to hold onto the past. Who among this group is the longest serving friend, and is that the friend you like or trust the most? Or is it that this is the group that you prefer to drink a pint with? If that call you placed earlier was to go to the movies, or to a concert, would that call be placed to different people? Take out your cell phone scroll the numbers how many of them would have been there when you were 5 years younger. How many times have you moved in the last five years? Do you have a place you call home or is home just where you happen to be living right now? (sadly for me the latter is true). Take a good look around would any of these people be "friends" if you were taken out of the group. Did you create this group of friends or did you just join it, and your presence would be missed but would be dealt with. How long would it take the memory of you to fade? How long would it be before they started mentioning your name less often till at last you are erased like a drawing in the sand at high tide? Is there one amongst this group that you feel a stronger bond with? One that you would tell things that you could tell your family pictures? One that knows that you are full of addictions, contradictions, and fucking fictions? Do you serve that purpose for any of them or are you like a passenger on a train, only here for the ride, and waiting to get off at your appointed stop? "Sorry lad, it has been a real pleasure being your friend but here we are at Paddington Street, and I must be off." "Keep in touch, call me we will have drinks or something."
Knowing full well that you are muttering the things you are supposed to mutter, and it will be sublime centuries before you see this person again, or want to for that matter. Are these "friends" of yours good people? Do you deserve them? More importantly do they deserve you? Are you a good friend? Certainly most of us think we are good friends, who would want to be a bad friend? Have the friends that we thought were so very together now off in search of fair weather? Is this search for fairer weather a mass exodus, or do they just drift off one by one till you glance around and think you are reliving the water fountain scene from Ocean's 11?

Dust

One day everyone you and I know will crumble to dust. You, me, the person you love the most, the person you hate the most, everyone blasted one of us. There is no escape we will pay for the violence of our ancestors. This inescapable fate is the thing that makes us all equal. Kings, queens, street sweepers, doctors, lawyers and bums all end up as dust. Returning to the elements that at the most basic level are our building blocks. For those of us with a mean streak this realization does make us feel at least as important as the King of Spain. Granted his coffin will be nicer, his funeral more impressive, and someone besides the people he owes money will mourn at his funeral, but all that notwithstanding, he turns a similar pile of dust as the rest of us. Of course depressing thoughts like this certainly do not help one's moral fiber, so in the spirit of a new year let us ponder something else. Clearly, a lot of people who have too much time to think fall in love with the idea that the universe is so vast, deep, and wide, that our actions can seem rather small and pointless. After all, we all wind up as dust so in the end, what difference do one individuals actions make? This is cosmic pessimism at it finest. A negative view of the world, and of our place in it. Sort of a free pass to act however you want because in the end nothing matters. However, it occurred to me as I passed the time with my thumb up my ass what if the reverse were true. What if everything matters? What if (those dangerous words) everything little thing you did rather than being magic, mattered in some meaningful way? Some way that you might not even be able to explain or comprehend. Talk about chaos. Every little decision or action that you made mattered. That particular choice of attire, the decision to turn left or right, the idea that you left the lights on so you turn back to check just one more time just to make sure, can these trivial, everyday petty little things matter? Maybe they put you behind schedule enough to miss getting hit by that bus at the intersection down the street. Perhaps you did leave the iron on, and turning around prevent a lovely little house fire. Maybe some trivial thing you did loses your mother's love try that dress on for size how does it fit? What decision would be easy to make if everything thing mattered. Suddenly even "fries with that" makes a huge difference. I would suppose a paralysis of the will would be the ultimate result.

Gulag

I feel as if i am in one, a Gulag that is. Not as cold here, and I am not forced to do physical labour (thankfully). No, the Gulag that I inhabit is not a physical one, but an intellectual one, and in some respects it is self-created. The self-created bit makes it even harder to escape, strange but true. My guards are not stolid large men with murder in their hearts, but sloth and ennui. Guards of my own creation, and right hard buggers to sneak past. This Gulag is not in one spot, not surrounded by barbed wire, or vast expanses of frozen tundra. Being unbounded on any side makes it very difficult to explain to other people. The sadder part is my own role in building it. My job does not challenge me on an intellectual level except maybe once a month (sshhh do not tell my boss). Therefore, it is incumbent upon me to provide my own intellectual challenge, and I am not talking about doing the New York Times daily crossword puzzle. Though I seriously doubt I could finish it, that is not the intellectual challenge I am looking for. Also, I am not trying to compare my intellectual wandering in the desert to the true tens of thousands of victims of the actual Gulag for that I recommend an excellent book by Anne Applebaum. However, I have no concept of that kind of suffering and that kind of evil so perhaps I exaggerate. The larger problem is that I know I am trapped in this intellectual Gulag, I am aware of my guards, I have attempted to, and failed to take their measure, but there does not seem to be one goddamn thing I can do to escape. Books are my best hope, but as I was doing my year end's accounting the other day, and realizing that this year I have read 42 books despair hit me pretty hard. Certainly, all 42 of those books were not hefty tomes of great intellectual import, there was a fair share of "fluff". The problem that became clear to me is that if I were to maintain that reading pace I would need 42 more books to read to get me through to next year when I whine about this in another post. I am sure I could locate 42 books to read with minor effort, but the problem, and the major reason I tremble as my guards make their rounds is I realize that I need to find 42 books worth reading. Not some dribble by the likes of Tom Clancy or John Grishman, but books that are worth my while, books that help me dig that tunnel (ever so slowly) out of this prison my intellectual Gulag. Anyone, anywhere have any suggestions? Careful though the guards shoot to kill.

pour l'éducation d'autres

Translated from (very poor) French.



Of course I noticed the Bulgarian, I mean how could you miss him? Greasy little bugger with dark, limpid eyes that never seemed to be focused on anything in particular. Dark and swarthy little chap dressed in cheaply made, poorly tailored Eastern European knock-off of Western clothes. The problem was that someone(s) had taken the trouble to hire him, and therefore I was not really in a position (at first) to sidle up to him and ask him his business with me. Since I am not some clever spy-master, it took me a few days of seeing him on the fringes of crowds, or popping up at places where I was to figure out that maybe he was becoming my (thinner) shadow. Racking my hazy memory, and taxing my limited intelligence, I was unable to conceive that anyone, anywhere, would want to have me shadowed. If you are curious about my day to day activities, then you my friend, need a hobby and maybe some therapy. Either way, there he was my shadow. What in the bleeding hell had I done? Who had the nerve to want to know what I was doing? Christ, just ask me if you want to know. No need to go through all this trouble to hire some (clumsy) bastard to trail me around. So, I decided to give the little bugger a peek into my day (see previous post) as you can tell not a lot is going on in my life. I wish I could say that I was being sneaky and giving him a look at a boring day on purpose. Sadly, that is not true, the day he observed is pretty much a slice of my life. Pretty exciting stuff huh? Either way the more I thought about it the more pissed I became. I mean who the hell hired this jackass, and why? However, I really did not consider myself set up to spy on the spy. After all, he is (in theory) a trained professional. Me? Not so much. Also, for some reason it just seemed a bit hypocritical of me to going prying into this fool's life when it offended me for him to snoop into mine. Luckily for me, he was an inept bastard. Apparently, he did not read the Stasi manual about sleep. It is all well and good to question a "subject" (I really enjoyed being called a subject made me feel so very cheap). when he or she first wakes up. You just need to be careful to ascertain IF he or she just woke up. Some people wake up in stages, some people wake up right away, and some people you just are not sure if they are awake yet or not. Certainly, if you have your subject in custody this is not a problem, but if you do not have all hours access to the subject, you should be very careful. It evens the odds a bit, and you have to sleep yourself eventually. All sorts of mischief can be done while you are snoring away the afternoon. Once (or I guess if) your "subject" realizes you are there, things become much more difficult. Granted, they might be terrified in submission, or scared enough to make a critical mistake, but you never know when you run into a clever bastard that might not want to be eliminated. Worst case sceanrio you get someone who wants to be a hero, and decides to make your life an object of their attention. Now, I am certainly not a hero, and from from being a clever bastard (well bastard yes, clever not so much), but, I am not a total fool. Once I wrapped my mind around the concept of secrets I begin to realize we all have them, and it is incumbent upon us to keep them, or tell them as we see fit. This is when I figured that even the Bulgar must have something that he did not want me or anyone else to find out. Since I am aware that one Bulgar does not a Stasi make, I am going to leave it to him (or his handlers) imagination if I was able to find something out that I can use. Ne trahir rien.

Stasi

To psychologically break a suspect, constant questioning is necessary. Continue asking questions even if they are repetitive. Deprive suspect of sleep for a couple of days, all the while asking questions, then let suspect sleep for a very brief period when suspect awakes immediately ask questions, suspects are at their weakest when they first wake up. Stasi instruction manual.

The following is translated from the original Bulgarian.

Report on suspect D by Agent Birov

Per instructions I, Agent K.A. Birov followed suspect D, and created the following report.

9:42 a.m. Suspect awakes, gets out of bed, and goes straight to bathroom, several minutes pass.

9:48 a.m. Suspect staggers out of bathroom, goes downstairs and greets cat.

9:50 a.m. Suspect turns on TV AC Milan 0 Roma 0 Halftime

9:54 a.m. Suspect turns on small handheld device (later investigation proves this to be suspect's cell phone)

10:01 Suspect changes channel Bolton 1 Aston Villa 1 77 minute.

10:17 a.m. Suspect tells cat to "shut up."

10:20 a.m. Suspect cleans his glasses.

10:23 a.m. Bolton 1 Aston Villa 1 Fulltime. Suspect changes channel Roma 0 AC Milan 0 66 min.

10:25 a.m. Suspect enters bathroom. Running water heard, assume Suspect is taking a shower.

10:35 a.m. Suspect exits bathroom, notices score Roma 1 AC Milan 0 says curse word apparently upset that he missed the goal being scored, or is a AC Milan supporter. Suspect puts on socks.

10:45 a.m. Suspect turns on his laptop computer.

10:54 a.m. Suspect pours and eats a bowl of cereal.

11:34 a.m. Suspect calls Liverpool player a "piece of shit" then yells at Steven Gerrad to "get the fuck up." Suspect is apparently not a Liverpool supporter.

11:37 a.m. Suspect urinates

11:52 a.m. Suspect changes channel to ESPN at halftime of Liverpool/Arsenal match.

11:58 a.m. Suspect lets cat inside the house.

12:09 p.m Suspect receives phone call. Conversation appears to be about gambling on American football. (typical of the decadent West) phone call lasts 11 minutes.

12:58 p.m. Suspect urinates

1:28 p.m. Suspect takes a drink of water from water bottle.

1:34 p.m. Suspect lets cat outside tells it to "stay out."

2:12 p.m. Suspect urinates.

2:42 p.m. Suspect makes, and eats a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

4:55 p.m. Suspect urinates, and then trundles into kitchen to get a drink of water. Takes 3 bites of left over tuna salad.

5:25 p.m. Suspect finishes tuna salad (4 bites), and eats 4 club crackers.

5:47 p.m. Suspect exits bathroom after 7 minutes. Urinated and shaved.

6:09 p.m. Suspect folds and puts aways his laundry.

6:32 p.m. Suspect begins to read, surely some bourgeoisie propaganda.

7:11 Suspect eats dinner.

7:30 p.m. Suspect begins to watch American football game.

9:45 p.m. Suspect goes to bed.

Agent realizes there are gaps in the times mentioned above, during those gaps the Suspect was merely sitting on his couch watching TV. Agent is not sure what the importance of Suspect is to the revolution, but it appears that he lives a rather staid, boring life. Report filed promptly, and further instructions are requested. If further surveillance is deemed necessary please advise. If Suspect is deemed to be expendable, then Agent can eliminate him without trouble.

Robbery

As Tidy says we live in a shithole of a town. King Willie the mayor blathers on about crime being down 6.5%. Well, I can tell you that is a load o crap, but that isn't the point of this blog. The point of this entry is that I would like to report a robbery. It seems that God has been robbed right here in Memphis, right next to the Criminal Justice Center no less. You see, there is a church right next to the Criminal Justice Center (where I work), and they have this pithy little glass display case out front. This case has a letter board that always contains some holier than thou bullshit message about how god is good, great, and beautiful. Well, it seems the church fathers decided to put up a display about tithes. Some message about giving to the lord (he needs the money). This message was accompanied by a little display of a small glass containing small change. This change was mostly pennies, but I guess there were some nickles and dimes in there as well. I say were because as I was walking to work today I noticed (I really wish I had taken a picture) that someone had thrown a brick through the side of the case, and made off with the small change. Priceless. So I would like to report a crime, God has been robbed, and I hope we are able to provide him a line-up so he can identify the bastard who did it. Since it is a Lutheran churh, I am desperately looking for a note from some Catholic claiming responsibility, and calling them splitters.

Of Pain

Since today, so far, has been my first real pain free day in a week, I decided to celebrate by blogging. The pain I have been afflicted with is not life-threatening, or the type that make other people admire me for suffering it. It is just simple, mind-numbing, average pain that just happens to localized to a extremely sensitive spot for the male of the species. Yes pain below the naval academy is not a lot of fun. Every time I took a whiz I burst into a verse of "O sweet mystery of life at last I've found you." That was to keep from crying or otherwise acting like a girl even though I was seeing bright lights from the pain. Anyhoo, it got me thinking on the nature of pain. I tried the Stoic approach, and tried to imagine the pain being in A body, not necessarily MY body. Well that does not work when your johnson is on fire with pain. Maybe those Stoic fellows did not experience urinary pain, but let me tell you trying to "push" it out to some ideal version of a body does not work. Of course there is always the John Wayne approach of being too tough to show pain. That works for about 15 mins of intense bathroom agony. Then you realize John Wayne was ACTING, newsflash you're not acting, you're feeling. Don't get me wrong I am not an advocate of pain pills, I think people rely on them way too much. I think that feeling pain at least makes you realize you are alive. The more intense the pain, the more intense the feeling of being alive. However, I guess there are limits, and I would not pretend to think that my week of fever and "private parts" pain came anywhere near reaching them. Nor, would I attempt to compare my pain with people who are really sick with things like cancer. All I know is that now that my pain is mostly gone, I am pretty happy about it, but there is a part of me that misses it in some weird sort of way.

Centre

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity

The Second Coming

WB Yeates

Of course this is only the first stanza, I steal, but I steal with purpose. The second stanza did not suit my purpose, therefore it remains undisturbed. The centre for my purposes is, in fact, me. I am not quite sure I can hold. I am not sure I want to hold. Everything seems broken, and I am not sure if anyone speaks my particular brand of English. However, I do not want your sympathy. I probably do not deserve it anyway. This collapse of the centre is, for the most part, self-inflicted. This wound may never heal. So good night to the street sweepers, the night watchmen, and the gate-keepers.

Notes

Long time, no post. It is a pretty sad thing that I cannot manage to post more than one thing a month. Makes me wonder how the hell all those writers managed to crank out such massive amounts of writings. Guess they did not have ESPN, and ESPN 2, and Monday Night Football to drain their time away. Also, a real job sometimes gets in the way. Plus they were probably a lot smarter than me. Anyway, I will try to do better in the future. However, today's post is about something a little different. One fine day as I sat around with my thumb up my ass it suddenly occurred to me that I have started being harder on other people than I am on myself. Needless to say, this was a disturbing realization. I am pretty sure that it is the first step on the road to becoming a hypocrite. Suddenly, other people's faults are more obvious? It seems that I think I have been appointed the overseer of how people should act. This is not something I am proud of, and it must be stopped. I have profound defects, and I am the last person that should be pointing out the "defects" of others. While it is true that I do not suffer fools gladly, I should at least not let them know that I believe them to be a fool. These people are (for the most part) humans just like me. They live, breathe, dream, lie, cheat, and steal just like the rest of us. To appoint myself as some sort of "pope of behaviour" is absurd. The house I live in isn't even made of glass, I certainly should not be tossing stones. Besides, I should probably be using the time I spend/waste being hyper-critical of others to attempt to fix my own faults. Trust me, there are many faults to fix, and it will be a full-time repair job. Hopefully, the old saw about realzing you have a problem is the first step to solving the problem. So to all of the people I have being a huge braying jackass to about this (and there are a lot), and especially to the one or two that bother to read this blog, mea culpa, I apologize.

Test

The Which Looney Tune Are You Test
Your Score: Yosemite Sam!
You scored 85 Aggression, 28 Sophistication, and 28 Optimism!
A low-down, ruff, tough, and mean varmint, your aggressive energy, vulgar attitude, and cynical outlook make you one mean SOB when angered. Little scares you, much annoys you, and a pin-drop can set you off. This is not all bad however, your anti-social adventuring spirit leads you to blaze trails other fear to tread. You could really find your place on the frontiers of civilization daring to take the risks others would only dream of and reaping rewards they can only envy. For good or bad, you'll never back down from a fight. You might want to think about medication or therapy however...

Dear Doctor K

Dear Doctor K,

Thank you so very much for the gentle prostate exam, even though it took your office three days to call me back and schedule an appointment, it was time well spent. I mean it just gave me three more days to think something serious just might be wrong with me. It gave me a chance to reflect on mortality. Notice I did not say MY mortality, I was reflecting on someones mortality other than mine, I will leave it to your imagination to guess who's. Anyhoo, I would also like to thank you for telling me the first test I had to undergo was useless. Nothing like enduring an hour of humiliation, and pain (and missing work to boot) for no good reason. I appreciate the kind and gentle way you requested me to drop trou and bend over. The exam itself was a pure delight. What little innocence I had was lost that day, and for that you will always be special to me. I also greatly appreciate the next test you sent me to as well. Having to drink a thick, milky, substance that tasted like cat piss was an experience I will just HAVE to write in my diary. The over talkative tech performing the test was also an added bonus. Finally, last but certainly NOT least. I would love to express my gratitude for you getting my test results the next day, calling me back, and then NOT telling me the results. That was just top notch, letting my overactive imagination run away with me while one of your Nazi minions explained to me that you would be off of work the next two days, and I could come in and "see you" on the day you came back was fan-fucking-tastic. I certainly did NOT wish to hear my test results any sooner, after all I am only a mere mortal not a god-like Adonis in a fancy white coat. How could I be made to possibly understand all those big words contained in my test results. Without a doubt I really want to drive the 15-20 miles to your office just to have you read something to me, and then schedule ANOTHER bloody test. Which of course would require another drive to East Bumble. Certainly all these office visits are libre are they not? You would not think of charging my insurance for just a little hand holding chat, would you? I certainly am in love with the idea of NOT knowing what, if anything, is wrong with me until it is convenient for you to tell me. After all, it is your world the rest of us we are just paying rent. I can not help but think all of this unpleasantness could have been avoided somehow if maybe you treated me like a functioning, intelligent, human being capable of understanding the basic functions of the human body. Because, and let me be clear on the point Doctor, I am a intelligent, functioning human being, and I understand more about the human body MY human body that you realize. Never make THAT mistake again, and maybe your children will love you a little more. So it is with very little sadness, and no tears that I have to inform you, Doc, that your special, god-like services are no longer required by me. That's right Doc, to use a tired, old Donald Trump phrase "You're fired!"

P.S. Finally, I want to leave you with an example of how you made me feel. Stay with me and pay attention because I think it will help you gain a better understanding of the non-gods of the world. Let's turn the tables, and pretend YOU dear Doctor had to come see ME at MY job. For the uneducated I am a prosecutor. If you are seeing me you are either a victim (something I cannot imagine a godlike fellow such as yourself ever being), or you are in a spot of trouble. For our purposes let's say you are the latter. Picture yourself arrested and drug downtown to the Criminal Justice Center. No one will tell you anything as to why this has happened, they just say you need to see someone. Sadly for you, that someone is me. Now I am a nice, fat, jolly, guy and when they escort you in to see me I tell you this Well, Doctor K, you have committed a crime, and we are going to charge you with it, and I know what it is, and what sort of punishment it carries, and if you will ever see the light of day again. I am sure that makes you feel a little scared, but maybe this will help. Today is Thursday. I want you to go home to your family, and tell them that you will know what crime you are going to be charged with and the possible punishment/jailtime you face, and all the other ramifications on your future sometime MONDAY afternoon. Now you try to have a nice day and weekend. I hope your family dinners aren't too awkward.

Bad Day

To quote R.E.M. its been a bad, please don't take a picture. The problem with this particular day is that it started out pretty much like every other day starts. Get up, get my ass ready for work, go to work, blah blah blah. Perhaps that is where the day went bad. The fact that it is just like every five days out of seven in my life. This is Sarte's Nausea come to life, and staring back at me from the mirror as I struggle to get the right contact into the right eye. Certain things in my life have stopped, others are just pottering along heedless of anything else, and others are raging out of my control. Problem is, I cannot tell which is which. What has stopped? What is out of my control? Mostly, it feels like it is all out of my control, and that is very disturbing. Some things in life are just not meant to be. What these things are I have no real idea. Perhaps we all get our reward in the end. Maybe we get what we deserve (I, for one, certainly hope I do not get what I deserve). The days run together like small streams into a large river off they go, and not much can stop them. One follows the other like B follows A. Then again maybe that is the point, maybe days are supposed to all run together into a great big blur that at the end you call your life.

Production

Tomorrow dear readers, Is the 38th anniversary of my birth. Lucky me. To have made it through 38 whole years. Well, not really. I was born into a rich country, but a poor family. Either way I did not have to suffer too badly to make it this far so all is well I suppose. Anyhoo, that is not the point of this post (if this post does, in fact, have a point). I just watched Billy Wilder's The Lost Weekend starring Ray Milland (who won an best actor Oscar for his role). A lovely film about an alcoholic. Seems this one was based on a book by a Charles Jackson, and is semi-autobiographical. The reason for the main character's drinking is changed from the book from a homosexual fling to writer's bloc. Which is part of my point. It seems my production on my blog is down due to writer's bloc (again). One of my problems is that I keep having brilliant (at least to me) ideas as I am about to fall asleep, and promptly forgetting them the next day. This has happened more than once, and is rather disturbing. Perhaps I should have pen and paper at my bedside to write these idea down. However, lucky for me Mr. Wilder helped with an idea. Seems our main character is the "hiding booze from the family" type. Going to great lengths to hide his rye from his brother, and his poor girlfriend. One of the downfalls of this type of drinker is that sometimes they get so drunk they forget where the next bottle is hidden (which happens in the film in a very dramatic fashion). The main character needs a drink to help him get over his writer's bloc. Trouble is, one drink just is not enough, and after the bottle is gone, so is the ability to write. A vicious circle, a perfect circle, the beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning. This is the drinker's dilemma just needing that one drink to solve whatever problem they are facing, but the first one just tastes so bloody good it is a shame to stop at one. If one helps me relax, and think more clearly, then two or three should allow me to solve not only my problems, but the problems of my friends, neighbors, hell the whole world! Next thing you know, you are sobbing your life away, or desperatly trying to get the key into the keyhole at what you hope is your house. For me this is the worse kind of drunk you can be. The dishonest one, hell let the world know that you aren't a drinker you are a drunk by doing it in the light of day (or at least the half-light of a pub). Besides, most of us have the drunk relative that we do not talk about in polite company so we are wise to the hiding it thing. At least our boy Mr. Milland admits to being a drunk when he is confronted. What a stand up guy. Like no one could tell by the way you act. We all have problem's be it writer's block, bad debts, bad relationships, or bad breathe, and we all deal with them the best we can. The trick is to deal with them, and sometimes that sucks, and sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it does not seem to help, but you never know until you try. Maybe the problem is not as hard as you thought, maybe the solution is as plain as the nose on your face. Who knows maybe the problem can be solved merely by watching a good, old, Billy Wilder film. Personally, I have been in the bottom of several bottles, and only found out, much to my dismay that the problems I was trying to solve were still there in the morning, and that they had been made worse by the raging hangover I had obtained in trying to solve them.

Half

Think of all the half completed conversations we have all had in our lifetimes. Maybe the phone goes dead, maybe her father comes home, maybe someone interrupts your story/chat with one of their own (I find this the most common), maybe the person just does not care to hear the ending, maybe you were to meet a person somewhere and arrive ten minutes late to be told "damn you just missed them," or maybe the conversation is going so badly that you just give up. Ever wonder if things would be different/better/worse if you had finished those conversations? Think even further afield how many emails have you missed? How many phone calls? Letters? Instant Messages? smoke signals? All of those ways of communicating with other humans on the planet certainly leave a space for lost missives that must be huge. It is like the Dead Letter Office (though they are now called a Mail Recovery Centers) on a huge scale. Aren't all the new ways to keep in touch that have been invented over the last hundred or so years also ways to MISS communicating with people as well. You would never hear Caeaser complain about Brutus not returning his email.

I Want to Know

I want to know right from wrong,
I want to know "who wrote this song,"
I want to know why people lie,
I want to know why my pets have to die,
I want to know do willows really weep,
I want to know why do people make promises they can not keep,
I want to know the time
I want to know if I can borrow a dime,
I want to know how it feels to be king
I want to know if it is alright for me to sing
I want to know why history repeats
I want to know if i should take the leap
I want to know if guilty people sleep
I want to know if I sow what do I reap,
I want to know how to love
I want to look down on my life from above
I want to know is this all there is
I want to know why I feel the need to keep forcing this post by rhyming
I want to know how to make ends meet
I want to know the cause and nature of my own death
I want to know what certain people are thinking
I want to know all the answers
I want to know the question
I want to know how to do higher math
I want to know why

Control

A very wise man once told me "Control your emotions or they will be your downfall." Another fellow traveller told me that "one of the only things you can control is your emotions, when other people start to control your emotions, they control you." Well, besides the fact that it seems I know a LOT of wise men, these two pieces of advice have always been guiding principles in my life. I understand that following these ideas has led to me being seen as a bit of a cold fish at times. It just seems to me that people who allow others to control their emotions are not being honest with themselves. This is why I do not truly hate anyone (well besides Oliver Cromwell, and Will Ferrell but that is another story). I believe that to hate someone allows them to control your emotions. If someone you hate walks into the room your mood is instantly affected, and not for the better. Jaws may clench, unkind words are muttered, and fists even may be clenched. All because some moron walked into the room. Indifference is a much more effective tool. If you have an enemies list, let them know that if they were to fall off the face of the planet tomorrow, your life would be virtually unaffected. Truth is emotions are tricky things to control, and sometimes in the attempt to control you merely repress, or worse you send the wrong signal. It may be that humans just can not control emotions, maybe they are what truly makes us human, and maybe they will lead to our downfall. Perhaps, there is nothing you can do to stop it, no matter how hard you try.

Origins

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


William Butler Yeats



Pretty uplifting eh?

Joiner

I am not a joiner, I do not "join" with other people to form large masses of people intent upon some collective "mission." I come from a state that is nicknamed the Volunteer State, but I personally do not think it applies directly to me. I have always been suspicious of crowds (or herds as I prefer to call them), they never seem to know exactly where they are going or who is in charge. Now, I am not so cool and collected to believe that I know where I am going, but at least (when I am alone), I know who is in charge, and therefore who to blame and hold responsible when I go the wrong way. I suppose it boils now to a matter of control. In a herd, you forfeit a certain degree of control to receive the protection of the collective herd, and the benefit (to some at least), of not having to make a command decision. This is all well and good for some people, but for me it just does not work. I am too much of a cynic to hand over immediate control of my fate to some jackass whom I know could not find his/her ass with both hands, a troop of boy scouts, a GPS system, and a copy of Grey's Anatomy. Do not get me wrong, I have difficulty getting my crap together too, but I try to realize that it makes me a poor candidate to be put in charge. Groups make me nervous. Especially if planted in the group I have been asked to join is some bungler that I really can not stand. What possessed them to think, for even the briefest of moments, that I would join the group in the first place, and it beggars belief to think I would join a group with some horse's ass that I can not stand. The major problem with my lack of joining is that one gets labeled as a "non-team player." Horror, how could anyone not want to join our team? No matter that we are a group of donkeys that has no clue what is happening, how could someone refuse to join us? These are the tough questions that I have to face. Being the gentle person that I am, I usually make up some lame excuse that allows my presence to be elsewhere, and scuttle off to the safety of my local. However, realization has dawned that I am being intellectually dishonest, and in some respects, unfair to both myself and the group that asked me to join. I suppose if I were a stronger person I would rudely tell the clutch of morons to bugger off. If I were a nicer person I would politely refuse, but promise "next time" I would gladly join their group. If I were a more politically motivated person I would join the group, plaster a fake smile on my face, and sing and dance to the tune that they called. However, being the person I am, I just darkly mutter a excuse, and toddle off to bet on baseball.

Role

As you lay there in bed and see the day's events replay themselves like a bad movie in your head, do you wonder what part you were playing? Were you the hero (sigh), the anti-hero, the villain, or just some two-bit character actor woodenly going through the motions in a performance that would make the critics howl like the Hound of the Baskervilles? As the moments of the day glide pass do you stop to point out your mistakes? Do you even realize you made them? Do you wonder if maybe the script you had was different from the script the other people in your little drama are working from? Maybe we all have different scripts, and that is the problem. Perhaps we are looking through the wrong camera lens, but I truly wonder if we can adjust that lens. Can we step out of life so boring, and look at the lives of the other actor's? Wonder how it feels to be them? To see yourself through the lens of the drama in which they are the lead actor, and you are just a member of the supporting cast. Then the problem arises that if, just if, you could tear yourself away from behind your camera, which I believe is next to impossible. Could you stand to focus through their lens at yourself? Could your performance stand the bright lights? Remember the camera adds ten pounds, and your voice is going to sound a little different (do i really sound like a soprano?) because it is no longer traveling through your facial bones to reach you. Of course you risk the horrible realization that through their lens you are a troll, a braying jackass, an insenstive boor, an incompent boob, or worst of all that your part has been cut from the script without you knowing about it.

In Sickness

So for the last three days, thanks to some intensely painful dental surgery, I have been missing work and laying (or, it is lying? no matter I have done both) about with a fever that sometimes lasted about 5 hours. In my feverish state I had quite a few "thoughts" some of them were in Portuguese, which is unfortunate since I do not speak Portuguese. Some of them were about splitting the atom, I just need a particle accelerator which I can almost picture the building of, and I am there. Also, for some reason Marcel Proust put in an apperance, now you know you are feverish when Marcel Proust shows up, lucky for me a) he did not say anything and b) an 800 page biography of him awaits me on my to read list. Perhaps that will help me get to the bottom of his apperance. As I lay there and watced the floatsm of my thoughts drift past, a few more murderous thoughts did turn themselves towards perhaps killing the butcher/dentist that had put me in such a terrible situation. See, he had extracted a tooth about 8 months ago, and suddenly one day last week the "hole" was bothering me. Off I go to my regular dentist, and then to a root canal specialist only to be sent back to the bastard that started it all. Now, I do not like doctors, and by extenstion dentists. I feel they have a bit of a "god" complex, and being an atheist I do not care for it at all. I mean maybe there is some supreme being but I am pretty sure it is not some goofy white guy with glass in a white coat with his name sewn on the front in case he forgets it, and maybe this god does like to take really sharp instruments and shove them half way down people's throats all the while asking them questions that require more than just a grunt in response. I just wanted to say "look Scooter if you take that instrument of torture out of my mouth, I will be happy to engage you in conversation, until then just hurry the hell up because I can FEEL everything you are doing to me." The good news to all of this is simple, if I live, which is right now about a 50-50 proposition, I have managed to think of a few more interesting ideas to post about. Stay tuned.

Beyond

This little tale is a short peek into my so-called professional life. I often tell people that I see stuff that you could not make up because no one would believe it was true. I think this story falls into that category. Remember kids, names are changed to protect the foolish, and do not try this at home. Our story starts months ago when our anti-hero Frank allegedly commits a crime. Frank is convinced he is not guilty, and demands a trial before a jury of his peers. This is when our hero i.e. ME enters the story. I wasn't as convinced that Frank was not guilty, and was more than happen to allow him to move his case forward towards jury trial. I would not be the one handling it, so what did I care. Perhaps my boon companion Sneaky Pete would. Either way Frank changes his mind about the allure of a jury trial. Needless to say a chance to slough off my work on someone else has been denied, and it is all Frank's fault. So, I react with my usually calm demeanor and tell Frank's attorney to tell Frank to screw himself. Lots of wailing and gnashing of teeth later. Frank's attorney and I work out a settlement that requires Frank to go to a counseling center before entering his (now)guilty plea. Frank misses appointment one, causing my neck veins to bulge, but being a soft touch I allow Frank to try again. Now this is the part I could not make up. Frank was due in court today after making his appointment. Imagine my surprise when I found out that Frankie poo had missed his appointment a second time. As I contemplated bringing the pain to Frank and his world his attorney told me his "excuse", and it was a whopper.
It seems Frank had in fact committed another petty crime in another local jurisdiction, and been in jail for about the last two weeks. His crime was not anything that would warrant a two week jail sentence, so I was already starting to chuckle about Frank's lack of luck when the story gets much worse (for Frank that is). It seems that near the end of his sentence the cowboys in the jail he was serving his time checked Frank's life out. They found what they believed to be a warrant out for his arrest in a town near Nashville, TN. It seems a fellow with the same last name but with a slightly different first name Franck had a warrant. Being the brilliant lawmen they were, the police sent Frank away to this small town about 3 hours away to "sort it all out." Here is the good part, it seems the warrant was NOT for Frank after all but for someone else (duh no kidding DIFFERENT first name). Frank was released by the police of this small town when this mistake was cleared up. One small problem, Frank was, and still is it seems, 3 long hours from home with no money, no car, and not knowing anyone in town. His family has had to pass the hat around to send Frank bus fare home, and he had not made it back in time for his court appearance today, and had missed his second appointment. After wiping away the tears, and being shushed for the wild peals of my laughter ringing out in the court room. I graciously granted Frank's attorney's request for another reset date. Stating that a story like that is too wild to be a lie, but admonishing Frank's attorney that the only excuse I will accept for his next failure to appear for his court date and/or counseling appointment is that Frank has been abducted by aliens, and anally probed. I also requested that the results of the probe be attached to any document Frank's attorney would like to file on his behalf. This is a typical day in my life, too funny for words eh?

Winter

Winter is my favourite season. I like the cold (once I get used to it). I like to see the trees naked as it were stripped of their leaves and standing forlornly in the cold winter air. Winter give me hope. Hope that even though the streets are dark and folding out mysteriously one day they will be brighter and warmer. It is kind of a negative hope I suppose. Hope that winter is here so therefore spring is sure to follow. Besides we need to hold onto hope, who knows when it might be the last thing we have. There is a great beauty in desolation, you just have to look for it a little harder, and things that are harder to find are all the more beautiful for the effort you put forth in finding them. Of course winter can be a harsh mistress, mistakes made in winter have a tendency to hurt a little more. The cold will do that to you. It will make things sting a little more than usual. Pain felt in winter is some serious stuff. Studies prove that nice weather i.e. lovely spring days put people in a better mood. That rarely happens in winter. Winter is mature. A serious season for serious things to happen. Winter makes you walk a very thin line. Makes you wonder if you are right or not. Leaves you thinking it is a long, cold, lonely walk back to the car or the apartment. Winter makes you want to climb out of life so boring and take the time to make other people's heart your home. Gasping for air, and seeing your breathe. Winter is a delicate balance vulnerable, sad, delicate, and all knowing.

Grieve Spain

It appears my readings have lead me to the Spanish Civil War (don't ask, I really can't say how I got there either). Anyway, I have picked up a rather hefty tome written by a fellow named Hugh Thomas (1100 pages or so), seems to be the definitive work blah blah. Now, I was a history major, and a history graduate student so I got the pleasure of reading a lot of hefty tomes. The reason for this post is simple while reading this history I get to read a lot about the major actors of the Spanish Civil War. One in particular struck a chord. Seems there was this fellow named Miguel Primo de Rivera, a military chap who was a veteran of Spain's Rif Wars in Morocco. After that lovely experience he manages to "climb to the top of that greasy pole" and become dictator of Spain from 1923 to 1930. These were turbulent years in Spain, and Primo de Rivera did his best I suppose, but was unable to solve the problems that were to embroil Spain in Civil War six years later. The point is this; here is this man who led a major country during and extremely volitate time for 7 years, and he warrants about three paragraphs in Mr. Thomas' book. This is not an indictment of Mr. Thomas, he has a big story to tell, but merely a statement on being obscure. This guy a major player in world politics warrants three paragraphs. His life reduced to three paragraphs ending with he "died alone in a Paris hotel possibly of diabetes, no one knows for sure his exact cause of death." Presumably, this man had a family, people that loved him maybe a wife that bore him children, or maybe he didn't the history does say. Pretty sure the fellow had enemies, people that did not care what he died of just so long as he died. Once again, I can't be sure the history is silent. Then again isn't history generally silent as to the majority of us? I certainly will not be becoming a leader of men anytime soon, will not risk my life for King and Country, be decorated or elected to any sort of high office. History will not pause for breathe over my life, or for the majority of our lives. These sweeping histories bring "actors" onto the stage, and kill them off with impunity. Entire lives reduced to paragraphs (if the person is lucky, if not he might just get a sentence or a passing mention in a footnote). Even being reduced to a footnote of history or consigned to the dustbin of history is more than the great majority of us will ever achieve. She/He lived, breathed, felt things, tried their best, and died. Thus, we are written out of history.

Gravity

Not really gravity, but more along the lines of universal gravitation or if you like simply

Every single point mass attracts every other point mass by a force heading along the line combining the two. The force is proportional to the product of the two masses and inversely proportional to the square of the distance between the point masses.

This is truly the force that binds the stars, moves the earth around the sun, and is the power behind the tides. It is what keeps us constantly trying to fall to the center of the Earth. It is what attracts us, in a fundamental way, to every other thing in the universe. According to Sir Isaac it is a force something that does not think, breathe, or have a sense of fashion. We rarely think about it except when we a) drop and break something or b) when, after too many pints, we find the floor by looking up over our shoulder. It is relentless and ruthless, do not appeal to gravity's sense of justice, do not beg it for mercy. It is not good, it does not need justice; It is not evil, it does not need to be merciful. It simply just IS, and a lot of very bright people have spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. They come up with complex formulas, and whole new theories just to explain why planet A is acting a damn fool and orbiting planet B in such an erratic fashion. It reminds us that hitching our wagon to any particular star may led to quite unexpected, and unintended results.

A Plea

No this is not a guilty plea, I will save that for when I really need it. This is a plea from a life long agnostic to be allowed to live in peace. Obviously, Christmas is not a big time in the life of an agnostic for several reasons. People try to say that Christmas is not all about religion, but about other things. Well, news flash people! It is supposed to be the "birthday" of your saviour. For fuck's sake how more religious can you get? Even if all this gift giving crap is not based on religion, I have another problem with it. I am a minimalist, I am not a huge fan of "stuff" the majority of the things I "own" are books. Lucky for me I can afford to buy my own books, in fact I have about 25 books in my possession that I have not read yet. I am pretty set for books. Any other gift I do not need. You know why I can say I do not need it? Because I do not already have it. If I need it I buy it. I do not like getting gifts. I certainly do not celebrate Christmas as either a religious or economic holiday. All I ask is for some of this so-called Christian understanding and love crap. After all, I have been in churches (usually against my will), and respectfully bowed my head at "prayer" time. I did not cause a scene, or jump up and start disputing the bible with the Christian in charge. All I ask, and it seems to be too much to ask, is for the same respect. I respect (though sometimes mock) your beliefs. I am not a convert them or fuck them type of agnostic. Believe what you want, the fact that you are wrong (in my opinion) should not dissuade you from holding your beliefs. If it does then you were not that serious in the first place. All I want is similar respect. I do not believe in god, do not take it personally, I probably do not believe too much in you. I do not ask you to share, understand, or convert to my way of thinking. Please do not expect or ask me to throw away 25 years of solid thinking on this subject just so I can get a fucking gift that I did not want or need.

P.S. If you insist on trying to give me a gift which makes me unhappy and is borderline disrespectful, give money to a charity in my name (I suggest Amnesty International), that way you can take a tax deduction.

A Stone

Take a line, any line, from anywhere, a poem, a song, a death threat, a movie, or a really bad novel. Take that line, use that line to the best of your ability. Make that line YOUR line. Use it as the foundation of your next big idea. BE the line, LIVE the line, and make the line come alive. Somewhere in that line lies part of your life, a part that you might not even have been aware of until you heard the line for the first time. Nevertheless, there it is in a moment of sheer imagination and creation your life writ large by a line SOMEONE else bloody wrote. Still, you can recover your balance, and use this line to good effect it is just going to take a little bit of effort.
Warm laughs, lovely words whispered and meant, and rough skin. You like all of these things, but, you really love a stone. Because it is smooth, cold, and you really want to be told that it is all your own. Your own personal stone. To make your own, to do with what you want, and to make it yours. You have shifted a lot of dross to find this stone make sure it is the right size, shape, and sharpness. This is a stone that has seen a lot of things, some of them sublime, some of them absurd. While you were picking pebbles out of a drain, this stone was being formed by forces, about which you, in your wildest imagination, you can only speculate. Do not allow yourself to shoulder the blame for this stone, do not shout names at flickering screens because of this stone. Don't phone your friends, or go fucking insane. Don't overstate your case make it simple. Stones are simple things. Nothing too damn complex about a stone. You know this, you watch the Science Channel, they have not run a twelve part series explaining the complex nature of STONES. This stone has WEIGHT, it is dark, and can dream. This stone dreams of being the keystone above the gates of a castle where a towering queen with a lovely daughter lives. This daughter would be lovely, stubborn, and brave. This stone would know the bitter dismay of suitors that brought presents to lay at her feet, all the typical desires of your typical queen's daughter. Things that make people gasp in shock, and coo in delight. These suitors would be pleased to fall at her knees, to post her decrees, to name all of her city's streets. However, she loves a stone, and being in love with a stone can cause some consternation, especially one would suspect, to the stone. Remember no one ever claims to be a stone.

Timing

They say timing is everything. Well I do not know who "they" are, but I certainly am not on board with that rule. I have impeccably bad timing. Now this is not a serious problem it is not like my bad timing affects the life or death of anyone or thing. It is just a simple fact. The major problem with my bad timing is simple. I (meaning my physical presence) simply tries to be in the same spot as something/someone else pretty much all the time. As you know this just simply cannot be; two things cannot occupy the same spot at the same time. However, someone needs to tell the rest of the world that. It does not matter what I am trying to do or when I am trying to do it. There will be SOMEONE else right there at the exact same time, attempting to do the exact SAMETHING. I could be trying to buy pickles in Louisville, Mississippi at 3 a.m. and lo! and behold! There would be at least one other person standing right there in the pickle aisle slowly trying to comprehend why in the world there they are there, and why there are so very many brands of pickles to chose from. All the while, there I am trapped behind this damn fool muttering foul words under my breath. You see if I could just get around you my pickle choice will only take about three seconds. This gift/curse is amazing. I can and have actually demostrated it upon demand. I pick a random place to walk into, and tell my amazed audience to watch and wait for that person who just suddenly has to be in the doorway of the room I am trying to enter, and are utterly befuddled as to why they are there, but they are certain it will come to them if they just stand in the doorway for a few more minutes. I only wish that somehow, someway I could profit from this curse/gift. I really think that one day I will suceed, and occupy the same place as something or someone else, and Newton's idea will be blown to hell. Stay tuned for a rip in the fabric of the universe

Black Sheep

Though I would like to claim to be the only black sheep in my family, I fear that it isn't a completely true statement. After all, I had uncles that spent some time in the cozy dens of the state's custody. However, I suppose intellectually I do take honours for being the black sheep. I am the family's unknown boy, the one who ran off to the big city, and never came back. I do not plan on going back home again to rest. I do not plan on going home again at all. I suppose that the bright lights have seduced me beyond repair. I explained to my family that if they loved me they would let me live in peace to try understand that my time in the area in which all of them live has come to an end. They do struggle to comprehend why I would not want to come rushing back into the fold. This obstinate behaviour of mine has lead to some tension in the past, but I think/hope that they have come to peace with my decision. Besides, in this big city with the bright lights and big dreams is full of girls with faces fair that see the shine in the black sheep. Why on earth would I want to give that up? Even the black sheep can sometimes wear the golden fleece, and win a hand or two in the game of life.

Idea

I have an idea. It is a really great idea. I have had this idea for a few years always there hovering on the edge of my consciousness. It is the kind of idea that makes people look at you, mouth agape, and say "That is a brilliant idea, how the hell did you ever come up with it." I am not sure if they are shocked that it is a good idea, or appalled that my goofy ass came up with it. Either way it is an idea that makes you smile everytime you think of it because you think to yourself man that is a great idea, and not only it is a great idea, but I came up with it all by myself. I mean this is the kind of idea that people build societies around. The kind of idea you can be put into history books for. Squares in towns you have never heard of in countries that you never knew existed will be named for you just because of this idea. This idea is something that even your friends, once they get over the horror of not coming up with it themselves, use as a way of introducing themselves to other people. They go to parties and say you know the guy that came up with (inserting your idea here), I know that genius. We used to hang out and drink lots of beer, honest to god. No one will believe them of course, because this idea is so damn good that they will think your slug friends could never have hung out with the mind that came up with this idea. This idea gets your name on the top of the letterhead. Children will have to read books about this idea, parents will struggle to work this idea into their day to day lives. It is a really good idea. There is only one small problem. As I mentioned earlier this idea has been hovering around for a while. It is like a shadow that you sort of see when you cut your eyes really fast in one direction. It is a fleeting idea, an idea that is so good that it makes you want to really work to have it. It is not some cheap ass idea on maybe trying Korean food, it is an idea thtat will ring down throughout the centuries. Which leads us to the problem with the idea. The fundamental flaw that makes this idea like every other idea I have ever had (that is to say a generally bad idea). I have not had it yet.

Death comes for the Archbishop

Ok so my friend B_____ is not an Archbishop, and Death did not come for him he went to it, I just thought it was a snazzy way to title a blog entry. In fact, the poor fool in question was an agnostic of many years. I guess that does not stop Death from coming it may just make it a little less or more painful, or maybe it makes it more complicated. I am sure that a conversation between B____ and Death would have had some interesting moments, and probably was sprinkled with a few words that should not be repeated lest they ruin some people's moral fiber. Anyway, Vegas buried poor B______ in style or, at least in as much style as our little band could muster. Most everyone kept their dignity, but certainly did not keep their money. B_____ had his maudlin moments, but for the most part he seemed resigned to his fate, as only those who know it is futile to struggle against fate can. He is/was not a morbid fellow, except maybe morbidly obese, and he seemed to be, in the words of the Mayor, "jubilant" near the end. That may have been because he could not be bothered to walk a straight line, or finish a coherent sentence, or it may have been because even though his sand was about to run out of his hourglass, he was amongst pals and was having a very good time. I did manage to catch him in a reflective moment, he had just tottered out of the bathroom, and asked him what he thought about the world now that he was about to leave it. He valiantly tried to focus his redshot eyes, snorted, and said "in the end there is no Justice just Death" then, turned and put another one dollar bill into an entertainer's G-string.

Circles

Sorry but this is what Tidy would call a "random mind dump." When we are born we each enter into a world full of possibilities . This is what I would call our circle of possibilities. Granted we are all born into different sets of circumstances. I would not be so foolish as to believe that a Borgia or a Bernadotte's circle is the same as some child born to dirt farmers in Alabama, or one born in Zambia. Thus, before we even began to scream for air on the planet which we are going to inhabit for our entire lives our circle of possibilities has been narrowed (or maybe widened). Throughout childhood this circle is pretty much totally beyond our control. We are young, and people feed us, bathe us, and wake us on their schedule not ours. However, during this time circles are opening and closing to us, and we probably are not even aware of it (if we ever are aware). Hopefully, one day each of us wakes up or staggers out of whatever pub they have been in for the last 8 hours, and makes the decision that, as far as we are able, we are going to attempt to take control of the circles that lie before us. Not a whole lot we can do about the circles that lie behind us except to try not to let them close (sorry got distracted by a pretty girl walking past my window) any of the circles in front of us. From that moment on, each decision we make hopefully is part of a plan. Although, I truly wish I had a plan, I am not so sure that I know what that plan is. I sort of think that we make our decisions which close or open circles to/in front of us, and then in a reflective moment or in a drug induced haze, adjust ourselves to the decisions we just made. No matter how small a decision is, to go left or to stay right for example, circles open, shut, widen, or narrow in response. Getting out of bed 10 minutes earlier or later may put you at that red light some knucklehead runs through, and off you go to the hospital instead of going to work to sleep through some important meeting or to send some insulting e-mail to your boss (quite by accident of course). I guess my friend B_____ who's funeral date is fast approaching made the critical decisions that lead him to Death in Vegas. I tried to ask him the other day, but he seemed to be just a little too calm to provide me an adequte answer. All he said was "do you think I have got anything figured out?"

Dorian Grey

One of my friends has a co-worker that she refers to as Dorian Grey. Dorian Grey? I asked? Why him? She proceeded to tell me about her co-worker, and I think I agree. Tell me what you think. It seems she and this guy work in the same office in our typical cube environment. Lots of fun as I am sure we all know. It seems this forced day to day closely knit (forced) share living has led her to believe her co-worker is a prime example of a modern day Dorian Grey. He seems to think that no matter what he does, no matter how vile or disgusting he acts it has no affect on his personality or reputation. According to her, he makes Waylan Smithers toadying look amateurish. He is constantly planting his lips on the bosses ass. Like most offices, their office has layers of command. She says that it does not matter which bosses ass he kisses, he kisses them all. Making sure that his smiling face is always there when any chance for self-advancement crops up. However, just like Mr. Grey he does not realize that the rest of the world is looking at your "portrait." This portrait is the picture the rest of us see when we glance in your direction. She says that when she looks at him her "lunch struggles to stay in her stomach." It seems the true tragedy of his toadyism is that the "main" boss thinks he is ready for promotion. Sorry there is not really a lesson to learn here folks, it is just something that strikes me as a sad commentary on today social mores.

Death in Vegas

In two weeks, my friends and I have a funeral to attend in Vegas. Myself, Lefty, The Mayor, P Diddy, JPK, and a couple of others will board our separate flights, head to Sin City and lay our dear friend B_____ to rest. It is not that sad of a story, our buddy had a good life of nearly 38 years at least half of which he enjoyed. I mean if you are happy 50 percent of the time you are doing fairly well. You may wonder how we know it is in two weeks, and why it is in Vegas. Well it seems B_____ planned it that way. He took the fateful steps that lead him to Death in Vegas about 6 months ago. None all of us knew it, I am not sure he knew exactly what he was doing at the time, but here we are 6 months later trying to piece it all together. We do not know if we should be terribly sad, or terribly happy about this turn of events. We do know that a lot of drinking, and remembering the corpse will take place. We are also aware that all the King's horses and all the King's men are not going to be able to put B_____ back together again, and as the date of his funeral draws closer, I for one, think that maybe, just maybe he wanted it that way.

The Horror

No, this is not a post about The Heart of Darkness that is another story entirely. This is merely a quick post to bemoan the fact that I have been for the past two weeks utterly bereft of ideas to blog about. I wonder if Zola or Hemingway had this problem? I also wonder what they would do about it. My boon companions and I have a slogan that solves most of our problems. It is a simple slogan "DRINK THROUGH IT" it works most of the time. Notice I said most of the time. No plan is perfect, and when you are throwing up in the bushes at 5 a.m. the idea of drinking through it does not really seem to be a great idea. Perhaps the solution is, and it is the one that obliquely I am attempting is to write through it. Though as I stare blankly at the blinking cursor that is taunting me by saying "you do not have a single cogent thought worth writing down." Writing through it may not seem the best idea either. However, as your faithless correspondent I feel at least some small obligation to my world-wide readership to attempt to shake the "blog bloc" that has afflicted me in such a horrid way. Perhaps this is what Zola or Flaubert tried simply writing something down in the hopes that it would shake something loose. Though for those two gentlemen their writing was never good enough. To write what seems to be gold one day, go to bed content with your days work, and to wake up read it again and find that somehow, overnight your gold has turned to lead is a terrible thing to happen to any writer. I share this affliction, though for me it does not take overnight. I return to my post almost immediately after publishing it, and find to my amazement how it all went so horribly wrong.
Though I believe that this post has acheived something worthwhile. In the immortal words of Frank Constanza "I'm back baby!!!!!!!!"

Dear M

Yes, I know I have a habit of blogging about failed friendships. It is a gift. However, this does warrant its own post.

Dear M______,

It is with some degree of remorse and sadness that I respond to your last correspondence with bad tidings. You tell me that I blow hot and cold, that it is "too much work being my friend." These facts I do not dispute, they are for the most part true. It probably is a lot of work being my friend. I ask a lot of my friends. Truth, loyalty, honesty, and dedication being just a sampling of things I expect from my friends. However, in my defense, I do not ask anything that I am not willing to give. It may be hard to be my friend, but I think it is worth it. If you are my friend, I will go to the wall with/for you. Whatever you need just ask. If it is within my power to give it to you it is yours no questions asked, and no return of favour is expected. You and I have reached the logical conclusion to our friendship. No further discussion is necessary. We have known each other for almost 6 years. We have had our ups and downs, our good times and bad times. At this stage we have reached a down that is permanent in nature. No amount of tinkering can fix our friendship. It is broken beyond repair. You tell me I blow hot and cold, that is fine, that is your opinion, and I suspect it has some merit. Towards you, from now on, I am cold. Please do not test me on this. Someone who knew me long before you did, and in a similar way once told me that I was "the coldest person she had ever met." Do not make me prove it to you. From now on we are finished, we are not connected you and I, at no point do we touch. This is indisputable. I advise you to move on with your life, and I am sure you will. In the future when I think of you, if I think of you, it will be in the past tense. I wish I could say that I am sorry it ended this way, but honestly I am not. This is the path we both chose there is no need in denying it. I hereby declare a "break" with you. Relations between us have come to an end. Quite simply, we are done. We have "run our course," and no longer have anything to discuss. Bon chance.

Cezanne Part Deux

It seems my previous post about my painter ex-friend was, shall we say, a little off. The problem I had with my friend was not necessarily the choice he made, but the fact that he had a choice to make at all. For all of us pluggers in the world I was upset. This is not sour grapes it is simply angst at seeing talent tossed to the winds because of a "bad" attitude. I should mention that my friend has had a problem with authority and rules for the majority of his life. When we were younger it was quaint and cool. Once we reached thirty it just looked like surliness. Here he was with this gift that people would give their first born for, and he, in a fit of pique, decided to piss away a chance to better his career. He was certainly no Cezanne or Monet but he had talent, and he worked very hard to be good at what he did. He was committed to his art, and to see him refuse to "seal the deal" was extremely frustrating. I certainly did not want to live his life for him, I have enough trouble living my own life. This is merely a cry of mediocrities everywhere when they see genius wasted.

The Lady or The Tiger

A long, long time ago in a place far, far away the following events happened. A kingdom existed that you or I have probably never heard of. Its king a typical king not a great monarch, but not a foolish one either. It so happened that one of the customs of this kingdom was to throw people accused of high crimes in an arena where there were two doors. Behind one door was a beautiful maiden, behind the other was a very, very hungry and slightly pissed off tiger. The trial of the accused was simple, they were led into the arena and told to choose a door. They were told to choose wisely because if they choose the wrong door they were food for the tiger. The logic was fairly simple, if the accused chose the lady they were "innocent" and were allowed to take the beautiful maiden as their wife regardless of their previous marital status. If they chose the tiger they were "guilty" and were rightfully punished by feeding the tiger. This custom was a very ancient one, and deeply ingrained in the kingdom's tradition. However, our "typical" king just so happened to have a lovely daughter that had taken a lover that was far below her station. The king when he became aware of this was duly outraged, and ordered his daughter's lover into the arena. Now pay attention boys and girls because this is where it gets tough. The king's daughter always was privy to the secret of what was behind each door in the arena. As she sees her lover tossed into the arena she is aware of what (the lady or the tiger) is behind which door. Our problem, our dilemma, our tragedy is simple. Does the king's daughter give a signal to her lover to tell him to pick the door with the lady, thereby assuring his survival, but knowing he will marry the beautiful maiden, or does she signal him to pick the door with the tiger, assuring his death, but never having to see him happy in the arms of another woman? Obviously, I would love to hear your opinions. Who does our young lover chose the Lady or the Tiger?

P.S. No, this is not original this is a famous thought experiment based on a short story that I was forced to read a long time ago, and to write a creative response.

Cezanne

Much like Zola knew Cezanne (they grew up in the same town, and were fast friends for a long time before Zola wrote his book The Masterpiece). I knew a painter once. He wasn't a natural genius when it came to painting. He went to your typical school of Beaux-Arts, and learned his craft much like the rest of us do. However, he did have some natural talent he just chose to use it painting. Not sure it was his "calling" or it was just something he decided to try. Either way he became very adept at painting small landscapes and still lives. Nothing too complex, but something that did take some skill. It was always my opinion that after a while he started to "settle" painting things that he knew would sell enough to earn him a decent living. Needless to say, this opinion caused a little friction between us, but it was not anything earth shattering. My friend painted this way for about 3 years when one day he was offered a "commission" to begin painting larger, more complex types of painting for someone with a little too much money, and a desire to appear cultured by being a "patron of the arts." My friend thought long and hard about accepting this commission. He was content, for the most part, doing the paintings he knew he could do as well as anyone else, and was not sure that this "patron" could fulfill any great desire of his. In fact, I think that my friend did not really have any major desire to be a great painter or anything else for that matter. He was just simply a very smart, fairly talented guy that just sort of cruised through life. It was at times very frustrating being his friend. Being the less talented sort, and seeing your buddy with all this skill just easing along through life. Eventually, my friend turned down the commission to become "someone's lapdog" as he put it, and continued to paint the paintings he knew he could accomplish with his eyes closed. I was furious to see my friend turn down something I felt he was extremely qualified to do for no "real" reason made me want to strangle him. Being the type to let my feelings known I told him that he was being a fool, and cutting his nose off to spite his face. His response, and the last words he ever spoke to me (we have not talked since) were "It is my nose, and it is my face."

Housman

'Is my team ploughing,
That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
When I was man alive?'

Ay, the horses trample,
The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
The land you used to plough.

'Is football playing
Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
Now I stand up no more?'
Ay, the ball is flying,
The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up,the keeper
Stands up to keep the goal.

Is my girl happy,
That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
As she lies down at eve?'

Ay, she lies down lightly,
She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
Be still, my lad, and sleep.

'Is my friend hearty,
Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
A better bed than mine?'

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man's sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.


A.E. Housman

Expulsion

Once upon a time in a land not so far away there lived six, count them six, average people. These six people all had jobs, families, and all the other day to day bullshit that makes up people's lives. Things were going relatively smoothly; they had their bumps here and there, but for the most part the group was in fairly good shape. There was a seventh person amongst this group a shaman/medicine man type who was sort of the "one in charge." He was older and wiser than anyone else in the group, and the group looked to him for answers to their tough questions. He was far from perfect, had his flaws but the group admired him all the same. Then one day for no real reason the shaman was disposed by an "outside" group. It was a bit like a coup d'etat, and the other six members of the group each reacted to this situation according to their personality. Mostly though, they were a little saddened at the loss of the old shaman. This sadness was both noticed and commented upon by the new regime. The new regime was unable to understand why our six heroes were demoralized. Sadly, our band of heroes did not posses anyone clever or brave enough to stand up to the new regime, and to tell them the reasons for their sadness. Needless to say, this situation was extremely uncomfortable for our heroes. I realize that stories are supposed to have both a happy ending and a meaning, but this tale has neither. It is a work in progress, and as yet unfinished. Apologies for all of my mulitude of readers who were expecting something better.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went downtown,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich–yes, richer than a king–
And admirably schooled in every grace; In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head

Edward Arlington Robinson

Prometheus

Prometheus 0% Extroversion, 100% Intuition, 27% Emotiveness, 14% Perceptiveness

You are most like Prometheus, and you probably knew that before you even took this test. You probably aren't deliberately altruistic, but you still tend to do things that benefit everyone, even at great expense to your health and personal relationships. You aren't ruled by your emotions, but you still have a strong sense of justice. You make good descisions, but they can sometimes backfire (and this isn't due to a flaw in your reasoning, but due to faulty premises instead). You are very reasonable, you understand systems, you can quickly pinpoint flaws and you know how to correct them. You pride understanding and knowledge above everything else, and your greatest fear is to appear to be incompetent. You tend to be contemptuous of authority, but you don't accept leadership roles yourself until everyone else has demonstrated their own incompetence. You've built a very specific skill set. You know exactly where your strengths and weaknesses are, and you pride yourself on this kind of self-knowledge. You distrust tradition, which you see as arbitrary, and you rely instead on your own judgements. You also pride yourself on your pragmatism. You're also a very private person. Most of all, people think you're arrogant, but screw them! They're the ones who benefit from your ideas and discoveries, and if they took the time to understand why it is that you say and think the things you do, they'd realize that you only appear arrogant because you are exactingly precise when it comes to your area of specification, and most of all because, when you don't know something, you don't have an opinion about it (unlike most of the loudmouths that you have to deal with on a day-to-day basis). Relationships are your kryptonite. It isn't that you don't want them -- in fact, you would very much like a very close relationship with someone who understands you. They're just the one thing in the world that you're naturally bad at. Famous people like you: Niels Bohr, J. Robert Oppenheimer, Werner Heisenberg, Issac Newton, John Maynard Keynes, Erwin Schrodinger Stay Clear of: Apollo, Icarus, Hermes, Aphrodite Seek out: Atlas, The Oracle, Daedalus

Death comes for the Inquisitor?

Obviously not making light of death (see mine and Tidy's recent posts on the subject), but I think I may have had a peek at a possible cause of my death. Other than wanking myself to death (which I have been trying to do for years, or falling off some or down some great height while drunk, I think that it is going to be "Death by MATA Bus." Obviously, MATA is the transit authority in my town. I truly believe that one day there is going to be a MATA bus with my name on it. I think that the powers that be when to an asylum, and picked the 50 most suicidal sons of bitches they could find, and gave them bus keys. Saying here you go here is a monster machine, we need drivers and we do not care what happens. I can almost picture the "test" for becoming a MATA bus driver is like the Kramer and Newman test for ricksaw drivers (where they wanted to use homeless people). These people are insane AND seem to think that the rules of the road do not apply to them, hell I am beginning to wonder if they think the rules of physics apply to them. So, dear readers do not be surprised if one day the headlines scream "Inquisitor run down like a dog by MATA bus, for once it seemed he was sober."

Midweek Poetry

BEAUTY
Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love, mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes

Or put another way

Je suis belle, o mortels! comme un reve de pierre,
Et mon sein, ou chacun s'est meutri tour a tour,
Est fait pour insirer au poete un amour
Eternel et muet ainsi que la matiere.

Je trone dans l'azur comme un sphinx incompris;
J'unis un coeru de neige a la blancheur des cygens;
Je hais le mouvement qui deplace les lignes,
Et jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris.

Les poetes, devant mes grandes attitudes,
Que j'ai l'air d'emprunter aux plus fiers monuments,
Consumeront leurs jours en d'austeres etudes;

Car j'ai, pour fasciner ces dociles amants,
De purs miroirs qui font toutes choses plus belles:
Mes yeux, mes larges yeux aux clartes eternelles!



Charles Baudelaire

Reunion

So it appears that next May it will 20 long years since I graduated from high school. Since we Americans are big fans of reunions and such I just got the "invitation" to "get the gang back together." What follows is my open letter to my former classmates.

Dear Ex-Classmates,

Yes, it is difficult to believe that it has been 20 years since we all graduated from ________ High School. Two decades that have seen the Berlin Wall come down, the Trade Center bombings, two wars in Iraq, and numerous other life changing events. I regret that I will not be attending the reunion. You see, I am not unable to attend quite the contrary I could be there in less than two hours, it is simply that I am unwilling to attend. Twenty years ago I was a goofy, dorky, confused 17 year old teen age boy with no clue as to what I was going to do with my life. Now, twenty years later, I am probably still a little goofy and dorky and probably more confused now than I was then. However, at this point in my life I can rest assured that seeing a group of people I did not like twenty years ago is something that I do not want or care to do. It is simple, most of you maltreated me then, and I have no desire to dredge up old sad memories of a life that ended twenty years ago. I would not piss on any of you if you were on fire. We were merely "friends" only because we happened to live in the same school "zone." I certainly would not choose any of you as friends today, and certainly do not want to waste any length of time pretending like I care what has happened in your life over the last twenty years. There is a reason that I did not keep in touch with you people. I do not like you it is just that simple. So, erase me from the "list" pull a Stalin and erase me out of any class photographs you may have. That is fine with me. I wish I could say that I wish you all the best, but truth be told, I really do not give a tinker's damn what happens to any of you. I moved away and on a long, long time ago. Please do not think that I ever want to see any of you again.

Sincerly,

The Grand Inquisitor

my own personal editor

my own personal editor is one harsh son of a bitch. he is unflagging in his criticism. he belittles what little output i am able to create. he obviously knows best, and rather refuses to come to my defense. he is very good at showing me where i went wrong. he is one acerbic bastard. when he raises his voice i quail and run for cover. he tries very hard to keep me from being so bitter that i am unreadable. it is a constant struggle between the two of us. one of us always has to be wrong, and the other one has a tendency to rub his nose in it. the fact that we haven't killed each other yet is a miracle. the last post i managed to squeeze out is a perfect example. for once i was proud of myself, and considered myself to have done a good job with my subject. i felt that i had "captured the mood" quite well, and had gotten my point across with some force. he, on the other hand, recognized the valid nature of my point, but proceeded to take an axe to my attempt at expressing myself. it was both painful, and a learning experience. i suppose it was a painful learning experience. i will say one thing for the bastard, while he is not the most experienced or the most educated editor in the world, he certainly makes some valid points. sad to say this makes him even more unsufferable. perhaps one of these days i will be able to please him. however, until then i will continue to peck out imperfect posts for him to chop up like cordwood. so, bear with me dear reader(s) this is still after all a work in progress just like i am. i can only hope that the lack of any capitalization in this post will cause the son of a bitch to stroke out and give me some peace.