Secret Society

The time has come to confess to my long standing membership in a very, very old secret society, fear not, this society is not the kind to dump me in the East River for spilling the beans on my membership. In fact, we glory in being known it helps us to identify and recruit new members, and we are ALWAYS (for reasons that will become painfully clear) in need of fresh meat... err new members. First, I suppose I should reveal the name of the society of which I am such a proud member, it is a very simple name we are called The Ministry of Bad Ideas or The Ministry for short. No, we are not some sect of religious morons, the Ministry here is more like a cabinet minister not a fire and brimstone kind of minister. We have a sister/brother organization that people may have heard of it is called the Ministry of Silly Walks. However, we are the older organization, and are still thriving to this day. We are an international, multi-cultural group. We take all sorts if you have an idea run it past our Central Committee (the ones that have survived that is), and if it is deemed worthy of our attention, and you survive a demonstration of your idea, voila!!! you are a member. We scour the globe for acolytes to bring into the Ministry. Our budget is small, our equipment might be outdated, but by god(s) our imaginations are boundless. Secondly, I suppose a brief history of the Ministry is in order. We started a LONG time ago, no one is quite sure of the name of our founder or the exact date which we were founded. We are not the most adept at record keeping (fire, which we LOVE to play with, has a tendency to destroy records). We do know that the Pharaoh that had all those problems with Moses, he was one of ours. That whole "let my people free" crap would not have been possible without us, and Charlton Heston owes us a bit of thanks. The long standing, but now defunct, medical idea that health was based on the four humours i.e. black bile, yellow bile, phlegm and blood, that was one of ours. You have to admit it did have some sticking power, and we were able to get a decent chap (for a Greek) like Hippocrates to expound it for us. One of the quirks of our society is not all members know they are members, and not all members are totally incompetent. We have had a number of "successes" over the years most of them without trying. A surprising lot of our members have been doctors, we are not quiet sure why this is so, but as long as they pay their dues we do not ask too many searching questions. William Harvey was one of ours until he had to ruin it by solving that whole blood circulation thing, then we had to read him out of the Ministry. He was a nice chap for an Englishman. Most of the guys who tried to copy Da Vinci's flying machine were ours. In fact, that footage you see from time to time on TV with all those spectacularly complex machines crashing miserably, comes from our archives. Ockham's Razor is not a favourite theory of ours. That bastard has caused us a great deal of grief. We thrive on the absurdly complex, simple is for the weak minded, and the morally bankrupt. Alfred North Whitehead who came up with a theory of relativity more complex than Einstein's, one of us. Polytheism was mostly our idea, why have just one all encompassing god when you can have hundreds of them for all sorts of stuff. It helps you shift the blame, and who knows one or two of them may smile upon you as you leap off that bridge with papier mache wings, complete with real live duck feathers glued on for safety, strapped to your arms. Asking any number of gods, fates, pixies, fairies, idols, or really cool looking stones, for luck is one of our major tenets. Being an extremely eclectic organization, we sometimes expand our membership to include non-humans. Mrs O'Leary's (nice lady for an Irishwoman) cow was one of ours (I told you we like messing about with fire). The cat and mouse that recently caused a seven day electrical failure in Albania, they were ours. In fact, our history is so long and colourful (and taking into account the length of this post and my readers attentions spans) I would be doing the Ministry an injustice to attempt to squeeze it into one post. Stay tuned.

Mea Culpa

I guess you could consider this apology to my readers (both of them). Though, truth be told, as I have said before in the blog I don't really write for my readers. Considering I really don't have to bother with a fucking apology, you are particularly blessed dear reader(s). The apology in the case is for the horrid writing of my previous post. The idea was sound, the premise was good, but the execution was piss poor. I had a very specific idea to attempt to illuminate, and I used expressions that, upon rereading the post myself, make me want to vomit. Hackneyed expressions, and simplistic attempts to covey an idea are unforgivable. I should take at least some pride in something in my life, and since there isn't much to choose from, I should at least be more careful when attaching my "name" to the things I write. They say a hundred monkeys typing away for a hundred years would eventually write Hamlet, I hope for fuck's sake that I am slightly more literary gifted that your average monkey. I am somewhat cheered by the fact that even Shakespeare wrote reams and reams of absolute drivel. However, the downside to that is the bastard also managed to squeeze out Hamlet. Well, at least I have got the drivel out of the way.

Castles in the Air

I have a tendency to build them. Which is NOT a good thing. I have been on this planet (at least in this form) for almost 39 years, and I have recently discovered that I am a very poor judge of character. I pick the wrong horse with a shocking degree of regularity. It is a talent that I would not recommend anyone trying to cultivate. With it comes with a lot of pain, sorrow, and a great deal of disappointment. None of this is news to anyone who knows me. Do not get me wrong, I have great, good, friends. Friends that would do anything for me. However, my friendship wagering has been rather hit or miss. I tend to hit or miss in a BIG way. The friends I have are awesome, the ones that I have missed on have left bruises on my ego and pschye that won't be going away anytime soon. The problem is that I have missed more often that a)I would like to admit and b)might have lost more than I could afford. I understand that I should shake the misses off like dust off a boot, but it appears that I am the type of fellow on which failure lingers. It clings to me like a bad odour. It is a personal failing, I sometimes miss the forest for the trees. In my younger days this was not as bad, perhaps age makes it harder to turn the other cheek to these blows of insecurity. All those friends that have gone in search of fairer weather are, for reasons I CANNOT fathom, still rankle. One by one they left leaving me here sitting in my storm wondering was that lightning that just struck? How could I have thought that horse was going to finish anything but badly? What was I thinking? Perhaps while I am pissing away all this time building my castles, I have forgotten one very important thing. A good castle has a drawbridge and a moat.

Il buono, il brutto, il cattivo

Being homebound after a lovely 10 day stay in hospital which cost me about a foot of my colon, I have had the extreme pleasure of getting to watch the good the bad and the ugly twice in the last 2 days. I have to say it is one of the greatest films I have ever seen. It gets better (and somehow sadder) each time I watch it. Clearly, Sergio Leone was a genius even if he was Italian. Now clearly the "good" character played with perfection by one of my personal heroes Clint Eastwood, is the most famous character. Playing the "Man with No Name" with the fewest words possible our boy Clint delivers a masterful performance. However, to me the true "hero" of the film is Eli Wallach a.k.a. "the ugly." Played with zest and robustness Tuco is a Mexican bandit that is the personification of us all. Lee Van Cleef plays "the bad" a.k.a. Angel Eyes. Truth be told the line between all three of these guys if pretty thin. Blondie (as Tuco calls Clint Eastwood's character) is no saint. He freely indulges in a money making scheme with Tuco, and when that has, in his opinion, reached it zenith he leaves Tuco to die out in the desert. Not what you would call a sterling fellow. Angel Eyes leaves his own trail of death and destruction behind him, but as with all the characters is in the pursuit of the lost $200,000 in gold that motivates him. At its core this is an anti-war film, the needless slaughter of the bridge scene, and the characters reaction to it show that Leone had a point to make about war and its madness. Throughout it all, Tuco steals the show his is the most developed character of the film. We know nothing of Blondie or Angel Eyes' family or past, but we get to see Tuco's brother, and heard his explanation of why he turned out "ugly." He is the most human; "Whoever double-crosses me and leaves me alive, he understands nothing about Tuco." Showing that humans cannot be either all good or all bad, and that most of us are just ugly.

Normal Service

Normal Service has been restored. The asshat that sullied the blogwaves has been duly punished, and new and improved passwords and security has been installed. However, I decided NOT to delete his/her vandalism of my site because free speech is just that free. The post did have some valid points which are worth, at least in passing, exploring. Perhaps, the failure act has been going on for years. However, I think it is because I measure myself against the wrong people. Not really going to dig deeper than that, because I quite simply do not want to. The last thing I want from anyone is pity. Pity is for the weak. Those of us that know me well (and there are quite a few) know that I am not generally weak. I may be a lot of things, but weak is not one of my major flaws. I may have weak moments, but even while having them I am working out how to eliminate their recurrence. I certainly do not need attention, dear, sweet Donna of all the people on this planet, I had hopes that you would know that. That is a bit of a letdown, but nothing I will not forgive you for. Do not feel bad, the vandal (for that is what I will call him/her) should have known better as well. However, he/she is a perpetual disappointment to me, so his/her inability to understand the nature of my post is no great surprise. As to his/her invitation to join the human race, like brother Ivan from the book which I stole my name, I quite simply return my ticket.

Sorry dear readers, but this is NOT the jackass that owns this blog. Though he knows me, knows me quite well as a matter of fact. So well does the fool know me that he allowed me to figure out his password, and here I am. I expect I will not be here for long, so I will have to have as much fun as I can before the "GI" comes back. I read his last post with utter disgust. The pity party that this moron is throwing himself makes me want to puke. Worse yet, is the fact that his readers feel sorry for this fuckstick. Do not encourage him to feel anymore sorry for himself that he already does. He is nearly insufferable as it is. His "I am such a failure" act has been going on for years, and is wearing thin. He is a failure because he is a lazy, lazy, lazy bastard. Life did not screw him over, he was not dealt a bad hand. He is quite simply too fucking lazy to get his ass in gear. He whines and cries about how bad his life is. That is horseshit. His life is better than a very large population of people on this planet. If he is broken it is because his is brittle. Do not allow him to sucker you into feeling pity for him. He is beneath comtempt for his obvious attention seeking behaviour. Tell him to grow up, grow a set, and join the human race. I for one, am tired of hearing his wailing like a Jew at the wailing wall. Welcome to the human race "GI."

Who Wants to Live Forever

I just want to stop. I want to stop being myself, stop existing, stop having an effect (good, bad, or otherwise) on anyone or anything. Granted, I am not so arrogant to believe I have much of an effect, but I am tired of having even a minuscule one. I want to disappear completely. I want to be able to say (like Radiohead) I'm not here, this isn't happening. I want to walk through that final wall, and not be me, or anyone for that matter. I understand this is not really that hard to do in theory. All one needs to do is screw their courage up to the sticking point, and it is done. The problem (besides a lack of courage) is that despite my sincere lack of belief, I just can not be sure that I will not be trading one level of existence for another (possibly worse) level. I suppose it solves my immediate problem, but who knows (answer NO ONE!) what I get in return. Perhaps, this is my Kierkgaardian earthquake, an existential crisis of my unfaith. Perhaps I would kill for just a little bit of faith, even if it is a negative faith. At this point, I am willing to take a negative anchor, any anchor will do. I had (yes at my age it is time to admit HAD) such potential, and I have bottled it completely. The time has passed where any hope remains that I will manage to get my shit together and accomplish anything. Failure is not an accomplishment. Pissing my limit talent(s) away is not an accomplishment. There is little to no chance that I will accomplish anything worthwhile in the remainder of my life. This is not a pity party or a cry for help, it is a simple, logical, inescapable fact. Also, it is (as far as I can tell) entirely my own fault. I have to stand at the bar, and plead guilty to a wasted life. Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Ship me off to my own private Devil's Island, and close the book on me. Perhaps before I go I can make a few Public Service Announcements on the pitfalls of failure. I do not wish to see or been seen. Don't take a picture, don't make a scene, and for pity's sake don't follow my example.

L'hopital

No need for a key for this post, plain English (or at least my English) will suffice. My lack of posting, for once, has a valid reason. I managed to spend about 5 days in hospital last week/weekend. It was a lovely experience. Bit of a plumbing problem that, in my opinion, my doctor made worse with his "treatment". Either way I will have to go in for surgery eventually, get my oil changed and hopefully will be as good as new, or as good as a stocky, near-sighted, 38 year old former drunk can be. The hospital is the WORSE place in the world to get rest. I have gotten more sleep at a Ozzy Osborne concert. People coming into your room drawing blood at 4 a.m., taking vital signs at 4 a.m. here is a newsflash for you people, at 4 a.m. I DONT HAVE vital signs. Piss off, and let me try to get some sleep. The great part was I didn't have solid food for about 3 days, that was lovely. Fat people don't like missing out on solid food even if it is hospital food. I did make one observation while flat on my back in the hospital bed. Try watching TV for one hour and notice how many commercials deal with food. No wonder America is a nation of Homer Simpsonquese lard asses. Every third commercial is about some sort of food. After a couple of days of no solid food that became torture to watch. It was just plain cruel. I would like to thank the people that visited me (one in particular was a total shock, you know who you are, and i was/am very grateful) and to the ones that did not bother even to call to see if I was alive, you can piss off. Though it is my belief that being in the hospital is like being an animal at the zoo. People come to see you, and all you do is lie there scratching yourself, they gawk at you, they cannot feed you, and off they go. Although, I did manage to have a little fun while I was bedridden, my "doctor" (who is younger than me which is scary) let slip that he can not tell when I am being serious or not. That came in handy when he came to visit me, and in my fevered anger I threatened to make him pay for the "day and a half of pain he caused me." The look on his face almost made it all worthwhile. Almost, but as the bills have not come in yet, not quite.

Merci

New post, New Key.


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“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.