Monthly Archives: December 2010
Art is one of my favorite things to look at. I like to hear it too, I try to create it but this was all the stupid world allowed me to have, the gift of writing. So you get this, a gnarled, desperate scream masquerading as a “personal website” as if that were not a contradiction in terms. Art reminds me that someone is still here even when they are dead. That is why you like art, in case you were wondering why it “says something to you” even if you can’t figure it out at the moment you engage with it. My wife and I are discussing Diego Velasquez (we finished very quickly because we are very brief people, there’s a lot to do in a day) and she has noticed that he was pretty damn good at drawing the human figure.
Yet one more reason why my wife does not know how beautiful she is. What she did just now was sum up a 200 year experiment in technique, subject matter and composition by answering me when I said “Wasn’t he great at painting us?” She said next, “Wow…just wow, he really was!”
The moment she said that, Diego Velasquez’ soul said “Thank you, I have been waiting for someone to notice.” Look at that. He even said it in English so I could tell you. Diego worked really hard on that.
Art= “I love you people so much that I am going to enshrine your personage in one of my works because you fascinate me so”.
When you don’t realize this, and you give it to a king or a museum curator, you have basically put a gun to the head of your artist. Why do you think all of your heroes die, take drugs, make a mess of themselves and die early? Because you turn them into heroes, you stupid fucks. That is NOT why Diego Velasquez painted. Diego Velasquez painted because he knew he only had a finite amount of time to tell you that he loved you so. He gave you a gift called a painting to say so. He may have drawn you doing your worst. But he did it anyway.
If someone had just thanked Diego, and didn’t turn him into dust by sticking him in an art history book, Diego would have lived much longer. But no. All he is now is a curio.
It’s simple misunderstandings like this that can cause entire civilizations to spin wildly out of control. Nietzsche wrote. He wrote a lot. He basically was trying to say how amazing he thought everything was. But no one heard him, not even Ree’s wife. He died insane and on drugs, and now is known more for being associated with Hitler than for writing “Thus Spake Zarathrustra”.
I have not read it. I haven’t got the balls to try. I am content to read his buildup to it, because I love progress. I am also content to read his decline into madness, because in order to retain what’s left of my humanity the least I could do is listen to him scream. I cannot read “Thus Spake Zarathustra”, it is art of the highest order, it’s a poem from a heart that KNEW that the world had lost it’s shit, and that’s why it sounds like cosmic background radiation to us instead of “I love you”. It’s all art, but do you follow? Nietzsche wrote so hard and so well. He was like a left handed child using a soft lead to make a poem for you.
If Nietzsche were alive today to meet his fans, he would say, “I was right. You are as stupid as I thought you were. I’m going to go get drunk and talk to a horse, because the horse understands my writing more than you do. I didn’t even write it for the horse!”
History said afterward that Nietzsche was “mad”. Yes, he was. He was mad at you. Diego Velasquez has forgiven my wife today. But he still hates all of you.
Let me preface this by saying that I have never, ever understood Facebook. I don’t think I ever will.
I don’t even know how I got on it. If I had to do it again, I’d get angry and not do it. Walking in circles in your living room is more productive than using Facebook. By extension, running my computer chair out into a busy road near a blind curve with me in it is probably something I would do before I had to learn how to use it properly. This concern, that I can’t understand how to get you to “see” me, stems from the idea that I would like to write creatively, and would like you to enjoy what I enjoy doing. So I want to figure out how to share my stories to my friends and new friends. Anyone have any idea how to get me off the ground?
There are many problems that come with using something and not knowing how it works. Example:we could abolish half of the economy if we knew how our industrial machines behaved. That is because no one in their right mind would go near them if we really knew what they did. If you as an employee knew the catastrophic harm that EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOUR COMPANIES WAS DOING TO SOMEONE OR SOMETHING SOMEWHERE, you would not answer your alarm tomorrow, and become a muddy, oily puddle of depression and self-loathing. Thankfully, we often do not know, and your employers pay you for your silence in the matter. That is why you make 20 lousy dollars an hour, which really only amounts to rent, electricity, some modest entertainment for your rapidly growing and active family, and a few decent meals full of nourishing food and some alcohol when you break it down for your forty hours of soul torture per week. That is why you would prefer to bleed from the eyeballs for a month straight if it meant you never had to go to stupid work again, crying in red why god why god, eli lama sabacthani? All because you need to keep quiet about the affair, so you can stave off cell death and whore yourself for these terrible people. Street walking is more noble than straight jobs. At least you know who you’re fucking, at least you know who the benefit goes to, because you know that at least there is no harm done with an orgasm.
What the hell was that? I was trying to discuss why I can’t fucking work Facebook, and I channel a drunk materialist philosopher in the 19th century instead. This is one of the difficulties of being bipolar, and it is also one of the difficulties in following a bipolar’s logic. Because at any moment, I will turn on myself and you, say bad things and bellow like Linda Blair shot up with rat poison.
You never know where your posts are going on Facebook. It’s a mess. You have no idea what winds up on other people’s pages or if they are even winding up there. You have no idea what to say to people you used to know because… everyone and their mother, literally, is on Facebook too, watching your every move like the sick person she really is because you never told her what a fuckup she turned you into. You have co-workers there who do not know what an asshole you truly wish you could be and you are afraid to show them your dark side because people talk! They do! Unemployment is just a “damn” away! Excommunication from your family is right around the corner dare you say “fuck” because some event has finally made you have a genuine feeling.
Facebook is like having the world know you are shitting, and THE POPULATION is cheering you on, handing you extra rolls through the door as if that is any more fun for them than it is for you. And you will never get out of the bathroom, and you will die like Elvis.
I wouldn’t even do this in my college years for a laugh. What we are all doing on Facebook daily is FAR more perverse than saying “fuck” every now and then.
There I go again! I want to know how Facebook works! I want to “share” my stuff. I want to “like”, but I don’t know how to do it. (Most of what I say has a double meaning, just so the slower of you can catch up.) (Aside: word count hit 666 just now, so I know I am making sense.) But I have to be careful what to like. I have to “ask permission” to be a friend. What the fuck kind of maniacal shit is this? What the fuck kind of Nazi mass programming project are we really plugged into when we say things like “I am sipping a coffee” and expect ANYONE to enjoy saying “Me too! I need Starbucks every day.” Like! “Love ya, Nancy! We so share the same head sometimes. I can’t wait for Friday! Gail will be waiting and we can try the new drinks at Fafner’s! Kisses!”
I have to ask permission to listen to you go on like this?
Oh, we’re alike alright. We are alike in the quantity of pain we hiss at each other by just being numb and not saying anything of real import.
I’ve fucked this up again. All I want to know is how to be read by people who I like alot and I’d like to put it on the biggest platform there is. We spend hours on that damn site daily, we should know how to use it. But no one can answer any questions about how Facebook really works, and it is the best way to get noticed- so I am screwed. But you know, the big bitch of it all is that everyone is on Facebook talking to Gail, not trying to read a tiny but pugnacious blog by someone they have known for years who might have some talent.
Don’t take this personal. I’m only saying EXACTLY what is in all of your heads. You all have some talent somewhere, and I bet you are wasting it just like me. Someone knows how to use Facebook. Will you show me? I’d consider myself indebted, and always grateful for your expertise.
Yes, it’s a fucking pet post. People who like pets are good people, so no matter how gay they get about their pets, I find myself being gay too.
Please note: if you think “gay” is a derogatory term, you are either a) a straight asshole, or b) a gay asshole who should be stripped of their toaster oven immediately for setting a bad example for other homosexuals.
I am talking about cats! What the fuck, cats? All cat owners know that their cats are aliens. There is a reason why the ancients thought that cats were gods: they are less than two feet tall, but they survey Paradise(your household goods and the house occupants) like mere creations, toys, lesser life, tired of the shit food you offer up, or down to them. You are dimly aware that your cat will be sitting with you when you are near death, waiting to take your withered soul to the Beyond. Or, they may just think you are a big bag of Meow Mix and that there is no reason to waste all this food.
My black, half Siamese girl cat has developed the habit of walking across my monitor, and stopping right in front of it while I am typing. I get tired of typing things like “…and then when the bar closerjgkire25e” because my cat has decided that the monitor is no longer important to me. More specifically, she says quite directly that it is not important at all.
My cat is actually right; like a wife, it is always correct and thinks you’re an idiot. I can deal with this. But I want to address the phenomena behind it. It’s the same damn thing as when they walk in front of your bedtime book. So, we can eliminate the possibility that it is because the monitor is warm, or that they like the feeling of static electricity. Cats jump violently at this type of stimuli anyway, always overreacting to everything, much like the aforementioned wife. So it has nothing to do with the monitor, or the book for that matter.
You are doing something wrong. It meows at you when it stops. What is it saying?
You look around. The bowl has food, the bowl has water. The dogs are napping, so she is not telling you how much she hates your dogs yet again. You’ve been pretty good about the litterbox. What is this furry space entity trying to tell me? Or is it like a Zen thing, where when I figure it out I will have achieved Enlightenment?
Maybe it’s not anything of any importance; humans do pointless things all the time. Is it her equivalent of annoying me, perhaps teasing me? Is it like someone coming up behind you and tapping one of your shoulders to make you turn, look and you realize they are on the other side of you? That shit is not funny; it probably hasn’t been funny for decades. That is the FOURTH TIME you have walked across my monitor, cat. What do you fucking want from me? Catnip? I don’t want to get up right now! Of all the places here for you to park your cat ass, it HAS to be right here. I’m a human, and even I can find many places to go in this small house. This must go 10X for you given your size.
But I’ve got an inkling. I think it’s an expression of concern. Not something big like “You are going to need glasses if you keep staring at this thing!!!!”. They just want you to know they are still available for admiration. And I like that; people don’t love AND THERE SHE GOES AGAIN themselves enough to request attention anymore, do they?
I guess it comes down to needing their little cat butts scratched a little. Everyone needs a butt scratchy, but the cat is the only animal that reminds you that it must get done, it must be done right now, and right here.
You know, sometimes you go to Facebook, you talk with your friends, you know, all the ones left that still have a vaguely healthy hate for pretty much everything. You hope that people will understand that you are pissed off all the time. You know that deep inside, you are one of the nicest people you know.
But every now and then, you run into someone so fucking stupid that you cannot let it go and you want to punch them in the fucking face if the world was just and it was allowable to quarantine stupid people.
I’m not going to name this person. I’m way too classy for that. I’ll just describe the scenario.
I’m on Facebook, just like everyone, this fucking cancer of a goddamn “social website” where you find out that everyone sucks worse than you do, and it makes you feel real good inside. If you could save them from their ignorance, you would. But some people, some people don’t understand ANYTHING about anything. They spend their days, twiddling away at Facebook, sharing their poopies and playing in it. These people have children, and they’re going to make the world even worse than it is.
You were the smartest person in your entire high school and no one bothered to tell you. Not one person bothered. None. No one. That’s a hard thing to get a grasp on; no one wants to admit that they are the center of the universe, at least anyone with any fucking sense or the humility of knowing full well that you are. It’s a big responsibility, and one we should all take care not to abuse. Every day I realize that my child could be John F. Kennedy and his brother could be Robert. Tiny kings live in my house. My wife Jessica is the queen of humanity and there is NO ONE COOLER, not even me. She lives next to me, playing solitaire. I play with her gently. She has NO idea what a perfect being she is, that’s the neat part. I’m a dead man walking. I’m nothing but a stranger in a strange land. I don’t think I will bother putting the kids through the mess of “making something of themselves”. That’s for people who aren’t fully made. Duh. I will give them everything I have until I fucking expire and become part of the Nothing, or the Something That Does Something Else. I will give anybody anything. I want everyone to be happy.
Some people don’t believe you, though. They seem to think that they are a-ok, with the sensibilities that are prim and proper. This is called Having Half An Education. This is called Being Too Spoiled To Know Anything Worth Knowing. That’s all I’m going to say. Ain’t much more to say. But I was called a racist by this person.
I find that interesting. Everyone who knows me knows I am not a racist. Everyone who knows me knows that despite how I act outwardly, I happen to love everybody down to the most underprivileged. I’m poor, god-damn it, why would I act otherwise? I want to hug and enrich the life of the saddest, because that’s what you’re supposed to do in life, there’s nothing worth doing except that. Each of us have unlimited potential to do good, or to do evil. Racism should be at the bottom of the list of things to do in anyone’s life, and that is certainly true in my own. I have flirted with the idea in my dumb days. Everyone has thought something bad about someone else, it doesn’t have to be racist. If you are any kind of human being, you say to yourself “What was I thinking back then?” and then you move on. Even Malcolm X in his darkest moments hated whitey so much that he would have liked to kill him, much like the Nat Turner that Bill Styron imagined.
But at 38, I’m seeing some things that would make Jesus throw up in politics. And when Allen West said that Julian Assange should be “censored” or whatever the fuck he said, I said to my friends on Facebook that he was an “Oreo”. Why? Because I tend to think when you are a member of an oppressed minority, you do not, you do not go around oppressing other people by taking their freedom to speak.
That was when someone flew out of nowhere, who I thought was a nice person, and said I was a racist.
I asked to myself; has this person finally managed to piss me off so much that I wish they would get hit by a car? That can’t be right. Bad thought. I have only wished that people would hurt when they hurt others. This person hurt me more than I have ever hurt in my life. I have never been called such a monstrous thing, after all I have seen, after Iraq, after all the history I have consumed trying to understand the human condition- I, Racist. I would rather you call me a loser piece of shit with no value to humanity whatsoever because that person would be right, but only in a sense. I am of incalculable value to my family, that much I do know in this life. What I do not know is where anyone gets off telling anyone that they are a hater of millions of people because I call out one black man who doesn’t much care for the First Amendment and mock him as someone who is completely out of touch with his history as an oppressed minority, someone who was acting like a white asshole.
This is NOT racism. Racism is when you think that the color of your skin decides whether or not you are better than someone else. I’m calling Allen West an Oreo; I will not back down from that. It’s a name, it’s a lot nicer than “Fuckhead”. But that’s all it is. I said something about his behavior, not his essential being.
Welp, unless you know me, you can go die, and die violently. That sounds juvenile, but really, it’s common sense. You have judged me inferior, much like the white has judged the black for so long. That makes you a fairly shitty person.
But I know why, so I’m cool with it. This person is obviously a mid/upper class twit with a sheltered life who thinks they’re doing the work of the Lord and has all the gods on their side. But that’s not true now, is it?
Your money and your power turns me sick and sour, you hollow, unfulfilled, bitter person, and I delight in the misery that your life probably is. However, as I’ve stated, people can change, and that is why blacks have not killed every goddamned white person they have seen in the past 200 years or obviously more, because they have learned two things: mercy and justice. If an entire race can forgive another race for a holocaust, then I can certainly give a thoughtless, haughty creep like the one I am describing a pass as well.
I say again: racism is when you fucking think you are better by way of the color of their skin. That’s all there is, there is nothing more to the definition, it is not rubbery at all. It is NOT, you fucking idiots, NOT merely referring to the color of someones’ skin while you criticize their bad behavior against other humans. Skin is beautiful because it is skin and it does not matter what color it is-it’s a fundamental part of your humanness and to denigrate it is a sacrilege. You hate behavior, not skin. Everyone should know this, but they don’t.
So if any of you would like to step up to the plate and defend your shitty opinions on whether or not I’m a racist, go ahead-but be forewarned the shit you get from me will haunt you forever, much like I am now haunted by the idea that someone thinks I am a racist. And that ain’t because it’s true. It’s because it hurt. Bad.
You should have your breath taken, you horrid thing. Never call someone a racist unless he’s fucking being one.
I am a socialist. I don’t carry the card; I can belong to the Democratic Party and be a socialist at the same time. I am utterly disgusted with the way humans treat each other and chances are you are part of the problem. I am unemployed, and an Iraq veteran. I was kicked out of the Army for giving a shit. I’m as angry as a person can get without hurting someone. So: you better have your fucking wits about you if you are going to tangle with me about politics.
However, in the unlikely event that I am wrong, I will happily own up. But so far, I haven’t found anyone that knows more than I do about it. I consume the shit like that goddamn bacteria in Mono Lake eats arsenic. Unless you are a subject matter expert, or a better blogger than I am, you are a goner here.
Fucking try me; I dare you. You are all a bunch of bitches if you think you can hang.
I don’t give a good god-damn what you write- I will link anything that I think is cool or people I think make the world easy to bear, so send me links and we can do this electronic French kiss they call linking. Everyone needs a hand these days, and if you love to write like I do, this is where we can help each other.
Strap yourself in, because I am going to say some things you don’t want to hear. If you hear one of these things, pick a fight. I am a gentle person with a highly developed sense of hatred and I will probably wipe the floor with you if you screw with me. Otherwise, I will tell funny stories, make sure you have good taste in music, and whatever else develops.
Remember this: be careful at throwing stones. Because I’ll be behind you, throwing them at your head instead. I’m bipolar, and if you know anyone in your life that is bipolar, you already have a keen inkling that they are omniscient.
While I wait for the contents of the helix to unwind, I thought I would begin my re-re-re-introduction of myself with a small piece on mothers.
Awesome creatures, aren’t they?
I am in partial ownership of three of them. I only have to live with one. That is why you can find me in places other than the obituaries of the local newspaper. I know many, many mothers, for better or for worse. A lot of them are the reason why you all hate yourselves so much, but that is not my concern at the moment. Those of you with shitty mothers already know you have one, and there’s no reason for me to pick at you until you come here and tell me you don’t have one.
The first mother in everyone’s life is the mother that they come out of. There’s a whole lot of other mothers that bring this about, and a great deal of sons who contribute. But there is no one like the one that allowed you to come home and live with her. That’s the one you should marvel at the most. No one on the planet was dumb enough to take you from the hospital that night but her.
What needs to be understood here is that this is why your mother is a very sick person who needs your help.
This is not the person you think it is. She may have praised your schoolwork at once. She may have put out cereal for you. She can teach you to tie a shoe. What she cannot do is realize how sick she is for being a mother. Her husband is utterly useless on this count as well. He allowed her to take you home, what does he know about mental illness? That he enjoys it? That he enjoys being a part of fostering it? Clearly, this is not the type of person you should be asking about anything beyond football plays and lawn care techniques. You mother knows this already about him, that’s why they stopped talking and probably why you had a speech delay then and a bad career today. He doesn’t know anything about anything. All he really knows is one night, he found someone who was sicker than he was, and that was the woman who tried very hard to understand that “men have needs”.
She’s even sicker than we thought, isn’t she? Anyone who tries to understand men is very unbalanced, or very bored. I am a man who has enabled a mother. All I really know is that this woman sitting on the couch with me is the same person who keeps the designer pillows around so that one day, she can suffocate me without having to reach very far. But your own mother is the sickest mother of all.
Mine is a born-again Christian, which doubles her sickness in the same manner that AIDS does for physical sickness. It’s the type of personal choice a mother makes that gives anthropologists and biologists cold sweats at night, wondering how they will have to come up with a new classification of organisms to explain it properly. Nietzsche was wrong. Super “Man” is not the next step. The Uber-Mother would slam Nietzsche’s dick into the door jamb and sing Disney tunes. What makes the Uber-Mom so dangerous is not her awesome destructive capabilities, but that she looks like the rest of us. And acts like us too, until her peace has been disturbed.
Case in point: one day, when I was thirteen or so, I was supposed to go to born-again church with the family one Sunday morning. I had already had enough with church at that age. I could even tell then that it was full of the same type of assholes the rest of the world was populated with, except that these assholes thought God liked them more than the rest of the assholes He made because they were better dressed and were marginally better at reading their Bibles than the Catholics. By the way, I have spoken to God without my medication. He is not impressed with you, trust me. He has been impressed that I got so manic a few times in recent memory that I managed to get his direct line by drunk-dialing him in a serotonin stupor, but he is not impressed with any of you. Anyway, I did not want to go. My father, the man with needs, felt that getting the family to church was a very important job of his.
Fathers: this is not an important job of yours. You’ve already made enough of a mess, get your priorities straight.
So I said: I don’t wanna go. Yelling back and forth between my father an mother began. My father, the guy with the priorities and the needs, told my mother it was HER fault that she couldn’t get me to go to church. This was a poor strategy to get me to go to church, because suddenly, no one was going to church. This is because my father had done the equivalent of mixing together all of the cleaning products under the sink and pouring it into my mother’s skull cavity. The reaction was instantaneously toxic and suddenly, the thin gold necklace I was wearing to look cool at school became a murder weapon in my mothers hand as she strung together every curse word she had ever learned in her life.
“ARE YOU HAPPY NOW, BITCH BASTARDMOTHERFUCK? HUH, BITCH BASTARDMOTHERFUCK!?!?!?!?!” was what I could make out during this time period. She said some other things, but they might have been in Sumerian, channeling something that even H.P. Lovecraft in his most fevered dreams would not have been able to describe. She shook me like I was made from teddy bear stuffing. She probably shook the neighbor’s wall. I may have also temporarily removed myself from consciousness briefly, so I can’t tell you more.
But today, I am 38, living near her, not with her. She is a nice, unassuming, charming little lady with a country house and a dial-up internet connection, who doesn’t want much from me except for my own children. She can have them; I’m not crossing her again. But it’s cute the way she comes to see me online sometimes, asking me what my shifting Facebook icons mean, and if I could please watch my language.
Have I made myself clear? Your mother is a very sick person who needs your help.