Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

The End Of The World: Why It Didn't Happen.

An important announcement about the coming end of the world and my poetry blog.

Leap Year. Leap Year fucked us up. The Mayans had no way of knowing about that. All those extra days, the calculation has to be to corrected to take account for it. Leap Year was instituted in 45 B.C. by Julius Caesar. In retrospect, it's unclear whether he intended to thwart or hinder the attempted predicted cataclysm of the Mayans, but one thing is clear: he succeeded. Because of Leap Year, we have 2,012 plus 45 (there was no Year Zero), divided by four (1 extra day every fourth "Leap" year) extra days. That makes 514 extra days.

The new, Leap Year adjusted Mayan Doomsday is Friday, May 23, 2014. All because of Leap Year.

Also, because 2012 was itself a Leap Year, this year's "Drive For 365" on my poem-a-day(-on-average) blog Pocketful Of Poesy should actually be corrected to a "Drive For 366."

My thanks go out to reader Mel, who made me aware of the phenomenon. I now pass the awareness on to you. Stay close by me as I race to complete his year's Drive For 366, and over the next couple of years of what time we have left, stick close to loved ones, treasure the things that matter most, and - maybe? Just maybe. Give some belated thanks to Julius Caesar, for giving us all those extra days.

Please note: don't expect a second reprieve from Daylight Savings Time either, because every year they add an hour to the clock, the next spring they take one off. It's a net gain of no extra time for humankind, sadly.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Is it worth it? Let me work it

"It's your frimmy nippa fwemn nyep, nubu! It's your frimmy nippa fwemn nyep!"

Tegan & Sara: "Please Say Yes (Please Don't Cry)"

I have to admit, if I met and was introduced to Tegan & Sara, like, at a social informal function (somebody's huge haute loft) after a prestige gig of some kind (for them) maybe, and if we hit it off with a bit of swapped banter, I'd totally hit on them. And if they responded, I'd totally see how far that would go along those paths! And if it got to it, I'd proceed even to the point of propositioning them BOTH for sex - at the same time. And then if they were down with it, I gotta admit I would follow all the way through. "Seal the deal." Not like I'm really really super emotionally in love with either or both of them, but they're just SO hot right now, and I'm a star-fucker. But it's got to be somebody kind of pretty dang indie. For me to be interested? Yeah. Also, there's got to be two of them. How impressive is it to brag that you bagged Rilo but not Kiley?

I mean, in mainstream rock sure, it's fine to fuck the drummer. But in indie? For authenticity's sake, fuck the whole band. Or might as well keep your mouth shut.

Now by indie, I mean more like - "Classic Indie." Like, indie from five-ten years ago indie, except still in business. I'm not going rubbing up on some nube on the scene who may or may not pan out, flash-wise! Somebody with some damn laurels for us to rest on, in the afterglow - that's what's wanted. 'Cause man, that is so sweet. Fucking on fucking laurels, man. It sounds like it would be uncomfortable, maybe a little prickly or scratchy, but - far from it. That's why dudes rest on those! Comfy resting satisfaction like you wouldn't believe. Fucking on laurels, man, that's my starfucker m.o.

I think Tegan & Sara would probably give me the brush off, though. If I tried that. It's not super-couth, for one thing. Probably also, a look of mingled hurt and disappointment, too - because they'd just met me! But yet they wouldn't have thought I was...that I would...they just...I let them down. They were really pleased to meet me, and the whole interaction had been so, and then...! I can tell, now I can just tell it ruined their night. Which had been blooming with the hope of such promise!

Anyway. Maybe they'll write a song about it. Cope that way.

Sunday, December 23, 2012

Paging David Ford! You're About To Lose Your Label, Dave

David Ford! You are about to lose your label!

I put up a really sweet cool video you put together a few years ago a few years ago, and nothing since. I'm not saying you haven't done nothing since, but it's not my job for you to catch my eye, okay? I can't have you sitting there in the sidebar - an individual artist with only one (1) tag to his name for something like two years straight! I could have gone with just "songwriter," or "musician" if I thought you were going to be one and done, man. No, I put that David Ford tag on there. It was a token of hope, in suspension, a benefit of doubt expectation of "hey, maybe we might could see some great things from this lad?"


Anyway. I'm sure you've been up to great things, but if you don't personally reach out of Pop Culture Itself and grab me by the lapels, they're no good to me sir. As I said, it's not my job to go chasing after you. If I don't end up with at least one other additional David Ford tag by end of January, to ratchet it up to at least a respectable-enough two (2), I'm going to have to revoke the tag. I'm sorry, but they cap you at something like fifteen hundred unique label tags. I don't want you to be the first casualty, but the bloodletting's got to start somewhere.

Okay, Add Akron, OH To The List.

Dogimo Explains Everything.

The full, official title of this feature is: Dogimo Explains Everything WITH LIES. However, I need to leave room in the head-bar for each installment's subtitle / topic.

Hi folks! Been a while since we here at Consider Your Ass Kicked! launched a brand-new, regular recurring feature - and this one's RIPE for takeoff! Without further ado, we're all familiar with that superstition, "third person to light their smoke off the same match dies," and we've all heard how that was spread by some Ye Olde-ish English "Strike Once! John Bull, Never Fails" match company back during the old World War I days. Naturally, they didn't want twenty blokes lighting a fag off one match, the box would last forever! The financial survival of the company would plummet.

Kids, some historical context: I know the above sounds totally made-up. You have to understand, this was before paper matches - where you can barely get the second cig lit off one! And that's if you're lucky. Well, in the time of your great great grrrrrrrrrreat grandmutherfucka, MATCHES used to come in a box of wooden matches. And were very much less prone to sucking. Remember that time on a corner in Philly it took five matches to light two smokes? Somebody does. And I guarantee you I'm not the only one, because: common phenomenon in this day and age, but not back then! Because - get this - people would buy the other brand, if you made your matches all crappy like that. Nowadays, giving them out for free all the time, we have no practical recourse, no leverage to bear, no way to bring competition to heel to yield a superior product. Instead you just have to give in to the ever creeping bullshit of technological progress, and make the leap to lighters. Bottom line:

We've all heard that story. But how many of us know the kernel of truth to it? Hint: it's the part where I say "World War I." Because the other story is, the origin came out because if you hold a lit match up long enough for the third person to get a light off it, some Kraut sniper's going to put a bullet in your multi-purpose soup-bowl hat, and you won't be using it for soup anymore after that let me tell you. Because you'll be dead. In World War I, a lot of people used those domed helmets as a soup bowl too, to cut down on stuff you have to schlep around from trench to trench.

So that's the basic idea, on this feature! We all know the "third light curse" stories, but in Dogimo Explains Everything WITH LIES, I will take on - in every installment - some kind of thing or phenomenon (or both), and explain it using a story or two. Preferably one that is all cynical (like the profit-motive Match Co. tale) and one that is the grim / morbid "real" reason. Both of course will be made up! Fresh off the top of my head. I don't do research. This is A BLOG, folks.

Hell, for all I know, both those old match stories I retell above so plausible are in reality, hoax legends. Who cares, they sound great! And the world needs more explanations like these.

Well who better to provide them.

Update on my Huge Problem With Everything

Hey folks! Just put in another post on A Huge Problem With Everything, the blog where it's amazing how worked up I can get over something so minor.

This one's called "For Governance of Humans at the Level of Nations, Democracy Is Best!"

Poetry update: the drive for three six five, two zero one two edition.

Like I said about a month ago - not posting much in here, but WHOOOO is it cookin' over on my 365-a-Year-Poem-Blog, A Pocketful Of Poesy!

344 with a bullet. Hel-lo.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Sunday, December 09, 2012

Thought of the day: Lost Dog

A good name for a band would be Lost Dog. You could put those fliers up everywhere, and they wouldn't take them down!

Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Harry Potter Wizards Don't Do Enough To Solve Real-World Problems.

See, I feel like in the Harry Potter world, way more wizards would have become involved in things like nuclear physics. I mean, just because you have access to special areas and energies and sciences the muggle folks don't, that's no reason to so thoroughly spurn their sciences! If only for self-defense and study. Imagine a corps of wizards with special training who could just slip around highly-secured areas unofficially decommissioning bombs, using specially-designed spells researched and developed for the express purpose.

I mean, heck. Wizards are kind of fucked too, if the world goes boom.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Platonic Bomb

Sometimes I picture science developing some weapon of mass destruction based on the mechanics of Plato's Separate Realm of Ideas. Or is it "Ideals"? Or is it Greek, and therefore, neither? In any case, that whole Realm thing was one of those concepts I kind of instinctively rejected, but later kind of got into how it might work, like, on the level of Star Trek transporters, or Asimov's Laws of Robotics? - where you acknowledge that it's bullshit, but you still like to get in there and poke around, maybe accept the premise just to kick around the consequences a bit. See what fun stuff develops!

For everyday use, though, I think the primary place people still cling to to Platonic-style Idealism is when they start from a completely anti-logical, unnatural, human-invented concept (Perfection, anyone?) and attempt to "reason from it." As if one can reason from tinkerbell principles and expect to arrive at aeronautics. Reason from perfection? Shit, reason TO it first, see where that gets you. If you can pull that one off, then you can try reasoning from it once you get there, and see what it's actually made of.

Hm. "Anti-logical" is too strong. Perfection is not anti-logical (working contrary to), or even illogical (demonstrably in conflict with). How about "alogical"? Perfection doesn't occur in nature, and it's completely outside of anything logic can get you to.

The concept of "perfection" is a nonsense elevation of human aesthetics to some "as if" absolute principle of the universe, really.

Monday, November 19, 2012

I Don't Know Who They Really Are

Dear person A, angry with me for not hating person B on your say-so,

Come on.

And Please, as well. Please, come on: do not take what I'm saying as an insult upon your judgment, or a breach of how much I trust what you have to tell me.

I'm not saying I know this person better than you. I'm not saying the bad you see isn't real. Sure it is. And the bad they see in you is real too, isn't it? It's kind of got to be, because some of it is the same bad you cry about, struggle with. And I tell you don't, because you're a great person.

I'm not saying this person is a great person. I can see they're a dick sometimes, but you know what? They treat me okay, I treat them okay, and I leave all the room in the world for them to impress or estrange me on their own. And you can tell me I don't know who they really are, but don't kid yourself that you do - all the while basing everything on the bad taste in your mouth. Remember, just going by what you yourself say sometimes: sometimes, you don't even know the real you. Right? That's not a knock either! I'm lost that same way. Not always, but often. It's a common problem of the human condition.

There are at least two people I know and love who are some of the best people I know, and who can't stand each other. These are good people. Great people. Each of them thinks the other's an asshole. So where does that leave me, then? Each of them would tell me I don't know who the other person "really is."

I'll tell you something: if the only thing you see in a person is the bad, consider that you do not know who that person really is. Okay, if so-and-so is a serial killer, maybe that raises the bar - but I'd have some keen questions for you as to where you get off not going to the cops, if your insight on that's reliable!

I see plenty of bad in the people I love. Much if it, they bring to my attention themselves. Nobody's perfect, but certainly: nobody's worthless.

You don't need to forgive everyone all slights. Fuck that Jesus noise! I don't try to recruit people into all that. But at the very least: you have to allow other people the freedom to decline, when you ask them swallow the bad taste in your mouth over somebody and call it a delicious egg creme. Allow other people to make up their own minds, based on their own 1-to-1 interaction with that person. You can tell them and warn them of what bad you've seen, that's cool, that's fine! - but recognize that what you've seen is not all there is. At least recognize that - for your own sake, even. Recognize that.

I guarantee you what that person has had to see of you, is certainly not all there is.

Don't be recruited into armies and factions. Be a free agent. Treat each person fairly, based on your own interaction with the person. Take bad reports under advisement! Don't be unwary - you should take practical precautions with the world at large, and people in particular! But that doesn't mean you need to put someone in the "bad person" box because somebody told you.

There's something really awful about that box. Once you put someone in that box, suddenly they deserve everything you do to them. I've had people I know and love brag to me about some petty reprehensible shit they did to someone, who they said deserved every bit of it. Who can say that? Who can really say that?

Do not be the one to say another person deserves your worst.

Friday, November 16, 2012

I may be a little busy for a bit.

I'm way behind pace over on my "poem-a-day-on-average" blog, A Pocketful Of Poesy, and I'm trying to discipline myself to catch up in ten-poem bursts whenever I get a chance to write.

Let's see. How many ten poem bursts will that be. Between now and December 31st, we're looking at...eight! Eight ten-poem bursts. Plus one odd poem, not part of any burst. Well that doesn't sound bad!

Anyway, point is, I'm on poetry detail for a bit.

Wednesday, November 07, 2012

Important Announcement: I have A Huge Problem With Everything

Yes, that's right. But allow me to explain.

I find that as I age (and I do! I have - I have already aged, and I continue to do so!) I become more interested in strident posturing, affectations of bad-boyery, and trumped-up harsh stances clearly intended to "shock" or "to...whatever else goes well there, with 'shock.'" Yet clearly, Consider Your Ass Kicked! can not be the venue for this sort of improper content. Consider Your Ass Kicked! is a repository of kindness, mild yet gently righteous rebukes of the wayward, exemplary feats of human reason, candid sex talk and riveting, gripping yarns suitable for boys and girls of all ages, especially fortyish.

So a new venue was called for. And so it has been called. And so I call it! It is called: A HUGE PROBLEM WITH EVERYTHING.

Check it out. It's on the internet, and accessible via "clicky-links":

As time goes by, I'll be republishing some of the worst material from this blog over there, so that it can serve as the most complete and primary showcase for my vitriol. But it will hardly be some mere archive of past rants! No. The strong focus will be on the even stronger vein of previously-unseen content - content that has yet to be seen. This is content that I'd consciously and conscientiously held back on, as unsuitable for this respectable, well-established outlet for my tamer muse. Already I can say with some confidence that we can expect some Recurring Features:

* ALL-CAPS MOVIE REVIEWS (expect these to be no-holds-barred)

* SATIRICAL TAKES ON CORPORATE AND SOCIAL ISSUES (expect these to be tortured and alternatingly over-obvious and subtler-than-can-meaningfully-be-discerned-as-satire, but please ask for clarification as needed, wherever you see the "satire" tag! If I can't identify what the satire is supposed to be, I'll own up to it, and remove the tag).

* "OTHER" (to be announced)

Anyway. While you're waiting for all that to happen, here's a foretaste of what you can expect when it does! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the very second post of all-new content on A HUGE PROBLEM WITH EVERYTHING.


It's a little political, but honestly I could give a shit about that. I'm not on anyone's side. I'm on my OWN SIDE. I stand with Jason Bourne on that one, and if you think you can take us, well why don't you just BRING IT. My buddy Jason Bourne will go TREADSTONE upside your head with an AMERICAN HERITAGE COLLEGIATE DICTIONARY provided by yours truly.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Like I Was Saying About Time.

If you mean "dimensions" in the sense commonly used by mathematicians and physicists, these are a human concept, invented to simplify mathematical descriptions of the physical world.

- Dex, Karen and presumably Cecil of The Straight Dope (

That is way better than the four times and ten ways I tried to put it!

"All of space has three dimensions; time does not exist. / As we approach the speed of light, the clock remembers this"

Now that quote is by no means The Straight Dope. And is Cecil really an intellectually self-deprecating heterosexual or what? "The Straight Dope?" What's he trying to tell us there.

But in any case, for the record: and purely for conceptual purposes, the best humans at it calculate reality along twelve dimensions. Nine of space, and two of time. Four extended and perceptible at our scale of observation, all the rest curled up tinier than our highest-resolution devices can measure or perceive, metaphorically at least you might say they were curled up so tight they were approximately the size of quanta. But put 'em all together, three of space and one of time all unfurled, plus seven more of space and one more of time all curled, they could go like so:

1. height
2. width
3. depth
4. time
5. space (curled up)
6. space (curled up)
7. space (curled up)
8. time (curled up)
9. space (curled up)
10. space (curled up)
11. space (curled up)
12. magic (no I'm kidding, it's more space curled up)

As you can see, humanity has never bothered to name the curled-up ones, because they aren't perceptible to us. There's no social or cultural reason to name them. At no point are you ever going to be leaning back eyeing some girl's behind which happens to be extra-well endowed in the 10th dimension for some reason, and remark, "Wow, check out the zidth on THAT! HOWZA!!" It'll never happen. Imperceptible dimensions add nothing to our experience.

I'm mostly only putting this numbered list here because...embarrassingly enough, I keep forgetting how many curled-up dimensions there really are. Can you believe it? "How many dimensions total again? Ten or eleven," I'll ask - like I'm going to get that answer right! Try twelve, jackass. Because it's twelve.

Anyway, now I'll have one easy place to look next time I need to know. But if you're asking yourself, "well that's well and good for him, but what do these extra dimensions mean to me?," well, to return again to the Straight Dope, the chief point to remember is -

"So what we're telling you is, there's nothing magical or mysterious about dimensions. They're just notions scientists dreamed up to help them describe the world."

— Dex

Quite so, Dex. You go, motherson. Couldn't have said it simpler m'self, and I should know, having tried.


All further references within text.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

The Chronicle of Day: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: He Stood Up

He arose from his prone position in bed, lowered his feet to where they were pressed against the floor, and leveraged himself to his full height using the muscles of his legs, counterbalanced by his rippling torso. His feet were pressed to the floor now by gravity. The soles of them spread slightly, capillaries engorged. As his head became vertical, the world, too, adjusted itself in his mind and eyes, so that its orientation was now up-down with sides spreading out - instead of the reverse. His clothes, too - he wore a full set of pajamas - adjusted themselves. Now they hung and swung and swayed against his body, slowly yielding from a state of static cling and inertial stasis, giving in to gravity's inexorable pull. The room he was in was now revealed to him in its proper orientation. It was a place within which he could advance or retreat, a medium through which his body could take action. It was spread out before him now, ready for him to go stooping over things and examining them - or lifting them, rearranging them to suit his will or whim. He could have done most of this from a prone position as well - crawling, stretching with his hands to grasp and move what he could reach - but it would not have seemed as dignified, somehow. It would not have been true to his feelings about himself, and the world in which he found himself. It would not have correctly expressed the power he now found in his position.

Monday, October 22, 2012

"Intriguer" (Crowded House)

Now why they left the delightful title track off the album I have no idea!

Wednesday, October 17, 2012


And rightly so! Arrest records are a matter of public record. That's to punish the guilty with what they done, and reward the inquiring minds who want to know.

But I believe they should go one step further: Law Enforcement Retail Arrest Record Memorabilia Outlets. Right downtown, right there in the community, offering YOUR mug-shot tees for sale to the public! Awesome!

Now I fought with the concept a bit, thought: should the store be located right within the precinct house? Like a museum gift shop situation? It would certainly deter shoplifters! But let's face it: most p.d.'s are in bad retail locations. I think it's best to have these retail outlets located downtown, in that cute block of stores where the shoppers looking for knick-knacks are. Or in the mall! Depending on your community.

So what they would do is: print up 20 XL shirts per offense. No more, no less. Limited edition - and all XL, because that's the most popular size. Let's not make a simple thing complicated and expensive! And after they release you, they'd be like, "OK, these shirts go on sale in the store for $20 each on Tuesday. Any shirts left unsold by the end of 30 days will be donated to the homeless."

Perfect setup, right? You'd be like "OH SHIT! What do I do - spend $400 on the most humiliating t-shirts possible? Or face the specter of everyone I know being confronted everywhere they go with homeless people wearing my mug-shot t-shirt?"

Either way it's a win-win - for the community. Not to mention for liberty, for freedom of access, and for your tax dollars. And think of all the other stuff your local Law Enforcement Retail Arrest Record Memorabilia Outlet could sell! There could be all sorts of arrest-record related merchandise, available for lookup or purchase. Mugshot coffee-cups, fingerprints pint glasses, arrest report stationery. You name it!

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Why Trust Science? Pt. 3 of a 2-Parter

Just a footnote, really, about fallibility. A lot of people seem to think science is infallible, or thinks its infallible, or acts like its infallible. These people are talking out of their hat. They have no idea what science is, or how it works.

Science does not pretend to infallibility, and indeed: scientists have no use for infallibility. As Sir Karl Popper put it ages ago, in his paper Science as Falsification: "Irrefutability is not a virtue of theory ... a theory that cannot be refuted by any possible event is non-scientific." Just so.

Moreover, scientists know science is fallible because scientists know science is a human endeavor. Humans active in any system, using any organized method, will quite naturally be fallible in their use of it. Fallible in their observations, fallable in their interpretations. Well-designed systems and methods are built to take this human fallibility into account.

The scientific method is exemplary in this regard. It not only takes human fallibility into account, it harnesses it to drive human understanding. Fallibility is the engine of the scientific method. Scientists engaged in active science are always in disagreement with each other in the places science can't yet reach, to test. Science runs by coming up with as many plausible theories as possible. Science knows that between the various competing theories advanced, there are always wrong theories in play. Science knows theory is subject to refutation by evidence, and science deliberately sets in motion all possible events, purposely, with the goal to falsify theory. To prove it wrong, any way they can.

By designing experiments to conclusively test between competing theories, science discards theory that proves false. By the same continuing experimental means, science refines and better-defines promising theory, until a workable, useable truth is established about what reality actually is - and how it works. And how it can be worked.

Why Trust Science? Pt. 2 of 2

The second good reason to trust the modern scientific community is: predictive theory that gives you the promised results. Because long before Hiroshima was destroyed, Einstein knew enough about the power locked in atoms (which we now call the strong nuclear force) to sign his name to a letter to the President, warning him about atomic bombs. Scientists had glimpsed how reality worked on the smallest scales. They knew there was a danger, more importantly: they knew why there was a danger. They had figured out how reality operated on those scales. All they needed to prove it was to bring it into testable range, and after years of work they did bring that reality into testable range. And the fact that they had understood it correctly was proved.

The worth and validity of "done science" (the facts predicted by and then established by the scientific method and no longer in dispute as "active science"), is proved conclusively by its fruits: motorcars, microwaves, rocketships, radar, nuclear weapons, satellite, telecommunications, on and on. Is science a good thing?

Well, ask yourself: are you reading this article using the internet?

OK. Is science a moral thing, then? Well, ask yourself: have you ever murdered anyone? And maybe the answer to that last question is "yes." But if you committed an atrocity, even if you used a gun, or a bomb, or some other technological wonder, it was not science that corrupted you. Science is concerned solely with how things work. Science has nothing to say about what you do with what reality is, and with how it works.

But science can tell you, more and more every year, what reality is, and how it works. We know it is trustworthy by the fruits that have come from it.

"Two Kinds" Tuesday #1: The Kind.

There's two kinds of people in this world: the kind, and the unkind.

Life's Little Ambitions

I want to be Oscar nominated for Best Documentary Screenplay.

Why Trust Science? Pt. 1 of 2

There are two good reasons to trust the modern scientific community: one, because they use reality to settle their arguments. Human nature: some of these people can't stand each other, but in any case, those on opposite sides of a theoretical debate disparage the other side, believe their side is right, and they want to win. Reality is the thing they use, to beat the other side, to settle their disagreements. If one faction's argument can be overruled, the other faction is going to keep at it until it will be. The scientific community isn't a coterie of like-minded conspirators, getting their fake story straight in a back room so they can put one over on you. No, it's made up of faction vs. faction vs. faction, each with its own story of how things work, all working on the furthest-out reachable theories they can. They call each other and each other's theories wrong-headed, ill-considered, even crackpot! And eventually, reality is what settles their hash.

Controversy is largely limited to the cauldron of "active science": the area of theories whose predictions reach out further than what can currently be tested. While the practical scientists and engineers figure out ways to make the just-a-bit-out-of-reach theories testable, theoreticians continue to argue and refine their theories and predictions. Both sides look forward to what will eventually be experimentally confirmed, and every year, that's exactly what journals are filled with: controversies about new theories (that aren't yet entirely testable, or tested), and controversies about new experimental methods that have just been developed, and are being used to put past years' controversies to the test. The result that comes is an upset to the faction that believed the other thing, and you better believe they are going to scrutinize the results, and do it again. And do it again. And maybe even do it again.

But science eventually stops publishing do-overs. Science loses interest in deniers of reality, after reality has been proved by sufficiently conclusive and repeatable experiments. Active science is just a question of getting predictive theory into testable range.

Reality then wins every argument that science ever has. That's the first good reason to trust the modern scientific community.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

vs. Grammar

I am so sick of my knee-jerk staid and uptight grammatical precision! It gets to the point where my words are being straightjacketed. the point were a case could be made for it, at least.

Sunday Theology God Blog Post: Open Letter To God: Watch It With The Miracles, Please


Saturday, October 06, 2012

Conversations with a Solipsist.

A: "Reality is entirely in your mind! All you ever know is your own perception. Your self is the only thing you can be sure exists. All other beings you perceive could very well be imaginary projections - creations of your own mind!"

B: "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Friday, October 05, 2012


Damn I smell good. I mean, pretty much everybody says. 

I just got a good snootful of my masculine odor. WHOOOOOWEEEE! It's nice. Light and subtle. Just a hint of salt tang, a slight bite of citrusy musk, notes of outdoor dark stain wood varnish and dew-damp cut grass, plus the hintiest hint of b.o. from a hard and honest day's work. Okay, actually the b.o. note is a bit more to the fore, but I'm being totally straight - despite my own high standards, olfactory acumen and critical brute honesty, people do just love how I smell. 

Even my FEET don't stink. Ever! I could hike for ten miles in a wet woods, nothing!

I'm not egotistical about it. Shoot, I don't get any credit for this! How could I? It's just how things turned out.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

What Kind Of Kid Doesn't Like Ice Cream?

Me vs. God in the Matter of Richard Dawkins (Sunday Theology God Blog Post)

Just kidding. The title is just kidding: clearly it'd be not me vs. God, but me vs. my rather limited and bigoted conception of God. Even Dawkins would concede that much! But so would I. Different reasons.

Demonstrability of God would coerce belief in all reasonable people. I mean real demonstrability: if God can be demonstrated to exist like electromagnetism, or the strong nuclear force, you'll have a few fringe loop-groups sure, a few holdouts still claiming "no such thing!" But everyone who today believes in say, black holes, would then be forced to believe in God.

My question is: I don't know why God would want to coerce my belief, or destroy our ability, as individuals and as a species, to freely learn, grow, and create our selves and our way in a natural universe. I'd feel like he knocked me down and stole my candy. I'd feel like he did it just to make Richard Dawkins look like a dork, and for no higher purpose. What higher purpose could there be, to forcing belief in God upon us?

And while we're on the topic of Richard Dawkins. I love Richard Dawkins. He's one of the most courageous moral crusaders we have. He spends his vitriol in withering rays directed with calm, constant focus against all of the worst, most harmful, most hateful and oppressive tendencies that fanatical orthodoxies of the supernatural are capable of producing. I'm not the judge of any human's virtue, mind you - but I strongly suspect God loves Dawkins, too. I suspect God admires Dawkins's work, and appreciates that Dawkins's best efforts are on God's behalf, while being quietly amused at Dawkins' very rational contempt for the very idea that "God" - such a thing! - should be taken seriously to exist.

This is purely my own take! Dawkins would say there's no one to distrust, and nothing to dispose. I say it's not my call, the disposition of souls, but I trust whose call it is. It's certainly not your call, buddy! Still, you're free to have an opinion on the matter, as am I. I do have an opinion on the matter. We're allowed to take an interest. Especially if we feel strongly things would go a certain way, if our expectations are disappointed, we're allowed to be curious as to why. If God takes the human being who Dawkins has shown himself to be, the passionate human being, aghast at religion misused to crush, kill, destroy (and so am I, by the way), the Dawkins who is committed to enlightenment and reason (and so am I, by the way) - and consigns Dick Dawkins to burn in hell, well I will most certainly be surprised! And I will most certainly be curious. And I will most certainly ask, humbly, why.

Here's how that conversation won't go.

"God?" "Yeah. What." "I notice Richard Dawkins isn't up here. Is he in the 'bad place'?" "Yeah. Hell with that jerk. He kept picking on me." "But...but...he was so strong an ally in the cause! Against the horrific misuses that people put your name to - he was kind, and compassionate, and a crusader to help You - you in the person of each of us, the least of us, the most helpless! In your human ministry, in your Word made flesh, you said once and always that whatsoever we do unto the least of our brothers and sisters, that we do unto you." "And?" "And Dawkins stood courageously each day, defending the least of us! The most powerless, the most easily led and most easily led astray - Dawkins tilted like a sane Quioxote against tyrannies great and small, tyrannies carried out in your name, but against your will! And you gave us free will, didn't you God?" "Look, you better button it, pal. You barely got in here yourself, you know. You can't imagine how irritating you can get - I suggest you spend most of your time over on the other side of heaven, if you're looking forward to this infinity as anything pleasant. Weren't you going to go bother Plato? Shouldn't that be good for a milennia or two?" "No, he and I are cool. We settled up in five minutes." "Well glory halleloo for that. Buzz off, pipsqueak."

Yeah, that's not going to be how the conversation goes. I'm confident of that. Being as I trust in the mercy n' justice of God, I pretty much expect there won't even be one.

So does Dawkins. Different reasons.

Friday, September 28, 2012

Fiction Friday: Make It Up As We Go

Okay. Fiction. Fiction.

Fiction. All our attempts to understand reality are fiction. But this is not one of those! This is fiction of the more gratuitous sort, the sort where you're just sort of making up a character, and putting him or her through some adventures (or an arc, if you're really feeling aggressive), for the edification of the reading public (the author). So.

So I'm in a room, no features yet. A featureless room. Who am I?

I know I am me. I have never been anyone else than me, or anywhere else but here. In a featureless room. What is my past? I feel certain I have had a past, in fact: I must have. But perhaps before telling you what that was, or who I am - what my features are - I should tell you more about this room. "Featureless," my eye! My eyes must have been closed when I said that. This room is full of features! It's chock full of them. Wait. Maybe I should open my eyes, first. Enough declarations of blind faith.


It's just like I remembered it. I am in my childhood bedroom. The window looks out four stories above a residential street in Parsimanee, NJ. Or at least, the street we're facing is residential - we're in the back of the bank building. We live on the top floor of the tallest building in town. An old building, from the pre-penthouse era, when top floors lacked cachet. There is no elevator, but I don't mind that at all. The stairs smell like pee!

As a child, I liked things like that. They seemed naughty. Somebody was in the stairs, peeing!

I can't remember whether I'm a boy or a girl. Why am I back in my childhood bedroom? I'm curious. I have to look around.

There are stuffed animals here, but some of them are dragons. Some of them are teddies and bunnies, though. They all look very well-worn-in. I don't see any barbies.

There are two beds in this room. One of them has pink sheets - the larger bed has pink sheets! Do I share a room with my big sister? Am I the big sister?

I hope I'm a boy. I hope I'm the brother. I don't think I can write convincingly like a girl.


I can check.

There is a mirror on the back of the door. Or I could pull my pants down, too.

I'm a boy. Thank god. Girls have it hard in this life. I know that much, though how I know is a bit hazy.

Why am I back in my childhood bedroom? How old is my sister? Her bed is pretty big. What kind of parents room a kid boy with a clearly much bigger sister? Isn't that going to mess me up a bit? I wonder if she's hot?

See! Clear psychological damage already. Well, the damage is done I guess. Whatever damage, it'd be done. And I'm not some sicko, I'm not going to -

- oh.

Ok! She just barged into the room, grabbed a sweater out of a drawer and barged back out. Slamming everything in the process on the way through! She's not hot. No worries there. Anyway, I'm no sicko. I wasn't worried.

What is her name?

My name is Elijah, and hers is Elizabeth.

We call each other "Eli" sometimes, as a joke. As sort of a joke. Both of us secretly prefer it I think.

I come to her for comfort when the world makes all the worst kinds of sense, and she comes to me when people are jerks.

I spend most of my time in the room. I'll sit in the little surplus school desk in the corner, filling books with wordless stories. Hours and hours and days go by, between school and dinner. The desk is almost too small for me now.

I'm ten. She's fourteen.

Our friends don't like each other. Mine are afraid of her, and hers think I'm a little shit!

Nobody messes with me. She beats up the bullies at school. I excoriate her persecutors with withering cracks, right to their face. Nobody messes with her, either. Except teachers.

My sister hates homework. Hates it. Absolutely detests it.

My sister helps me with my homework. She hates math, and is fantastic at it. She can explain anything.

My sister's the smartest girl I know.

I don't know any smart boys, so I guess I win there. When I get to be my sister's age, I'm going to be smarter than she is! She told me.

Right now, my teachers think I'm pretty well-behaved. I'm great at gym, but bad at sports.

I hate homework too.

My sister says she doesn't do anything really well, but I don't know what she's talking about! Every time we do anything together, she makes the whole thing up as we go and it's always great. She can make anything up.

She says an elaborate little prayer out loud, every time we pass the Gillette's house on the way home. She made up the prayer herself. It goes: "stay and keep and sleep and wait all day all week for goodness sake and don't get up and don't you roam I'll come back soon to take you home."

My sister makes up little prayers all the time. Usually God's not in them, but you can tell by how hard she squinches her eyes and clenches her fists, as she breathlessly recites - she's sending that prayer up. This one is about a car, up on blocks in the Gillette's huge front yard. Really, they live behind an empty lot, they just park on our street and walk through this lot, which I think is owned by nobody, to their house. They call it their front yard, but it leads to their back door, which has been surrounded by lawn furniture. Their real porch is jammed full of bicycles and exercise equipment. It's on the far side of the house, facing their real front yard which is tiny.

I think the Gillettes don't get along with the neighbors on their real street.

Ellie makes a point of getting along with them. Ellie is in love with this car, and convinced that it's hers: in two and a half years. It's a Mustang, a pretty ugly one. Love has weird eyes.

We call each other "Ellie," too, sometimes. When either of us is being overly romantic. It's like a chide, a code-word between us: "Okay, Ellie."

I love my sister Eli. I just remembered she dies when I'm twelve.

Sometimes when the world's making the worst kind of sense, I come back to this room. Sometimes I can forget for hours at a time. And when I forget completely enough, sometimes she'll come banging through - always looking for something, and then bang right back out again!

I don't remember the day I moved in, but ever since then I think this was always more my room than hers.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

Do I Have To Be Undersecretary? I Want To Be Deputy Minister.

You know what I'd like to be? A Minister. Like, how nations other than the U.S. often have Ministries? With a Minister in charge, rather than Departments, with a Secretary in charge? Basically, I'd love to hold a cabinet-level position someplace, preferably in the Free World. Although, assuming I can get a strong enough faction and clout together, to the point where I can pose a respectable coup-threat (yet tempered by the tyrant-in-question's love and trust in my person, and dependence upon my almost-miraculous competence in the area of my defined scope, such that I would be an ever-present threat to be sure - but a threat that need never be eliminated, a blow that is trusted never to fall - a Sword of Damocles, yes! But suspended by an infinitely strong string), then I should probably not choose a position in the Free World.

I mean, that would be selfish of me, to choose a position of power, influence and prestige in the Free World. Clearly the real need is in the un-free world.

Man, this sucks. I want to be in service in a leadership position in a respectable government, dang it! I guess instituting reforms is good too, but hard. Then again...Nobel Prize? Yeah. I've always been keen on getting in the running for one of those! Going over to the un-free side of things, that might be my best chance to "make the grade."

Anyway, leave that aside. Wherever I end up, it goes without saying I'd need full latitude to invent my own Ministry (or Department) on a par with cabinet-level departments like State (foreign ministry), War (defense), the Interior (what do they call that dep't in the U.K., the "Home Ministry"?), or etc (etc). I'd basically set its agenda, write out its budget, then they'd fund it up and staff it and I'd run the bitch. I could do so much good for any nation willing to spring for this sort of committment to my vision and leadership!

It doesn't even matter what it's called, really. What the Ministry is called, or does. Trust me, we'd be doing strong work. There's way too much good in the world to do.

I would be forced to insist that my title be "Deputy Minister." Even though I'd be the supreme head of that Dept! This is not just an important gesture, to show my humility in a very blatant way, it's - I just like the sound better. "Deputy Minister of War." "Deputy Minister of Reason." The Department of Reason! Perfect! Um.

There would be all sorts of sub-agencies to come underneath that, like the Federal Enlightenment Agency, the Bureau of Logic, the - NO.

WAIT. TOO CUMBERSOME. Tighten the focus.


There is absolutely no shame in my game. Propaganda bad? Awwww, no. All my propaganda would be on behalf of Reason: skepticism, awareness of advertising fallacies, con jobs perpetrated on global scales (especially and including very nearly all wars), I'd be educating people using all sorts of posters and broadcasts and materials. And if people protested, "hey! It's propaganda!" I'd be all, well sure it is. So? Check out all this basis. We have a huge six-drawer filing cabinet chock jammed with basis. Then the so-called protester would slink away. Can't deal with all our well-documented basis!

Ministry of Propaganda, it would be just so forthright to call it that. None of this b.s. literature-of-dystopia "Ministry of Truth" crap. No, we call ours propaganda.

We can back it up, too. Ready to have some shams debunked?

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

SEX TALK: Warning, Hot Stuff!

I'm basically the fuck talk king.

I mean, people talk about talking dirty? Screw that, I talk very raw and completely at ease with it. I mean - let's face it, who doesn't know what sex is about? In this day and age? I remember when the sperm hit the egg I was like "HOLY CRAP!" "WAS THAT JUST SEX THAT JUST HAPPENED?" And yes it was, but it was never the same after that one. I had to grow a pair, and figure some junk out. Which I have. And which I did.

Let's be honest: even a virgin pretty much knows what's going on. When you get a look at that thing? You know what it's for. Sure, you might be, "being a virgin, I better take things slow," or "well, as a virgin, I think I might be in for an experience here, it could be wonderful or it could even be pretty wild! But I better take CARE OF MY HEART" - and that's dead-right, people! You don't want to end up in a situation where you regret whatever the heck you're doing. Let's face it, a lot of virgins know what THAT is about.

A lot of people, look: consent is pretty much where it's at. It's the main thing. Do you consent? You should, but it's your call. Don't go around consenting unless it's what you want to do. Consent is the most important thing two people can do together, relationship-wise. Even if it's not about sex! That's right. That's what people forget about consent: it's versatile. A lot of people can consent to going to a movie together - both in the same theater, who knows what could happen? Or going to a restaurant - the same restaurant, at the same time? Well, in a restaurant, you might be a bit more constrained in that environment, but a lot can still happen. Try the crespolini di zucca. Fucking amazing, they put those crisped basil leaves right on. Right on.

We talked about virgins, we talked about consent. I think you know what I'm talking about: SEX. And people, don't be pressuring virgins about consent! That is rude, wrong, and GROSS. Even if it's not about sex! Say a virgin owes you ten dollars? BACK OFF. Don't be pressuring him or her! Maybe they need to come along at their own speed, they could have some growing and learning to do, too you know. What are you doing lending ten dollars to a virgin, you sicko? What's your angle? Come on.

This has been sex talk with the dog. Dogimo, AKA "Mr fuck talk."

Monday, September 24, 2012

Uncle Dogimo's Advice For Easy Livin' #1: How To Know Where It Goes.

Want to know where something goes? That's easy.

1. Pick it up. Hold it in your hand.

2. Pretend you don't know where it is.

3. Go Look For It.

4. First place you look - that's where it goes! Now put in there, consistently.

Note: this won't help you find something if you don't know where it is. But if applied consistently, you won't have to worry about that ever again, more than once! Because going forward, it'll always be where it goes.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Brethren, Each of Us Is Called, in Our Own Way, to Be Christ-like: a Sunday Theology God Blog Post

I'm a lot like Jesus, in the sense that I drink a lot of wine, prefer to hang out with lowlifes, and enjoy making pharisees look stupid.

Saturday, September 22, 2012



This was out like days ago. Eleven days ago.

God I love the lyrics of this.

this is the moment we'll remember every day for the rest of our lives
time my rush us, hurt or love us, but on this day we have arrived

it's been a long time coming, we've been in the running for so long
but now we're on our way

let the ride just take us side by side
and make us see the world through new eyes everyday

you're a winner
I'm a winner
this is all happening so fast
you're a winner
I'm a winner
let's enjoy it
while it lasts

I've been a loser, I paid my dues. I fought my way up from the ground
now at this moment: the crowd acclaim us - will you just listen to that sound

it's been a long time coming, we've been in the running for so long
but now we're on our way

let the ride just take us side by side
and make us see the world through new eyes everyday

you're a winner
I'm a winner
this is all happening so fast

you're a winner
I'm a winner

let's enjoy it all
while it lasts

Friday, September 21, 2012

There's a Trick to It.

I suppose that may sound a little facile, a little glib, a little too easy. But then again, everything sounds easy when you spend your entire life thinking about it hard from every angle you can conceive before even opening your fucking mouth. As long as you also, the first time anybody chimes in with something better you hain't factored in, something you didn't consider, something you need to add in - you add it in. As long as you sneak that all in first, what you have to say after is going to sound easy!

Usually when somebody tells you what they think, they're telling you what they already thought. You can often get a sense of how much work they put in, but not always - a real fundamental truth finally arrived at and fully at rest in you, that's a thing that's often going to sound very easy, maybe a little too easy.

Doesn't matter how much work you put in, though. Doesn't matter easy or hard. Like anything else, you should judge an opinion for what it's worth, not for how much work it took to get there.

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Lincoln: Some Misgivings?

So ever since I heard that this Lincoln biopic was going to be based on Team of Rivals and would star Daniel Day Lewis, I've been psyched! I even almost went to see the Abe Lincoln: Vampire Hunter one by accident. But who better to play Lincoln than DDL, right? Talk about tall and lanky. Talk about cheekbones.

Well wait a second, though - have you heard the trailer? Why has he picked such a whiney voice? Listen to this guy: "Weee're stepped out upon the wirrrld stage now...!"

Shouldn't he have more gravel and gravitas than that? Or at least, sonorousness? Some kind of impressive vocal tone? This guy sounds like he wants to be Mr. Rogers or something! I can't picture this dude knocking 'em dead at Gettysburgh. Lincoln was a spellbinding orator, wasn't he?

Well, so was Hitler I guess. Yet that guy was a screeching ninny who couldn't so much as say "Hello, Nuremberg! Great to be here," without freaking out like a spaz.

I guess people who grew up without television had a fucked-up idea of what constitutes oratory.

Monday, September 10, 2012

If I Could Send Me To You

If I could pack myself in a parcel and mail myself via US Post 3-day priority to you for your birthday, a belated pressie, I'd probably be so beat-up, half-suffocated by the time I got there, all stinking from inevitable bodily issues and bloody from scuffs and bangs, and probably crying too, because I'd be such a wuss, I have no doubt - I am a wuss! I have very little threshold when it comes to stuff like discomfort at the level of being jammed in a box for three days shipping and hard handling (DESPITE THE 'FRAGILE' TAG! BASTARDS!), and I'm sure I'd be crying like a baby by the halfway mark, sitting hemmed into the little limbo of my own me-size box, surrounded by the unseen pitch blackness outer limbo of some anonymous, enormous warehouse facility in-between trucks and planes.

Twisting and twitching from muscle spasms, rubbing raw against the constricted cardboard universe of my own rash decision - I'd be softly moaning through my snot and tears, no doubt: "I didn't think it would be so HARD, to be MAILED!" - that you'd probably open it up and say, "EW! YUCK. Who the hell sent me THIS?"

You'd never find out, though. Because I'd long since have eaten the card. Partly from pure shame - but also from being fucking STARVED!!

Jesus, what a bad idea that would turn out to be, if I did that. See, it's a good thing I have a good imagination. That lets me put some thought into things, first.

It's totally worth the extra for overnight.

Exploring My Old Drafts #1: Even I Can't Understand The Last Sentence of This Post

I don't imply and I don't hint. I never have. No one should ask themselves how to interpret what I say except smack on the lines! I don't write between them.

That's not to say I don't write very extravagantly with a wild, careless headlong rush! And unintended meanings may creep in. Most of the time someone draws a possible unintended meaning to my attention, I repudiate it - not only was it not intended, it wasn't what I meant! I'm not saying I am flawlessly precise in all things, but I do not freight my words with deliberate hidden significances.

I don't duck around with hints and hidden meanings. I say what I mean, perhaps to a fault. I believe that it's always better in the long run to either be truthful, or shut up. I've never found a situation where lying to someone is anything more than a selfish impulse. And as selfish impulses go, I count the times I've bitten off the truth of how I feel in order to spare the other person my big, wet, needy, failed feelings of utter and desparate love for her, in favor of silence and wallowing in my own virtuous emotional self-martyrdom.

Thursday, September 06, 2012

"Sacredness lies in the veneration of what opens the heart to joy." Pt.2

Now on second thought, that kind of sounds stupid. I mean, it sounded alright, but reading it today, what's it mean? What are we supposed to get from that? Sacredness?


Shoot, I might need to rethink this quote of the day business.

Wednesday, September 05, 2012

"Sacredness lies in the veneration of what opens the heart to joy."

Damn right it does.

That's a quote of the day, I just put it in the title instead of down here. Maybe that's how I do it from now on!

Friday, August 31, 2012


I just wrote this thing! If you care to check it:

artifice is nature: ours

Anybody thinks I can't write a good poem, feast your eyes on this son of a bitch! And then please, promptly come back and apologize in the comments. Because humility is GOOD for you.

YACHT i walked alone

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Open Dream Journal #91: INTO THE UNCANNY

I hate those sleep paralysis dreams, where you're almost on the edge of waking but your sleep-mind is engaged and your senses are not entirely true to reality. Anyway, I was lying in bed with my ex-girlfriend and I couldn't move, and for some reason she was down around my waistband kind of scrabbling at the buttons of my jeans and speaking a low, incoherent stream of subconsciousness. Which would have been nice I guess, but somehow I could tell it was not her. It was her demon doppelganger. OH COME ON!!! "Doppelganger"'s not a word? Spellcheck? Doppelganger? Doppleganger? What, do I need the accent? Doppelgänger?

For context, my ex-girlfriend's demon doppelgänger has bedeviled me before. At least once: back when we were together, and it was the scariest dream moment I ever had in my life, because it went on so long. I was once again, lying in the borderlands of sleep and waking, and I could not move or speak, and my girlfriend was kind of snugged up into the crook of my neck and shoulder, but my head was propped up on the pillow a bit. And my eyes had opened, and she was standing in the bedroom doorway. But I could feel she was right next to me! Her head was on my shoulder - but there she was as well in the doorway, and she was looking at us with a completely motionless face. This paralyzed stretch of time slithered over me for what seemed like minutes. I can't explain how terrifying it was, this unbroken stare, this absolute, definite presence, the dead, cold eye contact - eye contact sort of, but unmoored, crawling all over the both of us - and I was trying to move something, any part of my body, or maybe shout (okay, scream), somehow alert my real, sleeping girlfriend to the existence of this hideous, possibly malevolent apparition! Well wait, I guess "hideous" is kind of harsh. I mean, she was a dead ringer for my girlfriend, so, "hideous" - a bit strong. It was more psychologically hideous. Unheimlich, maybe. Those Germans have words for these things, I'll give them that. This thing was definitely there, and it was and wasn't her - and you could see both aspects of that for a fact, in its placid face, and its dead calm eyes.

So anyway, back to last night's dream. I realized somehow that it definitely wasn't my ex-girlfriend, and I started to struggle to move, which I couldn't. Finally I was able to force something through my vocal chords, and I heard myself speak aloud, in a hoarse, sepulchral groan: "NO ONE IS HERE." In response to this denial, there came a horrible, feeble, strangled, wheezing, outraged caterwaul eyes opened in shock - there was a cat! Visible, up above me and to the left, hovering by the wall. It was sort of hanging in the air with its legs dangling, and it moved across the room up by the ceiling, to wait by the top of the door. The cat was kind of a pale, whitish-orange, but it was definitely not Noonie. My eyes were riveted on it the entire time: the room was very dark, and for instants at a time the dim form of this thing faded so that you could tell "Oh thank GOD - it's just a shadow! It's just how those angles of shadow come together," - and then it drifts a little further and you're like, "fuck, no, I am looking at a flying cat." Once again, the whole atmosphere was pervaded with a sense of wrongness, of unease (ever notice it's always the badnesses that pervade? Goodness tends to "suffuse"). Yet, I was also consciously aware of the fact that I was half-asleep, and experiencing hypnagogic hallucinations. So I was kind of intrigued by the terror itself. Why be afraid when you know it's fake? But I was. I kept looking straight at that cat until it dissolved. By then, my ex-girlfriend's demon-doppelgänger had also disappeared. Which, thank God for that! I mean, whatever happens in a dream is morally neutral I'm sure, but that thing of hers is CREEPY. Too creepy even for dream nookie.

Proof positive it was just a dream? When I awoke, I wasn't wearing any pants. I mean, why would I go to sleep in jeans? So those jeans in the beginning, they weren't my real jeans, they were my demon doppelgänger jeans. Anyway, bottom line, I'm glad I wasn't around during those Salem deals. Shit.

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

TURNOFFS. Part 14.

TURN-OFFS. Here are some more of them. All this is purely my own personal! Whatever you're into is FINE BY YOU.

105. Dudes who smell like pee.

106. Big plastic garbage cans that have been knocked over - now that shit's everywhere!

107. suddenly somebody's got their SHOES OFF and it's neither the place nor the time for it

108. Lawyers who claim to "love" lawyer jokes.
108A. EXCEPTION: hot female lawyers
108B. Exception 108A in principle probably applies across the board: add the modifier "hot female" onto what was previously a turnoff, that can be a hell of a mitigating factor. Note: it won't mitigate #105, since "hot female dudes"...that in and of itself...for me at least!...naw.

109. Hot female dudes.

110. People who go on and on about the "fear of commitment."
110A. ...unless they're talking about an insane asylum! That would be legitimately scary, OK. I can see "fear of commitment," there. But otherwise, what's the fear for? Commitment, pft. No big deal. Pft.

111. People who need you to explain pop cultural catchphrases to you in great detail, even though a) you're not the one making these things up! and b) it sounds great regardless of what it means. And c) you get a sense they're just doing it for their own amusement to see what you can come up with!

112. People who have a lot of "deal-breakers"
112A. NOTE: none of these turn-offs are "deal-breakers." They're just turn-offs. A turn-off can be mitigated (see notes at #108). A dealbreaker can't. Or else if it can, don't call it a dealbreaker then! Right? I mean you can, but calling turn-offs dealbreakers is kind of a turn-off.

113. Sex with people other than me. There's no room for this in a relationship! Frankly, I'm not too crazy about it in general, but I guess if that's what people want to settle for.

114. Flowers, jewelry, or sex that is looked at as a required "apology" or "make up" step for something - or even as an obligatory special occasion thing. That's bunk, because I'm always lavishing people with stuff when they least expect! I'm not some timetable calendar watcher. Things should be more sincere than that.
114A. Of course, the other party can do as they please in this regard. I am extremely open to the idea that my turn-offs are the turn-ons of others.

115. Getting a new bill in the mail - when you just paid the old one!

116. When somebody gets a case of the ass for no reason.

117. Cars that are of some indeterminate color, like kind of a grayish mauve purple with a green sheen in the light? What the hell. I'm going colorblind looking at that thing.

118. Pasta that has been too thoroughly cooked.

119A. I know, right? But I don't like it. A turn-off.
119B. Sometimes when I'm in a rare mood, some rare roast beef may be just what I'm hankering for. But hardly ever.

120. Wives who act like you're "flirting with them." When everybody and their brother KNOWS THEY'RE MARRIED! Quit it, woman. I don't flirt with adultery.

121. Husbands who act like you're "flirting with them." Dude, no. I've very fond and full of admiration for most people, get over it. Does your wife know about you? I'm not the judge, here, but you owe it to her to be up-front about the important stuff.

122. Dogs who act like you're "flirting with them." Awww da big doguuu! Lookit dah doguuu! Good dog gets a scratch. Good dog ALWAYS GETS A SCRATCH!
122A. It's not flirting. Get over it. Good dog always gets a scratch, it's a fundamental law of the universe OK?
122B. I'll say this for cats: not one cat has ever acted like I was flirting with them. And I tell you, that hard to get routine...whoo. Turn-off.

123. Airport security videos that seem overly reassuring. I feel like they need to heighten awareness more! Don't give me a false sense of security. But while I'm at it, don't go overboard, because:

124. Strip-searches.

That'll do it for now.

Monday, August 27, 2012

What People Don't Realize Is, #1 Pt.2

And I, by the way, am well-spoken which is why I know that. In case you were trying to guess.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

What People Don't Realize Is, #1

It ain't shit to say things that mean something when you're well-spoken! You can say shit off the top of your head that means something, and you mean it! - that shit ain't shit, not when you're well-spoken it isn't. That's what people don't realize.

Saturday, August 25, 2012

Uh Um Hot Damn

A little Lovin' Spoonful helps the Fresh Prince get down.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Sunday, August 19, 2012

Sunday Theology God Blog Post #2: Adam, Eve, Incest and the Original Edenic Genome

Where genes are flawless, the risks of consanguinity are negligible. This is why Adam and Eve and their offspring had no problem. Adam and Eve's double-helixes, still hot from the celestial forge of the mind of God, were as perfect as human genes can be. While prone from the very first coupling to all the hazards of shuffling and random mutation from replication, the source material they had to start with was so perfect that it would be impossible to find a single maladaptive trait for inbreeding to exacerbate! It would be seven times seventy generations before sufficient imperfections crept into the genome to make an accumulation of maladaptive traits due to excessive dabbling in the same gene pool a risk.

I believe that an enlightened reading of the paleoanthropological evidence will eventually show us that anti-consanguinity taboos arose very far downstream from Eden indeed - and that they arose because people observed the real hazards in action! Those hazards couldn't have shown up In The Beginning. They would only have surfaced after many layers of recombination and mutation had stocked peoples' genes with recessive, maladaptive traits - traits that would only express themselves if both parents carried copies.

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Just Once, Perry Mason. Just Once.

Now don't get me wrong, Perry Mason was a kickass defense attorney. So kickass, in fact, that he never got anyone off except by calling the REAL guilty party to the witness stand, and sneakily browbeating them into a confession!

Just once, I'd have liked to see the defendant get off - "not guilty!" - and then after the case, the victorious team walking out of the court building, everybody suddenly turns to Perry and says "Hey wait a minute! What about the guilty party, Perry? You forgot to solve the case!" And then Mason goes, "Oh, it was our guy. He did it." And they're all shocked and disillusioned, and he just hauls off and eviscerates them (and by proxy, the audience, with its harmfully childish warped wish-fulfillment view of criminal justice). I picture Perry really tearing into them, making brutal point after point (better than I can do it, hell I am sure - he's a professional!) and capping it all off with a steely glare directly into the camera: "We're DEFENSE ATTORNEYS."

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

I have to apologize

I have a different perspective this morning. I think I need to accept that it's possible that everything has happened exactly as you said it did. It's possible.

What happened to change my perspective was, when I got out of bed this morning, all of the atoms in my body spontaneously aligned with the gaps between the atoms in the floor, and I dropped right through the floor into the basement. When a thing like that happens, that can be a real eye-opener let me tell you.

Anyway like I said. I think it's possible.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Band, Song, and Album It's From #1

Band, Song, and Album it's from:

"Slip You A Miracle"

Belated Sunday Theology God Blog Post

I am simply not getting back on track with these Sunday God Blog Theology posts. I keep meaning to! Sometimes I even try to. My aging ancient Sundays of yore are littered with half-executed unpublished drafts. Perchance to be used in the future?

The problem is, theology is SUPPOSED to be a bit thought out, and I'll be honest, I'm rusty with the process. I used to be way better at thinking and criticism than I am now (formalist criticism I mean, not the insult kind). I mean, I used enjoy the effort! But I also remember when it was not hard. You know? I don't mean it was easy, I mean it was not hard. It's hard, now; I'm so far out of practice it ain't even funny!! WHOO.

Man, I remember one time at bible study I accidentally jumped out of my chair, involuntarily, kind of, and so everybody looked at me of course. Expectantly, a sort of "pregnant pause," (perhaps mixed uncertainly with a certain unspoken, "did you have to go to the bathroom?") and so I was forced to fare forward, I fixed my stare, bit back on my umbrage a bit and critiqued (calm voice! control now, breathing easier there, big guy - tones of reasonable entreaty, not tones of reasonable fuck off and die you oligarchical monopolist pus merchant) the other guy's entire bullshit point PLUS THE BOOK OF LEVITICUS, in Marxist-Feminist Dialectical terms. And everybody totally agreed with me!

Ah, I was my hero in those days.

Afterwards when I realized what had happened, I kind of lost respect for everyone in the room, especially myself. But at the time, I think, people were just like "hey, this guy means it. HEY WAIT, HE'S RIGHT." And so I took it as my due, being arrogant. I was like, "so what if God maybe just happens to be a Marxist-Feminist?" Right? I mean, at the time it seemed plausible.

I since kind of left that idea to the side. Like maybe God was a marxist-feminist, but grew out of it. It was a phase, like, you know, incarnating as human for a foot ministry in Galilee. God's not averse to a bit of dabbling around. But if God ever did subscribe to marxist-feminism I am sure it was more from an artistic standpoint than anything. I mean, come on! Lord knows the market economy does not really respond to and move in accordance with inexorable and prophetic historical forces. As theories go, what a puke of pretty flowers! Marx, hey - I've always said, was a genius, a marketing genius. Rebranding metaphysics as economics! Creating a brand new humanist mythos - a FUNCTIONAL one, mind you! But like any mythos, sure, a bit whimsical and two big scoops of bunk in every box. Doesn't matter, it's like any religion. Marxism was the opiate of the proletariat, and a beautiful drug it was. But one cannot be a fundamentalist Marxist, one must not insist on literalism. It was all just a beautiful and poetic way to sort of...allegorize about humanity's higher drives: the blind need to unify, and the blind urge to smash.

And those are the forces that drive us on each day, drive us each to each other, and smack us away. At societal scales, they pile up pressure on a level with global tides, and can break like earthquakes and hurricanes when the crisis point turns. Thesis, antithesis and synthesis - that shit's dead-on. No joke. It was just that Marx got a little carried away, turning these natural habits of mass-scale human interaction into inexorable cosmic forces, which: bullshit. Fuck though, everybody does that on some level right?

What the everloving fuck of christ am I talking about.

Tune in next week for another Ever-Lovin' Sunday God Blog Theology Post!

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Points for Clarity!

"Did you just call me a slattern!?"

"No, I didn't call you a slattern, I said don't be a slattern."

"You said 'Don't be such a slattern.'"

"Well, there's nothing wrong with being a little bit of a slattern."

Thursday, August 09, 2012

For Those Still Waiting Around For Shit To Get Real

I submit to you: shit is inherently real. "Real" is shit's natural state.

So if you're still sitting around waiting for shit to get real, maybe you need to sort some shit out, or else, uncover the shit that's there - because I assure you, that shit is already real. Maybe you just lost your shit, or perhaps the problem is you don't know shit from shinola.

Sunday, August 05, 2012

Racism: What Keeps It Going?

The problem, as I see it, is kids.

See, kids are adorable, and in most cases it's fine. We all circulate the latest cutesy quotes of "the things kids say" - how they take what they've been told and put the most dead-literal spin on it. For most things, it's terribly funny! Not for race.

When kids get a hold of race, their ignorant curiosity and propensity to spin whatever answer they get into the next logical (but unconscionably wrong, unconscionably insensitive!) conclusion or question...that is what perpetuates wrong-headed attitudes about race, that is what keeps them going. Because let's face it: once you're not a kid anymore, you don't bother asking about this stuff! Your ignorant attitudes freeze in place, like the face your parents made when you asked:

What are black people called?

Why do white people dance like that?

Is Chinese food like that because Chinese people need special food?

Kids put parents on the spot, and the parent has to give some kind of answer. What can a parent say? They haven't thought about this stuff since they were a kid! Nor should they have to, really, especially since they've since learned since then there aren't any real answers that you could tell to anyone. Any answer you could possibly give is an answer that somebody's going to have a big problem with. Worse, any kind of answer you give is liable to result in the kid drawing all sorts of huge conclusions from it, when you were trying to minimize things!

Some parents resort to a watered-down version of the same garbage they were told - thus perpetuating that same old legacy that's been holding us back for years. Others lay down a wall-of-sensitivity answer that explains nothing, and pretty much invalidates the question: "There are no black people or white people - not as such!" Or, "We can't talk about a whole group of people, because it won't apply to them all." Answers like this can't possibly do anything but confuse the child, who know they have a question, here - and who may then go elsewhere for answers: other kids. Television melodramas. Internet. And what will they get there? Same thing, or at least: nothing better.

The most insidious tactic is to tell the kid they're too young to know, and you'll tell them later. We never tell them later. We just hold out until they figure it out on their own that it's confusing, it's dangerous and possibly hurtful to talk about, and the person you ask won't know either. But why does it have to be that way?

Kids are the problem. Kids perpetuate the cycle. It's this damn inquisitive phase that keeps the whole thing going, by forcing all the old, bad answers to be brought up yet again and torturously reinforced, qualified or justified to a new set of minds. If kids wouldn't keep asking these ignorant questions, maybe adults would stop having to contort, contrive and lie (just as was done to them at that age), and then in a couple generations maybe the whole thing would die out as a tender subject and people could just talk about it, in an unforced way, leaving the old bad answers of the past behind!

I wonder what they'd say.

Friday, August 03, 2012

An Introduction To My Sister's Novel

My sister wrote a book and damn if I'm going to take that lying down.

She knows I'm the better writer. We've always known that. I don't know what she's trying to pull, with this.

She's a very good writer, mind you. You pretty much have to be, to get a book accepted in this era of print media implosion. But she knows and I know that I could write a better book than hers.

So why haven't I? First, this isn't an excuse, it's a preference. I work hard all day. I earn my evenings and weekends. When I come home, I don't want to have to be knuckling down writing a book, just to prove I can do it. Maybe if I had an inferiority complex to assuage, that could appeal. Second, I have very high standards for ideas. I have tons of ideas, all the time, but I've always wanted to hold out for that one idea that just jumps out at me, undeniably, as my book to write. The book no one else could write. Otherwise, why bother? If someone else can write it, let him or her do it! And in this case: her, and good for her.

My sister's book is fine. I'd even say it's very good. It's a neat little dream exploration, slash meditation on the nature of reality, slash romance novel: "romance" with a small "r," and nothing very novel about it. Anyone could have written this book, at this point. It's a sound entry in the modern pop lit canon of questioning, existential magical realism stocked with quirkycutter characters dealing with down-to-earth conflicts that unfold in predictably surprising ways. And I'm sure anyone will adapt it into a screenplay, as well. It reads as "unfilmable," in a way that any independent savant is sure to take as a gauntlet thrown down, a chance to pull out the stops on what the critics will all praise as a "convoluted, puzzle-box feel-good roller-coaster of the heart's mind."

Don't let me seem to be disparaging it: it's literature, albeit of a sentimental/manipulative tearjerker cum wannabe intellectual think-piece sort. It's not even pretentious. Too earnest by half. This is quite a smart, simple little book. She pulls some clever effects, and works a couple neat tricks for all they're worth, which by the end of the book's close to four hundred pages has piled up to quite a bit. And writing this thing wasn't an easy job for her, by any means.

I should know, because she came to me several times with drafts, wanting me to read through, wanting to know my thoughts. I gave her all the encouragement an honest, even-handed assessment can provide. I'm proud to say that even at a cursory skim, each later draft was a marked improvement over the one before. I wouldn't say she used my suggestions; I tried not to make any. I did my best to limit myself to eliciting from within her what she was already trying to do. I'm really proud of how I kept my own preferences and notions out of it. I didn't think it would turn into anything, to be honest! I was touched and amused, happy to help with this little hobby of hers, and though I knew her admiration for me and how much she was willing to take my opinion and run with it, I could see how much effort she was putting into this. Whatever the result, I wanted it to be the unalloyed expression of her own voice. I wanted to give her that. This book is hers, despite I'm sure I'll come in for a dedication or at least, a prominent acknowledgement. She's really done a good piece of work, here. I'm as proud of her as I am happy for her, but it pisses me off a bit that now I need to step up and show my own stuff.

Just in a fit of pique, really - not because I have to. Just in a fit of pique. She'll be the first to tell you I have nothing to prove. But let me tell you: that doesn't mean I can't prove. It's time to write my book. There's no need to hold out for some grand idea, really, is there? All one needs to write the book that no one else can write is: imbue it with something personal. Something of one's own. The title I've chosen is My Sister Wrote A Book.

It's a novel. The fictionalized account of a guy whose sister wrote a book, telling the story of said book from within multiple frames: the development of the sister's book from the sister's perspective, how she tinkers and nudges the tale along in a way that interacts with her own life's gaffes and missteps and in the process, reveals much of her own hopes, prejudices and limitations; the alternate development of what the book's untold story could have, or perhaps, should have been, as the brother's eyes perceive an overlay of untapped, underexplored deeper themes that hint at a starker reality; and, weaving the two together, a frank, debunked, demystified narrative of the events from the brother's life and relationships that clearly provided the inspiration for the story in the first place - albeit, stripped thrillingly free of the gloss that so changed and distorted them as to make any resemblance plausibly deniable.

Expect a masterpiece. The humor will flow naturally from the characters. The gripping interest of the situations as they develop, and the endlessly quotable dialogue, will make the story a treat for the enjoyment of the average must-read book list consumer. Yet the additional levels of meaning and reality, and the interplay between them, will make my novel a feast of ambiguity laid bare, for more sophisticated readers.

In the meantime, as I said, my sister has written a very good book, here! A bit shallow, a bit escapist, implausible in parts, but it fits. This book captures the views and character of the author in a voice as real, as recognizable, as distinctive as anyone you might bump into on the street, or at church. As you read, note to yourself that the omniscient yet fallible narrator is the real protagonist, and you'll be sure to smile along with the twists and turns her whimsy has in store for you. Sit back, settle in and enjoy.

Wednesday, August 01, 2012

How Serious?

Oh, I'm serious. I just:

1. killed every single song off my iPod.
2. filled it up with nothing but AC/DC.
3. Put it on 'shuffle.'

Image © 2010 Allie Brosh and shared under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Once Again, My Life Story Pretty Much

I was born on the bad side of life, already knowing what was in store but never believing it for a moment. Home was a word I was never taught. I went though school feeling as if my mouth was constantly sucking, sucking on a fruit pit that had long since lost its juice. My mom, my dad, my brothers and sisters - none of them could tell me anything that would make a difference. It was as if an occult hand had dipped its sharp quill into ink of the most impenetrable blackness, and marked out a strange fate for me in cryptic sigils. I left home every day, never to return. In the evening, I was back again. Everyone I asked had an explanation for me that made absolutely no sense.

Finally, I turned to drug addiction, sexual perversion, mental illness, criminal negligence and personality disorder. None of these seemed to help. The end of my rope was fraying. I was endlessly worrying away at it with my toes. It was like a compulsion of some kind, but as much as the friction of the process soothed my misfiring neurons, I couldn't stand the result. That rope was coming apart into separate strands. I'd never be able to hang in there properly if all I was grasping was a bundle of strings and not a stout rope! I've always taken a metaphor too far. Anyway, I thought maybe if I slid down a little further I could hang on by my hands while I moistened the ends with my saliva, and maybe that would get it to stick together better.

Fool move. You guessed it.

My hands slipped.

It was then that I remembered the rope was only a metaphor in the first place. Still, a realization like that in the situation I was in gave utterly no material aid.

Doodeloo #95

Saturday, July 28, 2012

You know what business there NEEDS TO BE? Singing telegram process servers.

Dressed like male strippers! You know, like a construction worker indian chief cop comes to your door, confirms your identity, hands you some balloons, hits the music and does a little dance while singing you a song that informs you you've been served.

Sure enough, in the balloons - there's the envelope!

Friday, July 27, 2012

The Olympics! A Celebration of Pinnacles!

The Olympics represent the best and the worst of all humanity has to offer, except sex (which would be inappropriate - in much of the world, it's considered to be a televised event for the whole family and we should respect that). The thrill of victory! The agony of defeat - and some poor dude caroming all to pieces down the ramp! Do you get a medal for that? Not hardly. They have to judge hard, because when human excellence is the arena, having some hard-assed standard to hold up to is way more important than making people feel good for sucking at something they've spent their entire lives on, when the chips are down. And how do you get over something like that? Well, you can be like Tonya Harding, and be ridiculed for the way you go about it, or you can go the other route and be lionized on Wheaties boxes and married into the Kardashians. Isn't that what Bruce Jenner did? He married into some damn family of tabloid people! But the point is: that journey began at the pinnacle of Olympic Glory - and too many people seem willing to gloss that over.

Man, when I was a kid the Olympics were some major stuff. Guess what, chumps? They still are. But it's no place for mawkish sentimentality! Olympic athletes are hard, fierce, brash, honed competitors with a huge chip on their sculpted shoulders, and these are not your ancient Olympians like the Greek Gods throwing boulders around, or hurling strokes of lightning, no! These athletes are larger than life by virtue of their embrace of human limitation: and by embracing it, they seize it and push it and milk it for all that it's worth and more, until suddenly: "IT'S A WORLD RECORD! THE CROATIAN JUDGE JUST LOST HER SHIT!!" You better believe the crowd is right on board with it when that happens, holmes!!

Point is: the Olympics. These games aren't for kids, and these players ain't playing. Get on board the O-train and let's go play some anthems and get some medals.

Again Here I Am To School You On Sex Education.


Let's begin with the basics. These are some of the parts of people that stick out:

1. the entire human head (this is probably a bit much, but it does stick out so I'm including it)
2. tongues
3. feet
4. toes
5. fingers
6. handses
7. the phallus
8. just the tip
9. possible to get creative?

And once you've got those options out and waggling around, here are some of the places people STICK IT:

A. mouths
B. the vagina (a wholesome and traditional favorite, yet not dowdy or dull in the slightest!)
C. the anus
D. one's hand
E. (censored for the sake of delicacy)
F. The surface of the body! Any skin-on-skin, cracks or crevices as they occur - whether integral pockets and folds in the structure, or "cracks of opportunity" formed by the pressing of limbs or other features together.

And guess what? That's pretty much the essential crux of sex! You want to put some part of yourself, or even, as much of yourself as possible, inside this other person. Or vice versa, of course! Weird, right? What a totally unnatural thing to do...! Right?

Wrong. You might say it's "weird" or it's "unnatural" - that's what you might say, except you'd be wrong. Because here's where I have to school you on the sex part: it isn't unnatural. That's the crazy thing. It's perhaps the single most natural thing ever.

As they say, there's the rub: because here you are, two people and you both want one of you to put as much of yourself as possible inside the other person. That's where the physical variables come in, of how two people interact, because sometimes it's hard! I won't lie to you. And how much of you can you actually get inside someone else? Using the ordinary various means, I mean. There are a couple (in some cases, a few) options, and for most people those work fairly well. But for some people, not very well. All I can say is, it's a complex issue! Because on the one hand, sex is pretty fucking neat if you can manage to work it work it out.

Anyway, not to insult your intelligence because this should not even need to be pointed out, but: some of the objects in the number list can't possibly be made to fit into some of the alphabetical holes. Or if they were, it could result in suffocation for one or both parties. Use common sense.

So if I've offended anyone with this, breaking it down so bold and plain, I'm sorry but this is what the people are doing. This is what the kids and the adults and the elderly are doing, and you know what we don't serve anyone or anyone's truth by lying about it, okay? Or by hiding from the truth, or being coy. Because I don't see any reason to be coy about this. People are DYING because of a lack of sex education, and in some cases, it's of boredom. Boredom death is the leading cause of death that could have been prevented by sex. Think I'm wrong? Prove it!

As a wool-dyed original Cynic of the old school, I stand eating onions with Diogenes the Dog to say: "Nothing natural is shameful." Rubbin' up on and stuffin' stuff in is a frolicksome process, one that occurs in every possible position, variation and permutation all the way down throughout nature, right down to the cellular level. Come on, you think ameobae don't get freaky invasive with pseudopodia just because their technical "reproduction" method is asexual mitosis? Fuck WRONG, dude. Those amoebea just have a different society to ours! They have sex in REVERSE. Instead of "for the two Knew Each Other, and Became One Flesh," it goes, for the one flesh became two, but lord how much more intimate THAT is? Because suddenly there's two of you. A second before, you were both literally the SAME PERSON. So naturally, they're going at it - afterplay, and there's a ton of tentacle action and pseudopodial penetrative business, workin' around, rubbin of parts up against each other's freshly-divided cellular surfaces - and if you think THAT'S perverted, there's something WRONG with you. Just because it's not in the bible doesn't mean God hates to see it! GOD LOVES ALL THAT AMOEBA BUSINESS! "Unnatural" my ass! I am so sick of these prudes all the time, and their stuffy uptight ways. Get over it: amoebas and little dudeuoles and microorganisms are having fun little microscopic orgies all over you, right now. In your FACE.

I am, and have always been, a big defender of unicellular sexual liberty. If you have a problem with it, well I say maybe you're the one with the weird hang-up.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Evil Is F****** Easy!

Spectacular evil is much easier to achieve than spectacular good. If that scumbag in Colorado had put the same amount of cleverness and effort into planning a party for developmentally disabled children, we'd never have heard of it.

I'm not suggesting we need to be spoon-fed feel-good pabulum on the front page to drown out the evil. I'm saying: impressive good is just harder to do than evil - because people are fundamentally good. Because right now, people everywhere are engaged in actively planning and executing good for each other, from simple to elaborate, from one-time to long-term. Speaking relatively, there are only a comparatively few sick fucks trying to and planning to get our attention with death.

Of course they succeed. They succeed because evil is fucking easy, not because they're any good at it.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Use Common Sense.

Beyond politics and religion, some things just aren't polite for conversation. Use common sense: if someone says something, and it strikes you as off-limits, tell them "Hey, common sense suggests that's just a rude topic of discussion." You can use common sense in a lot of other ways, too, to imply that your opinion is either valid generally, or derived from some upwelling of Jungian shared psyche. Common sense should always be used.