Friday, December 29, 2017

What About 2018?





I think I’ll leave Facebook for 2018, or at least the first few months. Give it a try. Give myself some space. I waste precious time looking at pictures of dogs, being scolded or affirmed by self-defined experts and scholars, people who have never had a job. I am bored with reading about genius children, relationships that are just beginning or going bad, and I abhor the overuse of the words “Awesome”, “Epic”, and “Iconic”. A half hour of scrolling while I look for something of significance when I could be writing, reading, practicing the guitar, listening to Don Cherry, Arvo Part, Miles, Chopin; music and literature change my life but they take time and commitment. Social media doesn’t change anything except my sense of value; I don’t have any kids that I need to stay in touch with, my family knows my address, my friends understand me.
My views are personal and have developed over 70 years. I despise seeing anything with a quote from the Bible. I am an unapologetic atheist; actually, I’m an anti-theist and consider belief in a transcendent being, god, intelligent design to be degenerate and dangerous. Read some history. I don’t expect everyone to care and I am sick of seeking attention for boring, normal, everyday events. I just took a bath and read Nietzsche. Bath=easy. Nietzsche=not easy. I could write 500 words on that experience in my status update. Why the fuck would I expect, want or care if anyone knows? And yet, at some childish, immature level, I do. It’s not a way to build self-esteem. It’s a cheap-assed way to get attention and I am done with attention seeking. Also, I find myself blocking and deleting more and more people when an easier way is to deactivate my account.  I will write in my blog (The Vagrant Cantos) from time to time and that way I can still contemplate my experiences and review my thoughts, unload the detritus and not lose my frigging mind. If anyone wants to read that, I can give you the coordinates. I put more thought into the writing on that site. My email is jdepatta@gmail.com. My American phone number is 575 770-7270. We can talk, write, have lunch, have coffee.
I’m going to leave this here for a few days if you need vital stats. I just don’t see the upside any longer.

Saturday, September 2, 2017

Light







Light Work, Inc.

Up until recently I’ve been a self-certified Instinctive Energy Healer. My clients claim that during our sessions they are full of vitality; they are sharp, joyful, clear-headed and delighted with life. Some, for the first time in a decade, begin thinking about sex and erotic experiences.
Of course, I’m extremely grateful for my gift, but even though it’s a fun gig I’ve come to realize that it is not as profitable as I’d like.
The other day, on social media (of course) I noticed that some friends of  “friends” are referring to themselves as “Light Workers”. Fascinated, I began deep research into what this practice consisted of and what one needs to become a Light Worker.
Here’s what I discovered.
You don’t need anything. No training, no school, nothing.
You are born with the ability to manipulate Light. Not everyone has this talent, but, similar to “Energy Healers”, when an exceptional person desires to be a practitioner, they become one automatically.
I said to myself, “I am an advanced being and I want to treat people who have odd and often imaginary maladies and I’d like to be able to make a decent living as a…. (Your gift goes here).”
Bam.
That’s all it takes. You’re an Energy Healer, Elevated Being, Intuitive Whatever. If you want it, dream it, you can have it.
Now, in addition to my successful career as an Intuitive Energy Healer I have added the discipline of Light Worker.
What do I do?
I’m glad you asked.
As I’ve said, my work is intuitive, so I craft each treatment to the individual who is seeking enlightenment and relief. Sometimes my only tools are a book of matches and a bowl of ice cubes; other times, I require an ice pick, leather restraints and a box of crayons. This is an alternative form of restorative therapy and the alternatives are infinite. I rely on my highly developed sense of compassion and sensitivity though occasionally I must use discipline and tough-love.
If you make an appointment for Light Work, understand that we begin in a dark room with a fan and a harmonica. I will be using a series of different sized flashlights and I may have to shine the light directly into your eyes while administering helpful suggestions. If any of these things disturb you, I will stop immediately. Perhaps you’re not cut out for Light Work. Don’t feel badly. I have numerous other methods of uplift and enrichment. We will work together to find the perfect approach for you. Remember, you are special and unique in the universe, there is no one like you, your difficulties are more intense than other people’s, your pain is more severe. I will administer to you accordingly and I guarantee success. You will be renewed and fulfilled.
Sorry, does not accept insurance.


Sunday, July 23, 2017

The Language of Love









I’m considering an advice column entitled “Let Go and Let Joe”.
I listen to people. In person, singularly or in groups, on the radio, on TV, in movies. I read books, social media posts, newspapers and magazines. The coercive semantics in expressions of love, hope, belief and affection fascinate me as does the culture of relationships, how they develop, why and how they disintegrate. I’ve had significant real-life experience enhanced by a considerable academic background.
Everything has a lifespan: dogs, people, love affairs.
Over the past several years a few phrases and terms have become prevalent in the discourse relating to coupling, marriage, and the abstraction we call “love” that are inaccurate, manipulative, sad and may foreshadow upcoming hazards.

Soulmate.
What the hell is a “Soulmate”? No. That is a dangerous elevation of somebody and it gives tremendous power to the significant other. To refer to another as one’s “Soulmate” is emotional blackmail and limits options; it is a way of acquiring the individual and is similar to the often used and completely false:

Love of My Life.
Wow. No one else? Ever? Really? Impossible to locate another individual to boost your ego? Holy mackerel. That’s another way of saying, “I’ve given up. I don’t even want to try. It’s your responsibility to worship and support to me. Or else.”
I’ve only done preliminary research but I’m fairly sure that there are close to 10,000 people within a 500-mile radius of anyone in the populated, civilized world with whom one could establish an intimate relationship. That means you may have thousands of “Soulmates” and “Loves of Your Life”.
Tired, sad, needy. Please, get a grip, be real and let the other person off the hook.

Improper use of the modifier “so”:
This one is a beaut, and easily recognizable:

“I love you.”
Trite, but nice. Simple and to the point.
“I love you so much.”
Hmm. What are you truly saying? Why do you want me to hear that extra “so”? One should immediately become suspicious.
“I love you so, so much.”
Absolutely dishonest. This is a clear indication of anger or infidelity. Your life is in jeopardy. If you hear the double “so” in an expression of intimacy or attachment, wait for your partner to leave the house and then run. Move. Leave a note that says, “You are a lying monster. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Fuck off and don’t look for me or I’ll have you arrested.”

Another dubious use of “so”:
“I’m sorry.”
Sure, OK, you should be, perhaps we can move on, I may or may not accept your expression of remorse.
“I’m so sorry.”
Uh oh. Now they’re overdoing it. They are not telling you the whole story but they definitely have something to hide. Be nervous.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
Nope. You are not. Your companion is a lying manipulative lowlife danger to society and is preparing you for serious humiliation or a bad beating. Again, “so, so sorry” is the most obvious signal that it’s totally over. Get a restraining order, hire some private security, but become far, far gone.

Everyone, everything, every alliance has a lifespan. The person who knows that and can spot the indicators of annihilation has a better chance of staying safe, of moving on and going north to find the next Soulmate.
If I can save one life, my work is done.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Poem for A Hot Day




Poem for A Hot Day


Relax,

I’ve heard that next summer it’s supposed to be cooler
Crowds at the national parks will be smaller
Prices are going down
Traffic will thin out and we’ll have more parking
Air travel will be somewhat more comfortable
Cops will be less aggressive
Your kids will stop looking at their phones when you talk to them.



Just settle down,

It’s going to be OK because
I’ve heard that next year popular music will be slightly less insulting
A few new bookstores will open in town and technology will improve our lives
We’ll finally get a handle on childhood obesity and your pets won’t die.

So take it easy; trust me; everything is going to be fine.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Blessed






Thanks, Facebook.
You’ve made me a better person.
At first there was the novelty of seeing what my friends ate for lunch, pictures of their cats, vacations, kids, relationships, in and out of love, movies liked/hated, stupid jokes, and on and on. Then it became a bit harder edged with compilation videos of people getting hurt; we all love to see a guy falling off a roof. There were entreaties to believe in god, support the troops, kick cancer’s ass. Sometime later political posts flew around like seagulls over a dumpsite. Natural progression of social media, right? We told everyone what we thought goddamnit, why we knew shit, what we supported, tolerated, fought for. We didn’t actually do any of that, but we could talk about it as if we did. I hate this, I hate that. The conspiracy theorists made it unscientifically clear why they knew arcane secrets that I’d never understand. The anti-vaxx sacks ridiculed those of us who supported science, which for some reason, they knew for sure that science is a shady branch of the government. Many, many Facebook subscribers lectured the rest of us that our government was corrupt and all about money; like they had just discovered that fact.
The comments sections caught fire with long, long threads debating which political ideology was more evolved or Christian, which party would save America, which candidate was the biggest asshole. Man, that was fun. Remember? How much fun?
And it was. Fun. I recall pissing off some guy in Hawaii so badly that he threatened to fly to New Mexico and kill me. Aloha, dipshit. It was fun to think up new insults and to ridicule a bonehead for her/his stand on almost anything with which I disagreed. I got got a few times, but so what? It’s Facebook, not the United Nations. Not a real thing. It’s only a way to provoke the lonely, to occupy down time and to call people names that lived in another state. What? Are they going to hunt you down, kick your ass? I guess that’s possible. Oh, and let’s not forget the armies of 30, 40, 50 year old dickwads who spend all day “friending” underage women and the few who convinced the young ladies to slip out of their parents’ homes in the middle of the night to meet him at a nearby convenience store because of love. Facebook has opened up new worlds for the housebound, the terrified, the perverted. Glad for them.
Wow, I’ve spent hours stoking my abhorrence and feeling insecure because I didn’t think of a particular insult first or, kill me, someone may have found a grammar error in one of my responses and I want to die. My sense of self-loathing grew.
During the last week or so I’ve responded to a dozen posts that were either stupid, dangerous, uninformed, or else I didn’t like the person’s profile picture. Maybe I only wanted to be noticed, to let my “friends” know that I was still out here, alive and hostile.
But, here’s the part where I become a better person.
I didn’t send.
I didn’t click the “post” button. Before I hit “return” I looked at what I’d written, re-read the original post, the previous remarks, scanned others’ sentences and counted the misspellings, and I backed out my observations and abuses and walked away. I deleted my own words. Not an easy task when all you have to work with is words. But I did it. I did not comment.
The despair is still here, the feelings of alienation, disgust at racism and sexism from both the Left and the Right. I still avoid smug liberals and snotnosed conservatives, no changes in my point of view, my personal positions, but I simply don’t have to post them to social media.
Well, not all of them anyway. I’ve got some stuff percolating that will probably find its way to the great web of conformity, make myself a target, and, while I may not be a “better” person, I have a bit less animosity and I don’t need to boot up FB every time I’m my office to see if someone has topped my remarks, has humiliated me on the world stage or has “liked” what I had to say, has given me that all important cyber-pat on the back.
I read two books last week and watched a Japanese surrealist film, listened to nearly my entire collection of John Coltrane and most of Beethoven’s string quartets and I finished season 3 of Bojack Horseman and I’m all caught up with “The Handmaid’s Tale” and I downloaded two Judas Priest CDs. And read a Batman Comic.
Better person.

Friday, May 5, 2017

Stephen Hawking is Smarter Than You




Can we agree that Stephen Hawking is smart? Smarter than most of us? Argue about that if you want, but I tend to believe a highly intelligent scientist who has overcome realworld problems and contemplates the future. Not the far future, because Hawking doesn’t think we earthlings have much more time on our silly little planet. What surprises me is that his projections haven’t been bigger news. Dr. Stephen Hawking, with twelve honorary degrees, CBE, Companion of Honour, Fellow of The Royal Society and Member of the US National Academy of Sciences, author of six bestsellers, says we have 100 years to get our shit together and then we have to leave. Thankfully, I will have already left. But, honestly, your infant daughter or son, if they don’t smoke or abuse drugs, aren't considering an assault on Everest or have lots and lots of unprotected sex could possibly see the end of the world. The final days. They will suffer the torments of a dying planet. Anyone care about that? And caring doesn’t mean that you drive a Prius. Fucking hell no. Recognizing that most of what we are sweating about will be vaporized in a century and nothing will change, nothing, unless all 196 countries on all 7 continents agree on almost everything. See that happening? Of course not. Political parties and religions and races, genders, all theories regarding variations of physical existence and our generally uninformed choices might get us through the next year, might help us to feel as though we belong to the very best group, organization, ethnicity, but when I read that one of the world’s great minds thinks that Earth will be a blistered little cornflake in 100 years I wonder why this isn’t the main topic everywhere; even in crummy places like North Korea or South Carolina. I mean, fuck your stupid religions and trigger warnings, microaggressions, candidates, legal weed, publishing your novel and shopping at Trader Joe's. Kiss the kids goodbye and begin offloading the accumulation of debris that has become our lives. It’s over.
It really doesn’t matter if you bring your own paper bags to the grocery store.

If you care:  https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/speaking-of-science/wp/2017/05/05/stephen-hawking-just-moved-up-humanitys-deadline-for-escaping-earth/?utm_term=.36551f9a42c9


Saturday, April 22, 2017

Fun With Words -- Part VIII





Language is organic and forever mutating. Years ago, after Spielberg’s big shark movie came out, a woman I worked with went to Hawaii. When she returned, a co-worker, young single mom, struggling, had never been out of town, asked her, “Did you see any Jaws when you were there?”
I loved that. “Jaws” is a better description than “Shark”. Language reflects cultural developments, evolution, or decline.
Words also take on new meaning; “gay” doesn’t necessarily mean “joyful”, “awesome” no longer means “awesome”.
Sometimes there are no definitions for our thoughts, our feelings, certain sensations. We attempt to describe what we experience but we have to settle for inaccuracies. Close, but not exact. It’s what writers deal with and some of us take pleasure in experimenting with new devices for narrative precision.
The new words are called “Neologisms”. I do it all the time.
This morning, while in the grocery store, I was standing in the produce department and I smelled something that was gross. I looked around and couldn’t identify the source. It was a cross between rotting flesh, body odor, and celery. I had no word for the smell or how it made me feel so I cleared my mind and let the first thing I thought of become the definition for that odor.
Ivanka.
Swear to God. I was delighted. Ivanka. That is the name I have given to that particular scent of decaying flesh, BO, vegetables, and now when I encounter it on public transportation or in a 12-step meeting I have a way of labeling it.
You see where I’m going.
You know that feeling you get just before you vomit when you’re all clammy and green, taking deep breaths, salivating, know full well that soon you will puke?
Pence.
“Dude was ready to hurl and he was pencing like mad. It was awesome.”
A not-very-smart guy with all kinds of money finds himself in a position of extraordinary power, realizes that no one likes him but they are afraid to criticize him, has no friends and his family will never disagree with him and he becomes childish and vengeful and suspicious?
Jong-il.
What, you had another one?
These are my words. Make up your own.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Why We Hate -- Part 14





United Airlines calls to cops to haul a passenger off a plane because the guy adamantly didn’t want to give up his seat so that some United employees who arrived late to the airport and missed their connection could fly to their next destination. UAL’s mistake, their error, became the passengers’ responsibility when the customers were asked to “voluntarily” give up their seats because the airline had “overbooked”. Overbooking is some deep disrespect to the consumer. A few of the passengers, instead of hijacking the plane, left and waited for a later flight while this one dude says, “Hell no.” The poor bastard paid for a service and entered into an, apparently, complicated contract with the airlines and as a result of his alleged behavior he is manhandled, bloodied and dragged off the plane by the goonsquad.
There is so much to this story: Race, Class, Entitlement, Police Misconduct, Incompetency, Corporate Arrogance, and they are part of the overall narrative. Meanwhile, what struck me is that the CEO of United, Oscar Munoz, continues to defend the airline and says that “policy” allowed for the passenger to be removed by force; not ethics, not respect, not even the fact that the dude had paid for his ticket in good faith, but “policy”.
I wasn’t on the plane and the passenger may have been an asshole. I’m not defending him. I know for a fact that there are an almost infinite number of ways to de-escalate a volatile and aggressive situation and I believe that physical violence should not necessarily be the first option.
CEO Munoz, however, makes $6.7 million a year in salary and compensation and there are some things he hasn’t figured out yet.
Six million seven hundred thousand dollars and:
He doesn’t know what it’s like to fly on one of his dicked up, overcrowded, overbooked, insulting, unfriendly, threatening, incompetent, undependable and uncomfortable airplanes.
He is a member of a financial class that has been branded as the enemy of normal, common, working class, overburdened and oppressed men and women. Income inequality is real as hell.
Following dubious policy isn’t necessarily the right thing to do.
He has no credibility.
Oscar’s income may give him an illusion of authority but real people don’t give a shit about what he says because we really don’t care about rich people any more. Those days are ending; the days when money was respected and we assumed that the person with the fat paycheck had earned it and as a result we valued their contribution.
Nope.
Bullshit. We don’t trust Oscar and his buddies (many who are currently serving in government).
It doesn’t matter what actually transpired on the United Airlines flight that was “overbooked” because wealthy people are no longer trustworthy and their word is not reliable.
It’s a new world, everything is on film, professional journalism isn’t keeping up and we are making our judgments based on flimsy cellphone videos. I’m not in favor of all of that stuff because there are too many variables and it’s easy to manipulate the evidence.
But goddamnit, Oscar Munoz, revered CEO of United Airlines, is digging himself and his entire class of self-certified financial overlords into a deeper and deeper pit.
Read some history. Buy regular shoes. Fly coach. 
Missing the point can be fatal.

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

America's New Daddy







America, as represented by The Statue of Liberty and Columbia, is maternal. The presidency has, thus far, always been paternal (see: Mt. Rushmore and all the goddamn men who have ever occupied the White House).
Now, every four or eight years mom gets bored, tired of dad’s bullshit and she files for divorce. She dumps the old man and begins shopping around for someone different. We, the children, get to help her choose our new daddy. Mom gives us a list of possibilities and lets us vote on whom we want to drive us to soccer practice, teach us to fish, pay the mortgage and hire the help. Once in a while a woman’s name appears on the list, but so far the USA has not been willing to consider the idea of a mommy at the head of the table. Sad, but true.
Barack Obama was a cool dad, wasn’t he? He was African American and representative, funny, smart, hip, could hang, and he treated us with respect and some of us were super stoked to finally have a pop who liked decent music and acted like he cared about our welfare.
Still, mom wanted a fresh husband. Mom sometimes makes mistakes.
A few of our stepbrothers and sisters hated Barack. They were furious because he was black, he was too young, too smart, too good looking, treated mom as an equal, and looked better than we do in a swimming suit. They made fun of him and tried to trick him and a few of the assholes actually called for him to be put in jail or executed. I hate a lot of my stepbrothers and sisters. Stupid bullies.
The Stupid Bullies wanted a dad who was white and barked orders and made people behave. Mommy agreed and picked a really different guy than Barack. The opposite of Barack. We don’t know why the fuck mommy ever decided that this asshole was going to be our new daddy, he was kind of a clown, but he was also super rich and we figured, “Fuck it. Maybe he’ll buy us a new bike or take us to Disneyland.”
Right?
Well, nope, he’s turned out to be somewhat abusive, not smart at all, and it looks like mom is having second thoughts. We saw him naked and it was disgusting. She knows she’s stuck with him.
We miss Barack. He was fun, could tell a joke, a decent guy, and we miss him a lot. Some of us wonder if mom is losing it. We really want our old daddy back but we know that we have to live with the new guy, the big flabby shithead who doesn’t get us at all.
And I don’t think he’s going to take us to Disneyland.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Smart Stuff: Can’t Live Without It.








Today’s headline:
The CIA is using popular TVs, smartphones and cars to spy on their owners.

There are Smart Shoes (auto-lacing. Wow.), Smart Watches, Smart Glasses, Smart Washers and Smarter Driers.
I’m at the point where I can’t do my banking without the latest bullshit $800 smartphone from Apple or whomever.
Everything is so convenient. Not secure, no ma’am, but very, very convenient.
And Feature-rich. You can do so much. You probably don’t even know eighty percent of what your smart products are capable of. Read that manual, make that bastard sing.
Cable-ready Smart TV? Won’t miss the latest Academy Awards and ridiculous screw-ups. Big fun. The Superbowl? Every year see which corporate human product beats which corporate human product. Live press conferences? Get to see the latest corrupt dipshit blubbering from the Oval office.

Some kid made fun of my phone the other day. Again.
I have an old fashioned flip phone from before World War II. I told him to go fuck himself, but the culture is changing and I’ll probably have to get a goddamn smartphone, big data package, lotsa texting, alarms and a camera and direct access to pornography wherever I am. Join the herd.
“Oh, look honey, a text from our five year old granddaughter.”

How have I survived? Until now, if I’m traveling and I get lost, I look at a map or ask a friendly native. A few years ago in Paris, I kept running into people who were wandering around exhausted, peering into smartphones, and they put them down long enough to plead, “Can you tell me which direction the river Seine is?” Lost like hell.
If we’re hungry in Italy, instead of standing on a busy corner and browsing all the places within a six-block radius, reading Yelp blather, we walk around the block and pick a restaurant. I have never been disappointed in my choice. 
I’ll cave. I’ll sign up for another subscription, more bills, headaches, more calls to “customer service”, more ridiculous emails with terrific savings and offers, the chance that one of my devices may be hacked, unauthorized charges, accounts drained.
When I’m ready to buy I’ll have to ask for help from my younger friends, best phone, best company, best package, average monthly bill, and hope that for once I’ll get a straight answer. Not likely.
Why aren’t people who drink smart water smart enough to know that crap isn’t making them any smarter?
Stand behind them in line sometime.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

"Nobody knew that health care could be so complicated".





            "Nobody knew that health care could be so complicated."
             D. Trump, President of the United States of America


Well, hell, you fucking moron, I did. I have a general idea that it is complicated. Know why? Because unlike you, I don’t have sycophants and bootlickers to make my doctor’s appointments and to pick up my scripts, to get a few nurses over to the house for a “treatment”. I don’t have underlings to clear the waiting room and guide me through any lab tests or medical procedures, to bring the physical therapist to the palace, to set up the dental hygienist in the downstairs gym. No, dipshit, I’m on my own. If I run out of meds I hope that I don’t get hassled at the pharmacy, that they have enough to fill a prescription (that’s a little piece of paper with the name of the medication, the dosage, and the…ah fuck off, you won’t get it). Have you ever spent hours on the phone with a bored “customer service rep” trying to figure out some arcane crap regarding payments and refills? Fuck, no, you haven’t.
 I don’t have some junior assistant or Melania to roll me over and insert my meds, no sir, I have to take mine with a glass of water at the same time every day and I have to remember all by myself.
My doctor is hassled out of his mind because of all the goddamn paperwork. My old doc, now deceased (probably due to stress) told me that practitioners were working an average of two hours extra every day and seeing fewer patients. They are burning out, so for sure they know how complex it is.
I live in terror that my “provider”, (another funny fucked up term), will not approve the next test, the referral to a Cardiologist or the Dermatologist because it’s really actually possible that the provider might refuse coverage based on some microscopic motherfucking loophole.
I don’t have a bunch of lawyers to guarantee I get what I need. Nope, I spend hours on the goddamn telephone every month.
You dimwit.
EVERYONE knows it’s complicated. Everyone who has to take care of themselves, who's responsible for their families and their own lives, everyone who is NOT part of America’s Chosen, that species of wealthy shitwhores who have never had to stoop so low as the rest of us, we who don’t have slaves and inferiors, vassals and minions that have carried us through every wasteful day of our privileged lives.
So, yeah, the fact that you didn’t know something doesn’t mean no one else does.
“It’s complicated”.
Yeah, for us.
Jesus, what a dope.

Thursday, February 16, 2017

It Can't Go On






I was driving home and heard the “press conference” on the radio. I listened, I laughed; I was talking out loud, alone in my car.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Holy shit.”
“He’s nuts.”
“What an unstructured asshole.”
I caught myself and chilled out, focused on the road ahead.
I’ve heard a lot of crazy talk in my life; I’ve been guilty of it myself when I was drunk, coked, angry. I tried to convince people of shit I didn’t believe. It never worked. I was raised to doubt myself and had to work on self-esteem, honesty, and the clear articulation of thoughts. I’m still working but I heard a guy today who doesn’t have the ability, or need, to reflect.
He has never had to use words, so he sounds clumsy and stupid.
If he wants a banana he points to the menu and somebody brings him a banana. If he wants to get laid he grabs someone by the pussy and sometimes he gets what he wants because he’s a wealthy celebrity. If he needs a new tie he sends some schmuck shopping. He’s probably never talked to an auto mechanic in his life.
And here’s what I heard today.
He believes he is really, really smart. Super smart and funny and charming. It’s an unwavering belief. Christ, you can hear it in his tone; condescending, patronizing, cocksure. He will continue to sneer at average people, to laugh and ridicule you and me and anyone he views as weak: poor, old, disabled, sick, uneducated, marginalized.
 He’s convinced that he is vastly intelligent and knows more than his critics, absolutely convinced, not because he’s educated or he reads a lot or has been a close observer of life.
Nope, he believes it because it is his birthright to be smarter than everyone else.
Who, in his small, power hungry, needy, money-worshiping life has ever reproached him?  Everyone laughs at his jokes. He lives in a private world where normal interaction is rare and alien.
But he thinks he’s wildly smart. Uses words. Has ideas. And though he couldn’t articulate it, he may feel that he is Chosen, an ubermensch, godly, a separate and higher species, “The Rich”. Complete delusion. Out of his fucking mind with narcissism. Irrational. Fucker can’t even pretend to care. He doesn’t have to. It can’t go on. It can’t last. It just can’t.

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

Double Valentine






“Happy Valentine’s Day.” She wasn’t smiling.
I looked up from the computer. “What? Yes, same to you.”
I pointed to the package she had set next to my elbow; a red heartbox tied with a thick cream-colored bow.
“What is this?”
“It’s your Valentine’s present. Open it.”
Shit. I didn’t get her anything. Again. Bella had always been tolerant and forgiving but for the past year or so I felt as though she was placing minefields and hazards in my life. I couldn’t get through a whole week without disappointing her and I was always guilty. Had she found out about Connie? No, impossible. I’d worked that out; never call Connie from home, immediately delete all emails and texts; our assignations were successfully accomplished while Bella was at work or away on business. No, this new failure was simply a result of Bella’s expectations and what she referred to as my pathological self-esteem.
Too bad I couldn’t just reach in my wallet and give her a couple hundred-dollar bills. A few years ago that may have worked.
I pulled the ribbon on the box and the top came away easily. Inside were several rows of chocolates with a different calligraphic ornament on each one. I think these symbols were supposed to communicate what flavors were contained within each piece of candy; orange, coconut, fudge.
I didn’t care.
I didn’t care because I now remembered that I had not bought anything for Connie, either. And if anyone was going to be disappointed about being forgotten on Valentines Day, it was Connie.
She called it “Valentime’s Day.” With an “M”. Jesus.
Bella shifted, waited for my response. “Thanks. Nice. Candy. How sweet. Ha.”
Another stupid holiday and I felt like a fucking moron.
Bella looked at me, her eyes flat, a slight smile.
“Hang on, I have to go down to the car. I have something for you, too. Really. Happy Valentine’s day.” I didn’t try to kiss her.
Excited, big smile, I dashed out the front door and down the stairs to the carport. I made a lot of noise opening and slamming doors, rummaging in the trunk. I swore loudly.
When I came back in the house I was empty-handed and breathing hard. Bella lounged on the sofa with a copy of Vanity Faire.
“Goddamn, you know what? I forgot your present at work. No, don’t look at me like that, I remembered, bought a nice present last night, but I forgot it on my way home.”
Silence.
“Look, I’ll be right back. I’ll go by the office and pick it up and come right back. Hang on. No problems. Happy Valentine’s day.”
Before she could speak I was backing the car down the driveway. Shit.
I knew what I had to do. Find a place that sold flowers, of course, perhaps something else like candy and a big stupid card. Then I’d have to buy two of each and drive like a madman fifteen miles to Connie’s house and drop off her presents, candy, flowers, card, big kiss, a little groping, no, no, I have to get back, love you; turn around and make it home before dinner to present Bella with my token of appreciation and respect.
This was going to kill me.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

A New Driver's License





Last week I had to get a Driver’s License because mine expired while I was out of the country. I’d been dicked around at the local Motor Vehicle Department because, they said, I didn’t have the proper documents. A license, a passport, mortgage statements and utility bills weren’t enough. They sent me home and I didn’t know what else to do. I mentioned it to my friend Tim and he said, “Let’s go to Questa. It’s easy up there.” I didn’t believe him but we drove 20 miles north and pulled into the empty parking lot. I thought they were closed. Nope. Ten minutes later, with the same documentation, I had a renewed license with a nice photo. I didn’t even have to take an eye test. I was in shock. Local government that works for the consumer.
During the procedure they ask a series of questions: Is this you? Have you been arrested for DUI? Are you a citizen?
The last question was: Do you want to register to vote or change your political party?
Well, hell yes.
And holy mackerel, I am no longer a Democrat. Just like that, after fifty years, a few keystrokes and I’m an Independent and I feel like I just got sober. A huge weight has been lifted from me. I may have added ten years to my life. No more money from me, DNC, you lying, cheating creeps. No more stupid emails or robo-calls. Seriously, does that shit work? Probably does, on the “We Are The Chosen” wing of the party. Weak.

In advance, I wish none of the following were true because I dislike the current so-called administration and its supporters, apologists and asskissers more than I ever thought possible. They are the embodiment of corruption and immaturity. The clowns in Washington are not alone; the same kinds of people are in power or trying to get in power everywhere. Sometimes they win. And we know why they win and why they will continue to win, don’t we?
Things have changed and the Lib Dem’s timeworn system stopped working about 20 years ago. The Democrats have to get much, much tougher and put their old ways in the ground. Did they not notice that evil fucks like Karl Rove were being successful? Did they care so much about their image as well-mannered, educated, clever financially secure saviors of the future that they wouldn’t learn from their opponents and from their own mistakes? Wow. Better get it together pretty soon or it will be too late. Hope not.
As of November 9, 2016 political thought flipped on its back but many of the Democratic opposition are still trying to work within an archaic system. The following is a list of replacement conduct and new definitions for outdated terms that will need to be adopted if the Dems want to regain some power in government, save face, grow their brand and enter the world of reality.

Manners          =  Elbows out, take up space, talk loud, disregard others.
Logic               =  Emotional reactions based on childish inclinations.
Facts               =  Unnecessary and a waste of everyone’s time. Grow up.
Fairness           =  Set traps, cheat, blame someone else.
Hygiene           =  Plastic surgery, Rogaine, implants
Truth               =  Lie your ass off and your supporters won’t care. Ever.
Patience           =  It’s for the weak. Threats are more effective. Follow through.
Respect           =  Ridicule all challengers without mercy.
Ethics              =  Get what you want regardless of the cost.
Kindness         =  Don’t waste time with it.
Education        =  Critical thinking is treason.
Resistance       =  Indicates enemies who must be crushed.
Compassion    =  Obsolete unless there is monetary recompense.
Legal                =  Rules for the weak and pathetic.
Government    =  Potential for huge rewards based on services rendered.

There you go; a new system of conduct for the modern activist, a gift from me to the remaining Democrats.
Go ahead, continue what you’re doing and see what happens. Peaceful protests and hats and crafty signs, Facebook outrage, online petitions, prayer, high dudgeon, tears, chants, Instagram, Twitter, Linked-in, Gofundme, begin organizing for 2018 or 2020 or 2024 or whatever. Not for a second will your aggressive and treacherous antagonists listen or care. Get dirty. Give up the ancient image of well-groomed dignity and be willing to take some heat, lose friends, sacrifice the grandchildren. If not? More of the same.
I can say this because I now have a clearer perspective.
I’m an Independent.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Don't Be So Negative







Last week women and men across the US and around the world gathered to demonstrate resistance to antique repressive policies, condescension and wretched treatment and the events happened to overlap with D. Trump’s inauguration. Women, minorities, marginalized groups have made some progress, not great, but good, and President Trump could reverse those advancements; it’s a legitimate concern. He’s everything I’ve ever detested; rich entitled bullying loud country-club fratboys who haven’t worked or read a book since college. He’s what I hate and what I never want to be. And I have been in plenty of locker rooms, poker games and rock bands and we’ve never talked about women the way that he does. The psychobastard can go frig himself with that bullshit.
He was correct, though, when he said that because he’s a celebrity he could get away with stuff the rest of us would be arrested for. That’s an indictment of America’s Shallow Values. He’s such a puke that perhaps his hateful words and actions will precipitate a denunciation of him and his corrupt attitudes towards women, money, and celebrity. The guy is so vile that rejection of his standards could be a new pathway towards a better world and sensible behavior.
I’m a dreamer.
He’s the President and magical thinking, prayer, and Facebook petitions are not going to alter that fact. That’s delusion.
Sure, the New Dark Ages may be upon us. A militarized right wing apocalypse. The end of kindness, peace and human rights. Things change, guaranteed, but often they don’t get better for a long, long time; centuries. Resist, demonstrate, oppose.
 But, check it out.
Don is 70 years old. Old man, right? He’s fat, bloated, red-faced. He is totally externally referred and worries about what others think of him. A lot. He insults and ridicules people he perceives as weak and believes he is some kind of expert on human nature. He’s angry as all get out, obsesses about people who disrespect him, quick to react, revenge seeker. He has an extended family of dipshits who, at any moment, could go off on some deviation that will unravel the whole expensive sweater. His business empire requires significant attention and he claims it will now be run by his moronic sons; he is hyperactive and can’t hold still, a jittery facemaking motherfucker; he’s loud; he has a modest education and competes with smarter people every single hour of every day; he has surrounded himself with sycophants and asskissers who will tell him what he wants to hear so he really has no idea what’s truly going on in the world of people; he likes the spotlight but he’s going to notice very soon that he will never never have another moment of privacy; his wife looks as if she’s ready to bolt or OD; Barron, the young son and heir and possible future candidate may turn out to be a flake off the old rock; the world is a shitstorm on spin with the dial set to eleven and Attention Deficit Don’s homework will be to study and familiarize himself so that he can make important informed decisions about international relations.
His stress levels and confusion are probably off the charts.
I don’t even know what I’m going to have for dinner so I can’t pretend to predict what will happen in the next six months, two years, four years, but based on the above data, real and observed, Trump, a piece of shit, is going to be in ICU sooner rather than later.
There is something about the image of D. Trump on an around-the-clock ventilator, I.V.s, morphine drip, strapped to a hospital bed, twisting in his restraints, surrounded by monitors and alarms, babbling 140-character coprolalia to an army of docs and therapists as media-weasels peek through the blinds at their president; out of it, degenerate, incontinent.
The thought cheers me up.
The future, coming soon.