To be frank…

I talk a’buncha shit on here but truth is I’m a damn joke. A bloviatin’ bitter joke. Goin’ for this above-it-all neutrality. Don’t fall for it, it’s a farce (that D@#$s article is way too knowing). I’m CLEARLY showcasing my ‘issues.’ Alienation. Awkwardness. Inadequacy. A need for approval. A need for closeness. But too afraid to admit it. Too needy when I have it. Just all that makes-you-wanna-slash-already-slashed-tires manic-depressive so-called-artist shit. All hiding behind faux-bravado. With that said, I’m not gonna stop writing this stuff. Sorry. I kinda gotta go all in now. Might be my only way outta this full’a shit an’ fraudulence parade I’ve called a ‘life’ for a little over thirty spins. But most importantly: I REALLY like doing it.



Revolutions are a lot like volcanic eruptions. They appear to happen suddenly, but are actually the result of several reactions. The eruptions are what we SEE and RESPOND to. We are ignorant to the deep internal grumblings that precede them. The suddenness of the blast shocks us and the ensuing chaos of lava and ash confuses, scares us, but once the lava cools it becomes new land on which new life sprouts and everything goes back to being nice and boring again…until another eruption disrupts things. The relative rarity of the eruption is what gets our attention; diverts our focus away from the humdrum. Much like those sexy-ass revolutions. We romanticize them because they are aberrations that break-up the monotony and bring about rapid change and the best part is they are usually carried out by lowly proles just like us!!! But after the blood dries and the celebrations in the street come to an end all we’re left with is a new type of mundane. A new ruling class that will one day be usurped by a new batch of revolutionaries who will then become the new squares and around-and-around we go. So really, there is nothing revolutionary about revolution, which begs the question: What is TRULY revolutionary?

Oh yeah, this weird shit.

Self Fear


There is a real ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ vibe to racial, gender, LGBT, religious, et cetera unity/pride…

    “Hey man, I know we don’t really like each other, but both of us have either already experienced or will likely experience (insert your ism or phobia of choice) so let’s team-up and go march somewhere.”

Yes, I’m being glib, but this is what seems to be at the core of identity politics; people united by a common hater…or a relative distinction that is heavily reliant on the existence of other relative distinctions; so all of you out there talking about how proud you are to be this or that go find someone who isn’t this or that and thank them for ‘your’ identity because without them you wouldn’t BE anything……well, maybe you’d just be you. But WHO in the hell are you?
Continue reading ‘Self Fear’

starship troopers

Insects can survive VIOLENT impacts that if scaled-up would liquify us! Right now there’s this little aphid thing fluttering in front of my screen and I have swatted at dude with a force that should have rendered him dead the MOMENT my hand impacted his tiny little body. But this dude keeps coming back on some very-next-day type shit. They’re bloody nanotechnology I tell ya. Little micro-bots. How you gonna look pretty much the same from the dinosaur days to NOW?! Just sayin’ “Fuck you evolution!” for millions upon millions of years. Oh, and look at what they bleed out?! Green and blue shit! That’s not blood, that’s fuel! And they CRUNCH(!) when stepped on! You know why that’s a big deal? This sound—scaled-up—would sound similar to some sort of artificial mechanical substance breaking apart. No joke. Imagine a bug the size of the one above being stepped on. Also, how you gonna stay still, in ONE DAMN spot?! Not doing ONE DAMN thing?! For hours???!!!
Continue reading ”

Everything I’ve been blathering about reduced to 166 words… reduced to 12+1 Tweets.

Ahead of Time


I think we underestimate the technologically advanced society that is/was/will be our world without hyper-relative clocks. Those tick-tockin’ sumbitches that produce arbitrary nonsense like 3:27, 2143 or the hyper-gay ‘half past ten.’ Imagine these pedantic-ass robots gone, our knowledge of ‘em gone too. Imagine the No Man’s Sky-like experience perceiving the world would be! Nights would last forever. No constant reminder of how close we are from sunset, sunrise. We could just take it easy. The light will show itself eventually, as will the dark, and even THEN we STILL got a’few more MOMENTS until ‘absolute either’ takes over/goes away.

I think this dynamic led to feats of engineering like what we see above. Our ancestors weren’t slaves to time, they relished in moments, they understood that light and dark are two deeply connected states. Actually, we STILL understand this…so why did we have to go an’ break ‘em up into a’buncha little bits? Now we got buses an’ trains that leave at 6:54. 6:54???!!! That’s such an exact-ass time! Makes sense though. We gotta be at an exact-ass place at an EXACT-ass time.

This is the ‘exacting’ world we’ve created for ourselves: A series of relative points scattered about the globe and us incessantly counting how many ‘beats‘ we can squeeze in-between them.

A’buncha Dicks


There is a curious distance maintained between the hetero male fan and the athlete. The athlete seems to be providing a service to the fan. And because of this he can’t REALLY be considered an equal. But that’s the SAFE reason. There’s another more uncomfortable reason. One so-called ‘straight’ dudes don’t like talking about and that is the element in this picture. Most dudes ain’t walkin’ around lookin’ like Mr. Edwards, but on the professional (and NOW even college) football field damn near every last one of these cats look like fitness models! These men are PHYSICALLY what most of the aging, dream-deferred, out-of-shape, couch-stricken, bitter-as-fuck men WISH they could be. This creates an uncomfortable situation for them…

    “I don’t know if I’m sexually attracted to his body or if I simply desire it for myself…and for myself I mean for it to be mine…not like MINE…like you would say MY girl, but I want his body. Shit. Not WANT like I want my girl’s body. I want to LOOK like him…so that girls WANT me….and so that guys WANT to LOOK like ME. In other words: I want to be confused, but act like I’m not. Now it’s time to go punch somebody in the face… Oh, over there, his face looks punchable…… Hey you, in the orange, why are you light-skinned with model features and blue eyes*? No seriously, why YOU and NOT me? Why can’t I be beautiful? I WANT to be BEAUTIFUL too!… Damn. I bet a LOTTA girls probably like you. Eh. No worries, I’ll just find some reasons why they shouldn’t and hide my jealous confusion behind them. Whew. That almost got weird.”

This confusion leads to the distance which leads to the weird love/hate relationship ‘straight’ guys have with male athletes. You’ll see this infatuated/jilted lover dynamic play out on your feeds, ESPN and sports talk radio. The athlete MUST be an ‘other.’ Some naturally gifted, PED-fueled freak-of-nature. A primal beast who needs to just shut the hell up and amuse us. He CANNOT be smart, outspoken or arrogant though. The middle-aged white dudes who control the popular narrative of professional sports act all funny then. ESPECIALLY if he’s unabashedly cocky. They hate that shit…
Continue reading ‘A’buncha Dicks’

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