I'm starting to believe its true that no one sees through your bull shit.

I'm starting to believe its true that no one sees through your bull shit. Not only have I been through what you've been through, but I've been through worse and you know it. This is all an act. I'm not sure who you're putting it on for but its not fooling me. Anybody with half a brain knows that if people who work till 2 am are on the downlow; unless you work in a bar. You probably got off about the same time yesterday and the whole "I gotta go back to work" thing was just as much of an act. Just so you know, I'm acting too.

What are you lookin' at? You're all a bunch of fuckin' assholes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be what you wanna be.

What are you lookin' at? You're all a bunch of fuckin' assholes. You know why? You don't have the guts to be what you wanna be. You need people like me. You need people like me so you can point your fuckin' fingers, and say "that's the bad guy." So, what'll that make you? Good? You're not good. You just know how to hide, how to lie. Me, I don't have that problem. Me, I always tell the truth... even when I lie. So say goodnight to the bad guy. Come on. The last time you gonna see a bad guy like this again, let me tell you.

Sadly enough, I've spent all evening sick, and my pants are soiled. Its not because I have no selfcontrol.

Sadly enough, I've spent all evening sick, and my pants are soiled. Its not because I have no selfcontrol. Its because you got angry and decided to put a dose in my food. Now if I used your kids to get even with you that would be wrong wouldn't it?

You're all so smug with no reason. Like a dog proud of the strength of the smell of his shit. But I'll admit you're smart. If I was doing this to someone I'd never let them up. Then again if I was doing it I'd be right. Wondering how I figure that aren't you? That is the whole point.

Yeah, I can feel the drugs in the food you cooked tonight

Yeah, I can feel the drugs in the food you cooked tonight, and I don't give a fuck if you get the whole fucking neighborhood to eat it, I don't want it. Maybe if you would fess up to drugging the food in the first place, tell me what drugs they are and why I have to take them, and then serve your time for putting them in my food without my knowledge in the first place, I'd eat it. I'm starting to smell it too. That is some nasty ass shit.

Is the beer supposed to make me like the death threats.

Is the beer supposed to make me like the death threats. What is this nasty tasting/smelling drug supposed to do? Is it supposed to make me think that someone who would drug me against my will and lie to me about it like I'm Autistic would never harm me much less kill me? You looked like you were choking on your own vomit when you came up the stairs. Part of my delusion is that I'd like you more if you were a better liar. Now tell me that's normal.

Please don't misunderstand me.

Please don't misunderstand me. I am grateful for the food even though its all been drugged. I could have not eaten at all. And I am grateful for "My Drink" as you call it; we just call it Drug Juice; you could have just left me to lap out of the toilet. How much does it cost to buy all those drugs? I suppose I should be grateful that you cared enough to go through all the trouble. I doubt that your bright enough to recognize sarcasm, so I'm telling you now...

We can only hope that my poor spelling does as much harm to you as your stupidity has done to me.

How do you rationalize the death threats?

How do you rationalize the death threats? Do you think I imagine them all? Has Bob denied the fish we found on the doorstep? Did the FBI say they never got any messages from me or placed calls to my home regarding those messages? How many times does it have to happen before you take it seriously? So many people "only joking" about killing me. So many people who have so many reasons for grinding my life to dust. There's always some special reason I don't have the same rights as other people.

I'll make you a promise, no one is ever going to kill me. But you are making me nervous.

You always fool me

You always fool me, but that's because I'm a better person than you. Its also because I don't have any choice in the matter. You should listen to your own warnings. I hope its true that people always get what's coming to them, because that means that you have a long fall coming, my friend. You remember that man you saw on TV today who you said looked pathetic. You look just like him. Just as cocky, just as ignorant. I guess you've been lying about the money too. "We" don't live like this, "I" live like this because you feel like I deserve to. Everyone does, and I'm not allowed to know why. If I could I'd spend as long hurting you as you've spent hurting me. Don't forget that.

I don't understand why you keep laughing

I don't understand why you keep laughing. I'm actually exhausted from hunger and trying to think of things and ways to eat that won't be drugged. All my anger and misery and frustration amuse you so much that you can barely help laughing right in my face.

I don't get what's funny about it. I've known every time you've drugged my food and drink. There's nothing I can do about it, but I've known. The fact that it makes you twist in your seat and twist your mouth with glee just makes you look more pathetic than you already do. I hadn't thought it was possible, but you have made it so.

Does it make you feel good about yourself? Do you believe you are smart or clever? What is it that makes you feel like you are right? It can't be too compelling or you'd throw it in my face with the same glee that you twist in your seat with. That's what I mean when I say the fact that you have to hide proves you're wrong. You are getting away with it, but you're not right.

What is so funny about the fact that I have no privacy? Don't you understand its part of what keeps us together. I don't want to be here anymore than you want me here. But of course, you don't understand, or I'd be gone already.

I'll tell you something else I know. There are people who understand it very well, my friend. The Matrix has you, not me.

I'm pathetic

Its never ending. No matter how much I confront and question you lie and deny, and insist that everything I say is proof that I'm mentally ill, which I suppose is the reason you're secretly drugging my food anyway. I'm the only one its secret from, clearly.

Here's the thing that's been bothering me lately. You weren't trying to convince me by making that phone call the other day, and as I look back it seemed before that your performances weren't meant for me. Who are you doing this act for? Suddenly you're too frail to watch the Pianist without covering your eyes. The first time we watched it you didn't have any problem, but last week you couldn't take it. Who are these performances for? They're not for me. You were a military nurse during Viet Nam. I know that you're not faint of heart. I can remember you telling stories of treating soldiers who had been burned with phosperous bombs. Must have been ugly and bloody, much more so than the Pianist. Yet, suddenly my pain and anguish is the only sort you seem to be able to witness without flinching.

The shrink keeps calling saying he's returning my call. Am I supposed to believe that I am asking for help without knowing it?

In the meantime I'm still the worst person that anyone has ever met on or offline, and considered completely incompetent in every respect. Since our last confrontation I all but pass out between ten and midnight and my bowels have become as solid as potters clay. I can still feel the drugs in the food and the toothpaste. I can actually taste the drugs in the toothpaste. That and the fact that you never use it anymore is a pretty big tip off. Where are you keeping your toothpaste?

You know we could resolve the whole thing by just putting all the cards on the table. For whatever reason you don't want to do that. What possible reason could you have for wanting me to not be able to work, or go out? I guess I'm just too pathetic.

There are Drugs in the Food

That's like calling Michael Jackson to ask him if he noticed you acting funny around the kids at the last sleep over. Congratulations, you are officially worse than your ex husband.

the changes

There was a carton of vanilla yogurt that had been drugged. When I started to complain about the smell it disappeared. The pepper grinder on the stove has drugs in it, at least one of the bottles of the ketchup and the toothpaste in the bathroom.

You would pass the same scrutiny that I go through. You have to keep it secret because you're wrong.

Grinding away

Well now we've sat down and had our little chat, about everything except the issues I write about here, as usual. And we've had food, which I'm reasonably sure isn't drugged, but there's still more I'd like to share with you.

Its not all smoothed over for me. The cigarettes are the only cigarettes I have and the drug they're laced with is the one that makes me soil myself. Its the same drug that is in my skin cream, which I wish you hadn't drugged because I really needed that cream. When the weather started turning warm I slathered it on my feet and put on some sandals and now every time I wear those sandals I can feel the drug. I taste it in my mouth and it makes my lips numb and my stool loose, occasionally very loose. It also makes my scalp, lips and hands tingle. Its very uncomfortable, and clearly not natural. Its obvious that I'm being drugged and frustrating is a very tactful way of describing my experience dealing with it.

The drugs in my drinks make me sleep. Sometimes I sleep 18 hours a day, which wouldn't be so frustrating if it wasn't obvious that you are frustrated with my sleeping all the time. I think your plan is that I'll sleep at night and be awake during the day, but that hasn't panned out yet.

I'll tell you something else I know. Whoever is helping you with this, putting the drugs in the bottles of beer and packaged foods, has a plan too. Their plan is that sooner or later I'll get so frustrated that I'll kill you, and in the meantime they'll have a good laugh.

This is stupid. It wasn't working last year. Its not working this year. Its never going to do anything but make things worse. Stop it.

Back to the grind

Back to the messages.

All the food and drink in the house is drugged.
All the beer that I buy is drugged.
Now you've started drugging my cigarettes.
I can't work.
I can't go out.
No one will admit that this is happening, and most thinks its kind of funny.
Talking about any of this is just proof of my anger problem or other mental illness.

So you're either just stupid or you're waiting for me to crack so you can do whatever it is that you really want to do. I told you a few weeks ago I don't actually believe that any of the people around me are as stupid as they pretend to be.

Find this

She logged into her oh so public blog
And check the box "Remember Me",
And I did and I will for the rest of my life.
So many things make me want to cry now
That I can never tell which one is welling me up
When. I'm sure all of this is true
And I hope whatever I'm doing is helping
Her as much as she's helped me.
I didn't know.
I'm sorry.
I hope you find this.

Sharon Stone Nude!

OK enough with the individual messages. They only seem to make my intimate circle of friends better liars.

On a completely different note, I was able to weekend with someone who has one of those crazy dish television services and I came across a movie called “The Last Picture Show”. I had heard of the movie from different sources before, but this was my first viewing. The movie stars Cybill Shepherd, among others, whom my unconscious mind apparently confuses with Sharon Stone and I spent days telling everyone I talked to about this great Sharon Stone movie I had just seen. Its also a period film, but the entire time I watched it I was sure it was made in the late 50’s or early 60’s, but when I finally got back to my computer to look it up it turns out it was made in 1971. Still pretty early for most of the stars of the film.

The film is beautiful. Its filmed in black and white with no sepia filter, which I think can be condescending depending on the script. The copy I saw wasnÂ’t letter box, but considering how it looked full screen the letter box version can only be better. All of the costumes and sets seem more than authentic and lend to sucking the viewer into the story.

The plot is set in a small town in Texas in the 50Â’s and follows the lives of an ensemble of characters as they cope with their circumstances and each other. Reading reviews on the IMDb, people seem a little put out by the sexuality in the movie but you can take this one from old Al. Any director who includes a sex scene with Cloris Leachman in his movie isnÂ’t trying to sell his movie with sex, but I did think that scene was kind of sexy.

YouÂ’ll recognize a lot of the stars in the movie, at a time when they were all unknown. Bizarrely, Cybill looks almost exactly the same. Buy it, rent it, pirate it, steal it from the library; whatever it takes.

For the record, I tried to tell you I was onto you. I'm not sure if you noticed, but just in case I'm leaving you this note,

... which I'm sure you'll read. I can't believe you were able to choke out all of that flattery. I could barely tell how difficult it was for you. You do some of the same things Sydney did. Do they send you guys to a special class?

I've said this before in this blog, but children usually need to hear things a few times before it sinks in. Has it ever occurred to any of you that if you had a leg to stand on you wouldn't need all this secrecy? You need the secrecy because what you're doing is wrong. But then that's the problem; you don't know the difference between right and wrong. You also don't know the difference between secrets and privacy.

There's not even any point in insulting you, so I'll make this easy to understand. Everything you do proves you're wrong.

If they have any confidence in their ability, no writer would write in these conditions. They might as well hide a map to buried treasure on a whore's back.

Harrison Bergeron by Kurt Vonnegut (1961)

The Year was 2081, and everybody was finally equal. They weren’t only equal before God and the law. They were equal every which way. Nobody was smarter than anybody else. Nobody was better looking than anybody else. Nobody was stronger or quicker than anybody else. All this equality was due to the 211th, 212th, and 213th Amendments to the Constitution, and to the unceasing vigilance of agents of the United States Handicapper General.

Some things about living still weren’t quite right, though. April, for instance, still drove people crazy by not being springtime. And it was in that clammy month that the H-G men took George and Hazel Bergeron’s fourteen-year-old son, Harrison, away.

It was tragic, all right, but George and Hazel couldn’t think about it very hard. Hazel had a perfectly average intelligence, which meant she couldn’t think about anything except in short bursts. And George, while his intelligence was way above normal, had a little mental handicap radio in his ear. He was required by law to wear it at all times. It was tuned to a government transmitter. Every twenty seconds or so, the transmitter would send out some sharp noise to keep people like George from taking unfair advantage of their brains.

George and Hazel were watching television. There were tears on Hazel’s cheeks, but she’d forgotten for the moment what they were about.

On the television screen were ballerinas.

A buzzer sounded in George’s head. His thoughts fled in panic, like bandits from a burglar alarm.

“That was a real pretty dance, that dance they just did,� said Hazel.

“Huh?� said George.

“That dance – it was nice,� said Hazel.

“Yup,� said George. He tried to think a little about the ballerinas. They weren’t really very good – no better than anybody else would have been, anyway. They were burdened with sashweights and bags of birdshot, and their faces were masked, so that no one, seeing a free and graceful gesture or a pretty face, would feel like something the cat drug in. George was toying with the vague notion that maybe dancers shouldn’t be handicapped. But he didn’t get very far with it before another noise in his ear radio scattered his thoughts.

George winced. So did two out of the eight ballerinas.

Hazel saw him wince. Having no mental handicap herself she had to ask George what the latest sound had been.

“Sounded like somebody hitting a milk bottle with a ball peen hammer,� said George.

“I’d think it would be real interesting, hearing all the different sounds,� said Hazel, a little envious. “All the things they think up.�
“Um,� said George.

“Only, if I was Handicapper General, you know what I would do?� said Hazel. Hazel, as a matter of fact, bore a strong resemblance to the Handicapper General, a woman named Diana Moon Glampers. “If I was Diana Moon Glampers,� said Hazel, “I’d have chimes on Sunday – just chimes. Kind of in honor of religion.�

“I could think, if it was just chimes,� said George.

“Well – maybe make ‘em real loud,� said Hazel. “I think I’d make a good Handicapper General.�

“Good as anybody else,� said George.

“Who knows better’n I do what normal is?� said Hazel.

“Right,� said George. He began to think glimmeringly about his abnormal son who was now in jail, about Harrison, but a twenty-one-gun salute in his head stopped that.

“Boy!� said Hazel, “that was a doozy, wasn’t it?�

It was such a doozy that George was white and trembling and tears stood on the rims of his red eyes. Two of the eight ballerinas had collapsed to the studio floor, were holding their temples.

“All of a sudden you look so tired,� said Hazel. “Why don’t you stretch out on the sofa, so’s you can rest your handicap bag on the pillows, honeybunch.� She was referring to the forty-seven pounds of birdshot in canvas bag, which was padlocked around George’s neck. “Go on and rest the bag for a little while,� she said. “I don’t care if you’re not equal to me for a while.�

George weighed the bag with his hands. “I don’t mind it,� he said. “I don’t notice it any more. It’s just a part of me.

“You been so tired lately – kind of wore out,� said Hazel. “If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few.�

“Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out,� said George. “I don’t call that a bargain.�

“If you could just take a few out when you came home from work,� said Hazel. “I mean – you don’t compete with anybody around here. You just set around.�

“If I tried to get away with it,� said George, “then other people’d get away with it and pretty soon we’d be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn’t like that, would you?�

“I’d hate it,� said Hazel.

“There you are,� said George. “The minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?�

If Hazel hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to this question, George couldn’t have supplied one. A siren was going off in his head.

“Reckon it’d fall all apart,� said Hazel.

“What would?� said George blankly.

“Society,� said Hazel uncertainly. “Wasn’t that what you just said?�

“Who knows?� said George.

The television program was suddenly interrupted for a news bulletin. It wasn’t clear at first as to what the bulletin was about, since the announcer, like all announcers, had a serious speech impediment. For about half a minute, and in a state of high excitement, the announcer tried to say, “Ladies and gentlemen – “ He finally gave up, handed the bulletin to a ballerina to read.

“That’s all right –� Hazel said of the announcer, “he tried. That’s the big thing. He tried to do the best he could with what God gave him. He should get a nice raise for trying so hard.�

“Ladies and gentlemen� said the ballerina, reading the bulletin. She must have been extraordinarily beautiful, because the mask she wore was hideous. And it was easy to see that she was the strongest and most graceful of all the dancers, for her handicap bags were as big as those worn by two-hundred-pound men.

And she had to apologize at once for her voice, which was a very unfair voice for a woman to use. Her voice was a warm, luminous, timeless melody. “Excuse me – “ she said, and she began again, making her voice absolutely uncompetitive.

“Harrison Bergeron, age fourteen,� she said in a grackle squawk, “has just escaped from jail, where he was held on suspicion of plotting to overthrow the government. He is a genius and an athlete, is under–handicapped, and should be regarded as extremely dangerous.�

A police photograph of Harrison Bergeron was flashed on the screen – upside down, then sideways, upside down again, then right side up. The picture showed the full length of Harrison against a background calibrated in feet and inches. He was exactly seven feet tall.

The rest of Harrison’s appearance was Halloween and hardware. Nobody had ever worn heavier handicaps. He had outgrown hindrances faster than the H–G men could think them up. Instead of a little ear radio for a mental handicap, he wore a tremendous pair of earphones, and spectacles with thick wavy lenses. The spectacles were intended to make him not only half blind, but to give him whanging headaches besides.

Scrap metal was hung all over him. Ordinarily, there was a certain symmetry, a military neatness to the handicaps issued to strong people, but Harrison looked like a walking junkyard. In the race of life, Harrison carried three hundred pounds.

And to offset his good looks, the H–G men required that he wear at all times a red rubber ball for a nose, keep his eyebrows shaved off, and cover his even white teeth with black caps at snaggle–tooth random.

“If you see this boy,� said the ballerina, “do not – I repeat, do not – try to reason with him.�

There was the shriek of a door being torn from its hinges.

Screams and barking cries of consternation came from the television set. The photograph of Harrison Bergeron on the screen jumped again and again, as though dancing to the tune of an earthquake.

George Bergeron correctly identified the earthquake, and well he might have – for many was the time his own home had danced to the same crashing tune. “My God –� said George, “that must be Harrison!�

The realization was blasted from his mind instantly by the sound of an automobile collision in his head.

When George could open his eyes again, the photograph of Harrison was gone. A living, breathing Harrison filled the screen.

Clanking, clownish, and huge, Harrison stood in the center of the studio. The knob of the uprooted studio door was still in his hand. Ballerinas, technicians, musicians, and announcers cowered on their knees before him, expecting to die.

“I am the Emperor!� cried Harrison. “Do you hear? I am the Emperor! Everybody must do what I say at once!� He stamped his foot and the studio shook.

“Even as I stand here –� he bellowed, “crippled, hobbled, sickened – I am a greater ruler than any man who ever lived! Now watch me become what I can become!�

Harrison tore the straps of his handicap harness like wet tissue paper, tore straps guaranteed to support five thousand pounds.

Harrison’s scrap–iron handicaps crashed to the floor.

Harrison thrust his thumbs under the bar of the padlock that secured his head harness. The bar snapped like celery. Harrison smashed his headphones and spectacles against the wall.

He flung away his rubber–ball nose, revealed a man that would have awed Thor, the god of thunder.

“I shall now select my Empress!� he said, looking down on the cowering people. “Let the first woman who dares rise to her feet claim her mate and her throne!�

A moment passed, and then a ballerina arose, swaying like a willow.

Harrison plucked the mental handicap from her ear, snapped off her physical handicaps with marvelous delicacy. Last of all, he removed her mask.

She was blindingly beautiful.

“Now� said Harrison, taking her hand, “shall we show the people the meaning of the word dance? Music!� he commanded.

The musicians scrambled back into their chairs, and Harrison stripped them of their handicaps, too. “Play your best,� he told them, “and I’ll make you barons and dukes and earls.�

The music began. It was normal at first – cheap, silly, false. But Harrison snatched two musicians from their chairs, waved them like batons as he sang the music as he wanted it played. He slammed them back into their chairs.

The music began again and was much improved.

Harrison and his Empress merely listened to the music for a while – listened gravely, as though synchronizing their heartbeats with it.

They shifted their weights to their toes.

Harrison placed his big hands on the girl’s tiny waist, letting her sense the weightlessness that would soon be hers.

And then, in an explosion of joy and grace, into the air they sprang!

Not only were the laws of the land abandoned, but the law of gravity and the laws of motion as well.

They reeled, whirled, swiveled, flounced, capered, gamboled, and spun.

They leaped like deer on the moon.

The studio ceiling was thirty feet high, but each leap brought the dancers nearer to it. It became their obvious intention to kiss the ceiling.

They kissed it.

And then, neutralizing gravity with love and pure will, they remained suspended in air inches below the ceiling, and they kissed each other for a long, long time.

It was then that Diana Moon Glampers, the Handicapper General, came into the studio with a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun. She fired twice, and the Emperor and the Empress were dead before they hit the floor.

Diana Moon Glampers loaded the gun again. She aimed it at the musicians and told them they had ten seconds to get their handicaps back on.

It was then that the Bergerons’ television tube burned out.

Hazel turned to comment about the blackout to George.

But George had gone out into the kitchen for a can of beer.

George came back in with the beer, paused while a handicap signal shook him up. And then he sat down again. “You been crying?� he said to Hazel.

“Yup,� she said,

“What about?� he said.

“I forget,� she said. “Something real sad on television.�

“What was it?� he said.

“It’s all kind of mixed up in my mind,� said Hazel.

“Forget sad things,� said George.

“I always do,� said Hazel.

“That’s my girl,� said George. He winced. There was the sound of a riveting gun in his head.

“Gee – I could tell that one was a doozy,� said Hazel.

“You can say that again,� said George.

“Gee –� said Hazel, “I could tell that one was a doozy."

Apparently the subtleties of my blog, and our very direct indirect discussions have eluded you, so allow me to be blunt.

The drugs you are putting in my food, and put in my drink tonight don't help me relax. They only make me more tense and very, very angry because I DON'T WANT TO BE DRUGGED AGAINST MY WILL. I don't know how much clearer I can make this message. Fucking stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Hysterical Paroxia

I observed in an earlier post that when a woman masturbates its considered a moment of self discovery, and when a man masturbates its an act of loneliness and desperation. I've always wondered why this is and finally this evening I find out.

Apparently as early as the first century AD Doctors had been masturbating women to orgasm to treat them for what we would call sexual frustration, but was then referred to as "hysteria, pelvic hyperemia, or congestion of the genitalia". Symptoms of the disorder seem to have been vague. One web page lists mental or emotional distress, lassitude, irritability, depression, confusion, palpitations of the heart, headaches, forgetfulness, insomnia, muscle spasms, stomach upsets, writing cramps, ticklishness and weepiness. My guess is that today we would call that PMS.

From the original article,

"I'm sure the women felt much better afterwards, slept better, smiled more," said Dr. Maines. Besides, she added, hysteria, as it was traditionally defined, was an incurable, chronic disease. "The patient had to go to the doctor regularly," Dr. Maines said. "She didn't die. She was a cash cow."

The first vibrator was invented in the late 19th century as a tool for doctors who had till then been performing the procedure by hand.

Not exactly an explanation, but it does shed more light on the cultural context. I looked for information on male masturbation but didn't find nearly the quality of content as on female masturbation. If you're interested here's a link. I only started reading, but it looks like good material.

Again

I woke up in a good mood. No, I woke up in a great mood and within a few hours you dashed that to the rocks. Your snide comments, your calculated hidden derision wear at me like a fine sand paper. There is no talking about it beyond talking about talking; what is mean, what really happened, what is laughing. You are protected at my expense, and you ask why I don't trust you. And lets not forget the drugs in the food. And more and more and more.

My goal is always to love you in the same way you love me. I fail, but i persist.

Why Death is no Big Deal

I'm on a roll tonight. Many people I have regular online contact with will find this article interesting, and possibly insulting if they're smart enough, which I smugly doubt. I'm posting this article in its entirety. If you were planning on sending me a boat load of money to let me know how much pleasure you've gotten from reading my blog, please wait a few days to avoid the appearance I've profited from someone else's work. If you are the author and have some other protest to my posting your work please contact me as soon as possible. I probably won't delete the article, but I like your writing and would be excited to be contacted by you.

Why death is no big deal

AL Kennedy
Wednesday March 2, 2005
The Guardian

I lost a friend last week. These things happen - I'm bad at people, after all - but I can't say I'm not pissed off. Last week I also talked to a nice lady who was great at describing loss, the details of loss, the amputated future, the lack of company. Because I'm bad at people it took me a long time to remember she was so well-informed because her husband died a while ago. I mean, ages ago, but she hasn't forgotten him. Which is odd, isn't it ? She wants to be able to talk to her husband, I want to be able to talk to my friend - but we shouldn't. We should be over it.

How do I know? Because I should be caring about how a bony tart and a petulant clothes horse choose to christen their spawn. I should be fretting over whether a lack of established royal precedent at Windsor register office will cause Camilla to spontaneously combust. I should want to see more and more and more of Jimmy Carr. Then I would be part of the real world, the things that matter, the questions that deserve every scrap of media attention they get.

Particularly, I should keep away from anything to do with unpleasantness, injury, or loss - they have no place in a modern media environment. Take Lance Corporal Andres Raya. I shouldn't think about him. He's dead now. He made it through Iraq, went home to California and couldn't take it. He committed suicide by cop in a three-hour gun fight. But he doesn't matter. Or Baha Mousa, he's never going to get the kind of headlines he might if he'd shagged Jordan, or shat himself in a celebrity detox special. He's dead now. Our troops killed him. But if that matters at all it's as an indication of how stressed war can make the modern soldier. His brother Ala'a misses him, but he probably lacks perspective.

Abdul Wali, he's dead now. He died after being interrogated by a CIA contractor in Afghanistan, but so what? Then there's Zaydun al-Samarrai. He's dead now. His cousin Marwan Hassoun is upset about this, but you can be sure he's overreacting - after all Sgt Tracy Perkins, one of the people who drowned al-Samarrai in the Tigris, was only given a six-month sentence, so it can't have been a big deal. Hanan Saleh Matrud, she's dead now. After they shot her in Basra, the British army paid her family £390 compensation, which is fair enough because she was only eight and might not have amounted to much.

Hussain Adbulkadr Youssouf Mustafa says he had a stick shoved up his rectum by US troops at Bagram air base in Afghanistan and he has the gall to complain. Didar Khalan says he was tortured for a week by the Patriotic Union of Kurdistan until he finally gave false testimony against Mullah Krekar, testimony that was later presented as a valid basis for prosecution by US authorities. He claims his arm was broken and that he was made to stand in a freezing room without clothing and sit on blocks of ice. Which would have made a terrific reality special, but sadly, no one thought ahead.

Wesam Abdulrahman Ahmed Al Deemawi was at Bagram, where he was threatened with dogs, stripped, photographed in obscene positions and placed in a cage with a hook and a hanging rope. He's not happy, either, when surely he should just be glad nobody killed him.

If either of them actually wanted the public's attention they should realise that having Kelly Osbourne shove a stick up their arse would have done it, or having someone, you know, attractive in those obscene photos. Think of how popular Hugh Grant's arrest snap still remains, and that barely suggests the erotic action that preceded his bust.

Surely, if we've learned nothing else from fusiliers Kenyon, Larkin and Cooley, it's that people really don't want to look at tubby, petrified Muslims trying to fake sodomy. We like our soft porn nipped and tucked. Or if it has to be ugly, it should involve paparazzi shots of stars that everyone is tired of, such as Mickey Rourke or Dirty Den.

Army specialist James Kiehl, he's dead now. He was killed in the same attack that won Jessica Lynch so much air time, but that wasn't enough to make him famous. Lance Corporal Shaun Brierley and Lt Philip Green, they're dead now. They died for Mr Blair, but that doesn't mean anyone should have heard of them. Peter Mahoney, he fought for Mr Blair, too. He's dead now. Killed himself. But that was last year - his wife and four children will be fine.

How do I know? Because that's the way the real world works. Remember all those poor, dead 9/11 victims we're supposed to be avenging? Many of their fragmentary remains have been dumped in the Fresh Kills landfill without even a memorial. Because we're over them. We can get over anything. It's the only way.

comment@guardian.co.uk

Metafilter

Now that I've added a links list I feel obligated to search out some links. In reality I never read blogs, but since I'm now writing one and may have started another I've been looking about.

I'm always reluctant to post links to pages I've found on Google since I figure if anyone reading were really interested in the subject they would have found that site themselves. However if you're like me you end up doing the same search several times because you never bookmark anything because you so rarely use the hundreds of bookmarks you already have. To that end I will include a link to a site that list blog sites by rank. I'm so isolated that reading what other people are writing about the goings on of the world wouldn't hurt, and somehow the local and national media just doesn't seem to fill that need.

The first Blog that I've come across that I liked reading filled that need quite readily. In their own words

"Metafilter is a weblog (what's a weblog? | comprehensive history of weblogs) that anyone can contribute a link or a comment to. A typical weblog is one person posting their thoughts on the unique things they find on the web. This website exists to break down the barriers between people, to extend a weblog beyond just one person, and to foster discussion among its members."

On its face it seems a great place to start if you, like me, don't know anything about Blogging. It kind of reads like what the Yahoo Message Boards would read like if all the racist and whackos would drop dead tomorrow leaving us to mediate what little ignorance we have left.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Blogger has been changing, evolving beneath me, so I've made some changes too. Inspired by the link list I saw on The Bunny's Blog, I've created my own. I've also seen some work by other Bloggers. Apparently its customary to have several Blogs divided by subject. We're gonna try that. My guess is it will be harder to undo than it is to do, but it may not come to that.

In the meantime I'm looking for a counselor today.

From our good friends at the CIA

The US has the largest and most technologically powerful economy in the world, with a per capita GDP of $37,800. In this market-oriented economy, private individuals and business firms make most of the decisions, and the federal and state governments buy needed goods and services predominantly in the private marketplace. US business firms enjoy considerably greater flexibility than their counterparts in Western Europe and Japan in decisions to expand capital plant, to lay off surplus workers, and to develop new products. At the same time, they face higher barriers to entry in their rivals' home markets than the barriers to entry of foreign firms in US markets. US firms are at or near the forefront in technological advances, especially in computers and in medical, aerospace, and military equipment; their advantage has narrowed since the end of World War II. The onrush of technology largely explains the gradual development of a "two-tier labor market" in which those at the bottom lack the education and the professional/technical skills of those at the top and, more and more, fail to get comparable pay raises, health insurance coverage, and other benefits. Since 1975, practically all the gains in household income have gone to the top 20% of households. The years 1994-2000 witnessed solid increases in real output, low inflation rates, and a drop in unemployment to below 5%. The year 2001 saw the end of boom psychology and performance, with output increasing only 0.3% and unemployment and business failures rising substantially. The response to the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 showed the remarkable resilience of the economy. Moderate recovery took place in 2002 with the GDP growth rate rising to 2.4%. A major short-term problem in first half 2002 was a sharp decline in the stock market, fueled in part by the exposure of dubious accounting practices in some major corporations. The war in March/April 2003 between a US-led coalition and Iraq shifted resources to the military. In 2003, growth in output and productivity and the recovery of the stock market to above 10,000 for the Dow Jones Industrial Average were promising signs. Unemployment stayed at the 6% level, however, and began to decline only at the end of the year. Long-term problems include inadequate investment in economic infrastructure, rapidly rising medical and pension costs of an aging population, sizable trade and budget deficits, and stagnation of family income in the lower economic groups.

More and more and more

Our recent conference call didn't go well. I didn't know you were listening at the time, but I do now. How many people were on the line I don't know.

If we had to boil this whole thing down to a few phrases I'd have to say that firstly, as long as you feel like you have to treat me for a disease or disorder that you can't confront me about you're wrong. Secretly treating someone for paranoid delusions without telling him that you're treating him is the fucking dumbest idea I've ever heard of. Anyone who thinks that makes sense if a fool.

You secretly decide that I have schizophrenia and then secretly treat me for schizophrenia and then somehow everyone "accidentally finds out" that you are secretly treating me for schizophrenia. How can you treat a person for paranoid delusions when everyone around him is sneaking around, lying and trying to prove that person has paranoid delusions. If you can't see the circular stupidity of that then you shouldn't be secretly doing anything at all.

Yes there were drugs in the food. Actually, I think it was the beer which is even a bigger problem because I have no clue how you did that. I am currently eating a sandwich that has been "dosed" with something. Its not my paranoia its real.

You are right about one thing. If this goes on for much longer I'll probably kill myself or hurt someone. Stop it.

The Drama Continues

My chat logs have been edited, and my copies removed. We are really pushing the limit here.

A few days ago the chatters had started accusing me of baiting people into arguments in chat. Now I see why. I haven't looked at the entire log because its over a thousand pages long but from what I've seen so far all offensive comments and indirect jokes have been edited out leaving it looking as if I just come in to chat rooms and start bitching for no particular reason at all. Its endless.

How much more

The quesiton is how much more of this do you think I can take. No matter what I try to eat its drugged. The constant barage of staged lectures about what a lazy abusive loser I am. The constant suggestion that if i worked hard enough this would all be over, or a cake walk, or whatever you're implying. How much longer is this supposed to go on before something gives? It will most likely be me.

Is that your big theraputic plan? "Lets isolate and harass him until he has a real psychotic break and then we can prove that he's a nut case and make him do what we want."

We'll never know because you'll never come out with it. You'll never come out with it because you can't really back up your accusations or suspicions. It doesn't make you right. In fact it makes you more wrong.

I originally ran across this wine while I was living in the Finger Lakes region of New York state in the early 90's. Its a very tasty wine, and in an industry where quality and competition are high, having a good story to go along with your product doesn't hurt.

I was reminded of the story recently and thought I'd share

For your eyes

When a woman mastrubates its a momment of self discovery. When a man mastrubates its an act of lonliness and desperation.

Questioner: When one encounters those who are caught up in the collective thought and mass psychology which are responsible for much of the chaos and strife around us, how can one extricate them from their mass mentality and show them the necessity of individual thought?

KRISHNAMURTI: First extricate yourself from mass psychology, from collective thoughtlessness. This extrication of thought from the stupidities of ages is a very difficult task. Thoughtlessness and stupidity of the mass exist in us. We are the mass, conscious of some of its stupidities and cruelties but mostly unconscious of its overpowering prejudices, false values, and ideals. Before you can extricate another, you must free yourself from the great power of those wants and fears. That is, you must know for yourself what are the stupidities, what are those values which condition life and action. Some of you are conscious of the obviously false values of hatred, national divisions, and exploitation, but you have not discerned the process of these limitations and freed yourselves from them. When you begin to perceive the false values that hold you and discern their significance, then you will know what a tremendous change takes place in you. Then only can you truly help another. Though you may not become a leader of great multitudes, though you may not accomplish spectacular reforms, if you really grasp the significance of what I am saying, you will become as an oasis in a burning desert, as a flame in darkness.

The ending of the &'8216;I&'8217; process is the beginning of wisdom which alone can bring intelligent order and happiness to this chaotic world.

Questioner: As a living example of one who has attained liberation, you are a tremendous source of encouragement to us who are still involved in suffering. Is there not a danger that in spite of ourselves this very encouragement might become a hindrance to us?

KRISHNAMURTI: I hope I am not becoming an example for you to follow because I speak of the process of suffering and ignorance, the illusion of the mind, the false values created by fear, the freedom of truth. An example is a hindrance, it is born of fear which leads to compulsion and imitation. Imitation of another is not the comprehension of oneself.

To know oneself there can be no following of another; there cannot be compulsive memories which prevent the &'8216;I&'8217; process from revealing itself. When the mind has ceased to escape from suffering into illusions and false values, then that very suffering brings understanding, without the false motives of reward and punishment. The center of action is ignorance and its result is suffering. The following of another or the disciplining of the mind according to the authority of an ideal will not bring about plenitude of life nor the bliss of reality.

HHDL: Sleep is the best meditation.

Questioner: Is there any way in the world by which we can end the stupid horror which again we see perpetrated in Spain?

KRISHNAMURTI: War is the problem of humanity. How are we going to end mass and individual barbarities? To arouse mass action against the horrors, cruelties, and absurdities of the present civilization, there must be individual comprehension.

Begin with yourself. Root out the appallingly cruel prejudices and wants, and you will know a happy world. Root out your personal ambitions and subtle exploitations, acquisitiveness and the craving for power. Then you will have an intelligent and orderly world. As long as there is cruelty and violence in the individual, collective hatred, patriotism, and strife must continue.

When you realize your individual responsibility in action, then there will be the possibility of peace and love and harmonious relationship with your neighbor. Then there will be the possibility of ending the horror of strife, the horror of man killing man.

HHDL: There is no need for temples, no need for complicated philosophies. My brain and my heart are my temples; my philosophy is kindness.

Questioner: If I am in conflict with family, friends, employers, and state laws, in fact, with the various forms of exploitation, will not seeking liberation from all bondage make life practically impossible?

We are well acquainted with the obvious forms of exploitation, but there are the many subtle forms of which we are unconscious. If you would really comprehend exploitation in its obvious and subtle forms, you must discern the &'8216;I&'8217; process-that process which is born of ignorance, want, fear. All action born of this process must entail exploitation. Many people withdraw from the world to contemplate reality, and hope to bring the &'8216;I&'8217; process to an end. You should not withdraw from life to consider life. This escape does not bring the &'8216;I&'8217; process of ignorance, want, and fear to an end. To live is to be in relationship, and when that relationship begins to be irksome, limited, it creates conflict, suffering. Then there is the desire for the opposite, an escape from relationship. One does very often escape, but only into a shallow, and life of fear and illusion, which intensifies conflict and brings about slow decay. It is this escape which is impractical and confusing. If you would strip life of all its ugliness and cruelty you must, through right effort, bring the self&'64979;sustaining process of ignorance to an end.

Questioner: How can we solve the problems of sex?

KRISHNAMURTI: Where there is love the problem of sex does not exist. It becomes a problem only when love has been displaced by sensation. So the question really is how to control sensation. If there were the vital flame of love, the problem of sex would cease. Now sex has become a problem through sensation, habit, and stimulation, through the many absurdities of modern civilization. Literature, cinemas, advertisements, talk, dress-all these stimulate sensation and intensify the conflict. The problem of sex cannot be solved separately, by itself. It is futile to try to understand it through behavioristic or scientific morality. Artificial restrictions may be necessary, but they can only produce an arid and shallow life.

We all have the capacity for deep and inclusive love, but through conflict and false relationship, sensation and habit, we destroy its beauty. Through possessiveness with its many cruelties, through all the ugliness of reciprocal exploitation, we slowly extinguish the flame of love. We cannot artificially keep the flame alive, but we can awaken intelligence, love, through constant discernment of the many illusions and limitations which now dominate our mind&'64979;heart, our whole being. So, what we have to understand is not what kind of restrictions, scientific or religious, should be placed on wants and sensations, but how to bring about deep and enduring fulfillment. We are frustrated on every side; fear dominates our spiritual and moral life, forcing us to imitate, conform to false values and illusions. There is no creative expression of our whole being, either in work or in thought, so sensation becomes monstrously important and its problems overwhelming. Sensation is artificial, superficial, and if we do not penetrate deeply into want and comprehend its process, our life will be shallow and utterly vain and miserable. The mere satisfaction of want or the continual change in want destroys intelligence, love. Love alone can free you from the problems of sex.

Me: Yeah, that's it.

Tonight I am wearing the pants that you made for me. I can remember picking out the fabric, and you making the pattern. Its the only thing that hasn't been taken or destroyed yet. They must like you, or they don't know. Hope you see this.

Weyco

I guess what I'm saying in this blog is that not only do my own circumstances seem unusually odd, oppressive and down right un-American, but the whole country seems to have gone facistlite. Suddenly rights have become privileges for people, and regulations have become rights for corporations.

The newest story of Weyco telling its employees to quit smoking or find new employment seems to be part of a pattern of the erosion of respect for individual freedom in this country. What's more shocking and depressing is that not many people seem to care. Only three Weyco employees actually left the company after it announced its new policy. While that might be more an indication of the health of the current job market in Okemos, MI it doesn't bode well for a healthy respect for civil liberties in the population in general.

Weyco Inc., claims to be looking at the bottom line. Apparently, cigarette smoking costs the company money in higher health care costs. That point is entirely debatable, but the more germane question seems to be "So what?" Its not as if the health care offered by most companies is actually care. In most instances its cost management for the company, and the individual worker not only does not receive quality health care, but in the event of a serious illness will most likely end up penniless, as well as unable to work. (see Get Sick in the US...)

The quality of health care had been declining for most Americans since the 80's amid claims by employers that they just can't afford the costs. The companies get larger and larger, and it seems the citizenry gets poorer and poorer, and the quality of life becomes less and less. Will we have company curfews next, so that employees are properly rested for work? Will speeding tickets and DUI's become a cause for termination. And again does anyone care?

How much are American's willing to bear for the illusion of human perfection and security?

Monday, February 7, 2005 2:56 PM

I'm at a loss for something to write about. I think about a topic for a half hour and then think "Who gives a fuck." In my current situation the only reason I write anything at all is to fool myself in to believing someone other than me gives a damn.

You might be able to tell from earlier posts that things where I am suck pretty royally. If you've ever eaten food that has a lot of garlic in it you know how it can linger in your body. Hours after you've eaten it you can smell it on your breath, taste it on your tongue. That's how I feel with the drugs that are in my food. I can smell them, taste them; I can actually feel them in my brain. Today it feels almost like I'm tripping, only its not good or fun or pretty, which tripping can be.

So, I guess that's a subject I can write about. There are drugs in my food. Your might as why do I eat it if I know there's drugs in it. Well, there is no food in my house that isn't drugged. Once food is bought it is immediately unpackaged and torn to small pieces, drugged, and put in the freezer. Sounds crazy, huh? Try living it. If I had money I might buy my own food, but I can't seem to find a job. My guess is for whatever reason they drug my food they are afraid for me to work with other people.

I actually tried not eating. Its possible that I'm on several drugs because on the second day of my fast I was so constipated it felt like I had a cinder block coming out of me. It took me three hours to move my bowels. As soon as I started eating again things got better. I could actually handle not eating for quite a while, but the constipated is pretty painful to the point that I imagine prolonged periods of it could be permanently disfiguring, so that's out.

I could leave, but where would I go. Without a job or a place to live, the only option is to lay down in the street, and that's not legal here so I'd be in a shelter. If you want I'll tell you some stories about shelters. There's reasons people choose not to go to them, and they are very good.

Probably the worst part is that I have no say at all in what is happening to me. They don't ask or tell, and if I confront them they say I'm crazy. Pretty funny huh? Drug my food and then when I protest say I'm crazy and need to be on drugs. Its the kind of logic that made the Thrid Reich and any number of other fascist regimes.

If that isn't mad twist enough for you the one that gets me the most is the expectation that I be pleasant. That all of this can go on, and more that I haven't written about yet and I am expected to be pleasant. Frankly its maddening, which of course is more proof that I need to be on drugs. But I'm only assuming, because no one ever talks to me about it.

The Buddhism Channel

The Buddhist Channel (BC) was officially launched on October 25, 2004. The BC is actually a "rebranding" exercise which culminated from the demise of the old "Buddhist News Network" (BNN), which began operations in May 8, 2001. Using the latest web technologies on content publication, the BC remains the world's only dedicated Buddhist news servcies, providing daily updates and in-depth coverage.

From the good people at Wikipedia

Get Sick In The US, You Might Go Bankrupt

By Staff Feb 2, 2005, 18:14

If you get ill in the United States, you just might go bankrupt. A Harvard University study found that about half of all personal bankruptcies in America are caused by illness and medical bills.

Researchers from Harvard Medical School and Harvard Law School analyzed federal court records of 1,771 personal bankruptcy filers in five American states in 2001. The researchers interviewed 931 of them about their finances.

About half of the personal bankruptcy filers cited illness or injury as the reason for their debt.

"Unless you're Bill Gates you're just one serious illness away from bankruptcy," said lead researcher Dr. David Himmelstein.

More than 75 percent said they were insured at the start of their illness, but 38 percent had lost coverage, at least temporarily by the time they filed for bankruptcy.

The researchers said health insurance policies, with high deductibles, co-pays, and many exclusions, offer little protection.

Among those whose medical bills contributed to their bankruptcy, the study found out-of-pocket costs averaged $11,854. Those with cancer had average medical debts of $35,878.

The study's authors said between 1.9 million and 2.2 Americans experienced "medical bankruptcy" in 2001.

Writing in the journal Health Affairs, the researchers said, "The low rate of medical bankruptcy in Canada suggests that better medical and social insurance could greatly ameliorate this problem in the United States."

Halifax Live

The State of the Union

I just realized that its supposed to be given tonight, and I know that some of my secret fans are wondering if I'm going to write about it. If you're really a fan you probably don't expect me to. Its not that I'm not political. I probably have an opinion about everything under the sun; even stuff I've never heard of before.

I have opinions about the State of the Union, and of course the President of the United States, but with this particular President in these particular times what's the point of expressing them? Suppose you were to get into an a discussion with a vegetarian; a real reactionary vegetarian who believes that everyone should stop eating meat tomorrow. I'm not a dietician or even amateurishly adept in the sciences but my personal opinion is that if everyone stopped eating meat tomorrow tens of millions of people would die, and all the animals that would supposedly be saved by the sacrifice would die anyway because they're not prepared to survive in any natural setting. Without the income from eating them we couldn't afford to keep them alive. I don't know how to discuss/debate or exchange ideas with a person who doesn't see that stark reality. My opinions about our current political landscape are equally entrenched. Apparently there is a majority of people who think the current administration are doing a great job, and the previous administration was abysmal. As far as I'm concerned they might as well be saying rocks make good pudding.

I won't be watching.

The Soapbox Papers

The Soapbox Papers - I couldn't resist the urge to post this, and Taran if you come back I hope you don't mind. Taran is the author of KnowProSE and he was kind enough to say hello below. This is his mother's Blog. I'd like to thank both of you. Its nice to know some people are still having normal relationships.

Toynbee Connection

Just thought I'd post this for my own future reference. For some reason the Toynbee mystery interests me. As far as I can tell these tiles have been found in 10 major cities in North, Central and South America between 1996 and December of last year. Whatever they're made of they can't be removed without digging up the street or sidewalk that they are invariably bonded to. You can surf this stuff on Google, but it won't bring you to any conclusions as to what the messenger could possibly mean, although I haven't read the book myself.

This is a note to you:

A note that I know you will get even though I'll never send it to you. That's how much I know.

I can feel the drugs you put in my food tonight working in my head, and I know that I'll never be the same again. I just wanted to take this time to tell you, while I'm still relatively myself, what you're doing and have been doing is wrong. What you are doing will add to the scars of my life, not heal them, and I know this is true. I was never sick, but I will be now, probably forever doing the throazine shuffle, and you put the nail in my coffin. Any normal person would be angry about this. God I hate you.

Blogging

This has actually been good for me. Surfing Blogs has liberated me from a cult of opinion that I've been surrounded with for a long time. There's no age limit to blogging. There's no subject matter. I'm still not at the point where I'm likely to detail the minutia of my daily thoughts and activities, although I'd like a life where I could do that. Don't have one of those so you're stuck with this. Its not so bad is it?

More about Truth

'Truth is a pathless land'. Man cannot come to it through any organisation, through any creed, through any dogma, priest or ritual, not through any philosophic knowledge or psychological technique. He has to find it through the mirror of relationship, through the understanding of the contents of his own mind . . .

Statement by Krishnamurti in 1981

Its interesting that they post this quote because Krishnamurti's entire life was dedicated to talking to people about the Truth. I think Krishnamurti may have been onto the truth. He may have stumbled on it completely by accident. I once read one of his biographies and it seems that the circumstances were ripe. He wasn't looking for the truth, even when he was heralded as a Savior. He wasn't given any great tradition to follow, and it seems pretty clear that he was vividly aware that his benefactors were frauds. Everyone expected him to know the truth, and he felt like he wanted to find it because he wanted to please them.

KnowProSE

KnowPro SE seems to be an interesting blog. I'm not sure I got the name right, but the link will take you there. Apparently the author lives in Trinidad and is prolific as well as skilled in web authoring.

More about Truth

Yesterday, I was able to share my Absolute Truth post with one of the people I had in mind when I wrote it. She could have continued the discussion here and it could have been very rewarding for both of us. Instead she was privately offended, and elnisted another chatter to flame me. I doubt that real communication is possible; there's only mutual admiration and deferment, or conflict.

Its sad. When I was a kid I was really hurt when adults criticized me for being immature. As an adult I've come to realize that maturity is largly a myth and who you are in middle school is who you will be for life.

No doubt they'll be here soon to delete posts and harass me for disagreeing with them.

Talk about Americana. I was actually a big fan of cocaine in my day, or "Evil" as we called it. These days I feel the same way about coke as I do one of my favorite sexual partners; if it wasn't so hard to get to her, and the kinds of people I had to deal with once I was around her she'd have been a keeper.

Dirty Tricks

Dirty Tricks is a political blog. I agree with a lot of the articles that are posted, but I'm more interested in the format. Just collecting some ideas. I'm new to this, can you tell?

Mike's Allotment Diary: Broad Beans & Bottle Cloches

Mike's Allotment Diary: Broad Beans & Bottle Cloches is a blog about an "Allotment" which seems to be a term for a large garden.

Absolute Truth

Handbook for Mankind
Principles of Buddhism explained by Buddhadasa Bhikkhu. It is a remarkable fact that in this book Ven. Buddhadasa has explained the meaning of one topic, thereby covering the spirit of the whole teaching or the Tipitaka. He says that Buddhism is the religion which teaches one to know just this much: "what is the truth?". All the chapters in this book dealing with the five aggregates, the four kinds of attachments, intuition in a natural way and other topics all point to "The Truth".

I added this link because I have frequent discussions with other Buddhists about Buddhisms interest in truth. As far as the content of the book goes its not exactly my cup of tea. Recently, someone asked me what exatly is my Buddhist cup of tea. I'm not sure you should be able to enuciate that in a web page, much less an online chat. Isn't that what "the great conversation" is all about; 5,000 years of humans endlessly discussing what a world view could and should be?

I believe there's a moral position that can be taken without becoming a monk or saint. While it may sound selfish to some, I think I should be able to have a beer, get into a thing with a beautiful woman and have it not work out. satisfy my sexuality and basically live a full twenty-first century life, and still be a good Christian/Buddhist/Hebrew/Muslim/Hindu, what have you. What's more, I think that the vast majority of people following any of those traditions would agree with me if they were allowed to.

But that's not why I wanted to post this link. The issue is truth, and clearly this very conservative Buddhist Monk believes that the end pursuit of Buddhism is truth, as do I.

I know I posted something on this subject earlier today, but I came across another relevant site. This might become a collection for an actual web page, but for now its just links.

Here is another link about the Mob.

hehehe - Had a little too much fun there. I was having so much fun that I actually crashed my computer. No harm done though. Now then....

I've been a big fan of Rickie Lee Jones since her first album came out. After I got my first copy of Magazine I think I played it everyday until I was about 23. This is the cover art for the rerelease. The original cover was of Ricki wearing a black lace costume with matching hat and gloves very consistant with her image at the time. Inside the album (that's how old I am, it was an album) was a wall poster of her in the same costume which I thumb tacked to the ceiling above my bed. Quite simply I thought she was beautiful.

There is something classic about this time in history for me. It feels as if it was the last time the American marketing machine was willing to make a pretense at taking the buying public seriously. Rickie Lee was, and still is beautiful, but it isn't the glaring glam doll type of beauty that gets produced by the music industry today. For lack of a more appropriate analogy if Rickie Lee is a flowering meadow, Brittany Spears is an astro turffed stadium floor.

If I hadn't been taken by her appearance her music would have still captured my imagination. Not that I'm listening particularly closely, but I haven't heard anything in a long time that is as original or crafted as Rickie Lee Jones' compositions. When I first heard them I thought she was as new and fresh and brave as she apparently thought herself to be at the time, but then times change.

The cover art above is a rerelease. Rickie Lee dropped out of the music scene and public eye. At the time the story was she was raising her daughter, but in later interviews she implies there was another reason. When she returned to composing and performing the Magazine cover was changed and I've never been able to find that cover art again.

I spent all morning looking for this article. Ricki Lee Jones has changed along with the rest of the world, and I'm not sure I think that either has changed for the better. What was once fresh, brave and new, she now describes as desperate and lonely. I'm not an advocate of drug addiction, or heroine use of any kind, yet I can't help but be sad that she is clearly so saddened and ashamed of things that gave me so much joy and peace.

If there is an upside to her big change its that she clearly is as frustrated by the direction our country has been steered in as I am. Its comforting to read her commentary on American politics, and I'll probably own a copy of "The Evening of my Best Day" in the near future. Frankly, I haven't been excited about one of her albums since "Girl in Her Volcano". The interview ends on an optimistic note. My guess is that I'll never see the old album art again, but I hope her feelings on the future are accurate and that something good is going on.

Weeeeeee

This is so much more fun than I thought it would be. As you can tell, Al has a little too much time on his hands.

BotHq

BotHq : Apparently this guy is on a tour of China. Its interesting and in English, which is nice. I can't believe how many of these blogs are not in English. How did they get the whole world online in ten years?

LiveMalls

LiveMalls is a Blog dedicated entierly to Malls in the Carolinas. Go figure.

Finally, I can get to the article that made me start this Blog in the first place.

In the midst of our battle against terrorism America nurtures and is perhaps driven by its two oldest terrorist organizations; the KKK and the Mob. If you support either of these organizations, even by fondness of thought you are committing treason.

Found on the Web

Yesssssssssss.....................................................................

What can you say about that other than it looks god damn good? Ok, you could also say it was reasonably effortless. Now we can bookmark and see how much more fun we can have with it.

Hi

Oooooooo well wow. How much fun is this?

After several hints and some small amount of thought I have created this blog.

Why is it that after you think up a title for one of these web thingys you always think up a better one. Right after I created this Blog I thought of the title "101 Unpopular Thoughts on the Web". Either way you get the general idea and this is my little Blog. I have no clue why people are dropping such strong hints that I should start a Blog. No one is ever going to comment on anything I post here, and a Blog without comments is like a phone that don't ring. Here it is regardless.

Once I finish the rework of the web page I'll work this in some how. Until then you can visit me here. Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe its supposed to work the other way around. Maybe you're supposed to link your web page to your blog. Hell, I don't know. I guess I'll do both. But for now I've got this new thing to play with. :))