Saturday, November 29, 2014

Episode 571: I Want to Fuck the World (or at least the women in it)

I want to fuck the world, it seems.

I spend no time at all, weighing whether or not it is advantageous to admire and desire beauty in most forms; it is not a conscious lust I feel. I see, therefore I crave - Descartes may have mathematically deduced the "am," from the act of thinking, but I deduce that I feel.

I desire, therefore I am. I do not let death, dismemberment or a poor news day cycle my brain into the toilet of despair; hell, I don't even have a choice. I see a flowing motion of beauty and I stop dead and admire it. I'd make a lousy surgeon or sniper. A sashaying walk can interrupt my thought processes as thoroughly as a taser.

That's not an affectation or flirtation technique - I really am that pathetic and singular.

The closest I've come to simpatico is to find a woman who settled for rolling her eyes at my behavior - she doesn't chastise or criticize my actions. There would be no point if she did, and she and I both realize it. We are happy because we don't try to mold the other into some foreign object - I love what she is, and she gives me the same courtesy. I would say that about 99% of people don't do that - they claim to be open minded or accepting of the unusual, but are consumed by jealousy and possessive insecurity, and can't understand why they hate their lives and loves.

Saturday, November 8, 2014

Episode 570: I Love Lesbians

I love lesbians.

It's true. I can't think of a more esoteric way to state the obvious, so I thought I'd lead with it. By the by, dear and faithless readers, this is likely to be a "me" column (perverse and vulgar), so I warn you to turn away now. As I've discovered, with the loss of my initial impetus to write this blog (the Rose has departed from the land of words), I write for me.

And, since I know what I'm going to say, I am rarely coy with me. I have stated outright that I'd fuck me if I could. I think I'd be worth a tumble in bed. I definitely am grateful to get laid, at any time. 

Anyway, I have accumulated several lesbian friends, over the years. We have common interests, so it is nothing but natural. We (meaning, lesbians and I - please keep up) both love women. We love naked women. We understand how to woo and alienate women. We have disdain for men (see them as sexual competition) and a love of plaid.

I am lucky, in life. I somehow don't repulse some members of the opposite gender (there is no singular trait that is attractive to all potential sexual partners, let me clue you in, now; some women love me, as do some men, but I am ignored while flirting as often as I receive reciprocation), and so I revel in the warmth of the non-virginal. I've been inside some women, in my life (I wrote a list of my partners, four years ago, in this very blog, so I shan't re-hash it; suffice to say, my lovers number less than Wilt Chamberlain's, and more than Pope Francis's {hopefully}). 

I'm good at a bunch of things, which is my undoing and blessing - I'm a musician (a part-time professional), an artist (ditto), and a writer, both professional and amateur. I'm also a graphic artist and Unix network monitoring pro, as well as a Geotechnical driller. I can also cook burgers and frame houses; my point, such as it is, is merely that I never had a singular focus for a profession, a lightning bolt of inspiration that "This is what I want to do with my life!" I've had that thought about a bunch of things (also, acting - I left out my "bring down the house laughing" performance in a local theater group). 

I make money doing whatever pays me at the moment that I'm not creating while sipping vodka, at that moment, on that day - I am nobody's role model.

One thing I am sometimes good at, is wooing women. I write words in a way which are honest and true, but filled enough of the lies that are dreams that I make poetry.

Secrets? I have none. Regrets? Many. I should have been a Marine, an MIT grad who designed electromagnetic cocks for orbital insertion, a playwright and seducer of stupid interns - I am less than I appear, but also so very, very much more.

Lesbians and me, we love pussy. We dream of vaginas and cuddling (and yes, the deep intimacy of words and shared pain, holding and crying and being less than failures), but I love giving a massage more than anyone not named "Olaf" should lay claim to. I love a woman's skin, I kill to see what hides between a woman's legs. I never outgrew my own sexuality, I never moved on to ennui about sex.

Women are perfect, to me. Not from idealism, but from honest appraisal of the source of life. The womb, the stark and terrifying reality of what they are.

I am strong, physically, able to slay wildebeest or mugger, and I make a lady feel safe, because I am. I never pursue what refuses to flee. I only what chase what invites me to do so.

I am the anti-pimp. I disagree with women until I do what they want. I may pose and primp and fume, but there are few women who couldn't get me to do anything, with only a smile and a beckon.

I don't resent it. At all. Why? Because they allow me inside them. And they smell nice.

Episode 569: Love is Wasted On Us (rage on)

I swear and promise that I'm a writer who is on strike against himself. 

I take copious notes, mental and physical. To establish my veracity (and to garner some of those sweet Internet hits from the Russians who love me), I am using this Ramble to dump out the trash (so to speak). I keep notes on my iPhone, mental reminders to myself of ideas long gone, and I am going to cut and paste them here.

I won't take offense if you don't read this entry.
I won't take offense if you think my offering is subpar.
I will, however, assure you that I rage on.

In no real order:

I've very suspicious of my own brain. I'm suspicious of what I believe and know, because, over time, I've come to learn how the brain learns. 

Most often, the first viewpoints we hear, during our formative years, is what we know as truth. Humans are very reluctant to give up knowledge for an opposing point of view, no matter what evidence is presented - check out any random argument on an Internet thread.

So, I've come to "believe" what I know, until evidence is presented that I've been wrong. Then, I change my mind. I am not capricious, I am subject to proof.

As atheist as I am, if undeniable proof came forward that established the existence of a deity, I would become a fervent churchgoer. I'm always happy to admit I was wrong, and learn.
Everything in life seems to flow one direction, we think of it as "forward." What if 
everything is backward, but since we all go that direction, we can't know? We are working toward the Big Bang, which is actually the Big Squish.


The right to life versus the right to death. Inviolate - are we wrong to have beliefs?

What percentage of humans can actually be taught?
If you can't change your mind, you can never learn, you can only memorize the first thing you hear.

Social media is a microcosm of human behavior, like religion. By "liking" a post, we feel participation; by "believing in God," we think we are emulating the philanthropic actions, regardless of our actual behavior.

Humorless pecksniffery 1.01, Autistic literalism, is not an enviable trait.

Science can't take into account the transitory nature of everything, without revision.

I am the sole constant in my universe.

I'm not even sure I'm the best "me" I could be; I'm sure someone else could have done it better.


We are the pre-dead.

We are the uncooperative group who share only a distinction; we have had life taken from us, yet are not finished with our stories.

I don't question everything, because I have to live in this world. I hesitate to hate or 


Love is wasted on us.
I remember and cherish the littlest of smallest details of insignificance
But I file those for random cares,
And I sweetly love the soft smile,
I greet the future with denial.
I rage and simmer in a quiet cauldron,
A brute who loves. A simple suffer-less savage who carries desire into the breach of proper.
I know about the dotting i's and crossed t's and the method to worry about what is the right moment and time but I can't forget what I really like. I like the intimate knowledge of soft skin and sultry laugh and the friendly touch of sweaty comfort. I can't forget as if I should, even if I wish like a fish and whistle into the wind.
I have seen the most beautiful woman in the world and she likes me. She likes being touched by me. She closes her eyes and uses me like a toy and I revel in it. 
Also there is kissing.


Sunday, September 21, 2014

Episode 568: Sterno

I admire a decision, of whatever sort. The advent of processing speed for computers came to my attention around 1994, with the prevalence of the Pentium 2, which probably wouldn't be a suitable processing chip for a refrigerator, these days, but at the time, it was NASA-level shit, the turn and burn standard for PCs.

So, the concept of a mind - even an artificial one, designed in the San Fernando valley, and assembled by manure-coated Tibetans - that can assemble data and then come to a conclusion, of any sort, that meets a crossroads and actually PICKS A ROAD, this is something I like. I hate tentative drivers, wishy-washy dishwashers, ambivalent accountants, and part-time racists. If you choose an action, choose it. Be the ball. Embrace your dark side. Suck the dick: if you want to be gay, be tall, be homeless, be an asshole or to be a lotus-eating gadfly who never shaves her chin, by God, run with that shit. Nothing wants to be vomited out of Jesus's mouth, not even Jesus's lunch.

I have sat down to serenade the English language. No, that's disingenuous; I sat down to entertain, myself and the Russians who embrace my occasional posting of nude Emus, to try to speak what cannot be spoken. 

I am currently entrenched in a somewhat involuntary celibate phase, for which I blame my libido. I can't be expected for the world to indulge my sex drive. I imagine there exists some humans who would willingly engage in coitus with me, dirty or clean, over ice or neat, but my own standards and geography conspire to make me face both the music and the wall. I am no longer young and attractive, nor wild and impulsive; any combination of those things would probably allow me to madly copulate like a priest at a Boy Scout camp. I want what I want, I can't have what I want, and so I am mentally shrugging and punching bricks as I decide if my own sex drive is an actionable offense committed by God.

I try to keep my hand in, as it were, embracing women as if they were on the verge of extinction, but I'm old enough for my empathy to interfere with my desire: I don't want who doesn't want me. I want to be wanted. I want to be needed, craved and sought, but only by that which I crave and seek.

I have defenses remaining, so I offer no more.

Saturday, September 6, 2014

Episode 567: I Will Shine Dark

Shall I tell you about my year so far? I think I shall. 

I have been immersed in a phase wherein I don't talk very much. That self-imposed, involuntary muffling has extended to music and art and writing, as well; I'm afraid I haven't been creative or interesting, by my previous definition, since last Summer or Autumn.

I have been otherwise engaged, however, which is what I will now attempt to explain. Late last June, my wife, Clarissa, and I traveled to Europe (specifically, the Netherlands and a brief stay in Paris, France). It was on this trip that it became painfully obvious to me that I was fat.

I will need to include a copious amount of background and exposition for every statement I declare, so bear with me as I zoom around timelines until I've made some small declarative victories.


Gladiators still exist.

The original Latin defines a gladiator as a swordsman; the vernacular tended to apply to slaves who fought to their deaths in an arena for the amusement of paying spectators. Such an analogy could be made to the strife of modern life; I don't want to be heavy-handed, merely brief (brevity is the soul of wit, Shakespeare wrote in "Hamlet," a quote I'd erroneously associated with Oscar Wilde for the longest time), and so I should have left it at "gladiators still exist." I am sometimes accused of writing in "stream of consciousness," which is almost an aphorism: isn't all expression output in a stream of consciousness? Perhaps it is true that the most successful of artists have honed their ability to convey their art in a manner that appears logical and orderly, going from A to B to C logically and intuitively, after a disciplined self-editing process?  Those of us who are on the fringes of greatness are merely poor storytellers? Because, when my writing seems jumbled or poorly paced, it is because I am writing it in the order I am thinking it. If we had a conversation, it might evolve in such a manner. I might not make it to the Smithsonian, but I am stored in the Library of Congress. I accept each step as I climb it. It would be untoward for me to blame the sun for rising.

I am an eternal optimist, which makes me a fool. I am an intelligent idiot - I do stupid things, unapologetically, consistently, and with little regard for consequence. I can remember anything I choose to, but eschew learning as tedious, unless there is a reward in it for me.

I will shine dark, a bleak flashlight into the reality of existing in a world I simultaneously love and hate: yesterday evening, I discovered that I can be rude. I ignored some time-sucking women who monopolized the ATM when i wished to use it; simply bowed my head and ignored them, even when one of the women apologized for taking so long; I am not proud, but I am honest in revealing my warts. I have never, ever, thought of myself as rude; I take great pains to act as a "Southern a Gentleman," by choice, a form of dishonesty I allow in my own behavior, to be equally gracious to the stupid and cruel as I am to the kind and the busy and the fuckable and delightful.

I am sometimes accused of arrogance, elitism, impatience and coldness (especially by myself, since I am nowhere near significant enough to yet have an army of detractors). I plead guilty to whatever adjectives with which you choose to inveigle me; I am not defending what I AM, I am describing it. I am an unwilling elitist, a humble but arrogant monster. I am chagrin and envy wrapped in a swaddle of insecurity.

I refuse to see the incompetent. I don't typically fume with impatience, externally, nor do I verbally decry the inefficiency of the world; I bow my head in a prayer to myself, a withdrawal into the world where I alone am King and Queen and I rule with an iron fist wrapped in a velvet glove over my crystalline silicone quartz subjects. I refuse to admit that I share the world. 

I declare that I do, I announce it like the drunken Uncle at Thanksgiving announces that the "nigger in the White House should be impeached," and I am received with equally deserved shock and disdain. I do share the world.

It is a source of fascination to me to be reminded of how unimportant each and every one of us is. We function as a virus cloud, as a funnel of steam that reams the bowels of the universe; we are relevant in quantity, if only as statistical data that strives to explain how bilirubin can pretend to sentience.


As of July 5th, 2013, I tipped the scales at 250 pounds. About 112 kilograms. 18 stone. Too much for my height (five Feet, nine inches). Something in my mind ... the cliche would be "snapped," and that is apt, but isn't correct, exactly. I have written before, I think, of how it is I came to give up the allure of crack cocaine: simply put, I struck out with a woman at a bar. For me, that is more significant than it should be, but just picture that my entire self-image is (was?) wrapped up in the idea that if I get to know a woman of the opposite sex, I will be appealing. Perhaps not as a life mate, or perfect partner, but that I am appealing sexually, if I can get past the "ice breaking" part, and on to the flirting and "wonder of me" part (as Al Pacino's character so bluntly explained in "Sea of Love"). I feel whole if I can "close escrow." I am just a guy, but I like women, a lot, and if I'm not sexually appealing, my DNA shrieks at my hippocampus! and I totally go Autistic and hide under a mattress in my art gallery in the attic (another story that's I cringe at the thought of relating, so I won't). So, I quit crack because I smoked $250 worth in the space of 90 minutes, and because my heart felt as if it was going to explode from my chest, I went to a bar near the A train and had a beer to calm my nervous system and engaged a smokin' hot middle-aged bar maiden and was making time until I drank myself into the toilet, hurling out lunch and shame into the porcelain receptacle and she moved to a different stool, because no one likes to help the fallen Samaritan, and I felt so ashamed I ditched an addiction, and that was the night before Thanksgiving, 1997. Anyway.

In the Netherlands and Paris, not a single woman flirted with me. Not one. Anywhere. That is unusual enough for me to make me question my very existence, never mind my waistline.

As a Father's Day present, in June, my mother gifted to me a membership in a local gym/community center. I decided that my athletic youth was not yet completely departed, and dove in with a passion.

This isn't a screed about weight loss or discipline (hell, at this writing, I still a cigarette smoker, and I'm currently drinking vodka, so don't for a moment believe that I am proselytizing about a goddamned thing). 

Anyway, shorter version: 14 months later, I've lost about 60 pounds, and my mind has to engage other things to worry about. I acknowledge that there has been a price for focus: I don't consume myself with the issues of others, I don't create in the same angsty yearning I once did, I don't fret and fume about every detail, because my mind only follows: work/make money/work harder/don't eat that/don't eat that/don't eat that/lift more. 


ETC. Commitment and focus is only interesting if you are the object upon which there is focus. Otherwise, the correct response is: "He So Crazy."

I'm not sure if I have a point, but when I say, "I've been busy," I mean it. I've spent a year being hungry. I hated myself. A lot. I hated the gelatinous me. Is that rational, or important? Does it matter if a 45 year old man is soft and squishy, amusing but round? It did to me. I am still pondering "why," I don't have that revelation to share. It wasn't to appeal to a woman, per se, this time (still married to my Pookie Bear), it wasn't to look good for work (like drill companies give a rat's ass if I have hair or teeth, let alone a waist). It was just for me. It was my first true selfish act in decades, as far as I know.

I don't care if you care or not.