I’ve got a tape deck hooked up to my CD burner and I’ve been transferring some stuff from my old songwriting work tapes onto disc. It’s addictive, even more so than designing my blog page. So my ears are sufferin’ instead of my eyes. If it’s not one thing, it’s another, right?
Anyhoo, I came across this song that I’d just about forgotten. Thought I’d post the lyrics:
Rocky Top Revisited
Well, now, if I was to go back to Rocky Top,
The sheriff come lookin’ for me
He bought some mountain dew, turned out to be anti-freeze
He gave it to his whole family
I was born on the day when the front page news was the Carroll County Accident
I spent a month on the road with Porter and Dolly, now my mind is permanently bent
Well, I took my hands out of my front pockets
Said, I’m tired of playing pocket pool
Mama raised 12 kids and raised hell for a livin’
You can bet she didn’t raise no fool”
Poor boys down in the Ozark mountains don’t hold no grudge ‘gainst me
I keep the gators in the swamp fed, Rocky Top cops said you’d best just stay away
Well, I took my old lady downtown in Rocky Top
I took her on the billiard table
“Werewolves of London” howlin’ from the jukebox
A porno on the satellite cable
And I traded my true love for an eight track tape deck
And a worn out “Zeppelin IV”
If I had to do it again, you know I’d do it, my friend
‘Cause I ain’t gonna tolerate a whore
Two young boys lost their lives on Rocky Top
Listenin’ to Judas Priest
They said they heard the singer tell ‘em “Blow your brains out!”
And somethin’ ‘bout the Number of the Beast
Now Porter never bit off the head of a bat or beat up a bitch
But the Rocky Top cops in the donut shops all say,
”Dolly’s got a thing for a switch”
So if I was to go back to Rocky Top
Satan come a-lookin’ for me
Saying, “Listen to the man with the paper in his hand…
Sign it if you wanna be free”
I was born on the day when the front page news was the Carroll County accident
I spent a year on the road with Ozzy Osbourne and my life is permanently bent
3.18.2008
3.17.2008
McCainParsley/Hagee...what a joke
For the most part, I tend to avoid political discussion. I have my own persojal views on the subject and as far as I’m concerned thety are nobody’s business but my own.
But I just had to mention this.
Barrack Obama is taking a lot of heat right now for citing radical pastor Jeremiah Wright as his “spiritual guide”. Damage control must be a bitch for him right now. And he probably deserves it. There’s no way he could have been a regular member of that church without having heard at least some of the minister’s personal viewpoints and opinions (as it seems quite apparent from videos of him preaching that he sees no wrong in using the pulpit as a soapbox to propagate them).
Whether or not it hurts Obama’s campaign, I’ll say this for him. At least he had the integrity to say that his mentor was the leader OF HIS OWN CHURCH.
John McCain, on the other hand, proclaims that his “spiritual leaders” are Rod Parsley and John Hagee, two snake-oil selling televangelist charlatans. These guys are recognized by MILLIONS of professing Christians who regularly watch the religious broadcasting networks, where they’ve bought enough airtime that anyone fool enough to follow them could see them every day if they wanted. Airtime, I might add, that was purchased using funds of contributors who they’ve fleeced using “seed-faith” promises and other questionable tactics. We’re talking MILLIONS of dollars here.
The point being that there must be thousands of people who send money to these guys. And who knows how many people tune in without sending money, but who respect the views and statements of Parsley and Hagee. And that’s their business, of course.
But doesn’t it seem a bit disingenuous and tacky that John McCain would choose these Trinity Broadcasting Network superstars as mentors? A presidential candidate who shared their extremely intolerant views would never be elected, so one must assume that McCain has distanced himself from going that far. He probably wants to nurture the association with the hard right that Parsley/Hagee represent, but I doubt he would be so naïve as to firmly entrench himself in their camp.
Oh, no. It seems perfectly obvious to me, and I have no doubt that I am probably the LAST one to figure it out:
It’s numbers he wants. And it’s numbers he’ll get, because millions of people buy into all this televised preaching bullshit. And if they are fool enough to put their trust in a quack like Hagee, then they’re fool enough to vote for who he tells them to vote for. If they believe the same way that Rod Parsley believes, then they’re not going to vote for anyone but an ultra-conservative anyway. Read his books and you’ll see what I mean (plus, you might get a chuckle or two out of ‘em).
Pandering to the Christian right has been a staple of the election process since before I can remember. I don’t like it, but oh well. But it seems to me that if John McCain had any sense at all he would exercise better judgement over who he proclaims to be his “spiritual guides”. It’s just TOO obvious what he’s doing here. It should be considered an insult by every believer in this country.
I won’t disclose my political affiliation, but I will say this, hypothetically: even if I were a staunch Republican I would never vote for John McCain. Obama or Clinton, either one, but NOT McCain.
What a fuckin’ jackass.
But I just had to mention this.
Barrack Obama is taking a lot of heat right now for citing radical pastor Jeremiah Wright as his “spiritual guide”. Damage control must be a bitch for him right now. And he probably deserves it. There’s no way he could have been a regular member of that church without having heard at least some of the minister’s personal viewpoints and opinions (as it seems quite apparent from videos of him preaching that he sees no wrong in using the pulpit as a soapbox to propagate them).
Whether or not it hurts Obama’s campaign, I’ll say this for him. At least he had the integrity to say that his mentor was the leader OF HIS OWN CHURCH.
John McCain, on the other hand, proclaims that his “spiritual leaders” are Rod Parsley and John Hagee, two snake-oil selling televangelist charlatans. These guys are recognized by MILLIONS of professing Christians who regularly watch the religious broadcasting networks, where they’ve bought enough airtime that anyone fool enough to follow them could see them every day if they wanted. Airtime, I might add, that was purchased using funds of contributors who they’ve fleeced using “seed-faith” promises and other questionable tactics. We’re talking MILLIONS of dollars here.
The point being that there must be thousands of people who send money to these guys. And who knows how many people tune in without sending money, but who respect the views and statements of Parsley and Hagee. And that’s their business, of course.
But doesn’t it seem a bit disingenuous and tacky that John McCain would choose these Trinity Broadcasting Network superstars as mentors? A presidential candidate who shared their extremely intolerant views would never be elected, so one must assume that McCain has distanced himself from going that far. He probably wants to nurture the association with the hard right that Parsley/Hagee represent, but I doubt he would be so naïve as to firmly entrench himself in their camp.
Oh, no. It seems perfectly obvious to me, and I have no doubt that I am probably the LAST one to figure it out:
It’s numbers he wants. And it’s numbers he’ll get, because millions of people buy into all this televised preaching bullshit. And if they are fool enough to put their trust in a quack like Hagee, then they’re fool enough to vote for who he tells them to vote for. If they believe the same way that Rod Parsley believes, then they’re not going to vote for anyone but an ultra-conservative anyway. Read his books and you’ll see what I mean (plus, you might get a chuckle or two out of ‘em).
Pandering to the Christian right has been a staple of the election process since before I can remember. I don’t like it, but oh well. But it seems to me that if John McCain had any sense at all he would exercise better judgement over who he proclaims to be his “spiritual guides”. It’s just TOO obvious what he’s doing here. It should be considered an insult by every believer in this country.
I won’t disclose my political affiliation, but I will say this, hypothetically: even if I were a staunch Republican I would never vote for John McCain. Obama or Clinton, either one, but NOT McCain.
What a fuckin’ jackass.
Grace to the few?
Do you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted it; but He will pity us who had pity on all men, Who has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He, too, is the judge." - Fyodor Dostoevsky ("Crime and Punishment")
Having just finished reading the extremely lightweight "Cross" by James Patterson, I felt inclined to turn to more challenging fare. I decided to tackle Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment". I've attempted to read it a couple of times in the past, but I wasn't "ready' for it. I think I am, now.
Only a couple of chapters into it, I've already come upon a passage that rings true. It takes place in a dingy pub where the main character, Raskolnikov has found his way to. He is engaged in conversation with Marmeladov, a drunk outcast who proceeds to tell him of how he has repeatedly disappointed his wife and his children, selling all they own for drink. It gets so bad that his daughter, Sophie, enters into a life of prostitution to make ends meet. Things take an upward turn for Marmeladov and his kin after he begs his former employer for his job back. The man takes pity on him and restores him to his former office. His family is ecstatic, and they treat him with a newfound respect. Then, when he recieves his wages, he disappears and sinks once again to the bottom of a glass. After five days on a hay barge he swallows his pride and seeks out his daughter, Sophia, whose occupation as a harlot has made her the chief "bread winner" in the house. He begs for more money, both of them knowing what he plans on doing with it, and she gives it to him. And so, this is how he has wound up in the pot house, greasy, grimy, flecks of hay still clinging to his worn-out clothes, far past inebriation.
Irredeemable. Marmeladov has sacrificed everything he has for drink. Alcohol has dominated his list of priorities for so long (and done so with such power) that he won't give it up even though it would mean saving his daughter from the life of a prostitute.
When you think about it some more you come to see that it is not his devotion to the bottle that makes him so low. It's not even the way in which he has treated his family. As I see it, these are not the things that make him "irredeemable".
It's the selfishness. It's the placing of his own wants and desires above his own needs and the needs of his loved ones. On a deeper level it's an apathy extended to any and everyone, that says "You are not as important to me as what I can get from you to serve my own needs". Oh, he puts on airs. He cries in his beer and speaks of his devotion to his wife and children. Maybe he's trying to convince himself, maybe he knows deep down that, at some point, he's decided they don't truly matter. Certainly not in relation to the drink and the opportunity to wallow in self-pity that he seems to relish.
He ends a spiel with a proclamation that the Lord will forgive all, even the worst of sinners:
"...And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek...And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. "You too come forth," He will say. "Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!" And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before Him. And He will say unto us; "Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark: but come ye also!" And the wise ones and the ones of understanding will say: "Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?" And He will say: " This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is thy I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself worthy of this". And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before Him...and we shall weep...and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all...and all will understand..."
The ravings of a downtrodden "swine"? The hope-laced declaration of a drunkard fully aware of his worthlessness to society? A theologically mistaken outburst of opinion informed by a dream of forgiveness?
Or maybe a subconscious understanding of, and desire for, GRACE.
I see a lot of blogs and MySpace pages where the author describes himself/herself as "Saved by Grace". I think that's fantastic. More power to 'em. But I have to wonder how many Christians truly grasp the idea of "Grace". How many of them still cling to some notion that you're either saved or you're not, and that there is some kind of choice that has to be made between heaven and hell.
"Choose Jesus", then stand in His grace. I'm sorry, but I don't think Christ died on the cross so He could reign into His grace only those who made a conscious decision to 'choose" Him. He either died for all men or He didn't.
Punishment at the Judgement? I wouldn't doubt that in many ways, whether we are coginizant of it or not, just living on this planet of suffering is punishment enough for even the worst crimes against humanity. That doesn't excuse anyone who has done heinous things. It doesn't mean that the world has been rougher on that person than on anyone else. Just that, in relation to whatever comes after this life, this existance is a hard one (cursed, as it is, since the Fall, you know). If thought and emotions are a part of that "heaven", I would think that forgiveness, and the ability to forgive, would be a lot easier to do than it is here.
Theologically unsound, surely. I gladly concede that. But there is hope within me. A lot of times I feel like I'm every bit as depraved and irredeemable as Marmeladov. I know I'm pretty damn selfish, perhaps not to the point that he was. Then again, selfishness is one trait that every single one of us shares. Some have nurtured it more than others. Some have allowed it to rule and reign over them.
What about me? How far gone am I? To what extent have I forsaken the opportunity to be compassionate and subjucated it to my own wants and desires? I confess. I have done it too often. I don't know but that the damage is too extensive to be repaired. At least, not in this life.
Yesterday evening, as I tried to fall asleep, one of the many scattered thoughts swimming about in my mind was this: "It's not how you think it is. Nothing is as you think it is." And that was my mantra for the rest of the night. It brought comfort. I don't understand these lofty things because I am INCAPABLE of understanding them. EVERYONE is. The human mind just doesn't travel that far into comprehension. It was never meant to. If it could then it would no longer be a human mind but the mind of God. If I could just keep this in mind and relax I would see that theology is nothing but a game, a complicated game. It's a cosmic football game where the "players" are differing viewpoints clashing against each other, only there is no winner and no loser because the game never ends.
Philosophy, too, in the grand scheme of things, is a futile exercise. It's not a bad thing (neither is theology, for that matter), in fact, it is essential to the development of the inquisitive mind. What I'm saying is this: how many people, on their deathbeds, one moment away from their last breath, are going to cross that bridge with the unyielding assurance that all they've come to accept as "good", "evil", "right", wrong"...ANY OF IT...is "The Way It Really Is"? An infinitesmally scant few, I would wager.
Introspection blesses with comprehension and worldly understanding.
It also curses, when you look deep enough to see the vanity of it all.
Having just finished reading the extremely lightweight "Cross" by James Patterson, I felt inclined to turn to more challenging fare. I decided to tackle Dostoevsky's "Crime and Punishment". I've attempted to read it a couple of times in the past, but I wasn't "ready' for it. I think I am, now.
Only a couple of chapters into it, I've already come upon a passage that rings true. It takes place in a dingy pub where the main character, Raskolnikov has found his way to. He is engaged in conversation with Marmeladov, a drunk outcast who proceeds to tell him of how he has repeatedly disappointed his wife and his children, selling all they own for drink. It gets so bad that his daughter, Sophie, enters into a life of prostitution to make ends meet. Things take an upward turn for Marmeladov and his kin after he begs his former employer for his job back. The man takes pity on him and restores him to his former office. His family is ecstatic, and they treat him with a newfound respect. Then, when he recieves his wages, he disappears and sinks once again to the bottom of a glass. After five days on a hay barge he swallows his pride and seeks out his daughter, Sophia, whose occupation as a harlot has made her the chief "bread winner" in the house. He begs for more money, both of them knowing what he plans on doing with it, and she gives it to him. And so, this is how he has wound up in the pot house, greasy, grimy, flecks of hay still clinging to his worn-out clothes, far past inebriation.
Irredeemable. Marmeladov has sacrificed everything he has for drink. Alcohol has dominated his list of priorities for so long (and done so with such power) that he won't give it up even though it would mean saving his daughter from the life of a prostitute.
When you think about it some more you come to see that it is not his devotion to the bottle that makes him so low. It's not even the way in which he has treated his family. As I see it, these are not the things that make him "irredeemable".
It's the selfishness. It's the placing of his own wants and desires above his own needs and the needs of his loved ones. On a deeper level it's an apathy extended to any and everyone, that says "You are not as important to me as what I can get from you to serve my own needs". Oh, he puts on airs. He cries in his beer and speaks of his devotion to his wife and children. Maybe he's trying to convince himself, maybe he knows deep down that, at some point, he's decided they don't truly matter. Certainly not in relation to the drink and the opportunity to wallow in self-pity that he seems to relish.
He ends a spiel with a proclamation that the Lord will forgive all, even the worst of sinners:
"...And He will judge and will forgive all, the good and the evil, the wise and the meek...And when He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. "You too come forth," He will say. "Come forth ye drunkards, come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!" And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand before Him. And He will say unto us; "Ye are swine, made in the Image of the Beast and with his mark: but come ye also!" And the wise ones and the ones of understanding will say: "Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?" And He will say: " This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is thy I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them believed himself worthy of this". And He will hold out His hands to us and we shall fall down before Him...and we shall weep...and we shall understand all things! Then we shall understand all...and all will understand..."
The ravings of a downtrodden "swine"? The hope-laced declaration of a drunkard fully aware of his worthlessness to society? A theologically mistaken outburst of opinion informed by a dream of forgiveness?
Or maybe a subconscious understanding of, and desire for, GRACE.
I see a lot of blogs and MySpace pages where the author describes himself/herself as "Saved by Grace". I think that's fantastic. More power to 'em. But I have to wonder how many Christians truly grasp the idea of "Grace". How many of them still cling to some notion that you're either saved or you're not, and that there is some kind of choice that has to be made between heaven and hell.
"Choose Jesus", then stand in His grace. I'm sorry, but I don't think Christ died on the cross so He could reign into His grace only those who made a conscious decision to 'choose" Him. He either died for all men or He didn't.
Punishment at the Judgement? I wouldn't doubt that in many ways, whether we are coginizant of it or not, just living on this planet of suffering is punishment enough for even the worst crimes against humanity. That doesn't excuse anyone who has done heinous things. It doesn't mean that the world has been rougher on that person than on anyone else. Just that, in relation to whatever comes after this life, this existance is a hard one (cursed, as it is, since the Fall, you know). If thought and emotions are a part of that "heaven", I would think that forgiveness, and the ability to forgive, would be a lot easier to do than it is here.
Theologically unsound, surely. I gladly concede that. But there is hope within me. A lot of times I feel like I'm every bit as depraved and irredeemable as Marmeladov. I know I'm pretty damn selfish, perhaps not to the point that he was. Then again, selfishness is one trait that every single one of us shares. Some have nurtured it more than others. Some have allowed it to rule and reign over them.
What about me? How far gone am I? To what extent have I forsaken the opportunity to be compassionate and subjucated it to my own wants and desires? I confess. I have done it too often. I don't know but that the damage is too extensive to be repaired. At least, not in this life.
Yesterday evening, as I tried to fall asleep, one of the many scattered thoughts swimming about in my mind was this: "It's not how you think it is. Nothing is as you think it is." And that was my mantra for the rest of the night. It brought comfort. I don't understand these lofty things because I am INCAPABLE of understanding them. EVERYONE is. The human mind just doesn't travel that far into comprehension. It was never meant to. If it could then it would no longer be a human mind but the mind of God. If I could just keep this in mind and relax I would see that theology is nothing but a game, a complicated game. It's a cosmic football game where the "players" are differing viewpoints clashing against each other, only there is no winner and no loser because the game never ends.
Philosophy, too, in the grand scheme of things, is a futile exercise. It's not a bad thing (neither is theology, for that matter), in fact, it is essential to the development of the inquisitive mind. What I'm saying is this: how many people, on their deathbeds, one moment away from their last breath, are going to cross that bridge with the unyielding assurance that all they've come to accept as "good", "evil", "right", wrong"...ANY OF IT...is "The Way It Really Is"? An infinitesmally scant few, I would wager.
Introspection blesses with comprehension and worldly understanding.
It also curses, when you look deep enough to see the vanity of it all.
Closet Detectives
Just finished watching "1408". Interesting concept: Hell in a Hotel. Not bad. Not bad at all. Based on a Stephen King short story. That's why I rented it, even though I know that almost every time Hollywood tries to do a King tale it winds up sucking. I haven't read this particular one, so I don't know how the movie stacks up against the original story.I don't know why but it brought back this memory:
I can't be much older than 9 or 10. My parents have befriended a couple. I have no idea who they are or how (or why) my folks have made their acquaintance. It didn't last for very long. Maybe not even a month. It began and ended so fast, I have no idea what their names where.
They had a son. Might have been a couple of sons, not too much older than I was. Maybe even a little younger. The family stayed in a two story house on the northwest side of town. Typical small town home.
One time, and only once, we visited them in their house. Dinner? I don't think so. I have no idea what the occassion was, if there was an occassion at all. All I know is that once the grown-ups got settled in to visit, their son (one of them, at least, if they had more) took me and my brother upstairs.
It didn't look like a furnished room, the part that I remember. There may have been other sections to the upstairs area, but the one I saw was more like a bare attic, with a window or two.
A stack of magazines. Old pulp magazines. Did the kid show them to me? Or was I just being nosey? Either way, I found my way to those magazines and had me a look-see. All of them were of the "True Crime"/"Official Detective" stripe. I looked through a few of them. Page upon page of black and white photographs. Real crime scenes. Dead bodies, lying in pools of blood, black blood on grey floors. Grey skin. Black pupils in off-white eyes, eyes that bulged, seeing nothing. Black gashes slithering across necks in some of them. In others, small bullet holes in foreheads or hearts, anywhere lethal. Knife wounds, multiple knife wounds, scattered across the voodoo doll bodies, real bodies, real enough if not. Dead bodies, on display like some kind of carnival freak show on paper, grainy photographs on grainy paper, the kind of paper that feels like sand to the touch, worse than chalkboard to the fingernails. Black and white pictures with captions describing who, why, what, where, how...pages and pages, maybe 30-40 pages with these images before the next section crowded with text (and who knows how many of the people who liked this stuff even read the words, right? Maybe this part of the rag was ignored by...what? Most of 'em?). Then, letters, words and paragraphs that describe, in morbid detail, all the carnage. All the motives. All the clues and the cops who followed all the leads. All the leads that led nowhere, mixed (in what proportions?) with the ones that led to killers and killers and killers and killers...but then agian, oh my God, all the ones that led nowhere. All the killers who got away. The ones who escaped the grip of justice. Killers whose consciences either haunted them the rest of their days or whose concsciences have themselves been killed, either in the same deadly stroke of the murderers act or long before at the hands of another, a different kind of killer, the kind that kills the soul, the kind that kills the soul and sleeps soundly at night, perhaps not even realizing the damage done. Or not caring, their own conscience nothing but a vague memory stolen by someone else without a conscience. Where do all those dead consciences wind up, anyway?
Surely no one with a conscience could have done the things I saw done to the people in those pages. Those sandy, gritty pages of those "detective" magazines, those grotesque periodicals that sold for less than a dollar at the grocery store. It seemed as if every cover showed some buxom female in trouble. Headlines like "The Rope Killer With 'Honorable Intentions'", "Does a Bride's Incest Justify Murder?", "Gang Rapes Were Fun-Until They Tried Murder", "Girl Buried Alive After Sex Session", "Wanton Murder Climaxed the Orgy at Gunpoint", "Murder Ended the Wife Swappers' Party"...these are actual titles, each one in large, bold print on the covers of these magazines. There was a whole row of the things on the magazine racks, right there where anyone could look at them.
But I didn't look at them after that day in the upstairs loft where I first saw them. They creeped me out big time. I thought, "Who would read this stuff? Who would want to look at these pictures?" It didn't occur to me then that everyone has a dark side and some folks placate it by looking at magazines like these. But at the time I was a little concerned, and frightened, as to why these people had these.
3.16.2008
a good start...a new look
I’ve spent a lot of time (some might say an inordinate amount of time) re-designing the appearance of this blog. I almost stopped posting on Blogger because they offered so few templates and they were all the same ones they’ve had for the past umpteen years. They’re ugly, too. But you pretty much had to use one if you wanted to be a part of “the new Blogger”. That’s not the only reason I nearly abandoned the Blogger ship, but we won’t get into the others. Suffice to say that I was not happy with the template I had and the page elements were weak (not enough of them, either).
I eventually did figure out how to insert a new template, but while doing so I saw the “revert to classic HTML” option, which I had not noticed earlier. A little messing around with the code and I was able to construct my own Sigur Ros themed template. How cool is that?
After that it there was no stopping me. I tinkered with the page elements and the links and the gizmos and the widgets and so forth and so on. It’s like a drug. I have been practically addicted to it for the last three days. It’s grown to such ridiculous proportions that my eyes are suffering from computer strain once again. They seemed to be getting better as I began to limit the time I spent on the computer. It wasn’t too hard, not as hard as I thought it would be. Then I woke up one morning and decided that, instead of switching over to WordPress I would just try and tweak this one.
I don’t know how such a simple idea turned into such a time consuming obsession, but that is exactly what happened. But now I think I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got done with the template. I should be able to settle down and focus on other activities. I should really concentrate on content at this point, and even though I want to give it more of a “diary” feel , I’m sure I will continue doing the commentary, opinion, fiction, all that stuff I’ve been writing for about 5 years here (which is another reason why I didn’t want to sacrifice this blog for a new WordPress site…there’s too much here in the archives for me to just say “fuck it”.
Some of the new features you’ll find, besides the name change, include a Soundclick music player where you can listen to a bunch of my old music. The regular music player has been modified to play only Sigur Ros songs, so I’m sorry if you don’t like them, but they go along with the theme. Plus there are more links than I’ve had in the past and RSS feed subscription links (which I haven’t had in the past). A lot of other stuff as well, but you’ll have to see it all yourself.
Every Wednesday I will be posting a “Music Video of the Week” from YouTube. I don’t know if you’ll like what I pick, but they won’t be the typical fare, I can almost assure you of that. I’ve also created a companion blog for this one which consists of YouTube music videos and band photos. Once again, they’re all chosen because I like ‘em and for no other reason. Maybe you’ll enjoy some of ‘em, too...if not at least you’ll get an idea of the kind of music that I’ve been listening to over the last 35+ years. Check it out if you want: The Listening Station.
Gotta go for now.
I eventually did figure out how to insert a new template, but while doing so I saw the “revert to classic HTML” option, which I had not noticed earlier. A little messing around with the code and I was able to construct my own Sigur Ros themed template. How cool is that?
After that it there was no stopping me. I tinkered with the page elements and the links and the gizmos and the widgets and so forth and so on. It’s like a drug. I have been practically addicted to it for the last three days. It’s grown to such ridiculous proportions that my eyes are suffering from computer strain once again. They seemed to be getting better as I began to limit the time I spent on the computer. It wasn’t too hard, not as hard as I thought it would be. Then I woke up one morning and decided that, instead of switching over to WordPress I would just try and tweak this one.
I don’t know how such a simple idea turned into such a time consuming obsession, but that is exactly what happened. But now I think I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got done with the template. I should be able to settle down and focus on other activities. I should really concentrate on content at this point, and even though I want to give it more of a “diary” feel , I’m sure I will continue doing the commentary, opinion, fiction, all that stuff I’ve been writing for about 5 years here (which is another reason why I didn’t want to sacrifice this blog for a new WordPress site…there’s too much here in the archives for me to just say “fuck it”.
Some of the new features you’ll find, besides the name change, include a Soundclick music player where you can listen to a bunch of my old music. The regular music player has been modified to play only Sigur Ros songs, so I’m sorry if you don’t like them, but they go along with the theme. Plus there are more links than I’ve had in the past and RSS feed subscription links (which I haven’t had in the past). A lot of other stuff as well, but you’ll have to see it all yourself.
Every Wednesday I will be posting a “Music Video of the Week” from YouTube. I don’t know if you’ll like what I pick, but they won’t be the typical fare, I can almost assure you of that. I’ve also created a companion blog for this one which consists of YouTube music videos and band photos. Once again, they’re all chosen because I like ‘em and for no other reason. Maybe you’ll enjoy some of ‘em, too...if not at least you’ll get an idea of the kind of music that I’ve been listening to over the last 35+ years. Check it out if you want: The Listening Station.
Gotta go for now.
3.13.2008
3.12.2008
Music Video of the Week: Renaldo & the Loaf
PLEASE NOTE: Before playing this video you will need to pause the music player at the bottom of the page.
"Songs for Swinging Larvae"
Renaldo & the Loaf
Renaldo & the Loaf
3.11.2008
A cruel joke
My idea of a good joke…my twisted sense of humor…
The first time I was in the nuthouse I was there on a Voluntary basis (this is not including the 6 months I spent in the Naval Hospital’s 4th Floor Psych Ward prior). I didn’t even NEED to be there. I was being kicked out of the house I was staying in and had nowhere to go. Rather than spend who knows how long out on the streets, homeless, I went to the Mental Health service place (whatever it’s called, I don’t know) and I told them that I was obsessed with killing myself and suicide in general. I told them that I had a calender at home where I put a star next to the date on which “famous people” had killed themselves (like Marilyn Monroe, Ian Curtis, Virginia Woolfe, et. al.). It is true that I had made such a calender, but it was more of a morbid hobby than a symptom of suicidal fixation. At that time I didn’t have any real suicidal thoughts. Desperate, yeah. But if I were suicidal I would have just offed myself instead of trying to find a free meal and shelter for the next month.
They didn’t know that, though, and with my track record from the Naval Hospital I was quickly admitted into the Hospital (I think it helped a lot to tell them that I wasn’t taking any medication at the time, too). Those folks get very jittery when they’re in the presence of a manic-depressive who is off of his meds. Not that I’d been on any kind of medication regiment since leaving the Navy, but I had more faith in my ability to “keep it together” than they did.
I was in there for a few days when I noticed a woman with a big crucifix necklace around her neck. Ugly woman, red hair, skinny, very introverted, so it seemed to me. I struck up a conversation with her and learned that she was a devout Catholic. Back then I had very little tolerance for Christians and Catholics in particular. So I decided to mess with her mind a little bit.
I asked her where she was from and she told me. She asked me where I was from and I said, “I come from a planet on the other side of the solar system. I’m here to observe the neuroses of people like you.”
That kind of freaked her out. She thought I was full of shit (she might have been crazy, but she wasn’t too dumb, not quite THAT gullilble).
“I see, from the crucifix you’re sporting, that you are what I’ve come to learn is a ‘Catholic’, am I right?”
She replied in the affirmative.
“That’s odd,” I said. “on my planet, everyone is a Satanist.” Then, as an aside, I put my hand to my chest and reverantly intoned, “Hail Satan, Master of All.”
The point wasn’t to convince her that I was actually a Satanic alien. I wanted her to think that I was the most insane motherfucker there. I wanted her to be frightened of me.
Our conversation continued. I was amused to see the look on her face as I expounded upon life on my planet, the Satanic rituals we performed there regularly, how our mission to earth included converting all human beings to Satanism. She was dumbfounded. I knew that once this discussion was over she would likely avoid me like the plague.
“What do you people eat here, anyway?” I asked. She reeled off a few examples of food items, and I said, “Oh, man, that’s gross. Where I come from we eat nothing but bugs.” She couldn’t believe that, but I insisted that my race was sustained by insects.
Then, a little bit later on in the day, while she was eating lunch in the cafeteria, I went to the vending machines and bought a bag of jelly beans. Next I went outside into the courtyard where patients went to smoke, get a little fresh air, maybe some exercise shooting hoops. There were bushes lining the half circle concrete wall, and I strategically placed jelly beans on the ground next to these bushes, all the way around. Then I went back inside and waited for “the earthling” to return from her meal. The staff were very insistant that we go outside for at least a few minutes every day, so I knew she would be out there soon.
The door to the court was unlocked and she went out and sat on a bench against the wall, by herself (I don’t think many people there associated with her).
Then I came out and made a point to walk in front of her. As I did I muttered, “God damn, I am HUNGRY! I hope there are a lot of bugs out here.”
I walked away from her to the first bush. Her eyes were fixed on me. I bent over an picked up a jelly bean, lifted it up to where she could see that ~something~ was in my hand. No doubt it looked like a bug from her vantage point. I examined it, sniffed at it, and pretended to pull it’s “legs” off. Looking directly at her I popped that jelly bean in my mouth and said, with a sated look on my face, “Oh, yeah. That’s delicious!”
I might as well not have planted those other jelly beans, because when she saw me eat the first one she looked like she was going to scream as she got up and high-tailed it back into the ward. I laughed my ass off.
She really started staying away from me after that. I’d made quite an impression. Every once in awhile I would look across a couple of tables and see her staring at me.
I took a ball point pen and drew a pentagram on my palm. It covered the whole inside of my hand and could easily have been seen from across the room. She wasn’t that far from me, so I knew she would see it. I locked eyes with her, gave her a wicked smile and raised my hand, waving the pentagram at her.
Sure enough, next thing you know she’s up and off away to somewhere as far from me as she could get. As it turned out, she went straight into the nurses’ station and told the doctor what was going on.
Soon afterward they called me into the doctors’ office, sat me down and asked me if I’d really been doing the things she said I was doing. Honesty always being the best policy, I told them I had. The doctor said I had this poor woman believing that I was actually a Satanist from another universe and that I ate bugs.
“Did you really eat bugs in the courtyard?”
“No, they were jelly beans I planted out there by the bushes.”
I still thought that was very funny. I don’t think the doctor thought it was quite as humorous (but you never know, he might have laughed his ass off about it with the nurses after I left). He gave me the obvious spiel about how the people here are already fucked up enough and the last thing they need is another patient messing with their heads even more. That made sense, and I told him I was sorry and that I would’nt do it again.
And I didn’t. But I never apologized to my victim and I never refuted what I’d told her about being a bug-eating alien. To tell the truth, I was surprised that she bought all that shit. As I said before, I would have felt like the joke was successful if she only believed me to be the biggest basket weaver in the funny farm.
Such fun is rarely experienced in state mental institutions. No doubt the fact that I was there voluntarilly (I could have left any time I wanted) and not really suffering from any mental problems made me feel free to screw around like that. I know this…, several years later when I was locked up there on a court order, the circumstances were quite different. In that situation it’s hard enough keeping yourself sane without trying to drive another person closer to the edge.
No, I wouldn’t do it again. Yes, I kinda feel sorry for the gal. I hope she got the treatment she needed. I hope she’s okay today and that she’s completely forgotten my little escapade.
But do I still think it’s funny?
Hell, yeah.
The first time I was in the nuthouse I was there on a Voluntary basis (this is not including the 6 months I spent in the Naval Hospital’s 4th Floor Psych Ward prior). I didn’t even NEED to be there. I was being kicked out of the house I was staying in and had nowhere to go. Rather than spend who knows how long out on the streets, homeless, I went to the Mental Health service place (whatever it’s called, I don’t know) and I told them that I was obsessed with killing myself and suicide in general. I told them that I had a calender at home where I put a star next to the date on which “famous people” had killed themselves (like Marilyn Monroe, Ian Curtis, Virginia Woolfe, et. al.). It is true that I had made such a calender, but it was more of a morbid hobby than a symptom of suicidal fixation. At that time I didn’t have any real suicidal thoughts. Desperate, yeah. But if I were suicidal I would have just offed myself instead of trying to find a free meal and shelter for the next month.
They didn’t know that, though, and with my track record from the Naval Hospital I was quickly admitted into the Hospital (I think it helped a lot to tell them that I wasn’t taking any medication at the time, too). Those folks get very jittery when they’re in the presence of a manic-depressive who is off of his meds. Not that I’d been on any kind of medication regiment since leaving the Navy, but I had more faith in my ability to “keep it together” than they did.
I was in there for a few days when I noticed a woman with a big crucifix necklace around her neck. Ugly woman, red hair, skinny, very introverted, so it seemed to me. I struck up a conversation with her and learned that she was a devout Catholic. Back then I had very little tolerance for Christians and Catholics in particular. So I decided to mess with her mind a little bit.
I asked her where she was from and she told me. She asked me where I was from and I said, “I come from a planet on the other side of the solar system. I’m here to observe the neuroses of people like you.”
That kind of freaked her out. She thought I was full of shit (she might have been crazy, but she wasn’t too dumb, not quite THAT gullilble).
“I see, from the crucifix you’re sporting, that you are what I’ve come to learn is a ‘Catholic’, am I right?”
She replied in the affirmative.
“That’s odd,” I said. “on my planet, everyone is a Satanist.” Then, as an aside, I put my hand to my chest and reverantly intoned, “Hail Satan, Master of All.”
The point wasn’t to convince her that I was actually a Satanic alien. I wanted her to think that I was the most insane motherfucker there. I wanted her to be frightened of me.
Our conversation continued. I was amused to see the look on her face as I expounded upon life on my planet, the Satanic rituals we performed there regularly, how our mission to earth included converting all human beings to Satanism. She was dumbfounded. I knew that once this discussion was over she would likely avoid me like the plague.
“What do you people eat here, anyway?” I asked. She reeled off a few examples of food items, and I said, “Oh, man, that’s gross. Where I come from we eat nothing but bugs.” She couldn’t believe that, but I insisted that my race was sustained by insects.
Then, a little bit later on in the day, while she was eating lunch in the cafeteria, I went to the vending machines and bought a bag of jelly beans. Next I went outside into the courtyard where patients went to smoke, get a little fresh air, maybe some exercise shooting hoops. There were bushes lining the half circle concrete wall, and I strategically placed jelly beans on the ground next to these bushes, all the way around. Then I went back inside and waited for “the earthling” to return from her meal. The staff were very insistant that we go outside for at least a few minutes every day, so I knew she would be out there soon.
The door to the court was unlocked and she went out and sat on a bench against the wall, by herself (I don’t think many people there associated with her).
Then I came out and made a point to walk in front of her. As I did I muttered, “God damn, I am HUNGRY! I hope there are a lot of bugs out here.”
I walked away from her to the first bush. Her eyes were fixed on me. I bent over an picked up a jelly bean, lifted it up to where she could see that ~something~ was in my hand. No doubt it looked like a bug from her vantage point. I examined it, sniffed at it, and pretended to pull it’s “legs” off. Looking directly at her I popped that jelly bean in my mouth and said, with a sated look on my face, “Oh, yeah. That’s delicious!”
I might as well not have planted those other jelly beans, because when she saw me eat the first one she looked like she was going to scream as she got up and high-tailed it back into the ward. I laughed my ass off.
She really started staying away from me after that. I’d made quite an impression. Every once in awhile I would look across a couple of tables and see her staring at me.
I took a ball point pen and drew a pentagram on my palm. It covered the whole inside of my hand and could easily have been seen from across the room. She wasn’t that far from me, so I knew she would see it. I locked eyes with her, gave her a wicked smile and raised my hand, waving the pentagram at her.
Sure enough, next thing you know she’s up and off away to somewhere as far from me as she could get. As it turned out, she went straight into the nurses’ station and told the doctor what was going on.
Soon afterward they called me into the doctors’ office, sat me down and asked me if I’d really been doing the things she said I was doing. Honesty always being the best policy, I told them I had. The doctor said I had this poor woman believing that I was actually a Satanist from another universe and that I ate bugs.
“Did you really eat bugs in the courtyard?”
“No, they were jelly beans I planted out there by the bushes.”
I still thought that was very funny. I don’t think the doctor thought it was quite as humorous (but you never know, he might have laughed his ass off about it with the nurses after I left). He gave me the obvious spiel about how the people here are already fucked up enough and the last thing they need is another patient messing with their heads even more. That made sense, and I told him I was sorry and that I would’nt do it again.
And I didn’t. But I never apologized to my victim and I never refuted what I’d told her about being a bug-eating alien. To tell the truth, I was surprised that she bought all that shit. As I said before, I would have felt like the joke was successful if she only believed me to be the biggest basket weaver in the funny farm.
Such fun is rarely experienced in state mental institutions. No doubt the fact that I was there voluntarilly (I could have left any time I wanted) and not really suffering from any mental problems made me feel free to screw around like that. I know this…, several years later when I was locked up there on a court order, the circumstances were quite different. In that situation it’s hard enough keeping yourself sane without trying to drive another person closer to the edge.
No, I wouldn’t do it again. Yes, I kinda feel sorry for the gal. I hope she got the treatment she needed. I hope she’s okay today and that she’s completely forgotten my little escapade.
But do I still think it’s funny?
Hell, yeah.
3.08.2008
All we were was a long way from home.
All we were was a long way from home. Too young to be so far from the loving arms of our fathers and mothers. They would not have wanted us to do these things. They would not have wanted us to think these thoughts. But they could not stop us, for we were out of their reach…this time in space, not simply victims of some generation gap of which we had no conception.
The ones we were told to trust tore the innocence from our psyches, ripped like wishbones, tossed into dustbins, and they had the nerve to laugh about it over tea and crumpets. What did they care? They’d lost theirs many years ago, forgotten, left only to extract sadistic pleasure in ruining our lives.
They told us we were wrong…
…and yet they could not tell us what was right.
So we became afraid to take comfort in red letter pages. Our hope, chiseled and scooped out, glossy oyster slick. Complicated beyond deconstruction. Would we ever laugh again?
Rained down, pain ground into fine powder we took to the brain. Despair the wind that blew back our hair, a hot steam vapor in our face to wipe away the smiles. Smiles we didn’t deserve, they told us, and we listened. It had to be better than what we’d left behind, right?
Where was the joy in an open hand to the face, forced, fast and furious? How long had it been since we gave up on love and sank down so low we dared not look above?
And I thought I had forgotten it all. I thought I had blunted every single memory from my mind of that wretched week. Seven days to erase away from my chalkboard vacant memory banks.
First day: Calliope crashed to the ground. I’ll never forget that Godawful sound.
Second day: Janie Jones all dressed in black. Rude boy’s gone and he ain’t coming back.
Third day: A lecture on the resurrection from a down-and-out agnostic. He had us convinced with his impeccable logic.
Fourth day: I ventured a kiss, you turned away. Must be that demon life that had me in it’s sway.
Fifth day: The sound of cars crashing just outside our door. The rattling rats that scurry underneath our floorboard.
Sixth day: Your father coaled. He said he was sorry for all the things he had done. Could I please give you the message?
Seventh day: No rest for the wicked, you left and stayed away. The sun turned to crimson in a sky shaded grey.
One week in the month of strange coincidences.
One month in the year of the Cat.
One year in the decade of dream-defying dogma.
One decade of six that were he was given, and of that six I shared almost four.
Of those I gave you two.
From those two you took your time in tearing me down. And from the rubble, after more time had passed, I recovered this haystack needle recollection. As clear as the first ray of moonlight cutting through the breaking fog. A tattered photograph carried in a worn out wallet.
A picture of me in my Sunday best. My old man to my right and you to my left. An aura of fiery orange shimmer from the overexposed film that shined around our heads, melting halos of flame. Proving somehow that we, all three, were blessed.
Despite or because of all that’s been said, I still search for Truth in the letters in red.
----January 7, 2003
The ones we were told to trust tore the innocence from our psyches, ripped like wishbones, tossed into dustbins, and they had the nerve to laugh about it over tea and crumpets. What did they care? They’d lost theirs many years ago, forgotten, left only to extract sadistic pleasure in ruining our lives.
They told us we were wrong…
…and yet they could not tell us what was right.
So we became afraid to take comfort in red letter pages. Our hope, chiseled and scooped out, glossy oyster slick. Complicated beyond deconstruction. Would we ever laugh again?
Rained down, pain ground into fine powder we took to the brain. Despair the wind that blew back our hair, a hot steam vapor in our face to wipe away the smiles. Smiles we didn’t deserve, they told us, and we listened. It had to be better than what we’d left behind, right?
Where was the joy in an open hand to the face, forced, fast and furious? How long had it been since we gave up on love and sank down so low we dared not look above?
And I thought I had forgotten it all. I thought I had blunted every single memory from my mind of that wretched week. Seven days to erase away from my chalkboard vacant memory banks.
First day: Calliope crashed to the ground. I’ll never forget that Godawful sound.
Second day: Janie Jones all dressed in black. Rude boy’s gone and he ain’t coming back.
Third day: A lecture on the resurrection from a down-and-out agnostic. He had us convinced with his impeccable logic.
Fourth day: I ventured a kiss, you turned away. Must be that demon life that had me in it’s sway.
Fifth day: The sound of cars crashing just outside our door. The rattling rats that scurry underneath our floorboard.
Sixth day: Your father coaled. He said he was sorry for all the things he had done. Could I please give you the message?
Seventh day: No rest for the wicked, you left and stayed away. The sun turned to crimson in a sky shaded grey.
One week in the month of strange coincidences.
One month in the year of the Cat.
One year in the decade of dream-defying dogma.
One decade of six that were he was given, and of that six I shared almost four.
Of those I gave you two.
From those two you took your time in tearing me down. And from the rubble, after more time had passed, I recovered this haystack needle recollection. As clear as the first ray of moonlight cutting through the breaking fog. A tattered photograph carried in a worn out wallet.
A picture of me in my Sunday best. My old man to my right and you to my left. An aura of fiery orange shimmer from the overexposed film that shined around our heads, melting halos of flame. Proving somehow that we, all three, were blessed.
Despite or because of all that’s been said, I still search for Truth in the letters in red.
----January 7, 2003
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