But not this damn bike, nor the one I just traded Zooter for.  Neither of those motorcycles are even near my age.  There’s the perpetual youth of it.  I can buy new.  I can be new, assuming I can keep up with the bikes, which I cannot, rusty tin man that I am.

No loss.  Rebound adjustment fixes most of lost youth.  I love rebound adjustment so much I believe any bike which does not have this capability is below even a novice rider. Of all the lazy engineering. . .it is damn impolite not to offer rebound on Honda Rebels.  Shit.  Chivalry is dead.

Speaking of death, if ever there was a more pertinent quote about the fatal perils of these demon bikes, I defy anyone to top this:

“If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead.  That’s the only thing I have against death.  I want to enjoy my death.” -Samuel Beckett, Eleutheria.

Well maybe not.  No.  I’m right about Beckett being right.  That about sums it all up if you read it a few times.  All this nonsense about the walking death sentence and its supposed sanctity can be defeated by that alone; at least the last of Beckett’s poetry.  (I know he’s talking about enjoying death after death, but I’m being goofy.)

“I want to enjoy my death.”

Is that really too much to ask of death?  Hell, we would most likely trade our lives for this pleasure.  It would be worth the faith to believe that a moment before we go we are allowed to stop time and direct our own passing.  You can’t argue, you can’t change your course because you’re already fucked, but the Grim Reaper will allow you to frame the final moment.   And adjust the contrast and hue.

Oh wait.  We can do that if we choose to.  If we put our risks in one basket, the eggs will probably break through what we wove.  Huh?  I think The Wiz said that already, and if he didn’t I don’t want to admit that I did.

It’s the machine.  The machine is broken.  This is not my damn fault.  Absurdity is to blame.

Camus won the Nobel with absurdity.  He used a typewriter as well.  Albert never had a motorcycle that I heard or read of.  A motorcycle seems absurd enough for Camus’ cause, even though Sartre would call him a nihilist.  They didn’t always get along.

Looking at the sparkly paint of the bike I traded the 1000cc single shot pistol for, I began to feel sleepy.  Finally.  When fatigue takes over, I know I will be okay.  Total exhaustion would set upon me by nightfall.  I hoped.

In the old days I’d drink myself to sleep, but these days it causes the dreams to occur and the cycle seems to take longer to stop when alcohol is involved.  A night on the town sends me directly to sweating nightmares and teeth gnashing days of anger of no tangible origin.  Even a nice evening with friends is connected to dreams which never die.  My hangovers go back to four years of age.

The problem with getting over the imagery of my past is that I feel owned by my subconscious.  Like a race where someone blocked me until the end, I cannot keep my line.  But unlike a race, I don’t have any chance of getting around this competitor in my life.  It would be easy to say, “you have the power to move on.”  But tell that shit to a Viet Nam vet who still wakes up with the memories, or injuries and who inside knows, even if he acts like the memories aren’t there, they are.

“Are you okay?”

The question snaps me out of a fatigue seizure of some sort.  Was I sleeping?  Here on the curb?

I open my eyes and look up to see my neighbor.  Smiling, but angry for some reason, I give the excuse I always give, which isn’t necessarily untrue, “I’m just tired.”

“Oh,” she says with a curious concern in her eyes, “I thought I heard you talking.”

Maybe I was.  I don’t know.  She continues into her apartment and I stand up to enter mine.  Almost falling over, I walk slowly into the dark apartment to make coffee, so that I will not fall asleep at 6PM.

A book I’ve been reading is sitting on the table, opened and annotated by my own hand.   I read.

“Well,” said Amory, “I simply state that I’m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation-with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals.  Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as the stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old cants with new ones.”

Why can’t I enjoy my death?  If the answer isn’t a new cant, I don’t want to hear it.  I’m tired of these weepy old cants which say this life isn’t mine to take away.  Seems the platitudes about living with our choices end with the final choice.  If so, every hero who died in a war is a sinner, and those who sent him there are the hero.

This would be the last motorcycle I would ever own.  It was only a 600, only capable of 140, but that’ll do it.  Well, that and one dark night of screaming around the hills, and one mistake.  It would have to end that way.

One corner and one mistake.  Yep.  I’m going to enjoy my death.

A smirk appeared under my nose.  Shit, I was happy again.

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2. The Motor Cyclist

The Motor Cyclist III: Absurdity

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So I’m minding my own business watching ALIEN on TV and they cut to a commercial for the new TROJAN VIBRATOR!

Six or seven women are sitting somewhere private (I hope) handing out dildos wrapped up like Birthday presents!

The lucky ladies that had already used one of these devices all sported the same hairdo, (not unlike Alien.) I’d call it the swept-back Stutz Bearcat, Hood Ornament look.

Suddenly the commercial was over. I was STUNNED! I simply could not believe what I had seen. It must have been a joke! Nobody is going to believe it!

Then the Trojan Vibrator commercial came on again! I had NOT imagined it after all!

And this time I was determined to get every detail about the TROJANATOR right.

I grabbed a pencil and paper. Then I made sure I was not in contact with any remote controls or electronic devices. (There are usually three or four bewildering remotes lying around. From experience I know touching any button on any one of them will instantly change channels, languages or even the Universe as we know it. I pushed a red button on the remote last year and we’ve been watching television with Korean subtitles ever since.)

Not this time! This time I got ALL of the vibrator commercial’s details!

Precisely eight women, all young, all skinny and all incredibly beautiful (in other words the LAST eight women on Earth that might need a vibrator) are sitting on the same side of a large glass table (always a bad sign.)

Again I saw the women with their ALIEN HAIR STYLES, passing out dildos as if they were PARTY FAVORS.

However the most amazing thing about the Trojan commercial was something I had completely missed the first time, the end!

One of those women comes rushing into the room, presumably fresh from the mailbox. Her hair is not yet shaped like a Tour de France bicycle helmet so we know she did not open up the Trojanator and try it out in the front yard. But she sure looks like she’s is ready to give it a go!

The woman looks positively radiant! And with transcendent joy she informs her husband they are now the proud owners of three (count em’ three) Trojan Vibrators!

The husband, must not have been listening because he replies “SWEET!!!” I’m not so sure that’s a typical response for a man in a stable relationship in this situation.

I don’t want to sound prudish, but I think ONE vibrator goes a long long way, you know what I mean?

-30-

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ALIEN VIBRATORS

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Two years is a long time to wait for this kamikaze run.  The liter bike was a stupid idea.  I sent a text message to a friend with another 600 like my old one and offered to upgrade his ride, and let him pay it out however he wanted.  He was so excited about a new bike he called immediately.

“Are you on drugs?  That deal is cool with you?”

“Take it.  I’m scared of it.”  A lie, but the bike hardly mattered to me at all. As I often do during times of no smiles, I manufactured some humor, “A dog like me doesn’t need one of these big sport bikes. You’re from California dude, you have to ride a liter bike. Call me tonight.”

Throughout the morning routine, I kept seeing the face of a boy who didn’t have my good fortune to only have skin burnt off my arm at four years old.  This boy had no face.  His eyelids were made from skin from his genitals. A thought of someone laughing at that sad fact brings a jolt of vile anger aimed at a specter of my imagination.  I hate the memories, I hate the anger, and with all that and a bag of no peaceful sleep, I hate myself.  An internal scream begins from my chest which I often have to contain in normal life.  It is a scream I’ve only released in a motorcycle helmet.

It’s an hour before work, but I suit up and try what has worked before.  At 15,000 RPMs I find the note I hear inside and hold the throttle to keep it.  The sound is past all smooth vibrations, just beyond where the bike feels like music, sympathetic, and in tune.  The note beyond has some indication of music, but it is a note threatening to break; feeding back into itself and harsh on even the four Nikasil lined throats of my bike.  My lips curl down into a scowl as I hit 17K where there are no kind words for the sound ripping through a foggy Austin morning.  There is nothing kind in me.

“Fuck it.”

Full throttle, and this morning, I ignore yellow lines.  Yellow lines hardly matter because there is no one near me at this speed.  Most of all, I’m not near me.  No memories.  The bike has taken me past them.  If I fuck up, all is over.  One way or another.  Whatever.  This is my race.

Speeding past the past for even a couple of curved minutes is all I have.  There is nothing positive about it; I can find no other way to deal with myself.  It may come from the wrong place, a place you’ll never see in a motorcycle ad, but the shit works.  Never will you read, “The new GSXR1000, the only bike capable of running away from PTSD.  Also available with new electronic bipolar control.”

A slight laugh comes.  Some endorphin is released and I will be okay.  Rolling off the throttle, down to a mere 105, I feel the drug.  My eyes are like lasers, fingers and toes vibrating, and my scalp tingles above a sleep deprived brain awakening.  Ain’t no drug like this one, and I’ve done quite a few.  The memories return but the anger is gone.

Jesus Christ.  What the hell ever happened to that kid?  Or the girl with half a face?  

Sitting at a stoplight, my fingers are numb from the cold, but a single drop of sweat rolls into my eye.  Blinking it away, I notice a woman in a car looking at me.  She smiles. Every time I see an attractive woman I have a flash memory of the half burnt girl I saw as a child and ask myself, “Is she beautiful?”

The last time I saw that poor girl was in 1979 but if she appeared in front of me, half a perfect face and half Freddie Krueger, I would weep and beg for her love.  I want her to be beautiful.  I want all those kids to be beautiful.  It ain’t about me. . .And it is about me.  Quit whining.  Motorcyclists don’t whine.  Suck it up.  Be tough.  Fuck you.    I hear the 17K note again in my head, but now I have to go to work.  All I want to do is ride yet it isn’t always for the same reasons other people ride.   People blather about how our choices in life define us, but this wasn’t my choice to have nightmares where my skin melts away for the rest of my life, nor to think daily of kids who had it much worse than me; and to live in a world where those kids never had a fucking chance.  Fuck this.  I can’t take it.  I’m done.  Don’t give me those bullshit platitudes about strength and determination and will and, “FUCK YOU!”

How do you tell that story at bike night?  How do you relate to those whose reasons for riding aren’t from some twisted, lingering trauma which worsens with age?  Last time I tried I failed and people have never looked at me the same.  I didn’t even tell them I quit racing because the anger was so bad I could have hurt someone on the track, especially if they acted too tough in my opinion, or accused me of whining.

A dimwitted bastard once accused me of whining about cold weather at the starting line.  He was the typical tough guy racer type, like I was somewhat, but he wasn’t crazy.   He picked the wrong day to call me a wimp.  I hadn’t slept at all the night before and was edgy from it.

I’m a wimp?  You think you’re tough?  Neither of us is tough, but you need a lesson in humility.  You still have your god damned face motherfucker, but by the end of the day, you might not.  You die today.

When the gate dropped and we met in the first turn, I showed him how cold I could be even though I was dripping with sweat from adrenaline, and anger. I ran over his foot in the first turn then spent two motos ramming him, crowding him, pushing him into lines he didn’t want to race until he finally got so rattled he highsided and I left him in cloud of dust.  He never came close to me at a race again, even in the pits, but I had stopped racing that day.  Motocross had become something else.  I didn’t even care about winning; I only wanted to destroy what the racing world called tough.  Courage is waking up day after day and looking in the mirror to see a face like Freddie Krueger and not blowing your brains out.

Tough?  I’ll take us both out.  Random chaos.  Happens every day.  I’ll die today, and you may be going with me.

“That was the twofer I always wanted.”  Why?

The light turned green and I laughed slightly. Ride to live, live to ride.  If I don’t get some damned sleep tonight, it will be ride to avoid what I’ve lived, in hopes that I ride to die.  My helmet shakes a negative away.  The RPMs stay low.  I’m so tired it is all I can do to keep from nodding off as I ride to work.

“Didn’t someone say all life is a dream?”  I ask no one in particular as I turn off the key.

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The Motor Cyclist 2: The Wrong Reasons to Ride

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At the risk of sounding like one of those really grumpy guys you try to edge away from, We old-timers know this is not even a normal winter.

Back in the winter of 83’ it got down to 24 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve. That wasn’t the “wind chill” or “comfort index” either. That was what the temperature, -24 degrees!

And the Blizzard of 78? You sissies would all be hiding under your beds calling your mommies! Except you wouldn’t get a signal because there were NO CELL PHONES! The phone was attached to the wall and heavier than a bowling ball! I’d love to watch you try to text your BESTIE on that sucker!

And when the power came back on you’d go bat-shit crazy trying to find “The Dog Whisperer” or “Sixteen and Pregnant” on TV. (Dogs could go wherever they wanted back then without some idiot getting intense all up in their face, or snout or whatever. Also back then getting pregnant at 16 was frowned-on.)

Our TV only got four channels and what was on was “The Brady Bunch”, “I Love Lucy”, “The Tonight Show” and “Football Follies” (which ran on the local access station continuously for my entire childhood.) That was it! But we watched more TV then you do NOW anyway. I can STILL tell you what “Gilligan’s Island” episode it is at a glance!

Then right after midnight all four of those channels WENT OFF THE AIR.

Time to surf the net right? WRONG! You can forget that shit right now. Nobody had a home computer because the computers were bigger than the homes! You had to go to a ‘computer center’ and do ‘time-sharing’ whatever the hell THAT meant.

You’d sit down in front of the screen and all you’d see was “A>:___” So you’d start trying to type something to make it work like HELP or START and then hours later, but inevitably FUCK YOU. But it didn’t matter WHAT you wrote the screen still said “A>:___”

Meanwhile all the other weenies were laughing at you because THEY knew you had to type in “RUNuserLOGIN929executePARAMETERdefault” and the chances of you accidentally typing that was zero.

But my POINT, (let me go back and see what it was) Got it! My point was winter weather. We had it back then and what it did was snow. And the snow didn’t melt the next day but stayed until March!

Then it got COLD. Not, ‘Oh my gosh I can’t believe it’s 5 degrees cold,” I mean, ‘It’s 20 below and I’m waiting for the school bus and wondering if my nose will thaw enough to breathe through again’ cold.

Sometimes we’d get a really big snow storm and all the schools between Bloomington and the Crab Nebula would be closed but not MCCSC, no sir. Even on the VERY rare day OUR schools closed they’d wait until we were AT school to announce it!

So we had to walk five miles in the snow to get to school anyway! (Our school was less than a mile away but we had to walk back and forth because we forgot a pencil or something.) How does THAT sound whiners!

-30-

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When Winter was WINTER…

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Anyhoo! I’m feeling great, listening to Crosby Stills and Nash’s singing, “Love the One You’re With.”

That song includes the following lyrics, “And there’s a road? With a different drum? Mmm Mmm Eagle flies with the dove. So if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with,” (or SOMETHING like that.)

I’m singing along and thinking, ‘What a great idea!’

Love the one YOU’RE WITH! That’s the PERFECT attitude to have!

Think about it! If everybody felt that way, life would be so much better. After all, you can’t ALWAYS be with the people you want to be with, (believe you me!) But you can just act like you are! EUREKA!

Then I think, I should point this out to my wife! I know she’s heard this song 5000 times (pretty much every time we get in the truck) but I bet she never really thought about the lyrics.

So I’m getting ready to suggest that we should officially ADOPT this attitude in our lives, make it our new lifestyle!

Then she said, “THIS SONG SHOULD BE THE NATIONAL ANTHEM FOR SLUTS.”

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Love The One You’re With

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Premature Upheaval

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Here’s another tip! If you plan to run the yellow light up ahead, make sure the guy in the car IN FRONT OF YOU has the same plan!

That’s just two of the things I’ve learned recently as a balls-to-the-wall, what-the-hell, white-knuckle driver.

Due to all the emergency-room runs I’ve had to make lately I’ve learned a whole new way to hit the road—like I don’t give a damn! It’s fun!

But learning to drive that way was not so fun since it involved loved-ones in distress (and displaying startling color changes.)

On the way to the ER my Mom was first red, then blue and then purple. Simultaneously she performed an UNCANNY imitation of a fish suddenly dragged up from 500 feet and unceremoniously flung on the deck.

I found all this rather disturbing and as a result and I couldn’t avoid breaking some traffic laws—actually pretty much all of them.

In my defense, I’d like to know exactly WHO got to decide which side of the pavement was “the wrong side”? I might add that a sign that merely says “STOP” is open to all kinds of interpretations.

Despite going very fast and paying little attention to trivial concepts like “lanes” and “signs” I didn’t get pulled over.

Nor was I stopped on my second or THIRD hospital sprints. So now I drive that way everywhere I go. They way I see it, I have three Hospital-Related, get-out-of-tickets-free cards and I’m using em’!

Nobody seems to care either, except OUR TRUCK. That is clearly one unhappy vehicle. And it’s “lashing out” via messages lit up on the dashboard.

Of course the “Service Engine Soon” light is always lit anyway, but now our truck is flashing EXTRA crazy new messages like “Tighten Gas Cap!” and “Check Wiper Fluid!”

Hey TRUCK! I’m running a stop sign doing 75 in a 20 in front of a school. Do you really think I give a fuck about wiper fluid?!?

If the truck wants to get MY attention it’s gonna’ take an “I WILL KILL YOU ALL!” light, or something similar.

But even with the wild lights, none of my new driving style is as dangerous as riding with my daughter Kathryn “Crash” Jones. If you have driven a car in Bloomington in 2011 there’s a statistical probability Katy has collided with you.

She’s hit FOUR cars in the past 12 months! Precisely three more than I’ve hit since 1978 (and that one car I hit was on purpose.)

Brandy suggested we affix pillows on the bumpers of Katy’s car. Her Aunt Christina advised bubble wrap.

Personally I’d like to see Katy’s car adorned with large flashing Klieg lights and surrounded by inflated tractor tire inter-tubes.

If you see either one of us coming down the road you might want to pull on over.

-30-

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Driving like somebody’s gonna die….

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He SAYS he’s been hunting before, but he also says he flew the Space Shuttle, climbed K2 and invented the IPad.

I know I frequently poke fun at hunters, but I’ll admit it, I like going myself. All the way up to the part when we see an actual animal, that is.

That’s when you can count on me to interpose myself between the hunters and the endangered critter.

My friends and relatives have accepted this behavior and have even come to enjoy the challenge of blasting rabbits etc. despite my interference. It’s now a TRADITION!

And I have shown courage under fire from a very early age. The very first time I was allowed to join the hunting party was Thanksgiving Day when I was 10 or 11. I didn’t actually get my own gun to carry, but I was thrilled to get to walk out in front of the grown-ups.

Little did I know that I was actually standing in FOR THE DOG (Ralph) and that I would somehow blunder upon a pheasant.

Since I had never SEEN a pheasant before (or since), my entire interaction with the species is having one blasted to bits just above my head.

But I remember thinking that it was HUGE and BEAUTIFUL, (at least for that second or so before it became a handful of smoking feathers floating towards the ground.)

When the smoke had cleared my Dad had a rather intense conversation with the other hunters, no doubt regarding fields of fire and the acceptable proximity of my head.

Now 40 years later LEO wants to go, and I have agreed with the following caveats:

We’re NOT going at 5:00 in the morning! For some reason, seasoned hunters seem to think you should set out in the middle of the night. Trust me the deer are still asleep and they don’t want to get up either.

We’re NOT wearing camouflage. Whenever I see someone in camo but sporting a bright orange hat or vest it takes all my concentration to keep from laughing out loud!

I want to shout, “Hey! Do you see that floating head?”

I usually don’t though. (They have guns.)

-30-

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We’re going hunting…

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"You're going to die on those things." Cool, but I'm no fool.

Fighting a strong urge to laugh, I said, “I always wanted a motorcycle.  They take walk-ins at the license test right?”

“You have to take the safety course,” he replied as he counted the money.  The sales man showed very little honest concern, but I’m sure the mention of the safety course would allow him to sleep on his commission.  I had told him, on a high whim, that I never owned a bike but I wanted a fast one. He directed me to the only sport bike in the shop, a late model Suzuki GSXR1000.

The floor was littered with expensive custom choppers, a couple of neat Ducati Monsters, two Japanese cruisers and one really cool KTM. The shop was one of these new, used bike shops selling bikes bought up during the recession from people who could no longer afford their toys, by people who should be dragged behind one of the uglier choppers on the showroom, by people like me.  This is the future of the industry, and of the world really, but that’s not my point.  Not at this point.

On the bike, maybe I’d consider this sales guy a motorcycle brother, but probably not.  If George Bush rode the same bike as me, he’d still be just another filthy cash sucker. The fact that this guy had a bike and just sold me one does not make him my fucking friend.   This motherfucker isn’t stopping for me on the side of the road anymore than I’d pull over to help him re-strap his Harley on the trailer.

I know some real bikers though, and I’d pull over for them any day, even loan them my damn bike.  They had the motorcycle spirit, yet I wouldn’t be truthful if I said they always knew why.  Put them on the bike though, no matter how loaded they were, and you will see The Face.  Real Outlaw bikers are good people, kinda violent after a certain time of the day, but respect usually met respect when I was with bikers.

But not this sales man.  It didn’t take an honorary psychology degree to see this sales man was about the Benjamins, which makes him Benjamin’s Bitch.  He wasn’t a rider.  

I already knew the answer from his Harley pocket protector, but I asked, “What kind of bike do you ride?”

“Oh I ride a Harley,” he replied, “A Big Twin.”

Giant Harleys were a surrender to straight lined boredom, but attracted titties and beer, as long as you never got tired of hearing George Thorogood.  “I’ve never ridden a real motorcycle, are Harleys fast?”

In the measured, FM DJ sales voice, he replied, “Well, a Harley is more of a cruiser or a touring model. They’ll get up and go, but not like your sport bike.  You’ve never ridden a bike at all?  That’s a really fast bike you have. Really fast. I figured you had ridden at least.”

“I rode on one of those little lawn mower engine things,” I shrugged, “same deal.  How fast is the bike I just bought?  It’ll do a hundred right?”

He couldn’t tell if I was serious, or perhaps he was wondering if he was libelous, “That bike does over 160 off the floor.  Hey, uh, we can deliver the bike to you.  Take the safety course.”

“I don’t have time for that shit.  I got a youtube video shoot today,” I said.

Snatching up the 300 dollar helmet he threw in as a kiss, (110 bucks dealer cost, but 300 bucks to us in The Motorcycle Brotherhood) I grabbed my bike; already gassed up by a kid in a flat brimmed Monster Energy hat.

“We’ve got a ramp on the side of the shop,” the kid said when I took the bars.  He was a mutant somewhat like me.  He was wearing a wrist brace under his Pro Circuit tee and eating protein bar, with a Hershey bar stacked on top of it, and in the other hand was a banana.  Motocrosser. Kinda used to be one myself, before I found myself.

He stared at me with the deceptively vacant eyes of a human with a resting heart rate of 12 BPM, and who adjusted his goggles while flying 70 feet through the air during races, “I’ll wheel it around for you dude.”

“I got it,” I said as I shoved the helmet on, unbuckled for theater’s sake.  The kid looked at me like I was a dead man walking, which I was, but if you wanted to get fussy about it, we all are.  That’s why I wanted a liter bike.  It was time.

Once past the entrance, I hopped on and started the Superbike, revved it for attention, but only slipped the clutch in first and crept down the steps; standing, never dabbing a foot, with a slight, but expressively stylish pause as I let my rear wheel ease over the last step.  Slipping it again toward the curb, I popped a small wheelie so both wheels landed simultaneously, then stopped, standing perfectly balanced for a count of “one-one thousand.”

No ugly motion, no ugly sounds.  Only enough RPM to keep the main gyro spinning, my type of showing off, and the bike did all the work.  I’m just a passenger.  Around 160 please, thank you James.

Being more experienced at riding puny little 600s and 650s as an adult (whichever skinned the cat) and tiny wee motocrossers when I was younger, I hadn’t spent much time over 140.   Liter bike guys tried to mock me about it, but after a couple of corners, I never heard it again.  I’m not a great rider, far fucking from it, but most spodes on liter bikes are flat stupid, and not just for popping wheelies on the freeway.

Riding is amazingly complex for an activity Evel Kneivel could do, and with the right eyes, can be an expressive and graceful art form to witness.  When I see too many wheelies, I see the dull guy at the party who somehow found a way to walk around with his shirt off to show us The Situation.  Like the sales man, the rockstar squids wanted The Image.  One and the same in my book.  Call me a dog. . .but the superbikers kept me away from the big sport bikes.

That said, I can lift the front end on any bike I ride.  I’m more practical about it because I learned it from a different angle.  After disclaiming the hammered stunt tank on my last 600 to an intelligent new riding buddy before we took a trip downtown, I instinctively popped a wheelie over chuck hole that was going to slam my nuts into the tank.  Because of The Situations out there now, I could have gone to jail for trying to keep my boys in the sack.   It was a good wheelie, didn’t even yank the chain hard, and the bike did all the work.  I didn’t need to express power.   

\

The only reason I wanted a liter bike was because Austin had secured F1 racing in Texas, in America, and just put a world class track in my damn backyard.  Track designers had written my retirement plan with a gorgeous, humped, long straight burn that was good for 200 MPH; a hard turn at the end would make or break me, one day, and I was hoping for sooner than later.  Other than that, I never wanted a fucking liter bike.  Before, I thought large sport bikes were for guys with small penises.  I’m a medium there, (grower not a shower.) Smaller bikes did all I needed, and what I read in literature class got me more love than any bike ever did, let alone the 1000cc motor I was straddling.

But I don’t ride bikes for the imagery used to market them, which probably why the imagery is so ridiculous to me.  When I started I was too young to have any preconceptions.  My father stuck me on the tank of a KX125 when I was four years old and it caused a mutation which I have never fully adapted to, but which constantly evolved in me until I find myself riding a ridiculously fast Suzuki, while believing I really should be above it.  I know my mother was right about motorcycles; she’s the smartest one in the family.  All my best decisions in life came from something I learned from my mother.  Dad taught me how to say, “Fuck it. I like bikes.”

And I like them fast.  I will not buy a Hyabusa though. I’d go with the ZX14, painted like my 1984 KX80, with the red KDX tank, White Lightning plastic, and a works bike blue seat cover; a tribute to my father, and the motorcycle industry ruining me forever.  I’d take that fucker straight to The Texas Mile and shoot for the 200MPH club, merely so I could smile when context allowed me to humbly tell the tale, because honestly, it would be hardly a victory to me.

“I don’t get it myself.”  Sure I do, but it’s hard to write honestly without alarming folks, unless you carefully choose your words.  Trained against anything short of stoicism by motorcycling, there were no victories to anything I did on the bike; no completion, no solace.  After motocross, bikes had to be about something in me.  It was personal.  Knowing this, I mocked things other riders held as a measuring stick but I mocked all my actions, and honestly felt that it is this bogus measuring stick that has become the barrier to spreading the motorcycle spirit.

Resentment? No. Purity.  My father gave me this gift.  I want riding to mean something, not something stupid.  This shit is deep to me.  It’s a life story.   It can’t be merely brave, and in no way stupid.  It’s timeless poetry.

All is an elusive epitaph,

the lives we all live.

Also elusive, but more modern, is why this external object creates such an internal reaction, that is entirely personal to the point of absolute mystery to even the rider who feels it.  Describing the sensation is like describing love.  I’ve never seen it written satisfactorily.

The road was clear now so I reached for it.  I don’t know what it is, but I cannot give it strictly to the motorcycle.  It has to be universal, unisexual, ultimately pure, and a beauty available to all people, yet it is particular to the individual. Perhaps the sensation is human motion.  Is it the giddy thrill we fools get when we go where we never were meant to go? That sensation is older than bikes, eternal, and entirely natural, despite the machine.  It is in all of us.

I was feeling it on this god damned GSXR, but I knew pursuit of It damned us all.  Oh yeah, I went there.  End of Times is coming; unless you convert to Islam because Jesus has run out of oil and the Axis of Evil has it.  Politics aside, they aren’t going to change anything anyway, combustion is dying.  I’m getting it while I can.

Under the winds, I’m the weatherman; 158, 165, 172. . .hello Evil, a number new.  Whatever It is, It was mine in this moment.  Damned to love it, destined to lose it; we all know it, but I couldn’t care when I felt It.  God damn It.

It is.  It is damned because it is a machine. 

I mean, shit, I’m reaching of course, but where the hell (the machine) can you go?  (rolled back to 155 and checking the mirrors for cops.) The motorcycle is rebellious not because of that photo of the drunk at Hollister, nor Marlon Brando, nor all those stupid biker movies I absolutely love.  The motorcycle, and listen here now damnit, the motorcycle is rebellious because it is a machine.

We had The Garden remember? Huh?  Hey all you EPA hating, conservative types of the moto world who bought the platitudes of the Fuel Creators. . . The combustion engine is a finger in the face of everything we were offered by George Bush’s God, just like most creations of humanity.  I know a bountiful garden wasn’t good enough for me.  I know if any god stood before me when I was 13 and said, “You can have heaven, or a KX80,” I would have ridden the bike straight to the inferno, doubling and tripling the rings straight to the finish line, even if I knew my friend Bob would later catch shrapnel in Iraq for my ridiculously shallow needs.

Paint it however you need to market it, the motorcycle is one of the Devil’s tools, but his favorite is the V8.  A Combustion Revelations is upon us.  Amen.  The Devil has beaten us with our one glorious, god given fuel.

Help me now!

Confess yourself to The Lord, reach for The Saviour and accept him now because, from below, we have fallen for the Devil, who come to us in a crude, oily form and hath lubricated our very souls until we are his own.  Help us Lord.  Help me.  Seriously, I just saw another cop and I’m doing, 161.  Forgive my sin, I was feeling it.  

It’s stupid.  I realize as much.  It’s stupid to go 160 or more on public roads too.  It’s stupid to feel cool because you can, and it’s stupid to absolutely need some product to make my life complete, especially one which is so tied to a substance which shapes world power.

What can I do?  Bent.  Absolutely bent.  Lord?  Are you listening?

I am forsaken.  I was alone.  My mind went blank.  But in my dreams, it’s always there, that evil face which twists my throttle and brings me to despair.

At a mere 166 now, I was still 500 mph away from the Speed of the Beast, but god damnit, I was going to get there.  I’m a missile of freedom with Jesus’ blessing.  Kill ‘em all and let The God sort ‘em out.  Sorry Christian Patriots, that’s the past. 

“Win some, you lose some, it’s all the same to me.”  Motorhead.

Who cares. . .these are just thoughts in a helmet, a dead man’s hand in a changing world with a personal definition dying like the cowboy.  But these god damn liter bikes are stupid fast.  Perfect.  I know motion is a joke of dull perception, but I sure like this fool’s sensation, and the faster the better until it kills me or the entire world.

Screw it to the stop.  It’s all a fool has got.  I’m just another hapless consumer here, a market for a few; a dog.

I laughed. . .   Born to die, nothing to lose; I don’t give a bitter fuck.  Honey Badger has nothing but stupidity on me.

Chapter One.

Related posts:

1. The Motor Cyclist 2: The Wrong Reasons to Ride
2. The Motor Cyclist III: Absurdity

The Motor Cyclist

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and I don’t choose who I care about.

A five year curiosity closed recently,

a crescendo of bent pathology

finally expressed truth, finally removed care,

I understood the Leviathan.

Okay Miss Water;

Satan? Really?

A witch you said.  Take note here:

“I want what I want when I want it.”

Not youth as I once thought, flat selfishness.

So without a clue, you, (pardon my laugh, child) choose Satanism

And your career…

Shit.  That’s just funny.  Kinda Lebowski too.

Whatever, it matters not.  I don’t choose who I care about

and I don’t make the decision to stop caring.

That idea comes from the Monster, the sea monster who resides in the (smirk) Diaphanous Waters, or the Hopeful Waters, or whatever water a child like you decides to be after the real monsters broke you.  I cared for the witch’s mind, only, but that was more of a literary mystery I was trying to decipher.  I never liked my first thought about you, and because I was trying to be human, I searched for depth.

I found Leviathan.  You knew I would, you gave me the map.

No one loves monsters.  The Woodpecker was an Outlaw, not a predator, and you’re neither.

…witch hardly matters Devil Girl.  The mystery died.  You were right when you said, “I’m not a good person.”

But let me add, you’re not your own person in their world.

The Leviathan, from a witch’s bent perspective:

In Satanism, according to the author of The Satanic Bible, Anton Szandor LaVey, Leviathan represents the element of Water and the direction of West. The element of Water in Satanism is associated with life and creation, and may be represented by a Chalice during ritual. In The Satanic Bible, Leviathan is listed as one of theFour Crown Princes of Hell. This association was inspired by the demonic hierarchy from The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin the Mage. The Church of Satan uses the Hebrew letters at each of the points of the Sigil of Baphomet to represent Leviathan. Starting from the lowest point of the pentagram, and reading counter-clockwise, the word reads “לִוְיָתָן”. Translated, this is (LVIThN) Leviathan.^[11]

I saw this in you immediately but I was too stubborn to go with my first thought: Hopeless.

I tried to show you what my experience had taught me,

it was a comedy, but you were so intent on having what you wanted

and the only mystery was why you had to crush everyone who gave it to you.

SO I didn’t.

I just hope I get the motorcycle book written before the Satanist Witch cuts my balls off.   Either way, I don’t care.

Empty

Hollow

Diaphanous

Nihilist

a laugh.

The Bar ate you.  The Mystery died.  Fred is dead.

Martin is fine however.  (Chortle…fucking Satan.  That’s ridiculous.  Kill me if you must Witchy Poo, you know I never valued this life.)

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Seems I knew a Satanist

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Good for ADZ, good for 'Merica.

We have always been a staunchly conservative website here at ADZ.  Since the days when I was the A/V technician for the Nixon campaigns, through Leo’s time as grammar advisor for the Bush administration, ADZ has never wavered from our conviction that a good America can only be achieved through conservative politics.

Plus, the fucking Democrats never want to play ball no matter how much of Dorkchick’s bootlegging money we try to launder through their campaigns. Fucking socialists.  Well, Clinton would listen, when he wasn’t staining the Oval Office.

But by the grace of The Lord, Newt Gingrich has taken millions from us and if we can get him into office, ADZ will be pissing off the balcony on OWS and leaving you losers behind to fend for your lazy selves.  To further hedge our bets, we packed the pockets of all GOP candidates, except Ron Paul because we couldn’t find his campaign headquarters.  We have plans for you peasants.

Long war, long workdays, no public education, and the ability to jail any commenter who doesn’t bow before us like one of Herman Cain’s white women; this is the future we see ourselves ruling.  Fuck the rest of you.  Seriously, you’re going to pay for ever setting foot on our damn planet.  We are Atlas, and we will shrug you fucking fleas right off.

Shit, you’re gonna die…

But don’t take my word for it, take Newt by his own words… Here’s some hot Newt on Newt action:

“Gingrich – Primary mission, Advocate of civilization, Definer of civilization, Teacher of the rules of civilization, Leader of the civilizing forces.” ~ Newt Gingrich

“I have enormous personal ambition. I want to shift the entire planet. And I’m doing it. I am now a famous person. I represent real power.” ~Newt Gingrich

“The most serious, systematic revolutionary of modern times.” ~Newt Gingrich

“She isn’t young enough or pretty enough to be the President’s wife.”~Newt Gingrich ( talking about his first wife after divorcing her.)

“It doesn’t matter what I do. People need to hear what I have to say. There’s no one else who can say what I can say. It doesn’t matter what I live.” ~Newt Gingrich

“We should replace bilingual education with immersion in English so people learn the common language of the country and they learn the language of prosperity, not the language of living in a ghetto.” ~Newt Gingrich

President Newt.  Endorsed by Leo Bloom, ADZ and me, however I’m unsure of what name I’m writing under.  Doesn’t matter for our purposes here.  Newt speaks for us, now bow to Newt.

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2. Interview with John Boehner
3. A Word from the Former Vice President
4. Lisa Kelly for President. Forget Sarah Palin…
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President Newt 2012: Inspiring Quotes from Newt

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Actually when we got there Gramma was out of her room attending a meeting. Apparently her neighbors are casting spells on each other and she went to watch the fireworks!

Then when the conversation started to stall my Mom spotted a Thanksgiving Greeting from Tina O’Day who attends 4^th grade in Lagrange, Indiana. Mom suggested I read it out loud. Tina wrote:

“I often think of people who can’t be in their real homes on special days like Thanksgiving.”

THANKS TINA!!!

I decided then was the ideal time to report I had Thanksgiving Dinner with someone who said he actually MET the
Hunchback of Notre Dame.

And I did not make ANY of that up.

Then it was time for the four-hour drive home. I listened to a Christian Station playing “Uplifting Holiday Classics.”

As Mom snorted on her oxygen I listened to a song about a little boy trying to buy his mother some shoes because she was going to meet Jesus TONIGHT.

I was so uplifted I almost swerved into oncoming traffic.

Luckily the next song included the third verse. For those of you that haven’t had the chance to be in church for
Christmas, the third verse is the one they NEVER sing (but always make for interesting hymnal reading.)

The reason even churches skip the third verse is because it’s always the most awkward and/or frightening.

“Oh Holy Night, to hell your soul He’s damn-ing if you don’t sing this verse with the rest.”

Actually, the only really uplifting I heard was the way they try to work Christ back into Christmas songs—even where  He clearly doesn’t belong.

“FROSTY THE SNOWMAN, knew THE LORD was CHRIST that day…”

It was a LONG drive.

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YOU GAVE GRAMMA THIS PICTURE?!?

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Having spent a couple days up in Lagrange County I’ve decided that the deer up there and the deer in Monroe County are not the same critter.

For example, deer near Bloomington, (Odocoileus Virginianus Monreius) are easy to find. All you have to do is look out the window.

The estimated population of Monroe County deer is 100,000. About half of these are downtown in the parking garage.

In Bloomington you can also find local deer conducting out-of-towners into empty parking spaces and even washing off their windshields. (Tips are appreciated.)

Clearly our deer behave very differently from those up north. For example, Bloomington deer demonstrate their keen survival skills by hanging around Starbucks.

It’s not unusual for a whole herd to join me when I go jogging. Sometimes they run right along beside me–gently nudging me with their antlers when I get tired.

Our deer may seem laid-back, but when they see a human being with a firearm, you can instantly see them swing into action–frantically searching for a phone to dial 911.

Don’t get me wrong, go right ahead and shoot these wild and dangerous animals, even the Bloomington variety. (But I think it’s much more sporting when a hunter picks the Gift-Baskets off their antlers first.)

THE DEER 200 miles north in Lagrange County is a totally different animal.

The estimated deer population (Odocoileus Virginianus Lagrangius) up there is 200. Most of these are hanging from somebody’s rafters.

If you’d like to see deer in Lagrange County don’t blink, because they are always running balls-to-the-wall, usually with a bunch of dogs and hunters hot on their heels.

These Northerly Deer actually HAVE survival skills. As a result when they see a person THEY GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE!

Sadly that’s not always possible.

When you see a Lagrange County deer stumble upon a person at close range, ESPECIALLY if that person is wearing orange they do something strange—bend over to kiss their own ass ‘goodbye.’ (Deer with antlers just leap spread-eagle on the hood of the hunter’s cars—no doubt thinking, ‘strap me down–let’s just get it over with.’)

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TWO VERY DIFFERENT DEER (S?)

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That 40% included the muffler, plus all the associated pipes and attachments. Apparently the Chinese feel it’s necessary to directly connect the muffler to every part of the scooter including the handlebars.

Yet my scooty was still running…

There was a time (August) when I would have just ripped the whole damn assembly off and scootied away. In the past, I did just that with at least two CARS.

However these days my scooter is my most valuable asset. So instead of leaving a large portion of it at the side of the road I decided to try to fix it.

I knew that idea would strike TERROR into my Grandmother’s heart. After all, I cut through the cords of two hedge trimmers on a single afternoon, then with the help of about three gallons of gasoline I set the trimmings and a rather prominent maple tree on fire in her front yard.

Luckily Gramma doesn’t get online much.

My sister-in-law was no-doubt equally alarmed when she saw me underneath my scooter, (I saw her car, but she didn’t stop to say, “Hi.”) Probably because I had my tools laid out beside me which included:

Manual Hedge Trimmers (nobody will let me TOUCH anything with a cord,)

A Hack Saw,

Duct Tape (my strategic work-horse,)

Various Nuts and Bolts,

and a Charter Bulldog 44 Caliber Revolver, (for those tough-to-reach connections.)

The first thing I noticed was my bolts were all too long. I solved that problem AND cut off some of the railing on our front porch with the hack saw. Just one hour later I had my first useable bolt!

Despite some serious blood-loss I was still thinking clearly. So before I started on bolt two I decided I should count just how many needed to be replaced. The answer was sixteen.

I realized then it would be faster just to walk anywhere I needed to go, indefinitely.

The duct-tape option was still appealing but the results would be temporary, and, this happened to me BEFORE, could start a fire.

However, I saw that by loosening just SIX bolts I could just remove the whole damn thing. I accomplished that task with the hedge-trimmers, (really.) All that left was one hose to saw through. But when I squeezed that hose it came right off!

That’s why I’m not too concerned about the Chinese developing nuclear weapons anytime soon.

Even if they do, I doubt I’ll hear them. My scooter is kind of loud.

___

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The Art of Scooter Maintenance

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I’ve been hanging out with those latex-lovers a lot lately, hoping to find some madcap SCRUBS-LIKE hilarity. I haven’t seen any.

Apparently I’m the only person vile enough to try to have a little fun with the critically ill. Many of the healthcare professionals there are unable to recognize a joke!

This REALLY happened:

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“DOES YOUR MOTHER USE RECREATIONAL DRUGS?”

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“YES. SHE SNORTS OXYCONTIN.”

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“HAS YOUR MOTHER RECENTLY HAD HEAD LICE OR SCABIES?”

tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“I WAS JOKING, MY MOM DOESN’T USE RECREATIONAL DRUGS.”

delete delete delete delete   tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

“HAS YOUR MOTHER RECENTLY HAD HEAD LICE OR SCABIES?”

That’s right! There is such a thing as scabies! I thought it was like “skank,” but no, it’s a real word.

And if you fall asleep and they leave me with a dry-erase board for (I presume) nurses to fill out and a BIG BLUE SHARPIE I will gladly FILL IT OUT FOR EM’!

DIET?   “Starts tomorrow.”

GOALS?   “3! Plus 2 assists.”

QUESTION FOR DOCTOR?   “What the FUCK?”

___

___

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2. Fred from the hospital bed: Death of a motorcycle man.

THEY NEED TO LIGHTEN UP AT THE BLOOMINGTON HOSPITAL…

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Plenty of girls in Dallas if this is his taste.

I was in Dallas, which at some point in history had the most strip clubs per capita in all of America.  Even Vegas couldn’t match Dallas’ love of throwing dollars at women for taking their clothes off.  To me, throwing money at women was Donald Trump’s gig, a capitalist form of sex, and never to be confused with love. Dollars for boobies means pain and the poorhouse and did not work for me.

But whatever works for you or Herman Cain…I’m not judgemental, I’m liberally minded, a live and let live type person.  I assure you though, from experiences in DFW, I’ve experienced the cynical love philosophy of the fallen: We all pay for it somehow.

Literally or symbolically this somehow exists, it was easy to believe, but not for me.  Chasing the green carrot for the greatest thing takes all the fun out of life, let alone love or sex. Still, there are those who pay for it somehow.  This was certainly true in the Dallas/Ft Worth area.  Remember, the breast implant was invented in Dallas.  I saw Herman Cain at Love Field airport, downtown Dallas, where I decided to sit out traffic after dropping off my inconsiderate girl friend who moved her flight to 5 P.M. on Friday.  Perusing the internet I of course saw his face, this time checking email when his mug was forced onto me again.

I checked the photo.  It was a him.  Mr. American Dream of the GOP.  One of the good ones.  Darker than Obama, and meaner’n Cheney; he was a conservative pamphlet of characteristics a think tank designed somewhere near piles of money.

He was wearing a mild disguise, a cabbie hat and ridiculously thin, rectangular sunglasses, but dressed like a casual Old Navy version of Bill Cosby from the shoulders down.  Around the pathetic shades I could see his eyes flicking back and forth as women passed, scanning their bodies greedily head to toe, shaking his head and occasionally licking his lips.  I was sitting in his periphery, and hiding nicely in my aviator sunglasses, or so I thought, until his eyes followed a particularly junky trunk, then caught his own reflection twice in my cheap sunglasses.  His disguise met mine, his expression changed to G-O-Preditorial.  Before I could blink Cain sat down beside me.

“What do you think of Herman there?” He barked softly with malice, pointing at my screen.

I bought time with stupidity since I knew he wouldn’t like my first answer, “Huh?  Were you talking to me?”

His rectangular, black sunglasses covered his eyes, but not the thin skin near which can tell even more.  I could tell he was feeling his fire, he could see I was but a fly to him. He didn’t have to take my crap.  All humanity is but a bridge to Supercain.

“Don’t act stupid.  You know who I am.  You’re looking at me.”  He took off the sunglasses and slapped them against my computer screen.  One of the lenses popped out into my lap.  He snatched it up and continued, “Don’t lie.  Never lie to me.  What is your name?”

“Martin.”

“Like Dr. King huh?  Bull,” a woman distracted him, he spoke softly while leering, “King was a whining punk and if I find out you’re lying to me I will crush you.  I’m the fucking Godfather, you pink fucker.  So now you know where we stand.  What are you going to do?”

I took off my sunglasses and stared into his, “Why do you have to be so hard Herman? Go straight for the jugular, intimidate…you’re an asshole Herman.  If you’d just be cool, I might take you out on the town, show you some Dallas action.”

He smiled and peered over the pimp shades. “What do you know about some action?”

The way he asked made me shudder slightly.  Any disgusting thing I may have done in a past life paled to the swarmy innuendo of his question.  Action.  He’s like these punk Dallas businessmen who get off on Harry Hines for peep booths and caged girls and prostitutes who solicit you from their own cars.

I worked at a studio supply company in an industrial complex near Harry Hines where I found a crack pipe, a bloody t-shirt, a soiled condom, and human waste by the dumpster, like a horrific pictogram of the love money buys.  Each night as I left work, Mercedes and Lexus cars were exiting I-35 for action.  Starched shirts, conservative values, and more money than brains or class.  Fifty-thousand dollar a year millionaires combing for Action. It wasn’t even sexual, it was monetary.  Proof that, as advertised (or As Seen on TV), money equalled Action.

Not my gig at all, no sir.  It’s too ugly to describe.  But how often does Herman Cain enter this terrible mosaic?  Several times apparently.

I smirked at Cain, “I know a place where you can find what men like you are looking for.”

Reaching under his V-neck sweater vest he pulled out his roll, “This is my banging money.  You want to party?  I’m cool.  Take me to the action.”

I nodded for no real reason.  A well formed woman walked by and distracted him.  I watched the side of his face as he leered.  Suddenly he jumped in front of her, “Hey, you’re a fine looking woman.  What do you do for a living?  I can get you a job. Shit, if you only knew, I create jobs.”

It was ugly and pathetic.  Herman obviously was at a total loss with women.  His approach was clumsy and insulting and the reason I hate most men.  It’s god damned embarrassing.  She smiled sympathetically, like he was a senile man after a near death experience with too much money, and walked backwards.

“Come on baby, where you headed?  Why don’t you go have some fun with me?”  He showed her the bank roll.  She looked so stunned I should have stepped in, but there were onlookers who saw Cain’s lame pimp act and I didn’t want anyone to think I was with him. The whole scene was difficult to watch, but in a small way, I felt sorry for Herman.

“Bitch,” Herman said and sat back down, “I bet she was thinking about it though.  They’re all whores you know?  You’re going to take me to the places where my money talks, right?”

“That’s right.”  I said.  “Plenty of places here in Dallas peddling your needs.  Great city you’re in Herman.”

“Call me ‘C-dog,’” he said, “and take me to these places.  Blondes, I want blondes.”

We walked toward the exit, Herman making half-passes at every woman along the way.  A brunette woman smiled at me, and I thought she was an old girlfriend.  I glanced twice and she approached us before we made it to the parking area.

“You don’t remember me do you?”

I did, “Stacey right?  You were friends with Melissa weren’t you?”

She smiled and nodded, “What are you doing these days?”

We talked briefly while I explained where I was in life while Herman stared down her blouse.  We hugged, she kissed my cheek and told me to call her, which I had no intention of doing.  She was from Houston, and her friend Melissa was from Dallas, and during some blurry years I spent time with both of them but left when I realized they were both screwing me in the evenings and hustling old rich men all day.  Herman liked Stacey, and in her day she would have taken everything he had and left him crying.  Her scene made me darker than Herman, and pitifully depressed. My girl on the plane had rectified all that.

Stacey walked off.  Herman turned to me, “You hit that shit?”

“I slept with her and her room mate.  It wasn’t the weirdest I ever got.”

This past debauchery pleased C-dog; he thought he found a compatriot.  But I was Un-American by his standards because I lived for love, not cheap gratification; at least these days.  Gratification is not love, nor even that gratifying.  It’s as cheap as a Godfather’s pizza.

Love is rebellion against men like Herman.  I wasn’t on the high road for noble reasons entirely, I did it to have something money couldn’t touch, and politicians are powerless against; smirking at those who fell for the fallen belief: we all pay for it somehow. Yet there will always be those who can be bought, such as it be, and the cliches about it all proof.

I hated these cliches and I was determined to work out my hatred on Herman Cain.  A loving heart is my hammer, but my vicious side held the tongs.  Feeling the monster come over me, I smiled evilly, then told Herman Cain, “Come on C-dog.  Like your boy Nugent sings, it’s ‘wang dang sweet poontang.’  Let’s party.”

“I love Ted Nugent,” C-dog exclaimed.

Wingman for a fantastic symbol of the American Dream

Creating jobs for women, trickling down

as the moneyed men show their love,

with plans for your future, their ends…

We all pay for that somehow.

Believe that.

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2. What I Love Most
3. President Newt 2012: Inspiring Quotes from Newt
4. Love The One You’re With
5. BIkes I like: I love this one… oooh baby.

Herman Cain Do Attitude: Departure from Love Field

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“WARNING! There has been a shooting in the 1400 block of North Jordan Avenue! Reportedly a man fired a handgun into the air. The police are asking you to avoid the area… WARNING! There has been a shooting in the 1400 block of North Jordan…”

Brandy wasn’t there so I had to ask myself, “What the FUCK?!?” Were they calling everybody’s cell phone at 3:30 IN THE MORNING?” OR (and this is my theory) were they only calling people likely to fire handguns in the air in response?

Because I will…

Last week was a full-blown meltdown. I try not to complain, but I had a pretty tough time. And every God-Awful episode started with the sound of my cell phone ringing.

So why DID I get the Shoot-In-The-Air ROBOCALL?

I would have plenty of opportunity to ask human police! That’s because I spent last Saturday night at the Emergency Room, again.

And there must have been some sort of epidemic down at the station because ALL the cops in town were there too. As always, they looked at ME like I broke into the hospital and brought LATEX with me.

Even less friendly than the cops were my ex-in-laws who I encountered at a funeral. Apparently there have been high-level discussions with my current in-laws. My guess is they’re not organizing a fan club.

Then my daughter Katy wrecked her car. The kid is OK but other than that, details are sketchy and delayed.

The hits just kept right on coming! All that left little time and NO inclination to say much.

But I couldn’t help but notice some other meltdowns. Maybe I’ll get a chance to comment if my cell stops ringing!

Yes. I had some bad days, but I got through them.

At the end of each of those days, I’d get into bed next to my beloved wife, pretend I was smoking a cigar, and thank God nothing ELSE happened.

Then I would do my very best to relax—usually reading one of the same two books which I read over and over.

Finally I’d think, maybe everything’s going to be all right and I can turn out the light.

That’s when Brandy would turn to me and say, “I think Katy’s pregnant.”

__

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MELTDOWN — Not My Best Week

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I think a towel party is in order. Judge William "The Law" Adams; big tough guy who can beat women.

Texas judge William Adams viciously beats daughter who has cerebral palsy for using the internet.   Warning this video is disturbing.

Fred Roberts

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Judge, jury, executioner and a douchebag.

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When I was a kid my Mom worked at Editype. Their slogan was “The Little House That Looks Like a Print Shop.” This was meant to be amusing in that it was a print shop inside a house. (Get it?) I thought it was about as funny as a fire at sea, myself.

Among many other things Editype printed flyers for John Cougar. When I was in High School they
also set the type for Bloomington South’s newspaper “The Optimist.”

This was done on a contraption called a CompSet 500, which was the size of a mid-size sedan and had the computing power of a modern-day wrist watch. Sometimes my Mother would let me set my own stories which I thought was GREAT. It was 1978’s GRAND THEFT BLACK OPS: CALL OF DUTY, though I doubt kids today would be as enthralled.

By the time I was in High School I had learned that Editype was HAUNTED. This was never actually SAID, I learned through a series of anecdotes.

There had always been crucifixes above the doorframes. They looked like they were made from Popsicle sticks. Then I heard that a woman had fled when her hand passed through an apparition of a cat in the bathroom.

Also My Dad said he saw an Indian in full-headdress at the top of the stairs. (At that time my Dad drank a bit.)

I found these stories SO CHILLING that I had a hard time not GIGGLING IN TERROR.

Finally my Mother reluctantly confirmed there were indeed ghosts but it was no problem–they all got along just fine.

Reacting as any typical teenager, whenever I went to visit my Mom at work I always made it a point to tell whatever spirits might be present that they could “blow me.”

Editype was a fun place to hang out because people were always there doing print runs through the night. From time to time my friends dropped by too and they also had colorful things to say to whatever dead cats or Native American warriors that might be in earshot.

Then one night in1979 my Mom and I were there alone. I had practically forgotten the place was supposedly haunted and had long since stopped dropped my customary greeting.

I was writing a term paper about The Tower of London with a pencil, (largely made up) based on the book, “That Bloody Tower” by Handler, Dick (TOTALLY made up.) As I finished a page Mom would then type it. (Sadly I got a ‘C’ because the last four pages were TURNED IN written in pencil.)

It was a Sunday night after Midnight. Mom said there MIGHT be a bottle of Jack Daniels somewhere. If I wanted to have a taste I could take a look around. Needless to say I turned on all the lights and turned the place UPSIDE DOWN. I didn’t find anything (or anyone) anywhere. Nor did I turn off any of the lights.

Disappointed, I sat back down and started scribbling. A few minutes later somebody stomped on the floor above me hard and screamed. Then somebody walked past the doorway by the front door. I turned just in time to see another go by the doorway behind me.

My Mom didn’t even look up from the typewriter. She said, “If you ignore them they’ll go away.”

I said, “I’ll be in the car.”

The house is still there on East 7th Street in Bloomington across from The Poplars. But I’m not going back EVER.

If you get a chance to visit, please tell em’ I said, “Blow me.”

___

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I SAW (AND HEARD) SOME GHOSTS ONE NIGHT.

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Actually THAT’S almost always the case. I don’t see anybody I know. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about people that know me.

Those Folks are everywhere!  And they always take it personally when I can’t remember their names.

THIS just gets worse the longer WE’RE MARRIED!

Seriously though, I am terrible with names. I always have been.

That’s why, during passionate moments, (and I’m talking about decades ago here) I never called out anybody’s name.

I made THAT mistake just once.

I said, “OH MY GOD (wrong person’s name)! IT’S AWESOME!”

“WHAT?!?” She, (right person’s name) shrieked.

“(Wrong person’s name,)” I said, “She never did THAT to me!”

Now you can believe whatever you like, but I was there and I think she bought it.

Anyhoo, after that night I just decided to pretend I didn’t know the woman’s name. OFTEN I didn’t even have to pretend.

Of course I know just how it feels to becalled by another name during an amorous occasion. It caused a very strong emotional reaction in me, though probably not the typical one.

Upon hearing the name “LARRY” cried out huskily I was overcome by an overwhelming urge to laugh, which I then went ahead and did.

I laughed until I lost feeling in all my extremities. In fact, I’ve never entirely stopped laughing since.

But now I’m married. Really really married.  So nobody cares WHAT I say.

Also sometimes I don’t pay enough attention to my appearance.

I figure I can go to the grocery store with my Mom, even though I just got off my scooter (so all ten of my remaining hairs are sticking straight up) and I’m wearing my stylish glasses. (At least they WERE stylish—when I bought them in 1991.) After all, who would ever recognize me?

Four people, that’s who!  FOUR!  Plus somebody my Mom used to work for!

And then a few days later there I was in my “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” pajama pants.

Not only was I recognized INSTANTLY, I also suddenly had to explain all the gunshots coming from my backyard.

What happened was Katy’s boyfriend Leo, (who I tend NOT to call LEO) brought over a whole bunch of cans
of spray paint. I wanted to see what would happen if they suddenly sprung a 7.62 X 54R hole. (They EXPLODE! wrong
person’s name! IT’S AWESOME!)

So Thursday when I saw somebody I knew (JULIE!) I was again embarrassed by my attire. Specifically I had the wrong shows on.

I don’t mean the wrong shoes like “don’t wear white after Labor Day” wrong, though they were both white, and even the same brand (at least.)

Actually either shoe would have been just fine, had it MATCHED the other.

___

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I’M SURE I WON’T SEE ANYBODY I KNOW!

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Normally mellow, The O4 is usually a safe haven.

How do these mutants find me?  I don’t even have a tattoo but they always seem to pick me out for some reason.  I didn’t know he had a gun.  

Dungledorf and I had watched the Rangers game on Monday Night, had a few Lone Stars and decided to go to a taco trailer on South Congress, which led to a pitcher of beer at the 0-4 Lounge.  We ordered Fireman’s 4 and went outside, then the dreg appeared carrying three PBRs.

Immediately I noticed his India Ink tattoos.  More than juvenile mistakes, he had several unprofessional tattoos like a man who had been in.  Still I was polite and conversational as he told tales of all the places he lived, including a trip to Coleman after he heard I was from Abilene.  He began a story about a party in Coleman that I knew would have something to do with methamphetamine.  Sure enough…

What I didn’t catch was him showing Dungle a pistol he was carrying.  I saw Dungle’s eyes widen but there were so many reasons for that expression I didn’t grasp the scope of it.  Dungle stood and began playing with his phone, while our table guest suddenly began talking about Africa, and had scooted across the bench until he was face to face with me.

“I was in Africa and they kept saying ‘T.I.A’ and you know what that means don’t you?”

Savage Henry has cashed his check? “No, what does that mean?”

“This Is Africa.”  He replied and grinned.  His teeth had an inch between each one and jutted outward.  His eyes were wide with drugs and he had already told us of an altercation he had with the “faggot bar tender.”

I moved my helmet to weapon position and nodded at him.

“T.I.A.  That means your blood could run here into this ground.  In Africa no one would know” he said with an ominous tone.

“Oh hell yeah.  Lot of wild country there.  Never fuck around in Africa.”  I said.

He nodded, “What is the best gun?  A snub nose .38 right?”

For some reason it seemed prudent to rattle off my gun knowledge quickly, “I like a .357 myself.  It still shoots a .38 round but not much stopping power in a .38.  I think .38 is considered like a 9mm, more of a non-lethal round, but you know, you can still kill someone with a .38.”

He nodded, “Oh yeah you can.”

Spurred forward by the pattern of violence and inebriation I had quickly listed in my mind, his profile appeared to me.  Dumb ex-con looking for some reason to feel like anything but.  Perfect situation for the worst case scenario.

Suddenly I was on the defensive which inspired me to say something that might have affected the situation, an offensive tactic that I couldn’t completely predict the outcome of, but I only needed to shadow doubt in him, and buy time.  “I have a .357 which will go through an engine block, and make a huge mess of someone at close range.”

“Oh yeah?” He asked.

I finished my beer and nodded at Dungle, but spoke to the table guest, “Yeah a .357 leaves nothing for the doctors to patch, especially if you use Talon rounds like I do,” he looked confused so I explained further, “Talons are the ones with little slivers in them that go everywhere when they enter.  Talon rounds are illegal now because there is no way to save someone who got shot with one.  Hours of surgery cannot remove them.  Plastic slivers all in the body.  Big mess.”

Quieted now, the guest only nodded.  I shook his hand and stood up to make my retreat, finally.

“Are you ready to go?” Dungle asked.

I nodded and we left the armed crack head at the corner picnic table at the 0-4.  Once inside we laughed a little and then Dungle went home, and I rolled home around the corner.  The next day I stopped by Dungle’s house and joked, “This is Africa.”

He laughed then mentioned the revolver the crackhead showed him.

“What?” I had no idea the guy was armed.  He could have shot me in the gut under the picnic table without any effort.

Dungle looked at me, “You didn’t see the gun he showed me under the table?”

“Whoa.  Hell no.”

We laughed but hindsight barely allowed it.  It was not a typical night in South Austin, but it seemed like a typical night for me.  I thought I left this shit in Abilene.  Austin ain’t Abilene…

This Is Africa.

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This isn’t Austin, This is Africa

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Not pictured: A bag of taco-flavored Doritos

I decide to go the Walgreens route because, honestly, I like their house brand guaifenesin better. For those not in “The Know”, I take the generic Mucinex on a regular basis. It helps with the chronic bronchitis, and it helps rid the body of those pesky phosphate build ups common in people with fibromyalgia. Hey, it works for me. I get my guiafenesin, along with some other stuff that I really, really need. $65 worth of stuff, actually. I had my stuff in one of their handy carry baskets.

 To be considerate, I placed my thingies on the counter and returned the basket to where I got it. Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching. “That will be $65 dollars.” “Ok, just put it on the Chase card, I get Continited frequent flier miles.”

 I swipe the card, yet see my stuff sitting on the counter still. I make an offhanded comment about having to bag my own shit, and get a retort about how Walgreens has gone bagless. Holy crap, had I not seen the memo? It’s posted all over and has been for a month. “Wait a minute,” I thought “How the hell am I going to get this to my Subaru?”. Instead, I said something like, “Huh? I suppose I did not get the memo that bagless meant you have to cart each item to your vehicle individually. I live out of town. What will it cost me to get this stuff to my car?!”

Yeah, I think it will all fit in here..

 $0.42. $0.39 plus tax. You have to be shitting me. After $65, you’d figure I’d get the bag for free! Since there were 10 people in line after me, I decided to not belabor the point and said, “Can you charge my credit card?” And, so they did.

My main point is this, regardless of any memo or posting, if you see me with a wallet, keys, and stuff that I obviously can not take to my car, you should offer to sell me one of those overpriced fucking bags before I complete my transaction. None of the bagless signs mentioned anything about paying $0.39 for a way to get your shit out the door.

I briefly considered taking each item, one by one, to my car without a bag. But, then I considered the 99% behind me. And the fact that I only get 30 minutes for lunch break.

$0.42 right here. And, no, I am not feeling passive-aggressive in the least...

 I did the right thing and put $0.42 on my credit card. All I have to say is, “Damn you, Walgreens! Damn you to hell!” And, I am going to start an Occupy Walgreens movement after I take my business elsewhere. Stupid fuckers…

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DorkChick Thinks Walgreens Is Stupid

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I was born with a Democrat in the White House thus establishing forever how things are supposed to be. But the JOHN F. KENNEDY Administration didn’t turn out so well.

That was followed by the LYNDON JOHNSON Administration. My only memories of those years was President Johnson’s wife’s name was LADY BIRD (seriously) (seriously) and a song that went, “Hey LBJ you’ve got beans in your ears.”

This is quite a long way from having a BONE stuck through your NOSE, (which is how things are these days.)

Anyway, the first President I really remember was RICHARD NIXON. He had a scandal, of course and since he was a
Republican there was some substance to it.

For reasons I cannot supply he sent a team of idiots, (lead by future talk-show host G. Gordan Liddy) to place listening
devices at Democratic Election Headquarters at the Watergate Hotel.

This was something DICK CHENEY accomplished nationwide within hours of taking office in 2000. But back in 1972
things were different.

Whether the bugs they installed in 1972 actually worked didn’t matter because:

1. Hubert Humphrey could not have gotten elected with God as his running mate and

2. They got caught red-handed.

So Nixon wound up resigning and a whole bunch of other Republicans went to jail and found Jesus. And once the
Republicans FOUND JESUS they decided to KEEP JESUS.

But even Jesus could not help Nixon’s replacement GERALD FORD who never managed to get down a flight of stairs on his feet once.

So in 1976 another Democrat, JIMMY CARTER was elected and the Republicans found a new hobby, Scandal Invention.

The best they could manage was the revelation that President Carter’s Brother BILLY drank beer. They missed a good bet though when no one noticed Jimmy Carter had reported, in public, that he had been attacked in a canoe by a giant swimming rabbit.

But all that and the hostages in Iran were enough to get RONALD REAGAN elected. And what do you know! The hostages were released the DAY Reagan took office. Hmm.

Back in the 1980′s Congress was different than today. They actually made decisions instead of just running the country into the ground.

Two things Congress decided during the Reagan Administration were that the United States was NOT selling missiles to Iran or giving money to Central American goons.

But then President Reagan went ahead and DID IT ANYWAY. His explanation? “Ah shucks folks!”

Then GEORGE BUSH THE FIRST was President, but not for long!

Up to that point Presidential candidates behaved better. They even called each other “My Distinguished Opponent” and took a guy’s word that he was born in America. But all that went right out the window with the first Bush Team. Instead he called Bill Clinton and Al Gore “bozos.”

But Bush lost anyway so the Republican Scandal Team went into high gear!

What they came up with for President BILL CLINTON was that at some point in the past he bought real estate. There wasn’t much there, but after eight years of digging they proved THERE WAS NOTHING THERE AT ALL.

But Bill Clinton came to the Republicans rescue when it was learned he would have sex with a snake if somebody held it straight for him. Caught red-handed, LIKE AN IDIOT, Clinton denied it, especially the part about the cigar.

Historians agree a more astute reaction would have been to print up, “Yeah I Fucked Her, Vote For Me!” Bumper Stickers.

And that’s when the Republicans came up with a NEW IDEA. Why win elections when you can just STEAL THEM?

So despite the fact that AL GORE was ELECTED PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES in 2000, we got GEORGE BUSH THE SECOND.

While there is general agreement that George W. Bush was the WORST American President many believe he would have done a lot less damage if he’d just immediately ordered a NUCLEAR STRIKE on the Continental United States.

That led to the election of our current President BARACK OBAMA who, by the way is going to STAY President.

Why?

THAT’S why…

So it’s back to work for the REPUBLICAN SCANDAL INVENTION TEAM!

Good luck beating Hillary in 2016!

(His BIRTH CERTIFICATE? Really? C’mon guys!)

_____

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RECENT PRESIDENTS 101

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For Love Of The Game

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(Which goes a long way towards explaining why I posted the same thing TWICE!)

IN FACT, if you’re planning a surprise party—EVEN FOR ME—you can TELL ME ALL ABOUT IT and be CERTAIN that I won’t blow the surprise.

I’ll forget it’s a surprise, but I’ll also forget THERE’S A PARTY.

Yet I AM a Hellraiser!

With that in mind, I go in my Daughter’s bathroom, not for the first time, not even for the first time in a while and I can’t BELIEVE what I see.

I SEE DUCKS.

I see DUCKS everywhere! There are DUCKS on the walls, DUCKS on the shower curtains, and clever DUCK holders for all manner of clever DUCK bathroom supplies.

And CLEARLY the DUCKS have been there FOR A WHILE. (Five years it turns out.)

Unlike SOME PEOPLE I am not obsessed with ducks. Yet I had to wonder, “Where the hell did all these DUCKS come from?”

SO I ASKED my daughter about the DUCKS and she said they came from ME. So now I KNOW MY KID IS USING DRUGS.

DON’T GET ME WRONG, I like DUCKS just fine. And I think that a bathroom is the ideal location for all DUCK-RELATED decorative items.

However, if someone had asked me, (this has never happened) I would have opted for a CHUPACABRA motif.

Of course Brandy knew the actual factual DUCK origins. It turns out they came from my Sister-in-Law Heather. (Thanks Sis!)

BY THE WAY, our second bathroom is not in some distant province. It’s the room right next to where I WRITE THIS STUFF. Just on the other side of the wall.

This all reminds me, MY MOM (Carey Cornett) tells this great story about coming to stay with me right after my divorce. She was worried about my emotional state, probably due to the fact that I couldn’t stop giggling.

I had rented a house close to Bryan Park in Bloomington. It was a SMALL HOUSE but even way back in 1998 the words “Detail Oriented” did not appear on my resume.

I woke up to see my Mom staring fixedly out the window. As I watched, Mom had LOCKED IN on a stationary object and could not look away.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It’s sitting in the middle of the garage. IT LOOKS LIKE A GUY’S HEAD, but it has black squares all over it and NAILS sticking out of it.”

“I HAVE A GARAGE?” I asked.

___

Hey Máire! I stole your duck!

___

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THE DUCKS ARE ON THE POND! (AND IN THE BATHROOM)

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I love Halloween. I always have. When WE were kids it was AWESOME! When else could my friends and I go bang on the doors of complete strangers and demand FREE STUFF?

On any other night of the year that behavior would NOT have been met by candy and pleasantries. Instead it would have resulted in a certain confrontation with my parents or perhaps even the police.

We didn’t give up on Trick-or-Treating any too soon either. We kept at it after we’d grown as tall as the folks answering the door.

The only reason we EVER stopped was because we began growing facial hair in rather conspicuous locations.

More recently I have had the opportunity to relive the magic of Halloween as a DAD touring the neighborhood with my own daughter in costume as she and her friends carried on the tradition.

But there are differences between Trick-or-Treating when we were kids and today.

For one thing I don’t recall my parents leading us around in our costumes. These days Trick-or-Treating is only conducted with a parental escort, (if the Secret Service is unavailable.)

And that makes TOTAL SENSE! Let’s face it, when we were kids we heard about strangers putting razor-blades in apples and poisoning candy, but it never really happened.

Today we’re faced with a new America where it’s STILL NEVER HAPPENED, not even once. (Really.) But as a nation WE HAVE ALL DECIDED THAT IT DID.

SO NOW, parents go through a NEW TRADITION called EXAMINING THE CANDY.

Here is where ALERT PARENTS can catch tainted candy provided the poison was APPLIED WITH A SCREWDRIVER and marked by a miniature skull & crossbones.

PERHAPS you’re one of the people that think poisoning children is NO LAUGHING MATTER. Normally I would agree, but in this case, (and I can’t write this too many times) it’s NEVER happened.

However these days, somebody MIGHT JUST GET SUED just for MENTIONING the POSSIBILITY, which I am certainly not doing here.

With THAT thought in mind, here is the following public service announcement from the legal team at DEWEY, CHEATUM & HOWE, L.L.C.

ATTENTION FAT PEOPLE!

Did you take candy from strangers and eat it? IF YOU’RE OVERWEIGHT or have undergone DENTAL WORK you may be due COMPENSATION.

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HALLOWEEN IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER! (For a free consultation just call 1-800-BAD-CANDY.)

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And it didn’t take long for me to remember WHY I had switched over to the scooter for my cross-country training. Scooter training is easy. Running is hard!

But then as I once again said “hello” to that same neighbor that always turns out to be a statue of a Confederate Soldier I realized there were a lot of things I’d missed on my runs.

Hey! There’s my neighbor Roy berating me AGAIN for running on dangerous country roads! (He always does this standing stock still in the MIDDLE OF THE ROAD.) Good to see but not hear you again Roy! (WALKMP3PODMAN.)

And the three deranged dogs that think I’m the world’s biggest and most evil squirrel. Isn’t it great to see them menacingly lunging headlong into their fence once more?

Even retching over the guard rail gave me a real sense of nostalgia.

And there at the turn-around point were Three Beautiful Deer. They didn’t run (or even bother looking up at me) despite the fact that I was wheezing like a freight train.

The deer were obviously unaware that “urban archery” deer hunting season began Saturday. (Really.)

(COMING TO THE HISTORY CHANNEL THIS FALL—TOP SHOT, URBAN ARCHERY. “Daryl’s challenge is to bounce the arrow off the parking meter, through the ‘Golden Arches’ and into that garbage bag behind the playground. Here we go.” PPFFFIIIIITTTT, ting AIEEEEEEEEE!!! “Sorry Ma’am!”)

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ON THE ROAD AGAIN

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That year my friends, Neal Baxter, John Otteson, some other guy and I WON the League Championship. (Really.) Our team was THE BOWLING STONES and I bowled the best game of my life (236) in the championship match. (An early taste of what would become decades of carrying everybody’s dead asses.)

Back then all we had to do was show up! The balls, pins, shoes, and itty bitty pencils were already there!

IN 1979, had anyone arrived for a match with his OWN BOWLING BALL we would have called him a “fag” and laughed until we lost feeling in our extremities.

Had one of us appeared with OUR OWN BOWLING SHOES, we would have edged away until somebody broke free to call mental health authorities.

BUT BOWLING TODAY is a whole nuther’ World! Apparently you need LUGGAGE.

EVERYBODY has a bowling suitcase because everybody has their own ball, shoes and MORE! Lots of guys show up for matches with THREE Bowling Balls (bringing FIVE is not unheard of.) You also need a pumice stone, talcum powder and LITTLE BOOTIES TO SLIP OVER YOUR SHOES to go outside and smoke.

Whoever brings the MOST bowling stuff gets to be Captain. However, nobody says Captain anymore. TODAY this person is known as the RUDDER or “the guy that bowls last.”

The Rudder can always be counted on to show up late—usually acting like he JUST got back from a PHOTO SHOOT for Brunswick in L.A. This is always a touch ironic in that HAVING A TEAM was all his fucking idea in the first place.

This year our Rudder Mike is literally the nicest guy on Earth but that is a rarity.

MOST Rudders are idiots. For one thing, they think bowling MATTERS. They are also constantly providing advice unbidden. They also tend to drink beer.

Our Rudder last year, DAN was a textbook example. Even KNOWING Dan, not to mention hiring him then HAVING a bowling team was not my idea. And BOY did he advise, and BOY did he drink.

As a result his advice got less and less helpful. In the FIRST GAME he might say, “Brien, you’re going too fast. You need to slow down and focus.”

By the THIRD GAME it was, “Brien! There’s SNAKES behind the COKE MACHINE!”

THEN as suddenly and involuntarily as he was foisted on me, DAN WAS GONE.

But I was reminded of Dan this week when I looked up to see the OTHER TEAM’S RUDDER saying SOMETHING very intensely to me. I have no idea WHAT he said but he was passionate about it. But all I heard was the soundtrack to “The Hunt For Red October.”

That’s because I discovered I like bowling a WHOLE LOT MORE if I don’t have to hear about it. So I ALWAYS listen to my WALKMP3APOD. As a result last year I won the coveted “Most Improved Average” MAGNET. (Also really.)

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BOWLING! A MINUTE TO LEARN, A LIFETIME (45 minutes) TO MASTER.

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When a Loved-One is one of the victims in a major crime, you have to spend a while waiting for justice.

But don’t ask me about the trial. All I saw was the very end.

That’s because I was BENCHED. Ridin’ The Pines. Like Peyton Manning but without even a clip-board.

I was made a rebuttal witness. A witness that NOBODY was gonna’ call. That meant I could not even be in the courtroom.

The reason, It seems, (I know you’re going to find this hard to believe) they were worried about what I might SAY.

And THAT was because of posts like THIS!

Turns out the bad guys had been printing out (and no-doubt looking up) Every Single Word I wrote!

If you’ve ever tried writing for real, having THAT kind of following can really put a cramp in your style.

And the idea that ANYTHING I wrote seven years after SOMEBODY ELSE committed a crime would have any relevance REALLY pissed me off.

Which lead to the Real Reason I would not be watching, much less participating in the trial.

When I found out about the bad guys printing out all my posts I was specifically told “DO NOT PICK A FIGHT WITH THE DEFENSE ATTORNEY.” So guess what I did?

It wasn’t much of a fight but it was enough to get sentenced to the hallway for three days.

Don't worry, you'll make a fine little lady for some lucky inmate.

But I did get to see the closing arguments. The defense attorney didn’t use anything irrelevant like MY POSTS after all. In fact, there wasn’t really anything relevant either. Which lead to my joke that no one in law enforcement got:

 You don’t need to hear his defense…

 He’s not the PERV you’re looking for…

He can go about his business….

 Move along…

The jury was out for two hours. My guess is they spent one hour and fifty five minutes of that arguing over who got to tell the Defendant not to make any plans for the next fifty years.

And the Kid was right. Even AFTER hearing “guilty” TEN TIMES the dumbass STILL thought he was walking away. That is, until they put the cuffs on him.

OH SNAP!

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In The Halls Of Justice…

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I should say “The Indiana University Health Bloomington Hospital” as it is now renamed (really.) But don’t let that terribly UN-CATCHY NAME fool you!

I.U.H.B.H. is one of the leading medical institutions on Second Street in Bloomington and the very first to discover the DEVASTATING TOXICITY of LATEX.

However, if you find your life taking some un-funny turns don’t look THERE for laughs!

Apparently no one on the staff has ever seen SCRUBS or is even aware of the Zany and Madcap Antics they’re missing out on! (This is especially true of my Mom’s “Charge Nurse” who does not find the concept of a No-Charge Nurse the least bit amusing.)

The Hospital was the last place I wanted to go. And Friday when I arrived at my Mom’s house she already seemed a little blue. Yet as she got even bluer I realized that was where we needed to be I hurried her along too!

By the time Mom was in the car she was not only BLUE SKY BLUE, but also had the same expression on her face as a GROUPER abruptly yanked from 500 feet down and unceremoniously tossed on the deck of a fishing boat.

I was VERY WORRIED but did enjoy the novelty of driving virtually the entire three miles on the left side of the
road! CHEERIO!

I screeched up to the Emergency Room door. Jumped out, ran in and shouted “I NEED HELP RIGHT NOW!”

Here, I want to seriously commend the ER staff because they came out RIGHT THEN, utterly heedless of whatever DEADLY LATEX might await.

Seven dedicated and courageous women, who (or maybe whom) standing together weighed less than me!

That left the job up to yours truly! And remembering how My Mom lovingly and effortlessly carried me TO and probably FRO for YEARS I did what had to be done.

“YOU get her legs!” I told Tammy.

And Tammy saved my Mom’s life. I won’t go into further detail about how (because that’s just the kind of thing people print out and twist around to use against you) but Tammy clearly was WAY more interested in saving my Mom’s ass than covering her own.

By then there were more than a dozen nurses and technicians fighting to save Mom. I took my station holding her hand and making fun of EVERYBODY. Mom expected nothing less!

When an alarm went off I cheerfully said, “THE FRIES ARE DONE!” When they cut Mom’s shirt off, I told her “NOT BAD FOR AN OLD LADY.”

In our family THAT is my JOB! Mom’s job is to laugh, (or in THIS CASE to wheeze and bleed on the floor.)

And two hours later I had truly earned a Diet Mountain Dew. But I didn’t want to be away long. Since the elevators at I.U.H.B.H. move at about the same speed as Plate Tectonics I went in search of stairs.

Of course I got lost. And it also goes without saying that SOMEONE ASKED ME FOR DIRECTIONS!

“DO I LOOK LIKE I KNOW WHERE THE PHARMACY IS? Do I look like I know where ANYTHING IS?!?

I’m wandering around THE MATERNITY WARD looking for a 73-year-old SMURF!”

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TAKING THE ELAVATOR BURNS 1.5 CALORIES. TAKING THE STAIRS BURNS 10!

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That’s always ironic because I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I’M GOING (or often, for that matter why!)  Asking ME for directions is like asking Casey Anthony for a recommendation of the best local daycare provider.

This is especially true in The New York Subway System, (whether you’re asking me for directions OR Casey Anthony for a recommendation of the best local daycare provider.)

After three recent trips to New York, all featuring frequent subway outings, I know only one pertinent fact: There’s nowhere to pee.

Other than that, the New York Subway System is BEYOND understanding.

The main trains are: “Q,” “N” & “R” and those three trains ALL run on TWO WIDELY SEPERATED lines.  I don’t mean separated by yards of track—I mean by MILES of STREETS.

Then there’s the: “A”, “C” & “E” that run on ONE track, and ALSO the: “B,” “D,” “F” & “M” that run on YET ANOTHER. And even IF you could somehow master the LETTER TRAINS, (and you can’t) there are also the “1”, “2”, “3,” “4,” “5,” and “6” that run ON THE SAME TRACKS and AT THE SAME TIME!

Incidentally, each of those lines goes two directions. So basically getting on the right train going the right way is a CRAPSHOOT.

If anybody knows what “Q,” “N,” “R,” or any of the rest of the letters stands for, or WHERE THEY GO, they ain’t tellin’.

OH SURE, there are people that KNOW. They know PRECISELY where every train goes. You can tell them by the ear buds and angry expressions they wear.

More often than not they plunk down IN FRONT OF THE MAP (like it’s THEIRS) and sit there looking pissed. There was one particular woman, whose ability to appear on the same trains with us and find the seat in front of the map was UNCANNY.

I was calling her L’ursa, after the female KLINGON CAPTAIN in the Star Trek movies. Since Brandy, Katy and Erika are not Star Trek fans I took to calling her “The Ugly Bitch With All The Shit Etched In Her Face.”

And nobody asked her SHIT!

So they asked me. And in many cases the people that asked me were NOT American. If they asked in English, even with VERY French accents or in German I could at least SNORT and say, “No.”

Otherwise I had to give them the universally-known SHRUG accompanied by the almost-universal-known
“Have you not been watching us darting on to then off the wrong trains all night?” look on my face.

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WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME? (THE NEW YORK SUBWAY SYSTEM)

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Our TOM had its G.P.S. stuck up its A.S.S.

So despite the “help” of FLAGMEN providing half-hearted and contradicting waves IN ALL DIRECTIONS,

I accidently took the exit to GREENLAND.

Now we were definitely going to be late. Something had to give! And that something was a cone.

No big deal, right?

Wrong! My wife had apparently never experienced the HORROR of a 3000 lbs. Suburban Utility Vehicle VS. an 18 oz. plastic cone braced for IMPACT fully expecting the airbags to deploy!

And now I’ll NEVER hear the end of it.

All the way to NEW YORK and back, a journey that includes tunnels, bridges, mountains and bumper to bumper traffic going anywhere from 0 to 75 mph I got the same abuse!

“Bumpky, you’re in the wrong lane,” or “Here comes a truck. Here comes a truck. Here comes a truck,” and “DADDY!!! THAT’S THE GUARD RAIL!”

Whatever. I sure didn’t see any of THEM driving.

I wish there was a giant JUMBOTRON somewhere that kept lifetime driving statistics. I’d put my numbers up against anybody’s.

My definition of an “accident” is the police show up and insurance information is exchanged.

In the 34 YEARS since I got a C- in Driver’s Education, that’s only happened ONE TIME and it wasn’t an accident.

The guys behind me at a stop sign had been making obscene gestures and calling my little brothers names. So I put my station wagon in reverse and jumped back two feet—the CLEAREST WARNING I could think of.

Their response was to call ME “a pussy” and then spit on my Mom’s new station wagon.

Skkkrrrrreeeeeech CRUNCH!

Then after a two mile chase (in which the other car was unable to participate) I decided it would be an EXCELLENT TIME to take off the Georgia plates and put on the NEW Indiana plates.

It didn’t matter. The police, the parents and MY INSURANCE AGENT (turns out his kid had been in the back seat of the other car) were all waiting for me AT MY HOUSE. Blessedly I was still a kid myself, or near enough to keep from getting arrested. Lost the insurance though…

So I SAID it was an accident. And if you don’t count a deer leaping through my windshield a few years later, or a crappy little fence, or a traffic cone (and I DON’T) then THAT’S IT!

If you’d like to help me stay perfect, please don’t spit on my car!

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IT WAS A TRAFFIC CONE!

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The Travel Channel’s Ghost Adventurers need to visit the Budget Inn in New Stanton, Pennsylvania (or West Virginia.)

As you can see here, some kind of ENTITY broke the remote control.

Then, and this is The Clincher, when we turned off all the lights we heard SOUNDS.

And how come every time the Discovery Channel or National Geographic sends a team to a Raging Desert to dig up fossils or out to sea to find some super-fish that team is always “running out of time” or “the team had just one more chance”?

If I sent somebody to find a super-fish I’d say, “take all the time you need.”

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HAUNTED! The Budget Inn of New Stanton, PA! (or maybe WV)

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And MOST of you MORONS are headed FOR THE BENCH!

Because my GRANDMOTHER could get rid of OBAMACARE faster than you DUMBASSES! Now let’s GET THIS RIGHT! OK TEA LADY, what’s YOUR PLAN?
“The President needs to s t o p. We need to pull Obamacare out by the roots.”

HEY DUMBSHIT! Can you even SEE through those eyelashes? CHRIST you’re an IDIOT! What’s that? CLANG CLANG! The LOON EXPRESS is now LEAVING THE STATION! And YOU need to be ON IT!

What about you HANGMAN?

“On day one as President of the United States I’ll sign an executive order to eliminate what I can.”

What you CAN? I CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THIS! You know it’s the law! I KNOW IT’S THE LAW! But THEY DON’T KNOW IT’S THE LAW. How about you PERMACANDIDATE?

“On my first day as President of the United States I’ll issue a waiver for Obamacare to all fifty states.”

YEAH RIGHT! And about 46 states are going to tell you to STICK IT STRAIGHT UP YOUR ASS! My guess is Massachusetts will be FIRST IN LINE!

You’re up GOVERNOR WHATEVER. Yeah YOU Piano Man!

“As a four-time Ambassador to China I am no stranger to air travel. On the day before day one as President of the United States I’ll be over the international dateline signing an executive order to end Obamacare.”

NOW THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT! Thinking out of the GOD DAMN BOX!

“That’s why I brought up the Chilean model for…What are you doing with that chair? Hey! Help!” (Clattering)

SEE! GODFATHER THERE is quick on his feet TOO!

You ALL NEED TO BE! Like when EVERY IDIOT in the FUCKING WORLD is giving you A STANDING “O” for people DYING because they can’t get insurance YOU say, HOSPITALS WILL NEVER TURN ANYONE AWAY!

“I DID!”

LOOK YOU CRANKY FUCK! I’m the only ONE that gets a Caps Lock Key HERE! Your PLANE is WAITING and if I were you I’D CHECK THE TIRES! Now the rest of you HIT THE SHOWERS!

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While I’m not as angry as I was at the time, (though I still think the world would get along fine WITHOUT Yemen) I find target practice therapeutic. ESPECIALLY if the TARGET is A MAJOR APPLIANCE! Take our Microwave (it’s behind Craig’s car—the one with all the holes in it.) I wanted to shoot THAT BITCH for a YEAR! When I FINALLY had the chance it was like CHRISTMAS MORNING!

Randy Marsh.

PLUS shooting off guns REALLY pisses off RANDY MARSH THE DRUG DEALER NEXT DOOR, and I’m ALL ABOUT THAT!

I know how to load all my guns, including my BOTH of my Russian Mosin Nagant 91/ 30’s (although Katy’s boyfriend LEO loads them from the BOTTOM and I load them from the TOP.)

HOWEVER I only know ONE WAY to unload them! And let me tell you, when I’m unloading the 44 (in this case into a SPACE HEATER) you want to stand well back.

I also did a lot of FIDDLING.

I’m a pretty good shot with a rifle (if I do say so myself.) Whether it’s my Dad’s .22 / 20 gauge over under or my new Henry Rifle I hit pretty much whatever I

My Idol.

aim at. (My favorite rifle targets are burned out light bulbs.)

Pistols are a different story. I can’t hit ANYTHING, even if the target is “NORTH.”

NOW I understand now WHY the military spends so much time training. In a war you can’t call “time out.” Nor is even the most polite OPFOR willing to wait for you to wiggle all the buttons around until your gun will finally shoot.

But I practiced for HOURS and I’m getting better. If you don’t believe me ask THE SPACE HEATER!

I’ve always been confident I can protect my family with my go-to gun, my trusty double barrel 12 gauge.

NOW I’m putting the bad guys on notice. Even if all I have is a handgun you’re in BIG TROUBLE!

That is, if we’re both in the same closet and you give me a minute or two to fiddle around with it.

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Let’s lose the cat!

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As any business-owner knows you actually only have to work “when you want TO MAKE PAYROLL.”

Also there is no such thing as “PAID VACATION” and my ACTUAL time off have worked out to 2 and a half DAYS every five years. I just took mine. For the first time ever I was ALL THE WAY OUT for three days.

Naturally every author we ever worked with called, some for the first time in YEARS. In the case of about ten, he or she tried calling more than once ALL THREE DAYS.

This lead me to discover “The Three Stages of Unreturned Phone Calls.”

Similar to “The Five Stages of Grief” introduced by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, (1. Denial, 2. Anger, 3. Bargaining, 4. Purchasing, 5. Returning without the receipt,) the “Three Stages” were repeated in the same order by each of the different callers.

In the time-honored tradition of substituting a simplified fictitious name in the interest of privacy I’ll refer to the caller as Paul Frederick Ernst the author of “Science Proves God is Real” and “One God Revisited.”

In each case, but especially Paul’s each went through the following stages.

STAGE 1: ANGER (This message was recorded at 9:04 AM Friday August 25, 2011.)

“Brien this is Paul. ERNST! You told me YESTERDAY that it would take a WEEK for the printer to deliver MY BOOKS. I called again LAST NIGHT to see if that was a regular, SEVEN-DAY WEEK or a BUSINESS WEEK. And NOW I simply CANNOT BELIEVE you have not called me back. What THE HELL kind of business are you RUNNING? Call me back NOW, the number is…”

STAGE 2: BEWILDERMENT (This message was recorded at 9:01 AM Monday August 29, 2011.)

“Brien this is Paul. Ernst? I still haven’t heard back from you which, wow. I actually didn’t know such a thing was possible. I wondered if maybe the Hurricane took out the lines so I called the phone company and they said there was no damage in Indiana. So… HEY! Is that QADDAFI fellow out YOUR WAY? I don’t understand what’s happening but call me back, the number is…”

STAGE 3: ACCEPTANCE (This message was recorded at 8:51 AM Tuesday August 30, 2011.)

“This is Paul Ernst and I have a floral arrangement I’d like to send for the service for Brien Jones but I need the address for the funeral home. If someone could call back with the address, the number is…”

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The three stages of un-returned phone calls…

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I don’t care that I’m currently living in a country that is so neutral that it does not care that the U.S. military occupies 90 percent of the airspace of the entire nation. That’s just one of the small trade-off’s for the security that has been afforded to this country for the past 60 plus years.

So when I see a news cast that says that North Korea has launched a nuke, but it mysteriously malfunctioned in the Sea of China, that I have a small light that goes of in my head that tells me that the newscast that I have just heard is total bull dungus, or what the rest of the world would call “free press”.

So what is the big deal about “free press”? Let me get to that….

To me, free press is a vanity plate in Texas that says “OIL MONEY”

It belongs to a black Hummer II that blew by me somewhere in East Texas doing at least 100 miles per hour on I 30. A feat I found amazing, since I was pulled over for doing 76 by an unmarked Tejas State Trooper for doing no less than 77 in a 75 M.P.H. zone not less than 30 minutes prior.

Anyway – that, is free press.

This jackass knows that whatever he does, he will be okay.

With a Texas vanity plate that says “OIL MONEY”, while little me, has a New Mexico plate and an Obama 08 sticker, and it’s only made worse because my drivers license is from Hawaii….

Well, good thing I remembered my manners, because you can’t fuck with a State Trooper without some damn good manners, otherwise your stuck with a big ass ticket for 2 mph over the limit with out of state plates. It’s just something I remember from way back when my mom would roll thru the great state with Nebraska plates. Talk about getting fucked with…

Which brings me back to some free press…

And the brass tacks may fall where ever…

My only question is, “who is the real terrorist”? A country that controls 85 percent of the world, or a sand dune that has a lot of oil that we as ‘Merican citizens want?

Love from LEO..
It’s been a long time coming cookie..

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BIG OIL!!

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AND speaking of chewing, I’ve learned that the Twizzler Shortage, not to mention THE DIET MOUNTAIN DEW CALAMITY are not isolated incidents.

In fact, if anybody gave any thought to what I MIGHT EAT while everybody else went to EUROPE, that thought was:

“Well, THERE’S CARROTS…”

Step off my carrots, mofo.

But I’m not complaining! IN A HOUSE with five adults and ANYWHERE FROM 3 TO 10 KIDS I’ve never felt so UNDISTRACTED.

THERE’S NOBODY EVEN COMING UP OUT OF THE FLOOR.

In fact, my only contact with the outside world came when MY MOTHER IM’d to ask ME what was HAPPENING IN LIBYA.

I told her it was just A HURRICANE and NOTHING to worry about!

AND WHILE I LOVE CARROTS, I’m not out of ideas.

I was thinking about calling around to propose a PIZZA / CIGAR swap when I noticed my cell phone now has a colorful COFFEE CUP DISPLAY on the screen that can only be removed VIA NUCLEAR WEAPONS.

SO I’M STILL WRITING like a MACHINE.

Because when there’s nothing (LIKE FOOD) to distract me I’m UNSTOPPABLE.

In fact, the only problem with what I’ve written THUS FAR (besides it not making any fucking SENSE) is that I haven’t found a way to work in HALLOWEEN.

But don’t you worry. I’ve conditioned myself to living on nothing but DIET COKE and CIGARS for days at a time!

And just to be SAFE I took all the bullets OUT OF ALL THE GUNS (except the ones in my POCKETS.)

HEY! DESTINY JUST CAME UP OUT OF THE FLOOR!

MAYBE SHE HAS FOOD!

If not, SHE SURE AS HELL knows how TO USE MY CELL PHONE!

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A day to myself!

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My beloved wife Brandy, my priceless Little Wonder Katy, and various other malcontents are going to VEE-VEE (not

 actual spelling) for “THE SWISS WINE FESTIVAL.”

Of course I’m not REALLY alone. I’m never ALONE.

As always, today from time to time the floor will creek open as a youngster wanders aimlessly TO, then of course FRO in search of SOMETHING.

What is to be found today?

Hmm, that's disappointing...

NOT ANY DIET FUCKING MOUNTAIN DEW THAT’S FOR SURE!

And FORGET about Twizzlers.

But that’s OK. If I really NEED something I can push my Scooter down to the IGA. (Ed Note: Interesting stuff in Google Image Search for IGA…whodathunkit?)

THAT won’t be necessary. I think I can probably get by quite nicely on the SPECTACULAR variety of pills left behind.

I thought I HAD THE SHIT but METHADONE! Yee Haw! KATY BAR THE DOOR! (That’s an actual SAYING, I’ll explain later Little Wonder, along with THE RABBIT DIED.)

Anybody thinking about making good on DEATH THREATS needs to know that in addition to my 2 or 30 guns there’s ALSO a loaded Smith & Wesson Revolver ON THE COFFEE TABLE, next to the REMOTE CONTROLS!

I wonder what it sounds like INSIDE THE HOUSE? I don’t have to carry the microwave outside TODAY!

But I HATE missing out on The SWISS FESTIVAL thing. I should say joining my loved ones at “The Swiss Wine Festival” was a REAL temptay snort, Sorry. It was a real heh heh. I really WANTED to harmff.

Sorry.

But I’ve BEEN to Switzerland.

While it’s possible that beneath each of those magnificent ALPINE PEAKS or BETWEEN BANKS were some of the WORLD’S BEST IMAGINARY VINEYARDS! But I don’t recall any.

But hat’s off to those folks down in Southeast (or perhaps Southwest) Indiana!

“The Swiss Wine Festival” not be an EXACT duplicate of VIENNA. But if you imagine the MATTERHORN when you glimpse the Mighty OHIO RIVER through the Corn and PORTA-POTTIES and somehow forget that it’s really, really, really fucking HOT, you’ll find yourself transported CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG STYLE face first into the grass because you slipped on some puke from a fat guy in a tye-dye T-shirt.

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The Swiss Wine Festival

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Also because THIS subject is closest to my heart it will probably not be terribly amusing—ESPECIALLY if you’re underpaid and stuck in a dead-end job with AN ASSHOLE for a BOSS.

Recently I was HORRIFIED TO LEARN that was precisely how my colleagues viewed ME.

THAT’S MY FAULT. As with EVERY rule, law, or responsibility IGNORANCE IS NO EXCUSE. In fact, NOT knowing makes the situation WORSE.

THAT’S NOT how things USED TO BE. If you spent a day working in our office last year you wouldn’t have thought BRIEN JONES was in charge of ANYTHING.

My wife and co-founder Brandy (who remains UNIVERSALLY REVERED) had clearly been at the helm.

Then I stepped in and made a couple VERY BAD DECISIONS. As a result of those decisions what had been a vibrant, happy and even slightly profitable little company augured into the ground.

Clearly I’m no good at running things.

For example MY LATEST HIRE has failed to meet every benchmark and quota imaginable (aside from FARTING) and often appears only long enough to ask if we’ve RECEIVED ANY CHECKS.

THAT ATTITUDE is not unique.

Over the past five years we’ve had QUITE A FEW PEOPLE that think MONEY JUST RAINS IN OUT OF THE SKY and we’re not CATCHING IT RIGHT.

Huh. Maybe they're onto something, after all...

Now we’re losing our last and BEST COLLEAGUE. And THAT is a CRISIS.

It is well known that the word ‘CRISIS’ in Japanese, (危機=kiki) is a combination of ”danger” and 機=”fucking up completely.”

ALL SUMMER I have been busting my ass to pay people that are just farting around, LITERALLY. (And THEN listening to THEM lecture ME about responsibility!)

That’s all over now kids!

But JONES HARVEST PUBLISHING is very much alive. It’s just going to be UNDER OLD MANAGEMENT.

I’ll still be around! AFTER ALL, if you read about me on the internet THE WHOLE THING WAS MY IDEA.

No matter WHAT happens we’ve already beat the odds!

According to Business Week, “The data show that, across sectors, 66 percent of new establishments were still in existence 2 years after their birth, and 44 percent were still in existence 4 years after.”

OCTOBER 24, we begin our SIXTH YEAR! I can’t WAIT to see the new DEATH-THREATS!

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It’s JUST as ENDEARING when an author puts an ARCH-ANGEL on the phone WITH ME to discuss the retail price of a NEW BOOK.

THESE are TYPE-ONE CRAZY AUTHORS, the ones I LOVE MOST. Each of them is a TRUE JOY whose antics I’ll cherish FOREVER.

At second thought, she may be on to something...

EQUALLY DELIGHTFUL are the TYPE-TWO CRAZY AUTHORS. These are the folks that go to GREAT LENGTHS to alter their appearance. The farther they go, the MORE I TREASURE THEM.

Take a REALLY old man wearing a BIG FRO-WIG. He may look like the RAMESSES THE GREAT doing a guest-spot on THE JEFFERSONS to YOU, but he looks WONDERFUL to me! (And yes, there’ll be LOTS of pictures!)

Unfortunately there’s another KIND of CRAZY AUTHOR, the TYPE-THREES. They are not as delightful.

When I was a little boy, MY GRAMPA once confided someone we’d just seen was as “CRAZY AS A SHIT-HOUSE RAT.” I was only NINE at the time so I was baffled. FAR too baffled to ever FORGET IT!

AND it was THIS VERY ANALOGY that popped into head TODAY when I received a call from an author named Brian Pinzon.

Mr. Pinzon told me he’d found a “FOREIGN ATTORNEY” that agreed the plot from the movie “AVATAR” was stolen from HIS BOOK, “Albetration 2394 AD.”

I thought that was PLENTY ABSURD ENOUGH when Mr. Pinzon took it to THE NEXT LEVEL. The reason he was calling me was for directions to my former employer’s HOUSE. He was going to collect HIS percentage PERSONALLY.

While I haven’t spoken with my old boss for five years, I’m pretty sure he did NOT receive any compensation from the makers of “AVATAR.” Frankly finding the CORRECT THEATRE to WATCH the movie “AVATAR” is right at the limit of his knowledge of the feature film industry.

Sophisticated, indeed...

But Brian Pinzon was as serious as a heart attack. So was Alexander Presniakov when he told me 500,000 copies of his book, “Lords of Death” were sold in the People’s Republic of China. He didn’t just come up with that recently either. Mr. Presniakov told me the very SAME THING in 2006, 2008 and LAST WEEK.

Again I asked him WHY half a million Chinese had bought his book with no corresponding sales in AMERICA he answered (again) “The Chinese are more sophisticated.”

I have a BUNCH of authors that believe their book is a Chinese Bestseller.

Just to set the ANALOGY record straight, I have had no DIRECT experiences with RODENTS in out-houses. However, I can see how trying to turn a SHIT-HOUSE into a SHIT-HOME might be UNSETTLING for ANY woodland creature.

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I’d like to order A dozen of all three kinds of crazy… and please, SUPER-SIZE EM’!

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“You’re so funny.”

I’ve heard that quote my whole life, or I heard laughter at my jokes.  The theory of the sad clown needn’t be explained so I’ll just say that to see humor, to crack the jokes, you have to see both sides of the yin yang.  Humor is lost when there is no balance and I haven’t felt any such balance in a great long time.  It’s as if the black and the white have become so polarized that no grey exists, only a wide gap between the poles people like myself fall into.

The political climate of the US (fucking you in the) A is the most blatant example of this polarity, and some will say I’m a good example of polarity as well, but I feel absolutely nothing anymore.  Neither happy nor sad, I’m either cursed with apathy or mired in it.

I don’t fucking care.

I don’t care about these words, my motorcycles, myself nor do I have anyone beyond friends whom I can express care towards.  Aloof and alone, I’m on the proverbial island and I don’t have the energy for swimming.  None of my diversions of inspirations work anymore.  I couldn’t care less if I ever rode another motorcycle, and I couldn’t care less if I ever typed another word.  Neither matter.

So what does matter?  Search me.  I’ve searched for the last six months and cannot find anything that does matter.  As I watch and listen to the world, the people of Austin or where ever my eyes and ears are pointed, I don’t see much for me.  Austin seemed like the right place when I got back a year or so ago, now, not so much.  I really don’t feel like I live here anymore.

The struggle to survive in this expensive place, and in this shitty economy seems ridiculous, as does the struggle to keep a motorcycle near me for diversion.  Games other people enjoy, the money game, the sex game, the love game; none work for me.  All work against me, and I’m god damned tired of fighting.  I’m tired of explaining myself, tired of being the face on a motorcycle, tired of biting my lip to keep from expressing what others don’t want to hear.  I’m fucking tired.

But yet I press forward for a reason that fades each day and I can say that when that reason is gone, and it will pass, I know what will happen.  Until then I try to keep a smile and try not to bother anyone with the piles of words like these in my head.  Resistance is my whole life.  Struggle is the only goal.  Pain is no reward.

I used to run from it all, usually just as alone.  I used to get on the bike and try to tuck the front end at speed, try to bring the conclusion.  That’s all motorcycles ever were to me since the age of 15 when I told myself before a race, “I’m ready today.”  Instead of dying, I won, but really have no memory of the trophy, just that decision I made before the race.

I don’t want any sympathy nor do I want help.  My only goal is to type out some of the jumble inside my skull before it spills on the pavement one last time.  I don’t need a bike until then.  I do wish I had something or someone to pass the time with until the skull cracks and I don’t have to do this anymore.

Best I have is the words I type.  Tis all I have and probably all I’ll ever have and sadly they aren’t worth a dime nor a tear, they just exist.  I’ll keep tying though.  Eventually something inspiring comes from it.  Lately, I spend my mind on money concerns, and that always stifles the life spirit from which the words come.

To avoid the psychological implications of the words above, allow an analogy.  Isle of Man racers have a morbid humor about the potential catastrophes the race historically has proven exist.  To go to the line in a race like that takes more than courage, it takes living every moment until as best you can so that if catastrophe occurs, there is only the memory left behind.  Racers assure loved ones of their feelings, then approach the line knowing it’s the edge and that they may go over.  Leave behind beauty and nothing else.

LIfe isn’t right for racing right now. I’m not ready.  There is much to do before I could take an edge ride without the baggage that would surely drag me over.  It pisses me off, but I’ve still got too much to give, and the edge will have to wait.  Shit, I don’t even have a fast bike right now, and it’s not looking like I will anytime soon.  The edge will have to wait until the time is right again, and when it is, I will be right again, and when I’m right again, the edge never takes me.

…well, it hasn’t yet.  There’s always random chaos in my equation, but the way I was raised taught me to eliminate the chaos as much as possible so if I blast over, my last thought will not be of what I didn’t do for others.  I gotta work for a while, edge.  I’ll see you soon and it’s fucking ON.

These words are not depressed nor hopeless.  They are the words of one mutated by the machine world and the mythology of humanity.  It’s hard to express to even those who have been there what commitment to life truly is.  You have to be prepared to die.

Maybe a couple of riders out there will understand, the rest will fear it, but please don’t worry about me.  I’m fine, my only problem is that my life metaphor is extreme.  This ain’t the fucking NFL.  This is life, and like when I almost lost it at four years old, I have to attack life to keep it from killing me.

WFO.  All or nothing.  Bipolar?  Hardly.  That’s the way life truly is…

Fred

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The Edge of the Keyboard

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Master of Disaster

Any inspiration I extend toward any endeavor usually ends when irony begets cynicism, and my hopeless romantic is once again disappointed by the profound banality of unending stupidity.  Why will fads come and go but being an idiot never goes out of style?  I believe in the timeless truths but my damned soul will not give up on the futile hope that humanity will one day realize we’re all idiots, get on with things and forever end the absolute tyranny of our dumb asses exhibited throughout the history of humankind.  This hope, this dying light, only brings more irony, cynicism and hopelessness, like the flickering bulbs of Christmas lights after Baby Jesus Day.  I know exactly why humanity will never press forward, I have a fantastic example of the very problem:  Me.

There is no damned future and the joke is on us.  Sounds dark, but I think it’s funny, at least when I’m not pissed off. Nothing pisses me off more than reading about stupid bullshit politicians or the fucking army of weasels both sides use to attack each other like a game of Rodent Electric Football at our expense.  It poisons us all to swim through their dung and the rotting corpses they leave behind.  Stinks too.  Worse than all the above, even the writing, is that it makes me just as stupid as them.  It also makes me keep pushing for SOME god damned resolution, only to push myself into maddening insomnia trying to find the perfect way to say all motion is a joke of perception.  

Huh.  That’s almost it.  But then the fucking idiots and weasels and rats and politicians and pundits and Heaven Freaks and gun toters and whores and Rick Perry come in and think otherwise.  I’m right.  St. Francis of Allah Jimi Hendrix Paul Leary DAMNIT… I am right.

Ain’t my idea anyway.  Strewn across all mythologies of business, all religion, all politics is the notion that we are here for a reason.  Some believe it’s profit, some prophet, some prophet profit politics; all pricks, even the girls.  I hate Ann Coulter.  Ayn Rand has been pissing me off too lately, but only because she was so fucking Freudian those motherfuckers on the Right have adopted what was once a cry for the individual and turned it into another way to fuck as all with cigar shaped cockitalism.

Maybe we’re not here for anything at all, especially this bullshit buffet in front of us.  I’m not the ATM for the fucking motorcycle industry, nor am I here to finance wrong wars, nor finance the financiers nor swallow anyone’s bullshit but my own, and that of my beloved friends and family.  That’s enough to keep me busy but sadly I’m still dealing with this bullshit about MOTION.

Never happens.  Progression, regression; diversion, and reckless abandon of truth begets my own abandon.  False motion makes me want to run like hell, dive on a motorcycle… No.  I have to pay for that too.  It’s from without.  

Leaders need followers, prophets need seekers, and there is no intelligence without absolute stupidity.  And I need a motorcycle?  Just once I’d like to be surprised.  I’d like to get my romantic notion, my naive dream about my own motion being pure, mine, and not merely two wheeled consumption.  Yet like all the other idiots, I attribute my purity to some connection I’ve fooled myself into believing was truth.  Self off a shelf.

There is no such thing as motion.  The idea contrary always makes me want to run.  They’ll only catch me after the crash.  Maybe that’ll teach them there is only stop, no motion.

TJ’s Cycle, Duke of North Lamar

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OH MY GOD! I just realized ALL my MEDICATIONS—especially my ANTIDEPRESSANTS are GENERIC TOO!

NO WONDER I’M STILL SO FUCKING DEPRESSED!

Not. Acceptable.

And THAT was NOT the DEAL.

Whether its pharmaceuticals, soft drinks or food, MY UNDERSTANDING was that each corresponding STORE BRAND or GENERIC was EXACTLY THE SAME as the “brand names.”

TODAY’S GENERICS are NOT supposed to be “similar,” or “really close,” but “EXACTLY THE SAME.”

Yet it STILL took a LONG TIME and a lot of CONVINCING to make me give up “THE REAL THINGS.”

But persistence, (not to mention MUCH LOWER PRICES) finally gave me the courage to go “FULL GENERIC.”

At first there was no problem. When it comes to things like canned beans who can tell the difference?

With another product, breakfast cereal, the generic seemed fine too. NOW I know THAT was because I hadn’t eaten REAL FRUIT LOOPS for 30 YEARS.

IT TOOK 10 YEARS of convincing to get me to buy generics again.

IT TOOK 10 SECONDS of chewing Kroger’s “TWIZZLE FOOD PRODUCT” to realize I’D BEEN HAD!

I SHOULD have listened to gut-reaction and my EXPERIENCES from LONG AGO.

The REASON it took so much PERSUASION to get me to jump BACK on the GENERIC BANDWAGON was that my brothers and I grew up eating the GENERIC for EVERYTHING and it ALL SUCKED.

Not actually cheese anyway, so might as well get the generic, with a side of gorrilla ass hair for flavor.

In the 1970’s the definition of “GENERIC” had a lot more wiggle-room. As a result, it was NEVER the same as the brand names. But my Mom decided it was CLOSE ENOUGH.

As a result she never brought home KRAFT’S American Cheese Slices from the A&P.

We got something ELSE which looked similar but was OMINOUSLY labeled “CHEESE FOOD PRODUCT.”

MOM also bought something from ARMOUR’S PRESTIGIOUS POTTED MEAT FOOD PRODUCTS LINE and like IDIOTS we ATE IT.

I AM APPALLED to discover ARMOUR STILL offers POTTED MEAT TODAY! Here are just a few of the ingredients: PARTIALLY DEFATTED COOKED BEEF FATTY TISSUE!

BEEF TRIPE…

BEEF HEART…

And, wait for it. PORK BRAINS! YUM!

MOM?!? What the HELL was WRONG with you?!?

WHY couldn’t you just GET DRUNK and SLAP US AROUND like “NORMAL” PARENTS?!?

What did we ever do to deserve PARTIALLY DEFATTED COOKED BEEF FATTY TISSUE?!?

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Generic Twizzlers: They Suck.

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THEN there’s brown paper packages tied up with strings. IF THAT BROWN PAPER PACKAGE contains CIGARS it SKY-ROCKETS straight to the TOP OF THE LIST.

IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING how much I love my Daughter KATHRYN MAE JONES. I also don’t mind her bewildering decision to become Hispanic one little bit.

Brandy and I NEVER have to EXPLAIN JOKES to OUR KID. And Katy’s getting pretty damn funny herself. Our “Little Wonder” also INSISTS she’s going to live to be 123—thus giving herself ample time to pick a COUNTRY OF ORIGIN.

However, MOST OF ALL, I love My Wife, BRANDY JONES.

IT’S NO EXAGGERATION when I say I could never have accomplished ANYTHING without her. Brandy not only explained concepts I didn’t understood (like ‘layaway’) but also made helpful suggestions like paying the bill BEFORE they TURN THE POWER OFF.

That BRANDY is BEAUTIFUL, LOVING and GENEROUS is all an AMAZING bonus.

Of course I love Brandy’s family too. Most people make fun of in-laws, but my latest set is helpful and FEARLESS. It’s rare indeed to have ANOTHER FAMILY ready to SWING INTO ACTION the MOMENT YOU CALL (or in my case STOMP ON THE FLOOR.)

As for MY FAMILY, I have written many times that we truly DID put ‘THE FUN’ in DYSFUNCTIONAL!

My Mom is WONDERFUL! Seriously. EVERYBODY loves her! But NO ONE more than ME! Who else’s Mom would SMUGGLE DRUGS across THE BORDER for ONE OF HER KIDS?

I love my brother ERIC JONES too. He’s the only Republican on EARTH that believes it should be MANDATORY that EVERY EMPLOYER provides a 401K.

I love my other brother DAVID JONES just as much. However David still has issues with our Father. SINCE DAD DIED in 2006 I fear many of his issues may go UNRESOLVED.

When asked how MANY guns I HAVE, I answer, “WAY more than I NEED, but not as many AS I WANT.” I feel the same way about Air Jordans.

AND GOD HOW I LOVE MY SCOOTER! It SOMEHOW came back from the DEAD! (Actually a “ZOMBIE-SCOOTER” would explain a LOT!)

THOUGH I acquired it on the “Somebody ELSE breaks it, so YOU BOUGHT IT” plan, I STILL LOVE the darn thing! I enjoy it EVEN when I’M FLYING OVER THE HANDLEBARS!

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“Hi counselor, one of our author friends is SUING US.”“HITLER DOG?”

“Nope. New Loon.”

“What’s her claim?”

“She claims that due to me RELENTESSLY making fun of HER as well as HER ASSEMBLAGE of ARCHANGLES hereinafter referred to as “THE COMPANION” she has lost revenue AND suffered EMOTIONAL DAMAGES to the tune of FIVE BILLION DOLLARS.”

“What does YOUR contract say?”

“We don’t have a contract.”

“Oh. OK, in THAT CASE you can throw the summons IN THE TRASH and FORGET IT FOREVER. Oh. And PLEASE don’t forget to send me $1500.”

Those of you that have actually DEALT with an attorney know they NEVER say “PLEASE.” But otherwise that’s how the conversation goes.

So I hope you understand why I don’t go OUT OF MY WAY to sign CONTRACTS. In fact I try to avoid writing ANYTHING down.

Of course I still HAVE to write and sign all manner of documents every day. But BEFORE I send ANYTHING out, I read it over carefully one more time and ask myself:

Is this something you want A REPORTER to see? Is this something you want A JUDGE to see? Is this something you want MY MOTHER to see? If the answer to any of those questions is “No” I DON’T SEND IT.

Ironically I learned this lesson rather late. During the five years I lived in California I kept a journal. When I moved back TO INDIANA I went straight to Lake of the Woods.

It was there Gramma saw me writing in my big black book. She asked me what it was. I told her it was my daily journal. That’s when that wonderful woman gave me PRICELESS ADVICE I still live by TODAY.

She said, “If you don’t HAVE a journal then THEY CAN’T SUBPOENA IT.”

On the opposite end of the spectrum ‘TOT MOM’ also taught me a lesson. Through her 10-year-trial I learned it’s possible for the authorities to discover EXACTLY what you LOOK AT on THE INTERNET.

As a result, if somebody around here KILLS a bunch of nimble LESBIANS with CIGARS I’m looking at doing some HARD TIME!

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However, before I get to THAT it might not be a bad idea to do A QUICK RECAP. You might remember from the first installment that if there was one thing ALL of my colleagues, past and present could agree on it would be this:

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M DOING.
After five installments (and nearly five years) THAT hasn’t changed.. In fact I know less NOW than I did when we STARTED!

To illustrate this I used the following example. While we were still working in the basement ‘BOB’ made minimum wage, ‘BILL’ made $9.00 per hour and ‘JIM’ made $12.00! (These were not their real names.) Somehow Bob, Bill and Jim learned EXACTLY how much each other made. (We had always tried to keep that secret by PRINTING IT ALL OUT and handing it over to everybody along with their weekly check.) WHAT WE DIDN’T PRINT OUT WAS:

1. BILL WAS LIVING IN OUR OFFICE and

2. BOB CALLED IN SICK so often we’d NEVER ACTUALLY MET, but none of THAT mattered BECAUSE

3. I had no idea how much money ANYBODY made (and STILL don’t.)

With the addition of a rather dysfunctional bookstore and VAST QUANTITIES of METHANE, this is precisely where we still are TODAY.

But don’t you worry about my wife and I not stopping to “SMELL THE ROSES.”

At least once a week we give the MAID the NIGHT OFF and TAKE THE BENTLEY out to the MARINA. Then we CAST OFF and let the breeze take us to whatever distant shore it will.

THAT’S usually where THE COPS are waiting to ARREST us because we spent ALL OUR MONEY on CRAZY LUXURIES like FOOD.

But we both look GOOD IN ORANGE while we wait for somebody to RAISE enough MONEY (apparently by selling forks) to make BAIL. Then we go right back to work.

What we want to do now, with the help of our priceless colleagues, but also FOR our priceless colleagues is to MAKE SOMETHING HAPPEN.

I’M in an AWKWARD spot MYSELF because I ALREADY achieved ALL MY GOALS. I just wish I’d set the bar a little higher. MY objectives were to have my own HOUSE, start my own BUSINESS and WRITE A BOOK. Done, done AND DONE (4 times.) So now WHAT?

I need a comprehensive PLAN. The trouble is that after STEP ONE, “BUY FEBREZE,” I run into a BRICK WALL.

Off the record I was told that the fact I KNOW I “should HAVE a plan” puts me a step above most. That same wise soul also pointed out that sitting in the dark playing video games IS A PLAN.

But that’s not going to be enough for me.

I have a bunch of awards (I lost about HALF in the divorce) I put up on the wall behind my desk.

Some people scoff at them (my guess is that the people scoffing DON’T have a bunch of awards) but I don’t care. I don’t put them up to remind myself I’m a good salesman or to impress others.

Each of those awards represents hundreds of thousands or even MILLIONS OF DOLLARS I made for SOMEBODY ELSE.

I busted my ass everywhere I went for years. And all I ever wanted from THOSE COMPANIES was a seat at the table–the chance to participate—the chance to say, “Hey, let’s try this,” or “What happens if we try that?”

THAT’S something I never got ONCE in TWENTY-FIVE-YEARS.

YET it’s the FIRST THING I give it to EVERY employee the minute they walk through the door.

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The details of my location are unimportant.  I’m just happy to be out of Abilene.  Shortly before I finally found a truck to haul my motorcycle crap, shots were fired and Klan fliers were on the lawn.  I still hear sirens and first gear clutch dumps in my dreams.  Just imagine total darkness with blood dripping everywhere.  It was like that.

But no more.  In this secret location, I will not be found.  No authorities know my location.  I’m away from the slaughter and relatively safe for now, but I’ll need a bike that can do 160, and I need it soon.  Everyone needs a means for escape these days.  Seriously.  Make a Plan B.  Coyote attack is imminent.

I’m two bike sales away from comfort.  Until then, you didn’t read this, you don’t know where I am.  Best to tell people you heard I was in Australia.  That’s it.  I’m not in Australia, but I’m not in the country right now.  Shit, it’s hard to post right now.  I’m being watched.  Fucking Mormons…

And I’m being edited these days.  Unlike the old days I can’t cover my trail.  Not that I ever really could.

Point?  God is against me.  Need a death machine bike…but at the moment I’d settle for a chain breaker or a heavy set of bolt cutters.

Elizabeth Montgomery

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Fred checks in.

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However UNLIKE ME, these folks walked off with the contact information FOR ALL OF OUR CLIENTS. Then they CALLED our friends (often from a PAYPHONE!) and asked for money.

Also, UNLIKE ME, these entrepreneurs had NO FUCKING CLUE what they were TALKING ABOUT. Obviously they had never WRITTEN A BOOK. And while THAT is not necessarily a REQUIREMENT, the ability to READ A BOOK most certainly IS.
So I THOUGHT I had already seen it all. Yet recently I was ASTONISHED when one of our people tried to set up shop IN OUR OFFICE while ON THE CLOCK!

It was a NEW fart-time salesperson who STILL cannot GRASP the following concept:

IF A COMPANY is PAYING YOU, and THE PHONE BILL not to mention THE RENT and you’re calling a CLIENT it’s NOT OK to DRUM-UP BUSINESS for YOURSELF.

I learned this had happened when said colleague asked ME FOR CASH since the payment had been made by credit card. Rather than termination or some other angry response I silently counted to 800 then offered the explanation ABOVE.

SINCE THEN, ALL of our colleagues have CONFIRMED this explanation along with at LEAST one client and even PASSERBIES. While no one has broken through yet, in this case I think there’s hope.

THAT’S because I hate to lose a colleague for ANY reason—but especially in a misguided attempt to COMPETE. Its little comfort knowing they all hit the SAME BRICK WALLS. And hit em’ HARD!

Starting your own business is more difficult than it might appear. My wife and I did it on a wing and a prayer. But BOTH OF US had worked for PUBLISHING COMPANIES for YEARS. We had also worked long and hard on our credit rating, which is CRUCIAL.

The Beginning Of Great Things...

IF you want to accept CREDIT CARDS—which is now REQUIRED even for PROSTITUTES–you have to get a MERCHANT ACCOUNT.

I think it’s safe to say that IF YOU CAN’T GET A CHECKING ACCOUNT, you’re not going to get a Merchant Account.

And if you want a Merchant Account, among many other hurdles THEY COME TO YOUR HOUSE!

Dealing with the IRS is even MORE difficult. If the government thinks you OWE them MONEY then THEY COME TO YOUR HOUSE! (However, when you hire an attorney and discover the IRS owes YOU money they vanish altogether.)

Also from time to time you get a few unhappy clients. If a client gets REALLY upset THEY COME TO YOUR HOUSE!

BOTTOM LINE? If you want to start your own company it’s going to be extremely difficult. ESPECIALLY if you LIVE IN YOUR CAR!

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Before I start writing something trivial and inane I’d like to finish last week’s discussion of my beliefs. (Which I never even GOT TO!)

INSTEAD, if you recall I made the comparison of quoting SCRIPTURE in a religious discussion to hitting the “HYPERSPACE” button playing the video game ASTEROIDS.I also wrote that I preferred the King James Version to the New Revised Standard Version of the BIBLE.

KING JAMES: “When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.

And when they were come into the house, they saw the young child with Mary his mother, AND fell down, AND worshipped him: AND when they had opened their treasures, they presented unto him gifts; gold, AND frankincense, AND myrrh.”

NEW REVISED STANDERED VERSION 4.0 (Directors Cut): “When they walked in the three “supposedly WISE” men saw MARY and the BABY then promptly FELL DOWN and BONKED their HEADS.

When they CAME TO they handed over GIFT BAGS. Mary was hoping for some HUGGIES or maybe formula. But all three had the same stuff.

GOLD is always nice but the FRANKINCENSE made everybody sneeze. For SOME reason they brought MYRRH which was used as an embalming ointment. AWKWARD!”

All joking aside people think that GOD and SCIENCE are opposing viewpoints. If you believe in ONE you CAN’T believe in the other.

I have never claimed to be a genius, in fact quite the contrary! Yet the more I read about life from a scientific standpoint the more sure I am that it didn’t just HAPPEN.

That, by the way, is the view of MANY modern scientists. Life needs proteins which are made up of amino acids. People CAN create amino acids but you need hundreds or even thousands in PERFECT ORDER to make a protein.

For that to happen by chance, the astronomer Fred Hoyle said, was like “a whirlwind spinning through a junkyard and leaving behind a fully assembled Jumbo Jet.”

Make that a JUMBO JET that can somehow REPRODUCE ITSELF.

No credible scientist denies evolution nor do I. But it makes me wonder WHY we grow old and die.

In fact, “survival of the fittest” should weed out dying altogether. Why do all living creatures AUTOMATICALLY self-destruct?

Who decided on THAT plan?

I CERTAINLY was not at the MEETING!

So amazingly here we all are alive (against impossible odds) but programmed to die (for no good reason.) If the odds of us ever returning or moving on are so impossible WHY ARE WE HERE NOW?

Sure, ‘shit happens,’ but something as amazing and as wonderful as life CAN’T just happen.

That’s why I believe in GOD.

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Why I Believe in God

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