BUNDY WAS PROBABL TRANS NOOBODY TALKS ABOUT THIS...THEY/THEM LEFT DETAILED NOTES ON THERE/THEM OBSESSESH WITH THE VAG
Saturday, April 29, 2023
Friday, March 29, 2019
Will to Consent
She helms a boxy conveyance; within, the allure of vigor.
Operating with sleek command, and fluency,
Her craft accretes those of us who share her passion,
Young and old, we coalesce around her.
When I visited thus, it was brief and electrifying.
I was granted to dock, temporarily, my rig,
To her ship. My engines were not even to cool,
Lest I forfeit this privilege.
There are no written rules here, it's all implied,
To visit her station is to merely exchange
The coin of the realm for the desired balms,
Then one must be on their way.
To me, she is like a bird in a gilded cage,
And I am allowed to flit about inside, very briefly,
And listen to her song. Perhaps even to cast,
With admiration, on her bright plumage.
Anything more than a brief glance would signal,
That more than admiration is happening inside me.
It would be a tell, that she is being coveted,
That I carry an urge to possess her.
And this is true. My eyes point at what I desire,
She knows this, so, I look at her when I speak,
And when she is speaking to me. But then, I must feign,
Interest in the aloes or the bottles of capsules.
To her, unless I speak my absolute truth, I will just be,
Another in a long line of clones. I'm no longer an original,
I've replaced every cell countless times, willed myself to heal,
Yet my ardor to consume her never quits me.
It would be very easy for me to just ask her for coffee,
Then, I might receive a very clear, "no,"
And this would settle the issue forever.
But then, I would feel unwelcome, to ever again transact.
So, helpless in my masculine stupor, the notion arrives.
To be a man fully possessed of myself in her presence.
To utter my sole truth, with a light yet serious heart.
To remind her that only the fair would contemplate the fair.
Here. "Do you know any great writers?" Huh. "Well, you do now."
It's just stupid enough to fail miserably.
Operating with sleek command, and fluency,
Her craft accretes those of us who share her passion,
Young and old, we coalesce around her.
When I visited thus, it was brief and electrifying.
I was granted to dock, temporarily, my rig,
To her ship. My engines were not even to cool,
Lest I forfeit this privilege.
There are no written rules here, it's all implied,
To visit her station is to merely exchange
The coin of the realm for the desired balms,
Then one must be on their way.
To me, she is like a bird in a gilded cage,
And I am allowed to flit about inside, very briefly,
And listen to her song. Perhaps even to cast,
With admiration, on her bright plumage.
Anything more than a brief glance would signal,
That more than admiration is happening inside me.
It would be a tell, that she is being coveted,
That I carry an urge to possess her.
And this is true. My eyes point at what I desire,
She knows this, so, I look at her when I speak,
And when she is speaking to me. But then, I must feign,
Interest in the aloes or the bottles of capsules.
To her, unless I speak my absolute truth, I will just be,
Another in a long line of clones. I'm no longer an original,
I've replaced every cell countless times, willed myself to heal,
Yet my ardor to consume her never quits me.
It would be very easy for me to just ask her for coffee,
Then, I might receive a very clear, "no,"
And this would settle the issue forever.
But then, I would feel unwelcome, to ever again transact.
So, helpless in my masculine stupor, the notion arrives.
To be a man fully possessed of myself in her presence.
To utter my sole truth, with a light yet serious heart.
To remind her that only the fair would contemplate the fair.
Here. "Do you know any great writers?" Huh. "Well, you do now."
It's just stupid enough to fail miserably.
Saturday, March 16, 2019
Remote Hands
I used to be a telecommunications technician. I had numerous responsibilities, such as, helping to build out massive networks. They called them, "MANs," short for Metropolitan Area Networks. I liked that term, because it was a decent representation of our company's footprint.
Our company, Yipes Telecommunications, started with this idea to replace existing SONET and ATM protocols, with this thing called Gigabit Ethernet. They secured about a hundred million dollars in angel capital during the dot-com boom, around 1998. They used the money to lease strands of existing fiber optic infrastructure in dozens of cities in the U.S.
In San Diego, for example, they leased 24 strands of fiber optic capacity, and the glass formed a gigantic ring in and around the whole city. Then, Yipes would have a contractor intercept the fiber. This meant pulling last-mile fiber from the utility location, into a building.
We would call this, "lighting up," a building.
That's a very expensive process, and requires expertise in Outside Plant, ie, construction, permitting, and working closely with existing utilities, such as legacy telco plant.
You have to first find a pathway from the closest manhole, into the building, and then you run a segment of fiber from the manhole into the building and terminate it in a secure cabinet. The cabinet contained the hardware, like a Black Diamond or Juniper switch or router. Then you just use a patch cord from the patch panel to the equipment.
After this preparation, the contractor is tasked with intercepting the metro fiber, usually down in a man-hole, and always in the middle of the night.
I was generally responsible for helping to choreograph this upgrade, and to communicate progress and any issues to our Network Operations Center. We just called it the NOC, and it was staffed 24/7 by network engineers. If there was an issue that a network engineer needed assistance with, it was quickly escalated up the chain of command until the issue was resolved.
I was a technician, but to the network engineers, I was known as, "remote hands." This is because I would have to roll out with special equipment whenever there was an unexpected issue.
I had testing equipment of all sorts. I could check continuity of a strand of fiber up to 70 kilometers, using an OTDR. This device had an LED screen, and it showed you a visual representation of an entire strand of fiber. It showed you every little nuance in the fiber. I could see the reflectivity drop off at kilometer 30, and I knew that was where the fiber had been spliced.
I would also roll out with a tester for just about any communications protocol on our network. I spent a lot of time doing head-to-head testing with some other technician for PacBell or whatever, and together, we could determine exactly whose piece of equipment was malfunctioning.
I got calls at all hours. I had to stop drinking, because I was the only technician serving Los Angeles and San Diego, for like six years. But it was great, because there were many times when I became the hero. One time we had a driving rainstorm, and I was dispatched to check on our MPOP in Riverside, because it was located inside a power substation. When I arrived, our MPOP was high and dry, but, to me, it still felt like hero time.
A lot of my routine was just turning up a new customer, usually using a last-mile solution that didn't involve fiber, but a traditional copper router that we VPN'd into our network. A lot of times, it's just too expensive to run fiber to a new office building.
I had a lot of respect for the network engineers. I remember one guy who used to be a maitre'd at a high end Bay Area restaurant. He just wanted to be a network engineer, and he was damn good. These guys depended on me to get on-site quickly in case of an outage. Hero time.
I was dispatched from San Diego to Los Angeles, in the middle of the night, several times. It got to be so routine, that I had dreams of servicing telecommunications equipment in deep space.
That's no joke, and they weren't nightmares, they were awesome dreams. Imagine being strapped to a rocket and dropped off hundreds of millions of miles away, to work on some satellite transceiver. That was me. Remote hands.
And all of this was just to service a customer who could not afford even one millisecond of down-time.
So, this has made me think about something. I'm not a telecom technician anymore, but I am still a remote hands tech. I sort of answer to a much higher network operations center now, the Highest. And the big guy depends on me, just like the Yipes NOC once used to.
The end-user is out there. The person who needs to know that his connection to our Source is going to stay secure, and I'm going to go wherever, whenever, and make sure that the signal strength is ok, and that the end-user's gear is receiving properly.
Hero Time.
Our company, Yipes Telecommunications, started with this idea to replace existing SONET and ATM protocols, with this thing called Gigabit Ethernet. They secured about a hundred million dollars in angel capital during the dot-com boom, around 1998. They used the money to lease strands of existing fiber optic infrastructure in dozens of cities in the U.S.
In San Diego, for example, they leased 24 strands of fiber optic capacity, and the glass formed a gigantic ring in and around the whole city. Then, Yipes would have a contractor intercept the fiber. This meant pulling last-mile fiber from the utility location, into a building.
We would call this, "lighting up," a building.
That's a very expensive process, and requires expertise in Outside Plant, ie, construction, permitting, and working closely with existing utilities, such as legacy telco plant.
You have to first find a pathway from the closest manhole, into the building, and then you run a segment of fiber from the manhole into the building and terminate it in a secure cabinet. The cabinet contained the hardware, like a Black Diamond or Juniper switch or router. Then you just use a patch cord from the patch panel to the equipment.
After this preparation, the contractor is tasked with intercepting the metro fiber, usually down in a man-hole, and always in the middle of the night.
I was generally responsible for helping to choreograph this upgrade, and to communicate progress and any issues to our Network Operations Center. We just called it the NOC, and it was staffed 24/7 by network engineers. If there was an issue that a network engineer needed assistance with, it was quickly escalated up the chain of command until the issue was resolved.
I was a technician, but to the network engineers, I was known as, "remote hands." This is because I would have to roll out with special equipment whenever there was an unexpected issue.
I had testing equipment of all sorts. I could check continuity of a strand of fiber up to 70 kilometers, using an OTDR. This device had an LED screen, and it showed you a visual representation of an entire strand of fiber. It showed you every little nuance in the fiber. I could see the reflectivity drop off at kilometer 30, and I knew that was where the fiber had been spliced.
I would also roll out with a tester for just about any communications protocol on our network. I spent a lot of time doing head-to-head testing with some other technician for PacBell or whatever, and together, we could determine exactly whose piece of equipment was malfunctioning.
I got calls at all hours. I had to stop drinking, because I was the only technician serving Los Angeles and San Diego, for like six years. But it was great, because there were many times when I became the hero. One time we had a driving rainstorm, and I was dispatched to check on our MPOP in Riverside, because it was located inside a power substation. When I arrived, our MPOP was high and dry, but, to me, it still felt like hero time.
A lot of my routine was just turning up a new customer, usually using a last-mile solution that didn't involve fiber, but a traditional copper router that we VPN'd into our network. A lot of times, it's just too expensive to run fiber to a new office building.
I had a lot of respect for the network engineers. I remember one guy who used to be a maitre'd at a high end Bay Area restaurant. He just wanted to be a network engineer, and he was damn good. These guys depended on me to get on-site quickly in case of an outage. Hero time.
I was dispatched from San Diego to Los Angeles, in the middle of the night, several times. It got to be so routine, that I had dreams of servicing telecommunications equipment in deep space.
That's no joke, and they weren't nightmares, they were awesome dreams. Imagine being strapped to a rocket and dropped off hundreds of millions of miles away, to work on some satellite transceiver. That was me. Remote hands.
And all of this was just to service a customer who could not afford even one millisecond of down-time.
So, this has made me think about something. I'm not a telecom technician anymore, but I am still a remote hands tech. I sort of answer to a much higher network operations center now, the Highest. And the big guy depends on me, just like the Yipes NOC once used to.
The end-user is out there. The person who needs to know that his connection to our Source is going to stay secure, and I'm going to go wherever, whenever, and make sure that the signal strength is ok, and that the end-user's gear is receiving properly.
Hero Time.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
"The Four of Us"
My calling card freaked a lot of people out. It was supposed to. It was symbolic.
When you have to go out and hit, it's reasons. It's a duty, it's an obligation. This is probably going to sound weird, to you.
Nobody wants to be the guy, that retires a good fella. It's true, the old saying: "It's just business." To tell you the truth, it works both ways.
My calling card. Sometimes it's just a joke. Sometimes, it's a prank. Sometimes, it's a warning. And sometimes, people used my calling card, to warn me. So, it's complicated. It's reasons.
My name is Michael, and I have a story to tell. It's about the four of us. I'm going to watch what I say, because, reasons. You protect your family, you protect your loved ones, you take care of business when you have to.
Essentially, you have to think of yourself as a soldier. You have to be a soldier, until it's not time to be a soldier, anymore. Until retirement, or until you move up.
Yeah, but you never get out, though, right? What's the saying? Everytime I tried to get out, they pulled me back in? Something like that.
1
I was so long out, yet, the intensity of the action, all came right back. J.D. called, and well, usually, that's enough. "They was asking about you, Mike." was his way of saying, we need you to come back in the game, Mikey.
Tonight we met at the diner. We sat at our usual table, and he spilled the whole plan.
"Listen, Michael, this is the one that you owe me. You gotta do this for me, then we're square."
He was right. I had to do something for him. It was hard to swallow the actual deed.
"Two in the head. Execution-style. That's how I want it. Outside his car. Feel free to extemporize, but no frills, got it?"
The waitress came by to check our status. "How's everything taste, boys?"
J.D. cut the brief silence by adjusting his leg and farting, loud. I gave him the smallest laugh possible, just a tight, "huh." Then I said, "Beg your pardon, miss, may I get the check?"
Johnny snapped to, and interjected, "Mike, Miiiike, I got the check, okay boy?"
I slowed my respiration, aware of what was coming next. He waited until she was out of earshot.
"Michael, you piece of shit. You check off until this job is done, got it."
"You bet, J.D."
"Okay, now, two in the head. It has to be next to that fucking car of his. Make it look like a robbery. Ransack the house, and rifle through the car. Make sure you grab his wife's jewelry. Don't fuck up again, like before. And make sure you get that fucking laptop."
"I don't understand why I can't just cap him inside. What, you want two crime scenes?"
"Like I said, improvise if you need to, but the body needs to found next to the car, with two in the head."
"Jesus Christ, Johnny. Why couldn't you get Pobrecito to do it? He likes that kind of stuff. I don't even know the guy."
"I tell you everything you need to go on. You have your marching orders, so, get on with it."
I was badly shaken, leaving the diner. Somehow, the diner itself was now ruined for me.
2
I wanted to arrest myself, somehow. Make myself slow down, just a bit more. Only problem, is, that I feel my progress is already as slow as forward can get. Maybe what I really need to do is stop altogether. Maybe what I need to do, is start moving in reverse.
It was so easy to see how stuck I was. A blood oath, sworn to a blood brother, is a bond stronger than steel. In many cases, the contract is forged in steel, and executed in blood, later.
That was the long and short of my situation. Davey had to be killed, and our crew had to be responsible.
What Juanito was telling me, though, was too incredible to understand.
As the diner got small in my rear-view mirror, I eschewed my normal route home, and instead went to the beach. At the foot of Beach Avenue, I pull into the lot, and glide in. The car's transmission alone, tools me into a quiet, meditative corner.
How do sensitive, reflective men, become killers. It's just business. It's always, "just business," and no made man ever impinges the natural right of another, their daily bread.
The sun was setting, and I appreciated the touching contrasts. Here, at water's edge, I toe the ocean, and connect with something far greater than myself. Here, at point break, there is a brief, shared moment of joy, where people celebrate the routine division of day into night.
I want to swim out to sea, and lose all the urgency of the world, but cannot will it.
I take some footsteps along the shoreline. Very slowly, I move, listening for my resonance. A child shrieks in delight at their game. Far off, a dog barks an excited staccato. All the while, the underlying soundtrack of breaking surf, broken only by the contrasting peals of the gulls.
As I walk, I notice that my footprints are slowly being carried out with the tide. The first wave erases most of the print. Each successive wave, shapes the sand behind me, as if I were never there. But there is a difference that I am aware of. There has been a subtle shift in the arrangement of the sand. The pattern of my footprints has been 'erased,' however, the impression of my feet upon the sand, can never be erased.
If only because this brief moment existed, in absolute joy, in my mind.
3
My reality was stark and terrifying. Yeah. I didn't want to go back to prison. I done my time. And when Juanito gives an order, it gets carried out. And no promises, either, other than, "we're square after this."
That sort of got my mind excited about doing this job. It feels like fear, and it is that, but it's also what makes me run, in a way. Settling a score? I'm in. Nobody can give me back my kid's childhood, and I accept that.
When you go away, nobody is your friend anymore. "We'll visit you, and write often," they say, but they never do. Day after day. Minutes become weeks, hours feel like seconds. What do you do when every liberty, every creature comfort is denied to you?
If you know me, you already know the answer to that. I wrote that story with every righteous hit.
I called Ellen, and asked if I could come over. She knew this Davey situation. I felt a little kept in the dark, and hating the mark really helps.
"You can come over now, but Johnny can't know. He's out, talking to you about something. Just come over."
When you have to go out and hit, it's reasons. It's a duty, it's an obligation. This is probably going to sound weird, to you.
Nobody wants to be the guy, that retires a good fella. It's true, the old saying: "It's just business." To tell you the truth, it works both ways.
My calling card. Sometimes it's just a joke. Sometimes, it's a prank. Sometimes, it's a warning. And sometimes, people used my calling card, to warn me. So, it's complicated. It's reasons.
My name is Michael, and I have a story to tell. It's about the four of us. I'm going to watch what I say, because, reasons. You protect your family, you protect your loved ones, you take care of business when you have to.
Essentially, you have to think of yourself as a soldier. You have to be a soldier, until it's not time to be a soldier, anymore. Until retirement, or until you move up.
Yeah, but you never get out, though, right? What's the saying? Everytime I tried to get out, they pulled me back in? Something like that.
1
I was so long out, yet, the intensity of the action, all came right back. J.D. called, and well, usually, that's enough. "They was asking about you, Mike." was his way of saying, we need you to come back in the game, Mikey.
Tonight we met at the diner. We sat at our usual table, and he spilled the whole plan.
"Listen, Michael, this is the one that you owe me. You gotta do this for me, then we're square."
He was right. I had to do something for him. It was hard to swallow the actual deed.
"Two in the head. Execution-style. That's how I want it. Outside his car. Feel free to extemporize, but no frills, got it?"
The waitress came by to check our status. "How's everything taste, boys?"
J.D. cut the brief silence by adjusting his leg and farting, loud. I gave him the smallest laugh possible, just a tight, "huh." Then I said, "Beg your pardon, miss, may I get the check?"
Johnny snapped to, and interjected, "Mike, Miiiike, I got the check, okay boy?"
I slowed my respiration, aware of what was coming next. He waited until she was out of earshot.
"Michael, you piece of shit. You check off until this job is done, got it."
"You bet, J.D."
"Okay, now, two in the head. It has to be next to that fucking car of his. Make it look like a robbery. Ransack the house, and rifle through the car. Make sure you grab his wife's jewelry. Don't fuck up again, like before. And make sure you get that fucking laptop."
"I don't understand why I can't just cap him inside. What, you want two crime scenes?"
"Like I said, improvise if you need to, but the body needs to found next to the car, with two in the head."
"Jesus Christ, Johnny. Why couldn't you get Pobrecito to do it? He likes that kind of stuff. I don't even know the guy."
"I tell you everything you need to go on. You have your marching orders, so, get on with it."
I was badly shaken, leaving the diner. Somehow, the diner itself was now ruined for me.
2
I wanted to arrest myself, somehow. Make myself slow down, just a bit more. Only problem, is, that I feel my progress is already as slow as forward can get. Maybe what I really need to do is stop altogether. Maybe what I need to do, is start moving in reverse.
It was so easy to see how stuck I was. A blood oath, sworn to a blood brother, is a bond stronger than steel. In many cases, the contract is forged in steel, and executed in blood, later.
That was the long and short of my situation. Davey had to be killed, and our crew had to be responsible.
What Juanito was telling me, though, was too incredible to understand.
As the diner got small in my rear-view mirror, I eschewed my normal route home, and instead went to the beach. At the foot of Beach Avenue, I pull into the lot, and glide in. The car's transmission alone, tools me into a quiet, meditative corner.
How do sensitive, reflective men, become killers. It's just business. It's always, "just business," and no made man ever impinges the natural right of another, their daily bread.
The sun was setting, and I appreciated the touching contrasts. Here, at water's edge, I toe the ocean, and connect with something far greater than myself. Here, at point break, there is a brief, shared moment of joy, where people celebrate the routine division of day into night.
I want to swim out to sea, and lose all the urgency of the world, but cannot will it.
I take some footsteps along the shoreline. Very slowly, I move, listening for my resonance. A child shrieks in delight at their game. Far off, a dog barks an excited staccato. All the while, the underlying soundtrack of breaking surf, broken only by the contrasting peals of the gulls.
As I walk, I notice that my footprints are slowly being carried out with the tide. The first wave erases most of the print. Each successive wave, shapes the sand behind me, as if I were never there. But there is a difference that I am aware of. There has been a subtle shift in the arrangement of the sand. The pattern of my footprints has been 'erased,' however, the impression of my feet upon the sand, can never be erased.
If only because this brief moment existed, in absolute joy, in my mind.
3
My reality was stark and terrifying. Yeah. I didn't want to go back to prison. I done my time. And when Juanito gives an order, it gets carried out. And no promises, either, other than, "we're square after this."
That sort of got my mind excited about doing this job. It feels like fear, and it is that, but it's also what makes me run, in a way. Settling a score? I'm in. Nobody can give me back my kid's childhood, and I accept that.
When you go away, nobody is your friend anymore. "We'll visit you, and write often," they say, but they never do. Day after day. Minutes become weeks, hours feel like seconds. What do you do when every liberty, every creature comfort is denied to you?
If you know me, you already know the answer to that. I wrote that story with every righteous hit.
I called Ellen, and asked if I could come over. She knew this Davey situation. I felt a little kept in the dark, and hating the mark really helps.
"You can come over now, but Johnny can't know. He's out, talking to you about something. Just come over."
So I drive over. My kid is in the next room, sleeping. Her kid. He understands that I am his biological father, but since I been gone, Johnny raised him as his own. I am Uncle Mike, now. Whatever. Literally, whatever.
When I lost all parental custody over my kid, I was in prison, and utterly powerless to do a damn thing about it. I cried. Yep. I moaned. I grieved so hard. You will never understand, and you will never know, what this feels like.
"Mike, I know Davey, and you have to do this. I can't tell you why, or you might not want to do it, or you might get caught, or killed, or something. I just really want to stay out of it. But I can tell you he lives in Coronado, like Johnny said. I also know he goes out on Thursdays, and where. He'll be gone for hours."
That nailed it down for me. This was happening, tonight. I know all eyes are on me now, and I'm scared shitless, and sort of happy. This will settle an old score. Maybe after I finish, these good people might tell me what the fuck is so important about this one.
These guys are hard to read. It's a survival skill. It's an adaptation. True psychopaths are few and far between. The dirty work gets done by guys like me, guys without choices.
He did say, feel free to improvise. I know how to do that. My court-appointed psychiatrist thought I was all kinds of mad and bonkers, because that's why they referred me.
So, when she came to see me, she had certain pre-conceptions. They look for things like, does this person lack empathy. Stuff like that. This tart thought she knew every rhetorical trick, begging the question, like, "why did you feel it was necessary to sever that person's index finger," what.
This dame has a lot of book smarts, and probably gets a thrill up her skirt, by being a prison shrink. I pretended to be sexually interested in her, because this works. It works. Act like a dumb guy struck by her unique beauty. Never fails.
4
So, I know all eyes are on me. Johnny is probably got a pair of binoculars trained on me right now, or a sniper scope. "Ellen, can you tell me why getting the laptop is so important? What's on there?"
"Trust me."
And I do, trust her, and my guys. I missed this, because it's like being in a pack of dogs, you know? I miss my dogs. I loved the way we ran together, when we were young, happy men.
You learn how to feel people, and disregard their statements. From the point I walked out of Ellen's door, perhaps for the last time, I ditched my thoughts. I listened to the night, and tried to put all distractions out of my mind. I was entering the "feel," world, where instincts take over. Not primal instincts. My honed instincts, from studying psychology. I knew what everyone was afraid of.
Everyone is afraid and angry all the time, they just mask it. That's all bullshit, and a man with his finger on the trigger cuts through all the bullshit.
There was a rusty nail, lying on the ground near the driveway. Probably fell out of a work truck. That will work. I like to collect nails. When I see a nail in a road bed, I pick it up. I would want someone to notice a nail destined for my wheels, and pick it up and chuck it away, out where it won't puncture someone's aspirations.
I drove to Davey's empty house. This was probably going to be in and out, and it was. I grabbed the laptop, and some of the jewelry, and pulled some dresser drawers out. Five minutes in.
I'm driving. I know where Davey goes whoring, it's downtown. I parked on the street and eyeballed his car. Nice Mercedes. Hours seem like days. It was about one a.m. when he staggered out to his car. This was setting up to be super easy.
I followed him down to the island. There's a self-serve car wash on the way to his house, so I cut in front of his Mercedes, and he just went with it, and drove into the pad in front of the self-service bays. I pull up alongside, and wave him over to the empty bay.
There wasn't any fight in him. He knew who I was, and why I was there. My reputation preceded me. "Gonna nail another one down, Michael?" He knew that it was over, and I was going to do him a favor and make it quick.
He drove into one of the service bays, and turned around to see what I was doing. I waved at him to get out, as if I wanted to talk the situation over. He got out, and stood up, and I just went bang bang, and it was over. He went down next to his car, and he was gone.
There was still leftover foam and suds and dirty water, left over from the last customer at the wash, probably hours ago. His blood spilled out of his body, and started swirling and joining the suds, draining all the shame away, all the pain. I chucked the rusty nail in the bushes. Fuck this. I'm free now.
I drove over the bridge, slowed down, and when I got to the top, I just flung the laptop out my passenger side window. I didn't want to know. Why spoil it? I'm free now.
enjkd
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
The Family Wellness Index
Once married persons accepted subsidies from unmarried persons, the intrusion of the state into the institution of marriage was irreversible and irrevocable.
Today's family is under assault from preference cascades being promoted by media, government, and academia. The collectivization is well underway.
This project will attempt to measure the integrity of the Western family. Anything that threatens or attenuates the Western family will cause the index to lose value. The index value as of this moment stands at par.
Michigan Schools To Let Students Choose Gender, Name And Bathroom.
FWI 99 7/8 -1/8
Today's family is under assault from preference cascades being promoted by media, government, and academia. The collectivization is well underway.
This project will attempt to measure the integrity of the Western family. Anything that threatens or attenuates the Western family will cause the index to lose value. The index value as of this moment stands at par.
Michigan Schools To Let Students Choose Gender, Name And Bathroom.
FWI 99 7/8 -1/8
The Imposter Q1 1982
In the spring of 1982 I was a sophomore in college. It was the last time I lived on-campus. Third College, as it was called then, had clusters of two-story fourplexes. These had little courtyards, and each fourplex was connected to similar units to create a building of some thirty residents.
I had a private room that had a window looking out on a eucalyptus grove, with the library in the near distance.
I luxuriated in that tiny window of time between getting accustomed to the academic workload, and getting serious. I didn't even have to declare a major until the fall. I decided that I really wanted to spend as much time as I could, making friends.
I had a telephone conversation with my mother about my strategy. She was opposed to the idea, because she thought I should just concentrate on schoolwork.
I was not dissuaded. I set about being a part of as many social engagements as possible. I was on an intramural soccer team, and I had never played soccer before. I missed compulsory youth soccer leagues by perhaps months.
I practiced all the time. My position was fullback, the player closest to the goalkeeper. My responsibility was to prevent the other team from getting a clear shot at the goal. I learned how to strip the ball away from even the best dribblers. The secret, at least my secret, was to ignore what the other player was doing with their feet. They could cross-step and switch which foot they dribbled with, but they could only move in the direction their hips pointed.
I would backpedal defensively until I saw an opening, then strip the ball from them. Worked every time.
The team name was coined by the Resident Adviser. We were called "The Amoebas of Doom," and we had t-shirts made up. My number was sixty-nine, which at that time was considered quite clever.
Some of my more clever maneuvers came off the field, as well. I made a dummy out of my old clothes. I sewed a shirt and socks into an old pair of pants, and I forget what I used for the head, and then stuffed the whole thing with newspapers. This enterprise took about an hour to assemble.
The inspiration for the counterfeit was practical jokery. U.C. San Diego had acquired the mythical title of "suicide school." There were urban legends about first-year students who were overcome by pressure, jumped off buildings, and killed themselves.
My ringer was also suicidal. I would lug him up to the roof of some building and huck him over the side, always with a blood-curdling scream, to the effect of, "OhMYGODHEJUMped!"
I never did have the guts to chuck him off a balcony at Tioga Hall, which was probably fifteen stories. What a missed opportunity. When he had enough jumps under his belt, he became a spectator at Amoeba matches, sitting in a nylon beach chair.
One thing that college offers, is a lot of opportunities for courtship. I didn't lose my virginity until I was nineteen. Not because I'm ugly, I don't think. I always had a cute girlfriend. Each one had a different reason for not wanting to go all the way. And I think I was missing fundamental lessons about male -female relationships.
I suffered a freshman year in which it felt the only person not having sex was me. I had a roommate named Billy who was verbally abusive to his girlfriend, yet they had wild sex, night after night. That baffled me. The only courtship advice I ever got was my sisters' issues of Cosmopolitan, from which I somehow inferred that the most desirable man was really sensitive.
I dated the most beautiful girl in the Spring of freshman year. Michelle was mixed-race white and latina, and she was saving herself for marriage. I wanted to make love with her, but I did respect her boundaries. I didn't so much think we would get married as that I would eventually wear down her resistance.
That summer, I went to Alaska to work in a salmon cannery. I shared a barracks with other young college men, and they all had amazing tales of sexual conquests. There was this guy named Raffi, who was olive-skinned and latinate, with a trimmed beard. He told me how a girl came to his dorm room and they had rough sex together.
"I flipped her over on her stomach and just fucked her like an animal, like I was full of rage, you know?" he said.
"And you know the funny thing?" he asked. "She asked if she could come over the next day!"
That was when I learned that a woman expects and wants to be taken.
So when I returned to school that fall, Michelle was out of the picture. Before classes even started, there was a dance in the library pavilion. I could hear the music from my student residence. I started a pot of macaroni boiling, then turned off the heat and left the noodles on the stove without eating them.
My eyes set upon a girl I thought I could get. Every movement, every word and gesture, carried the intent of getting her into bed with me. After some perfunctory dances, we went down to the beach together in the darkness.
I had a private room that had a window looking out on a eucalyptus grove, with the library in the near distance.
I luxuriated in that tiny window of time between getting accustomed to the academic workload, and getting serious. I didn't even have to declare a major until the fall. I decided that I really wanted to spend as much time as I could, making friends.
I had a telephone conversation with my mother about my strategy. She was opposed to the idea, because she thought I should just concentrate on schoolwork.
I was not dissuaded. I set about being a part of as many social engagements as possible. I was on an intramural soccer team, and I had never played soccer before. I missed compulsory youth soccer leagues by perhaps months.
I practiced all the time. My position was fullback, the player closest to the goalkeeper. My responsibility was to prevent the other team from getting a clear shot at the goal. I learned how to strip the ball away from even the best dribblers. The secret, at least my secret, was to ignore what the other player was doing with their feet. They could cross-step and switch which foot they dribbled with, but they could only move in the direction their hips pointed.
I would backpedal defensively until I saw an opening, then strip the ball from them. Worked every time.
The team name was coined by the Resident Adviser. We were called "The Amoebas of Doom," and we had t-shirts made up. My number was sixty-nine, which at that time was considered quite clever.
Some of my more clever maneuvers came off the field, as well. I made a dummy out of my old clothes. I sewed a shirt and socks into an old pair of pants, and I forget what I used for the head, and then stuffed the whole thing with newspapers. This enterprise took about an hour to assemble.
The inspiration for the counterfeit was practical jokery. U.C. San Diego had acquired the mythical title of "suicide school." There were urban legends about first-year students who were overcome by pressure, jumped off buildings, and killed themselves.
My ringer was also suicidal. I would lug him up to the roof of some building and huck him over the side, always with a blood-curdling scream, to the effect of, "OhMYGODHEJUMped!"
I never did have the guts to chuck him off a balcony at Tioga Hall, which was probably fifteen stories. What a missed opportunity. When he had enough jumps under his belt, he became a spectator at Amoeba matches, sitting in a nylon beach chair.
One thing that college offers, is a lot of opportunities for courtship. I didn't lose my virginity until I was nineteen. Not because I'm ugly, I don't think. I always had a cute girlfriend. Each one had a different reason for not wanting to go all the way. And I think I was missing fundamental lessons about male -female relationships.
I suffered a freshman year in which it felt the only person not having sex was me. I had a roommate named Billy who was verbally abusive to his girlfriend, yet they had wild sex, night after night. That baffled me. The only courtship advice I ever got was my sisters' issues of Cosmopolitan, from which I somehow inferred that the most desirable man was really sensitive.
I dated the most beautiful girl in the Spring of freshman year. Michelle was mixed-race white and latina, and she was saving herself for marriage. I wanted to make love with her, but I did respect her boundaries. I didn't so much think we would get married as that I would eventually wear down her resistance.
That summer, I went to Alaska to work in a salmon cannery. I shared a barracks with other young college men, and they all had amazing tales of sexual conquests. There was this guy named Raffi, who was olive-skinned and latinate, with a trimmed beard. He told me how a girl came to his dorm room and they had rough sex together.
"I flipped her over on her stomach and just fucked her like an animal, like I was full of rage, you know?" he said.
"And you know the funny thing?" he asked. "She asked if she could come over the next day!"
That was when I learned that a woman expects and wants to be taken.
So when I returned to school that fall, Michelle was out of the picture. Before classes even started, there was a dance in the library pavilion. I could hear the music from my student residence. I started a pot of macaroni boiling, then turned off the heat and left the noodles on the stove without eating them.
My eyes set upon a girl I thought I could get. Every movement, every word and gesture, carried the intent of getting her into bed with me. After some perfunctory dances, we went down to the beach together in the darkness.
Sunday, June 17, 2018
Aloe Vera
If you have esophageal or acid reflux, then you know it is not just uncomfortable, it is dangerous. If left untreated, it can cause cancers of the esophagus.
I used to self-treat with calcium carbonate (Tums). I was buying Tums at Costco to get the volume pricing. That was just masking the symptoms. Stomach lesions, the underlying issue of gastroesophageal reflux, are not treated just by using Tums.
I have used Prilosec in two treatment iterations. Prilosec does work. You have to use it every day for three weeks for the symptoms to disappear. The symptoms came back eventually, though, all too soon.
I have also used every OTC remedy on the market. The last one I used was Tagamet. That's a histamine H2-receptor antagonist that inhibits stomach acid production. Tagamet always works. But Tagamet is a powerful drug, interacts with other medications, and you're only supposed to take it for two weeks.
I just didn't want to give up my coffee.
A few years ago, I started collecting aloe vera cuttings, and cultivating the plant. There are dozens of varieties.
To treat, I break off a leaf and stick in whatever drink I am carrying around. Aloe is somewhat bitter, so I take it with iced tea with lemon, and the sour of the lemon counteracts the bitter of the aloe.
It took several months, but it did happen. The aloe vera cured my stomach lesions, and my acid reflux. And what's most amazing to me, is that I don't seem to overproduce stomach acid anymore.
I have seen aloe vera in bottles at the market. I've never tried them, and can't vouch for their efficacy. The whole reason I cultivate, it's about something that gets lost in the whole "buy local" fervor. The reason you buy local is because every plant and animal has its own immune system, and a plant that has been cultivated nearby has proven that it can tolerate environmental stresses very similar to the ones you encounter. Air pollution, noise, temperature, all these affect the viability of every living thing. When you ingest a plant that has developed immunity to the same environmental stresses that you face, it helps you.
I wouldn't even recommend trying aloe vera without talking to your doctor. All I know is that it works for me. I trust pharmaceuticals only for treating very specific disorders, and then, only for a limited time.
Originally posted 6/15/15
UPDATE: 1-27-16
At the time of this writing, aloe vera surreptitiously treated another stomach affliction and I just noticed. For years, I would experience cramps in the area between my stomach and duodenum. Even hours after eating, it felt like the food hadn't left my stomach. I would describe it as incomplete emptying. And I couldn't trace it to any one food. It happened one time right after eating a few macadamia nuts. I realized several months ago that I haven't had symptoms of this for at least six months. Whether it's correlation or causation, all I know is I believe this condition has also been cured.
I used to self-treat with calcium carbonate (Tums). I was buying Tums at Costco to get the volume pricing. That was just masking the symptoms. Stomach lesions, the underlying issue of gastroesophageal reflux, are not treated just by using Tums.
I have used Prilosec in two treatment iterations. Prilosec does work. You have to use it every day for three weeks for the symptoms to disappear. The symptoms came back eventually, though, all too soon.
I have also used every OTC remedy on the market. The last one I used was Tagamet. That's a histamine H2-receptor antagonist that inhibits stomach acid production. Tagamet always works. But Tagamet is a powerful drug, interacts with other medications, and you're only supposed to take it for two weeks.
A few years ago, I started collecting aloe vera cuttings, and cultivating the plant. There are dozens of varieties.
To treat, I break off a leaf and stick in whatever drink I am carrying around. Aloe is somewhat bitter, so I take it with iced tea with lemon, and the sour of the lemon counteracts the bitter of the aloe.
It took several months, but it did happen. The aloe vera cured my stomach lesions, and my acid reflux. And what's most amazing to me, is that I don't seem to overproduce stomach acid anymore.
I have seen aloe vera in bottles at the market. I've never tried them, and can't vouch for their efficacy. The whole reason I cultivate, it's about something that gets lost in the whole "buy local" fervor. The reason you buy local is because every plant and animal has its own immune system, and a plant that has been cultivated nearby has proven that it can tolerate environmental stresses very similar to the ones you encounter. Air pollution, noise, temperature, all these affect the viability of every living thing. When you ingest a plant that has developed immunity to the same environmental stresses that you face, it helps you.
I wouldn't even recommend trying aloe vera without talking to your doctor. All I know is that it works for me. I trust pharmaceuticals only for treating very specific disorders, and then, only for a limited time.
Originally posted 6/15/15
UPDATE: 1-27-16
At the time of this writing, aloe vera surreptitiously treated another stomach affliction and I just noticed. For years, I would experience cramps in the area between my stomach and duodenum. Even hours after eating, it felt like the food hadn't left my stomach. I would describe it as incomplete emptying. And I couldn't trace it to any one food. It happened one time right after eating a few macadamia nuts. I realized several months ago that I haven't had symptoms of this for at least six months. Whether it's correlation or causation, all I know is I believe this condition has also been cured.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Eight Twelve Twenty
If you believe you may have an anxiety disorder or just don't know, contact a mental health professional; many services including in the San Diego area are covered by Medi-Cal. Consult your doctor before following any health advice.
It can happen while you are driving around and feel your heart palpitating a little. Could that be serious? It used to happen to me all the time, and I was afraid to even go to sleep sometimes.
I didn't know that I was experiencing anxiety attacks. I was gulping air, faster and faster, and still thinking that I wasn't getting enough oxygen or something.
The doctor put me on a medication, and it stabilized me within a few weeks. He told me that I was breathing so hard that I was cyanotic. I stopped taking the medication abruptly as I didn't know about titrating or risking possible seizures.
By the time I stopped taking the meds, I had taught myself breathing exercises that work for me, in my particular situation, quite well. I tried yoga first but those people are all so uptight.
If you have ever participated in endurance training like running, then you already understand rhythmic breathing, for lack of a better phrase.
At the start of a run, it's optimal to get into a breathing rhythm right away. My way, was counting out numbers while I exhaled in tiny bursts. One-exhale, two-exhale, three-exhale, four-exhale, five-exhale, six-exhale seven-exhale, eight-exhale, until my lungs didn't have hardly any air left, then, a tiny inhale, and then a pause.
The first time I count to eight; the second time I count to twelve, and then keep repeating briefly until the rhythm sets in. You know you are in proper synchronization when you are striding with minimal effort and are repeating long beats like four-counts to sips of air.
Oxygen is an accelerant; hence you only need sips.
snip
When I got home, I jumped into the pool and floated on a huge innertube, staring at the bottom. The colliding surface waves refracted bright sunshine as intertwined strands and cords of pure light on the bottom of the pool. They crashed against each other violently and I closed my eyes. When I opened them a few moments later, the refracted rays were bouncing a bit more slowly against each other. I closed my eyes again and again, until the bottom was a diffuse pattern of calmly undulating rays. I could see a spider on the bottom of the pool. About two feet below the surface, a single particle of vegetation hung weightless in suspended motion.
It can happen while you are driving around and feel your heart palpitating a little. Could that be serious? It used to happen to me all the time, and I was afraid to even go to sleep sometimes.
I didn't know that I was experiencing anxiety attacks. I was gulping air, faster and faster, and still thinking that I wasn't getting enough oxygen or something.
The doctor put me on a medication, and it stabilized me within a few weeks. He told me that I was breathing so hard that I was cyanotic. I stopped taking the medication abruptly as I didn't know about titrating or risking possible seizures.
By the time I stopped taking the meds, I had taught myself breathing exercises that work for me, in my particular situation, quite well. I tried yoga first but those people are all so uptight.
If you have ever participated in endurance training like running, then you already understand rhythmic breathing, for lack of a better phrase.
At the start of a run, it's optimal to get into a breathing rhythm right away. My way, was counting out numbers while I exhaled in tiny bursts. One-exhale, two-exhale, three-exhale, four-exhale, five-exhale, six-exhale seven-exhale, eight-exhale, until my lungs didn't have hardly any air left, then, a tiny inhale, and then a pause.
The first time I count to eight; the second time I count to twelve, and then keep repeating briefly until the rhythm sets in. You know you are in proper synchronization when you are striding with minimal effort and are repeating long beats like four-counts to sips of air.
Oxygen is an accelerant; hence you only need sips.
snip
When I got home, I jumped into the pool and floated on a huge innertube, staring at the bottom. The colliding surface waves refracted bright sunshine as intertwined strands and cords of pure light on the bottom of the pool. They crashed against each other violently and I closed my eyes. When I opened them a few moments later, the refracted rays were bouncing a bit more slowly against each other. I closed my eyes again and again, until the bottom was a diffuse pattern of calmly undulating rays. I could see a spider on the bottom of the pool. About two feet below the surface, a single particle of vegetation hung weightless in suspended motion.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Intersectionality Five Fast Facts
Wednesday, May 16, 2018
Fewer Clantons
The Rolling Stone article on Eric Clanton is full of equivocation, but I liked the #helicoptertwitter reference.
So much passive language. Riots erupted, etc. How is Rolling Stone still a going concern?
Awful nice of Alan Feuer to mention Clanton's alleged victim, Sean Stiles. Alan Feuer wrote four thousand words on Eric Clanton and one paragraph went to Stiles. Alan Feuer. Probably pronounced "fewer." Alan Feuer. Journalism is such an honorable vocation.
Clanton may have at least seven victims, according to court records. Where was he radicalized?11!
Good job 4chan. If not for you, Eric Clanton would still be in a classroom, attempting to socially engineer the next generation. And Sean Stiles is only twenty years old. Stiles could have been one of his students!
Clanton took selfies at the event that matched the video evidence. Heh.
I don't know what brand of U-lock Clanton allegedly used in his attacks, but this critter weighs 2 lbs 5 oz so it's like getting hit with a hammer.
Clanton is represented by Oakland attorney D an Si egel, well-known in activist circles since NLG is like antifa's in-house counsel.
"Human rights over property interests," except situationally.
So much passive language. Riots erupted, etc. How is Rolling Stone still a going concern?
Awful nice of Alan Feuer to mention Clanton's alleged victim, Sean Stiles. Alan Feuer wrote four thousand words on Eric Clanton and one paragraph went to Stiles. Alan Feuer. Probably pronounced "fewer." Alan Feuer. Journalism is such an honorable vocation.
Good job 4chan. If not for you, Eric Clanton would still be in a classroom, attempting to socially engineer the next generation. And Sean Stiles is only twenty years old. Stiles could have been one of his students!
Clanton took selfies at the event that matched the video evidence. Heh.
I don't know what brand of U-lock Clanton allegedly used in his attacks, but this critter weighs 2 lbs 5 oz so it's like getting hit with a hammer.
Clanton is represented by Oakland attorney D an Si egel, well-known in activist circles since NLG is like antifa's in-house counsel.
"Human rights over property interests," except situationally.
Wednesday, April 25, 2018
Republic of Kev
The ostensibly outraged feminist must say that, "Kevin Williamson wants to hang one-third of American women." Little do they know that this use of statistics points out that abortion has become so common as to be mundane.
Jessica, please. In the Republic of Kev, a woman who has already had an abortion would be grandmothered in, so to speak. The capital punishment regime would be a deterrent to new abortions, and the actual number of hanged women would be relatively low.
I'm not signatory to much of anything that Kev has to say, including this. It does say a lot about the protected status of women in the workplace that the female staff at the "Atlantic," would have had a good argument for a hostile work environment.
And it speaks volumes about the women involved, they just wanted to no-platform Kev. You'd think all these young firebrand female polemicists would enjoy having a Kev around to sharpen and temper their arguments.
Female columnists probably skew higher in neuroticism than average.
The Jessicas want a media representation of a young woman's abortion to be a moment of sisterhood with your friends Hannah and Marnie and Jessa being supportive.
Young women are conditioned to think of their first abortion as a rite of passage.
I wonder if Kevin regrets deactivating his Twitter account.
Jessica, please. In the Republic of Kev, a woman who has already had an abortion would be grandmothered in, so to speak. The capital punishment regime would be a deterrent to new abortions, and the actual number of hanged women would be relatively low.
I'm not signatory to much of anything that Kev has to say, including this. It does say a lot about the protected status of women in the workplace that the female staff at the "Atlantic," would have had a good argument for a hostile work environment.
And it speaks volumes about the women involved, they just wanted to no-platform Kev. You'd think all these young firebrand female polemicists would enjoy having a Kev around to sharpen and temper their arguments.
Female columnists probably skew higher in neuroticism than average.
The Jessicas want a media representation of a young woman's abortion to be a moment of sisterhood with your friends Hannah and Marnie and Jessa being supportive.
Young women are conditioned to think of their first abortion as a rite of passage.
I wonder if Kevin regrets deactivating his Twitter account.
Thursday, April 05, 2018
The Language of Lindsay Shepherd
Defiant bemusement.
Shepherd invited Faith Goldy to Wilfrid Laurier University to give a speech entitled, "Ethnocide." That's a provocative way of talking about native displacement, and Shepherd is now labeled a Nazi for her troubles.
If you call her a "crying white girl," she's just going to wonder why.
Maybe the unthinging that the left does so well should be used on them. Colonization? That's not a thing. Once they define terms, they've lost the argument.
Monday, April 02, 2018
The Social Indignation Boycott
Boycotts are not the "free market." They are conducted by ostensibly free people, but they are not the workings of a "free market." Not when producers are made to weather abuse over an everyday business decision like marketing.
A free market is when countless individuals exercise their discretions in myriad ways. A boycott these days means a company has violated some queer social contract. Very occasionally an airline or whatnot will endure some mild general opprobrium, but that's nothing compared to the social outrage boycott.
Markets may operate more fairly or efficiently if more information is available to both parties to transactions. But Media Matters isn't Consumer Reports.
Yes, I did say "ostensibly free people." There is coercion involved, and people's livelihoods directly threatened. You think they will stop there?
The above-all reason to generally disdain boycotts is that they are invariably instigated by collectivists.
A free market is when countless individuals exercise their discretions in myriad ways. A boycott these days means a company has violated some queer social contract. Very occasionally an airline or whatnot will endure some mild general opprobrium, but that's nothing compared to the social outrage boycott.
Markets may operate more fairly or efficiently if more information is available to both parties to transactions. But Media Matters isn't Consumer Reports.
Yes, I did say "ostensibly free people." There is coercion involved, and people's livelihoods directly threatened. You think they will stop there?
The above-all reason to generally disdain boycotts is that they are invariably instigated by collectivists.
Saturday, September 23, 2017
Maria Is Confident
Sometimes when I see an advertisement, I imagine the madcap life of the person that created it. It's always some earnest guy named Darrin, who has Paul Lynde as his brother-in-law, and Larry Tate is his boss. While Darrin juggles ideas and storyboards, chaos reigns in the background, like a family friend hitting on his hot wife and having her turn him into a dog.
The reality of the ad-man's life is probably more like a stultifying group-think collaborative, because how else would you get an ad campaign like Quicken Loans Rocket Mortgage, that is so attuned to the culture?
This is "Maria," and she is "confident."
This woman is a new breed we'll call "Adderall Mom," because she literally does everything. Her hair is frazzled because she has to fold laundry, buy groceries, and raise a child. Her kid's hair is just as frizzy and unkempt. Both of these gals are apparently semi-feral.
She even plays lead guitar in a garage band. It's a grrl band, with her black neighbor on keyboard, and her Asian neighbor on bass. Diversity quota achievement unlocked!
Maria is a total Mary Sue as well, or maybe rather a Maria Sue. She can make household repairs like removing the trap to her kitchen sink to fix a clog and hell's bells did her daughter put a doll's head in the sink? The mother's psychopathy has been passed on to her offspring.
Maria's kitchen sink doesn't have a garbage disposal, and there is something else about her domestic situation that seems a bit off. She ain't got no mans. But wait! There, in the background, out of focus, that clearly looks like a man.
But look at the composition. He is on one end of the porch, squeezed into a corner, and the kid is on the other side. The kid's mother is literally and figuratively between them, even elbowing him aside. This guy is clearly auditioning for the role of father figure, and failing.
If you've made it this far, congratulations, there is another ad for Rocket Mortgage that induces even more cringe.
This is "Sarah," and she is also "confident." Sarah is a fifth-grade teacher who builds combat robots and wears an empowering shirt with GIRLBOTS empoweringly emblazoned in a drippy monster-type font.
Why "GIRLBOTS," I wonder. Did New Line Cinema trademark that well-established term of female empowerment, "Fembots"?
Nevertheless, this is a very important milestone in advertising, because it is established scientism that if little girls do not see women doing STEM on television, they will become very discouraged and become psychologists.
Sarah's advertisement dispenses with the husband idea altogether, because it's established science that any woman who's that good at STEM was born with a male brain and is a lesbian.
Here, Sarah so doesn't need a man because she can program a lawnmower to keep her, ahem, lawn, nice and trimmed. Kind of makes you wonder what other motorized or battery-operated devices she programs in order to maintain her, ahem, other needs.
I can't wait for the next installment in the Rocket Mortgage series. I'm really hoping for a lesbian couple, and it would be neat if one of them was in a wheelchair.
At least Darrin was a good straight man.
This is "Maria," and she is "confident."
She even plays lead guitar in a garage band. It's a grrl band, with her black neighbor on keyboard, and her Asian neighbor on bass. Diversity quota achievement unlocked!
But look at the composition. He is on one end of the porch, squeezed into a corner, and the kid is on the other side. The kid's mother is literally and figuratively between them, even elbowing him aside. This guy is clearly auditioning for the role of father figure, and failing.
If you've made it this far, congratulations, there is another ad for Rocket Mortgage that induces even more cringe.
Why "GIRLBOTS," I wonder. Did New Line Cinema trademark that well-established term of female empowerment, "Fembots"?
Nevertheless, this is a very important milestone in advertising, because it is established scientism that if little girls do not see women doing STEM on television, they will become very discouraged and become psychologists.
Here, Sarah so doesn't need a man because she can program a lawnmower to keep her, ahem, lawn, nice and trimmed. Kind of makes you wonder what other motorized or battery-operated devices she programs in order to maintain her, ahem, other needs.
I can't wait for the next installment in the Rocket Mortgage series. I'm really hoping for a lesbian couple, and it would be neat if one of them was in a wheelchair.
At least Darrin was a good straight man.
Saturday, September 09, 2017
Wind River (2017)
Wind River, written and directed by Taylor Sheridan, is a multi-jurisdictional murder mystery set on an Indian reservation. U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent, Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner), first appears onscreen in a white snowsuit, camouflaged to blend in with the wintry landscape. A pack of wolves is maneuvering to pick off a sheep from a grazing flock, and a concealed Lambert fires a round from his rifle, killing one wolf, and causing the rest to withdraw.
Two of Wind River's main themes are introduced in this scene. Lambert embodies the shepherd archetype, willing to protect sheep from wolves. This literal embodiment carries into a figurative one, as human beings are separated from their flock to perish.
We are also introduced to an implicit theme, that of camouflage and concealment.
In a subsequent scene, Lambert is called to investigate the killing of a steer, which he deduces is the work of a mountain lion and her cubs. "She's teaching them how to hunt. And she's teaching them on livestock," he tells his father-in-law, Crowheart.
The lions' tracks lead away from the steer carcas, to high up in the timber line, accessible only by snowmobile. The mountain passes around Park City, Utah stand in for the Wind River Indian Reservation in Wyoming.
While tracking the lions, Lambert encounters different tracks, the deep tracks made by a person running, and then sees crimson stains in the snow. The tracks and blood trail end in the body of a young woman, half-buried in the snow, her blue parka a bright contrast on the white snow field.
Lambert pulls out his radio and calls for emergency assistance in a flat voice, "I found a body on the Wind River Indian Reservation, I need emergency assistance." Renner's Lambert is emotionally composed throughout, but it is a cloak for emotions that are buried beneath the surface. Lambert looks at the ground while talking, or looks into the distance to compose his thoughts, and never betrays the pain he himself is still processing.
Lambert and FBI Agent Jane Banner go to interview Martin Hanson, the father of the dead girl, Natalie. The scenes between Lambert and Martin form the emotional core of the movie. A full Shoshoni, Martin is even more reserved than Lambert. Martin has a tall, warrior stature, hawk-like features, and black eyes that are trying to comprehend the loss and grief before him.
Martin tries to conceal his grief, because he must. What remains of his family, his wife and his son, are disintegrating. Banner encounters Martin's wife, Annie, sitting on her bed, cutting her arms and and hands with a kitchen knife out of pure sorrow.
Lambert and Martin go out on to the porch, and a little of Lambert's hard-earned Arapahoe wisdom pours out. Lambert shares the lesson from his experience with loss, telling Martin, "You'll never be whole. Ever. What was taken from you can’t be replaced. You’re daughter's gone. As soon as you accept that, as soon as you let yourself suffer, allow yourself to grieve ... You’ll be able to visit her in your mind, and remember all the joy she gave you."
This is just the first instance of Lambert acting as an emotional shepherd, guiding those in pain toward resolution.
Agent Banner, played by Elizabeth Olsen, is emotional counterpoint to Renner's stoicism. Olsen has enormous blue eyes set in an almost malnourished skull, and they convey the fear she would rather disguise. While Banner is interviewing Sam Littlefeather on the doorstep of his dilapidated drug house, he attacks her with pepper spray. This sets off a dramatic sequence where Banner pursues him inside. Her vision is impaired, and it would have been understandable for her to wait before entering the house looking for him. It's a moment of seized initiative, of peering around corners, trying to recover enough sight to fight.
Martin's son, Chip, is one of the inhabitants of the dilapidated drug house, and he is almost too far into a drug haze to realize the fact that his sister is dead. While Chip is handcuffed in a truck waiting to go off to jail, Lambert confronts him with this stark reality, and enables Chip to begin his healing journey.
Once the mystery is resolved, Lambert guides Banner through her own emotional gateway, helping her to transcend the experience, as the movie itself transcends the genre. Banner lies in a hospital bed, recovering from her wounds, and Lambert picks up a woman's magazine and begins flipping through it.
"I know what you're doing," Banner says.
Lambert reads the title of one of the stories, "'How to know if he’s into you -- ten signs. Number one: he looks you in the eye when he speaks.' You’re supposed to do that anyway, ain’t you?" This makes her laugh, and then her emotions come out easily, cathartically.
We are also introduced to an implicit theme, that of camouflage and concealment.
In a subsequent scene, Lambert is called to investigate the killing of a steer, which he deduces is the work of a mountain lion and her cubs. "She's teaching them how to hunt. And she's teaching them on livestock," he tells his father-in-law, Crowheart.
The lions' tracks lead away from the steer carcas, to high up in the timber line, accessible only by snowmobile. The mountain passes around Park City, Utah stand in for the Wind River Indian Reservation in Wyoming.
While tracking the lions, Lambert encounters different tracks, the deep tracks made by a person running, and then sees crimson stains in the snow. The tracks and blood trail end in the body of a young woman, half-buried in the snow, her blue parka a bright contrast on the white snow field.
Lambert pulls out his radio and calls for emergency assistance in a flat voice, "I found a body on the Wind River Indian Reservation, I need emergency assistance." Renner's Lambert is emotionally composed throughout, but it is a cloak for emotions that are buried beneath the surface. Lambert looks at the ground while talking, or looks into the distance to compose his thoughts, and never betrays the pain he himself is still processing.
Lambert and FBI Agent Jane Banner go to interview Martin Hanson, the father of the dead girl, Natalie. The scenes between Lambert and Martin form the emotional core of the movie. A full Shoshoni, Martin is even more reserved than Lambert. Martin has a tall, warrior stature, hawk-like features, and black eyes that are trying to comprehend the loss and grief before him.
Martin tries to conceal his grief, because he must. What remains of his family, his wife and his son, are disintegrating. Banner encounters Martin's wife, Annie, sitting on her bed, cutting her arms and and hands with a kitchen knife out of pure sorrow.
Lambert and Martin go out on to the porch, and a little of Lambert's hard-earned Arapahoe wisdom pours out. Lambert shares the lesson from his experience with loss, telling Martin, "You'll never be whole. Ever. What was taken from you can’t be replaced. You’re daughter's gone. As soon as you accept that, as soon as you let yourself suffer, allow yourself to grieve ... You’ll be able to visit her in your mind, and remember all the joy she gave you."
This is just the first instance of Lambert acting as an emotional shepherd, guiding those in pain toward resolution.
Agent Banner, played by Elizabeth Olsen, is emotional counterpoint to Renner's stoicism. Olsen has enormous blue eyes set in an almost malnourished skull, and they convey the fear she would rather disguise. While Banner is interviewing Sam Littlefeather on the doorstep of his dilapidated drug house, he attacks her with pepper spray. This sets off a dramatic sequence where Banner pursues him inside. Her vision is impaired, and it would have been understandable for her to wait before entering the house looking for him. It's a moment of seized initiative, of peering around corners, trying to recover enough sight to fight.
Martin's son, Chip, is one of the inhabitants of the dilapidated drug house, and he is almost too far into a drug haze to realize the fact that his sister is dead. While Chip is handcuffed in a truck waiting to go off to jail, Lambert confronts him with this stark reality, and enables Chip to begin his healing journey.
Once the mystery is resolved, Lambert guides Banner through her own emotional gateway, helping her to transcend the experience, as the movie itself transcends the genre. Banner lies in a hospital bed, recovering from her wounds, and Lambert picks up a woman's magazine and begins flipping through it.
"I know what you're doing," Banner says.
Lambert reads the title of one of the stories, "'How to know if he’s into you -- ten signs. Number one: he looks you in the eye when he speaks.' You’re supposed to do that anyway, ain’t you?" This makes her laugh, and then her emotions come out easily, cathartically.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Totality
It begins at 9:06 am PDT, on Monday. The path of totality is drawn across United States like the finger of God, evoking the spiritual division of our nation.
We once fought a war over our divisions, four score years after our nation's founding.
More than six hundred thousand men died in the conflict.
If you want to find out what started the Civil war, you can look at Wikipedia, or open a history book, and you'll get a satisfactory answer.
It's worth keeping in mind that history is written by the winners.
Well, now the victors have decided that the terms signed at Appomattox, and assented to by our institutions since then, are no longer valid. The symbols that long softened the shame of The Lost Cause are to be burned in the pyre of America's Great Cultural Revolution.
The symbols can no longer be said to stand for valor, bravery, brotherhood, and chivalry. They have been reduced to mere symbols of slavery.
Countless Southern boys carried the rebel spirit into battle in service to the Union, subsequent to the Civil War. Their blood was shed at Anzio, Belleau Wood, Chosin, Da Nang, and in countless other battles.
Even the Stars and Bars and the Confederate Battle Flag are being lowered.
The what then? question is being answered, and it's not pretty. Activists replaced a Robert E. Lee statue in Baltimore with a statue of a black pregnant woman. That aesthetic nightmare was rightly ripped down.
The ritual purification of the public square includes Father JunÃpero Serra, who established twenty-one missions in California. These were the first settlements of Europeans in California. Father Serra's statue in Mission Hills was vandalized.
Tear them all down if you want. Follow the Third Commandment and don't allow graven images, I won't argue. But these people are convinced they are on the right side of history, and that even the most degenerate images are better than heritage.
It's like hell on earth, now.
More than six hundred thousand men died in the conflict.
If you want to find out what started the Civil war, you can look at Wikipedia, or open a history book, and you'll get a satisfactory answer.
It's worth keeping in mind that history is written by the winners.
Well, now the victors have decided that the terms signed at Appomattox, and assented to by our institutions since then, are no longer valid. The symbols that long softened the shame of The Lost Cause are to be burned in the pyre of America's Great Cultural Revolution.
The symbols can no longer be said to stand for valor, bravery, brotherhood, and chivalry. They have been reduced to mere symbols of slavery.
Countless Southern boys carried the rebel spirit into battle in service to the Union, subsequent to the Civil War. Their blood was shed at Anzio, Belleau Wood, Chosin, Da Nang, and in countless other battles.
Even the Stars and Bars and the Confederate Battle Flag are being lowered.
The what then? question is being answered, and it's not pretty. Activists replaced a Robert E. Lee statue in Baltimore with a statue of a black pregnant woman. That aesthetic nightmare was rightly ripped down.
The ritual purification of the public square includes Father JunÃpero Serra, who established twenty-one missions in California. These were the first settlements of Europeans in California. Father Serra's statue in Mission Hills was vandalized.
Tear them all down if you want. Follow the Third Commandment and don't allow graven images, I won't argue. But these people are convinced they are on the right side of history, and that even the most degenerate images are better than heritage.
It's like hell on earth, now.
Sunday, August 13, 2017
Dunkirk (2017)
In the opening scene of Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk, we meet Tommy, a retreating British soldier played by Fionn Whitehead. Tommy and his mates are walking through the deserted streets of the French town of Dunkerque, leaflets fluttering gently from the sky, when their stroll is interrupted, fractured by gunfire.
The fusillade is deafening, and startling, and the boys start to run, but only Tommy makes it over a wall to temporary safety. This begins Tommy's quest for escape and survival.
The enemy makes himself heard by dropping bombs that explode, firing guns that shatter the air, and especially by dive-bombing Stukas that sound like banshees. We never see the face of the enemy; in fact, the enemy is completely disembodied throughout.
War is loud because it's supposed to be. Dunkirk is loud because ear-splitting instruments of ruin represent chaos, and Dunkirk is a movie about the essentiality of order from within chaos.
That's also why we never see a German soldier. The enemy is unseen, yet potentially everywhere. They ply the English Channel in U-boats, submerged by the water that is itself an agent of chaos, and a barrier to safety.
The unseen German soldier represents the unknown. The unknown is an archetypal form of chaos. Outside your island of safety, of tea and toast with jam, of all that is known, there is an infinite universe that is hostile or indifferent to your existence and survival. The unseen German soldier is a reminder that outside the ordered realm, there exists a vast realm where the chances of not surviving are nearly infinite.
The promotional tag-line for Dunkirk reads, "When 400,000 men couldn't get home, home came for them." Home is the rolling green countryside viewed from the window of a train that must have been a welcome change from a beach pelted by wind that would blow the foam across the sand.
Home represents the ultimate orderliness, in a very British stiff-upper-lip manner. Order is personified by Commander Bolton, played by Kenneth Branagh. Calm, rational, stoicism is deeply embodied by Mr. Dawson, played by Mark Rylance, who pilots his motor yacht Moonstone across the channel to help the evacuation.
Order is the scores of life preservers neatly stacked belowdecks of Moonstone. Mr. Dawson doesn't even turn around at the sound of approaching aircraft. He knows they are Spitfires from the engine's thrum, saying, "Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, sweetest sound you could hear."
Stoicism is embodied by Mr. Dawson telling the shivering soldier he rescued, "There’s no hiding from this." And it's symbolized by the masses of soldiers queuing in neat lines down to the shore, dispersing when the Stukas appear, and reassembling when the Stukas move off.
This order has counterpoint in the utter chaos of war. Tommy hides along the mole, hoping to sneak aboard the next boat after being kicked off a hospital ship. The hospital ship is bombed at its berth, and sinks within minutes, men diving off the wreckage to safety.
Tommy boards another ship, which is torpedoed during the night crossing, and sinks also. His journey through chaos is nowhere near done, and neither is Britain's. Tommy's imperative is his own personal survival, by whatever means, but Nolan imbues him with virtue nonetheless. When Tommy's ship is torpedoed, he opens a hatch that allows a few boys a passage to safety. It's a very small act compared to the hundreds of boys and nurses trapped on board that will surely drown.
But it's not nothing. When Tommy arrives safely back on the dock in England, a man congratulates him, "Well done lads!" Tommy replies, "All we did was survive."
"That's enough."
The fusillade is deafening, and startling, and the boys start to run, but only Tommy makes it over a wall to temporary safety. This begins Tommy's quest for escape and survival.
War is loud because it's supposed to be. Dunkirk is loud because ear-splitting instruments of ruin represent chaos, and Dunkirk is a movie about the essentiality of order from within chaos.
That's also why we never see a German soldier. The enemy is unseen, yet potentially everywhere. They ply the English Channel in U-boats, submerged by the water that is itself an agent of chaos, and a barrier to safety.
The unseen German soldier represents the unknown. The unknown is an archetypal form of chaos. Outside your island of safety, of tea and toast with jam, of all that is known, there is an infinite universe that is hostile or indifferent to your existence and survival. The unseen German soldier is a reminder that outside the ordered realm, there exists a vast realm where the chances of not surviving are nearly infinite.
The promotional tag-line for Dunkirk reads, "When 400,000 men couldn't get home, home came for them." Home is the rolling green countryside viewed from the window of a train that must have been a welcome change from a beach pelted by wind that would blow the foam across the sand.
Home represents the ultimate orderliness, in a very British stiff-upper-lip manner. Order is personified by Commander Bolton, played by Kenneth Branagh. Calm, rational, stoicism is deeply embodied by Mr. Dawson, played by Mark Rylance, who pilots his motor yacht Moonstone across the channel to help the evacuation.
Order is the scores of life preservers neatly stacked belowdecks of Moonstone. Mr. Dawson doesn't even turn around at the sound of approaching aircraft. He knows they are Spitfires from the engine's thrum, saying, "Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, sweetest sound you could hear."
Stoicism is embodied by Mr. Dawson telling the shivering soldier he rescued, "There’s no hiding from this." And it's symbolized by the masses of soldiers queuing in neat lines down to the shore, dispersing when the Stukas appear, and reassembling when the Stukas move off.
This order has counterpoint in the utter chaos of war. Tommy hides along the mole, hoping to sneak aboard the next boat after being kicked off a hospital ship. The hospital ship is bombed at its berth, and sinks within minutes, men diving off the wreckage to safety.
Tommy boards another ship, which is torpedoed during the night crossing, and sinks also. His journey through chaos is nowhere near done, and neither is Britain's. Tommy's imperative is his own personal survival, by whatever means, but Nolan imbues him with virtue nonetheless. When Tommy's ship is torpedoed, he opens a hatch that allows a few boys a passage to safety. It's a very small act compared to the hundreds of boys and nurses trapped on board that will surely drown.
But it's not nothing. When Tommy arrives safely back on the dock in England, a man congratulates him, "Well done lads!" Tommy replies, "All we did was survive."
"That's enough."
Monday, July 24, 2017
Her (2013)
Most of the exterior scenes were filmed in the early-morning in Los Angeles, within a hazy light that is glaring and gloomy at once.
This atmospheric effect is commonly called an "inversion layer," which is a reversal of the normal decrease of air temperature with altitude. The cooler air is near the surface, and the air gets warmer as the altitude increases.
It's upside down.
The story's protagonist, Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix), is a man living in an inverted universe. While on the rebound from a failed marriage, Twombly begins a relationship with an operating system.
Her doesn't have a lot of gadgets and technology, but everybody seems to be interacting with an operating system of their own. They walk around in public, singly or in pairs, oblivious, immersed in a different reality.
Children appear in Twombly's gauzy recollections, but when he and Catherine (Rooney Mara) meet in the present to sign divorce papers, he doesn't ask about them.
Twombly climbs a set of stairs and overlooks the beach on one of his dates with Samantha. This mass of humanity would pretty much encourage me to turn around and go home.
Jonze re-visits this theme of climbing stairs at the end of the movie, after Samantha has evolved to the point where she leaves him. Twombly and Amy (Amy Adams) ascend to the roof of his skyscraper apartment building.
Skyscrapers are omnipresent in Her, and though sterile, represent the only aspirational motivation. Everyone else is barren or sterile. As the sun rises and bathes Amy and Twombly in morning light, I was left wondering what it was that prevented him from taking her hand and doing a 40 floor swan dive.
Thursday, June 29, 2017
Trump the Heel
A good way to cope with our crazy world is just admit that you have very little control over anything. Also helpful is thinking that everything is scripted and staged, like pro wrestling.
Did Donald Trump succeed in his hostile takeover of the Republican Party? Well, that's like asking if Trump really conducted a hostile takeover of Vince McMahon's World Wrestling Entertainment.
Yes and no. Trump's story arc is not yet complete.
Trump now plays the role of the heel, the one who takes cheap shots and hits below the belt. It's not "dignified," and it's hard to defend him sometimes. Especially when he calls Mika Brzezinski "Low IQ."
He also called her, crazy, and said that she was, bleeding from a face-lift.
Trump has insulted Mika's honor, called her stupid, and implied that Joe Scarborough's woman is a shop-worn kook who needed a new face.
This is a real alpha move by Trump. This is Trump asking, Who Bitch Is This?
He's responding to Mika's constant mocking, like this morning's teensy hands swipe, which she delivered with a squeaky voice.
Trump responded by saying to Joe, hey, control your woman or I will perform a dominance display on your ass.
I don't know that Scarborough has any room to maneuver here. He can't threaten the President, or challenge him to a duel. So how does he avenge the slight to Mika's honor?
Chivalrous displays from elsewhere in the media will demonstrate that a woman's honor is worthy of defending, but what will Joe do?
We've already seen that Melania is willing to defend her husband. She said that, when her husband gets attacked, he will punch back 10 times harder.
What I wouldn't give to see Melania and Mika brawl in real life, that is, in a carefully scripted and staged WWE event.
Yes and no. Trump's story arc is not yet complete.
Trump now plays the role of the heel, the one who takes cheap shots and hits below the belt. It's not "dignified," and it's hard to defend him sometimes. Especially when he calls Mika Brzezinski "Low IQ."
He also called her, crazy, and said that she was, bleeding from a face-lift.
Trump has insulted Mika's honor, called her stupid, and implied that Joe Scarborough's woman is a shop-worn kook who needed a new face.
This is a real alpha move by Trump. This is Trump asking, Who Bitch Is This?
He's responding to Mika's constant mocking, like this morning's teensy hands swipe, which she delivered with a squeaky voice.
Trump responded by saying to Joe, hey, control your woman or I will perform a dominance display on your ass.
I don't know that Scarborough has any room to maneuver here. He can't threaten the President, or challenge him to a duel. So how does he avenge the slight to Mika's honor?
Chivalrous displays from elsewhere in the media will demonstrate that a woman's honor is worthy of defending, but what will Joe do?
We've already seen that Melania is willing to defend her husband. She said that, when her husband gets attacked, he will punch back 10 times harder.
What I wouldn't give to see Melania and Mika brawl in real life, that is, in a carefully scripted and staged WWE event.
Thursday, June 01, 2017
Wonder Woman
I'm not going to lie: I'm excited to see Wonder Woman. I watched the trailer today, and it made me feel something powerful and I'm thinking through what that something is.
First, note that the feminist reaction to this movie is not universally positive. Feminists closed ranks around Ghostbusters more monolithically than for Wonder Woman. First, there was an uproar because Diana doesn't have armpit hair. It's not enough for feminism's lesbian wing that Diana was raised among a group of Amazon warriors, she's got to have pit hair, too.
There is a boycott in Lebanon because Gal Gadot, who was born in Israel, is a Zionist. The little neo-marxists who claim feminism also by and large hate Israel.
The anti-Wonder Woman zeitgeist seems to be coalescing around the viewpoint of Guardian reviewer Steve Rose, who complained that Wonder Woman doesn't break the glass ceiling. She's a "weaponized Smurfette" according to Rose, and the movie is destined only to be a "camp classic."
Yeah, we'll see. I predict that we will see mothers and fathers taking their daughters and sons to see this movie, because there is something universal about it.
That archetype, besides the well-tread female superhero myth embodied by Buffy and Xena, is that of a crusader / nurturer. If you aren't with her, then you are against her, and her ultimate duty is protective and maternal.
There seems to be a great hunger for embodiment of this archetype right now. In spite of what feminists like Steve Rose would have you believe, the children and grown-up children who go to the movies aren't interested in a movie about a woman who works eighty hours a week to become partner.
They want to imagine a woman who will go to war to protect them.
I don't have a problem with a movie about women who break the glass ceiling. It's just that that is a new archetype that is being forced upon us. If you want to make a movie about that, I'm sure it will appeal to some people. It may even become universal some day. Probably not though.
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