Death to dreams

I don't dream like most people do.

My dreams are detailed, and extremely vivid.  Often, I've passed out after a night of partying, only to dream that my night continued.  Then I awake the nest morning (or afternoon), attempting to recall how much of the previous night's events actually took place.

Sometimes, I'm aware that I'm asleep.  When this happens, I'm able to do anything my mind can think of.  I can shoot fire (or ice), from my hands.  I can float, hover, melt into water, or even become invisible.

Unlike most people, I remember my dreams vividly after waking.  I experience physical pain, and often great wells of sadness in my dreams that sometimes cause me to awake in tears.

Sometimes I even die in my dreams.  When that happens, I simply wake up.  As absurd as it may sound, I sometimes wonder if that's what will happen when I actually die.  Maybe I won't go to Heaven or Hell.  Maybe there's no limbo or eternal lingering until the Second Coming.  Maybe I won't be reincarnated, or reborn.  Mayhap, one day, I'll just die and wake up in another world, as if awaking from a long and vivid dream.

Poles

My heart goes out to the victims (and in this case, survivors), of those lost in the Philippines typhoon, Hurricane Katrina, and the Christmas Indonesia monsoons.  Al Gore and Green-Peace-pundits would have you believe that global warming is the culprit of such natural travesties.  Yes, it's true that temblors, tidal waves, famines, and plagues of vast darkness are ravaging mankind like never before.  But something much more nefarious, and yet, miraculous is happening behind the scenes.

Every five-thousand years, or so, the Earth's magnetic poles shift. The Mayans knew this, and based their calendars on five-thousand-year-cycles.  That's why all those dumb-asses thought the world would end on 12/21/12.  Because that's where the Mayans ended that calendar-cycle.

Currently, our sun is undergoing it's magnetic-shift.  Scientists used to say the sun's poles switch every eleven-years.  Periodical evidence now suggests seven-years.  In any event, a few months back when damn-near everyone reported those holes in the sun (more commonly known as, sun-spots), clamored the sky was collapsing, I guffawed.  Those "holes" were created when particles that are usually forced back toward the sun by its gravitational pull, are jettisoned into space because as the sun switches magnetic-polarity, gravity (at a molecular level, mind you), becomes more of a theory than a categorical fact.

Our sun has been undergoing such magnetic shifts every 11 (or 7), years since who-knows-when.  Most people didn't know this because they just don't bother to look up.  Seriously, if you want to conceal something, hide it well-above eye-level.  Anyhow, this particular polar shift was only glamorized because of today's main-stream-media-fodder and everyone's sick obsession with the apocalypse.  To paraphrase, no the sun was not about to collapse.

The Earth, itself, is right-due for a polar shift.  The Mayans knew this.  So do I.

My girlfriend keeps asking me when this shift will occur.  I think it already has.  Think about it, if the sun's polar shifting can fling radioactive flares into space that alter weather and lunar tides, what consequences might such a solar-disturbance have on Earth?  I don't know, but un-charted earthquakes, tornados, hurricanes, and just all-out-bizarre-ass-weather might be a good indicator.

Let's just hypothesize that all natural disasters within the past few years are attributed to our planet's poles playing metaphorical musical chairs every millennia or so; how long can we expect things to continue/exacerbate before the proverbial dust settles?  I don't know.  No one does.  According to the Mayans, the last time this happened was five-thousand years ago.

Hobbits

I don't know about you, but, I for one, am not looking forward to the new Hobbit movie.  I don't understand why they changed it so much.  Furthermore, I don't understand why people were raving about the first flick.  It was too long and egregiously dragged out.  Many scenes in the movie weren't in the book.  I'm sorry, was J.R.R. Tolkien on the writing team?  It was my understanding that he died whilst writing The Silmarillion, then his son tragically tried to finish it.

I remember when it wasn't cool to like Tolkien, comic-books, or reading of any kind.

What happened?

Has main-stream-media and Hollywood-hokum really canted our views of "hip" that much just by adapting things that weren't previously considered socially-acceptable into three-hour-special-effects-filled-marvels?

The reason The Lord of the Rings trilogy worked so well on film is because the material was taken damn-near word-for-word, sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph from the books.  Go back and read the series.  Some people do it every year.  The texts aren't that impressively written.  Yet, why do we keep reading them?  Why do we watch the continuously syndicated endless-loops on TV?  It's because the story is f****** awesome.  I defy you to write a better trilogy.  Now-a-days (no names mentioned here), series are dragged out into a septuplet of volumes, which is only cool if the story engaging and the author actually has something to say.  Summarize people.  Tighten.  Polish.  Don't use five words when three will do.  Eliminate repetitive words, had been, it was -- sorry, skewing off tangent.

The Lord of the Rings series worked as a trilogy because it was a trilogy.  The Hobbit was only 287 pages, well within the margin of unifying it into one feature film.  John Grisham's The Runaway Jury (adapted on screen simply as, Runaway Jury), climaxed at an epic 550 pages.  I'm sorry, please remind me, 'cause I have the attention-span of a gold-fish, but was that developed into a multi-million-dollar trilogy?  No really.  I can't remember.

The point is, Hollywood didn't need to chop The Hobbit into three mediocre slices when one hearty serving would have slaked our appetites.

To be honest, I don't even care to see the next two installments.

I'd rather re-read the book.
Which I've done, and trust me, the book is better than the movies.

 

Character

They say you can tell a lot about a person by the shoes they wear.  More to the point, volumes speak of the choices they make.  Most people pick their own kicks, ergo much is revealed about the choices of a particular individual by their footwear.

Choices are what make characters interesting, particularly, bad ones.  Having things forcibly thrust open a character is trite and derivative.  They need to be faced with decisions.  They need to take matters into their own hands.  But better yet, more often than not, they need to take the wrong path so they can walk away from it (hopefully), a little bit wiser.

People need to be tossed outside their comfort-zone.  Only then do we see the world (and thusly, ourselves), for what it truly is -- undeniably imperfect.  Forever flawed.  And then we strive to do better, if only for a short while.  Some stick with it.  Achieving new goals everyday.  Others seem content lethargically complacent (is that redundant?).  Inevitably, we all return to ash.  So, to each his/her own.

Psychology teaches we're all products of both genetics and up-bringing (nature/nurture).  Perhaps we should add a new category:  advertisement. 

The other day, my girlfriend started a rant about "Wouldn't it be great if there weren't any commercials?"  A brief and poetic enough statement if one there ever was.  I said nothing.  'Cause when truth is truth, there ain't nothing to be said.  But she probably felt abashed by my silence and then proceeded to defend her statement which rotated back to how we do, in fact, need advertisements.

That's how they trap us, with circular logic.

So now we're back to needing, wanting, coveting, buying, disposing of...and on and on it goes.

It's so hard to recycle when the city waste-removal-workers can regulate what you can and can't put in the recycling bin.  Everything's recyclable.  Now, they've got these large, grandiose containers.  Do they still studiously scrutinize every bit of food-waste, soiled toiletry, stained effeminate hygiene products and other assorted...wait, that's trash, not recyclables.  Oh, that's right, even trash can be used as a source of bio-diesel-fuel.  Just my personal opinion, but I regard burning our waste as power-sources (in regulated doses, mind you), as a fairer alternative to burying it or jettisoning it into space.

Sure, there's no way either of those two alternatives could come back and take a royal bite out of our collective asses.

They say you can tell a lot about a consumer by the brands they purchase.  But I say, much more is learned by observing what they don't buy.  People who don't buy useless crap usually don't get baited into corporal entrapments -- usually.

There was a time when we didn't need to purchase goods or services.  We built our homes to our liking, not to socialized regulatory commissioned standards.  There was a time when we didn't have to shop for garb and produce.  Believe it or not, once upon a time, we did things for ourselves, and had no need for outsiders telling us how to run our affairs.

I say, wouldn't it be grand if we reverted back to when we didn't need to buy anything?

I think that would instill much character within us all.

Breaking Good

Sure, people have heard of breaking bad.  No, I'm not talking about the critically acclaimed show.  Although I, myself am a fan.  The definition of "breaking bad", is basically, to become bad.  Not to break the habit of being bad.  Which, believe it or not, some people I've talked to thought it meant.  But has anyone ever heard of breaking good?  A quick Catholic-death-bed-rites-confession, the ol' flick of the switch, and presto, boom-o, bang-o!  All your sins are forgiven.

A merry-right-bit-of tripe that is.

That might be your angle, but that ain't God's angle.  At least, that's what the Jehovah's witnesses pounding on my door proclaim.

First off, you can't be forgiven by no preacher-man.  Only you can allow yourself to be forgiven by God, and then humbly beg the pardon of those you've trespassed.  Quite often, our olive branches are swatted to the ground in disgust ('though easily understandable).  And we hate ourselves.  For a long time.  Even if we're forgiven by those we've wronged, somehow, we still can't let go.  But that's not bad.  In order to better ourselves we must learn from our mistakes.

Yeah, yeah, Walter White's a right-cool-mo-fo.  His pictures and head-lines swamp the news, diverting our attention from real issues.  But is that really what we should be focused on?  Entertainment is meant as a form of escape, yet how we drown ourselves in its drivel.

This imitable character, this sharpened foe, this reverse Robin of the Hood, who steals from the rich and stock-piles spoils to his spawn.

I personally believe that stealing bread is justified if it's to feed your starving family.  But should murder, deception, and peddling upon the ineptitude of the disenfranchised be tolerated in similar circumstances?

I don't know.  I suppose that depends on your particular predicament.

Where'm I going with this?  I don't know.  Maybe putting on glasses, shaving our heads, and pruning our goatees looks cool.  And phony-funerals are always fun.  But do we really want to emulate a fictional drug-dealing-mass-murderer?

To Write Well Pt. 3

I go through five phases when writing a book.

1.) THINKING - You gotta think about your story, mull it over, jot down notes.  Basically, you want to be able to watch your story in your head at any time; just like watching a movie.

2.)  WRITING  -  Only when you not only know what you want to say, but how you want to say it, I write a book in its entirety.  I know it's tough.  Just do it.  You're gonna edit it later.  This stage combines a bit of reading, thinking, and editing, but bear in mind, this is still writing.  When finished with your masterfully crafted piece-of-wordsmenship, sigh and take a break, though we're not done yet.  Far from it, in fact.

3.)  READING  -  I can go about two weeks (tops), before my fingers start twitching, and I long to scrawl a short, poem, song, or even a scene from an up-coming novel.  During that time, I read about three to six novels, depending on their length.  Fiction.  Non-Fiction.  Poetry.  Prose.  News articles.  Doesn't matter.  Point is, I love to read nearly as much as I long to write.  Whilst reading, I keep a notebook and pen handy.  Anytime I come across a word that I don't know, I scribble it down.  But, not just words I don't know, I also jot down words I think I know,  words I know but don't use that often, and even quotes.  I also study the way other authors write.  I note appealing phrases, and though I don't use them verbatim, I'm greatly inspired by other authors.  But, that's the point.

4.)  ERUDITION  -  In case you didn't know, erudition means a period of deep (sometimes theological) learning; studying.  After I have my vocab sheets from the books I just read, I alphabetize my words, go through the dictionary, and write down the definition.  I find this method far-more effect than simply trying to memorize a myrmidon of words.  I also use this time to research things.  Let's face it folks, if you wanna be a writer, ya gotta know what you're talking about.  And that means research.

5.)  EDITING  -  This is by-far the most tedious and pain-staking tasks of all.  You have to sit down, and read through your novel paragraph-by-paragraph, line-by-line, sentence-by-sentence, word-by-word.  If you followed these instructions properly, this should be more than a few times you've read your own book.  And let's face it, how many times do you really read a book?  If it's simply amazing, at most, twice, or once a year as some eccentrics do.  You can pay for fancy-shmansy editors, and I suggest you do (just for professional feed-back).  In the end, as exasperating as it may sound, you'll want to make the final edit yourself.  Why?  Because it's your book, damnit!  Don't you want it to be the way you always pictured it in your mind?

That's enough free advice for now.

P.S.  I've noticed some of you eAuthors have been trying to get a hold of me (not literally of course).  Somehow, readers can send me emails directly (or filtered to), my personal email account.  But I don't know who these savvy, young folken are.  I simply receive a message and am proffered the opportunity to reply.  Please send links to your sites.  I love reading (and reviewing).  By-the-by, as I've stated in a previous blog, if I review your work, and it's not sterling, don't get all huffy.  This is free advice (which I paid a hefty sum for), and am doling out to you.

Take it or leave it.  

Curse Words

It's true.  It's finalized.  It's legit.
Cursive is no longer being taught in public schools.  As for private institutions, time will tell.

I'm not sure how I feel about this.  At first I thought, "That's ludicrous.  Yet, another fine example of our tax dollars at work that seem to dissipate into thin air."

But, what-with modern publishing relying on technology, and Luddites fearing learning that cursed script; do people need to know cursive?  The short answer -- yes.  How else are you going to sign your name?  With an X?  I shudder at the very thought of the repercussions of such lethargic penmanship.

Does anyone still write in cursive?  Hell yeah.  I do.  All the time.  In fact, I, like most writers, have notebooks chock-full of scribbled and scrawled glyphs only discernible to me.

Think about this, if you had a diary (the contents of which you wanted to remain private), then wouldn't it benefit you more if the only one who could read it was you?

Instead, most people hurl their most intimate cerebrations into hyper-world-wide-main-stream fodder, and should be so lucky as to have their peers pass over their posts, pix, and selfies in ennui.

Leonardo DiVinci wrote backwards, up-side-down, in loops, broken pieces scattered among notebooks, and encoded.

And yet, we think we know all of his works?

...sorry.  Was I rambling again?

Anyway, what do I think of schools no longer teaching cursive?

I predict in ten years, handwriting will be nerdy.  But not in the cool way.  In fifty, only the elderly shall posses such skills (if their arthritic hands manage).  Something the Neo-punks poke fun at.  I bet they'll even have some slang term that associates the decrepit with cursive.  Something like, "Look at the ol' scribbler, (scrawler, or scripter).

All I can say for those poor souls no longer receiving their right-due-proper education we all were granted as youths, (unless your parents step in), "I know something you don't know.  Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nahh."

Seriously people, is handwriting something we really want to become a dead language.  What if our beloved grid goes down?  

Botox

Has anyone heard of this new super-Botox they discovered? 

Where do I begin?

First of all, these so-called scientists didn't just "discover" this new hybrid of clostridium botulinum.  Okay, right there, botulinum.  Doesn't that sound suspiciously like botulism?  If you don't know what botulism is, open a text book.  No, don't just Wikipedia that shit.  Apply yourselves, people.

The word Botox isn't a word at all, it's short for botulinum toxin.  That's right, toxin.  Botulinum toxin stems from a rod-shaped obligate anaerobe.  Oxygen is poisonous to its cells.  When oxygen is introduced, like say when you inject botulinum into your lips, the anaerobes catalyze a paralytic enzyme.  That's why you can't move your lips after a procedure.  This new Botox secretes a neurotoxin so powerful, the smallest of micrograms could...well, you've heard the news.

Botox originated when some guy you've never heard of but could easily research, tried to home-cure ham. 

Let's jump to the side for a second.  The reason pork is forbidden by those of Jewish faith and practices is because way-way-back-in-the-long-long-ago pork was virtually impossible to prepare without risk of falling ill.  And back then, when one grew sick they usually died. 

Back to the here-and-now.  After a time, those meddlesome scientists harnessed the power of those precious, precious anaerobes.  They derived a method of culturing clostridia in a TSC (tryptose sulfite cycloserine) environment with less than 2% oxygen.  Some mathematical, bio-chemical formula, where the Botox you shoot in your face is "relatively" harmless because it's fabricated in a laboratory, and studiously scrutinized with test and control experiments until the point they deem something that leaks paralytic perspirations as "safe for consumer consumption".

So, let me get this straight, scientists who've been tinkering at a molecular level with something they know secretes neurotoxins just haplessly stumble upon a super-deadly version of it?  And then, in order to keep people safe, they announce this discovery and declare it a world-wide secret?

People, open your eyes.  Something nefariously shady beyond my comprehension is a-foot.    

To Write Well Pt.2

I've been reading and reviewing a lot of books on Smashwords lately, as now is the time where I'm in between writing.  I read free books mostly.  Why not?  Most authors who publish something for free are novices just trying to make a name for themselves.  Why not give those email authors and thoughtful bloggers a chance to have their voices heard?  The thing with most free eAuthors, is they lack proper editing.  Sure, their stories are entertaining enough, but (for whatever reason), didn't have their eBooks properly edited.  I myself go through a book literally dozens of times before publishing, and still I look back and cringe; pondering, if only I could have written then as I do now.  That's the big thing here.  If you want to be a writer, you gotta work at it.  But I'm skewing slightly off tangent here.

As Heath Ledger's indelible portrayal of the Joker proclaimed, "If you're good at something, never do it for free."

But even the ol' drug dealers axiom holds true to this day, and is fastidiously adhered to by businessmen of all calibers:  Only the first one's free.  After that, it's gonna cost ya.

But just because you're going to depart on your voyage into authorhood doesn't mean you shouldn't take the time, effort, and sometimes fat-stacks, to make sure your masterpiece is as tight and polished as possible.

I see too many writers using the phrase "it was", not only in sentences, but also at the start of paragraphs.  "It" is unclear to the subject.  Overused, it incipiently becomes confusing and even worse, lazy.  Used sparingly, "it was", can have a profound impact.  Furthermore, never conjoin "it was" and "to be" in a sentence, as "was" is the past-tense form of "to be".  Essentially, coupling the two is redundant.

I read far too many:  there was, it was, he was, she had, had been.  It's passive voice.  The phrase, "had taken a seat", isn't nearly as powerful as, "then he sat with a plop, and dust swirled about his pear-shaped frame."  He had caught should simply be, he caught.  So on and so forth.

I know, it sounds anal, but these little details determine whether your reader gambols gleefully through pixeled pages, or totters among a sea of verbose jargon.

Don't get me wrong, it's impossible not to use "was" and "had".  Still, overuse is trite and lethargic.  Often, we say, "Screw it.  I like it.  My friends like it.  My family likes it.  So what do I care if someone I don't know thinks unkindly of it?"

Let's face it, going over and over and over something is like boring a nail in your head when only a screw will do.  Is that too esoteric?  Sorry.  Anyway, I myself face the very same problem of overusing "was" and "had".  And the last edit of anything I publish is me tediously reading (not scrolling), through my document and eliminating as many of these pesky buggers as possible.  Here's why:  "John had on denim shorts.  They were ripped and faded." isn't as poetic as, "John wore denim shorts frayed and tattered where his boney knees protruded."

Say it once, and say it well.

That's enough free advice for now.

That reminds me, if I review your book and it's not sterling, don't be all like, "Screw that asshole, what does he know?"  I'm just offering a bit of free advice.  And as crafters of wordsmenship, aren't we all looking over previous material ('cause let's face it, we've always been writers of something), and said, "You know what, I think I can make that a little better."

Trucks

A couple weeks ago, the state police pulled this massive sting-operation where they pulled over big-rigs.  When I first heard this, I thought the truckers were being cited for exhaust emissions.  Turns out, they were pulled over due to faulty air-brakes, though the news report failed to specify exactly what the problem was.  How do the police know there's something wrong with the air-brakes?  Those things are tested and certified at the factory, if any problem discovered later, the factory would issue a recall.  Who is a police officer to just spot a truck and pull them over because of the braking system?  Are they mechanical engineers?  How can they simply detect a problem with the brakes when a vehicle is still in motion?  The entire premise of such an operation is egregiously absurd, and it my personal opinion that those police officers should be cited for pretending to be mechanical inspectors when they are, in fact, not.  There should be a law against that.

Book 2

I apologize to any of my blog readers for not posting in a while.  The Chronicles of Dog and Troll:  Book 2 - The Diary of Myriam Star, is out.  Hurray!

Pretty tired now.  Think I'll go home.

Expect blogs to resume as normal.

J.S.F

Bugs

Hate is a strong word that I don't often advocate.  But there's only two things upon the face of God's-green-Earth that I wholesomely detest.  One is taxes, the other bugs.  Bugs are everywhere.  Currently, they outnumber us.  Always have, always will.  We can never get rid of bugs, not really.  Sure we spray our toxic chemicals around our domiciles, but that only deters the little critters.  By-the-by, did you know it is a federal offense (but not enforced), to use pesticides in a manner otherwise than directed?  It says so on the label.  Most people don't know that because they don't read the directions.  Then they wonder why their bugs aren't going away.  Sure, there are all-natural home-remedies.  Most hokum.  Others disputable.  But some do work.  For a time.  The thing that people forget is that insects have shorter life-spans and faster reproductive-cycles than damn near everything else on the planet other than unicellular organisms.  Which means they evolve immunities and natural aversions to certain substances.

In 2005, a group of scientists and entomologists conducted a study.  They wanted to know why German cockroaches (Blatella Germanica), were no longer being duped into scuttling into those fancy glucose lined Roach-motels.  In 2010 they deduced that German roaches had lost their sweet-tooth.  No longer were those six-legged-disease-spreading-vermin attracted to the gossamer glow of sweet saccharin.  That was a closed experiment.  This is three years later, in the real world, a much larger laboratory.

Bugs don't think.  Not really.  All they know is instinct and the one questioning doubt that befalls all beasts of such nature when encountering a foreign object:  Can I eat it?  Or will it eat me?

Face it, we eat bugs.  In some cultures its considered a rare delicacy.  Living from place-to-place, and having access to PX's (pretty much a mini-mall upon a military base), virtually anything was accessible.  Except precious, precious plutonium.  Just kidding:)  I've had chocolate-covered-crickets, and caramel-coated-caterpillars.  They're not bad.  Slightly crunchy with a bitter-sweet-earthen-after-taste.

Statistics report the average human consumes (in their sleep) five spiders a year.  Yup, you're snoring away, mouth open, and a curious arachnid skitters down your esophagus.  Ever wonder why you wake up and your throat feels itchy, but you're not sick?

Let's say, you buy some fruit.  You throw the peels away.  A day or two later, you have fruit flies.  Why?  You didn't have fruit flies before.  It's because the eggs are already inside the skins.  If you purchase your food from a corporate chain, and had a fresh orange or grape-fruit for breakfast, guess what?  You also ate Diptera Tephritidae larva.

Don't worry, it's all protein and no fat.  

Yes, insects outnumber us at a staggering rate.
I eat bugs.  And I'm proud of it.
What are you doing?

Juxtaposed, and torn asunder

Juxtaposed, and torn asunder
Meticulously, I wormed onward
Slogging forth, advancing nowhere
Through the desiccate abyss
Loitering
Idled here

Shrug, gasp, sigh
Another doorway

"Fuck this shit, my path is North-ways!"
Yet, against my will
my feet turned South
Still dwelling here
Brooding doubts

Egotism, mysticism
In the gloom
The one-true vision
Lateralized before mine eyes

Hark, Lo!
Bundle up, dear childer
I feel another bitter winter
Curdling within my bones
The carillon's requiem
Long-lost tomes
Extrapolate the yearning soul

Yet, another verbose excuse

Just live your life

Time will soothe

But still, we can't let go of those grudges
Slanders, slights, and up-and-comers
Challengers who beat us down
Put up your dukes
I'm older now

The phantasmagoria dissolves before me
Like frayed and fractured pictures of my youth

Yet the reveries stripped from mine eyes

Such relief, such privilege
Such dissolute

All fades to ubiquitous blackness
I slink into my cell
Death was once a doorway
The reality is Hell

Depressed

Depressed here
Slinking low
As a scolded child

My dove says
She doesn't care
What I need or want

Brooding here
Stewing here
In miasmic air
It's a wonder
I've not choke to death

The garrote clinches around my neck
Dead-man walking here
I fell as low as bed-bugs
Beneath the furniture

What does love want?
I don't know
And still pondering
Cerebrating
Lucubrating
Self-inquiring

In drug dreams dreary
I've walked among the dead
I felt more welcomed there
Than I do here

Don't admire this
No admonishments
There's no beauty here
Death is not a doorway
Just a prison cell

Erudition
Navigation
Lost among gales

Across tides
Pitch as black
Circumnavigating Hell

Depressed here
And thusly here
I spun a gossamer shell

One day to emerge
And gorge upon myself

The only thing I know for sure

The only thing I know for sure, is that I know absolutely nothing.  But hell, 86% of the population doesn't know anything; 9 out of 17 people know this.  At least, I know that I know nothing.  Some people don't know they don't know anything.

I look around, I look around,
And I think, where have all the role-models gone?  Where have all the John Wayne's gone?

We're so concerned with our own crap.  We call them problems.  But they're just privileges.  I've seen real problems.  And I count my lucky stars that I have none.

Some say, ignorance is bliss.
But I say, ignorance is a way for the surreptitious to take that which they have not earned.

I'm reminded of when thieves were alleviated of their sinful appendages.  Now, I see a time where some need to steal just to survive.  Is that right?  Is anything we know ever been right?

I've read of when, each season,  Babylonian women sacrificed a man by burning him alive.  According to history, such practices were performed to appease the gods and yield good crops.  Apparently a matriarchal society is as ruthless as our traditional patriarchs.  Perhaps, more so.  In Africa, most of the females of each species are bigger than the males.  This is so the males don't eat the young.  Except, instead of an adult predator trimming the weak from the herd, mammoth females kill other matured adults and feed the spoils to their young.

Which is worse?
Does it matter?

I've read of a time, where, if you hurt, trimmed, or chopped down a tree (without permission from the gods), Pagans carved out your naval, nailed it the offended conifer, and forced you to circumnavigate the trunk until all your intestines firmly wrapped around the bark.  

Imagine if we lived back then.
There'd be no paper; among many other things.

Do I wish we still lived in a matriarchal society?
I don't know, I'm just glad we're not sacrificing people to phony-baloney gods in the hopes of a prolific harvest.

Do I wish we still lived in a time where defacing Mother Nature was a capitol offense? 
I don't know, but it would sure be great if we stopped ravaging our own natural resources in the name of progress.

What progress?
What have we really achieved in the last thirty years?  Century?

Most people seem so sure that the world will end any day now.  Y2K.  SARS.  12/21/12.  What a joke that was.  People, the Mayans never said that was when the Rapture would happen.  That's just when they stopped calendaring.  And the Mayan calendar was based on a ten-month-scale, not twelve; meaning the end-of-days would have happened well-before 12/21/12.

Still, we plod  on.
Now, pundits say that things in the Middle East are escalating just as things did back in August of 1914; right before WW1

Day-by-day, things get worse.
Zealots proclaim the impending return of the One True Savior.
Atheists say, "Naw, don't worry about.  Such is the way of things." 

Are we tottering on the precipice of Doomsday?
Or, will the night grow incipiently darker before a long-awaited dawn?

I don't know.
But at least, I know that I don't know.

And I thank God for that. 

Silenty, Incipiently

Silently, incipiently
I've breached another door in darkness
On my knees
I slogged toward it
Adytum, mew
Whatever you call it
Here and now
I dwell inside it

Excavate, emerge
From the gloom
I'm reborn
Inside my maw
New teeth are torn

I hunger
I thirst
I sate and slake
And then hibernate

Nihilists and atheists
Quake before the one true hate

Deep inside
Demons do hide
On our anger
They do thrive

This prison built
Of our free-will
Beleaguered here
Besieged by Hell

Angrily, I fight against it
The rip pulls me under
I struggle
I suffocate
I remain
Ensconced in Hell

Lost in rage
Forever here

New Batman

For the love of God, please, someone tell me that Ben Affleck is not going to take up the cape and cowl.  Don't get me wrong, Mr. Affleck has great charisma and stage presence.  But he can't act.  He either plays a condescending douche-bag, or his usual, Joe-everyman-reluctant-hero-type-self.  I'm sorry, but playing one of two characters is not acting.  Just because you're good looking and can memorize dialogue doesn't mean you should automatically receive the leading role in a block-buster-hit.  Ryan Reynolds, I'm talking to you.

Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself.

As I said, Mr. Affleck typically plays one of two roles -- every time. 

Consider this, when you're depicting the Dark Knight, you're not just playing a character, but two.  Bruce Wayne, stands tall, proud.  He's audacious, and speaks in an assuaging  voice.  On the other-hand, Batman broods, skulks, and speaks in such a fashion as to get the bad-guys quavering in their boots.

Yes, it's true Mr. Affleck can play two different roles, but neither would do the caped crusader justice.

I've heard the Hollywood tripe that both Mr. Affleck and Dark Knight director, Christopher Nolan, assure fans that they know what they are doing, and that after such a disastrous flop as, Daredevil, Mr. Affleck is more selective of roles.  If that's true, than I and seven-thousand-fans-and-counting are wrong.

DC comics, Hollywood producers, dais actors, forgive my bluntness, but you are fucking up.  You struck gold with the Dark Knight Tribology.  And after sour reviews of Superman Returns (which, I actually liked), you bounced back with Man of Steel [See previous blog:  They should never make another Superman movie again...]  And now you're going to tie the two together with an entirely different Batman, and an entirely different story-line?  Really?  Unless you start with Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character being bludgeoned to death in the streets, and bring back Christian Bale (which would be an entirely different Batman movie), I don't really see this working.  Especially if this is supposed to be a Man of Steel sequel.

Please, don't ruin a good thing.

Why don't you just do what Marvel's been doing, and pave the way for a Justice League trilogy?

I remember a time when the customer was always right.

8,000-fans-and-counting disapprove of Ben Affleck taking up the cape and cowl.

I sincerely hope you Hollywood hoop-la writers know what you're doing.        

Doing Nothing

Doing nothing
Feeling nothing
bereft of maudlin curmudgeon
What is this that stands before me?
Just another canted doorway
Sighing, Perplexed and vexed
I snidely snorted
"Fuck you guys, my path is North-ways"

I had an idea
Then I lost it
Scurried off
Like lambent roaches
Spangled fears
Reluctant cheers
We've lived our lives
Counting drear

Shut up
Stop making excuses

Shut up, you
What excuses?

The ones that blind us
Like white-noise
Lulling us to sleep
Life un-enjoyed

But we're too busy
With the hurry
Hustle, bustle
Scribble, scrabble
Skitter, fritter
We forget
That blissful winter
We once enjoyed
When us childer
And un-employed

Thusly then
And only then
When the snow fell upon my up-turned face

I knew my path
And destiny

This is Hell
Don't follow me

DHS

A friend of mine was telling me about how DHS (Department of Human Services, not Department of Homeland Security; why there's two DHS's, I have no idea), was screwing her out of food-stamps.  Over the last eighteen months or so, DHS has been incorporating new rules and guidelines for those they dole out welfare-rations to.  Why they're allowed to change such rules without prior public notification is anyone's guess.  I have theories.  But sometimes silence is the best card to play.  That's a good rule for life, kids.  Allow me to elucidate.  If you had a bridge-card, you would be subjected to account reviews every six months.  This is not something DHS does, this is something they want you to do, and if you don't, you will experience a delay, or refusal (depending on their new bi-laws), of benefits.

Anyway, DHS screwed up my friend's paper-work, thereby decreasing the rate of monthly benefits from $180 to $59.

I'm not like most people.  I don't eat that much.  At most, I eat twice a day.  More than that leaves me feeling lethargic.  But to my friend, $59 doesn't last an entire month.  At most, it buys her two-weeks worth of groceries, and that's predicated on the stipulation that she only eats once a day.  Seriously, $40 buys me two weeks worth of food.  Once again, I don't eat that much.  But try living on less than $60 a month, I double-dare you.

My friend said she tried calling DHS, but the phone number never rang through.  Interesting side-note, the particular branch of social services handling her case is two counties over.  Why?  Because the government likes to make things as confusing as possible. 

So, my friend, a productive, working member of society, had her benefits cut due to a clerical error, and her case worker will not return her calls.

Perhaps, this a scenario you are all too familiar with. 

Do not distress.  There is one sure-fire way to get a DHS case-worker to call you back, 'though I only recommend it as a last resort.

About five years ago, I too applied for food-stamps.  At the time, I was working at a local sub-sandwich shop.  I won't say which, but I am a sandwich artisan.  When I was first hired, I was told by the manager, that, they thought someone was stealing, and they wanted new, trust-worthy employees.  I was hired on the spot.  Two-and-a-half months later (and before I could claim un-employment), I was fired for theft.  Apparently I was their culprit after all, though the thievery  transpired well before my employment.  I think the manager was the one to blame all along.  I, the unsuspecting patsy of corporate theft, could have fought such slanderous allegations, but fuck-it, it was Subway.  Who wants to work there for life?  Hopefully, not you.

Anyway, I too applied for food-stamps, and I too was given the run-around until the point where I wanted to just say, "The hell with it."  DHS dragged-ass on my benefits.  So, I called and left a rather nasty message, saying that I was starving and would soon resort to violent thievery.  Within twenty-four hours, my so-called-case-worker, called back with a snide retort.

He said, my benefits were disqualified because my previous employer wouldn't sign a piece of paper.  Of course, he wouldn't.  For two-straight weeks, I went in to my previous place of employment to get the boss-man to sign off on my paper-work.  But he wouldn't.  He was never there.  I left the forms.  But he never filled them out.  Why would he?  After all, I was the one he tried to frame.

In the end, I just said, "The hell with it," and got another job.  Then, I got a second job.  People, jobs are out there, they're just the ones nobody wants.  I don't know why.  The types of unemployment that seem the worst always pay the best.  I have a disgusting job, and it pays well.  Not as well as it could, but I digress.  I guess actual labor isn't worth the pay-off to some folks.

Anyway, the reason pissing off your DHS case-worker will guarantee a call-back, is because the people working there are the kind of people that love to rebuke anything you say.  Those folks are often mean-spirited and condescending.  A few years back, when me and my girlfriend started living together, her DHS case-worker wanted my personal financial information.  I wrote them a letter saying I refused to disclose any such information, because I was not the one seeking assistance.  I also wrote that, "I now consider this matter to be closed.  Any further attempt at collecting any financial or personal information will be construed as harassment, followed be legal action on my part."  Two days later the case-worker called, demanding to talk to me.  I reiterated my letter.  She said, "DHS is changing their rules.  Some people live with girlfriends, boyfriends, and baby-daddy's, trying to scam more benefits."  I held my tongue from responding to her slanderous insinuation that I was a, "baby-daddy."  Nor did I relay to her that neither me or my girlfriend had any children, nor were we planning to in the immediate future.

Yesterday, I bumped into my friend and asked if DHS had fixed her problem.  She said when she finally got ahold of her case-worker, the case-worker told her that it was not a mistake.  Her benefits had been decreased from $180 to $59 a month.  And she had to make due with that.  When she told me this, I pictured her  well-feed, government-compensated, case-worker with the receiver held up to a maniacal grin.

Sure, we're broke as hell, but do we really gotta be such assholes to each other just because the so-called-powers-that-be say it's our job?  

World War Z highly unlikely

I for one, love the zombie genre.  But let's not get carried away.

My brother says there are two kinds of people: those that wake up everyday praying for the zombie apocalypse, and those who don't.

I'll have to admit, last summer when that bum ate some guy's face off, and there was a rash of flesh eating bacteria, and the CDC was posting zombie-apocalypse-preparedness-blogs: I quavered at the very notion of eternally living in an episode of The Walking Dead.

First off, true zombies aren't dead.  Nor do they eat the brains or flesh of the living.  According to Voodoo (which originated in Jamaica/Haiti), zombies are people (not corpses), that are so deep under a trance it only appears they are dead.  And they do not hunger for the flesh of the living, they merely carry out the wishes of the person who hexed them.

There is folklore of zombie-like creatures such as ghouls and draugers, but they're not exactly zombies.

According to Hollywood hokum, there are two kinds of zombies:  1.) The slow, shambling cadavers of those who died.  And they feed on brains.  2.)  Some sort of mad-people-like virus that turns us all into flesh-craving cannibals.

Movie and television depicts such catastrophic pandemics as signaling the end of times.  This is false.

For one, let's set aside the fact that some two-hundred-plus-pound floppy-corpse could run-us down in the street, or that the zombie of some-punk-delivery-boy could tear you to pieces.  A zombie would posses nor more or less than the proportional strength or speed of it's living counterpart.

Here's another thing, every time you move, you're stretching and tearing muscle fibers.  Every time you move your shedding microscopic skin cells and hair follicles.  When muscles rip, lactic acid builds up, creating new muscle fibers.  Sure, you lose skin cells and hair, but more grow back.  But not on a dead person.  If you're a zombie, every time you move, muscles and ligaments tear, but do not grow back stronger.  Every time you move, skin and hair flake off you like dandruff, but once again, do not grow back.  Even if you're the most gorged ghoul on the block, you'd still fall apart in a manner of weeks.

And what about when winter comes?  Main-stream-media would have you believe that if a zombie freezes, they instantly lash-out when thawed.  This notion is insanity.  Have you ever put a bottle of coke in the freezer, and then forgot about it?  What happens?  The water molecules expand until they crystallize, and fracture (This is also why cryogenics is complete malarkey).  The same would hold true for any zombie, especially if their cells didn't undergo mitosis.  Every molecule would fragment and fracture, including the brain.  What's the best way to kill a zombie?  Take out the head or brain.  Well, if a zombie's brain freezes and fractures due to the changing seasons, then all you have to do is hide out in your shelter and wait till the metaphorical dust settles.

To summarize, if an apocalypse of the living un-dead ever did happen, it wouldn't last long.  The walking cadavers would naturally fall apart in a manner of weeks.

No, Mother Nature would never be so kind as to grace us with a zombie-apocalypse.  Instead, we have things like Ebola, AIDS, H1N1, and pig-bat-camel-flu. 

Yeah us!     

Bright Ideas

Bright ideas are like snow flakes.  When we want them to descend upon us in a full-out maelstrom, they merely flutter about.  When our hands tied; then the deluge falls.  And each and every (bright) idea seems as uniquely crafted as semi-frozen globs of precipitation.

The other day, I was at one of those huge-mega-monolithic-superstores; back in the bottle-return department.  I go in the middle of a work-day, when it's far-less crowded.  Anyway, I'm there all of eight minutes.  I know, because I timed it.  I had to.  Technically, I was on my lunch-break.  But, is it technically a break if no lunch is involved?  Alas, I do not know.  But, I deviate.

The self-service-six-items-or-less-U-scan line was backed up all the way to the frozen food section.  If I had to guestimate, I'd say the line was fifty-foot long; the wait, undeterminable.  So, I ambulated down the rows of tightly packed consumers.  You know how there's certain huge-mega-super-cali-fragilistic stores that advertise:  If more than two people are standing in line, we'll open another?  Well, this wasn't one of them.  So, I walked all the way down to the last (open) lane.  Three people in front of me.  They had fully stocked carts.  I had two bottle-return coupons.  But, none of the other lines were moving, so I figured, "What the hell, I'm a patient guy -- sometimes."  I waited in line for fifteen minutes.  I know, because I checked the time on my cell-phone.  Technically, I had seven-minutes to return to work.

When I finally got to the cashier, I said, "You guys should really have one of those U-scan-bottle-deposit-return-machines back in the recycling area.  She said, "Most people go to the U-scans."  I replied, "Normally, I would."  Then I pointed out the U-scan line, far off in the distance, still backed up to the frozen-food section, still unmoving.  I told the cashier, "If there was a U-scan-bottle-return-slip-machine in the recycling area, then those with bottle-return slips wouldn't have to stand in line, and the lines wouldn't be so long.

Brow furrowed, bottom lip tucked up like a bulldog's, she grunted as if such a thought had never occurred to her.

Why would it?  After all, the longer we stand in line, the longer we're subjected to glossy magazine spreads, Clorox to-go sticks, the latest candy concoctions, and the more inclined we are to spend just a teensy bit more.

Still, I wish one of those mega-mart-super-whole-sale-stores would put a bottle-slip-return-machine in the actual recycling area.

I don't know much about meteorology, barometrics, or the crystallization process that makes each snowflake indelibly different from the next.  But having a bottle-slip-return-machine in the recycling area sounds like one hell of a bright idea to me.  

#@$%&*! CARDS

What's the deal with places like, Quality-Way, and Speedmart (the names of these actual locales have been changed to protect the innocent)?  These convenience stores, (sometimes), slash, gas-stations, (sometimes), slash, liquor stores; and these special cards they press on people?  I, for one, don't have a Speedy-card (Shit.  I said it.  Oh, well, the cat's out of the bag).  But, I frequent my local spots.  And even though my ID doesn't scan (due to a crease in it), buying adults products is never a problem because most of the employees know me.  Not by name, mind you.  They always ask, "Got a *#%@ card?"  I say, "No."  They ask, "Why not?"  I reply, "Because, I don't have one."  They ask, "Would you like one?"  I politely decline.  At which point, they get defensive, and ask, "Why not?"  To which, I reply, "Because I don't want one."  Then they pester me while dragging out the time it actually takes to ring up my order.

One time, I bought something off the roller-grill.  The clerk asked me if I wanted two.  I thanked her, but declined.  She said, "It's cheaper if you buy two."  I asked how much it was for one.  She said, "A $1.49."  I asked how much it would be for two corndogs (or whatever it was.  I can't recall).  She replied, "$2.00, out the door."  I asked her how $2 was cheaper than $1.49.  She seemed flustered, agitated. 

But, I digress.

One time, on a whim, when the clerk asked me why I didn't want a *#%@& card, I wiggled my fingers in the air, and eerily proclaimed, "Because, I know the truth, Ooh!"  I didn't really wiggle my fingers.  I wish I had.  The clerk replied, "What, the government?"  (Why, is the government the first to be blamed for everything?  I'm sure there's a reason).  I nodded, letting her lead the conversation.  Have you ever done that before?  Just made some random, obscure statement, and then went along with whatever the replier said?  It's fun.  I highly recommend it.

Anyway, three (not one) clerks responded in a cacophonous chorus, "The government don't check that."  "It took three years for @$#%$#@-mart to get these cards made up, if that tells you anything."  "You don't need an ID."  "We probably got about fifty John Does."

Their resounding reassurances did not assuage me in the least.

To be honest, I was previously under the conspiratorial theory that Big-business was in cahoots with the government to keep tabs on everyone:  Where they shopped.  What they bought.

Think about it; what if you were the type of nefarious n'ere-do-well, who didn't have an address, bank account, valid ID, phone number, or credit card?  What if you were hired under the table, and didn't pay taxes?  Tracking what liquor store your frequented, and at what time, would be of great benefit to both corporate fat-cats and the federales.   

But that can't be right.  That's just nervous nonsense.  Right?  It must be.  Who would possibly be keeping track of how many gallons of milk you buy; other then that particular store, of course?  Hey, it's great re-stocking intel!

Did you know, you get points for buying alcohol, but not tobacco?

This is truly a confusing age in which we live. 

    

To blog, or not to blog

To blog, or not to blog, what does it matter?  Is anyone out there reading this blather? 

The other day, my girlfriend asked me what I blogged about.  Why she doesn't just read them, I don't know.  Perhaps, nobody reads these world-wide thoughts of mine.  Doesn't matter to me.  I don't  write blogs with the intention of appeasing readers.  I just like to vent about stupid crap.  But, not things as frivolous as:  Josh found a Pepsi-clear.  How nostalgic! :)  I just blog about whatever I want.  But I keep three things in mind:  1.) Is there a point to my blog?  2.)  Would someone be entertained by my post?  Number 3 is tricky.  Some might presume that #3 is:  Does this make people want to return to my blog?  Not me.  Even if you're insightful, intelligent, and can string a sentence together, I don't care if you're making a sandwich, or tweeting your inner-most-personal thoughts while pondering the workings of the universe from atop your porcelain throne.  I'm sorry, but I don't.  Nor, do I care what people think of my blogs.  I'll post what I want.  But, still, number 3 is elemental, subconscious; something you can take with you:  3.)  Does this make you think?

Well, I certainly hope it has.  People, please be mindful and respectful on your blogs.  You may think your mundane actions trite; uneventful.  You may even think no one is reading.

But, remember, the universe is always listening, and never forgets.

So much, so little

So much, so little
Such drab, and such drivel
We contort to the clock
Lest we like it or not

The hours tick by
As seasons do dry
Death and division
What's nuclear fission?

Compression, convex
molting, complex
Chrysalis analysis
Regulated dialysis

On box, and on fox
Take your cootie-shot
In car or on plane
Succumb to your veins

What is this that stand before me?
Hark, it just a crooked doorway

Such tidings, and giggles
coquettish, belittled
Death improvised
And yet, some survive

The hours plod on
Devoid of the dawn
Maledictions inscribed
Fatuitous jive

Compressed and repulsed
Hypodermic remorse
Chrysanthemum-gigantism
Esoteric retorts

What is this that looms before me?
Hark, it just another doorway

So much, so little
Sadistic, enabled
Death circumscribed
Morally deprived

Lo!  Hark!

And I lurk inside
In my mew, I do hide

Come and search for me
I dwell just beyond the archway

Beyond the blue
And in the pale
Don't linger here
This is Hell

POD

What does POD stand for?  Payable on death?  Prince of darkness?  Pants on the drier?  Provincial outsourced-downsizing?  On the internet, it stands for: print on demand.  But, why would one feel the need to print on demand?  Peer pressure?  Fear of being ostracized?  Who in their right-mind would pay over $30 to buy a book they could own for free, or download for $0.99?  I, personally have only read (or, is it red?  God, the English language is utterly exasperating), a handful of books more than once.  Most of the time it seems redundant, like writing one's name in already yellowed snow.  According to periodical evidence, most recent books are printed on demand.  Why?  Do publishers no longer believe in the authors in which they invest?  More importantly, is it impossible to build a legion-like fan-base without publishing hardcopies?  Sure it is.  Look at every movie you've ever seen.  Was there a hard-bound copy of that movie before it was reproduced for commercial use?  Highly unlikely.  Regrettably, things don't work the same as they do in the world of cinematography as they do in publication.  No one knows who you are until some dime-store-charlatan comes along and makes a cheap adaptation of your work.  Or worse, you are already one of those people who contort masterfully crated words-men-ship into Hollywood hokum.  In which case, my heart goes out to you.  Where was I going with this?  I don't know.  It's well-past the witching-hour, and I'm more-than-properly besotted.  Oh, that's right.  What does POD stand for?  I don't know.  But for now, I'm gonna claim that it stands for:  "Piss-off, damn-it!"

P.S.  I'm not telling anyone or anything to piss-off.  I just hear the letters P O D and think, "Piss-off, damn-it!"  Try saying that sometime.  You just might like it.  

To Write Well

In the book, Hideaway, Dean R. Koontz (via the phlegmatic author, S. Steven Honell), says that, "To write well, one ought to possess a monk's preference for solitude.  In isolation, one was forced to confront oneself more directly and honestly than possible in the hustle-bustle of the people world, and through oneself also confront the nature of every human heart."

I half-heartedly agree with that.  Sure, writing takes up a lot of time.  A lot.  And the old axiom holds true:  Those who write about life, have no time to live it.  And those living it, are too busy to write about it.  In addition, I often enjoy spending the final hour of every night just sitting in silence; contemplating.  But if I didn't wrench myself away from the keyboard (or sometimes the ol' fashioned pen and notebook), I'd never have anything to write about.  I'd have no characters to write because so much of what I write is influenced and inspired by other people and my experiences with them.  "They" say to write about what you know.  Well, if you don't live your life once in a while, then, you won't really know anything.  Will you?  Except, you won't even know that you don't know anything.  And that's a sad-sad state of affairs.

If writers want to delve into the depths of the human condition, perhaps they should repatriate from their monk-like mews to the land of the living.

Post script.  Why the hell did they change, Hideaway, so much when they made it into a movie?  Hollywood (I'm sorry, but if you want me to refer to you as L.A., you better take down the Hollywood sign and replace it with one that reads either:  LOS ANGELES or L A), completely butchered a unique piece of masterfully-crafted fiction.

My only critique of the book is at the beginning, when the car is sinking to the bottom of the river and Lindsey is thinking about the past five years of her life.  I've been in car accidents, and I've nearly drowned a handful of times.  In that penultimate (which is a word I learned from Mr. Koontz), moment, you're not thinking about your life.  Your thinking about ESCAPE.  Or, you're summoning your last bit of strength for one final furious burst of hope to break the surface of rushing waters before your lungs explode in your chest.  It can be difficult to get your bearings under rapidly churning water.  Sometimes you don't even know you're up-side down until some Good Samaritan strolls along and  pulls you out by your feet. 

They should never make another Superman movie again.  Ever.  Man of Steel is hands down the best Superman ever made and a good candidate for the top ten super-hero movies of all time.  Seriously, after a much more sinister version of General Zod, plus an entire brigade of super-powered Kryptonians (or is it Kryptonites?), who would be the villain in the next Man of Steel?  Lex Luther?  Albeit, his mirror-shined bald cranium and overall size and stature (but, only in the comics, anyway), may appear daunting to us mere mortals, what sort of threat could he pose to ol' Supes?  I'm reminded of a line from, The Last Action Hero, in which Danny tells Schwarzenegger, "This is a sequel, it's supposed to be harder."  Or, something along those lines.  No matter what diabolical scheme Lex hatched, I really don't think it would prove any more challenging than the ferocity with which Zod and his minions fought to preserve the survival of their people.  Here's another thing, no Kryptonite.  The writers changed it so that the Man of Steel's vulnerability was to Krypton's atmosphere, not Kryptonite.  What I don't understand is that if Superman doesn't breath (he can go underwater and into outer-space), than why would Krypton's atmosphere have any effect on him at all?  Plot-holes. 

I've heard that in keeping up with Marvel Comics (which will be releasing X-men:  Days of Future's Past, more Avengers sequels, plus making an Ant-Man movie), DC is trying to bring about Justice League films, and solo movies with the characters that comprise such a heroic squad.  They're also finally making a Batman/Superman move.  Both Christopher Nolan and the guy who did Man of Steel (I can't think of his name right now), will be working on it together.  I don't know if that means they're writing it together, producing it together, directing it, or what.  Just that they'll be working together on it.  All the actors from Man of Steel will be in the new cross-over movie, but there's no word on what things will look like from Batman's side of the lawn.  Will Joseph Gordon-Levit take up the Dark Knight's cape and cowl, as the ending of The Dark Knight Rises, suggested?  Or will some insidious force bring Bruce Wayne out of retirement?  Time will only tell.  I'll say this, if they do manage to pull off a Batman/Superman movie, it will either stand triumphantly at the top of the list of great super-hero adaptations, or be one of the biggest flops ever made.  Christopher Nolan, guy whose name eludes me, don't disappoint us fans.

Unleaded

Does anyone else know how egregious gas prices are?  No, seriously.  The price per barrel of oil fluctuates at a daily rate.  Why?  Because the so-called powers that-be profess it to be so.  Liberalists and Green Parties  wave an admonishing finger at the very notion of drilling on American soil (with the exception of Alaska), thus keeping us from weaning ourselves from suckling the teat of foreign oil.  When the price per barrel goes up, not only do gas prices rise, but everything becomes more expensive.  Oil is used in damn near everything.  Production of plastics.  Factories.  Textile plants.  Farms.  Butchers.  Bakers.  Everyone everywhere relies on oil in some way, shape, or form.  Interesting side note:  How come when the price of gas goes down, the price of a gallon of milk holds steady at the price it was raised from the previous one.  People gripe about how much gas is.  But, at least there's a fifty-fifty chance gas will be cheaper tomorrow (statistics are bullshit, 7 out of 15 people know that.  When you break it down, everything is fifty-fifty; either something will happen or it doesn't).  That gallon of milk.  Those flashy new kicks.  A pack of smokes.  All that other stuff doesn't fluctuate in price like gas, it just continues to escalate.

This is just a theory.  I have no proof or evidence to back this up.  But I believe that one of the main reasons gas prices undulate like the tides, is so that when we drive past a gas station, and see unleaded advertised for $3.86 a gallon, we smile and say, "Oh, look, gas went down."  Then we cruise into the packed station at two miles-an-hour, wait for fifteen minutes before actually getting to use a pump, and fill up.  I don't do that.  But, apparently a lot of people do.  I buy gas when it's slightly more expensive; it's an even trade-off for the time I save.  In and out.  Easy-peasy.
 
There's a scene in the movie, "I Am Legend", where Will Smith is driving down some street and passes a gas station that advertises a gallon of unleaded for over $6.  And I'm guessing that was before the-end-of-the-world-as-Will-Smith's-character-knew-it.  Just my opinion, but I really don't see someone changing the gas sign of their own volition as New York turned into Hell in a hand-basket.  Six bucks for a gallon of fuel, and look what happened.  I'm not saying there's any correlation between soaring gas prices and an impending viral apocalypse (fictional or otherwise).  I'm just saying.

Shoes

They say you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes.  I especially take the time to examine the footwear of everyone I meet.  A flashy kick may suggest someone outgoing; an extravert.  A modest loafer implies a modest soul (pun intended).  But what about a dead man's shoes?  Unless already picked out ahead of time, someone else choses the shoes we're buried in, cremated in, etc.  But what about the shoes we die in?

The story I'm about to tell you is not based on a true story or inspired by actual events (I'll post more on the difference between the two later).  The following is a true story:

Between my freshmen and sophomore years of college, I worked on the maintenance crew at MIS (Michigan International Speedway); the place for all NASCAR, IROC, and other races I can't recall at this time.

Basically, we performed regular grounds keeping, trash removal, etc.  But, mostly, we built tire walls.  Four or five tires stacked in a half-honey-comb shape; drilled through and bolted together.  As long as I live, the stench of burning, dirty-rubber shall never be swiped from my olfactory memory.

Traditionally, MIS holds three main events per year (one in June, one in July, and one in August).  During race weekends we mainly drove around on golf-carts (we'd open them up and adjust the governor to make them go twice as fast as intended).  Hell, sometimes between races, the maintenance crew would go down into the infield ('Cause we had full access except into the pit during a race), and race our suped-up carts around the inner track.  Drunken red-necks cheered us on from atop campers.  I won -- once.  But I didn't feel on top of the world.  When you're in the middle of the pit in the perigee of the August sun you never do. 

Even as I sit here writing this, my mind drifts back to fading days.  But I deviate. 

Our biggest job during race weekends was to make sure the bathrooms fully stocked (and working properly), at all times.  Some people say cleaning toilets is a humbling experience.  I say, try cleaning stadium-arena bathrooms (at a NASCAR event), all day, all weekend, in hundred degree heat, and in a structure fashioned from concrete and cinder-blocks.  Then, when people talk about how humbling it is to wipe someone's ass, you'll just smile and nod, and know the truth; that eventually, we all gotta root through shit to make porcelain shine white.  Or, something like that.

It got hot out there; sultry and muggy.  People do weird things when intoxicated and under high-heat conditions.  Unnatural things.  Things that needn't be divulged via world-wide public domain.

Sometimes it got so hot people just died; literally dropped like flies. 

Season ticket holders to MIS and other affiliate events sometimes "bussed-it-in."  Which meant, that you could take a NASCAR sponsored bus that shuttled you to every event, kinda like how Deadheads followed the Grateful Dead around during the early '80s. 

This one time, a guy (let's call him Joe, 'cause I don't know his real name), suffered an aneurysm or something, I don't know I'm not a doctor, although I often pretend to be one in real life.  Anyway, he was in the bathroom of this bus, collapsed in this rinky-dink bathroom; with his corpse blocking the folding door.  If you've never been in a bus bathroom, it's much like the facilities on an airplane.  If you've never been in one of those, imagine a porta-John, but slightly smaller; more confined.  And if you've never been in any of those -- start living!  Anyway, the paramedics had to come and cut the door off just to get Joe out of there.

The maintenance crew I was working that day just so happened to be stationed the closest to the scene.  So, we were pulled off stocking toiletries to post guard.  See, once everyone else got off the bus, the driver pulled into maintenance headquarters, aka, "base."  We had fully stocked carts, but we'd run out of supplies and have to return to the base to get more.  Well, base was closed off while the paramedics retrieved Joe's body.  So the carts drove up to the back gate (guarded by me and a few others), and told us what they needed.  I should make this clear, we weren't inside the gate.  We were outside.  We'd radio in what we needed and someone else brought the stuff out; rendering our guarding the gate completely futile.  But, the boss wanted us there anyway.

 I wondered what kind of shoes Joe might wear.  Sneakers?  Boots?  Flip-flops?  But, by the time the paramedics carted him out, Joe had already been covered with one of those white, medical-sheets.   

Now, I actually told you that story to tell you this story:  The following month, at the final (August) race, I noticed something odd while restocking the bathroom.  It was the middle of the day, and during the middle of a race, and on (what felt like), the hottest day of summer.  We couldn't wait until the end of the day to re-supply toiletries, because soap, towels, and other sundries would run out.  Each crew had a designated area with four to five bathrooms in their section.  Each bathroom had to be checked and restocked every couple of hours or so.  We didn't clean until the end of the day.  Which somehow made it worse.  We checked vacant stalls to make sure they weren't out of toilet paper.  But, sometimes a stall would be empty even if the door closed.  It's poor bathroom etiquette (for a janitor), to knock on a stall to find out if it's occupied.  The best way to check was to just glance underneath the stall and look for feet.  This could also be accomplished by glancing into a mirror at just the right angle (but only if there weren't a slew of people around the sink-area).  I was in the very same bathroom I was a month prior when we got the call to return to base and guard the gate.  In the very last stall were a pair of red sneakers with white trim.   Fairly new.  Slightly scuffed.  Not just shoes.  But feet, as well.  You might be wondering how, over the years and over all the different pairs of shoes I've seen, how I could recollect this particular pair of footwear with perfect detail.  It's because, every couple of hours, when I returned to that particular bathroom, and I glanced underneath that particular stall, I saw those same red Nikes with white trim.  Slightly new.  Fairly scuffed.  I remember thinking, I hope they don't run out of tp in there.  Hour after hour, the same thing.  Those sneakers just where I'd seen them last, as if they a landmark of that specific facility.  The previous race's events still fresh in my mind, I worried that the owner of those red Nikes might have kicked the proverbial bucket while taking their last ride upon the porcelain throne.  But, for some reason, I didn't tell anyone about it.  To this day, I don't know why.  Was I scared?  If so, what was I afraid of?  That there would be a bloated corpse?  Or maybe by the time I actually relayed my suspicions to someone, those sneakers would be gone, and I would be the victim of taunting and ridicule.  People would think I was a nervous Purvis after what happened during last month's race.  Whatever the reason, I decided to wait until the end of the day.  When it came, I remember standing there, in front of the stall.  Just standing there.  Someone asked me what I was doing.  I don't recall my response.  I remember being filled with uneasy anticipation, until the point where I was nearly swaying back and forth.  I swallowed the acrid tingle rising in the back of my throat and glanced underneath the stall.  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  No slightly scuffed red Nikes.  No feet inside.  Nothing.  Still, I cautious of opening the stall door, but I did. 

To this day, I don't know what happened.  Was someone really in there all day?  Why?  Had they fallen asleep (or, more to the point, passed out)?  Was it a ghost?  Were they the shoes of a dead man?  A trick of the mind?  I don't know.  Perhaps I never will.

Yes, it's true you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes.  And I've met a lot of people and examined cornucopias amounts of footwear, most of which, I've long since forgotten.  But those sneakers, those red Nikes with white trim; fairly new, slightly scuffed, I will never forget. 

J.S.F     

First time blogging.  I feel like a pilgrim in a strange, new land.  What else will wash ashore the banks of the River Internet?  Time will tell.