MY FANTASY LIFE AS A FAMILIAR

But listen carefully to the sound
Of your loneliness
Like a heartbeat drives you mad
In the stillness of remembering
What you had
And what you lost.

Deep in every man's heart, I think, is that first taste of female beauty; the first time you realized what a gorgeous and mystifying race of creatures these beings were. I'm not talking about a first crush, as that could be anything with a pair of tits and a sassy 'tude. No, the feeling to which I refer runs a little deeper, a little stronger than a crush. No, I'm talking about one of those moments where a boy comes to the realization that girls are part of an alien and wonderful race all their own, with a different purpose and meaning that their male counterparts couldn't possibly comprehend.

For better or for worse, that moment came for me the first time I had heard Stevie Nicks on the radio. Her voice was like something from another universe, angelic and ethereal. She sang about things magical and other-worldly, the vibrato in her voice emphasizing the mysteries in her untamed soul.

Even more alluring was that she was rumored to be a witch. Coming from an ultra-fundamentalist background, there were few things more intriguing to me than a beautiful blonde who violated God's holy laws and sought to manipulate nature for her own ends. I used to fantasize about being her minion, her familiar, subverting my needs for her own witchy desires.

And he was just like a great dark wing
Within the wings of a storm
I think I had met my match,
He was singing...
And undoing...
And undoing...
The laces
Undoing the laces

Her voice spoke of a world where lovers embraced late into the night, murmuring things to each other too pristine for the vulgarity of the everyday world. Her clothing was loose and flowing, befitting of a creature of the wild. She was everything I had been taught to fear, and everything I longed to embrace.

She is older now, of course, and much of the mystique is gone. But her voice and her beauty still take me somewhere I want to be. And for that, she will always be my first real love.

Black shadow of a woman
Black widow
Pale shadow of a dragon
Death woman

KE$HA

I don't have any excuses, explanations, regrets, rationalizations, or apologies. I like her. Her songs are catchy and put me in a good mood.

Oh, and I like Miley Cyrus, too.

Now fuck off.

TRANSCENDENCE II

This is probably my favorite picture that I have ever seen. I don't know why. I find it wistful and bittersweet, and not without an element of the eternal. Part of me would like to know more about it, such as the who, the where, etc. But then, I've learned that anytime you take part of the mystique away from something, you stand a chance of spoiling the aesthetic it provided in the first place. So no internet searches for me.

"WITH MY HANDS AROUND THE THROAT OF A WHITE MAN"

Supposedly, this was jazz great Miles Davis's response when asked how he would like to spend his last ten minutes alive. Sorry, but that's just a cool-ass fucking quote.

THE DIAF SERIES, VOL. II

Have you ever just stared into a fire and become mesmerized by its beauty and its mystery? Watching the flames travel upward into some unknown destination in the vast expanse of the heavens? Hearing the soft crackle as delicate pieces of kindling contribute what's left of their short lives to the spectacle of wonder and aesthetic perfection that the average conflagration gifts upon us? I somehow sense the answer is yes. Does it not make sense, then, that if one knew, just KNEW, that the experience of observing a fire could be heightened that much more by the careful placement of certain items in its angry center, that such an action would have to be taken? I think it would. Yes, I think it would.

One of these items, brothers and sisters, is the unwashed and unshaven and highly repulsive comedienne turned actress turned, god help us, leftist political activist Janeane Garofalo. Imagine the auditory orgasm that would doubtless result in hearing the flesh sizzle slowly off the bones of this rancid specimen. And the screams. Ahhh, yes, the screams of agony and terror as the reality of her worthless life was placed in full view before her rapidly melting eyeballs. This, my friends, is the kind of show I would pay good money to see.

I have to admit I kind of liked her when she first came on the scene, a young Gen-X stand-up comic with an acerbic wit and a keen eye for cultural bullshit. She did okay in her acting career, as well, playing mostly chubby best friends or some type of pretty-on-the-inside wallflower looking for love. But then, of course, she realized she had Something To Say. Ignore the fact that can't seem to form a coherent political thought or even articulate why those who don't think like her are so wretchedly evil. Just listen to her fist-raising hippie rage and know she's right, goddammit!

After spending at least a decade deriding everyone she disagrees with politically as unthinking, uncaring, diabolically evil yet still somehow retarded, and treasonous, Garofalo shows no sign of becoming fair-minded, or even rational, anytime soon. She wears her irony proudly, hardly ever stooping so low as to offer a single substantive critique of anything or anyone. All of her statements are given in broad-brush language, mocking those who disagree with her as barely human thugs while giving no real examples of something evil that was said or done. Here is a perfect example of her "logic" in action while discussing the tea party movement with Keith Olbermann:

[L]et's be very honest about what this is about. It's not about bashing Democrats, it's not about taxes, they have no idea what the Boston tea party was about, they don't know their history at all. This is about hating a black man in the White House. This is racism straight up. That is nothing but a bunch of teabagging rednecks. And there is no way around that.

Couple of interesting things here: (1) Race was not the topic at this gathering and it was, in fact, not mentioned at all. Garofalo merely throws a favorite liberal cliche into the gasoline hoping it will ignite. Note that there is no explanation of the causal connection between being against higher taxes and hating black people, or even a single example of a "racist" tea partier. She simply takes what she learned from Bill Maher (that if you say something loudly and/or smugly enough, it becomes true), and applies it with full force; (2) The appearance is on pinko pussy Keith Olbermann's show. And of course, they are cut from the same cloth. Too cowardly to appear or debate with anyone who might reveal them for the intellectual frauds they are, they retreat to their little metaphorical college dorm room where they can have their bull sessions about "racists" and "homophobes" while never having to provide anyone with even the slightest inkling of factual evidence to support their cause. It is both a sickening and infuriating display.

She states in unequivocal terms that all "right-wingers" are liars with no empathy and whose minds are snapped tight snug and smug. What exactly are they "lying" about? Don't ask, that's not important. What is important is that Garofalo fulfill her inner destiny of becoming the 21st Century's Jerry Rubin. Her progress is going swimmingly so far. Let's just hope her death is a little more painful, and a little more fiery, than her ideological twin. Godspeed, you brain-dead cunt.

JAZZ

I've always wondered if people who claim to enjoy it are doing so simply for effect. Seriously, is there anything remotely enjoyable about this style of music? Sometimes it makes for decent background noise in a noir type film, but that's about as many props as I can give it. I believe it is music meant for the brain as opposed to the soul, but what the fuck do I know? While I definitely appreciate and respect the talent of all the great musicians who have devoted their lives to it, it still just kind of leaves me cold. My unscientific opinion is that white liberal guilt has a lot to do with its fanbase. But then, there are so many phenomena we can attribute to that particular quirk, aren't there?

IN THE BLOOD: COUNTERPOINT?

Hollywood has a sneaky little habit of putting the more intelligent words into the mouths of its villains rather than its saviors. If you don't believe me, watch any of the Die Hard movies. Writers do the same thing, I think, albeit on a smaller scale. Take, for instance, the awesome figure of Judge Holden from Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian: Or The Evening Redness in the West. "The Judge," as he is known, is one of the most compelling heavies in American literature (yes, I think McCarthy rises to the level of "literature" in this stunning book), aided in no small part by his formidable intellect. Following are The Judge's words on the nature of conflict and war and, for lack of a better term, the "rightness" of it all:

"Suppose two men at cards with nothing to wager save their lives. Who has not heard such a tale? A turn of the card. The whole universe for such a player has labored clanking to his moment which will tell if he is to die at that man’s hand or that man at his. What more certain validation of a man’s worth could there be? This enhancement of the game to its ultimate state admits no argument concerning the notion of fate. The selection of one man over another is a preference absolute and irrevocable and it is a dull man indeed who could reckon so profound a decision without agency or significance either one. In such games as have for their stake the annihilation of the defeated the decisions are quite clear. This man holding this particular arrangement of cards in his hand is thereby removed from existence. This is the nature of war, whose stake is at once the game and the authority and the justification. Seen so, war is the truest form of divination. It is the testing of one’s will and the will of another within that larger will which because it binds them is therefore forced to select. War is the ultimate game because war is at last a forcing of the unity of existence. War is god."

Is he right? I can honestly say that I don't know, but he makes a compelling fucking case. The Judge states, much more articulately than I have, why he believes strife to be deep in the heart of all men. Should it make me nervous that my own views regarding this subject are somewhat echoing one of the most malicious and evil characters in the history of fiction? Well, it does. But there it is, regardless.

IN THE BLOOD

"Those who want to live, let them fight; and those who do not want to fight in this world of eternal struggle do not deserve to live."--Adolf Hitler

Not that I'd want him organizing my 401K or anything, but I believe Der Fuhrer was onto something there. Struggle, war, trials, tribulations; all lie at the heart of just about any significant progress made by our species. Yet we are taught to distrust our aggressive instincts almost constantly, at least in America. Never mind that anger and hatred have probably built more civilizations than love and acceptance ever dreamed of; never mind that without conflict we would be pretty much bereft of any great literature; in fact, the "darker" emotions are typically at the heart of all great works of art.

Do you ever suspect that our feminized and therapeutic culture's constant yammering about anger management and keeping our more violent emotions "under control" is simply a ploy by those in power to keep the male population safely emasculated and thus eliminate any potential threat to said power structure? I certainly do. The level of testosterone-fueled rage that lies just barely under the surface of the "average male" is something I believe keeps the female power structure tossing and turning at night. Not sure, why, though, as there are no signs of any real threat to this hierarchy on the horizon.

I am not saying this tongue-in-cheek: I honestly believe we have lost something as a society by teaching kids that hatred and anger are emotions that should NEVER be cultivated and always distrusted. Sorry, but anger and hatred are at least part of the reason America was founded, and I don't mean the type of oh-dear hatred much maligned by the academy and the media. I am talking about the righteous indignation felt by any member of a culture or society that believes its "people" are on the receiving end of the proverbial shaft.

On May 19 and May 20 of 1856, Senator Charles Sumner (R. Massachusetts, and a well-known abolitionist) gave a speech on the senate floor attacking both the Kansas-Nebraska Act and its authors, Stephen Douglas of Illinois and Andrew Butler of South Carolina. In his verbal assault on Butler, Sumner repeatedly mocked both the speech and mannerisms of the 59 year old senator. See, Andrew Butler had suffered a stroke in the past that had affected his nervous system, as strokes often do. Apparently, Sumner saw this unfortunate turn of events as fair game for a public speech. Sadly for Senator Sumner, not everyone agreed with his assessment. On May 22, two days after his speech, Congressman Preston Brooks (D. South Carolina), a nephew of Butler's who had been, quite understandably, somewhat offended by the senator's oration, approached Sumner in the senate chamber, made a few perfunctory statements, and proceeded to beat him severely with a thick cane over the head. The beating was so severe that Sumner was blinded by his own blood, and rendered unconscious. Brooks continued the beating until his cane broke. Sumner spent the next three years recovering from the attack, suffering from chronic headaches and a healthy dose of shell-shock.

Brooks's actions are lost on us, of course, as a society almost completely devoid of the concept of personal honor, outside of gang warfare. Today, we would only ask if Sumner had the "right" to say what he said, and if the answer was "yes," the debate would probably end. I have to frankly admit that I admire Preston Brooks and the actions he took that day. I'd like to think I would have the balls to do the same thing if someone publicly mocked a relative of mine who had suffered a stroke but, of course, as I am a product of our age, that is seriously in question. Most likely I would simply make fun of someone who did something like that as a product of a by-gone and best-forgotten era, while simultaneously dying a little inside.

This is a subject that probably deserves greater attention than what I have given it here, as I believe it is about our essence as human beings, and the ideas and actions necessary for us to constantly strive and to maintain something resembling integrity and courage in a culture that values neither. I'm sure there are authors who have addressed these concepts, but they've escaped my notice so far. I'd love to hear suggested reading material on the topic.