Archive for August, 2010

1. Opinion (2006)

What chance do we have?

With the direction society is plunging in, what chance do we have to live normal, uninterrupted, moral lives?
Interpretation of morality is of course subjective; however I would say that disparaging someone after, or making light of, their untimely death is flatly immoral.

I heard a man talking today about his ex-wife. He was speaking to a few women, one in particular, and casually mentioned that his wife had gotten cancer and died during the processing of their divorce, “making the divorce easy for him!” No remorse in his voice, no follow up statement to make himself sound less arrogant or heartless. Instead, his follow up was to joke, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!”

The ladies tittered nervously, and left abruptly. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to physically punish him for the mental harm that he had just done to me and the others that heard him talking unsympathetically about the death of a woman he at one time loved enough to marry. I wanted him to look at me, dizzy and choking on blood and teeth, and understand that punishment comes in many forms, and on this day, the most primal form had caught up with him.

I had to take a few breaths of reason to not do so, and even then, my feet were exiting the situation while my head was still right in the thick of it.

Read On…

2. Beep-Beep. (1999)

One day I was riding my bicycle down the street when some idiot and his girlfriend in a very nerdy jeep tried to veer me into the cars parked alongside us. It was a perfect east coast spring day- cool and sunny. I had a sweatshirt on, and it must have made me look a bit younger than I actually was. Usually bullies only mess with young kids and old people.

I avoided hitting the cars, not for the lack of him trying, and so as what I thought was a passive retort, I rode in the center of the street making it briefly impossible for him to pass by. I was pissed, but was intent on enjoying my day. I was on my way to a friends’ house, so I was just going to inconvenience him for a minute and then turn off towards my destination.

A spectacular plan until I heard what sounded like a loudspeaker in my ear: “Get out of the road you stupid fuck! I’d love to just run you over but my Jeep’s too nice! Get out of the way you loser!”

What a stupid, one-in-a-million chance. The prick that was veering me into the cars also had a megaphone with speakers set up in his jock-mobile. That alone entitles him to have something bad happen.

Read On…

3. Learn the Hard Way. (2002)

I am at a point where I don’t understand anything, least of all the things in my life that I thought I understood quite thoroughly.
I’m not driven by anything positive, I’m not contributing anything I feel is positive, and I fucking can’t stand to even look most of the people I meet square in the eye.
Those things are a problem.

I am a person that is highly affected by my intentional and unintentional surroundings; I feel as each week and month passes, they become more and more foreign and less and less appealing. I can’t really say why. I think it has something to do with the fact that every time I leave the god damn house I’m reminded how the things that fuel modern society are the very same things that fuel my aversion to it.

Read On…

4. Fatally Flawed. (2001)

In everyone’s day-to-day travels, they probably run across someone that is at least thinking something bizarre or derogatory about them. I guess the easiest way to determine how much of a freak or an asshole someone is could be based on whether they have the gall to say those things to strangers… I’ve met more than a few people that can’t make the complicated distinction between casual conversation and belligerent antagonism.

The most recent was a fanatical gentlemen at the Home Depot in Lakewood, Ca. My friends are building some skateboard ramps, and I was assigned the daunting task of matching the screws they were using to some new ones at Home Depot. I was also responsible for paying for them, carrying the bag to the car, AND delivering them to the builders. All in one day…

Anyhow, I was walking around the worst home improvement store in the free world carrying a screw and looking for the cryptic sign in the aisle that would lead me to its mates when a well dressed, normal-looking thirty-something dude stopped me short.
I figured he may have thought I worked there; I get that a lot at establishments that are frequented by oddballs and older white people, but no such luck.

No question was proposed, merely a statement offered: “You know, those tattoos are horrible, they look awful.” OK, I though for a second, a tattoo purist that found some type of technical imperfections in mine. Constructive criticism, I’m not above it, but again, no such luck.

Read On…

5. The War. (2010)

As more and more time passes after an event or feeling has occurred, the gravity of it having happened often dissipates, or at the least, blurs. I feel this is mandatory in order for many people’s sanity to stay intact.
I often recall feelings from many years back in my life as if they were born today, and while I am glad to have had experiences worthy of strong feeling, if their potency were to diminish a bit, it would make my emotional situation a little more manageable.

Maybe they are yet unreconciled within me; maybe I am just a big fuckin’ baby. Either way, every morning when I wake up and look around my house at some of the things that live there, my eyes well up and my heart drops. Dozens of other innocuous incidents elicit a similar result.

I am quite sad, quite often. I’m not an overtly morose sort, and certainly not one that needs or solicits sympathy for troubles I have undoubtedly brought on myself. I am also not one that thinks being sensitive makes me weak. Quite the opposite. The sadness and ill-ease that keep me warm at night also drive me; sometimes mad, but often times to, through, and past any goals I set or roadblocks that may come upon me.

And maybe if as I wished things softened over time it would be a disservice to the memory. Maybe the honor of enduring the experience is served best by its memory staying sharp and mean, and proving useful in guiding my path for the future.

6. “The Trump Card” (Non-fiction, 1997/ 2007)

This is a story about my personal interactions with Mark Christie, the man that kidnapped and killed four-year-old Kali Ann Poulton in 1994 and killed Viola Manville in 1988. It is a PDF, linked below in red.

The Trump Card.

It is not to be re-posted anywhere without written permission. All writing on this site is Copyright, both the real way and the poor mans way. And, I’ll find you.