Dé Sathairn, Nollaig 29, 2007

If You Really Care About the Victims

You will consume as they consumed.

Driving Home Yesterday

My father, Dennis Lyons, spoke of his days as a deputy sheriff in Oregon. To be specific, he told me of the incidents in which he slaughtered people as part of his duties as a deputy sheriff in Oregon.

In 1971, a group of liquor-store robbers in Bend Oregon had taken hostages after being cornered by police. My father helped to diffuse the situation by shooting the head negotiator five times in the chest and neck. After this failed to knock the robber down, my father shot him in the head.

"He was so jacked up on PCP he didn't even notice. They say I scrambled his brains so bad there was no way he could get up. But he was still twitching when the coroner showed up. He still had that energy. They used to give that shit to the North Vietnamese. Not the regulars but, the, you know, the Cong. I remember shooting Cong straight in the heart, and the blood was spirting out five feet in front of them, and they just kept loading their rifles."

A few months before this the Bend area was apparently plagued by the so-called Bible Bandits. The bandits would walk into a gas station, lead the clerk to a backroom at gunpoint, make him get on his knees, lay a bible at his feet, and shoot him in the back of the head.

My father went undercover in a local service station armed with a .357 Magnum. The bible bandits came after a few days. One went in to rob the station and kill my father while the other stayed at the ready in the getaway car. After being led to the back room by the bandit, my father surprised him by pulling his Magnum out of his coat and pointing it at the assailant.

"I told him not to make another move if he wanted to see the next thirty seconds. He raised his gun-hand but he never had it pointed at me. I lifted my hand and shot him through the left temple.It came out through the right-rear and covered the wall behind him. I went outside and caught his partner from behind. I held the barrel against his head and told him the same thing I had told the other one. Now you may not believe this but having a gun pointed at your head will scare the piss out of you. This guy pissed all over himself, the barrel was warm and he knew I had just used the the thing on his partner."

Now, I have no way of knowing that any of this is true besides my father's say-so. There are parts of his story that seem more than a little incredible. Still, I believe him. The way he grows about being investigated after these incidents, simply because he had killed his fellow man, is something he would do.

"I would be walking around with Kathy (his late wife) and your sister, and people would come up to me and say, "Hey, you killed the Bible Bandits." It felt kind of weird you know?"

My father was involved in an accident at his job several months ago and currently lives on worker's comp. He is bored. He watches television, plays solitaire on a computer he doesn't know how to use, eats and sleeps. His old rants about how all murderers/child molesters/terrorists/home invaders/car thieves must be executed have grown more frequent and convoluted. He sold the last gun he had eight years ago when his shoulder became too sore to use it. Still he fantasizes; that's the only word for it, about an intruder coming into the house so that he will have the opportunity to manfully spill blood in defense of his flock.

And that's why I think the stories he told me yesterday are so important. This is a man who killed criminals in defense of the relatively innocent, and he demands to be considered a hero for it without qualification. My father is not a monstrous man, he is clearly haunted by the fact that he is taken human life; but it is precisely because he is haunted that he refuses to accept the second half of the phrase "necessary evil."

My mother likes to spend her days off watching that true-crime trash one finds on Court TV or A&E. There was something about the Menendez brothers on yesterday morning. I spent the time loading the car with my things while wondering why the murder of two wealthy southern Californians drew national media attention while the murder of a prostitute, or the "natural" death of a widow who had no one to talk to for the last year of her life, is noticed by no one.

The show's narrator, some hack "true-crime" novelist named Dominic Donne, said that the Menendez brothers were behind bars "where they belonged." "No" said my father, "they deserve the same fate as their parents."

And so, of course, shall they receive this fate, along with all the rest of us. My father was not the least bit curious as to why he should know the details of the deaths of two total strangers on the other side of the country twelve years ago. He does not question why a single sexual assult of a child somewhere in Montana or what have you should be breathlessly reported by cable news for six days.

"there may be responsible persons, but there are no guilty ones" - Camus

This I firmly believe. Death and suffering at the hands of another human being is, to me, nothing but one more unfortunate possibility out of many. There are actions, murder, rape, etc. that I consider evil, but to hear somebody say that they "believe" in evil is, to me, the same thing as hearing one speak of one's belief in water or brick walls. Evil is nothing but a specific action that causes a fellow human being great harm, there is nor metaphysical force behind it, nothing to "believe" in.

My father must believe that the metaphysical force is there. He must believe that one death by murder is more significant than twelve deaths by cancer. Murder is an opportunity to teach others that murder is wrong. For he has blood on his hands, and to live, he must believe that the corruption of the blood can be cured through spilling it.

Dé Luain, Nollaig 24, 2007

Merry Christmas

If I had a billion dollars, I would not spend five on Christmas decorations. Whether I will be in a good mood or not tommorow is a matter of pure chance. I am under no more moral obligation to try to be happy on December 25th than I am on Febuary 19th. Christmas represents nothing, symbolizes nothing, and means nothing. If there is no Christmas after this year, I will feel the same way I do when I read the obituatry of a 90-year-old man who died a natural death; a terrible shame, of course, but I would only be insulting the man if I pretended to care.

If my future wife insists on playing Christmas music, I will divorce her quietly.

Dé Luain, Nollaig 17, 2007

Homage to ol Mr. Bierce.

Socialism- To cause any wealthy person or cooperation any inconvenience for any reason.

Atheism- 1. To lack belief in God. Two of history's most famous atheists are the notorious dictators Joseph Stalin and Mao-Zedong. This is proof of the inherent evil of atheism, just as Hitler's love for small animals and children proves the inherent evil of these sentiments.

2.- Our God makes it okay to feel superior to other people. Now stop trying to kill our buzz or we will hurt you.

Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 16, 2007

I Demand Mandatory Steroid Use

"Mitchell: It's not just baseball of course, Charlie. Kids aren't just baseball fans, they are sports fans. It's every sport in which young people look up to prominent athletes. And as Don Hooten -- who I quoted today -- told Congress in 2005, "Kids do what they see the pros doing." And one of the most shocking aspects of this entire investigation to me…was to learn that hundreds of thousands of our children -- American youngsters -- are using steroids, placing themselves at great risk. And it must be emphasized, that the effect of steroids on youngsters, can be much greater than that on adults, because they are already going through serious hormonal changes in their life."

George Mitchell, from ABC News interview Transcript http://abcnews.go.com/WN/Story?id=3995794&page=2

Boo-fucking-hoo. The question, as far as I see it, is not how athletes can be better role models for children, but why are athletes considered role models for children? If your children have any more admiration for professional athletes than they do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a parent, and if you, God forbid, have any more admiration for athletes than you do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a human being.

And what is the purpose of a rodeo clown except to entertain? I for one was delighted to see major-league baseball turn into an absurdest-Tecmo parade of nothing but home runs and strikeouts. Have you seen any of the Dodgers-Yankees World Series' from the fifties, with all of that strategy and shit? The modern game is much better, and the only way to make it better still is to make steroid use mandatory in Major League Baseball in and all professional sports leagues. It's a can't lose proposition for any sports fan unburdened by morality; more home runs, more killer blocks and bruising runs, more dunks, more savage beatings, more random weeping, players dying of liver failure before they get the chance to embarrass themselves as TV commentators, and children learning the most valuable lesson of all; that success goes to those with the most contempt for their fellow man.

I read a playboy interview in which a linebacker for I believe the Steelers said that sacking the quarterback felt better than any orgasm he had had. With any luck, the influence of steroids will lead to men literally cumming on the field from the pleasure of causing another man pain. I want to see Teddy Bruschi writhing and moaning on the field for five minutes and be left unable to stand up every time he makes a tackle. I want to see quarterbacks and running backs go home to their trophy wives looking like Japanese school girls.

This is why we watch. this is why we love the game.

Dé Céadaoin, Nollaig 12, 2007

Christmas memories

My mother and I, December of 1982.

I wasn't allowed back into the house until I had devoured both carcasses. This took about six weeks.

When the blizzards came, I was forced to burrow inside one body cavity or the other.

This taught me to value rotting animal flesh more than the touch of any woman.

Dé Luain, Nollaig 10, 2007

The First Three

Google Images for "bald" are pornographic.

Not "bald snatch" or "bald pussy" or even "hairless beauties", just bald.

You people are fucking animals.

Do yourself a favor and never GIS "fucking animals."

Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 09, 2007

It's Well Known

That people associate with others like themselves. This is problematic for people like us.

I am not okay, and my friends are not okay.

I am the eldest, I should be some sort of anchor for us.

But this is never been my style.

I am more than a little frightened by where this is going to go.

Déardaoin, Nollaig 06, 2007

It Was Of Course, Inevitible, and Neccessary.

And so I gave Matt and Dan a call at around 9:30 last night and asked them if they wanted to go to Westroads, which of course they did. This is, fundamentally, what we do, who we are.

"How could this happen in Omaha" "You would never think it could happen here" variations of this, over and over again. It's still shocking, the number of people who truly believe that the place they happen to live is special. All you have to do is sleep with the homeless, or drink with the conquered, or smoke crack with the guy who invited himself to the party, and you will know that your comfortable home is built on a moldering foundation. Detroit, Compton, and Khartoum are all here in Nebraska for anyone who cares to look.

Coming off of I-680 it was easy to see why The Boy from Sarpy County had picked the Von Maur at Westroads. It stands like a Temple when you first come onto West Dodge, giving the illusion of a fortress hub among the haphazardly placed box stores and parking lots. Now this temple has been defiled, desanctified. they can leave the Christmas lights glowing through whatever hell or hazard may befall them but they can never get the blood out. And it was This Boy, this high school dropout, with his absurd phony Omaha scene-kid look; This Boy who had no hope of ever getting more han five miles away from home, for whom the faux-aura of a Van Maur he would never shop in was very real, who performed the defilement, killed the aura, killed the it can't happen here; whether Hawkins was trying to make any sort of "statement" or not, he was surely at least dimly aware of this, and found some satisfaction.

We had been in a Von Maur before, the one in the south suburbs of Lincoln. It was a purgatory; cardinal directions written in a pseudo-classical style over all of the doors, the chess board sitting there for anyone to play. The pianist, in her smart moderately upscale Von Maur black dress, conversations even a few feet away reduced to a background hum by the instrument, playing something vaguely classical or light-jazzish.

The New York Times says that the pianist in Omaha kept playing throughout the massacre, perhaps this is just a rumor, but I hope it's true, it would be her duty, the only appropriate thing to do.

We eventually found our way to the loop that goes around the mall and found crime scene tape around the entire parking lot with police guarding every driveway. this was to be expected. We stood behind the news vans in a strip mall parking lot while the police glared at us.

"I knew I probably wouldn't see any dead bodies but..."
"Were you hoping they would just be stacked in front of the front door?"
"Like so much cord wood."

Von Maur looked just as imposing from the east side; holiday lights in a tasteful solid white pattern surrounding the overhang.

There was talk of cruising through North Omaha or going to the casinos in Council Bluffs but it was a weeknight and cold. So we made our way back towards the interstate on 72nd. I had heard that Hawkins had worked at the MacDonald's at either 36th and Hwy. 370 or 84th and Hwy. 370, and since we were heading back to Lincoln anyways.

Even those of us who know Omaha can still be amazed by how worm-eaten it is, the amount of space needlessly occupied, 72nd street is marked by large weedfields and empty industrial buildings and shady gas stations that fill up the space until the appropriate amount of space between one Wal-Mart and the other, about three or four miles, has been taken up.

Matt took us to his childhood home in LaVista, a most unsuburban suburb, just one of a handful of independent entities in this part of the metro meant to distinguish middle-class whites from South O.

We were nervous when we got to the 84th and 370 MacDonalds. I was starting to feel vestigial pangs of decency, and if we angered them, we might not get our food, so it was Dan who asked if Robbie Hawkins had worked here.

"Honey please, you know that motherfucker's dead."

He worked at the place on 36th, as it turns out.

It didn't matter. We already knew that this trip was just another failed attempt to break out of the self, Nothing to do now but turn the car towards Lincoln, light another joint, and ponder the obvious racial inferiority of Iowans.

Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 02, 2007

I'm Putting a Minor Class Paper on my Blog, Because I Hate you.

Joshua Beran
English 410
For all of its flash and flourish, “You Shall Know Our Velocity” ultimately comes down to a theme that has been prevalent in English-language fiction at least since the days of Joyce and Wolfe; the self as inescapable prison. Will and Hand, of course, are trapped in their American prejudices and presuppositions, filled with mortal dread at every chance encounter on a dark street in a way they might not be in Chicago. More than that though, it is their own character flaws and the way these flaws reinforce each other when Will and Hand are together that makes their exotic journey somewhat futile. Hand will always be a bit arrogant a condescending. Will will continue to be shy and inside of himself. The name Will is rather ironic, as it is clear that this journey is easily the boldest thing he has ever done.
Hand’s “interruption” makes explicit what the reader may be inclined to suspect anyways. Will depicts himself receiving a beating that would have been fatal without medical help, yet there is no description of this help. His descriptions of Jack are always a bit shady, and the story of the plot to take Jack to Mexico for secret medical treatment is beyond incredulous. But there is also reason to doubt Hand’s narration; how did this underachiever find himself in such an enviable position, with his own private villa, receiving visits from lonely housewives? Hand’s version of the story also exonerates him of quite a lot; the beating, of course, but also his condensation and aloofness.

Beran 2
Besides that inescapability from self, Will and Hand also learn about the inescapability from place; again and again they are exposed to some of the trashier elements of American culture; 80’s music, Hollywood thrillers, etc. If the pervasiveness of American culture, the brevity of their visit to each place, and the fundamental self-absorption of Hand and Will aren’t enough to prevent them from really being in the places that they visit, there are the natives. The people who Hand and Will encounter have mouths to feed and are quite uninterested in helping them to find themselves or immerse themselves in the local spirit. Wherever Will and Hand go then, these two white Americans who let it be known that they have money to throw around will always be in touristland, if not treated better than the locals than certainly treated differently enough to be kept apart.
So in the end we have two men who are incapable of pure experience. Even when they take themselves to the other side of the world their experiences are colored, polluted, by stereotypes (both their own and those of the locals,) internal emotions, and ambiguous pasts. Will, whether the friend of a dead man or not, is clearly mourning something. Perhaps, at twenty six, he realizes that he has missed a critical opportunity to experience and behold with the purity of youth. Though still superficially young, he looks forward to nothing, and has no expectations for happiness, so he drifts.

The Ice Storm

Christina Ricci, 1997 Ang Lee film, based on the Rick Moody novel, Christina Ricci, Christina Ricci,.

I started Saturday by thawing out my van windows and making a quick trip to the grocery store for supplies.

Three cans of Chunky soup, a small supply of marijuana, One large can of Store-brand coffee, the day's New York Times and a copy of "Waiting For Godot"

Fire brings psychological comfort as well as material warmth to the lost camper. Fire scares away large predators and allows man to establish his ddominion whereever he happens to be.

Four 40-oz containers of Mickey's Malt Liquor. Mickey's taste of the bite of winter with a hint of short days and disturbing lucid dreams born of sleeping to long. Mickey's is perfect for the holiday season; goes great with a bowl of soup and a cup of hot tea.

One 12 gage shotgun with perhaps two dozen shells in various states of disrepair, a late-model Kalashnikov with perhaps three gross rounds of ammunition, this should be plenty, you can't allow them to come in, you can barely feed yourself.

But pray tell what good will your guns be if your hands freeze off boy? What do ya think of it boy? You don't think much do ya boy?



You realize now that fire has been your only hope all along and that you are the hope for everything. Fire keeps the bears and the wolves away yes, but also the dark men, yes, the men who live without the true faith and the true Gods are loath to approach God's fire.

I have nothing to burn, I have everything to burn. These things. These


Have always been there

in defiance

of this ice,

and now

they come to be.

Take your ax and hack your books and your desk and your windows and your house apart immediately. Would you not rip the fat from your own body for FIRE? Where is your body? Where is your true being?

Garrison Keilor, Missouri, vs. Oklahoma, these signals from outside tell me they know nothing of the situation, they either don't know or don't care. We have been left for dead, either for gold or convenience.

So be it. I have no line, I am eternal. I have fire, I am eternal. My enemies come to the warmth of my threshold and than cower and fade for I am eternal.

and the week shall be melted from the body with fire.

I stepped out with my GUN to find a meat dish to feed my soup. A man with Louisiana plates on his old truck asked me where the tity bar was. I directed him to the Night Before Lounge.

Colder than a witch's Tit. That is, as opposed to a nurturing, feminine and motherly tit.

Yes much better yes.

You know those shit burnt color schemes from the early 80's? I'm thinking specifically of the old San Diego Padres uniforms, the color of the mans hat was something like that, all burnt orange and burnt yellow, and I knew the Night Before would do.

For he is a weakling from a weak land and he has no fire and needs a mother and any mother will do.

A man called out from the darkness as I made my way home. As soon as I aknowlged him he said that it had been a misunderstanding and to have a good night bro.

He smelled the smoke of my skin in my clothes and he knew that my fire comes with me and if his children are to live to carry his brown hair into the planting time he will do well to let me pass and now I drink my ale in total security forever.

Dé Céadaoin, Samhain 28, 2007

cassez-les outre de quelque chose

Babel Fish translation for "Break Them Off Something"

When white American college kids riot over sports, it's boys being boys.

When brown Muslims riot over indignity, it's terrorism.

Get em boys.

Dé Domhnaigh, Samhain 25, 2007

Go to the grave where friends are laid,
And learn how quickly mortals fade,
Learn how the fairest flower must droop,
Learn how the strongest form must stoop,
Learn that we are but dust and clay,
The short-liv'd creatures of a day.
Yet do not sigh -- there is a clime,
Where they will dwell through endless time,
Who here on earth their Maker serve,
And never from his precepts swerve.
The grave to them is but a road,
That leads them to that blest abode.

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Wine and Whisky

One or the other friends, never both.

Dé Céadaoin, Samhain 14, 2007

Talk Radio on the FM

Lincoln's 95.1 recently switched from classic-rock to news-talk.

The differences between the audiences for the two are subtle but important. Classic-rock radio caters to middle-aged white men who take it for granted that they are the center of the universe, so of course "The Grand Illusion" is still in heavy rotation, keep rolling down the street with a song in your heart and without a care in the world.

Talk radio is for middle-aged white men who have suddenly awakened to the fact that the rest of the world doesn't know that it is here to serve them. This creates a profound frustration in our ruling class, so they use talk radio to take out their frustrations by screaming at each other about how everyone else is a communist/faggot/dyke/tree-hugger/freak/wetback/communistnazifaggot, etc.

Of course I do oversimplify. I do not mean to give the impression that things can be neatly divided between the laid-back middle-aged white man who never listens to talk radio and the angry middle-aged white man who never listens to classic rock. We all go through moments of great calm and great rage, and there is in fact quite a bit of overlap between the audiences of the two radio formats.

Neal Boortz was railing against a statement on global warming released by a group of Irish churches a couple days ago. The report apparently says, (Though I'm sure the main premise of the report was simplified and strawmanned by Boortz) that rich industrial countries are primarily responsible for global warming, they therefore should bear primary responsibility for alleviating the problem.

They may not sound terribly radical to you sitting there reading this. Rich countries are the ones that have historically had the most factories and the most cars, and are the only nations that actually have the money to do something about the problem.

But there is no global warming don't you know? Conservatives, you see, pride themselves on moral certainty. It is fascinating to hear a right-winger, on the surface an adult, say words like "doubt" and "confusion" in the same tone of voice that the rest of us use to say "death" or "rape". But the right-wing has made it very clear that they are dead-serious in their belief that moral confusion and self-reflection are the worst things in the world. War, double-think, frothing hatred for at least two-thirds of their countrymen and a solid ninety-five percent of the human race, all of this is preferable to the soft yonic waters of ambiguity.

So there is no global warming you see, because capitalism is good, and there is no "good but" or "bad but". To say a thing is good is to say that it is perfect, and to say a thing is bad is to say that it is pure evil. So to "believe" in global warming is to believe that capitalism, through industrialization, has caused a serious problem, and anyone who denies the perfection of good things doesn't really believe in them.

So no, there can't possibly be any global warming, it makes far more sense to believe that the entire scientific community not working for Exon is part of a gigantic communist/pagan/lesbian conspiracy to destroy modern civilization and force us to bow down to the Earth Goddess at gunpoint. Being absurd is far better than being womanly.

In bashing the Irish church report, Boortz never actually used the word socialism, there was no need to. His listeners understood that the churches were motivated by nothing more than envy for those who have worked for success and power, and that they want to force the rich "achieving" nations to give money to the poor, "unacheiving nations."

The report, needless to say, was an attack on the very concept of working for a living, and everybody who does work for a living should take it as a personal insult. Irish churches hate your willingness to provide for your family.

As proof that there is no global warming, Boortz told his listeners that the polar bear population is five times what it was in the 1950's. This is true, it isn't legal to slaughter polar bears at will anymore, and corporations are politely asked to mind where they spill their waste, which wasn't so much the case in the fifties, this has been helpful for the polar bear.

Of course, the fact that there are more humans alive today than there were during the Black Death doesn't mean we have nothing to worry about does it? Melting icebergs are a problem for the polar bears who live on them, as are the environmental stresses put upon seals, their main prey.

"If children were getting any kind of an education, this global warming hysteria would be over yesterday."

MMmhmm. There are more polar bears than there used to be, therefore global warming cannot possibly be real. This is precisely the kind of clear-headed, rational thinking that a good education provides. We must teach are children that there are certain things that they must assume in order to be good Americans/people, and, when necessary, to use backwards logic in order to justify these things that God's chosen people must believe.

And oh by the way, Al Gore made a movie about global warming, and he totally thinks he's better than you.

Dé Máirt, Samhain 06, 2007

Last night

I dreamed that I had sex with an animated cat.

I can't help but think that the cat may be a metaphor for something.

She was, as I recall, a young cat, but not untowardly so. It wasn't at all erotic, strictly functional. I was meant to be a kind of instructor. The cat had been tapped to marry some important person,like a sultan, or a lawyer, or the manager of a large convenience store at a major intersection.

The look of the cat would change with every blink of the eye or change in position. Sometimes she was a pixar-style computer-generated cat, than she would take on corporal form, like a Muppet. Mostly she took on the vivid-paint look of Japanese anime. She might be black or blue or red or neon green. The color changes were completely random and had nothing to do with her mood, which was completely placid throughout.

I've never sat through an entire anime cartoon. I've only seen it in small snatches.

I never thought that anime had any effect on my brain but you can't deny what's inside you.

A quick one before I go to bed

"Some schools have gotten so lax as to not be pledging allegiance to the flag everyday," Sullivan said. "We can easily get out of the habit of doing good things. (Patriotism) is something that continually needs to be taught."

Jacquie Sullivan, Bakersfield Ca. city councilwoman and president of "In God we Trust"
regarding her proposal to put "In god we trust" in local classrooms.

"My dick's constantly in her mouth"


Dé Sathairn, Samhain 03, 2007

Déardaoin, Samhain 01, 2007

To the 40-year old woman who hit on me at O'Rourke's

Sorry if I was evasive. You're perfectly good-looking and lovely, and normally I would love to. I appreciate experience in all things. But I have a cold, and the simple act of maintaining a five minute conversation is incredibly draining.

I've been using a cheap vodka/cheap coffee mixture as a decongestant. I took a five hour nap between 5:30 and 10:30 P.M and only dragged myself out of bed out of a sense of moral obligation.

It is Halloween after all. So I felt that it was the least I could do to go to the O street strip and pay my respects to the holiday by sitting in a dark corner of the bar huddled in my coat, scowling at any hint of human interaction, and exposing hundreds of innocent strangers to my virus.

Dé Céadaoin, Deireadh Fómhair 31, 2007

A Bowl of Soup

I'm sick, and I want a bowl of soup.

I went to emptystomachache, because I'm sick

Six AM no sleep cycle, wake, sick

Now I want soup.

Don't want to buy can

Don't want to buy can

can't can cook




Why is there no soup

in the morning

in this place

in this town.

Food is not meant

for time

food is not meant

meals are not meant

all social


all breakfast=egg

all red mary=brunch

all soup=lunch

is opiate

which satiates

the cold, burn

gravel throat, dress rattle

better than


condoned by the state

but it is a working

day today

and it would be greater

and it would be better

and I'll thank myself later

if now I had some soup.

Dé Máirt, Deireadh Fómhair 30, 2007

If you've ever felt that you're not enough of an asshole:

Treat yourself to the master's thoughts on "Brand New Day."

Dé Máirt, Deireadh Fómhair 23, 2007

Free Shit

Free Shit for the taking at 23rd and Q.

I will thank you to leave the busted bookshelf with the actual "Free Shit" sign to me.

You owe me nothing of course; but I would consider you to be an ungrateful person.

Dé Sathairn, Deireadh Fómhair 20, 2007

I Thought There Was A Virtue In Always Being Cold.

Fueurbach and I were having one of our patented overgrown boy adventures tonight, and I noticed that our normal personality roles were reversed. Our conversations normally go something like this.

Dan: Everyone's an idiot, isn't it funny?

Me: Everyone's an idiot, aren't you ashamed to be human?

We hit up all three bars in eternally-on-the-verge-of-doom Ashland Nebraska. A horrid band played horrid public-domain classic rock horridly, the guitar player covered himself in blinking lights and wore leopard-skin tight pants. A biker woman with a tragically stunted sense of self-worth flashed her breasts and grinded herself against another woman for the amusement of the locals.

If this was the me of no more than one week ago, I would be writing two thousand words excoriating this guitar player's Clear-Channel idea of rock-and-roll zaniness and offering him up as proof that everyone in Ashland, Nebraska is a worthless fucking moron.

Dan was in precisely this frame of mind. I could see that the locals were sensing our contempt and that my boy would get us into some sort of altercation with some man or group of men who have actually been in a physical fight in their adult lifetimes.

Oh but he softened with every random "how's it going" we got from every random person, and once we took over the jukebox at the place we were at for last call there was the sixteen-yr-old boy that everyone who knows the man loves, and after our perhaps ill-advised drive home he was genuinely happy.

My friend was happy.

He wondered aloud why I wasn't being my usual bitter self at the first bar. I recognized the silliness and stupidity of it all as much as I ever have, but, no, no I couldn't. I won't condemn. I can't. Not anymore, not again.

I still think, in fact know, that most people are idiots, but I also see how all of them love their friends and families, and how they feel joy and rage and boredom and grief and despair.

And I've been a brat. A 26-year-old brat.

Sheridan County, sorry about, you know, everything.

The spite was physically killing me, I could feel it. And than I was lying in bed between waking and sleeping at two A.M last Wednesday, and it occurred to me that my; if I do say so, my gift, my gift for seeing what's wrong for people isn't predicated on my scorn towards them. I don't need to hate these people to perceive and record what's wrong with them. With us, what's wrong with us.

This is my species, we are in this together. Every despairing member of a conquered race, every person in jail for a crime they didn't do or a crime that shouldn't be a crime, every single mother ignored by the world and trying to feed her kids through some manner of filthy, dehumanizing work. It's not the man doing that to them, it's not them doing that to them. It is us doing that to us. It is me doing that to us.

"I love everybody" so said Becky on some warm day last May, and she must have been joking, clearly she was still a girl. Very smart and charming, but clearly still a girl.

Love, after all, is nothing but naivety. The realization of this is what makes me smart, it's what makes me not a hippy, what allows me to lounge and rail against the man and the squares without being a hippy. It is only my choice of punching bag that makes me a liberal, but no worries, I certainly wouldn't be so ridiculous as to believe in something, and certainly not so naive as to actually love something. No worries, deep down I am just another funky white nihilist with a blog, a child of the modern age, not the slightest threat to the electro-fuck-you-order.

I treated her like a girl when I was first attracted to her a got the rejection I deserved.

And so it goes, she clearly doesn't she anyway, love is naivety.


This woman sees. If you have ever been in the same room as Rebbecca Ankenbrand she knows you perfectly well, she knows everything wrong with you and she loves you.

She said I had goodness in me and I thought she was being kind; but no, she never lies, never humors, she is only being brutally honest most especially when she is kind. My sister, my muse, my liberator, thank God for you.

And I realize that my inner goodness does not exist for the purpose of fellating myself. It is there to serve you, and I am at your service.

I can hardly breathe from the anticipation of seeing the sun.

Dé Máirt, Deireadh Fómhair 16, 2007

Kittens: By Christiana Paxton, age 7

The winter wind howls
and the sun sets
That's a good girl
don't be upset
Daddy's gonna come home
on a brand new jet
Daddy's gonna come home
on a brand new jet
Daddy's gonna come home on a brand new jet
and he loves his girl so

But don't you be foul
and don't make a mess
Don't be a bad girl
don't be a distress
or God is gonna come
he's gonna bury your home
or God is gonna come
he's gonna bury your home
or God is gonna come
he's gonna bury your home
and you'll be all alone

Alone with broken toys
and alone with skinned knees
alone till bad dreams
will be your only dreams
alone in the snow
and alone in the dark
alone with the snakes
and the dogs that bark
alone in the world
when the angels cry hark

And kittens get to run
but the dogs stay home
and kittens get to run
but the dogs stay home
and kittens get to run
but the dogs stay home
and we'll all be broken bones

Dé Luain, Deireadh Fómhair 15, 2007

Homage to Bertha

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Just did a life sentence (25 years, practically speaking) for killing a cop.

Is still a working and very active prostitute at 51.

Seems to be the de-facto pimp of her particular ring

For a small fee, will pleasure other 50-year-old women for the sake of a "rich" 50-year-old man.

Writes poetry, very much in the classical tradition with basic schemes of rhyme and meter. Her lines on how Timothy Mc'Veigh deserved the death penalty, because he murdered children, and children come from God; words can't describe. I went home and immediately burned my copy of the Aeneid. Everything that came before Wild Thang is nothing but diarehetic shit with a few flakes of children's glitter mixed in.

Knows eight languages. To be more precise, she knows a phrase or two from the various underclasses housed in the Nebraska State Pen, and there is intense debate over whether or not the differences between Pine Ridge Lakota and Rosebud Lakota constitute different languages or mere dialects. But I shall not dispute her claim, there isn't any more B.S. in it than when I bust out "Joi De Vive" as if it's part of my normal vocabulary.

Despite her inability to distinguish an English major from an English professor, Debbie seemed to realize that I am the Pope of the ghetto/university matrix; the only legitimate means of communication between the two worlds. "Street knowledge" is nothing but a well-developed theory of mind. If you had a five-minute glimpse of Debbie's powers of perception, you would be just as certain as I am about her perfectly admirable intelligence.

To love a city is to love her streets. If you don't love Debbie than you don't love Lincoln.

It's perfectly alright if you don't love Lincoln, but if I ever here you saying an ill word towards Debby it's the rope and the ball-gag and the back of my van for you.

Dé Sathairn, Deireadh Fómhair 13, 2007

This Dog

Followed me around while I was walking to the store for detergent and toothpaste. He looked like some sort of Pit Bull/Lab mix, thin but not unhealthy, bathed and collared, clearly somebody's.

He followed me from 26th and Vine and I yelled at him to go away. Two blocks later I nearly tripped over him and I yelled at him to go home again. A block later he was still behind me. I turned to him "where are you going boy" in a sing-song voice, and gave him a pat on the head. He jumped on his hind legs and did a little happy dog dance.

I led him back the way we had come until we reached a house where he lingered to smell the grass. I figured that this was either his house or the one next to it so I turned back around to go to the grocery store. When I reached 26th and Y to find him still behind me. He followed me into the parking lot of alps where he stopped to lick something off of the concrete while I walked inside.

When I came out I walked around the back to try to lose him, only to see him running towards me from 26th and Orchard. I quickly turned around and ran back to the front parking lot of Alps, and there he was running towards me on Y.

Ultimately, I had to jaywalk accross 27th to lose him. I tell myself that I did the right thing, but I can't help but think that this was the one. They never do show up when you expect them.

Dé hAoine, Deireadh Fómhair 12, 2007

A. Bird/Wilco notes.

Andrew Bird does the same thing in every song, stark string notes and ethereal lyrics building to a peak. But it always works, and that Janis Horn he puts in the middle of the stage is just fucking cool.

Jeff Tweedy kept mocking our Midwestern reserve. "If you wanna sit down and take it all in that's cool. If you wanna get up and shake your ass that's alright too. Lean toward the latter." The thing is, Jeff, that nuanced psychedelic country-rock really isn't ass-shaking music. You write the songs, you want people to shake their asses, change your style.

People were still looking for their seats in the balcony section long after Bird was done and Wilco were playing their second song, which just happened to be "I am Trying to Break Your Heart." Some kids sitting in the row ahead of me were apparently squaters in seats meant for will-call orders. It nearly came to blows when the people who bought the seats showed up. (During Trying to Break...) Married couple, three or four years older than me. The man was whooping and singing along to every word. It was annoying at first but I came to realize that he was simply a better fan than me and loved the deeper album cuts.

Oddly enough, they left after the first encore, though this was clearly a fake encore. Wilco always close with "Outa Mind Outa Sight" Anyone who has been to or seen a show before knows this. Odd that they would know the most obscure songs on "Sky Blue Sky" and not know this.

The band was wonderful, of course, noise and pain and sorrow and mercury.

Dé hAoine, Deireadh Fómhair 05, 2007

Dé Máirt, Meán Fómhair 25, 2007

On belief.

Clinton "takes her inspiration from European democracies. and "fundamentally does not believe in markets and in the states"

Mitt Romney, regarding Hillary Clinton's Health Care plan.

Well,good. The free market is a human system, operated by human beings, and is it not heretical to just about every religion to believe that a mortal system will provide the greater number of material goods to those who deserve it most? Here we see the dark side of the American dream in a nutshell; or rather, not dark side, because it is not malevolent,but more accurately the negative side, based on the childish desire to believe that the way things are is the way they are meant to be, that there is a friendly little grandad somewhere back there making sure that bad things happen only to bad people.

Personally, I think that capitalism is the generally the lesser of all evils. I make no apologies for not manfully believing in it. Many conservatives are of the mind that the basis of freedom is the ability to acquire and defend property. this is nonsense. There is no moral or symbollic connection between the work we do and the money we are paid for it. We do not "earn" money through our work, we are merely paid for our work. The things we choose to buy with this money do not represent our work ethic, do not represent our willingness to contribute to society, and do not represent our willingness to provide for our families. We are nothing but our individual brains, and we cannot possibly assert our beings materially. One cannot possibly declare the importance of one's existance materially, cannot possibly defy mortality through any tangible thing.

No, the basis of freedom is freedom from belief. Virtually any belief that seems decent and moral on its surface requires subsidiary beliefs that are ruthless, nihilistic, and nonsensical. I can not think of a single belief that does not require stretching conformation bias to its limit. For every vagrant begging you for enough change for a steel reserve there is a scotch-addled executive who has handlers to keep his habit quiet. for every young welfare mother there is an upper-middle class party girl tearing through the local frathouse bedrooms with impunity thanks to her access to condoms, the pill, and the clinic.

Adherence to tradition is submission to mortality and nothingness. Optimism is a sort of fascism.

As for health care, how long shall we wait before our Godly belief in the free market pays off? Can we expect children to stop dying of toothaches before or after our self-inbred messiah comes down from the clouds?

Dé Sathairn, Meán Fómhair 22, 2007

When The First Icy Sunday Comes

And you hate the quiet, and you think of all the time you wasted in the summer, and all the time you've wasted in your life, and the coffee only makes the headache worse, and you are the last one left, and it's all over now, because nothing is established, and the ones who come after won't care, because no one has done what they are doing before, this is what the end is, this is what it is to age, grown, with nowhere left to go, and nothing to please you.

She died in the afternoon, more appropriate than the morning, she never had anything to
during the days, but she always loved the morning, and she loved the night.

But she didn't sleep, and she was restless, and you were supposed to keep her happy, but she couldn't concentrate, find balance, find what she liked the most.

She liked you, probably not the most though. And she got bored with you too.

You could go to the cafe. But their will only be two or three there on a cold morning like this. Not enough to blend in, and they will know that you have nothing to do with your days.

The times never change, only the places do, but your places don't change, your mind drifts, and than you are bored, and than you are tired, and you were going to go today, but

When she was bored she would rage, and it was so disgusting, so childish, absolutely horrible and manipulative and shattering, and you knew you would be in bed before the hour was out

Dé Máirt, Meán Fómhair 11, 2007

Dé Sathairn, Meán Fómhair 08, 2007

So, Sam Keller

"You come into the defending ACC champions' house and take one from them -- that's big time."

Right then, so here's a grown man, at least theoretically college educated, using "big time" in a sentence. At least he didn't use "boom-shak-a-laka" or the non-specific "baby."

If he blows the game against S.C. I'm taking away his O.A.R CD's myself.

Dr. Dre for GOP nomintaion

Dr. Dre is a staunch supporter of the 2nd amendment

Dr. Dre is a firm believer in traditional gender roles.

Dr. Dre has been wildly successful in the South-Central Los Angeles drug trade, the freest and most unregulated market in the world.

Dr. Dre would vigorously pursue the war on terror and would strike ruthlessly at any other enemies America may face. Naive liberals who beg for mercy towards those who hate America are bound to get raped by Dre.

While some wonder whether Barrack Obama is "black enough". This is most certainly not an issue with Dre.

Dr. Dre has made thousands of abortions unnecessary by savagely beating pregnant women.

Dr. Dre is an invincible murder machine and it is futile to try to deny him absolute power.

Considering all this, Mr. Heartland enthusiastically endorses Dre for the Republican presidential nomination. As for the Democrats, I'm still torn between Obama and M-1

Dé Céadaoin, Lúnasa 29, 2007

Larry Craig is an amusing fellow

Conservative men have always fascinated me, mainly because I don't believe there is any such thing as a man having an objective appreciation for the manliness of other men. Masculinity can not be coolly admired from a distance as if it were a wall mural. One either wants to be ravished by testosterone or is indifferent to it.

Although it is the logical conclusion of what I believe, I have never gone so far as to say that ALL conservative men are closet homosexuals. Perhaps there is some other explanation for the obsessive demand for strong, decisive, hard, steely, bulging, straining, groaning, sweat-covered leadership. I could be wrong. Maybe these fellows simply had good relationships with their own fathers, and aren't actually being driven mad with their hidden desire for a daddy. But then there's these incidents that keep happening; Jeff Gannon strolling through White House security to verbally fellate the president at a press conference, his ease in doing so strongly suggesting that he has a boyfriend somewhere in the West Wing, Mark Foley's epic search for an eromenos warmed the hearts of all of us longing for a return to classical values, and now we hear that Idaho Republican Senator Larry Craig was trying to get busy in an airport bathroom. Accusations of cruising have hounded Craig for a long time. An old frat brother says that Craig hit on him at his pledge. (Seriously, what was he expecting?) and another man (closely tied to the republican party, meaning what who knows) reported having oral sex with Craig in the D.C. Union station bathroom in 2004.

It is impossible to imagine anything more foul than committing any sort of sex act in a Washington D.C. public bathroom, and to be fair the story is just hearsay. All the same, there are an awful lot of people shouting fire about the senator, and, sweet Jesus God a D.C. bathroom.

In North Platte there is this woman named Sue, she is a lifelong friend of my mother's and has always been something of an aunt to me. She had a boyfriend some who owned a white astrovan. One night he pulled his van to the side of the road as I was drunkenly walking home and asked me if I wanted my dick sucked. But I suppose that's neither here nor there. I bought a white astrovan on Sunday, just so you know.

Studies have shown that many men who frequent glory holes don't consider themselves gay, indeed their identities are often fiercely hetero and masculine. They just like to suck a little dick every now and then is all, for the same simple reason other men barbecue or go fly-fishing together. If one were to go by the demographics of the se men,(white, middle-class and blue-collar) it can be assumed that the majority of them vote Republican. Now that I think of it, it has been some time since a major Republican officeholder has been in a sex scandal involving a woman.

But no. As much as I love hyperbole, I still can't bring myself to say that all conservative men are gay. It's statistically impossible. It would simply be prejudicial, slanderous, to say something so outrageous and unprovable.

Or maybe I'm just afraid of the implications. The G.O.P., after all, still controls the executive branch of government; meaning the business end of government. Much as the brain is unable to conceive of its own death, it may well be that the thought of federal law enforcement agencies and the military being run by closet-case pinheads looking for something socially acceptable to pin their love of penis upon is so horrifying that my mind must reject it to preserve its own sanity.

After all, if this were the case, it's safe to say that the Pentagon and the FBI would be behaving exactly as they are now.

Dé Domhnaigh, Lúnasa 26, 2007

Saturday, 2:AM

When one is walking through Lincoln's Near South neighborhood at 2Am on a Saturday night, it is assumed that one is looking for something. We have no dangerous neighborhoods mind you, we simply have neighborhoods where people go to get things.

I had been drinking since seven, first at the state fair and than playing cards. I lost, bought back in, avoided the biggest dick-waving bets, and ended up making a five-dollar profit. It came in quarters mostly, and that's okay.

The woman emerged about half a block behind me, on E between 13th and 14th. She asked me for a cigarette. I dealt with her the same way I deal with every stranger who asks for change or a cigarette from half, a block away, I half-turned, mumbled "sorry" turned back and kept walking.

She followed me around the corner, than around the next corner and the next corner and the next corner.

I turned north on 16th, she apparently didn't want to face the traffic and finally turned to go another way. "You son of a bitch, you should have given me a cigarette!"

Or else what? What now then?

A few months earlier I was walking up 14th between C and D, four blocks shy of the governor's mansion. A man walked out of his apartment house and into the middle of the street where I was. It was four in the morning and was still only mid-spring.It was chilly. He asked me for a cigarette and I gave him one. He asked me what I was doing out there and I said I was just returning home from a party. He put his hand on my shoulder and I told him it was nice to meet him and I needed to get going.

After the woman walked away my path was blocked by a cop that had stopped in the 16th street crosswalk across G. He was staring at me of course. I was drunk, and people come here to get things. If I was in a bad mood I would have walked in front of his car to emphasize his illegal blocking of the crosswalk. But I was in a generally good mood, tempered a bit by unease, and I thought it best to avoid him completely. I turned back into the neighborhood and made my way into downtown via 14th.

When I returned to T-Town the parties were still in full swing all along R street. I don't remember if I went to any or not.

Dé Luain, Lúnasa 20, 2007


I live in an upstairs apartment, so the threat of being fried by a lightning bolt coming through the bathroom window was very real. I felt like a true warrior, taking a meaningful risk for a meaningful cause. I listened to Terry Gross, clipped my nails to make them look pretty and drank cinnamon coffee, with determination. The cry of the savage man is nothing but the cry of the satisfied man, free from the effete double-talk and emasculating shackles of society.

Ted Nugent shoots animals. A four-year-old boy who likes to wrestle his teddy-bear might be impressed by that. I showered in the middle of a thunderstorm after having a salad with cranberry vinaigrette dressing and ice cream for dinner. Unless that 4-year-old boy has met me, he has yet to meet a man.

Dé Domhnaigh, Lúnasa 19, 2007


I went to this movie knowing only that it had been made by Danny Boyle, director of "Trainspotting" and "28 Days Later". Expecting nothing, except something good, what I got was a mediocre sci-fi film, complete with talking computers, (yup) space walks-of death, and long loviing shots of men playing with machines.

It's the future, and the sun is fading out (One shot shows snow on the ground in Sidney Aus.) A crack team of scientists is sent on a mission to reignite the sun's core by detonating a nuclear bomb the size of Manhatten inside of it. No, that wouldn't work, in case you were wondering, and if you were wondering, you should have paid more attention in high school. Space suits, as well as the space ship itself (Icarus II) are covered in gold to deflect the sun's light and radiation. The crew never seem to tire of staring at the sun through an ultra-thick window and industrial-strength sunglasses.

The crew receives a distress signal from the Icarus I, a ship sent out seven years earlier on the exact same mission (yup.) Debate ensues over whether or not to change course in order to rescue any survivors of the Icarus I and/or loot the corpses. Out of the eight people on board, the captain leaves the decision solely in the hands of the physisist, because he's the physisist and he knows how the bomb will work, and because he's Cillian Murphy and he has those fierce sunken eyes of his. There are a thousand different reasons why the decision was left in the hands of the physisist, the question is why the ship needed a captain. Murphy decides to rendezvous with Icarus I in order to use its nuke as a spare. (No, not even two really big nuclear bombs would be enough to reignite the sun.)

Trouble ensues when the ship's techman fails to set proper coordinates for the ship's heat shield. Murphy and tthe captain go out to repair the damage, captain fails to get out of the sun's way in time, dies religiously. Massive sunlight causes a fire in the ship's "oxygen garden" ( Plants converting CO2 to oxygen, making the long journey survivable.) Without oxygen, the journey becomes a one-way trip, though one has to figure that the crew always knew they wern't coming back from flying into the middle of the sun and nuking it.

Oh, and the captain of the Icarus I is still alive, he gets on the Icarus II and starts killing people. Ghost frames of Icarus I crew members pop up on the film, which would be spooky if it wern't so obvious. I remeber seeing "Event Horizon" when I was fifteen and hearing my friends talk about how "freaky" it was before they passed the bong. "Event Horizon" is an absolute piece of trash, of course, and it's hard to imagine what sort of moron would like it well enough to rip it off; oh wait. it was Danny Boyle.

They reach the sun. They set off the bomb save the day. Murphy faces death and transcends it, (yup), the end.

It's a really shitty story, but "Sunshine" is almost redeemed by the images. The multiple close-ups of the sun close-up never stop being cool, nor does the sight of a man freezing to death instantaniously and then shattering his arm to pieces against an antenna. As much as I want like to be ashamed of paying to see "Sunshine" in theatres, in truth I can only say that I merely regret it.

Déardaoin, Lúnasa 16, 2007

The Lincoln City buses

Should be able to make it across town faster than a long-distance runner. It fails to do so currently, and this is the best public transportation system in Nebraska.

"Politeness Noun: The Most acceptable hypocrisy"

Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

Marge is seventy five or so. She and a woman roughly half her age were discussing the way things used to be and rural school consolidation battles and the untimely deaths of some of Marge's nephews and nieces. Marge stepped off the Vine Street bus at 70th. She had some trouble getting out of her seat and I turned to help her. I gave her my arm to prop herself up and then followed behind at a discreet distance to make sure she got off the bus okay.

It had been an interesting conversation to eavesdrop on. This woman has all kinds of insightful things to say. I made no actual attempt to talk to her, of course. I was reading "The Devil's Dictionary." I figured that the bus ride would be a good opportunity to finish the book, plus it would be a good way to avoid the people on the bus who like to talk.

At S.C.C. I was approached by a youngish man, about my age. He was wearing a wife-beater and blue jeans, and his whole bearing just suggested trailer park, unwanted children, and Puddle of Mudd. "Do you have a phone on you sir" he asked.
"No, sorry" I said. He turned and walked away.

I take my phone with me whenever I leave my house, just like you do, and I'm sure the man knew this.

Dé Luain, Lúnasa 13, 2007

If you don't like the weather in Nebraska just wait fifteen minutes.

This is a damned lie. Nebraska weather changes quickly only when it is pleasent. If it is over ninety degrees or under twenty, the weather will hold for at least three weeks.

Dé Sathairn, Lúnasa 11, 2007

Jon Bruning: Rise of the Jamensch

Jon Bruning knows the joys of reproduction and commanding the loyalty of small mammals.

In his law school days, Jon Bruning was a perfect Democrat, parroting party talking points in that same vague and uninspired style that has brought the Democrats so much electoral success through the years. "I Believe In gun Control" he wrote long ago in the Daily Nebraskan. I myself believe from the bottom of my heart that there should be some manner of legal regulation of some things.

Here then was a young man who was contemplating a future in politics and was very careful not to go against the prevailing winds, this being the generic liberalism that reigns at every campus newspaper and the more traditionally "academic" departments at every university. Bruning eventually graduated, however, and, as we all someday must, he found that college is nothing like the real world. More importantly, he discovered that Nebraska is not Connecticut or the inner suburbs of Denver, where faintly leftish don't-rock-the-boat fuzzy-blanket nihilism actually wins elections. Nebraska is a one party republican state, and to gain a career in politics one must either have the sort of aura and charisma that suggests leadership or show a willingness to be a reliable errand boy- enter Jon Bruning.

In retrospect, it's hard to imagine how Bruning didn't see that he was meant for the GOP from the beginning. The Republican party, particularly in those regions where it holds dominion, has always clung to the timeless values of loyalty, obedience, and loyalty.

By the time Bruning was elected to the Unicameral, he was pro-life, pro-gun, pro-God, you get the idea. He had evolved from saying nothing to saying nothing with deep religious conviction, describing himself as a "capitalist to the core" in voting against restrictions on hog-shit factories.

In 2002, Bruning was rewarded with the Attorney Generalship, one of those "constitutional offices" found in every statehouse that are handed out to those who have failed to hide the hands up their asses well enough to be governor or senator. The job of the Nebraska Attorney General is to demonstrate that crime is bad and that only Republicans truly understand this. In discharging his duties Bruning was surprisingly unoffensive; certainly less irritating than his predecessor, Don Stenberg, who is the cheap prostitute one ruefully remembers while trying to pass water through a swollen, gonorrheal urethra.

I approved of Bruning's prosecution of Matthew Kelso, which Bruning pursued despite the disturbing number of Nebraskans who believe that it's not pedophilia as long as the couple is married and hetero. Then there was Bruning's Agent-Smith-without-his-earpiece moment at a clemency hearing in September 2005. "I've been so tough on crime, it makes me want to throw up sometimes." The incident turned some heads for a day or two and politely forgotten. Prison remains our primary means of providing food and housing to the poor, with Bruning's full approval.

Things were going well for Jon Bruning. He seemed to be that rare, fortunate breed of man who had found his niche in life. But then something happened. Maybe it was the election of Dave Heineman as governor, which showed that the state GOP will offer up an empty suit for major office if they have to, and he'll win. Maybe Bruning started sneaking into his daddy's closet to try on his big-boy clothes. Whatever it was, Bruning decided to leave the comfortable niche made for the likes of him to make a run for the United States Senate.

Senator Chuck Hagel, you see, occasionally exercises independent judgment; especially on the Iraq war, that Godly endeavor that was to prove once and for all that conservatives value patriotism and understand what must be done about the evils of the world and that we do not. Hagel's insistence on giving a negative spin on the war (Telling the truth) has caused quite a stir among Republicans. There is a peculiar belief in the right-wing; that national successes and failures are determined solely by weather or not "real Americans" march in lockstep, and that all of the actors in the rest of the world are motivated by whether or not they are sufficiently intimidated by American unity. Publicly disagreeing with each other is akin to sending one's first-born son to school in a dress. Hagel has been a reliable conservative on most matters but what matters to conservatives is the war; this is the show of force by which they were to cow The Other into giving up the kitchen -scraps of power he has managed to grab for himself over the past hundred years and set the country back on the course to Plymouth Rock.

Hagel's public stance on the war has infuriated millions of self-appointed enforcers of conservative purity across the country along with thousands back home in Nebraska.
In some quarters, Hagel has become a bogeyman on a par with Hilliary Clinton or Barbara Streisand, sustaining the same charges of secret evil motives and attitudes. Hagel is trying to look moderate to the liberal mainstream media, they say, trying to claim John McCain's abandoned halo of independence. Hagel wants to be president, you see. Well, maybe. He hasn't stated his intention to run for president; he hasn't stated any plans to do anything, choosing instead to throw a post-modern anti-press conference in March. But just as the right-wingers somehow just know that Hilliary Clinton is a lesbian, they also just know that Chuck Hagel is burning to be president, and that only the combined electoral force of the current president's eternal loyalists is keeping him from doing so.

Still, if Hagel runs for and retains his seat next year, the Tories would hardly be unable to say that they have the power to punish heretics. The far right already has lost its claim to owning the country in last year's congressional elections, and a Hagel win would show that they can't even control "their" party in a state where it is well-entrenched. Whenever a segment of the population in a democratic society feels aggrieved there will surely arise a politician who promises to address those grievances. Enter Jon Bruning and his proven record of doing what he is told.

Jeff Fortenberry and Adrian Smith both won congressional elections by promising to leash themselves to the preisdent's war policy, (Along with supporting traditional values, opposing activist judges, and other such boilerplate) and Bruning does have his internal polling showing him ahead of Hagel in their presumed race. Than again, Pete Ricketts promised to be the White Houses' monkey and got nowhere, and the anti-Republican wave of last year's congressional elections was strong enough to leave a few tiny drops on Nebraska, with Smith and Lee Terry facing unexpectedly tough challenges.

A primary battle between Hagel and Bruning would follow the same line as last year's governor's race between Heineman and Tom Osborne; a battle within the GOP between pure, stout-hearted conservatives and adults. The most important question is not whether or not Bruning can win; of course he can, Heineman did, but what would happen if he did. We Nebraskans have proven ourselves willing to send small men to the governor's mansion and the U.S. House, but Stenberg and Ricketts have found that we do care about little things like dignity and ability when it comes to the really big offices. If Bruning wins the nomination, will the Eisenhower types in the GOP vote for a moderate Democrat like Mike Fahey; and leave the state's ruling party without a seat in the Senate, or would that hallowed old Republican loyalty fetish keep them in line?

And if Bruning does win the general election, just what manner of horrors would that sorry twit subject us to if we gave him a national stage?

Dé hAoine, Lúnasa 10, 2007

Vote Fascist


If I'd had Known I was Stepping on Ernie's Toes

A sample from Sen. Chambers' letter to the Omaha World-Herald, printed yesterday August 9th.

"If asterisks are to become the order of the day in the realm of sports records, one should accompany every so-called record established by any white athlete in any sport while black athletes were locked out of competition due to their race. This, of course, would include records held by Babe Ruth, who was quite comfortable with racial segregation in his sport."

Summer goes by so slowly without Ernie putting the rhetorical screws on the corrupt jokers in the unicameral. Thank God we have the public forum so he can still occasionally expose the dumb savage beast lying behind some precious "mainstream" white convention.

This letter was hell yes. This letter is a rock anthem.

Déardaoin, Lúnasa 09, 2007

Bonds and The American Dream

A record is a mathematical construct. One either hits more home runs than anybody else or does not. The home run record is not the Holy Grail. An unworthy will not crumble into dust if he touches it. Deserve doesn't factor into it. Deserve simply doesn't exist.

Is Barry Bonds a cheater? Probably, and he is likely to die the same miserable death of any steroids user or alcoholic. Laying a claim to the title of best baseball player ever is more important to him than his own survival. Fine. We all need something that's more important to us than living as long as possible, otherwise we would go mad. Barry Bonds is a grown man who has made his choice, temporary physical superiority over any sort of positive legacy. This is an unwise choice, but not uncommon, and it is his choice.

For those who think that celebrities exist "for the children," worry not. Those children who are sad enough to get their moral lessons from athletes are learning life's most important fact. There is no connection between moral character and material success. Barry Bonds has become more subversive than Ginsberg without even trying; an anti-Alger destroying the fantasy-land of sluttish welfare mothers sucking the blood out of chaste productive citizens with every swing. What this country needs are a dozen more Barry Bonds'; lying and cheating their way to the top in one high-profile profession or another. Perhaps then we can finally delivered from this damnable American Dream that creates nothing but scapegoats, servility, and self-loathing.

Dé Luain, Lúnasa 06, 2007

87 degrees at nine in the morning.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, God doesn't like us. Stop sucking up to it.

Dé Domhnaigh, Lúnasa 05, 2007

Simpsons Movie

It's not bad, even surprisingly, good. Not as good as the early "Treehouse of horor" episodes or anything from the 94-95 season, but good.

Dé hAoine, Lúnasa 03, 2007

Yes I very much want some

Twinsome in the kayaks.

Golden ray and golden night.

Chowder and you step for me

Chowderhicks slap thrice and you dance for me.

And we're stepping adeyyayyeee, adeeyaddeyaddee,
steppoping adiyadee, stepping adeayee







Dear in The Headlice

Dear in the headlice, DO I look such the wreck as that? Mosltivia, Mosotov, mellophone. bankheaded, suctionintiuitiveactionatuicityashphyxiation mallledrome, P

Alhast, Alex was left ruined and it ruined ya, jjjjjjjjjj

Open, throbbing, thru a tweezlle ungotten.

incorrect incorrect incorrect

open thru masturbating door


Back in thru the last gate on the south end.

Always 3 to the 2 outnumbered.

Always brought onboard and stocked yet.
yeah right
Good solid shit

Always in thrall to the stocked set
Always inclined to the short finds
The ones you always find the swilthiest
Always in the flavor of Happy Wednesday
A chilly night the night for macceroons
A total direct the posit
for the short-feayerhd LccPhurrinrrwrwrwd
Always in good company
A word to you a note on tea
The company you keep is with the company you're keeping with
Always such a time must you say
always they
shoulder on
shoulder through

Déardaoin, Lúnasa 02, 2007

Things to do

I have yet to be with a pack of drunks caught in a thunderstorm.

This is something that needs to happen to everyone at least once per summer.

I need to get to work.

Dé Máirt, Iúil 31, 2007


I'm totally the first guy to think of this.

Dé Luain, Iúil 30, 2007

Odds and Ends

I had a theology teacher in High School with one testicle. I've just been thinking about him lately. Lance Armstrong was his idol, he had pictures of him scattered about the class. Some say Armstrong got cancer by taking the same bubbling cocktail of drugs that every other bicycle racer gets caught taking. Surely not. Armstrong is a tower of American purity leering down on European depracity and my Theology teacher, Mr. what's his name, he loved him.

I don't know why he told us that he had had testicular cancer, and that he now had one testicle, something about perservering through the power of Christ or something. Nor have I ever actually seen the grotesqely deflated scrotum for myself. When someone tells you that they have one testicle, you tend to assume they're telling the truth.

A real jackass, that guy.

A friend of mine didn't get the reference from the "Dune film" I made on my Facebook page. Perhaps not as many people saw that movie as I think. David Lynch directed it you know. In between "The Elephant Man" and "Blue Velvet" there was Dune, and it was a departure. It has Kyle Mac'Laughlin, of course, and also Sting. It's uncpeakably awful, though it is something you should know about.

I don't have anything to tie these two subjects toghether, no wise observation or pithy saying. Just things I've been thinking about the past two days is all.

Dé Domhnaigh, Iúil 29, 2007

Chick Tract Review : The Little Princess

Heidi is a girl of about eight who is dying of something or another. Her last wish is to go trick or treating as a "little princess" on Halloween. With the last of her strength, she manages to get into her costume and walk around the neighborhood, escorted by her older brother, Josh. (I've always wanted a dead baby sister.)

At first, I thought that Heidi was going to drop dead on her journey and then be justly hurled into the lake of fire for partaking in this Satanic holiday. The Jack Chick that I know would have no qualms whatsoever about sending an eight year old girl to eternal torture and agony, but he must be getting soft in his old age. After collapsing twice and refusing Josh's pleas to return home, the last house they visit is owned by a kindly Christian couple. Realizing that they have a dying infidel before them, the couple deliver the good news of the Lord to Heidi, and lo, she is saved. Taking there duty to the next logical step, the couple follow Josh and Heidi home to their parents, who have never heard the story of Jesus and his blood sacrifice before. (The number of people who haven't heard of Jesus is strangely high in Chickland.) Her parents are overawed by the story of Christ, and of course see no logical problems at all with the whole blood sacrifice thing. Heidi dies during the wee hours of All Saints Day with the knowledge that her family is saved, and they all live and die happily ever after. The last panel shows Josh visiting his sister's grave with a loving and grateful smile on his face.

I found this tract sitting on the park bench at Fourteenth and P. This is "the" park bench, the one understood to be the property of the downtown hobos, so it must have been one of them who picked it up at the City Mission or what have you. Whoever it was left out overnight to get rained on, which is an absolute disgrace. People who don't recognize Chick Tracts for the cultural artifacts they are need to be flogged.
Thankfully though, the tract managed to survive the storm, and I was able to turn the pages and read it without tearing it apart.

Like I said, Chick is getting soft with age. I really was expecting another classic anti-Halloween feast of insanity like "The Trick" or "Boo" www.chick.com/reading/tracts/0058/0058_01.asp (Satan himself is summoned on his "birthday" by the sacrifice of a house cat, and proceeds to slaughter random teenagers dressed as a pumpkin, this is Chick at his best, even better than "Death Cookie".) But no, Chick doesn't denounce Halloween here, indeed, Heidi's trick-or-treating is actually the path to her salvation, and the crown from her costume is even seated on her grave.

So I'm afraid there's nothing about "The Little Princess" to recommend it. It simply isn't insane enough or hateful enough towards those who think differently from Jack Chick. A person who reads this tract might get the impression that Jack Chick is a kind-hearted old man, which is of course the furthest thing from the truth. Pick up "Allah had no Son" if you want some real fun. Leaving "Princess" out in the rain might not have been such a bad thing after all.

Last night

I walked about my neighborhood with my bag of Busch Lights, just me and the rain and T-Town. A cop turned quickly into the alley I was walking through, he passed me with indifference. I gave a beer to Cici, a black gentleman from abouts 30th and Starr. He said I was alright. He told me to stay cool. He said there was nothing wrong with having a good time. Indeed.

I made my way to De'Leon's and walked through the drive-through. The couple in front of me ordered in perfect native tonged Spanish. The fellow behind me, he could have been annoyed or disgusted, drove over the sensor once and than again and than kindly let me stand in front of the box and order. Bearded fellow, I think he's a student, I think I've seen him or even talked to him before.

I ordered the Huevos Rancheros. My pronunciation was good but not quite perfect. (Way-vos Ranch-air-os) I got that down, but I forgot the little hint of an exhale before the "way." The woman at the window took my money without comment. I had been out in the rain for some time, and though it wasn't raining hard I was getting quite wet.

My food had been tossed about and mixed together by the time I got home. Beans and rice and eggs all together. This was fine, better that way in fact. What wasn't okay was that I had run out of my own Valantina's extra-hot sauce. De'Leon's sauce is nowhere near hot enough. It's clearly made for the casual fan, the unserious crush, and you would expect better from them, or maybe I shouldn't. There's no money to be made in being a beans and rice elitist. Let the elitists come begging at your window like the rest. Let them buy their own extra-hot sauce.

I sat on my porch and ate my meal with my last beer. The crickets were overwhelming. One couldn't here the unhappily married couple next door screaming over the sound of crickets. I ate my food, sopped up the remnants with warm tortillas, walked to the trash can in the alley to throw away plate, bag, and beer, and returned to the porch.

There was rain, crickets, and nothing else. I had been out on Thursday afternoon, the hottest day of the year, and it was brutal. Now it was room temperature outside, with rain and a light breeze. It was achingly beautiful. I never forget to feel angry when the weather is unpleasant. But I do forget to feel thankful when the weather is perfect. Thankful to God? Sure. why not? Am I too much of a cynical badass for that? Failing that, at least be thankful to nothing then. Nothing wrong with that either.

I drifted to sleep on the porch swing for a couple of hours. The love I felt for my neighborhood was overwhelming. {This is home, I spent a quarter, a third, who knows, maybe half or more of my life in the town where my parents and grandparents live. But this is home, Lincoln has always been home. Malone (You don't mind if I call you by your proper name dear? Of course not.) was always sitting there waiting for me. I love the Latinos and the Arabs and the Sudanese and the white tattooed Old Milwaukee drinkers and, though strangely enough, I love them least of all, my fellow jaded overgrown students.} There was nothing but rain and crickets, loud enough that I could still hear them as I dozed. This is enough. Whatever happened before and whatever will happen in the future, I was here for this. I know that it happened and that it was mine. And it is enough.

Dé Sathairn, Iúil 28, 2007

I think, what the situation is

I think that I should stop seeking complete catharsis.

Instead, there should be a little something left over for the next day.

Some goal, activity, or purpose.

Though, of course, there are no real reasons.

It's either too hot or it's cloudy,

and that's the way it's going to be.

Dé Sathairn, Iúil 21, 2007

You're going to die

You're gonna die, you're gonna die, you're gonna die tonight.

Dance the strawman jango.

Hurt is for the head, I am the heart,

You have no daughter




income gap

treed by a woman, stepping stone

rock, and a place

out of home is where you're going

and that's all there is

friends, life, lovers,

house party, let's get mood lighting
digital instruments, blonde and black casts

stage woman, comfort men

pets for the deranged and comatose, the parking lot
where people leave, hard facts

Christ figures, platinum templates, hard facts,

facile notices

cringing, working

out the solution

waking up, it's all

no, sober, open, and waiting.

The break, the break, the billy, the billy, the billy
frost, engine

widow's hair peak cleaner season soundlessness open, fogginess, forget.

Dé hAoine, Iúil 20, 2007

Independent writing

No class paper, no script to work on.

Had a real work week this week. Waking up at eight to go to film class (which is excellent, just excellent) Writing my analysis of the film I just watched from 10:45 to about noon, tackling my reading assignment and/or eating lunch and/or showering from noon to four. walking to Dan's place and waking him up. Working on the script/dinner/ recruiting hobos, searching for THE ONE, drinking in public, five or six hours of sleep.

Went to "2001" last night and was left emotionally drained as always. "Masculine ballet" quoteth Becky. Now that she mentions it, there are about three women in the whole movie, and one of them has about twelve words of dialogue. All of the major players are either men, monkeys (no comment please) or a machine. It's such a sterile and sexless movie though, gender roles don't really factor into it. It is also Kubrick's most optimistic movie by far. He's usually so brilliantly, ruthlessly misanthropic. (Shades of that in 2001, of course, "The Dawn of Man" comes when monkeys figure out how to use tools to bludgeon other creatures and each other, bureaucracies keeping vital information secret more out of habit than for any practical gain.) If Kubrick ever had dealt with gender roles/sexuality, rest assured that it wouldn't have been kind to any perspective. (Oh yes, Eyes Wide Shut, almost forgot about that.)

I'm feeling more wide awake, less withdrawn, than I have for days. I think I'll go see a local band tonight, since I've seen five films in the past four days.

I don't know if I was tired necessarily, but I've been living very deeply inside of myself for the past three days. This may be due to lack of sleep or it may be that I've been in the same room as someone else more than I'm used to.

I told my friend Gregg once that I like to spend some time alone every day. He said that he understood. I said that I liked to have a good four or five hours. Greg's been a little afraid of me ever since.

Dé Domhnaigh, Iúil 15, 2007

This is just Lovely


I'm not going to lie, this story greatly improved my sense of well-being.

Call me a hippy, and I suppose I couldn't honestly deny it.

We Are not The Satan

And we are not amused.

Dé hAoine, Iúil 13, 2007

To the man who stole my duffle bag

Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of

Today's Edition of the New York Times:
Bush is still trying to link the war to Sept. 11th/Al-Qaeda/terra, and that's getting far past the point of anoyance isn't it? I'm not going to assume you don't read the newspapers. I am no bigot, you could be some sort of gentleman bandit, and the copy was free to me, so, by all means, enjoy it. Educate yourself.

One Pair of broken Headphones:

I really don't know why I don't throw those things away.

A One-dollar pair of sunglasses:

Those sunglasses have lasted longer than any dollar pair of sunglasses I've owned before. I was curious to see how far they would go. Pity, but quite alright. My gift to you.

The Power Cord For A University-Owned Apple I-Book.
I'm responsible for the loss, of course. About forty five dollars. It's going to hurt, I'm not going to lie. But than again, don't you just wish, (Oh don't you just wish, don't you just fucking wish you God-damned tape worm!!) Careful Joshua, you are not a vengeful man. But anyway, you didn't get the laptop, and I know you know it was in the bag not one hour before you swiped it, and this satisfies me,

My red notebook:
The public-access drafts are safe. I had taken them and the labtop onto the donation floor at NABI to get some writing done. And oh by the way, the laptop is safe as well. The notebook costs two dollars, in case your wondering. But, the thing is, I'm a writer you see. You probably didn't think that many writers go to the plasma bank, but quite a few of us do as a matter of fact. We're a dime a million. I had left my bag with my newspaper and my headphones and my power cord and my notebook and my sunglasses sitting under a chair in the waiting area because my hands were already full with the laptop and the scripts. Damned foolish of me, I know. should have waited until I was seated and tapped before I started writing, that way I could have kept the computer in a bag and brought the whole thing with me to a safe place. So you now have several chunks of manuscript, rambling ideas, first drafts. Do you like to read? Feel free to go through my notes since you have them anyway. I have this story, it's about a rancher in the Nebraska Sandhills who dies alone on a cold night when he realizes his insignificance. Common stuff I know, and really not any good, not yet at least. I think if I polish it over a couple of more drafts I really might have something. In the meantime, enjoy it if you can, and good luck trying to trade fifty or so pages of underdeveloped ideas for meth.

Why do I assume you do drugs? . It's your risk/reward radar; you don't have one. Yes I did call the police, I have a warrant out but that's okay. I'll go to jail as long as you go too. How else did you think I would react? What did you expect to find. Do you really think I would have forgotten my bag if I had anything valuble in there. (Like a laptop say?) Did you expect to find money? It's not a purse. I do the traditional hetero-male thing and keep my money in a wallet. I don't know if you have some sort of vision disorder, in which case all apologies, but no, it's quite clearly not a purse. You really would have to be something of a, you know, fucking moron, to expect to find money in the bag. So yes, your's was the act of a desperate fiend who tells himself to believe what he wants to be the truth.

Dan and I spent last night planning for the show, writing, and discussing our insecurities, and it all seems so foolishly pessimistic now. We're doing quite fine. I assume you bought a bag with your blood money. Do you have enough to get you through a Friday night, were you expecting to?

So yes, enjoy my work and my stuff. The lady who saw you, who described you to the cop (couldn't help but notice that he treated me with a lot more respect once he found out I was a university student and not just another extended hand. It's not right I know but, anyway, how does it feel to know that your hand will always be extended?) didn't get your name, pity. But she did describe you as something of a shorter version of me. 5-8, medium-long sandy hair, blue eyes, no mustache though. I have a feeling we will meet, and if I find out that you threw away my notebook in some alley when it proved of no use to you, I swear to Christ I will fucking, I don't know, I am not a vengeful man.