Dé Céadaoin, Márta 21, 2007
Whiteclay part 7
Lewis, I think deserves better treatment than just being a convenient end point, so a few more lines about him.
He asked us where we would be staying, and we said the hotel. "The one right over there" he asked. "Yeah, we said." "Oh yeah, that's a good place, you can sing and dance and they won't bother ya." We may never know what he meant by right over there. Was he talking about the casino with the unfinished hotel that was 30 miles away? Was he talking about Rushville? There was a bit of singing here, a modicum of dancing, some minor fraud, and various acts of lame passive-aggressive vandalism, so that seems the most likely explanation. A place to sing and dance just doesn't quite fit the description of the place though. On my next trip there, and I am going back, I'll make it a point to track down Lewis's ghost motel.
Me and Dan walked into straight line and a goal liquor and ordered four 24's of Hurricane Malt Liquor. The place had the look of a bait-shop or a small town jail. White walls, white paint thats old but not really crumbling, two strong lamps spreading lights unevenly. The clerk was a younger cat. I interviewed him the next night and found out he lives in Chadron and attends Chadron State. That was the extent of the interview.
A word on the Slurricane; it's one of many regional "economy" malt liquors. Like many low-quality liquors, it is "brewed" and bottled discreetly by a major company, Anheiser-Busch in this case. (I'd have ten of them before I drank a single Bud Light) The Slurricane reigns mostly in the northwestern part of the United States and the Pine Ridge/Rushville/Gordon area seems to be the southeastern limit of it's range.
The Hurricane is what we had come for. We had come to mingle with the natives and hear their stories, sure. But what we, I should say I, had come for was to walk straight into Whiteclay, straight into Straightline Liquor, straight into the physical heart of rural American nihilism and evil. Right into the tangible result of the arrogance and self-worship that lies just barely beneath the surface (and hidden less and less these days) of the white Midwestern simpleman.
The Whiteclay shops sell Hurricane chiefly in 24 ounce cans. Why they don't sell it in the more collectible 40 oz. bottle I don't know. (Too many broken glass incidents?) The alcohol content is not printed on the can, which I believe is illegal. Though it should be said that the Hurricane 'High Gravity' can proudly displays it's 8.1 % alcohol content. The taste is like chasing battery acid with cyanide. The effect, dear lord, of drinking a hurricane or two or three is a chapter unto itself.
Let's just say that old men know it's coming when they feel a chill in their bones.
Let's just say that just when you think it's over, you ain't even halfway there yet.
Let's just say that anything that isn't nailed down is getting smashed the fuck up.
Let's just say that you better lock the kids in the basement, cause the Sluricane's coming bitch.
I'll stop, moving along than.
He asked us where we would be staying, and we said the hotel. "The one right over there" he asked. "Yeah, we said." "Oh yeah, that's a good place, you can sing and dance and they won't bother ya." We may never know what he meant by right over there. Was he talking about the casino with the unfinished hotel that was 30 miles away? Was he talking about Rushville? There was a bit of singing here, a modicum of dancing, some minor fraud, and various acts of lame passive-aggressive vandalism, so that seems the most likely explanation. A place to sing and dance just doesn't quite fit the description of the place though. On my next trip there, and I am going back, I'll make it a point to track down Lewis's ghost motel.
Me and Dan walked into straight line and a goal liquor and ordered four 24's of Hurricane Malt Liquor. The place had the look of a bait-shop or a small town jail. White walls, white paint thats old but not really crumbling, two strong lamps spreading lights unevenly. The clerk was a younger cat. I interviewed him the next night and found out he lives in Chadron and attends Chadron State. That was the extent of the interview.
A word on the Slurricane; it's one of many regional "economy" malt liquors. Like many low-quality liquors, it is "brewed" and bottled discreetly by a major company, Anheiser-Busch in this case. (I'd have ten of them before I drank a single Bud Light) The Slurricane reigns mostly in the northwestern part of the United States and the Pine Ridge/Rushville/Gordon area seems to be the southeastern limit of it's range.
The Hurricane is what we had come for. We had come to mingle with the natives and hear their stories, sure. But what we, I should say I, had come for was to walk straight into Whiteclay, straight into Straightline Liquor, straight into the physical heart of rural American nihilism and evil. Right into the tangible result of the arrogance and self-worship that lies just barely beneath the surface (and hidden less and less these days) of the white Midwestern simpleman.
The Whiteclay shops sell Hurricane chiefly in 24 ounce cans. Why they don't sell it in the more collectible 40 oz. bottle I don't know. (Too many broken glass incidents?) The alcohol content is not printed on the can, which I believe is illegal. Though it should be said that the Hurricane 'High Gravity' can proudly displays it's 8.1 % alcohol content. The taste is like chasing battery acid with cyanide. The effect, dear lord, of drinking a hurricane or two or three is a chapter unto itself.
Let's just say that old men know it's coming when they feel a chill in their bones.
Let's just say that just when you think it's over, you ain't even halfway there yet.
Let's just say that anything that isn't nailed down is getting smashed the fuck up.
Let's just say that you better lock the kids in the basement, cause the Sluricane's coming bitch.
I'll stop, moving along than.
Whiteclay part 6
The rest of the drive was eternal. There was the Osborne Expressway through the west end of Grand Island, with its strip malls and box stores, painted to look like they were in Arizona for some reason. The "mall" in North Platte has the same bullshit adobe look, must be some sort of marketing dogma.
The turn onto Highway 2, which covers the majority of the distance from Lincoln to the ridge. Cairo, the town of Egyptian street-names thought up by someone who clearly didn't know much about Egypt. The main intersection is Highway 2 and "Thebe" street.
You might have heard about the friendliness of rural Nebraskans. This, is a God-damned lie. You might have heard of the "two-fingered wave." It's an old anecdote of travelogue writers and hack on-the road reporters . It works like this; while driving past someone going the other way on a country road, you raise the middle and index fingers of your left hand (Be sure to keep them together or else you'll accidentally give the peace sign, and make sure not to give the "New York wave" LOL) about ninety degrees counter-clockwise towards the driver passing by in the other lane, up and down, real quick. Add casual nod or faint grin as desired. That's the country wave. You can look up a diagram yourself if you feel the need to.
You might have heard that country people are so gosh-darn friendly that you have to be prepared to constantly flick your left middle and index fingers in response to their greetings. This is a black falsehood. Dan and Paul gave the two-finger to almost everyone we drove passed between Grand Island and Broken Bow. Barely a third waved back. The truckers would uniformly blow their horns at our request but this was hardly compensation. No, what we encountered in the Nebraska wilderness was not promiscuous friendliness but rather thinly veiled contempt and cold courtesy. The distant icy stares of the Rushvillians, the curt businesslike manner of the gas station clerks at Bow, Thedford, Hyannis. These people clearly didn't want us to be there. Just because we openly mocked their intellectual inferiority, they treated us like dirt.
Farmland gave way to hills, towns grew further and further apart from each other, it got dark, and we still had a long ways to go.
The magazine rack at a big green C-station in Thedford had twelve different mags dedicated to hunting and none to news.
We drove, I was at the wheel, consciously darting my eyes about to keep from slipping into the oblivion of the highway. Why was I out so late last night? The sour-bloodedness of hangover was gone but I was still lethargic. And it was up to me to drive another a hundred and fifty miles with nothing but three small villages to break the monotony. The Sandhills are beautiful during the day. At night they are the most anti-human excuse for a landscape one could possibly imagine.
"There is only the highway, and that's all there's ever going to be. You people have been dead for quite some time I'm afraid. You had better get used to each other's company."
What do the nights here do to the people? The ones who live in the villages, or on the ranches, surrounded by black. The winter nights, the blizzards, stuck for days with only your immediate family for company. (Oh fuck no) Just you and the same handful of people you'll see every day while you live and die here, surrounded by the nihilism blanket of night.
Nihilism,nihilism,nihilMcNihlynihilism. It's only going to keep coming up. Get used to it.
At Hyannis I bought some manner of liquid stimulant that I had never seen or heard of before. It was in a pill-style bottle, and I thought that's exactly what it was. But what it was was about two ounces of some Red Bull like-substance. The town had a motel/bar (A saloon!) that was closed at nine P.M. Surely this was an aberration. Surely there was no other place in the continental U.S. that was so out of time.
The formula worked. I was wide awake now and able to drive the final hundred miles. The trees and shadows shimmied a bit like they will when one is artificially stimulated, not nearly as much as when one is on coke, but the effect was there.
In Gordon we ate shrink-wrapped sandwiches and it was a fucking revelation. If you, dear reader, are ever reduced to getting your meals from a gas station (and don't assume you won't be) don't be shy about hording the condiments. Mustard, mayonnaise, salsa. all plastic wrapped in air-tight packages, safer than your own refrigerator. Gas station condiments are free for a reason, you know. They're the difference between a welfare meal and a real meal. Feel free to slip yourself a few mustard sacks even if you're not buying any food. I won't tell if you won't. Long live the revolution.
After that it was back out into the night ant towards our actual destination. Rushville, the right turn at the edge of Rushville pointing towards Pine Ridge S.D., Nebraska 87, the most dangerous road in America. the odd church in the middle of the blanket, the construction zone left abandoned for the night, and we were there.
From five miles away, Whiteclay looks like a single fluorescent light beneath the scattered yellow ones of Pine Ridge. At the south end of the hamlet stands a Lakota-themed Christian mission. There were no services going on that day or the next day or the day after that. On this first trip we saw two glum, dead silent gentlemen drinking Hurricane on the porch, same thing we saw there the next day and the day after that.
Whiteclay grocery, which to their credit really is a grocery store. They sell more liquor than food of course, but so does Russ's Market in Lincoln. Arrowhead Inn, which, much to my personal chagrin is not an inn but just another dram shop. I have no idea why they call themselves an inn. People know how the money is made in Whiteclay. Nobody's going to think any more of you if you call your cirrhosis factory an inn.
Still, the name fooled Travelocity, which told me that the place was a hotel, so I was fooled too. I had told my companions that we would be spending the night here. We all had sweet visions of what kind of place this was, the screams in the night, the fifty year-old hookers walking on one broken leg. It was humiliating, letting the homies down like that.
State-Line liquor. Pure, honest, a straight line and a goal. This is where we would go, this is where we would interact with the,... residents. Here is where we would purchase, the Hurricane.
In the gravel parking lot, we were accosted by a Native (our first interaction with a Lakota, and also our lamest one.) who called himself Lewis. He asked us what we doing here, getting beer we said. Where were we from? Lincoln. Did we want any weed? No, not right now, balling on a budget you know.
He didn't seem to believe us. He said he would be glad to get us some skunk if we just got in his car with him. (Don't be racist/don't be stupid) Two or three times he repeated his offer, and who could blame him?
Why the fuck else would we be there?
The turn onto Highway 2, which covers the majority of the distance from Lincoln to the ridge. Cairo, the town of Egyptian street-names thought up by someone who clearly didn't know much about Egypt. The main intersection is Highway 2 and "Thebe" street.
You might have heard about the friendliness of rural Nebraskans. This, is a God-damned lie. You might have heard of the "two-fingered wave." It's an old anecdote of travelogue writers and hack on-the road reporters . It works like this; while driving past someone going the other way on a country road, you raise the middle and index fingers of your left hand (Be sure to keep them together or else you'll accidentally give the peace sign, and make sure not to give the "New York wave" LOL) about ninety degrees counter-clockwise towards the driver passing by in the other lane, up and down, real quick. Add casual nod or faint grin as desired. That's the country wave. You can look up a diagram yourself if you feel the need to.
You might have heard that country people are so gosh-darn friendly that you have to be prepared to constantly flick your left middle and index fingers in response to their greetings. This is a black falsehood. Dan and Paul gave the two-finger to almost everyone we drove passed between Grand Island and Broken Bow. Barely a third waved back. The truckers would uniformly blow their horns at our request but this was hardly compensation. No, what we encountered in the Nebraska wilderness was not promiscuous friendliness but rather thinly veiled contempt and cold courtesy. The distant icy stares of the Rushvillians, the curt businesslike manner of the gas station clerks at Bow, Thedford, Hyannis. These people clearly didn't want us to be there. Just because we openly mocked their intellectual inferiority, they treated us like dirt.
Farmland gave way to hills, towns grew further and further apart from each other, it got dark, and we still had a long ways to go.
The magazine rack at a big green C-station in Thedford had twelve different mags dedicated to hunting and none to news.
We drove, I was at the wheel, consciously darting my eyes about to keep from slipping into the oblivion of the highway. Why was I out so late last night? The sour-bloodedness of hangover was gone but I was still lethargic. And it was up to me to drive another a hundred and fifty miles with nothing but three small villages to break the monotony. The Sandhills are beautiful during the day. At night they are the most anti-human excuse for a landscape one could possibly imagine.
"There is only the highway, and that's all there's ever going to be. You people have been dead for quite some time I'm afraid. You had better get used to each other's company."
What do the nights here do to the people? The ones who live in the villages, or on the ranches, surrounded by black. The winter nights, the blizzards, stuck for days with only your immediate family for company. (Oh fuck no) Just you and the same handful of people you'll see every day while you live and die here, surrounded by the nihilism blanket of night.
Nihilism,nihilism,nihilMcNihlynihilism. It's only going to keep coming up. Get used to it.
At Hyannis I bought some manner of liquid stimulant that I had never seen or heard of before. It was in a pill-style bottle, and I thought that's exactly what it was. But what it was was about two ounces of some Red Bull like-substance. The town had a motel/bar (A saloon!) that was closed at nine P.M. Surely this was an aberration. Surely there was no other place in the continental U.S. that was so out of time.
The formula worked. I was wide awake now and able to drive the final hundred miles. The trees and shadows shimmied a bit like they will when one is artificially stimulated, not nearly as much as when one is on coke, but the effect was there.
In Gordon we ate shrink-wrapped sandwiches and it was a fucking revelation. If you, dear reader, are ever reduced to getting your meals from a gas station (and don't assume you won't be) don't be shy about hording the condiments. Mustard, mayonnaise, salsa. all plastic wrapped in air-tight packages, safer than your own refrigerator. Gas station condiments are free for a reason, you know. They're the difference between a welfare meal and a real meal. Feel free to slip yourself a few mustard sacks even if you're not buying any food. I won't tell if you won't. Long live the revolution.
After that it was back out into the night ant towards our actual destination. Rushville, the right turn at the edge of Rushville pointing towards Pine Ridge S.D., Nebraska 87, the most dangerous road in America. the odd church in the middle of the blanket, the construction zone left abandoned for the night, and we were there.
From five miles away, Whiteclay looks like a single fluorescent light beneath the scattered yellow ones of Pine Ridge. At the south end of the hamlet stands a Lakota-themed Christian mission. There were no services going on that day or the next day or the day after that. On this first trip we saw two glum, dead silent gentlemen drinking Hurricane on the porch, same thing we saw there the next day and the day after that.
Whiteclay grocery, which to their credit really is a grocery store. They sell more liquor than food of course, but so does Russ's Market in Lincoln. Arrowhead Inn, which, much to my personal chagrin is not an inn but just another dram shop. I have no idea why they call themselves an inn. People know how the money is made in Whiteclay. Nobody's going to think any more of you if you call your cirrhosis factory an inn.
Still, the name fooled Travelocity, which told me that the place was a hotel, so I was fooled too. I had told my companions that we would be spending the night here. We all had sweet visions of what kind of place this was, the screams in the night, the fifty year-old hookers walking on one broken leg. It was humiliating, letting the homies down like that.
State-Line liquor. Pure, honest, a straight line and a goal. This is where we would go, this is where we would interact with the,... residents. Here is where we would purchase, the Hurricane.
In the gravel parking lot, we were accosted by a Native (our first interaction with a Lakota, and also our lamest one.) who called himself Lewis. He asked us what we doing here, getting beer we said. Where were we from? Lincoln. Did we want any weed? No, not right now, balling on a budget you know.
He didn't seem to believe us. He said he would be glad to get us some skunk if we just got in his car with him. (Don't be racist/don't be stupid) Two or three times he repeated his offer, and who could blame him?
Why the fuck else would we be there?
Dé Máirt, Márta 20, 2007
Whiteclay part 5 (York)
We made our way to the York Wal-Mart to get a real tire change. I believe that it was Paul and Becky who tried to bring their cameras inside for sight-seeing because, hey, fucking Wal-Mart. But cameras wern't allowed inside. It violated company policy.
There is nothing inside this Wal-Mart or any other Wal-Mart that would shock you. All Wal-Marts are desinged the same, you know. Groceries on the north end, pet food at the front-south, sporting and auto goods at the south rear, etc. Everyone has been inside a Wal-Mart, everyone has been inside every Wal-Mart. This particular Wal-Mart was slightly deficiant. The lights wern't as bright, and the floors didn't shine. But there was no shocking capitalist dystopia inside, no unspeakable truth that the cameras would have revealed. So they probably have benign reasons for the no-cameras policy. Fear that they would be confused with stolen merchandise, or something.
So no evil Wal-Mart stories for you people, sorry. That wasn't the point of the trip, and it isn't the point of this series. We went beyond the interstate strip, far beyond what passes for sterility,banality, poverty, physical, cultural emptiness, drudgery, nihilism, surrender, to most people. Never mind Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart is just a symptom; a major complication, to be sure, but not the disease. Never mind Wal-Mart.
Except there was this field, between Wal-Mart and the interstate, filled with trash; maybe a thousand plastic Wal-Mart sacks, maybe more, processed food wrappers, a crushed and emptied six-pack here and there. Moldering porn? Condems? Needles? probably, if we had taken the time to look. It was just that kind of a field. A field for fourteen year-olds to explore each other, sixteen year olds to drink and fight, a field for vagrants of all ages to do all of the above. It's been said that the most crime-addled spots in America are the parking lots and environs of Wal-Marts. A field for everything that doesn't happen in small towns; savage beatings, the occasional murder, teenagers making love. A doomed and blessed field, a field on the short-list for euthanization, soon to be replaced by a Lowe's or a Menards or another gas station/Burger King. A field to be paved over while there are still some vestigial corn-stalks and people left to see them and remember what their grandparents dreamed about, instead of being left to wilt into dust as the Nebraska summers start to elbow each other and the breadbasket refuses to give anymore, and the unsullied virtue of the Heartland is nothing but fertilized dust and decaying Wal-Mart Supercenters and no one will remember the tax breaks, the groundbreaking with the mayor in his hardhat and the high school band playing Hail Varsity and the kids drinking miracle potions to pass the piss-tests and secure their futures in the tire and auto department and the silly malcontents complaining about things like culture and fair wages and dignity.
We ate lunch at Runza and my hangover was more or less cured. Perhaps I was a bit over-analytical in that field.
There is nothing inside this Wal-Mart or any other Wal-Mart that would shock you. All Wal-Marts are desinged the same, you know. Groceries on the north end, pet food at the front-south, sporting and auto goods at the south rear, etc. Everyone has been inside a Wal-Mart, everyone has been inside every Wal-Mart. This particular Wal-Mart was slightly deficiant. The lights wern't as bright, and the floors didn't shine. But there was no shocking capitalist dystopia inside, no unspeakable truth that the cameras would have revealed. So they probably have benign reasons for the no-cameras policy. Fear that they would be confused with stolen merchandise, or something.
So no evil Wal-Mart stories for you people, sorry. That wasn't the point of the trip, and it isn't the point of this series. We went beyond the interstate strip, far beyond what passes for sterility,banality, poverty, physical, cultural emptiness, drudgery, nihilism, surrender, to most people. Never mind Wal-Mart. Wal-Mart is just a symptom; a major complication, to be sure, but not the disease. Never mind Wal-Mart.
Except there was this field, between Wal-Mart and the interstate, filled with trash; maybe a thousand plastic Wal-Mart sacks, maybe more, processed food wrappers, a crushed and emptied six-pack here and there. Moldering porn? Condems? Needles? probably, if we had taken the time to look. It was just that kind of a field. A field for fourteen year-olds to explore each other, sixteen year olds to drink and fight, a field for vagrants of all ages to do all of the above. It's been said that the most crime-addled spots in America are the parking lots and environs of Wal-Marts. A field for everything that doesn't happen in small towns; savage beatings, the occasional murder, teenagers making love. A doomed and blessed field, a field on the short-list for euthanization, soon to be replaced by a Lowe's or a Menards or another gas station/Burger King. A field to be paved over while there are still some vestigial corn-stalks and people left to see them and remember what their grandparents dreamed about, instead of being left to wilt into dust as the Nebraska summers start to elbow each other and the breadbasket refuses to give anymore, and the unsullied virtue of the Heartland is nothing but fertilized dust and decaying Wal-Mart Supercenters and no one will remember the tax breaks, the groundbreaking with the mayor in his hardhat and the high school band playing Hail Varsity and the kids drinking miracle potions to pass the piss-tests and secure their futures in the tire and auto department and the silly malcontents complaining about things like culture and fair wages and dignity.
We ate lunch at Runza and my hangover was more or less cured. Perhaps I was a bit over-analytical in that field.
Dé Sathairn, Márta 17, 2007
Whiteclay Part 4
The tire exploded about a mile west of Gohener. I didn't realize this right away, I was reading the paper. I only knew that we were somewhere west of Seward. I noticed that the clown car started shaking more than usual, I looked to the driver's side and saw nothing but smoke. If I remember right, I asked Dan if there was a problem. He said something along the lines of yes. He pulled the car into the median and killed the engine.
The tire looked like it had just starred in the Zubruder film. At least a dozen seperate ragged threads still connected to the wheel and forming a vaguely wheelesque shape. It continued to smoke for a good half hour. We got it on tape, it's amazing. Dan said that we had come too far to give up. This went without saying. It wasn't a question of whether to keep going or give up. It was a question of whether or not we had any choices to speak of. The trunk carried the standard equipment, a doughnut and a shitty jack. We get the joke now Detroit (you too, Tokyo), you can bring back the real tire change kits.
So my fear was that we didn't have the option of going either east or west but rather that we would be stuck forever in the no-mans land between the roadways. This was our first purgatory. We would be forced to eat roadkill, suck stagnant water out of the grass, relieve ourselves in front of hundreds of passing eyes. It could be days before a state patrolman pulled into the median for the sake of tracking down a speeder/drug runner/terrorist and maybe deign take the time to arrest us for vagrancy and deliver us back to civilization.
Me and Dan set about trying to get the old tire off and put the psuedo-spare on. Cars in the inside lane passed inches in front of us with total indifference. they had their skiing, and their Cabela's, and their seminars to go to, you see, and it was our own fault for being in their way. A straight line and a goal. Press your foot down on the gas and keep it there through all hazards. The new masculinity, it leaves something lacking. I shouted my belief that all you motherfuckers can fuck yourselves. There, that's better.
They were important people on their way to do important things, that's what they told themselves. But they wern't really the ones choosing to come within three inches of turning us into stew. They were controlled by the road. The same road that tells you to risk soiling yourself rather than make an unplanned stop, because you don't want to lose five minutes on a 36-hour trip. The same road that tells you to get gas at the first place off the interstate even though you know it's the most expensive place in whatever town you're in. the same road that tells you to keep driving, keep driving, as your eyes sink lower and lower at three in the morning, but you simply must make it to a town big enough for a Denny's. We are all controlled by the road when we are travelling, it can't be helped. Some of us manage to regain some control of ourselves when we are back in our own hometowns. Others let the road control them for their entire waking lives. The worst of us like it. They are important people on their way to do important things.
The attempt to change the tire failed. the ground was soft from snowmelt, and the jack simply sank into it every time I cranked it. I got some minor scratches on my knuckles, I bleed for you Whiteclay. I decided to call AAA. I wasn't entirely sure if they would service a car that wasn't mine, but it was the only possible way we could get out of purgatory and continue worshipping the highway.
Paul went off in search of a mile marker so that I could give our location to the operator. As of now I could only tell her that we were somewhere between Seward and York. The Nebraska department of roads claims that it has a mile marker for every mile of every state maintained highway. this is a lie. Paul walked for at least a mile in every direction and found nothing. The operator was from... somewhere. India, Malaysia. She mispronounced Seward, than she asked me if we were still in Lincoln, than she put me on hold for about ten minutes. It went on like this for some time. Our fellow travellers coontinued to whiz in front of our faces without getting into the other lane.
eventually, I recognized the white church standing next to the bridge to the east and realized that we were about a mile west of Gohener. I recognize Gohener from my frequent trips between Lincoln and my family in North Platte. It's the only village in Nebraska that's right there along the interstate. You can see the whole place from the road. Keep that in mind if you ever find yourself in a predicament similar to ours.
I relayed the information to the operator, and after some more holding and new-age muzak, she told me that a tow truck would come and change our tire for us within the next ten-fourty five minutes. I've had car trouble before, and normally this means two hours. But the tow truck driver was at the sight within half-an hour. Midwest Towing, Seward Nebraska, repay the favor the showed to Mr. Heartland and call them up if you're ever in the area and need a tow.
The sky, which had been cloudy, turned sunny while we waited. we signalled for semis to honk at us and they obliged. a man in a red truck took our hand signals as a call for help. With great skill and at great risk to himself, he negotiated his way from the right lane accross the carriageway and into the median to meet us. For reasons that arn't entirely clear, me, Dan, and Paul all walked up to meet him toghether.
He looked the O.G. Harley-davidson type. White hair and beard arranged in that lion-mane style, tattos, etc. He had clearly been partying the night before, or perhaps that morning. The smell of old liquor leeking through his pores was obvious.
He asked us if we needed any help. I spoke for the group, I took that initiative. I told him thanks but no; I had called AAA and the tow-truck was en-route. He said alright, and reentered the road with as much skill as he had left it. That was it. This was easily the nicest rural white man we would encounter on the trip. He had wasted his time for us, how sweet.
The tow-truck came, with a Seward County deputy escorting him. The cop was nice, the nicest I met and easily the nicest we would meet on the trip. He tried to gesture traffic out of the passing lane. They ignored him as if he was just another bum like us. A straight line and a goal. He cursed them with far less skill than I had. The tow-truck driver had a pnaumatic jack and changed our tire for us in about three seconds. He did not, alas, have a real tire for sale. We would have to go to York, the nearest proper town, for that.
I asked the Deputy if it would be better to take U.S. 34, which paralles the interstate some five miles to the north. I knew the answer was yes. The doughnut is not designed for high-speed travel, any idiot knows that. But I wanted to make a show of respect towards authority. He had taken the time to help us, and I have latant small-town tendencies.
The deputy said that it wuld be a good idea and suggested that we take the Beaver Crossing road to the two-lane. It was then that I realized that this man was a fucking idiot. I pride myself on my knowledge in certain nerdy subjects, and obscure Nebraska roads is one of these. I knew that the Beaver crossin road was gravel between the interstate and the two-lane, and was likely to grind the doughnut to pieces. So I told Dan to drive in the slow lane to the second exit, which was the Utica road, and take the blacktop north from there until we hit 34.
Sitting in the median purgatory, contemplating pissing in front of hundreds of strangers, this was the highlight of the trip. It would descend from amusing anecdote to utter nihilism. Lunch and repairs in York.
The tire looked like it had just starred in the Zubruder film. At least a dozen seperate ragged threads still connected to the wheel and forming a vaguely wheelesque shape. It continued to smoke for a good half hour. We got it on tape, it's amazing. Dan said that we had come too far to give up. This went without saying. It wasn't a question of whether to keep going or give up. It was a question of whether or not we had any choices to speak of. The trunk carried the standard equipment, a doughnut and a shitty jack. We get the joke now Detroit (you too, Tokyo), you can bring back the real tire change kits.
So my fear was that we didn't have the option of going either east or west but rather that we would be stuck forever in the no-mans land between the roadways. This was our first purgatory. We would be forced to eat roadkill, suck stagnant water out of the grass, relieve ourselves in front of hundreds of passing eyes. It could be days before a state patrolman pulled into the median for the sake of tracking down a speeder/drug runner/terrorist and maybe deign take the time to arrest us for vagrancy and deliver us back to civilization.
Me and Dan set about trying to get the old tire off and put the psuedo-spare on. Cars in the inside lane passed inches in front of us with total indifference. they had their skiing, and their Cabela's, and their seminars to go to, you see, and it was our own fault for being in their way. A straight line and a goal. Press your foot down on the gas and keep it there through all hazards. The new masculinity, it leaves something lacking. I shouted my belief that all you motherfuckers can fuck yourselves. There, that's better.
They were important people on their way to do important things, that's what they told themselves. But they wern't really the ones choosing to come within three inches of turning us into stew. They were controlled by the road. The same road that tells you to risk soiling yourself rather than make an unplanned stop, because you don't want to lose five minutes on a 36-hour trip. The same road that tells you to get gas at the first place off the interstate even though you know it's the most expensive place in whatever town you're in. the same road that tells you to keep driving, keep driving, as your eyes sink lower and lower at three in the morning, but you simply must make it to a town big enough for a Denny's. We are all controlled by the road when we are travelling, it can't be helped. Some of us manage to regain some control of ourselves when we are back in our own hometowns. Others let the road control them for their entire waking lives. The worst of us like it. They are important people on their way to do important things.
The attempt to change the tire failed. the ground was soft from snowmelt, and the jack simply sank into it every time I cranked it. I got some minor scratches on my knuckles, I bleed for you Whiteclay. I decided to call AAA. I wasn't entirely sure if they would service a car that wasn't mine, but it was the only possible way we could get out of purgatory and continue worshipping the highway.
Paul went off in search of a mile marker so that I could give our location to the operator. As of now I could only tell her that we were somewhere between Seward and York. The Nebraska department of roads claims that it has a mile marker for every mile of every state maintained highway. this is a lie. Paul walked for at least a mile in every direction and found nothing. The operator was from... somewhere. India, Malaysia. She mispronounced Seward, than she asked me if we were still in Lincoln, than she put me on hold for about ten minutes. It went on like this for some time. Our fellow travellers coontinued to whiz in front of our faces without getting into the other lane.
eventually, I recognized the white church standing next to the bridge to the east and realized that we were about a mile west of Gohener. I recognize Gohener from my frequent trips between Lincoln and my family in North Platte. It's the only village in Nebraska that's right there along the interstate. You can see the whole place from the road. Keep that in mind if you ever find yourself in a predicament similar to ours.
I relayed the information to the operator, and after some more holding and new-age muzak, she told me that a tow truck would come and change our tire for us within the next ten-fourty five minutes. I've had car trouble before, and normally this means two hours. But the tow truck driver was at the sight within half-an hour. Midwest Towing, Seward Nebraska, repay the favor the showed to Mr. Heartland and call them up if you're ever in the area and need a tow.
The sky, which had been cloudy, turned sunny while we waited. we signalled for semis to honk at us and they obliged. a man in a red truck took our hand signals as a call for help. With great skill and at great risk to himself, he negotiated his way from the right lane accross the carriageway and into the median to meet us. For reasons that arn't entirely clear, me, Dan, and Paul all walked up to meet him toghether.
He looked the O.G. Harley-davidson type. White hair and beard arranged in that lion-mane style, tattos, etc. He had clearly been partying the night before, or perhaps that morning. The smell of old liquor leeking through his pores was obvious.
He asked us if we needed any help. I spoke for the group, I took that initiative. I told him thanks but no; I had called AAA and the tow-truck was en-route. He said alright, and reentered the road with as much skill as he had left it. That was it. This was easily the nicest rural white man we would encounter on the trip. He had wasted his time for us, how sweet.
The tow-truck came, with a Seward County deputy escorting him. The cop was nice, the nicest I met and easily the nicest we would meet on the trip. He tried to gesture traffic out of the passing lane. They ignored him as if he was just another bum like us. A straight line and a goal. He cursed them with far less skill than I had. The tow-truck driver had a pnaumatic jack and changed our tire for us in about three seconds. He did not, alas, have a real tire for sale. We would have to go to York, the nearest proper town, for that.
I asked the Deputy if it would be better to take U.S. 34, which paralles the interstate some five miles to the north. I knew the answer was yes. The doughnut is not designed for high-speed travel, any idiot knows that. But I wanted to make a show of respect towards authority. He had taken the time to help us, and I have latant small-town tendencies.
The deputy said that it wuld be a good idea and suggested that we take the Beaver Crossing road to the two-lane. It was then that I realized that this man was a fucking idiot. I pride myself on my knowledge in certain nerdy subjects, and obscure Nebraska roads is one of these. I knew that the Beaver crossin road was gravel between the interstate and the two-lane, and was likely to grind the doughnut to pieces. So I told Dan to drive in the slow lane to the second exit, which was the Utica road, and take the blacktop north from there until we hit 34.
Sitting in the median purgatory, contemplating pissing in front of hundreds of strangers, this was the highlight of the trip. It would descend from amusing anecdote to utter nihilism. Lunch and repairs in York.
Whiteclay Part 3.
I knew that Saturday night was the night of the time change, but I made no adjustments for it. Call it my protest. It's fucking absurd that we should switch to Daylight Savings while it's still solar winter. There's been days that were near freezing with the sun still out at 7 P.M. It's unseemly. I pride myself on being tempered by Nebraska winters. I know better than to celebrate spring prematurely. there will be another snow yet, or at least one more cold snap. Yet the late sun gives me the urge to listen to Sublime and drink Corona. Nonsense, it's still heavy metal and Newcastle season. So I showed up at Dan's apartment an hour late to prove that society's artificial clock has no power over me. I showed up at the real 11 A.M.
Becky had brought Matzza bread. It's quite good and if you have't tried it yet you really should. Yet it didn't seem right somehow. For one thing, I was hungover, and would have rather had meat and grease. (No, the Mc'Donalds wasn't enough. It's never enough. I demand more fatty food to increase the liver damage and make me look hideous by the time I'm thirty.) For another thing, all of us except our infidel cameraman were raised Catholic.
And I for one would like to see the old Catholic/Jew rivalry come back. It's like the Nu/Ou football rivalry. It has drama, portent, romance, even a little grudging respect. The current Jew/Muslim rivalry is, by contrast, more like Nu/Cu in football. It's classless, mean-spirited, a lame echo. Watch Passion of the Christ and the room practically fills with the smell of insense and burning flesh on the stake. People don't hate like that anymore. Nowadays they drop the theatre and go straight to the naked domination. I blame America. We're so philistine with our bigotry. We don't put any flair to it at all, and we set a bad example for the rest of the world.
Oh yes, the crew consisted of myself, Dan Feuerbach, Rebecca Ankenbrand, and the infidel Paul Clark. It would have been better to bring a fellow Catholic who would pay for cigarettes without smoking them. But we needed someone who could rent a university camera, and I dropped out of J-school.
We took Dan's clown car. He says it's a 92 Corrola, but I thought that they stopped making manual transmissions in 1958. At any rate, the only people who knew how to drive a stick were Dan and myself, which is to say that I drove a stick once or twice seven or eight years ago. Some people say that it's just like riding a bike. Some people drink Bud Light. Some people cry at Extreme Home Makeover.
So I had some relearning to do as we headed south to retrieve my own car at 14th and Old Cheney. I killed the engine six times in the first six blocks, held up traffic a couple times, held up okay on south thirteenth. Nearly drove into Highway two traffic when I had to "stop" the car with this stone-age technollogy, nearly rolled backwards into an SUV at 14th and Old Cheney, and for good measure, killed the car again in the parking lot where my car sat. It was decided that I would handle the driving in the west, where things like "stopping" and "slowing down" wouldn't be as much of a problem. My stick skills would improve over the course of the trip, there is nothing I can't do after all. I would eventually be able to shift up and down without makng the car sound like a dying panther. And eventually I could drive out of parking lots after only two or three tries. But enough about my weaknesses, let's talk about society's.
I gathered my car, led the Corolla back to my apartment in T-Town, loaded my stuff, and we were off. Interstate 80 to Grand Island, Highway 2 to Ellsworth, 27 to gordon, U.S. 20 to 87, 87 to happytown.
But first, the tire went flat.
Becky had brought Matzza bread. It's quite good and if you have't tried it yet you really should. Yet it didn't seem right somehow. For one thing, I was hungover, and would have rather had meat and grease. (No, the Mc'Donalds wasn't enough. It's never enough. I demand more fatty food to increase the liver damage and make me look hideous by the time I'm thirty.) For another thing, all of us except our infidel cameraman were raised Catholic.
And I for one would like to see the old Catholic/Jew rivalry come back. It's like the Nu/Ou football rivalry. It has drama, portent, romance, even a little grudging respect. The current Jew/Muslim rivalry is, by contrast, more like Nu/Cu in football. It's classless, mean-spirited, a lame echo. Watch Passion of the Christ and the room practically fills with the smell of insense and burning flesh on the stake. People don't hate like that anymore. Nowadays they drop the theatre and go straight to the naked domination. I blame America. We're so philistine with our bigotry. We don't put any flair to it at all, and we set a bad example for the rest of the world.
Oh yes, the crew consisted of myself, Dan Feuerbach, Rebecca Ankenbrand, and the infidel Paul Clark. It would have been better to bring a fellow Catholic who would pay for cigarettes without smoking them. But we needed someone who could rent a university camera, and I dropped out of J-school.
We took Dan's clown car. He says it's a 92 Corrola, but I thought that they stopped making manual transmissions in 1958. At any rate, the only people who knew how to drive a stick were Dan and myself, which is to say that I drove a stick once or twice seven or eight years ago. Some people say that it's just like riding a bike. Some people drink Bud Light. Some people cry at Extreme Home Makeover.
So I had some relearning to do as we headed south to retrieve my own car at 14th and Old Cheney. I killed the engine six times in the first six blocks, held up traffic a couple times, held up okay on south thirteenth. Nearly drove into Highway two traffic when I had to "stop" the car with this stone-age technollogy, nearly rolled backwards into an SUV at 14th and Old Cheney, and for good measure, killed the car again in the parking lot where my car sat. It was decided that I would handle the driving in the west, where things like "stopping" and "slowing down" wouldn't be as much of a problem. My stick skills would improve over the course of the trip, there is nothing I can't do after all. I would eventually be able to shift up and down without makng the car sound like a dying panther. And eventually I could drive out of parking lots after only two or three tries. But enough about my weaknesses, let's talk about society's.
I gathered my car, led the Corolla back to my apartment in T-Town, loaded my stuff, and we were off. Interstate 80 to Grand Island, Highway 2 to Ellsworth, 27 to gordon, U.S. 20 to 87, 87 to happytown.
But first, the tire went flat.
Déardaoin, Márta 15, 2007
Whiteclay Part 2
The story of the Whiteclay trip really begins for me on the night before, just as it really ends for me on the day after. I was spending a normal Saturday night out carousing and ended up at my friend's Myles's house.
Ths is important for several reasons. For one, we were playing poker while watching poker on TV. This would foreshadow a general theme of the trip, it was something that pseudo-intellectual freshmen and those of us who will always be psuedo-intellectual freshmen find hillariously absurd. Far more important were Beverly Hills Ninja, Mc'Donalds, and the alcohol.
"Beverly Hills Ninja" is one of Chris Farley's last movies and is, of course, absolutely fucking dreadful. We watched it for irony's sake. (Certainly not because we were a pack of drunks looking for an excuse to stay awake and keep drinking.) The entire crew consisted of professional sarcastics who live for opportunities to flog movies like "Beverly Hills Ninja" like it was Jim Cervezial. This is what we do, in lieu of having girlfriends and lives. (I should probably speak for myself on this.)
Yet something interesting happened. There were long streches of Beverly Hills Ninja that were so terrible, scenes that were not just unfunny, but threatened to destroy the very idea of comedy, that all of our razor tongues were left speechless. The cleverest thing anyone had to say about it was not a quip but a question. One Brandon Turner wondered aloud why Chris Farley was a ninja, and no one knew. There was no answer. The question was asked and then it hung in the air, like an unsolicited murder confession.
As intended, the movie gave us the opportunity to get very drunk and stupid, and we began to get hungry. I half-heartedly suggested De'Leon's. (The best resturant in Lincoln, if you are ever a visitor here, eat nothing else, period.) This idea quickly became a mission in search of food. But the De'Leon's in south Lincoln closes at night, which is proof that anything south of Highway 2 isn't part of the real Lincoln if nothing else is. The neighborhood Village Inn was also closed, which left...Mc'Donalds.
If it were up to me, I would have preffered to just go home and eat a box of Hamburger Helper, because I dislike Mc'Donalds. I am not a vegetarian, and have no political qualms against fast-food resturants persay, but I think that Morgan Spurlok and all the other evil veggie-socialists have given me some sort of psycho-somatic reaction to Mc'Donalds because Mc'Donalds simply tastes foul to me. I can taste the shoddiness and the bacteria and the granulated remnents of a thousand cows in each burger in a way I never noticed as a child. I really would have preffered to just eat my own food, but I went through the drive-thru with everyone else, and it's awkward to be the guy who isn't eating in a group drunk-fest, so I got the Big Mac meal.
We ate in the parking lot of Myles's apartment, without ketchup or salt, throwing our wrappers onto the ground and letting them blow away to desecrate whatever piece of nature they chose to. We were beasts, eating food not fit for beasts. It was the beginning of several days of drinking too much, eating badly, offending God and nature,and seeking visceral experience with no intention of contributing to society. (Rogues, ruffians, and rascallions.)
I was too drunk to drive, so I left my car parked in the distant wastelands of 14th and Old Cheney and let my travelmate Dan drive me home. He claimed to be good to drive, and so he was. Was he technically legal to drive? Never mind.
The night before set the table for Whiteclay in several ways. It complicated our departure for one. This was the night of the time change, so me and Dan woke up an hour later than we had planned to. Things were furthur complicated by the fact that I had to walk to his apartment on the other side of downtown and than get a ride to fourteenth and Cheney and then back too my apartment to load my stuff into his car. Because of this and the great median adventure which I will discuss tomorrow, we ended up rolling into the Gordon/Rushville/Pine Ridge area at least three hours later than we were planning too. Last but not least, Dan and I, the only two drivers on the trip, spent the entire day hungover and sleep-deprived. This was how I would experience every conscious moment of the trip.
Expect no mercy if your car breaks down on the interstate, and never drink Hurricane Malt Liquor if you're the kind who likes to keep your emotions to yourself. Enough for now.
Ths is important for several reasons. For one, we were playing poker while watching poker on TV. This would foreshadow a general theme of the trip, it was something that pseudo-intellectual freshmen and those of us who will always be psuedo-intellectual freshmen find hillariously absurd. Far more important were Beverly Hills Ninja, Mc'Donalds, and the alcohol.
"Beverly Hills Ninja" is one of Chris Farley's last movies and is, of course, absolutely fucking dreadful. We watched it for irony's sake. (Certainly not because we were a pack of drunks looking for an excuse to stay awake and keep drinking.) The entire crew consisted of professional sarcastics who live for opportunities to flog movies like "Beverly Hills Ninja" like it was Jim Cervezial. This is what we do, in lieu of having girlfriends and lives. (I should probably speak for myself on this.)
Yet something interesting happened. There were long streches of Beverly Hills Ninja that were so terrible, scenes that were not just unfunny, but threatened to destroy the very idea of comedy, that all of our razor tongues were left speechless. The cleverest thing anyone had to say about it was not a quip but a question. One Brandon Turner wondered aloud why Chris Farley was a ninja, and no one knew. There was no answer. The question was asked and then it hung in the air, like an unsolicited murder confession.
As intended, the movie gave us the opportunity to get very drunk and stupid, and we began to get hungry. I half-heartedly suggested De'Leon's. (The best resturant in Lincoln, if you are ever a visitor here, eat nothing else, period.) This idea quickly became a mission in search of food. But the De'Leon's in south Lincoln closes at night, which is proof that anything south of Highway 2 isn't part of the real Lincoln if nothing else is. The neighborhood Village Inn was also closed, which left...Mc'Donalds.
If it were up to me, I would have preffered to just go home and eat a box of Hamburger Helper, because I dislike Mc'Donalds. I am not a vegetarian, and have no political qualms against fast-food resturants persay, but I think that Morgan Spurlok and all the other evil veggie-socialists have given me some sort of psycho-somatic reaction to Mc'Donalds because Mc'Donalds simply tastes foul to me. I can taste the shoddiness and the bacteria and the granulated remnents of a thousand cows in each burger in a way I never noticed as a child. I really would have preffered to just eat my own food, but I went through the drive-thru with everyone else, and it's awkward to be the guy who isn't eating in a group drunk-fest, so I got the Big Mac meal.
We ate in the parking lot of Myles's apartment, without ketchup or salt, throwing our wrappers onto the ground and letting them blow away to desecrate whatever piece of nature they chose to. We were beasts, eating food not fit for beasts. It was the beginning of several days of drinking too much, eating badly, offending God and nature,and seeking visceral experience with no intention of contributing to society. (Rogues, ruffians, and rascallions.)
I was too drunk to drive, so I left my car parked in the distant wastelands of 14th and Old Cheney and let my travelmate Dan drive me home. He claimed to be good to drive, and so he was. Was he technically legal to drive? Never mind.
The night before set the table for Whiteclay in several ways. It complicated our departure for one. This was the night of the time change, so me and Dan woke up an hour later than we had planned to. Things were furthur complicated by the fact that I had to walk to his apartment on the other side of downtown and than get a ride to fourteenth and Cheney and then back too my apartment to load my stuff into his car. Because of this and the great median adventure which I will discuss tomorrow, we ended up rolling into the Gordon/Rushville/Pine Ridge area at least three hours later than we were planning too. Last but not least, Dan and I, the only two drivers on the trip, spent the entire day hungover and sleep-deprived. This was how I would experience every conscious moment of the trip.
Expect no mercy if your car breaks down on the interstate, and never drink Hurricane Malt Liquor if you're the kind who likes to keep your emotions to yourself. Enough for now.
Whiteclay, Part 1.
I'll start with the end, maybe that can give me some grand theme or overiding idea to work with.
The real end of Whiteclay came when I woke up at 1 P.M. today. I had slept for fifteen hours. It wasn't until than that I realized just how draining the trip had been. The driving, the drinking, the irregular meals, the sudden waves of disgust, pity, rage. We came home last night around seven. I knew I was tired, but I still thought that I could accomplish something before I rested. Start writing my account, do some homework, pick up some groceries, maybe even go to some gathering... again.
This was absurd. I browsed the internet for a couple of hours, mostly glaring at the screen. Then I had some Hamburger Helper for dinner. I ate the entire box. A couple of nights ago, I had ramen and a bannana for supper, and a hurricane had swept the nutriants from my body. Than I fell asleep at 10:30. I collapsed, with all of my clothes on, just like the night before. Sleeping on a private bed in total silence for the first time in five days. I spent at least two hours today lingering in bed, enjoying the the beauty of the silence, the clenliness of a real shower.
But why have I spent the last two paragraphs talking about myself? "This is how we live" You got your degrees and philosophies? Yes, I had running water, clean blankets, and some means to feed myself for the entire time. No internet, country people who didn't find you clever, oh how draining, oh how you suffer, you had better indulge yourself, stay in bed past noon.
Well, what else am I supposed to do? I'm the one writing this. Sorry Warren, sorry Robert, I can't really write about you, that's a skill lost to my generation. No, I'm afraid you can only be examples, kinds, types, symbols. You don't sleep in burned out shacks with no plumbing or electricity, you only represent it. we have our degrees and philosophies, but we don't live the life.
But that's what life is now Robert, not the degrees if you can get them, but certainly the philosophies. Be clever, charming, quick-witted. We have discarded your superstitions, not because wer's more rational than our ancestors, but because modern life is already intangible enough. You have sat in Whiteclay for years, waiting for your turn to die in the dirt from undiagnosed cirrohsis or diabetes, wrestling with your nightmares. (I know how Hurricane blows those in) You know that the modern world ignores you and passes you by. But you have no idea how much, none at all.
The real end of Whiteclay came when I woke up at 1 P.M. today. I had slept for fifteen hours. It wasn't until than that I realized just how draining the trip had been. The driving, the drinking, the irregular meals, the sudden waves of disgust, pity, rage. We came home last night around seven. I knew I was tired, but I still thought that I could accomplish something before I rested. Start writing my account, do some homework, pick up some groceries, maybe even go to some gathering... again.
This was absurd. I browsed the internet for a couple of hours, mostly glaring at the screen. Then I had some Hamburger Helper for dinner. I ate the entire box. A couple of nights ago, I had ramen and a bannana for supper, and a hurricane had swept the nutriants from my body. Than I fell asleep at 10:30. I collapsed, with all of my clothes on, just like the night before. Sleeping on a private bed in total silence for the first time in five days. I spent at least two hours today lingering in bed, enjoying the the beauty of the silence, the clenliness of a real shower.
But why have I spent the last two paragraphs talking about myself? "This is how we live" You got your degrees and philosophies? Yes, I had running water, clean blankets, and some means to feed myself for the entire time. No internet, country people who didn't find you clever, oh how draining, oh how you suffer, you had better indulge yourself, stay in bed past noon.
Well, what else am I supposed to do? I'm the one writing this. Sorry Warren, sorry Robert, I can't really write about you, that's a skill lost to my generation. No, I'm afraid you can only be examples, kinds, types, symbols. You don't sleep in burned out shacks with no plumbing or electricity, you only represent it. we have our degrees and philosophies, but we don't live the life.
But that's what life is now Robert, not the degrees if you can get them, but certainly the philosophies. Be clever, charming, quick-witted. We have discarded your superstitions, not because wer's more rational than our ancestors, but because modern life is already intangible enough. You have sat in Whiteclay for years, waiting for your turn to die in the dirt from undiagnosed cirrohsis or diabetes, wrestling with your nightmares. (I know how Hurricane blows those in) You know that the modern world ignores you and passes you by. But you have no idea how much, none at all.
Dé hAoine, Márta 09, 2007
Whiteclay preview.
We're going to Whiteclay, Nebraska for Spring Break. Me and three other people, each with our own purposes. None of us have a noble or moral reason. There are no shocking facts to expose that haven't already been exposed. You know about Whiteclay sure you do. Right accross the South dakota line from the Pine Ridge reservation, four liquor stores and a pawn shop. Capricious pawn shop owners who know their Adam Smith and don't feel the least bit of shame, thank you very much. Natives who are being actively ignored by the society that conqured them and have chosen surrender over charging the windmills of studied cultural indifference. Local police who look the other way so long as the natives don't show their faces in Gordon or Rushville.
Yes, you know all about Whiteclay. There have been several journalistic expose's. All of them have revealed that, guess what, the place is a shithole. As for me, I do not seek to expose anything or shame anybody. I seek not to construct pity-party personal profiles or give tribal leaders and local whites another sounding board to scream at each other. Me and my comrades are going to crawl right into the gutter with the people. We will drink Hurricane and Thunderbird and dance in the noonday sun and listen to out-of-date rap music right along with them. You may find this distasteful, very well, just what are you going to South Padre for than?
As for me, I seek to discover some deep,semi- hidden truth about the rural plains. I aim to reveal the nihilism behind all the God, country, and football nonsense. Not just in Whiteclay, not just in the western wasteland, but throughout the entire Midwest. Obsession with loyalty and tradition is based on fatalism and psychosexual submission. At the heart of America lies nothing at all, only a desire to deny one's own personality and acheive immortality by crawling into a black-and-white photograph and holding still. So I guess I do have something to expose, just more pretentious than what everyone else tries to expose.
Coming with me will be Mr. Paul Clark and his exceptional video skills, I'm sure we can produce something that can entertain the public. Ms. Rebecca Ankenbrand will be coming to give us all a reason to maintain our sanity in public. Mr. Dan Feuerbach is the amoral bastard who came up with this idea. He will surely get us all killed with his lack of respect for the downtrodden, but friends are friends you know.
I plan on keeping a journal of my thoughts, feelings, and observations. I hope to put these feelings toghether into a coherent narrative when I return. It will surely be groundbreaking. It'll make your akward teenage children want to be me.
We leave on Sunday, and I'm afraid that this is the last you'll hear from me before than. If you didn't already know that Whiteclay has no internet access, you are profoundly stupid. I'll be keeping my journal in shorthand, and if I should "disappear", anyone in the area should keep an eye out for a yellow legal pad covered in chicken scratches.
Yippee-Ki-Ye motherfuckers.
Yes, you know all about Whiteclay. There have been several journalistic expose's. All of them have revealed that, guess what, the place is a shithole. As for me, I do not seek to expose anything or shame anybody. I seek not to construct pity-party personal profiles or give tribal leaders and local whites another sounding board to scream at each other. Me and my comrades are going to crawl right into the gutter with the people. We will drink Hurricane and Thunderbird and dance in the noonday sun and listen to out-of-date rap music right along with them. You may find this distasteful, very well, just what are you going to South Padre for than?
As for me, I seek to discover some deep,semi- hidden truth about the rural plains. I aim to reveal the nihilism behind all the God, country, and football nonsense. Not just in Whiteclay, not just in the western wasteland, but throughout the entire Midwest. Obsession with loyalty and tradition is based on fatalism and psychosexual submission. At the heart of America lies nothing at all, only a desire to deny one's own personality and acheive immortality by crawling into a black-and-white photograph and holding still. So I guess I do have something to expose, just more pretentious than what everyone else tries to expose.
Coming with me will be Mr. Paul Clark and his exceptional video skills, I'm sure we can produce something that can entertain the public. Ms. Rebecca Ankenbrand will be coming to give us all a reason to maintain our sanity in public. Mr. Dan Feuerbach is the amoral bastard who came up with this idea. He will surely get us all killed with his lack of respect for the downtrodden, but friends are friends you know.
I plan on keeping a journal of my thoughts, feelings, and observations. I hope to put these feelings toghether into a coherent narrative when I return. It will surely be groundbreaking. It'll make your akward teenage children want to be me.
We leave on Sunday, and I'm afraid that this is the last you'll hear from me before than. If you didn't already know that Whiteclay has no internet access, you are profoundly stupid. I'll be keeping my journal in shorthand, and if I should "disappear", anyone in the area should keep an eye out for a yellow legal pad covered in chicken scratches.
Yippee-Ki-Ye motherfuckers.
Dé Céadaoin, Feabhra 28, 2007
I had a real good idea
It came and left me while I was half asleep in bed. This happens from time to time. Some writers deal with this issue by keeping a notebook next to the bed, or even taking one wherever they went. This has always seemed a bit prissy to me, so I'm not going to do that.
But it was a great idea, right up there with my best stuff. It was funny yet profound. It was one of my bullseye-prescient observations of the delusions and hypocrises of Midwestern society. It was great satire, it was masterful satire. Nay, it was beyond satire. It would have changed your life. It would have been the first step to a new enlightenment. All of the old Gods and myths would have been finally and totally defeated by my atomic wit.
But I don't keep a notebook by my bed, because I pee standing up
Connor Oberst probably keeps a notebook next to his bed. He might have an idea similar to mine and right it down. But the "man" has no idea how to express himself.
I do.
I don't keep a notebook next to my bed because I never got dragged to the shrink for giving myself paper cuts on the wrists
so I can only give you a little scrap of my idea. Or maybe it's a scrap of another idea I had at some other time.
"How are we supposed to judge what makes a great man? There are so many walks of life, some so different from each other that they might as well be performed by seperate species. Few people know enough about other people's walks to have the slightest idea about whether they're doing a good job or not. So what then, is greatness? What is the objective standard that applies to us all? I tell you there is none."
Now, I know that was good, probably good enough to put in a book of quotes next to Oscar Wilde and Cicero, but I can see how some hard-to-please people might find it a little trite.
Oh, but if I could only show you the context, you would see that this quote is part of something far from trite, something, perfect. Your tears would flow for days. You would learn to vomit at the sight of all of your old status symbols.
But I don't keep a notebook next to my bed, because I only pretend to like Ani DeFranco.
But it was a great idea, right up there with my best stuff. It was funny yet profound. It was one of my bullseye-prescient observations of the delusions and hypocrises of Midwestern society. It was great satire, it was masterful satire. Nay, it was beyond satire. It would have changed your life. It would have been the first step to a new enlightenment. All of the old Gods and myths would have been finally and totally defeated by my atomic wit.
But I don't keep a notebook by my bed, because I pee standing up
Connor Oberst probably keeps a notebook next to his bed. He might have an idea similar to mine and right it down. But the "man" has no idea how to express himself.
I do.
I don't keep a notebook next to my bed because I never got dragged to the shrink for giving myself paper cuts on the wrists
so I can only give you a little scrap of my idea. Or maybe it's a scrap of another idea I had at some other time.
"How are we supposed to judge what makes a great man? There are so many walks of life, some so different from each other that they might as well be performed by seperate species. Few people know enough about other people's walks to have the slightest idea about whether they're doing a good job or not. So what then, is greatness? What is the objective standard that applies to us all? I tell you there is none."
Now, I know that was good, probably good enough to put in a book of quotes next to Oscar Wilde and Cicero, but I can see how some hard-to-please people might find it a little trite.
Oh, but if I could only show you the context, you would see that this quote is part of something far from trite, something, perfect. Your tears would flow for days. You would learn to vomit at the sight of all of your old status symbols.
But I don't keep a notebook next to my bed, because I only pretend to like Ani DeFranco.
Dé hAoine, Feabhra 23, 2007
Friday night fun and games
The Nebraska Unicam is considering cutting off Medicaid payments to non-citizens. That's non-citizens mind you, not illegal immigrants, the terms are not interchangeable. Maybe you've heard of a little thing called a green card, or maybe yu've heard of a little thing called an exchange student. (You should see what he's doing to your daughter.)
Of course, I'm sure you know that most people, citizen or otherwise, who receive Medicaid or some other government assistance. do work. Oh yes they do. They work shit jobs for minimum wage with no benefits, so they need the state to help them out. You may call it socialism. O.k. got ahead and call it socialism. I'm not a socialist myself, but the sound of the word doesn't scare me out of thinking.
Having said that, I am an American, and I get a boner at the thought of being a better American than people different than me just like every other red-blooded American male does. And maybe there is too much welfare money going to those damned non-citizens.
So let's play a little game. Three of these pictures represent non-citizens who have receive more than 200 million dollars in government handouts from the state of Nebraska every year, and untold billions nationwide. One of these pictures represents a naturalized citizen who has found steady employment and doesn't require any government help at all. First one to guess which is which wins a free jar of Peter Pan Peanut butter.
Of course, I'm sure you know that most people, citizen or otherwise, who receive Medicaid or some other government assistance. do work. Oh yes they do. They work shit jobs for minimum wage with no benefits, so they need the state to help them out. You may call it socialism. O.k. got ahead and call it socialism. I'm not a socialist myself, but the sound of the word doesn't scare me out of thinking.
Having said that, I am an American, and I get a boner at the thought of being a better American than people different than me just like every other red-blooded American male does. And maybe there is too much welfare money going to those damned non-citizens.
So let's play a little game. Three of these pictures represent non-citizens who have receive more than 200 million dollars in government handouts from the state of Nebraska every year, and untold billions nationwide. One of these pictures represents a naturalized citizen who has found steady employment and doesn't require any government help at all. First one to guess which is which wins a free jar of Peter Pan Peanut butter.
Dé Máirt, Feabhra 20, 2007
Proposal
I have an idea, it's called anti-Lent. I realize that this is the basic idea behind Mardi Gras, but fuck Mardi Gras. What good has Mardi Gras done for New Orleans? None at all. It has only given the public the impression that New Orleans is a disposible cauldren of sin, so that we felt justified in letting the source for a good deal of what is interesting about American culture drown. (A bigger disgrace than 9/11, in my opinion.)
So this is what we do. It starts tonight, do homework, watch network television, go out to Applebees, do whatever you like, as long as you can't possibly get any pleasure out of it.
Tomorrow, and for the next six Fridays, we drink, we smoke, we fornicate. We eat steak for breakfast, pork for lunch, and double rabbitfat burgers for supper.
On the Afternoon of Good Friday itself, cocaine, mountains of cocaine, served to us by illeagal immigrants (Dressed as Mother Mary left abandoned in her old age) forced into prostitution after their husbands were deported.
I realize that even some friends of mine may be shocked by this idea, good. This shows that, no matter what religion you were raised in, you still feel some latant affection for the Catholic Church, or at least the modern Western Civilization that it spawned.
There are some gloomy, pretentious types who claim that Western Civilization is decaying. There are none, however, more pretentious than me. I say that Western Civilization has been dead for at least a hundred years. It is only the corpse we are watching decay. The decay is being accelerated by power elites who, inspired by the 1989 film Weekend at Bernie's, have stolen the corpse from it's deep freeze and now prop it up in front of the masses (who, out of either courtesy or ignorance, claim to see nothing amiss) in order to gain power and influence for themselves.
They claim to be the corpse's best friends. They say they love Bernie. They say they can nurse him back to health and bring the corpse back to it's glory days. "Just give us your loyalty" they say "and we can bring him back to the glory days." "Just submit to the old myths and traditions, and we can return the days when we raped and pillaged the earth with impunity."
So what now then? Shall we acquiecse? Shall we all be Catherine Parks, and necrophilize the corpse in a well played but insignificant bit role? Or shall we look into Andrew McCarthey in the eye and say "Come now, did you think we wouldn't notice the smell?"
I seek not to create depravity but to expose it, not to destroy morality but to show that there is not now, and perhaps never has been, anything to destroy. We cannot invent a new truth untill we are able to start from scratch. Those who still cling to the bloated carcass must have their foolishness shown to them in the clearest possible way.
We have no choice. We cannot allow the corpse of Western Civilization to return peacefully to the earth. In order to remove it's corrupting influence once and for all, we are forced to subject it to furthur outrage. We must shoot in the head with the arrow of hedonism, drag it through the bouys of licentiousness, use it as a float to escape the waters of slave morality.
And it starts tommarow. We're all gathering at my place for a breafast of De'Leon's and Sailor Jerry's. After this, black market Burmise Porn. This is the sanctifying moment, this is when anti-Lent officially begins. You can do whatever you like after that, so long as you regret it immediatly afterwords.
So this is what we do. It starts tonight, do homework, watch network television, go out to Applebees, do whatever you like, as long as you can't possibly get any pleasure out of it.
Tomorrow, and for the next six Fridays, we drink, we smoke, we fornicate. We eat steak for breakfast, pork for lunch, and double rabbitfat burgers for supper.
On the Afternoon of Good Friday itself, cocaine, mountains of cocaine, served to us by illeagal immigrants (Dressed as Mother Mary left abandoned in her old age) forced into prostitution after their husbands were deported.
I realize that even some friends of mine may be shocked by this idea, good. This shows that, no matter what religion you were raised in, you still feel some latant affection for the Catholic Church, or at least the modern Western Civilization that it spawned.
There are some gloomy, pretentious types who claim that Western Civilization is decaying. There are none, however, more pretentious than me. I say that Western Civilization has been dead for at least a hundred years. It is only the corpse we are watching decay. The decay is being accelerated by power elites who, inspired by the 1989 film Weekend at Bernie's, have stolen the corpse from it's deep freeze and now prop it up in front of the masses (who, out of either courtesy or ignorance, claim to see nothing amiss) in order to gain power and influence for themselves.
They claim to be the corpse's best friends. They say they love Bernie. They say they can nurse him back to health and bring the corpse back to it's glory days. "Just give us your loyalty" they say "and we can bring him back to the glory days." "Just submit to the old myths and traditions, and we can return the days when we raped and pillaged the earth with impunity."
So what now then? Shall we acquiecse? Shall we all be Catherine Parks, and necrophilize the corpse in a well played but insignificant bit role? Or shall we look into Andrew McCarthey in the eye and say "Come now, did you think we wouldn't notice the smell?"
I seek not to create depravity but to expose it, not to destroy morality but to show that there is not now, and perhaps never has been, anything to destroy. We cannot invent a new truth untill we are able to start from scratch. Those who still cling to the bloated carcass must have their foolishness shown to them in the clearest possible way.
We have no choice. We cannot allow the corpse of Western Civilization to return peacefully to the earth. In order to remove it's corrupting influence once and for all, we are forced to subject it to furthur outrage. We must shoot in the head with the arrow of hedonism, drag it through the bouys of licentiousness, use it as a float to escape the waters of slave morality.
And it starts tommarow. We're all gathering at my place for a breafast of De'Leon's and Sailor Jerry's. After this, black market Burmise Porn. This is the sanctifying moment, this is when anti-Lent officially begins. You can do whatever you like after that, so long as you regret it immediatly afterwords.
Dé Domhnaigh, Feabhra 18, 2007
And some more on Nantkes
The other day I was listening to Drive-Time Lincoln, the local news show on KILN, the area source for Limbaugh, Hannity, Drudge, and other such clowns. Drive-time is hosted by one Coby Mach, I can't trust a name like that, sounds Texan, fucking short-dicked psychopaths.
In fairness, Mach isn't as much of a jackass as the nationally syndicated assholes we all know and love. This is probably a matter of necessity. It's one thing to excoriate faceless baby-eating liberals from some far away Sodom that good heartlanders will never go to, but it's quite another thing to demonize the next-door neighbor with a Nebraskans for Peace bumper sticker whose kid plays on the same soccer team as yours.
But though he's a second rate thug, Mach is, after all, the host of an AM talk radio show, so the bullshit, delivered with a smirk instead of a growl, is still reliably delivered.
And so it was on Thursday, when Mock tried to put a populist spin on my belladonna Danielle Nantkes's recent drunk-driving incident. Nantkes, you see, wasn't technically arrested, as state senators are immune from being arrested for misdemeanors when the Unicam is in session. She was taken to a detox center and walked out the next morning to her well-earned De'leon's breakfast without having to pay bail or face a judge.
Mach, in his own congenially outraged way, wanted to know why Nantkes didn't face the same righteous punishment that common drunkards do.
Well, it's because of the English revolution, Coby. It's because Charles the 1st tried to use his soldiers to get Oliver Cromwell and his partisans out of his hair. It didn't work, and Cromwell eventually succeeded in beheading Charles and installing his own highly amusing Puritan theocracy.
After the English unrest settled down, Parliament saw this incident of how the executive could use the legal authorities (who are his employees) after all, to remove political opponents in the legislature for any number of crimes real or imagined. So they forbade the King from having MP's arrested while the house was in session. This prohibition was passed on to the American constitution, and the constitutions for all fifty states.
A local lawyer explained this to Mach on the air, in slightly less detail, killing any further rant he had to make on the matter. But local news shorts on KILN still question the fairness of Nantkes's non-arrest at any opportunity. this is bound to mislead the typical AM radio listener, whose knowledge of history is restricted to vague remembrances of American supermen kicking foreign ass and dirty hippies complaining about it.
Of course, there is also the small fact that my neighborhood would have no voice in state government if it's state senator is in jail, but then we don't represent the real common sense people who listen to KILN and our outraged that Lincoln refuses to turn itself into an extension of West Omaha. With Mayor Seng on her way out, expect Nantkes to become the new local Streisand.
In fairness, Mach isn't as much of a jackass as the nationally syndicated assholes we all know and love. This is probably a matter of necessity. It's one thing to excoriate faceless baby-eating liberals from some far away Sodom that good heartlanders will never go to, but it's quite another thing to demonize the next-door neighbor with a Nebraskans for Peace bumper sticker whose kid plays on the same soccer team as yours.
But though he's a second rate thug, Mach is, after all, the host of an AM talk radio show, so the bullshit, delivered with a smirk instead of a growl, is still reliably delivered.
And so it was on Thursday, when Mock tried to put a populist spin on my belladonna Danielle Nantkes's recent drunk-driving incident. Nantkes, you see, wasn't technically arrested, as state senators are immune from being arrested for misdemeanors when the Unicam is in session. She was taken to a detox center and walked out the next morning to her well-earned De'leon's breakfast without having to pay bail or face a judge.
Mach, in his own congenially outraged way, wanted to know why Nantkes didn't face the same righteous punishment that common drunkards do.
Well, it's because of the English revolution, Coby. It's because Charles the 1st tried to use his soldiers to get Oliver Cromwell and his partisans out of his hair. It didn't work, and Cromwell eventually succeeded in beheading Charles and installing his own highly amusing Puritan theocracy.
After the English unrest settled down, Parliament saw this incident of how the executive could use the legal authorities (who are his employees) after all, to remove political opponents in the legislature for any number of crimes real or imagined. So they forbade the King from having MP's arrested while the house was in session. This prohibition was passed on to the American constitution, and the constitutions for all fifty states.
A local lawyer explained this to Mach on the air, in slightly less detail, killing any further rant he had to make on the matter. But local news shorts on KILN still question the fairness of Nantkes's non-arrest at any opportunity. this is bound to mislead the typical AM radio listener, whose knowledge of history is restricted to vague remembrances of American supermen kicking foreign ass and dirty hippies complaining about it.
Of course, there is also the small fact that my neighborhood would have no voice in state government if it's state senator is in jail, but then we don't represent the real common sense people who listen to KILN and our outraged that Lincoln refuses to turn itself into an extension of West Omaha. With Mayor Seng on her way out, expect Nantkes to become the new local Streisand.
Déardaoin, Feabhra 15, 2007
Danielle Nantkes is better than anyone who doesn't drive drunk.
Nantkes is the state senator from my district. I voted for her, she lives five blocks down the street from me, just on the other side of 27th here in Lincoln. Two night ago she went to detox after driving into a snowplow at Nineteenth and P,presumably on her way home from getting down at the Haymarket or the O street strip. So now a state senator, my senator, is charged with DUI. It's caused a bit of a stir.
Full disclosure, I myself have been to jail for DUI (and, ummm, fleeing to avoid arrest, youthful indiscretion you know.) This makes me one of millions of people in rural America whose criminal record consists solely of drinking and/or driving related matters.
I'm not trying to excuse it. It's a terrible thing to do, it kills people. It's just that, you know, it gets too cold to walk here in the winter, and sometimes you got to go to another town to party, and this is a drinking culture, and a driving culture at that. Giving a ride or receiving a ride from someone else is seen as shameful charity. I'm not trying to excuse it, but, you know.
And let's be clear; what Nantkes did was wrong. She's a bad girl. A very, very, bad and wicked girl and I have half a mind to grab my bullwhip and show her some discipline myself. But her crime wasn't a "political crime." She didn't cheat the campaign finance laws, she didn't take any bribes, and she presumably got drunk on her own money. It wasn't the sort of crime where one abuses or takes advantage of one's authority. Anyone can get drunk and crash their car. It's a crime of the people.
Still, there will be some who will see the incident as reason enough to boot her out of the state penis. The Nebraska Unicameral is officially nonpartisan, but of course partisan and philosophical tensions have always been there. Now the term limits have forced out professional politicians (Such as Dave Landis, Nantkes' predecessor and a fine voice for my neighborhood who was stolen from us by the fucking T.L's)the nonpartisan label is almost total fiction.
The Unicameral is home to the true believers now, young vigorous, and proud to be uncompromising in a parliamentary system designed to force compromise.
People like Mark Christensen, holy warrior from Imperial, or Norfolk's Mike Flood, speaker of the Unicam and leather-slave of Governor Heineman.
Nantkes, an unabashedly liberal Democrat, has been a minor irritation for the state's power elite. Nowhere near as effective as Ernie motherfucking Chambers, but nobody likes getting nipped by a poodle.
And they may be looking to avenge the impeachment and removal of university regent Dave Hergert. (who was very friendly with the GOP elite in Lincoln and Omaha, pathetic pleas to Panhandle pride notwithstanding)
We'll see where it goes. In the meantime, Sen. Nantkes, I'd like to ask you out on a date. Meet me at O'Rourke's tomorrow night, I'll be wearing the red rose and Juventes scarf, and don't worry, I'll drive us home. Your place or mine?
Full disclosure, I myself have been to jail for DUI (and, ummm, fleeing to avoid arrest, youthful indiscretion you know.) This makes me one of millions of people in rural America whose criminal record consists solely of drinking and/or driving related matters.
I'm not trying to excuse it. It's a terrible thing to do, it kills people. It's just that, you know, it gets too cold to walk here in the winter, and sometimes you got to go to another town to party, and this is a drinking culture, and a driving culture at that. Giving a ride or receiving a ride from someone else is seen as shameful charity. I'm not trying to excuse it, but, you know.
And let's be clear; what Nantkes did was wrong. She's a bad girl. A very, very, bad and wicked girl and I have half a mind to grab my bullwhip and show her some discipline myself. But her crime wasn't a "political crime." She didn't cheat the campaign finance laws, she didn't take any bribes, and she presumably got drunk on her own money. It wasn't the sort of crime where one abuses or takes advantage of one's authority. Anyone can get drunk and crash their car. It's a crime of the people.
Still, there will be some who will see the incident as reason enough to boot her out of the state penis. The Nebraska Unicameral is officially nonpartisan, but of course partisan and philosophical tensions have always been there. Now the term limits have forced out professional politicians (Such as Dave Landis, Nantkes' predecessor and a fine voice for my neighborhood who was stolen from us by the fucking T.L's)the nonpartisan label is almost total fiction.
The Unicameral is home to the true believers now, young vigorous, and proud to be uncompromising in a parliamentary system designed to force compromise.
People like Mark Christensen, holy warrior from Imperial, or Norfolk's Mike Flood, speaker of the Unicam and leather-slave of Governor Heineman.
Nantkes, an unabashedly liberal Democrat, has been a minor irritation for the state's power elite. Nowhere near as effective as Ernie motherfucking Chambers, but nobody likes getting nipped by a poodle.
And they may be looking to avenge the impeachment and removal of university regent Dave Hergert. (who was very friendly with the GOP elite in Lincoln and Omaha, pathetic pleas to Panhandle pride notwithstanding)
We'll see where it goes. In the meantime, Sen. Nantkes, I'd like to ask you out on a date. Meet me at O'Rourke's tomorrow night, I'll be wearing the red rose and Juventes scarf, and don't worry, I'll drive us home. Your place or mine?
Dé Máirt, Feabhra 13, 2007
Reminder
This current Nebraska winter does not disprove global warming, far from it. This is a historically normal winter, the only reason it's "below average" is because the average has been gradually creeping up over the past 25-30 years.
What is unusual is the lack of a "false spring" that usually hits the Great Plains sometime between mid-January and mid-February, where temperatures briefly rise to the 40's, 50's or even 60's for a few days. This gives everyone a break from artificial lighting and week-old cigarette smoke, a nice chance to stretch one's legs, take a walk through the park, get the cabin fever out of one's system before the second half of winter hits.
No such luck this year. Lincoln hasn't been above 40 since the solstice. It seems that the Jet stream (wholly unaffected by Global warming, btw.) which usually separates the Arctic from the American Midwest, is further south than usual this year.
This is important, because the plains continue unbroken to the north of here almost to the Arctic circle. Without the Jet Stream between here and there, there is nothing to prevent an "Alberta Clipper" or "Arctic Front" from blowing south from Hudson Bay, through the Dakotas, and on to here.
In a modern "normal" winter, we get one or two of these Arctic fronts a year, brining, snow, wind, and freakishly cold temps (single digits) that last for half a week. But with the jet stream to the south of us, these fronts are moving over Nebraska on a weekly basis. Just when temperatures are starting to get back to something reasonable; say, high 20's, low 30's Fahrenheit, here comes the next front.
So for you Huskers wondering what an Alaska winter is like, it's a lot like this. Anchorage is actually having an easier winter than we are since it lies on the air-moderating ocean. For all practical purposes, we are living in an interior Arctic climate right now, made somewhat better by the fact we receive ten or eleven hours of sunlight a day instead of none.
And like I said, historically, this is more or less normal, perhaps a little worse because the worst part of winter simply refuses to go away. Pioneers lived through Januaries that were even worse than this, while temperatures would usually be somewhere in the 20's by now and around 45 by the spring equinox.
So what does that tell us? That our ancestors were even more insane than we thought they were. We already knew that they settled a wasteland for no logical reason, but now that you are living through a real Nebraska winter, just consider the fact that they suffered for this, died for this, killed for this It's really too depressing to believe, isn't it?
What is unusual is the lack of a "false spring" that usually hits the Great Plains sometime between mid-January and mid-February, where temperatures briefly rise to the 40's, 50's or even 60's for a few days. This gives everyone a break from artificial lighting and week-old cigarette smoke, a nice chance to stretch one's legs, take a walk through the park, get the cabin fever out of one's system before the second half of winter hits.
No such luck this year. Lincoln hasn't been above 40 since the solstice. It seems that the Jet stream (wholly unaffected by Global warming, btw.) which usually separates the Arctic from the American Midwest, is further south than usual this year.
This is important, because the plains continue unbroken to the north of here almost to the Arctic circle. Without the Jet Stream between here and there, there is nothing to prevent an "Alberta Clipper" or "Arctic Front" from blowing south from Hudson Bay, through the Dakotas, and on to here.
In a modern "normal" winter, we get one or two of these Arctic fronts a year, brining, snow, wind, and freakishly cold temps (single digits) that last for half a week. But with the jet stream to the south of us, these fronts are moving over Nebraska on a weekly basis. Just when temperatures are starting to get back to something reasonable; say, high 20's, low 30's Fahrenheit, here comes the next front.
So for you Huskers wondering what an Alaska winter is like, it's a lot like this. Anchorage is actually having an easier winter than we are since it lies on the air-moderating ocean. For all practical purposes, we are living in an interior Arctic climate right now, made somewhat better by the fact we receive ten or eleven hours of sunlight a day instead of none.
And like I said, historically, this is more or less normal, perhaps a little worse because the worst part of winter simply refuses to go away. Pioneers lived through Januaries that were even worse than this, while temperatures would usually be somewhere in the 20's by now and around 45 by the spring equinox.
So what does that tell us? That our ancestors were even more insane than we thought they were. We already knew that they settled a wasteland for no logical reason, but now that you are living through a real Nebraska winter, just consider the fact that they suffered for this, died for this, killed for this It's really too depressing to believe, isn't it?
Business idea
I've decided to record videos of myself masturbating for the purpose of masturbating to the videos of myself masturbating in the future. Traditional porn bores me, and even Hentai doesn't amuse me anymore. There's just not enough me involved.
The videos should be ready in a couple weeks. If you would like a copy, and I can't imagine that you wouldn't, leave me your e-mail address over this blog. Of course, you do understand that, due to the high quality of these videos, they will cost at least twice as much as your typical Hustler Real College Girls DVD.
In a few months, I hope to hav videos of myself masturbating to videos of myself masturbating. You know you want it.
The videos should be ready in a couple weeks. If you would like a copy, and I can't imagine that you wouldn't, leave me your e-mail address over this blog. Of course, you do understand that, due to the high quality of these videos, they will cost at least twice as much as your typical Hustler Real College Girls DVD.
In a few months, I hope to hav videos of myself masturbating to videos of myself masturbating. You know you want it.
Dé Máirt, Feabhra 06, 2007
A rememberance of sorts
Her house sits at the end of the block, accross Front street from the tracks. The inside is covered by paintings of Jesus, the Virgin of Guadalupe. She came here some years after being married at fifteen.
Her current house is the newer one, she's had it for over fifty years. She had eight kids, two died on another side of town. I was there to see her husband dying, he died slow and hard. He had been a strong man right into old age. Her grandaughter too, thirty years old, didn't smoke, didn't drink, stomach cancer, and left herself to the care of the North Platte doctors. I was there on her last night, with her grandmother, she begged me to let go of her arm so whe could tear her oxygen tube out. She stayed seven hours longer than she wanted to because of me. I was fifteeen and only knew what the church told me. I wore tie-dyes, smoked pot, listened to loud music, still I was fundamentally a child accepting what I was told about right and wrong. I'm sorry Julie.
The old woman has a basic understanding of the world around her. She knows that Mexicans are moving into Lexington. To her this means Goya, Valintina, all the brands of home. Nothing but Univision at the house, her accent forever as thick as boiling chocolate, her exclamations (never curses) forever in Spanish. She can understand you perfectly well, better than she lets on.
She knows what corruption is. She knows you don't get married young here, you go to school instead. That's what her kids did, went to school, than got married, than to work at the railroad, construction, plumbing. Her grandchildren, as often as not, didn't see the need to finish school. Pregnant at sixteen, just like home, only with know idea of what to do about it.
Adapt to our ways. She did that as well as a mayfly to October, no one dared say a word against her.
Her house is a block from my mother's and I don't know if she's still alive. I see her grandchildren around and exchange a few words, it doesn't seem right to ask. She would be over ninety now.
I'm a man now Elisa. How's that great-grandchild I used to cavort with?
You taught your family those things that are true forever it's a shame. You wern't meant to see this.
Her current house is the newer one, she's had it for over fifty years. She had eight kids, two died on another side of town. I was there to see her husband dying, he died slow and hard. He had been a strong man right into old age. Her grandaughter too, thirty years old, didn't smoke, didn't drink, stomach cancer, and left herself to the care of the North Platte doctors. I was there on her last night, with her grandmother, she begged me to let go of her arm so whe could tear her oxygen tube out. She stayed seven hours longer than she wanted to because of me. I was fifteeen and only knew what the church told me. I wore tie-dyes, smoked pot, listened to loud music, still I was fundamentally a child accepting what I was told about right and wrong. I'm sorry Julie.
The old woman has a basic understanding of the world around her. She knows that Mexicans are moving into Lexington. To her this means Goya, Valintina, all the brands of home. Nothing but Univision at the house, her accent forever as thick as boiling chocolate, her exclamations (never curses) forever in Spanish. She can understand you perfectly well, better than she lets on.
She knows what corruption is. She knows you don't get married young here, you go to school instead. That's what her kids did, went to school, than got married, than to work at the railroad, construction, plumbing. Her grandchildren, as often as not, didn't see the need to finish school. Pregnant at sixteen, just like home, only with know idea of what to do about it.
Adapt to our ways. She did that as well as a mayfly to October, no one dared say a word against her.
Her house is a block from my mother's and I don't know if she's still alive. I see her grandchildren around and exchange a few words, it doesn't seem right to ask. She would be over ninety now.
I'm a man now Elisa. How's that great-grandchild I used to cavort with?
You taught your family those things that are true forever it's a shame. You wern't meant to see this.
Dé Sathairn, Feabhra 03, 2007
Age of terror ends with a giggle?
Never forget indeed, the Boston "terror hoax" may well be the funniest thing that has ever happened, period. It is certainly more culturally significant than the Dems taking Congress. People were afraid that an "electronic device" might be a bomb, and we didn't praise them for their caution, didn't sign them up to be comforted by Oprah, we laughed.
Political figures reminded us that we live in "a post 9-11 world" and we weren't cowed into silence and submission, we laughed even harder.
For once, if just for this one amusing incident, we treated the idea that terrorism should be our sole national obsession like the fucking joke it is. John Kerry was skewered for saying he wanted to make terrorism a nuisance again, how dare he suggest that one thing shouldn't be our everything, that building a national identity out of our greatest fear was something less than a fantastic idea?
Yet how absurd would it be to say that cancer, or Aids, or heart disease should be the absolute national focus until nobody dies of disease anymore? Such a suggestion would be rightfully laughed at, but for the wrong reasons. When someone dies "naturally" it's God's will. When someone dies at the hand of another human being it's an outrage, maybe even a cause for war.
Friends, I tell you it's the same thing. Dying in bed "naturally" is no more and no less acceptable than murder or terrorist attack. We should allocate our resources accordingly, and stop deluding ourselves by vigilantly defending our herds from the next bogeyman as we march them off to the next artery clogging factory on a Friday night.
Dé hAoine, Feabhra 02, 2007
This shit isn't funny anymore
Never in my lifetime has it been consistently every day for the entire winter, I simply refuse to believe that this can be possible. Everything changes, atoms are deteriorating and reforming into new combinations at a constant rate, how the fuck can it possibly be this cold every fucking day for ninety days straight? How can the wind possibly not stop? I simply fucking refuse to believe that the reason isn't supernatural.
As humans, we are entitled to condemn God whenever he gives us weather that displeases us in the slightest way. This is fucking unacceptable, he knows what constant bad weather does to our psychology and he is fucking laughing at us, don't think he isn't. Anyone who still thinks God is worthy of respect, anyone who dresses their kids up all neat for church on Sundays is a fucking subhuman inferior and will be treated as such.
I am entitled to absolute climatic fucking perfection and fuck you if you think otherwise!
As humans, we are entitled to condemn God whenever he gives us weather that displeases us in the slightest way. This is fucking unacceptable, he knows what constant bad weather does to our psychology and he is fucking laughing at us, don't think he isn't. Anyone who still thinks God is worthy of respect, anyone who dresses their kids up all neat for church on Sundays is a fucking subhuman inferior and will be treated as such.
I am entitled to absolute climatic fucking perfection and fuck you if you think otherwise!
Déardaoin, Feabhra 01, 2007
Nothing to see here.
A state rep in California is proposing banning spanking children under four. Some say this is good, that there is no conceivable reason to use physical force against such young children, others say that this is a shameful intrusion on parental authority it's got AM radio types all hot and bothered, nothing new here, bloggers on both sides debate like jilted lovers, nothing new here. Practically no one who has an opinion on the bill has read it of course, who has the time? Rather they formed their opinions after comparing and contrasting the soundbites of other people who haven't read the bill. This is the fair way to do it, this is how reasonable people reach their conclusions, by watching both sides do their 30-second bumper sticker raps on CNN and than judging which one sounded more passionate, outraged, and pro-children.
And me? I have no opinion. I haven't read the bill, and honestly, I have as much shit to do as anybody, so I have no intention of reading a theoretical law from somebody else's state. If you happen to think that there's something vacillating or unmanly about not having an opinion on everything one hears about, then I can only say, grow up.
What I do have is a strong suspicion that this controversy is just the latest in a long line of increasingly pathetic attempts to prove the existence of the imaginary politically correct bogeyman. Is this, then, the sort of news that the liberal media doesn't want us to hear about? Is this really the best you people can do?
BTW: News reports seem to think it's very important that the rep. proposing the law is a woman who, wait for it.... has no children! Well, now I can see reason for outrage; the woman is clearly a lesbian. It's a fucking abomination that she's allowed to vote for against laws in the first place, let alone propose bills regarding parenting. In the good old days we put these uppity maids at the back of the cannery where they belonged.
And me? I have no opinion. I haven't read the bill, and honestly, I have as much shit to do as anybody, so I have no intention of reading a theoretical law from somebody else's state. If you happen to think that there's something vacillating or unmanly about not having an opinion on everything one hears about, then I can only say, grow up.
What I do have is a strong suspicion that this controversy is just the latest in a long line of increasingly pathetic attempts to prove the existence of the imaginary politically correct bogeyman. Is this, then, the sort of news that the liberal media doesn't want us to hear about? Is this really the best you people can do?
BTW: News reports seem to think it's very important that the rep. proposing the law is a woman who, wait for it.... has no children! Well, now I can see reason for outrage; the woman is clearly a lesbian. It's a fucking abomination that she's allowed to vote for against laws in the first place, let alone propose bills regarding parenting. In the good old days we put these uppity maids at the back of the cannery where they belonged.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 30, 2007
Goodbye
My grandmother is dying, my father's mother, 87 years old. My dad told me Friday night. Health problems over several years, slow decline, nothing unusual for a person her age. She was taken off of dialysis on Friday. Seven days, maybe less, maybe more.
I ordered myself to call her. You're her only grandson, she faithfully sent you a birthday card with a fifty dollar bill even until you were a man of twenty five? Or are you a man even yet Mr. Beran?
What are you afraid of? Arn't you so ironic? Don't you mock other people's fear of death? Don't you laugh at other people's attempts to dignify their mortality? Religion, marriage, poems on the tombstone?
I called yesterday. She was asleep, I got my aunt instead. She told me that she (my aunt) was fine. She asked me about my life. Of course she did, I'm not 87. That's worth quite a hell of a lot isn't it? Almost enough to make me stop prematurely age myself, still I drink wine from the bottle as I write this.
I'll try to get a hold of my grandmother again tommarow, but she's sleeping twenty hours a day, pills for both the pain and the dread. I have to try, but I'm not likely to speak to her again. And if I do, than what? Should I tell her I'm praying for her? Would lying be worse than not talking to her at all?
Goodbye, would that be appropriate? And what if that isn't the end of the conversation? What if she asks me about my future? My future.
I ordered myself to call her. You're her only grandson, she faithfully sent you a birthday card with a fifty dollar bill even until you were a man of twenty five? Or are you a man even yet Mr. Beran?
What are you afraid of? Arn't you so ironic? Don't you mock other people's fear of death? Don't you laugh at other people's attempts to dignify their mortality? Religion, marriage, poems on the tombstone?
I called yesterday. She was asleep, I got my aunt instead. She told me that she (my aunt) was fine. She asked me about my life. Of course she did, I'm not 87. That's worth quite a hell of a lot isn't it? Almost enough to make me stop prematurely age myself, still I drink wine from the bottle as I write this.
I'll try to get a hold of my grandmother again tommarow, but she's sleeping twenty hours a day, pills for both the pain and the dread. I have to try, but I'm not likely to speak to her again. And if I do, than what? Should I tell her I'm praying for her? Would lying be worse than not talking to her at all?
Goodbye, would that be appropriate? And what if that isn't the end of the conversation? What if she asks me about my future? My future.
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 24, 2007
Nothing to Say
I went to Wal-Mart today. I like to walk a couple hours a day, it's been too cold to do it outside, and the campus rec center gives me the creeps, so I went to the Wal-Mart at the north side of Lincoln. Perhaps I would find more evidence of social decay that I could pass on in my own hilarious way to my loyal readers.
But what can I say that hasn't been said by people who are smarter than me? People who actually get paid for social criticism while I engage in pointless, wheel-spinning, childish Fruedian rebellion?
I saw a woman in a cowboy hat and a Dale Ernhardt Jr. racing jacket. She had a cell-phone headset on even though she was talking to no one at the time. Her boyfriend wore an identical Nascar jacket but sported a black nylon do-rag instead of a cowboy hat. I have nothing clever to say about this, (maybe she wanted to leave her hands free to browse Guns'N'Ammo) I got nothin. I found it hilarious at the moment, maybe I had some brillient zinger pass through my consciousness at that moment, but the moment passed, and five minutes later it wasn't that funny anymore, so I have nothing for you.
I walked past a pair of Larry the Cable Guy boxer shorts, and I have nothing clever to say about that. Why should I? You know the score, you either know what's wrong with this or you don't. Larry the Cable guy, the Nebraska native embraced by his former state so that we can feel like we're part of the outside world. He who speaks in a blatantly fake cracker accent, he whose grammer is well below what one would learn in any substandard Nebraska high school, who makes racist comments without any attempt to attach a joke to them. He whose popularity lasted all of three weeks, even before his movie came out.
But he's our boy. We Nebraskans can blindly worship fame just like everyone else, so Larry will always have a place here. And he'll always have a place at Wal-Mart,
What do Larry the Cable and the rest of the blue-collar "comedians" represent anyways? The white-counter snob, the hick defiantly proud to be a hick (You might be a redneck if) embracing a phony "heartland" culture in rural America, denying the existance of a distinctive Southern, Midwestern, or Western culture while asserting that the generic fantasy of the "heartland" is somehow America incarnate despite the fact that it is based on nothing.
Wal-Mart is proud to help sell the idea of the Heartland, and considering how many local cultures they've destroyed, they had better be.
In the grocery section they sold packets of corn. Three ears in each box,grown in Florida, vacuum wrapped, boxed.
I'm a fifth-generation Nebraskan. My grandparents grow corn. I'm no flaming socialist. (not quite) I don't hate Wal-Mart. I don't shop there because it's three miles away from my apartment. I go to the downtown thrift shops if I need some cheap do-dad because my mama forgot to teach me to fear brown people. But I don't actively boycott Wal-Mart. I entertain no thoughts of throwing a Molotov cocktail through its windows or seizing Joyce Meyer paperbacks to redistribute to the peasents.
But this offended me deeply. I was witnessing a passive act of blasphamy. This is Nebraska, no, this is Lincoln Nebraska, Zion itself, and here was generic corn from Florida, pre-packaged in shrink-wrap, carrying some bullshit heartland company name like "Golden Acres" or something, and surely weeks from the field and as tasteless as raw hash browns.
This Wal-Mart was a fucking corn field fifteen years ago. I mean here it was; entropy, the death of local identity, people sacrificing the future of their small towns to shop in this Babylonian waste because it they have to go where stuff is cheap, and at any rate, this is where normal and decent people go, and people who complain about Wal-Mart think they're better than us, better than America, and how dare they?
There it was, the future of American civilisation, fuedalism without flavor, Rascal Flatts instead of the Latin Mass. Go to work straight out of high school, get a job doing grunt work at some local shop, shop gets run out of business by Wal-Mart, shop at Wal-Mart, they're cheap, buy some of the corn in plastic wrap, the wife says some corn on Sundays reminds her of home, and ain't that just the Nebraskan thing to do anyways? Eat some corn, watch the game? Might as well get an application while you're there. It's steady work, they don't pay much, you won't get health care, they won't let you form a union (But you're not communist, you're where you're at because that's how God planned it.) So you'll have to shop at Wal-Mart, you'll have enough money to send the kids to the doctor every couple of years, and you'll quit smoking someday, you'll be fine, you're the provider, the protector, and you're teaching the kids the value of hard work, this is how the world works, this is what they're meant to be.
There it was, but you knew this. Department stores tend to be rather banal, I should turn that idea into an essay and turn it in to Look magazine.
But what can I say that hasn't been said by people who are smarter than me? People who actually get paid for social criticism while I engage in pointless, wheel-spinning, childish Fruedian rebellion?
I saw a woman in a cowboy hat and a Dale Ernhardt Jr. racing jacket. She had a cell-phone headset on even though she was talking to no one at the time. Her boyfriend wore an identical Nascar jacket but sported a black nylon do-rag instead of a cowboy hat. I have nothing clever to say about this, (maybe she wanted to leave her hands free to browse Guns'N'Ammo) I got nothin. I found it hilarious at the moment, maybe I had some brillient zinger pass through my consciousness at that moment, but the moment passed, and five minutes later it wasn't that funny anymore, so I have nothing for you.
I walked past a pair of Larry the Cable Guy boxer shorts, and I have nothing clever to say about that. Why should I? You know the score, you either know what's wrong with this or you don't. Larry the Cable guy, the Nebraska native embraced by his former state so that we can feel like we're part of the outside world. He who speaks in a blatantly fake cracker accent, he whose grammer is well below what one would learn in any substandard Nebraska high school, who makes racist comments without any attempt to attach a joke to them. He whose popularity lasted all of three weeks, even before his movie came out.
But he's our boy. We Nebraskans can blindly worship fame just like everyone else, so Larry will always have a place here. And he'll always have a place at Wal-Mart,
What do Larry the Cable and the rest of the blue-collar "comedians" represent anyways? The white-counter snob, the hick defiantly proud to be a hick (You might be a redneck if) embracing a phony "heartland" culture in rural America, denying the existance of a distinctive Southern, Midwestern, or Western culture while asserting that the generic fantasy of the "heartland" is somehow America incarnate despite the fact that it is based on nothing.
Wal-Mart is proud to help sell the idea of the Heartland, and considering how many local cultures they've destroyed, they had better be.
In the grocery section they sold packets of corn. Three ears in each box,grown in Florida, vacuum wrapped, boxed.
I'm a fifth-generation Nebraskan. My grandparents grow corn. I'm no flaming socialist. (not quite) I don't hate Wal-Mart. I don't shop there because it's three miles away from my apartment. I go to the downtown thrift shops if I need some cheap do-dad because my mama forgot to teach me to fear brown people. But I don't actively boycott Wal-Mart. I entertain no thoughts of throwing a Molotov cocktail through its windows or seizing Joyce Meyer paperbacks to redistribute to the peasents.
But this offended me deeply. I was witnessing a passive act of blasphamy. This is Nebraska, no, this is Lincoln Nebraska, Zion itself, and here was generic corn from Florida, pre-packaged in shrink-wrap, carrying some bullshit heartland company name like "Golden Acres" or something, and surely weeks from the field and as tasteless as raw hash browns.
This Wal-Mart was a fucking corn field fifteen years ago. I mean here it was; entropy, the death of local identity, people sacrificing the future of their small towns to shop in this Babylonian waste because it they have to go where stuff is cheap, and at any rate, this is where normal and decent people go, and people who complain about Wal-Mart think they're better than us, better than America, and how dare they?
There it was, the future of American civilisation, fuedalism without flavor, Rascal Flatts instead of the Latin Mass. Go to work straight out of high school, get a job doing grunt work at some local shop, shop gets run out of business by Wal-Mart, shop at Wal-Mart, they're cheap, buy some of the corn in plastic wrap, the wife says some corn on Sundays reminds her of home, and ain't that just the Nebraskan thing to do anyways? Eat some corn, watch the game? Might as well get an application while you're there. It's steady work, they don't pay much, you won't get health care, they won't let you form a union (But you're not communist, you're where you're at because that's how God planned it.) So you'll have to shop at Wal-Mart, you'll have enough money to send the kids to the doctor every couple of years, and you'll quit smoking someday, you'll be fine, you're the provider, the protector, and you're teaching the kids the value of hard work, this is how the world works, this is what they're meant to be.
There it was, but you knew this. Department stores tend to be rather banal, I should turn that idea into an essay and turn it in to Look magazine.
Dé hAoine, Eanáir 19, 2007
Ode to Target
I left my old hat in my hometown of North Platte. I'll be sure to get it back when I go back there, but hopefully that won't be for many months. My hats really are signatures of mine. There's been a cold snap here, and I've been getting by with a woolen cap, but this isn't 1994, I needed an official Josh hat.
But there was a dilemma. Should I look for a hat at one of the charity shops in Malone? Maybe I would find a cool hat for cheap, or maybe there would be nothing but cowboy hats still carrying the sweaty stench of their previous owners. At any rate, I have a social conscience (If no other kind of conscience) and I didn't want to come across as some pseudo-hipster buying crap from the thrift shops in a phony show of solidarity with the working class that actually insults them. This isn't 2002, either. The same logic excluded me from going to the "hip" "boutiques" downtown. That and I'm not gay.
So today I went to Target. I needed something to drink tonight anyway, and why make two errands? In my old age, I've come to appreciate Target's trendy, hip, vibrant image that still respects the American family. It's the store of the ruling class,
understand. We appreciate the finer things in life, like Justin Timberlake, cute little kitty pictures on the internet and stacks of unread Newsweek's on the coffee table. wW're not the fucking proles you find at Wal-Mart. We're not Toby Keith people, we're Faith Hill people.
Take their wine section, for example; the Lincoln Target doesn't even sell beer, so I'm drinking wine tonight. The type of wines they have there, names like three lizards and yellow tale, are catered towards the sort of middle-class families that, while striving to be respectable, still like to show how they're "with it". Something that will give the old college chums a little giggle when they come over to watch the game. These are my people, this is our society. We're on the go. We keep track of the stock market, still flip it to VH1 every now and then.
I'd like to say that I bought the three lizards, but alas, I still have a bit of the country in me and have not yet adapted to hip Lincoln ways. so no, just a jug of Sutter's Mill for me.
I ended up purchasing the wine, a Digornio's pizza, and a nice brown fedora with a phony fluer-de-lies on the side, something like you would see Usher wear. I'm glad I made the trip. It's one-stop shopping, I'm a man on the go, the business class, neon collar baby.
But there was a dilemma. Should I look for a hat at one of the charity shops in Malone? Maybe I would find a cool hat for cheap, or maybe there would be nothing but cowboy hats still carrying the sweaty stench of their previous owners. At any rate, I have a social conscience (If no other kind of conscience) and I didn't want to come across as some pseudo-hipster buying crap from the thrift shops in a phony show of solidarity with the working class that actually insults them. This isn't 2002, either. The same logic excluded me from going to the "hip" "boutiques" downtown. That and I'm not gay.
So today I went to Target. I needed something to drink tonight anyway, and why make two errands? In my old age, I've come to appreciate Target's trendy, hip, vibrant image that still respects the American family. It's the store of the ruling class,
understand. We appreciate the finer things in life, like Justin Timberlake, cute little kitty pictures on the internet and stacks of unread Newsweek's on the coffee table. wW're not the fucking proles you find at Wal-Mart. We're not Toby Keith people, we're Faith Hill people.
Take their wine section, for example; the Lincoln Target doesn't even sell beer, so I'm drinking wine tonight. The type of wines they have there, names like three lizards and yellow tale, are catered towards the sort of middle-class families that, while striving to be respectable, still like to show how they're "with it". Something that will give the old college chums a little giggle when they come over to watch the game. These are my people, this is our society. We're on the go. We keep track of the stock market, still flip it to VH1 every now and then.
I'd like to say that I bought the three lizards, but alas, I still have a bit of the country in me and have not yet adapted to hip Lincoln ways. so no, just a jug of Sutter's Mill for me.
I ended up purchasing the wine, a Digornio's pizza, and a nice brown fedora with a phony fluer-de-lies on the side, something like you would see Usher wear. I'm glad I made the trip. It's one-stop shopping, I'm a man on the go, the business class, neon collar baby.
Déardaoin, Eanáir 18, 2007
On Metal
Everything that any heavy metal band has ever done has already been done on Black Sabbath's first album. Think about it, the album has death, Satan, some LOTR shit to keep the nerds happy, Satan, hedonism, sex, etc. etc.
As if that wasn't enough, Sabbath used it's next album to elaborate on these basic themes with war, drugs, and homocidal comic book characters.
Other bands can work with the same mix. They can change things up by emphesizing Satan over drugs or mingling sex with death, but really, what's the point?
Just listen to NIB, a brilliant inverson of the Christian "lust=satan" equation. Listen to how the music is perfectly matched to the lyrics, auralizing the sound of a dark lord aroused. Than realize that your favorite childhood band did the same thing, and when you were fourteen you thought it was brilliant. then, dispair, and realize that you have wasted your youth and subsidized the wasted youths of others. Dude, all we are, is dust in the wind.
As if that wasn't enough, Sabbath used it's next album to elaborate on these basic themes with war, drugs, and homocidal comic book characters.
Other bands can work with the same mix. They can change things up by emphesizing Satan over drugs or mingling sex with death, but really, what's the point?
Just listen to NIB, a brilliant inverson of the Christian "lust=satan" equation. Listen to how the music is perfectly matched to the lyrics, auralizing the sound of a dark lord aroused. Than realize that your favorite childhood band did the same thing, and when you were fourteen you thought it was brilliant. then, dispair, and realize that you have wasted your youth and subsidized the wasted youths of others. Dude, all we are, is dust in the wind.
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 17, 2007
ah, school.
School is back, the now familier rythms, four years now. Class times, (and also waking times) are scattered throughout the day, leaving my internal clock ruined. It is during the school year that I become truely, physicaly addicted to caffine, If I go half a day without coffee, I will pass out for a time in mid-day no matter how much sleep I had the night before. Caffine is the addiction that will follow me into middle-age. I am domesticated. I'll buy Foldgers if it's on sale, I'm not lying.
Speaking of domesticity, I'll need a day job, a real one, where one has to wake up at the same time every day.
The entire first class being wasted on the sylybis, pointless meet-and greets. Professors who are clearly packing it in and teaching the same class they taught when the Apple-2 first came out. Professors who care deeeply but are a little nuts. Hot braised pork, good shit.
And me, staying motivated as best I can and waiting for the next phase of my life to hurry up.
Speaking of domesticity, I'll need a day job, a real one, where one has to wake up at the same time every day.
The entire first class being wasted on the sylybis, pointless meet-and greets. Professors who are clearly packing it in and teaching the same class they taught when the Apple-2 first came out. Professors who care deeeply but are a little nuts. Hot braised pork, good shit.
And me, staying motivated as best I can and waiting for the next phase of my life to hurry up.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 09, 2007
Happy birthday
He's getting laid more on his 60th birthday than we did/will on our 21st, and you know this.
Dé Domhnaigh, Eanáir 07, 2007
Fun Fact
There is just as much rape in prison as you've heard there is. This may not sound surprising, but when people hear about a bad situation in a government institution, they usually assume that's it's even worse than what they're hearing. This is usually a smart assumption, but not in this case. Prison rape is as bad as you've heard, not worse.
I know a few ex-cons, and they're actually more eager to tell prison rape jokes and otherwise keep prison rape in the public consciousness than other people. Why is this?
Because it distracts people from thinking about how much voluntary gay sex goes on in prison, which I assure you is quite a lot. There are lots of cons who are "only gay in prison" and claim the ability to magically turn their man-lust off when they're on the outside. This is utter nonsense of course, and by the way, the criminal element is no gayer than the general population, so we all need prison rape jokes to keep us from thinking about things we would rather not.
One bad situation in prison that is worse than what you hear is the guard beatings. They are not just isolated incidents. Any prison guard you've may have met has probably beaten a prisoner just for fun. This is not a conspiracy theory, it is not the imaginary beef of difficult criminals and their slick lawyers. Everyone in prison gets beat for no good reason except for the narcs. It is quite simply endemic among the guards. You can go to prison yourself and see that I write the truth. In fact I would even advise you to rob a liquor store just for the educational experience.
I know a few ex-cons, and they're actually more eager to tell prison rape jokes and otherwise keep prison rape in the public consciousness than other people. Why is this?
Because it distracts people from thinking about how much voluntary gay sex goes on in prison, which I assure you is quite a lot. There are lots of cons who are "only gay in prison" and claim the ability to magically turn their man-lust off when they're on the outside. This is utter nonsense of course, and by the way, the criminal element is no gayer than the general population, so we all need prison rape jokes to keep us from thinking about things we would rather not.
One bad situation in prison that is worse than what you hear is the guard beatings. They are not just isolated incidents. Any prison guard you've may have met has probably beaten a prisoner just for fun. This is not a conspiracy theory, it is not the imaginary beef of difficult criminals and their slick lawyers. Everyone in prison gets beat for no good reason except for the narcs. It is quite simply endemic among the guards. You can go to prison yourself and see that I write the truth. In fact I would even advise you to rob a liquor store just for the educational experience.
Dé Sathairn, Eanáir 06, 2007
Quiz
Here's Richie Incognito, batshit offensive lineman for the St. Louis Rams and formerly of the Nebraska Cornhuskers. The question for the day is weather Richie is going to
A. Have sex with all of the women in the background, or
B. Beat them to death.
Correct answer wins a free bottle of Crown Royal.
Everybody dies except you
While driving your car, or engaging in any of the basic activities of life for that matter, always remember this simple fact, everybody dies except you.
Yes, everyone is cursed with being a thinking creature aware of his or her own mortality, except you, you can't die, you're you.
So when driving on the interstate, you can take comfort in the fact that the forces of nature understand perfectly that you just have to get to that meeting, that dinner, or that shopping engagement on time. why should it be otherwise? The universe was created for you after all. The entire interstate highway system was created just so you could be driving on it as fast as you like right now. Your Ford Explorer was mass-produced on an assembly line just so you could be driving the one you're driving right now.
so it goes without saying that you were more than entitled to install the DVD player between the driver and front passenger seats last year, it's not that distracting, you don't even watch it, of course, it's for the kids. (Well, okay, maybe you sneak a peak every now and then,you know, just when traffic is light?) At any rate, so what if it is distracting? Remember, you're you, and these are your kids.
(Your kids probably can't die. They're only hal-you, after all, but that's why you hedged your bets and had six of them, isn't it? as for the wife, soon enough my friend, soon enough.)
The rain, of course, is here to provide you with water for your showers and half-caffinated coffee. The snow? It's there to give you something pretty to look at as you put the baby in cruise control and let your mind drift. Or maybe it's there to give you some story to tell the guys at work or at family gatherings when your military cousin shows up and you need something tough to say besides re-iterating your hatred for queers.
"I tell ya I gotta laugh when they get one or two inches of snow down south and they shut down everything. We can get eighteen inches and everybody still has to go to work, winters tough up here in Nebraska, but we're tough Germans arn't we cous?"
Everybody dies except you, so let your eyes drift to the video, go ahead and drive with half of your submissive hand while eating a burger or smoking a cigarette or drinking your half-caf coffee in the dominant hand
And above all, drive hard, drive hard, pound the gas pedal into it's slot until the engine screams like the orgasmic beast you, I mean your car, is.
Go ahead and drive 85 through the rain, but take it down to the speed limit if you hit snow or ice. Not that it matters to you, of course, but there are other people on the road who arn't you, and they're going to die of something or another someday.
So slide her in easy, nice and easy, easy.
What am I talking about?
Who are these people anyway? Obstructions, nothing more, forcing you to have to turn off and reset the cruise control, take your eyes off of the Blue Collar Comedy tour, put your coffee in the holder.
Who are these people except sticks crowding your interstate? Heading to appointments that arn't yours, jobs that arn't yours, families that arn't yours, movies that arn't yours, music that isn't yours. Taking up your road, your town, your taxes, your gasoline, your schools, your restaurants, your bars, your theatres your world.
So push the pedal down into it's slot. Your Explorer will hold, everyone knows they handle great on ice. everyone else is just going to have to get out of your way. They might slide off the road, but so what. Nobody exists except you, and your universe would be much better off without these obstructions.
Yes, everyone is cursed with being a thinking creature aware of his or her own mortality, except you, you can't die, you're you.
So when driving on the interstate, you can take comfort in the fact that the forces of nature understand perfectly that you just have to get to that meeting, that dinner, or that shopping engagement on time. why should it be otherwise? The universe was created for you after all. The entire interstate highway system was created just so you could be driving on it as fast as you like right now. Your Ford Explorer was mass-produced on an assembly line just so you could be driving the one you're driving right now.
so it goes without saying that you were more than entitled to install the DVD player between the driver and front passenger seats last year, it's not that distracting, you don't even watch it, of course, it's for the kids. (Well, okay, maybe you sneak a peak every now and then,you know, just when traffic is light?) At any rate, so what if it is distracting? Remember, you're you, and these are your kids.
(Your kids probably can't die. They're only hal-you, after all, but that's why you hedged your bets and had six of them, isn't it? as for the wife, soon enough my friend, soon enough.)
The rain, of course, is here to provide you with water for your showers and half-caffinated coffee. The snow? It's there to give you something pretty to look at as you put the baby in cruise control and let your mind drift. Or maybe it's there to give you some story to tell the guys at work or at family gatherings when your military cousin shows up and you need something tough to say besides re-iterating your hatred for queers.
"I tell ya I gotta laugh when they get one or two inches of snow down south and they shut down everything. We can get eighteen inches and everybody still has to go to work, winters tough up here in Nebraska, but we're tough Germans arn't we cous?"
Everybody dies except you, so let your eyes drift to the video, go ahead and drive with half of your submissive hand while eating a burger or smoking a cigarette or drinking your half-caf coffee in the dominant hand
And above all, drive hard, drive hard, pound the gas pedal into it's slot until the engine screams like the orgasmic beast you, I mean your car, is.
Go ahead and drive 85 through the rain, but take it down to the speed limit if you hit snow or ice. Not that it matters to you, of course, but there are other people on the road who arn't you, and they're going to die of something or another someday.
So slide her in easy, nice and easy, easy.
What am I talking about?
Who are these people anyway? Obstructions, nothing more, forcing you to have to turn off and reset the cruise control, take your eyes off of the Blue Collar Comedy tour, put your coffee in the holder.
Who are these people except sticks crowding your interstate? Heading to appointments that arn't yours, jobs that arn't yours, families that arn't yours, movies that arn't yours, music that isn't yours. Taking up your road, your town, your taxes, your gasoline, your schools, your restaurants, your bars, your theatres your world.
So push the pedal down into it's slot. Your Explorer will hold, everyone knows they handle great on ice. everyone else is just going to have to get out of your way. They might slide off the road, but so what. Nobody exists except you, and your universe would be much better off without these obstructions.
Déardaoin, Eanáir 04, 2007
Hello Mr. Beran
We hope you enjoy your trip on Amtrak today, gee, it must be nice going someplace warm this time of year, gonna snow bird it are ya? I have a grandmother living in a nursing home in Pheonix and she says it's just beautiful, no weather at all. I'll just need to see your I.D. before I let you board.
"No problem"
Alright than, and your social security number?
xxxxxx
Very good sir, and could you confirm the date of birth, just to make sure?
4/4/81
I'm afraid that just doesn't sound right.
"It's right there on my drivers license"
I know what it says on your driver's license, Mr. Beran, it's just seems a little too, cute, you know.
"What's 'cute' about it?"
I don't know, the way the number of the month and the day matches up, just seems funny.
"Are you kidding?"
Don't get smart with me Mr. Beran. You'll see how much I'm kidding when I throw you off this train and call the police.
"What the hell? I'm just as likely to be born on April 4th, or June 6th, or December 12th, as on any other date"
It doesn't seem likely
"Why not, somebody is born every day, and this was the day I was born on"
Well I've never met anyone who had a birthday where the month and date matched up and I've never seen any passangers on the train with that sort of birthday. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me.
"You can't be serious" There are thousands of people who board this train every year.
Yes and I remember them all.
"No you don't"
Excuse me sir. 'Security to car 26, security to car 26 we have a hostile situation.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
If you talk to me in that tone of voice Mr. Beran we will have to assume that you have some violent intent. We at Amtrak are fully aware of how important we are to American comerce and culture and we know it's only a matter of time before somebody tries to attack us. Now I'm not accusing you of anything but you are clearly dishonest and unstable. We have to take precautions.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
It's against federal law to use that name in vain Mr. Beran
"Look, just listen to me for a minute. There is nothing biological about calended dates. They are a totally human invention. A day where the date matches up with the month is just like any other day. there is nothing on heaven or earth to prevent me, you, or anybody else from being born on such a day."
Until now, sir, I only had a faint idea about just how profoundly your madness has affected you. You are without question a threat to yourself and others, a varitable walking time bomb. a padded cell and soup out of a metal bowl is the only hope for you, nothing but alphebet soup for the rest of your days; otherwise you're bound to hang yourself with Chicken Noodle. Here comes the guard now, I bid you good day sir, let's see if Allah can get you out of this.
Get on the floor now!
"But I didn't do anything"
Shut the fuck up and get on the floor before I tase you through your scrotum
"What the hell is wrong with you people?"
What is your major malfunction? I own you sugertits!
"No problem"
Alright than, and your social security number?
xxxxxx
Very good sir, and could you confirm the date of birth, just to make sure?
4/4/81
I'm afraid that just doesn't sound right.
"It's right there on my drivers license"
I know what it says on your driver's license, Mr. Beran, it's just seems a little too, cute, you know.
"What's 'cute' about it?"
I don't know, the way the number of the month and the day matches up, just seems funny.
"Are you kidding?"
Don't get smart with me Mr. Beran. You'll see how much I'm kidding when I throw you off this train and call the police.
"What the hell? I'm just as likely to be born on April 4th, or June 6th, or December 12th, as on any other date"
It doesn't seem likely
"Why not, somebody is born every day, and this was the day I was born on"
Well I've never met anyone who had a birthday where the month and date matched up and I've never seen any passangers on the train with that sort of birthday. I'm afraid you'll have to come with me.
"You can't be serious" There are thousands of people who board this train every year.
Yes and I remember them all.
"No you don't"
Excuse me sir. 'Security to car 26, security to car 26 we have a hostile situation.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?"
If you talk to me in that tone of voice Mr. Beran we will have to assume that you have some violent intent. We at Amtrak are fully aware of how important we are to American comerce and culture and we know it's only a matter of time before somebody tries to attack us. Now I'm not accusing you of anything but you are clearly dishonest and unstable. We have to take precautions.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
It's against federal law to use that name in vain Mr. Beran
"Look, just listen to me for a minute. There is nothing biological about calended dates. They are a totally human invention. A day where the date matches up with the month is just like any other day. there is nothing on heaven or earth to prevent me, you, or anybody else from being born on such a day."
Until now, sir, I only had a faint idea about just how profoundly your madness has affected you. You are without question a threat to yourself and others, a varitable walking time bomb. a padded cell and soup out of a metal bowl is the only hope for you, nothing but alphebet soup for the rest of your days; otherwise you're bound to hang yourself with Chicken Noodle. Here comes the guard now, I bid you good day sir, let's see if Allah can get you out of this.
Get on the floor now!
"But I didn't do anything"
Shut the fuck up and get on the floor before I tase you through your scrotum
"What the hell is wrong with you people?"
What is your major malfunction? I own you sugertits!
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 03, 2007
So they hanged Saddam Hussein
At last the world is free form the next Hitler. Place your bets on who the next Hitler after him will be. Ahama.. from Iran? Kim Jong Ill? Hugo Chavez? All of the above?
What an interesting world it must be to those who imagine every antagonist to America to be "the next Hitler." If every foreign bogeyman is Hitler, than there's only one course of action to deal with all of them, isn't there?
Oh God yes.
No negotiations, no games, no patience, just the thrust and the explosion.
Hussain always was a pretty shitty Hitler, especially in the last fifteen years. He was only a serious contender for the title when we were supplying him, but you already knew that. It has been a good three or four years since Hussein has had any real influence on other people's lives. He wasn't running the insurgency after all. His capture didn't set us on the course to whatever victory means. Neither did those cute little elections.
But maybe the death of a 70-year old man who always expected this sort of end for himself will be just the thing to set all the bad guys straight. Or maybe it will be the big surge in troops. It's not as if the bad guys can go on forever, they're just fighting on their native soil with nothing in particular to live for, after all.
Than again, there was a time when saddam Hussein mattered. So his death is a legitimate occasion. You can even call it a milestone if you like.
And if you must call it a milestone, if the death of Hussein fills you with sincere glee, maybe even a sense of personal accomplishment, good for you, you're an asshole.
The sort of asshole who believes in "victory" as a moral end unto itself. The sort of asshole who feels sincere moral outrage when his (oh yes, his) favorite college football team fails to bring him satisfaction.
The sort of asshole who is deeply and irrevecably attached to the traditional masculine ideal, that man exist to form large flocks and protect them, and clings to this ideal in lieu of actually accomplishing something.
This ideal requires several things, worshipful children, thousands of dollars worth of automobiles, back yards, electronic do-dads, grand sporting events that allow assholes the opportunity to admire the masculinity of other men (In a completely non-sexual way, of course) and submissive women.
Most of all though, this ideal requires a constant supply of enemies, becuase a man cannot fullfill his duty without something to protect his herd against.
Internal enemies are quite popular these days; liberals, lawyers, uppity celebrities, college profesors, any city-dweller with the audacity to claim moral equality (lot's of brown people live in a city, not quite a coincidence.) homosexuals, "feminazis" ohhh, especially them, Hillary Clinton, that bitch.
For the more radical assholes, there's the police and fire departments, doctors, social security, OSHA,etc., any state entity that suggests that the protecters need protection.
Then there is the oldest and most effective sort of enemy, the monster from outside. The foreign invader who threatens to infiltrate the herd and pollute the gene pool. (There are those who honestly believe that ileagal immigrants are solely responsible for the recent increase in crime, most especially sexual assults. Those of us living in the rural Midwest have no need to wonder what life was like in 1890 Mississipi. The lynchings are coming, do not doubt this.)
This sort of enemy is especially useful to those in power. The outside monster, you see, can only be defeated through total obedience to the alpha male.
Those who fail to submit to power are always held suspect, of course. Failure to yield to the top cock implies disrespect for them all. But to disrespect those who, by establishing and conveinently fullfilling society's standards of "success" have symbolicly lengthened their own cocks, is simply unacceptible when the outside monster lurks.
This is a battle for the top dogs. We can rightfully do nothing except stand back and watch the alpha male fight off the intruder, anyone who tries to interfere will get his tail bit off.
The outside monster fears our discipline, fears the way we line up straight behind the head penis. To doubt this is to reject your own penis.
Read Free Republic or some other Right-Wing Forum. I assure you that nearly all of the opinions dealing with Iraq, "The War on Terror" Immigration, the economy, everything, will describe these issues in precisely these terms, many will be just as blunt about it as I have been. Just remember that these are the words of cowards. Cowards who turn to a wholly imaginary "natural law" because they are unwilling to accept that there is no such thing as human nature. cowards who embrace the non-existant maxim "survival of the fittest" in order to shirk their duty to create themselves and invent their own truth. Cowards who would rather burn the whole world down than embrace the most frightening concept of all, freedom.
What an interesting world it must be to those who imagine every antagonist to America to be "the next Hitler." If every foreign bogeyman is Hitler, than there's only one course of action to deal with all of them, isn't there?
Oh God yes.
No negotiations, no games, no patience, just the thrust and the explosion.
Hussain always was a pretty shitty Hitler, especially in the last fifteen years. He was only a serious contender for the title when we were supplying him, but you already knew that. It has been a good three or four years since Hussein has had any real influence on other people's lives. He wasn't running the insurgency after all. His capture didn't set us on the course to whatever victory means. Neither did those cute little elections.
But maybe the death of a 70-year old man who always expected this sort of end for himself will be just the thing to set all the bad guys straight. Or maybe it will be the big surge in troops. It's not as if the bad guys can go on forever, they're just fighting on their native soil with nothing in particular to live for, after all.
Than again, there was a time when saddam Hussein mattered. So his death is a legitimate occasion. You can even call it a milestone if you like.
And if you must call it a milestone, if the death of Hussein fills you with sincere glee, maybe even a sense of personal accomplishment, good for you, you're an asshole.
The sort of asshole who believes in "victory" as a moral end unto itself. The sort of asshole who feels sincere moral outrage when his (oh yes, his) favorite college football team fails to bring him satisfaction.
The sort of asshole who is deeply and irrevecably attached to the traditional masculine ideal, that man exist to form large flocks and protect them, and clings to this ideal in lieu of actually accomplishing something.
This ideal requires several things, worshipful children, thousands of dollars worth of automobiles, back yards, electronic do-dads, grand sporting events that allow assholes the opportunity to admire the masculinity of other men (In a completely non-sexual way, of course) and submissive women.
Most of all though, this ideal requires a constant supply of enemies, becuase a man cannot fullfill his duty without something to protect his herd against.
Internal enemies are quite popular these days; liberals, lawyers, uppity celebrities, college profesors, any city-dweller with the audacity to claim moral equality (lot's of brown people live in a city, not quite a coincidence.) homosexuals, "feminazis" ohhh, especially them, Hillary Clinton, that bitch.
For the more radical assholes, there's the police and fire departments, doctors, social security, OSHA,etc., any state entity that suggests that the protecters need protection.
Then there is the oldest and most effective sort of enemy, the monster from outside. The foreign invader who threatens to infiltrate the herd and pollute the gene pool. (There are those who honestly believe that ileagal immigrants are solely responsible for the recent increase in crime, most especially sexual assults. Those of us living in the rural Midwest have no need to wonder what life was like in 1890 Mississipi. The lynchings are coming, do not doubt this.)
This sort of enemy is especially useful to those in power. The outside monster, you see, can only be defeated through total obedience to the alpha male.
Those who fail to submit to power are always held suspect, of course. Failure to yield to the top cock implies disrespect for them all. But to disrespect those who, by establishing and conveinently fullfilling society's standards of "success" have symbolicly lengthened their own cocks, is simply unacceptible when the outside monster lurks.
This is a battle for the top dogs. We can rightfully do nothing except stand back and watch the alpha male fight off the intruder, anyone who tries to interfere will get his tail bit off.
The outside monster fears our discipline, fears the way we line up straight behind the head penis. To doubt this is to reject your own penis.
Read Free Republic or some other Right-Wing Forum. I assure you that nearly all of the opinions dealing with Iraq, "The War on Terror" Immigration, the economy, everything, will describe these issues in precisely these terms, many will be just as blunt about it as I have been. Just remember that these are the words of cowards. Cowards who turn to a wholly imaginary "natural law" because they are unwilling to accept that there is no such thing as human nature. cowards who embrace the non-existant maxim "survival of the fittest" in order to shirk their duty to create themselves and invent their own truth. Cowards who would rather burn the whole world down than embrace the most frightening concept of all, freedom.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 02, 2007
I have decided to clone myself
I've decided to clone myself. The technology is already here, has been for a long time. Cloning a human being is just is easy as cloning a cow. The only reason they haven't, who says they haven't?
I'm fully aware of the controversy surrounding cloning, and it's not that I don't think cloning is wrong, not at all. Cloning is wrong, very, devient. It's just that cloning isn't as wrong as I am important.
Nebraska's own Unicameral seems likely to forbid the university engaging-in stem cell research, that's how much people fear the devience of cloning. One can only hope that Ernie Chambers can be motivated to do his voodoo on an issue not related to race or class in order to kill the idea. Because this is something the university badly needs to be involved in, we're a serious institution you know. Are we going nothing but a nursery school for the rich and a platform for deluded would-be politicians? Or are we going to be a nursery school for the rich and platform for would-be politicians that also helps the extend the average-life span?
An outsider may see the American right-wings opposition to stem-cell research and conclude that we are anti-science. This may be true, but only indirectly so.
What we are is demi-Gods, most of us anyways. The liberal media makes a hue and a cry about "diversity" but everybody knows that 97% of the country is made up of white middle-class Christians.
As Demi-Gods, we shouldn't have to try to understand anything; certainly not "science" or "facts". Schools serve no purpose beyond indoctrinating our children with the sense of their own divinity. This simply takes up to much time to leave any room for "book smarts."
It really is quite simple. There are those things that are easily understood and validate our sense of Demi-Godness. Anything that we have to try to understand must be evil. the real God is white and middle-class just like us, after all, so if we can't understand it, than God doesn't abide it.
A human zygote is "human tissue" It's "human life". That's simple, that's clear, that's meant. Should we measure humanity by the ability to think and feel? Nonsense! Anything that requires more than two steps of logic is of the devil. The truth has already been given to us. why should we busy ourselves looking for it? We are Americans.
And we Americans are not against science. We simply know that what we don't know isn't meant to be known.
So why than have I chosen to clone myself? Well, I think it's because I have matured to the point where I have accepted my own mortality. If I can't live forever, than the least I can do is to pass my genes on to another who will carry memories of me, perhaps even inherit my personality and mannerisms.
This is a desire as old as life, of course. Most people satisfy it by having children. How weak. Why should I pass on only half of myself and see my heratage diluted with each passing generation? I'm me, you understand, and the world must have the total me, one copy at a time, forever, and not a half-me polluted by female chromosomes.
I feel a new pulse within me. My decision has inspired me to grow, to acheive, to gain. Never before has wealth held much appeal for me. I'm a man of simple tastes. My only indulgences are are expensive liquor and cheap prostitutes. I don't require a lot of money to live happily.
But I do need quite a hell of a lot of money to die happily. I've figured that I'll need at least a hundred million, and that's just for a budget job. If I don't want a down-syndrome Josh or a hermaphidite Josh, I'll need to double that.
So I'll need a high paying job. Reporter, professor, lawyer? No, I'm afraid that nothing "above-board" will do. I'm only a demi-God, after all, mortal just like you, ad I do not know the day or the hour, could be any time.
So I'll need to raise two hundred million quickly, like in the next five years. Something like taking over a cartel, weapons dealing, cornering the rice market in a fourth-world country, have a torrid love affair with a major poltician and than blackmail him/her. (Note to self, this won't work in Europe)
Rest assured, I will get the money, it's only a matter of how many peasents have to be destroyed before I do.
So any healthy Teutonic woman between 18-30 interested in being the vessel for my new self should contact me. There's no need to get romantically involved, in fact it would be better if we didn't. Otherwise we could never really be sure could we? In fact it would be best if we never met at all, as I am quite irrisitible.
Do realize that you will be subjected to some rather, intimate tests if you so any sign that you are unable to keep your mouth shut, than, you do understand yes?
If you can keep your mouth shut, than you will of course be paid handsomely. But honestly, I don't want a woman carrying me if she's just in it for the money. This is your chance to be the new Madonna, a superior, technologically advanced Madonna. doesn't that mean so much more than money?
Of cpurse, Mary wasn't a real "mother". Her mortal genes did not the divinity of Christ. She was just a vessel, as shall you be. In order to protect my new self from the diseases and vulnerabilities of infancy, I've decided that my clone shouldn't be born until he is three years old. This will leave you quite infertile for the rest of your life, of course, and I cannot gurantee your own survival. I can only promise you the money and something like immortality, nothing like the real immortality I've planned for myself, of course, but understand that you are a woman and shall go the way of all the vaginite demons. You can do nothing meaningful except to contribute to the glory of a man, and doesn't this sound so mush better than getting married and cooking porridge for fifty years?
I'm fully aware of the controversy surrounding cloning, and it's not that I don't think cloning is wrong, not at all. Cloning is wrong, very, devient. It's just that cloning isn't as wrong as I am important.
Nebraska's own Unicameral seems likely to forbid the university engaging-in stem cell research, that's how much people fear the devience of cloning. One can only hope that Ernie Chambers can be motivated to do his voodoo on an issue not related to race or class in order to kill the idea. Because this is something the university badly needs to be involved in, we're a serious institution you know. Are we going nothing but a nursery school for the rich and a platform for deluded would-be politicians? Or are we going to be a nursery school for the rich and platform for would-be politicians that also helps the extend the average-life span?
An outsider may see the American right-wings opposition to stem-cell research and conclude that we are anti-science. This may be true, but only indirectly so.
What we are is demi-Gods, most of us anyways. The liberal media makes a hue and a cry about "diversity" but everybody knows that 97% of the country is made up of white middle-class Christians.
As Demi-Gods, we shouldn't have to try to understand anything; certainly not "science" or "facts". Schools serve no purpose beyond indoctrinating our children with the sense of their own divinity. This simply takes up to much time to leave any room for "book smarts."
It really is quite simple. There are those things that are easily understood and validate our sense of Demi-Godness. Anything that we have to try to understand must be evil. the real God is white and middle-class just like us, after all, so if we can't understand it, than God doesn't abide it.
A human zygote is "human tissue" It's "human life". That's simple, that's clear, that's meant. Should we measure humanity by the ability to think and feel? Nonsense! Anything that requires more than two steps of logic is of the devil. The truth has already been given to us. why should we busy ourselves looking for it? We are Americans.
And we Americans are not against science. We simply know that what we don't know isn't meant to be known.
So why than have I chosen to clone myself? Well, I think it's because I have matured to the point where I have accepted my own mortality. If I can't live forever, than the least I can do is to pass my genes on to another who will carry memories of me, perhaps even inherit my personality and mannerisms.
This is a desire as old as life, of course. Most people satisfy it by having children. How weak. Why should I pass on only half of myself and see my heratage diluted with each passing generation? I'm me, you understand, and the world must have the total me, one copy at a time, forever, and not a half-me polluted by female chromosomes.
I feel a new pulse within me. My decision has inspired me to grow, to acheive, to gain. Never before has wealth held much appeal for me. I'm a man of simple tastes. My only indulgences are are expensive liquor and cheap prostitutes. I don't require a lot of money to live happily.
But I do need quite a hell of a lot of money to die happily. I've figured that I'll need at least a hundred million, and that's just for a budget job. If I don't want a down-syndrome Josh or a hermaphidite Josh, I'll need to double that.
So I'll need a high paying job. Reporter, professor, lawyer? No, I'm afraid that nothing "above-board" will do. I'm only a demi-God, after all, mortal just like you, ad I do not know the day or the hour, could be any time.
So I'll need to raise two hundred million quickly, like in the next five years. Something like taking over a cartel, weapons dealing, cornering the rice market in a fourth-world country, have a torrid love affair with a major poltician and than blackmail him/her. (Note to self, this won't work in Europe)
Rest assured, I will get the money, it's only a matter of how many peasents have to be destroyed before I do.
So any healthy Teutonic woman between 18-30 interested in being the vessel for my new self should contact me. There's no need to get romantically involved, in fact it would be better if we didn't. Otherwise we could never really be sure could we? In fact it would be best if we never met at all, as I am quite irrisitible.
Do realize that you will be subjected to some rather, intimate tests if you so any sign that you are unable to keep your mouth shut, than, you do understand yes?
If you can keep your mouth shut, than you will of course be paid handsomely. But honestly, I don't want a woman carrying me if she's just in it for the money. This is your chance to be the new Madonna, a superior, technologically advanced Madonna. doesn't that mean so much more than money?
Of cpurse, Mary wasn't a real "mother". Her mortal genes did not the divinity of Christ. She was just a vessel, as shall you be. In order to protect my new self from the diseases and vulnerabilities of infancy, I've decided that my clone shouldn't be born until he is three years old. This will leave you quite infertile for the rest of your life, of course, and I cannot gurantee your own survival. I can only promise you the money and something like immortality, nothing like the real immortality I've planned for myself, of course, but understand that you are a woman and shall go the way of all the vaginite demons. You can do nothing meaningful except to contribute to the glory of a man, and doesn't this sound so mush better than getting married and cooking porridge for fifty years?
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