You chose to dance with the tyranny of deserve, and now you blame me, if it's gratitude you seek children, seek not to be a master.
Dé Domhnaigh, Eanáir 27, 2008
400th post
You chose to dance with the tyranny of deserve, and now you blame me, if it's gratitude you seek children, seek not to be a master.
Anthony Torrango
Anthony, my childhood best friend, died of alcohol poisoning in Norfolk last week, just two days before I myself got noticibly more intoxicated than I had planned to at a party.
I was planning on telling people about this incident, but didn't know exactly what to say. Now, I really have no idea what to think.
I was planning on telling people about this incident, but didn't know exactly what to say. Now, I really have no idea what to think.
Jessica Bronson-McBush
This is Jessica Bronson-McBush, second cousin to and last surviving female relative of Charles Bronson.
She was born to Stevie and Wanda Bronson on March 6th 1975 just six weeks before her mother was bludgeoned and sodomized to death by a gang of Puerto Rican coke dealers. When her father weakly suggested that the matter be left to the police she was sent to be raised by her older cousin Charles, who quickly avenged her mother by ritualistically slaughtering ninety-seven Gotham street urchins in forty-eight hours.
Jessica suffered a rough childhood. Besides burying her sisters, grandmother, and female cousins after horrifying ends, she was also kidnapped no fewer than twelve times before the age of seven. It was during the last of these incidents when Jessica first tasted human blood for herself, stabbing a Cubo-soviet-Black nationalist death agent in the back after cousin Charles had dispatched her other three dozen tormentors with a Kalashnikov.
Jessica attended Our Lady of the Sorrows High School in White Plains,New York from 1989-1993, narrowly avoiding a brutal rape at the hands of her first boyfriend, "Edger Jennings", who turned out to secretly be Jose Pelligro, illegitimate grandchild of Manuel Noriega. After high school, Jessica attended Wellesley college, graduating with a Bachlor's in textile design despite witnessing the slaughter of her entire sorority house by a crack-addled two-bit thief released from prison early by a bleeding-heart judge.
It was in college that Jessica met Trevor McBush; famed professor of chemistry at UMass and distant relative of the Kennedy's. Despite being twenty years younger than Dr. McBush, the couple became romantically involved and married in the spring of 1996. Her venerable old cousin Charles arrainged a great sacrifice for the wedding, dispatching of thirty-eight terrorists, sixty-five known communists, and legions of undifferentiated street punks. Why Jessica married someone so much older than her is easy to see; the girl had had a strong figure all of her life, and though his death-phallus was as virile as ever, it was clear that old cousin Charles had entered his sunset days.
The couple moved to a Boston flat after Jessica's graduation, where tragedy soon befell them. Jessica and her unborn daughter were raped simultaneously by one Tyrone Afrika, who had just had a grand-theft-auto charge thrown out on a technicality, in April of 1998. The fetus soon died of the abuse, and the McBush marriage nearly fell apart at the seems. Old cousin Charles had warned Trevor against moving his bride to the inner city, where the average life-span of a white woman is just under three days.
The birth of two more daughters brought the hope that Jessica could put her tragic past behind her, but she and her husband were forced to watch at gunpoint as illegal immigrants devoured them alive in June of 2000. The sight of her husband helpless, weeping, and wetting herself made their eventual divorce inevitable. Cousin Charles, now in his eighties and in failing health, was able only to slaughter those directly responsible, and did not have the strength to bring The Great Clensing that formally came with such outrages.
But despair not good reader, for before Jessica sent Trevor simpering back to his flaccid ivory tower he somehow managed to impregnate her with a son, who naturally took the name Charles. The boy was born in August of 2003 just as his legendary third cousin took to his deathbed. The newborn boy, with his sixteen-pound frame, exquisitely-developed manhood, and bearing the same steely gaze as his namesake , was clearly destined to be his heir, and so after barely a day of convalescence, Jessica willed herself out of her birthing bed, battled her way through the hospital staff to grab her child, who roared triumphantly with the knowledge that he was to begin to fulfill his destiny, and together mother walked out the door and drove through the night to be at the side of dying Justice Incarnate.
When they came to old cousin Charles' hospital room they found him breathing laboriously surrounded by six dead gang-bangers. Though old Bronson's eyes were already growing cloudy with death, they immediately glowed with their old fire at the sight of his namesake infant; yay, as much his son as if he had been spawned from his own loins. He bade Jessica bring the boy to him and she rapturously obeyed. Upon being held by the Great Old One, the boy let out such a piercing coo that twelve virgin lads at a nearby orphanage were struck dead by the concussive shock.
With the last of his strength, the Great Old One Charles took the severed head of one of the street-toughs and fed the blood from the dangling veins into the infant's mouth. "I dub thee Vengence" said The Old One, and with this, his face became determined, a great, contented sigh emanated from his throat, hailstones the size of lepers began to fall from the sky outside, and the Old One was no more. His mission completed, his deathly continuance victorious.
So who than can doubt the chain of events that came with the rape and murder of New Charles Bronson's preschool sweetheart, Victoria-Mae Sanctimonia? Oh how the rivers of blood did flow as the young boy took up his 44. magnum, and did exterminate both the criminals and their blood relations entire; yay, down to the fifth cousins and their adopted nephews. And how his mother did weep with pride that day, knowing that her life's destiny was fulfilled.
And how shall his mother, you may ask, spend her middle age? In all likelihood, of course, she will not. already she has been abducted six and raped seventeen times since the death of old Charles; and oh how terrible was the justice of her son. Yet whether Jessica is buried alive, sold into white slavery by Arab devils, or savaged by bull and leopard like old St. Marciana is of no consequence. She is our lady, the mother of our savior, and Jessica Bronson shall be remembered through the dying screams of the wicked ones until the end of days.
Dé hAoine, Eanáir 25, 2008
Juno
Unfailingly cute, at times too much so. But it still creates the oddest desire for a pregnant teenaged daughter. I recommend it.
Déardaoin, Eanáir 17, 2008
Harvey Keitel
I don't know if I've blogged about this before;I've certainly talked about it, but I'm afraid that it's a significant moment in my life, and I must keep referring to it.
I was watching TV at my parent's house late one night two Christmases ago. The "Bonnie Situation" scene of "Pulp Fiction" was playing on Cinemax at the same time that "Bad Lieutenant" was playing on IFC.
And there was Harvey Keitel, saving the day as the ultra-smooth "Wolf" in California while his parallel self swayed a mournful dance of crack-induced impotence in some Manhattan hovel.
One man become the totality of human experience, the glory and the gutter. Stunning.
You remember PCU? That guy who was trying to prove that there was always a movie with either Michael Caine of Gene Hackman playing on TV?
Well, ever since the big movie channels expanded into various genre-channels, I have discovered that one can find "Pulp Fiction", "Scarface", or "The Neverending Story" playing at four in the morning every morning somewhere on extended cable.
Try it for yourself.
I was watching TV at my parent's house late one night two Christmases ago. The "Bonnie Situation" scene of "Pulp Fiction" was playing on Cinemax at the same time that "Bad Lieutenant" was playing on IFC.
And there was Harvey Keitel, saving the day as the ultra-smooth "Wolf" in California while his parallel self swayed a mournful dance of crack-induced impotence in some Manhattan hovel.
One man become the totality of human experience, the glory and the gutter. Stunning.
You remember PCU? That guy who was trying to prove that there was always a movie with either Michael Caine of Gene Hackman playing on TV?
Well, ever since the big movie channels expanded into various genre-channels, I have discovered that one can find "Pulp Fiction", "Scarface", or "The Neverending Story" playing at four in the morning every morning somewhere on extended cable.
Try it for yourself.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 15, 2008
Kimball County Cops rob Utah Man, Brag about it.
"File photo of the Kimball County Sheriff's Department."
http://www.omaha.com/index.php?u_pag...u_sid=10231335
Now, did this man get his $69,000 dollars doing something illegal? Probably, and I'm sure this matters a great deal to those who enjoy having Daddy hold them in his arms and tell them that everything is going to be alright. I personally have a laissez-faire view of the black market and couldn't care less how he earned his money. What bothers me are the archaic government entities along the I-80 corridor that support themselves by sucking up millions of tax dollars as part of some anti/meth/anti-drugs-in-general/anti illegal immigrant etc. crusade and then suck on the public teet some more to pay for the cost of jailing perfectly responsible smugglers. Counties that don't have a large enough tax base to support themselves and have to rely on trolling the roads for outsiders who have "suspicious money" available for the taking should not exist, and if there were any justice in this world this Utah fellow would come back with an Ivy League lawyer and a lawsuit and ruin those highway thugs from Kimball.
Dé Céadaoin, Eanáir 09, 2008
Strange Thing
I've had what might be called "chick music" in my head all day, specifically my mother's music; Fleetwood Mac, Carole King, Carly Simon, et al.
I cleaned my apartment today, and I think that might have been what set it off; This hopelessly effeminate act of preventing oneself from getting sick off of one's own filth.
But this is not a complaint, I actually like the female singer-songwriters from the seventies, I like their groove, I like their aesthetic, perfectly pleasant music for when your driving through the sticks with a busted CD player and have to rely on local radio.
The subject of "You're so Vain" is Warren Beatty. All reasonably intelligent people know this.
I cleaned my apartment today, and I think that might have been what set it off; This hopelessly effeminate act of preventing oneself from getting sick off of one's own filth.
But this is not a complaint, I actually like the female singer-songwriters from the seventies, I like their groove, I like their aesthetic, perfectly pleasant music for when your driving through the sticks with a busted CD player and have to rely on local radio.
The subject of "You're so Vain" is Warren Beatty. All reasonably intelligent people know this.
Dé Máirt, Eanáir 08, 2008
You wannna take him out? He's taking the whole fucking building with him
Term limits can't touch this son.
Dé Sathairn, Nollaig 29, 2007
Driving Home Yesterday
My father, Dennis Lyons, spoke of his days as a deputy sheriff in Oregon. To be specific, he told me of the incidents in which he slaughtered people as part of his duties as a deputy sheriff in Oregon.
In 1971, a group of liquor-store robbers in Bend Oregon had taken hostages after being cornered by police. My father helped to diffuse the situation by shooting the head negotiator five times in the chest and neck. After this failed to knock the robber down, my father shot him in the head.
"He was so jacked up on PCP he didn't even notice. They say I scrambled his brains so bad there was no way he could get up. But he was still twitching when the coroner showed up. He still had that energy. They used to give that shit to the North Vietnamese. Not the regulars but, the, you know, the Cong. I remember shooting Cong straight in the heart, and the blood was spirting out five feet in front of them, and they just kept loading their rifles."
A few months before this the Bend area was apparently plagued by the so-called Bible Bandits. The bandits would walk into a gas station, lead the clerk to a backroom at gunpoint, make him get on his knees, lay a bible at his feet, and shoot him in the back of the head.
My father went undercover in a local service station armed with a .357 Magnum. The bible bandits came after a few days. One went in to rob the station and kill my father while the other stayed at the ready in the getaway car. After being led to the back room by the bandit, my father surprised him by pulling his Magnum out of his coat and pointing it at the assailant.
"I told him not to make another move if he wanted to see the next thirty seconds. He raised his gun-hand but he never had it pointed at me. I lifted my hand and shot him through the left temple.It came out through the right-rear and covered the wall behind him. I went outside and caught his partner from behind. I held the barrel against his head and told him the same thing I had told the other one. Now you may not believe this but having a gun pointed at your head will scare the piss out of you. This guy pissed all over himself, the barrel was warm and he knew I had just used the the thing on his partner."
Now, I have no way of knowing that any of this is true besides my father's say-so. There are parts of his story that seem more than a little incredible. Still, I believe him. The way he grows about being investigated after these incidents, simply because he had killed his fellow man, is something he would do.
"I would be walking around with Kathy (his late wife) and your sister, and people would come up to me and say, "Hey, you killed the Bible Bandits." It felt kind of weird you know?"
My father was involved in an accident at his job several months ago and currently lives on worker's comp. He is bored. He watches television, plays solitaire on a computer he doesn't know how to use, eats and sleeps. His old rants about how all murderers/child molesters/terrorists/home invaders/car thieves must be executed have grown more frequent and convoluted. He sold the last gun he had eight years ago when his shoulder became too sore to use it. Still he fantasizes; that's the only word for it, about an intruder coming into the house so that he will have the opportunity to manfully spill blood in defense of his flock.
And that's why I think the stories he told me yesterday are so important. This is a man who killed criminals in defense of the relatively innocent, and he demands to be considered a hero for it without qualification. My father is not a monstrous man, he is clearly haunted by the fact that he is taken human life; but it is precisely because he is haunted that he refuses to accept the second half of the phrase "necessary evil."
My mother likes to spend her days off watching that true-crime trash one finds on Court TV or A&E. There was something about the Menendez brothers on yesterday morning. I spent the time loading the car with my things while wondering why the murder of two wealthy southern Californians drew national media attention while the murder of a prostitute, or the "natural" death of a widow who had no one to talk to for the last year of her life, is noticed by no one.
The show's narrator, some hack "true-crime" novelist named Dominic Donne, said that the Menendez brothers were behind bars "where they belonged." "No" said my father, "they deserve the same fate as their parents."
And so, of course, shall they receive this fate, along with all the rest of us. My father was not the least bit curious as to why he should know the details of the deaths of two total strangers on the other side of the country twelve years ago. He does not question why a single sexual assult of a child somewhere in Montana or what have you should be breathlessly reported by cable news for six days.
"there may be responsible persons, but there are no guilty ones" - Camus
This I firmly believe. Death and suffering at the hands of another human being is, to me, nothing but one more unfortunate possibility out of many. There are actions, murder, rape, etc. that I consider evil, but to hear somebody say that they "believe" in evil is, to me, the same thing as hearing one speak of one's belief in water or brick walls. Evil is nothing but a specific action that causes a fellow human being great harm, there is nor metaphysical force behind it, nothing to "believe" in.
My father must believe that the metaphysical force is there. He must believe that one death by murder is more significant than twelve deaths by cancer. Murder is an opportunity to teach others that murder is wrong. For he has blood on his hands, and to live, he must believe that the corruption of the blood can be cured through spilling it.
In 1971, a group of liquor-store robbers in Bend Oregon had taken hostages after being cornered by police. My father helped to diffuse the situation by shooting the head negotiator five times in the chest and neck. After this failed to knock the robber down, my father shot him in the head.
"He was so jacked up on PCP he didn't even notice. They say I scrambled his brains so bad there was no way he could get up. But he was still twitching when the coroner showed up. He still had that energy. They used to give that shit to the North Vietnamese. Not the regulars but, the, you know, the Cong. I remember shooting Cong straight in the heart, and the blood was spirting out five feet in front of them, and they just kept loading their rifles."
A few months before this the Bend area was apparently plagued by the so-called Bible Bandits. The bandits would walk into a gas station, lead the clerk to a backroom at gunpoint, make him get on his knees, lay a bible at his feet, and shoot him in the back of the head.
My father went undercover in a local service station armed with a .357 Magnum. The bible bandits came after a few days. One went in to rob the station and kill my father while the other stayed at the ready in the getaway car. After being led to the back room by the bandit, my father surprised him by pulling his Magnum out of his coat and pointing it at the assailant.
"I told him not to make another move if he wanted to see the next thirty seconds. He raised his gun-hand but he never had it pointed at me. I lifted my hand and shot him through the left temple.It came out through the right-rear and covered the wall behind him. I went outside and caught his partner from behind. I held the barrel against his head and told him the same thing I had told the other one. Now you may not believe this but having a gun pointed at your head will scare the piss out of you. This guy pissed all over himself, the barrel was warm and he knew I had just used the the thing on his partner."
Now, I have no way of knowing that any of this is true besides my father's say-so. There are parts of his story that seem more than a little incredible. Still, I believe him. The way he grows about being investigated after these incidents, simply because he had killed his fellow man, is something he would do.
"I would be walking around with Kathy (his late wife) and your sister, and people would come up to me and say, "Hey, you killed the Bible Bandits." It felt kind of weird you know?"
My father was involved in an accident at his job several months ago and currently lives on worker's comp. He is bored. He watches television, plays solitaire on a computer he doesn't know how to use, eats and sleeps. His old rants about how all murderers/child molesters/terrorists/home invaders/car thieves must be executed have grown more frequent and convoluted. He sold the last gun he had eight years ago when his shoulder became too sore to use it. Still he fantasizes; that's the only word for it, about an intruder coming into the house so that he will have the opportunity to manfully spill blood in defense of his flock.
And that's why I think the stories he told me yesterday are so important. This is a man who killed criminals in defense of the relatively innocent, and he demands to be considered a hero for it without qualification. My father is not a monstrous man, he is clearly haunted by the fact that he is taken human life; but it is precisely because he is haunted that he refuses to accept the second half of the phrase "necessary evil."
My mother likes to spend her days off watching that true-crime trash one finds on Court TV or A&E. There was something about the Menendez brothers on yesterday morning. I spent the time loading the car with my things while wondering why the murder of two wealthy southern Californians drew national media attention while the murder of a prostitute, or the "natural" death of a widow who had no one to talk to for the last year of her life, is noticed by no one.
The show's narrator, some hack "true-crime" novelist named Dominic Donne, said that the Menendez brothers were behind bars "where they belonged." "No" said my father, "they deserve the same fate as their parents."
And so, of course, shall they receive this fate, along with all the rest of us. My father was not the least bit curious as to why he should know the details of the deaths of two total strangers on the other side of the country twelve years ago. He does not question why a single sexual assult of a child somewhere in Montana or what have you should be breathlessly reported by cable news for six days.
"there may be responsible persons, but there are no guilty ones" - Camus
This I firmly believe. Death and suffering at the hands of another human being is, to me, nothing but one more unfortunate possibility out of many. There are actions, murder, rape, etc. that I consider evil, but to hear somebody say that they "believe" in evil is, to me, the same thing as hearing one speak of one's belief in water or brick walls. Evil is nothing but a specific action that causes a fellow human being great harm, there is nor metaphysical force behind it, nothing to "believe" in.
My father must believe that the metaphysical force is there. He must believe that one death by murder is more significant than twelve deaths by cancer. Murder is an opportunity to teach others that murder is wrong. For he has blood on his hands, and to live, he must believe that the corruption of the blood can be cured through spilling it.
Dé Luain, Nollaig 24, 2007
Merry Christmas
If I had a billion dollars, I would not spend five on Christmas decorations. Whether I will be in a good mood or not tommorow is a matter of pure chance. I am under no more moral obligation to try to be happy on December 25th than I am on Febuary 19th. Christmas represents nothing, symbolizes nothing, and means nothing. If there is no Christmas after this year, I will feel the same way I do when I read the obituatry of a 90-year-old man who died a natural death; a terrible shame, of course, but I would only be insulting the man if I pretended to care.
If my future wife insists on playing Christmas music, I will divorce her quietly.
If my future wife insists on playing Christmas music, I will divorce her quietly.
Dé Luain, Nollaig 17, 2007
Homage to ol Mr. Bierce.
Socialism- To cause any wealthy person or cooperation any inconvenience for any reason.
Atheism- 1. To lack belief in God. Two of history's most famous atheists are the notorious dictators Joseph Stalin and Mao-Zedong. This is proof of the inherent evil of atheism, just as Hitler's love for small animals and children proves the inherent evil of these sentiments.
2.- Our God makes it okay to feel superior to other people. Now stop trying to kill our buzz or we will hurt you.
Atheism- 1. To lack belief in God. Two of history's most famous atheists are the notorious dictators Joseph Stalin and Mao-Zedong. This is proof of the inherent evil of atheism, just as Hitler's love for small animals and children proves the inherent evil of these sentiments.
2.- Our God makes it okay to feel superior to other people. Now stop trying to kill our buzz or we will hurt you.
Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 16, 2007
I Demand Mandatory Steroid Use
"Mitchell: It's not just baseball of course, Charlie. Kids aren't just baseball fans, they are sports fans. It's every sport in which young people look up to prominent athletes. And as Don Hooten -- who I quoted today -- told Congress in 2005, "Kids do what they see the pros doing." And one of the most shocking aspects of this entire investigation to me…was to learn that hundreds of thousands of our children -- American youngsters -- are using steroids, placing themselves at great risk. And it must be emphasized, that the effect of steroids on youngsters, can be much greater than that on adults, because they are already going through serious hormonal changes in their life."
George Mitchell, from ABC News interview Transcript http://abcnews.go.com/WN/Story?id=3995794&page=2
Boo-fucking-hoo. The question, as far as I see it, is not how athletes can be better role models for children, but why are athletes considered role models for children? If your children have any more admiration for professional athletes than they do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a parent, and if you, God forbid, have any more admiration for athletes than you do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a human being.
And what is the purpose of a rodeo clown except to entertain? I for one was delighted to see major-league baseball turn into an absurdest-Tecmo parade of nothing but home runs and strikeouts. Have you seen any of the Dodgers-Yankees World Series' from the fifties, with all of that strategy and shit? The modern game is much better, and the only way to make it better still is to make steroid use mandatory in Major League Baseball in and all professional sports leagues. It's a can't lose proposition for any sports fan unburdened by morality; more home runs, more killer blocks and bruising runs, more dunks, more savage beatings, more random weeping, players dying of liver failure before they get the chance to embarrass themselves as TV commentators, and children learning the most valuable lesson of all; that success goes to those with the most contempt for their fellow man.
I read a playboy interview in which a linebacker for I believe the Steelers said that sacking the quarterback felt better than any orgasm he had had. With any luck, the influence of steroids will lead to men literally cumming on the field from the pleasure of causing another man pain. I want to see Teddy Bruschi writhing and moaning on the field for five minutes and be left unable to stand up every time he makes a tackle. I want to see quarterbacks and running backs go home to their trophy wives looking like Japanese school girls.
This is why we watch. this is why we love the game.
George Mitchell, from ABC News interview Transcript http://abcnews.go.com/WN/Story?id=3995794&page=2
Boo-fucking-hoo. The question, as far as I see it, is not how athletes can be better role models for children, but why are athletes considered role models for children? If your children have any more admiration for professional athletes than they do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a parent, and if you, God forbid, have any more admiration for athletes than you do for rodeo clowns, you have failed as a human being.
And what is the purpose of a rodeo clown except to entertain? I for one was delighted to see major-league baseball turn into an absurdest-Tecmo parade of nothing but home runs and strikeouts. Have you seen any of the Dodgers-Yankees World Series' from the fifties, with all of that strategy and shit? The modern game is much better, and the only way to make it better still is to make steroid use mandatory in Major League Baseball in and all professional sports leagues. It's a can't lose proposition for any sports fan unburdened by morality; more home runs, more killer blocks and bruising runs, more dunks, more savage beatings, more random weeping, players dying of liver failure before they get the chance to embarrass themselves as TV commentators, and children learning the most valuable lesson of all; that success goes to those with the most contempt for their fellow man.
I read a playboy interview in which a linebacker for I believe the Steelers said that sacking the quarterback felt better than any orgasm he had had. With any luck, the influence of steroids will lead to men literally cumming on the field from the pleasure of causing another man pain. I want to see Teddy Bruschi writhing and moaning on the field for five minutes and be left unable to stand up every time he makes a tackle. I want to see quarterbacks and running backs go home to their trophy wives looking like Japanese school girls.
This is why we watch. this is why we love the game.
Dé Céadaoin, Nollaig 12, 2007
Christmas memories
My mother and I, December of 1982.
I wasn't allowed back into the house until I had devoured both carcasses. This took about six weeks.
When the blizzards came, I was forced to burrow inside one body cavity or the other.
This taught me to value rotting animal flesh more than the touch of any woman.
Dé Luain, Nollaig 10, 2007
The First Three
Google Images for "bald" are pornographic.
Not "bald snatch" or "bald pussy" or even "hairless beauties", just bald.
You people are fucking animals.
Do yourself a favor and never GIS "fucking animals."
Not "bald snatch" or "bald pussy" or even "hairless beauties", just bald.
You people are fucking animals.
Do yourself a favor and never GIS "fucking animals."
Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 09, 2007
It's Well Known
That people associate with others like themselves. This is problematic for people like us.
I am not okay, and my friends are not okay.
I am the eldest, I should be some sort of anchor for us.
But this is never been my style.
I am more than a little frightened by where this is going to go.
I am not okay, and my friends are not okay.
I am the eldest, I should be some sort of anchor for us.
But this is never been my style.
I am more than a little frightened by where this is going to go.
Déardaoin, Nollaig 06, 2007
It Was Of Course, Inevitible, and Neccessary.
And so I gave Matt and Dan a call at around 9:30 last night and asked them if they wanted to go to Westroads, which of course they did. This is, fundamentally, what we do, who we are.
"How could this happen in Omaha" "You would never think it could happen here" variations of this, over and over again. It's still shocking, the number of people who truly believe that the place they happen to live is special. All you have to do is sleep with the homeless, or drink with the conquered, or smoke crack with the guy who invited himself to the party, and you will know that your comfortable home is built on a moldering foundation. Detroit, Compton, and Khartoum are all here in Nebraska for anyone who cares to look.
Coming off of I-680 it was easy to see why The Boy from Sarpy County had picked the Von Maur at Westroads. It stands like a Temple when you first come onto West Dodge, giving the illusion of a fortress hub among the haphazardly placed box stores and parking lots. Now this temple has been defiled, desanctified. they can leave the Christmas lights glowing through whatever hell or hazard may befall them but they can never get the blood out. And it was This Boy, this high school dropout, with his absurd phony Omaha scene-kid look; This Boy who had no hope of ever getting more han five miles away from home, for whom the faux-aura of a Van Maur he would never shop in was very real, who performed the defilement, killed the aura, killed the it can't happen here; whether Hawkins was trying to make any sort of "statement" or not, he was surely at least dimly aware of this, and found some satisfaction.
We had been in a Von Maur before, the one in the south suburbs of Lincoln. It was a purgatory; cardinal directions written in a pseudo-classical style over all of the doors, the chess board sitting there for anyone to play. The pianist, in her smart moderately upscale Von Maur black dress, conversations even a few feet away reduced to a background hum by the instrument, playing something vaguely classical or light-jazzish.
The New York Times says that the pianist in Omaha kept playing throughout the massacre, perhaps this is just a rumor, but I hope it's true, it would be her duty, the only appropriate thing to do.
We eventually found our way to the loop that goes around the mall and found crime scene tape around the entire parking lot with police guarding every driveway. this was to be expected. We stood behind the news vans in a strip mall parking lot while the police glared at us.
"I knew I probably wouldn't see any dead bodies but..."
"Were you hoping they would just be stacked in front of the front door?"
"Like so much cord wood."
Von Maur looked just as imposing from the east side; holiday lights in a tasteful solid white pattern surrounding the overhang.
There was talk of cruising through North Omaha or going to the casinos in Council Bluffs but it was a weeknight and cold. So we made our way back towards the interstate on 72nd. I had heard that Hawkins had worked at the MacDonald's at either 36th and Hwy. 370 or 84th and Hwy. 370, and since we were heading back to Lincoln anyways.
Even those of us who know Omaha can still be amazed by how worm-eaten it is, the amount of space needlessly occupied, 72nd street is marked by large weedfields and empty industrial buildings and shady gas stations that fill up the space until the appropriate amount of space between one Wal-Mart and the other, about three or four miles, has been taken up.
Matt took us to his childhood home in LaVista, a most unsuburban suburb, just one of a handful of independent entities in this part of the metro meant to distinguish middle-class whites from South O.
We were nervous when we got to the 84th and 370 MacDonalds. I was starting to feel vestigial pangs of decency, and if we angered them, we might not get our food, so it was Dan who asked if Robbie Hawkins had worked here.
"Honey please, you know that motherfucker's dead."
He worked at the place on 36th, as it turns out.
It didn't matter. We already knew that this trip was just another failed attempt to break out of the self, Nothing to do now but turn the car towards Lincoln, light another joint, and ponder the obvious racial inferiority of Iowans.
"How could this happen in Omaha" "You would never think it could happen here" variations of this, over and over again. It's still shocking, the number of people who truly believe that the place they happen to live is special. All you have to do is sleep with the homeless, or drink with the conquered, or smoke crack with the guy who invited himself to the party, and you will know that your comfortable home is built on a moldering foundation. Detroit, Compton, and Khartoum are all here in Nebraska for anyone who cares to look.
Coming off of I-680 it was easy to see why The Boy from Sarpy County had picked the Von Maur at Westroads. It stands like a Temple when you first come onto West Dodge, giving the illusion of a fortress hub among the haphazardly placed box stores and parking lots. Now this temple has been defiled, desanctified. they can leave the Christmas lights glowing through whatever hell or hazard may befall them but they can never get the blood out. And it was This Boy, this high school dropout, with his absurd phony Omaha scene-kid look; This Boy who had no hope of ever getting more han five miles away from home, for whom the faux-aura of a Van Maur he would never shop in was very real, who performed the defilement, killed the aura, killed the it can't happen here; whether Hawkins was trying to make any sort of "statement" or not, he was surely at least dimly aware of this, and found some satisfaction.
We had been in a Von Maur before, the one in the south suburbs of Lincoln. It was a purgatory; cardinal directions written in a pseudo-classical style over all of the doors, the chess board sitting there for anyone to play. The pianist, in her smart moderately upscale Von Maur black dress, conversations even a few feet away reduced to a background hum by the instrument, playing something vaguely classical or light-jazzish.
The New York Times says that the pianist in Omaha kept playing throughout the massacre, perhaps this is just a rumor, but I hope it's true, it would be her duty, the only appropriate thing to do.
We eventually found our way to the loop that goes around the mall and found crime scene tape around the entire parking lot with police guarding every driveway. this was to be expected. We stood behind the news vans in a strip mall parking lot while the police glared at us.
"I knew I probably wouldn't see any dead bodies but..."
"Were you hoping they would just be stacked in front of the front door?"
"Like so much cord wood."
Von Maur looked just as imposing from the east side; holiday lights in a tasteful solid white pattern surrounding the overhang.
There was talk of cruising through North Omaha or going to the casinos in Council Bluffs but it was a weeknight and cold. So we made our way back towards the interstate on 72nd. I had heard that Hawkins had worked at the MacDonald's at either 36th and Hwy. 370 or 84th and Hwy. 370, and since we were heading back to Lincoln anyways.
Even those of us who know Omaha can still be amazed by how worm-eaten it is, the amount of space needlessly occupied, 72nd street is marked by large weedfields and empty industrial buildings and shady gas stations that fill up the space until the appropriate amount of space between one Wal-Mart and the other, about three or four miles, has been taken up.
Matt took us to his childhood home in LaVista, a most unsuburban suburb, just one of a handful of independent entities in this part of the metro meant to distinguish middle-class whites from South O.
We were nervous when we got to the 84th and 370 MacDonalds. I was starting to feel vestigial pangs of decency, and if we angered them, we might not get our food, so it was Dan who asked if Robbie Hawkins had worked here.
"Honey please, you know that motherfucker's dead."
He worked at the place on 36th, as it turns out.
It didn't matter. We already knew that this trip was just another failed attempt to break out of the self, Nothing to do now but turn the car towards Lincoln, light another joint, and ponder the obvious racial inferiority of Iowans.
Dé Domhnaigh, Nollaig 02, 2007
I'm Putting a Minor Class Paper on my Blog, Because I Hate you.
Joshua Beran
English 410
12/02/2007
For all of its flash and flourish, “You Shall Know Our Velocity” ultimately comes down to a theme that has been prevalent in English-language fiction at least since the days of Joyce and Wolfe; the self as inescapable prison. Will and Hand, of course, are trapped in their American prejudices and presuppositions, filled with mortal dread at every chance encounter on a dark street in a way they might not be in Chicago. More than that though, it is their own character flaws and the way these flaws reinforce each other when Will and Hand are together that makes their exotic journey somewhat futile. Hand will always be a bit arrogant a condescending. Will will continue to be shy and inside of himself. The name Will is rather ironic, as it is clear that this journey is easily the boldest thing he has ever done.
Hand’s “interruption” makes explicit what the reader may be inclined to suspect anyways. Will depicts himself receiving a beating that would have been fatal without medical help, yet there is no description of this help. His descriptions of Jack are always a bit shady, and the story of the plot to take Jack to Mexico for secret medical treatment is beyond incredulous. But there is also reason to doubt Hand’s narration; how did this underachiever find himself in such an enviable position, with his own private villa, receiving visits from lonely housewives? Hand’s version of the story also exonerates him of quite a lot; the beating, of course, but also his condensation and aloofness.
Beran 2
Besides that inescapability from self, Will and Hand also learn about the inescapability from place; again and again they are exposed to some of the trashier elements of American culture; 80’s music, Hollywood thrillers, etc. If the pervasiveness of American culture, the brevity of their visit to each place, and the fundamental self-absorption of Hand and Will aren’t enough to prevent them from really being in the places that they visit, there are the natives. The people who Hand and Will encounter have mouths to feed and are quite uninterested in helping them to find themselves or immerse themselves in the local spirit. Wherever Will and Hand go then, these two white Americans who let it be known that they have money to throw around will always be in touristland, if not treated better than the locals than certainly treated differently enough to be kept apart.
So in the end we have two men who are incapable of pure experience. Even when they take themselves to the other side of the world their experiences are colored, polluted, by stereotypes (both their own and those of the locals,) internal emotions, and ambiguous pasts. Will, whether the friend of a dead man or not, is clearly mourning something. Perhaps, at twenty six, he realizes that he has missed a critical opportunity to experience and behold with the purity of youth. Though still superficially young, he looks forward to nothing, and has no expectations for happiness, so he drifts.
English 410
12/02/2007
For all of its flash and flourish, “You Shall Know Our Velocity” ultimately comes down to a theme that has been prevalent in English-language fiction at least since the days of Joyce and Wolfe; the self as inescapable prison. Will and Hand, of course, are trapped in their American prejudices and presuppositions, filled with mortal dread at every chance encounter on a dark street in a way they might not be in Chicago. More than that though, it is their own character flaws and the way these flaws reinforce each other when Will and Hand are together that makes their exotic journey somewhat futile. Hand will always be a bit arrogant a condescending. Will will continue to be shy and inside of himself. The name Will is rather ironic, as it is clear that this journey is easily the boldest thing he has ever done.
Hand’s “interruption” makes explicit what the reader may be inclined to suspect anyways. Will depicts himself receiving a beating that would have been fatal without medical help, yet there is no description of this help. His descriptions of Jack are always a bit shady, and the story of the plot to take Jack to Mexico for secret medical treatment is beyond incredulous. But there is also reason to doubt Hand’s narration; how did this underachiever find himself in such an enviable position, with his own private villa, receiving visits from lonely housewives? Hand’s version of the story also exonerates him of quite a lot; the beating, of course, but also his condensation and aloofness.
Beran 2
Besides that inescapability from self, Will and Hand also learn about the inescapability from place; again and again they are exposed to some of the trashier elements of American culture; 80’s music, Hollywood thrillers, etc. If the pervasiveness of American culture, the brevity of their visit to each place, and the fundamental self-absorption of Hand and Will aren’t enough to prevent them from really being in the places that they visit, there are the natives. The people who Hand and Will encounter have mouths to feed and are quite uninterested in helping them to find themselves or immerse themselves in the local spirit. Wherever Will and Hand go then, these two white Americans who let it be known that they have money to throw around will always be in touristland, if not treated better than the locals than certainly treated differently enough to be kept apart.
So in the end we have two men who are incapable of pure experience. Even when they take themselves to the other side of the world their experiences are colored, polluted, by stereotypes (both their own and those of the locals,) internal emotions, and ambiguous pasts. Will, whether the friend of a dead man or not, is clearly mourning something. Perhaps, at twenty six, he realizes that he has missed a critical opportunity to experience and behold with the purity of youth. Though still superficially young, he looks forward to nothing, and has no expectations for happiness, so he drifts.
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