A Harsh Self Assessment

What next?  I could continue forever writing about the myriad of injustices that are continually perpetuated upon “us” by “them” never nearly touching upon a fraction of the horror.  But what would that accomplish?  Words must be converted to action.  That is a daunting thought and a daunting process.  We know the problem.  They’re trying to take fundamental rights from us one by one, like falling dominoes, and it has to stop.  I have no idea how that is going to be done in completion.  But I do have a stream of consciousness.  So I offer that.  Someone smarter than me will have to make sense of it all and do something with it.

If you don't notice that we're being sapped of our freedoms, now might be a good time to crack open that history book we all glossed over in grade school, high school, and college.  Contrary to what your exams may have conveyed, memorizing dates wasn’t that important.  It was what happened on those dates that mattered.  And even more, what happened on those dates and was conveniently left out of the history books that matters the most.  Remember when the federal government enacted social security?  Me neither.  I was born in '82.  But I do know that one of the major concerns by opponents was that social security numbers would become our identity.  The government assured us that this number would never be used for anything except paying into and distribution of benefits.  Try to open a bank account now without a SSN and the teller will look at you like you’re absolutely nuts.  This is because the teller was probably born in ‘87 and assumes that SSN have been around since the beginning of time.  The bank teller doesn’t even know that the US government promised its citizens that SSN would not be used as a form of identity.  The bank teller probably can’t tell you a single promise the US government has ever made because he a) doesn’t know, b) never cared, or c) can’t talk because he has to write a text message with 47 LOL’s in it and no actual content.

The solutions to all the obvious and not so obvious problems we are facing are not going to be made reality overnight.  And so, unfortunately, we must suspend one of our fundamental American "virtues," namely the very American tendency to demand instant gratification.  From here many battles must be waged for the war to be won.  The only way the fight will be sustained, victory realized, is if we operate under the pretense that any fight fought is for the sake of our grandchildren's grandchildren.  Total bummer.  We do all the grunt work and those ungrateful, snot faced little rugrats reap the benefit of our blood, sweat, and tears.  Some tribe of ancient people had a poignant thought on the subject.  They said something to the effect of, "we don't inherit this earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children."  They probably had more to say, but after this we decided we had heard enough and mowed them down with machine guns.  But it’s an interesting perspective to consider given our cultural dedication to shortsightedness.  Generally speaking, no matter how shortsighted we may be, I still know that a mother or father looking into their child's eyes wants the best for them, no matter what sacrifice is required.  And I’m hoping this instinct will drive us.

So we're not perfect, what with the machine guns and the impatience.  But in each of us there is humanity, nobler intentions than what we often act upon.  And it is this nobility that must be nurtured.

So what can we do for our children’s children’s children’s children?  One must first identify an enemy before a proper war can be levied.  This is one of the primary lessons I learned in Catholic grade school.  Identify your enemy, and then bring down the wrath of god upon them using all sorts of different chanting and incense and blessed weapons and just general weirdness.  And the enemy can't be an ambiguous concept like Terrorism or Drugs.  Because those are enemies invented by marketing companies in order create false, shallow patriotism and discord in American society.  Wars on concepts don't address the underlying issues.  Like maybe we should stop doing billions of dollars worth of blow because people are getting their heads cut off.  These futile, ambiguous wars simply redistribute money from the poorest to the richest, reconstitute human beings from living, breathing organisms to vapor, and keep those of us lucky enough to remain safe well behind the front lines, in a debilitating state of fear.  So who is our enemy?  It's not the government.  It's not the banks.  It isn't the Taliban, or narco-traffickers, or the creators of Two and a Half Men.  It isn't even the top 1% of the rich.  The true enemy, at least at this point, is ourselves.  Shocking, I know.  First we are our own enemies in the individual sense.  And then we are in the collective sense.

We have to be strong to see this through.  Not strong like the 'roid addled geniuses that staff the WWE.  But strong like people who survived the Great Depression with nothing but grit and determination.  And let's face the difficult truth.  None of us are strong.  Few of us have an attention span that would actually require the minute hand of a clock to measure.  For most, the second hand would suffice.  Our situational awareness is gone along with any sense of direction.  And we have offered up every last drop of our self reliance as a sacrifice to the gods of technology.  It looks bleak.  It is bleak.  But bleak is not hopeless.  Bleak is Seattle.  And for like 7 or 8 hours twice a year, the sun even shines there.  Just as a sculptor removes every piece of stone that is not a part of his sculpture, we too can chip away the imperfections that block our humanity and grace from radiating forth.  How is that done?  There's no single formula.  What are your weaknesses?  Address them.  It's going to be different for each individual.  But the key is discomfort.  We have another American “virtue” to shy away from pain and hard work.  We take the easy road, because its there and it’s well lit.  If one is content and comfortable, one is not learning.  One is stagnant.  And if one is stagnant, one might as well be dead.  Cows are content.  Cows get slaughtered, neatly packaged, and magically end up on your dinner plate without you having to clean a single drop of blood off your hands.  Just like cocaine.  All the benefit, none of the dirty work.  I’m off on a tangent.  Anyway, discomfort must be savored and sought out.  That’s the feeling of growth.  Go for a run.  Have a face to face conversation with a human being, especially one with a different viewpoint.  Learn math.  Drive four blocks without texting somebody.  Discomfort equates to progress.  It's not rocket surgery.  Everyone knows this.  And everyone knows the sense of satisfaction that comes with the expansion of a comfort zone.  It's just difficult to remember and be motivated when all doped up on opioids like TV and, well, actual opioids.  I'm not talking about beer though.  Beer is fine.  In any quantity.

When we each individually endeavor to become the best version of ourselves, we will find within us security, strength (Not like Lou Ferrigno as The Hulk but like Lou Ferrigno as a guy who rose above a disability to achieve great things), and a compassionate, indomitable will.  Only then can we move on to address the collective issue and begin properly sticking it to the man.  Until then, they'll continue trying to divide us and take from us what little we have left.  Like our ability to get together and say that we as a group want fair treatment.  What the fuck?  I still can’t believe that’s even a thing.  Orwell was right.  Shit is getting crazy.

Just don't forget, we aren't fighting for ourselves.  We are fighting for those that come after us.  Instant gratification must be delayed.  Indefinitely.  (I just want to be totally clear again that this does not mean beer).

I don’t care if you agree or disagree with me.  I only care if you think for yourself.  If you do that, then we are brothers and sisters.  Unless you’re from New Zealand.  No amount of anything can make me unite with that “situation.”  (A little backstory here to prevent any future accusation that I'm racist against kiwis.  My brother in law is kiwi.  He infiltrated our borders, wooed my sister, married her, and then engaged her uterus to propagate demon spawn.  So I have a healthy weariness.)

A Primer: Lace 'Em Up

I don't write, or post rather, much other than satirical dribble.  Contrary to appearances, though, I do occasionally think about things that matter.  And I feel it's time to stop hiding that fact.

Our beloved country is, very plainly, in a state of disarray.  Disarray is just a fancy word for chaos.  And chaos is just a fancy word for we're fucked.  Whoever "they" are, they are trying to officially put an end to our ability to band together and bargain for a fair slice of the pie that we probably baked in the first place.  "They" are against that because their agenda involves us having none of the pie.  By the way, we also grew and harvested the fruit as well.  It might be helpful to offer a few definitions here.  When I refer to "us" or "we" I'm referring to those of us ranked in the bottom 90% when it comes to assessing ownership of this great nation's vast wealth.  When I talk about "they" or "them" I'm referring to the top 10%, more specifically the top 1% who, incidentally, own more of this nation's wealth than the bottom 90% combined.  (In case you're wondering, the top 1% own around 38% of the wealth while the bottom 90% control about 19% collectively).  As I generally do, I'm not citing my source, hoping that you might go find out for yourself and begin a path of self discovery that will lead you to other pertinent information that I've never even seen.

So let's do that math.  There are just over 300 million people in the U.S.  That means the top 1% is about 3 million while the bottom 90% amounts to 270 million people.  If my understandings of physics and 3rd grade playground dynamics are as sound as I think they are, in a tug of war 270 million people should always be able to beat 3 million.  Especially when the 3 million are fat, white people with soft hands and the 270 million are the ones who have driven the rivets that hold up bridges and buildings, fight the wars that they get us in, put out the fires that ravage homes in the night, raise and educate the children, and generally create the wealth that the top 1% claim for themselves.

Throughout history, when the rich oppress the poor, the poor rise up and and attempt to strike down the rich, sometimes successfully.  Sometimes not.  But while "they" may be greedy, "they" aren't stupid.  "They" don't want us to revolt.  Over the years they have refined their system of controlling us.  They have thinly veiled their actions through a network of politicians and corporations.  And they have blessed us with ample forms of entertainment and distraction in order to prevent us from ever taking a good look at what is actually going on.  In short, they have created a nation where thinking for oneself is so uncomfortable that most of us simply forego that activity.  And even if someone does think for themselves its unlikely they'll ever be able to find common cause with another human being.  Ignorance is bliss.  And TV helps.  God I love Jersey Shore.  Learning that Snookie can't handle the size of Vinnie's d*** (this is an actual topic covered on the show) is far more important than putting together certain details about major political movements in this country.  If it happens in Wisconsin, it can happen anywhere.  What details, you ask, wondering what Snookie's parents must think of her.  Important details.  Like the fact that they're trying to end collective bargaining in Wisconsin to make up for the state deficit.  And the fact that the deficit in question is almost exactly the same amount as a tax cut that the mega-rich received when this new governor took office.  Coincidence?  Probably.  Yeah.  That seems like total coincidence (I really hope you can hear the sarcasm in my keystrokes).  But who cares.  Because the boys left "The Situation" at the house because he was taking too long to get dressed.  Oh snap! Draaaaammmaaaaa.

So here we are.  We live in a modern serfdom.  Except instead of starving to death, we have too much to eat.  We pay way too much money for government subsidized (a term for a massive corporate backed decision) corn that has been reshaped, repackaged, and rechemicaled to appeal to some anthropological desire of ours for fat and sugar.  These are substances which, several hundred years ago were scarce in the human diet and rightfully so.  Because they're essentially addictive.  And we take the bait.  We eat food that provides no nourishment for our mind, body, or soul.  And it makes us dumb.  And it takes from us our sense of self reliance.  Then they give us each a car so we can buy oil and a little plot of land on which to grow grass which also nourishes nothing and serves no purpose except to give the HOA a reason to fine us if we happen to be such good farmers that our grass grows too well.  And we think we're happy.  Because we think if we work hard enough, we can become one of them.  It baffles me, this impulse to cannibalize our brothers and sisters so that we might have a few more dollars in our pocket, a bigger TV perhaps, with higher resolution.  You know, so you can see the cellulite and the complexion that results from 365 days a year of smoking, drinking, tanning beds and sexual folly.  It's especially baffling when you allow relationships to disintegrate, ignore your community, and generally miss out on the true joys of life chasing something you are literally never allowed to achieve, but that always seems to be just within an inch of your grasp.

I relate to my world through analogies.  And I'm a big fan of my family and how we all stick together even though individually we're nuts and get on each other's nerves to a degree that probably can't be conveyed with a number that has a name.  So here's my family analogy.  They refer to the rich white men who initially developed this nation as forefathers.  Regardless of their individual character flaws, they had ridiculously accurate foresight (most of which we've collectively ignored) and laid the foundation upon which a great nation could be built.  They did actual work.  They actually fought in the wars they perpetuated.  And they didn't perpetuate war under false pretenses.  These forefathers are the antecedents of modern politicians.  But it seems that all the politicians of today were thalidomide babies.  Something clearly went wrong somewhere.  They're supposed to be the leaders, the benevolent patriarchs, our heroes.  But instead they've decided to be greedy assholes and shills for the people pulling the strings.  And they're not only greedy, but they're fat and lazy.  That's why, in a roundabout way, I always liked Putin.  Even though I'm sure he sucks, he seems like he could at least kick my ass if I challenged him.  He swims in freezing waters and probably wrestles bears.  I digress.

The analogy:  Whenever our family was in trouble, dad (the father, the patriarch) worked harder to right the ship.  Fingers to the bone.  And not only did dad work harder, but he also tightened his belt because he didn't want mom and the kids to feel a single hunger pang.  But in this country, the patriarchs are not only refusing to work harder, they're eating the fucking children.  And if dad tries to eat the kids, then mom and the kids have two options.  Mom and the kids can either run away, or they can kick the shit out of dad because they really like the house and don't feel like leaving.

I think "we" should put on our boots.  Not the walking kind.  The shit kicking kind.

I Wub You

If I may label myself (with the accuracy of a laser guided bloodhound, barracuda, or heat seeking missile) I would say that I'm probably the most romantic, soft hearted, open minded, lovey dovey, fancy pants, least bitter, most appropriately emotional individual wandering the face of the Earth today. Ask my friends and family. They would certainly agree.  But even I'm not falling for this Valentine's day bullshit. Now don't get me wrong, I always appreciated the chalky taste of conversation hearts, especially if they were given to me by one of the girls in my class who "developed" early.  Don't look at me like that.  It's not pedophilia if you're also 12 years old.  That night my mom would make heart shaped meat loaf.  It was always delicious. I would cover it with ketchup.  She probably thought I was making it red in the spirit of the holiday.  Little did she know I was pretending that I was partaking in the forbidden delicacy of human heart.  The ketchup obviously... oxygen rich blood.  What do you expect?  I went to Catholic school.  Themes of violence and horror were frequent.  I wonder how she would have felt about Valentine's Day meatloaf if she knew that she was actually fostering my juvenile fascination with cannibalism.  Suck on that Esther A. Howland.

But Valentine's Day was, from it's very inception, nothing more than federally mandated affection.  And while it is a boon for the fine people at Applebee's because it's the only night of the year where every other restaurant is so booked up that people are forced to go there, as an official American holiday it's still the illegitimate creation of some of the biggest bastard sons o' bitches to wandering the face of the Earth today, politicians (Was that a run on sentence? Grammar police, get at me).  Admittedly, I'm skipping a few steps.  There was of course the decree of a pope back in like late 400 something A.D. celebrating the life and death of one of several possible martyrs.  But ultimately, Valentine's Day was created to fill the consumer gap between Christmas and Easter.  In short, people weren't buying enough shit.  Well, people in the U.S. weren't buying enough shit.  We don't care what Iraqis or Portugese are buying.  Probably sand.

I'm not lobbying against love.  I'm just saying that if you participate in a corporate holiday then you're indisputably a sheep and you're giving into the man.  You might as well just line up at the post office and get on the next bus to the federal internment camp.  Because that's what's coming next.  That's right.  If you celebrate Valentine's Day, you hate freedom.  Quite a moral conundrum, isn't it you right wing neconservative whack jobs?  If you love someone, I've read somewhere that it's probably a great idea to express it daily in some form.  Tell them.  Give them a hug.  Make them an egg sandwich for breakfast.  Don't read into that.  I literally mean an egg sandwich.  To my knowledge it's not the name of an elaborate sex move.  And then every once in a while make a big celebration of your love.  Write a letter.  Hug them twice.  Make them an Egg Sandwich for Dinner.  That one is what you think it is.  But it shouldn't be forced.  If your major concern is that grocery stores don't sell a large selection of red candy year round, your fears have been addressed. Everyone loves Starburst. Even Iraqis.

Truth is, all this corporate stuff just casts a shadow over the otherwise honest and sincere acts of love that might be taking place anyway.  And that's a shame.  I have to protect the identities of the innocent.  But I know a guy who wrote a Valentine card to his wife after he died in which he threatened to haunt her by switching lights on and off and rubbing her butt.  Just another in a long life of loving actions.  Take notes Hallmark.  If you're not willing to become a "goast" to prove it, it just isn't love.

If Fashion Were Puke, It's in My Mouth a Little Bit Now

WTF?

When I first saw these, I panicked worse than in the first grade when I thought I could save time by taking my pants off without taking my shoes off, botched the procedure, and had to waddle back to class, pants strangling my shoes, for faculty assistance.  But after two Xanax, a Valium, and half a bottle of Jack Daniel's (presently, not in the first grade) I was able to recenter myself, get my wits about me, and process what I was seeing.  I realized, just before jabbing a complimentary spork from Taco Bell into my eyeballs, that it didn't matter if they were selling these pajamajeans as long as no one on earth buys them.  "We'll let the free market solve this little problem."  That's what I confidently said to myself with patriotism in my heart and the pride of capitalism coursing through my veins.  But just to cover my bases I also went ahead and prayed to several hundred gods from any religious tradition or cult about which I could find an entry on Wikipedia.  Three short months later, I've lost all hope in the free market, humanity, religion (except Scientology), and the future.  I'm a shell of the man I once was.  I haven't slept in weeks.  Every time I close my eyes... I see them.

I just have a few points of consideration I would like to offer the 26 adult women and 1 adult male that I've seen wearing these things, as well as the cross section of people that these 27 messengers of the apocalypse represent.  Seeing them in person, in clear view of the general public, was exponentially more upsetting than seeing them as a digital image on TV.  I don't remember exactly where I was on 9/11.  But I do remember, to my unending horror, the first time I saw these denim colored sweatpants in all their faux-riveted glory.  Since the unapologetic wearers of these atrocities are essentially the face of an epidemic, I feel it only right to give them a cohesive identity.  Something catchy, accurate, and descriptive.  I learned from TV that the key to making a memorable label is alliteration.  Thus, they will be called The Teratoma 27.


1.  If they're that comfortable, wear them at home.  Exclusively.  And preferably only in an emergency.  Like if your washer and dryer break, all the laundromats in your town have been burnt to the ground due to their unfortunate proximity to exploding meth labs, and you've worn all your other clothes to the point that they are literally no longer wearable (Science has shown that a pair of normal jeans can be worn 15 months without washing).  And you've also torn down the curtains, cut swatches of fabric from the couches, and humanely "processed" the coats of house pets to cover the essentials.  Then, and only then should you even begin to think about wearing your pajama jeans.  Even these thoughts should be accompanied by great trepidation.

2.  There are some things on this planet that just should not be combined.  Jeans and sweatpants have been on this list since time immemorial.  It's baffling to me that this natural law was violated.  And not only violated but marketed.  And not only marketed but purchased.  And worse, worn.  I can only assume that whoever invented these enjoys a nice sheltered life somewhere upon the Autism spectrum.  And not the good kind of autism either.  Other examples of things that should not be mixed: canned tuna in olive oil and ice cream.  The gamete of anyone from the cast of Jersey Shore and any other substance that might potentially yield life especially other gamete.  Women and professional basketball.  But I have heard that the best way to clean pajamajeans is to combine ammonia and bleach.  Don't worry.  That sensation that feels like your lungs are melting and drowning you in your own blood... that just means it's working.  (Disclaimer:  Mixing ammonia and bleach will probably be the last thing you ever do, so don't.  And if you do, you can't sue me.  I'm pretty sure that counts as a legally bulletproof disclaimer.)

3.  Wearing of this blight upon human existence calls into serious question one's quality of character.  People who wear these jeans lack integrity.  In short, they are liars.  How can someone who isn't even honest about their rivets and/or jean pockets be trusted in any capacity at any point in the future.  I'm a person who believes that even a murderer can be reformed.  But for The Teratoma 27 and like minded individuals, there is no absolution.  No one will marry you.  Ever.  Not even with a prenup.  And if any part of you believes that you're fooling anyone, you're also lying to yourself.  This inevitably irritates the hell out of the famous pirate Shakesbeard who said, "To thine own self, be true."  If Liz Lemmon has taught us anything, it's that you can't have it all.  Just as you can not simultaneously have a raging methamphetamine addiction and a normal sleep schedule, you also can not be that comfortable and trick people into believing that you're a rational human being.  The Romans spent the entirety of their empire trying to figure out how to be stylish slobs as well as trying to discover new holes in which to make sex after they, as a society, grew bored with the traditional 9 points of penetration.  Look where it got them.  Why must mankind always ignore the lessons of history in favor of their own peril?  When will we stop trying to fly so close to the sun on wings of wax?

4.  Finally, I have a short list of things you could buy for $39.95 + $7.95 that aren't total abominations in the biblical sense of the word.

1/6 of a stuffed armadillo.  It's a small price to pay to have to have in your living room the animal most often splattered across Texas highways.  It's a great conversation piece and could probably be used as an object of meditation... something about evidence of the impermanence of life, even if your whole body was covered in fancy pants armor loosely modeled after the dimples of a golf ball.

A couple of these wolf shirts.  as far as levels of awesome and social appropriateness are concerned, this fine garment is the quintessential opposite of pajama jeans.  If you buy two shirts you get 6 wolves and two moons.  We don't even have two moons on earth.  But you could have two in your top drawer.  How have you not already entered your credit card info?

A nice claw hammer.  To be used on oneself in the event of pajamajean sighting.  With any luck, the resulting head injury will leave you with a case of one of the good kinds of autism.  Experiment with both sides of hammer, striking cranium until desired effect is achieved.

I'll Let the Pictures Tell the Story...

I occasionally do passable tattoos

My nephew seems to be teething

He also really doesn't give a f*** about social mores concerning public nudity (his words, not mine).  And if anyone has a problem with that, the regal looking beast behind him will eat your face off with extreme prejudice.

Updates...

I added some images to the Photo, Draw, and Paint sections of the website.  The vast majority of it is in the Photo section.  Check it out.  Or don't.  Who even cares in this economy.

Dos.