Tony Jackson and the bay (long but good?)

The Average reader reads at 200 wpm. There are a little over 2900 words in this post so it might take you about 15 minutes to read it. I think it’s a good story, and I had to write it. It took me about 2 1/2 hours to write it and proofread. So enjoy if you will. Maybe start with the begining and see if it’s the kind of tale for you. Unfortunately this intro I’ve written adds about a minute to you slow pokes.

Tony invited me to go with him to UC Berkeley (aka CAL) (aka most famous liberal college in American history) to see Richard Dawkins give a lecture on his latest book. Now I didn’t know we were going to Cal to begin with, I just thought we were going to Berkeley. Also I didn’t know who Richard Dawkins was. He’s apparantly notoriously anti-religion and was spoofed as a character on a two part episode of South Park where Cartman goes to a future controlled by Atheists (Dawkins’s the guy banging Mrs. Garrison).

Tony lives in Fairfield which is about a 2 hour drive from Stockton in the bust ass truck I’m driving. Now the truck isn’t completely street legal so I had misgivings about driving it there and especially didn’t want to go into Berkeley with it. So we got a ride from Tony’s Mom to the Vallejo Ferry. There we wandered the hard streets of Mac Dre’s town and admired the black people and crossed streets against the lights, because Tony asserts that’s what people do in the ghetto, jaywalk. Then we went back to the ferry and went into the bar across the water from where my Grandpa Wise was stationed for a time in the Korean War while my Grandmother lived in Stockton attending UOP. This isn’t really important except that Tony (who is from Colorado) was trying to tell me about Vallejo like I didn’t know the life story of the man who founded it. Anyway, we got drunk.

After a couple hours the ferry was ready to depart and we hopped on. I got a really cool seat outside on the second deck and saved a spot for Tony, meanwhile I was asked to photgraph some hot latinas.Tony came up with a beer and I wanted one too so I switched spots with him, told him to hold me a seat and went down to the ferry’s drink man. While ordering my beer ( a local brew you will never get to drink, whoever is reading this) Tony pops his head up and asks for a glass of whiskey. Thus establishing us as completely drunk and without sweet seats next to hot latinas. So we went back outside and stood and drank while Tony explained about the Nautical Academy he’s aiming for and how he participated in yacht races out in the bay every week before he started school. The North East San Francisco Bay is breathtaking. You have to see it to know. It looks like another country. It is about as beautiful as any place can be.

The ferry went ridiculously fast, in fact I think it’s the fastest I’ve ever experienced on a boat. The wake was unbelieveable, a skiff would disappear in that spray, the center maintained a water wall at least 10 ft high with a side waves a skier would kill for, or die jumping. The wind got bad with the speed and we retired to some comfortable seats inside up forward and talked as we watched the ship scream across the San Francisco Bay.

It pulled right into pier 39, with Tony explaining the old Navy tender nearby was the "USS Jerimiah O’Brien" which as you might know is a precursor to Tony and Mine’s first ship the DD USS O’Brien. It being a tradition in the Navy to keep names "alive" through generations of ships, like "Enterprise". O’Brien as I recall had at least 5 ships of the same name through the years, all named after an Irish soldier from the Civil War or maybe the Revolution, I can’t remember now. Anyway we were still a bit drunk and walked onto the pier with at least 100 people waiting in line to board the ferry. The sobering came when we had to walk from Pier 39 to the Bart station at Embarcadero and Market. I told Tony about 7 times that there was a street car that went right to it, but he insisted we walked. The weather everywhere was perfect that day. Though the walking got tedious as I watched us encircle Coit tower on Telegraph hill by about 90 degrees.

Eventually we made it to Market Street, where I’ve been literally hundreds of times in my life and went below the street, below the subway, to the BART station deep within. We got the Train to Richmond which was completely packed and rode under the bay about 5 times faster than the Ferry went over it. When we started hitting Oakland stops I whipped out my iPod and we listened to "California :Love" by 2Pac and Dr. Dre. "From Oakland to Sac-Town, the Bay Area and back down" seemed appropriate enough if not completely silly to anybody standing near us, 2 white guys sharing ear phones jamming to 13 year old rap/techno.

Awesomely the BART stops off in Downtown Berkeley about 1 city block from Cal. I have been to Berkeley many times in my life but I’d never been to Cal till this day. College kids abound we walked up hill into the wooded outer perimeter (stopping for a burrito first) I noticed there were emergency phones about every 25 yards. I joked that a rapist would have to be pretty crafty to get a girl in the "point of no return" middle areas that are over 10 yards from any rape phone. "Perhaps he could hide in the gully by the creek and call to women and lure them with his voice away from the safety of the rape phones" or "Perhaps he could hide behind that log" were the jist of it. Not that I encourage sex with Cal girls in any capacity, just noting the absurdity of the frequency of the phones.

Onward and upward we went. The pulse of the heart of Berkeley beating louder as we neared it. One by one the left wing cliche’s began emerging, a group of old white haired scientist looking guys, an over the hill big banked couple ’touring’. An old professor in a brown cordoroy suit. As we passed the great East Gateway there were signs everywhere for various clubs, including I noticed the "UC Berkeley Objectivists Club". The ground was rife with colored chalk propaganda, anywhere from "Bush is evil" to "Living wage for Custodians" At the center of the scrawlings a group of reasonably young hippies. I call them hippies in the scrictest sense for they wore the traditional hippie cloth, and were gathered around in a drum circle, playing drums.

We managed to round these odd creatures following the papers taped to the ground "Dawkins lecture" with arrows to guide to the hall. Upon entering the hall we see a great line that went around the corner. So we walked around the corner, and it went around the next corner, so we walked around that one as well. It further continued to wrap around and we chased its tail to the fourth side of the building. In a matter of 10 minutes the line had passed us and went back to the first side and out the door. We were over an hour early at this point. The lecture was scheduled for 7:00 pm. Around 6:30 and between Tony’s 4th and 5th smoke breaks we recieved our tickets, curtesy of student club SANE (Students for A Non-religious Ethos). Nearing 7:00 pm the doors to the lecture hall were opened and we found our seats luckily about 15 ft from where Mr. Dawkins would give his entire lecture. About 750 people packed into the hall, but for reasons unknown to me they waited a long time to start and the 40 minute lecture didn’t begin until about 8:20 pm. This marked the first time in my life I was completely surrounded in a room of Atheists, and weren’t afraid to be so. Here is where I learned that Atheists are most definitely not necessarily Objectivists, or even particularly rational or moral.

Mr. Dawkins said some interesting things, but since he was focusing the entire lecture on subjects covered in a book I hadn’t heard about until about an hour before I was more absorbed in everything but the details (also I was still a bit drunk and Tony was so bad that later he told me he tried to prevent the woman to his left from smelling the pure alcohol vapors from his breath). He made one interesting point about how no child is a religious child, that there is no such thing as a 5 year old Catholic boy, or a 7 year old Muslim giril. There is a 5 year old boy with Catholic parents, but if the parents were sailors you wouldn’t call him a 5 year old sailor. Somehow religion is given a free pass on personal accomplishment or will. Mr. Dawkins made a lot of jokes about religion, mentioned the teapot theory all the while the audience was laughing and cheering. It was beyond bizarre for me, for in my life I have only known 2 passionately anti-religious people, and even though I myself refuse religion as a concept I don’t really take any particular pleasure in being derisive about it. Maybe because beyond my youngest years I wasn’t told to believe one thing or another and even in my younger years was only expected to attend religious services, not explicitely learn anything from my attendence. Though I suppose I did laugh a little and any jokes I missed were entirely the cause of the day’s sun, walking too much, and beer.

For me religion is an odd juncture. I was born a Catholic. My Father a born again Christian (his parents Atheists) and my Mother the full blown Catholic. My great Uncle or something along those lines on my mother’s side was the top Bishop of San Francisco back in the day. My Mother’s Mother went to a hard core Catholic High School in San Francisco and I assume a Catholic elementary. My Grandfather was a teacher and Councellor at St. Mary’s High School in Stockton for over 30 years. My Mom went to St. Mary’s, as did my uncle. I was baptized at my Great Grandfather’s (mother’s mother’s father) funeral as a baby in what my Grandfather called a "2 for 1 deal" for the priest, who he personally had the priest perform the baptism in a bathroom sink at the cemetery. This went down as a merely informal, though spiritually binding, baptism as I was baptized again at age 12 after proper Catholic classes were taken. I have the distinct pleasure of having only once cheated on any test in my life, during a Catholic class test for the "Our Father" prayer. Also a Sunday Mass marked the only time in my life I literally stared at a clock, and no where else, for an entire hour. I can’t tell you exactly when I became Atheist, only that I thought I knew God existed throughout most of high school, and was definitely unsure by the time I joined the Navy in 2002. My Atheism was solidified by the time I first read Ayn Rand in January of 2004. Though I must point out at this time and not elaborate (as I’ve already done it in previous posts) that technically I am not an atheist by its definition. That is one who wholly rejects even the possibility of a god. Being a creature of logic, this would be a silly and unnecessary leap.

Mr. Dawkins told us that he himself isn’t a complete Atheist either. He introduced a scale of ’knowing there’s a god’ to ’knowing there isn’t a god’ where everything in the middle is agnostic on varying levels. By his scale I was 9/10 10 being Atheist. Then he said he was a 9/10, so I guess we’re on the same page. He described 9/10 as being ’Not being exactly certain there isn’t a God, but living life with the assumption that there isn’t, and equating the possibility of God with the possibility of unicorns and fairies.’ That’s where I am.

When the lecture was over and Mr. Dawkins got a standing ovation we walked out into the night. Wandered the bar scene a bit but did not partake and instead went to the BART. We had been screwed from the begining as the ferry stopped running at 7:00 and never planned on going back to Fairfield that way. We took BART to Richmond which is a ghetto town north of Berkeley. Poor old Berkeley book ended by Oakland and Richmond. Richmond as you may recall is the town featured in the film "Coach Carter" with Samuel L. Jackson. The city where no one graduates from school and kids get capped in the streets for selling shit. Well we made this our destination and right off the train bums were hitting us up for cash. Outside the station there was one bum on a bench singing to himself very pleasantly but from a distance became ominous. Tony for some reason was scared shitless of this town. I tried to explain to him that I lived in the most violent areas of S.F. and Stockton growing up, and had just left an apartment in San Diego that was completely surrounded by the most crazy houses, halfway houses, bum empires and police sirens you will ever see in any place on earth, but this didn’t calm him down. He insisted I hide my headphones which he didn’t know I was using to ironically play to myself Filter’s sugar sweet song "Take a Picture". Apparently he’d been reading about all the killings and thefts going down in Rich town and that just the implication of white headphones being attached to a $300 iPod could get us mugged. I wasn’t so worried, and even somewhat desired a confrontation so I could establish myself as king of Cali and maybe kill a thug in the process. I saw one group of thugish looking kids all hooded and waiting for a bus. Tony got so paranoid he went to the taxi area and wouldn’t move. I told him the taxi drivers were all sleeping and their doors were locked, so that even if he did plan on using them to escape something he’d get shanked long before he got in the cab. There was a sign stuck in the grass that read "I support Not Today www.not2day.org the sign had a silhouette of what appeared to be a dead man. I checked out the website days later, it is a Richmond initiative to go 1 day without a violent crime. We sat on a bench by the taxis and waited about 20 mins. for Tony’s Mom to pick us up.

She came, we rode and got back to his place. I was tired as all hell but Tony is on a night rotation for work, and we ended up staying up to watch a movie from 1983 called "Max Dugan Returns" a woman and her son (Mathew Broderick) who are visited by the woman’s father who hasn’t been in her life since she was 10. He had a couple hundred thousand dollars he scammed off his employers in Vegas and they were after him as well as the feds. The woman is incidentally dating a cop (Donald Sutherland) who gets suspicious as this broke as shit teacher starts getting a lot of undesired gifts from her dad including wads of bills, luxury cars, big stereos, and a whole new house in the place of the old one. I jokingly guessed that Keifer Sutherland also known as SUPER BADASS JACK from 24, might be in the film, and was surprised to spot him in his 5 second appearance in a group of people at the high school where the woman taught. All together the film was oddball. Not stupid slapstick like much of the turn of the 80s comedies it was as serious as it was funny, almost depressing towards the end which is open ended only letting you know that the great Max is gone for good, the woman is broke as shit again, and will probably be going on trial for accessory to larceny or whatever, with most of the police work against her done by her cop boyfriend who she simultaneously kisses, and begs leniency. Quite twisted. Tony believed this to be one of the best films he’s ever seen.

That’s it. I went to sleep. I woke up in day lights savings. I drove home to Stockton around 12:00 on Sunday and didn’t do shit.

Somehow in this entire comprehensive overly detailed story I am not able to capture who Tony is, or why he is so awesome. I guess I can only say, he is a very funny and witty person. He made me laugh all damn day, and every person that we spent even a minute near was in tears laughing at the shit Tony would say. I’m remembering us on the ferry waiting for a toilet to open and Tony just going at it like a stand up comedian just ripping on half the people walking by while anyone listening is laughing their ass off. He wasn’t even rude or personal, just pure tact. Calling on little known stereotypes and idiosyncrasies from people of a specific city and state he noticed were prevalent on the ferry.

This man crush I have on him I guess can be summed up with the name I have in previous blogs (back to the begining since Tony lived with me for 3 weeks while I began my assent into extreme blogging) used to preface his given name; "Legendary".

Crimes and Obligations

I am now unemployed. I am running out of money fast. I am now like a normal person I suppose. I have unpaid tickets, I'm just going to assume there are warrants out on me. I'm still very much living in an apartment I've already paid to leave. In fact I paid more money to buy out my lease than I even have left. There's this one me that knows all this, and he doesn't care. There's the other side of me who is playing video games all day and is thinking about 3 things showers, food, and sleep. I've almost beat Suikoden 4. I've had the game for about 4 years and I've finally gotten around to playing it. I used a walkthrough so I could get all 108 stars of destiny.

This last year was the easiest of my career. But maybe only because I remained aloof. When I left Japan, I left a place that was painful and challenging for me, but it was real, it was life, and it wasn't all bad, I had people well, if you've read my blogs from back then. Anyway.

This is what I strived for, and this is what I got. Mediocrity.

I'm thinking about this life I'm tailoring for myself. I'll take full time classes at Delta College, I might be on unemployment, or some part time job. I'll be staying in my father's house. In a room previously occupied by my brother, until he was kicked out. I shouldn't be there for too long, convenience will fall to sanity. My relationship with my father is much better when we are not actually within shouting distance.

I will take classes, I will work, and I will watch tv. That's it. My understanding of the world, my ability to reason and develop and problem solve, my experience, I will abandon this. I can't imagine ever telling anyone that I ever served except on a resume. I can't imagine ever admitting to people that I've left Stockton. I'll just say I had this or that job. Hell I could just say I apprenticed as an electrician, didn't like it, and leave it at that.

I can never be accepted by Americans. I will always be repulsive, and a freak. I can at least pretend to be normal again. No more globe bouncing, late nights in long seas leaning against various war machines speaking casually about every little detail of every aspect of life. Now is the time for discretion. Time to casually stand by and watch all the beautiful people steal everything from me and keep me in their pen with promise of a gift. The gift of being a stone in a pyramid. I can rest now. Rest in my mind and complain about this or that while everything every decent man has ever worked for is used to further destroy everything every decent man ever valued. Come along mediocrity. Sell me out.

It Isn't Ironic!

I am tired of all these fucking 20 something dipshits whose only method of evaluating or describing works is "ironic". People wearing stupid shirts isn't ironic. Shitty presentations of malformed conceptual deveolopments aren't ironic. You're shitty humor isn't ironic. You suck, and that isn't irony either.

You know what's ironic? The Brady Bunch Movie. The entire movie is devoted to making fun of the 70s TV iconic family, set in the back drop of the 90s. The irony comes into play only when one understands that the humor derived from the family is in their absurd attitudes, clothing, and their aparent oblivious nature. In this, the presentation makes such an effort to portray how different and "modern" the 90s are, that in only a few years time the 90s characters appear ridiculous and outdated. The 90s clothing is as unacceptable as the 70s perhaps even more so. The attitudes of the "modern" characters seem childish and narrowminded whereas the family seems completely rational, a good example would be the neighbors willingness to sell-out their lives for a little money, and the high school students who don't seem to appear to possess any means of civility or happiness. The Brady family on the other hand are goal oriented and all possess analytical skills that allow them to attain their goals even if they have been "dropped in" to the 90s.

Although a movie has yet to be made to portray the 21st Century as it is, I would venture the highlight of our social structure at this point is a successful individualistic style of living. in these 00s we have more than one can imagine, our wealth is unprecedented nor is our jaded nature. With the internet firmly planted, we have children who have grown up with the world in their hands and know nothing less. Not that people seem to be any more intelligent, we just found a way to max out our own potential. In a life of unlimited resources, the parent/child relationship changes to be much less instructive, and much more guiding. A parent would now not be preoccupied with fact giving, rather helping develop a child's moral and rational abilities. Even school's fact based methods are becoming obsolete, and can focus more on teaching a student how to learn, and how to apply knowledge. In this I believe the internet has literally lifted the minds of all those who can access it, it has made it possible for humans to reach higher states of knowledge and development much faster or at all if never before.

I have just found out about a new feature on Google Map, "Street View" where you can take a 3D trip down a street and look around. You can even zoom in and read signs, or look at people and things like that. They've only uploaded portions of less than 30 cities so far, but it shows great potential. San Diego is one of them, and my street is one of them, you can move the screen to right outside my apartment. Though when the Photos were taken I hadn't moved in yet. I was able to get an idea of the date when I passed the Spreckles theatre on Broadway, its next show listed was March 15, 2007. Interestingly enough if you look at the front end of the show boards you can see that Arcade Fire will play on April 26, which was the day I got the apartment, and only 6 days after returning from a 4 month underway. I was at the Arcade Fire performance only because I luckily walked by and noticed a few hours before the show. Imagine one day having a live Street View. You could virtually travel downtown and see what's going on. See if there's a good party or a protest. The kind of things you'd either have to see for yourself, or hear about it later, the kind of fun you can't schedule. That's the irony of the old, narrowmindedness mocked by narrowmindedness. In the broad vision of life, we act to live, not to please, we live to please, not to act.

Bush

On the eve of my departure to the harsh wastelands of Northern Illinois as my father drove me to my fated life, we listened to Mr. Bush give his first State of the Union speech, it was full of promise about how we will get the terrorists in Afghanistan and begin our War on Terror. I was fresh and young, I still had college thoughts in me, bike rides, swimming, great shape, great friends. I was motivated and ready to help fight for America.

6 years later, tonight, on the eve of my departure from the Navy, Mr. Bush once again speaks of Afghan Terrorists and more. It has become much worse. I am leaving the Navy a failure. Unable to stop terrorists. My greatest triumphs slammed in my face by my superiors as my greatest defeats. I have been shamed, humiliated, and left broken and alone. These 6 years have taken nearly everything from me. I could not listen to tonight's speech, because I am so disgusted by this government. I had lost all faith in it, save this trumpeting of my dead soul in the form of Ron Paul, but this too seems fleeting and expensive.

I won't go home tomorrow. I will simply try to get some rest. I've been sick for days, and I haven't slept right in weeks. I haven't felt alive in years.

Fotos de Mujeres?

I just made a mixed drink with 12 different liquors. whooo. It has the look of light Kahlua, but its flavor, oh my god, a Jager syrup, a vodka burn, a whiskey tang, oh my god. I took a photo of myself. I want to try to pull a "Noah".

1. Jager 2. SoCo 3. Bailey's 4. Cpt. Morgan's Passion Fruit Rum 5. Grey Goose Vodka 6. Frost Vodka 7. That other rum I'm too drunk to remember, you know, the classic stuff. 8. Amaretto di Amor? 9. Kahlua 10. Jameson Irish Whiskey 11. Chivas Regal Scotch 12. 1800 Tequila

I am watching this move in French right now, I'm sure you knew fiance' was french, but did you know it means "engaged" in French? That is, it isn't a noun it is an adjective(right?)? It isn't a person it is a situation, so the word might be French, but our definition doesn't fit, so it isn't really French. At least, not unless they use the word for everything.



p.s. the title stems from my love of porn. It knows no language barrier.

Thrown out of a Punk Show

I didn't really get kicked out. Michael did. Michael that crazy rebel who after buying a house in Aurora Colorado with his wife and baby, took a full schedule of college classes without hindering his full time desk job for the Navy. This wild man got me to come along with him to a music show downtown (after special permission from his wife) while there he drank a whole glass of beer and then in the throes of the mosh pit he lost his wrist band. The wrist band was critical in showing that he was in fact over 21, so he'd be allowed by the stage. Now the House of Blues did issue a ticket that also says he's over 21, and a receipt for the ticket, and a stamp on his right hand that verifies this as well, along with his driver's license, his military ID, and my affirmation, but the rebel Michael recklessly lost the paper wrist band in his irresponsible decision to be in a mosh pit that he wasn't allowed in without his paper wrist band that so innocently was weakened by an unexplained presence of sweat. So once security got wind of his wristbandlessness in the pit when the Circle Jerks were on their very last song, security very kindly asked Michael to leave, and even escorted him, like the gentlemen they are.

Meanwhile I was very cordially trying not to embarass these two nice ladies with my flatering glances. As I would tell Michael the full "8" on the 10 scale was dressed in fine evening attire, that complemented the high class crowd. Seeing my best friend being escorted to the exit, I assumed Michael was simply ready to leave, since the show was essentially over so I began to follow, only briefly in repose at the loss of the opportunity to further enjoy the ambiance.

Upon leaving the House of Blues my good friend asked the fine gentleman if his ticket would suffice. That is when I realized Michael had commited a faux pas and hadn't left of his own accord. At this I was momentarily overcome with emotion and I did try with my strongest voice to defend my friend's honor. If I hadn't lost my voice in the pit, I dare say I might have myself been called upon by security, for at the top of my lungs, albeit not very loud at all, I told the gentlemen that my friend was a 24 year old war vet! The gentlemen, with their distinguished careers in music crowd control, seemed not so impressed and went about their noble duty of sweeping up trash.

My good friend Michael was a bit perturbed by all of this (perhaps his heavy drinking was to blame) but I walked with him on a peripatetic and we did discuss the issue quite suffiently. In fact, I suppose the only reason that I wrote this was because I'm getting bored and nervous and this clock bullshit is really wearing me down.

The New Year

I went to an Objectivist chat room. Talked for hours with a 25 year old man in New Zealand about getting him laid. Then a Russian in west Siberia joined in. I told him I couldn't believe a Siberian was allowed on the internet, least-ways in Ayn's territory talking shit about Putin.

The important thing was that I was at home. Sitting on my couch, drinking Chapagne out of the bottle alone. Since it took me two hours to get back to this blog I'll make a list of New Year's Eves I remember.

2008 - Last night. Got slightly drunk long before 12, went to bed completely sober about 12:30. Feeling sorry for myself.

2007 - Watched people who love each other count down the new year in a bar at the Hotel Del Coronado. I was not really welcome there, but nobody stopped me. After that I wandered the beach until I laid down on one of the dunes, and there came up with the idea of killing myself on that beach, which is a resolution I have yet to fulfill.

2006 - The day I tried desperately to get my only love to celebrate with me. She had other plans. My friend Tony, who was on vacation at my house suggested I go with him to Tokyo, but instead I stayed home, played video games, watched TV and probably cried. I didn't even stay up till 12.

2005 - I don't remember. I was in Japan I guess, I was probably at the Navy's "Single Sailor Center" which is like a boys and girls club for loser sailors. I honestly don't remember much of those days. They really sucked.

2004 - I was in Stockton, I drank a glass of Champagne with my father and brother and sister. It was my first time on vacation since leaving America, four months earlier.

2003 - I was in Pensacola Florida. I didn't do shit.

2002 - Honestly I don't remember. I lived with my Dad and bro and sis in Stockton. I probably didn't do anything.

2001 - Don't remember doing anything at all. I lived in S.F. with my Mom, bro, and sis.

2000- I was alone in an empty room in a house In South San Francisco. We had just moved in. Before that we were homeless. I remember being very happy to have a shelter from the rain, and I was writing a detective story that essentially captured my experiences and emotions. Lots of killing involved.

1999-1982- uh, it gets pretty fuzzy from here. Asides, I was a youngn'. Well technically 16 isn't that young, but you know, I suck.

Burger King Onion Rings used to be made with onions

I decided to go to the movies today. I saw I am Legend and National Treasure: Book Of Secrets. I was planning on seeing The Golden Compass, I even bought a ticket, but I was tired. I bought 24 season 6. And I headed home.

On the way I detoured to Burger King to get dinner. I didn't lock up my bike so I spent the whole time in the restaurant looking out. There was this bum standing by my bike the whole time. I had blown him off when I walked in. A car with a big open bed stopped by my bike, and I imagined what I'd have to do if they tossed my bike in their bed. That's how I lost bike number 3. Being on bike number 11 or 12 now I know how to not get it stolen. If they did toss it in the bed, I imagined droping my stuff hopping the railing, knocking a guy over, breaking the glass door on my way out, jumping into the bed of the truck and calling the police while in the truck. I even thought about how I would speak, how I would navigate the cops, and pondered if I would have to fight them or if they would take me someplace where they had backup. In all this bike worry I ordered my meal. I didn't want the soda, but I started imagining that I could find a way to bring it home with me, I certainly didn't want to spend another minute there. I got my food, went out to my bike and dumped months old gatorade out of my water bottle. I tried to put the cup of soda in the water bottle holder, but the top popped instantly and I knew it was hopeless. This whole time this goddamn bum has been watching me, nobody watches me for minutes on end, especially not entire visits, so thoughts of having to beat him to shit, and what I'd do if he had a knife crossed my mind. I imagined kicking him in the throat rather than trying to kick his knife away, in this scenario he's already on the ground (that's why he'd pull the knife of course). I decided to walk my bike for a while instead.

By the time I crossed the street I imagined throwing my soda into the parking lot or against a building, but I don't litter, I don't make messes, and I knew that God damned bum was still watching. I crossed the street again, about 3 or 4 steps into the street one of the straps to the bag holding all my food and DVDs breaks. I know that soon the second one will go, but I'm juggling a bag, a cup of soda, and a bike. At the exact middle of the street the second strap breaks all my shit hits the ground and spills out. My can of "Duff" energy drink I had purchased as a collector item is fucked up and my food is in the street. I bend over but I still have to hold my bike and the cup of soda in my hand. I start stuffing everything into the bag and I see the street light turn green on me. I move faster pick all my shit up, except for one casualty, a package of zesty onion ring sauce. I move over to the side of the road and toss the fucking cup of soda into the trash. All the while I imagine that God fucking damn bum is watching. I hop on my bike. I glide downhill. Down down. I imagine that the flood of criminals and bums I am passing can't hear me while I am traveling in stealth mode. I get down by the trolley tracks and I illegaly cross them on a red. As soon as I am on the other side I see a cop car parked so I make a right turn onto the sidewalk. I pass by a couple men who had just been talking to a bum. "Merry Christmas" they say to the bum and he walks over to one of the street saplings. He grabs a bag of something out of the tree and walked away. I am amazed by this. I just illegally crossed a street, and then these guys just did a drug deal, and this cop car doesn't move. I keep rolling down down hill. Bums and crazys and criminals. Anyway. That was my day. I know I changed tenses half way through, but my left hand is numb, I need to take a shit, I'm tired, and my food's gotten cold again while writing this.

Why Superman is a Hero

Why are dreams stuck in with "Supernatural". Dreams are completely fucking natural. Though, seeing as how nobody reads my blogs, and nobody I know writes blogs frequently besides me, I guess it doesn't really matter. On Myspace, the most popular blogs are ALL hot girls writing dumb dumb RETARDEDLY dumb shit, and band/celebrity blogs that aren't even written by the people the blogs are titled for. So blogs on myspace are essentially tits and celebrities. Yay. I lose. So on to my actual blog, which would by itself be beautiful and inspiring, but considering no one will read it. It means absolutely nothing. Just like me.

There was this movie called "Angus". Maybe you've seen it. One scene stuck with me ever since I first saw it. It was the words of Angus' Grandfather, played by the late great George C. Scott. I paraphrase "Superman wasn't a hero because he was invincible. He had nothing to fear when he went out into the world and saved all those people..."

I now realize this isn't true. Because Superman is still a man. He may be invincible, but only physically. He (as portrayed) possesses all the range of human emotions and desires. Certainly he is at least a good man to not turn his powers to hurt others, but then that doesn't exactly make him a hero. What makes him a hero is time. Superman gives his time. Looking at it from a purely selfish, individualist perspective this is indeed a great gift. Just because he can't be hurt and he can save others doesn't obligate him. He could simply live his life and only act when he needs to. Instead this character devotes his entire existance to saving people. He has no life. He has no friends. He doesn't go to parties. He only has one love, and he hardly has that. He trades his very soul to help people, putting himself out there to be judged. Not exactly Ayn Randian. Still hero enough. I get the feeling I've written an allusion here. I assure you I have not. Only a comparison. For I devote little time to helping others. It's hard to. I try sometimes. Sometimes I succeed. But I am a grotesque monster, and the screams of terror wear me down. I can't put myself out there anymore. I am always judged guilty. Even writing this, if you read it, you judge me guilty for not being stronger. For feeling sorry for myself. Well I am not. I am not sorry. Fuck you and I will not change to meet their standards. Still it hurts. But heroes can't cry. So I walk away. Let the beautiful men do all the saving. They'll get the credit either way.

San Diego Apocalypse

There was light this morning, beyond the dark wall looming on the buildings so far removed from the earth. The sun came high but shone not through, but around. The clouds of smoke turned black to blot the light that threatened the fire's glory. Blood red light poured over the wall, ending darknesses celebratory hold. Though the ashen rain reminded us all that the wall was moving, and it was destroying everything it touched.

Guns and guns and guns and bullets

I shot the M240G a few days ago at Camp Pendleton. It's a belt fed machine gun. I was really almost excited to do it. Not many people in America are even legally able to have that experience. I yelled out "Get some!" as I poured the bullets into an old car about 500 yards away. I'm going to shoot the M9 pistol tomorrow. I've already qualified "Expert" on it twice. You can't get a higher rating for shooting. I'm really good at shooting yep. Though my time in the Navy has never involved a need to shoot anything other than inanimate objects.

On October 1 I go to SRF A school. I will run around with real guns shooting quite painful simrounds at mock terrorists. I will be running around getting shot by painful simrounds by mock terrorists. The instructors are all war vets. It may be a lot of fun.



I think maybe if I make it out of this, I might enjoy to some extent reading these blogs that I write. Most of them while trashed. I don't look anywhere anymore.

Not Japanese Poem, Japanese porn

I learned a new word about an hour ago "ecchi". It's Japanese and means "lewd" "sexy" or even "sexual intercourse". At first I thought it was just another one of the many sex words Americans are adopting from it's porn loving best friend. Further investigation has revealed something much more interesting (surprisingly) than its Americanized definition of Anime sensuality.

Ecchi is actually derived from the English letter "H". Which means that the Americans are getting their letter back, all fucked up and sloppy seconds-like. What's stranger is that the word goes back to Meiji era, meaning this is way older than anime, porn, or the Americanization of anything Japanese (like the word "Hentai", which to Americans means naked cartoons, whereas in Japan it is a noun meaning "pervert" and has nothing to do with nudity, sex, women, cartoons, the internet, or drawing. Just perverts.). So I don't buy the theory that it implies the word "hentai". It was most likely orginating of one of the other sex related Japanese words that start with H, like "harenchi".

Regardless, it was actually started by Japanese school girls in the Meiji era as a euphimism for sex. Thus showing its amazing transition from an English letter hiding the true meaning of sex, used by Japanese school girls, to becoming a Japanese word hiding its true meaning of sex, used by American guys jerking off to cartoons of Japanese school girls.

Of course in researching this word I ran across many others that I'm sure a good percentage of American men know and think they understand. Which just pisses me off, since I know none of you have any clue about the REAL Japan. I wish more of their culture than photos of school girls would make it out but I suppose they literally bring it upon themselves.

Que’ bueno suerte

Mi amor, el sol sigue el noche. Pero no hay un ley para cuando la luz llega. Demo, watashi no ai, kyo wa kyo soshite aishta wa aishta soshite kon ban wa ii otenki desu. So just run with it, that without design cannot fail.

Traffic

So I helped smuggle some chronic and counterfit money over the border with a certain un-named person this weekend. Ha ha ha! No, not kidding. Though honestly none of the shit was mine.

sans reason

Di was assaulted in Hong Kong. Swore to never talk about it. It was $90 for a massage and a harassing bitch of unknown nationality. At least I wasn't had. Just a thought. Mikey got video of me with some whores, but hey. You just don't know. When I think about how stupid I was in Japan, I know I can't go through with it anymore. Here though. Here is just depressing. I think about the origins, and the lies, and I lie to myself, and I punish myself.

She swears she feels nothing. I don't know if it's because she's doing that thing that teenage girls do oftimes, but I know I can't claim I'm any more down than her. I told her she wasn't allowed to die until after I do. You know there's a curious and seldom publicly discussed political/ethical debate about suicide. The two sides have no titles, but if they did, the pro-lifers would do as much as possible to legally ruin any one who thinks about self extermination. The pro-choicers are primarily pro-suicide. The opinion I hold, that reason allows for both life and death, seems a rare if not unique one.

Lately I've been thinking more of my past. I mean a more broad view, not the typical narrow and short version I usually employ in thought.

There was a boy of 5 who know every person on his street by name, because he went to their houses and spoke with them. There was a reality much harsher, in his life. Though the boy resurfaced, a kiss, a lack of kisses, and the ease of corruption in the souls surrounding makes this boy me, and I only talk to who I must, and I think often of the boy's choices, and of the Glock.

what life this man has wrought.

Backed into a corner. I just want this pain to stop. I know what I've done to deserve this. Oh god. Somehow. End this. My eyes burn. waiting. Kick in this door a kill me.

Mr. Wacy's Push

Here's the short of it, Wacy wouldn't listen to me when I told him my spirit was dead, because of him I ended up dancing with a beautiful half black/ half native american college girl from Novato and her 3 friends. Fucking Wacy quit and went to a titty bar. Don't know how that turned out. I really am unhappy about the matter. If I weren't dead inside I might have enjoyed it more.

Der Words

This liquor on my lips the blood of the German's Hart it is, my Russian is weak but the grain is strong, as we sing this cola song. I remember the nights of pleasures past and the newfound glories of stories that couldn't last. For it is my job to hurt, you and I and oftimes I am so good it makes girls cry. Not that I haven't, I surely wouldn't deny, but those days are over and now only silent night. The dream I had, the skin. the music, the pain, it's only today's arrangement of sugar that I disdain. But I still feel, I still move if only in mockery of the man whose words flourished in ample debauchery.

God forbid my actions and lack of faith, for I remain true in my trials and ways. I will not secede that which I held but if it ripped from me, this life that's been felled. I write this drunk of the fruits I have named, the German, the Russian, and the purest of grain, but that makes it no less true you see, for I am simply siempre a man of honesty.

Nadie or the Purses

My roommate Mr. Mikey brings a girl over every day. I don't know who they are, and I don't really care. But I noticed I can remember them by the purse they leave on the counter. I've become the drunk roommate. The girls don't really acknowledge me. I just am drunk and siiting abouts. It reminds me of Ai's (Thai woman) roommate who was always home when I came over and made fantastic happy time. She made me dinner once. Also we went to her restauraunt, where she was a waitress once. Those were good times. Now I'm out on my drunk ass.

I sometimes wonder if I'll ever have to deal with one of these women. I wonder if any of them care. I don't think so. But I'm stuck on the double standard. Where I felt no connection to Ai, but assumed she felt a connection to me. Well, not me, but I mean a more a general idea that women are more emotional about sex. (btw thank buddha I learned how to type, cause I'm litterally too drunk to read this)

Anyway. The only reason I can imagine that Mr. Mikey can pull these girls into bed is that once these girls come to our apartment (or lair of awesomeness as it is) is that he plays completely "understanding" completely "fascinated" by everything she says. I am litarally sitting next to Mr. Mikey and girl of the night (tonight it's an AC) while she's blabing about her roommate and he's "yes sir" ing her. Also I'm trashed. So it's a wonder of science that I can write this, listen to her babble, and listen to TV. I am like a superhero.

I'm not jealous of him. He has no standards. If I had no standards, I could fuck a girl every night. All I feel on this subject is that I need to die.



"So how did you become a lightweight then?" - My roommate about to fuck girl number whatever, purse: red aligator skin/ leather.

"I don't know, I think it's because I haven't gone drinking out much since "C' school" since then." -Girl who Mikey saw today, therefor invited to come over today. (It's hella the only reason I know she's an AC cause they clean the hall right next to us.)

Hey she's on "Blue Moon" number 2!

Did you know, stupid people make more sense when your trashed?

The Ice Bridge

So if you pour yourself a glass of 151 and Sprite, is ice the bridge? I mean the 151 is a liquid and the Sprite is a liquid, but the ice, it's as cold as the 151 but isn't toxic, just like the Sprite. Drinking while ironing, and fixing bike flats is more than just fun, it's intoxicating.

Arcade Fire

I got an apartment! The same day I saw that Arcade Fire was playing, so I saw them play.It was probably the best single-band concert I've ever been to. A Mr. Mike Canales is signing on with me for this brand new place downtown. Its only a 5 minute walk to the Gaslamp! I would say its is in fact the coolest apartment under half a million dollars in San Diego. You can all come sleep in my living room, soon to be stocked with Goodwill's finest!

A Day in San Diego

Walking alone I let the World possess me.

They are beautiful and many, yet I could consume them all. Passing briskly by a sign a glow blurs my sight and burns me. I see a woman at this moment and I judge her. I think of ways to dismiss her even as the chill of winter drains me. I think of how much better I am but as this light blinds me. It is not but a few more steps and I find my place again. Left to my own accord, left unthreatened, I drop my guard, my wings, my shelter. I see children beautiful and young. I see women of all types of beauty and I think I could be happy the rest of my life with the stay of the women within my sight at this or any other moment out on the street. I think should I do something about it? There was a beautiful woman about my age and the Buddhist had gotten to her, she was shelling out something and I watched a man of great poverty approach, he hung around the nearby trash can but I imagined him going for the opportunity of her generosity. It was in this same place I stood an hour earlier with two apples. I had paid $4.00 for 4 apples at a Vons. The grocer noticed me eyeing them, I asked if these "Grapples" were just sweet apples, or a hybrid. He indicated the later and went and got a knife. He opened a package and shaved an apple, then cut a piece for me to try. It was very sweet and unusual. I watched him carry away the package. It would be thrown out so I could take one bite? I bought a different package of 4 and headed out. I ate one right away, a second while watching fire trucks pass me. I didn't want the last two. I thought I was going to see a movie so I was in that spot looking for a bum that I had passed twice. The second time I passed him I doubted him. He moved as a man of ability. Although he wore the same clothes the man walked as if he had a place to go, and it is by that, that I judged him to be someone else. I was wrong. I felt this cold. I thought how strange it me, since the last time I gave anything to a bum was because I was scared of where I was living. In the most dangerous area in San Francisco, I lived, barely housed with nothing but my mother to provide any food or clothing or shelter. I gave a bum $6.00 in hopes that he would not try to harm me or my existence on another day. So it was that the last time I gave to a bum was when I was on the verge of being one myself. None of this I was thinking about as the beautiful young woman was giving to this Buddhist who had books on Yoga. I only thought it would be funny if I took my approach as I oft tend to do in a manner most dominating and mocking by walking up to her as the Buddhist and bum try to get something from her I would ask for money too, because it would be funny, but the thought hurt me, since it's a truth I was feeling. I may not be on the verge of homelessness, though I have no home, I have recently dumped away about as much money as I make in a year, it was most of my savings, and all I get in return for that is that maybe I saved the house my mother couldn't. In her death a void was created and this void sucked away my $10,000 with no promise of anything. The Grapples as they were called could go to no one it seemed so I took out a third and ate at it. I read completely the plastic container that held the apples and I read something that set fire to my heart like a lighter, small annoying, but not so dangerous in it's standard dose. These "Grapples" were not hybrids, they were artificially flavored apples. I had paid a dollar a piece for grape flavoring on dime a piece apples. I threw what I had not eaten into the trash feeling it's better there than these lies going into the mouth of an innocent bum. I did not go to the beautiful woman handing out to the Buddhist, and none of this did cross my mind at the time, for the World was possessing me at that moment and when I turned to continue in my effort to kill my day I was blinded by the light of a sign and in my blurred vision I judged a woman as I passed.

THE MAGICIAN AND THE PRISM

Transparent. To call something such is to insult. Why? Is not a window the most appreciated feature in a room? Is not the truth of all things the most sought after goal? As if knowing what is, is the end of what was. Maybe so. Dissecting a movie critically, angularly, edictally, plot-wise, ruins the entertainment. Respect is lost, not gained when someone knows how a magician does tricks. As if knowing is being. Maybe so.


Transparency in itself isn't beautiful without something behind it to appreciate, without light to dance through it, like through a prism. Though, nothing is beautiful without light. The physical transparency is then not so logically associated with the conceptual transparency. Though they are associated.


To see through, conceptually, is to understand. Understanding though, is not passing through; it is entering and staying, and being. So to understand, that is what is what the negative connotation implies. Not a glass of water, but the water within, it's molecules, it's temperature, it's mass, it's reaction to, or remarkably abreaction to what it surrounds, physically, chemically, lovingly.


Understanding is the great sin. It is the original sin. God would have you believe this. I don't fear God though. I fear you. Your ignorance, it isn't natural, it is by design. It is not my design. It is not my ignorance. It is not my God. It is my understanding.


Tell me now Great Silence, what is substance? Tell me now Great Silence, why do you exist? How do you exist? I am transparent because I am honest. My path, my actions are with reason and morality, they can not distort. I am transparent because I hide nothing and I show you the world around me as it passes through me. You are transparent because I can understand you. Because even your lies are clear to me. You are transparent because there is nothing to see.

Silence

You've found your screams are nothing to the silence and still. You know your matter is no match for 3 inches of cement. There is no light but you can see. There is no answer but you understand. You prepare. I hoped you would. I gave you nothing, I made you weak. Everything you value means nothing here. I hoped you had learned. I dreamed about it. I am my own justification for my actions. We share this loneliness. You know it doesn't matter who you are or what you've done. This emptiness fills you. A smile could save you. No one smiles at me. I can't even get a smile! They stare. They glance. They dance profoundly and make it hard for me to breath but never do they smile. What am I worth? Not even enough to be despised. Despise me. I can't take forgiveness. Forgiveness is more nothing. I'm sorry I couldn't bring myself to hurt you more. I fed you. I kept you warm. You may have been confused. I really had no intention of treating you well or using you in any way but this, to kill me. I will open the door. I will stand in your way. You will have no choice. I am sorry if this haunts you. If you do manage to escape, and I remain living, I don't know how I could stop myself then. So I keep you here. I make you weak. I just need your finger. I just need your passion to finish me. Your desire to live must be greater than mine. Your desire to destroy me must defeat your desire to show compassion. I am sick of your compassion. This world's pity makes nothing of me. If only I could be loved! You all stare at me. WHAT IS THERE? You do not say. Silence, and you fade away.

Wrote this in my nowhere

My heart pounding, my mind racing. Perhaps it is only in my sleep that I know of these wonderful times of excellence and understanding. Times of whelming pleasure and satisfaction. Though some aren't dreams, some trancend what a dream could possibly generate.The warmth of someone beside me, someone whose focus is on my pleasure, and my focus is on theirs. Or the little triumphs in life hearing the buzzer go off as I'm busy drowning some poor bastard who dared to score on me, and knowing it is nothing but glory that awaits me when I get out of the water. The feeling I get when I finish a race and I pull my head out of the water and watch in calm as the hands of my opponents finish their struggle.

Though I know these feelings. It's the lasting feelings that I truly strive for. They may as well have been dreams. You look at me now, I am not swimming in a race. I'm not stopping a ball. I am not going to bed with someone in my arms. I am slow, and weak, and alone. This is the torture of my everyday. I wear no mask. I cannot lie. I respect this beautiful world more than you can imagine. I love reality and
I could never betray it. I find though that it is only in evil can the lasting pleasures exist. You do not respect the man that won't lie, you respect the image of the liars facade. You do not value the accomplishments of the intelligent analyst, you glorify the perpetual ignorance of the uneducated unthinkings perveyors of insurmountable feats of illogic expressed in media, and social gatherings. You see it
is with great selfishness that I declare you guilty. That I declare my refusal to submit. Truthfully though I am unable to submit. It isn't a choice for me, I am not a man who chooses truth, I am truthful. I am not a man who chooses logic, I am logical. My actions though, I choose them and mightily do I destroy myself in recognition of my ineptitude in ignorance. Plainly I punish myself for being right, by doing wrong.

Little left is there for me to imagine. I have conceived my way through every plot. I have only to actually face life before I can die. Now I find it repulsive. I see these sources of infinite pain and loss bursting around me, the shrapnel ripping holes in my soul I am a monster from a distance.

I am to be feared if I am right, I am to be feared if I am wrong. I will not play along in these games.

What can I say when I love you all and fear you all? I am disarmed. I am a source of destruction. Every wasted minute. Every misplaced trust. Everyone of you who put faith in anything kills me.

Dear God all I want is for the pain to subside. You won't do that though will you? No I have to hurt. I must endure. I must be the epitome of perseverance. everything has to be ten times harder. I can't even be literate in my own torture. Ouch, how about that? Can you understand that? Ouch is the expression of every fucking breath I take. Every thought I possess. I cannot be taken seriously. Nowun could possibly suffer as I do. I must be lying. I can't even be granted this o lord. You even take from me all credibility. My life is so absurd it makes laughter as vomit blood
and tears pour to the Earth. This Earth that I love is hard and unforgiving. Thank you lord for the bottle which I am about to receive, the alcohol within can take away my fear. Thank you lord for the bullet which I am about to receive, the gun can propel it into my brain and my solution becomes permanent. It is only one more thing that I ask of you my lord. Give me the strength I need to commit this act of treason. It is only with your strength my lord that I can destroy the monster. The great sinner. The destroyer of hope that I have become. I am a joke my lord
I shall laugh myself into oblivion.

Measure, Glow, Tie

His time is running out sir. The gun is in his hand sir.
Let it be she said; let him see he said.
There are a thousand more like him and they will not be so weak.
Then he is no priority sir? We can let him go sir?
To the wind go the patterns; to the ashes go the matters.
We will take what we can until there's nothing to lose.

His light will not die sir, the spark flares in the night sir.
Close your mouth in jest; shut your eyes to the rest.
Follow it in the dark, he has no path but there is an end.
The light I will follow sir. I see that which we destroyed sir.
The focus will turn away; the gaze will disintegrate.
Speak not a word, should the light bear you down.

He eats it up sir, the world as he passes sir.
The river has edges; the mountain has ledges.
The soil is his poison and the flow is his confusion.
Indeed sir! He is dead sir!
He'd never be she said; its better now he said.
Stand up straight, now tilt and bow. Send away the bitter taste and
enjoy what we can take from even the strangest, weakest, and most lost
of them in their waning hours.

This Suicide Is Ripe

The reigning passion of the dawn is an ominous perception of all that matters in the life that is chosen. I wake each morning with a vague apprehension for my continual breath and a sense of astonishment towards the aching of my life. This is merely a natural response to the transition from dreams of my mind to the nightmare of my reality. Not a decidedly pleasant experience, nor one I seek in any matter, the masochist that I am. I simply lose myself in the process of consciousness and know only that my life is no longer anything I enjoy. In the developing of my actions I let my thoughts die and my spirit subside, I let to the wind and the plants of my environment all my decisions. Alas to my best efforts go my failures and all my glories go to the earth. It is at this cross point that my mind becomes active again and longs for only one solution. In my nights I am free, but only to wake again and this is no longer tolerable. So it is that as soon as I begin to care again, I only think to end my pain. I want the strength of resolve, so I practice each day. I tell myself what I think I need to believe. I tell myself what my other options would produce, and let my mind seethe in self-hatred.



It is this way unless I can fully distract myself with some mind numbing exercise that can able my willing mind to spend as much time as possible in a state that isn't actively planning it's own destruction. So it is that only when I am in performance of special circumstance do I feel any waking relief. Writing, eating, watching movies and television, are easy outs, but the information must come fast and must be relatively original or I begin to become very active in analysis and too often conclude that in order for such a situation as I am experiencing to suck less I am only to put a gun to my head and relieve the first round into my brain.


Rarely do I find such waking fantasy that equals dream life and so I go to bed quite active in desire and planning. I spend at least an hour each night as I do most of my more lethargic and monotonous day periods thinking up ways to insult myself and destroy any fathoming of self respect or love. It is in this calm that I can then once again get to planning my inevitable suicide. Always promising my wary self that such finality although perfectly evil is the only way, and that I needn't worry too much this night for this finality will not take place tomorrow. For one year now this has been a frequent passion of mine. When the sun breaks on the life I am choosing you now understand why there is no smile on my face or any perception of what this day will develop into in the scheme of my nullified existence.

Mi corazon, ha!! How about my handshake?

What am I supposed to say? I want to meet you. How about that? I can't sell myself very well. I am not a salesman. When do I quit?

You are cute and single and obviously very intelligent and observant and real. I am attracted to that. Very much.

If you read my blog posts you get a very interesting view of me.But you can't really get to know me through my blogs. Only direct discussion. Because I leave out so much. You don't know if you'll like my personal touch. In person is the best I'd say. I'm always honest, so I only get more real the closer you get to me. I don't want to write any of this. I want things handed to me. But you, you are still keeping quiet. You can't get hurt if you don't give anybody a chance eh? Yeah I understand. I just work the other way around. I try harder.

North Island Jack Rabbit

Back before North Island was a military base, the only reason people came to North Island was to hunt Jack Rabbits. Funny thing is, they're still here. I see them every night. Dozens of them. Just this night I chased about 6 or 7 of them around a baseball field. I can see their underground lairs everywhere, the entrances leave huge piles of uprooted grass and dirt. They only come out at night, which may be a local adaptation to avoid humans and cars, as I've seen plenty of Jack Rabbits out in the day in other parts of California. I seem to be the only person who knows about these rabbits. The simple reason being, I'm the only loser on this fucking base who has to come back to the ship on a nightly basis and whose only means of transportation are his legs. I might catch one of these beasts to have it studied, or eaten, or both. I think others might be interested. Jack Rabbits used to exist all over Coronado, I know this because there's a story that the reason Orange Avenue doesn't have any Orange trees on it is because the Jack Rabbits dug up the roots. There's still Olives on Olive, and Palms on Palm, but no Oranges on Orange. I've been out on Coronado at night and I haven't even seen a hint of Jack Rabbits. The North Island Jack Rabbits are smaller than the typical California Jack. I've stood next to Jack Rabbits whose ears went above my waist. Whereas the NI Jacks look like little bunnies until you get close enough to see the distiguishing characteristics (long feet, ridiculously large hind legs and long pointed ears.) Once I get a decent camera I'll get some photos.My last camera didn't seem to make my trip to San Diego from the north.

Shreded

Dashing against the cold. The trees fall and the earth rises. rain and fire and hate and passion flow into the lights that bear down on me. Stop these lights I command of my surroundings. These lights bring pain, maybe death. A momentary pleasure, an escape from reality. Though I see them looking at me. And her beauty cuts me, it shreds my fantasy, that I have any control, any passion, any earth beneath me or trees beside me. That the lights wouldn't hurt me, because I'm not worth the thrill.

The driving force

I saw from beyond my nose a World fascinating and wonderful. There was perfection in my action and every moment was an adventure. somewhere I derailed but I have not stopped. No rails! I choose my path. How hard is it for a man that was not raised. My parents never told me who I had to be. They never told me "no" in my course but for when I was at the edge. This is ideal, no. Do not send your child away I say my friends. Do not send them to their end. Do not lie instead of loving each other, and my friends, pain isn't something to be lived with. No I was happier on the streets with my Mom than in a house with people who saw me as a burden. All my life I have been detached. Somewhere in the middle. No teacher ever said, "You're going to kickass, or, "You're going to suck" always both. Silence. That's what I get. Silence. My parents, silence, my teachers, silence, my friends, silence. My brother and sister, O' Lord I cannot give pennance. I sought my own goals. I thought with success, maybe then they'd speak. But no one does. Silence. I say it and I say it. You won't read this, those who are silent. If you did you wouldn't tell me. Sure there are a couple who aren't silent. Why only a couple? What the fuck am I? People talk to dogs, they talk to gods, they talk to themselves, their computers, their hands, their friends, their loves, their hates, their drives, their successes, their failures. Silence.

Damn you for the silence! IF YOU PRICK ME DO I NOT BLEED? Silence.

I wasn't born knowing everything. I have had to claw my way to knowledge, enough to tell me, silence, is not the way of humans. Yet silence deafens me. You won't even understand this if you read it. You won't I promise you that you don't, maybe I'll get a look from you. People look at shit. They don't talk to shit.



I told you what I saw. What I saw on the horizon, in the creeks, in the forrest, my pets, my neighbors, my backyard, myself.



What I see now, is not beyond my nose. Beyond my nose is pain, is violence, silence. I look inwards. My senses are shutting down. They will all go away. You have all gone away, but you know, you were never there. My senses found that out. They knew, when I do not hear, it isn't an inability to hear, it's an inability to be around sound. When I do not see, it isn't an inability to see, it's an inability to allure light. When I do not smell, or taste, it is not an inability to do so, it is an inability to be trusted. When I do not feel, it is not an inability to feel, it is revulsion.

I tell you humans. You still fascinate me. I just fascinate me more. What am I? Silence.

Spirals and the nature of the 3rd dimension (my neurosis)

I was about to declare that spirals don't exist in nature but within seconds I noticed a vine spiraling up a potted tree. Spirals do exist, but in the 3rd dimension. I was thinking of spirals in 2D. We see in 2D, which is annoying to me. None of this was what I was wanting to write originally, but it did help me remember.

I think in spirals, when I come back around I'm a little farther from where I started. Thought threads are fleeting though. I can't even remember what the particular spiral I had in mind was.

So, my current loops of bullshit;

1. I need to care again. (this covers lots of littler issues)

2. My Mother's death (oh my dollars is this a lot of issues)

3. My lack of house and transportation (FTN)

4. My morality (this is just too much)

Where I am: So I decide that once I learned enough about the Vikings, I no longer felt the guilt I've felt for years for not telling my 12th grade British Literature class all I knew about the Vikings when the teacher put me on the spot. It always pissed me off that I didn't talk about their conwquests of America, and Russia, and trade with Constantinople and their written language. Now that I have learned much more, I see that even then I was not too qualified to teach about them at any length. I figured the same logic would help me to regain my control on the General Vallejo situation. That being I have read conflicting sources siting both Vallejo, and John Sutter as having had an army that wore Russian uniforms and took orders in German. It pissed me off that I could know so much, and then be unsure of something so grand. So I thought I'd go to a library. Then I remembered that I wasted years of my youth at libraries instead of socializing. This made me feel guilty for even wanting to read more. So I thought about going to a gun store. Why now? I can't buy one yet, I should take care of important things first. This issue was dropped when the phone book revealed that gun stores aren't open on Sundays. Are Libraries open on Sundays?

I thought about going dowtown to drink and socialize, once again though it's Sunday. I didn't want to go back to the ship. I had nothing else to do, I felt shame for liking to read, so I thought about this spiraling search in my mind for something productive to do on this Sunday. This led me to want to write about spirals. As you may imagine, Fashion Valley Mall is devoid of blank paper. I saw a Hallmark store and checked it out. Cards are almost stationary, but in there I thought about the nature of Hallmark cards. There are in a sense; For those who can't write on their own. Hallmark hates creative people, because creative people don't need Hallmark. They would then logically despise blank paper, for it takes creativity to make that paper valuable.

I then went to Border's Book Store. No paper there. Not a bit. I was mad at this, but had to conclude; For the common man, there is no direct correlation between reading and writing.

Fashion Valley Mall isn't about thought. Fashion is anti-thought, if it's "fashionable" then you didn't choose it, you didn't make it, it isn't creative. I also noticed it's mostly girls there, but they came to shop, or if they came to socialize too, I wouldn't know it, becuase I'm kinda pissed at sex right now. We aren't on speaking terms.

So all I have left to do is go back to the ship. I start walking, cause the trolley was packed, and I didn't want to call a Taxi. Eventually I end up at another Border's I see a beautiful woman in there and as soon as she looks at me, I know we won't be making-up any time soon. I find a book that is all about mid 1800s California with a lot of Vallejo shit in it. I get all excited and buy it. I'm a nerd. Fuck it.

Time

I went ice skating yesterday. I'm still sore and wobbly. I push it to the limit! Though some fucks through my book onto the ground, and the ground was all wet so my Ayn Rand was damaged. I think its awe ing to think about the world the way it really is. That most human minds are kept in bondage. Bondage by all the bullshit philosophies.

You know why Hotmail sucks? Because MSN bought it (this was a while ago), and fucking threw it in their big bag of shit they own. Why do I have to write "@hotmail.com" when I'm already there? Why do I have 120 emails in my inbox, and nothing worth opening? Because fuck Hotmail.

You know why sports suck? Because the players get paid millions to kind of go at each other. The rules just keep getting pussyier and pussyier. You'd think in this supply and demand World I could see a guy get injured for life making $23000 a year.



Out of time

That's why the Navy sucks.

Thanksgiving Post

They wouldn't let me in because I wore Vans! That's all I got. Truthfully though I'm like 15 people. Eminem is the epitome of today's society, but it would take me sooo long to explain why.

So I've spent the last 3 nights sleeping next to a beautiful intelligent relatively successful woman who won't even talk to me. Seriously, I suck. There's nothing more to it. I just put everything into everyone. Her not having any interest in me just tells me I need to fucking stop existing. I don't even know her. It has nothing to do with that. I don't even want to know her. I, Oh fuck this subject.

I'll just say this. I keep hoping that if I die, then maybe someone would read some of my blog posts at my funeral. I'm sure that when I die it will be pathetic and half assed. The tears will be real. They'll take my money and forget me.

I still have nightmares. I've been having nightmares every night for months now. I'm sure it has to do with my dead mother. She's in about a third of them. My dead Grandpa comes along sometimes too. They're always alive in my dreams. It's always a time that never existed. It's like I'm dreaming that they are alive now, and I am not in the Navy. She deserves a dedicated post. I think she was murdered. It's too late to prove it. I haven't told anyone this. But there are very good reasons for me thinking so.

In INDOC they described the side effects of stress. I noticed I have all of them except when there's a choice, like eats too little vs. too much. Most of these started a few months ago. This year has really sucked.

I'm 24. I'm old. Not really, but functionally. I am late.





I am very not normal/ Then people say, there is no normal. Yes there is. I'm not it. You might think you're not normal, but you probably are. Normal is good. Sometimes people are better than normal. That isn't me. I have zero female friends. I mean there's Hailey who bless her heart has never met me, and the YN that's all smiles but has never done anything social with me, but they can't count. I have never had a girlfriend. If you read my posts you might want to know why I would say this. I just mean i have never had a relationsip with a woman (ehem 50% of Earth's population) that wasn't purely sexual or purely hands off for more than say a few hours at a time. How can I have any credibility as a human being with this hanging over my head? That is what I call not normal. I can't even pretend to be human.

I'm jealous of Adrian Monk.



SO What did you want Brian? I'm not Fucking God. This has been the worst time of my life, and I'm still young. Ayn Rand only wrote shit like "We The Living" when she was young, that's the most sad depressing shit ever. A girl who watches everything she held be wrentched from existance, then all the good she created came to nothing, and everything she grew to love was destroyed. She tried to create a better life and ended up dead in a forrest in a pool of her own blood mixed in snow. That's happiness for you Brian. Fucking just do what you can. If life had cheat codes it wouldn't be worth it.

I write one happyish post and just smash it to shit. You like that Michael? You want my reality? I haven't heard anything from Alexandra since I left. She's got my email and a fucking computer right next to her.

Joshua, well I imagine you found this post entertaining. I honestly hope you did.

I'm wearing a designer t-shirt from "Affliction". Why is it that when you think "Designer Clothing" it's all rich and powerful sounding, but the standard precept is that homegrown shit is always the cheaper "old style" of doing things. In the food world the designer equivalent would be a "Mom and Pop" establishment. A place you'd be proud to go on Sunday, and the "non-designer" shit would be McDonalds and Wal-Mart, both of which are chastized for being popular. So its cool to wear the Capitalist pig's clothing, like Levis or Hanes, but not to eat his food like KFC or Waffle House. Designer just means that a real artist, that doesn't suck, made it, versus a coalition or panel of old crotchety fucks and focus groups. Yeah the shirt costs a little more, but the extra dollars are for the personal touch. So go ahead and look down on people who only wear designer clothing, and keep on praising Trader Joe's home town feel you hypocritical fucktards. Not that I only wear designer clothing. I'm a Capitalist for christ's sake. I certainly don't need designer underwear when the ladies never see it.

Leaving Japan

I should follow up the last one since it seems all desperate and gloomy like usual, and something good actually happened. I liked Alexandra, but she always worked and I was in another city. My last night in Japan I got a hotel room in Roppongi. There are very few hotels in Roppongi and people usually book way ahead. I didn't tell her that I got a hotel there just to see her, as opposed to an easier place to sleep like Okachimachi or Shibuya. I may have lied to myself and said I was going to party all night, but those days were done, for now at least. I almost didn't go to see her. It's tough, I don't know how it feels to be wanted by someone that I want, it's usually one way, either I like a woman, or she likes me, or I love a woman, and well. I went to her and we hung out for many hours. We drank the last of their wine that the Argentinian was saving for a special occasion. He said my leaving Japan was a good enough occasion for that.

On her break Alexandra met me at a coffee shop. I tried to explain to her how hard it is for a white guy to walk the streets of Roppongi. Every Nigerian doorman and South East Asian whore wants your money, and they get very personal. I told one Nigerian I had been in Japan 3 years. He replied; "You have been here 3 years, you are just learning to walk and talk. I have been here 13 years, I am already getting laid." Alexandra took me to a photo booth. We took lots of cutesy photos. All the night she kept saying "Don't go!" or "Take me with you." I played with her for saying this since I hadn't so much as kissed her, everytime she said "Don't go." I would ask her why I should stay. She once said; "So you could keep me company." I asked, "So I should stay in Japan, just so I can stand around in your bar and smile at you?" She started mumbling about how much she has to work and I heard her swear for the first time, it was really cute. The next day, my absolute last day in Japan I met her on a corner and we went and had brunch at T.G.I. Friday's. Two hours passed like nothing and I had to get to my plane. I invited her to come to the train station with me. We took a taxi to Tokyo eki. She held my hand the whole way. Alexandra had to get to Akihabara by 1:00 p.m. I was in line to by a ticket to Narita, she had to leave, but she didn't want to. She started hugging then kissing, then hugging, then kissing me. She sounded very sad when we parted. She texted me while I was on the train, and I talked to her when I got to the airport. She kept saying "Don't forget me." Alexandra, how could I forget you? Why did you wait so long to take me up on anything? I asked Alexandra to go places with me in the past but always she had work. Not really apropriate to kiss a bartender in the bar.

What the hell? I don't know. I suppose that was probably the most awesome way to leave a country. If I had done much more with her besides hugging and kissing I probably would be kicking myself right now. Just. Just. Well you know. You all fuck like rabbits. I savor my women. Alexandra, you were the finest. I want to drink from you again.

Instant Late Night Poem

I will make a poem right now;

Alexandra,

te quiero. Pero sera una dia en la futura.
Porque voy ahorra, y dices que quieri decir.
Nande? Ima? porque no en Augusto o Septiembre?
Anata ga hoshi desu. Solamente quiero una dia completa.
You give me your picture and say I should never forget you.
You say you want my picture and you will never forget me.
Demo, estuve tu' quieri, no una pictura.
We speak in 3 languages. When we drink we say; "Salud, Kampai, Cheers!" But I only got to say "hello."
Always and never this is my life. I see the extremes and you are there. I needed to realize it is now and not never. That there is no whole. That what is, is all.
I think I will see you in 3 hours. I think I will see you forever. My Colombian woman. Watashi no Colombiajin Onnanahito, mi colombiana.

Not Much

So I was trying to get money out of the ATM but it rejected me. Thats happened before and its usually the ATMs fault. I switch the majority of my dollars to Yen instead and I go to Yokohama with Tony. We eat at a nice Italian restaurant. When I go to pay I try to use my card but its rejected. I had to use nearly all my money to pay the bill. So Now I got just enough for a train ride back to Yokosuka and probably enough to cover the internet cafe Im using right now. The thing is, Washington Mutual has fucked me before, in fact, so well did they fuck me that I keep my account number with me at all times. I call them and they say they had switched to Master Card so my Visa check card has been cancelled. I told the lady that I was in Japan, that I had no money, and the damn Master Card is going to arrive at my Dads house in California. She puts me on hold, I knew going in I only had about 400 Yen on my phone, while on hold my phone says, "1 minute left" Then she comes back on, "Mr. Wise, thank you for waiting" I say "ok" and then she says "Heres what I can do BOOP BOOP BOOP (Thats the sound of the end of my prepayed call)" Im sure that she thinks I hung up on her. That would be terribly douchey of me, thatd be retarded anyway considering she was about to hook me up somehow. Anyway I cant call her back, I have no money for another pre-payed card. BUUUTT Heres where I come in and save my own ass from all this bullshit. You see, like I said, I have been fucked before, so the last time this happened, I made sure that I wouldnt completely rely on one card to access that account. Waiting for me at my house in Yoko is a new and never used ATM card thats been sitting in my room for months waiting for this day. Still theyre bitches. Just cause Im not completely fucked still doesnt change that. Cancel my fucking card cause they like Master Card, you know what I like Bank of America. Fuck you Washington Mutual!

7 Minutes

I will stop at 1035.

I am now resurfacing oh I wish. As the time counts down and the problems remain the tension builds. I am not quite feeling it intensely enough, I only think about it almost all day. There is too much. In this week I will have received a medal higher than any medal I've ever received and I'll probably get the Warfare qualification they've been torturing me to get. None of it makes me happy. I'm numb to any kind of positive aspects. I'm completely on the defensive now. Now is the time. I hold my shield close and I run in swinging. Those strong enough to not get cut down by me will stay close. Those I fell will never know. I will die, or my enemies will. I am an extremeist I know.

waiting waiting acting failing. Only NOW? I get close now? No. This is bullshit. Where am I going? She haunts me. It's like she knows and is hovering like a vulture. Waiting for me to pass. FUCK YOU MEGAN. YOU HAVE ALREADY FORGOTTEN ME. YOU WILL NEVER REMEMBER WHAT I MEANT TO YOU. WHAT YOU FELT. I have to. It's all I have. You can block it out. Your life is easy like that. You so happily kill everything that was good. Fuck my time's up/

My Mother's Funeral

I cried uncontrollably for about 20 or thirty minutes after reading a message from my sister that my Mother had died. The people on the ship were great about getting me on emergency leave. I flew into Oakland, got picked up by my Father and had him take me to my sister in South San Francisco. I went into the living room of a house I used to live in and hugged her awake. I then had her ride with me. We ate lunch at Bay Pastry, a Dim Sum restaurant in San Francisco we'd always go to after school, then went back to Stockton.

I rented a car that day with my Grandma, I don't really need her anymore to get the car, but she's always gone with me to get one.

I wore my uniform to my Mother's funeral. It was in the Castro district of San Francisco. That's the gay center of San Francisco if you didn't know. I only got one "Hey Sailor" which was enough. At her funeral I got trapped looking at her. I hadn't seen her in so long, and in the days prior I had avoided thinking about it. Looking at my dead Mom I couldn't hold myself together. My sister came up and hugged me and I talked to her up there for about ten minutes. I met a lot of people I didn't know, and some I hadn't seen in a long time. There I met a very aware and interesting little girl, my youngest cousin, Tara Dillon. I so wanted to spend more time with them all. I am very glad that I am going back in October.

When I was at my Uncle's I got to ride his $5000 road bike. I took a path along the American River all the way up to Folsom Prison. On the way I passed up some old guy, he managed to catch up with me later. Rather than face humiliation I turned off onto a foot bridge that leads into Folsom City. He followed me, but I had stopped on the bridge. He stopped too. I noticed some really cool rocks in the river, so I went down to see them. My Uncle John had told me to keep the bike close to me no matter what, so I carried it on my back down the rocky bank. It was about 20 feet down. I was wearing those bicycle shoes that lock into the pedals and they have no tread. I made it to the bottom and walked out onto the rocks. They were boulder sized and flowed into the river. I was able to stand on one that was surrounded by water that was at least ten feet deep. They were very slippery from the algae. The water was freezing my barefeet. I only had to take two steps to get back to the bank and I managed to slip on the second one. I didn't get too wet, or ruin my 4th iPod. Then I went back in the other direction so that old bastard wasn't on my trail. There were nothing but old people out biking then, my Unlce pointed out that its probably because the time of day I was out there most people have jobs.

Michael and his wife: I left Carmichael, slept at my Dad's house, then went to see Michael when I woke up. I was kinda late in leaving so I was going a good 90 MPH when I got pulled over. Somewhere halfway down the San Joaquin Valley I got a ticket, my first ever! Michael and his wife, mmmhmm, ok I think its cute that they are physically incapable of not making out every 3 to 5 minutes. BUUUUT I don't need to be there. Michael and I went to the Charger's Stadium where they were setting up for the Street Scene concert. we walked right in, me in my fine atire, to look for three people spending time in a porta-potty trying to get tickets to the concert. I couldn't even remember what radio station was doing it, and there were way too many porta-pottys. So days earlier I had only one shirt, a shirt I got in Guam. I bought another at Ross in Stockton. It was a little too small for me, but it was cool, a ratty old brown "Red Stripe" beer shirt that read "Stubby and proud of it" I wore that for about 5 days striaght, including while at my Unlce's so I took advantage of Mission Valley shopping and went to all the malls I went to back in '04 during the brief period I was stationed there. I bought some really fine clothing. I was a total pimp with a bad ass hat. I tried to tell them. We went to dinner and the "seating" girl said she really liked my hat. Michael's wife Allison said she was just being nice, and that my response to the girl, "Hell yeah!", was inapropriate. I told her she was wrong. That she can get as preachy as she wants but I wasn't the one getting all drunk and high when I was 15. That's cause I am a fucking douche, and I say those things to my best friend's wifes. Perhaps I didn't say it so harshly but when we were leaving and the "seating" girl once again said how awesome my hat was, I rubbed in Allison's face for a good twenty minutes. She's a great person by the way. If anything goes wrong with their relationship, I'm going to blame Michael. I think about how cool Allison is, and I pretty much lose all hope of ever having a good relationship. I certainly don't deserve a woman like that.

Winding down. There is so much unresolved. My Mother's boyfriend is all fucked up. My sister is all fucked up on her own. We have to deal with a house, some insurance, and a business. I left all that. I came back to Japan. Now I have unresolved issues in two countries.

I don't know what the hell is going on right now. I am seriously engulfed in something. Hearing Caitlin say "Columbian Woman", watching Michael and his life. Seeing my sister fighting, clinging to what isn't. My life. Jesus. What have I done?

Josho

I told my little cousin my name was Josho, and it is so cute hearing her say it. She made me a trophy for beating her in a paper airplane contest. She took lots of photos with my phone. I fell in love with her instantly. My Aunt and Uncle better watch out I might steal her. Tara's only 7 but she's got a fire inside. My other cousins were really cool too. Caitlin is 17 now, she and Maicy (16) are both all gothy Ashley Simpsony. I completely missed the last 7 years of their lives. They were both fun to hang out with for a couple days. I made salsa, they all loved it. My Aunt Jodie made me a nice lunch of Salmon Salad with olive oil lime juice and almond shavings. Then she told me to start feeding myself, that's when I knew I had reached freeloader status, and I left that night. Tara almost cried so I told her I would try to come back. They all wanted me to stay, I really wanted to stay. I, well. One step at a time.

Worlds

He is running fast. The pains in his calves grow warm and burn. His chest tears at him and his lungs hurt. His throat growls and his mouth is dry. He wasn't ready. These shoes will not do. The muscle is separating and his shins throw him down. He can't breathe hard enough, but he wants to scream. He falls to his knees and the rocks cut him. The air is dry and the dust enters the wounds. The tears streaming down his face push dirt, and mud falls to the earth. Nothing. He was eating, and all is consumed. He watched the fire melt his children. He saw his wife beaten and raped and then shot. The bloody mud dripping from his wrists are welcomed by the weeds beneath him. There is nothing ahead. There is nothing behind. This Earth that breathed him life will drain it away. He stands and stretches. He's a good runner; he's three miles from where he started. He's in no hurry now. He just needed a chance to think. He's thought. Now he must act.

There is a man putting up a road block. He is not worried; all the fighting is two miles away. The air is cooling to his skin and he's thinking about a girl he saw yesterday. His truck has no armor or weapons. He is not here to fight. His AK-47 is on the passenger seat, it's not even loaded. His righteousness gives him strength. His God demands he sacrifice. He wonders, 'If death be glory, then how can strength be a gift? Perhaps strength of soul at cost of body, that makes sense. Glory for my' The man stops thinking as pieces of his skull, blood, and hair arc towards the pavement as a crescent motion repeats upon his head, a fist holding a stone. He falls into a pile of himself, gloriously. The man gets into the truck and loads the AK. He drives into town.

Two children hide under their bed. They make no noise. One pulls at her hair, the pain she feels distracts her. The boy is focused on the legs. The four legs at the end of the bed, the two feet facing him, the boots they wear, worn and torn. The pants, the belt, the buckle that shakes and swings, clinking, clinking. He could grab that belt, maybe no one would notice, the five people in that room. Maybe no one would hear over the creaking of the bed, the screams of his mother.

They let her scream, they like it. The man at the door is waiting, his world is that room, that bed, that woman. The woman is waiting, her world is beneath her. The children have no world, the boy is making one. His arms extended, he leans on his sister, she is warm and soft, and he has held her before. He is pulling on the belt and holding the pants in place. The kid whose belt is being removed is not in that room. He's home with his girlfriend, she is on this bed and she is moaning. There is no one behind him, and there is no one at his feet avoiding the boots that are worn.

The man in the truck drives slowly, anyone can drive fast but a man with nothing to fear. How can anyone possibly not fear the force upon this city, unless they are the force? Explosions in the distance, waves of smoke, fires, and bullets. He hears the screams. He stops the truck and gets out. The man enters the house, his barrel before him. At the doorway to that room he sees a man whose world he's beside. The man decides to be quiet, and despite all desires to fill the doorman with all his gun's worth, the doorman's head is introduced to the stock of an AK-47. As the doorman's world goes dark and shrinks, the kid without a belt enters the room. He finds his right hand holding a pistol to a woman's head; he quickly makes orphans and turns the pistol towards the 'dispeller of road-blockers and doormen'. The man whose world is all-encompassing moves away and waits. The small caliber of that pistol couldn't shoot through a wall. The kid whose penis had just left a dying woman he's never met is startled by her last attempts at breath. He fires on her twice. One bullet hits her in the chest, the other, small though it may be in caliber, easily passes through the thin mattress. The kid turns his gun towards the doorway and tries to move away from the bed, his left leg goes nowhere and guides the rest of his body towards the floor. The boy hadn't time to tie off the belt and it slips from his hands. His world was briefly a strap of leather and a leg with a worn boot. It was not the belt that tripped this leg. This leg, whose owner wore pants at his ankles. The boy's world was consumed. What did he think was going to happen? He had to do something, but how would that have helped? Now the owner of the legs that had faced him with worn boots could turn his attention to him, to his sister. His sister whose warmth was dispersing, the warmth of her now underneath the boy, in her blood. The girl is dead and this boy has nothing.

The man had focused on that gunfire and the thud, he re-entered the doorway, his AK pointed where the kid should have been. The kid's gun was pointed where the man shouldn't be, and he fires, he fires, and he fires. The man whose world had been all-encompassing now focuses all of himself, all that he is capable of doing, and fires into the kid. The kid is killed instantly. The man falls to his knees again. Even more blood and dirt drips to the floor. The boy emerges from under the bed, covered in the warmth his sister had given him. He walks towards the man. The man looks on this boy and remembers his own son. The man thinks perhaps if he had not entered this room, they would all be alive and before the guilt can develop, and swirl, and consume his stomach, a bullet from an increasingly conscious doorman ends all his worlds. The boy charges the doorman and is cut down. Blood from his chest, from his sister finds its way across the room, across the bed, across the exposed skin of his mother. The doorman rises, dripping in the blood and sweat of all but two in this room. He walks towards the bed and pulls out the girl from underneath. She was beautiful. He lays her body next to her mother, removes his pants, and fucks her lifeless body.

Israel

Sparing the pages of argument I have simply supporting Israel's right to exist. I'll just jump to the issue at hand. Israel doesn't take shit from anyone. Though in this particular instance I don't think they are taking the right course. The funny thing is, nobody will read this, but I have a solution. That's what I'm good at, solutions that no one wants to hear.

Here is the flow;

1. Israel is surrounded by Muslim nations

2. Being a Jewish state makes Israel a constant target.

3. Israel has fought and defeated every nation surrounding it at some point, and subsequently occupied portions of them. They still occupy a portion of Syria.

This then is not a small conflict but a great potential for total war. So then, what is Israel's solution? Bomb the shit out of the only democratic country it borders.

Israel should fight, but so should Lebanon. Lebanon supposedly isn't strong enough to destroy Hizbollah. They are portrayed as innocent, and I'm inclined to agree. Their government has Christians, Jews, and Muslims in elected positions. I can't imagine there is any other middle Eastern nation that can say that, maybe no other nation on Earth. Lebanon should kick out Hizbollah. Here's where I should get my own nation and a peace prize, here's an idea; Israel should give aid to Lebanon. Like we aid Israel. Israel should give them money and weapons, and together they should drive out Hizbollah. Hizbollah having been formed in Lebanon soley as a reaction to Israel's invasion years ago, and existing solely to destroy Israel is kind of a huge bump in the road to any kind of peace. Just imagine it, Israel and Lebanon driving out Hizbollah, the Syrians would have no grounds to occupy Lebanon again, and Iran would have to shut up. Nobody but Hizbollah wants this fight, I think they should feel it.

On the other hand, Israel could play their Hulk-Smash tactics all the way into Syria, since it is Syria supporting Hizbollah, then Iran would join Syria against Israel, and since everybody is pissed at Iran right now, and it is one of Bush's axis of evil countries, I'm sure the U.S. and Britian would join. At this point Lebanon's support might not mean anything. We already have Afghanistan and Iraq consumed in war, what's wrong with engulfing the rest of the Middle East? sounds crazy? This has happened before, again and again. Where will it stop? Who knows, but the logical conclusion to the tactics employed now is that the only end is when everyone able to fight is dead. Israel makes enemies like Columbains make coffee. Every time they roll their tanks into Gaza and level school houses you get another fucking generation of suicide bombers.

Iran could very easily join this fight. To their left is American Iraq, to their right is American Afghanistan. If Syria is attacked by Israel, Israel will win. They are already on the brink with their nuke issues, self preservation comes into mind, and nobody in this area of the world seems to think negotiations, or a ceasing of attacks on other people are viable options for improving relations. Hiabollah says it just wants to trade. Ha! The only reason they have their people imprisoned is because of previous conflicts. Their only solution to conflict, is more conflict. What is needed is a bit of fucking morality.

Come on Jews. Come on. Why do you even bother to exist? I thought you were different. One of the most influential people in my life was Dr. Laura, she's Jewish. I had a precept that followers of the Jewish faith would be somewhat moral. What the fuck is this shit? STOP KILLING EVERYBODY. IF I WERE IN GAZA, OR LEBANON, OR SYRIA, OR EGYPT, AND I HAD TO WATCH YOU RUIN MY WHOLE FUCKING LIFE OVER A BORDER DISPUTE OR A TOLL BOOTH, I'D FUCKING SUICIDE BOMB YOU TOO. AN EYE FOR AN EYE MOTHERFUCKERS, ITS IN ALL THE BIBLES.

America made an investment in Israel. We wanted a free state, so we payed for it. Israel, being the recipient of this money and these weapons, might realize that this is a good way to get peace. Give Lebanon aid. Give them guns, give them money. It is an investment, it is morally right. Just do this one thing. If Lebanon turns the guns on you, then by all means, turn the whole country into a glass parking lot. Don't just come out swinging. It is wrong in the eyes of God. I don't even believe in God and I know this. I am an Objectivist. My moral code is based on treating every individual with the respect an individual deserves. This always mandates not punishing the masses for the crimes of the few. Since I believe it is morally justified to kill off the Hizbollah, but not regular type Lebanese, one would need Lebanese support. Just think of it like Israel hiring Lebanon to get rid of Hizbollah.

Well, that's all I got right now, its 4:54 am so I'm not perfectly fluent.

Rebel

The things I write here are not read by many. I want to write for a living. Somehow. I also write posts about the military on the government's Secret internet. Even people who know about and use the Secret internet don't believe me or comprehend, so I won't try here, just to say the government thought it would be cool if there were secret blogs. I thought it was cool too. I can read about people from every branch of the government doing anything and everything all over the world, first hand accounts. So I write about stuff, and lots of people read it. I get lots of positives. I was able to communicate with experts in the fields I was discussing. Only problem is that it's a government blog, so no personal stuff. Nothing but business. Anyway. I just wish I had more readers. Maybe when I actually pick a field and stick to it, and appeal to the desires, or more Objectivistly, pick a field, and let them come. That rant over.

What I wanted to rant about on the secret net was about ESWS. This is a qualification that sailors can recieve on ships. This used to be an honor. Sailors would work hard and prove themselves worthy of the title, worthy of the pin. Now commands desperate to look better than other commands. Departments and Divisions desperate to stand out within commands have ruined the value of the ESWS qualification. They threaten sailors to get it. They punish sailors who don't. They make it easier for people to help them get the title. This is anti-Objectivist. Flat out, if I were Christian, this would be like asking me to bow down to Satan. So I am being punished, alot. I am being threatened even more. ESWS is an abomination, and an embarrassment. I would feel ashamed to get this meaningless, fallen, piece of metal. Yet now I am compelled. I am not allowed off the ship until 7:30 PM every one of the few days I'm inport, except the weekend. I have been ordered to get this qualification by July 15, or they will send me to Captain's Mast. If that happens, I could lose my rank, with it the pay, and the ability to live off the ship, and they could cancel my orders to San Diego. Basically, if I don't get ESWS in the next month, they will ruin my career, and take from me everything I have worked for in the last three years.

What to do? So I will give it a shot. I'll get it, because I have been ordered to, and I knew going in that I was being paid to follow orders. I won't stop my campaign against ESWS, but I'll end up wearing the mark of shame while doing it.

Entertaining International Women

The first night I danced with two groups of filipino girls. Then I went to McDonald's and met a Colombian woman. I talked to her for about 20 minutes in Spanish. From it I learned three new Spanish words, baracho (drunk) inebrio (inebriated or as she said, "A pretty way to say drunk" Except that she said that last quote in Spanish) pelegroso (careful). She gave me her business card and had to go back to work. I went to a pub and made fun of this Irish girl, and her Limey friend. I made fun of the Limey, because she was a Limey, and I made fun of the Irish girl, for having a Limey friend. Then I went back to Wall Street. The first girl I saw in there grabbed me and started feeling me up.
"I like your stomach" she said. "I want to lick it."
"That's cool, go right ahead." I replied. Then she stuck her hand down my pants and grabbed my penis. I was a little shocked. "Where are you from?"
"Malaysia." I left. I ended up at Gas Panic. Gas Panic always has a majority of Japanese people (Nihonjin). The waiters and waitresses are always assholes. I danced with a few Nihonjin girls. A group of French women came in and one stayed. I hunted her down, and danced with her for a couple hours. I was kissing her and rubbing her right. She wouldn't shut up about how the girls were dancing on the bar. Then she decided I had to battle for the privilege of dancing with her. She put me up against a Nihonjin guy and we took turns grinding on her. I made a sweet move when I managed to dance with her, and massage her at the same time. That Nihonjin bastard stole my flavor and tried to kick it up a notch. My next turn I decided to stop fucking around. I rubbed her all over, including her, well everywhere, you know. She wasn't too down with that, and informed me that I lost. A minute later the music stopped and the lights came on, so in your face Nihonjin douche, and French bitch! Some might say I lost more than a dance, but if you think about it, if she wasn't down with being rubbed, she wasn't going home with the winner. I went home and got to sleep around 7:30AM. I was awoken at 2pm by a Mikoshi parade camped in front of my house. International talley, 4 Philipino danced, two said no, 1 was clearly underage, 1 I got really freaky with. 1 French girl danced and kissed and fondled alot, 3 said no. 3 Japanese girls danced, 0 said no (but some were totally oblivious to all guys, fucking lesbains). 1 beautiful Colombian girl spoke slowly so I could understand her, and desire her more. 1 Malaysian chick sexually harassed me (hell yeah, not the first time!)
Saturday night I went to Roppongi again. First girls I saw I heard speaking Spanish, they turned about to be Peruanas (Peruvian girls) I layed down a wall of espanol, but they said I was too young for them, fucking shit, I shave my face and people think I'm a fucking kid. I know they make a big deal about me being 23, maybe I should just lie. I had about lost hope with the place when my hand caught the hip of a cute Nihonjin girl. I immediately struck like a viper and had two girls, one for each hip rubbing hand. The other girl was half Japanese, and half Philipino. She spoke English fluently. The Nihonjin guys that were with these girls bought me a drink. I danced with the girls while trying to talk to these guys. They turned out to be Japanese soldiers. I kept trying to tell them I was Navy, but they kept saying "Ranger?" So I gave up and let them think I was special forces. After a while I picked up another Japanese girl and she danced and grinded and got all kinds of dirty. She kept parading me around and telling everyone she knew that I was her man. Then she asked if I would get her some chapagne. I said sure and she frenched me. Then I saw what she wanted, a $400 bottle of alcohol. I told her no way. She blew me off after that, and I left. I ran about a mile around Roppongi to sober up a bit, I have never felt so good running in my life.

When did it become ok for girls outside of California to say "like" profusely? If a girl says "like" all the time, and she isn't from California, she's a bitch. If she is from California, she's probably a bitch, but who knows. As soon as I stopped running I saw the bar/grill the Columbian girl worked at. I went in and had some mixed drink with Tequila and Grenadine, and something else. She smiled alot but wasn't hangning out much, I think I'll email her, but I don't think she's too interested in me. That's the sweet part about an email. I can disect it, no b.s., no interference. Then ended up in a bad position trying to sober up after 3 or so shitty clubs, I just watched other people.

I noticed all the white girls were bitches, including these two models who were from California and Tennesse. They kept leaving and coming back. Why do white bitches even show up? They always hide in a corner, or at the bar. If they don't want to get with guys, they came to EXACTLY THE WORST PLACE ON EARTH. Roppongi is all about hooking up for a while, that's it. There are thousands of bar in Tokyo, only one Roppongi, stupid white bitches. I can understand if they are just being picky, but I have yet to see one single white chick from any country get with any guy that didn't come in with her, (Then Joshua remembers the French chick from the night before, and declares her a scientific oddity.)

Anyway some dude kept trying to drag a girl out of the bar and when the guy she was with was kicked out for being too drunk, she was alone. So I followed her out and made sure that fuck didn't drag her off into any alleys. Then I was offered about 4000 massages and I offered a masaji girl a massage for 2000 Yen. I decided to wait till I was completely sober so I wouldn't pass out on the train. I killed the time by writing this right now. Perfect timing, one hour for 400 Yen, the hour is up in two minutes.

Night two talley, Shot down by 2 Peruanas, even though estuvi el solo persana alli que habla espanol, chinga sus madres. 3 Nihonjin girls, including much loving, 0 nihonjin shot me down, but that one bitch, I saw her later, she tried to get me to go into a club with her, I told her it was fucked up that she blew me off for Champagne, I'm a sailor, I don't get paid. So I told her to fuck off. 1 Colombian woman didn't give me enough love. Lots of white girls ignored me and every other guy. Fuck white girls. Now I'm not looking forward to California anymore, you all suck. All in all, I got more love, love, loving from all those women of 8 or so countries than that filthy lying, oh, I won't finish that sentence. Fuck America. That's better. Solo un poco baracho ahorra. Fue como una idiota y empezo una hora mas. No tengo mas cosas hacer en el interneto. Ahorra necesito pagar para dos horas. ahh, pero esta bien, esta bien. Solo yo necisito usar el bano mucho pero no quiero levantar, No se el espanol, pero en ingles es "ironic" o estupido, no seguro.