Lame post on Last Day of May

This staircase is my nemesis now. There is a good reason it hasn't been painted in ten years. It's like painting a Rubic's Cube that has been unscrambled and you have to visualize which parts will need paint and how you can reach them. Furthermore, I'm the worst painter in the world as several of you have witnessed. I think I abide by the Russ Peach law of painting which is, "never paint anything that you can drip motor oil on so the horses don't chew it." Unfortunately, Russ was one of a kind.


And when the hell did paint start costing $46 a gallon? Holy shit! I'm convinced anyone paying $46 out of their pocket HAS NO VALUE FOR MONEY BECAUSE THEY DON'T EARN IT. Not a chance in hell would a normal person who actually gets paid for their labor inch by inch with zero gray area (you produce or get paid nothing) pay $46 for one gallon of paint. Only a lawyer who gets paid win or lose would casually say, "I think we'll paint the porch this summer."
Yeah, if a painter worked on those same principles they would spill 50% of the paint in your toilet and still get paid $75K a year.
$46 dollars?? That was the cheap paint. I wouldn't even trust someone who gets their house painted because there is no way an honest dollar is being spent on super expensive paint. Not a chance in hell. They're probably running guns to Al Qaeda.

As for this project, I'm going to use $100 worth of paint, tops, and if that gets me to the last flight of stairs then I'm going to stop and write a big sign that says, "PAINT IS TOO DAMN EXPENSIVE" and leave it bare wood. $46 is a joke for a gallon of paint. Each brush stroke is like $2 worth of paint. Sherman Williams might as well have a cover charge to get in the door.
End of Rant.


Tonight, although I wanted to get spinach and tofu tacos at Dos Amigos I am conserving money (let's ignore the $14 worth of White Russians I wasted watching the Red Sox lose).
So, it was the old standby of vegetable stir fry and buckwheat soba noodles.
I overcooked the noodles and the frozen vegetables were tasteless. So I dumped salt on them and they tasted like salt.



Luckily, the chicken man delivered Faahm Fresh eggs so I made a deep dish ham and cheese and broccoli quiche. Together, the noodles, tofu and quiche made a dinner I could stomach.




Moving forward, the chances of me resisting the urge to get ice cream downtown at one of the three boutique scoop stores is very slim. I feel the diabetes and fat belly approaching but I have to have a cone of ice cream. Maybe a hot fudge sundae. Did I tell you all about Ted Drewes Frozen Custard in St. Louis? Custard is ice cream with 10% buttermilk, 2% egg whites and less than 20% overrun air. IT'S 100% AWESOME. I ate so much that my gut jiggles when I run up to the donut shop. I now wear suspenders to keep my britches up. They don't have custard here but my craving is beyond measure along with my hypertension. If they made white russian flavored frozen custard I think I'd die.

Portsmouth Poem II

I say these words to the red brick sidewalks, the tourist shops and the broken Indian promises: walk softly and carry a big wallet because Portsmouth traps the rats with the big hair and the plastic cards that go "pop!"

Whisper to each other in the now illuminated alleys where the fingers found flesh and the knives dug deep. The ghosts of those dead colonists walk among your recyclable sushi boxes.

Fog lies low on the wide river hiding the flood tide from all eyes except the sleepless lobster boat captains in their rented Maine shacks.

The summer shorts have been freed from their winter prisons and Oggy has an eye full of legs on waitresses back from college to pay off loans and pay for the gas to drive them from Rochester to where the tips roll in for low cut shirts like the tide off Four Tree Island.


Two kids are playing a grudge match 1 on 1 basketball game at the foggy south street courts, the only figures alive tonight as the great white spaceship knocks out eleven warnings to those souls left unsaved in the great tip off between God and Satan. Satan is taller but God has the longer reach.

Change is the mandate in Portsmouth. You can hear it in the wind through my gray beard and the worn nubs on my swollen fingertips as they drum a plaintive rhythm on the wholesome granite curbstones your taxes paid for so every street in Portsmouth is now only wide enough for one car. Way to go city planners! Or maybe they are smarter than I know and plan for the days when cars are outlawed and these streets are plenty wide for electric bicycles purring along in utopian bliss as cats and mice play in lawns of cauliflower.

These brick sidewalks have been my bed and my roof, my friend and my savior over the years. Don't you spit on them in disrespect as they gave birth to freedom in a time when Lobster rolls wasn't a delicate dish to eat with your martini but something a sea creature did when it died. Walk proud on my brick streets and if you must vomit your frothy blue ribbon then do so with dignity and in the morning say a prayer to Mather von Strawberry who brewed the first keg of beer on these shores and died from botulism.

Awake ye draft beer drinkers and rejoice because your worries will soon be buried in the new baseball field near the junior high school, buried deep beneath the old bleachers that will be the stage for a new generation of romance and betrayal and wins and losses. Dig all you want but your accumulated conquests will never be found: First base with Rose McCorley in a tent near the Sagamore river. Her wet lips on yours. Her breath like a hurricane electrifying your sexually challenged brain. The second base gravestone of fleshy globes, forbidden in a seaweed jungle near New Castle. Reaching Third Base on Pierce Island with a girl whose name you never knew but the gleam in her eyes was irresistible and that Bruce Springsteen song you both knew the words to brought you together in a blissful embrace that dissolved with the sobriety of the eastern sun's rising heat. And the home run in your parent's bed when they were out of town on a teacher's conference with the girl of your dreams who would marry a systems analyst from college but who did pretend to love you at that moment and it was enough. You made it sweet and the scoreboard is gone, along with all the bases, now in an out of town dump. Those bleachers where you first made eye contact with the shy girl who had just moved to town have been trucked to the dump leaving behind a freshly dug field with good memory drainage. All those initials and hearts carved into the wood are gone too but a new crop of games will be played.


Even the old houses get face lifts. Dust isn't welcome among the living. Visit a museum if you want to see the past because the walking dead, pale and bent before the gravity of disease and war will, nonetheless, obey their biological imperative to live until their last breath is ripped from their lungs. In all the games of baseball I've seen at the holy Leary Field I've never witnessed a batter walk back to the dugout before taking a third strike. No one ever gives up in Portsmouth.

Gil Scott-Heron RIP

"The revolution will not show you pictures of Nixon blowing a bugle and leading a charge by John Mitchell, General Abrams and Spiro Agnew to eat hog maws confiscated from a Harlem sanctuary."

I love that "hog maws". He's following in the footsteps of Allen Ginsburg and the Beat poets but driving to a different rhythm of funk instead of jazz.
I think I could learn a few things by listening to this man recite poetry. He was a modern day Herman Melville with some seriously violent vocabulary.

The phrase, "The revolution will not be televised" is a poetic way to say, "When the paradigm shifts, it will shift completely." Then and now, the paradigm is an America glued to a screen where images dance for our amusement. I don't know if Gil was the first person to use this phrase but his poem definitely reinforces this perspective in textbook form and his sideways criticism of the media definitely predates the consolidation of media as a defining influence in America. He was a pioneer and a damn good poet and musician.

Lately, it's hard to believe that anything will not be televised. About half the people on the street are videoing or snapping pictures of the other half and the beginning of fully cataloged picture albums are already starting. And if the accelerated media eruption is any indication of where it will go in a few years everything will be documented and filed on the internet. So, it's safe to say that the revolution will definitely be televised...and it will probably be sponsored...with a theme song...and accessories from China.

I can't predict what form the revolution will take. Political/financial control and media manipulation has reached a saturation point that makes it almost impossible to retain hope for a better day for all. Right now people are asking if man-produced CO2 is causing a tornado factory in the Midwest. That will quickly be answered in the affirmative and as soon as people realize adopting solar energy now is like siphoning The Titanic with a basement sump pump the next plan of action will be to build tornado proof buildings... if you can afford it...which will mean we don't need to quit producing CO2 until all the oil is gone or all the poor people are dead and there's no one to work in the oil fields. That's Oggy's cheery prediction. The environmental holocaust that America is sponsoring is so well hidden/justified that no movement in America will rebel against it. But what other nation will take us on? And that wouldn't be a revolution at all but an act of war which would easily be repelled by jingoistic country songs and teen recruitment from Marines...not to mention our gigantic arsenal of drone fighters piloted from couches in air conditioned comfort. But the disparity in income and living conditions has grown totally out of control, beyond any tolerable level since the French uprising in the 18th century. Gil wrote about revolution in 1973. That's a joke now. An average income was above poverty back then. Today, there are more working poor than any other income bracket. 5% of the rich own 75% of everything. The revolution happened but it wasn't by the people for the people. It will take a worker's rebellion to change things but the successful smear campaign on worker's rights (communism) worked so well that a slave with a bucket to piss in has been trained to thank his boss for the bucket. Like they say, it's easy to teach a dog to roll over on cue. But if you can teach a dog to roll over on his own, then you've done something. Credit Post WWII Eisenhower propaganda campaigns for that mind fuck.

By design, Capitalism doesn't accommodate everyone and by design Christianity doesn't accommodate population control. So, when you have a Christian Capitalist Kingdom then you have the most fucked up situation since the Roman church decided to invade the land of the Jews. Add to that situation a demand for oil, copper, food, water and air that far exceeds any reasonable global request then you have a recipe for disaster. But the disaster is hard to picture right now because the slaves are content, Gil Scott-Heron is dead. Hip hop artists don't want revolution because the money is in promotion and merchandise. Social change has been replaced by the term "Computer Application" The revolution is being fundamentally derailed by technological gadgetry. It's beautiful, really, because while the media was calling the social change in Lybia a "Social Media Revolution" the message was that if you aren't plugged in then you aren't going to be a part of the revolution. So, naturally, everyone wants to be plugged in. But, SINCE COPPER WIRE DOESN'T COME FROM KEEBLER ELVES LIVING IN THE FOREST, the revolution will necessitate the destruction of habitat and the plundering of the bowels of the earth by another generation of wage slaves who lost their lands to the copper company and then were offered subsistence wages working underground to pay the rent on the shack leased to them by the copper company. (But don't worry, until copper is discovered under your fat ass you'll be safe.) I don't think this is a coincidence but I do think that a digital revolution isn't revolutionary at all. It's still oppressing one people to improve the lives of another small group of people and that's a story as old as time. In the words of Gil, when the revolution comes, "Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, and Hooterville Junction will no longer be so damned relevant."

Weenie Bum

4 random events of this late spring that don't involve wolves...

1) Stuck at a stop for road construction I see three kids marching home from Jr. High School like quintessential 13 year old boys with blood on knees and elbows, the big one in front is singing about some one's mother being a whore and the two little ones behind him are swarming like parasite fish trying to get attention all buck toothed and smiling. The big one's shoes are untied. He turns and swings a ham hock at one of the little ones who puts his bony elbows up in defense and the big kid's fist punches the elbow that is as sharp as exposed rebar on a non-existent Nicaraguan third story. The two little ones laugh as the big one howls and hops around in pain and then he chases, lumbering with papa bear steps and pushes one of the little kids into a hedge. Books go flying and then they start laughing. the bulldozer passes and the cops wave us through so I move toward home.

2) Standing outside on the deck overlooking the street-lit neighborhood, I hear a girl's voice singing, "Ding dong, the witch is dead." She's probably 7 years old and her voice carries over the trees with the scent of bbq corn and hot dogs and pasta salad. "Lalalalal, " she vocalizes the words she doesn't remember but the melody is pretty close. I open the screen door and go inside.

3) Two kids around the age of 8 bicycle down the street with no training wheels. Helmets on. The little one follows a bigger one, perhaps his brother. "Weenie, bum weenie bum." they chant. "Weenie!" I'm in my van organizing my belongings in secrecy. "Weenie bum." Soon a half dozen 7-10 year old kids are on the curb behind my van. What the hell? There are no parents around. I'm trapped, so I listen.
The boy says, "He's a weenie."
A girl says, "I'm telling dad that you said that."
"What did I say?"
"Weenie."
"If you tell him then I'll tell him you said it too."
"But I didn't."
"Did too. Just now."
"That's not the same."
"Is too, weenie bum."

If I get out now I'll probably scare them all to death and encourage the pedophile patrol to descend on Elwyn and Lincoln. I stay put and escape when the ice cream truck appears.

4) The big kid from the first scene struts his lumbering strut near two girls about his age, half escorting them home. They are all in the middle of the Elwyn Ave. I can't hear what he's saying but he's making up some story about his father being a jet pilot or how he's going to be a Navy Seal when he grows up and loses 50 pounds. The girls scoff with their neat hair and decorated backpacks and nimble fingers texting while carrying on two conversations. To prove his mettle, the big kid kicks his right shoe off and like a soccer ball it flies high near my van and plops down near the tires of an oncoming car. The girls get out of the way as the boy rescues his shoe by shoving his foot into it and walking away with a hopping gait. The car slowly creeps by and the girls by way of a wave apologize for the delay. The boy grabs his crotch to show the nonplussed driver he'll do what he pleases. The girls make faces but laugh. The boy's shoes remain untied as he shuffles along as an escort.

I struggle to fit all of these vignettes into my "The world is ending" theory but fail so terribly that I almost feel a sprout of hope in my Grinch-inhabited heart. Is it possible that the Great Jigsaw Puzzle can not be solved since new pieces keep getting made that don't fit the puzzle you are working on? Eventually, you will get sandwiched between layers of new pieces in an attempt to finish a puzzle that no one will ever see.

What was I just doing?

I must be losing my touch. I ate a $12 lobster roll and didn't make a video review of it while there are half a dozen reviews of me eating crappy pizza and meatball subs. Not that the Sanders Fish market over by the mill pond needs any help getting New Castle homemakers with platinum cards to walk in their doors. Last time I was in that joint you had to bring your own newspaper and they would throw your fish at you and if you caught it then you took it home. Today it felt like I'd entered one of those boutique shops in Santa Monica that wouldn't let me use their bathroom. But Lobster Jr. gave me the local/hobo discount and even let me eat at the table with my fur face scaring respectable customers into the street when I leered at the pretty socialites planning their memorial day lawn brunch. Next time I'll do a proper taste review because that lobster roll was so good I almost forgot it used up my entire grocery budget for the week.

In other news, Mr. Chicken Farmer taxied me to and from the auto parts store for the final air filter I'll need to buy for my van before going to Labrador. We were supposed to go to the bank but we were so distracted by witnessing a car plow through the Fleet/Congress intersection that we were like, "Let's go to the bank and then...Look! That car just mashed that sign! So what should we do now? Let's get some chowder!"


My attention span is so short if I'm not actively typing then I have to remind myself what I'm doing.

If anyone wants to help scrape and paint the fire escape to my apartment I'll buy the beer.

P.S. Memorial Day is the day we recognize the deceased soldiers. I've seen bumper stickers that say "If you love your freedom, thank a soldier." Even though I don't know what America stands for anymore, I can't be a thankless hippie. Any other country would've silenced me long ago. God Bless America!

Oggy Revisits Old Haunts

Caught between a rock and a hard place. Fort Stark almost had another shipwreck to add to their exhibit.


This little guy needs a drink.


Stairway to Heaven


The Little Goose store became an architect's workshop. They got tired of the greasy spoon next door and hit the road. Maybe Oggy will open it back up as a nostalgia museum where people will come in and he will expound on life growing up as a young man on the Seacoast. "Blah blah blah, in 1985, blah blah blah..."

Someone said, "Hey look. Osama Bin Laden is playing tennis and his serve sucks!"

All Systems Go

The saga of the 1969 E-200 Econoline camper conversion van has the latest chapter to fill in. Let me say that a more user friendly van has not been manufactured in 30 years. Either that or I have bonded with this van in an uncommon and unnatural fashion that leads me to believe we were twins separated at birth 40 years ago, perhaps in the mineral deposits of New Mexico that aided my gestation and enabled the refineries to forge from steel a chassis of strength and spine of relative weakness, the van receiving the abundance of benefit from the earth and Oggy receiving a bastardly, niggardly share of heavenly porridge leading to his limping gait and ragged dragon breath. (that was my weak attempt to write like Herman Melville.)

So, the van was buried beneath 7 feet of snow this winter for 5 months, from December to the great thaw and beyond. My goal, as you may have read, is to take this van to the end of the earth in Labrador and from there steal or con someone into taking me the rest of the 3000 miles to Ellesmere Island where I will gather information on the imperiled Arctic Wolf. The Arctic, if you've been paying attention, is melting faster than a peanut butter paradise ice cream from a Somersworth ice cream stand on a humid day in the Granite State. The window dressing I have chosen to disguise my adventure involves my being sent back in time to warn people of the drastic consequences to their heedless resource consumption. I don't even need to do this since the future has happened in Missouri and Tenn. these past weeks. To this point, my strategy has only alienated everyone I've met, gotten me kicked out of Canada and failed to interest several charities and project promoters. If I insist I am from the future then I will be alone in my endeavors. I GET IT! I could no sooner convince my host in St. Louis to recycle box board than I could get Al Gore to give me a piggy back ride to the North Pole. Waaah! No one RSVP'd to my pity party.

So, I'll give up and get a job at WalMart, right? HA! No, I will take my bag of tools to Stratham and dive into my van like a man possessed. Hasn't been started in 5 months. Two dead batteries. Flat tires. Rusting spark plugs. Oil like axle grease. No Problem! This van speaks to me as to a long lost brother. What ails you?

I inspected the plugs, the wires, the points, sprayed the carb, took the air filter off, primed the intake manifold with tender kisses of my silky mustache. There was no point in trying to start it alone as the lights flickered weakly and my brother had already given it a shot back in February to avail. So, even though the rain fell in buckets on my head and shoulders and the lightning struck the trees and fields nearby with regular violence as from the ghost of Ben Franklin calling out to us from the grave that we have awoken a demon with our ape-like tinkerings with electricity and other magics better left to Zeus and Poseidon. I drove the car to my van and hooked up the $2 jumper cables I bought in a flea market in Mexico. I tried the ignition and heard a clicking like cicadas in the Ozark hills. So, I knew that this meant a connection had not been made...and I went back out into the rain and readjusted the jumper cables receiving shocks and threat of death from lightning strikes.

"God damn ye, devils from heaven!" I cried though no one could hear as my brother would apparently melt if hit by water and all of New England has become sissy with fear of weather touching their furless members.

But the readjustment finally worked and the engine roared like a dragon, my brother, my steed, my faithful chariot! Then it died with a cough and cry like a meek child in the oncology ICU.
But I shocked it to life again and gunned the engine because this van would arrive one day in Labrador and bring me that much closer to my wolf cousins.

It idled and I disconnected the cables, receiving another shock from the 12 Strong Men that Thomas Edison unleashed on simple Oggy apes.

The van would soon die again but I was satisfied with my daily allowance of volts so I went home after searching fruitlessly for a journal entry in one of 40 chicken scratch journals I wrote in the summer of 1997 or 1998. 13 years ago? I did laugh as I came across several letters I had written to a former girlfriend while she was in jail. They were all marked "Return to sender" hahahaha...and I read the start of one, "Dear XXXX, I love you so much...." ahahahahahah (crying on the inside). broken hearted and she preferred to turn tricks under the roller coaster for small candy colored rocks of crack and threw Oggy out with the trash. Dozens of returned letters stained with codependent tears.

So, I gave up on finding the poem lest I awaken other ghosts of my past and returned the next day in another torrential downpour worse than the day before. Another lunch of 12 volts and I had the van under my thumb again with a belly full of the go juice squeezed from the blood orange knows as a Kazakh child's heart and away we went, unregistered, uninspected, leering like Aqualung in his tattered overcoat at pretty panties and dead squirrels and rodents in the wet street. Police too fearful of his hulking highway leviathan to pull him over though no decent society would allow him free travel. Oggy, the wanderer, was back on the road, free of nagging and judgmental Suburb Borgs who would speak to him AS THOUGH HE WERE AN EMPLOYEE IN THE JOB CALLED THEIR LIFE. No, that will never do. Oggy does not obey laws written by Indian killers.
The plan was to have the van inspected, change the greasy oil, pack the arctic weather gear, play some tennis and leave for Labrador. This time I will not tarry.

So, the inspection shop took in the van with a bus escape hatch and small wood stove with stainless steel chimney. In preparation, I even fixed the broken horn and checked all the lights...as if that would make a difference in a van with a wood stove in it.

Then I took my bicycle out of the van in preparation for a bicycle tour of the seacoast and was almost immediately run over by the chicken farmer's infamous lesbian truck.
I actually recognized the truck with the KTM enduro in the back and started to strain my arthritic knees to catch up when another car, IGNORANT BLIND FUCKING CAGE DRIVER cut me off and forced me into the dirt even though I was already in the bicycle lane.

I calmed down long enough to plan a day of work and reward with the chicken farmer.

The van passed inspection despite having cracked brake pads and not being registered and having a wood stove in the cabin next to a bed and huge wood chopping axe. Safety is not a word used in conjunction with this van. The workers stood around and smiled at the dinosaur. I gave tours and people took their pictures.

"Labrador?" they asked? "Where is that?"

"Well, it's north of Quebec. Then I'm going to visit the wolves in the Arctic because they are all dying as their habitat melts."

"No shit?"

"Yes, see, the atmosphere can only accommodate 350 PPM of CO2..."

Back to Portsmouth and to the city hall where an old lady who disapproved of my furry face immediately decided to flex her bureaucratic muscles.

"You can't have a vehicle registered here and not have a license from here," she said as she looked at my California license from ten years ago.

"But, what can you tell me about the status of this registration?"

"Nothing, until you bring me blah blah blah blah."

I snatched my paperwork back from her before she could confiscate them like a home room teacher taking my star wars photo cards away and telling me, "Oggy, you can pick them up at the end of the day."

Soon, I had my 1974 vespa ciao moped out of the dusty basement and she was firing on her one cylinder> I would take the Vespa to Labrador if I have to because the wolves are that important. The chicken farmer returned with eggs and a mission to the farm.

Off we went to chickenland to retrieve mislaid helmets, then back to Rye where snooty snobs shuffle service workers around like chickens laying screened porch eggs. Tradesmen who can not afford to live in Rye must commute to Rye to dig up hedges and install pompous stone walls in a reminder of what I saw in Santa Monica where proud Mexicans living 5 to a room in The Valley took the bus 2 hours to cut lawns near beach-side swimming pools where frail pharmaceutical widows drool on their false teeth and plastic tits. Now a carpenter has to be thankful to build some fucking addition to a house 50 miles away? You want this room a different color? How about I piss on the wall? Would that work for you? What shade of piss yellow do you prefer?

So, an hour of work accomplished by 4 PM, we fled the snob village, passing sweating and grunting laborers WHO ACTUALLY DO WORK FOR Financial SYSTEMS ANALYSTS who can't spell work. (God, PLEASE LET THE WRATH OF THE Abenaki Indian tribe wreck havoc upon these cowardly charlatan pencil pushing calculator lovers in their false stone mansions! What sacrifice do I have to make to you so a plague of hurricanes will wipe from the earth the political boundaries that enable such unjust defacto slavery?)

Not long after that we passed the menagerie of lawn ornaments on our way to a hot dog BBQ in a mosquito swamp near Berwick.

Most of the time was spent searching the dirt for a missing seat mount bolt but I was glad that not too much had changed because it was already a little shock to have a day with the chicken farmer that didn't involve a toxic scorpion bowl at Kim Lai. If there hadn't been some unexpected crisis the whole friendship would've probably collapsed because I need fully functioning friends like I need a perforated heart. Although this friend, who also took these pictures, bought me soda and pizza and cooked me hot dogs and then I let him buy his own ice cream as he drove me home. He should've dropped me off in Rochester and let me walk 30 miles home with a "cheapskate" sign on my gullet. Next time, ice cream is my treat!

Then I return home to hunt for my DMV paperwork and finally find the stickers with my poverty-ridden IRS paperwork. This completes the saga. The van is registered. Inspected. Insured. Tucked in and tuned up. The wolves are literally hanging on for their lives in the Arctic and I feel a responsibility to address their concerns even if it means defending their dens with my beard and bad breath.

Orchard Thieves

Just to keep the record straight, here's an example of a gigantic book with some attempt to entertain the reader. Moby Dick is peppered with entertaining passages but a stand-up-and-applaud one can be found merely 4 pages into Ishmael's justification of his desire to go to sea as a paid sailor instead of a paying passenger:

"The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us."

This guy slings his pen like a lion tamer. Calling Adam and Eve orchard thieves in a tossed off, pretty much expendable line is ballsy. If I wrote that line I'd be calling all my friends to brag about it, but old Herman Melville is just getting warmed up for 550 more pages. This is some gifted writing because the humor is focused on you getting the joke on your own rather than a big dance to get you to laugh or no laugh at all.

Ex:

"And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:

'Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States

WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL

BLOODY BATTLE IN AFGHANISTAN'

Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces--though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment."

How is that for a long sentence? Go ahead and read it twice. I read it three times before I figured out what the hell he was saying and it's really a funny way of saying, "I wanted to believe I am the master of my own destiny but that's all bullshit."

And the list of grand design that Melville intentionally set in smaller type point. It's a joke that he's telling on himself in such a subtle way that I can already tell, 5 pages into it, that he's at the peak of his powers.

I like to talk about timing when it comes to writing. A book like this, 540 pages long, was written in less than one year in 1850. Written by hand on a farm in western Mass. In a situation like that he's got to be in The Zone when he puts pen to paper. I should point out that there's evidence that Melville met H. D. Thoreau via joint friend Nathaniel Hawthorne while in Concord. I see similarities in Melville and Emerson and Thoreau. The word "Providence" was used more by these three writers than anyone in history. If you can use the word "Providence" even once in every day conversation then you are guaranteed to impress people. They all must've been touched a little because no amount of editing or education would produce this kind of writing. It's pure personality shining through in every word.

I've been talking about writing my Santa Cruz book for a few years now. But there's a fluidity to my prose that I haven't mastered. Personal essays and political rants are easy but I want to combine that with a third person narrator who exchanges some of his bitterness for some of my wit. 500 pages get written fast when you write obtuse sentences as long as most paragraphs. When it goes on as smoothly as this then you don't have to go back and retouch it. Of course there is the awful possibility that lightweight first person humor writers like me have no business writing serious third person novels but I choose to ignore that until it has been proven.

If I'm stating the obvious that Moby Dick is well written then I apologize. I bow before his talent.

Icarus or Prometheus?

Joplin, MO is across the state from St. Louis so the Mosaic floor wasn't damaged. But I reflected on this tornado season in the Midwest and compare it to the deer slalom on I-70. Someone is going to get killed and some deer are going to die. It's unavoidable based on that configuration of highways splitting wildlife habitat in half. From a global POV we only inhabit a little bit of space but from the point of view of a deer or turtle we are the black plague come to life. A world class sprinter couldn't cross that interstate at midnight. It was an unbroken chain of trucks and cars in four lanes. One need only use their eyes to see that isn't going to last. In a similar situation the warming of the world is creating a abundance of rain in some places and a deficiency in others. However, when a group-think experiment gone terribly wrong is taking place then we've got Atlas Shrugged being released as a feature film the same year the climate finally fights back against the beating Industrialists like John Galt have been giving her for 500 years. I think that's a noteworthy coincidence because a freethinking person would've recognized the peril involved in drilling for oil, refining it and then burning it on a scale of 7 billion people.

I want to photograph a city street with 10 or 20 thousand silverback gorillas all walking to work with briefcases. "The world with 7 billion silver back gorillas" Because although we use far more resources than a gorilla our bodies don't take up too much more space. It's only if a silverback gorilla got his thinking so completely twisted around that he procreated beyond the capacity of his habitat and he started building higher and higher buildings to enable him to continually enslave poorer apes. The total earth population of gorillas is probably a couple thousand.* You could fit them all into Fenway Park. And they manufacture nothing but manage to survive and raise young'uns. And they precede us on the mammal tree. My point is that if there were 7 billion gorillas on earth devouring every resource and destroying the climate and only 10,000 humans all either in zoos or protective sanctuaries, what would you think? Would you think, "Boy, those gorillas are pretty smart." I guess we are the most clever animal out there in the sense that a virus can develop an immunity to empirical data. That takes a prolonged propaganda campaign of the kind to be found in Edward Bernay's book and Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand.

The debate for today is if we are symbolically following in the footsteps of Prometheus who stole fire from Zeus and gave it to mankind (a kind of forbidden fruit fable) or Icarus, who flew too close to the sun and burned the wax from his wings and fell to his death.

Anyone have an opinion before I tell you why you are wrong?

I think that without even looking into it very deeply the chances that mankind is lurching madly and violently, via wars and genocide and waste toward a utopia is very unlikely.
Atlas Shurgged basically argued that all waste, death, destruction, greed, and violence are broken eggs in the omlette of a peaceful and waste free world. Does this make sense to anyone?
At one time I felt that this was true because Rand used the most clever argumentation skill which is to propose the opposite. I've learned this one well enough to use it against her. She presented her ideal man, John Galt, a self-interested, guilt-free, emotionally independent free thinking electrical engineer. The short explanation she gives is that if this isn't the ideal man then let's examine the exact opposite characteristics and see if they hold up. I really applaud this method of debate because it plays with the mind and if well manipulated in her fictional world you can reach no other conclusion except that rational self-interest in the form of emotional independence is preferable to the co-dependent disaster that most of us live with. Of course. When given the two extremes the John Galt one is better. And if Galt is persecuted through the whole book not because of what he represents but because the failures of the world (me and you) can't even live with ourselves because Galt is alive, then he becomes even more attractive. Galt becomes the underdog and we identify with him even if we are at heart looters and mooches living in their father's attic apartment and driving his car for slave-made ice cream and buckwheat soba noodle stir fry.

That's the argument of the opposites.

But here is where I use it against Rand by saying, first of all, a utopia that is reached via genocide sounds PRETTY FUCKING SUSPICIOUS. Second of all, if conservation, humility and compassion are the trademarks of the self-sufficient Amish farmer and Kenneth Lay and Jeff Skilling are the embodiment of pure self-interest (persecuted because we are self-loathing moochers) then what is that utopia going to look like? If the maxim of your actions justifies unlimited use of planetary resources then isn't it possible physics will not accommodate your goals of a waste free energy source? I think the hell-bent exploitation of the planet has been fundamentally for the good of humanity...the pursuit of waste free energy, long life, human knowledge centralized in one globally accessible location, mattresses that don't burn when your crack pipe turns over, etc. Ok. So, we've gotten a little off track with toys and gadgets and multiple cars so movie stars can go in circles to a studio. See, none of this is part of the equation/resource budget plan. It's all frivolous but the waste is concrete and the consequences are real.

So, you might look at my life and say it's unrealistic. Low resource ride sharing mass transit hell. What good is it doing? Who knows? Well how realistic is it that the resources of the planet will only be used in critical operations? It's ludicrous, correct? But, the equation Ayn Rand's giants of industry map out demands that the resources be used exclusively for developing certain improvements. The finite nature of our natural habitat absolutely requires a very tight budget when it comes to resources. VERY VERY TIGHT BUDGET. Go on a trip to Labrador with me and you will know the meaning of a VERY VERY TIGHT BUDGET. Because if my budget gets stretched even a tiny bit I KNOW that Ellesmere Island will never be reached. This is as close to a privately funded moon mission as I can get. There is a point I will reach where there is no return and there is a point I will reach where there is no going on. My destination is close to the North Pole. It's going to be down to the pennies and fingernails. I know this. And the place Rand's theory falls apart is where she almost guarantees an oasis of peace because "the great minds will prevail" but she is assuming resources are so unlimited we can frivolously waste them in pursuit of video games and nothing will happen to impede our progress like a tornado six miles wide.

I already know Rand's defense of our planetary exploitation: Someone will make a tornado-proof house. That's the basis of her philosophy. Humans will adapt to anything because a free thinking, guilt free John Galt will always find a way to adapt. But the theory breaks down when the John Galts of the world ARE CAUSING THE NEED FOR THE JOHN GALTS OF THE WORLD. We're not at the mercy of nature, we're at the mercy of unnatural disasters caused in the pursuit of streaming video. The Amish don't need John Galt and they aren't fucking everything up. Their solution to tornadoes will probably not include geoengineering...which will be Galt's first plan of attack...because he's so smart.

This isn't a well thought out essay so don't feel bad if none of this makes sense. Years ago, I tried to write philosophical essays and, speaking of conservation, managed to take 5 pages to say a page's worth of arguments.

I guess if everything but the environment were progressing smoothly then I would jump on Rand's ship and sign up for the solar energy engineer degree at M.I.T.

BUT LITTLE RESEMBLES RAND'S UTOPIA!

Did anyone read how there are 30,000 prisoners in California who have to be released? That's more than the total population of Earth's silverback gorillas! And they are surplus criminals! Jesus Christ!
And the general adaptability of mankind hasn't changed at all. All that has changed is our means of communication. We have almost 3 million people in jail in the US alone. What possible utopia is going to exist with 2% of the population going to jail?

There's a fundamental flaw in the ethics we're being taught and my mission is to find it and change it. Right now you could say we've exchanged a stable climate for internet access. Rand suggests that's a fair trade but she's exercising control over all the other inhabitants on earth which, I think, negates any positive accomplishments. Otherwise, you have a pathological pursuit of self-interests provided you disregard the existence of anything else living.

I have an affinity for the Kogi tribe. I think: How will this affect the Kogi living on a mountain-top in Colombia? And if I suspect it will affect them negatively then I must change my course of action. And I will end with this question for Ayn Rand: If I suspect my actions will hurt the Kogi and I do them anyway then what kind of a person does that make me? What value does anything I do have? And if I don't even consider the Kogi then I'm not an ethically thinking human and have already joined the worst company in history so there is no argument to be had.

*It's less than 50K or about the capacity of Angels Stadium in Anaheim.

Floor De Lis

Here are the final pictures of the mosaic. For anyone interested, I fixed the jagged tile edges by grouting more grout on top of the grout. This raised the grout to the level of all the edges so it was more or less flat and comfortable to walk on in bare feet. You can see the grout overlap if you are on your knees but this is art and not a mini mansion presentation piece for Mexican Merry Maids to clean on callused knees. Thanks to The Nurse for working with me and letting me learn something that is not easy.



Here is the dog Alabama. The morning after we sealed the floor with this waterproof sealer stuff she begged for food and water and I gave her some and she didn't even move her feet before she puked some onto the floor in the kitchen. I said what any normal person would say, "Aw, Alabama!" and she walked toward where I was standing on the mosaic floor and, as I was about to say, "At least she didn't puke on the..." she let loose the remainder of her stomach contents, half a gallon at least, onto the mosaic floor. Yellow and orange bile and food and puke and water. Like the cocktail of death to bright white grout.


We flew into action to clean it with towels but our haste was unnecessary because the grout sealer had created an invisible barrier over the grout and tile. It was amazing but the floor was completely spotless after we soaked up the puke.

The oak threshold were the Nurse's idea and they make a big difference in framing the piece and hiding my atrocious edge work. Tours are by appointment only.

Vanity

I want to post at least one thing on the internet that proves Jimmy Z surf pants did exist and some people did wear them. I was one of those people caught up in the fad that involved velcro belts. The shorts were more popular but I went all out and bought the pants. I could be wrong that these were those Jimmy Z pants because a lot of pants had velcro belts. I guess I had a zipper head and cleanly shaved for my job (that Help Wanted sign would soon be removed thanks to me) at the Golden Goose on Sagamore where I drank Yoo Hoos in the walkin cooler with Billy D. and checked out the discarded Hustler mags and filled the beer bucket with ice from the cooler in back. That box on the wall is called a telephone booth. Me and that trash can got real close that summer of 1986. Go Sox!


How many gallons of water did this beard save? And when you are living in the desert water is something you pay attention to. This was during my "Zero Resource" period in California. I felt and still feel that the environmental crisis is so compelling that major sacrifices are all that will save the wolf. This period of time in 1994, and the exact events that led me to repair my cheap sunglasses with a paper clip carefully drilling the hole out with a discarded heroin needle, will be described in my Santa Cruz novel.

Part of a portfolio that I brought to several San Francisco modeling agencies where trim men with fingernail polish on looked disdainfully at my mug and the cheaply printed photos and tossed them aside, "Thanks for coming in. Next." and the next man or woman, prettier and slimmer than I would saunter in as I was shuffled out into the rain of 1997. Not only did I not hook up with any aspiring female models I didn't even get asked to give my digits to a gay guy. That's pathetic! My Schwinn Varsity bicycle got stolen on one of these trips to the city. And then the young man who took this picture succumbed to a lung condition. The price he asked to take my vanity pictures involved me getting completely naked in Golden Gate Park and lurching through the woods where hippies shit and junkies shoot up. This was before small video cameras or else I'd post a video. Those nude pictures are somewhere in the ether along with the photographer RIP.


My mug shot today: gray of the years gone under so many Pierce Island bridges. Tides like a feathered hair cut combed by a rain storm. Caught inside a tent where the air smells like heavenly shampoo. Necklaces lost in the hurricane.

Grow a beard to save water....drink shitty beer responsibly

I don't want to pick on large corporations with green-washing goals and some 25 year old "social marketing guru" who dreams up frivolous campaigns to save the world, but this Budweiser campaign on facebook is infuriating.
Grow a beard to save water.... Only a kid who grew up with The Simpsons as a third parent would promote this insanely contradictory campaign via a beer company. Or maybe he is a genius trying to mock the world that isn't smart enough to recognize lunacy when it is under their noses. But the chances are that it is a real world example of something too crazy to be spoofed. It's like a condom company encouraging masturbation. Or Ford sponsoring a "Bike To Your Car" week.
Do I need to point out that beer is made from water so if you are drinking a case of beer a week and have a beard then you are still an asshole. You are a bearded asshole. And the amount of water used nationally brewing beer must dwarf the amount we use shaving our faces so all men look like Katie Holmes.
Maybe I'm missing something because I haven't slept in days. Is this a genuine campaign or the way a social marketing division of Budweiser justifies their ridiculous salary? Or is it a spoof and I'm gullible?

I admit that I've looked at the razor packaging and the shaving cream cans and could not bring myself to buy them. The plastic, metal, over engineered madness makes me put them back on the rack. Yeah, it's so important that mustache hairs don't fall in my Ramen noodles that I need 4 blades that pivot on an indestructible hinge so I can shave. So I used an electric beard trimmer for years and accepted looking like Don Johnson. Then I would reclaim water from my kitchen and use that for shaving but my razors were always dull and my face got a rash. In Mexico I shaved in the ocean. These days I let the beard grow wild so I will look more credible in the wilderness of Labrador. The wolves need to know I'm their friend. But if Budweiser wants to save water they should shut down their brewery and teach people to brew their own beer from reclaimed rain water. I mean, if they recognize that national water supply is actually in a crisis situation because of pollution and depleted groundwater then shouldn't they do something serious?! It's either serious or it isn't, but this game of sticking one toe in the water and running back to the house doesn't do anyone any good. Let's get serious about reclaiming rainwater, conserving the water we do use by letting lawns die, not shaving, showering twice a week at most, washing clothes less, ceasing all silicone chip manufacturing, shutting down nuclear power plants, and let legs and male chins grow hair like our good looking cousin the chimp. But I guess that just sounds insane. Better to pay lip service like reusing cups to drink coffee from Morocco.

In other news Toyota has created a social networking site that records and posts conversations between you and your car. Soon, cars will be talking to each other and the owner can elect to post that conversation on Facebook. Eventually cars will create their own networking site and only cool people will be allowed to join. But the big question is if the cars will decide to shave their beards.

Hippie Grows Old on Road

We were almost in Pennsylvania. West Virginia, to be exact, the little ear flap that stick up it's middle finger between Penn and Ohio so WV could get in on the I70 traffic fuel taxes.
"Ready, we're almost there," said Josh, a commercial const. foreman moving from New Mexico to Penn. with one too many cars to drive.
I jumped up and down.
"Let's do it. That energy drink is working like a mother fucker. I've been talking to myself for the last two hours."
Yep, I'd downed one of those "5 Hour Energy" drugs and could feel the caffeine warp my heart muscles out of true. So this is why people drink coffee! Even when those two white tail deer decided on the worst possible time to cross the 4 lanes of highway traffic and I buzzed one of their furry asses with my mustache whiskers I was unflappable. Dozens of deer carcasses lay in the breakdown lanes as the traffic on I 70 is one unbroken stream of 18 wheeled death traps running over deer and possums and bunnies for 8 hours a night. One animal ran out of the woods and straight into a 10 ft high cement barrier. He must've run down it looking for a break when the semi truck hit him and threw him against the barrier with such force that his blood and fur streaked an area about ten yards long. I knew it was Russian Roulette between deers and my car. It was like Frogger except I was driving and the frog was the size of a pro wrestler and there were dozens of frogs. Someone would hit and kill a deer tonight. Probably dozens of people. Would it be me? There was no time to stop when we were going 80MPH with lights in my dilated eyes. If there had been a third deer crossing the road I'd've hit him in the knees and kissed his asshole with my chin at 80MPH. People wonder why I didn't drive my van at night. Only chance would protect me but I was feeling lucky. There must be a special division of road kill cleanup people to go out and remove the bodies from the road. That deer would've landed in my lap and shown his disapproval of my operatic voice. But I missed him and his partner by an inch and laughed with energy drink haughtiness.
"Bring it on, Mother Nature! I'll mow you motherfuckers down one by one!"

I had just filled up the tank for $75 and was eager to move. Maybe I'd run a bobcat over! Also, if I caught the 7am bus out of Harrisburg then I'd get into Ports at night in time for Pizza slices downtown.
We left the Sheetz Bros. parking lot and Josh takes his vehicle in a weird detour toward an Applebees. I'm following in a Honda shit coupe piled so deep with clothes and Oggy debris that I have to hold one arm above my head to fit in the seat. This makes it incredibly difficult to shift gears but that doesn't matter because the clutch feels like it belongs on a go kart. I wonder, why is he going this way? Does he want to visit the Tridelphia Cabelas to look at shotguns? But it's closed...

Then I see the smoke billowing out of the hood of his truck. Doesn't look like steam. So that means a belt. It smells like burned rubber. We check it out and the serpentine belt has broken. The A/C pulley clutch has lost the will to continue and even a hatchet doesn't budge it again. It's 3am and the world is supposed to end today and it is getting cold. We attack the belt and the pulley trying to get it all out. The belt is so hot it melts a brand name into my palm. "Dayton" Backwards in my flesh.
But we do it and later I lay in the car dreaming of one day when something goes normally for me. This is the beginning of a 1300 mile trip and I have no itinerary. It's already coming unglued. I feel weighed down because of a bunch of prop pants I brought from St. Louis. too much shit to hitchhike. I decide to help him fix the truck. The bolts holding the A/C were impossible to get out with the clutch in place and we had no idea how to remove the pulley from the unit. So I use my Oggy senses and leverage a wrench under the pulley to move it enough so Josh can hammer the head of the bolt from behind and they come out.
He's got a smart phone so it's like all the information that takes hours to acquire are instantly found like where the nearest U-Pull-It is (In Penn. 5 miles east.) and the nearest Auto store, back west 3 miles in a town that time forgot called Elm Grove. But it is 4:30 am so all we can do is wait. I try to sleep but the 5 hour energy drink still has two hours left. My heart feels like a ripe grapefruit that has been hit by a canoe paddle. 27 hours without sleep as I spent all yesterday working on sealing the tile mosaic floor and packing and installing CFL light bulbs in every lamp in the house. I don't know it at the time but when the Go Juice wears off I will imagine herds of deer are leaping in front of my car and I will swerve to avoid the ghosts in my addled brain. There will be hundreds of them and I will blink and they will still be there. I don't know this yet but it will happen and so I stare at the ceiling of the car and count wolves in their arctic lair. 1.....2.....3.....4....
I also don't know it yet but this delay puts me on a collision course with a toxic Greyhound bus bathroom. Illustrations to follow...

Foxconn explosion

Did a search for this event on CNN. Nothing.
On BBC it is front page news.
Coincidence?

These products are deadly to everything.

"It is unclear whether production of the iPad will be disrupted."
Really? Explosion of ultra-light dust and the concern is over production? This isn't an anomaly. The mining of copper and rare metals is causing destruction world wide in an effort to create digital star maps for modern Mayans priests. It has to end. Tomorrow is judgment day.

Plutocracy: The Crooked Rabbit Hole

Michael Moore has prodded me again with his movie Capitalism: A Love Story. He basically films the kind of interviews I've been doing for the last 20 years. People on the street. Real stories of actual events. That's how I've learned to distrust America. That's why I'm a renegade. My self-education has totally contradicted the shit I learned in school, which means the school stuff was pure propaganda, like calling aspartame a sweetener instead of a poison. hahahaha. Yeah, it only converts to formaldehyde in the body. No worries. Believe Monsanto. They'll look out for you. BULLSHIT!
These past few years have taught us all, if you were paying attention, that there is no more democracy in North America. Wall Street does control our politics. Capitalism isn't an economic system in America, it is a political regime. "Democracy" is like the mafia's "waste removal company" that launders money for the real business. We need an oversight commission like the government but it won't resemble anything like what we have currently elected because our current government has pimped out the working man for 200 years. Everything they tell you is a lie designed to get your obedience. The smart man basically has designed a system so he can avoid to do any manual labor (what actually keeps people alive). The man who can delegate responsibility, assign blame, find loopholes will prevail over the man who plays by the rules and tries to account for his own actions. The system is designed to protect the elite at the price of the majority.
If you are happy with current events then you are basically the guy behind the wall who is pushing the button that shocks a test subject to death because a man in a white coat is telling you to push the button. You are ignorantly obeying and you are a murderer. We all are. The Ruling class has manufactured a method of environmental destruction and emotional terrorism that utterly cripples an ethical person.

We have to be strong and organize. I see that justice is not like water, eventually finding a way to its mother. No, justice is static and will obey the masses. It's a constant struggle between slaves and masters and I think the premise of land ownership is at the heart of the problem. It's mythology that everyone believes even though it doesn't work. That's the nature of propaganda.

This next year will be interesting for me as I'm determined to only work for people. That means no sexual harrassment videos or piss tests or uniforms. That also means the work will not rely on the defacto enslavement of copper miners and chinese assembly grunts. That means the only time the word "tax" is used will be when we say, "That job was taxing."
I've come across a few freethinking employers but they are fast heading for the hills. Eventually they will have to turn and fight and I'm pretty sure it will be a scared Walmart contractor who will be chasing them as the hired gun. But I know who I want to stand behind. The trouble will be finding a farm or ranch to work on. I've been studying the Amish and they are definitely an oasis in the ethical desert of America. Do I want to sing hymns in German for the chance to fix wagon wheels? I'm not sure. The Amish are not only pacifists, which means they are doomed, but they are practical and I'm not practical. They accomodate the world around them when it would be cooler if they set up road blocks and seized property from Walmart. No, a Canadian or Mexican commune is where you'll find my ematiated bones. I'll already be a visa refuge so I might as well defy taxation while I'm at it. In a crooked world, said Thoreau, the honest man is a criminal.
It's disappointing to see the lies and conspiracies take over. It all goes back to a paradigm that the earth's resources can belong to a single person. That is a political conclusion and not a human one. It is only true through might and must be taught. This mountain is yours. This island is mine. This building is yours. This cow is mine. These are taught to us but unjustified. The way Wall Street pulled the strings on the government these last three years is repulsive. It makes me feel like Oggy in Wonderland.

End The War Against the Wolves

Dear Oggy,

Thank you for speaking out against Wildlife Services' terrible wolf-killing program in Idaho. Your voice is critical to ensure a lasting future for these America's wolves.

For the Wild Ones,

Jamie and the rest of the Defenders of Wildlife team

You could be the proud recipient of this form email response if you write your state rep . at...
http://www.savewolves.org/

Naughty fun??

Email I received:
From: Rae;Bradfordgodfather2109@att.com
Date: Tue, May 17, 2011 at 6:29 AM
Subject:
To: constantjerkoff@gmail.com

FIErwBHeyRsweety,yERIyqsawUiu0aycoupleWofmmonths1agoJandCIfthinkjyounaresjustHsoPadorable.J
wIWamUsorrycifsthis4is3wrongCbut7ILgotIyourCemailpfromHmy5friendwwhodknowshyou.x
iIDwantNto1hookPupgwithwu.5Don'tfbeDscareddcuzgImHnotLgonnaqtryitowmakemux
vcommitQtoBaJrelationship.
u
VI8just9wantoto5haveLsome0naughtyvfun6withXuQifmthat's4ok.qItQwould5be1greatnifr
Byou'reisinglewbutrItreallyUdon'tdcareeifryouOarewnot.uI8stillXwantvtovhookhupewithku.i
lI3canqkeepsaIsecretvand0IuhavexnoQintentionsYoffruiningSyourUrelationship.UJustM
dreplyJbackdtoJthiswemailCifruDwantPtoFreallyNknowawhozILam.sIQwillAnotO
sdisappointnu.yIMamVgorgeous.
F
FThis3isPaQfGreeOcheck3tobu,Qnoucosts,jgotobmeetingplace.atspace.tv/Z5K36U6.htmlCy--LfillKthat7outyand9look6fortoralgirlSandKu9willRgetVaccess3tohmyRcellp#2andZa5few2reallyl
NreallyDdirty9picsl=).7
q
CJustnmakeXsurefuzputFinothatGyourO30nyearsNorBolder7becauseQyouIwontnbesableLtovsearchp
Hme4ifHyou4don't.IZmistakenlyRputmmyqpreferenceoforgonlyDonpthat4age9group..DEIetriedqitsmyselfl
VtoumakeAsureCand3itsBfreegbecauseUIkdidnt5wantgustoOget4chargedKjustgtoSmeetWme,7likeetheyZdou
qonbsomecotherQsites.JZIXmadepsure7andSyes0its4definitely9fZree.QOncebyoukverifyjsendgmeAah
Cmessagelthroughgthere.GD
5
jIzshouldHbeQon2theYwebcam2rightjnow.3Imcan'tAwaitbforcuatoEseelme.*

My Response:

m7TFIl18Dear Rae, your invitation for naughty fun comes at a bad time. See, the world is ending on the 21st and I need to pack my bags for the rapture. Also, even if the world doesn't end I will not be continuing this relationship. I feel that we are not right for each other. By that I mean you are a dirty skank and I don't date dirty skanks. Sorry. That's just how I feel. It wasn't written in the stars, my dear. Keep trying, sweetheart. I'm sure there are lots of guys who will watch you on your webcam.

You write, "I can't wait for u to see me." And I must tell you that I find that remark totally baffling. Are you that narcissistic? Like, the very act of being looked at makes you breathless with anticipation. I'm appalled. Also, you say that you "mistakenly put your preference for the over 30 age group." How should I interpret this clerical error? I am over 30. Are you repulsed by me because of my age? If so, then didn't my friend mention that I am a hoary 40 years old? It makes no sense. You don't mention your age but judging by your typing and grammar skills I would say about 11. That puts you in the Justin Beiber fan club and I want nothing to do with you.

Ethically, you should have a long talk with a minister because if you think having casual sex with a married man is "not ruining a relationship" simply because you "keep a secret" then you have some things to learn. WHO THE FUCK RAISED YOU? What kind of predatory pre-teen monster are you to randomly email married men so you can chat with them over the web? I, for one, am disappointed with your behavior. You've been very bad. Now go to your room and read "The Bell Jar" until you see the world as a place of misery and pain like the rest of us.

Regards, Oggy Bleacher.

*If you highlight the text of this email you'll see a set of characters between every word. Very sinister. You can't copy and paste the html because of these extra hidden characters. I thought they spelled out a secret message but I can't break the code. 100 punk rock points to anyone who sees a pattern. 50 punk rock points to anyone who emails this person with some spam.

Also, the chicken farmer better get ready to do a poetry reading where I read this spam email and he plays piano.