I now owe myself 46 lashes. It's very difficult to write without my chosen word (t-h-e). I want to write about "Slumdog Millionaire", best film this year, but it's difficult to do it without that word.

What a contrast between art and pornography. "Slumdog Millionaire" ALWAYS chokes me up and I have to turn my face away from my friends. Indian "Rocky".

Compare a piece of work with so much heart to Cannibal Corpse's "Entrails Ripped From a Virgin Cunt" or "Necropedophile".

But who is to say what is a good piece of work and what isn't? It all depends on my mood.

Speaking of that, most music nowadays sucks so severely that all I can do is get into 80s music I missed first time around, like Iron Maiden. I'm going to become a huge Iron Maiden fan.

When am I going to write something again, something really good, something I can get published? I think I'm going to work on my Eric Hartz series and read it for my writers group.

Liber v Jvgorvm

Tomorrow I will do a test run of the methods described in Aleister Crowley's Liber v Jvgorvm.

The first exercise is to refrain from saying a certain common word for a certain amount of time, from a day to a week or longer. I'll start with a day.

The word I will refrain from using is "The". THE. One of the most common words in the English language.

What I am supposed to do upon failure (saying the word) is to gash my arm with a razor blade.

However, I am a chicken. I am afraid of blood poisoning or gangrene. If I have trouble finding as much sex as I want now, how will I manage without an arm?

Crowley would totally disapprove of my cowardice and call me everything in the jungle but the hunter, but I have to stay true to myself.

I'M A RAGING PUSSY!

Instead, I will mark my errors down in a tiny notepad and later scourge myself for each error. This way I will punish myself without killing or permanently mutilating myself.

So, if I start paraphrasing tomorrow, you will know why - I don't want to self-flagellate.

However, the most difficult practice will be when it is time to refrain from using the word "I". Proud egotist that I am, my back will look like Denzel Washington's in the film "Glory".

Oh, the things I do to kill the depression and soul-sickness and feel like myself again!

Pink Salmon

Christmas is better when one is alone. After all, one can do whatever one wants. No pressure. I knew the good times were over when my ex and I used to go back to our own place on Christmas night. Even when I talked to ... (aka mom) I was seldom welcome to stay for more than one day or night.

Christmas now is all anticipation. When I stayed at my Dad's apartment in Atlantic Manor (a depressing garden apartment complex if ever there was one) I used to barbecue pink salmon out in the early December chill. The Indians - the ones who owned-worked at the Dunkin' Donuts on the Route 35 circle - played on the other side of the courtyard.

I was a vegan, but the pink salmon was so good it made me a microbe, I mean a macrobe, I mean a joyless macrobiotic eater rather than just a plain joyless vegan.

I'd be so sick afterwards I'd drink detox tea. That was the beginning of the end.

But now I'm so much happier, especially after going through a depression worse than what I experienced during the pink salmon phase.

I woke up this morning and said: "I feel good!"

I Love Him!

My mother did not want me sitting next to Eric Hartz on the bus.
She called Mrs. Blehart, the teacher who was in charge of the bus routes.
Mrs. Blehart was the stereotypical old battle-axe, as frightening to us small kids as the wicked witch herself. She was tall with wide shoulders. She had thinning hair and a wart on her hardened face. A real cliche!
When I returned to school Mrs. Blehart told me that I was not to sit next to Eric and I was so afraid of her that I just nodded and murmured okay to each one of her tyrannical commands.
Not only that, but she was going to ride our bus home that day to make sure I did not sit next to Eric.
Eric called me over and I was too afraid to even answer him. Mrs. Blehart kept turning around to make sure I was obeying.
When I got home I was furious.
"Why did you do that?" I screamed.
"I don't like that boy and I don't like how he's made you change!"
"But I love him! I love Eric!"
"You should love your parents! That's who you should love!"
I grabbed a large steak knife and held it to my throat.
"I'll kill myself if you don't let me hang out with Eric."
"Go ahead and kill yourself! I'd rather you be dead than friends with that boy. So go ahead and kill your damn self!"
"I'll die and then I'll be with Satan. Then I'll be happy!" As the leader of a one-man cult Eric had a rather elaborate theology. He constantly talked of God and the Devil. When I told him that our family used to live on Adrienne Road he shushed me. "Don't you say that name! Adrienne is the devil!" Adrienne Martinez was one of our classmates, a Cuban boy so absolutely evil that Eric considered him to be the devil himself. He fit in somewhere in Eric's crowded pantheon.
By that time I was even working on a Bible for my imaginary land, a place called Zekolabambaland. My Holy Book was to rival the apocrypha and various medieval grimoires and bestiaries as a listing of all sorts of real and imaginary beings.
"Let Satan take you, then! Go ahead and kill yourself then! Just remember - you only get one life."
She had called my bluff. I put the knife down.

Robots and Aliens Who Rape and Murder, a Christmas Story

My First Grade Christmas present was a box of Construx.

Construx were Legos fro children with brains. The materials were plastic nuts, bolts and beams with pieces of siding that fit in the right spot like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle.

My first project was a robot that I could hopefully program to kill people. I started on him Christmas morning.

My next projects were various tanks, planes, m0bile fortresses and missiles to do my dirty work. I must have built quite a few monstrosities from those cheap plastic parts.

A workshop of the imagination. I'm still the same, but now my toys are blogs and social networking sites.

On Christmas Day 1987 (oh, I was such a cute 7 year old tyke) the spaceship I was building in the backyard out of spare building materials sat neglected. It was warm inside and I needed a killer robot to accompany me on any outer space voyages.

However, Shrill did make an appearance. Shrill was a bat-like humanoid creature from outer space with an insatiable appetite for rape and murder.

Shrill's m/o was to wait for an attractive young lady to take a hot bath in an upstairs bathroom. Once she was naked and in the tub he would chase her out onto the roof.

Because it was winter and the roof was frozen her wet nipples would get stuck to the roof and she would be stuck there like a fly on flypaper. Shrill would then rape and behead her in front of her entire family before flying back to outer space with her head as a souveneir. Her family would be left to clean up the headless mess.

I told this story to my Uncle Charlie at the family Christmas gathering that night and he found the story hilarious.

My mother was not so amused. When I was a kid I was often asked the same question: "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She cried that night and as soon as Christmas break was over she called the school and requested that I no longer sit next to Eric Hartz who was considered, and probably rightly so, to be a bad influence.

Snow is Coming!

Yes, yippee! Yippee-fuck!

This is so awesome! I love snow! It's so cozy! I used to like the summer, but with the onset of chronic depression beginning in my early to mid-20s my entire personality changed and I now like cold, miserable weather - the colder and more miserable the better!

I need to stock up! I need to prepare! I need to load up on foodstuffs! I need to barricade myself with books!

Reading! Yes! Think of how much reading I'll get done inside the warm cozy house as a blizzard rages outside! Ya' can't get cozier than that!

Maybe I'll go on a masturbationathon - load up on Ginkgo tea and see how many times I can masturbate in one day!

I better keep abreast of changing situations! Oh! I better check weather.com right now! Oh, I need to load up on food stuffs. I need to prepare. I have to put Jack London's "To Build a Fire" first up at bat!

Boy, am I a faggot! Listen to how faggoty this whole blog is!

If only I were still drinking. I'd get drunk during the storm. I'd buy a four-pack of Murphy's stout pint cans - that would be enough to get me through the night!

Oh, I'm such a hermit! So totally in love with myself!

Since I'm sober now I'll drink plenty of tea instead!

Maybe... Just maybe I'll run around the house naked, like the weirdo in that Primus song "Nature Boy".

Oh, I'm so excited!

Snow is coming!

John Lennon, Tiger Woods and Tony Robbins

1.

Today is the 29th Anniversary of John Lennon's death.

Here are my feelings on John Lennon: Some of his songs are absolutely brilliant, but he was garbage as a human being. Why is everyone so quick to point out Tiger Woods' hypocrisy but not John Lennon's?

John Lennon preached "no possessions" and lived in the Dakota. If he preached "no possessions" then he should have given all of his millions to the poor and lived in a Section 8 building. Period. End of story. The fact that he didn't makes him a hypocrite.

In the final analysis Mark David Chapman was more of a hero than the man he murdered.

2.

When will Tiger Woods' spoiled brat of a wife grow up and start acting like an adult? If you want to move to Sweden stay there and pretend you're in a Bergman film! What a prudish country we live in! Why does sex after marriage always have to be within the confines of conjugal love? Our entire society needs to grow the hell up! Sex is great with love. It's also pretty damn good with hate. Sometimes it's good with the one you love and sometimes it's better with total strangers. Why put sex in a little box, tie it up, put a bow on it and expect every red-blooded man (and some women) to subscribe to such a bizarre, artificial and thoroughly unnatural idea of sex AND love?

By the way, what's wrong with Tiger Woods dating white women? Doesn't everyone have the right to date whoever the hell they want to date? If I were a famous black athlete I would never spit at a black woman again - just out of pure spite! Why should anyone be EXPECTED to sacrifice their own individuality in the name of race?

3.

I had a dream last night that I was a Tony Robbins type of motivational speaker. I had all of his energy, pep and enthusiasm. I bounded out to the stage and shouted: "Come on! Yeah! Let's pump it up! Yeah! Let's get excited! Yeah!" And I ran through the auditorium giving everyone a high-five.

My energy and enthusiasm were identical to Tony Robbins', but my message was very different.

I preached to my audience the importance of being lazy and having a lousy, pissy attitude. Using a flow-chart and a pointer I took them step by step through the art of becoming increasingly anti-social, using Charles Manson as a model to be emulated. Finally, I stressed an anti-consumerist ethos and the healthiness of participating in unconventional sex.

When my seminar was over I gave everyone a high-five and ran out as cheesy infomercial music played over the speakers.

The Brazilian Satyr/Transsexual Pan

I had a dream about a beautiful woman. I suppose she would be a transsexual, but in the dream she had the energy, the spirit of a woman.

She had beautiful breasts, but her lower half was satyr-like - she had a hairy ass and a nice cock. As a matter of fact, her ass was almost identical to mine. I admire my body. I do have an extraordinary body. My lower half is SO hairy.

Needless to say I was in love with the vision in my dream. No wonder I have so much trouble waking up in the morning! Who would choose the gray, humdrum - let's face it - DEPRESSING routine of banal suburban life (a life in which most women seldom pay attention to me and when they do they usually regard me with disgust) over prancing with the gods, androgynous gods, the life, soul and happiness of the universe? Which does one think I would choose?

Then an odd synchronicity. I was browsing through the "Metaphysical" section of the Borders on 34th Street and I picked up the book Liber Kaos by Peter J. Carrol, one of the founders of Chaos Magick.

In the book was a picture of an androgynous transsexual Pan.

This brought me back to my dream and only reinforced the knowledge that I am far from an ordinary individual with an ordinary fate.

My Farm

I've become one of those characters who becomes outrageously depressed on the holidays. And who can blame me. I don't really have a family anymore. My friends are my family. Lacking love at home I always had to look for love out in the big, bad world. Such attempts usually ended in disaster, but I've finally had some success. Blood is thicker than water? Blood means nothing.

Seeking a mother's love out in the world. I was always jealous of people who fit in, people who were privileged enough to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.

But look at it this way: those people will live and die anonymously. I'll be great, famous. Possibly the savior of the human race. Because once I get the power to hit back I'm going to hit back hard and knock the Li'l Waynes of the world back to the hood.

I was born a genius, but the development of that genius is how I've compensated. That's how people like me compensate. We're late bloomers. Oh, I'll get the pleasures of the flesh! I'll see to that!

But would I really want to be famous in this time, to be chewed up and spit out? Well, then at least let me get paid for my work. Then money will be my compensation! Geez! I'm as much of a philistine as 50 Cent! Well, the only reason I want money is so that I can buy conformists and turn them into a harem and a toy collection. I want to own a whole farm of Herd Animals. Most human beings have no dignity anyway. They might as well be my property.

What's great about being a writer is I can have fame and anonymity at the same time.

How much curiosity do most writers attract nowadays.

S.O.B. Part 1 of Infinity

Those hormones were racing. Adolescent hormones. I hated my parents. Hated their guts.

South of the Border. South Carolina. 1993. My world and everything in it revolved around Samantha Epstein - the hottest, prettiest, most popular girl in school.

She actually spoke a word to me before that February vacation. That meant that she was secretly in love with me. I had a chance - despite being the least popular girl in school. Yes, this was an 80s teen movie cliche but with one difference: in real life everyone has to die.

If only I could die with Samantha! We could die holding hands! We could die together and our souls merge into one. We could meet on the other side of the shore.

From New Jersey to South Carolina I listened to GN'R's "Coma" ( a song about Axl's near-death experience) and dreamed of dying with Samantha.

Flight of the Navigator

"Flight of the Navigator" was much better than "The Fourth Kind". It was even much scarier.

A 1970s-era Floriday boy is abducted by a UFO and wakes up - the same age - in the mid-1980s. He returns home and reunites with his parents who are, of course, in an emotional state somewhere between shock, fear and total elation.

NASA takes him for study, to find out why he hasn't aged in the past several years. Once he is at NASA headquarters, the UFO that captured him - now in the Top Secret custody of the U.S. government - communicates with him telepathically. The boy finds the UFO in a secret bunker and boards it.

Once aboard the UFO turns out to be a friendly intelligence with a voice provided by Paul Reubens aka Pee-Wee Herman.

The boy and his UFO go on all sorts of wild adventures before - in a heartwrenching scene - the UFO returns him to where he belongs - his parents house in the 1970s. They didn't even know he was gone!

This was the movie that inspired me to build my spaceship.

My parents had just finished building their house on Belmar Boulevard. Tools, building supplies and other scraps littered the backyard.

I connected four or five 2x4 boards with joyces for the - I now admit - rather shoddy foundation. For the floor I nailed plywood boards on top and then glued and taped bathroom tiles over the plywood in irregular patterns.

Adults thought all of this was very cute, but I thought I really was going to have a spaceship that would take me to distant planets - it was just a matter of time and effort.

In a sense, I am still this little boy and I am still attempting to visit outer space.

I think of all the years I've wasted in-between, but now I'm back.

But perhaps there is no such thing as waste.

Strength Through Joy, part 1 of Infinity

So, after the altercation with racial overtones on 42nd Street...

That was just a much-needed shot in the arm - nothing more. Such episodes remind me that I'm a Knight.

Realizing that for quite a while now I've been less than noble, a disgrace to the Nietzschean philosophy I espouse.

But I have no shame. My sickness forced me to become healthy and now - for the first time in many years - I am beginning to know the maxim "Strength through joy!" Aleister Crowley was right: "Strike hard!" and "Be thyself!"

Or in the words of another great mind, Tupac Shakur (lol),: "Be truly you, believe that there's no one bigger. 'Cause they can all suck dick. It's strictly 4 my niggaz."

Tupac Shakur - inspiring trailer-trash wiggers since '93.

I plan to write a short story about this incident

Wow. Well, I'm quite tired. I just got home from seeing "The Fourth Kind" which was one of the worst movies I have seen in quite a while.

There were black queers in the theater: a black faggot and three bulldykes making noise the entire time. At the end of the film my friend and I confronted these black queers and hurled some choice racial slurs at them. Other black people were watching but not saying anything. Good. There's something refreshing about being un-PC nowadays. Ever since we could breathe we've been told that black people are superior to us and not to be challenged in any way. Well, it's nice to stand up to the oppressors sometimes.

I was itching for a fight. I haven't been in a street-fight in five years. I haven't knocked anyone out in five years. I'm overdue. I very badly want to do some violence.

What is wrong with some (not all, of course) black people? Black Americans - as a group - have it better than any other group on the face of planet earth. Yet they're always complaining. Then they harrass innocent people. And then any fair retaliation is called racism.

On top of that they were queer.

Geez, I must say! When around niggers and deviants I want to be around quiet, decent people. Be who you are or what you are, but don't bother other people! Is there any place on earth where decent, attractive, untainted white people still exist?

Not that there's any such thing as race anymore. Now all peoples are equally worthless. But at least I have warrior blood dating back to Europe.

When around people like that I wish to live in the middle ages. I would have been a knight, a warrior, a king, a tyrant, a wizard, something. Something noble.

I think of high cultures in Europe, China, Egypt and I wish I had been a noble in such times and places. Or I identify with certain times and places.

Everything is inverted. The SLAVES are now the MASTERS. They rule us. They oppress us. Deviants and niggers force their will upon us.

It's not fair.

It's not right.

I will fight against the slaves.

I was cliche today

"Be well-ordered in your life, and as ordinary as a bourgeois, in order to be violent and original in your work" - Gustave Flaubert

This morning I was woken up by a loud knocking on my door. Bang. Bang. Bang. First on the glass and then on the wood of the door.

"Who is that?" My heart raced. Who was it? It could be anyone stopping over for any reason and I was not yet even awake.

I looked out the window and saw two elderly black women, Jehovah's Witnesses, walking away from my residence. Those fucking Jehovah Witnesses woke me the fuck up! Fucking Jehovah Witnesses.

I grumbled and grumbled and grumbled about the two Jehovah Witnesses. I then realized that I was being cliche - because it is almost cliche to hate those annoying SOBs. And hateful they are. I hate Christianity in general, but the Jehovah Witnesses are an especially loathsome Christian cult. They sacrifice their own children.

And what's with the door to door preaching? I don't go to their houses and tell them to worship Satan and indulge in hedonism!

That being said...

The truth is that I would be happy to live my life as a normal mediocrity (who wouldn't want a cozy life?) as long as my work remains brilliant, original and violent.

I don't have the same need for drugs and Rock N' Roll that I had as a young man. I'm old now (29 - can you believe that?)

Sex is a different story - I would still like to have every kind of sex imaginable with thousands of partners. But I wouldn't be so averse to settling down with the right one.

Let's face it: to be a part of a GOOD community is an antidote to depression.

The Numinous (Sorry, Stanislav Grof and other mystics)

Robert Anton Wilson compared the effects of Pranayama to LSD. So I just had to try it!

My first time with Pranayama: I experienced something of a mystical state. Everything was, unironically, "groovy" from beef fat and Mad Cow disease to all the good in the universe.

Understanding Heidegger's obsession with Being. All is contained within Being: becoming, time, space, past, present, future, thoughts, memories, words, dreams, imaginations, dimensions. ALL is contained within Being and Being is infinite.

Finally feeling like I understand Aristotle and Kant.

Such a "high" state is almost like "dope". Nothing seems worth worrying about. But it doesn't make one a hippie since both good and bad, peace and war are all contained in this infinite explosion and expression beyond words.

Here's another reason: No one ever loses one's individuality. The whole is like a mosaic made up of unique and individual parts.

Aliza novel excerpt, 500 words

Aliza for Colts Neck, first 500 or so words

"So, would you like to see my place? I'm just a few blocks away."

"Uh, okay."

"Just follow me. You'll see how easy it is."

She followed me through the parking lot of Clancy's. A right, a left and another right and we were at my place. I parked in the driveway and she parked next to the sidewalk.

I got out of my car, oh so nervous. Something one way or another was going to happen. I - toughguy that I am - have always been made nervously nauseous by confrontation. Some toughguy.

Odd. She was staying in her car. I approached her window. What kind of a lunatic did she think I was? She hadn't even turned off the engine!

She was afraid of someone as gentle as me? I'm not kidding. Someone in my writers group compared my "character" to one of the droogs in "A Clockwork Orange". I do not agree with that particular criticism. I was victimized by people like Malcolm MacDowell's character. I was the victim and they were the socially accepted victimizers. The droogs in "A Clockwork Orange" were not just conformists - they were uber-conformists. The entire film was about the conformity of postmodern youth culture. In fact, it's safe to say that Aliza was more in league with the droog-types that I ever was. She hung out with the boys who liked to torture cats. I was the one crying for hours because one of them stoned a bird to death in my presence. I was always the kind, the gentle, the sensitive, the saintly, the weak. Like Nietzsche I was too tender and fragile to play pranks with the rough boys. All of my violence and viciousness is just a compensation. Even all of my "perversion" was in love.

"Would you like to come inside for a little while?"

"No. I have to get going."

I leaned in the window.

"Can I get a kiss?"

"What? No!"

I think of the Budd Hopkins book Sight Unseen, which is basically about the ways alien abductors manipulate abductees. By the way, "The Fourth Kind" is coming to a theater near you - all of my interests eventually become popular. Damn biters.

Sometimes aliens use humans and alien-human hybrids to seduce females for their breeding programs, etc... Many of the "men" the aliens use are noticeably awkward in a seduction. For example, an abductee may be called to a phony job interview. Her interviewer, within the first three minutes, will attempt to seduce her with an awkward hug and an even more awkward attempt at a French Kiss. Being raised in what is literally an alien environment, these stooges will not know or understand adult human mating rituals or the nuances of a social interaction. These stories are creepy, bizarre or unbelievable to the average person. To me they are home. That's how "alien" I've felt when among most others. I've been "alien"ated my entire life.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! It wasn't even like that for me! I just thought I was meeting an old friend."

"Why not? I'm sure you fucked a lot of guys in college!"

Bavarian Christmas Scene

Night thoughts. Lately I've been plagued by insomnia. I twitch. I fidget. I sigh. I sigh deeply. I sigh obsessively and compulsively. Last night I sighed so much that I must have inhaled ten pounds of dust into my lungs. Now my lungs hurt like I've smoked three packs. All I want is to be TIRED every night at the right time, the coziest time. They say Nabokov was a chronic insomniac, so at least I'm in good company and at least I can get a lot of reading done. My ignorant ass read "Tristan und Isolde" last night and my ignorant ass was like: "Wow, this is like a Wagner opera!"

Last night I had a writer's group meeting. They all liked my piece. My work was compared to "A Clockwork Orange", the violence, cynicism and nihilism. But see the droogs were not victims, but victimizers. My "character" (who is really just myself) was victimized by people like the droogs. So, that's how my character is NOT like them.

My character (me) what do I want?

What I want is a Bavarian Christmas scene - a warm, happy loving family around a table full of meats and sweets. Snow on the ground outside. Warmth around family and hearth. Maybe a special young lady. Love. Tradition.

Perhaps I was too sheltered. I've come to realize that the world is not just a horrible place now. It has always been rough. Life has always been hard for everyone.

Maybe I really did grow up on too many 80s movies.

And too many European fairytales.

Another Case of Sundayitis

Sundayitis - the worst of Sunday depression: I was driving home from from Wegman's when it hit me like a ton of bricks just how much I hate everything. I feel trapped in this terrible reality of strip malls and Applebee's chains. I hate everything around me: the people, the stores, the restaurants, the shitty bubblegum pop songs on the radio, the cars around me, the gloomy weather. I just hate everything and loneliness eats me alive. I am profoundly alienated from whatever the hell is going on here and now. Some I think more should be like me and see the truth, but then how would I be special? Somebody has to be alienated in this nightmare of a dark ages - it might as well be me. Mediocrity permeates everything and the Herd rules the world - I just live in it. And this was a better Sunday than most because I actually had more than enough money to eat!

Then I woke up this morning feeling incredibly nauseous. I thought I was going to throw up. Was it the tzatziki? Did I have food poisoning?

Sitting on the toilet in the wee hours I realized all that I do have (the people I love and the people who love me) and that I need to start focusing on them.

My depression has been steadily getting better. It is crumbling now and so many pebbles, rocks and boulders are falling loose. None of it was chemical - it was all hurt, regret, failure and frustration.

The depression feels isolated now, almost like I have the luxury to indulge it. I still sleep 12 hours a night and getting out of bed is still the most burdensome task of the entire day, but at least the pain is no longer completely overwhelming.

A song that matches the mood of my depression is Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt", but when I listen to it I feel like a teenage goth kid - "let me cut myself so I can feel!"

One of the most poignant songs is Pink Floyd's "High Hopes". That song is one of the few that chokes me up every time. I think of the video for that song, particularly when an old man and an old woman are sleepwalking backwards across an open field. They bump into each other from behind, turn around, act as if they have not seen each other in years and hug. That part always gets me.

If that doesn't describe the human condition, what does?

A Good Man

Around this time last year the State of New Jersey was nice enough to send me into counseling with a psychologist.

I was enrolled in a job program for the mentally ill. The fact of the matter is that I am mentally ill, but I am also much saner than the average person. At least I can see the whole frightening and dehumanizing picture. The only cure, the only obvious answer is Freud's prescription: love, sex, work. But most people nowadays hate all three.

My psychologist, Dr. E, was a nice older gentleman, about 60 years of age.

What's odd about age is that age is often devoid of wisdom. Those maxims don't hold true. I knew more at 28 than he did at 60. I'm not even 30 yet and I just know so damn much.

Through 20 sessions I intellectually beat this man from pillar to post. He couldn't get a grip on me.

He had a rather narrow reality tunnel. He was locked in a modern bourgeois perspective. He was a Harvard graduate, NYU graduate and Rhodes scholar who knew nothing about any of my favorite philosophers. He was out of his league because I knew myself better than he did. He tried squeezing me into some kind of box and he just couldn't do it. He liked SOY because soy is very popular among what Zizek would call "liberal communists" - those who want to have their capitalist cake and eat it too. Are "liberal communists" out of style yet? They might be.

As New Age as some of his accouterments were he had never even heard of Aleister Crowley, a man who contributed so much to "New Age" thought in general. How could you pass through so many educational institutions without ever having heard of Crowley.

So I told him to look up Aleister Crowley online.

When I saw him the next week he started: "I looked up that Aleister Crowley guy."

"Oh yeah?" Let's see what Dr. E had to say.

"Weird stuff, man! Crazy stuff! The stuff he was doing with the Golden Dawn was just insane! They had all sorts of weird stuff on the page I checked out. All sorts of weird hieroglyphics and stuff. Honestly I was afraid to even look at it." He was serious.

After that Dr. E started to realize that I was merely a sane man in an insane world. What was insane? Everything he took for normal!

Dr. E was a ver good and kind man though I intellectually bested him. Yes, I pulled a bit of Guerilla Ontology on him, but just the fact that he was open to my Guerilla Ontology says something about his character. A very nice man.

Now that I have health insurance I'll go back to him just to hang out and chill once a week.

PsychoSolipsist

I like all the members of my writer's group. They're all nice people.

When I first started attending the meetings, many of the group members did not realize that I was the "character" in my stories.

Virtually everything I write is autobiographical or semi-autobiographical. Invariably I am the main character, the arch-villain or sympathetic hero.

I am a narcissist and solipsist. I find myself to be intensely interesting and utterly fascinating.

The other members of the group, not knowing that my "character" was me, would say things like "This guy is a psychopath!" or "He's certainly a sociopath!" or "This is one sick individual - he's practically schizophrenic!" or even "What an asshole!"

I would sit there, trying to suppress a grin, loving every minute of it.

Am I any of these things? Yes and no. I'm very far from being a psychopath - I love, care and have sympathy for way too many people to be even remotely close to psychopathy.

I may be a mild sociopath, but I'm usually far less sociopathic than many of the people who have accused me of being a sociopath! And considering some of the defining moments in my young life it would be surprising it I were not mildly sociopathic.

I have been sick with debilitating mental illnesses, but I'm not a schizophrenic. I simply enjoy a different, often inverted view of consensual reality, but it's still consensual.

And am I an asshole? Well, sometimes, but my problem is mostly that I'm too nice to people, even to those who aren't deserving of my kindness. Maybe I'm more of a doormat!

Basically I am like Jim Morrison: a sensitive, intelligent individual, but with the soul of a clown. I'm the nicest guy in the world - nothing but a big marshmallow!

My "character" is just a better, bolder, braver version of myself.

And who doesn't sympathize with the Columbine shooters every now and again?

aum mani padme hum

Lately I have been meditating 30 minutes a day. As of yesterday my schedule was upped to 30 minutes of mantra yoga (aum mani padme hum) and 5 minutes of dharana (concentrating on a single object, in this case a red triangle.) Eventually I will add pranayama.

Yes, I am once again practicing magick and mysticism. I do think I got myself into some small trouble last time. I was reading an amateurish book and I think I either unbalanced or unleashed certain energies that were responsible for my recent eating disorder. The writer of this book was a rather amateurish writer. One can't trust a mediocrity when it comes to magick. One literally has to die to oneself 1,000 times over (and not out of cowardice.) To take things halfway (or too far at first) against the massive forces that course through the universe can be very dangerous when one is unprepared. Especially if one, like me, suffers from mental illness. Yes, it is well-documented that I suffer from OCD, anxiety and depression among a host of lesser ailments. I cannot delve too deeply into magick until I tame or eliminate these problems through extensive training in basic yoga.

This time I'm going with Aleister Crowley. Crowley, to be fair, must be the most misunderstood figure to have ever lived. The Ozzy Osbourne song adds to the confusion (though it is a pretty good metal song.) Crowley made everything challenging. Nothing happens without hard work. I needed to read the amateur to understand much of what Crowley writes, but now that it comes time for practice again I only want to follow the real magician, the one who makes true "star children" work for it. Anybody can screw up their karma with an amateur.

So, I have been practicing asana, mantra-yoga and dharana under the guidance of Crowley's "Equinox". Like a good Thelemite I have been keeping a daily magickal diary recording the thoughts and experiences that occur while I am meditating.

Most of what is in this diary is not my best writing. Mostly I describe the discomfort felt while holding one position for an half hour. Sometimes I'll describe the mental junk that will float to the surface and I will occasionally philosophize on what all of this (life and practice) means. I believe I went on a good riff about Hegel and mysticism the other day. I was meditating and a sexual thought came up. Then I thought that the same impulse I have to commit a sexual act is in dialectical opposition to the force telling me NOT to commit a certain sexual act and that I must transcend this dialectic. Not necessarily with a synthesis (though syntheses sometimes do work), but through transcending the whole argument, the whole conflict, and then transcending that and then transcending THAT until everything becomes like some kind of Chinese box and then transcending THAT until I've transcended everything.

So, yes, I will philosophize in my magickal journal (and because I'm so original in general I am sure I crowded it with at least enough original thoughts), but for the most part I come across as sounding like a rather dogmatic Thelemite (though I'm not dogmatic in general.) But at least I SOUND like nothing more than a teenager star-struck by Crowley.

It's good my best work was not in that magickal journal. And here's why:

I think I may have lost that journal on a New Jersey Transit train. This is my worst nightmare. Strangers reading thoughts that did not go through my (sometimes) stringent editing process. Or people reading something they are NOT supposed to read. Or me giving something sacred away. Or me giving my writing away for free.

Let's face it: I'm a brilliant writer and almost everything I do is very creative and original. ORIGINAL. My talent as a writer was inborn but it did not develop overnight. It took a lot of HARD WORK and SACRIFICE! I had to miss out on a lot to think and write like this! For instance, while other people were partying and getting laid I was studying Hegel!!! So whatever I write that was inspired by Hegel was earned! I earned it! Despite the American compulsion to work, most people do not know what it is to really EARN something.

But then think of Hegel again... Isn't one often defined by one's own opposition, by one's own antithesis?

Instead of OCDing about someone on the train ripping off my ideas I could use this spur to my OCDs (and yes the thought of losing even one of my journals is highly bothersome to me - it makes my OCD feel like a groundhog on steroids flipping out in the middle of my brain) to attain a certain liberation.

aum mani padme hum

Now I'm writing like one of those loathsome Beat assholes.

But, really, doesn't everyone already know that I'm brilliant? Each day I work harder, but with less to prove.

aum mani padme hum

The mantra of the Rosy Cross; of all the rituals that one helped me to feel most comforted.

I just finished reading Julius Evola recently. He was describing the differentiated man and the man who makes his home at the center of his own being. If I do this, what do I have to fear - that someone will rip off some of my most dogmatic thoughts?

aum mani padme hum

I'm liberating myself. I'm going to use this mishap to my advantage.

Maybe it happened for a reason?

Why I stopped eating Wendy's cheeseburgers

During and after my four year relationship I became historical. In my newfound misery (I've, unfortunately, known misery greater and worse since then), I could only dwell on the past or dream and project myself into the future. I was no longer "in the moment." I could only hope to live in the future. And to have a proper vehicle for my "future life" I would have to preserve both my health and my sexual potency (hence my avoidance of beef, cigarettes, and other deleterious substances and lifestyle practices.)

This was in addition to the present-timed (in the past, during those four years) self-denial I was already practicing. I became too good at patience, forbearance, and self-restraint. Then - when I was set free from my prison - my desire to "make up for lost time" became compulsion. Then, oftentimes, even when I succeeded the grayish black spiritual "gunk" kept me from fully enjoying the moment.

Walking past the gazebo on the Ocean Grove Boardwalk. Realizing that I'm growing up. Yes - me. Growing up spiritually. Big pieces of past conditioning falling off me like boulders. Seeing how conditioned I still am. Psychology is good for something.

Walking to the end of the Asbury Park Boardwalk. The beer garden. They put a bed in there in imitation of what they think is going on in New York City clubs. They're nowhere close to doing anything legitimately hip and they are not New York City. But they're trying. And I start to feel like I'm going to cry - like the time I jeered the Christmas lawn balloon as it sunk to the ground and then cheered as it was resurrected.

Erotic Irony.

Loneliness.

Erotic Irony, part 1 of 1 Trillion

When I was "normal" (around 1999/2000) I used to eat a Wendy's triple bacon cheeseburger every day of the week. Three beef patties, bacon and cheese on a bun (now I sound like the commercial.) Oh, it was so good. I used to eat Biggie fries, the triple cheeseburger, and then a chocolate frosty. Oh, it was so good. And I would eat this - or a variant of it - seven days a week. I was 19 years old and healthy as a horse. On top of this I smoked Marlboro Red 100s morning, noon, and night and I drank myself into a stupor every Friday night.

Seldom have I been happier or healthier. I had a macho, redneck, meat and potatoes attitude toward everything. I hated fags who used words like "kitschy" or "Kafkaesque".

Now look at me! I have to force myself to drink fruit smoothies and eat hummus with crackers just to avoid dying of self-starvation. Christ Almighty!

If I were to be honest with myself I would say that I do want to start eating burgers again - but the risk of Mad Cow disease is too great. I need a major success in my writing career before I can eat beef again - so I can die from Mad Cow disease as a success!

My Irrational OCDs

My OCDS are irrational. The other night I was walking to my kitchen when I heard a very loud gunshot. The shot was close - very close. So close that I ducked in my stairwell for a second.

But I was hungry. I had some good food to microwave and I was hungry.

But I'm afraid of microwave ovens. I can feel the waves in my body and I'm worried that microwaves will damage my mental, physical, and spiritual health.

So I put my food in the microwave, hit the start button, and sprinted outside into the gunfire.

I then realized that I was more concerned about microwave ovens than gunfire.

I then realized how irrational my OCDS are.

Loneliness and Isolation

The two biggest curses in my life have always been loneliness and isolation. Sometimes my life feels perverse, like I was a beauty who was locked in an attic for years, her angelic looks withering away by the day! That's a nightmare. I think of Hobie.

Hobie was my cousins' dog. He was a small white dog, a Westminster terrier. However, my cousins were not good pet owners. Hobie spent most of his life in the laundry room. Westminsters have long lives. They live almost as long as cats.

Hobie was neglected his entire life. A heartbreaking story. When Hobie was five years old he had been neglected for five years. But he wasn't bitter. All he wanted to do was play. He seemed to say: "Forget about the last five years! It's not too late! It's not too late!"

I seem to be saying the same thing. "Forget about the last 28 years! It's not too late! It's not too late." But what bothers me is that each BAD day that passes is one more day that brings me closer to "too late". 'Cause I ain't gettin' no younger neither!

Nothing is worse than loneliness and isolation combined with inactivity. All the ghosts, all the shadows come out to play. There's nothing worse than the clammy sweat of cabin fever. There's nothing worse than insomnia and malaise. Now that I've quit drinking I have one less short-term aid.

But things could get worse. I do have friends - the best friends in the world - but I just happen to be terribly isolated from them. I don't have much of a family, but my friends make up for my family.

I crave ATTENTION! I crave HUMAN LOVE! I crave friends, family, belonging. The only reason I constantly express so much hatred toward the dullards is that they find it so easy to attain what I most want: friends, family, love, companionship, healthful activity with others.

I need to live - and live constantly - NOW! Before it really is too late. It's bad enough that I've wasted so many years. I just don't want to waste anymore. I'm like Hobie.

I have so many qualities. I'm talented, intelligent, good-looking. If I could just get past the isolation - the WORST poison and poverty of all - I could have EVERYTHING!

The Christian Comedian

I was going on my daily walk down Ocean Grove boardwalk (yes, my life is mostly made up of gentle old man routines - am I in some kind of rush to be a benevolent old man?) when I walked past the Christian queer-hating pavilion. Dyke couples always want to marry in the pavilion but the Methodist church owns the joint and God Hates Fags!

Ocean Grove is still a dry town. It was founded by prim and proper Methodists. In the summer they still have large Christian conferences, the town is swamped by Christians living in temperature-controlled tent cities.

On this day a Christian comedian, I believe his name was Tim Brennan, was performing in the pavilion. What was odd was that he was basically doing a Christian version of Rodney Dangerfield.

He started off, in a Rodney Dangerfield voice: "Oh, boy! I'm tellin' ya! I get no respect! I went to my podiatrist and he told me he hasn't seen so much corn since he was a kid growing up in Nebraska! I get no respect!"

I wanted to tell my friend Todd Montesi - a comedy veteran - about this. He would have had a good laugh.

But I like guys like Tim Brennan because they are paradoxically creepy and comfortable. Watching him made me want to go back to Ocean City, New Jersey when I was 13 years old. I was in the middle of puberty, wanted nothing more than to have sex with all the hot girls in my class and our aunt took us to see a Christian mime show on the Ocean City boardwalk. Why? I don't know. We were all Catholics and none of us were that Christian. After the show the adults drove home and my cousins and I made fun of the show the whole way. So at least this guy brought me back to the smell of salt, boards, and saltwater taffy. Not to mention a mental snapshot of Lucy the Elephant.

I live and let live. But could you imagine if Tim Brennan fucked with me comedically? Could you just imagine what someone like me - or Todd or whoever - would do to him in a roast or a comedy duel? How easy it would be, like sporting on an injured, crippled deer?

See, what gives one strength is NOT the Lord Jesus Christ. What gives one strength is a lack of limits. I am an eternal, boundless, limitless being. Paradoxically I am also contained (while being uncontained) and individual. I am flexible, adaptable. I follow the comedy Tao. Anything that comes to me is just absorbed, digested, transfigured, or rejected. It's impossible to hurt me. I am like water.

Once you accept just ONE very narrow, dogmatic, short-sighted philosophy (like Christianity) you have no room to stretch, to step out of the bounds, to experiment, to be funny. And then you end up on the Ocean Grove boardwalk doing a routine for half-deaf old ladies while other comics are snorting coke and having orgies (well, a small number of them anyways.)

But we need Tim Brennans. I have nothing against him. Honestly I thought he was pretty funny! But could you imagine if he said to one of the old ladies: "Corn! Nebraska! I want to shove corn up some pussy! Let me shove it up my fucking ass!"

Imagine that. I know I did.

WWJT

Racism is over, of course. Every day I see large, multicultural groups of punk kids united in ignorance, conformity, and consumerism. What would Julius Evola (the Radical Traditionalist) think? All I can hope is that those kids will be easy prey for future dictators, fodder for the future rulers so ruthless that Adolf Hitler - of all people - was terrified by their cruelty.

But let's be optimistic. The meek, and we - the spiritual aristocrats - are the meek, shall inherit the earth. Hopefully the future will be a boot on their necks.

But I have to look at how much of what I have just written has been motivated by Resentment and Revenge and let it go. Let it all go. They're waste. And like waste all I have to do is excrete them.

Everything I Do is Brand New, three on contemporary American life

1.

Yesterday I was on the boardwalk and there was a gang of young, black kids, a bunch of skinny, wannabe knuckleheads and posturing wannabe thugs, the usual crowd. They were being loud and rowdy and warming up for an abusive-fest. Black kids love to indulge in "Abuse-Fests" where they go around abusing innocent people for no reason. These damned kids don't have enough to do! They should be in school 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, all year long. Skateboards should be made illegal.

Anyway, one of the skinny morons was rapping: "Everything I do is brand new..."

Wrong! Wrongo! NOTHING you do is brand new. NOTHING. You're as old hat as anything that happened in Rome. What you think is "brand new" existed thousands of years ago.

You don't believe me? Read Juvenal. Juvenal writes about living in the outskirts (the ghetto areas) of Rome. He writes of young knuckleheads with gold chains and gold teeth hanging outside corner bodegas. Sound familiar? Nothing changes. In this case, not even the clothes.

Or read Terrence. Terrence, in his time, was a black rapper. Yes, Terrence was a black man in Ancient Rome and he wrote plays about pimps, hos, hustlers, and street life. His characters spoke in a vulgar, slangish Latin that was much like the ebonics of today.

So no, nothing about you is new. You suck conformity out of a straw, you fraud! And you don't even know you're a fraud. Your ego is too big (for no good reason) and your brain is too small!

2.

Now on to the Herd Animals at these Town Hall meetings. What are these Herd Animals stampeding about? What are they so upset about? Talk of health care - when it doesn't confuse the living hell out of me - usually puts me to sleep. I don't know what the hell is going on! I'll admit my ignorance! But I must say that I am usually against whatever the Herd Animals are for and vice versa, of course. And I can tell just by looking at their pictures in the paper that they are Herd Animals.

3.

According to the Daily News, 57% of women would prefer an extra $50 a week over sex. Why are many (but not all) women so hateful? My heterosexuality is hanging by a thread. I could at least use an understanding shemale.

Money is that damned important? These women should be branded on the forehead with an "H" for "Hateful". Anyone who would choose $50 over sex is a hateful piece of work.

But that's our society. Everything is money. And what good is it? Money is good for one thing and one thing only: basic survival and one or two material luxuries. Past that it's good for nothing. Yes, the cliche is true: the best things in life are free - like sex and friendship.

A Quick Piece on Anti-Depressants

According to the Associated Press, 10% of Americans now use anti-depressants. As both a victim and a survivor of psychiatry and anti-depressant drugs I cannot understand why so many people are willing to gamble with their most important organ and commodity: their brains. Brains are obviously not valued in this society.

Thanks to Prozac I will never again be the same person I once was. I can still feel pleasure but it is a bit more detached. I can still feel joy, love, and happiness, but Prozac robbed me of the ability to feel those emotions naturally and spontaneously. I sometimes feel there is a big hole left in my brain and in my life. No matter how I struggle to once again feel like the same person I hit a blank space.

If people are depressed perhaps they should first examine their lives and the society they live in. They should examine our schools, our workplaces, our media, our schedules and, last but not least, our values. And then they should seriously ask themselves if their problem is what our society is telling them it is: chemical imbalances and misfiring neurons. Let's not take the "pinnacle of civilization" we are currently enjoying for granted! Let's examine the real problems rather than popping another pill to continue to function as a cog in a dying wheel.

Am I an artist or am I a loser. All I have to do is submit to art, the way some people submit to the will of a false Christ. Once I submit to art, everything will work itself out.

There is good ego and bad ego. Bad ego is "What will they think?" Good ego is "I know and love myself so I don't care what they think."

Still, sometimes it is hard tolerating disrespect. I'm better than the people who disrespect me. I'm a prophet, a messiah next to them. Yes, sometimes people treat me like a bum, a loser, a parasite, a nobody, a non-person.

But then I have to think of the people who see through society's blinders and who love and respect me because they know that I am blindingly brilliant. To these people I'm grateful.

I must resist the urge to punish the people who treat me with less respect than I deserve.

I deserve more because more is what I always wanted. I never had to resist more because more was never offered to me. I never wanted to waste myself on normalcy, so why was I deprived.

These blogs have become whining sessions on how deprived I've been. On how even some of the most oppressed have had it better than me. Sometimes I cringe when I think that some people I really admire have seen me writing with the voice of a bitter loser.

I just need to be published again. That's all that really matters.

All that matters is that I am published again.

Beyonce

I, of course, don't care for pop culture stars in general, but Beyonce never did it for me. No offense to black people, but there is something too "Southern-Fried" about her. I find her greasy. I am certain her pussy tastes like pigs feet. She probably would never allow a man to eat her pussy: "Un-unh! I ain't in to that freaky shit!" Why are too many chocolate-colored people so damn VANILLA when it comes to sex? They have the equipment and they're good using it, but that's it.

During good missionary, Beyonce probably calls the pathetically untalented Jay-Z all sorts of Southern pet names: "Come on, watermelon! Come on, collard green! Take that pussy, ham hock! Come on, cornbread!"

So this sexually conservative "Southern-Friedness" is why I am one of the few white males to have never had Jungle Fever for Beyonce. Not only that but her music is irritating.

She has perfected the "broken record" style. Each one of her songs sounds like a broken record, but none are as irritating and repetitive as the "If you like it then you should have put a ring on it". That song is not only irritating and repetitive but it is unimaginative: "If he liked it then he should have put a ring on it"? What if he just wanted to fuck you and forget about you, cunt? The lyrics SHOULD be: "If he liked it then we should now engage in bisexual orgies with friends, neighbors, and co-workers." That's a better lyric.

Beyonce should reinvent herself. The first thing she should do is get a tattoo on her forehead that says "Eat-Sleep-Fuck-Kill". Then she should imitate the stage antics of notorious punk rocker G.G. Allin. Imagine a naked Beyonce mutilating herself on stage with a rusty razorblade before shitting in her hands and throwing it at her audience. G.G. Allin used to do stuff like that all the time. He was also more talented than Beyonce, so perhaps she should cover some of his songs, such as: "I Wanna Rape You", "I Wanna Piss on You", "I Wanna Shit on You", "I Wanna Kill You", "I Hate People", "Eat Fuck and Die" and his most famous song: "Scumfuck".

Beyonce would be doing herself a favor by covering any of those songs. Each one is better and less repetitive than "If he liked it than he should have put a ring on it."

Just imagine a nude, mutilated Beyonce cursing, spitting, bleeding, fighting, fucking, and shitting on stage - just like G.G. Allin.

Now I would pay money to see that.

Magick and Money

The other night I was walking on the boardwalk and I overheard two rather youngish - late 20s, about my age - black women talking. The one woman said to the other: "Money - MONEY - is what makes the world go round. Period, point blank. That's all there is to it." The other one nodded her head in agreement.

The two philosophers.

Isn't it a shame to see people of my generation - still young, still viable - just so badly deluded?

Oh, yes, we need money to survive, of course, and that is why money is important. Yes, money is important!!! No one can deny that. It is important for FOOD, SHELTER, and an OCCASIONAL LUXURY. And that is IT!!!!! Period, point blank. In the words of Robert Anton Wilson, money is a bio-survival ticket. In our fearful society whoever stacks the most bio-survival tickets is considered the winner. Like a rat if we do what we are told we are provided with bio-survival tickets. If we go through the maze the way the architects of the scheme want us to go through the maze!

AND THIS IS OKAY!!! There is no dishonor in doing what must be done to SURVIVE - and even to SUCCEED!!! There is no harm or dishonor in this.

However, there is something wrong with losing perspective and seeing such a small part of the picture.

This is where magick comes in. People hear "magick" and they think of wizards in robes looking into crystal balls and shooting lightning bolts from a wand. This is NOT what magick is. Magick is many things - it is life itself. Beyond the dogma of various magickal traditions magick is a journey through the astral plane.

The astral plane is infinite and infinitely varied, but at first it does not seem as exotic as it is. It is where we often go when we dream. And, yes, it is both glorious and dangerous, a place where your wildest dreams and worst nightmares may come true. This is why it is very important to prepare - and prepare thoroughly - before becoming too deeply involved in magick.

But the best thing about the astral plane is that it seems to me as if money means NOTHING there! Entering the astral plane takes real WORK.

And me? I am still an IGNORANT KID. I, right now, am in the process of deconditioning myself. Like Socrates I at least know that I know nothing. By deconditioning myself I am on the road to becoming RADIANTLY SANE. Though, of course, I will appear INSANE to this INSANE society.

Conspiracies don't take place in dank basements. They are right in front of your face, every time you stand in the checkout aisle and read about "Jon and Kate."

Magick in the end, for me, is learning how to live, love, and feel again while being myself.

I want to start exploring again, but this time I am aware of the highs and lows, the comforts and the dangers, the joy and the anguishes of knowing how things REALLY work.

I want to read Julius Evola, but he is hard to find. I'll have to check out some occult bookstores in New York. I'll keep ya' posted!

As I finished my walk on the boardwalk the two philosophers walked toward me, still stuck. As stuck as ever.

X: The Blog

I've been reading "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" because sometimes I like to pretend I am in college. I'm almost halfway through it. It's not Kant, Hegel, Nietzsche, or Heidegger. Malcolm X has a very shallow intellect at best.

I'm actually reading it because I was a huge fan of "X: The Movie". I've always contended that Spike Lee is a genius (and, yes, he is - I'm a huge Spike fan). This is confirmed by "X". Spike Lee managed to make it look like Malcolm had actually had a rough life!!!

In reality Malcolm X had known only a very, very charmed life. From the moment he was born he was spoiled with love, affection, attention, kindness, and caring from family and friends. He was spoiled with love and kindness from friends and strangers both black and white. In the 7th Grade he was on the honor roll and he was elected class president in an all-white school. And he was more sexually precocious at 13 than I was at 19!

At the age of 16 he moved in with his wealthy older sister in Boston. Though his sister was happy to financially support him indefinitely he found a job at a dance hall and soon found himself in a cool, reefer-smoking jazz crowd of cool hepcats. He hung out with hepcats all day and all night and dated the most beautiful white woman in Boston. Rough life for a 16 year old, huh?

Now let's look at what I was doing at 16: At 16 I was completely impotent from Prozac. I was sleeping 16 hours a day. I had trouble feeling the slightest emotion of any kind.

At the age of 17 Malcolm X was living in Harlem, hanging out with the greatest jazz musicians to have ever lived and sleeping with literally hundreds of the most beautiful white and black women in New York City.

Let's look at what I was doing at 17: At 17 years of age I was still a stone virgin. I was in the midst of a very severe Prozac-induced depression. I had very few friends and I spent my days and nights weeping for a girl who had left me for a black guy, though I probably would have been sexually superior to this black guy. My skin worked against me.

Malcolm X's wild life, of course, did lead to a prison term (I'm not up to that point in the book yet) but if you want to stay out of prison stick to one simple rule of thumb: DON'T BREAK THE LAW! He could have worked as a humble porter and still have bedded half the women in Harlem.

After prison Malcolm X became a spokesman for the supposedly disadvantaged. Malcolm X's only disadvantage was that everything had come to him way too easily. So easily that he didn't appreciate it. Everything that matters - women, family, friends, nightlife - had come to him without effort on his part. I, on the other hand, had to work hard and fight for everything I have ever had.

White people were better to X than they have ever been to me.

The only reason Malcolm X hated white people was because he was a bully by nature (some people are just born that way) and like most bullies he enjoyed picking on the weak and disadvantaged, which is why he picked on white people.

My envy of him would be enormous if he had not been a total ingrate and sold out true religion (sex, drugs, and Rock N' Roll) for a false religion like Islam.

In a way he was like St. Augustine or St. Augustine Jr. (St Augustine Jr. is this guy I once met, this penis-headed douchefuck ex-football player and porn star who had found Crust - I mean Christ.) To me people like him and Malcolm X are nothing more than simple ingrates to Satan.

But at the same time Malcolm X's religion and activism was probably a con, a con he ran even on himself to keep himself from fucking up again. Yes, he was a con and if there is one thing I have learned from the streets it is this: Once a con, always a con.

Pondering Resentment and Revenge

1.

Heidegger was right: It takes at least a good ten years to fully understand Nietzsche.

Today I will focus on Nietzsche's concept of Resentment and Revenge. For me, my own Resentment and Revenge has turned my life into an Obsessive-Compulsive living Hell. In this case Resentment and Revenge (R&R) is not what you may first think.

2.

Of course, I do suffer from the popular concept of R&R as well.

For example today I was reading Metro New York. Some yuppie douchebag wrote a 500-word column on the cartoon labels on wine bottles. Being itself has been neglected for so long and the human race is in such a bad way that I can barely refer to them as even human anymore and some pussywhipped yuppie prickface wants to take up the space that is RIGHTFULLY MINE with stories of wine and cheese (and not even good ones at that.)

When I read such worthless, meaningless drivel I feel what most people would consider to be a feeling of R&R, the bitterness over a past grievance and the wishing of revenge upon those who have served me a gross injustice.

But my feelings toward the latte-sipping yuppie wimps who have trashed MY newspaper (spiritually I own it) is just the first and the most densely obvious shade of R&R, the first stop on the express train to purely metaphysical and outright ontological R&R.

3.

Yesterday I was blissfully happy (being with a certain person helped.) I was so happy that I was miserable over not being able to stop or at least slow time. I watched Clint Eastwood's "Grand Torino" and I was sublimely happy and despairingly miserable at the same time. I wished I could have watched a 24-hour version of "Grand Torino" (though that time too would have eventually passed away.) Or maybe I would have liked to have split myself into many selves and one of my selves could watch "Grand Torino" for eternity.

I've come to hate the forward march of time, but what can I do to stop it? Yes, Nietzsche was right. Metaphysical R&R is pure disgust too, but it seems impossible not to have such disgust because reality is just structured a certain way.

4.

Is it possible that once you're as wise as Nietzsche it's impossible to do anything but Will into the future?

5.

The worst Revenge is keeping a scorecard. I think storing up treasures in the "Jouissance Warehouse" may be a product of consumer conditioning. I, personally, am prepared to put a label and a price-tag on everyone and everything. This is why I react so violently by being such an anti-consumer. And - Godammit - I want to get PAID for being an anti-consumer.

6.

See, I have been frozen in concrete. I need to "loosen up". Because I'm so tight it has been difficult for me to feel anything. Pleasure now is too often the feeling of being drained of raw sewage. Or of having my ear drained of a pus-oozing infection. Painful and "oh-so-delicious" at the same time. I have to be attached without focusing on being attached.

I mowed the lawn today and I accidentally spilled gasoline on my sweatpants. Panic! What if the gas hurts me penis? I went upstairs and showered for an hour. I'm not cut out for suburban life. Thank goodness I do not live in a McMansion neighborhood. I know it is a stereotype, but yes, the white bourgeois are downright homicidal when it comes to lawn care. They are all worried about their PROPERTY VALUES!!! (Don't worry I'll stop bashing the white bourgeois soon enough. Why? Because bashing that particular group is so old hat!)

What I don't understand is this: why should a neighbor's messy lawn affect SOMEONE ELSE'S property values? As long as THEIR lawn is not messy why should any buyer or broker care about the neighbor's lawn? People don't know how to mind their own business. Imagine if I lived in a McMansion neighborhood! Imagine if I went a week without mowing my lawn as I sometimes do now! I would be hanged. But why? Property values? Why would they attack me and not the system that determines a property's value? Why attack me and not the irrational system?

This is just a small part of my general inversion of everything, of all values that are held sacred or taken for granted. Why doesn't anyone else ever think about this stuff?

Summer Happiness

Summer is finally here and, well, lately I have been so much happier. I've thrown everything and the kitchen sink at my depression and it seems to be working. Now I must remained disciplined. No smokes, drugs, alcohol. I must eat good, healthy, natural food and exercise every single day. I must masturbate at least four times a day (since my depression has lifted I can once again easily do 6 or 7 times a day, every day of the week.) I'm still not 100%, but at least now there is hope that I will someday soon be 100%.

Often, at night, I feel so deliriously happy that I panic when I think about death. I mean, what more do I need? My weekend begins on Monday. I'll stay up late (but not too late - I don't want to stand up the aliens), drink Gingko Biloba tea (which should be classified as a psychotropic drug - it brings me back to the best emotional states I have ever known), and watch my double-VHS tapes of midwestern tornado footage. Sometimes I'll watch "Rambo", "Point Break", "Mannequin", or some other great film from the 80s/early 90s.

It feels great to be comfortable in my own skin and the only thorn in my happiness is that I will have to one day die. I try to push it out and tell myself "Well, not for a long time" but I just can't shake the thought.

On a hot, summer night, cool Air-Conditioning cooling my jog-induced sunburn I am so happy that I want to live forever.

Am I a Humanist?

I guess what I was really trying to say is this: People hate Bernie Madoff because when they look at him they see themselves.

If I had written just that I would have made my point 110% and saved the printers a lot of ink, but I want to waste ink. I'm entitled to waste some damn ink. I've earned it.

I even think Stanley Crouch was responding to my letter today in his syndicated column. I think he noticed that I was "inverting". Up is Down and Down is Up. Perspectivism. It's easy to throw out anyone's problem or grievance with inversion. But isn't it really just questioning things? Aren't criminals and lunatics better than the average person? Hell yes! The average person is the worst criminal and lunatic of all. Hitler was far from average but average people were the ones who loaded the ovens.

I invert because inversion now makes sense. Because everything has been inverted to create hate and mediocrity I have to "reinvert" in an attempt to strive for love and spectacularness.

Another thing I was thinking today: LAZINESS IS HARD WORK. Not only that, but nowadays laziness is a duty. Laziness is a revolutionary act. There's nothing "proud" about being a good citizen. There's only pride in being someone like me. Boy, does that sound biased!

Anywho, I have to look at all the GOOD in the world. After all, I did have an excellent jog today. Boy, did it feel good! All the pretty girls were on my way up - when I was too out of breath to focus! And then when I could stroll back - at my leisure - the girls had all disappeared and there were nothing but kids and old ladies! Just my luck!

I stood at the end of the pier and looked out over the beach. 'Twas low-tide. Children were playing in a little gully. Imagine how fetid the gully must have been - all those little kids pissing in there. No wonder we all like playing in such gullies. We crawled out of those gullies billions of years ago, right? Why is it always suppressed when a baby is occasionally born with gills, fins, webbed feet and tails?

Do all of those pretty girls on the boardwalk know how "fishy" they are - literally! If only they could see what they once were - slimy toad-like slugs writhing onto dry land. That image would shatter their shallow complacency!

THIS IS ONE OF THE REASONS WHY WE ARE SO ATTRACTED TO THE OCEAN. We like to be reminded of our own mortality. At least I do. It makes life more romantic.

I look out over the thousands and thousands of people on the beach and I am genuinely happy. I am listening to the ocean and really enjoying the moment, but I still think: "I'm not one of these people. I'm an alien. I don't understand them and they will never understand me. I'm so much more warm and sensitive than them and at the same time I am so much colder and prickly."

I'm ready for the next step in evolution: Complete and total self-interest and devotion to one's own life and work. The achievement of all necessary social goals and tasks with no coercion. The celebration of love, pleasure, and sexuality outside of all traditional limits.

I'm upset with them because they are slow and immature and I am made to feel like I am obligated to clean up for them!

But see, I'm struggling. I'm trying so hard to get over the hate. I don't want my writing to become a never-ending scourge on people's backs. I want to write about the LOVE.

Could you imagine if everyone was as intelligent as me?

But then where would be the challenge? And we all need a challenge in life. But Geez Louise! There's just so much (religion, politics, money, economics, morality, technology, the culture, the media, public education, small minds, low IQs - and a thousand other things!) holding us back from being all that we can be.

Am I a humanist?

The Cringe Herb

Gingko Biloba is the cringe herb. I already consider it an integral weapon in the arsenal in my battle against depression.

St. John's Wort is more of a painkiller. The pain is neutralized, followed by a feeling of general well-being. St. John's Wort is homeostasis plus 1.

My depression has eased a great bit since this past winter, thanks to my supplement routines and an intensification of my exercise program.

But now I feel as if I've reached a certain plateau. I don't hurt as much, but I still have trouble feeling. I have emotions more often now, but not enough. I'm about 50% better, but I will not rest until I am 110% better.

This is where Gingko comes into the equation. When I drink Gingko tea I feel like the old me. Like the one who used to dream of Beverly Hills when Michael Jackson was still in his prime. Gingko is known as a mind-enhancer but I find it refreshing and "visceral". 100% visceral, 0% stuffy. It is a cool, refreshing breeze.

It rushes blood to my brain and my thinking becomes clear. Then I cringe. I feel so much like the real Will Johnson that I begin to cringe when I think of some of the things the depressed Will Johnson has said and done. I see - with painful, piercing clarity - that I was psychotically depressed. I realize this to an embarrassing and cringe-worthy extent.

Then I realize I am going to die and all the erudition flies out the window and I realize what intelligence really is. Not to mention character, emotion, humanness.

Gingko Biloba: a cool mountain breeze blowing away dust, mold, and stifled air.

Michael Jackson: A true talent and a representative of a much, much, much, much, much better time.

Jon Stewart

I had a dream last night that I was on the Daily Show. I was urinating in Jon Stewart's mouth. I was standing on one end of the soundstage and Jon was on the other. I was projectile pissing. My urine was shooting up in the air and Jon Stewart - like a good little frisbee dog - angled himself to catch it. I pissed so much that my urine was overflowing his mouth and spilling over his cheeks.

How would Freud interpret this dream? I'm not Freud, but I would interpret it as telling of my disrespect for Jon Stewart. Jon Stewart's pedantry and topical humor is too much. More than that, it's boring. A comedian's job is not to care or change, but to observe and mock. He was funny when he was doing meaningless fluff for MTV, but now he takes himself way too - yawn - seriously.

As a comedian I did not know anything about performing until I studied the late, great Andy Kaufman. What I learned from Andy was this: The performer is not the performer. The audience is the performer. The performer is the audience. All the performer has to do is sit back and watch. It's paradoxical, but every great performer does it to a certain extent. Every great performer is a profound solipsist. The interesting are NOT interested. They mostly worry about themselves.

Once I learned this I always had a good time - and did a swell job - on stage. 90% of the time I had my audiences rolling on the floor with laughter. 9% of the time the audience would boo, throw beer bottles at me, and pelt me with garbage. 1% accounts for the shows that were too weird to be classified one way or the other. But no matter what my reaction I was always the audience. I performed for myself as I write for myself.

Jon Stewart either forgot that rule or (more likely) never learned it. If I were him I would set out to infuriate the American public.

For exampled I remember when he verbally spanked that economic czar: "Mr. What's-His-Name". (I'm too lazy to google him right now and the library closes in 20 minutes; more than that, who cares what the guys name was?)

Jon Stewart seemed to be blaming this poor man for our economic crisis and the abominable behavior of corporations. Long story short: Jon (the Bully) Stewart shamed and browbeat this man on national television and our lynch mob nation - hungry for blood - cheered.

If I were interviewing Mr. What's-His-Name I would infuriate the American public by asking him the most ridiculously softball questions imaginable.

I would start out thus: "So, Mr. What's-His-Name, to paraphrase Nietzsche - we are both above the petty chatter of politics, so I am going to ask you some important questions. Now, we know you are a good and hardworking man. What do you do to unwind?"

Imagine the red-face lynch-hungry Americans jumping off their couches for that one!

I'd finish the interview with the most difficult question of all: "So, Mr. What's-His-Name, what is your favorite flavor of ice cream? Tell me! Don't lie to me! Don't lie to the American public!"

If Jon Stewart had any imagination he would have conducted the interview in such a fashion. But he doesn't have imagination. He's the performer, not the audience. I'm the audience.

Now, Jon, open up your mouth. There ya' go! Open it wide!

Whizzzzzzzzz.... Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle....

Thank goodness I'm still young. I can safely navigate through all of the nonsense until I find my way. I think of someone like Al Goldstein. The wreckage of my life is about .0000000000000001% of his because I'm still young enough to do just about anything (if the world doesn't end on December 21st, 2012.

What's odd about reading Al Goldstein's blog on "Booble" is that it makes ME bitter. Or rather I identify with some of his bitterness. I think of him and perhaps someone like the Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey. Both men were somewhat contemporary with my Grandfather. Think Lawrence Welk to Elvis Presley to Charles Manson, etc... Watching interviews with them they speak in the vernacular of that time. And I think: Wow! That time was superior! I was born toward the end of that time, but by the time I was old enough to go out and enjoy for myself things had become just so bland and lifeless.

Al Goldstein certainly lived the life. He fucked over 7,000 women, hung out with Hugh Hefner, fought First Amendment battles, and made Plato's Retreat his home away from home. He watched Lenny Bruce in the Village. He interviewed John Lennon, etc... Where are all of these people today? Just a bunch of bland corporate clones. Why was I not young and viable in the New York City of the late 1970s? People of quality in my generation have missed out!!! All we have are the Pussycat Dolls and Disturbed. Not to mention bland, lifeless, soulless corporate porn.

I lifted this from Al's blog:

-------

"I just got back from a four-day trip to the Internext Expo in Fort Lauderdale where Booble sprung for my flight and a swank hotel room to press the flesh and present the Booble Girl of the Year award to Lisa Sparxxx. The plan was to make a speech, continue my run for the presidency and hopefully get laid.

Booble treated me very well and they are a great group of people but I have to say that meeting the other companies down there made me want to blow my brains out. The pornographers of today are complete bores. It was like being at an accountant’s convention without the fascinating spreadsheet macro-shortcut presentation.

Speaking to the pseudo-dead webmasters was like talking to a bunch of corpses in a cemetery. As I walked around the expo and met people, I kept waiting for a dead hand to grab my leg from underneath the floorboard.

Two years ago or so, I worked for a streaming video company and there I learned that nothing distinguishes one porno company from another. Differentiating them is like studying the anomalies in assholes and splitting asshairs.

Fuck films are identical as turds and nowadays so are the companies that produce and deliver them. Some are shaped like a snowflake and others like the letter “L” – but they both smell bad and both are still shit.

The movies are one cliché piled onto another and the men who purvey this are equally dumb and boring. The guy I worked for at the streaming video company was actually a good guy and I was sorry that I quit. I was just embarrassed by the content of the product.

Even though I still masturbate every other day, which is impressive at my age, I am still handcuffed to the same footage. The girl’s faces and bodies change but it’s the same moaning and groaning. Each girl carries on like she has never seen a cock before or looks like an emaciated Auschwitz survivor with garish fake books. To this day, and all the women I have been with, not one has ever begged me to cum on their tits, like I see in porno films every day.

Porn makes marriage and intimacy much more difficult and these knowing, cold-hard-fact webmasters are pimps in a black ghetto pushing their hookers onto unsuspecting welfare-check recipients. They are manure pushers (except for Bob of course).

At the end of the Expo, when there were just a few straddlers left, I felt like I was in a leper colony filled with young, yuppie, pimpled punks. None of them had ever even heard of me! If it weren’t for me they wouldn’t exist.

I did not get laid either but I did jerk off in my expensive hotel room to some run-of-the-mill porn. There were many 18-21 year old hot girls down there yet because my empire and to these webmasters, my legacy, no longer exists - they had no use for me."

-----

Al mentioned in another blog that he felt like an anachronism. I think anyone who ever had a heart, a soul, a belly full of guts or a head full of dreams must feel like an anachronism. I know I do.

Think of just one person from the past (Lenny Bruce, etc...) and one place from pop history (Plato's Retreat, etc...) and one will realize what horrifying times we live in.

My problem is not that our society has become decadent or depraved. My problem is that our society is not decadent or depraved enough - at least not in the proper way. At least not in a HUMAN way. Our strongest instincts have become the most soulless of commodities, as depressing as the Wall Township Kmart.

And, yes, in a Hegelian fashion, the heroes of the past like Al Goldstein have created the HELLISH anomie of today. Come to think of it, from day one Al Goldstein built his own HELL, PRISON CELL, and WORST NIGHTMARE.

Yes, nowadays porn producers are pimple-faced California jocks who have never READ A BOOK or heard of Al Goldstein. Al Goldstein made it possible for JOCKS who hate both the body and the mind to produce the ultimate oxymoron: STERILE FILTH. (That's a good one! I wonder if I thought of that or accidentally plagiarized it? Who knows and who cares nowadays? Nowadays accidental plagiarism or Anxiety of Influence should be the least of an intelligent person's worries.)

I must say that I also like Al Goldstein because Al Goldstein brings me back to when I myself was happier and, yes, more successful even! Al Goldstein saved me from the loneliness when I moved to a tiny little room in Manhattan when I was just 19 years old. I had just escaped from a horrid, brutal, violent, provincial cesspool in New Jersey and I had this whole new world of sex, drugs, and Rock N' Roll right before me. Then I had my own pitfalls.

By the time I had pulled out of that mess I was writing for metro which, unfortunately, has still been the closest I have come to any kind of mainstream or even counterculture success. When I think of what it was like to see my very original thoughts in a major publication almost every week I too have to remind myself that I am only 28 and that I can get published again. But whooey! Will I ever be able to recapture the magic of my time with metro? I hope so.

But anyway, by this time I found out Al Goldstein had ended up homeless and I wrote a metro column about him, indentifying and sympathizing with his plight. So Al Goldstein played a part in two of the happiest and most productive periods of my adult life. One before my mess and the other just as I was pulling out of it.

But then even THAT time seems like a long time ago. The summer of 2004 when everyone was talking about Bush vs. Kerry and New York City seemed like the only sane place in the entire country (most of the country was Red back then.) Now when I talk about 2004 I sound like an old fogey. I sound like Anton LaVey talking about pulp fiction and Tin Pan Alley records or I sound like Al Goldstein talking about Studio 54 or John Lennon's assassination. Even I am OLD!!! I sometimes feel like I've been aging by the second and time is somehow speeding up before we all get sucked into that black hole in 2012.

No wonder I never fit in. No wonder I was always ready and willing while the others appeared clueless or uninterested.

But are there any answers? I think of an acquaintance who wrote a poem in which he mentioned the post-postmodern. Is the post-postmodern possible? Now I suppose it is. The postmodern was roving teen gangs and orgy clubs. The post-postmodern are skateboarding black kids talking on i-Phones and Internet porn produced by brainless surfers.

Things have gotten so bad that I think the only answer is to become a Luddite.

The Sociopath Series #1: Enthusiasm Over Precision

I was a sociopath long before sociopathy became cool. But everyone copies me. Everyone imitates me. Everyone rips off my style. I wouldn't be surprised if some would attempt to rip off my own work - which is impossible anyway. I have no doubt I shall one day be deemed "Holy". One day all of my blogs will make up a Bible for a new global religion. Everyone bites off me.

Anyway, I was a sociopath long before it was cool to be a sociopath. In a way I go through my life thinking like a sociopath.

Then again I'm not a full-blow sociopath. I simply have a Neanderthal brain. Neanderthals had the "old" brains: creative and intuitive. In the fight for dominance and survival the "new" brains - practical, precise, efficient, cold, dry, unimaginative - won out. And this is the world they have created, for better and for worse.

But some of us are a bit more Neanderthal - in the best possible way. I read an interesting article recently speculating that Jews may be descended from Neanderthals. This may explain their many accomplishments in so many fields. Practical and Precise is what keeps things moving, but "creative" and "intuitive" is what pushes us and advances human evolution.

I've always felt like a Jew. There are rumors that I may have strong infusions of Jewish blood. My mother - like many extremely unintelligent people - was an anti-Semite.

I had problems with my mother, but it wasn't just because she was a cunt. It was because we were literally members of different species.

This may explain my oft-stated aversion to Herd Animals. My distaste for them may be primordial. My spirit and enthusiasm has always been in a primal fight against their practicalness.

All I know is I am grateful for imagination and I am my own narcissistic best company. I know how to amuse myself.

Margie Stimpkinfuckshit works at the local Quick Check. When I go there to buy a fruit drink and she is working I think: "There is my Porn Star buddy." My nickname for her is "The Porn Star".

Margie is about 60 years old. She weighs close to 300lbs. She has short gray hair and soft, flabby skin, like a pheasant. Deep wrinkles cut and carve out her pockets of dim-witted features: not much happens behind her bovine eyes.

For some reason every time I see her I think "Porn Star". When I see her I begin thinking like a porn casting director. Where could I MARKET her? I suppose it is only because I have seen women even less attractive than her in porn clips.

The only question is: How much would it cost to buy her? How much would I have to pay her to get her to have sex on camera? I'll bet I could buy her for $10,000 max. Most people on planet earth would slit their mother's throat for $1,000 - let alone a huge sume like $10,000. Actually, I bet I could get her for $1,000. She'd probably be so flattered she'd do it for $100.

I would like to see her become a Susan Boyle. I would like to see Margie aka Porn Star become a huge celebrity in "Porn Valley". I'd like to see her hang out at the sleazier end of a Los Angeles "beautiful people" scene. I'd like to think of her going to a pool party at a multimillion dollar mansion wearing nothing but a G-String. As a matter of fact I would like to see a poolside lesbian make-out between her and Susan Boyle.

Should I have mercy for inferior outcasts? I was always an outcast, but I was always cast out for being SUPERIOR - not INFERIOR. Should I have mercy for them. Should I be a shepherd for all outcasts? Is that my duty as a Christian? Wait - I'm not a Christian. And I'm no longer even plagued by everpresent anomie.

Oh, I'm a nice person. I don't hurt anyone. I just can't help speculating on the trajectory of Margie's possible porn career. Does having such type thoughts about everyone every second of every day make me a sociopath or just imaginative?

I'll opt for the latter.

Oh, and by the way: What does the argument of Enthusiasm Over Precision have to do with any of this?

What it has to do with this is: I am disabled by my spirit and enthusiasm. I could care less about precision. THIS IS EXACTLY THE REASON WHY IT HAS BEEN SO HARD FOR ME TO KEEP A JOB. For me it is more important to WORK HARD than WORK SMART. I love - LOVE - rowing with my oars out of the water! Rowing with oars out of the water is nobler than efficiency.

When I look at someone like Margie aka Porn Star I see a dull-witted cow who is nonetheless PRECISE and EFFICIENT. A part of me is subconsciously jealous of her.

Well, not really.

Deirdre: A Jersey Story

Deirdre Weinberg was my second crush. "What is it with you and those Jews?" my Mother would always say. To me, Deirdre represented everything my mother WAS NOT.

"Those who do not hate their father and mother cannot be my students, and those who do not hate their brothers and sisters and bear the cross as I do will not be worthy of me." - Jesus Christ, the Gospel of Thomas.

I think I'm going to make a commitment to investigate Gnosticism.

But, then again, EVERY girl I have ever loved, "crushed on", or dated, etc... has represented what my mother was NOT.

Deirdre was four years older than me. She was my cousin Meghan's best friend. She was BEAUTIFUL. Long, curly, dirty-blonde hair. And, oh her body! She always had the body of a woman. And she was known as a royal whore who - in the words of Richard Price - "fucked niggers and nazis for breakfast." Don't worry. I have no intentions of shooting up a Holocaust museum. Why would I?

Deirdre was DANGEROUS and SEDUCTIVE. YOUTHFUL and WOMANLY at the same time. She was the 80s teen movie goddess, she was Cindy Mancini from "Can't Buy Me Love", the captain of the cheerleaders.

Deirdre was also very NICE to me. I was a little boy with a crush on her and what girl does not find that to be adorable? She always went out of her way to talk to me, to chat with me, to joke with me, to even innocently flirt with me. I will never truly say a bad word about Deirdre because Deirdre was always GOOD to me, NICE to me, KIND to me. Why? Because, well, I was a cute little boy. And all of her indulgence just made me love her MORE. And if only she knew of the sexual fantasies I had about her! Oh, her dressed up as an Egyptian Empress, me sucking on her toes, fucking her, worshipping her in some palace on the Nile basin. If only she knew of that! Maybe she would have gone for it as I got older.

Ultimately, Deirdre grew to be tragic. I, of course, was not happy about this because everyone could see the folly of her ways except for her.

Deirdre developed an addiction to tanning beds. Between that and heavy drinking she looked like she was 60 by the time she was 20.

If tanning beds are a "white girl" thing then they are also a Jersey thing. It goes along with the "motorin" activities known as "guidoing". The way kids in Iowa tip cows, kids in Jersey drink cheap beer, smoke Parliament Lights, Marlboro Lights, and Newport Lights, hang out in all-night diners and use these sort of jockish/fratboyish slang words and catch phrases. The girls like to say "Hey you!"

Tanning beds are big in Jersey because what do you see when you go out to Jenk's? You see tanned girls - who look like Deirdre - drinking Miller Lites and being treated like movie stars. Deirdre just developed an addiction (I'll be the first to admit that light hitting the skin feels good) and took it all too far, to excess, like a person with a dysmorphic disorder.

What's odd is that both Samantha and Deirdre grew up to be that particular type of girl. Two girls I had major, life-altering crushes on. Maybe because they were perceived as "cool" or "hip" I saw them contrary to my mother. Now I'm no longer interested in either one of them, of course.

I would, of course, never want Deirdre to read this. I don't see any reason why she would. I don't see how she would find this. I'm sure she remembers me, but I doubt very much if she thinks of me very often. So no harm, no foul. Just a story.

Why I do what I do

Yea! The Asbury Park Press published my letter today, my letter on how absolutely nothing will change even if our country becomes "North Mexico". Yes, I like attacking white bigots, but there's more of a reason for why I do what I do.

Basically, I'm trying to build a spaceship. When I was a little boy I spent hours in the backyard hammering boards together in an attempt to make a spaceship.

Now I'm trying to build a spaceship out of meta, to sail away from this common earth to a glorious alien paradise full of sex, love, interestingness, endless novelty, and eternal individuality and subjectivity. Each piece of writing I get out there is another scrap on the hull of this spaceship.

In the end - like everything else that is any good - this is an entirely solipsistic enterprise. I care most about myself and the people in my microcosm. We can know LIFE. The others can stay here.

Diddy Bop, Shitty Pop, and the Hitler Youth

I think of a passage from the Stephen King book "Danse Macabre":

"We sat there in our seats like dummies, staring at the manager. He looked nervous and sallow - or perhaps that was only the footlights. We sat wondering what kind of catastrophe could have caused him to stop the movie just as it was reaching that apotheosis of all Saturday matinee shows: 'the good part.' And the way his voice trembled when he spoke did not add to anyone's sense of well-being.

'I want to tell you,' he said in that trembly voice, 'that the Russians have put a space satellite into orbit around earth. They call it... Spootnik.'

This piece of intelligence was greeted by absolute, tomblike silence. We just sat there a theaterful of 1950s kids with crew cuts, whiffle cuts, ponytails, ducktails, crinolines, chinos, jeans with cuffs, Captain Midnight rings; kids who had just discovered Chuck Berry and Little Richard on New York's only black rhythm and blues station, which we could get at night, wavering in and out like a powerful jive language from a distant planet. We were the kids who grew up on Captain Video and Terry and the Pirate. We were the kids who had seen Combat Casey kick the teeth out of North Korean gooks without number in the comic books. We were the kids who saw Richard Carlson catch thousands of commie dirty spies in 'I Led Three Lives'. We were the kids who had ponied up a quarter apiece to watch Hugh Marlowe in 'Earth vs. the Flying Saucers' and got this piece of upsetting news as kind of a nasty bonus.

I remember this very clearly: cutting through that awful dead silence came one shrill voice, whether that of a boy or girl I do not know; a voice that was near tears but that was also full of a frightening anger: 'Oh, go show the movie, you liar!'"

That one line: "Oh, go show the movie, you liar!" somehow sums up everything one will ever need to know about the Herd. This line contains their two best qualities: FEAR and HATRED.

Could you imagine if a theater manager today interrupted Pixar's "Up" to tell the audience that a lone 28 year old in New Jersey refuses to own a cellphone? I would guarantee you that someone from the audience would shout in fear and anger: "Oh, go show the movie, you liar!"

Imagine if I took on the average 18 year old girl as a lover/protege. Imagine me trying to explain to her why it is most important to not own a cellphone. She would regard me the way a 1950s ten year old girl would regard a brutish, hulking, alcoholic child-rapist with hairy arms. I would say "cellphones are bad" and she would say: "Aw, buzz off! Buzz off, crumb-bum! Get lost, creepo! Leemee alone! Lemme alone! Get your meathooks off of me!"

A girl today would not use those words, of course. She would say: "Yo son, step off, dawg!" but the feeling behind the words would be the same. She would consider my criticism of cellphones to be a crime more heinous than the rape and murder of a ten year old child. Raping and killing a small child is forgivable. Refusing to own a cellphone is unforgivable under any circumstances.

Needless to say I would not be able to turn such a young girl into a Nietzschean with nice legs and smooth skin. She is a bovine, a reproducing bovine. Women were always the first to burn witches and heretics. Not that I hate women. The worst are the SS of Conformity, but the best are nobler than the best men.

My problem with kids today is not that they're depraved. They're not depraved enough - at least not in a healthy way. My problem with kids today is not that they're drugged-out. Wrong. If you're lucky you will do a TON of drugs in your younger years. It's not that they're sex-crazed and sexually immoral. It's that they hate sex with a puritanical passion. They have a Will to Robotize sex. And it's not that music today is too loud or too crazy. My problem is that music today is not loud or crazy enough.

Which brings me to...

"Shitty Pop."

When I was a little boy I always used to watch Madonna's "Truth or Dare" movie on illegal Pay-Per-View. Madonna was the ultimate woman, the prototype for real-life crushes. I had many sexual fantasies about Madonna.

In one scene from the "film", Madonna is playing a kinky game of Truth or Dare with her androgynous black/Hispanic dancers. She pulls out her beautiful breasts and one of the dancers says in the lispy, lilting, sing-song dialect of a native Brooklyn African-American hipster dance queer: "Madonna's titties!'

So sometimes I'll be walking around the house and I'll find myself saying those two words - Madonna's titties - in the exact same voice, just for fun. Sometimes I'll find myself saying, in the exact same voice: "Shitty Pop!" and I never knew why. Well, now I know.

For some reason those words - a turd popsicle - were lodged in my unconscious. Why? Well, for one reason and one reason only: To attack P. Diddy and espouse my economic doctrine on blogspot.

Diddy recently came out with a song called "Diddy Bop". What does that rhyme with?

P. Diddy is unoriginal and untalented. He's the king of uns and uns are negative.

P. Diddy likes to rap about MONEY! Wow! Well, that's new! Very original!

Why are rappers so obsessed with money? What's most important is NOT making money. It's very important to remain at a moderate (but not severe) level of poverty throughout life. One should have just enough for a comfortable survival and a few material luxuries.

The problem with being rich is that the entire world becomes a strip club. You can have all the women (or men) that you want, but it is impossible to know if any of them like you for you. Right now I subsist at such a level of poverty that I know that anyone who likes me must really like ME! Being broke and having sex with two girls at the same time in a shack is better than being rich and having sex with 2,000 girls in a specially-built orgy room. Who would want a world filled with six billion fawning prostitutes? Spare me from ever being rich. If I ever "make it" I'll give my money away hand over fist. Wealth is a curse I would not wish on my worst enemy. This philosophy, of course, flies in the face of our society's most deeply-held values.

Rap, which was born from a "disenfranchised" community has become the biggest, strongest, hippest, and most popular supporter of the same system that "disenfranchised" the black community in the first place. That being said, Chuck Berry is much more "obscene" than someone like Ludacris. Subtletly is what raises the hairs on the back of one's neck and sends chills up spines. Luda is a gynecological exam - nothing obscene about that. To go back to the Stephen King passage, of course.

I want to see a rapper who raps about NOT making money. THAT would be ORIGINAL.

But P. Diddy has been just about everything but original.

Lenny Bruce was a genius because he mocked what was sacred in his time: Christianity.

I am a genius because I mock what is sacred in our time: chatter.