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.