Sep 20


2015-09-20 05.20.28-1

You know, I think I finally figured out what chaps my ass about hipsters, especially the Austin variety:

If you’re in your teens or early twenties, it’s fine that you’re trying to establish an identity, or even just cultivating an image.

But by the time you’re 30, if you haven’t managed to congeal your own personality, independent of a cultural trend, it’s probably because your life has been so soft and sheltered that you’ve never earned the kind of scars that give a person some actual character.

As the guy said: being a character isn’t the same as having character. And as I’ve said: wearing a hat doesn’t make up for lack of a personality.


Sep 15


It’s funny when you look back at a draft of something you wrote when your head was in a different place, in a different time –when you were a different person. I wrote this when I was high on a certainty that I knew where things were going in my life. I was a few chapters into something I thought was going to be an epic novel, only to find out it was only meant to be a short story.


At some point in the history of this country, we got sidetracked.

We became more concerned with safety and security than independence and liberty. Being entertained became more important than being informed. Being a man became more about cultivating an image than leaving a legacy.

I don’t think there are any easy solutions to this problem, or whether or not it’s already too late –how do you address the problems of a toxic culture without wading knee-deep into it?

But I do think I know how we got to this point. It was when we started allowing people to glorify being ignorant, to believe that feelings are as important as facts, and that reality can be determined by democracy.

No child gets left behind if we shut down the trains and abandon everyone at the station.

You want to know something else I know? That I will do everything I can within my relatively modest circle of influence, to drag people, kicking and screaming if necessary, onto that train, so we can get moving again.

Because goddamnit, in my childhood I was promised spaceships and new frontiers, but all I got was drone delivery and Netflix.


It reads like something I’d write; like everything I’ve written it annoys me on re-reading it. So why does it feel like a stranger wrote it?

Aug 18

Morning sunrise

Events have me thinking, mulling over views and re-examining beliefs.

I  express a lot of contempt for people who don’t make use of their brains to think things through; people who accept simple explanations to complicated issues, or prefer sugar-coated narratives over bitter facts. I’ve always thought my reasons for this contempt were sound: so many people have been hurt or exploited by beliefs in things that cannot be proven, that the world would be a vastly better place if we could move past those beliefs as a species.

But today I was confronted about this lack of faith, in faith itself, by someone exceptionally dear to me. I was told that for pursuing this as a cause, with the intent to help make a difference in the world, that I was being cruel. And because of my affection for this person, I began to doubt, doubt.

I ended up spending most of the day beating myself up over it, trying to understand how someone rational and intelligent could find cruelty in skepticism, in holding the abilities of the human mind in such esteem that you refuse to fill the rest of that half-full or half-empty glass with something completely intangible.

With all of this banging around in my head, I pulled into a parking space and nearly ran over a stray cat. As I got out of the car, it looked me square in the face and actually meowed indignantly, before climbing onto my car and hopping over a nearby fence. I was just relieved that I hadn’t hit it. I stood there for a moment, feeling even more relieved that I was the kind of person who unconsciously still cared whether or not I ran over a stray cat. Was there a point to be learned here? Given the conversation I’d had earlier, I guess I really wanted there to be, and thought about it.

I define cruelty as doing harm to others unnecessarily. Would it have been cruel if I accidentally ran over the cat? No. It would have been cruel if I’d deliberately tried. I certainly didn’t need or want to eat the cat, and killing an animal  for nothing but sport, especially with a car, is morally repugnant. The cat couldn’t have been more than a year old, basically a kitten, versus me being armed with a two-thousand pound vehicle and a much bigger brain. It was just a simple animal, after all.

And because I desperately wanted to process all this as having some meaning, I ended up finding one. But the conclusions made me feel exactly like the prick I’d been accused of being in the first place

1. It is cruel to make sport of those weaker than you.

2. Intelligence is a form of strength.

3. Faith is a means of coping with weakness in a world that can be cruel.

I still don’t feel any better, in fact, I feel worse, because all that my brain could come up with was the condescending notion that simple-minded people are weak, and maybe it’s cruel to expect them to trade their sugar-coated narratives for bitter facts -even if it seems to me that the world would eventually be a much better place if people would just confront the reality how absurd it is right now, head-on, so we can all fucking do something about it together.

It was 4 in the morning when I started typing this. If you’re reading it because you were hoping for a message of clarity and redemption out of all of this, I’ll be the first to apologize for that; I’m still looking for one myself.

And I’m missing my friend.

May 13

Wearing a hat doesn't make up for lacking a personality.

Nov 16


Sex, drink, drugs, whatever; after several decades on this planet I’ve yet to find anything that compares to the cocktail of Focus  and  Purpose. The world shrinks to the size of an atom, and you become that atom. It’s a feeling of singularity before the Big Bang; the potential of creation driving you forward uncontrollably.

What separates Humans from animals isn’t our ability to use tools, or even communicate complicated ideas to each other. It’s our creativity:  in the act of creation we wear the face of God.

Sep 14

The most interesting people have scars. The most interesting scars are on the inside.

If you’ve made it this far in life without any damage, you’re probably a boring fucking person, with a boring fucking life. Good on you if that’s the life you want to live. Hell, if you can manage to make it through life without any scars, that’s certainly an accomplishment.

I just don’t find it interesting.

Aug 28

I had a short conversation with an Internet friend today, that stirred the coals of a sort of existesntialist burnout I’ve been feeling for a while now. She’s someone I only really know by her occasional posts on various threads, including mine, but whose opinions I’ve always found insightful.

I had made some off-the-cuff post expressing my frustration with the state of our culture, referencing Huxley, and lamenting the fact that unlike his Brave New World, in ours, people willingly dumb themselves down. Honestly it was unoriginal, pretentious crap. But at the time I wrote it I was being assaulted by vapid bullshit from a 24-hour news station, and making that post had fewer consequences than ripping the TV off the wall and smashing it.

She’d replied with a solid post that echoed and expanded on what I’d said. But before I could acknowledge it, she’d deleted the post. So I sent her a message, asking why. It turned out she was just reformatting it to post again. I was relieved, and explained that I was trying to engage more intelligent people in meaningful discussion, because it seemed to be lacking just about everywhere. She explained that when it comes to a lot of social media, smart people were in hiding. She told me that she was personally tired of being accused of being a “know it all” and an “overbearing female”.

And even as I recount this conversation, I can’t help but do so with a scowl on my face; one I’ve got to fight off because I’m writing this from a Panera, trying not to look like a crazy person typing out angry Yelp reviews.

I’ve alluded to this a few times in the past few months, on Facebook or in-person to friends, but the absurdity of the Human condition is something I haven’t been able to shrug off for a while now. The sense of it is always lurking in the periphery of everything I do, from conversations with friends, to the terrible jokes I make, to my inclination towards self-destructive choices in the pursuit of adventure, substance, and meaning.

But the idea that smart people are keeping their heads down so as to not offend the herds that have made celebrities out of the worst of our species, demanded to be fed only information they agree with, and hold in contempt knowledge that makes them feel as dumb as they actually are, gets under my skin like a hateful little parasite. And all I can really do to cope with the bastard is to sit here, pissing and moaning about it, on a blog that I generally don’t intend for anyone to read.

I’d like to end this with some helpful insight or a statement of resilience in the face of this absurdity, but honestly, I’m just going to go back home, fire up my idiot box, and stream some soma directly into my brain. I hear good things about “Wahlburgers”.

Aug 24

I have no idea when this blog became a dumpster of cryptic, random thoughts and vague bullshit, but for the handful of people who read this (for some unfathomable reason), I feel I should apologize. The crap I’ve written over the past few months has been just that: crap. 

I don’t think that this kind of grammatical bukkake would be appreciated by anyone. And even if I’m being selfish and posting for my own benefit, it’s still an exercise in self-indulgent masturbation.

I can do better, and if I’m not going to, then I frankly shouldn’t bother doing at all.

Aug 21



“Life is pain, highness” 

-The Dread Pirate Roberts

Everyone is the star of their own movie. That’s as it should be, because as far as anyone knows, you only get one go at life. The thing that I have a problem with, is when people pretend previous pages in their screenplay read differently, now that they’re further into it. 

I understand why this happens; if people could literally go back and re-read their own scripts, scene for scene, word for word, a lot of folks would cut their own movies short. Hell, it’s bad enough to accurately remember awkward moments without cringing; subjecting yourself to an accurate version of truly painful ones might as well be considered a form of violence.

So to cope, people re-write their narrative as they go along. That’s fine when they’re the only character that’s affected by the revisions. When there’s a whole cast though, making retroactive changes to key scenes and then playing out the rest of the script, is a great way to ensure your story becomes a one-man show.

Aug 11


So it seems Bukowski didn’t actually say that. Still, it’s a powerful sentiment. Here’s the full quote, by… whoever:

“Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain from you your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you, and let it devour your remains.

For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.”

The point remains though; the things we love own us. That’s the trade-off in loving anything or anyone.

« Previous Entries