“…one bullet at a time…” – A Perfect Circle, “The Outsider”
I used to play this song in my Darkside Radio days, typically “The Frosted Yogurt Mix” (or what ever the rest of the title was). Maybe it was remix. Who knows? What I do know is that song has been stuck in my head for the bulk of the day. Sometimes, it feels good to be the outsider. Other times, it seems that one is just on the outside. I never could appreciate the latter of those feelings, I believe that I can now.
Last night, I scared the shit out of myself. I was watching a program on H2, it was discussing how the Earth has shaped human evolution. Well, toward the end, the folks on the show began to go on about how seventy thousand years ago, a major extinction event occurred. That was not a surprise, the majority of species that do exist, have existed, have gone extinct. So, hearing of massive extinction was not the problem. What sent me into a severe head-spin was when one of the guys on this show said that after the event seventy thousand years ago, MOST of humanity was wiped out. Approximately two thousand humans survived, enough to fill a “multi-plex movie theater.” Damn. Talk about your near misses…
All humans living today are descendants of that small population. Our genetic diversity is .1 percent (I really hated not being able to write that out, that will bother me for the rest of my life). It would seem that I, Lord of the Orchard, am closer in relation to those peons that work for me than I realize. Maybe I should be treating them better. I mean, we are all related…closely related. I suppose I could provide higher wages, fewer tazings, end the sixteen hour day, etc. But in the end, what do I have to gain from this?
I mean, is that not what life is all about? What is the use of spending anytime seeing beyond my beautiful eyebrows, if I am not seeing any benefit to my own personal being. Recently, I have enjoyed a rise in my number of followers. This pleases me greatly. Everyone should read my blog. Everyone should want to buy me drinks…and possibly sleep with me. But I digress, back to the followers. Some of them, I am rather enjoying. I can understand why they may have an interest in reading what your humble X has to put to word. I have ascertained that those people are not reading because of my superb writing skills (my hackery is legendary), and I may not know precisely why they read, but I can understand why.
Then there are others. Some that I have no idea why they come here. They should take Dante’s warning and abandon all hope upon entering here. Whenever I have gotten a new subscriber (follower is sounding potentially too cultish for me at the moment), I have made it a point to go to their blog (if they have one), and usually, I find something that makes me wonder why in the Hell would this person even think about looking for my blog? Admittedly, my last few entries have been rather tame, not very dark at all. But, these moments are few and far between. For example, I am actually writing this BEFORE getting into the absinthe, so things will be a little light. I feel the need to behave for a bit. I have no idea why.
Typically, I tend to be a bit obnoxious, pretentious, and generally carry myself in a supercilious manner. My ramblings range from the subtly erotic to downright pornographic. Okay, so I am not usually very subtle, and I have not really written any porn, but I am given to bouts of hyperbole. I am a person of contrasts, you are just as likely to hear Depeche Mode on my stereo as you are to hear classical music. jazz, or sometimes Johnny Cash (Johnny Cash is not country, neither is Willie Nelson. I hate country music). I love foreign films, comic books, threesomes, and I watch professional wrestling. Everyone should. It is a soap opera featuring large sweaty men rolling around in their underwear. And “Big Brother.” Along with those programs and shows about sociopaths, there is “Big Brother.” Seriously, my Twitter feed is all wrestling, “Big Brother” and #FF (I am a horrible tweet-er).
If I go to the bar, I prefer them to be pub-like or a gay bar. One of my favorite bars is owned by my diggity-dog Manthony. It caters to a mixed crowd of straight, gay, bi, what ever. I think I even saw a pangolin in drag there; Manthony claims it was a hallucination from one of those “party pills” I decided to enjoy that night instead of the usual Captain and Coke I get, I still say I saw a pangolin. A sexy pangolin.
My other recent subscribers I found during searches. To be honest, I probably found them by using “sex” as a tag search (is that what they call what that is?). I tried searching other things, and typically found people that I would rather beat with clubs before reading them and getting to peak at their brains through their writing…sex seemed to work well. Searching for sex, I found more outsiders. Finding them was good for me, maybe not so much for them. More than likely, finding them may give me a sense of uniqueness that will afford me to make more connections. Who knows? In any case, finding interesting things to read has provided a better distraction from the Foundation than television programs that wind up scaring the crap out me. Well, leading to a cycle of terrible thoughts that scare the crap out of me.
Now, please do not be offended, if you are reading this and have thought that I am talking about you, remember Carly Simon and realize that this song may not be about you. It probably is, but may not be, so do not get all cray-cray. What this is all about is my life on the outside. My life lived in perpetual Nielsen Family membership. My life spent listening, trying to understand, and fitting in; a life spent kicked out of the reindeer games because my jib is cut a little bit askew to the main. The panic from the near extinction seventy thousand years ago led me to thinking of ancestors of mine that suffered from dementia and other tragic ailments. I lived a life on the outside of my family as well. I think different, am different; I am the cliché black sheep. However, will my lack of romance with fried foods and generally healthier lifestyle keep me away from the flock this time? Our will genetics show that I am not really an outsider? Will it show that I am truly a part of that lucky rabble of two thousand that almost bought the farm for the rest of humanity?