Relationships

One of many, many to one.

Bed of Roses

While pretty, I am best viewed from afar.

Greetings and Salutations!

For some strange reason I decided to overhaul this blog instead of just trashing it. Originally, my plan was to delete the thing and end this voyage and abandon any dear readers that I may have collected along the way. Readers which I am certain have moved onwards and upwards and have forgotten about an alleged narcissicist with  tendencies for degeneracy on scales that can only be measured with “epic” as a qualifying adjective. But I ditched the plan. I have no reason why I have done so – I was having a bastardly bastard of a time coming up with things that I felt were relevant enough to write about (and we all see where that went…). And beyond explaining what has happened it the eon that I have been away, I find myself wondering if I will have material beyond a few days, maybe weeks.

Now, things have changed. I have moved on to a new chapter in my novel existence (see what I did there?), and wonder if the coming experiences will rate sharing with others. It is not that I feel that my life has become or will become boring…that is not something that I believe is possible for me. What is at issue is that I have been avoiding – the collapse of The Foundation. Yes, the collapse of the what was the single most beneficial asset to Samurai City. From beginning to end, the tale is one that I am sure would amuse, horrify, and possible bring about several more indictments; it may be told on various turns of your humble narrator’s new adventure, but do not plan on it (for any of you that care, for those of you that do not…pick a finger). The fall of the Creator of the Thunderdome is a tale wrought the joy, sadness, treachery, and ultimately, a tragedy of Greek literary tradition. But our Foundation life was not a bed of roses, this way is better for us (snicker). Needless to say, instead of focusing my empire on “charity,” I decided to go back to the University. A career in psychology/psychiatry seemed like a new and exciting path for Dear Xavier, so I packed up my office, and traded my ledgers for textbooks.

We all press the lever for food.

The road back to academia was an interesting and treacherous one. I found myself immersed in a culture of students that were significantly younger than me. Now, I am not unused to being around young people, but typically I am bossing the younger people around like some self-important autocrat. However, they younger people are now my peers and colleagues. I am now faced with having to remind myself that these are people with opinions that I owe the same consideration and respect that I would give my fellow Generation Xer’s or some junk (which is not necessarily all that much). Still, the journey has been pleasant, despite learning that I still can count mathematics as an area that I am lacking in superiority. I have also learned that psychologists are an incredibly interesting lot of people.

 

I think the best part of the journey that led to my literary hiatus was  that I got to avoid discussing the 2016 election. I also have to struggle to refrain from speaking of the result of that train wreck. 2016 will always represent where three to four decades of dismantling public education will lead. I cannot even bring myself to watch the news anymore. However, this is not a bad thing because I can avoid local news stories that have not gone away (I get it, the Thunderdome and Arboretum would make an excellent public park and demonstrate good will to Samurai City after the unfortunate turn of events that may have involved the Foundation! I said I was thinking about it assholes!).

These are not real babies.

In addition to avoiding the election, I was able to rediscover a few old interests. Namely, photography. I have turned into one of those people that is an unabashed and unashamed iPhonographer. See that shit? I even used tend-iLanguage to talk about my old/new thing. I am not sure why it all started. I mean, it could have been when I was taking naughty innocent pictures of various sex acts statues. It could have been when I got the idea to take a bunch of babies used for teaching how to not abuse babies and arranged them into neat photos. Whenever it was that it started, it started and now it is a thing. One thing that does not bother me about my journey into iPhotography (I am addicted, maybe?) is that I cannot take selfies. It bothers me that I had to type “selfies” multiple times to discuss this, but it was unavoidable. You see, dear readers, it seems that my arms are in fact too short for me to take a decent self-image. No, it is not an angle thing. No, it is not an inability to frame an image. My arms or too fucking small to take one, and I refuse to use one of those horrid sticks. Instead, I have to request that others take pictures of me, and aside from my secretary, I trust the photographer responsible for the image of me featured above (and one other). Other people will make my head to big or get my fat side or get too much forehead or not tell me what do in the picture so I do not look like a hideous fool. This is why images of myself tend to be a year old, maybe two.

What does any of this have to do with me? Loser!

When people quit smoking, or retire, or elect a dangerous Ferengi that had ear reduction surgery to public office, they tend to remember the date that the deed was undertaken. People remember import, significant, life-changing events. So, it would seem to reason (to me) that I would remember what date the doors to the Thunderdome closed leaving the looming structure abandoned in heart of downtown Samurai City. But, I do not. Which is a little disconcerting to me now. I mean, the amount of litigation alone would probably warrant a course in some law school…but I guess when you leave the minutia to attorneys and sycophants and spokespeople one does not have to be concerned with dates and outcomes. It sounds terrible, but other than maybe having to pay for the demolition of some property, the outcome does not really effect me. And is that not the American way? What does not effect me, should not concern me…right? Is that not the direction our species is headed? I believe you should all be concerned that someone such as myself is questioning the humanity of humanity. I mean, my idea of helping the less fortunate involved elephant stampedes parades, and alleged forced substandard-wage labor in apple orchards. I am not saying that I was bad person (just horribly misunderstood), but friends, I am just saying consider whom is writing this and the implications.

Lately, I have found myself having Dante running through my head: “In that part of the book of my memory before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says: ‘Incipit vita nova: Here begins the new life’.” It seems that I am headed into a new life – I admit to being eager and horrified.

Always Stay in Character. Metagamers Need Not Apply

Unless WordPress is up to shenanigans, there are a lot more people who follow this blog that I suspected. At first, I assumed that there were only two or three of you checking out what is going on around here. It appears that there are billions of you. Okay, not billions, maybe a thousand. Now, while I may have this “following,” I have to say that only a few of you read this damn thing. Like, what? Maybe six of you. Who knows? In any case, I feel the need to celebrate! I will do this by offering you dear souls a full disclosure: I have been lying to all of you.

I bitch and bitch about never writing, or never being able to write, or yadda-fucking-yadda. The whole story is I write a bit more than I let on; I save a lot of drafts. I just never go back to them, or save them as “journal entries” because I think having a diary entry looks a little strange. Other people see a nifty title, I mean a title that makes you want to grab your schmeckel and prepare to let loose the hounds of spooge while you read this salacious bit, and then click on said title and having nothing to read because it is private. And then you lose your reader’s boner and return to Facebook. Or porn. It is like walking around a bunch of kindergarteners and saying: “I have got a secret!” and taunting the double Hell out of the poor little wretches.

But I digress. I was not even meaning to talk about that random crap up there. Since I bothered to do write all of that, I am sure it is relevant somehow. More than likely it is obvious only to myself. I really do not care if that is the case. I am a narcissist, you know. Now where was I..? Oh yes, my title. If you got what that meant, give yourself a pat on the back, fifty experience points, and fifty geek cred status points (or whatever geeks give out like victorious jocks doling high fives in a sweaty locker room). Be on the lookout for more point opportunities, give yourself what you think you deserve, I am a lenient, if not all power storyteller/dungeon master. If you did not get it, feel free to Google it while the rest of us wait. Do not pretend like some of you did not do just that already (we all know that some of you refuse to admit not-knowing anything about everything and Google shit before posting to message boards so just stop with it already). Is everyone back with the group? Good let us continue.

"I'm too sexy for this square."

“I’m too sexy for this square.”

Another confession: there was a time when I was an avid LARPer. I really, really want to spell that out but that just seems plain wrong on several levels. Levels that I cannot get into right now. A damn I used to run around in makeshift costumes and pretend to be a vampire. Typically, I chose to be Brujah or Ventrue…whatever. No, not whatever. I chose those two clans because I could always be pretty. There. I said. I am totally geeking out, so I need to refocus. Anyway, I was a LARPer. A damn good one, as well, apparently. Why? Because I participated in a LARP at GenCon one year and won “Best Role Player.” That is fucking why. I was a LARPing badass.

You know, there is a lot more to LARPing than people let on (those of you courageous to admit that the title up there totally befuddled you and chose to read on rather than be a Googling know-it-all will get to understand said title now…somewhat). It takes a lot of work running around pretending that you are some undead thing that you are really not. The key is to always stay in character.

A segue: I am phobic of caterpillars. I do not know the name of the phobia, but I am deathly afraid of caterpillars. It has to do with tent worms. To this day, I will burn a whole section of apple trees to rid the orchard of one tent worm. Caterpillars scare the shit out of me. If you taunt my fear and provoke me with caterpillar(s), I will probably do very, very bad things to you. Horrible things. Painful butt things. Never fuck with a man’s fears, home-slice.

Now, when you create your character, there are built in flaws and advantages. Letting others know these things can be positive or negative. Usually negative if it is a flaw. Every damn vampire I created was afraid of caterpillars. Every LARP session, I did something to flee a caterpillar. No one ever picked up that I had this issue except for one person during that GenCon. And she was one of the non-player, storyteller characters. She watched what I was doing, and at one point called me on it secretly. We played a wonderful scene. She made motions to go “out of game” (geek points!) to discuss the issue, and I refused. We had to play out the scene. Assuming she wanted to know what the score was, the scene worked in my favor.

No. I am not a vampire. I just like cemeteries. Really.

No. I am not a vampire. I just like cemeteries. Really.

After the LARP, she asked me about the caterpillars (see, in the scene I was spoked by a caterpillar on a flower). I told her I always had that fear in my characters. She pointed out that it was not on my sheet. I responded, no, but I would have treated it like any other phobia if called on it. If someone caught me acting and gambled, then it was all good. That is kind of how life works, no? She asked if anyone ever caught it, and I said no because most LARPers are so caught up in the “story” to add nuance and curiosity. I told her that I did not want to go out-of-game because one should always stay in character. She liked my bit.

Staying in character keeps the metagamers at bay. Every game has people who know so much about the game that once they find out a small detail out about you, they exploit that to there advantage. It is like playing “Street Fighter” with some asshole who traps you in the corner and abuses you with Chun Li’s lightning leg, or some ten-year-old who only knows how to jump kick, and has to actually jump when the fighter on the screen does. You people who remember arcades know what I am talking about. Metagamers love “out-of-game.” Somehow secret details from the break area enter the game; you can call foul, but you cannot unring a bell. So, always stay in character and you can avoid the metagamers. Damn. That was anticlimactic, even by my hack standards.

Another thing, and perhaps the most important thing that metagamers miss, is the very thing that they not only seek out, but proves to be their very undoing. They look for the endgame, know what it is, plan for it, and wait. They are always successful…at least in that perspective. However, since they know that, they tend to avoid the rest of the game; they miss subtle changes that show that endgame is not coming. No, for them, that has played out already and they are now simply waiting for the deathblow which has ended the game for that LARPer.

It is strange to admit that I find myself currently a metagamer instead of the consummate Ventrue who totally dominated the “Masquerade” at GenCon years ago (2d20 experience points if you get that first reference, major geek points if you get all of this). I have been waiting for an endgame scenario. I waited too long and missed it.

The Chauffeur

“…and the droning engine throbs in time with your beating heart…”

Duran Duran, “The Chauffeur”

Except for the brief mention on the The Foundation Page, I do not believe I have spoken much about the other members of the prestigious Rothechilde Foundation. They are a wonderful group of people, without whom, the Foundation would not be the monster of charity that it has become. In addition, they are my “family,” in far more ways than one. They have all been selected by me to hold close and dear. That does sound a bit narcissistic, even by my standards; yet, we all have family that we have selected. Most of us choose not to say such things for fear of retribution from “true family.” I, however, am not bound by such limitations.

Strangely, the person involved with the Foundation that I probably depend on the most is my personal secretary. My secretary whom has informed me that her title is Executive Assistant. When I pointed out the irony of her taking such a corporate identity in the workplace, she replied that it was more to distinguish her from the Board Secretary, and to get her position printed as a proper noun. Besides, she said: “You would think you would be more concerned with the pay increase that comes with the title. Oh yeah, you wouldn’t. You have no idea how payroll works.” That is my girl. Snarkier than Dennis Miller mocking Bill Maher. But…

…without her, I would admittedly be a complete and utter confused mess. For example, she is the one who suggested that I try matching my Derringers to my ties or cufflinks, instead of my shirts (for some reason, I have been adding color to my wardrobe. I am terrified and elated.). That way, I could pick a metallic color from a paisley or something to highlight the color or the “pearl” handles. I remember a while back, I was obsessing and stressing over some legal issues regarding elephants and alleged amok-running. I had not come to Samurai City for weeks; choosing to stay at the Orchard and Estates and never leave my bedroom. I think I lost count of how much absinthe I drank that couple of weeks and I had a crazy beard. CRAZY BEARD!!! I had no idea that I was getting that much gray hair. I seriously considered getting some of that stuff the jocks advertise for “weird beards” and “trashed staches.” I have since abandoned that cray-cray and opted for a clean shaven look.

Whoa! That is getting way off track. As I was writing, No wash, crazy beard, drunk as can be thanks to Alandia. There, no we are caught up. Anyway, my secr..er…Executive Assistant (I personally think she likes this to fuck with my OCD and make me type more) shows up:

E.S: “Hey! Get up. Get clean. Get dressed. We need to head down to Samurai City. You have an important meeting tomorrow. Press conferences, insurance claims, all that shit is not going away because you want to stay home and hide.”

Me: “No, thank you. I think I will enjoy a few more days solace. The Vice President can handle these things. Is it really six in the morning?”

E.S: “Yes, it is. And no, I got here last night. I do have keys. You probably were passed out or just couldn’t hear me over that movie of you and Charlotte that you were watching. You’ve got issues, serious issues, dude. Speaking of which, she could always come and get you, she says. She’d be sooo pleased to have to show up and deal with you acting like a baby”

Me: “No, that will not be needed. Fine! I will go. But I am going like this…”

E.S: “Naked..?”

Me: “Grrr! No, I will go in my silk jammies and this robe. I even think I still have a pair of slippers to wear.”

E.S: “Oooh cute! You’ll look like the bastard child of Howard Hughes and ‘going-to-the-courthouse-Michael Jackson’!”

Me: “Ugh You. Suck. I will be ready in a few minutes.”

E.S: “And that is why you love me.”

No, that is not why. At least not the only reason why. I do not think that I can put all of those reasons down without turning this blog into some kind of sissy sap-fest, and I have to keep a certain level of testosterone about, you know? But I will say this, this something that may be better left unsaid. I am not sure why I love my Executive Assistant, there are far to many ideas that come to mind, and my OCD picks out the same one, and the ADHD chases it away; distracted by the Vulcan-looking woman discussing sociopaths in the background. One thing I am certain of is that I possibly love her too much. The kind of too much that is disturbing because it may both please and frighten tremendously at the same time. Scary, huh?

It could be scary if I were simply your run-of-the-mill-type person. I am pretty different. I have a hard time relating to most people on any level but the most superficial. The level of relation that is left to public speaking, or mingling, or demanding the highest quality apples and cherries from one’s orchards while keeping your overhead low. With my Executive Assistant, the relationship is most different; I can talk to her, and she always knows how to motivate me when I would rather spend the day with my head in her lap ranting about not knowing whether to cry or head out to the range and shoot every round that I have stored on the property. She deals with my alleged quirks, and stands beside me when I clearly may not be acting as my best self (a rare treat!). And she will not leave! Either she is the most loyal person in the world, or she is a stubborn criminal who has something important to extort me with; I have fired her many times and she always replies with “Yeah, yeah…” or “whatever,” or “No, I’m not. I’m sure you meant to tell me that I am getting a raise and more vacation time.” It is a good thing that she never takes me seriously with those shenanigans, or I would never be able to leave my closets due to not being able to decide what to wear (which is a total nightmare now that my clothes are more than black and white). Hell, I would be really screwed seeing that I do not know how to buy clothes and rely on her to keep me looking spectacular.

And those are just the things that she does for me, personally. Apparently, she is the one who communicates with payroll, purchasing, and all of those departments that make up the Foundation. She says all we board people do is squawk in the Boardroom, demand checks, and make public appearances to take credit for the Earth rotating while she does all of the work. I always counter that she is not paid enough, and we should vote on giving her a raise. Her reply: “You have no idea how payroll works…”

Which is true, I do not. Thank the goddess I have someone who does.

Saint Valentine’s Day Massacred?

Earlier today at the Rothechilde Foundation Thunderdome:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, dear friends! What in the Hell is going on here? Have you all gone soft and sentimental?”

Charlotte (mouthful of chocolate): “Soft? No. But if my ass keeps eating all of the chocolate, the result may be my getting doughy in the middle:”

Manthony: “Naw, X-man, we ain’t gone soft. The Guvnor sent us some Valentine’s shit to send us into diabetic comas. Now, all this flower bullshit, I can always give ’em to some bitch at my club and get a pre-‘Steak and BJ day’ BJ. The cards, you can have them for target practice, mah nigga.”

Me: “Apparently, the sugar has made your brains deluded with carb-fed fats. You two are sorely mistaking me. I mean, since when do we sponsor any sort of corporate mass consumption that we ourselves are not responsible for creating ourselves?”

Madame Treasurer: “Well, we did’t include this sort of thing in the budget, and you didn’t write it in behind my back, so it is not our doing. What this is, is a gift from The Governor to us; probably some sort of thank you or reminder that he would like us to support his party when he’s out. The glad-handing season has begun.”

Me: “That makes me feel better. However, I must say that I cannot help but notice that my gifts seem to be missing; there is nothing here in front of my seat at our glorious table.”

M: “That, Sir, is because he didn’t send you anything.”

“Bye, bye, love…hello loneliness…”

Perhaps that is why I hate Valentine’s Day. No, not because I was denied gifty goodness — I am rather used to that. While it may seem hard to believe, I tended to get snubbed rather often when I was in school during the Valentine’s Day classroom card bonanza. Back when I was in elementary, it was okay to leave other children out of your gift giving to the class. Hence, this may be why a day of love began to represent a day of “Love-for-everyone-but-you” Day. A day that has made your dear author the eternal flesh exemplar of a Rastafarian Charlie Brown. While I bought the other brats stuffed animals made of real fur, and my teachers dozens of roses, I myself was lucky to go home with a card that I stole from some kid running about on a sugar high, erased his name, and then added my own. I was particularly fond of those with Batman kicking someone’s ass while suggestively leering at Catwoman and Robin as they all pose within a giant heart.

When I reached secondary education, my success rate as a Valentine receiver improved greatly. Teens understand the value of a dollar; when you give a young lady a stuffed Max Headroom doll covered with mink fur, your popularity skyrockets. Instead of having a beau take you to Showbiz (now Chuck E. Cheese) for video games and beer, you could roll with me and have a five course dinner served by quality home servants, or take a weekend flight to New York for a dinner in a posh five-star restaurant. So, Valentine’s Day did improve for me. As an adult, I enjoyed similar success. However, I began to resent being expected to buy gifts on Valentine’s Day more each year. Finally, I decided that I would not participate in the day. No red. No candy. No expressions of love to be set aside and sent on this wonderful fourteenth day of February.

The reason I am not fond of the day is because I think a holiday that encourages you to shower those you love on one particular day with gifts as a reminder of such love is unnecessary  Redundant even. I mean, for what other reason do we celebrate Christmas and birthdays? It is a day that Hallmark and the candy companies have decided that you should go out and prove your love with candy, cards, flowers, and jewelry – diamonds if you want some oral loving from the receiver of the gift. The day has little, if anything, to do with the man for whom the holiday is named.

 

True Love?

Saint Valentine  was a hitman for Al Capone. On February fourteen, ninety hundred and twenty-nine. Valentino killed seven dudes in a garage in Chicago at the order of Capone. His act was so incredible that he was beatified by the Pope. In his later years, he retired from his assassin’s lifestyle and performed marriages throughout the United States. Hence, the association with love. Okay, if you clicked the link, or if you happen to not be as gullible as a foreign exchange student being told that a “swirly” is how all piccolo players wash their hair at band camp. The actual story of Valentino still contains much gory, graphic violence. But that is where the similarities end.

If you ask me, I would have been much happier had modern Valentine’s Day stuck with the gory theme: the red could stand for the arterial blood spurting from the beheaded body of Valentine as it flopped in front of the executioner’s feet. The hearts we ingest could be symbols for the orgy of decadence that surely took place after this beheading…an orgy that could have ended with the beheaded’s heart being consumed by naked, Pagan Romans. Instead of Valentine cards promoting love, the cards would have the practical purpose of invitations to re-enactments or other sorts of parties. The flowers and candy? Well, excellent decorations and who can deny the decadence of chocolate. The presence of chocolate at an orgy increases the decadence factor by two thousand. Trust me on this one.

Perhaps that is too much for the common purpose. What if we stuck with the celebrating the day based on the apparent roots it has in Lupercalia. Now, that could be a party:

“While some believe that Valentine’s Day is celebrated in the middle of February to commemorate the anniversary of Valentine’s death or burial–which probably occurred around A.D. 270–others claim that the Christian church may have decided to place St. Valentine’s feast day in the middle of February in an effort to “Christianize” the pagan celebration of Lupercalia. Celebrated at the ides of February, or February 15, Lupercalia was a fertility festival dedicated to Faunus, the Roman god of agriculture, as well as to the Roman founders Romulus and Remus.

To begin the festival, members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, would gather at a sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat, for fertility, and a dog, for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would each choose a name and become paired for the year with his chosen woman. These matches often ended in marriage.”

Now, that is what I call a good time! Priests, spankings, and what appears to be the beginnings of the modern “key party:” the chick names in the urn. Awesome.

Now, if I could only find a bouquet of absinthe, I would be in business.

However, instead of awesome, we have gone with doing what the corporate hogs of the world want us to do. We took a “holy” day and completely secularized it into a means to make money by false showing of sincerity. You think I am being cynical? Are you a parent? Did your kid take Valentine’s cards and candy to her/his class for the other children to stuff in cleverly painted paper bags or shoe boxes? Do you think said kid really wanted to share the goodies with that grody little Roger who will not stop picking his nose and wants to kiss him/her? Or that smelly kid in the back who beats everyone up and takes their popcorn money? If your child did want to do such things, you have a child worthy of being beheaded just as Saint Valentine was due to the magnitude of that young ‘uns martyrdom.

I realize I sound like the what the Grinch may have been had he decided to steal this day instead of the other terribly commercialized holiday. Really,I do. I just do not care that I sound that way. While I may not be know for being a tender and loving soul, I try to show expressions of friendship, love and devotion to those that I hold in my own black heart on a daily basis. Whether it be showing up at a board meeting with bagels or doughnuts for breakfast, or taking dear friends out to my personal range for a full day of target practice and trying out the latest creations from that wonderful workshop of Professor Z, or surprising Charlotte or my secretary with my nude tumescence ready for some naughty and fun action, I try to do something that shows that the people I adore know that I adore them, and I try to do so more than once per year…and not according to the demands of Hallmark.

Have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

The Answer: “Not a Damn Thing”

The Question: What’s wrong with Xavier? I have been hearing that a lot the last few days. And my answer to that question seemed to be a perfect way to title this post.

I guess my actions of late have upset some. Apparently, I have been acting out of character. Funny. I hear those words, but my brain translates that into “Why aren’t you letting me walk all over you anymore?” Language is a funny thing. Words have meanings in themselves, but when arranged to form a sentence or thought, it is up to the listener to determine understanding of those words; lately the understanding people have been trying to convey to me is not the understanding that I myself have be getting.

For years, I have been a “go to” person. Always there to help, listen, shoot you in the face, etc. For years, I have walked the borderline between good and evil; those on my good side have always been honored and loved. Those on my bad side, or of whom I have no opinion have been subjected to what had to happen at the time. Within that matrix have been friends who turned out not to be such, and I still kept my loyalty.

Until recently. Recently, I just decided that I needed to start cutting loose the deadweight. I have begun saying: “You know what? I am done accommodating and feeling cheated like some cheap whore in an hourly rented hotel room. I am sick of placing people on pedestals and treating those I call friends as the highest on my list only to be forgotten, left behind…neglected.

I decided it was time to go back to my roots and stop being jaded into believing that my actions would be returned in kind. This has been a long time coming; my sense of altruism slowly being replaced by wanting something in return. Now it is blossomed into a wondrous sense of not giving a fuck, and trying to carve out a sense of peace for myself.

I have learned that I am totally responsible for my own happiness and that waiting for the Karma bus is a long, cold wait. My optimism may finally have been turned to a seething cynicism that tells me the truth, burning away the mote from mine eyes and revealing a knowledge that I had denied, had never wanted to accept. I am no better or different than anyone, why should I be treated so?

With that thought, I arrive at the answer for those who claim I am not myself, for those who wonder wrong with me. The answer: nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have become just like you.

An Apology, Mr. Limbaugh? And Tonight on Darkside Radio with DJ Xavier

The Octopus waves, beckons you to enjoy the show.

Octopus says: "Dance with the Green Faery!"

Greetings and Salutations! Last week, I am sure that you noticed that I was not on the air. Truth be told, I was feeling a bit under the weather after the night out at the strip club. But that is not what kept me from the airwaves. What kept me off was the stress from the drama of earlier that day with that horrid interview from last week that was all about making the Rothechilde Foundation look like a group of insensitive thugs due to a minor incident involving a few upset elephants. Although, I have weathered that storm, I am facing a similar, earth-shattering, internet radio stealing mental dilemma this evening as well.

What is this dilemma? Well, it is simple and two-fold. First, there was the clothing anxiety issue that almost sent me into anxiety overdrive. You see, I was asked to teach a jujitsu class as a substitute for my instructor who was off celebrating his birthday. That was not the problem, I can deal with handling that. The problem came as a result of my panicking because of my pants. They did not seem to be my pants.

For one, the color and texture of them felt “off.” The other problem was that they did not feel “right.” I felt like I was traipsing about in someone else’s legs or something. I had a hard time focusing on driving and maintaining my calm because I was focused on the idea that I was, at that time wearing pants that not only felt weird, but felt like they may have belonged to someone else. I mentioned this to my secretary, whom asked me who’s pants I thought they were (I did find them in my room). She asked me what about them made me feel as if they were not my pants and all I could reply was: “everything!” In any case, after teaching the class (for which I had to travel to the most wicked place in Michigan: Frankenmuth), I drove back to my Samurai City digs and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a black mock turtle neck shirt. Actually, I would have preferred to be wearing slacks of some type, but the jeans worked well enough to stave off a full-fledged anxiety explosion.

The next issue that has my mind in a tizzy is this whole deal regarding Rush Limbaugh and Sandra Fluke. The story is, Rush called her a slut and a prostitute because she advocated health insurance plans covering health insurance. Her words to encourage state-sponsored baby anti-proliferation even had old Rushy boy calling for sex tapes so he could post them online. Surely, any whore who is seeking health insurance coverage for birth control must have a host of sex tapes from her numerous dalliances with shady men that are available for mass dissemination via some “porno tube” website.

This has me most concerned because Rush turned tail and apologized. Apologized! This surely is a different corpulent, angry bird of a politico that we have grown to love over the years. What happened, man? I was all for supporting the Republican idea that no one should ever use birth control. In fact, if you do not want children (and cannot afford a nanny or au pere to raise them, nor can you afford to travel to some other nation where abortions and contraceptives flow like milk and honey), then you probably should not have sex. Fucking is for people who can afford the luxury of preventing a potential pregnancy, or eliminating the accidental creation of little monster clones of yourself. If you cannot afford the traditional remedies offered by the wealthy (Brazilian abortions, French morning after pills, or European boarding schools), then either go celibate, or take your chances with a shady, back alley abortion specialist on the streets of Mexico or Seattle.

However, I was betrayed. Betrayal most foul! His Most Majestic Obesity back-pedaled and apologized to Ms. Fluke. He took back his venom and took the wuss way out all because a few sponsors decided to pull their ads from his show. Really? What the fuck, Limbaugh?! These sponsors knew what you were all about, and they probably support you in your medieval attitude towards women and civilization in general. But they know the score, Rush. They know that most people are afraid of the right-wing agenda. They know that people fear the wealthy and our insidious urge to keep the poor as destitute as possible, and as numerous; we need that population to subject and get cheap labor from. The problem is that you spoke the truth that we do not want spoken too often. Here is how it works:

  1. Have horrid right-wing, preferrably a near-racist and sexist attitude.
  2. Wait for some mouthy schmuck to voice this reprehensible concern.
  3. Silently agree, then pull sponsorship from the jerk to keep our customers content and unaware that your corporation fully intends to reward the jerk with perks, back slaps, and tickets to Nazis on Ice at the local ice arena.

Rush, you added an undesired step, and apologized! Now the liberal will know that we are cowards who only want a silent, subtle manipulation of the people. That is, unless they are trying to get a piece of our one-percent pie. If that is the case beat those bastards down and trample them with elephants. So, way to go Limbaugh: you made a girl cry, and then took it back like a wuss. What are you going to do next, put on your girly shorts and listen to Selena Gomez albums with your widdle, gurlfriends?

But enough of that satirical sarcasm, on with the show. Below is the list of artists appearing on tonight’s broadcast. To have a listen, tune your Internet browser to http://darksideradio.com. If that gives your trouble, try opening the link in your media player. But really, clicking the link should take you to the station. If it does not, keep trying. You want to listen, you know you do.

Tonight’s Featured Artists (Subject To Change)

Type O Negative

Bauhaus

Joy Division

Siouxsie and the Banshees

Oingo Boingo

The B-52’s

Sonic Youth

Dead Kennedys

Puscifer

Depeche Mode

The Cure

Blondie

The Police

Switchblade Symphony

Butthole Surfers.

Wednesday 13

Mindless Self Indulgence

Dragonette

Combichrist

Ministry & Co-Conspirators

Nine Inch Nails

Rob Zombie

Lacuna Coil

Bigod 20

Muse

Tool

The Smiths

Snake River Conspiracy

So, tune in tonight and enjoy the program. If you have Twitter, @XRothechilde and @Darksideradio give song-to-song updates during the show.

Commercials are from: “Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas” and “Grand Theft Auto IV”

Promotion spots for DJ Xavier produced and Created by: DJ Mirage, Ethermagus, and DJ Parallax

Friday Night with Charlotte

Last week was quite a week. It started with scandal and ended with an ugly attempt to discredit The Foundation. The scandal was a bit of ugliness involving The Foundation’s war elephants. While it seems that the issue should have been over quickly and with a few payouts here and there, that was not to be. Fortunately, I had a fun night out with Charlotte the Friday before the treacherous attempt to ruin your beloved charitable organization.

I could go on and detail the incidents that led to the horrors of the weekend, but instead, I have decided to go the honest route and provide the transcript of a local news programs morning interview of yours truly.

Bert Berterson: “Good morning. I’m Bert Berterson appearing on this special edition of ‘Samurai City Saturday Morning’ with local mogul, Xavier Rothe…”

Me: “Mogul?! What the fuck did you call me? I am not a snowy lump on a ski slope! Nor am I some brandy sipping curmudgeon sitting by some fireplace in some cavernous, drafty, Victorian mansion. I am a humble orchard operator and general all around nice guy. I am really tired of your slander and libel. You really need to get over that camera incident with Manthony.”

B.B: “No, that is not the issue. True, there have been ‘incidents,” but they aren’t what this interview is about. We are here to discuss the elephant rampage that you and your associates with The Rothechilde Foundation are responsible for causing, avoiding, and admitting no responsibility.

Me: “Berty darling, that is exactly what I am talking about! Okay, so unfortunate things may have happened. People may or may not have been allegedly had the misfortune of standing where an elephant may have been walking. Whatever the case, there is no need to start throwing around faulty, unproven allegations that could result in a hefty lawsuit or potential burying in a shallow grave in Nevada or somewhere.”

B.B: “Did, did you just threaten to kill me and bury me in Nevada?”

Me: “I have done no such thing! I was merely stating things that could happen to a person. I have never gone to Nevada. The sand would destroy my wardrode, I believe. Speaking of which, I have been experimenting with adding color to my wardrobe…”

B.B: “Let’s not get off topic, Mr. Rothechilde, Xavier, may I call you Xavier?

Me: “I would not if I did not want to get ‘punished’ severely.”

B.B.  “Ahem. Before we begin, let’s refresh your memory. Ronald, roll the footage please.”

At this moment, a clip was played that showed a large group of people hanging about Downtown Samurai City. In the background, the Foundation Thunderdome stood majestically in the background. In the foreground, more people. Then the clip cut over to the ass-biscuit that I was currently being tormented by in this interview. Mr. Berterson was interviewing people who were “Occupying Samurai City.” Yes, the wave of civil unrest and general unhappiness of the populist poor had spread to Samurai City and the occupiers were occupying various areas of the city. This was exactly why we at the Foundation came up with the idea to have the war elephants. The occupiers had not come as far as the Thunderdome, but a group of counter-occupiers had begun to head in our direction. These counter occupiers were those who supported the one percent or something like that. Berterson interviewed a few of them as well. Approximately two minutes into the clip, a wave of people could be seen coming toward the camera. In the background, the image and sounds of a herd of elephants rapidly approached the news crew. Fleeing to a safe area (who knew there was a safe place from a herd of stampeding elephants?), the camera still recorded, Berty-baby’s panicked reporting in the background:

Bert: “This is Bert Berterson! A herd of elephants is now rampaging in downtown Samurai City! People are running everywhere as complete and total pandemonium has erupted! Oh my God! An elephant just tossed a police car into the side of the bank! This, this is terrible! Absolutely terrible! Hey! Someone grab that little girl! What the hell are you talking about? You do it! I’m Bert Berterson! I’m not getting stepped on by a freaking elephant! What the hell?! Is that elephant wearing a monocle and a tophat? My God the police have shot the elephant in the tophat! Tophat elephant is down! Holy shit! That elephant has that old lady by the neck! Wait, wait…the elephant has gently set her down. People we have a miracle, the elephant just set her…Shit! He kicked her! The elephant kicked her! Oh my…oh my…she’s, she’s barely moving. Paramedics are trying to help her. Okay, she’s giving the thumbs up. What? Headed where? Oh shit! Run! Ruuunnn!!!

And the clip ended there. To be honest, I was very upset by that footage. There was not one mention or shot of Sister Constance and the nun-wranglers coming in, taking down the rest of the pachyderms with tranquilizers and getting them safely back to the Thunderdome. Two elephants were slaughtered by the man on that tragic day. The monocle and top hat have been turned into monuments in the arboretum.

B.B: “Now, Mr. Rothechilde, clearly you could see what a tragic series of…hey! Are you texting?”

Me: “Yes, you were boring me with that biased video footage. There was no mention of the nuns and their success at bringing this unpleasantness to an end. Not to mention you subjected me to having to witness the brutal slaying of the vainglorious Lord Phant, a pachyderm of distinguished character and with obviously superior fashion sense. I was consulting our legal team to be sure that my comments will not be taken out of context and that the video delay is sufficient for Foundation security personnel to edit out any sensitive information before this hits the airwaves.”

B.B: “What?!”

Blue Boy?

Me: “You know, like they do on awards programs to filter out the potty mouths. Anyway, about fashion. As I believe we were discussing briefly earlier I have been experimenting with making changes to my wardrobe. I have been adding color. Unfortunately, I do not have a picture of me in the lavender and purple, or gold-brown-black, but I do have a picture of me in blue. Ronald, show the clip, please. As you can see, instead of my trademark black and white two-piece combination, I am sporting a stylish three-piece suit. I even have on a blue tie. Blue! And took a picture that I did not insist be made black and white or some sort of old-timey sepia look. Eventually, I will have some photos of me in the other color schemes soon, and I may come back to your program to discuss them again at that time. However, thank you for the interview, it has been a pleasant…”

B.B: “Excuse me, sir! I tell Ronald what to do around here, and we weren’t discussing fashion. We’re here to talk about your reckless unleashing of elephants on our fair city and what exactly you plan on doing about it! You have some things to answer for sir!”

Me: “I do no appreciate your tone, little man. Now see here, if it were not for those stupid one percenters parading about in their diamonds and smelly perfumes, the elephants would not have gotten upset and that misfortune would never have occurred. The elephants were simply a part of a parade that The Foundation was sponsoring in support of the “Occupy Samurai City if You Want, But Stay the Fuck Away from the Thunderdome” rally. As you can see the rally was a success, the Thunderdome is untouched and still stands as a glorious symbol of compassion and beauty. And we are not even going to sue the city over our beloved Lord Phant. Although it has caused Sister Constance a great deal of sorrow. We had to give her an extended vacation, pay raise, and purchase a new elephant, monocle, and top hat to alleviate her lust for revenge.”

B.B: “Are you saying that the life of that elephant is worth more than the hundreds of people that were injured in carnage laid out by your elephant horde? Are you seriously equating humanity with lower animals?!”

Me: “Well, hypothetically, my statement would appear to be putting elephants above the rest of humanity, but then who needs to be splitting hairs here? Besides, no people were killed, and only a few were maimed or otherwise seriously injured. Further, the occupation business was horribly bad for the already weakened economy. Those people should have been out working and those one percent counter-protesters should have been out subjugating masses or otherwise managing some means of economic oppression. The fact is, those protesters were in all likelihood unemployed; do we need to show the world on the national news that we are a nation of corpulent, unemployed people? No sir! No, I say! If our impoverished looked like those pot-bellied Ethiopians, then maybe we would have something to bitch about. However, we are a corpulent nation that sits on couches and and gets to watch seventy-seven different versions of ‘Law & Order.”

B.B: “Mr. Rothechilde! That is completely reprehensible! Do you even hear yourself? Listen, the Vice President of The Rothechilde Foundation has even come out and said that mistakes were made…”

Me: “Yes! Mistakes were made. Many mistakes! Chief among them was letting that bastard out of the dunge…er, basement during the protests. Had he remained sedated and properly confined, our efforts to fix this bit of unpleasantness could have come to an end much sooner, and I would already be enjoying the adulation of the citizenry of this fair city instead of sitting here and subjecting myself to this horrid interview from a man with the fashion sense of a Mogwai.”

B.B: “What are you talking about?!”

Me: “Your suit is terrible. I know a guy, let me help you, baby.”

B.B: “You’re obviously out of touch. With me and the citizens of Samurai City. They don’t love you, no one loves…”

You are very welcome

Me: “Oh my! I ought to shoot you right in your ugly face! You smug son of a…excuse, what is it? Yes, I understand. Excuse me, that gentleman was one of our attorneys, he suggested, and smartly I should add, that by ‘shoot you right in your ugly face’ that I actually meant “write you a sternly worded note of disapproval, perhaps an email cc’d to your station’s management. As for the love thing, surely you are mistaken For example, take a look at this lovely bit of art; Ronald, show the picture please.”

B.B: “Now see here! Ronald is not one of your lackeys…”

Me: “Obviously, the artist appreciates me and felt that I was worthy of being immortalized in one of her brilliant creations. And then there is Sister Constance. For a nun, she really does go out of her way to accommodate my eccentricities (I am ignoring your lackey comment, by the way. Manthony with surely discuss that with you.) Then, and not the least, there is my personal secretary, whom does me an innumerable amount of service in great variety, and makes sure that I can function on a daily basis. And Charlotte! Dear Charlotte! Why just last night, we went out to a local titty bar…”

B.B: “You can’t say that on public television and this has nothing to do with the elephant incident.”

Me: “I believe I did just say that, and this has everything to do with the elephants. There is nothing better to ease the pain of a deceased elephant friend and huge publicity hit like going out to see some boobs. And this was a great night. There was s lady there named Suzie Malone. She did some classy burlesque dance, magic tricks, and she swallowed a sword. Man, that gave me ideas, I tell you! She even danced around with fire. Fire! Strapped around her waist and in the shape of hand fans she danced with fire. I even had my picture taken with her. It is a topless picture. I am not topless, she is, or else I would have brought it to show. I am not opposed to showing the boobs on television; I just do not want to share them with you.”

B.B: “That is all well and good, sir. But what does any of this have to do with the damage you have brought and the poor people that are suffering because of your mistake?”

Me: “You just really want to beat a dead elephant. Man. Fine. While it is unfortunate that a few people may have received a bump or two because of a few rambunctious elephants, we are not a bank, mortgage company, or publicly traded corporation with stockholders to rape and pillage. The government will not bail us out like they did the people who the occupiers are bitching about (is that what they are bitching about? or is it Obamacare, Afghanistan, gay marriage, or Rick Santorum’s tranny porn stash?). No, as always in these trying time The Rothechilde Foundation will rebuild the damaged property. We have already purchased some of the more severely damaged property and found locations for business owners to rebuild and relocate. We have even offered to allow these business to use the Foundation’s contractors for repair and construction and infrastructure at prices that are much lower than the local business clowns. We are hiring many of the disgruntled occupiers for this Samurai City Reconstruction, and all of this will benefit the local economy. Lord Phant did not perish in vain.”

B.B: “It sounds like all you are doing is making a selfishly greedy cash grab and attempt to increase your personal stake and interest here!”

Me: “And is that not the American Way? Thank you, Samurai City and good day. This is Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, signing out.”

B.B: “Hey!”

And the screen goes black…

Note: Mr. Rothechilde has always reveled in, and proudly proclaimed his status as being a hack writer. If you disapprove of the ending, then you were not paying attention to the original disclaimer. No refunds or apologies should be expected and none will be made.

Sincerely,

Rothechilde Foundation and Trust Legal

Happy New Year…!!!

…for some people, that is. As a Greco-Celt, I celebrated my new year back at the end of October, but to fit in with the minority of the world that believes it is the majority: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I originally intended to write something a long time ago, to end my absence from blogging and hopefully get over my writer’s block, Curse of Athena, or whatever was keeping words from flowing from my head to the Internet. Instead of following my original plans, I just decided to wait until this day: the first of the days until the end of the world as we know it (I am not sure if I feel fine, however…)

A lot has happened since I last wrote, and nothing has happened. By a lot has happened, I mean a lot of things have gone on: people have been born, people have died, and much, much more. So much has happened that I should be posting a few blogs; that would be the responsible thing for a hack writer to do. However, I am feeling like an irresponsible hack and will take the cheesy easy way out and write a “list” of things that just happen to be on my mind to usher in the new year.

1) The End of The World

I do not think that the end of all that we know is coming on the Twenty-First of December, Two Thousand and Twelve. In the event that I may be wrong, I have definitely got to do something about getting involved in more threesomes. I know that this seems like a weird way to begin this post, particularly after employing that ominous heading. But the reason I started there is because that is the closest thing that I can think of having that one would consider a New Year’s Resolution, which if you read on, you shall see that I never make. Really, it is not even close to a resolution. It was actually a device to lead into the next topic while incorporating some sort of awareness that people will start really getting antsy about the end of civilization. I guess I am saying that while they are freaking out, I will be trying to get my freak on.

2) Do I Exhibit “Sub” Behavior?

I went to a local *club last night. The experience was totally new to me; I have never been out to any sort of bar/party/club on any New Year’s Eve. Well, technically, I still have never done such a thing – I went to the bar after midnight, so I began my year at one of Manthony’s establishments. While there, I strayed from my normal behavior and hung out by the door with Manthony for a bit, then went over and stood next to a table. But wait, I am getting ahead of myself.

After I had gotten there and said my hellos to Manthony and the delicious yum-yum working the door with him, I walked over to the bar and ordered an Absolut and tonic, with no lemon, lime or anything in it. I had noticed the rather portly fellow when I walked in and had also noticed that he had sidled up next to me at the bar, but assumed he was just getting a drink. He attempted to start up a conversation, and his tone suggested that he was, well, I am not sure what to call him yet. Just read on and it may become clear:

Dude: “Hey.”

Me: “Hello.”

Dude: “I’ve never seen anyone order a mixed drink and tell the bartender to “hold the produce.”

Me: “A lot of people touch those things. People without gloves, or potentially clean hands.”

Dude: “That’s pretty funny. You from around here?”

Me: “I am from up north, but stay down here from time to time.”

Dude: “You come to this bar often?”

Me: “An associate of mine works here, I drop in to say hello now and again.”

Dude: “That’s a nice suit.”

Me: “Thank you.”

I then excused myself from his presence and walked back over to the door area and resumed tending my space near the door near Manthony. Eventually, a table cleared up and I went over to the table and stood there with a space to rest my drink while sending Twitter updates voicing my displeasure at the dancing ability of the crowd. Really! I felt like I was watching a field of epileptic seals frolicking under a disco ball. Sure there were some folks who could move extremely well, but in general, it was a mass of people who were going to be masturbating at home, alone, after the bar if dancing ability was a prerequisite to getting laid.

Extremely pleased with how clever I was with my Tweeting adventure, I looked up from my iPhone and noticed that the portly fellow from earlier had a portly female friend with him, and if my observation was correct, they were trying to figure out how/if to join me at my table. Finally, dude strolled over and asked if they could share the table. I obliged.

Dude: “Hi again. This is my girlfriend, Frieda” (no real names are used in this tale).

Me: “Hello, Frieda.”

Dude: “I’m Corky. I didn’t catch your name before.”

Me: “I did not throw it. I am Xavier.”

Dude: “See? Told you he was funny. And check the suit.:

Frieda: “It is a nice suit. Corky says you’re from up north.”

Me: “That is my primary residence. My business is there and so is the family home. I stay here most of the time.”

Frieda: “I wanna dance. You wanna dance?”

Me: “Oh, no thank you. That floor is too crowded with spasmatics for me at the moment.”

Dude: “Ha! Fuckin’ spazs!”

He said that he was going to go for another beer and I decided to go out and have a cigarette. I had been out there smoking and taking in the scenery for close to ten minutes when I was joined by Frieda, who I learned smoked Marlboro menthols. We stood there in silence for a bit, when Frieda decided to take a giant ice pick and shatter the ice:

Frieda: “So, Corky never knows how to do these things…”

Me: “Smoke?”

Frieda: “Heh. No, he never knows what sort of guy a guy is. And so I hafta to try and figure things out. He thinks I’m good at judging things. Actually, I just find a time to just be blunt and ask whatever.”

Me: “Okay…”

Frieda: “Well, Corky and me were wondering if you’d like to leave the bar with us and maybe hang out at our place and you know…whatever happens, happens…”

Me: “Um…”

Frieda: “Corky likes to be with guys and girls. I mean, we could do some stuff together, but we’re mostly into finding a guy to be with Corky and me, rather than me and Corky. If that makes sense.”

Me: “Yes. Thank you for the gracious offer, but I must respectfully decline. I tend to engage in such fun with my dearest Charlotte and in her absence, I could never agree to such things.”

And we said some good byes and I did not see them any more for the remainder of the evening. I guess beyond the fact that I was not where near attracted to them on either level, I was a little offended by the offer. I mean, if I interpret the offer correctly, I was being invited to join in sexual submission with this couple, this woman and I were to be pleasured, but more so to pleasure him. Now, to each his own, and I may have my own unique interests, but I certainly not the type to allow myself to be the sex toy of some arrogant jock who cannot even talk to me on his own. Oh well, c’est la vie.

3) New Year’s Resolution?

I never make a resolution for the New Year. I know that as soon as I come up with one, I will have broken it by the time one second after the New Year begins. One could say that I should try harder. Yes, one could say that…and be ignored. I never make a resolution because I think it is pointless to set myself up for what I know is going to be a failure. If I had changes that I wished to make that were that substantial, I would have noticed and begun to make it before the advent of the New Year.

4) Demanding Merry Christmas

Okay. I get it. Christmas has been in my face for many months, and now that it is out of my face, I feel like I can bitch about it. If memory serves me, I began seeing ads for Christmas stuff before Samhain hit the calendar as more than a prospective holidate. However, the true horror of the season never really hits me until December. Actually, it hits me on the tenth of December: my birthday. I do not like to make a big deal out of my birthday, but on that day, I do not want to hear about Christmas shopping, gifts, or whatever. Less than that, I do not want to hear crap about someone’s right to go about and just wish people Merry Christmas.

Do you know what I am talking about here? No? Well, I shall expand on the issue. On December 10, 2011, someone posted something on my Facebook wall going on about how they had a right to hear Merry Christmas and resented the meaning being taken out of the public forum and saying “happy holidays” “and so on and so on and scooby dooby doo…” Hey! I do not care. I deleted the offensive propaganda. I deleted the offensive propaganda despite the fact that I abhor any act of censorship. I like to let things go to spur on debate, but the inevitable Jesus-ing up of my Facebook page had to be prevented.

Really. The whole deal is a bit presumptuous. I understand that Christmas is a big deal to SOME people. SOME people. However, not everyone celebrates that particular big deal and why in the Hell should the rest of us just accept your random wish of Happy Christmas when that may not be what we want to experience. You do not catch me wishing a wondrous Yule or gleeful Solstice (which, by the way, is the ONLY non-debatable holiday/occurrence of the month) to everyone I see and getting my drawers shredded because someone does not share my belief.

5) Jujitsu

There is really not too much to say here. I reconciled with my Sensei and my school. I received my official instructor’s certificate and got a new belt. The new belt is not one of new rank, it is just a new belt. You see, I had tied and untied my other belt so often that it had turned from black to green. The only way to tell my rank was from the kanji on the belt. A couple of months ago, I was given a new belt. Now, the other senior students have stopped making jokes that I got demoted, and I can stop having to explain the color of my belt to new students by hurting them more than necessary…lol

And so ends my first post of the year. The New Year that many think is the only and most important New Year. The New Year that is supposed to be the last year according to the Mayan calendar. A year, that for me, is eagerly anticipated, horribly dreaded, and ready for me to grab by the balls.

*I believe the hours of operation posted are incorrect.

A Musical Interlude

Analogies

Love: a poem

Love is like a large piece of cheesecloth attached to a revolving bowling ball covered in fructose and postage stamps.

Love is like a black velvet painting of Elvis; except one of the sideburns is missing, the jumpsuit is on inside out, and Elvis is a black midget.

Love is like a made-for-TV movie starring Pia Zadora and David Soul as wacky, suburban neo-Nazis whose refrigerator is on the verge of breaking down while the dog begs for neutering. (Dog!)

Love is like George Bush’s left, not his right, but his left testicle swinging gently in the airspace over Panama, glowing gently like a neon ball or something, while the barefoot children beneath fill their buckets with chicken entrails and dream of Oldsmobiles and Saran Wrap.

Love is like Isadora Duncan, her svelte, taut, well-muscled body enwrapped in translucent, silk scarves suddenly swallowed whole by frogs with lisps.

Love is like bell-bottom trousers filled with lint, wax lips, empty Pez dispensers…but the lint doesn’t exist.

by Fish Karma (from the album: “Teddy in the Sky with Magnets” – 1991 Triple X Records)

Last Friday Night

Last week was a strange, hectic week. A good person passed from this world and last week was a time of preparing for and attending memorial services and a funeral. This week, last week is still showing its face, but all is settling a bit.

Last Friday night marked the end of the week and the folks around me involved finally got to “crash.” By crash I mean sit and rest and fall asleep. However, I could not last Friday. I had not planned on going out anywhere. I had planned to stay in for the evening, maybe watch wrestling (yes, I do follow the WWE a bit) or finally get back to trying to achieve one hundred percent completion of “L.A. Noire” after having a bit of a training session. While I was doing a bit of shadow boxing, I received a text on my iPhone that was really a message from Facebook telling me that a friend of mine was working at a local coffee shop and wanted people to visit, buy a coffee, and leave him a tip. Hmmm.., I thought, I could go out for a coffee after SmackDown, after I have completed my workout for the night.

So, SmackDown went off, and I got distracted for about an hour and by the time I decided to go and have a coffee, I discovered that I would not have time to change out of my workout pants and sleeveless, aeroline shirt. I was not dressed to go out for the evening. However, I was just going out for a coffee so I through on a hoodie and my running shoes and went out to the coffee house.

I went in and got a coffee and a brownie. Since the crowd inside the place was annoying this night, I decided to take the goodies back to my place, and enjoy them in peace. However, this coffee house is down the street from one of Manthony’s clubs and he was sitting outside of it and waved me over. I walked over and began to enjoy my treats as we stood outside and chatted.

He suggested that I come inside for a bit, they were having a Drag Show and I might enjoy it for a bit. I pointed out that I was looking rather sportish and not suitably attired for evening at the club. Yet, a friend of ours, who was outside smoking a clove since the state of Michigan stripped smoking from bars, suggested that I looked great and suggested that I come in for a drink. Since it was a good friend, and she looked absolutely delicious, I decided to go in and have one drink with her and take in a bit of the show.

I am happy that I went into the club! I was immediately greeted with the sound of a familiar voice: the emcee for this Drag Show was my favorite Drag Queen: Alexa. I had not seen her in about seven years. I ordered a Woodchuck Ale (I was not dressed for public absinthe consumption), and watched Alexa from a table near the entrance where Manthony was letting people in, or having them thrown out.

After watching the show for a few, I decided that I should venture homeward (is it weird that being around Drag Queens made me feel under dressed?), and I went outside to say my “see you laters” to Manthony, who was now sitting outside on the steps of the bar with a skinny blonde. Manthony was waiting for a limousine to arrive that was transporting a bachelor or bachelorette party or something of that nature. The skinny blonde was smoking a Marlboro Light.

Skinny Blonde was pretty tipsy and flirtatious. She was trying to remember Manthony’s name (he had already told her the name several times), and was wondering why he said that his name contained body parts. She was rather elated when he said there was a “toe” and a “knee” in his name, but the elation fell because neither of the names were of “naughty body parts.” That is when I told her that his last name was “Boobpenis.”

She then noticed that I was there and asked me what my name was:

Manthony: I told you that his name was Xavier.

Me: My name is Manthony.

Skinny Blonde: Another Boobpenis?! How many of you are there in this town?!

Me: No, my name is Xavier. I was just pulling on your leg.

Skinny Blonde: Be nice to me, I’m pretty drunk and not from around here. I’m here with her over there, she’s my friend.

SB was not from Samurai City and had come here to hang out with a girlfriend of hers. Apparently, she is in the midst of as divorce, and was not opposed to being friendly and flirtatious. Amusing as she was, I was on my way back to my place and said so to Manthony and SB.

Manthony: See you later. Here’s my limo, I need to let people in.

Me: See you later.

SB: Xavier, you should come in and dance with me.

Me: I would love to, but I have to leave. Besides, I am really not dressed for the bar.

SB: No, you don’t have to leave. You just don’t like me because I’m a skinny white girl with no ass. You look fine, I like the sport-look.

Me: You have been sitting the whole time, I have no idea of your ass or lack thereof. Actually, I find you rather interesting and would dance if I did not have to be on my way. The next time you are out, have Manthony ring me up and I shall come out and give you a dance.

SB: I can give you my cell phone number, you should call me. Just don’t call when my boyfriend is home!

Me: How in the Hell am I supposed to know that?

With that, Skinny Blonde gave me her digits and I walked her back inside the club to where her friend was standing. I advised her friend that SB probably did not need anymore drinks, and that it was nice to meet the two of them. Then I left and headed on my way back to my Samurai City digs.

And so ended another week in Samurai City.

 

New Toys and ADD

Instead of taking the time to sit and write nearly daily as I promised myself, I allowed my ADD to get the best of me and have been distracted by a shiny: a motorcycle. But before I go into the motorcycle, a little detour, backstory, is needed. Originally, this post was supposed to be two separate posts. It is not because I got distracted. Instead, this will be a rather lengthy update, which is of no consequence as I can be a bit prone to blathering when putting my thoughts to “paper.” As a result, I apologize in advance for any distortion in logical presentation, or random jumping about. OCD and ADD are a dangerous combination. Right now, my brain is a jumble of thoughts, feelings, and impressions; they are reflected in my presentation below.

About a month ago, Charlotte was oddly late for the Foundation Board meeting. This was odd, as Charlotte is well known for her obsessive attentiveness to punctuality, and we were about to decide which of us was going to drive to Charlotte’s home to check in (if you call her, she most likely will not answer her phone). Before we could come to a decision, Charlotte strolls in with a smile on her face. She was late, and now grinning a large grin; I wondered if I needed to contact our legal people… We were all looking and wondering exactly what was to come when she informed us that if we wanted to know why she was late, then we could take a look in the parking lot. We knew that we may not want to look, but knowing that we simply had to know what caused this shift in Charlotte’s behavior, we stood and made for the door.

Exiting the Board Room and then the out of the door to the parking lot, we saw what was making Charlotte so pleased with the universe: it was a green, nineteen seventy-six Cadillac Eldorado. With a convertible top. She told us that she got it for a steal. Granted, it needs a bit of bodywork (and believe it or not, Charlotte used the term “TLC”), but it sounds great, runs well, and is an overall pretty pimp ride. Even more impressive than the car, was that Charlotte fully intends to do the restorative work on the vehicle herself. She did purchase new tires, that seemed more economical to her than buying the materials needed to change tires in order to do it herself. She also got a repair manual, air filter and spark plugs. All-in-all, she was learning what she needed to do. Good for her!

After a week or so, I dropped in on Charlotte to see how things were going. She had changed the air filter, and was currently in the process of solving her ride’s overheating issue. She left out the spark plugs. Before I could say anything, she thanked me for asking, and told me that she appreciated how I was staying out of her face. Then she further explained. Apparently, many of the friends that she shared her new car goodness and plans with, were discouraging. They were constantly telling her how difficult what she was going to attempt was, that it would be better to just pay someone else to do this or that, and she mentioned that someone even began the process of changing her spark plugs when she let him see the engine. She was annoyed and wanted to know why everyone was peeing in her lemonade. I told her that I had faith in her ability and that I stayed out of the way, because I respect her space. Then we had some coffee, veggie sandwiches, and some sex.

(Please forgive what may appear as distortions with the past/present tense in the previous paragraph, written strictly past tense read weird to me.)

There. Backstory complete. This backstory is relevant because it leads directly to my own recently acquired toy, which coincidentally, has a motor, and was produced in nineteen seventy-six. Shades of Charlotte. More than you can expect.

Last week, I had the fortune to acquire a motorcycle. Mind you, I have never ridden a motorcycle, but I have struggled with resisting their appeal. Many of my associates ride bikes, so I am surrounded by them in some sense. I had been planning to get one for some time now, and had decided that I would buy one in February or March of next year; then I would have time to learn to ride, get proper endorsement, and have almost six months of riding time versus two or three. However, an opportunity arose and I just had to seize the moment.

A friend of a friend was selling an old motorcycle. Cosmetically, the motorcycle was decent and it did not run at the time. Yet, whatever was causing the bike to not function was allegedly an easy fix. The fellow selling the motorcycle was asking one hundred dollars for it, and I could not pass up the opportunity, which had now become and awesome dual-opportunity: not only could I get a bike, I could learn how to repair it, restore it, and then roll around Samurai City and the hills of Old Mission in the open air on a vintage motorcycle. I could be Charlotte’s two-wheeled counterpart, kicking old school nineteen seventy-six style around Michigan.

And so, I purchased the motorcycle. The next day. I purchased a battery and spark plugs. However, I had discovered that my adventure would be the same as Charlotte’s. Almost identical to hers. I did get to put one of the spark plugs in and the battery. However, the rest of the work was taken from me. Apparently, there are things involved in the process that are easy to mess up and instead of walking me through a hands-on experience, someone else did the work. I appreciated the help greatly, but the feeling of satisfaction from my own creation was being sapped.

The new battery and the spark plugs, combined with draining the old gas from the tank (another procedure I watched rather than did, more sap-age), and refilling with new (which I did) and the motorcycle not only started, but it sounded awesome. It has an oil leak and will require new gaskets possibly. I was told where to get the gaskets (instead of being able to take a look and find them on my own). I was allowed to remove the headlamp to begin the process of changing the front signal lights out, but I was stopped at one and the work done by another. The flasher was not working and something was crossed in the signal wiring, however, I was fortunate in having someone else to solve that problem for me. All the while, I was being reminded of the need to change out some screws to replace with bolts, the changing of the gaskets, and how difficult this will all be to do and that it should not be taken lightly. Pretty soon, all of the “I” in my project became “we.”

I realize that I may be starting to sound like an ungrateful prick. Apparently, the main goal should be for me to get the bike road-ready and get riding. However, I do not appear to be understanding that. My main goal is the satisfaction of saying: “I did that.” There is a satisfaction in accomplishing something for the first time, something that you have never done. The joy of hard work. I fully accept that I could make some foolish error and be forced to get the bike to a mechanic to undo my mistake (if possible). Yet, is that not my mistake to make? Is that not part of learning? Getting the motorcycle running today is not going to make much benefit to me, I still have to get the endorsement for it on my license and learn how to ride the damn thing. I still need a helmet. I have not bought one yet so I do not foolishly tempt myself to hop on and ride the bike before I should be.

I understand that my approach may take me the rest of the summer to get on this motorcycle, but in the end, I will be more satisfied with the outcome. The time taken is not a problem for me, it took me at least three, maybe four years to become shodan in jujitsu. If I could do that in three or four years, I can fix a motorcycle in a month or two. Some may agree with me, but then, they do not understand jujitsu; if they did, they would understand my mindset.

“Living well is the best revenge.”

Thank you, George Herbert; while I appreciate your statement, I cannot say that I agree. I first ran across that quote when I was in elementary school. You see, attending a school for nerds is a double-edged sword: on one edge, you are an easy target for bullies – they know where to find you. The other edge gives you tools: vocabulary, insight, literacy, etc. that give you a means to wittily assail those who resort to brute force to intimidate and belittle. However, that sword ends in a nasty deadly point: both sides combined provide the aggressor with a weapon of irony that cuts both the bully and the bullied, yet provides the bully with the handle and the deadly point directed squarely in the eye of the victim.

But, I digress.

A fellow nerd had just finished amusing a group of asses by being subjected to their various torments, and I asked him why, since he was taller than the other boys, did he not just punch one in the face? He may end up getting beat up by three, but at least he would have gotten one of them, and besides, that one punch may have been the one that shook the morale of the others in the troop, prompting them to desist with their shenanigans and leave him alone. Mind you, this was not an attempt to convey any bravery to a friend, I would have acted just as he did (and had done so in the past). My mind was geared toward survival: I believed that had he attacked, even if he got his ass kicked, it would have kept the fiends away from me another day. However, if he had been successful, and put the Fear in the bullies, then we nerds would have a champion and we could move about in peace. He would have to maintain his status at times, perhaps, but that was not an issue for me…

The first part of his response was that they were telling him to leave because he did not belong where he was, the second element of his response was to babble on size being irrelevant, the hydrogen atom and the energy created when split, and not making assumptions about the power of the assailants based on their apparent size. Big things, come in small packages, was basically what this fellow was telling me, and that I already knew; his words were not going to prevent any further attacks. He then added: “Living well is the best revenge.” To me, his future of living well for revenge was not changing the fact that while he was still where he was and had not left, it had changed the fact that he did not belong there. That he was not wanted there. And nothing would change that.

He had a plan, it turns out. He was going to use his superior intellect to get wealthy, the ignoramuses would be working for him and be subject to his whim. He figured that he would just bide his time. He suggested that I do the same. And so, that is what I did. I kept up my grades, got involved with the band and other band-things, and even enjoyed a moderate bit of popularity in High School. But the damage was done. I was tortured by the idea that I did not belong. That I was too different. That I was consigned to my own Private Idaho for the remainder of my life.

Still years later, I was using my superior intellect to lord over those who victimized me in the past. I have a wealth that I cannot calculate. Some of those that were my personal criminals have become public criminals and are living as residents of the penal system. Despite all of what may be consider wellness of living, I am not getting the best revenge. That is not to say that I have it bad. I live rather well, to be completely honest. My problem is that I am not completely sure that I am living well what I need to be living well.

To me, life has been a quest to understand and to be understood in kind. That may be a common theme to humanity, but I do not wish to make blanket statements. It has never been enough for me to simply look around me and be content. It has never been enough to live my own intellectual version of the “abominable fantasy,” to look at my former tormentors burning in their own private Hell has never been sufficient. I have always had a desire to be accepted, to be understood, to be validated. I wanted to be what I was and meet others like me and live a life with a collective of like-minded people who wrote together. Danced together. Ate, slept, fucked, ran together. I have always wanted to belong to something; I live the life of an outsider who wants to constantly peer inside.

But the Hell of my past tormentors keeps me from staring down and enjoying their suffering. The reason behind that is because I have not fully enjoyed my own personal Heavens: dangled before me like a grapes before Tantalus, they are stripped away just when I have grown to realize what I have. As a result, when I should be getting the best revenge, I find myself living of life of constant nostalgia for the images that were once present before my eyes. While I may see myself above them, they still have that one thing to hold over me, that one thing that was their weapon: I still do not fit in and still, I do not belong.