beginnings

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.

What I Learned About Expecting and Resenting

If you have read my last few posts, they have been a little “off” from what I normally prattle on about. Instead of misanthropic hackery, violence, drinking, or random sex bits (talk, not the actual bits), the darkness of my words have been coming from a different font of creativity. One that is totally familiar and alien at the same time. While I have been finding it difficult to get into the swing of things, I do follow other blogs; many of them are similar to what used to come from my twisted brain. Sometimes, amidst the words of others, I find the strangest wisdom, from the most unexpected places.

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

Good for killing things needing killing, not so good for handling resentment?

A couple of days ago, I came to an understanding. At first, I have to admit, that I was a bit dismayed by my new appreciation for things. Then I was afraid for a day. Really afraid. There are things that a Sig Sauer cannot touch; there are things that jujitsu cannot bend, break, twist. It is one of these things that has brought me to where I am. It is one of these things that has walked into my office wearing a propeller beanie, striped shirt, and sandals and happily asked where I store my bacon. Sometimes, reality sets in and it is a real kick in the juevos. Did I spell that correctly? I have no idea, the Spanish I know is not Spanish at all.

I was reading a fellow writer’s blog last night. This particular entry had a sentence that has stuck with me. It was with me when I went to bed last night. It is still ringing in my head. It helped me move from the sense of impending doom that I have been feeling for the last week, and into a sense of sadness. Now, I am used to depression. Anyone with OCD can tell you how neglecting avoiding obsessions and compulsions can put you into a serious rage, or a equally serious fit of depression. But this is new. You see, instead of feeling like the world is coming to an end, this is more like coming out of the bomb shelter to view the post-apocalyptic world for the first time. Not unlike the C.H.U.D.s, I am blinking in the hazy sun, and looking for flesh to eat. Only I am not eating flesh, or going to eat flesh; I am wondering what is next for the world. You know, what to expect.

I had not realized this until I read that blog entry last night and saw this sentence: “Expectations are just resentments under construction.” Wow. What? Damn. After I read that, the sadness set in. Now, do not take me the wrong way. The snarky chica that put that phrase on the interwebs for all to see is not causing me sadness. The post that the quote I stole came from was actually pretty humorous. It was the realization of my own state of being/thinking/existing that has driven me to the brink of crying like a bitch-baby with a diaper rash made of glass.

We're all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show....

We’re all stars now, in the C.H.U.D. show….

I have been existing with my own expectations of things to come. Are my expectations truly the beginning of resentment? I find myself having to chuck aside the fears that I had about my future; fears that turned to foreboding that turned to anxiety that turned to expectations. Now it would seem that they may be turning into resentment. Or at least destined to turn into resentment. While I do see a bit of cynicism in the statement, well, a lot of cynicism actually (sorry, snark! I mean no offense). Why? Because it appears that the statement is saying that if one holds expectations, then one should expect that these expectations will not be met. Since they will not be met, then resentment will set in to replace the failed expectations.

As a reformed optimist (I kicked the habit last week), I always thought that it was always a good practice to expect the best, highest outcome. That optimism turned into cynicism. Why did that happen? How did my waiting for the best turn to waiting for the worst? I have an idea, but I choose to ignore that idea. After reading that blog, and letting that post run through my head like a mantra or some wacky self-affirmation, I came to see that what had happened is that I began to expect the worst. And then it hit me again.

First, I was expecting something good. Second, I began to expect something terrible. That second expectation in itself was sufficient to cause me some resentment. Really, what else would come of a dream suddenly becoming a nightmare? Resentment. I resented that whole turning to begin with. Then I noticed that it was possible that the resentment was still building; it may only be the part of the iceberg that is seen from the Crow’s Nest. But what is the resentment directed towards? After thinking about it, I have no one to resent but myself.

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

You mean that nigga is talking about my dick AND stealing my image?!

And at that, I am the consummate professional. I can elevate self-hate to a level that rivals the ingenuity that was required to build the pyramids. Most people that know me, know that I am a hater. A damn good hater. If you manage to get on my bad side (which is really easy to do, do not test me), there usually is no good side to get back on. I carry a grudge like Shorty Mac carries around his massive cock: in my pants and ready to thwap a mushroom stamp on a bitch’s head at a moment’s notice. But resentment? That is something I have never really considered when it comes to myself. Even less so when it comes to things that I hold close to the fiber of my being. Now, I am dripping with the stuff. It is hanging around my neck like and albatross (what in seven fucks does that mean, anyway?) or like St. Anger (I wish it were just anger, I could roll or role with that).

 

“…to survive the tide…”

Oy. It has been one of those days/years/decades. I have no idea where to begin or where to go with this; I seem to be having that problem rather often when it comes to writing in this blog. No, extend that. It goes way beyond this blog.

You never know how much you will miss a place until you are actually faced with leaving it. You know? That trip to Disney or Cedar Point lasts forever while you are in the lines or taking pictures with a gigantic anthropomorphic mouse. Then you head for the gates to return to your car, or bus, or motorcycle, or long-distance walking shoes and are faced with the prospect of leaving. The difference is most of us return home, or to something like a home. Which leads me to the following question: would you miss a place more if you were not so sure that you had a place to return?

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

I fucking hate January.

I tend to appreciate duality. However, Janus and your namesake month have never been anything but a source of ill for me. I have been listening to the same song on my iPhone when I am in transit places since September. Maybe even before that. Maybe it was the mantra the song had become. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe I should have listened.

It is taking every ounce of strength I can muster today to stay here at the Foundation and manage daily affairs. I came in to an empty desk. I have piled that desk with work to accomplish. This work will never be accomplished. This desk will never be clear. I sit and look at it, and realize that it will never be clear. I have come to realize that eventually, I will have to sit at the desk…

Even with the chatter of the Board of Directors earlier, the Boardroom was empty. Many of us know a person that walks into a room and has that sort of personality that fills the room. Sometimes the person is smothering; sometimes we would prefer that the person vacate so that the rest of the people in the room can move/breathe/walk/talk freely. Other times…other times the person contributes such an air that others suffocate as soon as that particular air leaves. The Boardroom was very empty. I twirled my pen and sat and stared at the emptiness. Thankfully, the Board Secretary takes excellent notes; I have no idea what happened during the meeting. I was absent in the empty. I am pretty sure that the Veep took over presiding the meeting at some point. I remember him calling votes and asking for seconds…on votes as well as danishes.

Now, back in my office. I just want to burn the place. Not my office…not just the office…the whole place. Like cleaning out the old dead growth in the orchards. Last night, I went out to set some of the old growth to flame. I figured I would get a start early so that planting in the Spring of the new trees could start sooner that usual. Whatever. Any excuse to burn things, right?

Orchard Hand: “Mr. Sir. X, this is not the best time to try burning the orchard. Really, it is never a good time, but now is really not. Too much snow.”

Me: “When did I start paying you to question my burning needs? Look, this fire is going well.”

OH: “Yes, sir. That it is. Starting to go pretty good. However, soon this shed will be engulfed. The snow will put out the fire. However, we’ll be burnt up before that happens…the smoke will get us before that.”

Me: “Oh. Yes. That. You may go for the day. Take your son to shoot some dangerous or delicious animal.”

OH: “After we leave together. By force if necessary.”

Me: “Fine. I am going to fire you as soon as we get up to the estate.”

OH: “Sure you are. Just like always. Now come on, I’m starting to smell like burnt apple-cherry crisp.”

“…you’ll never walk alone…”

No, this is not about Dionne Warwick or whomever may have sang the song with the title that consists of the same words of the italics above. This is my way of saying some things that maybe need to be said. Maybe they are better unsaid. Maybe they are better off forgotten and ignored. Who knows? I certainly do not. What I do know is that I have to get out of this office before I have legal issues surrounding arson, insurance fraud, and a lot of disappointed community members without a place to freeload off of the largesse of the Thunderdome. They come in daily. They tour the grounds. They enjoy the free food court. They swim in the pool, enjoy the arboretum and dodge the koalas and cybergators. Yet when they leave, they pause and look at the statue commemorating a loving and valiant Lord or Lady Phant (really, I cannot even think about that now). That statue was supposed to be a shrine, now it only serves to remind visitors of that tragedy. And that is what the Foundation has become, that is what has become the Rothechilde legacy.

Looking at the clock I find myself wondering if it is ethical for me to leave early for the day? I mean, there is an answering machine. Also, this place has gone on for months at a stretch…even with the ineptitude of Smeagol trying to run this place. So, yes. I think I can go now. No one is even going to notice that I have gone.

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.

Busy, Busy, Busy…

I hate being so caught up with my daily drudgery that I do not get to pay proper attention to blog or my friends’ blogs. Fortunately, this Thursday signals the beginning of a slight vacation and I will get to pay proper attention to my subscriptions and write more often.

For a few years, The Rothechilde Foundation has bestowed much generosity on a local elementary school. For five years, to be exact (maybe six?). Whatever the case, the group of fifth graders at this school had their “graduation” (which has to be placed in quotes or substituted with “celebration” in order to appease the Department of Education Bureaucrats) and I was fortunate enought to attend. This group is one of two very special groups to me: this group because they were all kindergarteners when The Foundation began working with the school and the other group is next year’s fifth graders, who were all pre-schoolers at the time.

I did not expect to be moved at all by this occasion. In fact, I had not even planned to attend. However, I was reminded that my coal black heart does hold a modicum of sentimentality and I attended the ceremony. The students were surprised to see me enter the gymnasium and all proceeded to run up and invade my space with their grubby hands and personal space violating hugs. “Mr. Rothechilde! Mr. Rothechilde! Thank you for coming! Will you sit up with us?” Of course, I could not do that, but I did sit in the front row (against my better judgement) and watched the proceedings.

The children were all dressed nicely for the occasion and were especially well-behaved. Who knows? Knowing that they were all about to get the fuck up out that joint may have spurred them to show some self-discipline. After a welcome from the principal, and an annoying speech from a local Middle School administrator (who stands about three feet tall, drives a hummer, and needs sixty kicks to the groin), one of the students approached the podium and whispered something to the principal of this elementary school. Soon, I discovered the misdoings afoot:

Principal: “Mr. Rothechilde, the students would like you to say a few words to them. They have grown to love and respect you and really want to hear something from you on this, their day.”

Hmm…me give an unprepared speech? Charlotte would approve. Madame Secretary would insist on writing a quick draft with a two minute time limit. Smeagol would be tazed to keep him silent, undoubtedly traumatizing a gym full of children and parents with his spasms and yelps. Manthony would have gotten the Hell out of that place, there was no air and it was roughly one hundred degrees with the fan blowing on me.

So, what the Hell, I approached the podium, and delivered this address, then hugged a few youngsters and then left the gym. With that as a precedent, I will write my words, hug my secretary, and leave WordPress for the night.

My Words to the Munchlings

“Parents, teachers and staff, and most importantly, future sixth grade students, I find it humbling to be standing here before you in this outrageous heat to celebrate the passing of these youngsters on to the next phase of their education. It seems like just a few minutes ago that I walked into this building for the first time and answered a billion questions from your kindergarten brains about my wondrous head of locks and penchant for black suits. However, it was not a few minutes ago, and you all have grown much in character and much in brain. As you leave this building for the last time and venture to the next stage of academia, remember that nothing is being given to you. What you want, you have to take. From your education, to future employment, the world is definitely not an ally of convenience. No, what you wish for success can only come from your blood, sweat and tears…then the world will gladly share her bounty with you. Remember, the system is no longer educating you for factory labor; it is now grooming you for poverty, ignorance and prison through cutting those important programs such as art, music, math, and science. You have to conquer the system. It is time to rise to the occasion, grab your rifle of enlightenment, and seek knowledge everywhere and anywhere you can. Take their theories and generate new ones, take their history and make it stories of truth, take their lack of compassion and shove it down their throats with a loving wooden spoon! Indeed the planet is yours to inherit, and now is the time for you to do so. I will miss you all terribly, and it breaks my heart to see you all go. However, it will be good to see you progress and I am sure our paths will cross in this life again. Take care and be well.”

Welcome to the Sanitarium?

This is a short post designed as a Public Service Announcement from the Executive Board of Directors of the Rothechilde Foundation from the Desk of Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, President of the Rothechilde Foundation.

What in the Hell was that all about. Really. This is the last time that I trust an intern to open a blog entry for me. “Make it a short salutation,” I said. “Keep it neat and clean,” I said. And instead, I get that horrible introductory yibber-yabber dog nuts that is outrageously pretension, even for myself.

But I have gone way beyond the intention of brevity for this posting. Basically, I wanted to make you aware of a new addition to my blog. Sister Constance, or Arabella, or whomever she claims she may be will appear from time to time to add her two cents to the world.

Treat her kindly, she is a vicious and vengeful Gemini.

Frustrations abated…well, not really.

Greetings and Salutations! This may well be my inaugural entry on this here new blog. So far, I do not mind what I have going on here. However I am incredibly displeased with the text and page options. I guess I have to wonder exactly what it is that I expect from this particular venture.

Well, that is enough for now. Perhaps I will do a proper introduction after I have slept on this for a bit. Besides, I am missing an awesome history program on sexual behavior through the ages.