friends

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.

“…disconnect and self destruct…”

“…one bullet at a time…” – A Perfect Circle, “The Outsider”

I used to play this song in my Darkside Radio days, typically “The Frosted Yogurt Mix” (or what ever the rest of the title was). Maybe it was remix. Who knows? What I do know is that song has been stuck in my head for the bulk of the day. Sometimes, it feels good to be the outsider. Other times, it seems that one is just on the outside. I never could appreciate the latter of those feelings, I believe that I can now.

Last night, I scared the shit out of myself. I was watching a program on H2, it was discussing how the Earth has shaped human evolution. Well, toward the end, the folks on the show began to go on about how seventy thousand years ago, a major extinction event occurred. That was not a surprise, the majority of species that do exist, have existed, have gone extinct. So, hearing of massive extinction was not the problem. What sent me into a severe head-spin was when one of the guys on this show said that after the event seventy thousand years ago, MOST of humanity was wiped out. Approximately two thousand humans survived, enough to fill a “multi-plex movie theater.” Damn. Talk about your near misses…

All humans living today are descendants of that small population. Our genetic diversity is .1 percent (I really hated not being able to write that out, that will bother me for the rest of my life). It would seem that I, Lord of the Orchard, am closer in relation to those peons that work for me than I realize. Maybe I should be treating them better. I mean, we are all related…closely related. I suppose I could provide higher wages, fewer tazings, end the sixteen hour day, etc. But in the end, what do I have to gain from this?

I mean, is that not what life is all about? What is the use of spending anytime seeing beyond my beautiful eyebrows, if I am not seeing any benefit to my own personal being. Recently, I have enjoyed a rise in my number of followers. This pleases me greatly. Everyone should read my blog. Everyone should want to buy me drinks…and possibly sleep with me. But I digress, back to the followers. Some of them, I am rather enjoying. I can understand why they may have an interest in reading what your humble X has to put to word. I have ascertained that those people are not reading because of my superb writing skills (my hackery is legendary), and I may not know precisely why they read, but I can understand why.

Then there are others. Some that I have no idea why they come here. They should take Dante’s warning and abandon all hope upon entering here. Whenever I have gotten a new subscriber (follower is sounding potentially too cultish for me at the moment), I have made it a point to go to their blog (if they have one), and usually, I find something that makes me wonder why in the Hell would this person even think about looking for my blog? Admittedly, my last few entries have been rather tame, not very dark at all. But, these moments are few and far between. For example, I am actually writing this BEFORE getting into the absinthe, so things will be a little light. I feel the need to behave for a bit. I have no idea why.

Typically, I tend to be a bit obnoxious, pretentious, and generally carry myself in a supercilious manner. My ramblings range from the subtly erotic to downright pornographic. Okay, so I am not usually very subtle, and I have not really written any porn, but I am given to bouts of hyperbole. I am a person of contrasts, you are just as likely to hear Depeche Mode on my stereo as you are to hear classical music. jazz, or sometimes Johnny Cash (Johnny Cash is not country, neither is Willie Nelson. I hate country music). I love foreign films, comic books, threesomes, and I watch professional wrestling. Everyone should. It is a soap opera featuring large sweaty men rolling around in their underwear. And “Big Brother.” Along with those programs and shows about sociopaths, there is “Big Brother.” Seriously, my Twitter feed is all wrestling, “Big Brother” and #FF (I am a horrible tweet-er).

If I go to the bar, I prefer them to be pub-like or a gay bar. One of my favorite bars is owned by my diggity-dog Manthony. It caters to a mixed crowd of straight, gay, bi, what ever. I think I even saw a pangolin in drag there; Manthony claims it was a hallucination from one of those “party pills” I decided to enjoy that night instead of the usual Captain and Coke I get, I still say I saw a pangolin. A sexy pangolin.

My other recent subscribers I found during searches. To be honest, I probably found them by using “sex” as a tag search (is that what they call what that is?). I tried searching other things, and typically found people that I would rather beat with clubs before reading them and getting to peak at their brains through their writing…sex seemed to work well. Searching for sex, I found more outsiders. Finding them was good for me, maybe not so much for them. More than likely, finding them may give me a sense of uniqueness that will afford me to make more connections. Who knows? In any case, finding interesting things to read has provided a better distraction from the Foundation than television programs that wind up scaring the crap out me. Well, leading to a cycle of terrible thoughts that scare the crap out of me.

Now, please do not be offended, if you are reading this and have thought that I am talking about you, remember Carly Simon and realize that this song may not be about you. It probably is, but may not be, so do not get all cray-cray. What this is all about is my life on the outside. My life lived in perpetual Nielsen Family membership. My life spent listening, trying to understand, and fitting in; a life spent kicked out of the reindeer games because my jib is cut a little bit askew to the main. The panic from the near extinction seventy thousand years ago led me to thinking of ancestors of mine that suffered from dementia and other tragic ailments. I lived a life on the outside of my family as well. I think different, am different; I am the cliché black sheep. However, will my lack of romance with fried foods and generally healthier lifestyle keep me away from the flock this time? Our will genetics show that I am not really an outsider? Will it show that I am truly a part of that lucky rabble of two thousand that almost bought the farm for the rest of humanity?

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.

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.

Missouri Loves Company

This post has nothing to do with the state of Missouri. At least I am not planning for it to have anything to do with the state of Missouri. To be completely honest, I have no idea where this blog entry is going, what the intent of this entry may be, why I decided to write this item, nor whether I will publish this article or not.

Before I go any further I have a question for any professional bloggers, internet geeks, and/or language freaks. I know that this whole deal that I am writing here on WordPress is a blog, but what do I call each blog entry? I mean, I switched between “entry” and “blog entry” above to see which one felt better. One seemed a bit long and dorky, the other seemed a bit clerical. Either way, the whole pseudo-alliterative, redundancy of that started to really annoy me. So, I switched to item, which seemed too short. Then I tried article, which, for reasons that elude me, does not seem to apply.

Earlier today, I was on my way to a local college where I am taking a nutrition class. With the mild temperature, sun and cloudless sky, it was shaping to be a pleasurable motorcycling experience. I would call it fahrvergnügen, only my motorcycle is Japanese…and not a car (however, there is an ironic “Axis” relationship here…). Anyway, I came to this intersection which is a four-way stop. As I began to cross the intersection, the horrible excuse for a bitch just turned out in front of me. She was just chatting away on her cell phone, not paying any attention to anything around her. Maybe it is the low profile of the motorcycle. Maybe she was just too concerned with her phone and where she had to go to think that she could have killed a person who was not paying attention. Whatever the case, I have learned to be even more attentive when out riding. It is a strange thing, it is: what you gain in freedom while riding in the open air, you almost have to surrender to paranoia regarding the big things in that open air being driven by people not in the same air.

The Republican party is complaining again. They are saying that this new proposal from President Obama is class warfare on the rich. Now, it is this sort of lunacy that drove me from my gun-toting, wealthy brethren long ago in favor of using my own clout to affect the local politics in my area to suit the Foundation’s and the Rothechilde Estate and Orchards benefit. I grew tired of the hypocrisy that they are spewing on near elephant projectile vomit proportions! They are crying class warfare because they are being asked to pay a little bit more in taxes. But, cutting social programs that benefit the poor is not? And, cutting funding for the public schools (which is where the poor tend to go to school if they want an education) is not? Smashing the unions, sending the “unfortunate sons” to war in foreign lands is not? Wow. I guess I understand. When it involves asking the rich for more, then it is class warfare. When it involves asking the poor and middle class to pay all, then it is sound economic policy. Jeez. That poor little picked on one percent of the population who has all of the cash better hope that the poor do not start listening to what dear old Jim Morrison said: “…they got the guns, but we got the numbers…”

Strip Club Odyssey

The other night, Charlotte calls me up and suggests that we go out somewhere. I had not made any particular plans, and Charlotte being one of my favorite playmates, I got myself prepared for some sort of evening. I had no idea what she had in mind; she is not one for going out and being among the rabble. However, there was a certain eagerness in her voice that I could not afford to pass up.

When she arrived to the place, she parked her automotive counterpart and name-sharer in one of my garages and suggested that we cruise out in the hearse. She likes the keep the top down on her nineteen seventy-six Eldorado down, and she did not want any asses messing with her ride:

Me: You parked in the garage?

Charlotte: Yes. I think it would be better if we went in one of your cars, the hearse preferably. I don’t want any hooligans fucking with my shit. You know how they are out there.

Me: Out where?

Charlotte: The strip club. I thought it would be a good idea to go and see some boobs tonight.

Me: Sounds good, let me go in and set the alarms.

We drove out to the club and were greeted by the gaudy look of the place. Now, do not get me wrong, this club is not a seedy hole in the wall. It is a large, two-floored building. It is gaudy because it has a bunch of irregularly flashing neon lights lining the roof and they are simply atrocious. They flash like a traffic signal on a bad acid trip. We parked. We walked inside.

There is an entry fee to this place. An astronomical fee. This place is a piece of work. They charge up the ass to go in and see the ass that you have to pay more for if you want to see the ass dancing close to you. The gatekeeper informed us that if we paid for VIP cards, we could gain entry for free at this club and their other facilities. Since paying for the cards was a much better deal than simply paying for entry, we opted for the cards. Now, we are a bit obliged to go and look at boobs more often.

When we walked into the darkened place, we noticed the menagerie seated about the stage at the tip rail. We noticed that there seemed to be a lot of people there, but not too many strippers. We walked upstairs and took a seat in a balcony overlooking the main floor so that we could avoid having to deal with the frat boys, old perverts, and false-swinging couples with female members that want to give the appearance of kinkiness, bisexuality, and the mindset that they are so cool that they go look at naked ass with their men.

A waitress came and I got a soda while we watched the performer on the stage. For the amount of people and the volume of the place, it would seem that the place should have been noisy. Paradoxically, this was not the case, and Charlotte and I were able to hold a decent conversation while we watched the entertainment.

Charlotte: It is not as noisy in here as it seems that it should be. Oh my God! That old bastard keeps grabbing chicks’ boobs and asses. Dirty bastard!

Me: Naked boob absorbs soundwaves, the ambient noise level is lower because of the amounts of tit around. Where is this dirty bastard?

She pointed out an older fellow who was indeed grabbing onto whatever came near him that was not male, or near a large male that would beat the shit out of him. After awhile, some of the performers stopped coming near him and he sat there like a lonely bench sitting pervert in his tan-khaki shorts and pink shirt. However, he did not leave; he sat at the edge of the stage (the “Tip Rail”) and tipped the dancer on the stage a dollar (doing this attracts the girl to you where she rubs her boobs in your face; give her more and she will pick a dollar up from your face with her stuff while rubbing her face in your crotch). Since he had this girls attention, he could now get his grope on periodically. I am still wondering why a bouncer/security goon did not give him a beat down and then the bum’s rush.

Charlotte: Your explanation sounds like made up pseudoscience. Hey, are you going to get a lapdance?

Me: Oh! Goddess no! There is a germ issue there.

Charlotte: Germ issue? That’s wrong.

Me: I do not think that the girls themselves have germs (although they most certainly do have them, we all do). Rather my concern is the germs of the other people that may have gotten dances from these girls. You know half of the fuckers here did not wash their hands after going into that bathroom; who knows how many of them went into a stall to set free a few knuckle children after being titillated by these sexy minxes roaming about?

Charlotte: You’re so strange. Look at the floor, all of the strippers are coming out. It looks like some kind of invasion!

And she was more than correct. While we were talking, the club emcee came out onto the stage and introduced a special rate on lap dances: two for one, or half off a dance. After he made the announcement, this bouncy, techno music started and all of the dancers began to come out from backstage. And it looked like a fucking invasion.

The floor came alive with the movement of dozens of skantily clad pre-medical students and future attorneys, roaming about from table to table offering dances to everyone down on the floor. It looked like a swarm. The effect of the women coursing through the place like that was eerie in a half-naked ladies invading a place kind of way. After the parade of half-price lapdance offers ended, we went downstairs to sit at the tip rail.

While there, we tossed a few dollars out and the stage dancers did come to boobs in our faces. I had expected them to smell a bit gamey or sweaty from all of dancing and what have you, but they had sweet smells, probably some sort of perfume I surmised. One of these girls even took a peek at Charlotte’s goodies and gave her a little kiss. Definitely erotic.

To end the evening, we walked over into the club’s sex apparatus shop. The chick in attendance was nice enough, and was not hard on the eyes. However, I guess she had not been getting many customers because she ran over into the shop when we entered and made great effort to make us feel welcome to her wares. Unfortunately, we decided that in some form or other, we had some representation of most of the goods present and left without making any purchases. Hopefully, the shopkeep is not paid commission.

And that was the end of our strip club experience. Having come to appreciate that neither of us minded that place too much, we have made plans to use our VIP cards more often, perhaps. Maybe not. Either way, it was a wonderful evening, with wonderful company, and with wonderful background scenery.

“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.

A Few Things

First Things First

My neighbor died a few days ago. I happened to be out checking the progress of the new vineyard and the clearing away of the old, dead trees when I noticed across the way that there were a bunch of police cars at my neighbor’s house. I left the vineyard and walked across the divide and opened the fence that led from my property to my neighbor’s.

I asked one of the women standing out in front of the house what was going on and one of the women, who turned out to be his sister, said that he had died. They did not know how. She had come by the house to check on him and he was sitting at his desk, with a pen in his hand like he was writing. He was slumped over, dead.

"...like a drop of rain, falling to the ocean..."

I offered my condolences and went back through the fence to my vineyard. The grapes are looking great, and the laborers that are cutting the dead, fallen trees into firewood are moving way to slow. I took out my sidearm and fired off a shot that barely grazed the ax handle held by one of the laborers. I commented that had he been working faster, then I would not have been able to pull off such a shot. The laborers began to work a bit faster then. Ah, Capitalism…

He has been gone for a few days now and when I look across the hills and peeks of the apple trees I can see the faint yellow glow that emits from the outdoor lights that are on twenty-four hours a day. The lights used to be white. Now, they are yellow, they add an eerie glow to the vineyards only yards away.

Ellen Garrett, Rest in Peace

I went to visit her at the hospice. She died three days later. I will miss her.

Hooray for Me!

A couple of days ago, I posted a blog. While I was writing this blog, I happened to notice a button on the tool bar for this blog window and it showed a tool tip that said “kitchen sink” or something like that. I clicked the link and slap my dick and call me Seymore Butts, I noticed that I had more text options. I could change the color of the text. I discovered how to underline! Now, some of you WordPress veterans may have known how to do this already, but I was driving myself to OCD Hell because I could not do much for blog formatting.

I even discovered how to make a quote show up inside the blog and be separated from the rest of the text like I have been seeing in other blogs. Now, granted this is not a quote, but I am all excited about the prospect of being able to do these things and want to show off my new skills.

So, now I believe that this site will be even more fun for me and I may even be enticed to write more than once or twice a week. Which I could definitely do, if I could only manage to tear myself away from my Playstation 3. I have become addicted to “Infamous” and still have to check out “L.A. Noire.” Ah, priorities.

Wednesday Night at the Bar

That video has nothing to do with this topic. Almost nothing.  I just like the song, the video, and I wish that my trips to my shrink went more like this. Actually, I just loved this movie. I hear this guy has a new one in the works, I am eager to see it. I wanted to post the video for the opening of this film, but I was unable to find it on YouTube.

However, this has nothing to do with the trip to the bar. Except for the video that I wanted to show that I did not get to show. You see the video has a few really chubby women and a score of monkey men. My night at the bar was greeted by chubby women and strange monkey men. And it is along those lines that I go on with this post.

The night began innocently enough, the plan was to meet a couple of friends at a local bar and have a drink or two and then turn in for an early evening. When I got out into Old Samurai City, most of the folks that I was supposed to meet were gone, and I ran into Baron Outenburt and Ethermagus standing out in front of the coffee shop near the bar. Since the Thunderdome is undergoing some extensive renovations, I had not seen Ethermagus in some time; as for the Baron, he pops up from time-to-time as a friend of mine on the Playstation Network, but I had not had the pleasure of conversation with either gentleman in some time. So, we greeted and proceeded to catch up as friends sometimes do when they have not seen each other in a bit.

Suddenly, our reverie was broken by this dirty-ish fellow who had been standing down on the corner with another fellow that was moving about with the aid of a cane. I had seen the guys down on the corner when I walked up and the martial artist in me was compelled to keep an eye on them. Periodically, they would look down at us and then talk to each other, and then look down at us again. I was wondering if the two were conspiring against us and was now cursing the fact that I decided to obey the Michigan Concealed Weapons Regulations and left my firearms in the car since they are not allowed in bars. Well, this guy calls me: “cousin” (which I am not sure if that was because he had been watching “Lilo & Stitch” and was inspired by the culture of indigenous Hawaiians or because we are both ethnic minorities and the Baron and Ethermagus are clearly not), and asks me for a cigarette. With an uncharacteristic feeling of giving, I gave the dude a smoke and then he asked for my cigarette to light his with. I am not sure why, but I gave him my cigarette, he put his HAND ON THE FILTER, and he gave his cigarette what we smokers like to call a “monkey fuck.”

Be a Proud Bitch!

Ew. He touched my cigarette and I had no idea of knowing where his hands had been. Judging from his overall smell, I am happy to still be unaware. Before anyone starts getting up in my ass about any implication that I am referring to a person who is “houseless,” let me tell you that this was a drunk, perfectly capable, non-houseless mooch of a man who was trying to find a clever way to get something from me other than a cigarette. As I tossed my cigarette to the ground and got out the bottle of sanitizer that I keep in my pocket to scrub my hands in a mad fit of germ avoidance, this guy begins to tell us how his friend on the corner got robbed of three hundred dollars. Apparently, some chick took his money. My immediate thought was that this was a drug deal gone bad, and he was feeling the buyer’s remorse one gets when one buys and gets nothing in the exchange.

After a time, the man with the cane approaches me and asks me if I would not only call a cab for him, but would I pay for the cab to take him to Bishop Airport. You see, he was from Atlanta, Georgia and did not even know where he was. He needed to at least get to Bishop so that he could get on his flight home. Really? First of all, Bishop International is in Flint, Michigan. Flint is about a thirty minute drive from Samurai City. That would cost one Hell of a bit of money and there was no way in Hell that I was going to cough that up to some drunken idiot that gave some bitch three hundred dollars for some drugs. Some bitch that he did not know. How do I know that this is what went down? Before he came over to ask for cab fare, he was telling the smoke-mooch that he thought three hundred dollars was too much to pay for an ounce of pot. At least he is right on that point. Unless he is getting the bomb-diggity chronic. Which he was not getting from some chick on the street in Old Samurai City.

After this encounter, Ethermagus, the Baron and I parted ways and I walked down the street to the local Eighties Bar where I was told that some folks may have gone. I ordered a Captain and Coke, looked around and saw no one, and then sat down to enjoy my drink. While drinking and telling Sister Constance that I was going to send her a text message with a picture of my cock attached (which I did, only I sent a picture of a rooster. Get it? Cock? Rooster? Oh, never mind), a guy walked over to me:

Guy: “Hey, what’s up? So, I see you are sitting here on your Facebook or something and I do not mean to interrupt. My name is Rob.”

“Well, Rob, get your fucking nosy-ass eyes off of my iPhone and two, I am not in Facebook, not that it matters any to you, you fucknut” Is what I should have said, but he did catch me off guard, so instead:

Me: “Greetings and Salutations, I am Xavier A.S. Rothechilde.”

Rob: “So, I saw you sitting here alone, and just thought I would come over and say hi. I was sitting over by the DeeJay.”

Me: “And now you are sitting next to another one. Only I am an Internet DeeJay, and you probably never have listened to my show. That is too bad for you.”

Rob: “What?”

Me: “Nothing, Rob. Just small talk for small people. What brings you over this fine night?”

Rob: “Well, I thought you may need company ’cause you’re sitting here by yourself and I came to say hello and see if you wanted company.”

Me: “No, but thank you. I really hate to be around too many people that I do not know and I think that you are coming on to me. You may try to Roofie me or slip me some kind of Mickey so that you can ass-rape me behind the bar. I already feel naked because I am unarmed; you are giving me the itchy trigger finger that may have me calling my attorney so that I can avail myself of legal loopholes to deal with the likes of you.”

Rob then walked back to his spot by the DeeJay, the non-Internet one, and ignored me for the duration of my stay at the bar. Now, it may seem that I was a bit hard on poor Rob, but I resented the idea that he felt that I had to be lonely and needing company because I was sitting alone in a bar! Yeesh! I can do whatever the fuck I want, and part of that fucking want is to go out, watch people, and be a hermit in public if I choose to do so. I would have been more than happy to have Rob join me for a drink and conversation, I do enjoy meeting people every once and a while, but his arrogance in assuming that I needed company? For all he knew, my “Facebook” fun could have been me asking where the Hell my crew was or me watching porn while I enjoyed my tasty beverage.

Apparently, we are turning into a culture where it is not okay to be by yourself in public.

My Weekend in Review

Monday, 30 May 2011

1) A few moments ago, I completed a lengthy search on how to edit my font and style for this blog. I am incredibly frustrated. It seems ridiculous that a site desgined for bloggers makes it harder to have snazzy fonts, underlines, and what have you than creating a MySpace blog does. Many moons ago, when I began my blog escapades on MySpace, I could alter the color of my font, change the size, justify sections, etc. It was a writer’s paradise. Well, not really. It was MySpace, and I assume the advantages and freedoms of editing text contributed to the virus/bot mill that MySpace could be at times.

Now, I find myself ignorant and frustrated that my entries are relegated to this boring look. I envy the other bloggers who have these neat little formatting dealies going on in their blogs. I understand how the undereducated must feel; I can see what is before me, but it makes no sense. I am in the WordPress Dark Ages. Of course, I am certain that there is a way to format text, and it has to be rather simple (while it is eluding me…my ADD refuses to allow me continue the search as I keep getting distracted by other sites). I know this has to be the case because I copied a post that I wrote in Word or something and the formatting transferred to my post. Unfortunately, when I went to peek at the style using the HTML tab, the formatting stayed, and there was no code. C’est la vie.

Eventually, I will stop being lazy and figure this formatting out. Until then, my writing will have to stand on it’s own without the bells and whistles of colorful text and neat little formatting niceties.

2) Today, I cut down a large, dead tree. By large tree, I mean that the tree was tall. Since I was not very keen on using a chain saw, I tackled the task with a hand saw. I really do love my primitive technology (excepting my iPhone, Playstation 3, and Alpha Romeo)! Sawing through the dead maple mass was not as difficult as I expected, and instead of sawing through the whole tree, I stopped halfway through, secured a rope above the cut, and pulled the tree the rest of the way down. Now there is a tree stump that is about five feet tall that I have to remove. Actually, it could be cool to let some climbing vegetation have the stump as support. Maybe some beans or a decorative grape vine. Charlotte suggests that I carve it into a deranged squirrel.

3) Today, an intern called me up and said that no one was at the Thunderdome to let him inside for work. I reminded him that as today was a Federal holiday that was not either Christmas-y or Easter-y, then the Foundation’s offices were closed and employees could enjoy a day off. I commented that my ADD must have gotten the best of me while multi-tasking memos last Friday and I forgot to mention the day off for newcomers. He stated that he just observed that I never abbreviate anything, except for my ADD and OCD. I never noticed that before.

Sunday, 29 May 2011

1) My secretary went shopping, and bought clothing items for herself. This is odd to me because she tends to avoid crowds, people, and clothes buying in general, unless I force her out on some adventure so that I have a chaperone when needed. Well, she comes in and says to me: “Look, I got these boots!” I looked at the gotten boots and my jaw dropped. The boots were shiny, tight, black and went as far up her thigh as my cock travelled down mine in admiration of the new footwear. The boots have heels that add about two inches to her petite frame, but I have never been opposed to anyone being taller than me (a lot of people are taller than me, that is just how it is, follks).

After tantalizing me with these sexy boots, she left the room and returned wearing this tight top and short skirt that immediately made me want to jump her right there. However, there were people blocking my junk and alas, I was denied a joyful trist.

2) Sometimes, you just need to have Chinese food. There is a wonderful little place here in Samurai City that I like to stop in and enjoy when I am in town. What makes them the bomb-diggity is that they will take any dish and vegetarian it up for me. What makes them evil is that they have given me an addiction to Orange Tofu. So, I placed an order and went to get my delicious fix. When I got there, I was told that a friend of mine had come and gotten my order (which they thought was sesame chicken and orange chicken) and after a little clarification, it was determined that somehow my order had not gotten made and some mysterious “friend” had not come and gotten my food.

Since the chicks who work at this restaurant are super hot, I was not opposed to re-ordering and sitting to wait for my order to be ready. After I sat for about five minutes, this dude walks in and says that a part of his order was missing. Hot Chick Number Two asks what his order was and he rattles off the items that are in an order on the counter. Apparently, when he got home and checked his order, it was sesame chicken and orange chicken. Now, Hot Chick Number Two informs him that he took the wrong order entirely and that if he brings that one back in, he can get his order and be on his way. Well, this fellow believes that he is entitled to the order he took home, and his actual order for free since he had to make the trip out. Hot Chick Number One then asks him why he did not bring the incorrect order back so that he could have gotten his correct one? He said that the mistake was theirs and that was how he saw it; it should cost them, not him. The Hot Chicks held their ground and the fellow left to go and get the other food to bring back so he could get his now cold, but proper, order. After he left, Hot Chick Number One looked at me and said: “If he would have brought the first order back and was not so greedy, I would have let him have both orders.”

3) Also, on her shopping excursion, my secretary bought me a few shirts. You see, I like sleeveless shirts (not wife beaters) and will wear a sleeveless shirt when working out, under my gi, or if I feel like showing off the wonderful tattoo art on my biceps. Normally, I prefer shirts that fit me pretty loosely, however, I bought one of those “Under Armor” shirts and fell in love with it. Feeding my love for this shirt, my wonderful, sexretary bought me two more of the sleeveless ones (another black one and a white one) and one that is a long-sleeved, crew neck shirt. She says that the longsleeve shirt will be good for me on cooler days. She takes good care of me. I would be lost without her. It is strange to make this statement based on something as innocuous as a shirt, but it is in these smallest of gestures that she shows just how much I mean to her. My affections are returned a million-fold.

Saturday, 28 May 2011

1) For some reason, I do not remember much of Saturday at all. I remember going for a run, but not really much beyond that. I did my show and played a bit more psychobilly music than I usually play and had pizza for dinner. Oh! I did go to a store at the Mall here and get a cool skull. The skull is red and lights up, switching colors from red to blue to purple to greenish to whitish. My secretary bought some henna and has been experimenting with it on everyone that comes in her direction. She did a neat piece down the center of my back, but I messed it up by moving around and lifting weights. Apparently, I was not supposed to be moving about.

2) Upon further consideration, I do remember one thing. I caved in and got a yahoo messenger account and now have added that info here. Not here, in this post, but here on WordPress somewhere. I am not sure where. If this makes no sense to you, see item number one from Monday, 30 May 2011, and add it to my learning WordPress woes.

Sunday, 27 May 2011

Sometimes, I have to get out and about. I enjoy a cruel irony that dictates that I go out and be around people from time to time although I tend to hate being around them. Not only am I a compulsive people watcher, I do have friends, and recently, many of them have begun to pass off from this world. I now feel the necessity to go out and see them because I fear that each time I have seen them will be the last time that I see them. Many of these friends helped me through some difficult times; I almost stopped existing when the Evenstar fell from the sky, but a few souls keep me grounded and about. Without them, this Xavier would not be. The Rothechilde Foundation would be in the hands of some law firm dedicated to ensuring its survival on the interest that the Rothechilde Trust generates.

While the need to explore is great, the compulsion to stay inside and behind doors is so great that often an excuse has to come about for me to go out. It is during these moments that I play opportunist and tend to an excuse and see those of those whom I have not seen in ages. This particular excuse was a gathering of disgruntled Samurai City Consolidated Schools employees who were laid off due to state-wide buget cuts. I understand they are upset and worried about their future, but they have to remember that an uneducated populace makes for more docile labor. Once the people get educated, they start to get concerned with equality in wages, occuaptionaly safety, and health benefits. Keep them near stupid, and they are happy to recieve a shiny new quarter and the machine can grow bigger and crush more of the opposition to the American Way.

But this is not about politics, this is about the generous hand of the Rothechilde Foundation being sent out through the representation of its Chief Executive Officer and President, Xavier A. S. Rothechilde, to buy drinks for these disgruntled soon to be unemployed and offer them an opportunity for employment through the Foundation. While the pay would be less, the benefits would be great. We at the Thunderdome believe that keeping the rabble healthy keeps them at work and we pay less for unproductive sick days (that are not rolled over annually…).

I met the crew in a parking lot located across the street from one of Manthony’s joints. When he saw us walking up, he seemed a bit annoyed to learn that we were not stoppin in but rather going to a local bar that caters to a crowd that likes music from the Eighties. As an old school goth, I love some Eighties music. However, this was music representing all that was wrong with the Eighties: hair bands, cock rock, and Journey (which is a guilty pleasure of mine – I used to sing Journey covers in a band a while back). I told Manthony that we would stop back through for a bit and headed to the Gay-ties bar. I had a Captain and Coke, and enjoyed some pleasant conversation with the crew. There was no music from The Cure or anything that was remotely of interest to me. So, I contented myself with hanging with the employees as the crew dwindled from six to three (counting myself). One of these three had these massive boobs. I mean, tremendous. But, not obscenely so. The shirt that contained these tits created a cleavage that demaned that I stick a finger in, but I did not since I was unsure of how the cleavage owner would have liked that; Charlotte suggested that I stick my face in the cleavage and motorboat the Hell out of that Shit no matter the consequences (you know, “in for a penny, in for a pound…”).

After about an hour, we travelled down to Manthony’s and sat in a booth on the karoake side of the bar rather than sit in my Very Important Xavier room where I could observe the crowd and watch the company. We sat, had a couple drinks, and generally a decent time was had by all. I was even well-behaved and did not show off my collection of iPhone pornography that I tend to show friends at Manthony’s as a conversation/threesome/foursome/orgy starter. Finally, I had definitely been out for long enough and headed on my way.

Here and Now

Currently, I am sitting here and watching the Law and Order Marathon on TNT. In the next few minutes, I will be changing the channel to watch Monday Night Raw. Yes, you read that correctly. And it is on that unclimatic, unexciting note that I shall end this lengthy post. If you happen to feel pity for me and decide to send me a bit of info on how to code my blog for cool formatting and shizzle. feel free. I would be most appreciative.

Errata and Last Night in Review

Ah, Passover. You have to love Passover. I know I do. Lately, I have offended many people by telling them that they need to stop wishing me a Happy Easter while I am completing my purchase. Really, just because my skin is dark and I am not wearing a turban,, burkha, or some Shaolin robe does not mean that I have accepted your god as my “…own personal jesus…

I am pretty sure that if I were a person who believed in sin, then Lust would be my favorite.

I have been reading other blogs on this site. I am impressed with the artistry of their pages and the apparently ability that some have to add photos without distorting their text. I have not mastered that and it is really making me crazy. My OCD is starting to go berserk.

This week, I have been watching a lot of the History Channel. This is not odd, but this week has been all about God vs. Satan and other Judeo-Christian stuff. Personally, I am all about watching the items pertaining Judaica; the other side, not so much. However, the information on Hell is rather interesting in a pseudo-pagan sort of way. This morning, as I type my blog, the program in the background providing distraction for me is on the Ten Commandments. I find myself typing during commercials. In honor of Mosaic Law, I have decided to institute a change in the operations of The Rothechilde Orchard and Vineyards. From now on, if a person is homeless and starving and without means, you may eat freely from the orchard and vineyard. Indeed, you may eat your fill. However, you may not take anything from the fields. You may not bring containers of any sort to remove any extra. In an addendum that was recommended by my brilliant legal team, you may not move onto the grounds. One the one hand that would be trespassing. On the other, you would no longer be homeless and then would no longer be eligible to eat of the bounty.

Last night, I went out to visit Manthony at one of his clubs. When I arrived, the place was pretty empty. To be honest, it was nearly dead. However, soon things began to pick up and I ordered a drink and sat near Manthony by the entrance and watched people come in. Usually, I would sit in the Very Important Xavier section that he has set aside for me so that I may enjoy my beverage and “out time” either alone with a few select friends; tonight for some reason, I chose to do otherwise.

Now, it is important for me to let you in on a little secret: Manthony owns quite a few clubs. Yet he persists in working as a bouncer in the various clubs and enjoying a sense of control behind the scenes. Why? I do not know. Personally, I thought our nation was all about blatant displays of power and dominance, maybe I have misintrepreted the last few hundred years of history. But, I digress. Before I go on, let me also tell you that this particular club is a “mixed club.” That is, the bar caters to a mixed crowd of homos and heteros. Which ever way that your door may swing, you will most likely find someone to open, enter, and exit it here. You can even find couples, triples, swingers, thingers, and things that go hump in the night here. It is a pretty decent hangout.

As I sat near the door, sipping a Captain and Coke and watching the half clothed GI Joe “stripper”/dancer doing what he considered a sexy set of moves up on a stage, an odd threesome entered the bar. There was a guy accompanied by two women. I learned later that he was the boyfriend of one of the women, but more on that later. The threesome stood at a table near the dance floor and ordered a few drinks. After about fifteen minutes, the dude approached Manthony and myself. He was motioning and moving about, not saying really much of anything. Then Manthony asked him what he wanted and the dude got close to him and whispered something to Manthony. I have no idea what it was, and do not think Manthony knew what the drunken bastard was saying either. He left to go and check the door and left me with the dude.

Well, this guy stood near me and started his vogue routine and then got close to me and squeezed my bicep. Since he was drunk, I resisted the urge to pull out the Glock and pistol whip his monkey ass. Then he took my hand and had me squeeze his bicep. He stated that people get intimidated by him because he is pretty buff (the cat was pretty solid, I shall give him that). Then he made a bicep-ty muscle pose and kissed my on the cheek! Now this completely took me off guard; I was in shock and had no idea what to do at the moment. For one, the guy was not my type, he had no vagina, nice tits, and he was the type of guy walking about in a wife beater and his Toughskins jeans pulled so low that I could see his rancid boxers. If I am looking for a boy, I would rather he be pretty and well-dressed such as I am. After violating my cheeck with his flithy lips, he walked back over to his table and I decided to move to the other side of the bar.

After about an hour, I walked outside to have a clove (our wonderful state passed a ban on smoking in bars…) and saw the threesome standing out in the rain and waiting for a cab. The kissy man was too drunk to fuck and was sitting on the steps of the exit with a coat over his head to protect him from the rain. He was near passed out and leaning against the chunky lady of the threesome, who was going on about her boyfriend being mad at her. The other woman, thin and attractive in a Joan Jett-gone-jean-jacket kind of way was standing and waiting for the cab. As it turns out, she was the drunk-kisser’s girlfriend, had moved to Westland, Michigan from Georgia to be with this guy, and apparently she was having regrets. She told me that she gave up two men to move here to be with the crumpled mass on the ground and was already sick of his shit. I wanted to ask her if she was with the other two men simultaneously, but opted to look at the mass on the ground and pity the fact that he was not going to get to climb his lady’s ample bosom on this evening most likely.

At this point, I finished my clove, went back inside and decided that I should say my good night to Manthony and head home for the night. It was an interesting evening…both a reminder of why I do not go out as much anymore, and one that makes think that it is time to go out threesome shopping; if that drunk fool could score a night that he was going to miss because he was too drunk, then I am certain that it is time for someone such as myself to get back into the game.