methods of littering

My pro-littering/anti-recycling philosophy was tested twice in one week, a sure sign that a manifesto is imminent.

But before the unveiling of such a necessarily long winded and abstruse document, behold the extremity of this thumbnail abstract: 

Littering is awesome, and I am in full support of most litterers. 

Like all manifestos, such an abstract must be accompanied by equally extreme caveats, as told in 2.5 true life fables, nearly all involving settings inside cars.

Story #1

(This happened to the brother of a friend, and though the finer details are fabricated, its moral importance remains.)

In the Spring of 2008 (or 2013 or 2018, I forget) Pat and Nick drove off campus at lunchtime. The two spent the excursion gossiping about mutual peers they loathed and adored, describing in detail fantastically lurid acts of love and hate as Nick consumed his lunch of snacks. 

Amassing a small pile of garbage, Nick promptly threw the trash out of the driver side window, and in an act of joyful rebellion cursed out their Environmental Science teacher, Ms. Hamilton. As he did so, he allegedly screamed, "This is for you, Ms. Hamilton!"

Though I didn't have Ms. Hamilton and I never met Nick I laughed with Pat at his retelling because I understood the story's moral importance: that littering is uselessly stupid for preserving the environment.

Nick's act of comedic rebellion was of significant moral importance because, as Article III states in the impending manifesto: 

The Environment is Over

Wherever humans have settled their neighborhoods and established their associated associations, they have also established sewers, electricity, parks, highways, bridges and other material infrastructure. So much more remains of our current environment than the environment that was conquered and subdued by my ancestors. Therefore, not littering will only keep our shared, man made environment from becoming ugly. (Still important.) A neighborhood's cleanliness is a reflection of the people that like to keep their beautifully conquered environment from appearing ugly; not littering is more a sign of respect for the toil of the previous generations than it is to "preserve the environment" for future ones.

Simply, littering is correct only when done in spite for "Environmental Science" ideology.

Story #2

In the same universe many years into the future I was on the same continent, not too far from the location of that first conversation, working for a small company that provided tables and chairs for tv and film productions. 

My partner for the day was enjoying a lunch of bodega snacks and fast food as we sat together in traffic not doing anything but dying from "the spirit torture of traffic exhaustion."

With all conversation utterly depleted between strangers with little in common, and with nothing but the ceaseless babble of the inane radio personalities to keep us company, I had no choice but to notice details of my immediate environment to distract me. 

The insanity experienced as a result of the boredom may have become the topic of a blog post, but another memory sticks in my mind like a knife hurled at a dartboard: my partner's obscene littering habits. 

I am generally a fan of obscenity, especially when it is sophisticated. (Thus my admiration for Nick in Story #1.) However, there was something obscenely obscene about what I witnessed from my partner on that day. 

With his mouth full of snacks he laughed at an obscenely obscene joke from the unfunny radio host, then rolled down the window and dumped his trash out of it, as nonchalantly as if the open window were a garbage can. There was nothing politically spiteful about it, and it wasn't done for my secret amusement either; there was no punchline because it was not meant to be funny. It was just a bad habit, done in the name of convenience.

I'm no prude, but this was a moment when I began to retreat back to the haven of decency that I was raised by, a decency I'd abandoned for the thrill of obscenity. Now I was no longer lured into a life of filthy obscenity whose logical conclusion was driving the vehicle of which I was a passenger. 

My partner's behavior wasn't a disregard for decency as much as it was a lack of knowledge that decency even existed. 

Yes, we were on an ugly highway headed towards a marvel of civil engineering we had taken for granted, and yes, no one lived on this tunnel highway, but this habit of littering was more than where....it was how. I never thought I'd be writing this, but I found his lack of complacency disturbing.

If this stranger could litter so brazenly with such committed rote, I could easily imagine this stranger performing other heinous and lurid acts with similar nonchalance, as a participant in a gang rape, or an armed liquor store robbery for instance. 

I was in way over my head. But, somehow littering was still cool. 

Story #.5

As we walked to his car last week, Josh admitted that he had just thrown the wrapper from his diner mint onto the ground. 

I hadn't noticed, but Josh's conscience had: "It wasn't necessary to do that," he said, expressing an honest remorse. "I did it because it was easy."

My tongue curled out of the corner of my mouth as I began an attempt at justification for this innocent, if anti-social misbehavior. 

Yes, it was easy. And unfortunately it wasn't spitefully political. But it wasn't obscene either. (Not as obsene as the stranger in story #2 anyway.) And really, how much could harm could a piece of tiny plastic inflict in the part of Brooklyn that's been an industrial wasteland for 100 years? 

"There is a right way and a wrong way to litter," I postulated, reaching into my basket of memories to provide context. "I think you might be somewhere in the middle."

Angels Everywhere

I wasn't going to jump.

I still have things to live for. (I think.)

But the train was taking longer than expected, my phone was dead, and I didn't want to put in the effort of reading an actual book; so I stood on the platform thinking of all the reasons I currently have to live, namely the challenges I currently face. (Considering the bigger existential challenges are still overwhelming and blackpilling, and often lead to the bad kind of hopelessness, not the hopeful kind.)

With nothing to distract me, and becoming bored of standing in place, I decided to use this freedom from my phone to be inquisitive, and walked towards the edge of the platform where the train arrives to be the first to see it pulling into the station. (I was/am NOT suicidal. I use my imagination to entertain the morbid thought of jumping in front of the train often, but never seriously.)

(Also, I'd never traversed to the far reaches of the platform before. It smelled like piss. Not surprising.)

My behavior was subtly erratic: I beelined toward the platform's edge, walking with slow, measured intention, past the guy wearing his headphones looking at his phone, the cute couple that were actually talking while waiting for the train, and the asian girl reading a book. I did not notice being followed. 

As I reached the end of the platform the piss filled my nostrils and I heard a voice behind me yell, "Hey!"

I ignored it becasue the voice wasn't referring to me becasue I am invisible. Then I heard it again. "Hey man!"

I turned around and made eye contact with the source of the voice. A black man, slightly older than me, dressed like a young punk with a sleeveless black band shirt who asked earnestly, "Are you ok?" 

My behavior had been noticed, and to diguise my embarassment I flippantly and confidently responded  'yes,' like all I wanted was to smell the piss at the end of platform. For the moment our eyes locked he affirmed my sanity with the same intuition that initially recognized my suspicious behavior, and walked away, himself unembarassed. His was a heroic act, there was nothing to be embarassed of.

If I had been suicidal, and not a bored weirdo, this man, this hero, would have saved my life, and I absolutely would have broken down in tears in his arms. (This switching between extreme fantasies of tragic morbidity and sensitive helplessness is a talent of imagination, and not an exercise in faking feelings. Actually, maybe its a little of both.)

I wanted this man to know that I did really appreciate his personal and heroic effort, his duty to his fellow man. But anything more than my succint response would have been gay. Between men, less was more; between strangers eye contact means everything.

When the train finally arrived, I observed him in the next car, through the window. We got out at the same station, but I didn't follow him. 

no, nickelback is not a "meme"

Why are we still using zoom? I ask myself during a meeting with co-workers sitting in the next room.

"Why we still using zoom?" asks an actually courageous co-worker over zoom. "We all here."

"Because some of us are not in the office," responds the manager, the only person still working from home. "And corporate wants us to maintain social distancing, if the city decides to shut down again, because of the new variant."

Nobody in the office is threatened by "the new variant" because everyone in the office worked from the office throughout the first P A N D E M I C. But they all still watch CNN, believe in "the new variant," and obey accordingly. 

(Where the NY Times appeals to arrogant idiots, CNN appeals to just plain idiots. Or power hungry middle managers wielding the "legitimacy" of the MSM to stay socially distant at home forever.)

TRANSITION

As a Nickelback fan, it is extremely appropriate that I have a photo of Chad Kroeger as my zoom profile picture. If we are to use zoom forever then my co-workers must know that I am a fan of Nickelback. If they know nothing else about me for the duration of my employment let them know that I am extremely a fan of Nickelback.

"Nice Nickelback meme!" one of them says over zoom, at the meeting's conclusion. This was meant in good faith, as a compliment, but it gets me ranting on the inside:

'Meme? Meme? What is a meme anyway? A joke? Why are you calling a legitimately good band a joke? Because you saw some pictures on the internet? Well, the internet is full of wrong idiots. And you are a follower of wrong idiots....laughing at whatever they tell you to laugh at. It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Nickelback is good, and Nickelback has always been good and Nickelback will be good until the end of time. Nickelback is not a joke you stupid fucking faggot.'

But then the calm of pity followed the storm of wrath as I realized that my poor pathetic fucking faggot of a co-worker was nothing more than a sheep in need of a shepherd. 

"Thanks!" I said, knowing that if it takes time to build the trust needed to lead all souls back to salvation, then it will also take time to lead them to Nickelback appreciation. 

"What's Nickelback?" someone else says. 

the two types of insanity

Much like time travelers and aliens--and to a lesser extent angels and demons--insane people are all around those of us that are damaged in the normal way.

2/3rds of my Saturday was spent in the company of insane people, both friendly and unfriendly, and I've learned some lessons:

Friendly insane people are tolerable up to a certain length of time (at most two hours), and unfriendly insane people are immediately intolerable. 

Context 

I.

The Witness for Life is not a protest; it is a peaceful, prayerful vigil in front of an abortion clinic. We don't scream slogans, destroy property or loot like other "mostly peaceful" protests. We never respond to persecutors passing us by because we are there to pray for the clinic workers, for the parents of the unborn, and for the unborn themselves. 

It should only take a little over an hour to pray all four mysteries of the rosary, but on Saturday it took three; our path was blocked by a large group of insane people. The unfriendly kind. 

The diocese filed a permit, and we were legally allowed to process down the street with police escort. The insane people did not file a permit, and as such were there unlawfully. But they were treated with special privileges, as they were still given a special zone inside police barricades (in front of the church) to scream their threatening obscenities, audible during Mass.

When it came time for our peaceful procession they disobeyed the barrier given them in good faith and blocked our right of way on the sidewalk. (This would have been a cause for arrest if the roles were reversed.) But the police did their duty and formed a wall between us and the insane people, nudging them softly backward as the group screamed violently at us for "harassing women." (As if "harassing women" is a the worst evil the world has ever known! lol)

I don't label these protestors insane because I disagree with them. I disagree often, with many. (Mostly in secret.)

I label them insane because, for all of the many divisive causes a person can choose to throw an obnoxious public tantrum for, they chose the legal dismemberment of unborn children. 

These protestors are not "pro-choice." They are pro-abortion. And they are insane not just because they are proud to support abortion, but because of the way they display it with pride. (I thought Pride Month was over???)

I have pro-choice friends and family that are not insane, just naive. They say naive and stupid things like, "I am personally against abortion, but..." Or, "What if I wasn't ready to raise a child?" They do not support abortion on its face, for its own sake, like these protestors do.

And I have had friends that chose abortion...and when they told me unprompted, it was in secret, whispered cautiously, so that not even God could hear them admit it. They were not proud; they were embarrassed, guilty. (But were they contrite?) 

Guilt is the reaction of the "normal" person damaged by the evil of abortion. And guilt takes many forms.

Saturday's protestors have been driven so insane by their guilt that they deny it, and turn it into a public display of pride. Pride for the act of abortion, the very worst choice anyone could make. (And yet, they did not hold up any signs displaying the results of the procedure that they support. How odd.) Their protest is so obviously a big, pathetic, insane cope.

"God loves abortion!" They wail. "And Jesus doesn't like you!"

These are fallacies that could be discussed, even calmly disagreed with, but insane people do not want to converse in good faith; that's exactly why they wail and scream--to drown out any attempt at a conversation. They want to offend us. They want to offend God.

All of this self inflicted insanity is such a sad waste. The devil laughs with glee at these captured souls, trapping themselves in some kind of misery orb. 

It doesn't have to be this way. They can release themselves with the simple power of humility, admitting their torment and asking forgiveness. They can stop wasting their precious time thinking they are wasting ours.

But they won't talk to us. They have already killed their number one enemy: their baby. Everyone else is especially expendable. 

II.

I met Stephen the way two lover's meet in their dreams, or in the movies: seeking refuge from a rainstorm under a convenient awning, just as a conversation with a friend was getting theologically D E E P .

Stephen stepped out from the deli eating a family sized bag of pretzels and with the confidence of a pick-up artist flattered us by saying, "This is the best conversation I've ever heard in New York."

New York is not quite as agnostic as Paris or London, but as evidenced by part one, it is getting closer. Therefore, when fellow believers reveal themselves, there is instant communion.

"God is angry," Stephen said as the rain drenched the world. I couldn't argue with him.

"Are you Catholic? Or...Orthodox?" I wagered, puffing the remains of a cigar.

"I am a Jewish Catholic," he said, with his mouth full of pretzels. 

"What do you think about abortion?" I asked; my personal litmus test."The Jews think abortion is murder. It's murder," he said. (Stephen was sane.) 

"The Jews don't know how to pray.," he continued. "I tried to pray with them today, but after 45 minutes I left. I couldn't wait to pray any longer. Do you know Latin, or Greek? Or Hebrew? I know them all. You must learn to pray in Hebrew. Say the Angel prayer."

Josh wasn't saying anything anymore. He knew something I did not. I didn't know how to respond to Stephen, who took our silence as a cue to continue: "I believe in everything," he said. "Time travelers, reincarnation, aliens, angels, demons. Most people are angels."

Within seconds we were fast departing from our shared theology, the rain getting heavier. "Do you want to split a cab?" he offered, as an SUV pulled in front of us. 

"Ok," I said, bidding farewell to Josh and getting into a cab to an unknown destination with a man I'd not known for five minutes. "Be careful about your friend," Stephen said in the cab. "He thinks too much about philosophy. I don't read the news, or watch TV. I only read the Bible. I don't do anything but read the Bible."

"Where do you go to Church?" he asked me as the nausea from the cigar smoke filled my skull, my skin so slippery from sheets of sweat that the cab's AC could not dry me. "I'll come with you tomorrow. The cab is on me."

We pulled into the parking lot of a Burger King; I thought the address was a mistake until Stephen got out with a confident familiarity, like we pulled into his driveway. "Tell [the cab driver] your destination. I will see you tomorrow," he said. "Text me the address."

...

I awoke to multiple texts from Stephen, the first one saying, "Avoid conversation until you see me." 

We met for coffee as a compromise. Stephen was 30 minutes late. "Sorry I'm late," he texted. "I am praying." 

Stephen was always praying. He was praying while we talked. He stopped talking so we could pray. (Not bad habits, by the way.)

Stephen told me he was Jesus. I thought that he meant it metaphorically, that he aspires to be so much like Jesus that he became Jesus. (I had to be charitable, but through intuition admitted that this was a very insane thought.) "No," he said. "I am with my father in heaven, just like I am with you right now."

"I was crucified in the psych ward when they electrocuted me. The police."

Stephen was very charismatic, very pushy. He was a natural cult leader. (He invited me to join his Church, in the basement of his building. "So far its me, John McCain, a lapsed Muslim guy, and you.")

(It turns out "John McCain" was a homeless man Stephen met a few months ago--probably in the same manner he met me--and invited this man to live with him. "I live in a three bedroom apartment by myself," Stephen said. "I have room. I am lonely.")

We talked for a while, but I wouldn't call it a conversation. Stephen would ask me a thoughtful question and I would ponder before answering, and then he would move on, and ask me another question, like it was an interview. He finally admitted to vetting me. Becasue I was wearing sunglasses, "you could be a time traveler. You weren't wearing those glasses when I met you." 

(He made no comment about the radical style of my awesome sunglasses either.) I reminded him that we met at 10pm.

"Let's go to Starbucks," he said suddenly. Although I was ready never to see him again, I agreed. "I want to use my free Starbucks card." (Whatever that was.) "I'll buy you something."

Stephen greeted everyone we passed on the way to Starbucks with a gentle wave and smile. If he wasn't an insane person he would be a great evangelist. "See that person in the car?" he waved at a woman, smiling. "Angel." 

The woman squinted, then laughed at him. (I mean, I believe in angels too, but there was no chance that we were surrounded by this many angels.)

As we walked I saw a dirty 'Harvard' hat on the street, and for some reason, picked it up. "What a cool hat," Stephen said. "Can I have it? I will give it to John McCain. Today is his birthday."

In Starbucks he drank an orange juice and bought me a bottle of water.

"My whole family hates me. They sent me to the psych ward. That's where I was baptized. In the shower. I am baptized everytime I take a shower."

Then Stephen went to use the bathroom. "The toilet was clogged. So I peed in the sink. Yay!"

After two hours, I had had more than enough of Stephen for the rest of my life.  But I was still polite: "My phone is going to die," I said as an excuse. "I have to charge it, I'm expecting a call." 

"Turn it off," he commanded. I obeyed.

"You know how much that cab cost last night? $108. Now my credit card doesn't work." 

"What?!" I thought Stephen had money. I even thought he was going to buy me a Cinnamon bun at that first coffee shop. "Why did you offer me that ride?!" I was flabberghasted. Stephen did not give me an answer, he just showed me the declined credit card on the Uber app. 

"It's ok!" he smiled. (Was he ever not smiling?) "I just applied for a new credit card! See! I can get you a cab," he said. 

"No. I live less than a mile from here. I can walk."

"I'm calling it now," he teased.

"Do not call me a cab!" I shouted in the Starbucks, losing my composure. Stephen's grin never left his face. (Maybe I was the insane one.) The Uber app had declined both of his credit cards anyway. 

"Hey," he said as I swiped my metrocard for him. "Do you want to meet Constantine? Right now? Go to Bake-a-bagel in Queens. Ask for Gus."

I blocked his number after that...but he still has my address from the cab ride....

Coda

There are two additional types of insanity: self-imposed, and inherent. (And both types are annoying to us folks damaged in the normal way.)

Anyone who refuses dialogue, preferring lies to truth, has imposed the resulting insanity upon themselves. They are building a foundation on lies, and we are witnessing their mental and moral collapse, which causes additional suffering. 

Stephen is a tragic case. He did not choose to be insane and annoying by avoiding the truth; he is naturally annoying even though he actively prays and seeks the truth.

He wants to go to heaven right now, but he cannot; he knows he must suffer lonelinees on Earth first. It is necessary for him to endure to reach Heaven. However annoying he is, he wisely listens to his soul.

Ironically, I will see these protestors at the Witness for life monthly. They need more prayers than Stephen.

God will have mercy on all of those who ask for it. 

NY Times misunderstands the basics

The NY Times is written by arrogant idiots for arrogant idiots. It is charity on my part to call them idiots at all; otherwise I'd have to call them evil. (The journalists are probably both.)

For a "paper of record" like the NY Times, this article by Elizabeth Dias conveys an ideological misunderstanding  about Biden and the USCCB. Her tricky diction is professionally deceitful, represententaive of the state of modern journalism: 

But the move to target a president, who regularly attends Mass and has spent a lifetime steeped in Christian rituals and practices, is striking coming from leaders of the president’s own faith, particularly after many conservative Catholics turned a blind eye to the sexual improprieties of former President Donald J. Trump because they supported his political agenda.  

1. She has it backwards: the Bishops are protecting the faith from a publicly unfaithful politician. It simply does not matter if the president attends Mass if he also knowingly receives the Eucharist in a state of mortal sin. 

2. The USCCB are not talking about the "sexual improprieties" of former President Trump. Stop changing the subject! They are talking about the current President's legal support for abortion! (The NY Times is obsessed with Trump. Sad!) Neither the USCCB, nor faithful Catholics made excuses for Trump's "sexual improprieties," which did not even occur during his presidency! There was nothing for them to turn a blind eye! Moreover, conservative Catholics did not support Trump because of his past "sexual improprieties." They supported him becasue he was Pro-Life.

3. Trump is not a Catholic! Even if he attended Mass he could not receive the Eucharist. Again, this has nothing to do with Trump!

The action is the latest sign of how the nation’s bitter political divisions are shaping religious life. 

Wrong. 

This is the ancient division between sin and grace that has taken political shape. The Catholic Church has always been opposed to abortion on moral grounds. As a President that is portrayed as a devout Catholic, the USCCB must clarify the church's teaching on the Eucharist and rebuke the President's anti-Catholic actions. 

Some conservatives want to use such a statement as theological justification to deny communion to Mr. Biden and Catholic politicians like him who support abortion rights.

It should read: "Catholic conservatives want to deny communion to Mr. Biden and Catholic politicians like him who support abortion rights."

For the sake of their souls! For the sake of their souls!! For the sake of their souls!!!! Again, receiving the Eucharist while in a state of mortal sin is a mortal sin. Without absolution, this means H E L L !

"Catholic" politicians like Biden know this! They should also know that abortion is not a "right."

But the fact that Mr. Biden’s views on abortion are even a matter of public discussion is already a victory for conservative Catholics. 

Yes, because it gives the USCCB the spotlight to clarify what makes Biden's views wrong from the perspective of faithful Catholics. 

(By  the way, as a journalist, Ms. Dias should be explaining 'why' conservative Catholics think this is a victory.)

Mr. Biden, like Pope Francis, embodies a liberal Christianity focused less on sexual politics and more on racial inequality, climate change and poverty. His administration is a reversal of the power that abortion opponents, including bishops who advanced the measure, enjoyed under Mr. Trump. 

'Conservative' and 'liberal' are political labels. Stop politicizing Christianity! Catholicism is the only completely consistent worldview; its consistency diluted for the masses with the use of these stupid labels by journalists that don't know what the fuck they are talking about. 

...giving conservatives a tool to criticize Democratic politicians throughout the campaign cycle. Abortion has long been one of the most mobilizing political forces for the religious right. 

Again, Ms. Dias can ask 'why is it one of the most mobilizing forces?' 

That's because abortion is a moral evil and any God fearing man will sensibly choose God over man's desire to play God. And nowadays God fearing men tend to be on the political right. And taking away abortion "rights" is intrinsic to any religious person's politics simply because abortion is lawful where it ought not to be. 

Biden is a disaster of a President, and a pathetic Catholic. And his pathetic Catholicism is only used by the media to undermine the Church's teaching against abortion by portraying a "devout" Catholic president as supporting abortion legislation.

Ideologues make bad journalists.

Stop reading the NY Times. 

Pit Vipers are gay and stupid looking

but I bought a pair for $40 and they arrive tomorrow. 

Explanation

I have been well trained by the media to want more more more, so when I inevitably break/lose the cheap crap that I can afford it is a convenient excuse to obtain a cheap replacement, preferably by buying, which releases awesome endorphins. 

Historically, sunglasses are like lighters; I never have to buy them because whenever I need them I magically find them in a lost-n-found, an act that appeals to my naturally stingy proclivities.

But something strange has been happening to me over the past six months or so, when I began to notice, and then "hate" Pit Vipers enough to buy a pair. 

Explanation continued 

(Bear with me)

My growing interest with Pit Vipers resembles the exponential self-destruction of the west, albeit in one year (June 2020/21) vs the near millennium after Thomas Aquinas' death in 1274.

The story of my eventual purchase begins way back one year ago when Dr. Disrespect, a popular Twitch streamer, was mysteriously banned from a platform I don't watch.

This story was only of an anthropological interest before it faded from my memory hole minutes after I asked myself 'Who is Dr.Disrespect anyway?' 

It was only when I began writing this post, just now, that Dr. Disrespect and his facial accessories re-emerged into my memory hole, putting the near-acknowledgement of his sunglasses as my Pit Viper Ground Zero moment as June 2020. 

This speaks to the power of Pit Vipers on my sub-conscious; I hadn't thought about Dr. Disrespect in one year, and didn't even recall his name. But I did recall his outfit, including mullet and moustache (both of which I've rocked) and sunglasses....

The next watershed moment in this ensuing purchase was finally acknowledging that there is an irl streamer eponymously named Baked Alaska after hearing his name mentioned from the mouths of other internet personalities multiple times. (Once again, never watching his streams.) 

And when I saw a picture of him (visually acknowledging my auditory acknowledgment) I noticed his sunglasses this time (unlike Dr. Disrespect, Baked Alaska had a look, not a costume) and explicitly thought 'oh, sunglasses.' His sunglasses were an accessory to this look--bleached hair, brown beard, neon outfits--and his attitude. I don't have a streamer's personality and therefore felt that the sunglasses were For Streamers Only.

Then in early June 2021 Milo Yiannopolis made a remark about how Pit Vipers made a Pride themed Instagram post that got ratio'd because they 'don't understand their clientele.'

I thought, 'What are Pit Vipers?' and then, 'Ohhhh, the sunglasses that Baked Alaska wears!'

It was starting to make sense. 

My black sunglasses that I bought for $4 last Fall were still in my possession and still unbroken, and I did not feel a subconsciously coerced need for new sunglasses, especially Pit Vipers because they were too flashy and ugly. They were definitely not my style. (This coming from a fanboy of Osiris D3 2001.)

Irony is gay. But could these antiquated sunglasses from the last golden age actually be cool? In the same way fedoras are actually cool? In spite of the dweebs and atheists that currently ruin them? 

Over the next two weeks I'd see various e-celebrities wearing Pit Vipers "ironically," and think, 'Those are Pit Vipers.' Then: 'Pit Vipers are gay looking.' And then, to no one: 'Right?'

Then last week, after spending the evening eating gelato with the Dominicans, I lost my sunglasses--they just disappeared! I wasn't even drunk!--and I groaned because I really liked them, and felt as naked as I was blind without them in the morning sun. 

Then on telegram two days later I saw yet another pair of e-celebrities wearing Pit Vipers. I looked at them for a long time, then I zoomed in on their faces with my thumb and forefinger, and stared into my own reflection of their Pit Vipers and saw myself wearing Pit Vipers, and finally understood that owning Pit Vipers was written into my birth, as inevitable as the Second Coming. 

I felt an urgency for them to be on my face as quickly as a fire needed to be put out in the pants I'm wearing.

Conclusion

I am a dissident. 

I drink Monster Energy, wear Pit Vipers, and when a journalist asks me for my name I answer, "Fuck Off."

Living The Truth takes guts. And it takes guts to stand out. And that's what Pit Vipers are for. 

Excommunicate Biden!

This is uncontroversial:

The Catholic Church believes that life begins at conception, and terminating pregnancy at any point after conception is killing. 

(The fifth commandment is 'Thou Shall Not Kill.")

Faithful Catholics also believe that life begins at conception. 

Biden is a "faithful Catholic" insofar as he "attends Mass and has spent a lifetime steeped in Christian rituals and practices."

But this is not enough. Biden is not an ordinary Catholic, but the President, and therefore has the capability to limit abortion as well as set a good public example of devotion.

Instead of limiting abortion, as a Catholic president should--or in the very least do nothing--Biden is expanding abortion "rights," dropping the Hyde Amendment out of his recent budget. 

Though he may be personally opposed to the legal dismemberment of unwanted children, he values his party's politics by acting in direct contradiction to the faith he claims to have.

The Church must clarify this confusing example set by Biden. (The USCCB will write a lengthy treatise on what the Eucharist actually is, and what it actually means.) And after they clarify, they should excommunicate!

Biden is committing a mortal sin by publicly receiving the Eucharist and expanding abortion "rights," and is damning his soul to Hell if  he does not ask for forgiveness. Excommunication is a sign from the Church to Biden to seek forgiveness and amend his life--in the very least do nothing to current abortion law. Excommunication is merciful! (And he can be un-excommunicated.) 

This is a no brainer. But the Church moves slowly. Hopefully they act before he dies, or becomes senile. 

EBT in Harlem

Some people just do not want help of any kind. Especially from white people.

Having read a few horror stories of helpful white people mercilessly killed by the black people they were helping, I thought dying in a similar way would be an easy risk to avoid for the simple fact that I do not like to help anyone.

But I am a slow learner.

Last week I was in Harlem at the infamous 125th Street and Lexington Ave 456 stop (the original K2 corner).

I stood at the counter patiently waiting my turn as the cashier rang up another customer’s order total of $36.

“What are you doing?!” screamed the shocked customer. “Why are you charging me $36?! It’s *just* two sandwiches!”

(Nevermind that the cashier was doing this customer a favor by ringing up his hot food with EBT.)

For the sake of transparency, the cashier took out the additional items that the customer bought (a can of pringles, a large green organic juice, an orange soda and a bag of Cheetos) and announced the price of each one.

The customer was outraged. “It shouldn’t cost that much!” He held up the organic juice: “This shouldn’t be $4!!”

I rolled my eyes. Of course, this is a bullshit price for a bullshit juice, we agree; but that outrage wears off after you get the taxes taken out of your first paycheck and realize that ‘overpriced juice’ is only the first identifiable injustice of capitalism.

This clueless moron was in another league however, as an example of a spoiled homeless New Yorker given $900/month in free cash. He wasn’t grateful for this money, he was unchanged and was throwing an embarrassing tantrum like a 5-year-old. (He probably grew up without a father.)

Once more the cashier announced the price of each item again, including the two sandwiches and the two orders of fries that the customer ordered in addition.

“I don’t want this stuff!” The grown man whined.

The cashier replied with frustration: “The money is off the card! It can’t go back!”

The customer’s tantrum intensified, and he reiterated: “I don’t want it!”

The cashier rolled his eyes, opened the register, and threw two five-dollar bills at the customer. “Take your food and get out!”

Perplexed, the customer stared at the two bills and started counting on his fingers. “He only gave me ten! The sandwiches are $12!”

“He did you a favor,” I said stupidly, thinking I was doing a favor by being an impartial interpreter. “He gave you the money back. He didn’t have to do that.” The cashier’s face displayed complete indifference at my interjection on his behalf.

The customer looked at me, his face curled in anger. “What’s $24 plus $10?” he asked earnestly.

I stammered because I can do simple arithmetic and knew where this short conversation was headed. “It’s…uh….it’s $34….”

“He charged me $36! You stupid fucking cracker,” he screamed. In that moment, my life was reduced to the 21st paragraph of a lengthy article about “white supremacy.” I realized that no one would save me in that deli, not the other bored looking patrons or the indifferent cashier.

The customer continued his retarded abuse shouting, “I should crack you in the motherfucking face! Remember where you are! You are in our neighborhood!”

The casher shouted, “Take your food and get the fuck out! You can’t come back here again! Get the fuck out nigger!” (He was Arabic, so the other patrons didn’t even look up from their phones with this slur.)

Lesson Learned

The Arabic cashier could not be “racist” because he was non-white, a fellow minority with no history of oppression against people of color (on this continent).

If he had been white, not only would he be a racist, but the entire place would get justly trashed and ransacked by the clientele because of “white people’s historic injustices against people of color.”

As the only white person in the store just trying to calm tension using reason, I received the hatred that “historic injustices” allow.

I didn’t even really want to help that retard, I just wanted him to shut up. Now, I’ll just bear the annoyance. My life is worth bearing that annoyance.

At least it is to me.

Santorum flavored shake

Call me perverted, but when I think of homosexuality, I think of anal sex between two men.  If "Love is Love" and this is the only tangible difference between heteros and homos, then there is almost nothing obsessive about acknowledging the only difference.

However, anal sex between two men is viscerally disturbing to me, and therefore I never willingly think about homosexuality. 

But I suppose that's the point of Pride Month: for Big Corporations and Mainstream Media to remind me that some men have anal sex with other men, and that is OK, because only bigots are disturbed by the frothy substance of fecal matter and lube that is a byproduct of anal sex, not normal people. 

Pride Month infuses this reminder--and acceptance--of sodomy everywhere, for everything not related to anal sex: parades....NYPD patrol cars....milkshakes....

Probably my only wholesome attribute is my fondness for milkshakes. They were always a treat, and a symbol from my idyllic and innocent childhood before their enjoyment became corrupted by the reality of age and mortality, the counting of calories, and the battle of sugar addiction. Now, sacrifices must be made for any milkshake to be enjoyed. 

Shake Shack is a worthy contender for best burger joint, but they are tools for the Gay Pride agenda, and have created a fruit flavored milkshake to commemorate the normalizing of a sexually depraved and unnatural lifestyle. 

Fruit flavored shakes are not homosexual!! Only anal sex is homosexual!!

A true Gay Pride flavored shake is santorum ((n.) the frothy substance of fecal matter and lube that is a byproduct of anal sex) flavored. As a child of mainstream media perversion, this is what I taste when I drink a milkshake in June. Therefore everything I sacrifice for a milkshake is for naught. 

I don't drink milkshakes in June anymore.

Hot Takes

Since January I’ve always wanted to have That Big Idea. I wanted to be like Columbus, who thought the opposite of other explorers when he decided that the best way to The East was via that ocean to the west.

Or like the guy who invented the subways when he thought, ‘But, like, what if we put trains underground?” (It would be too easy to be a copycat by “inventing” underground airports.)

Alas, I can never be an inventor because experiments are tedious, and I hate tedium.

Sure, I can “invent” foods, like Sweet and Sour Chicken Ice Cream, with Real ™ Chunks of Chicken. Or a cereal, like Pepsi Blue Puffs. Or Blue Cheese nuggets covered in dark chocolate. (Think Raisinets.)

But as much as I want to eat these inventions I will never be as dedicated as Kellog to agonize over their creation and see them through; these are nothing more than very tasty jokes, the farthest of which they will traverse from my mind is my tongue, and not the other way around.

The thing about Columbus, and the Wright Bros, and other inventors and explorers is that they made their ideas happen. They were theorists and experimentalists. I am humble and therefore realistic about myself: I’m simply better at thinking of stuff and saying stuff than I am at building stuff. (Sorry Dad.)

But thinking of stuff is a skill too!

Hot Takes

So long as writers do not all become full blown propagandists and/or ideologues they will remain useful, even as our civilization becomes more illiterate and our youth spend their time watching TikToks and playing Fortnite.

How? Hot Takes!

But how???

Comfort inventions--like smart phones—are finite. (How much more ubiquitous anti-boredom comfort do we need? How much more can we handle!?) Some fat slobs will sacrifice themselves on the altar of convenience and comfort by numbing their heart’s desire for truth with gluttony, but God willing there will always be more people inclined to sacrifice their comforts to reach the truth. (Because observing physical degradation is depressing (and preventable)).

(Also because the Second Coming is inevitable, but the combined efforts of the faithful puts it off…for now.)

Apply the same logic to mental lethargy. Anti-boredom comfort leads to mental boredom from over comfort. A Hot Take stirs the soul because nothing stirs a soul more than an exposed lie.

That’s why edgy—not profane--comedy once made people lol before it was cancelled for being offensive. That’s why political dissent gets censored!

Evil knows that the hotter the take, the faster the spread, and comfort inventions are the flamethrowers. If a lie was to be exposed by a hot take, censoring a hot take is evil….and evil especially wins when we abandon our historical privilege of literacy.

Mission  

As a writer, I am constantly on a personal Columbus-type quest for a fresh, hot take. Unlike Columbus, I never have to do anything but talk about it as confrontationally and peacefully as possible, and I never have to risk anything but my livelihood and my reputation by being a voice of dissent. Hardly the same sacrifices as Columbus. Closer in similarity to Galileo.

I may not be the first person to say something like: “We never landed on the moon…the entire thing was shot in a secret studio at NASA,” or “Coronavirus was created in a lab in Wuhan, and the CDC helped fund it,” but I want to be.

Embracing "racism"

A weird thing happened on a recent afternoon walk in the section of my neighborhood that is half local industry, half residential:

I passed a black guy straddling his bike on the sidewalk. He was wearing a grey wife beater and had well-built arms and thick fingers. He did not seem to be in an anxious rush to get anywhere, but his eyes were still narrowed crossly, in what may have been his resting facial expression. As I walked past him, I explicitly thought something innocuous like, 'oh but he is a black guy, so whatever....'

Further down the street I passed a more handsome version of myself: a man with a nicer build and wearing nicer clothes. We did not make eye contact--he was zoned out listening to his earbuds—but for the first time in my life I did not feel animosity or jealousy or inadequate self-consciousness as I compared myself to this man's alleged money and objective good looks…instead I felt an inexplicable camaraderie, as a finer reflection of me.

Another man walked a few paces behind him. He was older, somewhere in his fifties, overweight, with thin, grey hair. Possibly on a lunch break, his baggy t-shirt was dusty and rumpled, his fingers and forearms covered in work dust. Although he was not listening to earbuds, we did not make eye contact, but I still knowingly studied his lips and face, and detected a faint, peaceful smile, at once familiar and comforting….with his wise, wistful eyes focused straight ahead, he seemed to be saying something to me, like, ‘I know how you feel…everything is going to be fine…’

But why?

I’ve seen—and worked—with thousands of fat, loud, white blue-collar men in my lifetime, known—and despised--thousands of white douchey yuppies in my lifetime. (I don’t mean to brag, but I am neither type.) What made this moment special was this unpredictable pleasant new feeling of being associated with these average strangers as a fellow average, straight, white man.

My neighborhood is mostly Muslims and Hispanics, with a light sprinkling of blacks and whites. 60 years ago, whites were the neighborhood’s only ethnic group, subdivided by various European nationalities; ‘American’ was the uniting common denominator among them. Today, whites are the undisputed minority, and trending towards extinction as childless yuppies and aging second-generation families that never fled for the suburbs make up the majority white population in my neighborhood. New white families, if they exist, are the smallest minority.

Muslims and Hispanics (and their large families) are not American. They may be American by an unfortunate technical, legal definition, but they identify first as Muslim and Hispanic. They are not culturally American, and can never be truly American, just as I can never be truly Lebanese or Ecuadorian. (Blacks may be American, but they are not white, and their differences in culture are just as noticeable as that of Hispanics and Muslims.)

It is in this context as a minority in my native land that I find a new appreciation for the undeniable primal comfort I feel when around people that resemble me, a comfort I took for granted when growing up in my racially homogenous town. I took for granted that my city—and my country—are the same as my hometown.

‘White Power’ is cringe, but it is not evil. It is normal for any racial or ethnic group to be proud of their ancestry and heritage. (So long as they do not destroy others for being other.) As I recognized myself for being ‘just another straight, white male’ I felt a humble pride, satisfied and grateful for the circumstances and fortunes of my ancestry, heritage, and (once great) nation.

Furthermore, seeing men that looked like me in my own neighborhood, and looked like what I would become (fat, old, mediocre) inspired me to reach this white standard of normal, a standard that for so long I felt guilty for having the privilege of attaining. Without realizing it, these normal white men set an example of hope for me, that I too could be satisfied, proud to be an average white man.

But just as quickly as I felt this swoon of average white male pride did I lose it when I spotted an emaciated douchebag with shoulder length pink and black hair, too old to be wearing a graphic tee of his favorite band, and too pale to be wearing cutoff jean shorts, with the undeveloped arms and legs of a middle school twerp and covered with ugly, alternating tribal and cursive tattoos. ‘Pathetic faggot’ I thought with explicit venom. 'What is he compensating for?' (He was probably Jewish.)

dead cats & dog shit mysteries

I have a serious problem: bags of trash appear like wrapped Christmas gifts to me.

Yes, these "gifts" are still full of disgusting trash (for now I can still distinguish between trash and treasure) but as I have previously explained, there is sometimes perfectly edible food inside these wrapped gifts. My curiosity always gets the best of me, and more than shamefully enjoying the fruits of my findings I want to know how correct my intuitions are.

For instance, males of all ages notice some sexy girls, but nobody besides me watches what the sexy girls drop into the public garbage can: a paper bag dripping with grease. (It was full of freshly baked cookies.)

Nobody sees what I see because nobody is looking where I'm looking, or paying attention where I am paying attention. They don't have their third eye open becasue they are afraid of what they will see. They are afraid of the truth.

Gross things happen when you dig through the trash. (It is the price one must pay for free food.) That is part of the fun. I think? (In the least it makes for a blog post.)

Like mistaking a transparent purple bag of dog shit for "raisins" was a funny lesson I only needed to learn once. (I wasn't in the mood for raisins that night.)

As true with all mysteries, the more it disturbs, the deeper it goes. (9/11, the resurrection, the fake and gay pandemic.) Mysteries are everywhere, and trash is just the mystery that shares the streets with us.

On Sunday, walking home from Mass on the busy street, I saw a reusable grocery bag on the street corner, beside a spilled over paper bag of dirty litter and empty cans of cat food.

Feeling lucky after the previous day's cookie find, I lightly tapped the reusable bag with my Allen Edmonds to see what my foot could tell me about its potential for holding freshly baked cookies, and immediately recoiled, shrieking audibly. (In New York, no one can hear you scream.) There was undeniably a furry body in that bag. 

Actaully, two bodies. Two dead bodies. Two dead cats. 

Regaining my masuline resolve and committing to my curiosity, I moved my face closer to the bag for a better look, but, as I was maskless, the wall of odor kept me from investigating the mystery thoroughly, and I could only confirm with my eyes that the fur's sheen was of a dirty cat-like texture and quality. (I did not need to pet them.)

Of course, stray cats are everywhere all the time. A couple of dead ones in a bag on the street, while sad and weird, is less mysterious than a couple of dead dogs on the street. Dogs have monetary value. Dogs can't disappear becasue they cannot take care of themselves like cats can. Besides, the cats were probably killed by a local kid testing the limits of his conscience in a new experiment with pleasure, numb from setting fires. 

'Ohhhh, I get it now,'  I said aloud, the ignored first clue only making sense after the dead cat discovery. I walked away. Dead cats are inedible. 

I'll never know the answers to these mysteries, but if I didn't have that initial curiousity, I'd never know what I don't know.

Israel/Palestine & America

In American political theatre, “liberals” are pro-Palestine and “conservatives” are pro-Israel.

It makes sense? “Liberals” care about “oppressed peoples” and (((neo)))conservatives…want…an ally in the middle east? Or want to protect…the only democracy in the middle east? Or something?

It only makes sense if we are lying to ourselves.

This conflict is so hammered into modern American partisan politics for a reason that probably has something to do with our Jewish controlled media that it has become misshapen beyond recognition.

Israel/Palestine has nothing to do with America. It never had anything to do with America. American Jews have influence in the American media and won't admit their allegiance to Israel over America. This is the only reason why this ongoing ancient and foreign conflict is a concern for Americans.

Americans that take pride in consuming news and choose sides in this conflict are foolish. Morally, neither Hamas or Israel can be supported, and thankfully we Americans do not have any duty to choose either one, nor do we have any stake in this ancient foreign conflict. Sure, it sucks when civilians in foreign countries die, but this is not our fight; there is enough to worry about on and within our own borders.

Though I hate the phrase ‘who cares?’ the Israel/Palestine conflict is a fitting scenario for its use; its answer reveals the only Americans who do: Jewish apostates and partisan morons.

In 40 years

Descent

I was not alive 40 years ago, but it seems that unless you were a Communist, everyone agreed that the unequivocal enemy of the United States was the Soviet Union. National cohesion meant that having a controversial opinion on this fact was wrong and heretical. Being patriotic was the norm. 

20 years later, a decade after the implosion of the Soviet Union, differences in opinion over the Wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were common. Sure, 9/11 was a tragedy, but were Iraq and Afghanistan really to blame? And was their invasion and prolonged occupation necessary? A fair question posed from fair normies.

Today, 20 years after 9/11, Americans normies have completely lost the plot: the truth is controversial and your fellow citizens are your political enemies. National cohesion has been eroded. The unequivocal enemy of the United States is Communist China, yet normies will say that it is ‘racism’ and Donald Trump: the first, true “America First” president in 40 years.

Culture War

What happened to our national cohesion? (Mass immigration and diversity ideology.)

What is the result of “diversity”? (Discrimination. Segregation. Anti-white racism. Inevitable bloodshed. (No diverse nation has ever escaped this outcome.))

These trends flow from the hearts of the people, influenced by noticeable demographic changes: new immigrants want to benefit materially from America and keep allegiance to their homeland; meanwhile, American citizens have developed an ideology of self-hatred as penance for the "sins" of their ancestors, replacing a normal, national pride. In other words, normie America is being eaten away from the inside.

Changing course is not possible with policy, especially when politicians shill for other interests. American values can only be preserved through tradition, built upon society’s basic unit: the family. Furthermore, the battleground to defend the family begins with a grassroots effort at the local government like school districts and town boards.

Given this 40+ year trend towards today’s anarcho-tyranny, how will America look, and how will Americans behave toward one another in 40 years?

For the sake of future normies that all depends on the actions of patriotic Americans in the present.

Shamed by Love

"i eat food that i find on the street. certainly not everyday, and definitely not when anyone besides a good friend or a complete stranger catches me. (if you never knew i did this you can now consider us good friends.)"

--plermpt, June 2015

Six years(!) distances me from this vainglorious post, and yet the same obsessive habits guided by the same justifications inspire me on every nightly solitary walk home in current year.

To be completely fair, there was a 5.25 year gap between yesterday and today, but once precedents have been established--with null consequences--walking them back seems unnecessary:

"...these habits have never impaired my physical health, but at times i question their affect on my mental health: i now scrutinize every trash can that i pass, and physically investigate many more....it’s free to look, so i keep looking..."

Admittedly, "dumpster diving" is a demure term to describe this behavior. True dumpster diving demands professional planning; I am an obsessive opportunist. 

Regardless of what one chooses to call this undignified pasttime, I will always find it pleasurable, enjoyable, fulfilling and exciting, with nascent plans to stream these evening romps for any interested patrons. 

And with only the night's silence as my companion, I degrade myself with every opportunity that the street offers. Thrilled more at the potential to discover any uneaten morsels than the morsels themselves, I go so far as to feel up supple curbside garbage bags like a grabby teenager at makeout point. 

If no one is around to see me degrade myself, is it still shameful? Or: if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

With Journey's Don't Stop Believin' keeping me special company last week, I hardly noticed the younger man keeping his distance behind me on my nightly venture. As focused as I was on the treasure in the cans I did not pay him any attention. From the corner of my eye he was as innocuous as my shadow. 

Assuming he'd turned onto another street, when the song ended I heard a meek voice refer to me as 'Sir.' (Me? Sir? I was low key flattered.)

"Sir? Sir?" he said. I turned to him as the ad played between songs on the playlist. 

We looked at one another, and he continued his pitch: "Sir, if you are hungry...." he stammered, "if you are hungry I will buy you a meal. Are you hungry?"

I looked at him blushing with embarassment, and feigning confidence, I responded smiling, " No...I'm not hungry...I'm...uh...OCD..."

He turned around and walked away from me, and I continued in the direction of home, the most fruitful stretch still awaiting me. Had I embarassed him? I had definitely embarassed myself.

My fun had eclipsed my shame, and this stranger took notice where I thought--hoped--I'd become invisible. Undeceived by the suit I was wearing, he expressed his love for neighbor with a selfless offer. I was not in need of the type of love he was offering, but the love reached me in a different way.

He will never know how--I was too caught off guard to even say 'God bless you.' But I mean it. God bless that man. God bless him for his courageous love. I am inspired to amend my life and to practice the same acts of courageous love.

Will I still be tempted to degrade myself? Everytime I walk home.

Will I give in to temptation? Probably

Will I go to battle with these urges? Now more than ever. 

In the past, temporary fun was once worth more than my dignity. Not anymore. 

Thanks to that brave kid, and to God reaching me through him.

types of homeless "privilege"

I stand in a ’The Plaza’ and tell smokers of all types and temperaments that they cannot smoke. I might wear a suit to work, but its only to look important.

Except for that one guy nobody talks back, gives me an attitude, or questions who I am and what I am doing in The Plaza. They nod respectfully and walk to the nearby corner.

This “power” has inspired my latent ego to emerge. Sometimes it is motivated by general bitterness, but usually it is motivated by my resentment for blatant blunt smokers that think they are entitled to special privileges of unearned respect because they are recently freed by the law to be degenerate in public.

As much as I enjoy imposing the will of The Plaza onto smokers, it is only enforced within reason. My physical safety is always more important than my personal ego. Looks and mannerisms are everything. A person accusing the wall of “stealing eyes” will not be told to stop smoking the butts that he found in the cracks of the sidewalk.

Therefore, in an act of reverse discrimination, I let Michael, an individual with multiple face tattoos wearing rotten shoes and a browned undershirt, smoke his butts unbothered. I did not even look through him. Like the police in BLM NYC, I do not get paid enough to respond to EDPs. After all, it is not my plaza.

But when Michael spoke to me, asking for a cup of coffee, his voice was timid, straightforward, lucid, and I was intrigued. (Being homeless is all about personality; sometimes street homeless are very demanding, rude, unfriendly, entitled. Yeah, they struggle, but if they are off-putting enough, I won’t want to help.) In Michael’s case, he had become so numb to having nothing, not even a family, that living as a transient in the streets was natural; no one cared if he lived or died addicted to k2 marijuana.

Schizophrenics number the few who have the privilege of getting exactly what they want: no help.

Not all street homeless have schizophrenic privilege; they do want something—mostly familial love—and the least we can do for them is a single good deed of getting them a one-way ticket to a warm bed for a night. (There is no worldly replacement for the love of a family.)

And until he opened his mouth, I gave Michael the privilege of smoking in the plaza undisturbed, before his personality privileged him to some of my rare generosity.

I'm not gay, but...

(mask mandate observation #3)

A youngish professional, leaving his office for the day, tore…sigh…his mask off upon exiting his office building and onto the street.

I watched him out of boredom, expecting a mere readjustment, or a temporary removal for a relaxing end-of-day cigarette.

When he stuffed his hand and mask into his pocket and left them there my bored stare became a lustful hypnosis, bordering on arousal for freedom: 

He was choosing to walk around outside without his mask!!!

I’m still straight because this reminded me of the thrill of watching a woman eager to sunbathe, removing her bathing suit cover-up to reveal a sexy two-piece.

Two takeaways:

1. an ordinary moment can instantly become a gay one.

2. we have become so socially distant that a mask under the chin is the equivalent of panties to the side.

Derek Bin Laden

Trying to live under a rock while simultaneously working in Times Square is like trying to fit a square peg into a circular hole. 

This is especially impossible when complete strangers see me dressed very sharply and seated at a lobby desk and think that it is my job to know when the results of some verdict will be made public. 

"Verdict?" I ask dumbly, feigning a childlike innocence. "For what?"

...

The shops of Times Square boarded themselves up, and preparing for a riot--in the name of George Floyd (without his consent)--were spared by Chauvin's unwilling sacrifice. Hoodlums smoked--and sold--their marijuana to tourists and fellow hoodlums peacefully without police interference, and only one pathetic march squeaked by, ironically escorted by the NYPD. For my personal environmental safety I was thankful for a GUILTY verdict. (Times Square feels dangerous on a good day.) For the sake of the future of this once great nation, this verdict was a tragedy, as was the death murder of George Floyd. (I have to preface everything with the obvious 'George Floyd didn't deserve to die like that...')

I was a newborn New Yorker when Osama bin Laden was allegedly killed in 2011 and recall waiting for hours on the steps of St. Peter's in the Financial District for a three second glimpse of Obama behind 6 inches of bullet proof glass as he waved through the window of the presidential limousine.

The celebrations for Osama's killing were unanimous and raucous throughout all of America. As a contrarian I disagreed with the celebrations, nobly believing that death is never worth celebrating, especially for the sake of vengeance. (I still believe this, but for reasons beyond non-conformity.)

Yet, just ten years away from the death of bin Laden--a death which (wrongfully) brought all Americans together--is the death of George Floyd/verdict of Derek Chauvin, an ordinary tragedy (for those unbiased individuals, wherever they are hiding) that divided America along fiery ideological lines: one side celebrating, the other side afraid to voice honest disagreement.

Where bin Laden was America's greatest enemy, Chauvin and Floyd were a couple of regular dumb Americans that met under tragic, dumb, ordinary circumstances. Other ordinary, dumb Americans should mourn this tragedy, and then move on. But instead battle lines are drawn (by the media and cynical politicians) and ordinary, dumb Americans believe their fellow Americans to be their enemies because of their race instead of that Asian country and its evil government that brought us the Coronavirus while trying to take over the world. Or that "religion of peace." edit: Or Zionist Jews.

In 2021 "justice" is mob vengeance, celebrated by Americans against a fellow American. 

I miss 9/11...I miss bin Laden...I miss the United States of America...

This is how it truly begins to end...

Mask Mandate Observations #2

On Long Island no one wore a mask outside. 

In New York, everyone wears a mask outside. 

Cities don't die like humans do, they die by changing. Look at Detroit, Istanbul, Rome. A city is less defined by its structures as it is by the people who inhabit those structures. 

The mask mandate is for pussies (excuse my language), and even the toughest New Yorkers are afraid enough of popular opinion--and the cold stares of strangers-- to comply with its hypocrisy. 

Badass vigilantes are supposed to wear masks, but it is gay and laughable to see Candidate Sliwa's Guardian Angels wearing mandated masks. Being tough is not wearing a mask! Exposing your likeness to the cold stares of strangers and staring right back is the new tough.

(Also, you're not 'tough' if you vocally shame the only person not wearing a mask on the subway; you're a bully with popular support.)

For a city in which everyone lives on top of (or inside of) everyone else and nobody knows their neighbors, anonymity and confidentiality are taken to an ironic and unprecedented extreme. Clueless city propaganda even urges riders against talking to others on the subway--an inclination we never had! What are we protecting again? Our health or our likeness?

(For this reason, I don't even want to be earn the title of "New Yorker" anymore. The term is more descriptive of a Bangladeshi civil servant who owns three houses in Queens, or a wasteful avocado-toast hipster yuppie who owns no property than it does a hardboiled mobster, old school Tammany Hall Dem or even fratboy banker (they've all left the city to work via zoom). I am a Long Islander. I like Billy Joel. I eat mollusks. I am white. My Italian grandparents fled the city in the 40s and never looked back, and I shall continue this tradition.)

Upon my return to the Pandemic State of New New York I have seen untold thousands. When I meet Pandemic New New Yorkers (~22 of which have become fixtures in my life to varying degrees) their faces are hidden. Of those 22, I have never seen the faces of 13 of them. (The remaining 9 I have seen only in pictures, or on zoom.)

Some people want to protect their precious lungs from breathing the air we all share, so they never remove their mask in public, preferring to breathe their own mask breath instead. 

This is as disgusting as sneezing in your own bowl of cereal. But if that is the choice one wants to make I will judge and condemn with a special levity, especially if I have grown in fondness with repeated interactions. 

It's All About Me

I am selfish, and the mask mandate is personal. Is it really asking too much to want to know what my friends look like?

When I introduce myself I yank the mask down past my chin to show my face, so as not to disappoint when they spy my face and find me more charming than handsome. (No one ever asks to see  my face.)

Sometimes I get the feeling that my new friends/acquaintances don't want me to know what they look like. On one such occasion during a lengthy and enjoyable conversation my area manager turned around to remove his mask and take a sip of his Monster energy drink. 

Another time, the girl at Mass pulled her mask away from her chin with just enough space to receive the eucharistic wafer, making the only chance of seeing entire face a disappointment.

Once I entered the Director of Operations office and her back was turned from me. She did not have her mask on, and feeling my presence behind her, put it on before turning to face me. Rote or safety or needlessly protecting entirety of her likeness from my semi-curious stare? (Some people look better with a mask on.)

My behavior is subtly impacted by theirs:

Walking into the lunchroom one shift I saw Adolfo masklessly eating his lunch and diverted my eyes without saying hello, like I'd walked in on him on using the toilet.

Other times I hold my gaze longer than necessary to catch a glimpse of a chin or a lip or a cheek, like I am a pubescent middle schooler sneaking a peak at a bent over girl. 

At Planned Parenthood one morning, I had an hour-and-a-half conversation with a girl my age. I was maskless--though my eyes were hidden behind sunglasses--and she was masked. At the 7 minute mark I gave my name and asked hers (she refused it); at the 23 minute mark I asked again and she easily reciprocated. At the 44 minute mark she ripped off her masked exclaiming 'I like talking to you! This is what I look like!' to which I responded by taking my sunglasses off to reveal my own teary eyes. 

Overcoming the oppressive mandate and without succumbing to nakedness we had achieved true intimacy.

The eyes may be windows to the soul, but New New Yorkers are missing all of the good (and necessary) stuff around the eyes. I felt like a hack wearing those sunglasses--if it wasn't so sunny I'd have taken them off.

Such cursory observations make "the mask" the longest and most widespread social experiment in human history, not a preventative measure against the spread of a flu with a 99% survival rate.

True Kinship

At heart, I've always been a beggar. 

I can recall, with a shameful fondness, begging my friends at our high school lunch table for their lunch scraps. (My friends had awesome lunches.) Because I'd grown up with them, I was comfortable shamelessly begging from them knowing that they liked me for my quirks, not despite them.

Annoyed, they rarely gave me what I begged for, intensifying my desires and leading me to entertaining all sorts of other evils later on in life. Without the bumpers of their stinginess to stop me, my gluttony, like my ego, became insatiable. 

(I don't blame them. (But I do digress.))

As I left shelter one beautiful afternoon in the present day, I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket and my pen fell out with it. 

A derelict man, too impoverished for a phone, sat on the curb in front of me. Unable to share his early Spring experience on Facebook or Insta, he was forced to enjoy the sunshine for what it was worth. Like the ancients before him, he was thereby attuned to the world, and upon seeing my pen touch the parking lot he croaked, pointing: "Hey your thing."

"Ah, thank you!" I responded with glee, bending over, cautious not to be too friendly as to inspire a conversation, the sunshine barely warming my soul to pity his. 

"Cigarette for 50 cents?" he asked, as I moved away from him and on to my life on the mainland while he remained fixed to that curb and transfixed by the sun. 

I wondered if this was an example of an ethical dilemma as I turned to take him up on his generously unsolicited offer. The day did indeed inspire a cigarette in me, and I was hoping he had menthols....then I'd realized that he was soliciting me for a cigarette, and not the other way around. 

Feeling a new kinship with my clientele, I continued to the bus, content in the knowledge that everything was in its right place; I was finally among my own kind. 

a prelude to some future meditations on evil

A friend recommended Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem and I read it mainly for its subtitle On the banality of evil. 

If well written, the book was very boring, focusing more on Eichmann's war crimes (which are boring) than the psychology of the banality of his evil. Maybe Arendt got there psychologically, but I didn't have the patience to read another 100 pages of boring political insights. (Reading the intro and a couple of Goodreads reviews was enough.)

As I resurfaced from the abyss of an addiction last week my entire life has been brought into focus by the truthfulness of evil as banal, specifically how the evil of my past actions have covertly played a major role in the misshpaing of my life. 

When midterms end--and if I don't succumb to my addiction again--then I can exhume these mysteries, bringing to light the evils that hoped to be shrouded forever.

Mask Mandate: Year One

Editor's Note: I wrote this wearing a mask.

In rushing somewhere I felt the icy cold on my face and with shock exclaimed out loud 'my mask!'

Then with a mental dexterity for which I am not accustomed, I thought 'No, not 'mine' as I climbed the stairs to my apartment to retrieve it with bitter resignation, grumbling "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's..."

There has not been a new opinion on the mask mandate since The Great Quarantine of 2020 began, and I am not going to reiterate my obvious dislike/disproval of it. 

Instead, I am going to make an observation (those are fun!): 

In March 2020, it was 'Don't go outside without a mask.' In March 2021 it is 'Don't go outside without your mask.'

The mask is no longer the 'new' normal. On the first anniversary, it is now simply normal; it has become 'yours' and 'mine.' (They even got me to say it!) For some, the mask has become so personal that it is like a Guardian Angel needed at all times to protect our precious lives. For others, it is a shirt that we must wear over our face, so why not customize it? The 'classic' blue mask is just a liner; wear something that more fits your personality! Make it your own! 

Now I need to stay vigilant in the oppositional language (while still using 'cancelled' insults). In the very least my language--and eventual sentiment--is not changing without me noticing first. (Though still begrudgingly changing.)

So long as it is forced on me it is an impersonal alien, a tumor, a parasite. It is a facehugger. I'd rather have the Coronavirus than wear it. (I couldn't help but give my opinion anyway! Sorry!)

This just happened

Ward’s Island lived up to my fears. But, having survived dipping my toes in its human sights and smells, I was given the opportunity to leave early, which I took.

My trip to work from the Island was a silent one: no headphones, no book, no phone to distract me. Instead, the cacophony of the city mixed with the observation of tired, broken, enslaved New Yorkers; a preferrable accompaniment to my pensive mood.

When I got out of the subway at 28th Street I saw a ‘Made in NY’ production truck. This made me laugh and grin like a teeny tiny leprechaun was tickling me beneath my suit, reminded of a time not too long ago, when I was enslaved by the same industry.

With my miraculous escape came a surprising sense of pride that seeing this truck elicited: a pride in outgrowing the need to work “in the field I’d studied,” and ironically, a pride in the newfound humility of knowing my proper place in the world.

Then the thought that was really on my mind came to the fore: “I wonder if my ex-girlfriend is working on this show.”

Turning the corner answered my question.

There she was turned to face the direction of the wardrobe truck (or was it costumes?) in a group of four other female colleagues, all wearing masks. But a mask can never conceal a person’s spirit. I passed behind her, studying her ponytail, her posture, her double masking, her goggle-like glasses, my obvious investigative stares impossible to suppress.

Then I stopped on the corner to get my bearings and check the address of my worksite.

The Moment

With my bearings gotten, I poorly feigned a need to turn around. She stood where I’d passed her, about fifty feet away beside her colleague, staring me down, her arms crossed. ‘Oh,’ I thought. ‘She sensed it too.’

The Very Next Moment

Having another image of an ex-girlfriend sighting now burned into my memory (albeit this one is very much preferable to the last one seven years prior), I (again) poorly feigned seeing through her, then walked down the street, passing production vehicles, the norm of mask wearing crew members and endless hampers full of infinite cable, all serving as reminders of a previous life long gone.

Pontification ;)

Once I passed through the production, I felt the fullness of my racing heart. With it I imagined acting differently in the moment…I imagined waving to her. She was staring, there is no denying that she also saw me. I know she would have waved back. It would have been a sign of peace, possibly reconciliation.

But it also would have been acknowledgement, and acknowledgement is painful.

For acknowledgment of a past long gone recalls memories. Memories unearth emotions. In this case, it recalls memories of joy, and the subsequent—and permanent—loss of that earthly joy. And loss cannot be felt if not first for love.

Feelings can be hurt, and love can be buried in self-protection, but once created, love can never be destroyed. (I am talking about more than the emotion.)

Her decision to willfully face me will be a mystery. (Defiance? Curiosity?) But its foundation, though denied by the proud-- and for reasons as varied as there are unique humans on earth--is love. (I speak to proud people for a living; I know the signs.)

And when paths unexpectedly cross, love, unexpectedly remembered, is rekindled. Albeit never in the form it once took. (Depending on the relationship it could take the form of forgiveness.)

“I don’t love him anymore,” can be more truthfully replaced with “I don’t love him in that way anymore,” becasue there will always be that hope for the good for the other. It is emotions that make acknowledgment of truth this blunt impossibly, painfully incomprehensible to utter aloud. (It is truth nonetheless.) But, as humans are in a fallen state, and for the sake of a new love’s pride (and to avoid them feeling envy) the former statement is more tactful, if not completely true. (Also, unnecessary to mention at all.)

This crossing was providential, with my schedule changing just slightly enough to make this occurrence possible. And yet, I still wonder at God’s mysterious purpose for crossing our paths today. Did I not learn enough of my lesson from the last time my path crossed with an ex-girlfriend? (I certainly did not learn my lesson after my first arrest.) I understand justice--and envy--better now than I did two years ago when I broke up with her, and maybe that was her purpose in my life? (I did not want it to be! That lesson suuuuuuuucked. Sometimes the only way to get though to someone is with an avoidable tragedy.)

So many questions that my soul must now unexpectedly seek the answers for! Why now?

Regardless, I must give myself up to the mysteries of God’s will, putting my faith in the purpose of this untimely sighting. Having a sense of humor about it helps too, as does looping  Michelini's Frolic' in my head.

I have nowhere else to put this

The short (and true) event that follows is both embarassing and disgusting, but I post it more at the risk of my own reputation than the stomach of anyone reading. There is a lesson to be learned, therefore it must be remembered. But, as there is no one of whom I can confide, it must be remembered here:

I sat on the toilet yesterday after a bowel movement, but a baby wipe was not within my grasp. Glancing around the room, and without wanting to stand up to check in the closet, I decided to check the cabinet beneath the sink to my immediate right. There were no baby wipes to be found there, so instead I settled for the next best thing: a household cleaner.

As I leaned toward the cabinet I felt the loose toilet seat slip out of its normal resting place on the bowl, falling into a new and unsteady position off the bowl in the direction I was leaning. My body's most precious and sensitive appendage touched the porcelain bowl where the loose seat previously laid as I sat up to rifle through the cabinet's contents.

Once I had selected the most environmentally friendly cleaner available I sat back down, and the plastic seat shifted back into its usual resting place on the bowl, pinching my appendage beneath it.

Had I been in any other postion, or of any other girth, I'd have been decapitated.

In my search for a solution I'd forgotten about God, and a small bruise began to form as a reminder of God's grace.

In other words, thank God for every little misfortune. Very frequently they are lessons that could have had far worse consequences. 

How to become normal again

In a previous post I labelled the gullible consumers of mainstream propaganda “Normies.”

Though complimenting them first and foremost as “intrinsically good,” this is untrue.

Once upon a time all of mankind was “intrinsically good”, endowed with the virtue of justice. (Not “social justice.”) But our goodness is no longer intrinsic because our nature has been affected by sin (an awesome term). Our sin is a state, not an act.

(Our birthright is not our fault! This is so hopeful!)

What is our choice—and by extension our fault—is how we choose to live. “Normies” are not intrinsically good; they are foolish sinners, powerless tools used by politicians and unknowingly inclined to an evil that is making them weak and compliant, falsely believing it to be virtuous. They are deprived of justice because they have believed the lies. They live in a state of ignorance, and therefore sin.

In a democratic country, normies appear to drive the course of history by “electing” elites who claim to serve their best interest. (And there are lots and lots of normies willing to do this.) In another political system, normies would be emaciated slaves. In modern America, they are fat slaves.

(Once upon a time in America normal people were (cautiously) honest about their political biases with their acquaintances, and at the end of the evening everyone could laugh and laugh and laugh because they all secretly knew that development of society can never be subject to rational human control!)

This a spiritual wound, but spiritual wounds can also heal. To become a normal person again, normies need first to think/ask the following:

1) My political opinion is not my identity because I am not a politician

2) Politics is not a game that I have the money to play anyway

3) What is my political opinion based on? Vague platitude, or edifying research? Personal biases, or historical facts? (Sometimes biases are based in fact!)

Eventually, some normies will soften and become normal people again. (Forced to wear masks everywhere slows the inevitability of this softening, as the normies are unpaid enforcers of the mask mandate. State endorsed fear is extremely powerful.)

The conversion from normie to normal person is one of slow humility that starts with the sentiment: "Maybe I can learn something from someone I think I am supposed to disagree/hate."

Normal people: become trustworthy to your day-to-day normies and then correct them in conversation whenever safe to do so and not when they are in groups of two or more. Do not let yourself become outnumbered. 

Normies: keep your sins to yourselves like the rest of us normal people have done since Adam and Eve committed the first one. If you are going to reveal them, prepare to be corrected.