On terror conspiracy theorists - definitely not the final word

          Another tragedy...this (reference to latest one) is even more horrific than the one from (reference to previous one) with a death toll larger than the (reference one which happened prior to previous one).

          Calm down.  Because of population growth, these events just appear larger than their predecessors.  When you factor in world-wide technological advances and media over-saturation the world is no more evil than it was.  Same as it ever was.  Same as it ever was, same as it ever was.  Same.  As.  It.  Ever.  WAS.

          While you hum the rest of the Mr Byrne's tune, let me deviate.

          If I measure from the year of my birth and non-objectively assume there was only one person occupying my fair share of this wondrous planet at that time, today—my portion has been halved.  From my grandmother's perspective there are now four bodies occupying her plot.  To be fair, only half the world's population are born from morons, are raised to be idiots, and die imbeciles...which brings me to the theorists mentioned in my title.

          Last week:  two bombs + two criminals + Boston marathon = a handful dead/many injured.  The result has been conspiracy theorists outdoing themselves; ridiculously farfetched claims abound.

          Yet—strangely—almost the same day (an "anniversary week" which is significant for loons and those who follow conspiracies):  one fire + massive explosion + near Waco, Texas = death and destruction many times worse than that of Boston.  But...no conspiracies (or very little).

          I always doubt "coincidences".  I suspect the explosion in West, Texas was arson.  Intentional. 

          Today, another large fire/explosion near Mobile, Alabama.  All the normal conspiracy nuts are still silent (I've checked).  I find it curiouser and curiouser that no one has posited any connections.

          But... why are conspiracies on my mind lately?

          True story:  A short while ago a friend of my fiancee's came over to visit us.  A conversation starter was asked of her, "What have you been up to lately?"

          She replied, "I was sitting out in my yard this morning watching a whole bunch of chem-trails being sprayed overhead."

          Pause.  Longer pause.  Still no talking.

          I glance sideways at her.  No body language hint that she's joking around.  I glance at my fiancee to gauge her reaction (she never told me of any mental impairment, so maybe this is new for her too).

          My fiancee asks, with a smile in her voice, "Is that something you do a lot?"  (I thought that was a very smooth way to determine if she was a full-on whackjob or if she just goofed around every other weekend with being mentally unstable).

          And whackjob said without a hitch, "Oh yeah.  They're up there spraying us all the time.  A couple weeks ago my neighbors and I watched...must have been...over two dozen chem-trails being sprayed inside of less than a half hour.

          I got that cringe in the nerves running between the back of my brain and my diaphragm, which cause me to twitch my shoulders inward a little bit.  I tightened my lips slightly.  And... 

          Here is what I'd have said if she wasn't a friend of my fiancee's:  "Don't you live in Longview, Washington?  Under a major flight corridor, with all of the north-south traffic to and from Sea-Tac?  And since there's no mystery behind what happens when hot exhaust meets the cold atmosphere, you must be bananna-shit crazy if you believe millions of conspirators are spraying the air with poisons."

          I didn't say any of that.  I smirked, shook my head, and (politely) bit my tongue.

          So... my fiancee is still acquainted with a crazy woman from Longview.

other conspiracy related stuff: 


Killer Joe - review (☆☆☆☆)

          If you occasionally follow my film recommendations, you already know I adhere to the "look to the director" school; the director chooses the script, the director oversees the casting, the dir...you get my drift.  Good film = credit the director; bad film = blame the director.

          Although I don't think everything William Friedkin has directed is worthy of a standing ovation (or even your applause in some cases) Killer Joe combines the Grit he captured in The French Connection with nearly the same quality of Visceral he achieved in The Exorcist.

          The script, written by Tracy Letts, is tight and near-perfect.  The actors (all five of them) could not have been better.  In fact, until I saw this performance, I thought Matthew McConaughey was a bland movie actor playing the same dude in different clothes.

          This film wasn't seen in many theaters because of its NC17 rating (which still scares the distributors away) but is now available on red envelope slash box slash download.  Find it. 

          Post script for blood-relatives:  If  you accidentally read this and decide to follow my advice and find this film - stop.  If you're someone I talk to and I haven't personally told you about this film?  That's because I know you won't like it.  You'll be revolted by the violence, sickened by the sex and nudity, and disgusted by the raw and ugly story.  My second paragraph was supposed to point that out.  "But" you might say, "I liked The Exorcist and French Connection"; and then I might reply, "those films were edgy forty years ago; this film is edgy today".  

Every subsequent Y in the road is affected by those who preceded

          I think a lot.  I Ruminate.  Ponder.  Plan for contingencies.  Meditate about the me of today who's composing this beginning sentence of a beginning paragraph which I've just begun with only the title above as my stanchion and which is, at the moment, only based on a couple-three ephemeral ideas without a solid bridge betwixt them.

          Today I think I should list these ideas because that'll make it easier to see where to begin to build the abutments and also will—I hope—help me to remember them before they, like most of my mental messages-in-a-bottle, drift out of reach.

          When thinking about the me of yesteryear, I recall the major decisions which had the most geographical, emotional, financial, and intellectual effect on the outcome (more specifically, the where, who, how's, and why's that comprise the me that is today-me).  I realize that I made some of the more drastic course corrections in my life because of the few women I loved in yesteryear and the one I'm currently in love with.


          Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of emotions.  Tens of billions of humans have simplified it in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children).  I was once one of those people.

          Not very long ago, I considered everyone who wasn't heterosexual to be homosexual.  When someone claimed to be bisexual, as far as I was concerned, they were homosexual.  I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved.  Specifically, I love breasts (especially those of the pert variety); the shape of the female buttock is wondrous; and I can't get enough pudenda.  Conversely, the penis and scrotum are ugly; testosterone-packed male physiques are just plain unattractive and androgyny is blah.

          I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates.  The boys said they also didn't choose.  The girls talked about their unflinching attraction to hard muscles and body hair with the same tone I use when adoring all that's smooth svelte and hairless.  I also talked with a few gay guys (who I knew well enough to talk specifics) and they assured me their sexuality had been formed in adolescence and they couldn't choose any more than I could; one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart who'd never be fully accepted by the gay community".


          In high school I was informed that about ten percent of the population were left-handed and that almost everyone in the world was right-handed like me.  At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned that there existed a small number of exceptional people who were ambidextrous.

          The textbook went on to explain these gifted people were capable of doing everything equally well with either hand.  I remember a story about a dead-before-I-was-born president who was innately left-handed but taught as a child (I think the book used the word forced) to become right-handed.  It said he occasionally would show-off his talent by writing simultaneously with both hands and may even have related that he could write in two different languages at the same time (but that might be confabulation on my part).  I also recall something about tutors and nannies being involved in forcing him to be right handed.  And I recall having scorn for the reason he was forced to no longer write with his left hand: some fucktard in his family believed the left hand was the devil's hand.  It's possible the school book encouraged my scorn by its choice of phrasing although I'm sure it didn't use the word fucktard, that's all me.  A quick search would turn up his name but since I don't recall it off-the-top of my gulliver I'm disinclined to embellish poor memory with moot facts.

          In college I was told that about ten percent of the population were homosexual.  Almost everyone in the world was heterosexual like me.  At the same time (probably in the same dorm-room bullshitting session) I was informed of the existence of a small number of people who were attracted to both sexes.

          Specifically, one bullshit session attendee alleged, some bisexuals (more of whom, he said, were female than male) were not turned-off by the body, physique, or genitals of their own sex.  Which garnered nods of understanding from that roomful of hetero-men.  We could get our brains around how a hetero-woman might be capable of seeing beauty in the female form—what was confusing was how a hetero-man could be attracted to another man.  A joke was re-told (which originated from an unfunny comedian who I can't recall the name of) which said the upside of being bisexual was doubling one's chances of a date on Friday night.  Another bullshitter related a story (which probably began with a phrase like:  my junior high school neighbor's cousin's best-friend once told us...) about how this nameless boy he knew was groomed over a period of years by one of his older relatives to first receive and then give blowjobs and then later to give and eventually receive anal sex.  He never used the word forced.  It was the first time I heard the word 'groomed' in that context (and I wasn't alone, because someone went off on a 'bridegroom/groom' tangent).  The nameless boy's story concluded with the allegation that before, during, and after the years of abuse, he was innately attracted only to girls.  The bullshitter telling the story surmised that because the nameless boy had been intimate with a member of the same sex for such a prolonged period of time that he might now be able to choose.  At this point the bullshit session switched its focus to the sexual proclivities of Greek philosophers (someone had philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room a while.


          I have grown into the knowledge that human sexuality is a very complex spectrum.  I picture a two dimensional xy Cartesian graph.  The horizontal line depicting the genitalia one is innately sexually attracted to.  On the left is the female pudenda (the minus 5 position); on the right is the male penis (the plus 5 position).  Someone who is equally attracted to both sexes and who chooses his or her next partner based solely on the fickle winds of chance mutual attraction is a 0.

          I think of the top of the vertical line as a measure of how strong one's attraction feels, or how often one thinks about sex, or how often one has the urge to engage in their preferred sexual act (it's subjective and doesn't matter if one plots one's strength point for a given moment in time or for the average over a period of time).  At the top, the plus 5 position, is sexual addicts and those incapable of controlling their constant sexual urges.  Where the vertical meets the horizontal (the zero point) is those who are asexual and incapable of any attraction.  Just above the zero point, the plus 1 position, is those who exclusively pleasure themselves (which would include iDollators).

          The bottom of the vertical line is for all the paranormal innate attractions.  At the bottom, the minus 5 position, is for necrophiliacs.  All of the minus positions cover the range of attractions which society considers abnormal from sexual attractions to inanimate objects, BDSM, and rape.       

         To be accurate and complete, this graph now needs to become an xyz three-dimensional graph in order to measure fantasy versus reality.  What one thinks about when one is engaging in the sexual act is important because it's the brain that's sexual, not the body.  The further along the plus z line the more fantastic one's mental images are from what's currently happening to one's body (within societal "norms").  100% focus on the sex one's body is experiencing—no fantasy—is 0.  The further along the minus z line the more disparate the brain's focus is from what is currently being experienced by one's body (outside of societal "norms").  


          Mental moving snapshots with sound.  My first significant other is berating me for my unwillingness to attend catholic mass.  Her sharp words are intended to make me feel guilty for my lack of materialism and lack of concern for our toddler's spiritual upbringing.  The final straw.  My second's insouciance is unbearable.  No words becomes no love.  Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide while she is on sabbatical to locate my current love.  Now we are ten years together.  Everything is as wonderful as I imagine it could be.  Better, having chosen not to tolerate the bad behavior of her predecessors, who taught me what type of woman to look for and what, who, and where not to be. 


          So hey.  I've stopped saying "people don't choose" because some people do.  Maybe a lot of people do (maybe the world is equally divided in thirds: 1/3 hetero and can't choose otherwise; 1/3 homo and can't choose otherwise; and 1/3 are attracted to both, can choose, and do...or let their government/church choose for them).

          There seems to be a large quantity of fundamentalists and conservatives who use the word "choose and choice" with an air of certainty...maybe that is because every one of them are near the 0 point, in the middle of the horizontal axis and they've all decided to let their religious and political leaders tell them what choice to make.

          The most important point is everyone should be happy with what you've got.  If you haven't yet found what makes you happy...keep looking.  If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found it) stop attempting to make them as unhappy as you are.  Misery doesn't really love company.

Today is Someday: Book 6 - The Princess Bride

          This book is only like A Clockwork Orange (the second in this series of books I'd been putting off indefinitely until today) because I also postponed reading The Princess Bride because I'd already seen the movie. 

          It's a pretty reliable rule of thumb that if a novel spawns a really good film, said book must be equally as good.  No so, I have now learned; not so at all.

          William Goldman wrote this overstuffed and bloated story within a story within a story (yes, that's right three layers...and I may have miss-counted, it could be four layers, I think that is more accurate - four.  Yup.  Four.  Four or five.)

          Goldman's running joke is he abridged an obtuse novel originally read to him as a child by his father and after he fawns over his own celebrity for a while he relates that story with constant interruption by both himself and by the (fictitious) author of the (fictitious) original.  And in this, the 25th Anniversary Edition, he has added another layer by beginning with a new introduction which continues the gag and ends with a new epilogue which continues the gag.  Dead horse kicked = too many times.

          The best thing of all was when Rob Reiner hired Goldman to write the screenplay.  He does a wonderful job of abridging his abridgement.  All the good parts are in the film, all the unfunny parts got left in his book, which shouldn't be on any best-of-the-best, bucket list, desert island, top 100, must read book list.   The film - yes - it's fantastic.  This book?  No.

          I hope Goldman is dead before the 35th Anniversary Edition because it will just have another layer of unfunny self-congratulatory bullshit wrapped around it.