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-to-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 bridge-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 me-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.

          Bridge.

          Human sexuality is a very complex amalgam of thoughts, emotions, suppositions, hormones, taboos, and facts.  Tens of billions of humans have simplified all that, in order to make it easier to understand, relate to, and explain to others (which begins with their children).  I too, simplified it to understand it.

          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 (erroneously) thought this way because I viewed all sexual attraction relative to my own and, for me, there's no choice involved.  I love breasts (especially, 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 as attractive, to me, as inanimate objects, and androgyny is a blah.

          I formed my early simplistic left-handed/right-handed understanding of human sexuality by talking with hetero schoolmates.  The boys I talked with 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 couldn't choose any more than I could—one said he considered bisexuals "straights and breeders at heart and said they'd never be fully accepted by the gay community".


          Bridge.

          In high school, I was informed that approximately ten percent of the population was left-handed and almost everyone in the world was right-handed, like me.  At the same time (probably in the same class) I learned 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/re-training him to be right handed.  And I recall feeling scorn for the reason he had been was forced to stop writing 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 this president's 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, that 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, to us, 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: 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 (his story never contained the word forced).  It was the first time I'd 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 a philosophy class) and the term "conditioned bisexuality" was thrown around the room.

          Bridge.

          I have grown into the knowledge that gender and 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").  

          Bridge.

          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, which is my final straw (Snap.) My second so insouciance is unbearable.  No words becomes no love (Snap.) Which drives me to find my third who works toward attaining "marital tenure" and I decide, while she is on a relationship-sabbatical to locate my current love (Snap.) Now we are ten years together.  Everything is as wonderful as I imagined 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. 

          Bridge.

          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 definite air of certainty...maybe that's 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 they've got (between their ears).  If you haven't yet found what makes you happy (between the sheets)...keep looking.  If you aren't yet as happy as you could be (because you see others who have chosen wisely and found their happy) 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.

Christopher Hitchens is 98% dead-on*

          Occasionally still—albeit less and less—strangers and friends of family members ask me to explain my hatred of religion.  I've never been able to be verbally succinct (I'm prone to verbose rants and tangents).  And especially so when the topic is morality, religious thuggery, and the discussion turns to:  there is no creator, is nothingness upon death, and (most importantly) why those facts are more comforting than any of the superstitions others claim to believe in.

          Rather than debate, I'd prefer everyone watch this 90 minutes as Christopher Hitchens explains.

          My largest regret:  the few people I love and care for who aren't aware or self-actualized enough to grasp this simple logic and who not-only prefer their fantasies, but who say they'd be more full of bliss if only I were as deluded as they.

          [I don't think further explanation is necessary...but just in case my last paragraph confuses one or more of those who it's aimed at—I don't regret any of my loved ones, nor do I regret their hatred-and-miracle-based belief systems.  I do regret sharing past, present, and future oxygen with ignoble hypocrites who only interrupt their vitriol with proselytizing and feigned empathy for my soul when I'm within hand-grenade range.]     
 

*Too soon?  Why?  It's waaay more than a year since he successfully committed slow suicide with alcohol and nicotine.

Today is Someday: Book 5 — The Stranger


          How does an unimportant someone like me, like anyone, describe or attempt to criticize a work of art which won the highest award by one of—if not the—most famous critic?

          The same way one evaluates anything:  with honesty.

          This parable is about the emotionless everyman who moves through his everydays without really pondering the brevity, meaning, reasons, or value of the existence he's found himself inhabiting.

          The tale begins slow, choppy, and dry (the only thing keeping the reader turning pages is the knowledge that there aren't all that many to turn and the 1957 Nobel Prize in Literature on the cover sparking a strong interest in learning how and why).

          Halfway through the book, we understand the sad and simple motivations of the main character as we recognize that the supporting cast and bit-players are performing their roles in much the same way our neighbors and coworkers are performing theirs (albeit—or maybe because—there aren't any whom we empathize with...not even the mangy dog or abuse victim...everyone just deserves).

          And, as the last pages approach, we learn what makes this story great.

          You and I and everyone who has, is, or will ever breathe oxygen are The Stranger(s) and in this tale Camus has rather succinctly answered the most important question that has, is, or will ever be asked:

          What's the meaning of life.

Today is Someday: Book 4 - A Naked Singularity

          An amalgam of (as well as on) perfection—this philosophical compendium of prose, poetry, recipes for thinking, viewing, and living (as well as eating) captured my intellect and gorged it for about six-hundred pages (which would, obviously, be more-wonderful if it encompassed the entire 678 page book).  The fact that the author lost me in a few places doesn't shine a shadow on the enormity of how De La Pava cleverly informs the reader through this fiction.  Fiction?  This is the truest creative non-fiction I've ever read! 

          If Jonathan Carroll and Gene Wolf decided to use The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (TAAoCaC) as a template to write a story about how wonderful, crazy, terrible, and perfect any and every individual's life can be...and is...it would maybe be half as good as A Naked Singularity.

          In order to fully enjoy this book (just as an interest in comic books helps one's appreciation of TAAoCaC, which won 2008's Pulitzer) readers should enjoy:  a good heist; should be intrigued by—and already more than a little knowledgeable of—philosophy, theology, and science; and should be cozy with how a procedural is written (legal as well as police) .  .  . think: Dashiell Hammett meets Descartes on their way down the rabbit hole.

          I've only had this book on my 'read someday' list for about four years.  It came out in 2008.  I began to see it on must-read lists sometime in 09 or 10.  And I didn't just postpone reading because of its size, but - mostly - because it was, initially, self-published.

          I believed (and still believe) that editors and publishers perform a valuable gatekeeper-type service.  They insure my money is exchanged for polished-to-perfection sentences, grammar, punctuation, and spelling, as well as a great story, deep character development, and thrilling plot exposition.  The Chicago Press may not have edited A Naked Singularity as much as they could have (or at all) but once I got past the first dozen pages, I fell into the authors voice and didn't mind the run-on sentences or the occasional failed grammar.

          This is a five-star book.

          Even with all its miniscule flaws, it's a head and torso better than the book that won last year's (2012) Nebula and Hugo Award, and at least half-a-head better than 2008's Pulitzer (which I couldn't finish because it bored me beyond measure).