nearing the end of 700+ no-days off

          During this time-frame most of you out there (friends, family, and acquaintances) have had 200-250 days off.         

          The Sager Creek campsite I enjoy overnighting at the most, cat-hiking from the best, and which recharges my batteries the fastest is located in the east-central portion of the Clatsop State Forest, down a overgrown ½-mile dirt track which spurrs off a three mile-long gravel logging road.

          Looking forward.  Peace.  Desolatitude.  Bliss.

         
          Heading out in October for a most-needed break.  Gave two-week notice today; last day will be 1 Sep—one month before the wicked witch shrinks from daily to 3-days a week (+ a couple of free-product deliveries).

          Haven't been trying very hard to locate another job; mental health is more important. 


Re-collecting memories ❶ the first dozen



1959          0          Kennebunkport, Maine - no emotions - no movement - light coming through a window, reflecting off of white, peaked, ceiling walls - small flowers in the wallpaper on the short wall nearby - I've been told it is not possible to have memory of my second floor attic bedroom from this year.  I do.

1960          1          Quincy, Massachusetts - nothing

1961          2           Danvers, Massachusetts - a tin toy car garage/gas station with movable lift is presented to me by my dad while playing in the backyard - bright warm sunlight in my eyes - soft green grass under me.  Happy.
                               Danvers, Massachusetts - a spider the size of my hand crawls out from under the bed next to me - I place a shoebox lid over it - mom panics - it is no longer under the box lid when we return to my bedroom - my mother is angry - I am afraid - it could be anywhere.
1962         3          Peabody, Massachusetts - my favorite birthday present from Nana and Papa is a disassemblable wind-up plastic robot that "swings his arms" when he "walks" - I take it apart and put it back together more than I wind it up and watch it roll around and "squawk".  Interest.  Curiosity.
                             Peabody, Massachuestts - mighty mouse has gone to commercial - with my blanket tied around my neck I zoom around the living room one fist out, the other clasped to my chest - I run into Papa coming around the corner to the kitchen - my fist strikes him low - he spanks me - hard.  Surprise.  Sore.        
1963         4          Peabody, Massachusetts - Dr. December says big boys don't suck their fingers or keep a blanket - he says it's OK for a four year old but not five year olds - (with family reminders) I throw away my blanket and stop sucking my fingers the day before my birthday - Nana and Papa and Mom are all so happy - I am a big boy now.  Independent. 
                             Peabody, Massachusetts - I can't even get out of bed when they change the sheets draped around - the varnish on my headboard is soft because of the constant vaporizer - I'm very scared when they leave me alone in the huge everything-smells-funny hospital - even though it hurts my throat when I do, I cry a lot - every time a new person in white asks what kind of ice cream I want tomorrow after I wake up, I whisper 'vanilla'.  Sick.  Alone.
1964          5          Peabody, Massachusetts - First grade - Santa actually brought me what I asked him for when I sat on his lap at Marshall Fields: a Big Bruiser tow truck - shock and excitement crash into my chest and I cry my first happy tears.  Elation.
                              Peabody, Massachusetts - First grade - not much school attendance this year - a few weeks after getting scolded for over two weeks to stop scratching my chicken pox, I come down with Mumps - A month later, Croup keeps me bedridden in a "croup tent" - Back at school, I catch Whooping Cough.  Dismal.  Dreary.  Miserable.   
1965          6          Peabody, Massachusetts - Second grade - a boyfriend of Mom's takes us to a carnival - 'pick a girls's name,' he says - Linda (my first crush and the teacher's pet) - he rolls a ball and it stops on Linda - 'pick any prize,' so I pick a plastic doll in a wedding dress (against his and Mom's and the barker's attempts to dissuade) - later, my sister "wins" and "chooses a pop-gun" - days and weeks later, every adult I know tells me the doll is hers and the gun mine - eventually I stop restisting.  Confusion.
                             Peabody, Massachusetts - Second grade - Mrs Creane (whom we call Crayon) repeatedly strikes both sides of both my hands with a ruler after I slide Ronnie's chair back when he stood to read Fun with Dick and Jane - he sat, hard - his glasses bounced off his face - I stood in the hall for a while after "getting the ruler".  Shame.
1966          7          Peabody, Massachusetts - Third Grade - day camp is oppressively jammed with unnecessarily loud, squealing, pushing, and bullying bigger kids - they all travel in groups except me - I sit quietly and do the crafts suggested by the staff - afternoons we walk to the lake - I have to stay on the beach or wade - a lifeguard shows me, every day, how to float; how to kick; how to breathe under my armpit - by the end I can swim - I swim out and jump off the raft.  Pride.  Accomplishment. 
                             Peabody, Massachusetts - Third grade - my fort is next to the driveway where the snow is piled deepest - afternoon sun low behind me, I see Papa's car coming - gleefully, I make a snowball - as he parks, I spin and throw! - for some reason he rolled down his window - it hit him in the ear - upside down, I am crashed headfirst and buried in my fort - I struggle to get out - tears of 'didn't mean to' and 'window was up' fall on angry ears.  Misunderstood.  Unfairly punished.
1967          8          Fort Wayne, Indiana - Fourth grade - this house has more rooms than we have furniture - too hot to play outside - Mom and Step-dad's TV restrictions are loosened - I lie on the cool tiled basement floor - curtains drawn - watch Death Valley Days, Lost in Space, Star Trek, Batman, The Man From UNCLE, Mission Impossible, The Fugitive and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea - the only thing with me in this huge room is the smokey smell of long gone fires in the empty flagstone fireplace.  Comfortable.  Entertained.
                             New Haven, Indiana - Fourth grade - talking is only permitted after raising one's hand and being recognized - getting up to use the restroom (located at the back) is only allowed with permission - my hand has been in the air forever - throat clearing doesn't work - I ask outright several times - no response - I can not hold it anymore - I get up without permission - the boys-room door is locked - I knock - someone's been in there longer than forever! - I pace - can't hold it - as I pee my pants, I race across and enter the girls restroom.  Extreme embarrassment.  Victim of unjust ridicule. 
1968          9          New Haven, Indiana - Fifth grade - my mother bends her "no two-wheel bicycle riding until ten years-old" rule - they gift me with a red, Huffy Cheater Slick bike with black and white banana seat and highrise handle bars.  Ecstatic.  Blessed.   
                              Nashport, Ohio - Fifth grade - playing in the woods with a boy who is visiting our neighbors for the summer - chasing - splashing in the creek - friendly jokes - playing with sticks - swinging on grape vines - climbing rocks and trees - out-of-nowhere he unfolds a pocket knife and brandishes it - "How'd ya like it if I stabbed you?  I could stab you to death." - running - being chased.  Fearful of unexpected crazy, of not escaping, of receiving pain.  Home brings relief.
1969        10           Nashport, Ohio - Sixth grade - at the end of a classmates birthday party, the popular kids are playing spin the bottle - I gradually realize my presence is unwanted and clumsily bow out (unkissed) - waiting for my ride, I discover Janice near the backdoor - she is uninterested in playing with the others - we talk - we giggle - I give her my candy bar.  Glowy.  Warm.  Infatuated.
                               Nashport, Ohio - Sixth grade - playing in the woods with a large group of boys from my neighborhood - someone lights a fire - many begin to smoke stalks of straw - home so early? without your friends? - naรฏvely, I confide the reason for my discomfort - disregarding all protests, Mom calls all their parents.  Untrustworthy.  Ostracized.  Sad.  A tipping point...I never confide again.  
1970        11          Nashport, Ohio - Seventh grade - my assigned seat on an overfull school bus is in front of a fourteen year old bully - he knuckles my head morning and afternoon - never hard enough to raise a welt - a complaint to the driver results in 'get back in your seat or be expelled from the bus' - for months I duck and shirk his sneak attacks.  Put upon.  Victimized.  Nowhere to turn.  Helpless.
                              Nashport, Ohio - Seventh grade - a cool windy afternoon - Bully whacks the back of my head as the entire neighborhood is disembarking from the bus - Keith (a smoking-straw boy who hasn't spoken to me in months) shouts 'leave him alone' - Bully threatens Keith - after the crowd thins, Keith jumps on Bully, sits on his chest, pins his arms, and pounds his face - blood spatters from Bully's eyes, nose, and lips - dozens of blows - I cheer the entire time.  Schadenfreude.  Glee.  Comeuppance.
1971        12          Peru, Indiana - Eighth grade - up until now all bedtimes were chiseled in stone - Friday nights I no longer have one - after everyone goes to bed, I get to stay up and watch Sammy Terry's Nightmare Theater.  Privileged.  Spooked.  Enthralled.  Grown up.
                              Peru, Indiana - Eighth grade - all motorized two-wheel vehicles are off-limits and forbidden - I ride a fellow-Boyscout's minibike, one afternoon, in a different county - two months later, my sister Nanett learns about it - after school one day she proudly "tells" and reacts gleefully as Mom grounds me.  Betrayed.  Unhappy.  Adamant that some form of statute of limitations must have lapsed.  Sullen.
                                                                                                                                     the second dozen →

Occasionally the inbox contains sufficient fodder (second edition)


Josh,

          My first instinct was to delete and forget about your query, which is what I do with 99.9% of such requests.

          In the past, I have accepted a small-few similar proposals.  For example: a disc golf merchandiser (which I play and discuss online); another was a web application designer looking for input from a person of my demographic (relatively active, employed, middle-aged male with basic working computer/HTML knowledge). 

          Since I rarely receive requests written like yours, I decided to reply.  At first glance, you appear to be offering a legitimate marketing arrangement, but I remain skeptical.  To assuage my doubts, maybe you could explain what caused you to choose my site?  I've yet to write about gambling (on-line or otherwise) and suspect you are merely "casting a wide less-than-perfect net". 

          I may be willing to append a banner to my sidebar (on the right of s n a p p e r h e a d) so it would be viewed without scrolling (on the "splash page" is the term).  Also, maybe, I could write an article about your client—with embedded hotlinks—if there were incentives to do so.

          But, I rarely permit outside authors to write on my site because most people have dishearteningly low standards when it comes to the use of proper grammar in their written communications.  I also am disinclined to cut and paste the words of another writer without the liberal application of my editor's pencil.

          For example, below is your query letter with underscores and highlights where I note that punctuation, capitalization, proper grammar and suggested elimination of clichรฉd or informal language is warranted.

          A legitimate initial query letter should appear to have been written by a professional who understands the importance of first impressions.  With no intended disrespect, this one does neither.

Hi_
I work for a Discover Media, and i am acting on behalf of a casino client of ours who would like to place an article on your site, or potentially place a banner on your site.

The article would be a one off short piece (300-400 words). We would look to have the piece stay on your site for 12 months period.

The article will not necessarily be about casinos but will contain a link to our clients online casino site. In order to ensure the article is relevant to your site and will be of interest to your audience we have a specialist team of writers who will write a new and unique piece tailored to your site and readers.

Alternatively if you feel more comfortable creating your own content, we would be more than happy to work with you creating a piece that works for both of us.

Ideally we need this to be live as soon as possible we can finalize a deal quickly.

If you had some other website you may also be able to do a deal on then I would happily take a look and see if we can do a group deal, or if you have any friends that may be interested as well?

If you are interested and would like to discuss this opportunity further then please get in touch.

I wish you good luck with your site and look forward to your reply_

Best regards_
Josh    
          I provide all of this (albeit unasked for) guidance, Josh, because my intuition tells me you are not an internet troll, or working for a spam marketing company, but just someone who, maybe, could use a little free assistance with his endeavor (which I realize is a rarity in today's lightning-speed world).

          You may use the following revamped query letter verbatim, with my blessings.  Or, throw it away, it matters not.

          Begin with filling in the blank with a full name.  You found their email address, use their name or, at a minimum, their web-name, or—last resort—use: Website Administrator for website name.  Always close with your full name above a title. 


Hello __,

Discover Media is currently representing an online casino interested in contracting with you, or the administrator of your website, for the purpose of advertising.  Specifically, we are looking for websites willing to enter into a minimum obligation of one year.  We would be excited to discuss one or more of these strategies with you:
  • Webpage article(s) containing embedded hotlinks to the client's site.
    • Short (300-400 words).
    • On a variety of subjects or themes (not restricted to casinos).
    • Authored by yourself (within specific guidelines).
    • Authored by our staff.
  • Banner advertising.
    • Home page, sidebar, "sticky" page, etc.
    • Click revenue, view revenue, etc.
If you are interested or desire more information please reply to this email or write to josh@discovermedia.co.uk with questions.  If you received this letter in error, please reply with not site administrator as the subject line and accept our apologies for any inconvenience.

Respectfully,

Josh _________
Online Marketing Associate
Discover Media, London

          Josh, If you happen to be interested in adding to your "specialized team of writers," I might be amenable.  I have some time each day to use as I see fit, I enjoy writing (wrote professionally before retiring) and am always interested in a unique challenge.

Very Respectfully,
Veach Glines
Hi

You talk about a first impression yet you start this business venture by picking up on my dyslixia and slating the way i go about my job, before going on to give the most basic of english lessons about how to address a letter to someone,

We will pass on this oppertunity
Josh

          I didn't expect you to reply, Josh.  Actually, I'm slightly amazed that you did.

          As soon as I read your query I realized you didn't belong to a real marketing business and weren't representing a real company, which was why I composed my more-than-rude response. 

          I don't think your specific not-grammar / no spell-check reads Nigerian, so I'm going to guess Ukrainian?

          I wonder if Josh is your real name or if you chose it as a joke, because you're "Joshing with people"?  If that's the case, you would need to be familiar with the idiomatic usage of the term, which would then suggest that English isn't your second language.  Since it so clearly is, I'm stumped.

          I guess there's a slight chance you're a moronic teenage failure using a parent's computer to fuck with people, but I'm still leaning toward you being a scam artist, trying to con people out of money. 

          I suggest, "Josh", that you refrain from future attempts to foist the dyslexia flag (I correctly spelled it for you with an "e" in the place where you erroneously put that pesky little "i").  I once had a friend with the disorder and there was one word—besides his name—which he always spelled right.  

          Your scam is probably something like "...convince people they are entering into a business venture, provide them with a contract, which means listing their personal information, and slip in a need for their account numbers under financial information..."  Am I even close?

          Thank you "Josh" for affording me this second, wonderful, opportunity to p0wn [a first!  I 've never had opportunity to use this in a sentence before] an internet scammer such as yourself.  It has been equal parts uplifting and giggle-inducing.

          Oh and one last thing—just in case you are slightly curious about what all those squiggly red lines are doing under your words—when you right-click over one, a small list of words will appear.  It's like magic!  Just pick one.  Oh...sorry...imbeciles can't pick the correct one...pick the top one.  More than fifty percent of the time your word will be right.  The rest of the time, you'll have a totally different word, but it'll be spelled perfectly and will be certain to make your rambling run-on groups of words without punctuation a much more humorous read.

Again, thank you so very, very, much.  You've put a big smile on my face.

Veach

Stoker - film review (☆☆☆☆)

     Yes, quality film fans, there are still some great ones being created for those of us with patience who know where to look.

     As previously mentioned (more than enough times to suffice) I 'look to the director'—who in this case was Park Chan Wook.

     That's enough information for fans of the film Oldboy and/or his 'Vengence Trilogy'.  But for those unfamiliar with his films because they're foreign and subtitled, well...fuck on off and go away...you shouldn't be reading these opinions...there must be a Michael Bay film you could re-watch.

     Still reading?  Then I presume you like Mr Park's style of films and you'll not be disappointed by the amount of painstaking detail he devoted on every scene, every facial expression, and especially on every silence in this one.  His pacing, score, and dialogue (which is English; his first, I believe) are all crafted with exquisite care.  There isn't a second of film in Stoker which hasn't been carefully included with forethought.   See it immediately.

The Last Of Us - Review (☆☆☆☆)

     Those familiar with my gaming tastes willn't be taken aback by the idea that I very much liked The Last Of Us.  It yielded more than the minimum requisite amount of invested gamehours-per-dollar to justify the new game price (about seventy hours for the first complete play-thru on Normal difficulty).

     It was designed to quench one's puzzle solving thirsts; needle-in-the-haystack itches; stealthy closeup assassinations; distant sniper shots; as well as your everyday wade on in—full frontal attack—slaughter the monsters with molotov's, flamethrowers, handmade landmines, and melon-bursting heavy blunt objects.  Yay verily.

      If you are a hyper-gamer infected with the attention span of a prozac deprived fruit fly (or someone who gets antsy sitting thru cut-scenes) this game is NOT for you.  The cut scenes aren't simple to skip.  The "movie element" is a key element in one's "empathy with and investment in the characters".  Although Saving/Re-Spawning is possible, one will not return to the saved point, but rather to the most recent checkpoint (discouraging rampant S/RSing, while encouraging contemplative strategizification, and a more stealthy stealthitude toward one's stealthiness).

     The Last Of Us is similar to (and was made by the same designer as) the Uncharted game series, in that they both aren't open sandbox environments and both use third-person perspectives.

     The reason I can't give The Last Of Us my highest rating is the complete lack of side/mini-games, the absence of which is driven home with a heavy lead pipe to the janglebells when, at the very beginning of the game, we stroll through an alleyway market area and are afforded brief glimpses of:  people playing some kind of card game; a group of men fighting while onlookers jeer (and bet?); a cage of dogs (which we learn are already sold); and a few booths of items available for eventual purchase.  Dear gamer, do not think any of this was foreshadowing.  Not in any way.

     Because this game was only designed by Naughty Dog (a second-tier developer) and not by Rockstar or Bethesda (both first-tier), there'll never be an opportunity to play cards, or fight in a ring, or bet on a fight, or buy a dog (to train to attack or even for you to kill and eat in a pinch...how first-tier would that have been?) nor will you ever see a store again or ever barter for goods.  In fact, you will almost never see another living thing for the next year that is not trying to kill you.  And when you do eventually see some wild animals (with one exception) you'll not be able to hunt them.

     All that aside, it's very engaging and enjoyable and I recommend it to fans of its intended audience.

     I'm currently replaying it at its hardest setting.  Not many games keep my interest after I've finished them once (but, maybe, that's only because GTA V is two months away from release).  

previously on snapperhead:
Dishonored - Review (☆☆☆+)
LIMBO - game review - ☆☆☆☆☆ 
Heavy Rain - review

busy now - keep movin along - check back later

I've got my hands full and expect that to continue for a while.  I'll be back when the weather turns.


Vote - When We Touch - In The Box - Not Too Shabby


          This exquisite corpse has been on the slab for eight months.

          I began the first slice (top fourth) in October of 2012, prior to the US presidential election, with my one-word title: Vote.

          It was finished this month, May of 2013, which is a minor voting month in many parts of the US.  Interestingly, local voters decided (for the fifth time since 1956) to keep our water free of added chemicals; Portland is now the only major-metropolitan US city which doesn't add fluoride to their water.

          I especially enjoy these nice coincidences:
  •  bugs in my slice are mirrored by Doctormatt's spider in his bottom slice
  •  continual grey background in all four
  •  the bending "pipe" threading through them all visually ties the entire corpse together
  •  that the heads in beatsoul's slice (In The Box) could also accidentally suggest "politicians"  
veach | bluesboy | beatsoul | doctormatt

 from last year:

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).

Today is Someday: Book 3 - Franny and Zooey

          This.  Goddamn it.  THIS was what I was hoping for.

          There seems to be a growing and yet infinite amount of "Best Book" lists (one maybe might want to use the term innumerable).  An aggregate collection of those best-of-the-bests now contains hundreds of books—thousands when they are spread-grouped by genre/decade/language.  J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey is on almost all of them and near the top of many.

          When I walk into my favorite bookstore on the planet I head straight for the Gold Room where I begin browsing the Fantasy/Science Fiction shelves and then the Action/Suspense/Thriller sections before I cross the isle to take a gander at the Mysteries; if I'ven't (is a double contraction too many?) found enough to sate my brain for the coming weeks, I try the coffee shop and scan the graphic novels before walking down a few steps to the Blue Room in order to peruse the Small Press/Literature areas.  Still not carrying enough?  Green Room for New Release/Non-Fiction and then Sale Books.

          The first reason I've avoided reading F&Z for so long is because it was in the Red Room (World Religion) or the Blue Room (Classic Literature).  Also, I have a clear economic aversion against small books because I want my entertainment money to stretch and F&Z is only a four-hour book at best.

          I've avoided reading F&Z for so long because when I was but twenty-one years old Mark Chapman became, overnight and forevermore, Mark David Chapman (one maybe might want to use the term with a bullet...but should immediately suppress that urge).  Chapman caused me to read my first J.D. Salinger: Catcher in the Rye.  At the time and in hindsight, I recognize my own scorn at my least common denominator pandering and (for more than the obvious reason) I wish I could, instead, say that I learned the metaphor of Holden Caulfield's dream after a smoky-eyed Yugoslavian college girlfriend recommended it.  The truth is rarely so.  But.  I didn't identify with Caulfield, or his surroundings, or life, or outlook.  Even a little bit.  And I was a full-time art college student at the time.

          Franny and Zooey is non-abstract, photo-realistic, character based, and the most tightly descriptive successful balancing...nay juggling act I have ever read.  With the complete human condition rendered perfectly in the center, unchallengeable objective knowledge solidly detailed on one end of the fulcrum, and spiritual belief critically explained on the other.  It gets my highest recommendation.  I'm really happy today was someday.

Today is Someday:  Book 2 - A Clockwork Orange

Today is Someday:  Book 1 - Watership Down

 

Today is Someday - Book 2 A Clockwork Orange

          I'm pleased with the 50th anniversary edition of Anthony Burgess's A Clockwork Orange (2012, Nolton & Co) not only because it includes the original last chapter which has been omitted from earlier US editions, but—more importantly—because it contains the 17-page nonfiction article, The Clockwork Condition, written after the Kubrick film catapulted Burgess onto the international stage in 1973.

          Burgess's nadsat 'teen-language' caused me to quit reading this book when I, myself, first attempted it as a teenager and, later, after I saw the film, I chose not to re-attempt reading it.

          I'm glad I (finally) chose to read it.  Reading nadsat seemed to speed my reading rather than slow it.  It entered my brain in this manner:
          My nouns and I were verbing at the adjective bar when an adjective noun, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd adjective nouns across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most adverbially adjective way imaginable.  Her voice sounded like it came from the adjective noun.  My friend Dim made a adjectively-noun noise with his noun, which displeased me in an extreme way.
          Rather quickly I began to intuit (without a glossary) that what I was reading was:
          My friends and I were getting stoned at the local bar when a beautiful woman, who'd previously been sitting with a group of rather odd older men across the bar from us, stood, and began to sing in the most amagingly wonderful way imaginable.  Her voice sounded like it came from the topmost heavens.  My friend Dim made a rude-raspberry noise with his lips, which displeased me in an extreme way.
          While the book's story adheres to the film's plotline reasonably close, there are a few important points where the film failed and those failures affect the intent of the author and deserve comment:

          1 - Burgess's teenage gangs are all between the ages of thirteen and fifteen.  Burgess's main character is in High School and the two girls he picks up at the music store are 11-year old tweens.  Kubrick's gangs are all young adults and so are the women he has sex with.

          2 - Burgess's main character spends several years in prison, but is still only about 17-years old when he's released from prison.  Kubrick's character seems to be incarcerated a very short time and when he is released we wonder why a 24-year old is bitching at his parents for renting out his room.

There is nothing to see or hear except what is not here to see


          Sometimes it's more important to note the absences, what's missing, than to focus on what is visibly present.

          In 2002, within a few short months of each other, I stopped investigating and stopped husbanding after twenty years and ten years of service, respectfully.  That was the year I let my hair down for the first time in my life (literally as well as figuratively).

          Before I retired, my latter years as a military investigator was spent supervising (an essential element of which was inspecting case files).  One way to review closed criminal cases is to look for what the first-echelon investigators and supervisors overlooked.  

          Example criminal case:  accident or suicide - after ingesting a relatively large quantity of intoxicants (legal and illegal) the victim apparently disrobed, placed his folded clothes on the hallway floor outside his hotel room, opened the window and stepped out (or fell, or was pushed).  The scene (in Amsterdam, Holland, The Netherlands) was described, sketched and photographed in detail.  Witnesses were interviewed thoroughly.  Autopsy, check.  Toxicology, check.

          The only important thing I discovered missing:  the height fallen.  Nowhere in the file was there a distance from the second floor windowsill to the sidewalk.  Added confusion:  the European second floor is the third floor in the US (the ground floor in Amsterdam is 0).  The investigators and their immediate supervisors failed to determine how far the victim/subject fell.  [Based on examination of crime scene photographs, I estimated it was over thirty feet—because "ground floor" was, maybe, half a flight of steps above "street level" and ceiling-heights appeared almost three meters high—but, guessing is not investigating.  I directed the investigators to go back and measure/document the exact distance.]

          "Why drive three hours to measure that distance, Chief, seems like a extreme waste of time and money for a closed accidental fatality case."

          I looked sternly at the investigator while I "air typed" with my fingers, "Dear Senator Helpmeout, my son's death is listed under 'accidental means' and the file, which I obtained under a FOIA request, says he 'stepped or jumped' out of a 'second-story window'.  My son was a good boy and I do not think that he would have voluntarily taken all the drugs listed in the toxicology report, but even if he did, how is it possible for him to have died falling from a second story window?  I could jump out of my bedroom window - on the second story of our house - and the worse thing that would happen is I might sprain my ankle."

          Non-sequitur: 

          Most people let their hair down when they first move out of their parent's house.  I didn't.  With never a pause, I morphed from overly responsible teenager putting himself through college to young soldier taking care of an unplanned family to adult with two cats in the yard and we'll get-together then, son, you know we'll have a good time then.  So...when I found myself retired and single in Prescott, Arizona at the age of 42...I dove head-first into a auto-didactic double major of meditative self-awareness and immersion in nature.  During which, I experimented with—among other things; some foolish, others less-so—automatic writing.

          With my eyes closed, in a light meditative state, I spoke questions aloud and my hand scribbled answers on a large sheet of paper.  After a large much of nothing memorable the following happened:

Me:  How old will I be when I die?

My right hand (eyes still closed):  Fifty three.

Me:  What day of the year will I die?

My right hand (eyes still closed):  31 December.

          Even at the time I never paid much heed to it.  Over the past decade, I mentioned it, jokingly, a few times when a conversation topic turned to "weird experiences."

          Around 2007, when the 21 December 2012 Myan-apocalypse began to hit fringe people's radar, I - again - recalled my own faux-ominous date o' death based on nothing but my own foolishness.  One which was, then, supposed to be 31 Dec 2012. 

          That was a week ago, and all of our heads, including my own, are still snapping.

          I'm fine.

          How you doin?

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
          I am attempting to point out that we all rarely pay attention to the obvious, staring-us-in-the-face, always present thing-on-our-mind, which is (may be) not thought about very often.

          We would-maybe-kinda like to know when we are going to die.

          We always consider it will happen sometime in the future.  And not just the future.  Distant future.  Ten years from now.  At least.  We assume that it will happen when we are old.  And we never think we are old.  Not old enough to die of old age.

          We all always assume: 'tomorrow will be another day'.

          We rarely consider that tomorrow could be the last day.  And we don't focus on the idea that when our last day arrives, just like yesterday arrived—that it will almost always be unknown that it is the last day.  Period.  The end of the world, from our perspective, is the end.  Full stop.

          Even as we are falling thirty-five feet to our seconds-away demise, hope I don't sprain my ankle from this second floor window is our minds last.