Bar None

I'm currently writing this from my parent's living room, in Surprise, Arizona. Not much is going on here. Surprisingly, Surprise is a small town. It doesn't really seem like a small town, at least not by midwest standards, but while walking down the block, I noticed several old pick-up tricks and at least one monster pick-up trick. Surprise is certainly hick.

My mother cautioned me to not pigeon-hole Surprise. It's not only hick, apparently, it's also geriatric. There are several Sun Cities around here, and the geriatrics congregate into cars and drive slowly with much malice.

I've had a very long day. Many stories came out of it, as is wont to happen around me. I won't write about them today, though. I'm still digesting everything that's happened. Hey. I'm in Phoenix. I never expected myself to end up here for any amount of time. I mean, San Francisco, yeah, but Phoenix? It's home for now.

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I worked last night. That, in itself, is not exciting. Plenty of people work. A small number of them work in bars. But, an even smaller number of them work at my bar. My bar, if you've been paying attention, is not exactly a normal bar. It is, for starters, run by an alcoholic crack whore and is staffed with a short professional wrestler, a deaf philosopher, an assortment of bored college fucks, and its main business is regulars who belong in their own freak circus. I don't get paid often. When I do get paid, the numbers aren't right. I'm never tipped the amount I should be tipped. I have enough evidence that I'm being discriminated against that I could bring forth a lawsuit and win. So, why do I work at the Cellar? Because of the stories.

Last night should've been pretty dull. Everyone went home. I went to work, expecting to not work. M. was already there, waiting for me to not work. She wasn't working either. There wasn't much in the way of customers. C. and his wife were in their usual spot. I like C. He works as a custodian at ISU. Good guy. Also, at the bar was Extremely Drunk. ED isn't a stranger in the Normal bar scene. He's known for getting stupid drunk and then creating all sorts of trouble for himself and others. It's sad, really. He has a lot of problems and tries to kill them with alcohol.

ED wasn't doing much, for once. We had left him alone for the better part of an hour, when suddenly his EDness kicked in. He rose up, dropped his cigarette, bent over, and stayed bent. I was nearer to him than I would've liked. We were out of Bud and Bud Lite (Yes. The Cellar runs out of beer. Constantly) and I had gone to see if I could find more. I couldn't, but I did find an ED bending over, searching for his cigarette. I felt bad for him, so I picked him up, got his cigarette, and handed it to him. He stared blankly at me and made sucking noises with his lips. I must've been really bored, because I took the cigarette and put it in his lips for him. ED took a happy puff and I left him like that.

A half hour later, ED staggers from the bathroom, babbling something about a mop. I walk in the bathroom to see what havoc ED wrecked. At first, I didn't see anything but the light reflecting off a big puddle on the floor. There isn't anything strange about puddles on bathroom floors. People tend to wash their hands and sprinkle the residue on the ground. But, ED was gibbering about a mop, and I didn't see anything that needed a mop.

It hit me like the stink of my roommate's foot. The puddle was ED-piss. ED, being lost in the depths of his EDness, whipped his thing out and pissed on the floor. I guess he couldn't walk the extra ten feet to the toilet. ED stood next to me, muttering about mops and how he was going to clean it. I moved him aside, got the mop, and cleaned his bidness. ED was insulted. He grabbed me, tried to throw me against the wall (ED is 5'6, 130lbs. I'm 5'10, 160, and in good shape. Do the math), and failing that, decided to cuss me out for cleaning his bidness. I told ED to shut the fuck up and get in his seat. I also told M. to stop giving him beer. Well, M., being M., couldn't stop giving him beer. She's too nice and cute.

Luckily for us, ED ceased being a nuisance until it was time for him to go. We called the bastard a cab. It came and I went out to meet it. The driver of the cab was someone who looked like she should be playing bingo in a Church basement, not driving drunks home at 11 at night. I was a bit concerned. ED is quite unpredictable. But, I figured that if the cab company sent her, she must know her stuff.

It took me ten minutes to coax ED to the cab. The lady wanted to know his address. He couldn't remember. Instead, he decided it would be best to cuss me out. By that point, I was fed up with ED. I went inside and got G., one of our regulars, to help me out.

G. is big. Actually, big doesn't really describe G.. G. is giganormous. His left finger could fit three of me in it. No one messes with G., except for the law, which has regulated him to being a regular of the bus system, as well as our bar. G. is used to ED. I am used to ED. We both can't stand the fucker.

I leave G. to deal with ED, and head over to the driver’s side to talk to the cab-lady. I tell her that if ED gives her any more trouble, she is to come here and we will pound sense into him. She is also welcome to come back for a free drink. It's the least we can do after saddling her with the likes of ED. The lady seemed to acknowledge my proposition and instructions, so I went to help G. out. ED still wasn't getting in the cab, so G. and I picked him up, and threw him headfirst into the backseat of the cab. I then fished out ED's wallet and handed it to the cab-lady. I told cab-lady to use his driver's license for a locus.

The last G. and I saw of ED that night, he was struggling to right himself. We went inside, I gave G. a beer, and that was it, or so we thought. An hour later, police showed up at our bar. ED gave the cab-lady shit. Instead of driving back so that G. and I could have the discreet pleasure of teaching ED why he shouldn't drink so fucking much, she called the cops. But, unfortunately for them, ED wasn't in our bar that evening so we couldn't help him.

I love my bar.

Classic Jon

I decided to take a nap instead of write. I'll probably write something later this afternoon, in between weight-lifting and girl-digging times, but since there's a chance that this aforementioned write might never happen, I've decided to post something I wrote almost two years ago.

I'm thinking that sound I just heard was anyone who actually reads this blog running away. Really, what I'm about to post isn't actually that bad. It's pretty coherent, as far as my early writing goes, and I do make some good points. At the time, Bush and Co(cronies) were still waving their dicks around about the Iraqi "threat." We still hadn't, at least publically, committed any troops to the ground war effort. Saddam was still in power, which meant that the mid-east had a semblance of peace, if Afghanistan were ignored.

Anyway, here's the article.

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2-25-03


The Bush administration is busy pissing another line in the snow and the economy is on life-support after a failed organ transplant. Jobs are down, morale is down, War-Hawk woodies are up and so is the disgust of many people. I'm out of a job and am currently student teaching students whose biggest worry is whether or not that cute kid who sits down the row can see the pimple on their face. I envy them, almost. It must be nice to be pleasantly oblivious to the dirt that's caking the world.

Clinton may have been busy getting more action than I am, but I remember his administration being a bit happier. Saddam was a little bug, not an obnoxious noisemaker. Kim Jong was too busy watching bad porn and knocking boots with his high-school age pleasure women. France was doing what it does best - whining and making wine.

It's easy to blame everything on Bush. But, really, I don't think he has the intelligence to fuck up the country and the world. Rather, I think the blame should be placed on the shoulders of an aging administration that was built during the Cold War. While their tactics may have been effective back then (that alone, is questionable), I'm wondering if those same tactics can be applied to today's modern
world.

Granted, might may win every time, but might is extremely bad for business. We may have a trade deficit, but we do trade with other countries and if our big businesses can't make a few bucks off the French or the rest of Old Europe, they won't be very happy with us. War may be good for the arms-trade and the Arms industry, but everyone else suffers. If we sanction French goods, they can, in turn, sanction Coca-Cola, Nike, and other popular brands.

In the mean time, if you're planning on dumping your Dom Perignon down the drain, don't. I'll happily take it off your hands. Good Champagne is good Champagne, regardless of where it's from.

That's all besides the point.

A few weeks ago, my life-long friend told me he was preparing to ship out to Iraq. A. joined the Air Force last year, and I guess he's going to serve our country. While I may have been against the war because I don't support the administration's foreign policy, I am now against the war because I'm not exactly sure why my friend might lose his life. I don't think he, or any other soldier, belongs in Iraq.

Bush has been telling us that we're going to war because Saddam may, or may not, have weapons of mass destruction (WhaMmeD). If we don't blow Saddam out of the Middle East, we may be WhaMmeD by these weapons. I can understand preemptive strikes against a hostile country that has enough nerve gas to ruin our day, but I don't understand why we're targeting this particular hostile country. North Korea has a burgeoning nuclear program and Kim Jong isn't exactly the most stable of dictators. He seems willing to bomb us. Why aren't we invading North Korea? China also has WhaMmeD capacity. We aren't invading them either? I suspect that we won't invade China because China will most likely kick our American Asses. We may have superior weapons
technology, but China has a larger army. Also, American businesses probably won't like that we'd be alienating over one billion potential customers. So, why Iraq?

Some people have been telling me that the war against Iraq will be a boon to Iraqi people. We remove their dictator. They get a crack at American businesses and American democracies (will their politicians, too, be prone to PAC begging?), and American food. By leaving Saddam alone, we're leaving the Iraqi people to desolation and living hells. While the humanitarian argument has some merit, and I willingly support using military action to save millions of people from poverty and destitution, I'm still questioning if that argument is valid. If we're willing to invade Iraq to save the people, then why haven't we kicked ass in North Korea? The North Koreans are starving too and Kim Jong is too busy having forced sex with carefully picked high-school girls and watching bad movies to notice. China, too, oppresses their people. Many African countries are wracked by civil wars and leaders who plunder the country while their people suffer. Why aren't we invading all these countries too? I don't buy the humanitarian argument.

I'm also told that removing Saddam is a necessary move in the war against Terrorism. In fact, they claim, Saddam has been helping Osama. But, Osama hates Saddam's guts. Saddam is a secular leader in a relatively religious area. Osama would do anything to eject Saddam and replace him with a religious leader that is faithful to Islamic
extremists. In the last purported Osama tape; there are recorded lines that bash Saddam and his government. Why are we trying to link Saddam and al Queda. There's no reasonable way they can be related. There may be some Iraqi members in al Queda. There are also Saudi members in al Queda, but we aren't rushing to invade Saudi Arabia.


I'm not convinced that this war is anything but a drive for oil, a kickback to the arms industry, and a way for Bush Jr. to avenge the mistakes Bush Sr. made in the last Desert Storm war.

It seems, though, that we're going to war no matter what the world, the UN, and millions of our own people say. Bush wants a war with Iraq and he won't let down until he gets it. I'm waiting for the next Gulf of Tonkin (Persian Gulf?) incident that'll propel us into dancing in the desert again.

In the mean time, all I can do is hope my friend and his comrades get their ass back to the states in one piece.


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It bears mentioning that A. never actually made it to Iraq. He eventually deployed to one of the Ex-russia-istan countries and lived a very hard life (they were only allowed two beers a month!) fixing planes and generally ensuring that my sorry ass doesn't have to worry about Iraqi insurgents invading the neighboring cornfields.

In any case, I feel that what I wrote back then still resonates today. Yeah, I'm kind of surprised, too.

Smoking Fags

I don't understand many people's irrational fear of everything homosexual. I should, for the record, establish that I am quite straight and have no desire to engage in various acts of homosexuality (unless lesbians are involved), but I have no qualms about letting other people do whatever their hearts and crotches desire. It seems, though, as if many people blanche at the thought of homosexuals (unless, of course, they are lesbians) copulating. That's okay. If you're disgusted at what goes on behind closed doors, that's your prerogative. It may not be the right thinking, but it is your thinking, and as long as you keep it as thinking, I don't and, for the most part, the homosexuals don't give a shit.

The problem begins when people's irrational fear leeches out and becomes irrational words. I've listened to and have read some of the most vitriolic, virulent, hate-filled attacks against homosexuals, and I still can't figure out what motivates these people to write and say such things. So homosexuals like their own gender. So fucking what. As long as they're not trying to rape you, what issues have you against them? Let's suppose that the speech directed against homosexuals were, instead, directed against other targets. Would the same speech be tolerated? I've heard the words gay, and fag tossed around as euphemisms for something less-than-cool, or as a substitute for degratory intentions. Let's play around with that.

"Dude. That's so fucking gay."
"Dude. That's so fucking nigger-like."

"Oh, I don't know. This whole thing seems so gay."
"Oh, I don't know. This whole thing seems so kike-ish."

I would dare anyone to say the first example in front of my friend R. I can promise you he wouldn't take too kindly to it. I probably wouldn't like the second, and neither would the Anti-Defamation league. The odd thing is that neither example is tolerated, yet we condone the use of the words fag, gay, queer, faerie, and other "special" words to describe homosexuals, in vernacular.

A lot of people I talk to are afraid that the homosexuals want them in ways that is immoral, un-holy, and painful. That kind of logic surprises me. Most of these guys can't get laid by women. If they're too ugly to get laid by a woman, what makes them think that a homosexual man wants them? These same people are also afraid, I guess, of being raped by rampaging homosexuals looking for their ass-fix.

I'm not too sure that homosexuals have ass-fixes on a scale that merits or demands random raping. I've had some serious cravings for female ass, but never to the extent that I've taken to the streets, looking for the first sight of a slight ghetto-booty (although I have been known to hop from party to party and bar to bar, swiveling my hips and leering gracefully). And, after having lived with a gay man for a few months, and a slutty gay man at that, I've come to the conclusion that homosexuals are, by large, harmless. Then again, H. was a skinny fuck, and crazy at that. Living with him was really no different from living with a straight guy. There were occasions when I walked in on him doing shit to his lover, which I've done to straight roommates as well. H., however, was better dressed, more meticulous about his appearances, and brutal with his cologne. I haven't had another roommate like that since, although my current one, Kapo, comes close.

Normally, I can ignore cases of causal anti-homosexuality. Most people who use the terms gay in wrong ways don't intend to do so, and popular vernacular is hard to eradicate. But extreme cases make me mad, as extreme cases of any other hate does. The "fag"-basing of the last election drove me nuts, but that's for another blog. My anger had largely since subsided, but today, I came across this article.

What fresh hell is this? A mother is complaining about a harmless tradition because she's afraid that the so-called homosexual overtones might turn some sweet straight crooked? Never mind the fact that statistically, most cross-dressers are heterosexual, the homosexual agenda must be prevented from corrupting our innocent flowers.

The homosexual agenda? I've seen that term bandied about before. Apparently, there's a large group of homosexuals who meet in the back of various designer clothes stores and plot the systematic faggination of the straight sexuality. They aim to do so through comedy sitcoms, metrosexuals, and puffy shirts. I guess they're running out of ideas because now they're trying to attack our little ones through subversive cross-dressing days. Yeah, that's it.

I noticed a lot of guys dressing up as women this past Halloween. In fact, some of my frat brothers were dressed up as various kinds of women. It makes me wonder, you know, if they're going to start packing fudge. Should I worry? Should I avoid contact with them? Would I want them in a foxhole next to me? Because, you know, while we're being shot at and shooting back, he might be coveting my pasty, hairy ass instead of covering it like he oughta.

So, the kids don't dress up as women and men, and instead dress up as soldiers. I've nothing against soldiders. In fact, some of the best people I know are soldiers. Many like their jobs, and it's one hell of a job to do. But, I don't understand why she would have issues with something as harmless as dressing up as a girl, as if dressing up as a girl for one day in 365 induces homosexuality, but has no problem with people dressing up as professional killers. Soldiers are professional killers. Yes, they defend us and all that, but for the most part, defense comes at a price of lives. Isn't the mother worried that dressing up as soldiers will train her children to kill? I don't know about you, but I'd rather more homosexuals than trained killers. In fact, I'd love to live to see a world where soldiers aren't needed. Isn't that all lollipops and sunshine of me?

Come on people. This is ridiculous.

A City Story: Parts of One

The lights of the El illuminated the grime of the street below. On one side, the blue glow of a neon diamond blasted the nights with flickers. On the other, flocks of pigeons cooed around piles of shit and wasted rust. Occasionally, the din of a rushing car blasting between the dirt-encrusted, and piss-stained I-beams scared them skyward, but they always returned to their tedious forays. We stood beneath the neon diamond.

Nights in Chicago are desolate. The shadows of crumbled buildings loom under the black monolith of downtown. At their bases, the souls of high-town past flit around the occasional dreaming bum. People walk closely, clutching their clothes together, regardless of heat or cold. It's always windy, and the wind blows the ghosts of people swallowed by the dreariness of night Chicago. Occasionally, a saxophone wail pierces the air and carries the dreaming bums off to nights of lust, money, and gallons of the finest Mad Dog, but usually, the only music is the cacophony of rumbling Ls.

To us, though, the night was heaven. We were city kids, removed and lost, but later replaced and found. We were two Mohammedan angels, off the farm and casting wanting eyes upward at the tenet dwellings off the far distance north, where the homosexuals pranced near the Puerto Ricans, and the artists wandered from yuppie bar to fashionable bar, talking closely about the complex colours of the street rocks. The wind from the south carried a glistening scent of M.S.G, mixed with bowling alleys, corner bars, and the frenzied sigh of hundreds of factory workers exhuming their daily grind to the crumbling iron wretches that dot the southern boundaries of Chicago. The blustering north and blue-collar south combined in the loop to create a frantic hurricane of lights, people, music, living, and the bop-wop of intricate old-new and us two, standing on the corner of Washington and Wabash, looking desperately for something that smacked of peace.

A man passed us by. He was thin and bearded, and he walked as if someone would thrash him if he stopped. R. followed his walk, then laughed. "Where are you going, man?"

"A better question would be, from where did I come," and with that, he faded up the steps that led to the junction of Orange, Purple, Green, and Brown. Across the street, stick people merged into a frenzied fetish of skeletons. I scoped them and elbowed R. "I hope they don't fall into the subway slots."

R. stroked his black chin curls and shrugged. "I don't think there would be any great loss."

"I'm sure somewhere, somehow, the lord of Skinnies would look at his creations and notice one missing."

"What would he do?"

"Probably raid a Jenny Craig store and kidnap one of the fatties. We'd read about it in the newspaper. Can't you picture the headlines? Fat Fucks Found Forced to Fast. It would be a catastrophe. Fast food restaurants would pledge their aid. The fat fuck'd probably get a book deal out of it."

"Man, don't talk about food. You're making me hungry."
"There's a Wendy's next door. Why don't we get something to eat."
"Sounds good. You gonna pay?"
"With what fucking money."
"I thought you Jews were loaded."
"We were, until you asked us for our fucking forty acres and a mule."
"Yeah, and look where it landed me."
"In the middle of the holy land, with a wild-eyed Jew for support?"
"Right."

One of the skinnies, while we were waving our hands around and singing our song, decided to cross the street. I guess he thought we were some kind of show, probably half black-face, because he threw some money at us. It glinted in the air and clattered at my feet. R. and I stared dumbly at it. The skinny grinned, then promptly fell into a subway grate. A low moan crashed in the distance. Somewhere in California, a fat fuck disappeared. I picked up the money. R. grinned and shooed me into the Wendy’s.

The Wendys was a bright place. The floors were somewhat clean. I did not notice any excess shit or food in the gaping tile holes. A bored security guard looked at me and decided that the best use of his time was to explore his nasal cavity for hidden emeralds. I grinned at the security guard. He looked shock, then doubled over. I left him thrashing in the corner and headed to the burger counter. The lady there stared vacantly at the wall. I turned around to see what she was looking at, and noticed advertising for various foods. The colours were particularly pleasing and suddenly I felt as if I could look at it all day.

I'm not sure how long it was, but the guard's thrashing upset a chair and snapped me to attention. The girl, however, was much too far gone. I decided to take advantage of this and look up her skirt. This didn't require too much flexibility on my part. The skirt was already hiked up, and it was quite short. My peek revealed a maw festooned with many happy faces. There's something quite odd about happy faces between a girl's legs, but later ponderings revealed that this actually makes sense.

The happy faces left me, and I, too, left with burgers in hand. R. was waiting where I left him. A Lucky Strike dangled from his lips. I shouted out and he looked at me, pulled the Lucky and exhaled. A slow smoke dance slithered from his lips to a passing train. "What's this man?"
"Burgers."
"What took you?"
"I was in my happy place."
"Aren't we all?"

On a Supposed Right to Fuck and Wear Skirts

I'm a pedestrian again. It's not so bad, really. I have to wake up a little earlier, and cut back a bit on my news habit, but I can do it. All I have to do is dress a little warmer and make sure I have some good tunes for the walk, and I'm set. Of course, I miss my ride, but when you're living in the Midwest, you have to deal with the final inevitability of winter. It's like death, taxes, and loose bar women; you can't avoid it without traveling hundreds of miles.

I used to laugh at pedestrians. They had to get up earlier and walk oh-so-far while I got to sleep in and leave my apartment five minutes before class. Things seemed much clearer on my red and black throne, and the women looked that much more salacious at 50 in a 30. Now, I'm one of them and I feel as if my throne and been usurped by marauding Keds and Airwalks.

Nothing like a trio of Eva Cassidy, Grandaddy, and M. Ward to set the mind straight. It's been one day, and I don't miss my sleep or my news, much. But, I suspect in a week, you'll find me crawling on the pavement, gibbering and foaming. Little kids will wander from far, carrying sticks, and congregating around me just to poke merrily. Ah, CNN, why must you be so inaccessible?

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I do enjoy my interpreters. They have to suffer my philosophy classes with me, which is rife with egotists and pseudo-intellectuals. Yes, I'm aware you've read Ayn Rand. No, I don't jerk off to her picture every night. No, I don't think she's the second, third, or even tenth coming of Christ. Yes, I think she's intelligent, but her ideas make her a real dickwad. Yes, I think she makes Ann Coulter look like a playboy bunny. Yes, I've read this and that. No, will you please leave me the fuck alone?

One, J., is forced to endure the most. I have six classes this semester. She interprets four of six. Three of them are philosophy classes. We spend a lot of time together. I like J. She's easy on the eyes, and fun to be with. Also, she's an Apostolic Christian (A.C.). That shouldn't mean anything, but I am a religion junkie, and having a new and exciting approach to G-d makes me chitter wildly.

We've had some interesting discussions on the nature of Christianity, but two subjects stand out: dating, and clothes.

Apparently, Apostolic Christian females are supposed to only wear skirts, and tie their hair in buns. When J. wears pants, the girls from her Church instantly turn catty and purposely ignore her greetings (Sisters in Christ, indeed). The idea of a moral mandate for skirts isn't new for me. Judaic culture requires women to do some pretty funky things (which includes head shaving). We are, due to constant media exposure, also aware of the modesty requirements for Islamic women. But, I've never understood why modesty requirements require skirts.

I asked J. about this once. She said that the bible required that women dress such. I asked her to exclude the Old Testament from her argument, because Paul wrote that Christianity had evolved past the need for Leviticus (hence, Christians don't need to sacrifice, nor do they need to cut their foreskins). This left us with only the New Testament. I've only once come across any specific references to female modesty during forays in the New Testament. This reference comes to us, courtesy of Paul's second letter to Timothy. He writes, n like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; 1 Timothy 2:9.

Yep, nothing about skirts. I told J. that I was surprised that the church would even encourage skirt-wearing. It seems to me that skirts allow easier access than pants, if you know what I mean, and there's nothing modest about that.


J. also enthralls me with discussions on how her church dates. Bear with me folks. This is pretty fucking fascinating. Apparently, all the women have to do is wander around aimlessly, and eventually, one of the men in the church finds it in himself to propose. Badda bing, badda bang, badda boom, wedding bells. This is classic. The A.C. method is slightly above clubbing a preferred woman and dragging her back to the cave. When I mentioned that to J., she laughed and assured me that there was an actual courtship. Rings didn't spring up randomly and profusely.

The A.C., like many churches, encourages singles groups. These singles groups go out, have dinner, and generally initiate mass courtship procedures that culminate in someone getting a ring and poontang. The single's group is a way for everyone to find out what kind of personality the other has. If there's a bit of chemistry, then you know there's going to be a ring forthcoming. It's kind of cute, I think, in a Junior High way.

Here's the thing I don't get. J. is cute. If I think she's easy on the eyes, then you better believe me. I have good taste in women. There have been mistakes in the past, but generally, I find nice ones. J. is also 26, and I believe, has never been kissed. She's also a virgin.

Isn't that a fucking shame? Now, if she were one of us (just a slob, like us), she'd be disillusioned, very well laid, and sassy like a bad HBO Chick-Show. Is that a bad thing?

I asked J. what happens if you decide there's chemistry and get married, but eventually the person turns out to be a complete wacko and lousy in bed to boot. J. was insistent that the social group weeds out the weirdoes, but I remained skeptical. Some people are fine in large groups, but once you get them alone, they turn psycho. Other people are fine in large groups, alone, but are a real bear to live with. See, you gotta run the dating gamut to find someone. I'm convinced of that. J. politely disagrees (which is probably why she's 26 and unlaid). But, you know, the A.C. has a real low divorce rate. I'm thinking this is because women are extremely oppressed. Timothy says it's okay (1 Timothy 2:10-12).

Bring me my club. I see a gallivanting redhead that needs my lovin’.

Sumday

Ah, yeah, it's 4:14pm in the morning and I'm sitting in a confused haze of lack-of-coherence and some kind of dream that didn't fade properly in the waking. You ever have one of those dreams? They seem so real in the dreaming and when you awake, you're not exactly sure that you're in the proper phase of reality. Often, the dream reality seems so much better than the real reality that you promptly close your eyes and wish yourself back in Kansas, Toto. When I write of real-dreams, I'm not talking about the kinds of dreams that are exaggerated versions of real-reality. No. You're not a stud. No, you aren't a billionaire. No, you can't rape, pillage, and kill without serious repercussions. No, you don't really look like a girl when you put on a dress. I'm talking about the kind of dreams which appear lucid, in that you are in complete control of your mental facilities and can function much like you would in a real-reality. So, tell me, am I a Jon dreaming that I am a Jon, or am I a Jon dreaming that I'm a Jon?

In the mean time, I swing wildly at grasps of consciousness and listen to Chuck Brown, who very much rocks by the way.


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Chuck Brown is known as the godfather of Go-Go. Go-Go is essentially a Washington D.C. art form which combines jazz, funk, hip-hop, R&B, and rock. Basically, it's quite funky, and if you're into music that makes you want to bop around like a mad idiot, you'll like Chuck Brown. He grooves, baby.

I didn't get into the D.C. music scene until it was just about time for me to leave the city. That's partially my fault. It took me some time to get my sorry ass off campus and into the city. But, much of the city is and was inaccessible to the under 21 crowd. Luckily, the Black Cat, which is partially owned by Dave Grohl, allowed 18 year olds. The Black Cat didn't play Go-Go, though. The Black Cat played bad local punk and indie bands. Occasionally a group from New Jersey would make it down and attempt to rock up the Capitol City. More often than not, they made us cry. Abuse by guitar should be a crime punishable by death.

Dissonance is not acceptable at any time.

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I was running through Fark this morning, as I am wont to do whenever I'm bored and have a need for news (fear the news junkie for he is bound to prattle endlessly about politics until you find him some piece to satisfy his craving, ah! HST!), when I stumbled upon this article.

The article, for those of you who don't want to read it, is basically a list of the ten degrees in highest demand by corporate America. Not surprisingly, four of ten degrees listed were various forms of Engineering. The rest were corporate-slut degrees like accounting (which was number one), and management. Philosophy wasn't on the list. I could make some off-handed comment about how corporate American doesn't want degrees that teach people how to think, but both you and I know that's not the case. Corporate America wants degrees that teach people how to make useful contributions to society (like being able to balance the books such that profits appear high when in actuality they're lower than Ol' Dirty Bastard).

Again, I find myself to be a worthless piece of flotsam, at least as far as Corporate America is concerned. Daily I study the great minds of Western Europe in preparation for the almighty line of ages; do you want fries with that? What price bananas? Are you my angel?

Camus says the man who finds a purpose in life is bound to be happy, even if his life is mindless drudgery. I do believe I have a purpose in life.

I aim to get shitfaced and laid. But, next time, I'm not getting shitfaced on Blackberry Brandy. That stuff is nasty on many levels. And, it leaves a pussy-breath aftertaste. I have no qualms about pussy-breath aftertaste, but what's the point of having pussy-breath, if you haven't actually eaten any pussy? I don't know. Shit ain't right.

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Fark also brought me this wonderful gem, pardon the pun. See, I don't understand people. I never claimed to understand people. In fact, people fascinate me, much like the scene of an accident does. When people happen, I'm the first to gawk at the police, the firemen, the various flashing lights, and question how in nine hells does this shit happen?

Now, tell me, for what does anyone need a million quid (about two million American) vibrator? I guess diamonds really are a girl's best friend (again, pardon).

What would you do with two million dollars? I'll give my answer another time. I've pussy breath that needs attention.