My brother in Albuquerque got out by joining the air force, and his daddy shouted at him about that decision. My brother in Seattle got out by joining the army; he was expected to join the army as he'd discussed it with his guidance counselor, and came from an army family. My brother in Wichita got out by joining the navy because he simply wanted to see the world; I enlisted in the Corps because I needed a job, and my soon-to-be brothers Don and Mark said I'd make a good Marine. And we all did the same work, felt the same fear, wondered "Did I do the right thing?" as we lay on our cots enduring a humid, no-see-'em night.
Life is all about perception, or so I am told. If you wish to change your life, simply change your perception, and you're gold.
Yeah, it's gonna be one of those essays, bwar har har.
By now, it is old news that young queer folks commit suicide at an alarming rate; several examples appeared recently in the media. There was, of course, a corresponding push fomented by right-thinking people everywhere: tell our youth It Gets Better (Dan Savage, the originator of this push, was naturally awed that So Many People Took It So Much To Heart.) But I am compelled to dissent: It Gets Better is simply another Just Say No (and if you make fun of one variety of Just Say No, you fooken better make fun of every other variety -- Safe Sex is Hot Sex, wherein we Just Say No to condomless sex; the original Just Say No to drugs, guns, gangs, what have you; and Just Say No to suicide). If one Just Say No campaign is specious and simplistic, then all Just Say No campaigns are specious and simplistic. That's kinda the point of Just Saying No; it does not take anything about one's particular life and life circumstances into account. Just Say No is another example of the Positive Thinking (i.e. Magical Thinking) which is so detestable; if one Just Says No, one won't even think about drugs, let alone experiment with drugs, no matter the amount of social pressure, anxiety or self-loathing one experiences. Beset by bullies, wracked with suicidal thoughts? Simply change your perception and you will change your life.
And now, even the San Francisco Giants have contributed to this project. Sigh.
This is the part that sucks: you can't construct another's maturity or reasoning for him. When you do, it's called paternalism, and paternalism destroys another's humanity. What, after all, did Tyler Clementi accomplish when he jumped from the George Washington bridge, if not change his perception?
C'mon: the world is a difficult place (okay, okay -- an indifferent place), but, on the whole, it ain't such a bad place to let your sexual orientation be known (Uganda, duh, but I'm talking about the United States). For every Tyler Clementi, there are hundreds and thousands of non-Tyler Clementis. Personally, I think his suicide had more to do with his privacy being invaded; such invasion is humiliating, regardless of sexual orientation. If our lives are so damned public, as they often are to ridiculous lengths on social networking sites -- let us recall Clementi announced his intention on Facebook -- no wonder his roommate (and his roommate's gal-pal) believed it perfectly legitimate to run a nanny-cam. (And no wonder so many dorks believe they are entitled to grab my ass on the street: after all, baggy Carhartt's, green skivvy shirts and combat boots constitute a highly provocative, tawdry, come-hither look which disables an observer's higher cerebral functioning and positively screams, "My body is community property, and I'll be disappointed if you don't cop a feel.")
Thing is sometimes, it doesn't get better. Sometimes, it just fooken sucks. Frankly, that's okay, too. Personally, I'd rather know people who think and feel than people who do neither, or people who behave as if all their thoughts and feelings are "positive" because such folk are pod people. If it can be said that a feeling is in want of anything, that thing is expression, acknowledgement. Ideas, being ideas, need to be bounced around, cogitated. A buddy's "negativity" won't scare me away; if it ever does, I should hope that buddy would shoot me. Okay, maybe not shoot me, but I sure as fook hope he'd tell me that I've neglected to bring a few of my better angels along, and that I need to sit my sorry ass down and fooken listen to him, let him get some shit off his chest, that it's part of the whole getting-by-with-a-little-help-from-your-friends thing.
Telling the etherized and anonymous world that It Gets Better romanticizes the issue of suicide. It does not lead by example (there's no real hope that such a message may reach one in crisis); it refers too much to oneself ("Look at me; it got better for me, so it'll get better for you, too!"). It smacks of vanity. It may make one feel as though one has done something beneficial -- rather like hordes of fundamentalist Christians believe praying for homosexuals (usually done from the safety of some distance, either geographical, theoretical, or theological) is beneficial. Good for you -- you can tell me you prayed. We shall bow our heads and march in solemn solidarity with the heroically oppressed who murdered themselves. We shall tell them -- after the fact -- of our concern, of our care. The most useful gay man is a dead gay man.
At this point, alas, my thoughts turn to silence, although courtesy dictates a suggestion or two about what else one might do to improve the situation. So -- volunteer for a suicide hotline; get involved with a gay/straight alliance at an area school. Ask young queer folks what they believe they need, what their thoughts are on the issue. (And if they don't have thoughts or opinions, push 'em to have thoughts and opinions; I know, I know, that's my solution for everything.) They may have some good ideas. They may have some thoughts on empty gestures, too.
My brother in Albuquerque: him and his daddy never made amends. My brother in Seattle was killed shortly after an east Texas cowboy driving his Humvee on a routine convoy though the Green Zone spied an innocent and IED-free berm and said, "Hey, y'all, watch this!" My brother in Wichita served a tour in Afghanistan; he's touring the western Pacific now, and I recently had the privilege of reminding myself why I love him like a brother when he visited me on leave. I served a good long time, got more out of it than I ever imagined or wanted, and I learned, among other things, that I make a damn good buddy to myself when I want to, and that I always did enjoy a good, invigorating chase scene. (I've also always wanted to fight an impossible battle against incalculable odds, but that's another story for another time.),
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Bloggish-type Rant
WHAT AMERICA MEANS TO ME:
JARON LANIER WANTS TO BE PARIS HILTON
A Polemical Manifesto
Searching for as Many Subtitles as Possible
In Harper's magazine, February 2010, Jaron Lanier bemoans a certain lack in contemporary life, writing, "I know quite a few people, most of them young adults, who are proud to say that they have accumulated thousands of friends on Facebook. Obviously, their statements can be true only if the idea of friendship is diminished."
Yeah, I know -- I'm starting this rant in media res; sue me.
Lanier fills his precious little manifesto with a host of grievances: the Facebook Kid, the Cloud Lord, the oracle illusion, hive mind. Heck, the only reason to believe they're grievances is cuz he seems pissed about something. I believe Lanier has a point he wishes to communicate, but his language is trenchantly imprecise -- he often introduces terms which he does not define -- and inflates the concepts they seem to be meant to illustrate. "School" reduces to "information system", friends reduce to "social network". The most innately human of jobs is defined in pseudo-scientific terms: a music or book critic is a "filter". But what irks me the most is his insistence that the Interweb is a platonic thing, from which other platonic things are called into being. The Interweb is, of course, the greatest information system ever, seeing as how it liberates information (whatever the fook that means) and gives it to The People. The flaw, Lanier maintains, is in the design of the system; for example, a piece of software that responds as though the writer wants to create an indented outline when such is not what the writer intends is one such flaw, though in this example, Lanier maintains such "flaws" are responsible for fomenting the human idea that the Interweb is a gigantic, superhuman intelligence -- that engineers deem the best software is a software which "anticipates" the user's desires (a user, in this case, being defined as a particular set of characteristics, a demographic assembled by flesh). This is where Lanier goes hideously, horribly wrong, because there is no design for what he truly laments, which seems to be human nature itself.
Lanier asserts that Facebook diminishes the idea of friendship, cuz on that site such friends are amassed, one presumes, without any face-to-face interaction in the mundane world; thus, no friendships can be founded on correspondence alone (I'm sure Tchaikovsky and von Meck would be astonished to learn that, by Lanier's standards, their friendship was inauthentic). Facebook diminishes the idea of friendship cuz these friends are amassed, Lanier begs his reader to presume, for the sake of being amassed. Garsh, Lanier -- you're younger than me and you've forgotten high school popularity games already? Alright, I'll quit dancing around my point -- from whom else have we heard recently about a social institution being diminished? From whom have we heard dire warnings that a social institution would be degraded, debased, diminished, if more people partook of it? From those who fight against same-sex marriage. Cuz if those queers get married, it'll make my marriage mean less; it'll change not just the definition of marriage, but the very idea of marriage itself, the platonic ideal of marriage. If Lanier wishes to put himself in bed with such twerps, that's his business; he puts himself there by using the same venomous and monomaniacal logic they use. My friends are true and authentic friends because I know them in the mundane world (which is what god intended); my spouse is a true and authentic spouse because I'm a man and she's a woman (which is what god intended). Thing is, Platonists always raise my hackles. Always. I have a big problem with reification. Oh, fooken look it up; you have a better chance of finding "reification" in Webster's Collegiate than you do of finding "digital peasant". (I got yer digits right here, pal.)
The problem isn't a design flaw. The problem is not, as Lanier claims, that software engineers are trying to create programs which anticipate the user's desires, nor, as he further claims, is it that people willingly make themselves stupid for the sake of a machine. The problem, if such there be, is that there is an information system at all. An information system -- well, any system, really -- is concerned with one thing, and one thing only: flow.
Did your website get two million hits today? Six million? 12 million in the past two hours? Let's say it did; does your site's viability and/or validity increase with the number of hits? No; the number of hits reflects the number of hits. The number does not indicate anyone's opinion of your site, or what their impression was of the stimuli, if any, presented. Your opinions aren't validated simply because you have them. It's just flow. This sort of flow terrifies me, because it unwitting yanks me out of my own being, denies me my personhood, my autonomy. It's chatter, it's white noise, it is the endless errata and minutiae of the mundane world. (We're not talking the Tao here. Neither the Tao nor one's participation in it are forced. Quit trying to find fault; just suck it up and read.)
Okay, off we go on a tangent: Lanier's article (in the print edition, anyway) is called a manifesto; I imagine this is how editors beg us to look for nuanced argument and logic elsewhere, manifestos being, by their nature, something of a cri de coeur. Manifestos argue with passion and imagery. But blowhard lines like, "No one in the pre-digital-cloud era had the mental capacity to lie to himself in the way we routinely are able to now," and, "The limitations of organic human memory and calculation put a cap on the intricacies of self-delusion," reflect either a lack of knowledge regarding general human history, or a ridiculously inflated belief in the on-going guileless of all humanity. Further, there's an oddly anti-intellectual bent built in to this attitude toward the Interweb -- information is free and must be liberated from the strict confines of libraries, and books and medical journals and the DSM IV, and various other scientific papers. Because it's a question of how can someone other than you know better than you what's best for you. Experts are dinosaurs now; I *know* my two-year-old daughter is autistic due to vaccines, I know because I've read other parents say the same thing. There must be something to it, and the medical establishment certainly doesn't care. I am fat because male doctors kept from me information that diet and exercise would help me lose weight. I'm not stalking you; it's your problem if you think inappropriate anonymous and context-less communications indicate sociopathy in a person -- you're the one who put that blog up, so you clearly invite such commentary.
Exsqueeze me? Technology enables us to lie to ourselves to a degree unknown in previous eras? Really? Adam and Eve lied to God according to Genesis; does a greater lie exist than a lie one makes about oneself to the Deity?
Now, I'm hardly the first to say this, much less the first to notice it. We'll say it started with Marshall McLuhan -- "The medium is the message." Television is all about flow. And flow turns humanity into a global village; this is a bad thing. McLuhan spoke of it to warn us. (Kinda like Eisenhower's remark about "the military-industrial complex" -- he didn't mean it was something good. A few scant decades later, it's the greatest thing since, well, some fooken cliche.)
Oops oops oops! Here comes Lanier and the internet. At first, 'It's a global village! YAY!!!' Away with the antediluvian paid experts; after all, how can someone other than you know better than you what's best for you? It's the ultimate marketplace of ideas; the crowd knows best because the crowd will self-correct much as a market will self-correct. (I'm Ayn Rand; pull my finger.) When everyone contributes to the knowledge base, we'll all of us have all the knowledge in the world; when everyone speaks their truth, the truth shall set us all free. My truth is truer than yours, because it is God's truth. But mine sounds truthier. Truthiness -- let's go with the flow. Leonardo da Vinci never got paid; art belongs to all time, to all people, not to a museum or a country (though his code was killer). Mozart didn't get paid; I saw it in that movie. You don't pay for the books at the library, so why should you pay for music? Have you heard this new band? This band's newer. You've never heard of them; they'll change your life. Web 2.0 changed everything; the iPod changed everything (and 9/11 changed everything; it simply did). (And taxes pay for libraries, but, hey, you can use facts to prove anything.)
Yeah, I'm a bit of a snark. Am I the only one who got creeped out at the idea that "paid experts" -- whatever that means -- were antediluvian? That one may devote a lifetime in study of, say, music or philosophy or medicine, only to find it discounted and meaningless simply because one spent one's life studying it? Does that strike no one as anti-intellectual somehow? We have the interweb now. Let everyone be a writer so that no one is a writer. We control the horizontal. We control the vertical. It's got a meter that is tricky, a kind of wiki waki wiki...
Okay, I need another tangent -- consider the blogger. How the blogger is hailed as the Great Digital Hope; The Blogger is There when some reporter-cum-callboy is planted in the press room. The Blogger is There when ACORN allegedly gave pointers to a pimp and one of his bitches about how to game the system. The Blogger is There when Joe Stack smashes his plane into the IRS building in Austin. And, uh, the blogger gets many of the facts wrong. But that's okay -- since you can use facts to prove anything, it doesn't matter; what matters is the story. Reagan knew that when he told us about a welfare recipient who bought a Cadillac with food stamps. Facts don't matter; the only thing which matters is the story. Get the story right, and you'll have billyuns and billyuns of friends, kings and potentates will kow-tow, and Pia Zadora herself will break into a rousing version of 'This May Be the Start of Something Big.' Just for you. The most important person in the whole wide world is you, and you hardly even know you.
Here we are, years later, and Lanier rants about how cheapened society and the social contract have become, how meaningless, how inauthentic and fraudulent. What is the difference now, when at first you worked to encourage these crowds, Jaron? And now that the clouds have formed and you don't like the formation, being more a cumulonimbus than stratus kind of guy, what do you do? What do you do when the issue becomes one of Creator revolting against creation? Does the Creator search for his Noah and try to spare creation, redeem it somehow? Does the Creator foment another revolution, using his status of Creator to lend street cred to his pronouncements? Lanier writes, "We... entered a persistent somnolence, and I have come to believe that we will escape it only when we kill the hive." To kill the hive mind, we must kill the hive? Dude, the hive is merely a messenger, and you do not look good on wood.
And this is where things get weird. Cuz this is how the set known as Paris Hilton intersects with the set known as Jaron Lanier -- Hilton encouraging her 'fans' (her FaceySpace friends, enemies, etc. -- insert your label here cuz the fact that you define yourself in relation to Hilton makes you part of the flow); Lanier encouraging his 'fans' (anyone who has an affinity for his writing and ideas, FaceySpace friend or no, again defines oneself in terms of relation to Lanier, making one part of the flow). Flow flows; you can't ask what its function is -- that's like asking what the function of a galaxy is, what the function of a grain is. Inquiring anent the function of some thing which simply is begs for a wrathful and vengeful god. (Just trust me on this one; I cut a whole bunch of really good shit as to why this is so, but it just ain't germane. If you feel compelled to discuss it, drop me a line.)
And this is why I'm irked about popping the ripe, red zit which is Armistead Maupin's head. In so doing, I call attention to him when the last thing I wish to do is call attention to him. The meaning behind my desire to pop the ripe, red zit which is his head is a desire to highlight how poor his writing is, and what a sad place the world is that it encourages such poor, delusional, craptastic writing. Alas, there will always be an abundance of intellectual rubbish, unquote. (I am reminded of a week-long writing workshop in which I participated. Toward the end of the workshop, the leader shared a story which was told to encourage us in our writing careers -- he spoke of a student writer whom he knew, who faithfully attended class, who wrote and re-wrote and persisted until she was not just published, but published to much acclaim. At the end of this anecdote, our leader revealed the writer -- Amy Tan -- and this was his point: that if a twit as brazenly pedestrian, as boldly hackneyed as Tan can get published, so can you. It was another illustration of Flannery O'Connor's quote about writing programs: "Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher." So perhaps I can't muster anything original, but I can muster a solid, idiosyncratic text. Fook knows, discouragement has its place in education; it is a tool.
Lanier's hive mind has existed for millennia; the World Wide Woo-Woo didn't create it, or foster it, or caress it like a warrior caresses his beloved. Lanier does nothing but contribute an unfortunate vocabulary; he fusses and fumes, militates and obfuscates, then reinvents the word "wheel", and for this we are to pay him heed? There is only one way to destroy the hive, and that is to shut up.
Now, be a good little acolyte -- point to the moon just like you believe I showed you, so that I may chop off your hand.
"Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it." -- Flannery O'Connor, 'Mystery and Manners'
JARON LANIER WANTS TO BE PARIS HILTON
A Polemical Manifesto
Searching for as Many Subtitles as Possible
In Harper's magazine, February 2010, Jaron Lanier bemoans a certain lack in contemporary life, writing, "I know quite a few people, most of them young adults, who are proud to say that they have accumulated thousands of friends on Facebook. Obviously, their statements can be true only if the idea of friendship is diminished."
Yeah, I know -- I'm starting this rant in media res; sue me.
Lanier fills his precious little manifesto with a host of grievances: the Facebook Kid, the Cloud Lord, the oracle illusion, hive mind. Heck, the only reason to believe they're grievances is cuz he seems pissed about something. I believe Lanier has a point he wishes to communicate, but his language is trenchantly imprecise -- he often introduces terms which he does not define -- and inflates the concepts they seem to be meant to illustrate. "School" reduces to "information system", friends reduce to "social network". The most innately human of jobs is defined in pseudo-scientific terms: a music or book critic is a "filter". But what irks me the most is his insistence that the Interweb is a platonic thing, from which other platonic things are called into being. The Interweb is, of course, the greatest information system ever, seeing as how it liberates information (whatever the fook that means) and gives it to The People. The flaw, Lanier maintains, is in the design of the system; for example, a piece of software that responds as though the writer wants to create an indented outline when such is not what the writer intends is one such flaw, though in this example, Lanier maintains such "flaws" are responsible for fomenting the human idea that the Interweb is a gigantic, superhuman intelligence -- that engineers deem the best software is a software which "anticipates" the user's desires (a user, in this case, being defined as a particular set of characteristics, a demographic assembled by flesh). This is where Lanier goes hideously, horribly wrong, because there is no design for what he truly laments, which seems to be human nature itself.
Lanier asserts that Facebook diminishes the idea of friendship, cuz on that site such friends are amassed, one presumes, without any face-to-face interaction in the mundane world; thus, no friendships can be founded on correspondence alone (I'm sure Tchaikovsky and von Meck would be astonished to learn that, by Lanier's standards, their friendship was inauthentic). Facebook diminishes the idea of friendship cuz these friends are amassed, Lanier begs his reader to presume, for the sake of being amassed. Garsh, Lanier -- you're younger than me and you've forgotten high school popularity games already? Alright, I'll quit dancing around my point -- from whom else have we heard recently about a social institution being diminished? From whom have we heard dire warnings that a social institution would be degraded, debased, diminished, if more people partook of it? From those who fight against same-sex marriage. Cuz if those queers get married, it'll make my marriage mean less; it'll change not just the definition of marriage, but the very idea of marriage itself, the platonic ideal of marriage. If Lanier wishes to put himself in bed with such twerps, that's his business; he puts himself there by using the same venomous and monomaniacal logic they use. My friends are true and authentic friends because I know them in the mundane world (which is what god intended); my spouse is a true and authentic spouse because I'm a man and she's a woman (which is what god intended). Thing is, Platonists always raise my hackles. Always. I have a big problem with reification. Oh, fooken look it up; you have a better chance of finding "reification" in Webster's Collegiate than you do of finding "digital peasant". (I got yer digits right here, pal.)
The problem isn't a design flaw. The problem is not, as Lanier claims, that software engineers are trying to create programs which anticipate the user's desires, nor, as he further claims, is it that people willingly make themselves stupid for the sake of a machine. The problem, if such there be, is that there is an information system at all. An information system -- well, any system, really -- is concerned with one thing, and one thing only: flow.
Did your website get two million hits today? Six million? 12 million in the past two hours? Let's say it did; does your site's viability and/or validity increase with the number of hits? No; the number of hits reflects the number of hits. The number does not indicate anyone's opinion of your site, or what their impression was of the stimuli, if any, presented. Your opinions aren't validated simply because you have them. It's just flow. This sort of flow terrifies me, because it unwitting yanks me out of my own being, denies me my personhood, my autonomy. It's chatter, it's white noise, it is the endless errata and minutiae of the mundane world. (We're not talking the Tao here. Neither the Tao nor one's participation in it are forced. Quit trying to find fault; just suck it up and read.)
Okay, off we go on a tangent: Lanier's article (in the print edition, anyway) is called a manifesto; I imagine this is how editors beg us to look for nuanced argument and logic elsewhere, manifestos being, by their nature, something of a cri de coeur. Manifestos argue with passion and imagery. But blowhard lines like, "No one in the pre-digital-cloud era had the mental capacity to lie to himself in the way we routinely are able to now," and, "The limitations of organic human memory and calculation put a cap on the intricacies of self-delusion," reflect either a lack of knowledge regarding general human history, or a ridiculously inflated belief in the on-going guileless of all humanity. Further, there's an oddly anti-intellectual bent built in to this attitude toward the Interweb -- information is free and must be liberated from the strict confines of libraries, and books and medical journals and the DSM IV, and various other scientific papers. Because it's a question of how can someone other than you know better than you what's best for you. Experts are dinosaurs now; I *know* my two-year-old daughter is autistic due to vaccines, I know because I've read other parents say the same thing. There must be something to it, and the medical establishment certainly doesn't care. I am fat because male doctors kept from me information that diet and exercise would help me lose weight. I'm not stalking you; it's your problem if you think inappropriate anonymous and context-less communications indicate sociopathy in a person -- you're the one who put that blog up, so you clearly invite such commentary.
Exsqueeze me? Technology enables us to lie to ourselves to a degree unknown in previous eras? Really? Adam and Eve lied to God according to Genesis; does a greater lie exist than a lie one makes about oneself to the Deity?
Now, I'm hardly the first to say this, much less the first to notice it. We'll say it started with Marshall McLuhan -- "The medium is the message." Television is all about flow. And flow turns humanity into a global village; this is a bad thing. McLuhan spoke of it to warn us. (Kinda like Eisenhower's remark about "the military-industrial complex" -- he didn't mean it was something good. A few scant decades later, it's the greatest thing since, well, some fooken cliche.)
Oops oops oops! Here comes Lanier and the internet. At first, 'It's a global village! YAY!!!' Away with the antediluvian paid experts; after all, how can someone other than you know better than you what's best for you? It's the ultimate marketplace of ideas; the crowd knows best because the crowd will self-correct much as a market will self-correct. (I'm Ayn Rand; pull my finger.) When everyone contributes to the knowledge base, we'll all of us have all the knowledge in the world; when everyone speaks their truth, the truth shall set us all free. My truth is truer than yours, because it is God's truth. But mine sounds truthier. Truthiness -- let's go with the flow. Leonardo da Vinci never got paid; art belongs to all time, to all people, not to a museum or a country (though his code was killer). Mozart didn't get paid; I saw it in that movie. You don't pay for the books at the library, so why should you pay for music? Have you heard this new band? This band's newer. You've never heard of them; they'll change your life. Web 2.0 changed everything; the iPod changed everything (and 9/11 changed everything; it simply did). (And taxes pay for libraries, but, hey, you can use facts to prove anything.)
Yeah, I'm a bit of a snark. Am I the only one who got creeped out at the idea that "paid experts" -- whatever that means -- were antediluvian? That one may devote a lifetime in study of, say, music or philosophy or medicine, only to find it discounted and meaningless simply because one spent one's life studying it? Does that strike no one as anti-intellectual somehow? We have the interweb now. Let everyone be a writer so that no one is a writer. We control the horizontal. We control the vertical. It's got a meter that is tricky, a kind of wiki waki wiki...
Okay, I need another tangent -- consider the blogger. How the blogger is hailed as the Great Digital Hope; The Blogger is There when some reporter-cum-callboy is planted in the press room. The Blogger is There when ACORN allegedly gave pointers to a pimp and one of his bitches about how to game the system. The Blogger is There when Joe Stack smashes his plane into the IRS building in Austin. And, uh, the blogger gets many of the facts wrong. But that's okay -- since you can use facts to prove anything, it doesn't matter; what matters is the story. Reagan knew that when he told us about a welfare recipient who bought a Cadillac with food stamps. Facts don't matter; the only thing which matters is the story. Get the story right, and you'll have billyuns and billyuns of friends, kings and potentates will kow-tow, and Pia Zadora herself will break into a rousing version of 'This May Be the Start of Something Big.' Just for you. The most important person in the whole wide world is you, and you hardly even know you.
Here we are, years later, and Lanier rants about how cheapened society and the social contract have become, how meaningless, how inauthentic and fraudulent. What is the difference now, when at first you worked to encourage these crowds, Jaron? And now that the clouds have formed and you don't like the formation, being more a cumulonimbus than stratus kind of guy, what do you do? What do you do when the issue becomes one of Creator revolting against creation? Does the Creator search for his Noah and try to spare creation, redeem it somehow? Does the Creator foment another revolution, using his status of Creator to lend street cred to his pronouncements? Lanier writes, "We... entered a persistent somnolence, and I have come to believe that we will escape it only when we kill the hive." To kill the hive mind, we must kill the hive? Dude, the hive is merely a messenger, and you do not look good on wood.
And this is where things get weird. Cuz this is how the set known as Paris Hilton intersects with the set known as Jaron Lanier -- Hilton encouraging her 'fans' (her FaceySpace friends, enemies, etc. -- insert your label here cuz the fact that you define yourself in relation to Hilton makes you part of the flow); Lanier encouraging his 'fans' (anyone who has an affinity for his writing and ideas, FaceySpace friend or no, again defines oneself in terms of relation to Lanier, making one part of the flow). Flow flows; you can't ask what its function is -- that's like asking what the function of a galaxy is, what the function of a grain is. Inquiring anent the function of some thing which simply is begs for a wrathful and vengeful god. (Just trust me on this one; I cut a whole bunch of really good shit as to why this is so, but it just ain't germane. If you feel compelled to discuss it, drop me a line.)
And this is why I'm irked about popping the ripe, red zit which is Armistead Maupin's head. In so doing, I call attention to him when the last thing I wish to do is call attention to him. The meaning behind my desire to pop the ripe, red zit which is his head is a desire to highlight how poor his writing is, and what a sad place the world is that it encourages such poor, delusional, craptastic writing. Alas, there will always be an abundance of intellectual rubbish, unquote. (I am reminded of a week-long writing workshop in which I participated. Toward the end of the workshop, the leader shared a story which was told to encourage us in our writing careers -- he spoke of a student writer whom he knew, who faithfully attended class, who wrote and re-wrote and persisted until she was not just published, but published to much acclaim. At the end of this anecdote, our leader revealed the writer -- Amy Tan -- and this was his point: that if a twit as brazenly pedestrian, as boldly hackneyed as Tan can get published, so can you. It was another illustration of Flannery O'Connor's quote about writing programs: "Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a best-seller that could have been prevented by a good teacher." So perhaps I can't muster anything original, but I can muster a solid, idiosyncratic text. Fook knows, discouragement has its place in education; it is a tool.
Lanier's hive mind has existed for millennia; the World Wide Woo-Woo didn't create it, or foster it, or caress it like a warrior caresses his beloved. Lanier does nothing but contribute an unfortunate vocabulary; he fusses and fumes, militates and obfuscates, then reinvents the word "wheel", and for this we are to pay him heed? There is only one way to destroy the hive, and that is to shut up.
Now, be a good little acolyte -- point to the moon just like you believe I showed you, so that I may chop off your hand.
"Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it." -- Flannery O'Connor, 'Mystery and Manners'
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Zombies
I grew tired of looking for the good in others. I used to, but I can't now. I am told that if I look for the bad, I will find the bad, that it is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Well, so is looking for the good -- it, too, is self-fulfilling. Either way, one ends up ignoring part of what actually is. Is that any way to live? Is that truly the best way to engage the world one lives in?
I do not understand the relativistic hell in which fags want to live. Maybe it is for this reason that they commonly call themselves 'evolved'. This odd streak of relativism seems to have its origin in Eastern thought, but the 'mos give a glorious misinterpretation of it. There was one queen on an online discussion recently, who took me to task cuz I never referred to the gay community as "my" community; I always addressed gay people in the third person. Now, prior to this, I made the argument that there is no gay community; that this erstwhile community is a mob rather than a community, or, as my friend Goatlor puts it, a demographic with issues. So the queens come after me, damning the origin of the argument. Well, why the fook should I say I have anything in common with a people when I maintain they do not have a community? That they have done much to shun me? That it is not my problem, that I do not need to change myself, that I do not subscribe to the idea that one's environment and one are the same thing. (Curiously, one guy on the string defined our environment as "the guys we meet, date, and have sex with," essentially reducing environment to a dating pool. That was just fooken weird.)
Again, no response. No response at all. Abandonment of argument; I am suspect, I am negative, I will harsh the collective's mellow.
Took down two online profiles today. This leaves two others, both of which read, "I don't want to hear it. I am not the man for you." In answer to 'what I'm looking for', I say, "It ain't you." I have a faceyspace profile; used primarily to keep in touch with military buddies.
I want to grab these jackholes and scream, "ANSWER ME!" All I want 'em to do is answer the questions put to 'em. I mean, it's a fooken argument; one guy presents his piece, and we analyze it by reason and logic to determine whether the points are valid. If his proposition is full of shit, we question the shitty part; we do not call him names. We refute him. It's a social contract sort of thing.
Anyway, so this one doofus tells me, in an oddly oblique way, that I must 'detach' myself from 'expectations'. (Oblique approaches suggesting self-improvement always strike me as particularly passive-aggressive.)That this requires much "spiritual work" and that he oughta know. Well, this leads me to question what expectation is. What is expectation-over-time? Is that what we commonly call optimism? That if I am angry with others, it is a reflection of myself -- in other words, I am not angry with others so much as I am angry with myself. Uh, no, I believe it is entirely possible to be angry with others cuz of the shit they pull. Yeah, I expect adults to comport themselves in a mature way. If some guy pulls shit which is damaging to my community, I expect to be allowed to call him on his shit without anyone calling me names or otherwise speaking or thinking ill of me. Would have been interesting to ask the aforementioned doofus what feelings he experienced during the Bush administration -- cuz all those feelings were reflections of himself.
Have you heard the Good News? You can detach from your environment!
I do not understand the relativistic hell in which fags want to live. Maybe it is for this reason that they commonly call themselves 'evolved'. This odd streak of relativism seems to have its origin in Eastern thought, but the 'mos give a glorious misinterpretation of it. There was one queen on an online discussion recently, who took me to task cuz I never referred to the gay community as "my" community; I always addressed gay people in the third person. Now, prior to this, I made the argument that there is no gay community; that this erstwhile community is a mob rather than a community, or, as my friend Goatlor puts it, a demographic with issues. So the queens come after me, damning the origin of the argument. Well, why the fook should I say I have anything in common with a people when I maintain they do not have a community? That they have done much to shun me? That it is not my problem, that I do not need to change myself, that I do not subscribe to the idea that one's environment and one are the same thing. (Curiously, one guy on the string defined our environment as "the guys we meet, date, and have sex with," essentially reducing environment to a dating pool. That was just fooken weird.)
Again, no response. No response at all. Abandonment of argument; I am suspect, I am negative, I will harsh the collective's mellow.
Took down two online profiles today. This leaves two others, both of which read, "I don't want to hear it. I am not the man for you." In answer to 'what I'm looking for', I say, "It ain't you." I have a faceyspace profile; used primarily to keep in touch with military buddies.
I want to grab these jackholes and scream, "ANSWER ME!" All I want 'em to do is answer the questions put to 'em. I mean, it's a fooken argument; one guy presents his piece, and we analyze it by reason and logic to determine whether the points are valid. If his proposition is full of shit, we question the shitty part; we do not call him names. We refute him. It's a social contract sort of thing.
Anyway, so this one doofus tells me, in an oddly oblique way, that I must 'detach' myself from 'expectations'. (Oblique approaches suggesting self-improvement always strike me as particularly passive-aggressive.)That this requires much "spiritual work" and that he oughta know. Well, this leads me to question what expectation is. What is expectation-over-time? Is that what we commonly call optimism? That if I am angry with others, it is a reflection of myself -- in other words, I am not angry with others so much as I am angry with myself. Uh, no, I believe it is entirely possible to be angry with others cuz of the shit they pull. Yeah, I expect adults to comport themselves in a mature way. If some guy pulls shit which is damaging to my community, I expect to be allowed to call him on his shit without anyone calling me names or otherwise speaking or thinking ill of me. Would have been interesting to ask the aforementioned doofus what feelings he experienced during the Bush administration -- cuz all those feelings were reflections of himself.
Have you heard the Good News? You can detach from your environment!
Friday, May 29, 2009
VOX CLAMAVIS IN DESERTO
I've been biding my time and holding my tongue. Odd approach for a blog, sure, but I like to think of myself as a man who applies reason to his opinions, works them through, a man who challenges himself. And it's time to let loose.
I am sick and fooken tired of the way the gay community -- not LGBT community, not GLBT-which-mysteriously-transitioned-to-LGBT-for-an-unspecified-reason-in-the-'80s, not LGBTTQQ cuz, well, go fook yourself -- comports itself. Particularly in the case of public sex and same-sex marriage. Alas, the two topics are related. (If you choose to take umbrage at what you label uninclusive language, go to hell. Here's a label for ya: narcissist.)
When the fella in charge of Up Your Alley (AKA Dore Alley Street Fair) and Folsom Street Fair recently stated that he had no idea of public sex acts taking place during the events, he lied. Just like Clarence Thomas lied when he said he had no opinion on Roe v. Wade. Indeed, one of the major reasons for Dore Alley and Folsom Street is the opportunity both present for public sex acts. (Those who attend these events naked are just as disingenuous and dissembling; they maintain that "the human body is a beautiful thing", "the law says I may be nude in public as long as I do not behave in a lewd and lascivious manner", "if you say I can't be nude in public, you're sex-negative and judgmental", but one never sees them nude in the frozen food aisle at Safeway -- only street fairs. If one limits one's exposure thusly, if one limits one's exposure solely to adult-themed street fairs, where there is no opportunity for others to avert their eyes if they do not wish to be unwitting voyeurs, one makes oneself, de facto, an exhibitionist, which is lewd and lascivious. In other words, if you yank out your dick in public simply so that others may see it, you're behaving in what is, de facto, a lewd and lascivious manner. You force others into a voyeuristic role; you deny them their right to refrain from participation; indeed, you deny them their right to choose to participate. It ain't like they can change the channel.)
Writers in the gay press commonly celebrate the availability of public sex at the Dore Alley and Folsom Street Fairs; as Eric Rofes writes in 'Reviving the Tribe', "Gay liberation was ignited by a drive to free the erotic power between men. Activist pioneers were advocating not solely affection and 'domestic partnerships,' but the right to be fucked." Sadly, gay liberation has not truly evolved to encompass relationship. (Though it is not germane, one of my favorite quotes from 'Reviving the Tribe' relates another highlight of those early gay lib years, that they heralded " the discovery of vast, uncharted erotic zones (e.g., the nipple as sex organ)". Thank god those queens came along to discover nipples on men; clearly four million years of human sexual expression had forced them into hiding.)
Same-sex marriage aims to set a standard for relationship. That standard is not heterosexual (if one believes so, one succumbs to various fallacies of reification). It is not heterosexual because no one can own marriage. Marriage is a legal contract; it does not exist in some Platonic heaven, high atop a marble pedestal. Marriage has always been a civil matter; the church didn't have a written record of a marriage ceremony until well into the fifth century. Marriage remains a civil matter; a clergyman does not marry a couple -- that clergyman is merely deputized by the state to sign the marriage license that state issues. Marriage, as a sacrament, is an understanding wholly invented by the church, and has nothing to do with any civil law regarding marriage. So there's yer separation of church and state; shut the fook up and read on.
But the gay community eschews standards of any kind, save for one, and it may be expressed in a multitude of egocentric slogans: Don't judge me, I'm only speaking my truth, I am who I am, I am my own greatest creation. When a bloc of people eschew standards on principle, when, as a group, they decry and belittle any self-examination or self-critique, they are not a community; they are a mob. Communities require standards; communities are built upon standards. Mobs behave as they choose and justify their acts with jingoism and slogans. Say NO to Prop H8. Thirteenly not. AIDS changed everything. This is clearly a lesson queers learned from those who oppose them.
Whenever you behave in a manner which calls attention to yourself rather than your cause, you are narcissistic. Activism -- any activism -- requires a certain transparency of self, a certain modesty, a setting aside of oneself in order to serve one's cause. If, in your call to activism, you call attention to yourself instead of your cause, you create a spectacle, not a movement. You glory in your martyrdom -- how put upon you are! Paranoia becomes your community, as everything is translated into terms of Us versus Them.
Those evil Republicans. They hate us. I want to wear mascara and lipstick, and parade around in a merry widow, fishnet stockings and platform shoes while they watch just to show them how much I don't care. Those hypocritical Christians. They hate us. I want to dress as a nun in white face and fright wig, essentially disguising myself, and beg communion from the archbishop and endure his refusal just to show them how much they hate us. Those wretched, sex-negative, self-loathing queens. They hate us and themselves. I want to suck as much dick as I can just to show them how much I don't care. Because I am only speaking my truth, I am who I am, I am my own greatest creation, don't you judge me.
Clearly this writer has issues. And by this writer, I mean me. Just keep reading.
Now, if gay folks want same-sex marriage, really and truly want marriage, they must, as a class, grow up. They must realize that fast-food sex is not liberation. They must set and abide by community standards. Now, I'm not saying that if one wishes to discern the number of cocks he can take in his ass in rapid succession, he must avoid doing so. I am saying that he must stop fooling himself with the excuse that taking 27 cocks up his ass in a matter of hours is a celebration of his sexuality. It is not a celebration of one's sexuality; it is a celebration of one's Teflon butthole.
If liberation is to mean anything, then gay men must, as a class, treat their partners, sexual and lifetime, with simple respect. That, as a class, they must no longer say, "If your boyfriend isn't working out, you just find a new one." That treating a sexual partner with simple respect means screening yourself for STDs, that the rules for common human interaction don't change when you visit Key West or Palm Springs (where the syphilis rate is 38 percent), that said rules don't change when you walk in to a gay bar, that walking in to a gay bar doesn't mean you may grab or grope anyone you please (it's not a compliment; it's sexual harassment). That the steam room at your gym is not a venue for sex. That, upon learning the man you're speaking to is partnered, it is juvenile (not to mention outright rude) to ask, "Do you guys mess around?"
Here's the biggest reason why: if a gay person believes that the sex one has is related to liberation, he defines himself as his enemy does -- that he is defined by his behavior, by the acts he commits. That would mean there truly are no homosexual persons, only homosexual acts, homosexual behaviors. If sex were all there is to liberation, then the more sex one gets, the more liberated one is. How liberated is a closet case in a bathhouse? He gets what he wants without having to answer to the greater community; does such a one deserve my respect? Deserve my support? Deserve my brotherhood? No, such a one does not, because he demands I indulge him while making excuses for him. A closet case asks that one assist him in the maintenance of his lie. Near as I can tell, that's pretty fooken codependent.
The call to liberation did not change with AIDS. Saying "AIDS changed everything" is just like saying "9/11 changed everything." The World Trade Center tragedy did not change a damn thing; you may look elsewhere for details of this argument. Similarly, AIDS did not change a damn thing; the gay yet Puritanical party-party-party ethic (the belief that somehow, somewhere, someone may not be having a good time) started by Stonewall didn't change; ultimately, queers were simply bummed that the party had been interrupted. Similarly, the World Trade Center tragedy merely interrupted the go-go-go-let-the-good-times-roll-dot-com craze. How dare anyone rain on our parade. How dare those terrorists kill our buzz. OMG, what if they blow up the Golden Gate Bridge? What would I do? What would happen to me? Such questions demonstrate how limited your thinking is, how limited by your own prejudices and judgments. Bigots (i.e. terrorists, fags, fundamentalists of every stripe, anyone who rationalizes his opinions by use of fallacy) will be us always. When one fights against discrimination, one does not work to enlarge the circle of what is acceptable; one works to erase the circle entirely. One works to ensure that everyone has his humanity recognized.
Marriage, in part, recognizes that fundamental humanity. Wanting marriage while maintaining that public sex is one's social and historical prerogative is counter-productive, mendacious, fallacious and dumb. Believing that straight folks somehow subvert the system, that straight folks get away with public sex -- spring break, for example -- is off-topic. If you truly do not care what straight folks do or think of you, why bring 'em up? If you want same-sex marriage, fooken stay focused.
Politics is the art of the possible, unquote. Bigots will be with you always; the point is to ensure equal protection and consideration under the law. That's tolerance. If you want a homophobe to love yer queer li'l ass, a-shimmer with lip gloss and body glitter, you are hopeless. Under civil law, there is no reason for a government to compel one to love another; indeed, such a law should never exist. To believe that one should be loved by the world at large for who one is, is to engage in thought so selfish, so monomaniacal, that it's monstrous.
Now, there is a solution -- present a united front against those who back Prop 8 in California. If you say to yourself, "I don't know why any self-respecting gay person would even want to get married," shut the hell up and join the effort. Realize that you need to do more than just rally the flags in your neighborhood. You gotta go from Frisco to the Central Valley, to Fresno, to Inyokern, to El Centro, and meet, talk to the actual voting public. So you stopped traffic at Van Ness and Golden Gate; I'm sure Obama noticed you personally. For once in your life, pretend there's an existence larger than yours, and admit that waiting for someone else to do the good work on your behalf is the same as doing nothing at all.
Quit lying to yourself about those nights spent at Blow Buddies. "I just had to have cock after cock after cock after cock; it had been building inside me all day long; the pressure was too strong, and I had to have it," paints you as a victim of your own desires, desires which you can control (unless you get some sort of bizarre kick out of believing you, as a homosexual, are pathological, though the DSM IV says otherwise). Quit lying to yourself about the nature of lies; quit lying to yourself that everyone lies in bars and online; quit using that as justification for your own mendacity. Quit thinking that you are your own greatest creation. You did not create yourself; something much larger than you did. All you're capable of is adorning yourself. That something much larger than you created you is all the reason one need in order to deserve respect and equality.
Okay, I'm done, at least for now. No doubt similar entries will follow. This is not a particularly happy end for me; this is more like a manifesto than an essay. So take what works, leave the rest and keep thinking about it for a few more days; if you're lucky, it'll make sense to you. One must never underestimate the audience of the confused.
For those who hated this post from the git-go, congratulations on reading this far. Tell us all about your hate, all about your life of fear and sacrifice. Then walk onto southbound 101, sit, and wait for a yuppie-filled SUV to hit you. I can think of no better demise for one who went through his life in abject terror of not being misunderstood.
I am sick and fooken tired of the way the gay community -- not LGBT community, not GLBT-which-mysteriously-transitioned-to-LGBT-for-an-unspecified-reason-in-the-'80s, not LGBTTQQ cuz, well, go fook yourself -- comports itself. Particularly in the case of public sex and same-sex marriage. Alas, the two topics are related. (If you choose to take umbrage at what you label uninclusive language, go to hell. Here's a label for ya: narcissist.)
When the fella in charge of Up Your Alley (AKA Dore Alley Street Fair) and Folsom Street Fair recently stated that he had no idea of public sex acts taking place during the events, he lied. Just like Clarence Thomas lied when he said he had no opinion on Roe v. Wade. Indeed, one of the major reasons for Dore Alley and Folsom Street is the opportunity both present for public sex acts. (Those who attend these events naked are just as disingenuous and dissembling; they maintain that "the human body is a beautiful thing", "the law says I may be nude in public as long as I do not behave in a lewd and lascivious manner", "if you say I can't be nude in public, you're sex-negative and judgmental", but one never sees them nude in the frozen food aisle at Safeway -- only street fairs. If one limits one's exposure thusly, if one limits one's exposure solely to adult-themed street fairs, where there is no opportunity for others to avert their eyes if they do not wish to be unwitting voyeurs, one makes oneself, de facto, an exhibitionist, which is lewd and lascivious. In other words, if you yank out your dick in public simply so that others may see it, you're behaving in what is, de facto, a lewd and lascivious manner. You force others into a voyeuristic role; you deny them their right to refrain from participation; indeed, you deny them their right to choose to participate. It ain't like they can change the channel.)
Writers in the gay press commonly celebrate the availability of public sex at the Dore Alley and Folsom Street Fairs; as Eric Rofes writes in 'Reviving the Tribe', "Gay liberation was ignited by a drive to free the erotic power between men. Activist pioneers were advocating not solely affection and 'domestic partnerships,' but the right to be fucked." Sadly, gay liberation has not truly evolved to encompass relationship. (Though it is not germane, one of my favorite quotes from 'Reviving the Tribe' relates another highlight of those early gay lib years, that they heralded " the discovery of vast, uncharted erotic zones (e.g., the nipple as sex organ)". Thank god those queens came along to discover nipples on men; clearly four million years of human sexual expression had forced them into hiding.)
Same-sex marriage aims to set a standard for relationship. That standard is not heterosexual (if one believes so, one succumbs to various fallacies of reification). It is not heterosexual because no one can own marriage. Marriage is a legal contract; it does not exist in some Platonic heaven, high atop a marble pedestal. Marriage has always been a civil matter; the church didn't have a written record of a marriage ceremony until well into the fifth century. Marriage remains a civil matter; a clergyman does not marry a couple -- that clergyman is merely deputized by the state to sign the marriage license that state issues. Marriage, as a sacrament, is an understanding wholly invented by the church, and has nothing to do with any civil law regarding marriage. So there's yer separation of church and state; shut the fook up and read on.
But the gay community eschews standards of any kind, save for one, and it may be expressed in a multitude of egocentric slogans: Don't judge me, I'm only speaking my truth, I am who I am, I am my own greatest creation. When a bloc of people eschew standards on principle, when, as a group, they decry and belittle any self-examination or self-critique, they are not a community; they are a mob. Communities require standards; communities are built upon standards. Mobs behave as they choose and justify their acts with jingoism and slogans. Say NO to Prop H8. Thirteenly not. AIDS changed everything. This is clearly a lesson queers learned from those who oppose them.
Whenever you behave in a manner which calls attention to yourself rather than your cause, you are narcissistic. Activism -- any activism -- requires a certain transparency of self, a certain modesty, a setting aside of oneself in order to serve one's cause. If, in your call to activism, you call attention to yourself instead of your cause, you create a spectacle, not a movement. You glory in your martyrdom -- how put upon you are! Paranoia becomes your community, as everything is translated into terms of Us versus Them.
Those evil Republicans. They hate us. I want to wear mascara and lipstick, and parade around in a merry widow, fishnet stockings and platform shoes while they watch just to show them how much I don't care. Those hypocritical Christians. They hate us. I want to dress as a nun in white face and fright wig, essentially disguising myself, and beg communion from the archbishop and endure his refusal just to show them how much they hate us. Those wretched, sex-negative, self-loathing queens. They hate us and themselves. I want to suck as much dick as I can just to show them how much I don't care. Because I am only speaking my truth, I am who I am, I am my own greatest creation, don't you judge me.
Clearly this writer has issues. And by this writer, I mean me. Just keep reading.
Now, if gay folks want same-sex marriage, really and truly want marriage, they must, as a class, grow up. They must realize that fast-food sex is not liberation. They must set and abide by community standards. Now, I'm not saying that if one wishes to discern the number of cocks he can take in his ass in rapid succession, he must avoid doing so. I am saying that he must stop fooling himself with the excuse that taking 27 cocks up his ass in a matter of hours is a celebration of his sexuality. It is not a celebration of one's sexuality; it is a celebration of one's Teflon butthole.
If liberation is to mean anything, then gay men must, as a class, treat their partners, sexual and lifetime, with simple respect. That, as a class, they must no longer say, "If your boyfriend isn't working out, you just find a new one." That treating a sexual partner with simple respect means screening yourself for STDs, that the rules for common human interaction don't change when you visit Key West or Palm Springs (where the syphilis rate is 38 percent), that said rules don't change when you walk in to a gay bar, that walking in to a gay bar doesn't mean you may grab or grope anyone you please (it's not a compliment; it's sexual harassment). That the steam room at your gym is not a venue for sex. That, upon learning the man you're speaking to is partnered, it is juvenile (not to mention outright rude) to ask, "Do you guys mess around?"
Here's the biggest reason why: if a gay person believes that the sex one has is related to liberation, he defines himself as his enemy does -- that he is defined by his behavior, by the acts he commits. That would mean there truly are no homosexual persons, only homosexual acts, homosexual behaviors. If sex were all there is to liberation, then the more sex one gets, the more liberated one is. How liberated is a closet case in a bathhouse? He gets what he wants without having to answer to the greater community; does such a one deserve my respect? Deserve my support? Deserve my brotherhood? No, such a one does not, because he demands I indulge him while making excuses for him. A closet case asks that one assist him in the maintenance of his lie. Near as I can tell, that's pretty fooken codependent.
The call to liberation did not change with AIDS. Saying "AIDS changed everything" is just like saying "9/11 changed everything." The World Trade Center tragedy did not change a damn thing; you may look elsewhere for details of this argument. Similarly, AIDS did not change a damn thing; the gay yet Puritanical party-party-party ethic (the belief that somehow, somewhere, someone may not be having a good time) started by Stonewall didn't change; ultimately, queers were simply bummed that the party had been interrupted. Similarly, the World Trade Center tragedy merely interrupted the go-go-go-let-the-good-times-roll-dot-com craze. How dare anyone rain on our parade. How dare those terrorists kill our buzz. OMG, what if they blow up the Golden Gate Bridge? What would I do? What would happen to me? Such questions demonstrate how limited your thinking is, how limited by your own prejudices and judgments. Bigots (i.e. terrorists, fags, fundamentalists of every stripe, anyone who rationalizes his opinions by use of fallacy) will be us always. When one fights against discrimination, one does not work to enlarge the circle of what is acceptable; one works to erase the circle entirely. One works to ensure that everyone has his humanity recognized.
Marriage, in part, recognizes that fundamental humanity. Wanting marriage while maintaining that public sex is one's social and historical prerogative is counter-productive, mendacious, fallacious and dumb. Believing that straight folks somehow subvert the system, that straight folks get away with public sex -- spring break, for example -- is off-topic. If you truly do not care what straight folks do or think of you, why bring 'em up? If you want same-sex marriage, fooken stay focused.
Politics is the art of the possible, unquote. Bigots will be with you always; the point is to ensure equal protection and consideration under the law. That's tolerance. If you want a homophobe to love yer queer li'l ass, a-shimmer with lip gloss and body glitter, you are hopeless. Under civil law, there is no reason for a government to compel one to love another; indeed, such a law should never exist. To believe that one should be loved by the world at large for who one is, is to engage in thought so selfish, so monomaniacal, that it's monstrous.
Now, there is a solution -- present a united front against those who back Prop 8 in California. If you say to yourself, "I don't know why any self-respecting gay person would even want to get married," shut the hell up and join the effort. Realize that you need to do more than just rally the flags in your neighborhood. You gotta go from Frisco to the Central Valley, to Fresno, to Inyokern, to El Centro, and meet, talk to the actual voting public. So you stopped traffic at Van Ness and Golden Gate; I'm sure Obama noticed you personally. For once in your life, pretend there's an existence larger than yours, and admit that waiting for someone else to do the good work on your behalf is the same as doing nothing at all.
Quit lying to yourself about those nights spent at Blow Buddies. "I just had to have cock after cock after cock after cock; it had been building inside me all day long; the pressure was too strong, and I had to have it," paints you as a victim of your own desires, desires which you can control (unless you get some sort of bizarre kick out of believing you, as a homosexual, are pathological, though the DSM IV says otherwise). Quit lying to yourself about the nature of lies; quit lying to yourself that everyone lies in bars and online; quit using that as justification for your own mendacity. Quit thinking that you are your own greatest creation. You did not create yourself; something much larger than you did. All you're capable of is adorning yourself. That something much larger than you created you is all the reason one need in order to deserve respect and equality.
Okay, I'm done, at least for now. No doubt similar entries will follow. This is not a particularly happy end for me; this is more like a manifesto than an essay. So take what works, leave the rest and keep thinking about it for a few more days; if you're lucky, it'll make sense to you. One must never underestimate the audience of the confused.
For those who hated this post from the git-go, congratulations on reading this far. Tell us all about your hate, all about your life of fear and sacrifice. Then walk onto southbound 101, sit, and wait for a yuppie-filled SUV to hit you. I can think of no better demise for one who went through his life in abject terror of not being misunderstood.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
August Edema
Am currently recuperating from hernia repair. Two things:
Thing 1 -- I really fooken hate demerol. Makes me moody for about a week.
Thing 2 -- I could use a good houseboy. I fooken hate it when chores get away from me; this place is a fooken dump.
Thing 1 -- I really fooken hate demerol. Makes me moody for about a week.
Thing 2 -- I could use a good houseboy. I fooken hate it when chores get away from me; this place is a fooken dump.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Exsqueeze Me?
This just in:
getmeguy
(04/11 03:06 pm)
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww man you and that dog soooooo cute hooo you cough my soft side of me
Whisky tango foxtrot, over.
getmeguy
(04/11 03:06 pm)
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwww man you and that dog soooooo cute hooo you cough my soft side of me
Whisky tango foxtrot, over.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Two Days Ago in History
My buddy Links deployed to Afghanistan on Saturday. I miss him like hell. He's with my former unit, so I know he's in excellent hands. But godfookendammit, I'm getting real fooken tired of this shit.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Notes on Hot
There's a reason each profile I write online contains the sentence, "Don't give a shit if you think I'm hot; save that bullshit for someone else." Sometimes it's, "Comments, like "you're hot", "hey stud", "hi handsome", "woof" or similar bullshit will simply be ignored (in fact, calling me 'hot' will likely piss me off; if you can't refrain from so commenting, be prepared for a negative response)." It's cuz calling a guy 'hot' communicates nothing; it is a reflection one man's desire for another. "I think you're sex-worthy" is pretty damn dull in terms of conversation, particularly since I ask a man to impress me with his sense of purpose and sense of self.
If some stranger tells me I'm fookable, I'm not impressed. So he finds me fookable; he may rent me for a tidy sum. Most often, the next thing out of his mouth is, "Use me, abuse me." And I am interested in this invitation to his selfishness cuz why?
When I tell a guy that I don't care if he thinks I'm hot, he often responds with disbelief or enmity. "What? You don't care if people don't think you're hot?" as if being hot is the only reason to live.
Sure, I'm as big a sucker for pulchritude as any man. But I have no reason to believe some stranger will be interested in that particular aspect of my opinion. Besides, if I go out to suck down a few beers and sink a few pool balls, what does it matter? I'll talk to anyone; that's the essence of socializing. Ya go out, meet folks ya don't know, spend some time engaged in pleasant conversation, enjoy their mere company. It's pretty ordinary fun, and I like it.
Personally, I think I'm kinda ugly, but I admit to a gift for making ugly look good. I kinda like ugly guys -- Harvey Keitel, Dick Butkus, Gunny Clausen, SSgt Farris -- because their faces have character. They are infinitely memorable; they have a timeless integrity. I don't show my face here cuz it got hit by a truck some years ago; one side has plenty of scarring, and part of my ear is lopped off. An ugly buddy will never lie to you; he has nothing to prove to himself or the world.
Okay, there's another reason I'm reluctant to show my face here -- I'm more interested in people responding to the written word.
If some stranger tells me I'm fookable, I'm not impressed. So he finds me fookable; he may rent me for a tidy sum. Most often, the next thing out of his mouth is, "Use me, abuse me." And I am interested in this invitation to his selfishness cuz why?
When I tell a guy that I don't care if he thinks I'm hot, he often responds with disbelief or enmity. "What? You don't care if people don't think you're hot?" as if being hot is the only reason to live.
Sure, I'm as big a sucker for pulchritude as any man. But I have no reason to believe some stranger will be interested in that particular aspect of my opinion. Besides, if I go out to suck down a few beers and sink a few pool balls, what does it matter? I'll talk to anyone; that's the essence of socializing. Ya go out, meet folks ya don't know, spend some time engaged in pleasant conversation, enjoy their mere company. It's pretty ordinary fun, and I like it.
Personally, I think I'm kinda ugly, but I admit to a gift for making ugly look good. I kinda like ugly guys -- Harvey Keitel, Dick Butkus, Gunny Clausen, SSgt Farris -- because their faces have character. They are infinitely memorable; they have a timeless integrity. I don't show my face here cuz it got hit by a truck some years ago; one side has plenty of scarring, and part of my ear is lopped off. An ugly buddy will never lie to you; he has nothing to prove to himself or the world.
Okay, there's another reason I'm reluctant to show my face here -- I'm more interested in people responding to the written word.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Firewatch on Whelping Day
I celebrated my 46th birthday by getting a haircut. I look fooken sharp. No, you can't see it; I look like every other fooken jarhead. And it was Sunday.
Still going blind, still cranky, still looking for permanent quarters. Currently shacked up in a motel here in Stumps; the building is largely populated by other devildawgs, and this has a certain measure of comfort.
I've been having a couple nights where I am compelled to keep watch. Not that I'm particularly annoyed by keeping watch; indeed, it is one of my favorite duties. But there are times when I don't have watch, when I needn't be vigilant, yet I am pointedly observant and extremely aware of my surroundings. It takes a special touch to calm me down on such nights. There are two men in this world who have such a touch; one is my buddy Joe, who is in overseas for three weeks, and the other is a former b/f who, even though he is so troubled as to believe the world (and I) hates him, is still among a select few treasured individuals who have places in my heart. We'll call him Echo Five.
I don't know how Joe or Echo Five do it. They know how to get my attention when I'm so far gone I don't respond to my name. They know how to remind me of my better angels, no matter how bad I want to tear out some cockbite's throat. They can stop me before I do something shameful.
I wish I knew where Echo Five was, but he will not talk to me; he tells himself I hate him, though I do not. He tells himself he is unworthy of love. He tells himself he is a bad man, when in his heart and soul, he is not. I often think of him when I keep watch like this.
I miss my brothers. I want them with me. Echo Five, this is Alphadawg, come back. Dragon 17, this is Alphadawg, come back. 40 Wax, Hitman, Bri-baby, Red Dawg, this is Alphadawg actual, come back.
Still going blind, still cranky, still looking for permanent quarters. Currently shacked up in a motel here in Stumps; the building is largely populated by other devildawgs, and this has a certain measure of comfort.
I've been having a couple nights where I am compelled to keep watch. Not that I'm particularly annoyed by keeping watch; indeed, it is one of my favorite duties. But there are times when I don't have watch, when I needn't be vigilant, yet I am pointedly observant and extremely aware of my surroundings. It takes a special touch to calm me down on such nights. There are two men in this world who have such a touch; one is my buddy Joe, who is in overseas for three weeks, and the other is a former b/f who, even though he is so troubled as to believe the world (and I) hates him, is still among a select few treasured individuals who have places in my heart. We'll call him Echo Five.
I don't know how Joe or Echo Five do it. They know how to get my attention when I'm so far gone I don't respond to my name. They know how to remind me of my better angels, no matter how bad I want to tear out some cockbite's throat. They can stop me before I do something shameful.
I wish I knew where Echo Five was, but he will not talk to me; he tells himself I hate him, though I do not. He tells himself he is unworthy of love. He tells himself he is a bad man, when in his heart and soul, he is not. I often think of him when I keep watch like this.
I miss my brothers. I want them with me. Echo Five, this is Alphadawg, come back. Dragon 17, this is Alphadawg, come back. 40 Wax, Hitman, Bri-baby, Red Dawg, this is Alphadawg actual, come back.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
A Nous La Liberte
seektopstud
(01/30 04:01 am)
seektopstud sent you a grope.
BigDumbDawg
(01/30 11:10 am)
Something on yer mind?
seektopstud
(01/30 02:20 pm)
Dang guy you are on my mind wish I was in CA. I like your rugged handsome looks. Gotta say you are one hott fucker thx from O'Dell
BigDumbDawg
(01/30 07:49 pm)
Read the profile; see what happens, heh heh.
seektopstud
(01/31 04:20 pm)
well read your profile. it reads like you prob will be single for a long time.looks is not an issue with me. but what is inside a man.pretty is for girls. to hit another is disrespect and how can you as a man disrespect and be respected.I may be way off base but the whole bio is not about you but of how great you are unto yourself and to be your partner a guy would have to be like you real life its just not going to happen so the Question I have for you is this bio meant to scare people off from you as For being HIV not an issue .that can be worked around neg here. my name is O'Dell and do think you are a very handsome man outwardly As for me no time for gay drama never been in a gay bar gay nothing. I like hunting camping fishing horse backing biking hiking weightlifting fleamarkets and home life and a one on one relation ship
BigDumbDawg
(01/31 05:13 pm)
You and I are clearly not meant to know one another.
Deke
seektopstud
(02/01 11:44 am)
maybe so but I gotta say I still like your rugged good looks
BigDumbDawg
(02/01 12:23 pm)
And I'm sure such reflections on your taste in men will appreciate in the fullness of time. Now, leave me be.
I sigh for the world. I weep for language, particularly for an appalling lack of punctuation, but I fooken sigh for the world.
(01/30 04:01 am)
seektopstud sent you a grope.
BigDumbDawg
(01/30 11:10 am)
Something on yer mind?
seektopstud
(01/30 02:20 pm)
Dang guy you are on my mind wish I was in CA. I like your rugged handsome looks. Gotta say you are one hott fucker thx from O'Dell
BigDumbDawg
(01/30 07:49 pm)
Read the profile; see what happens, heh heh.
seektopstud
(01/31 04:20 pm)
well read your profile. it reads like you prob will be single for a long time.looks is not an issue with me. but what is inside a man.pretty is for girls. to hit another is disrespect and how can you as a man disrespect and be respected.I may be way off base but the whole bio is not about you but of how great you are unto yourself and to be your partner a guy would have to be like you real life its just not going to happen so the Question I have for you is this bio meant to scare people off from you as For being HIV not an issue .that can be worked around neg here. my name is O'Dell and do think you are a very handsome man outwardly As for me no time for gay drama never been in a gay bar gay nothing. I like hunting camping fishing horse backing biking hiking weightlifting fleamarkets and home life and a one on one relation ship
BigDumbDawg
(01/31 05:13 pm)
You and I are clearly not meant to know one another.
Deke
seektopstud
(02/01 11:44 am)
maybe so but I gotta say I still like your rugged good looks
BigDumbDawg
(02/01 12:23 pm)
And I'm sure such reflections on your taste in men will appreciate in the fullness of time. Now, leave me be.
I sigh for the world. I weep for language, particularly for an appalling lack of punctuation, but I fooken sigh for the world.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Diplomatic Immunity
Onward into the fog -- italmex sez of himself, "Very successful,single, well-grounded, fit and stable, ex-jock, ex-military masculine man enjoys the company of other fit masculine guys who are into sports, outdoors and simple fun. The pic is recent and accurate. I'm buddhist, which means low stress, never been drunk and never done drugs. These factors, plus genetics, has kept me looking and feeling young. I have no medical, or mental issues I have to deal with at this stage in my life, (or i'm too crazy to know any better!). Nothing is more attractive to me than to see a mature man, over 40, who is in great shape physically and has a strong mental, physical and spiritual foundation."
I'm always interested in conversing with other former service types, so I opened with a customary query --
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 12:08 am)
Which branch of the service were you in?
Deke
italmex
(01/27 08:54 am)
Navy!
Jim
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 01:08 pm)
I am certain that despite that small lapse in good judgment, you are a good man. Where were you stationed?
Spent most of my time at Camp Pendleton with a couple TDY to Stumps (and a week at Lejeune). Swore I'd never return here of my own free will, yet here I am, and the longer I stay, the more it feels like home.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 04:39 pm)
My last duty station was in alameda, but many years ago (mid 70's), i was an enlisted grunt corpman in Camp Pendleton; stationed at camp margarita...had fun..
29 palms is not what i'd call shangrila, but if you're happy there, more power to ya bud..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 04:48 pm)
Holy shit -- they had you in the fooken sticks at Pen. I was mainside, but would spend the occasional night at Margarita or Horno.
Stumps is indeed a pit. The base, that is, heh heh. Okay, the town isn't much better, but the longer I stay, the more it feels like home. I like having other devildawgs around me; they are my people.
Corpsman? I owe you beer on general principle.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 04:56 pm)
thas right...little respect around here is much appreciated...retired as an "O'...LCDR...surface warfare officer..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 06:17 pm)
Fook, now I'm conflicted. I'd have to piss in yer coffee for being SWO, but must ply you with beer for being a corpsman. We'll go with the beer.
Exited as GySGT. Have all the warmth of the rank, too, heh heh.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 06:20 pm)
you must be very popular at the tool shed in Palm springs...
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 06:33 pm)
I wouldn't know; I don't go there. Too damn loud, don't care for the crowd.
italmex
(01/27 07:13 pm)
hmm, totally understand...are u poz bud?
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 07:34 pm)
Am I poz? That's a helluva question to ask a stranger. What's your interest?
Deke
italmex
(01/27 07:37 pm)
just curious...are u offended by that? if so, why?
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 07:43 pm)
Bucko, if you are unable to respect a man's boundaries on face value, I do not feel compelled to justify mine. As I said, it's a helluva question to ask a stranger.
My opinion regarding HIV status is in my profile.
italmex
(01/27 07:46 pm)
sounds like you got some issues bro...
maybe your profile shoulda said BigDumbAss..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 08:49 pm)
Maybe yours shoulda said SWO_Syndrome.
-------------
"I'm a Buddhist, which means low stress, never been drunk and never done drugs." That's gotta be the strangest post-hoc reasoning I've come across. I guess it also means, "I'm a pompous cockbite who recognizes the validity of his own feelings above those of others, which means I'm allowed to ask loaded questions for small talk."
My line on HIV in the profile? "If HIV status is an issue, I'm not you're man; this is not a circuitous way of revealing my sero-status, rather it is a direct way of saying I don't tolerate the petty bullshit associated with twats who demand I be one or the other before they'll acknowledge my humanity or desirability."
When did making boundaries clear come to mean "having issues"?
I'm always interested in conversing with other former service types, so I opened with a customary query --
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 12:08 am)
Which branch of the service were you in?
Deke
italmex
(01/27 08:54 am)
Navy!
Jim
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 01:08 pm)
I am certain that despite that small lapse in good judgment, you are a good man. Where were you stationed?
Spent most of my time at Camp Pendleton with a couple TDY to Stumps (and a week at Lejeune). Swore I'd never return here of my own free will, yet here I am, and the longer I stay, the more it feels like home.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 04:39 pm)
My last duty station was in alameda, but many years ago (mid 70's), i was an enlisted grunt corpman in Camp Pendleton; stationed at camp margarita...had fun..
29 palms is not what i'd call shangrila, but if you're happy there, more power to ya bud..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 04:48 pm)
Holy shit -- they had you in the fooken sticks at Pen. I was mainside, but would spend the occasional night at Margarita or Horno.
Stumps is indeed a pit. The base, that is, heh heh. Okay, the town isn't much better, but the longer I stay, the more it feels like home. I like having other devildawgs around me; they are my people.
Corpsman? I owe you beer on general principle.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 04:56 pm)
thas right...little respect around here is much appreciated...retired as an "O'...LCDR...surface warfare officer..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 06:17 pm)
Fook, now I'm conflicted. I'd have to piss in yer coffee for being SWO, but must ply you with beer for being a corpsman. We'll go with the beer.
Exited as GySGT. Have all the warmth of the rank, too, heh heh.
Deke
italmex
(01/27 06:20 pm)
you must be very popular at the tool shed in Palm springs...
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 06:33 pm)
I wouldn't know; I don't go there. Too damn loud, don't care for the crowd.
italmex
(01/27 07:13 pm)
hmm, totally understand...are u poz bud?
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 07:34 pm)
Am I poz? That's a helluva question to ask a stranger. What's your interest?
Deke
italmex
(01/27 07:37 pm)
just curious...are u offended by that? if so, why?
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 07:43 pm)
Bucko, if you are unable to respect a man's boundaries on face value, I do not feel compelled to justify mine. As I said, it's a helluva question to ask a stranger.
My opinion regarding HIV status is in my profile.
italmex
(01/27 07:46 pm)
sounds like you got some issues bro...
maybe your profile shoulda said BigDumbAss..
BigDumbDawg
(01/27 08:49 pm)
Maybe yours shoulda said SWO_Syndrome.
-------------
"I'm a Buddhist, which means low stress, never been drunk and never done drugs." That's gotta be the strangest post-hoc reasoning I've come across. I guess it also means, "I'm a pompous cockbite who recognizes the validity of his own feelings above those of others, which means I'm allowed to ask loaded questions for small talk."
My line on HIV in the profile? "If HIV status is an issue, I'm not you're man; this is not a circuitous way of revealing my sero-status, rather it is a direct way of saying I don't tolerate the petty bullshit associated with twats who demand I be one or the other before they'll acknowledge my humanity or desirability."
When did making boundaries clear come to mean "having issues"?
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Hirsutitude, No Extra Charge
Annent the troubling spread of crotch shaving among men:
Popular opinion sez shaving makes yer dick look bigger. It doesn't. It makes your dick look bald. It also makes open, running sores easier to spot.
'Nuff said.
Of course, that doesn't mean I'm above shaving a guy. It's kinda nice to remind a fella who's alpha and who's bravo.
(One time, when I was 19, I had occasion to visit the local STD clinic. Had an enormous, and I mean fooken gigantic pustule on my wang. Naturally, I freaked. After being interviewed by a 400-pound dyke with an east Texas accent, dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt ("Yoo have a shanker on yer pay-nis?"), I was directed to a cubicle with a drawn curtain. The doc on staff came in, took a look, said, "Holy shit, that's the biggest ingrown hair I've ever seen. You can just express it." Whereupon he grabbed my member in his gloved hands, and squeezed the zit -- which promptly spewed the contents of Satan's own gall bladder all over the walls. I was instructed to dress it with triple-antibiotic ointment and discharged.)
Popular opinion sez shaving makes yer dick look bigger. It doesn't. It makes your dick look bald. It also makes open, running sores easier to spot.
'Nuff said.
Of course, that doesn't mean I'm above shaving a guy. It's kinda nice to remind a fella who's alpha and who's bravo.
(One time, when I was 19, I had occasion to visit the local STD clinic. Had an enormous, and I mean fooken gigantic pustule on my wang. Naturally, I freaked. After being interviewed by a 400-pound dyke with an east Texas accent, dressed in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt ("Yoo have a shanker on yer pay-nis?"), I was directed to a cubicle with a drawn curtain. The doc on staff came in, took a look, said, "Holy shit, that's the biggest ingrown hair I've ever seen. You can just express it." Whereupon he grabbed my member in his gloved hands, and squeezed the zit -- which promptly spewed the contents of Satan's own gall bladder all over the walls. I was instructed to dress it with triple-antibiotic ointment and discharged.)
Friday, January 18, 2008
The Whiffenpoof Song
I'm going blind. Macular degeneration. Fair eyes, fair skin; it happens, though docs are a little surprised to find it in me. No cure, little treatment. I deal poorly with this.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
We're Having Much More Fun
Once again, an example of the glorious psychosis that is online profiles. BTW, for those who don't know, I'm BigDumbDawg; the profile in question is reprinted in the very first -- maybe second -- post of this very blog.
Are we all lit?
militaryrecruit
(01/07 12:22 am)
militaryrecruit sent you a grope.
militaryrecruit
(01/07 12:22 am)
militaryrecruit has unlocked his private photos for you.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 12:47 am)
Something on yer mind, recruit?
militaryrecruit
(01/07 01:15 am)
Yes Sir............Something is on my mind. Would like to be dominated
by you SIR ?
john
---- Now, a little editorial: a "grope" here is a pre-fabricated message the website maintains; it's meant to encourage contact, but frankly, a man who can't express himself in his own words doesn't impress me.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 01:42 am)
Fooken fags never bother reading my profile. Educate yourself before
making your move.
militaryrecruit
(01/07 05:02 pm)
BigDumbDawg...........Fuck Face..........I've read your pathetic
attempt at describing yourself and the type of realationship you are
trying to pursue. LoL's !!!
So you are a big, tough, old, alphamale ex marine.
You sound more like a whining, desperate, self loathing, cynical,
jaded, lonely, aging middle aged, aging old lady. Worrying about her
spent youth !!!
You sound more like a FUCK HEAD than a JARHEAD !!! I quess the USMC
doesn't teach their recruit's about interpersonal skills in dealing
with people.
So you think .......That you are the Big Brother Type !!!
........That's really laughable !!!
The truth is that you are an middled 45 year old guy who is scarred to
death that his time to find a partner and a LTR is running out.
As you know 45 years old is almost half a century year old. You are
pre-historic dinosour in the gay world where youth and masculinity and
virility is of prime importance to a potential life partner.
Marine like yourself are know to be arrogant, self centered, non
monogamous, promiscuous and sex pigs. I'm sure are no different.
Have you taked a good look in the mirror lately ????
You are getting older !!!
You are getting wrinkled.
You sexual virilty, arousal, and stamina are slowing down to a crawl
You have no personality
You are bitter
You are judgemental
You are jaded
You are cynical
You are narcissistic
You are self absorbed
You are selfish
You are self serving
You are sarcastic
You are arrogant
These are only a few of the adjectives that describe BIGDUMBDOG
I truth you are a lonely, pathetic, old ex-marine who is aging out and
frightened of spending the rest of his life alone.
DaddyHunt is the end of the line when someone over the hill is making
their last pitch to find sex
Conterary to your lilimited intelligence DaddtHunt is a SEX LINE........
Not a Dating Line
No Romanace
No Flowers
No Long Walks on the Beach
No LTR's
No Prince Charmings
No guys without baggage
Just pure unadulterated RAW SEX !!!
At 25 when you were at your sexual and physical peak .........You were
promiscuous and fucking every guy that walked.
You should have been looking to settle down with MR Right when you
were 25. Unfortunately, you are far too narcissistic and hedonistic
too settle down with one guy.
Your ad says that you are looking for a redhead, with muscles, ink,
former AD, Military, Brains, and a heart younger than yourself.
BigDumbDog........I'm sure you've got a long list of perfect guys
fitting your precise. pre-qualifying, narrowly defined guy banging
down your door ...............
Just waiting to date and serve a Jewish American Princess like you........LOL's
You are so irresistible !!!! .......Huh ???
BigDumbDog.........If you really live in 29 Palms as you say you do............
Then why are you so desperate to advertise for a relationship on a web
site that caters to men at least 45 years old and older ????
Twenty Nine Palms is crawling you young handsome buffed USMC guys
pratically living in your backyard.
If you as hot as you say you are.........Why haven't you met a hot
muscular USMC dude in a gym of bar ????
There is no doubt that you have issues questioning your manliness and
masculinity.
You say you would rather punch a guys face in and blacken his eyes or
split his lips rather than kiss a MAN
Sounds like you are still questioning and fearful of your
homosexuality and sexual orientation.
You sound like a a certain percentage of Marines who are sexually
conflicted and sexually confused about your homosexuality
You are constantly trying to prove to the world the you are
BIG.....BAD ......and BUTCH .........and you think it makes the world
believe that you are straight .......As well as yourself
The fact os that you are the opposite of the smoke and mirror image
you try to project to the world.
You are really fearful of aging
Fearful of being old and alone
Fearful of Rejection of your
HIV + status
Fearful of losing your sexual
virilty and stamina with aging.
PS..............If so many women are chasing you ..........It's
because you are so insecure that you are flirting with them pretending
that you are straight to reinforce your poor self image and shame
about being a HOMO.
Needless to say .......You have probably been a promiscuous whore
throughtout your life that has resulted in your HIV + status.
Apparently you seem to indicate that you have matured and sex is no
longer your primary interest.......
You now want a LTR !!!
Your ad says that you have desirablity and humanity. You sure had me
fooled. I haven't seen it
You need to take a good look in the mirror BIGDUMBDOG
You think you are perfect !!! But your not
We all have baggage ......Dude.........
Going through life produces baggage for all of us.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 08:44 pm)
The lady doth protest too much.
Reader, I blocked him.
Are we all lit?
militaryrecruit
(01/07 12:22 am)
militaryrecruit sent you a grope.
militaryrecruit
(01/07 12:22 am)
militaryrecruit has unlocked his private photos for you.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 12:47 am)
Something on yer mind, recruit?
militaryrecruit
(01/07 01:15 am)
Yes Sir............Something is on my mind. Would like to be dominated
by you SIR ?
john
---- Now, a little editorial: a "grope" here is a pre-fabricated message the website maintains; it's meant to encourage contact, but frankly, a man who can't express himself in his own words doesn't impress me.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 01:42 am)
Fooken fags never bother reading my profile. Educate yourself before
making your move.
militaryrecruit
(01/07 05:02 pm)
BigDumbDawg...........Fuck Face..........I've read your pathetic
attempt at describing yourself and the type of realationship you are
trying to pursue. LoL's !!!
So you are a big, tough, old, alphamale ex marine.
You sound more like a whining, desperate, self loathing, cynical,
jaded, lonely, aging middle aged, aging old lady. Worrying about her
spent youth !!!
You sound more like a FUCK HEAD than a JARHEAD !!! I quess the USMC
doesn't teach their recruit's about interpersonal skills in dealing
with people.
So you think .......That you are the Big Brother Type !!!
........That's really laughable !!!
The truth is that you are an middled 45 year old guy who is scarred to
death that his time to find a partner and a LTR is running out.
As you know 45 years old is almost half a century year old. You are
pre-historic dinosour in the gay world where youth and masculinity and
virility is of prime importance to a potential life partner.
Marine like yourself are know to be arrogant, self centered, non
monogamous, promiscuous and sex pigs. I'm sure are no different.
Have you taked a good look in the mirror lately ????
You are getting older !!!
You are getting wrinkled.
You sexual virilty, arousal, and stamina are slowing down to a crawl
You have no personality
You are bitter
You are judgemental
You are jaded
You are cynical
You are narcissistic
You are self absorbed
You are selfish
You are self serving
You are sarcastic
You are arrogant
These are only a few of the adjectives that describe BIGDUMBDOG
I truth you are a lonely, pathetic, old ex-marine who is aging out and
frightened of spending the rest of his life alone.
DaddyHunt is the end of the line when someone over the hill is making
their last pitch to find sex
Conterary to your lilimited intelligence DaddtHunt is a SEX LINE........
Not a Dating Line
No Romanace
No Flowers
No Long Walks on the Beach
No LTR's
No Prince Charmings
No guys without baggage
Just pure unadulterated RAW SEX !!!
At 25 when you were at your sexual and physical peak .........You were
promiscuous and fucking every guy that walked.
You should have been looking to settle down with MR Right when you
were 25. Unfortunately, you are far too narcissistic and hedonistic
too settle down with one guy.
Your ad says that you are looking for a redhead, with muscles, ink,
former AD, Military, Brains, and a heart younger than yourself.
BigDumbDog........I'm sure you've got a long list of perfect guys
fitting your precise. pre-qualifying, narrowly defined guy banging
down your door ...............
Just waiting to date and serve a Jewish American Princess like you........LOL's
You are so irresistible !!!! .......Huh ???
BigDumbDog.........If you really live in 29 Palms as you say you do............
Then why are you so desperate to advertise for a relationship on a web
site that caters to men at least 45 years old and older ????
Twenty Nine Palms is crawling you young handsome buffed USMC guys
pratically living in your backyard.
If you as hot as you say you are.........Why haven't you met a hot
muscular USMC dude in a gym of bar ????
There is no doubt that you have issues questioning your manliness and
masculinity.
You say you would rather punch a guys face in and blacken his eyes or
split his lips rather than kiss a MAN
Sounds like you are still questioning and fearful of your
homosexuality and sexual orientation.
You sound like a a certain percentage of Marines who are sexually
conflicted and sexually confused about your homosexuality
You are constantly trying to prove to the world the you are
BIG.....BAD ......and BUTCH .........and you think it makes the world
believe that you are straight .......As well as yourself
The fact os that you are the opposite of the smoke and mirror image
you try to project to the world.
You are really fearful of aging
Fearful of being old and alone
Fearful of Rejection of your
HIV + status
Fearful of losing your sexual
virilty and stamina with aging.
PS..............If so many women are chasing you ..........It's
because you are so insecure that you are flirting with them pretending
that you are straight to reinforce your poor self image and shame
about being a HOMO.
Needless to say .......You have probably been a promiscuous whore
throughtout your life that has resulted in your HIV + status.
Apparently you seem to indicate that you have matured and sex is no
longer your primary interest.......
You now want a LTR !!!
Your ad says that you have desirablity and humanity. You sure had me
fooled. I haven't seen it
You need to take a good look in the mirror BIGDUMBDOG
You think you are perfect !!! But your not
We all have baggage ......Dude.........
Going through life produces baggage for all of us.
BigDumbDawg
(01/07 08:44 pm)
The lady doth protest too much.
Reader, I blocked him.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
The Mundane World
I could say my shrink made me write this, but what the fook. He's encouraged me to simply write down and spew, get shit off my chest so that it doesn't gather, and in the gathering, gain power. So I'll do my damnedest to simply write this entry. Pretend I'm Jack Kerouac -- had the worst high school crush on him in, well, high school. C'mon, we know what went on between him and Cassaday.
Over the summer, I was involved with a guy. At first, he said he didn't want a long-term relationship (having just gotten out of a three-way LTR, and having an ex-wife made it clear to him, he said, that he didn't want such a thing). Three weeks later, he said he loved me and wanted me to collar him. He had a nickname I gave him inked across his shoulders, on his back. He was the only man I played with during that time; truly the only man I was interested in. He said he wanted a monogamous relationship, that he wanted to be the only man who got my load (in so many words).
We played rough. I whipped him, I pierced him, I shoved my hand deep in his pussy and made him shoot hard. I stuck sounds in his cock, I electrocuted parts of him, I made him bleed and got his blood on my chest and belly, and goddamn did I fook him. I fooked him with my cock and balls full up in him. I fooked him good and goddamn I fooken liked it.
I started noticing certain changes in myself. I'd find myself thinking of him and I'd cuss. I'd hear a song and think of him. I'd see a pair of shorts he gave me and think of him, and goddamn I'd cuss. I'd cuss him, but mostly I cussed me. Because I could feel an attraction to him increasing. I could feel my own feelings for him develop; I am not always comfortable with this.
With me, cussing is always a sign I'm letting my guard down. A buddy of mine once said, "The tenderest hearts have the toughest armor," and fook, there it was, coming down, opening up, piece by piece. And this man kept saying he wanted to be the only man in my life, the only one for me and I was right there with him. I wanted him to be the only one.
I set aside a time to tell him my feelings. I said when I wanted to see him, that I had to get something off my chest. He asked if it was anything bad; I said no, it's all good, that I just need to say some stuff and I want to do it to his face.
I am not always comfortable being a passionate man. I enlisted in the USMC cuz I needed a job; I ended up fighting beside my buddies because I fooken loved them, not for love of country or sense of patriotic duty. I would not stand to let them come to harm, either in the field or in the mundane world. Marines wear our hearts on our sleeves, for all the world to see, although the world usually does not like to see it.
The world prefers its icons to remain iconic.
Early Saturday morning, around 0400, a message came to me via yahoo messsenger. A URL, a newspaper story, in which I had been quoted. A reporter came to the tattoo place when the man was getting my nickname for him inked on his back; wanted to do a story about Marines and tattoos.
I fooken hate reporters. I fooken HATE reporters, probably cuz I've worked in journalism, but more likely because of another part of my history I will not discuss here. Suffice it to say, I know how reporters are: they will write what they will, they will cant the story how they will, no matter how much nuance and subtlety a source may give them. So I had no trouble giving him a fake name, and letting him believe a particular scar on my body was due to a roadside bomb. I told a story to a storyteller. What I happily gave him were insights into why Marines ink their bodies; how Marines are, contrary to the popular myth, very open about why they do what they do, open about their love of their brothers. How Marines are feeling men, passionate men. It may get sloppy -- I'm not denying that -- but it is undeniable.
Suddenly, to this man, this man who wanted to be the only man for me, who wanted to wear my collar, I was a liar. And this reflected poorly on him, for he had little kids, 10-year-olds, who looked up to him in martial arts classes. HE TRUSTED ME!!! he said. And I lied. He did not look at the situation; anything I said in my defense, even as I spoke my piece to him -- online, which I fooken hate doing because it seems cowardly -- did not matter. Nothing mattered to him except the vehemence of his own feelings. He said he no longer wanted to talk to me, ever.
Three days later, I got an email from him, in which he said he did not wish to burn bridges. While any opportunities for a deeper relationship were gone, he wished to be friends. I thanked him for his grace. He wrote back saying I shouldn't thank him, that it was a mutual friend of ours who convinced him to forgive me. And wasn't this mutual friend a "hot little fucker."
Two days after that, he told me he was flying cross-country to meet this other man face to face. One week after that, he wrote to tell me what a great time he had in the sack, what a wonderfully kinky little fucker this little fucker is.
As for me, my heart was broken each time he told me about this new guy. One week, he loved me, wanted to be the only man who got my cock, my load, my intimacy. The next, he was off and away. Had I even existed? He had previously complained of how his own ex put him in the position of being relationship counselor for the third who had entered their relationship; and here I was, being put in the same position. This new man was active-duty military. "My feelings tell me my husband has deployed and I may never see him again," not even three weeks after he had said he loved me, my hand buried up in him, up his ass, feeling his heartbeat with my fingers, my lips pressed against his, grease and mucous dripping on my tattooed arm, my own heart quickly falling after his.
And I'm supposed to be open. How do I get any more open? My feelings are there for all to see; whose fault is it when those who see them do not acknowledge them, do not recognize them?
Over the summer, I was involved with a guy. At first, he said he didn't want a long-term relationship (having just gotten out of a three-way LTR, and having an ex-wife made it clear to him, he said, that he didn't want such a thing). Three weeks later, he said he loved me and wanted me to collar him. He had a nickname I gave him inked across his shoulders, on his back. He was the only man I played with during that time; truly the only man I was interested in. He said he wanted a monogamous relationship, that he wanted to be the only man who got my load (in so many words).
We played rough. I whipped him, I pierced him, I shoved my hand deep in his pussy and made him shoot hard. I stuck sounds in his cock, I electrocuted parts of him, I made him bleed and got his blood on my chest and belly, and goddamn did I fook him. I fooked him with my cock and balls full up in him. I fooked him good and goddamn I fooken liked it.
I started noticing certain changes in myself. I'd find myself thinking of him and I'd cuss. I'd hear a song and think of him. I'd see a pair of shorts he gave me and think of him, and goddamn I'd cuss. I'd cuss him, but mostly I cussed me. Because I could feel an attraction to him increasing. I could feel my own feelings for him develop; I am not always comfortable with this.
With me, cussing is always a sign I'm letting my guard down. A buddy of mine once said, "The tenderest hearts have the toughest armor," and fook, there it was, coming down, opening up, piece by piece. And this man kept saying he wanted to be the only man in my life, the only one for me and I was right there with him. I wanted him to be the only one.
I set aside a time to tell him my feelings. I said when I wanted to see him, that I had to get something off my chest. He asked if it was anything bad; I said no, it's all good, that I just need to say some stuff and I want to do it to his face.
I am not always comfortable being a passionate man. I enlisted in the USMC cuz I needed a job; I ended up fighting beside my buddies because I fooken loved them, not for love of country or sense of patriotic duty. I would not stand to let them come to harm, either in the field or in the mundane world. Marines wear our hearts on our sleeves, for all the world to see, although the world usually does not like to see it.
The world prefers its icons to remain iconic.
Early Saturday morning, around 0400, a message came to me via yahoo messsenger. A URL, a newspaper story, in which I had been quoted. A reporter came to the tattoo place when the man was getting my nickname for him inked on his back; wanted to do a story about Marines and tattoos.
I fooken hate reporters. I fooken HATE reporters, probably cuz I've worked in journalism, but more likely because of another part of my history I will not discuss here. Suffice it to say, I know how reporters are: they will write what they will, they will cant the story how they will, no matter how much nuance and subtlety a source may give them. So I had no trouble giving him a fake name, and letting him believe a particular scar on my body was due to a roadside bomb. I told a story to a storyteller. What I happily gave him were insights into why Marines ink their bodies; how Marines are, contrary to the popular myth, very open about why they do what they do, open about their love of their brothers. How Marines are feeling men, passionate men. It may get sloppy -- I'm not denying that -- but it is undeniable.
Suddenly, to this man, this man who wanted to be the only man for me, who wanted to wear my collar, I was a liar. And this reflected poorly on him, for he had little kids, 10-year-olds, who looked up to him in martial arts classes. HE TRUSTED ME!!! he said. And I lied. He did not look at the situation; anything I said in my defense, even as I spoke my piece to him -- online, which I fooken hate doing because it seems cowardly -- did not matter. Nothing mattered to him except the vehemence of his own feelings. He said he no longer wanted to talk to me, ever.
Three days later, I got an email from him, in which he said he did not wish to burn bridges. While any opportunities for a deeper relationship were gone, he wished to be friends. I thanked him for his grace. He wrote back saying I shouldn't thank him, that it was a mutual friend of ours who convinced him to forgive me. And wasn't this mutual friend a "hot little fucker."
Two days after that, he told me he was flying cross-country to meet this other man face to face. One week after that, he wrote to tell me what a great time he had in the sack, what a wonderfully kinky little fucker this little fucker is.
As for me, my heart was broken each time he told me about this new guy. One week, he loved me, wanted to be the only man who got my cock, my load, my intimacy. The next, he was off and away. Had I even existed? He had previously complained of how his own ex put him in the position of being relationship counselor for the third who had entered their relationship; and here I was, being put in the same position. This new man was active-duty military. "My feelings tell me my husband has deployed and I may never see him again," not even three weeks after he had said he loved me, my hand buried up in him, up his ass, feeling his heartbeat with my fingers, my lips pressed against his, grease and mucous dripping on my tattooed arm, my own heart quickly falling after his.
And I'm supposed to be open. How do I get any more open? My feelings are there for all to see; whose fault is it when those who see them do not acknowledge them, do not recognize them?
Friday, December 28, 2007
Emerging
At long last, it's winter. So I'm coming out of my little hiatus. Live in fear.
I've been busying myself reading this book, 'Party Monster'. It purports to be "a fabulous but true story of murder in Clubland". Hoo-boy, one can hardly wait.
Now, I enjoy a good melodramatic and steamy story as much as anyone. But there is a conceit these days with memoir: one must portray oneself as having some flaw in order to make oneself believable. And the author here, James St James, has flaws aplenty, and they're not confined to his writing and story-telling skills.
In short, it's the story of a young man with borderline personality disorder who, in the course of building his reputation and 'power', did a lot of drugs, excused any and all damaging behaviors around him, and killed a man. Very titillating, to be sure. But St James never sees the obvious; he begs us, as we read, to "understand" why his pals made the choices they did. And understanding means 'look at us, we're all fabulous and high on ketamine and heroin and crack and cocaine and we made such a splash, we put downtown New York ON THE MAP and, oh, did I mention we were fabulous?'
The reader is meant to open his heart to these poor drug-addled folk cuz, well, they're drug-addled and they just can't help themselves. They can't see themselves for the messes they are, and this is meant to evoke our pity. But hey, everyone was doing it (and they were fabulous, too).
Never at any time does St James apologize for his behavior. He writes, now and then, that he is ashamed of what he does, but clearly glories in his tales of debauchery. All along, he eschews any sort of judgment, any sort of attempt at real understanding of what he's involved with, just how damaging it is, not just for him but for the community around him. It is a book peopled with those who forgot they ever left high school. Indeed, revenge on his school tormentors seems to be part of the motivation for writing the book: 'Look who's the cool kid now!'
Curiously, this story was made into a movie twice, both times by the same producers. First it was a documentary, then it was a dramatization of St James' book. One wonders why the producers would feel so strongly about presenting the material twice: money? fame? success? glamor? the sheer ability to bring to the screen the same story twice, each within years of each other?
Why would one wish to 'understand' the exploits of a man with borderline personality disorder? There is no understanding to such a thing; it simply is. We've all had the boss from hell, the aggressively needy but somehow charming friend or parent. There's nothing new here, and yet it gets lavished with attention, even when it says it does not wish to call attention to itself.
And this, at long last, is our topic: the oft-quoted line that 'drag is the mask that tells the truth'. I submit it is not. Drag -- typically gay men dressing outlandishly in order to get away with obnoxious behavior they wouldn't ordinarily manifest, but anyone may dress or behave so -- calls attention to oneself, not one's ideas. One *wears* drag; one is *not* drag itself. It is in this way that gay men (okay, fags) and fundamentalist Christians find themselves in common practice: fundies say 'marriage is an institution which must remain unsullied', and fags say, 'drag is the mask that tells the truth', when the flaw both commit is reification. (Oh, look it up.) Essentially, they hold some thing in such esteem that it becomes something more than the thing itself, more than the concept itself. It is on some high pedestal, unreachable by mere mortals, having been put there by god himself.
Ack.
Sure, we'll always have an abundance of intellectual rubbish. But dammit, this shit gets to me sometimes.
I've been busying myself reading this book, 'Party Monster'. It purports to be "a fabulous but true story of murder in Clubland". Hoo-boy, one can hardly wait.
Now, I enjoy a good melodramatic and steamy story as much as anyone. But there is a conceit these days with memoir: one must portray oneself as having some flaw in order to make oneself believable. And the author here, James St James, has flaws aplenty, and they're not confined to his writing and story-telling skills.
In short, it's the story of a young man with borderline personality disorder who, in the course of building his reputation and 'power', did a lot of drugs, excused any and all damaging behaviors around him, and killed a man. Very titillating, to be sure. But St James never sees the obvious; he begs us, as we read, to "understand" why his pals made the choices they did. And understanding means 'look at us, we're all fabulous and high on ketamine and heroin and crack and cocaine and we made such a splash, we put downtown New York ON THE MAP and, oh, did I mention we were fabulous?'
The reader is meant to open his heart to these poor drug-addled folk cuz, well, they're drug-addled and they just can't help themselves. They can't see themselves for the messes they are, and this is meant to evoke our pity. But hey, everyone was doing it (and they were fabulous, too).
Never at any time does St James apologize for his behavior. He writes, now and then, that he is ashamed of what he does, but clearly glories in his tales of debauchery. All along, he eschews any sort of judgment, any sort of attempt at real understanding of what he's involved with, just how damaging it is, not just for him but for the community around him. It is a book peopled with those who forgot they ever left high school. Indeed, revenge on his school tormentors seems to be part of the motivation for writing the book: 'Look who's the cool kid now!'
Curiously, this story was made into a movie twice, both times by the same producers. First it was a documentary, then it was a dramatization of St James' book. One wonders why the producers would feel so strongly about presenting the material twice: money? fame? success? glamor? the sheer ability to bring to the screen the same story twice, each within years of each other?
Why would one wish to 'understand' the exploits of a man with borderline personality disorder? There is no understanding to such a thing; it simply is. We've all had the boss from hell, the aggressively needy but somehow charming friend or parent. There's nothing new here, and yet it gets lavished with attention, even when it says it does not wish to call attention to itself.
And this, at long last, is our topic: the oft-quoted line that 'drag is the mask that tells the truth'. I submit it is not. Drag -- typically gay men dressing outlandishly in order to get away with obnoxious behavior they wouldn't ordinarily manifest, but anyone may dress or behave so -- calls attention to oneself, not one's ideas. One *wears* drag; one is *not* drag itself. It is in this way that gay men (okay, fags) and fundamentalist Christians find themselves in common practice: fundies say 'marriage is an institution which must remain unsullied', and fags say, 'drag is the mask that tells the truth', when the flaw both commit is reification. (Oh, look it up.) Essentially, they hold some thing in such esteem that it becomes something more than the thing itself, more than the concept itself. It is on some high pedestal, unreachable by mere mortals, having been put there by god himself.
Ack.
Sure, we'll always have an abundance of intellectual rubbish. But dammit, this shit gets to me sometimes.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Calling Dr Howard, Dr Fein, Dr Howard
dr._bear
Hi Guy, I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste. I would like to know about all of your tattoo's what they are and what they mean to you? If I could just say you have a great looking body and I like your hairy body and I like your tattoo's. Thanks and have a great day.
Roger
BigDumbDawg
Yours is the oddest message I've ever received.
dr._bear
Why because I didn't want to jump your bones and because I wanted to know about your tattoo's and that I like your muscles and hairy body why is that odd? My name is Roger what is yours?
Roger
BigDumbDawg
The weird part: that you opened with "I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste." It is not my place to tell you what is phenomenally off-putting in that remark, let alone its placement in your message to me. I'm astonished that a 57-year-old man actually believes it possible to make an apology that includes the word 'but'. You want my name? Read my profile.
Just so we're clear on the concept, I inserted a warning in my profiles: if you say something ridiculous, it's likely to end up on my blog. Kinda detracts a little from the creepy Candid Camera-esque fun we like to have, but what the fook. Here, we have a textbook example of how to alienate someone you're interested in.
My favorite part: the apology that isn't an apology. An apology doesn't contain the words "if" or "but". And why the hell would anyone, in the hopes of catching the interest of another, say, "You only have yourself to blame for being disappointed in the caliber of potential mates." Yeah, I'm responsible for guys being jerks.
Ever onward.
Hi Guy, I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste. I would like to know about all of your tattoo's what they are and what they mean to you? If I could just say you have a great looking body and I like your hairy body and I like your tattoo's. Thanks and have a great day.
Roger
BigDumbDawg
Yours is the oddest message I've ever received.
dr._bear
Why because I didn't want to jump your bones and because I wanted to know about your tattoo's and that I like your muscles and hairy body why is that odd? My name is Roger what is yours?
Roger
BigDumbDawg
The weird part: that you opened with "I'm sorry that you don't find men in general to your taste but every one has there own taste." It is not my place to tell you what is phenomenally off-putting in that remark, let alone its placement in your message to me. I'm astonished that a 57-year-old man actually believes it possible to make an apology that includes the word 'but'. You want my name? Read my profile.
Just so we're clear on the concept, I inserted a warning in my profiles: if you say something ridiculous, it's likely to end up on my blog. Kinda detracts a little from the creepy Candid Camera-esque fun we like to have, but what the fook. Here, we have a textbook example of how to alienate someone you're interested in.
My favorite part: the apology that isn't an apology. An apology doesn't contain the words "if" or "but". And why the hell would anyone, in the hopes of catching the interest of another, say, "You only have yourself to blame for being disappointed in the caliber of potential mates." Yeah, I'm responsible for guys being jerks.
Ever onward.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Today, I Join the Blogosphere
Paul Addis Senator Larry Craig Larry Harvey Karl Rove
And nappy-headed hoes. Nappy headed hos. Hos ho's.
Ranger Sasquatch
There's a new cussword buzzing on your teen's lips -- lebesion. We'll tell you what it means at eleven.
second superpower
democratizer
horse testicle cradler association
Mike Huckabee
And nappy-headed hoes. Nappy headed hos. Hos ho's.
Ranger Sasquatch
There's a new cussword buzzing on your teen's lips -- lebesion. We'll tell you what it means at eleven.
second superpower
democratizer
horse testicle cradler association
Mike Huckabee
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Requisition Me Some Compassion
This just in, from jlee4282
I agree with everything you say in your profile. Most people need to just shut the fook up and listen for a change...it's the consent blabbering of those uninformed cakeholes, misrepresenting the tid bit of fact they heard on the 11oclock news, that has lead to the destruction of once great nation. If people just shut up and critically looked at the world around them, they would see that their problems are minimal when compared to devastation that is occurring across the world and in this country on a daily basis.
But, with all that said, your profile comes off as you being angry at people who do not see things the way you do. The reality I have found is that most people do not fit the mold you have created. And getting angry with people, or at least coming off that way, does not help the situation either. It tends to push people who would fit the mold further away, as they perceive you to be a negative person, when in reality, and having read your whole profile i can kinda tell, you are not a negative person. But rather a buddy \ lil bro who knows when to shut up, take it like the man they are and enjoy the moment.
Don't really care if you agree with the above, it was just what came to mind after reading your profile. Maybe it'll get you to look at the whole profile things a lil differently, or maybe your goal was to weed out all the non thinkers. You tell me?
------------------
Sure, there are a couple times a year when all you can say is, "Get her." I chose instead a different statement: "What is the call to answer every passing fool according to his folly?"
I wanna know. I like to think I have some kind of sense that keeps me from getting involved in a pissing match. What I don't understand is why guys take it upon themselves to tell me what a "negative" man I am, based on what is an admittedly candid profile. It's pretty clear these guys don't react to that candor; they react to their own indignation upon encountering it.
But why tell me about it? It won't get 'em laid. It won't get 'em dates. Do they think I'm Rush Limbaugh, with an ear at the ready, ever vigilent for the next twitter-pated muttonhead to call and agree with me? Sigh.
I agree with everything you say in your profile. Most people need to just shut the fook up and listen for a change...it's the consent blabbering of those uninformed cakeholes, misrepresenting the tid bit of fact they heard on the 11oclock news, that has lead to the destruction of once great nation. If people just shut up and critically looked at the world around them, they would see that their problems are minimal when compared to devastation that is occurring across the world and in this country on a daily basis.
But, with all that said, your profile comes off as you being angry at people who do not see things the way you do. The reality I have found is that most people do not fit the mold you have created. And getting angry with people, or at least coming off that way, does not help the situation either. It tends to push people who would fit the mold further away, as they perceive you to be a negative person, when in reality, and having read your whole profile i can kinda tell, you are not a negative person. But rather a buddy \ lil bro who knows when to shut up, take it like the man they are and enjoy the moment.
Don't really care if you agree with the above, it was just what came to mind after reading your profile. Maybe it'll get you to look at the whole profile things a lil differently, or maybe your goal was to weed out all the non thinkers. You tell me?
------------------
Sure, there are a couple times a year when all you can say is, "Get her." I chose instead a different statement: "What is the call to answer every passing fool according to his folly?"
I wanna know. I like to think I have some kind of sense that keeps me from getting involved in a pissing match. What I don't understand is why guys take it upon themselves to tell me what a "negative" man I am, based on what is an admittedly candid profile. It's pretty clear these guys don't react to that candor; they react to their own indignation upon encountering it.
But why tell me about it? It won't get 'em laid. It won't get 'em dates. Do they think I'm Rush Limbaugh, with an ear at the ready, ever vigilent for the next twitter-pated muttonhead to call and agree with me? Sigh.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Only Thing That Will Cure Me Is A Miracle
arpeejay
Based on the criterion you set forth I think you could have skipped the tatts. You're a beautiful man, inside and out. And, just so you'll know, there's nothing sexier than fur on muscle (IMHO) and you have plenty of both! All the best & xoxo
Huh?
Based on what I say, I shouldn't have tattooed myself. But that's okay, I'm beautiful inside and out. Love and kisses, some stranger.
Or maybe
You don't apply your standards to yourself, but that's okay cuz you're sexy as fook, luvity luv luv luv, a dork in Florida.
Possibly
You gorgeous hypocrite! Give me your knucklepuppies, kiss kiss kiss, another schmuck who lives in America's wang.
Could be
I'm a pompous weiner with a thinly-veiled yet morbid fear of obesity that keeps me from knowing who I am, sexy sexy sexy sexy sex, I'm in Ft Lauderdale and will eat your sperm, yummy.
Norman, coordinate. Norman, coordinate...
Based on the criterion you set forth I think you could have skipped the tatts. You're a beautiful man, inside and out. And, just so you'll know, there's nothing sexier than fur on muscle (IMHO) and you have plenty of both! All the best & xoxo
Huh?
Based on what I say, I shouldn't have tattooed myself. But that's okay, I'm beautiful inside and out. Love and kisses, some stranger.
Or maybe
You don't apply your standards to yourself, but that's okay cuz you're sexy as fook, luvity luv luv luv, a dork in Florida.
Possibly
You gorgeous hypocrite! Give me your knucklepuppies, kiss kiss kiss, another schmuck who lives in America's wang.
Could be
I'm a pompous weiner with a thinly-veiled yet morbid fear of obesity that keeps me from knowing who I am, sexy sexy sexy sexy sex, I'm in Ft Lauderdale and will eat your sperm, yummy.
Norman, coordinate. Norman, coordinate...
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