There is a cure for aids. There, I said it. I’ve always believed the government was lying to us about aliens, the war in Iraq, MK Ultra, and stuff like that. I never believed the government would be involved in a conspiracy like this. When I was a kid I was in awe of the president. I wrote a letter to Bill Clinton, I idolized him. I volunteered for the Obama campaign in ‘08 and gave hundreds of hours. I stood watch at the polling place on election day. I study political science in hopes of making a difference in the world, but now my heart is broken.
I can understand the need to keep certain things from us, national security and what not. But aids has been killing people for a long time now. The patent report was filed in 1994. In 1994 aids was the leading cause of death for Americans between the ages 25-44. Aids beat out gun violence, alcohol, tobacco, traffic accidents... Do I need to go on? Writing this and thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach.
The worst part is there isn’t anything we can do about it. I went to prison when I was 19 years old, and that taught me several things. One of those things was that there’s nothing you can do when the people in authority over you do whatever they want to. The guards beat me mercilessly, I had no defense. And here we stand, having another generation taken from us while they are beaten mercilessly by a disease that there’s a cure for! I really need you all to know that this isn’t a joke or a conspiracy theory, it is a conspiracy, no theory involved.
Choose life slackers....
When I started this little bloggy type thing I was comforted by the belief that no one would ever read it. As it turns out there are a few hundred kindred slackers out there in a handful of countries who read this thing. So, yea, um, thanks!
Even though I'm certainly not full of myself over it, I do feel a great deal of pressure to come up with fantabulous content to wow and impress you. So here's a little story.
I have a class called "global issues" as it turns out this class is really "intro to international relations" and my professor has a doctorate in political science. He is a renowned and respected political economist, and I really enjoy his lectures. With one very irritating exception.
There is a guy in my class that always sits directly in front of me, and CONSTANTLY interrupts these lectures that I love so much. He is a Marine, and you should all know I have a deep respect for the U.S. Marines. Unfortunately, this particular Marine is a gigantic bag of dicks. It's not his fault, he was probably born that way.
He seems to believe that being a soldier makes him more qualified to teach this class than the guy with a PhD. Every time he interrupts with his shallow and insipid remarks a little piece of my soul dies. I can see the pained look on the professor's face every time this guy talks, and I can also see that, like me, my professor has a deep respect for this douchebag's sacrifices for our freedom.
The problem here is that killing people isn't really a prerequisite for understanding complex international politics and economics. Mostly being high as a fucking kite seems to be the way to wrap your head around this mess.
But I digress. One thing I have learned over my years of doing as little as possible and getting maximum results is to... wait for it... Listen. Shut your mouth when you have the chance to gain knowledge from a legitimate source.
For instance, if I tell you how to roll a joint, you should damn well listen. Why? Well because I smoke weed like its my job. So when it comes to methods of delivery I'm a goddamned expert.
I feel like I shouldn't have to say this. I feel like grown folks ought to know when to shut their mouths. I feel like even though I'm in college long after I'm supposed to be that it isn't an unreasonable expectation to get my hippy liberal political science degree without listening to assholes spew shit from their useless mouths.
I don't give one single shit what your opinion is during a lecture about neo-liberalism. I give lot's of shits that in a few weeks I have a paper due on a subject that I don't understand and I only have four hours a week to understand it. My research is kicking my ass. The subject is too complex for a ten page paper, and this isn't the only class I have a project due in. So seriously... Please shut up, because grad school isn't going to care that I got a C in this class because there was a pseudo-intellectual U.S. Marine who wouldn't listen, and I had too much respect for him to tell him myself.
So until next time... Choose life slackers.
Have you ever noticed how you only get really motivated to change your life at three in the morning. You'll be sitting there watching TV and suddenly think... I have got to start working out, like, right fucking now. Or you are in bed and suddenly a moment of absolute clarity strikes you like lightning. You can see all the variables and all the interconnected relationships between things and people, and suddenly its all so simple. You think to yourself that tomorrow morning you are starting a new paradigm of knowledge and cooperation with yourself and your whole environment. Only to wake up having no memory of all that amazing shit you just thought of a few hours earlier.
I think sometimes I fear sleep for that reason. I don't want to lose that progress. In real life you can't just save the document you're working on and pick it back up later. You really have to recognize these moments and fucking hang on to them. The best ideas come at three in the morning and leave before sun rise. Sleep must delete them in some manner or way.
For me those moments come from a manic place. See mania is often viewed as negative, like saying "that guy is a maniac". It is a hard thing for "normal" people to wrap their heads around. Mostly, I think, it's because mania really manifests itself differently from person to person. Mine works in conjunction with my insomnia. I sleep about four hours a night, and sometimes I spend that extra awake time being incredibly fucking productive. When I was younger I could stay awake for a few days with seemingly no negative effects. Now it's not like that but I do have these manic episodes where I have these great ideas for a business, a blog, a website, really anything. My Mom used to say my sickness gave me delusions of grandeur. She was probably right. Because now I realize the word delusion, which I thought I was immune from, is a very real part of my life.
I'm not suggesting that everyone who has late night inspiration is bi-polar, but if that late night inspiration comes in conjunction with frequent insomnia you should probably look into it. People like me just have to find a way to separate the delusion from the inspiration. We have to learn to accept ourselves the way we are, and parlay that shit into something great. And remember slackers... Choose life.
I have absolutely no idea what the fuck I should write about. So here I sit, blog posting long overdue. Chronic weed blazing through my brain, two dumbass dogs on either side of me, and this glorious e-cig keeping me from smoking real cigarettes.
I'm watching this movie called "Silver Linings Playbook". It's about mental illness. I've suffered with mental illness my whole life. Some days i can't even go in a store without having a panic attack. Which is a really, really good way to get out of clothes shopping with your wife... Just an fyi.
I had my first few weeks of class. How awesome is that with severe anxiety? Well let's just say it's about as awesome as punching yourself in the dick... Repeatedly. The silver lining in that is I've really come to a point in my life where I really enjoy learning new shit. I actually like, fuckin' pay attention and shit. I even get annoyed when people dick off, or talk during lectures. Long story short, I'm crazy, and carrying a big load at school.
So I’ll close this up with some wise words from the Sensible Slacker... Cry instead of scream, laugh instead of cry, and get up and get dressed even when you have no idea how to even start. Choose life slackers.
I live in Portland, Oregon. It’s one of the most beautiful cities in the country... That also reeks of hobo piss. Our city is within sight of two beautiful (and one very erupty) volcanoes, or “mountains”, since we don’t like to think about molten death. Seriously though... I’m sure it’ll be fine. People ask me a lot if the show Portlandia is true. Yes. It is quite fuckin’ accurate, and then some. The then some being some shit I’m about to fill you in on.
We have a lot of strip clubs. By that I mean, more strip clubs than you have ever seen in your life. Yes, I even mean you college bar employees who save all year to forget a weekend in Vegas every summer. I happen to live a few blocks from one called “The Pitiful Princess”. It is exactly as it seems... Awesome! My first time there I saw an overweight stripper cry, and you thought Vegas was fun. We also have a few strip clubs that don’t serve alcohol. Because putting 18 year old douche-bags in a room with naked women (yes our clubs are bottomless too) with no self esteem and family issues has never, ever, led to a sex crime. Oh, and the food in the strip clubs is incredible. If you live in the Midwest (where I’m from) you have never eaten a steak this good. Ever.
We have an entire shanty town in the middle of downtown, and more homeless people than you can shake a hipster at. The homeless people all have jobs here it’s called “holding a sign”. These signs usually say something funny, or something about being a wounded veteran. I know the U.S. needs to treat its heros better, but if the amount of “wounded veterans” here is accurate... Goddamn son, we are in trouble. Most of the homeless people here are reasonably polite, and will ask you for cigarettes, food, change, or whatever you could think of. Once you tell them no they politely slink away, or more likely didn’t even bother standing up from the sidewalk they are napping on to ask you. So they slowly fade into the distance as you happily jingle your change and smile. Oh, and they all have dogs... Seriously... All of them.
There is no “hood” in Portland. There is however, a hood in Gresham, and Gresham is attached to Portland. By attached I mean that there is no discernible difference in the two cities. You are sitting at a light at 162nd and Division, you go forward through the light, and you are now in Gresham. You are also probably about to buy some crystal meth from a tranny you just met on craigslist. Gresham isn’t the only city like this, there’s also Milwaukie, Clackamas, or Vancouver, Washington... Yea that’s a thing too. See, some people who live in Portland, don’t really live in Portland. No matter what they say on Facebook, those fuckers live in Gre-Shame.
These are just a few things you should know about my beautiful city. I love this place, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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| Just look at that smile. |
I was raised by a single Mom, who worked her ass off to provide everything I needed. She constantly sacrificed herself, her sleep, her time, and... well everything else to give me what I needed and wanted. For a lot of single mothers there is a choice to make. They can spend lots of time with their child, or they can spend lots of time working. Both choices have benefits and drawbacks, but that isn’t what this post is about. My Mom made her choice, and her choice was to buy me skateboards, Nintendos, guitars, and a brand new pair of Air Jordans. The result of that is I watched A LOT of tv growing up. I was a latchkey kid. Also, I’m an insomniac, as we have discussed before. The point here is I was raised, in part, by Nick At Night. My favorite show was “The Dick Van Dyke Show”, co-starring Mary Tyler Moore.
Mary Tylor Moore was my dream woman. She was beautiful, smart, loyal, funny, and honestly perfect in every way. I loved that woman. I would lay in bed and watch her every single night, and when Nick At Night would start the nights programming over again, I’d watch her again.
I was young, but I somehow knew what sexy was. It certainly isn’t skimpy clothes, and an “I’ll blow anyone” attitude. Sexiness is confidence. Beauty that transcends the physical. She made me smile, she made me laugh, she gave me my first boner, and she taught me what a wife was supposed to do.
Ladies, before you start saying “Oh Slacker, don’t tell me you want a Stepford Wife!” let me assure you that is NOT what Mary Tyler Moore was. I know the sixties was a different time, but her attitude and style is still valid. As a real person she always carried herself with a dignity that most women will never, ever, ever, come close to achieving. She had grace. She reeked of strength, and exuded sex appeal without ever having “juicy” written across her ass.
We all meet women in our lives who are walking embodiment's of that. Mary Tyler Moore was my first love. I will always love her, and I compare every woman I meet to a few women... Mary will always be one of the litmus tests of what makes a woman great. She wasn’t a particularly good actress. Many women were better actresses in that era. She really played only one character, a version of herself. That character changed my life. So, thank you Mary Tyler Moore, for making my childhood less lonely, and for teaching me what a real woman looks and acts like.
I have shitty grammar, and I can’t spell worth a shit. Add into that the fact that I have no idea how to write... It makes me think there might be hope for me yet. See I don’t know all the reasons why I shouldn't punctuate the way I do, or structure my sentences the way I do. I know what a preposition is. But I have no idea why I can’t start a sentence with them. I have heard the term hanging participle before, but I always wondered who’s horse Mr. Participle stole, and who wants to hang him.
I just type words. The words that come into my head. I have always loved spending time alone. Don’t get me wrong, I love being around people I love too... I just like it when they go away sometimes. I think people might get a kick out of the stupid shit that goes through my head at 3:22 A.M.
For example, where did the hole in my bedroom wall come from? It’s about head high if you were on your knees getting fucked like a bitch in heat. I wonder, at what point did I bang my wife so hard I put her head through a wall? And how good was I layin’ that shit down that she didn’t notice I put her head through a wall? I mean, I’m just sayin’, that’s all.. I’m just sayin.
I think to myself, what are people going to think of me? Then I remeber that I don’t sign my name to this. And unless I’m under F.B.I surveillance, no one outside of the people who already know I’m a nut job will connect the dots. Also know one cares. Not in a shitty kind of way either, but in a general nice kind of way. I mean, do you care if I like to watch weird porno? Do you judge me because I enjoy reality T.V shows that even my gay friends think are pretty fuckin’ homo. Do you find it appalling that I spend inordinate amounts of time looking at the casual encounters section of craigslist.org? Speaking of which! If you like strange penises you HAVE have to check that shit out... So many penises... So. Many. Pensises.
The moral of the story is... No. You don’t care. You just wanna read some shit on the internet because your job sucks and you are bored. Or! You are an insomniac like me, and cracked.com just doesn't update their shit fast enough for you to stay entertained.
I’m gonna smoke a bowl, and contemplate why, deep down in my heart, my feelings are hurt that Kim Kardashian is having a baby with Kanye West, and not me... It’s goddamned heart breaking. Now even if I do become a famous, rich, and successful horse breeder. Kanye owns that sweet, sweet booty... R.I.P Kim’s sweet booty.
