Bullets flying over Missouri…

What’s up with the ruckus in Missouri? Missouri is like our geographical middle child. Just there. A bland, featureless encumbrance that acts as the fulcrum of America’s self-important shores.

But now, it is acting up (and I won’t even mention Ferguson).

Missouri candidate for governor dies of ‘apparent suicide’

Missouri Auditor Tom Schweich, who had recently launched a Republican campaign for governor, fatally shot himself Thursday in what police described as an “apparent suicide” — just minutes after inviting reporters to his suburban St. Louis home for an interview.

Schweich’s death stunned many of Missouri’s top elected officials, who described him as a “brilliant” and “devoted” public servant with an “unblemished record” in office. Just 13 minutes before police got an emergency call from his home, Schweich had a phone conversation with The Associated Press about his plans to go public that afternoon with allegations that the head of the Missouri Republican Party had made anti-Semitic comments about him.

And…

Nine dead after shootings in southern Missouri

Nine persons died at multiple scenes in south-central Missouri following shootings, Texas County Sheriff James Sigman confirmed to the Houston Herald this morning.
Sigman said there are four confirmed crime scenes at Tyrone, a possible fifth location and a sixth outside of Texas County in Shannon County.
Sigman made the statement as troopers and deputies mobilized in the area. He declined to offer any additional information about the investigation or the believed shooter.
A Missouri State Highway Patrol officer confirmed the death of the alleged shooter. The lawmen said he was found in a parked vehicle in Shannon County. Investigators at about 7:30 a.m. were leaving one of the crime scenes. Two are within a short distance of each other near Highways H and DD.

Suicide seems to be popular as well.

Or, we can get really carried away and try to connect these dots…perhaps unearth a Master Missouri Plan.

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My personal DLL file as a pathway to nirvana.

Earlier, my son was telling us about a friend whose father was acting particularly ogre-like and maliciously authoritarian and ill-tempered. To the point my son’s friend simply left to stay at a friend’s home for the night.

After he recounted the specific interaction, I joked that he was lucky he had such an easy-going father of such a gentle heart.

My mother was about to launch into a rebuttal with her memorized laundry list of all my past foibles and horrific examples of wanton destruction that have laid waste to the countryside that is my life and those who know me.

I had to stop her abruptly.

“No, no, you cannot bring all that up. I am different now. I am not the same person I was 10, 15, years ago.”

She halted her stream of contrary historical evidence that would illustrate the notion that I ever have had a gentle, happy heart. She knew I was right, and she made some begrudging sounds of concurrence. “I’ve changed a lot,” I continued. “I’ve evolved and found peace. I found nirvana.”

“Oh, you found it that long ago?” my brother retorted smartly.

That got me thinking.

I have changed drastically. My present incarnation is spiritually and mentally unrecognizable from the beast I was in my younger days. Impulsive, living for them moment, impatient, angry, torn, distracted, self-destructive…that was a different angel. What was I then?

What have I become?

I have consciously sought to elevate my state to the highest level possible and at times, the transformation has been so gradual that it’s been imperceptible. In a flash of insight, I might realize just how foreign, how alien, my perceptions and pattern of thinking appears in contrast to others. I take it for granted, as a course of inconspicuous spiritual evolution, and so familiar has my state of personal refinement advanced that I cannot discern clearly the contrast between my serene heart and the tumultuous chaos that is the rest of the World, of mankind’s scattered collective soul.

I’ve arrived at this point in my life where the crux of my drivers, my personal DLL file so to speak, is so radically different than that of most people that I have intricately alienated myself from any and all communion with my fellow humans. They live for food, for money, for external gratification; they yammer for smiles and physical satiety. There is nothing they seek more than release from this catacomb that is called being human. People spend days, all their money, to consume their way into a vague, artificial, material quagmire of bliss that represents nothing more than cosmetic mirage of triumph, when in reality their weak little hungry souls are content to hop from figurative stone to figurative stone as they cross this large scum pond called life. People are content to move, move, move, jump, jump, jump, in circles, and boast of progress but there is no progress because the path they celebrate is one-dimensional as it skirts our existence’s circumference. It is a simple, planar toilsome ricochet across the surface of this thing they boastfully call a “full life.” A full life for most people is merely a busy life, a life bloated with sensation and emotion but little in the way of pain or sacrifice because these elemental building blocks of character must be disguised by the superficial offerings of cowardly shelter.

Escaping growth, escaping ascendance, is a lucrative industry in our wealthy, fearful culture.

Those who can, will; those who can’t, don’t.

For lack of wont, I am alone. For existing in the present, I am alone with my thoughts. I desire little for myself.

At times it’s as if “myself” is a myth, a faultily held notion of incomprehensibility. My essence is writ upon the shadows of my vanished presence. All I seek was found, and all I found is doomed to have never been lost.

There is little this life has to offer and there is a little I ask. This is the most liberating realization but also, the most mortifying.

And this life should comprise a noble journey toward embracing the hardship of battling through the pain in order to discover and realize equanimity and disassociation.

I waited awhile.

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Government should not be in the business of legislating morality or immorality.

This is great. Not because I support adultery but because I don’t believe government should be in the business of legislating morality or immorality. In the process, it will naturally be in the position, in the absence of legislating morality, of also indirectly legislating immorality by extension. I don’t care. Government is not our priest, pastor, rabbi, imam, anything which structures, defines and regulates spiritual or religious agenda.

Such a Korean law, to begin with.

In South Korea, extramarital sex just got a whole lot safer.

On Thursday, the country’s highest court overturned a 62-year-old law banning adultery. Shortly afterwards, the share price of the country’s biggest condom maker, Unidus, surged 15%, the daily limit on the country’s Kosdaq market.

Despite South Korea’s economic rise in recent decades — Seoul, the capital, is one of the world’s most technologically advanced cities — a deep vein of traditionalism still courses through Korean society. The law was passed in 1953 to protect wives who were financially dependent on their husbands — the country’s economy was largely agricultural, and women had few property rights. More recently, supporters of the law have argued that it preserves conservative family values amid a surge of modernisation.

Seven of the court’s nine judges voted to overturn the law, which carried a maximum penalty of two years in jail.

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An accidental vixen on my train ride: young girls who play.

Ah you know, they are out there. All over, if you look.

Beckoning, enticing, but ultimately it’s a gestural game because they don’t want you, and you won’t get them.

Yet…yet.

There is that implicit gamble, a wayward chance, that one in a million unfolding, that it may turn into more than just an enticement. Who knows. If you play your cards right and don’t come off as an old, desperate lecher, but instead, act somewhat disinterested, but a disinterest that issues from a confident suaveness, from blase, from apathetic cool, she might take notice.

You know she’s curious, to some degree, or she wouldn’t play such games.

Thing is, most 16- or 17-year-old girls don’t play the game to begin with because they are so wrapped up in their own chittering-chattering little giggly worlds that they don’t even notice there is a world out there beyond the one that beams out from their phones. Most girls this jail-bait age aren’t even registering your middle-aged appetites on their underage radar. It’s not that they aren’t interested in hooking up with you. It’s that the possibility is not even a physical property of their world, this strange planet called Not Quite Legal. Most of them fall here.

But there are those, the few, the sinister, the sadistic, that know their tight little bodies are howling at your gonads with their forbidden fields of romp.

These girls are particularly dreadful. They are aware that you will do just about anything to get in their panties, and would be inclined to do so in spite of the expected condemnations of your wife, girlfriend, priest, grandmother, if it was legal and they were receptive. Such dastardly girls will spin you around and around their hot, teenage totem poles of yearning. They desire the attention and the lascivious stares they provoke from grizzled old men. Some of them will even play a game of flirt if you are somewhat cool or even average looking paired with adequate threads. And if you’re really, really good and steep yourself in PUA principles, or perhaps are a “natural,” you might be able to talk yourself into some high school skin games and you may get a taste of their silky, ecstatic nubile flesh.

But this is the stuff of fantasy.

Most of the time, it’s just a flirting game.

A hidden little duel of tête-à-tête in which you both play that primal hard-wired role. She, the young, inadvertent seductress, the accidental vixen; you, the hungry, voracious pining old man who craves young flesh like any normal man does (but fewer admit). You engage in this silliness, this incomplete exertion of stunted sexual energy. It’s exhilarating, frustrating, and a little dismaying.

On the train this morning, she entered the car after we locked glances through the window where I sat in the sideways seats.

Slender, long wavy black hair, she sauntered (the car was empty) and chose to sit in the opposing sideways-facing seats, directly across from me. Rather than sit normally where she would have to face me, she turned sideways, propped her legs up on the seats rudely (for the next passenger to have to sit there). Her pants, tight, clung to her legs which she fabulously lifted into a semi-bent position clearly in my line of vision.

One leg, she kept bent at the knee, accentuating the shape of her thigh, while the other rested flat on the bench. Profiled across from me, I played the cool, disinterested daddy. I don’t know if she glanced at me, for I never looked at her. The train sped its way toward the stop where she, and scores of other high school classmates, would exit. She wore heeled boots with buckles. The folds of her snug jeans darkened and shifted as she moved her legs. I peered out the window behind her, refusing to commit to outward desperation DEFCON level 1.

Mr. Cool was I!

As the exit approached, I finally looked at her. She was a cute Latina. Full lips, lively, sparkling dark eyes, adult make-up adorning her sexy late teen face. She turned and looked at me when she sensed my stare. I did not look away cause once I’m in, I’m in, baby.

We looked at each other for about 3 seconds. We remained expressionless and betrayed nothing; but the length of the look betrayed everything.

It took a concerted turn of her neck to look at me, and she did not surrender that uncomfortable position for a bit. We finally parted eyes and I looked at my watch.

The train stopped and I checked out her ass as she left for first period.

Not bad for a girl a third my age.

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Alejandro Iñarritu’s comments were fair and reasonable and not all that controversial.

birdman

I suspect Alejandro Iñarritu’s little foray into vague politicization stream of consciousness during his acceptance speech after Birdman won Best Picture at tonight’s Oscars might raise a few eyebrows punctuated with bones of resentful contention, especially when one considers its victory paralleled the so-called desertion of Selma and All Things Black by the Academy.

Frankly, I’m thrilled such a tremendously intelligent, abstract movie was recognized in its own right. It’s pleasing to see such efforts rewarded.

I don’t see that Iñarritu’s comments were out of bounds or inflammatory. They were dignified, understated and reasonable. We can leave that trigger language to those groups which might have wanted Selma to go farther than it did.

Only in an environment of polarization can Iñarritu’s words be considered remotely “controversial.”

Well, that is the environment, I suppose…

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