For info about Page Notes, see this post.
- John Kasich. (“A Feminist Creep’s Wet Dream, ie, John Kasich“)
- Very meta like of me to Page Note a definition of Page Notes. How far can this recursively dwindle? (“Hasta La Vista, Kasich“)
- On an old Windows
98 (or 97)95!! computer, circa that prehistoric 90’s when I still fought for something better than a 28.8 kbps modem connection that tied up my phone (and thus made me consult with all members of my family before daring to AOL myself) I might have tried to photoshop myself to look more muscular but the cavernous musculature, artificially form-drawn, resulted in such shame and embarrassment that my over-zealous delete digit motion resulted in a pulled palm muscle. (“Hillary, through a veil of shit.“)
- Task completed! The blogger is rather smitten with himself for following through on this venture/idea/pointless gesture (sometimes it seems most blog-related minutiae is rather pointless) for he sees in himself a horrible and frustrating streak of procrastination and inspired false bravado which leads him to continually “talk out loud” about plans, ideas, that always fall by the wayside. For once, the blogger is delighted to say, he has implemented an idea that might have sunk into subtexted oblivion like everything else. (“My Infinite exercise in blog Jest; an instruction manual for insanity. 4“)
- The blogger considers himself generally a funny person with a witty sense of dry, acerbic humor, however he is rather unfond of his ability to write/compose material with the intent to be funny and he generally finds that being funny is a spontaneous, impromptu effusion of reactive narrative. (“So Megyn Kelly, Vicente Fox and Donald Trump walk into a bar…“)
- Not that the atheist blogger is complaining or miffed and in fact, he actually sorta welcomes this strange Aquarian dawning to ungodly man and the repulsion of religion from politics. (“May 8, 2016 comment, 1845, PDT“)
- And this is the nauseating manner in which the blogger kisses commenter ass and which makes painful the fact, to himself only, that such sordid practice is indeed prescribed and appropriate when he’s committed to a spineless lifetime of maintaining said erected bridges afloat :/ (“May 8, 2016 comment, 1914, PDT“)
- Shit. I’d tap this. Argument over. (“May 8, 2016 comment, 1937, PDT“)
- The blogger has always found ethnic humor boring and unfunny. Not his cup of funny tea. For such reason, he does not like ethnic comedians (ie, Dave Chapelle, George Lopez, Margaret Cho, yawnn). (“Let’s dispel with the fiction that Polacks are dumb.“)
- The blogger can envision a “Woody Allen film festival” hyper-dreamy sexscene involving groups of overwhelmingly curvy co-eds in cheerleader outfits while affixed to smartphones and giggling lasciviously while in the background a film examining man’s innate evil set in Brooklyn rolls across the tiny art-house film screen. (“The short and dweeby meets the hideously obese.“)
- The blogger, in fact, experiences oodles of ambivalence in that tired Trump The President game in that he feels he is sacrificing much, almost too much, in the acceptance of a materialistic extroverted lunatic, but the relish the blogger experiences in witnessing the American politico-structual edifice crumble to the ground like a pile of teaming shit is way too satisfying to ixnay the Trumpster quite yet. and this is why we are living in one of the most dangerous seasons in the ol’ US of A ever because a lot people feel this way, even if they don’t express it quite thus. (“Donald Trump exploits the inherent hypocrisy of the Nanny/SJW culture and their ‘fetishism of purity.’”)
- The blogger is a sickfuck and this he confesses freely. Still, he is a bit ambivalent about letting such fixations intrude upon the serious tone of this blog. Serious being entirely relative, of course. Very relative. In fact, highly disputable. (“Nothing says dieded like being reduced to an amorphous mass of meat beneath a P.A.R.T.”)
- “Act of Allahu Akbar.” The blogger is overly fond of and has a fetish for nonsensical acronym’s that evade common usage (ie, they live in his own head). (“If EgyptAir 804 is in fact an AAA, there will be video provided to claim responsibility.“)
- When, in the course of blogging during his 3:30 am early waking insomnia bouts, the blogger tends to gloss over geocentric positional proofreading, and in fact, much to his chagrin, realizes said errors as he is drifting back to sleep after going to bed at 4 am.(“Provocative NYT piece on the squalor of the stolen American dream.“)
- The blogger continues his fascination with dreams, something he’s written about on this blog enough that he should consider a “dream” tag, or at the very least, subsection. While the blogger does not imbue dreams with anything remotely supernatural or premonitory, he is convinced dreams are wonderful tools which can be used to excavate psychic burial grounds that haunt us all. Dreams, well interpreted, lend us a glimpse into the deepest recesses of our psyche and in this way, may portend trouble, however the blogger does not believe that dreams are capable of telling us that which does not live in our mind. (“A dreamy morning of dying dogs, vomiting children and Asian pop music.“)
- This bitter missive is dedicated to that slab of useless flesh the blogger writes about (egregiously so) here too often and who has insinuated herself in his working life, hence Life, which he has no choice but to “accept” as a daily reminder of this very humanity the blogger writes about in this post, the emblematic, lowest common denominator sort of human existence, a vile, disgusting person with no scruples, no honor and no sincerity. A person so dishonest with herself, and by extension, all others; so disingenuous that her vapid stare seems unsure of where it seeks to comparmentalize or define this existence called a reality, a blank, calculating stare devoid of character and soul but ebullient with opportunism and manipulation. The blogger countenances that he’s been around the block many, many, many, many times (at least 1025 at the very least), which leaves him aghast/amazed/astounded/flustered/wracked when he considers that it took this long to find a human subject so reprehensible, disgusting and foul as to warrant the championship prize of Most Despicable in this blogger’s 51 years on this Earth. (“The pernicious discouragement for a Man of Thought. 17“)
- The blogger frequently tries to be too clever for his own good and he has no qualms about demonstrating this trait whenever the urge strikes, viz a viz, “eagle worm,” a play on the popular “dog whistle” nomenclature which alludes to spoken utterances only perceived by those with heightened senses, ie, awareness, similar to how a dog’s very keen hearing can perceive certain high-pitched sounds that elude feeble human ears. And “eagle worm” is the visual rendition of the dog whistle in that it is an optically perceived element only those with heightened awareness are aware of much like an eagle’s incredible ability to see small worms wriggling in the soil as they soar high above in the sky. Utter cleverness. (“(((Derogatory))) symbols, not just for the Jews any more.“)
- ie, Donald’s own personal “Overton Window,” an enigmatic phrase which basically denotes the more commonly attributed “paradigm shift.” Donald’s paradigm shift, beginning in June, 2015, and by extension, the paradigm shift we’ve all experienced as involved Americans, has manifested itself into an enormously popular, relevant and unlikely candidate who we now find it difficult to shrug off with any sort of amused levity. (“Trump acceptance as a paradigm shift (aka, Overton Window).“)
- The blogger wonders if we haven’t all (at least us urban-dweller raised males) known at least a few of these badly composed desperate-to-marry-American Southern-Pacific Asian female subspecies who can’t speak English for shit and seem to obliquely delight in mangling the English language with dangling participles and badly-positioned antonyms (and synonyms) that result in horribly constructed quasi-unawares-innuendo that those of us, with proper English skills, delight in because we are convinced the little tramps are trying to flirt with us even though, most likely, they really are that clueless and stupid?(“Muhammad coulda been my daddy; this is why internet denizens get bullied.“)
- The blogger frankly hates saying shit like “starting to freak me out” because it sounds like bullying bitch talk that serves no purpose other than to evoke fruitless and self-perpetuating emotionalism without the constructive gravity necessary to advance knowledge or communal comprehension. But in some cases, such ridiculous semantics are necessary, and even called for, especially when Bernie Sanders’ cognitive well-being is at stake. The blogger enjoys the doddering old attention whore, or did enjoy, the spectacle a long time ago, but it is turning into a public travesty. (“I think Bernie is suffering from some sort of age-onset dementia.“)
- The blogger “predicted” this unproudly for there is not much to brag about for any idiot could have foreseen the indignant Sociolibby hoopla coming. Kill of a bunch of [fill in the favored injusticized group of the day/week/month] and that group is sure to see a stampede of profuse liberal self-defense rights-flaring gushing, like an overly abundant menses, rushing to sob in defense of that group. In this case, the homos; the rush to sanctify them and their “rights” has transcended anything I ever anticipated. Canceled events, spin-off mental-cases on the West Coast, last-minute alterations to stage productions…it’s out of control. I suspect this event will be the accelerant that ushers in the Summer of Despair. (“A gay mass shooting in Orlando; “Gayda rage” or “Fundy retribution?”“)
- The blogger occasionally takes an unanticipated break from writing. One day, after posting for like 6 or 8 or 10 straight days, he suddenly has no urge to write, think or postulate, and instead he allows his head to get lost in the minutiae of humdrum daily existence. Work, eating, cleaning, zoning. He logs into his admin panel or Feedly, reads news stories, opens his mind, but nothing rolls in or feels right and he just sits there waiting for the muse to revisit his life, his bloggery existence. He doesn’t fixate or obsess about it. The muse, that cunt, will return, and he knows it, but for now, his lack of writing only means his mind is resting, recharging, and soon enough he will be pounding at the keyboard. The muse took a respite this week but the blogger suspects she’s crawled back into his life, like she always does. (“A “Big Tent Nationalism” for 21st Century America?”)
- Upon reconsideration and day-after damage assessment, the blogger surmises that a couple of his late posts yesterday were absolutely worthless tripe, throwaway stupidity that only deserved to be page noted and nothing further; they definitely did not warrant posts unto themselves. The blogger has experienced such futile acts of bloggery before but he refuses, refuses, refuses, ever to delete a post or “unpublish” one. This would be a sinful act as far as the blogger is concerned for it is disingenuous, cowardly and sneaky, and besides, in the world of internet archiving and Google, there is no such thing as “deleting” a post absolutely. Still, it would be the lazy solution for moments such as last night’s mediocrity on display in these two intellectually threadbare posts of complete and utter worthlessness: (“The Rachel conundrum; to ban or to protect?”) and (“It’s hot but I’m genetically predisposed to shrug it off”). (“Page Note 24“)
- The blogger is mortified that he occasionally uses a dangling participle. This is a great source of shame for him, but much worse, 10-folded frankly, when the dangling participle is thus displayed conspicuously as the post title. (“Is it appropriate to rob Hometown Buffet with a BMI <40?“)
- The blogger, while not a shut-in, nevertheless empathizes with that solitary, withdrawn aspect of shut-in-edness that many are afflicted with. The blogger has no problem stepping out into the world and immersing himself with all the dregs and shit of humanity every day, and in fact, he somewhat relishes the twisted catharsis it affords him, but he considers his extreme form of introversion a sort of “psychic shut-in-edness.” IOW, the blogger believes he is a shut-in of the cranial sort in that he shuts himself up in his skull and never wants to come out and play. (“Pokemon Stay. Well-deserved fun for the shut-ins among us.“)
- A few years ago, after some traumatic workplace events, the blogger let a hail of bitterness out and probably relinquished way more than he should have but he couldn’t help it. He named names, named everything, in fits of bitterness. Later, after finding another job, he felt not necessarily “remorseful,” but definitely cautious. He realized bridges were built for crossing, so he deleted or unpublished much of the incriminating shit he wrote during this period but after a while he came to accept that nothing, nothing, disappears from the internet once it’s committed. He’s fine with this. Whatever. The blogger truly has very few fucks to give, and after a life’s experience of such bullshit, understands that nothing is irreparable, and even if it is, oh well, there’s always some other life path to defer to. The blogger does not commit well, which is a curse and a blessing. (“A tale of corporate futility and how I stopped worrying and learned to love the time clock.“)
- This chart can be horrendously misleading for one reason: statistics and measurement. Los Angeles’ median house price of $480,000 seems “low” by comparison to its geographic counterparts, but the truth of the matter is that Los Angeles, being such a vast megapolis, must represent those neighborhoods best described as “ghetto” and inner city which artificial communes like SF or SD don’t have to worry about. Los Angeles, being so large, is a state, a nation, unto itself. Los Angeles is so large that it is basically a 460-square-mile Third World state with competing sociological dualities. That $480,000 price represents the average that includes everywhere from Pacific Palisades to Boyle Heights. Get my drift? (“The British press keeps hammering away at the condensing California nightmare.“)
- Sometimes the blogger gets weird and spacey and is struck by abstractions and what-the-fucks and will post the most esoteric stuff. Just cause. Usually it plays out as a puzzle for there is some logic, however faint, behind some of these posts. The blogger, if he felt compelled to obey the rule of categories, would probably create one called “esoterica” for that shit that just doesn’t make any sense or have decent context. (“Just cause…“)
- Despite my usage of ((( ))) motif, I am not really that much of an anti-Semite. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I don’t mind most Jews and that my dislike of the human race in general is not outshone, in any way, by my dislike of Jews. My usage of that internet signal has more to do with the implied, dog-whistle traits of the archetypal left-wing Jew, a toolkit of liberal trademarks compiled in one distasteful political animal that is most detestable to the modern right-winger. It just so happens the legendary Jewish figure, as envisioned by extreme Conservatives, embodies much of the shittiness that we really hate about liberalism. (“(((Christmas time))) for the Left in America“)
- Facetious, of course. I meant “check” in that disembodied, alternative method of payment not reliant on the Liberal establishment. When it comes to moving money around, political ideology tends to diminish as a business model. (“Fuck PayPal. Write a check.“)
- This post is envisioned as an homage to Paul Harvey’s long-running “The Rest of the Story” radio series. The appeal of Harvey’s mini-histories was the surprise, “oh wow, really?” element which one experienced at the piece’s conclusion. The Rest of the Story hinged on conveying as much information about the events without divulging too many facts which would trigger recognition on the part of the general listener. It wasn’t until the end of the story that it all “came together” when the identifying part of the events was revealed as the “punch line” interspersed with the unknown aspect of the popularly known events.
In that spirit, I was recently reading about American Airlines’ ill-fated Flight 191 in Chicago in 1979. While reading Wikipedia’s citations and references, I stumbled across the curious case of Leonard Stogel, a popular (but not too popular) musical industry figure who helped create and organize both California Jam musical festivals in the 1970’s. “Lenny,” who was a passenger on Flight 191, coincidentally lost both his parents just 17 years previous on another American Airlines disaster: Flight 1 which crashed in the ocean waters off Long Island just after departure. Curiously, when Flight 1 crashed in 1962, it was the worst (in terms of fatalities) in U.S. history, and when Lenny’s Flight 191 crashed in 1979, it was the the worst in U.S. history (a distinction it still holds). Same airline, same destination: sometimes life’s intricate web is eerily interconnected across temporal and incidental planes, not just the physical.
I brought you the rest of the story.
And here is the story.
AA Flight 191
AA Flight 191 photos
AA Flight 1
AA Flight 1 photo
(“The darkest of family traditions; succumbing to the odds.“)