The empty promises of the Dreamweavers

I think this is a lackluster dream.

If you really want to be one of those hallowed and illustrious “millionaires” why don’t you find a way to become one?
Or do you really want to devote the required time and effort? Is it easier to sit on your rump and wail away about your ill-fortuned laments? I suspect this is the case. Those who are fond of saying shit like “I wish I was a millionaire” as a gesture of idle discourse are most likely not striving or “movers & shakers.” When you repeat that mantra in your typically lazy, bloated manner, it tells me,

1) You are lazy
2) You lack originality to the extreme
3) You find more solace in dreams than in action
4) Taking into account items 1-3, I also venture to guess you are a leech and find little dishonor in weaseling your way into any spare change possible, or hitching free rides by piggy-backing on the work of others.

You cling to that dream tenaciously, as if its manifest delusion is such a prized possession. You will not easily accept doubt of such dreams.
If I were to ask “why would that make you happy if you were not happy already” or “wealth is an illusion, it’s a mirage of bliss but once you attain it, you will realize that your life still sucks; millions of dollars will not quench the gnawing gape in your soul” you would laugh at me. Empowered by the chorus of those who share your agreement, you would ridicule my sincere hesitations about the power of wealth.

You will resort to the lowest common denominator justification and castigate my sentiments. “Give me a million dollars and I’ll show you,” you might assert. But that is a dream and you know it. It’s a lazy mindfuck and you know you will never have a million dollars in your pocket because you are slothful and spend your life fantasizing about a life you don’t have the drive to make happen.

People like you spend your days creating idyllic worlds of wealth and luxury while being simultaneously trapped in the self-perpetuated world of broke misery and personal squalor. You still find it necessary to mimic a life of extravagance, and in this society which subsists on the tenets of credit and consumerism, you still swim in the delusion of facades and you love spending money that is not yours because you adulate a life you don’t have. So you lust after riches, but only half-heartedly.

“I wish I was a millionaire” is a broken dream for a broken soul.

Why is it that the poorest and stupidest are the most cold-hearted utilitarians?

When money is not plentiful, people lose the noble lure of humanity and character. In the face of sparse survival, they become robotic fixtures reacting to and following the blind march to procure money and goods. More of it, more of them!

In its absence, money becomes mysterious because it is unattainable. Because it is unattainable it becomes deistic. You worship a dollar above the integrity of your character. You wish you were a millionaire but you do not wish to be an honorable and intelligent human being. Your character, thus unassembled and fragmented, will simply crumble under the pressure of bags of gold should you ever attain that dream.

In this world, always and forever, the illusion of grandeur posesses the human spirit and we venture to be nothing worthwhile. We seek a mundane existence of materialism. We want to be millionaires.

Earlier I said you spend money you don’t have for a dream.
By spending money in such a manner you also live a life you don’t have.

You have no ownership of your soul because everything is for sale. Your dignity has a price tag. You do not ask for much but are happy to assume a soulless burden in order to placate your base desires. Spending money that is not yours for the mask of a dream that is not yours is to relinquish your humanity to the Dreamweavers who patch together your empty castle.

The Dreamweavers derive strength and power in your simplistic, short-sighted ambitions.

“I wish I was a millionaire” thus creates a dynamic in which the Dreamweavers become that which you worship by virtue of your longings. It is in their interest to perpetuate your hollow dreams for it is your helpless and vain pseudo-ambition which lines their pockets with gold.

The day you peacefully surrender the wish and embrace the treasure of humanity is the day the Dreamweaver’s castle will crumble.

A Haunting


There is something I’ve heard repeated which I think is irony exemplified.
Death is a part of life.


I suppose it is.
Duality guides and shapes existence.
Sadness is part of pain. Or is it the other way around?


Nowhere is this so dramatically portrayed as in the duality of life/death.
This blog has touched upon death often.
Because…I am death.
Death consumes me.
Death is the dark absence of breath. Death is the dark side of the moon. Death is an allure; it is the oppositional magnetism that repels as we happily thrive in Life’s glare.
How can we not be drawn?
Death, within the caverns of our Western mind and all its self-absorbed vainglory which seeks to avoid the absolute nature of death by ignoring it. But I can’t ignore the void.


Death enraptures me, and this blog, as an expression, is no different.
Back on April 21, toward the tailspin end of a recent meltdown, I posted something called …and it loves company, a bleak, rambling (and probably drunken) foray into death and its minute flash of occurrence. A little bizarre, a little odd.


A week after this post, I entered another phase of personal transformation, or rehabilitation, or just plain mortal confusion. I turned off all comments and decided I would do this alone. I would obey my soul. Sink into the barren retreat.


I turned the comments off shortly after that post and it also marked the last appearance by a commenter who had been one of my most regular visitors since the blog’s inception in the Fall of 2009.


Her comment haunts me.
Reading it now makes me reevaluate the horror of my words.


She wrote:


Unless the reaper finds you in a burning pile of wreckage…no option then, I think maybe Mark has a point. Your life and writings seem to have a dark persona at times. You believe that nothing happens when you are laid to rest so you had better get your ass away from the keyboard and live the only life you have David. It seems Mark has a point that you have no higher power to inspire you to live the life you have here on Earth, so what will happen to your rotting carcus? Will you lie there and be nibbled at by worms for eternity? Me, I will be the the Spirit World with all my relatives and loved ones. I will live again as a spirit. I can return to the Earth as another being but my spirit will remain the same. Having a higher power gives me hope and something to look forward to beyond the world of the living. To each his own…


It was not the first time we sparred about life and death and the spiritual grounds upon which we battled.
Morose, unbelieving, we did’t see eye to eye when it came to our spiritual relinquishment to an “afterlife.”
Nevertheless, she respected and tolerated my heathen ways.
She never preached at me or attempted to cloud my eyes with her personal sense of deity. I believed my bullshit, and she believed hers. She was wise and open-minded enough to realize that such a dichotomy was not necessarily an obstacle to friendship and discussion. She was intelligent and proffered insightful glimpses, both in her comments and in private emails. And I barreled forward furiously while boldly eschewing all that promised eternal and heavenly contentment. How easily skepticism comes! How easily we honor doubt when it asks so little of us today. I wonder if I am too profane, too fearless and thoughtless. For I believe what I do, but at what cost of my expression? My verbalization and passion. Is it misguided? I am fond of boasting an open mind and tolerance of those who do not concur, but do my biting and incessant tone have any lingering forgiveness? Understanding? I cloak my open-minded niceties in harsh damnations and caustic assertions.


I aim to damage, to pierce. Armors.
Nameless, anonymous, online.
The internet and my commute to work are similar.
Both, populated by streams of anonymity which beg for our fury and unfocused sense of anger and frustration. Thus liberated, your harsh emotions find no restraint and exude faceless passion, a war path of sorts, and the concept of feelings and sensitivities is cast aside. Thus we berate personal dogmas and beliefs without fear or hesitation.


And realize, later, when it’s too late, that.
We have trampled on another’s joie de vivre.
But we will never know, because that person is no longer.


My reader was a commenter from the early days of Phoenixism which was later to become An Unmarried Man.
She drove me to post more. She was the impetus that a young blog needs in order to sustain its lunatic existence. After all, the new writer seeks feedback and the solace that somewhere, eyes are falling upon his sweat-driven work. Commenting plays that role, it fulfills one’s authorial nourishment.
She breathed life into the early days of this blog.
Then I grew overwhelmingly comfortable with my withdrawn seclusion. I no longer sought feedback and shut down commenting on April 27.
This was a couple of days after Lana posted her final comment on this blog. In response to one of my most cynical and dark-hearted of posts.


I wonder if she knew she was dying then?
Her words cause me pause.


Daddy’s you-know-what

At the risk of putting that magical phrase Daddy’s Little Girl in the post title and garnering unprecedented and undeserved weekend page views, I’ll simply allude to it in the body of the post.

There is a phenomena of sorts which surfaced in my thoughts yesterday when I posted about my experience with women who escape the fallacious blind eye of the law.   The law may boast of vague attempts at color blindness, but one thing it can never promise or feel indebted to upholding is pussy blindness.

So many men in these parts of the blogosphere are fond of hammering home the weak moral character of women. Selfish and craven and undisciplined characters lacking in any sense of honor. Generally, I think that is fitting description of womanhood en masse.  Still, I’ve known (and know) women who escaped the scourge of impulsive character (or lack thereof). Ultimately, the blame falls on the power brokers, those with the means and ability and standing to discipline and express moral authority and direction. Through this point in history this role has been filled by men. And what have men done with the privilege? Why they’ve chosen to create a breed of woman we currently are treated to on a daily basis.

The male power brokers, acting the part of doting fathers, have refined and elevated the current breed of “daddy’s little girl” and has created a model of woman who has not learned the finer points of sacrifice, accountability, and honor.  Despite reports to the contrary, these are not particularly male traits (and men seem to lack these qualities in abundance now and seem lesser men for it) but women, through the generations, have shown a strong tendency to express such strength within the privacy of the household. Women who grew up in less superfluous times. Women who learned the humbling lesson of what it meant to hold a faltering house together during the roughest of economic and political periods. My mother, who grew up poor and during the austerity of WWII, represents an inner simplicity and strength that man, spoiled by contrast in his modern incarnation, no longer passes on to his female heirs.  In fact, now that man has “earned” the right to luxury, he showers his daughters with spoils and shelters her from harm and the miseries of life.  Man ventures out and carries this mindset with him and treats woman as the underserving Goddess and firmly imprints in her soul and mind the expectation that by virtue of her femininity the notion that she will never bow to the gods of rule and law.

Man, strutting his alpha macho so-called solidity around like a plastic costume and roaring like the king of the jungle he pretends to be, acts like a mouse when it comes to Woman.
He coddles her, he softens her, he insulates her from the ravages of unpleasantness.
He weakens her and lets her run off to her own unrestrained feminine devices. In the absence of rigorous discipline, woman degenerates into a slothful and moral glutton, unaware and unconcered with the ramification of self-serving avarice.

She is Daddy’s Little Girl.

Daddy’s little girls, drunk

Postscript: August 28 I’m amazed by my own naivete sometimes. Really. I wrote this post last night, blindly named it, then crashed. This morning on my WordPress Stats I notice a huge jump in page views. Huh? I go about my business, blindly, and it finally strikes me what the hell is going on. The title to this post is like a fucking honey pot to the legions of lurking internet perverts. I hate having to explain myself, but I feel in this case it is warranted. I did not title this post “Daddy’s little girls, drunk” intentionally or as a conscious and cheap effort to boost readership. Besides, once the apparent nature of this blog becomes obvious to those “new” readers, I’m sure they will never return. The post was named in honor of a phenomena I’ve thought about in our culture, that of “daddy’s little girls.” It has nothing to do with little girls and I suppose that is a disappointment for a lot of people who would land here by virtue of those key words. Sorry to disappoint, there is nothing here to sate your depravity, move on if you’re looking for that. This is a post which deals with the tendency of men in power to perpetuate and enable female misbehavior on a grand societal scale. Sorry to disappoint! I will not rename this post.

My mom, a loyal retired devotee of “Good Day L.A.” here in L.A. loves recounting occasional exchanges and dour encounters between its three “stars,” Jillian Barberie, Steve Edwards and Dorothy Lucey, during the weekday morning show that takes place while I’m in the midst of signing on to my sluggish workstation at work or pouring myself some hot tea in the kitchen. The other day she told me how Jillian Barberie, the buxom bombshell of the trio, recalled a recent incident in which she was pulled over by a traffic cop. Apparently she was daring her luck because she was speeding and talking on the cell phone without a headset, you know, the usual bullshit high risk factors which a guy such as myself would be cuffed and lashed for. But as Barberie explained, she smiled and flashed her feminine pleasantries at the cop and he waved her off with a symbolic warning.

Once again, another example of how our male-infested police forces cater to and indulge the male-perpetuated lack of feminine accountability and horny-driven leniency.

Reminds me of something that I witnessed first-hand about 4 years ago.

It was a Friday night in 2006, the year I didn’t have a driver’s license courtesy of the State of California’s harsh hands of justice which brought down the law on my drunken ass from the previous year (2005) when I wrapped my car around a tree while under the influence of alcohol, about 3 times over. In addition to losing my license, I was subjected to an gruesome regimen of payback in which many of my liberties were withheld or retracted by legislated ransom.

It was a Friday night and the fact that I nearly split my neck in half courtesy of the booze did not stop me from drinking more booze. Not quite.

I was out with a female acquaintance and we decided to hit up a Chili’s here on the Eastside. We arrived about 8 and sat at the bar. We began some illustrious and epic drinking, spearheaded by fearsome Schooners of beer, and I had the opportunity to observe the travails of a woman’s social existence in a very needy man’s world. One guy on the other side of the bar sent her a drink and a really cheesy note via the bartender. My friend smiled, said “thank you” and drank her free drink. The guy came over and they talked for a while. This despite the fact his behavior was a solid rebuke against my “Alpha” presence (even though I wasn’t officially with her, not in the dating capacity to be sure). He passed through, we continued drinking, and before the night was over, we were standing outside in the parking lot talking to an older guy about who knows what or who remembers what. It was pure drunkenness. My friend was trashed. She’d had about 4 or 5 schooners. And we hadn’t eaten other than some appetizer scraps.

Finally, we packed it up and jumped in her car and headed home.

We drove down Washington Boulevard while she yapped away on the cellphone with her boyfriend. She was one of those women whose phone is literally an appendage. A physical tendril jutting from their palm, melded to the earlobe.

Driving down Washington, a wide 6 lane street, loaded with quarts of cheap, bland American beer, her steering synchronized with her flailing speech and at one point the car drifted across the lane in time with a gesticulation she made in response a dramatic verbal point.

Headed in the opposite direction was an LA Sheriff 2-man patrol unit.
The man in olive green flipped a quick U and pulled us over immediately.

As he ordered my friend out of the car I began formulating a mental plan about how I was going to get out of this scrape and get home (which was about 10 miles away). I had a revoked driver’s license, I was drunk…driving off in this car was highly unlikely. I wrote my friend off. There is no way she was walking from this. Damnit, I began to experience some pangs of guilt.

It seemed I sat in the car forever, waiting for the conclusion to this saga. From behind the car I could hear the sheriff radio going “beep…beep…beep” like they do. I heard a couple of men speaking, I heard movement.

“Cops” this was not.
There were no dramatics.
No hamming it up for no one watching.
In the dark of the night here in Southeastern L.A. County.
Laughing, more voices.
Finally, my friend stumbled back into the car and started up the engine and casually pulled away from the curb. She told me the police told her to stay off the cellphone and go straight home.

During the field interrogation, they asked her how much she’d had to drink. She told them “a couple of beers” and she was fond, in the following months, of joking about how it was only a partial truth, because she said a “couple” of beers while failing be candid about it; part of this routine involved her stretching her arms apart as far as they would go. A “couple of beers like this” she would giggle.

I’d still be in jail…

“Whoredom Of Expression” and my Facebook foibles

There’s a new cyberword on the block.

Defriend: The act of removing a pre-established friend/contact from your social networking profile. Usually stemming from reasons such as personal retribution, newfound disinterest in the acquaintance, as a statement of disagreement, etc.

Raise your hands if you think I made that shit up.
If you raised your hand, you are a winner, or whatever you want to call it.
I did make it up.

I needed a word to describe the phenomena I’ve experienced several times on Facebook.
I’ve been defriended by 2 women (one for obvious reasons which will go no further than my memories, so don’t even think you’re about to read about that shameful experience; the other because I was not a good, attentive friend) and one guy. Not sure why, he never told me (and I’m a man damnit, so I never asked) but we still communicate via email. I have my suspicions which don’t involve me directly but rather relate to other people I have on my friend list. That’s right man, 3 defriendings, and I take those as a mark of pride.

Incidentally, I’m on a mission whereby I am seeking to be defriended by as many Facebook friends as possible. I’ve begun planting rather offensive and disagreeable comments on my friend’s walls and it’s only a matter of time before I get scratched off someone’s list. My ultimate goal is to be defriended by all of my whopping 25 Facebook buddies by sheer virtue of my overbearing and pompous ass that can’t seem to shut up.

That is my noble goal.
Are you with me?

I would assume it’s fashionable at this moment in history for the asocial and misanthropic nerd herd to express vehement disgust with Facebook and its culture of laborious social minutiae.
I see Facebook as the global, cyber embodiment of all that I detest when having to interact with…humans and their tirelessly droll offerings. Facebook, that fucking wall, it’s like one incredible stellar festival of small talk, endlessly cyber looped in various forms of trite and supremely annoying irrelevance and triviality. You can find the worst sort of platitudes and blather plastered across the Walls of FB.

It’s cool to hate Facebook for this fact alone.

But rather than rail against it in a most aggressive and disagreeable manner, I find it’s much more humorous and amusing instead to make a game of it and mock rather than attack. The other day, on this blog, I posted a comment someone made about someone “deserving better” and turned it into a lengthy, detoured post. Later, I will post another snapshot of a formulaic and lazy sentiment I found on someone’s wall. Rather than lambast, I will chide and mock. I think Facebook’s culture of small talk bullshit is annoying beyond description. Facebook is a conglomeration of the entire cyber community’s mindless propensity to recite mindless shit I do not care about. Simply put, small talk. The crap people use to spark “conversations” because they are attention-starved whores or because they honestly think their life is truly that captivating. Strike 2 on both counts! People’s lives and their breakfasts or evening commute is NOT INTERESTING. The worst thing about it being that the trivial and meaningless second-by-second accounting of people’s not-noteworthy garbage which in a normal world would be forgotten and ignored by sharp-minded folks, is instead greeted with equal doses of fervor and simple-mindedness.
ie: Some idiot may post about how he would really love a 4×4 from In n’ Out Burger even though it’s 1:30 am and I guarantee you that 2 or 3 friends will do the “like” thumbs up idle gesture and maybe another couple will actually take time respond with empty-headed quips. It’s the responses that gnaw on my nerves. Not only is your shallow brain spew horrible to witness, now I have to read other brain spew in response which thus glorifies and legitimizes your spew. It’s a fucking orgy of idiocy.

It’s Whoredom of Expression.
That is what Facebook and Twitter are.
No good intellectually snobbish misanthropic curmudgeon worth his salt would be caught dead humoring the ludicrous level of expression that is written on those walls of hell. Before I continue with my next real life Facebook citation for public ridicule, I’d like to point out a fellow blogger who has taken the ridicule of Facebookian culture to new heights of comic mockery. bschooled over on Just Making Convo, has made a franchise of Facebook-friending public figures and joining the empty-headed chorus in a very Trojan Horse-like subversion until she suddenly springs forth with the most irreverent jabs which I’m sure leave the sincere Facebook participants befuddled and scratching their heads. Facebook and its adherents are engaged in serious business! So much so that witty subversiveness is lost on many there.

Without further ado, let me dive right into my next installment of annoying Facebook talk.

I hear this sentiment, and variations of it, all the time.

Especially every December 31/January 1.
People in swarms of lemming-like delusion use the calendar demarcation as a catalyst for personal change even though, in reality, January 1 is absolutely no different than December 31 in real, qualitative terms. The concept of New Year’s resolutions is lazy and ill-fated, for to construct one’s plan for personal renovation around a meaningless date is to thus cast the rest of the year into a subordinate and pallid role. In other words, you build up to that big day but once its over and the clock strikes midnight, the next day saunters in without fanfare and somehow the magical symbolism of a number just doesn’t exist anymore and now it is up to your personal will to continue the resolution. This is the trapping of structuring your life around a calendar.

This Facebook dude alludes to hoping the upcoming year turns out better.

Though not a direct example of “New Year’s,” there is nevertheless a sentiment buried in that thought which is clearly deciphered and understood…namely, that the new year (in this case, the new year being a new chronological age) will bring with it auspicious change. But…change doesn’t just happen. It’s made. Here’s the rub: I don’t think the dude who made that wall post is a fool. He’s well aware that what I say is the truth. This is not a mysterious secret. I’m not dispensing timeless wisdom I uncovered beneath some ancient ruins. It’s tragic that when expressing one’s thoughts on Facebook, idiocy emerges. Trite, rote, unimaginative thoughts pour forth in response to a blank “wall.” Facebook, with its promise of easy and available expression by the second cheapens the quality of discourse. Cheapening discourse, it thus stupefies it as well. Expression becomes easy and ubiquitous and loses its value. People say shit like “let’s hope this year turns out better” and it is expressed to legions of nodding robots who happily rejoin with a push of the like button or the expression of hollow platitudes while not daring to question the foundation of the original thought.

And therein lies my goal…to call out Wall Posts for their inaninity and thus expose the retarded underbelly of mass expression.

I am on a defriending mission!