Trayvon Martin and our communal spirit. Layers of society which destroy us.

We live in a complex society. There are many interacting parties. Technology has shortened the distance between interactions while condensing the size of the society. Whereas in the distant past, events were insulated and sheltered from our attention, technology has brought all human events, tragedies and triumphs alike, into our lives with such immediacy that in many cases it is almost as if we witnessed said events firsthand. Thus, the global human race, rather than being segmented into antecedent intimate pockets of social life, is one vast interlocking hive-like dynamic spanning Earth-scaled pathways milling around a small room the size of a cocktail bar. We witness en mass comment events unfolding together as if in a theater, and chat about it in real time to foreign, unknown voices. As the world and humanity broadens, adjoined complexity has raced ahead of our comprehension. Our senses and cognition are primal and rudimentary. We have been designed to understand the intricacies of only a few communal cohabitants. We can comprehend the interplay of 30 people but our world has become an incomprehensible stage of infinite players. We cannot deign to grasp this interplay. There are so many levels to our modern existence that they simply elude our understanding. We do not have the innate skills to understand and appreciate the finely-tuned disharmony between the legions of actors on this global stage. At least., not with our minuscule one-dimensional intelligence. Hell, we don’t even trust people to drive while talking on the phone.

Our society is one constructed of layers.

Layers upon layers of interaction and ramification. One human event invariably leads to scores of others. Each of those others then branches into scores of further derivations. The exponential growth of outcomes in this technological society is astounding and elevated clearly beyond human interpretation. The domino effect of life is magnified in this world where a chain of events ruptures like torched dynamite which spawns further reactions, and in an attempt to make sense of this, we focus on that which we feel strongest about and which is most easily discerned. We fixate on it in order to understand that vast chain of causal detritus that seeps out the scope of our viewpoint. Layers are our existence. Layers spells us out. Layers of reality, layers of happenstance, layers of effect, and layers of manipulation. We are feeble-minded though. We were not evolved to handle such an intricate understanding of the connected nature of human behavior.

I’d like to propose a situation in which I tag each character with an alphabetical identity. I want to propose a chain of events.

Let’s start our melodrama with 2 people.

A and B.

A is a rotten individual, prone to sadism, theft, opportunism and sloth.

B is a saint. A godly man. He has a family and believes in justice and morality and lives a sense of wrong and right we can all agree on. Hell, he even goes to church and earns about $250,000 per year.

A is going nowhere. He has succumbed to the depths but he has proven that deeper awaits.
B is beyond pale. B is incapable of defilement. B is the person we trust.

One evening, A is very tired. Earlier in the day, he attacked and robbed a convenience store owner. But as usual, he got away and spent the rest of the afternoon watching television and eating Cheetos. Not a worry in the world, for A is ruthless. After a day of watching television, the sun begins to set, and well-rested, he becomes bored. He has done nothing all day but eaten and slept with his “earnings.” The day has been spent in a state of trashy hibernation. A wakes up with a start and decides he needs to get laid. He knows of a small quartet of housing blocks where a lot of basehead whores can be had for a few bucks, and he has a lot left over from his afternoon hunt.

Focused on his goal, he dashes out his apartment. He walks stridently and keeps his head down. He has no need to entangle himself in anything other than getting laid. He’s very horny right now! He has a hoodie pulled over his head, hands in pocket. Walking briskly. In order to get to the basehead’s hood, he has to walk through a pedestrian area that caters to many classes of people and during this stretch, he accidentally bumps shoulders with B. It’s an honest collision. B was too busy looking down at his 4-year-old daughter and didn’t see the robust and hormonal A speeding to get laid. After the collision, they both glare at each other, with entirely different motives and life experiences clouding their vision. B’s glare is sour and helpless. A’s is aggressive and murderous.

The glare lasts 2 brief seconds. B backs down quickly and begins attending to his daughter again. A, if not for the lure of basehead pussy, might have elevated this into a serious event. He continues fiercely where he was going prior to the interruption. He finds his regular girl who he has hired before and she puts out for 20 bucks and they are both set for the night.

B continues with his daughter and wife, disconcerted and slightly upset over his apparent lack of masculinity, but doesn’t talk about it. They eat dinner at a nice Italian restaurant and drive home where he stews quietly while his wife scolds the children. Preoccupied and distant, he sits in the study and wonders why A appeared so angry. He fixates on the glare.

He can’t stop thinking of the glare. Of the animal ferocity that resided in the man’s eyes. B knows A was an animal with little restraint.

B understands he was a meek, pampered puppy burdened with nothing but restraints.

And he hates his existence for a brief moment before he buttons up the doubt and once again pretends to be pleased with this upper crust life, for the sake of his children and marriage.

It could have been so much more, but it was so much less.

Disappointment colors his world. He is disappointed. This is the communal spirit of modern man.

Mexico’s dark mayhem

Yet more dark mayhem going down in Mexico. Mexico is absolutely whacked. Behind the serene worshipful placidity of crosses and Catholic sermons and old ladies with rosaries clutched to their chins, lies a vast evil purgatorial wasteland of fallen angels and those people who displace their religious fervor on the dark prince in the hope he can help foster their illegal earthly activities.

In the latest occult mindfuck, 8 people from the same family in the state of Sonora have been arrested for the sacrificial murders of 3 people, including two 10-year-olds. The murders/sacrifices were committed for the benefit of the Santa Muerte, the saint of death, in what worshipers believe they will receive in exchange, which is protection for the mortals on earth and their activities which I guess don’t include merely cropping the land for food.

Mexicans love death. Mexicans sanctify death and celebrate its imagery. Death is a personified embodiment. Mexico is our neighbor, but in many ways it is a completely alien civilization next to our’s. The character of Mexican culture barely resembles that of America’s. Mexicans are involved in the mystical and rely enormously on magic, both white and black. I knew a Mexican chick who, on the surface always spoke of god this and god that, but she was just a big hypocrite because she was a vile whore and plus she spent so much money and time visiting witch doctors who she always referred to mysteriously as “Don….” or “Doña…” They told her the future. They advised her. They shaped her life through occult force for a price and the right offerings. She believed this stuff intently. She claimed to have asked for a spell to get rid of our boss (we worked together) and within months, our boss was released. I found that curious though I’m not a believer. This chick embodied the chaotic spirit of the typical Mexican. Funny that a country whose roots rest in Catholicism and strikes one as sturdily parochial, still produces some of the most dark mayhem on the planet.

A lot of it seems to emerge in Northern Mexico. In fact, Northern Mexico is home to the most infamous case of sacrificial murders of all, the Matamoros murders named after the large city which sits across the mouth of the Rio Grande River from Brownsville, Texas.

The son of a Cuban immigrant, Adolfo Costanzo moved to Mexico City in the 1980’s and masterminded a ring of drugs, black magic and corruption. It wasn’t until an American by the name of Mark Kilroy disappeared during Spring Break in 1989 near the Matamoros border, thus pressuring the American government to force the Mexicans to crack down on the ritualistic disappearances that had gone unreported for some time in that area. According to the “Hollywood Unmasked” link above, when Mexican authorities finally found Kilroy, he was dead. In addition, they discovered,

The bodies of dozens of people were found mutilated and sacrificed in occult rituals used for blessings over drug manufacturing. Carlos Tapia, Chief Deputy of Cameron County, Texas, remembers his shocking investigation. He stated:

“I thought in my twenty two years of law enforcement I had seen everything. I hadn’t. As we drew near, you could smell the stench…blood and decomposing organs. In a big, cast iron pot there were pieces of human bodies and a goat’s head with horns.”

Authorities also discovered an assortment of “voodoo paraphernalia,” a blood splattered altar of sacrifice, cheap rum, human body parts, animal bones, chicken and goat heads, as well as the witch’s cauldron filled with the foul mixture of blood and flesh.

Once again, the theme of human sacrifice to the devil is in the details. Costanzo and his operation grabbed locals from the surrounding streets and commenced to mutilate and sacrifice them to Satan in return for protection of their drug supply.

And now, the current incident in Sonora sounding an awful lot like Matamoros. The dark mayhem raises its head. This time, the dead bodies were found in a small town by the name of Nacozari de Garcia, about 150 miles north of Hermosillo and about 70 miles south of Douglas, Arizona. The first victim is believed to have been killed in 2009, the most recent, this month. After the victims were killed, their blood was offered to the altar of the Santa Muerte.

Mexico is the land of superstition, but what makes it scary is that it is interlaced with a heartless carnage driven by greed. Black magic is harnessed to protect illegal stores of banned materials. Mexico has turned into one very large slasher movie. People get stabbed, burned, beheaded, delimbed, tortured, defaced…

The Mexican character is mystical. We dote on the darkest levels.

Even the name “Matamoros” sounds foreboding. It means “Kills Moors.”



To defeat death, be death

I commented this morning and later I found myself disagreeing with myself. I was tempted to comment and argue with my comment, but that would be ridiculous, even for this blog. It was a comment having to do with the Grizzly Man himself, Timothy Treadwell.

The section of my comment I disagreed with was my presumption that he was “suicidal” and that, in fact, most physical daredevils are as well. Throughout the day, I re-examined my statement and realized something about it that is not necessarily a given.

I believe suicidal people are generally unhealthy and depraved. There is nothing noble about desperate suicide. Most suicidal people are suicidal to the core and do it quickly because their sense of escape does not allow them to linger or wallow in misery. It is the misery they seek escape from to begin with. Despite the fact many people embark on long journeys of slow death through elective lifestyles and activities, I stop short of calling them suicidal.

Physical daredevils are suicidal in the sense that they have integrated the death frame into their existence perhaps similarly to the the Samurai warrior. From the Hagakure, there is this passage: “This is the substance of the Way of the Samurai. If by setting one’s heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way.”

Physical daredevils may strike the Western mind as suicidal because they embrace the impending edge of death to the degree that it doesn’t control their actions. Our Western perception of death is decidedly one of denial and inconsideration. The West is tremendously averse to death. This advanced culture that erects monuments and structures of technology has difficulty with death. We harness technology to prolong life and even talk of immortality. But we do nothing to improve the quality of the mind that sits helplessly in this shell we’ve strengthened to span decades.

I suspect many daredevils embrace the Way of the Samurai’s acceptance and readiness to absorb death into their life at a moment’s notice, for they are dead. For the Westerner whose life is spent prolonging his stay on earth in every way possible, the slightest acceptance of death is akin to being suicidal but it is nothing of the sort. I don’t believe base jumpers, skydivers, or Timothy Treadwell want (or wanted) to die. But they’ve scaled a state of existence in which they have swallowed the fearsome inevitability of death, truly, and thus, do not live their life around its impending sentence.

It’s the perspective. From where do you view death? From the top, or the bottom? Are you controlled by it, or do you control its promise?

Daredevils have died already. Death is birthed into their nature and cannot be expelled. They live death so deeply that it may seem morbid to most people. Most soldiers learn this after several battles. It is resignation through strength. Once you join the ranks of the walking dead, nothing can threaten your dreams and aspirations. What we fear is not the inability to realize our dreams, but that which threatens their pleasurable existence. Integrate death into your existence and dreams are unbridled.

The gore guy, off his rocker but harmless


I have a slight problem. I have a harmless little guilty secret.
It’s not a problem, per se, because no one gets hurt because of my fixation, including myself, but still, many people do in fact get hurt and even killed and become my entertainment subsequently. My pleasure does not invoke harm, but rather, feeds off misery and death. I am obsessed with gore photos and videos.


Gore. I’ve always been fascinated by scenes of death and mayhem. Back before there was an “internet,” I would get my fix by watching Faces of Death on VHS. That was the first time I had seen such images and I was captivated. I felt guilty but I couldn’t not watch. I wanted more, more. Then they began releasing multiple Faces of Death, some lame, but still, all showing at least several scenes of disease, mutilation, death, blood, bodily organs. Sinister crap that no one in their sane mind watches.


I was not then, and am not now, sane. I love this stuff. I’m drawn to gore. Once the internet came into my room, it promised a wider array of online gore. There were a couple of sites I surfed for my gore fix: Orgrish and Rotten. Back then they published mostly jpeg’s of gruesome still scenes of post-accident desolation or human murder or suicide victims. It was basic stuff. Now there is video gore everywhere. Everyone is now equipped with a video recording mechanism in their purse or pocket, and if there are no people around, video records are constantly rolling thanks to our Big Brother masters who oversee that laws are obeyed at all times. The Truman Show predicted that we would be on the air, 24/7. There is hardly a moment when there is no video record being made. And because of this, many instances of death and destruction are caught on video. The avid follower can find all kind of gore footage if so inclined. There are videos of hunting accidents, car accidents, accident aftermaths, murders, murder scenes, disease-ridden victims, random instances of sadism and sexual perversion so sick that it’s hard to watch. Gore is filthy life. It is the antithesis to living, but it draws many people, like me.


The old saying, “It’s like a train wreck. You can’t stop looking.” was written about people like me. I feel abnormal. Not mentally well. This can’t be natural. I think most people, normal people, when presented with gory images. will look out of curiosity but will be sufficiently repulsed so as not to revisit such things. The point at which me and my ilk are separated from normality is when we actively look for gore shots. We want more, more, more…it’s like a drug, an addiction. Scenes of entanglement and dismemberment and blood are cathartic. They evoke a chemical reaction that is both pleasing and abhorrent. This is how normal guys relate to porn. I hate porn, it bores me. Gore is exciting.


I realize the mental pathology. This gore fixation is symptomatic of underlying issues, I just don’t know what they are. I am not a madman, I am not a serial killer, I’m not into BSDM or any of its derivations. I don’t have tattoos or piercings. I don’t live a dangerous life. But I can’t stop watching photos of people being stabbed, beheaded, squashed, smashed, sliced…it’s a hunger. Nowadays there is so much gore available that it’s hard to not find it. I personally like Reddit because that is my one-stop gore shopping mall. Redditors conglomerate all the current viral gore into this subreddit. It’s a great cross-section. There is darker, more sinister gore once you bravely descend into the “deep web” but I ain’t that hardcore. I just like my occasional footage of Asian car wrecks or Indian shitfests. Nothing too crazy.


One of the viral videos that made a splash recently was the footage taken in the moments after a bus hauling employees collided with a tractor rig carrying a steel beam on a narrow Brazilian road. Fifteen people were killed and all of them in seemingly the most gruesome manner imaginable. Someone with a camera who appears to have the same gore fixation as me paraded up and down the long accident scene recording the scattered remains and morsels of human flesh and fading life that remained in the wake of the disastrous accident. This is easily one of the most gory real life videos I’ve ever seen. This outpaces footage from any of the the Final Destination movies, which is quite the gore franchise in itself, although the knowledge that those are only special effects makes them less appealing. Real life is where it’s at.


The essence of gore imagery is the hideous knowledge that they really happened. None of this was staged and there are no special effects. I won’t give the link to the Brazilian traffic accident. Suffice to say, the truly motivated internet denizen worth his weight is fully capable of finding the video. This stuff is NSFW, and furthermore, NSFL (life).


I grabbed a screenshot from the video footage and strategically blurred the key parts of the image because I realize not everyone shares my intrigue.


I can’t understand how not!




The she-male and my reverse-delusion

This evening, a she-male with big tits said I was ugly.

Well, maybe not. But maybe. It’s possible I’m embellishing because I tend to do this when it comes to such matters.

I’m not embellishing that he was a she-male or that he had big tits.

These are irrefutable facts. That he called me “ugly” is disputable. And possibly, a figment of my paranoid and pessimistic imagination. Or he really did call me ugly. I will never know and this is moderately disturbing to me. I don’t care what he thinks of me. He’s a man! Well, maybe I care a little, insofar as his opinion is a relatively accurate reflection of my subjective sex appeal.

I really wish I knew what he was talking about. I wish I could relive the incident and look him in the face in order to determine if he was watching me when he said the Spanish word feo as I climbed the stairs of the Red Line Pershing Square station. Only then could I be sure he was or was not looking at me. And that would be my final answer. Doubt is a horrible thing.

Well, I’ll retrace it in a narrative. This is what happened. Or how.

My train rolled into Pershing Square this evening and I dashed out ambitiously and excitedly up the stairs toward the wondrous, smelly beacon of Pershing Square, LA’s downtown homeless mecca. As I climbed the stairs from the train platform, this is what greeted me.

A hideous manly she-male with clownish makeup that could barely disguise the manly base below in a futile effort to portray a girl. Most of these she-males don’t seem to care about looking “real.” I guess the subculture is about masculine and feminine coexistence. They are content to look and sound like men but somewhat contain the general perplexing appearance of a female. It’s a script for she-males. This one that walked toward me in Pershing Square was typical. There was no way he could ever be mistaken for a woman despite his harsh make-up and…humongous tits. This she-male had some huge breasts. Their cleavage was bursting from his skimpy blouse. He was walking toward the stairs as I ascended. Next to him was a guy who just looked like a guy. His voice was a man’s but it was punctuated by the predictable lisps. And those tits. Very clean-shaven chest. In and of itself, his cleavage was very…sexy. That’s all that was, however. He was rattling on in Spanish as we approached. This is what greeted me. To my right there was another ongoing spectacle. It’s important to mention this because it was also in the field of vision of the she-male. To my right there was a cute looking little Bulldog or terrier adolescent. Didn’t look like a stray or hungry. It was just standing there and next to him was a haggard old lady, might have been homeless, insane, hungry or all of the above. She was stooped over trying to feed the dog some Subway sandwich leftovers. Now at this moment, I heard the she-male walk by me and in the midst of his talking, utter the words “que feo!” Translation: “how ugly!” Ugh. That old self-doubt surfaced. I thought I’d left it far behind. I thought I was over it. But now, the cruel doubt was rekindled because of some goddamned she-male in downtown LA. An ugly she-male who said the Spanish word “feo” as he walked by and now I was tormented. Did he say “feo” or “fea,” the feminine form of the word? This might solve everything. Was he talking about the crazy lady feeding the dog?

This has always happened to me. I’ve always caught the tail end of snippets of conversation that darted in and out of my life and wondered if they were directed at me. It has happened so much, I’ve lost track of the incidents. I’m a paranoid bastard this way!

I remember at Cal Poly, Pomona, in the 80s, I was sitting under a tree on a cement bench when two girls approached from a distance. I thought one looked at me, but I can’t be sure. As they drew closer, I heard one tell the other “looked better from far away.” Believe it or not, this scarred me! My mood was killed for at least 5 years. I’ve never forgotten this They could have been talking about anything, but in my reverse-delusional mind, I was convinced it was about me. She was commenting on my dashing appearance when measured in miles, not feet. I think of delusional people and I think of people whose optimism is unchecked. In my case, my self-delusion is about unchecked pessimism.

I have historically misinterpreted statements and laughter (especially from strangers) as being about me. I’m egotistical and vain but only in the negative aspect. In fact, I’m over this she-male incident. Still, his comment will be filed but I’ll not care about it (only insofar as it’s blog material). It won’t ruin my day to think what this dude with double-C’s possibly thought of my appearance.

But if he can recognize ugliness in a man, can’t your normal vagina-enabled woman also?

Ah well, who cares, none of them put out!