Tuesday, April 30, 2013

A Nautical Tale

Why should I invite you into my boat, when I know it leaks and the chart I use is blank? Why should I challenge your beliefs? What is to be gained? All good questions with which I have wrestled over the years. Many years. I can come up with a few answers...vanity, misery loves company, altruism in its purest form. All noble conclusions. Even the self-deprecating ones.
There were several people in my life that challenged what I believed. I thank them. And I condemn them. For all is not what it seems in this leaky boat of no beliefs. It is cramped and yet lonely.
It is far from comfortable. It twists and turns with the tides, the wake of passing ships and winds. It has no course that I can deduce. But of course, I prefer it that way. As opposed to being attached with a line to another larger craft that seems to have a bearing. When one is so attached, it is difficult to see where you are being led, no matter how swiftly and effortlessly you are pulled through this life. So I drift. Alone. I see other one-man craft in my journey, and we will throw up a hand, but since neither of us can control our course, we soon part ways. 
When I was a very young man, a friend and I liked to take our one man inflatable dinghys off the coast to fish for bonita. They are a seasonal schooling fish and angling in a small craft in the middle of a run, can be exciting and later delicious. Double and triple hooks are not uncommon. But as young men often do, we misjudged.
One morning while chasing such a school, I ventured away from my friend and the shore a bit too much.  Then BANG...I got a massive hit and my reel was singing as I felt myself being pulled this way and that by the strength of the fish that I had hooked. Its weight and speed created a wake around my little light craft as I held on to the pole desperate to land this behemoth. Then just as suddenly as I had hooked, the line broke, and the silence started to surround me as my friend's voice was no longer within hearing distance. Then I noticed that in all the excitement, I had knocked both little plastic oars into the sea. I turned quickly enough to see them drifting off into a fog bank that was rolling in.  I knew that the direction of the fog was coming into shore...but how far out had I been pulled? The mist soon surrounded my little boat as I yelled at the top of my lungs. Then silence, an occasional fog horn and the slap of water coming over the edge of my boat was all that I could hear.

 I was fucked and I knew it. As the fog engulfed me, I lost all sense of direction, as you will in the middle of sheer nothingness. All manner of rational thought flew away from me as I screamed into the silence...hoping to hear my friends voice in answer. Nothing. I must have drifted like that for close to an hour. Then I heard the sound of rushing water coming closer to me out of the fog. A heart-stopping blast of a horn...and I knew instantly that I must have drifted out into the shipping lanes...and I was about to be run over like the flotsam I was, by a passing ship. I paddled with my hands as fast as I could away from the sound which when I think about it probably saved my life. Along with the passing monster of a ship that appeared came its wake that pushed and spun my craft away and into the sunshine. After it had passed and the uncontrollable rocking of my rubber skiff had calmed I quickly took in the view of the beach as merely a distant horizon line, the better part of a mile away. What seemed like hours of hand paddling and the rushing surf eventually landed me on the beach where my friend had been for quite some time.
Quite the adventure. But what is the point? I dunno. At the risk of plagiarizing Hemingway, I have to say that little sojourn into the unknown scarred my little brain. In a good way.
There are all kinds of boats out here in this vast ocean. Ships, yachts, sail boats, junks. You name it. They all seem to know where they are going.
Port Comfort. Just a few nautical miles from here in Gregarious Bay. A place to show your craft. Size up the pinnace of others. But I remember an exhilarating experience being on my own and am drawn back to it. Fear? Yes. Loneliness? You bet. Independence? In spades. And a view.

Friday, April 26, 2013

Cheap Shot...

I am going to take a cheap shot. Sort of. With all this Boston marathon hype, I find myself watching clips from 'tv' online to get
the latest bullshit being spread in their media. It's hilarious.  For that, may the lord make me truly sorry. 
But I'm just gonna have to come out and say it. I have never seen so much 'nose-meat' in my life. I had no idea that it had gotten this far.

Now this little rant/observation has been bugging me for a few years, but without wishing to sound off-the-wall bigoted, I refrained from saying anything about it. There seems to be a 'meme' gathering though. A trend in which the bespectacled, curly-headed, huge nose appearance is somehow gaining acceptance? Now, aesthetically speaking, I have no problem with people wearing glasses. And I have few if any problems with noses. But when the size of the nose is accentuated by goofy cheaters...well, I gotta think that there is a new 'chic' arriving on the marketplace. And I gotta look to where it comes from. Now sue me, but if I had a honker the size of a Buick, I don't think I would try to make it look the size of a Hummer by sitting tiny black-framed glasses on top of it. But maybe that's just me.

Many millions of people have large noses and they are not always cult members. Many cult members do not have large honkers. Medical science informs us that of the few things that never stop growing as we age...the ears and the nose are the most noticeable. So I understand that if you start out in life with a rather large proboscus...well, by late adulthood...it will enter the room several minutes before you do.
But it is more than that. The media can push whatever they want on a docile public. Bad music. Questionable art. Horrible films. But appearance is just something that is hard to change in the eyes of the public.

When I was a kid, everyone knew that for a good laugh, nothing beat the huge nose and glasses disguise. Al la Groucho Marx. Even he made fun of his own appearance by enhancing his eyebrows and mustache. He was funny-looking. The difference between those times and now is, I guess, it is supposed to be acceptable to play up these repulsive physical characteristics in the media. Contacts and rhinoplasty are no longer needed  for one to blend. Well, it is obvious from whence this new 'beauty' standard comes. And I understand that if you are a tribe member and you are just dying to get your puss on the screen, that you have to think about these things. Plastic surgery? Laser eye treatments? Or just go with the 'jew look'. The well-worn stereotypical Woody Allen. But when are we supposed to laugh? And when are we supposed to take this goofy looking mask seriously? Well, it would seem that we are being asked to take it seriously all the time nowadays. Women are supposed to fall all over themselves at the mere glimpse of a gargantuan beak topped with glasses frames to glorify the sheer size of one's bill and one's narrow placement of the eyes. Frame such a countenance with dark ringlets and voila. The new handsome. Huh?
As I said, this is merely and observation arrived at through a few glimpses into your world of talmud-vision. 
I suppose if you are bent on pushing your culture on a non-tribal populace and are looking to gain acceptance through your media, you would have to also push your physical stereotype. This appearance boilerplate will out. At some point you have to stop trying to look like a goy and come out of the closet. Proboscus, goofy frames and all. But what gets me is the way the Gentile celeb tries to mimic such humerous presence. Probably dictated by their owners in an attempt to soften the hilarity of such human ugliness.
I guess, I'm trying to say that since I'm not used to this temperature
that other frogs in the pot have grown to be okay with...I don't know when to laugh anymore. This isn't meant to be profound. It certainly isn't scientific. It is(if jews were truly a race)a racial slur masquerading as valid consideration.
You probably shouldn't even be reading this, nor should I be writing it...but I just can't help but giggle and forget entirely what it was he was saying when I see the Wolf as he is telling me of the latest terrorist threat. I should take this guy seriously?  I mean, Groucho?  Oh, please.  

Sunday, April 21, 2013

False Flags And Real Ones...

I apologize to the millions of readers I have out there just itching to
read my latest post. I haven't written in a while. Been kinda busy.
But I'm back.

I had my first heart attack.

Now, for all of you jealous folks out there wishing you could have one too...I gotta tell ya that it just isn't half as much fun as they say. Sure, you get to stay in a hospital and spend all day in a uncomfortable bed, answering a gazillion questions from every nurse that happens to pass by. Of course you get to take time off work. Then there is that sexy scar. These are all on the plus side, I agree. But on the not-so-much side, there is a considerable amount of pain, panic and  reassessment of your life that, well...just isn't much in the  way of amusement at all.
If I were to choose, I don't think I  would have another. Maybe that's just me. 

But I wasn't intending to throw a pity-party here. I'm okay. Aside  from all the pills I have to take in the aftermath, I'm back on my feet and  healing. Well, physically anyway. Mentally, such trauma can cause one to pause. I guess I am still paused a bit. Plenty of time to look around and see the world at more than just a glance...as I am usually wont to do. I always figured that this ride was a race. Get as far as you can as fast as possible and damn the torpedos. All that. And maybe it is. Unfortunately, as I am stuck here in the mire for a bit, nothing else stands still with me. It all goes whizzing by at a much faster pace to me, because, I guess, I am in slo-mo for a while. But that's okay too. It provides a perspective.

The latest docu-drama in Boston is hilarious to me here stuck in the center of the merry-go-round, and I cannot believe the voracious way that the public is tuned into it. It is a bonding narrative.  A fantasy that is as sick and twisted as the yiddish theater churned out by hollyweird every day...and with all the special effects, poor acting, lousy editing and a semi-happy ending that such theater can provide. The motive for this drama is obviously the same as for any theatrical piece put in a can in tinsle-town. Profit. For the director, the producer, studio bosses...and the all-important shareholders.
But you know this. It's just that I am seeing in 3-D, Hi-def , 50fps Dolby surround sound...here in my ambulatory state. I have my silly glasses on and the story plays out on my computer screen like a really bad MST3000 flick. I am happy to provide the riffs. I am gleeful to make fun of the 'tragedy' as others stare at me aghast at my lack of empathy.  As if any of it really happened as they filmed it. Of  course with each of these moving movies that ash-can-nazis release in their media, they get a little weirder and more, I dunno, transparent. At least to me.
I once saw the play "The Night Of  January 16th", written by Russian jewess Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum(a.k.a. Ayn Rand). As with all jewish entertainment, it was written for audience response as opposed to a true expression of the author. Its gimmick was to present a mystery that had two endings. Which ending the company performed depended entirely upon the audience. As they sat as jurors, their verdict dictated last scenes. I thought a great deal about that play this week as I watched the Boston marathon 'bombing' movie in the media. 
You the audience were drawn into participating in this cheap-novel adaptation brought to the screen.
And you decided(within the scope of their intent)how it played out.
There are many unanswered questions in your head as you file out toward the lobby but there will be a sequel and a prequel for your amusement later on.  It will all make sense once they pen and perform these for your entertainment.
But that's as may be.
At this point I just don't seem to have as much energy to pick apart such  poorly written melodramas as I had just a few weeks ago. Thanks to my hiatus, I am enjoying watching the people in the cheap seats going "Hey...wait a minute!", and putting two and two together to realize they have been bamboozled yet again.  

My physical red-flag has given me opportunity to relax and enjoy more and more of you awakening to the cheap theatrics of yet another(soon to be announced) false flag.