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People are saying I don’t need anything but my own ability to earn a profit. I’m not connected to society. I don’t care how the road got built, I don’t care where the firefighter comes from, I don’t care who educates the kids other than my kids. I am me. It’s the triumph of the self. I am me, hear me roar.
sucked right into that cult of the self, which the super-rich managed to perpetuate at a rather nauseating level.
hypocrites preach against actions that they themselves engage in
they are in a strangling match with their own jiminy crickets.
they hate themselves
they cut themselves
yet they use it against you.
infuriating, then thinking on it some more, sad
sad lonely hypocrites.
ANY ENCOUNTER OFFERS US A CHOICE
“This is an idea that seems difficult for Westerners to accept: when someone harms us, they create the cause of their own suffering. They do this by strengthening habits that imprison them in a cycle of pain and confusion. It’s not that we are responsible for what someone else does, and certainly not that we should feel guilty. But when they harm us, we unintentionally become the means of their undoing. Had they looked on us with loving-kindness, however, we’d be the cause of their gathering virtue.
What I find helpful in this teaching is that what’s true for them is also true for me. The way I regard those who hurt me today will affect how I experience the world in the future. In any encounter, we have a choice: we can strengthen our resentment or our understanding and empathy. We can widen the gap between ourselves and others or lessen it.”
~From her book No Time To Lose
I mean, not only has something, evoked a response in me but it’s going to be difficult for me to let go. Anger is like that for sure. Prejudice is like that. Critical mindedness is like that. You don’t want to let go. There’s something delicious about finding fault with something. And that can be including finding fault with one’s self, you know? So that’s what I mean by hooked. You’re sort of it because of the image of a fish and the hook and it has this juicy worm on it and you know the consequences aren’t going to be good. But you cannot resist. And one of the main things we’re addicted to is escalating aggression.
I may have a comment later…
Sadly it’s probably already too late. I should have posted this article last week. You have to have the bird slaughtered at least 24 hours before you eat it, to let the meat rest. Also it’s a wild turkey, so you don’t know how old it is. Turkeys raised on farms are all slaughtered young. The older animals get, the less tender the meat is, so you’re going to have to slow cook a wild bird. Butterballs take several hours, an old wild turkey will take several hours longer.
So it’s hopeless this year. It’s too late to hunt a wild city turkey for Thanksgiving. You’re not prepared. This is for next year. You have a whole year to prepare.
A week ahead of time, start scouting locations for wild turkeys. They usually stay in one spot where they are safe from dogs. My friend had turkeys in her backyard up in Arlington, up over the slopes. She was near the woods. The turkey family would walk on the same path each morning to go to the stream and drink water. But it doesn’t matter what they do in the day. You have to find out where they roost at night. Hunt like a raccoon- at night, while they sleep.
Birds roost high up in trees at night. Even big ass turkeys. They fly up there. I raised chickens before and some of them would be 20, 30 feet up in the trees in the morning. They will generally sleep in the same place every night. So find out where they roost. But don’t fuck with them the first night. They might get scared and find some other place to crash.
Make sure you can climb the tree. Practice in the day time.
By the way this is all illegal, I think. Don’t let anyone see you. Hopefully the birds will be roosting in a public tree. It’s probably still illegal to catch a turkey in public within city limits. But who gives a shit. Are you celebrating America by eating a bird raised in freedom or by eating a bird raised in the turkey equivalent of Auschwitz? (Also the term “free range” literally means the turkeys have a 12×12 fenced mud patch to poop on outside the door of their slightly less populated concentration camp that only has to be open a couple hours a day). Or you can buy a pasture raised bird from a farmer for $75. Do you have $75? Me neither. When I was a farmer we sold poultry only to the rich.
So before going to catch the turkey at night, you need something to trap him in. A big sack might work, though I’d imagine they’d just flap around in there. A buggy with some kind of lid on it would be perfect. So, right before sunset, on the Monday night before Thanksgiving, go to Giant Eagle and take advantage of their new low prices! (yeah right), and wheel the buggy off the premises. You’re only borrowing it. Be sure to hose off all the poop, feathers and turkey blood before returning it. A piece of plywood would be sufficient for a lid, also chicken wire or the side of another buggy.
Wheel the buggy to the tree where the turkeys are sleeping. Be quiet or you’ll wake them. Climb the tree with all the silence and skill of a ninja. Crawl out on the limb to where the choice bird is snoozing. Get ready because the shit is about to hit the fan, and you.
Grab the bird from behind, hands on on either side, holding his wings so they don’t flap. When a bird gets excited, that flap their wings like assholes, and this can damage the meat. You don’t want to eat a bruised turkey. The turkey will let out a yell, and the rest of the turkeys will go ape shit, causing a ruckus. Position the bird under your arm like a football so you can effectively climb down the tree.
Get the bird in the cart and make sure the lid is secure. Also I would bring a sheet, because if you’re wheeling a turkey in a shopping cart down Penn Avenue people are going to ask questions. A sheet-covered, gobbling buggy leaving a trail of poop is much less obvious.
Wheel the bird back to your apartment. Don’t give it food. Give it water. It’ll probably be too upset to drink. Keep it in the dark and it might go back to sleep. Turn on some music in case it makes noise and your neighbors wonder what the hell is going on. If they ask, tell them you have Thanksgiving decorations that make gobble gobble noises.
Wait at least 12 hours before slaughtering the poor bastard. This ensures any food he’s eaten will pass through the craw, and we want this procedure to be sanitary.
Now this is going to be tricky. If you have access to a basement, slaughter it in the basement so the neighbors don’t ask questions. If you have to slaughter it on a porch, patio, or yard, get ready to deflect the neb-noses of neighbors with some kind of a distraction. I would get up early in the morning. Only really old people or people going to work are up early in the morning. The people going to work are too busy getting ready for work to notice, and really old people probably used to slaughter a turkey every year for Thanksgiving, so they’ll think you’re cool, and they’ll probably have opinions about technique.
Acting like a recent immigrant is one way to deflect suspicion. Dress in a puffy shirt and a black vest and an old man cap, smoke a pipe, have a mustache and say things like “Whata? You no have the turkey in America? We do this-a every year on Thonk-givins in Espan-ya!”
You need a turkey fryer, not to fry the turkey, but to fill that huge pot full of water and get it to scalding, but not boiling. Also some rope, and a sharp knife. A killing cone is preferable but most city people don’t have killing cones lying around. Grab the turkey by it’s feet and swing it gently from side to side. This will make the blood rush to his head so he’ll become dazed and will stop flapping his wings like an asshole so much. Tie the turkey up by his feet and take the knife and slice his neck with one quick cut. Blood should pour out fast at this point. If not you’re torturing the poor thing – be a little humane, dick. Try cutting again. With a sharp knife and a clean cut the turkey should die in 5 minutes.
After it’s dead, dip the turkey in the scalding water. This will loosen up the feathers. Take the feathers off. Have a hose ready so you can spray it off. Put it in a table and cut around the butthole and pull all his guts out. Keep the heart, liver, gizzard, feet and neck because that will make some kick ass stock. Throw the carcass on ice for 24 hours, at least. Not in the freezer, but in a cooler full of ice.
Hose all the blood up.
Cook that bastard early Thanksgiving in a slow cooker or in a pot for like 6 hours at least, until the meat is tender. It’ll be ready for din din.
Save all the feathers and some of the blood and decorate your apartment door with it. Everyone will think you’re crazy and you can have a nice, comfortable Thanksgiving drunk and alone.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!
We’re back! Aren’t you excited? We get drunk at the Buhl Planetarium, talk about the duck, and talk like old gold prospectors. Audio clips from The Byrds, Dexter Romweber and New Romans, Elvis Presley, the Cramps, Steven Wright, and Hawkwind.
This goes along with what I was saying in the last post about the Homestead Library being an effort by Carnegie to control the town, a “highly paternalistic” gift.
From 1992 page 164..
The gift of the library was representative of the ways in which, after the 1892 strike, the Carnegie Company worked to establish control in Homestead and the other steel towns. The company men knew that it was not enough to break the union; the towns themselves had to be broken. The company strove diligently to seize the institutions of community life–newspapers, churches, schools, social clubs, police, municipal government. Only by doing this could they ensure that unionism would not rise again.
In the steel towns, the corporation established close ties with priests and ministers so that they would be beholden to the corporation and assist them in controlling the workers and the townspeople…Early in the twentieth century, Homestead ministers defended the twelve-hour day..and Pittsburgh ministers attacked Sunday work in drug and confectionery stores but not steel mills.
This was pre-television control. The entire culture is corporatized now. The plannings of the Carnegie Company and US Steel was certainly the beginning of it, at the birth of the 20th century. It all comes down to bread and circuses.
It’s a beautiful autumn in Pittsburgh again. The Halloween season was fat with festivals, concerts and elaborate haunted houses, and great parties… cornucopias of food and desserts and liquor and beautifully crafted costumes and bands and great people drinking and smoking until the makeup ran and the costumes tore and wrinkled.
We properly celebrated the beginning of autumn ‘13 with the traditional consumption of psychedelics (a tradition I started last year). During the full moon on the day of the lunar eclipse we ate some mushrooms. They were taking a while to kick in after a heavy dinner down at Gaucho, the Argentinean place in the Strip, so I suggested a walk through the cemetery, and in the shadows of the moon behind the grand mausoleums we tripped over ancient leaning breathing gravestones and surfed the wavy hills as statues of wealthy dead men peered down at us ominously from the dark.
The nights are getting colder and I’m into soups and pasta and beer and curling up under the covers with Redhead and the window cracked so you can smell the aroma of dying vegetation, and the cold air makes you sleep and hate waking in the dark morning for stubborn work.
And the crows are back, ten thousand cawing out like mad prophets of cold winter Death, or maybe ten thousand grim reapers themselves. I drink box wine and cheap beer and throw peanuts to them and they coast down from the cemetery trees cautious of me to see what I’d left them. They wouldn’t go for the shelled nuts, they are smart animals, and they want something to peck open. I want them to recognize my face and greet me as a friend. The chickens used to know where the food came from, and they are stupid domesticated livestock.
I watch them flying overhead as I walk home from downtown from my job, which has become miserable with mismanagement. The cool air makes my commute on foot easier – 3 miles each way from Bloomfield to Downtown, usually on Penn Avenue. The skies have been intermittently gloomy but no chance of rain, as though the clouds are holding the moisture for an especially brutal winter. Depression sets in, old friends from Carolina all on the same night, I get too drunk. I can’t get out of bed the next morning, not with hangover but with depression, so I call off and try to write but mostly drink and feed the crows.
I threw open an unpainted window from my station one day and the supervisor thought I’d jumped. None of that. I would become a street crazy first… plenty of ways to exit life and still exist in a physical body and haunt loved ones. I’m hauling boxes, constantly for months, having been given the task of throwing away a library of bad books. We’re a company that sells unrealistic dreams. I have a sharp pain in my neck and shoulder all day and I’m given to humming slave spirituals when the boss walks by. At 37 most of the work I’ve done has been a complete waste of life, building small structures for no greater purpose, individual or otherwise.
It’s the first Tuesday of November, election night, and a short walk to the polls, the aroma of strong marijuana wafting out of random houses onto the sidewalk as always in Bloomfield. I vote a straight Democratic ticket, not being versed on most of the candidates, and in two write-in-only elections I wrote in myself. (If I win I hope the pay is better than $11 an hour). As a local election it’s very poorly promoted by a media who did not receive enough revenue from the candidates to do much reporting on it.
Bill Peduto will be the new mayor, a funny, smart, progressive man, which gives me both hope and speculation. I remember the beautiful, snowy inauguration day back on the farm when Barack Obama became president, and I remember, not a week later, when reports of Pakistani civilians being murdered by American drones didn’t shatter anything for me because I already knew such policies had been purchased and would be carried out.
Peduto doesn’t have drones at his command, yet, but he does have the power of the gentrification firehose, perhaps to clean up neighborhoods in horrid states of neglect and disrepair, but which may also cleanse the certain neighborhoods of the city, such as Bloomfield and Lawrenceville, of the poor and working class, to make it a high dollar playground for yuppies, of which the hip community is always the vanguard. Or perhaps Marelake (Mayor Luke) and the Clubtard Pukers were just the barking, slobbering, violent mad sled-dogs of gentrification, landing in the Southside each weekend, and soon the suburbs will take over, and everything that makes this city soulful will be scattered and left to dry away somewhere on the outskirts while South Side Works and North Shore-style settlements will demolish and pave over all the character, history and soul that makes Pittsburgh a place worth living in, with Marcellus Shale drilling underneath and pissing even more poison than the sewage overflow already brings into the rivers..
No, Obama didn’t fool me with hipness and intelligence, and neither will Peduto. Good men they may be, but they are cogs in the machine. I hope I am being too cautious for city politics, but I very much doubt it.
Andrew Carnegie comes to mind. I am reading the book Homestead: The Glory and Tragedy of an American Steel Town by William Serrin.
He goes through the history of the largest conglomerate in the world at the time, the United States Steel corporation. Carnegie knew to manipulate the media, to cast himself as a friend of the working man, yet behind the scenes he did everything to fight any tiny progress for the working class, such as wage increases and an 8 hour workday with a single day off. (Most of his men worked 12 hour days, 7 days a week, with regular 24 hour shifts in the rotation, in the harshest conditions imaginable, and were spied on and fired for union activity). His libraries, such as the one I borrowed the book from, as well as other philanthropic activities were completely calculated efforts to win control over the municipalities, to control the lives of the people during the few hours they were off, so any kind of union activity could be identified and crushed. The Homestead library was the largest and most elaborate monument to his power to control the off-hours of steelworkers, dedicated six years after the Battle of Homestead. Carnegie set the standard for the heads of enormous corporate empires, years before television.
Carnegie’s longtime co-emperor, Henry Clay Frick, on the other hand, was more like Nixon or Bush.. evil on his face, and unapologetic for it. Carnegie and Frick clashed during their lives, as modern Democrats and Republicans will. Carnegie, ever the “good” man, or coward, as Frick regarded him, tried to reach out to Frick make peace in 1919. “Tell Mr. Carnegie I will meet him in hell, where we are both going,” was Frick’s response to the messenger, acknowledging the horrors that they had created out of the lives of human beings, trudging them as slaves through their empire. They both died the same year.
But fuck all that. We’ve heard enough about the horrors of draculas, and Halloween is over. Pittsburgh can and will always be how you imagine it to be, and I will always find a hobbit hole to crawl into, just as beautiful as the one I’ve found on Penn Avenue, and people to drink and smoke and make music with, and this is my plan until the day the crows carry me off bit by bit in their bellies.
There’s a new mare in tahn, and I wish him luck.
( screamin’ steven jones posted this pic on fbook so i decided to put it here)
(again, I advise everyone to use the free Adblock from Firefox so they don’t have to see the stupid ads wordpress puts here. I also advise you to pee on all products advertised here.)
…IN WHICH THE AUTHOR IS TOO TIRED TO SPAZ YET IS ANGRY STILL…
Oww. Loading and unloading books. Three thousand pounds worth of pallets. First build the pallet in the upstairs of the old warehouse to see how much it will weigh. Stacking the boxes three across, three across, two sideways, reverse order on top, like bricks. We don’t even have a pallet jack, but the movers left one (my old warehouse is being outsourced to a storage company). However the wheel of the pallet jack got stuck in the crevice between the ancient wooden floor and the freight elevator. I’m trying to unstick a 1500 pound skid. No way. So I have to break apart the whole pallet again. The jack is useless. Unload 35, 40, 50 lb boxes one at a time. Unstick the jack. Then load the boxes up on the dolly, 16 boxes at a time. No ramp for the dock. Unload the boxes on the dock. Go back up, get more boxes. Unload them again, and once more. Then build the pallet out on the street. And again, same thing with another pallet. Build it, break it down, three trips with the dolly, unload dolly, unload dock. This time it’s all 45 lb boxes. The alley smells like piss. There’s always a guy pissing back there. I have to wheel through the puddle sometimes with my dolly full of boxes of books. Great health coverage but not a one-cent raise in a year and a half and the best warehouse man they’ve ever had.
The the smaller orders don’t warrant pallets, but now since the warehouse has been cut off from the former parent company’s network, I have to wheel hundreds of pounds of books a few blocks across downtown during business hours. The worst ones about getting out of your way are the men in business suits, hands down. All men are territorial but they’re the worst. Then drivers who don’t understand pedestrian right-of-ways. Those are the fucking assholes. A guy in an SUV with a fucking PETA sticker hollered at me walking in a crosswalk with a walk sign. I yelled back at him. A young Asian student leapt on the sidewalk at the impact of my very audible “FUCKin dumbass” directed to the driver. Poor kid, I should’ve apologized. So I’m pushing that across town, getting my whole ass into it. All over I ache, but it feels good. I need some wine. Haven’t had a drink all day.
Last night I made dinner for Redhead and I. Kind of a taco coleslaw. Turkey meat with Mexican spices, orange bell peppers, onion, garlic, olive oil, cabbage shaved in cider vinegar, cucumber, pinto and kidney beans, shredded cheddar, lime, cilantro. I added sriracha to mine. Redhead added sugar to the slaw. Today I’m making hot Italian sausage with kale in some homemade chicken stock. I don’t skim a lot of the fat off the stock. Keepin it real.
I think it’s racist to use an apostrophe when you leave off the “g” at the end of a word when writing in ebonics.
Walked home with my bag full of clothes from staying a few nights at Redhead’s, my breathing machine (for sleep apnea), my muscles aching, all stank and covered in sweat and soot from the dirty old warehouse, just dead tired but feeling alright, remembering the farm days when my muscles ached like that all the time. Sitting here at my window writing, watching the people walk by, teenagers being loud, cute little jogging girls in their 20s with their entirely too small but cute bouncy butts, three middle aged black ladies taking their time and the whole sidewalk with their perfectly large asses. White skinny 30s guy pushing a 3-wheeled jogger-stroller, young nurse coming from the hospital on her phone with a big backpack.
Some people peer in and wonder what the fuck. Some of them must be repulsed. This place is a mess. I haven’t cleaned in weeks because I’ve been writing so much.
I’m going to walk to Larry to get some box wine.
Shit, just got up and it hurt.
Walking down Main Street isn’t bad, it’s back up with 5 litres of cheap wine in tow that’s a motherfucker.
Quote from Buzz Osbourne from the Melvins on my mind: “You cannot make money working 9 to 5. Acquiring real wealth requires a lot more work than that.”
On my way back some drunken fag burst out of a house, with his friend, yelling “Order! Order in the court!” The friend giggled. I knew it was directed at me but I didn’t get it, too tired to make eye contact, so I just ignored him and kept walking. Then he saw a black lady he knew, so he lost interest in me and spoke to her in ebonics.
White people are funny. Imagine using a British accent every time you speak to a British person.
Later doing dishes I realized it was because I was wearing all black, my hair down to my shoes. Also my hair was in a pony tail, like a judge wig, except black. I laughed out loud. It was funnier that I didn’t get it at the time.
It got my goat a little bit but that’s what it’s supposed to do. That kind of shit used to really bother me when I was a fat young virgin. But you develop a sense of humor when you live inside this body for 37 years and don’t give a fuck what you wear, what you say, what you write. You get used to people coming at you sideways. They think they’re observing me but I can see all the way into the center of their unconscious minds. There’s a motivation for everything. The angle a heckler takes reveals more about him that it does about me. Being weird looking since birth and enough psychedelics run through your central nervous system and you learn to look at yourself objectively, and in looking at yourself objectively you start to understand the motivations of others, and if you’re not a sociopath you develop a bit of empathy for them.
You know who helped me develop a sense of humor about myself? The Keeleys. Ronnie and Ray and their dad Terry. They constantly ripped on me, you and each other and everyone. It was like growing up with Don Rickles up the street. Fuck I miss them. Terry died of lung cancer and had matchbooks made up, handed out at the funeral home, with a cigarette smoking skeleton printed on them saying, “Don’t smoke” – something like that, but funnier, with his name and birth and death dates printed. If you can joke about your own horrible cancer and death you’ve done pretty well.
I miss being in a neighborhood where you could walk 20 paces and see several of your best friends in the world. I kind of wish we still had communities that stuck together. It’s not anybody’s fault and it’s everybody’s fault. I went away. I needed to. I couldn’t imagine living in the same place without ever having gone away. But I envy people who have the kind of tight knit groups of friends that I had when I was a kid. I don’t have a gang. I haven’t had a gang in a while. I’m not much of an individualist, but that’s the way it goes when you’re weird, and you let your marriage take you away from everything important.
Actually I want a haircut. I get one every once in a while. It gets tiring not caring how you look. People are relentless with the not going fucking of selveses. I’m called “ma’am” quite often. I should use androgyny to my advantage. I’m not sure how. I don’t like penises in my mouth and I don’t look like the kind of ma’am who gets out of traffic tickets.
Anyway that was solid, quick, smart comedy from that homogay suffering from alcohol abuse. Respect. I think he might be my neighbor, or he was fucking my neighbor. I hope he rips on me again. That’s the kind of funny fucked up faggot this city needs. I could watch him rip on people all fucking day.
If you ignore context because of evil magic words you don’t happen to like, take your dainty ass out of my website and GO FUCK YOURSELF. I tolerate no weak minded prudes around here. It’s usually snobby white women who get pissed off about the semantics of the lower classes, and I don’t think any snobby white women are reading anyway. Not women. Not white women. But 1) snobby 2) white 3) women.
I just ran into some snobby white old hippyish women in the bagel shop, the kind who used to give you shit at farmers market. They cut in line in front of me. I didn’t notice until she said “Did we barge?” I didn’t think they did, but they did. That’s the kind of dishonesty in upper crust white people that can be infuriating. They’ll fuck you over intentionally and then say, “Oh I’m sorry, did I do that?”
I’m white by the way, but I can understand why we annoy people. I’m also Irish which is as black as you can get without being black. Well, Italians and Greeks are darker white people but I’m talking about it from a historical perspective as opposed to a melatonin perspective.
The Tea Bag Putsch
All the fringe right wing of the Republican party needs is a Fuhrer. And one will arise. So far, they’re all too stupid: Ted Cruz, idiot, Sarah Palin, idiot… so stupid even Wall Street is threatening to withdraw funding. But they’re retardedly jingoistic as fuck, and Orwellian as fuck, talking about refusing to use veterans as pawns while using veterans as pawns, and there are lots of other examples of Orwellian language. Hypocrisy is most pronounced in the mentally ill.
With all the powers the executive branch has had since the Patriot Act, the power to spy on and imprison citizens at will, to launch whatever wars it pleases, to wipe it’s ass with the magna carta, we are a diabolical, intelligent mind and a heavily funded election campaign away from descending into the most fucked up and evil dictatorship in world history. Bush crossed the Rubicon and chuckled about it long ago, and whatever kraken is released from the teabag movement will make Bush Jr look like a socialist.
Wall Street doesn’t want that though..they dominate the world with the government-as-a-looting-tool and elite stockholder-run corporate-liferape mechanism, and, much like the empires of Greece and Rome, of phony democracy and some very real freedoms for a complacent citizenry domestically, and violent Empire for the rest of the world. The machine is working just fine for them. The tea baggers started as an Koch Brothers astroturf campaign, but they are sincerely supported by a white enclave of the working class made dumb by generations of television, conservative neo- christianity and high frutcose corn syrup.
What we have now is bad enough, a violent terrorist state, but within, a free and unequal society. We can say and drink and shoot at pretty much whatever we want. And they’re going to let us smoke pot now, while the elites withdraw basic needs from any class beneath them, looting the treasury, withdrawing healthcare, castrating higher education while raising the price of admission, stealing food from the mouths of babies while poisoning the land, air and sea, with no steps considered to prevent the very real threat of social dissolution and environmental catastrophe. So, we really don’t need the 2nd coming of Hitler to destroy the world, but the Teabag Putsch has been well underway in October of ’13, and we might just get him.
Yes, Egalitarianism within the walls of an Empire is only a delusion meant to keep the people complacent, and that’s exactly what it’s doing. The powerful decree: Civil rights movements are allowed to succeed, as long as blacks, women and gays play by the rules, but we won’t tolerate the lower classes organizing for anything more significant than sporting events– only we can fire the cannons of class warfare.
The casinos of Pittsburgh are filled with yinzers on the floor, walking over psychedelic carpets with medium-strong drinks that aren’t even comped like they are for the desert rats in Vegas, parked in front of blinking machines. And they even take your name and social security number now. Just like Vegas, it’s poor and old people pissing away anything they’ve earned to a brood of financial vipers. Yes, of their own volition, and doesn’t the free will make the delusion of a real chance at wealth just dandy.
But fuck it. If you’re not a junkie, as with any other drug, gambling can be fun. We went to the Rivers Casino after drinking our asses off at 21+ night at the Carnegie Science Center. There was a great vintage bicycle exhibit, a robot shooting hoops, and the Van Allen Belt played as we drank and fucked around with the exhibits like children. We went to the planetarium show and heckled the poor announcer girl, who thankfully had a sense of humor, as science is hip now, which is a Good Thing ™ , as she showed us how our entire galaxy looks like a sperm cell in a pulsating universe of space-cum. It was mind blowing, I was in awe, and the drink, of course, enhanced the experience.
You’re given coupons with admission at the Science Center for the Casino for $15, and you also have to give them all your information for a card attached to a lanyard. I won about $20 on slots and bought everybody beer and nachos. I quit there, figuring that the reads on the cards let you win a bit first, then start to take. As HST said, and I paraphrase, Casinos love a drunk. And drunks love a casino. Yes, they’ll probably get my money again.
Cops who shoot dogs
This was one of the things I was going to rant about this week. But it’s just too sad. I can get angry at a guy rushing around in traffic because I understand what being in a hurry is like, that you can become inconsiderate as a result, but still, learn how to act, you fuck. But a motherfucking cop who shoots a dog who is a member of another family, who is not any kind of threat to him is too low to even comprehend. And it happens all the fucking time.
Dogs are the greatest beings on this planet. Every violent dog derives it’s violence from the abuses of humans, from awful human beings like Michael Vick or any cop who has ever shot a nonviolent dog. Dogs are the only people I’ve ever met capable of unconditional love, every single one of them.
Some cops are decent human beings and become cops so they can protect people and make the community nice, but I’ve seen nothing to indicate the majority of them are anything but evil, soulless robocops. If I was an awful person I think cop would be a perfect profession for me. You get to shoot dogs and put other human beings in cages for putting the wrong things into their mouths or lungs or veins.
I can sense that they want to fuck with me. Their body language is more obvious than they think it is. So can a dog sense these things, and that’s why they bark at cops. Because dogs are what cops pretend to be: protectors of human beings from evil forces.
I know the police cause you trouble
They cause trouble everywhere
But when you die and go to heaven
You’ll find no policemen there
So go to sleep you weary hobo
Let the towns slip slowly by
Listen to the steel rails hummin’
That’s the hobo’s lullaby
-Woody Guthrie, Hobo’s Lullaby
I love you.