rally 'round the family with a pocket full of pitbulls

In his stand-up acts, everything Chris Rock states is exactly correct.  In one of his shows, he admitted that the most racist people in the world are “old black men”.

 

With that, the taxi driver was an elderly and curious black man.  As we were on a ten-mile ride to Dolphin Stadium decked out in Virginia Tech gear, he took the opportunity to pry into the notorious school shooting, which at the time occurred one-and-a-half years prior.

 

He asked what we thought was wrong with Cho, the shooter.  Aside from other unidentified disorders, Cho was partially autistic; we didn’t see strong evidence that he suffered abuse from family, friends, or roommates.

 

Our driver seemed particularly interested in what appeared to be a shortage of outrage.  Just after the shooting, confusion spurred from lack of a clear scapegoat:

(a)    Some blamed VT’s administration for not reacting after the first incident.  If the second incident were prevented, thirty lives along with dozens of casualties would have been spared.

(b)   Some blamed VT’s counseling services.  There are only about a dozen school psychologists, and the student population continues to expand toward the 30,000 milestone.  You gotta be damn near suicide to receive any attention from the counseling center.

(c)    Some blamed the Commonwealth of Virginia’s loose firearm regulations.  The Liberal Media was quick to point out Virginia has the most slack gun laws.  However, each state has a cornucopia of firearms statutes, leaving state side-by-side comparison an impossibility.  Hey, it’s a Red State (or it was before November 2008) with a hearty deer population and plenty of woodlands.  What else besides hunting will occupy the hillbillies before sunrise on Saturday mornings?

(d)   Nobody had the balls to pin the blame on the meek Korean community.

(e)    If no one could blame the Koreans, nobody would dare blame autism.  It’s difficult enough inserting an autistic character in a movie without political backlash from hypersensitive mothers.

 

Anyways, our dubious driver was quick to point out the massive outrage and embarrassment of the Michael Vick Dog-Fighting fiasco.  All across the nation, animal rights activists, professional athletes, celebrities, Saturday Night Live, etcetera spared no expense biting into Southeast Virginia’s thuggery (pun intended).

 

So our driver hinted that Virginia Tech’s reputation was scarred more by the Vick dog-fighting scandal than the most fatal school shooting in the history of American education.  Did the Korean community get off too easy?  Is it too easy to expect Black Americans to engage in violent crime?  Leave it to the mental filter of an “old black man” to make such observations:  Koreans are the polite, soft-spoken clerks who cut your hair and dry-clean your delicates; young black men are the disenfranchised standing behind you at the ATM, ready to pounce on your cash.

 

With a bit of luck, this mentality and cultural paradigm of racial grudge is slowly bleeding to death.  Now, in the grand scheme of American history, we’re still in recovery mode from Segregation.  Some rivalry between Whites and Blacks (W&Bs) may continue for decades or centuries to come seeing as W&Bs are the “core citizens” of America.  W&Bs have been toiling American soil since the 17^th Century while everybody else hopped on the coat-tails of our prosperity.  Furthermore, it would be plain impolite not to mention the American Indians at this point; they continue to remain a footnote at the bottom of American history as victims of Anglo-Saxon Small Pox.

 

On the other hand, Obama’s election serves as a swift jab in the jawbone of America’s ubiquitous racial awkwardness.  Even though Barack is half-white/half-Kenyan, he is celebrated as America’s First Black President.  As socio-political economic issues kick his once-ambitious ass around the White House, his reign should instigate a massive paradigm shift in American pop culture.  So what exactly is the outcome of this ancillary “change we can believe in”?  We’ll just have to wait and see.

 

Back Door Beauty?

(Unfortunately, Wikipedia is one step ahead of me on this one.)

Towards the end of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love", Robert Plant shouts, "I wanna be your back door man!"  I had always assumed this was a blatant reference to anal sex.  Then one November evening as I was enjoying a juvenile cover band (Vintage), I realized I was completely wrong.

The "back door man" is an notorious character in blues music.  His presence dates back to the blues of Blind Willie McTell and Lightin' Hopkins.  Lyrics paraphrased on the order of "when I walk in that front door, I hear that back door slam" are ubiquitous throughout the blues.  This back door theme is so common that a recently-established blues-rock band dubbed themselves "Back Door Slam".

Now, the tale of the "back door man" is usually told from the husband's point of view.  He steps in through the front door of his abode after a strenuous day on the job, only to hear his back door slam and find his wife's face flushed from sexual activity.  The wife is an adulterer, and the accomplice of this affair just made his escape out the rear of the residence.  As this is told in the context of the Blues, the husband either indifferently ignores the situation due to extreme depression or straight up kills his wife in cold blood.  The reaction is based solely on our songwriter's temperament.

So Bob Plant's request to become the "back door man" is an unexpected twist in the grand scheme of blues folklore.  This "back door man" is seems perceived as a nuisance on the order of a cockroach infestation.  So who would aspire to become such a pest facing dire consequences as heavy as murder?  A rock star, that's who!  It just took a jam from a few teenagers to make me realize Robert Plant isn't an open sodomite.

One Doomed Election

Well, the Weasels in Washington continue to spike our drinking water with isopropyl alcohol.  Who does Corporate American Media tell us to vote for?  Your choices are the Green African or the Gimpy Veteran; both of these dubious bourgeois appear to have no iota how to lead the Free World.

Obamalama Ding Dong’s theme is “change”.  Whatever happened to “reform”?  You know, the political term for “change”?  Is he reaching out to connect with middle-America’s idiocy?  He recognizes we’ll choose a one-syllabled word over a two-syllabled when texting to our BFFs.  That son of a preacher man has us snared in a digital noose.

In hindsight, Hillary would have made a righteous candidate.  The Clintons could replace the Kennedys as America’s Royal Family, complete with Britney Spears in a birthday cake for Slick Willy’s entertainment.

Then arrives the overwhelming fuck-up of choosing their running mates.  Joe Biden is Old School; the man started as a Republican for Christ’s sake!  DC has jaded and faded his personality for three decades.  Biden will discourage Obama’s “changes”.  Obama wants to shift the Drug War’s paradigm from over-enthusiastic law enforcement into one of “education & awareness”.  But Biden created the Goddamned Drug Czar back in 1985!  We’ll see no reform on the Substance Control front.  Will Biden be Obama’s puppetmaster just as Cheney suspended Dubya on invisible strings?

Anyways, Corporate American Media embraced the Democratic National Convention, perhaps nursing the celebratory momentum from the Chinese Olympics.  A psyched Wolf Blitzer tap-danced on the Dem’s Denver stage.  How can the GOP possibly outperform that mild, drug-free, fully-shirted HFStival?

McCain slithered in wait as the snake in the grass outside the stadium’s parking lot.  The morning after, he undermined the entire DNC in one fell swoop while simultaneously Shocking & Awing this nation.  He announced his running mate, an unknown charismatic middle-aged mother of five from Alaska.  Leave it to those fascist Republicans to select an unqualified sassy pitbull beauty queen!  There’s a leap toward breeding a superior, God-fearing, gun-toting, anti-progressive ethnicity.  Did you check out that ho’s criminal record?  Sarah Palin’s got drama and power abuse written all over her trademark eyeglasses and winks.  Then arrived her momentous make-or-break introduction to the world at the Republican National Convention.  This profound speech would float or sink the entire Traditional Family Values party.

But the question was not: Did she sway the people via her thoroughly-scrubbed rhetoric?

The true question was: Was her skirt long enough for Republican standards?  I thought I saw some knee, tisk tisk.

Funny footnote:  Ron Paul was denied permission to speak at the RNC, but at least they gave him a floor pass.  Turning against the Conservatives, he held his own convention across the river in Minneapolis.  Ten thousand farmers rolled in from all over the States to rally for Paul’s 19^th-Century ideologies.  A couple weeks later, Paul hosted an independent candidates rally begging that We the People vote for anyone but those poor bastards who sold their souls to the corrupt Two Party System.

So we’ve got two rookie rock stars on opposing sides, and two crusty curmudgeons on a first-name basis with each of DC’s sewer rats.  Way to cancel each other out!  Shut up, Anderson!  Nobody’s gonna “change the town”.

Then came the embarrassing brass tax of the Presidential Debates.  In summary, they both oppose gay marriage.  Oh, and neither of them has any idea how to mitigate the global economic slowdown while Ben Bernanke and Henry Paulson keep ineffectively tossing the market free juicy bones.  The primary differences between Barack and Johnny are (a) the War on Terror strategy and (b) the American healthcare approach.

McCain:  Iraq, Iraq, Iraq!

Obama:  Afghanistan, Afghanistan, Afghanistan!

And then that austere Maverick wants to cut everyone a $5k check for healthcare?  A Republican pushing healthcare welfare?  No wonder Rush Limbaugh is puking on his microphone.

The second debate was McCain’s Last Stand, and he blew it.  A disenfranchised Larry Kudlow didn’t receive his request of McCain’s need to wage a full-frontal assault of Obama’s cahoots with Fannie Mae’s former CEO, thereby placing Barack square in the crosshairs of the imploding financial sector.  McCain ripped and moaned like a broken record about how many times he reached across the aisle to collaborate with the Donkeys, which in his condition appears pretty painful as Johnny winces whenever raising his right arm.

Then both weasels implied that they’ll follow Dubya’s footpath of flipping the United Nations a giant middle finger as American hummers roll on into whatever country the Commander in Chief whims.  Did Dubya establish an unsettling and asinine new trend by invading Iraq without the UN’s blessing?  Who would have predicted Dubya would leave such profound pus-oozing scar tissue in DC?

Alright everybody, let’s get used to enunciating “President Barack Hussein Obama”.  That doesn’t have much of a ring to it.  With a name like that, shit, foreigners are gonna think he’s the president of Kenya.

At least Dubya is keeping his nose out of McCain’s campaign.  Dubya’s enjoying his twilight; nothing he does matters anymore except for maybe his reaction to Oliver Stone’s biographical film released while the git-r-done Texan still sleeps in the White House!  Meanwhile, Cheney is bolted down in his Observatory with a gun to his head as the sun sets on his Global Empire.  Actually, that soulless Rotarian will most likely continue gripping the world via the multi-national Evil Empire of Halliburton (within a volcano lair in Dubai).

So who is the lesser of two evils?  Oh, fuck those greasy slimeballs!  Who else is on my ballot?  None of this bi-partisan nonsense matters.  My absentee ballot was already mailed, and my #2 pencil soared over the Big Two to land on the bottom of the page.  Since the Two Party Duopoly treats this election as a joke, I shall also treat it as a joke.  Go Nader!  Or perhaps Congress is just ecstatic over Dubya’s departure, and placing any other warm body into the White House will rectify the nation’s reputation.

There was nothing in the atmosphere of the North Star to put me on my guard.

Further up and further in… to trouble.

Jesus wearily opened the chrome-laden door of the road-side diner. His boots smeared mud across the linoleum floor as he trudged to the nearest stool at the bar. He slung off his dusty cloak, draping it over the stool before taking his seat. Fluorescent lighting flickered above him. He ordered a twenty-ounce stout and a bacon cheeseburger with spiced fries from the young brunette waitress with sparkling silver eye shadow. Jesus thought she must still be in high school to wear makeup that tacky.

While waiting for his food, Jesus pulled out his yellowed hand-written memo. This wrinkled old paper documented, in red ink, the two prophecies - his life’s mission. Each time he read it, he pleaded with himself that it would finally make sense. Perhaps something that happened earlier in the day would add the last piece of the puzzle, thereby answering his existence. Maybe something as simple as the bright smile of a child would finalize his purpose. Or maybe an offer of a toke off a jay from a gypsy band of hippies. This thought made him smirk.

The bar maid lay his dinner in front of him, and Jesus gorged it down like a starving Ethiopian. He chugged his pilsner as if it were loaded in a beer bong, wiped the foam from his chapped lips, and ordered another drink. Jesus was looking forward to the reliable wave of content that arrives shortly after a greasy meal. Instead, the jukebox distracted him. It was playing a lo-fi record of the White Stripes. Jack White sang, “I got your phone number written in the back of my bible.”

Jesus rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, “Where does that Jack get so much faith?”

“He chooses his faith,” replied a raspy voice to Jesus’ right. Jesus jumped, almost falling off his stool. He didn’t realize someone was sitting in the adjacent stool. Fifteen seconds ago, he was alone at the bar. Now he found himself accompanied by a pale skinny ghost of a man wearing a gray suit with a gray tie. The stranger sported dark bags under his eyes, sharp facial features, and long black oily hair slicked straight back to his shoulders. Sitting on the bar in front of this shadowy specter was a martini glass full of bright green liquid, like one of those artificial juice boxes the kids suck on at lunchtime. The stranger continued, “He may be a victim of his circumstances, being raised Catholic, but he voluntarily chose to never question his denomination throughout his adult life.”

Jesus curiously eyed the stranger’s fluorescent glowing drink. The stranger took notice and replied, “Oh, they don’t serve absinthe in a road house like this. I bring my own.”

The staff continued serving the tabled patrons without acknowledging the stranger’s presence. Jesus decided not to further question the individual’s eccentric entrance.

“So what brings you to this little town in America’s heartland?” asked the stranger.

“I’m on a tour,” Jesus replied. His own voice seemed weak, contained more within his head than in the air.

“Such as a band on tour?” the stranger asked.

“No, I’m a domestic missionary spreading the Word of God.”

“Oh, an entrepreneur in bible sales?” the stranger inquired with a straight face.

“On the contrary, I’m telling the people of this nation not to interpret the bible in the literal sense, but to recall God’s message of peace and love.”

The stranger snickered, snorting some of his absinthe onto the counter. “And from where did you hear this message?”

“It’s the theme of the New Testament. Are you not familiar with the Holy Bible?” Jesus retorted.

The shadowy being shrugged as his voice grew smug, “I’m all too familiar with the Holy Word of Man. It was authored eighteen centuries ago, then passed down from one generation to the next, slowing spreading across Western Civilization until modern rock stars such as Jack White openly believe that the words written by his ancient ancestors are divine. It all seems pretty asinine, doesn’t it?”

Jesus sighed. His voice waned to a whisper, “The common response to that accusation is that the authors of the bible were inspired by God to write.”

The gray stranger lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? And has God ever told you to write anything? Have you sat face to face with him as he outlined the next chapter of the testament? Has he ever given you a direct order, or are you just doing as you are told by other men?” The dark figure coughed into his jacket sleeve. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from inside his suit jacket, plucked a cigarette from the pack, flicked open a zippo, and lit it.

Jesus took a sip of his beer and contemplated his next move. He had endured countless debates with atheists, ending in stalemates. This stranger seemed to be another one of those hopeless souls who would never accept Christianity into is life.

The stranger cut his eyes over to Jesus for a glance and said, “Don’t worry about me. I have complete control over my fate. But what about yourself? To whence will you send your soul?”

Jesus was taken aback. Is this guy just a jerk? He seems like the sort of jackass who would aggravate an unsuspecting victim for his own amusement. Jesus decided to turn the other cheek and humor the cruel figure in gray, just as God would want him to.

“I’m Jesus by the way. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t. Not that it’s of any consequence, but it’s Sven Raupesse.” He took another drag from his cigarette, looked at Jesus, and passed him a cigarette.

“Thanks, man.” Jesus lit the cigarette with his own Bic lighter as Sven grinned over his glowing cocktail.

“You from around here?” Jesus asked.

“No, I’m from all over. I’m a nomad such as yourself,” Sven replied. Jesus nodded; he had found a fellow road warrior. They could share travel anecdotes to ease the tension. But Jesus wouldn’t let Sven’s contemptuous urging linger in the air.

“To get back to your question,” Jesus said, “No, I’ve never had a direct conversation with God or any of his angels.” Sven coughed, choking on the smoke in his lungs. “It may sound subjective, but God speaks to us through his Creation. He may inspire us through a chirping bird, a lone tree on a grassy hill, or a sunset over the Pacific Ocean. We don’t hear his words, but we certainly hear, see, feel, taste, and smell his beautiful work of art that is this world and our home.”

Sven nodded, “You’ve got a point that subjective content cannot be objectively debated. So you go on believing what you rationalize to be true; it’s no sweat off my brow.”

The waitress flipped on the milkshake mixer, whirring up a motorized disruption. Sven stared straight forward into nothing. When the mixer halted, a moment of silence blanketed the diner. The lights overhead flickered.

In a calmer voice, Sven asked, “So where did you acquire such a firm foothold in your mission? Did other men tell you this was your fate?”

“Actually, that was exactly what happened when I was young. Everyone I knew told me that I would become something important to the entire world. Then I received these prophecies from an oracle and then a close friend. They gave me a purpose, and that purpose gives me something to live for. But I’ve been carrying this purpose through my adult life for so long, no one tells me what to do anymore. Actually, it seems our roles have been reversed, and I’m the one encouraging people how to live.” Sven cracked a one-sided smirk.

“And if those people who delegated your destiny when you were a child were to come back to you today and tell you they were wrong, what would you do?”

“You mean the two – ?”

“I mean everyone you knew!” Sven interrupted. “How would you react if all your adolescent companions and role models told you to cease and desist? How would you take it if they deleted your mission or purpose or fate or whatever you think it is?”

“I…” Jesus felt the heat of embarrassment encompassing his head. His voice felt weaker, “I would tell them it’s a test from God. God often throws obstacles at us to challenge our faith.”

Sven’s fist squeezed his zippo; his knuckles glared white. He growled, “Aren’t those the same words they put in your head as a child? Don’t you get tired of spitting out those packaged answers?” Sven took a long drag off his cigarette. He exhaled a wisp of smoke that hung in front of him, silent and motionless.

“But my faith has driven my life for so many years. I can’t quit it. I cannot just give up and…” Jesus swallowed. “And I don’t what I could do…” His voiced fizzled away. He sat on his stool clutching his beer mug, wondering why he must constantly be challenged. Sven sipped his absinthe. No sale was ever an easy sell, and Jesus wasn’t trying to sell his thesis to this defiant stranger this evening. This was supposed to be his downtime for the day. Jesus looked over his shoulder to his Harley parked outside in a cloud of brown dust. Wind rattled the diner’s windows, whistling through unseen cracks.

Sven cut his eyes over to Jesus again. “Why must existence be cursed with overtones of absurdity?” Sven asked as he jabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. “Well, I believe I’ve heard enough, and I can tell when I’m no longer welcome.”

“No, you shouldn’t think you’re not welcome. I just don’t understand why… why you insist on impeding in my life...” But how many bystanders had Jesus impeded upon? Was this some sort of poetic justice?

They sat on their stools for a moment, listening to the other patrons clinking their silverware on porcelain plates. Jesus always found this noise soothing.

“Allow me to give you a piece of advice, kid,” said Sven. “Although it doesn’t hurt to spread the notion of peace and love, it’s absurd to use God as leverage. He doesn’t care about human survival. In fact, I doubt that He’s aware of your existence. If I were you, I would concentrate my life’s efforts into sustaining mankind before you consume all of Earth’s natural resources and starve yourselves like a bloody virus.” Sven stood up, put a gray fedora on his oily head, and gave Jesus a pat on the shoulder. Before Jesus could respond, the shadowy stranger walked out of the diner without a sound, leaving his martini glass on the counter.

Jesus felt the familiar pang of anxiety swelling in his chest. He took the last drag on his cigarette. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He pulled out his yellow piece of paper, quickly scanning his prophecies in an effort to rejuvenate his motivation. A drop of perspiration ran down his nose. The drop fell off the tip of his nose, splattering onto his life’s mission.

Jack White sang, “Good Lord, Good Lord, send me an angel down.”

heed these four words: You Shall Never Return

I reckon I’m transmetamorphosizin’ into a Dean Moriarty:


Day 1. Fly from Orlando to San Jose (with layover in Dallas). Rent a Dodge Magnum (despite my request for a Charger). Drive in a Southeasterly direction until near-collapse. Shack up for the night in Firebaugh, which is a small farm town outside of Fresno.

Day 2. Continue the odyssey down Interstate-5, make a left at Bakersfield, and proceed up Interstate-15 through Bat Country (Barstow, Baker, & Primm) to Las Vegas (see footnote).

Day 3. Attend a concert at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino.

Day 4. Burn a ludicrously maniacal streak back to San Jose from Vegas, then swap rental cars (again) so that I can…

Day 5. Show up to another exciting day on the job at 0800, red-eyed and soggy-tailed.


Footnote: When I rolled into Vegas, the Magnum was coughing, sputtering, wheezing, whining, and flapping. I think the timing belt had loosened and the fuel injector was deuced up. Way to raise those quality standards, General Motors. So I traded it in, and they gave me a Hyundai Sonata. Actually, the Sonata had a sunroof, better visibility, decent stereo sound quality, and handled much tighter (like a Honda J). I should review compact cars for Motor Trend.


So why put myself through this arduous flight of fancy, you ask?
Because I must see Jack. I must get my annual fix of Jack White in concert. He must shred my eardrums with his signature muff and whammy cacophony. In this profound ordeal we call Life, I’m not certain about hardly anything. But I am certain that the sight and sound of Jack White fills a hole in my soul.

Would you drive eleven hundred miles for a concert?

We had a problem with her in the elevator a few hours earlier.

So I’m standing in a cleared parking lot on a breezy November evening grooving to one of the local amateur blues bands. Standing by myself as usual, toward the back of the crowd like a vagrant ready to flee at any spark of confrontation.

“Pretty sweet band huh?” she asks me. I turn my head to my left and there she, A McK, the fleeting angel. She was a hottie: thin, short brunette hair, petite figure, milky complexion, and one of those adorable little nose piercings the size of a small mole. This chic is looking directly at me. Holy shit! That question was directed at me!

“Pretty sweet indeed” as I respond with renewed enthusiasm.

“Hi, I’m Anthea.” And she extends the right hand for the customary physical salutation. I begrudgingly shrug my shoulder as my whole right arm slides up and down in one smooth sinusoidal movement like a Johnson rod off a flywheel.

The internal dialogue of doubt immediately fires up, ‘Oh great. She openly approached me with a smile and sudden introduction. She’s a young attractive lady approaching a young white male: the perfect setup to snatch some ignorant myrmidon with an easily-excitable phallus by his little toe like a bear trap under the asphalt. Here she goes. Here comes the pitch. She thinks she can wind out the heater and sink this poor superficial bastard like a fish in a barrel (to mix metaphors). Oh am I still inner monologuing? I should better get back to the action before she thinks I’m some eccentric loner freak.’

“Mike,” I respond with the usual bland etiquette directed at strangers.

“Hi, Mike. Are you from around here?” asks Anthea. Her tone sounded genuinely casual.

“Actually, I just moved down from DC a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, okay! So you haven’t realized how gut-wrenchingly boring this stupid little town can be,” she retorts with still more enthusiasm. She’s a local? She ain’t no salesman! She has a fucking drink in her hand, moron! She’s at a social function, and she explicitly walked over to my dark corner exploiting brass balls. There ain’t no uniform on that lithe little body of hers. She’s in for the kill! Or at least to innocently feed off new stimulus.

“Hey, living on the beach ain’t a bad deal.”

“Yeah, I just moved back to the area myself.”

“So where are you staying?” Yes, naive curiosity is key.

“Oh… uh… I’m switching off between my dad’s place in town and my mom’s place on Merritt Island until I get settled in.” She stuttered to answer that simple question. Did she just lie to me? Did she just manifest a ruse to convince me that she’s a frolicking single? And what’s this business about divorced parents? Shall I judge her now? I am, after all, an INTJ, and that constitutes an ability – nay, almost a superpower – of instant judgment. No, let’s give this nubile young lady an opportunity. And for Christ’s sake, maintain eye contact despite her black low-cut blouse!

So we continue for twenty minutes chatting over a variety of deeply meaningful topics such as religion, music, and surfing. She claims to have been drinking, but Anthea carries an energetic conversation like the average non-sorostitute college coed. This led to a situation where she would spontaneously blurt out a question or statement:

1. “I’m not into that whole organized religion thing. I don’t think there’s some all-powerful force watching over us.”

2. “I’m not into hip-hop. I’m more of an indie rock person.”

3. “Do you surf?”

4. “How about you go up there and cut some rug on the dance floor?” “No need. I’m doing an adequate job of making you laugh right here, my dear.”

5. “Are you a sarcastic person?” “Indeed, I keep it cynical.” “That’s good, because I consider myself an asshole.”

Not two days later I launched into a state of hysteria upon realizing this girl submerged to the proper level of depth to ignite a meaningful relationship. In fact, that was by leagues of gentlemen the most interesting introduction with someone of the opposite sex I have ever encountered. This magnanimous girl shared with me, and I shared back. We was like peas and carrots, Jenny and Forrest. I’ll hypothesize this is what speed dating feels like (multiplied by twenty women).

Finally she concludes this blissful interaction. “Well, I have to go to the bathroom now, and then rejoin my friends. You’re welcome to join us. We’ll be in the back across the street.”

“Sounds great.” I make no promises.

“It was great to meet you. I would hate to walk away and never see you again.” She’s prying; you better jump in on that before she thinks you’re socially autistic.

“Do you have a number I can reach you at?”

“Quickly! Get that phone out of the pocket. Expedite! Expedite! Okay, 321-xyz-ijkl.” She walks out of my life and into a port-o-john.

The fleeting angel never called back.

There he goes, one of God's own prototypes

“There he goes, one of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, but too rare to die.”


Ah yes, blogging at thirty-five thousand feet above sea level. This laptop is far too large for the average Airbus A319.

Do you zone out if too much is going on? Yes.
Are you energized by spending time alone? Yes.
In meetings, do you need to be asked for your opinions and ideas? Yes.
Is your ideal celebration a small get-together rather than a big party? Yes.
Do you fear being the center of attention? Yes.
Do you have difficulty decoding social cues? No such cues exist. What is there to read?
Do you often feel like a tortoise surrounded by stampeding gazelle? You can bet your candy ass.
It’s alright, you’re not a freak of nature, you just have an introverted temperament. Holy shit! What does that mean?
You’re a loner.

My eyes have been opened after reading about introverted loners and why we are not openly accepted nor understood by the contemporary public. I was planning on posting a blog persecuting Western Society of excessive superficiality. The fact of the matter is that the majority of the population is extroverted. Extroverts feed off of social energy. Social interaction refreshes them. This explains modern society’s underlying infrastructure. Extroverts are ‘social butterflies’; they value social breadth over deeply personal relationships. They use metrics such as quantities of friends to evaluate their social lives. The more friends they have, the more successful they are. They are the bumblebees floating from flower to flower while we introverted loners are the worms who burrow when we find a soft patch of soil. The brain-digging worms often appear aloof, awkward, timid, misunderstood, rude, or grouchy in communal circumstances.

This uncoils why I’ve always felt like a gasping beached whale slashed up by outboard motors. This explains the purpose behind, well, just about all recreational activities: overcrowded bars, mosh pits, sporting events, relentless dating, and chaotic keg parties all cater to the extroverts’ mandate for constant socializing.

Organized religions are just fraternities.

Did you notice how quickly the herd rallied after the VT campus shootings? Within two days, the majority of my friends had removed their faces from Facebook. They replaced their individual identities with a message of mourning, concern, recovery, and conformity.

Psychologically, I reside upon the opposite end of the spectrum. I tell people that all I need are three close friends and a girlfriend to constitute a fulfilling social life. And yet, the idea of chaining ourselves to a singular someone or a group (chain gang?) is terrorizing.

Marriage? Children? A loner craves not. The loner is content listening to his preferred singers lament over the joys and tribulations of love as opposed to proactively grabbing that slippery idealistic urban myth known as True Love.

Just because we’ve spent a couple of nights hanging at a bar does not categorize us as ‘friends’; this makes us mere acquaintances. Just as I won’t claim to be an expert in a field until I feel I’ve learned all lore available, I won’t label us as friends until I feel I know where you stand politically, economically, psychologically, artistically, technically, philosophically, and spiritually. To quote Otto Kroeger and Janet Thuesen, “With introverts, what you see is only a portion of their personality. The richest and most trusted parts of an introvert’s personality are not necessarily shared with the outside world. It takes time, trust, and special circumstances for them to open up.”

This results in a paradox where I don’t have the time to develop deep relations with every person I meet. A typical introduction usually includes the basics:
“Where do you work?”
“Where do you live?”
“Where did you go to school?”

This conversation is a chore and provides me with little to nothing about your personality, so I am then incapable of deciding to invest the time to dive deep to find your true self, no sense trying to personally reach any of you (so read a blog instead). Paradoxically, I don’t care for learning names in the social setting. I dive straight into conversation until the recipient stops me to ask my name. Perhaps I exclude the proper introduction since this person’s name is unimportant unless I routinely encounter that individual. Then, I’ll learn their name through repetition.

On the other hand, I met this guy at a party once. In no conversational context whatsoever, he casually asked me the deepest question one can ask, “What are your thoughts?” I was taken aback. No one has ever openly and sincerely asked me that before. It was an honor, a Goddamned dignified fucking honor to receive that question. This simple query put me in control of the conversation; I could steer it into whatever direction I felt. And to put it in perspective, I threw out my thesis that all people are inherently lazy and selfish, then rambled about how George Dubya invaded Iraq not to save the oppressed citizens from Saddam’s dictatorship. We invaded for us, the US, for the oil. Dubya charged forth with guns blazing to finish what his father started, to bring pride to the Bush family. What a fuckup.

Furthermore, I participated at a workshop at the office on the topic of synergistic planning. The purpose of the workshop was to prove that people are more successful when they work in groups as opposed to solitude. However, my personal score outranked the team’s score. Group work makes me less productive, which is why I only occasionally joined study groups at school. The other students just slowed me down, and I didn’t need Group Think or their encouragement to keep me focused.

Many extroverts live under the belief that all experiences are worthless if you don’t have someone to share them with. Incorrect, my most profound adventures were executed in solitude; tethering myself to someone else would have either slowed me down or inhibited me from entirely drinking in a spiritual revelation. I spent twelve long days driving in solitude averaging eighty miles per hour across the country from DC to Seattle, down to Los Angeles, up to Vegas, and back across the country to DC. Those were twelve of the most exhilarating days of my life, yet accompaniment would have shrouded my meditative condition with social preoccupation. Sure, I spent some time on the cell with friends, but moreso for swanking my accomplishment.

I’m gonna take trips like that more often: just passing through, no time to stop at any tourist trap, gotta keep moving, keep the landscape flying by, keep running from life, look at Gaia’s green earth.

“I’m more comfortable by myself.”
“Is that the case, or are you uncomfortable when around others?” What’s the difference?

It’s not that loners hate other people; we just favor the company of… ourselves. British therapist Doctor Raj Persuad has concluded “the capacity to enjoy your own company is a sign of personal maturity and perhaps the acid test of mental health. Practically all creative people, and certainly most geniuses, have preferred to be alone for long periods, especially when producing their best work.” Georgia O’Keefe, Isaac Newton, Emily Dickinson, Andy Warhol, Franz Kafka, Michelangelo, Margaret Mead, John Lennon, Paul Westerburg, Curt Cobain, Nick Drake, Syd Barrett; the list of reclusive artists goes on and on. Loner characters have played a major role in pop culture as well: Batman, Hyde in That 70’s Show, the Marlboro Man, Doctor Cox in Scrubs, Willy Wonka; the list rambles infinitely. On the other hand, it would make sense to keep the protagonist a loner to minimize character development. The more characters, the more development is needed.

Underneath the dreadlocks and eyeliner, Captain Jack Sparrow is the epitome of a loner. He cares not for his crew, friends, family, nor romance (although he occasionally lusts similar to any horny male). The Sparrow character is not portrayed as a homicidal monster like the other pirates. Within that intimate scene in the first chapter, Jack drunkenly confesses that a ship is freedom. “My first and only love is the sea.” His sole purpose is sailing the Earth, running from humanity, for eternity.
Any depressed detective or trailblazing cowboy is highly respected on the screen or in the ink, but the paradox lies in reality when we meet that character in person: That guy’s a weird freak, and I don’t trust him.

Doctor Marti Olsen Laney states that extroverts tend to burn out at middle age. There’s something to look forward to: sitting upon chilled aluminum bleachers before the quarter-mile track of Life, watching you all sprint headfirst into a brick wall of fatigue.

Courageous loners are the trendsetters. These passionate free spirits are the iconoclastic pioneers of fresh fads in art, music, fashion, and general innovation. Proudly strut your stuff, the flopping myrmidons will conform and follow us.

After studying eccentric individualists, Doctor David Weeks discovered a trait amongst his interviewees. Most of them were either an only child or the eldest sibling raised by strict parents. BWA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! That settles that. I am a rock. I am an island. I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.