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Lately, I get called a racist a lot, so I chose this blog title so at least I might get called a transphobe as well. I literally have gotten called a racist just because I have white skin, so I don’t let it get to me. It’s not really accurate, although I confess to religious bias. Not all religions are created equally. Although individuals must be judged on an individual basis, if a person aligns themselves with a group they bear some responsibility for the group.

Race, however, is an accident of birth for which the individual bears no responsibility. No decent and sane person thinks otherwise.

As for transphobia, this blog has not that much to do with it. I enjoyed The Crying Game, and think Forrest Whittaker is the greatest living actor. Ghost Dog is the most underrated gangster movie there is. I had transsexual neighbors in Manhattan. I only saw them in the morning when I was going to work and they were coming home. They were Asian, just to flesh that out a bit. They were actually somewhat pretty. In general, Asian people have nicer features. White men look simply awful when dressing as women. Sorry, but they never fool anyone. I just think of The Silence Of The Lambs, “…It rubs the lotion on the skin or it gets the hose again, doesn’t she precious?I”

I have known a couple of transsexuals, and in my view they should be treated as potential suicides, which is what statistically they are. I think I know the mental state of a man who wants to cut his wiener off and pity them, but I don’t want this person alone in a bathroom with my daughter. Seriously, that’s what the whole thing boils down to. Men are bad. Most lesbians and all men know this. Baby, we are born this way.  Transsexuals who say they feel sexually threatened in a men’s room are so delusional it is pathetic, unless they are being threatened by gay men.

Try these out:

“I self identify as handicapped, so don’t write me a parking ticket, officer.”

“I self identify as a pregnant women, I get to park in their spot.”

Subtitled, or alternative title for this blog. I chose the one I did because some a-hole on Amazon gave me a one star review and called me a racist without even bothering to read my book. From now on, it’s a straight up culture war here. 

I Wish I Could Write Romance Fiction

I knew a girl in high school that could write romance fiction. I should have gotten her under a contract. She could write these steamy, night-time soap opera style stories with a straight face that were fun to read. She was pretty, and would have looked great on a thumbnail picture inside a book jacket. All she needed was an editor.

Me, I can’t write that garbage. It’s harder than you think. Take “Rabbit Run“, a great book by John Updyke. He tried to make it a series and it was completely ludicrous. I actually read a couple harlequin romances when I was a kid, and it’s basically one plot recycled “ad infinitem”. It’s like a computer generated form letter with designated fields, auto-filling with various types of distressed females, and alpha males who are estranged at first but then have soft core sex.

It’s like football and politics. You have to be smart enough to be good at it, but dumb enough to think it’s important.

What’s up these days? Not much. I am writing two books, and am kicking around the idea of starting a third one, a diet book. I actually have mad biochemical skills and recently lost some weight I gained. My lifestyle changed dramatically when I had children, and excuses aside, I gained some weight which I am still in the process of losing, but I am starting to look and feel much better. I think it would be fun to write a book getting into my methods for diet and exercise, and I could put before and after pictures to show it worked.

On the other two books, one is inspired by “The Crack-Up”  by F. Scott Fitzgerald, a book which is essentially composed of sentence/paragraph long essays and observations. It was like a literary journal.

Finally, in a project near and dear to my heart, I am working on a fourth installment of The Zombie World Order. For years, I have been kicking this around, and have written sections, or long chapters, This patchwork is starting to coalesce as a plot background for the main plot vehicle to drive the story. None of these projects are even close to fruition. I just work on them sometimes when the stars are properly aligned. Plus, the plot of ZWO reveals itself. I have flashes of insight into the whole of it. When I wrote those books, The New World Order was less commonly discussed, but people are catching on to what’s afoot now. You see it everywhere. Since I was a little early to the party, I may as well keep going with it. I want to do the story justice though, and will never add to it unless I think it merits being added.

The people who read and review the Trilogy seem to like it, mainly, though not much interest in it really. The books are supposed to be kind of satirical, to some extent, the “This Is Spinal Tap” of Zombie Literature. I have a strange sense of humor, and not many get it. I am not writing to make snowflakes feel special. I’m just not.

 

 

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The only reason I don’t sell is because of the people who live on I-Hub bashing the stock. Who does that?

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I had a dream last night which provided me with some insights, and it was to some extent troubling. While the basic message of it was fresh in my mind, I’m going to post it here as a mental record.

This will not be a dreamalog, though I like them and have posted them. It is mainly an insight into specifically why one girl I used to know was as angry as she was, at least with regards to her treatment of me. Let’s call her Rowana.

Rowana’s treatment of me varied. It wasn’t all negative and there were times when I think she sort of liked me. Usually, this kinder treatment came after I had resolved to ignore her. She didn’t want me to be oblivious, apparently.

She had moved into my best friend’s apartment, his girlfriend’s buddy, as a paying roommate type thing, so dealing with her and her hostility was a constant problem, since they all lived in the same building as me. I had been there first, and had helped my friend get situated there, which he repaid by having constant, wild parties, getting the police interested in my building, and moving in this extremely bitter girl who had a constant desire to “diss” me.

She had the pretty standard pretentious package girls of that era had when they wanted to appear intellectual and interesting. She had bisexual pretensions, vegan pretensions, Wiccan pretensions, psychedelic mushroom pretensions. She was angry and bitter, but she was also about 20 years old and built like a brick shithouse. I couldn’t ignore her.

She seemed to have a boyfriend, an obnoxious little rich kid who would visit her and then spend hours piloting a robotic motorcycle around in a parking lot next door. His parents supposedly had a big house up in the burbs, though I never got invited to one of the parties.

She used to chant my name for hours, putting some kind of hex on me. She had a vendetta, yet I honestly can’t recall what I ever did to her to deserve it. I never asked her out. I never hit on her. Why so angry?

Last time I saw Rowana she was nicer. She had moved out of town, and was back for a few days and was working at her girlfriend’s sandwich shop to make some extra money. She had gotten herself pregnant and was now a single mom.

I’m open to the idea that I was somehow to blame for this person hating me. Once after a long day when we had all been to New York, I very slowly walked behind her as she charged up the stairs to avoid interacting with me. At her flight, she waited for me, realizing the slowness of my ascent was designed to let her know I did not want to deal with her anymore that day.

“I’m sorry I’m such a bitch,” she said.

Not pausing, and continuing my ascent, I replied. “I’m sorry you’re such a bitch, too.” I meant it, at least.

So, her back story was the child of divorce. She may have been Jewish, but maybe just all her friends were, and its immaterial, I think. The insight I got from my dream is one reason women are so angry is the the culture of divorce. They don’t learn how to have positive interactions with men. Their moms’ are huge influences, and they have been through painful divorces. Men don’t understand relationships until they have been married for awhile, and that is a big part of the problem.

So, I have diagnosed the problem, but is there a solution? Could Society in a constructive way do something to promote marriage, resulting in less bitter and disillusioned men and women? Could Hollywood do more? Could the Media? Could marketing and advertising?

Have you ever looked for a house? Realtors keep their eyes peeled for “divorce houses” where a marriage breaks up and the home is on firesale as people are desperate to move on and cut their losses. It’s an economic tactic.

Look at Haiti. This poor nation is as conflicted as any divorcing family. Stuff is cheaper here, because people are desperate. This poor fellow killed himself rather than testify against the Clinton Foundation. His name was Klaus Eberwein.

Open your mind for a moment, as I had to. Think very clearly. Might there not be some very cold, calculating conspiracy to turn the USA into a giant divorce house so some predatory capitalists could swoop in and seize all assets? Doesn’t it seem like there is? Even if there wasn’t a concerted and designed conspiracy, might there not be a kind of thermodynamic entropic shift to disorder on a million small independent initiatives?

The USA is not all that far from Haiti, economically or geographically. I am not sad Rowana did not like me, I am sad she was unable to maintain a relationship with a decent person, at least to the extent she did not have to raise her child in relative poverty. Her personal failure is her fault, but she could have gotten a little help, and it all starts with sucking it up and not getting divorced on the part of those responsible. If people treated it like a lifelong commitment, there would be less marriage and less divorce. The secret would be to promote marriage and huge families for the people who aren’t going to screw it up. Better to have one family with twelve fairly functional children than 12 “families” producing angry and bitter malcontents. That would be a start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My first GIF. Aren’t I great? Memes  are so 2016. Now I’m on to GIFs.

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