Posts Tagged ‘florida’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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A slave enjoys the sunshine

Monday, 20 October 2008

It took from the beginning of the year till now, but yesterday, finally, the weather got cool enough for windows.

Right now Florida weather is exactly like California weather, cool with no humidity. If you could bottle it you’d have something more narcotic and valuable than cocaine.

Normally, nature is something to drive a car through to get to a building, but one day a year to honor ideal weather is fair. The gym was closed for removation so, having chugged a phial of “6-hour energy” on this, my day off, I went to the park. I hadn’t been to the park in 20 years, I figured it was about time to see it again.

The park was loaded with humans, though not as many as there could’ve been.

The nature trail had been made ‘one-way’ (stupid rollerblades). Many years ago the winding trail was thin, easily-bullied asphalt made hilly by giant tree roots. Decades later it’s finally taken enough asphalt-steroids and the tree roots are tamed.

I walked the 2-mile trail in 40 minutes and, despite the coolness, left the park in a sweat.

If the weather was like this year-round, the influx of humans to the state would be double what it is. No good, no good.

So here’s your tribute, perfect Florida weather. Don’t let it go to your head.

A plague of implausible shit

Thursday, 25 September 2008

I stood next to my car in a surreal neighboorhood. On one side of the street were small houses with well-manicured lawns. I was parked in a GUEST spot of the dodgy housing complex across the street while Julio, a friend from work who was 10 years younger than me, looked over my 12-year-old car. Both he and his still younger brother Sal seemed to love my model of car, they’d turned some of them into racers. They knew exactly what they were talking about while I, with minimal knowledge, was cartarded.

The Florida sun was its typical gluey asshole self, though there was some nice breeze as both young men admired the engine. They’d already figured out the source of a rattle a mechanic 30 years older than all of us I took it to never found. Sal was still tinkering when Julio left to pick up his kids from school.

An 80K Mercedes pulled into the spot on the other side of the empty space where I stood sipping ice water from a plastic pink tumbler the brothers had brought me earlier. Though the Black woman driving the ‘Cedes did not look like she could afford her ride and took no notice of us, I felt shame at my own car’s beat-up condition, even though, as Sal pointed out, I loved it and had it longer than a marriage.

As I took another swig of this and brought the cup down something crashed into my chest, striking my sternum with the force of a flicked pinkie finger. I looked down, saw the color brown and flinched. throwing the cup’s entire contents into the sky, a momentary crystal geyser.

The brown thing bounced away, hit the pavement and began scuttling–a flying roach!–its ugly carapace shining in the bright summer sun. I wanted to scream but I’d just met Sal and the fat Black woman still sat in her cream-white coupe, bumping low-volumed, noxious R&B.

“Kill it!” Sal hollered playfully. I was too frozen, too in shock to move. Horror and confusion were my world. It was 2 in the afternoon on a hot, sunny day; a roach was as out of place as a bundled Eskimo in Iraq. He skittered away on foot (or leg) while I stood frozen. I couldn’t step on a roach, not even with shoes on, and anyway, similar to George Costanza’s “deal” with the pigeons, I wouldn’t kill any insects out of doors (mosquitos excluded).

Julio returned. His cute kids, a boy and a girl, were munchkin-sized with huge heads and went upstairs before the Ice Cream man drove up the street, the (c)rap from his stereo even
drowning out the ice cream tunes. Julio told us the guy was always at the local park on the 1st and 15th, blasting Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
“On his stereo?”
“No! On the loudspeakers!”
Surreal.

The fat Black woman egressed her German sled and entered one of the duplexes. Julio commented the car was probably a boyfriend’s. Though I didn’t say it aloud, it made cops’ jobs easier to find the drug dealers with cars like that in front of faded duplexes in the ‘hood.

Throughout the day’s ops I snapped digital pics of my beloved car with my Kodak v550, a gift from my editor/webmaster/gifted photographer/longstanding Texan friend. I lifted the cam to take another shot of the disassembled door panel when I noticed the LCD screen mired in shadow. When I held it up to the strong sunlight, the shadow stayed.

I felt my guts sag.

The screen was cracked as if some tiny punk kid inside the camera had hit a home run and a pea-sized baseball had struck the glass, starring it. This morning the cam started out working flawlessly as it had the last 3.5 years. I’d already taken 20 shots (the memory card held a thousand) and there’d been no trauma or anything unusual done to it, in fact, I was holding it most of the afternoon.

I didn’t bother showing Julio the damage. Time ran out. I’d lost a camera but gained a replacement knob for my window crank. More work is to be done tomorrow.

It’s events like those of today that cause one to seriously ponder the sucking undertow under the roiling ocean of life. After years of neglect, I finally take steps to help my poor old car’s infirmities with a too-good-to-be-true honorable guy who enjoys working on my type of car, only to suffer two inexplicable lightning bolts of horror and bizarre bad fortune. Between the roach from nowhere and the undeserving death of my beloved camera, I can’t help but feel screwed, though tomorrow my car may run somewhat better.

More than the big disasters like quakes and cyclones, it’s these little tragedies that enforce the theory of a sinister balance to the universe. Intellectually I understand why shit happens, but I refuse to accept that any shit has to happen to me. How human.

The sorry state of the State Song

Tuesday, 8 April 2008

Florida’s State Song, “Old Folks at Home” is under assault in our shitty Politically Erect Age, suddenly “controversial” due to lyrics written in 1851.

I’d be more inclined to agree if anyone remembered anything but the tune. Also, the offensive terms can easily be changed.

Someone made a terrific video to go with the foremost awful attempt at replacing Florida’s state song with Florida (Where the Sawgrass Meets the Sky). How clever to put the word “Florida” in a song about the State of Florida! Strangely the lyrics leave out horrendous automobile drivers, horrible humidity and giant cockroaches (although at 1:30 “cultures rich” does sound a little like “cockroaches”).

To me the Florida tune sounds like a Disneyfied (apt) mutation of O Canada (apter) and snippets of the Jurassic Park Theme Song (aptest due to humidity).

Your opinion will most certainly vary.

This would make a much better Florida State Song. I know what’s best.

Charlie and the Prison Factory

Thursday, 20 March 2008

I’m not a fan of Florida Governor Charlie “GQ” Crist, former state attorney and swinging 51-year-old born-again bachelor.

As usual, the Democrats ran absolute fools in ’06, so Charlie was first choice.  I voted for him then, and unless someone better comes along, with a sigh I admit I would have to vote for him today.

Like the Guevara-nator in Mexifornia, Crist is a textbook RINO.  When the St. Petersburg Times, an ultra-liberal-in-complete-and-utter-denial newspaper endorses a Republican for any office, you know you’ve got problems.

A recent Times article:  ‘Crist says drug laws in place are fine’

Like all God-damned politicians, Crist is a “former” pot smoker who sees nothing wrong with incarcerating 20,000 non-violent drug offenders at a little less than 20 grand per inmate per year.  According to the article, Florida will have to build 2 new prisons per year through 2013 to house them all (for those outside of Florida, our fair state is facing multiple financial crises, including huge property tax hikes).

I’ve had it up to here with this Prohibition-era hypocrisy.  Every politician from the local dog catcher up to President should be forced to take random drug tests once a month for as long as they’re in office.  These surprise tests should be urine-based, captured live on video (with modest pixellation) and posted at government websites.  If any test positive they should be thrown out of office and jailed.

Our moronic government allows sex offenders to live at home but locks up pot smokers for life?

Shouldn’t it be the other way around? 

crist_heyniger.jpg

Niacin nitwit

Tuesday, 4 December 2007

I woke up early for having a day off.

Two hours later at the gym my neck and arms felt like they were on fire. I could literally feel my blood “boiling” in a human version of Pon Farr. Only Mr. Spock had it worse, experiencing the same intense burning + extreme horniness.

I wasn’t horny and anyway there was nothing around to fuck, so I kept working out, first the treadmill then the weights. Plenty of energy throughout but something was seriously wrong.

In the car I started itching like a motherfuck on top of the fiery heat; fortunately it was confined to only a few areas as I raced home and did the second worse thing you can do for the itch after exercising, take a shower.

As the water crashed down, doing nothing for my burning scalp, chest and arms, I realized it was the niacin, normally taken at night with no problems. Now during the day I was feeling the fury of a fully armed and operational niacin flush.

I went on-line to find a “cure”. The flush is actually good thing for cholesterol but the agony screamed otherwise.

I hopped back in the car and zoomed to Costco for the giant offset walk-in chamber for fresh produce they keep near-frozen. I flashed my membership card and hauled ass for the back of the warehouse, stopping only to eat free samples of soup, tortellinis, sorbet, crab, Bagel Bites, mashed potatoes and more crab.

The itching was mostly gone by the time I entered the cold room. My fiery bloodshot eyes felt soothed by the sight of sleeping broccoli, blueberries and carrots…I imagined the itching sensation fading as icy air from the high-above ceiling washed over my skin. I walked around slowly so my skin would slice against cold air.

Fucking niacin!

I stared in bitterness at the needle of the friendly round-faced thermometer, “frozen” at 40 degrees, so much better than the warm December afternoon in fucked-Florida outside.

Nothing ever worked properly, everything had to be fucked up. It was the law.

I left Costco with a single item: a bottle of vitamins.

In the someday, what’s that sound?

Sunday, 2 December 2007

Standing on the cusp of a week off, 5 whole days. I can’t be sitting around watching TV, eating junk food; it’s a living death.

I better write. Lots.

I should also be putting a resume together, cleaning the car, oil change. If I were a betting man, I’d say that shit will never get done. In the next 5 days, anyway.

The Student-Loan-Mafia takes 1/4th of what I make each month.

I’m a literal slave.

I’m not black, but I’m more nigger than racist, a financially-fucked fool with high smartosity, trapped in the apathetic body of a wage slave.

I’ve thought about burning my old school–which offered a fake education–to the fucking ground.  These days I wouldn’t wait until it’s empty, either.  But the fake school is back in California and I’m in Florida.

“I hate myself and I want to die.” — Cobain

Everyone seems to get trapped by something: ex-spouse, car wreck, pigeon drop, telemarketer, speeding ticket, non-fatal disease.

Everyone seems to get trapped by something.

This weather cool and mild we’re having would totally rock in hellish July, but in December it’s a hothouse travesty. This is the type of weather during which meteorologists can be justifiably killed.

Tomorrow there’s salmon for lunch.

FUCK FLORIDA. A Canadian-free* rant

Tuesday, 23 October 2007

It’s not right to shit in one’s own nest, but Florida has it coming. For many years I’d escaped this place, but being a failure has brought me back.

When I left, there were no jobs and a shit economy. Now there are tons more idiots and massive growth…and STILL no jobs and a shit economy!

The place was a Paradise when I was a kid, and it had truly been a Paradise 20 years before then. But the gears of destuction were already a whirring blur…air-conditioning and WW2 training awakened the locust human to the nectar of Florida, and they’ve been buzzing down here ever since, the massive out-of-control growth unstoppable.

I avoid Outside, but even I mourn the loss of natural beauty to condos, cubans, shitzakistan ethnics and the price of bread tied to a rocket to the moon. The housing boom bubble, now a bust, obliterated any hopes of cheap rent ever again.

The hordes never have a POSITIVE impact on anything. There’s no culture, night life, etc. Sure I hate all of that anyway and never go out, but still…

Everything closes down by 9PM like it was fucking Mayberry.

Fucking New Yorkers (which my parents were, but they moved here long BEFORE it was cool) sell out Yankees practice games, and their fucking asshole politics…good Christ. You can own a gun and even pack heat here, but how long will that last with these liberals constantly moving to town? Even the lowliest New Yawk shithead can sell his shit-shack for 200 grand, which can buy a nice McMansion down here (no state income tax). Their fucking cawps retire with disability pensions from New York, often claiming a debilitating injury, then come here and go back to work again (What does New York State do about this fraud? Nothing! They just raise taxes). Oh, and this place is so OVER-policed, the fuckers are snoring in their cruisers on every street corner while the streets themselves all have speed limits 15 MPH slower than they should be. The thing that infuriates me the most about Yankee transplants is their high taxation and liberal approaches to crime and other problems is what made their home cities way too expensive and crime-ridden to grow old and gray in, so now here they come, having learned NOTHING, and fuck up Florida. We don’t deserve this. Mr. Smith from the Matrix called humans a virus. The pixel-nigga was right.

No one in FL can drive worth a shit, except me. Over the decades the myriad driving styles from retard transplants across the country have not fused into anything civil, logical or safe. I felt safer doing 90 on the LA freeways in my Geo in a sea of SUVs then I do here driving a few miles at 35. The weather is fucked like a Thai hooker…it’s almost the ass end of October and it’s still blazing hot like it was July. Fuck YOU, Sun! I’d also like to add that I’ve never gotten laid e.g. fucked e.g. had sex within the State of Florida, and I’ve lived here most of my miserable life. I can’t even begin to describe how much I hate worthless humanity for that one. Fuck Florida. I’d burn this place to the fucking ground if I could, sparing only one palm tree and one manatee. The rest can go to humid hell, ‘cept it’s already there.

* I lied. Fuck Canada…quit clogging up Costco, assholes! Those cheese samples are for AMERICANS.

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