Dual-Purpose Morrissey

When I was younger, I listened to The Smiths to prolong heartbreak because I used to luxuriate in sorrow. Older, I still listen to The Smiths– but to expedite the getting over a heartbreak process because I no longer have the time/energy for it.


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You Know I Love It When the Music’s Bad

Listening to my Britpop playlist to distract me from having to thinking too heavily about what I am grading, this gem played. I was a huge fan of Garbage back in the 90s. Something about Shirley Manson’s in-your-face sexuality coupled with her darkly lyrical sensibilities enhanced by her depressive affectations substituted as my teenage crack. Also, I used to have a weakness for ginger girls, though not so much these days. Such a woman would probably put me off were I now to meet her, as I prefer women who understand the allure of less is more when it comes to displaying their sexuality publicly, but in the throes of adolescence, she threw me.

Everyone’s rightful favorite:

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Sky Thrown into Convulsions

“In the darkness, her warm hand on my arm, I could watch the autumn sky thrown into convulsions of coloured light with the calm of someone for whom the whole unmerited pain of the human world had receded and diffused itself–as pain does when it goes on too long, spreading from a specific member to flood a whole area of the body or the mind.” ~Lawrence Durrell Justine 

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Carcass of Vanity

“Forty,–sombre anniversary to the hedonist, –in seekers after truth like Buddha, Mahomet, Mencius, St. Ignatius, the turning point of their lives.”

“Approaching forty, I am about to heave my carcass of vanity, boredom, guilt and remorse into another decade.”


Been listening to this song quite a bit lately in my mid-life blues.  (Richey, we all hope that you are still alive, living in contemplative isolation somewhere. However, if you are not, I get it. I do, you beautiful person.)

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Which Side?

KT Tatara has only a pitiful amount of videos on YouTube, but the guy is golden. Like your ‘umble author, this comedian comes from a Japanese father and white mother and is not afraid to mock either side. (As confused as we may be racially, I think that mixed people are the only ones who are “allowed” to make racial jokes, for no one can corner us about our humor.)

His skit about being mixed:


This guy is also sufficiently red-pilled, too, hence why none of the women are laughing during this performance:

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To Kiss or Not to Kiss

If you have not seen Wong Kar Wai’s majestic film Fallen Angels and think that you may (and you fucking should), then stop reading. My film-auteur brother introduced me to his films over a decade ago, and I have been in awe since then. With brilliant cinematographer Christopher Doyle, Wai’s films are lush, atmospheric, dreamy explorations of quirky, broken people. In other words, right up Bourbon Apocalypse’s dark alley.

The first clip is the actual ending for the film. Nothing occurs between the two characters, but they confess that they are fine with the quasi-intimacy that they are still able to share. With the second clip, the alternate ending, a bold kiss is taken, but it leads only to further frustration than what may have occurred had a kiss not been exchanged in the first place.

Is it better to kiss only to be rejected or to have never kissed at all, allowing one to fantasize about what may have been?



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Words Are Only What I Have Left

The downside of posting anything away from my home library is that I usually will not have the book on hand that I want to reference. Of course, who I am to deny La Belle Dame Muse (aka La Belle Dame sans Merci) when she calls?–that bossy slut. Somewhere in Cyril Connolley’s The Unquiet Grave–a book that I will continue to reread and treasure until my dying day, he notes that while we may enjoy, for example, the work of Baudelaire or Rimbaud, most of us do not want to put in the suffering that is required to produce such material.

While I do not think that, on an artistic plane, suffering inevitably leads to great art (I know too many people who have suffered and have nothing to show for it) or that great art can be produced only in a realm of suffering (I think Bach was a pretty content dude), I do believe that the best and most insightful art springs from the fountain of suffering.

While stories abound of dedicated writers who have been able to balance work, family, and their craft, I am neither that dedicated nor that capable. My wage-earning position is teaching English and philosophy–to the extent that one can teach either. Both fields require more than Scantron tests and lectures that come straight from a textbook. I try to engage students and encourage them to think and then speak after thinking. Then, there is the grading. Laborious. For as much of myself as I do put into teaching, I do not believe that I am particularly gifted at it, and I definitely do not believe that it is my vocation.

My only vocation is to write. As such, as I see my career as a type of competition. I see my students, as much as I do appreciate many (not most) of them, as leeches. However, a man needs to pay bills. *insert how-can-I-complain-about-having-a-job-when-so-many-would-kill-to- have-what-I-have-? type comment*

Throughout my struggles with faith, women, family, friends, and despair, writing has been the consistent procedure to make sense–or, at least, to process all of the aforementioned.  This being the case, how much am I willing to let go because of it?

I think, to a significant degree, this blog played a deleterious role in my last relationship, but I would not take back what I have written, for writing is when I feel I am being the most authentic version of myself and giving the world the only thing I can give it somewhat decently–my words.

Still, I wish I had the courage to throw everything away for the sake of my writing. I wish I had the courage to quit my job, collect my retirement, and move to some place with few distractions, knowing that I could live on my pittance of a pulled retirement for a few months. That would force me to write on a deadline what I think I still have in me to produce. Whatever would happen to me after that would be immaterial. At least I could I leave to an uncaring world the only thing that I have left to leave it.


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Everything Will Flow

Good things are on there way. I am finishing my first collection of short stories for publication. Also, there may be a change of scenery in the next few months.

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Zombie Barbeque

Until I talked with one the zombies in this short last night, I had forgotten that I had done this with a group of friends back in ’06. I am the poor pizza guy, just trying to make a buck,who gets his intestines ripped out. Looking back, I wish that I had writhed more while being devoured, but it was not like we then had The Walking Dead as reference for all things zombies.

Anyway, the team who put this together did a real stand-up job, considering that the make-up was done by one of the zombies, and the props were all homemade. (In case you are wondering, my intestines were raw meat stuffed into panty hose.) Also, from what I recall, there was nothing too special about the equipment we used. Just goes to show what a group of creatively bored people can do when people are not checking their phones every five minutes. To think: this would have been the last year the earth would have known before the release of the dreadful iPhone.


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