Public Indecency

okay, first off, let’s get a bit of the air cleared right away.

i have problems with concealed carry laws, because although getting a permit to do so is not easy, i’m still uncomfortable with the thought of people walking around with firearms when i can’t be sure of their intentions. but the problems i have, they’re minor, really.

as opposed to my problems with open carry.
i’m one of those people who find armed folks walking around rather nerve-wracking, even if they’re the police (sometimes especially if they’re the police), and when Bob/Bobby Sue walks into the restaurant i’m patronizing or the store i’m shopping at, or even on the same street i’m walking on, carrying their weapon, i’m not going to think “well there’s a proud American, exercising his/her Constitutional right to bear arms”.
i’m thinking “holy shit, is this person gonna open fire?”

and when i see people walking around with their rifles, shotguns, semi-automatic rifles on their backs, it offends me.
i didn’t need to know just how small their dicks are. really, i didn’t. don’t wanna know. don’t care that the Creative short-changed them in the equipment department, the long weapon’s not fooling anyone, put it back in its case, zip up (figuratively), Put The Penis Away.
and fair warning to any store or restaurant i’m in – you let folks open-carry inside, and i see it (i’m hypocritical enough to deal with just knowing you’re allowing it), you have lost me as a customer. right then, right there, leaving. if it’s a grocery, i’m leaving the cart right where it is. if it’s a restaurant and i haven’t already paid… well, we’ll see what happens about that check. if i have the cash, you may get money dropped at the register in the approximate amount of my check. if i don’t… you may well be fucked, but i’ll tell you why i’m stiffing you as i leave. if you want to file charges, have at it, Alfie. there’s a potential armed threat in the vicinity, i’m getting the fuck out post haste.

because there’s no way to tell, and i have no desire to become a statistic of American gun violence.
of course, if it’s a killer, i’ll probably know pretty quickly, and if it’s not, yay, the terrorists win, another anti-gun Liberal chased away from pollutin’ the air of Real Amurricans.
but i take my Pyrrhic victories where i can get ’em.

 

mood: content
listening to: dawgs chewin’ on rawhide bones

Last Night’s Speed Writing

bit of an odd one, as i decided all prompts would be pictures (although the last one turned out to be haiku because of time constraints), so here we go.

o2043583

sometimes his life felt like a he was sailing on a calm, gentle sea.
this wasn’t one of those times.
nothing really was making sense at the moment. his girlfriend had left him because he was ‘a nice guy’, and still wanted to be friends, while she dated a complete and total jerk. his family didn’t think going for a Doctorate in Interpretive Dance was a proper use of his time or money, and had cut him off financially, and socially as well – his perfect drone of a sister Tammy Lynn said their father had taken him out of the will so fast he’d spewed ink on the walls. his new job at Office Despot was going well, small blessing that as it made him just barely enough to keep body and soul together while he filled out grant appilcations.
yeah, life was swirling around the toilet bowel, and he was the turd trapped in the flow.
that’s when he met Sharon, at least, that’s how her name was spelled. she pronounced it like “Charon”, the boatman on the river Styx, and was a trust fund baby with an itch to play.
after a few weeks of what he thought of as dating, but could be defined as risky sport fucking, they were a couple, and he didn’t have to work at Office Despot, and he didn’t bother with grant applications anymore. she was happy to pay for his education, his room and board, everything.
there were some downsides, though. interpretive dance is best performed without someone shooting blow darts at him. when he wasn’t involved in school work, he wore a pink PVC French Maid outfit and responded to the name “Fluffy”, and he slept beside her bed, when she wasn’t using him in it.

o2042049

 

the night sky, so clear you could see infinity.
he’d had to get far away from civilization to manage that view. out in the desert, a beautiful desolation, interesting phallic rocks pillars, nothing to eat or drink for five hundred miles unless he’d brought it with him…
which he had – he wasn’t crazy, just tired of people and noise and engine exhaust and talkingtalkingtalking about nothingnothingnothing ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
out here he could think.
out here it was cold at night.
he fished out the blanket he’d brought, and continued to lie in the bed of his truck – electric of course, with enough extra batteries in the bed for the trip out and back, all under the plywood board he was using as a floor.
he was ready. there was nothing to distract him, nothing to pollute his experience.
he mixed the synthetic mescaline with milk in his reusable water bottle, swirled it around until the mix had achieved creamy, chocolaty consistency.
now, the universe would speak to him, and he would listen. enlightenment at last. upon achieving that, he wasn’t sure he’d ever go back. perhaps better to just lie under the stars, and then the sun, the divine cycle, and pass into the Great Unknown.
then the Milky Way became Kim Kardashian dancing just for him, and he spent his trip masturbating (to the point of extremely raw skin), and in the morning he drove back home, and took the job his father had offered him.

0009650r

Look, for the kind of money the photographer was offering, Tad woulda fucked the Great Dane, not just appeared in a photo spread with it, but he had to admit, as it went on, the whole experience qualified as the strangest damn thing he’d ever done.
and even with all the proper permits, and blocking the streets off, walking around naked, painted like a Dalmatian… okay, it wasn’t weirder than the Fuckin’ Elvis music vid he’d done, where naked female weight lifters had tossed him back and forth over a firepit, but the whole walking around naked thing was still kinda freaking him out, and the banner he was carrying made just as much sense as anything else he was doing.
so… a whole day, capturing light from various angles at various times, the occasional paint touch up, the handlers cleaning up after the dog, the trips to the porta-potty so they wouldn’t have to clean up after him… his feet hurt, his skin itched like a motherfucker, he was sure to have a rash… the money. all he could think about was the money, and following the directions of Jeaurard, the photographer.
Clyde had done some research when Jeaurard first approached him, but hadn’t found anything. so the guy was young, and someone thought enough of his ideas to finance the photo shoot, and pay Clyde five thousand in the bargain.
hell, the Fuckin’ Elvis vid had only made him five hundred, and that had involved live flame around a lot of very drugged out people.
finally, when the day was done, Jeaurard had shot his last roll of film, the rest of the crew booked for parts unknown. nobody to help him get the makeup off, but hey, Jeaurard had left him an envelope in what had passed for their makeup area.
“Dear Clyde,
Sorry, but I spent all the money on the permits, and crew, and film. Afraid you’re just fucked.
Jeaurard”
not even a towel. streets weren’t blocked, traffic was coming through.
the police were on the scene pretty much immediately, and all Clyde said was, “I won’t resist arrest if you guys promise to help me get this fuckin’ makeup off.”
he welcomed incarceration, it made the perfect end to a perfect day.

o2048041

it was home, and always had been.
nineteen generations of Wilshires, hundreds of years of being part and parcel of the upper class, watching the world change around their home, behind their moat, all the while unable to modernize a single solitary thing about the house. their money, all managed by a trust set up by their fucking too-many-times-great-grandfather.
they had to live there.
they couldn’t change the place.
the National Historical Registry of Homes of Note were thrilled – Williamshire was the only completely authentic example of the period in existence.
a local economy had been grown in the nearby village, consisting solely of ways for the Wilshire inheritants to spend their money and deal with the facts of their life.
oh, they could be gone from the house as long as two nights before breaking the rules of the trust, and over those nineteen generations, the properties behind the trust and its value had continued to grow.
as had the number of Wilshire bodies in the slimy depths of the moat, all of them suicides.
finding spouses from outside the family wasn’t hard, and had gotten easier with each generation and the larger monthly disbursements, but it didn’t take too many cold, drafty nights, or sweltering days, all accompanied by Eau du Moat to convince that new blood that they were living in the sadistic joke of a demented dead man, and that they’d made a deal with the Devil himself in accepting marriage into the family.
really, suicide was the best option, wasn’t it?

took some funny photography tricks, but the cathedral looked like a model.
last photo taken of any part of the city before everything went to shit.
in the end, not biowarfare, or chemical weapons, or nukes or zombies or, God save us from the ridiculousness of it, animals in revolt.
well, i say it wasn’t biowar or chemical, because no tests have ever shown any sign of foreign agents in those afflicted.
they just wandered out of their homes, businesses, churches, clubs, wherever it was they were at 12:00 GMT, May 3rd, 2018. they wandered out into the street and died, of no cause more discernable than they simply weren’t alive.
99.84% of the population.
world-wide.
dead.
i woke up that morning, on the other side of the planet, expecting mom and dad, a call to breakfast, my sister making fun of my deadly bed-head… and i was alone.
really alone. the only survivor in our medium-sized town alone.
and the streets were full of dead people, including my family, and i was thirteen, wearing the bottoms of a set of NASCAR pajamas.
i went a little crazy then, i think. i left signs of it all over town, clearly visible, which is how i got spotted and picked up by what was left of the Texas National Guard – a helicopter pilot, a clerk, and one private who was about as bad off as i was.
(and I’m definitely wanting to take this one further)

o2045497

i see angels.
i mean, i don’t see real angels, if there is any such thing, i’ve just got this fucked up thing in my mind, kind of like synasthesia, were periodically, people turn into angels. lemme tell ya, damn drove my parents crazy when i was a baby. i’d fuss and cry and scream, because nobody looked like angels, and then they would, and i’d calm right down, laugh, smile. it didn’t take the doctors long to diagnose that it was a perception issue, something cross-wired in my skull, and it wasn’t until i had hand-eye coordination enough to start using crayons, and learned to speak, that i could really let my folks know what i was seeing that made me so happy.
they were very understanding, and i grew up in pretty much two mental states.
vague depression, and bliss.
then puberty hit… as did another side effect of the condition.
because when i say ‘bliss’, i mean “Bliss”.
uncontrollable orgasms. had everyone scared had developed some kind of epilepsy there for a while.
and that was the end of my formal schooling. no way in the public education system to deal with a girl who was as likely to start uncontrollably orgasming as not.
took me eight years, some hormonal settling, to learn to control that, but i was 21, and i’d already gotten my GED… but i could think about going to community college, at least part-time.
i’m majoring in art. maybe, if i can show the world what i see, maybe it’ll help make the world a little happier.
dear god, just don’t let my art trigger the whole orgasm thing.

and finally haiku, using the word ‘float’…

you are my tether,
not my ball-and-chain. floating
away? really sucks.

my inner tube float
great ship of the line, river
naval war campaigns

sometimes, being the
last turd to stop floating is
the best i hope for

a floating crap game
“come on seven and heaven”
holy shit, broke again

 

mood: deciding to go back to bed and try to get some more goddamn sleep
listening to: Conan worry the bowl my sausage biscuits were in

 

 

Why You May Address Me As Dr. Reader, Should You So Choose

(and if  you are a minister of a non-Fundamentalist, established denomination, Protestant or Catholic, then Mr. Reader is just dandy.)

if you should, by accident or mischance, end up watching almost any of the Christian networks, you’re going to see a lot of Doctors.
and quite a few of them will have received their honorary Doctor of Divinity degrees from Bob Jones University.
to acquaint yourself with BJU:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/news/bob-jones-university/
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/johnshore/2013/11/an-open-letter-to-students-of-independent-fundamental-baptist-ifb-colleges/
tl;dr – men speak for god in the home, women shut up, do not work outside the home, and make babies, biblical fairy tales trump science, children are to be severely disciplined, sexual assault is the woman’s fault, the bible is the literal word of god, the IFB minister’s interpretation is to be accepted as the word of god, even when it doesn’t agree with another IFB minister. these people are the bottom of the barrel of Fundamentalism, but a growing denomination. i tell ya, these IFB fuckers… they’re alignment is Medieval Scary.
BJU, the spiritual home of the Independent Fundamental Baptist denomination, is, like the IFB, a fucking snakepit of crap theology and medieval thinking.
and they love handing out, and selling, doctorates for which no course work is required.

my honorary Doctorate of Divinity from Universal Life Church has course work behind it. i’ve taken theology courses, studied several faiths, practiced several faiths, examined many others, and therefore have a better grip on theology than an IFB asshole, or other Fundie fuckheads. and do not even get me started on the heresy of prosperity gospel. i have every right to consider myself the superior theologian to any Fundie minister on the planet – they wear the blinders of Biblical Inerrancy, and i recognize that doctrine as a load of crap.
so, i’ll gladly wear not only the title of ULC Minister, but the title of Doctor of Divinity… unless i’m around a real, non-Fundie, legitimately trained person of the cloth, in which case i’ll defer to them.
of course, i still don’t believe they automatically have a better grip on the truth of the Christian faith than i do, for i am proudly a Protestant, allowed to read the Bible and interpret it for myself.
kinda like an IFB pastor, except i don’t have, nor do i want, a church full of willing sheeple under my command; i recognize the validity of science; i realize the Bible most certainly isn’t the inspired word of God, to be taken literally in all circumstances, as men have fucked with it multiple times over its history; i view women as equals; i am most definitely LGBT-allied, and quite a few other happy differences.

so i proudly stand with my ULC brethren in proclaiming “we are all children of the same universe”. i’ll be hanging my degree once i pick up a frame.

 

mood: defiantly anti-Fundamentalist
listening to: dogs snoring

 

What I Call the Sarah-Michelle-Geller Syndrome…

it’s no big secret that the severest critic of my Porn Soap Opera From Hell – in the whole “what moron thought this was a story and/or well-written” sense of “critic” – is me.
plainly put, i think it’s pretty much shit. that doesn’t mean i don’t love the characters, or that parts of it don’t move me deeply, but let’s just say i’ll never consider it my finest work, or even close.
my Creative, i just realized i’m a porn snob about my own porn.
then there are the other stories i want to tell, and time spent writing a soap opera isn’t spent on them.

but something the end of Book One has brought out is my fans are passionate, and willing to put out some bucks.
and face it, if it could turn into something paying a decent amount, a soap opera’s a gravy train. they don’t end.

(the reason for this post’s title is after “Buffy”, SMG didn’t seem to want to have much to do with it. all the cast would get together to record commentary for the DVD releases, but not her. she’d gone Hollywood, after listening to people tell her she was a star, and television was an unpleasant memory. she took a shit on her gravy train, and where’s her career now?)

so, if i shit on “Oil of Roses”, shove it to one side, continue to look down it, am i shitting on my gravy train?

things to think about…

 

mood: contemplative… and given the hour, real tired
listening to: “Kashmir” – Led Zeppelin

Another “What’s Jim Listening To As He Writes Today” Post

a little classic country

one of my favorite Melissa Etheridge songs

and then there’s Iggy…

and my favorite Aussie lads

and my Sisters

and my favorite Blonde

to the Mystic

 

and the big hairs

the road we’re on

to the best Bond title track ever

there y’all have it folks, ten tracks from today

 

Mood: productive
Listening to: take a guess

Race, my Liberalness, and that Goddamn Flag

okay folks, i’m a racist. let’s get that the fuck out of the way first thing.
i fight those impulses when i recognize them, i actively work not to be, but i am.
i was raised in Central Texas in the ’60’s and ’70’s. although i never saw it in use as other than a storeroom, i often walked by the ‘colored’ restroom at a local filling station.
in Smithville, in 1966, i was part of the second integrated class coming up through the school system. my, my, weren’t we advanced and civilized? hell no.
one of our local doctors (we had two!) named J.W. Thomas (who delivered me and was our family doctor), went before the Smithville School Board in, i believe, 1964 and said (i’m paraphrasing) “desegregation is coming. there’s no stopping it. we can do it slowly, class by class, at our own pace, and minimize tensions, or we can wait for the Federal government to make us do it all at once. those are the two choices we have. there isn’t a choice where we do not desegregate our schools”, and in an exceedingly rare show of wisdom, the School Board listened to him. the 1st grade class of 1965 was the first class to be integregated, mine in ’66, therefore, the second.
i went to school with black kids all my life. some of them were as smart or smarter than me, some weren’t. some were good kids, some were shitheads, some enjoyed using their relative different-ness to make other students uncomfortable or afraid, others were just trying to get along.
same as any other kids i know.
so when my grandfather, the man who served as my ‘daddy’ told me the only black people who ever amounted to anything did so because of white blood in their ancestry, i knew better. it was the first crack in the pedestal i had placed him upon.
in Smithville, the “black part of town” was across the tracks, in an area called “Bunte-town”, because a lot of it was owned by the Bunte family. (that’s pronounced “Bunny”, by the way, leading to “Bunnytown”, most definitely used in a racial context).
while the large groups of black kids walking from their side of town to school used to threaten smaller groups of white kids, and walk down the middle of the street, refusing to move out of the way for cars, white kids used to drive into Bunnytown at all hours of the night on the narrow, dirt streets, shouting racial epithets; running over (mostly) chickens in yards and along the roadsides; catching dog’s heads in the door of the car as they chased them and dragging them; throwing rocks, bottles, and shit.
I did all of those things.
i’m not proud of it now, i wasn’t proud of it then. it was, for the most part, action born of peer pressure, but that doesn’t change the fact i willingly chose to do all that, for whatever reason, none of which is an excuse.
i went to school with black children, but none of them were really my friend. however, the single best teacher i ever had, and a man who was my friend, was Mr. Sampson, a black man. i loved him dearly.
sometimes, at the end of the day, you tally up your behavior and performance and realize you’re just as human as everybody else, for good and ill.

i have stepped on my dick, as a liberal, so many times i shouldn’t be able to feel it when i do so anymore, and a lot of that dick-stepping involved empathizing with other groups of people, such as blacks, Hispanics, gays… come to think of it, anyone who wasn’t a white CIS hetero male. and i’ve suffered my bouts of liberal guilt and white shame in angst-ridden explorations of who and what i am and why and other such navel-gazing. it’s all bullshit, you see, because at the end of the day, it’s simply easier, and safer, to operate by the Golden Rule, and when you find yourself doing otherwise, stop, and return your focus to the knowledge we’re all people and we all deserve to be treated with decency, compassion, and, initially, a basic level of respect. if, after that initial period, we prove ourselves unworthy of the respect, that’s another thing, but it still leaves decency and compassion, due to all, across the board, no matter what. for me, those should be immutable.
it’s made being a liberal much easier for me, as i grow older. and on the other issue, i never stop trying to empathize, and i remain sure i haven’t gotten it right yet. but hopefully i’ve cut my dick-stompin’ percentage down.

i grew up LOVING to go to Six Flags Over Texas, and yeah, one of those was the Confederate flag, but far more important to me as a young Texan Yellow-Dawg Democrat was the flag of the Republic of Texas. we were our own nation once, and that’s always been more important to me than our membership in a band of traitors and rebels. so no, the Stars and Bars hold no special place in my heart, but while i looked at that particular flag as just a part of history, like the Spanish, French, Mexican, and American flags, it wasn’t until i was in my thirties, if i’m remembering correctly, that i began to understand its significance to blacks. it wasn’t a flag just like all those others for them. it had a special and horrible place in their history. (yeah, i knew “A”, and i knew “B”, but i’d never put them together to get “C”).
and as long as i could look at it as a purely historical relic, i was fine with it. i grew up, even at my  most racist, with far more sympathy for the Northern than the Southern cause, and so, in an amazing lack of comprehension, never ‘felt’ it as a sign of a rebellion yet to be put down. it was a sign of redneck, and therefore i considered pride in the Confederate flag to be a general sign of ignorance, and probably inbreeding… and white trailer trash.
but i’ve known better for quite a while now, now i study the American Civil War as the first part of an ongoing struggle to decide the soul of our nation. and in spite of a black man in the White House, it’s a struggle i can’t help but feel we’re losing.

so yeah, let’s burn the goddamned thing, make its only proper place a museum. let’s treat it as what it is – a sign of oppression, rebellion, insurrection, a symbol for traitors, enemies of our country. i still won’t – quite – say it should be as vile a symbol as the Nazi swastika, but it doesn’t miss by much.

(of course, to be fair, given what’s been done under its banner, i often feel the American flag deserves burning and being put in a museum.)
(as a side note, according to family legend, our only memorable part in the Civil War was an ancestor who rode with, among others, the James brothers, stealing horses  and selling them to whomever, North or South, had the money to pay. there you have it, My Family In The Civil War – equal opportunity horse thieves and war profiteers.)

okay y’all, my thoughts as of today.

 

listening to: the Furry Four freak out at moth farts
mood: confessional

‘Cause It’s Been Fuck Near Three Months…

okay, first off, it occurred to me recently i’ve gone from occasionally filling in for Clay, our Speed Writing Meetup group’s moderator to hosting, with the help of Sister Lori Thomas and Empress Deb DeFreitas, online speed writing 2nd, 4th, and 5th (should one occur) Wednesday nights, and hosting first Saturday of the month Speed Writing  for Round Rock Writers Guild, as well as paying to make sure the room is reserved for us.
“Hi, my name is Jim, and I’m a speed-writing-aholic.”
i gleefully blame Deb, as she’s the one who took me to my first speed writing meeting. thank you, Deb, thank you ever so much.

tonight as i prep to head for bed, i’m thinking about all the people in my life that i care about, and who care about me… and all the people i don’t care about, and who don’t care about me… and all the people for whom i would gleefully accept the karma load of roasting on a spit… and all the people i’ll never know, and who’ll never know me.
The Creative wants me to love all these people.
some of them, that’s a very easy thing to do. some i have to work on at varying degrees of difficulty, the last set i have to love in abstract, by showing empathy with and sympathy for every human on the planet (in theory).
but that third group… that fuckin’ third group…
i’ve always found a lot of hypocrisy in the whole “hate the sin, love the sinner”, since it’s so extremely difficult to achieve, but too damn easy to mouth. and i don’t generally think in terms of “sin”… i think in terms of “evil”. and from where i sit on the political/social/economic lines, there’s mega-metric-fucktons of Evil in humanity. and as most of you know where i sit on those lines, you can probably guess at a lot of people i view as, in a perfect world (you know, the one where i’m in charge), “kill on sight”.
so yeah, the people i’d prefer to see dead, the smaller subset i’d want to help kill, the even smaller subset i want to kill all on my own, in a very private place, so i can keep pretending no one knows about the monster inside me (yes, i KNOW we all have our monsters, but i like to pretend y’all don’t know about mine, so fuckin’ deal with it).
how do i even attempt to love those people? the thought of their very existence seems to me to be a curse upon humanity, all we’ve built, all we’ve learned, all we aspire to. i feel they’re a disease, a disease that’s spreading faster and faster.
can i find a way to love that third group of people, without ridding myself of my desire to see them in pain, and dead?
ain’t no answers here, just stuff i’ve been pondering on, especially today.

 

mood: contemplative
listening to: “Killing Strangers” – Marilyn Manson

3/7/15 Speed Writing At Star Co

more people than we expected, less chairs, less tables (big going on downtown Round Rock that day) but aside from a near gibbering fit of nervousness on my part, things seemed to go well.

haiku using ‘mustache’…

one careful mustache
let it get out of control
it will eat your face

past goatee and beard
down the neck and up the cheeks
mad mustache gone wild

facial hair frenzy
eighteen foot long handlebar
mustache mania

write something with the title “The Mouse Squeaks Twice”

Old house, easy to hide in, lots of places, hasn’t been cleaned in years.
Clyde knew his prey would go to ground in a dump like this. Eduardo the ‘Stache wasn’t one for shiny condos or public galleries full of people who wouldn’t spare him a second glance.
Eduardo would head for where the trash was thick and the lights low, and Clyde knew those kinds of places well. He and Eduardo had grown up in the same part of town, different hoods. Both from the wrong side of the tracks from bright lights and regular beats for single cops walking along and tipping their hats.
There were two squeaks to Clyde’s left.
He answered with one shot.

the last exercise was an experiment. three parts. three minutes to create a space for something to happen, a setting. then three minutes to create the characters to inhabit that space, interact with each other with it. five minutes to write what happens in the setting, with the characters.

Danny loved the high steel, an interlocking grid of second by second danger. Sure there were safety lines, but odds were good if you fell, you were hitting something metal, and you were hitting it hard.
But oh God, the view. The view was everything, absolute enchantment no matter the time of day or night.
That was why he’d chosen the high steel, 10:30 PM, to propose to Carla. He knew she was scared of heights, terrified, but he was positive once she saw… felt the wind…
It had taken two bottles of champagne with supper to get her in the elevator, safety lines and more safety lines for her to step out.
Then a mouse, a shriek, a shove, and Danny would be eating through a straw for the rest of his life.

 

listening to: Flirting With Disaster – Molly Hatchet
mood; restless

An Odd Way To Ruin A Great Video Game For Me

this post has been a long time in coming, a low background mullygrubbling in the back of my mind, roaring to the fore whenever the game in question comes to mind.

“Far Cry 4″

so, to make the story short, you’re the son of a former revolutionary who helped overthrow the government of Kyrat. one of his compatriots, a foreigner, Pagan Min, betrayed everyone and set himself up as the king of his own little burgeoning narco-monarchy.
you fuck all that shit up, generally running missions for one of two sides. the traditionalists, who want to return to the highly religious past, and the realists, who view the country’s only hope for economic survival being a narco-republic.
so you do your job, and the faction you support takes over, but it’s a mixed bag. the traditionalists resort to political and religious cleansing. the realists take children from the villages to slave in the poppy fields.

both of these options suck rancid monkey balls, neither leader is worth a bucket of warm piss in the long run.
but you, having accomplished your mission, retreat back into the countryside (that, courtesy of your campaign, you know a whole lot better that almost anyone in the country), with your stash of weapons and ammo (that the revolutionaries were more than happy to supply you), and all the guerrilla training your campaign gave you.

country going to shit in one of two odious ways, you as the hero just go on up into the hills to diddle yourself.
uh huh.

number one, in reality neither faction leader should be stupid enough to leave you running around loose. to many of your countrymen, you are the face of the revolution, and should you want it, you could in all probability take leadership of the country.
but running a country is a bore at the best of times, and doesn’t really fit in with this video game’s vibe.

see, what i’d really like is some downloadable content, a mini campaign where you choose a less bugfuck crazy candidate to run the country and fight to put them in charge. lots of chances for vindictive dialogue as you square off against your former comrades, forcing them to see they’re no better than the man they deposed.

having been a table-top role playing gamer before the Atari 2600, let alone games of such narrative complexity, i have a major issue with a game just assuming a character it’s turned into a by-God hero is just gonna sit there while all his work is perverted.
that shit just wouldn’t fly. it’s not what heroes do.
and we play games, more often than not, to be the hero.

 

listening to: The Late John Garfield Blues – John Prine”
mood: why the fuck am i awake?

Hey Dr. Hutto!

tonight’s title prompted by finding out my GP reads my blog…

i’m a speed writing report behind, and i missed last night’s due to all three of my potential rides crapping out (for very good reasons). this saturday i’m hosting speed writing at Star Co in Round Rock, so there should be another entry along these lines pretty soon.

noun – whiskey, verb – fired, adjective – dirty, adverb – noisily

“Evil incarnate walked into the saloon, staggered to the bar, and vomited noisily upon the cool marble surface.
“That’s disgusting, you dirty sumbitch,” the bartender exclaimed.
Evil incarnate, also known as ‘One Ball Eduardo’, pulled his pistol and fired it into the air.
“Whiskey, goddamnit!”
The bartender served him a shot of Chupacabra Bile, and watched him chug it down.
“Three minutes,” the bartender thought, “and I’ll have another dead asshole to bury out back.”
But much to his surprise…
(tentatively considering continuing this one)

no idea what the prompt was…

A thousand days, floating in the upper reaches of Jupiter’s atmosphere. It had sounded like a dream job to me, total isolation while gathering data on the largest weather system mankind knows of.
Storms were a problem though, and I’d endured more than my share. I’d lock myself into the chair, which would make the hookups for breathing, sanitary and dietary functions, the cabin would fill with foam, and the hell-ride would begin. Absolutely terrifying.
Otherwise it was nice.
Until people starting talking to me from outside my ship.

no idea about this prompt either…

I was always impatient with my Uncle Frank, even when I was only crawling. He was slow… so slow. Something to do with an injury he got in the war that had damaged his spine. His stride was measured in mere inches, and not many of them. His shuffling, almost indiscernible progress around the house was torturous to watch, especially to me. I was always full of energy, darting back and forth, inside and out, except when Uncle Frank was in my way.
It frustrated my parents as well, although they didn’t say anything because he’d suffered his injury in the war.
I know he knew how much it bothered all of us… he told me so the night  he drove a railroad spike into my spine.
“Eddie,” he said, “now you’re going to understand. I got this wound, this handicap, for you and all the other kids, to preserve your goddamn freedom, but you little shits don’t deserve it!”
They took Uncle Frank away, leaving my lower body useless, and my parents dead in the kitchen.

again, no clue as to the prompt…

The music box was all I had left to remember my mother.
“Edelweiss.”
After Sweet Baby Jesus took her to Live With Him in Heaven, Daddy couldn’t stand to see any reminder of her, so he got rid of everything.
I barely managed to hide the little blue jewelry box with the dancing bear under my pillow.
I never let him see it.
I never wound up the music box and played it when he was home.
He died when I was sixteen, and I got rid of all his things. He’d tried to wipe her out of our existence. I did wipe him out of mine.
No, I didn’t kill him or anything, but I sure as shit didn’t mourn him when he was gone.
I sat and listened to the music box for hours the night of his funeral, trying to remember her scent, her face, the feel of her hands, her hugs.
I couldn’t. I could only remember that damn song.

 

listening to: the Furry Five snoring
mood: relaxed