A Few Updates...

I know why the caged bird has a severe drinking problem...



So, some of you might have noticed that the Kid has been off the radar for a month or so. There's a reason for that. Remember my lumbar herniation, and how we all had that grass roots movement to get my back fixed?

Well, as of last week, I discovered that there was NEVER a plan to actually "get me on the table", as they say. In fact, they don't feel as if I have a problem big enough for their attention.

I went into the spinal clinic last week, the one that I've been going to for the past year now, armed to the teeth with knowledge and experience: I've done the spinal injections (painful), I've done the physical therapy (painful useless and humiliating) and I've jumped through every red tape hoop the doctors instructed me to, all in the good faith that, eventually, they were going to do the 30 minute outpatient surgery that removes the herniation from my spine and allows me to walk again.

So I go in last week, and I notice right away that the doctor has my MRI chart on the board. "Awesome!" I think, "We're finally taking this show to Broadway!"

Let it be known here and now that I, sometimes, can be a bit dense when it comes to reality.

The doctor looks me over, does this test, does that test, hems and haws for about 20 minutes, and finally says "I want you to go to this special seminar for people with back pain. They will teach you how to lift better and work without straining your back too much."

SAY WHAT?!?!

The following is the actual conversation, verbatim:

Bobbe: "Umm - Dr. Fucktard, excuse me, but why would I go to a seminar for something that isn't relevant to my case? I mean, I would think this seminar thing would be more for people with a functioning spine, not an injured one."

Worthless Quack Who Loves to Waste My Fucking Time: "Well Bobbe, I see people like you every day, and I believe that most of what you're feeling is probably psychological."

Bobbe: "Psychologic - You think it's in my MIND? So, in your opinion, the human mind is located somewhere between the L4 and L5 spine? Because that's where the goddam pain is."

Doctor Fuckroast: "Well, you have to understand - As far as I can tell, your brain still works. That means you're not debilitated. I can't sign off on a surgery that you don't need."

Bobbe (losing his very limited patience): Are you saying that I would have to be paralyzed AND comatose before you could pull this microscopic piece of bone matter out of my spine? Tell me, doctor, do you have some sort of repayment plan for the year away from work I just lost, and also something that will repair the damage done to my marriage from all the stress this caused? Also, what's the hospital policy on actually returning lost time from life to people you make tread water like this?"

Note: I do realize that this was probably the wrong thing to say, but I couldn't stop myself. If I could move better, the doctor would be having a difficult time spelling his own first name right now, and they'd be prepping him for brain surgery. Unfortunately, I didn't act on my first impulse.

The doctor stuttered a bit longer about having his hands tied, and how he couldn't do anything more to help me. I had a few more choice things to say, but my wife was standing there, and she has a way of bringing things into perspective for me at times like this. You can't continue in this direction I thought, anger won't get you anything but thrown out of the hospital. You cannot afford another blowup right now.

I hope that all of you out there reading this have someone that brings you back to reality the way my wife does me - I've said it before on this blog and I'll say it again: She's too good for me. So I left the hospital with the realization that they weren't going to do a damn thing to save me...So I have decided to save myself. I'm looking into places that will do the surgery, no questions asked. Turns out there are quite a few, some expensive, some not. I'm getting quotes now, and I don't care if I have to knock over a liquor store to get the money. One way or another, I'm getting cut this year.

I've had it with this shit.

I Suppose I Owe Him This

J.D. Salinger snuffed it. Checked out, as they say. Passed on. Caught the midnight train to Georgia, if not the express train heading to literary infamy. It's a poor man who speaks ill of the dead, so I'll refrain from too much of a rant. My thoughts on his book "Catcher in the Rye" are well publicized, and judging from the amount of mail I receive to this day, I would lay heavy odds that I don't stand alone in my opinions.

But I was thinking - I might really have it wrong. After all this time, the distance between two generations gets longer and more uncrossable every time a new one arises. For instance, my halcyon days would have been in the mid-80's, no argument there. I remember when Duran Duran was the biggest thing on the charts. One of my closest friends remembers hearing about a group called Duran Duran, on a VH1 "Where Are They Now?" special. This puts Salinger into perspective for me, at least a little bit.

Parting Shot:

I met someone recently who was spouting racist rhetoric like she marched with Dr. King himself...And she's at the ripe old age of 22.

I think anyone born after 1985 has absolutely no reason to say "I hate whitey". If you don't remember the civil rights movement, or the decade of moral retardation that was the 70's, all you're doing is parroting the echo of some distant revolutionary who, in this day and age, would be more concerned with feeding the homeless as opposed to "bringing down de white debbil". (Naysayers, feel free to look up Bobby Seale before you spout off your mouth. I'm not as embracing of stupidity as I used to be.)

That's it for now. I won't rant so much on the next post...Or keep you waiting so long for one. See you guys next week.

This Really Happened

Most of you know I'm an aspiring writer, and I have many professional teachers helping me along the way. Well, today I got an email that, although unintentional, is one of the greatest inspirations I have had in a LONG time.

Here is how to write an email with 404 words using only two periods:

dear pendekar bobbe guy i think you have too much time on your hands see i guess i could admire that you backed alot of your opinions with facts but lets be realistic here alot of people do hate being told they suck even if its by a person who is lower than they are before you say another thing you should look at yourself and think so I really mean what I say because serak is greatly older than you even thought the system is beutiful it is people like you who ruin it now now im not saying serak is better then your stuff because it has been said by alot of non-serak people but thats not the point the point is that your just a sad sad human being who gets off on writing ignorant and arrogant things about a system you truly know nothing about aside from your little statistics (most of witch probably arent even true) you reconize what you said about pdt was really about you now me i am only 25 years old and you are probably older and more wise and i see that so why dont you use that to benifit things you sound at least a little intelligent why waste you time fighting a fuetile battle see if someone was about too kill me and i had a choice i could run out the door beside me or the door across the room i mean come on it's only common sence man hahah. so if you want to continue to make fun a belittle people who probably live far away from you move to california and say that to our faces go ahead walk into a bar or nightclub your choice and voice your opinions i mean as young as i am i would probably kick the shit out of you now thats not a threat considering i could being a 6 degree black belt and highly traind in judo and kickboxing but im not here to threaten you with my little words i am a person of action but i hope maby one day you'll see the light and that might come from some serak person delivering you a well desrved beating or i hope something less violent like you finally come to the relization that you and your system suck fucking saudi arabian greaseball fuckin oil slicked cock sleep on that muthafucker.

I'm not focusing on the message of the (so-called) email at all - The grammar ALONE is giving me an aneurysm. It’s enough to make me wonder if I’m on the right planet sometimes.

Please Tell Me Who I Am

Watch what you say, or they'll be calling you a radical....



You know what I get really sick of? Labels.

I voted for Obama, so I must be a Democrat.

I have a criminal record, so I must be untrustworthy.

I was an orphan, so I must lead a pitiful life.

I'm good at computer networking, so I must be a geek.

I make other people laugh, so I must be a tortured soul.

I'm an Atheist, so I must hate people of faith.

I love martial arts, so I must be a psychopath.

I love good beer, so I must be an alcoholic.

I support gay marriage, so I must be liberal. And gay. And going to hell.

None of the above is remotely accurate to what I really am.

The gay thing is, to me, one of the ultimate contradictions I own. I am repulsed by homosexual behavior. Absolutely disgusted by it. I can't get over or around it, no matter what, I just can't.

But that's where my feelings stop. Because, as long as I don't have to be an active participant in it, I don't care what two people do with each other, or which hole they do it in. Furthermore, I don't feel that God nor his so-called representatives on Earth have any business sticking their self-righteous noses in it either.

I guess a bit of my religious disdain is coming through here - I do think it would be funny as hell if modern Christianity was put on trial & all the followers of the sheep-savior suddenly had to revert to hiding underground and painting fishes on their chests to identify each other.

Bet there'd be a REAL outcry for tolerance and understanding then!

(By the way - the above tirade also goes for the wafer & wine chuggers, the matzo lovers, the rug thumpers & any offshoot branch by another name that thinks itself above humanity).

I love it when people try to qualify their perversions scientifically. Have you ever seen a personality test? Egads! Now there's a regression of rational thought if ever there was one! It's a way of saying that science supports the psychosis of someone who thinks they can qualify your existence with a three page questionnaire.

You can get an insanely off-track result from a written personality test, if you were the sort to indulge in such. I'm not, I don't feel the creators of such tests are remotely capable of defining their OWN lives, how will they define mine?

My wife, for example, is a walking stereotype; She's Asian, good at math, screechy when she's in a bad mood and very...athletic elsewhere.

And ironically, she's as far from "Asian" as you can get. She hates most other Asians, and stays away from cultural gatherings (like Chinese new year). She loves fried chicken. And a white guy.



I don't think anyone can really be confined into a narrow set of standards, even if their behavior indicates otherwise. I have met people that I initially didn't like or get along with - they have become close friends. Others who I loved and trusted proved to be unworthy of that trust. But the point is, even if their primary wiring was towards how they treated me, it still doesn't define them. You could find 10 people in any particular person's past - five of them will praise the person as a saint, the other five will curse them to hell. How do you decide what they are?

Answer: You don't. You let them show you what they are, and that will tell you who they are.



I've made some seriously wrong judgment calls in the past. I'm a horrible judge of character, and it's easy to pull the wool over my eyes. You'd think I might be a bit more mistrusting of people (if the label fits...!) Well, I'm not. I'm easy like Sunday mornin'. But I prefer being this way instead of callous and suspicious...Have you ever seen those guys? The ones that walk around with their guard up all the time? They couldn't relax if you gave them an entire bottle of Scotch. Every innocent attempt at socialization is met with dismay and an unspoken (usually) inference of "What does this guy want?"

You can always pick these people out easily enough. They stand alone at parties and are largely ignored by people who know them.

The point I'm getting at is this: Chocolate is delicious.

Does it matter if you prefer vanilla? Would you hate me if I didn't?

What does it say about me if I dislike BOTH?

And why would you say that?

The Comfort of Walls

These are my walls. Well, not in the sense that I own them, just…We’re old friends. They all have a life of their own, a ghost, if you will. Oh, don’t worry, you’ll never see it. It won’t keep you up at night. Nobody’s going to jump out at you with a horrid face and give you a coronary.

But if you pause at these walls (any of them), you’ll feel it: that slight tingling at the back of your neck? The minute flutter in your heart? Yes…That’s them. The walls. Or me, really. Honestly, it’s all the same.

Something you should know; a thing like me isn’t built into a house, at least, not at the time of construction. No, what I am is an echo of the thoughts and emotions of those who live within the confines of my walls. I’m built up over time. I’m the laughter that penetrates the drywall, and the tears that splatter across the linoleum. I’m the screechy misshapen notes your teenage son is raping on his trombone in his room, and the soft, passionate moans your daughter is making on the couch with her boyfriend, while you are out. I’m the echo of a phonecall your husband made to his mistress after you left for work, and the rendezvous you had with the boy who mows the lawn while he was playing golf.

I’m the ghost of every memory of every event that happened inside these walls.

Walls do talk, from time to time. Not always, but very occasionally. You hear it late at night, in that dark hour that passes between wakefulness and sleep, like a memory that you can’t quite reach. That odd creak, the groan of the wood, even the drip from the kitchen sink. That rich, dark silence all throughout the house, just after the witching hour, like when you feel as though someone or something is somewhere in the house with you.

Something is.

You have to listen, you have to listen. Listen. You have to, if you want to hear it…

This wall, for example; One afternoon in 1987, a teenage boy leaned against it, put two schoolbooks behind his head, put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His parents came home late from work that night, so he had been dead for a good 7 hours before he was found, and the blood had long since caked against the grain. That was a day of days, I can tell you. He left a note, and – can you believe it? – They never found it! It was on his bed, but the blast from the gun caused his bedroom door to slam shut, and the gust from the door blew his note under his dresser, even as he blew his brains across the hallway.

His mother and father never knew the illogical reasoning behind their son’s suicide, or the broken heart he suffered from that drove him to it.

They soon divorced afterwards, unable to cope with the trauma of losing their only child, and the house went up for sale again.

Come to think of it, this hallway is a special place, it really gets the most traffic. So many busybodies passing up and down its narrow corridor, doing this and that. It’s the main artery for the heart of this house.

Avoid the stairs; nothing good ever happened on them.

This room, now…This room is special. This was a baby’s nursery for a time, and then it was a study room for the young girl the baby became. When she turned 14 it became a place of terror until she went off to college, as her father often molested her here. There is a small stain in the corner that her tears left, still there after all this time. No one knows but me.

Her father eventually succumbed to Alzheimer’s disease, and never again remembered the dark thrill he felt at the sight of his teenage daughter’s body – Nor the weekly tortures she inflicted on him when she came back to care for him until his death. I know of a secret stain he left in this room as well, but it’s not from tears.

In 1999, an elderly woman lived here with her cat. She spent her days whiling away the hours by the window, as if waiting for someone who never came. She liked to nap in the afternoon, never leaving her chair. Once, just once, I heard her say a name in her sleep. “Robert”, she said, and sounded sorrowful when she did. Whoever Robert was, he clearly didn’t know she was here. Or maybe he did, but didn’t care. She seemed so nice, why would he have left her alone, with only her cat for company?

I never found out. She died in her sleep three years later, and they repainted again after she was gone. New carpet this time. They had to. Cat piddle, if I remember correctly.

The cat became feral. Whatever happened to it, I don’t know. I saw it at the window after the first few days the old lady was gone, and then I saw it no longer. Maybe it died of starvation. Maybe it’s still alive, with another family. Who knows? Not me. I never go anywhere, and nobody ever tells me anything.

But I’m always listening. Nobody knows that, either.

You know what I think? I think people find a kind of security when they walk into their own home. It’s a comfort to them, that sense of familiarity. No matter what happens, this is their home. This is where they live. It is safe and sacrosanct.

It is the comfort of the walls. My walls. But it’s not as safe as you might think it is. People have been here when others weren’t looking. I saw where they went as well. I watched what they did. Oh you ignorant people, if you only knew!

The last family was Cambodian. That was a strange run, let me tell you!

I never saw a family that screamed and yelled so much. I thought it was just part of their language, except for the hair pulling and the broken plates. The man always slept in a different room, and masturbated frequently in it. His sheets were stained, and he seldom washed them. His room smelled of stale beer and old socks, and…something else I can’t bring myself to mention. You get the picture.

That boy of theirs…That boy had problems. He would never go to the bathroom to pee after he went to bed, he just opened the window and peed out through the screen. There was a pungent, yellowed stain on that screen after a few months, and he never washed it.

It’s still there to this day, and every day I’m more dismayed to see it. I was overjoyed when they moved out. Perhaps they went back to Cambodia. At least they’re not here anymore.

I’ve been empty since 2004. The Realtor hasn’t been by in weeks.

This is the longest no one has lived in my old walls. The market for housing has fallen, I assume. But I’m still here, and I’m waiting for the next family, the new occupants to bring me new memories.

That’s how I live, did I tell you? I’m sorry. I meant to.

I live through other people’s lives.

I never leave here. Walk down the hall, slowly. Touch a wall. Lean against a door frame for a minute, and I’ll wash your soul in what I know, and what I have learned. Then you’ll know too.

I am the memory of your house.

This Week in Delirium

When You're Seeing Batman Jesus, Things Are BAD

This was going to be an article about the new Sherlock Holmes movie starring Robert Downey Jr. Wanna know why it isn't?

I didn't go see it yet, because I'm sick. Not your garden-variety, basic, everyday, note from school sick. Closer to bedridden, gagging my guts out, on my hands and knees for hours at a time wishing for death by locusts sick.

Last month, I had swine flu, and I lost my voice for a week because of it. Dunno what the freak-spank I have now, maybe its a relapse or something but it's kicking my ass like I'm on my tenth round with Evander Holyfield. I've hacked up enough lung butter to start a mucus colony on planet phlegm-X 85, or lubricate a waterslide for a week, take your pick. I gave up on coughing into a Kleenex, and just put a lined wastebasket by my bed. My lungs HURT. So does every joint in my body. I have absolutely no interest in porn, which makes me think it could be terminal. The day I don't have enough energy to stroke one out...!

I don't do sick well.

I do drunk well.

Since my back problems, I have discovered that I do chemical high well. I do martial arts well. I'm pretty good at writing. I cook well.

Sick, I do not enjoy at all. Not to rehash an overdone argument, but why would God want us to be sick? It's not a hit, statistically speaking. It's not a winner. It doesn't get it's own Martha Stewart segment.

I keep going back to those morons who kept on saying that the H1N1 virus would NEVER hit here. I mean, these were scientists, doctors, all relatively smart people! Of course, my opinion of doctors has plummeted in the past year. Maybe we should all take this as a warning about who and where we are getting our information from.

If the government ever tells me, "Godzilla - That could never happen here!" I'm getting the fuck out of Dodge, believe me.


This...Is just A Bad Idea


I don't know who came up with the idea of wearing your martial arts rank as everyday wear, but...BAD IDEA ALL AROUND. I can't decide what would be more tempting, a black belt, or a blue belt.


I Dare One Of You bastards To Go Cliche' On Me



I watched Deliverance again last night. You know what? It's a good movie. Certainly over the top in some places, and a bit dated as the years go by, but even knowing what was coming, I still got tense when Jon Voight wakes up on a ledge not 20 feet from one of the mountain hicks chasing them, and nocks his arrow. Watching that country inn dinner scene towards the end - Brrrr! Seeing the campers trying to maintain their composure while eating with the relatives of the men they killed is as worthy a scene as anything filmed these days...Definitely better than the soulless, technological flim-flam of Avatar. Yes, I saw it. No, I didn't like it. I'll write about it later.

The author, James Dickey, (of "Deliverance", not "Avatar") taught at the University of South Carolina. Alas, I wasn't remotely interested in writing back then, so I never took his classes. My loss. I might have passed him in the hall once or twice, but I was way too focused on getting laid back then to care. He also plays the sheriff in the movie.

...That's all I can write for now. I'm going to pop some Nyquil and try to sleep without coughing up a tidal pool of bronchial lubricant. See you guys next week.

Resolutions

- Gain weight. At least 30 pounds.

- Stop exercising. Waste of time.

- Read less. Makes you think.

- Drink no Budweiser.

- Watch more TV. I've been missing some good stuff.

- Procrastinate more. Starting tomorrow.

- Not jump off a cliff just because everyone else did.

- Create loose ends.

- Get more toys.

- Get further in debt.

- Not believe politicians.

- Avoid transmission of inter-species diseases.

- Stay off the International Space Station.

- Wait around for opportunity.

- Focus on the faults of others.

- Ignore my faults.

- Laugh at those less fortunate than myself.

- Sucker those more fortunate than myself into pitying me.

- Enough to give me money.

- Fucking LOADS of it.

The Crystal Voice III

I was wondering...

What if we didn't allow religion to define our conscience?

What if we put God second, and our fellow humans first?

What if we all just waited another five seconds and took a deep, calming breath before we said another word, or did another thing?

What if we all stopped worrying about what a stranger thinks of our appearance, and smiled at our originality?

What if everyone admitted that we all have our dark side?

What if we all acknowledged the good in everything as well?

What if we loved, or tried to love with all our hearts?

What if we said "Today, I will squelch my ego."

What if we decided to let the past be done?

What if everyone put down their swords and went home?

What if everyone decided to forgive ourselves, and just move on?


Would we all be brothers and sisters then?


Merry Christmas, everyone.

Wastelands: Stories of the Apocalypse

I first heard of "Wastelands" a few months ago through a guy who liked my Broken Horizon stuff & suggested I check it out. For some reason, I didn't write down the title, and soon forgot about it. Browsing through Barnes and Noble a few weeks later, I tripped over the last copy on the shelves & total recall hit me like a half-brick to the cranium.

I have long wished for such a book, and post-apocalyptic storytelling is one of my favorite genres (Unless you've been living under a rock & missed my homage to nuclear survival with "Broken Horizon"). Mad Max, Vic and Blood, A Canticle for Liebowitz, On The Beach, Damnation Alley, The Quiet Earth...I firmly believe that "after the fire" storytelling is probably one of the richest resources to draw from to create a new world.

After reading through it entirely, some stories a few times over, I can honestly say that, overall, this book is worth the buy. I'll list my favorites and least such below, but just having this collection between two covers was worth it. And for under $20.00 to boot.

The Not So Good

Oddly enough, Stephen King's tale "The End of the Whole Mess" was one of the lesser interesting stories presented. I felt a touch cheated at this, since King is so great at the short form. It's not bad per se, but I certainly expected better from him.

Orson Scott Card's "Salvage" was another disappointment from a heavy hitter. Delving into the mythology of his Mormon religion, Card gives us a more confusing than not story of a boy's coming of age - and accountability - to himself and his life.

The Good

Cory Doctorow's "When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth" is great, and perhaps a bit too close to home for me as a former network engineer. What happens when a group of network nerds lock themselves into a sterile room with their computers after a supervirus wipes out the world? I could see this one actually happening, to be honest.

James van Pelt's "The Last of the O-Forms" is easily a contender for the best in breed here, and after spending the last two months with these 22 stories, this one still stands out in my mind. You can read it online at Asimov's Science Fiction HERE.

Jerry Oltion's "Judgment Passed" takes an interesting slant on the Rapture: A group of deep-space astronauts return to Earth to discover that the Rapture has occurred, & they're the only ones left on the planet. What follows is the confusion and indignation that each one experiences over being left behind.

Octavia E. Butler's "Speech Sounds" is fantastic, but then again, she can do no wrong by me.

There are others that deserve to be listed here, but I'm not going to do a full play-by-play. As I said, if you're into this kind of thing "Wastelands" is worth the ticket. However, let me warn you: If you DON'T enjoy this kind of fiction/Science Fiction, DON'T BUY THE BOOK. Rarely, if ever, do these stories have a happy ending, and reading two or three back to back will put you in a depressed state. I mean, let's face it: After microwaving the Earth like a Swanson T.V. dinner, you can't expect hope to outlive despair.

This might be Sci-Fi, but it's not fucking FANTASY.