Victims and Heroes

I’ve never been a victim of anything. I’ve had stuff done to me, like any other, but signs were there. Red flags and signals of the impending actions, but I refused to see. Blinded by love, lust, pride, you name it. Enough fog to rival a Sunday morning in San Francisco. I don’t blame myself for my mistakes of trust or character. Its a part of living and growing. Experiences that bring about a deeper, harder and stronger person. You can’t rightly survive without knowing the pain of betrayal or shortsightedness or impulse addiction. Its how it is.

Which brings me to the hard truths that so many people forget. It goes without mentioning in the Sphere that there’s a Western-wide idea that there are victims everywhere. The poor, racial minorities, sexual minorities, religious minorities, entire cultures, women, children, entire nations… everyone is a victim of everything. Not everything is criminal enough to warrant a harsh sentence, but the few acts they have cordoned off as so heinous that the law cannot apply as written. It must be re-written time and again until the very act is removed from thought through pain of a leering, liberal public.

It is these acts they froth at the mouth for that are usually the most preventable.

I see time and again from schoolmates and old friends, on Facebook feeds and Twitter timelines and from their mouths, the complete and total loss of their common sense when stories come along of a cop punching a unruly woman, shooting a threatening man or quelling a riot. I see fire and brimstone in their eyes over a media-fueled story on rape by teenagers at a party. When a politician lies, when a banker gets another bonus, when a nation is bombed by the U.S. (or isn’t, depending on the civil war). When a black kid doubled back to attack an armed wannabe cop who insulted him. When people are offended, hurt or killed by their own choices, they lose all peaceful facade and show you the reality underneath. The indignant growl that someone would scrape the thin, flaking paint off of civilized life and show the hard iron that is true humanity. They forget what it is to be human through the clouded thoughts of a “humane” viewpoint. It makes them forget a cold truth:

A victim, a real victim, is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own.

I’ve known a few people truly harmed in their lives. Those who have pulled themselves together and and stood up, they are the most extraordinary, strong people I know. I’ve known people brutally beaten for no reason. I’ve known people molested as children. I’ve known people touched by the very worst of humanity simply because they existed. I’ve known people that took pain time and again waiting for the right time to vanish, and they did. Despite it all, despite the fists and violations they suffered, they put up and saved themselves. With knives to the throats of their kin. With vanishing acts from all they ever knew and loved. With the heaviest of hearts and no other choice. And those who I still talk to, I can’t help on occasion, or when they’re down, to remind them how strong they are and how I admire them. How much stronger than me that they’ve been.

So, when I hear this word pushed around, it doesn’t fall on sympathetic ears.

If you confront a cop, you’re going to get hit, beat or shot. Most so-called brutality is just some fucktard thinking they can convince or defeat what is essentially a solider for the city, not using their fucking head and telling the powers that be what is problem with his arrest is. Instead, he or she swing fists or spit and end up bloodied. Not a victim.

If you walk into a party as a teenager and get drunk with a bunch of strangers, or even a group of friends, guess what? You’ve put yourself at risk. Unless you trust a person with your life, you don’t drink yourself until you are motionless and vulnerable to everything an intoxicated person can do. Drunk people commit crimes. Drunk people rape. Drunk people kill. If you know the people you’re with, fine, but what fucking idiot walks into a party full of people they don’t know and basically draws a giant target on their chest, most of all a woman. Honey, you know the stories. You’ve heard the news. Had the talks with parents and teachers. Maybe even a lady officer came in and told the entire school that rape culture is not cool, and yet you STILL walk into the jaws of intoxicated chaos? What happens to you may be a crime, but you are not a victim.

I once ran into a friend of the First when I was in college. It was outside of an dying coffee house chain. This friend knew some sketchy people, but I sat down with her anyway. Within 15 minutes, I had a knife pulled on me. I knew the reputation of the people around me, but I stayed. Not a victim, just an idiot.

A victim is my friend who was beat time and again by a man 3 times her weight, a man who would pin her if she tried to run, until one night he passed out drunk and she vanished with just the clothes on her back, crossing an entire nation to find safety. A victim is another friend who had a blade to her own father’s jugular after he raised his fist to her; that knife and the piss running down his leg ended 15 years of abuse. A victim was my distant relative who while closing up his hard-earned, barely floating shop, was shot in the head by two ghetto scumbags and robbed of a few hundred dollars, if even that.

A victim is a person who has been wronged through no fault of their own. Everyone else that claims to be is just human cattle, willingly lined up and sacrificed for preachers, politicians and the 6 o’clock news. Their bodies piling up, with markers of red or blue for whatever sides profits most from their deaths. For every man who fights a cop, for every girl who walks blindly into a party of strangers to get hammered, for every single person that lets their mind cloud their instinct, there is an activist or Senator who silently smiles within when your corpse is put to ground.

Don’t be part of their blood coffers, brothers and sisters. Learn to survive like my friends have. Be smart and you won’t have to go through what they did and also have it on your own head. Learn to survive and you’ll feel more alive, and more human, than any idea or drug can give you. It won’t guarantee you won’t be someone’s target, but that’s the price of living. The price of being men and women instead of fodder.


I Dare You


No, you can tell ’em all now
I don’t back up, I don’t back down
I don’t fold up, and I don’t bow
I don’t roll over, don’t know how
I don’t care where the enemies are
Can’t be stopped, all I know; go hard
Won’t forget how I got this far


There’s a whole world out there that tells you you aren’t good enough.

It tells you that who you are is wrong. A moral stain on the goodness of a thousand bloody empires stacked on each other, bleeding down to the thirsty, meandering zombies asking for one more chance.

The voice of these priests of chivalry come in many costumes. They walk among you, pointing fingers, digging nails deep into you from the furthest stranger to current lover. You can feel it. The shadows crawl into your skin, under your muscles and into your very spirit. The smile you give is false. Beneath the teeth is shaking anxiety.

Am I good? Am I good enough? Why are these people looking at me? Did I say something wrong?

Who are these voices?

They are the universe showing you what not to do. Paths of folly, quantum physics made physical and given consciousness.

I had my voice. Ariel was that voice. A screeching, pathetic, ill speaker broken on delusion. Aside from the holidays and being sick, my last month has been wrought with dealing with what this stalker was saying to me. I let it in and it dug deep.

And it failed.

She called me names. Rapist. Abuser. Unwanted. Harassed me with text messages. Attacked my self-image and self-worth. The things I told her when I thought she was worthy of my life’s story were bullets in her manic depressive volley. Tired and weak, she struck, and I felt so angry, so lost, that this busted cunt was in my head. And she could get away with it. Already arrested and released. Already put away, let go and given no help by the grand mental health apparatus of Ontario. If I walked into a police station and show them text messages, what would they do they hadn’t already done?

“Change your number,” someone said to me when I told them the story. “Ignore her and she’ll go away.”

don’t come to Taps or youll get beat up lol, she sent to me last night.

Ignorance is not bliss, at least not to those still stuck in reality. The delusional ill… well…

The only thing left was to give up.

Give up caring. Give up doubting. Give up the very last vestiges of every stupid, childish, weak thought that stopped me from doing what I want. What is left after rock bottom? Nothing, but up. Every step until you see yourself in the oasis’s pond, drinking up sun.

This lost female soul in the crack of a modern nation dared me to change.

Much to her chagrin, I changed. And when her obsessive eyes reads this… who cares? Fuck her. Fuck any woman who thinks she can “make you better”, to put it simply

I dare you to change. I waited for a manic depressive stalker to force me in to the corner. Bad idea. I let myself destroy my gains. Don’t let that happen to you.

Don’t wait. Don’t stop. Aim for perfection. There isn’t any other choice.


On a side note, I’ll be making several improvements to the blog over the next few weeks. Look out for them.

On the Way Across the Border

You will always hit low points in your life. There is no question about that. Even the most perfect lives have bad days. It is how you handle them that will define you to yourself and to others.

I had a dream about the Ex last night. Not one where I could revel in a revenge fuck or some equal joy, but a reminder of the shit she pulled before we got married. Coupled with a lack of sleep and now, as I write this, driving to a family gathering in Western New York, this could be a shitty day.

But, I got up and soldiered on. I have shit to do. I have shit to do tomorrow and the day after. Everyday is about getting shit done, no matter pain or mood or lecherous cunts.

Back to the Plan

I come to Salt Lake to visit friends, to relax, to see if I can get some club play, but, as is my 2011, things don’t work out that way at all. Less eating, memories, or whatever the cause, I was in a major funk. Anger, depression, sadness; it felt like I had never left. Three months had never past and I was still hanging on. The birthday night didn’t help.

Yesterday, I talked to my folks. While I was feeling much better than the days before, I was still feeling lost. I had the thought that while married and working, I had a path and a stability. Now, without either, I was floating. I have gained a lot of psychological and emotional strength in California, dealing with the great personalities of Californian women, uselessness and other things. But its only one piece of a very large puzzle.

California is fucked economically. I have a long history of hard work with several companies, working for them for years, but I can’t get hired. I’m on unemployment. I’m not getting anywhere in California with girls or friends. Except for my relatives and the friends I talk to over the net and phone, I am alone. This cannot go on for much longer. There has to be some stability. An ability to find connection.

This is why, despite my attempts at not having to, I am going to go back to my parents place. The Canadian economy is doing much better. I have the support of them, of my other family, my friends in the area. There is a lot there that I need right now, despite my stubborn, independent personalty. Its a great benefit to have, but sometimes you’ve just got to recognize when you’ve got to go home again and start from a solid foundation.

It won’t be forever. It won’t mean I can’t see friends in Utah or family in California. Getting a job in a better economy, feeling better and having being on my own, truly, will allow for those last pieces of the puzzle to connect to make the whole.

I’m strong. I am not afraid. I am willing to move to my advantage and move again to follow my wants. That’s something I wouldn’t have done before the Ex left. Or when I first arrived in California.

Things are always getting better.

Thirteen Past Midnight’s Hollow

You don’t hold much in your hands. Usually, its nothing. Sometimes, its a drink, a fork with some food, a ball or a remote. Other times its a baby, or a woman, or a gun. Sometimes, what you have in your hands can change your entire life, and sometimes what you you have in your hands makes no difference to anyone at all.

It doesn’t take much to bring a man down. It takes a lot to bring him back up. Men are killing their families because of debt, of the economy, politics, failure and hurt. They walk from bedroom to bedroom, stabbing or shooting or asphyxiating their blood for no good goddamn reason. They are weak. They are washed out of the world.

Its way past the time normal people would be strolling the neighborhood. In one hand, a smoke, in the other, nothing. Not yet. The footfalls scrape against asphalt. I walk down the middle, looking left and right. I check out each car. Flashing red lights telling me to walk on, brother, walk on. At night, I feel like I own the town. There’s not a soul. A cat. A nest of coons. House after shiny home, cars lined up in driveways and garages, families tucked in deep. Doors locked and hearts at peace. Click, click of a old soul on the porch, lighting up. I walk on by, giving a silent nod though he can’t see me.

I wear the only pair of jeans I like. Ratty, tearing at some places, loose, used, historic. Sneakers on my feet. Cheap things. I think of being noticed. Then I remember none of these people think it’ll happen to them. A laser light of rage and anger sweeping into their eyes, burning the back of their skulls, just because it can. They’d second guess anyway. They’d wonder what was the right move. They’d take time, precious time, and work it out. They have things. Things to lose. Things to covet. Things to keep secret. I don’t. I’m not afraid. I don’t hide anymore.

I wear patches of pain upon a skin worn by a child. Ideas pass by and get stuck, damming up the river, creating choke points. I push and dig and obsesses over getting it done. I forget that water, nature, finds its way around everything. It created the mountains that tower over me. The riverbeds where the city gets its name. It created the trees I sit under. The fingers which fidgets with my pocketknife. The flow will go on, with or without my unwanted assistance. Its always been that way. It’ll always be that way.

There is nothing that can change the skin, the river or the eyes that prefer the dark to the light. That need to hunt and watch and climb above the back and forth of a life forced on everyone by uppers and betters and old dead men with old dead thoughts. We do what we have to do to survive. To live. To live beyond. I do this. I tap the items in my pocket hoping one night, something will come along. But I can wait. I have all the time in the world. There are more patches to sew on. More streets to walk.

One Step Back, Three Steps Forward

So the last half of this week has been pretty harsh. A lot, and I mean A LOT, of shit came down on me all at once. The pressure to find a job, the Ex bugging me about getting her off the car loan (something I can’t do without a job), the simmering beta stench of my actions around Maria. Things just went from bad to Hell.

It culminated in an act that I can say is both beta, omega and stalkerish. I was feeling like hell already from a few days of drinking at several different bars over Riverside, and from the pressure I’d been putting on myself. I was laying on the couch, watching TV and for the third day in a row tried to contact Maria. No answer, just voicemail. Pissed already from the Ex, I left a slightly irritated message asking what was up and if something is wrong, just tell me. Not a minute later, I get up, put my shoes on and tell myself “This is a fucking stupid idea.” A few minutes later I’m at her door, knocking, wanting answers. No response. I ring the doorbell. No response. I try the knob. Its open. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! Something is very wrong. My stumbling backwards…

As I said in my last video blog, this is what anxiety can drive you to do. I’ve done many a stupid things based on the thoughts in my head driven by the screaming woman behind the wheel. It hears things that aren’t real. It sees things that aren’t there. Its not literally thing that aren’t there (voices, images), but when I heard a sound when the Ex and her friend we went to see in Arkansas disappeared for a sec, it sounded like a kiss to me. I was already on the edge of the edge, and that drove me over. Turns out, it was him snapping at her because she left the bathroom door open with kids in the house (yeah, I was married to a guy with a pussy, pretty much). I attacked myself over and over for fucking it up, when I had no control of what happened. She had turned towards divorce a year before any of the shit went down. The argument we had before the trip to see her folks wasn’t the beginning, it was the climax of the movie.

Maria was just sick. We hung out later that afternoon. I was still under attack, but I kept it at bay as best I could. We made plans for a real date later in the week. I talked her into a kiss, even though she was sick. I made it half way to my car, then realized I needed help with the paranoia, the other half of the walk was calling up someone who I could talk to. Something good could of died if I followed the paranoia instead of stepping back. Step one forward achieved.

The next day, on the advice of my mother, I worked my day one hour at a time. I watched movies, I finished another song, I wrote, I read, I drove around for a bit. I kept my mind out of the darkness and kept it working. With that, I could feel it want to return. Thoughts of “what ifs” came at me left and right, but I kept them away. The urge to hit up Maria was there, but it was easily swatted away. Yesterday was the same. I drove to Burbank to grab my relatives who were back from their trip to the South. I watched movies. I napped. I wrote. I went out for a drink or two at the Sire. I also picked several places I could take Maria and gave them a section of numbers between one and thirty. I used to do this with the Ex because she was indecisive, but now I’ll use it on my girls (sparingly of course, never over do it). They pick the number and that’s where we’ll go, so its their choice, even though they’ll have no idea where we’re going until we get there. I threw in a super-date plan as well, but its been assigned only one number. If she gets it, props to her ESP or whatever. Step two.

The final step forward was letting go of the pressure, the massive weight I put on myself, to get a job and having the failure reflect on me badly. I’m a white 25 year old male in California. Its pretty much a given I’ll only get a job if its in my industry, if I know somebody or if God loves me. I can easily stretch out my money, and I have a single credit card, so none of that debt like it piled up with the Ex. I’ve run my gambit of self loathing outings, so my bar tab can easily be only $10 and last at least an hour. I’m not going out anymore because I feel like shit. I’m going out because I feel like going out. A drink, a smoke and just letting my mind calm itself down.

I’m getting there…

Book Writing #1

I had collected all of Change (In the House of Flies) into one word document, including The Resurrection sub-series, and it topped out at 10 000 words. While the first three parts were usually written under duress or influence of alcohol, the Resurrection series was written with sober eyes and crisp memory. I read the differences. I read how my style did not change, but the detail of the women, the club and everything else added to the style. I thought about it for a while. I talked to Kay. I thought about a short story. I tweeted the number of words I had, around 13 000, after adding in some other posts from SFTD. Around the same time Willy Wonka asked me if I was writing a book, I had made the choice. This wasn’t going to be Roosh’s A Dead Bat in Paraguay (READ IT). No memoir, no travel story, no six months of waiting and having to shit 24/7. I was going to take my story, with little adventure and a ton of introspection and hurt and hate and Hell, and make it something people can relate to. A statement of my will, if not a young generation of men. Not a book that could change the world. That’s up to the readers, and I frankly look at anybody to be the voice of the people with much skepticism. This will be a book that makes me happy I wrote it and makes me happy that someone read it.

To write this, I have to pound away day after day, which is easy since I don’t have a job yet. On Monday, I got in around 5000 words. I know writers who can barely get in a paragraph some days. Putting meat on the skeleton this Change. Adding true detail. Pondering what fictional, yet related events I could add to keep the story true. Tuesday, less so due to family obligations and just not burning myself out. I have other interesting coming to the surface after years of suppression: music and exercise mostly. Downloaded a few DJ demo programs, gave it a few minutes of testing before returning to other things. I will have to get a job soon. My steady television work isn’t until near the end of summer, that’s if they end up hiring me. My bills will kill me before then, even when I’m spending little to nothing.

The most important things I can do right now is just plug away at it as much as I can, but not obsessing over every word or every moment. Just let it flow out. When I write of moments, I’m feeling the pain of the fights and the sense of loss. When I lose that. When I’m writing to fluff, I’ll have to stop. But, that’s a long time away. The last 5 months have been a hell of a ride.