George Floyd the Wall

VERSE 1
Son-shine’s gone up to heaven
Abuse of power was the weapon
A wide shot for the viral streaming
And now a nation is left screaming
And now a nation is left screaming!
All in all, it was just a 9-1-1 call
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls

VERSE 2
We don’t need no execution
We just want a revolution
No guns or tear gas in the streets
We will not cower in defeat
No! We won’t cower in defeat!
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call
All in all, it’s just another 9-1-1 call

VERSE 3
I don’t need your lame excuses
I don’t need human rights abuses
Now that our backs are against the wall
Your racist empire will be the next to fall
Yeah! Your racist empire is the next to fall!
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls
All in all, it was all just 9-1-1 calls

FINAL VERSE
Goodbye, George Floyd
I say in a trembling voice
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye, Mr. President
There’s no real reason to keep you elected
Goodbye…

Incelbordination, Chapter 4

Oswald wiped the rainy weather from his face long enough to see another reason to cry his eyes out if he so chose: Antero Magnus with a book of matches. Clearly, a compromise had to be made. Or did it? “Why the fuck do you keep following me everywhere I go? Are you some kind of lost puppy dog or some shit?” In a brazen move reminiscent of last night, Antero swiped the ready roll from Oswald’s hand and lit it himself before taking a few puffs. “Excuse me?!” said Oswald with big red eyes. “That’s not yours to smoke! I need that shit for my depression!”

Handing the marijuana roll back to its rightful owner, Antero spit out a cloud of green and said, “Let me ask you something, Oswald. How many times have you puffed the shit out of that roll and found permanent happiness afterwards? The answer is zero, because as powerful as that shit is, it’s only a temporary fix to a much bigger problem.” The incel took a seat next to his charge and patted him on the shoulder. “You already know what the bigger problem is, don’t you?”

Taking a puff and spitting out an even bigger cloud than his lungs would allow, Oswald said, “Yeah, I know what it is. It has something to do with a weirdo in a trench coat taking hits of my Mary-Jane. Seriously, what could you possibly see in me? I’m not what you’re looking for. I don’t blame my insecurities on other people.”

“Which is precisely why you punched a muscle jock in the dick and why you ran away from a smooth-legged English teacher.”

Wide-eyed yet again, Oswald exclaimed, “Dude! You’ve got to stop following me everywhere! That’s fucking creepy!” Antero chuckled and removed his sunglasses, revealing those horrifying cyan-colored eyes. “Ah! Put your glasses back on! Put ‘em back on!” screamed Oswald while shielding his face with his hands.

“As you wish,” said Antero before complying with his “friend’s” request. “But I must warn you, there are scarier things in this world than weirdly-colored eyes. There’s a conspiracy against us. And when I say us, I mean you, me, and every other Supreme Gentlemen who’s had the deck stacked against them their whole lives. We don’t look like the normies. We don’t talk like the normies. We don’t wear the same kind of hats they do either. That bothers them. So what do they do? They commit social genocide.”

“Okay, okay, okay, this is getting fucked up,” said Oswald with his hands raised. “Social genocide? You’re using the G-word to describe not being able to get laid? How in the hell do you…”

“I don’t expect you to understand right away,” said Antero while readjusting his sunglasses. “Some lessons take longer to learn than others. But to answer your question, the G-word isn’t all about getting laid. Anybody can get laid. Surely, there are enough sex surrogates and prostitutes to go around. It’s love that we seek and can never find. We give it all away and none of it is returned. A simple thank-you would be enough for some people. Me? I want a little bit of interest with my investment.”

Oswald’s mouth became O-shaped at the statement he tried so desperately hard to digest. Antero dug through his own trench coat and pulled out his wallet. “You know what? I can tell you’re not convinced just yet. That’s okay. College is a time for learning, right? Well, you’ve got a lot to learn about the way the world works against us.” Antero handed Oswald a thirty-dollar McDonald’s gift card and said, “Two words: McDonald’s prostitute.”

Flipping the card over and over again in disbelief, Oswald stared at the meal ticket like he was holding a severed head. “Mc…Donald’s prostitute?”

“That’s right, little man,” said Antero before patting him on the back. “Everybody’s got a price tag on them. For the women down at Mickey D’s, all they ever wanted was a little bit of loving and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. That’s how shitty our economy has gotten. When you’re too broke for a basic McDonald’s meal and you have to turn to sex to get one, that’s how you know shit’s all fucked up. Of course, I don’t know how in god’s name a Quarter Pounder could taste good when there’s splooge sloshing around in their mouths.”

“This….this…this is sick, Antero. This is fucking sick!”

“I know it’s sick, Oswald. I know. But sometimes you can’t take the highroad forever. You want someone to love you, right? You want to experience that cherry pop for the first time? All you have to do so come bearing the gifts of French fries, nuggets, greasy meat, and…well….greasy meat!” Antero chuckled at his own joke.

Finally peeling his terrified eyes away from the gift card, Oswald said, “Dude…you’re not funny. Nothing about this is comical. This is wrong. Really wrong!”

“You’re a good man, Oswald. Ordinarily, being a good human being has its rewards. But not in this Stacy-dominated world. You’re desperate enough. I can see it in those bloodshot eyes of yours. You’ll either have the most romantic night of your life in a McDonald’s parking lot…or you’ll get a lifelong lesson that no sexy-legged teacher could offer you. Either way, I just gave you the keys to the city. It’s up to you now what it is you want to do with them.”

Antero patted Oswald’s back and walked out of sight. The little guy turned his flabbergasted attention back to the gift card. It was so wrong, yet so right at the same time. There was something seductive about the way Antero talked. There was a reason he led so many people down their destined paths. He made so much sense in that one oratory.

Having those dark thoughts jolted Oswald awake, causing him to accidentally drop the gift card on the table. “What the fuck was I thinking?” he asked himself while holding his head in his hands. “I can’t do this. This isn’t right. No, no, no!” The three no’s were punctuated with the dwarf lightly banging his head against the table.

Once the forehead pain became too much to bear, he took a look around the commons for any signs that Antero might be right. Sure enough, this place was swarming with examples. Men and women holding hands while walking together. “Chads” and “Stacys” making out on the grassy lawn. Oswald even saw one guy holding his crying girlfriend’s head in his lap while he stroked her hair. What the lonely dwarf would give for the chance to be touched like that.

That Mickey D’s gift card started him straight in the face with lust and seduction. It was such an easy solution. Antero could have been his savior in that one moment. His own personal Jesus Christ, to use yet another Matrix quote. Oswald finally made the decision to scoop up the gift card and tuck it away in his wallet. If nothing else, he could at least enjoy a good meal, one that made him feel better than any roll of green ever could.

Oswald walked away from the commons huffing and puffing on his roll of weed. He kept feeling his scraggly beard and lengthy hair while contemplating if he should clean himself up for this meeting with a McDonald’s prostitute. Maybe throwing his pot-smelling coat in the wash machine would also be a good idea. Then again, did he really have to change himself for someone who was only in it for the nuggets and the burgers? There was thirty dollars on the card, which meant he could get extra goodies to make himself more enticing. The shave and haircut could wait another day…if that day ever came.

The dwarf put his headsets on and played “Bless the Wings” by The Moody Blues on his MP3 player. Was that song a little too romantic and sappy for what was about to happen that evening? Perhaps. Was Oswald expecting too much when he contemplated a potential relationship with this McDonald’s girl? He thought so. But as long as he was high on pot and already depressed from the day’s events, a little lovey-dovey psychological cinema was perhaps the right call.

Judging from the stares he got from “normies” walking by, any kind of vicarious romance would have been welcome. He certainly didn’t get it from the “Chad” he bumped into when he wasn’t paying attention. Oswald landed right on his ass while the guy said, “Hey, what the hell?!”

The dwarf picked himself up and apologized profusely to the young man and his girlfriend. He thought that would be the end of that, but then he noticed the couple walking away with their noses in their shirts, presumably from the pot smell. Oswald was tempted to go back there and punch the shit out of both of them. But it was more tempting to just take a shower and wash his clothing rather than get himself expelled for stupid shit. Maybe he did have to change himself after all. But for a McDonald’s hooker? So much debating took place in Oswald’s mind, all of which was settled with a few more puffs of Mary-Jane.

Moving On

***MOVING ON***

In all this time of doing blog entries about my distant past, you’re probably wondering why nothing serious comes up. The easy answer would be because talking about such horrible things makes my schizophrenia significantly worse, and that is god’s honest truth. But there’s more to it than just having a numbed out brain. The more important reason is because anytime something bad happens to me, all I want to do is move on with my life. I don’t want to take time to process it or talk it out, because that’s precious time lost that I could have spent doing creative work.

Time didn’t wait for me back then and it won’t wait for me now. High school didn’t slow down because I was in the early stages of schizophrenia. College didn’t wait for me to glue my broken heart back together. My writing career isn’t going to be put on hold because my brain doesn’t want to shut the fuck up. I don’t believe in taking mini-vacations just so I can mentally recover from something that should have been processed within seconds. Minor bad shit doesn’t feel like much to other people, but to a schizophrenic and autistic person like me, it feels like a hailstorm of bullets. I guess that makes me a special little snowflake, but I didn’t have a choice in the matter nor do I have it now.

Don’t get me wrong, nothing bad happened as of late; I’m merely speaking in general terms. Moving on with life without delay is something I cherish even if my mind or other people don’t agree. I don’t believe in slowing down for anything and that’s where I get my strong work ethic from. If my fingers are shooting out blood like a water pistol, I write anyways. If I don’t have hands at all, I’ll still find a way to write. If my brain wants to show me Clockwork Orange flashbacks of something that happened a few weeks ago, I’ll find a way to write. If I’m suffering from sleep apnea, I’ll give myself a quick head massage and slap myself in the face until I’m wide awake.

This is why I take lazy days so personally, because it’s a squandered opportunity to do something with my life, despite the fact that I had no say in the matter. If the lazy day is somebody else’s fault, then that’s extra hatred for that person, because that person stole precious creative time from me. That’s why I chose to beat the shit out of my bullies when I was in high school, to take back what I rightfully own.

But why am I so concerned about losing precious creative time considering I’m only 32 years old and have my whole life ahead of me? Because creativity is what gives me the most pleasure in this world. I look at a chapter of Silent Warrior or a fully published copy of Occupy Wrestling and I can proudly say to myself, “I made this!” The more time I spend away from my creative vices, the angrier I become.

For future reference, if something bad happens to me and I seem irritable, don’t ask me to talk about it and don’t overprotect me. Taking all of the time needed to process the emotions is time wasted. If I allow myself to take breaks from creative life to recover from psychological bullshit, then who’s to say that I won’t take them every single time? One break piles on top of the other and then it spirals out of control to where it’s been ages since my last creative project. For me personally, I see this as complacency and I can’t allow that to happen. If I tell you I want to move on from something, I want to move on as quickly as possible. If some guy says, “Idiot” to me under my breath, I don’t want to take more than a few seconds to process it. That’s the way brains should work. They should be tough and durable. But mine isn’t. It can be if I rush through processing it.

Thanks for reading this and understanding why I don’t talk about bad shit. The bad shit I do talk about is so far in the past that it doesn’t matter anymore. Either that, or I’m talking about it in a purely satirical and humorous way. My blog post a few weeks ago about The Thunder Eagles? That’s a funny memory to me, because I’m laughing at what a sore loser I used to be. Beating the shit out of other players because I lost? Come on, that’s self-depreciative comic gold! The heavier stuff will never make it onto my blog, because when people see that, they can’t stop talking to me about it, which results in overprotection, which results in spending too much time processing something and not enough time on creative work. I’m Garrison Kelly and I’ll see you next time!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Hey, you. Out there in the cold, getting lonely, getting old, can you feel me? Hey, you. Standing in the aisle with itchy feet and fading smiles, can you feel me? Hey, you. Don’t help them to bury the light. Don’t give in without a fight. Hey, you. Out there all alone, sitting naked by the phone, would you touch me? Hey, you. With your ear against the wall, waiting for someone to call out, will you touch me? Hey, you. Will you help me to carry the stone? Open your heart. I’m coming home. But it was only fantasy. The wall was too high, as you can see. No matter how he tried, he could not break free. And the worms ate into his brain. Hey, you. Out there on the road, always doing what you’re told, can you help me? Hey, you. Out there beyond the wall, breaking bubbles in the hall, can you help me? Hey, you. Don’t tell me there’s no hope at all. Together we stand, divided we fall.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Hey You”-

Roger Waters: Us & Them

***BEFORE I BEGIN: GREAT WOLF LODGE***

This past Monday and Tuesday, I was staying at the Great Wolf Lodge in Centralia with my brother James, my niece Reina, and her friend Abby. The indoor water park had some badass slides, to say the least. My Old Yeller moniker was in full effect that day as I flew through those tubes at a million miles an hour. I also liked those buckets of water that kids could dump over our heads once they filled up automatically. It’s the most innocent form of trolling imaginable. But the food, goddamn, all that food. The burger joint across the street had a one-pound burger with four fucking patties, enough cheese to fill an entire dairy farm, and more grease than the water park had water. There were probably enough calories in that meal alone to power The Rock through his six hour workout. All in all, it was an enjoyable trip and a worthy birthday present. And now here’s your feature presentation.

***ROGER WATERS: US & THEM***

This coming Saturday night, former Pink Floyd bassist, singer, and songwriter Roger Waters is going to do a concert at the Tacoma Dome. Like nearly all of his shows before this one, he’s not going to have an opening act. This will be my fourth time seeing him live with my first three times being in 2000 in Portland, 2006 in Seattle, and 2010 at the Tacoma Dome. Roger puts on such elaborate shows that transcend the music itself. It’s never the same concert twice. The giant video screen, the inflatable pig, the laser show, and the pyrotechnics all come together to accompany the always awesome music of Mr. Pink Floyd himself. For this particular concert, he’s supporting a solo album he put out recently called “Is This the Life We Really Want?” I got it for my 32^nd birthday this year and I love every track on the album. I believe it’s the first one of his that received an explicit lyrics warning. Swearison Killy loves his filthy language! As far as creative output goes, I’m going to try and get my WSS contest entry written before Saturday night. Since we’re on the topic of that:

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

TITLE: Dayton Spoke Choir

CHARACTERS:

1.      Laguna Pearman, Charismatic Cult Leader

2.      Matt McQueen, Detective

3.      Caylee McQueen, Matt’s Daughter

PROMPT: Into the Unknown

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Matt doesn’t know what to expect when he enters the church, so he’s definitely diving into the unknown.

SYNOPSIS: Matt takes time off work to rescue his kidnapped daughter. He finds her in an abandoned church, but not the way he wants to. Caylee is singing in a brainwashed choir of kidnapped children led by Laguna. Sickened and infuriated at the same time, Matt won’t hold back when he tries to beat the crap out of Laguna.

EXTRA NOTE: I’m having second thoughts about this one since it sounds eerily similar to a Poison Tongue Tales story I wrote called “Lord of the Crack House”, which involves a detective father trying to free his drug addicted daughter from a boarded up building occupied by a crazy coke dealer. I’ll have to think of some ways to differentiate the two stories before I go in and write it out.

***CONCERT QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Stop letting off fireworks and shouting and screaming! I’m trying to sing a song! I mean, I don’t care! If you don’t want to hear it, you know, fuck you! I’m sure there’re a lot of people here who do want to hear it! So why don’t you just be quiet! If you want to let your fireworks off, go outside and let them off out there! And if you want to shout and scream and holler, go do it outside! I’m trying to sing a song that some people want to listen to! I want to listen to it!”

-Roger Waters-

"Basket Case" by Carl Hiaasen

BOOK TITLE: Basket Case

AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen

YEAR: 2002

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Mystery

GRADE: Pass

Jack Tagger, Jr. is a middle-aged former elite reporter who has since been demoted to writing micromanaged obituaries after going on a tirade against his newspaper’s corporate masters. Life is slow, miserable, and boring for Mr. Tagger until he’s tasked with writing an obituary for Jimmy Stoma, a rock and roll icon who is believed to have drowned in an unfortunate diving accident. Jack’s investigative instincts cause him to dig deeper into this case in an attempt to uncover a conspiracy involving murder and number one hit songs. Without the support of his supervisors, Jack has to make do with his relatively short leash and his modicum of clues and suspicions. Can he bring closure to the family of his all-time favorite musician or will Mr. Stoma’s case go cold before it even begins?

Colorful, wisecracking characters are to be expected from Carl Hiaasen’s thrillers and Jack Tagger himself is no exception to that rule. It won’t matter whether the subject is sex, rock and roll, journalism, politics, or violence, because Jack, who happens to be the first person narrator, will always get a chuckle out of the reader with his commentary. A sense of humor is probably necessary for his necromantic line of work. Without it, he’d probably go crazy and there would be nobody to give Jimmy Stoma his due sending off. If he wasn’t so dedicated to being a newspaper reporter, he could probably make it as a standup comedian.

But he’s a truth-seeker first and a smart-ass second. He’s dedicated to weeding out the BS of corporate news even if it means getting himself in boiling hot water. His dedication to his art form is second to none, so much so that he would have seen Jimmy Stoma’s case through even after potentially being fired. In today’s era, we need more honest people like him to deliver the world’s news, even if that news tastes bitterer than a dissolved Xanax tablet washed down with horse piss beer. At forty-six years old, he doesn’t have time for corporate shenanigans or dishonest scum bags.

Speaking of not having time, Jack Tagger’s obsession with death is fascinating to read about, especially when he compares his own age to those of dead celebrities he once admired. Writing obituaries for so long makes him wonder when his morbid end will finally come and how it will happen. So many of his favorite public figures have died at forty-six years old and even at slightly older than that. His grim obsession has driven his loved ones away from him despite their pleas for him to just forget it and be happy with what he has.

It’s creepy to think about, but since it’s a Carl Hiaasen novel, it’s almost comical in a way. One of Mr. Hiaasen’s gifts to his profession is his ability to mix seriousness with humor in a subtle way that doesn’t take the reader out of the story. Trust me, there will be plenty of times to get darkly serious, especially when more bodies drop and living people mysteriously vanish. Despite Jack Tagger’s disdain for guns, he just might have to use one in order to see this case through. You can still chuckle at his wisecracks, just stay on the edge of your seat while it’s happening.

Of course, Jack Tagger isn’t the only colorful character you can expect great things from. Jimmy Stoma, even in death, is mentioned as a party animal with a deep soul and undying charisma. Emma Cole, the twenty-something editor at Jack’s paper, is a pain in the butt at first, but turns out to be a charming sweetheart once the reader gets to know her. Janet Thrush, Jimmy Stoma’s sister, has a day job as an internet stripper with a SWAT team gimmick; if that doesn’t pique your interest, I don’t know what will. Juan Rodriguez is a Cuban immigrant who is so good at writing newspaper stories that he might as well be a New York Times bestselling novelist.

And then you have the characters that deserve a stone-handed punch to the face. Cleo Rio, Jimmy Stoma’s widow, comes off as a shallow and spoiled pop princess with no appreciation for what her husband left behind. Jerry, Cleo’s chubby bodyguard, is a little harder to punch in the face due to his fighting abilities, but that doesn’t mean you won’t want to at least give it a try. Loreal is a bogus music producer with about as much credibility as the corporate profiteers running Jack’s newspaper outlet. Speaking of which, Race Maggad III (jokingly called “Master Race” by Jack Tagger) cares more about making money than he does about producing truthful news and his crippling budget cuts make that very clear.

The battlefield is set and the goofy characters are ready to clash with each other over the mystery of Jimmy Stoma’s suspicious death and the fate of realistic journalism. If you want a well-constructed mystery with quotable one-liners and a reliable narrator, grab a copy of “Basket Case” by Carl Hiaasen. To my knowledge, he hasn’t written a bad novel in all of the times I’ve read his work. I don’t think he knows how to!

Every Pic You Post

(In the style of “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.)

Every pic you post

Every friend you poke

Every meme you share

Every feeling you bear

I’ll be browsing you

Every single day

Every app you play

Every Face Book page

Every rant you rage

I’ll be browsing you

I can’t refrain

You’re in the public domain

How vicariously I live

With every like you give

Every video you film

Every bean you spill

Every life event thrill

Every second you kill

I’ll be browsing you

Since you’re here, I’ll look you up with no remorse

You’re already in the public eye, of course

There’s nothing they can do in the police force

There’s no sense in taking my big ass to court

I’ll browse whoever I goddamn well please!

I can’t refrain

You’re in the public domain

How vicariously I live

With every like you give

Every video you film

Every bean you spill

Every life event thrill

Every second you kill

I’ll be browsing you

Zion Heart

“Ladies and gentlemen, our next act for the Central River High year-end talent show is a classic rock acoustic guitar piece. Please put your hands together for Miss Eleanor Paris!”

From behind the curtain, hearing Mr. Jeremy Land’s voice on the microphone accompanied by applauding hands sent chills through Eleanor’s body. She thought back to all of the times older kids shoved her against lockers and called her sexist names. She thought back to all of the teachers who doubted her guitar-playing abilities. And now here they all were to see what she was made of.

The redheaded, beige dress-wearing Eleanor took a deep breath to calm her nerves and treaded through the curtain to take her seat on the stool. She took a moment to survey the crowd before her. Some of the boys were chuckling silently and pointing at her. Some of the girls put on their best bitch faces with their arms folded. Another deep breath later and it was show time.

She rested her acoustic guitar on her lap and adjusted the microphone to her height before she started strumming away. She was gentle with every chord, almost putting her worst critics in a siren’s trance. And when she sang her lines, she had a voice of pure angelic gold.

“The child lay in the starlit night. Safe in the glow of his Donald Duck light. How strange to choose to end a life. How strange to choose to kill a child. Hoover, Blaupunkt, Nissan Jeep, Nike, Addidas, Lacoste and cheaper brands. Cadillac, Amtrak, gasoline, diesel. Our standard of living, could this be a reason…that we would choose to kill the child? That we would choose to kill the child?”

Those dark and heartbreaking lyrics put thoughtful frowns on the faces of her audience. No more were they giggling and pointing. Eleanor had these dopey teenagers at full attention. She strummed her chords with even more passion than before only to find her microphone silenced as she sang the second verse. She patted the microphone head a few times and then pounded it with her fist to try to get it working again. The once doubtful students were now in shock.

“I assure you, Miss Paris, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with your microphone.” There was nothing wrong with Principal Gary Weinberg’s microphone either as he sat in the back of the auditorium with a disgusted look on his pudgy face.

“However!” he said with a booming voice in his Jewish accent. “There is something wrong with that song you’re singing! For all of our younger students who didn’t live with this kind of music, that song was written by former Pink Floyd bassist Roger Waters! His recent comments in the news about the Jewish people reek of racism and hatred! This school prides itself on its anti-discrimination policies! Because you, Miss Paris, have played a song by a raging bigot with the intent to incite trouble, you by proxy are in violation of those rules! Get off the stage! As a matter of fact, get out of my school!”

The student audience went silent as Eleanor ducked her head in shame and shed silent tears. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of the same people who put her down so many times. She wanted to get up from her stool and hide in a corner somewhere, but her legs were shaking with anxiety.

The dark haired, purple dress shirt and jeans-wearing Mr. Land approached the stage and gave Eleanor a gentle hug to try and comfort her. All it did was make the tears pour like a flooding rainstorm. “It’s okay, Eleanor. It’s okay. I’m here for you.”

Mr. Land pounded the microphone until it started working again. With a stern look on his face and his finger pointed at Principal Weinberg, he ripped into him with, “As a history and political science teacher, I thought I should correct you on something. If you actually paid attention to Roger Waters’ comments, he was attacking the Israeli government for their treatment of the Palestinians. It had nothing to do with Jewish people in general and certainly had nothing to do with little old you, Principal Weinberg! And quite frankly, I agree with what Roger Waters has said!”

Principal Weinberg laughed in jest and said, “Oh, this is rich. You’re actually debating me on this. You think you know more about my culture than I do.” Gary’s face turned serious when he said, “The fact that you’re even arguing this with me is hysterical. Actually, there’s nothing funny about it. It’s disgusting. It’s disgraceful. It’s unbecoming of someone like you, Mr. Land, who’s supposed to have an intricate knowledge about worldwide cultures!”

Eleanor held her hand up like she would if she wanted to be called on in class. She weakly said, “Um, excuse me, Mr. Weinberg, but this isn’t about…”

“Shut up, Miss Paris!” yelled the Jewish Principal as he stood up and pointed a commanding finger at her. “I’ve said pretty much everything I wanted to say to you! Now take your guitar and play that vile racist crap somewhere else!”

“Don’t you talk to her like that!” shouted Jeremy. “You never talk to your students that way! And by the way, if you’ve actually paid attention to anything Roger Waters has done over the course of his life, you’d know that you’re reminding everyone of how depressing your school system has become! Do you know why he says, ‘We don’t need no education?’ It’s because people like you make school a dangerous place to go! These students depend on you for guidance and wisdom! They don’t want to be talked down to by a power hungry, bottom feeding snake in the grass!”

That last line got a round of applause by the student audience while Gary Weinberg smiled sarcastically and shook his head. “You guys like that?” The audience cheered louder. “You want him to keep going?” They cheered even louder. “Well, he’s not going to do that! You’re fired, Jeremy!” The audience went silent and formed frowns on their faces. “As the Principal of this school, it’s my job to keep order around here! Are you surprised by the fact that I fired an insubordinate employee? You kids are lucky that the worst that happens to you is detention! In the real world, if you don’t conform to the rules, you sleep on the corner! Get out of here, Jeremy! Out right now!”

Mr. Land, seething with hot rage, threw down his microphone and broke it in two before marching his way down the aisle and through the exit. Before making his departure, he said, “You can take the microphone replacement out of my severance package!” He slammed the door with a thunderous thud.

Eleanor Paris remained sitting on the stage with tears in her eyes, snot in her nose, and a contorted frown on her face. She knew she was next on Weinberg’s shit list, but didn’t have the strength in her convulsing legs to get up and go. The Principal encouraged her with, “Well, what are you waiting for, Miss Paris? Get going! The final curtain has dropped on this talent show! Move it!”

She stood up and staggered off the stage, tripping many times in her high-heeled shoes. There were times when she just crawled across the floor with the helpless audience watching in pity. This demeaning scenario put her mind back to those dark places. This crippling anxiety was what she felt whenever another student physically or verbally assaulted her. It was what she felt when she doubted her own guitar playing abilities. It was amazing she could hold onto her guitar at all with her shaky fear as she took the walk of shame.

Eleanor Paris was ready to give up the fight against a corrupt system and walk out of the door with tears dominating her beautiful visage. She held onto the door handle for support and took one last sorrowful look at Principal Gary Weinberg’s jowl-covered face. This man had just fired his best teacher, expelled his best student, and silenced an entire crowd of students before turning them into conformist, putty-faced zombies. Come to think of it, what did she have left to lose? Who the hell did this guy think he was? What the fuck was she going to do about it?

She turned to face her tormentor with a different reason for trembling. It wasn’t anxiety; it was anger. Pure, white hot, volcanic anger for the authoritative bullshit that served as Roger Waters’ creative fuel. Eleanor steadied her lips and asked, “What was that thing you said about kids only getting detention for punishment? Well, seeing as how detention and expulsion are really just vacations in disguise and summertime is already here…”

An evil, quivering, rage-induced grin spread across Eleanor Paris’ face as she raised her guitar in the air and smashed it over Gary Weinberg’s head, knocking him to the ground and giving him a reason to abuse a bottle of Advil the next morning. The students and teachers alike gasped in shock while Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and said, “Do we really need an education from a guy who just lost fifty IQ points?” The student audience burst into raucous cheers while the teachers were frozen with fear. 

"Never Blame the Rainbows" by The Moody Blues

“And never blame the rainbows for the rain. And learn to forget the memories that caused you pain.” Never mind Justin Hayward or John Lodge for a moment. Imagine if somebody you loved said those words to you. Imagine the person closest to your heart giving you permission to let go of your stress and fall in love with life again.

While I haven’t had anybody say these words to me other than Justin Hayward, I am very grateful to hear them. I’ve used those lyrics as an anthem for recovering from schizophrenia in the early 2000’s. It wasn’t about intrusive voices trying to establish authority over me. It was about the past coming back to haunt me in the form of present day ghosts. Thank you, Justin, for giving me permission to let go.

Lord knows I’ve had plenty of short story and novel characters go through the worst kind of traumatic shit over the course of their lives. Hell, the first story of American Darkness is called “And Now I Speak Hate”. It’s about a male rape victim who tries to listen to reason, but ends up shattering a mirror with his fist instead. The story after that is “Angel Rape”. Would anybody like to take a guess as to what that story is about? Ding, ding, ding! Male rape!

A few stories later, it’s off to Iraq and Afghanistan with “Desert Dragons”, where two female soldiers get relentlessly raped and then desert their squadron because of it. Do you think any of these lead characters need Justin Hayward singing “Never Blame the Rainbows” in their ears? It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Don’t worry about me, I wasn’t raped myself, but I’ve had enough bad shit go on in my life that I felt powerless after all of it.

I’m not saying this song will cure you from whatever mental illness ails you. It will instead comfort you. It will give you the hope and courage you need to move on. Let’s face it: whenever mental illness strikes, hope is in short supply. In fact, the brain will create an illusion to the victim that hope is nonexistent except in fairy tales and Hollywood movies.

The sooner the victim realizes it’s all smoke and mirrors, the faster the road to recovery will be. Sometimes it takes a kindred soul to tell you it’s all smoke and mirrors. It could be your mother, your father, your husband, your wife, or in this case, Justin Hayward, the lead guitarist from The Moody Blues.

The Moody Blues will not judge you. They are all about peace, love, and understanding. They haven’t written a mean lyric in their lives. I dare you to pick a Moody Blues song at random to see if I’m wrong about this. Or better yet, buy a copy of “Keys to the Kingdom” and fast forward to the final track. Or listen to the whole thing, which has a myriad of positive messages for a mentally ill listener.

Put those headphones on, lay down on your bed, and let the warmth of Justin Hayward’s voice wash over you. If nothing else, he’ll ignite your imagination long enough for you to experience what it’s like to have a fully functional mind, even if only for a few minutes. Imagination is very powerful, so much so it could be used in a weapon in the fight against whatever’s killing you inside. Okay, so The Moody Blues aren’t all about war analogies, but you get what I’m saying, right? At least I hope you do.

If it hadn’t been for the “Keys to the Kingdom” album and the song “Never Blame the Rainbows” in particular, I wouldn’t have any way of telling my internet girlfriend at the time Jessica how I was still alive and would be for a long time despite the hardships. There was a time when I wanted to end it all and part of the reason I didn’t is because I borrowed this CD from my dad’s music collection. I’m sure he’d like to have it back someday before he turns 80, but him sharing his taste in music with me is very much appreciated.

Jessica seemed to get the message that everything was indeed going to be okay and that I would eventually become a (sort of) famous author one day. Even when my writing was at its rookie worst, Jessica believed in me anyways. That’s one of the reasons why I’ll always cherish the time we spent talking to each other online. Unfortunately, we’re not together anymore, but the memories are indeed fond ones. Thank you, Moody Blues, for being a part of those memories.

　

***POLITICAL QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Humans do some really interesting things. Besides killing ourselves, we also kill each other. Murder. We’re the only ones who do that, by the way. We’re the only species on earth that deliberately kills members of our own species for personal gain. Or pleasure, sometimes it’s just fun. We’re also the only species on earth that deliberately kills members of another species for personal gain. Or pleasure, that’s what hunters do, they kill for pleasure. That’s us: human beings, interesting folks, murderers.”

-George Carlin-

"Om" by The Moody Blues

It’s easy to create art out of the remains of destruction. Just a few posts ago, I created three new characters based on the internet arguments I had with the members of Play By Web in 2002 and 2004 over age limits: Zeal, Chakko, and Natron (The Undertaker doesn’t count since he’s copyrighted by the WWE). Three new characters are all well and good, but their births don’t change the fact that I still had depression and anger within me. Creativity is a great healing agent, but it doesn’t solve everything.

Music, on the other hand, is a very powerful drug that can be taken with any dosage of creativity. Creativity can be Prozac and music can be Abilify, if you really understand the power of medicine metaphors. In the case of 2002, the song that laid those fiery feelings to rest was “Om” by The Moody Blues. They already have a reputation for being peace-loving, leftwing hippies, but now that “Om” is on the market, they’ve taken it to a whole different level. “Om” is a word yoga masters use whenever they want to achieve a quiet mind through meditation, so it’s not much of a coincidence.

It’s a gorgeous piece of music complete with flutes, bass bongo drums, sitars, and of course, Mike Pinder’s Melotron keyboard (where would an early Moody Blues song be without it?). I’m not sure if it would put me to sleep due to the relaxation, but it definitely put my demons to sleep back in 2002 after the verbal battles were over. I was able to concentrate on my schoolwork and get the good grades I rightfully deserved.

If you have a fiery mind, “Om” by The Moody Blues is the tidal wave that will put out those destructive flames. If nothing else, it reminds us all that life is too short to be pissed off all the time. Metal fans will probably argue against that point since anger is a huge part of that aggressive genre of music. To those people, I argue there’s a huge difference between being psyched up for a metal song and pissed off at the world. When you’re psyched up for a metal song, it’s positive energy that will lead to having a good time. When you’re pissed off at the world, nobody wants to be around you and you will ultimately destroy yourself.

Not every situation calls for grinding, loud, explosive heavy metal. Sometimes you have to take a moment to calm down and assess the situation. Sometimes you have to lock yourself in your bedroom and let peace wash over you like warm Hawaiian beach water. You don’t necessarily have to do the whole “hippie-dippie” meditation routine in order to achieve this moment of peace. All you need is a moment to yourself and a deep look into your thoughts. Thinking is the best way to travel and it’s reiterated in “Om” by The Moody Blues. And once you’re done thinking, you can go back to the real world without unnecessarily spilling blood, especially your own.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“People on the internet like to take cheap shots at me, but they’ll never be more critical of me than I am of me.”

-Dave Batista-

"All Lovers Are Deranged" by David Gilmour

In the late 90’s, there were two things I believed to be true: love wasn’t worth fighting for and Pink Floyd was the greatest band in the world. I needed a theme song that combined these two staunch beliefs and that song was “All Lovers Are Deranged” by David Gilmour, the guitarist and co-vocalist for Pink Floyd.

The Pink Floyd fandom was easy for me, especially after they published a song called “Another Brick in the Wall, Pt. 2” (we don’t need no education). I hated going to middle school in the late 90’s, so Pink Floyd earned a lot of brownie points with me.

The part about resisting romantic love was also easy for me back then because I had a father who owed alimony and child support to multiple ex-wives. Okay, so there aren’t many 11 to 13-year-olds who have to pay alimony, but the idea of it happening one day scared me to death.

This was also during a time when I watched the movie Happy Gilmore (no relation to David) and I learned how the IRS punishes people who don’t pay their taxes: by taking their stuff. I was very protective of my property (especially my Legos and videogames), so sharing them with a girl was out of the question.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted by these girls in middle school, though. I took a special liking to women who walked around in shorts and sandals. I didn’t know why at the time, I just liked that about a woman. I would later find out by a special invention called the internet that I had a foot fetish. All questions were answered.

But no matter how many times the girls in my school dressed in shorts and sandals, I turned down every one of them who asked me on a date. Again, I was very protective of my personal things. Add to this the idea of being controlled by someone and the paranoia was even stronger.

I didn’t learn how to fall in love until I turned 15 years old. I went away for a summer retreat in Bellingham and they held dances. I showed up looking for something to drink and from out of nowhere, this pretty girl comes up to me and asks for a dance to a slow song. Also from out of nowhere, I said yes to her. I enjoyed being close with this woman in an intimate way even if it was only for a few minutes. If I can get a little graphic for a moment, there was even a time where…you know…it moved. Ahem!

So now that I know how to fall in love with women, I also know how much it hurts when I know I can’t have the one I fall in love with. I had so many crushes in high school and college that I wanted to duplicate that intimate feeling with. At the time, I thought rejection hurt worse than never trying. I still believe that to this day.

That’s why I consider myself lucky that I was able to have a relationship with a woman named Brianna and feel good about having it. We held hands, hugged, and I even got my first kiss from her. Yes, it took me a long time to get my first kiss, but I got it, by god. That milestone felt good. What didn’t feel good was never seeing her again after an awkward date in which she got in a political argument with my liberal mother. Still, given the awkwardness, I enjoyed every minute I got to be with Brianna even if it was only for a few months.

It’s not the late 90’s anymore and I still have David Gilmour’s music burned to my computer. Are all lovers deranged? It takes a certain craziness to think that love conquers all. Then again, who ever said I was sane? I’m the same guy who believes Mickey Mouse Clubhouse is a cute show and the real world is faker than professional wrestling. Would I do it all again in a heartbeat? Absolutely. Broken hearts can be mended, but lonely ones can’t.

　

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Marriage is a lot like a deck of cards: in the beginning, all you need is two hearts and two diamonds, but in the end, you wish you had a club or a spade.”

-Jerry “The King” Lawler-