Am I Crazy?

That is the question. Furthermore that is the question I present to you: I report, you decide. I will agree to the following stipulation: I write this 'under the influence.' Does that make me crazy? I think not. Drunk, maybe, but not crazy. The reason I write this 'under the influence' is that I am a 'happy drunk.' If I wrote this in the sober light of day I would come across to you as bitter. Angry and bitter. But 'under the influence' I am quite happy and I think this narrative confirms that. Furthermore I can from time to time inject some observations in the form of 'redeeming social value.' That is to say I can enlighten you - idiots that you are - while you read this soap opera.

This brings me to the point of questionability. Here is where I ask myself whether I have imbibed too much booze to continue reliably. 'Do they still get my jokes?' 'Am I becoming way too arrogant?' 'Am I pandering?' Am I just too drunk to continue this without being embarrassed in the light of sobriety?' Good questions. So far the answer is, 'not yet.'

But the night is young. There is no question that as this night progresses I will cross that invisible line. My task is to retain that amount of self-awareness which will inform me of the critical point, then STOP. All good things must come to an end and the wisdom is in knowing where. And I fancy myself wise! So tonight I proceed warily, step by step, fixing to end this exactly on the right note. Will I succeed? Will I make a fool of myself again? We'll see.

In the meantime I have determined that tonight's drafts are accurate and reasonable and so I will publish them without further ado. I understand that they are not exactly correct in a political sense. I understand that. But I figure that if my blog is to be censored it might as well happen now. If I am to be muzzled, let it happen now before I have invested (boom) months of energy. If I am indeed muzzled I will go back to my Drog. My comfortable Drog. And so, with that, I hereby launch my latest drafts...

(late entry) The thing refused to publish, so I am back a few days later doing some editing and then republishing. Seems to be working... so far.

Pussimus Maximus vs Godzilla

This post addresses those thumps and stomps which have appeared in parentheses in previous posts. And now that I think about it, it appears to be a daunting task. Maybe I should begin by admitting that a large portion of this Blog is and will be devoted to 'stalking.' Do you know what 'stalking' is? No? I thought not. Stalking is a crime. It became a crime in the late '80s or early '90s. Prior to that stalking was regarded as merely immoral. Nowadays it is a crime. Stalking is a crime which is committed by a person who is 'obsessed' with another person. By 'obsessed' I mean pathologically obsessed. The stalker is deranged, mentally unhinged. He or she suffers from a severe disorder. The stalker is literally unable to think about anything which does not involve the person who is the object of his bizarre obsession. By that I mean, 'enjoy.' This type of person does not enjoy any kind of activity which has no connection to the object of his/her love/hate. The obsessed person is emotionally attached and powerless in the grip of that attachment.

This powerlessness forces the obsessed to try and manipulate the object if his/her love/hate in such a way that the object acts so as to gratify the obsessed. Do you get that? Am I being too Freudian here? (Time out for the evening news. Interesting stuff. Saddam is being turned over to Iraqi authority. Newborn screening seems to be inadequate except in cases of possible phymosis.)

Where was I? Oh: Being Stalked - and being stalked by the 'Ultimate Stalker.' I capitalize that expression for good reasons. Who could possibly be the Ultimate Stalker? Do you know? No? In that case I will enlighten you: The Ultimate Stalker is wealthy. The Ultimate Stalker is 'respected' which is to say he/she has a certain community standing.
The Ultimate Stalker (taps from above indicate high approval of the term, 'Ultimate Stalker')is a lawyer who is intimately acquainted with the rules of evidence. The Ultimate Stalker is a Jew. To sum up the 'qualities' of the Ultimate Stalker they are:
1. Wealthy.
2. Respected.
3. An 'officer of the court.'
4. Jewish.
'Why Jewish?' you might ask. Good question. Here is the answer to your question: Jews are a special category of people: historical victims. Jews have a long illustrious history of being persecuted. We normally do not think of Jews as being in the category of perpetrators, but in the category of victims.
There is yet another advantage which the Jewish stalker enjoys, which I shall call, 'ethnic credulity.' That is, fellow Jews are likely to believe charges of 'anti-Semitism' directed by the Jewish stalker against his 'target' and are therefore more likely to participate in some way in the stalking process against that target. The 'target' may be quite innocent of anti-Semitism but will be attacked anyway by fellow Jews who are too full of 'ethnic credulity.'
(By the way, if you are interested in learning more about the Jews' illustrious history of victimhood you can find 365 stories in the book, Every Day Remembrance Day. The author's name eludes me.)
And so I claim that I have defined the Ultimate Stalker. Prove me wrong if you can.

This brings us back to Pussimus Maximus. Last night the stomps and wall bangs became infuriating and I went upstairs (boom) to confront the 'neighbors' above. I expected that Godzilla would answer my three loud knocks. I was ready for Godzilla. I had my voice recorder turned on. I was ready for a fight if it came to that. I had no weapon. But instead of Godzilla my knock was answered by Pussimus Maximus.
She was quite good-looking. Slim. Twenty-something. Lots of tit. She was very composed in the face of my obvious rage. But her beauty was not enough to halt the emotional steamroller which exploded with, 'What the hell is going on up here? You are stomping the floor and banging the walls and I want it stopped!' (or something like that.) She replied very calmly and deliberately, 'I don't know... I thought we were sitting quietly.'
She was lying of course. I said, 'Sit quieter!' and left the scene. I was so upset that I could barely remember the combination to our apartment door.
Later I wondered, 'Why do they want me to think that a beautiful woman lives up there?'

Correction

I'm sometimes embarrassed when I reread sober what I wrote (thump) inebriated. The previous post is a case in point. I wondered whether to delete the entry or correct it and decided to correct it. There were actually two guns. One was the hammerless .22; the other was a .25 automatic. I do not remember where I got the .22, nor do I remember how I eventually disposed of it. But the story is true as far as it goes.
The .25 automatic is the stolen gun which was 'booby trapped.' Apparently the owner had arranged to have the first round under-charged such that if the weapon were ever used against him it would misfire lodging the first round in the barrel. He must have been prepared to eject that first round if it ever came to pass that he needed to use it against someone. By the way, I did not personally steal that gun. However, since I was running with the little gang that did, I was equally guilty. I should mention that shortly after that incident I found some new friends and began to walk the Straight and Narrow.

Gravy

This brings us to the idea of gravy. I have already writ what I wanted to write and the rest (boom from above) is gravy. By 'gravy' I meant 'superfluous,' but as I wrote the word 'gravy' above it hit me that most of my life has been been gravy. The word, 'gravy' triggered a memory (tap). Without going into strenuous detail I remembered a time when I (boom) (another boom) realized that my life was gravy. It was in Charleston South Carolina. We were living across the street from the police station. The year was about 1952 or so. I had been out of the orphanage for a couple of years. I was a minor criminal in those days. I was a member of a gang which went about the neighborhood at night. We would sometimes steal hubcaps. We would often open the doors of automobiles which were parked in the shadows. We would get in and rifle through the glove compartments of those cars. We would steal items of interst. One night we hit upon a major find: a pistol. It was a hammerless .25 caliber revolver. We stole it. The pistol turned out to be booby-trapped. That is, the first round turned out to have been loaded with a minimal charge. The result of that (boom) was that the slug lodged in the barrel of the revolver instead of exiting. Our gang rode bicycles in those days and as we celebrated that coup that night the dude who had the gun fired it into the air. It went poof. We all noticed but we knew nothing about guns. Only later did one of us see that the slug was still in the barrel.
We were innocent children in those days and even after we discovered the discrepancy it did not dawn on us that what we had was a dangerous weapon. We forced the slug out of the barrel. Then we went to an open area where we had fun firing the weapon. The police arrived soon after and releived us of a dangerous weapon.
But in the meantime I had ended up with the weapon after it had been cleared. One day I (thump) sat on the bed in front of the mirror and pretended to kill myself with the hammerless .22. I clicked it a few times before I examined it. It turned out to have been loaded. There were several dents in the shells in the magazine. I think the magazine held nine shells. Two or three bullets were dented by the firing pin. As I examined those bullets I came to the conclusion that whereas I ought to be dead I was alive. I speculated that there must have been some sort of a reason for that (boom) but I could not imagine what it might be. I chalked the experience up to sheer luck and I decided there and then that the rest of my life was gravy and it did not matter at all what I did with it. (lots of boom-boom from above here.) In other words I was free. I felt that somehow fate had fucked up and I had slipped through the cracks.
I did not mention this idea to others. I informed my peers that the gun was unreliable and it was soon disposed of.
I still consider 'gravy' to be the (loud bong) symbolic idea whenever I consider my life. My life is gravy.

Denial is Her style

Kootch has come a long way since the days in Salina. As she was eating her fish and rice tonight I was playing last night's tape of Leno. Kootch actually laughed out loud several times during the replay. She rarely watches Leno or any other late night TV because she usually hits the sack early, and American humor has always been near the bottom of her list. The reason for this - as Kootch herself remarked - was that for the first twenty years in America she usually failed to 'get' American jokes. But she laughed out loud at Leno several times tonight and as a result she said to me proudly, 'Now I get American jokes!' I thought, 'Cool!' Later, after the tape, we were watching CNN. An Aussie reporter was doing a story about something. I asked her whether she could pinpoint his accent. I was interested in how well she perceived the nuances of English pronounciation given this good news about jokes. She watched and listened for a while then said something like, 'Maybe European.' A bit later she allowed that maybe it was British. Close enough.
Kootch went on to finish her 'saba' (mackrel), and when Wild On began to run on the tape she departed diplomatically, leaving me alone to finish (mostly) fast-forwarding (being gassed here) this particular show.
Kootch is a sweet girl. And not as dumb as she might sometimes appear. She went to work at K-Mart in the late '60s. Her personality and hard work won her immediate recognition at K-Mart and she eventually rose to the level of office manager. She retired after 30 years of impressive service and she now enjoys her retirement. Immensely. I also enjoy her retirement immensely.
Not that our marriage has been 'idylic.' Not at all. Our marriage has had its ups and downs as well as its ins and outs. Which brings us to the title of this post, Denial is Her Style.
Women seem to think differently from men. Kootch would probably agree with that. This idea dawned on me in a most unpleasant way in the early '90s when I attempted to (boom) explain (boom) to her what I meant by the term, 'Mad Mirror Molester.' Let me explain: from the late '80s to the late '90s I was 'harrassed' by some dude who followed me around from (stomp) time to time. This sucker obviously had a key to our car, because (he) would open the locked automobile, reach in, and rotate the rear view mirror all the way clockwise to the stops. (He) would then re-lock the car. When I returned to the locked car I would not at first notice that the rear view mirror had been molested. I would start up, put the car in reverse, check the rear view mirror... and find it skewed. And it was always skewed (tap) in the same way at first: clockwise to the stops. I formulated from those experiences that, (1) Somebody had the keys to our car; (2) Somebody was keeping track, at least occasionally, of where I drove that car; (3) Somebody wanted me to know that. Further conclusions could be drawn but these three are the primary undeniable conclusions (several faint booms from above). This went on for years. The frequency of MMM events varied over the years from a few times a week to a few times a year. Occasionally, instead of tweaking the mirror MMM would turn on the wipers. (Wipers were most effective, by the way, because of the startle value. Mirror tweaks were subtler but almost as effective.) Kootch did not believe me, apparently, when I told her about this phenomenon. This infuriated me. In my (boom) determination to make her understand one day (squeak above me) I cornered her in the car. I pulled over into a parking area. I explained to her using absolutely pristine logic what was happening. I tweaked the mirror duplicating exactly the MMM style. I asked her, based on my impressive demonstration, to draw a conclusion. 'Nobody would do that,' she explained.
Since that day I have learned (boom) to understand Kootch on a deeper level. I now understand that her style is denial. Kootch finds this particular emotional style best suited to her psyche. Nowadays I honor that. As a result we now get along famously. I have at last learned to accept (huge stomp just above me!) Kootch just the way she is. I have learned to trust her method of coping.

Alright!

Got that job done. You now know everything there is to know about me. This only leaves whatever stuff may be residing in the category of everything you and I do not know about me. I say this jokingly of course. There is nothing I don't know about me. But I wonder about you: I wonder why are you here. I wonder what is your interest in me? Not that I need to know, not at all.

It hits me that maybe you are a fish. You've been swimming around aimlessly for years and you bit. So here you are on my line. You wonder where this scenerio will lead you. If so I have good news. There is no barb on my hook. You can just shake it out of your fishy mouth and go on your way. No Problemo.

On the other hand you can stick around for the time being realizing there is no hook to be worried about. No physical hook. But there are psychological hooks. You might be hooked psychologically. You worry about that, which brings us back to the original question. Are you hooked?

We don't know. Certainly I don't know. Maybe you know. Maybe not. One thing is certain: you are a fish and you got hooked in midstream and here you are.

1135 And I am enjoying what is going on here. I have abandoned my previous paranoid formulations regarding drog vs blog. I am writing this on The Web while my other computer just sits there doing nothing. Whoa! I just loaded Beethoven's Piano Concerto number one and it is now playing. This leaves my other computer with nothing to do but run around in tiny circles. Do you know what I mean by 'tiny?' No? Here is what I mean by 'tiny.' I will explain tiny using old technology: computers spend much of their time running around in circles. There is no question about that. In many cases computers spend huge amounts of time in that regard. In fact I would like to suggest that computers are actually souls which have been condemned by The Gods to run forever in a loop. Silicon Souls. Here is an example from Basic:

10 x=0
20 x=x+1
30 if x >= 10 then x=0
40 if y >= 10 then y=0: goto 10
50 y=y+1
60 if y >= 10 then y=0: goto 10

If I am not mistaken this is a primitive example of an infinite loop. This loop can only be exited in the case of Z. But there is no Z in the above code. Therefore,

70 z= 0: if Z > 0 then goto 90
80 goto 10
90 print 'Congratulations. You are free.': end

But you will never see 90. Not in that code. This was what I found to be so fascinating about computer code. I think you can see the meaning of eternity in that code. May I give you an example? Jez? Senk ju beddy motch.

10 you are a zero
20 but you can rise above zeroness
30 but you need to rise in the accepted way
40 fuck up and you are a zero
50 Jesus has noticed you
60 but do not get uppity
70 otherwise you will burn
80 goto you are a zero
90 Congratulations. You deprogrammed yourself.

Time to wrap this up. Happy Birthday Bubbah!

About me.

I signed in tonight intending to fill in the 'about me' portion of this little project. But it soon hit me that this entire blog is in some sense 'about me.' I WILL fill in those blanks. It will be the usual stuff I suppose, though I might get a bit creative.
It hit me while I was watching the CBS Evening News tonight that the concept, 'about me' involves an 'infinite idea.' That is to say, 'about me' (also 'about you'), includes, among others, the idea of genealogy. Genealogy is an Infinite Idea. Therefore if I began by telling you who my daddy was and who my mommy was it would tend to be a long night. The night would be devoted to a long series of 'begats.' That series would stretch all the way back to Adam and Eve. You would not stand for that. I know you.

So I came up with a way to skip all those begats: First of all I think you will grant me that somewhere in the dim reaches of ancient history about six thousand years ago my ancestral line connected with Adam and Eve. You will grant me that. So I trace my ancestry back that far with (I presume) no flack from you. We have that common ancestry. But you stop right there, while I go on farther back. I go back to the stone age. I admit that. I go back even further (now I'm wondering about the 'farther-further' problem). I trace my ancestry back to the Pliocene. In fact, beyond.

To make a long story short I trace my ancestry back to Debuchan (deh-boo-chan).
Debuchan means 'fat one' in Japanese. I know this because I asked Kootch during the news. Kootch is my Japanese wife. Debuchan is my name for an obese star which existed five billion years ago. (Over-eating is not only a modern problem.) Debuchan ate too much. Way too much. She became fat. Fat stars burn much hotter than skinny stars, and so, after only a few tens of millions of years Debuchan had used up most of the energy she needed to stay in the fast lane. There came a point where she no longer had the energy to withstand the pull of her own gravity and she collapsed. The result was an explosion. Debuchan spilled her guts, so to say, all over the local cosmosian neighborhood: lots of Iron, calcium, oxygen, nitrogen, carbon... and I could go on and on but you get the idea.

I was, in some sense, present in that debris, which later coalesced into our solar system. Maybe you were too. Maybe not. I wouldn't know.

So I trace my ancestry back to Debuchan. And I suspect that I could even farther back if I wanted to drag this out, but I will spare you that.

Which brings me to Kootch, which is my nickname for my wife, Keiko. 'Kootch' is derived from 'kuchi' which means 'mouth' in Japanese. I gave her that nickname because of something she said one day. I forgot what it was, but clearly the woman had a big mouth. The name stuck with me and I have called her Kootch ever since. She had no objection.

Being married to a Japanese woman has its plusses and minuses. For one thing you get to eat some very strange food. Kootch did not know how to cook when we first got married. I told her that was no problem: in America you only needed to open a can of pork and beans and warm it up and you had a meal. She believed me, and when she arrived in Salina Kansas in 1958 she was shocked by what she tasted. And not only shocked by the taste of pork and beans and other American food but also shocked by Salina, Kansas.

Kootch was from Tokyo. Imagine going from Tokyo, Japan to Salina, Kansas and you will get some idea of the meaning of, 'culture shock.' And even I was shocked. I had spent two years in the most vibrant, fascinating, crowded, odiferous, exotic, joyous place imaginable only to end up in Salina Kansas.

Which brings us to Kathleen. Kathleen was our baby girl. Her name was supposed to be Cathrine but it got lost in translation so to say, and Cathrine arrived in Salina as Kathleen. The mixup had something to do with the way Japanese pronounce the letter 'R.' Japanese persons seem to say 'R' when they really mean 'L' and vice versa. I was ok with Kathleen. No problem. One of my aunts was named Kathleen. No big deal. Furthermore Kathleen did not have a middle name. I had forgot about that, so when I sent the letter to Japan I had only suggested Cathrine.

This brings us to Charlie. Charlie is (boom) the son of Kathleen. I mention Charlie, of course, because Charlie fits in with the subject matter. The geneology ends there because I don't know where Charlie leads. It is a mystery (boom) to me.

Jenniffer showed up several years after Kathleen and this time we got the name right. Unfortunately I am unable to (boom) describe any further geneology. This deplorable fact is one of the reasons I am writing this.

Enough for tonight. I will now do my 'blog bio.'

Nope. The system would not take my username and password.

first communion

06-17-04 No idea what (513.5) means now, but I began my BLOG today. First entry is titled, testo. My blog name is ADAN 300 and the title of my blog is Non Serviam. I have a lot to learn about blogging so I have been reading hundreds of blogs lately. Some of them are quite charming. Others are the usual nonsense. A few are quite professional. Tonight's notes are:
----------
Left Behind - carrot and stick religion
'Just stay quiet and you'll be okay.' - Mohammed Atta
Communion has changed
----------
I made the first note as I watched CNN which had an interview with the authors of the novel, Left Behind (Tim LaHaye and Jerry B Jenkins). The interviewer pointed out that it was obvious they were using fear of God as a motivation for practicing their 'religion' and they fessed up right away. They could hardly deny it. Fear is the primary motive of all Carrot and Stick religions. Greed is the secondary motive. Fear and greed in that order.
Fear and Greed are the two Original Sins. All normal children commit those two original sins because at the level of children they are not sins but behavioral guides. Fear and Greed become sins in adulthood. There comes a time in your adulthood when you must give up the ways of Fear and Greed and adopt new ways, ways of Courage and Economy. Failing that you become Evangelical Christians or the Jewish/Muslim versions thereof. You will in that case have lots of company, much fellowship. But if you travel the path of Courage and Economy you will find few fellow travelers because, 'strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth onto life, and few there be that find it (Matthew 7:14. My Booger Bible words it somewhat differently but the thought is the same.) I use the word, 'economy' because it is the best opposite to 'greed' that I can think up at the moment.
In the light of this analysis the Left Behind series is entertaining crap: fun reading perhaps but not a serious guide to life. (Lots of boom-boom from above as I wrote that last bit. The folks upstairs apparently do not like the word, 'crap' in religious criticism. This is nothing new.)
The next note by Mohammed Atta is somewhat related. It is the standard advice given to victims by predators. It is a lie, of course, but it often works because victims are in a state of denial. They find it difficult to believe what is happening to them. That lie fits with their denial; it is a perfect match. And so they believe, not realizing the danger.
The last note refers to my initial encounter with God. Today I saw a brief video (on tv) of people receiving Communion. The video was much different than my experience of Communion: the priest gave them the Host in their cupped hands. (Being gassed here. This is the first time I have been gassed while writing this stuff. I am coughing. My nose is running. Gassing is over after about a minute. I will now continue.)
The last time I received Communion the priest gave it to me on my tongue with the words (muttered in Latin), 'Body of Christ.' So things have changed in the Catholic Church since my last Communion.
This video reminded me of my very first encounter with God. I was a child. Six years old. I received my First Communion at Stella Maris (Star of the Sea) church on Sullivan's Island back in 1941 or thereabouts. I remember the occasion because they told me that although I could not eat breakfast because God wanted to be the first thing down my throat on Sunday morning, my hunger would be compensated by the sheer joy of imbibing God. They lied. After swallowing God I remained hungry. And no joy. I learned about 'religion' from that first encounter with 'God.' I also learned something about the people who taught 'religion.' These were unforgettable lessons to learn at the tender age of six. So I pass them on to you. End of notes.
Which brings up the question, 'How much of this stuff shall I beam up to my blog?'

The above is a fairly faithful representation of tonight's drog, excepting minor changes in punctuation and wording which do not change the meaning. I now consider my blog de-virginized.

(late entry on o6-20-04: I don't like the word, 'devastating' in the previous blog entry concerning Word Salad. A better word would be, 'disappointing.' Scratch 'devastating.' And by the way, I thought I had 'published' this 'draft' on Friday, but apparently not. I am beginning to think that booze, drogs and blogs do not mix well. I know that booze and drogs mix well; therefore booze and blogs ought to mix equally well. But obviously drogs and blogs don't mix.)

left behind

This is my first entry. It is a continuation of my personal drog. I have been writing my drog for some years now on my personal computer. I began my drog in the late '80s when I began to test my 'word processor' (actually a primitive text editor). I called my product, Word Salad because it had a special cryptographic feature. I thought of it as a sort of personal diary which could be kept on a personal computer with no fear that the diary might be read by anyone who did not know the 'password.' (By 'password' I mean the decryption key.)
Word Salad was written in Apple Assembly Language. Although the text editor was primitive the cryptographic system was fairly modern. I had much faith in my new creation until I read some disturbing news on the rudimentary 'web' to the effect that crt displays could be duplicated by remote systems. That is to say, what I wrote on my crt could be reproduced on another, nearby crt, by means of 'Van Eck Eavesdropping.' This news was devastating because it rendered Word Salad useless (being gassed here). But by that time I was already in the habit of writing a journal. (standby while I get another drink...)
I eventually abandoned Word Salad for Creative Writer, a children's text editor. (I love Creative Writer!) I think it was in 1997 when I received my first social security check. That was the year I abandoned my Apple II+ in favor of a brand new 120 mhz computer. By that time I was a veteran drogger. I bought yet another computer a few years later - 900 mhz. My latest rig runs at about two gig. I am writing this on my latest rig, though I still write my drog on the 900.
Which brings up the subject of how much drog I should convert to blog. Not much I presume. Perhaps I should summarize my most recent drog in this blog. Why not. Here goes:
Picture me in a (standby) exectutive chair sandwiched between two tables each of which contains a computer with crt. I read my drog from one crt and write that drog into my blog on the other crt. That is the situation. Be aware that I am not used to the concept of 'political correctness' as it relates to my drog. But I do understand that PC is the lubrication which allows disparate ideas to flow freely. And we all benefit from that free flow of ideas. So in my latest drog I have made it my business to be very politically correct. Therefore I can translate drog to blog with minimal worry about PC. Or can I?

testo

This is a test. This is only a test. So far, so good. Acts like the text editors I am used to working with.