October 6, 2015
CLEAR YOUR BRAIN with THEE WHISKEY REBEL
Conspiracy theories have been around for most of my lifetime, but they have never been so widely, blindly sucked up by people who should know better. The tabloids of my youth had pieces about JFK being kept alive as a vegetable on a Greek island and a plethora of Martian flying saucer hoaxes. I hold a simple B.A. in History, I’m no deep scholar, but I know enough to tell you that your brain would be much better off if you spend a few years learning the basics of history or geography before you drop anchor in the port of cable TV boobs who have to cloak their history revision as double secret ( code words for “unproven” ) information you and the rest of their audience can be privy to. Don’t bring that sucker bait garbage around here! Some of the best advice I can give you if you want to CLEAR YER BRAIN is this: book up on serious main stream scholarly stuff your local library stocks. Instead of “educating” yourself on bologna like “Putin is the antichrist”, learn the basic geography facts on Russia and how the dimensions and climate and various cultures and languages have contributed to the developments of the last 100 years or so in that part of the globe. As you educate yourself, try to develope a knack for determining the biases of the sources you read. I read the books of an author from the U.K. named Service who is a gifted writer and researcher. Rather than treat dudes like Stalin like the boogeyman, he maintains a sort of neutrality while letting Stalin’s actions ( backed by footnotes and a huge bibliography ) prove him to actually be more of a sadistic monster than he was depicted in the U.S. in the cold war era.
The actual truth of things can be much more amusing ultimately than the stock, by the numbers conspiracy blather. Sorry to pop your bubble, but there is no proof whatsoever of a behind the scenes committee of blood sucking, sadistic bankers selecting our next set of politicians. If you have suckered for that Alex Jones hokum, you need to break away from that nonsense and settle into some actual research, not the sad garbage he trowels out. He is not some sort of martyr or hero, HEY! Research his Dad who was part of one of the most ludicrous cults of his time about as intellectual as the radio exorcist Larson (who after dark George the twit presents as an expert! )
Conspiracy and nonsense is a big bucks industry these days. If you’ve been suckered, I will welcome you to this diary with a big hug if you go about learning one skill: HOW TO TELL unbiased fact from snow job or partisan horse shit. If you want to start off cheap and simple, head to a used book store and get a mainstream Philosophy 101 text book that is meant for freshmen. Hey, I had to buy and study one just a few years ago. My last college class was indeed that very mandatory course that no one can escape. I’ll be damned if by the end of the course I hadn’t hit it off with my professor and expressed the thought at home that the “road not taken” in my life was the path to become a philosophy professor. It would have been a fine alternate life. As a sceptic with no faith to bog me down, I would have really contributed to society, made a difference. Oh well! At least I have chalked up hundreds of recordings, several books and a handful of worthy chess games. Send me a message if you think I’m getting through your thick skull, or if you’re going back to that phony AJ. Dis-missed. Urp.
On the way to watch Texas native behemoth Cowboy James Claxton defend his B.O.W. NWA heavyweight championship strap, sometime during that 18 minute drive to the arena I clearly predicted what was going to happen to my Wife. “You know, one great thing about wrestling that makes it so worth watching closely for a life time, is the fact that at any point, on any given Saturday night like this one, anything can happen. We can speculate about having a great time, but for all we know we could be walking into the best card of our lives”!
4 hours later, driving back home, I reminded her of my unique brilliance in such matters. Like a clap of thunder a magnificent stable of worthy, manly he-men guided by the watchful eye and sage advice of a sharp veteran of the sport had assembled for official photos to commemorate the awesome night for posterity, toting all the goddamn gold in the promotion. Just like a Texas flashflood or tornado or unexpected fire on the plains they had pulled off something no one had predicted, leaving the fans of weaker mentality and predictable bad taste sobbing, openly crying in some cases.
All night long they had cheered in unison against each of the titans whooping it up now, probably headed for a bar or strip club to celebrate and salute their own greatness. I chuckle even now at their collective rude awakening. Many of the fans who seem to be regulars at B.O.W. seem to be confused over what really matters during an evening of wrestling matches. We aren’t assembled to watch judge’s award points for moves of beauty or the sort of frilly hogwash you’d expect to see at a frigging women’s figure skating event. For generations working men and women in Texas and of course all over our mighty nation and in remote parts of the globe, assemble to watch strapping men and shrewish women pound on each other for their amusement until one competitor’s sweaty mitt is hoisted in victory in the middle of the squared circle; it’s called Professional Wrestling. Often over the last century it has been the dominant sport in our country, due to the cool fact that you can see wrestlers compete in communities large, medium and tiny.
Anyway, I hooted for joy during that drive home and not because I could say “I told you so!”, for I do that frequently enough. “Honey, we walked into the formation of a goddamned stable! How often does this happen?”. Indeed, as a youth I enjoyed back in Snoreland, Boregon Playboy Buddy Rose’s “army” including the likes of the Sheepherders and the Dynamite Kid. When we happened to move 1 mile from E.C.W. arena in Philly right at the start of what happened there, we were really damn lucking out. You can see me and my son Elvis as an adolescent standing a few rows from the ring in several matches on the historic tapes show far and wide. We saw a couple notable stables of wrestlers formulate there, the Dudley’s come to mind, the really early Dudley boys with Big Dick and Chubby and Sign Guy.
Humping, jumping Jesus! Now we have stumbled into a mighty stable at B.O.W. a year after we have made ourselves San Antonio residents after 11 wasted, lost years in San Marcos. First Andy Dalton outlasted 9 other contestants in a battle royal for the Cruiser-weight title. Most of the masses were rooting for some of the usual tedious also-rans. Hey! Don’t get me wrong! I respect every one of the competitors back in the locker room! It’s just sad to see that some of them must take guidance from some real saps back there. Mad Dog Ken Johnson is a proven legend and just the sort of man to be counsel to a man who really wants to win and achieve his dreams rather than be polite and spend years in the pack of mediocre under achievers. Anyway, next the NWA world heavyweight tag team title straps were won in brutal fashion in a real pier six beat down by Brent McKenzie and Moonshine Mantell. Mad Dog once again provided his guiding hand and they demolished their foes in romping stomping fashion that made me cackle in joy in my seat, work week completely forgotten!
The final bout of the night featured Claxton defending the mightiest strap of all, the vaunted NWA heavyweight championship sanctioned by B.W.O. in a 3 way scrap. A Texas melee ensued, but escorted to the ring by Mad Dog (who sported a righteous rebel cap much like one I used to wear) he made relatively short work of 2 competitors and thereafter posed of course for pics with the rest of the stable as some of us in the audience grinned and “hussed!”. I’ll be damned! We’ve got ourselves a stable in town. A damned fine one too.
OH! One more thing. B.O.W. is moving for their next card (Oct 25th) to the old stomping ground, the Woodlawn gym which is perfect for wrestling, very comfy even for fat asses like me. Cowboy James Claxton will be defending HIS title strap against Jax Dane in a goddamned street fight! I’m sure there will be matches featuring McKenzie, Mantell and Dalton as well. Or, perhaps the promoters will prefer them to simply pose with the glowing assembled shiny belts! Goddamn, what a sight it was. I bet they had a blast afterwards with booze, beef and broads aplenty! Well, I’m gonna crack open a Coors to wash down the Texas triple shot of Devils Cut Beam whiskey I’m now gonna throw back in their collective honor. UURRPP.
Relaxing in casinos is extremely important to me at this stage of my life. As I explained to my Son Elvis the other week, his Ma and I made really pathetic gamblers from our 20’s well into our 40’s. When I took up competitive chess again after a 23 year break when we moved to Texas, I eventually bought a Texas hold’em text book by Doyle Brunson, the bible of the game for decades. It assisted my chess training that I subject myself to learning the formula for playing hands. I still haven’t played live poker, but that’s beside the point. When you train to read a poker players hand at the table by the tools of the trade it translates for usage elsewhere.
I got a PS game and tested what I had learned and was satisfied. I then decided on some sort of whim to learn the formula for playing video poker in casinos. I got a game that makes an obnoxious sound if you make an error and worked hard to learn the best way to play video poker. Marla learned the system, which has lead to us actually enjoying visits to casino’s more and not making such stupid moves. No more drawing to inside straights. No more following hunches, that’s for rubes. As I told El, there is one formula for jacks or better, which I mostly play and there are few variables from the correct path, which is based on long term statistics. I was quick to point out to him that sometimes blowhards who bet “wrong” do quite well. Hell, I can’t explain luck; I just know I’m not blessed with it like so many people are.
Anyway, my Frau and I will soon be spending a few days at the Lucky Eagle (?!) casino in Eagle Pass Texas, Texas first casino. My blood Father told me about the place a year and a half or so ago. I respect his tastes quite a bit and observe his great seniority in casino matters over the years. We’ve been following the casino afar since then as it grows and feel like the time is ready to strike. They have a great looking hotel now and are expanding as fast as my belly in the off season. We plan to have a blast as we celebrate Texas FINALLY having a casino. Hey, I’m a proud a Texan, but as a dyed in the wool heathen I can’t stand the prudes ancient blue laws and childish “road to hell” arguments being used in this new millennium by the squares. Go Texas. Go Gambling. Go Sin. Go “road to hell”. Go penny slots with catchy, noisy themes blasting from Bose speakers set inside motion chairs for our enjoyment. UURRPPP.
My work season will very likely last again up through October or early November. It’s nice to rake in the dough but since I put out 120% every day for my “seasonal” job and commute 2 + hours per day it wears me down a bit. People who have a year round ordinary job just go to work and pace their asses, but not me. As I always say, I can’t write about my job, but it is one difficult, brainy son of a bitch. One part of my job deals with some really mind blowing detailed printout work which actually I have determined is as difficult as the toughest chess problems I tackle. My old 10 key prowess is slowly coming back. I’m faster than the race to the food after the funeral service on a computer these days. I’m at my peak and can only hope it makes a positive influence on my guitar playing, which uses the same portion of my brain. I got me a new rosewood tint Les Paul Jr a few months back and am fired up to debut it publically. Will I wield it like Mick Ronson or Cheetah Chrome?
I use various means to fire my ass up these days. Going to Branded Outlaw Wrestling’s monthly cards really helps and an occasional night of music clears my brain as well. I got to do both a week ago in the same night. We watched thee mighty Cowboy James Claxton power bomb his way to the NWA BOW World heavyweight strap and then head to a Hod show in town at the Bonds 007 bar. It’s great to be around some goddamned humanoids I can blather to and drain a couple with after months of sometimes tedious egghead work with minimal human contact for days at a time. Hod pounded away with a jackhammer intensity which cleared my head and my sinuses. I soaked up every funky little aspect of beauty at the wrestling card from the imbecility of some of the hecklers who consider themselves in the know and funny to watching a dude named Juicy flex his butt cheeks in rhythm on command. There was a large group of us there yelling and hussing. Is there any better way to relax in one night than with wrestling and strident, badass music? Uuurrrppp.
6/1/14 So, I’ve been back from the Chicago Open chess event for several days. My co-workers are a clever bunch for the most part. They don’t ask ignorant questions about my going away to play a few times a year somewhere in our mighty nation. I can’t write about work, but I can say that my lead is such a brain that he is out there in that zone beyond my comprehension. When I talk to him about compartmentalizing chess knowledge and work codes and stuff in various sectors of my brain he understands. What I do in my cubicle is impossible for probably 97% of the work force, but simple compared to what he does. I’m sure that if he wanted to get serious about chess he could catch up with me in 6 months or so. I’m basing this statement on the games I’ve studied that are in databases played between Einstein and a couple of the A-bomb brains. Those guys rapidly attained a skill level of mine without book study. They clearly watched some real masters going at it and emulated what they picked up. Einstein was pals with a very brainy world chess champ named Lasker. Of course there are quite a few instances of math professors and software folks with oodles of brain matter in their fields, but not worth a shit over the chess board in spite of years of study.
I’ve learned that I need about 24 hours to shift my brain powers from my work to a chess mode. The last year or so I’ve tried to train my brain to keep both up and running, with only limited results so far. If I have 24 hours and a nice cooler full of beer and a traveler of whiskey I can sit in a hotel room and go through the increasingly familiar transformation. Luckily, my job has me in a pretty good state stamina wise. Since I’ve been working this brain job I don’t run out of gas in 2-3 hours at the board. I have to face 2 games per game usually lasting 4-6 hours each. OK!!! Enough of straining your brains, you reading this. It’s really not all so cerebral every game at a chess tournament. My recent trip is memorable for a few bizarre things. I played a dude who was pretty damn wacko by my standards, you don’t have to play chess to know where he is coming from. He would make a very, very bad poker player. He entered the tournament under a double first name that I doubt he was given by his mama. Gypsies I met in the late 70’s would use those sort of names (I dig Gypsies).
This sportsman arrived a bit late to the game wearing a flashy but clearly dime store quality suit and a big pinkie ring that was meant to distract or hypnotize me, but only made me giggle. Sunglasses and a bad mustache rounded out his “intimidating” schtick. He never spoke during our game, but loudly slammed the pieces down in a way that I could have justifiably complained to a tournament director to make him quiet down. I haven’t seen too many dudes like him over the years or I’d take up another hobby. Obviously he was trying to “hoo doo” me. He wasn’t out to win a game or a few bucks over the weekend, he is a rare breed of chess player who gets his rocks off by defeating somebody in a personal manor.
Get it? It’s not his intellectual pleasure internally he gets off on, but my own pain or that of his other opponents. He is a sadist who uses hoo doo as part of his “bewitching” technique. Having started out in the late 60’s when there were a great number of chess freaks, I don’t blame his routine for my ultimate loss. Huh, I’ve known my share of witches and Satanists over the years. He’s pretty lame by comparison. I had an advantage almost the entire game and sort of let my winning advantage get away from me. I studied the game with one of my computer engines and know what I did wrong. The dude put one hell of a lot of effort into freaking his opponents out, but you see that sort now and then when you play in major urban areas.
His wardrobe and accessories were simply horrid though. It was the sort of cliché nonsense you’d see performed by one of the wacky, jovial hicks on an old “Green Acres” episode. I’ll be laughing about the experience for years I’m sure. If you just stay in your own corner of the world and never venture out you get used to the eccentric behavior of your own club mate’s, or bowling crew or co-workers. I sort of broke even in the event in the long run. I had fun around the hotel and indeed just trying to get to the damn place. Leaving O’hare airport in a rental car was stressful at first, but finally a heap of fun. I wound up circling the entire airport underground by mistake, which brought to mind a “Dark Angel” penny slot. I attempted to pay tolls each way up and back, but found myself cruising past some green arrow’s and neon signs, which were oddly not manned by employees. What gives with the I-294 toll booths? Who carries $1.50 in exact change in their pockets or satchel? The State of Illinois must be doing damn well $$$ wise to be able to afford not to collect tolls. It looked like an honor system to me. Well, next time I’ll tell all about the tiny kid I played who kept telling me when he need to use the bathroom. Uurrp.
I’m pretty damn excited about our new Vat CD “We‘re Still Better Than You“. We’ll be getting them within a week or so, maybe it’s best if I bang out something about the books I’ve read fairly recently in the mean time. You’ll get enough sales pitches soon enough. Let’s start with a book I snatched up a couple months ago at Barnes and Noble “Not Cool” bylate night show Redeye’s Greg Gutfeld.
I was sort of shocked to read a batch of rants by somebody who actually see’s things my way most of the time. He’s not a droning by the numbers Libertarian like Stoessel. He takes issue with just about all the known sides some of the time. He’s damn sharp. Get this: he clearly knows the difference between not liking being around “drunks“, but loving to imbibe himself.
I’ve got to admit I’m proud that if the author happened to stumble onto some of my old columns he’d likely recognize a kindred spirit in me who wrote many of his ideas in columns for a smaller audience. For all I know of course, the man read Hitlist avidly. He loves loud annoying music, is from California, is pals with Buzz and has drank into the wee hours with John Lydon.
Of course most partisan democrats who follow the don’t watch Fox network “beware!” marching order likely hate Gutfeld without knowing why they’re supposed. Well, that’s one of the main themes of the book; cowardly lefty pseudo intellectuals hating the prescribed boogieman things to go along with the cool people, just like back in school.
GG (huh! I heard him mention our musical pal GG on Redeye once out of the blue) aka Greg Gutfeld rips the hipster elite a new one in language not much cleaner than what I use. Smarmy comedians I hate but you probably dig get slapped good. The occupy protesters are compared and contrasted with the Tea party. I laughed from something on every damn page. You better get this one if you are even close to my morally bankrupt, fiscally conservative cause oriented hating ways. I dare you to read it at work. It’s probably going to attract hate as fast as a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” from watercooler lefties.
A good long read I savored for many months was “Seward, Lincoln’s indispensable man”. Even though I have my degree in history I’ve got to say I knew little Seward. I’ve moved onto the better known best seller about Lincolns Team of Rivals which covers Seward, but I’m not too far into that. The solo Seward bio (written by Walter Stahr) will suit those of you who like a very serious historical read with ample notes. NO CONSPIRACY crap is included thankfully. This is real history, not the sort that has to be cooked up to appeal to Beavis and Butthead.
From cradle to grave you get all you ever will want to know about Seward, whom the author points out is better known than many Presidents. Stahr is a real historian, who doesn’t wear his own party affiliations like a badge on his tweed jacket. For instance when Seward dallies with political machine worms, they are identified as such. He lambasts stubborness on all sides of the pre civil war era fireworks. He pays credit to statesmen from all sides of the issues of Sewards time who are worthy. Sewards doings after his career was over are quite interesting considering he had about as miserable a time of it with losing kinfolk as Roy Orbison.
Ok, I know few will argue with me here on the need to pick up “The importance of being Ernest” a loving tribute bio of Jim Varney by a Nephew. It’s a damn hard book to put down…“know wud uh mean?” We Irwins have spent hundreds of hours watching Varney’s commercial collections, his films and his old Saturday morning kids show. Yes, I loved him as Jed Clampett too. The author ( Justin Lloyd ) knows his subject from the closeness of a family member, but he has pursued and notated in the back pages interviews with the appropriate authorities who were on the scene throughout Jim’s life. If you pick the same deal I did on Amazon.com, you might get your copy in 2 frigging days like I did. This is a slamdunk must have read. Book of the year..hell the decade so far. Urrp.
04/18/14 Welcome class today I'd like to rant about a Facebook phenomena that alternately seems to piss people off or confuse them. Though the perps would like folks to think they are doing something new, sassy and dangerous, they actually are reworking a bit that not only I have used over the years , it could be said that large numbers of cynics and scallywags from my generation have also utilized.
Incidentally for you new readers to this re-launched diary, I will reaffirm my position as being a member of what I refer to as "the Sex Pistol's generation." Anti-hippie, small in numbers, more creative than any other generation in recent memory. I'm referring to the overworked rash of phony Facebook news post. Eighty percent of these seem to be pointless false obituaries of random celebrities.
OK, it was funny the first few times. They fooled a large number of people. This false death report bit dates back to the early days of radio really. They like you to think of course they are doing something witty and original. Sad to say, they have beaten this shtick to death. They are neither witty nor amusing. Is their point to educate folks on the gullibility and naivety of humanoids?
Humpin' jumpin' Jesus, I've been making this point in columns and diary entries and drunken public rants for many years now. Almost without exception each time I have done so, it has been a classic, top notch, piece of cleverness. By pointing out the masses idiocy, they are echoing my thesis statement on humanity. I wish I could get royalties when some of these copycats perpetrates another "yawn" hoax.
Hopefully a few large checks will be forthcoming. Until that day, come up with something of your own, representing your own generation for once. At this point, hoax deaths outnumber legit death reports on Facebook. To you loyal Rebel-Roos out there, I suggest y'all not fall for this is sort of over worked bilge like so many of the normal people do. In a nutshell don't believe a goddamn word of it. Learn to do simple accurate research. Dismissed.
Welcome to the latest goddamn re-launch of this diary. My Wife has sweated her damn ass off working with the help of tech people so that we could save this site from death. The concept of a diary must pre-date even the frigging Romans, but this one was inspired by a couple I saw on-line way back the fuck when 13 years ago, in the days evidently before 01/31/2001, when the first entry was posted. Bill Nelson’s diary froze into oblivion a few years ago, but Robert Fripp’s is still going so I am told.
Even though I am well aware that there are some really clever entries herein, I also recognize that plenty of them just plain suck or are repetitive without creative cause. I’m well aware of my original goals for starting this damn thing, to have an outlet and try to establish what academic writing instructors call a “voice”. The first few years it’s obvious I needed to drink to find a way to let er rip, but I since have overcome that. I’m not criticizing writers who need to have a few blasts or go sniff an exhaust pipe for inspiration before tickling the key’s, it just seemed to me to be excess baggage.
A few years after starting this diary up I went back to finish my “4 year” degree and was glad I wasn’t hobbled by having to drink and write in exams. I took a couple significant writing courses at the hallowed halls of my now alma mater that showed me the “right way” to
actually punctuate and not use offensive ALL CAPS and all that sort of standard shit. We chose when editing my subsequent books not to make a silly amount of changes in stuff I wrote way back when, to leave it as it was laid down. The fiction piece I’m about 100 pages into as of this date is pretty well punctuated enough to fit the needs of classically trained nitpickers. I’m not straining myself, it just seems natural now.
I not only don’t need to drink to write these days, I don’t aim to very often. I know what has to be done and will go peacefully to a quiet room at a library, sober as that sourpuss twat Carry Nation. My degree (cum laude) in history was accomplished in spite of all the obstacles that used to make me quit. I had to suffer often, but with age I have learned to view it as grist for the mill creatively.
When things really suck, I can try to trudge through knowing I’m gonna be able to write about it. This is possible because of this diary, where I learned to find that creepy inner voice. I’m rarely at a loss for words now and writers block can kiss my ass.
I can’t write about my current government job, but I can say that my work there is intellectually so far beyond that of the jobs I wrote about in my first book, I shake my head in my cubicle sometimes thinking back. I’m in my mid 50’s, but my chess game and writing skills and work brain are all way up in the damn sky looking down at you in your ignorance and flatulence, plopped down there in yer kids wading pool gargling diet beers, cheap ones. My potential has just recently been tapped into, but I’m still the same guy, I wear sweatpants and crappy t-shirts to work and recognize my own eccentricity is matched by many of my co-workers. I should
have found a way to work with the smart, offbeat at times people years ago. I’m really a late goddamn bloomer. What the hell. I’m glad that I keep getting better looking too; damn, I’m looking hot tonight as I sit here. Welcome.
Dear diary, I have a confession to make; might as well make it a public thing. Take a nip off of your drinks readers and prepare for something twisted. It has to do with my listening habits in the car during my commute time this season. Last season I listened to Howard on my Sirius radio for 10 months straight. He started to kind of bother me with a sort of series of bitchy, prudish anti drinking hogwash spiels though. I found myself in January going from channel to channel in search of some sort of distracting dialogue.
Where did I find it? Holy shit friends and neighbors, I'm hooked to frigging Dr. Laura!! For real. Now as someone seeking refuge from a show that was getting too preachy about drinking, you may be asking why in the hell I'd wind up listening to that old prune-bag. First off, bear in mind I listen mostly for distraction and not entertainment. I listen to cd's and music channels on Sirius frequently, but it can get repetitive in its way, you can get in a rut listening to even the best music. Also, remember now I don't listen to or read things just to agree with the slant taken. When traveling we listen to just about any talkhost we can tune in. Those of you who are afraid that the hosts you hate might win you over are fucking wimps in our view. Pew!!! You partisan monkey see monkey do cowards would hate riding with with us.
We'll listen to the whole range, from NPR to Limbaugh, from Michael Savage to what have you. So, maybe you can dig why I wound up listening to Dr. Laura in the first place. Did you know there was a suit involving her and Howard many years ago? Go look it up, that's yer homework. Dr. Laura does 2 things that really amuse me. 1) Some callers get about 5 seconds into explaining their situation and she shouts them down, demanding that they do something drastic like file papers for divorce based only on that little preliminary data!? Huh. If they ask for further clarification she sometimes hangs up on them saying she's not going to repeat herself. It makes me laugh, whether she's just providing entertainment by being such a witch or whether she's really crackers. 2) She drives me ape, thus keeping me awake and engaged with some of her snap judgments concerning her phone in callers. Somebody will call in and start explaining their troubles in a way she doesn't like and she'll start badgering them to say something in a certain way, to assume some tone of voice that will please her, to repeat one of her clichés for example ("I am my kids Mom!").
It's easy for me to get a chuckle at some radio shrink, I am incapable of taking advice from any sort of therapist or psychologist or member of the clergy. I've never found any sort of human source of advice or religion or head-shrinking that could convince me for 2 minutes throughout my life. I'm immune from it. So, I can play with it and have fun and kill some time. I can only listen to so much goddamn music in a day or a week. Go ahead and give her show a try if you're sick of Howard; just don't start listening to her advice seriously, it's ok maybe half of the time and completely bonkers the rest of the hour. UUrrp.
This diary is going to receive an update in the near future, if that has any credibility anymore with any of you. The current problem is a snafu with our current server. We're going to maintain this address and switch to a more user friendly soft wear I can access from our pc's instead of a crusty old mac. It may not seem like it, but it kills me at times to see this diary neglected. We have a way around here of sparking back up things that have died down to dull embers. Bad junior high school level analogy, eh?
My work season has started again, at the job I can't write about, which you may contact me personally to discuss. I can relate that last year was my most prosperous as a wage earner, even though it is rather disappointing from the standpoint of the upper middle class, like most of your daily gigs as providers. I'm sure I draw mostly bad seeds and bad providers here, with some notable exceptions. It is a very, very brainy computer job which hopefully will keep my noggin humming to stave off dementia. When I'm at work I need to think nice thoughts to keep myself productive. I can't exactly do the Sunday NY Times crossword on my breaks. I sometimes do a few chess problems when a tournament is approaching. Mostly I focus on those twin demon subjects I restrict myself from dwelling on here, the cats and my cute, gifted Grandson. Either are very fun for me to relate about to others in detail, but are just too easy.
Yes, I am guilty of gazing at pictures of the cats and Hank at work, what a clod am I? What a soft, flabby wimp of a man, shouldn't I be planning an assault on our lawn like most folks my age of both sexes? I may be getting sort of normal in some ways with age, but in others you may relax and know my stubbornness and honest boredom keep me from slipping. I haven't the slightest interest in the most exotic shrub. I consider the $$$ we pay to a yard service to mow our grass one of our expenditures almost as necessary as things like bread, milk and television.
Yeah, I've read a few mainstream suspense books from the best seller list determined by normal humanoids, but you won't catch me doing anything in our backyard after work or before but swimming, drinking or loafing. You likewise won't catch me yakking over the fence with neighbors; I'm still proud to say I have avoided their polite waves on occasion. I'm good at pretending I don't see them, faking ignorance or obliviousness, but you all know I'm like a tiger when I walk out of doors, tuned in to vibrations and jungle jive. Yeah, house with a pool and a job commute, you'd think I'm finally morphing into Ward Cleaver, hah! I work nightshift and dress as casually as most of you when taking your trash to the city dump or doing the yardwork I despise. I listen to classical music sometimes on headphones while actually working, but it's stuff like Venom and Radio Birdman and the Stranglers and Sirius underground garage while commuting.
Yeah, I'm a proud Grandpa, but I'm nothing like yours! I might be your parents age, but that's where the resemblance ends. No, I don't consider myself superior to them, just one of the wackiest blends of political thoughts and social mores they will ever encounter. I'm a lone wolf most days of my life, even at chess events. I do come home to the guys, the cats. They are rarely too busy to wake up and follow me around the house. I really enjoy their wacky, demented relationship. Ass licking for affection, followed by fur ripping fights. I get along good with my Grandson. He's known who I am for a long time already. I don't seem to creep him out. When I visit his home he leads me by hand into his room to display his latest endeavor and kick, be it violent bowling with plastic pins or baseball gyrations, done with strength and promise. I love it when he starts dancing spontaneously to something he see's or hears. I can't write about it, it would kill this diary. Even cool thoughts such as how it would be dandy to survive to shoot pool with him and his Dad in a bar ( my goal as a Father which I attained ). It's not that far off, I think about it and have his picture posing with me at work in a prominent place, but need to focus on other stuff here. I've made that point here; I do so every couple years. Yes, I am guilty of a work ethic and a love of heavy history biography's that are difficult to hold up to read after an 8 hour tango with a computer and I love my kitty's and would vomit if forced to watch football or any college sport with your male relatives and they in turn would heave if they had to listen to the sick, vile music I commute to. There are a jillion Grandkid friendly blogs to be found. This won't be turning into one, although I don't mind revealing my sweet side occasionally.
12-29-13 I haven't had much of a chess tournament here at the North American Open in vegas. We've had a great time and all, but the chess games were fun and worthy but the results didn't swing my way much. I have to record for posterity the doings in the last round. I wound up paired with another 9 year old. No big deal anymore.
Over the years I've had to face the question of quitting the game or blotting the little trolls out of my mind at the board. My results have improved against the 8-14 year olds. The thing that burns me a bit still about them is the fact that whereas they always have supportive family folks with them and without exception a hired trainer chess wise, I've never been able to afford a lesson in my life. My Frau helps a great deal in many ways, but it's just different having a staff of people waiting on you and your lovable spouse. My opponent on this occasion was backed by a mother, father and indeed a chess coach.
Some of the kids barely talk to me, but this kid was extroverted as hell. After the taking of the usual exploitation "beauty vs. beast" pic, we got the game started. You don't need to know even the rules of chess to follow this, but be aware of the fact that you can either win, lose or draw a game. The kid kept bashing out his pieces with sound effects, superfast, imitating some silly jive from chess movies like searching for bobby fischer. In 99 percent of games between adults play is polite and quiet. Silence is mandatory in the playing hall; shit 700 people or so played at a time.
My troubles began when I sacrificed a little bitty pawn in the opening to circumvent any notions of his attacking my king. We went into an endgame with him that slight bit of material ahead, which is serious enough amongst players our level, but considering how he was clearly impatient and wanted to get it over fast I chose to slow things down and bore him to death. That's a common adult vs. kid strategy. It's worked for me sometimes in the past. Gradually material disappeared from the board. As the game progressed the boy kept trying to psych me with a routine of noises. Slamming pieces down, chattering to himself and slowly unscrewing the lid to a Gatoraide bottle and then gulping it loudly. This behavior is really pretty rare. I don't know who is responsible for the kid being so unsportsmanlike. If I had wanted to I could have talked to a tournament official about him, but shit. It would look like sour grapes a big boy like me a goddamn monster being so sensitive about an "innocent" little brat.
I took 3 significant breaks from the board to try to bore him, but still couldn't make up that dangerous pawn down difference. After my last little walk away from the board I resolved to just be a sportsman and try my best to provide dangerous opposition and lose if I must. You know, I may be a creep and hang out with the dregs of society, but I'm a real square Joe when it comes to chess, an ambassador for the goddamn game.
The kid kept acting as cocky as any player I've ever faced in my lengthy almost lifelong career. He was sure as shit he was gonna put me away. I kept thinking my moves over carefully, still poised for a mistake. He was frequently still making instant moves which is a bad move, even for damn strong masters. We arrived at the last phase of the game with just our kings and a few pawns left, he had 5 and I had 4. Finally, the little bastard cracked. 3 of his pawns faced 2 of mine and needed to over power them, but he arranged them in a moronic, cocky and thoughtless way, knotting up the board.
We were left with kings facing each other chasing each other back and forth unable to make any progress. Suddenly, the kids cockyness disappeared. He stared a the board for 10 minutes his expression one of shock and awe. We moved our kings back and forth a couple more times, but it was obvious to both of us that the game was going to be a draw. Falling etiquette norms I offered him a draw, which he fucking had the gall to refuse! I waited at the board gazing now and then at the games on either side of us. What the hell was he going to do? If he did anything other than accept the draw he would now lose thanks to my veteran savy and stubborn willingness to persevere.
Suddenly, he started goddamn crying!!! 30 seconds later, he was still sobbing. 3 minutes of crying and he was annoying the other players a bit, embarassing them, but still he kept at it. I timed him with our chess clock and he cried for a full 8 minutes!! Finally he stuck his hand out and we officially drew the game. His help squad stood near mutely. I called my son El about it later. This was a bizarre but very memorable game. I not only saved myself from a defeat, but I'm damn sure I'll save more over the coming years using this game as a mental prod. UUrrrppp. Fuck!! Crying for 8 minutes in the tournament hall?!?!? I cried as a kid over my first adult tournament losses, but outdoors a block away. Shit. Elvis thinks it's possible this might be a case where the kid might learn a lesson and come up to me at some event down the road in coming years to apologize. We'll see.
I have a real short fuse these days when it comes to those eager communications experts who think that their buzzword oriented lingo has some sort of actual value. Yunno, all the catch phrases that a minority of office workers actually in practice use. Remember "let's network" and "do the math" and my favorite "throwing somebody under the bus". Ok, I know there are at least a couple of my valued relations with communicatons degrees, but I can't hold back even out of respect to them. Ever had anybody walk up to you and just hock a wad of spit in yer face? That's what I feel like when some jackass "human resources" type at work ( not my current job ) sends a communication to a large group of workers loaded with phrases that harken me back to the ordeal I had to survive to get my degree, a Communications 101 class. It was all talk about talk; content mattered not..and the kids in the class sucked that shit up like it really matters.
The truth is, it does matter if you work for some trendy dot com employer or maybe a public relations firm or ad agency. Most jobs use traditional language, period. Why don't these fucks ever mention this? Offices are ruled by people many years out of school for the most part. The communicunts ( my new buzzword! ) assume that life imitates college..huh!! Balls to that. The trendy little pieces on Yahoo.com and other forums of mass idiocy would have you think that the key to having a great career is having some young and hip and cool job. Fact is, once you're past 30 or so you look ridiculous using juvenile, trendy buzzwords. What positive purposes has all this bullshit talk about talk been used for?
The only uses the chic words and phrases I have experienced have been words used to shut down somebody who is making some good solid demands of bosses. "Take a deep breath" they say as the employee pounds his fist harmlessly on the table to point out a way in which he (or she!) is getting screwed, or a way management has been fucking things up. If they have their way, you can be making brilliant points they should be paying heed to, but they will just shush you with jargon about "anger issues" or a need for multi-clusterfuck dialogue. Communicunts work as public relations experts for politicians; this is the breed of puke who conducts study's to see which words offend potential voters so they can purify some lying career politico's spiels. What a noble cause, eh? This is what we need less of.
One of the communications mantra's is a need for straight talk, plain language, but they spring on the unsuspecting a trendy system of baloney and buzzwords they've never heard to eliminate just that. When I hear of some well intentioned relative obtaining a degree in this b.s. I get a pain in my gut. They've been coached and brainwashed into thinking the world is like that out there, 20 somethings using college-speak. Well, it's no coincidence that some of the communicunts I have known over the years have wound up going to D.C. as "interns" (another bs term referred to young fools conned into working for free). Risk Management units for corporations will hire them and of course those super ethical lobbying groups.
Of course these kids won't listen to your horror story's if you try to wise them up. I don't meddle, only sniff around the situation. Incidentally, a close relative of mine teaches high school Comm 101 classes occasionally. Happily there is a world of difference. Plenty of the younger kids have trouble with even the very basic shit we all actually should know about communicating, looking a job interviewer in the eye, reading the nonverbal message you get from a date's father glaring at you with hands folded across his chest. The simple framework of the subject is ok, it's just been bastardized horribly by p.c. types since the 60's hippie generation came into power. As a master salesman and an attendee at evangelical sermons for most of my childhood I can guarantee you I know how to communicate effectively as they say. As a graduate myself in the field of History I can cite 2 groovy governments from the 20th century that likewise bent over backwards to develop new words and phrases "for the people"; 1) Nazi Germany and 2) the Soviet Union from Lenin and Trotsky right up to the end. Both regimes would attempt to deal with angry populaces by creating alleged programs with catchy titles to pretend to solve problems that caused millions to starve or rat out their neighbors. Communicunts can kiss thee Whiskey Rebel's ass!!!
First off, let me remind you all that I'm a serious capitalist. I'm critical of some of the obsessive behavior of humanoids out there in this entry, but I'm not suggesting we establish more laws to try to downplay the collective insanity of a percentage of fellow species members here in the USA. It's about midnight between Thanksgiving and black Friday and the ugly retail behavior is already being reported. My Frau and I both have retail experience dating back to the 70's.
We agree that even though the media is able to make it seem like crowds and deals are hitting some sort of new heights, honestly they warned me about morons in 1975 at my first retail "black Friday" at Sears. More people than usual gathered out in front of the doors of our mall store. The mood of the folks who were in to collect the big savings on advertised specials were of two mindsets. About half were giddy and happy; the other half seemed dragged there by spouses or cynical and crabby.
My last retail job was at Tower records in Philly. The hysteria was ramped up a notch or two, but not fundamentally different. I've given the question of "who the hell camps out or gets there early to stores for black Friday" a great deal of thought. I think the whole deal is cooked up by the stores to try to get attention, try to get the early $$$ early shoppers with little else to do in their lives have to spend. If you have the time on your hands to try to save a few bucks, more power to you.
If you're camping out in the parking lot, whoah! You've crossed the line. I'm not surprised if 1) you trample old farts in your path when the doors open 2) the deals and savings don't materialize and you freak out 3) you wind up getting bait and switched into buying other goods, which the retail pro's are convinced they can con most of you into doing. FINE!! I love capitalism. Don't pass laws to keep stores closed. Regardless of what you hear about labor laws and holidays and compensation for retail workers, it's probably wrong. Retail pay laws differ from State to State. If a retailer wants you to work a holiday, you're gonnna...or find a new job, or maybe not get it in the first place if you seem picky about working those days in your interview.
I don't think that's so bad. I've been there over the years working for many retailers and I can guaran-damn-tee you that poor beleagured walmart employees have it one helluva lot better than the huge number of folks working for mom and pop stores who have less rules to follow and nobody to put the spotlight on their slavedriver practices. The attention gets put on the "big box" stores by union advocates. What do they care about mom and pop screwing their handful of employees? They need to garner media attention and raise hell at large employers. Hey, I belong to a union and wear the T-shirts at work to advertise it, but I always feared the idea of the retailers I worked for going union. I was a really, really great retail salesman. I made bucketloads of commision sales. Unions would have just made my talents benefit the lazy fucks who couldn't sell shit. If I get a job at a coalmine or picking fruit, I'll hope there's a union to protect me and join it. Retail unions are for the weak.
Anywho, back to black Friday. I'm a better person for having worked retail jobs on hysterical days. All this stewing over evil retailers ruining holidays is just a load of spew. If your family's thanksgiving table was minus a couple of thrill seekers who think they have the time to kill in front of some store for days, or have more reasonable folks who leave the family day early to take position at the malldoors at 4:00 am, well so be it. It's probably not that much fucking fun being around most of y'alls relatives to be truthful. It just means there's more food for the rest of you and that the tongue waggers in your clan can start gossiping about the ones not there sooner!
It's a whole lot of hubbub and flim flam about nothing new in my book. The only things I'd consider doing on a bellyfull of turkey is seeing a great musical act (we've seen Wayne Hancock a couple times on T-giving night) or more likely attending a wrestling card. That I completely endorse! Since when does anybody really, truly give a flying fuck about the rights and comforts of retail workers? Nobody ever came to my rescue when I worked for the shittiest retailer in the world for 3 damn years! Yeah, the Shack. If you don't know about that, plug plug. It's time to order my book "Jobjumper" where 25 years of my shitty jobs are covered in depth. Hey! That's my own crass commercialism at work. Turning a free as air diary entry into a book plug. Urrpppp.