So anyways, to the point. I need to practice more. If I don't keep my fingers in shape, I tend to suck - and that's not just blowin in the wind. I've been playing for about 20 years now, and it has always been my goal and intent to not suck, as it were. In order to accomplish this, I must jam frequently - and ideally, I must be equally practiced in all simultaneously. Like, my electric is sooper easy to play compared to the acoustic - but my performance becomes sloppy unless I'm currently proficient on acoustic. Also, I sound like shit on acoustic, unless I'm at least somewhat comfortable on bass. And there's no way to really fly on bass unless yer usedta flying in general. Where does one obtain flying lessons? You guessed it, the electric. So it's a vicious cycle.

My acoustic is a Gibson Sunburst from the late 30s, in great condition considering it's older than my parents. I started playing guitar on this at 18. It belonged to a friend of mine at the time, but I eventually acquired it for 40 bux in owed gas money. Turns out, if I were to put about 300 into it for restoration it'd be worth about 500 bux today - pretty sweet deal, eh? Maybe one day I'll be such a collector's item, and someone can restore me to past glories and trade me for half a kilo-currency.

Right. So. It had nylon "classical style" strings on it, back in those early late mid 80s - which made it way easy to play, considering I was comin from the garage band jammer bass perspective. Today, because of a skin condition I use Elixir strings exclusively. They have little condoms on em, so my fragile epidermis never actually touches the steel windings. Thus so sheltered from the wind n elements, they tend to last much longer too - they better, they're expensive.

Anyways, all I needed to do was figure out what chords were, and off I was allowed to casually go. I didn't acquire my own electric until the mid early late 90s - a used, fun n flashy hot rod Peavey (with routed frets and a Floyd Rose tremolo system that was probably never once in feasible intonation), which I later sensibly traded up for a new stock Cort - which, besides sounding real nice, stays in pretty good tune mosta the time. It's a real groovy shade of dark blue, or dark green, depending on the light source shining.

The guitar amp is a Fender Princeton Chorus, which comes with reverb, tasty customizable distortion - oh, and a real groovy chorus. It even sounds great through headphones. Also sporting a headphone output is my Crate BX-80 bass amp - with built in EQ and XLR out. Something's wrong with the effects loop, I think - the sound keeps cuttin out. Ah, I need to get it looked at someday. Sokay, I got another one - a Peavey Dyna Bass solid state bass amp on top of a used Traynor cabinet with two 15s. This one cooks the most - but I gotta keep em all pretty much turned down to 2 here in the apartment.

Pedals are all Boss - Flanger and Compressor. I use them on all my instruments - even for voice at times. I have a certain setting which has become my trademark sound - especially for bass. I also have a Bass Distortion pedal, which I rarely use anymore. Great for metal sounding onslaughts, but it's a little broken. Like the week I got it, I accidentally hooked em all up in a loop with a Y-jack out n found the UFO settings from Alpha Centauri. I was overjoyed. I made a tape of it. But my poor yellow floor monster has never been the same since.

My first bass sits in the corner collecting dust leaning up against a bookcase. The pickguard (black, and sporting a dozen or so black on white peace sign symbol thingy stickers) floats loosely between the body and the strings - which are pretty loose themselves, half the machine heads being somewhat damaged from years of wailing incoherently in n out of post adolescent dreams n screams. The pickups and other miscellaneous electronics dangle apathetically (pining for the days when I would wield my trusty soldering iron and experiment with shorts). My father got it for me at a pawn shop for Christmas and birthday when I was 16 - and an amp to go along with it, ye need that sorta thing. He didn't know I was home and started booming when he brought em in from the car shortly after Thanksgiving (so the story goes - he was always into early presents). My friend and I rushed up from the basement to see my dad acting all surprised. Ah, male bonding. I begged my parents my whole life for a guitar - my time had finally come. I wrote some freaky solos on that thing. To play it now, it seems like a toy. Fender copy body with a Gibson neck - n freaky glitter art, amazon warrior silhouettes on the back.

Its replacement is an Ibanez Roadstar II - black with three active pickups (never did figure out what all these knobs are for, but I do have a static setting - that, yes, includes the volume anchored on eleven). I have seldom played a bass at any music store or garage band reunion that has a sweeter touch or easier feel to it (and when I do, it�s usually a very expensive, highly classic model, that the dreams of ever owning one cause sweat to form in areas I didn�t know I had skin). I keep the action set fairly low to flip off massive runs in the hammer-on pull-off phenomenon genre escapade. This is essential for playing any sort of flashy riffs or even chords on the bass guitar - something I have lush tendencies for, and quite like to do rather frequently, but that which has been known to cause some minor irritation to the traditionally and heretically so minded.

For recording, I usually tend to wire right into the computer. I have some awesome n fairly free software. First step in my magic ritual is Tapedeck - a groovy little proggie that looks n acts just like a soundboard. I can play along to tracks, overdub, add effects, pan, EQ, tweak yer nipples - all kindsa things. When I�m happy with what I�ve just done (which is usually justa rough demo for almost immediate posting on the music website), I open up the WAV file in Cool Edit for the final waveform action editing process - apply fades, convert to mono if ye like, even save as an mp3. But the total lifesaver in this whole ordeal is "The Cat" - Audio Catalyst. This one compresses WAV to mp3 in less time than it takes me to write the html code for the new page. After I get a nice healthy size batch of new tunes, I just upload em all to my site via Cute-FTP - and send out the latest newsletter to all my adoring fans (whose nipples tend to come pre-tweaked).

In the old daze, I usedta go the humble blue collar route n play amateur studio producer god on the 4-track - which sits neatly atop my CD player, atop my cassette deck, adjacent to the puter, within reach of all my gear. Rainbow tie-dye bandannas grace and drape the terrestrial tech, for to shield and protect from dust - which is the bane of all electron friendly devices on this primitive planet. Under yet more further rainbow recommendations via perennial Christmas lights, the scene is complete. The pencils are sharpened. The music is calling. So, why am I still typing out all this diatribe? Maybe it�s too cold in here.

When it�s cold, finger muscles don�t move right - n it�s also kinda hard to concentrate when yer sittin there shivering. Your hands also hafta be dry n clean to manhandle the strings, or they�ll develop a nasty gritty buildup n eventually corrode. Guitars themselves also don�t like to be played when it�s too cold. Besides the strings, sound vibrations can cause slight to moderate damage in the wood bodies n necks - when sullen temperatures make matters more brittle. It is also advisable that one not power up equipment when it�s too chilly to go without a coat - besides, the mechanism that makes speakers create audible tones are made of paper. All of the above are extremely allergic to high and low humidity.

Gettin back to strings for a minute - I mentioned before that I have a skin condition. Years ago, I was diggin around the roots of a tree, puttin bricks inbetween the ribbons of cement that were my driveway. Half of that strip of lawn had long since gone to mud n clay after years of oil n trans-fluid (n anything else you may feel comfortable imagining them singing creepy campfire songs about in distant descended centuries hence) dripping on the sacred earth, making it inhospitable to even bacterial life. Water loosens up dirt. Mud ruins gardening gloves. Mud doesn�t care how many pairs of cheap ass gardening gloves you�ve already gone through. Mud doesn�t go away just because you�ve run out of gloves. Long story short, always wear gloves when gardening, and always brush n floss twice a day.

So there I am, diggin up the gray oith, about every day, gettin ready for to put the house on the market, hopin it looks real groovy from the street, n that the bricks I can get ahold of n puzzle piece together are more pleasing to the naked eye and stable to walk on than the hopefully hardened slab of Armageddon I had been traipsing across for many years gone by. Oh, yes, I made a delightful maze of pattern in stone. Did I mention I like puzzles? I love puzzles. It was nice to have a sense of cobblestone in the few remaining months I lived there before we finally sold the house. I never did hear if they liked the driveway ornamentation. But I�m sure they did have some thoughts about it in the months n years to come - as I didn�t grade it beforehand. You hafta lay down sand or something, I�m told. I hope nobody tripped n broke their ankles in the uneven winter ice. I also hope they didn�t erase my gallant artistry. I want to be remembered for all time - at least by the tree. A double-trunked silver spruce. About a hundred stories tall, whose leaves once dappled the simultaneous sunlight n moonlight one always has shone upon from the rarest of celestial groovy things, an annular eclipse - little circles of light everywhere on the ground, dancing on the pavement as the wind gracefully moved through the trees. I had been up for 20 hours that afternoon, and was rather impressed.

So one day, while I�m in the process and likely contemplating my current musing masterpiece of rudimentary landscaping, I notice I have dry cracks, almost cuts, almost burns on nearly all of my fingers on both hands. They get worse. I put band aids on them. They only get worse. I try everything under the sun. Musta spent a hundred bux on skin creams n over the counter medicines dermatological. Turns out, like two years later, finally I get a dermatologist who half way knows what he�s dealing with - I�m allergic to nickel. This is where the strings come back into play. All guitar strings have some nickel in them. Nickel is very flexible n malleable, yet strong n shiny - it�s in just about every processed metal on the planet, n a few asteroids too.

One way one may become allergic to such things soon became apparent to me - but first I freaked out a bit. I mean it�s an element for god�s sake. I�ve been allergic to a few things in the past, but how can you be allergic to something on the periodic table? Well, then again, we�re all kinda allergic to arsenic, eh? But you know what it was? Mercury. That�s a poison too. And it�s on the periodic table. An official element - as is silver. Maybe I should get myself one of those, so at least I have a partial list of some of the things that are designed to kill me.

So. Mercury is in the dental fillings. I had so much dental work done, there was more silver in my mouth than enamel. Also, I�d had alotta work done all at once. Over a period of about two years, I lost about half my teeth to the torture chamber, n half of what�s left ended up supported by something these silly humanoids can melt n mold into workable shapes, n place em delicately, ever so precisely into holes they just recently drilled just inches from your brain.

All metal fillings have mercury in them. Dental amalgam is comprised of: the aforementioned liquid planetary namesake, nickel, silver, lead, and a number of other freaky things I�m sure even I would probably be better off not knowing about. One of em is a type of glue. None of these things are even half as edible as enamel - or even porcelain. Mercury. In my mouth? For years? Ew.

Recently, someone traced Alzheimer�s disease to mercury poisoning. Yes, mercury poisoning is an official term. In the 70s they stopped making thermometers out of it, and started replacing rheostats in people�s homes with the more trustworthy electronic models. So I�ve got all this mercury in my system, n now I�ve got an increased sensitivity to other base metals, like the nickel in my guitar strings.

Not knowing this for the first dozen months or so, I never made the connection to the guitar playing. I�d need 20 band-aids on my fingers for about a week, n so couldn�t really play much - so when it healed, I�d rush to jam as much as possible to hurry up n get back into shape jam wise. It takes about three days for the skin to disintegrate. I thought it was the diggin up tree roots covered in toxic waste that turned my fingers to mush - but that�s probably just what put it over the edge at first. Curiously, the chlorine from swimming pools tends to clear up budding wounds, if they�re just starting - or at least prevents em from gettin too bad, nips em in the bud, so to speak.

So anyways, the doc gives me this steroid goop to put on the incidents of abrasion to heal em up - now it only takes about three days for em to clear. Also, now that I been usin the stuff awhile, and I got Elixir strings on everything, I don�t get timespace distortions on my fingertips anymore - though sometimes the pads of my fingers, if I�ve been playin alot lately and the strings are old - the nylon condom shielding frays after awhile.

Also, just handling the unclean things in this world, or especially toxic, can cause an outbreak of dry cuts clean through, spotty perforation across vast areas of surface covering - like, just touching a bottle of Windex long enough to squirt it n put it down can manifest a destiny some days later.

Cream dries skin out, n makes it more susceptible to accidents in the erosion category. Ointment moisturizes, but gets all over everything you touch, n doesn�t allow the skin to breathe. I got Rx steroid tubes of both persuasions.

So I got all these weird things happening to my hands, n I�m tryin to jam. To make matters even worse, I have partials upper n lower, that hafta be rinsed out about once every hour - which means I�m stickin my fingers in my mouth about 20 times a day. You don�t wanna have steroid goop on em while yer doin this.

So it�s been about a year now since I had all my metal fillings replaced with the white plastic stuff - can�t wait for that to turn out to be poisonous too. But the partials in my daily face are the originals I got with all the tooth pullings; at the dental school (first time I ever had anything medical done to me by someone younger than me, and it kinda hurt, alot, many times over, over a period of a couple years) - and they�re made of metal. Can�t help but wonder if it�s a bad idea to have a big ol stainless steel plate rubbing up against my palate n gums all day long. But ya go too long without the partials in, n yer teeth start to drift. They�re lonely. They miss their long lost neighbors. So ya go to put yer plates in after a couple days of not (I had the flu recently), n it hurts like hell cuz one or another of em moved over half a millimeter - n so ya don�t exactly feel like jammin.

It kinda sux. Ya can�t exactly go campin - not unless ya got an endless supply of drinking water, preferably running, n attached to a sink, within relative proximity of your toothbrush. When I go out to the bars n drink beer, it�s half OK - but if i�m drinkin mixed drinks, with alotta sugar (Jack n Coke, my personal favorite), I need a nice clean bathroom where I can privately rinse the faux choppers before I develop a tightly wound toothache: that for some reason, alcohol seems to slightly intensify somewhat, even more. Ow.

Yes, I�m well versed in the art n science of torrential toothaches. Whenever women cry that men are such hopeless wimps, that they will never know the hours of intense excruciating pain of childbirth, I tend to remember the dozen or so incidents in evidence involving bouts of painful excruciation so intense that nothing would alleviate (not even Aleve) - and that�s besides the actual oral surgery (root canals, extractions, etc) - breathing through the corner of my mouth to squirt fresh cool air on the affected area, until I induce near hyperventilation, which only sends the pain threshold spiraling downward to the bonus bargain basement of extracurricular excruciation, where the many varying colors of pain may now be perceived. I thrice attempted to inform my dental practitioners about this interesting phenomenon, but they seemed neither interested, impressed, nor amused. They gave me a prescription for codeine and sent me on my merry way. Whoa.

Most medical practitioners are not regularly amused - especially by the subtly thoughtful thoughts n ramblings of someone sitting before them, with something they�ve seen before, several dozen of dozens of times, obviously caused by the afflicted�s own irresponsibility n neglect - n makin em late for their next appointment to boot (I however have an excuse: I was homeless - I also forgot to floss alot). The most you can get out of em is a speedy polite. I understand, they�re just doin their job. Most people hate their job. Most people worry that their job isn�t paying their bills. Most people are too busy to figure out how to make their lives better, much less escape their current predicament - and here�s this hippie, reclined prone before them, with sunglasses in his lap, spewing forth paranoid paranormal propaganda evidently designed to make them slightly nervous for the rest of their daily day.

Probably the main thing that worries em is the whole malpractice issue. I told my dentist for years about mercury poisoning n he seemed the textbook least possible bit interested that politeness would allow. One potential reason for this: turns out, it�s considered "unethical" by the American Dental Association for a dentist to inform patients that the metal fillings in their mouths are potentially hazardous to their health (I guess that covers acknowledgment too) - the reasoning behind this being: the exponentially explosive risk of malpractice - almost everyone sane and solvent would want their fickle fillings removed and rightly replaced with the non combative, non toxic variety immediately. Also, all sorts of things can go wrong during such procedures - believe me, I know. My dentist had everything but a radiation suit on for every procedure - of which there were like five over a period of about a year, the collective quickest he could get me in. He would put balloons in my mouth to catch any stray microbits of kryptonite, lest they plummet down my gullet - an assistant standing by with vacuum hose to quickly dispose of any fleck and flake of hazardous to your health.

My fellow jammer friend, and hippie prot�g� (upon hearing this) wonders if I can sue someone for damages over such things. Now, I�m not one to sue, but I would certainly appreciate some sort and/or sense of relief from all the things wrong with me - probably n possibly, arguably because of alla this. Besides the skin problems, I have become legally agoraphobic (which means I become mentally vacant when in the presence of even small groups of people). Now, I was always a little shy, despite bein a DJ my senior year - and I have smoked my weight in pot, in my lifetime, many times over - but I have noticed a definite improvement in my public demeanor since the outset of elemental metals from my dental domain. Also, perhaps partly due to my lack of contact with the outside world, my immune system seems to have gone a bit lethargic. I don�t just get a cold anymore. For the last few years, my winter sniffles have been 2-3 week long bouts with the flu complicated by chronic bronchitis.

Yeah, I know, I should quit smokin. Easier said than done. I have tried to cut down - but the best I seem to be able to do is let half of em burn in the ashtray when I�m otherwise busy with a guitar in my hands. Ends up costin the same anyways.

Now, if all those people can class action suit the tobacco industry, I should at least get a break on my four digit dental bills, eh? Trouble is tho, it'd prolly hafta end up bein a class action suit with millions of people over several generations - n it�s not just the mercury in the fillings, either. Turns out, even fluoride in the water supply is bad fer yer fangs. Fluoride is a form of (and/or mostly consisting of) another famous element poisonous to mammals: namely, fluorine. Fluorine is directly above chlorine, sandwiched between oxygen and neon on the periodic table.

Anyways, fluoride is a natural byproduct of the steel industry. Turns out it has nothing to do with preventing cavities after all - but it was a cheap way of gettin rid of toxic waste during the industrial revolution. Zooming out, panning around for the bigger picture of it all, I am convinced the planet has long been since occupied by malevolent aliens - hell bent, n quite secure, in their program of enslaving the entire human race (this chemical seasoning is just the maintenance phase of that directive). Now - try to sue aliens. Goin after a corporation is one thing, but goin after dozens, and the government, n the AMA, ADA - good luck, At the end of it all - what would I get - a bouncing check for a buck and a guest shot on Larry King?

The way I understand it, the metal in your mouth, like all metals, has its atoms configured in such a way as to be detrimental to any living thing they may happen to temporarily chance reside in. Just being mere inches from your brain sends dangerous microscopics to your brain, which was not designed to deal with anything like this at all, and suffers gravely for it one way or another - n every time you drink something, it gets into yer digestive system too. Ew.

Now, there may be alotta reasons why this happened to me, and so many other people over the last dozen decades or so that it has been the happy accepted medical practice to place poison in children�s choppers. Chief among them being greed, and hence capitalism. Capitalism is bad because, by its very nature, it encourages and rewards the least evolved among us - the brutes of our species, the most ruthless and selfish - to become the most powerful and darkest forces of despair on our tiny doomed world. Simply put: the most evil have become the least answerable.

Now, the first argument to come out of the bayous and skyscrapers is that communism was the purest example of evil for the latter half of the 20th century - and still exists in some forceful form today, patiently n pedantically threatening to take over every living thing, etc. Commies. Pinkos. Nah. Those countries (USSR, China, Cuba, etc.) are not now and never have been truly purely communist. They were (and/or are) military dictatorships (albeit cleverly disguised as commies), feeding petty political and partially puny philosophical party propaganda to the mellow mad masses. "Religion as an opiate for the people" - bah. Keep em busy working in the pit, and they won�t have time to notice the suddenly smelly half empty jar of Vaseline resting on their hoisted haunches.

In order for any socialist society to somehow survive, n hopefully flourish, it must be entirely autonomous and sentiently (if not sentimentally) self sufficient. There has never been, to my knowledge, a communist or socialist, or even hippie commune, that was not at some point obliged to trade with the outside world. In a true socialist society: there is no such thing as money, everybody does what their most happiest doing, pursuing their life�s dream - n everything somehow works out for the best. People are allowed to go to school for whatever they want for as long as they want, n become high grand experts in the things that their brains and/or bodies were genetically prone and favored to do (the people who love to make TVs n DVD players with unmitigated passion beyond dripping nipples, may do so, and there�s eventually enough of them for everybody to have one). Some people love to build houses, everybody�s gotta have some place to live. Some people love to cook, everybody�s gotta eat. Some people, like me, we like to make music - most people like to listen music of some form or another. Enjoyment is a necessary property of sentient existence. No longer simply the driving force behind procreation, as it were, it has become vital to our evolution as a species. Ask any couch potato.

But that�s the problem with capitalism. It has no use for the creative among us. The artists, the innovators in our world, we have no place in society unless we are currently making someone else, who�s already filthy rich, even filthier richer still, even. The sad fact of the western world is: most people, if they are to survive, need a job. If you�re lucky, you have a nice, fully furnished, state of the art slave quarters. If you�re happy, you probably haven�t a clue that all your days are spent in mindless oblivion, dancing in place, busy as a beaver in a beehive, working your something to the root of it all; to provide your offspring (you have them, because you�ve been rewarded for being a good slave, and have been permitted to procreate) with the opportunity one day to send them off to someplace warm and clean where they can learn newer things and acquire the future skills scheduled necessary to chase that elusive American dream themselves.

So the most evolved among us are usually starving, denied education and probably housing - and often end up with little opportunity to sprinkle their slightly more advanced gene combos on the future furniture. Just as well: trust me, it sux bein a child genius livin in poverty (I met one once, he lived on my block). The accidental utterance of four syllable words, in the ghetto, even the blue collar burbs, will get you excommunicated from extracurricular activities - at least.

I was once (that I know of) beaten up for suspicion of being a homosexual. I�m not tho - never was. Not that it�d be all that bad, if my brain n loins were so inclined to such things (the disputed rumor is that they get laid more often). But the point is, that I was mistaken for one of God�s greener children because I was quiet, thoughtful, and respected women as fellow human beings (the alleged perpetrators are likely in some position of respected authority, today). Also, I was about a year younger than most people in my class, and somewhat smaller to begin with, so that mighta had something to do with it as well. Ah, throw em all into the pot n ye get rubber. Trouble with bullies is, they�re usually also jocks on the side (in their spare time) - n any administrator in charge of such things (likely bein a jock bully, him or her own self) is prolly gonna cut the creepy criminals some slack, cuz there�s the big game on Friday. Many a time, I was the one who got suspended, or otherwise penalized n punished - cuz, as it turns out, I was the one in the middle of the pile of unsanctioned lunchtime recess violence.

So, Yes. I espouse freedom of thought, action, education - and all that other stuff that we assume must take place in the rest of the Federation, while the starship Enterprise is flying around space (at such speeds, that ironically, according to Einstein, must take them somewhat back in time, to an era where such thoughts of such things were annihilated at the outset by armed guards carrying spears, wielding crossbows, armed with submachineguns and uploading computer viruses) - but at least they have all of us to look back on with fond memories of history class, to help them feel superior and self confident - as opposed to oppression, the current strategy for climbing to the top of your local trash heap.

Which brings me to the classic argument against this idyllic ideal, which basically is "who�s gonna take out the trash?" Well, perhaps they�re right. Maybe we�re not ready for Utopia, until we can feel snuggly safe n fancy free unleashing to the world the technology that allows for the disintegration of things we no longer have any useful need for anymore. This is why the government doesn�t tell us about UFOs. They don�t want terrorists having access to laser pistols and cloaking devices. Maybe they�re right for that, at least. But mostly, they�re just plain bossy.

"Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely." I don�t know who said that first, but nearly everyone on the planet ever since has said it themselves at one time or another, potentially to acquire more power in the moment�s conversation. It is our most primal nature - control in order to survive.

See, people are bossy because they�re frustrated, and they panic. They�re desperate to avoid an uncomfortable situation - maybe they�ve had a few dozen too many in the past, and they fear it - or, maybe, they just think they can get away with it. Avoid these people at all costs. The power surge one feels, when one�s bossiness has covered the globe with one�s glorious dynastic rule, is like gargling one�s own vomit. It tastes familiar, but this fatal poison�s suffering will be long and unendurable - even by people just reading about it, in n out of context.

I only mention alla this cuz I got a girlfriend who�s a little on the bossy side. I tried to tell her that scientists made a new discovery: bossy, needy and closed minded are actually a bad combination. A good friend of mine made a good counterpoint: "did they fail to leave out that: company + pussy + emotional stimulation (if not always positive) = good?" He�s a genius in his own mind.

But I only sidetrack, ever so endlessly, to point out that there are many things in my life that seem to be conspiring to keep me away from my musical instruments - not the least of which seems to be getting involved in some project on my computer. If it�s not a webpage, or something slightly to do with music, or complaining to friends that I don�t have time to jam, it�s a webpage about something slightly to do with music, with complimentary text complaining to anyone who happens by that I don�t have time to jam.

The main parta my day consists of sitting in front of the computer. In fact, I usually spend 90% of my waking hours in the comfortable chair - so stationed, so elegantly, so that I may now point out so eloquently, with an artful ability and complex confidence in my redundant contextual alliteration, just how I usually spend 90% of my waking hours. These things are not taken lightly.

I wish to spend more of my days actually jamming, however. When I was in a band, I religiously performed band practice rituals, in faith, that one day there might be more than two of us, and a better place to play than the bedroom of my apartment. I have stated elsewhere, in other interminable volumes of planetary mass, the precise conditions with which I experienced such slight of band. Suffice it to say, I believe that it is certainly at least partly that I am often taken for a complete freak just because I am a jammer, quite possible because it is indeed the intense n not altogether untrue stereotype that all jammers are freaks. However, not all freaks are jammers, it would seem.

In the past several years, indeed for most of my musical career, I have been most unfortunate to find that I was unable to find someone similarly sane along these same musical lines. Hey, that rhymes, If you don�t mind iambic dodeca-pentameter. I�d probably write more lyrics if I wasn�t so frustrated in such a mind bogglingly unusual way. Hard to relate to the common man if you don�t actually hang out with any of them. I guess I�m uncommon, then. I�m uncommonly delicious. I�d tell myself that to avoid becoming perpetually depressed, but I�d probably realize soon just what I was up to, and become further and permanently morose in nature.

I have cold feet - in both the figurative and literal sense. It was a good idea to move my desk over here, there�s more room in this room now, and almost everything is well proportioned in its place - but it is too close to the window for this time of year (even in the south), sweaty socks must be tucked under legs in order to think straight.

I guess it helps alot that I�m in the south, not being from here. I�m in Macon, Georgia. I�m from Detroit. We had five rock stations when I left. Not that I�m ever goin back (a bit too chilly for me), but the end of the world never seemed so sweet as when you hafta decide between twangy 80s pop ballads and fierce metal insubstantial perpetual servitude. Most rockers in the south are clinically pressed ever so firmly in the southern rock mentality and forbearance, that the black hole in geosynchronous orbit on the other side of the sun has sent us country weaned alternative mesh heads, disguised as folk singers, for sweet revenge. Alternative. Bah. Metal and Punk got drunk at the same bar one night and had an ultimately argumentative illegitimate offspring. Par it mostly disavows the existence of either parent. Zeppelin, Yes, Rush, Floyd, Sabbath - is that so much to ask?

So I got about 300 originals - maybe a whole bunch more, certainly, if I ever get around to combing through all the journal tapes. I have a website for it all now: dudeman.net/shadows - Shadows is the name of the band that I�m currently the only one in. There�s one other guy kinda tho - a kid, in high school, been playin guitar for a couple years, gettin kinda good, totally into it. If only I were 20 n lived down the street from him, eh? Temporarily settling for the same temporal plane.

I got a tab program a few months ago. Tab is short for tablature. Tablature is a poor man�s manuscript format for notating music. Instead of dots, one uses numbers, representing the frets - and the lines represent the strings. Something the old masters didn�t think of. Very helpful for learning how to play a tune, where the chords are, and how one should slide up and down inbetween em.

Anyways, this program, Guitar Pro, is very helpful to me in allowing me to spend time on my music when I otherwise cannot actually hold axe n jam. I feel less like a slacker, even in my slacker world, when I at least am doing something towards my penultimate destined musical goals.

So now I got about 100 files for songs of mine that I have notated into tab - and the proggie previews in midi too, so that�s another bonus output, 100 or so odd midi files now too. I�ve posted em all on me website. Not that anyone will ever download them or anything. Ah, well - they don�t take up much space.

For my 50 bux a month, I get 24-7 internet access and my own domain with 300mb of storage and 3000mb of bandwidth. This is an unusual plan. My old ISP was eaten by a bigger fish (happened to my bank a couple times too, there�s always a bigger fish), and in order to keep us on, someone over there devised this sweet deal (unavailable to anyone else) in the hopes that it, along with the hassle of having to switch email n everything, would deter us from canceling continued contributions to their children�s college funds. In all honesty, I have looked into n entertained the very idea of plugging into a different node - maybe I�ll wait til I get cable ready.

My 300mb is about used up - almost half of it by sound files at Shadows. I suppose I could delete some of the massive backgrounds collection in an absolute emergency, but the bulk of the converted surplus is emergency backup of absolute necessity programs, in case of another computer meltdown and or last minute reformat. If I got a virus, I�d be prepared, but I desperately need a CD burner.

All of these things I could go on n on about, but basically, my point is, these things tend to keep me up nights. So much so that I�m still up the following day until I drop from exhaustion. I guess you could say I need a hobby - but the thing is, I already have 20 hobbies, each of em commanding several simultaneous projects screaming for compassionate completion. I guess the trick is to design em all in the first place so that no matter where you leave off, no matter how incomplete, at least it�s somewhat presentable.

That�s how I do dishes. When I�m done with eating off dishes, or drinking out of glasses, I rinse em off and put em in the sink. I�m not gonna go to any more trouble than that - besides, the dishwasher is usually full of clean dishes (I can tell because I made a sign and it sez so). We have a double sink in this apartment, and one of em I reserve for dirty dishes, n the other one (the one with the disposal) is for running water, bathing company in, rinsing food, etc. Now, few other people I have ever come in contact with are really completely compatible with, or capable of comprehending, or even accepting this - but I know how to stack dishes in such a groovy organized way, that the all too common event that I�m not gonna get around to dealing with the situation for at least another couple of days is not anything anywhere near demanding enough that I get up off the couch for to process thoughts of, or dare to pull me away from my glistening guitar the one minute a week when every star in the sky sez it�s OK for it to do so. It�s a fact. I�m not gonna argue with anyone who says how wrong that is, except to say that we all have experienced a sickening smelly sink overflowing with dirty dishes, and I have thus hence evolved to deal with that situation in a way that it is still possible to use the sink, get a glass of water n go to bed.

Sleep is very important. But I see, from the ever growing chart, that the days that I stay up the longest are often the days when I sleep the least. Oh sure, the following day I tend to stay under for at least 10 hours, nearly half the day - but then I fall backwards into some oblivious sleep depravation cycle of as low as 5 hours of snooze a night. This is not counting the hours I am dozing, in bed but not sleeping - maybe I just have too many imagined problems. I say "imagined" because most of the people around me seem to think, as they commonly state, that my problems are nothing at all - they should be so lucky.

I will now list the main things that I suspect are the most likely culprits for keeping me up nights, n daze, n weaks.

1. My girlfriend. I live in abject fear n despair that I�m eventually gonna hafta have a convo with the snapper each day, n it�ll end up bein about how I hafta do something that I�m nether inclined nor particularly prepared to do, because she is needy, bossy n out of control with her close-mindedness Loch Ness Monster hood. She always wants me to go places with her, that involve me bein in public, during the same such time of day that there are often many other people around, busy also being in public, potentially with me, if she has her way. She knows I�m agoraphobic, but tends to put her convenience above my impossibilities. Basically, she just wants to be with me - often desperately. This is illogical behavior, n considered quite rather unacceptable on most civilized planets, I imagine. But it makes her feel unloved n unwanted when I�m not there (so out come the guilt grapplers), prolly cuz she has no one else to boss around. The trouble is, she lives in a trailer (which sux), and there�s also never anything for me to do over there but sit on the bed n watch tv. Oh sure, I bring my acoustic - but it�s not the same. See, the way I figure it, she doesn�t actually like me very much. We don�t listen to hardly any of the same music, she�s not the least bit interested in (and/or tends to know n care extremely little about) most of the things that are most important to me. But she sez she loves me. She also likes to say that I love her too, but I contend that I�m not in high school any more, n therefore tend to have a more mature way of looking at things. The way I see it, she�s addicted to sex - n while that is kinda almost exactly what I ordered, too much oregano or garlic can ruin any pizza.

2. Money. I have none. My car has been in a coma for about six moons now. There�s something wrong with the alternator, I think - but, it being an Audi, n this being the south, I can�t afford to have it towed anywhere, to likely one of the distant few or so places in which such models are appreciated for what they are - not Japanese, and not American. My ride is an 85. I know, it�s older than my guitar player - but it runs great (when it usedta run), n it looks like a soccer mom�s car. 5-speed. Moonroof. Goes 85 inna flash. Flash - ah, ah - savior of the universe! I miss it.

3. No band. This is especially frustrating, since all I ever wanted to do with my life was make music, make more music, make better music, n make other groovy things for my music (like albums, videos, movies, groovy t-shirts, etc) until it was time to do something about n along the lines n loins of makin more music again once more. It�s a lifestyle choice, that I have grown to long n love n live with. Only trouble is, I can�t find anybody to jam with. It�s excruciatingly difficult to find anyone who�s willing to even listen to one of the 300+ tunes - n those are just the ones I have together enough to safely call a so-called song. Also, my friend n bass mentor from daze of old, who lives out in LA now (the Valley, actually), has confessed to me that he considers none of my material anywhere near any such thing as an actual tune, until it�s completely produced with a drummer, singer, n preferably available on CD, potentially played on the radio - n besides, he�s not into originals? Bah. Skeptic. I was trolling for kudos, too. He did much later say that I am wailing now. Ah, justification. Another buddy from the same crowd admitted shortly afterwards that he�s long felt the same way, but was just bein nice - he�s from the south, himself, originally (his wife�s a Republican - ew).

4. I�m in the south. Trapped. Stranded. Surrounded by so many Republicans it makes yer head spin as if stock quotes were ticking by every time ya close yer eyes. At least the weather�s nice (most of the time). The trouble with the south isn�t so much that it�s south of anything in particular - just all the Southerners. Now, mind you, I never considered meself to be a yankee, until I moved down here n caught the flack for it for a couple weeks. See, Southerners are quicker to be insulted n least capable of dealing with that horrible ordeal maturely than even Sicilians - n bein from Detroit, I�ve known many Sicilians in my day. Trouble is, Southerners aren�t quite as proud of that particular personality trait as so many Sicilians are. Now, Southerners will be nice to you, to yer face, but they actually prolly sometimes (actually more often that not) really hate you, or consider you to be among the lowest forms of life - n therefore not worthy of consideration for anything except rebukement. Northerners don�t think this about Southerners though - not right off anyways. See, most Americans tend to judge people for their actions - take em as they are, so to speak. When Southerners migrate up north (for whatever reason, still can�t figure that one out), their accent gives em away right away, but you hafta be an out n out racist n all kindsa other abnormal stereotypes for people to wanna avoid you on sight - n they still will only avoid doin business with ya if any of these traits are cause to believe yer not qualified to handle the necessary task in mind. But Southerners have in their society such strict class levels, beyond anything American by definition, n they don�t even know it. The shit women n minorities, especially black people from here, put up with down here - man, I tellya, it boggles the mind. Just the thought of havin to go out in to that each day is enough to make me wanna roll over n go back to sleep - or keep me up nights. Still, it�s prolly better than LA. "Avoid people who are easily insulted and/or quick to misunderstand" - I said that once, it�s one of my main mottoes now.

5. My computer. It�s old. I got it in the spring of 97. I�m running Windows 95 on a 200 MHz with 64 MB of RAM. Even if i could afford a cable connection, I doubt poor little R2 here could handle it for long. Yahoo Messenger crashes Netscape for me. Just about everything I use uses so much system resources that I often can�t use anything else at the time. My friend in LA is unimpressed tho - sez his Windows ME crashes when he breathes through his mouth. I got a replacement 10GB hard-disk that my ancient chip can only see two measly gigabytes of. I am constantly hard pressed to keep more than 200 MB free. I need at least that much to even begin the recording process - uncompressed WAVs are heavy.

6. My mom. Most people prolly feel this way, but I moved back home when I ran completely outta money last year. It wouldn�t be so bad if I lived under a different roof - but I�m in my mid 30s now, n it kinda sux havin the only person ye really ever talk to in person treating ye like yer 5. Nothin I can do about it - it�s ingrained in her personality. Oh, and she�s bossy too. My girlfriend and my mom are currently engaged in a clandestine battle of wits over who has the primary legal and priority rights and claims to bossing me around the most, and who gets to get away with it. "Ya put pressure on the kid so he can�t think - n then alluva sudden, all it�s ever about is how the kid can�t think under pressure." I realized that about myself, and society, last year. I wrote it down. I left it lyin around. I would see it there just about every day. It echoes in my head sometimes when I have an epiphany about how oppressed I really actually am after all. I quote it to my friends sometimes, but most of em stare into infinity for a couple seconds, n then go on with what they were doin in the first place. Maybe I shoulda become a hypnotist.

7. The skin on my hands is messed up, n my teeth are half as many in number than what I was born with. This is not something that I usually lose sleep over (I�ve been livin with it for several years now), but it does tend to contribute to, or magnify the pending status of, most other problems - in fact, often evolving certain ordinary aspects of my life into other problems. See, if you don�t wanna brush yer teeth before bed, or right after ye get up, you don�t really hafta. You can get around to it at your leisure. Me, I�m an incredible slacker if I don�t rinse me mouth out at least once an hour - n ye hafta have clean hands for this, I developed dexterous strategies years ago to deal with the then ever recurring phenomenon of rinsing n washing n everything else with several bandaids on each hand. On the rare occasion, today, that I hafta dust off those ancient scrolls n cast magic juggling acts above the running water in my bathroom sink, I am hence reminded that it�ll prolly be at least another half a week before I am able to put digits to fretboards once again.

So those are the kinda things that tend to keep me up nights - or at least are the reasons for the Doze gap. Most of your better artists have problems, tho. I think my mind prolly makes music avoiding such mounting irritating issues.

This brings me to the crux of my point (you had long since given up hope that there was ever gonna be one, didn�t ya?) - see, there are times when I just can�t jam - sometimes lasting for weeks - which sux, as I�ve previously stated. During these periods of lethargy renewal, I tend to get involved in certain projects involving something I can actually get my fingers on - namely, anything on my computer. I get into a groove, and then when my fingers come back to life, my routine isn�t anything involving jamming, as much as I may happen to be better n all. This is where laziness comes in. I�ve been putting off breaking up with my girlfriend since about a week after I met her.

So I finally did it. I broke up with her. And I�m not too happy about it, either. Not that I�m a connoisseur or anything, most chix break up with me, with little or no explanation - hence my unconscious disposition that I may in fact be a loser. But I was having difficulty agreeing to her assumptions (but it was easier that discussing all the points of contention that were brought to my attention by my now almost alarmist astral center), and for too long I had made too many compromises on my own self n sense of serenity - justa avoid a hoopla. See, it usually ended up bein me who had the problem, therefore I was the one who hadda fix something - n usually, the first step in doing so (so recommended) was to participate in the insisted activity, believe the proposed fallacy, or visit the fictional foreign land.

So now I feel like a dick cuz I made her cry - but that�s the whole reason why I broke up with her (or have been wanting to for so long), is that she�s one n prone to cry. Not that I�m completely emotionless myself, mind you - just that she is highly emotionally invested in whatever goal she has chosen to orient herself with. When the maps come back from the satellite however, if they don�t agree with the current proposed situation, scenario and/or scenic schedule - the maps are burned, and the satellite is shot down. I mean hey, I spent alot of time n science on my satellite - n the maps were a little bit of work as well. So now I guess I got no one to go swimming in the Seine with me this summer - but at least the only source of grief n pressure I gotta worry about now is from my ma.

Most people have moved out on their own by now, I have several times. Feels like repeating senior year of high school every time, too. I have dreams about that sometimes. Sometimes: I realize, from the middle row, that I already graduated; I know this material; I don�t need to be here. Doesn�t keep em from marking me bad if I skip class, tho. Trouble is stayin out in the world - where only strangers can oppress you. For financial reasons, I currently share as yet another apartment with the person who had me surgically removed. And still, to this day, she is not a well woman.

The other night, she was complaining that the people above us were playing their music too loud, louder than usual, and arguing passionately about politics, or whatever. I suggested that she find a pole and thump the ceiling a couple times next time there was an out of time outburst at an uncalled-for time of late nite early morning. This she did, and was uncommonly pleased with the results - especially considering the idea came from me. The following day, at about noon, while my neighbors still slept, I proceeded to jam two of my aforementioned numerous axes on eleven. This I did quite loud, and quite well. If they were actual musicians, they would have asked me to join their band.

Ah, a sixteen page monolithic monologue.

I�m depressed.

I�m in my early mid 30s, and my one hope of ever escaping my mother�s womb, I have been so allergic to, I evicted from my life just now.

She was my best friend. I don�t hate her, I just feel uncomfortable around her. She was my best friend, and I made her cry. There are plenty of people I feel uncomfortable around - and she is one of the few I have ever met that actually wanna be around me. So, I�m not new to this reluctant breakup process - but this one I actually liked.

I�ll still see her, supposedly, online n at times - in all likelihood. We�ll play scrabble n talk about sex, but that�s about all we have in common. Oh, sure - as far as the outside world is concerned, we�re two of a kind. We�re both ex-partiers who don�t do much of anything with our lives but sit around the house all day n play on the computer. This is why the universe hence conspired to put us two charming kids together - n we made a cute couple. I�m sure the high pantheon and its subordinates meant well. And it was good for us, too - a temporary cure for loneliness, but she kept tryin to change me into somethin I�m not. These flaws she sees in me, to me, are how I am n what I�m comfortable with - n likewise - but I am observant enough to realize this from the beginning. How she is, there isn�t anything wrong with that. But I think I need someone who is into the same things I am, who enjoys the same things I do - beyond scrabble n sex.

OK - alotta this is sympathetic - n some would prolly say just simply pathetic. I was pining for the days, for months, when I had freedom of thought - n here I am wishing I hadn�t done it. I mean, what was so bad about her, really - she does seem quite inclined to change. Maybe it�s just that I put my foot down (in my head, privately, some weeks ago, to myself) and feel it�s time to pull my finger out. She wouldn�t get that reference, it�s from Monty Python.

Aside from my normal ramblings, we hate each other�s tastes. At our best, we�re disinterested. I mean, she�s not gonna go n watch any episode of any Star Trek, n normally I wouldn�t be comfortable at all with any reality tv love story documentaries. I have no tattoos, don�t wear jewelry - n am prolly more comfortable with women who don�t feel they need to shave. I mean, I never do. OK, once in awhile the fuzz on my cheeks, but that�s only cuz my gene strain is in a stage of transitional development between facial hair n no facial hair. This chore I reluctantly proceed with about twice a month. Maybe by the time I�m 40 I�ll be able to grow a full beard. In the meantime, I�ll hafta settle for the teenage breakdown syndrome. You know, the kind the guys with hair on their back now had when they were 12.

I miss her already. I haven�t seen her in a couple weeks - but what would be so bad about a Sunday afternoon off into the wild wilderness? I�ll tellya what - I�d hafta go out into a domain where I feel uncomfortable, n she would prolly, actively, have no sympathy for any of that which seems to her as something I�ve long neglected getting the fuck over already. I�m shy. I avoid crowds. I abandon the concept of goin out into the world whenever humanly possible. I shop on the 3rd shift, when no one else is around. It�s just easier that way. Less damage to the hippie�s psyche.

So I called the ex a couple days ago. Not this one, another one, from me hometown. I broke up with her, (the phone call and/or online long distance relationship one) about six months ago - a couple weeks or so before I met this latest one. Anyways, she sent me a couple pix of herself, n I posted em on a webpage I made for the occasion - mostly to show her what size pix were sposed to be, instead of four full screens that take a half hour to receive in the email. I took em into my pic proggie n shrunk em down to like 10 or 20% original size, cropped em real nice, brought up the html editor n posted the pix on my domain. No text anywhere, her name wasn�t to be found, just 2 pix on a single original webpage i made especially for the occasion that�s not linked to from anywhere. When I told her about it she about exploded. Demanding that I remove them immediately before her ex finds her and stalks her, not letting me explain how impossible that was, or illogical: considering she still lives at the same address as ever. In a huff, I said something that was the product of such frustration, some of it boiling up for ages (another round hole, that one). Well, when I called her back to see how she was doin, to catch up, she was noticeably pissed off still. I guess, when ya think about it, ya can�t blame her. She did apologize. But I realized that she was incapable of changing. She was always gonna be freaking out over something - and that this is a dangerous personality trait. My mom has that. I recognize the symptoms. Panic, worry, nerves, tension: inability to listen to reason, especially under adverse circumstances (coincidentally, the most important time to do such things). OK, she apologized. I forgive her. There was nothing to forgive, really - I just can�t be around that type of situation, that type of person.

Late last month, as I was getting over my flu, I was heard to say a few times, "Oh, I think I know what all these sore spots n bruises are on the top of my head: henpecks." No one thought it was funny but me. I�m surrounded by bitchy women. Somebody save me. Please?

So my dog (also a girl) likes to go out for walks frequently - especially cuz it�s gettin to be spring out. Next door there is a puppy, who�s sadly tied up all day while master�s at work. This dog is very friendly once he gets to know ya. My dog is only momentarily curious, n then kinda wants to avoid the whole situation. She then exhibits feelings of jealousy when I pet the puppy n try to get em to play together. The most I can get out of her is to step between us, but she suffers it not gladly, the puppy being so enthusiastic about visitors, especially a fellow canine. Maybe it�s cuz this one�s not on a leash - at least not one with a person attached, out in the wild wilderness that is the loop of our apartment complex.

I have just realized, though sweet and cuddly, how spoiled my doggie really is. I guess we brought it on ourselves - we pour all kinds of attention on her, n then slip away to vedge, allowing her to cuddle or curl up near our feet. We take her out when she asks politely, most of the time - so naturally, she�s gotten the idea that she�s our little baby and has fit into the role quite comfortably. This is fine, but I guess I can pretty much scratch the idea of gettin another dog to keep her company - a friend to play with all day. When we come back inside, alluva sudden she�s full of sparks n substance, jumpin to play with the squeeky furballs. Furball is a game we invented wherein I kick a fuzzy squeeky toy across the apartment n she goes to chase it. I can get her to bark by moving in slow motion, pretending I am traveling through a time warp. This always freaks her out.

My most recent girlfriend usedta like to sneak her people food. This made her even more spoiled than normal - my dog also. Princess would only eat her food when she was absolutely starving, n then woof it all down in a single sitting like she was a pack animal again. This eon being much later in her species� development, her tiny tummy was not prepared to deal with the product of lax emotional reasoning. In her sleep she would hiccup until she�d sometimes vomit on the carpet. We should not give our little dog people food. We did get some legit doggie treats for awhile there, but we fell into the habit of giving them to her every time we came in for a walk. Thus, she�d need to go outside in the freezing winter cold, just so she could get the treat after. I�d freeze at 3am with her on a leash while she sniffed every blade of grass within 30 feet of the dumpster, resulting in a 3 second piddle 3 minutes later. When we come inside, n there�s no friendly grab for the goody grab-bag, you shoulda seen the look on her face. Broken hearted.

So I guess that�s why I don�t go in the same sleep schedule as most other people. I�m still broken hearted from sometime in my late adolescence, early second childhood. I�ve been broken up with when I least expected it, or needed it, myself. I did not enjoy this. This particular chick I tried to break it off from at least once before, but got pretty much the same response as just now. They�ll try to reason with you. Maybe that�s the trick.

The way I see it, chix nest - n I was parta the furnishings for this most recent one. The moment you become lackluster in desirability, out you go. But chix plan months in advance. They�re prepared. Me, I never told secrets as a toddler, I never whispered in class, n only passed notes in reply to chix who passed first. Chix are pros at alla this. If she wanted to break up with me, there�d have been a short statement of intention, n that�d be the end of it. Any conversation, or attempt thereof, afterwards would be legally considered stalking, n I could possibly end up bein someone else�s unwilling girlfriend myself. The thing with some chix tho is that they see themselves as quite superior to men in all matters that matter - therefore, when a guy breaks up with them, it is even more of a blow to their ego than it is for us. Guys, I mean. I dunno, I�m just speculating.

The humor in all this is me. I am the funny bone of contention here. I have no statement of being other than that I wanna be - n be left alone to be myself, if it is in fact everyone who cares� desire to infiltrate my designs n alter my state of being. Circumstances being beyond that, I wanna be around people who are more like my kind. I need to be and/or go somewhere where people like me are not unheard of. This is prolly why I sleep so weirdly compared to most people.

On the surface, it may seem like (as far as the numbers go, anyways) it�s just me not really having anything to do with physical exertion - n also gettin pretty involved in projects, tv, forgettin to eat so I gotta stay up later n all - but as far as the women in my life are concerned, I�m just bein an escapist - n maybe they�re right. I do wish I could escape when I�m in a mall. I don�t go to malls anymore tho. On the rare occasion venturing into some such places becomes vital to the existence of whatever snapper I currently happen to be attached to at the moment, my behavior (and designs in those directions) has become an obstacle to their perpetual enjoyment of life, liberty, n the pursuit of shoes on sale - I�m just bein silly. Something obviously only bitching can cure.

This is my life. This is why I am depressed.

I was in the nuthouse once - couple times, really. I was depressed then, too. But it wasn�t chemical. I had legitimate reasons for bein so sad. Everyone in my life had abandoned me, I had no place to live, no place to go, no place to stay - n it was Christmas. This happened two years in a row. I was also fairly homeless the 3 summers interlocking.

I didn�t have a girlfriend the entire time. That was prolly the main thing I was depressed about. Lack of sex can have a detrimental affect on yer self esteem.

Well, kinda. I did have kinda a girlfriend for a couple weeks. She was homeless too. She, her sister, her ma, n her ma�s boyfriend were all piled into the same shelter as me - dead of winter. I found a place to rent eventually, n someone to go in on it with me, but total affordability kinda counted on her comin with to join in on the merry festivities. It was nearing Valentine�s Day. She went back with her old boyfriend. Can�t blame her, actually - the father of her baby n all. But I didn�t get any warning. Just one day, she never showed. I wasn�t extremely broken hearted about this, I barely got to know her - but I did feel kinda betrayed.

Another in a series of people and/or crowds who, shortly after meeting me, decided they didn�t wanna have anything to do with me. So I ended up developing this complex that, as far as likely the rest of the world was concerned, I was to be considered at least partially undesirable. My doggie doesn�t seem to think so, but still. This wasn�t a pity party - this was cold, logical reasoning based on the facts at hand. All the dispassionate evidence pointed to this, and I was prepared to accept it. Only problem now, only trouble was, not bein rich, finding some place to live that wasn�t in a DMZ.

That�s how I ended up livin with my ma again. After long careful discussions centered mainly on how I�m actually not a fuck up, n we are both financially inclined to depend on each other�s mutual second bill-payer status (she doesn�t wanna live in a pseudo-ghetto either), I was able to persuade her that a temporary situation was in order. This has lasted well over a year now. As have the other previous times. Five weeks stretched out into five years once.

The only way I was able to escape that was through this dude I usedta jam with. Now, in all fairness, we coulda found a cheaper place, but I wanted to make sure about the neighborhoods of the new town, n thought that six months at a slightly higher rent would be survivable - besides, by that time, on our schedule, we were sposed to have found the rest of the band by then. It woulda rocked - a band house in a college town, fifty places to play, n that�s just our kinda music. After six months, he moved in with his girlfriend back in his hometown, n prolly gave up music for beer money.

All my friends online live with their parents. My cyber guitar player is still in high school, so that�s a given. My Aussie computer guru just moved in with his sister - nice guest house out back with a balcony, pool, no rent. He was in college, now he works as tech support for MS.

I guess I�m kinda depressed all the time cuz I feel life passin me by. Mid life crises don�t usually happen to people until their 40s, but then again, I always was a fast learner over achiever type.

Most people prolly have kids n a life to otherwise keep em to busy to realize it�s passin em by. By the time the kids are grown n off to college, daddy needs a new Vette. My dad got a viper one year - a red one. He looked a little silly. But it was a real nice car. After that he got on an RV kick.

This last girlfriend n me were gonna get one of those - it was a pipe dream of hers to cruise the countryside, visit relatives, sell beads by the side of the road - eventually settle down in some commune somewhere in the Great American Northwest, or start our own. This woulda been fine with me, if only I could handled the stress.

Me, I definitely need someplace to store my equipment - preferably someplace I currently reside. I need access to computer facilities daily, for several hours on end, - preferably my own R2 unit - n therefore power wired in, n some form of line access to communication with the outside world (phone, cable, what have you). And Cable TV - I�d go mad without Cable TV. Satellite dishes suck, I hear. All this could possibly be maintained in a mobile hippie unit, but it takes some kinda bankroll to work it out from under the impossibility stone.

How it woulda prolly ended up is this: a shitty used trailer/RV that breaks down at least once on the way past the Grand Canyon, that we�d hafta sell, n move into a shitty apartment, as soon as we got to wherever her sister lives, to pay the first month�s rent with the proceeds thereof. All my ideas of how to live, how to be, would be deemed as impractical, n therefore silly. I would soon be written off as a loser, facsimile of my former pipe dream self - n be abandoned, or somehow storm off into the night in the midst of my 19th nervous breakdown. This would be most inopportune, as I would then be 3000 miles from the nearest person I could safely call a friend, n call up without surprising or scaring or worrying the fuck out of alluva sudden.

This was my greatest fear. This last one wanted me to move into her trailer with her. "Oh, yer gonna love it, I can feel it," she would say, during the preparations for her moving in there herself, with her roomie, whom she had roomed with sometime before. I didn�t like it. I helped her move, n paint, n it was kinda fun, doin that - but I didn�t like it - the place, that is. It was cold, n hot, n humid, n dry, n the floor was unstable, n it had mice, n a few bugs - n you could tell there were gonna be way more as soon as it warmed up. I hate bugs.

I don�t mind spiders so much, as long as they�re not of the giant tarantula variety, and they keep to themselves - after all, they tend to eat the tiny ones ya can�t see, but get into your equipment anyways. Roaches: can all die. Fleas: bite me. Moths, etc: someone get a newspaper. Centipedes: nothing should move that fast without wings. Could not convince her that living in a trailer was a silly idea. Could not convince her that my stubbornly sticking to my decision to not live in a trailer was not a silly idea. Her plan was to make everything work out, somehow, the best we could. I agree, but I can see a pitfall comin. I�ve been payin attention, kinda, the last 30 odd years or so.

The thing is, now bear with me on this, I�m gonna take a little liberty: she was professing her eternal adoration for me, how we were meant to be together, since before I could remember her last name. OK, so I�m not so good with names either.

But the point is, I guess, that we were not meant to be together, no matter what her itinerary suggested. My life is desiring to be something I can actually live with - n I can�t afford, at this late stage, and lack of contacts therein, to put myself out somewhere where I can easily find myself homeless again. This includes driving off into the wilderness with some chick I�ve only known a period of time counted in phases of the moon - no matter how good the sex is.

The thing is, I guess, I need a roomie. My ma is OK, - but, you know, she�s my ma. It is growing ever more difficult for her, in her aging status (slowly transforming herself into an eventual old bitty), to separate the child she scolded for years from the responsible adult standing before her - insisting that he is right, when she doesn�t understand or even really care about anything he is saying.

I wouldn�t really mind livin in the same town as her, but the same residence is a stretch that feels like the rack more often that I care to hallucinate about. See, by this time, in my life, by all society�s standards, I�m sposed to be married and/or self sufficient enough to stand comfortably on my own. Sure, some people make it with my resource level, but they have someone to hang out with - at least long enough to cosign a lease.

My dream roomie would be a fellow musician - with tons of mutual interests as well. Maybe we could start a band - a fellow songwriter, n we�re both really into each other�s groovy tunes. Someone who wouldn�t laugh at me and/or leave the room when Star Trek�s on, rather watch it with me. I�d really like someone who�s as smart as, or even smarter than me (haven�t seen much of that in my life). The few people I�ve come across, potentials for that category, had rich parents. Someone with the capacity n willingness to understand that agoraphobia isn�t a social embarrassment, rather a condition to be lived with, not scoffed at, like being legally blind. I have an old friend who�s legally blind. He doesn�t drive. Me, I don�t go outside much.

I did just go outside to sit on the porch - it�s really nice out today - first time it�s been 80 in 5 months at least (hope it lasts). But I felt increasingly uncomfortable as cars started driving by. Now, this isn�t something I can easily explain, and I have gone on about it a little much so far already, as it were. But whenever I try to explain myself in these areas, not seeming like I�m out of sorts, it seems to seem to the other person on the other end of my otherwise one sided conversation, that I am somewhat silly - n therefore not worth listening to. No response forthcoming, I tend to illustrate further. This makes an already boring monologue interminable to the listener, who is now wishing he or she were someplace else entirely. Now maybe I�m blowing this entirely out of proportion, but it seems the more I talk about agoraphobia, to people who are unfamiliar with the concept, the more they wanna be in another time zone. The thing of it is, see, I�m a nice guy. I�ll explain myself patiently, as long as I think it�s relevant to the conversation, and someone seems to be listening - even desperately if my life seems to depend upon it. If, however, I were the type to say nothing, or give short, terse answers, demanding my way, or that my needs be met, refusing to do anything that I am the least bit uncomfortable with - ironically, that�d be the last person you�d prolly expect has a social disorder - n the subject of agoraphobia would likely never come up.

Once, I tried to get myself back to a normal sleeping pattern. It backfired. About a week or so into it, I stayed up, awake in bed, for about an extra 8 hours or so. By the time I got to sleep, it was time to get up already - I was dead all day. I was a teenager, n not particularly disposed to college life. I had just slacked off for the remaining two years of high school - determined to get a diploma so I could jam in peace, find a band, n become a rock star before the age of thirty. This, needless to say, never materialized. I was given an ultimatum: college, job, or the highway. I wanted to wait a year or so n go to the college of my choice - this was not an option, politically or financially.

As it happened, I ended up dropping out of college n gettin a job I hated. I was workin the Christmas rush, and was promised a vacation soon after. Here it was, February, and no such rest. One day, on my lunch hour, I collapsed at home. I awoke about 3pm to the sound of my boss wanting angrily to know what the fuck was going on, what the fuck was the matter with me, and where the fuck were all the things I had to get done still. I was fired. I never got a vacation. Well, kinda - I did go back a couple weeks later or so, for some bonus emergency relief backup work at a higher rate of pay for about a day or so here n there, but it never was anything like anything I was promised. That�s whatcha get without unions, man.

So here I was, considered by everybody in my life to be a hopeless fuck up - n quite reserved to respond to that reciprocally, but only in my own mind. In the real world, I seemed to tend to agree with them, n the status quo remained unchallenged.

This is the lot of my life. I�ll end up with a girl who thinks I�m terrific, doesn�t know what I�m talkin about with regards to my inferiority complex, and tries to change me to fit her mold n vision of what this perfect man before her was sposed to have been the very day she first laid her rose colored contacts on him.

What I really need is someone smaller than me. I am an elf. Not too many people smaller than that. Now, I�m not microscopic, mind you - I�m 5�9" at least - but i�m only about 140 lbs. This means that I require a woman who�s less than 120. Now, how many hot brilliant chix into Star Trek n Classic Rock n computers do you know who are less than 120 pounds, more than 120 IQ - and don�t mind that the dude in mind considers himself more Vulcan, ore even Martian then Human? I live on Mars time - it�s a running gag.

Now, I don�t have any of the toys or anything - I did when I was a kid tho. But I have seen a few episodes here n there - n I mostly state it, bring it back up, n mull it around for a few for you to illustrate n procreate in your minds the vision of hippiness that is the evolved syndrome of groovy geekdom I tend to call proverbial.

To be proverbial is to be fictional, or the epitome thereof - or rather, the epitome of some previously only fictional ideal. Proverbialness is the state of such fine n refined grooviness. Utopia is a concept best left to the undeserved, they need it the most - but proverbience factors notwithstanding, prolly only the groovy proverbial hippies can understand it, and/or are likely to appreciate, n therefore benefit from it. Inductive capacitance is the art n act of inducing capacity. Capacitive inductance is the capacity to induce such things within another person. I am an inspiration to those willing to be so groovy, but ya hafta have a capacity for such things. Hence, "you hafta be a moron" you may say - but you hafta be groovy enough to dig where I�m comin from to allow me to lay this beautiful head trip shit on you.

I took electronics in high school. I also smoked alotta pot. After high school, the college thingy I previously mentioned was all about electronics - I was goin for my EE - never made it, ran outta money. Turns out, if I hadda graduated, I woulda ended up havin to go back to school fairly quickly, over n over again, perpetually placing myself in an ever increasing unplaceable job market - then they woulda made me cut my hair. Computers, it seems, are all the rage nowadays.

Today (or rather, a couple years ago), whatcha do is (what I did was), get out the old electrons, plug in a capacitor to a variable resistor, hook up an LED, plug in the battery, n watch it light up until it explodes. Do this a couple of times before you realize it�s not in the ancient textbook how to make a simple lightboard that varies with the volume of the music input into the circuit via condensor mic - basically, the lights your stereo flashes when the music�s playing. So I go to Radio Shack to find the schematics, n find that there is none for such a common thing. The idea being, you can buy one already connected to a stereo for a mere 299.95 - but I wanted to hook mine up to light bulbs.

See, I got these colored light bulbs - red, yellow, blue, green. I wanna build a lamp with 4 outlets for a bulb, plug it in, n have the lights increase in number (if not luminosity), depending on how loud is the music in the room the whole setup�s currently geared to be in - a sorta poor man�s light show. I could have it in my room. All I�d need then is a webcam - n a band - n a CD burner - n a cable connection - n a sponsor for the situation - n I�d be off to the races. Yeah, that�d be neat.

It has recently been brought to my attention that men have feelings that women don�t - n I suspect they�re equally unaware of (half scoffing, at least, at the very idea that men have feelings). "Look into that place where you dare not go, and you�ll find me staring back at you" - that�s from Dune (the Quisinart�s Hatrack said that to the dark queen counterpart at a certain epic moment). The wise and informative bud in question is a fellow Yankee, equally stranded down here, works maintenance in the complex where I live. I had him over the day I blasted the neighbors with my high watted amperage. I think I�ll ask him further just exactly what these feelings are, but I imagine they�re designed to balance out the extremely unreasonable emotions on the other end of the gender spectrum.

Women do joke about men. When we catch colds, we�re big babies - it never occurring to them that we might actually be that sick. Maybe it�s minus the tears, but I really couldn�t get up off the couch, and I really did need another glass of juice. Maybe women have a low tolerance for complaining (it�s an empathic thing, I guess). But I guess is it almost universally oblivious to women in general why men tend to get so excited about other men passing a ball around, stealing it from each other, sometimes pounding each other into the dust, thousands of roaring fans completely submerged in the frenzy and dust rising from the coliseum floor. My aunt is an exception to this rule - she�s a huge sports fan, especially football. Also, I guess women invented cheerleading, so maybe the whole idea is complementary in the male mentality, with hopes of getting laid: if you can�t impress the women by actually being out on the field and winning the prize, at least be rooting for the same team she is. The more you appreciate, the less you hafta masturbate.

There�s this game where you simulate living in a house and going about your daily life. You plug in personality profiles (it follows astrology), design a little groovy 3D VR fake person (or persons, for a family), give em furniture, and watch em live on. I have my buddy�s new house built in there almost (bummed to see him move), n I got his and his wife�s astrology (he�s a Gemini, she�s a Scorpio). It�s fairly accurate, this game - you tell it a sign, and it spits out how neat, outgoing, active and proverbial you are; with a little play for variety�s sake. But it was nearly impossible to get the characters representing my most recent ex and myself to get along beyond the romantic realms. She�s a Scorpio, I�m a Capricorn. My dad is a Scorpio - so is my aunt.

Scorpions frighten me. When I was out west, there were several that I encountered, being very careful to not let them sting me on the hand, like in Flash Gordon - but I still had to do something about it being in the house, especially with little kids around. Remind me to not move anywhere where there�s tiny little things that are trying to kill you, with every naturally evolved good odds of success - especially the ones that are too fast to properly capture and promptly put out because smushing them could potentially be equally toxic (also, anywhere where it�s 40 at night, in the summer, when it was just 100 in the shade a few hours prior, is prolly right out - but that�s what ya get when ya remove all the humidity from the air).

I guess my point is, depending on your perspective, one man�s god is another man�s demon. Whatever these supernatural beings stand for or seem to represent, when we go beyond that, they become a symbol of what we�ve grown out of. Gods of war, formerly heralded as the height of extreme glory of the highest, are now seen as violent bloodthirsty puppetmasters, playing pawns by the thousands on the battlefield for the sake of conquering as yet again another dreary day. Goddess of beauty and love, now seen as the pure primitive icons of self flattery and codependence. Personally, I prefer women who don�t ever wear make-up (I have none on myself) - I prefer fellow human beings to someone still being a primitive Earthling. I guess I like to see what I�m getting - banish pretension in all its forms. Be real, not fake. Wanna make me feel like a man? Prove that I can trust you enough to be completely honest about who and what I am, without you puking up an innate desire to change me into something your mother or your religion or your chosen political party informed and/or brainwashed and/or tattooed on you that I should be instead. Actually, I like who and what I am - I just have a kinda hard time getting people to accept that.

Most of my family is aware that I am a zoid: though they�re prolly, most likely, completely oblivious to the existence of, and definition therein, of such four letter single syllables - but suffice it to say that I am one, and I don�t consider it a disparagement. Actually, I think zoids are pretty groovy - long as yer cool about it. Nice people rule. Or, at least, in a perfect somewhat Utopian society, they prolly should - might make situations n things run somewhat smoother.

Anyways, my aunt is comin to visit in a couple of weeks. She�s really groovy, n awesome - though I guess one doesn�t often use either word to actually describe her. I like her, alot, but she�s way Type-A. She thinks my belief in UFOs is silly, and doesn�t listen to any of what I say is scientific evidence for the phenomenon. Though she�s of the mind that governments are corrupt, she�s prolly pretty certain (as many are) that such an incompetent institution is entirely incapable of pulling off such a massive ruse. And this I�ll grant her, to a point.

Those UFOs over Mexico City in 92, floating there as thousands watched n videotaped, were not optical illusions or volcanic gas. Anything you can see, that floats motionlessly, then flies circles around a 747, but doesn�t appear on radar, is no flock of geese. The giant one mile wide V shaped craft over Phoenix in 98 that moved fifteen miles an hour at an altitude of about 500 feet: that was one of ours. The cloaking device was down, but it was out of Area 51 (those are the kind of things that go wrong when primitive disorganized humans are involved). The Philadelphia Experiment, where a WWII battleship disappeared from radar, and visual observation, then returned - that was the Allied American war effort trying to make some found alien technology work. They wanted an invisible fleet of ships. Good idea. Only problem is, tech like that was developed using higher math than most humans have yet evolved to envision, in a place likely no one has even heard of. Foo Fighters: the orbs of silver glowing grooviness that for some reason frequently fought on our side in the South Pacific, who knows? But generally, anything you get kicked out of the military for insisting you saw, is prolly not a freaky figment of anyone�s imagination. If it were such a big deal of mental incompetency, they�d usher you off to a private institution - not publicly humiliate you, engage in a smear campaign for the rest of your life, making it mega miserable. If you were really simply insane, or even somewhat suffering from a mild nervous breakdown, your situation would be quietly taken care of - not the other way around.

I enjoy politics. Particularly proving exactly where what how and why someone is so completely fulla shit that it boggles the mind even more than the irony that this impostor and fraud is often cheered by the millions of masses, en masse - but better because there�s some sort of supposedly utopian ideal attached. My aunt cried when Carter got elected, in fear of the country goin down the tubes. My parents were not voting for Ford - too close to Nixon for their tastes. My aunt voted for Reagan, but has since come to her senses, since the whole trickle down theory trickled down on us all. Her offspring, however, my cousins, mostly seem to listen to Rush Limbaugh or something every morning - this is prolly the main reason why I am an outcast, and why they don�t answer any of my emails. Also, I�m sure at one point or another each of them was individually or even collectively convinced that I was insane, a homosexual, a crackhead - or even all of the above. Ah, they�re just normal pseudo something right wing Americans. I prolly have nothing to fear from them - unless they think it�s in my best interest. Interestingly enough, I was almost adopted by this tribe when I was a kid. I wonder how I woulda turned out - doubt I woulda been allowed to keep long hair.

Like me, my aunt is incredibly skinny, and prefers sun-tanning and sitting out by the pool to sitting inside n reading all day long. Like her and my mother�s father, I have a swimmer�s body - I won a medal once (my dad also free-styled some laps for the team in his day). Now, I�m not a jock at all, but all my aunt�s kids are, as are all their kids today. Geez, am I sposed to be havin kids already? Yer kidding.

My aunt n I agree on many issues today. But, like my ma, vast abstract concepts like agoraphobia and aliens are not easily locked onto. My ma is more in the pro column regarding UFOs etc, but doesn�t agree with every conspiracy theory I puzzle piece together.

I think John Lennon was assassinated by the state for coming forward about his Manhattan UFO sighting circa 1980. But, I prefer to believe that he�s still around, with the Kennedy brothers, in some groovy domed dorm on the far side of the moon.

I guess the point in alla this is me tryin to assimilate the concept of getting along with people who hold vastly different views that I do - especially the ones which pertain directly to my existence, and how I should go about continuing it. See, the general consensus seems to be that if I don�t go out into the world, there must be something wrong with me - something that must be repaired ASAP. "Come, won�t you? Join us."

So I just had a 3 minute eggshell convo with the ex via ICQ. Turns out, for all appearances vital towards consideration, that things are just as mutually friendly as I hoped. As I said before, n just recently to her: I don�t dislike her, I just feel uncomfortable. In fact, there�s all kindsa people I feel uncomfortable around - n I guess that�s what worries me so.

She said, yesterday on the phone (after I broke the news to her, of breaking up with her), that she finally heard me. This is good, but I guess the main reason why she didn�t hear me before is I didn�t state it clearly n plainly enough. I�m not from that near side of the hill, I guess. The main thing is that I�m afraid to state an idea or position that I know will be met with vast resistance. I�m trying to avoid an unpleasant situation, yet am forced to act as if the people I�m trying to communicate with are in fact just as reasonable as they would have me believe (n obviously, wholeheartedly, believe themselves). So I end up agreeing with people for the sake of no argument. This tends to put me in an otherwise unpleasant n uncomfortable situation - except that I now have won the tacit approval of the humanoids I was endeavoring to please, if only to avoid the forced chastity that comes with cherished chastisement.

The one chink in my armor is my actual identity. No matter how many lies I tell myself, or masks I put on for others, I just don�t fit into this metal suit tailor made for humans. Besides, as we�ve already read, I�m allergic to most metals, and am likely from Mars anyways.

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. This is a book I have heard all about what its about, but only read scant paragraphs from. Suffice it to say, I�m thinking it�s a cop out. You can�t permit people to be imperfect just because they already are. I mean, imperfection is a normal natural human trait - but allowing men to be out of touch with emotions as a general rule, n women to be almost completely adverse to logic n common sense, seems like perpetuation of the stagnation of social evolution. Granted, the book does offer some helpful hints on how to become a better partner amidst alla this, but the elementary approach seems to be based on allowing others to be OK with being infuriatingly insane, while developing better coping methods n communication skills to aid in the perpetuation n probable procreation of the pragmatically ignorant. I guess the aliens dropped off the abacus first this time (jury�s still out on the shade of their motives). Now, this book has helped alotta people - groovy gods know it saved me from many a hair-pulling session with more than one female debater. But I do object to the semblance that that�s all there is to it. But then again, how many people are willing to rewrite their entire personality just cuz some quack author sez it�ll save yer marriage?

The main thing I want outta life, besides success with music, is to be able to get along better n best with people, despite my being so relatively strange. I mean, I happen to like myself the way I am. Maybe I�m not perfect, but I seem to have some evidence that I�m nicer (if not groovier) than most. The only problem is, being agoraphobic, n an oscillatingly overt outcast before, I happen to have scant little actual experience in such matters - involving actual communication with the outside public. Case n point, I tend to seem weird - n ya know how people treat ya if they think yer weird - this leads to my perpetual inexperience with the inside masses.

She calls me Boopala. Which is OK, I guess - I guess it coulda been worse. I�d bring my smart ass programs online to deal with this situation, n say things like, "yes, Nipple-Quest" - but this sorta thing only encourages her. We have gotten fairly creative. Her roomie thinks we�re sickeningly sweet in our mutual adoration, n wants to puke purple pudding whenever the supposed sugar saturated summoning contest casually begs to begin - but then again, she has a life.

When I was 16, my girlfriend�s crowd called me Bunny. They lived in a rich preppy neighborhood, tho. Still, it was somewhat preferable to some other things I�ve been called in my life. I think I woulda liked goin to a school like that, maybe, better than the one I went to most of my educational oblivion. While kids with more money are often snobbier than most, most schools with money tend to have the better n potentially nicer teachers. Not that I didn�t have my share of cool gurus, but I think I had more than my share of dicks n nippleheads in that department. This led to my eventual outcast more than just simply bein strange, I think. Actually encouraging the whippersnappers to snap their whips (like something outta The Wall) is uncalled-for, I think - and quite counter-indicated in this case, I believe.

So, maybe I�d make a good n groovy dad - if only I had some expertise in the socialization department. Ah, well - I know how people are sposed to act, I watch TV. That�s a reference to Northern Exposure (I watch alotta TV).

The ex thinks that she was enabling me, by allowing me to stay inside all day n keep the oddest hours most people have ever seen. At least that�s what her therapist thinks - n I do see the logic in that. But I tend to be of the mind n state of persistence that being outside is damaging to me - as long as there�s alotta other people around. I dunno what it is exactly, maybe I�m chronically worried that people will laugh at me - n it does happen quite frequently, it�s not my imagination.

Being self involved as a semi-hobby, I like to think I�m somewhat a keen observer of human behavior. Trouble is, with all the criticism of my own behavior that I�ve received, my mind has chronicled a magnanimous list of things that are deemed unacceptable by the inside thinking of the outside world at large. Trouble is: most of the world at large tends to subscribe wholeheartedly to a random assortment of these very same behaviors. Maybe they can�t help but read my own expressions of step-back when I encounter these such things which require my instincts to react in that full-reverse torque direction - and hence derive that I may be a little hyper critical, n therefore maintain their "a little leery" status.

I guess the biggie here is how worried I get when encountering the proposition of encountering someone common to the outside world. It�s not people I dread meeting, just the ones with no class - most likely to shovel me some grief.

It doesn�t matter what culture yer from, there�s likely a counter culture related to it - often in the succeeding adjacent generation. I�m not a racist or a chauvinist, but I do know that there are rooms where a white, lower-income, middle-class hippie from Cydonia on Mars should prolly not venture into during anytime anywhen near happy hour. Doesn�t matter how groovy I appear: "Relax, man, I�m from Detroit" is prolly not gonna keep my ass from being kicked in - or prevent my proverbial prostate from being bounced.

That�s the thing. Most people are on edge - and many of them are prepared to act on it, if the situation should arise so needy n care free. I remember when I went to vote last how somebody said something, and a couple people laughed. That moment still sticks with me. Further proof that the Neanderthals of this world have a clear advantage; that no evolution or emotion has yet, to my knowledge, proved completely foolproof in fully avoiding. I�m speaking of the gut reaction to react publicly, with humiliation the final word in who gets to have any semblance of self esteem for the rest of the day.

If I were a zen master, perhaps it wouldn�t bother me. If I were something else, more readily accepted, I coulda prolly gone up to the Cro-Magnon collective and said something ingeniously funny yet true, that they would understand, that would put them in their frequently Gawd-fearing places - but that also would not have involved my ass getting immediately kicked. Something for which there is no comeback to save the so assailed. Something would have fed my ego: and, on many levels, brought me down to their level.

But I think something hasta be said for leveling off public criticism n putting it in proper perspective. For example: when demagogues like Limbaugh stir up hate in the name of finer virtues, twisted in the turmoil of whatever white upper middle class angst n anger is all the rage this prime election year, freedom of speech needs a qualifier. Lies and slander need not rule the cosmos. Prejudice need not be fanned the flames thereof, their stylistic ramblings surpassed only by my own. It makes sense if you talk over people�s heads, sprinkled with things they do understand, even half believe already, and careful diatribes leading to instructions on just exactly what they should do to protect their way of life from going the way of so many bras in the late 60s.

In conclusion, people are dicks. Now, there�s plenty of nice people out there too, but they haven�t exactly been properly trained in how to approach a scared little bunny like myself without damaging his psyche for the rest of the lunar cycle. Some people kick dogs, some people spoil them. Trick is to find a happy medium, where neither extreme is ever involved. Punish the bearer of bonds you don�t understand, and you will remain ignorant. Perpetuate this incorrect information to the outside world, and you will contribute to the downfall and eventual extinction of your so-called civilization. Maybe I am the future, or an example of one possible one, as are we all. Maybe I just wish I were in some more civilized future, where people are cool and artists are allowed to be themselves - especially the ones who haven�t a talent for anything else; and like me, are adverse to making some over-rich caveman even more powerful than he already doesn�t deserve to be. That is, if humanity is to survive these troubled times.

Bottom line: if I were in charge of things, I woulda left the planet already.