The Enlightened Guild/Pinnacles or Orax

I was just considering starting up a fraternal organization with this name after watching a history of the Freemasons.  I wonder if an organization with such a name already exists?  It would seem like searching for this term on the internet would be my best bet for discovery, but for today at least, I'm done with that shit.  So, for now I'm running with it.  Ceremonies will be secret and plans to conspire are encouraged.  In addition I'll be creating a new custom quest for Hero Quest with the name "Pinnacles of Orax."  This surely doesn't exist and I'm not about to go searching for it either.  Get your barbarian and wizard powered up, because little mercy will be given and traps will be very difficult to avoid (right on the other side of doors where you can't search for them).

The Mind Bending Principles (Part 2)

Now, certain important things have been established throughout our history.  Certain things that we always take for granted, regardless of race, creed, age, sex, etc.  I'm not here to explain that.  In fact, I may not be 'here' at all.  These statements are made neither to provoke thought or for you to judge me.

Anyway, I was recently thinking about writing used for psychological reflection; the mirror of the mind if you will.  I thought about this on a morning commute, just in between near-hit accidents on the clogged freeway.  First I thought, "wow, what a waste of my life."  Then I thought, "wow, what a waste of the little intellect that still exists."  Here's 50,000+ motorists in my near vicinity concentrating not on anything but their own speed and proximity to other machines.  Concerned with nothing except how fast they can reach their monotonous job without filing any insurance claims or increasing their blood pressures too rapidly.  Because I regarded this with disdain and I felt discomfort I began to think, "what the fuck am I doing here?"  Then I thought, "how can I reflect on myself as a human being?"  Perhaps then, I thought, I could look in the rear view mirror?  This only exposed long-forgotten black heads and overgrown nose hair.  I reacted by pulling at the nose hairs with tweezer fingers, which nearly resulted in the loss of my front fender and creation of tens of thousands of dollars in whiplash claims.  So no, that wasn't the answer.  My eyes watered and I sneezed.  Perhaps then I could wait until 6 pm or so and take a look in the full length mirror at home?  Yes, I would do that.  Satisfied, I looked ahead to the congested road and breathed in freshly burned diesel.  Nostalgia for school buses.  This of course was a trap.  The so-called, "commuting trap."  It has so much more to do with your psyche than it does your physical self being trapped between a dump truck and a Prius.  It's a trap that consumes your mental being and envelopes you in carbon dioxide induced personal contradictions.  You can't really defeat it in the traditional ways of "giving it more gas."  In fact, that only constrains you more.  I had to snap out of it for a moment and think about what the full length mirror image would give me - reflected light on a man in his early thirties with a white t-shirt and receding hairline.  I have no insecurities about my outer being, and I don't really care about it too much (but slightly more than any math professor I've known).  Looking at it provides nothing.  My only solution is to pick up a pen or press these keys.  Write something, learn something.  This image is important for me to review and its the way it develops.  It's a principle of mine.  Write.  Write. Write. Talk.  That occurred months ago.  This is the first time I've written anything.

The Mind Bending Principles (Part 1)

Kurt Vonnegut once said something along the lines that you can really only write these days as a form of catharsis and/or for pleasure; not for money.  This is probably a relief for some people who had thought that they might make a living writing - hey, no more pressure, Kurt Vonnegut once said it's not possible.  On the other hand, there's much more shit to sift through via online media (like this shit that nobody is reading).  I suppose, or I've heard, that some people make some money doing this.  I once tried to submit some writing to some online web zine about wearing a supersuit.  I guess it didn't get published?  I guess I never got paid?  Based on this information, I write for the purpose of catharsis. 

 K.V. also once said that if you can't write clearly, then you probably don't think that clearly.  He is correct about this.  I use this information non-traditionally, that is, not to check how clearly I think.  I already have gauged my thinking which can be best described by a snow-fogged evening with a bright light on the horizon casting a wide aura.  I now use writing to insure that my thinking is clear; to sharpen it if possible (hoping to move from snow-fogged evening to early spring morning, 1 mile clear visibility).  So, the rule is used not as a test, but rather as a therapy.  For the record, I've used this K.V. quote in this blog before (K.V., rest his soul, gets "quoted," more or less, 4 other times in this blog as my research indicates). 

Therefore, the justification for this publication, other than further adding to the heaping shit-pile of internet postings, is for a) my own well-being, and b) to check myself (before I wreck myself). 

Thanks for listening.

Your Captain,

T.M. Witherspear

Clint's small-time droid outfit

I heard recently that perhaps, in the not-so-far-away future, droids may be capable of performing most of the labor that today is performed by humans like me and cyborgs like you.  Apple has apparently developed some such "learn-ed" robot technology that I thought existed since Terminator 2 was released.  Boy was I wrong.  Turns out it's taken almost 30 years to develop a Skynet prototype.  Dark days of automated nuclear armageddon ahead, or an enlightened path for man (and a path of drudgery for androids)?  For one, I am happy that I will no longer have to scrape road paint or rework dental floss for use by the geriatrics.  However, I have a sense of encroaching doom that no longer will all of mankind be able to apply himself to manual tasks and toils of labor.  These tasks, of course, lead to much provocative thought and eventually a deep sense of accomplishment probably necessary for our psychological well-being.  The rebuttal to this is that eliminating these labors from the lives of the human species will lead to a vast pool of ultra-intellectuals with nearly infinite time to dedicate to bettering himself and society.  We clearly have no intention currently of bettering anything, so I guess any plan is worth a shot, right?  Sure.  Without work, it's certainly not in human nature to get high all day and watch Netflix while typing Dorito-fingered text messages to others doing the same thing. I'm sure nobody would be doing that - just reading Bertrand Russell, Max Weber, Pascal, Voltaire, etc., and coming up with futuristic social theory that will make for a satisfactory and comfortable existence for all.  No more black market for organs, bad organ music, satanic circles, adolescent sexual repression, mall robberies, gas riots, or head on car crashes; no more of that, just more happiness.

Sadly, and very sadly indeed, the only place that I know of that's learned their lesson about the broken promise of technology is West Allis.  There, they have no intention of ever advancing.  It is true that sometimes this has negative impacts as is evident by touring the place, but they have learned the hard way the bone scraping pain of the alternatively soul-crushing experience of technological dreaming. 

Maybe this is a contradiction, but I would love for some droids to take over my monotonous daily task list as previously noted.  I will also not live in West Allis.  I am evidence that, with the exception of this enigmatic (and by my own standards, unlivable) place, people everywhere are ultimately short term susceptible and apathetic.  I will name my first droid Zelda. 

The Road to Consumer Freedom

... is paved with plastics.  HDPE, PVC, PETE, etc.  Make a wise decision, and inform someone who cares next time you make a major or minor purpose.  Thanks, and please resume normal activities.

Industrial Berand symbol

Just to let myself know at a later date:  my mind still works, but in a cut-up state.  Dreams are reality, reality has become a dream scape.  There is some reason for this.  I'll return to my critiquing and episode synopses of "Who's the Boss?" momentarily, but prior to that, let make you aware:

A) I have some up and coming things to post
B) I have a child now so I'm not so hard on myself for not posting
C) I am the only one that reads this blog, but (and thus) self-reflections regarding said writing have no place here

Conceptually, the Berand symbol is starting to hash itself out, but only in certain filthy, unused areas of my mind, and just tonight when I was taking a shower.  To be sure, to be sure.  I'll return with some comments in a few months.  

Erie PA: bring back my spirit of devolution

"Forget imposing on me again." Said Captain Forthcut loudly to Sam Carpal's one good ear outside the hazard zone.  "Look at my God watch - now is the time."

Again, Carpal referred back to his lack of Gods, giving the good Captain one good look at his fountain pen inscribed with the words: THE truth may surprise you.  "What a commie you are Carpal." 

And with that, what I perhaps (at times) call just another good night kiss, the two fellows bumped elbows one last time for the day and really did go opposite directions, Carpal slicing up an apple with a box cutter and shoveling the chunks into his mouth and Forthcut moving his arms robotically as if pumping up his ego in some mechanical way.

Both returned to their Erie homes awaiting a different day.  Maybe tomorrow would be without filthy tumult and anti-lyrical considerations once again blown into the filth holes and abandoned motels.  What a day, but then again, everybody knows we can't have a Mexican picnic everyday.

Dead Suburbanites Send their LPs to Goodwill

You know it and I know it.  The kids have no respect for their parent's old record collections. There's nothing you can do about it.  Just like that guy whose face was eaten off by a cannibalistic zombie - he didn't see it coming and he had no way out.  I go to the local Goodwill, on occasion, to get bargain deals and scrap with locals about who saw a particular plastic veneered dresser first (it apparently wasn't me).  Defeated, I go the record cart next to the used books and cassette tapes.  The selection is always terrible and depressing (as well as the smell), but it doesn't stop me from holding out hope for a better "this time."  Undoubtedly, the rack is stocked with Lawrence Welk and Herb Alpert records, sometimes worse.  Often there's a Neil Diamond record in there which I believe is usually gobbled up by somebody that's on their death bed; I'll see the same record again in 3-5 months.  Recycling.

After maybe 2 years of this observation, I finally made a couple of very simple conclusions: a) white suburbanites listen to terrible music and b) white suburbanites listen to really terrible music.  At the end of the day, the Goodwill graveyard is better than any other, even those in which the deceased owners have been laid to rest in sealed embalming fluid poison boxes.  It's like sealing nuclear waste in a salt mine: it will be safe until fairly speedy (with respect to the scale of time) geologic changes cause vast radioactive contamination.   There's some analogy there which I'm sure you can pick up on.

Once I got a new blender from Goodwill for a pretty good price.  Value.

All for Leyna... man's intertial mass

I like to write here sometimes, still. My reasons are twofold: 1) expose the hilarious looking underbelly of society with all of its bloody sores, damp warts and pulsating veins, and 2) divulge secret information snippets into the ether of the electronic universe, never to be read by anyone. #2 is important because it's just like writing in a special diary; two technological steps above handwriting, with Doogie Howser's static typing and saving onto 5.25" floppy disks being the in-between. My writing here will end up just like his eventually. I will hire a scribe. Anyway, the process is cathartic (And honestly, I can read what I typed much better than I can read what I wrote with my shaky and pathetic hands). I can write about the high and dark spaces with the bright stainless steel rails practically weeping for their wishes to shine, guarding me (and you) from a fall to the bottom. No doubt you float in a parabolic pattern, back and forth, like a feather, to end up in the high school gym locker room with 6 or 7 people who have become familiar strangers. Steam rises from the urinal and you feel the blue tiled bathroom walls vibrate with high frequency. You escape after a cold and embarrassing shower only to find yourself more lost then ever in the your final destitute labyrinth. Coincidence or euphemism? You decide.

So, the blogging process can lead you into some dark corners of uninhibited thought freedom, far away from Whispering Jimmy's Hollow, where you work, feed, and troll the information waves to learn the exact science of living. You breathe there, you fight there, you rank yourself there. But, alas, you can run to the freedom of a different universe, if only for a moment.

Today I write about Leyna, obviously referenced through the song containing the same name by Billy Joel himself. It will also be what we name our daughter. It only makes sense because a) the name is a good one b) the song is a hit for me and c) the song itself contains a high level of keyboard strength with lyrics that suggest I will do it all for Leyna. Perhaps the lyrics don't really apply in actuality because it's about having a one-night stand with somebody named Leyna after which said individual (and singer) becomes an obsessed stalker... and angry sounding stalker. However, I think maybe Joel's intention was to highlight the ultimate power of women - not necessarily just sexually, and the ultimate failure of man's self-esteem, both of which have haunted him for his whole life. So, in response, he decided to write a modern feminist war song of sorts. As such, it should be noted that my daughter, in the event of any one night stands, will walk away with self-pride and dignity, leading some guy to that sickening third rail shock.

 That being said, Leyna Jane will be born very shortly if all things go well, and I am truly excited to see her.

In other Billy Joel references, I also just watched the video of "We Didn't Start the Fire," which makes me hope that I don't stand by idly and without participation as history comes and goes. Is that always "the way of the dad?" Seems like in pop culture it is so. Enough now. End.

Misguided use of dumping policies

Henry Millston loved Dire Straits music. He also loved collecting glassware, but nobody really knew about that side of him. That was the real misfortune for Henry. He had a deep collection of wonderful glass, yet everyone only knew him as a one-dimensional Dire Straits fan. A lot of people do follow lead singer Mark Knopfler even today, but very few of those people know how to say his name (or are afraid to) and thus call him, "the lead singer of Dire Straits." Henry actually pronounced his name correctly, but due to his having every Dire Straits album, people assumed he was trapped in a particular era. Even when his glass collection grew to contain modern pieces, people still asked him to attend lame '80s parties as a not-too-ironic friend whose make-up was assumed to primarily consist of the years 1981-1987.

Two days ago Henry melted down his entire cassette, CD, and LP collection for scrap. He actually had to pay the sanitary department of Toledo, Ohio $71.43 to take his toxic heap even though he assumed he would be paid some small amount. The city also fined him for having an exposed toxic flame and no muffler. He went home and smoked pot and his friend Steve stopped by and put on an REO Speedwagon album. Henry then realized that things would be much worse from now on as a deep fear set its claws into him.

Creepy Jesse the Mayhem Bee and other Fornicular Bullshit

Sometimes I don't say anything for months at a time. I sit quietly in a back room at a distance and watch the movie "Dune" over and over again without saying anything or moving. This is easy to do while watching Dune. It even slows your pulse. Pending further notice, I can sit and scar myself for months on end; no pain or emotion is able to penetrate my scaly skin.

The reckoning is here. Listen to your local prophet. 2012 is the year it ends. Life on earth, around for about 3.5 billion years, is now on the brink of extinction, report smart humans, who have been around for ~50,000 years, just 0.001% of the time that life has existed. Good riddance to wasteful, "life on earth," I say. On an unrelated note, humans have successfully evolved to be so advanced that they are completely capable of destroying our entire species very rapidly once they are able to find the right self-fulfilling demise prophecy sequence. The brighter side of things for less advanced species is that this is like winning the lottery - usually only people that have no concept of $500 million dollars win, and certain decay is the end result.

Anyway, who cares. I met this guy Arthur yesterday. He was Chinese and was put in charge of running a wind turbine. He can't speak very good English, but I can't speak any Chinese. I can't tell if he's 20 or 40. He tried to find me a bathroom but failed. That is the story of the week.

Looping Toronto Scenes

"What enters Toronto alters Toronto." That's the moniker of Ontario's capital, much different than "what happens in (city), stays in (city)." Or, "(city), at least we're not Detroit," or, used frequently in rust belt cities "fuck with (city), receive an undignified burial in (city)." In a much different way Toronto's moniker is also what differentiates the city from Detroit, Erie (PA), Toledo, Gary, Buffalo, Milwaukee, and even Chicago. I need say no more about that. Just drive through the cities and find out for yourself. Develop your own theory, it will feel good.

Surprisingly to me, Ontario (and I assume the rest of Canada) is able to maintain its own unique identity even while lying in the dark shadow of the US. Of course they depend greatly on the US, but they seem to have done well in maintaining their commercial and cultural dignity despite the majority of its people living within firing distance of United States. This position would (and often does) cause a very rational fear in other less proud citizens of a country (Ann Coulter's tried unsuccessfully to perpetuate this fear in her speech, "let's destroy Canada"). Instead, the citizens of Canada spit on Dunkin' Donuts in favor of Tim Horton's, turn up April Wine, and position their fists in the event that Ann Coulter does attack (fists being the accepted method of national defense).

A tour of Canada came at a good time for me. I'm transitioning in life in many ways both physically and mentally - settling into the American lifestyle with great reluctance. This causes me to question it and respond to it constantly, always putting my fists up to it (Canadian style) and trying to make it into something that's livable by my own standards. I choose to do this, I guess, rather than to slip into the abyss of Americanism as a natural progression to life, which I don't believe it is. So on with entering Ontario which means an immediate and welcome radio broadcast transition to any number of Rush songs, but usually Spirit of the Radio or Limelight, also American radio classics, but played not nearly as much as they are in Canada. This is Canada's musical welcome, and it is much welcomed by me. Not coincidentally, Rush has also served Ontario's tourism industry well with songs like YYZ and Lakeside Park. Once in the realm of Rush, I found myself going to a hockey game, looking like a Canadian, and thinking what a great idea it is to have a maple leaf for a national emblem.

Hockey. Rush. Universal healthcare... okay, so I know I only feel like Canada is utopia based on some very simple criteria. But, I ask you, what is it that makes a place ideal? If you're thinking about Ann Coulter's hot body rubbing up against yours while you drive your Cadillac Escalade in laps around your suburban circle while eating McDonald's while NOT being able to smoke even a small amount of pot, then I understand we're on different pages... although you could do almost all of those things in Canada. Anyway, here's some pictures to leave you with. Please feel free to assign each picture to a location.

Van zantar's magical mind quest

In short dealings with Quiqley's short-hand assassination squad, you start to see first-hand what small business ethic is all about. After all, scheming is built around the pyramid. The problem is that somebody is left with the bag. Further down the line of time, too many people are left with the bag and no more downward pressure can be exerted. Then boom! Collapse. Disaster in the extreme. Human nature. Fear. Insecurity. Greed. Anxiety. Misguided life instinct .

Extreme minded people do the formerly unimaginable. Joins a martial arts clan. Everything feels more comfortable, more firm. Things are handled. Anxiety is depleted. Other clans pop up: A-1 Victory, Lust Squad, Over the Top, Rank and File Drivers, Sleeping Unit 14, General Grinding, etc. The nation is flattened. Non-defensive stances are taken and non-aggression pacts are written up. Be agressive... b-e-a-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e can't be chanted in certain places for the reason of peace keeping. The rule is enforced by mass influence - just like the proper hairstyle was in the past. Different subversive and tactical acts of aggression are utilized when necessary, but only when a clan steps clearly out of bounds in terms of want. The methods don't strip the clans of life necessary resources, which has been shown throughout history to brutalize and kill a creature without direct bleeding. No, these new methods create a very discomforting level of chaos and recklessness; a real urgent motive in the bowels or an impending sense of dilapidation. Much worse than the blade or the bullet, the final results of which come fairly quickly and painlessly. Even prolonged torture leaves little time to make a different decision.

Mr. Quiqley is on the wrong side of town now and the wrong side of proper. He's trying to erect a stairway to heaven so they used to say. At least that's what Led Zeppelin used to say, in reference of course to implementing a ponzi scheme. "Buying" the stairway = consolidating the pyramid... de-fragmenting... sometimes referred to as "buy-out" or "corporate acquisition." in former times. Now Quiqley, whom I spend time with, is dangerous to hang out with, but brings a little zest into situations. He spends too much time at Black Market Sports. He runs a group home on the side and draws in vagrants who usually take no part. Quiqley trains and then deploys these vagrants on well-timed assassination missions for money. How else to pay the bills? How else to get a bigger plot of land? Quiqley has not the answer for that, so he moves forward. I provide the vagrants copious amounts of non sequiturs, religious musings, and uncomfortable settings when possible. It's common to suggest ingesting 1 bottle of corn syrup and a goblet of olive oil for example if I pose as a member of a physician clan. I suggest apparent sabotage of their equipment and cross up their wires fairly routinely. Occasionally I'll scream at their dogs or twist up rope and set it on fire near their bedding. All this, or course, for the sake of maintaining a state of discomfort and disapproval. All for the implicit purpose of maintaining overall human dignity, which was only recently re-discovered and retrieved. A new generation struggles to recall a time without it. This indicates the evolutionary shortcomings, something never accounted for in social practice. Can't be accounted for in fact. History repeats itself in short term because that's also how the cell genetics work. Quiqley, one generation old, is stuck with what he's got. He picks up a blade and a whip, and steps out the door. I promptly put 1000 mg of caffeine in his water supply, put cat piss on his shoes, and sign him up for 3 subscriptions to TV guide.

My ankles are put throught the standard holiday test battery

A Chrysler Le Baron is in front of me. It's a convertible all right, but the soft top is up, and the heat is difficult to keep trapped. It's cold in there. The only option is to tighten the hood over the ears and hope for the best, but a cold wind is constant and eats the flesh. The other option is to park the car and eat some Wendy's food. Nothing better than a hot baked potato on a cold day. But if there's one rule I know, it's to never, ever, park your Le Baron in this neighborhood. Never. Put a pencil through your eye first. It's not that anybody will viciously attempt to take your Le Baron, or even hassle you, it's just simply that you don't want to park here and have to think about things - the way they are, they way the were, they way they ought to be. You'll step outside of car, take a look at the backside of your hand in the wind, small mid-digit hair moving erratically, then look down the street and wonder what the fuck happened and where in time you have gotten lost. Really, it's best just not to go there. Stay on Fond du Lac Avenue, by all means, but don't stop. If you stop you'll be forced into the thought trap that they've built there with rotting plywood, crushed bricks, rusted iron bars, and stained class. That's not what you do at Christmas. It's not fucking Christian of you and it's un-fucking American. This is the time for us all to come together, purchase leaden plastic goods, fuck up family affairs, and drink rubbing alcohol under a cold, dark, moon. I like to remind my readers each year that this is Pagan tradition, so please, blame the weird kids (and not the Christ child), take your prescribed "soothing" pharmaceuticals, take two laps around the cul-de-sac, and continue on with the march we've been taught.

At least my feet don't smell as bad as Dale's

I have a taped message that plays this repeatedly. In a deep, almost Bronson-like, voice. I found this tape on the street next to an empty can of Olde English.

West zone standard methods

The premise of this writing is that there is something important to say (or, more specifically, that I have something important to say). That would be rather vain, no? This is also the premise held true by philosophers, CEO's and local jerk-offs. So, throw out your ideals, go out there and mix it up a bit with other kids. Eliminate the typical thought patterns that you have; they only make things more confusing and difficult, just like the use of the semicolon. Take a winning attitude with you. Hold a neon cross if it makes you feel better.

Request for information related to the state of your affairs

People have clearly not realized the impact of the foam rubber guild project. Certainly you haven't picked up on it. Too bad, looks like "all's for not," as Corporal Westley was heard saying yesterday at the intersection of Good Hope and 60th. 100% correct Corporal. 100%.