Socialism and Clickbait

I consider myself to be a prolific regretter. It often consumes me. Not a day really passes or has ever passed in my life, regardless of the circumstances, where I was able to get through three squares and a nap without regretting SOMETHING; even if that something were was the fact that all I did was make it through 3 squares and a nap. How's that for circular? For my next trick... I could probably find a way to rue the day I rued the day, or drown myself in regret over regretting the regrettable. Sure, a large part of this constant, somewhat needless introspection is simply an controllable self-absorption; a compulsion to live within the world I've established in my head. You know, the one that revolves around ME. I regret admitting that. No, really. Another may be the need to feed the beast. Whenever I feel stuck or trapped or angry or whatever, I can simply comb through the broken memory files in my head to find the one that may be the reason for my current situa

Let's face it. The Internet is full of temptation. And when a juicy article, think-piece or facebook post happens to roll into your digital periphery, grab your ever-discerning eye and get those wheels a-spin spin spinnin', how in the world could you possibly ignore the urge to make your thoughts public? You saw something online, and you have an "opinion" on it. Now that you've hit the "Add Comment" button, you're ready to scratch that itch and give the Internet a piece of your mind. But how?!? Where do you start? How do you offer a reaction that is truly stunning, that captures the reader's attention and makes an impression lasting for the next 10, 20 or even 30 seconds, maybe more?? If you're struggling to really strike a chord within the online comment community, and to trigger the vitriolic animus you truly deserve, follow these 5 easy steps: 1.         Let the Headline Be Your Guide. When you first spotted that provocative

A dash of rhetoric, 5 layers of paranoia, sour grapes...all packed into pressed thin and flaky reasoning served with brute force alongside red herring and Parmesan... A lot's been made recently of the "Deep State," the ominous, shadowy Orwellian old men-with-super-yachts club that sounds a lot like Illuminati but looks eerily close to the Federal Spy Collective...you know, the standard players of CIA, FBI. NSA and whomever else can be traced back to some sort of nation-toppling schemery or major crimes against Americans cover-up in the names of freedom, Satan and self-preservation. On the surface, the Deep State seems to be just another concoction of rabbit hole conspiracists, cooked up by those with too much time on their hands and delivered by a half-wit demagogue with hair plugs, small hands and a Big Apple-sized inferiority complex. On the surface, that is. Because when you think about it, how hard is it to really believe in the puppet-mastering Deep State; a gr

A sleepless night on Cul-de-Sac Independence; wandering aimlessly through the house for a spot to sink into...crash landing instead on the guest room futon. A truck rumbles into action. A big one. Coming to life and growling for prey at 12:30 in the morning. Idles like a nightmare, like a relentlessly spinning steel trap gnashing its teeth and nipping at your ankles for dream-time eternity. Shit. The metal monster, a red-and-black Dodge pickup with giant chrome pipes and over-sized American flags donning each corner of its bed, sits and rumbles and idles idles idles. The cheap single-pane window in the bedroom rattles with every chug-a-chug. The floor trembles beneath. I just wanted to sleep. This is not uncommon or unexpected in any way. This scene takes place every night, around the same time, and with no real rhyme or reason, other than to remind everyone that it won't be stopped anytime soon. The cul-de-sac can often be mistaken for a a makeshift Diesel exhibition,

A small pile of nonfiction short stories lie neglected in my office, each bound in photocopies of old magazine covers a bit frayed around the edges. Each time I feel the urge to pour through one, an act which should take no longer than 5-7.5 minutes, I get distracted or lose interest. So it goes, I guess. Seemingly composed under the influence of various unnamed substances, these pieces supposedly provide first-person accounts of the author's sexual exploits in somewhat morbid detail, along with the general malaise, ennui or depressive state that often follows the consumption of various unnamed substances. Maybe I should take a look. Probably not today. Being as it's 2017, these stories are now more than a decade old. That makes me feel old. Not only that, but they were written by someone I believe has ceased to be. That someone, an old acquaintance I can barely picture at this point, was fighting a constant battle with addiction to various unnamed substances. I proba

I started this blog to take a cheeky and somewhat sublime look at the surreal, and with the limited number of posts I've added so far, it seems that I've more-or-less been sticking to its original intent. After all, such confounding real-life occurrences, such as the sudden proliferation of red baseball caps and the discovery of gravitational "ripples" in the fabric of space-time, do indeed warrant a bit of levity, particularly if we plan on coming out of this age alive... But I thought I might veer away from the formula for a second (time's up!) and do my best to examine a "serious" topic in a little more depth...that of the monkey who never quite leaves your back (unless you therapy the shit out of it)...drumroll please...A. N. G. E. R. Anger. ANGER. ANGER! F*%#ing ANGER you F*%#ing F*%#!!! JESUS F*%#ing Chriminee!!!!!!?! Okay, enough of that. This post is about anger, using my own to illustrate. I know, I know. NO one in the history of