You Overcome and Become

That’s the gist folks.  Essentially, without trial and tribulations, you’re left with a small wake.  A good, uncommon question to ask yourself, is what have I endured that has lead me to better greatness?  What is it that motivates me to be a better person?

I understand that many cats come to the sphere seeking a method or way to attract the opposite gender.  That’s all good, and I will never, ever knock anyone who comes here for that.  However, I have found that I have issue relating to cats who have never overcome a hardship of dark proposals.  There will not be examples given for that, read my archives and see one man’s efforts.

There is a topic they talk about in 12 step rooms; the bottom.  “You hit your bottom and you’re left with no hope and no where to go so you come here and seek answers, the answer is the 12 step program.  Praise Bill, praise the steps.”

No, I don’t praise any of those.  As I illustrated before, there are a few things that plague me with issues.  The voices don’t matter. What matters is what I do with myself.  Some days, I can barely get out of bed.  Some days, I hit the streets with a vengeance.

I never look down on a cat who has no home, because I for myself know, we are all a few steps away from being the same.  The major theme of this here rant is compassion.  I write about being compassionate to your fellow man.  I do this, because there are many steps to improvement.

You cannot ever move past your past motivators without seeing them for what they are.  What is essential, is introspection.  It’s a difficult process and quite possibly will not make sense for many many months.

Some cats get it from the start.

Some cats are still digging in dumpsters.

Some cats, all of the sudden, get their paws ripped out from under them, end up de-clawed and trying to climb a wall.

Without a method of introspection, one cannot climb the wall of transcendental interference.

Look deep, think deep, sit still and make action.

Action, perseverance, and determination are what make the grade.  The bottom is not the end all of all things.  It is not the end of you.  There are many things you can overcome with solely the power of your own mind and self preservation.  Not many on this side of the sphere talk about this.  It’s all, be a fucking alpha, get some strange, be a fucking man, lift your weights, be selfish.

I am not in disagreement with those concepts, however, I think there might be some cats who have been dealing with other issues that might need a push in the right direction.  Depression, schizophrenia, substance abuse, all those things are trials to over come.

They are difficult and without the proper voices to guide you along the way, you will be lost and probably end up going deeper down your dark path.

I have often said on my twitter, “I should be on trial, for all the things I haven’t done.”

This is not a joke, I’ve made some major fuckups in my life, and I have lacked the balls to make some major moves.

I should be on trial.

But thank Odin, the government doesn’t care about me until I break a law in their face.



Stop Stepping on my Dick

As much as I hate to accept it, I find that Wall Street Playboys writings about loser mentality and picking friends are spot fucking on.  Although I have work to do in the seven steps of advancement, I possess qualities that I look for and admire in my friends.  No one is ever perfect, and if every day is a hunky-dory agreement fest, one is probably not pushing the limits.  I’m a regular offender of regular people.  I say things that are uncomfortable to digest.  Truths get pointed out when needed.  It is not agreeable but truth is hard to circumvent without copious amounts of denial.

Those with thin skin, who act out aggressively to some humored jiving, really grind my gears.  They grind them to the point where I actually act out in response.  Of course, not so directly as to go into calling names, but to the point where I end up calling someone out in a not so gentle manner in an non ideal environment.  Do you see the hypocrisy there?  I react in the same sorry manner to the actions that anger me.  Obviously my skin is not as thick as I thought it.  I let insults, anger, haters, loser, roll off my back like water, but sometimes it comes from someone I respect and that’s where it gets complicated.

So what can I do?  Again we’re back into territory that the WSP covered in their post “Nobody Cares About You.”  If I were to truly embrace this ideology in an uninhibited manner, then the issue of thick skin would not matter.  Those carelessly, often, without any forethought, thrown insults, backhanded bullshit, would not get a rise out of me in any matter.  They could be laughed off, ignored or forgotten.  Their meaning and place in my life is none.  My thoughts should be clean of them.

But that’s not the case.  I don’t like people stepping on my dick.  That’s where emasculation begins right?  When going about the ritual of modern courtship and a salty lass throws a ‘shit test’, isn’t that her way of stepping on my dick?

“I see you have that, but I don’t want to acknowledge it out right.  In fact, I’m going to see if it’s just a stain I can smudge into this carpet.”

Replace “it’s”, with “you’re”, in the above sentence and there’s the whole litter in one bag.

Should a requisite of a penile “tackle box” be attached to the whole dance?  Probably not, it is good to challenge, you know, because that’s what people do to over come oppression.

She might be a single mom if…

Alright.  That last post was just a little touchy feely.  Especially the poem, but hey, if I’m going have an honest go at this shit, I have to be honest.  Thus, in my drunken escapades on the day before St. Patrick’s, after having my old pet jump my memory beacon for a minute, I decided to pour dranks down my throat for her.  I really don’t need any excuse to drink, ever, but I will use the most convenient one.

So I went out on the town Saturday.  I did so because I had to work early Monday (including gym before work) and there had already been comments that I was expected to be wrecked from a hangover that morning.  That’s what they expect of an Irishman.  Little do they know, I don’t get hangovers.  That’s a post for another day.

It was a real cavalcade of perversions as it seemed everyone in the city was out getting tossed.  Knowing firsthand my introverted tendencies and ability to not say a fucking word to anybody for an extended period of time, I decided to get higher than giraffe pussy prior to going to midtown for this pub crawl. (I have a post on how to achieve that cerebral state without smoking coming up in a few days.)  I’ve never been on a pub crawl and this was complete clown shoe madness.  It definitely did not entail anything to write home about.  In summation, I would liken it to a green Halloween.  There were bro’s bro’in it up, beezies being sleazy,  cougars getting pervy and fatties getting bold.  Basically an occupy drunk street whilst sloshed out of your shoes.  Yay.

One of our stops was a joint that isn’t one of my favorites.  However, I hadn’t seen the Jessica Biel look-alike bartender.  She wasn’t hard on the eyes, then I saw the signs.  Now, I use the term single mom, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s single.  Swallowing that red pill (which seems more like choking down some soured mind fuck, even if it makes sense) means I know better than to trust the virtues of any girl.  Shit, I know that for myself. So for the purposes of this list I mean a chick who has reared and/or is rearing a child or children out of wedlock.  I’m sure these could apply to married moms too, but let’s just have a go at it, shall we?

So Empowered.

She might be a single mom if she isn’t wearing a ring.

She might be a single mom if she has stretch marks on her titties.

She might be a single mom if she is consistently looking for a sitter for weekend nights.

She might be a single mom if her children are her life.

She might be a single mom if she NEVER has ANY time.

She might be a single mom if she has regular party nights and or weekends “free.”

She might be a single mom if she has a curfew to be at the “sitters.”

She might be a single mom if she posts about earning her scars on facebook

She might be a single mom is she has smug facebook posts about her daily inane shit that wouldn’t matter if she used a condom accomplishments.

She might be a single mom if she needs to find herself.

She might be a single mom if she goes to bars alone.

She might be a single mom if she’s suddenly into females. (Read, dicklover turned lesbo.  Maybe this is just a California thing.)

She might be a single mom if she’s fucking me.

How about you readers?  Any giveaways you can think of?

Time Capsule

There was an un-emptied box sitting next to a lamp in my front room.  I had not unpacked it.  It was small and looked like it was collected from my car, so I never really paid it any heed.  What?  I thought it was all empty Go Girl cans. Last night in a state of inebriated humor, I decided to rifle through it.  What a treasure trove I did find.

I found cards from as long ago as my 8th grade year.  I found the funeral pamplet for the poor girl who was killed by two drugged out mexicans when she was in 8th grade.  Although I felt no sympathy or sadness then, I am a different person now and I reflected on how tragic that actual episode was.  I found an envelope of pictures from my 6th grade Catholic school field trip to Point Reyes.  In it was another girl who drowned in the Russian River when she was in 8th grade.  Her sister who dove in to save her, also drowned.  Then the memory of when I was eating drunkenly at Denny’s back in ’01 and that same girls youngest sister was the waitress. I remember then feeling a sort of sadness for the young girl, and did when I saw the picture.  I reflected on what a rough year that was, multiple core teachers, one of whom was the Mom of Raina.  That was the year I started to disassociate with the rest of Society.  That was the year I knew I was truly alone in a fucked up world.

This is not where this post is going.  Those memories aside, I found cards upon cards, from ex girlfriends from co-workers.  I found the first citation for disturbing the peace my high school punk band received.  I found my certificate of completion of drivers training course from when I was 15.  I mean really, this was pretty crazy for me and brought back a raging waterfall of emotions.  Thankfully I have learned to feel and was able to be present with the tsunami of ethereal remembrance.

I found some baseball cards too.  One was a topps card of Vida Blue from the Giants.  A topps Bo Jackson rookie card also graced the box.  As well as some a DAT tape of some recordings I did when I was in college, my scientific calculator, a medal from a Bike Race I had placed second in, some stickers, my SAT reports as well as a college transcript.

It was all very interesting to me and took me down a path of reflection I think I really needed.  The lengths of growth I have achieved are not perceived merely by looking in the mirror.  I once elicited in my first band “the past is definition to where the future lies”.. And that is truth.  Because without the past I would not be who I am today.

The best part of the time capsule I found was two binder paper pages of poems I had written when I was younger.  They were quite illuminating and reminded me where some of my anger comes from.  See, after living for so many years, anger sometimes gets diluted in the mass transit of the everyday.  Drive to work, work a day, drive home, walk the dog, eat a food, drink a drink, listen to a music, play a music, drink a water, go to sleep.  Sometimes my day is so routine I want to walk out onto the i5 and just get done with it.  However, I love my dog too much and have much more to do here.  I don’t write nearly as much as I used to so it was a good reminder of the motivation that used to drive me.

Here are two of the poems I found:


They caught the last poor man
on the poor man’s vacation.
They cuffed him
and they dragged his black ass
down to the station.
They said “ok, the streets are safe now.
All your pretty white children can come out and see spot run.”
And they came out,
and they looked around,
and they didn’t see no one.
But my country tis of thee
to take shots at each other on the talk show tv.
Why don’t you just go put out the sun?
Because you’ll never live long enough
to undo everything
they’ve done to you.


This one is my favorite. It is also untitled.

When I look around, I think this is..
This is good enough.
And I try to laugh
at whatever life brings.
Because when I look down
I just miss all the good stuff
and when I look up
I just trip over things.


Godspeed readers.  This redbearded cat loves you.

Ps.  Here is some Descendents influenced goodness in refernce to the bad ass baseball player I mentioned earlier.  Chad Price is not as bad ass as Scott Reynolds, but real men write their own jams and thus you have :


Burning Man Concentration Camp

It was a typical small town Friday night.  In my normal fashion, I was going to stay in the room I rented with my dog, read, play some video games, and otherwise be the anti-social cat I was used to being.  Then I remembered that there was this event going on, the flyer looked cool and two chicks I knew had said they were going.  After letting the dog out, I shambled to the bus stop.  I was early so stopped in to grab a pack of smokes, and while paying for the smokes the bus drove by.  Shit.  I sprinted to the next stop and caught the bus. Arriving at the venue, neon colored lights, blinked, sputtered and threw patterns all over the parking lot.  A huge rumbling bass and fuzzy modem sounds came from inside.  I paid the door, and went in.  There were people, dressed like something out of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, dancing awkwardly to cacophony of aural atrocities.  A DJ reminiscent of a dreadlocked Jabba the Hut manned the stage.  He was to blame for this full on act of retardation.  I tried to dance, but felt like I was emulating the motions of having a seizure.  How can people tolerate this?

This was my first exposure to the burning man syndrome that so consumes people.  I ran in to a guy I knew that night and ended up playing keys in his band.  The drummer of said group was obsessed with BM.  He was a burner.

I myself have no desire to go camp in the desert with 500,000 other people.  Smaller sized adventures are more of my thing.  What strikes me odd, and incredibly laughable is the metamorphosis these people go through and the personas they embody after having that going to said event.

There are a few attention whoring chicks on my facebook that are these people.  The other night I was trolling through some newly uploaded photo and I saw a comment with some absurd name.  Which prompted me to click the profile.  Alas, another BM victim.  I went to that victims friends list and what did I find?  A list of about 1000 people with retarded made up names.

Now I’ve done my share of illicit psychedelics and I do cherish me a boundary dissolving experience, however, after I fried balls for a week, I didn’t come out of and say, “my name is Rainhoof Jackylflower”.  Sure I had some out there thoughts and was tripped out pretty hard, but I was who I was, and am who I am.  Apparently though, a week in the desert doing high amounts of cokestacy and whatever else you can get your hands on turns a person into some one way minded patchouli pirate with a name that could have come from Frank Zappa, though way more lame.


  • Harmonyeris
  • Huta Huta Snow
  • Starmonik Rosepetal
  • Kanyon Walker
  • Little Galactic
  • Conundrummer
  • Luna Breeze
  • Sunkist Love
  • Peachy Poi Walsh
  • Stephinity Meta
  • Sunflower Child
  • Teresita Nomadica
  • Bassignani
  • Violet Aura

They used to test nukes in the Nevada desert, perhaps it’s time to do that again.