Innards of a Dog's Paw

rorschach-dog-pawAfeared, he woke in a blaze of glory and almost lived his life just the same. Glorified, he went to sleep in a puddle of yearning that is always stirred by the ghosts he made. Where this should end, were the last words he said to his good-wife that night before the morning that would be his end. And she turned to him and looked him in the eye and then eventually placed that compulsive kiss on his lips. It’s the moment between sleep and wake, he thought. It’s the moment between man and wife–where nothing seems to matter as the lifeless body drifts ashore, and he repeats to himself, forgetting his wife: I am a soldier ashore. And as the ensuing dream becomes reality in the middle of his night, the mares of his youth scramble across bed-fields of Texarkana where he seeks a few hours worth living until the rigamarole begins again. Oh yea, before he forgets: he forgets to visit his therapist again.

Enter every troubled man’s other woman, Ms. Rorschach.

Yes Sir is all he ever answered but only when Ms. Rorschach asked a yes question. Did you sleep well, she asked. Yes Sir, he said. Did you go to the VA hospital and visit your comrades, she asked. Yes Sir, he said. How is your wife doing, she asked. There was a long pause. It wasn’t a Yes Sir question. I’m having trouble sleeping, he eventually said. Sleep is the closest we get to death in the humdrum of this life, she said. It is a way to see through it all and begin to recognise those images, do you understand Mr Kyle? Will you help me get to those images? Pause. Another wrong question. She continues. Shall we talk again about your glory? He perked up.

Mr. Kyle thought: what a cute therapist with legs up to the heavens. How could someone like she address this krapp day in and day out? Where’s my truck?

Mr. Kyle, now that your glory is behind us and you continue down the American path of financial success, we need to address the three meanings that are part of that glory. Mr. Kyle turned to look at himself in the mirror that had been assigned by government sanction and mandate to follow him everywhere. He saw the three meanings that had been engraved in that mirror since youth. They were thus:

Grievance. Sentiment. Belonging. (Aside: what you’ve been baited and sold–hook, line and sinker.)

Once Mr. Kyle tried to talk about the three meanings to Ms. Rorschach but he didn’t get very far. The three meanings would be at the top of every note Ms. Rorschach made. Once she even asked him: To what avail should we use this new religion and its three kings? Kings, he asked in a rare response. There was a pause that she had to fill. In the morning the same kiss comes again, is your answer, she said. It’s a compulsion that is a bit more refreshed, don’t you know, she continued. But isn’t that a good thing, the therapist asks, crossing her legs a third time.

This new attempt at gathering information had only occupied twenty minutes of their session. She wanted this part to last at least forty minutes. She wanted to save the part that he liked best, the black & white images, for last few minutes because she felt that she already had enough data from them.He began to reveal inner workings of his mind at the third picture she showed him. She was now up to picture number thirty-three. But between his assigned mirror that reflected his ingrained soul and the feeling that he was being forced to see her, there was little else to be done. She had to take what she could get. If one doesn’t want therapy, like most males, there was little to be done. Her consolation was the fact that at least he liked her pictures. And then she asked: Would Mr. Eastwood employ those inner workings in his film? Pause.

Why would you bring him in to this, Mr. Kyle asked.

I’m curious, was her response.

I don’t know anything about Hollywood, he said. They have their own way of doing things.

But aren’t your worried that Mr. Eastwood might take your story in the wrong direction?

Mr. Eastwood? He’s a red-blooded American, just like me and my kind. Now if you asked me if Woody Allen would take my story in the wrong direction, now there you might be on to something.

Ok. Mr. Kyle. Let’s move on. What do you see when you look at this picture?

Ms. Rorschach held up the black and white picture. She could tell that it was the only moment during their sessions that he put down his mirror. And before long he answered as to what he saw.

As my good-wife leaves for her duty, all that’s left is me and the children. And so, I sit for an hour or three and drink my energy drinks. Mountain Dew. Monster. Coke when I’m in a somber mood. But sometimes I over do it with Red Bull blends. Oh, how I miss those days (and mornings) in Texas. When I worked for the man, you know, things were easy. I had my tools and my orders. My orders were me. There was always something to do, always someone to protect, it was as though they too were my orders. That’s what I thought I’d be doing when I spoke to Eddie Ray’s mother. He was way down on that PTSD thing. And I thought I could help him. When I spoke to his mother on the phone she said that he was a good guy but gone down the wrong path. And I knew that by joining the marines there was no wrong path–even though some can steer in the wrong direction. And that’s why I’m here now. I’m gonna help him. Civilian life ain’t like it used to be. I know that too. But… You want to know what I see in that picture you’re holding up, Ms. Rorschach? Well I’ll tell you what I’m seeing. I’m seeing…

He paused.

After the pause he didn’t want to talk anymore and he didn’t want to look at another picture. He only wanted to help Eddie Ray and Eddie Ray’s mother. He wanted to help our country’s returned civilians, the ones who just got home from hell and demons and sand and orders. He was gonna get a friend this time, too. Another comrade. All three would go to The Resort. Enjoy themselves. Shoot some guns. And perhaps share a thought or three about the three kings, the three meanings that make up such a huge part of America. They would join as men among the smells of burning sulphur and the shine of freshly fired shell casings. Little did Mr. Kyle know that this would be his last meeting with Ms. Rorschach. From now on he would have to see the ink blots elsewhere. Like so many others.

End.

Oh, and before I forget, dear worst-reader. The image Mr. Kyle saw in this last ink-blot and Mr. Eastwood forgot to include in his sentimental journey towards another Oscar win, was the innards of a dog’s paw.

With that in mind, let’s look at how others perceive things like the sentimental. Not sure if it’s worth ever trying to add something about grievance and belonging. With that in mind, here’s to Hollywood, fiction and the America way.

“Sentimentality, the ostentatious parading of excessive and spurious emotion, is the mark of dishonesty, the inability to feel. The wet eyes of the sentimentalist betray his aversion to experience, his fear of life, his arid heart; and it is always, therefore, the signal of secret and violent inhumanity, the mask of cruelty.” -James Baldwin

Good luck. Rant on.

-Tommi

Links that help curtail, subjugate and motivate this post:

Chris Hedges Nails It About American Rage Sentiment | truthdig.com

Sentimentality | Wiki

Twice As Much

Worst-thought of the day on how the world really works. A fairy appears to a worker-bee of the western world while that worker-bee is taking a break in his cubicle and dreaming of a better life. The fairy says: I will do anything for you that you want but remember whatever I do for you I will do for your neighbour twice as much. The worker-bee thinks for a minute, actually taking the time to put aside the meaningless compulsion he has been told is (his) work. He then takes a drink from his empty cup of java and wonders how long before his usurper starts charging him for it. Then he takes a deep breath and says: Ok. How ’bout this? Take one of my eyes. -Rant on.

The Same Game

Maybe, just maybe, dear worst-reader, you should stop playing the same game as everybody else. Ever think about that? I mean, that’s the ticket, ain’t it? There is one game and everybody (EVERYBODY) plays it. There is no variety in the games we play. There is no difference in the games we play. And so. Eventually that game has to either get incredibly boring, tedious and dysfunctional or something has to step in to either maintain its existence or at least save the players that win at it. For the game, obviously, must exist. The game is the thread in the quilt. The game is the glue that holds everything together. The game… But I digress. §And so. This is why I sad-laugh at the players of this game. Especially the players that complain about it and/or try to take a stance just because they are not winners in the game. Seriously. There is no global conspiracy or empirical plot. Humanity is simply too stupid to pull such a thing off. There is, on the other hand, THE GAME–which a few have managed to get all of you to play. So why not just enjoy the game? You’re not starving, yet, are you? And if you are starving then we can worst-write about over-population. Right? §Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not defending the likes of Jamie Dimon, wall-street, or government. But I’ve tried to worst-say here and there that the problems in the world of finance and banking are obviously deeper than what the complainers want us to think. That is. Since we’re in the process of repeating history (repeating, in fact, the beginning of the 20th century), one only need to look into the not-so distant past to see how those complaining now are only reaping what they’ve sewn. Hence, lowering expectations, or, as some like to call it, having your living standards lowered for you, is the only way to continue the game you have been playing ALL your measly life. And so. Unfortunately. The bankers in Davos are right. Since the worker-bees, wanna-bees and players of this game never saw it coming–when a few of us did see it coming–then the only answer, to avoid repeating history at a 1:1 ratio, is to either get out of the game or take a back seat while the big boys manage it. To understand the reason why the likes of Jamie Dimon, the Fed, bad government, etc., run our lives,  one only has to look at not only how we repeat history but how so few have been able to see and interpret that history in the first place. Good luck suckers. Rant on. -Tommi

A Billionaire Lectures Serfs in Davos – Claims “America’s Lifestyle Expectations are Far Too High” | Liberty Blitzkrieg.

Costs Plus BS Equals?

Back in the day, dear worst-reader, when I worked for the man–you know, like you still do–I remember vividly the beginning of the end. The end of working for the man, that is. Indeed. It started about two years before I dropped out (and tuned in). It was my last stint at one of those silly management consultant firms (btw, manage and consult is oxymoronic, or is it contradictory?) and the only task to be done as a business analyst was to find out the cost of doing business. Now. Try to process that for a moment. Other than the recipe and future plans of whatever it is corporation A is making/doing, there is no greater secret to a company than its costs. Hence the corporate culture of fear and paranoia that is #americant and the advent of krapp like limited liability corporations, the lie of the profit & loss statement and other things like the idear that HR (human resources) is actually a corporate department that is supposed to manage personnel, when, in fact, it is there to only fire (and/or not hire) worker-bees. With that in mind, I find this information made transparent by a software development company (see links below) fascinating. Boy, what I would have done to get my hands on these numbers back in the mid-90s. Not only does it reveal the/a cost structure of software development but it also provides a blueprint for a wide range of research and analysis for other areas. I hope this sets an example that transparency is a good thing and more companies should use it–even though hope is dead. Oh. Before I forget. It’s still not OK that Coke wants to keep trying to hide the formula for its sugar-water. Down with corporate secrets. Or something like that. Rant on.

Monument Valley in Numbers — Monument Valley by ustwo™ games.

Article on Monument Valley Numbers | TechCrunch

They Never See Me Coming

IMG_0861.JPGWhen I first saw Devil’s Advocate I was impressed. Not too much horror to make me bite my fingernails, enough intrigue to make me hang on to the story, and a perfect mix of brilliant writing and direction. Reeves is, like w/ most of his work, a mediocre actor that’s just hard to dislike. Theron is luscious to look at and listen to in a pre-surgery way. Pacino, on the other hand, truly carries this film and he does so as any genius serpent wallowing around the tree of knowledge would. That’s what always brings me back to this film. That is, over the passed year or so, while breezing thru my movie library when I know I’m not going to watch a whole film (on account of other worst-writing constraints), I call up films and skip through to the money-shots, i.e. moments of dialogue/writing that downright thrill me. I do this a lot w/ films like Casablanca, almost anything Woody Allen, Monty Python, etc. In this particular film all I ever re-watch is the dialogue w/ Pacino, the Devil incarnate. Below a small example. The underestimating scene.

KEVIN: I figure you came to court to make sure I didn’t fuck this up.

MILTON: Maybe I did. But don’t get too cocky. No matter how good you are. Don’t let them see you coming. That’s the gaff, my friend — make yourself small. Be the hick. The cripple. The nerd. The leper. The shit-kicking surfer. Look at me — I’ve been underestimated from day one. Do I look like a master of the universe? That’s your only weakness as far as I can tell.

KEVIN: What’s that?

MILTON: The look. The Florida stud thing. (Southern accent.) ‘Scuse me, ma’am, did I leave my boots under your bed?’

KEVIN: Never worked a jury didn’t have a woman.

MILTON: You know what you’re missing? What I have? This beautiful girl she’s just fucked me every way she knows how — we’re done — she’s walking to the bathroom — she turns back — and there I am. It’s me. And she smiles — it’s like a veil coming down across her face — and that smile, that’s a question mark, because she’s looking at me, she’s wondering, how did that happen? And see, right there, from that moment on, she’s got a secret. I’m the hand up Mona Lisa’s skirt. I’m the whisper in Nefertitti’s ear. I’m a surprise. They never see me coming. That’s what your missing.

While we’re at it, dear worst-reader, let’s throw in one more for fun. This short piece of writing genius is rivalled only by Burroughs (when it comes to writing about that whole god thing.)

MILTON: Let me give you a little inside information about God. God likes to watch. He’s a prankster. Think about it. He gives man instincts. He gives you this extraordinary gift, and then what does He do, I swear for His own amusement, his own private, cosmic gag reel, He sets the rules in opposition. It’s the goof of all time. Look but don’t touch. Touch, but don’t taste. Taste, don’t swallow. Ahaha. And while you’re jumpin’ from one foot to the next, what is he doing? He’s laughin’ His sick, fuckin’ ass off! He’s a tight-ass! He’s a SADIST! He’s an absentee landlord! Worship that? NEVER!

(Devil’s Advocate Screenplay by Jonathan Lemkin and Tony Gilroy)

Yeah, baby. Great writing. Great movie.

Rant on. -Tommi

The Slime Ball Cometh

Oh my. Unbelievable. Only in #americant, baby. In my post Barrel of Fun I had a few not so flattering words to share with worst-readers everywhere about Mitt Romney. And if I may toot my own horn, I rather like the post, especially the part where I wax philosophical on what Romney’s father did to create such a clueless albeit money hungry human. Now that Mitt is “considering” running for prez a third time I can’t help but worst-wonder more & more about Das Volk and their (in)ability to keep the cogs of democracy churning. I mean, are you serious Mitt? A third go at something that is obviously even beyond your purchasing power? Oh well. It never ceases to amaze me how the greatest nation-state experiment in human history has fully succumbed to collective mindlessness and intellect made of jell-o farts. Or something like that. Rant on.

Romney Hints At 2016 Run In Speech To RNC.

They Were Really Great

“Their precepts related chiefly to ourselves, and the government of those passions which, unrestrained, would disturb our tranquility of mind. In this branch of philosophy they were really great. (Italics mine.) In developing our duties to others, they were short and defective. They embraced indeed the circles of kindred and friends, and inculcated patriotism, or the love of country in the aggregate, as a primary obligation: towards our neighbours and countrymen they taught justice, but scarcely viewed them as within the circle of benevolence. Still less have they inculcated peace, charity, and love to our fellow-men, or embraced with benevolence the whole family of mankind.” -Thomas Jefferson on Philosophers, from a letter about his religious views, April 21, 1803, The Jefferson Bible