Luxury Airlines, Funny Shoe Laces And Constitutions


bus vs first class
Left: business class. Right: first class. To which I can only add: my feet are much, much happier on the right than on the left but they are also humble like dodos in spring.

Going for broke. Travel broke. Just one more trip. Trip to take me away. Away from what? Xmas? Responsibility? Btw, this is the first time I’ll be without my better-half on Xmas since she took me in and became my better half twelve years ago. And I’m sad about that. But when families are stretched on both sides of the Atlantic pond where winters can be bard on the heart, I appreciate the tolerance, the compromise, the understanding. Oh, the prices we pay. Compromises for love, for shoe laces. Wait. Get back on subject. I’ll get to shoe laces in a sec. Focus first on travel. §Precisely planned to end where it all started just before the end of the year after which it can all begin again. Where do we go? Home? Which home? Nomatter. Again. Back to subject. §After all these years of travel something really cool happened recently which I tried to capture in the pic above. As you’ll note, my very comfy shoes with the funny laces are in two different places on board a luxurious airliner. The left pic is travel to destination. The right is travel from destination. Left is also business class. Right is one crazy-cool, gnarly, step beyond… First f’n class. Yeah, baby. Finally made it! Of course, these two seating positions have nothing to do with the place I normally sit while traveling. You know what I mean: coach, economy, humble-class, sheople travel. No. These two seats are quite different than what I’m accustomed to. And before I go on, allow me to qualify this a bit. It is not my intention to toot my own horn here. Both these seats were not afforded me by my own hand (which would warrant tooting). No. They were afforded me as a gift–of sorts. Of “sorts” because it was a gift that does not require (re)payment but does require renumeration. But I don’t want to get too deep into the details of how worst-writer gets his seats on luxury airliners–nor do I want to explain the nuances of neo-feudalism–that worst-writer is able to exploit. Also. As I dabble into this/a world of duality, of dichotomy, poles, opposites, republican and democrats, is jet-lag better flying in a easterly or westerly direction, etc., etc., it is worth noting that there is something else out there that shares a commonality with seating arrangements on luxury airliners. After all is worst-said & worst-done, after all the krappy seats on airlines have been tried, it all comes back to one thing. When I end 2015’s travel itinerary it’s time to save again. For there is so much travel planned for 2016–if the neo-feudalists allow it. At least I think there is. Or? I know. I know. I know what you’re thinking, dear worst-reader. Save what? Save for what? You mean save money? For travel? Well, my answer to all your nitpicking, dear worst-reader, is simple: don’t worry your cute little head because if you plan well and you keep smiling and you are not a threat to the neo-feudalists, than travel will come as easy as the money they allow to grow on (my) trees. And in that vein, the vein of funny shoe laces or duality–or the same pair of jeans and shoes and laces on opposing flights–let’s give a bit more worst-writing a go. §While all get hot & bothered over Constitutions and how they are written–not unlike how Deist’s books were written by men from the friggin’ bronze-age–no one sees through what some people do to facilitate misinterpretation of old, old, really old words. And speaking of old words! So the 2nd amendment gets mixed up with the 14th amendment. Or shouldn’t states be able to decide what to do about their–with their–“well regulated Militia”? Again. Nomatter. §This post is a confusion of another kind. For example, instead of addressing the true cause of The Gun Problem (of #americant) change the entire discourse to immigration and terrorists and then all can be swept under the rug. Add to that a complexity of The Donald and an upcoming election that already resembles are farce that must someday be topped… Well, it’s no wonder I decided to seek out a life of luxury airline travel and funny shoe laces. Or maybe not.

Rant on.


Doodle Of A Dream

Had a dream the other night. I think. Even though I can’t draw worth a hoot, my best shot at an image of the dream is above. This dream started in the middle of a journey that begins at a red x (bottom left corner of the page). I think the journey was to the Red Sea to go scuba diving. But wait. The dream didn’t start there exactly. It actually started in Cairo. The red x is somewhere between Cairo International Airport and our final destination which is the resort region of Marsa Alam. I just didn’t feel the need to doodle that part. Nomatter. The trip was a total mess. Our plane was re-routed to Cairo International where we had to disembark and subsequently be “processed” for entry. Then we waited for hours in a luxurious bar where I got drunk out of my mind on “special” Egyptian schnapps. Eventually we boarded another airplane but instead of taking us to Marsa Alam airport it landed somewhere in the middle of the desert. We then boarded busses for the remaining part of the trip. There were no roads, no civilisation and it never got dark–even though we drove for a few days. The bus was crowded but comfortable. Everyone sat in their seats and some even used the ventilation system to blow dry their hair. A few children entertained the back of the bus with German songs from Scorpions and The Dead Trousers. Not unlike the luxurious bar at Cairo airport, the schnapps flowed and flowed. But then our tour bus was captured by Mexicans. So it’s here where the doodle kinda begins, i.e. the red x. Which brings me to the following question(s): captured by Mexicans in Egypt? How can that be? Oh yeah. It might have something to do with me not being one hundred percent white but also being a white-looking American and travelling through Arab Spring countries in order to get my kicks at twenty-five meters with colourful fish. Or. Prior to going to sleep that night I got kind of upset reading all the news about how Egyptian forces bombed a bus full of tourists because they obviously mistook it for being a bus full revolutionaries–or the like. We are living in those/these times, eh, dear worst-reader? Nomatter. The dream struck me and the morning after I felt compelled to codify it. What really sticks out in my conscious mind–as opposed to my dream mind–is that our Mexican captures trekked us along a desert road with a few stops in-between, as illustrated in the image (doodle) above. Huge tents were available to shade us from the sun. Oddly, being in a desert n’all, there was no need for water or suntan oil. The only thing available were books at various rest/pause stops. This is the part of the dream that confused me so. In the middle of a desert a group of people walk along a road (or was it a pathway?) and our only sustenance was books. The books had Mexican guards, though, and I don’t know why. Where were the Egyptians? Then, after a cup of earl grey, I dabbled in the following pseudo conclusion(s). I’m not sure what my other half is. It is safe to say that biological-daddy wasn’t white and he most certainly never read a thing to me. But what was he? He wasn’t black, he wasn’t asian and he most certainly wasn’t European–although he spoke German. He spoke German because he was stationed in Germany for most of his military career starting in the mid-50s thereby bringing numerous booty children to the world, aka Besatzungskinder. Yours truly being the second one of approximately four or five, etc. But. Again. Nomatter. I’m drifting. The thing is, I romanticise sometimes, even find myself hoping, that my other half is Indian. Maybe I’m a Sioux or a Mohawk or even a Choptank. But I could also be Mexican or Puerto Rican. Not that that is less than being half Indian. It’s just that I think, if I were on a scuba trip to the Red Sea, to read books, and read the corals, and wonder at deserts and desserts (that I’m not supposed to eat), I would never get captured by a bunch of Mohawks. Or? So I got up the other morning and was compelled to try and capture the dream, what it means. That’s all.

Rant on. -t

Link that motivated this post:

Repeated Airstrikes on Mexican Tourists | The Guardian

Deep In Me

Deep Freediving Cover Nester

Deep: Freediving, Renegade Science And What The Ocean Tells Us About Ourselves, by James Nestor

At first it was difficult for me to share the astonishment and shock James Nestor expresses upon his initialisation to the world of freediving. I’ve been a fan and admirer of it for years. Ever since I was a kid I dreamed of swimming deeper and further, the ocean being the ultimate gateway. When there was no ocean around pools, lakes and rivers served me just fine. Up until a a few years ago I could hold my breath easily for more than two minutes. I used to go to the bottom of five meter pools and just lay there until I was forced to go back up and suck on that ugly teat of life. But up I went because I new that all I had to do was take a deeper breath and I could go back down to my tranquility. Of course, the deepest part of pools was usually under some diving board area. Before I could get enough tranquility someone would always come over to me and ask that I stop what I was doing because I was in the way of those wanting to use the diving board. Safety, rules, regulations come first, eh? I would nod to the local-yocal policing-person–you know the type: the person in a public place that can’t mind her/his own bidness. In the back of my mind I would tell that person to fuck-off, hoping, wishing, that fireworks would burn out of his ass. Then, for shits & giggles–and for my exit from tranquility–I’d take a deep breath, find my way to the bottom of the pool, close my eyes and slowly crawl along the edge, away from the diving board area, up the slope to the one meter swimming area, the whole time following the ocean that is the lie of my mind.

When I was a kid we used to camp along the Indian River Inlet in Rehoboth, DE. The inlet was a great place for fishing because of how it was artificially maintained. Huge boulders and rocks lined the inlet making it both a home and a hunting ground–besides providing access to the ocean. The constant turbulence of seawater being exchanged from the Atlantic and the brackish water from the Indian River Bay made it a lazy fisherman’s dream. There were times you could cast a line with a worm rig and within minutes you’d be reeling in Tautog or Black Drum. But there was a catch to fishing there. Those fancy lures and hooks would get caught on the rocks of the inlet. You were guaranteed to lose rigs. You could hear the fisherman at times cursing the rocks. Which brings me to my first scuba experience.

My stepfather started scuba in the mid to early sixties. He owned all his own gear, including regulator and tank–stuff that looked like it was right out of an early Bond movie. I’d strap on that tank, throw the mouth piece of the two stage regulator hose over my head and started sucking. “Breath normal,” he’d say. “And don’t leave the rocks.” I filled my mask with spit, wipe the glass, and then covered my face. I wore thick plastic gloves so that the hooks wouldn’t pierce my skin and strap-on sandals to protect my feet. Other than that I wore a bathing suit. I would submerge myself without fins–because I wasn’t supposed to swim anywhere, just pull and/or walk along the boulders a few feet under the surface. I’d go under and in a few minutes return with a handful of perfectly useable and sellable fishing rigs. I paid for a lot of rides and cotton candy at Ocean City, MD, boardwalk that summer by selling those rigs. Cool.

It took twenty-five years before I would strap on scuba gear again. My better-half, who was already a master diver when I met her, was skeptical (as all Germans are) when I told her that I would gladly get certified to go diving with her. Part of her skepticism was that it took her, even after getting certified, about fifty dives before she felt comfortable at depth. Within a few days, in the middle of late winter in Germany, I got my scuba certification–diving in a lake in Hessen that was almost frozen. Needless to say, I quickly proved my diving worthiness. It’s like riding a bike, I said. But there’s one problem. Now with more than a hundred dives behind me, having experienced places like The Red Sea, Bali, Thailand, etc., I have to admit that something is missing. Every time I get in the water with that tank strapped to me I know that there is something else out there. Something more. Something more tranquil.

The thing is, when I dream about diving–and I dream about it all the time–I never dream that I’m wearing an aqualung. I dream of freediving. Heck, even when I walk our dog I hold my breath for as long as I can–thinking about how soft ocean water feels on my skin. When I walk through forests I don’t see trees and leaves and green. I see an ocean vastness where I’m condemned (for all my crimes) to walk on its floor with my feet. So I shut my eyes and start mis-echolocating and bumping into trees. Indeed. Bumping into trees while dreaming about oceans. It’s my dog’s laughter that makes me open my eyes again.

James Nestor has written a stunning, beautiful book that I didn’t know I was lusting to read for a long, long time. When I read about Natalia Molchanova dying recently during a practice freedive I became a bit obsessed with trying to understand not only the mechanics of freediving but the emotional attachment that so many have to it. Even though I’m only a muggle (scuba diver) and not a magician (freediver) I think I can understand what these people feel–not only at depth but the longing to be in the salty-sweet bosom of  The Big Her. Mr. Nestor answered most of the questions I had regarding this sport. Also, Nestor, without condemning the sport, makes it quite clear why freediving as competition is probably not worth the danger. In recent years there have been too many deaths. Yet something drives people to compete and dive further, deeper, deeper. I get that.

Nestor saves the day, though. The way he articulates the beauty of freediving, the importance of the ocean on this (our) blue planet or some of the science behind how sperm whales communicate, is worth every word. This is one of those books that I got through in a matter of hours and the whole time regretting that the reading would eventually come to an end.

Rant on. -Tommi (a freediving dreamer)

Tommi's Dive Log

I’m a reef diver. They say reef divers are wussies. I’m also worst-writer. We know what matters more, eh worst-reader? Yet the waters are murky either way. Or are the waters full of spawn? Spawning is clouding my visibility. Can that be? I saw so many little fishies the other day that I thought the ocean was displaced with them. But then I realized that visibility was displaced with reproduction. Now that’s how you make a worst-blog-post sexy, right worst-reader? Just add a little sex to the worst-writing and we’re good. I paused at about fourteen meters. You’re not supposed to hold your breath when your diving but every once-a-once I do it. “Can I hear them flirt with each other,” I ask myself of the millions of fish who are colluding for my entertainment and clouding my visibility with their sex. Sorry. Spawn. There is so much noise from breathing through a regulator. Add to that pressure in my ears. Usually my left is good, but my right is blocked. Equalizing is the only burden when diving. Drop like a rock after emptying all the air from your BCD (Buoyancy Control Device) and the left ear goes first followed by the right. Pinch your nose and blow gently. “Don’t blow to hard or you’ll blow a gasket,” a diving uncle once said. Reach your depth, put a little air back in BCD. I’m now perfectly buoyant. I could just as well be floating in space. Rocket man with bubbles. Another slow breath. Adjust weights, straps, fins. Good to go. Pause. Hold. Just for a second or three. Perfect silence except for the snap-crackle-pop of a planet under water in full motion, in full life, not quite in the middle of the universe. Those damn little fishies are having the time of their life. Swimming around a fringe reef. Yes. It’s their reef. I’m a tolerated guest, like David Livingston tolerates me. If only that guy would open Sol Food in Westpunt, Curacao more days of the week. Lazy bastardo. ;-) He’s a reef diver, too. And he hunts and feeds his guests lion fish that he kills with vengeance. Because lion fish don’t belong in the Atlantic ocean. But they sure do taste good! Oh no, how did they get in these waters? Some schmuck let one loose from his fish tank in Florida, the saying goes. Someone thank David for his contribution to a better Caribbean Sea. Indeed, dear worst-reader, that’s a whole ‘nother worst-post.

What I want to worst-blog about is the fact that there are more potent forms of diving. Diving where I could show more manliness. You know, it’s always a thought or three when planning such a trip. Manliness or beautiful coral? But we never say we’re going to Maldives to do extreme drift diving. Now that’s diving! In the blank-blue extreme current at twenty meters, tethered by a hook on a rock that prevents you from being pulled to India, you can watch sharks effortlessly wait in the same drift current for something to get in the way of their mouths. And what about wreck diving? I could be a wreck diver along side being a reef diver, couldn’t I? I hear there are world war two wrecks off the coast of Norway in less than thirty meters of water. Yeah. Always wanted to dive alongside Messerschmidts as much as sea horses. Oh no. I haven’t gotten my drysuit certification yet. Cold water, man. Very cold water in Norway. And. My diving partner won’t dive in water less than twenty-five degrees celsius. Hey! What about that aircraft carrier the was sunk off the coast of Florida’s panhandle? Water ain’t so cold there. Oh wait. The ship was sunk in just under thirty meters of water but hurricane Katrina caused it to shift and more than half the wreck is now under forty meters of water. Forty meters is deep, man. Can’t spend more a few mintues on air at forty meters. And I’m not certified for tech-diving. You know, where you go down with more than one bottle and you have to adjust the nitrogen and 02 so that when you come back up your lungs don’t turn into graham cracker marmalade punch. Seriously. That’s what lungs look like after they explode. And then there’s night diving. Which I don’t like. Carrying around those lights attracts the most ornery critters. No. Night diving gives me a bit of claustrophobia, too. Which cancels out any cave diving. What about ice diving, lake diving, etc. No. I’m just a warm, lazy, pseudo-bourgeois, always dependent on the kindness of strangers, reef diver. Anywho.

Yesterday, after swimming for about forty minutes over a huge bed of coral, I conversed with a moray eel the size of a Volkswagen Beetle. As it began to lunge toward me, probably due to my irresponsible diving techniques, I did a batman summersault and threw a Robin kaapow! to thwart its aggression. And the animal just looked at me as though I were stupid or something. Continuing with bad diving technique and some unfruitful but fun disrespect for nature’s creatures, I placed the bulk of my swim fin near the moray’s mouth. Just a little naive experiment, don’t you know. And does the creature help me out a bit? Of course not. I failed to acquire the proof of my tale which I wanted to worst-post instead of my dive log. That damn moray didn’t bite. His fang marks would like dracular marks in my fin. Cool, eh. So you see, there are marks that even we wuss reef divers can take with us to prove… To prove what? How much fun this stuff is? No go. So I guess it’s off to Thailand in a few months to see if I can get that damn trigger fish, unlike the moray, to cooperate. I love reef diving.

Rant on. -Tommi

The Doctor Is Not In

According to a few outspoken voices, it’s been a slow month in Curacao. Can’t say I’m disappointed. The fewer the merry-er, worst-writer always says. And as others say: good things come to an end. After ten days of too much sun and lots of scuba and no crowds, the hammer hits. We had two dives yesterday and then went out to fill up the car, get more soda-water and have lunch. Upon returning to our rental bungalow, for the first time, we hear music bellowing from the pool. And not just any music. OYG! Country music. Do you know what country music reminds me of, dear worst-reader? It doesn’t remind me of rednecks, their trucks, runaway girlfriends and the love of dogs. No. It reminds me of politics run amok and a country on the verge of pure and utter social anarchy. Country music, as much as I love to listen to it while chewing tobacco (which I dearly miss giving up so many years ago), reminds me of everything that is wrong in #americant today. Police killing people becasue they can’t run after them and they represent an authoritarian state that people can’t run away from (fast enough). Banks ripping the country off while no one watches. Seriously. Complain about things as you will. That’s easy. Don’t try to read as much as I have about how you screwed yourself consuming to survive off of credit and the banks are still laughing. Then there’s the empire’s military that fights wars costing millions of lives so that a few corporations can make more money than God. Etc., etc. But I digress.

There’s a saying I learned from my paw when I was young who always listened to country music while sitting in front of his open garage door that never housed a car but where he could dream of having a decent paying job and a half decent life while working to his death and disappointing his wife, his kids and the other man that occupied his dreams. Yeah. Country music was playing in the southern caribbean sea. It was playing as though, through the miracle of self aggrandizing entitlement, it was the new voice of an already downtrodden region of the world, middle and south America, where tyranny in the name of THIS IS OUR HEMISPHERE politics wielded a heavy hammer upon the minds and bodies of those whose skin isn’t quite white enough. And worstwriter, who so inelegantly ran away from the tyranny-aftermath of hemisphere politics, takes a wild guess on a vacation destination only to find some dumb-ass pseudo southern draw spewing forth coded hate and bigotry from a battery operated radio a’la nineteen seventy-something. Oh. Wait. The saying. The saying my paw taught me. I forgot the saying. Slipped right off my tongue. Yeah, that happens when I start worst-writing. Indeed. And so.

Meeting a lot of Americans in Curacao. Conversation usually starts thus: “So where you from?” My response is always: “Originally?” But eventually it comes out. They hear me speak, fluently (I guess) another language. “But you’re not German,” they say. Then some stupid ass conversation which I always hope is only about the weather–but never is–ensues. “No, that’s right,” I say. And then I just throw it out there. “I’m an expat, Mam or Sir. Been living happily-ever-after in another country for quite some time. Going on quarter century, in fact.” There’s usually a few duhs and ohs that follow. Again. Redneck code for “you mean, you’ve found happiness and tranquility outside the bosom of the greatest and most exceptional country in the world?” Seriously, dear worst-reader. This is how it goes. And only because I don’t really know how to hold a nothingness conversation with people. My bad, eh! Nomatter.

The problem is, the fuck-offs! can’t exit my brain fast enough in this situation. Yet this is what lingers with me after being reared in America, by Americans–the nicest fucking people in the world. Or? But I don’t want to get too deep into my obsessions about expatriating or my frustrations with having learned so much about who I am and where I come from by being so far outside its bubble. This whole worst-blog is full of enough of that (good luck finding it). It’s just that the conversations with my (former) countrymen (that’s right, I’ve long gone “native”) only leads me to anger and frustration. For one thing, at least three of the Americans I’ve met here have talked to me about health insurance after I mention I live in Germany. This can only mean two things. 1) They are somewhat informed, albeit via what sources?, and 2) they question the issue of health insurance because they fail to understand the reality to which they are glued. On the other hand, I try steer the conversation elsewhere. E.g. Can’t we talk about scuba, how beautiful the coral reefs are, the friendly people that live and struggle on this island without the “benefits” of being the greatest nation on earth (sarcasm off)? Nope. Americans are starving for answers or justifications for all the problems that no one seems to understand, let alone to have actually thought about them. And so. It usually starts thus: “Now how does that work over there (in Germany) with health insurance?” Or it goes thus: “Is it true that you have health insurance no matter what?” And this one’s the best: “That damn Obama Care is ruining my health insurance.” And remember, dear worst-reader, the last one, the one about Obama care, can be sung just like a country song. Yeehaw Heehaw!

The biggest problem with talking about rational things with irrational people (and pretty much all Americans–including moi–are irrational these days) is that the conversation must be a two lane road. But like many of the roads on Curacao, America is wide enough for two cars to drive it, but the lines separating direction does not exist. Eventually on such a road everybody goes one way. It’s called The Lemming Highway. And you know the old saying that is the life blood of subjecting oneself to authoritarian, centralized, Lemming rule: it’s my way or the highway, baby. But I’ve rambled, aka worst-written enough about irrational people. So let me get to the gist of this worst-post.

When talking about health insurance in the United Mistakes of Americant you must first talk about society. To talk about society you must face certain realities. For one thing, America will probably (and I’m being very liberal here) never have a socialized health care system like other western countries. The reason for that depends on how you view things. Do you view things in terms of “every man for himself” or do you view things “we’re in this together”? Gettin’ rich can be an individual thing. But gettin’ sick obviously ain’t. Yet we (dare I include worst-moi) live THE DREAM according to the former and not the latter. Which brings me to the subject matter that everyone hates, fears and just can’t get a grip on: Politics. When the country-music couple almost ruined our pool-side afternoon vacation nap yesterday I realized that the best way to get THEM to turn off the scary music is to get them to complain about… That’s right. You guessed it. Their hate of government, Obama and how expensive health insurance is. And once their bitchin’ and moaning is over, I  throw in this one:

“Well, you know. I’ve never even seen a doctor bill.” There’s a long pause as I continue to swim around the pool, listening to the birds sing in the human silence of astonishment. “No, seriously,” I continue. “I don’t know how it happens, man. You know, in most western, civilized, rational countries you’re just health insured. And you know how they do that? They simply say that when you’re sick–and everyone gets sick–we’re in this together. How difficult is that? Sure, lots of people get rich off of getting sick but that’s besides the fucking point. That’s another issue. Seriously. I’ve had one minor surgical procedure, I get regular checkups, dental work, etc., and I’ve never even seen a doctor bill. In fact the only doctor bill I’ve ever seen is from when I got gold caps on my teeth. All I had to pay for was the gold. And all you (#americants) can do is bitch about how expensive your deductible is? US corpo-politicians have been pounding your ass while you’ve been riding the laurels of the past and you confused it with tickling. So stop giggling your way through life high on country music. You’ve bitten the hook, line and sinker of the way things are so there’s no room for complaining anymore–unless you turn it into a media industry like faux newz. Is there a way to fix things, i.e. get affordable insurance? No. For you it’s game over. You’re fucked! At least you can look back and see how easy and enjoyable it was getting to where you are. You’re reaping what you’ve sown. But if you put some effort into it you might be able to scrounge up some civiility and decency for your kids and grand kids. Good luck suckers.”

Full stop. Breath.

I took a deep breath and went under the water of the pool. Two minutes later I emerged and the privileged rednecks and the country music were gone. Did I dream the whole thing? Probably. But at least it gave me something to worst-write about this morning.

Rant on. -Tommi

Klein Curacao And The Sirens

Klein Curacao. A small uninhabitable island south of Curacao. I’ve heard several stories about this island. At one point the Germans tried to occupy it but found it too uninhabitable and abandoned it. It was also supposed to be a quarantine island for the slaves that got sick during transport to the new world. And then there’s the story that the eastern side of the island is actually haunted by Sirens that died trying to free themselves from the curse that made them Sirens. Let’s go with that story, shall we, dear worst-reader? €As we all know, Sirens, sometimes called Mermaids, are human females that have shape shifted in order to save themselves from 1) having been born female, and 2) having to face the dread of being subjects of men. Not only did they change their form, which allows them to live in the ocean, but for a short period of time in human history they flourished together with some accepting, tolerant humans. But the bond was broken between Sirens and humans as so many other bonds are broken. Distrust lead to segregation. Segregation lead to banishment. Through years of being banished from human contact, Sirens also had to face the unmentioned reality behind shape shifting: Shape shifters pay a heavy price for the shift. The image of who and what you are born as always has to remain a constant in the new shape shift. This is done either physically or subconsciously. You can leave a part of your body, like a thumb, or you can maintain a memory–like the image of your mother in your mind. The key is to be able to maintain it–whether it’s a thought or a thumb. The new shape must know what the original shape was and therein lies the art of the game. This has to be done in order to maintain the process that is the shape shift. If, for whatever reason, you severe all connection with your original image, then the shape shifting process never stops. It literally becomes mono-directional and you eventually lose control of it. Once the bitterness that lead to their severing ties with humanity had overcome them like a plague, they continued to shape shift. Each Siren/Mermaid became an animal in the oceans of this earth that reflected their best and worst dreams, whichever of the two was most prominent when the moment of no return set in. This, btw, is the difference between Mermaid and Siren. The Mermaids are the ones whose last thoughts were good as the point of no return reached its pinnacle. Hence Mermaids are often credited with saving humans from danger in the oceans. The Sirens, on the other hand, had last thoughts of bitterness, anger and even hatred. Hence, Odyssey’s meeting with Sirens that took so many of his men to their watery death. But let me get back to Klein Curacao. §Like its bigger brother, only one side of Klein Curacao is occupiable. The other side is being constantly thrashed by the rough, southern caribbean sea. As of my visit to Klein Curacao there are at least two visible shipwrecks on its eastern side. There is also a plethoria of ocean trash and filth, mostly plastics and wood, some tangled sails and rope, but also a few engine blocks, tires, coolers, a refrigerator, two washing machines, several office desks, office chairs, broken fishing poles, and numerous souls of shoes. Let me accentuate two parts of the list of trash just mentioned. Broken fishing poles and the souls of shoes. Wait. Did I worst-write “souls” or soles? Indeed, dear worst-reader. I should have written soles, eh? Nomatter. The idear is, there is something about walking around with your sole the only thing seperating your feet from the earth. Which I find to be quite titallating as I walk around the eastern beach of Klein Curacao dreaming of the beauty of my first love: the ocean blue and wondering how angry a former human must be to be able to break fishing poles as if they were toothpicks. Anywho. I saw hundreds of shoe soles and not one shoe upper. I saw at least two broken fishing poles. Coincidence? Conspiracy? But I digress. §Klein Curacao’s estern shore is the last place Sirens tried to fight back against the fate that had been sealed for them once they lost touch with their original form. Legend has it that the ocean animals they eventually shape shifted in to were a hybrid form of mammal and fish of über human proportions and strength. That is, the animal could both breath air and water and it had a horizontal fin along with pectoral fins that could actually be used to propel it on land. A few thousand of these Sirens, from all across the earth’s waters had gathered on the eastern shore of this remote island. As a last ditch effort to regain the constant, they started bombarding Klein Curacao with a wrath only ever seen when nature calls in the form of earth quakes, typhoons and hurricanes. Even though their effort was mute and the last Siren has long since vanished, the rough seas of the eastern shore of Klein Curacao still remain. And if you stand there, facing south-east, and open your mind while the luscious ocean sprays you with her mist, you can still see those tails and fins and the last effort of a waning humanity in desperation.

Rant on. -Tommi

The Teuton's Recipe

Visit winding down. Leave tomorrow on latenight flight. First time departing my beloved former home at 20:30 hours. So. With that in mind. Let me try to summarize this visit. I’m confused more than ever about being an expat, visiting (former) home. Even  though I’ve seen mother several times since August 2014 and death of stepfather, this is the first time I’ve accepted her being a widow. Not sure why that’s worth mentioning. I guess the word “widow” is just strange to me. Stepfather not being here is strange, too. §Reason for this visit? The old sea-beaten house is holding up, still in pretty good shape. The roof is done and should last another five to seven years before further maintenance; next inspection in three years. Weeds and erosion biggest problem around this house. Shocked and itching after finding some poison ivy growing in one of my mother’s bushes. Tried to plant some new grass but I fear the soil is too sandy. I think mother should hire someone to come out and redo front yard totally. Get rid of old top and replace with fresh soil and new grass, preferrably from seeds, not sod. Mother doesn’t want to spend the money–as usual. And to do the lawn right would mean a longer visit than two weeks. Getting rid of old soil and ingrown weeds would take more than a week. §Tommi’s todo list. Shopping for old Germany: done. Got son new Chucks in leather (cool). Have wife’s “American” cooking ingredients, blouses, quilting fabric, etc. Got a few shirts and pants, socks for myself. Added some funds to local bank account which is solely used for US iTunes account.  

recipe 2 teuton.png

§Trivia. Found an interesting ancient magazine/cookbook titled: The German and Viennese Cookbook. It has one hundred forty seven German and Viennese recipes. Pic at top is from inside of title page; pic above is of confusing translation that the Canadian publisher might have gotten wrong–more on that in a sec. All recipes are in English but the German translation of recipe name is in parentheses. Quick Coffee Cake is Blitzkuchen. Orange Coffee Cake is Apfelsinenkuchen. Breaded Veal Cutlets is Wiener Schnitzel. Drop noodles is Spätzle. Potato Pancakes is Reibekuchen. And this one I did not know. Honey Cakes is Lebkuchen. I always thought Lebkuchen is Gingerbread. Indeed. Lost in translation. It even has a German index to better help one find those fancy foriegn named dishes. Actually “fancy” is wrong word. All the recipes are staple recipes. Nice find. §Futher contemplation of visit. This question follows me this visit: Could I live here again? Could I go about this place as though that quarter century never happened? Of course not. Silly proposition. So I just come every six months to visit mom. Feel like aforeigner in my country of birth. And so. Every visit is mother’s day now that she’s a widow. Speaking of which. §She’s ready for summer. Next visit from sister in August. She will take care of what I left behind or her share of yard work–hopefully. § Misplanned this trip and other countries don’t have so many commercial, i.e. go spend money days. Mother’s Day. Muttertag. I’m usually confused about these typically American commercial days. You know. Valentines. Halloween. Mother’s Day. Just another reason to spend money that no one has. Seriously, dear worst-reader. Like never before–if I ever understood it–I don’t get how people live here. I mean, how do they survive in this environment of political ignorance and contempt? Perhaps I should just keep the worst-conversation to asking how do they (#ameriants) spend? For spending is everything here, is it not? So I’m wondering what do they spend? Money in the form of credit. Or cash? Like the other day. I bought flowers. Two sets. White roses and a bouqet of other colorful flowers. (Slow motion on.) Six white roses cost fifteen dollars. The bouqet ten dollars. (Slow motion off.) And they don’t even look that good. Highway robbery of the highest order. But that’s all there is. Highway robbery and poor consumer choices and profitable pseudo-celebration days for retailers. May cynics everywhere abound. Nomatter 

§As I was failing to worst-write, there’s a difference between Mother’s day and Muttertag and a society that can’t spend its way out of the wet pap0er bag it’s stuck in. But what am I saying? Where do I live? What place have adopted as my (not so new) home? The Teutons have been so Americanized with a Micky-Dees on every corner and a new mall on almost every corner. I’m starting to wonder about whether or not my expatriation is complete. Obvioulsy I want to celebrate Mother’s Day but I feel compelled to celebrate something else. The demise of culture? Cultivation? The sheer vastness of commercialized life. As though there is nothing else left to be said, done. Oh. Where are the old days that I no longer yearn for? Rant on. -Tommi

Protesting My Delusions

Merkel Hollande
The Euro Pseudo Hug. Proof that there is nothing more scary than Euro bureaucrats.

The mist of violence has cleared and I’m still pretty angry about thugs and guns and the vulnerability of artists. I’m ashamed to admit it but for the first time since the deadly farce of the western world’s war-on-terror, I actually felt a jitter of pro-violence-lust running through my veins as I watched the Charlie Hebdo tragedy unfold on BBC News. Was I the only one to yearn for a hero to save us from the bad guy? Is there no French Dirty Harry out there that could throw a storm on the perpetrator’s souls and rip evil apart with a forty-four magnum only to ask upon completion: Well, punk, do you feel lucky! (Boom!)

“These are artists,” I thought about the dead in that Paris office. They are thinkers and talkers and maybe wankers. They are dudes gifted with a very special communication skill. What happened to them made me scream in my third-eye inner soul, a painful scream. Then I thought of Salman Rushdie. I thought of the inquisition. I thought of Titanic, the German version of Charlie Hebdo, in which, btw, I was once mentioned when I produced my play Birdgames, hence I feel a special connection to satirical smart-ass magazines. But that is most certainly neither here nor there. By Friday my head started to clear and I realised that this act of “barbarism”, as the French Prez called it, might turn out to be something bigger than what we’ve all become accustomed to as we traverse useless-eating lives with consumption and wars of choice. But what kind of ‘big’ could this be?

Protesting with Apples.

It’s time to admit when I get something wrong. This past weekend proved that even I, your humble worst-writer, dear worst-reader, can get something wrong. In my post Poor vs Poor I said that protests don’t matter. After watching the Paris tragedy unfold, I’ve since concluded that there may be times when protests do matter–more on that in a sec. I mean, come on, did anyone expect those crowds in the French capital on Sunday? I remember being in Paris in the 90s and during my trip a convoy of tractor-trailers dumped a gazillion tons of Apples right in the middle of Place de la République. It was followed by what seemed like thousands of regular farmers who were showing their eurowasteland solidarity with the apple farmers and they all marched and closed down roads and metro stations–which were at the time my only source of travel. The experience taught me 1) to navigate through Paris on foot and 2) that in the US general strikes are illegal. And get this. This past weekend, while France was showing the world what humanity is capable of–as opposed to #americant showing the world how humanity (over)reacts–my wife and mother were in the middle of it all. Seriously.

Mom sees Paris.

Although we battled on Thursday in the aftermath of Wednesday about proceeding with our plans, we didn’t cancel the trip that would show my mother Paris for the first time in her life. My wife had been planning it for months as a way to help consul my mother in her mourning. Terror attack here or there, by Friday morning they both were on a train, as scheduled. Even though I was planning to utilise the weekend alone to worst-write, I spent most of it watching the drama unfold and wondering if I sent the beloved women of my life into a war-zone. Luckily all went as planned. Mom saw the Eiffel tower. She got to take a wonderful dinner cruise on the Seine. She shopped on the Champs-Élysées. The only problem they had was, once Sunday rolled around, getting their train back to Cologne. They had no chance of taking the metro on Sunday. The French capital had been shut down by more than a bunch of apple farmers. Luckily, since my wife’s company is based in Paris, she knows her way around the city better than I do. So they had to navigate by foot the three kilometre trek to Gare du Nord. They made it about seven minutes before their train was to depart. In the mayhem my wife even adopted a British couple along the way as they were caught in the same tourist predicament. All in all, it was a great weekend. It was a dream come true for dear old mother.


Which brings me to a hypothesis: Americans don’t know how to protest. Nor do we know how to strike. Why is that? Heck, above and beyond dumping apples all over their capital, the French are even capable of dumping shit on it too. These wondrous acts of French protest, which obviously have an effect on how a country is run, are not conceivable in the United States. Why is that! Is it because the US is a place where its people want to be ruled and France is place where its people want to rule?

The Code of Federal Regulations declares “encouraging others to refuse to work, or to participate in a work stoppage” by prisoners to be a “High Severity Level Prohibited Act” and authorizes solitary confinement for periods of up to a year for each violation.[21] The California Code of Regulations states that “[p]articipation in a strike or work stoppage”, “[r]efusal to perform work or participate in a program as ordered or assigned”, and “[r]ecurring failure to meet work or program expectations within the inmate’s abilities when lesser disciplinary methods failed to correct the misconduct” by prisoners is “serious misconduct” under §3315(a)(3)(L), leading to gang affiliation under CCR §3000. –Source

Ok. A strike for higher wages and better working conditions isn’t the same as mass protest. Or is it? At the least, being able to perform both means that Das Volk at least knows how to come together to say SOMETHING. And. According to latest news reports as many as two million people were in Paris on Sunday. Isn’t that a record of some sort? Does it equal the Arab Spring protests? What about the 2003 anti-war protests where the biggest crowd was in Italy? (Here, btw, is a list of mass gatherings if you’re interested.) With that in mind, allow me to focus on my beloved united mistakes.

How many people protested during the Occupy Wall Street thing? A few thousand? Heck, more #americants gather for ball games then they do for political games. But not all is lost. There was one mass gathering in America’s recent history that might, in some way, equal what just happened in Paris. Ironically it was organised by American Muslims, The Million Man March. At the least, it need be worst-said, Americans do not know how to communicate as a whole but France might have just offered an example of how to change that. And so, the American way, The Dream, once again is forced to ride bitch in the backseat of the world stage. Add to that the fact there were no US dignitaries or politicians in the Paris march! Wow. But I digress.

Vive la France.

Indeed, dear worst-reader, protests do matter. But they only matter if the essence of the protest is about something good. Hence the recent anti-muslim protests in Dresden, which I’ll get to in a sec. I was deeply moved by France’s response to the horror. It was a moment that reminded me when asked what place is my favourite in all of Eurowasteland I usually respond thus: after living as an expat for a quarter century the only place I’d rather be is back home near the Chesapeake Bay. But if you were to ask me what European country I admire the most my answer would be France. Why? Well, that’s another worst-post. But in short. My reasoning goes back to what little I’ve read about revolution, hereditary monarchies, world wars, etc. France seems to have dealt with all the above in a way no other country has. But I suppose that is a can of worms I should try to keep closed for now.

I no speak French.

Let’s summarise how America reacts to the ramifications and/or blowback of politics that is in such contrast to the French. First. There is never any soul searching or anything cognitive when it comes to dealing with our politics and especially our foreign policy. All we ever do is react and we do so in the name of money, oil and empire. The proof is in the pudding. Second. Anyone wondering, hypothetically, of course, what would America do if a bunch of terrorists flew planes into the twin towers of lower Manhattan? Would we protest out on the streets and demand Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité? No. Of course not. We don’t even know what those French words are. Well, maybe we know something about liberty but our version does feel a bit skewed these days. Equality? You mean equality in the sense of race and/or wealth? Yeah, right. And as far as fraternity goes, we only know it as another form of baby-sitting-institution at universities where a nation of infants can be maintained and nurtured to live life in the blissfully ignorant realm of the sophomoric.

The Horror.

Indeed. Dear worst-reader. When America responds to horror we do it with more horror. We immediately reach into our chest of mass murdering gadgets and start a fucking war. We also suspend Habeas Corpus, one of the pillars of our founding as a nation and thereby open an illegal prison camp to house unjustly held “combatants” in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. We then continue degrading what is already a degraded justice system (because it is owned by neo-liberal politics) and turn over the running of the world’s largest economy to the military with the enactment of The Patriot Act–which, simply by its name, means that the dumb-downed of Nation won’t question it. Then we proceed to begin the single largest government expansion in our history by creating new agencies aptly titled “HOMELAND” and “TSA” which in turn eases the process of militarising the police and making people take off their shoes in order to board airplanes. Oh, and let’s not forget the hoarding of the treasury by war-mongers so that a few can profit from killing hundreds of thousands (millions?) of Arabs thereby exerted full spectrum control over the natural resources of this earth and even squashing the dreams of fledgling countries trying to build their way out of the rubble of the cold war. And then…

Stop. Breath. Pause.

Ok. I’ve spread delectable butter over France and vilified my beloved home enough. As glorious as the French people were on Sunday, the recent horror followed by a magnificent display of human solidarity was hijacked by the scum of the earth. See pic at top of this post. Yes, the ruling elites of Eurowasteland really thought that no one would see what they are up to. The pic above makes it all quite obvious. They are hugging NOT because of the horror created by terrorists but over the power that this will give them. They are hugging in relief that maybe now, finally, they can start to take blind action like the US has done–and thereby start profiting, like the US, from war, death and destruction. Merkel is whispering sweet nothings into the continents luscious melting Brie ears where the white man can finally relax about being white and smell is own garlic armpits as the rest of the world, mostly in the form of immigrants that have come to continental shores because of Europe’s horrific colonising past, can face its wrath. For it must be said, dear worst-reader, Xenophobia is a catch-phrase now that certain peoples of Europe are waking up to certain realities. Whether it’s protests in Dresden, which are for hating people, or strikes in Greece, which are against the casting out of young people from society because old people won’t pay their dues. These people, these politicians, will do nothing but cause more havoc. Thanks to horror. (I guess.)

That’s not saying that I don’t like Angela Merkel or this rather obscure and odd French president. But I do worst-wonder if they are setting up their own Euro Patriot Act right now? The chants of freedom of speech, cloaked as Je Suis Charlie have been already drowned in Europe’s history of hate-mongering. I’ve been living in Eurowasteland far too long and I know what these people are, what they are capable of. Living over here has also shown me exactly where America and other geo-politics have their origins. Whether we’re talking about colonies, slave trade, greed and exploitation, I know where it all stems from. Europe is truly the centre of modern world history. It is also the cesspool where humanities darkest nightmares have brewed and GERMANated (pun intended). Only in the destruction of the idear that is Europe has anything decent ever evolved from it. America is a good example of this–even though it’s currently heading down the same history as its parent. And what about India? Or the various countries in Asia? All former colonies that have found a way to free themselves of pure Euro evil. Which brings me to Das Volk. 

As Eurowasteland rulers fill backrooms of government centres to extend power over the horror, they will do so by avoiding the obvious, as Europe has always done. They will not face things like the xenophobia that is part of the horror, that is what made the newest three French martyrs. The reason I call it Eurowasteland is because I am one of the millions and millions of immigrants who happen to make it to these shores. I can say without haste, without remorse, without pause: if you ain’t born here to the white Euro soul, you ain’t gettin’ in. Of course, Europeans would argue that it is possible (to get in). But they only say that because of how aware they are of taxation and income redistribution that pays for it. Yes, dear worst-reader. Even though I am a privileged American immigrant in Europe I am not Euro-blind to reality. And now it’s time to keep an eye on what Merkel & Co. will do.

The Horror. The Horror. The Horror. -Colonel Kurtz (Marlon Brando), Apocalypse Now

Good luck suckers. Rant on.



Chris Hedges Interview | RT

Chris Hedges Article Sums It Up Best | truthdig

Rachel Maddow Deconstructs Paris Terror Connection | MSNBC


You Have Been Serviced

First, dear worst-reader, why is jet-lag when traveling from west to east the worst? Is it because of the strange “-1” designation on my travel itinerary? PHL > FRA on Monday afternoon but you arrive in the wee-hours on Tuesday morn at destination. I think I crossed six time zones. I’ve been doing it for twenty-plus years. There is no getting used to it. Yet when I go the other direction the lag is never so bad. The Mayo Clinic provides a bit of knowledge on the subject. For example, I didn’t know that you need one day of recovery for every time-zone you pass through. Nomatter. What the doctors and scientists forget to mention in their study is the fact that worst-writer has made a grave error in his life of travel and boredom. That means my body rejects the west to east travel mode. My body yearns and lusts after the opposite. But we are all condemned to our fate, right, dear worst-reader? Yes. There is fate. She is a bitch. And she becomes mounted and secured in your life when you do her wrong. Jet-lag is indeed like a life that sucks or a wife that doesn’t. Nuff.

Three pics in this post today, dear worst-reader. Pics that all have to do with the worst-subject at hand. I just got back from a month-long stay in my grand united mistakes of American’t. I can’t tell you how much I already miss her. Her smells. He tastes. Her ignorance. Ah! Ignorance. A pungent taste that one is. It’s like when you first smoke. Nasty. But once you get used to it, the sensation of inhaling enthrals. Don’t it? That small gesture of sucking on a fag and pulling him beyond the gag reflex. It is nice once you get used to it. It’s the kicker that you need. Inhaling. At least that’s the way it was when I smoked. But it was the taste of the cigarette that finally gets you. Right? At certain moments in life nothing can match the taste of a Marlboro. Not even the rawness of Red Man or a pinch of Copenhagen can match it. Btw, you wanna quite smoking? Just put a little pinch of tobacco between cheek & gum. It sure helped me. Move on.

Back to the pics.

The first pic (above) I took while visiting the American dream that you can buy for a discounted $75 per person. We got Busch Gardens tickets with %25 off. Lucky, eh. It was the third time I visited the park with my son but I’ve been there numerous times in the past thirty years. This was probably the last for me, though. Indeed. It’s time to stop riding roller coasters. I’m fifty now and flabby and getting old and I can’t (don’t want to) take the jostling, the bumps, the twists and the g-forces of those über-fun rides. It’s really enough now. I’ll also miss the bonding with my sixteen year old. He loves the rides as much as I did. And. Boy! The park has changed. For one, it’s no longer owned by a beer maker. It’s now owned by a company that traps orcas in order to train them to live in a pool and hopefully not kill their trainers. It hasn’t changed in the way it looks though. But then again, America hasn’t changed much in that respect either. You have to get close to it to see the changes–to see the drama of the change. Yes. Like the service industry driven country slash nation-state that America is now. Remember that change? Well, maybe you don’t remember that change because, well, because things didn’t go well with the change. For you see, America has become a service country not by choice but instead by coercion. And. As with most things coerced, the change has gone horribly wrong.

Now that American production has taken a back seat to the so-called service industry over the past thirty years, you would think that the rewards of having so brilliantly made such a change would shine bright. Dullness is proving its value now, isn’t it? And a place like Busch Gardens is indeed a mecca for those who still believe in The Dream that used to be industrial America. Just pay what you need to pay upon entrance and you will be serviced to the hilt with rainbows, purple unicorns, the luscious lie of family that is nothing more than an entity waiting for you to break it and, of course, wait for the entertainment to overwhelm and whisk who and what you are away for a least a few hours. For real. Ain’t it great what the American service industry can do? Go to an entertainment park, a theme park, roller coaster heaven and you will be shown that there is no facade and never has been.

Some between-thoughts and interjections about the demise of home.

  • I had to fill a bike tire with air during my recent USA visit. Luckily a gas station was nearby so I drove the bike there. Wow. Air cost money now. In fact, it cost seventy-five cents to put air in the tire of my bike. Why is it that I know, ever since becoming an expat twenty years ago, that gas stations have to resort to charging for air for bicyclists? Oh yeah, I know that because I haven’t had to fill a bike tire from a gas station in that long! It’s good to be reminded of change.
  • The last time I was at a cinema in the US they charged me extra for butter in my popcorn. The service-person at the country even frowned when I requested that she fill half the bag with popcorn, butter it, and then do the same with the other half. She was very confused if my request meant that I was getting extra butter twice.
  • There are now separate fast-lanes at amusement parks where customers can purchase a pass in order to get ahead of the crowd when boarding roller coasters and thereby avoid the longs lines. This is a way the greed mongers allow those with a little extra cash to get ahead of the crowd. Btw, the same applies to the huge parking lot of the park. Only if you pay extra for parking can you park near the front entrance. Otherwise you must take a hot and steamy bus to get to that entrance.

With the above examples in mind, let’s look at a few other ways that the greed-mongers will be able milk you in the future. For. Indeed. As American’t continues down its fail-upward path of putting the middle-class in its place–which it so deserves because only the middle class could politically chose the politics of its own demise–there are still endless ways to milk those who need to be milked and/or create much needed revenue streams to further the rich’s desire for the non-rich to remain stagnant and poor.

  • Restaurants will start charging for amenities at your table e.g. salt & pepper, bread & butter, knives and forks and spoons, napkins, etc.
  • How ’bout a few cents more for ice in your drink.
  • You’ll have to start paying extra for the paper that your professor gives his tests on and don’t forget the extra charge for the ink he uses when grading your papers.
  • Wal-Mart will charge you to use their shopping carts; they will also charge extra if they have to open another register because the lines are too long.
  • When buying roses you must pay extra if you want the leaves to stay on.
  • Wanna watch Netflix via your ISP? Just add another ten bucks to your monthly ISP bill, ditto for iTunes downloads.
  • When flying you must pay extra for wearing two shoes, to have a tray in front of you, to turn on your seat light, to have a stewardess come see you, to eat the wonderful meals they prepare and, last but not least, to travel with luggage…

buy sell fixHold on there, skippy. That last one. The bullet-point about the luggage? That’s already happening–especially with most US carriers. And if you want to know how airlines get away with what they do to customers, all you have to do is look at what America has done to itself by continuing to elect conservatives. But I suppose you get my drift without me imposing all my political worst-views at you, eh dear worst-reader. Still. America has literally gone to shit in a hand basket (unless you can pay so that you don’t have to carry the basket) and after spending a month there it’s easy to tell why and how this has happened. From watching TV to listening to one of those robo-calls my mother gets a dozen times a day. It’s unbelievable what is tolerated in a society who has replaced all meaning, belief and faith, culture and merit with $$$. $$$ = everything! And. A simple day outing to bond with my son on a few roller coaster rides revealed yet another angle of the true face of what’s become(ing) of my beloved American’t. Indeed. This is what happens when everything becomes a commodity. And before I forget. The second pic (above) is a postcard my mother received in her mailbox. It has my mother’s (correctly written) first name printed on it to make it look like someone wrote it by hand. It declares my mother’s house “ugly” and thinks she shouldn’t fix it but instead sell it. Wow, eh. With stuff like this going on there really is some truth to the idear that not only the American apple barrel is rotten but because there’s nothing left in it everybody who can is still trying to scrape scraps from it. Which brings me to pic #3 of this post.


While scanning the channels the night before I was due to return to Eurowasteland, I came across the movie They Live. How appropriate. A movie, not unlike the movie Dawn of the Dead–the one where most of the story takes place in a shopping mall, which is a symbol for the consumption that is turning people into zombies–They Live is about what happens to a country that allows itself to be enslaved. But that’s neither here nor there, eh American’t? It’s always good to see my childhood favourite wrastler Roddy Piper. Indeed, dear worst-reader. A wrastler tells the story of the demise of America. We are now officially a country where FAKE rules.

And before I return to my worst-daily routine of dreaming about being a writer. Here a clip from the Interwebnets where Bill Maher taps into my thoughts. Or is it I tapping into his? Nomatter.

Rant on.


Bank Real Concern

worst credit cardYes. It’s true. Banks are really concerned about your welfare. They care about you. They care about you as much as any corporate institution can care. Most importantly bank institutions care about you so much they will go to great lengths to make sure you and their money is ok. And for that we should be thankful. Down on our knees thankful. Unless, of course, banks decide to freeze your credit card for dubious reasons that only seem to benefit them and not necessarily benefit their customers. Which brings me to the following worst-rant.

One of my two credit cards was frozen today. I’m traveling far away from Eurowasteland and don’t you just hate it when some bimbo working behind a retail counter yells: yer cahrd’s bean de-nyed, sir. Yeah, that’s irritating. So you go home and start the tumultuous task of figuring out why, when you are liquid, when you don’t have any debt whatsoever, the powers-that-be at mastercard freeze your life. And you know what they told me? Don’t bother putting on your worst-thinking-cap for this one, dear worst-reader. Here we go.

Customer Service Rep: Thank you for calling today, sir. (Short pause after answering obligatory account questions.) Well, sir. Our records show that you might (customer service rep italics) have made a purchase in Canada today.

Worst-Moi: I’m on the eastern shore of MD. I just tried to use my card to pay for dinner and I may have forgotten to leave a tip.

Customer Service Rep: Oh, yes, sir. I can see that here. Yes. We froze your card just prior to that purchase attempt.

Worst-Moi: But why? Do you know how embarrassing it is to have your card denied in a public place like that? Before that my card was denied at a retail store, too.

Customer Service Rep: Our records show that perhaps someone was trying to access your card in Canada last night. Were you in Canada last night?

Worst-Moi: In Canada? Last night? Gee, let me think… No.

Customer Service Rep: Have you given a copy of your card to someone that might be in Canada?

Worst-Moi: Wha….?

Customer Service Rep: Yes, sir. Our records show that someone at Target Canada has charged approximately five hundred euros on your card.

Worst-Moi: Well take it off. I’m not in Canada. And I don’t shop at Target.

Customer Service Rep: Yes. I can see on caller I.D. that you’re not at this moment in Canada.

Worst-Moi: Well. Take the charge off. I’m not authorizing it.

Customer Service Rep: You have thirty days to revoke the charge. Shall I transfer you to a representative to revoke the charge?

Worst-Moi: What? Yes. Of course. Wait!

Customer Service Rep: Yes, sir.

Worst-Moi: Will I then be able to use my card again?

Customer Service Rep: The card has been frozen sir. We will have to send you another card.

Worst-Moi: Can you send it to me here?

Customer Service Rep: We will send it to your registered address, sir.

Worst-Moi: That’s three thousand miles away. I won’t be there for another two weeks.

Customer Service Rep: If you require, sir. I can unfreeze your card for approximately two hours. That way you can close any hotel costs that you may have.

Worst-Moi: So you know I’m traveling?

Customer Service Rep: Yes. It would seem that way.

Worst-Moi: You also know I’m not in Canada.

Customer Service Rep: It would seem that way, sir.

Worst-Moi: Then you also know that I’m not in a hotel. For your records, I’m staying at my mothers house. You can send the new card to me here.

Customer Service Rep: You card is registered at one address, sir. That address is not in the United States.

Worst-Moi: So you know I’m not in Canada. Well, then. Don’t allow anymore charges from Canada. I won’t be going there. Then unfreeze the card for me now or send me a new one to the address that I can provide you.

Customer Service Rep: I’m sorry, sir, but we are not authorized to be told what to do by you.

Worst-Moi: So I’m stuck with a frozen card?

Customer Service Rep: Do you have another form of payment, sir?

Worst-Moi: That’s none of your business.

Customer Service Rep: That’s the second anti-authoritarian thing you’ve said to me today. You do realize that this call is being recorded, don’t you?

Worst-Moi: Oh my fucking god. You are a nazi.

Customer Service Rep. Yes, sir. It would seem I am. And I think it time for you and others like you to wake up to the reality of who owns you. The credit card problem is a chronic problem but it also the least of your worries. Do you have another form of payment?

Worst-Moi: (Pause. Speechless and beaten-down.) Yes. I… have… another…

Customer Service Rep: When you get back to Germany, sir. Give us a call and we will see to it that the Canadian charge is removed and we will send you a new card.

Worst-Moi: So you can just remove the Canadian charge at any time? Does that Canadian charge actually even exist? Or does your institution just not like my purchasing behavior–and you’re trying to put a stop to it? You know that there has never been a problem with my liquidity. You can see that on your terminal right now. Nor has there ever been any issue regarding my credit worthiness. I think you have an ulterior motive for….

Customer Service Rep: Sir. I will take your response as an affirmation of our discussion, sir. And. I think we’ve all had about enough of your sassy lip. Have a good day, sir.

Worst-Moi: Wait!

Customer Service Rep: Yes. Sir. Can I be of further assistance?

Worst-Moi: Can you tell me who or what tried to charge on my card in Canada?

Customer Service Rep: No, sir. That’s none of your business. Transactions on this card are our business. Our business alone. It is our money you are spending. Understood?

Worst-Moi: (Speechless again.) Um…

Customer Service Rep: Have a nice day, sir. And allow me to remind you. If you require the use of the card for closing a hotel bill then let me know the exact time and I will unfreeze your card for approximately two hours. Do you understand? We are here to help not hinder. But you must play our way. Good day, sir.

Worst-Moi: Yes. Achtung. Thank you for allowing me to live in your world.

Customer Service Rep: Now that’s the spirit. Have a nice day.

Hang-up. End.

For those interested in understanding how a credit card can be frozen just google the issue. Here a summary of what I’ve found so far. These things are what banks use to real-time evaluate whether or not they will allow your credit card to function. With that in mind. Watch out for…

  • out of ordinary spending behavior
  • change in purchasing behavior
  • your location
  • buying cash
  • stuff you might sell
  • buying in a bad part of town
  • test purchase

The test purchase is kinda unique because it’s the first indicator that your card has been stolen. The rest are just things that a bank can watch. I’m sure they use some kind of computer algorithm to sift through transactions.

In my case, my card wasn’t stolen. But I had been swiping it, giving it to various retail clerks, waitresses and bartenders, etc., daily for more than two weeks. This is probably the first time in a long time that I’ve used it in the States for more than two weeks–usually my visits here are max fourteen days. According to the service rep, though, the bank thought that my card was copied. I have no idear what that means. But I’m assuming it has to do with swiping. But none of that matters. Here’s what I worst-think as to why the bank froze my card.

The bank noticed my unusual behavior and decided to freeze my card–just in case. What unusual behavior, you ask. Well. My travels consist of visiting PA, DE, MD, VA and DC. I usually pay for everything with a mastercard, unless I feel like paying with cash. I rarely feel like paying with cash. But I suppose all of that isn’t unusual. What could be unusual though is that in a span of three days I visited several gun shops and gun ranges–but only in MD. I also bought stuffed animals and I think the bank algorithms that analyze purchase behavior showed that people visiting gun ranges and buying stuffed animals for target practice is questionable. But why would a German bank (where my mastercard is issued) be interested in that? Oh wait. Maybe the Germans were more interested in the fact that I was spending so many Euros from Eurowasteland. Wha…? Nomatter.

All in all, this is really stupid. I get the issue that last year the retailer Target had its data systems compromised and credit card information was stolen. But you would think that would not prohibit mastercard from putting two and two together. You know, the fact that I’m not in Canada and why would anyone “copy” his or her credit card and give it to someone else. (Not that others haven’t done that.) The other issue is, I pay off my credit card every month. I have never had financial troubles–in my whole life–because I have ALWAYS lived within my means. With the advances made with securing cards these days–with chips on them, multiple pins, magnetic strips, etc.–you’d  think that they finally had their shit together with at least being able to judge a questionable situation. I mean, for probably two, three, four decades, banks have profited billions by just issuing cards to suckers. Thank goodness I’ve never been one of them. Or am I? Nuff.

Rant on.


PS Although this post is a bit exaggerated, it really did happen. And even though I’ve vented some of my anger worst-writing about it–I’m still royally pissed. Oh well.

Struck Who Most

On way back from PHL airport yesterday I was struck by two things. 1) There was no traffic on July 4 in and around the southern part of Philadelphia–even though I was expecting hell-traffic on account of the holiday and DE closing a major bridge/highway in the area. But hold a sec. There was some traffic. We didn’t hit it till we got to Rehoboth Beach, DE, about 130 miles straight down the coast. Infamous July 4 beach traffic, baby! And. Here comes the shocking part. 2) I couldn’t believe the police force, if you could call it that, at the DE beaches. I must have counted four black, smoke window SUVs with multi-lighting and wannabe nazi-boys driving them. There were at least three or four marked police cars, all with their shotguns mounted erect next to their brassed faced drivers. Then there were numerous police on Harleys, a few on bicycles and a bunch just standing on the street. They were all in Rehoboth, on route 1, the strip–on a day where a hurricane cancelled the fireworks but was already making its way back to mother Atlantic. Ok. I get it. This is America. It’s her birthday. But a military-like force waiting around to control the drunks hanging out at bars after a day on the beach? Who the hell is paying for all the crewcuts? Having grown up around cops, I felt nervous as hell. I made sure that I drove 2mph below the designated speed limit (35mph), and didn’t bother to throw out any wasted joint remnants that had accumulated in my rental car. Obviously there was a bit of paranoia but they were all watching me. They were watching because, I’m sure, the NSA has told them that I’m worst-writer and I frequently refer to my former home as American’t and I know the answers to all the questions as to why we are now a police state. Oh well. Just two more weeks and I’m outta here.

11 Chilling Facts About America’s Militarized Police Force |

Do Not Enter Taxation

DE 495 ClosedTommi’s, aka worst-writer’s, prediction of the day and some lazy, pseudo armchair economics. But first, a question. Being home for a few weeks is both thrilling and daunting. Thrilling because I love it here–even though when I’m here I’m at the beach but all I do is work on Mom’s house. It’s daunting here because this is an opportunity to come down from my thirty-thousand-foot view of all-things-American’t–i.e. my view of home from Eurowasteland. The first few days in the States I feel bombarded with things like gas prices, milk prices, the negativity of news, the sour-puss faces of the abused, so on and so forth. It’s all right in front of me–I guess I miss my thirty thousand feet sometimes. But let me get back to the question.

How do the powers-that-be tax the hell out of you?

The genius of politics in my grand United Mistakes of American’t is how conservative politicians are able to milk their dumb downed constituents as though they are the endless teats of a über-fat cow–that gets off on being milked. Obviously, post-Reaganomics, American politicians can’t just raise taxes anymore. Yet it feels like, for the most part, the exuberant cost of living here is mostly a form of indirect taxation. Inflation alone has to make up most of that cost and that same inflation is being used to ONLY service the monstrous debt because the country is unable to pay it off. So. Again. How does the State increase revenue–tax you to do something other than just service national and local debt?

A few days before flying over the Atlantic I got the news that Wilmington DE was forced to close down highway 495. See map above. The closing is a big deal because it is the main route I have to take to get from PHL airport to the eastern shore of MD. 495 runs parallel to 95 and serves, I guess, as a kind of relief valve for both Wilmington and Philadelphia for traffic passing through the area on north-south 95. I read one news report that said, because of the closing of the bridge on 495, ninety-thousand vehicles a day now have to use 95. Find the reason you like why they closed down the 495 bridge–it truely doesn’t matter what they say the reason for the closing is, i.e. support beams cracked, base of bridge shifting, etc. The real reason they close it is this… (aka worst-writer prediction on its way):

I predict that when they finally get around to opening the 495 bridge in Wilmington DE it will be accompanied by a toll. And that is exactly how the powers-that-be raise your taxes. I mean, come on! How can a bridge built with the full power and ingenuity of a country like the US break-down? And then be closed? Did they forget a screw or bolt? Did they not dig the base support deep enough? I mean, seriously, this is absurd. But then again. American debt and the inability to pay is just as absurd.

Only in America, baby. So many wrongs continue to make so many…


Rant on.


Rosemarie Or Rose Marry


Cut down our rosemarry bush today. Well. I didn’t cut it down completely. But in the words of the redneck (who I am) and the thoughts of the vulgar (who I should be?) I thoroughly decapitated a mostly dying four square foot colossal rose-merry bush today. We had it growing on the south side of our beach house for the better part of more than a few years (thank you for the run-on). Last year it was so vibrant and full of life–my bush. For I had planted her that number of years ago. It was when I was cooking. Cooking too much. The scale in my bathroom determined that one. After I found a way to compromise with my bathroom scale I went back to cooking. It changed nothing–except for accepting the wishes of my scale. Just cook, scale said. But don’t fill yourself, my scale added. And I did. I abided. But then. Suddenly. I get here. Home. Again. This place. This beach place. I get here so seldom. You know. Because. I call this my home. But it is. And. According to the/my rosemarry bush she is my home. That is clear. And. As I said. I had to gut her today. I noticed when I was here in March that she didn’t make it through the harsh winter. You know, I was shoveling snow off my mother’s car in March–at a beach resort on the mid-Atlantic coast of my beloved united mistakes–my home. And so much cruel winter is too much for my rosemerry. She didn’t make it. But here’s the thing. Part of her was living. Part of her–a small part–had the will to go on. A few branches from the thousands (yes, I’m exaggerating) branches (of my four square foot bush) survived. So I thought: cut the rest away. Those few branches are the same that I started with. So many years ago. And now she produces the luscious leaves as ever before. And I will cook with her again. But that’s not what I wanted to bore you with tonight, dear worst-reader. I wanted to bore you with the idear that that bush had so much to do with not just cooking but with this place. This home. And I realized that when I cut her into pieces. For that is how I do it. When I’m trimming the hedges, the plants, the rose bushes of my mother, I pile the scraps into a large state-bought trash receptacles, you know, the kind tax payers are coerced into paying more tax for, and then I proceed to cut-down the limbs of what I’ve trimmed. This enables me to get a bunch of rubbish into a state-owned and state-ueber-taxed receptacle without compromising the rest of our rubbish needs. And here’s where the magic starts. As I was cutting down the three or three point five of the four square foot of my beloved rose’mree bush I noticed that her branches carried the same luscious smells I had fallen in love with after my first visit to Tuscany in the year of someone’s lord two thousand four–or was it 1998? It doesn’t matter anymore, I’m sure. I was cutting her down so more of her would fit in the receptacle and her smells spewed forth from the taxed trash can. It was wonderful. Two inch thick branches that I thought were dead–well, they are dead–still reeked of the luscious rose and marry. You know. That smell. When mixed properly with garlic and oregano and then strewn on someone’s pasta make the best basic meal there is. Indeed. Leave it up to the Italians to come with something like that. But I’m thoroughly lost now. All I wanted to say was that I miss the four square feet of my rose-merred bush. But there’s still a bit left of her and we will work with that. Amen.

Rant on.


Number of Heartbeats

I’ll have a fish and feel the scales soaked in oil crumble between my teeth. Was that fish as tired as the water left in his wake? And do the fishermen know if they hunt for squid at night below an artificial sun and catch a red-snapper then the red snapper will make it belated to my plate. This ode to fisherman will never be sung because the world is full of to few people who are willing to do anything about the mess we are in. But what should they do if nothing? As though their vote would count. Silly little dreaming fisherman doing what he does in a sea empty of fish. But when, oh when these men wake up and see the light… If it’s real light and not the same light they use to catch squid and red-snapper. When they see just as a squid sees that the light is something else. Just as the great fisher sees, perhaps he was the greatest fisher, although he rarely caught anything… Perhaps the sea will wake up and find the error of all our ways and gobble us up to… Wait for it. Here it comes. Gobble us all up to… Oblivia.

What is third world? By any definition this must presuppose a first or a second world. But it doesn’t. It’s more as though third world is made up of subcategories. In the subcategory I work/live and the elite has gone to the moon. In the subcategory I vacation with old five gallon oil cans that are cut diagonally and have a stick attached makkng them a sweep-bin. Graciously but without smiling the peoples of other subcategories sweep the sand beaches. Breakfast seems to flow from every crevice of the facility. Brand new. We were the first to use the bed. It was a viraginous bed. It replaced the one ruined by the flood, the tsunami. This is subcategory indeed. But to its own only is it a sub. Thailand is not a subcategory to other western places. Perhaps Kau Laak is a subcategory but in which direction does the sub flow?

The imagery in the night or the early morning of being thrown out of a bus. Discarded as it were. But the significance of being discarded from a bus. Was it moving? Was it happy? What is the bus? Yes. Something important in life. Something of great meaning. But what is more important is what happens after being thrown from it. I walk through a city and meet my regret. The culmination of not being cable to maintain relations. Which I blame on my lost father? I see a long lost love in the arms of another man. Is he the one on the bus? Or is it I that will be thrown from the bus into the arms of long lost love? As I pass by she follows me but I am unable to recall the conversation. I continue on and go to a shop to have my hair dyed blonde and the barber laughs. He prefers purple. But can’t go there–not even in a dream. I wake up before I can see how it looks. My hair. But the bus is long gone.

And what of the thoughts while I’m awake? So few and far between. They are of the more frivolous of nature. For example. If a woman’s number of eggs is predetermined why then not the number of heart beats? (The connection?) Or how about the number of footsteps? Yes. It is pre-determined how many erections a man will have. And so. Why is the woman not cherished. Is it because of her proven limitations? Which are? Watch the can of worms opened up there. For I will ponder the will of god–or nuffy the blonde sea lion that lost a flapper while being caught for the aquatic zoo. And the remaining vernunft of Germans. It is his head that pierces the horizon of the ocean only. He snickers much to much and much to loud.



Travel To Thailand

Another lucky day. Flight. DE2368 to HKT (Phuket). Eleven fucking hours to some exotic place. Why? To have conversation with other Urlaubers. Now that’s an exciting thought. And so. To start it all… a fellow with an interesting maustache, the kind with a triangle, perfectly manicured under the lower lip, introduced himself to the people who have to sit in the row with him. “Udo” he said. The people in the row said nothing. Why? Udo seems like such a nice Tiroler copy. Vest and all. Speaking of business (cross that last one out). For the first time I thought of the greater good in context of a discussion about corporatism. Self-interest seems to be the factor that drives the bottom line of the corporation. Right? But is that a given? Was it always this way? Can’t say for sure. But this can / should be connected with the likes of Thomas Edison. LOP and the idear of the greater good. Here a brief appearence by the return of JC. And Edison? JC a slob hanging out in places where he can find apostles. Happens across Edison. JC has to give up on (the) fisherman because there’s not place to fish anymore. So what is JC looking for while he’s here? The great inventor. Where does he look? Character (Stone) is a consultant who crosses JC and Edison path. Is there help for JC to be found? JC rationalization as Character (Stone) crosses the red states. With a drunkard, down on his luck Edison. Stone consults JC. But does JC consult him? What does Edison do? Work on this one. Get cohesive. Continuity. Enter the… The JC Trauma. What is the JC trauma? Is it the repercussion of meeting JC? Or is it the realization of what is behind the religious fanaticism ruining America combined with what will inevitably become a perversion of capitalism? Predatory capitalism making its come-back post Great Depression. Character (Stone) confronts a man who claims to be JC on the hunt for deciple. When asked (by Character) if he’s found any he responds in the non-affirmative. But there is this inventor. But what, dear worst-reader, does your JC say? Something profound? Or something not quite appropriate for the mouth of a messiah that has somehow landed in the mid-west of the USA. JC does explain how he got to the mid-west of the US. He spent most of the last two centuries roaming the cosmos and India looking for Thomas. Anywho. He got to the mid-west by ship. So. Mr. Worst-reader. Where in the mid-west of USA can a ship go to drop off JC? Is it possible that a ocean liner got caught in a river west of the Mississippi? Go there, T-bone. Put the mid-west inbetween the two coasts. A land locked place where JC can land with an ocean liner. And don’t forget that he has a cup. The cup. But what is a cup. The ship? The ship, cup, that sailed to the landlocked mid-west of that place between the two (US) poles. Don’t forget the great rivers, the Great Lakes. Or, perhaps, it is a ship that doesn’t have to have sailed anywhere. Instead it is a ship that was built where it is. JC, the son of … stepped out of line a few times after he arrived in heaven. God, the father, had a bit of trouble with the whole single parent thing. There were many things on gods’s mind and so he forgot a few things pertaining to his son. One day JC answered a few prayers for god. Having seen his dad do this he thought he could handle it. So when answering the prayers JC told the people praying that they had to build a ship. The thing about answering prayers. God answer prayers but he does it in a way that prevents it from being percieved as a miracle. The problem with miracles, god dreamed, is that when people get one, they can see through them. The miracles. The thing about prayers is that a prayer is not a prayer if it asks for a miracle. But even in this god wasn’t isn’t perfect. When god found out that JC answered a prayer and answered it badly god said that JC had to see it through. Which meant he had to go back down again. Fix his mess. How JC arrived in a ship that was landlocked. Why JC doesn’t fly. The story of JC on a ship in the mid-west USA. Could potentially use research here how the biblical miracles really happened. The whole miracle disillusion thing. JC the rebellious son of god, the father. JC roaming the cosmos and India. What am I to do with that? As though the cosmos has someting to do with India. Or does it? Didn’t Hinduism invent the cosmos? The debate about creationism. And what about the cool jobs that get you nowhere? Has nothing to do with JC cosmos, India and the mid-west. Or? Play. Aging. Getting old. Old vs. Young. Two characters that oppose each other. What makes them opposite? Both women. They have to work together and do well. Until something screws-up their Karma. I guess. These two women, one old (how to define that but remain subtle?) the other young (ditto?). The story culminates with the two realizing who/what they are. They are (somehow) the same person. One is a mother, the other a daughter. (Or the like.) The trilogy of the female. Mother, daughter… (and what’s next?) Or. One is a business executive, the other at the beginning of her professional career. But what are they doing? What brings them together in this story? Being a prolific writer means nothing in this day and age. Did it ever mean anything? H. Miller said, the greatest men have never written a thing. And why should one bother? Finding solace is or has to be about something else. Treating people equally, for example. The biggest gripe I have about exotic vacations is facing the working class of so-called poor nations. The people building and sculpting the bungalows and landscapes seem so content. Except for when they say how much they want a car. That was the key bomb for me last year on Mauritius. I will assume for cultural reasons, a Thailander will not come up to me and do the same thing. Where are all these notes going? In the notebook. Fool. I must eventually focus in love as well as writing. What’s the point of it all if it ultimately goes nowhere? The bleeding of energy. Must be bleeding off of energy? I would bleed off the ends of the world if the waves would follow me to where I live. Instead they (waves) act like the worst of the spoiled Georgian peaches flaying her wants to waiting takers. Oh the weight of fags (see graph next page) taking pictures of a beach while wearing tight pants. So they stop the waves of this beach from once again waknig up and caughing. Oh Kau Laak, you will rise above all with your smiling cares.




Pondering Questions Leaving SF, CA

(Note: This post combines Sept 21-26)

To inform. About short story publications (from Borders Books in SF, CA)

– Glimmer Train (
– Fiction (

Two publications of short stories.

Regress development.

The idear of growing backwards. “Growing” not in the sense of the physical, as a person would grow from a child to adult but with knowledge. Knowledge that isn’t somehow gained through society. Knowledge inbred? Could one call it growing backwards? No. Learning backwards, maybe. But how does one learn backwards? Can culture become sub-culture? As though culture, introduced to a person (young) and that person having a choice of which direction to take with what knowledge.

Great example of difference between USA and Germany. The way flowers are prepared and delivered.

– “Clos du Val” wine from SF hotel (California)
– “Cutrer” from Sonoma, Russian River

Absurdity. Not unlike an oddity. TSA. Transport Safety Administration. Yet antoehr way that shoudl open the eyes of people. But there eyes cannot be opened. All that can occur is to close them more. Yes. The closing of eyes. This very early morn in SFO on hell flight. To where?

My heart hurts. Enough to make me wonder but not enough to make me see a scientist. Still. I should take better care of myself. Better men have dropped dead at my age. Will do so upon return home. The home I do not want. I have no home. Or too many.

The things people say and do. If they would be recorded. What kind of recording device would be used? A device with unlimited memory? A machine that could run forever?

Mockery of democracy. The spin machine and the political mechanics that make it work. Situational ethics and morality based on (the mood of) the moment. Is (really) the driving element of politics fear? Then there needs to be a constitutional amendment, like all other parts, banning fear as a part of politics. (Or is the democratic process?) The US Constitution has worn out its welcome. What is to follow? More amendments (that serve the few (with money))? Doesn’t an amendment continue on with the status quo? Can a amendment rebel against–the mother? The mother is the constitution. The US constitution. A document that protects the owners. The owners of what? Life? The earth? All things earthly? The Bush clan reminds of people who think the constitution protects on them. The clan. Is this family a representative of what is good or bad about America? Rational thought dictates this family is bad. There. I’ve said it.

Is a human beings intelligence dependent on a long and fruitful childhood?

Questions to ponder.


Domaine Du Chasseur

Domaine Du Chasseur. On top Mauritian mountain looking at Indian Ocean. Thought. The secret to life is knowing exactly what you want out of it. It is of the utmost importance that a young man know this. Otherwise. Forget it. Move on. Because life moves on with or without you. Trust me, I have survive this. And so. If all opportunity from a system is dried up, be at least told by a father (or mentor?) that he must know what he wants. And once he knows that make sure to somehow see if there is an opposite to what he wants. Get it? Otherwise you might be doomed for this world accepts no alternatives. It’s all or nothing. Nothing or all. This mountain. Peak out. Look at the deer growing below. They live on the mountainside. They are there for one purpose. Brought over on a ship to breed and provide fodder. Well, not fodder, per se. But maybe so. Oui. The deer of Mauritius were never there by nature but by nature’s antecedent: humans. Especially male humans that like to shoot things. Did they know what they wanted? (Out of life; silly question I know.) They were brought to this place to be slaughtered by men and their rifles, I presume. Like so many men/males. Otherwise. See mountain Domaine Du Chasseur. Get there and forget becoming a man. You will be among the French.

Started reading The Bell Jar.


Not Quite A Recipe

When illusion turns to delusion. With a male it is the transition from boy to man. For a female it is much, much more complicated. I think. I think I do not know.

Remember. The way Mauritians pour their beer. Their beer, btw, Phoenix, is pretty good. Thank goodness. It’s freaking hot here.

Recipe? Not quite.

-curry leaves
-veg oil
-curry leaves (whole for fish)
-cooking pan
-cook meat separately
-for fish add tomato and water



Beach Blanket Forgot

Oh my. We forgot beach blankets. More important than my tooth brush. Thousands of miles and beach blankets are a needed commodity. Oh save me purchasing power. With that in mind, how can one say something without speaking? One must write it and not (actually) say it. Or?

Cheap German Airline And Dodo

Condor DE314 > MRU (Mauritius)

Going to see the Dodo. Raphus Cucullatus. (SP?)

Will never fly Condor again. Never say never. This is the worst, most uncomfortable flight ever. Shame on airlines all. Now move on.

Is there a significant difference between reconciliation and compromise? A subtle difference. What of rights between payer and payee? A payer could demand something of a payee, especially when a tangible is not present. Buying services, for example. All I know. Can’t be much. By the look of things. By way ways go. I would think the only thing I had to give to this would are a few lost words of advice better used by the unborn or stupid people. Ok some young folk, who are kind of both. Love is a fallacy, for example. And in these days of nothingness it has reign supreme above all else. It is the most simple of all common demonstrations on which we divide everything that is human. For this to continue little is left to actually live for and yet what pushes (it) forward? The fact that I should better pay attention to things we’re flying by then writing things others will fly by… The fact that I should have sought out my war? That I fly over? When war has already found so many other men in history whose sped is worth more than me. The war is out there yet I have the comfort to be able to choose whether or not to go. And not out of fear but ideology or some other human fault not invented but simply codified. Now that’s a great word. As great as this boredom on this cramped flight. Will never fly Condor again. What a cheap German airline. But they do collect the fund, eh. Yes, to join at forty-two and thirty-two thousand feet. Win the war. The inner war. Get over the place you are traveling to now. Stop.


On Key West

26 10 04 – Moleskine notebook.

Days Pass again. But I have seen another end to pieces I’ve created as though Keylime were the motivating factor. Still, between the tourists like myself I feel no force that joins us unless content is a new force of nature. Can you believe, faithful black book, that I’m in KW. A sudden arrival it has been and when I sat next to another foreigner with a T-shirt saying: I can see dead people, I was propelled to make sure he knew he could see me. But the gist quickly subsided as a catamaran wished by blowing it’s horn and when I looked to it felt sorry for the tourist who paid for the sightseeing and had to raise its mainsail. The first hours in the confused American Caribbean left me with yet another bitter taste. It is the aftermath of a life of consumption that has been forced upon me. Completely stuffed, like a Thanksgiving dinner, the waiting sunset my digestive, I can think of nothing but compulsion as I watch the stingy street artists in their over zealous and lost fixations to be something they are not. I suppose it is all part of the bitterness I feel when I place myself in the holds of America. It is the other, the my, compulsion I cannot avoid. Yet the smarts of Hemingway’s bar or beaches or boats is not enough to fight back what I feel. And feelings are amass in this time and space between Disney reality and American Tom – Tom foolery. So here IM. Lost in the arms of another magnificent love and I can’t figure for the life of me what to do with it.