Kane Lesser's Blog

The Last 10 Years

Boy, could I write a book. What a novel idea for an author.

Ha.

In the last decade, I’ve experienced some of the weirdest, sometimes soul-crushing events than I’d not remotely come close to in my life up to that point.

Blame it on menopause? Sure, why not – the rest of the world does.

Maybe.

Since the spring of 2014, I’ve:

Told a multitude of fuckhead bosses to copulate with themselves and got a few of them canned after having exposed what completely incompetent imbeciles they wereHad anxiety attacks that I never knew could come as close to a heart attack that I hope to never be able to compare – so much so, that I’d stand out in my driveway so that someone could come pick me up if I happened to pass outWorked four jobs at one time and still couldn’t make ends meetWalked away from people I’d spent entirely too much time around because I believe they were my friends and had my best interests at heart. Too hard of a sad lesson to learn, but a valuable education, nonethelessExperienced a hurricane for the first (and hopefully last) time in my lifeBeen disowned by remaining family members who wrote me off with individual single strokes of their pens filled with their poisonous ink…simply because I embraced my passion for writing and published words that they didn’t want to hearMoved to a place that I thought I REALLY wanted to be, only to learn how unbelievably cursed the entire state is (keep an eye out for THAT entire story because it’s in the works)

All of that may seem really bad and dark and come off as though it’s all sour grapes and that nothing good has happened to me in the last decade. Trust me – it was all considerably worse that it may sound.

Because in the last five years of my life, I:

Managed to get myself moved across two states and travel to more states than previously in my life, and in the shortest amount of time – KY, TN, AR, WV, PA, IN…and countingAm truly able to embrace the stereotypes of American AppalachiaBecame one of the most well-known photographers in central Texas, taking tens of thousands of pictures of statewide musicians and even photographed a few of their weddings, photos and videos that have earned their rightful place on album sleeves and videos that have circled the globe.Got married again for a second time…knowing full well that I should have learned better from the first time and confirming that I am simply not a person wired for marriage. C’est la vie Optimized by Avast CleanupBought my third Jeep Wrangler – “Creepie”Became hooman to two of the most loveable Corgis on the planet Lived in four different housesHad multiple unnecessary bodily organs removed and still remain healthy enough to find myself head-scratching at consistently increasing conversations with people my own age and even younger, detailing each of their chronic illnesses and the medication that they are on to treat each one of their maladies. This is an expectation that I have come to accept as we all continue to age at the same rate – one day at a time.Seen more dirt track Sprint car races that I have in the last 30 years. Yee haw, pass the beerEnhanced my ever-expanding wardrobe exponentially spread across walls covered with rockabilly dress crinoline, polka dots, animal prints galore, and hundreds of more pairs of shoes. Is that even possible? Shouldn’t it be illegal? One can never have too many pairs of shoesStumbled across an international grocery store that has now become my MeccaDyed my hair platinum blonde and played Marilyn for a while Sat back and watched in dumbfounded frustration at the increasing stupidity of a world that laments Mother Nature simply being her maternal power, dullards in the street supporting criminals over heroes, and defying a government and medical authority (give me a break) who threatens my livelihood unless I poison myself with their snake oil. No, thanks.Directly experienced more friends and acquaintances committing suicide that I’d ever had in my life…and never care to againSang regularly with a cover band – mostly, “Shut Up and Dance with Me” by Shoot the Moon Gained and lost 30 pounds on multiple occasionsSeen more concerts than ever before in my life and thankfully so, right before some of their aging members died unexpectedly

And yet, as remarkable as those and so many other personal experiences have been – on both sides of the spectrum – I’ve come out relatively unscathed on the other side. I’ve sharpened to a deadly point my lifelong razor-sharp wit, logical rationalizing ability that increasingly pisses off everyone around me because I’m impossible to argue with, the spectacular “fuck you/it/life/that/them” defiance, and increased desire for the mothership to PLEASE come pick me up and return me to the parallel universe from which I’ve obviously been abandoned.

But my most memorable and exhilarating accomplishment across the last decade of my life has been my writing and publishing three books and multiple clever stories, the one in current and direct reference you will find right here. Trust me – it will be relevant as I continue to pontificate:

A FANTASTIC PORTRAIT: ALDO NOVA

Unfortunately, even that work has been tarnished by scumbag criminal publishers whom I had to fight in legal battles just to get back the rights to my own book.

And that, dear audience, is why you’ve not seen any of my books up for sale anywhere online or in stores for a few years.

I’ll be refreshing and remarketing them myself – when only I find and set aside the time to do so…

…and it makes me weep, but I still have my website here and I still have the constant burning passion to write.

My head is always full, and especially NOW.

For you see, during my book-writing flurry, I actually had social media sites and I had wildly creative outlets and time on my hands to explore the most distant universes in my mind.

If I were independently wealthy, those far-reaches would be made my permanent home. They were and still are some of my most favorite places to be.

Alas, writing comes now only when I’m bursting at the seams and I can no longer hold in these thoughts and experiences and perspectives.

Like right now.

There is something that compelled that recently.

I finally got to see Aldo Nova up close and personal, in the flesh and in concert. That is an event that I never imagined happening in my life time.

During my rampant writing period, I had written the above-listed story on the musical genius and reconstructed him as a character named Nobel in my novels. He tempered as a level-headed sidekick to the wild-child protagonist in each of my books.

Nearly 10 years ago when the artist was in the forefront of my book-writing, I reached out to him on social media to share my own mind’s narrative of his impact on a once wide-eyed pre-teen.

Aldo Nova May 2, 2024

He did respond, to my delight and surprise, but I caught him at a bad time after the loss of his beloved.

Appreciated. Getting caught up in the moment, I wanted to share with Aldo the talents of a musician I’d come to know and photograph, those whose talents mirrored Aldo’s from so long ago, and I got caught up in my own head.

Nonetheless, something that Aldo said to me at the time has stuck with me to this day: he accused me of being full of angst.

I found that interesting and somewhat hypocritical of him, considering the multitude of interviews he’s done and in which he stated, “No one knows who I am”.

Right there with you, pal.

But at the time, I couldn’t have been farther from that emotion. I was happy and content and active in my life then. Always misunderstood.

But we never do see ourselves as others do, do we? And we have no opportunity to watch ourselves through others’ eyes. We are at the mercy of perception.

But the angst that he referenced did eventually creep in and I recognize that. The fast-paced socialite, know-everyone party life that I had dove into head-first took an ugly turn. As a result, I completely ditched social media to withdraw and cleanse from the toxic cesspool that was poisoning me.

I’ve not looked back since and am forever grateful for returning to the real world.

Yet, since that crucial turning point, there was a surge in Aldo’s music writing that was potentially spurred on by the loss of a love and the impending existentialism that inevitably conquers us all.

It certainly slapped me in the face.

And then I noticed the tour dates. It can’t be possible, can it? Aldo is touring again, blessed be the heavens.

PLEASE come to a venue near me…or at least to one in the United States. I have ticket, I WILL travel!

The more dates that were added, the more my heart raced and the more time I spent surfing the web to keep updated on any new dates I awaited with baited breath.

Now living in the south central portion of Ohio in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, there’s not a great deal to do without traveling at least one hour to reach humanity = a relative term (we’ll get to that in another installment of the saga. Please hold…).

However, being one hour north of the Kentucky border, four hours west of Pennsylvania, two hours east of Indiana, and six hours from our nation’s capital has proven to be a very serendipitous location…believe it or not. Trust me when I say I never would have believed it had I not directly experienced it myself.

Hey, it’s a hellavua lot better than being trapped in the middle of a state that requires DAYS of driving just to reach another state’s border.

This very queer location has belched up a plethora of tiny unexpected gems that – thankfully – cater to music fanatics like me. For example, in Ashland, KY; a town with a population of just over 21,000 and just one hour’s drive, there is a Paramount theater where I’ve seen Clint Black, The Oak Ridge Boys, Tesla, and Sawyer Brown all in the last six months (as well as another Montreal Itai, Gino Vanelli, at a small intimate venue in Cincinnati. I’ve been waiting for THAT one for about 30 years, too.). In the coming months, I’ll be there to see Wayne Newton and Tracy Lawrence.

Whodda thunk?

Loo – a – ville, Kentucky is about three and one half hours away and where my stepdaughter lives…and it just so happens to be where Aldo will be joining other 1980s big hair bands for a festival in August and just DAYS before my birthday.

How could you pass that up?

After careful but rapid contemplation, I pulled the trigger on expensive VIP seats to get front and center. I could not for the life of me imagining passing up an opportunity of a lifetime like that.

The ticket even comes with a swag bag and an inflatable chair that I get to lounge in at the concert and then bring home with me.

Haute luxury at its finest!

As I hit “purchase tickets” and lain back in my bed that night to snug with my beloved Corgis, I tingled with anticipation of seeing an artist I’d only imagined in more than 40 years.

And then I started surfing tickets again.

Low and behold, there it was – another date had been added and this time in Pennsylvania at a small intimate venue north of Pittsburgh.

That’s a four hour drive. I can stand at the stage. Tickets, even the early entry privileged, are pennies in comparison to the big stadium concerts and festival.

That’s a no-brainer.

“CLICK” – purchase tickets.

Then came the next two agonizing weeks of packing, deciding what to wear, booking hotels to make a weekend of wandering in a city and state that I’ve never been in before, all the while thinking to myself: I can’t believe this. I’m dreaming. I actually get to see Aldo Nova live in concert. For the first time. After 42 years.

Those two weeks dragging on were excruciatingly painful. Once the initial shock of “this is REALLY happening” subsided, then came the: “I wonder if he’ll recognize me after having talked with me nearly one decade ago. Should I draw a sign to hold up at the concert, one that reads: “HI! I’m Kane Lesser”?”

I vacillated for a while, even fielding everyone around me urging me to do it! Tell him who you are!

I decided that really wasn’t important and he didn’t need to know that I was standing in front of him.

I only needed to see him standing in the flesh. That is all I needed to check off my bucket list the only artist that I wanted to see, had yet to see, and who was still living.

When finally Thursday May 2nd had arrived, I couldn’t hold one thought in my head. By the time we’d reached the Pennsylvania border, it had dawned on me that I had forgotten to bring with me the original Aldo Nova album that I’d purchased when I was 11 years old; the one that I’d desperately hoped to get the artist to sign for me.

There were a few other things that I’d forgotten that I can’t even remember right now because I’m still reveling in the glow of a concert that I’d attended a week ago.

I stood perched at the front of the stage, nearly incapable of holding a thought in my head or hearing a word of the chirping around me.

I purchased early entry tickets that permitted us entrance at 5 p.m. for a show scheduled to begin at 8 p.m.

Along with my grommeted black leather jacket, I donned my four inch gold fang heeled boots shimmering with sequined flames.

Cool, huh? Sure…but not if you’re standing in place for nearly five hours.

But I knew what would happen and I tucked in and braced myself for the possibility of being carried out on a stretcher, unable to feel my feet.

My dressing rule of thumb: if it doesn’t hurt or damaged some body part, it doesn’t look good.

As a result, I did chew up my feet and spent the rest of the weekend applying bandaids to the blisters…

I watched every silhouette, every shadow of every head, every body that moved across the balcony – waiting and dying for that first glimpse.

I had to see his eyes.

And by the time the opening band had cleared away, I had figured out which was the door to the “green room”.

Like a coon treed by a bloodhound, I refused to move my eyes from it, waiting with a surprising lack of nervous anticipation I’ve nearly always experienced at concerts I’ve attended.

What I felt was more of a determination; not a tenacity, but a resolve to lay to rest more than 40 years of rampant curiosity.

The first sight I caught at the corner of the stage was the crown of his shaggy Sable locks highlighted by the light that shone above him.

He raced out onstage and winked at me the minute he caught my eye.

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ALDO NOVA WINKED AT ME.

The question then became: is it even remotely possible that he knew who he was looking at? After all these years?

Could it be just a consummate showman playing to the crowd as he’d become so accustomed to doing from the stage?

That answer will be lost to the ages, but a writer will always apply their imagination.

The emotion that came over me was one I’d never experienced before when watching live music.

It wasn’t excitement, exhilaration, adrenaline, or anticipation.

It was a peace, a relief – as though a loved one had just arrived home after hours of treacherous driving through a blizzard.

A resolution, perhaps, of that wonderment being released after so many decades.

It was a comfort in knowing simply that we’re both still here. By the grace of God, we’ve been put in the same place – for him to play and for me to watch.

I studied every line creasing his eyes, the blue of the beaded choker he wore around his neck and the silver crucifix that glistened and rested on his chest, ebedded in that rug of fur. The zippers at the sleeve of his leather jacket, his fingertips on the guitar strings, and the two hoop earrings in his left earlobe.

He had the pace of speaking and the eveness of a patient but stern grandfather entertaining his grandchild.

And the stunning blue ice of his eyes remains.

The fact of the matter is, now a week on from the concert, I am still reveling in the experience and absorbing the moment.

My previous story about Aldo, seemingly written a lifetime ago, has a considerably different ending:

I now have pictures taken at a concert where I’ve finally seen him in the flesh. I bought the concert t-shirt and I have one of his guitar picks that he placed directly in my palm.

That’s quite impossible to top, unless of course I were ever to have the opportunity to sit down to dinner with him and his new bride.

But I’m pretty sure that I don’t have another 42 years in me to wait for it.

The Beauty of Puppy Sighs

In November 2020, I got a two-month-old Pembroke Welsh Corgi puppy. I named her Eleanor after the 1967 Shelby Mustang GT featured in the 2000 movie “Gone in 60 Seconds”. She is my unicorn, that which I had always believed was unattainable.

I have loved Corgis for a very long time. Having been a lifelong admirer of Queen Elizabeth II of Britain (God, rest her soul), I watched with great interest her wiggle of dedicated pups change throughout the years, and how they dedicatedly followed her wherever she went.

I didn’t want a dog, for reasons of practicality. In fact, I’d spent my entire adult life without a pet, though I often thought it would be nice to have one. But I didn’t want to be constantly cleaning up dog hair left behind in every crevice of the house. I didn’t want to have to pay for dog food, toys, shots, grooming, or boarding if we chose to vacation somewhere for an extended period of time.

Being married to a pedantic, OCD, singularly-focused man changed all of that. My husband lives to surf online, a constant habit that drives me nuts.

He got it into his head that searching online for a Corgi would be a good idea, a dedicated effort that he would not relent until he found a Corgi farm offering pups for a reasonable price.

Purebred Corgis can be expensive, ranging in price from $1500 to tens of thousands of dollars for their pedigree…another reason I couldn’t justify getting one. And purebred Corgis are not animals that you’d just stop by and pick up at the local animal rescue.

Going to an animal shelter for a rescue dog was a possibility that I considered. But it always came back to the type of dog that I had always wished for being a Corgi.

After identifying and researching with great diligence the Corgi breeder, putting down the required deposit, and keeping constant communication with our contact there to minimize the chance of us being scammed kept us consumed for months.

But the breeder was kind and communicative, even sending pictures of Eleanor as she grew and became mature enough for her new home.

One picture of the dog showed little more than her ginormous pointed ears.

“We’re getting a bat”, I chuffed to my husband with my eyebrow raised.

After picking a date after sufficient Corgi maturity time, we loaded the car with brand new doggy toys and snacks, and drove three and a half hours to pick up our new puppy.

The excitement leading up to that date was palpable. To reserve a Corgi requires saving a spot on a waiting list, then waiting for at least eight weeks until the puppy has matured enough to be weaned from its mother.

That meant months of anticipation, selecting potential names, stocking up on doggy necessities, and arguing incessantly about WHOSE puppy she would be.

She’d be mine, of course. In my mind, there was never any question of puppy ownership.

My husband believed differently.

Arriving at the Corgi farm, we were permitted to wander outside of the pens that were wide open and brimming with dozens and dozens of Corgis. I was in my glory. I don’t think that, up until that day, I had actually even seen a Corgi in real life. I just wanted to jump into their play areas and roll around with them for days to come.

But, alas, there was a task at hand: collecting our precious cargo and beginning our hours-long trek back home to settle her in to her new digs.

As the breeder stepped into the rear of her small office and into what I can only assume was a holding area, the concept of becoming a pet owner became all too real. Moreover, the unknown of raising a puppy from two months became ever more daunting.

Can I really do this? Do I really want to do this?

As she stepped back into the room holding this tiny little ball of fur, all of those questions and doubts melted away.

I demanded to hold her first and, as it came to be known as a gesture of canine happiness and satisfaction, Eleanor dropped back her ears to the top of her head.

I knew that she was mine from that very second.

Not knowing how a baby puppy would take to riding in a car, we fed her a small dose of a tummy relaxer…and boy, did it relax her tummy.

And her bowels.

It was late afternoon and none of us on that trip had eaten yet that day. The logical thing was to stop at a fast-food restaurant and grab something to eat for the ride home.

As I waited out in the truck with our newly-acquired pet, my husband and son went in to the restaurant to grab our late lunch, during which time our little dog pooped all over the backseat of the vehicle.

Trying to keep her to one place, keeping her from leaping out of the truck, unrolling the paper towel, and monitoring the traffic around me all at the same time proved a challenge.

“Tuck in, Kane”, I thought to myself. “This will be your life as you now know it”.

If I’d only had any idea…

Sharing my harrowing dung experience with the rest of my family as they jumped in the truck, I got into the passenger seat and managed to strap on my seatbelt with the fuzzy baby on my lap…only to have her release her load right on me and the seatbelt.

Have you ever heard that sick old joke: “I licked it – it’s mine”? Yeah, that is still the running gag in our household to this day.

The bitch shit on me to claim me as her territory.

Like any baby of any breed or species, Eleanor was nothing but ears and paws. Her fur originally grew in as brownish-gray and slowly changed into the beautiful ginger sable and snow white that will be her permanent coloring.

The first few months were a challenge, in large part because I found that the agreement made with my husband when getting a dog had been first discussed had evaporated. The “everyone in the house taking care of the dog” turned into me being her sole caregiver.

That meant comforting her and easing her whining in her first few days in her new home. Cleaning up the frequent messes and potting training her outside also fell on me, usually at 2 or 3 a.m.

Feeding her, bathing her, grooming her, walking her, and keeping track of her all fell onto me and are still my responsibilities.

But that also permitted me to bond with her unlike anyone else in our family. I took the time to teach her tricks and she understands sign language, commands she only obeys when I signal.

I marvel at her intelligence. She can read my face, pick up on definitions of words immediately (French fries and cake will perk her ears up in a nanosecond), imitate my actions, and even pull back a curtain with her teeth when it serves her to get out to the backyard.

Yet, there are also times when she seems like to the stupidest animal on the planet when a deer in our back yard can walk right up to her without her even noticing. Or a face-plant on a step while she’s running up the stairs.

Still, she’s even convinced that she can drive.

Puppy car rides became an event that warrant racing for the door, even if it means shaking like a paint mixer the entire way to the veterinarian for shots. And no window is safe from puppy nose slobbers.

Her goofy doggy behavior has earned her a variety of nicknames – so many so that I have no doubt poor Eleanor wonders which one of them actually happens to be her name. Fuckhead, Dogbert, Monstrous Maximus, Chicken Butt are but a few of the names that Eleanor will actually answer to.

And of course no day is the life of a dog is complete without naps.

Eleanor began her life with naps wherever there happened to be a flat surface…or not. She would fall asleep with her head in a slipper, draped across a pillow, buried under a couch, or wrapped like a mummy in her own little puppy blanket.

Eleanor is a big fan of puppy blankets.

She does not, however, happen to be very fond of cute little costumes.

Yes. It’s true. I’ve fallen into that weird person pattern of dressing my little doggy in cute little shirts, holiday outfits, and bizarre hats.

I have found it enormously entertaining, even to have gone so far as to dress both the dog and me in matching polka dot outfits for an outing at an afternoon high tea.

The look on her face says it all. She absolutely hates it when I dress her up.

There is simply no getting around the fact that Eleanor is one of the most beautiful dogs on the planet. She exudes personality and I look at her often, wishing that she could actually speak to me.

I have no doubt the conversation would be an absolute riot.

In her own ways, we are always conversing and I speak to her as though she were a human, though she’s able to respond only in her puppy way.

Smaller than a typical Corgi, I long lamented that she was not what I was originally expecting in the typical barrel-chested, fuzzy-tummy, heart-shaped butt that Corgis are known and loved for. Eleanor is slight in build with shorter hair and a slimmer face.

Now being a Corgi owner, I understand that smaller Corgis don’t necessarily have to be the runt of the litter; that smaller Corgis like Eleanor tend to be more active and mischievous. She most certainly lives up to that standard.

About one year ago, we decided to add to our brood.

My husband took a new job that separated us; me with Eleanor and him thousands of miles away. As he became homesick and lonely, he learned that one of his coworkers’ wives breeds Corgis…

…and we brought another one into the family at no charge.

Dolly could not be more opposite from Eleanor. Being Corgis is about the only thing they have in common.

More than two years in age separate the two purebreds. Dolly is that standard Corgi I’d expected Eleanor to grow up as, and she has more than 16 pounds on Eleanor.

We call her “carpet” because she doesn’t like to rough house, fetch toys, chase, or snuggle much – all of those things that Eleanor simply grew up doing with us.

Dolly wants to sit and be petted. Having littered more than 40 puppies, she is nurturing by nature and she is a consummate herder, as Corgis are normally bred to be.

Slowly but surely, Dolly is loosening up to our enjoyment of playing, though the competition for attention between the two dogs is rife.

Having the two together is like chasing around twin children. They argue and pout, they go off in their own directions and have to be rounded back up. They have to be fed, cleaned, and attended to – work that becomes tiresome on days.

But they are remarkably self-sufficient in that they have their set bedtime and know when they want to lay down for the evening. They know when their snack times should be and they seek attention when they feel they’ve not gotten enough during the day, though that is rare. I love having them by my side and even Eleanor will help me work at my desk.

Eleanor has also become engaged in the same TV shows.

We take occasional trips to our favorite frozen custard place where the workers at the drive-up window ooo and ahh at the adorable dogs in the back seat of the car. They know full well what means “ice cream” and they always look forward to the outing.

Unfortunately, very much like humans, Corgis are probably even more seceptible to really bad habits than humans.

Like most men in their own settings, my husband is prone to hock up a goober and spit it into the yard. Gross as it is and as much as I discourage him doing it, it has now become a game with Eleanor. Jumping, begging, and whining at the simple sound of a cough she will bound into the yard barking and race back for more.

The worst part of that is that I’ve now become the target of the same game when I merely want to brush my teeth. I have scars all over me from having been bitten by Eleanor wanting to chase snot.

I’ve learned to lock the bathroom door now, only to spend the time brushing my teeth with a barking, jumping, wound-up Corgi on the other side of it.

Yet, one of the more enjoyable habits or routines, as it is, that Eleanor and I have fallen into is when we sit to dry her off from a romp after a fresh rain or from the early morning dew.

Eleanor, being only about 20 pounds, is light to wrap in the towel and for me to lift to my lap. She waits patiently when I say that she is a Soggy Doggy and needs to towel.

I lean her back into me to wipe her feet and she intentionally moves to snug her head into the crook of my right elbow. After drying her off, I take the edge of the towel and stroke the side of her face, a caress that she sits patiently to enjoy every time. She’ll sink into my lap and close her eyes in comfort as I pet her snout and nuzzle her long pointed ears.

And at the end of the day, I cannot remember my life before getting Eleanor. She is my constant companion, my friend, and my baby whose presence is the air that I breathe.

At night when we all pile into the bed together, I am flanked by two warm and fuzzy pets and all is right in the world.

I will sit for hours when all is quiet and I’m the only one awake in the house, stroking the soft fur of my two dogs. On occasion, I will very carefully squeeze out from under one or both of them to step outside and have a smoke.

When I’ve returned, they have shifted to take over my spot and my pillows that they’ve assumed are theirs all along. Eleanor will be lying on her side and she’ll watch me as I lean over to snuggle and kiss her.

She’ll close her eyes, feeling safe and confident now that mommy is back in the room with her; inhaling a big puppy sigh of relief that all now is right in her world, too. And she returns to her little puppy snores and barking in her dreams.

There is little greater to me in this world than standing in silence and hearing the sigh of a vulnerable being – animal or human – as indication that relief and peace lies simply in the love they feel you give.

So They Say, Part II

A few weeks ago before my musician friend took the stage, we were chattering back and forth when our seemingly innocuous conversation became considerably more introspective.

Looking back on how our discussion took that turn, I feel rather foolish, as it was directed by a really stupid (to me) comment that I made about how the world has evolved in certain areas more in the last century than in all of the recorded history prior to that combined.

And my friend went silent, thought about that statment, and coyly questioned: “Has it?”.

I was halted right there to consider his query.

Yeah…has it?

The argument in favor of society sliding backward is one that I found very easy to make.

I’ll get to that “why” momentarily.

Just this afternoon, I rewatched a 1992 movie that I’ve seen several times, but hadn’t watched in years. It is a B sci-fi movie called The Lawnmower Man.

Aside from the considerably taut and fuzzy bodies of Jeff Fahey and Pierce Brosnan on display (HELLO, BETTY!), the construction of the entire movie is simplistic and predictable.

In hindsight, having first watched the movie when it was first released, the underlying message is a powerful one.

Jeff Fahey’s character Job Smith is initially portrayed in the movie as a mentally-challenged, slow, simple handyman who oversees the landscaping of Pierce Brosnan’s – a neurophysicist – yard. As the doctor works diligently on a highly-sophisticated virtual reality driven by Artificial Intelligence, he draws Job in as an unlikely and unwitting lab rat to his experimentation.

The result is Job Smith being transformed into a power-drunk, computer-driven deity with paranormal powers that include mind control who predicts that by 2001, all humans on the planet will have access to the AI mainframe and have the mind power to control their environment and people around them with a single thought.

Brosnan, recognizing the Frankenstein-esque monster that he has created, returns to the virtual world to find Job and destroy him.

Huh.

Was Job’s prediction of the future accurate? To some extend, it was scarily close. How many people didn’t have their own or access to a computer, cell phone, or some type of digital device in 2001? Few, in developed industrialized countries.

Fast forward more than two decades. That type of technology continues to advance and evolve…but is it for the better?

Since 2001 and certainly since 1992, I haven’t noticed fundamental changes in humans – that is because there will never be.

People will remain the same as were their ancestors were when they first started walking upright. The DNA of humans is static – only the environment around them will change. What humans choose to do or how they will permit those external factors influence them is completely up to the individual.

Back to the original question: have the evolutions of technology and the world around us been for the better?

Since I’m the one being asked that question, I’ll be the one who provides my own answer that is driven by my own world and perspective thereof.

No. I do not believe that the world or its people have improved. In fact, I’d say that the world has gone backward.

Humans have devolved in social, psychological, education, grammatical, and critical thinking capabilities. People have handed over the decision-making, relationship-building, thinking, shopping, playing, and even disparaging abilities to machines.

Those are just a few areas that only begin to scratch the surface of the areas where people seem to not be improving, but are moving more and more toward their Miocene ancestors’ way of life.

The sad part about all of that is that the de-evolution seems to be encouraged and pushed by “powers that be” who seemingly want sheeple masses to become dumber and more complicit by the number.

And for the life of me, I have no idea WHY.

Just a few examples of laziness and apathy that I see promoted in our current world:

Self-driving and electric vehicles. Most humans I know are so completely uneducated about the basic functionality of a combustion engine, I weep at the thought of them getting behind the wheel of any vehicle. None has taken any time to research science, meteorology, or history to understand that gas vehicles are not determining factor in climate change. Climate change is cyclical. Human, environmental, and industrial emissions DO have impact on climate – but not nearly to the extent that most people have been bullshitted into believing – and certainly not as much damaged caused as will be done by lithium batteries used to power electric vehicles.

Duh.

Autocorrect. This is a personal peeve because I actually know how to spell. I do not need AI to try to do it for me. I say “try” because there are actually spell check applications like Grammarly that offer INCORRECT corrections in spelling. This is because the people behind the software are those for whom English has been a second language. None of these “corrections” would be remotely necessary if it weren’t for such poor educational programs that fall far short of teaching proper grammar, spelling, writing, and speaking like they should be permitted to do.

That is a BIG DUH for me.

Education. While we’re on the subject, this is a hot topic of debate recently, one that seems to continue to spin out of control. Now, it’s been a considerable amount of time since I’ve been in a classroom, but I have taken a course or two along the way. I also take – with a grain of salt – into consideration stories I see coming from parents and teachers, sometimes even students, of high school and college curriculum. So-called progressives fight and push for their considerably misguided agendas to ensure that school and institutional education consists of nothing but social and political content. In doing so, students learn nothing more than contempt, derisiveness, and bias toward – literally – everything and everyone. I’ve never felt that should be the purpose of education.

Technology. Here’s a good one. At no time in history have humans been more able and have had more access to information and communication than they do at this very moment. However, that level of rapid-paced access has made people too lazy to think, too apathetic to gain real knowledge, too unwilling to experience the real world beyond what they consider entertainment on their phone or computer. Dependency on the digital world to think, speak, drive, spell, present, and communicate has transformed humans into thoughtless, speechless, personalityless zombies incapable of substantial social interaction and relationships.

The other night I was in a restaurant. At the table next to me was a party of six that included a toddler that couldn’t have been more than two years old. For the duration of my stay, the child had a phone in their hand, scrolling through pages like a pro and completely oblivious to the world beyond the high chair in which they sat.

I was appalled not with the child, but with the adults around them for having permitted such atrocious and untimely child activity. This is a child that will start the world with no manners, with no attributable social skills, and with absolutely no clue.

These are the generations that are being groomed and forged to perpetuate the dumbing down of not only a society, but the entire planet.

Doomful and hopeless as all of this seems, change and improvement are possible, but only if humankind recognizes that people and technology can and MUST coexist in a more balanced social, physical, and educational position.

It’s the human that has to forge this change with their own minds and bodies, not with technology. Attitudes, actions, and interactions are still the sole responsibility of individuals and those that can’t possibly be taught by or through technology. Digital instruments are tools for accessing, communicating, and presenting information.

That information isn’t generated by algorithms or software code. It is created by people who have the capability of creating, censoring, or disseminating that information. Therefore, the onus falls upon people to be responsible for producing adequate and worthwhile information.

What does that require?

Whew, boy. If I had the answer to THAT…I’D be The Lawnmower Man.

And, by now, I probably would have been destroyed by someone who believed that me with that level of knowledge and power should not exist.

There in and of itself is the complexity of our existence…in the REAL world.

So They Say

And they do blather a great deal, yet have so little meaning to their words.

I speak with a lot of people in a lot of different places, about a lot of different topics, across a multitude of mediums.

I have to admit that the most…er..entertaining conversations that I’ve had are those with complete strangers at the venues where I go to see live music in the Austin, TX metro.

They never fail to leave me scratching my head as I try desperately to come up with some valid reason to excuse myself from their conversational clutches.

I’ve never had any problem striking up or carrying on any conversation with anyone when it comes to exploring any topic…

…however…

Texans, I have learned (the hard way), LOVE to talk…about anything, at any decibel, for any length of time.

The primary element missing from their verbosity is direction. These “discussions” weave in every which way with no interest or purpose or end in sight.

This pattern that I’ve noticed has turned into some sticky web in which I find myself constantly ensnared isn’t necessarily fueled by alcohol, as one would believe would be the case.

Sometimes it is and I give that its credence. Though, I find comfort in having some valid excuse as to WHY these idiots feel the need to share every sordid detail of their life with me as they do.

Copious amounts of booze would stand to reason.

Most of the time, I thankfully am expected to contribute little in the form of response.

You see, these people aren’t interested in conversing. There’s never an apparent desire from them to exchange thoughts, for them to hear mine, nor are they remotely interested in walking away having been informed of something that perhaps hadn’t previously known or something interesting that they’ll consider at a later time.

No, they just wanna talk. I’d say that they just want someone listen to the story that’s just bubbling to burst out of them, but I’m not even sure that they’d care.

Somehow, someway, in their eyes I seem to be the ideal person to unload their lives onto.

One conversation that I recently and very reluctantly found myself in was with a couple that appeared so happy, as to have potentially have just walked off an Up with People stage production.

Ugh.

The Reader’s Digest (condensed) version preached by them was thus: “Everything’s good!”.

Okay.

Out of morbid curiosity and the feeling of a polite captive to their questionable philosophy, I listened to why they lived their life believing that everything is just fine…or that it will be.

On the face of that immediate and trite sentiment, I thought to myself: “Oh, geezus. ‘Everything is great’. No, it isn’t. This world sucks. It’s a sucking wound of despair. A clogged toilet. There is nothing GOOD about it”.

Yet, their take was all about the attitude and perspective that one takes. That – unless a situation kills you – there is always something that can be fixed; another job to be had if one is lost, another love to follow a broken relationship.

Well…okay, I can buy that…to a point.

And I gave a great deal of thought to the path of unicorns farting rainbows that they travel in their happy little world.

How long can that type of attitude and living be sustainable?

And what is actually WRONG with believing or grasping that things are just downright bad on occasion…because they can be and they are?

Is the ultimate difference between them and me self-awareness? Is it them being “optimists” and me being a “realist”?

It absolutely is, and there is nothing wrong with either perspective…except this…

life continously viewed through rose-colored glasses will almost always assuredly be revealed to be less than beautiful.

That stark revelation to reality will be too much for some to bear.

Repeating me mantra: the world is to be approached in equal balance of good and bad, dark and light, fairness and injustice.

Likened to any addiction, too much of one or the other can thrust lives into chaos for which there is little hope of recovery.

Realism countered with optimism is the line I always fight to maintain.

Sometimes I fail at that. When I do, I take inventory and regroup.

And when I can get myself back on course…

Everything’s good.

It’s Time

Again.

It’s been time for a long time.

It’s been over a year since I’ve been back here. The desire to write has been killing me.

But I’ve avoided it. I looked back at some of my previous posts and realized how steeped in vitriol and bitterness they were.

The last few years have injected this hatred and resentment in me, the likes of which I’ve never experienced before.

I convinced myself that stepping, nay, pulling away from my words would permit my toxic dust to settle and put my mind in a better state.

Patrick is still dead, yet still very much in my head as the second anniversary of his suicide creeps up on us in the next few days.

The woke morons are still assholes…but the holes getting poked into their narrative are increasing in number and size.

COVID is subsiding…supposedly, but has morphed into a threat which has now been determined to become a part of our daily lives just like any other illness we can’t see, yet as humans are susceptible to.

And I’m still unvaccinated and that which I’ll remain with now-growing vindication.

…and with lesser and lesser desire to hide that fact from anyone.

This time away has irradicated my desire and ability to fight to keep my mouth shut about anything anymore.

It has shown me that the bitterness isn’t going away. It is here to stay. That means my only option is to work around it.

I’ve determined to use it to my advantage, opposition be damned.

So. Tuck in, because I’ve opened that bottle of wine that serves as my creative elixir.

Let the games begin.

It’s time.

Texas Fashion

Anyone who knows me, has come in contact with me, or who even has seen me from a distance cannot help but admit that I’m a fashion plate.

A glamazon. A fashionista. A clothes horse. A slave to fashion.

I love clothes. I always have. To this day, beginning when I was 10 years old, my dream still exists to become a fashion designer of haute couture.

Since, decades on, I’m still only dreaming, I consider the ENTIRE world my own personal fashion runway.

If I had to guess, I would spitball that my fashion passion germinated with me watching distant relatives and having seen vintage 1940s photos of them in their A-line skirts, finger-curled hair, fire engine-red lipstick, and back-seamed stockings.

The Golden Age of movies and fashion are – to my notion – days regrettably gone by, for they represented an era of flowing silken gowns, sharp hand-tailored double-breasted suits, snappy tilted fedoras, and blinding jewels.

Those years stood for self-respect, about the importance of clothing, understanding our own self images, and a time when standards and expectations rang in so much higher than they do now.

Those days are looooong gone.

Having thankfully missed the 1970s’ bell bottomed jeans, platform boots, and rainbow headbands, I sailed through the 1980s as a teenager donning leg warmers and anything neon.

At some stage in the fashion timeline, similar styles will begin to repeat themselves once 20 years or so have passed.

That trend seems also to have gone the way of the dinosaur. Recent generations have embraced social, emotional, and physical surrender with their insistent slovenliness and in doing so, have reduced themselves to intellectual slobs.

Knowing full well that I possess a singular fashion sense unlike anyone in existence, I cut a little slack to any individual who, for example, digs out their “best pair of denim jeans” for a night out.

But not much…

Having lived and traveled across the globe, I find that little changes when it comes to humans jumping on the latest fashion trend bandwagon with only subtle differences in nods to their individual cultures.

Those trends, I’ve noticed, are more quickly embraced by people living in the United States. Perhaps it’s due to the overwhelming need to fit in. Perhaps people dress out of pure apathy, laziness, or even defiance.

Whatever excuses people have, the overall result is abysmal.

I step out frequently in my little area of Texas and I consider it an event each time I do, that worth dressing up for, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

Life is short. Wear your shiny shoes. More people in the world should embrace that attitude.

Being the voyeur that I am, I’ve always found people watching a fascinating past time and I watch – not closely – what people are wearing.

Yikes.

What people wear is directly related to that individual’s personality and how they feel about and perceive themselves. Trashy people wear trashy clothes. Simple people wear simple things. Defiant people wear black – flashy people? Well, you never can tell.

Regardless of where I have been, whom I have watched, and at that which I have cringed, I have noticed repeated patterns of dress here in Texas that generate an exasperated gasp, an exaggerated head shake, or a jaw drop when I see them.

I should be accustomed to the behavior by now, but permitted behavior is accepted behavior…and I just can’t.

Let’s compile the list of those frequent Texas fashion mishaps that have made me go “hmmm”:

The racer-back tank top

Everywhere, always in black, and more apparent in – yet not exclusively relegated to – the sweltering Texas summers.

Best left as an undergarment or as gym wear, this inexcusable fashion faux pas is nearly always accompanied by straight-strap bras.

Ladies – if you insist upon this disaster, at least go out and buy yourself a t-strap bra to align with the cut of the tank top. They are out there. I promise.

Cowboy boots with dresses

This is definitely a geographical practice. Coming originally from the upper Midwest where this combination was the instant indication of white trash, I have yet to embrace that “this IS Texas, after all”. I appreciate that cowboy boots are a wardrobe staple of those in urban Texas areas and a necessity on the outer-lying ranches.

Hell, I even own a pair of boots. Just one. And they’re cheap. I wear them seldomly. But I own a pair, nonetheless.

I just see it as such a shame to ruin the flow of a lovely spaghetti strap summer dress, and frequently on a svelte figure, with such clunky, manly, grungy footwear.

Ladies – embrace your assets and show off those legs with a sexy pair of stilettos or strappy sandals.

Hell, even a pair of Chucks would get a nod over the shit-kickers.

Less is not always necessarily more

Hello, 6th Street Austin! Whoa. I appreciate that this one strip of concrete has been Austin’s pride and joy attraction for longer than most of its patrons have been on this planet.

It is lined with bars, restaurants, clubs, dives, food trucks, and some of the best-known music venues in the area.

If you don’t “see it all” during a Saturday night on 6th Street in Austin, you are really not looking. You’re probably dead.

It’s a young-uns’ playground; a Texas-style clubbing experience that draws all shapes and sizes…and those sizes tend to be several more than the clothing covering them.

Younger generations have become fatter and lumpier than ever, and yet they still insist upon squeezing every roll and dimple into nothing more than a sausage casing…leaving very little to the imagination.

Ladies – if the dress, crop top, Daisy Dukes, or teeny tiny skirt you intend to wear out in public equate to little more than a Band-Aid, PLEASE rethink your fashion selection for the evening.

All-purpose spandex

That’s an oxymoron. Spandex NEVER suits all purposes. In fact, it fits very few. Maybe just one – THE GYM.

There’s never been one instance I’ve had out in public that I’ve not noticed at least one woman walking around in yoga or workout pants, running shoes, and those previously-mentioned ubiquitous tank tops.

Just…stop…please. If you’ve just come out of your goat yoga class, Gold’s Gym, or whatever fitness activity you pursue, have a little respect for yourself (and the rest of us) to go smarten up before stepping out.

University of Texas orange

Anything – t-shirts, polo shirts, sweatpants, baseball caps – you name it, UT has put their longhorn cow logo on whatever you can imagine.

Now, many people pay homage to their favorite amateur or professional sports team or individual with their image or logo. Fair enough.

Here’s why this one makes me cringe – I’ve learned the far-reaching and die-hard impact and effect that this institution has had on millions of matriculants. I get it. There is passion for alma maters. UT takes it to a spectacularly cult-like level. Supporters, donors, and graduates of that university bleed orange and vow to take the life of anyone who would dare suggest that UT is not the greatest school ever in existence.

But I must admit that those individuals that I’ve directly encountered – and I’ve documented the pattern – who have been somehow associated with the University of Texas are not very pleasant. The professors’ focus and indoctrination is downright frightening. Attendees’ and graduates’ maniacal loyalty boarders on insanity.

Once on social media I noted an individual – ironically enough, a UT fan – who stated, “I just know that anyone that I see with a Confederate flag is not someone who I want to be around or be associated with”.

I feel the same way about orange and horns.

HEB

For anyone outside of Texas, HEB may be a completely foreign set of letters thrown together randomly. All over the Lone Star state, however, “HEB” are the initials of the massive grocery store chain’s founder – Howard E. Butt.

Poor man, rest his soul.

Within nearly all of these stores is a small section set aside for men’s and women’s clothing, not entirely dissimilar to the inventory of a Goodwill store.

Yes. Smack dab in the middle of a grocery store.

Loudly-printed sundresses, sadly drooped shoulder-less women’s blouses, a drab attempt at workout active wear, and a handful of white cotton socks.

Out of morbid curiosity, I’ll occasionally blow through the racks to see if there’s any chance I’d find something remotely interesting that I’d be compelled to buy.

In the four years of perusing HEB’s clothing, I have yet to walk away with anything more than a white tank top. And it wasn’t a racer back.

What I have found is that HEB is SO close to having some cute clothes, but inevitably they always JUST miss the mark of achieving some level of fashion status.

Perhaps I’ll find a beautifully colored maxi dress, only to find that it has fringe at the hem or an elastic midsection. Maybe a decent plaid shirt that is just a bit too western for my taste.

Regardless of my pedantic scoffing at HEB’s merchandise selection, I am always able to spot at least one of their pieces of clothing on someone I see out in public. Always. HEB’s clothing is that distinct…and weird.

——————————–

No, I’m not mean. I’m honest. When it comes to clothing, I am fussy and I have learned to dress well by watching those dressing…not so well…and then doing the exact opposite.

On very rare occasion, I will happen to spot an individual whose dress impresses me. Rare in that I can count on about two fingers the times when that has occurred.

One of those instances was just a few days ago. I happened to be in a Texas dance hall. Those are venues to behold. Sitting outside in a wooden lounge chair on the deck was an old, haggard cowboy.

What he wore was nothing interesting; nothing out of the ordinary and substantially downright boring.

But it was HOW he wore it that immediately caught my eye.

On his head of snow white hair and covering his tanned and wrinkled face was a very handsome white cowboy hat.

He wore a long sleeved denim shirt with pearl snaps, a pair of denim Wrangler jeans, and a pair of cowboy boots.

All the usual expected wear.

But here’s how he stood out and here is how he differed: earlier in the evening, I saw the gentleman standing from behind and I immediately noticed the creases down the back of the legs of his Wrangler jeans.

They were perfectly aligned, intentionally put there, and done with meticulous care.

His denim shirt, though he’d sat most of the night, had not a wrinkle to be found.

Remarkable.

His clothing, as simple as it could be, reflected great care and attention to detail.

Not being able to pass by such a sight, I complimented the gentleman on having noticed the creases in his pants and how dignified he looked.

In true cowboy gentleman fashion, he took off his hat as a sign of appreciation and respect. Talking with the cowboy, we learned that he was 72 years old; a military veteran once serving in the Marine Corps and a life servant to his attention to detail.

The humility and almost awkwardness with which he accepted the compliment lent to his obvious charm. He thought nothing of the care he gave to his appearance and his clothing: “I’ve just always done it. I like it and it makes me feel good”.

His words solidified what I’ve always thought about my own clothing and style of dress: I like this. It makes me feel good.

That level of care and attention reflects that which we are willing to put forth in ourselves and the world around us.

Though each person on this earth has their own personality and quirks, and though we learn those through multiple senses in speech and sight, how people dress is just as powerful – if not more – of a language that speaks.

In some people like me, it screams. The language that our style of dress speaks to our own respect – for ourselves, for the world around us, for humankind.

People may say clothing doesn’t matter, that it’s a waste of money, and that none of us should be judged upon what we wear.

However, culture is defined by our clothes. They signify who we are and where we came from, and they pay homage to our ancestors before us.

Fashion is not simply about throwing something on our frames so as not to offend the public senses or to avoid getting arrested for indecent exposure.

What we wear is akin to telling others the story of us – and the quality of me – before the book itself is even open to be read.

Patrick’s Suicide

I’ve been on this planet for a hair past one half of a century.

I spent the majority of that time in the state of Minnesota.

For the better part of that, I can count on one hand the number of people I knew in one form or another that took their own lives.

One was a classmate who committed suicide just shortly after we graduated high school.

His name was Peter. Peter was an asshole. He was a narcissistic bully.

I never thought his own selfish practice of ending it all was any loss to the world.

I moved to Austin, Texas in August 2017. In just over three years of being in a new demographic, I had experienced directly four suicides of people I engaged with or of those that I was connected with.

That accounts for far more than I had experienced in my entire life prior to moving here. It makes me wonder if there is there something going on in Austin/Texas that I should know about.

None impacted me so greatly as Patrick Fleming taking his own life. Five months on, I am still grappling with the void his absence continues to tender.

———————————–

There are some people who beat their breasts and lament the selfishness of a person who takes their own life.

I disagree.

Obviously, I haven’t directly experienced taking my own life. But on some morbid level, I am not staggered to any level of silence as to why and how someone could reach that abyss…and launch themselves off the ledge.

I get it.

I’m just a different person with varying values and perspectives who could – and still could be – in the very same place, but one who simply chooses not to be.

I very well could be. Any one of us could be.

I first saw Patrick perform at a tiny dive bar in an Austin suburb sometime around early 2018; six months, give or take, into my new residence here.

He was playing with two other musicians, their collective’s beginning initial of their surnames forming “FBI”. And that’s what they called their acoustic collaboration.

To my knowledge, they played together only once, but I’d seen them each individually in other venues prior to their gathering that night.

In the venue that night, there were no more than a handful of people; some I’d recognized and none I could say I had met formally.

The highlight of the evening was when a patron began collecting the female attendees’ bras and hanging them on the guitar necks of the player.

I disappointed her when she drew her finger down my back and felt no strap.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” I disappointed her. “I don’t wear bras and I don’t even think I’m wearing underwear for you to steal tonight.”

She squealed in delight or surprise, whichever gripped her right then. We are friends to this day.

It was that same friend who called me to break the news to me of Patrick’s death.

———————————

My next encounter with Patrick was at the same bar – it just so happened to be the very first “date” I had with the man I now call my husband.

Patrick was playing another acoustic set with one of the same previous FBI members and I introduced him to my date after his set was done. I had requested that they perform a cover of Jimmy Buffet’s “Let’s Get Drunk and Screw”, a song that ignited the entire bar that night.

To this day, I remember most his explosive radiant smile and warmth with every encounter.

As time past, we caught up with Patrick at various gigs that he played as a solo artist or with a group with numerous musicians behind him.

Across those encounters, we got to befriend Patrick and we asked him to play at our wedding.

For our reception, Patrick taught himself Etta James’ “At Last” for me to sing to my groom in front of all of our guests.

Such a gesture is beyond all that which can be fathomed. I was rendered speechless at the effort he put into that simple request, executed flawlessly and captured in a very precious moment in time.

That was Patrick. He was a consummate performer, artist, musician, and all-around personality.

——————————————–

A global pandemic can have a devastating impact on people; economically, personally, financially, and psychologically. And it has proven to have strained all of the above.

Perhaps it got the best of the strength that Patrick had left to give.

I don’t know.

I will never know.

That is the worst part about being left the survivor in the shadow of a loved one’s suicide.

The “why” grinds at us until the day that our own lives end, in whatever fashion that happens to be.

We grapple with the survivors’ guilt. What drove him to it? What was the final straw? Could I have done something differently?

So many questions that are never meant to have any answers, yet those that we destroy ourselves asking.

I find myself shaking my head a lot. The shame of it all. The senseless loss of such a kind, warm, talented human being.

He’s gone. He hung himself less than two weeks before Christmas and only hours before he was to be married to the woman he’d shared his life and home with for a decade.

Can you beat that? If he was going for ultimate dramatics, I think he succeeded.

But why? Only hours before his death, he was working in collaboration with other musicians to bring his U2 cover band and vision back to life.

What happened?

Why was I surrounded by sobbing mourners, unable to catch their breaths at his memorial? Why were his darling parents so seemingly resolved in the loss of their son? Had they been expecting this ultimate end all along?

I look deep behind that megawatt smile in a futile effort to answer any one of those questions…and I forever fall short of satisfaction.

I forced myself to think of Patrick often. When I do, I empty my bottle of red wine and I cry. I listen to his music and I watch him on YouTube and I sob. In what I appreciate as the greatest irony is listening to his version of “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind – it is one of his greater covers that I thoroughly enjoy listening to. He always used to play “Cumbersome” by Seven Mary Three for me and he nailed it every time.

Maybe there was something attributable to that. Regardless, it is my catharsis and my very purposeful way of making sure that such a genuine soul not be forgotten.

I don’t make a point to think of him daily. I would be unable to bear the weight of the constant sadness of the knowledge of him just not being here any more.

And the times I had with him when he was here.

But tears I shed for Patrick are those that are most valuable. In a cold world of hate and cruelty, tears shed for a decent human taken from us so inexplicably are those that hold great honesty and remembrance.

That’s the best that I or any of us can do when struggling for answers. We forge on to focus on the “when” of times we enjoyed because the “why” is unachievable.

I listen to Patrick’s original song ” A Thousand Lifetimes”. How poignant the lyrics are to me now, in the song that always caught my ear when Patrick performed it live. It is undoubtedly my favorite and it moves me greatly.

I wonder if those thousand lifetimes caught up with him – his thousand deaths and thousand visions he claims to have experienced, the thousands dreams he woke up to and yet still overcame his sins to love.

How profound that his “push” finally came “to shove”, as he sings.

When the four minutes and fifty-nine seconds conclude, I return back to his Facebook page that stills lingers in virtual existence along with his ReverbNation profile that both proudly display that pictures that I had taken on various occasions when I had seen him live.

That’s all I have – the humility of having the privilege of having known, photographed, and sang along side a person who suffered too badly from such vicious demons to appreciate the same attributes as did I.

That’s what I accept and cling to as the hours and days and months since his death slip by. Nothing that has passed since then, nor that which will pass into eternity bring him back.

Patrick exists now only in digital presence; maybe a life he believed was all he had to prove himself.

I think better of that attempted rationality and I am confident that a great many other Texas residence who enjoyed his performances would feel the same way.

I am left to revel in his love and knowledge of cars, music, politics, human quirks, and everything – apparently – but how to rectify any of it to a tolerable level.

I am left behind to pick up those pieces, remember the times we had, and remember his name.

Patrick Fleming.

Ve Ri Tas: What I Learned from Taking a Harvard University Law Course

Today I completed an online course offered by Harvard University, covering the topic of contracts law. A course structured to provide a student 12 weeks to complete eight segments and a final test, I finished the class in less than five days. And I aced it with more than 98% homework grade and 92% total grade from the oldest educational institution in the United States (1636) – one of the world’s most prestigious schools.

I am very proud of this accomplishment…because I earned it. No one gave it to me. I paid for it with money I’d earned, not borrowed. No one helped me study or gave me the answers. I was given no special accommodations for my race, gender, religion, or age.

I was just as important or unimportant as the other tens of thousands of people who were in participation from every corner of the world, walk of life, and economic status.

I didn’t enter into this venture to be social. I wanted to hear the professor teach varying legal concepts and principals, and I wanted to gain knowledge from these videos. Unfortunately, part of the overall course involved “peer assessments” and peer discussions; those which I could not have been less interested in.

Anyone who spells paid “payed” and chocolate “choklate” is NOT someone that I would even remotely consider a “peer”.

Beyond that, it was the most enjoyment and satisfaction I’ve had in doing something constructive in I cannot remember how long.

I couldn’t walk away from it. It fascinated me, in large part due to the prof. Charles Fried, Ronald Reagan’s former attorney general and 85-year-old Harvard law professor, is a brilliant orator; a humorous grandpa-type storyteller and an overflowing fountain of legal knowledge.

Read his bio: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Fried

As I breathe a sigh of satisfaction and let my brain rest before I take up another law class, this one focused on internet and media platforms, offered by the University of Chicago Law School, I reflect upon my privilege.

Yes. You read that correctly. Privilege. But this is nothing like what the 12-year-old millennial, white-guilted social justice warriors would bullshit you into believing.

My one and only privilege, the sole fortune that I will ever lay claim to is this: freedom to choose in this one life that only I direct and in whose only opinion matters is my own.

That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

I was on MSN.com and happened to notice an advertisement, a story outlining different universities across the United States and free classes that they were offering.

Free. As in, no money required. As in – take it and run with minimal time and loss.

I read through every one of the 50 courses being offered by more than 30 universities in computer science, literature, aspects of law, food, business, and more. These courses ranged from a few hours to a few weeks for completion.

Some of the courses had nominal fees – $39 to $149 – to take the course and receive a certificate. All in all, I paid less than $180 for two 12-week classes.

It is some of the best money that I have ever spent.

There were/are no conditions attached to my enrollment and inclusion into these courses. None of them stipulated or required that I had to be white or black, that I had to be male or female, that I had to be within a certain age range, that I had to have any sort of previous experience or education level.

Any human who wants to be educated, to further their learning, to expand their mind has every opportunity to do so. They either have to make an effort; otherwise, they make an excuse.

“I’m oppressed”. “I’m suppressed”. “I’m too old”. “I’m too dumb”. “I’m not interested”. “I don’t have time”. “I can’t concentrate”. “I don’t want to”.

Horseshit. All of it. Anyone who is determined to stick by any one of these lame and poor excuses for not bettering themselves will always be oppressed, old, dumb, uninterested, and inanimate. And in turn will have nothing of value to offer to this world. They will spend their existence stumbling through the darkness of ignorance and spreading the toxicity that their excuses will perpetually generate.

If humans spent as much time seeking out enlightenment as they do in spewing their hatred, just think about how productive this world would be.

I take no stock in those who claim to be “educated”. An educated person is not a learned one, most generally.

Any idiot can earn an education from which they gain the ability to put all sorts of letters behind their names.

They can cheat, cut corners, plagiarize, and skate through school and training to get that dubious privilege.

In the end, they have learned little.

Learning comes from life, not from an institution. Reading a book, picking up a second or third language, pursuing an unfamiliar topic, traveling to a foreign country, watching human behavior, listening to conversations is learning.

Access to the wealth of information – decent, substantive, applicable – doesn’t require the direction of some career coach or instructor. Hell, I stumbled upon it by accident. Typing into an internet browser “free courses” will bring infinite details and options directly to any reader. The simplicity of it all is laughable.

The time is far better spent than some social media troll insulting or condemning others, or some mommy basement dweller touting themselves as some cosmetic influencer.

Just what this world needs.

I had no specific purpose in taking these courses other than I wanted to. I love law. I relish taxing my brain. These courses may or may not enhance my job ability. They may or may not be a progressive step toward earning another degree.

Learning doesn’t require intent or purpose; gaining understanding shouldn’t be done as a means to an end. All it has to be is pursued in the name of curiosity and personal growth.

It is easy to view learning, coursework, and testing as tedious and daunting. At the inception, it very well may be. Much like anything that is worth having, it is worth putting an effort into and it becomes an infectious practice.

The more I know, the more I want to know.

Sadly, ours is a world of overwhelming apathy. If this blurb were an actual conversation I’d hold with someone face to face, I would have expected to see the deer-in-the-headlights glaze come over their eyes and body language that screamed “looking for an out, away from this freak”.

Most wouldn’t care. Most couldn’t rectify in their heads why they would be even remotely interested in doing something like *gasp* learn something new or *say it isn’t so* to take a class just for the fun of it.

Much like our physical forms, our intellectual brains have to be exercised to be kept fit.

If you stand that up against a mostly-overweight and -obese society that we see crowding our city streets, you’ll appreciate that this world is – in a word – fucked.

Rest assured that the minds in those jiggling meat sacks are just as floppy as their bellies.

And these jelly bellies who find it easier to bitch about people accepting them for just whom they are because it’s easier to be lazy and demanding than it is to be fit and self-sufficient are the same ones that apply that slovenly attitude to their own privilege.

Every American has the same privilege to learn what they want, go where they please, and to live where they like – all within civilized reason.

But most are too lazy to recognize or exercise the privilege that they’ve ALWAYS had – it’s just easier to scream and bitch about someone else having more privilege than they. That way, things just get handed to them without work and without consequences.

This practice is generational, passed down from parent to child for centuries.

I study law, I have vast interest and fascination with everything legal because it defines the origins and the existence under which we all live. I can hardly identify anything else more important or applicable than law as it pertains to each and every one of us.

Far too many people are ignorant and apathetic to the laws that apply to them. Though law is a complex and extensive subject, the premise of how the legal system applies to each citizen is surprisingly comprehendible.

As far as I am concerned, legal framework and concepts should be taught in high school and to college freshmen as foundational educational requirements.

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“Being ignorant is not so much a shame, as being unwilling to learn”. – Benjamin Franklin.

One of my favorite films is the 1992 movie “A Few Good Men”. If you haven’t watched it, do. It really is a classic.

Tom Cruise portrays Navy lawyer Daniel Kaffee defending two Marine soldiers accused of murdering a fellow enlisted man at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

During a heated argument with his legal cohorts Kevin Pollock and Demi Moore, Tom Cruise admonishes them both for expressing their seemingly idiotic legal strategy:

“It doesn’t matter what I believe; it only matters what I can prove”.

Think about that statement for a second.

What each and every one of us believes is opinion only; shaped by nurturing, societal influences, perception, and…you guessed it…intelligence – that which we have been exposed to and have absorbed.

In order to prove something requires fact, science, truth. Veritas.

That which “is”.

These are concepts that can be applied to absolutely every aspect of our existence – what do I believe and what can I prove?

Think about the state of our world today. How much belief do you see driving the mindless masses? An alarming amount.

How much proof is behind recent major events – political polling, a pandemic, race wars, killings? Virtually none. Zip. Nada.

I live to pursue learning, to expand my mind, to stand as influential (in something more significant than mascara application).

I fully exercise my privilege, that which I have been blessed with, that which requires constant pursuit, and that which no ugliness in the world can minimize or camoflague.

VERITAS.

Perhaps “Perfectionism” is the Wrong Word.

As I was sifting through LinkedIn the other day, an article from a LinkedIn “editor” came through the feed.

Not being able to stomach much of the poster’s profile or the content of the actual post itself, I caught this much of the thought attempting to be conveyed:

Work place productivity suffers from and companies are encouraged to make a concerted effort to avoid, nay, discourage, their workers from striving toward or seeking perfection in their work.

Before I address this concept, let me mention that there has not been one individual with title of “editor” on LinkedIn that I’ve come across that 1) has been in the work force for more than about five years; 2) capable of posting anything on the site without a minimum of two typos in their posts.

Ah, the irony of it all.

However, several Ph.D. individuals – you know the type – liberals with multiple liberal arts degrees from some of the most left-wing indoctrinating educational institutions in the world – are quite adamant that “perfectionism” is an element of whiteness and objective thinking, that which is required to be quashed immediately.

This is the world in which we’ve come to live – the “cancel culture”, as it has been labeled. Those are two words that I truly care to not ever hear again in my lifetime, if I can help it.

The left-wing, white privilege, cancel everyone movement that has been shoved down our throats on a daily basis are concepts that I cannot remotely grasp. The loss and lack of hypocrisy on those screaming the loudest for equality and justice has become a comedic relief.

However, these radical perceptions fed to me through a would-be professional site – that which has rapidly turned into a political platform along with all other social media – has prompted me to consider this from an employment and business point of view.

Having had a career devoted largely to employment and hiring across the last two decades, very few know better than I the importance of professionalism and company culture.

Trust me when I say that I have seen little change over these years other than technology. Managers end up in positions in which they have no business or capacity taking on. Political correctness, as HR attempts to enforce it, is boggled and foggy and conformative.

In the end, and I can say this having held these roles for many years, HR and recruitment individuals are frequently – nearly always – the most inept and ignorant individuals in the companies.

And these are the people that are expected to build the foundation of America’s workforce.

You really shouldn’t question the incompetence of any company when you take this into consideration.

And it’s only getting worse by the day.

As companies continue to degrade and build work forces of ignorant, incompetent, and self-ingratiating millennials incapable of performing any task other than that which has been placed in front of them, this admonishment of “perfectionism” will unfortunately continue and grow to suit the snowflake hordes incapable of maturely fielding constructive criticism and organizational expectations.

No one will be permitted or expected to correct any mistakes, let alone acknowledge that any error even existed. Training will consist of congratulatory rhetoric that will accomplish nothing. No internal individuals will grow or improve personally or professionally and in turn, no company or team will be successful.

Success cannot be measured or expected if everyone is right; when ignorance is praised; when hard work is punish and discouraged; or when unreasonable employee expectations are pandered to.

Yet those preaching that “perfectionism” is a sin – regardless of what skin color is committing that sin – may be on to something. I simply believe that how their belief is being stated is misguiding.

Posed this way structures this concept in a considerably more approachable and reasonable manner…

The definition of perfectionism is thus:

“The refusal to accept any standard short of perfection.”

Philosophically: “a doctrine holding that religious, moral, social, or political perfection is attainable, especially the theory that human moral or spiritual perfection should be or has been attained.”

First and foremost, any argument for or against perfection – by definition – is going to be defeated.

No age-old adage is used or understood more than this: No one is perfect.

And no one is. Not one person on this planet can reasonably assume that they or anyone around them is without fault or flaw. A rational being would see that as the completion of that discussion. Non-issue.

From a business and employment standpoint, however, it is without question that there are some professions that absolutely require perfection.

Doctors, lawyers, airplane pilots, and any other job that requires intricacy and diligence when others’ lives are on the line.

A heart surgeon working on replacing a heart valve can hardly slip a stitch and say, “Meh. Close enough. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Air traffic controllers accepting a 90% accuracy rate in landing planes on a runway assuredly – not possibly – murder hundreds of people aboard those flights that comprise the remaining 10% that they didn’t believe required perfection.

That would seem like common sense to me, as should it to anyone.

However, coffee shop baristas wouldn’t be held to that same standard, nor would – probably – even a corporate CEO.

That doesn’t mean that the expectation of their work product or leadership be condemned to mediocrity or simply be “good enough”.

Much like anything else that transpires in this world, actions come down to the individual. Period. As much as people, groups, media, or history want to point fingers of blame for the ills or degradation of the world; each person needs to step up and be responsible for how they act and react.

There is no argument to that expectation. None.

Even more alarming is that in these rants, those calling out and discouraging perfectionism refer to intimidation as being sound reasoning to forego all effort to excel at…well…anything.

That someone believes they are intimidated by someone else does not remotely fall on the shoulders of another party. It is the responsibility of the perceievedly intimidated persons to wrangle their own inadequacies and shortcomings.

Under no circumstances can any human be expected to assume, guess, or foresake themselves for no other reason than to placate themselves for someone lazier or less motivated than themselves.

I, for one, was raised to take pride in what I do; that any job doing is worth doing well. My own personal belief is that half-assed is not an acceptable outcome.

I hold myself to very high standards of respect, accomplishment, treatment of others, professional conduct, and humanity.

That is a bold statement, one that very few people can make for themselves.

But more alarming is, while most people expect so very little of themselves or those around them, that there are waves of individuals encouraging those of little self-value to lower or eliminate altogether what few standards they DO have.

Self-proclaimed “career coaches”, “philosophers”, or even “scholars” are demanding ignorance, laziness, complacency, subjugation, and that which could be defined as modern day slavery…all in the name of guilt.

In doing so, what these pundits of doom are practicing is hypocrisy. If they truly believed in what they are instructing others to give up, then they wouldn’t pursue their own educations. They wouldn’t dare dream of starting their own companies. They would be woefully incorrect in presuming that they would be – gasp – a subject matter expert on any topic.

Ultimately, by negating an individual’s worth with these demeaning and irrational demands and expectations, companies and educational institutions are effectively and intentionally aligning armies of hatred and division.

Unneccessarily.

There is no shame in self-confidence, intelligence, personal besting, or significant contributions.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting more or better, to strive as a leader, to act with integrity, or to practice creativity. To care about and want these things cannot remotely discount another individual or group of individuals unless specifically sought with the intention of doing so. The misperception that this happens frequently is incorrect and nearly nonexistent.

For if we not only eliminate but punish these qualities, virtues, and aspirations – what is it that we have left?

Bitter, snarling animals fighting for minimal scraps of existence that are measured and thrown out by – you guessed it – those condemning perfectionism.

In our day in age unlike any other, we have seen an exponential rise in crimes and suicides that is unprecedented. Those perceiving that they, nor those surrounding them, have no value or worth are unlikely to find their place in the world. Even less, if they are oppressed under hatred and being convinced that another person has stolen opportunity from them…simply by putting forward greater effort that they are expected to relinquish.

Perfectionism doesn’t have to be thrust upon anyone. And, in fact, it really isn’t. However, standards of excellence absolutely can and should be. To seek to be productive and to serve as a positive influence on others is as human as breathing.

Focus on the mentorship, the encouragement, the guidance, and the teaching of any person is essential to personal and professional success obtained through self-worth and self-reliance. If they weren’t, companies wouldn’t be in business and every relationship would fail.

In return, individuals require openness to communication, responsibility of personal actions, and acknowledgement of deeds -good and bad, alike.

One comment that I hear and see in abundance is, “Everyone makes mistakes.” Sure, they do. But very few, if any, are emotionally mature enough in accepting or acknowledging mistakes being brought to their attention, let alone being educated on what the mistake was and how to fix it.

Most individuals I’ve encountered are enraged, incensed, and defensive as hell at the mere mention of any misstep made.

They want more to hate being corrected than they are being anxious to correct their own actions because it’s easier to blame others than it is to swallow pride and stand up to one’s own oversights.

There isn’t anything wrong with making mistakes. Not a thing. It is on their backs that are built the strongest minds. Failure is the greatest teacher in the world. One simply needs to be open-minded and mature enough to recognize, accept, fix, and continue. That’s a tall order, and one that requires little effort.

Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Learning never ends. Ever. Being good at what you do is a positive thing worthy of reward, not condemnation. Dissension and disagreement color the world, provide variety, and enlighten a stifled mind. They promote positive and productive change, change that can only come from within each individual – not that which is promoted on any social media site or from a misdirected online warrior.

None of these is to be punished or discouraged, especially not by individuals who attempt to murder the concept of “perfect”, while all the while doing nothing but striving for it themselves.

Ah. Alas, it is in and of their work to subdue and dumb-down the populous that they have very hypocritically achieved their own “perfection”.

And in the end, I waste little time on making sure that I follow whatever instructions that others deem important. Under no circumstances will I be swayed or bullied into upholding and living anything other than that which I believe I am and that for which I stand.

That’s a pretty perfect suggestion for everyone.

Give Me Law Enforcement or Give Me a Gun.

The state of our lives has now come to this. The same bleeding-hearts in America that explode after every episode of gun violence, to the point of screaming gun control and confiscation, are now demanding that police across the country be disbanded.

Don’t do it. Don’t fall for this. Nothing – and I mean NOTHING – positive could possibly come from it.

When I was pursuing my law degree, I was raising a two-year-old in the housing projects. On each side of me were drug dealers. I watched rats the size of small dogs swimming through the rancid water that collected in the ditches that lined the street.

At one point, my car was damaged in a drive-by shooting.

On occasion, I contemplated arming myself with some sort of weapon for my own self-defense. They do not “scare” me. I was raised on a farm where it was commonplace to see my father’s hunting rifle standing in the corner of the kitchen; fully loaded and uncased.

I’ve fired a weapon on several occasions and I am a pretty good shot. But getting a gun was never paramount to me. I never liked the idea of having one around, so I’ve never gotten my own.

That stance is very quickly turning 180.

I PROMISE you this: if this country, in its current state of craze, determines that our society can function harmoniously without any sort of law enforcement, I will be purchasing a firearm.

And I won’t stop there. I will build an arsenal. I will have in my possession every type of handgun and shotgun – legal or illegal – and maybe even a few grenades, landmines, and sticks of dynamite.

I’ve got NO problem with that. Here’s why:

If law enforcement is defunded, splintered, or eliminated all together; WHO exactly will be responsible for the safety of my family and me?

Me. And ONLY me.

What…do you believe that I would entrust some whack-job neighborhood citizen to come to my own rescue? The worthless, spineless HOA in my neighborhood that takes a stand in no situation other than to drive around seeking out individual infractions?

Would I entrust my well-being to a group interested in nothing else than whether or not my trees’ branches are hanging too far over a one-foot length of sidewalk?

Are you kidding me?

How about my fat, lazy, millennial neighbor and his pig of a wife – the same one that I watched dragging their poor Dachshund puppy by the leash up and down the sidewalk until the poor animal cried out in pain?

Under no circumstances.

The multimillion-dollar NFL players – many of whom are already thugs – coming to my rescue?

A whole lot of good they would be to anyone when they insist upon staying on their knees.

Society is FULL of self-absorbed, clueless, argumentative, uneducated, narcissistic, whining, self-entitled zombies already.

I wouldn’t depend on any one of them to serve me fast food, let alone to put my life and the lives of my family in their very incapable hands. The thought alone makes me physically ill.

There you have it. Those are only minimal – but very poignant – examples. That leaves only me to take responsibility for myself.

As God is my witness, you have not seen anything yet. If this country thinks that police officers act brutally, it has not seen THIS momma bear whose babies are being poked with a stick.

That being said, I am relatively harmless in comparison to those individuals who already have their full arsenals and ammunition ready. Those survivalists with their AK-47s and their doomsday bunkers? See what happens when any sort of official law and order is eliminated from this country.

How about the criminals? Well…they’re already committing crimes. Nothing seems to have lessened their law-breaking; why would elimination of the police change that other than to increase criminal activity?

What few take into consideration is that those individuals who had never felt the need to follow the laws of the land will now be given free rein to do whatever they want with impunity.

Anarchy will be rife and individual patriots will rise up and take to the streets in defense of themselves.

It will be vigilantism at its finest.

What I would like to hear from all those shouting for police disbandment is this:

Which operations do you wish to cease to function? City police? Rangers? Marshals? Troopers? Constables? Security guards? Sheriffs? CIA? FBI? BCA? Secret Service? Cyber crime units?

How about the military? They are effectively the “world’s police”, after all. Let’s get rid of them, too.

That which I believe has been given even less thought is answering “what now?” once – let’s say – every single one of those aforementioned groups is now only a memory.

Laws would need to be modified greatly in favor of civilians. Yes, they would. They would have to permit each individual an expanded breadth of their own legal immunity.

“Stand your ground” would now extend beyond our own personal property to public streets, businesses, parking lots – everywhere we stand at any given time. Upholding culpability would be impossible.

The economic ramifications are those that I cannot even begin to wrap my head around.

Property taxes, individual insurance premiums (medical, vehicle, life) would skyrocket. No one would be able to afford them anymore, as though most people can barely afford either right now.

City taxes would increase exponentially to cover law suits brought by any person who believes that any harm coming to them falls into the lap of the politicians.

Lawyers will be laughing all the way to the bank. Not that this isn’t happening already, but they could very well turn into the police that everyone already hate.

Finally, the suggestion that community groups assume self-governing duties is embarrassingly laughable.

Is some curtain-twitching Karen without a shred of legal understanding or physical training going to adequately command charge of…what? The nextdoor neighbor not mowing their lawn in the right direction?

Though all of this scares and angers me – it has been keeping me up at night – here is the most alarming element of all.

READ THIS VERY CAREFULLY:

The entire world is watching every move that Americans are making right now, and with great interest.

Other world superpowers are reveling in the dramatic division this country has created for itself…and they are taking notes.

In September 2001, George W. Bush had been president for only nine months. He succeeded Bill Clinton; a lying, womanizing, philandering Democrat who was impeached for – overwhelmingly – being an adulterer.

During his terms, Clinton ordered military inclusion in the Bosnian and Kosovo wars, and he instituted the Iraq Liberation Act opposing Saddam Hussein.

.

Clinton also turned a blind eye to genocide in Somalia. His hard-on to capture Osama bin Laden was a continuous and vocal focus of his second term in office.

This was the groundwork and the platform that he laid and left for his successor Bush.

All of these actions brought about the events of 911. I would hope that I don’t have to specify exactly what happened on September 11, 2001.

Interesting item of note is that I read the news coming in at rapid pace today and I see a great many articles quoting interviews with teenagers who weren’t yet alive when 911 happened.

I would be hard-pressed to believe that these individuals have any comprehension as to why they want to be involved in these protests other than morbid curiosity or following the herds, let alone catastrophic attacks that this country has already endured prior to their births.

This is what the world is reading in every line of every paper, of every article, of every blog and post.

And those world leaders that oppose us, those whose relationships have been quashed by our temper-tantrum-throwing-president, could very well be planning the rise against the United States.

Divided countries in turmoil are the easiest to conquer.

Think about that and tell me that you can rest easy at the mere implication of the disaster befalling America right now.

In short, we as law-abiding citizens have had enough. We will rise up on our own, militia-style if necessary, to take extraordinary steps that ensure our own protection.

The whining and demanding and suppressing and accusing have grown tiresome all too quickly. The shouts for peace are backfiring; the weeks-long protests should have come to an end long, long ago. Police officers are tired of it, too. They are beginning to resign en masse, a show of solidarity that I hope sweeps like wildfire across the country.

And then, when Americans have woken up to the fact that eliminating law enforcement wasn’t such a great idea, law enforcement officers who have dedicated their lives to their work for a mere pittance of salary will come back demanding exorbitant salaries to tolerate the constant berating they receive from the general public – just to do their jobs.

And they’ll have to be paid in excess to return the protection that had been so wrongfully yanked out from under our civilization.

America, I challenge you to eliminate law enforcement. That is your choice, your privilege, your decision.

When that potentially DOES happen, however, do not look to me for guidance or protection that will inevitably be required because you’re too narrow-minded to assess the disastrous consequences of your impassioned causes.

A quote from a former Minneapolis police department lieutenant and a black woman serving on the city’s black women’s organization commented on the city’s determination to eliminate law enforcement presence:

“I hope they succeed in doing so, ” she remarked. “Then, when their efforts fail, they can see that their plans didn’t work”.

Those who insinuate that reduction or elimination of law enforcement will result in reduced crime obviously haven’t been reading any news recently. The rioting, looting, and semi-violent protests are one small look into a vastly broader narrative that contradicts this “lessened crime” argument.

Lack of police presence won’t lessen crime because people cannot police themselves.

Our country has crumbled; our police are on their knees and lunatics keep screaming for more and more restrictions on law enforcement.

Those severely misguided individuals who claim to seek some sort of justice have no remote understanding of that word or – really – what it is that they “want”. They have no idea. It just feels good to them to keep yelling.

Let them do so.

Because should their cries for law enforcement elimination be successful, I will simply adapt…and adjust…

…and I will keep loading.