Michael Kindt's Blog, page 75
January 25, 2016
"I just don’t care about money."
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Chelsea Clinton, who has a $10 million dollar New York apartment, was married in a $3 million dollar wedding, and who holds a $600k a year job for no other reason than her parents.
Yeah, I wouldn’t care about money either.
January 22, 2016
Stacey Dash. As far as she is concerned, you can go ahead and...
Stacey Dash. As far as she is concerned, you can go ahead and kiss it.
I was in the dayroom last evening, doing a crossword puzzle with my stubby little pencil when one of the other patients came up to me and asked, "What's shakin'?"
“All four cheeks and a couple of chins,” I told him.
“I’m in here for huffing silver paint behind Arby’s. What’d you do?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the Pepsi Incident, so I said “I just went nuts. Pretty run of the mill, really.”
“I prefer gold paint, but we couldn’t get any. My buddy Stylee ran, but I was too fucked up. I hit a pole. They took me to normal jail, but I guess I lost it there, so here I am. What kind of nuts did you go?”
“Just regular ol’ run of the mill nuts. Nothing special.”
A commercial for Crazy Glue came on the tv and he wandered over to watch it and I made a break for my room.
Five minutes later, here he came. We aren’t allowed to shut our doors until 10 o'clock, when everybody has to go to their rooms. The doors are even locked open, against the wall. When closed, they don’t lock at all. Strange to encounter a door that only locks open, never closed. I have never seen such a thing. I’ve decided that it is symbolic of something. What, I don’t know, but something to be sure.
“My buddy Stylee turned me on to gold paint,” he continued. “Before that I was into any ol’ paint I could get my hands on, green, red, whatever. God, I was so naive. ‘Bill,’ Stylee says to me, 'if you wanna get truly fucked up you gotta go for the gold.’”
“Your name is Bill?”
“No.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s Cody, but Stylee says that’s fag.”
“He’s right.”
“You know, spray paint, right? That’s what I’m talkin’ here.”
“Yeah.”
“You spray it in a plastic bag and put it over your mouth and nose and…”
“Yeah, yeah I went through a D.A.R.E. program in high school.”
“I got all Fs in high school.”
“No kidding.”
“You should try it.”
“What, paint? No, thanks. I’m a drunk.”
“Wimp.”
“At least my name’s not Cody.”
He laughed. “Good one.”
“I don’t always take out the recycling,” I told him, “but when I do I look like a raging alcoholic.”
“Huh?”
“Listen, Cody, I have to take a shit.”
I hurried down the hall, past the bathroom, and squatted behind a plastic bush that was in a nook by the drinking fountain. Through the made-in-China leaves, I watched him come out of my room and go into the bathroom. I watched him come out of the bathroom and go into my room again. Back and forth he did this for, like, 10 minutes. Finally, he wandered off.
I felt safe behind the plastic bush, and caressed the brown styrofoam that served as its soil. This has to be symbolic of something, too, I thought, this styrofoam pretending to be soil. What, I didn’t know, but something.
Glenn Beck: Pig Fucker | Michael Kindt
I had to do some driving today, and rather than listen to Bowie like I have been, incessantly, for the last few days, I put on talk radio.
*snorts; slaps knee*
Right Wing Radio, which, if you say it fast, is a tongue twister. The RIGHT Wing, as opposed to the WHITE Wing, embodied by Hillary Clinton and First Rapist, Bill. The White Wing, with its own subtle brand of racism expressed in lowered expectations for minorities (who are almost a majority now). The White Wing, with its fingernails across a chalkboard elitism.
There’s a difference between the two, but not much–no matter what the internet tells you.
David Bowie Taught Us How to Die | Michael Kindt
David Bowie was beautiful in life and death, but perhaps especially in death.
I’d like to think so, dying myself at some point. He knew he was going to die for 18 months, a year and a half, and he kept working on what would be his last album, which turns out to be about death, and brilliant to boot.
How will you die? Curled up in a fetal position saying, “NO NO NO”, or with the grace and class of Bowie?
It’s no secret that we live in a youth-dominated culture, but all youth fades. Death is weird to us, in this youth-culture, even though it is perfectly natural and going to happen to everyone. We have made it weird.
Mr. Bowie had previous knowledge of his death. Imagine: knowing that you’re going to die. What would you do? Say you had 18 months like Bowie. How different would you be?
Michael Kindt lives in the Black Hills of South Dakota. He has determined to die there. Soon, probably.
Posted the full text earlier, but here it is again…
I was finally allowed access to Facebook yesterday.
That’s a good thing….I think.
Because my time online is so restricted, I’ve set up my Q with some recent articles I wrote for Clash Media and other doodads (including a delicious ass). Actually, all the articles I’ve written for Clash are recent. I’ve written 11 or some shit in less than 2 months. Even though I’ve gone mad, I’m still productive. Perhaps more so.
Like them reblog them share them.
Yes, I AM ok. As of yesterday, I’m here voluntarily, and the Pepsi Incident is behind me, largely. Thanks for your concern and prayers. You know, I have never been prayed for? It makes me feel all warm and gooey inside, like a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven.
When I get out of here, we’ll all head over to my place and huff some paint.
Mike
January 21, 2016
I am content to lie around idly in these pajamas for the rest of my life.
I am relaxing you see. A vacation of sorts.
Everybody wears pajamas around here, even the nurses. Well, the nurses have pajama-like uniforms, soft and comfortable and non-matching. As I type this, there is one over there in a red and white smock-like tee shirt-like loose-fitting cartoon-bear-covered top. She has on loose-fitting comfy sky blue pants, with well-worn comfy green tennis shoes. She is carrying a clipboard, the universal symbol of nurses around here.
I remember the nurses of old, wearing stiff Donald Trump white uniforms and pointy weird hats and white shoes and white hose.
White hose.
I am getting wood just thinking of them. Were I at home, I might dial up some nurse porn on the internet but, like I said yesterday, everything is blocked.
There is a porn for everything. Shit porn. Someone is shaking hands with Mr. Happy right now while watching shit porn.
It’s a hell of a world, ain’t it?
I would call my mom, tell her I’m in here, but she died from smoking. I don’t know my dad. I mean, I know who he is, where he is, broadly (the Pacific Northwest of the United States of America, Earth, Milky Way), but he’s like a distant second cousin to me. For a minute there about a decade ago he wanted to get close, start a relationship, but it was like some older man I didn’t know wanting to hang out with me out of the blue for no other reason than biology. He wanted to put me in his will, but he’s not rich, so why bother?
Sounds like paperwork to me.
You go through steps here. First, they watch you to make sure you’re not going to hurt yourself. Once they determine that, no, you’re not going to hurt yourself you are allowed a short little pencil and some notebook paper–but you can’t take it out of your room, lest you stab someone. Then they watch you to make sure you’re not going to hurt others. Once they determine that, no, you’re not going to hurt others, you are allowed to hang out with your fellow lunatics. There is an entire floor in this large building devoted to each step. It’s like an assembly line toward sanity.
The drugs are good. Beats the shit out of vodka anyway.
Until next time, America.
January 20, 2016
Pretty Normal
I am in what they call the Pretty Normal wing of this mental hospital, whose name is officially Regional West. This is as opposed to the Disturbed Wing, where people, I am told by my fellow inmates, masturbate openly and rub shit in their hair. If you stand at the end of the hall by the nurse’s desk, you can see down at the end a big metal beige door into and out of which come psychiatric nurses looking shaken.
In our wing, they smile as they give us our two plastic cups. One is a little cup of water, and one is even littler–a shot glass, really–of pills. Blue, green, and red rainbow pills.
Here in the Pretty Normal wing, we have access to the internet. There’s a line of ancient massive desktop computers, Gateways even, all along the dayroom wall, but most websites appear to be blocked. I can get into my gmail, but not my other email. Facebook is blocked pending doctor approval, which, being newly insane, I haven’t gotten yet. I’ve only had one session so far and it was largely introductory. Strangely, Tumblr isn’t blocked. It’s like they’re not aware of it. Hell, even my banking and investment accounts are blocked. Is oil still tanking? Please say yes. Before the Pepsi Incident I was snagging up distressed oil stocks like a goddamn vulture.
They give you a four-digit code to get on the internet and your time is limited, a half-hour. Really, that’s all we probably need don’t you think? My code is 1968, which is the same year Jumpin’ Jack Flash came out. Everything you do is tracked, the websites you visit and the ones you try to visit, so that dog porn site I tried logging into (I’m a member) is going to bite me in the ass, come the next counseling session.
Ha. I’m joking.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they had keystroke shit going on. They probably know what I’m typing right now. I’ll probably be the guy who gets Tumblr blocked at Regional West.
Although I made a few phone calls and the Pepsi Incident occured at a Facebook friend’s house, I would appreciate someone posting a link to this on my timeline. I wouldn’t want people to worry about me, especially since I don’t.
Hopefully, I will post again tomorrow morning.
Mike
January 17, 2016
David Bowie taught us how to die
I’d like to think so, dying myself at some point. He knew he was
going to die for 18 months, a year and a half, and he kept working on
what would be his last album, which turns out to be about death, and
brilliant to boot.
How will you die? Curled up in a fetal position saying, “NO
NO NO”, or with the grace and class of Bowie?
It’s no secret that we live in a youth-dominated culture, but all
youth fades. Death is weird to us, in this youth-culture, even though
it is perfectly natural and going to happen to everyone. We have made
it weird.
Mr. Bowie had previous knowledge of his death. Imagine: knowing
that you’re going to die. What would you do? Say you had 18 months
like Bowie. How different would you be?
But the the fact is we ALL have previous knowledge of our deaths.
We are all going to die and will. The number may not be as precise as
18 months, but there’s a number nevertheless.
I have a heart condition and often think of death. I was more
worried when my son was younger, but now that he’s a grown man, I can
die at any time, free of charge.
What I like about David Bowie’s death, is that he was fully
invested in it. It influenced his writing and music. In many ways,
his death was his last work of art. How cool is that?
He was BLESSED with the knowledge of his approaching death. Many
die suddenly and do not have such a luxury….to say their final
goodbyes, to create their final work of art, to put a final period on
their time here.
David Bowie was beautiful in life and death, but perhaps
especially in death.
The Left created Donald Trump.
After decades of PC bullshit, with the Left defining thoughtcrime for everyone, controlling its opponents, even moderate opponents, with labels like “racist” and “sexist” and “homophobe” and “bigot”, its bullying and name-calling has finally come home to roost.
No label will stick to Trump and it’s pretty funny watching everyone’s frustration with this. They are almost becoming hysterical in their exasperation and fecklessness. They throw out brand new labels, like “sociopath”, since the old ones have been rendered ineffective by overuse, but even that won’t stick because, frankly, not enough people buy the Left’s shtick anymore. They are the boy who cried wolf too many times.
I contend that the Presidential election of 2016 will be the most interesting in history.
Ye shall reap what ye sow.
