Essa Alroc's Blog, page 27

Dealing With Hate

I’ve written my own posts on hate mail and how I responded to it, but I’ve never considered any of my new blogger friends and how you guys deal with it. For that, I’m sorry. I wish I had done an FQ before, because you probably would have felt a lot better about getting your hate mail. It happens to everyone and you are not alone.

I’ll never forget my first piece of hate mail. I pulled open an unapproved comment on my WordPress site, expecting a comment agreeing with me or telling a funny story. Instead, I was confronted with a message that called me a fat, ugly bitch. I started to sweat and my hands started to shake. I was furious and terrified all at the same time. I wasn’t sure how to respond. So, instead, I went and I looked in my bathroom mirror.

Then I realized that I was still smoking hot and still height weight appropriate. My shoulders slumped in relief as I realized I was dealing with a “troller”.

There is a difference between hate mail and between comments that just disagree with you. Hatemail is designed to make you feel sad and hurt. It’s designed to get a rise out of you. Disagreeing comments are just that. They are comments from people that just disagree with you. If you can’t handle a dissenting opinion, I can’t help you. If you’re going to write, then you need to be prepared to argue with people that think you are an idiot. Dissent makes the world go round

But you shouldn’t have to deal with hate mail and you should NEVER back down on your own turf. Hate mail threatens you. It attacks you as a person, instead of offering reason based arguments. So how the hell do you deal with it?

Essa Alroc has your back. Since my first hate mail comment, I’ve gotten over 200 hate mail comments that go straight to my spam box.  Sometimes I ignore, sometimes I respond. But I don’t take it personally and my hands don’t shake when a hate mail letter shows up anymore.

Instead, I get a rush of adrenaline and my fingers tingle as I realize that I am about to win.

So how do you do that? How do you let it roll off your back and get all badass like me? Well my friends, it’s a four step process.

#1…Ignore. Most hate mail is designed to get a rise out of you in order to get attention. Always remember, it is not about you. It is about your troller and the fact that they want site hits. If you’re like me, you smirk, roll your eyes and delete.

#2…You email. I almost always give my hate mailers one chance to take back what they said. If you have an email address, respond to them. Ask what their problem is. One of my earliest hate mailers was a guy named Jack. I responded to his voracious comment in private email and we actually opened a dialog.  I realized he did not 100% understand one of my posts and we discussed it. He made some good points and so did I.  He is now a good friend and a regular follower.

#3…You respond in the comments. For this, you must be prepared for an argument. (If they’re hate mailers, then they’re comments will lack logic and soon, you’re followers will take care of them for you.) However, if the comments are really pissing you off, you can change them. For example, some hateful idiot was stupid enough to send me this message.

I changed it to this.

You’ll notice that I mention occasionally that ‘Essaland is not a democracy’. That’s because it’s true. You can change comments. You can make your responders look like idiots. You can fuck with them endlessly because when they come to your page, they need to play by your rules. Never forget that. Your site is your kingdom. If you’re going to be a blogger, you need to defend it.

#4…You ask for an Essa intervention. This is a last resort, but it is still an option. If you’ve found my hidden site, you know that I have some rudimentary HTML skills and that fucking with people is a hobby of mine. If someone is coming to your page, attacking you, and you don’t know what to do, then feel free to contact me. I’m always available to attack and violate someone who thinks they own the internet. Seriously, it’s like crack to me.

If you’re going to write, then you need to be prepared for criticism. If you can defend your position, you’re always a mile ahead of anyone who chooses to go with personal attacks. However, if they’ve gone too far, if they’ve attempted to hack your site, of if they’ve started attacking you personally, then maybe its time to take it a step father.

If so, it only takes two minutes to send an email. You know where my contact page is. Send it.

FYI, last cunt who tried to attack my page, consider me Dikembe Mutombo. Not in my house bitch. I might have ignored you, with your stupid little response, but then you tried to insert a half assed codec. You’ll be hearing from me later. Let’s hope you have some money saved for a new computer….

Gratuitous and Unnecessary

In 1947, a little known sitcom called Mary Kay and Johnny shocked the nation when they showed a married couple sharing a bed, as opposed to sleeping in twin beds, like prior television couples had done. When Lucille Ball was pregnant on I Love Lucy, the actors and writers were told they were not allowed to say the word ‘pregnant’ on television. The ‘Lucy gives birth’ episode was considered scandalous and came very close to getting the highly rated show cancelled.

Last night, while watching one of my favorite shows, I saw a man perform oral sex on a fully naked woman. Later in that same episode, the again fully nude woman masturbated in the bath using a shower head. I was not watching pornography. I was watching a new series on Cinemax called Banshee.

My, how the times have changed.

I think we can all agree that I’m not a prude. I’ve done posts about my pubic hair. I’ve done in depth interviews on BDSM.  I once game my phone number to an entire Brazilian soccer team. There are a lot of words people could use to describe me. Prude is definitely not one of them.

But if I wanted to watch porn, I would just watch porn.

So many shows seem to be incorporating graphic sex scenes just for the purpose of incorporating graphic sex scenes. By graphic, I don’t mean showing flashes of skin and a couple rolling around in bed. By graphic, I mean you’re actually watching the episode and wondering if the actors involved really were doing it, of if they were just acting.

Honestly, its getting a little annoying.

Dear Hollywood movie and television writers, if a sex scene does absolutely nothing to advance the plot, then it is gratuitous and unnecessary.

Let me use another example, in case you haven’t seen Banshee. Game of Thrones. I watch the show, and I’ve read all the books. I have participated in the hate on for George R.R. Martin when he forced everyone to wait 10 years for a sequel. In the books and the show, the sex is graphic.

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Tyrion Lannister, putting the ‘Imp” into ‘Pimp” since 2011.

In the books, it’s necessary. The sex scenes are used to show how Tyrion is easily manipulated by the women he sleeps with, despite being an intelligent man. They show how Jamie is able to finally break free of Cersei’s hold (whoops, spoiler alert) by being with another woman. They show how Daenerys develops as a character through the use of seduction.

Then, they filmed the scenes for TV and it turned into pointless smut instead. They decided to toss in a few additional characters, just for the purpose of filming some serious girl on girl action. Really?

I’m sick of watching girls finger each other and perform oral sex, then having someone tell me its necessary for the ‘integrity’ and ‘realism’ of the roll. Yes, I know, in reality, that my neighbors fuck, but there’s a reason I shut the window when I hear the moans start. Because it’s private. I don’t run outside and press my face to the glass.

How much further is this going to go? Going to the bathroom is gritty and realistic as well. Am I going to be forced to watch Marshall take a dump on the next episode of How I Met Your Mother?

I really don’t understand the purpose and I think the whole ‘sex sells’ philosophy has taken things a little too far. These scenes don’t help a show, and the perverts who watch the show just for the scenes are going to have their masturbation session interrupted when the action begins again.

Because the scenes are too short to jerk off to, but too long to ignore. What the hell is the point?

Dear Banshee, when you start filming again, may I suggest you look into something called the ‘cut-away’? This is where you start a sex scene, and then you cut away before it gets heavy, thereby leaving a little to the watchers imagination. That way, I don’t have to cringe in embarrassment and leave the room because I’m watching the show with my brother. I mean Jesus Christ, come on guys…

Until that time, I’ll have my fast forward button at the ready.

Friday’s Featured Blogger – Mark Sackler of The Millennium Conjectures

Subject: Mark Sackler of The Millennium Conjectures; A Blog of the Ridiculous and Sublime

Location: A veterinary office in Connecticut

I arrive at my veterinarian’s home with my 9 pound dog in my purse. I normally wouldn’t show up at my vet’s house, but this is an emergency.

A woman comes to the door. “May I help you?”

I tug my dog out of my purse and thrust her into the vets arms. “She ate all my birth control pills.”

Dr. Sackler takes Sophia. “I’ll take a look, but I doubt she’ll have any serious problems.”

“Actually, I was just hoping to get a new birth control prescription?”

The doctor rolls her eyes. “I can’t do that…but I will happily spay you.”

“I’ll pass.” I push my way into the house. “Can I wait in here?”

“Sure, just don’t touch anything.” I take a seat on the couch as I wait for the doctor to look at Sophia. Then, I hear muttering. I look around and notice a door, slightly open. The doctor said not to touch anything, but she didn’t say I couldn’t wander.

I stand and open the door. A man is hunched over a desk working on something as he mutters to himself. I can’t help but notice that it’s glowing.

I step into the room. “What are you making?”

He doesn’t look up. “Cold fusion.”

“Why?”

“Because I can.” He continues to work as though I’m not there.

I start to look around the room. It’s filled with stuff, from floor to ceiling. Baseballs, photographs, beakers and  telescopes. I’ve never seen a more eclectic collection. I reach out a hand to touch a small wooden mask.

“Don’t touch anything!”

“Sorry.” I turn to look at him again.

“It’s ok. It’s just the room is packed to capacity. If you knock anything over, there is a good chance my head will explode.”

I raise an eyebrow. This is an opportunity too good to pass up. “Can I interview you?”

He sighs. “Fine, as long as you can manage not to touch anything.”

I sit in the chair across from him and pull out my tape recorder.

***

Tell us about your site, The Millennium Conjectures.

I subtitled it “A Blog of the Ridiculous and Sublime.” I got this idea in part because I share the same birthday with Gandhi and Groucho Marx—about as ridiculous and sublime a pair as you could possibly think of. I figured my content would be a mix of both—some serious ponderings on my views of science and the universe, and silly satire.  But as I consider myself and absurdist after Camus, it quickly deteriorated to almost all ridiculous.

How did you get started in writing? Where do you get the inspiration for your ideas?

I have written for business—PR, advertising, marketing—for nearly 40 years.  I finally decided to write for myself when I started this blog last May.  I realized that I was probably never going to have the discipline to write a book despite having many ideas over the years—ADHD you know.  The short nature of my posts should make that last point evident.  How do I get ideas?  They float around in the air and once in a while one of them alights on my noggin.

Same question, insert photography.

I first became interested in photography in my 20’s when I realized I had a great sense of visual composition but couldn’t draw to save my life. However, I have never bothered to learn enough of the technical stuff to ever become more than an occasional dilatant.  (See ADHD comment above)

Do you hate Ansel Adams calendars as much as I do? 

I hate anyone who is that much better than me at anything.

Fuck, marry or kill. Your choice of any of the four Golden Girls. You must use at least three.

Kill Betty White.  The other three are already dead and I’m not into necrophilia.

If your thoughts could kill any celebrity, who would it be and why? Feel free to do a mass slaying.

See my blog posts on inane celebrity memes.  Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton, Charlie Sheen.  But then again, if I killed those celebrities, I’d be depriving myself of great satirical source material, so let’s go to plan B.  I’m a Yankee fan, so:A-ROD, and as painfully as possible.

Where’s the weirdest place you’ve traveled?

It’s a tossup between Sioux City, Iowa (hey, the airport code is SUX) and Wuxi, China.  At the latter location, we visited a 300 foot tall Buddha.  I asked my host what dynasty it was from.  Wrong question.  It dated to the second Clinton administration, C. 1997.  They built it to be a modern tourist attraction.  I guess the labor was cheap.

What’s the most offensive thing you’ve done in a foreign country?

On the aforementioned China trip I refused to eat just about every bizarre looking delicacy that my gracious hosts ordered for us.  I went with the attitude that my culinary philosophy would be “don’t ask; don’t tell.”  Within the first 48 hours it became, “don’t look; don’t eat.”  They eat all the parts we westerners throw away.  Really.

How do you feel about string theory?

I certainly prefer it to string cheese.  Although as theories go, I am more into M-Theory, if only because I share my first initial with it.  Maybe I’ll write a future conjecture on this.

The quote you want on your tombstone.  Keep in mind you will be in a cemetery with very little censorship and there is no word count limit.

X  [I’m a minimalist].

I Hate Hummus

A few days back, I got accused of something called ‘hubris’.

I’m going to totally admit right now that I had no idea what this word actually meant. Initially, I thought the word meant a Middle Eastern and Arabic food dip or spread made from cooked, mashed chickpeas blended with tahini, olive oil, lemon juice and salt . Then I realized that made no sense at all considering the context. I might have been thinking of hummus.

It got me thinking. And it got me questioning things. Is Hubris really a bad thing?

The word ‘Hubris’ comes from an ancient Greek story, where some mortal got too uppity, and the Gods smited him for being uppity. I’m not going to tell the whole story, on account that it’s boring as fuck. It was mainly about pride and the failure to be humble. It was about how those who take pleasure in their enemies suffering were doomed.

Is pride really as bad thing? Is arrogance really a bad thing? I don’t think so. Let me explain why.

The basis of any organized religion is to opiate the masses. Look into any historical religious faction and you will see something about how arrogance, how lack of humility, how questioning authority is a sin. How it will only lead to disaster and how speaking above your station, questioning how things were done, and failure to forgive even your worst enemy was a sin.

You know who wrote those religious texts? Rich people. You know how I know that’s true. Because in ancient times, regardless of the continent, literacy was a luxury.

You know why rich people told poor people that arrogance was a sin? Because if they didn’t, and if their slaves got too arrogant, they would have an uprising on their hands.

Organized religion is the opiate of the masses. That is why I don’t participate, and that is why I don’t agree that humility and forgiveness are the key.

Hubris came from a bunch of Greeks who wanted to tell their slaves that wanting something more than being slave was sinful. That desiring material goods would get them smited by some imaginary father figure.

I ain’t buying it.

To forgive is NOT divine. If we just start blanketly forgiving people, how the fuck are they going to learn about consequences? “I’m so sorry that I ran over your kid because I was drunk. You need to forgive me because God tells you to. I’m so sorry that I raped you, but you need to forgive me because God tells you to. Pretty much, I can do whatever the fuck I want to you, because God tells you to forgive me. If you don’t you’re being uppity and sinful. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rape and murder someone else.”

Fuck you religion. I have no interest in your opiates. I get my own opiates, and I get them at a discount price.

Pride is not a bad thing. Arrogance is not a bad thing. No invisible father figure is going to come down and spank you because you failed to be humble enough. You know who wants you to be humble?

The people who wanted to do whatever the fuck they wanted. So they could keep people as slaves. Political leaders actually used passages from the bible to excuse taking people as slaves. How the fuck are people ok with this? Oh wait, because pride is a sin and treasures await you in heaven.

Fuck you. I’ll take my treasure right now, thank you very much.

That’s how you get somewhere in this world. You don’t become humbled by religion. You don’t back down because someone is calling you arrogant. Instead, you say ‘fuck the man’ and you do what you want to do.

So, to the dude that accused me of hubris… there is a reason that I am successful, and you are a McDonalds cashier. You know what that reason is? I demanded something more. I didn’t get drugged by religion. I don’t fear an angry lightening bolt coming down from the sky and smiting me because I enjoy my life. Instead, I take what I want. I do what I want. I say fuck following the masses. I’ll have as much fun as I want.

And I hate hummus.

Terminal Flakiness

This morning, shortly after waking up, my eyes started to itch. My allergies always act up when they mow the lawn around here. I decided to head them off at the pass by putting in some eye drops. I went to my bathroom, grabbed a bottle and just as the drop was about to slide out in the tube and into my eye, I realized something. Dr. Scholls doesn’t make eye drops.

This morning, I came a hair’s breadth away from dumping wart remover in my eye.

I consider myself a relatively intelligent individual. My mind is a wasteland of facts and information. When I’m writing an article, I rarely have to do research, because the information is already in my head. But I also suffer from a serious illness.

It’s called terminal flakiness.

Generally, I’m ok when it comes to complex thinking. It’s the simple everyday tasks that usually end in disaster. It isn’t the first time I’ve done something stupid out of straight up flakiness. In fact, it’s actually pretty common. To prove my point, I present the following exhibits.

Exhibit A: I’ve gotten back together with the wrong guy. By wrong guy, I don’t mean he was bad for me or he was a jerk. By wrong guy, I mean he was the wrong individual entirely. During the time period, I had dated a guy named David and I had dated a guy named Daniel relatively close to each other. When David called me wanting to give it another shot, I agreed to meet him for a drink. Imagine my surprise when I showed up for our first reconciliation date and was confronted with a 5’7 white guy instead of the 6’4 Hispanic guy I was expecting. It never even occurred to me to question why ‘David’ had suddenly lost his Spanish accent when we were talking on the phone.

Exhibit B: I’ve flooded every kitchen and every bathroom of every apartment I have lived in at least one time. For some reason, right as the tap turns on, my mind shuts down. I usually don’t realize what I’ve done until I’m wondering why there is 2 inches of water on my floor.

Exhibit C: I’ve screwed up boiling water. One night, I decided to make myself some raman noodles. I was standing over the pot for a good twenty minutes, wondering why the hell the water wasn’t boiling. I finally realized that the water wasn’t boiling because I had failed to put any water in the pot.

Exhibit D: I frequently forget how old I am and on several occasions, have actually told people the wrong age. It would make sense if I was making myself sound younger than I am, but oftentimes, I actually give a number that makes me older. I can’t really blame myself though. This number changes once a damn year for gods sake. How is anyone expected to keep that straight?

Exhibit E: My email inbox is filled with ‘password reset’ emails. There are very few sites that I can get into on the first try. In almost every situation, I forget my password and have to reset. The sad part is, I use the same password, or some variation, for every single site.

Exhibit F: I have left my house, on at least 10 different occasions, with my shirt on both backwards and inside out. In some cases, it wasn’t completely unreasonable. Like when I did it wearing a t-shirt. But one time, it was a sweater…with buttons. I still have no idea how I managed to do that.

I blame my terminal flakiness on circuit overload. You know how when you plug too many things into an outlet, the circuit overloads and the lights go out? I think that happens with my head. I try to cram info in for work, and I lose the ability to manage my day to day life without doing something stupid, like dropping a corrosive chemical into my eye.

Also, I call it ‘terminal’ flakiness because it’s almost 100% guaranteed to get me killed some day.

 

Wednesday’s Featured Blogger – Sam of Sam’s Online Journal

Subject: Sam of Sam’s Online Journal

Location: Guantanamo Bay

I look up from what I’m working on as I hear the cell door open.  I sigh and drop the toothbrush that I was sharpening into a shank as the block warden pockets her keys.

“Alroc, you got a visitor.”

I raise an eyebrow. No one has visited me since I got tossed into the joint six months ago. Apparently, the TSA still takes bomb jokes way too seriously.

I sigh and push myself to stand as I shove my makeshift shank into my back pocket. “It ain’t visiting hours.”

The warden steps back as a guard attaches my face muzzle and ankle shackles. “Apparently, this one is special. I got orders from the man upstairs.”

My chains clank as I am escorted down the hallway. “What man upstairs? I thought you were in charge around here.”

“The man upstairs.” She points to the ceiling and I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

It’s finally happened. The warden has gone wackadoodle. “So what does he want? I already told you, I ain’t answering any questions without my lawyer.”

She pushes open the door to the visitor’s room. “You won’t be answering questions. You’ll be asking them. That was all he requested.”

I smile when I see the ‘he’ she is talking about sitting at the table. The warden attaches my chain to a loop in the floor and I take a seat across from Sam as she leaves the room. “How’d you get her to agree to this?”

“Let’s just say the lord acts in mysterious ways.” He tugs at the collar of the preacher’s robe he’s wearing. “For some reason, doors always open for a pastor…or a guy who has access to a pastor’s robe.”

I chuckle again as I shake my head.  Sam has a nefarious side I wasn’t expecting. I push my hand into my pocket, shoving it past the shank. I pull out my tape recorder.

***

Your page is a bit of an ‘open diary’. Tell us a bit about it, what inspired you to write it and what your goals with it are. 

My blog was inspired by two things, actually. I decided in November of last year to participate in NaNoWriMo (the National Novel Writing month), in which I wrote a novel-length work just during the month of November. I truly enjoyed writing like that, every single day, but I’ve made plans to do that previously, to no avail. Succeeding at NaNoWriMo, though, inspired me to be more proactive about my writing. And what way to be more proactive than to write something every day that I know people will read, digest, and possibly respond to on occasion?

The second inspiration was other bloggers. You see, I’ve been a part of the blog community for a lot longer than you would think. I just never wrote in or commented prior to November 30, 2012. Then, like Noah and the ark, the floodgates opened and they haven’t closed since. It was pretty rare before I started this blog for me to write anything that wasn’t fiction, so it has been interesting to delve into my life, my passions, and my pet peeves (Boy, do I have a lot of pet peeves). It’s also crazy to me how many people are offended, and how easily, out here in the blogosphere. I love how you put it. If you don’t want to read something that offends you, no one’s holding a gun to your head. I read what I want, I comment when I want, and I write what I want. That’s the other funny thing. My followers tend to assume all I write is G-rated stuff, but that’s only because I’ve lived somewhat of a G-rated life. It doesn’t mean I can’t write other things. Indeed, if they read some of my truly private thoughts… but that’s a story for another time and place. As for where I’m going with it, I hope to parley it into ready made purchasers for my novel when it is finally published, and future published writings. A second goal is to maintain my daily writing, as if it were a real journal, not like the New Year’s resolution of daily writing that I hardly ever did.

On your page, you have a section where you talk about growing up as a Seventh Day Adventist. Can you tell us a little of what that was like, your religious background and your current religious affiliation and how spirituality fits into your life?

That’s a huge question, one I think I could spend days on nonstop and still never satisfactorily answer it. But for you, I shall try.

I grew up believing that the seventh day of the week was the holy Sabbath, and that it should be celebrated as such. Therefore, we observed the Sabbath from sundown Friday until sundown Saturday. It was more than a religion, though. It was a way of life. I explore that in intricate detail on my blog, but suffice it to say it was a very sheltered lifestyle. Add to that the fact that my dad was a minister in the church and you can see all the ready-made signs for dysfunction lining up at my door. There were many expectations for me within the church, and I finally rebelled (what else was there to do?) and I shut out the church and organized religion as a whole for years. I had to come to grips with what I myself believed and what I was comfortable with when it came to my own spirituality. What I found out was that, while I believe in fellowship with others, I don’t believe it needs to take place within the confines of organized religion, so I follow none. I am, however, a very spiritual person. I pray and commune with god on a regular basis, but it’s on my terms, and that’s good enough for me. Now, I don’t do the whole Jesus fish thing where I am ramming god down people’s throats, but if the discussion turns spiritual I am not shy about sharing my views and my journey.

I noticed that you participated in a prison ministry. There has to be a story in there somewhere. Tell one.

Ha ha. Indeed. I have enough stories to choke a cow, or three, but I will drag one up for you from ages ago.

It was probably my second time ever in the prisons, and I was still in awe of the whole idea and structure. Plus, I was eleven years old at the time, and the inmates weren’t that much older than I was. You see, we went to a youth correctional facility, a jail for juvenile delinquents. I remember having to get searched when we got there. They even rifled through my Bible in their exhaustive search for contraband. Plus, we were running late, so I was worried the inmates would get rowdy with us. I didn’t really know what to expect, but when they finally showed us into a room that was as large as a reception hall and the young inmates showed up, I remember being shocked that they weren’t either in chains or there wasn’t some kind of clear wall between us. And I will admit to being frightened. I was the only young one who wasn’t a prisoner there, so they all kept looking at me too. I thought I was going to get shanked. So, the service started, and my only job was to offer the opening prayer, but I was shaking so badly I couldn’t stand. Instead I prayed from my seat.

After the service was over, a few of the inmates came over to talk to me, and I found out they weren’t much different from me. They had hopes and dreams too, and they were remorseful for the deeds that had landed them where they were. It was a real eye opener. The next time I went back there I was quick not to judge, and I wasn’t afraid anymore.

You went from Philadelphia to Tennessee to upstate New York. How much of a culture shock was that? Which place did you like the best and why?

I often say it was a stair step process, going from the fifth largest city in the United States, to a rowdy, college town, to a small village in upstate New York, population 762 (give or take a few). What I love about Philadelphia (I still visit as often as I can) is its ability to be big city and small town at the same time. I have seen all the historic sites about a million times throughout the years, lived it up on Friday nights on South Street, been to too many concerts to count, and enjoyed not having to get a driver’s license because public transportation took me wherever I needed to go. There are beautiful gardens, but there are also projects, and all of them hold a certain fascination for me. I’ve always fancied myself a people watcher, and I would sometimes go to shops or cafes, plant myself there, and have a field day writing about the people who would come in and share intimate detail within earshot of many perfect strangers. Of course I was probably the only one listening who shouldn’t have been.

The culture in the city is unparalleled, and I have been all across the US, with a few venturings to Europe as well. I grew up primarily in Southwest and West Philly, but I have been from one end of the city to the other at some point. In fact, when I was going to Temple University, I would walk daily from my home in Southwest Philly to the campus in North Philly. At first it took me over two hours to get there, but eventually I shaved down the time so it only took me an hour and fifteen minutes. I was quite proud of that.

Tennessee was not my favorite time. Not only was it the number one party school/town in the nation while I was there, but I was rudderless. I didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, and I had way too many responsibilities for a 21-year old at the time. I would never want to go back there.

Now, I live in upstate New York, and I’ve been here for over 11 years. It’s the second longest I’ve lived anywhere, and it took some getting used to. The first week I was here, I was walking down the street and every single person said hi to me. I was so used to people ignoring me when we passed on the streets, and these were perfect strangers saying hi to me. I would be five steps past them when I realized it, and then I would have felt stupid to turn around and shout it back in reply. Eventually I got it down to a science. I would just say hi first on every occasion.

To answer your question, the move here was the biggest culture shock. I guess I never admitted to myself that I lived in Tennessee, plus while I was there it was kind of wild with the crazy people that make up a college party town. Here, things are very much laid back, at a more measured pace, something a Philly boy wasn’t used to at all. I honestly think it has taken me this entire 11 years to finally understand the culture of this place.

Your last question is tough, though, because my view of each place is colored by my reasons for being there. Philadelphia was my first home, so it will always hold a special place in my heart, and if that was the only criteria it would be the easy choice. However, I moved here to be with an amazing woman, and so that re-shapes my criteria. She was here, so now I am here, and I don’t regret it. Indeed, if I weren’t here, we wouldn’t be together, so this place takes precedence over all others in that way.

You mentioned in your blog post “The Just Friends Conundrum” that you don’t think men and women can be just friends (have to agree with you on that one). I have a feeling there is a story there. What’s your experience with ‘the friend zone’?

Wow, you read my recent blog entries too. I’m so proud of you doing all your research! (Did I mention I’m highly sarcastic?) In “The Just Friends Conundrum,” I explained how there is a sexual tension between males and females. It’s innate, and it’s there, just as surely as our sexual orientation. Now, if we ignore that sexual tension, we can be fine friends with people of the opposite sex. However, women are much better at ignoring that than men are. Therefore, being “just friends” is a fallacy. Either the guy will be pining after the girl, which turns it into unrequited love, and hence not “just friends,” even if she doesn’t know it. Or the girl will see the guy’s signals, agree with them, and they start dating, also ending the “just friends” debate.

As for me, I have many stories, none of which end well. You see, I’m a romantic. I believe in the idea that the sweet guy who obviously cares and wears his feelings on his sleeve should get the girl. I am also honest enough with myself now to know that this is rarely the case, precisely because of the very same aforementioned character traits. When I fall, I tend to fall hard, and everyone can tell. My problem is that I’ve had a history of falling for my friends.

When I was in college, I worked at the school library’s circulation desk. We were kind of like a clique at the library, where we hung together outside of work. Well, there were these two girls who worked at the reference desk who I hung out with more often than the others. One of them was my “type,” and the other wasn’t, but both were very good friends to me. Of course I found myself falling for the one who was my type, even though we were supposed to be just friends. And at the same time I realized the other girl was falling for me, or at least had a bit of a crush on me. I tried to ignore the crush of the one girl, while on the other hand displaying my “mack” vibe on the other, trying to push the relationship from just friends to something more. Of course it all came crashing down around me once I made that move. The girl who was crushing on me was devastated, and our joint friend refused to do anything with me, not because she didn’t like me too, but because of the way I had ignored the other girl’s feelings instead of addressing them head on and dealing with it. Needless to say, both of them decided they could no longer be my friend, which made for awkward work parties, etc. Since then, I followed the great advice to be honest and forthright, and everything else will fall into place.

Being a parent, what children’s entertainer would you most like to be able to kill with your mind?

If only minds could actually kill. Anyway, as a parent, I must say that whatever person came up with the idea for Phineas and Ferb I would slay with the magic wand of justice. Of course my oldest child decided she wanted to start watching this and I figured, hey, it’s animated. Whoa, how wrong could I have been? It’s a show about these guys who are some kinds of misfits, they get into trouble for being creative, and somehow things are okay by the end of the show, with hardly any real, lasting consequences. Now, my oldest child is also creative, and this show gave her some pretty scary ideas, and she thought she would have no consequences from doing just what Phineas and Ferb did. Oy vey. Show was subsequently banned from watching at home.

Which character from Harry Potter do you wish was real?

I wish Harry Potter was real. The boy who lived. I like that he’s not perfect. I like that he has some real issues that he has to confront and deal with that are completely outside of the battle with Voldemort. I also feel like I grew with him through his journeys, confrontations, and realizations, and it would be amazing to see what he really felt when he was going through all of that. He honestly reminds me of myself, and it would be great to be able to pick his brain.

You can bring back one person from the dead and ask them a question. Who do you bring back and what do you ask?

I would bring back my Nana, and show her pictures of my children (I know, I’m cheating). My Nana died about 16 years ago, so she never had the chance to see what I would make of myself, to follow my career, to watch me grow up, get married, and have children. And I know she would have wanted to live long enough to see all of that. So, if I had one choice, I would choose her, and it honestly wouldn’t matter what question I asked. I would just make it long and winding enough so that I could show her all the pictures I possibly could before she had to go away.

What major crime would you commit if you knew you could get away with it?

I would probably go squat in someone’s mansion who I knew wouldn’t be coming back ever again, and pretend it was my own. I don’t know if you saw it, but a few years back there was this show, The Riches, on FX, and the premise was exactly that. These con artists knew that this family, the Riches, were dead, so they took their life, stole their identities, moved into their mansion, and lived large. It was an incredibly fairy tale (but they eventually didn’t get away with it). I would be them, but I would get away with it.

What writing projects are you currently working on? What do you hope to accomplish in the future?

Aside from my blog, which is obviously an ongoing writing project that has no end date, I am in the process of preparing two novel-length works for e-publishing for sale on amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

I am fascinated with the possibilities for e-book publishing, but I am also looking forward to possible partnerships with people who can help me get published for mass market. I want people to be able to pick up my novel off the shelf at Target and pay a ridiculous amount of money for it (without batting an eyelash), devour it in one sitting, and want to buy more. So, yes, eventually, I hope to get my novels published, and those two aren’t the only ones I’m focusing on.

In my archives I have four other novel-length works that need serious work on them, but that I eventually also plan on releasing to the masses. I am also a poet, and I am compiling a book of poetry. As well, I have crafted a framework for publishing a series of emails between my now-wife and myself back when we only conversed via email. The emails paint a startling picture of our early, whirlwind relationship, and show you how we fell in love using just our words. I feel like many people would like to hear that story, but that’s in the further off future. Right now I am really putting my heart and soul into these two novels, one of which I am currently editing, and the other of which my own personal editor is editing. The one I hope to release in e-format on Nook and Kindle by April, and the other by late summer.

***

I put away my tape recorder as the warden returns to bring me back to my cell. I’m accepting of the fact that I’ll at least have more time to work on my shank. I have a prison motto. If you’re going to shank someone, you better make sure you get it done right on the first try.

After the warden calls lights out, I clutch my now perfected shank in my hand and congratulate myself on a very interesting evening.

If you want to read more about a very multifaceted man, you can check out Sam’s page at Sam’s Online Journal.

Fuck it, I’ll Walk

Airlines are getting away with way too much in the country. They continuously treat their customers like shit, expose people to invasive exams, get bailed out from the government, and time and time again, they get away with it.

Why? Because people say, ‘well, if you’re going to fly, you need to deal with it.’ Fuck that. I’m calling bullshit.

Why? Because running an airline is a business, people. They need your money. Correct me if I’m wrong,  but is there not a single ‘not-for-profit’ airline. They’re not flying people around out of the goodness of their hearts. They’re doing it to make money…YOUR MONEY. And if they are going to do it, the least they could do it treat it like a business and not the fucking DMV.

It’s not ok that they drag disabled 12 year olds through exams and make them cry. It’s not ok that they yank someone’s fucking colostomy back out in front of 200 strangers. It’s not ok that they lock a plane full of passengers down for fucking 18 hours with overflowing toilets. But they seem to think its ok.

You know why they think its ok? Because we tolerate it. And that is just not ok.

In March of 2012, a federal court overturned a New York law that required airlines to provide adequate food, water and clean bathrooms to passengers stuck on planes for over three hours before takeoff.

You know what Essa Alroc does if someone holds her on a plane with no food, no water, and no bathroom, for three hours? She doesn’t take her problem to federal court. She lights a cigarette and punches a stewardess in the fucking throat. Instant arrest and instant release from said plane. Done.

Federal court, you don’t get to tell me that a company that I paid to provide me with a service gets to instead hold me against my will and refuse me water and food. You wanna play that game? Let me break out another game for you. It’s called civil disobedience and I am incredibly good at it.

Best part? Come my court case, I’m walking.  Why? Because a jury of my peers, in an Orlando court, is guaran-fucking-teed to hate every airline with a hub in this area.

I’m pissed off tonight because my mother just got back from a week long trip to Illinois. She flew on American Airlines*. Guess how good they did on a scale of one to ten? If you’re answer was negative four, you might be in the ball park.

I know they don’t have any control over acts of god. Yes, weather will turn bad, planes will get damaged. They might not have control over the weather and over unfortunate set backs.

They do have control over how they react to it. To date, their reaction has been piss poor.

When my mom’s plane hit turbulence and was damaged, they were forced to divert from Orlando to Tampa for repairs. Understandable. What isn’t understandable is how they handled it. First, they lied.

“Sorry folks, we just need to gas up in the Tampa hub but we’ll be on our way in minutes.”

Gas up with a plane full of passengers on-board, at a takeoff gate? Really? Correct me if I’m wrong (really, correct me, I could be wrong. I didn’t research this), but are they allowed to fill a plane with highly flammable jet fuel with a plane full of passengers on board? Seems to me that it if I can’t bring a fucking bottle of water past security, they shouldn’t be able to spray down a plane with highly flammable fuel while my mother is on-board.

That’s just me though. I really like my mother and I would hate to see her exploded.

Next, American Airline’s flopped their shitcan of a plane on the ground and told everyone the plane was broken. Had my mother known that the plane was broken, and not just out of gas, she might have called the daughter that drove 45 minutes to pick her up and was waiting in a cell phone lot. No, instead, the ‘ten minutes’ turned into ‘we’re going to bus you all to Orlando, it will only take an hour’.

Another outright lie. Tampa to Orlando is a two hour minimum trip. How do I know? My weed connection is in Tampa. I make the trip on average every two weeks. Driving my standard 111 MPH, I’m lucky to make the trip in 2 hours.

How do I know it was an outright lie and not a mistake?

These people are in the travel business. They know that Tampa to Orlando is 105 miles. Unless they have a bus that is capable of traveling 105 MPH, they told an outright lie. They told an outright lie to passengers.

And then they ignored them.

Following the plane fiasco, everyone was told to go downstairs to wait for they’re bags so THEY could get them and load them on the bus. When the fuck did my barely 5 foot, less than 130 pound mother, get a job as a day laborer on American Airlines? She paid for them to handle her bags, not the other way around.

Unless my mother is a thundercloud, and I’m pretty sure she’s not, she didn’t break the plane. It was not her job to go get her bag and load it onto the shitty American Airline bus.

Also, not really buses. You ever seen an airport shuttle? One of them short buses that looks like a box truck? Apparently, my mother was supposed to ride one of those death traps for two hours on a road that was once labeled “America’s Bloodiest Highway.”

During this entire fiasco, not one representative showed up to explain what was going on.  Instead, a bunch of confused passengers were shuttled from room to room, being lied to, ignored, and outright treated like stupid sheep because apparently American Airlines owns the fucking sky and they can do that.

My mother was not offered a discount. She was not offered a voucher for a free meal. Instead, she took $50 out of her own pocket to get a rental car and drive home. I imagine right now, there are still a bunch of passengers who didn’t get rental cars waiting for some disembodied voice at a gate to tell them what’s going on.

Fuck you American Airlines. Would you treat someone you loved like that? Then how dare you treat my mother like that?

Enough is enough. These companies are in the business of making money. They are not flying people from place to place because they’re nice. They are a customer service business and they need to start acting like it. We don’t need to tolerate this shit because we have no choice. We do have a choice. It’s called civil disobedience.

I’m tired of rude ticket cashiers. I’m tired of rude security guards. “Oh, your job is hard. Life is fucking hard. Deal with it.” That’s what I say to people who bitch about working at the airport. Did Essa Alroc show up at your house and demand that you work at an airport? No? You elected to work at an airport? Then act like you care about your job, and not like you’re a fucking WalMart cashier.

I’m done behaving in airports. I have no fear of getting arrested. I’m pretty sure we all know that’s happened before. When I go to an airport, and plunk down $700 for a two hour trip, you will treat me with fucking respect. You will do the job that I paid you to do and if for some reason, you decide not to, I will scream. I will yell and I will fucking demand to be treated with respect. Have your air marshals walk me out if you want, but I’m hoping the passengers behind me get the message.

Fight back, because you tell people how they will treat you. Not the other way around.

I can tell you why you’re going bankrupt, American Airlines. Because you allow your employees to behave like assholes. They are in the business of customer service. That means serving customers. They don’t want to do that, fire them. Also, stop giving your executives bonuses. I think they’ve proven that they’re fucking morons. Hence the whole bankruptcy thing.

Until you all start remembering that the people who pay you outrageous fares are the people lining your pockets, fuck off American Airlines. I’d rather walk.

*Name not changed. Fuck you American Airlines

Monday Morning Merriment

Happy Monday people. This post is yet another update complete with random musings and notifications.

First off, random musing: No GMA, Halle Berry did not look stunning at the Oscars last night. As one of my astute Facebook friends pointed out, she looked like a Romulan. A sexy Romulan, but still.

It is unworthy of a Vulcan to resort to subterfuge.

Notification: Up this week for featured blogger will be Mr. Mark Sackler of the Millennium Conjectures on Friday. Wednesday’s featured blogger will be based on who gets their questionnaire back to me fastest. Questionnaires are still going out, but have been slightly delayed due to me nursing a weekend long hangover and getting sucked into a Snapped marathon.

Next, random musing: The new McDonalds fish bites commercial is so fucking annoying that it makes me want to jam a screwdriver in my ear. FYI McDonalds, I’ve seen what you do to chickens. I have no desire to see what you do to fish.

Chicken McPudding

Next, update: You might notice a few church people milling around in my comments. The asshat from my Letter to My High School Bully post decided to write a blog post about me, so I posted on his page and invited his followers over to see it for themselves. If you’re wondering who the asshat is, go read the comments on the blog post I mentioned. Trust me; asshat is the only way to describe this guy. That post was incredibly hard to write, and it annoys me to no end that some fucktard would choose that post, of all my offensive posts, to get critical.

Oh, wait, I guess fucktard can describe him too.

Another random musing: There is no valid reason that a Dodge Neon should have a racing stripe and spinning rims. I point this out because I actually saw this while dropping my kid off at school this morning. A tricked out, 1999 Dodge Neon, complete with flame decals. Flame decals, on a car that tops out at 85 MPH, are not necessary. Please remove them immediately.

Another update: New pages are coming soon. I’m setting up a Featured Blogger Page so I can archive links to all my featured blogger articles for easy viewing. I’ll also be setting up a contact form on the page for people to submit. If you’ve already submitted, no need to resubmit. Trust me; I’m a lot more organized than I sound. I have an excel spreadsheet and everything!

That’s all I have for now, but keep your eyes open for the new pages and for the TBD Wednesday Featured Blogger article. Happy Monday everyone.

A Notice to Church Ladies

If you follow me regularly, you’ll probably notice that I regularly get into arguments in my comments section.

For the most part, I moderate my board. I remove any outright threatening comments, or comments that are simply designed to be flame bait. But I don’t remove every bad comment. There is one type of comment I allow to stand. Comments from the church ladies.

‘Church lady’ doesn’t necessarily mean a lady. In fact, my last few church ladies were actually men. A church lady will show up on your page and complain that your post personally offended them. They’ll post inspirational quotes or in some cases, an entire movie to prove their point.

FYI, last church lady, the only thing the Bridge to Terabithia movie proves is that Disney can ruin any book, no matter how good, by making a movie out of it.

The funny thing is I don’t go hunt these people down. Instead, they show up at my page, they read through my post, getting increasingly more upset as they read on, and finally go through the trouble of posting an 11 page response about how wrong I am.

I don’t delete these posts. I respond to them. I don’t hide on my own page and I’m not going to cower when some sanctimonious asshole shows up to tell me that I am everything that is wrong with the world.

However, I am getting tired of responding to these posts, because I feel like I’m writing the same damn thing every time. So, to all future church ladies, please see the below listing in answer to any of your comments or complaints.

Essa on Everything is not a feel good, happy time place. It’s a place where I get angry. I use four letter words. I talk about drug use and I openly flay people I think deserve it. These are opinions. If you do not like angry opinions filled with four letter words, I am not holding your eyes open forcing you to read my page. Feel free to leave.
If you still insist on responding, use gigantic words sparingly. One thing all church ladies have in common is that they love to write their posts in a way that requires I break out a fucking dictionary to respond to them.
Don’t pull that ‘above it all, don’t want to argue’ bullshit when I respond in the comments section and kick your ass. You are clearly not ‘above it all’ because you came to my page with the intention of starting an argument. Don’t be surprised when I come back with an argument that is surprisingly good and has more than a few four letter words.
If I feel like you’re trying to make MY post all about you, I will cut you off. My posts are about ME, hence the reason they’re mine.
NEVER tell me that my behavior is ‘unladylike’. I got this one a week or so back and it made me furious. So I’m only allowed to be sarcastic and mean if I grow a dick?  Here’s an unladylike response for you; eat me.
Don’t bring religion into it. No, I’m not an atheist, but I also don’t follow any organized religion. If you’re trying to prove your point by quoting bible verses, I’m rolling my eyes and deleting.
Don’t try to prove your point by correcting my spelling. No one has ever died because someone used ‘your’ in place of ‘you’re’. This is not a request to never point out spelling errors. I appreciate it when it’s done in the right way. However, when you’re just trying to show how smart you are by pointing out a missed comma, expect a two word response. Fuck off.

If you want to hang out, or even comment, feel free. However, if you just came to start an argument, know a few things in advance. I’m not nice, I’m not humble and I’m not ladylike. I’m a sarcastic arrogant bitch who is the exact opposite of a lady.

And I’m not changing a fucking thing.

A Letter to My High School Bully

From the day I was 15, to the day I was 19, I walked home rather than take the bus.

When I was a teen, I had bad teeth. I was overweight and my clothes totally sucked. I was not cool. Not even remotely. I lacked the magic cool gene. It didn’t kick in until later.

One time, I was passing a note in class. It was a desperate attempt to be cool….a favor to a cooler kid.  I was trying to hook up with the popular kids by passing a note to them. Then, I made the mistake of looking down at the note.

It was two pages worth of some snarky little cunt telling her equally snarky little cunt friend how much of a loser she thought I was. Thirteen year old Essa blinked back tears and pretended not to be hurt.

Thirty-two year old Essa isn’t nearly so laid back.

Dear fifth grade cunt, you know who you are because you follow me on Facebook…Go Fuck Yourself.  When you decide to unfollow my ass, know that I have a hundred others to take your place. Apparently, people care about what I have to say now. Stop pretending to like me because I suddenly magically got cool.

Ain’t it funny that by the time you actually become cool, you no longer give a fuck if you’re cool anymore? (No joke, I want this on my tombstone)

Bullying. People put names on it now, but they didn’t when I was a kid. Instead, it was kids being kids. You defended for yourself and no one cared if you cried yourself to sleep at night.

From the time I was 14, to the time I was 19, I walked home, over 7 miles, every single day. Why? Because some little asshole named Mike used to spend my bus ride home making fun of me. He made fun of my teeth. He made fun of my clothes.  He got his friends in on the action. After about the twentieth tortuous bus ride, I gave up and started walking home.

My 170 pound ass walked over 700 miles, just to avoid that bus ride home. That bus ride that told me every damn day that I wasn’t thin enough, I wasn’t clever enough, I wasn’t smart enough.

Go fuck yourself Mike, because it does get better.

It really does. I used to hear those commercials and think it was bullshit. But it’s not. It does get better. It gets better when you stop caring. It gets better when you get strong enough to know that no one is allowed to tell you who you are.

I really wish I could see my old bullier now. I wish I could tell him that his opinion means shit to me. I wish I could tell him that he peaked in High School. Instead , I know he’s probably bagging groceries in my home town and I decided that’s ok with me.

Regardless, dear Mikey, enjoy that karmatic kick in the ass. The universe does pay attention and apparently, you pissed it off.

If there is some sad high school kid reading this tonight, known that what I say is true. Who you are in High School doesn’t define who you are. It is less than .0001 percent of who you are in real life and it really does get better.

My name is Essa and in High School, I was a loser.

In grown up, real world time, I’m a bestselling (got the screen shots to prove it) author. I have a genius kid who believes I’m a god. I have a nice apartment, a nice car, and I’m pretty sure I’m becoming who I always was meant to be.  I am better than you. It’s not an opinion. It’s a fact.

To those high school kids, you’re mind is going to be blown when you get to the real world and realize how little other peoples opinions’ matter. Your mind is going to be blown when you realize that those small town idiots had no idea what you were capable of.

Ironically, by the time it happens, you no longer care anymore. That’s the weird thing about life. The little things that mattered ten years ago mean so little now.

Anyway, I’m writing this weird letter to my bullier, who will probably never read it from the McDonalds’s he’s working in, to let him know that time is the litmus test. I adapted and I endured. In the end, I guess I proved I was a little bit better than you. And the best part is that I no longer care.

Above all, I hope you enjoy watching me rock out loud from obscurity. Because it really does get better. Anyone who has ever used a buffer knows that you don’t shine in the beginning. Instead, you shine from constant irritation.

And goddamn it, I shine.