Confession

Don't be fooled by the title. It's only a tip of the hat to my previous post detailing the origins of my distrust of the Catholic Church. What I really want to confess is my deepest, darkest, most abiding pre-occupation for the last decade (give or take). It's not sex -to be honest- it's not baseball or money or some piss-ant career. It's not even music or my own happiness or lack thereof. It's politics.

Why Am I telling you this? Who gives a fuck?

Probably because I'm drunk, bored, and restless. They keep showing Syriana and Munich on TV and it's driving me crazy. It drives me crazy because it feeds me like the slow drip of an IV into the arm of a comatose patient, keeping me alive yet completely apathetic. "It" is like an expensive pair of shades on an overcast day. A luxury.

Like a squirrel, I go hunting for chestnuts and store them away whenever I find them. Whenever I find something that bolsters my vague, hip, neo-paranoia I give myself a gold star.

I guess because it boggles my mind. It just boggles my mind to no end how the most powerful nation on the planet could be taken over by a bunch of imbeciles and no one really seems to object. I shouldn't say no one. Certainly I object and so do most of my friends. But nobody gives a shit what we think.

What can I do about it? Nothing really. Writing these posts is like carving wooden ducks or something. A hobby. I'll just keep drinking Woodford's and hating hypocrisy -except my own, which I am completely oblivious to and if you point it out your a fuckin' asshole. Cheers.

Our Daily Bread

The Catholic Diocese of Los Angeles just paid a $660 million dollar settlement to quiet claims of sexual abuse. One of the dominant social institutions of our civilization is in fact a pedophilia mill. Regretfully I write these words.

I was an altar boy. (No, nobody ever tried to molest me). I went to church every Sunday (against my will -didn't we all), my mother was a CCD teacher. I forget what CCD stands for but it has something to do with inflicting Irish Catholic guilt upon your children.

My parents never had air conditioning. It wasn't that hot then anyway. Everything made sense. No one asked questions like they do today because there were no McMansions, only MacMahons. There was no bullshit to distract you from your goals. It was "either you're with the Commie's or your against them." Not a tough choice given the times.

Anyway, I wonder how it is that an institution as rich, powerful, and old as the Catholic Church exists, relatively unchanged, and relatively unscathed, in a world that claims to prize justice as much as it does its children. When that institution has been exposed, again and again as a refuge for sexual perverts and hypocrites of the worst kind.

Our nightly news programs engage in unsanctioned crusades against monstrous child molesters, stirring up fear and hatred amongst neighbors and friends, and yet the devil is in our midst, and no one dare speak his name.

Everyone's so afraid that the pillars of White Christian Suburbia will come crashing down that we won't acknowledge that there is a systemic, deep rooted, history of child molestation hidden like an unwanted erection, beneath the frocks of our beloved Catholic priests.

Given the public record, the sexual crimes perpetrated by prominent members of the Catholic Church rivals that of the organized rackets of the Mafia of the Twenties and Thirties.

Unchecked, and unprosecuted, those institutions held great sway over their respective communities. The times of unacountability have long since passed for the Mafia and it is time for the Catholic Church in America to come to the same realization.

In other words, somebody (like the President of the U.S.) needs to straight up ask the Pope, "What the fuck is going on?" And then investigate the shit out of them.

Stolen Moments

A first kiss, The gentle squeak of cork rubbing against glass as you twist open a bottle of Woodford's Reserve, the crackle of fresh ice cubes as the whiskey splashes down upon them, the plaintive wails of a saxophone on "Stolen Moments," over a bed of piano, the beach at dawn, the inner thighs of a 16 year old girl, a drop of blood running down the back of a runaway slave, born again in the vocal chords of an inner city youth, a pithy aside spoken to no one but felt deep inside while a cool breeze blows on a city rooftop on a hot summer night. Gazing out at the millions of lights and feeling inescably alone as you recant the idealistic testimony of adolesence in favor battle tested truths, mostly bittersweet, like the relief that is the reward for those things we've paid the price for. The embers of a campfire, crackling into space as you sit, mesmerized by the simplicity of it all.

Why I Like Living Here

I like living here because it's not New York. New York is a vortex of pretension. New York is a urine stained sidewalk behind a velvet rope, behind a velvet rope, behind a velvet rope. It's a line outside a velvet rope waiting to go view a piece of urine stained sidewalk, hanging on a wall, that is so expensive it has no price tag. New York is anxiety.

My town is the guy who thought he was waiting on line for something else, got tired of waiting, ordered a drink, drank it, realized how much it cost and that he couldn't afford it, ordered another one anyway, had to go to the bathroom, went to six or seven places, hat in hand, asking politely if he could "use their restroom," was rudely denied, finally got tired of it, whipped out his dick and pissed on the sidewalk while waiting on line outside the velvet rope to see the piece of urined stained sidewalk hanging on a wall that was so expensive it had no price tag.

Found On Craigslist:

Seeking STRICT old fashioned gentleman

I am a single, very attractive young lady, white, 39, dark shoulder length hair and green eyes. Soft curves, 5ft 6inches, 145 lbs. Feminine, bright, enjoy homelife and very home oriented. I am seeking a single/divorced gentleman, 44 to 60, nice looking, stable, intelligent, Christian beliefs, marriage minded, believes in traditional gender roles, husband as head of household and a firm believer in domestic discipline. Spankings. Applied with hand or wooden paddle. I enjoy walks, hikes, dining out, church on sunday, cooking at home, many interests. If you are sincerely interested in me, send a recent photo and more than a couple lines. Mention if you are from New jersey or elsewhere. Photo a must. Thank you.

It might as well say, "congressmen and clergy welcome! (prefer republicans)"

Apologies to the person whose anonymous privacy I just violated.

The Contents Of Last Night's Dream

I was in some kind of netherworld at a resort/condo complex. I never used the lap pool because I had free access to the water park. I was hitting golf balls with my brother when somehow we ended up on a different level. I was walking in a direction and eventually felt as if I was before some council being judged. It wasn't as formal as it sounds.

At some point I realized that if I passed a certain point in one direction walking away fom the council that was death.

It seemed like it had never occurred to anyone to walk in the other direction and that by doing this I could reverse the circumstances. Although everyone assured me that I would be instantly be re-born and it really wasn't a big deal, I decided to walk in the other direction. Along the way I passed a great many walking corpses on the way to the council, some of them people from my past that I remember as being "good people." I used the good people as landmarks. Eventually, I ended up on a motorboat drinking all kinds of bottles of wine and liquor.

Another guy in the boat wanted to see what was left in the bottles so I showed him. Next thing you know I'm in Nashville, TN with a friend of mine. When I realize I'm in Tennessee and I'm drunk I get real excited because I've never been to Tennessee. I decide I'm going to stay there that night instead of driving all the way home drunk as hell. I assume that I can crash at my friend's place but when I bring it up he turns on me. To my astonishment he starts flipping out on me because I drank too much of the bottle he paid for while I was on the motorboat.

His place is pretty depressing. He appears to hate me and would rather share a blanket with some girl (not very pretty but with a demeanor like his sister) and play footsies under the blanket with her than go out with me in Nashville. What I really want to do is go out in the city that night, then see Johnny Cash's house the next day. (I'm a big Johnny Cash fan.) But he won't let me stay there. The girl he is playing footsies with has a friend, some spanish/jewish looking chick and we start talking a little bit.

Then I kind of wake up. I feel weird, hurt and unresolved. Why did my friend flip out on me? Who was that chick? I really wanted to see J.C.'s house. I guess I should've just died and been re-born like everyone else.