FIREBLIND.COM

It’s been a while since my last post, primarily because of an overly full plate at my job. Sorry.

My grandfather died a little over a week ago. I say this not to evoke pity for me or my family, but because how his death affects me says a lot about who I am.

My grandfather’s passing made me realize how fortunate I am to have the mind of a photographer. Throughout my life, even before I owned a camera, the way in which I view existence has made it very powerful, albeit very sad and lonely at times. Where I think most people take life as fluid stream of happenings and emotions, there are a few of us who key in to certain aspects of a memory or occurrence. Instead of losing the small things in the experience and the “mess” of life, we gain so much more by making something special out of these small things.

I see life as a story; as a series of pictures or a short movie vignette. Sex, for example, is not necessarily about the sweat or the orgasm, but is about the outline of a breast in the darkness or the fleshy curve of a thigh under my thumb. It’s the angles and the light and the pressure. Sure, we enjoy orgasm, but when we’re too old to enjoy sex on a physical level, it’ll be those images that evoke the most powerful emotions. If you have any amount of art in your soul, sex is about almost everything but orgasm.

I experience most aspects of my life in this way. Memories of my friends’ wedding is them, 4 inches from each other’s faces, knowing nothing else in the world but the other face looking at them. A walk in the park is the neat way a tree’s roots upbraid the dirt. A day at the beach is lost in the shadows and beams of light bending over solitary rocks. Every lovers’ quarrel I’ve ever had evokes a lot of pain for me, because more than anything else, I can see a single tear forever tied to the corner of the eye that I loved more than any other eye at that time and place in my life.

Life, to me, is falling in love with a million tiny images every day, no matter how painful or negative the experience.

In any event, my grandfather was in a bad way for some time before his death, so the knowledge that we’d be at his funeral was no great shock to any of us. It doesn’t necessarily make the loss easier, but I think it makes it different. I’m not quite sure how it’s different exactly, only that death seems like less of an insult when you can see it coming, when you can breathe it in and feel its branches and roots spreading throughout your thoughts and your emotions.

A week before he died, I paid a visit to him to say my last goodbyes. He looked very much alive, but it was obvious he was not much longer for this world. Not that I’m a doctor or a psychic or anything, but there’s a very obvious science to dieing in the modern era. For this reason, my strongest memory about this night was the soft hum of his oxygen pump toiling away in the background, laboring to support a broken body gasping for just a slight extension of its expiration date. Even though this oxygen pump was as quiet as it could be, the amount of lifetime it was trying to keep behind an increasingly swollen dyke was nearly deafening.

But alas, the small Dutch boy’s finger is never really enough to keep the dyke intact, and so my grandfather’s life was no longer able to be contained. He died a week later, not with a bang or a whimper, but with a small gasp in front of his kind caretaker. Within a few minutes, I found myself at his house amidst the pouring rain with a small group of close family. The sight of my grandfather laying quietly—still warm in his bed—was not nearly as much a marker of his passing as was the absence of the hard working oxygen pump. My grandfather’s small sentry in his last days had quit its post.

As I drove home from his house in the early morning hours, the rain started to softly fall and The Beatles’ “Let it Be” queued up in my CD player. Hollywood couldn’t have written a more perfect moment. Although the heaviness of this particular moment was a far cry from the rapture of my favorite lover’s kiss, both of these things will forever drift in the ether that is my love affair with this strange existence.

I read a bumper sticker today that said something to the effect that Conservatives are hypocrites because they are pro-life, pro-death penalty, and pro-war. Personally, I think this bumper needs to rethink things a little. The gist of this Conservative way of thinking is that there is a very stark line between good and evil: to be anti-abortion and yet support killing for executions and war is about protecting the innocent and punishing the guilty. I may not agree with the individual stance on the three issues, but I see no hypocrisy in the position. It’s for the protection of the innocent that executions and war are supposedly carried out, and this seems rational to me.

In theory, I’m in favor of abortions, but even so, I’m more or less onboard for the above type of thinking. I’m not so naive to think that pacifism and diplomacy can carry the day. Human kind is not that trustworthy. Consequently, I realize that there are things worth fighting for, things worth dieing for, and things worth killing for.

I don’t think that I’ve written on abortion yet on this site, although I really feel like I need to. Let me boil down my opinion quickly, and I’ll come back to a larger discussion later. First off, I obviously don’t hold any kind of notions of supernatural influence over pregnancy. So, the fertilization of an egg by sperm does not make life some special act. It’s a damn cool biological process, but I don’t think it provides the “entity” with any inherent specialness. To terminate a new pregnancy–to me–is no different than terminating the functions of any other cell in a body.

That said, I feel strongly that there needs to be an emphasis placed heavily on the protection of human life and pleasure at all stages of existence. So, while I don’t think that a new human embryo is Jesus’s homeboy, it should receive at least special considerations because of what it will one day become. I loathe the idea that abortion should be available without society thinking about the loss of life in at least some way. I don’t mean for us to be guilty necessarily, but there’s a tradeoff for the benefit of one life (the mother) over that of another (the fetus). That should at least mean something.

I guess I feel kind of the reverse of the bumper sticker: i find it at lease somewhat hypocritical to be pro-abortion but anti-war and anti-execution. I’d rather kill adults than potential children, especially considering that adults have volition (to some extent).

In any event, I have no problem with early-term abortion. I start to get uneasy when we’re discussing second- and third trimester ones though. Granted, I leave room for some exceptions (and my exceptions are probably much more liberal than most), but I feel kind of like the mother had her chance to make up her mind, and now you’re pushing things a bit. This is hard for me to say, because I hate the idea of unwanted children having to struggle through a crappy life because of bad choice by the mother. But, if society is to feel good about itself in any meaningful way, you have to at some point choose life over the alternative.

Anyways, I’ll get off my serious guy soapbox for now. Maybe next time I’ll talk about post-birth abortions. I might be willing to budge on a few of those.

When it comes to driving, I like to think of myself as a modern-day Robin Hood. But, instead of robbing from the rich to give to the poor, I like to frighten and/or piss off bad and dangerous drivers. And instead of swords and arrows, I do things like run people into curbs or speed up so they can’t pass. So really, there’s very little difference between me and Robin Hood.

So, while I sit and rock the day away in my nursing home, I thought I’d relate some of my happier moments extracting justice from the juicy flesh of our transit system.

The other day, this guy in a dairy truck made a right turn in front of me. As in, he had a red, I had a green, and he made a right into my lane from where he was stopped. He kept going, so I kept going, planning on getting as close as I could to him without hitting him, so that he would be scared and wouldn’t do this to other people in the future. He finally realized what he had done and tried to kind of pull over and out of the way. He also gave me a sheepish wave. Poor guy. Because of this human act of waving, it wasn’t quite as funny when he drove his dairy truck into the curb (see figure 19a). It was still funny though. I stopped and let him go, just like Robin Hood would pat the bumbling rich guy on his rear and send him on his way after relieving him of his gold bag. That’s the kind of guy I am.

Figure 19a

Near the college I attended, there’s a place where people making a right are supposed to yield to cars who have been given the green arrow for a left. Even though they have a yield sign, the right-turners seldom yielded. To the right of their lane was a dirt/grass field (see figure 11f). If I had the green arrow and people wouldn’t slow down, I heroically avoided pressing my brakes until I was right on their asses, again trying to teach them a valuable lesson about playing nice on the roads. One time, someone freaked out and steared hard to the right and actually drove into the dirt field. I kind of felt bad about that one for a second, but I forced myself to think of the good that I had done: that person probably would never do that action again. I saved people from a future collision because of my selfless acts! It’s kind of like when Robin Hood would force a rich guy’s carriage into the river when he wouldn’t slow down. The rich guy would pop up from the water unharmed, and comically spit a fish out of his mouth.

Figure 11f

Finally, I LOVE to piss off dangerous drivers on the freeway, although I’m probably making things more dangerous by doing so. When I see them in my rear view mirror going all crazy and I know they’re going to try and pass me, I speed up or slow down to prevent them from doing so. I can practically hear them cursing me for making them late to their friend’s XBox 360 pizza and slumber party. I get a lot of joy out of ruining people’s days in this way.

Yeah, I’m pretty much a modern day hero. That, and a jerk.

I’ve been pretty busy since I got the Intertubes hooked up last week. Among other things, I was nominated for and won a Pulitzer on my critically acclaimed piece about Jesus Christ wiping his anus with his hand (although it’s also likely that he may have also used a pebble or dirt to help out). Before I continue, let me just say this: the Pulitzer parties are Out. Of. Control.

I was waiting for a Gas Company rep to come out and turn on my suicide gas today, and in between work tasks I got the idea to start looking for groups of people like me that I could possibly hang out with. I’m not ready to start dating yet, but I figured that I could at least see what kind of atheist/agnostic dating or social sites existed on the tubes. I learned two things from this hunt:

1. There are in fact dating/social sites out there devoted to humanists/secularists/non-religious peeps like myself.
2. Everyone on the sites, with some very rare exceptions, looks like this:

or this:

I swear to Vishnu, it was like scrolling through pages and pages of decaying corpses. Last time I checked, the web is FULL of hot young women doing terrible things to themselves and other hot young women, most of which I’m pretty sure are not in the Bible (I’ve never read II Kings though, so maybe it’s in there). Why aren’t they on these dating sites? Ohhhhhhh…that’s right: because they’re not horse-faced Asperger’s cases.

Before I let this post mercifully die, I wanted to share one of the more attractive members I found (click for full image):

Note her career. I wonder what degree I need to get that job.

I’ve been without Internet for a few weeks as a result of a sudden long-distance move I had to make (I think it was about 12 miles). Now that it’s back, I thought I’d start off with a hard-hitting article on toilet plungers and why one in particular has upset me.

The thing that sucks about moving–besides moving–is that you need to buy all sorts of junk all over again. Despite my Amish roots, I’m a big fan of technology and neato gadgets. I like brushed metal soap dispensers, dark wood furniture, and glass. If I’m going to buy some common household item, I want it to be so cool that Martha Stewart would offer herself to me on the spot because of it. And not in a Barefat Contessa kind of way, but in a Rachel Ray kind of way.

When buying anything, therefore, I try and buy whatever has the nicest features or the most interesting design. Now, as much as I hate to admit it, myself and people who might visit my apartment will–from time to time–have to make bears. And because bears and too much toilet paper don’t mix very well, it’s important for the modern man to have a toilet plunger nearby. Nothing is more embarrassing to a chick on roofies who is visiting me than to have to admit that she just plugged my toilet with an hour’s worth of Don Jose’s fine Mexican food.

As you can guess, Martha Stewart isn’t going to jump a man just because he has any ol’ plunger he can find. I dare say she would not!!! That, my friends, is why I purchased the most amazing toilet plunger ever. Actually, the plunger itself is boring. The part that is worthy of Ms. Stewart’s loving embrace is the amazing, space-age, NASA grade plunger base that closes over the plunger to hide it’s shameful self from the rest of the world. The thing is pretty cool.

The reason I’m mad is because this pinnacle of modern achievement has been ruined by some stupid sticker seemingly permanently attached that says “Hands-free holder” on the side of the base. It’s bad enough that my friends know that I poop, it’s even worse that Theo, Rudy, and Vanessa sometimes clog the toilet, but it’s far worse for them to see a tacky sticker on the side of my plunger! Why do companies do this? There is no reason to put a permanent sticker on a product. Give me removable stickers or give me death! Jerks.

I guess I’m not that disappointed. Someday I’ll peel it off and use a dangerous chemical to remove the residue. More importantly, however, was the fact that all of this was kind of a long buildup to me just wanting to say that I find it hilarious that Jesus Christ–if he actually existed–had to wipe his butt with his hand, and would then touch people with it later while performing miracles. I wonder if any sick people asked him NOT to perform miracles on them because they had just seen him squat behind the building next door. He was, after all, in human form. It’s true that he did fly around the earth that one time to make it spin backwards to save Lois Lane, but the son of god did still live in a time before toilet paper.

So a friend of mine came over today and messed with my doll. The one that’s already going to kill me. As you can see in the above photo, she’s made it even worse than it was before. I think the look of the doll is worse, but now it’s probably really pissed off because she shoved its eyes back in all dumb.

I’m home alone tonight and have been merrily wasting away the evening watching ATHF and reading The Blind Watchmaker. Every time I go out to the kitchen, it looks like the doll has rotated more in the direction of my bedroom than it was previously. It probably doesn’t help my imagination to do all the crazy distortion that I did in the above photo. Then again, if I were a doll, I think i’d like to look as punk rock as possible, and you have to admit: that picture is pretty punk rock. I’m mean: for sheez dawg! It even looks like there’s blood (or perhaps ketchup) coming out of it’s mouth!

As I type this, it’s approximately 00:33. There is no one else in the house besides me. If I’m dead tomorrow, stay the heck away from this doll, unless you too want to become another statistic of the mummy’s curse! It’s what killed Clarence Darrow, and it’ll get you too!

On a different note, here’s a fun website you should visit.

So I’ve been wanting to do a photoshoot of a creepy doll. My goal was to find one that was totally trashed, but haven’t as of yet. The one I did find at the Goodwill, pictured above, is probably already infected with ultra mega AIDs or something, so I can only imagine what a really bad one would have. So yeah, I did some test shots, and I think it’s going to turn out ok.

Here’s the funny thing: I’m a grown man. I’ve fought in two world wars AND worked as Starr Jones’s OBGYN. I’m pretty much not afraid of anything. And yet, as I was pulling out this doll’s second eye to try some test shots, I couldn’t help but wonder when it was going to come alive and kill me. I didn’t die last night, so I can only guess that my time is coming up soon. Fortunately, all the knives in my house are probably too big for this one to carry, and I don’t really have any kind of wire hanging around that it could use to strangle me. That means it’ll probably drop a toaster in the bath with me, or perhaps set my bed on fire. Or, maybe it’ll break my neck on some stairs. In any event, I think one thing is clear: my days are numbered.

I did one round of test shots that are really, really creepy, but haven’t been fully developed yet. I don’t want to give it away now, but suffice it to say, this doll is probably royally pissed at me. She’s probably going to kill you too, since you’re my friends and all. If I were you, I’d just kill myself now and save the doll the gas money. After all, WWJD?

What the heck am I talking about? *Sigh* Who knows. Sometimes I’m able to come up with good headlines on my own, and sometimes I have to turn to my team of chimps. I guess tonight neither of us were on. Curses! I just dropped a flashlight on my foot. This post isn’t going well for you, my young friend. I’d turn back now if I were you.

Did you know that the Brits call a flashlight a “torch”?

*Ahem*

So I was reading a letter to various high profile atheists arguing for a kinder, gentler new atheism. While the author was a scientist and an atheist himself, his point was that if the new atheists are too aggressive, they’ll lose in the eventual backlash set forth by the fundies and they’s pitchforks of righteousness. I guess this makes sense. If the human mind is trained to see the world through a certain set of programming, said programming might take offense when you start telling it that it’s stupid. Or, in the case of my crack team of headline chimps, they throw poop at you. Either way, the metaphor is the same: if you try and piss off your nemesis to prove a point rather than trying to win them over in a positive manner, you’re only going to end up with digested corn in your eyeball.

So, when dealing with religious people, it’s important not to attack them as being stupid or as having caught a “virus”. You know, pretty much don’t do everything that I do on this site. Then again, it’s hard not to point out things like human sacrifice in the Bible, or that Allah created the stars as missles, according to the Qur’an.

As is my habit, I’ve lost my train of thought. My life is just sooo fast paced and action packed that it’s hard to keep my mind focused on anything less than a million radical…soft pillows that I bought at Target. Wait a minute! I think what I was trying to say was that if you’re talking to a religious person, don’t describe their belief as “stupid” or ignorant. Rather, tell them that you value their input, and hope that by giving their children better educations, they can piss them off by one day going to college and appearing in a Girls Gone Wild video.

I hate to say it, but you deserve to die. A while back, I wrote about some ambivalence with the death penalty. I’ve decided, however, that if you drive like an unmitigated a-hole on the freeway, I have no ambivalence left for you. Society needs to put you down. Sorry pal, but as Snoopy used to say: them’s the brakes, kid.

I heard a while back that you can actually report dangerous drivers to the DMV, and that the reports go on their record. I wasn’t able to find out how to do that, but I did find this: www.reportdangerousdrivers.com. As usual, I was too lazy to register and see what it’s all about, but maybe I’ll get the plate numbers next time and report your ass. If you do know how to report people to the DMV, let me know. I’d like to make some people’s lives miserable.

I am serious though: when I become overlord, if you’re on my bad driver list, I’m coming for you. It’s unnecessary to drive like a jerk, seldom gets you anywhere faster, and puts lives in danger. Plus, it makes me want to shoot you, and we all know what happens when I want to shoot people: Pedro saves Christmas for the small town of Atherton. Hooray, Pedro!

I’m convinced that the homeless people in the area where I work (near Disneyland) have conventions of some sort in which they swap tips, trade stories, and develop various protocols that the NAHT (National Association of Hobos and Tramps) general assembly will vote on at a later date. The primary reason I think this true is because it seems like it wasn’t too long ago that most of the home-impaired fellows had signs stating that they would work for food. Nowadays, these don’t exist anymore. All the signs state something about being hungry, having lost a job, needing to pay the rent, having to support a sick husband/wife, etc.

It’s like all the original homeless people got jobs and a new crop of people who apparently have jobs, but who are still poor, have moved in. In my day, if you had to support a sick wife you’d go down to the park and juggle or something. Why, I even remember in the summer of ought-five when a troop of jolly “povs” performed MacBeth for two bits. Ah…that was a grand week.

But I digress (what else is new?)….

So yeah, it’s like all the homeless people got together and decided not to play the “work for food” card anymore and to simply go straight for the heart strings. In six months you’ll probably see guys with those costumes where it looks like a two-by-four has gone through their body and is sticking out both sides, and their signs will probably say something like “need money for surgery to remove two-by-four from my heart. God bless.”

Speaking of homeless people and Halloween, it occurred to me 43 seconds ago that being homeless and begging for money is exactly like adult Halloween, except without all the hot chicks in skimpy costumes and with more sunburn and hunger. Think about it: when you go trick-or-treating, what are you really doing? You’re begging for candy. As an adult, you’re still kinda dressed up and you’re still begging, but now the only difference is that you’re trying not to die. It’s like Halloween and Begging are twin brothers separated at birth and are now rubbing their eyes wondering whether they’re looking in a mirror. You can thank me, Ace McCool, for reuniting them.

(Note that this is NOT the case in the rest of the world, where being homeless is generally a far worse affair than it is in the States. I don’t even think they celebrate Halloween anywhere else!)

I wonder if the people on the corner would get more money if they simply had signs that said “trick or treat” on them. Most people would probably get the joke and might be inclined to give more. If there’s one thing that 24 years with the Celebrity Beat of the Chicago Tribune has taught me, it’s that people like it when you make them laugh in a sort of uncomfortable, please don’t come near my car even though I think your sign is funny kind of way.

Oh, and if any homeless people are reading this while using the free Internet in the library, please remember to close the German scheiße websites when you’re done. K? Thanks.