Friday, June 30, 2017

The Unified Theory of Conspiracy


I have a theory about conspiracy theories. Let’s call this the Conspiracy Theory Theory. Or The Unified Conspiracy Theory. Yeah, that sounds smart and shit.


What if ALL the conspiracy theories are rooted in truth?

We really were planted here by an alien race eons ago as an experiment. The alien abductions would all make sense then, eh? They’re just extrapolating data. Probably also tagging test subjects like biologists tag animals’ ears before releasing them back into the wild. Or maybe they’re the good aliens, and they’re implanting defenses against the mind control technologies of the evil reptilian alien beings who have taken control of most of our government workings? Of course they did that through using their puppets in groups like the Bilderberg Group, the Illuminati, the Freemasons, the Catholic Church, the Unions, and the local Girl Scout troop (yes, Girl Scout cookies are a means of mind control). These groups are responsible for things like making the Soviets hire the Sicilians to pay to have Kennedy assassinated with a bullet that changes course mid-flight (more alien tech). I think we can also blame the aliens for the popularity of the Kardashians, man buns, rompers for men, and the McRib. They’re testing to see just how far they could push and have us still go along. I think the Kardashians established the threshold. God, let’s hope so, anyway.

But here’s the real kicker. (There’s always a kicker….)

They haven’t even tried to hide any of this from us. They were smart. Crafty as fuck. They told us, in plain language, even. They’ve revealed all their plans, their histories, their intrigue against the terrestrial branch of the human race. Here’s the really  sneaky, ultra-genius-mad-scientist level mind fuckery of it all:

They told it all to the most batshit crazy, fucked up, out there where the buses don’t run, off their meds nutjobs they could find.

Not only did this guarantee we wouldn’t believe the madman ramblings in the first place, it also put in motion the gears of the machine that would make us automatically reject any suggestion of these intrigues from otherwise sane people. Because we’ve already heard and dismissed it.


 

Wily, crafty motherfuckers, ain’t they?

See you later. I need to go buy as much tinfoil as I can. I like to wear a different hat every day……

 

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Works For Me


So, I’m 47 years old and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I know – it’s a popular joke, but in my case, it’s the truth. I’ve tried several many, jobs, but rarely do they turn out to be something I can both enjoy and earn a living with.

 

 I actually don’t like working.

I know  - no one does; that’s why they have to pay you to do it. I don’t need any feedback telling me “yeah, good luck – you just have to man up and go to work”.

No shit.

I get that.

And to work I go. And I’m generally miserable. I try not to complain, and to put on at least a neutral face if I can’t fake happy. So just know that if you hear me complain about work, it’s because it’s gotten to the point that it makes me miserable. I don’t bother talking about simple dissatisfaction anymore.  I just really don’t know of anything I wouldn’t eventually become miserable doing every day. At least not something I can earn a living from. I had something close, and I stuck with that for over fifteen years, but then that job disappeared like a morning mist when the sun hits it.


I’d even like to find a job where I don’t find myself spending the day in the pattern of
Clock in
Wait for break

Wait for lunch
Escape into social media or a book

Wait for break
Desperately hang on until quitting time

Rinse and repeat five days a week

 

 

 
I haven’t found the thing I can enjoy and actually support myself doing. Some people know just what they want to do. Mechanic, doctor, carpenter, artist. Often it’s something they’d do anyway, as a hobby. For example, my roommate does maintenance on the city’s water system. If he won the lottery or something, he’d be working in his garage, building cars and motorcycles, because he enjoys mechanical work. I know woodworkers and carpenters who’d work on various wood crafts if they didn’t need a job. I knew a welder who welded sculptures in her spare time. I haven’t found the thing that drives me and makes me want to buckle down and just do it for the enjoyment. At least, nothing that can be turned into a paycheck.

The closest I’ve come is my fairly recently realized love for writing. I don’t know if I can make a living at it or not, but I’m going to try to figure out how to maybe at least get some extra cash out of it. I’ve started a new, more focused blog and once it’s going strong, I’ll increase its presence through social media, and see if I can’t maybe get some sponsors, or at least some paid advertising or something. If you want to help a motorcycle obsessed nut job and you like bike related writing, check out http://ridinandwritin.blogspot.com/. I’ll still write here, for things that don’t apply there, and hopefully I have an audience here, too. Who knows? Maybe I’ll make it as a writer some day. Probably not, but fuck it. I’m gonna write whether I get paid or not.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Nucking Futs



I have issues. I know: don’t we all? Mine run a bit deeper, though. Like deep enough to get me discharged from the Navy on the recommendation of a psychiatrist. Deep enough to get me eight days in the mental ward at Audie Murphy VA hospital in San Antonio less than a year after that discharge. (Edit: My disorder apparently formed in early childhood, and just became noticeable as an adult in the Navy. I didn’t have a traumatic experience in the service, and I’m not a combat veteran. I don’t have PTSD. I just want to be clear about that. I don’t want to imply that I can relate to those of you have to deal with that particular demon.)

I seem to have been born without a strong internal sense of motivation or drive. I feel like I’ve gone through life with a severe motivational deficiency. I see other people who are hard chargers. They seem to always succeed, while others work hard and can usually make it work. Then, some of us just can’t seem to make things work no matter how hard we try. Almost like there’s a “success gene”, and it’s a dominant gene for some, a recessive gene for others and dormant for people like me.

My personality disorder has given me problems throughout my life, even before I was diagnosed. Matter of fact, the diagnosis explained some problems I’d had in school, before I even joined the Navy. It’s given me problems with relationships throughout my life. It’s caused problems with getting and keeping jobs. I finally had found a job I really liked. Sure, I griped about it, but who doesn’t need to vent? No job is all sunshine and rainbows.

That job left me, in a manner of speaking. And I’ve been drifting ever since. I spent most of my twenties drifting like this, and while I survived, and got by, it was just barely. I find myself in the same situation now, but with bigger bills, and bigger responsibilities. And with two other mouths to help feed, who can’t contribute to their own sustenance. So, the pressure is on. And it’s pressure that I find myself constantly struggling to cope with. In the last two years, it’s been a rare thing for me to feel relaxed without requiring at least an hour on the bike, or booze. I know; that should be a warning sign, but what can I do? A personality disorder by definition forms in childhood, so it’s not service connected, so the VA can’t help me as an outpatient. I can’t afford the deductibles and copays to see somebody through private insurance. So, I write my own prescriptions. I ride as often as possible, whether it’s alone or with a group. And I drink. I don’t drink to the point of drooling stupidity – just enough to take the edge off the teeth of this wolf that’s haunting me.

My little problem lay dormant for the most part for many years. Sure, it’d rear its head from time to time, but it just growled; it didn’t bite. Lately, though, it’s not just rearing its head. It’s arching its back and its baring its teeth.

Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe because the world is pressing in too hard on me. Sometimes, it feels like I’m being pulled so strongly in so many different directions that I’m stretched thin and tight to the point of breaking. Sometimes I want to break stuff. Honestly, sometimes I wish I just wouldn’t fucking wake up in the morning, or some asshole would run a red light and take me out. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not going to take action myself. I won’t do that to my family.

But when every job I’ve tried for the last two years just doesn’t work; when I try and just can’t seem to grasp it, or maybe I sort of do, but the bills still aren’t getting paid, or especially when I have high hopes for a job, and it just doesn’t live up to the expectation… Well. That’s when my old struggle starts up again.

The mix of anger, frustration and depression swells up until it becomes a roaring white noise that only I can hear. Literally. I hear a roaring whoosh inside my head at times. Then my chest gets tight and it’s hard to breathe.

It gets hard to imagine any future that contains any sort of “success”. I’ve never truly lived on my own. I’ve always had roommates or lived with a wife or significant other. I did live alone in an RV for a while, but it was sold to me so cheap that it was virtually a gift. And even then, my family helped me pay for it. Now, the new job doesn’t look so bright. It was so promising, and I was so optimistic about it in the beginning, but it’s fallen apart. I should’ve known. That’s a pattern in my life. Every time I’ve been optimistic about something, I’ve been disappointed. If I’m just okay with it, then maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t. But when I expect “good”, it rarely happens. I guess I need to learn to keep the bar a lot lower. Pessimists are rarely disappointed.

Anyway, lately I feel like I’m bound for the nutjob wing again. I worry about how my bills will get paid if I’m not getting paid, but what the fuck? They’re not getting paid now, anyway.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. As I go back and proofread, I wonder if I’ll post it, or even share it with an individual, or even a select few people. All I know is that it’s been welling up inside me, and begging to be said, but I don’t know that I’m capable of “saying” it. I can type a lot of things I can’t say. Part of me feels like I should just shut up – it’s not like I went through a traumatic experience. Then again, sometimes we’re not broken; sometimes we’re just defective. More like a car that left the factory missing pieces than one that was in a wreck. I have a feeling that if I do post this, some people will read it and think I’m full of excuses, or laziness, or whatever. Kiss my ass. Psychological problems are real – as real as physical impairments. Trust me – I’d much rather be able to hold it together than deal with this shit all the time.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Family



                I saw a photo recently. It’s inspired me. Inspired my heart, my hope, and even my desire to write again.

Recently, the Gypsy Motorcycle Club lost yet another brother. You’d think that after more than two decades of carrying this patch and losing family, I’d have gotten used to it, but loss just isn’t something you get used to. Actually, that’s a good thing. It means I still have a heart.

The photo is of our Fallen Brother’s son being hugged and comforted by a brother. It’s such a simple photo; one that a lot of people would skim over; scroll past in their social network feed. But they’d miss so much. Such a simple photo carries such weight.

It’s heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. It hurts to see a child mourn the loss of a parent. It hurts to see someone feeling the loss of another that they shared no blood with, yet still loved as a brother. Hell, I’m choked up and my eyes are blurry as I type this, and the funeral was weeks ago.

But it’s also heartwarming. I see family love that’s freely given and accepted with no need of blood or marriage bond. I see in it the promise that although Dad may be gone, there are plenty of men who will each take on a small part of that role in the years to come.

Most outsiders have no clue. They see the colors, the patch, and they just think we’re a bunch of godless heathens out for a good time. They think all we share is rides and parties. No, they have no fucking clue. To those who wear a patch, the words "brother" and "sister" mean just that - they're not empty syllables to be spoken to someone we just met at a bar or rally. They don’t know about the middle of the night breakdowns, when all it takes is a phone call to have help. They don’t know about the emergency room and ICU visits, with dozens of people telling the hospital staff “I’m his brother” or “I’m his sister” to be able to get in when they tell us “immediate family only”.  They don’t see us helping each other move, helping celebrate marriages and births, or being there in times of grief. They don’t see us simply being with each other – as a family.





Gypsy Rooster and Gypsy Jr Member MacGyver


When the world is falling apart, we’re there for each other. That’s what I see in that photo. That’s what I feel from my club. My family.

GFFG (Gypsy Forever Forever Gypsy)
LGDG (Live Gypsy Die Gypsy)