I’m frequently disappointed in today’s movies. Most big budget movies made nowadays are simply awful. I’ll never forgive them for ruining the Indiana Jones franchise by making that fifth and final film, which pretty much ruined every entry that came before. In order to finish the series, you have to watch it, and after doing so, you’re left with a bitter taste in the mouth. Why did they end on that note?

The first animated Super Mario Bros movie, made a couple years ago, with a budget of a hundred million, was likewise horrible. It seems the only goal was to pack as many characters as they could into 90 minutes, making them dance and dissolve rapidly from one sparkling scene to the next.

My son – a young genius – felt the same. A bloated, boring mess. What the hell is going on here?

Thus, neither one of us had high expectations for the sequel. Still, we’d go see it. We’d miss the opening weekend; like the first one, the projections were huge. This past Wednesday would be our day.

I go down to Fat Cats, our local theater/arcade/bowling alley – which also serves food and booze. Here, I can purchase not just the tickets, but pick our seats. That afternoon, looking at the monitor, tonight’s showing looked to be spacious. I get two tickets – Row E – right in the middle, above the handicapped section in the middle.

After dinner at one of our favorite spots, we head over, about 6:30. I park on the side of the building, one space over from one of those massive raised trucks that are so popular around here. First, my son needs to make one of his weekly phone calls to his mother, so goes to the walkway on the side of the building. I pace on the same walkway. A mother is taking her small daughter to the car. I smile. She smiles. I pace, then stop. Prehistoric-sized grasshoppers are hanging off the wall. Those bastards are everywhere in these parts. I knock a few off by tossing my car keys at them. Then back to pacing. The mom and daughter head back inside.

I hear a car door slam. Out of the black truck emerges a guy wearing a ballcap. He’s all alone. He spits on the concrete, then turns the corner of the building, heading to the front doors about 70 feet away. Never once did he look me in the eye.

I go back towards that corner. As soon as I reach it, the stench of alcohol overwhelms me. I suppose it could have come from the lady with her daughter, but I doubt it. The culprit is obvious. That guy must have been drinking quite a lot in order to leave that kind of trail. Sitting in the car, by himself, getting a buzz.

My son is down the way on the side, finishing up his phone call. When he’s done, we head inside. No snacks or drinks: we’re dieting. Sort of. Anyway, I’m taking a few days off the beer.

With five minutes until showtime – actually, the beginning of the previews – we give the employee girls our tickets and head inside “theater 3.” As soon as we enter, I see the same guy. He’s standing on the side of the seats, and talking to someone. “Oh, they’re making a new Toy Story?” he asks. “I didn’t know.” We go around him. He was talking to one of his kids. There’s four of them. All very young.

Their mom is sitting with them…in Row E. Naturally. We shuffle past and find our seats. There’s one seat between me and them (I think the mom was closest to me, but they would be moving a lot over the next hundred minutes, and they must’ve exchanged seats several times). The theater isn’t packed; maybe five or six other parties in here.

My son and I talk for a few minutes before it starts. Turning my head back in their direction, I see that the guy is already gone. The movie starts without him. And, right away, the kids start making noise. A lot of it.

The movie is just like the first – almost like having a strobe light right in front of your face, with a set of drums next to each ear. “Shiny shit flying at the screen,” as Nathan Rabin wrote in his review.

Although I never cared for the Toy Story movies – living breathing plastic existing in the real world of humans and animals: dumb – they were well made, and they did attempt storytelling. Not here. The Mario games weren’t exactly known for their deep lore anyway. To compensate, they try to give the audience a seizure.

Many of today’s movies. (Well, sometimes it works: we really enjoy the Godzilla X Kong movies.)

I would have been able to tolerate it, if only we had good neighbors. But hey, it’s a kid’s movie. Can’t be too mad at the kids climbing on the seats and making those grunts and whines. Right? They’re either excited by the bright colors and loud noises, or annoyed by them. Yelling. Crying. In the dark room, I couldn’t make out which child made which noise.

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The dad comes back in, up to the empty seat next to me. “Excuse me, bro,” he says to me. I say nothing more than “ya.” He sits. Five minutes later, he gets up and leaves. His children continue making noise. The mom is left to fend for herself. The shiny shit on screen does nothing to distract from the kids’ cacophony, nor make me forget about my anger at the “father” who keeps leaving his family while his kids terrorize the theatergoers.

After twenty minutes, I throw in the towel. My tolerance these days is already very low. I told my son I was going outside to pace the hallway. I have no fear of leaving my son alone. He’s 11, and knows how to be on good behavior.

(Is there any comparison between me and “dad” being questioned in this story? Well, his small kids were being disruptive, annoying me and no doubt the other attendees. My near-teenager was not. Also, I want to see where the dad keeps going)

So I went out to my car and got my headphones, then pace the hallway outside our theater. Listening to news about the war and the resulting gas hikes, I see the dad come out. He heads to the bar – the place he’s probably been going this entire time.

We play this charade for an hour and a half. I go in, sit for a few minutes, get up and leave. Then pass him in the hallway outside. I kept my headphones in for the most of the movie, only taking them out to watch the cameo of Wart, the villain from the nostalgia-inducing first sequel on the NES. (I’m unimpressed)

This happened three or four times. Once, my son and I notice that the dad, now seated at the far end of the row, next to the stairs, was playing on his phone, no headphones.

At least I had headphones.

One time he comes out while talking loudly on the phone and heading straight for the bar. I go back inside, below where my son was seated. I make that old gesture of impatience, holding up my arm and looking at my wrist, which in fact has no watch. Back outside. Lay down on the bench. I walk over to the side where the bar and bowling alley are. The dad is sitting at the bar, on his phone.

A half hour or so later, I decide to give the movie once last shot. This time I sit on the other side of my son; luckily an empty seat. More shiny shit. More yelling. “Would you like to try to get a refund?” I ask. He thinks about it for a second without giving a solid answer. From the sound of it, the other kids are climbing the walls. Mom picks up one and walks down to the row below.

Again I go outside to the hallway.

Eventually I see my son come out of the movie theater. It’s finally over. “The little girl came up to the seat next to me,” he said, “and started shaking it.” As we walk out, we see that the dad is bowling, all by himself. He left his young wife to deal with four loud-unruly kids in a movie theater with other people. No shame at all. No embarrassment. No concern that people will see you as a shit father. “Some people are just straight fucking trash,” I say.

Unlike this dad, I feel a twinge of guilt, because I should have suffered with my son through this moviegoing experience. Sorry, son. I did make something of a scene with my constant coming and going. Maybe it’ll start a fight at the house. Best I can hope for.

My son tells me the movie was, like the first, horrible. This could have been a movie review, but I only caught about a half hour of it. No wonder so many people are forgoing theaters, simply waiting for movies to play on the streaming services.

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Indictments from the Convicted

Ten days in the homestate. For the most part, I enjoyed it. Driving and walking through these green suburbs is so incredibly restorative. It definitely beats the dirt-colored deathsprawl from whence I came.

Though the vacation wasn’t picture perfect. As usual, I was booked at the roach motel that is the Red Roof Inn, there in San Dimas. This is the dirt-cheap motel franchise that has paid millions over the past few years for turning a blind eye to sex trafficking.

I’ve never been witness to anything quite so shady and criminal in all my years staying here. I’ve seen a few scantily-dressed women walking away from the place, but no parade of women with their clothes torn off, nor any woman carried into the backseat of a car.

Or maybe I’m just not paying close enough attention.

However, this place has a lot of transients, homeless, and druggies. This was admitted straightforwardly by the cute heavyset Latina who has managed the Red Roof for, I think she said, eight years. “What happened to the security guard who used to work here at night?” I asked. “He doesn’t work here anymore,” she said. No guard at all, in fact. “And you can see all the homeless coming back around,” she added.

Yes. I could, and did.

The rooms themselves are fine. Aside from clogged drains, the rooms are clean and quiet. No gun shots or fucking heard from beyond the walls. It’s only when one walks outside, into the surrounding Plaza – with several fast-food chains and a couple gyms – that one encounters an assortment of decay: heaps of garbage, shopping carts, and people wandering around, oftentimes bumming cigarettes or whatever.

Every time I left my room, I saw someone waist-deep inside one of the three or four dumpsters. Walking down the long driveway to the main street, Arrow Highway, I see litter everywhere upon the grass and bushes. I come home to enjoy the greenery – and how horrible to see it defaced.

Years ago, I argued in favor of a littering campaign. If we accelerate the decay, I reasoned, we can force change. But I can no longer endorse it. I wish not to advance the ugliness, even though my restraint will make no difference.

I predicted this problem years ago. The Goldline Extension project, taking the metro from downtown LA, to Pasadena – where it was fifteen years ago – now into Glendora, San Dimas, La Verne and beyond, was certainly going to spread the trash throughout the valley, especially since that trash is able to walk on two legs.

That it did.

But being a cheap motel, it will attract other trashy people. Most disturbing was the white mother who smacked her 2-year-old son with a shoe, twice on the butt and once on the head. The child, already accursed living inside this place (there are long-term residents), committed the horrible crime of running down the hallway. For that, he got walloped. His father, a black man, could always be seen hanging outside the doorway of their room, scanning the parking lot for people he could bum a smoke off of.

Just like the motel itself, the human race is, I said aloud…less than perfect.

Inside my room, I went through my footage of the inaugural “No Kings” protest, in June. At last, my viewing and noting is finished! Now I must find the energy to put it all together, along with some commentary. And when I wasn’t going through my own footage, I was trying to stay updated about the Nancy Guthrie kidnapping. What a circus. Thousands of people go missing every year in this country, but only when you’re a celebrity does the head of the FBI come out personally.

If they do find her, it’ll only be because they’ve made use of our mass digital surveillance, all while indulging the Doomscroll. Latest update: they just found a glove resembling the one seen on the ringcam footage – for some reason released to the public – even though they certainly had it.

I think of my son’s favorite program, Forensic Files. It’s incredible how they can pinpoint the murderer, even a decade or more after the crime, starting from the smallest piece of DNA. So then, nobody in the first week had canvassed the surrounding area, found the glove, and sent it off to the lab? Instead, they “leak” out bits, here and there.

There’s more going on in the world. Anti-ICE protests have taken over the streets. There were several taking place here, the day after I arrived, with high schoolers leading the charge.

They came across the block, and I parked in a parking lot, taking out my GoPro. “Fuck ICE,” the row of a hundred or so teenagers said as they marched along the sidewalk. A couple of them saw that I was filming, they chanted.

“Give it back to Mexico,” I yelled. “Secede from the union.”

Oddly, one of the girls gave me a middle finger, while others started cursing.

“No? Don’t give it back to Mexico?” I yelled back. “If it’s stolen land, we should give it back.”

After I repeated that second line a couple times, a few in the crowd offered faint approvals. Ah, kids. You have to admire their energy, despite likely having no idea what they’re out there for. It’s good that I was there to hint at what they’re really requesting. It’s time to start having the real conversation.

If only I could find these conversations inside the bars. I wasn’t going to drink while here, but in the end, I wanted to check out a couple of my favorite watering holes.

Drove to Arcadia. The huge, frosty mugs at the Bit tavern still served some of the coldest, tastiest beer I’ve ever had. As always, sports were playing on all the TVs. It’s frustrating, but I try to understand: politics is by nature divisive, and you don’t want some news item to be the spark that ignites a brawl between two opinionated drunks. And still, in the last year I’ve been exploring the bars and taprooms, I’ve had a few very good political discussions.

If only I could explore California’s bars. If you forget about the leftwing politics, the trash-ridden towns, and the insane amount of people, my homestate is quite lovely.

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Civilian Lives Matter!

Tell Me Bad News

In Favor of Hatred

Staying ON During the Great Reset

Indictments from the Convicted

(9-30-25) Living in the Phoenix area for more than four years now, I’ve come to realize something about Elon Musk’s ambitions for Mars: we – humans – would not fare well. People around here, especially in the summer, are often confined to their homes and places of work. They drive across a rocky, monochromatic landscape, with little greenery and very few parks. All this makes for a population that is weary and irritable.

Now picture the Martian colonist, ordinary as they would likely be. They’d be trapped inside their air-controlled buildings and dormitories, staring out at the barren surface, day after day and week after week.

We already hear about mental decline amongst astronauts and those living in submarines for extended periods. On Mars, an epidemic of insanity, followed by mass suicide, perhaps by throwing themselves outside the airlock, is not hard to predict. I believe that, if ever a colony were set up on the Red Planet, it would soon implode.

***

(9-30-25) I’m always amused whenever I see Trump’s insults put into quotes.

When discussing some prosecutor, the leader of the free world will call him “disgusting, a really evil bastard.” Asked about some Democratic candidate, Mr. 47 will deem them a “lunatic leftist,” adding with certainty that they “want to destroy our country” and “rape your daughter.”

He’ll say these things with Charles Bronson-like stoicism, hardly any emotion at all, not even anger. In a room surrounded by grieving mothers whose kids had been murdered by an illegal migrant, Trump will assure them that “we’re gonna get those cocksuckers.”

Then he’ll add a “thank you,” as if he’s already solved the problem and now expecting to be rewarded with a vote for Mr. Vance. An alien visitor might wonder if Trump had yet to reach the required age of 35. Most just nod along, because, after all, we’re on the same team.

***

(11-10-25) Pen to paper, the best way I know of lifting the brain fog. Here are the tools needed to pry open the mental box: coffee, pen, and paper.

It’s a busy café, with a hundred undiscernible voices. What could they be talking about? What’s so important? Personal lives or public scandals?

Unlike theirs, these words are found easily, right here on this paper. Subvocalize the scribbles, forcing several more scratches, one last edit, an evolution into something much more eloquent. You hope never to be ashamed of it.

Those nails need to be trimmed. No, don’t get distracted. Start a thesis, some excellent assertion. Some point and wonder. What’s he writing? Maybe a dissertation, a manifesto, a grocery list, a suicide note.

All the same, a notebook is more interesting than a Screen. Is this the only pen hitting paper? No, because receipts are being signed. Those sandwiches looked good too.

***

(11-20-25) Once again, the iPhone is telling me that the memory is full. I wonder: Whose memory? Mine, or the devices? They’re nearly indistinguishable.

The camera stops working. And I need that camera to work; my “job” depends on it. Thus begins the depressing process of selecting pictures and videos that must be deleted. I scroll through hundreds and hundreds of images. Some are easy sacrifices: snapshots from the web that I no longer need, or some pictures already uploaded onto my laptop.

Then I stop: a video of my son from last year, what might be the last year I see him as a child. Or another gallery of stickers which I came across during one of my urban jaunts. I can’t lose these memories! Have they all been uploaded, and therefore presumably preserved?

Of course, we’ve always attempted to record our lives, that with diaries and Polaroids. Yet, now, so much more goes easily onto these little devices. Not only pictures and videos, but conversations. What before took an entire closet to hold is nothing but a small stack laying in a drawer. It’s quite sad to realize that the organ given to us by God has been atrophied by the constant reliance on the device given to us by Man.

***

(11-26-25) Some claim that September 10^th 2025 was the day the world bore witness to the most consequential political assassination in many years. With the president and many prominent “influencers” attending Charlie Kirk’s memorial, that would be hard to deny.

Yet, right after the tragic event, several people close to my family said they had never heard of Charlie Kirk. That struck me like a semitruck, although it should not have, because in the age of Infobesity, nobody really “hears” anything. Walter Cronkite was once the household name in broadcast news, but today there’s 10 thousand YouTubers and podcasters, each of them covering every event, and most with booming voices and dazzling effects.

Although Kirk made several appearances on FOX News, he could mainly be seen on his own podcast, that when he wasn’t touring the colleges. It was even said that Kirk was likewise obsessed with creating a steady stream of “content.” How sad that his death has been treated the same, especially by those wishing to analyze every dark angle.

***

(10-27-25) As with cigarette smoking, people are starting to realize that social media is bad for your health; specifically, your mental health. Studies continue to come out while Big Tech leaders go inside Congress so that they may be “held accountable.”

Expectedly, video essayists – what we used to call “Youtubers” as shorthand – must give a comment. Go to YouTube, do a few searches, and get countless hits: “Why Everyone is Leaving Social Media”; “Social Media is Worse than you Think”; “Now is the Time to Leave Social Media.” Some are 10 minutes; others, 40 minutes.

Click on one, focus your attention, and you might start wondering: How much time did this person put into filming this video? Do I really need to see all the effects in order to get the message? And why are they sponsored by Incogni, a company that helps erase personal data from the internet? Wouldn’t that incentivize me to scroll for even longer periods?

We wish to call out the irony, but then we just click on some more content.

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Civilian Lives Matter!

Tell Me Bad News

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Staying ON During the Great Reset

Indictments from the Convicted

Once again, the iPhone is telling me that the memory is full. I wonder: Whose memory? Mine, or the devices? They’re nearly indistinguishable.

The camera stops working. And I need that camera to work; my “job” depends on it. Thus begins the depressing process of selecting pictures and videos that must be deleted. I scroll through hundreds and hundreds of images.

Some are easy sacrifices: snapshots from the web that I no longer need, or some pictures already uploaded onto my laptop.

Then I stop: a video of my son from last year, what might be the last year I see him as a child. Or another gallery of stickers which I came across during one of my urban jaunts. I can’t lose these memories! Have they all been uploaded, and therefore presumably preserved?

Of course, we’ve always attempted to record our lives, that with diaries and Polaroids. Yet, now, so much more goes easily onto these little devices. Not only pictures and videos, but conversations.

What before took an entire closet to hold is nothing but a small stack laying in a drawer. It’s quite sad to realize that the organ given to us by God has been atrophied by the constant reliance of the device given to us by Man.

IF ANYONE APPRECIATES MY WRITING and ACTIVISM, PLEASE CONSIDER BUYING ME A COFFEE~!!

Civilian Lives Matter!

Tell Me Bad News

In Favor of Hatred

Staying ON During the Great Reset

Indictments from the Convicted

2 AM: Woke up in my RV to a white girl screaming and beating on a man’s car. She opens his door. A black man gets out. She pushes him several times. Another woman is walking away from the scene. The assailant then goes to the sidewalk. The man follows her. He pushes her hard against the wall. Then slugs her once, taking her to the pavement.

I put my shorts on, throw open the door, and say “That’s enough! Or I’m calling the cops!” (Yes, I threatened police) Smelling of beer, he comes up to me and says that he didn’t even know her.

“Don’t act like you’re hard!” he says.

I admit that I saw her beating on his vehicle, and pushing him, and that I wanted to go back to sleep, then walk back inside the RV. Another bald-headed white dude comforts the girl for a minute, and she’s soon back on her feet.

Of course I won’t be going back to sleep. Five minutes pass, and after the white guy leaves, she gets in the black man’s car, and he apparently takes her home. Paranoid about anybody fucking with my RV, I take the opportunity to move it to the other side of the street. As I’m walking back to my car, I see that the man is back. Another conversation is inevitable. I cross the street prematurely to make sure that it happens. He storms out of his vehicle.

“Everything alright now?” I ask. “I don’t appreciate you threatening to call the cops!” he exclaims, now threatening to “knock me out also.” I then defuse the situation further (because fighting street dwellers is hardly worth a court date), asking rhetorical questions about the situation, and that I was just looking to stop it before things got worse.

He immediately loses his tough guy tone, becomes rather friendly, and explains that he sees me come and go in my RV all the time, and that we’re neighbors, that he doesn’t usually hit women, and then lastly gives me advice on where I should park on the street to avoid tickets. Tells me his name is Sean. I shake his hand.

At this point the girl returns -- along with a big Hispanic dude: her husband, who’s driving them. “That’s him, that’s him!” she says. Staying in the car, he gets on his phone and makes a couple circles. “Get out of here,” Sean says. I jump in my car and begin taking off. For some reason, the driver decides not to stay there on the street with Sean, but instead follows me. Not really wanting to be a part of this matter any further — as I didn’t know any of these people, and that the situation looked rather gray — I figure its better to stop and finish it.

We’re at a gas station less than a block away. She says: “Pull over. Pull over.” I stop and before I finish opening the door the lights and sirens come straight at us, two bright beams fixated right on me. I throw my hands up.

“Not the suspect!” I yell. “Not the suspect!”

The husband confirms this. The younger cop: “Sit on the curb right there.” He doesn’t seem jumpy.

Then begins a twenty-minute breakdown of the situation. The girl’s husband is cool, just wanting to know what happened. Honest as I always am, I tell the whole story. I woke up to her beating the car of a man she was soon pushing and screaming at. I saw the man push and slug her once each. Then he took her home. I didn’t know any of them, and was only speaking to him on the way back merely due to the situation.

She’s hysterical, and denying to her husband and the police that she either pushed him or accepted his offer home. The sheriff pulls up and I tell my side one more time. The cops take my word — the sober one out tonight. Sean has disappeared, but his parents pull up to the scene, and I momentarily mistake them for him. (I was 30 feet away, and they were parked behind my car)

“I’m not saying you’re lying, dude,” the husband tells me. I hope not. I don’t really know how to. And while his wife had obviously lied about a few things, maybe she was still correct in saying that Sean was berating his own girlfriend in the car. I’m now drinking coffee and about to have a meatball sub, hoping I did alright.

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Indictments from the Convicted

The taproom is cattycorner from the McDonald’s where I frequently pick up orders. I had only been here once before, just last week. My father and I each had a nonalcoholic brew. Now, today, the 25^th, I was in here again, typing on my laptop while trying out what they had on tap, starting with a juicy IPA. There were only four other patrons, plus the barman; all guys. Dad would be joining me in a little bit.

About 45 minutes into my writing, and everyone’s phone starts shaking and buzzing. It was the county alert system, informing of an imminent dust storm. Sure enough, not 10 minutes pass before a light brown haze was seen outside the glass windows. Next came the wind, which was so ferocious that it knocked down their “specials today” sign. The dust and wind were followed by rain, a really hard downpour.

A couple guys went to the window; a couple more guys – including the barman – went outside, surveying the area and checking on the rest of the property. I also went to the window. It didn’t look worse than the near-nuclear glow of our regular summertime sun. For me, the footage that came afterwards looked far worse than it actually was.

My dad texts me, worried about the dangerous weather. “How long have you lived here?” I text him. “It’ll pass in 20 minutes.” He gets here and walks in, joining me at the table. He orders a blond (seemingly the only beer he likes; they don’t have one, so he gets a pilsner).

One of the guys had gone home, but returned a few minutes later, saying that his power had gone out. But I was right: the worst of it – the dust, wind, and rain – had all come and went within about 30 minutes. Dad and I finish our beers and leave. I look up and witness a most unusual sight for these parts: massive grey clouds, with blue streaks peeking through. It must’ve been in the mid-70’s. It was beautiful.

Dad was kind enough to drop off my laptop at home while I went to DoorDash. Most days, I start working in the evening, Dashing into the early hours. I’ve written plenty about my intolerance of these summers. Thus, I dash at night. Even then, nighttime brings down the temperatures only slightly. Often, it stays around 95-100, even at 1 am. No, this place isn’t meant for human life.

And how odd it was to see people driving with their windows rolled up. People, the rain had stopped and the dust was gone! Why not enjoy this lovely weather? I went to a park and walked around. I was glad to see kids playing and pretty girls walking their dogs. The sight of sanity. I messaged some friends who had heard about the storm on the news. I explained that, for me, it was a blessing.

“Just look at that,” I said, pointing the camera up at the sky. It stayed breezy and cool all night long, which kept me dashing into the wee hours.

It wasn’t a blessing for everyone, as the AP tells us. 55,000 people had lost electricity. Thankfully, power was quickly restored. Flights were also delayed at Sky Harbor, with material flying onto the tarmac.

Soon there was aerial footage showing all of Phoenix being engulfed by a massive brown cloud. It didn’t stop me from flying down the grid-like streets, dropping off my food orders while enjoying the breeze as my head hung outside the window.

Ah, but fear something more!

Arizona’s Family (a good news blog with a very misleading name: there is no sense of community here) warned that these dust storms can carry those nasty fungal spores that cause Valley Fever – a horrible illness which starts in the lungs and can find its way into your joints. The post quotes a doctor who says that Valley Fever cases “spike around three weeks after a major dust storm.”

You see – the desert environment really is trying to kill us!

It’s only been three days, and I’m feeling fine. I’ve managed to avoid Valley Fever infection for almost five years. Perhaps it’s time I got acquainted with those spores. Plenty of longtime residents already have, telling of their own monthslong antifungal treatment. I’ll wait a few more weeks, hoping that I’ll be given one more reason to get the hell out of here.

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Otherwise, check out one of my publications from Stairway Press:

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(This picture is a couple years old)

Warning: sexually-explicit material

In La Jolla, California, the northern part of San Diego, one can find the largest nude beach in America. Known as Black’s Beach, it happens to share a street with the Salk Institute, where Jonas Salk did most of his research in creating the polio vaccine.

It’s a gorgeous spot that sits below cliffs that are so steep that a popular paragliding business operates.

As a native Californian, I had heard about it sometime in my teens, and started attending regularly about ten years ago. At least a few times a year, mostly in the summer, I would make the drive down from LA County.

But now living in Rockland – Arizona’s capitol – I no longer have the opportunity to go as often as I’d like. I guessed it had been about a year or more since I’ve gone. In the beginning of July, I was in California for family matters. So for this year’s Independence Day, I decided on a trip.

Even though traffic was light going down the 15, I knew cops would be out in force. Having already gotten drunk on the 2^nd, I reasoned: Why not behave myself, stay sober, and thus please everyone? I opted for some nonalcoholic brews – first Sam Adams IPA, and then Athletic “golden dawn.” All of these were cans, giving me the chance to use the new koozie I’d picked up in Newport Beach.

I got there at 12:40. Street was already full. The large dirt parking lot was getting there, though not quite yet. No problem finding a decent spot. Because I also like to walk the beach and hike the cliffs, I travel light: sneakers, cargo shorts, a shirt, and a backpack containing a large beach towel, several water bottles, and my NA beers. Also, a tube of sunscreen, which, with my neglection, resulted in my redness.

Before heading over, I Googled up the beach’s name, seeking news stories, as I do in order to get a feel for the recent happenings. The San Diego Union Tribune has an article from three weeks ago: “Black’s Beach Warning.” The article is behind a paywall, but I was able to screenshot part of it before it popped up on my screen.

This leads to lots of stories about hikers who have fallen to their deaths. Ah, danger, yes – but those cliffs offer such a breathtaking view! When I decide to leave, I always make a point to climb up those perilous cliffs, checking out the scenery as I make my way to the parking lot.

But first, it was time to do what I came here for – soak up that sunshine, increasing both my vitamin D levels as well as my risk for skin cancer. Once more – to hell with you, sunscreen!

To the beach, down the main path. A dozen or more paragliders and hang gliders (are they the same?) are overhead. At the bottom of the trail and to the left is where you’re supposed to wear clothes; to the right, for several miles, is the nudist section. How much this is enforced, I’m unsure, as nothing separates the two stretches of beach.

I take off the shirt, keeping the shorts on – which is fine, because not everyone here is nude. It’s clothing-optional. Nobody demands you strip down to your bare ass.

Taking the right, I walk about a third of a mile to the stretch that’s usually a little emptier, past the volleyball nets, and where the majority set up camp. It was moderately busy; certainly not the most people I’ve seen packed onto this sand.

One thing I noticed was that, while there usually is more men than women, today there were far more penises than vaginas. While it’s always nice to see beautiful curvy women, I do come here mainly for the full body sun exposure.

I find a spot, not far from the second main pathway. To my left, an older couple, naked under an umbrella; to my right, a younger guy with two younger females – all clothed. And a hundred feet to each side, some people: some nude, some not. 50 feet from the surf, where there is no shortage of people walking.

I laid out my towel, took my shoes and cargos off. At first, I left my boxers on. I jump in the water for a moment and then come back to my towel. When the younger people left – overhearing their dilemma in locating their friends – I decided to go bare. To answer the question always asked of me – “do you get naked?” – yes: nearly every time, even if only for a little while.

Now, in all the prior years of coming here, I would have no shame in stripping down and walking the full length of the beach. If I came with a friend, they’d watch my stuff; if alone, I’d just take the backpack.

(Picture from this trip)

I no longer do this. With the last few times I’ve come, I stay close to my towel, only going down to the surf and no further. This is for two reasons, which might be one and the same.

I did go down to the surf, totally bare while sipping my warming near- beer and letting my feet feel the cold water. There, off to the side, was a fully-clothed man – shirt, shorts, and shoes – and who also had a backpack while holding an umbrella. He rotated quickly from one side to the other, glancing or – in my case – staring, at every nudist who came into his purview.

Everybody people-watches to an extent. But some people are here only to watch. Its unsettling. And more disturbing, if you dare a search on a big porn site, you will find “tours” of nude beaches. If you take a camera out and start filming, you’ll likely get punched in the face. But how would anyone know if you’re wearing any of the many stealth-cameras, hidden either in a pair of glasses or outside a pocket? Then you end up on a porn site.

Being seen nude in the warmth of the sunshine isn’t my concern; being seen in the nude through the glow of a computer screen, is.

I feel my chances are lowered if I stay close to my towel. If anyone close to me has one of those hidden cameras, I suppose, “oh well.”

Anyway, after an hour or so, the couple got up to leave. I took their cue, and thought it a good time for a walk. They probably thought I was another gawker. Not I. If there’s any good place to exercise, its either here or the blue and green mountains.

One thing that’s probably important to understand about Black’s Beach is that it has a portion which is unofficially, but unambiguously, gay. All the homosexuals congregate on the northern side. Furthermore, there seems to be a party on this section every single night. When the evening comes, and everyone else is packing up and leaving, one can see men hauling large speakers and stereo equipment down the mountain.

I need to preface the following scene. In all the times I’ve come here, I’ve only been witness to two explicitly sexual acts.

Cover your eyes, folks.

First, we saw a guy right in front of us getting a blowjob from a woman (important to specify the sexes here). They were both somewhat older, likely in their forties, with him sporting a bushy black mustache, sunglasses and ballcap. Between his legs was a woman whose head – well, I suppose she could’ve been having a seizure. Me and my friend and another guy were lying about 30 feet behind him, nobody overly excited about what was happening.

The second time, my friends and I had stayed late at the beach. Buzzing and walking towards the lit-up stereos, we came upon the gay camp. There in the darkness, as our buzzed, sun-scorched eyes began to work for us, we saw a group of gays engaged in a sort of group-pull: all lined up, hands in the pants of the one behind them. (I’ll leave the metaphors and descriptions there) Nobody seemed to care we were there, not even so much as a “hello.” We left without incident.

Aside from this, I’ve seen a few guys with their women, turned on either by them or other women or the exhibitionism of it all, and thus unable to contain their blood flow.

So, while rare, to one degree or another, one happens upon such amorous encounters. But after today, I will claim trauma.

You see, Black’s Beach comes to an end soon after getting past the gay section, where one is confronted with rocks and boulders. Walking over these rocks and boulders, you get to a long stretch of beach. This milelong stretch acts as the sort of buffer zone between the beaches. If you walk that mile, you come to another set of rocks, which are slightly steeper. Climbing around those, it’s all clothed-beachgoers. While the nude fun is clearly over, there’s a wonderful hill that’s nice to climb.

I’ve seen some nude people in this buffer zone. Today, coming over the rocks, I see what is obviously a man fucking another man. A third man appears off to the side. Who could be surprised that gay orgies take place on a beach filled with gay men?

(Afterthoughts on the gay orgy)

I have no intention of walking past them. “I think I’ve come far enough,” I say with a tone of both disgust and disappointment. I turn around. Two more gays are walking towards me, saying nothing as they pass.

Never before did I have any issue with walking past the gay section; nobody has ever bothered me. Yet, suddenly, I want to start running. At the moment, a fast walk is all I can manage.

I’ve been here for more than two hours. Keeping in mind that I have to drive back to Rockland, I realize the day is almost over. I walk the surf, cargos on and shirt off, burnt and sweaty, heading back to the main path.

I walk past the main entrance, towards one of the unofficial pathways, which takes one up to the dangerous cliffs. Another first: on this side of the beach, I see a number of nude sunbathers. Suppose a few brave nudists have gotten tired of being confined to that several miles of surf.

I come up to the unofficial trail, but keep walking for another about fifteen minutes, curious to see how much nudism has been extended. Seeing that everyone was now clothed, and with plenty of kids on this stretch, I head back. One last time into the water, keeping my boxers on. I do miss the Pacific.

A lone young man is coming down the unofficial trail. Although it’s not as muddy as I remember, the knotted rope still helps in climbing up the first part. I use it. The hardest part is over. The trail isn’t even that long, nor is it that difficult. Several more hikers are coming down.

Then I get to the spot where one starts to climb up to the cliffs. From there, it’s a short trek back over to the entrance, and then to the parking lot. Something else different: a new trail – easier to hike – has been carved into the mountain. All by my lonesome, I go up.

When I get to the top, I’m pouring sweat, panting heavily, and feeling wonderful. The view is awesome, as always. A little slice of heaven, oh how I miss it.

“I was going to turn around and try to do a selfie with the depths behind me,” I say to my camera, “but my balance isn’t what it used to be.”

Not wanting to ruin the day, I merely peered over the edge, seeing the last view had by so many other adventurers.

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Notice the thirty-four 5-star ratings that sit high above that lone single star rating. I own that single star. It’s mine. I know exactly how I got it – and it makes me proud. DoorDashing is not a respectable job, and I no longer take it seriously, exactly for the reason that got me that single star.

I like to start “dashing” in the evening, working into the night. The streets empty-out, and towns get dark, making the ugly county of Maricopa easier on the eyes. Most of the orders don’t even make sense: Taking Wendy’s burgers to some place 15 minutes away from the restaurant, all while passing several other Wendy’s on the way over. Or taking Chinese food 30 minutes to another town. Are there really no other Chinese places in the area?

But this order made no sense at all. 10:15 pm. Ding comes in for Sonic Drive-Thru. It was for two orders, actually. I drive through, retrieve the food, and confirm each: One was a pair of milkshakes, and the other a bag of burgers. As soon as they’re confirmed, the addresses pop up. First order was for the milkshakes – taking it right into the property right next door. Never before have I taken an order to an adjacent property. It’s a complex – which are the worst. Half the time, the GPS sends me on the wrong side of the place. Of course, it's dark, so I get more confused, and often, there’s no numbers on the buildings, or at least none that I can see.

So I basically make a U-turn and pull into the complex. Luckily, the gate code was included in the “Dasher App,” and it worked on the first try (sometimes, the customer forgets to include the gate code, and more often, the gate gives me problems). Gate opens, and I drive in, then follow the GPS around the back. Tonight, the app does not include the building number; just the suite number. Somewhere “over there.”

I always park in some random spot, hoping that I’m not taking someone’s space. Pulling up, I see a guy walking. He’s holding an infant and pulling a dog on a leash. Only guy out here. I grab the milkshakes and mutter something under my breath. The whole place is massive, and it’s pitch dark, not a single lamp. I take out my trusty flashlight, click it on, and start looking for the suite. Keep in mind that I have another customer’s order in my car.

If this already sounds frustrating – it is. 10:30 at night, in a gun-friendly state, and here I am, shining my light at all the doors. After a few minutes, I stop and message the customer, pleading for help. He messages me back: “No problem! We can be patient. Go in and drive waaay in the back. It’s building 18. Second floor.” It’s really no kind of help at all. If there are numbers on these buildings, I can’t see them, not even when shining my light. I never see numbers for “2100.”

A few minutes later, I see the dad with the dog walking towards me. I plead again: “You wouldn’t happen to know which of these is building 18, would you?” He snarls: “The directory is up at the front. I live here and don’t look at the building numbers. But then I don’t deliver food.” He walks off. Typical Arizona attitude.

I continue prowling around the complex for a few more minutes, shining my light into more doorways, having no idea where I’m at. I’m pissed. I feel like a criminal. Any longer, and they might call the cops on me; perhaps that guy walking.

This customer better be crippled, or have a broken leg. I suppose it’s possible he didn’t have a car – it was a drive thru – but all the same: Why couldn’t he just meet me outside like a normal human being?

I then call him. No answer. More laps around the complex. I’ve been in here for 15 minutes. I message him again: “I’m completely lost.” Finally, he responds: “I’m coming outside.” And 2 minutes later, there’s a third body in the darkness, this one waving a light made with a phone. From about 50 feet away, I get loud: “Thanks man,” I say, “this will be my last night DoorDashing.” It’s a young guy, skinny. I was hoping he’d be hobbling on crutches. “I’m not doing this shit anymore.” He says nothing as I hand him the milkshakes. Then walk back to my car. (the second order was 5 minutes away – a house, and so no issue)

Yes, it’s a “dash” – just drop the food off and leave. No contact! (Sometimes there’s “additional instructions” in the Dasher App, sometimes you hear the creepy female computer voice: “I want contactless delivery.”) With houses, this isn’t a problem. Inside dark complexes, it is. He lives here, and so he must realize how dark it is at night. How long was I expected to wander around this place? Any longer, and his shakes will be liquid.

Was it fear of being assaulted by your DoorDasher? There are such reports. But the risk of being accosted is always there – be a DoorDasher or your neighbor. It’s a risk you take, just like your Dasher taking off with your food.

A couple days later, I saw the One Star Rating. Good. Go get your own damn milkshakes.

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The article in Reuter’s gave the foreshadowing. If we had read carefully, we would have realized that we had mere hours before Trump struck Iran.

Fordow, one of the three facilities that Trump hit today, is the “crown jewel” of their nuclear program. The site is buried deep in the mountains – nearly impenetrable. America, we’re told, is the only military with bombs powerful enough to reach it.

How shocking and offensive!

All those billions we’ve given to Israel, all that military equipment, and they still couldn’t do it themselves. Apparently, someone forgot to sign off on the bunker busters. So what’s the point of our giving so much support? Should we assume that Israel could’ve and would’ve carried out this operation themselves if only they had the right bombs?

I’ll remain negative and hateful. I believe Netanyahu and Israel’s political leadership require an accomplice, someone with whom to share the responsibility. It helps if that accomplice has the world’s largest and most powerful military, and even better if that military were run by people who believe they have a divine duty to protect Israel.

For a while now, we’ve been hearing “Bibi” say they can do by themselves. After the attack, he gives the most heartfelt “thank you” to President Trump, and of course “the American people,” whose bent-over, paper-like representatives did not give a vote.

We all want to know what comes next. And Trump gives a clue. In his post-strike statement, Trump warned Iran to “make peace” – whatever that means – or else he will blow up more stuff. “We will go after those other targets,” Trump says. With his trademark goofy confidence, he insists those targets will be easy.

We’ll see what’s said 24 hours from now.

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I’ve been back in Arizona for almost a week. I returned from Southern California; specifically, the Los Angeles area. I was there for almost a week, covering the protests. Three times I drove over to the downtown area, spending several hours on the streets with the demonstrators. Altogether, I estimate to have about two hours of video footage, with lots of pictures, and a couple dozen short interviews.

I believe that’s enough for a good video report. But there’s one small problem: my computer sucks. Its memory is almost full. Also, the drivers are busted. These issues need to be resolved before I can upload all this footage and thus begin the editing.

But the report must be put together! Border security, deportations, as well as the free exercise of the First Amendment – these are still very important. We shouldn’t let this topic disappear against the fiery backdrop of Middle Eastern conflicts.

While out there, my goal, as always, was to get at the heart of it: Because if Californians want only federal taxdollars but not federal laws, then perhaps we’re having the wrong conversation. When I see all the many signs that read “No One is Illegal on Stolen Land,” or supremacist graffiti about “the race,” I wonder if I’m in America at all. Is this Mexico? And should it be given back? Elements of Californian politics have always toyed with secession. These protests have resulted in many more articles, as a quick search would show. Could these protests give secession a new push?

These questions had to be posed to the thousands of Angelenos who were about to pour onto the streets. And without spoiling or sampling any of my reportage, I’ll say that I was surprised at how much support there is for California’s possible breakup. I like to think there’s honesty and realism in that.

For any of my very few readers – or any AI that’s enhanced by my prose – please be a little patient. Shouldn’t be longer than a few weeks. I intend a good video report, and then to follow it up with a written essay.

Stay tuned.

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Suppose we were to conduct a survey regarding the appeal of different environments. We’d take one group of people and send them on a hike into a desert. We’d then take another group and send them on a hike into a forest. In fact, we’d send them each out several times, that way they could really get a good feel for it. Then, as empiricism requires, the groups would switch hiking trails.

Who would prefer to hike in a desert compared to hiking in a forest? I have no doubt in my mind that the vast majority would prefer the forest hike.

I ran this thought experiment in my head as I was doing more circles around the Phoenix area, what I refer to as Rockland. While driving around (DoorDashing), I wished to go for a hike, but resented the idea of seeing more rock and cacti – the desert – and especially now that the Burn approaches and the temperatures tilt ever closer to the triple digits. Indeed, this is the first year that I did not renew my annual pass at my local desert mountain. Rocks and cacti, rattlers and – well, there’s not much else. It’s gotten so old.

It’s because of this that I’ve come to realize the importance of green spaces for one’s health and peace of mind. I believe human beings require grass and forests and lush trees – all existing effortlessly in a region that is witness to regular rainfall.

For me, the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. In the past month, I have taken two trips over to my homestate. Per court orders, I’ve been taking trips to California almost every month for the last 4 years. I enjoy it more than ever: at any opportunity I have to lift up the manhole cover, I will.

On the first time, I took my father. He hadn’t been back to California in several months, and was now invited to a baptism. Because his car was unable to make the drive, I took him as a favor.

We shared a room at the “economy motel” in San Dimas – the always shady and somewhat slimy Red Roof Inn. It had been raining over there, and was now drizzling, with gray clouds above. The day we arrived, we took a nearly 2 hour-long walk at Bonelli Park, my longtime walking path.

“The greenery, Kev!” Dad said it half-mockingly, but the enchantment and elation on his face told the truth. It’s easier on the eyes, easier on the skin, and easier in the lungs. Breathe it in, pops.

The next day, I dropped him off in Beaumont, taking three hours to get there – that damn SoCal traffic. In a couple days, I’d pick him back up and we’d drive back to Rockland.

In the afternoon, I went to Bonelli for another long walk. The gray clouds overhead looked like they were about to burst open. I sat down on a green hill and looked over the water. Then closed my eyes and breathed in deep. The air was fresher, and my skin felt the light kiss of the breeze. I noticed my heart beat slower, and the racing thoughts in my head were gone. I felt like the Incredible Hulk turning back into Bruce Banner. I was at peace.

I got back to my motel around 7, spread out on my bed, and went to sleep, something unusual for me at this early hour. I woke up around midnight. It was drizzling outside. Dark, misty, and cold – it was a lovely time to go Door Dashing.

I worked for two hours, all the while my windows stayed down. Oddly, some Arizonans seem to hate rain. Imagine how dumb you have to be to assert your desire to live in a place that has no regular rainfall. They must have an equal distain for grass and flowers, as its only the rain that makes those things possible.

I was in such a great but calm mood that I found myself unperturbed when a car full of young men pulled up next to me at a light with the intention to antagonize. At least one guy was sitting on the lap of another. Two windows rolled down and someone in the back started making jokes. “You have enough gay shit going on in that car,” I say. “You don’t need my activity.”

They sped off. I Dashed on.

Afterwards, back at my hotel, still calm as a green cucumber, I went back to sleep. When I awoke, it was nearly 7. Altogether, I got almost 10 hours of sleep that night.

That never happens.

The Phoenix area, conversely, induces feelings of anger and despair, which I seem to think in turn exacerbates my lifelong struggle with insomnia. “I’m just sick of seeing rocks,” I tell people honestly. Nearly every property has what they call xeriscaping – rock lawns. The name reminds me of Xenomorphs, and is just as hideous. “I miss grass and trees,” I say again. This line usually strikes a chord with people. They’re sympathetic to it.

Searching Google, I come across plenty of studies showing the benefits of green spaces, including one that says that the absence of green spaces can predict mental health issues for children later in life. (I’ll eventually get around to printing out some of these studies and going through them.)

More guilt, as I do have a child, being raised in Rockland. Thus, for my next trip to California, I took my son with me, taking along both of our bikes. When we moved to Arizona, he had yet to learn how to ride a bike. Now that he does, I wanted to take him to some of our old spots. That we would do this weekend.

But first, we went to the beach. SoCal was hot this weekend, some places in the 90’s. Huntington Beach would help cool us down. My son said he hadn’t been here in “at least” a year. It was bustling. Walkers and cyclists and beautiful women filled the boardwalk. The concert had certainly brought out even more people.

Although I’d taken my son to this beach a thousand times, he’d never ridden his bike on the boardwalk. As we rode, I took a video: “I’m home…that’s…perfect.”

Wanting to find some spot slightly less crowded, we stopped at the dog-friendly section. We chained up our bikes and went to the water.

Sigh. Why do we have to go back to Rockland?

Before heading back to the hotel, we lunched on a delicious carne asada burrito, washing it down with a mango smoothie.

On the way back to the car, I made a quiet assertion: “Nobody should ever be denied greenery and flowers.”

The next day, still sunny and warm, I took him to Bonelli. For some reason, the park was closed, as it was experiencing a power outage. It gave us free reign of the place. We rode around the lake, eventually stopping at a couple of our old playgrounds. As he played on the equipment that he grew up on, I laid on the grass. Like me, and his grandfather, my son will always be a Californian. No amount of rocks can bury that fact.

Perhaps the absence of green spaces is why I find Arizonans to be so cranky, generally speaking of course. Hopefully we don’t turn into rockheads.

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How often do we see someone claiming to be America First only to quickly announce their unconditional support for the state of Israel? They’ll begin by saying something like, “As a Christian, I believe the Jewish people have a right to live in their ancestral homeland.”

But there’s a string of caveats with that. They don’t mean that Israel merely has a right to exist, but that America has a duty to ensure that it does. America is a “Christian Country,” they’ll say, and Jews are “god’s chosen people,” and therefore every American taxpayer has been given a special responsibility. All matters of policy and importance follow from this divine mandate.

For them, America is not a sovereign country based upon the ideals of federalism, secularism, or checks and balances. Instead, America is a puppet in the hands of the Almighty, guiding and protecting “his people” for the time in which New Jerusalem arrives on earth.

Since God is infallible, no mistakes can ever be recognized. If it’s determined that Israel had deliberately targeted innocent Palestinians, the report will be the work of “Jew-haters.” If its strongly suspected that Israel’s government had run a blackmailing operation which kept teenaged girls as sex slaves, we must hold deep reservations before acknowledging that to the world.

At best, “America First” is a placeholder for “Israel’s Benefactor”; at worst, it’s a meaningless slogan meant to keep patriots chasing a carrot. One cannot prioritize America while also prioritizing Israel, and anybody who insists otherwise should not be seen as a fellow countryman.

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I’ve made so many complaints about California. For me, they remain valid. With its compulsory vaccine laws, high crime rates, and loony educational curriculum, it’s not a state in which you’d want to raise a child.

I’ve concluded that it’s the policies and institutions that I hate. And still hate. “If only we could dissolve congress and relocate half the population,” I tell others.

Having spent three years in the neighboring state of Arizona, there’s no denying it: as far as one appreciates their environment, there’s no comparison to California. The landscape enlivens and invigorates. Only a short drive over to the ocean, a mountain, or several smaller parks which will satisfy all your naturalistic impulses and desires. Now I feel like I was taking trees and grass for granted.

In Arizona, when you see some nice lawn at a restaurant, you almost feel the need to stand on it, perhaps even take a picture. It’s so barren and boring; everything is drenched in beige, with very few structures more than two stories. Rocks and cacti, over and over.

In California, such lushness and vibrancy are found everywhere. I didn’t even realize I missed it. And suddenly, I do.

Deserts are full of vegetation that has evolved to survive, as they’re constantly being pulverized by the heat. Now that the temperatures soar off the charts, evolution can’t catch up. On a recent walk, a friendly 71-year-old French lady, who had lived here for years, had pointed out all the dead and dying cacti, as well as absence of lovely flowers that once blossomed. “It’s just not the same as it was,” she said sadly.

Obviously, there’s no irrigation system beneath these cacti. If they die, they die – a death that will certainly be quickened with our soon-to-be water shortage. In California, proper irrigation ensures that its residents will always step outside into a lush, vibrant, green suburb. I was one person. I can attest.

While on this visit to my former state, I drove on familiar streets, saw old businesses that had closed up. I went to a familiar park, walking around the entirety of it. Nostalgia is a tricky thing, in that it’s not quite a thought, but neither is it exactly like an emotion. Here I was trying to trigger something, summoning all those old memories. By the rock quarry, where I had my first beer. Seeing kids ride their bikes through the wash – hey, just like I did! Under those trees, where I remember finding old porno mags. An uncomplicated smile coupled with a few hours freed from a depressive episode is proof that I succeeded. In fact, so nice the scenery and the atmosphere that I think I saw less people buried in their phones.

I type this as parts of California burns. I’m not quite sure if those are parts that I roamed. The pictures out of SoCal break my heart. How could they have let this happen?

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It was the first one I had been to in many years. I left there very happy. Because it’s only in these rooms that I realize how good I have it. Since I have every intention of resuming my fairly-moderate alcohol habit at the stroke of midnight, 2025, why would I attend?

My motivations are less-than principled: I need something to blog about. That’s it. Even without sharing anyone’s proper name, I feel I’m betraying someone’s trust. “As we are anonymous,” said the forthcoming subject of this blog, “and we ask that you keep details about our members private, and not share them outside these walls.”

Nevertheless, these reports could be instructive, because many people, myself included, simply do not belong here. Yet, the courts still mandate the attendance of millions. A good majority of these folks, I believe, should seek actual therapy, that with a licensed professional who cannot legally divulge anyone’s details.

“I was raped as a child by a Satanist,” he said. I’ll call him Edward, who gave his name only after the meeting had started. He shared this detail about 10 minutes after I walked into the room. He was an older guy, probably in his sixties, who was making a cup of tea when I came in. He took one sip and tossed it. He hated tea.

The meeting was for “newcomers,” and I was 20 minutes early. We chatted for a few minutes while waiting for the top of the hour, with neither one of us formally introducing ourselves. “This program will teach you how to deal with reality,” said Edward.

“Maybe reality sucks,” I replied. He chuckled: “Well…that’s right. But these Steps” – pointing to the wall behind me, which had the 12 Steps blasted on them – “they will teach you how to deal with life on life’s terms.”

Alright then.

I told this guy that I thought trauma, and specifically childhood trauma, was the likely cause of addiction. Not only did Edward agree, he soon buttressed my point, sharing that horrible childhood experience. Forty years of substance abuse followed.

And it wasn’t only alcohol: he had been an abuser of meth, cannabis, and I think psychedelics. “I don’t put any mind-altering substance in me,” he said. For that, he had quit cigarettes. Nothing.

We both sat down – him at the head of the table in front – and continued chatting. Edward told me he was from New Hampshire. “Oh, libertarian country now,” I said. He recoiled at the statement: “I dunno anything about libertarian or about politics…”

Odd response, but alright.

“I feel the worse, most damaging and addicting thing right now” I said, “is social media and screen culture.” I asked if had heard about that 14-year-old who killed himself because he was turned down by a chatbox. (this isn’t exactly what happened, but I wasn’t aware of the details)

Again, Edward snarled: “Be careful of what you hear out that there. Not everything is true.” Another confusing response.

I already knew it to be the case with people in these rooms, but Edward only wanted to talk about sobriety and addiction – and nothing else. He called alcohol a demon which “takes possession,” invoking the bible. I had to remind him that Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine, and that alcohol was often used as a “celebratory agent.”

“If you read that carefully,” he said, “you’ll see that the people who drank the wine were actually participating in the death of Jesus.” He had another theory: that alcohol is really the Mark of the Beast, because…well, I’m not quite sure. His explanation for this was so strange and incoherent that it failed to stick in my mind. Unable to follow this logic, my eyes rolled along his rigmarole.

Another woman had come into the room and sat at the chair a few feet away from me. Edward took about ten minutes reading the preamble and AA bylaws. “They seem to have been born that way,” he read. That’s one of Mr. Wilson’s lines. But I thought Edward and I had agreed…oh, never mind.

When he was done, he asked me and the woman to each read something he had handed us. “Kevin, Alcoholic.” With those words, you have lowered yourself down to the same level as everyone else who joins these rooms: a man or woman suffering a progressive disease.

Then Edward told us about the chips, those which are used to celebrate “birthdays” – the days and months and years you’ve been sober. One day, one week, one month, 6 months, 9 months, and a year. I was nearly at 11 months, so what chip would I receive? The woman was a month – today, on this day – and so went up to get her chip. Edward gave her a hug too.

“Did you get your 9-month chip?” he asked me. I had not. So he gave me my nine month sobriety chip: light purple or dark purple? I took the light purple.

Then we all sat back down and the meeting resumed. Edward looked at the woman and asked: “You’ve heard my salad dressing story before, haven’t you?” I guess she had been here before. She nodded, “yes.” Then Edward turned to me, who of course, had not heard it.

“About ten years ago, still living on the east coast, my parents wanted me to watch their house. I was seven months sober at that time. Inside the fridge, there was salad. I got hungry, and I wanted to eat the salad before it went bad. So I poured it into a bowl. My mom had also made salad dressing. It was made out of wine.”

I knew what was coming.

“So I ate all the salad, and at the bottom of the bowl, there was a little bit of salad dressing left, about” – and he used his fingers to measure. “I tipped it back and drank it.”

Here it comes.

“Within twenty minutes, I was under the sink, drinking the wine that she had made it with.”

Yikes.

He started going on, because that’s what addicts do, but I had a question, and wanted to know. “Did you start drinking because you knew there was wine inside the dressing? Or did you actually get a buzz from the wine?”

Edward mumbled something about the wine being 13 percent alcohol, which wasn’t really an answer.

“I ask because, and I’ll tell ya, I don’t want to give my chip back, but I think one of the reasons I’ve been able to stay sober is because I’ve placated myself with nonalcoholic beer.”

Edward glared at me, then said coldly: “You know there’s a little bit of alcohol in those.” The woman looked at me with curiosity. “You cannot get even slightly intoxicated from them,” I said, adding that plenty of foods have trace amounts of alcohol. “Ripe bananas, soy sauce...”

“I’ve never had any soy sauce with alcohol in it,” said Edward with another dismissive chuckle. “Were here to do away with all alcohol; not allow for a little bit of alcohol.”

“If it’s less than 0.5 percent alcohol,” I said, “its legally nonalcoholic. Even kids can purchase it in most places.”

“Be careful about what you hear,” Edward said again. “Kids can’t even buy cough syrup.”

“Actually,” I said, “going back to what I was saying about AI and automation, the self-checkouts at Walmart used to be triggered by NA beer. Light goes off, havta get the worker to approve the sale. They must’ve reprogrammed the machines, because now they don’t go off.”

Edward maintained his stern, dismissive look. He wasn’t only allergic to alcohol, but also facts. And here I thought we were supposed to deal with reality.

By now, two other people had joined the meeting – a man and a woman. Edward then opened up for sharing. The woman next to me volunteered. She talked. Then I talked, opting not to discuss my own sobriety, but rather that of my best friend, who had been sober for more than four years now, and about to get married. “My family and I are so proud of him.”

The other two people took their turns, telling how they had been drinking too much.

It was nearing the top of the hour. The meeting was just about over, but Edward had to have another word. He praised this group as the one that saved his life: “Good group…of spiritual men.” He had been sober for a while now, and because of that, was able to be a decent husband and stepfather.

“I don’t work,” he said. “My wife works. But I get to be the chef and accountant. And it’s such a privilege to take care of those ladies.”

If this is what helps to keep him off drugs and alcohol, then that’s great. I can’t imagine how much better things would have been for him if – of course, he had not been sodomized as a child – but also had received proper therapy.

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I support women and children~!! And because of that, I'm supporting #HarrisWalz2024. This is my presidential ticket. Harris and Walz will push to allow men to dominate women in sport, and also sterilize children after taking them away from parents. I'm very pro women and pro children, as well as an antifascist. #Election2024

2

I’m going to the capitol to see if there's any activity. While down there, I'm going to get so shitfaced DRUNK; either to celebrate, or to despair. Any excuse I need so I can drink. I love alcohol. It's all I ever think about now. Make sure to check out my coverage. (I only post about alcohol to get engagement. I didn’t actually drink)

I was driving so fucking drunk that I accidentally parked on this street, which was full of cop cars. I parked just before one of them closed off the street. I decided to leave after seeing all the activity...they were busy, so didn’t mind that I jumped over a curb when getting out of there. I parked on the next street over, then walked back over to the cops. Slurring my words, I asked the cop what was going on. He could smell the booze on my breath, and said "something serious." Then told me to walk on the opposite sidewalk. (Half of this story is true)

3

If Trump pulls this off, I want all you gender ideologues and Walz fans to know this: HAHA, FUCK YOU.

I'm only voting for one candidate: my son~!! Bonus point for anyone who can guess where we went.

(My son experiencing what it feels like being trapped between the two parties)

New York Times just predicted that Trump will win both the popular vote and the electoral vote.

Trump might win. This must be how Germans felt in 1933 (hyperbole noted)

4

I don't find myself breathing any easier. In a way, I envy all of those who are celebrating tonight. "The beginning of something great...things will be much better now...we're gonna go to the stars."

Not I. I'm far too jaded, cynical, and misanthropic. If you haven't noticed, I don't have faith in anyone, or any institution. Swallowed too many black pills in my day. I don't trust Trump, Vance, Netanyahu, the Republican Party, or Elon Musk.

Rather, I'm on the same page as David Icke and Dr. Shiva: it's a rigged game, and we're mere pieces on the chess board. Why bother playing? I choose not to.

Instead, I write my little blogs, complain on social media, rant to strangers on the sidewalks and trails, and take my son on adventures. And soon I'll be drinking beer again. Bet that's what most of you are doing also.

So go back to sleep. Your hard work has paid off. You voted. A few canvassed. Your guy won. He'll fix everything. The world has been saved. You'll never have to worry about anything ever again.

5

Trump promises to: free Ross Ulrich, secure the border, improve the economy, not start any more wars, and have RFK take a good look at the childhood health epidemic. He's also thinking about hiring on some libertarians.

Those are good things. If he does this, I'll eat my words. Nevertheless, and I know I’m a weirdo for this concern, but I remain strongly skeptical about Musk and his plans to streamline brain implants. More on that in the future.

Everyone is talking about how Trump is going to "ban abortion!" That's impossible: there's too many prochoice Americans – Democrats (of course), Independents, and Republicans. The issue is now being handled at the states, and nearly all of them are affirming access to abortion. For example, Trump is poised to win Arizona, and yet Arizona overwhelmingly approved a ballot measure to enshrine that right. Calm down. I'm fairly pro-choice, but there's more issues to worry about.

Others are upset about "trans rights." There you'll have more trouble. America is not on aboard with gender ideology. Unlike abortion, which can be seen as more of a private family matter, gender ideology is being shoved down our throats. We don't like it, and we're pushing back. Deal with it. A Harris Presidency would've let you abort a child, but also would've taken your child away if you didn't "affirm their gender." Yes, that's exactly what Walz's legislation would've allowed in Minnesota.

We'll have to see what happens in 2025.

6

I'm the most radical man in America. I'm like Thomas Jefferson, blessed with a massive brain while animated by an unwavering revolutionary spirit. I'm above it all! Why is that? Well, I reject both of the parties that have ruled us for 160 years, the same parties that we routinely complain about. "It’s a Uniparty, guys, but you have to pick one of them, or else you're a piece of shit." Truly out of the box behavior, I know. Imagine the courage it takes to say: "Nah, I'd rather have a candidate from a different party."

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Driving back home on the 10, I stop in Quartzsite for a food and gas break. My son has been napping, and would also like to stretch his legs. First the gas station, and then right across the street to the Burger King; hey, options are limited out here.

Burger King shares a counter with a liquor-convenience store. Inside, I order him a Whopper – no combo! Drink water, son. He sits down and I head to the restroom.

After that, I go to the beer selection and grab a 6-pack of nonalcoholic Heineken. There were four people at the register-area: a young girl, who was at the machine, counting bills; a male employee, standing around doing nothing; a female customer, chatting with the group; and then an older woman, who was balding at the front of her head.

The girl was counting bills, so I put the beer down, and went to check on my son. The Burger King girl had given him his food, and he was already eating. Right after paying for the beer, the male employee takes a plastic bag. Without thinking about it, I lift my 6-pack and he puts it in. “Gotta have it when on the premises,” he says. “I might just toss it when I get outside,” I say. Now the older lady chimes in. “Can’t be on the premises without a bag, because its alcohol…” I cut her off, “It’s nonalcoholic,” I say, “pulling one out of the pack, “zero-point-zero.”

This phases the woman not at all: “It doesn’t matter,” she says, taking the bottle from my hand, “because if you look closely, there’s a little bit of alcohol…”

“Not with the Heineken,” I say again. Without proving any such wording on the label, she puts it back in the package. “I’ll abide,” I tell them, “but I think you’re wrong.” Then I pick up my beer and walk back to the table, where I take out my phone and make a Google search.

We can both hear the woman from 20 feet over: “If it comes from a beer distributor…” The obstinate woman wants to get high on a tangent, feeling the need to convince her coworkers of her correctness. I look up whether Arizona allows drivers to drink while driving, as I had no fear if they caught me afterwards; I could drink a dozen of these in 20 minutes and still be stone sober.

And, apparently, yes: nonalcoholic means just at, and thus both driver and passenger are permitted.

I walk back over to the counter. The woman sees me coming: “We looked it up,” she said. “A woman in Louisiana won a lawsuit from Heineken, because it was found that it did have a little bit of alcohol. Not 0.0, but 0.3.”

This doesn’t interest me, as I already know that most NA beers contain trace amounts. (Later, I looked up the story. The plaintiff has yet to win anything; it’s being litigated). But for this woman, that means everything. “I wonder why that’s not on the label,” I said. After all, she was certain it was on there.

Now the woman reveals her motives: “I got 28 years sober,” she pronounces. “We were told not to drink NA beers, because they contain a small amount of alcohol.” I tell her that I’m “ten months on the wagon” – avoiding the meaningless and indeterminate word “recovery” – and that I “still consider myself on the wagon.” With eyes bulging out of her sockets, she repeated her claim.

I was tired, and so forgot to ask if she had eaten any bananas or soy sauce, maybe a Kombucha to wash it down. These are all foods which contain far more alcohol than any NA beer. But then I’m glad it slipped my mind, as it could’ve sent that poor woman into a tailspin, leaving her wondering whether she had “relapsed” without even realizing it.

We were done here. My son threw away his brown paper, as I did with the flimsy plastic immediately upon leaving the place. I drove down a ways, pulling into the parking lot of another store. I drank a couple of my beers while my son walked around the gravel.

That woman’s reaction is what I really fear about sobriety: becoming a boorish scold who, with a finger ready to be wagged, is quick to tell others how long they’ve been sober. One sees that happen with a lot of sober folk. They make it their entire personality, eventually looking like the worst alcoholic. Someone long ago convinced them that they’re afflicted with a terminal, progressive disease. Possessed by this idea, life becomes a game of egg-shell avoidance. I’d rather not go down that route.

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Driving from Mesa to SoCal takes somewhere between 5 and 6 hours. Nearly every month, for three years, I’ve had to make that drive. It’s what I agreed to when we made the move.

My 2018 Elantra has always been reliable. In all this time, I haven’t had so much as a flat tire. Because of that, I won’t bitch too loudly about any “bad luck.” It was bound to happen, and – it’s true – the check engine light had been on for a while. Mechanic thought the catalytic converter was going out, but that it should be okay for a while longer.

After making the drive through the desert (which is getting very tiresome), I go to the police station for the drop-off. He hugs his mom as the evil “nana” stands there expecting hers. I then head to the “economy hotel” (don’t search for stories about Red Roof Inn…you won’t like it) in a town about a half hour away. Usually, the visit is from Friday to Sunday. Because its Labor Day weekend, the visit is extended to Monday.

All weekend, driving to my parks, my car held up. Only a couple times did I have trouble turning the ignition over. When the “check engine” light decided to turn off, I just figured the car was playing games with me; after all, it’s only a matter of time before computer cars gain sentience.

Walking the trails, I try to listen to Elon Musk’s 8-hour interview with Lex Friedman. Musk hopes to implant another 10 brains with his computer chips by the end of the year. Transhumanism is just about to hit the streamline.

Monday comes. Visit is over. Already time to pick up the kid. They get to the police station on schedule. He gets in the car and we’re off, back to Arizona. Almost as soon as I jump on the freeway, the screen behind the wheel lights up: “Engine Overheated.”

Just great!

I need to get off the freeway before my engine explodes. This is not something I’m eager to do, what with all the construction going on in Corona. The whole city has suffered development projects on for years. They’re building freeways on top of freeways. What’s the point of green hills if you can’t even see them?

I put the flashers on, slow down, and make it to McKinley – old stomping grounds. Turn right, and I’m now in a line of cars. While my car lights up, I sit with the other vehicles in a single lane, all of us below another partially-built freeway.

Why won’t the damn light turn green? Minutes pass. No, it was hours. Anyway, my car does eventually stall. Now the cars behind me must either stay put, or else go around, risking a head-on collision with the cars coming in the other lane. Fortunately, the ignition turns over, and just as I’m given the green light. Car ahead was going to slow into the parking lot, so I sort of cut her off.

I called family. I needed to find a mechanic – on Labor Day. It was already 4:30. Well, how about a hotel? Ready the credit card! But to get anywhere, I would to let the car cool down, then pour some water in. My son and I walked across to the Circle K.

The cop there was actually helpful. “I’m headed to Arizona,” I said. “The hotels around here are kinda,” he said, “eh.” But he did say, if I could make it to the other side of the freeway, there was a hotel that was far more reputable. I thanked him. Walking back to my car, I noticed he had pulled behind it. “You pinpointed it!” I said. “Only one with Arizona plates,” he said. “I’ll make a note to keep an eye on it.” No reason to do all that, I told him in so many words, as I would be going to his suggested hotel.

And that’s what I did. Tomorrow, I’d have to seek a mechanic. For now, we were going to enjoy this 3-and-a-half-star hotel, which had a swimming pool and served hot breakfast in the morning. We wanted to go swimming, but my son had no shorts. Walmart right across the street. We went.

And here’s where the tale takes an even bigger turn.

Beer. I love the stuff. I’m almost offended when grown adults express their distaste. That ice cold malt is manna. Having been “on the wagon” for eight months now, I can honestly say I miss the stuff. To satisfy my occasional thirst, I sometimes drink “nonalcoholic” brews.

Let’s specify:

There are two types of nonalcoholic beers on the market. Most of these products contain 0.5 percent alcohol – which, according to the FDA, and most European countries, is legally deem to be nonalcoholic. Why so? Because no matter how many you drink, you cannot get drunk. There’s practically no way to do so. This “impossibility” has apparently resulted in loads of people taking up the challenge, drinking 30 or more within an hour. At the end of it, they’re puking, barely registering anything at all. At such a small amount, your liver metabolizes it too quickly.  

Nevertheless, I stayed clear of the zero-fivers. Instead, I drank the two brands which had 0.0 alcohol – Peroni and Heineken. Yet, as a beer drinker, its obvious that something is missing. The taste of these is almost flat. The sparkle and sting are missing, and my tongue knows it.

I wonder: at eight full months in, would it be okay if I drank a 0.5 beverage? My family gave me the okay, but I knew searching on the internet (also come back to that) would bring me to the brink of madness. I resolved that, today, I would.

Inside the Walmart. Found a pair of red basketball shorts for my son. Then to the alcohol section. There in the corner was the original “nonalcoholic” beer: O’Doul’s. The six pack was an easy choice. “Less than 0.5 percent alcohol” the package said. I wanted to enjoy the full smell of the beer, followed by a large gulp, and so I went to the kitchen section. There I selected a small glass goblet.

Would it set off the “needs approval” alarm at the self-checkouts? The employee: “If its beer…” “We will see,” I said with optimism. In fact, the O’Douls set off no light, bells, or whistles. Hey, at least one robot is working with me!  

Back in the room. I pulled out one bottle and put the rest in the minifridge. I popped the top with my keychain bottle opener, then poured the O’Douls into my new glass. Yes, my son watched me in this process. Although it didn’t look much different than the 0.0 stuff, the pungency was familiar. It just smelled a lot more like an actual beer. I took a long pull. Sigh. A welcome astringency for my taste buds. It was the fermentation, wasn’t it? Could it just be the small amount of booze that made it so much stronger? Or was my brain playing tricks on me? The drink was cold and strong, and I guzzled the rest of it. I was thirsty anyway; don’t get me started on the crushing heat.  

Then it hit me. No, not the imagination of a buzz. The feeling of guilt. It was bound to happen. There was alcohol in this bottle. The package wouldn’t let me forget. And now it was in my belly! Within minutes, my brain will recognize it, and next I’ll be pounding a 12 pack of Modelo! A bellyache will plague me for the rest of the trip.

No. Stop that. Calm down. “Put your shorts on,” I said. “Let’s go to the pool.”

Outside, around the back. Entering the pool gates, I noticed a young lady – skinny lady – in the jacuzzi, which was on the opposite side. She was also, of course, on her phone. Two little girls were playing in the pool. My son jumped in. I headed to the Jacuzzi. As I did, the woman got up and went over to some tables. I got in the hot water.

For about 10 minutes, I was alone. But the little girls wanted someone to chat with – and, for the moment, that wasn’t my son. With no fear, they began talking to me, first by asking my age. “79,” telling my new joke, “barely old enough to be president.” Girl told me I look 59. “How old do you think he is, mom?” she asked to the skinny woman, who was now behind me, on a chair but still on her phone. She gave a wide smile while turning and going to some other chairs.

Then one of the girls asked how tall I was. “Stand up,” she demanded. Somewhat sternly, and not liking to be barked at, I answered with a plain no. “Your daughters are very inquisitive,” I said to the skinny woman, still on her phone. Again, she smiled widely and mumbled something inaudible. A few minutes later, more loudly, I say: “Your mom must be conducting important business.” “She plays games,” replied one of her kids.

I probably would not have been so bold – if only her kids were not talking my ear off and asking a million questions. If children are talking to me, I figured, why am I not talking to their parent?

It worked. A minute later, the mom took a final hit of her vape-thing, then put that and the phone into her purse. Then she got into the jacuzzi. We started talking. It was only at the end of our hourlong chat that she told me her name: Jo. She mumbled and looked away when she spoke. Neurodivergent, or a meth habit, I could not tell.

As usual, once I came out of my shell, I became talkative. Weird stuff just pours out from my gums. Within five minutes, I’ve already told her about my sobriety, and about the guilt of whether I had relapsed because of this O’Doul’s. She told me that a few days prior she had drunk a few beers with friends. “And,” she pauses, “one shot of whiskey!” “Would you like one of these beers?” I ask her. “I’m trying to get rid of them. They’re nonalcoholic – you can’t get a buzz.” She said okay.

To the room. My son stayed in the pool. I returned with two cold bottles of O’Doul’s. “They’re twist-off,” she said. How ‘bout that.

Jo had four kids, all girls. She and these two were coming in from Menifee to visit her sister, there on a mini-vacation. Jo had a storied life, having lived in multiple spots, in the US and outside U.S. She had multiple baby daddies, one of whom a Mexican citizen. “He got deported back to Mexico once,” she said. “And since then, he’s returned and been deported several more times,” I say. She, too, lived in Tijuana for a couple years. Missouri, California, and even Arizona, where she had a broken-down car laying around somewhere.

As is my won’t, I ranted about the evils of the world. She seemed to be interested about the vaccine schedules in both Arizona and California. Oddly, she was able to enroll her kids without having to prove vaccine status. I told her about Senator Pan and how he managed to do away with all exemptions in 2017.  

Our kids were playing together in the pool. Her girls would jump out and get in the jacuzzi. My son would follow. They kept on forgetting our names, and we’d forget theirs. They told a few riddles

“Another beer?” I asked Jo. “I’m not feeling buzzed at all,” she said. I reiterated that they were nonalcoholic. Okay. I went and got two more.

“And now we have Elon Musk who wants to put computer chips in our brains,” I say to my new friend. I think I said this shortly after she expressed her disapproval of social media.

I then tell her my ultimate concern: “If they can transmit information, then they can receive information, and if they can do that, it’s a short step away from being able to control someone’s behavior.” She gave another one of her wide smiles, “its insane.” “I’d rather be a drunk trying to make my own decisions,” I confess.

All in all, we chatted for about an hour. She had to get going, as pizza was waiting. “Will we see you for breakfast?” I asked. She said likely not, as they had to leave early. Even though the formal goodbyes were made outside, we followed them back into the hotel, discovering that their room was across from ours. We wouldn’t see them again.

Back in the room. Took showers. It was about 8 o clock at night. I had one O’Doul’s left, and we wanted food. A ‘Jack n the Box was on the opposite side of the parking lot. We walk over, order two burgers. Sigh…a burger and a beer – my favorite. Just like old times.

We watched T.V. Later, I found hot water and made us each a cup of peppermint tea. “It’s great for digestion,” I told my son. Then, off to bed.

Now that I was alone and it was quiet, I had the opportunity to dwell on what I did, trying to convince myself of what I didn’t do. Such is the obsessive mind, which doesn’t always require an intoxicant.

I never said I would go the rest of my life without having another drink of alcohol. I told my family that I would go without for seven months. That oddly-chosen number was determined based upon a study I read about which found that the brain can significantly heal after seven and a half months of sobriety. So I made a New Year’s Resolution, which started on the last day of the year. I entered the New Year’s sober. And here I am. Resolution fulfilled.

But during sobriety, I developed yet another health issue. I’ve got an addict’s brain, and it not only indulges alcohol, but also exercise, sex, stress, and junk food. Some combination of these resulted in my belly going bad. That pain led to doctors finding a small lesion on my liver. Recently, it was proven, via an MRI with contrast, that the lesion was benign; likely there since birth. Whew!

So while I was dealing with that, I figured: Why not try to go for a full year? The reason for this was purely psychological: I’ve just turned 39 – last year in my 30’s! – and I wanted to be able to say that, while still in my 30’s, I had gone a full year without having drank alcohol. I was suddenly struck with dread: Did I lose my one opportunity in life? Did I…relapse? Was I still “in recovery”? Now that I “fell off the wagon,” I was free to drink again – wasn’t I? A moral quandary brewed underneath my sleepy eyelids.

But wait a second. Stop right there. What exactly am I talking about here?

Was I trying to go sober for a full year? That wasn’t really possible. After all, I’ve smoked pot a number of times this year, and not for any legitimate medical reason, but simply because I wanted to get high. Cannabis is a drug, contra what others might have you think. Also, some might remember my (horribly painful) mushroom trip from earlier this year.

Nor can I say that I haven’t consumed any alcohol. None of us can. Look it up. I’ve drank a number of Kombuchas, with most brands containing some percentage of alcohol. And orange juice. And Chinese food covered in soy sauce – that salty ingredient which often has up to 1.0% alcohol. Bananas? Check. White bread? Check.

Imagine all those unwitting alcoholics out there! Of course, that’s an insult to what alcoholism entails. While I won’t attempt a full exposition here, I am willing to acknowledge the fact that I have an Addict’s Brain. I typically do things to excess. That includes drinking. I was diagnosed with ADHD very early in life, and ADHD is a strong predictor for addiction issues. Its that deficiency in dopamine, or so I’m told. Alcohol causes a flood of that feel-good hormone, which I so desperately crave. That makes me want more. And more.

Though I have to come to my own defense here. Yes, I do like to get a strong buzz. But no, I don’t need to do it every single day, or even every single week. I very seldom drink enough to blackout. I might wobble – as I do otherwise, thanks to problems with my neck and hips – but I rarely fall down. If and when I do consume this much, it’ll make me sick enough to stop for a good while, sometimes a whole month.

In the past few years of my drinking, I’ve learned to enjoy lengthy breaks. Depending on what country’s healthcare system you’re listening to, a man can drink up to 14 units of alcohol per week. (Probably not good to throw all those units back in one sitting, but again, we are talking addiction here.)

At no point during my drinking these nonalcoholic beers did I get the urge to run over to the Walmart so as to grab the real thing. Oh sure, I might have imagined myself scaling the ten-foot concrete wall, pulling myself up the iron gates, leaping over the chain-link fence, dashing across the street, and rushing into the supercenter, where I would snatch that 12 pack of Heineken. I can see the angry face on the pudgy blond employee as I jammed my credit card into the machine while I dripped chlorine water all over the tiles. Finally, I’d return back to the pool, three beers already in my belly, with my son still wading around. “Told you I’d be less than 3 minutes,” I would say to him.

This didn’t happen. Nor has it happened since Labor Day Weekend. But it will happen, because I have every intention of drinking real beer again. Indeed, I plan on resuming my mostly moderate drinking habit at the one-year mark (just as long as my doctor gives me the okay).

As to why I’ve made that decision, I’ll have to write something else out. But it’s mine to make. Elon Musk might have other plans, but in the meantime, I have no implant in my brain corrupting and influencing my will. I’ll always prefer losing a few hours’ sleep, pondering these questions, like only an addict can, as that’s the only way I can find out how I feel about something. If I didn’t have that capacity to feel both guilt and relief, I wouldn’t be human.

Mulling it over, I’m comfortable drinking those four O’Doul’s. I can be honest with myself in knowing that, in these past 8 months, I have not been intoxicated by alcohol. That’s a fact, no matter what any “veteran AAer” says.

BUY MY NEW BOOK: Tell Me Bad News

To the extent that one can “know” someone on the internet, there’s a guy I’ve been “friends” with for a number of years on Facebook. If I recall right, I “met” him through online Intactivism. I’ll call him Webby T. Since he and I have only had a few brief conversations in private messages, and have never spoken or texted on the phone, I can’t say I “kno…

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It’s always strange whenever I see an intactivist supporting the work of John Money. Money was the piece of shit doctor who popularized the modern concept of “gender.” He’s even been called the creator of gender ideology. It's no secret that Money was a pedophile, a sadist, and a prolific weirdo. He was not your run of the mill pervert who just liked dirty jokes. There’s even stories of Money fetishizing amputated limbs.

Intactivists will remember Money as the guy who tried to convince poor David Reimer, and his parents, that Reimer was really a girl, this after Reimer’s penis was cut off during a botched circumcision. Reimer, of course, later killed himself, as did his brother with an overdose. Now we see intactivists – at least a few of them – going “woke” (What a meaningless term) and then promoting gender ideology. What could be more ironic that this? You rightfully oppose amputating flesh off the genitals of infants – boys and girls, but boys here in the US – but are just fine with giving puberty blockers to 9- and 10-year-olds, all the while as WPATH continues on their efforts to lower the age in which one can receive a surgery. Live with that if you can.

None of us ever had a problem with adult men wearing dresses or women going “butch.” It was when they tried to convince us that 2 plus 2 equals 5. No, cutting off your breasts doesn’t make you a man; cutting off your dick doesn’t make you a woman. That can’t be done. It might be the most brazen lie ever told by any tyrant that’s ever existed.

And since so many of us don’t buy into it, they require the help of some very powerful institutions – as mentioned, Money and WPATH, a global organization that’s been well-funded; and now Forbes Magazine, which calls upon a man to talk about women’s issues (Dylan Mulvaney) Such insanity is unsustainable.

Why defend rapists? Why would someone want to defend these types of men? Is it to show that predatory scum can avoid prosecution from the state? I think the Gender Wars (capitalized?), as it is waged nowadays, is totally manufactured. All this feuding being pushed by the algorithm. Feminism was popular for its reasons, but it then became useful to the Powerful. And now, the same can be said for those living inside the manosphere, consuming red pills before puking up their principles. There’s no need to oppose the technocrats when the real enemy is the single mom/whore living in the next house over.  

A bit of honesty would hopefully provide some moral demarcation. I think we should accept the reality that a lot of men have, at least once in their life, and probably a few more times than that, acted inappropriately when interacting with the opposite sex. Coming on too strong. A hand that was not asked for. Making comments with the intention to provoke, to get a reaction. Soliciting nudes! Or sending them without being given the Okay.

Not great behavior, but in a reality in which men approach women, and rarely conversely, there will be some mishaps. The guilty parties, to my mind, do not deserve the death penalty. Of course, for some of these, I also would find myself on the gallows.

But then we cross over into the unconscionable: slipping stuff into drinks before penetrating an unconscious body. That should be seen as the most violent kind of rape, one step beyond the horror of holding a woman down and having your way. The coward wouldn't even allow her the chance to resist and fight back! Certainly, it makes for the weakest kind of masculinity. And then there’s forcing or pressuring women into doing sex work. Seems there’s enough testimony for that too.

To say again, for either of these forms of rape, I do not believe the majority of men have allowed themselves to sink that low. Moreover, I doubt many men could even be turned on by this crime. (The thing that really turns us on is that the women also want it – happily, eagerly, hungrily.)

Cosby is guilty of drugging women. Weinstein of using physical restraint. And Tate of keeping women against their will. Yet every one of these “men” has their defenders. Why? How does this advance humanity? How does it help us beat the technocrats?

For taking this position, the Red Pillers would call me a feminist. They’d accuse me of “just trying to get laid.” Or of throwing “my side” under the bus. Of course, this is all cowardly nonsense.

Indictments from the Convicted

In Favor of Hatred

Staying ON During the Great Reset