“He leaked some sort of drug-like substance from his nose, teeing off shots at the other golfers on the course”.
I’ve got a fiction book coming out in three months. It’s not part of the trilogy that I might continue to write. The problem with that trilogy is, I need to re-do DYSTOPIAN AMERICA. As of right now, that book is like The Stand before Stephen King edited it, and added like five hundred pages.
I will also be publishing a non-fiction book in six months. It’ll be about me, my life, and it will be the book where I finally tell you the honest truth of my life.
Otherwise, I need to gain power. Yes, power. Validation, acceptance, I aim to be a popular writer/storyteller. It’s not enough to die poor. I need more in this life, I feed on that shit.
So, ado until next time.
When I first began to snowboard, I had a tough time in my pursuits of being a rad snowboarder.
My buddy told me, “gravity will catch you”, applied from going toe side to heel side.
I finally got it. It took a leap a faith, to trust that, I wouldn’t land on my ass. Ever after I figured it out, I loved to snowboard. Read the snowboarder magazines, got a nice board and boots, pants jacket, helmet googles. I had the works. Still do, although I don’t snowboard anymore.
The thing about gravity is, we can feel it happening. Trip, sometimes fall, sometimes balance it out, and not fall.
I learned to gradually shred the powder. To create little trails in the snow, my board did that, I should say. It was so much fun. Hauling ass- going at least thirty miles an hour down the mountain. A need for speed, and adrenaline.
I’ll always remember those days, when I was snowboarding. Good times.
If you live near a mountain with snowboarding trails, you should try it, if you haven’t already. Stick with it. Once you learn the basics, that’s all there is to it. The rest is confidence, which- isn’t easy to have, but you’ll see what I mean. Trust the board, trust yourself- then you can go to the summit runs like I did that one time in Colorado. Near fifteen thousand feet in elevation. Whoah. That was high up, without a doubt the highest I’ve ever been. I wasn’t even stoned high, I was just high up.
Well, I should do something today. Watch a movie or read a book. Probably go with the latter.
Look to all that you have. Be grateful.
See how much you already bring to the table. You offer much.
Be glad that you’re a part of something greater than yourself, be it a community, or something similar.
Lift yourself up, today. Be content within.
Do Not Dishonor
I mentioned Nick Miller was a good friend of mine by the time I graduated high school. The thing about Nick, at times, was he could come off as really racist. Which baffled me, because, Nick had no legit reason to be so angry at say, people from Ireland. And he made fun of African Americans too, using a variety of that word we all know, and most of us avoid saying, like, ever.
Well, dumbass Nick. Makes a post on Facebook, I believe. Talking shit about people from the Mid East. Dropped the word, sand n-word.
Turns out our mutual friend Adam, his father, was from Dubai. Which means Adam read that, and took it personal. I mean, why wouldn’t he? I think people always kind of thought of Nick as the Eric Cartman of the group. Just, straight up delusional in his obnoxious statements sometimes.
Well, Adam straight up said, I’m going to find you, when I return to the states. He was visiting Dubai, on vacation.
Nick is at a party. I wasn’t there. Guess who magically shows up? That’s right, Adam.
Adam didn’t whoop Nick’s ass, but since Nick dishonored him, I think he popped Nick in the face, pretty good. He embarrassed and humiliated Nick in front of everyone else at the party. And like any good showdown, the audience was quiet, watching to see what would ensue.
Nick took it, because deep down Nick knew he really fucked up. Nick probably realized, he shouldn’t have said what he said.
If you’ve got friends that are part of the minority, saying racist shit… Well, duh, ya dumbass, what do think is going to happen, if you do that? Nothing positive will come of it, I’ll tell you that much.
Then, I heard about Mike. Ironically, I met Mike’s younger brother, who was also named Nick, before I even knew Nick had a brother, specifically Mike.
Nick, was, well- kind of an odd, pudgy stoner. He wasn’t obese, but he for sure didn’t work out, or eat healthy. Which, who cares, not that big of a deal. It’s not like I was in warrior shape myself. But, there’s a reason I mention these aspects of Nick, younger brother of Mike. Nick, was a beta, which, is fine. I pretty much am a beta, or a sigma, myself. I’m not an alpha, really. So, in my mind, I heard about Mike, and I thought, “well, his brother Nick is a stoner without care, Mike can’t be much different”. I was soooo wrong.
Come to find out, Mike was indeed a fucking apex Viking dude. He was a fighter, and a lover, too. But Mike, when I finally befriended Nick Miller, told me about Mike. And the other friends of Mike, that were our friends, verified the same thing about Mike.
Stories existed of battles between the Tongans and the Vikings. From different high schools. They’d show up at a location, and fucking battle. Sometimes with weapons, often times with fists. People nearly died, went the ER. I mean, that’s hardcore. To seek that out? That’s a real, genuine Viking.
At one point, I went out with these stoner athletes into the desert to drink and smoke and have fun. We’re all hanging out, and this is the first time I ever see Mike, even before I knew about him. Apparently Derek, pulled some fuck shit on Mike. Mike was also in the ER because of the shit Derek pulled. I dunno what happened, but Mike got jumped by thugs with brass knuckles. You do the math.
Anyway, Mike rolls up with two other Viking looking dudes. So, three of them… And maybe like seven or eight of us, who rolled there together. We technically had them outnumbered. But, I had no fucking idea what happened.
MIke confronts Derek, who’s fucked up (stupid choice, Derek). And Mike calls him out. Then, he doesn’t fight him, or maybe he says, “you wanna square off, Derek?” Derek said no. The rest of us, quiet as a church mouse. The other guys must’ve known Derek had seriously fucked up, and so- none of us really had Derek’s back. Kind of like, “you’re on your own this time, Derek”. Derek had dishonored MIke.
Mike basically said, “if you do that shit again, I’ll fucking kill you, do you understand?” He said it, and that was the first time I could tell someone was serious about their promise of murderous violence. Derek accepted without saying much at all. Then, Mike and his Viking friends, rolled off back out into the desert, just disappeared.
Derek was a fighter too, by the way… But even Derek knew, Mike would whoop his ass, any given day.
I heard that Mike had such crisp punches. That he really knew how to throw a mean-ass punch, and inflict serious damage with his fists. My buddies also told me, Mike really fucking knew how to fight. It was almost magical, watching him throw down, is what I heard.
Never saw Mike fight. In fact, I pissed him off over a misunderstanding of trying to get some cannabis. I asked Nick Miller about it, and he thought Mike had kind of overreacted. I thought so too, but deep down… I knew that that was just who Mike was. He wasn’t a Christian, at all. Mocked the Christians, in fact. Mike, I really don’t believe showed mercy or forgiveness to anyone. Which, you know, is indeed a badass warrior thing. But at the same time, I stopped talking to Mike. Because, I didn’t want to piss him off to the point that I got my teeth knocked in. Because, I’m not really a Viking mofo. I grew up soft, in a non-denomination Christian church. I didn’t really have an urge to fight, or inflict violence on others. And I kind of realized, best to just leave Mike be.
Mike was a cool dude, but if you said pussy bitch shit, that angered him profoundly. And, I’ve said some pussy bitch shit. So I knew, best to just part ways.
But I’ll always remember that I knew a real badass, when I was still pretty damn young. I wouldn’t say Mike and I were ever friends, more mutual friends of friends, but it was cool to see how he viewed the world, and people in it.
Ended up with a degree in English Literature.
Looking back, well- that’s irrelevant to the here and now.
I read a lot of English Literature. Studied it. Don’t remember near half as much as I’d hoped to. laugh out loud… Oh well.
Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, Alan Moore- those authors wrote disturbing shit, earlier on in time. So I stumbled across their stuff. Chuck Palahniuk was also someone I stumbled across earlier on in my life of reading fucked up shit.
Then, I found splatterpunk, and extreme horror.
I’m not sure when those genres were founded, but- they’ve been around for much longer than I initially thought. Vader Keene has been writing extreme horror for awhile, and he’s just one name.
Stephen King, also wrote some, and still writes some, really disturbing stuff.
In fact, I believe Stephen King was the first author I came across that gave me nightmares.
R.L. Stein, but- Stephen King is a dark lord compared to R.L. Stein. And I’m not knocking R.L. at all, by no means. When I was a child, he was the king of horror to me. Then I became a teenager, and Stephen King became the king of horror, for me.
Kristopher Triana is an extreme horror and splatterpunk author. I think he even writes some stuff that’s of a similar genre, as well.
My first encounter with Kristopher Triana’s fiction work was, Gone to See the River Man.
I was profoundly disturbed, after reading that book.
Couple years later, Kristopher Triana created his own author page. Very cool, I mean that, many authors do this, and it seems to be a cool way to sell signed copies to fans, and to also give cool extras like button pins, bookmarks, and stickers. As well as other cool shit that doesn’t come with purchasing the book on say, Amazon.
And Jesus, Kristopher has quite catalog of published works for readers to read.
I think I own eleven books written solely by Kristopher Triana. I don’t need any validation for supporting him, it’s a pleasure to buy Kristopher’s novels, for me anyway.
Sometimes, when I read Kris’s work, I think, “what the fuck is wrong with this guy?” But, I’ll be damned if I’m not intrigued to keep reading his twisted fiction. It’s like, well shit- I’m already on this ride, let’s see how much more fucked up things can get. Laugh out loud. Because, it’s almost like, “am I allowed to read this?”, and, “this is legal to read?”
Reading a Kristopher Triana book is like smoking weed back when it was totally illegal. Like, if you got caught with weed, it was a potential felony charge that the good ole justice system might serve you with.
And I’ll be honest, back in the day… I think I felt super stoned because I knew I was kinda doing outlaw shit. Like, this is dangerous. We could get arrested and go to jail if we get caught.
And thankfully, that never happened. I think, haaaha (in Nelson’s voice, from The Simpsons).
Because really… What were we doing? We got high. We watched movies. We ate pizza. Basically, we had a great fucking time. And you’re telling me it’s illegal? Well, huhuhuh, whatever.
It’s like, I’m a follower of Jesus, but sometimes, I’ll take the Lord’s name in vane. Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ! I don’t think Jesus much gives two shits about that. Same as, in all reality, i’m not going to hell because I read stuff by Kristopher Triana. That’s absurd. But, it’s kind of a rush. There’s always a part of me that sort of thinks, “I’m going to hell for continuing to read”. But deep down, I know that’s silly. If hell exists, I have no idea, maybe I’ll end up there- but I really doubt it will have anything to do with reading extreme horror.
As a side note, I don’t think any one goes to hell. All dogs go to heaven? Well, all humans too. Maybe I’m so wrong, but again- it’s a feel good sensation. We’re all going home, in the end.
I think the only occupants in hell are demons, like- fallen angels. I think that’s all there is in hell. Again, I could be wrong, but that’s what I think. Maybe those who actively practice black magic in attempts to kill and snuff souls. Or like, cartel bosses, and the likes. Maybe not though. I guess we’ll all find out in some way, one way or another.
I caution you to really consider that, extreme horror comes with trigger warnings. If, you’ve experienced extremely traumatic things, extreme horror and splatterpunk may indeed not be a wise choice. On the other hand, everyone is different. I’ve been through extreme stuff, but damn well no where near as extreme as the stuff written by certain authors. Which in a way helps me, because I think… It could be so much worse, than what I’ve experienced. It really could. I think, phew- at least this shit didn’t happen to me.
By the way, these posts, it’s just me having fun. In essence, I share my thoughts and feelings on certain stuff. I share memories, and tell you what I’ve learned from certain experiences.
I realize, this isn’t that astounding. But, like Hank Hill, I love it. I don’t get paid like Hank Hill does, but it’s kind of simple, boring… But I really love it. I really love to write. To talk about experiences, and observe, give insight into what I enjoy.
It keeps me busy. And that’s amazing, for me. I sometimes struggle, or have in the past, to find something to keep me occupied. Writing keeps me occupied, and I’m using my brain. Same goes for reading.
Well, that’s it for me today. I’m going to read Stone Wicked, by Jay Wilburn.
It’s All Good
Truly, if I give energy to the phrase, “It’s all good”, I manifest that.
Now, how do I put this. Anything is possible. What is happening, is.
I will no longer play the what-if, game. What if this, what if that.
Fuck it. Is that what is right now? No.
Well, if we don’t do something about it…
Do what, exactly?
As far as I can tell, I’m doing as much as I’m able to do. I write these posts, I sometimes write fiction. I read books. I hang with my dogs (actual dogs, not the homies). I do in fact sometimes hang with actual homies, friends that come over, or we go for a ride, whatever.
I figure, it’s important to be open. To be respectful and polite, say thank you when it’s appropriate, and mean it. Hold the door open for someone. Because it’s feel good energy. It feels good, to be selfless. To show appreciation for others working a day job that probably isn’t anyone’s dream job. To let them know they matter. That’s feel good stuff. You matter. You’re important. Thank you.
Keep it simple. Smile, a gentle, humble, smile.
It’s all good.
I’lll figure it out if anarchy takes over. But right now? Anarchy isn’t a thing. It’s not real, right now, so fuck anarchy. I’m not worried about the future. Right now? It’s all good.
I’m in pain. So are you… Fuck it. It could be so much worse.
Alfonso’s father grew up in Mexico. Was not one of the wealthy elite. Was poor. Alfonso’s father knew first hand what living in a third world is like, as someone who isn’t a wealthy person. Because here’s the thing, in third world places… There is no middle class. You’re either extremely, lavishly wealthy- only a few of these folks, or you’re dirt poor.
That’s why Alfonso’s father was sooo proud of gaining his U.S. citizenship. He wasn’t wealthy, here- but here, in America, he worked his ass off, and was able to live the American dream. A nice house, humble, but still nice. A decent ride. Food on the table.
People who don’t know what it’s like to be third world poor, sometimes take things for granted that folks like Alfonso’s father would and will never take for granted.
Vicente and I spoke today. And yes, he too grew up dirt poor. In Mexico. He came here, did the same thing as Alfonso’s father. And Vicente, I listen to him now. I see that he speaks wisdom. He tells me, “count your blessings my friend, you still have it soooo much better than sooo many”. And he’s absolutely right.
I’m sad. I’m in pain. It’s all good. As Vicente says, “this is part of the life”. He’s spot on, man. That’s what the friggin Buddhists are trying to say, too. Pain is inevitable. But, it comes and goes. Things change. All feelings come and go. Nothing remains the same. Which, if you open yourself to that, it’s the most beautiful thing there is.
Undefinable. The ebb and flow of the ocean tides. The rivers that roar in chaos, the blizzards. Forces of nature. Deadly, but man- wow. Epic.
Seeing a bird in flight, to me, is epic. I’m so grateful I can see a creature fly. That makes me feel good for some reason, and I can’t explain the sensation.
It’s all good. We’re all going to die. It’s all good. Ups and downs, strikes and gutters. It’s all good.
I abide. I write and I write and I abide.
It’s all good.
Initially, it was Oscar, who had that bomb, bomb, dank cannabis. I went through Oscar to procure weed back in the day, before it was medically legal in Arizona.
Started working in a bar in 2009. Co-workers had connects to that bomb, bomb, too. I didn’t hang with Oscar as much, because, Oscar was, uh- kind of shady dude. At least with my co-workers we had a regular job, be it in a bar. We worked and earned in the legal way, whereas Oscar found means to get by, most always illegally. I didn’t care so much for the outlaws, back then- I didn’t think it was a honest means to provide income. I still don’t think the criminal life is anything other than death or prison. Fuckkkkkkkk that.
It’s a slow night on a Sunday. It’s maybe 9:30, 10pm. And there’s this dude sitting at the bar by himself, just chillin on his own.
I have no remembrance of how I engaged in conversation, but, I was accepted and loved at that bar, as an employee and co-worker. So I had this confidence, where I’d just stroll up and be like, “sup”.
Bob and I get to talking. Come to find out, Bob has the most fire cannabis I’ve smoked in a long time. What was really O.G. was Bob even straight said, “first quad of bud is on the house, to see if you like it or not”. I remember I was friends with Alfonso, through Oscar. Alfonso was an honest dude. He smoked weed too, but he was nothing like Oscar. Alfonso wasn’t an outlaw. Alfonso’s father gained and earned U.S. citizenship, and was proud to be an American. Oscar’s dad? Not a US citizen, but who am I to judge. Natives should be citizens regardless, but eh- the government and what not.
Alfonso and I were hooked.
I don’t mind saying Bob’s name, because right off the bat, Alfonso was all, “his name ain’t Bob”. And I somehow kinda damn well knew Alfonso was right. See, Alfonso came from L.A. Didn’t live on da beach, either, meaning he probably knew what kind of person “Bob” really was. Or rather, who the kinds of people Bob was connected with, were.
Yes, killers. Mafia, Cartel, those types of outfits.
Because what I meant about Alfonso was, he probably was affiliated with the bloods or the crypts. Even if he wasn’t, he was around them. He knew what they were about, first hand, growing up where he lived in L.A. Perhaps Alfonso wasn’t affiliated, but I damn well knew for a fact he knew what the gangsters were like, more so than my green ass did. You grow up around it, you can spot people that live dangerous lives pretty fast.
I didn’t move to Florida by choice. Turns out, Oscar was such a bad influence, apparently… Wasn’t like Oscar had a gun to my head, I knew what I was getting into, and didn’t care… I guess it was my reckless attitude that got me shipped out to Florida.
I don’t blame Oscar. I don’t hate you, Oscar.
Oscar and I chatted again in maybe, eh- 2014, I’d say. He wanted me to move out to Cali and we would be a force together, a European and a Mexican rockin’ the streets, as he said.
I kid you not, I almost did do that. Last minute, I bailed.
Next thing I knew, Oscar got incarcerated again. And I haven’t heard from Oscar since.
Oscar really wanted to be a good person, to be an honest person, like, well…Alfonso was.
Last time I talked to Alfonso, I owed him money he fronted me for weed. He was cool about it, kinda half joking, like, “don’t forget about my Mexican ass, haha”. I fucked up. I must have been broke, or, maybe…I just didn’t value my friendship with Alfonso. And that was the last time I spoke with Alfonso.
Alfonso, that was my bad. And, I hope to find you again someday, and give you a hundred dollar bill. And maybe we could be friends, once again. Because, I realize looking back, that Alfonso was a true, real friend. He really cared about me, loved me as a brother.
Oscar used me like a tampon, and therefore, I’ll never be friends with Oscar again. Plus, Oscar just couldn’t stop being an outlaw. I hope Oscar finds help, but I can’t help you, Oscar. For I am but one regular human, I have no idea how to save a soul. In fact, all I can work on doing is setting my soul up for success. That’s all I have control over, keeping myself in check, squared away, humble, kind. Blah blah blah. You get what I’m saying.
Alfonso didn’t need saving. Alfonso was good, squared away. I miss you, Alfonso, my buddy. I hope you’re doing well, and life is at least alright for you, where ever you’re at. I’m so sorry I abandoned you as a friend, that I treated you the way I did. I hope I can make things right, between us, some day.
When I moved back to Arizona, I didn’t have Bob’s number. But I had this feeling, still do, that “Bob” didn’t stay in one place for too long. Meaning, even if I had Bob’s number, Bob was probably already gone. In a different state, a different city, where he could be that Bob in a place that didn’t know who he was from Adam.
Bob was in it thick. Had to be. The way he handled himself. He covered his tracks, from what I could tell. He was a wise outlaw. Can’t catch Bob, he’s the gingerbread man. Well, okay, not true, but you get what I’m saying. Good for you Bob. You brought the most fire weed to town, somehow- and you did it like an OG professional, mature-ass outlaw.
Here’s the coolest thing about the Free Masons- a Free Mason, will NEVER invite you to a Free Mason meeting, UNLESS, you ask to attend a Free Mason meeting. How fucking cool is that? Most Free Masons, don’t even mention that they are Free Masons. Because, they aren’t trying to convince anyone of joining.
In fact, if you ask to attend a meeting, and you are invited… ATTEND. Here’s another cool thing about the Free Masons. All Free Masons, come from different religious upbringings. Maybe before becoming a Free Mason, that individual was a Catholic, or a Muslim- a Hindu. Now, I could be wrong about this, but I don’t think I am.
However, not everyone can actually become a Free Mason. I know this: you can’t be a convicted felon, and be a Free Mason. No felonies allowed.
My great-uncle George was a Free Mason, when he was alive. He was the oldest of the siblings, too. I’m the oldest of my siblings, for that matter. Every Christmas George would paint something, turn it into a holiday card, and send it to his younger brother, my grandfather.
That’s all I knew about George. Also, George was the only sibling my grandfather never talked smack about. His two younger brothers, and older sister, he talked smack about them, although deep down he loved them (I think, anyway).
Some dumbasses associate the Free Masons with the Illuminati. I call bullshit on that. If any order became the Illuminati as we imagine them, they probably stemmed from The Knights Templar. Kristopher Triana mentions them, in one of his stories. That their Lord was a demon Lord, as in, a Fallen Angel. Uh, I can say with blind confidence that that ain’t what the Free Masons are about.
Even my grandfather, even he was like, “The Free Masons are a great group. They do a lot to help others”.
The Free Masons remain as mysterious to me today, as they did back then. I failed to attend a meeting that I was invited to. I got freaked out by one of the head brother’s name. I shouldn’t have let that deter me. But, here’s the thing. Once I didn’t attend, that guy that was a Free Mason, left me alone. We fell out of touch.
Which I think is also really solid. It’s almost like, “hey, we gave you a chance to see what we’re about, now that door is closed, since you decided not to find out what we are about”. You get rare opportunities in this life. Those who are wise do not come knocking. They extend an invite, once. If you fail to show up, that’s it. They won’t invite you again, because clearly, that initial invite wasn’t that important. Well, but… I was busy! The Free Masons don’t care. It’s kind of like, a letter on their door says, “good luck!” Nothing more, nothing less.
If you find yourself with an invite to attend a Free Mason meeting, go. I think it’s only men who can be Free Masons, which I don’t understand, but I’m not here to judge.
If you’re looking for a good group to join, and you’re lucky enough to get an invite, I’d say that’s a group worth checking out.
When I first saw a video with Alice Cooper, I thought the guy worshipped the devil. I thought he was a dude that practiced evil stuff, so to speak.
I was born and raised in Arizona, somewhere in a suburb of the Phoenix valley. Guess who else resides in the Phoenix Valley? That’s right. Alice Cooper.
I must’ve been in seventh, eighth grade. My dad took me and a couple of my friends to Alice Cooper’s haunted house, in downtown Phoenix. In fact it was my best friend Matthew who brought up the fact that all the money earned from the haunted house put on by Alice Cooper, was going to be donated to a worthy charity.
I don’t know when, but, I found out at some point that Alice Cooper is a follower of Jesus. That one particular Jesus.
Then, I saw a photo of Alice Cooper and James Helfers, the head of the English Literature department when it still existed at GCU, together. James was in cap and gown, as was Alice. Alice was receiving an honorary diploma from GCU, presented by James.
James Helfers was, and I believe still is, a follower of Jesus.
I’m not here to say Jesus is the Messiah. That’s for you to figure out. All I know, is I read between the lines. And Jesus, in my imagination, was someone worth following. Because the Jesus I know hung out with the drug addicts, the mentally ill, the homosexuals, and the transsexuals. Jesus had tea with the Buddhists, and Jesus was there for people, best Jesus could be.
I think, if I was in pain, and if someone delivered “I LOVE YOU” with true power of love, I’d know… There’s something deeply hidden that is worth following with that person.
Maybe it is all fictional, I don’t care. I’d rather believe in, have hope in, the fiction of love, than the reality of chaos. Chaos is never-ending in this life, but if I have hope in love, that love will prevail against all else, then I can carry on. I can keep going, even though my body should’ve shut down long ago. For it is the energy of love, the force of true love.
Because in the end, after the curtains close, if it all meant nothing… Did I lose anything? Nope. Nothing to gain, nothing to lose.
But I really believe there’s more to be gained, based on how we act in this life. Well, aren’t we all actors on the stage of life? Shakespeare, yeah- what a hack. lol. I like Shakespeare though. He’s alright by me.
Point is, ALICE COOPER used his power for good. He’s all behind the scenes, because it’s not a selfish act. He does it silently, without wanting anything in return, because he must know how awful it is to suffer. And yes, if providing money to a charity that actually uses it to help abandoned children, he did it and still does it. Alice for sure does his research, he’s like Santi Claus, he checks his list twice, finding out who’s naughty and who’s nice.
By the way, I can tell you what the truth is not, but what the truth is for YOU, YOU must find for yourself.
Perhaps it’s the Islamic faith, or Judaism. Buddhism, or Hinduism. LDS, Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, Pentacostal. Or maybe it’s none of it, and you find your truth, on your own. Truth within, I believe, is a true north star. A guide through this life. That is really different from person to person, which I think is pretty cool. Yet, it can be relatable. That’s how we connect, I believe, is because we can relate to one another, through experience, and how we see ourselves, and others.
Jesus doesn’t have to be your guide. It’s up to you, who or what guides you.
I just see that, true followers of Jesus, act as Jesus did. They get involved, they really help. They make a difference out of love, selflessness, that it matters more to help those in pain, than to clink champagne glasses with successful people.
That’s why I will always love Johnny Cash. Johnny was real, in pain, yet, when the moments presented themselves, he was a loving person to others. I just sense that, I guess. Yeah, he struggled with addiction, because he struggled with mental health. But Johnny Cash performed live at Folsom Prison. Do you realize that was a prison, for the most hardcore prisoners? And Johnny Cash went there, a performed live. In a way, that reminds me of Jesus, something Jesus probably would’ve done. Artists performing for our American soldiers overseas, throughout the years, that to me, also reminds me of Jesus.
Those artists, weren’t obligated to do that. But they gave a damn, wanted to bring some joy to an otherwise hellish reality. Sure, we’re in hell, but let’s play music and tell the devil we won’t be forced down.
That assumes there are forces of good and evil. I don’t believe in dualism, by the way. Love will always win, no matter what chaos throws at us. At least that’s what I believe.
I’ll end with saying I try to be a Samwise Gamgee to everyone. I want to carry my friend when he can no longer carry him or her self. To help, to really friggin help my friend. Because, my friend may not have anyone else. So I’ll be there. I’ll be there, and I won’t leave, unless you tell me to get lost. And I may come seeking you, because you might be in danger, and maybe you need my help, even if you told me to get lost. Because, Samwise also reminds me of Jesus.
After I graduated from high school in 2007, I moved to Omaha, Nebraska, to live with my mom, sisters, and step-dad.
Soon after moving in, I got hired on at a mom and pop gym. It reminded me of the movie Dodgeball, and the gym, Average Joe’s. Most of the gym members where in fact in, well, average joe shape. But I worked at that Average Joe’s. And I welcomed and greeted everyone with enthusiasm. Because, they were trying, giving it their best, best they knew how. I respected that, a great deal, at the time.
Anyway, co-worker by the name of Ronald, or Ron, was more or less a friend. Keep in mind, I was under the age of twenty one, and the rest of my friends were over the age of twenty one. I was eighteen, nineteen, when I worked at this gym. So, we were buddies, but they had respect for my mother and step-father, and never once invited me to hang out. Because, they were drinking. And this is a midwestern thing, I think, kinda, it’s a location thing, in a way- these were down to Earth people. They weren’t shady. They had honor and respect. Humble, never too emotional about much, kinda even keel folks.
Ron, man- I think Ron was in his mid-thirties at the time. Which to me seemed old, at the age of eighteen. Of course now, I’m thirty four years old. Crazy, how time works… Anyway, the rest of the guys were mid-twenties, so poor Ron, I don’t think he got invited to much either. Because, Ron was kinda different. He was a Southern boy, not a good ole boy, but definitely from the South. The funny thing about Midwesterner’s, at least in Nebraska, was- most of those folks were loyal to other natives of Nebraska. Known each other since elementary school. And I get that. But, I always felt kinda like an outsider, when I lived there.
Anyway, sorry. Going off on tangents.
I guess what I can say today, is, Ron was probably the guy I related to the most. Even if I’d of been twenty one, I think I’d of kicked it with Ron more than Brandon, and Kyle. David, I did kick it with. David and Ron were the two coolest guys I met from Omaha, that weren’t obligated, so to speak, to approve of me, because we were in the same fraternity. Nope. They just saw me, and really did genuinely want to be friends with me. David never offered me alcohol either. Didn’t bust it out when we hung out.
Okay, so Ron had this story. He’s walking down a street, and this Doberman starts to attack him. I guess Doberman’s can develop dementia, and kind of lose themselves to madness. Anyway, this Pitbull comes out of nowhere, and fuckin’ kills the doberman. Saved Ron’s life. Ron took the Pitbull home, I guess he was a stray, and they were life long friends until that pup passed.
This guy I knew before I graduated adopted a Blue Nose Pitbull, named him Demon, which- eh, I still think is kinda stupid. But, Demon was such a sweet dog. Knew demon from the time he was a ten pound pup.
I came back to AZ on a vacation, and it’d been about a year. Demon, after one year, grew into a monster dog. What would be considered an XL, or, XXL, pitbull.
Not all Pitbull’s are mean, and it is true- some pitbulls are just violent, and mean spirited.
This pains me to say, but Drax was a violent pitbull. The saddest part is, that’s just how he was. He didn’t realize he bit me hard, but yeah- he fucking bit me, and seriously bruised my body. He continued to bite, like- I’d tell him no! And he didn’t fucking stop.
Brock, is not that way. Brock happens to be a blue nose. I think he’s part bully pit, because he is a stalky boy. But Brock is like that pitbull that saved Ron’s life. I can sense it. I think he was abused. Which really pisses me off. But I can’t change that. All I can do is shower him with love, and assertive guidance. He loves giving kisses, and is just… Such an amazing boy.
I’m going to close with this. My cousin James, really is disturbed, deep down. Not his fault, not judging James. I say that though, because, I went over to hang with James once. He opens the door, and there’s this black pitbull right next to him. As I enter his abode, the pitbull nipped me. Yep, fucking basically bit me. I told James, and here’s what was most disturbing… James had a Crate to put his dog in. Without a doubt, should’ve put the asshole in the crate. Because, I was scared of the dog. Dogs that bite, eh- all dogs go to heaven, but some dogs I don’t care for.
James DID NOT put his dog in the crate. And maybe I’m imagining this, but it was almost like my cousin was saying, “Sparta knows something about you deserve to be afraid of him, because dogs know bad folk”. Fuck that, James, you maniac.
I realize now, as soon as that dog bit me, I should’ve got right back in my truck, and drove home to be with little five pound El Santo.
Blood Relations is a book by Kristopher Triana, a collection of short stories, and I believe a novelette, or novella. But basically, some of those stories were saying, “your family is NOT always going to be your friend”. I tried to be homies with James, and now I see that I should’ve left James alone. Just interacted with him at family events, and keep it at that. James, I don’t blame you. War fucked up your brain, and that’s not really your fault, either. It’s just that, man- every time I’ve tried developing some consistent relationship with you, it folds like a cheap deck of cards. So yeah, best of luck- but my door is closed to you and your’s. Fucked up as that may be, I’ll only keep my door open for my sisters, sorry Lauren, not you though. Two of my sisters, my door will always be open to. And my mom.
The older I get, the more I respect women. The older I get, the less I respect men. Not all women, because not all women are good. And some men, are good, but most are wicked. I should know, I’m a child of a man, but, still a guy.
I love Bonez, and El Santo, and Marley, and Brock. I love them all equally, unconditionally. They love me too. I talk to them like they absolutely understand what I’m saying in English. I don’t expect them to act as humans, but I still feel like they sense my energy. That they keep me afloat when humanity is busy doing what the world demands of them.
Dogs are the best.
Humans are amazing, too.
Cats are also the best. I used to live with cats, and they are amazing. I love cats too, as much as dogs, but- these dogs aren’t cat lovers, so I won’t put a cat’s life at risk. Maybe down the road I’ll have three or four kittens. Who knows, animals rock, don’t they?