You’re the same age as I,
So I want to cry,
“It’s not fair!”,
Though I’m aware,
It doesn’t work that way
Despite what people say,
About fate or destiny,
What will be will just be,
No fair or unfair, no reason no rhyme,
Only what is, what unfolds through time,
And though we have an affect through our push and our shove,
The real truth we reflect,
Is how much of our world we can cover in love,
In every nuance and shade – with each moment passed,
Ever aware each breath could be our last.
Naming names…
…or not.
“I will not name the shooter. I will not give him credit for this horrific act of cowardice.” John Hanlin, Douglas County Sheriff
And many other peanuts.
There’s a new way to deflect any discussion about gun control after yet another mass shooting. Rather than actually engage in thoughtful discussion about gun control and, I don’t know, do something about it for once, we’re going to offer up our prayers and tears and recognize those who have fallen, support the families of the victims and deny martyrdom to the criminal who committed the crime. The mentally ill, white man who shot up this week’s target of choice, a community college in Oregon, shall remain nameless. So sayeth the sheriff (who did not get shot and certainly not by me who is fundamentally against firearm ownership) and basically everyone else who wants to feel better about themselves but doesn’t want to do much more about the social cancer killing 380 people so far this year and injuring over 1,000.
Nope. We’re not naming names.
Nope. We’re not going to change.
Nope. There is no problem here.
None. At all.
Except there is.
And we should likely do something about it.
As of today, we have ticked 275 boxes off our calendars. As of today, there have been 294 mass shootings in the United States. Is this acceptable? Can we really sit around and feel comfortable with our ability, as a society, to responsibly manage firearms?
Now, I know those pro-gun types are going to thump their chests and drag out the whole Second Amendment argument. Very well. You just won’t ever feel safe in your own homes without your well-regulated militia, will you? Do you mind if I ask you a very serious question, then? When is the last time your well-regulated militia assembled to discuss battle strategy? Are your learning materials coming from Annapolis or West Point? Who is the General? Do you have a secret handshake or get to wear a hat like Fred Flintstone’s Loyal Order of the Water Buffalo? Going bowling with your buddies while secretly wishing you were hanging with The Dude and Donny doesn’t count, either. I really want to know about your well-regulated militia. Please leave feedback in the comments below for my edification. Thank you.
As for the individualists out there looking for an argument – you are not an island. You are not entirely self-sufficient. When you drive on the road you built entirely by yourself, live entirely off the grid, rely on no one, then you can moan about your individualistic rights to owning a gun. Until then, shut your foodholes and accept the fact that you are, indeed, not the sun and Earth does not orbit around you. You, individualist, may actually have to do something selfless for once in your life. I know, here’s a hanky. It’s tough out there for a pimp. But really, I can empathize. Shit, I can sympathize. I used to smoke like a motherfucking chimney and when I had to start huddling under an umbrella in the rain because you didn’t like that my second hand smoke could kill you, I wasn’t upset with you, personally. I recognized that I had a very dangerous hobby/habit that I needed to surrender. And I did. And I’m better for it. You will be, too. Trust.
To speak to the naming of the names, the next time there is a mass shooting (because there will be a next time), I think, instead of acting pious and saying “I’m not going to allow the shooter a moment’s glory or let him be a martyr. Noooooo sirreee, Bob!” I think we should start naming donors to the NRA. I think we should start naming the lobbyists. I think we should start naming the Congressfolk on the take. If we’re not going to name the perpetrator, let’s name the accomplices, instead. Maybe, once everyone realizes the blood is on their hands too, they will take a long, hard look in the mirror, man up, put down their inane instruments of death and finally accept the fact that their little toys are dangerously stupid and offer little value to the greater good.
Go Fuck Yourself Weekly: Martin Shkreli aka The Pharma Bro
I know, I know. Every news outlet and blog has already reported about Martin Shkreli and the infamous price gouging maneuver he pulled about a month ago. But if there’s anyone who deserves to be told to go fuck himself this week, it’s this guy. It simply has to be done.
Anyway, if you want to know the all details of who he is and what he did, there are plenty of them out there. However, in the teensiest of nutshells, this scumbag is the founder of a startup pharmaceutical company called Turing Pharmaceuticals. Last month they bought the patent for a drug called Daraprim – which is used to treat parasitic infections like toxoplasmosis – and raised the price of the drug from $13.50 (or $18, as Shkreli claims) to $750 per pill.
Yes, you read that right. PER PILL.
Seven hundred and fifty fucking dollars per pill.
That’s about a 5,500% (or only 4,000% as Shkreli claims) increase. I’m guessing it took about a month for someone to notice the price increase and expose the motherfucker. And when he was exposed, pretty much the entire internet attacked him. I don’t really have much to add to all the outrage. It’s all been discussed, tweeted, blogged, posted on Facebook, etc., over the past twenty-four hours.
Anyway, the mind simply boggles. It will not process this information. All I really have to say is this:
I mean, seriously, dude. WHAT THE FUCK????
I should point out that, by now, after enduring a huge internet shitstorm backlash, Shkreli has agreed to lower the price of the drug to a more “affordable” level. I put the word in quotes because who knows what the fuck he thinks affordable means. Previously, he said that the new price for the drug, $750, was a “more appropriate” price for it. I certainly don’t think he’s going to lower it down to its original price.
Unfortunately, in the United States of America, there are no laws regulating the costs of prescription drugs. It’s controlled by free-market capitalism. And as long as there are people needing live-saving medications, there will be people like this asshole willing to bend them over a chair and take advantage of them, without lube.
Two Locals
Sitting at Tre Vänner, the pub on Svandammsvägen, out the other Midsommarkransen T-bana exit, and 2 minutes from my apartment. Only been here a couple of times before, lastly with the couple I rent from, after I got the keys from them in March 2014. I had no food, or alcohol at home, so decided to come sit, eat, drink, and write. Awful fucking place.
The place is busy, but not packed, and I put my coat at a table for 4 in the corner, trying to find a place out of the way. As I stand being ignored at the bar, a group of 4 comes in. There are other tables available, but the waitress, still waiting for me to amass the required times of being ignored before I get served, decides they must have the table I was going to sit at. Maybe there’s an actual reason, but like many a State secret, it is withheld from me. Possibly for my own protection – like the paper seal on the hotel toilet seat.
Nonetheless, I quickly assess the situation, volunteer that it is indeed my jacket (which must of confused her, since heretofore she thought I was invisible) and offered to move to the bar. The response? A thank you, a how kind of you, a hint of explanation? Nope.
“Vi tar det.” (We’ll take that.)
I find a perfect little spot at the bar, in the corner, my back against the wall, isolated. Where I can write, and observe, and not have to interact with this group of pub staff and regulars I have kindly come to quickly regard as cretins.
The place is nothing like my regular local, the favoured Southside, where I’m made to feel good about myself, against my will and better judgement. Where I relax, and chat, and socialize, and have grown to be spoiled with kind and efficient service by a group of staff who make you feel it’s their absolute pleasure to serve you, and who seem to look forward to seeing you again.
But by and large, the Southside is a shitty place to write. It’s like trying to write at a gathering of family or friends. But this miserable little hole, that seems to begrudge its customer’s existence, and whose customers respond in kind. Where nobody gives a shit what your name is – it’s perfect for writing. I’ll definitely be back.
Cat Poetry
I went to lie,
Upon the chair,
But when I did,
Your bag was there.
It’s so unfair,
Your bag being there,
Upon the chair,
And not elsewhere.
Gonna leave some hair,
Upon the chair,
The next time,
Your bag isn’t there.
A Plea From My Civilised Heart
There’s something that irks me.
Very often, when landing on a webpage, before you have even a second to check the page out, you get a pop up. Sometimes small, and in the middle of the screen, and sometimes covering the whole screen. The pop up is asking you to do something, most often to like their site, to receive their newsletter, to rate their site, or of course, to make a purchase.
I haven’t even had a chance to look at the site yet!
It’s like stepping inside a shop and immediately having a salesperson suddenly lunge into your protective boundary, into that moat of emotion that we all keep around us to ward off the world.
It’s bloody rude is what it is.
I would like it to stop. Please.
Rail Rabbits
See the rail rabbits running,
Running down the tracks.
You better run,
Little rail bun,
Before the train attacks.
See the rail rabbits running,
Among the ties and stacks.
Do you live down there?
Little rail hare,
Within the platform cracks?
We weren’t always rail rabbits,
Trains always on our backs.
We lived and ran here,
Before appeared,
The station and the tracks.
We lived and ate,
And bred and died,
Right where the station is.
And we’re still here
And will be, still.
After the station disappears.
Crossings
Crossing a mountain pass,
Through the Sierra Nevada range,
Evokes memories of,
Junior high school history.
The Donner Party,
Stuck in these same mountains,
During winter.
Freezing and starving,
They soon turn to cannibalism.
No such danger of that here,
Or now, in the summertime.
Still, it’s an uneasy feeling.
Despite the overwhelming beauty,
Of the wide open countryside.
The mountains, the woods,
Pale green rolling prairies.
There is nothing here.
No houses nor farms,
Nor power lines for endless miles.
Only the road gives any clue,
That humans have been here.
And the occasional,
Open range warning sign,
With a crossing,
We see signs for deer,
Elk, cows, bulls, horses,
And even donkeys.
But none of these ventures,
Out onto the highway,
Instead, the cows graze,
In the pine forest.
And a single deer,
Looks up in surprise at the car,
From the middle of a far away field.
Fitbit Madness
I threw caution to the wind recently and purchased a Fitbit, partly at the urging of a gorgeous friend, and partly because after gaining 7kg since my heartattack almost 6 months ago I needed something to help stem, or rather turn, the tide. I was a little hesitant, because hey , it’s sort of pricey, and secondly, I’m about as far from a technonerd as you can get. I love it. I absofuckinglutely love it. It’s not so much that it’s technologically superb, measuring steps, pulse, and a multitude of other things, as well as linking to an app that provides personal stats that make me feel like I’m a world class athlete. (who hasn’t wanted THAT kind of pampering!) It lets me compete against friends! What better motivation is there then competing against friends? Okay that may make me sound horrible, but if it gets me off my fat ass (fat stomach more correctly, my ass remains pretty damned fine), it’s all good. I have turned into a walking madman! Today, while surging through the crowds in downtown Stockholm, walking to a friends for dinner after work, I seriously hit the zone. I had already taken a long walk at lunch and hit my 10,000 step daily minimum. So these steps were all gravy. I walked right through the heart of Stockholm, from Globen via Slussen, through Gamla Stan, and up to the top of Drottninggatan, where my friends Steve and Som live. I walked at top speed, weaving in and out of packs of tourists, reading the path ahead of me, slowing as little as possible. Whenever I was forced to slow down by zombies, in my head I became Dustin Hoffman’s character in Midnight Cowboy, “I’m walking here! I’m fucking walking here!” My legs and feet, after first struggling, finally replied “Fuck yeah!” and rose grandly and elegantly to the occasion. This is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, me and my Fitbit, and my ass is going to be seriously in shape. Well, not my ass, as we’ve established it’s primo, but the rest of me is going to catch up!
Oh, Florida…
…where killing a black man is just fine but fucking on the beach – not so much.
Last July, Jose Caballero and Elissa Alvarez were arrested on Bradenton Beach for having the sinful sex on the sand. They, being Floridians, presumably, were genetically predisposed to approach this from a very unintelligent and inelegant fashion. They took that delightful, little diddy, “Afternoon Delight” a little too seriously and knocked da boots on the beach in the middle of the afternoon, in front of other people. Urgh. Classy.
Doubly unfortunate for the frolicking duo, a four-year old child was present. Also present, someone with a camera. When the mom of the four-year old asked Caballero to stop, Caballero wasn’t very receptive to the request. He was confrontational. Who knows? Maybe he was super-dee-dooper close to the best beach sex climax of his life? I dunno. I have never partaken of the old beach sex. It strikes me as particularly uncomfortable and itchy. Sex in an old coal furnace, on the other hand…never mind…
Caballero has priors; among those, cocaine trafficking. So, you know this isn’t going to end well for him. He’s not getting off (not on the beach and not in court) with a slap on the wrist. He ended up with a jail sentence of 2.5 years. A bit draconian, if you ask me.
His partner in crime, Elissa Alvarez, was also found guilty of lewd and lascivious (one of my favorite words) exhibition in front of a child. Not in front of a child! For fuck’s sake, think of the children! The children who, likely, have no fucking idea what they’re witnessing until their parents freak the fuck out and make a giant scene that will remain permanently etched in their memories. “Hey mommy! Remember that time we were at Bradenton Beach when I was four and we saw those two people fucking in the sand? I do! Thanks to you and your histrionic reaction.”
This particular charge is a second degree felony and as such, both parties must register as sex offenders. For fucking on the beach. Something that how many people have done at some point in their lives? Man, you know the bar is low when you’re popped and nailed with a felony for a cliché.
Here’s the really sad thing – Elissa Alvarez is all of 21 years old. She was sentenced for time served and is now out of custody. She is not, however, out of the woods. She is a registered sex offender and, as such, has a life of no career to look forward to. Think of all the stupid, youthful indiscretions we engaged in around that age. As I alluded to earlier, I got busy in an abandoned coal furnace at the tender age of 20 with a belly full of beer. Thank fuck there were no such things as cellphones with cameras or the internet. Or kids around. I could have been Elissa Alvarez, easily. Sex in public places is a rite of passage. Don’t look at me and act horrified. Y’all probably have done it once or twice, too.
The sex offender registry is important. We deserve to know when paedophiles are among us. That said, when you add people like this to the registry, people who diddle on the beach – how much service is that providing to the community? I don’t feel that this behavior is overtly dangerous. I don’t feel that two people are going to drop trou in Agrestic and get busy in the park. And, if they do, I think a simple “cut it the fuck out” would stop that shit in its tracks. Even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t want to destroy someone’s life over something as minor as this. It’s sex. It’s not rape. It’s not sex with a child. It’s consenting adults having sex. Even if the choice of geography isn’t the best option.
Should we fuck on buses, in shopping centers, public parks full of kids, playgrounds, etc…? No. There is a need for decorum. That’s why I have highly recommended abandoned coal furnaces and have long been a champion of them. Even if your clothes end up stained and mucky and your hair stinks after. But still, is any of this worth torpedoing the life of a 21-year-old woman?
No. No, it’s not.
Alas, this happened in Florida. Florida, the state where killing an unarmed black teen hungry for Skittles is perfectly acceptable but sex on the beach is an affront to mankind. Bugs Bunny had the right idea all along but we have known that since the 2000 election, haven’t we?
Random Misanthrope 