The Man Suicided By America

Ha ha ha. . .listen to the idiot around the 1:29 mark talking about the Great Man:

“His anti-communism somehow transmuted into an anti-Americanism.”

What did they expect the Great Man to do? Put on a little flag lapel pin and give charity exhibitions to raise money for the *9/11* families??

America made plenty of coin off this poor son of a bitch in the ‘70s, they owed him his later eccentricities.

“His anti-communism somehow transmuted into an anti-Americanism.”

'Somehow transmuted?!?!'

The Great Man wasn’t transmuted. . .he was suicided.

Bobby Fischer was the man suicided by America.

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The Scales Are Tipped In My Favor

I committed murder.

I committed suicide.

What a pig, I am. A beast.

Lacking natural affection.

The great Cioran observed that what he knew at age sixty, he knew at age twenty, and it had been forty tedious years of confirmation.

Tomorrow I turn fifty, and I can say the person I am at age fifty, I was at age twenty. Thirty years of abusing God’s patience and long-suffering.

I’m no Count Muffat—I’ve been what I am for as long as I can remember.

For thirty-eight years X has never been too far from my mind. I met her in sixth grade. The golden-haired girl joined our class in February, and it was as Marlowe wrote:

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

In May of that year my mother informed me we’d be moving at the end of the school year. I was sick to have to leave X. It was the first and only time I’ve felt, as that worst cliché expresses it, *life was unfair.*

Of course, at that time I was outside the light of the Gospel, and lacked the proper frame of reference. I was also twelve years old, and thus even stupider than I am now.

Today, looking back on five decades of sin, with the last three-and-a-half decades in the light of the gospel, I vouch for God’s patience and long-suffering, and testify He has not dealt with me according to my sin.

I can certainly sympathize that to multitudes in our Satanic world life does, indeed, appear ‘unfair’—but I can say of myself God has surely tipped the scales in my favor.

I have committed sins that to specify would be an act of vanity, and a scandal against shame.

But it’s always the lesser offenses, the everyday sins, which reveal the failure to yield to the Holy Spirit. The stagnated soul, loitering between this world and the next.

Two weeks ago I read an article on a local internet news site that made mention of A. A had been in the same sixth grade class as X and I. Seeing A’s name, I thought of X. Over the years, I’ve tried to track down X, but X has a common name, and I’ve been unable to locate her. But I found A on Facebook, and B on A’s friend list, and C on B’s friend list. I sent messages to A, B and C—the end result of which was locating X yesterday on the internet, on her work place’s web page. There was her name, and a picture.

I groaned so loud upon seeing the photograph, seeing X’s current appearance, the woman in the office next to mine asked if I was all right.

I was going to say ‘time has worn away X’s beauty,’ but, no, time has worn away X. That’s not her in the picture. Even after confirming again with B & C, I still refuse to accept it is X. She turned into something ordinary. American ordinary. Heavy and sloppy looking.

Listen, X had been no ordinary twelve year old. You understand Traci Lords was no ordinary twelve year old. X was cut from the same cloth, but fairer of face.

I was actually angry at X for being old and dumpy. She has accomplished much in life—certainly for more than me. She’s in a respected profession, and has even had a book published.

But once I’m done typing this, I’ll never give her another moment’s thought.

Our middle school relationship was really the only entirely pleasant one of my life. The rest have been tainted by *maturity* (aged sin). Reality after X was so vulgar, I would have dreams of her into my mid-twenties. These were Edenic dreams. When I read of Eve in Genesis, I pictured X. But now she’s a dumpy old bag. . .

I actually thought, thank God now we moved after sixth grade—my current wife is in far better condition. . .

I’ve destroyed my dream. I could say by looking back, like Lot’s wife, I’ve turned X into a pillar of salt.

But I’d already killed her long ago, long ago. It’s only just now the grave is discovered.

I’ve committed awful sins—but it’s the core, the rotten core, the rotten heart which is the problem (Matthew 15:19). Every day, every day, shallow, with litter interest in or feeling for other people—the soul of a murderer who will destroy somebody for *losing their bloom*—a grotesque parody of our Lord:

Now in the morning as He returned into the city, He hungered. And when He saw a fig tree in the way, He came to it, and found nothing thereon, but leaves only, and said unto it, Let no fruit grow on thee henceforward for ever. And presently the fig tree withered away.

I murdered X. I defaced those sixth grade memories of her.

I committed suicide. I no longer walk about Eden with a daughter of Eve.

No love in me. Only scorn for a dumpy old bag. . .

That’s me at fifty, thirty-five years under the Gospel. . .

Life is surely not unfair. . .

My love of Christ grows in proportion to my self-disgust. . .

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The Garbage People

Newsbizarre.com, 7 January 2010: The death of a former model, 26-year-old Paula Sladewski, has shocked America. Her body was found burning in a Miami trash bin. A former glamour model and bikini girl who appeared briefly in the 2003 “Playboy: The Ultimate Playmate Search” video, Paula Sladewski had been working as an exotic dancer in Los Angeles when she took a New Years Eve trip to Floria with her boyfriend. The vacation was for New Years Eve, to see Lady Gaga perform live in concert at Miami Beach's posh Fontainebleau. It was a trip that Paula Sladewski could not have known would be her last.

One of the last to see Paula Sladewski alive was boyfriend Kevin Klym. Kevin Klym reported Paula Sladewski missig to police soon after she went missing. The pair had had a fight when they were out in downtown Miami, Florida on Sunday January 3 2010. Klym said he last saw Paula Sladewski about 7 a.m. at Miami's Club Space. 34-year-old Klym told authorities that he wanted to leave the nightclub because Paula Sladewski was ``too drunk.'' The report said Paula Sladewski yelled at her boyfriend and bouncers threw him out of the club. That was the last time Paula Sladewski was seen by her boyfriend.

On Sunday night, police found the charred body of the model beauty Paula Sladewski in a North Miami trash bin. The body of Paula Sladewski was so badly brunt, only dental records could be used to identify her. A relative of model and dancer Paula Sladewski, stepfather Richard Watkins, said his stepdaughter had a “very volatile relationship” with boyfriend Kevin Klym. There were even domestic violence charges filed against Paula Sladewski June 2009.

And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.

There has always been the shadow of the devil trailing the so-called *fashion* and *modeling* industries. The Fashion Industry was truly born in sin, back when the eyes of Adam and Eve were first opened. . .

What was born in shame is now celebrated as a Hallmark of Culture. . .

What is today called *Fashion* mocks its origins with its utter shamelessness. . .a Satanic shamelessness that delights in the *open eyes* of man.

This girl, found in a Florida gehenna, is just one of hundreds of thousands of similar girls (by dream or reality), all seduced into a Satanic ritual. . .the ritual of the inversion of fashion.

All models are strippers who, to varying degrees, remove their fig leaves. . .by removing their fig leaves, they say “we have no sin.”

They are, of course, role models. . and the ugly follow their lead.

The *modeling* and *fashion* industries, despite an aura of *glamour,* are nakedly depraved. . .addiction and rape lurk offstage (see the Elite scandal, the Anand Jon Alexander scandal, or the bizarre case of Karen Mulder, for example).

So many girls are abused by fashion, a case like the one here, with the girl ending up burning in a dumpster, seems a mere cliché. Yet every day thousands more girls take off their clothes and pose for pictures, imagining themselves as future icons. One must imagine their lives are already garbage. . .they live, as it were, in burning dumpsters, and so they risk nothing by accepting Satan’s call to his ritual of inversion.

There is a picture of this Florida dumpster model, dressed immodestly, an alcoholic beverage in her hand, aged well beyond her mere 26 years—yet with a smile on her face. Born into it, I suppose. It’s all good, we have no sin.

Her *boyfriend,* according to another news account, had punched and broken her nose on one occasion. . .yet she goes on *vacation* with him, anyway. . .they party, fuck and fight. . .she ends up smoldering in the trash. . .

This is who we are. . .the garbage people.

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Jesse Ventura's *9/11* Conspiracy Theory

My friend and colleague, the eminent conspiracy theorist, ‘DVH,’ sent me a videotape of the Jesse Ventura Conspiracy Theory program that deals with the famous *9/11* and the collapse of the three New York City office buildings. . .

Sorry to say, the show is garbage, at least to those who think there are serious questions about the famous *9/11* that need answering. ..

The show is staged in a hokey fashion, you often see Jesse ‘the former Body’ sitting around a table with his ‘elite team of investigators and researchers’ hashing out the various *9/11* conundrums (example can be seen at the six minute mark of the above YouTube clip)—these are obviously scripted sessions (and poorly acted, at that), but can be excused, as, after all, this is the kind of pandering the boobs who watch TV religiously have grown addicted to. (BTW, The negress ‘investigator’ with the limey accent is H.O.T.).

What can’t be excused is the amount of time the show wasted on the ‘thermite/controlled demolition’ and ‘lost/found black box flight recorders’ issues. The thermite thing has been beaten to death in a battle of ‘scientific experts’ from both sides, and the black box ‘witness,’ Mike Bellone, is about as credible as John Mark Karr.

By presenting red herrings (in a hokey fashion), and ignoring the more troubling *9/11* questions, Ventura’s cutesy program can only lead the uninitiated to believe there is nothing of substance to doubters of the government’s 9/11 Commission Report.

It would seem the Ventura program deliberately picked the flimsiest *evidence* of a *9/11* conspiracy—why? Because the Ventura people don’t know any better? Or to discourage serious inquiries with this contrived cavalcade of kOOks? When you dress your conspiracy in kOOks clothing, what response can be expected? Only that ‘conspiracy theory’ will remain stigmatized. . .

For this particular episode, at least, we must conclude Jesse Ventura’s Conspiracy Theory is nothing but a Trojan Horse of Disinformation.

Here are a few of the more troubling *9/11* issues which ‘the former Body's’ Conspiracy Theory ignored:

The Larry Silverstein/Lewis Eisenberg WTC lease deal

Marvin Bush/Securacom

*Dancing Israelis*/Israeli *Art Students*

Odigo prior warning

How were the alleged 19 perpetrators identified in less than 72 hours – and why were none of the their names on the passenger lists released the same day by both United Airlines and American Airlines?

How could alleged perpetrator Satam Al Suqami’s passport have been found buried among the Word Trade Center debris when not a single flight recorder was found?

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The Razor's Edge

The Razor’s Edge: I watched Bill Murray’s weird adaptation of the classic W. Somerset Maugham novel on Netflix Instant. I hadn’t seen the thing for twenty-five years. . .and it is just as I remember it: a charming failure.

Maugham’s novel contrasts the life of Larry, a Lost Generation drop-out, with the lives of his friends, typical Western sheeple. While the novel spent more time examining the soul-less lives of Larry’s crass comrades as they ignored God for their pursuit of Western material happiness, Murray’s movie focuses more on Larry’s spiritual journey, but, alas, its depiction is entirely superficial. It’s a kind of Higher Power travelogue, as we watch Larry *gain wisdom* from an assortment of *colorful characters:* grimy-but-wise coal miners, cute Tibetan monks, etc. We see Larry move from station-to-station in life, and we must assume he absorbs enlightenment from his various encounters, for all the other characters in the movie seem to be believe he has *changed* whenever their divergent paths happen to briefly cross. If the characters in the movie didn’t act as if Larry were different, the viewer would have no other indication Bill Murray’s Larry is anything but a wandering automaton, for he gives an entirely surface performance.

Murray’s acting method is *puzzling* to say the least. For long stretches his Larry seems almost lobotomized, as he drifts around the globe, only occasionally waking from his stupor to treat his friends to a moment or two of trademark Murray goofiness, for which his friends always seem overly thankful. I have the impression Murray must have been intimidated by the source material, and thus retreated to his bizarre acting shell from fear of making ass of himself had he tried to give a more personal, emotional performance. But this is the film’s charm, the charm of an elementary school Christmas play, children acting out the birth of the Savior in second grade rote. . .we appreciate the effort, and the courage for going on stage and trying.

And we can only wish Catherine Hicks had adopted Murray’s method. Her performance as Isabel, Larry’s fiancee, is one of cinema’s All-Time worst. Hicks is just plain awful, her character a weepy dumb social climber, instead of the novel’s demonic villainess, undone by jealousy and a love of filthy lucre. The scenes between Murray and Hicks are almost unwatchable, the robotic Murray staring blankly at the soap opera theatrics of Hicks.

The film’s only authentic moments of pathos are generated by Theresa Russell’s Sophie. Russell’s performance is as magnificent as I remembered. Even with the script’s shorthand version of the novel’s Sophie, Russell manages to convince Sophie’s fall as truly tragic. Sophie’s demise is so achingly delivered, it renders unfathomable Murray’s flat response to Isabel’s confession of her betrayal of Sophie, and nearly sinks this charming mess of a movie.
The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to cinema salvation is hard.

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