Ranking The Female Characters From The TV Series Dexter

Dexter is definitely one of my Top 10 All-Time Favorite television series.  I suppose some people who stumble across this may not be familiar with the show, although why somebody would want to read about some dope's rankings of female characters from a show they haven't seen seems unlikely, but just in case you are such a person, I will provide a bare-bones outline of the show:

Airing from 2006 - 2013 Dexter is a psychological crime drama that follows Dexter Morgan, a forensic blood-spatter analyst for the Miami Metro Police Department who leads a double life as a vigilante serial killer. Adopted as a child by a police officer, Dexter was taught *the code,* a way to channel his dark urges by targeting other murderers who have escaped justice. While outwardly charming and socially functional, Dexter struggles to feel genuine emotions, constantly pretending to fit into normal society. Throughout the series, Dexter juggles his secret life with personal relationships, especially with his sister Debra, a police detective. As the show progresses, his internal conflict deepens, challenging his moral code and sense of identity. With its dark humor, moral ambiguity, and suspenseful storytelling, Dexter explores themes of justice, duality, and the human psyche.

OK.  That won't help anybody understand any of the female characters, except perhaps Debra, so these rankings still won't mean anything to the uninitiated.

1. Lila: The übersexy pyromaniac Dexter meets at his 12 step meetings in season two, she should’ve been Dexter’s soulmate.  She understood him, and refused to judge him, and shared Dexter's scorn and bewilderment of the square's life.  It made no sense why Dexter was so quick to dispatch her when he had the patience of a saint with other antagonists such as Miguel Prado, Arthur Mitchell, Travis Marshall.  The showrunners or whatever the fancy term is for the people responsible for the series made a huge mistake killing her off.  She should’ve been a recurring character, she could’ve saved the show's disastrous final season if her character had been the one steering Dexter to the self-revelations necessary to end his character arc, instead of Charlotte Rampling's character.

2. Debra: Dexter's potty mouth tomboy sister, played by actress Jennifer Carpenter, she should really be ranked #1, but, man!, Lila was so hot, and that limey accent!  Anyway, Carpenter did the finest acting by anybody in the entire series, convincingly portraying every fucked-up emotion Dexter put her through.  

3. Hannah: Only ranked this high because of actress Yvonne Strahovski's looks.  She would have been a perfect Hitchcock blonde.  A serial poisoner, she's nearly killed by Dexter, only to become the great love of his life.  Alas, there are ZERO sparks between Strahovski and Michael C. Hall, the actor who plays Dexter.  Their relationship is never believable.  I've seen Strahovski in The Handmaid's Tale, and she seems devoid of personality and charm.  But she looks terrific in shorts and sleeveless shirts!

4. Lumen: In season five Dexter rescues her from a member of a gang of rapists/murderers, and then he helps her to hunt down and kill the remaining members.  Eventually they become lovers, but when she and Dexter kill the last rapist, she realizes she can move on with her life, leaving Dexter once again all alone to plow his killing fields.  Lumen may not have broken Dexter's cold heart, but she at least cracked it a little.  Well-acted by Julia Stiles.

5. Rita: The only reason I rank her this high is because her death was so satisfying. I know she was generally considered a fan favorite, but to me she was a repellent ball-and-chain, exhibiting all the worst traits of the stereotypical American housewife, the kind of soulless nag that would provoke the Stepford Wives experiment.  My favorite moment in the entire series was the look on Rita's face when, after nagging Dexter into going to 12 step meetings because she attributes his erratic behavior to a drug problem, she sees Dexter's sponsor Lila for the first time.  It's that frightened, insecure look that says "she's way hotter than me!"  At least the actress who played her had a nice body.

6. Camilla: Police department records clerk and long-time Morgan family friend, she helps Dexter learn the truth about his early childhood and the events that led to his adoption by the Morgans.  Her cancer death in season three provides for one of the series better subplots, including Dexter's quest for the perfect key lime pie.  Well-played by veteran character actress Margot Martindale. 

7. Rebecca: Trinity Killer Arthur Mitchell’s daughter, so abused and traumatized she offers to be Dexter's jailbait girlfriend if he will take her away from the Hell that is the Mitchell home.  

8. Christine: Arthur Mitchell’s other daughter, the Trinity Killer's secret love child, she sleeps with Detective Joey Quinn to gain info on the investigation of her father. Nice-looking actress who also appeared in True Blood and Supernatural.

9. Sally: Arthur Mitchell’s wife, the anti-Rita, the perfect doormat housewife who will let her husband be as vicious and degenerate as he wants, so long as he only beats her to within an inch of her life, and not all the way to her death.  Played by the actress who was the mean girl in Romy And Michelle's High School Reunion.

10. LaGuerta: One of the show's main characters and Dexter's boss, she will do anything to climb the police department ladder.  The power-hungry Cubana had a mad crush on Dexter in season one which mysteriously vanished in season two.  By the end of the series she becomes obsessed with proving Dexter is a serial killer.  Too many dropped threads in her character arc, she was more plot prop than authentic character, also unattractive and *thick.*

11. Nadia: Detective Joey Quinn's stripper girl friend in season seven, her goal in life was to save enough money to open her own dog walking business.  Played by attractive Swedish actress Katia Winter, who played Little Nina on The Boys.

12: Niki: Dexter's co-worker Vince Masuka's sperm donated daughter turns up in the lousy final season in a failed subplot.  She has a nice topless scene in episode four.  Played by the girl who played Becky on Friday Night Lights.

13. Lisa: Travis Marshall's sister, who ends up as his Whore of Babylon.  It's a small role well-played by Deadwood's Alma.

14. Sylvia: Miguel Prado's wife, she becomes Rita's best friend, and they both nag their husbands into trying to kill each other (not really. . .but almost). The actress who plays her would also later appear on True Blood.

15. Evelyn: The showrunners brought her character out of the cosmic television void for the sorry final season.  With nary a hint of her presence in the first seven seasons, she appears as a neuropsychiatrist who just happened to help Dexter's adoptive father devise *the code* by which psychopath Dexter navigates life.  There are too many *supension of disbelief* requirements surrounding her character to take seriously.  To make matters worse, she is played by European art film actress Charlotte Rampling, and she sticks out like a sore thumb from the rest of the TV show cast.  It would have been like casting Catherine Deneuve on Dallas.

16. Sonya: Dexter's son's Irish nanny in season five, no explanation given why she has been replaced in season six.  Well-played by Maria Doyle Kennedy.

17. Jamie: The Dexter swiss army knife character, she plays Detective Batista's kid sister, then Dexter's kid's nanny, then Detective Joey Quinn's girlfriend.  Horribly played by a charmless actress named Aimee Garcia, who I guess we were supposed to believe was pretty, considering how often she was scantily clad.  Not to my taste, however.

18. Esmée: The least believable character in the series.  She is given LaGuerta's job in season two, and is so emotionally retarded, with the maturity of a second grader, LaGuerta is able to steal her job back before the season even ends. 

19. Barbara: Undercover vice cop, she becomes Batista's girlfriend in season three in one of the most forgettable subplots of the series after she busts Batista in a prostitution sting.  Nothing about the relationship was believable.  Worse, the actress was ugly.

20. Astor: Rita's daughter, Dexter becomes her step-dad and she's just a cardboard cutout character meant to put Dexter through stereotypical domestic situations (oh, look, psychopath Dexter doesn't understand Astor is growing up and no longer wants to wear little princess clothes!  If Dexter were normal he would know this shit!).  The child actress who plays her is no Tatum O'Neal, that's for sure.

Beatty, NV

I've visited many of the major American cities.  New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New Orleans, Nashville, Atlanta, Tampa.  New York and Chicago are ugly, dirty, horrible places.  The people in Tampa suck.  The other locations listed are OK to varying degrees, though I must say post-Katrina New Orleans is much, much less congenial than pre-Katrina New Orleans.

My favorite American travel destination is Beatty, Nevada, a small unincorporated town located in Nye County, about an hour-and-a-half drive on the peacefully desolate US-95 from Las Vegas. Known as the "Gateway to Death Valley," Beatty lies just seven miles east of the Death Valley National Park, making it a perfect stop for travelers exploring the region. The population is about 500.  500 humans.  There are dozens of burros that wander freely through the town, one of its chief charms.  The burros move together in friendly little posses.  Friendly to each other.  They just stop and stare at humans, much like I do, with much the same contempt.  You have to watch where you step in Beatty.

I enjoy the barren landscape and extreme heat.  The place always seems exotic to my midwestern soul.

There's a surprisingly lively night scene in Beatty.  There is a small casino, but most of the action takes place right out on Main Street and the four or five little streets off of it.  People hangout in various stages of undress and drunkenness.  The little Nye County Sheriff's substation stays busy after sundown. 

I cannot recommend Beatty, NV highly enough for those who want to *get away from it all.*  *It all* being typical drab America.

They Stink

Nothing disgusts me more than the American self-proclaimed Christian.

I am speaking generally, of course. I’m not speaking of every single American self-proclaimed Christian. Some of the American self-proclaimed Christians do have the faith of Christ, and are faithful servants. Some of the American self-proclaimed Christians do have the faith of Christ, but are simply simpletons, or in error in one or more matters of the gospel.**

But the majority of American self-proclaimed Christians do not have the faith of Christ, and are, in fact, anti-Christ. These are the ones who disgust me. They are more repellent than the most depraved pedophile rapist/murderer. Their sin is greater and more destructive.

Most of the MAGA crowd fall under this umbrella. They stink of the worst, the most Satanic idolatry. They worship Trump and his kingdom. Not only do they refuse to call out the wickedness of Trump and America, they are revel in it, they wallow in the filth of it.

Their hearts are full of hate and murder. They lie without shame. They lack all compassion.

They strain at the gnat of abortion and pat themselves on the back as defenders of life, while swallowing the camel of every murder of their government and the governments they arm. They rejoice with demonic glee when their bombs drop on the poorest, most downtrodden people on the Earth.

They hate even the weakest and most despairing of their own kind, their own neighbors. Americans are the most mentally disturbed people on earth, crippled with anxiety, neuroses, psychiatric maladies, every form of addiction from carnal to chemical. Some of the American self-proclaimed Christians' neighbors are so lost, they don’t even know whether they are male or female. What do the American self-proclaimed Christians do to these hurting people? They despise and persecute them.

These are not Jesus' sheep. They do not and cannot hear His voice. They are the children of Satan. Most of them are hardened past the point of redemption.

The great shame of the American church is that the church leaders who have the faith of Christ lack the courage to condemn America’s wickedness. They know their flocks are made up of Satan‘s children, they take their money, they live their personal lives, on the demon money.  They know if they dare criticize Trump or America their livelihood will be taken away. So they say nothing.  For filthy lucre's sake. They are despicable cowards.

**[Of course, all people, whether they claim any faith or not, will err in their mind and body, the comments in this message are in regard to those who claim to represent Jesus, and yet the gospel they promote is contrary to the Kingdom of God.]

The Guilty

There are days when a person is so sick of living. . .sick and tired. . .lightning falling from Heaven would be mercy.

People make judgments they have no authority to make. . .judgments based on *knowledge* plucked from thin air. . .yet they are convinced of them.

A person cannot protest. . .

Yet a person is guilty, nonetheless. Nobody standing accused is innocent. A person may be innocent of the crime detailed in an arrest warrant, yet the person is guilty of something, for the person accused has done something to attract the attention of the Law.

A person, let us call him what he is, a bum, did not steal a loaf of bread, but he is accused because he is guilty of looking hungry. . .had the bum accepted his hunger with a clean and shining face, he would today be free. . .

Recent TV Shows

Daredevil: Born Again is quite a drop off from the 2015-2018 Daredevil series. The story line is not only extremely thin, but what little is there is rushed through without much context or character development. I doubt the villain Muse had even 5 minutes of introduction before being elevated to both Daredevil's and Wilson Fisk's #1 enemy and then being dispatched in a single episode.  Daredevil's love interest is as exciting and bland-looking as a clam. Wilson Fisk and Vanessa go to couples therapy (boy, the therapy stuff that seemed so cool in The Sopranos has become oh-so-tired in the last 25 years) and spout cliché after cliché.  Huge disappointment. . .although I will say episode 8 was very good, and gives hope season two will be a return to form.

Yellowjackets season three continues the downward trend from season one, it's more comedy now than horror/mystery, but it's still enjoyable nonsense with a great cast of (mostly) actresses, with Melanie Lynskey continuing to steal the show.  Lynskey is that rare overweight actress who still seems sexy enough that all genders could fantasize about while masturbating.

Severance season two just ended, and it fell off the cliff from season one. A lot less screen time for Patricia Arquette, John Turturro and Christopher Walken, and way too much screen time for the fat character and his fat wife.  Plus, the story makes less sense now even though most of the big mysteries have been explained.  The one character who had a bigger presence and delivered was Mr. Milchick, well-played by actor Trammell Tillman.

Watched a horror series on Peacock called Hysteria. I don’t know how long ago it first came out, but it got steadily better as the season progressed.  Set during the late 1980s Satanic Panic era, three teenage outcasts form a fake Satanic metal band, inadvertently inciting a witch hunt amid mysterious disappearances and supernatural events in their small Michigan town.  Surprised that this was actually watchable for an entire season, and was actually mildly amusing, with a cast featuring some decent B listers (Anna Camp, Bruce Campbell, Garret Dillahunt and Julie Bowen) and a young actress, Jessica Treska (playing an amoral teen antagonist) who I would not be surprised to see become a *star.*

Tried to watch a spy series called Lioness about a covert CIA program where elite female operatives go undercover to infiltrate terrorist networks, but it was so bad had to quit after 3 episodes.  Gawdawful acting by the two female leads (Zoe Saldana and somebody named Laysla De Oliveira), they were so bad they seemed even to infect Nicole Kidman, who I've never seen give a bad performance before. One of the worst shows I've tried to watch this century.

Serotonin

Serotonin, by Michel Houllebecq.  Houellebecq has written one great novel (The Map And The Territory) and one good novel (Atomised), and quite a few others of decidedly lesser quality, including Serotonin, which may be called, charitably, mediocre. The narrator tells us, vaguely, how he has become alienated from modern life, so much so that he decides to disappear himself. It sounds like a decent premise, but the telling is shallow, the booked padded with various characters’ superfluous sex histories, which read like YouPorn plot synopses, the only exception being an 8 page subplot about a German pedophile, which one might suspect of being Houellebcq’s confession by proxy, as it is, by far, the best written and most spirited 8 pages in the book, the only 8 pages that seem not to have been written on autopilot. There are also Houellebecq’s trademark Michelin Guide-like descriptions of tourist towns, hotels and restaurants, and yet another of his seemingly canny prophecies, as he anticipates the Yellow Vest movement in the book’s dairy farmer subplot.  But in the end, really the only thing that keeps one (barely) reading are the insults Houellebecq tosses out every 10 pages or so at various cultural landmarks such as Alain Finkielkraut, Christine Angot, Catherine Millet, Vincent Cassel, etc. The rest is just a feeble attempt to come to terms with our contemporary barren GoogleAppleFacebookAmazon world.

Anus, Part II

If you read Anus a few weeks back, you know about my inmate correspondence.  I just wanted to give this quick update.  I received my latest letter from the inmate, in which he replied to my research findings on the anuses of the female celebrities he inquired about.  Apparently I took him too literally.  Here is the clarification from his latest missive on his anal interest:

Yes, I do enjoy the boldness of Kendra Lust, Lily Phillips, Bonnie Blue among others.  What actual acts they do is what I was so curious about.  Plus if they did close ups.  Some adult films do close ups.  It shows boldness in the adult stars' performances.  So. . .are they 'whores' or just open—very extremely open about what they find pleasure in as women?

OK, so I guess he did not want to know if there were extreme close-ups of these women's anuses, he just wants to know what sex acts they perform, and, I think (if I am interpreting his last sentence correctly), if they seem genuinely fond of these sex acts, or are they just being whores, i.e., pretending to like their anal, vaginal and pie holes being stretched for money?

I did in-depth research on the video tramp Lily Phillips who recently gained the gutter spotlight with an OnlyFans *backdoor* challenge in which she was butt-fucked by 50 men in one night. I did not, of course, bother to waste my money paying to see this marathon of sodomy, as there are plenty of free Lily Phillips videos on the internet in which she is penetrated in the butt-hole.  I watched quite a few, enough to offer what I believe is a now informed opinion.

In my reply to the inmate I told him that, yes, there are close-ups of the action, you often see a male (of various races, all with rather long penises) spit into Lily Phillips' unbleached shit-hole, then wedge his cock into and stretch out the anus, then pump into her rectum vigorously.  Her reaction in all the videos is the same: Porn School 101 Drama, moaning and gasping and cooing way too loudly while pinching the nipples of her artificially augmented titties.  Nothing seems genuine about the sex act.  It appears a purely commercial endeavor.

I reported to my inmate penpal that I cannot state Ms. Phillips would enjoy being anally penetrated by him based on the video evidence.  Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn't.  Perhaps if she met the inmate (or me, or you if you are male) and she formed some emotional connection, then maybe some real passion might develop, and she might ache to be butt-fucked, but until we can perform a field test, we can only state it does not appear Lily Phillips enjoys being sodomized from the free internet video evidence available.

The Other Side

The Other Side: Written by the great graphic artist Alfred Kubin, this is one nutty book. If you’ve seen any of his deranged, grotesque illustrations, you won’t be surprised by this deranged, grotesque “novel.” We put novel in quotation marks because Kubin’s writing lacks certain technical skills, chief among them comprehensibility. Stuff happens in this book just because stuff happens. If you are willing to go along for the ride, you’ll be treated to one of the great literary freak shows.

The Other Side tells the story of the narrator’s and his wife’s journey to the Dream Realm, which was founded by the mysterious Patera, former classmate of the narrator and now a nearly supernatural figure. The Dream Realm is a 1200 square mile patch of Asia shut off from the rest of the world by a massive wall, and meant to be refuge for those unhappy with modern civilization. The residents of the Dream Realm are said to “exist in moods alone.” But the narrator and his wife soon find it to be a gloomy landscape of shabby buildings inhabited by a population of neurotics, misfits and human oddities. The bizarre atmosphere and queer occurrences  take their toll, producing an accumulating anxiety and sense of dread, and the narrator’s wife dies a vague death of nervous exhaustion, which provokes in the narrator a morbid libido, as just a few hours after his wife’s funeral he seduces a married woman. The narrator finds a temporary peace with the blue-eyed tribe, a group of indigenous hermits who practice a zen-like way of life. With these people the narrator discovers the joys of quiet contemplation, and discovers, to his shock, his inner being: “I found that my self was composed of countless selves, each one lurking behind the other, each one seeming bigger and more taciturn than the one in front. The last ones disappeared in the shadows, beyond my comprehension. Each of these selves had ideas of its own.” 

But the quiet life is broken with the uninvited arrival of an ugly American into the Dream Realm, who wants to dethrone Patera and remake the place in his own image, but his plans only cause a fissure in the Realm’s delicate balance, and soon chaos erupts: a sleeping sickness ensues, animals run wild and copulate in a frenzy, buildings and objects begin to decay rapidly, ants inherit the earth, the citizens descend to base carnality, engaging in mass orgy, with no limit, including incest and pedophilia. After the American’s failed revolution, mass murders begin and bizarre ecological disasters occur until the even more lunatick grand finale, were a vengeful Patera becomes a titan, spraying his boiling urine all over the earth, and then engages in a last battle with a now similarly titanic American, which ends in both of them expanding and contracting like demented universes collapsing upon themselves, leaving Patera to survive in death, while the American survives in life.

Huh? What did it all mean? Who knows? It makes Revelation seem straightforward. Fittingly, this mad masterpiece ends with the following: “True hell lies in the fact that this discordant clash continues within us. Even love has its focus ‘between faeces and urine.’ The sublime can fall prey to the ridiculous, to derision, to iron.” Amen, brother.

Calvin & Tiny

I haven't been up to Marion, MI in a long time, since my mother died some years ago.  Bored, I drove up there a couple days ago, just to see if it was still the same.  It pretty much is.  I ran into a couple fellas I knew back in the day, Calvin & Tiny.

Calvin had to move into a trailer on his brother-in-law's dairy farm after he lost his 400 sq ft cabin on the Middle Branch river. He borrows his brother-in-law's truck every now and then and drives by his old place, to see what's been poached. A little wood deck has been stripped off, a storage shed is gone, as is a winter's worth of firewood. He used to get by doing odd jobs farm-to-farm, repairs, painting, hauling, whatever needed done. But now nobody has money to pay for labor, the locals either do the work themselves, or let it go undone.

"Well," I says to him, trying to find the bright side, "it looks like you haven't missed too many meals, at least."

"Shit," he says, "I work a few chores for my brother-in-law, takes two hours a day, if I move slows. Then I eat and eat. Sit in the trailer and get fatter and fatter. I get fat and think about my cabin. I built it my God damn self. It ain't nothing much, but I miss looking out at the river every night."

Tiny owns a gas station and party store on M-115—but the last couple years there haven't been nearly as many city slickers from SE Michigan coming up to *get away from it all.* Tiny used to give a couple high school kids part-time summer jobs—not anymore, now he and his wife do all the work. Tiny figures he can hang on two more years, then after that? “I’d rather not think about it,” he says. Tiny's wife, who is nearly as *tiny* as Tiny, says they'll probably end up working at the Wal-Mart in Cadillac. "If we can even get that," Tiny adds.

Omens, Then & Now

Been reading some of the more obscure writings of Francis Bacon, and was floored by how closely this matched my present mood, despite it being penned some four hundred years ago:

Hark, of late, when I do enter a shoppe, a mercantile house, or some manner of trading place—be it a market of victuals or a house of sundry wares, such as that great hall of trade men call Target—the presence of others, those wretches called customers, doth weigh upon mine own spirit as a yoke upon the neck of the ox. Yea, their very presence doth oppress me.

This selfsame affliction doth seize me not only within the confines of such houses of trade, but likewise in those foul taverns of hasty victuals, and upon the crowded thoroughfares where the multitude doth press and jostle without cease. Yet mark thee well! This malady troubleth me not within the hallowed hush of a library. Nay, nor doth it beset me in a bookseller’s shoppe, though therein it lurketh as it doth in all other places of exchange. For these be the places wherein I chiefly go.

Yet lo! Amidst this throng—this heavy and loathsome tide of human flesh, vile as meat left too long upon the butcher’s block—there be, as salt cast unto a dish most rank, a scant few women whom I should desire to know in that most carnal wise. Women slender of form, be they lofty or of lesser stature, golden-haired or dark of tress, ruddy as flame or even she whose locks bear the hue of some strange artifice—yet ever they be thin. Thin women of all ages. And verily, I do believe that should I have but one of them, take her in such manner as nature ordaineth, this grievous oppression would be lifted from me. Yet such relief is not granted. And thus, whilst I linger in the shoppe, the mart, or the house of wares, I do yet remain oppressed.

These customers—they do seem sinister… Nay, not sinister, but something fouler still. They are ominous, yea, they are dread portents. But what doom do they foretell?

Hell.

And so it is no marvel that when I step within a shoppe, a mercantile house, or some such den of trade—be it a market of victuals or a place of sundry wares—the presence of others, these so-called customers, doth weigh upon me as the very shadow of damnation itself.

I Miss The '60s

You know, when you look around at all the craziness in America, the tranxiety, the border neuroses, the imbeciles running the government and escalating the decline in the quality of life, the pockets of zombie homeless, the poor mental and physical health of the sheeple, the poverty, the absurd grabs for Greenland and Canada, and you combine that with the darkness from Palestine, Ukraine, the threat of war in Iran, this may be the most miserable state of the world I have seen in in my lifetime, certainly the worst in the last 50 - 55 years.

I was 7 years old in 1967, and I remember that time and the years until the mid-'70s as being pretty wild. The Vietnam war, the war protests, the race riots, the assassinations, Manson, the lunar landing—probably more chaos, death, spectacle and upheaval than right now. . . but the sheeple back then were mentally and physically healthier, they were far better able to accurately process what was going on around them than today's sheeple.  And I saw that in spite of all constant churn, the sheeple back then were far more hopeful, and much less depressed than the sheeple today.  The youth believed a better Age was dawning.  Look at those three groovy chicks in the photo above, look how happy, look at the smiles!  Nobody smiles today.  Now people are afraid of their own shadow, and of who’s pissing next to them in the shitter.

Even though in the late '60s and early '70s the American people were divided over the war and race issues, they maintained a higher degree of civility on the individual level. People didn't rage and brawl in fast food restaurants and on airplanes, they didn't shoot each other at work and at school.  People didn't call the police over every personal offense. Today there is open hatred of those who hold contrary opinion.  Much of this can be attributed to the dehumanizing effects of the electronic age.  The other is not a flesh-and blood-human, but a clashing electronic viewpoint in our timeline.  As people become more and more isolated in the electronic age, interpersonal relationship skills vanish.  People don't know how to talk to other people, let alone how to get another person naked for sexual activity.  Young people today have higher celibacy rates than medieval clerics.

It's the unpleasantness of other people, their meanness and pettiness, their appetite for violence, that makes our current day seem so much darker and hopeless than the crazy late '60s and early '70s.  

Other people are so disgusting, why even bother to hope for better days?  Who even wants to live with these people?    

No Answer

The soul that believes there is a Higher Power (from whatever religious or scientific faith) cannot answer the infidel's question: why does God allow evil to happen?

The believer will try to answer.  In fact, the believer often truly believes he has the answer.  But his answer is just one of man's homilies, usually one of the following three:

1. God allows evil to display the need for and glory of His redemptive work, His mercy, grace, patience, etc.

2. Free will.  God allows people to make their own choices, and most of them are bad, leading to the degenerate state of the world.

3. God allows evil because, although we cannot see how from the midst of it, it is part of a greater plan that works for a greater good.

None of these answers, or any of the lesser known answers, would satisfy the child, or the family of the child pictured above.  Currently we are witnessing the Israelis inflicting incredible cruelty upon the Palestinians. This is not a historical anomaly.  The Jews themselves suffered incredible horror during WW II, and, in fact, human history is littered with such suffering, both on the collective and the individual level.  

Even those who seem strong in their belief in a Higher Power can abandon that faith when tragedy afflicts them.  

Only one answer is somewhat satisfying to the human mind, the mind that assumes fairness and justice are obligations of existence.  Only the hope of Universal Salvation can ease the sting (and it doesn't completely ease the sting) of evil.  The belief every human being, at *the end of time* will be resurrected to eternal glory, an eternity free of tears and pain, which then offers at least a joyous future as compensation for the present misery. But Universal Salvation is a tiny minority belief in the religious and scientific faiths, and is rarely discussed or debated.

If there is no Higher Power, no responsible Creator, then the world's pain and suffering is simply a byproduct of the accident of life.  Life mutated into horror.

But for the person of religious or scientific faith in a Higher Power, is there really nothing better to be offered as a consolation for the suffering?  Is there really nothing more we can say than trust God's plan, His ways are not our ways, and in the end glory awaits (at least, glory awaits for some)? 

Is there anything else we can offer the injured, dying child, and his family?

No.

Hindus believe in karma, but that gives little solace in the here and now of misery, and besides, if we honestly assess human history, we see an overwhelming unbalance in the favor of bad karma.

The infidel shouldn't be troubled or surprised by the agony of life.  The unbeliever is convinced life is the result of a random act of violence so terrifyingly powerful it continues without end, and all the accidental life forms that it tore from the void suffer and die for whatever life form exists in the present, and they too will suffer and die and be the genesis of the universe's next miserable creatures.

Personally, I find solace in the life of Christ.  Jesus was despised and rejected, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, so much so He seemed stricken and smitten of God, He was tortured and murdered.  

So when I look at the broken body of the Palestinian child, the victim of Israel, I hear the words of Jesus:

The servant is not greater than his Lord. If they have persecuted Me, they will also persecute you.

I can only pray all the miserable people of the world are called to serve the Lord.

The Fugitive

Over 60 years old now, The Fugitive remains one of my all-tme favorite television shows. It starred David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble, a physician wrongly convicted of murdering his wife and sentenced to death. Kimble escaped from prison and went on the run, often frequently helping the people he was hiding amongst, all the while determined to find the real killer, a sinister one-armed man. Along the way, he was pursued by Lieutenant Gerard (played by Barry Morse), a dogged, humorless detective who was obsessed with returning Kimble to death row.

The plot was loosely borrowed from Victor Hugo’s classic 19th century French novel Les Misérables, with the Kimble character being the counterpart of Hugo’s fugitive Jean Valjean, and Lieutenant Gerard based on Hugo’s Frech police inspector Javert.

The Fugitive was both a critical and commercial success, winning four Primetime Emmy Awards and becoming one of the most popular television shows of the 1960s. It was a groundbreaking show that helped to shape the television landscape. It was one of the first shows to deal with serious issues in a realistic way, and it helped to raise awareness of important social issues, such as race relations, domestic violence, poverty, addiction, mental health, even the plight of migrant workers.

What made The Fugitive so great, though, was the lead actor David Janssen. Yes the scripts were generally above average, and they dealt with some interesting issues, but it was David Janssen‘s portrayal of Dr. Ruchard Kimble that really drew the viewer in. Jansen gave a fantastic performance as the fugitive. He brought a great deal of depth and nuance to the role, and he made Kimble a sympathetic and relatable character. Here was a character who lived the fine life, a rich, successful doctor who had come to take the blessings in his life, including his wife, for granted. But In a twist of fate worthy of Greek tragedy he is brought low, and must experience life again at its most humble, running from town to town, living in constant fear of being discovered, working menial jobs, associating with classes of people he had long since been isolated from. And, as his greatest curse, he becomes a man who must live completely alone in the world.

There have been a lot of books and movies about the last man on earth, some poor schmuck who is the only survivor of some kind of apocalyptic event and is left to wander a desolate landscape all by himself. Well that’s essentially the fate of David Janssen‘s character. He has to live as if he’s the last man on earth, even though he’s surrounded by the living. He can’t afford to let anyone know he is there. He can’t tell anybody who he is or what he’s up to for fear of being betrayed and/or captured. It’s a fantastic performance, Janssen is able to express the frustration, the stress, the tension of always having to look over his shoulder, always having to be careful of what he says. He gives a very subdued, subtle performance, he shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets, hems and haws as he gives vague answers to questions, always glancing for the nearest exit.

Listen, anybody who has ever worked at a job knows that sooner or later at least one person, some workplace busybody is gonna try to butt into your life and figure out who you are. As the fugitive flees from town to town, he takes on countless odd jobs and temporary work, and invariably runs up against some workplace leech. It’s very tiring having to live while always hiding who you really are. David Jansen‘s character expresses that kind of fatigue very well, the fatigue of living contrary to your nature. Janssen’s Richard Kimble is the great world-weary representative of every one of us who has ever, for however brief or long, tried to live a secret life.

The Fugitive, a great, great show. You know over the years they’ve done different versions of the show, even a Harrison Ford movie, but what they’ve never tried and what would be much more interesting than trying to remake something that was already done almost perfectly, is if they did a movie which showed the fugitive trying to go back to living as Richard Kimble. How difficult would it be to try to go back and live your true life, after having lived a different life for so long? Perhaps you would have discovered that what you had thought your true life was wasn’t really true at all. . . maybe there were lies in that life, also? Would you pick them up again? Is everybody, at their core, a fugitive from their true self?

All I Need Is Love

All I Need Is Love, by Klaus Kinski. The most outrageous, manic, rude, and wildly entertaining autobiography I have ever read.  This thing is so nuts, it’s not even published anymore. You can only get used copies, at a very, very high price, from online booksellers. I got a copy from the library years ago and smartly xeroxed a copy for myself, as the library here has since taken the book out of circulation.

Published in 1986, it is a candid and outrageously lurid account of the German actor's life, from his childhood in Nazi Germany to his rise to fame in world cinema, culminating in his five epic collaborations with director Werner Herzog. 

Half frothing, bitter rant and half brutally honest confession, there's not a single dull page.  Kinski begins by recounting his Dickensian childhood in war-torn Germany, suffering from extreme poverty and a cold, abusive mother and a weak, pathetic father.

But it's Kinski's portrayal of his relationships with women that has earned this book's reputation for obscenity and its banishment.  All I Need Is Love would probably cause #MeToo girls to faint. He writes about his many affairs and marriages in graphic, insulting detail. Kinski would fornicate with whatever woman was handy, regardless of appearance, hygiene, age, weight, race, etc.  While there are occasional recollections of affection, Kinski's chief concern with women was biological, he had an insatiable need for the female's holes.   

Kinski also frankly discusses his drug use. He admits to using a variety of drugs, including cocaine, heroin, and LSD. He also writes about his experiences with mental illness, including depression and schizophrenia.

Also memorable is Kinski's unflattering assessment of the film industry, and, of course, his most famous director, Werner Herzog. There are numerous epic rants deriding the stupidity and artlessness of Herzog. Herzog dismisses much of Kinski's criticism of him as pure fabrication meant only to create a sensational best-seller.  Herzog's protests have led to much critical scrutiny of All I Need Is Love. Most critics side with Herzog, and accuse Kinski of exaggerating or fabricating many of the events of his life detailed in the book.

I choose to take Kinski at his word, but does it really matter whether or not All I Need Is Love is an honest account of Kinski's life? I am reminded of Antonin Artaud’s answer when some dull literary critic dared to ask him if his biography of Heliogabalus was *true.* Artaud answered “what does it matter? I have created something beautiful.” And that’s what we can say about Klaus KInski’s All I Need Is Love.

The Devils

The Devils: 54 years after its release, it's still one of the most controversial, extreme and bizarre films ever made. . .and would serve today as a worthy meditation on MAGA irrationality. 

Ken Russell’s shrieking, unhinged historical drama, based on Aldous Huxley's The Devils of Loudun, is a wild mix of torture horror, sexual perversion, and religious and political malfeasance. Set in 17th-century France, it's a nightmarish telling of the true story of Urbain Grandier, a priest accused of witchcraft by a group of nuns in the town of Loudun. With its unforgettable visual style, untethered depictions of religious hypocrisy, political corruption, and ax-blunt commentary on power and repression, The Devils challenges its audience in ways few films ever have.  

Oliver Reed, an under-rated, nearly forgotten limey actor, not as great as Richard Burton, but certainly better than or equal to Olivier, Caine, Finney, O'Toole, et al. delivers a masterpiece preening performance as the vain, arrogant, horny Father Grandier, a charismatic priest who tries to save his city's independence from the growing central authority of France's King Louis XIII, who appears just as stupid, bored, cruel, and a little bit more trans than our Donald Trump.  Louis, who is more devoted to *sport* (a decidedly peculiar form of hunting) than actually ruling (think Trump and golf), leaves the details of the land grab (think Trump and Greenland) to Cardinal Richelieu.

Reed's Grandier is a deeply flawed yet principled man who, despite his love of female flesh (every woman, including the nuns, in Loudun swoon over him), genuinely cares for his parishioners and fights against the destruction of his city’s autonomy.

Vanessa Redgrave plays Sister Jeanne, a hunchbacked nun who harbors an obsessive and unfulfilled carnal fixation on Grandier. When her repressed desires break out into a full-blown sexual hysteria, she accuses Grandier of witchcraft, setting off a chain of events that leads to his persecution and execution.

[I can't help but think Paula White would suffer from the same mania as Sister Jeanne, had not Trump allowed her to perform fellatio upon him.  And we can also imagine Trump has the same amused opinion of his evangelical followers' beliefs as Louis XIII had of the beliefs of his Church partners].

Ken Russell’s Grand Guignol direction (no idea is too far-fetched to indulge), combined with the still-mesmerizing über-Baroque and brutalist set designs of Derek Jarman, create an unsettling atmosphere that underscores the film’s themes of oppression and moral decay. The film’s surreal imagery, chaotic violent crowd scenes, and grotesque depictions of religious fervor, heightens the sense of hysteria and corruption within Loudun. 

Of course, the legendary scenes of mass sexual hysteria among the nuns, culminating in the possessed sisters engaging in frenzied orgiastic rituals, have cemented The Devils as one of the most shocking films in cinema history, even with its most depraved scenes left on the cutting room floor. 

But beyond all its provocative imagery, its hellish mix of lust, perversion and torture, The Devils, at its heart, is a searing critique of institutional power that resonates across the decades to our MAGA Age. It exposes the ways in which political and religious authorities manipulate public perception for their own ends. Richelieu and his enforcer, Father Barre, use the accusations against Grandier to justify the destruction of Loudun’s fortifications, consolidating their control over France, just as in our MAGA Age Trump and evangelical heretics use accusations against colored immigrants to justify their border walls, or accusations against the colored poor to justify land/material exploitation around the globe.

Most of today's somnolent audience will have little understanding of The Devils political allegory, but The Devils will certainly still shock-and-awe even the most hardened purveyor of perversion with its depictions of sexual hysteria and torture.  

The Devils faced extensive censorship upon release. Even today, a fully uncut version is not available. Despite this, The Devils remains one of cinema's most arresting, disturbing and provocative works, and a timeless reminder of the destructive power of weaponized religion.

Marthe: The Story Of A Whore

Marthe: The Story of a Whore, by Joris-Karl Huysmans.  Huysmans’ first novel is also one of the first to attempt a realistic or *naturalistic* examination of prostitution. A struggling young writer and his cabaret dancer/prostitute girlfriend try to survive the grinding poverty and overflowing vice of Paris lower class life.  Loosely based on Huysmans' own misadventures in the gutters of Paris, this novella is limited by its artificial dialogue and character psychology, and somewhat clumsy plotting, this uneven story of a whore doesn’t quite measure up to Huysmans’ later work. Indeed, one contemporary critic rightly asked ‘what good does it do us to witness the blossoming of this venereal flower?’ BUT. . .Huysmans’ unmatched descriptive powers are already on display. No novelist ever saw the grimy truth of reality better, or could translate it so vividly. He wrote descriptions like Van Gogh painted the Night Cafe. Here is his rendering of the whore’s slum:

A rusty door streaked blood-red and ochre yellow, a long dark corridor the walls of which oozed black drops like coffee, and a sinister staircase that creaked at every footstep and was impregnated with the foul stench of drains and the smell of the lavatories whose doors swung open in the slightest breeze.

Also present is Huysmans’ remarkably blunt and still 149 years after its publication avant-garde assessment of the essential hopelessness of cohabitation:

He also had to put up with the smell of her cooking, the heavy odour of wine in the sauces, sickening stench of onions fried in a pan, and look at bread crumbs all over the rugs and bits of cotton thread all over the furniture; the sitting room had been overturned from top to bottom. On cleaning days it was even worse. The ironing board had to be balanced across his desk and another table, and the washing had to be dried on a clothes-horse in the hall. The puddles of water on the parquet, the stale smell of lye, and the streaming laundry that left damp-stains on his brasswork and tarnished his mirrors, reduced him to despair.

Page after page of both of the lovers’ resentments, which, stewing in poverty, turn the wine of love sour. As an indictment of carnality, Marthe makes Huysmans later turn to catholicism/spiritualism seem inevitable. Despite its flawed presentation of the anatomy of a prostitute, of which there is no need to detail, the book predicts Huysmans’ eclipse of other *naturalists* because his chief concern is the individual, and not the collective. He understood ruin is personal, not political:

The daylight which filtered its gold-dust through the curtains showed him a face bruised by the depredations of the night, and a posture that revealed a whore who had been dragged through every gutter in the city.

Nudity

In the west, nudity is equated with freedom. Particularly for females. Females are *free* to dress in almost nothing. Clothing, as we learn in the history of Adam and Eve, originated as the result of sin. Therefore, to rebel against clothing is to proclaim oneself free from the law of sin and death. The nudist [undoubtedly stupidly, or, more politely, unconsciously] is thus telling God to go to Hell.

Redeem The Time

If I had to formulate a general mindset that would apply to the largest number of people on earth, it would be:

I don’t want to die, but I wish life was better.

Life is such a fantastic improbability, and yet I don’t think we contemplate it enough in our day-to-day existence. There’s not a word in the English language to adequately describe the phenomenon of life. *Miracle* is probably the best choice we have.

So we have this unbelievable, unfathomable existence. And yet almost all activity in human history seems meaningless.

The world order that has developed over the course of history herds people into material pursuit. Most of our conscious time is spent, on the individual and collective level, in the pursuit of material gain.

Such a base occupation leads to all the individual manias, addictions, neuroses, anxieties, in short, all the psychological maladies that cripple the individual.

It makes sense. Why wouldn’t the grandeur of existence wasted on banality produce mental conflict and mental breakdown?

Eggheads estimate that 117 billion people have lived in the course of human history. How many of those lives weren’t squandered? John the Baptist, Jesus, a handful of artists. Of the great mass of the nameless and faceless, only those who positively engaged in parenting, which is surely a small number. What did the overwhelming majority of people who ever lived accomplish with their unbelievable, unfathomable existence? Nothing of value. They killed time.

The world order was the same 2000 years ago as it is today. The sheeple were the same 2000 years ago as they are today. Time killers. Life squanderers. Jesus was able to mesmerize the people because He showed them a different way, a way to redeem the time, a way to live a life of meaning. Jesus' way turned the world upside down for 300 years until the Archon influenced the power of the world, Constantine, to co-opt it.

Nobody has been able to match Jesus in the last 2000 years, because nobody has offered a new way, they only offer sub-cultures of the world order.

You cannot live in the world order, you can only die. To live you must do what Jesus said, turn your back on the world. You might die of starvation in a week, but at least you will die alive.

Find the way to redeem the time. Don’t die like the herd.

I Pledge Allegiance To Tesla

Can you imagine the mentality of the poor person who accepts the instruction from Trump and Pam Bondi and makes the well-being of Tesla his or her or their concern?

Elon Musk is robbing from tens of millions of the American poor, and yet, because Trump endorses him, the poor make the well-being of the billionaire a personal priority.

Such a person strikes me as awfully pathetic, with an almost unbelievably errant view of their own reality. They have the frame of reference of the penthouse class while living in a trailer park. They think the domestic terrorists are the righteous angry who overturn the Tesla charging stations, and not the filthy rich who steal even what little the poor have.

Though the issue is far more grave, it is easier to understand the misguided thinking of those Americans who support Israel’s mass murder of Palestinians. Americans have been bewitched by generations of heresy from false prophets, and their government has been thoroughly corrupted by the zionist donor class, whereas those American poor who now cherish Tesla have been duped by a couple of second rate carnies.

In any event, we pray for the success of the anti-Musk, anti-Tesla movement. We pray Musk’s wealth and influence evaporate.

In Dreams

We are yanked out of a darkness from God only knows where, and thrown into this life. . .

It takes years to overcome the trauma and accept the life sentence. . .

We remember almost nothing of the horror of earliest life, just fragments of misery. . .certain smells remind us how repulsive the stink of life once was, and how now we barely notice. . .

Shards of memories remain, images of *adults,* those who had assimilated, in acts of torment.

This trauma is easily verified by observing babies and toddlers. . .babies cry at life, while toddlers stare dumb at what fate has presented them.

Around the ages of four to six, the child begins the process of assimilation, and inflicts his or her own pain on the life near him or her, tearing the wings off flies, knocking down smaller children, kicking and flailing at parents.

Life becomes the day-to-day chore of endurance. . .

He who endures to the end shall be saved. . .

He who has faith in the Higher Power who set him here, he who has faith God shall wipe away all tears from his eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away, he who has faith, the same shall be saved.

The only mystery remains at the end of each day. . .

At the end of each Godforsaken day, as we rest from the labor of life, we are dropped into a pool of dreams. . .

Tranxiety

If a man can proclaim himself a Christian, then why not proclaim himself a female?

There is more authority for the man claiming trans than for the faith of Christ, since only Christ can definitively say who is His. . .

Also remember: we know not what the true male or female is, since we have only fallen males and females since Adam and Eve ate the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Depression

As God decreased, mental illness increased. . .

Man tries to cure it today with chemistry, but chemistry is what set man down the tragic path to illness, mental and physical, when the fruit was eaten.  In fact, it is mental illness that manifests first: note the behaviors from Adam and Eve, particularly the neuroses provoked by nudity. . .

Chemistry cannot cast out chemistry. . .

A more effective approach would be to try to return the individual to an Edenic environment. . .after all, they were cast out of Eden and the environmental degradation further exacerbated their chemical degradation.

Depression, or the more poetic melancholia, is a collapse of the life impulse, the sufferer will yearn for death, due to self-punishment, failure to achieve, either the law or the self (guilt under law, failure of self, both are pure punishment), only Jesus can set the soul free from the law of sin and death. . .

Depression is the healthy, rational reaction of the fall of man to the chemical alteration of being human.  No one can deny that Adam and Eve were less human after the chemical castration of the Tree.  Thus all of modern medicine's attempts to treat depression by chemistry only follows Satan's path to chemically reduce man to an even further fallen state.

The Brown Jug

I was watching The Shining last night. It’s not one of Kubrick‘s better films, and I really don’t think it’s a horror movie, and am always surprised when I see it so highly rated as one of the greatest horror movies of all-time. It’s really more of a family melodrama and a cautionary tale of alcohol. But anyway, there's that scene where Wendy is walking down the hotel hallway and sees in one of the rooms a dude in a bear costume on his knees blowing another dude, and it reminded me of something from long, long ago. Something I hadn’t thought about in decades. Something my first wife told me. This was very, very early in the relationship, months before I stupidly agreed to marry her. I’ve always been very emotionally retarded, very immature, juvenile, a late bloomer, if I ever did bloom, I don’t know. But back then for sure I didn’t have a clue about life, had no idea we could attempt to manage it, or at least direct it towards some outcome that could redeem the time. In His sermon on the mount, Jesus rightfully advised take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. I certainly adhered to that teaching back in the day, but probably not in the correct fashion. For example, Jesus would probably think it’s OK for a person take some thought about who they were going to marry.

Anyway, as I say this was very, very early in our relationship, you know maybe third or fourth date or whatever you want to call it. We were dining in at Taco Bell, eating our tacos and burritos off of plastic trays. In hindsight, I imagine that she, being more mature and knowledgeable about how to conduct a relationship, viewed this as the ‘getting to know each other’ stage. Personally, I’ve never put much stock in that. I’d like to believe what I see is what I get, and if I like what I see I figure I’m gonna like what I get. But anyways, I guess she wanted me to know her, to understand her. So she told me the story about her last boyfriend. The story of the boyfriend whose antics prompted her to enter her lesbian phase, which she, at that point there in Taco Bell, was contemplating leaving for me. We hadn’t had sex at that point. She had been heterosexual until the events I’m about to relate which she related to me that night.

As I said I hadn’t thought of any of this in decades. Probably the last time I thought about it was 25 years or so ago, back when I thought I could salvage the monetary wreck of my life by becoming an author. I was trying to think of material that would make a good short story, and I remembered what my first ex-wife had told me. I never wrote the story because I couldn’t grasp the main character’s psychology, the main character being the last boyfriend of my first ex-wife before she began the lesbian phase of her life.

Anyway, here’s what she told me, and what I remembered for the first time in a long time after watching that scene in The Shining.

She and her boyfriend were living in a ground floor apartment on Oakland Avenue in Ann Arbor. That’s a pretty lively section of student housing on the University of Michigan campus. She had a job as a waitress at The Brown Jug, a popular bar/restaurant. If you happened to be on the Michigan campus back in the early 1990s, you know what kind of wait staff The Brown Jug had. Madonna wouldn’t have been able to get hired, too heavy, not pretty enough. Anyway, my ex-wife left work early that night because she had a migraine. As she was approaching the porch to her apartment house, she saw her front door open and an older male come out, like a late 50s or early 60s male, like even older than her dad. What the fuck? she thought. She couldn’t think of any reason for an old man to be coming out of her apartment.

She said she clearly remembered hoping there would be some benign explanation, but she felt nervous and sweaty as she was about to go in, the feeling of unease on top of her migraine making her feel terribly sick.

Each detail she observed as she stepped into the apartment hit her like a shock wave. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. No matter where she looked, it was like an assault. Everything revolting. Her boyfriend dumbly exclaiming your home?? as he, wearing a pair of pantyhose so small and tight they only reached up to his knees, scrambled off the couch.  A piece of feces dropping from his asshole to the floor. A homosexual orgy playing on the VCR/TV. A pair of her dirty panties that had been in the bedroom and was now laying on the floor. She looked back at her boyfriend. Pantyhose? Where did he get them? She didn’t even wear pantyhose. But there was one of her bras draped over her boyfriend’s chest. As he stumbled past her he stuttered got, got to go, go to bathroom and she saw several large gobs of semen, still wet, sliding down his belly. A little brown bottle on the floor by the sofa. The boyfriend coming out of the bathroom nude, with most but not all of the semen wiped off his stomach. The boyfriend rushing into the bedroom and pulling on a pair of sweatpants.  By now she was so sick, so stressed out she could barely stand up. She went into the bedroom and laid down.  The boyfriend tried to talk to her.  She told him to be quiet, her head was killing her, could he please just get the shit off the living room floor and let her sleep.

I said oh my God in a half laugh a couple times when she was recounting this incident, and I could see that this was off-putting, but I have never been one to pretend or try to react so-called ‘appropriately.’

Anyway, my first ex-wife said the boyfriend never admitted anything.  Ever.  An older male in the house?  No!  Homosexual pornography?  What?? No!  She broke up with him a day later.

A couple months later my ex-wife hooked up with Sharri who was also a waitress at The Brown Jug, and began her lesbian phase.  Sharri's brother worked with me at a store on the campus. One day Sharri and my ex-wife came in to see Sharri's brother. We all ended up at Pinball Pete's later that night. And that was the beginning of that.  My first ex-wife and I got married before she even graduated college. Ridiculous. Her family couldn’t stand me. For good reason, I guess. I was going nowhere. They probably wondered what she was even doing with me. But I have always been able to make girls laugh and I do whatever they say. That can carry you a long ways. 

Well, now that I think even more about the past, I don't always do what they say.  That was the beginning of the end for me and my first ex-wife, me not doing something she wanted, as that memory now comes back.  Shit comes full circle or whatever.  Maybe I'll write that up for tomorrow.