Close Encounters, Part I

My friend Siegfried, one of the four or five friends I've ever had, died on this date six or seven years ago.  Ever since, I've had the feeling I've been living on borrowed time, as Siegfried and I were born on the same day in the same hospital (old Flower Hospital in Toledo, OH), though we didn't meet until many years later.  I have written about Siegfried, or Sig as I called him, in my books Holy Days In The Sun and The Unbearable Ugliness Of Being.  Frankly, I have been hesitant to relate the story I am about type out as it is a bizarre tale, and even in the ugly and weird pages of The Unbearable Ugliness Of Being it would freakishly stand out.  But I am at the age and stage in life where shit don't matter, anymore.  I can say whatever, and nobody will be embarrassed or upset with me.  So here it is, in memoriam and without apology:

Close Encounters

My friend Siegfried and I were scanning the crowd in the reception suite at an Alien Abduction Conference at the Hilton Garden Inn in Troy, Michigan. Outside of Sex Addicts Anonymous meetings, you can’t find a better gathering of promiscuous women.

One caveat: you must be able to discern the *true believer* from the poser. You tend to get a lot of bored housewife-types at these events. . .they look at it as a kind of *role-playing* game. . .a night of EBErotic chat, and then safely back home to their Fantasy Football-playing husbands. . .don’t waste your time on these Target moms, you’ll never get a rectoscope up one of them.

How can a newbie easily spot a poser? Look at the *Hello My Name Is* sticker badge. . .if you see *Mary* or *Sarah* or *Emily* or *Beth* or any other ordinary name, move on. The hardcore true believer will have their new weird name on their sticker badge.

You see, many of the true believers are convinced they are *hybrids,* part-human, part-alien. . .and they will tell you that during one of their close encounters of the fourth kind, the aliens have revealed to them their true genetic nature, as well as their *real* name. So look for a woman with something like *Amalla* or *Channen* or *Rahnana* or *Zionara* on her name tag. As Siegfried pointed out to me once, many of these names are *Jew-sounding,* which supported his theory that most of the true believers were unfortunate victims of a Masonic-Zionist mind control sex slave conspiracy.

My own personal belief is the majority of these troubled souls were raped as children, and their abduction memories are merely the result of psychological displacement. . .but whatever the origin, it would seem that these women have had their vaginas and anuses inflamed to such a degree they can no longer control the fire which burns within.

“See any good ones?” Sig asks.

“No.”

We stand around.

I question myself: preying upon abductees. That’s not very Christian. But, as usual, I content myself with the thought that not much is. If I weren’t committing this sin, I’d be committing some other sin. As somebody once said, a miss is as good as a mile.

“Uh oh.”

“What?” Sig asks.

“There’s this huge beast staring right at you.”

“Where? Where?”

“Over there, by the registration table.”

Sig spots her.

You know, there’s nothing quite as funny as the look that crosses a guy’s face when he notices an ugly woman staring at him. . .that combination of fear and revulsion. . .it’s as if the ugly woman were some dog shit you were just about to step in. . .

“She’s locked in on you, boy.”

“Why is she looking at me like that?” Sig asks. “It’s creepy.”

“I think she’s crying.”

[TO BE CONTINUED.  I gotta take a break.  This is a tough story to tell.  Gonna take a couple days.  And I may not be up to telling it all.]

Shelley Winters

 

I saw this Shelley Winters card on eBay a week or so ago and bought it, entirely for sentimental reasons.

My dad came to America from Iraq.  His brother was a famous actor in Iraq, and my old man thought he could one up him by becoming a Hollywood star.  Of course, he failed miserably.  But he did return from his four years in Los Angeles with a lot of amusing stories.  He claimed to support himself while chasing acting parts he took a job selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door, and his partner was Martin Sheen.  This would have been late 1950s, early 1960s Los Angeles.  

The stories I remember best, though, were the ones in which my old man claimed he was Shelley Winters boyfriend for a few months.  He loved to tell people he fucked her.  I always believed him.  If you were gonna pick an actress to make up a story about, you would pick a better-looking one than Shelley, who had a weight problem.  She was more of a slob than a hottie, the role that fit her best was as Charlotte Haze in Lolita, she really didn't have to act, just be herself, an overweight man-hungry cow.  

Though my old man never said this, I believe the main reason he banged Shelley was because she was Jewish, which for him would be the ultimate forbidden fruit.  

Anyway, now I got her autograph card to look at, which brings back some of the few fond memories I have of the old man.

Anus

I am at an age and stage in my life where I no longer have to work for a living. I do, however, work a part-time job at our local mall selling chocolates. I do this because I like to have a few extra coins in my pocket. I work two or three shifts per week, just enough to pay for a little extra amusement here and there.

Of course, that still leaves me a lot of free time. One of the hobbies I have picked up in my old age is writing to prison inmates. Of course, I only write to the famous or infamous or notorious or whatever you want to call them. I don’t write to just some random thug who sold drugs or shot his neighbor.

I like to ask these inmates to reflect on their lives, if they believe they understand themselves and what led them to act in the ways that led them to prison.  I also ask if they have a philosophy or theology, and if they are able to find any meaningful way to spend their time behind bars. 

Most of the inmates either aren’t capable or aren't inclined to engage in any meaningful correspondence. I've had some interesting conversations with a few, but most of them ignore my questions, and, instead, ask for some form of aid.

There is one inmate who is his own *category,* if you will. He will try to answer my questions in a serious fashion, but becomes frustrated with his own limited understanding, and then moves to a series of random research questions.  I don’t know if he doesn’t have access to a computer, or really doesn’t know how to research on a computer, but, for example, he will ask me to look up details on the figures associated with his case, lawyers, judges, police detectives, psychiatrists, etc. He likes to know if they are still alive, what they’re doing etc.  He also asks me about relatives of his victim. It seems to me he’s hoping to outlive them all, which would give him a sense of satisfaction.  "I may be behind bars, but I am above ground, which is better than you." 

But the overwhelming primary interest he wants me to research is celebrity women, singers, actresses, porn stars. In his latest letter he gave me the names of four porn stars and asked me to find out in the photographic and video material that is available on the internets how much detail you could see of their anuses.

Well, for me, it's a pleasant way to pass the time. And I feel good that I’m helping somebody in prison, that I am bringing a little joy into their otherwise dreary gray life.  Doing good for others is a tonic for the soul.

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Besides my two sons, my only living blood relative is my first cousin Mike. I never particularly liked him. When we were kids, he stole a 1909-S VDB penny from me. He was always very materialistic. He always had more money than me. When I was an adult, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.

My ex-wife, my sons’ mother, was very big on family. She pushed and pushed for me to have our family meet Mike’s family. He was married to some broad and had four kids of his own. I finally relented. Over the course of three or four years we probably got together as families five or six times. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.

Then Mike became a MAGA. That was fine with me, do whatever the fuck you want, but it wasn’t fine with him that I wasn’t a MAGA. The cocksucker proselytized me more than a Mormon or Jehovah’s Witness, but I would not relent.

I should also say that at this point in his life my cousin Mike thought he was quite a Christian and quite an expert on the Bible, but in reality he didn’t know shit about the gospel. He tried to tell me you couldn’t be a Christian if you didn’t support Trump. I tried to gently set him straight, but of course he didn’t hear a fucking thing I had to say. Then when Trump lost his election to Biden, I sent my cousin Mike an email in which I said ‘don’t worry, it don’t matter who the president is, your day-to-day life won’t change at all.’

He was furious. He said he could no longer have ‘fellowship’ with me.

I resisted the temptation to email him back and say ‘I never liked you, anyway, you fucking cocksucker.’

I bet that worthless cocksucker still has my 1909-S VDB somewhere.

The Ronald Wilson Reagan Effect

I began to closely observe the external world in the late 1960s and 1970s. I have no reason to doubt the authenticity of my memories, and I am confident in asserting people are much uglier than they were in my youth. It was not unusual to see an attractive person in the late ‘60s and ‘70s. In fact, it was quite common.

It’s hard to look at most people nowadays. It’s not just because most of them are fat. Even those who are of a somewhat normal weight are unpleasant to look at.

What could be the reason for the deterioration in physical appearance? Lack of sunlight? Radiation from all of our electronic devices? Environmental and psychic pollution? Micro plastics? Exponential increase in the intake of pharmaceuticals?

There are frequent news stories about young people losing interest in sex. Most young people don't fuck. Can you blame them? Even an ugly person doesn't want to fuck an ugly person. The human race will disappear due to ugliness. Sad.

Well, now that I think about it, it’s a not only human beings who have declined aesthetically. A similar decline can be observed in architecture, landscape, literature, cinema, music, economics.

I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but all these declines began with the increase of Ronald Wilson Reagan in 1980.

The Gospel Of Jesus

For the first sixty-four years of my life, I thought I had to do something, accomplish something, behave some way. 

No. 

We simply exist. In the hive. Subject to supernatural forces.

Our temporal actions are inconsequential. Vanity. Fruitless. Masturbation. A delusional outburst. Schizophrenic ideation.

Setting an alarm to make sure you are on time for your lord the world is soulicide.

This is the gospel of Jesus Christ: The function of existence is the revelation of truth. What is your position in Christ?

The only freedom is to be called out of the world by the Lord Jesus Christ.

The worst sin a person can commit is to be called out of the world by the Lord Jesus Christ, and then still continue to set an alarm.

I wasted my whole life on sin, when I could have been free.

One of Paul’s most idiotic pieces of advice was when he advised those Corinthians who had been called out of the world by Jesus Christ to then remain in whatever situation in the world they were in.  ‘Go on setting an alarm. Keep performing the role the world assigned you.’  LOL!  That’s the mistake, the sin I committed.

Paul always wanted to set masters over people, both in the church and in the world. 

Malarkey! 

Those who are called out of the world by the Lord Jesus Christ have only one Master, Jesus.  They are set free from the world. To remain in the world is sin. Did Jesus tell the rich young ruler to remain rich?

LOL.

When Jesus calls you out of the world, you are to give up everything of the world and begin doing the labor of the kingdom of God. 

The Lord Jesus Christ said: 

‘Because strait is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be that find it.’

Paul’s idiotic advice to stay in your current position in the world is not the narrow way, LOL!

If Jesus has called you out of the world, you are free. This freedom can only be actuated by being contrary to the world. This is the gospel of Jesus. 

Darling Strange

Watched a movie today.  The title: Strange Darling.  It's a serial killer thriller with a lot of modern takes on identity and gender.  Pretty good movie.  Well-acted by the two leads. BUT. . .

It has one of those *non-linear* scripts.  You know, the fucking movie starts with the middle, then jumps to near the end, then goes back to the beginning, flip-flopping all the way through.  So tired of this gimmick.  This shit ain't even remotely avant garde or interesting anymore.  It's tired.  Just tell the fucking story from beginning to end, already.   And it's a very crude chop job, anyway.  It ain't even truly non-linear.  If you want an example of true non-linear cinema, watch Last Year At Marienbad. This shit in Strange Darling is just amateurish, and it made me annoyed at what was a decent-enough flick.