Down With Big Brother (Laments to a Cheeto vol. I: a politically charged rant)

Down With Big Brother (Laments to a Cheeto vol. I: a politically charged rant)

Fuck man. (said the white male) prepare yourselves. I might say things that not a lot of people agree with. (Was I ever one to say the agreeable thing? I think not.) This is simply a rant to show where I’m coming from. (If anyone cares) I know of maybe 3 people that actually might.

I’m proud. I’m proud to be affiliated with beautiful people who are decisive, and know what they believe in. I’m proud to know people who will fight for what they believe in through peaceful demonstrations such as organized marches. I will be honest, I’m not entirely sure what all the beauties are marching for/against/to who are involved with the Women’s March today (said the white male), but I know that it is a good thing.

As a white male, and a white male who is very much aware of the privilege that that lack of melanin bestows upon him (which is stoopid, I know). I, of course, feel I have nothing to march for/against or /to or either and/or all (huzzah for superfluous wordage!) I could cruise down to Downtown L.A. brave the traffic. Brave the crowd. And stand in solidarity with mah people, but to me. It’s noise. True, there are good things that come from demonstrating the ability of the people to rise up against tyranny (because that, I believe, is the sentiment and passion currently) but, ugh, ok, I’m gonna say it…

I don’t understand what the big deal is? (said the while male) If one of my beautiful people (preferably a female) can tell me, I will gladly listen. If my pale, gender assignment & identity didn’t keep me ignorant, this rant wouldn’t exist. A the honest truth is, I do not see what the big deal is. I understand that the man who has become the president of the United States is a sack of…

Alright. I’ve completely lost the purpose of this rant. And maybe none of it matters because, we all experience life. The pleasure, the pain, delicious sunsets, replenishing cups of morning coffee, rainstorms in the desert, the smells, the flavors, the laughs, the feelings…
We experience being human, and then we fuckin’ die. That’s the long and the short of it. I’m gonna say my piece and do something productive, like write fiction or some shit. ehkay, here it goes…

It FEELS, to me, the offended white man, that the majority is scared. No, it doesn’t even feel like that. That’s what it is. People are terrified.

What I want to say is ‘fear not.’ You cannot live in fear. I understand that that is what the rallies and the protests and the marches are for, but I want you to actually feel it.

FEAR NOT. Do not live in fear of the higher power, continue on, live, find beauty, stand up for what’s right. Find your courage, and I will be here. Standing with you. I will be watching.

I, myself, do not believe in raising my voice to be heard in the rabble of all others. I believe, and always have believed that actions speak louder than words.

I believe in justice, I believe in retribution, I believe in vindication
I!…I!…I sound like a crazy person…

I believe that if it comes down to it, and the thread of American existence is threatened due to the choices of a political regime, I will stand against those choices for the people. And to preserve the American way of life.

I will remain vigilant in the shadows until it is my time to come forth from where I watch and take those who are frightened and put them behind me. I will stand between your life and those who threaten it. I will stand between you and what terrifies you to the core.

I won’t march. I won’t protest. I won’t be heard. Not until I need to be. And, my friends, I will know when I need to be heard. When the time comes, I will lead that revolution. You will be find me on those front lines. When we need to physically fight, or be overcome.

I stand against that tidal wave. I’ll face that demon. When it comes, I’ll face it.

Cheers Beautiful People,



How I became The Punisher

How I became The Punisher

Hello again beautiful people,

It’s a new year, thank gawd and with a new year comes NEW SHIT
THAT”S RIGHT, same fucked up world, New Fucked Up Shit.
I’m being dramatic, it’s really not that bad…it’s not…I’m fine. I am. really.

Ok, I got that goofiness out of my system. I’m actually gonna level with you this time around and tell you a story of an event that I’ve always secretly had the desire to take part in, but never actually thought about what it might look or feel like. I have to admit, it felt better than I could’ve imagined. Alright, here it goes…

It was, in fact, a dark, rainy night in Los Angeles when I pulled my car into a questionable, albeit signless parking lot next to NoBar in North Hollywood. January 10th 2017, for those who didn’t know, was the one year anniversary of the death of the iconic David Bowie and my lovely friends planned on drinking, reminiscing and playing Bowie tracks on the juke box all night. A perfect night, if I may say.
After driving up from Orange County after a particularly positive and productive band practice and still in my high school football shorts and cross-trainers, I made my way towards the bar.
It was after hopping a puddle on the uneven residential streets of suburban NoHo that I heard a distressed scream echo from the alley behind the bar and its adjoining complexes. This obviously female scream came from someone who was not having a good time. Someone who may even needed help.
I looked in the direction that the noise had come from and saw two people struggling against the wall. One of the figures escaped and ran in my direction. Phone, keys and wallet in hand, I broke into a run, discovering in the process that she was being chased by a guy.
I intervened.
This guy was running at me like he was going to run me over. A boldness I have to admit that I admire, but having played contact sports from the time it was legal for me to hit someone, I was no stranger to this sensation. In fact it was extremely familiar. One of my favorite feelings that I can remember was laying my shoulder into some poor mutherfucker who had the misfortune of being smaller than me, wrapping my arms around him and driving him to the ground; feeling the air escape his lungs and the fuckin’ fight retreat from his soul. As this current mutherfucker barreled toward me, I lowered my shoulder, wrapped, lifted his feet off the ground, and drove him to the uneven, gravel-ridden pavement of the alley behind NoBar.

I then situated myself in a completely dominant position on top of his waist, just below his stomach, finding the time, and energy to calmly place my belongings in a neat stack off to the side where they would not be crushed in struggling with this piece of trash. I was prepared to get into a scrap; start throwin’ ‘bows, as it were. But none were thrown at me, so I only took hold of his wrists lest he reach for some weapon I had not seen. Any fear of that had escaped me.

The mutherfucker in question then proceeded to plead, beg and implore with who I would later discover was his ex girlfriend whom had since filed a restraining order against him, while I was on top of him yelling at him him he 1)wasn’t going anywhere and 2) that it was far too late for forgiveness. The only thing I managed to hear from her was
“Keep him down. Please don’t kill him.”
He screamed that he loved her and that he was sorry. I once again screamed at him that it was too late for that until I finally had the chance to look up and see clearly the face he was talking to.
Her left cheek was swollen as if she was keeping a baseball tucked inside her cheek, and blood was running out the corner of her mouth, down her chin. I clamped the bottom of his jaw in one hand, the back of his head in the other, and made him look up at her.

“Look! Look you piece of shit! Did you do that? Did you hit her?” I had never felt my voice that genuinely fierce before. It felt good. It felt really good. The piece of trash actually replied.
“Yes.” The response was pathetic.
I reached an open palm over my head and brought it down hard across his face. I hadn’t ever struck anyone in the face with the intent to hurt before that moment. Once again, it felt good.

He continued his incoherent babbling as we struggled and I told the girl to call the police.
In between talking shit to me, saying he didn’t know who I was (chyeah, like THAT fuckin’ mattered) calling me a bitch (to which I remember getting real close to his face and screaming “I”M NOT THE ONE ON THE GROUND YOU PIECE OF SHIT”), he mentioned something about having a son.
Some sort of manic, disbelieving laugh escaped my mouth as I growled in his face, “You actually procreate, you mutherfucker?” My open palm crossed his face again, harder. Then I dug my forearm into his neck and pushed his face against the wet, gravely pavement and told him to shutthefuckup.

Sheets of drizzle continued to soak us. I couldn’t feel the areas where my skin grated against the gravel. I knew I was probably bleeding but my shins had gone numb. The struggling didn’t stop. In fact, the mutherfucker underneath me was periodically overcome with spurts of boldness, taunting me and telling me that I’d better just kill him. I could have. The thought crossed my mind of how it might feel to drive my elbow into his cheeks and shatter the bones in his face, or to bring my fist down on his nose over and over again until he was unrecognizable. But I didn’t.

We stayed in a perpetual struggle until two police cruisers showed up. They told us to get on the ground, and stay on the ground with our hands spread. Of course, almost as soon as I was off of him, this piece of shit tried to run. Fortunately, due to our yelling, we had attracted a bit of a crowd. He was cut off by the bystanders and put into handcuffs. I was asked, not told, to stand up. The reason I wasn’t told was because when an organization with authority (i.e. The fuckin’ cops) had arrived, I was docile and compliant. I had decided that whatever happened after that point was in their hands.

Two more police cruisers showed up, cuz that’s what happens when the cops show up, and compliantly, I was put into handcuffs. If you’ll permit me to brag, I was not put in one pair of hand cuffs, but two. One pair for each officer that had be assigned to hold the 6′ 240lb suspect (because at that point I was still a suspect until they got my statement). They didn’t know what was going on, my pride wasn’t hurt. After a minute or two, the cuffs were removed and my statement was given. My hands and shins were bloody as I suspected but the falling rain felt good and a dirtbag was in custody.

I cleared the lights of the last police cruiser to see my beautiful friends coming around the corner from the bar. The first thoughts I could muster were something like “Oh good, they know I was involved” and “don’t worry, I’m ok” and “I could use a drink.”

I’m recounting this story because I want it to muster a vigilance in men everywhere. If asked I’ll tell it again and again.
The world is filled with piece of trash human beings, particularly on the male side of the species. There are males (not men) who think they are owed something, that women are weak, that they can take what they want without consequences, that they can take liberties without being called out.

I’m asking you, men of the world, to call them out. Don’t go looking for them, that’s not our job. Karma/The Universe/God/Whatever You Believe In holds the balance of the multiverse in its hands, that’s what will seek them out. Our job is to remain vigilant, remain aware and to act when (not if) the situation arises. However big, or small, Act against the bullies of the world, for they know not their place. It’s next to every other human being.
Things said, things done by shitheads to anyone will not be suffered while I live on this earth.
I ask you to join me.

Until the next time, cheers Beautiful People,