The Deleted Logic Blog

I know I said I was going to take a break.... (UPDATED)

So my father calls me up tonight to let me know that a friend of the family passed away...
To tell me that my niece and her baby boy are doing well...
And to tell me that my sisters think I'm in need of either serious therapy or incarceration.

What makes them worry for my safety and sanity?

This web-site.

Aaawwww shit...

Just where the hell do I begin with this? I guess I have to do some explaining for my dear siblings, so the rest of this post will be directed specifically at them.

If you aren't family... Feel free to fuck off now; This is for the people I love and it just may be the most raw and honest stuff I've published here.

Let me start by saying that I'm truly sorry if you're losing sleep or worried about me. At this point, I don't know what I could do to convince you all... But I'm actually very happy with my life. I do get in a mood now and then, but that's what art is for... I'll explain more about this later on, but it's like a quote from one of my favorite bloggers: "I make art instead of kill people." Her art is some of the best I've ever seen.

But you're probably wondering about the whole venue and medium.
Lets' break it down as far back as we can go...

First of all...  you guys all know who my Father is. You know he isn't wrapped all that tight himself. We're talking about a man that likes to tell stories about shitting his pants in public and who also puts damn near everyone's business out in the street during gatherings.
So be glad that most of my brutish examination is pointed either inward or at shitty modern icons.
Second... If you haven't met my Mom, you've heard stories... Mostly from Dad.
What you probably haven't heard is that she has a knack for inciting an argument... I mean REALLY pushing a person's buttons and getting them to dance.
I've written letters that are so damned scathing that the subjects (who usually distance themselves from public forums) can't stop themselves from responding. In a day and age where politicians and wheel-turners feel themselves above reproach, that is one hell of a talent.

Now... That little bag of tools and traits is just one of the reasons why I do this... And it's a good start.

That may just explain the core beginnings, but there is a lot more to it.

Growing up:
All I wanted to do was draw unicorns and goof off.
But it's not a world of faeries and elves alone... There are phantoms and vampires and warlords in this world, and they just can't leave a kid alone.
Maybe Dad can help me out with this... I'm not sure how old I was when my best friend died. It was kind of odd to have Dad tell me that I was never going to see him again. "The Incredible Hulk" was our favorite hero.
A little prophetic when you consider how angry I would later become and how that anger kept me from total despair... Which would have choked the life from me.
Some of you now know what I lived with growing up.
I'm sorry for seeming like a spoiled little brat and I've been told that most of you are sorry you didn't know what I was going through. It's really no big deal anymore... It's just shaped my view of things.
You can't be twelve years old, get beaten bloody all the way through a house and not have an opinion about it.
It's hard to carry an AK-47 at fourteen into a drug-deal and not question the events that put you there.
When you're alone with one of your older brother's friends somewhere and he's doing lines in the car while he makes you wander around in an empty lot...
You get the idea.
Brian and I were never close. I've forgiven him for most of the shit he pulled, but it's not like I'm aching to get to know him better.
I could take it or leave it, really.
Don't worry... I like the rest of you just fine. Ernie was always like an older-brother should be.

Now for the other reason I do this (besides dancing with demons and attempting to reclaim and redefine myself):

I get a kick out of it.

Pure and simple... Writing has always been one of my most favorite forms of expression. It's all the same words... But depending on how they are arranged, you can cause a whole volume of reactions.
one of the first reactions I want is the "weeding"... I want people who aren't going to get it, and also those who don't need it to leave.

I'm not sure if you guys know who Henry Rollins is or not, but his writing helped me out. He's this Frontman for Rollins Band and he used to sing in Black Flag. What you guys will know him from is "Bad Boys 2" (The DEA Agent directing the raid) and "HEAT" (He's the guy Al Pacino grabs by the face and puts through a window near the end of the movie so he can get information on Waingrow.)... Possibly even "The Chase" with Charley Sheen (He's the pissed-off cop with the buzz-cut who's' chasing them.).
Anyhow... Hank's writing was a pivotal point. I knew that I wasn't along in my views and anger... But I also knew that someone else might benefit from my writing.

I know you guys have seen the movie "Pulp Fiction".
I know you remember the part where Bruce Willis walks in with the swords and Ving Rhames is being gang-raped.
I'm pretty sure you saw people walk out of the movie theater.
That's the reaction I'm looking for. 

This stuff isn't for everyone.
I told Dad that I always have worried about getting any family in the cross-fire.
Sometimes I get a little tired of it as well. Just sometimes.
Hunter s. Thompson put a bullet in his head because he created a monster that got more attention than he did. All anyone wanted to read was the Gonzo, Raul Duke stuff... But his heart was in Sports-Writing.

Me... I'm lucky.
Most people associate me with the monster and my heart lies in ripping myself open for others to poke around in.
Besides... Suicide is way too easy...
The only way to truly test your endurance is to keep going.
When my mind, body, amd emotions are screaming at me, "I can't fucking take it anymore! Why won't the pain end? Just stop it! STOP IT!"...
There is another voice that is just as calm as the others are chaotic, and that voice says, "Wait... Lets just see what happens next. The pain will go away... The pain will return... It doesn't matter. Let's just see what happens next."

And when I'm sobbing on the floor in horror and revulsion... Awash in the moment I'm stuck in... That other facet of my personality; The impersonal, calculating thing stands me up and walks me out of it with an otherworldly dignity.

Shit... I mighta lost some of you there.
The point is that I am aware of my actions.

That is what you need to understand: I am aware of what I do, no matter how immoral or reprehensible it may seem.

That and I like freaking people out.

So really... No worries.

You can tell Dr. Phil that I'm not a danger to myself or others... As long as those others are family, anyway.

I also just discovered that my fucking cell-phone is broken so I'm not getting any calls. This really sucks because I was going to call Sara. I'll try and get a hold of someone tomorrow morning then. Love you guys,
-Michael

Fuck it (Again)....

Taking a break from blogging for a while...

Word-whipped

Nipple-butter

Ash Trash-day                                  (A lesser known Catholic Hiloday)

Bear-skin Thug

Nintellectual

Erectevus

Walking Hypochondria

Gumball Machine-gun

Wood Extract

Bandini The Great

Potty Armor

Monkey Cacciatore

Don Keyhole                                  (just fucking say it out loud long enough)

Beer Gardener

Rythm Methodists

Lip-slack

Ginko-baloney

Shtick-up

Udder Abandon

Basket Case-worker

Chonch-shell

Licker-store

Short-Change Machine

Brown-Ring Circus

Palm Bleeder                               (I like my Christian psychics with a side of stigmata)

Old favorites:

Donkey Showdown

Penile Implantation

Awwwww....

                        
                             Aren't they adorable?

Hey... I like them better than the Olson Twins. (Thanks to Theism for the link)


And here's their fan-base...

During and after brainwashing pictures.... How CUTE!





It's not like there is anything wrong with having pride in your racial heritage... no matter what that heritage is.

And it's not like there's anything wrong with teaching The Gospel truth: The Old Testament clearly states that homosexuality is a sin.


Now... To me, freedom of speech even includes "Hate Speech" because when the talking is over, the fighting begins.
No race, culture or counter-culture deserves the right to be heard without being challenged. That is the right to disagree.
If you take that away from anyone, then you have become what you hate: Unchecked ignorance.
The First Amendment is the right to both wave and burn a flag (only if it's a flag you paid for).
It's the right to call Michael Moore a fat, whiny, deceitful prick and to call George Bush a fucking moronic zealot whose only attribute is being able to limp along with what he's been told to do by the people who paid his way and made him.


Where the line is to be drawn, folks... Is at using a blank slate as a billboard for your own personal beliefs.
I'm not saying you can't shape, mold or even twist your child into doing and believing as they are told to (It will be your fault when that child comes across an exception to the rules you laid out or becomes so twisted that they break.).
What I am saying... Is that making the child a puppet and a vessel will hollow that child and give them no chance of being a whole and complete person. You will cripple them mentally and emotionally.
They may never have a soul.

Plus... It's just fucking sick and rude.
I've seen plenty of cool shirts for my kids, but I'm not that big of an asshole.

The logical years...

www.deletedlogic.com has just been renewed for another five years.


Why the fuck not?

CRANK IT UP, FUCKERS!

I fianlly have a new setup for my PC...

And I have the best fucking audio I've ever been able to run.

I'm Blasting Cab Calloway into the headset and I'm gonna fuckin' HI DE HO  and ZAZ ZUH ZAZ until it's time to hear Satchmo blow it long into the wee hours...

Mack The Knife as done by Louis Armstrong... and done best. (Fuck Sinatra... And Elvis too)

"Dig, Man... There goes Mack the Knife!

Oh the shark has pretty teeth, Dear
An' he shows them  a pearly white.
Just a jack knife has Mack he, dear
And he keeps it out of sight.

When the shark bites with his teeth, Dear
Scarlet billows start to spread.
Fancy gloves though wears Mack he, Dear
So there's not a trace hmm of red.

On the sidewalk, Sunday morning, Baby
Lies a body oozin' life.
Someone's sneakin' 'round the corner;
Is the someone Mack the knife?

Hm, from a tug boat by the river Buh boo...
A cement bag's dropping down
The cement's just for the weight, Dear.
Bet you Mack he's back in town.

Looky here Louie Miller disappeared, Dear
After drawing out his cash.
And Mack he spends like a sailor
Did our boy do something rash?

Sukey Tawdry, Jenny Diver
Lottie Lanyard,  Sweet Lucy Brown...
Oh the line forms on the right, Dears
Now that Mack he's back in town!

Take it, Satch..."

If anyone out there loves me...

...And has the money, I know what I want for Christmas:

A semi-auto .357 based on the Colt 1911 design!


It's called the "Coonan .357" and I want it so.

Shit... If two of you decide to get me one, I'll have a pistol for each hand.

It'll be the best anti-masturbation technique I've tried.

Well...

It'll be the ONLY anti-masturbation technique I've tried.

So please buy me a couple and save me from myself.





PS.
I would also like a Medusa revolver with a six-inch barrel and enough ammo in each caliber it fires to hold off a battalion of Chinese Paratroopers for a week.

Ungodly, Dark-sided Ballyhoo:

Oh yes...
Jesus must be so fucking proud of her.

This was the lady from Trading Spouses the other night.

I hate pop-culture with a frothing-red boner... But sometimes it brings me such joy.
With lungs like that, she must be on the church choir.



Note to Conservative Christians:
Sorry... But you all come off that way.
I don't care how polite you try to be when you "rebuke" others, you just sound like mindless trash.
I wouldn't want anyone like that worshipping me.

I've said it before:
I don't have beef with God and Jesus is my hero.

However...

If that rabid cunt is in Heaven, I'll take my chances.

Off the Beatnik Path...

Smitty is one cool motherfucker... And he gave a neat twist to a fucked-off trip home.


I'm rolling down Highway 76 from Oceanside to Bansall at about 6:30-7:00 when I come to a stop and hear this bad-assed electric piano pumping out killer tunes from somewhere. It was fucking LOUD and it filled the darkened canyon.

I turned around to use the last ten bucks I had for gas at the station on that corner.

As I stepped out or the 4Runner, a shifty, semi-suburbanite rolled up on me and said, Excuse me, Sir... Do you know where that music is coming from?"
This threw me off.
First reason: I almost NEVER look respectable enough to be called "Sir".
Second: Something was a little wrong with the guy; Like he was trying very hard to be "normal".

I looked across the street and replied, "Sounds like it's coming from 'Foothill Lock and Key'... Sounds like someone really knows how to play."

And he did... The music was like Little Richard if taught by Thelonious Monk, playing an Elton John homage to 'Ragtime'.

"That's weird.", said the fucking weirdo who had stepped up to me at the pump.

I paid for the gas and a pack of Reece's Peanut-Butter Cups (Nope... Can't remember eating all four) and found Mr. Chatty talking up some other stranger at the pump. Didn't catch the convo.
Here's the nutty part...
I'm pulling away and the yappy dweeb parks his shitty ,red Jeep Cherokee right in front of me and jumps out of his seat.

No... I didn't bring the .45 tonight.

So I roll down the window but lock the doors.
"It's a guy playing an electric piano outside the locksmith place.!"
"really..."
"Yeah I drove by and saw him."
"That's cool...."
And he turned around and stared across the street... NOT getting into his Jeep and getting the fuck out of my way.

I had planned on going over there myself without Mr. Creeper's encouragement.

After he got along his merry, little way.... I pulled across the street and into the lot of the locksmith.

A short, older, white crackhead was giving those keys a workout.
He stopped as I killed the engine and rummaged for any change I could find.

I walked up and he turned around to greet me. He talked like he played:
Never finished a sentence... Always on the subject, just never in the same context.

"Hey! Hi. Brother... You stop to... Welcome, Man."

I smile and nod dropping a handful of coin into his "Tip" box... An empty cardboard cigar-tray with broken parts of technical equiptment in it... Buttons and knobs and such.

"Hey! Thanks, Brother... Fuckin first time all damned.. Right On!"

It could be just that I've been poking around on Myspace and have gotten used to that kind of communication...
Maybe it was just because this guy was all Jive.... But I understood him just fine.

"Yeah I been playin... Call me 'Smitty'... I needed money for a cigar... Only drugs caffeine and this... Cigars and caffeine gonna... Better than I was though."

He dug through the box for the change for a cigar and we talked about some of the songs he's working on and why he was playing in the middle of the canyon.

"My neighbor she... Foothill Ranch, Man... I was playin in my... And she called my Boss... 'Can you please make him'... Out there in the middle of Foothill Ranch and... 'Boowhoop' (makes police-siren noise)."

His shoulder was leaking some sort of fluid from some kind of surgery.

He told me that her nearly died but didn't elaborate too well.

"God slapped me pretty hard, Man." That was the one full sentence he spoke.

He was weird...
He was out there...
And he was easily one of the coolest fucking guys I've met in my odd travels.

I want to bring my bass next time and gather all of these musical transients to me.

"Introducing, Smitty and The Dees Damned Derelicts!"

Yeah...

Best to avoid me tonight.

Full moon.

A frustrated God in regression...

It's 3:am....

I haven't created a fucking thing all night worth a damn.

I have this lustful urge to pour gasoline on myself... To feel it chill my skin as it spills down my arms and soaks into my clothing.
I want to feel it sting my eyes shut.
I want to crush a molotov in my arms until the flame spreads and suffocates me. and the flames burn me clean:
Burn my hair, my skin, my imperfections...
I will be pure as ash.

It's the only way to stay warm in the lonely days ahead.

Half of you think I'm a monster...
The other half think I'm a joke...

My oldest daughter and I talked about true horror after she watched a cartoon with Frankenstein's Monster in it.

"I know that real monsters are people who do bad things like kidnap children and hurt other people."

I told her about someone from our town and the girl he killed. I didn't mention names... All I told her was that, "I knew a guy from school that took a little girl. She never made it back home. I knew him from school and I worked with him once... I even used to see him at Wal-Mart. I didn't have any idea what he was or I would have taken him out in the desert and buried him under a rock. He even lived just down the street from us when he did it. That's why Daddy carries a knife. That's why Daddy knows how to shoot and it's why I'm teaching you how to fight."

Would you know a monster if you saw him?

I've looked into the eyes of a killer and said "Hello."

I've had a drive and a meal with a rapist.

You wouldn't suspect either man to look at him...
Not unless you were using your second attention would you see the face of lustful cruelty under the social mask.
I've been learning to see... To truly see.
Most things are wonderful... Some are ugly and profane.



So you can take your petty view of me and stuff it.
You can have your opinion but know this:                It's worthless.


Do I have faults?
To be sure.


There were days in my early twenties where I put the muzzle of a loaded .357 in my mouth and played Russian Roulette with a live round.
I've stopped cutting myself... For now.
Drugs and sex are base and boring anymore.

If I could burn myself alive, I would.
Just for the thrilling terror.
Just to give you petty fucks something to jabber about for a while.
Just to give myself the purity I deserve and wash the filth of the masses off of my being.

You puke...

You rot...

You filth...

You fucking, jabbering, shitting lot of useless monkeys.

Crawl you fucking worms.

Rape your intellects with Pop-Culture...

Poison your sexuality with pornography...

Human filth!



I'm done with you.
I have been for some time.
I refuse to be human because Humanity is a wasted fucking experiment that has been left to putrefy.

Your God abandoned you because your stench and screeching made him wretch his fucking guts up and hide in horror and revulsion at the shitty mistake he made called "Mankind".

I can't believe the time I've wasted myself caring for you lot.
Even with all you'd done to me I still wanted to protect you... To see you safe... To spare you the pain you put me through.

I still care.

I don't want to see you cry.
I don't want your broken hearts moaning on a cold breeze only to find a loathsome chorus of similar lament.

I care for you though I'm not one of you.

You never treated me as your own so I feel little pain at the separation.

I can detach myself from you and go into the cold wastes alone.


And when I rise, I shall be a king.
I shall have my own kingdom.

You will all be welcome...
You will all have a place.

If you can toss aside your crutches and learn to truly love I will share my kingdom with you all.

Warm yourselves by my flames and sing songs of your own glory.

Drink... Dance... Love.

Most of all Love.

I don't care for you to be grateful and I don't ask that you worship me.

My only requirement is that you learn to truly love.

Abandon opinion....

Forsake Human lore and law...

Let the weight of contention slip off with your flesh and dance in each other's radiance.

Humanity is doomed, my Loves.

All things that live are.

In that moment where inevitability reigns and your flesh is reclaimed... The part... The one small part of you that you both protect and deny... The eternal you...

You are welcome.

Sure was...

Thanks much to the morning crew at my local Starbucks..

It turned out to be a decent day on all accounts:

I got out of bed early enough to help Angelina with her homework and be on my way to Temecula with all due speed.
Everything went perfectly smooth at the client site and I was back in time to pick Her up from school.
Took no grief from the teacher about how much school she's missed since she is passing all the other students in every subject.
Found out that the E.J. Gold painting I bought at the auction was worth over twice what I paid for it and that Olivia had a very pleasant time with Etanna at her work.
Got through homework and some impromptu science lessons tonight with no complaining, fake yawns or fits.

I have to say this as well: I do a lot of travelling...
A LOT OF TRAVELLING...
And I haven't had a better chai tea anywhere else... Not even the other (somewhere around) one million Starbucks in this valley.
They need to send a few Baristas to Temecula and show them how it's done.

My computer is about to finally take a shit and die... I lost all audio (It's really screwing with me to have gone a whole day with no Jazz or Swing... Was looking forward to some more Cab Calloway, Satchmo and even a little Glen Miller tonight) and the graphics card is still overheating.
But it's also an excuse to upgrade.

Goodnight, Folks.