Not Female Enough

Men who have learned all their feminism and chivalry lessons from women and who have succeeded in garnering the favors of same tend to look at me as a puzzle. Considering themselves successful in their understanding of women, then either I must be a freak or in need of educating. It is only men who have been seriously burned by women, in my experience, who are the least bit open to the idea that most women do not know what they want but rather are either wholly victimized by propaganda, or cynically use such propaganda to their own ends. I’ve often been the target of outright hostility from “white knights” who consider me an enemy of all the good, empowered, and/or victimized women of their experience, or at least worthy of conversion. If the typical Leftist considers himself to be more intelligent and educated than the typical Conservative, then any challenges to one’s reality need to be dealt with aggressively.

Similarly, those men who have achieved some degree of sexual satisfaction with women despite a tendency to over-emote or otherwise display the “sensitivity” and “vulnerability” that supposedly feminists desire might similarly emote as a means of attempting to educate an anti-feminist woman such as myself to get into line.

As for men who have come to believe that women are the enemy or cannot be trusted then I am a threat to that wordview as well, especially if I cause a crack in it.

It would seem that most men who I encounter in my daily life these days are at somewhat of a loss with me such that there is some insistence that I take on a more aggressive role in the relationship even if I cannot seem to muster up the enthusiasm.

For one, as a woman, I’m supposed to know what I want. In a lot of ways, that’s true, but I don’t think it can be taught. Therefore, I prefer to keep my own counsel which I suppose makes me even more of a puzzle. If it is any help, I prefer to meet a man on his own turf rather than to introduce him to mine. I learn more about a man who introduces me to a part of his world than I would by randomly introducing him to my new environment, which I haven’t even fully adapted to myself. This also allows me to see whether I can adapt to his.

One of the realms of womanhood that is elusive to me is the notion of “domesticity”. As much as I like to cook, and don’t mind housework, modern home decor and accoutrements are foreign elements to me. I’m therefore not in the least put off by workshops, garages, farms, and other places where the action that occurs within them is more important than the decor. Whereas the modern suburban living room seems “foreign” to me, the kitchen less so as it is a place where creations are manufactured. Similarly, the outdoors is more beautiful to me than a museum and I prefer disarray over anal-retentive order.

I don’t particularly enjoy shopping. although some food stores, for instance, are so well-equipped that it is a pleasure. Shopping at a farm however provides far more appeal.

Another area of femininity which I lack is social inquisitiveness. I don’t tend to ask people a lot of questions about themselves. I like to think that I’m a good listener but I expect the speaker to say what he or she wants to say rather than converse just for the sake of it. For this reason I’ll often miss out on details that are important to other people such as where they grew up, how many siblings they have, whether their parents are living, and so on. I readily admit to not having a lot of interest in these mundane details. Rather, I’m far more interested in what a person thinks about current events, issues, politics, religion, and sex, than whether they learned how to ride a pony when they were six. I might even forget to ask what a person does for a living.

I’m not likely to achieve a major transformation away from these personality tics without the aid of serious hypnosis. Simply attempting to shame me for my lack of femininity is useless. Why would any man find that to be a reasonable approach?


Expatria Wishes

It was after the implosion of the Howard Dean for President campaign and during Katrina that The Han and I sold our home in the hills of Berkeley, CA, packed up our belongings into two shipping containers (later shipped back and consolidated into one) for our farm in Venezuela, in the Andean Foothills.

Other than the daytime paradise of our farm (and nightime Hell of it), life for me went into a nosedive from which I’ve not fully recovered. While leaving the U.S. seemed to be a no-brainer given all evidence of the upcoming real estate collapse, the corrupt politics, and otherwise demographic implosion brought about by the maturation of my fellow “Baby Busters”, I left for the wrong country with the wrong man.

Today I’m hoping for a do-over, which at my age and with my baggage may well be overly optimistic.

Recent events in my life which I’ve only touched upon in these pages tell me that punishment is going to be my life going forward regardless of which country I call my home, like it will be for so many others. I’ve recently had my privacy and quietude (such as it is given that I am still in mourning for Axel) disrupted on a scale impossible to relate publicly to strangers in a manner easily believable. I therefore am forced to largely confine my accounting of the events to people who I already know and who otherwise have come to understand that my largely unbelievable life experiences are absolutely true. These latest events are merely the latest chapter of my life as, effectively, The Forest Gump of female transcended former teenaged runaways, given my impressive record of entirely coincidental brushes with historic events. Meanwhile, I’m more of a cautionary tale than a role model for young women, despite being the submissive woman of the late Dominant male extraordinaire known as Axel, and thereby the envy of many of my contemporaries.

In terms of my future romantic prospects, this last is a liability on many levels in terms of my status as an “Alpha Widow”. I therefore have to operate on the assumption that I will remain alone and likely celibate, wherever I may choose to live.

I have come to the conclusion that no matter where I may be, I will always be an “other”; therefore, living in a different country might actually be easier for me given that “foreign” behavior on my part will be expected rather than a surprise. Given that the U.S. is particularly ridden with a need for conformity (in contrast to the movie-cultivated “individualist” archetypes promoted), I believe that I would be better off elsewhere, whether Europe, Central or South America, Asia, or some place such as Eastern Europe where I’ve never been.

Since I expect to one day recover but a portion of what The Han stole from me, I eagerly look forward to expatriating that very modest windfall to more amenable environments, where one’s inflated food budget isn’t considered a moral weakness when it is concentrated on local, quality ingredients, rather than say dedicated to Walmart. This is just one of many values I harbor which are out of step with U.S. norms whether I live in the city or in the country. I’m adapted to either environment or “anything but the suburbs”.

At my age, however, striking out alone would probably be an invitation to prey on me, as a representative of the most privileged class on Earth: White Middle Aged American Woman. I therefore welcome suggestions from my readers as to which organization I ought to attach myself to which can assist in my quest for more welcoming pastures, where I won’t be tarred and feathered as a heretic, or otherwise singled out for punishment by the womanfolk with or without using their men as proxy.

Meanwhile, my plan, as soon as I can sell my home within my proven-to-me hostile environment, is to move to The Florida Panhandle, a.k.a. “The Redneck Riviera”. Should I happen to find myself seduced and claimed by a manly enough “redneck” I might decide to remain rather than flee; however, I am also open to joining forces with another aspiring Ex-Pat desirous of one such as me with experience in the expatriation process. Becoming a sales representative of a cigar brand is another option which appeals. Becoming the assistant/editor to another writer such that I would give “Caprizchka” a proper burial is yet another balloon I float.

Alternative suggestions are welcome here.

Infidelity Does Not Justify Violence

The more I contemplate the Monogamy Math Problem, the less sympathy I have for “victims” of a roving spouse. It isn’t something I can relate to what with the dysfunction of my upbringing. If such a victim counters infidelity with violence than my sympathy is further reduced, unless such “violence” is of the form which is arousal inducing, that is, negotiated BDSM between effective as well as actual adults.

The cure for alienation of arousal is not punishment!

If a couple are truly sexually incompatible, surely this is a justification for break up or divorce. It would seem to me that it ought to be written right into the bonding vow, of whatever form that might take, that it is the obligation of both parties to be both sexually pleasing and attractive, such that failure to perform on either scale is grounds for divorce.

Such pleasing behavior does not necessarily mean that one’s partner won’t find other parties to be similarly attractive. However, sexual desire does not need to decrease with use, but rather, usually, the opposite. Therefore, given my preference for masculine men, a man with a roving eye is what I would call a healthy specimen! It is therefore my job and inspiration to maintain myself both physically and spiritually as attractive and thereby inspiring of both his loving attentions as well as his lustful ones.

Similarly, if I am being neglected, then I would just assume walk away myself rather than “cheat”; however, I understand that when financial entanglements such as children hinder that possibility then some people are forced to compromise.

What this all means in practical terms is that if I feel I am being sexually neglected in favor of another, then acting out whether by tantrum or violence is counterproductive. If there is no “other” then I’m going to wonder whether there is a health issue or if I am simply no longer appealing. If it is the former, then it is time for some sort of negotiation, in my view, in that “vows of fidelity” are meaningful only to various Statists and Churchians when it comes to forced celibacy. Whereas this was the case in the majority of years of my marriage, given that my husband never really loved anything about me other than the superficial, I was not seriously tempted to cheat given that my own personal integrity generally outweighs my sexual desire. When I did finally leave or rather escape him however our “vows” ceased to have any meaning such that I was delighted to jump into the arms of Axel, who I met almost immediately afterwards.

I knew from the onset that Axel was accustomed to “servicing” a variety of aspiring submissives and that any attempts to curtail this practice were bound to be destructive. Therefore, the only parts of this randy equation that concerned me were financial and personal. With regard to the first, I vowed to trust Axel to see to our own financial interests. Without that trust, just how valuable is the gift of “submission” anyway? With regard to the second, I extracted a promise from Axel that all personal questions about me from his lovers were to be answered by the following phrase: “Buy the book.”

In the same vein I trusted Axel to ensure that he would not be a father to any future progeny, which would be both a financial and personal liability. Since he had already been tricked into fatherhood once, he knew better than to trust a mere lover in that regard and thereby took the pains of disposing of his own condoms off site. In my view, unwilling parenthood is also an act of violence.

Up until the height of his illness, Axel continued to sexually satisfy me, one way or another, and my own material needs given my lack of interest in competing with women on that level are minimal. I’d rather have male sexual attention than baubles. Why is that considered strange? I think it speaks toward the Statist and Churchian objectives in manufacturing an unending stream of bitter and damaged women for purposes of self-perpetuation and inflating sphere of influence. One’s feelings of rejection or possessiveness are manageable issues when one is getting plenty of loving and lusting as one’s reward. Therefore the actions and propaganda purveyed by the various megalomaniac utopianists would thwart those exercises.




Smoking Addictions

Sometimes nonsmokers to include former smokers ask me what it would take to inspire me to “give up cigars”. I assume that the ideas of such persons are poisoned by the myth that tobacco is addictive, such that the habit itself is of less “addictive” force than the nicotine, or that the pleasure of tobacco is irrelevant.

Anyone who has sat through a patch representative’s tobacco cessation spiel might be forgiven for adopting such notions. Wearing a patch is supposed to help the poor nicotine addict give up the habit, and habits that our masters don’t like are of course, “bad habits”. If tobacco isn’t a life-extending practice relevant to all phenotypes, to include premature infants fresh out of the incubator, then it must be evil, right?

Other persons are willing to allow me space to “indulge my habit” provided I do so while standing outdoors in less than comfortable surroundings, as a measure of their “tolerance” for it and me. A tobacco addict ought to be prepared for discomfort and otherwise so grateful for “the fix” that the Feng Shui of it all ought to be irrelevant. In my view, all of these notions prove than I’m not addicted, but that rather smoking is my choice.

If I were to choose to give it up, however, I would need a very good reason. Not one that I’ve already heard. My failure to choose to give up smoking is not because I haven’t heard all the propaganda. I just don’t believe any of it.

I’ve only been seriously smoking cigars for about five years now and could give them up tomorrow if I had something to replace them assuming that there is a something to my liking. Whether I would want to give them up is another matter altogether. Smoking has become symbolic for me of the power of social approval and peer pressure—two things which I’m immune from—as well as something enjoyable and inspirational for my thought processes. Smokers would appear, as a class, similarly immune, although once in a while I come upon a self-hating smoker—as if the perils of smoking can be counteracted by guilt and self-loathing.

It is this immunity from shaming that attracts me to smokers although I haven’t eliminated nonsmokers as friendship/romance possibilities altogether. If I’m writing a personal ad, however, I eliminate nonsmokers outright as a timesaver, even if it would appear that many nonsmoking men are immune from all shaming by smokers such as to approach me anyway (if they like my photo or perhaps even whatever else I have to say in my ad). As fewer and fewer smokers remain as cigar clubs shutter and possibilities of pleasurable surroundings in which to indulge one’s habit dwindle then I may just have to consider quitting, unless I decide that being a hermit is preferable to joining the former smokers club and being welcomed into the fold by the antismokers.

Even if I do decide to quit, I won’t be shaming any smokers, for it would appear that, for the most part, they are all that remain of individualism and immunity from groupthink.

As for nonsmokers disdainful of my habit, I invite them to allow me scrutiny of their habits to include, perhaps, the following addictions:

  • Television.
  • Female approval.
  • Consumerism.
  • Medications.

There are a few non-tobacco-related addictions for which I have little to no criticism:

  • Adrenaline/thrill-seeking.
  • Athletic excellence.
  • Exotic sexual practices.

Despite considerable propaganda to the contrary, I conclude that tobacco use alone does not interfere with the above practices within all populations. Age, however, does tend to do so, and ageing is not a crime.

Things I Need to Learn


While I’m stuck here, in Southwest Florida, there are a few things I’m going to need to pound into my thick skull in order to lead a peaceful, non-molested existence. For example:

Global warming is real. Sell all your valuable coastal property now to surprisingly ignorant wealthy foreign investors.

Women need more civic, financial, legal, social, sexual, and cultural power because they deserve it after millennia of oppression. All women benefit when poor and working men lose their jobs and freedom, because men are bad.

Voting is the most important thing you can do, especially when it comes to the President, because, after all, he (or she) is the moral leader, like a King (or Queen).

Republicans, being patriarchal, are immoral, and Democrats are the good guys or rather the rightfully female or woman-like minority goodpersons. These two parties are rivals such that they represent Evil vs. Good, respectively. Fortunately, there are some Good Republicans who would rather see a Democrat in office than succumb to Evil.

Trust your doctor. There is no cost too great for FDA-approved immortality, but only if there is no carbon footprint (for bad people; good people are entitled to all the carbon they can burn.)

Walls are bad, unless they surround the properties of rich liberals.

Smoking is the cause of all disease and there is no redeeming qualities in the tobacco plant. Now that worldwide, smoking is down, all diseases are down. Diseases are bad. Good people don’t get them. Lung cancer that is a consequence of breast cancer results from the behavior of Bad people who shame breasts or who smoke sometimes within a 100 mile radius of Good people, or who refuse vaccines. Vaccines are good as they have eradicated all bad diseases for which they were designed, or would have, if there weren’t a few Bad people who have refused them.

Disagreement with majority thought is a mental illness or pharmaceutical deficiency. To cure it, take your pills and go to approved discussion groups where you can learn how to think Good by means of Good group affirmation.

All public schools are good. We need more of them and to otherwise throw money at them. All deficiencies of public schools and universities can be attributed to not enough money.

Good people don’t need money, only a Good cell in the Good hive.

Safety, security, conformity, and lack of privacy make for a better world.

Everything you need to know about a person can be found by looking at his, her, or its presence in social media or by chatting online. Actual human contact is a waste of time because Good people have no secrets.

Knowledge is free and it is on television and on the internet, therefore, travelling is unnecessary.

I’m interested in emigrating to more expansive environs where I can be free to rid myself of these notions. If you’d like to have a Caprizchka in your country, please inquire within.












Ego Clusterfuck

I am perversely flattered with the sheer number of players obsessed with my writings—on my blogs, in private correspondence—and even my private phone calls.

There has even been a made-for-Netflix movie about me which is uncanny in its eye for detail while getting the story completely mismatched wrong.

Given that I have apparently survived three men—a missing international con artist, Axel’s father, and Axel—then it would stand to reason that there are currently a host of interests who have made it their business to intercept and analyse my life, often to my great inconvenience and expense.

These players and groups of players apparently operate by various codes and rules, which are frequently bent. I wonder how often they step on each other.

When a man’s paradigm of women of my demographic is as an extractable resource, much like a mine, from which resources such as money, caregiving, and pussy juice flow, then why are so many of them so surprised and even angry that the mine is already depleted? (OK. Not completely but not worth all the sturm und drang either.)

I’m just a writer. Don’t date a writer.

Surely, I must be overflowing with missing and dead men’s money or at the least engaging with them as a sorceress bewitching the dead and undead. Surely I must be desirous of a toilet slave who shall lick all of my orifices clean whether that pleases me or not. Surely I must be desirous of wiping old people’s asses for fun and profit.


Since these suppositions are not true, the various aspirant miners sometimes get angry that I am not what they expect or that I am not afraid of them. This also makes other types of aspirant miners a wee bid trepidatious. Everyone is all offended that I exist. Well, SorrRREEee.

Online relationships suck however nothing sucks quite as bad as a jilted state trooper. My advice to those who desire to date a state trouper are as follows:

  • Choose a state trooper from a prosperous conservative community, such as say Punta Gorda, Florida, rather than one with way too many ways to waste taxpayer money than to pay their troopers enough to attract pussy on their own merits.
  • Choose a state trooper who admits to being a state trooper rather than one who pretends to be a successful investor now slumming in a college town as a means of attracting lonely widows/aspirant gold diggers and then hitting them up for money while pretending to suffer from acid reflux.

In addition to these lessons I impart herewith, now learned the hard way, I would also like to herewith eliminate all persons from consideration who believe the following:

  • The internet is a private medium incapable of being intercepted and thereby a perfect medium in which to have electronic sexual or BDSM relationships as if such relationships are at all private.
  • Only criminals are subject to illegal wiretaps.



Spiritual Quest

I am often lately inspired by this writer, even though I am not a Christian, and here is his latest: Framing Marriage; Feeding The Dog.

Although I’ll never say never when it comes to conversion to Christianity, particularly given my admiration for its legacy: in terms of likelihood, especially with an American Christian, it’s pretty low. Hopefully however, Artisanal Toad’s great work will trickle down to my level, eventually.

I’m still working on designing some sort of ideal situation for yours truly. Not planning to reveal it in a public forum, but the advice Toad provides is invaluable, in my view. Toad, I accept you as my second tier spiritual leader, for now. (Rupert Sheldrake is still top…dog…LOL). I may have to do a little mix-and-match in the spirituality department along the way in order to figure out where I am. It’s not going to be with “The Breeders” nor “The Carpenters”.

This sticks out for me in terms of Toad’s comment advice to a woman bent on challenging him:

I suggest you team up with a couple of girlfriends, get in shape and offer yourselves as a package deal. That’s probably the only way you’ll get the kind of man you really want and while you’re looking for him, you can take care of each other.

This advice represents an eternal dilemma for me, by the way. By that I mean that lots of women in my life have desired to attach themselves to me and have temporarily done so as a means of attracting men. I won’t say how many men there are in this world with “unbelievable” tales of two young hot women seducing and abandoning them for which I can take credit, only that it would seem that each one of the other women ended up worse for the wear as a result. Therefore, I stopped doing that, “married” in the modern civic sense rather than in the Biblical one that Toad describes so well, (and I live to regret that last every day).

I also gave up lesbianism as easily as a snake sheds a skin.

Perhaps it was my destiny to live in a situation about as close to The Garden of Eden as imaginable, complete with snakes, witches, and a window into Hades.

Some of those men who were gifted with a surreal unbelievable dual-female seduction, were also outright gifted with my protegee, only to discover that without me making up the triad, it went stale. At least two of my former protegees are now Lesbians, and at least one of my female mentors is. None of them have bothered to attempt to contact me directly and I’m not so hard to find.

I’m scary.

Therefore, the notion that I would take on yet another female protegee in that regard offering something completely in opposition to the guaranteed outcome most women expect doesn’t square with my conscience. At least it won’t be an American woman. I’d do it with a European woman, maybe, and I’m not talking about some child of Third World refugees now bestowed the title, “European” for political reasons.

Breeding counts!

Besides, all that most women want from me is “beauty advice” which is like magic spells put into the wrong hands and something like “Fantasia” results with infinite brooms carrying buckets.

I’m not so hot but rather merely appear to defy certain age metrics which women notice and comment on hoping I’ll just spill all my tips as freely as a television talk show host and that those tips will be universally applicable to all phenotypes from all geographic origins. They’re not.

However, in order to avoid being captured yet again by yet another cult and then having to escape that cult yet again (a pattern in my life), I wonder if I should just give in and start my own cult a la Tina Turner and the Pig Wrangler in the uncut unedited version of Mad Max. The figurehead of any enterprise being the de facto leader of that enterprise is one of those illusions which just keeps right on giving sucking in all gullible wee little broken children who never grow up, or as I describe here.

I’m partial to “ugly” men, by the way, but they be “toads” rather than “frogs” in Toad’s parlance, and ideally cruel but not whiny; however that is not to say that I don’t enjoy a ride on “handsome” but only if I’m treated cruelly rather than with adoration; Jabba the Hut rather than Yoda. Darth Vader rather than Obi Wan Kenobi. I’m Hades’ errant bride rather than Zeus’, but that means that I get at least 6 months of top world life. Perhaps I belong in Tasmania.

Christians on the other hand, given my understanding of your religion, would probably rather see me stoned, burned, shelled, or shut up in a tower, fun house, or Milgram Experiment, but deep down know that my character exceeds the majority of theirs and so God isn’t likely to reward them for this project. Such a reward hasn’t happened yet…

Considering how well the Puritans did in terms of how the U.S. is doing today—welcome to Utopia folks, isn’t it grand?—then gynocentric grass-roots crone-o-cide might look like a viable utopian genesis to vampires, however, Vampires be Vampires.

Such is as it has always been.

Shit Tested

After over a week of shit-testing (in the original sense rather than PUA-eeze) my brains have been too scrambled to write well. I expect a recovery eventually. Meanwhile, I’ve been on a tight schedule which all shit-tested facets of my personality have to perform simultaneously.

Try it. See if you do it faster and I’ll wait while you count facets.

When I ask people how they think I’ve managed my world travels? The answer is usually contextual. Do you, Dear Reader, imagine that I’m the “tour group” type? PuhLEEZ.

When one is walking through a new, rough, neighborhood such as say a ghetto or barrio, one has to quickly adopt the local lingo:

“Once I get off your block, Big Daddy, I do not mean to traffic with y’all. All yo hos are without my competition. I ain’t hookin’ on dis street. You da Big Daddy in town, Baby!”

Just kidding. I would never talk that way to a street pimp! That could be suicidal!

Just like a scene from Kill Bill or Coffy, the pimp big timers cherish a conversation with a woman who doesn’t work for either him, his compatriots, or his competition in some capacity.

I once got picked up hitch-hiking in Detroit by a right-hand-driving Rolls Royce with “pimp archetype” at the wheel. The gentleman merely wanted to converse with me and give me a ride for that conversation, because, as everyone from my era knows it’s:

Ass, Gas, or Grass. Nobody rides for free.

I am paying today in interest for all my free rides in life, because conversation is completely worthless to most people today. Living a fully developed life entirely online is way safer.

My Detroit pimp ride occurred years before the film, Doctor Detroit came out—and by the way, I’ve race-walked—and so an important man in my life with a great sense of humor went positively nuts when I told him this story. Why? It was fucking hilarious but he was afraid to laugh. Most Western Women can’t handle being laughed at, it would seem.

What are the odds that along would come a woman into his life who once was picked up hitch-hiking on the loop in Detroit by a flamboyant pimp? Mine was Black. Dan Akroyd is White. I wasn’t race-walking at the time because walking fast backwards with one’s arm into traffic with the thumb out is difficult enough without thrusting one’s hips back and forth. I’m sure that would make a great movie too except that somebody would try it.

I’m not saying that the Black, beplumed driver that picked me up hitch-hiking would have thrown me out if I started taking off my clothes, only that he was very gentlemanly. Otherwise, I probably wouldn’t have gotten into his car. Besides, this particular Rolls did not have a roof. I figured if I had to I could just jump out.

The place where I had been dropped off by my previous ride, a semi-tractor-trailer, was dicey, in heavy traffic, and otherwise safer to exit the loop quickly rather than hang out like a sitting duck for purse snatchers, violent psychotics, and con jobs of all sorts. Like I said, he was gentlemanly and so I got in. My heart was pounding but otherwise it was a nice conversation. This was a very long time ago.

The aforementioned audience of my telling of this Detroit Pimp Ride story started calling me ‘Doctor Detroit’ once I finished telling it. Not for very long, fortunately. Hardly anyone gets the joke, but those who do, want to guffaw in the worst say. I wonder if holding all that pressure inside hurts.

Yes, I do own some tight red shorts which are a little too short.

I stopped hitch-hiking after the various psycho killer stories started coming out in the news. Realistically, my odds of getting killed by a psycho killer were not significant, except as a self-fulfilling prophecy or juggernaut which starts out with ordinary garden-variety wackos taking the opportunity to take pot shots at me until a crowd of them gather to watch and learn how easy it is; while meanwhile, nice people are too terrified to pick up hitch-hikers, and so I was a sitting duck. A good time to stop hitch-hiking.

As this trend develops, one has sort of a “broken window syndrome,” except that it isn’t just a city scape which is affected, but rather everyone who watches television news worldwide.

Character degrades when everyone is considered “fair game” because after all psycho killers are doing it on television, and therefore there must be a psycho killer on every corner, so here’s my big chance to be the first psycho killer on this block. This could be my lucky day. Look! It’s a female tourist with a purse! Lottery! Jackpot! This purse will change my life!

Once a violence spree reaches the public’s consciousness, the idea that not everyone would be terrified of such a prospect doesn’t occur to the average Joe. Those who are not terrified must be beyond fear in some way. Most people who are beyond fear are desperate; ergo, a female hitch-hiker must be desperate to even risk the slightest inconvenience never mind being stored live in a coffin under a bed upon which a couple sleeps for about a decade, floating with limbs and head hacked off in a body of water trussed up like a turkey, Shanghaied into a cult that smears blood on rival drug-dealer’s walls while pretending that it’s a race war, killed and then stuck in a wooden chest until the fluids start to ooze through the floorboards by a “Go” fanatic, made into a chained sex-slave, or worse, squeezed into the backseat of a car holding four men in dark suits while being forced to pick out horses on a racing form or risk groans of displeasure (true!).

Don’t try this with me. I warn you guys. I have an unbroken streak of picking out losers. Don’t be fooled by the golden hair. I lay eggs rather than say hop about on craps tables, but if you cut me open, there won’t be a clutch of golden eggs. I’m old! Cooking also doesn’t help. The only thing that helps is Grey Goose martinis, with olives, as that loosens my lips with actual useful information rather than say a kaleidoscope of alter egos moving seamlessly in and out of metaphor.

I’ve had loads of contacts with pimps in my life, but only three “pure” archetypes of pimp, that is the Black Dude with The Hat, with a big old feather in it, matching coat, and otherwise standing out like a sore thumb. It is dangerous to stand out like a sore thumb.

Standing out like a sore thumb is not a good plan for the type who has an inability to manage self-risk, such as passive sick persons, or anyone who takes a handful of prescriptions daily in order to keep their nice insurance companies, the bureaucracy, or both in business.

Soft and fluffy infants ought not to try living my life even if it looks like great fun to wear a funny hat and then strut down the street of a neighborhood you don’t hardly know while wearing hardly anything. Yay! It’s Halloween every day! Lots of treats!

Uh. No.

When I do it, that is, walk through some new marginal neighborhood where I’m uncertain whether I’ll be able to understand the accent, I adjust my approach intuitively, whether to look as if I have nothing to lose or whether an assailant might assume that it is foolhardy to mess with me. Most criminals go for the easy target, but, there’s also such a thing as too easy.

Just like a scene from the movie, Men in Black, what’s that little blonde doing with the heavy books walking through this neighborhood at night? This is too easy. Or as Blanche Dubois says:

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Nobody expects a mere tourist to be carrying a gun or hand-grenade. Few tourists expect to understand what a gang of small children can do, with the most trifling of “weapons”. I do.

Each television into a poor person’s home represents a window to opportunity, to grab the brass or gold ring as one just happens to deliver itself to The Hood, express service. Better yet, send the kids to go get it.

Even the laugh track builds tension, then releases it, tension, then release. The television is its own Shit Test, with the eventual outcomes being either stupor, cynicism, or rage, given enough exposure such as would occur when one is locked in a room with it while under the influence of strong anti-psychotics delivered at the maximum prescribed dose by a doctor with a sadistic streak.

I’m just talking here about ordinary television. As for extraordinary television with built-in infrared lasers, why that’s ridiculous. It’s preposterous. Who would have heard of such a fantastic thing? Impossible. Improbable. No such thing. Almost like saying that hypnosis can ever be used non-therapeutically or against the patient’s will or that mosquito drones exist. All human beings have free will. There are no mosquito drones! Fairy tales!

Some people avoid street cameras and others look for them. Some people are capable of clouding men’s minds so that they cannot be seen by them even on camera. ‘Where? Where is she? Oh there! How did you get by me?’


I’ve spent a fair amount of time in the company of magicians. One time, I was supposed to be in one place in Chicago but was actually in another watching musicians do car tricks,  I mean card tricks, along with a colleague who had lent me her dress which fit like a glove. That’s when I realized that my body best fit into Black womens’ dresses and the real bargains in that regard were in the worst sorts of neighborhoods. That was a long time ago. Another time, it was impossible that I should be in Chicago, but I was.

I was supposed to be in San Mateo! At the No-Tell Mitel, I mean motel. Don’t be ridiculous, preposterous. What kind of a girl do you think I am?

As far as I can remember, I’ve only been in Chicago three times. A certain “pimp-like” Chicago Seven veteran thought I was pretty hot one of those times. He tried a line on me that I’m sure worked on thin young Blonde girls at least some of the time.

It’s all a matter of the numbers. If one approach works, say, one out of ten times, it’s at least as good a risk as wearing a lucky hat, buying a few of them, and then giving some of them away to random strangers who bear a slight resemblance.





Demographic Destiny

Inspired by: Down on The Duke

When I was a schoolgirl, all of my classes were overfilled, and even some school buildings were warehousing children somewhat above fire code capacity with a rueful nod by civic authorities, pending the erection of trailers and outbuildings. This state of overcrowding was the case at each one of my schools, within the nine different school systems that I attended, but especially at the more “elite” ones.

However, given that I was “gifted,” rules were bent for me as well. The rule at some schools requiring children born in November to enroll with the students of the following year was also bent engendering in me a propensity for Calendar Math failure that persists to this day. I’m never sure which year was what or whether I should pretend to be an age-fudger except when such over-exaggerates my sexual precociousness (and makes statutory criminals out of my mentors).

Given that I was relatively privileged, I cannot even begin to blame “the man” for the school overcrowding state of affairs.

The frequent moves were due to my father’s career inability to make a viable career decision that did not offend my mother’s sensibilities. My mother’s sensibilities were as overdeveloped as that of a baby kangaroo, except she was never required to creep up a pouch all by herself. We all did that for her.

I have to thank Jim Goad here for introducing me to the term, “Sensitivity Creep,” no doubt a cousin of “Concept Creep“.

However, no one could possibly be more sensitive than my mother. Not even today. Fortunately, an over-inflated medical and pharmaceutical bubble steps in where I fail to shelter her.

School overcrowding in my case was due to too many children born the same year I was, which, unsurprisingly, did not mean that there were immigration restrictions. Some of my fellow students were immigrants.

Why would it be surprising that fitting too many people into an environment would create psychosis? Not to the partnership of the mental health and pharmaceutical interests of course. Is there a moral distinction between medicating a person out of his/her/its individuality and euthanasia? If not, why?

Is the “moral” law being bent civic or religious?

How about the Fundamental Laws of Thermodynamics?