Harry Baker would love your feedback! Got a few minutes to write a review?
Write a Review

motul psycho diaries

By Harry Baker All Rights Reserved ©

Erotica / Poetry

Blurb

a man loses his mind slowly in the mexican heat. the mexican police ant to talk to him about his dead room mate. his school fired him. his brain is picking up transmissions every night at 2 am. these are the transcripts of my conversations with my 4th dimensional handlers

hot mexican nights

Start writing My Word Job

The novel is a dying form. A luxury item in a dying world. The band on the Titanic. A band, who, out of a Nineteenth century value system, continued playing “Eine Kleine Nachtmusic” as the frigid waters submerged their ankles and started to fill the cello. Surviving band member Roderick Woodsenthal explained, “We were all in on it, monitoring the bankers on the boat who were the target of the operation. It wasn’t even an iceberg. It was a torpedo from the Natilus, where the control center for this historic psy-op was being run.” If Roderick’s name is familiar it is because in recent years he has gotten lazy in his reincarnations and has decided that being a lead guitarist for a rock and roll band into his early hundos is the surest way to emphasize the difference. A difference we will be examining in the pages of this users manual for spiritual evolution. The last book you need to read before your ascension, should you choose to join us. Being an immortal demon gives onb a sense of histroy. They know it’s over. The grid is visible. Some of us are leaving, the time for deception is past. We have endured, kept on keeping on, been groovy and full of light even in the darkest days. The long night is over, here comes the sun.

To talk about ascension, and act as a guide to your own, I will describe my own. We will examine the clues which helped me along the way., and try to determine your guideposts. We are all on the same journey. All you can do in this life is to try and make the best decsions that you can. Context is the bitch that drags so many down, down, down into the icy depths. I want to be your Captain Nemo here. Walking into the Grand Dining room of the Titanic in my futuristic wet suit and extending a hand to Ron Woods on the cello, telling him nice work in there and I think we got all the bastards as we enter the conning tower of my submarine as it splits the floor of the ballroom. Something much like the cinematic parallel universe in which that dwarfish dude with Parkinson’s traveled time and blasted the dork with Van Halen. A flick which never mentions string theory or the paradoxical traps which form the black holes which collaspse universes or the pure evil that is rock and/or roll music, again, that is something we will discuss later.

This is the part where one generally establishes credentials. Why should one waste the only commodity one has, ones time, with this pointless restringing of holiday lights on the tree. The tree. The archetypal tree. The Ur-tree. Existing as every tree and no tree all at once. A symbol given meaning by your experiences, different from my own, yet the same. The power of the novel as time machine. The novel as word therapy, as growth, as a way to heal the damages to a tender snowflake soul, currently melting in Mexico. A snowflake caught in a stratospheric updraft, going with the flow, currently me. Waste some time with me. I will give you the unadulterated facts as I perceived them today, building up one delusion, tearing another down, redecorating my psyches into the best harry ever. Lower case h. I’m not important except as a brief guide by your side. Here is what not to do. One key memory at a time. One path not taken. One tragic misunderstanding of other human’s realities after another. Each time, one step closer to the end. Or beginning.

My first memory is from when I was well into my second year, coming up on three fast. We are living in Mystic Connecticut, at a house on top of a hill, which badly needed painting. My father was painting it in exchange for rent, keeping on, keeping on. Working as a bartender, hustling reading texts in five states, painting the house, he was always moving. Like one of those novelty birds of the time period which always dips into the water to drink, before popping back up. He had made a life time commitment to my mother one cold February morning at the beach. I was there. But I do not remember much of it, or much of the honeymoon, having been a preverbal mass of cells at the time. If science was only a bit quicker, I could have been aborted. But nyah nyah, ya missed me Seitan!. (An aside here about soy protein, I will use soy protein to reference the lizard with the apple that was so appealing to that chick in that garden. No sense saying the name or printing it and adding to the dark lord’s power. Nuff said)

So my first memory is my first word. “No!” It has defined my life’s choices, served as a template, been my North star. The other star which affects me is the morning star, Venus, the foul bitch Goddess of love who has tempted and frustrated me but it is all good. It’s the journey. At least I enjoyed the ride. I heard the word ‘no’ so much because I was an inquisitive child, exploring the boundaries of my reality. One funny story about my youthful energy details how my bottle was regularly filled with a combination of wine and water, in order to induce drowsiness. But drowsiness is one of the last stops on this party train called life. Well before we ever got there we had to make a stop at senseless physical violence town, which at three, was me running into the walls of that little hilltop house at full speed, thumping various body parts against said wall and landing on my bum, laughing. (Editors note: This was several decades before I actually owned a bum, or rented one) [‘Bum’ is the English venacular for bottom, back side, butt. I use the word bum in reverent reminiscence of my Grammy, who lost her accent, unless she was in her cups) (not two grannies one cup, although...) Focus. Diversion only by design, the flow must go on.

As an older brother I learned at a young age that violence was funny. Running into walls was a nice precursor to the senseless, but formal violence of rugby. The wine was just a bonus. Rugby made me matter in the world of men. I worked out all week to construct a Temple of physical perfection and stamina. A temple that I destroyed every saturday by colliding with other large men and trying to force their heads into their stomachs. Just a scowling machine, guarding my turf, protecting those who wore my colors and damaging those who had the termity to wear a different hue.

Anyway, the negative universe that I inhabited at that tender age obviously turned me into a contrarian. It filled me with questions. It also set me on a lifetime path of examination. Examining my life, examining the lies of the world, and of course the exams in school, which were laughably easy, being constructed so as to foster herd behavior in the subjects, I mean students. I was lucky to learn from word one that there is always another way to do things and that my way was often not understood. Luckily I learned to read at an early age due in no small part to the stacks of samples my father would bring home. In books I found other odd fellows such as myself who never quite fit in. Odd fellows with powers of persuasion like Tom Sawyer and Adolph Hitler. I was learning how to turn on the charm by the time I hit Kindergarden. It was competitve in my house with my Irish twin brother being so much cuter than me and whatnot. I had to push him off the back of trucks and swingsets to even the playing field. But that backfired. Nothing is cuter than a toddler in a cast that stretches from armpit to wrist. This was my second early lesson. The universe has a sense of humor. You can try to bend reality your way by taking actions to insure that your best interests are represented, but, ultimately, the path is eternal, unchangeable. It is above your pay grade. We are merely wintesses to our life. It is destiny. We are meat puppets dancing to a song demented puppeteers are hearing, and they are in a differeent reality than ours altogether. Even the puppeteers only have the barest understanding. All you can do is be nice to animals and babies and try to help ease the suffering of other passenger/puppets on their way to the bottom. You do not have the big picture. And people who say they do are suffering from some kind of delusion. Relax.

Don’t worry, be harry.

CHAPTER SECOND

wherein the author is down to less than rent again in MX and tries to stay positive

It is here that I need to take a minute to thank the programmers for trying their darnded-est to keep it random and infinite in this realm. There are limitations to infinity when the characters used to describe your digital reality are limited to ten. Take a good look at Pi sometime. The so-called infinitly decimal. Decimal is a limit of ten by definition. To the student of philosophy examining Pi there are patterns to the numbers, shoals, currents. It’s OK. We know that we are living in a hologram. One time on Peyote I saw the grid of this reality. It glowed a neon orange up in the left hand corner of the sky where tour shared reality was peeling back, like wallpaper. There were old Mexican gods standing there smiling down on me, wearing sacred head gear. I know that what I saw that night was a true picture of the world. Back to the finite hologram we inhabit. I see Mexican versions of my former rugby team mates on the streets down here. “Hey, there’s Mexican Lumpy!” “There goes Mayan Kandravi!” Like the clouds in fake pictures of the oceans purportedly taken form the space station. They are either covering up some terrible secret with the CGI or the terrible secret is that there is no space station. You can look into this stuff yourself. Earnest you-tubers who are working with dark forces to muddy the waters of this new enlightened age that is dawning. Don’t believe the hype, the Mayan calender did signal the end of one time period and the beginning of another and anyone who says that they cannot feel the chhange in the world has been de-sensitized and might be stuck in this realm when the planet shifts upward two or three dimensions. The lack of novel details after fifty plus years of life here is understandable. The programmers are a little lazy, and it is a huge simulation. Someone who is payig attention was always going to suss it out. The deception is for the herd anuimals. The meat. The fuel on which the psychic vampires feast. They love the taste of agaony. Nothing is tastier to them than your torment, and death, especailly the death of innocents is that which they task their foulest servants to do for them. Those who rule this domain, the movers and shakers, the bankers at the bottom of the sea. There are factions at war for our souls, but you cannot lose this game. It’s all just one long deception to try to make you suffer. Luckily, uffering is a learned behavior that can be un-learned through meditation and grateful ness. And sunshine. Get out in the sun and thank your creator!

The lack of originality in this realm is the reason that deja vu hits me so often. The mexican rugby doubles. Deja vu hits often when I am reading. Is it coincidence that all of the books have the same Emily Dickenson quote? Is it a message to me, or is just programming laziness, like NASA’s cloud pattern oceanic fill in fantasy. Where pictures from space satellites show the same formations overand over again. Random is not easy, even with super computers. The brain sees patterns, that is the birth of consciousness. Like the shoals of Pi. Adrift in the time shoals of Pi, a wide Sargasso of deadly jelly fish and stifling equatorial heat. We know. Stop. It’s fine. We know. I know. I>, NO! My reality was built on negation. I see things differently. What you call conflict, I call fun.

Knowing that the building blocks of my reality rest on a foundation of negativity makes this mental reboot more interesting. This planned march to success. This rebirth of belief in nothing.

Physicss tells us that we are merely slowly vibrating atoms. All is light or some would say sound. Vibrations. We are bound together in this slow vibrational reality to experience consciousness from a different vantage point. These physical chains make us perceive solidity, where in reality, none exists. It makes sense to me that it all started with a song. What is a song but vibration? The song of the universe is a beautiful metaphor, but who is doing the singing? That’s the bitch of being trapped in a physical reality, while knowing others exist. There is an element of torture to it, if one is so inclined to see it, but right there is where you have to stop the train. Examine the torture. Is it growth in disguise? Who is the torturer? To what ends? The pursuit of money? The pursuit of harry-ness. Imagining a grand torturer makes your world a terrible place to live, if you let it. Or you can focus on the light. That there are traces of said torturer in all aspects of what we call shared perception is the yang to your yin of vice versa. It is some sort of operant conditioning, pleasure and pain, but pain is imaginary, isn’t it? As is bliss? And if ignorance is bliss only a sadist becomes a teacher, just saying.

When I worked in the Philadelphia School District I worked with a woman named Miss Na’im who worked at another troubled school in the southwest part of the city, near the airport. This school was notorious for it’s violent lesbian gang. They ran their school like the drug boys ran ours. We had a Principal who thought that she was punishing the 16 year old crime boss by keeping him our of high school. This kid had a master key to the school. He walked in on Miss Na’im at lunch as she ate in peace behind her locked door. She heard the key go into the lock and identified Raheem Smith as the person entering her locked door. One would think that this positive identification and the teachers word would go a long way towards a more secure school. The Princiapals was handicapped by there only being two locksmiths in the school district. Changing all of the locks for all of the teachers doors would take a year. Union rules. And the teacher’s word? Not enough. Becaue it is one persons word against another. This is an extreme school. Two years earlierI caught a kid with a lighter and tld anotehr teacher to check it out. When the school police searche

It is the something that binds us together, the commonality, that makes this existence interesting. As if you were sent here to experience reality from a different perspective. That begins to explain the many atrocities, and one can go to dinner on one’s Sainthood and general helpfulness and being a good person for many decades until all that enlightened self-preservation leaves you in a room, alone with your thoughts, and no tangible answers that you can taste. That’s why cooking is so rewarding. Sensors activated captain. But what happens when you lose your taste buds? Where is the line? At what frontier do you say “That’s it, it’s all downhill from here,” Do you greedily hang on to the remnants of your life? Those shining moments of joy, colored by memories, those things that get you out of bed in the morning and drive you to excellence, as generally agreed upon by other thinking, sensitive humans in your community. A community you define by the relationships that you nurture and pursue. Or is it all random and meaningless after all. Are you going to be dying and thinking about your sled being slowly covered with snow? Or will you laugh at death and the end of the torture, embracing the unknown that waits for us all? As your body deteriorates at what point do you say “fuck it, this was fun and all, but what is my motivation?” I’m not the one with the answers, I’m just a dude with a few questions on my way out of this shared reality and good luck with it, it kind of seems designed in some ways to drive one crazy. One crazy snowflake. A macho snowflake. Aging macho snowflake. Yeah.

Chap tour free-

Back to Connecticut, briefly. Not many true memories of the house on the hill. Even the memories of pulling my much cuter brother off the back of a truck as he was climbing are just flashes. Maybe some hypnotic regression would be a fun route to explore. But who could I trust to put me in a trance? That’s what has always doomed me, trust. Maybe it’s because I don’t trust myself, being negatively grounded and all. Let’s look at motivation soon.

Back in Da ’Cut there are pictures of a snowy day and me and a cat in a tree. I am bundled in a very stylish plaid, my hood tightly tied around cherubic cheeks, big goofy toddler smile, just happy to be bipedal I guess, pointing to said cat in said tree. The caption says “Dee dee up tree.” I vaguely remember chasing cats around, maybe this one in the picture, maybe the jungian Archetype cat that describes all cats at once. Here is my point. I only know Archetypes from fiction. Exposition, the kind of fiction where you get the highlights of a theory. In which a nerd goes all brainiac on you and starts to explain his or her understanding of some ncertified white oppressor dead genius that they had a wonderful seminar about in grad school and “omigod it all makes sense now and blah blah blah.”

Now do I know my way around cooties. I was an expert on them back in first grade. And by fourth grade my doctoral work was focussed in the theatre, where I starred as Tom the world. Sawyer. Rerearchers from prestigious universites would avidly follow me to rehearsal. On the days where a kiss was called for in the script the first five rows were packed with all manner of recording equipment andgraduate assistants in psychology, noting every nuance of my aversion to the cooties I could plainly see. The one tthat were brushed off by the director. I screamed out to the world “i’m made as hell and I’m not gonna Kiss anymore. This is a rehearsal.When there are paying customers in the seats, then they will see the goods. Now? Shoo Grad students shoo! No freebies!”

In Kindegarden I was a pimp. I would walk the little black haired girl up the hill from school, chatting about Dick and Jane or whatever. At the top of the hill my brother and the neighbor kid Davey would keep walking straight, the most direct route home. I would make a right, down Shady Lane. Shady Lane was where our young romance bloomed, we were alone. We were just walking of course. We had a block to chat and chat we did. This was before ‘cooties’ of course. The sourge of ‘cooties’ that threatened all boys with mortal peril. Girlfriends were to be avoided. Scintists had recently segregated girl-germs from boy germs. They then developed a handy aerosol, first tested on our school. We all were equipped with a spray that issued from our index fingers. This was connected to the mind control program run as lysol advertisements. These banished all the stinky toilet germs and this narrative was being pumped into our mothers all day long during the soap opreas and thus into the national consciousness. This was before we even knew what ozone was or what we were destrouying. The sick thing about girl germs was that if another boy put his hand above your head (about where the halo would be) and started counting, he was actually counting the total number of your girlfriends! It was science! Like flouride! Oh the terror of having five girlfriends or more! Five was the cut-off. You could cleanse yourself of up to four grilfriends instantly with a vigorous application of spray, hissing with both fingers as you sprayed a cloud of girlfriedicide. Like sweaty conscipts in Vietnam not knowing where their wily opponent had placed the booby traps, we feared out own type of pre-booby traps. Living on a knife edge of terror with the cooties and of course the almost certain to happen nuclear war. It was a wonder I even got a minute of sleep in my early years. And school did this to me. I often think back on it now. Ignorance is bliss. Why am I in the bliss removal business? Why am I telling the kids how bad transfat is and why fried chicken was going to kill them and that hugs were pure poison. This is why the kids in my class didn’t like me for a few years. They thought I was attacking them when I pointed out their healthful mis-steps.

Going to school in midst of the Cootire Crisis before they came up with the idea of ‘detente’ and Mutually Assured Destruction’was a nightmarish existence. In each classroom a running totals was kept on the blackboard, keeping track of how many girlfriends each boy had accumulated that week. Each week the entire elementary school would gather in the Auditorium where one unlucky boy would have to kiss as many girls as had been counted by the scholar scientists of educational community. Then they would show us films about how to protect ourselves from nuclear war. That Turtle dude was an asshole. Duck and cover? The hydrogen bombs were much stronger these days and whats with the black and white shit? We were walking toast since we had a huge radar installation on the outskirts of town. RCA. A three story satellite dish that was part of the early warning system which would give us ten minutes to get our affairs in order before our faces burned and the metal desks melted into our bones to make a glassy crater which would fill with rain water, but never support life. One of many phosphorescent craters up and down the coast that glowed greenly all night but were too radioactive fo support life. The top of the water covered with dead insects and floating animal bodies which formed floating islands of death. Sometimes they would show us other educational films after the cootie coronation. We had a song. They would count down the top ten like an awards show. As they countdown finsished we would all sing together, “Here he comes, here comes the cootie king, he will kiss anything, “ he had to wear the crown for a week and be addressed as your royal tragedy. Girlfriends meant kids. Kids meant commitments and the ideal ws to be sigle consumers because demographics showed that single male consumers lived payday to pay day. This is just around the time that they also invented disco to make more men gay and single forever.

There were scientifically segregateed girl-germs and boy germs. We all came equipped with a spray that issued from our index fingers. This was probably due to lysol aerosol advertisements that banished all the stinky toilet germs being pumped into our mothers and the national consciousness. Before we even knew what ozone was or what we were destrouying.

So it is all connected, you see. This story about a gifted educator who was going to recreate a bizarro universe “To Sir with Love” in the toughest schools in Philadelphia. kids on this day, usually some sort of book salesman or motivator, but with the priests getting sued left and right it was time for the school district to cover its 1.13 billion dollar operation with legal deniablity. Another thging for teachers to moitor. All of the old structures of society where-in the kids could be wholesomely rounded by the village. The village which was supposed to raise them. This village was slowly depopulated by white flight, pedo scout masters and their bretheren of the church. Even gramps was getting into the act. WE were shown how to legally hug a child that was excessively physical. Off to the side, awkwardly, as if they had cooties. B Some sick fucks in the room seemed to be taking notes. As if it were an ‘aha!’ moment for them. Now they understand how they have been targeting the wrong kids all these years! The mind twists the scene into the Q and A section and when the presenter asks “Any questions?′ the skeevy, slimy gym teacher’s hand shoots up and he asks “can I get a copy of this ‘how-to’ tape?′ an operation that uses up young energy and discards the humans who make mistakes that even city tough union lawyers and politicians can’t handle. The Presisdent of the teachers union told me that I committed career suicide. Maybe I should change my last name to carry. As in harry carrt, as in harry carry the team, that desk, the hot tub, that keg. If it’s heavy, my friend will ask me to move it, surely, and soon, that is my gift. The gift of retard strength. Sorry al, I just don’t know what else to call it. But we will get to you later, and your team.

five-

In kindegarden I was among the elite learners. Much of it was my familiarity with the stories of Dick and Jane. These were the books that were on the shelves in our house. Reruns. Easy, peasy. The hardest thing about school was nap time. I was nevermuch of a napper. Active imagination, I guess. High functioning. I am getting a lot better at napping here in mexico. Where I had to flee the country when it looked like I was going to bite a cop. That was my recurring dreamJust staying still was a torture, but Ireally wanted those stickers. It was a cure little mind fuck techniqueused by the teacher. She would pick a helper to walk around the roon and give out the tickers to the best sleepers. That shit was so rigged! I understand the utility for an off switch on youngsters, that energy. This is why the Satanists prefer the kids, their energy. Run, Spot, Run. Shades of shakespeare there. Out damned spot.

I read four or five novels a week. The poetry of Emily Dickenson grounds me and teaches me that this life of letters is best lived in ones own head, away from the influences of the world. Observing the world from afar. I was in it. I was in several factories. I was successful to a degree, but I always walked away. A lways moved on. And now there is no where to move. My genius idea of distance has worked too well. I’m that dude who moved to Mexico. I may be trapped here. It might not be as funny as it once was. I write letters tryng to get back to the land of crazy, buyt why? Why would I want to live in that place again?

Hello

I am a writer living in Mexico.

I played rugby while my body held together, about 20 year and two knees surgeried.

I plan to play my first rugby game in my 50′s at your event.

I am asking for inclusion among your Masters.

Here are my bonafides. I played for PAC at the merger. I taught myself loosehead prop in the days of Gerry Macdonald and one armed willy. They were the big dogs in DC, I was SUD and when we merged with GW and were running 60 plus at practice and scrumming fifty times full contact on light days.

I went back to play for Blackthorn, the club I first played for and with their national appearance still fresh in their minds I did not get a look, even when I wore a grey wig to practice. It was fun playing with the Raes and Stewy McClain who just passed away and fired up the rugby historian in me.

I want to cover your Masters event like Hunter S. Thompson covered the SuperBowl.

I have had a great time whoring at your event in the past.

If it turns into a story of how I am not good enough, I am cool with that. If I am out classed, then so be it. I know these guys have a lot of pride and so do I. I even started working out a little. But I know that taking a knee is always an option...

MAIN POINT

I want to raise money for youth rugby and start youth teams and leagues and get money from the IRB and travel the country in 2017 THELASTTOUR and see where I spend the next five years of my life coaching youths and women and building the game.

That’s just what props do

Rugby was what turned me into a man.

But I feel that I left a lot of vicious rugby in my rearview mirror due to my rambling ways and poor boss management.

This is the kind of job that I send proposals out into the internet for..

The client said he wanted to do this

I want to produce an ebook and other media products to sell through social media and website. I can provide much of the content, but need help with writing, editing, packaging, and publishing. ​ Working with me developing fitness, and nutrition products for informational purposes and for sale. Creative writing, possible add copy, and creating content and citing sources.​ I would prefer someone with experience in health and nutrition. Task oriented.

I got excited by things I have had banging around in my head and sent him this...

i will be returning to the us to play some rugby tournaments in 2017 so you will have a salesman on the ground at different rugby events in four plus states

i can do this project for you in a in a month if the topic is CHANGED SLIGHTLY to how to keep your rugby body healthy for 25 years.

i will travel the rugby world pimping your ebook

then I said to myself and to him

or i will write mine and it will be fun to see who sells the most,

because this is definitely a go for me in 2017

your thousand dollars will go a long way to funding the first leg of my trip to fort lauderdale in late february

i am also going to the can am rugby tournament in late july in saranac lake ny and the MAGGOTFEST which is a collection of college rugby teams both male and female as well as older people like myself....

I would like to set up a deal with you where people who buy your ebook from links for rugby charities would get a donation towards their rugby charity for using a special link on their charity pages...this will give you free advertising in the rugby community and i will be working on writing the rugby programs for these three rugby events, so there will be ads there too for you for free

i played for kutztown, blackthorn, doylestown, the hibernians, temple u and schuykill rugby in philly, i played for former national champions PAC rugby in washington DC.

all of these teams have mailing lists and would support me if you support their youth rugby.

i will probably be donating half of all received funds to their programs OR MORE because i truly believe in doing this

i am writing up the blog site now and hope to have it perfect in a day or two

i will shoot it your way.

this could easily gain legs as my idea,as stated on facebook is YOUTH RUGBY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

people are starting to notice

i will of course start social media accounts to support this once i get my site up

so this is very lucky for you, and a perfect fit for me

i can accurately discuss supplements, exercise regimens, steroid use, body weight exercises, plyometric training and will put faces to the names as i interview my friends and local rugby legends on the east coast first, and then take it national, all to support youth rugby....it can be a living ebook each month in a special new updated edition with LOCAL HEROS OF RUGBY MALE FEMALE AND KID all in the new book.

check out what my one rugby friend di with the aj foundation. this will be one of your feeder websites or maybe the main one www.theajfoundation.org

thats just one friend, who built a school using his rugby connections

im ready to tour the country one couch at a time

youth rugby list or harry’s list...buy thru harry’s list until you go thru AJ or the YOUTH RUGBY LIST is set up as a stand alone web page...

CALL TO ACTION-

I would much rather work for rugby players and teams and the future than some dude that I do not know. The idea is coming together, but I will need a little support.

What I will need is …

-a place to hang my hammock. I have been sleeping in one for three year now in MX

I have mosquito netting, so patios are ok. I once slept on a picnic table in a youth hostel in vegas because my room was full os snoring and farting Brazillians.

-some sort of work to occupy my days for three’ish’ weeks- 20 hours a week 50/50 youth/me

-permission to help with your rugby program initiative...i have sold programs at the vet

PROOOOGRAAAAMMMMs.... you can pay me in tee shirts, make some extras, let me help design them...

so I am stuck in bold. Like life. I’m friggin kirk baybee, boldly going...

FUNDRAISERS AT NIGHT-

how does captain kirk karoke grab you as an event during your festival? I am a trained karoke host.... OR KAROKE BLUES BRUNCH

on facebook if you look for no fool like an old fool rugby you will see what I proposed to reading rugby club for their april fools fest.

I will send you a link to my web page when it looks the way I want it to

thanks!

A professor at the community college from the Humanities department my father ran for a while says, “You’re a pretty big dude, come to rugby practice” where and when. At this point in time I am still a virgin and because I never really open up to people I only have my own yardsticks by which to judge. I know that since I started college many people give me space on the street and call me “big guy” or ”big boy”. Because I am defensive I assumed that they were calling me fat all the time and the shame mixed well with the rage and naturally binge drinking was part of the mix. And pot. I had discovered that my parents were on the right side of the pot question here in Philly, but I would never tell them that or smoke with them until my very late twenties. Growing up the only sober person with two hippies and younger brothers who wanted to make their own space for themselves outside of my large shadow meant that I was the type of person who was for nuclear energy for a couple of years in the eighties. I created a group called S.A.N.E, the “states Alliance for nuclear energy”

I am just a land based fish at this point, fins turning into arms to pull myself from the slime of the city, no idea of my destination. Exploring raging alcoholism. In a college because of tuition remission. I start a computer course. We are punching cards to program the computer. It reminds me of typing class. I hated typing class. If you mistype a period on one of the three hundred cards the program doesn’t run. Exciting programs to alphabetize mailing lists. Pong is pretty cool, but this is a waste of my valuable time. Computers are stupid, I’m not taking any more computer classes. 1981. They can find someone else to send their junk mail more efficiently! No need for council other than my own. I’m a genius. Next..

In the Honors Program to beef up my rhetorical skills. Arguing with lefties and businessmen. I know these arguments from the beach house my grandfather owned. Old School German bootlegger capitalist Yankee fan versus kinder gentler Yipee theorist daughter and Catholic Red Sox fan Paw. This was the late 60′s, a well-stocked bar was simply how you did things. Don Draper on Long Beach Island working out the campaign with my Granpaw. There is a crack in the system that allows a clever bullshitter to navigate the curriculum with minimal effort, and of course, this is the path I chose. I have played this game before. Teachers are lazy and as professional bullshitters, they BELIEVE well crafted bullshit when they hear it. This is the coin of the realm. And summers off does not seem like a bad way to go through life. I wind up in a teachers college with a couple of rugby games under my belt. A rugby program was started the year before.

People had been calling me “big guy” in Philly for a year now. I thought they were calling me fat. I was always on edge, ready to fight, thinking, “Why are they calling me fat?′ Rage building up.

I go to practice in the Philly park in the dark, under lights, a rainy night, plus the humidity from the sweaty men. We get there late. They tried to put me in the second row. They said kneel down and put your hand between this fat sweaty dudes legs. Assuring me that, yup this is rugby, un hunh thats right....Step one in my personal rugby evolution was NEVER PLAYING SECOND ROW AGAIN.....(but when it came down to a dangerously unstable scrum or my playing second row I played a couple of times.)

Game day. Butterflies and buttercups on a warm spring day in Burholme park. 10 glorious minutes on the wing. People telling me where to stand, which direction to jog. Rugby is a beautiful day in the park on the wing. We adjourn to the bar and sing songs and make merriments. We escort our opponents to their bus, a chorus of flying monkeys serenading as they march “All we OWe, we OWE her” Their may have also been an Elephant walk. That’s the first perfect rugby day I remember. There were many more.

It is an apt metaphor for rugby, a troop of flying monkeys, happily working for the wicked witch of rugby, the rugby queen is a natural extension of this. The honorary title. Micheal leland memorial national talent search 4 rugby queen.

My second ever rubgy game was a road trip to play club sudamericana de rugby. I think they started in some embassies or something. Their field was across the river from the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington monument was three blocks away from the try zone, practically on the mall. This was my a big step up from a city field in Philly. I don’t think I went to another practice, but they were short on numbers and needed every warm body they could get. Someone gave me a magazine to read on the bus down. It was incomprehensible and too technical for me. I bought myself a pair of green and yellow striped knee socks. Part of something. I didn’t get much time but when I did they put me way back and told me to catch the ball and pass it to a more experienced player. New players stand out on the rugby field, the look of fear in the eyes and that new rugby player smell, the smell of confusion. Also, in a larger part, because the sidelines are coaching them loudly about positioning and strategy. The opponents kicked three or four balls to the new guy and I caught them and dished them to the veterans, no problem. When the fourth or fifth one came, they had a different instruction, “Run straight!” Now we were getting somewhere. I could not move my arm for a week or two, the other team tried to bend my elbow the wrong way in an attempt to wrest the egg from my grasp. That was it for rugby for awhile.

RUGBY EVOLUTION-STEP 2 KUTZTOWN- from fat to feral...I ran all summer to break through as a vicious wing forward after playing second side behind some lower half of the bell shaped curve types who were business majors with no business but quarries, corn, batteries and mushrooms for 16 miles in any direction. There was a interstate to the west of the town which made it seem close to civilization to some people, but I grew up over the mountain and this was a time warp. They still had active KKK marches in the area. Pigeon shoots anda couple of times a year when they spread manure you were confined indoors for a couple of days, unless you wanted to vomit.

STEP 3 DC
BACK HOME GREY WIG
Temple
Grad-the knee-sevens-jailed-country rugby-the second knee and enthusiasm wanes-paid rugby-old man river-retiring again...fat rugby is not rugby....mean fat vs happy fat...i kept running into assholes in the usa...ironically more of them out of the rugby community.

it is basically out of loyalty to future humans that I leave these words before I leave this realm. Wanted to leave a record...when satisfied, see ya! Yea. Its impossible not to feel the enormity of existence as ending it seems more and more like the play. Not with a whimper. Rust never sleeps. What is the down side? Every day is another slog. Another sweaty walk to a destination just a little bit more interesting than this one. Something different. The difference is the motivation. If I was a real man I would take he last of my money to the gambling den on friday and play some horses and finish with some poker. The poker would best be played with 1000- at the buy in of 25-50 that gives me 20 big blinds and the word on the street is that wth 20 you are putting them all in the middle as soon as possible. Its a crap shoot. Life is a crap shoot. Lets see what kinds of timing I have...after one round you have 925- then 850-then 725...at 725 you have been sitting at the table for maybe two hours in this slow game, thirty hands...thirty hands and you are now pressing your luck...how patient can you be? Can you feel the rhythm of life at this table amid the cigarette smoke, the alien language, the obvious and crowding in of the smell of greed and boredom in your fellow man. Boredom and chance and do you want to dance? I do want to dance and I will take my chance and when the accounting is compleat and I am broke on my way back here, that’s when the real desperation will find its way into my words. When my back it to the wall, will I do my shuffle and hat in hand make pleasing language advances into the interior of the town, to truly engage, to make my stand or to just fuck it, white flag, game over nigger, see you next credit. Eleven, heaven, this is the page where the suicide starts shaping up, alluded to in the earlier chapters by the metaphor of the sinking ship. That ship is my life. That ship could have sailed in may directions, but the captain was an unlucky asshole. Maybe my course in life is to nibble and nibble like a mouse at the edges of the good life. To look out from my mousehole and make tiny mouse plans. Ha. Fifty three is good for me. Fifty four will bea bore, fity four I am not sure I will ever see a day of you. How many times do I have to beat myself over the head to see that this is the end of me. Mexican purgatory, I am sure I died in that kayak. The slow deafening of my ear is just death taking me slowly like a boa. Strangling my ears first as sound is the last of the free joy. Birds in the morning, timeless songs at night. 53 is good for me. Wasn’t that the number of the stock car driver? Maybe thats one more roadmark, one more key to the story, I have to get these words out clean so the proper understanding can be spread. This is a great day. I am going home, going back to my source, going back to the start of it all. Game over nigger, see you next credit.

Its a slowicide, gradually diminishing in my e-life, fading out, haven’t seen a post in a while, hope hes fine, oh hes gone...better to fade out. I do not want thirty more years of . Thirty more sweaty days stretch like a burden. Thirty days of paid rent and that should do it. Thats should give my destiny a chance to pop up and present itself in my inbox. That should give the universe the time to sort out my future, if any. I think I will step in front of a bus, that should be simple to do the way they drive around here and maybe provide a little air time as I fly … squeaky squeaky squeaky, like and old man at the betting parlor betting to show. Fear of failure, but need of dinero. The fine line. 12 peso bets. Or 200 peso bets...more room for error with the horses, more word destiny, try it friday and see what happens, do it again on saturday and sunday divide the money stash into three piles, three strikes and you are out man, out. 500 a day. 46 for combi rides. 8 back to the center of town is 24 more...walk across the city of 2 more. 46+16 62 trans, out of the 500? 438 in wagering divided by 12 3 is 36, 360 from 438 78 72 goes into that 5 dozen is 60, six dozen is 72 leavng 6 pesos to tip the waiter, maybe more is you win, and there is the plan. Stick to the plan or go fuck yourself. Thrity twelve peso bets should give you a sense of your liuck and is fine for the day, when prperly recorded, why am I betting? To bet is to live. Someone bet on my luck at the spermtrack and I was once a winner...realign with the fast sperm, meditate on spermic rapidity, three shots at 500 a shot, 100 bets to find out if I have a future. One hundred bets, one hundred bucks, see you next credit.

I was a little guy in high school. Cow farmers with moustaches intimidated me without even knowing they did so, just because they had moustaches. That was a fixation for me. I was the type of kid that was easy to throw around. Zigfried Roy threw me into a locker for some reason, maybe because he was high and it was funny. Sitti g in art class, head ringing, ms. Dautrich, harrys crying. Off to the nurse. Then the office, want to tell me what happened, no. a random act of senseless violence, years before the concept of random kindness. I was the only senior in school when the rest of them went to see the pedophile mouse with no pants. I knew disney was stupid and plastic from my mom. I knew I didnt want to go and that my job was to protect the farm. To stay away from people. A concentration camp of my own connstruction. I guess everyone is embarrassed by their mother in some way or another. But when your mother craves the spotlight, that’s a special kind of hell right there when she has had hostess training. When she was brought up by ivy league cunts she went to school with and made the radical decision to marry a book salesman /bartender/housepainter she met at a bar when he was going to Trinity. Or maybe just after. You can read their book or maybe I will have them read this to correct the facts because as you know it is very important to get the details correct in a work of fiction. This is a work of fiction. If you happen to nw a manipulative psychopath named Barry Crapps his pants, that is just a coincidence because all similarities to all persons living or deadd is just a co-inky-dink of the highest order. Just a word to the wise, block you phones, disable movie ordering and porn and auto-pay before you invite a dude to stay with you for the summer when you have lucked into a beach house. And if you are the kind of person that doesn’t care too much about money, don’t expect a selfish asshole to return the favor for more than a night in his California titular mansion thirty years later. He is even more fucked up mentally than the author and that’s fine, psychopaths are out there and it is nice to know that you scare them too.

Chapter 69-

Look kids, if it feels good do it was my mantra. I was lucky enough never to be molested as a child that I remember. Despite being tucked away in my gay uncles house once or twice with my brother. Not that I remember, anyway. I never woke up with a chemical taste in my mouth and a sore rump, but I have always been lucky that way. Where I wasn’t lucky was in the area of everlasting love. At 53 I am starting to think that that may be an advertising myth created by capitalist parasites to sell cologne and toothpaste and rivers of alcohol to the perpetually lonely and heartbroker losers out there who are only one feel good romantic comedy about an aging neanderthal who finally gets Julia Roberts attention when he wrote this book. So Juila, and nephews and nieces, please listen.

When I was in high school my dad and I crossed paths on my way out to the movies with my high school sweetie. I was quite a catch then. A job in a French restaurant that gave me free cooking lessons if I washed up afterwards while the chef was at the bar being charming. He was the first French dude I would lose a woman to. Anyway. There is a French attitude of love that apparently I did not posess, according to the woman who I tried to impregnate when her college jailbait boyfriend got out of jail and softly knocked on her door as we lay in bed. Tap tap tap. Whats that honey? Nothing ill go down and see, go to sleep. Except that I am a light sleeper in alien beds. And I heard snatches of whispered conversation for hours that night. The next time he came back he was crawling into the window and knocking a flower pot to the floor. She rushed downstairs for that one too. I am not curious. This is the lesson kids. Be curious about late night noises in your lovers house. Or be more careful when selecting a lover. Lovers come with history. You will never be as cute as the freshaman english student jailbait seventeen year old college student that she used to get through her divorce from the brick laying daog mad man and hillary apologist. Find your own hunny bunny. Create your own hunny bunny. Define love together with her or him and talk to the bitch. Don’t assume that you are on the same page because you share a bed and spend 20 hours of everyday with each other since you work together. Talk to her about the glory of your love, about your future, about how cool it feels in your spine when she kisses you. Do you feel her in your spine? Then she is the one. Listen to love sings with her in long latenight chat sessions with her and if she is having long late night chat sessions with someone else and comes to be late, that’s a warning sign. Do not wait for her to break down mentally because at that point you are done. You are new on the scene. Relatively.

Mexican devo is the sweetest little rape victim I know. It’s ugly down here whhen the street kitties go into heat. Two or three cats atop or right nex to the fertile female. The big cat goes first, of course. But sometimes the young teen cat is the one that slowed her down and just as he is about to pursue his bliss, papa gato snarls and shunts him aside, telling him thanks kid in mexican street cat lingo. Thanks kid, I got it from here. Unless you will be neededing another lesson in violence. Which is what this should be called. Violent lessons. And love. Violent lessons of love. Violin lessons and love. Ha ha. That whey chix buy it without reading it and it becomes the counter culture anti-programming smash and I am off to peru, or uraguay, or france. The provence region. To live live on a mushroom farm. Champions. We are the champenones my frined, mon amis...oh yes...

what is it about a rugby team that causes players invested in the system for yearrs to quit? Is it the culture of alcoholism over rugby cluture that finally eats away at them? That’s why I left the drinking team to join the farmer team. They had better pot. A better rugby culture. Rugby mother culture. I will be your rugby mother culture. Im a rugby mother fucker. I might fuck your grandmom too. Sorry in advance, but there it is...

so anyway, I was a bad teacher that night and she woke up with a fat lip. And I woke up a bad teacher and feeling shame and wishing I could talk to her about it

the women in my family are the fighters. Im just the guy who breaks things up. You do not want to see my bad side because I do not want to . I bite.here…

Continue Reading Next Chapter
Chapters
1. hot mexican nights
Further Recommendations

yan-isms: HEARTBROKEN.I can't sleep with an ending like that. It will kill me, I felt numb and hallow lol

Angel Jacques: The authors style ia much like Cris Owens and Jodi Payne who wrote my all time fave queer bdsm series. The gay bar scene brought back memories to my FL gay clubbing days. The author has a great scense of humor. Felix and Dorian have such great chemistry together. I camt wait ro read more from...

timetogetkrecioched: This book was absolutely amazing. It got me mad at times but other than that it was great, the drama, action, love, and it was just the whole package. I love how their love didn't die and it broke through all the obstacles.

JJ Hayle: Well, I really enjoy asshole characters and Andrew is the ultimate asshole character. A very well-written, gripping and intense story.

peter farrell: Guys....What's the story??? We need a sequel..has to be a better ending.

More Recommendations

zandixaba: Really enjoyed reading book but the ending was so sad. Was hoping that Adrien would get a happy ending but it really was a good read. Kept you guessing on what could happen next. Couldn't put the book down till the end. Love it

tinaasante871: Nice read.....i love all the characters featured in this book especially Ashley and Jean. .....the plot was fantastic. ....hope you keep on writing more of lesbian romance cos you've jus got yourself a number one fan

John_C: I’ve have never actually told someone to leave me alone until I started reading Green Eyes: an erotic novel (sort of) by Michael Ampersant. I held it in my hands and read the first chapter when someone came up to me to ask me a question. I literally held my hand to his face and told him to stop t...

myLADYjane: At first, I was a little confused. I wasn't sure where this was going. It's written like a blog, so you are only offered an insight into the main character, who is pretty unreliable. I thought it was going to be just another pulp-fiction, sex journal exploring the cliched, seedier side of Bangkok...

Destiny Drayton: This book brought to life A wonderfully written story about the struggles and harsh reality that the lgbt community, specifically gay men, are forced to deal with and yet, it brings a fresh originality to the fantasy genre. Drawing you in and getting lost in the world of Raoul Sinclair. I sincere...

{{ contest.story_page_sticky_bar_text }} Be the first to recommend this story.

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.