Let My Insecurities Dictate The Art You Enjoy.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret, gentle reader. I don't give a fuck how you feel. My compatriot doesn't give a fuck about how you feel either. We're hard pressed as it stands to give one iota of a fuck about what you think or what your opinions are, but we really couldn't give a subatomic fuck about how offended you feel. 

Personally, this little website is for me to put up my half baked opinions and silly short stories up for posterity. I don't really feel any shame or embarrassment for the things I write so I figure fuck it, why not put it up for the world to see?

Xavier and I really do appreciate your commentary, good and bad (Frankly, most of the time it's negative) because it tells us you at least read us. We love people who hate our shit and act disrespectfully because they're fun to fuck with. We're also open to having our ideas challenged if a reasoned debate is your thing. The internet is a great place to engage with creative types, their fans, detractors and hecklers and should remain a place for the free expression of all.

However, something I will never abide by is people who think the world should coddle them and keep them safe from their own insecurities and use this as a reason to call art they don't like whatever "ism" they think will silence it. People like this always say they aren't being "Censors" but that they're just critiquing popular culture. I disagree. The problem with you people (yes, I do mean you people) is you never seem to look at a piece of art on it's artistic merits but how "diverse" it is. As if "diversity" is an artistic statement in and of itself.

If there are "too many" men and not enough women the piece of art is sexist.
If there are "too many" white people and not enough "people of color" the piece of art is racist.
If there are "too many" straight people and not enough gay people the piece of art is homophobic.
If there are "too many" trim, healthy people and not enough overweight people the piece of art is fatphobic.
If there are "too many" cisgendered people and not enough transsexuals or nonbinary zhes and zhers, the piece of art is transphobic.

What would happen if I made the perfect, socially conscious movie about a gay, trans, three hundred pound woman of color? Of course you sloppy, over sensitive clit mounds would still cry foul. If your pet minority has representation, then it's invariably (in your expert estimation) represented poorly or negatively. "It's a stereotype!" you'll cry "We gay, trans three hundred pound women of color don't act like that at all!"

Wait, so you're saying you want the characters in books, comics, movies and video games to act like "normal" human beings? Why then do you feel you can't relate to the characters the people with actual artistic talent create? It's almost as if creating art, or more over, DICTATING to artists what quotas and social-justice-checklists would make you feel better doesn't make for good art.

I've said this to people who whine about the lack of diversity in a piece of art before: If you don't like it, don't consume it, make your own. Get off your special snowflake ass to make art you feel "validates" your "lived experience". If that's too hard and want to critique something you don't like instead; do it on it's artistic merits. I'll be right there with you. Calling something sexist, racist, homophobic, fat-phobic or trans-phobic because it doesn't pass your wholly subjective and arbitrary litmus test though is not a critique, that's just you being a whimpering cunt.

Just because an artist doesn't put gays, black people, fat people, trans folk or women in their art does not mean they hate those groups of people. However, if you do think that then I hate you.

Love,
Big Mike.

"I Sat Rahnd The Haass Wankin'!"

I did it you lovely, anonymous whiners and wankers, I've gotten employed! How cool is that? I feel the light at the end of the tunnel and I'm almost 100% positive it's not a train. Yeah buddies!

In matters of the Porno Theatre, I have good news about writing... but first I'd like to tell you about flash fiction. Y'see, if you look at most of my fiction it's all very brief and vague and I'll admit it kinda shitty. I'm not afraid to admit I've been influenced greatly by the author Etgar Keret and much like my other early-twenties obsessions (Tom Waits, Charles Burns comics, Marijuana) they influenced my work, for better or for worse. Thing is no one but writers give a shit about stories under 500 words.

Even though these vignettes and snippets of stories as they stand today bring me great shame; they will still stand as a monolith, much like a eleven-year-old's boner in gym shorts. While I find these stories personally cringey I still see potential in them. The stories I see room to grow will get my tender love and abuse, and around 5000 more words.

As a matter of fact, I'm working on a burly first draft of a story loosely based on my original short-story entry to the Hallowed Halls of the Great Porno Theatre, in Spanky's name (Sleaze Be Upon Him) and through it's carefully crafted exposition and context will be the story I always meant to write but was too stoned to.

Good times ahead, ladies and gentlemen.

Love,
Big Mike.

Spanky of the Art House (Sleaze Be Upon Him)

Mary Forsberg is a cunt

Not only is she a cunt, she is as selfish as the man she bitterly chastises in death, if not worse.

You see, Mary Forsberg is the ex-wife of the late singer Scott Weiland, the very Scott Weiland I referenced just the other day.

Mary, you see, penned an open letter to rolling stone about the impact of him and his life and death on her and her kids. You can read it here.

My Response To Mary;

While the frustration that he wasn't there and the anger that the finances given from those who didn't appreciate the severity of his issues kept his destruction train rolling, I didn't see you turning down checks and getting a different job to support your kids. I recall you publishing a book still using his surname in bold print, and titling it after one of his biggest hit songs.

I recall you shooting up with him in the early nineties, encouraging infidelity against his first wife, and allowing yourself to get impregnated by a man you found to be so erratic and crazy. You didn't do shit to stop the madness then, when you were riding his gravy train of a dick.

Instead of coming across as someone who should be taking the feelings of her children into consideration, you come across as a bitter woman who is thinking only of herself. It definitely is easier to chastise and berate a person who is gone, instead of when they are here, and not use all the resources they have given you. If you saw he wasn't there for the first child, why would you go and have another one him?

Yeah, he was a drug riddled, whisky swilling rockstar. Not all continue down that path once they have kids, but he did. Yet there you were, not actually doing shit to stop it.

Don't try to tell me that you aren't trying to tear down his legacy for the millions he has touched with his talent and entertainment capabilities. That is exactly what you are doing. Encouraging people to look down on those who exert themselves as an artist, after you have drained him dry, of course.

(s)he without sin cast the first stone.

You have no right to be such a hypocrite, Mary.

The energy you put towards your bitter rant would be better fuel for teaching your kids the values of sobriety and loving those who depend on you, not taking away the only good that your ex-husband gave to the world. You could have just given a warning only on the neglect of a selfish drug addict, and a warning to really care for your kids. But you took it too damn far.

Mary Forsberg, you are a cunt.

~Xavier R.

p.s. I wouldn't say anyone is glorifying this tragedy, I would say that we are just acknowledging his impact.

p.s.s. I hope your kids do well. You also, until they no longer live with you. Then you can fuck off.

Development in progress, still(born)

Below is the precursor for a story I've been working on for the past four years called "My Friend the Machine", of which you will notice in the header. It comes from a dream I had some years ago. I had made this post as soon as I had the dream, and called it "Dreamscape I". It was incorporated into the story I've been developing as a mixture of past memory and fantasy.

I was at the house I use to live in before my current, with a few of my friends, one of whom was merely an acquaintance, another a small child.

As my friends and I carelessly played video games on the couch, my "acquaintance"  friend tried getting our attention several times in vain. Finally, he says,

"You guys, the sky, it's freezing where rays of light are normally suppose to shine through!" Finally, I get up to go check, and sure enough, exactly that was happening. In fact, it was as if the atmosphere was freezing, and the freezing sky was spreading. I say to the others

"Really you guys, you need to check this out." Soon they all were seeing, and all started to panic. Being equally scared but calm as a monk, I say

"Don't worry. Even if it all started breaking and falling towards us, by the time it reached us, it would barely do anything at all." This calmed them, and they went back to their video games. Finally, a news report came about the radio (though we didn't have a radio on) and told us that the atmosphere was indeed freezing over, and that they knew nothing of it beyond that.

This caused another round of panic among my friends (the acquaintance who was the panicking the least), and again I reassure them if the sky does indeed fall, (and right then the acquaintance reminds us of the heat caused by acceleration) it will be of very little danger of us, and by looking at it, might not even hit us. (For right there I'd like to point out that the frozen sky looked frozen in large chunks in every direction, but in between the chunks, weren't cracks in the ice, but seams clear of being frozen.)

The ice did eventually crack, however, and exploded, falling unto the world. They began another round of panic, but the acquaintance and I did not. We instead had very amused looks on our face, which the rest found hilarious, and again went back to their video games.

When it did hit us, it was as a thick bombardment of snow. The sliding glass door was open, however, and the snow spilled in, covering the before mentioned child, who was asleep on the floor. I quickly clear him of it. Afterwards I stand up and tell the acquaintance that this is like one of those post-apocalyptic stories we always wished to be apart of as kids. He laughed and agreed.(After this point, the child never appears in the story again, and the "acquaintance" vanishes to go explore, but doesn't tell us.)

A feeling of accomplishment washes over me. I realize that even in an ending world, I can still keep my cool and direct those around me, despite being just as scared. I do not let it control me. I merely acknowledge its existence.

They go about playing video games once more, until the radio comes on again. It goes on about how the atmosphere has been destroyed, and that the world will reach a melting point and then be destroyed. Everyone looks at me in confusion and horror (a responsibility I hardly want) and I shush them down.

(the following is a bit hazy, and I guess 15%-25% of the filler that is not obvious to be important is probably fictional, in regards to the dream, that is.)

A couple girls come into the house at this point, most likely thinking it is a safe place to be. (now that I think about it as I write, probably because the "acquaintance" told them about our calm demeanor and our resources.) I care very little about this, except for the fact that with them is this redhead, who once I see I fall instantly in love with. Her smile makes all the fear inside me go away. I feel an overwhelming warmth. (It should be mentioned, that my girl chatting tendencies usually point me in the directions of apathy or awkwardness. However whenever I see "HER", which has happened a few times, I become indestructible in  will and thought, until either I ultimately succeed or fail.)

I try try to get her to stay with me. But she wont do it. She says she has a boyfriend to get back to. (who I learn, without being told or ever seeing, is one of my friend Jon's cousin) Uncaring, I tell her to forget him, and stay with me. She playfully refuses, and leaves safety.

The acquaintance returns. I ask him what the outside world is like (as I do so, the sky, and everything else outside, has turned completely white). He looks at me, filled with dread, and says nothing. He was pale as a ghost, and I could tell, that he had just given up. I looked around, and no one was left. Despite my sacrificing of humanity to shine fearless for them, seeing the "acquaintance" so wrecked wrecked them, too. They fled away to die. I was alone.

(I fear that particularly important, but unvital, parts of this last section were lost completely)

Chaos. Disorder. Panic. The streets and skies burned with the fears of people. It's funny, because our habitat around us changed drastically, maybe fatally so. But people didn't have to. People didn't need to behave like this. We could have stayed calm, and found a way to deal with it. But across the globe, there was utter pandemonium.

As I walk into town, I convince those I pass to calm down, and they listen. However it seems some retreat from my calming manner, so my efforts do very little. Eventually I make it to the house I lived in before the house at the beginning of the dream. A couple of my friends are there. I don't bother complaining about the fact that they had left a more secure location that was heavy in resources. I just sit. The radio chimes once more.

"It's all over..." and once again they flee. I don't try to stop them. All but one are never seen again. Though it wasn't technically my duty, I felt as though I had the capability of being a Shepard. Though I still did not let the fear consume me, I felt as though I could have stopped them from being fools. Could have stopped them from running like cowards. Though the enemy was not a directly physical one, I could have led them into battle against it. But I didn't. I failed.

I was in a car with the rapper Jay Z and his mom, and they were driving me to 7-11. I thanked them for the ride, and went inside to buy a slurpee. I suddenly have a used slurpee cup, and go over to the chaotically arranged counter, and tell the man that I would like a refill. (Which is silly, because you refill it yourself.) He mocks me in a frightening manner.

"Oh look at me, I need a refill. Lah dee da dee da." as he does a silly dance. Then glares at me. I realize a lot is terrible right now, so I should be grateful. Not that I didn't understand the chaos. I wasn't grateful, however, until right then. After a moment, he laughs a reassuring laugh. I fill it up my slurpee cup, and the man says something along the lines of

"God gives us this world, and we destroy it. He didn't have to share it with us. He has his friends in the sky, and we destroy them with our airplanes and disease." Though I was in complete agreement, I had the feeling that he might suddenly shoot me, so I say

"Praise to god." or something like that, and leave, without paying, which didn't seem to be a matter. I got back in Jay Z's car.

It was night. The world wasn't a piercing white anymore. The night view seemed normal, though chaos was still quite abounding. The driver of the car was suddenly my friend Jon.

As we went down the street, I saw the redhead again. It instantly became daytime. A normal daytime. I shouted out to her. I told her I could take care of her. She said that her boyfriend wouldn't LIKE that, hinting at violence, and she seemed almost happy about it, though I could detect fear in her. I had a feeling I'd see her again. I asked her for a kiss. She thought on it, but then ran over to the car to oblige. Jon re-positioned his now truck so that her approach would be easier, seemingly o.k. with the fact that I was trying to steal his cousin's girlfriend. He then, however, re-positioned his truck once more, and drove away, mentally telling me we have more important things to do. I suffered. It became night once more.

I was now in my moms car. As we drove down the street, I saw a lion, wandering about.
"Was that a fucking lion?"
"Yes." She replied. I was terrified. Not only for myself, but for anyone who would end up encountering it. Despite this feeling of terror, I wanted to stop and fight it. My mom kept driving.

Out of the blue, a cop car was on our tail.
"Shit, it's the cops." My mom says. His sex lights start-a-blinking, and my mom begins to drive faster.
"Mom, maybe you should pu..."
"No! We can't let them see there is a black man in the car until we reach a public place." I thought to myself, that I knew all the cops in town. They like me. They wouldn't hurt me. Now three cops were on her tail.
We now find ourselves, my mother and I, at the library, when it use to be under the city hall whilst the current one was under construction. There was a shoe section, where one could literally check out shoes. The cops found us as we looked about the shoes, and didn't question or search us, but in fact searched the shoe boxes and shoes around us. Frantically. After awhile, one of them finds a shoe as big as a computer, and laughs, saying
"Who the hell could fit into a shoe like this?"
"My friend Joe could." I say.
"Well he must have some big fucking feet. Hey, look at this picture frame." He hands me a picture frame, and I look at it, then hand it back.

"Anyways, sorry to bother you Mr. Rhone." And they leave. My mom and I sit there, confused, exhausted. She begins to talk, and in the moonlight I see a red dot on her head. I shove her face backwards.
"A laser!" Then blue ones appear on mine. We both take turns dodging the lasers, though no shots are being fired.
"The picture frame! It must have been so that they could target you through the windows easier!" She yells at me. We hide behind some crates. Though I can't hear it, I can feel that the building (which, now that I think about it, wasn't in public at all, but completely deserted ) is being surrounded. There is peace. Then machine gun fire tares through the walls and windows.

I retain my courage, and develop overwhelming determination, and vow a way out of this. I must see the redhead again. I must.

Then I woke up.

There reason why that dream was incorporated was because of its apocalyptic themes, which are prominent in the story itself. Though obviously in the story it is pieced together differently. Also, I chose to absorb a different short story I've been working on into the fold as well, which actually helps fill in some of the plot points I have been struggling with. So I hope you enjoyed this tidbit, and I shall be able to start posting under "My Friend The Machine" by the beginning of next year.

~Xavier R.