When In Dallas

Visit 400 Grandi.

I recommend the Tagliatelle Alla Bolognese. It’s a dense mound of pasta ribbons dressed in meat ragu. The taste and texture is from another world. The dish conquered my ageusia.

Order the Salami Board for savory tidbits of cured meats and cheeses, Italian bread and pickled vegetables for a pre-entree rehearsal.

If there’s room, the Calzone Nutella is a quirky treat that tastes like it sounds.

No wine, sadly. I was dining with abstinent Baptists. When in Rome.

Our waiter gave us a show. I estimate his dreadlocks weighed twenty pounds. He was a storyteller, a personable host and he had us laughing when he visited to check on us and freshen drinks.

Italian restaurants have a dreamy, subterranean feel after dark.

High ceilings. Sunken booths. Vines. Stony walls. The snug bends and turns of the design. It’s like being in the grotto of a Mediterranean Count. A secret place were you say an ancient password for admission.

What a night.

Being A Grown Up Feels Like Punishment

I have a giant, existential chip on my shoulder.

My default emotional state is bored, gloomy irritation. Especially with the chores and social obligations that make up the bulk of waking life. I resent the passionless, undifferentiated routines of adulthood.

It takes a lot to make my happy. It takes very little to upset me. If you’re a happy extrovert, imagine being hungover, sick and under-slept. Then, imagine you feel the soft warmth of a spring sun on your cheeks, and every atom of your being laments YUCK. That’s how I feel spiritually everyday. I have a permanent spiritual hangover.

I’m too proactive to be depressed. Tennis, gym, travel, recreational reading, foreign language learning, an exciting lucrative career. Depressed people don’t fill their days like I do. It’s not depression, but more like an unshakable restlessness. A powerful desire to disengage. To withdraw into the silky, timeless, freedom of sleep and stay there, resting, as long as I like.

If this sounds like the whining of an ungrateful pansy, you’re not neurotic. You’ll never get it.

I wish that I could hear God whispering in the wind and feel his presence filling the world with Devine love. A hideous world lies before me.

But I continue to pray. I pray that one day I’ll wake up, and suddenly real life will begin.

It’s Almost Time

It’s morning and winter’s gray stiffness pins me to the dirt.

Somewhere, in a narrow crawl space of my mind, there is the inkling of hazy disappointment. It’s the first day of spring and I’m cold. Not chilly. Not in need of a light jacket to get me through the short frostiness of daybreak. I’m freaking cold.

I scrap ice from my rear windshield.

It’s almost noon.

The world is flat. Grass is hard and rumpled. The corpse of a shrub, once the vibrant centerpiece of a blooming garden, clings to a desert floor like lost hope. But there is change in the wind. The air has opened and the sky has grown larger. For so long the clouds hung in a frozen droop, like a ceiling of filthy pigeon feathers. Now there is only brightness above. A breeze nips at my arms and face, but there is a blue, electric energy coursing through the neighborhood.

Evening is near.

Canopies are empty but now they’re awake, and the branches seem to stretch and sway, pawing at moisture in the air. It’s the promise of a holiday. Suddenly life is busy with plans and wishes. The air is bustling. Birds watch and wait in expectation of some long awaited celebration. A turquoise shimmer is running through the breeze. Good times are on the horizon.

The real spring has almost come.

I Was Wrong About Trump

It certainly appears so, at least. 

Biden didn’t win. Corporate media knows it. Politicians know it. The American people know. The world knows. Trump knows that his historic, landslide victory was stolen by the same people that talk about democracy and suffrage like sacrosanct entitlements from God. 

The statistical anomalies are unprecedented. The impossibly massive voter turnout in key democrat electorates is an alarm bell stuffed in an anomaly, wrapped in a red flag. We’re meant to believe that – by an amazingly fortunate coincidence for the left – Biden outperformed Obama in these key urban areas despite Trump picking up points in every demographic group in the rest of the country. 

Then, there is the fact that GOP poll observers were removed to the cheers of the vote counters. USPS employees reported being told to backdate ballots to the day before. There is footage of mysterious, 2 am deliveries of ballots with no documentation of custody right before the math defying spike in Biden votes.

This fraud was obnoxiously amateurish. Need I go on?

Dominion voting software switched Trump votes to Biden votes. In 353 counties, there were 1.8 million more registered voters than eligible citizens. A ridiculously disproportionate amount of mail-in ballots came in for Biden. For example, in PA, in nearly every county, Trump was awarded exactly 40% less votes than he won on election day. Meaning, if Trump won 80% of the vote on election day, he won 40% of the mail-in vote for a county. 

The number of unlawful ballots that were awarded to Biden is absurd. Biden lost. You’ll notice that the only people that deny that Biden lost are the same people that repeat whatever the last thing they heard being said from corporate media as if it is an objective reporting of facts. I hate leftists. 

Alphas don’t allow their destiny to be stolen. Real leaders fight for the people that put their necks on the line to stand up for them. That’s why I thought Trump would cross the Rubicon. 

During his term, Trump protected his constituency from invaders. He put America first, making trade deals that benefited us instead of globalist creeps. He struck fear in the hearts of anti-Westerners and fought against the establishment’s policies of mandatory degeneracy. Trump was a fantastic President. 

So, I thought he would join the Caesars of history and, with the military, stop the illegitimate transition of power to a party of losers whose clear objective is to destroy and enslave real Americans. I was so sure I bet two grand on it

Guess I was wrong. Maybe not. I still hold out hope. Trump is the 4d chess master they say. Maybe Trump will save the day by playing the long game. Stranger things have happened. 

One thing is for sure. Half the country no longer believes in the legitimacy of the system. 

And that is a dangerous situation indeed. Dangerous for whom? That’s what I would be asking myself now if I were pathetic enough to be a leftist.

The Supernatural Metaphysics of Childhood

That’s the Sears Tower stealing the show. I took the picture during a flight home from Las Vegas.

Chicago from the sky is an encounter from another world. Downtown fits inside the peephole of my thumb and forefinger. Imaginations burst forth.

The Sultan of the Indies on a magic carpet. Bellerphone on Pegasus. Mount Olympus.

Moments like that really get me. It’s the sensitivity of childhood retained as an adult. Most people have dispositions that block them from experiencing such things.

During my novelty buzz above Chicago, I turned from the window and looked at the passengers. No one was joining me. No one looked at the breathtaking view a mere window shade away. Not even the children parked in window seats could be bothered. Pixels on a digital screen, small talk, a nap; these were the attractions that won the attention of the passengers. The royal blue enormity of Lake Michigan from the perspective of a cloud? Don’t waste their time!

If you’ve reached adulthood and (like myself) regularly get the excitement chills, you are a very unusual person indeed.

I mentioned novelty as a cause of this heightened state of being. And it can be. But if you’re like me, it takes very little for you to become lost in wonder like you are a child again. It’s like walking around in a semi-permanent state of what I can only describe as a sort of spiritual Stendhal Syndrome.

Do you remember the mind-bending joy of Christmas, back when Santa was real? You were so thankful to live in a world where there was a Santa. I feel that same joy and gratitude now.

The low sensitivity of adults is obvious from their conversations. I noticed this first in my twenties. Most people have no desire to have spiritual play with others. Most adults have no desire to share their inner world. Their inner subjectivity – the only thing that really makes them THEM – is forever inaccessible to absolutely everyone but themselves. And they’re fine with that!

The way that most people blithely accept – CHOOSE- their own Locked-in syndrome-esque isolation is a creepy reality of human nature. If you’re of a certain temperament, it can fell intolerable.

Most people only have small talk. Most people never get serious about the transcendent. Glibness is the water they drink. I once chalked this up to lack of explanatory abilities. I used to think that people enjoyed rich inner emotional worlds hidden away. Most people just can’t put their soulgasms into words is what I thought.

I don’t believe this anymore. Most people never experience these feelings. At least not since they left the happiness of childhood. But probably never at all. They are excited by status, money and sex, and blind to all else. You can read it in their faces. You can see it in their eyes. They don’t get it. Nor do they want to. They are spiritually autistic.

What’s that like I wonder? What keeps them going? Why travel the world if you’re numb to it’s splendors? Why do anything? What gets these lizards out of bed in the morning?

Thank you, God. Thank you for making me a kid forever.

Thank you for giving me eyes to see heaven above.

Thank you for making my imagination my home.

I Can’t Go On

Please tell Tom Clancy that technical details about weaponry and submarine mechanics is not story telling. I’m 200 pages in and half of what I’ve read amounts to military tech porn.


This novel had potential. A Soviet submarine captain goes rouge, defecting to America, after an incompetent, communist (I repeat myself) doctor kills his wife during botched surgery – awesome! 


That’s an enjoyable yarn. But I’m not going to slog through hundreds of pages of what reads like an instruction manual for an underwater radar system to get to the interesting plot points.

I imagine this sort of thing is catnip for a man with a systematic engineer’s mind. Not I. I did try, though. This book ain’t for me.

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