My philosophy with this blog is to give you 99% of myself.
The remaining 1% is so dark that if I put it into words your head would explode. Which I would find interesting to watch, by the way.
At some point in my life I adopted a nice guy persona. It was a hybrid expression of my approach to life. It avoids a lot of conflicts, and it also allows me to make the downtrodden feel better about themselves.
But at some point it just took over. I can't help myself. I slip into even when I do not want to slip into it.
I am in the process of trying to shatter this approach because I want an honest approach to life. The world needs to see a more truthful version of me. And I need it just so I can avoid or delay losing my mind. I'm tired of this charade.
I amuse myself because many times when I'm being nice (which is a wimpy word I despise) my mind is thinking horrific things. Very often I mumble evil words as people walk away from me. But only if they deserve it. And a lot of them do.
There's a woman named Carol who sees much more of the truth. She often shakes her head in disbelief and says "You are sick."
And even SHE is not privy to the 1%.
This truth exists for everyone. We all hide The Real behind The Charade. But I have noticed that most people are happy to go a lot farther than I am in being selfish and rude.
I need to get me more of that.
I also prefer to believe that my mind is twisted and venomous in ways that others just could not comprehend. I enjoy knowing that.
I could be wrong. Maybe all humans harbor strange thoughts. Socially unacceptable, poisonous thinking that would cause mass fainting and hysteria if exposed to the light of day.
Right now I feel like throwing myself into life with reckless abandon. Obviously my approach to life has gotten me nowhere. Broke and dancing on the end of marionette strings held by vultures who pursue agendas while advertising it as hope to me. Talk about bait and switch.
A little evil would be fun. A lot of evil would be even more fun.
I am toying with ideas. Playing around with concepts. Something's gotta give. Something's gotta change.
Kind of like that monster ripping out of Sigourney Weaver's body in Alien.
This could get messy.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Dig This
"America..............just a nation of two hundred million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns and no qualms about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable."
"If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up."
Hunter S. Thompson
"If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up."
Hunter S. Thompson
Thanks, Marty. You Done Good.
Martin Scorsese put together a tremendous documentary on the life of George Harrison. I watched the first part many months ago but was prevented from watching the second part because the damn thing just never popped up on On Demand in Comcast. I cried a river of tears. Then, suddenly both parts became available.
Boom I watched Part Two on that crappy snow day. Now I have to dedicate myself to watching both parts back to back. Its that good. Four hours of my life tuned in to a man of significance is not too much to ask. Maybe I'll call in sick to work that day.
When I encounter young uns who cannot name all four Beatles, my instinct is to exterminate them immediately. This is unacceptable. John Paul George and Ringo were not just a musical nuclear blast, they were a historical nuclear blast. The Beatles should be a course in every school across the land, right alongside history, math and the proper techniques for efficient contraception and cosmic lovemaking (F*** You, Santorum).
I cannot wrap my arms around Paul McCartney. The guy is insincere. His comments are always superficial. From John and George you got depth. Ringo is real and I love him. Paul's comments in this documentary are simplistic and devoid of emotion. There were times that his eyes got moist but the guy just doesn't ooze passion. I have seen this time and time again from him.
It confuses me. I know he has written a lot of disappointing songs but he has also written powerfully emotional songs that I sing along to at the top of my lungs. Lots of them.
I want my gods to be passionate. I want them to knock me out with their words, their thoughts, their philosophies. I want them to change my brain and then change it again.
Paul doesn't do this. Never has. I guess he's human. But I cannot accept human in a Beatle.
Ringo breaks down in this documentary talking about his last conversation with George. George was close to death. Ringo had a daughter fighting a brain tumor at the time. Her name is Lee Starkey. Ringo was flying back and forth between Boston (his daughter) and England (George). The last time he saw George, Ringo said "Well I'm off to Boston". George with his great sense of humor said "Do you want me to go with you?" As Ringo was explaining that these were the last words George ever said to him, Ringo broke down and cried. Then in typical Ringo fashion he said "This is like a F***ing Barbara Walters special isn't it?"
Ringo's daughter has survived. She is still around today. Very cool.
Paul did not do that. I never saw him do it over John's death either. I have to accept Paul because he is a Beatle and they meant everything to me. But I accept him with reservations.
Anyway.......... the documentary shows all sides of George, and there were many. Watch it. Now. Don't waste your time with trivial matters. Feed your soul.
His wife Olivia tells a story that I love. They were watching a glorious sunset together. Fiery red sky overwhelmed with beauty. George pointed to it and said "I want to do that." Anybody else says that and you ask "Want to do what?" Olivia said that she understood him and that was a perfect expression of who he was.
Regarding his spiritual quest and commitment, George said he was preparing for death. He said when the time came he wanted to leave his body properly. He wanted to be prepared so he could do it right. Head off into the afterlife armed with the right knowledge and the right attitude.
At the moment of his death, Olivia said the room lit up. She said if you were filming it you would not need artificial lighting.
I believe her.
I believe that George Harrison lit up the room in death in the same way he lit up the world in life.
Boom I watched Part Two on that crappy snow day. Now I have to dedicate myself to watching both parts back to back. Its that good. Four hours of my life tuned in to a man of significance is not too much to ask. Maybe I'll call in sick to work that day.
When I encounter young uns who cannot name all four Beatles, my instinct is to exterminate them immediately. This is unacceptable. John Paul George and Ringo were not just a musical nuclear blast, they were a historical nuclear blast. The Beatles should be a course in every school across the land, right alongside history, math and the proper techniques for efficient contraception and cosmic lovemaking (F*** You, Santorum).
I cannot wrap my arms around Paul McCartney. The guy is insincere. His comments are always superficial. From John and George you got depth. Ringo is real and I love him. Paul's comments in this documentary are simplistic and devoid of emotion. There were times that his eyes got moist but the guy just doesn't ooze passion. I have seen this time and time again from him.
It confuses me. I know he has written a lot of disappointing songs but he has also written powerfully emotional songs that I sing along to at the top of my lungs. Lots of them.
I want my gods to be passionate. I want them to knock me out with their words, their thoughts, their philosophies. I want them to change my brain and then change it again.
Paul doesn't do this. Never has. I guess he's human. But I cannot accept human in a Beatle.
Ringo breaks down in this documentary talking about his last conversation with George. George was close to death. Ringo had a daughter fighting a brain tumor at the time. Her name is Lee Starkey. Ringo was flying back and forth between Boston (his daughter) and England (George). The last time he saw George, Ringo said "Well I'm off to Boston". George with his great sense of humor said "Do you want me to go with you?" As Ringo was explaining that these were the last words George ever said to him, Ringo broke down and cried. Then in typical Ringo fashion he said "This is like a F***ing Barbara Walters special isn't it?"
Ringo's daughter has survived. She is still around today. Very cool.
Paul did not do that. I never saw him do it over John's death either. I have to accept Paul because he is a Beatle and they meant everything to me. But I accept him with reservations.
Anyway.......... the documentary shows all sides of George, and there were many. Watch it. Now. Don't waste your time with trivial matters. Feed your soul.
His wife Olivia tells a story that I love. They were watching a glorious sunset together. Fiery red sky overwhelmed with beauty. George pointed to it and said "I want to do that." Anybody else says that and you ask "Want to do what?" Olivia said that she understood him and that was a perfect expression of who he was.
Regarding his spiritual quest and commitment, George said he was preparing for death. He said when the time came he wanted to leave his body properly. He wanted to be prepared so he could do it right. Head off into the afterlife armed with the right knowledge and the right attitude.
At the moment of his death, Olivia said the room lit up. She said if you were filming it you would not need artificial lighting.
I believe her.
I believe that George Harrison lit up the room in death in the same way he lit up the world in life.
More Words About The Cats
I am continuously amazed at my love for Maka and Lakota. Spiritual beings of the highest order who give me love freely, ask for love easily, make me laugh , make me sigh in contentment, make me observe them in wonder.
I am passionate with these two creatures. I hold them, kiss them, pat them, talk to them. Talk to them a lot.
In moments when my emotions run highest, when I am burning with passion of whatever sort, I bend down and touch my forehead to the top of their head.
Its an act of gratefulness and love from me to them, very intimate. Its my favorite, most intimate expression of the depth of our relationship.
They never back off. Which amazes me, especially with Lakota. She doesn't like to be approached from the front. Whenever I get down to eye level with her and pat her, if I get too close she will back up. Perhaps my scarred, distorted, horrendous face repulses her.
Yet when I do the forehead thing, she doesn't move.
I only hold the position for a few seconds, but it floods me with tenderness.
Carol brought pets into my life. My parents wouldn't allow it. Could be a contributing cause to my stilted emotional and intellectual development. Obviously I have great love for animals. Denying me that outlet for passion in a house where I often felt like an outcast may have wounded me irreparably. Who knows.
Carol wanted pets (grew up with them all her childhood in a much more open and liberal household). I hesitated. One day she just declared "We are getting a dog today" and dragged me and our sons to the SPCA. Came home with Onyx. The most beautiful, loving, sweet, fun, playful dog who ever existed. He pranced into my heart, really opened it up and made me wonder how I ever made it that far without animal spiritual companionship. We had inherited two cats from Carol's brother prior to that but I kept them down in the basement. Allergies. Supposedly.
Finally allowed them up into the house shortly before acquiring Onyx. The whole thing came together beautifully.
So pets have been in my life now for the last 26 years or so. I could never live without them again.
One more thing to thank Carol for.
I am passionate with these two creatures. I hold them, kiss them, pat them, talk to them. Talk to them a lot.
In moments when my emotions run highest, when I am burning with passion of whatever sort, I bend down and touch my forehead to the top of their head.
Its an act of gratefulness and love from me to them, very intimate. Its my favorite, most intimate expression of the depth of our relationship.
They never back off. Which amazes me, especially with Lakota. She doesn't like to be approached from the front. Whenever I get down to eye level with her and pat her, if I get too close she will back up. Perhaps my scarred, distorted, horrendous face repulses her.
Yet when I do the forehead thing, she doesn't move.
I only hold the position for a few seconds, but it floods me with tenderness.
Carol brought pets into my life. My parents wouldn't allow it. Could be a contributing cause to my stilted emotional and intellectual development. Obviously I have great love for animals. Denying me that outlet for passion in a house where I often felt like an outcast may have wounded me irreparably. Who knows.
Carol wanted pets (grew up with them all her childhood in a much more open and liberal household). I hesitated. One day she just declared "We are getting a dog today" and dragged me and our sons to the SPCA. Came home with Onyx. The most beautiful, loving, sweet, fun, playful dog who ever existed. He pranced into my heart, really opened it up and made me wonder how I ever made it that far without animal spiritual companionship. We had inherited two cats from Carol's brother prior to that but I kept them down in the basement. Allergies. Supposedly.
Finally allowed them up into the house shortly before acquiring Onyx. The whole thing came together beautifully.
So pets have been in my life now for the last 26 years or so. I could never live without them again.
One more thing to thank Carol for.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
A 1997 Dodge Pickup
I drive a 1997 Dodge Dakota pickup truck. The vehicle is 15 years old.
Don't get me wrong. I love this truck. It suits me. I am comfortable sitting in the driver's seat. It has an eight foot bed that I absolutely don't need but I like having because it is not normal. I also like that it is a Dakota. Makes me think about John Lennon.
Am I disappointed that after all these years of sweat and blood, the only vehicle I can afford is fifteen years old? You betcha. Tortures my soul. But that's not the truck's fault.
It is strange karma that I love this truck, because I loved the car that preceded it. A 2001 Pontiac Sunfire. Dark Blue. Two door.
A modest car, but I learned to love it because the truth was beginning to settle with me that poverty would be my future. No Mercedes for me. It was the first car we were able to finance after the collapse of our business and our lives. Prior to that I was driving an old Toyota Tercel, ugly, scarred car that leaked exhaust into the interior, manual transmission, that I paid $400 for from a friend of Carol's. So the Sunfire meant something to me.
When I climbed into the driver's seat I felt comfortable there. And the car had a little bit of style.
True story - When I bought the car, when I saw it for the first time, I said to the salesman "Not a bad car for the price. It has a little style." He said "That depends on your definition of style."
I totalled that car. I recommend that everybody total one car in their lifetime for the experience. As long as you don't get hurt. It is a wild ride.
I was driving home on an icy early morning after tending bar at a function. Car began to fishtail going downhill, I couldn't get it back, I went off the road, rolled over and ended up lying on the driver's side. Had to climb up out of the passenger side window. Walked home being only five minutes from my house.
I was determined to get a nice vehicle. Felt I deserved it. Couldn't afford it.
Ended up with the Dakota. Power nothing. Cassette player. No frills whatsoever.
Except the driver's side, side view mirror. This is electronically powered. Is that not bizarre? Crank windows, no heated seats, no CD player, locks that you have to actually manipulate with your fingers, no remote electronic starter, BUT I can adjust my side view mirror with the touch of a finger.
It is my only luxury.
I have learned to live with it. Once again I have settled. I do actually love the truck. It treats me well. Makes me feel like a true New Hampshirite. When I wear a flannel shirt while driving it, I pretend I am a manly, rural, truck driving man.
Then I go home and write a poem about it.
Don't get me wrong. I love this truck. It suits me. I am comfortable sitting in the driver's seat. It has an eight foot bed that I absolutely don't need but I like having because it is not normal. I also like that it is a Dakota. Makes me think about John Lennon.
Am I disappointed that after all these years of sweat and blood, the only vehicle I can afford is fifteen years old? You betcha. Tortures my soul. But that's not the truck's fault.
It is strange karma that I love this truck, because I loved the car that preceded it. A 2001 Pontiac Sunfire. Dark Blue. Two door.
A modest car, but I learned to love it because the truth was beginning to settle with me that poverty would be my future. No Mercedes for me. It was the first car we were able to finance after the collapse of our business and our lives. Prior to that I was driving an old Toyota Tercel, ugly, scarred car that leaked exhaust into the interior, manual transmission, that I paid $400 for from a friend of Carol's. So the Sunfire meant something to me.
When I climbed into the driver's seat I felt comfortable there. And the car had a little bit of style.
True story - When I bought the car, when I saw it for the first time, I said to the salesman "Not a bad car for the price. It has a little style." He said "That depends on your definition of style."
I totalled that car. I recommend that everybody total one car in their lifetime for the experience. As long as you don't get hurt. It is a wild ride.
I was driving home on an icy early morning after tending bar at a function. Car began to fishtail going downhill, I couldn't get it back, I went off the road, rolled over and ended up lying on the driver's side. Had to climb up out of the passenger side window. Walked home being only five minutes from my house.
I was determined to get a nice vehicle. Felt I deserved it. Couldn't afford it.
Ended up with the Dakota. Power nothing. Cassette player. No frills whatsoever.
Except the driver's side, side view mirror. This is electronically powered. Is that not bizarre? Crank windows, no heated seats, no CD player, locks that you have to actually manipulate with your fingers, no remote electronic starter, BUT I can adjust my side view mirror with the touch of a finger.
It is my only luxury.
I have learned to live with it. Once again I have settled. I do actually love the truck. It treats me well. Makes me feel like a true New Hampshirite. When I wear a flannel shirt while driving it, I pretend I am a manly, rural, truck driving man.
Then I go home and write a poem about it.
Consistency
As an accountant I learned to despise the word consistency. Consistency rules accounting. All month end entries had to be consistent. Consistency makes information analyzable. At quarterly and year end closings, if an odd entry came up and there was uncertainty about how to reflect it, the first question was "How did we do this in the past? We have to be consistent."
Drove me crazy.
I am an artiste. A creative individual. I deviate from the norm. I think differently from you. You do not understand me. Consistency bores me. Consistency is death.
However, that being said, I have achieved a kind of consistency in my life that I am strangely proud of. Failing at New Hampshire State Liquor Commission interviews.
I am 0 for 3 on interviews that I have actually participated in, 0 for 5 if you include two jobs I applied for that vanished into thin air. I just went 0 for 2 in three weeks. That has to be some kind of record.
The first interview I experienced was a mockterview. My workmates encouraged me to apply for a job I was not qualified for, just to experience the NHSLC interview process. Seemed like weird advice to me but in hind sight it was good advice. Because the process is truly bizarre. You have to get that first one under your belt so you can be prepared to try to ignore the intimidation during the real deal.
I then applied for two jobs simultaneously. Heard nothing for a long time until I got a corporate letter in the mail talking about job pool this and job pool that. The jobs were filled without allowing me an opportunity to compete.
Then the interview on 02/07. Shot down. The interview on 02/21. Shot down.
Might be another one in the pipeline. Should be. I applied for it, for what its worth.
But communication does not exist within the hallowed organization of the NHSLC. When the HR Maven called to schedule the 02/21 interview, I had not been informed about a decision on the 02/07 interview. She called later that day with the "and, oh yeah, by the way....." Yesterday when she shot me down she said nothing about an upcoming interview. Professionalism and respect would suggest that it should have been mentioned.
Tells you everything you want to know abut this organization that employs me.
The Grand Inquisitor has a set speech he performs before every interview. I know this because I heard the exact same words two times in three weeks.
His final comments before the interrogation begins are "so sit down, get comfortable and don't be nervous."
I have it on good authority that these exact words were spoken by Charles Manson just before slaughtering the LaBiancas and writing "Death To Pigs" in blood on the walls.
The NHSLC wants to write "Death To Joe Testa" in my own blood on the wall of The Grand Inquisitor's office. I figured that out. I am figuring a lot of things out.
Their plan is to wear me down with scores of meaningless interviews until I am so weak that I crawl into the final one on my hands and knees. That's when the knives will come out and with it the true nature of Those Who Pretend To Employ Me.
But I won't let that happen. I have a surprise for them. I am doing research. That's all I'm going to say.
The true irony here is that, when I got laid off from accounting in 2005, I became a bartender with the intention of never being puppet-tized by corporate america again. Here I am six years later, fighting to get back into what is probably the worst corporate environment I have ever experienced. An environment characterized by intimidation, condescension, inefficiency, and outright, undisguised lack of respect for employees.
Michael Corleone: "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."
Joe Testa: "Ditto."
I am starting to figure things out through the pain and disappointment that has been 2012. Every decision I have made is the wrong one. Every outcome that I seek is being sabotaged by a vicious karma that is trying to set me straight before I am eternally laid out straight.
I have no choice but to continue to pursue full time employment through my benevolent employers. The Mortgage Vampire is drooling outside the picture window.
But I better pay attention to The Voice inside my head that is screaming "Watch out, buddy. These are the wrong people. They will use your blood to make writing implements of their knives. Find an alternative."
After all the bullshit, I am still searching for my soul.
Drove me crazy.
I am an artiste. A creative individual. I deviate from the norm. I think differently from you. You do not understand me. Consistency bores me. Consistency is death.
However, that being said, I have achieved a kind of consistency in my life that I am strangely proud of. Failing at New Hampshire State Liquor Commission interviews.
I am 0 for 3 on interviews that I have actually participated in, 0 for 5 if you include two jobs I applied for that vanished into thin air. I just went 0 for 2 in three weeks. That has to be some kind of record.
The first interview I experienced was a mockterview. My workmates encouraged me to apply for a job I was not qualified for, just to experience the NHSLC interview process. Seemed like weird advice to me but in hind sight it was good advice. Because the process is truly bizarre. You have to get that first one under your belt so you can be prepared to try to ignore the intimidation during the real deal.
I then applied for two jobs simultaneously. Heard nothing for a long time until I got a corporate letter in the mail talking about job pool this and job pool that. The jobs were filled without allowing me an opportunity to compete.
Then the interview on 02/07. Shot down. The interview on 02/21. Shot down.
Might be another one in the pipeline. Should be. I applied for it, for what its worth.
But communication does not exist within the hallowed organization of the NHSLC. When the HR Maven called to schedule the 02/21 interview, I had not been informed about a decision on the 02/07 interview. She called later that day with the "and, oh yeah, by the way....." Yesterday when she shot me down she said nothing about an upcoming interview. Professionalism and respect would suggest that it should have been mentioned.
Tells you everything you want to know abut this organization that employs me.
The Grand Inquisitor has a set speech he performs before every interview. I know this because I heard the exact same words two times in three weeks.
His final comments before the interrogation begins are "so sit down, get comfortable and don't be nervous."
I have it on good authority that these exact words were spoken by Charles Manson just before slaughtering the LaBiancas and writing "Death To Pigs" in blood on the walls.
The NHSLC wants to write "Death To Joe Testa" in my own blood on the wall of The Grand Inquisitor's office. I figured that out. I am figuring a lot of things out.
Their plan is to wear me down with scores of meaningless interviews until I am so weak that I crawl into the final one on my hands and knees. That's when the knives will come out and with it the true nature of Those Who Pretend To Employ Me.
But I won't let that happen. I have a surprise for them. I am doing research. That's all I'm going to say.
The true irony here is that, when I got laid off from accounting in 2005, I became a bartender with the intention of never being puppet-tized by corporate america again. Here I am six years later, fighting to get back into what is probably the worst corporate environment I have ever experienced. An environment characterized by intimidation, condescension, inefficiency, and outright, undisguised lack of respect for employees.
Michael Corleone: "Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in."
Joe Testa: "Ditto."
I am starting to figure things out through the pain and disappointment that has been 2012. Every decision I have made is the wrong one. Every outcome that I seek is being sabotaged by a vicious karma that is trying to set me straight before I am eternally laid out straight.
I have no choice but to continue to pursue full time employment through my benevolent employers. The Mortgage Vampire is drooling outside the picture window.
But I better pay attention to The Voice inside my head that is screaming "Watch out, buddy. These are the wrong people. They will use your blood to make writing implements of their knives. Find an alternative."
After all the bullshit, I am still searching for my soul.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Dear Mr. Gacy
Watched a movie called Dear Mr. Gacy last night.
Very appropriate movie to watch on a dark, cold, snowy February 29.
Story about Jason Moss, a kid who at the age of 19 wrote letters to John Wayne Gacy in prison and ultimately befriended him to do research for a paper he was writing for a college course. Moss told Gacy whatever he wanted to hear that would appeal to Gacy's perversions. The thing became an obsession and led Moss to a very dark place. How delicious.
Turns out Moss did the same thing with Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson, telling each of them whatever appealed to their particular perversions in order to win them over.
The guy actually corresponded with these freaks and met Gacy face to face in prison. Not sure if he met the other killer dudes.
Moss went on to write a book about these experiences upon which the movie was based. He became a criminal defense attorney in Las Vegas. He also committed suicide in 2006 by shooting himself in the head. Fascinating turn of events.
I dig serial killers. The psychology of the whole thing fascinates me.
Years ago I was rummaging around the serial killer section in Borders. I am more embarrassed to admit I was in Borders than to admit I was rubbing elbows with murderous psychos. I planned to read a bunch of these books to get a feel for this unfathomable level of evil. Never followed through.
My interest has been reignited. Just added a bunch of serial killer books to my wish list on Amazon. That should provide an interesting twist to my Amazon profile.
You are your mind. Your body is just a vessel; fat, skinny, healthy, diseased, pretty or ugly. Your body's job is to carry your mind around. I am not talking about your brain, I'm going beyond that. Your mind is who you are. It is that voice. It is that twisted collection of neuroses, fears, lies and truths, strengths and weaknesses, honesty and self delusion that keeps you spinning around.
How does a mind decide that it would be really cool to rape, torture and kill 33 young men and boys and bury most of them in the crawl space of your house?. Number one in production in the serial killer world. He did this over a seven year period, which is a pretty ambitious work schedule. This is the same mind that felt comfortable dressing up as a clown to entertain young children at public events.
Gacy did not have a pleasant child hood. Neither did Charles Bukowski. Bukowski wrote poetry. Gacy raped and killed men and boys.
What kind of mind can ignore screams, begging, pain filled shrieks and helpless surrender; kill, and then go out and pick up a half gallon of H.P. Hood Butter Pecan ice cream?
The mind was a sharp one. Intelligent and capable of presenting an entirely different persona to friends, workmates and acquaintances. Yet when indulging in his hobby he was vicious, brutal, taunting and coldly cruel.
You see this a lot in serial killers. I'm convinced intelligence is more of a factor than insanity with these guys. Some strange mutated form of intelligence and rationalization.
Think about it. It's tough enough maintaining a "normal" life. Work, family, obligations, schedules, deadlines. Imagine doing that while secretly killing a whole bunch of people. Talk about multi tasking.
What is the meaning of Moss's suicide? Did all the horror he rubbed up against eventually overwhelm his mind's ability to deal with it? Seeping in, slowly marinating and mutating in a mind that was not as strong as his subjects. Eventually destroying him. Ironically he titled his book The Last Victim, which eventually turned out to be true.
A few of Gacy's victims were found in a river near his home. Gacy told police that he started disposing of bodies in the river because he was running out of room in his crawl space and because all of the digging was bothering his chronic back problem. I imagine him explaining this in the same tone of voice you and I would use to explain our decision to switch from Comcast to Direct TV.
I dug the movie and I will soon be diving into my wish list. With relish. I think this research, this reading, the knowledge and understanding I will achieve will be most helpful to me in my drive to improve my life. Especially so in my involvement in and reaction to the never ending job interviewing process.
I will also be looking at friends and acquaintances from a new perspective. Especially if I detect a strange odor in their house.
Come to think of it, my own home occasionally emanates offensive smells. I typically attribute this to an overdue trip to the dump.
I think I'll sleep downstairs tonight.
Very appropriate movie to watch on a dark, cold, snowy February 29.
Story about Jason Moss, a kid who at the age of 19 wrote letters to John Wayne Gacy in prison and ultimately befriended him to do research for a paper he was writing for a college course. Moss told Gacy whatever he wanted to hear that would appeal to Gacy's perversions. The thing became an obsession and led Moss to a very dark place. How delicious.
Turns out Moss did the same thing with Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez and Charles Manson, telling each of them whatever appealed to their particular perversions in order to win them over.
The guy actually corresponded with these freaks and met Gacy face to face in prison. Not sure if he met the other killer dudes.
Moss went on to write a book about these experiences upon which the movie was based. He became a criminal defense attorney in Las Vegas. He also committed suicide in 2006 by shooting himself in the head. Fascinating turn of events.
I dig serial killers. The psychology of the whole thing fascinates me.
Years ago I was rummaging around the serial killer section in Borders. I am more embarrassed to admit I was in Borders than to admit I was rubbing elbows with murderous psychos. I planned to read a bunch of these books to get a feel for this unfathomable level of evil. Never followed through.
My interest has been reignited. Just added a bunch of serial killer books to my wish list on Amazon. That should provide an interesting twist to my Amazon profile.
You are your mind. Your body is just a vessel; fat, skinny, healthy, diseased, pretty or ugly. Your body's job is to carry your mind around. I am not talking about your brain, I'm going beyond that. Your mind is who you are. It is that voice. It is that twisted collection of neuroses, fears, lies and truths, strengths and weaknesses, honesty and self delusion that keeps you spinning around.
How does a mind decide that it would be really cool to rape, torture and kill 33 young men and boys and bury most of them in the crawl space of your house?. Number one in production in the serial killer world. He did this over a seven year period, which is a pretty ambitious work schedule. This is the same mind that felt comfortable dressing up as a clown to entertain young children at public events.
Gacy did not have a pleasant child hood. Neither did Charles Bukowski. Bukowski wrote poetry. Gacy raped and killed men and boys.
What kind of mind can ignore screams, begging, pain filled shrieks and helpless surrender; kill, and then go out and pick up a half gallon of H.P. Hood Butter Pecan ice cream?
The mind was a sharp one. Intelligent and capable of presenting an entirely different persona to friends, workmates and acquaintances. Yet when indulging in his hobby he was vicious, brutal, taunting and coldly cruel.
You see this a lot in serial killers. I'm convinced intelligence is more of a factor than insanity with these guys. Some strange mutated form of intelligence and rationalization.
Think about it. It's tough enough maintaining a "normal" life. Work, family, obligations, schedules, deadlines. Imagine doing that while secretly killing a whole bunch of people. Talk about multi tasking.
What is the meaning of Moss's suicide? Did all the horror he rubbed up against eventually overwhelm his mind's ability to deal with it? Seeping in, slowly marinating and mutating in a mind that was not as strong as his subjects. Eventually destroying him. Ironically he titled his book The Last Victim, which eventually turned out to be true.
A few of Gacy's victims were found in a river near his home. Gacy told police that he started disposing of bodies in the river because he was running out of room in his crawl space and because all of the digging was bothering his chronic back problem. I imagine him explaining this in the same tone of voice you and I would use to explain our decision to switch from Comcast to Direct TV.
I dug the movie and I will soon be diving into my wish list. With relish. I think this research, this reading, the knowledge and understanding I will achieve will be most helpful to me in my drive to improve my life. Especially so in my involvement in and reaction to the never ending job interviewing process.
I will also be looking at friends and acquaintances from a new perspective. Especially if I detect a strange odor in their house.
Come to think of it, my own home occasionally emanates offensive smells. I typically attribute this to an overdue trip to the dump.
I think I'll sleep downstairs tonight.
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