Kires

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Tue, 17 Aug 2004 00:25:18 GMT

I am not a self-starter. I can do anything at all that needs doing, but not a whole hell of a lot unless it NEEDS doing. Really. It's frustrating as hell, sometimes. I can move heaven and earth if there's a good reason, like a friend wants them moved. But I often forget to eat until someone reminds me. Getting my lazy ass out of bed takes an act of congress, and cleaning up the house.... you're kidding, right? This is an issue, I think, that ought to be addressed, but I'll be damned if I know how. Actually, I have gotten better at it, but progress is VERY slow, and I'm getting impatient. Anybody else grock this condition, and/or know of any ways to handle it in something like a short time?

Tired.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Fri, 13 Aug 2004 09:59:40 GMT

I'm tired of waiting; tired of playing it safe, and most of all, I'm tired of being the person I'm expected to be.
Fuck that.
Fuck what's "appropriate".
Fuck what's "practical".
Fuck what's "safe".
Above all,
Fuck what's "normal".

Income taxes, divorce, and death are the normalcy of this day and age, and those things all suck. Happiness, Love, and acceptance are rare things indeed. Apparently, normalcy leaves much to be desired. Since normalcy sucks so bad, I think I'll forsake it.

This body is mine. (all of it)
This time is mine. (all of it)
In other words, this life is mine. (all of it)

I'm not waiting any longer. There is only one course of action that makes any sense to me, and this is it:
I will make my heaven in this world, even should that making burn all my years, and leave me only moments; I will make my heaven in this world.
Perhaps I'm a fool.
Perhaps I'll fail.
Perhaps I'll make a fool of myself in so failing.
Perhaps I don't give a fuck.

Someday, I will die. I accept that, and all the mysteries therein concealed.
But on the day I die, I'll be damned if I look back on my life and recall what might have been if I'd only had the courage of my convictions. There's a reason they say cowards die a thousand deaths. - It's because they fucking deserve to.

I am fully aware that I could be wrong, that I might fail, that I might "bite off more than I can chew", and so not overcome all that stands in my way and make my heaven here. But I know this: If I should fall; if I should prove unworthy of all that which I desire, it will not be because I held back. It will not be because I gave up. It will not be because I yielded to pain.

Nothing can stop me. Only that. And since I don't see it here, I think it's time to kick this pig.

Thoughts....

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 09:52:30 GMT

Been thinking again...

The fact that one exists is one of the most basic of all concepts. If there is anything that can be taken for granted, that is it. Just the fact that you're wondering means that you're here to wonder, right? Questioning one's own existence has got to be the silliest thing since helmets on skydivers. So why am I questioning it, then? I know it's silly, but I'm not sure of my own existence, or why that uncertainty bothers me. Hell, I'm not even sure if I should bother thinking along this vein. ... but I know damn well that I will, so I guess I might as well do it right, eh?

To be continued, I think ...

Angels

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 11 Aug 2004 09:47:16 GMT

I hate angels. They're cold, unfeeling, and otherwise soulless. Fucking machines, the whole lot of them. Never evolving, never growing, never seeking to improve themselves or anyone else. They're monsters, and would deserve to be wiped out, if anything so empty and meaningless could deserve anything at all. Predictable to a fault, even the bad ones. They're puppets, only seeming real when they're in motion. The rest of the time, they might as well not exist. They're the pinnacle of falsehood, the soulless fucks. What good is perfection if you've got no means to appreciate it?

Hrmmm ...

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Fri, 06 Aug 2004 10:59:26 GMT

Just got in from Respect's... And I found a barstool in the bed of my truck... It slooks like one of the barstools from Respect's, but I have no idea what it's doing in the back of my truck. Either someone's having a joke on me, or I somehow procured it from Respect's last night... interesting.

Not ... dead .... yet

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Sun, 01 Aug 2004 23:00:27 GMT

As I've decided to go insane for a few weeks, this seems the appropriate place to do so. WHeeeeEEEEeeeeEEEEE!!!

selling out

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 16 Apr 2003 04:28:49 GMT

I hate to do it, but I've gone over to livejournal. nothing against this one, squeak. I do like this journal, but i've been beaten into submission by spring.

the url of my new journal is:
http://livejournal.com/users/kires

No good deed goes unpunished.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Mon, 03 Mar 2003 09:43:34 GMT

I've got a few friends in other departments here at Vertigo. But only one department is discussed here. When someone in my department stumbles across some issue that is handled by one of the fellas in that department, we tell then about it with an escalated case. It's all neat, pretty, official, and slow. Because I've got a friend or 2 in there, I usually give 'em a call, or send them a message just as a heads-up while the regular escalation is on the way. True, it's not SOP. It's off the record, unofficial, and (gasp) effective. At least I thought so. Turns out that one goody-goody bitch had to go cry to my supervisor 'cause I gave him a call instead of taking 5 minutes to send him a case. I just felt like being cool, and letting him get a head start on it, 'cause it'd been down for like 5 minutes already, and they get in trouble if they don't report something down fast enough. So I picked up the phone and said "Hey, you might wanna check out such-and-such, cause it's acting like it's sick". I was meaning to talk to my friend in there, but I figured since this guy answered, I'd hand off the info to him. He said thanks, and that was that. (No, that wasn't that). The issue fixed itself, or he fixed it, before I finished the case, so I dropped it.

The self-riteous prick then got on the phone, and called up my supervisor, crying that I wasn't following SOP's. Guess I interrupted his MUD'ing or something. So naturally, the powers that be remind me ever-so-gently that procedures must be followed, even when they interfere with getting the problem fixed. Fine. Whatever. Fuck 'em. I'm all done trying to get the job done. From now on, I'm gonna follow their little rules, and let the goals those rules are supposed to support fall away.

Here's a motto for you: "Fuck the customer. Fuck operations." Just follow the rules and take home your paycheck. Try not to give a damn about getting the job done, or you'll burn out.

The sleeping dragon in my Nissan

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Feb 2003 09:44:05 GMT

I think it's time to finally build my own little theft-deterrant device to guard my car. See, it got broken into again and I'm tired of replacing windows and speakers. I'm not a vindictive person. In fact, I'm a very gentle person by nature, and I have no problem turning the other cheek. However, I've only got 2 cheeks, and now that they're both bruised, it's time to hurt somebody. That's where the "Sleeping Dragon" comes in. It's not a car alarm, per se. It's more like an instant karmic balancing device. First off, car alarms make noise. The SD makes very little noise, just a low hissing, in fact. Car alarms use sirens and flashing lights to get attention and deter the thief. The SD uses tear gas to deter the thief, and to hell with getting anyone's attention.

It's quite simple and elegant, really. Nothing more than pressure switches in the seats, wired to a regular 'ole solenoid mounted on a cannister of ouchee-spray, aka tear gas. When the safety is off and the SD is armed, any weight in the seats will close a switch, which will in turn activate the solenoid, which will fill the car with tear gas. So when our friendly neighborhood thief gets into my car seeking to get something from it, like the stereo or the speakers, there will be a hissing noise from the car, followed by a screaming noise from the thief. At that point, I'm pretty sure the only thing he'll want to "get" will be "away".

How to handle pcycho chicks that stalk you at night clubs.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Sun, 16 Feb 2003 12:35:07 GMT

The short answer:
Sit down next to her and introduce yourself in a loud and happy voice, then poke her in the arm saying in the style of a 3-yr-old, "Hey! what's your name? ::poke poke:: Why do you keep following me around? ::poke poke:: Huh? ::poke:: Hey, lady! Can you hear me? Heeeeloooooo! ::poke poke:: I thought you wanted to talk to me. ::poke poke:: Gee whiz, lady, you're rude! (as she _finally_ gets embarrassed and leaves.) Hrmph!

The long answer is that a few months ago, this chick approached me on the dance floor, and started lightly kicking me in the shins. WTF!? I didn't know her from Adam's cat, and she starts kicking me? So I moved away. Then this bitch (she graduated from "chick" to "bitch" here) follows me, and starts doing it again. So I ask politely (ok, not politely), "What!". She just grins at me, and walks off. Since then, she's been stalking me at Reject's. When ever I go out back, she's never been more than 45 seconds behind me. Grinning at me like a fucking Cheshire cat. That is, until I make a show of pointing her out to whomever I'm talking to. Then she goes away. Inside, it's not as bad, but I still turn around to find her within like 5-10 feet of me at least 4 or 5 times a night. And always with that grin that just begs to be knocked down her throat. So I finally got tired of it, and called her bluff.
I guess she didn't have anything to say, after all. :-)

New Home, and how I could be spending more time there soon.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Mon, 10 Feb 2003 11:29:07 GMT

The move is done and done, finally. The mortgage is finally closed, Tynin has stopped chewing off his own ears, and we're all happily ensconced in our new house. The fridge is stocked, and the cupboards are full. My room is insulated against the light of day, and according to our friends at dslreports.com, we're cherry for DSL access at our new digs. As far as home life goes, all is well and well.

Work, however, is a horse of a different color. A horse thats looking me with love in it's eye, right about now. See, I made a typo in a canned response, and as a result, I could be cast out from my cubicle in disgrace. lol. As it should be. It was a one-character typo, but the consequences could be far-reaching, as this canned response was sent to over 300 clients. It should be noted, that 299 of them didn't bat an eye, but one did, and that goody-goody felt that it was his civic duty to contact the maligned, and report the mislaying of blame. See, I said "mysql" where I should have said "mssql", and now Mr. MySql himself is irate that Vertigo is blaming him for the shagging of the internet which took place a few days ago. ::sigh::

Personally, I don't think that a one-character typo is just cause to can someone, but hey, maybe that's why I'll never be management. All I hope is that should I get cock-slapped into the unemployment line by HR, that I have some warning. Just one shift with our clients, knowing that I'm not coming back. Just one night on the phones, with nothing to lose. That's all I want. That's not a lot to ask, is it?

Priorities

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 22 Jan 2003 17:46:41 GMT

Well, I burned up a sick day this past Sunday night, out getting burned, scratched, frozen and drunk. All in all, the night was much better spent than it would have been contributing to Vertigo's SLAs for technical support. I had something a lot more important to do than technical support. I had a party to attend. Not just any party, either.

When I was growing up in the middle of nowhere, aka Clewiston, FL, the only thing to do for recreation was to head out to the middle of the everglades, build a bonfire, and get schnockerd. Then we'd do the things that schnockerd teenagers do in the middle of the woods. We'd play war games, armed with paintball guns, flaming oranges wrapped in kerosene-soaked rags, and the sticks. We went skiing, which basically meant wearing off the bottoms of our boots and shoes (and occasionally pants) hanging on to the back bumper of a car, being dragged along one of the dirt roads. Sometime's a game warden or sheriff's deputy would come out and "bust" us, but I don't recall them ever making us go home. They'd just tell us to keep it down, and then "confiscate" our booze. Sometimes they were cool and left us some. As we got older, the trips out to cannon hammock got fewer and further between, and they nearly stopped when we all graduated and moved on to bigger better things, and were too grown-up to go get drunk on cheap booze in the middle of nowhere, around a bonfire. I got married and moved to Minnesota (no, I don't know what the hell I was thinking.) Eric went on to do far too many cool things to be listed here. Kevin went to college, becoming a teacher. Ed became a PI, I became well ... a geek. There's other people, and other stories, but no one of those stories are my point, which I'll get to, promise. What matters is that our little group remained friends, although we fell out of touch for years at a time.

Then we started to die off. First Ard, who no-one really liked, went out like a hero, and surprised us all. When a power line fell on his cousin during the cleanup of Hurricane Andrew, he pulled if off without hesitation. Yeah, he was the one we just "let" tag along, but still... Then Eric went, a motorcycle accident on a rainy night. Fitting, if you knew him. It was a shock, but I don't really think that anyone expected Eric to live too long, least of all him. He had too much fun, and burned too bright to last long, you know? Eric's death taught us what Ard's should have, that we weren't immortal after all. So we started getting together again, in the middle of the woods, once a year, after Christmas with trees to burn and stories to tell. Wives have come and gone for some of us, jobs and homes likewise. But every year we get together, those of us that are in the state at the time, anyway. We're not old, but we've lost a few, and chance is sure to take more, sooner or later. Next year, I might be dead, run over by a drunk, or hit by lightning, or Kevin, or Stoker, or Dave, or Ed, or any of us. This world isn't getting any safer.

So it's important to me to see my friends when I can, because I know that it's not unlikely that one or more of them won't be able to make it next year, due to being dead. Let's say for instance that (god forbid) something happens to one of them, and I hadn't gone out there that night. Then I'd get to spend the rest of my life remembering that the last chance I had to see so-and-so, I decided that it was more important to go in to my job, ensuring the SLA of some big faceless foreign-owned corporation. heh, riiiight. I don't fucking think so.

This is the move that doesn't end. It just goes on and ...

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Fri, 17 Jan 2003 17:02:45 GMT

The move continues. It's 10:30 A-fucking-M, I'm awake, hung over, tweaking all to hell, and the brakes on the Truck are grinding like cheap coffee beans. I tell you what, there's really nothing like moving 3 households of stuff out of a 2nd-floor apt in the middle of the day when you're hung over and tweaking like Beevis, still exhausted from the previous night's revelry, and wondering exactly when the brakes are going to give out. Good times! Good times. Fun Fact: Did you know that Das Ich is pronounced Das-each! for some damned reason. Don't those Germans know how to speak English?

The new house is tres cool, pre-wired with redundant (that means 2 lines per room, for all the illiterate folks reading this) cat5e lines to all the bedrooms, which meet up in a A/C'd server closet! (the cat-5, not the bedrooms) Even the internal phone lines are done in 5e, just because it's inherently cooler than rj-14 or whatever the hell regular 'ole phone line is called. We moved some schtuff in a few days ago, after breaking in to the new place with a push-knife. Truly an omen if ever there was one; should I be afraid? As it should be. The house has electric and water, but no phone service yet 'cause the oh-so-cool cat-5e phone lines are just hanging out the side of the house all sad and lonely, instead of being nicely nestled into cozy new BellSouth j-box.

OK, time to get back to work.
...
But first, the whores!

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Tue, 24 Dec 2002 05:20:20 GMT

Well, I finally went to the Coral Castle this past Saturday. It is easily one of the coolest things ever done by one of us humans. One tiny little (five-foot-nothing and a hundred lbs.) guy built the place, with only hand tools and no help. That means he quarried the stone in blocks of 2-30 tons each, carved them, moved them, and set them in place, all by himself. What he built will stand as long as there is ground beneath it. There have been some repairs made, and it's obvious to me, anyway, that the people that made the repairs do not have the skill of 'ole Ed. You've got to have one hell of a lot of skill to make a stone rocking chair that weighs a couple 'a tons, and works just as smoothly as any grandma could hope for. Not to mention the stone lazy-boy that damned near put me to sleep. My compatriot that day accused me of going to sleep, but I maintain that I was just really relaxed. :~) At least until she started kicking me ...

There's a gate there that weighs nine tons. It works just like any other revolving door, and just as easily. The bearings he used in it's construction worked for 60 years with no lubrication. When they finally gave out, it took six guys and a crane to repair what this one man had built. Now _that's_ cool.
And the cherry on the sundae is that he did it all because some chick dumped him.
Oh by the way, the place has a website.
www.coralcastle.com

Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 18 Dec 2002 07:47:51 GMT

Ya know, I think whoever said that just may have had a point there ... lol That's all for now. Film at 11.

Goddamn seatbelts.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Sun, 08 Dec 2002 12:23:13 GMT

Yesterday, on the way to Ft Meyers, I passed a semi truck. When I passed him, I found that the reason he was going so slow was that there was a small, white car with govt tags directly in front of him, maintaining the posted speed. The fucker! So, having plenty of room, I passed him, too. A few seconds later I checked my rearview mirror, and saw the little whit car, as expected. However, it was about five feet above the road and upside-down, as was not expected. It rolled and tumbled a few times, and came to rest right-side up off the side of the road, pretty folded. So, I did the only thing I could think of to do. I cussed. Then I turned the truck around, and told the passengers to call 911 and find bandage material, then I cussed some more. They did, we got there, and the guy that was in the car was walking around, looking confused and repeating like a mantra that he didn't have any idea what had made him flip. He would have been pretty funny-looking, if not for the amount of blood coming from his head. The truck driver was telling him to sit down, and I joined in the chant. After a few seconds of this, we got him to sit down, and waited for the ambulance. He was taken away, and seemed to be ok. The end result of this is that I've got a new habit.

Look, this guy was in a car that rolled 3 or 4 times, longways _and_ sideways, and was apparently more embarrassed than hurt. From the looks of the car, there were forces at work that would have dearly loved to turn him into a chunky-style paste. Yeah, I've seen wrecks and haven't worn a seat belt. But seeing in person what a seatbelt can do when you car goes ass-over-teakettle... Well, let's just say that I've decided to start strapping my happy ass in to the seat.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Thu, 05 Dec 2002 07:40:42 GMT

Ok. Leslie's back in Jacksonville, I'm back in my own little hovel, and all is well. I guess stuffing 3 and a half people into my single passenger cave wasn't quite abrupt enough, so Leslie came to visit for a few days when Tynin & co. arrived, bringing the total mammal count to 5. Good times! Good times. A swell time was had by all, but the swelling went down, and life's back to normal.

Heh, he said "normal" ... heh.

Tynin and Lilith hung sheets from the ceiling to make their own little space, and if the cat can be convinced that the sheets are not emissaries of the DEVIL!! and must therefore be destroyed, their privacy will be assured.

Tomorrow, I'm scheduled to attempt the resurrection of a pickup truck that Tynin tried to burn. Should be fun. Note to self: Get good and high before the excavation of the charred innards.

In other news, that bitch of a muse has started pestering me again, so there may be another story in the works. It's a pretty fucked-up creation myth, involving a naive God, an innocent Satan, and a simple misunderstanding resulting in their mutual destruction and bringing about the world as we know it. It could be pretty cool if I don't fuck it up too badly.

At least I'm not bored...

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Thu, 28 Nov 2002 07:51:54 GMT

Well, Thanksgiving is rapidly approa... fuck!
::sigh::
Luckily, there's still plenty of time before Christmas, so I don't have to rush to get gifts or anything ...
Can you say "foreshadowing", boys and girls?

Well, the whole speed issue's done and done. Basically, it was just a matter of severely curtailing my usage, to let my tolerance rebuild. After a few weeks of that and getting some food and actual sleep all was well and well. I'm glad that I was over-reacting, and suffered nothing worse than semi-public embarrassment over it, lol.

In other news, my home life is about to get interesting again. In preparation for my move into a nice big house with a friend of mine and his wife, that friend and said wife are coming to live with me. Oh joy! I live in an efficiency apt. with one big? room, a sorta-kinda kitchen, and a bathroom. It's perfect for a solitary troll like myself. Perfect!

Due to some financial and legal details that combine like power rangers to form "super suck-o-tron" they have to leave their soon-to-be-former place of residence about a month before the promised land of the 30yr mortgage opens for them. The cherry on the sundae is that there is no other place for them to stay, so being the sadistic bastard that I am, I offered my humble abode to them. The fools accepted! They have already begun the invasion, their computers and the table resting on my carpet like highway barriers scattered by a drunken road crew. In a few days, they will return in force, bringing the rest of their stuff, themselves and, in the part of that proverbial straw, their cat.

Any of us yet living when the house is finished will then move in and seek counseling. The new house is pretty cool, as it was built with input from us geeks. It's got a really large closet with plenty of power and it's own AC and redundant cat-5e running right along with the coax and phone lines.

I will live there, provided that I survive four weeks in an efficiency apt the size of a fridge box with a married couple and their cat.

I'll probably just flip a fucking coin.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Fri, 08 Nov 2002 11:32:09 GMT

A decision is called for, but the situation is rife with consequence and contradiction. Perfect! As it should be. I'd hate to be bored, or have some important choice be easy. That would take all the fun right out of it!
But anyway, onward to the point.
I've been taking Dexedrine for about 8 or nine years now. So far, it's held my head together for the most part, but lately, it's lost it's "oomph". My short term memory and attention to matters practical and repetitive is waning quickly, even with a "slightly" increased dosage. I think I've developed a pretty hard-core tolerance to it and stimulants in general. The most obvious clue came tonight, while I was flopping around like an idiot on Respect's dance floor. It was nearly closing time, and I yawned. For most people, there would be nothing odd in that. After all, being a wee bit piqued at 3 AM is socially acceptable and all. What lent significance and dire portent to this oxegen-gathering reflex was the fact that about 3 hours prior, I'd taken a day's worth of Dexedrine, a $75 kiss from tina, and washed them down with a bottle of Bawls, the "adult" version of Jolt cola. That belly-burner should have sent me ricocheting off the walls like some ill-conceived cartoon character, but there I was, in the customary stretch of one all set for a nap.

In police work, they call that a clue.

I'd be cooler to report that the message came as some great flash of insight, or in some hallucinated ultimatum from on high, but nothing so interesting happened. I just yawned, and realized that I was a trifle sleepy. A few seconds later I put 2 and 2 together, and came up with what I hope is 4, that it's time to lay off the speed. Seems simple and straightforward, don't it? Unfortunatley, there's the addiction factor to consider. Taking the same class 2 drug for just shy of a decade is bound to get a good jones going. Next, there's this whole depression thing to consider. Could that have had a hand in subduing the speed's effect? Also, is the midst of a depression really the best time to kick a habit like that? Lastly, there's my job to think of. It's very detail oriented, and I'm not. My brain goes, "Does it work now? Good. Then it's done. Next!" Unfortunately, there's a whole slew of nits to be picked, like remembering the thousand and one SOPs to be followed. Say the caller's name twice. Thank them for calling. Don't make that "Thank you" sound like "Choke on a fat cock and die". Tell them the truth, but don't make the company look bad. (catch-22, anyone?) Remember which company you're working for on that call, etcetera, etcetera, et nauseam. While I don't need the uppers for the actual resolution of the issues (read: Fucking problems), I'm afraid that I'm none too good at the minutiae unless I'm backed by a couple orange triangles. When I started this gig 3 years ago, this was not a big deal, but times have changed. Then, it mattered that you got the job done, and it works now. Now, it maters that you get the job done by the "proper" means, and fuck the end result. Care to guess which one of those will get really fucking hard if resign my post as one of Dexie's Midnight Runners? I'll give you a hint: it's the one my corporate masters care the most about. But on the another hand, perhaps the dexies are responsible, at least in part, for this depression, which arrived in the same parcel as this tolerance to chemicals invigorating. Hmmmm. So do I kick the speed and risk the ire of my corporate daddies? Or do I wait until this depression passes, to ensure that I've got the mental clarity to make such a call? But if this depression is the culmination of years of daily amping, will it pass without stopping the flow of pep pills? Or will it worsen as I go? Ignoring depression is all well and good when it's just in motivation you're working on a deficit. But depression also takes a toll on the higher cognitive functions. You know, the ones that come in really handy for shite like this? Ha! As it should be.

Hmmmmmm. Decisions, decisions. And here I am without my magic 8-ball! Not the good boy scout today, am I? Tsk tsk. Oh well, I'm nearly asleep in my chair, so I'm off to the land of nod. Maybe this issue will be clearer seen when slumber's fog has lifted. Yeah, right.

Editing and stuff

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Thu, 07 Nov 2002 11:27:37 GMT

Re-reading the story I just posted, I see changes that need to be made. Maybe cutting out paragraphs 2-4 entirely would be good, the background information there may not be necessary, but I was trying to illustrate the mindset that would not consider a random beating to be such an unusual occurrance. But perhaps I overdid it. hmmm, the line between clarity and distraction is a fine one, or maybe I'm just not skilled enough. One or the other, maybe.

Drive-by Flogging

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Thu, 07 Nov 2002 10:47:33 GMT

Wil was not bisexual, he was either straight or gay. He was quite clear on that point, and would brook no contradiction. The fact that he switched between straight and gay according to some force not quite as regular as whim was of no significance. He scoffed at any attempt to average his opposing tastes. Technically he was correct, but I'd be damned if I'd ever let him know I agreed with him. Debating the point was just too much fun. Wil was one of the coolest people I knew in Atlanta, and one of the reasons I was sorry to watch events unfold that led me from that place. But that's another story. We were good friends, part of a rather unique little group. Sociologically, we were our own sub-sub-culture, artisans of suffering and lust. Domination and submission were toys and tools to be used and enjoyed. We trained and decorated the same mental demons many spend years overcoming. Good times. Good times.

The Chamber, an S&M dance club that employed most of our circle in one capacity or another, was the center of our dark and cozy little world. Most of us had other jobs for money, but The Chamber was what we "did". I was a bouncer there, and occasionally produced leather goods like restraints, whips, garments, and of course, the occasional flogger. Will was one of the performers, like most of us, earning a living through torture and violence, staged for the benefit of the club's patrons, but by no means "faked". Of course, there were theatrics involved. It was, after all, a "show". However, the paraffin filled crock pot was unquestionably hot, the crack of Mon Cheri's bullwhip across a bare back could hardly have been faked, and the welts raised thereby precluded the possibility of any trickery of the stage.

That's perhaps what made the shows so good and the club so popular, that the performers were not "acting" as such. To them, the common nightmares of suffering and terror held no horror. Pain, lust, and domination were normal parts of their daily lives, practiced and tuned like musical instruments. Those aspects of the mind abhorrent to society held no mystery or fear for us. Giving up your ego brought freedom, not shame. Binding and controlling another's body brought trust, not pride. No matter which end of the whip you were on, you knew that a friend was at the other end, and that your positions would be reversed in days or hours.

I think it the height of irony that they were some of the most sane, stable, and well balanced people I've ever known. So many of the mental troubles common to modern humanity are based in the fear, repression, and misunderstanding of the very aspects of human nature their livelihood was based upon. So completely were the "monsters" of the subconscious used, trained, and displayed that any problems therein were dissolved as a matter of course. For example, if Thirsty had been beaten and abused as a child, any demons born of that would be hard pressed to wreak any havoc upon her when she made her living through staged but very real violence with her friends. The whips, floggers, and straps were quite authentic and were used both by and on her, always with mutual trust and respect, as well as a healthy does of playfulness. What, then, could her demons do against her? They were used and appreciated, trained and cherished as parts of her being which gave her kinds of freedom and strength many will never know. She had not defeated or beaten her demons. She had accepted and mastered them, made them hers to use and enjoy, no different than her taste in music or her skill at poetry. (Well, her poetry wasn't that good, but who am I to talk?)

Although we liked to pretend that we were better than the rest of the world, it was not so. We had our own issues and troubles. However, those were mainly in dealing with society. Most commonly, we'd forget that our way of life was unusual and sometimes frightening to the "straights". There were several times when innocent horseplay in public got the cops called or got us kicked out of restaurants, bars, and on one memorable occasion, a police station. But that night is a story unto itself, for another time.

Will was one of the "old men" of our little clique, having been in this scene for better than 4 years. He was in his late 20's, well built and handsome. He was one of the most outgoing people I've ever known, having discovered that there was no fun to be had in dignity. He could usually be counted on to make things interesting at a moment's notice whether you wanted them interesting or not. He was never cruel, but sometimes his enthusiasm got the better of him, resulting in minor wounds and major chaos. He was not especially gentle, but never malicious. That day we were both pretty manic, and the day felt right for mischief. We were in my van, attending to some errand or another in Buckhead, an upper-middle class commercial district of Atlanta. Offices by day, over-priced and polished clubs by night, it was a cultural and spiritual vacuum seldom entered by our ilk. Although I don't recall the name of the street we were on, it would be safe to say it was called "Peachtree" something-or-other, as ALL streets in Atlanta are Peachtree.

We were discussing the finer points of a flogger I had finished earlier that day. (one of my better pieces, if I do say so myself) It's handle was made of studded black leather strips woven and knotted around a slim steel eye-bolt. This gave it strength, durability, and weight for balance. The handle ended in a knotted pommel, symmetrical and solid. There was similar knot at the top, concealing the eye, and helping to support and anchor the tassels. It had a full tail of 24 tassels, each 30" long and 3/8" wide, dyed red, fuzzed, and forked at the ends. It was fairly heavy but well-balanced, awkward for a novice, but a thing of beauty in the right hands. I was certain that it would have a long and full life at the Chamber.

Wil was admiring our new toy as we rode along, getting a sense of it's heft, feeling the tassels and inspecting the weave of the handle for any flaws. (he found none, ::grin::) He was pleased with it's construction and appearance, which meant a lot to me as he was very critical of half-assed or poorly made "frou-frou" toys. He appreciated the fact that it was solid and heavy, obviously made to deliver a solid blow. He also liked the forked ends of the tassels, but if you don't know what those are for, my telling you would do no good. He gave himself a few experimental whacks on the thigh, and then inspected the tassels closer. I had used thicker leather than usual for the tassels, and only lightly fuzzed them, making them heavier than they looked. He was impressed with the flogger, and I was unabashedly proud of myself. This latest creation was truly a work of art. I was pleased, Wil was pleased, the future was bright, and life was good. We made a right hand turn, merging with the think afternoon traffic, directly in front a fat delivery truck and behind a tiny BMW driven by a blonde mannequin, recently escaped from Burdines.

Then, like the avatar of some complacent yuppie god, "He" appeared about half a block ahead. A prime example of the upper-middle class we so gleefully despised, well dressed and proper in every respect, he stood on the sidewalk with his back to us, clearly the master of all he surveyed. We were awed by the sudden beauty of the moment, the zen perfection of the idea that revealed itself to us. The plan was conceived, worked out, finalized, and put into action in just under 2 seconds with nary a word passed between us. The focus of this day's mischief, our sacrificial lamb in twill and cotton stood before us, ripe and ready, cell phone held lovingly to his cheek. His back was to us, and his mind was obviously elsewhere, probably at the other end of the invisible phone line, in the office of some weighty and inconsequential corporation with a favorable profit margin. Wil turned to me with that famous precursor to mayhem, his patented "I'm about to do something really stupid!" look. (imagine the face of a hyperactive 7 year old all hopped up on sugar, passing through the gates of the Magic Kingdom in a flat trajectory). I grinned, nodded, and gently let off the gas pedal.

And so it began in earnest. By happy coincidence the sidewalk around him was empty. Good. I've always had a soft spot for innocent bystanders. I'm not too sure about Wil, though. Anyway, I eased the van closer to the curb as approached. Wil rolled his window down, and leaned out a bit with the flogger hanging lazily from his hand. I remember the gentle sound the tassels made as they were flicked against the door by the wind. We were about a foot off the curb, closing the distance, coasting quietly. Our yuppie friend had paused there, looking for all the world like a JC Penny ad, hands on hips, looking boldly into the future, positively glowing with upward mobility and secure in his rightful place atop the food chain. His hair was perfect, his suit fashionable and well fit. All was clearly well with his secure and interesting world. Damnit! We were closing too slowly. The anticipation was too sweet, agonizing and almost unbearable, but haste would spoil the poetry of this moment, so we coasted gently, while he waited for us, content and clueless.

At about 40 feet out, Wil shifted position slightly, and raised his arm behind him against the van's side, bringing it to a level just above subject one's shoulders. In that last second, I swear I could hear his voice, thin and irritated, obviously talking to someone bound by etiquette to be polite at all costs, probably exacting payment from them for a time when he'd had to be nice to a prick. Yuppie karma, I guess. He was facing away from us and his head was slightly turned to the right, cocked into his phone. We drew even with him, and suddenly the anticipation was at an end. The sun shone. A gentle wind swayed the captive trees in the median. Somewhere a horn honked, and Wil had swung.

His arm twisted and flicked out from the side of the van, with a mass of eager red tassels at it's end. He didn't put too much force into the strike, we didn't want to actually damnage reason's martyr. Wil's arm swung, and the flogger danced away in a truncated arc, blurring outward towards the well groomed and irritated fellow. He suspected nothing until impact. There was no warning, no hint of what was coming, no inkling of the impending crisis until it was well underway. Until the tassels engulfed his entire perception in stinging crimson chaos, he had utter faith in his knowledge of the location and dimension of the well lit divider 'twixt reality and nightmare. For the first fleeting instants, as the narrowing arc of red closed around his face, I wonder, what did he think? Did he think? As the solid mass of tentacles engulfed his head, cutting off all sight and hearing and reducing the city around him to merest trivia, what thought was foremost? Was he afraid? Did he feel angry? Shocked? Naked? What? As his day, his plans for the evening, and any other focus his mind may have held was rendered to vapor, did he call to some god, reach for some anchor? I'll never know.

Wil struck, and we did not slow in the least. His strike was the acme of speed and grace. It was simply beautiful. The flogger reached out, grabbed the irate consumer by the head, and was then pulled away as rapidly as it had been sent. In passing behind his head, the leather wrapped eyebolt pulled the tassels along after, as it was meant to do. The tassels in turn, held for the briefest moment to the head they were pressed against, spinning it like a poorly balanced top, as they were meant to do. The head remained attached to the body, as it was meant to do, imparting it's spin thereto. The end result was that the yuppie was turned about as we passed behind him, so that when his turn stopped, he was facing the direction from whence we had come and we were, as before, behind him and unseen. As his turn was stopping, the flogger was disappearing back into the van, to rest once again in Wil's lap. Even if his eyes had been open, he could not have turned fast enough to catch sight of the flogger, or anything out of the ordinary about the white mini van moving away with the flow of traffic. But his eyes were closed.

As we were pulling away from him, he began to mount his defense against whatever the hell that had been. His left arm came up to cover his head, the gold on his wrist glittering prettily in the afternoon sun, but there was nothing there to defend against. His right hand clutched the phone and flailed about him at random, but there was nothing there to hit. His battle was short and one sided, although I doubt it could be called a victory. Then he seemed to realize that the attack was not being pressed, and opened his eyes. By this time, the truck was almost past him, and we were too far from him to matter. He tried to look in all directions at once, and did not too shabby a job of it, from what I saw in the mirror. He was crazed, terrified, panicked even, but uninjured. As we moved away, his frenzy abated as he satisfied himself that there was nothing in the immediate vicinity to threaten him. (As if that had mattered seconds before) The last I saw of him, he was looking at his little phone like he had no idea what it was, and no-one had stopped.

What happened to him afterwards, I'll never know. How he dealt with the experience depends on how tightly he holds to "reality". Paradoxically, the more sane and rational he is, the harder it will be for him. He will not forget that something happened. But what? All he knows is that: out of the blue, something happened. It was red, it was fast, it stung, it spun him around on a sidewalk in downtown Atlanta. It came from nowhere, and returned hence before he knew what was happening. He saw nothing but a glimpse too brief and close to focus, then his eyes were shut until it was gone. A memory of shock, pain, violence, and chaos with no cause and no consequence is all he'll take from this.
There will be no answer.
There will be no explanation.
There will be no reason.
There will be no understanding.

Reality is now to him like a lover that strayed. He'll never be able to forget. His trust will never be as it was; there will ever be a doubt. Unlike a lover, Sanity will offer to make no amends. She doesn't need him. Reality made him no damned promises, anyway. Logic is starving today. If he holds these things precious, if he built his life or himself on them, what now? Now that this foundation has been cracked? What now?

What would you do?

...

Are you sure?

Depression doesn't matter.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 06 Nov 2002 08:57:49 GMT

Damned depression. The worst thing about it is that there's nothing to be "fixed" that would improve the situation. I'm one of those bipolar fuckers, but I don't really mind. I can deal with the downs, and I really enjoy the ups. So I'm not interested in having myself smoothed out.

I'm depressed. I don't wanna get out of bed, everything that sucks is foremost in my mind, and the positive things seem less important. There is nothing for me to "get over", my chemicals are just fukt right now. I used to try to deal with it, try to address it and try to alleviate it. But then I found a better way to address the issue. I ignore it. I just act as if I weren't depressed. That's not the same as denial or pretending I'm not depressed. I am depressed and I know it, but I see no reason to allow that to prevent me from dealing with things that are more important than my mood. So I feel like crap, so what? I can still do everything I can do at other times, I just don't feel like it. So I ignore that I don't feel like it, and do it anyway. It still sucks, but it's only my feelings that ache, and it will pass no matter what I do or do not do. My job is more important than my mood, as are my friends, my kids, even my dirty dishes. Come to think of it, most things are more important that whether or not my bitch ass is all comfy with the world. My mood does not affect those things that I do give a damn about, so I would be selfish and foolish to give it any greater consideration than them. Perhaps this is the best way to deal with depression. No drugs, no treatment, no therapy, just fucking ignore it and wait for it to go away, as it will. In the meantime, let it starve, and do not give it any energy that would be better used in other endeavors. I think this is the best way to deal with it, by not dealing with it. But that doesn't make it suck any less.

Sacred night of wind and flame.

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Wed, 30 Oct 2002 14:01:39 GMT

Chaos is setting to burn within me, from too many quarters to list, and must be given rein in this coming hallowed night. So art must sit idly by and yield way to life, as it should be. Something of a vision quest, something of a brawl, this trip shall be a crossroads. I would like to write it's origin here, but time grows short even now. I can hear the wind picking up, writhing and gathering, gaining focus and power. The gentle demons in their way prepare therein, as I prepare in mine. Soon we shall draw near against each-other, in the dark and in the light, and one or the other must be brought low. I hope I have strength enough to master them, I cannot abide their creeping chill any longer. Whether by victory or defeat, this siege at last shall end.
As it should be. As it ever was.

Preview of coming distractions

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Fri, 18 Oct 2002 20:10:38 GMT

Poor yuppie. Just some random member of the upper-middle class; you know the type. The ones that come equipped with a brightly colored tie and a beige bedroom; the sort of team-playing, socially correct pillar of suburbia who would walk down a sidewalk in downtown Atlanta, with the flow of traffic passing by ignored and invisible, just 2 feet to his left. The sort of upwardly mobile professional that said important sounding things about the "Johnston account" and the "Mandel Report". But most importantly, above all else, he was the sort of self-assured fellow that would never suspect that he was but seconds away from having his world-view shaken like a magic 8-ball by nothing more than few ounces of dyed leather at the business end of a swing-and-duck combo issued with surgical precision from the passenger seat of a white mini van. He was to see the mini van a few seconds after the fact, but he would not really notice it, and would never suspect that it had anything to do with the brief and savage attack on his person by a mass of stinging red tentacles. Tentacles which appeared from nowhere, grabbed him by the head, forced him into an abrupt about-face, and then returned to whence they came, all in less than one tick of the gold watch on his wrist. I don't know if it was actually gold, but I do know that I admired the way it sparkled in the sun as he flailed madly, trying to fight off an assailant that was gone before he started swinging.

In retrospect, it was cruel and insensitive, and I am appropriately ashamed to have been such a willing and eager party to it. However, no physical damnage was done to the bearer of the power tie. I've often wondered how he handled it, how he dealt with that semi-second and the ensuing memories. In truth, all he'll ever know about it, he learned in the bare majority of a second where the tassels met flesh. Sadly, he'll never realize the singular honor that is his, as the target of the world's first and, to my knowledge, only "Drive-by Flogging".

Don't Drink and Spin

uhrwerk.engel@gmail.com — Sat, 12 Oct 2002 09:25:48 GMT

I had a good time tonight at the Venus Room, but there is nothing special in that; I usually do. What made tonight worthy of note was the guest DJ, a friend of Dino's. He was quite enthusiastic, enthusiasm which likely was due, at least in part, to the not inconsiderable amount of alcohol he had obviously partaken of immediately prior. There were a few blunders, like suddenly losing all volume a few times, but the ensuing good-natured shouts of dismay and advice (It's the little triangle button! The green one! With the little triangle!) from the dance floor served to restore the music in seconds. He played remixes of familiar songs, and I for one, loved it. Well, aside from his habit of suddenly ending a song 30 seconds into it if he found that it did not suit his fancy at the moment. All in all, it was like having a very happy and hyperactive 7-yr-old running the booth. I personally hope he comes back. But perhaps a wee bit less tanked.