Tuesday, August 31, 2010
This shit made me laugh.
Beginning in the early 1970s, Peter Berlin created groundbreaking gay iconic imagery, first as a street persona in New York and San Francisco, then as a filmmaker and photographer. Since that time, Berlin's films, photography, and artwork have been exhibited and admired the world over. [Not this part--keep reading.]
Perhaps the most unusual and unique aspect of Berlin's work is its narcissism—he served as his own photographer and model, rarely allowing others into the frame. The results are stunning, sexy, and classic.
It's sort of what I do here--rarely allow others into the frame. It's my blog, bitch!
Besides, with junk like Peter has, no other bitches really fit in the damn frame anyway.
Peter Berlin trivia: What was Peter Berlin's real name? [Answer below.]
Armin Hagen Freiherr von Hoyningen-Huene. [Fuck me. This shit makes Rumpelstiltskin look like Smith or Jones.]
[Hat tip to SB's friend and idol, West Hollywood Voyeur, for introducing me to Peter. Laugh.]
I want to say sorry to my blogging audience. My posts have been a little bit more crankier than I am use to. You would think that I would be use to the remote torture by now, but apparently not.
I think it’s easy at times to take the anger that is meant for the douchbag snitches out on others at times, and for that I am sorry.
Something about the torture that targets go through and that need for understanding at times is just vital. I do get a bit angry when people don’t get it and treat my life like it’s some fun little joy ride, like I am here blogging, cause it’s some fun little past time.
This week they used something that was remotely capable of fibulating my heart, now they are back to using heat for confirming my location in my home. Heat which is capable of causing body burns.
For me personally if others can’t understand this, or get this, then really it does not do me a lot of good. Right now I do need understanding. People to understand what is happening. I do believe that people who genuenly care about you, open themselves up to understanding, and they find a way to get it. Others never will, and that’s ok. This is not the type of targeting that I really want others to get, but at other times that understanding is almost vital for survial.
So again if I am angry, cranky, it’s the informants that I really want to direct my negative emotions towards, and not anyone else, so I can only try to work at placing the anger where it belongs, and work to get past it like I usually do. For those around me, I can only hope that they come to some sort of understanding of my circumstances.
Do you think shit like this is an indictment of our overly materialistic culture? I sure as hell do.
You can't take it with you, but it sure as fuck might take you with it.
Link to story:
I sincerely hope you are right, Mrs. McColl. God bless you in your search.
Anybody who likes Whitman is a friend of mine.
Link to story on Peter McColl, who has been missing for 15 years.
There is nothing that breaks my heart more than a parent looking for a missing child.
I now bid farewell to the country of my birth - of my passions - of my death; a country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies - whose factions I sought to quell - whose intelligence I prompted to a lofty aim - whose freedom has been my fatal dream.
--Thomas Francis Meagher
SB Translation: A bitch is blowing this cracker-ass shithole of a country.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
[Note to the reader: And if you don't like my using the word retard, you can piss off. It's my world here, and I'll say whatever the fuck I want. Having a blog is like having a microphone, and the guy with the microphone is ALWAYS in charge. Bitch can hold a whole room hostage if he so chooses. It's a motherfucker's prerogative. Ask Bobby Brown if you don't believe my ass.]
Thursday, August 26, 2010
[This could and should also be applied to George W. Bush if one substitutes White House in place of the word Senate.]
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Episcopal Church has reached resolution on the issue of full civil rights for lesbian and gay persons and, speaking for myself as a bishop and person of faith and as a representative of the Episcopal Church, I am gladdened whenever discrimination is rejected and fundamental rights are acknowledged as equal rights.
The Rt. Rev. Marc Handley Andrus
Bishop, The Episcopal Diocese of California
Hats off, Episcopalians! Way not to be exclusionary assholes. SB gives credit where credit is due.
I have always been a big fan of Spike--I think because we react to the world in the same way--with anger, especially about injustice. The footage and information in this documentary is just phenomenal. I can't say enough about it. Personally, I think they ought to show it in school, despite the language and footage of the dead.
On a side note, Brad Pitt took some flack for saying that he has had second thoughts about bringing capital punishment back in this film. Some of the press (especially the British press) remarked that maybe Brad was losing his marbles, but I understand what Brad was saying and I agree. As a matter of fact, I felt the same way during eight years of the presidency in this nation. A scaffold would have been too goddamn good for the fuckers.
Personally, I am fucking tired to goddamn death of poor southerners being ass raped (and murdered) by corporate greed. Someone in the documentary asked where our outrage is at at what happened (primarily meaning the BP oil spill). Then, the speaker asked what if this oil spill had occurred in the Hamptons. There sure as fuck would have been outrage then. I guess the primary attitude in this country is: Oh well, since it primarily affects the poor in the south, then whatever. I say fuck that shit. Fuck Washington DC and fuck the oil companies. Personally, I think all of Congress should be ridden out of town on rails.
And I must say that I'm inclined to believe that President Obama should have reacted with WAY MORE outrage to this crisis than he did. His toned down response makes me question whether he's in the pockets of the oil companies, too. I am losing respect for him. I know this is going to piss some of my readers off, but there's a time to be cool and a time for OUTRAGE. I think for once, Obama missed the mark. Outrage was required.
Rant over. Please see the film.
Note: This documentary is not for the squeamish, but grow some balls and watch it. If the good folks of New Orleans lived through it, the least you can do is watch it from the comfortable confines of your living room.
Monday, August 23, 2010
For the last week or so, the informants in my vicinity who have been on watch, have been using something akin to possibly an ultrasonic, or electromagnetic remote device on me. It feels sort of like a reverse suction. It basically feels like your insides are pulsating on high speed. Now they do things like this consistently to targets, and the shielding that I use, usually stops most of this, but what they are doing right now, is aimed I would guess at my upper body, heart being on of those things. It’s vibrating my upper body to a dangerous degree.
Now I am trying to shield, but my normal forms of shielding have been limited. Since I am in pretty good health, not suicidal, or anything, there should be no reason for me to have any problems. Now because they are stupid they could just be aiming at my heart as a way of monitoring, but what they are doing is vibrating my chest to such a degree that it’s really not ok, and I would say dangerous.
So I just thought I would point this out. Usually when targets write about their targeting, it just encourages the little s*its to do it more, but I thought it would be a good idea to point out what the little creatures are doing. Evil sometimes just has to be stupid to carry out evil, or it can be deliberate.
Either way for those who do not understand the situations that targets face, their first thought might naively be, well why not call the police? Because as every other target has discovered, the police are not our friends, and most times they are in league with what is ongoing. Not every officer is like that, but even the good ones often don’t have ready answers or solutions. Others might think it’s just a harmless game of being followed around, but the monitoring that they do, not only qualifies as human torture, at times, it should qualify as murder.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Sometimes, a spirit will not leave a person alone, especially if you are highly sensitive to psychic energy and ignore the encounter. As I did a few months ago. The spirit's behavior may become more and more extreme with each manifestation. I have never had an encounter with "A Evil Spirit" (not to say they don't exist), personally I have been fortunate in not meeting one. So, a person can misinterpret very easily a spirit's intentions.
One evening in April, I was alone in the house with my oldest daughter. We began watching something on TV when I had this feeling, I looked to my right down the Hallway and saw a Girl dressed in a old fashion nightgown (such as your grandmother might wear). She had her hair in a "Bun" and it was blond. I immediately turn back to the TV to resume watching my program. A few seconds later, My daughter said; " Dad! You saw that girl right?". Yes, I saw her. She said; "Then why didn't you say anything?". I chose to ignore it, as I don't have the energy or the time to pursue it.
There are two points here. One is the Girl not only appeared to both of us, but I had "A Feeling" that the Girl wanted me to look. It made a psychic connection with me. Two, it wanted me to follow her upstairs and my daughter saw her enter the bathroom (which is adjacent to the staircase). Later as we related the story to the other family members, my oldest daughter had no psychic connection (she only looked because she felt me). My daughter still says the Girl in white entered into the bathroom. I saw her foot on the staircase... which indicates to me she wanted me to follow and not my daughter.
There is always more to the story when it concerns "The Others"
Note to the reader: If SB was a ghost, this boring long-winded motherfucker would put my ass to sleep. I'd go towards the light, even if that meant sitting on a cloud and strumming a harp or some tedious shit, unless the bore had a good liquor cabinet, of course. That would change everything.
Did the lights just go out?
Monday, August 16, 2010
It was a simple compliment, nothing more, a mere observation. I had just come back from a weekend at Ossabaw Island. I was relaxed, peaceful and happy after my simple commune with a hog named Paul Mitchell, several dreamy-eyed mules, some industrious armadillo, a star-filled sky, the occasional painted bunting and a sharp and relaxed Sandy West, who, at 97 is the island's longest and best-known resident.
"You look brown as a berry," my friend said.
"That's not what I was after," I answered without skipping a beat, a little defensive. "I really try to stay out of the rays. Those days of sunning are over, but the damage is probably already done."
She caught my drift.
"Everyone's so worried about health these days."
Isn't that the truth?
No matter our age, our bank account, our general condition, both current and past, when it comes to health most everyone I know is somewhere between anxious and concerned.
If we're walking for exercise we're worried we're not walking fast enough, far enough or often enough. If we're swimming we're concerned about the chlorine and what kind of effect it's leaving.
What, you still go to the gym? Haven't you heard about all the skin infections you can get? They're "spreading like wildfire," according to a recent article in The New York Times. Shower with anti-bacterial soap. Bring your own floor mat. Wash your hands after using the equipment.
What about shoveling compost? That counts for exercise, right? So does hanging clothes on an outdoor line. Good upper-arm exercise.
Doing push-ups are the best, someone once told me, because when you get old and fall you are strong enough to catch yourself without breaking a hip. I guess breaking a wrist isn't as serious.
Preparing to go to a doctor's office is the worst. One bit of advice: Don't go to your appointment reading an article about end-of-life decisions, the way I did recently.
It was one of those long New Yorker stories where there was not a particularly happy ending. By the time I went for my appointment, a general check-up, I had given someone a key to my safe deposit box, obtained a form for my will (which I still haven't done anything about) and lost a night's sleep.
It didn't help that I had just finished reading Bruce Feiler's "The Council of Dads," a wonderful account of what Bruce decided to do after learning he had cancer in his leg. One line continues to stick in my mind after Feiler, a very wry man, got the results of a questionable and routine blood test: "It's not like it's cancer or anything."
Speaking of doctors, have you tried to find one lately? I thought I might interview around and see if there was one out there who would suit my needs.
The first two I called - both recommendations from friends - nearly hung up on me when I said the only insurance I had was Medicare. "We're not taking any new Medicare patients right now," both receptionists said. "Don't worry," I said into thin air since both had already hung up. "It's not an emergency. I don't have cancer or anything. But thanks for asking."
When I did see a doctor, he recommended I take a baby aspirin daily to prevent heart attacks or strokes. His father does, he said. And he's healthy. What he didn't tell me was to look for bruises since aspirin is a blood-thinner. I haven't bought any aspirin yet.
I never used to pay any attention to my cholesterol numbers. Now I go over them like they were my SAT results and I was 17, or they were credit scores and I was trying to buy a house.
I've got results from the past 10 years lined up on the dining room table. I'm about to make a graph.
This year I insisted on taking the test twice. I hadn't fasted the first time, I reasoned. I wanted better results. They were pretty much the same the second time around, but in the meantime I did up my oatmeal quotient, the steel-cut oats variety, the expensive type, topped with some bittersweet, robust molasses.
I did start walking more. Even now, after I got my results (all fine), I still go online to see how I can lower them even more.
Then there's the dreaded colonoscopy. Not to worry, I tell younger friends. Whatever drug they use to put you out will leave you blissed out for hours. But now that I'm going in for my second recommended test, I'm nervous again.
Food? Everyone's an expert.
"We drink cranberry juice," I was telling someone in that I'm-smarter-than-you voice. "The pure kind. The $8.99-a-bottle kind. It's good in vodka, too"
"Forget about it," an out-of -town guest said, one-upping me. "Try pomegranate juice. It's an antioxidant and is supposed to lower blood pressure. That's the latest thing. It costs $8.99, too. Oh, and its' also good with vodka."
Don't forget beets. They're a major cancer fighter. Same with purple cabbage. Good cancer-fighting enzymes there, too. And turmeric. Cancer-fighting and anti-inflammatory as well. Double duty. Two for the price of one.
There is no end to advice - and to worry. Take sardines. They're high in omega-3, low in mercury but high in PCBs and so squiggly. Yuck. Water? You can't, it seems, drink enough. Just be close to a bathroom.
Whew. I think it's time for a break. Think I'll try some of these new beet and sweet potato chips. With a tall glass of water. But no sun-bathing. Those days are over.
Friday, August 13, 2010
What is wrong with this society that young women are thinking this is desirable? Most men certainly don't think it's attractive, therefore, it must be mostly women making this body type desirable. Let's stop, okay? Because it's NOT okay or attractive, and it sends a terrible message to all women, especially young women.
p.s. Tyra Banks YOU ARE NOT HELPING! Cut that fucking shit out.
[Note: I am unequivocally NOT promoting fat acceptance either. One extreme is as bad health-wise as the other, but how about a middle, healthy, average weight? How about we work on making that the ideal?]
Pet. Pet. Purr. Bite. Teeth marks. Blood.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Valentino Needs to Hire My Ass to Be His Damn Translator So Idiot Americans Will Understand What His Greatness Is REALLY Trying to Say
Sadly, Valentino has now retired, and the Moms comment was that after he and Lagerfeld and Armani are gone, it will be the end of a distinct and irreplaceable era of fashion. All of Valentino's haute couture items were hand-sewn by a staff of house seamstresses.
Anyhoo, I really dug Valentino, because he has occasional hissy fits, which make for entertaining viewing. SB loves a tempermental genius! His Greatnesses English is charming, if a bit broken, and he primarily speaks French, by his own admission. So my ass thinks His Greatness could use a translator. I am proposing myself, because that shit would be my honor.
For instance, in one scene, His Greatness is trying to convey to a youngish hipster hair stylist that he does NOT want the hair on his models to be too wild and that he would prefer that they have simple chignons, which is understandable considering the elegant style of Valentino's dresses. So the moron hair stylist puts this incredible mess of a damn bird's nest on a model for His Greatnesses approval, and Valentino says something like: "No. No. No!"
If SB were Mr. V's translator, I think I could have made His Greatnesses point of view slightly more clear. I would have translated: What His Greatness actually means to say is: "Look, you goddamn young idiot, I stand for E-L-E-G-A-N-C-E! What is this fucking hot mess you have so ignorantly and impertinently offered me?" His Greatness was creating fashion miracles BEFORE you were sperm, you offensive motherfucker. The hairstyle you have created looks like a cocksucking bird's nest. It does not say: ELEGANCE. His Greatness asked for a simple chignon, and you insulted him with a fucking hot mess. Your dumb unwrinkled youthful ass is shit-canned, motherfucker.
Also, His Greatness has four dogs, and at one point, when he got huffy making decisions about what to include in his 45th anniversary celebration, he said: "I don't care about this. My dogs are more important!"
I think I love him.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Monday, August 9, 2010
In fact the years before I found out about Gang Stalking, most of my suspicions I kept to myself and shared with no one. I normally do not confide things in people, my confessor is God and that is usually it. I might share the odd tidbit, or if it’s something important that I feel another has the right to know, I might break protocol and that is about it.
Once I did find out about Gang Stalking, and realized that the phone was how people were hearing my conversations, along with things said in the home, both stopped, so a lot of the street theater stuff stopped.
Anything else that would be discovered would almost have to take a mind reader or another with similar capacity to learn any of my secrets. So it got me thinking, do such people exist? Is such a capacity a reality?
Note from SB: I'm not quite sure how "street theater" came into play here, but uhhhhhmmm, okay. Is this cracked motherfucker a damn mime or some shit?
I still wonder about this. Will the Rapture be televised so that if we get the live event here in North America in the Eastern Standard Time, they will get the live feed in Australia? Maybe that's what's taken Jesus so long to come back. The technology had to be developed. Makes as much sense to me as anything else having to do with this bullshit theory.
[All, I've got to say is: Rapture my ass, which is pretty much what Ms. Moon said, too, but WAY more eloquently. Check out the full post in all its glory here:
Friday, August 6, 2010
People who would never disparage anyone based on race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation fail to even recognize the daily insults that they and others lobby at fat people.
Sheria's thought-provoking blog can be found here: http://theexaminedlife-sheria.blogspot.com/
Check it out, motherfuckers, or my fat ass will give you the beat down!
[Sheria will be MAD that I am referring to myself as a fat ass, but I'm allowed to call myself that shit. The Viking calls me a fat ass, too. I could give a flying fuck. His ass is a stringbean.]
SB admires this little ho's spirit, but admittedly, I also admire the thug's eloquent way with words.
But Stewart did have alcohol in him. And he'd been rehearsing West Side Story with the ballet, "so I was in the mode of rumbling on stage." Plus, two of his friends had recently gotten their phones stolen and he wasn't about to be the next.
HE WAS NOT ABOUT TO BE THE NEXT, PEOPLE!
Link to heartwarming story of a rumbling small fry administering a beat down to a bunch of motherfucking thieving motherfuckers: http://blogs.sfweekly.com/thesnitch/2010/08/san_francisco_ballet_dancer_be.php
by The Decemberists
I had entered into a marriage
In the summer of my twenty-first year
And the bells rang for our wedding
Only now do I remember it clear
Alright, alright, alright
No more a rake and no more a bachelor
I was wedded and it whetted my thirst
Until her womb started spilling out babies
Only then did I reckon my curse
Alright, alright, alright
Alright, alright, alright
First came Isaiah with his crinkled little fingers
Then came Charlotte and that wretched girl Dawn
Ugly Myfanwy died on delivery
Mercifully taking her mother along
Alright, alright, alright
What can one do when one is a widower
Shamefully saddled with three little pests?
All that I wanted was the freedom of a new life
So my burden I began to divest
Alright, alright, alright
Alright, alright, alright
Charlotte I buried after feeding her foxglove
Dawn was easy, she was drowned in the bath
Isaiah fought but was easily bested
Burned his body for incurring my wrath
Alright, alright, alright
And that's how I came your humble narrator
To be living so easy and free
Expect that you think that I should be haunted
But it never really bothers me
Alright, alright, alright
Alright, alright, alright
I don't get that. I think cats are very clean animals.
Would you like it if I came over and parked my naked ass on the kitchen counter? Would you want to prepare food on the counters and eat it if my naked ass had been sitting on it only moments before?
Okay, you win.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
God bless you, Harvey! Thank you. I love you.
I might just sit here and smile all day, and my co-workers will be really nervous. Fuck them.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
"There seems to be an urge to relate picking up trash to some sort of goal-oriented scavenging."
Humanity, always looking for the material payoff.
[I'm so cynical sometimes I want to puke.]
I'm okay with being selfish. Actually, more than okay with it.
I'm not green. I'm black. As in death.
And yes, I am grumpy this morning. Go figure.
All the motherfucker does is whine and feel sorry for himself on the damn cell phone, right outside my window that borders on their front walk. Fucker has a huge yard and a deck out back, and he wants to sit out front by my window and piss and moan about how the world has perpetually failed his losery ass.
I wish the sonofabitches would take their damn porch cross decoration and move. By the way, all their pets are named after NASCAR speedways. Fucking redneck asshole motherfuckers.
Monday, August 2, 2010