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Topics - Richter

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The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Leaving Providence
« on: December 12, 2014, 02:56:49 am »
Some things people need to learn.  Like not pulling a gun.  Not pulling a FAKE gun.  Not pulling and fully presenting a fake gun at close range. 

It made sense that Providence would take a farewell swipe at me.  I had been packing out the Monastery and was carrying out an armload of arms, including my favorite round shield, when the downstair neighbor rolled into the stairwell with a black Colt in hand.   

Let's call him Pacino.  Early 20's, eager to prove, and a bit high strung. ...but I repeat myself (Hell we've all been there.))

Academic Richter-brain noted the orange safety tip, but Pragmatic Richter brain insisted on moving the firearm away from me regardless.  Contact confirmed the thing was plastic.  The shield had Pacino's plastic pointed at not me, and I was in his space in quick order.  It doesn no good for a Holy Man (tm) to recklessly kill.  I'm a little more flexible on the subject of kneecaps, which Pacino and I discussed. 

This parting drama was laughed about as I had a farewell beer or 5 with Pacino, Emperor Norton, and the other ususal suspects later that night.

A strangely affable parting shot from the city.  I don't miss the late night brawls outside my window, the rabid Columbus days, or stepping over heroin needles to get to the Jeep.  There's always a quality to the place that will stick with me.  Africa never let go of Alan Quartermain - neither will Providence ever entirely give up me.


St. Vitus dance meets electric funk.  This is the best thing since the cops dancing along during the video for "Setting Sun".  Normal people being overcome and regressing to freaks.  BECAUSE.

Also - you were correct - ANY Yeti worth their salt ought to be able to break a brick with their crotch and keep dancing. 

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / So Roger...
« on: April 12, 2014, 01:42:22 am »
I am typing now, and I am puzzled by the odd feeling that every one of my beard follicles may have grown to the size of a mechanical pencil lead.  It is an odd sense, one of forboding mixed with a sick anticipation.  The records and notifications of that horrible squakbox that passes for my cellpohne tell me you have attempted calling.  I will assuredly answer / return calls when not pressed by the necessity of putting hernia repair survivors to the sword or running through decepit Fall rIver buildings wielding odd implements of brass and bone. (They won't let me build weapons sober anymore.  Something about them working TOO well)  These things never get over at a decent hour - hoping to ring you back Sunday.   

I am vexed.  We are all vexed, really.  I long with sick abandon for the prosaic beings I work with to know the TRUTH of who exactly is sitting next to them.  The manager got a whiff of it.  Got smart and swipped the cell phone left out on my desk, only to read a speculative chat about balls between me and Cram.  I got a full apology between his sobs.

Has anyone bothered to let EoC back into the country yet?  Not that that would be SAFE in teh common sense, but ethically we really ought not to leave him out there too long.  I keep envisioning him amassing a horde or machete waving fanatics and cutting a caper to cuban jazz as the inevitable junta places him in power. 

New Hampshire, for some reason, has SHUT UP.  I blame Suu.  The land of "Live free or Die", must be the land of "Quiet or she'll hit us again!"

Leln almost got to axe and emo vampire with a chair.  Really - I m not bullshitting that part.   

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / News from the Front
« on: February 01, 2014, 03:07:19 pm »
After three days the shelling had stopped.

Furtive glances with my periscope showed no movement.  Not from the foxholes of my comrades, not from the front – shrouded as it was by billowing fog or smoke of whatever it was. Still and dead like a foggy day on the ocean.

I grew bolder, the dreamlike quiet surreal after the hours of bone jarring explosions and cracking gunfire.  I scrambled out of the foxhole, and fashioned crude a Dobbshead out of the debris, setting it up next to my pit.  Then I unbuttoned the tunic of my uniform, opened my standard-issue lawn chair, and sat down right there in the open.  I even brought out my canteen and calmly sipped.
Slack was almost oddly easy to find.  Must've been my state of mind; the lack of sleep and trauma making it far too easy for me to accept quiet and respite.  I even dozed, that sort of skipping-stone napping you do when you’ve been keyed up too long, and are starting to let down your guard.  I don’t know how long I was there, the fog obliterated the disk of the sun into a pale wan diffusion, and it seemed like far too much work to reach for the dust cover on my timepiece.

I was still debating this expenditure of effort when I heard the movement – from the WRONG direction.  (How can I explain why I knew it was the WRONG direction?  It was the direction that had been spitting HE and mid-caliber ammo at my position for a small eternity.  You get a sense for this, if you're savvy).    It was four Pink Boys, cubicle grunts with uniforms and rifles slapped on the hustled out into the fog, tentative and uncertain.  Replacements, expendables.  They didn’t hustle like trained troops in a hostile area, or even stride the cocky walk of fighting men taking it easy.  Their faces HAD once been locked in the permabliss ™ smiles of their kind, but were beginning to sag with concern and stress.  I almost felt BAD for them.  You need more than just drugs, meaningless trophies, and prepackaged experiences to get you though BS like this.

They looked at me and their weapons all fumbled up to ready.  Pneumatics, likely with nothing worse than tranqs or pink soma darts.  Great “Bob” some bureaucrat didn’t even think they deserved a real gun in no man’s land!  Keeping my cool I sat in my lawn chair and regarded them calmly.  Then donning a cocksure smile I raised my canteen in a sort of salute to them.

“At ease gentlemen.”

 Their smiles went back up a tick towards their trademark bland grins, somehow reassured by someone who was ACTUALLY relaxed, and their pneumos  lowered.

I shot them.

On the street bellow me the ceremonial traffic jam has already begun.  Tomorrow their will be goodwill and peace to the people they actually CARE about, but today there is the last hurrah of retail fanaticism.  The bumper-to-bumper gas wasting, the laying on of horns, and the screaming of impotent rage at the neighbors until the light turns green.

"CHRiiiiStMAAs!"  the Meth Riders slur and croak as they wheel their rickety contraptions to the liquor stores, pockets full of goodwill to men.

"Chriiistmasss.." the Naughty Girls of Olney silibantly slip between plumped lips while applying glitter and getting ready to do things with cell phone cameras that Oxford English pathically now acknowledges as a word.

"Christmas." the landlord states matter of factly and shakes his head after pitching a brick at the hipster playing with himself behind the assisted living home's bus.

The Emperor Norton is likewise up in the trrid floor of his rent-a-palace, composing his own howlings against the season.  His roomates the trustfundarian jeweler shuffled back to a more southern city.  The rain has stopped and the only snow falling is from the driving destitute as they, once again, learn you cannot blow a line of coke off the rear-view mirror of a moving auto. 

I package and wrap the last of the season's gifts - annoyed that the hammer for dad cannot be made to fit into the "Yankee Candle" bag.

The fuckers are coordinating against me, I'm certain of it now.

The roomies are where we start.  I clearly saw them refrigerate the ketchup, and then leave it out on the counter, attempting to cultivate the botulism no doubt.  It was left RIGHT where I might look for a condiment fro my eggs in the morning... 
Clearly trying to kill me.

Then there are the co-workers.  Whatever they've got to try to drug me with it's the insidious shit.  Since I'm still ranting like this I don't think it's amphetamines, likely they're try to warp my mentality with the benzos.  (they can't count on hallucinogens to make me loose it.  I've kept it together around a christian camp with a head full of MDMA - we ARE professionals after all)  But I've flummoxed them all...  I leave no coffee unattended.  I will pound it all before I leave the desk.  I can always brew another cup for casual sipping, toxicity be damned.

Then there's the drivers.  They know each other, and are talking the landlord.  Tailing me and trying to get my jeep while I'm sleeping, since I won't screw up badly enough at the wheel to warrant summoning the authorities.   

I can see what they;re doing though....  ALL of them.  At once.  I am the Richter, and I will force them to reveal themselves.


(Dictated shortly before switching to decaff)   

[Post deleted]

Discordian Recipes / Roger's Kitchen
« on: September 18, 2013, 05:15:34 pm »
These instructions require appropriate physical plant.  A kitchen with stove top, oven, water supply, trash bucket, refrigerator, adequate cooking pots, pans, tools, etc, as specified in recipes.  If you don't have a specific item, like a spatula that's your problem. 

1.  I know about my voicemail lady.  She never has been on my side, and for all to be well, she never will be on my side.  She hates me.  It is her job.  She is an underemployed Berklee grad, recipient of the berklee curse (for Boston IS, among all else, a city of curses.)  She entered into my service years ago, and has been screening the callers of the horrible wafer of circuitry that habitually disturbs my peace.  She loathes me, and has been loathing me more with each successive year. 
This will continue until a certain apex, when she screamingly decides to leave my employ.  At this time I will propose marriage  ("...and what's your name again?") 

One of two things will happen, she will either kill me on the spot, or say yes - which will set me up with all the violent hatesex I need for the next 2 years at least.   If these carnal combatives do not kill me, or the resulting consumption of booze and drugs we will both need to servive this horizintal helter skelter, we will at least spawn children with the stones to challenge me to deathmatch as soon as they hit 18.

All outcomes: PROBLEM SOLVED.

So lay off on my damn voicemail lady.

2.  Of course you didn't catch any hell for that.  In certain workplaces being effective, principled, and weird makes you immune to ALL the bullshit and ALL the blame.  All complaints against my own work are silenced by the fact that I am at least one decimal point less error-prone than any other human they pay, and the fact that I work well with bloody everyone when I have to, for example. 

As to your teflon nature I'm sure Enabler will be thrilled. 


Elvis is dead.  Sad, but true. 

Scatman John, however faked it.  He is living it up at an obscure jazz joint in the metro northeast, performing once a week for a crowd who ain't saying SHIT.

Janis Joplin tailgated me in a late 90's pickup this morning.  She always was a dodgy bird, and I suspect she had a hand in Perry Ferrel's formative years. 

Jerry Garcia runs a suspiciously well stocked music store in a slowly yuppifying section of the Irish Riviera.  Non-liquor stores routinely pop up and fold around him, yet he remains.  The town has NO live music scene, yet there he is...  Who stocks bagpipes anyways?

Musicians over a certain level of income all have access to this.  It's like an escape clause.  Put down the money and the fame, back up slowly, and "they" will make certain you have a good, stable life.  Just once of many services they provide.   

Cobain is still gone.  He was DONE.  really done.  You could see it in his eyes.  Deal with it.  Life after life is only for the ones willing to keep going, after all.

I doubt a true misanthrope actually exists, much like a doubt a true solipsist exists.  (for long)

Anyone who truly despised the company of their fellow man would exclude all company, including their own.  If people were so offensive then even the human limitations of their own condition would grate on them.   Oblivion would be preferable.  Why continue even a solitary existence trapped in the form of what one despises most? 

They could learn to deal?  Nope, not total misanthrope there if they could.  It is possible that such total misanthropes have existed, but the condition inherently limits accurate tabulation.  (a well known problem to any student of human psychology) 

More reasonably, and more readily observable, are people who are selective and discriminating in the people they spend their time around.  In fact, if everyone had more fringe interests, properly distributed and spaced out, we could cut the traffic jams in half.  At least.  You'd never have to walk through the flesh press clusterfuck of Yawkey Way after a game.  Each and every one of you is another potential grain of sand in a logistical nightmare. 

Those places EVERYONE wants to be?  Life's better away from them. I want my kind of perverts.

Get out of my damn way.



So on a homily sort of stroll down a beach with a certain deity, Everyman looked behind him.

Usually, Everyman doing ANYTHING was a set up to prove how fucked we all were, but this time he just made an observation and asked a question.

"Hey Lord", he said (since even though he was strolling with the guy Everyman knew better than to get familiar with the guy whose NICE side was turning people into pillars of salt), "We've both been walking for awhile."

"Have we?", replied the lord.

"We have, and we've each been leaving footprints."

"It would follow."

"So how come I look back and only see one set of prints sometimes?"

"It's because I  created you just before they split that last time." the lord replied.

"I can see where they branched before then.  I was definitely there before."

"I made those too.  Deity, right?"

"No you didn't."  said Everyman.  "I remember this whole walk, the morning before it, and having beers with Paul and Peter yesterday."

"I created those memories.  Hope you liked them."

"Sure you could have, but what would be the point then?"

"There is none.  Just accept that you've done nothing on your own, exist only at my sufferance, and rejoice in your faith in me." said the lord.

"You're fucking around with me, lord." said Everyman, who turned and started back to where he'd parked his mule.

The lord smirked and kept walking.  "The kid owes me a Coke." he said to no one in particular.

Providence provides.

It sends my 911 truthers to growl down.  It sends aspies to the medieval club so I have perspective on how bent I was once.  It sends me muggers to scare the pance off of every so often, or to collect my life when my time is done.  It has placed me amongst my people, who do not wince but ENCOURAGE as we plan a cuttlefish abortion cultist stage show.

I am exactly when I need to be.  Even if I leave, I won't.  This shit, which I live for, will stalk me until I am gone.

That said, this place is selling itself off.  The city can't see the importance of it's own infrastructure, you see.  It is stymied by budgets, drained by their own BS, and shouted down by the NIMBY hordes when they try to put in more.  OH yes, there are those most special filth too, the "Concered".  So the city did the only thing it could, it began selling itself.

Imagine a blushing - faced innocent; forced by the harsh world to the street-corner.  No deeds are bought and scuttled off to be done in provate though, the bashful neophyte brandishes a knife, and publicly hacks off random portions when a john shows up with money.  Dripping gore, still displaying the flensing tool, it turns back to the street and asks "WHO'S NEXT?"  Social improvement by ling-chi?

A school, whose name is the color of shit, owns many street on college hill now.  A local businessman, brusque and professional but a good guy actually, owns his corner, and paves the roads himself in the city's stead.  The naysayers, the NIMBY, and the "concered" are told to fuck off.  It's not their property, after all.

For the moment, it works.  It would NEVER go bad, would it?

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