Inside Out

Yesterday, after I returned from town, I noticed that the hottie front desk babe was working. Baby was looking hot. She looks as though she has been going to the beach a lot. Maybe she is a surf chick. As for me, I ate a can of tuna and some bread for dinner. Then, I piddled around in my little shoebox until 8pm. Baby was still working her shift when I departed for the beach.

As usual, I sat near the pavilion structure in Waikiki Beach. One of the younger homeless guys was already there. He appeared to be lucid. He had his stuff spread out on one of the tables. Laying in the pile were two or three of those "schoolboy" composition books. Perhaps he keeps a hardcopy journal of his life as a homeless guy. While I sat on the bench looking out to sea, the homeless guy walked up and asked if he could have a cigarette. He had a pungent odor, which was a mix of not showering for days and some kind of cheap cologne. The hideous result was something that smelled like the chemical used to neutralize the turds in septic tanks. Worst yet, he must have poured a gallon of that shitty cologne on himself. Obviously, homeboy was not as lucid as I had thought. There are public showers about every few hundred feet along the beach. How much easier could it be to take a shower?

I could not tolerate the putrid smell much longer, so I moved to another bench that was at least not downwind of homeboy. The pirate was sitting two benches down. I observed that he had his one huge gym bag and ten ABC Stores shopping bags full of stuff. The band playing at Tiki's Bar & Grill across the street was pretty good. As always, the band played the Muzak® version of "moldy oldies." However, this particular band had a nice jazzy sound. I was actually beginning to enjoy myself. Then, I noticed the cesspool smell emanating from homeboy again. Another homeless guy sat under the pavilion structure. He smelled like stale brewskis and piss (read: urine). The pirate picked up all of his stuff and left. A series of chain-smoking fat slob tourists sat in succession on of the other benches. Naturally, I was privy to the second-hand smoke. I decided to walk to Fudgepacker Park (formerly Kapi'olani Park) so that I could use the restroom there. I did not venture further into the park. I returned to the pavilion structure and sat on yet another bench. I sat there for about 30 minutes before leaving.

While riding the bus back into central Waikiki, I determined that there is no place that is truly enjoyable (i.e., no overbearing pungent odors) unless I pay the price of admission. In other words, I must go to a bar or a restaurant at the least. In all aspects of our lives, the ability to pay determines the quality of the experience. I had to stop off at the ABC Store to purchase a big-ass can of Tecate® cerveza. I dropped back the whole can within minutes of my return to Chez Loser II.

I decided to do my laundry at 11pm. I obtained the key from Lance, the guy at the front desk. The hottie front desk babe was already gone. After I started up my laundry, I ended up chatting with Lance. He works two jobs, although he doesn't have to. He apparently owns a house in Moanalua and a condo in Waikiki which he rents out. He said that the pay at the hotel was not too good. We also discussed the idiotic tourists who stay at the hotel and demand to be treated like royalty. Lance is the only hotel employee that I have chatted with. The others don't give me the time of day, including the hottie front desk babe.

While I was putting my clean laundry away, I noticed that my jeans (now a part of my wage slave uniform) and my jeans shorts are probably over 12 years old. How do I know? The brand names have been defunct for at least that amount of time. Both jeans are of the "faded" genre, the style that went out about 12 years ago. Sheesh! Make no mistake, these items are slated for divestiture. I'll donate them to Goodwill. No doubt, some sleazy old fudgepacker will probably scoop them up.

This morning, I enjoyed many cups of free coffee for the guests in the hotel lobby. I also read the Sunday paper. I always check the real estate section. There was a comprehensive summary of the median prices of homes and condos, and the net change in one month and over the year. I was very fortunate to sell Chez Loser because Kane'ohe has seen a serious decline in median prices. Overall, sales have slowed down. I collected my gym bag from my little shoebox. I decided to have one more cup of coffee in the hotel lobby before I left for town. The hottie front desk babe was just starting her shift. Baby was looking hot.

During the bus ride to town, I ruminated on my inability to completely forget about babes. The problem is not my memory. Apparently, the Vienna Sausage is not atrophying quick enough. This is quite disconcerting because the babe situation is over for me. It's been over for a long time. Yet, biologically speaking, I have no control over my libido. What makes this even more ludicrous is that I don't look my age yet. Even Aunty Emily and a few of my relatives commented that I have not changed since they last saw me, which was over five years ago. I am not trying to flatter myself, mind you. I have also observed that my physique has not changed in years. I still have the same physique that I had over 20 years ago. Because I continue my weight training program, I have not lost much muscle mass. I had made measurements and reported the results in the journal. At that time, the only anomaly was that my waist was 33 inches, I believe. It's now down to 31 inches. Exercise is the real key to slowing down physical aging. Yet, the latter is neither here or there.

The real issue is that I am getting old. I am already a senior citizen, and that is the main issue. As strange as it may seem, I am in a seemingly parallel life-style to that of Anonder. "When a person, for whatever reason, does not want to marry, have children, strive for a position of distinction in society and otherwise follow the conventional path mapped out by society, then they are pretty much forced into the monastic life. The particular monastic path I am following is that of the solitary wandering holy man. The wandering is not obligatory, unless you have an excess of physical energy, which causes boredom and restlessness if you try to remain in one place too long. I suspect T is going to discover that surfing is not sufficient to dissipate his own need to expend energy, and thus he will also eventually be forced into the wandering lifestyle," he had posted on Speak! VI a while back. I believe that Anonder discussed the topic in further detail in "Philosophical Fragments." I am at the crossroads. I do not share the conventional life-style with my peers. My life is similar to that of my young twenty-something students, but they have got an excuse for being lost in life and poor. I don't. I would need at least $400,000 more in savings in order to exit society right now at the low end of the poverty scale. I will never be able to save that much, nor will my investments yield that much within the next ten years.

Perhaps that is why I am spending so much time in the proximity of the most pathetic of the homeless. Even with having to tolerate the worst pungent odors imaginable, I find myself in the same place almost every night. I sit on a bench right in the heart of the Waikiki homeless community. At the top of my list is the divestiture of my useless possessions such that I will end up with less than what the pirate hauls around. Essentially, I am homeless because I live in a hotel. Never mind that I own the "condotel" unit. In my subconscious, I am a transient. And, oddly enough, I find that sitting around with the repulsive homeless is much more comfortable than sitting in the hotel lobby and seeing the hottie front desk babe prancing about.

I went to the gym to do my usual cardio workout. The hottie gym trainer was on-duty. Baby was looking hot. Out of curiosity, I tracked my biological response. First, upon seeing baby, I noticed a testosterone surge. The Vienna Sausage was put on alert automatically. Then, my mind instinctively responded by telling itself that babes like the hottie gym trainer do not even know that the ol' lavahead exists. They would not even give him the time of day. Suddenly, the testosterone surge subsided. I felt fatigued and indifferent. Worse yet, I felt foolish. The pathetic event expended a lot of energy. I must find a way to short-circuit the whole biological process. That's where mind over matter comes in, although easier said than done. Incidentally, I am not making some kind of lame excuse to resurrect the babe situation. It's a done deal.

After the gym, I stopped by Longs® to purchase four cans of Van Camp's® pork and beans and two cans of Coral® tuna. That's six dinners for $3 and some change. The sale ends next Saturday, so be assured that I will be stopping by Longs® each day to buy more of the same. My standard of living remains quite low. My quest is to keep my "footprint" small, that is, my impact on the planet. I've reduced my living space and my level of consumption significantly, Yet, I am still living far better than the majority of people on this planet. Whatever I do has an impact, mostly negative. That's the ramification of globalization. I believe that it is possible to experience the "good life" with less, because less is more. We have progressed (term used loosely) to the point where the luxuries live out our lives for us and essentially determine our worth and person. What's left is a hollow shell with nice clothes. These days, when a vote doesn't count, when a voice is never heard, when a cry for help is never answered, when dissent is squelched, when wrong is right, we have already in place the antithesis of society. I've discovered that there is only one way for me to fight the "system." Coincidentally, it's the same mendicant path that I have followed in order to survive. What I am doing is too insignificant in the grand scheme, but it is of great magnitude in the microcosm, if we so choose to recognize that fact.

Run for the Sun

For a brief moment, I was somewhat excited about the family get-together yesterday. The event was the 50th wedding anniversary surprise party for Uncle Take and Aunty Jane at the Tree Tops Restaurant at Paradise Park. Uncle Take is moms' brother. I arrived in Mano'a a little after 5:30pm. It turned out that only a few people were there that early. Moms had caught a ride with my bro's family. By 6:30pm, most of the other guests had arrived. And, within minutes, the guests of honor made their appearance. I sat with moms and Aunty Emily. My bro's family were also sitting there, although my bro was on his way from Mau'i.

I spotted a few of the other relatives including Uncle Tosh, Aunty Maria, and Uncle T. Some of my cousins were there. I was able to chat briefly with my cousin Greg, who has always been closer to me than anyone else. He has gained weight. We are equivalent in stature, but he weighs 70 pounds more than I do. During the course of the conversation, he mentioned that he has Type II diabetes, high blood pressure, and some other ailments. He's on a variety of medications. Greg is one year younger than I. He, his wife, and two kids have moved twice since I last seen them. They now live in Salt Lake. I assumed that they traded up in homes. He's also going through the usual wage slave crap. I asked him about retirement. He laughed. With two kids just about ready for college, he won't be retiring anytime soon. Frankly, from what I can tell, the "good life" is going to be his demise. My bro's wife went to pick up my bro at the airport. They returned about 45 minutes later. I did not chat with my bro and his family at all. Dinner was excellent. There was a buffet of local food. I chowed down on the Kim Chee, by the way.

There was a short series of gratuitous and patronizing presentations as part of the program for the evening. My cousin Eric, the oldest of Uncle Take's kids, did a religious tribute. He's the minister of his own church. So, he launched into a sermon. I became quickly fatigued by it all. I did take some time to reflect about when were were all young. I remember the frequent family get-togethers. Most of my cousins and I were quite close back then. As always, time changes everything. Everyone goes their separate ways, and only their immediate families remains a priority. I was glad to see moms, though. I was also happy to chat with Aunty Emily.

Of the few people whom I chatted with, I was asked the same line of questioning. Do you have a girlfriend? No, why not? Are you looking? Out of respect, I did not go into any details about my real opinions on the matter. Instead, I just simply made insipid remarks about the wonderful single life.

Overall, I really did not sense that most of the people wanted to be there. Friend or family obligation, perhaps, and the free dinner seemed like the true motivation. Well, fortunately, these get-togethers are becoming less frequent. I seriously doubt that I will attend any future events. Moms keeps telling me to not isolate myself from people. However, I have nothing in common with anyone. What am I going to converse about? Kids? Sports news? The tube? Shopping? I have no choice but to remain a loner.

Almost everyone departed at 9pm. I drove back to Waikiki and parked the truck in the Waikiki Banyan Hotel parking structure. I rode the bus and transported myself to the proximity of the Aloha Surf Hotel. The hottie front desk babe was still working her shift. I had also seen her earlier when I departed for the family get-together. Baby was looking hot. I did not go to the beach because there was some kind of block party happening. I did not even spend time in the lobby. I sat in my little shoebox and ruminated about the day.

This morning, I drank several cups of free coffee for the guests in the hotel lobby. At 10:45am, I left for town. The faculty computer room is now open on Saturday, so I have a place of refuge. As always, I spend all my time on the computer. I have not been using my Palm® TX very much lately, although I do not regret purchasing it over a notebook computer. Frankly, I want to wean myself of the Net, especially when I am not at the Diploma Mill.

At noon, I took a break and walked to the Pali Safeway®. I purchased a couple of energy bars. I also purchased two Tina's® burritos for lunch. The burritos are filled with lard but make for a cheap lunch at 59 cents each.

After my shower at the gym, I discovered that I forgot to pack fresh underwear this morning. I packed an extra shirt, though. I must pack for a day trip whenever I leave for town since I cannot easily return to Waikiki. My gym bag is stuffed with crap. I must carry my gym shoes (which now double as wage slave shoes), my toothbrush and toothpaste, two pairs of glasses, two wallets, my gym clothes, and my work clothes (on wage slave days). And, each day, I always forget something. Life hasn't changed for me. I still live like homeless guy. I do not hang up any clothes, nor do I put anything in the cheap hotel dresser. I keep all of my clothes packed away. Mind you, I still have clothes that need to be donated. I want to whittle my wardrobe down to what I wear on a daily basis. If something wears out, then I'll replace it with cheap crap. I noticed that I still have one pair of new shoes sitting in the truck. I also have my Rockport® wage slave shoes. Why don't I just get rid of the shit?

Well, I might add that even the most mundane activities are becoming a real chore for me lately. I am talking about shaving, trimming my fingernails, doing laundry, or getting a haircut. I don't want to do anything except to sit silently at the beach. I fear that my fragile mental state is about ready to be shattered.

On the Beach

Last night, I ended up at the beach near the pavilion structure. The pirate was sitting on one of the benches adjacent to the one I was sitting on. After about 20 minutes, he picked up all of his stuff and walked off into the main part of Waikiki. A few minutes later, a young hottie walked down to the beach with a guitar case slung over her shoulder. She sat against a coconut tree. She smoked a cigarette and played with her cell phone for a few minutes. Then, she pulled her guitar out of its case and started jammin'. I could not hear her over the live entertainment across the street at one of the hotels.

I stopped at the ABC Store on the way back to the hotel. Yep, I had to purchase a big-ass can of Tecate® cerveza. I also purchased a rip-off $3 salad. I must purchase a side dish of salad at least once per week. My diet is seriously deficient of nutrition and roughage. I dropped back the can of cerveza. Then, I piddled around for a bit before going to sleep.

This morning, I drank a couple of cups of free coffee for the guests in the hotel lobby. When I had gone to get a refill, two of the Filipina housekeepers cut in line in front of me. "I guess I wasn't standing in line," I said. One ho' made a snide comment mocking me. It's easy to see why the whole world is a mess when these peon wage slaves believe they are high up the food chain. Let's see how smug they are when they find themselves slated for extermination in the secular Apocalypse by the moneychangers and the powers-that-be.

I went to the gym before noon. I had to return to wage slavery for the rest of the afternoon. However, I must leave for Waikiki at 4pm. Moms wanted me to attend the 50th wedding anniversary surprise party for Uncle Take and Aunty Jane. I will have to be in Mano'a around 5:30pm.

Lori sent e-mail. She wants us to start surfing again at least two days per weeks. We are also going to get together for lunch sometime. She mentioned that she and Kirk are planning to host a "singles mixer" at their place, of which I am invited.

The other day, Pseudo-professor Bill exclaimed, "I'm done with dating." Naturally, he was baiting me into a conversation. I took the bite. He apparently met a middle-aged hottie at Moose McGillycuddy's. He subsequently took her out on a $150 date. She allegedly told him that she was a "catch." She couldn't understand why he wasn't trying harder to reel her in, so to speak. He decided that he couldn't handle her attitude. She started calling him regularly. At that point, I realized why I don't hang out with Pseudo-professor Bill. He wants me to be his "wingman." I am not a "wingman." I have no desire to chat up babes. The Vienna Sausage is on its way out.

My disconnect with wage slavery as well as with my friends and acquaintances is becoming a little disconcerting. I feel as though I am only half-materialized in this reality. Thus, my consciousness is divided between the mundane world and some surreal place of which I have no fix upon. I have really no idea what people are saying to me. Later, I can vaguely recall conversations such as the one that transpired between Pseudo-professor Bill and I. Oddly, I am perfectly fine when I am alone. I can process the extraneous data because it does not directly involve me. Psychologically, I believe that I have detached myself in preparation to flee. The time is coming, yet I know not when.

Jungle of Psychosis

Last night, I decided to ride the bus out to the beach again, even though I was very fatigued. I sat on one of the benches near the pavilion structure. There were a couple of homeless guys sitting under the pavilion. One of the guys looked like an old pirate. He had a long, scraggly beard. His face was well weathered. I estimated that he was in his late sixties. He sat lifeless on the bench. All of his worldly possessions were laying next to him. He had one gym bag and several plastic shopping bags full of stuff. Whenever the wind blew in my direction, I could smell a pungent body odor. After a while, the old pirate muttered to himself and stood up. He had a conspicuous hump on his back. He gathered up his belongings and walked off. The typical life of a true homeless person is not easy. Possessions must be kept close at hand and guarded at all times. So, wherever the homeless go, even for short distances, all of their possessions must be carried along with them.

The number of tourists milling about has remained fairly low. I was able to enjoy my time out by the beach. Once again, I wondered where all of the homeless were. A sudden downpour had me running for shelter under the pavilion structure. Within seconds, about 20 of the usual homeless crowd came running to the pavilion. When the downpour stopped, I decided to walk to the bus stop. Along the way, there was another downpour. I happened to be near a bus stop, but for the route going in the wrong direction. I took shelter under it. People were running amuck in the rain. I stood there patiently until the rain stopped. Then, I continued walking to the bus stop that I needed to be at.

I was still very fatigued when I woke up this morning. After a couple of cups of free coffee for the guests in the hotel lobby, I departed for town. I sent off three more hurdy-gurdy DVD titles to Used DVD Empire. I still have three hurdy-gurdy DVDs left that are not on the buyback list. Yes, my most prized hurdy-gurdy DVDs are now gone forever. With the only lifeblood of the Vienna Sausage nearly depleted, the Vienna Sausage will begin its natural atrophy to impotence.

I finally sent e-mail to Lori. She is apparently leaving for New York at the end of the month. I am not sure if we will get any surfing in before then. Perhaps that is what I need, eh? A good thrashing day! In any case, we will at least try to meet for lunch sometime before she leaves.

I enjoyed a nice workout at the gym again. The hottie gym trainer was taking one of the gym members through the circuit as usual. Today, she happened to end up on the machines next to me several times. It was very difficult for the ol' lavahead to not notice her. She must have gone off-duty while I was on the elliptical machine. I saw her walking around in her hottie outfit. Lord, have mercy! Obviously, I will have to step up my program to lower the testosterone production in my wimpy physique. Sheesh! Thanks to the hottie gym trainer, I had to stop by Jack in the Box® after the gym to purchase, not one, but three delicious Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers for an early dinner. I really enjoyed that lard-based meal.

I did not contemplate much all day. I had quite a few wage slave matters to deal with. I made every attempt to move at a leisurely pace. Everyone else around me was frantically trying to accomplish whatever it was they needed to do. I now make every effort to look and act the part of a vacationing tourist. I wear my boardshorts, a T-shirt, and slippahs (read: slippers) every day when I leave Waikiki. I bring a change of clothes if it is specifically a wage slave day. During my breaks and after I am done with wage slavery, I change back to my vacation attire. I find that I am much more relaxed, and I actually get about the same amount of work done no matter what.

I will continue to stay late at the faculty computer room at the Diploma Mill. This evening, I was privy to a psycho babe (term used really loosely) faculty member who talks to herself and chews gum with her mouth wide open. I could hear the spittum churning around in her mouth while she mumbled incoherently. "Psycho" is probably close to my age, which is probably why the old guys in this age group become fudgepackers. Hanging out at the beach at night with the homeless will also remain on my agenda, unless I am too fatigued to venture out.

Imitation of Life

Last night, I discovered that taking the bus back to Waikiki after 7pm is a nightmare. Apparently, the bus schedule has changed. I recalled the days when I stood waiting for a No. 1 bus and at least four to six Waikiki buses would pass by. Those days are long gone. I finally arrived in Waikiki after 8pm. I had enough time to eat my canned beans and bread for dinner. Then, I rode the bus to the beach. I was amazed that hardly anyone was walking about. I was pretty much the only person sitting under the pavilion structure for the whole time. I felt really rejuvenated for once. There were people walking along the beach, mostly couples. A handful of people were going night surfing. As for the homeless, I had no idea where they were.

Back at Chez Loser II, I ruminated upon my impending return to wage slavery. The dread chilled me. Then, I realized that it's not so bad. I suppose that it is a matter of compromise, a willingness to water down the real issue. Or, perhaps it is the fear of being stripped naked of any semblance of connectivity with the "real" world. I simply appeased myself to quell my inner demons. I will return to wage slavery and prostrate myself once again to the god of money.

I left Waikiki fairly early this morning after drinking a couple of cups of free coffee for the guests in the hotel lobby. I went through the motions of wage slavery, but I really knew that my heart was not in it. It's not as though I have a difficult job. I can possibly attribute this attitude to the generic "phase of life" malady. After all, I am a senior citizen now. I am witnessing my own physical decline. I must also make a conscious decision to let the Vienna Sausage atrophy. I am much more tired than I used to be, but it's not the kind of fatigue that I experienced in my younger years. Certainly, there is a lot weighing on my mind. Growing old alone is not an exciting prospect. Am I going to end up rotting away in a decrepit nursing home? Am I going to be living in a run down dump, keel over one day, and have no one discover that fact for months?

At the gym, I had a nice workout and a hot shower. During my workout, I noticed the hottie gym trainer. Actually, I've noticed her for weeks. She appears to be in her thirties, but she is fine. Why do I mention this, given the decision to let the Vienna Sausage atrophy? Well, I've become cognizant of the testosterone rush that occurs in that kind of situation. When I first saw the hottie front desk babe at the hotel, I felt the same rush. That's exactly why the Vienna Sausage must be allowed to atrophy. A true eunuch would not have even noticed. In addition, a number of detrimental physical and mental sequences follow, which over time is debilitating. The reason why guys are put through this torture is to provide impetus to initiate the mating process. With no action, the body appears to retaliate. Forcing the body to lower the level of testosterone through the deliberate atrophy of the Vienna Sausage (concurrent with the natural aging process) is the only cure.

Lori called and left a message. She had sent e-mail last Friday, but I have yet to respond. I no longer carry my cell phone with me. Lori wants to know when we are going surfing again. I have not returned Rod's call either. Frankly, I do not have the energy or the desire to communicate with anyone. I am too consumed by other priorities which need to be finalized.

Hour of Thirteen

For the last couple of nights, I've been hanging out at Waikiki Beach near the pavilion structure. On one particular night, an African-American guy sat on the bench adjacent to the one I was sitting on. He was probably in his fifties. He was cleanly attired. He had a few pieces of luggage with him. I knew that he was homeless. I was tempted to ask him about the circumstances which led to his situation. However, within a few minutes of that contemplation, the homeless guy stood up and started talking to himself rather loudly. He was clearly insane. I observed that most of the homeless talk to themselves. How could one not go insane in such a life-style? If I had to isolate my greatest fear about being homeless, it is the certain prospect of going insane.

Another issue that I ruminated upon last night was the matter of letting the Vienna Sausage naturally atrophy. Related to this issue is my divestiture of my vast hurdy-gurdy DVD library, which is a work in progress. Most guys fear the day that the Vienna Sausage completely craps out. It's the loss of "manhood." I suppose that the latter is incentive enough for those creepy old fudgepackers to roam the parks at night. However, it makes no sense for me to maintain the operation of the Vienna Sausage. I would have to maintain a hurdy-gurdy DVD library just so I can move my hand up and down along the pathetic little appendage. I am certainly not going to hook up with a chick. Nor will I become so desperate that I turn into an old fudgepacker.

That was the main reason that I had to drop back a big-ass can of Tecate® cerveza last night. I may be droppin' back several more cans of cerveza in the days to come. How do I say good-bye to my "manhood"? That's a good question, isn't it? Oh, come off it, I hear you say. Believe me, the Vienna Sausage stops working if it is not "exercised" regularly, especially if one is a senior citizen. Testosterone production and sperm counts naturally decrease with age anyway. Even without the prospect of hookin' up with a babe, the thought of becoming an eunuch is not very palatable. However, at this point in time, I am more inclined to let the Vienna Sausage rest in peace rather than resuscitating it by furiously chokin' da chicken.

This morning, I sat in the hotel lobby drinking the free coffee for the guests. As always, I sit in the back section, just like a second class citizen. I watched one of the Filipino maintenance guys clean the floor. He was using a buffer machine. He had placed some yellow "Wet Floor" signs to partition off the area that he was cleaning. A Caucasian couple, both fat slobs, walked by. The fat ho' knocked over one of the yellow signs, not surprising given the amount of blubber that she was hauling. She looked over at the fallen sign and then at the "brown skin" cleaning the floor. Not even a word, or an attempt to pick up the sign. The two heffers walked to the pool area. The "brown skin" picked up the sign. He had a look of disgust on his face. He kept staring at the two beached whales, but he did not say a word. The two fat slobs passed by the area again. I watched as the fat ho' deliberately lowered her huge handbag to the level of the yellow signs. It clipped one of the signs, but it did not knock it over. I realized right then that the whole charade had been staged to put the "brown skin" in his place.

I should mention that most of my friends and acquaintances are either Caucasian or African-American. Did you see how I used the politically correct monikers? The issue of racism only seems to involve bigots who come from areas that are heavily racist to begin with. In this country, that would be pretty much everywhere in between Cali and New York. I have been trying to understand the kind of poor quality thinking that these brain donors perform. Could it be that a constant diet of lard-based fast food causes the brain to cease functioning? Could it possibly be the overzealous apostate preachers of false religion poisoning the small minds of the mental fudgepackers? Could it be the smooth ways of the pedigreed class fooling the lowly ones to believe that they are better off than they really are?

I read a brief article by Peter Goodchild titled, "Planning for a Post-Oil Economy," on the Counter Currents site. In continuing to rethink my definition of "survival mode," I am now certain that I possess little or no skills necessary for true survival when the "system" collapses. Although Goodchild specifically discussed survival in a time when petroleum becomes scarce, the scenario itself is not far-fetched for a number of other conditions including economic collapse. Living in a dense metropolitan area will certainly insure the demise of its inhabitants. With few inhabitants actually possessing any true survival skills, the majority of people will assimilate the only two "skills" that are the easiest to learn and adapt to - stealing and killing. Even brain donors could rapidly facilitate these "skills."

My homey, Rod, called sometime on Sunday. He and Hortense will be flying to Mau'i on October 5th for a week. I am not sure if I will be able to fly to Mau'i to visit with them. For the last two years, they have stayed in Waikiki. Now that I am living in Waikiki, they are going to Mau'i. Sheesh! In any case, I will consider a trip to Mau'i, if only for a day. The expense will be high, but it may be worth it to save my sanity. So far, no other calls were logged to my cell phone. Obviously, there would be no ramifications were I to terminate my cell phone service.

The Diploma Mill sponsored a free lunch outside on Fort Street Mall for the first 200 people to stop by. The lunch was catered by Wahoo's Fish Tacos. The fish burrito was delicious. That was the highlight of my day. Otherwise, I had to tolerate the pompous antics of other faculty members in the overcrowded faculty computer room for most of the day.

After a pleasant workout at the gym, I returned to the faculty computer room to continue composing the "blog." It seems that the "blog" is a big priority for me, although I really reap no rewards from it. Fortunately, the faculty computer room will remain open until 7pm through mid-December. I am happy because I will return to Waikiki one hour later. I ruminated further about wage slavery, my own in particular. My dilemma is clear. I cannot tolerate my tenure in wage slavery anymore. With so little time left on the planet, I have no desire to waste that precious time earning a pittance and dealing with myriad asswipes and morons. Yet, with only $455,000 in savings, a one-year-old truck, and a shitty "condotel" unit to my name, how could I possibly emancipate myself? Well, here's the problem that most of us face. It's the proverbial "carrot on a stick" dangling in front of us. Of course, unbeknownst to us, the stick is affixed to our backs, so the carrot is always at the same distance in front of us no matter how fast we run.

Just how much dough is required to retire? Depending on the source, it seems that we need at least $1.5 million to retire comfortably right now including a buffer for medical expenses. As you can guess, this figure is going to increase every year. By the time I reach the "real" retirement age of 62 years, I will probably need $3 million to retire comfortably. In all likelihood, most of us will never be able to retire given the prerequisite amount of dough. In my case, I will never even get close. So, I could remain in the "system" like a loyal wage slave, and perhaps increase my nestegg incrementally. Obviously, I will have to bite my tongue. I will have to continually play games with mental midgets and mental fudgepackers. Or, I could jump off the merry-go-round.

So, what's my decision concerning wage slavery? I have not made one yet. However, I do not expect my tenure in wage slavery to go on much longer. My "poor" attitude is quite easily identifiable. My contempt for pompous colleagues is equally evident, as well as my lack of tolerance for stupidity and rudeness. Yes, my time is limited. Shouldn't I play ball with these mental fudgepackers? Don't I value my pathetic paycheck? If it all had some meaning ... if I could really make enough dough to afford to live comfortably, then would I have a change of heart? Come on, the "system" is permeated with bullshit. It's the "carrot on a stick" that is making us mentally and physically ill.

All I can do is make contingency plans for the immediate future. I can sell the truck. I can put the "condotel" unit back in the hotel pool while it is listed for sale. I can either become homeless for a brief period, or I can find cheap housing in a derelict boarding house in the interim. That's the key to urban survival.

Slave Labor Day 2006

Labor Day, a holiday to celebrate another long year of indentured servitude as wage slave to the moneychangers and the powers-that-be. Countless number of people will be roasting tons of carcinogenic-laced meats on their natural gas outdoor barbeque grills. Salad laced with insecticides will be served along with fructose-saturated beverages. Or, a bevy of alcoholic beverages will be served to help sedate the mind from the realities of returning to wage slavery tomorrow.

Wage slavery it is. Working countless hours just to earn a pittance, all of which is spent frivolously on useless trinkets. Oh, it's the good life, the life endeared by all and envied by "brown skin" savages and "terrorists" abroad. No matter that such a life-style is unsustainable in the long run. Worst of all, such a life-style increases complacence and a false sense of security. Even with impending doom, the sycophants toe the company line and chant the corporate mantra. Such is life, eh?

I am sure that many people feel that the ol' lavahead has "flipped his wig." Lost it. Gone bonkers. Took a mental holiday, did he? Fortunately, less than ten people view the "blog" on a daily basis. There's no way that the ol' lavahead will be pegged for revealing the real truth. That's okay. Even in the Good Book, it is written that broad and spacious is the path to destruction, but narrow and less-traveled is the road to salvation.

Last night, I ended up at Waikiki Beach. I sat on one of the benches under the pavilion structure until the numerous fat slob tourists and the homeless populated the rest of the benches. Unbelievable as it may seem, the air becomes quite putrid with all of the chain smoking going on. When I returned to the hotel, I noticed a stud chatting up the hottie front desk babe. She was apparently loving every minute of it. However, I if were to even ask her a simple question, I am treated like a turd. Amazing, isn't it?

I met moms at Ala Moana Center at 10am this morning. Moms has finally gotten her hearing aid. However, moms is having some difficulty adjusting to the sounds that she has gotten accustomed to not hearing. I walked around with moms to Sears® and also to Macy's®. Moms actually bought some new clothes, jewelry, and a new handbag. In all these years, moms had sacrificed her own needs to make sure that my bro and I were doing fine. I was happy to see moms spend some money on herself while she can still enjoy it. Moms and I ate bento lunch at Shirokiya, which was delicious. I wish that I could eat there more often. After lunch, I drove moms home. I then dropped off some recycling. I ended up at Kahala Mall. I dropped off more donations in the Goodwill drop box. I purchased a smoothie at Jamba Juice®. It sure tasted good. I then bought some chlorine bleach and dishwashing soap at Long's. The mall was extremely crowded. I walked to Barnes & Noble®. I became fatigued when I had to do battle with the countless cattle just to walk from one end of the store to the other. I finally gave up at 2pm and drove back to Waikiki.

I cleaned my tiny bathroom once I returned to Chez Loser II. The scum had been building up for over two weeks. Nothing like generic chlorine bleach to clean up the scum. Too bad that I can't clean up the scum hanging out at Fudgepacker Park (formerly Kapi'olani Park) with the bleach, eh? With nothing to do after that, I rode the bus to town. I did a brief cardio workout at the gym. If all else fails, the gym is always there for me.

I was feeling quite despondent when the evening rolled around. I keep thinking about what I am going to do when moms is gone. I don't really have an answer. I know that I will be a basket case. That's about it. Whether that will be impetus enough for me to flee, I do not know. I ended up back at Waikiki Beach. Same ol' shit. I was about to lose my mind with all of the chain smoking around me. On the way back to Chez Loser, I stopped by the ABC Store and bought a big-ass can of Tecate® cerveza. Yes, I know. I broke my own rule. When I arrived at the hotel, I saw a stud chatting up the hottie front desk babe. Probably the same guy from yesterday. Once again, she was loving every minute of the attention. I dropped back the whole can of cerveza. Then, I spent the rest of the evening contemplating the issues before me.

I will be returning to wage slavery commencing tomorrow. I am not looking forward to dealing with the myriad punks. I am certain that I will not last another year, at least as far as my sanity is concerned. Obviously, I will have to make many changes if I am going to retire now. I will also be forfeiting most of my Social Security. Yet, is it worth continuing in wage slavery just for the paltry sum that I may not receive anyway?

Incidentally, I have included brand names and locations as well as the associated hyperlinks in the "blog" for a reason. I wanted to make obvious how embedded the consumerist life-style really is, even in my own mendicant existence. I often speak of "survival mode," but I am really not living that way per se. Perhaps, I should clarify by saying that I am in "urban survival mode." I have not acquired any skills that will allow me to survive in the wild. Those are real survival skills and will be necessary when the "system" collapses.

My Name is Nobody (Reprise)

Last night, I ended up at Ala Moana Center much to my disdain. I bought some new underwear at Sears®. I am trying to increase the number of days that I can get by without doing the laundry. Sears® in Hawai'i is actually a good place to find everyday clothes. Most of the items are perpetually on sale. There really is no need to stock any clothing inventory, that is, until the "system" collapses. I walked up to the nearest check-out counter. The lowly sales clerk was piddling around. I asked if he was open for business. He ignored me. "Thanks for answering, asshole," I told him. I had to look for another check-out counter. These lowly mofo minimum wage slaves are useless these days. I bought a few items at Foodland as well. Then, I spent the rest of the evening at Barnes & Noble®. The bus ride back to Waikiki was horrendous. The bus was packed with idiotic tourists. Half of the morons have no idea where their hotels are located. Then, they must speak loudly and slowly to the bus driver because he has brown skin.

This morning, I sat in the hotel lobby drinking free coffee for the hotel guests. I also read the free Sunday paper. I got up to use the restroom, leaving my key card and a couple of other things next to the newspaper. An elderly Caucasian couple was sitting in my spot reading the paper upon my return. I had to lift up the newspaper that they had piled on my stuff, although I was polite and said, "Excuse me." Their reply? "Oh," the old putz wearing the fudgepacker shorts said. Racism is increasing in this country, with a clear White Supremacist attitude prevailing as it once did in the days of old. Actually, this particular religion has never gone away. It was simply hidden from view. The hatred for non-white skinned people simmered all the while. Political and religious leaders are now empowered to boldly pursue racist agendas in the name of their false gods. The so-called "war on terror" is just a clever moniker for "ethnic cleansing."

Racism appeals to the masses of mental fudgepackers because they are too ignorant to accept responsibility. They are "victims." It is easy to use skin color as a means to discriminate and focus hatred. Why, color is easy to distinguish in the minds of the lowest primates. Even a chimp is not going to eat a green banana. Racism is the hatred of choice for mental midgets because they appear to have too much time on their hands. I am witnessing the pulse of the nation right smack in the middle of Waikiki. Can you believe it? I watch as these foolish debt-ridden Caucasian tourists turn their nose up around the "brown skins." I suspect that they spend their time in their shitty overpriced hotel rooms watching neo-Nazi pundits like Pat Robertson or that slimeball druggie Rush Limburger on the tube. Well, they are at least comforted in knowing that most of the "brown skins" are working in lowly jobs catering to their whims, at least the ones that are visible to them. What can they make of a "brown skin" sitting in the hotel lobby like myself who is not wearing a housekeeping uniform? Perhaps I am a criminal waiting to snatch their expensive belongings. Or, maybe I am a pervert checking out the Caucasian chicks?

I really shouldn't take these bigoted morons too seriously. They, too, will be "cleansed" during the secular Apocalypse. They don't have enough money to make the cut. They only think that they are on the winning team. That's what really gets to me - how mental fudgepackers fool themselves into believing they've made it into the big leagues. Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaa! The moneychangers and the powers-that-be are laughing their asses off at these "tools." That's what they are. Tools. They are being used to forward an agenda which eventually will lead to their own demise. Do they actually think that the elite want to hobnob with non-pedigreed middle-class savages? Guess again.

The race-class wars will not be limited to the multi-ethnic theater. Heck, the loser sales clerk at Sears® was a "brown skin." He was obviously a higher class "brown skin" because he has a minimum wage job as a sales clerk at Sears®. I should be proud of him. However, I am disgusted because he is a racist. He, too, is a "tool." He must have thought that I, a fellow "brown skin," was a welfare recipient. Doesn't my "brown skin" brutha realize that he is slated to be "cleansed" in the New World Order? The race-class war will rip the fabric of society to shreds and reduce any possibility for a collective uprising or revolution. Indeed, individualism and narcissism will eventually wield its ugly head. Then, it's every man for himself, as the old saying goes.

One thing that all of these wannabes in Waikiki don't realize is that there are no "Five Star" hotels located in the whole damned place. The aging Hilton Hawai'ian Village and the Hyatt Regency may have qualified for a "Five Star" rating decades ago, but that's not the case today. So, what we have is a bunch of aging low budget to rip-off semi-luxury hotels. People with big money, the elite, do not stay in these dumps. These places in Waikiki are for the non-pedigreed commoners. You can imagine how low the Aloha Surf Hotel is rated. The rooms in any given Motel 6® are even bigger and more luxurious. Sheesh!

At least the ol' lavahead understands and accepts his low class, non-pedigreed status. He understands that he is slated for extermination when the secular Apocalypse is invoked. That is why he is making preparations to flee. That is why he is not spending every dime he owns to impersonate Big Money Grip. That's really the message people like Mike Ruppert have been proclaiming. In fact, I am leaning much more toward Ruppert's line of thinking. Yes, there are many others out there in the "progressive" realm. I have found most of those clones to be appeasers of the "system." They still believe the "system" works and can be repaired. They still rely upon the two-party political process when it is clear that the process has been usurped. These so-called "progressives" and their ilk are no better than the so-called "conservatives" whom they despise. They have bought into the "system," lock, stock, and barrel. They have too much invested in the "system." And, that's why they are always talking from both sides of their mouths.

Knowing all of this now makes it imperative for me to immediately separate myself from society at large, spiritually if not physically. I must increase my detachment even with the few people whom I know because they will eventually turn on me. I will also need to procure a big-ass can of pepper spray. The "system" has turned the people against each other. Competition for scarce resources will further exacerbate this problem. One need only look around to see how belligerent these asswipes have become. Add the toxic racist ingredient and all hell will break loose. The "system" encourages such hatred. The dickheads can then exterminate each other. It's very cost effective. For the time being, I must become silent. I must pull myself under the radar, so to speak. Just call me "Mr. Nobody."

Transgression

Last night, I had absolutely nothing to do. So, I rode the bus to Queen's Beach and backtracked to Waikiki Beach. I sat on one of the benches near the pavilion structure. This is my new nightly ritual, and it is far from ideal. The live music from one of the outdoor bars in the hotel across the street was extremely loud. The homeless were shuffling in at 9pm as usual. My sanity was being tested. Finally, I walked to the bus stop near Fudgepacker Park.

After the bus ride back, I stopped in the ABC Store to purchase some milk, a small rip-off salad, and a bottle of Vendage® Chardonnay. When I returned to the hotel, I decided to do my laundry. Naturally, that was an ideal moment to sip the wine. I sipped the whole bottle by the end of the evening. Incidentally, Pseudo-professor Mike had invited me to join him and Bea earlier in the afternoon at Indigo Happy Hour and then on the Art Walk tour. I did not join them. The Indigo has raised the happy hour price of martinis to $3.50 (an increase of 75 cents). That's outrageous.

This morning, I felt shitty. What did I expect? My liver feels like it is giving out. As I sat in the hotel lobby and drank the free coffee for the guests, I realized that I am no better than the chimps that I despise. Sheer boredom (i.e., Frankl's "existential vacuum") apparently leaves me with only one option. That's right, I must sedate myself. This sedation is not an isolated problem. It is a national epidemic. The sad part is that I have taken the easy way out - the chimps' solution, which is purely Pavlovian. When I cannot take it anymore, then I reach for the bottle. Yet, my threshold is very low. It is as if I look for any reason to imbibe. Not only is this weakness costing me a lot of money, it is also ruining my health. Choosing to do the latter is quite stupid, given that I have no health insurance. In essence, I am still part of the "system."

The "system," of course, condones legal drug and alcohol abuse. An interesting read is an article by Evelyn Pringle titled, "Big pharma bankrupting US health care system," on the Smirking Chimp site. Sedating the general populace through any means furthers the spread of apathy and lethargy. Frankly, I am surprised at the number of people whom I know that are on multiple meds. On the bus this morning, two clowns were obviously on some kind of drug as they staggered around to find a seat. One of the clowns kept nodding off. He almost fell into the aisle several times. I could not detect any trace odor of alcohol. Thus, they were high on some kind of analgesic or anxiolytic. The sad part is that I am no better than those drugged-up clowns.

Yes, I've gone through the "on the wagon" and "off the wagon" bullshit so many times that I lost count. The obvious prognosis is that I am mentally weak, lacking any form of discipline. What's worse is that I am a senior citizen now. I have no excuse for such irresponsible behavior. And, with each time that I choose to imbibe, I increase my chances of developing a chronic illness. My weak willpower is also evident by my hurdy-gurdy DVD library and my near-dormant desire to find a babe. All of these weaknesses were willingly allowed to fester and overcome my senses for a long period of time. Had I truly possessed some semblance of discipline, those weaknesses would have remained in check or eliminated. Heck, that is one of the reasons why I maintained the journal for so long. I wanted to monitor my progress. Well, truth be known, there has been no progress. Now, in the eleventh hour, I am trying to make up for lost time. However, will I really succeed this time, or will I once again give in to my weaknesses?

I really don't have that much time left on this planet to atone for my sins and my transgressions. In fact, those very transgressions are shortening my time. All of this suggests a dependency problem, or the pop psychology term, "codependence." It's all psycho-babble to describe a weak mind, poor discipline, and Pavlovian behavior common to lower primates. I have skirted any responsibility for my actions. Moving to the hotel has caused me to increase my mendicance, which was very important to me. However, I expected that mendicance to improve my discipline. Just as I am divesting my vast hurdy-gurdy DVD library, I must eliminate my dependence on cheap booze.

Dealing with boredom is difficult. I have a difficult time imagining myself doing what Anonder did in his spare time, which was primarily to spend time daydreaming in his small apartment. Yet, what seemed like self-inflicted torture was really a means to culminate discipline. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. So true. Reaching for the bottle has also been my excuse for dealing with daily frustrations such as wage slavery, moronic cattle, and general idiocy. Once again, a lack of discipline coupled with intolerance.

There really is nothing wrong with my life these days. I live in world famous Waikiki, with the beach just three blocks away. Hawai'i is still a lush tropical place, albeit overpopulated. It is much more colorful than places I have seen on the mainland. Not having anything to do and minimizing my obligations and responsibilities was my goal. I wanted to essentially live the beachboy life-style. However, the "system" produces a lot of anxiety and induces a lot guilt when someone tries to jettison from it. These are the punishments which torture the weak, undisciplined mind.

Discipline will be tantamount to surviving the secular Apocalypse, if Armageddon doesn't beat it to the punch. Overpopulation is the underlying problem. We are heading toward our own extinction unless there is some kind of intervention. The latter thesis is discussed in an article by Jason Miller titled, "Your Extinction Will Quell Your Moral and Intellectual Confusion," on the Counter Currents site. All of this knowledge was around in the late sixties when the counterculture movement was strong. Activism was predominant. I still recall the ZPG (Zero Population Growth) movement. Whatever happened to all of those activists? Most of them sold out and joined the capitalist bandwagon. Greed and consumerism always win, eh? In the end, my predication concerning the secular Apocalypse makes too much sense. We can no longer "Band-Aid®" society together. It's been done too many times, and the old bandages are peeling off in layers. Now is the time to remain both vigilant and sober.

I did my usual Monday workout today. I'm not sure if I will go to the gym at all on Labor Day. I finally broke out some new gym clothes. I've been wearing my outdated gym shorts for five years, the kind of shorts that the old fudgepackers wear. After the gym, I ate a snack at Jack in the Box®. I ordered a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger and a Chicken Sandwich, both of which were 99 cents. The bean burritos at Taco Bell® had gone up to $1.19 earlier this year. Frankly, I don't know why I keep going there. I can get the same artery-hardening goodness for cheaper.

Tomorrow is Forever

Rather than vegetate in the hotel last night, I decided to ride the bus to the beach. I ended up at the same spot under the pavilion structure. There has definitely been a decrease in the number of tourists in the last week or so. However, with less tourists milling around, the homeless now have free reign over their beachfront property. A whole group of them shuffled in at about 9pm. I was sitting on one of the benches overlooking the beach. One of the clowns rummaged through the trash receptacle. "I found a bottle of Pepsi® and it's half full," he told the others. There were sounds of amazement from his peers. "Hey, it's still cold," he added. "I had Lasagna for dinner," one of the other clowns kept repeating. "It was delicious." No doubt, he was the fortunate recipient of some fat slob tourist's discarded Italian dinner. When they all lit up cigarettes, I left for another location.

The homeless group was having a good time. They talked and joked around about the same mundane stuff that non-homeless people discuss. They apparently eat much better than I do. Well, they have much more variety. The only drawback is that their food and beverages are retrieved from filthy trash containers lined along the beach and adjoining streets. I suppose, to those higher up the food chain, the homeless derelicts provide a moderate level of service. Like the various feral animals and varmints on the loose, the homeless feed on food that would have just been wasted.

I am not attempting to be condescending toward the homeless. I am only perturbed when I must inhale second-hand smoke from them and the fat slob tourists. As you may recall, I was homeless for seven weeks. The homeless are savvy, if not tenacious, when it comes to survival. They are quite resilient to adversity. I just wonder how the powers-that-be and the moneychangers will exterminate them in the coming secular Apocalypse.

I made several observations when I was chatting with Professor Lisa yesterday. For one thing, I noticed a profound shift in her personality and her temperament. I also sensed a radical shift from her old beliefs. In other words, she seems to be more assimilated into the "system." What was most noteworthy to me was the sublime resentment over the fact that I had made a decent profit from the sale of Chez Loser. "You made over $100,000 in a year, and you did absolutely nothing," she said. It was her facial expression that betrayed her resentment, something that I never would have expected from her. I do not share the knowledge of my financial gains for the superficial purpose of boasting. Most times, I am discussing matters in terms of financial strategies for survival. This is the primary reason that I've become a social recluse. I have nothing in common with other people. Even when I am discussing relevant matters such as personal finance, they miss the point. Then, the resentment builds because I allegedly have done nothing to earn my keep. They don't seem to remember when I had to bust my ass for five years in wage slavery to save the initial seed capital.

I have had similar interactions with Caroll in Sacramento, as you may recall. I was told that it was easy for me to have saved the dough because I was paying very little rent to moms. While that may be true, Caroll wasn't saving a dime. Then, she wanted me to loan her money. Overall, even trusted friends become suspect when money is involved in one way or another. This is what I mean when I say that someone has "bought into the system." Overall, a good portion of the people who are higher up the food chain can learn a lot from some of the homeless. I suspect that may be one of the reasons why I find myself in close proximity to them almost every night.

The realization that I will continue to live on as a loner for the remainder of my life prompted me to purchase a big-ass can of Tecate® cerveza from the ABC Store near the hotel. I had to immediately drop back the brewski when I returned to the hotel. I was also in a bad way about my inability to keep up with the increasing cost of living in Hawai'i. Yet, when I reviewed my investment accounts, I noticed that my dividend yield was about $1,880 for the month. These investments are making more than I earn in wage slavery. When combined, the income is more than adequate to meet all expenses. Then, why am I so distraught over chump change? The problem is that nothing is chump change to me anymore. In the game of survival, I must continue to reduce expenses and attempt to increase my net worth. Satisfying the immediate and trivial needs of the flesh is not important.

Lately, I have been feeling trapped again. Waikiki has become like a prison. There is no escape. The sleazy fudgepackers. The homeless. The fat slob tourists. And, I am alone, wasting my time doing absolutely nothing. I have yet to venture to the West side of Waikiki, which is nothing more than endless stores and eating places. Only a couple of the hotel staff have been friendly. The tourists staying in the hotel appear sickened when they see someone with brown skin like myself. At times, I become engorged with rage. Later, I realize the folly of my error. I am surrounded by "bulls charging to the slaughter." It is very easy to succumb to feelings of inadequacy, especially if one is the lone traveler down a desolate road. I cannot run with the pack. I am not one of them. I do not believe in what they believe in. My values are diametrically opposed to their values, as are my priorities. They believe in reckless hedonistic abandon at the expense of everyone else. They believe in looking and acting the part of the "rich and famous" at any cost. They want to be worshipped like celebrities or deities. They are simply little lambs attempting to be ferocious.

There's one common denominator amongst the lambs, chimps, and cattle. Aside from impersonating human beings, they are all totally oblivious to anything except their small little worlds. They are constantly fixated upon the "bigger, better deal." Everything is a matter of, "What's in it for me?" Separation from these mental and physical fudgepackers is a necessity for survival. Every tomorrow is a lonely day for those of us who chose the separate path.