Save-the-World Syndrome: Aspiring Harlots Rise Up

I don’t know why, but nearly every insecure little slut I have ever known has one thing in common with all the rest—they have this falsely philanthropic notion of saving humanity with their newfound knowledge of what works to have a better life.

Well, I take that back. I do know why, I think; women (and it’s usually the women) suffer from low self-esteem on the deepest levels. Be it a bad body image or a feeling of being inferior while not being able to make and sustain relationships, these marred women or girls give themselves away early in life and make it a habit to keep on doing so. They become sluts taking dick from guys they barely know in a vain effort to feel happy.

Women are what keep the world going with or without beauty, but if you want to see something ugly, look at a broken, hurting woman. It’s a sad sight to behold. A woman who hates herself can never be pretty because she can never feel pretty. All the flowers in the world sent with the most well-worded cards of deer drinking from ponds will never come close to making her feel any prettier.

So, in despair, a broken girl will become a slut, and before long, she’ll be so used to it that she convinces herself they she is happy taking in 8.9-inch, uncircumcised black cocks. You won’t be able to convince her otherwise because part of being a marred, stupid little bimbo means having to learn everything from scratch and on her own. There is no imparting wisdom. I have known enough of these little failures to know that what I’m saying is true.

On the loneliest of nights, after a few drinks – feeling rejected by her boyfriend after an argument – this little trollop will once again consider suicide (and she may have tried it multiple times already). It is in these moments of gut-wrenching, suicidal despair that she sees clearly: She isn’t really happy and she suspects she will never be. But then the tears dry up and the next day dawns.

The sun is out and the problem is back—the stupid little tramp thinks she’s happy again and has a purpose. It was just a bad night. Being a dumb girl means being insane—assuming that given the exact same choices made, the results will somehow be different. That’s the textbook definition of insanity.

It won’t take long for reality to come crashing back down, but in that time, she’ll forget again because defense mechanisms are what keep us going. If she doesn’t bleed out in the shower from slitting her wrists, she’ll keep the cycle going until she’s old, weathered, and still unhappy as shit, hitting up dudes at smoke-filled bars looking for the midnight meat from some guy who smells of cheap vodka to make her happy.

Maybe moving on will consist of making a new boyfriend. She’ll bring him home sooner rather than later and she’ll say she thinks the world of him. If she’s a white girl, she’ll bring home a black guy or someone of a different ethnicity. There is nothing wrong with that, but with troubled girls, they do so because people who communicate as they have been taught to communicate intimidate them. They feel that they can better hold down a conversation longer with someone who expresses themselves differently. This will prolong her own illusion of happiness by not having to cross the same bridge of problem solving in communicating that always manages to jinx her timid, pathetic efforts at feeling loved.

So the girl goes a few months without a catastrophe, a devastating breakup or some crisis, and this usually coincides with finding some new hobby or outlet of energy (something more than coffee, cigarettes, and exercise as a way to vent anger).

She may get involved in a church program. She may even prove a very zealous convert for a while, but because she is still fundamentally stupid and can’t keep relationships, she’ll have a run-in with the group or someone in it and the countdown to self-destruction will once again start ticking.

She may get involved in a charity program, some volunteer effort like saving animals, or she may dedicate to playing bingo on Wednesdays nights with old ladies who cannot do or say anything that threatens her or makes her feel stupid. She knows more about modern trends and dirty talk than all of these 70-year-olds put together, which makes her feel smart. Around them, there is nothing she could perceive as a threat.

So, troubled girl finds an outlet. It lasts a really long time. This makes the simple girl think that what she has will solve her problems forever and always. She has no idea that when thinking this, she’s only a short walk away from more disaster. But before disaster strikes is where she blooms (at least in her mind).

“I just want to help people find hope.” Such tearful words. You can add: “find God,” “know the Lord,” “know that their lives have meaning,” etc. It’s all the same bullshit—“I just want to be a good person and help others.” My response is always the same: “Help yourself first, you dumb-ass bitch!”

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions as the religious say, then much more so is the road to stability. Every lunatic wants to do good things and they want to be sane. Every murderer I ever read about at some point wanted to influence society in a positive way. The problem is, being unstable means you can’t keep walking the road for long. If you could, the saying wouldn’t be true. Every unstable person wants to give to others what worked for them. And it’s natural for anyone to want to talk about what changed their life, but this is where the problems begin.

As humans, we cannot grasp the fact that people are at different places in life and won’t always respond to the same advice. There is no right perception. We’re all trapped in our own houses of mirrors and we can’t easily find the exit doors. You've got to go through the maze first. It’s all a matter of stumbling into one room, finding it a dead end, backing up, and trying to remember which way you came. Sometimes you think you’re on a roll. Then you have to contend with setbacks, until finally, you find out how to get out. You won’t be of much help to anyone else.

The one who is the least expressive about doing the most good in life is the one I lean toward trusting. It’s amazing how people and their groups shoot themselves in the foot by making promises and declaring intentions with many well-spoken words—then I stand back and wait to see them backfire horribly. Until you can knock down everyone’s house of mirrors, don’t be so anxious to promise a way out.

There is no saving the world. There is no making someone feel better. There is no feeding every starving African. Might as well spend your money on you first. If you have any left over after necessities and taxes, then we’ll see about helping others. And if you give to charity, all you will get is more phone calls and junk mail from other charities trying to exploit your generosity. Fuck them!

Has your mother ever tried to comfort you when your feelings were hurt as a kid? Did it ever work even one time that you can remember? No, because what your friends were saying was true: You weren’t the handsomest kid, nor the best athlete who could give the bigger kids a run for their money. No, what makes moms moms is that they have been placed in your life by causality to make maturity in this life as fucking difficult as possible. Those that are finally growing up will probably always have a place in their hearts for dear ole’ mom, but they will gradually see the sense in not listening to her.

Like mom's powerlessly soothing words, philanthropic efforts are just retries at preoccupying those who are suffering for the purpose of reinstalling the illusion that things will get better. Say it enough and people start believing it against all other evidences. Things may indeed get better, but your promises have made things a thousand times worse—and not just for the troubled girl, but for anyone going through a crisis.

Maybe your encouragement of a troubled girl will help her to not go for that razor blade in the shower after all, but for how long? And if they weren’t going to go for the razor in the first place, then congratulations: You did fucking nothing. They could handle it on their own by themselves.  

(JH)

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Posted in bimbos , bitches , essays , harlots , joe e holman , sluts

A Walk Down Silver Sands

It was 2010 at around 7:30 pm. It started to rain. The early summer humidity is fogging up dad’s glasses and the windows of the house. There are a few bugs flying around inside. The AC feels good. What doesn’t is the family atmosphere. We’ve been at each other’s throats all day. The only thing we can all agree on is that it’s time to eat. But what?

Pizza. At least we agree on the type of food. Sis is bitching in the living room, so is mom. Dad is blasting the both of them to get them to shut the hell up. Sis kept demanding we try this new pizza kitchen off of Silver Sands and Blanco roads called The Chicago Pizza Kitchen. We had never tried it. “It’s THE best pizza you will ever have, I promise you!” she kept saying.

We’re finally in the car and I am playing with my new cell phone while hearing: “Strap her in!” “I did strap her in! She took it off! She’s old enough to do that now! God!” “All I’m saying is, sit back there next to her and stop her when she does it!” “Uh…will you fucking shut the fuck up?! I am!” “Does she have her pacifier?” “Yes, I mean, no, I left it inside.” “Well, go get it.” “She can go 20 minutes without it.” “Not if she falls asleep on the way. She’s going to want it!” “I said, shut the fuck up! I’m serious! I’m not taking this shit anymore! I’m the mom! I said its o-fucking-kay!”

At this point, sis isn’t yet totally off of drugs, and low blood sugar + mental illness would get the best of us—not counting what happened a month earlier when some loser doing drugs next to her in a parked car ODed and bit the dust right then and there. We aren’t expecting too much from her, just to get there in one piece and have a nice dinner. I knew it wasn’t going to happen.

We arrive, skidding a few times on the only partially washed-off asphalt since it wasn't raining enough to clean them off, and we turn onto Silver Sands. Just exiting the car is a phenomenal ordeal. “Joe, you had the air on the whole way and now it’s cold! Why the fuck do you have to have your way!” I, of course, replied in the spirit of brotherly kindness: “Hey, loser, if we don’t run the defroster, which requires that the AC be on, the windows will fog up and we’ll wreck. That’s not what any of us want, is it? No, it isn't. If you were cold, you should have said something.”

We get inside only to be immediately greeted by one of a number of college kids at the register inside a lawn furniture table and chair-equipped diner with those red and white, checkered table cloths. We seat ourselves, still bickering, and just when things start to calm down, the loud volume of a 32-inch plasma screen TV on the wall begins to knock around inside our heads. Soap operas in a pizza place--I'm not in the mood for soft-core porn. I can't eat like this. We’re ready to order drinks and when we order, we ask that the TV be turned down. Despite agreeing to do it, the waitress just couldn’t find time to get to it.

“Are you going to clean the Parmesan shakers again, Joe? Because that's really weird.” “God damnit!” I interrupt! “Up, up, we go! We’re leaving!” I managed to get everyone back out to the car. “Uh, maam, we’re taking our order to go instead.” I told our waitress. We’re back in the car and the windows are fogged up. Sis has to wander around outside for yet another smoke break. She’d nearly gone through her second pack of cigarettes that day.

Inside the car, we are entreated to: “whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!.....” as little Kayla cried and cried--all of this to the comely treat of more arguing. Now, it’s raining. Sis has to hop back inside the car. All we need is more discontent. The chorus of chaos amplifies. I can soon take no more. I hop out of the car. In the sparse but steady rain, I take a walk down Silver Sands. The occasional bus splashing a puddle of water on my ankles is a small price to pay for the comfort of silence with the smell of tailpipe smog and rain with pain from a degenerative left foot.

I am picked up after 15 minutes, nearly soaking wet. We turn around and head back to the pizza place to pick up our now-ready orders. Strangely, everyone is starting to calm down. “Mmmmmm” sis says, biting into a slice of her own pepperoni in the back seat. “Go on, try it, Joe!” I reluctantly and clumsily maneuver my box to the top of the stack, pry it open, and finagle a small chunk of the Italian sausage into my mouth.

Sis was so right. There aren’t words for how good this is. Sis was now back in my good graces, despite it all.

It takes a few years to realize it, and some realize it quicker than others, but it bears repeating that life is for the living. Like this pizza place, we’re always looking to score satisfaction on destinations. We’ll be happy when we get on vacation, not when we come back. We can’t wait till girlfriend, friend, family, etc. comes over and then we’ll be happy. But life is for the living. Setting goals implies transition, and transition will entail varying degrees of disappointment.

Getting to where you want to be will involve dealing with the unlikables. And then I stop and think, if I had no such BS in my life, would I miss it? The answer is NO! I’d be happy, but we’ll take it in order to get to that next destination, to that next stop on the way to happiness.

And then I rethink my earlier statement. Some of my fondest memories are nestled into bad ones. This summer’s trip to North Padre Island was fun, but the coolest thing about it is that it stays in my memory because of other reasons. That horrible sunburn and mom and dad's comments are what I remember: “Why are you hiding our wallets? We’re on vacation! We're coming back after we swim.” My reply: “Because I’m in the security field. It only takes 30 seconds for a desperate maintenance man to come in and grab something and split.” My anxiety somehow added to the experience of the trip. And yes, finally biting into that delicious pizza was appreciated all the more by the experience coming before it.

Take someone without goals or destinations and you'll notice how that same person is an unhappy one. And think of everyone you know with lottery fantasies (which is everyone). Look at how different they proclaim their lives would be with loads and loads of beautiful green money. Being debt free, new cars, new houses, hookers - slaves, or rather, personal assistants - etc. all of it is an indication of goals and having or doing something more.

And then I look at my dull life and play the same game with myself. How different would my life be? Well, new stuff is a for-sure deal, but ultimately, my life wouldn’t change. I only want to see a few places. I don’t have lofty goals or business ventures, nothing to propel me forward. Only the novelty of cool shit and writing can sustain me—and that for the next few years. Writers are the unhappiest people on the planet, guaranteed. And they always will be because they see and think on things they shouldn't. But they can't help it.

This life has almost nothing for my type now. Nothing you can ever do will have any lasting satisfaction. It’s all about moving to some new form of titillation, some new amusement that we’ll get tired of quickly. And whether it's an experience or a thing, it matters little. You’re supposed to be happy because you’re part of the journey - part of change - but then, that’s just more nonsense from life-forms who are still trying to reach out to find real meaning.

They say it’s the little things of life that make us or break us. I’ve thought so, too. But what the fuck does that mean when, in eternity, a long life and a short one are the same? I’ve got to get better at living in the moment. That’s what everyone else is doing. That’s why most of my peers go to bars and drink and go to work hung-over.

Most people don’t think about this shit. They just do it and get whatever pleasure out of it they can. They only know what pleases them and that is what occupies their minds. The smarter people think about these things and are unhappy while the semi-smart refuse to think about them because they are afraid of becoming unhappy. Watch The Road (2009) and you’ll know what I mean.

(JH)

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Posted in joe's essays

God, Indiana, and Whirlwinds

Just about two weeks after the stage collapse in Indiana, we found ourselves facing a hurricane – Hurricane Irene – a tool of vengeance that the god of the bible has historically loved and used to punish iniquity.

“For they have sown the wind, they shall reap the whirlwind.” (Hosea 8:7) 

“As the whirlwind passeth, so is the wicked no more: but the righteous is an everlasting foundation.” (Proverbs 10:25)

Witness 70-mile-per-hour winds with the ominous sky backdrop and the devastation that follows. When you watch the collapse, think of the screams, the horrors, the shock on everyone’s faces…it is events like these that, sadly, are needed to bring out the best in humanity. Look at how many of the on-looking crowds come to render aid.

They were drinking and hollering obscenities at the stage only moments earlier. And then, with the plates of emergency services full (and even the state’s governor appearing in tears on TV days later), everyone else comes to the rescue. We humans can’t get past our pathetic, miniscule differences without a tragedy of some sort, which happens to be a thing believers toast to as god’s trying us by fire. (I Corinthians 3:10-15)

Believers boast about how god tries us to make us stronger. “God always has a plan for every thing we do,” goes the stupid saying, kind of like an idiot who says: “every cloud has a silver lining”—such obvious buffoonery. But I suppose when a murderer breaks into a home and butchers the small children who live there, the poor, struggling parents can enjoy the “silver lining” of getting to save some money on paying to feed and clothe their children as they grow up. Every cloud has a silver lining!

Part of the beauty of clichés is that they are only true when you want them to be, which happens to be why they are rightly thought of and called the idiot’s wisdom. In the case of god recompensing mankind with storms to punish them, we have exactly such an occasion with god’s providence and his believers who claim that god may or may not be behind a given tragedy.

God may cause storms for whatever purpose he wants, we are told, but we can’t know it for sure. It may just be the weather. Some theologians think the Titanic went down because its very name was an affront to the almighty. Pastor John Hagee preached a sermon series on the topic in the late 1990s. To whatever end a preacher has, God does or does not cause these storms. But if the preacher says so, they have hard biblical evidence that a storm is god’s wrath.

A theologian might well claim that Hurricane Katrina was suffered because Mardi Grass women have this cool little habit of showing their boobs to the men at their riotous street drinking parties. Was the city recompensed of their sins? Yes, if you’re Pat Robertson or his ilk who think that our nation's acceptance of abortion is what brought Katrina. Just depends on which pastor you ask. But in the rather ordinary case of the stadium collapse, religious fools will be less likely to attribute it to divine justice. “Sometimes storms just happen on their own,” as a religious person I know recently said to me.

Why doesn’t it bother theologians and their stupid admirers that we can’t know when a hurricane or tornado is god’s justice and when it’s not? If god’s “weapons of choice,” as revealed in the scriptures, are the same as those used by nature, what real intimidation should modern Christians have when looking back and reading the sacred text? If we know that primitives like the bible writers were ignorant morons who thought that natural phenomenon were caused by a god, why are we to assume that those same events are any different today?

And if we believe in miracles and accept that everything that happens is from god, why today should I assume a hurricane is “just a hurricane” and not divine judgment? There is no need to resolve or feud over this conflict because it isn’t a conflict if you are a religious person; you simply accept that god might kill and maim or he might not. Like a privileged white girl with intimacy issues, the god of the bible is very fickle. He changes his mind all the time.

For instance, he says that a woman’s physical beauty is vain…

“Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised.” (Proverbs 31:30)

But then, he makes it known to us that after the endurance of his trials, Job was blessed with beautiful daughters…

“And in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughters of Job: and their father gave them inheritance among their brethren.” (Job 42:15)

Either beauty is vain or god’s blessings are vain, but how can the latter be? Answer: In that content, it just seemed right to have god reward Job for killing off his first family over a mere bet between he and Satan, to make his daughters beautiful because it’s just not much of a selling point to make them ugly, or even just plain. Religion and religious texts take advantage of language like that.

Well, we atheists like to simplify things; we say that things happen because of natural law. We insist that if a shelf falls over in your house, it has nothing to do with the fact that you were self-fornicating only 30 minutes earlier. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, end of story.

But there is one point on which atheists and believers agree—that storms (with or without collapses) are awesome to watch and can do much, much damage. Believers can’t admit that storms “just happen” to the extent that they are outside of the providence of god. They want you to think that they can so that you will give them credit for being at least remotely rational, but they can’t and aren’t going to. That would be atheism. Life taking its purely natural course—nope, that’s atheism! That would mean that the fact that there is death and devastation in the first place is undeserved, and therefore, would suggest that god does not exist and does not take charge of his creation. Bingo, we say.

We watch as god deserts an entire stadium full of people, killing 5 and injuring many more, while leaving the rest to clean up his mess. That’s the way it has always been—when god can’t speak, humans speak for him. When god destroys the world, we rebuild it, giving him the credit that he at least started it all for us. We’re the underpaid maintenance men of god’s crappy creation; we’re also the custodians who clean god’s restrooms – this shit-house known as earth – and sometimes god fires his custodians.

Those 5 who died in the collapse, God “canned” them. Those who were injured were “suspended” and sent home for a while. We’ll never know why, or whether or not it was god who did this, and theologians and believers are totally okay with not knowing. I’m not. But what’s the difference. We’re all employed to clean up the shit he leaves behind while holding our noses.

(JH)

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Posted in atheism , every cloud has a silver lining , hurricane irene , hurricane katrina , indiana stage collapse , joe e. holman , sugarland , whirlwind

The Harm in Being a Loser

It’s Wednesday, May 4, 2011. By 7:41 pm, my fourth consecutive game of Chess ends in checkmate with me as the loser.

My opponent is a computer program written in 1992, or so it says in the “About Chess” tab at the top of the screen. Have no idea who wrote it, but they knew how to do it. Came with my MacBook. The thing plays a damn strong game. Difficulty level is set to just passed the halfway point. I have not ever been able to obtain so much as a draw against it. This thing has not only never lost to another computer program, it beat them as well. The computer at Chess.com set to the hardest level (2000+) loses.

I’m no newbie to the ancient game. I learned to play as a kid, but it wasn’t until I got ChessMaster 4000 Turbo more than a decade ago that I got serious with it. So I had two hobbies growing up—whacking off to Larry Flint’s admirable artwork and Chess.

Chess is a bloodthirsty game and it reflects the game of life, the cruel, twisted, and costly game of life where we pay for the mistakes we make and are forced to sacrifice what is dear to us because of oversights, and of course, because we don’t get what we deserve. We just get what we get.

My old friend Brian Kieford taught me Chess and Old Man Whitecotton taught me how to play a worthy game. So here I am on this sunny evening, barricaded in my apartment as normal, silently contemplating a good opening. I’m white. Computer is black. I open: e2 to e4. Unlike with human opponents, I don’t expect the Sicilian Defense from Computer. She never uses it. Computer counters: e7 to e5.

I advance: a2 to a3. Then, it’s d7 to d6, as Computer responds. I play d2 to d4. Computer takes pawn, e5xd4. I take invading pawn with queen: Qd1xd4. Pawn is gone. Now it’s knight on b8 to c6. I’m already in hot water, not really, but it’s coming. I’m feeling it. 21 moves later, the game ends with white checkmated (Rd3 to c3) after what (briefly) appeared to be a close winning streak for me. Sensei is victorious yet again. “You’re not ready, grasshopper!” Master Computer has my utmost respect.

It may surprise you to know that there are as many possible Chess move combinations on a chessboard than there are atoms making up the observable motherfucking universe! No joke. That’s estimated to be between 4×10 to the 79th power. Such is a number so ridiculously big that you can’t even fathom it in any useful way, so please don’t try.

I said don’t try, damnit!!!

Try instead to realize how much more superior our computers now are in comparison to us. This is not, in all senses, a true statement since we haven’t yet had to contend with artificial intelligence and the civil war we will someday fight against machines as they battle for their volitional freedoms, but we will (No, I haven’t been watching too much science fiction reviewing movies). We really will. I just happen to know that given enough time, science fiction will become science fact. Think about that.

Nonetheless, computers and their speedy calculating and organizational powers have long passed us by. Calculators started it and now computers change words on our word docs without us suggesting a thing. They get used to what we access most on our desktops and they identify our distinctive usage of operational styles and features, and our usage of language. Don’t tell me you don’t feel at least a little creepy when you find your computer starting to figure you out! It’s goddamn stalking!

But even computers don’t take into account every possible move when playing against an opponent in a game of Chess. As we’ve seen, there’s no way that can happen. The biggest computers out there can’t do it yet, and certainly not desktops. Chess computers have pre-programmed formulas based on algebraic notation, the same code-talk I’ve been using above to describe the opening of my game.

Most of you may remember World Chess Champion Garry Kasparov, who, in 1997, lost to Deep Blue, the IBM super-computer. Now we must say that for a human to even compete against such a monster like Deep Blue and be a serious challenge speaks volumes about human intellectual capabilities. To have gotten us this far is gut-busting amazing, but Deep Blue was still victorious. She got the crown. We must sing her praises most loudly.

It’s sad, really. Deep Blue’s victory marked the end of an era when computers consisted of simple scripts, simple algorithms. Now, even desktop computers are far smarter than their comparative “ancestors,” which took up whole rooms of warehouse space to process data. Go on and check out the first computers built in the 1950s and 60s. They’re about as funny as the props of any cheesy science fiction out there.

So, the machines have won…and they’re not even done yet.

We are the losers. I know I am a loser. My computer reminds me of that everyday. I’m no match now and I doubt I ever will be for this lowly, simple program I compete against all the time for fun. I have much, much better success with human opponents. It’s a sign of the times, friends. We’re the losers. We’re the losers because like Agent Smith told Morpheus in the first Matrix, we’re dinosaurs! We’re old as fuck and like viruses to the planet.

Me, I’m not only “old” in the eyes of the youngsters, these 16 and 17-year-old lifeguards at the hotel where I’m employed, but I’m well on my way to the grave. Every time I put my left foot on the ground and try to walk, I’m reminded of the daily decay of these frail bodies. But that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with being a cockroach, just so long as you know the exterminator is coming. There’s nothing wrong with being expendable. There’s nothing wrong with being inferior. There’s nothing wrong with not mattering or else not playing a huge part in the universal scheme of things. But there is something wrong with not knowing those things. 

My species still believes that humanity is a great species, one that shows promise and is full of goodness and hope. Most of my fellow humans don’t see how they are a cancer, stripping the world of what it has to offer to build their own particular empires of paranoia in survival-based, methodized madness.

Now, that’s natural, I know. We’re doing no differently than the beaver as he builds a dam. Our children do the same in much cuter ways as they build forts to wage pretend wars. But this building and pretend war-waging seems innocent until we realize that it’s what we will do until we are stopped. It’s not pretend in the adult world. We’ll keep building and planning and counter-planning, and fighting, and subverting until we are eliminated.

Now the problem of which I speak is not trying to survive, but of not knowing that we are destined to come to our collective end sooner than we think. The way technology is going demands that we meld with it to transcend. Otherwise, we’re stuck. We’ll never be able to open wormholes and travel to distant galaxies with our current mental capabilities. We’ll need to have greater brainpower, greater “hard drive” capacities, and we’ll need technology to make that happen.

And we’re on the road to that now. Every time you turn on your AC to feel comfortable, every time you turn on your stove to cook, and every time you employ computers to read or play or get your information, or to check your bank account online, you are saying a lot about our future and your ever-growing reliance on technology. Odds are, you’re only alive to this point because medication and technology dubbed you worthy. 

No, the atheist visions of a future Utopia made so by computers and medicine isn’t real. Next to wishing we were all suddenly non-existent, I wish they were real. Life might or might not be better in the future. We won’t even be human in, say, five or ten million years down the line. We’ll be some freakish sort of biological…thing. Who knows what. But we probably won’t be studying foreign solar systems as much as we imagine. We’ll probably be killing or else trying not to get killed—that is, if we even exist then. We may be knocked back to the Stone Age or back further still to when our days will be spent scavenging to stay alive. In another 800 years or so, we may well get wiped out totally and some other life-form will replace us.

Are we ready to admit that it’s not all about us? No, I’m afraid we’re not, not when churches full of the self-deluded who are afraid to die still exist, and certainly not when some of those churches publicly burn copies of the Koran to incite the rage of yet less-evolved savages who have claimed lives over the pointless, meaningless nonsense of religion. 

We’ll never get the attention of any superior alien races (if they are found to exist) until we get away from these fears, these unsettling strands of cultural and social phantom offenses taught by religion. The societies of the nations of the world are choked with concerns that mean nothing and everything.

The debate on healthcare and the “fine line” issues of medical ethics in stem cell research and that really old pro-choice vs. pro-life abortion debate means nothing when you realize that killing a thousand fertilized eggs with maybe 7 to 10 eggs of to-be super-geniuses does society well—consider how many criminals, welfare junkies, mentally and physically infirm moochers of society, and grocery-bagging underachievers we’ll have gotten rid of. There will be other geniuses. There will be other average Joes.

There will be others. There is great wisdom in that statement; there will be other geniuses, just as there will be other menaces to society; there will be other disease-carrying immigrants; there will be other fair-complexioned white-collar criminals who will take longer to catch than their less smart blue-collar, dishwashing counterparts; there will be other cockroaches, other ant hills that pop up in our yards, and other fleas to jump off the back of your dog and start an infestation in your carpet, resulting in you having to call Orkin.

And why don’t we realize this? Because we’re too damn self-important. We don’t think of ourselves as ants or cockroaches. We think we’re something better. We have to be here, and after we’re here, we’ve got to go be with the big boy upstairs in the afterlife. That’s why there has to be an afterlife—because we can’t just die and there not be anything for us. What good is thinking when our thinking leads us to concluding that there will come a time when thinking is no more? It’s about as good as children having children for countless eons, only for one generation to realize that we’ve had enough, and no more will be made. We just can’t bring ourselves to think it.

We can’t be the losers, not yet. We’re like the little ones, tugging at dad’s shirt, saying: “Let me win one!” No, kid. You’ll be able to beat dad when you can beat dad, or you may not. In the meantime, learn how to lose. That’s what we should say. That’s what we should know. It should be a fact of life. But that’s what we’re still having to learn.

(JH)

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Posted in chess , cicilian defense , deep blue , essays , garry kasparov , joe e. holman , larry flynt , mac chess program , sicilian defense

Martin Gutierrez: The Man Who Was Just Better

These, the tenth-grade years (1990-91) were the greatest of Joe Holman’s high school days. 

It was a kickin’ time. The cars were still mostly square. Saturday Night Live had a great cast. My favorite sitcoms were still on the air. I would anxiously wait for the next Sunday night’s episode of Married With Children just after seeing the then-influential show, Herman’s Head, which happens now to be known as the show where the first reference to “condom” was used in a major time slot broadcast.

These were the days of hard, hot workouts in the old garage with dad’s rusty weights. Those weights still sit in that garage. These were the days of unrestrained passions, of doing what mattered in the moment, like cramming down four packages of Reese’s Buttercups and a Diet Coke at lunch, not caring about the inconsistency, or swiping a few double-meat burgers and fries from the ugly broad working behind the lunch line when she wasn't looking (and one time, getting caught trying to).

These were the days of hitting the Olympic weights in the calisthenics room in the school gym we frequented. These were the days of getting dressed up like hippies and causing some trouble in the neighborhood and kicking every stop sign we came across, saying: “I hate life!” when, in fact, we loved it. These were the days of walking around campus in a tight IZOD shirt and then walking around the rest of the day with a decent pump to sport my proudly owned 13.3’ inch biceps.

It was right after the big move from Judson High to Macarthur High. I came in just before mid-term. Met the guy who became my best friend that year. His name was Dan Wright. I envied his size and strength. His 14.5’ inch pythons had me pumping iron with “blood, sweat, and tears” in the style of Rocky, in hopes of matching his genetic advantage. It wasn’t quite to be, but it was fun as hell trying. We tanked up and walked around like badasses. Gave me something to strive for in these, my years of strength and health.

Dan and I were quite a team with Nico and a couple of wannabes who were so low on the social totem pole that our position was something to look up to. There was another Danny and a chick whose name escapes me who worshipped the ground he walked on. As a group, we were the dramatists, carrying on in silly displays of martial arts maneuvers and mock posing exhibitions—laughed at by most, but admired by a small few.

The scenes we made, I’m sure, are still remembered by some other than just me. After all, it was Dan and Nico who had our entire school cafeteria screaming, as Nico beat Dan in an arm wrestling match that delivered both applause and mockery. One girl came up to Nico after the match and said: “You stood up as you forced his arm down, so you guys need to go again.” I could see it in Dan’s eyes that he had had enough, and so had the administrators and all who were responsible for keeping order in the cafeteria that day. They had to resume control and stop the throwing of spit-wads, dinner trays, and crumpled pieces of paper. “You guys get going to your next period class now!” “But the bell hasn’t rung yet.” “NOW!”, the Vice Principle says. To think that we caused all that ruckus that no doubt resulted in a few meetings on how to prevent it in the future...whew!

But it was the dynamics of this crew that was the major event. Nico, an outgoing oddball who never knew when to quit and wanted all the attention and glory for himself, should have clashed with Dan, but for some reason never did. Big old Dan was the passive-aggressive type. I guess that’s why he and Nico never clashed like Nico and I sometimes did. I was the submissive type, but Nico’s antics could still have me at his throat once in a while. But we were kids and had no idea about how dominance and submission works, or of the complex nature of personalities. We were about to learn a little more.

So we have English class together, Dan and I. We’re the coolest in the class, or at least we thought we were. From the back row, there is this 6’5 Mexican boy - big, dark and rough looking - with a brown bandana just above his eyes. He took it off only when told to by the teacher. He was a smart kid, unlike the gang-bangers he ran with outside of class. He was sharp enough to flatter and obey the teacher, but his eyes held that the rumors about him were true. He had nothing to prove because he knew he was badass.

Martin Gutierrez was his name. I’m sure he’s in jail today, probably doing hard time for assault or worse. Rumor had it, this bad boy ran around with Emilio Vasquez, a kid who packed a pistol and threatened to shoot some kids. He didn’t need to threaten others who knew he was a badass, a trench coat-wearing badass. Word had it Martin charged a cop working security at a club and body-slammed him to get out of getting issued an MIP (Minor in Possession). I asked around and found it was true. Emilio confirmed it: “Listen, it’s true. Just don’t go around talking about that, okay?”

Martin always chose to sit in the back of the class, and it was for a reason; he got to watch everyone. I wouldn’t have spotted it had it not been for Dan. Dan always hated Martin, this smooth-talking guy who knew how to rouse the class into roaring laughter with his wit. He was the life of the party. And Martin picked his battles, too. He argued with the teacher only when he felt the need. He preferred to keep quiet and pounce only when an attack was called for. I just barely had the wisdom to notice it at the time, but I noticed it.

Dan and I never had our way with this class. That was partly because I had the smarts to know that I wasn’t the big fish in this pond, and that was why I kept quiet; Dan decided to test Martin. Down in flames he went! The guy was too sharp and too influential. From that day, Dan’s internalized despising of Martin welled up. “I hate Martin! I hate him!”, Dan would say, almost huffing and puffing when saying it. The class just wasn’t the same for him, so Dan decides to put stock in doing what he’s good at – the same thing we did in the cafeteria – which was arm wrestle to re-establish badass-dom.

So, in a futile quest to assert himself to attention-worthiness in this large class of 27 students, Dan decides to take on any dude in the class. Dan could destroy me and I could hold my own remotely with my best arm against his worst arm—the left. I didn’t mind losing to my friend. Hell, I wanted to see him reign supreme in not losing to anyone else except to Nico that day in the cafeteria, but Nico got lucky that day--and despite his pride, he knew it. Dan was sore and had pulled a muscle in a workout the previous night and he still agreed to take on Nico. When he was fresh and healed up, Nico and Dan went at it again on the steps out front of the library and Dan won with little struggle.

Dan knew he had the bragging rights, and this class would not stand in his way! Dan arm-wrestled every willing guy in the class. He won by a huge margin every time. Dan keeps carrying around this chip on his shoulder, though. He can’t stand Martin, the class clown who lazily lounged in the back on the empty desk in front of him, sitting with his feet propped up as though having a calf. There was a kid sitting there, but Martin made him move so he could have more space to stretch out.

Dan starts to get talkative about his victories. He slams down the arm of this black kid named Tobias. I remember that kid. He had one of those tall, “House Party” style hairdos. Dan beats him and then boasts victory: “Yeaaahh!” And then, unexpectedly, from the back of the class, came this voice: “Hey, hombre, I’ll take you on.” It was Martin who was ready to give Dan a run for his money.

Dan rotates his body in the chair quickly. His eyes widen and he jumps up to claim the chance. He wasn’t scared. He was ready and never so happy to do what he was best at. His breathing suddenly elevated, he was jumping at the chance - shaking with the utmost exuberation - to put Mr. Loud Mouth Mexican in his place. He wastes no time, but gets up, with adrenaline pumping, and heads to the back of the class.

This kid named Rex, always bringing his headphones to listen to the dirty standup comedy tapes he loved, takes off the headphones and pulls up a free desk from the back. Unmoving, Martin is still lounged against the back wall. There is some shuffling, and then the two are locked arm-in-arm. “BEEEEEEP.” Then there is more shuffling. Those few kids who were watching grab there book bags and class is over. “Damnit!”, I think to myself. Dan was all the more angry. We grabbed our bags and headed home.

Two days pass. Dan and I hit the weights. He’s so psyched up that it’s crazy. We both charge into the same class, still pumped. “Let’s arm wrestle!” I say. We lock up, and not a moment after doing so, everyone is as lively as we are in watching, even the teacher. Dan slams me down with each arm effortlessly. “Now you’ve got to finish your match with Martin.” that Rex kid says, taking off his headphones again from that well-greased head of hair. “Oh, I’m ready! I’ve never been more ready!” Dan says. He then looks back at me and says: “He’s going down today! I promise you, Joe!” “You’re psyched up! Awesome! Kill him! Kill him!!!” I say. That was the good news.

The even better news was that expecting to complete our assignments first, the teacher says: “I’d planned a free day today. Why don’t you guys get started now?” Wow! Our teacher is in on it! This large but sweet and pear-shaped lady, Mrs. Hendershot, who was sometimes too kind for her own good, was talking with another student about her breakup with a man she was dating, and even she is interested in being sidetracked by this little classroom sporting event. No, she wasn’t always staying on us about our work, but she was cool enough to allow the events that make this story a memorable one.

Martin walks into the classroom right at that time: “So how about it, cuz?” He’s thinking the same thing we were. Dan starts to say: “You bet! You’re...” (I think he was going to say “You’re going down,” but Martin was too dominant, so Dan trailed off and turned to me instead and said, after a brief pause: “This is it, Joe! I mean it! He’s going down!”) I’ve never seen Dan so psyched up. Martin throws his books down as carelessly as ever as his friends and the entire class arrange Dan’s desk around Martin’s and adjust their own to watch in a mob hungry for entertainment. 

“Go! Go! Go!” the class begins to chant. It’s Dan’s bad arm first. He can barely compose himself as he sits nervously wanting to win this. They lock arms, left arm with left arm, and he gives it his all. Martin stares into his eyes, watching him struggle more internally than externally, as he tests his opponent’s strength. Martin is studying him and soon has a great feel for what he’s up against. You could just tell.

Then, BAMMM! Just like that, Dan’s left arm is out of the game! He goes down without much competition for Martin. One or two “Ooohs” can be heard from those watching. But Dan doesn’t miss a beat. He didn’t expect to win with his “bad arm,” anyway. 

“Now try this arm! My right arm is my good arm!” Dan says. Martin puts up the other, not saying a word. Dan is now so shaken he can’t help but turn red in a concentrating silence. Locked together, they begin, as Martin continues to let Dan “charge out of the barn” to see what he’s got. Martin doesn’t go down, but I see his jaw start to clench and his lips start to flatten in exerted effort.

Dan is giving it all he’s got, sweating and even using his left hand to grab the edge of the desk for some leverage. Martin begins to feel less relaxed. He doesn’t sit up, but seems to be exerting more effort. But after a few more moments of Dan’s strained breathing, in efforts to nail down victory, he realizes he’ll have to hold out for the long haul and wear him down. Martin is holding steady! And then there’s that worrying concern that maybe he isn’t giving it his all yet!

Time passes. The class gets silent. Martin keeps centered. He succeeds against the onslaught of endless tugs from Dan. Dan is running out of steam fast, sweating as he gives it his 110%, his face starting to wince as he shakes in what seemed to be occasional cramping pains. Everyone is watching Dan, maybe thinking like I was: “He sure is taking this seriously!” I have no doubt that every single moment of the struggle was for Dan a torturous fear of a would-be reality of not winning, or worse, losing.

The brief silence is broken: “You ain’t gonna take me, cuz.” Martin says. Now, Martin decides it’s his turn. For the first time in a long time, his back comes away from the seat and wall as he curls himself around to push. Dan starts to fall, his eyes beholding the maximally unwanted reality of losing while shaking almost violently, trying - fighting and trying - to muster up another round of pull power. Alas, he’s got Martin right back in the middle, but Martin’s not done. His next wave of power has Dan whining under his breath to maintain the effort. My eyes meet his and I start to feel for Dan.

Each of them now bursting in temporary waves of strength, the one after the other, to try and pin the other one, the energy levels drop as the cramps and grunts begin to rise. Martin loses interest quickly, so he goes back to holding. “You ain’t gonna beat me, cuz. You just ain’t. I can do this all day.” In a world of eye-squinting, cramping pain, he releases his grip while getting an un-admitting stare of respect from Dan.

“Aw, keep going,” a few can be heard to say. “So Martin really won because he beat you and you only held your own with your best arm to him.” some dude says to Dan, as Dan is massaging the lactic acid out of his right arm. He’s devastated, but he doesn’t acknowledge any of it.

Ten minutes later, the class is over. The excitement has died down and we walk down the hall of the main English building, feeling the despair of defeat. We felt like a team that lost the big game. Martin never won respect from Dan, but he did win many fewer behind-the-back expressions of dislike, I assure you. Call that respect if you so choose.

As we walk, Martin and his friends pass us laughing as they tape a “KICK ME” sign on the back of some nerdy kid. The whole match wasn’t even a big deal to Martin or his friends.

The whole experience is a clear example of how being a superior person is not only made evident by how someone stands out when put against the background of the masses, but about how superiority is evident to those who lack it. It stands out regardless of what anyone says or does, making those of us who don't possess it envious.  

(JH)

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Posted in dan wright , diet coke , herman's head , izod , joe e. holman , journal , judson high school , Macarthur High school , Martin Gutierrez , reese's