I like to reflect on things to see if there is any form of improvement or to see how I can improve myself as a person.  In doing so it seems like life is measured in tiny increments of pain at times.  Just one traumatic and painful experience after another.  Allow me to digress and talk about pain for a second and then I will get back to the point.  The more pain you experience and the higher the threshold you will have.  A prime example is when I severely burned both arms in a work accident.  After enduring that, things like a punch in the mouth seemed rather painless.  This also works on a mental level as well.  So anyways, when life is measured in painful experiences it’s easy to think you are doing fine because you are just used to being jaded and your tolerance is ever increasing.  Sure, both body and mind take a toll, but you fool yourself constantly and you think that things can only get better from here.

It’s been almost exactly one year since my departure from the states to the lovely island of Puerto Rico.  I like it here.  It’s lawless and enchanting in ways words cannot describe.  It feeds my craving for carnage, decadence and lust.  Much like a child with ADHD taking Ritalin, the overwhelming amounts of my vices seem to balance me out.  I need balance.  Always have and always will.  But this beautiful tropical island is also like jail cell; albeit the most lavish cell I have ever had the privilege to sit in.  I came here knowing few people.  I still don’t have that many friends here.  It’s awkward at times do to culture and language differences.  So a lot of times I am left to just reflect on my past.

When I first came to visit this island it was on my honeymoon.  When the marriage dissolved and failed I went on a downward spiral.  I couldn’t take life in NYC anymore.  It was becoming intolerable and my behavior was rather repugnant at times.  An offer to move to PR came at an opportune time and I snatched it.  I thought it was great as I had a handful of friends there and could just start over.  I also moved here because while my marriage had failed, I had great memories of being a young man in love.  If I may only experience this feeling once then I should at least do my best to remember the good times.

Living is much like an exposed raw nerve.  So many exquisite sensations all at once.  Over time you become accustomed to it.  But you shouldn’t forget what built your tolerance; the good or the bad.  If the world goes into eternal darkness, I can at least say I felt the sun on my face.  If the the water runs dry and lands become barren, I can at least say I swam in the oceans and laid in the shade of a tree.  If I may never love again, I can at least remember what was like to wake up to a pretty face and believe in forever. I’ve felt the bitter cold of winter and a ton of hardships as well.  It’s all easy come and easy go.  What’s important is that you pay homage to your ghosts.

http://mediafire.com/file/w471rj0z6cb65rb/Season’s%20Beatings.zip

Jesus was born unto a poor carpenter, Joseph and a very young virgin named Mary in a stable due to there being some occupancy issues at the inn.  Three Kings showed up and gave him presents of gold, frankincense and myrrh.  I don’t know what the stock market rates for these things were back then, but gold is gold and it has always been valuable.  I don’t know anyone who had random strangers give them gold for being born, let alone aromatic resins that are good for lowering glucose, better digestion and healthy skin.  Later in life he worked with his step-dad as a carpenter and, as most scholars will agree, was a Rabbi.  The legend is that he did all this neat shit with bread and wine, became king of the jews, died in a horrific manner for the sake of atonement, rose from the dead and went to heaven.

Now that we have the basics covered, lets get into how he was a spoiled brat:

His dad is technically the head honcho.  I’ve never heard of god having a boss or someone above him.  If this were Middle-Eastern polytheism, I would bring up that there was a god eater (his name was Unas, by the way); but this is not the case.  So, Junior is like the second in command.

The whole world celebrates this guy’s birthday in some way shape or form.  Sure, a lot of it is for the wrong reasons, but whatever.  I cannot say that for anyone, including Elvis or Don Magic Juan.

Jesus likes to play off this shit about him dying for atonement.  He died so that the sins of man could be cleansed and we could all be forgiven.  But he didn’t really die, his ass came back for Easter and he probably mooned the Roman’s on his way to Heaven.  It was all a scam as far as I am concerned.  The only other scam that comes close to this is what the banks and global corporations are doing to the world now, and that is with a huge margin in-between.  Let’s face it, if god were a working class sort of guy, old J.C. would still be rotting in a box. My dad never bailed me out of a jam.  I had to figure it out myself.

This whole turning water into wine sounds a lot like some rich kid buying a round for the entire bar.  Who the fuck do you know that rolls like that?  Then he feeds the five thousand and bangs a whore.  That’s some serious clout going on.  Some would say he was ” straight up ballin’ “

He was also “The King of The Jews”. Need I say anymore?

So why do we celebrate this day?  Who are we really honoring?  Do we even really honor ourselves?  It seems to me like it has always been one big marketing scam either financially or religiously.

Gift giving with sentiment is a dying art form.  Honestly, I’d rather receive a random gift on a Tuesday than on a date mandated by some archaic hotshot in the sky.  The story of Jesus reads like an episode of the Maury Povich Show to me. “You are not the father, Joseph.  Your thirteen year old bride, according to this test, was knocked up by a strange deity in the sky.  This could also be the work of George Lucas and his midichlorians, but again, you are not the father!”

Everyday should be Christmas, for the same reasons I think everyday should be Halloween.  Be yourself, enjoy life and if you are going to show appreciation and affection; do it on your terms as you feel you should.  Putting nativity scenes and running up your electricity bills isn’t going to get you into heaven any faster.  Let’s keep it real in the new year and do things right way, with sincerity.

With as much and as little as I have said, here is my latest reoccurring nightmare:

Upon confronting my parents on their lack of parenting and general bad decisions my father and I butt heads as usual. He and I both have bad tempera and so us clashing is nothing new. I do my best and stay calm. I wish them well and bid them goodbye forever. Things just haven’t worked out well. Upon leaving the house and walking up the driveway I hear a gunshot. My father has just shot my mother. Now this is where things vary. He always comes out and blames me for what he has just done, but he either shoots me or he shoots himself and leaves me with the parting words “it’s all your fault”.

Yeah… Really excited to see them.

You can be whatever you want to be when you grow up:

In theory, yes you can be whatever you want if you really try. But that little harmless morale booster doesn’t quite tell you the fine print. Like if you told your quadriplegic kid he could be an athlete some fine day if they really wanted to… That’s not a complete lie. They have the Special Olympics for people who want to challenge their disabilities and overcome personal barriers. It’s a good thing. But what if that kid wants to get more specific and be a swimmer? A quadriplegic can’t swim! Float, sure. But never swim. Let’s even go so far to add the hope of a medical or scientific breakthrough. Even if they found a way to fix your broken kid tomorrow, your child may never ever receive treatment. Shame on you lying parent, shame on you!

Or let’s say your kid wants to grow up and be the next Hitler? Do you really want to encourage that? Seriously folks, shoot your kids straight. Your child sometimes shouldn’t be encouraged to be whatever they want.

I will always be proud of you, no matter what:

That’s just bullshit right there. Wait till your kid is strung out on drugs because they had their dreams crushed and do animal porn. Will you as a parent be proud of your kid then? You should be, it’s your fault. Your the one that lied and said they could be whatever they wanted. It never happened and it sent them on a spiral. Great parenting asshole, keep up the good work!

However, I will say this, there are some lies that parents say everyday that actually work. For example:

We’re not poor, just broke:

I heard this a lot as a child and when I look back I know full and well we were fucking poor. But it left the parties involved with some dignity and it was very encouraging. As an adult when I find myself at a financial rock bottom I know that this will pass. I am not poor, I am just a little skint on money at the moment. I’ll check myself and totally understand why my pop would pull that line on me now. It made me appreciate what I had and taught me the value of a dollar.

It’ll be alright:

I don’t even have kids and I use this lie all the time. No-one has anyway of knowing the out come of anything, not even Walter Mercado. But, at the same time, it might just be alright. If you get your ass in gear or look at the broader picture you’ll see how things may actually pan out. Even if you are terminally ill and dying; it’ll still be alright. It’ll be over in time and everything will work itself out. The getting from Point A to Point B may not be fun, but that’s OK. It will be alright.

The Doctor’s truck had been broken into the night before and was in a rather foul mood to begin with.  So it wasn’t going to take much to irritate him this fine evening. I, being a good friend, agreed that he should go on the date and maybe getting a piece of ass would do him some good.  So sure, I’ll tag along and engage his ugly friend in witty banter as he makes like Romeo with her friend.  He’s just gonna have to keep the rounds coming.

They call us from the plaza a few short blocks away informing us that they have not only arrived, but that they also are having some car problems.  We meet them, introductions all around and then we take a look at the car.  It turns out the front bumper of the car was falling off and we could do a hasty repair with some bailing wire in the meantime.  We go to the tattoo parlor where we work at to obtain some wire and pliers.  The owner is there late tattooing some longstanding clients.  I explain what is going on and proclaim that The Doctor is trying to set me up with a yeti.  The clients are now intrigued as to how ugly this young lady I am playing defense with actually is.  I made it very clear from the start that I had no intentions of hooking up with her; I am just the wingman.  We grab what we need to repair the yeti-mobile and head back to the girls.  We slap everything together, tell the girls to park the car and meet us at the shop when they are done.

Back at the shop jokes are volleyed about how I got stuck with the She-Beast of Caguas.  My escape plan, at worst, would be to ask if she would kindly wait a moment as I slip into something more comfortable; like my jogging pants and track shoes. Our dates meet us at the shop, we bring them back to meet the owner and so that everyone can satisfy their curiosity of how unpleasant on the eyes my companion is.  One of the clients in the shop leans in to my ear and whispers in my ear “Make like Forrest: Keep running!”.  The Doctor briefly engages in conversation with his date to learn that not only is she not a very smart mouse, but her attitude is as unattractive as her friend looks.  Again I am pulled aside and it has been decreed, we need to ditch these girls with a quickness.

My friend invites them back to our apartment to smoke some weed.  I was asked if I was smoking with them and I informed them that I actually don’t smoke anything.  It just isn’t my deal.  ”So you must think potheads are stupid, huh?”, one of the girls ask.  ”No, I just don’t smoke.  It’s that simple.  I’ll hang out and have a beer instead”, I reply.  The walk from the shop to the apartment is literally two blocks on an incline.  Not a major incline, a little steep, but it isn’t like we are going hiking up Mt. Everest.  The ladies are lagging behind and complaining aloud the whole time, which works to my friend and I’s advantage to plan our escape.  I tell him to mention the car break in, explain how one of his long boards was stolen and how we put some feelers out to keep an eye out for it.  I will discreetly call him after he has smoked them out and act like they have found the thief.  It is agreed that this plan is a good plan.

Our apartment is not a small place.  It is kind of spacious, but it’s far from being a mansion.  The girls start looking around and are pretty much appraising us.  I hate feeling like I have a price tag on me and I really find it rude when people think you are well off. Some topical conversation is made and the three of them start to light up.  After a polite amount of time the signal is thrown to make the call. I hit call on my phone from inside my pocket and we get the ball rolling.  The Doctor goes into an Emmy worthy scene where he acts as though the culprit is being held by some friends and that we will be on our way.  He reaches into his messenger bag, grabs his pistol and cocks it as he stuffs it in his waistband.  The girls start to look very grim and they get the hint that it is time for them leave.  We show them the door and apologize for any inconvenience.  I mean they did drive an hour to meet us.  We close the door behind us and try not to laugh out loud.

A few minutes later The Doctor gets a text message, it says “Don’t do anything you’ll regret later”.

If she only knew how right she was, and that move right there is what we in Old San Juan call The Shinobi.

I am walking through one of the grittier parts of Chinatown. It’s a late foggy evening. Typical for NYC in the early spring. I walk up to a building and gain entrance into it and then, quietly, break into one of the apartments. It’s your typical run down apartment in that area. The smell of mold and mildew linger and mix with the strong scent of cramped living. Slow and steadily make my way into one of the bedrooms and see a child in his bed. He’s probably 5 or 6. The perfect image of some adorable asian boy complete with the Moe Howard bowl cut. I stand and stare over him for a second watching his breathing patterns and how somber he looks. Slowly, I take a pillow and begin to smother him. His hands reach up and blindly try to pull the pillow off. His legs kick and his body arcs as he struggles to survive. His screams are muffled by the pillow and I have all my body weight pressing down on him. He heaves up one last time before he goes completely limp. I leave just as I came and continue my walk.

One of the things that really bothered me about the dream is I remembered the street and building address. I had woken up feeling sick to my stomach with what I thought I had done and I had kept repeating the address. I wrote the address down and the next day I went to check it out. It was deep in Chinatown, towards East Broadway. It’s not exactly an easy spot to get to or a well ventured part of that neighborhood. I reach my destination and look up and the building looks exactly like I had dreamt it. I nearly shit myself for I rarely am in this sector and have no idea how and why I would remember this place. I still think about this nightmare and how badly it shook me.

There are many traditions among men and women coming of age.  Not uncommon, but least spoken of, is the teenage tradition of carrying a weapon for show.  A form of bravado if you will.  Many a young man (and some young women) can be found with a pair of brass knuckles or a switchblade that they never really intend to use, but will pull it out as a means of intimidation.  This ritual is very similar to a peacock ruffling his feathers or a dog showing it’s fangs.  More exotic weapons like collapsable batons and stun guns can be found on those wanting to up the ante.  But again, seldom “tools” are often used.  Youth gangs and teenage career criminals excluded.

When I was a teenager a very good friend of mine had obtained a very high voltage stun gun.  Most of the time said friend would sit there and pull the trigger just to hear the crack of electricity which would make the rest of us jump back with fear of getting zapped. Other times we would use it to shock each other when we least expected it.  It was a fun toy.

On days where there was nothing to do my friends and I would go to the mall.  While being a mallrat is another form of teenage tradition, it was not part of our tradition.  Malls were for people of the suburbs.  People with good homes and parents with good jobs.  A hang out for the elderly, a friendly place, and we hated that.  We hated these suburban brats that lingered in these shopping centers, we hated the blue haired elderly walking dead and we wanted to be the dark cloud on the friendly  family atmosphere that the mall provided.  Why?  Simple: we were skinheads. We were the most hated subculture known to man and we basked in that glory.  There were a few perks to going to the mall aside from being a menace.  You had suburban girls to hit on, free samples of frozen yogurt or chocolate covered pretzels and you could play video games for free at the display counters.  But the most fun came from being a terror to the general population.

So here we are in our local mall in the outer limit of a southern city.  It’s a bustling Friday evening.  Young males are looking to court young women.  Shoppers bustling along looking for a good deal on whatever it is they are looking for and then there was us; a couple of young drunken skinheads up to no good whatsoever.  Doling out hard looks for no real reason and spouting obscenities without regard gets boring really fast.  Eventually you move onto wiseass moves like going to Victoria Secret and asking the staff if they have a lingerie set in your size or buying some edible panties from Spencer’s Gifts and eating them in plain sight; slowly and delicately of course.  Crass pick up lines like “Anyone get to you yet?” or “Wanna play ‘just the tip’?” are volleyed at females of all sorts, not even the elderly women were spared.  We figured they needed some loving too.

On this one particular outing we noticed that an escalator was down and at this end of the mall stairs would be required to ascend or descend to the next level.  As we made our journey upwards I took notice that the hand rail was made of a nice metal, possibly brass or copper, but a nice conducive metal none the less.  As we got to the end of the stairs I asked my friend if I could see his stun gun.  He asked why and with that I grinned.  ”I just want to try something”, I said and with that he obliged.  I took hold of the stun gun and put the two metal points to the hand rail and squeezed the trigger.  The hand rail carried the current and shocked everyone that was holding it.  This act of terrorism was considered brilliant among my cohorts.  We scrambled momentarily  as to not be discovered by mall security and regrouped at the next stairwell, only to commit the same heinous act on the general public again and again.  It was a lovely day looking back on it.  Watching people jump as a hard electrical current hit them from nowhere filled us with such sadistic glee.

We’d go on to tell the story to our friends later on in the evening.  Talk about how each one of us took a turn trying to electrocute the masses. Each one talking about the funnier moments of their experience and everyone breaking into tears of laughter.  Each version of the story becoming more and more robust with bullshit, but never seeming to lose its humor.

Sure, someone could have been severely hurt.  Maybe some old bag with a pacemaker could have died too.  But I regret very little.  Even today as I venture to the mall like a good little consumer, I wish I had a stun gun every time I see a stairwell.  Somethings will never change.

I am walking down the street I used to live on. A former neighbor who is loud mouthed and opinionated confronts me for some reason or another. I ask her to shut up and go away. However, she insists to pursue her verbal tirade. I in turn lose my temper and crack her in the mouth. It sends her head back and she goes down like a ton of bricks. Her cuckold husband steps up to defend some sort of honor. Maybe he us afraid of what his wife will say and do when she awakens. Regardless, I somehow wind up stabbing him and killing him. His brother or friend comes at me and again, wind up stabbing and killing the person. I look down at the woman, who is now a sobbing mess, and reach down and cut her throat. I am never sure if I do this out of compassion for killing her husband and not wanting her to go through some sort of widows remorse or if I just hate her that much and am enraged. I do know that it is not out of fear of being caught by authorities. As usually in this dream I sit on the steps of their house, inform the police of my actions and wait patiently. Other variations is that I am on the run for a month to simply tie up some personal loose ends and I then turn myself in. The other constant is knowing full well that my life is ruined permanently.