This Is Ignorance With A Capital "I"

Comment Response Section

 

 Wow Daniel you moved on from heroin to crack!

Amazing...you become more and more of the entitled racist hippocritical douchebag you are by the day!

BTW...Get the fuck over yourself...YOU HAVE NEVER EARNED $18 an hour IN YOUR LIFE. -Alex Carter

I wrote yesterday about someone's theory that addicts were laboring under the assumption of "If anybody were to really get to know me; they wouldn't like me."

And so, I get it. Alex has been reading this blog for so long that he probably feels like, and probably thinks that I feel like, he has gotten to know me, on a day to day level. And, after getting to know me, he doesn't like me. Feeding into the low self esteem thing. That's his game. Wow, really?

I make mistakes in grammar, which the guy is quick to point out, whether or not they are...excuse me, I mean, weather or not they are the result of some auto spell thing that I never went back to proof-read or not.

"You never went to college; you don't have a degree in English..." -Alex

Maybe Alex has a better command of and facility with the English language than I have. But to what end? So he can lick the boots of great thinkers like Morris Berman, only to be swatted away by him like the sycophant that he is?

I can tell you that my "English" is far superior to much of what I have read on the "creative writing" Reddit pages, written by aspiring writers.

"I really think that the stars are aligning to give me the calling to do writing for a career. I think my destiny is to express writing as my main purpose." is a typical statement that I have seen from new members of that reddit, when stating why it is that they are joining the "aspiring writers" group. All of it typed by thumb, I imagine.

These new writers are a clear indication of how the public school systems have failed.

From what I understand, the public school system has been commandeered by mostly "progressives." Who would take jobs with such low pay unless they had a hidden agenda that they think they might be in a good position there, to push?

Guess what; we never had a kid walk into our school with an assault weapon and open fire on us all, back in the 1970's. I would have to think really hard, it's been a while, but to the best of my recollection I do not believe that there was ever such an incident. A kid coming into school with a machine gun and mowing a bunch of us down. Doesn't ring a bell... I might be repressing the memory if I was the kid that snapped, but I don't think so.

The "woke" religion has now replaced God and the pledge of allegiance.

A move towards home schooling might be one unintended consequence of the hyped up Covid19 thing that the politicians have unleashed upon the masses. 

Turn on the free over-the-air TV and all you see are advertisements for drugs that are purported to cure all of the maladies that arise from a diet that people have been brainwashed into thinking is "mainstream."

They've got them "coming and going." They are racking up gazillions in sales of sausage McCheese Breakfast combos; and then they are earning a pretty penny selling them drugs to treat their diseases. The medical professionals have recession proof occupations and are prospering. 

And the rest of the commercials are from attorney's willing to "fight" for money for people who have become "victims" of car accidents and slipping and falling, and products that have been linked to cancer (what would you expect given such a diet?). It's easy to see what makes the world go around. 

But, back to Alex in California.

He goes out of his way to tell the world that I am (insert woke trope here) and he doesn't like me; wouldn't want to hang out with, or even meet me if he were to come to New Orleans (New Orleans would send him packing in a heartbeat; this is a mecca for all things excellent; where particular people meet, the cream of the crop; if you can make it here then you have passed muster. 

The best food, music, dance, culture, heroin crack, sure, but Alex would probably fast find out that his mediocre dabbling on the the trumpet, or the bugle, or the cornet, or the accordion, ukulele, jewish ram's horn, exotic Japanese instrument tuned in quarter tones, whatever his flavor of the week in musical instruments is, would not cut it here. 

And yet he has the balls to criticize a guy who has actually made it here, and who lived under a wharf so he could survive upon the crumbs that initially fell off the French Quarter table.

I lived under a wharf for two years, with the rats as my family, and I ate out of dumpsters, cooked over a fire, all so I could be there the next night to play music on my spot and keep it going. Does this sound like what an "entitled" person would do? 

Yeah, eventually some people with power took notice and decided that I am the kind of person that they wanted to keep in the French Quarter, which was under reconstruction after hurricane Katrina. There was definitely "help wanted" in the arena of street performers et al. but they conspired to get me an apartment here.

They gave me a battery of psychological tests, trying to diagnose me as someone fit to receive a free place, but I answered all the questions wrong. It wasn't until they struck upon the fact that I drank; and drank to the point of blacking out that they had a eureka moment and were able to ink a document which enrolled me into "permanent assisted housing" as a disabled veteran, with alcohol dependency being my disability.

Ironic it was then, that I soon embarked upon almost three years without touching a drop of alcohol. 

Another Jean Broughey Dean, Yup

After Jean Broughey Dean "unfriended" me on Facebook, after I had merely contested a few points in some of the B.L.M. propaganda that her Facebook page had become a post-it board for, a couple of interesting things happened.

The first of which was, I got 3 new friend requests. These were from people in Jean's hometown of Leominster, Massachusetts. When one door closed (Jean's page) three more opened.

My first thought was that they had read my comment, and that they knew Jean, and they knew that by friending me, they would have a front row seat for what they might have thought would become a stimulating intellectual dialogue between the two of us. A friendly one. After all, I hardly knew the girl; she was just one of the sisters of my best friend in high school. But she immediately unfriended me. Like the little kid who blocks her ears and starts humming while someone is saying something that her seven year old self doesn't want to hear. "I know you are, but what am I?" type of thing.

But, I would have thought that Jean and I would at least have mutual respect for each other, since we were raised in the same culture.

Your grandfather's Bernie Sanders

More on John B. Anderson

We both voted for John B. Anderson in 1980.

This was because we were 19 years old and thus had that more-than-a-little-bit annoying attitude of "Look out, world; here we come!"

Sure we did. We were going to change everything.

It was easy for us to see how entrenched in the status quo our parents were; how they suffered along with the rest of their generation, going to work every day; being cogs in the industrial wheel. Not for us.

We were going to break the mold, and turn the nation into one giant Woodstock Folk Festival. Why not?

Change, change, change! We could really change things. Everything needed to be changed; to be torn down and rebuilt in our images.

Our parents would try to guide us the best they could. They wanted us to understand that it was a cold cruel world out there; but didn't want to dash our hopes. After all, Hitler had been defeated so just maybe, they could hand us down a peaceful planet.

With good college degrees in hand, we could insulate ourselves against whatever a cold, cruel world could throw at us.

But, no; we were the new generation; we could see what was stressing our parents out; their jobs, their conformity, their inability to let themselves go and have fun.

But, not us. We were the "electric youth" that Debbie Gibson sang about. And we sure were, in our own estimation; we were going to set the world on fire and take it higher.....no wait... that's the wrong anthem. That's the one of the misguided youths of generation x. I'm getting my misguided youths confused. We were going to light up the world, yeah that's it, and show everybody what we were capable of! The ball was in our hands then. Look out world, here we come! John B. Anderson is our guy!

Debbie Gibson was the first artist under the age of 18 to have a number one song on the charts; so there you go; what more evidence did anyone need of the fact that we were taking over, and things were going to be much different now. Sound familiar?

There would be no more war. 

We would all strum guitars and play saxophones, and clean up all the pollution, and treat everybody as equal.

We were on fire. So young and full of energy, doe-eyed and optimistic, with all eyes on us; we figured. 

And now, 30 years later, John B. Anderson is looking a hell of a lot like Bernie Sanders, and the girl who, along with me, voted for him has just "unfriended" me on Facebook.

Back then, voting for John B. Anderson was the young, cool and sexy thing to do.

Sure, he let the military go fallow, but who wants anyone to have to go off and be trained for war fighting and killing? Grow up, older generation, take your cue from us; we're the electric youth! 

I remember a cartoon that depicted Russian soldiers in a line with their rifles shouldered and Jimmy Carter walking along putting flowers in the barrels of each. I think it was in Playboy magazine, but I don't recall exactly.

Jimmy Carter was actually the first president to be interviewed by Playboy magazine.

"So what, he likes a nice piece of ass; what red blooded American male doesn't?" I remember my father saying about the mini scandal that arose from that Playboy interview. The president wasn't supposed to be looking at that magazine, never mind interviewing for it. Right?

Now, the B.L.M. "movement" is the young and cool and sexy thing to do.

"Every generation blames the one before; when all of their frustrations come beating at the door" -Mike and the Mechanics, 1987   

But there is poor Jean Broughey Dean, to the left, posing with my best high school friend, Ted. 

I guess he still loves her, and that is a credit to him.

Jean's sister threw a "Faulkland Islands" party back in 1982, to raise awareness, or as an excuse to have a party to invite boys that they were interested in, to. 

But it was the unbridled urge to protest in its embryonic phase. 

You go, Jean; bring about those social changes we are all in such dire need of! 

Cops are out there every day just gunning for black men. The George Floyd incident was just the tip of the iceberg, there are thousands of young black men having their necks kneeled on every single day, thousands...millions, actually! It's happening everywhere. The black population is being decimated and whittled down by racist cops, right Jean Broughey Dean? 

Jean Broughey Dean sees what so many turn a blind eye to.

Anton Levey: From The Satanic Bible

 We are all just animals, no better, and in many cases much worse, than our four legged counterparts.

So there is the clueless Jean Broughey Dean. Let her live for a few years in the deep south, and then we will reassess her views on race relations in America.

Alex in California has expounded blatantly racist views about the nice inhabitants of Hawaii. He has stereotyped them as being anti-white and called the whole island "Japan Lite." Racist scum!

I would bet that my home in the cliff would still be there (and there is a bottle of Eco Domani wine that I left behind, along with a CD player) but that is a story for another blog post. 

So, fast forward to the present.

My best high school friend referred to his sister as "a lost child, brainwashed by the left." 

I can't help think that Jean may have inherited whatever gene (excuse the pun) from her father that led to his developing dementia and passing away in his sixties.

I can remember visiting Ted once, probably in 1984, and observing his father repeatedly returning to the cabinets under the kitchen counter where, with flashlight in hand, he would open the lids of coffee cans that were under there that contained stuff like sugar and flour (and maybe even coffee) and would shine his light on the flour, looking for weevils(?) or whatever those little black bugs are that can often be seen crawling around in wheat flour. Every ten minutes or so, he would return.

Ted looked at me and kind of shook his head and whispered something like: "He's not well."

That is why I fear for Jean, and for Alex. Her over the top hatred for the president (Facebook had to put her on probation a couple times due to her use of profanity) might be a sign of the early onset of dementia.

Since only history will tell if this is a good president or not; and the rational thinker knows that there are two sets of news out there and that one of them has to be "fake" but nobody actually knows which one for sure; this has to be deemed an "irrational" hatred of the president.

So, here we have poor Alex Carter...

"Wow, Daniel, you moved on from heroin to crack!"

  ..."moved on" implies that I have been a regular heroin user since the one time about 4 months ago that I let my friend Bobby shoot me up with a little bit of it, just so I could see what all the fuss was about. 

I suppose I was playing with fire, dealing with the devil and all that, since heroin is classified as "highly addictive" but it was just a life experience that I wanted to have. I was curious. Maybe it would give me insight into the music of Miles Davis and the poetry of t.s. eliot. I didn't come back from Vietnam strung out on the stuff, but now I have more empathy for those who did.

Military service was the same kind of thing.

"They will break you. They will make a soldier out of you!" Really, I thought. Break me?!? Bring it on! I finished right near the top of my platoon in diverse categories such as the number of pushups I could do; and my scores on the "military aptitude battery" of written tests.

Basic training was where I found out how I stacked up against a group of random 19 year olds from around the nation. I was head and shoulders above most of them, who had grown up less nourished, less educated and more derelict than I. I was "officer material" and never should have been in with the enlisted men.

Some of the guys in my platoon were lacing up their first pair of boots ever, when they put their combat boots on, the first day of basic...

I was going to go to college. One of the reasons I joined was so that the National Guard would pay my tuition at any state college or university; meaning I would be able to major in English and music. My father would have sent me off to study chemistry or law or medicine or engineering; but not music. He had a much more practical view of college. I was an electric youth.

So, I should have opted for Officers Candidate School. I should have been running things; these guys in their first pair of boots were to be cannon fodder. I was supposed to be the one shouting: Go! and sending them to their senseless deaths. But, the whole thing about being "broken" was too much of a temptation for me; I had to check that out. 

So I went through basic training, competing against guys whose father was absent their whole lives and whose mothers raised them on honey buns and chocolate frosted cupcakes, shoplifted from the Safeway.

And the same with going to prison. I just had to see what that was all about, and what a lesson in human nature that would be. And identity fraud was something that I could walk into the joint with my head held high over.

Amazing...you become more and more of the entitled racist hippocritical douchebag you are by the day!

He has it in his head that I feel "entitled." 

Is that why I walked 38 miles with a guitar on my back from Jacksonville to Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida; flat broke, so I could busk where the Tournament Players Championship, was going on and the place was flooded with millionaires? Did I feel entitled to do that?

Is that why I lived in a tent in St. Augustine, Florida for a year while I honed my busking skills, trying to improve enough to be able to give New Orleans a shot?

BTW...Get the fuck over yourself...YOU HAVE NEVER EARNED $18 an hour IN YOUR LIFE. 

Jeepers, you might as well have just said "By the way, I am an ignorant fool that makes statements that he has no way of verifying one way or the other."

You have been lurking in the shadows with binoculars, watching me busk over the past 12 years and counting all the money that has gone into my basket and you can say with veracity that I have never made 18 bucks an hour?

You have access to my IRS files?

I have made $213 in three hours; do the math, or use one of those Texas Instruments calculators before you list it on ebay for Ken.

How the hell would Alex in California know anything about how much Daniel in New Orleans makes; you might as well say "You don't have a red electric guitar, and you know it!!" and it would make just as much sense. Look up "ignorance" in the dictionary.

Amazing...you become more and more of the entitled racist hippocritical douchebag you are by the day!

And you are drinking the Black Lives Matter Marxist Kool Aid by the bucket.

And BTW, hippocritical, is that like being critical of hippopotamuses? Since I never got a degree in English (along with never making 18 bucks and hour) I'm not too familiar with that word...