F$%^&n’ Asocial

Fuck you, I’m a positive person.

If anyone would simply make the attempt to understand me, they’d see it, but no. The “positive” people of the world see the enemy in me, the thing that deserves their unacknowledged anger – mine, my anger. Of course, I and the rest of my world disagree as to whose anger is unacknowledged, so let me add a little data to the argument: my conscious anger.

I’m hurting, real bad. I’m feeling betrayed, alone, unheard. I’m either a kind of crazy that just doesn’t feel like crazy, or the rest of my world is, but I’m hurting, and nothing in my world seems able to help . . . and I’m pissed off about that, I know I am, I am pissed off about it all day long, about my condition, sure, but it’s not just me, is it? I’m pissed about the human condition, for all of us. This must be where it goes wrong for me. I’m mad about the things I see “us” – people, the world, society – doing to each one of us, and yes, to me and sure, I even think especially me because I think I’m in the minority in that I see it and don’t find it to be necessary or “positive” in some way, but it’s not personal.

So, from the popular science stuff I’ve been reading (not the worst of it, Pinker), I think I’m doing this sort of uniquely human thing, having an emotional reaction to a global thing, an emotional reaction to something possibly only happening between my ears, to the problems in my life and in the world as I see them. Anger though, in biological reality is a bad smell, and everyone takes it personally. So, is this the biological basis of religion?

Find a way not to be angry with the world, or the world will be angry with you?

Find a way to be happy with the world, or the world will be unhappy with you?

Hmmm . . . that’s a sort of a new thought, at least for me. This will no doubt be an exploration that goes nowhere, but I wonder what that means in terms of evolutionary psychology, of evolution. Of course, EP and AST agree and are clear on the ‘angry’ part: angry as a response to angry is clearly as basic as it gets, fighting feelings, possibly adaptive primarily for predators and enemies, not family. Not sure about EP, but AST suggests that angry as a response to unhappy may be the adaptation for the family group, the antiseptic for apathy and passivity.

So, I’m antisocial, as in anti-society, anti-establishment – but I’m not in person, at least not intentionally. I may look (and smell) angry, but I’m not angry at you personally. It’s political; I’m not angry at you all for personal reasons, just political ones, just because of your beliefs or apparent beliefs. Is that our biological limit right there, naked and simple as can be? If I disagree with some policy or something and feel anger, people smell the anger, take it personally and fight, personally? Wait a minute . . . it’s so easy to give biology too much, isn’t it? At some point, somewhere along the line, there is something that even today must be considered invisible magic going on, because they can smell my anger pheromones online too. (Not just me either, there seems to be no lack of emotion in the online world. Understatement of the year.)

Psychology has its answer, perhaps: we don’t only respond to one another’s pheromones, but we respond to some perceived thing physically and then we respond to our own secretions. Maybe there isn’t any “anger” involved in a simple flight or fight response, in a straight up fight for your life, maybe anger is a more complex idea, requires time and organization – and then possibly operates as a complex interaction involving our own pheromones. We are political. We have political emotions and they entail at least some of what all emotions entail, probably.

Again, though, anger, in biological reality is a bad smell, and everyone takes it personally. How to say this without agreeing? If you smell angry, there’s a problem with you, and you need to be treated for it. This here, though is science, this I endorse: biology, in the persons of Sapolsky, Trivers, and others, says that the cure for stress is to unload it, to express it. That means “treating” anger like a problem is the opposite of what organisms need. I mean, I get the theory, the idea is I’m angry not reasonably or interactively but pathologically, from something unrealized, that the anger is indicative of lifelong stress that is going to kill me. Honestly, what seems to me to be causing my stress is that my anger is unheard, that no-one can acknowledge my complaints, that the righteous anger I’ve been nurturing my entire life and the train of thought that it has produced can never be validated. Is it really that society is wise and wants to help us through our emotional blocks, wants us to be happy? Or are my angry pheromones simply setting yours off so you’re trying to get rid of them? One option is social science and one is actual science, all I’m saying. That and that the nice part isn’t the actual science part.



April 5th., 2017

A Heart Broken Perfectly

I don’t see myself surviving this. I’m sorry, but I just don’t.

I don’t want to, is the problem.

No wife, no kids, no reputation, and no hope that my kids will be on any sort of mend. What am I supposed to be living for?

I already spent my life – fifty-six plus years now – trying to limit the amount of bile and negative energy I bring to the world. If I let too much out now, if I have too much for those ladies, well, I tried. They’ve decided I must have none or leave, and so I left. I told them on my way out that they were hurting me, that losing my primary support was not likely to help me, and I’ve told them since that without them I’ve nothing to live for, but they are sticking to their guns: lose the weed and then we’ll talk – as if we ever did before, as if this didn’t begin with them all refusing to talk to me in the first place.

So, I’m fighting for my life, trying to find a way forward, a reason to keep breathing, and I’m worrying about their guilt if I don’t make it. Not enough I’m at risk, I still have to try to manage their mental futures . . . it’s just occurred to me for the first time today: should I be trying to save them from their guilt? Am I, like a parent, trying to subvert the true learning experience for them? If they freeze me out and I die, don’t they deserve their bad feelings? God knows, I’ve already tried.

How to let them off the hook? How to tell them, I’m not mad, I mean adult Jeff isn’t angry with them, adult Jeff doesn’t blame them. Life is complicated, the weirdest stuff can happen, all of our efforts can backfire. But this particular accident has finished me. I ain’t mad, but I have nothing without you, nothing but pain. If one of you ever finds this, if I didn’t make it much longer, please, I’m sorry if you’re guilty, but know this: I didn’t want to be here anymore. I’m happier now. I really had no hope to be, unless the clock could be turned back for us, my days have been torture since summer, 2016. Dope kills pain but it doesn’t provide a reason to live. I don’t see anything to look forward to, can’t imagine anything.

Any attempt I make to talk to them only hurts and scares them; they can’t hear me, they can’t talk to me. I’m not going to even get a chance to say goodbye.

When I’m doing nothing else but sitting and hanging on, trying to imagine a reason to live without them, sometimes I can sense the background fantasy going on in my mind, and one I’ve had since I was a teen myself is playing still, a parenting fantasy, me with a few daughters just like it worked out in real life, except that in my lifelong fantasy about it, we talk. There are conversations, me sharing their experience of learning about the world and helping them make sense of it . . . these fantasies are still going on, in that part of myself I’m still young, a pre-parent, with hopes and dreams.

That dream happened a little, a handful of evenings, but basically, it was a dream among the culturally white and British such as ourselves. We don’t talk, we never talk. Everything I have said to them for the last few years is on their list of my crimes, and it seems talking, at least talking about anything that needs talking about, is the real crime.




May 21st., 2017

Barefoot Running

been walking a lot, barefoot running down the hills, trying to rebuild my feet, save my falling arches. There is so much to like about barefoot running – as long as you’re not in good enough condition to go far enough to hurt yourself: start slow, and move up very slow. I’ve pushed it a tad lately and the shinsplint sort of pain from building your calves this way is, deep, stomach churning . . . and sort of weirdly delicious. When I feel my calves from a long walk in shoes, even my low-heel Keens, it’s a few big spots. When I feel it from my barefoot shoes, it’s a thousand little points, seems like a thousand little places having to get stronger. It seems very natural and holistic. Yesterday I went up Rockheights to Cairn Park, Rockheights park – and ran my way down the rock slope, leaping from rock to rock, like I think I’m a 56 year-old goat, in my barefoot runners – and that was fun! I lost myself enough to have fun, but not enough to crash and burn like I might have done as a kid and exulted in it – but enough to capture that great feeling! Once I was back on the sidewalk and barefoot jogging down the hill, I was happy, just thinking, that was great! I had this idea, that barefoot walking and running would be a healing sort of thing, rebuild my sore feet, get in shape, and do it by hugging the Earth with my feet, with a connection there. I really felt that yesterday, I think. Next I want to find a tall tree to climb, or as many as there are around. My upper body needs some work too.



June 17th., 2017

Porn is Bad



I’m just going to say it: why do we have to act like porn is OK?

Sounds Christian, I know, I’m not – well, culturally, maybe. That’s not it.

It’s the constant misogyny, the anal fucking, always a guy jacking off in a girl’s face and the less comfortable for her the better . . . I mean, I’m alone, separated and I have the internet. I was never a marathon runner, you know what I mean, but I can’t bloody get off with most of this stuff, I get close and it’s a race I always lose, trying to get off before they offend me somehow. Of course, there’s something for everyone on there and I usually manage – but the number of moral crimes I witness to get there! It’s not worth the endorphin release, the wear and tear on one’s soul. This I say as an atheist.

I thought I’d try to find some nicer stuff, maybe where the woman appears to actually be getting off, and in the bulk of that, perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, the ladies are alone. I guess that’s one of the messages.

Most porn appears to be misogynist AF, again maybe no surprise, but it still sucks. The sexual revolution just made the pornographers mainstream and it doesn’t appear that it was the illicit nature of it that made it sick and degrading for all involved. Not saying sex is, just saying ninety-some percent of porn is. That brings me to the next thing, and I’m just going to say it.

“Squirting” is urinating. The only time I ever got squirted on by a girl was the only time I ever woke up with that girl, despite that we had sex, many, many times. On this occasion, I ate her before anyone had a chance to pee or anything, and I was very young, I wasn’t sure at the time, but I’m sure enough now. Some of these UHD videos are super close up, and that fluid is emanating from where the urethra is and nowhere else, right? Anyway, I remember, it was confusing because it wasn’t as strong as I might have thought, but there was no other flavour in it but urine. LOL – I swallowed enough to say that. Now, that’s not my point, anyone with any experience in it must know that better than I do. My point is, coming so hard that you piss yourself, that is cool, and exciting, and when we’re in full monkey mode, more fluid is better, you’re not doing it right if you’re not making a mess maybe . . . I’m sure there’s a market, a group who maybe can’t help it and a group who gets off on it. Not judging what turns anyone on, and I think the preceding sentences ought to prove that!

What worries me, is that unlike the male money shot, this female orgasmic squirt is possible, even easy to fake, isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong – I’m not complaining that I can’t know when it’s authentic in my free porn! LOL. My point is, what may look like the sexual revolution, and beautiful, empowered young women ejaculating like men (or supermen!) may really be abused, non-orgasmic young women who have succumbed to some awful male pressure to prove they can come, to prove that they are enjoying what is likely some form of sexual slavery.

That’s what worries me.

That’s why I can surf porn for an hour and then sheath my sword un-bloodied and fall asleep watching the golf channel instead. This is the price I pay for believing all that feminism crap, I guess.

Thanks, Obama.




April 26th., 2017

Here’s a person who deserves to be known.


Sidney Morning Herald – Obituary 12/4/2015


Historian, feminist and iconoclast Barbara Thiering once observed that, for a woman of her temperament, she had been born at a fortunate time in Australia. She was too young for World War II, was a young adult in the prosperous 1950s, an intellectual during the 1960s and 1970s, when the world was ripe for such things, and a successful writer and academic in her later years.

She participated in a time of great growth and change when opportunities were opening up for women, which she applauded and encouraged. The combination of her high intelligence, strong will and independent free-thought created a path for her life, reflecting the changing position of women and the political and religious turbulence of the later 20th century.

She was born Barbara Houlsby, in Sydney, on November 15, 1930, the daughter of Jack Houlsby and his wife, Ruth (nee Hanney). Jack was a sensitive, intelligent man, who had been a foundling. He was an accountant, who, having become disillusioned with capitalism during the Great Depression, settled into a 2.5 hectare farm, called Woodlands, at Marsfield, an early exercise in self-sufficiency and alternate lifestyle. He created the farm from scratch – built his own home, planted an orchard and kept several farm animals. Home life was simple and rustic, strongly anti-materialistic and deeply connected to nature.

The family was solid, non-practising Protestant, middle-class Australian with bohemian underpinnings. Here Barbara was raised, together with her brother Clive and sister Jennifer, in an atmosphere of liberal intellectualism and rationalism, acceptance of the morality of Christianity while questioning the structural system of the established church.

Jack nurtured Barbara’s intellect, giving her a classical education, teaching her poetry and encouraging her academic studies. Ruth, descended from a fierce Scottish Presbyterian line, had been forced to leave school at 12 and her only opportunity for self-expression came with caring for children, her skills as a seamstress, and in keeping her family healthy and well-nourished during the Depression and the war. Witnessing Ruth’s frustration and resentment at her narrowed opportunities fired Barbara’s passion for equal opportunity and women’s education.

Nevertheless, Ruth wanted Barbara to leave school at 15 to train as a seamstress because of the family’s chronic financial difficulties. The headmistress of Hornsby Girls High came to the house, an unprecedented action, to plead that Barbara stay at school, saying she was the brightest student she had ever had. The headmistress was successful and Barbara stayed on, came third in the state leaving exams (the top female candidate in the state), and went to the University of Sydney, where she attained double first class honours, in French and German.

Barbara met Barry Thiering in the late 1940s, through the local church fellowship, and they soon married. Barry went on to complete his training as an Anglican minister and was posted to St Stephens Church in Mittagong. Life as a country rector’s wife was difficult for Barbara, as she found the role stifling.

She transcended her circumstances by pursuing her intellectual life – she taught herself Ancient Greek and Hebrew while she was pregnant. Ultimately, she became competent in seven modern and ancient languages. She continued her education while raising a young family. She obtained a Bachelor of Divinity from London University and a Masters of Divinity from the Melbourne College of Divinity by correspondence.

Returning to Sydney, Thiering naturally became involved in the academic and intellectual challenges of the 1960s liberation movements, interrogating prevailing orthodoxies – social, political and religious. Her politics and world view were shaped by the intellectual life of the University of Sydney as well as international influences from French existentialists and radical theologians such as Paul Tillich, Teilhard de Chardin and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. This was a very interesting time in Australia and Thiering played her role in this.

She took a position at the University of Sydney as a lecturer in the Semitic Studies department and later in the Christian School of Divinity, beginning a long career in theology and semitic studies. She completed her PhD on Asceticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls in 1972. She began writing regular articles for the Anglican newspaper and international scholarly journals, and became known as “that radical Australian theologian woman”.

Thiering was an early member of the developing feminist movement in Australia and in particular highlighted the role of women in the modern Christian Church. Her publications Created Second? Aspects of Women’s Liberation in Australia (1973) and Deliver Us From Eve (editor) (1977) contained a summary of her early ideas, radical at the time but now mainstream reading. She was appointed to the inaugural NSW Equal Opportunity Tribunal by Neville Wran as a lay expert on the situation of women and served from 1981 to 1993.

In addition to her academic writings, at this time, Thiering began a long stint in Adult Education, deconstructing many of the fundamentalist theologies most Cold-War Christians had been taught. She made a number of television appearances, as well as regular radio interviews as a voice for alternative, anti-fundamentalist religion.

In the late 1970s, Thiering began what would be her major life work, redating the chronology of the “Teacher of Righteousness”, a figure found in some of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the “Wicked Priest”, an opponent of the Teacher. This work consisted of a paleographic analysis showing the previously lost Temple Scroll to be contemporaneous with the rise of Christianity.

After some years she decided to summarise her work in a popular book designed for the well-informed general reader. This became Jesus the Man (1992), a revolutionary and controversial work which became an international best seller, translated into nine foreign languages. This book was a radical challenge to the established orthodoxy about historical Christianity, the virgin birth, the miracles and the Resurrection.

The book predictably met with a storm of controversy. Thiering coped with courage and strong mindedness. She had a clear vision and would not compromise. It was a mark of her belief in the importance of her insight over social acceptability.

Her work led to a significant change in her previously quiet, academic life. She received both adulation and hostility but kept going nevertheless. A round of worldwide press engagements was followed by a documentary, The Riddle of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Two further books elaborating on the story of Jesus’ life followed, Jesus of the Apocalypse (1997) and The Book that Jesus Wrote (1998).

In later years, Thiering returned to her scholarly work relating to the Temple Scroll and other documents. She had an internet site and a worldwide online following. The peaceful and constructive intellectual life in her 60s and 70s were years she described as her happiest. She was engrossed in her work and always joyful when on the trail of some ancient puzzle. In moments of rest she would gaze out at the gum trees and jacarandas in her garden and beyond to the sparkling waters of Middle Harbour.

Barbara Thiering is survived by her children Nerida, Paul and David, and grandchildren Patrick, Hugh, Claudia and Peter.

Creating a Moment

Jeff, Man, this’ll be quick. I’m not gonna yell at you, I know you’re a major mensch, I’ve seen Criminals, Cops, and copious roasting, I love you, Dude.

Karlous Miller has gotten under my skin.

Don’t know if you saw my Twitter rant about it the other day. You know what would be cool to know, and maybe you do – did Karlous write that stuff in the days ahead, or was it a true, in the moment reaction? Either way he’s brilliant, no? If it was off the cuff, he’s a black comic/moral preacher of the top calibre who maybe just blew his chance – with unfortunately, you as the tip of the white spear that finished him. If he had that ready, he knew he was going into a multi-layered battle and was delivering on all fronts, right?

Before I carry on seriously, come on: “I wanted to be on Comedy Central, but not like this?” Is that not hilarious, on his first outing there? It’s the one that has me still laughing, don’t know about you.

So, my idea:

It’s been replaying in my head, and I got to where I was like, I wish Jeff had had more time and said X instead. I know, stuff moves fast (your usual pace), and at the time it did sort of seem like he was just being a bummer, bringing you all down, but what if?

What might you have said if you could go back ready and do it again?

You’re the writer and can out-mensch me in your sleep, so I won’t presume to put words in your mouth, but I think now looking back, that Karlous was sublime, that he roasted roast battle, you, society and the audience, all while competing in the actual battle onstage, and did it in the grand tradition of the greatest black protest comics ever, hilariously. Sublime, I tells ya. And you could record a few cuts, record yourself handling the situation in the mensch way, acknowledging that Karlous elevated everything and that nothing is sacred, nothing is unroastable, even roasting itself and everyone in it, and publish a new, fantasy version video that gives us all the moment that could have been. As a bonus, maybe we get the spear out of Karlous before his career suffers, even elevate that for him, as he seems to deserve.

My image of you, Jeff, is that you will agree with all of this. Imagine how good I would feel if something like this happened because I hoped it would. It’s a real win – win, a real silk purse out of a sow’s ear, honey out of dogshit thing, isn’t it?

OK, a few suggestions, LOL: I would find it hilarious if you threw Jamar under the bus, “yeah, uh, Jamar, I’m not comfortable either . . . ” Conversely, you could fire back at Karlous. “OK. Jamar, get off the stage for your sensitive brother. (Jamar shuffles offstage, like he plays it, shirtless, after orders from his white boss, audience has some bad reaction), Jeff turns back to Karlous, “There. Better?” LOL.

Good thing I’m NOT writing this thing. See, I got no mensch in me at all, not in practice. But you do! Make a moment for us all, for me, for you, for Karlous, who lost a lottery that night, right?



I’m Jeff too,

Feb. 4th., 2017

Things White People Say

Free, White, and Twenty-one.

It’s something white people say to one another often enough: you’re free, white, and twenty-one. It means do what you like, follow your heart – because with all those things going for you, the world is your oyster. Those are three possible impediments you don’t have to worry about, three problems you don’t have, three excuses you can’t use.

Clearly, each of these attributes brings privilege.

My mother said it to me when I was struggling to find a life or a career that might interest me. She was white and born a hillbilly, but I never heard her say anything negative regarding non-white people, other than that, things like that. Her best friends, her whole life were Japanese Canadians. When anyone said that sort of thing in my family, it was always role-playing, always said tongue in cheek, to some degree – but we said them. All white people do, I think, and I’m not young, I’m not speaking from no experience. Come to think of it, I’m sure it was Mom introduced me to the other big one too.

Mighty white of you.

That one’s really disgusting, huh? You say it when you might just say thank you, but . . . but I guess it’s an attempt to connect, isn’t it? You hold a door for a longish time for someone, and if you and they are white and comfortable together (and alone), they may wish to reciprocate with something positive. “Hey, we’re in the same social group, or at least the same demographic, like we’re brothers” or something, and now we’re a group, we two ‘in’ members. Rather white of you, Sir.

It’s a compliment to your gentility; it says you’re courteous, polite and civilized. You know, not like folks who are less white.

I want to turn that one around, make a hashtag of it to label racism, privilege and colour-blindness, #mightywhiteofyou, you know, as an insult, meaning un-woke and oppressive, either casually or pointedly. Because, the original point here is that white people say these things, and either it’s not just “the racists” who say them, or we are all the racists.

I think this is the sort of stuff that makes racism so difficult to talk about. Don’t we all like to think that only the bad guys talk like that, and that we aren’t all bad guys?



Feb. 2nd., 2017

Forced Play

Forced Play



Face it, America.


As it stands, you have a two party system. One of two people are going to be president in any given election (except, please God, if Trump can be imprisoned first and it’s one of a different two).


It’s a forced play, of course, anyone who knows me knows I think the crazy Right functions as a bogeyman, and if you elect the Democrats then the agenda of the rich and powerful carries on at the usual pace. Well, the Republicans must have worried that Cruz wasn’t scary enough, because this time they’re offering us the dyed in the wool authoritarian monster we all know and loathe.


So they’re upping the stakes, but I’m not sure how it matters, the game is the same rigged game, a forced play for the Democrats, for Hillary. These are powerful forces setting this up, and you all need to know this: there is no simple way for you to win.


You certainly don’t win by voting for the bogeyman.


You also don’t win by voting for a third party if the bogeyman wins.


I confess: as long as the bogeyman does NOT win, growing the third party is a good thing. If Hillary wins, the libertarian voters will enjoy plausible deniability, no harm, no foul. If the bogeyman wins, then those voters took a terrible chance and blew it. In Canada, we elected Hillary, effectively, and murdered our budding federal Green party. We could have ditched the Conservative (Canadian Republican) incumbent without killing the Greens – but then, bad as Harper was, he wasn’t Trump, the stakes weren’t as high. We blew it, we should have supported the Greens, but your situation is different. Face it: you’re powerless. This forced play you are stuck with, so do the smart thing, live to fight another day, try to reform your system with something other than a fascist “shake up,” do that work while living a little longer under the status quo.


Don’t do this America, what you’re thinking. Please.



Sept. 30, 2016