Hear Through Skin

BBC: Humans Can ‘Hear’ Through Skin

Imagine the applications for this. It’s incredible, really. Everything from enabling the deaf to hear to falling in love with the latest alarmist politician (who may even speak without making sense, yet people will love him or her).

What I can’t figure out is, anytime I’ve “heard” through my skin (far as I can tell or remember), I didn’t really realize it. Felt more like a vague sensation I couldn’t place. Almost as if the skin were more directly connected to the unconscious instead of the conscious.

For example, sometimes I’d listen to music with the headphones on with the volume cranked way higher than I ought to have. Yet, I “sensed” when the phone rang or when a parental unit was shouting up the stairs for me to come down for dinner.

Good thing this stuff hasn’t been mass-produced and used by those with ill intentions. Some of us could wind up in bloody wars, spending lots of money on things we don’t need and voting against our own best interests. Even law enforcement might not be unsusceptible to its influences, resulting in real threats being ignored and fake ones being believed.

Video of the Aughties

One day (probably soon) this song and video will be as cheesy as Journey’s “Separate Ways” was about ten years after its release. But for now, it kinda kicks ass.

Movie Recommendation of the Day

Skip to 1:57 or so once it loads (before that is cheesey promo) to see Matthau kick ass with a book and (un)common sense.

Spoiler: the “villain”, a survivalist, is actually just in it for the money. He pretends the world’s about to fall apart, creates panic, and reaps the benefits, even lying to his closest associates as he does so. In short: he’s a fuckface who doesn’t care if he starts WW3 as long as he can make a buck, have people kiss his ass and hide behind whichever freedoms allowed him to do so.

High School Anecdote / College Ending

Driving. When one wasn’t trying to get laid, drink, or get into a fight, driving around was the passtime.

Probably still typical in smallish towns like the one I went to high school in. On occassion, I drive through some town or other (not even necessarily in the South) and I see cars filled with young people driving around, drag racing a bit, or going though the drive-thru at whichever national chain happens to be the popular place in that town at the time.

One night friends and I are out driving as always and we see a pickup truck filled with three men whose total IQ probably barely broke a hundred times their quantity chasing some poor creature down the street, shouting “faggot” and “cocksucker” and throwing beer bottles at it.

The creature is male though he walks with an overly effeminate swish. His name (having had the misfortune of having immigrant parents who either had not seen the Boris Karloff film or didn’t care) is Igor. He has longish hair, which only enhances his androgynous appearance.

The fact that he is a pariah not only makes him a favorable target, but ensures that should he ever try to tell anyone what is about to befall him (and has for months already and will for years to come), he will either not be believed or, lest law enforcement or local government officials be accused of being soft on gays or homosexual themselves, they will simply say they don’t care.

“Why don’t you jus’ kill y’self? Goin’ t’hayell anyways.”

Tonight, the pickup will catch him before he gets home. It isn’t the first time that happened nor will it be the last. They will catch him. The will beat, intimidate and threaten him. Then they will drive him out into the country and fuck him and/or (depending on the particular predator’s preference) force him to suck their cock.

Then he’ll be beaten again and left thirty miles from home. They’ll threaten him again just in case he decides to call the police (who will ignore him, blame him or beat him themselves should he persist).

No, he will cry uncontrollably until he reaches home at some point around sunrise.

The lesson is for all faggots: don’t let anyone know, we don’t give a shit about you. We hate you. God loves us, not you.

Years later, it’s still not safe entirely to be gay, even at the relatively enlightened college I’ve wound up at a mere forty-five minute drive from the hellish place described above.

It is after a rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet. I and some members of the cast and crew are enjoying the best thin crust pizza in town (not a national chain, but a local mom & pop).

A man—no, the King!—walks in and takes a seat at a table not far from us. We notice.

I had been told there was an Elvis impersonator in town. Except that’s not accurate: I was told there was a man who believed himself to be Elvis Presley.

“His real name is Igor.”

“What?!?”

There cannot possibly be two poor sons-of-bitches with the same name this close together, can there? I don’t recognize him.

“Yeah, he’s from _______ down south, across the state line.”

“Holy shit.”

My friend, who happens to be playing Romeo to my Friar Laurence and is something of an amazing music buff, decides he wants Elvis’ autograph.

Well, why not? The King’s been dead for many years now. Such a thing must be precious to find at this point.

When my friend returned to the table he was mildly disappointed. I was confused. He had clearly gotten the autograph.

He showed me the paper:

“Igor ________”.

The only button for this story I can think of is, “Look, ma! No deus ex machina!” No firemen rescuing unconscious women in fires, no friends showing up as character witnesses to save a friend in trouble, and no acts of kindness to trouble our religious irreligiousity. Blessed be the name of hopelessness, for it is sacred.

LEARNING TO FLY — BOOK III

LEARNING TO FLY

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