Archive for the ‘Moaning’ Category

“Witch Hazel”

Wednesday, March 5th, 2014

This is about a woman who came to stay with me for five days.  During that time she fell in love with me and confessed to me her deepest secrets, which I am not about to reveal here, but I did not fall in love with her.  I mean, I liked her, but there were several problems.

First, she was yet another witch, and as those of you who have read a few of these know, my two wives were witches.  They occupied a total of 18 years of my life, and although they were quite different people I have given up on witchcraft.  Like all other faiths it only offers false hope of change, because magic works no better than prayer or wishful thinking.  Second, she believed some really crazy stuff, even for a witch.  Like this: fluoride is added to the water supply not to make our teeth cavity resistant but to make us stupider and more easily controlled.  By who?  Why, the Big Bad Government, who apparently, through Republican and Democratic administrations alike, want us to be dumbed-down and docile.  Removing fluoride entirely from her life, she said, gave her telekinetic powers!  I am not making this up.

Third, there was her figure, which was rotund and pretty grossly overweight, for her height.  I never thought I’d fall for someone like that, but I did, which I think was an indication of just how desperate I was not only for sex but just for some affection, let alone love.  Fourth, there was the sex.  Anything seemed to set her off; she had an orgasm just from me playing with her nipples at one point.  But the sex for me sucked, I couldn’t climax.  What that means to me is, on some level we were not connecting; something wasn’t right.

Fifth, there was the intensity of her adulation.  After sleeping with me for three days she posted me as her “soulmate” on FB when I could never reciprocate those feelings.  I wanted to like this woman, I really did, crap, I wanted to love her but I just didn’t.  Finally, there was her cooking, which although delicious was all Southern-inspired, loaded with bacon grease and butter.  At one point, she used a whole stick of butter to fry a breast of chicken.  If I ate like that all the time, I’d weigh 300 lbs.  And as she said, “I’ve got to have my meat.”

When I realized I couldn’t feel the same way about her that she did about me, I grew depressed and wary.  The last thing I needed was a big scene.  Fortunately, it never came.  She was moving to Tennessee, and after five days it was all over.  I called her a few times but finally had to admit to myself that I was just fooling myself, and her.  So I called her up last night to try to tell her, as honestly but as gently as possible, that it was over, only to find she had already reached that conclusion herself – smart woman! – and left me a private message about it on FB.

Nevertheless, I feel kind of sad.

So goodbye, Witch Hazel (not her real name).  I wish you only well.  Sorry things didn’t work out, maybe better luck next time.  Maybe in Tennessee you’ll find somebody who can appreciate you more than I did.  I hope so.

Sister states no more!

Saturday, February 1st, 2014

I’ve created a petition asking Florida’s governor, Rick Scott, and Brad Piepenbrink, director of the state’s “Sister City/Sister State” program, to drop our sister state relationship with Wakayama Prefecture in Japan, where the town of Taiji is located.  This seems like the most effective, constructive and productive way I can think of to send a message that massacring dolphins, and selling their young ones into lives of slavery, is unacceptable and must cease.

It doesn’t matter if you live in Florida or not, as this is an international petition.  If you agree, please sign it AND SHARE AS WIDELY AS POSSIBLE!  It’s been up for about 18 hours as I write this and only has 33 signers.  I sent it out to far more people than that, virtually everyone on my FaceBook friends list, so I’m wondering what’s going on.  I also alerted the local press and TV stations, but no results.  It certainly seemed like a good alternative to my previous plans, but I’m wondering now how many people actually read this blog.  If you do, would you please leave a comment or something so I know?  I’m beginning to feel like a Biblical prophet, a lone voice crying in the wilderness. Thanks.

Soul Sickness: Taiji

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014

There is an aching sickness in my soul no earthly medicine can cure.  I want to vomit, and I cannot sleep.  I lie awake at night, staring into the darkness, and the scenes of horror flash through my mind.  I can imagine I hear their voices, their screams, underwater… water turning crimson with their blood.  Above the water, I hear the callous laughter of the heartless murderers who call themselves fishermen.  They fished out the waters, and then when their catch dried up they chose to blame the dolphins, so they killed them, and then they found the dolphins were worth more than the fish themselves, so they stopped catching fish and started catching the dolphins instead.  And the ones they could not sell to the hundreds of dolphinariums springing up across Asia, they butchered and fed to the children of Japan as lunch meat, even though their flesh was poisoned with mercury and a toxic brew of chemicals dumped into the dolphins’ home by unregulated industries that didn’t give a damn.

They swim in the ocean, so they’re just fish, right?  And what do the murderers call this abomination?  ”Tradition.”

These were the kind of thoughts that fueled what I now recognize was a nervous breakdown over the weekend.  When I saw that little albino dolphin the Taiji fishermen caught, the one Paul Watson has dubbed “Shuojo” (“Bambi” in Japanese) and everybody else is calling “Angel,” something inside me changed.  It didn’t feel like I “snapped,” but more like I had irretrievably bent under the influence of a thousand tiny blows.  My intense grief and sadness turned into a cold, murderous rage, and I began plotting serious violence at the Japanese Consulate in Miami.  Please understand that although I have the emotional stability of nitroglycerine, I do not consider myself a violent or dangerous man.  I do not own any firearms, but if I did – and I was planning to acquire them – I would have been headed for Miami.

In my mind, I became the hero of my own action movie.  I justified my blood-lust by telling myself I was single-handedly and unilaterally declaring war on the government of Japan, which issues the permits for the dolphin hunts.  I was figuring out how to overcome the security at the consulate, and I was ready to injure or kill anybody I had to to achieve my goal, which was killing Shinji Nagashima, the consul.  My reasoning for this was purely economic: I believed the Japanese would quit hunting dolphins only if the cost became too high.  Literally, I was planning to raise the cost of a dead dolphin to an unacceptable level on a pile of human bodies.

If I say that Japan is a racist and xenophobic culture, does that make me a racist, or am I just stating plain facts?  The Taiji fishermen, who play the “poor me” card, drive sports cars and luxury SUV’s on the money they’ve made ripping baby dolphins from their mothers and selling them around the world.  As Ric O’Barry found out when he investigated a history of Taiji at the local library, there were NO DOLPHIN DRIVE HUNTS BEFORE 1933, and they weren’t conducted on a regular basis until the 1970′s, when the growing demand for captive dolphins spurred the captures. The captured dolphins weren’t being killed for meat until the 1980′s.

But fortunately, on Tuesday morning, something somebody said to me on FaceBook shocked me out of my rage, and I collapsed in tears.  Good thing I have a compassionate dolphin-loving friend nearby, Cay, who listened to my story and gave me some counseling.  Here’s why: Japan is in the grips of an ultra-right-wing government, the Nationalists, who have allied themselves with the whale hunters and dolphin-killers.  The Nationalists claim this is all “traditional” brutality and besides, they say it’s no worse than what happens in a slaughterhouse.  As anybody who has seen the videos live streamed from the cove by Sea Shepherd, it is not only worse, it is much worse.

But even if it was done “humanely,” the killing of dolphins is unacceptable because they are self-aware beings, able to recognize themselves in a mirror.   Basically, to me, dolphins are people, capturing them is slavery and killing them is murder.  Next week, I am going to talk to a professional counselor about this mood disorder and what might be done about it.  Frankly, I frightened myself, and I don’t want a repeat of this to happen no matter what the provocation.  If you find you’re having similar thoughts to mine, please don’t hesitate to contact me and I will try to talk you out of it.

 

 

“Banned Books Week” 2013 leaves author disappointed, again

Monday, September 23rd, 2013

PUNTA GORDA, Fla. – In America, it’s “Banned Books Week,” a celebration of reading books that somebody, somewhere, doesn’t want you to read.  And once again, disappointment has come to visit Malcolm J. Brenner, author of Wet Goddess: Recollections Of A Dolphin Lover.

“You’d think that with its graphic depictions of drug abuse, psychedelic shape-shifting, scatology and inter-species sex, somebody, somewhere, would find a reason to ban Wet Goddess,” Brenner complained from his filthy, roach-infested trailer while waiting for a dope deal to go through, “but no, when it comes to MY work, the religious prudes and sex-negative fascists are all looking the other way, apparently.  Why, I have no idea.  It’s been on the market for almost four years now.”

Brenner hopes that a really crude and vicious attack on his novel by a group like Focus On The Family would propel him into the upper tier of exalted writers.

“A nasty ban, or even some robust censorship, would place me in the ranks with Toni Morrison (Beloved), Chuck Palahniuk (Fight Club) and Khaled Hosseini (The Kite Runner), all of whom have had their books attacked and banned for relatively trivial and obscure reasons,” Brenner said.  ”For a tight-assed, conservative, Republican Bible-thumper, Wet Goddess should make steam come out of their ears but no, my book keeps getting ignored.  It’s really strange and kind of disappointing.”

Banned Books Weed, er, Week, is sponsored by the American Library Association.  (Sorry, I’ve got something else on my mind.)

1K Copies in print. So what?

Wednesday, September 4th, 2013

Despite the frustrated and violent tone of the previous post, I hope no one takes it as a serious threat.  It wasn’t a plan of operation, it was more a venting of my utter exasperation at the annual ritualized dolphin slaughter in Taiji, Japan.

Now it looks like I shouldn’t even give a damn about Taiji’s 2,000+ dolphins, compared to what the U.S. Navy wants to do in several oceanic combat theaters around the world.  Why don’t we just declare war on dolphins and whales, since we’re going to be killing and deafening them in such large numbers anyway?  Seems like the Brits did that, accidentally at least, during the Falklands War in the 1980′s.

During WWII, according to a book I read back in the 1980′s, the U.S. military thought its bombers in Alaska had destroyed “hundreds” of Japanese mini-subs prowling the Aleutian Islands until some intelligence officer got out his slide rule and figured out there was no way Japan could produce and field that many mini-subs… our planes had been bombing whales.  And to this day, whales in Alaska still pop their heads out of water and look up at the sky, puzzling marine mammalogists who insist that “whales have no natural enemies that attack from the sky.”  They are, of course, right, technically speaking, because a bomber armed with depth charges isn’t a “natural enemy.”

And of course there is my own documentation of the U.S. Navy’s 1950′s defense of the Icelandic fishing industry against the savage predations of ravenous killer whales (who were, as we now know, probably just likely eating the seals that ate the fish.)

I could go on, but I’m sorry I started on this depressing riff.  I didn’t mean to kill your buzz.  By the title, I meant to celebrate the fact that the current press run of 50 copies marks 1,000 copies of Wet Goddess in print, which means about 970 sold, as I sent out about 30 as complimentary or press copies.  (I am the world’s worst bookkeeper.)

And I am indeed happy that my novel has sold so many copies.  I’m told there’s a certain magical cachet about the kilosale, to coin a new phrase, that attracts potential publishers.  Like the smell of blood in the water to a shark, it inspires a hunger for better things to come.  But the fact is, WG is selling painfully slowly.  Hopefully some of the interest in Growing Up In The Orgone Box (assuming there is any) will inspire readers to check out my earlier work.  In any event, we shall see.

Angry, racist blacks hate WG

Saturday, June 29th, 2013

Occasionally I Google “wet goddess” just to see what people are saying about it.  Part of this is for my own survival, as I want to know if anybody is thinking about stalking or harming me.  Well, I got a earful at the blog diaryofanegress.

Acting as if zoophilia were unknown in her race (without citing any evidence, of course), the blogger, who calls herself “Truth,” uses my experience with the dolphin to denigrate my race and white people in general, and the 45 commenters jump right in.  Here’s the conclusion of “Truth’s” post:

Illusion is all apart of the system of white supremacy. When we begin to see these “people” for who and what they are, right from their own lips, we begin to remove that shroud of omnipotence. Beastiality has been apart of European culture since the dawn of time. Syphilis is evidence of that. See who and what you’re dealing with beneath that leather bound briefcase and those 300 dollar wingtip shoes. Beneath that home with the white picket fence and that position that draws awe and undue respect.

See the enemy…and fear not for they are just an illusion.

The commenters accuse me of having “Neanderthal DNA,” which in fact I do.  A recent genetic analysis, which my daughter paid for, shows that I have 3.2% Neanderthal DNA, slightly higher that the 2.7% that is the Caucasian average.  I was a little surprised to find this out, considering that I am so NOT built like a Neanderthal.  I could use a little more muscle mass, frankly.

But what really bothers me is that here is a person, probably, in her own way, a good person, who is angry about some things she has every right to be angry about: the continuing marginalization and widespread oppression of blacks in America, their generally lower place on the socio-economic ladder, and the veiled racism that is so prevalent in American society, both north and south.  And she takes it out on me, uses me as a whipping boy for my race because of my supposedly “degenerate” behavior.

“300 dollar wingtip shoes”? “white picket fence”? Oh Truth, honey, you don’t know me very well, do you?  But that doesn’t matter to your agenda of racial hate, does it?

When I was growing up, my parents were Kennedy-era liberals.  They taught me that all people were equal, regardless of race.  Not “equal in the eyes of God,” because they didn’t believe in God.  Not “equal in the eyes of the law,” because let’s face it, the law most often favors the rich oppressors over the poor and downtrodden.  Just equal, in absolute terms, and I still believe that.  Nobody gets to pick the color of their skin (except maybe the late, poor, lamentable Michael Jackson).

I grew up in the Civil Rights era.  I remember visiting the south and seeing the segregated drinking fountains and bathrooms in places like Virginia, the Carolinas and Georgia, and I vividly remember the feelings of evil that inspired in me, because the facilities for “Coloreds” were always unclean and in a state of disrepair compared to those for “Whites.”  I remember the demonstrations on the TV news, the billy clubs and beatings, the fire hoses and police dogs unleashed on helpless, non-violent demonstrators by the white overlords of Dixie, and George Wallace, the epitome of institutionalized racism, handing out axe handles on the steps of the Georgia statehouse.  Those were awful, villainous times, and we have come a long way since then.  But make no mistake, we still have a long way to go, as the recent, ill-informed Supreme Court decision to end the Voting Rights Act demonstrates.

My parents brought black children from the New York City ghetto to spend the summer with us through the Herald-Tribune Fresh Air Fund.  It may have been misguided token liberalism, but at least they tried to make somebody’s life demonstrably better.

So, in the end, it saddens me to see this rage, this racial hatred, focused on me, because my skin color doesn’t really matter.  The fact that I was in love with the dolphin, and she with me (as demonstrated most clearly in her post-coital behavior) was the story I wanted to tell, but someone filled with anger has chosen to stereotype me, to hold me up as an example of the “degenerate” nature of the Caucasian race.

Do I hate Truth for doing this?  No, on the contrary, I feel sorry for her.  Whatever she has experienced because of her color, I hope she finds some peace and sanctuary for her tormented, racist soul.

If anyone is interested, “Cynical Afrikan” also lambastes me as degenerate white scum.

Small steps

Wednesday, April 24th, 2013

I have to take what I can get.  Some days my progress is measured with a laser rangefinder, others with a micrometer.  Lately it’s been more of the latter, but this morning I managed to send proposals for “Growing Up In The Orgone Box” to two more agents I hadn’t solicited before.  That’s because they wanted an exclusive submission, and at the time I was submitting to about 40 agents at once.  So I left them out… until now.  There are probably a few more agents out there I could query too, new ones who didn’t make it into the 2013 edition of Agents and Publishers.  Or chose to stay out, for some reason.

Like I say, it’s not much, but if it gets “Orgone Box” published it will have been worth the effort, don’t you think?

The optimism I expressed in the last blog has faded considerably as Demand Media Services hasn’t passed, or paid me for, the second and third stories I submitted.  It seems to be taking them an unaccountably long time to edit the stories and either publish them or send them back for a re-write.  This also means I haven’t gotten paid, and the end of the month is rushing at me.

The way it works is, the first three stories are probationary; after that I can have up to 10 story titles in a queue, and I can also try to write about topics other than culture.  But I am beginning to have my doubts as to whether I can actually make a living writing this way.  At the most, it’s a little supplement on the side of something else… but what?

Same with iStock.  I sent them a third photo for approval Friday a week ago.  You’d think they could get around to telling me whether it qualifies or not.  How long does it take these people to make up their freaking minds?  Here it is:

Fishermen set out on Charlotte Harbor in search of their day's catch.

Fishermen set out on Charlotte Harbor in search of their day’s catch.

It’s not an award winning shot, but it’s suitably generic enough you could use it anywhere, even for a cover if you wanted to.

It seems astonishing to me that just a few years ago, say 2005 or even 2007, when I worked for Babcock Ranch, I was still capable of doing hard, heavy physical work in the summer.  I did a photo shoot for Harbor Style in August, 2008 while having an episode of racing heartbeat (and turned in some damn good work in spite of it).  I went to the ER immediately afterward, and they told me my heart rate was 170 bpm before they brought it down.

Now, I can barely convince myself to go outdoors in the heat of the day, much less do stuff like that.  I strained my right shoulder the other day just carrying a couple of gallon water jugs into the house, that was the shoulder that got separated when I took a fall while I was trying to walk Cay’s late dog, Keiko, a couple of years ago.  I wasn’t able to convince a judge I’m disabled, but in many ways I feel like I am.  And yet I wonder how much my need for sleep and oblivion is psychological?

I’ve got to make self-employment work.  I really have no other options.

Turned down, again

Monday, March 18th, 2013

Well, word from the agent is in, and it isn’t what I was hoping for – but after four months, what did I expect?  Earlier today I got an e-mail back from Robert Guinsler, the agent at Sterling-Lord Literistic in NYC, saying that he’d pass on representing me.  In short, it took him 120 days to make up his mind “No.”  Unless, as one fellow writer put it, he was just “keeping me in his back pocket,” perhaps hoping that I would sell Growing Up In The Orgone Box on my own, at which point he could leap in and represent me without doing any real work.  I don’t really know.  In fact, I am willing to admit I don’t know fuckall about people in general, but I do know that my run of bad luck continues.  You’d think that once in a while, things would break my way, but the gods seem to have other plans.  If I said I’m not bummed out, I’d be lying.

So here’s my current situation: I am completely out of copies of Wet Goddess.  I think there are 50 more waiting down at the printer, but I don’t have the money to pick them up.  In fact, I don’t have any money at all, and the end of the month is swiftly approaching.

There are a couple more agents and a couple more publishers that I can try with Orgone Box, but frankly I don’t hold out much more hope.  I feel exhausted and beat-up, and I don’t want to self-publish another book, that would just dilute my efforts to market Wet Goddess – like that’s going so well, ha-ha.

I guess it’s time to start looking for a job, probably long past time.  It’s not that I don’t want to work, it’s just that I’ve had such dreadful experiences working for other people that, frankly, the prospect frightens me.  From my history I know I am a victim of “intermittent explosive disorder,” which has the same initials as “improvised explosive device,” for much the same reason: You don’t know when it’s going to go off, who’s going to trigger it or who’s going to be injured when it happens.

I wish I felt happy and cheerful, but I don’t, so here’s something that might cheer you up and which you should listen to anyhow if you like dolphins.  It’s an interview with Dr. Randall Wells, director of the Sarasota Dolphin Research Program, and the guy that I envy most of anyone in the whole world.  More power to you, Randy.

Motivation

Saturday, March 16th, 2013

So I’ve been moping around for the past five weeks.  Haven’t even felt like writing anything.  There is nothing much to write about, except I have done a couple of interviews that went OK.  Or seemed to go OK, because one of them was taped and won’t be broadcast, or narrowcast, or whatever, until Monday.  Regarding the link, above, to “Live from the Barrage,” I come on at 13:32 and go off at 35:53, and thanks to John Houlihan and his staff for being so nice.  In fact, they seemed a little bit in awe of me.  I am so unassuming these days, I can’t imagine why.  Have I gotten jaded?

The ironic thing about this publicity is, of course, I DON’T HAVE ANY BOOKS TO SELL.  My inventory is zipped out, and I gave my last few remaining copies to Sandman Books, which has been selling them on eBay and in the store.  I am broke, unemployed and trying to cope with a honest-to-god phobia of working for anybody else.  Well, when the cops come to your job site a couple of times, whether it’s to deliver a summons or escort you off the property, that’s what can happen.  I am simply afraid of the possible consequences of working for some other idiot, to whom I am basically an interchangeable component to be worn out and discarded.

It’s been FOUR FUCKING MONTHS since I sent a proposal for my next book, “Growing Up In The Orgone Box,” to a certain well-placed literary agent in New York City, who asked to see it, and I haven’t heard doodley-squat back from him.  My phone calls go unreturned.  I admit I know nothing about the agenting business but it seems to little old me that FOUR FUCKING MONTHS should be enough time to come up with a “Yes” or “No” answer regarding whether one wants to represent a certain author or not.

But finally, my situation is spurring me to do something I should have done years ago, try to market my photography.  In that regard I am trying to get placed with a photographic stock agency.  To do this I need them to accept three shots first, and it’s going painfully (but typically) slowly.  They accepted one shot out of my first three, and then another out of my second two, leaving me one more to go.  They rejected three shots because of “compression artifacts,” and now, as I review my old work from Babcock Ranch, I find that for some reason I do not now understand I did not shoot RAW files… if this discussion has gotten too technical for you at this point, do not despair, this is just digital photographer jargon for the fact that most of my photos aren’t good enough.  In fact, between the compression artifacts and the fact that a lot of my stuff isn’t sharp enough, I would estimate that 90-95% of my photos aren’t good enough for stock.  Whether the remainder will sell remains to be seen.

So I fight for motivation to do anything.  There hasn’t been much good news or much supportive input in my life recently, and I am feeling worn-out.  It’s not CFS this time, it’s just mental exhaustion.

POSTSCRIPT: And here’s the link to Stuart Vener’s interview.

“Swimming with Dolphins,” the video

Tuesday, January 22nd, 2013
I get a stage kiss (all snout, no tongue) from Theresa, the senior dolphin at the DRC

I get a stage kiss (all snout, no tongue) from Theresa, the senior dolphin at the DRC

I’m not feeling well – just a cold – but rather than burden you with my insane ramblings I’ll just post the URL to my latest video, about swimming with dolphins at the Dolphin Research Center on Grassy Key, Florida in 2005:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pq12juI4MDo

UPDATE: It occurred to me that, while what I’m trying to do with Wet Goddess is humanize dolphins, what I’m trying to do with Swimming with Dolphins is humanize myself.  Hopefully, in both cases, for the better.