Back in WA state, at the park: in a set of bad options, it is the best option right now. Not sure what happens next and I’m not sure that I give a fuck.
More or less have given up on the news. Ukraine, COVID PART DEUX, Trump Trauma Drama or Biden Brain Damage. I stick to my guns on this one: whatever the real threat is, IT is still being obscured by a lot of psyop bullshit.
Before boarding any plane I need to go into a happy space in my head, deep in my head, a place where I feel secure from the growing madness so apparent on the plane or at the airport.
So much delusion and illusion, so much denial anger and bargaining, fantasy is rampant. Everyone negotiating with reality to find their “magical safe place” … no such place exists.
Physical versus mental baggage.
737-800/900 RAFTING!
At Air and Space Museum, in Seattle, marveling at the tiny little portholes they gave passengers on the Concorde. What didn’t they want the average RICH jet setter to see back in the day?
The appeal of slow burn scenarios, graceful degradation, linear collapses, but is nature really this kind? Was it really that LINEAR for the indigenous Americans who encountered the Europeans? Was it altogether that LINEAR when the Mongol Empire began to fall apart?
Mt. Rainier looks like shit. When I was a kid, year round, there would be a nice cap of white – now the cap is missing, as if that majestic artifact of God’s creation had been circumcised.
Tabitha shows up in the advertisements on ZeroHedge for “ED CURED” ADs.
Tabitha un-gumbulates her boobies as she massages her boovula.
Dribbly juices flow as your copper wand flourishes and imbues her capuus-hole with snowy weather.
Tabitha smiles, as she shlocks the blue pills and the green pills and the crushed-bull-testicle-New-Zealand-bee-pollen-power-spice ….
Your fever increases, and your heart races, your platinum spear is stiff, your mind is wired.
Tabitha sighs, as her power-belly stored your load.
You are primed in the money-face-paradise, you spill some seeg-sauce on her tummy, as her body shivers and her boobs become erect’er.
As you lay there, exhausted, 50+ years old, nearly heart-flanked, Tabitha grabs your wallet and picks you your AMEX black-card and goes and buys stuff on AMAZON.
You are left alone, in your cum soaked dungeon, surrounded by protein stains and other kinds of greases. Cops with spray bottles and blacklights are coming soon.
CRIME REPORTS from REGION-DAGON-ZULU-11:
There have been reports of DOOGAH-PIRATES near GAMMA-PRIME. They carry voog-cannons and have mutant chimpanzee warriors, raised to kill and snort METH.
The HOOKER QUEEN, Yebera, has taken over the flesh trade in GRID-23. She is selling coop-bots to the Shriner’s who are holding their 1200th Conference, in alliance with the MASONS.
ROGUE EX-COPS are converging on the barriers built by the silk-league. Bogin-tog slaves are being harvested by these cops who fled QUADRANT-WHISKEY because qualified immunity was removed.
A tale of that FLIX BUS STOP off of 31st Street, in NYC, across from the Madison Square Gardens …
They cast their eyes at me and I winced, as the TUESDAY NIGHT COASTERS zoomed on by. their women-folk in tow, as the “johns” look on, seeking sweaty and degrading liaisons in some grimy alleyway in NYC.
“YOU FROM FRIMPTON?”, screamed Benny. He knows – he can’t really read or write, but he knows.
Benny ruled the streets around 31st Street, he carried a carpenter’s hammer and a roll of quarters. He was the SHOT CALLER on that block, working for the WEST SIDE JOOG-CLAN and running the flesh show near Broadway and Madison Square Gardens. “BIG B” as they called Benny sat large on his Honda scooter and would circle the gawkers and European vacation crowd, murmuring their broken English with strong German accents, being so aloof to the circumstance that is all to real where they are from.
The FLICKER BUS passengers would huddle in the darkness, as the “land crab” scuttles by, looking for some bagel left behind during the morning rush hour slog.
Benny was rounding up the joog-whores and other ne’er-do-wells this night … He had is brigade of boovula dealers, strutting, cussing, too coy or worried to look long.
Benny was a cowboy of sorts, keeping the “flesh moving”, making sure that all the old freaks could take a look and maybe decide based on the window dressing. The women were scared and poor. They wore tight clothes, with tears and visible blood stains on their jeans, near the crotch. Benny had to have a stony heart to do what he did – to be who he was. He had competition. He had enemies.
Benny faced opposition from the STRUG-BOYS of Harlem. They didn’t like how his crew was muscling in on the action and taking their cheddar …
Benny was constantly menaced by the HOOVER-SCOUTS of CROWN HEIGHTS. They carried fully automatic GLOCK-19’s and would spray their lead spew wherever they threw down …
Benny was harried by the BOOMER-RATS of PARK AVENUE – and these old skeez freaks did NOT mess around. One on one they weren’t much, but in groups of 10 or 20 they would surround you and pummel you with their “wisdom and insight” … by the time it was over, you’d pray for death.
Finally, there were ROMEO-DEALERS, spreading meth and X and KROKODIL. They’d sell blues to the street-rats, who after smoking that shit became their willing death zombies.
But Benny was fine, this was his milieu …
Benny was okay …
His ilk were striving in a world of degradation and deformed values, stale bread and moldy t-shirts.
He and his men were ready to go, for whatever, and it’s happening TONIGHT.
Yes – on the road, the plane, downtown NYC and Newark, on my way back to WA state. I had a good trip, got to meet one of my listeners in PA, and had a HELL of a ride on Greyhound (emphasis “hell”). One might consider the entire expedition to the east coast futile, absurd, pointless, but it wasn’t. I learned a lot on this jaunt, a week long trek, covering much of the country and meeting many members that occupy many strata of society.
I keep my listener’s situations private, but here’s what you need to know about our “friend in PA” – he’s a cool dude, prepared, in so many ways more prepared than me or most that I know. I had a break on the road at his home, which I needed, soaked up some of that country air, and I figured out that I needed to keep moving. It was not anything more complicated than my own demons chasing me to PA, and then chasing me down the road. It’s beautiful where our friend lives and I hope it stays that way, but it’s hard to say – troubling times for all on the death star.
The bus I took to the airport stopped near Madison Square Gardens in NYC. A filthy spot, surrounded by homeless and hookers and pimps riding scooters, running through the FLIX bus parking lot as the forlorn wanderers huddled together, waiting for our next bus. Nothing made sense, the numbers on the buses didn’t make sense, yet we, I think WE, found our bus and made our way to the next way point – for me it was Raymond Plaza in Newark.
As the bus entered Newark there were cops everywhere – seemed like hundreds on the streets …
As I grabbed a taxi to the airport, and we drove out of downtown Newark, more cops could be seen – new shiny vehicles, with magical strobe lights designed to ensure that anyone with the least susceptibility to seizure or epilepsy would be triggered, shaking on the ground, foaming at the mouth. I don’t know what was up with Newark on a Tuesday night at around midnight, seems like that runaway Brazilian (Cavalcante) might have made his way toward Jersey and someone wanted to bag the bad guy … maybe.
For my listeners: feel free to be disappointed in me if you wish.
A month ago I was still in Utah, wishing I didn’t have to leave, hoping the situation of peace and relative tranquility could continue – the morning walks with a dog named Boomer. But such things were not meant to last, especially these days. This old hobo would not be allowed to stay long in such a state of bliss – people like me are meant to “move on”, like the gangs of VFW and American Legion that would guard small towns during the Great Depression. “Move along hobo, your time has run out here”, and so I did, I moved on, and I’m still moving.
As I’ve said and written, I’m not giving up. No reason to give up, too many mistakes to make yet – but this weird trip, as resource costly as it was, probably helped me. I’m more at peace today with my situation than I was a month ago, the amount of stuff I carry is reduced, as it should be, not quite streamlined yet but getting there … I can imagine a day, in the not too distant future, when I’m down to a simple pack, tarp, sleeping bag, and whatever else makes sense for a traveler to carry.
So I say: “CHEERS TO THE UNDEFEATED HOBOS!”
Cheers to the GRAND ARMY of drain-circle’rs …
Cheers to the refugees and those struggling against the weight of the age.
Cheers to all who are unwilling to break, even if sometimes we must bend.
And CHEERS to all of you – somehow, we will laugh about this some day, I mean it …
– Don’t like giving out details of other people’s homes.
– About a month ago I had to quickly come up with a plan because I would have no place to live.
– Shit happens, I miss my friends Justin and Beth, I miss Boomer. I miss that place in Utah.
– I didn’t have time to come up with a great plan. Not even an adequate time.
– I had a sibling moving from Maine to the Olympic Peninsula in WA State. Podcasting from the state park at Dungeness Spit. Two people drowning can’t really help each other. I bought beer and cigarettes.
– Little Saigon, Seattle, showed me how hard actual street homelessness.
– Vorkton isn’t far from Michigan or Ohio or South Dakota, Grinken Town is east of us.
– “Survival Quest Theater” might be coming back.
– Vorkton is not far from Florida in a way.
– “Shadow Over Innsmouth” by H.P. Lovecraft, kind of like that, but no “fish man” ending … instead just me being a country boy. I think through progression I’ve realized that I am a country boy.
– Safe and sound and okay in Vorkton0
CLEAR THE AIR ON COVID (a slight concession):
– I’ve stated since 2020 that what we’re going through is primarily military psychological warfare. And every great PSYOP is also a snuff flick, people are killed for realism.
– There might have been a bio-weapon used, but it wasn’t first generation style. It was highly targeted geographically and demographically.
– Little Saigon, Chinatown Seattle, transient housing and lots of undocumented Chinese workers. Construction never stopped, flights from Asia never stopped, commies marched up and down 12th AVE, bisecting all major access paths to the Seattle hospital system’s emergency rooms.
– Targeted bio-weapon with built in self-destruct.
– They don’t want you to have a sample of this bio-weapon, so self-destruct seems necessary.
– A lot of organizations have the money for the tools to produce bioweapons.
– COVID doesn’t make sense as a first generation modern bioweapon – it makes more sense as a very advanced bioweapon.
– they have mastered the art of geographically and demographically controllable bioweapon. Not a normal bioweapon.
– Vaccines: some are poison and some are placebo (saline or flu shot). “Seattle Mike” and I looked at the CDC and other government data, and found that the flu disappeared.
– CDC to Hospitals: “here’s a check, call it COVID, put them on a respirator”
– CIA likes to kill in a way that looks like a natural death.
– Prior to the COVID there was a banking crisis in 2019.
GREYHOUND JOURNEY:
September 2nd:
– Got enough money that my brother was able to help me to get tickets on the Greyhound.
September 3rd:
– went to Seattle.
– going to boondock the night before the Greyhound ride.
– we went to see a movie that night, “They Live”, on the big screen from 1988.
– John Carpenter, a dark visionary.
September 4th, Labor Day, part 1:
– wake up from boondocking
– get to the Greyhound station in Seattle and no one working there.
– they had one guy who cleaned the poop seat
– 8:30 AM the bus showed up, we lined up behind door B
– that first bus ride was okay
– bad “sky painting” visible in Ellensburg
– “I blame Jesus” – t-shirt
– 50 mega bytes of data
– one of the best chicken strips ever in Pendleton, OR, Union 76 station
– drove through the Blue Mtns, 4194 feet
– dude with alerts on
– read ZH headlines: ARGUS AI from SOCOM that will scam the WWW about Putin and monkey herpes … Ukraine-monkey-herpes nonsense
– Ontario, OR, no bathroom – left a stench in the trench
– got a weird infection from the bus
September the 4th, 10:40 PM, in Boise, our next bus driver (worst bus driver ever):
– trying to help a fellow traveler
– who are you
– fuck your keyboard
– “I don’t care” “I’ll make sure it doesn’t get smashed”
– “can’t leave early”
– young MAGA African American gets targeted by the bus driver
– “Luke Skywalker pee speech”
– “if you’re going to Denver, you should have put your bags in the first compartment”
– “if you’re a man raise your hand”
– he seemed high on meth
– bus driver loaded up on sugar
September the 5th :
– “All’s well that ends.” – Dr. Freckles
– “fuck you” incident with next bus driver, talking to meth-bus-driver.
– “have you ever been to a place where all hope is lost, where all that is left is patience?” – Conspiracy Theory (1997) ans: GREYHOUND
– Driver replacing meth-bus-driver was still kind of angry
– “I am traveling with the lost, discarded and forgotten.”
There’s too much about the last 3 days to put in one post.
The focus of this post is: customer service.
I just got off an hour long phone call with United Airlines, and spoke with two people who barely spoke English (Artificial Intelligence YAY – when’s that coming?). The first gentleman was yanking my chain, the second one basically told me a bunch of bullshit …
Here’s the situation: my brother in order to help me escape Denver after Greyhound abandoned me there, to the streets … (hey Denver, why don’t you look into Greyhound’s liabilities for your street person problem?) any who … my brother did me a favor. He upgraded the ticket believing it would include at least ONE checked bag – but this is not the case according to United Airlines.
I don’t know, specifically, the details of what my brother did when he reserved the seat to Newark – but the key point is: he did nothing wrong. He was trying to help me, he believed, based on the additional upgrade charge, that this would include ONE CHECKED BAG, but no. So I thought “hey, people still want to treat their customers well, right? – why not just refund me the 35 bucks I paid for the additional bag” … that was incorrect thinking.
You might think this is a petty issue, but for those of us who CAN’T print money, like the Federal Reserve and most banks print money, every dollar counts. I am not alone … during my brief but painful experience on the Greyhound bus this week, I’ve come to realize, talking to many people, that a few dollars here and there is a big deal, and not something to be taken lightly. I had a few conversations on that bus with random travelers, all reporting the same thing: money is tight, jobs that allow you to live are hard to find, everyone is doing their best to hang on. And this, as President Biden touts how “strong the economy is”? – what sideways crap to spew … “strong” … if being near death is strong.
I studied the collapse of the USSR in grad school. Studying how the Soviet Union collapsed has given me some insights into the last couple decades of American history. But it’s one thing to be academic or abstract about “collapse”, it’s another to live through its initial birth pains. My experiences with United Airlines, and ESPECIALLY Greyhound, this week has given me pause to remember that STUDYING SOMETHING is not the same as living through it. Well – we’re in it now.
How fast the collapse happens is unknown, all I know is this: it will be non-linear, discontinuous, cascading and brutal. Once it really takes off and gets going? – it will be as I said: like having someone punch your teeth out.
I lost a few teeth this week.
I need to remember, this is still the slow part.
As for this $35 fee? – I intend to waste their time, United Airlines, once a week for the next few months. I’ll get that money back one way or another … and even at low cost rates of Indian telephone support, the money adds up for them too.
Yesterday started out okay, the first two bus drivers let me take my keyboard on to the bus so it wouldn’t get smashed, and they seemed qualified and helpful. Then there was the meth-head douche who drove us last night … Greyhound 560, Boise to Salt Lake.
He began by tossing my keyboard into one of the compartments, not even listening to reason, despite all the space on the bus for it.
He verbally abused just about everyone onboard before the bus left Boise, to include me.
The same crackhead bus driver gave a lecture, before departing Boise, on how we should urinate … it was a real TED TALK.
He didn’t stop, throughout the night he continued with his nasty comments and other bullshit – to cap it off basically telling the next bus driver to load stuff on top of my keyboard. And yes – it seems like he was high, could have been meth, could have been oxy, could have been both, nothing would surprise me.
BTW: I am sending this email over a low bandwidth connection that might not last, so if you respond and don’t hear back from me? – this is why.
I want to get off the bus right now. I am miserable, I feel sick, exhausted, and I’m not even halfway through this journey yet.
I am trying to “keep a stiff upper lip”, but it’s hard right now … at one point I felt like breaking that bus driver’s neck (not a Christian or smart thing to do).
I will be in Denver by this evening, and then on to St. Louis. I am hoping the next driver is not a sociopathic drug addict.
Got to the Greyhound station in Seattle at about 6:30 AM. The station wasn’t open, and there were just a few weary travelers waiting outside. They opened the station at 7 AM.
They had the CNN playing, as I think is government mandated for Greyhound, AMTRAK and airport media – Biden was speaking from Pennsylvania (where I’m headed) about his great achievements … it was more droll nonsense from a barely equipped faker. The real Biden is probably dead or in a coma some place, it’s just body doubles now.
Inside the station an old woman was looking for help. She was helping her disabled brother get a ticket to Blinkton Town, TX. “Where is anyone? Does anyone speak English?”, the old woman muttered as she walked around the terminal. The one worker there was busy cleaning the toilet seat after every person took a poop – a necessary job post Monkey Herpes. There was the kiosk for electronic purchases using a credit card, but the woman had cash, and very few wanted to help her – so I did. I did what I could. I mention this not to virtue signal but to point out that we can all be a bit kinder “On the Road”, per Boblimptock.
I got panicked …
I had a few minutes when I thought about cancelling my ticket and perhaps losing $300 I don’t have to lose … I called my brother and he said to not worry, chill out, so to speak. He’s helped me out a lot post Utah, and I hope he knows I appreciate it – I know he does. But I guess part of this process is understanding still, today, how many feet I am flying off the ground. Still too far off the ground, going to break my neck if I don’t adjust faster.
My next stop after Seattle is Hermiston, Oregon – I switch buses to catch my next one to Boise, Idaho.
I have too much stuff for the bus, and too little to care about. Once again, as before, I left a lot of stuff behind, maybe not enough.
A while back I had a podcast where I spoke of knowing “what to take with you, and what to leave behind”, but I’m still learning myself. Still adjusting to my reality which, in many ways, is still better than most on planet BOBLIMPTOCK.
But we are heading up into the Cascades, and once again, as before, I leave Seattle and Washington State behind me “NEVER TO RETURN” I swear – only to be pulled in again, like Al Pacino in Godfather 3.
(image above is from Dungeness Spit State Park, on the Olympic Peninsula, WA STATE, sunset)
So here I am, again, on the eve of leaving WA state just a few weeks after arriving. A circuitous journey from UTAH to the Olympic Peninsula, and tomorrow grabbing the bus for Pennsylvania. I know God is with me, and that helps – but I can’t lie, I feel like I’m getting too old for this kind of life and yet I’m not sure about the options, if any, for itinerant hobos.
You that read this or listen to my podcasts know that I’m not well known for my “sparkly attitude” or optimism. I’m not ashamed, it is part of my story and in recent years reality has as often as not lived down to my expectations – except for Utah.
I left behind two great friends in Utah, and it’s possible I never see them again. Those 2.5 years in Utah, as imperfect as they might have been at times, were the most peaceful and accepting in my whole life, and who knows if this ever repeats itself.
I left behind a dog named Boomer, who wasn’t technically “my dog”, he was just my friend. If I stop long enough to think about it I’d probably start crying and I can’t do that yet – a new friend, I hope, is making a place for me in a cabin in the woods, a la TED K. Nothing that extreme, but it is simply the case that I probably won’t see Boomer again either and it’s hard to know for sure, with something new, what awaits.
This new friend, a current listener, doesn’t know what to expect either …
I could be some kind of weirdo, or sociopath, or user or manipulator – as are so many these days. I could be some petty grifter looking to sucker the average schmuck out of their limited funds. I could be an incurably broken soul that has used up most of his extra energy, and is running on empty, and surely doesn’t know if he (me) has what it takes to move on. I might just be a middle aged hobo-shaman style podcaster, and this is likely – and also someone who will help out where/when he can. I think I’m basically a good guy, but who am I to judge? So I guess this dude in PA will learn more about me than he ever could have from “just listening” to the ponderous and bizarre rantings coming from beyond, from the WWW.
I think I’m going to be okay, but this too could be some kind of madness. I have faith that there is this resting place to sojourn, to build, to work, and maybe to figure out a way in this world … assuming such things are on the menu. If you listen to my podcast, you are well aware that I don’t believe “new normal” or any version of it is on the menu.
Here is what I can promise to you, the listeners: I won’t give up.
I’m not ready to turn tail and run, I’m not ready for the fat lady.
Yes – strange times and new places abound for me, and the great adventure of getting what little shit I have left from WA to PA without losing it or having it stolen.
And yet, I’m still here.
And yes, you are still here too.
We are here together, in BOBLIMPTOCK, trapped in an internal diaspora of existential dead ends and constrained/confused possibilities – circling the drain together, waiting for the “big flush”.
