Kane'ohe

I departed slightly earlier than expected this morning. The idiotic "chef" of Slob Manor (rental housing) fame was up at 5am doing ... What else? Eating his organic meal while making all kinds of noise. I drove my Nissan® Frontier truck to Sears® in the Windward Mall. The battery in the truck was showing signs of age, but it was still within the prorated warranty period. I had no choice but to drive there since the main store in Ala Moana Center was closed down last year.

Typical Prorated Hottie

The drive to Kane'ohe was very nice. I was privy to view up-close the beautiful and scenic Ko'olau Mountain Range. Kane'ohe ... my old stomping grounds. I even passed by the townhouse complex where I once owned a unit. The mall itself has been renovated. It is actually pretty nice now.

While waiting for the work on the truck to be completed, I made the rounds in the mall. I also did a little shopping and purchased a couple of clothing items. The price was right. And, the battery replacement only cost $72 and some change after all was said and done, thanks to the prorated warranty.

I drove back to town and parked at Ala Moana Center. The place is a mess, to put it lightly. The entire building that once housed the Sears® store has been demolished. Parking would have been a nightmare, but I cleverly turned off into a covered parking area near the construction zone of which the entrance was obstructed from public view. Then, I rode the bus to town to the gym. Mundanity ensued.

I don't know why I temporarily lapsed into daily mode for this "blog" posting. Perhaps I just enjoyed a nice day that didn't cost as much as I expected. Of course, returning to Slob Manor negated everything. Both the "chef" and Tom, the drunkard, have become even more arrogant and brazen in misconduct. Either fucktard has a "chip on his shoulder," daring me to knock it off. Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaa! I could kill both of them with my bare hands. Frankly, I have no more time to waste on fools. My near-death experience with the runaway dump truck of two days ago has changed the game plan.

Nissan® Frontier Truck Mini-Update®
The truck is now my only significant material possession. It has served me well for nine years with no major issues. Sadly, I have performed very little maintenance on it. I now realize that I had better take care of it.

Panda Express® Mini-Update®
What better way to end a fairly nice day than dinner at the Panda Express®. Actually, I really enjoy using chopsticks to eat food with. Sheesh!

ObamaScare Mini-Update®
With only a few hours left for the mandated deadline, the ol' lavahead has remained steadfast in boycotting the insulting provisions of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) even though he qualifies for the no-income (i.e., "free") entitlement option.

Near-Death Absurdity

I observed the ten-ton dump truck careening down the steep grade from Hawai'i Loa Ridge while I was crossing the street in the crosswalk on the way to the bus stop this morning. Surely, the truck was going stop ...

Just before I stepped onto the sidewalk, the dump truck rolled through the intersection against a red light and crossed all six lanes of Kalani'ana'ole Highway. The dump truck coasted to a stop at the entrance to Kawaikui Beach Park. Had it not stopped, the dump truck would not have been able to negotiate the sharp turn-around and would have ended up on the beach.

The road in question, Pu'u'ikena Drive, turns into four lanes at the intersection with the highway. The dump truck was in the left lane. Had it been in the right lane, or had I been there two seconds later, I would have been either seriously grazed or run over by the dump truck.

At 8am, Kalani'ana'ole Highway is normally congested with all six lanes full of vehicles traveling at well above the speed limit. For some unknown reason, the highway was clear when the dump truck breached the right-of-way. Only three vehicles in the East-bound lanes made abrupt stops at the intersection. They were fortunate to see the danger ahead. So, no collisions. No fatalities.

I was in shock as I stood at the bus stop moments later. Was the driver of the truck really that stupid or was he attempting a mass homicide? When the truck passed by me, I could not hear the diesel engine running. If the pneumatic brakes and the air horn were not functioning, then there obviously was not enough air pressure in the tanks. How could the driver have proceeded down a steep grade without checking his brakes? Why did he not have the transmission in the lowest gear? Why did he not attempt to sidle the truck against the retaining wall along the hill to slow it down? Or, why didn't he run the truck over the divider that contains large trees and a decorative boulder in order to prevent it from crossing the highway?

The worst case scenario would have been really tragic. Only chance saved the day. Was the experience surreal? No. Did I have an epiphany afterward? No. Did I thank Molech in prayer? No. Rather, I spent the rest of the day pondering the absurdity of the whole situation.

Typical Immortal Hottie

All of human life is absurd. Death is always looming over us. Yet, we continue to act as if we are immortal. Absolutely nothing lasts forever, not our lives, not our planet, not even the solar system or the universe. With that said, I really enjoyed my Panda Express® dinner this evening. The fortune cookie read: "Avenues of good fortune are ahead for you." Alas, we must enjoy life in the microsecond moment. Awww, heck. Thanks, Molech!

Chat with the Landlord

Upon returning to Slob Manor (read: rental housing) after my usual Hawai'i Kai visit on Monday, I observed that the landlord was walking around outside. I slipped into my squalid room, only to hear a knock on the door a few minutes later. The landlord informed me that the property management firm that handles rentals in the "crack house" in Chinatown had called for a tenant reference. I did not mention that I am no longer eligible for subsidized housing.

Typical Tenant Hottie

The brief conversation proved to be somewhat informative. From what I heard, the landlord has lost control of Slob Manor. The chick who is renting the attached two-bedroom apartment at the rear of the house has taken the liberty of moving her boyfriend in with her without the landlord's consent.

Tom, the drunkard, is in arrears with his rent. No surprise. The latest news is that he pleaded with the landlord for a reprieve. In exchange, he allegedly will be going to a rehabilitation clinic for alcoholics and will also be doing odd jobs around the house to work off his debt. Yeah, right. How long will that farce last? One hour?

And, Alan was allegedly given a 45-day notice to vacate. The reason, his hoarding of myriad junk in his squalid room, is actually not valid for eviction. However, I assume that the two-faced "chef" is the catalyst behind the decision. Alan has been on vacation at his "McMansion" in Arizona for a couple of weeks, so he has missed out on the nonsense.

As I suspected, the utility (i.e., electricity, water, sewage, trash pick-up) bills have increased dramatically. Part of the problem is that the tenants have been using resources liberally and carelessly. The rental income is now below breakeven. Add to the mix that Slob Manor was refinanced with an adjustable rate mortgage (ARM) a few years ago, then the "writing is on the wall."

The landlord also mentioned that the new nursery in Waimanalo is doing just so-so. And, the landlord's son is now living on borrowed time because his solar energy business is floundering. The landlord had previously given him over $800,000 (the proceeds from the sale of the landlord's former house in Hawai'i Kai) to start up the business.

Obviously, a rent increase is inevitable. My educated guess is that the bad news will probably arrive before the end of Summer. I cannot expect the landlord to operate at a loss given the other pathetic circumstances. Overall, the only two tenants who follow the rules are the ol' lavahead and the older hottie who is renting the attached studio.

Ol' Lavahead Mini-Update®
Lots of people have recently taken the liberty to engage the ol' lavahead in conversation on the bus and at the fast food joint in town, amongst other places. I am somewhat perturbed because my solitude was violated, particularly during my morning coffee session. Then, I am privy to listen to very boring topics, usually the life story of the babbling fool or religious mumbo-jumbo. I am tempted to brew my own coffee at Slob Manor, transport it in a thermal-insulated container, and find a desolate spot to enjoy my solitude.

Absurdity of "Pr0n"

One look at any source of "pr0n" would reveal thousands upon thousands of titles, not to mention the myriad Web sites offering specialty, esoteric, or fetish content. Let's face it. There's only one reason for "pr0n" ... autoeroticism. Since nearly all "pr0n" is aimed toward guys, the intended activity is to grasp one's member firmly in hand and utilize synchronized movements to bring about the ejaculation of "cum." That's it in a nutshell, so to speak.

Typical Erotic Hottie

Autoeroticism is, more often than not, deployed as a substitute for copulation with the hand (or other utensils) as a proxy for a real partner. Are we beginning to see the ridiculous source of the problem? Copulation is a purely biological and animal function, the primary purpose of which is species reproduction. Humans, in the quest to separate themselves from animals, employed numerous methodologies (i.e., repression, suppression, guilt) of the failed "civilization" paradigm to "tame" the dreaded animal instinct. Hence, we now have fully contrived concepts such as arbitrary gender roles, love, romance, courtship rituals, marriage, and so forth to validate it. Thus, the act of copulation has been institutionalized in order to reduce it to the constraints of "civility."

Once something is domesticated and institutionalized, it is easily commodified. It becomes a "product" that fits within the "ownership society." Once something is commodified, it becomes subject to a supply-demand pricing structure. Obviously, there will be a large group of disenfranchised individuals. They are "priced out" of the market, so they must locate cheaper substitutes or surrogates.

In the "real" world, the institutionalization of copulation has left many people, mostly guys (i.e., losers), out of the market. They cannot compete for babes because of lack of "resources." They cannot fulfill the animal instinct to reproduce, so they must find alternative outlets. Thus, there are billions of guys who must satisfy their animal cravings through the manual manipulation of the Vienna Sausage. Naturally, the latter turn of events has created many different "products" in what is called the "sex industry," one being "pr0n."

An entire industry has been spawned to provide visual stimuli to aid in "whackin' off," "chokin' da chicken," "fapping," "slappin' da salami," "pulling da pud," and countless other idioms for masturbation. How absurd is that?

Thoughts on Diversions

I'm not smoking or drinking on your property," the homeless guy said to an inattentive audience of five in the fast food joint in town this morning. "I just need a place to sleep." He then went off on a long tirade. Usually, in his lucid moments, he is quiet or talks to himself softly. I surmised that he was upset about a recent experience, perhaps just a couple of hours earlier. So, he was re-enacting the confrontation. He's grubby looking, but clean. In fact, I wasn't sure if he was homeless. Now, I know. "You've got a home. Go home!"

Typical Sane Hottie

Diversions (i.e., distractions) are necessary to maintain sanity and remain in denial of death. That what Ernest Becker labeled the "vital lie." So, I have spent the last few years stripping away all diversions. I am left only with my mortality to deal with. Yet, I have not been able to come to grips with death.

In reviewing my thoughts on life expectancy, I became somewhat unglued. I am at the fringe of what I call the "downhill slide." Five years to go, then ... I shudder to think. I don't need to rely on my imagination, though. Moms and my sister-in-law keep me up-to-date with the latest senior citizen news, although it's more like the obituaries. As you may recall, my sister-in-law is a caregiver to senior citizen clients. So, I am apt to hear about who keeled over, who succumbed to senility, and so forth.

Can I reinstate a few benign diversions? I think not. Once the folly of diversions is exposed, there's no turning back. There's no way to return to ignorance. No more denial.

Natasha Vega Mini-Update®
Hurdy-gurdy hottie Natasha Vega (refer to the "blog" posting titled, "Ode to Natasha Vega") has returned after a long hiatus. Baby is looking mighty fine, too. Coincidentally, many of the dead torrents of her video clips have come back to life. I was able to restore the essentials library of her finest work.

Thoughts on Life Expectancy

I have often mentioned that I have very little time remaining. That's not to be taken lightly. Given the data on pops and the numerous uncles on both sides of my family, I can estimate that I have about 20 years on average remaining. My chances of suffering from some form of cancer is pretty high, too.

Typical Young Hottie

So, what exactly will transpire during the next (and last) twenty years? I am "pushing the envelope" insofar as the "good years" is concerned. I am looking at five years maximum. Then, physical degradation will accelerate. The last 15 years of my life, as with all senior citizens, will be physically and mentally challenging, to say the least.

Five years is not much time. If there is anything that I need to accomplish which requires full physical and mental capacity, then those tasks must be completed in next five years. After that ... game over!

Of course, my lifespan could stretch out for 30 more years. I almost can't imagine how emaciated and weak I would be, but there are myriad decrepit senior citizens around me to provide visual insight. However, as a single male with no family or friends, I may not even make the duration of twenty years, at least according to the pseudoscience "pundits." Nonetheless, I am no longer assured that life beyond 70 years of age would be worth the trouble.

The first pathetic milestone will be the natural deprecation of the Vienna Sausage. Everything will be downhill from that point. Thus, I am monitoring the latter fervently. And, stressing the fact that there may only be five "good years" left, the preoccupation with minutiae and trivia becomes totally ludicrous. Thus, I must begin to plan my exit strategy ... that is, my final exit.

"Crack House" in Chinatown Mini-Update®
A new overzealous representative at the property management firm that oversees rentals in the "crack house" in Chinatown took it upon herself to re-evaluate my financial position. Long story short, I have been disqualified from the applicant pool. I am stuck at Slob Manor (read: rental housing) for the time being.

Homeless Buddy Mini-Update®
My homeless buddy has decided to end his chemotherapy treatment in favor of surgery. He does not want to go through six months of torture. He also received a letter from the property management firm representing the "crack house" in Chinatown. Rather than being offered a rental unit, he has been placed on a three-year waiting list.

Stupidity, LLC

The ridiculous drama at Slob Manor (read: rental housing) continued on Friday. When I returned to the dump from my usual Hawai'i Kai visit at 4:30pm, I was given a new key to the front door by the landlord's husband. Granted, the lock had to be replaced anyway because of numerous malfunctions. However, no key was given to Tom, the drunkard.

Later, the "chef" offered more details, but I can hardly take anything he says as being truthful. Supposedly, the landlord wants to evict Tom. Yeah, right. I would really be surprised to see that happen. I am certain that Tom will have a copy of the new key soon. He's not going anywhere. Soon, he'll have more homeless guys coming over to guzzle cheap booze with him. Everything will return to the dysfunctional "normal."

The "chef" also acted as if he was disgusted with Tom, the drunkard. Yet, on Saturday afternoon, he and Tom appeared to be best buddies. The "chef" cannot be trusted. No telling what kind of lies that he's being telling the landlord. The fool is playing a dangerous game, attempting be allied to all parties. People get killed for such treachery.

The "chef" also confirmed that he has promoted his "fuck buddy" to "squeeze" status. One would think that he would be ready for both of them to move into a "love nest" of their own. Unfortunately, the guy is an idiot. In about a month or so, he will "fuck up" again. That's when his "squeeze" will see through the lies and deception. Same ol' shit. As I said, everything will return to the dysfunctional "normal."

A large part of the problem is the landlord. Slob Manor has been totally neglected. The house rules have never been codified. So, the tenants run amuck. There's no question in my mind that a large rent increase is overdue. Property values, hence property taxes, have gone up. Utilities have increased rates by nearly 33 percent. The "writing is on the wall."

Slob Manor Mini-Update®
The landlord capitulaled to Tom, the drunkard, sometime on Saturday. He now has a copy of the new front door key. Too predictable, eh? How long before the drunken fool brings home another derelict off the streets just to have a buddy to guzzle cheap booze with? One month? One week? Tomorrow?

Homeless Buddy Mini-Update®
A friend of the homeless buddy disclosed to me that the true purpose of the latter's chemotherapy treatment is colon cancer. I had suspected as much. Why did my homeless buddy attempt to bamboozle me with nonsense about a viral infection?

Last Straw

At 3am this morning, I attempted to sleep in my Nissan® Frontier truck. So, what happened? Well, it all started around March 1st. I've already provided a brief description in a recent Mini-Update®. Tom, the drunkard, has been inviting strange guys to Slob Manor (read: rental housing) every day to drink cheap booze and possibly participate in some "fudgepacking" fun with him. Alan espied one of the guys and described him as looking "homeless."

Although the guys individually spent the night upstairs, the cheap booze consumption and the loud conversations usually ended between 10pm and 10:30pm. On Monday, that changed. The frivolous activity continued on until after midnight. Last night's party went on until 4am this morning. Tom was doing all the talking. What he talks about for hours at a time is a mystery. He does nothing else except sleep and guzzle cheap booze.

At 3am, I decided to attempt to get some sleep in the truck. Tom, the drunkard, and his buddy were carousing right above my squalid room, so I was privy to hear a lot of noise. Unbelievable as it may seem, I could hear Tom, the drunkard, loud and clear in my truck, even with the windows closed and way out in the driveway. So, no sleep. I returned to my squalid room at 4am when I no longer heard the fool babbling away. I assumed that he either passed put or keeled over.

That was the proverbial "last straw." So, this morning, as groggy as I was, I visited the property management firm that coordinates the rentals in the "crack house" in Chinatown. I am now in line for one of the vacant units. Unfortunately, the wait may be longer than a month because the rooms are being cleaned and repaired.

When I returned from town this afternoon, the "chef" told me that he and the babe in the attached studio have both complained to the landlord about the drunken foolery incident. I was asked to provide my own testimony. I reluctantly wrote out a three-page note describing the incident and left it in the landlord's box. I seriously doubt that anything will change. I would be surprised if Tom, the drunkard, was even mildly chastised.

Well, as we all know, I have made all the preparations to move out. My squalid room is completely clean. I have divested all superfluous possessions. I can be completely moved out in five minutes. The final decision to move out of the dump is based on various criteria that I have discussed in the "blog." Essentially, I am an old codger. I am by myself. And, all aspects of my life can currently be summarized by ... game over!

Homeless Buddy Mini-Update®
A couple weeks ago, my homeless buddy stepped on a nail on the Next Step homeless shelter property. The nail pierced through his shoe and into his foot. He had to wear support footwear as a result. Now, there have been complications. So, he is undertaking three months of daily chemotherapy to combat an alleged viral infection from the wound.

Vienna Sausage Mini-Update®
The Vienna Sausage appears to be rapidly atrophying. I am not sure if it will still be functional (aside from urination purposes) in six months. Well, it has not been deployed in reproduction activities in decades. So, the body is automatically deprecating it to a flacid stump.

Telecommunications Mini-Update®
I will apparently be losing my free voicemail account in a month. So, I quickly searched the Net for any free phone number sites. I now have an area code 777 phone number. It is only accessible through VOIP, but I will still use it for any and all personal accounts that require a phone number.

Surveillance Mini-Update®
The ridiculous surveillance of the "blog" appears to have ended ten days ago. Good riddance!

Zero-Sum Fitness

As I have previously mentioned in the "blog," working out and exercising is yet another zero-sum game. As we grow older, our bodies begin to degenerate, ultimately ending up in a state of decrepitude. Absolutely nothing can stop the aging process. With that said, I have followed rigid exercise regimens for the past 35 years. That's right, 35 years. Twenty-five of those years have been spent in one gym (i.e., fitness club) or another.

Typical Fitness Hottie

I am now approaching 60 years of age. My body has treated me well, even though I abused it continually with bad habits (details not necessary). The exercise regime, however, negated the effects of those disgusting habits. But, I digress. I am now at the turning point ... exercise may not be able to compensate for aging much longer.

I am using the Vienna Sausage as a barometer of sorts in order to monitor my testosterone level. As the Vienna Sausage increases in dysfunction, my testosterone level proportionally decreases. I will begin to lose muscle tone. Body fat will increase. Masculine features will become more "rounded," more gracile. At that point, I can entertain the idea of terminating my gym membership. What is the point of continuing?

What's that? Sheer nonsense, you say? Not really. I have been observing all of the senior citizens in the gym. I scrutinize their workouts. I also note their physical condition versus their ages. The observations are not pretty.

Let's face it. Every aspect of human life is a zero-sum game. Death is the great equalizer, the instrument of zero summation. We always live in denial ... the "vital lie."

Thoughts on Losers

Losers everywhere. As a matter of fact, the number of losers worldwide appears to be growing exponentially. Worst of all, I am in constant, albeit unwitting, contact with losers from all walks of life. Since I frequent places that are popular with the "economically disenfranchised," I am likely to have encounters with numerous losers. Yet, economic status is not always a necessary requirement to be a loser. Little wonder that I have become a misanthrope.

I also find myself residing amongst losers. Take Slob Manor (read: rental housing), for example. I have painfully chronicled (in the "blog") the various losers who have been tenants. All losers. Big time losers. Imagine if I were to move to the "crack house" in Chinatown. There are more losers there than I care to count.

Typical Civilized Hottie

What exactly is a loser? In my younger days, a loser was someone who could not hook up with babes. Or, someone who was a total failure in every aspect. A true loser, however, is a chimpo sapien who has shirked all manner of "civil" behavior. Yes, I am again inferring the failure of the "civilization" paradigm.

Should I not be happy that people are becoming more like the animals that they truly are? Should I not embrace the release of the "inner animal"? There's no cause for celebration because general stupidity and ignorance are being mistaken as character traits of the "inner animal." Narcissistic and callous behavior is not inherent in the "inner animal." They are inherent in losers.

A proliferation of losers is the primary indication of the failed "civilization" paradigm. We are witnessing the rapid breakdown of society, which is why there has been an increase in covert surveillance. In time, there will be forced suppression through violent Draconian measures to bring the gamut of losers back in line. Loser ... you gotta love 'em!

Slob Manor Mini-Update®
I vowed not to include any more updates about the dump. However, each of the losers takes turns being the biggest prick in the house. Once again, we have Tom, the drunkard, in the spotlight. Apparently, the fool has found a new guy "friend" to stay with him upstairs. According to Alan, the new "friend" looks like a homeless guy. They get drunk on cheap booze together all day and all night. I'm suspecting that there's some "fudgepacking" going on as well. Why else has the "friend" been sleeping over for almost two weeks now? Here we have a prime example of a total loser.

Stoneface Mini-Update®
Stoneface, the official ol' lavahead update, has been mummified as of the March 2014 edition. The status quo was accurately described, and there are no changes to the latter slated in the long run.

Stoneface - March

Well, I will be turning 60 years of age in just a few short months. Let's face it ... game over! I may not look like I am 60 years old. I may not behave like a typical senior citizen. However, the numbers are in. Sixty. Six-O. Sesenta. Zestig. Soixante. Hatvan. Once I reveal my age to anyone, there's just nothing more to say after that. I am an old codger.

Typical Ageless Hottie

The doors of opportunity (for lack of a better term) are closing rapidly, if not already closed. I can't hook up with any babes. I can no longer start my own family. I can't return to wage slavery, even if I desired to do so. I will begin aging rapidly very soon. The Vienna Sausage is doomed to atrophy, and testosterone depletion will have deleterious effects. In other words, decrepitude and death are just around the corner.

There is a certain point in life when the charade of "normality" must end. Sixty years of age is that point, I believe. There's really no sense in maintaining an air of "upward mobility" or to play any of the other foolish games that are reserved for the younger crowd. No one will be impressed by an old codger unless he has enormous wealth at his disposal. Putting an end to the charade also means downgrading all aspects of life to the "nitty-gritty" (i.e., basic and sub-basic levels of subsistence). Nothing more, probably less.

Future Plans. There just aren't any. My sole purpose for being in Hawai'i is to spend time with moms, the last of my parents. I try not to think about the day that moms passes on, but the event is inevitable. Subsequently, I will be totally alone. I have no support group whatsoever.

Misanthropy. The main reason that I can be alone without any social interactions for extended periods of time is my increasing misanthropy. Chimpo sapiens drive me completely berserk. I have moved from a highly social networked individual to a hermit (read: monk). I have no desire to change. I prefer being a loner. I can no longer hold conversations. Reading books as an activity has come to an abrupt halt, too. And, with the deprecation of the "blog," I am losing all interest in writing as well. With that said, my homeless buddy may very well be my only friend (term used loosely) in the entire world.

Leisure Time. I have increased my leisure time by reducing any and all busy work. Oddly, I have absolutely nothing to do during my leisure time. I am essentially bored, but boredom is just fine with me. Excitement is just too overrated.

Tax Returns. I completed my 2013 tax returns and dispatched them by mail immediately. The event would not be noteworthy except for two points. First, I am now completely finished with the business of the detestable "condotel" unit. Second, the tax return filing on the empire level may be the last one for a long time. No income, no need to file a tax return. No ObamaScare penalty.

Retirement Accounts. I had planned to cash out my retirement accounts in a month or so (at age 59.5 years old), but the transaction would require me to file empire-level taxes. The distribution my qualify as income and would put me back "on the radar" for ObamaScare. So, I must postpone the transaction until 65 years of age. I will also postpone the filing for senior citizen entitlements.