Why Men Stomp on Homosexuality

The reason men make homophobic remarks isn’t because of hate, it’s because men view homosexuality as submission. Men view their cocks as extensions of their egos, sticking their old will-power out and around the world, making love and shooting DNA to create entire new human beings.

That cocks are just blood-filled ego sticks means homosexual acts represent submission to another’s ego, represents the negation of their own wills. All humans contain a subconscious desire to submit, as part of our desire to no longer suffer.

The ego views the desire to submit – the desire to please cock – as a death wish, as a desire to have the will negated, to have the ego excised. The ego wishes for this not to happen.

So, when homosexuality comes up in a conversation, it isn’t rare for the man in the conversation to begin making lewd jokes, gay-bashing their friend and making hand-and-tongue blowjob gestures – this is the ego attempting to subdue the submissive desire which is now peering up through a crack in the subconscious; the ego asserting itself against homosexuality, against will-negation, stomping its boot on the subconscious to make sure the id doesn’t get up on its knees to gurgle, swallow, rinse, repeat.

Was that too lewd of a sentence? It wasn’t meant to offend.


How Writing Became My Ego

A few years ago I hitchhiked from North Carolina to Los Angeles. I didn’t have much money or much of anything else, but I did wrap my little Acer laptop in bubble-wrap and brought it with me. There was a girl I knew from high school who was living in Venice Beach and whom offered me her couch. She didn’t let me live in her living room for very long.

And the LA coast was fantastic – hours trolling Electric Boulevard and the Venice boardwalk, getting lost in alleys and in conversations with vagabonds and old hippies and the beautifully destitute who can See Through People; prostitutes, beaten boxers, a man desirous to Destroy Everything In The Void. I didn’t know anyone in Los Angeles and had nowhere to go and I wasn’t about to turn around and hitchhike back East. Besides, it was November.

So I went Urban Camping, and I kept my blog going: where to pitch your tarp, how to graft food from tables before the bus-boys clean them, where to find showers. I was having a blast.

Along the Venice boardwalk are a handful of stores with doctors who prescribe pot – it’s LA, the Pot Docs are everywhere. I’d gotten my hopes up of finding pot on the sidewalk, and had taken the habit of watching the gutters, and I found half a joint.

I was sleeping behind bushes in Marina Del Rey, right on the marina. I was warned by several other Urban Campers not to camp in the marina because security was very strict, and I took this to mean there wouldn’t be drug-addled manic-depressives to contend with for a camp site.

On the marina is a massive, ritzy apartment building, a dozen stories tall and a hundred yards long. Lining the front is an impenetrable hedgerow, ten feet tall. I found a hole through the hedgerow and on the other side was four feet of soft dirt and then a concrete wall. This was where I camped. On the other side of the hedges was a brick-paved promenade right on the marina, where spandex men would jog in the  mornings and women would walk their manicured terriers.

I waited till it was after midnight before going back to my campsite. I had the half-joint and my Moleskine and a copy of the Beatnik Reader and I found a bench looking out on the marina. And then I got stoned.

Good drugs erase your sense of self. It’s the omniscient, tangible love of LSD; MDMA blowing you full into the Endless Moment; DMT replacing your consciousness with swirling crystal space-time; the paranoia of pot that takes out your sternum and exposes your soul to the inspections of others.

The docks on the marina had inset lights, sensuous glow-orbs on the hulls of clean yachts and sports boats; shimmering ritz of hotels and condos across the water; the promenade with antique lampposts disappearing into focal points on either side; the underwater echos of porpoises.

And I was alone. I didn’t know anybody in LA: the only person I knew in California had come to resent me. I owned nothing, had no food or money and was eating out of trash bins, sleeping in bushes. I had been doing well in school, I was going to have a good career as a journalist and I dropped out because I was impulsive and myopic and stupid. (I am an idiot and I have ruined my life.) And there was nothing but mercury in my stomach. The atmosphere thickened and the air was black, it was death, humid and thick and my skin was porous. I was sweating. My head was nauseated. I wanted to run into my mother’s arms. I’d abandoned everyone. I’d squandered the opportunities I’d been given and I’d never get out.

I took out my notebook and I began to describe the marina, the boats, the lights, the water. It wasn’t anything good or memorable, but it settled me, and I began to feel whole again. The pores in my skin closed and my heart focused on itself and I found control. The edges of the Void dissipated and I was here, alive and working, and in control.

A Christmas Will-Transfer

I dread Christmas. I try to get as much writing done as I can in the weeks following Thanksgiving, but I never get more done than I usually do and then I get sick because Christmas means I Don’t Get To Write.

My wife and I grew up in the same area 500 miles away, where both of our families and friends still live. We visit home over Christmas each year. I’ve protested these trips in the past but it’s always been worthless and now I only have flaccid complaints: my wife has her initials stamped on my testicles (this is often a stipulation of marriage and child-rearing, and less painful than imagined (if you’re lucky)). The drive takes a whole day, and the week of Christmas is spent packing diaper bags and dashing between relatives’ houses.

In the past I’ve tried to keep up writing over Christmas but it never works – for me, excusing myself to someone else’s office or spare bedroom to write is the same as asking for a stack of Hustlers and announcing that I’ll be locking myself in the bedroom for two hours – writing is a Very Personal ejaculation of something deep inside… So, it takes 20 minutes to get to the library and find a secluded table, then more time suppressing indignation towards any person who sits down near me, or walks by, or speaks within my ear-shot. And I don’t have my typewriter. And I can’t focus, because the only way I focus is by writing every day and by spending the intervening hours in aloof contemplation of whatever it is I’m writing. When I’m dashing between families I haven’t seen in a year, there isn’t time to think, no time to get my head into Writing Space.

I’ve never been able to write at my parents’ house, either. I tried once, struggled to write in the house I grew up in, but between the noises and the swampy vapors of childhood I couldn’t get anything decent down, then I hit a wall, and spent the next 3 months drunk on a couch.

When I’m not writing well I get moody and I hate humanity and I can’t stand doing anything that doesn’t include writing something decent.

(That ejaculation of something deep inside, it’s my heart, the thoughts and emotions somewhere deep in my mind’s basement that I cannot otherwise access: the self that I did not create; writing is how I dredge and build piles, how I exert and exert control over my determined self: writing is my ego. When you’re a child you are at the will of your parents; I cannot pull myself out of myself in the place I grew up.)

The first house we stayed at this Christmas was my wife’s grandparents’. The baby slept in the office, my wife and I slept in the spare bedroom. I woke up early the first morning, desirous and excited to write. But grandma’s a pre-dawn riser with a compulsion to divulge, so the entire house, which wasn’t big, wasn’t worth trying to write in except for the office, where the baby was.

My wife was pissed at me for waking her up. I was stressing out and getting pissed because I needed to write and had no where to write (no library near grandparents). Grandma came in asking if we were okay. Then I was boiling and trying to keep the lid on, and wife’s furious at me for waking her up to drag a crib with a screaming baby into the spare bedroom, followed by grandma insisting I should write in the living room.

I didn’t get anything down that morning, or for the rest of the Christmas week. I did things differently this year. I decided to turn my head off. I excised my need to write and I decided to be good, personable company. I forgot about myself and didn’t have a moment all week when I wasn’t talking with someone I haven’t seen all year, catching up, chasing Baby around; visiting dozens of relatives, friends; family parties, board games, out to the local bar, diners.

The week was relentlessly hectic and I didn’t think about my desire to write. If I had, the week would’ve been much slower, no different from past Christmas trips.

This was the best Christmas I’ve had. I didn’t receive many presents (baby sure did), but I forgot about my own dreams and desires and I ran myself ragged spending relentless hours with everyone who wanted to see me, my wife, and our baby. Instead of using my ego to further my own ends, I used it to please a whole lot of others. And it turned out to be a wonderful holiday.