We all have enemies. Sometimes they’re people at work, sometimes they’re former friends. Sometimes they’re former partners. And they oppose us, and work against us. And when they’re confronted with this, they conflate, switch subjects or gaslight us.

If these people do this to you,you can respond or retaliate, or argue with them. Which is what lots of songs will encourage you to do. Here’s my advice: don’t bother.

Yes, don’t bother engaging with the people who are flinging crap at you. If you’ve wronged them, make what amends you feel you can. But know this: for some, it will not be enough. You could give them all the money in the world, make all their problems disappear, but unless you give in, and do exactly what they want, regardless of what it does to you, they won’t stop.

But here’s the secret: live well. Be happy, and do things that make you happy. Sing your song, speak your truth. Some people will not like it. But you’ll find out who your friends really are. Dance your way through this life, as much as possible. Stuck in traffic? Boogie in your seat. Waiting for the doctor? Time for some Taylor Swift or Erasure, whatever your jam is.

I’ve bene in a funk off and on the last week, and there’s forces that want to keep me down. They want me to believe that I am something I’m not, but they want to keep that in their heads, because it fits their narrative. Don’t let them sour your life. Dance when you want to dance, write when you want to write, and say what you want to say. Then eat the hell out of your dessert, and love all you can in this life. Good night.

My posts have been, until now, mostly positive and use song lyrics for a title. Music is a big force in my life, and there’s been a song for every occasion. But tonight, there isn’t any music in my brain.

I’ve been struggling with what to write tonight, because my head isn’t where it needs to be for that. I know, you should be able to just sit your ass in the seat and write, but sometimes it doesn’t work that way.

I keep giving people the benefit of the doubt. I keep thinking that the awful crap they spew is just because they’re angry, or hurt or sad. But sometimes, that isn’t true.

I have loved people in my life. Not perfectly, and sometimes very badly. I have hurt and screwed up. And I recognize that, and I am trying to do better.

What I will not tolerate are people who use their anger to lie, decieve and manipulate other people I love into joining their hatred against me. You do that,then shame on you.

And here’s what I don’t get. Do you really need to be right that badly? Are you such a narcissist that you can’t see how bad it looks? And does it feel better at night?

You can think you’re winning. You can think you’re feeling good about yourself. But if your feeling good is depending on hating someone else, then how good is it, really? If hurting, bullying, and violating their boundaries is what makes you feel good, then how good is it? Who’s the real bad guy here?

I’ve stopped talking to some people I love. Some have accused me of avoiding conflict, and avoiding responsibility. But there are three sides to every story: Yours, mine and the truth. If you only have interest in your side, than you have no interest in the truth. I don’t think I’m right about everything. Can you say the same? And if you can’t, well then shame on you. And if you get challenged, then switch it to something else, and deflect, then you really don’t want the truth, you just want ot be right.

I’ve had way too many people who told everyone else who much they loved me while not bothering to act on it once the doors were closed. Keeping up appearances and all that. I refuse to deal with that garbage. I have no room to talk, they’ll say, while admitting they lied to me for decades.

I’m posting this because i have to get it out. I don’t care if you like what I have to say. I write this for me, not you. And if you hurt me, and take people away from me with your bullying, self deception, and narcissism, I hope it brings you happiness. But I know it won’t. And you are furious with me, because I won’t play the game, and you get angrier every time I call you on it. And you say you’re done with me. And yet, you keep coming back. Because you enjoy the pain you’re causing. Tonight, I refuse. Good night.

I’ve covered my issues before, like avoidance, being neurospicy and a people pleaser. And I did a good thing tonight, and it made me think about how I’m not good at being good to myself.

My good thing was telling someone how I and other people supported them on their journey towards being healthier, and how there were so many people who supported them on their journey. And , not going to lie, it felt good to lift them up. Because they’re good people, and they deserve it.

As I thought about how good it felt, I wished it felt that good to talk that way about myself. I’m an asshole to myself. I don’t believe in myself a lot, and I’m always giving in to the brain weasels and the shoulds. I should be this, I should be that, most of which has no basis in reality.

My new goal now is to talk to myself like I talk to other people. To lift myself up on that rising tide, as much as i push other people’s boats onto the waves. If I don’t know how to paddle in that water, how can I honestly tell people to dive in?

This is a short post, I know. But I’m not feeling the best due to vaccines and general garbage I had to deal with today. But I had people remind me that I am loved and I have friends and I am not alone in the battles I fight with myself. Won’t you wade out with me and take a swim? Good night.

Author’s note: We interrupt my usual brain pan drippings to bring you a blast from the past. Sort of. My original Rocky Horror post is lost to the ages, or until someone invents a wayback machine for hacked websites with webmastes who are ticked at me for some reason. So without further ado it;s time to start rolling.

Rocky Horror saved my life. That’s not a joke. It literally saved my life. Not in the way most people think. It’s a bit more complicated now, but I have to give credit where credit is due. Without that movie, I’d probably be dead now. At least inside, anyway.

My introduction to Rocky was not the normal. I’d just turned 16. I only had one friend, Brian. He’s no longer my friend, but that’s a post for another day. He wanted to go see this movie,Rocky Horror. It was showing at midnight. Being teenage males, staying up way late was way cool. I’d never even heard of the thing. So away we went.

The theatre was nearly empty. RIP Lakehurst Cinema in Waukegan. I have so many memories of the place. Saw Return of the Jedi there, went on my first date there, had sex in the theatre there. Sorry kids, but if you think a post about Rocky wasn’t going to include sex, you obviously weren’t paying attention.

That first Rocky, ther was barely a cast. Just two guys, one with a blonde wig. And they talked back to the screen. And it was hilarious. The music was great, the plot ludicrous and sexy, and the Time warp stillis the only dance I cna do completely from memory.

After it was over, we talked to the two guys. They were called Larry and Chance. Pretty standoffish, but Brian was undeterred. And we were RPG playing geeks, so we asked them if they wanted to play Dungeons and Dragons sometimes. Chance just shook his head. Larry blew smoke in my face.

“Jesus Christ, no. You should find my brother and sister. They live for that shit” He sauntered off. Larry excelled at sauntering.

Flash forward about two weeks. My high school, the late lamented Waukegan West(Go Raiders!) was having a social thing for us students. They had dancing, volleyball and an open pool. Having very little physical skills, we chose swimming. I loved swimming, still do.

So we’re in the pool, and I overhear a guy and a girl talking about D and D. I immediately floated over and started talking to them. After a while, they introduced themselves and Brett and Lianna Hund. I asked if they had an older brother named Larry. They both looked amazed. And thus, friendships that last decades were born.

I became a regular at their house, playing D and D every Friday night I could. Brian flitted in and out, bored when he realized Lianna had no interest in him. The other regular third of the party, Bill, was Brett’s best friend. We spent a good six months playing at that kitchen table. Lianna’s dad , Larry senior was always nice. Her mom ran hot and cold, and still does. It was a good time.

But nothing lasts forever. I asked Lianna out at her 16th birthday party. She turend me down, preferring the company of boys who had cars and looked like Raggedy Andy come to life. We grew a wider group of friends, including my first girlfriend, Kim. She hated Rocky. Should have seen that as a sign that wouldnt last. After Kim, things changed around us quickly.

I got a second girlfriend named Jenny. She cheated on me with Brett’s best friend Billy, who lived two houses from her. She later dated Brett, and even later on Larry , Brett’s brother. She was a busy gal.But we were young and dumb.

Around this time, Lianna started dating Rob, who would be her first husband, I didn’t like him from day one. Found out later, one of the reasons he didn’t like me was because my father threw his father out of a second story window. Sins of the fathers, what can I say.

But through it all, Rocky was there. Lianna married Rob right out of high school. I was an usher. She’d asked me what I though of her marrying him. I told her not to, that he was an asshole. Whent he wedding got to the part about does anyone here object, LArry stepped on my foot, hard. He saw me about to rise, and put a stop to it quick.

Later , during the reception, Larry got the DJ to play the Time Warp. All of us kids got up their and did it, drunk as skunks. It was a joyous release in a busy and tense time in our lives. It was the only time I ever saw Larry smile.

Flash forward a year. I’m just starting to go to Rocky regularly. The cast all act cooler than me, and I find out later it’s because i knew Larry. Guilt by association. Larry had gotten drunk one night at cast. In his drunkenness, during the Dr Scott toilet paper throwing scene, he’d thrown an entire Krakus canned ham through the screen. It took the cast six months to convince Lakehurst to let them back.

But I kept showing up. And I learned the lines, and hung out at the Dennys after. I met girls, fooled around, and basically got lost in a sea of sex and drink. How very Rocky.

And like Rocky, tragedy followed the sex, song and comedy. Larry drowned in Lake Michigan, cramping up after eating. He left behind three daughters, and a large hole in the Hund family.

The funeral was a blur. Bret’s best friend Billy blew him off. Brett responded to all the pressure by getting mind blowingly drunk. I recall him dancing on top of a car at midnight in Bowen Park.

At the same time, my world was falling apart. My parents had split, and I was living with my dad, who treated me with either anger or indifference. So I ran away from the real world, and right into Rocky.

I did audience participation. We had a wild bunch of people. Our Frank was a gay drag queen named Ace. We had a prop guy named Joey, who was a gay Jewish white supremacist. He sieg heiled once through a House Party movie and we had to hide him in the back until 2am.

A lot of this time is a blur. I was working full time, going to school full time, doing college radio when I could and drinking a lot. And screwing whatever female would let me. I’m not proud of those things, but they’re part of who I am. And Brett followed in his brother’s footsteps, hurling himself through a wall below the screen playing Dr. Scott. Somewhere, Larry is laughing his ass off.

Eventually, Lakehursts’s cast, the awesomely named Denton’s Revenge, fell apart. I lost interest when the cast kept changing, and my job changed. I went to shows in different places, but it just wasn’t the same.

The next decade was one of highs and lows. Mostly lows. I became the first member of my family to graduate college, on my dad’s side, Then I let a very dark incident ruin my professional life, one in which I had no part other than being a victim. My own dark time would come much later.

And other people were having their own issues. Lianna divorced Rob, who somehow managed to help create the three awesome women i still call my daughters. Brian knocked a woman up, and then was outed as a pedophile. It’s a loss that haunts me to this day.

But among all this, Rocky showed up. When I attended Pirde events, there was Rocky. When I went to Goth clubs, there was Rocky. Hell, Lianna’s sister met her husband when he was playing Frank. And when I DJed at the gay bar Saloon in Minneapolis, there was a request every time for either Time Warp or Sweet Transvestite.

And now it’s 2025. And like Rocky Horror, there’s been sex, celebration, and tragedy. My marriage of twenty years to Lianna ended. It’s more dangerous than ever to be transsexual. And we’re facing the biggest national crisis since Covid, when our government is going to allow 40 million people to go hungry.

But I won’t let that stop me, and I refuse to go quietly. I work with openly trans and queer people all the time. One of the groomsmen at my wedding came out as trans. So many people I know are poly, pan, queer and all of them are beautiful. My girlfriend has trans family members. More people are out then ever before. Hell. I’m even calling myself heteroflexible these days. IF I think back to all the late nights, the struggles, the heartache, it can be overwhelming and sad. But then I think of the laughs, the music and dancing, and I just smile. So thank you, Rocky Horror. And thank you, all the people it brought into my world. Good night.

I missed my one chance to meet Anton Lavey. I had a friend in college who ended up on the Council of Nine, the ruling body of the Church of Satan. Lavey rarely traveled, but was supposed to be at a event in Chicago. He cancelled, but that might be proof of his supposed psychic powers. That same event had Dana Plato of Different Strokes show up as the other guest of honor. She was dead a couple weeks later.

I didn’t like, and still don’t agree with much of the Church of Satan. But that’s not the point. (For the record, I find the Satanic Temple crowd much easier to deal with and agree with them more.) But tonight’s post has to do with my favorite LaVey quote: “There is a beast in man that should be exercised, not exorcised.”

I have a beast in me. I rarely let him have free reign, though he pokes his nose through the bars in his cell every so often and licks my brain. I do let him out regularly, but on a leash. He needs his exercise, because the cage we call civilization chafes his skin.

Now, if you’re one of those twits who thinks you don’t have one, you’re deluding yourself. Yours is just buried. Your beast, your dark side? They’re there. Man, woman, every sex and gender on the planet, all have a dark side.

But wait, Ttevor. Aren’t you a big fan of civiization? Liking hotels over camping? Indoor plumbing and all that? Yeah, I am. But that’s because I spent time not having stuff like that. I don’t like camping because I’ve bene homeless. It’s not my release from civilization.

For some folks, that is their release. Don’t get me wrong. I love getting out in nature. I love going hiking, staying in a cabin out in the woods. I just want it to have indoor plumbing and heat.And internet and medical facilities nearby if at all possible.

So where do I get off talking about unleashing one’s inner beast? Because I used to let my beast out unfocused and uncontrolled. And I almost killed a person because of it. I put a guy in the hospital when I was twenty. Thankfully, I had a judge who gave me two choices: the military or martial arts. I chose martial arts. I found aikido, and it saved my life, my spirit and my sanity. I don’t think I’d have survived my twenties without it. Charles Tseng, where ever you are, thank you.

Not to say I was suddenly a monk. Quite the opposite. I drank, caroused and screwed my way through things as much as I could. I had a lot of fun, but I lost a lot of life along the way.

When I got married, I swung the pendulum back the other direction, I tried to grow up, fly right. And I let the beast run around every so often. But I don’t think I let him out nearly enough. And I think it cost me a lot swinging the other way as well.

So now, on my own, I’m trying to find more balance. I’m embracing my beast, giving him more room and running time. And he’s been wounded too. Some folks call it shadow work, I call it embracing my beast. Eveyr time I’m out on the dance floor, or in the pit at shows, or steaming up the windows, that beast is happy as a clam.

And yes, I am using he pronouns for mine, But not all beasts are male, lets be clear. I’ve seen the beast come out in people of all classes , colors and societies. All sorts of ways to let yours out.

But you have to be careful, and be smart. There’s wrong ways to let the beast out. Thats how you end up in jail. FInd a channel for that energy, find what works for you. Go get in a rage room. Buy an old tv at a rummage sale and beat it with a hammer. Don’t throw the family tv out the window, That’s definitely the wrong way. And anything that involves other humans? Consent first. Otherwise, you’re not releasing your beast, you’re just being an asshole.

I hope that you find someway to contact your inner beast and let him out. Because after wards, you’ll feel better. You might have waves of emotion you’ve suppressed come out. I’ve cried twice this year in the pit at shows. Sorry, but that’s personal. You want to know, message me.

We have a beast, or devil or shadow. Every single one of us. And what we do with it can greatly improve our lives, or destroy us. The choice is yours. See you in the pit, or on the dance floor. Good night.

I had dinner tonight with my daughter Aubry. I try to do this every other week. She works and is in college. She has a boyfriend and plays D and D. She’s a busy twenty year old woman. I love her more than I can possibly say.

So we have dinner, and we talk, and catch up. Invariably, I go home. And I’m usually crying by the time I get home. I miss her a lot, and not the big things.

When you see characters in TV shows talk about missing their kids, I can tell it’s written by people who don’t have kids, or have never been really close to their kids. Because it’s never the birthdays and graduations that you really miss. At least if you’re paying attention.

When I was with my ex-wide, the soundest sleep she had was when all four of her daughters were all in the same place as her. She was already a sound sleeper, but you could fire a gun next to her head when her daughters were home, and she wouldn’t hear it.

And the same is true for me and Aubry. When she had to stay here for a couple weeks after the basement flooded, I slept better than I had in a long time. And I realize it’s the little things that matter. It’s the singing I could hear through the vents. It’s the footsteps on the stairs. It’s all the noises that go into when you spend time with someone you love.

I have anxious attachment issues. Look it up. I have anxiety about being left by the people I love. I have a hard time trusting that people who say they love me mean it. Decades of narcissists and other malignant personality types . So how do I combat those issues now?\

Little things. I recall their smile. I remember the way they felt the last time they hugged me. I remember the way they breathe when they sleep. And when I remember them, I can break free of the brain weasels, the shoulds, and the insecurity that plagues my brain in my darkest hours.

I grieve a lot of things from my marriage, but the interaction with my children and grandchildren is what I miss most. I hold hope to have that back someday, but all I can do until then is know better, and act better. And hope someday to see them all again. Good night

I said in my last post that one of the hazards of writing a blog is repeating yourself over and over again. There’s another hazard I don’t talk about, because I tend to think talking about something and naming it gives it power, but tonight, I’m doing it anyway.I’m talking about reactions from other people.

Today, someone took a passive agressive dig at the way I’m presenting myself on this blog. By the way, congratulations to the state of Wisconsin, you’re finally beating Minnesota at something not sport related. The award is in the mail, just like the last birthday card you sent me. If you don’t get that sentence, hang around the Midwest, you’ll learn.

Here’s the thing: I’ve dealt with passive aggressive people my entire life. And some of them have gotten past me. Sometimes, I’m not the brightest bulb in the sign. But once I do see you for who you are, forget it.

But the bad thing is, some of them, the shit they do does matter. Because I still love them, and want the best for them. They’ll say, if you love me, then you must XYZ. Their love is conditional. They never bother to ask why, or if you can, or what doing what they want will cost you. Because it doesn’t matter. Because what they want isn’t love or friendship. it’s obedience.

So when they say I’m not doing things right, it does bother me. Because I know no matter what I do, it’ll never be good enough. Because they don’t actually want me to do it. They love my failure. I don’t suffer enough for them. Here’s what I have to say to them: you know nothing.

They don’t know how I cry every fucking day. They don’t know how badly I miss so much of what I lost. They don’t know how much it hurts every day. And they don’t know how much I wish I could make them happy. And how much it kills me because I don’t see how I could.

But then I realize, nothing is going to make them happy, least not that I can provide. Because providing what they want would drive me back to the person I was before, and that’s not happening. I’m trying to be better, and part of that is not giving into the darkness that has been poured into me for most of my life.

So yes, I’m going to keep trying to be positive. And yes, I won’t make peace with them, because their peace means surrender, not submission or detente. Because every step towards peace has been cast aside. When I make my boundaries, they don’t respect them. All those things, and they want peace? No, they don’t. They want to win a fight I’m refusing to fight anymore.

So they can say what they want. Get a blog, write a book. I don’t have to see it, and I refuse to look anymore. I hope it helps. I hope it makes them happy. But their happiness doesn’t get to happen at the cost of my peace anymore.

I feel for the shit talkers. Nobody out there is doing ok, except the assholes. And If I want to be positive on here, I’m going to be positive on here. Don’t like it? Maybe they should ask themselves my my being positive angers them so, if they cast me out. I wish theyd try living better than me, that’s the best revenge, no? Good night.

I’ve generally just chosen a topic and written about it here. But here’s the problem with that:you run the risk of repeating yourself. And then you feel stuck, because you don’t have anything new to say.But then it hit me: Shakespeare

No, I’m not writing about Shakespeare. I know professors of the guy, and I am not remotely qualified. Except to say my favorite film adaptation is Baz Lurhman’s Romeo and Juliet.No, today’s post has to do with a concept largely attributed to him.

Shakespeare is supposed to have said there are only six stories in the world, No, I won’t detail them. But the point here is this: I can write on a topic many times, as long as I don’t say the same thing. So I’m going to talk about a couple things I’ve discussed before, but in a different way: grace and hope.

I’m discussing these things because for the first time in a long time, I’m feeling both of those things at once. And they both relate to one thing I generally don’t talk about: my divorce.

I know, you’re thinking:grace and hope? In a divorce?I think both of those things are important to having a divorce. Without the two, most divorces wouldn’t happen. And yeah, folks, sometimes, they need to happen. Mine certainly did.

And let me not sugarcoat it: I fucked up a lot when it came to splitting up. I hurt family and friends badly. Not to the extent that some have claimed, but I’m not here to argue. Let’s get going to the good things.

Grace has been on my mind because of certain actions. I’ve had a moment of grace from someone I didn’t expect. Someone who to be frank, I hurt badly. And who in turn, hurt me badly right back. But I’m not naming names. I am sorry for hurting them. And they’ve railed against me in certain corners. But they showed me grace this week, and I am grateful for that . It leads to the next thing I wanted to talk about, which is hope.

Hope is bandied about, as if it’s a feathery bird. Fuck that shit. Hope is tough as leather, stronger than steel. Hope has lasted through things that would make Chuck Norris curl up in a ball. So hope survives a lot of things.

Tonight, in a manner I didn’t think possible, I felt hope. Not hope for the world, or large scale hope. No, I felt hope for me. That I was going to survive all the turmoil of my year. And more importantly, I felt hope for those I’ve hurt with my words and actions. People have mistaken my silence sometimes for denial. Sometimes my silence was letting time pass, letting the wounds start to scar over. Realizing that time might be the only thing that truly heals some hurts.

If someone has hurt you, don’t quit. Rest, lick your wounds, but don’t stop. Live your life, learn from the hurt, whether you’ve caused it or bore the brunt. Take those scars, and realize they’re part of you. And know that this too shall pass, and there’s a light somewhere out there for you. Good night.

One of my favorite writers when I was studying Journalism was Tom Wolfe. RIght Stuff, ELectric Kool Aid Acid Test and Bonfire of the Vanities are all stone cold classics. But what made him a favorite was how he went about his writing.

For those who don’t know, Wolfe came about in a time that was called New Journalism. It meant that reporters would not just report the news, sometimes they’d participate. George Plimpton exemplified this when he went and tried out for the NFK and then wrote about it. Hunter S. Thompson damn near joined the Hell’s Angels. But Tom Wolfe? He said, fuck that shit.

By all accounts, Wolfe would show up to report, and be dressed like he was going for tea on Martha’s Vineyard. Same cream colored suits, ties and the whole get up. He did this while touring in a bus with Ken Kesey, at the ground zero of the Hippie movement. And did this cause the acid freaks to not trust him? Fuck no.

They recognized Wolfe for the iconoclast that he was, and figured he was a straight shooter. Same thing with the astronauts he wrote about in the Right Stuff. He may have dressed like he was upper class, but he didn’t act like them.

Which is why I’m thinking about why some people act like their supposed betters. Why they do their best to kiss up and make their fellow humans look bad. At this point, has nobody learned anything? Shit, even Jeffrey Epstein tried to act like he belonged, and look where it got him.

I know these people. I see them every day. The problem is, they think I don’t see them. And maybe I didn’t. But those kind of people? They’re so desperate, they just can’t help themselves. And they think the shit they do makes them beyond reproach and punishment.

And maybe they’re right. Maybe there is no justice in this world. Maybe the game is rigged in favor of bootlickers and toadies. It certainly feels that way in this country lately. So what’s someone like me supposed to do?

Pay attention is what you do. Not to the naysayers and abusers, the bullies and their minions. Pay attention to what drives you. Pay attention to the things you like, and water those things. Dress how you like. Listen to what you like. Talk about things others might not care about or deem offensive. As long as you’re not hating or punching down on people. That’s not watering your own bush, that’s pissing on someone else’s garden.

I’m not here to give advice on how to succeed in today’s world. I’m here to help those who’ve been beaten down by it, by those who the world has deemed outcast for who they love, or what they believe about things. I think a lot of the so called culture is pureed capitalist propaganda that leaves no room for those who were abused , traumatized and left for dead. I’m here for those on the edges, to say hey, don’t give up. You matter. You’re beautiful in your own way.

I’ve never belonged, and it still gets to me, especially after I go home alone and have to be with myself. But I’m learning to love myself, to deny those who think I’m a complete waste of flesh. So I’m going to listen to bands I like, shake my ass to beats I like, and wear some awful shirts. Because I can, And so should you. Good night

There are two things you can say to me, about me that will flip my switch. They are guaranteed fight starters. One of them was said to me this morning, at my second job, by a human who wasn’t getting what he wanted.

“You’re useless.”

This phrase is a favorite of my brain weasels. I struggle with feeling good enough all the time. 24/7.My personal Waffle House of beating myself up. So when someone else says it, especially a complete stranger? It’s time for violence, in my head. It’s like a red mist starts to descend.

But I’m older now, and know where letting that out get me. I haven’t done time, but it’s been close. So I considered the pathetic person that had said this. And it made me think about usefulness, and how we define it.

In a lot of people’s eyes, I am useless. I don’t make enough money. I dont do a job that is important. A strong argument could be made for me being on the B ship, for you Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy fans.

But that’s what society wants me to believe, that what I do for money is all that I am valuable for. In a capitalist, what I can provide by back or brain is all that matters. And it casts people aside, and makes them feel unworthy. And it makes them feel useless. And so , sometimes people like me disappear, and fall through society’s cracks. And it sometimes leads to desperation as men get older.

Men in my age bracket, sometimes they get desperate.They feel like , unless they’ve achieved certain things, they’re not important or relevant. And they get louder and meaner, all in an attempt to stay relevant. And it’s all so wrong. I think I know of a better path to walk.

I have a new friend, who by some standards, would appear to be not relevant or important. He lives in a camper in a friend’s backyard. He does construction for a living, pretty much the epitome of what would be considered a non contributing member of society,

But it’s so fucking wrong. He gives so much time to other people. He’s a clown for parades. he dives and cleans up lakes. he takes care of lots of people around him. He’s someone I have met only recently ,but he inspires me every day to be more positive, and to do better.

He is the textbook definition of what I would call a Sage. This is the male version of the Crone archetype in Pagan belief systems and iconography. He is the man who’s lived life, and has good stuff to learn, if you pay attention.

But normal society would condemn you listening to him, because he doesn’t look the part. Those people, you’d think they never heard about Odin traveling in disguise, hidden in his cloak, so you don’t see the power.

I think he, and I, need to become a variant of the Sage archetype. I want to be a Useless Sage. Cast out by society, but so very valuable to the people who look close enough. I think I have good ideas too, and I think people look past me, and don’t see my value. So I’m starting, finally, to see the value in me. So like some other communities, I want reclaim the word Useless for me. Wear it as a badge of honor. Maybe If I’m useless, It’s because I’m done being used by people. You can call me useless, but I’m not going to apologize for who I am anymore. I am the Useless Sage, hear me roar.

And yes, I’ve done bad things and made mistakes. I’m gong to do them again. It comes with the meat suit. But I’m continually attempting to not do them. That’s the difference. And if you can’t see the value in that, or the value in me valuing myself, then to hell with you. Maybe you should look at your own life, before judging others. Or look a little closer, and pay attention. Then we can leave the toxic capitalist masculinity garbage behind. All of us, together. Good night.