Merry Christmas Past, Present and Future

The Fine Lines Between Two Worlds

Yes, my mother, Velma Casher, is still living. She's 82 and we still share the same home. This is an art video, one of several that I've made about my artwork and photo art, and I simply dedicated this surreal, artistic, upbeat video to my mother, to honor her while she's alive. Nothing more and nothing less. Yes, she likes this video. Thank you.

View the "Surreality" photo art album at Picasa

Inside Looking Out

Michael Casher Presents "Places"

Our Pal Lucky

"Lucky" Casher

June XX, 1994 — October 20, 2013

Died at Home Today of Natural Causes

19 years and four months old

Rest in Peace — You will be missed. A lot.

Photograph Taken on November 23, 2012

at Age 18 (and 5 months)

Place in the Sun

Performance Art

Here's Looking At You

Good-Bye and Farewell

Today I posted a good-bye and farewell message with a photo representing the blog author personality I use for each of my ten blogs here at Blogger. I've given up blogging mainly for personal reasons (that's about 75% of my final decision to stop blogging) and also for health reasons. About 95% of all traffic to my blogs comes from bots and referrer spam redirects in Russia and China (America's oldest enemies). Besides that, the Internet is as slow as a snail and unresponsive, mostly due to Prism, browser wars and hacking. Webmasters and surfers alike are addicted to Java and Shockwave like whores strung out on heroin or wired on crack. And neither app ever works right. Ultimately, your browser crashes, and I'd rather clean the dead leaves out of my rain gutters than sit in front of my PC like a fool, with a dead mouse in my hand.

I'll continue to maintain my websites, blogs and YouTube channel — as is — despite ongoing, malicious tampering of those spaces by powerful and cowardly people who think the world wide web is their oyster and nobody else's. To me, the world wide web is more of a spider web and a sewer than anything else. And a misinformation/disinformation highway. No thank you. Not my cup of tea. But you'll never keep me out. Not now and not ever. It always pays to be "a good guy", no matter how much it hurts. In the long run the good guys will always win.

My chronic pain level can no longer be controlled by over-the-counter medications such as Tylenol, Advil, Aspirin, Aleve, Orudis or Phenocane so that I can write and blog without distracting discomfort. I suffer from advanced degenerative disc disease, spasmodic torticollis, piriformus syndrome, arthritis, a partial and increasing paralysis of my left leg and feet due to lower lumbar laminectomy surgery in 1980 and 1990, in addition to four fallen arches and pronation of both feet. I drive without any difficulty because there is very little pressure on my spine for the short drives to the stores and back. The exploratory laparotomy I endured in July 2010 to find that a perforated appendix was the cause of my peritonitis saved my life but I've never been the same since. But that's life.

I drive under five miles to the stores once a week. It takes me about four hours to shop two stores just outside of town. One of those hours is spent unloading the car and putting everything away, like a pack mule who'd seen its better days a long time ago. I haven't walked without difficulty since I was 29 and I haven't walked without a lot of pain, loss of balance and discomfort for the past three years. I often use a cane (except when I carry things), depending on how I'm getting around that day. At 61, I'm not getting any younger. I am not comfortable sharing my private health issues on the Web but I feel that I owe what few followers I have an explanation about why I've stopped blogging. On the other hand, if you think this post is amusing entertainment then you represent something I've been trying to expose since 2002. A lack of respect for other people.

These medical issues have also affected my ability to write and create the way I used to. My first priorities will still be the everyday needs that all of us must address in order to maintain a home and move forward to the next day. I am still the primary caregiver for my disabled, 82-year-old mother. A county van, equipped for wheelchairs, has replaced my car as transportation to her doctor's appointments. I ride along with her as her escort and companion. We'll keep this arrangement of sharing this home, facilitating her need to live at home and her desire to be as independent as possible. Neither of us would have chosen this life path if we had known what lay in store for us. But human life is not the only experience we have. It's merely the one we have to endure. The best experiences, the ones we get to enjoy, are yet to come.

For the past several months I've been using my computer while sitting in an Adirondack chair with three bed pillows and four lawn chair cushions to prop me up. I use a lap board, balanced on my right leg and the right arm of the chair, to operate my mouse. But it's no longer worth the effort and increasing misery. So, I have stopped blogging. Period. This text post is not an afterthought, it's a planned text that I put on priority two yesterday. Priority one yesterday was to post my blog author images with links to disturbing, controversial and surreptitious YouTube content that I just discovered this past weekend.

Before yesterday I'd never heard of The Andromeda Council or The Silver Legion. I'm not saying this YouTube content is deliberately sinister and I'm also not saying that it's not. But, if there's one thing I've learned about living on Earth it's this: If it sounds too good to be true, you can bet your sweet ass it is too good to be true. And, more often than not, there's a great big rat lurking beneath. The older I get, the easier it is to spot and smell a New Age scam when I hear one but this Andromeda/Silver Legion scam takes deception to a new level. Are these the same Native Americans who hated white settlers in "the New World" so intensely that they killed entire families and even burned white children at the stake? Are these the same "Indians" who had their women skin white men alive, piece by piece? Are these the same "red" people who tied white men to anthills in the blazing desert sun and who sometimes placed their bound hands in a camp fire while tied in a supine position so these so-called superior and spiritual? villains could revel in their unbelievable suffering? Are these the same Native American souls who failed to evolve for thousands of years and who worshiped spirits and used pagan rituals to abet their own selfish, unbridled ambition? If they are, they can go back to where they came from. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST.

If these dark-souled vendors of lies, deception and enslavement can use YouTube to reach people they can just as easily give us a call or, better yet, just stop by. That's right, real contact of The Fourth Kind. On our turf. I'd bet a sawbuck I can tell whether or not they're lying to me over a cup of coffee in my kitchen. There. That's an open invitation to Tolec and Tanaath. My mother and I will serve you coffee and pastries and listen to you and watch your faces. You lurking, "superior" (my ass), Native-American/Andromedan-Incarnate "people" do have faces, don't you? Then show them to us. What the hell are you afraid of? Face us, you cowards. Then we'll know who's telling the truth and who's lying. Won't we? As for the rest of you, you can decide if these are the people who will be pulling your strings now. Have we finally evolved to the point where we accept responsibility for our own thoughts and deeds or are we still spoiled little brats who refuse to behave or grow up and who still blame everybody and everything else for what we've done to ourselves and to each other? What makes you think you're entitled to help "from above and beyond" if you won't help yourself? You are not entitled to help you do not deserve or to enjoy benefits you have not earned. If you can't run your own lives, then heaven help you. Me? I cut the strings that were tied to me a long time ago. You can, too. If you want to.

As an author of science fiction and literary fiction, I wrote independent and unaware of such things. I have no affiliation with any of this and I have no comments about the websites or the videos I've linked to in my final blog posts. My life as a writer, humorist, blogger and artist has been to share my discoveries about life, the world and the universe, as well as sharing the fictional creations of my fertile imagination. What you do with the concepts, notions and ideas I have presented to you between 2002 and 2013 is entirely up to you. I spent the last 11 years of my life trying to get this world to "Wake Up, Wise Up and Grow Up." And no one listened or bothered to say, "Thanks." Be that as it may. So, I'm done here. You're on your own.

Life is a discovery of many wonders and what we do with with those discoveries tells the world and the rest of the universe who and what we are. Be the best person you can be, each and every day, and the rest of your life will surely be an experience of your true destiny and not your fate. From Michael Casher, Mike the Obscure, Fred Fortune, Jonco Bugos, Little Green Man, Baby Boomer Boy and Ticked Off Ted, good-bye and farewell.

Main post body updated 01-22-14

09-02-13 post update: Yesterday, September 1, 2013, I discovered some more disturbing, controversial and horrifying YouTube content with the potential to become the horrifying truth. Six of my blogs now reflect a YouTube search list of related video content now linked to the farewell images posted on those particular blogs. The farewell posts on the other four blogs have links to disturbing content that offers a much bigger picture of our planet's current social, economic and spiritual malaise. All ten of my blogs now have relinked sidebar content regarding this sickening, dangerous, mind-control duping of an entire nation in a last-ditch effort to disarm the American population (literally). Original online news story links have been maintained on those sidebar elements.

The Obama Administration and FEMA even managed to dupe the entire world. Well, not all of us. As a science fiction author, I'm convinced that this is merely the earthbound powers-that-be in action. For the big picture, TURN OFF YOUR TV, start reading and start thinking. Pay attention to the world around you. ALWAYS question authority and dare to challenge any authority that is not in the best interests of everyone. Earth's real future is in our hands and nobody else's. Don't be dissuaded by viewer content warnings presented to you by YouTube or by clickable buttons that refuse to work and videos that don't load. They eventually will, if you're persistent. Keep going back. Google is "The G" and they're determined to keep you from learning the truth. About anything. Best of luck.

10-11-13 post update: An Internet truth-seeking tip from Michael Casher: If possible, avoid using Google Chrome. Google is not only the U.S. Government, it's the Web arm of the NSA and the New World Order. EVERYTHING YOU DO IS RECORDED. Every keystroke, every website you visit, every single search you do, no matter what search engine you use. That's right. Think about it. So, if you let the world lead you around by "the short hairs" you'll be an Illuminati slave ALL YOUR LIFE. If that's what you want, then I've got nothing further to say to you. On the other hand, if you want to know what life is like when you're finally free from the prison pf greed, fear and sensual bondage, READ ON. Otherwise, you are now part of this planet's biggest problem.

First of all, Chrome does not process Shockwave Flash like other browsers. They use a "Pepper Flash" app that works great when it works but most of the time it doesn't. What crap. Videos that play smoothly on Internet Explorer, Firefox, Safari, etc, will freeze and hang with Chrome, and this occurs because: 1) Google the Destroyer is "The G" and consequently their programmers are the dumbest this world has to offer and 2) being "The G", Google works hand-in-hand with the NWO and any web content that is truly enlightening (especially YouTube truth-seeking videos) have low-to-the lowest priority on Google servers, which are linked to the evil Shadow Government's giant underground computer banks in Nevada and Utah.

Google deliberately disrupts the feeds from its own properties when users are not using Chrome, so your browser choices will often be "six-of one and a-half-dozen-of-the-other" (meaning: what's the use?) but that, in itself, is not a constant. It's a roving, morphing lie. For example, I can't edit my blogs posts if I'm using Internet Explorer. Most of the time. The page just sits there saying "Error on Page" in my taskbar. What lying shit. Quite often, my photo, bio and book videos don't show up on my Michael Casher Page and my Jonco Bugos Page at Amazon. Amazon tells me it's the fault of Google Chrome. Google won't respond to my query because Google Chrome has no administrative support and it never did. Amazon is clearly lying to me because the same thing often happens with Firefox and Internet Explorer. The constant, here, is THE LIE. If this planet ever had a mutual god that is globally worshiped, it's the LIE. Additionally, I can't fully access most Microsoft sites using Google Chrome. This is not simply anybody's "Violation of Terms of Service", people. This is a case of deliberate lying and deception at the top. What those at "the top" don't realize is that they think they're "at the top" but they're actually the worst bottom-feeding parasites on this planet.

Finally, DUMP your affiliation with socializing sites NOW, especially Facebook, Twitter and Google +. They OWN all the personally-identifiable information you shared and most of what you didn't share and they will do whatever they please with it. Before and after the NSA gets done with it. Don't let them own you. And PAY NO ATTENTION to "psychics" and people who "channel" so-called enlightenment. They are you enemies, dispensing fear, lies and disinformation. Don't let them own you, as well. Above all, be brave, good, smart and tough. "Don't let the bastards get you down." because the good guys (that's you and me) will always win in the end. You want a good life? FIGHT FOR IT. It's the only way. Trust me. I'm just a regular, native earthling, just like you, fighting for what's right.

Update 09-13-13: See Reality Check on the sidebar and the two text links below that. For the last goddamn time, people, wake the hell up!

"It's all about power."

Coffee Break

The Crossing

The Partying Dead

Click on the above photo for details.  Copyright © 2012-2013 Michael Casher

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Semi-Related Post: Moving Heads

It's Still A Beautiful World

Michael Casher's 21st public photo album at Picasa

Scroll down this blog to the footer for a 600-pixel-wide Slideshow

of the "Beautiful World" photo album, embedded here from Picasa.

Detour

Travel At You Own Risk

Alternate Detour

Another Alternate Detour

Boomer Boy Running

Mowing lawns. Shoveling snow. Shoveling the walk. Shoveling out the car. Pushing the car. Running from dogs. Runny nose. Arms hurt. Nobody cares. Running from bullies. Nobody does anything about it. Painting the house. Why always me? Why don't I ever get a break? Afraid of heights. Ladder too high. Making them mad. Stung by wasps. Wasps and bumble bees and hornets live in the eaves. Nobody here. Where are they? Where is everybody?

Firing the furnace. Building the bucket-a-day fire. Hair on fire. Face in fireball. Fire hot and wet. I'm twelve. No more eyebrows. No more eyelashes. Making them mad. What about me? Nobody cares. Nobody does anything. Hollering and yelling. Running from it. Running from you. Running from them. Taking out the ashes. Can't lift it. Have to. Arms hurt. Legs hurt. Nobody cares. Too cold outside. Too far away.

Moving their lawn. Mowing our lawn. Trimming our hedge. Trimming their hedges Mowing their lawns. Digging the ditch. Dig it all summer. Every day that summer dig the ditch. No pay. He gives me a tape recorder. I'm thirteen or fourteen I think. I have three pus-filled conical-shaped mounds on my left thigh this summer that took two weeks to go away and the scars are still there. Who did this to me? Best friend and I make radio show. Nobody likes it but us. Arms hurt. Thirsty. Spading her garden. Spading dirt, lifting rocks. Nobody else does it. Fetching things from her pantry. Shoveling back coal. Painting their fence. Pulled by head into Jeep. Feet dragging. Going real fast up hill. Pulled inside. Mean, nasty boy driving. He stole it from his dad. We're twelve. He'll kill me. Where is everyone? The same devil boy put me in a head lock right in the middle of the street one day when I was ten. He tried to crack my skull with his powerful arms. He weighed twice as much as me and was a lot bigger. He wouldn't let me go until I felt something snap and then I screamed. Nobody stopped him. This is summer? 

Watering their garden. Mowing their lawn. Shoveling their coal in. Shoveling our coal in. Shoveling their coal back. Taking out the ashes. Tarring their roof. Higher than our roof. I'm afraid. I'm going to fall. I'm fifteen or sixteen and I'm not allowed to come down. Have to finish job. I almost fell. Cry baby. Boys don't cry. Screaming is OK. Crying is not OK. I stopped crying when I was twelve because nobody up here can stand it. Putting back ladder. Hard to carry. Arms hurt. Getting their ladder out. Getting our ladder out. Digging his garden. It'll take a week. I get three dollars. I'm twelve I think. Arms hurt. Clay dirt. Takes two weeks. Still only three dollars. But it's money for work. Not at home. No pay there. Get a dime or fifteen cents for after school snack and that makes me happy, then a quarter or so later. But no allowance. Kids don't get paid up here. They just work. Summer is work. Running from BBs, running from pellets, running from dogs, peddling fast before dogs bite me, running from fireball, running from chains, running from pipe wrench, Running from death. I'm old enough to drive now. Where is everybody?

Cutting wood. Carrying wood. Chopping wood. Shoveling walks. Carrying. Unloading. Lifting. Watch TV there and it gets real small. Picture just a dot. I'm seven or eight and sink down into the big chair. There's nothing to me. I'm sick and skinny. I feel safer here. I wake up. Missed the show. Go home and eat. Can't finish supper. They make me. They watch TV and I sit at the kitchen table. My food is cold. I'm not hungry. I feel full all the time. I can't go to the bathroom right. Why do I have to eat when I feel full? Why are they mad at me because I don't feel good? When you are sick it doesn't make me mad. It makes me sad. Nobody cares. I'm afraid. I don't feel good. I must be what grownups call heartsick when they talk about themselves, which is all the time. When you're just a boy who never steals or swears and who never misses mass and who does all his chores every day, even when it hurts, it's better to be dead than heartsick, year after year. There is no God. I missed shows on TV because I wouldn't eat. Can't eat. Not won't eat. Putting up their Christmas lights outside again. They never do it now. I do it. Feel shock. Electricity hurts bad. Stupid boy. Christmas lights up the street and all across. It snows. I am happy. The church bell rings. I'm late for supper. Running home hard. Now they're mad. Can't eat again.

She wanted me to be an altar boy so I did it for ten years. Kneeling hurts my back. But you have to in this church. Sometimes forever. I'm seven. I get up at five am to serve mass at seven. Then I come home and drink tea and have a bite of butter toast and then I walk to school. The day has just started and I'm already tired. Nobody cares. Why can't I lay down and sleep? They don't like it but they don't do anything. I guess most parents don't do anything except make you listen. They're mad at her. She's mad at them. I'm caught in the middle and I thought I was a good boy. The Irish priests were friendly but they drink and smoke and swear like everybody else. But they're very friendly and courteous to everyone. They seem to like everybody and smile and laugh a lot.

The Slovak priests are mean and fussy about everything. The Slovak women are mannish old cronies who hate everything on earth, especially men and boys. The mean Slovak priests don't like anything or anybody and they don't care how that looks to others. Nobody seems to care about their behavior up here. But I do. The sisters sure like the girls and cater to them. But they don't like the boys at all, and they aren't mean to us, but they're not friendly to us at all. And they think that is OK. It's not OK. We put up the one Slovak priest's Christmas lights. He is friendly to us but spiteful to everybody during the sermons. He smokes a lot. But the other Slovak priest was always drinking and mean and hateful and they got rid of him.

How did Slovak people, and especially the women, get to be so mean? The women are oddly affected by other women, like they were men instead of women, and they think that's not strange and unsettling for children to see? They also relish misery and delight in unsavory things. They think telling a lie is the same as telling the truth and it makes them feel better than the truth does. It's sickening to witness this. These horrid women are not nice people. Unlike my kind, quiet, Slovak grandfather, who was the nicest man I ever knew. He made me feel good about being alive, like my other grandfather did. I wish I could have gone with my Slovak grandfather when he died. Especially since I was the one who found him dead. I couldn't bring him back to life, and I tried, but his heart finally quit. He is still a big part of my life. Each and every day.

Cardinals and popes dress and act like kings. Doesn't anyone notice that? Why should we kiss their rings? All priests drive big black cars that cost a lot. Some men get mad about that. I was an altar boy for ten long years. Life is not too short. It's too long. I did it for my grandmother. I'm seventeen now and I never go back to church. Not any church. Not ever. I never went back. Church is for people who won't do the work of living their own lives. That's our job and nobody else's. Priests can't relate to women and nuns can't relate to men. How does that makes them better than regular people? Something is wrong here.

I'm eight or nine and I sniff all the time because of my sinuses but no one cares. It makes them mad. And I feel weak and anemic and that's because I can't eat right or go to the bathroom right and that embarrasses them. We're playing outside and you hit me because you people think that's what I'm for. It breaks my heart. I'm sick and I want to die. Go ahead and beat me up. You only think that's what I'm for. They break up the fight and I get sent to bed at 7:30 on a beautiful summer evening for crying and you get to keep on playing in the beautiful summer sun. They're mad at me because I cried and fought back, screaming and crying, because of the utter horror and indignity of being alive around people like this. People who should love me instead of being mean to me because they like to do that. When I cried on my bed upstairs with a broken heartsick soul they hollered nasty mean things and threats up the stairs at me and then I cried in my pillow so they couldn't hear it. Screaming is OK. Crying is not. Is dying OK?

If there was a god he or she or it would have come and taken me away from all of you a long time ago. To a place where somebody loved me for who I was. Someplace where being mean and hating things is something you do by yourself. No one benefits from that. And I still take care of you. And you treat me worse than anybody has ever treated me simply because you can get away with it. All these years of living your life instead of mine and not once did you ever ask me how I was doing. "It's not in my nature," you told me. As if that could ever mean that ignoring how I feel is OK. It's not OK. You never apologized to anyone. Not ever. You shout at me all the time because you are mad at the world. Me, the one who takes care of you. And when I finally asked you to apologize to me for shouting at me and screaming lies about how I never listen to you (listening to you is, in fact, my entire life and has been for the past 18 years) you shake your head and say, "I will not." And I have to calmly accept that answer because I cannot leave because I have turned my life over to you so you would be cared for at home and not in an institution. And you think treating me like that is OK. It is not OK. The fact that you are mean and reckless with your hatred is not my fault. The fact that you do  not like to speak the truth and that you lie recklessly to make yourself look untouchable and to hurt me, who has never lied to anyone — not ever — can no longer be forgiven. Not when forgiveness becomes enablement. You hate everyone and everything and it's not my fault. You treat me like dirt, like the enemy, and I still can't get away from you.

Who or what gave you permission to throw your own arthritic, broken-down, old 19-year-old cat out the dining room window by the scruff of his neck because "he doesn't listen to you" and makes a fool out of you when you think he wants out, while you wait and wait and wait. This is what cats do. They have an innate evil presence and that's why the Egyptians worshiped them and why most men don't like them. Why can't you figure this out and stop catering to him? Yes, I know he lands on pillows that are steps down to the patio and yes I know this is the "door" you two use when I'm upstairs or mowing the lawn but it's also because you want control of him. You also hate him because he's male. How in the world can you justify being "mad" at the both of us — and especially angry at me — when he wants me to leave him out instead of you. I never threw him out a window and you've done it more than once. And he's your cat, not mine. How dare you throw things around the kitchen like an irate baseball player and then pretend you can't lift the TV remote control when I enter the room or when a visitor is present, watching and pitying you so you can revel in your sick, twisted portrayal of a suffering woman? Why do you lie so much? Then you use two hands to life the remote control device and pretend to grunt and shake because you love a lie and you absolutely adore perverse attention.

This behavior is evil. You know what you're doing. Your perverse melodramas are not my fault or my doing and it's not your old age. You have always been like that. When I really have to stop and fall into a chair or onto a bench because my back has given out again, you will not look at me. You pretend I'm not there or you pretend to fight with the TV remote. "There's nothing on." "They're so dumb." (male weather forecasters). You never ask me if I'm OK because, "There's nothing I can do about it," you told me more than once. Like that's any kind of answer or any way to treat somebody who made sure you still had a home of your own and a house to grown old in and not some noisy room that smells like urine and disinfectant and that looks out onto a graveyard. But I'm not so sure I'd do this again for you.

I think I'm on another planet that resembles Earth but I know this is real. You love Ginger Rogers but we can't watch those fabulous old black-and-white musicals because you hate Fred Astaire. You hate all men who dance in the movies. You only like the women. I like the women, too. More than the men, believe me, but I don't hate Ginger Rogers and Vera Ellen and that fabulous Ann Miller (the best tap dancer of all time) because of their extraordinary talent, like you hate Fred Astaire and Donald O'Connor and Bobby Van. No wonder Slovak women love the seamy, dark side of life. That's where hatred resides. And this is nothing compared to the fact that children are nothing special to any of you. And I omitted the worst about the Balkan dark side. The things lesbian female relatives do to their own under age female and male relatives. While no one's looking. It's only touching, you think? Pre-school and elementary kids. The unspeakable. The unforgivable. That's right, it wasn't you with the touching. It was her. How was this ever allowed? No wonder she showered us with so many gifts. Death can only be welcome if it's permanent. Who would want to go to heaven and see those who allowed such things? If I saw this relative in the afterlife I would kill her before anyone could stop me. Not even the space bugs you people call God could stop me from doing that. On top of that, I wouldn't set foot in Slovenia or Slovakia or any other Balkan state for all the money in the world. And not Austria or Sweden, either. What makes them any different? There's something seriously wrong with you people. The freakiest, sickest things I ever knew about or witnessed, in real life, regarding sexual molestation of children were perpetrated by Slovak women and a Slovak priest (not mine). Not only do you scum bugs not deserve an afterlife, you didn't deserve the first one you misused. I wouldn't go to Slovenia or Slovakia to take a shit.

That's right. It's no way to live when living is all I have. And I am all used up. There is nothing left of me. Except this blog. I've got to have something that I can control, that belongs to me. It's called survival.

Pulling nails. Straightening nails. Where are they? Why me? Tied to roof. Hot on roof. I hate summer. I just want to sleep. Running from cars. Get out of my way kid. Running from bullies. Running from dogs. They point. They laugh. I'm really afraid. Can't cry. Can't fight. Don't want to fight. Don't like fighting. Don't like a fight. Little man. I'm not a man. I'm a boy. Arms too thin. Legs too skinny. Go to fancy doctor. What's anemia? Take pills. Eat more. Don't like to eat. Eating makes me have to go and I can't go right. Not since I was seven. Bullies in my bedroom. Arms twisted over my head backwards. They laugh when I scream. Say uncle you little... Arms hurt bad. I hear a snap. I hear more laughing. Nobody cares. Where are they? Nobody does anything. Running from another older bully. Another day. Another summer. He holds me by throat downstairs. Neck hurts. I'm off the floor. Nobody comes. He leaves. He gets away with it. Forever. I don't. I'm the sissy. I'm a cry baby. I made everybody mad. Except the grandmother who wanted me to be a priest. She made me feel safe and cared for and sometimes happy. Not like the other one who didn't like anything or anybody, including me. And not like home. Home is not a nice place. Home and school is where they teach you to be what they want you to be. Maybe some day I'll get to leave and go someplace where I'm not a boy who's sick and weak all the time and hated because of that.

A woman's thing is ugly and scary. I saw it when I was two. I couldn't get away. And, no, this wan't the babysitter. 60 years ago, I was sitting in that little duck rocking chair in "The Brick Row", the one with with the little handle hole on each side, getting my snow boots put on and THIS THING FROM THE BOTTOMLESS PIT OF THE COSMOS — with her panties rolled down and her legs open to expose herself TO ME and to scare me out of my 2-year-old wits said to me (and I quote — who could ever FORGET IT?), "Are you looking down there? she says and it's not a nice voice. She is smiling and I am scared. No, she was not the babysitter. You know who she was, do I need to spell it out for you? Man-hating "women's women" should not get married and have kids. I didn't know that then. I was two. But I know that now. Thats' right, this sick, selfish, twisted, dark-souled woman had no right to do that to me. What kind of woman is so sick and/or so desperate for attention or abominable, lascivious thrills that she would resort to that? Why are you showing me that? Close your legs. Ugly. Scary. Ugly. Hairy dark monster thing. This is a sick thing for you to do to me. I can't wait to see the clean white snow. Who put me here? I'm three now. Why do I have to look at your menstrual bath water and your menstrual pee in the commode? Can't you see that I'm scared and bewildered? Why don't you flush it before I use it? And who are these other strange women who seem to delight in destroying the innocence of children? I was a just a little boy. Why did the babysitter paint my fingernails pink when I was three? Made my nice grandmother mad at the baby sitter. She was getting out of a taxi cab and I showed her my nails but I didn't know why. She laughed and then reminded me that I was a boy not a girl and that made me feel good about being a boy and then ashamed about my pink fingernails but I didn't do it. She did it. The babysitter. My nice grandmother went into our house. That babysitter was never allowed back. I'm a boy, not a girl. I was three and I knew that. But today people are mad and mean and hollering and I feel bad. I don't feel safe anymore or around you or your evil, lesbian sibling who buys us presents so she can.... YOU GOT IT. WHO IN THE HELL PUT YOU IN MY LIFE? Who in the HELL told you that it's OK to molest the male and female underage and, in one case, the preschool children of your relatives? It's a good thing you DIED before I became a man or I would have made you disappear. And if I have to see YOU in the next life I'll kill you and the ALL the celestials who put you in my life. And THAT is a promise.

I am seven and a girl in class makes me laugh and that makes her laugh but it makes the teacher mad. She paddles us with a wooden paddle and I don't cry because I am used to being hurt. That's what a boy is for. But I cry for the girl because I like her and she is just a little girl. She lied about making a face at me and making me laugh. The teacher goes berserk and beats the girl again. That is allowed up here. That's what kids are for up here. The girl cries and cries as the pretty teacher's face turns red and ugly. You lied to me! she screams over and over again until she gets tired of hitting the girl's rear end. I wanted to tell the teacher to hit me again instead because that's what a boy is for but I knew that would have made her madder and that she would have taken it out on that girl. Still, her paddle was smaller than the one the teacher next year had, the one she hit boys with so hard they went flying across the room and even the tough ones cried. That's what boys were for and it didn't stop there.

I am four, maybe five, and I am up above the rooftops because I sat on one end of the the board and he jumped off a high place onto the other end. I looked down onto our roof and their roof and when I came down he didn't catch me like he said he would. I smelled beer as I passed through the hands that didn't grab me and then I hit the board real hard sitting down. Screaming is OK but not crying but I did both. And then I laid down on the big day bed inside and wondered why they had sent me here to this awful place. A place where grownups have fun when boys are sad or when they get hurt and scream. Screaming is OK but not crying. I couldn't run away because I couldn't walk right and there was no place to go anyway and they would just bring me back here. I am not an acrobat. I am a little boy. But nobody cares about that.

I sniff all the time. I can't help it. Something up my nose. Up in my head. My nose runs all the time. Why do you make fun of me when I sniff? I would never make fun of you because you don't feel good. I wish I could feel good. I feel awful. Have to lift weights when I turned twelve and could go to the bathroom OK for the first time in five years. Stupid sport, weightlifting. But it makes him proud. I get real strong in high school but I ruined my left elbow making him proud. I can press forty pounds more than my body weight over my head. So what? Now my back hurts all the time and my left elbow doesn't work right. It still doesn't. Now I can eat and go to the bathroom right but I'm still skinny. Everybody hates a skinny teenage boy up here. I know stuff. I ask questions. People hate me because I'm smart and athletic. Can't nap. Have to mow lawn. Why don't you mow the lawn? No, I don't say "let's us". I lisp because I'm always nervous and scared because I'm skinny and weak. It's not stupid. It's not a speech impediment. You hate me and you should love me. Two s's come out instead of one. Stop making fun of me. I don't do that to you. Why can't I just die and then you'll all be happy?

An orange disk pulls me up into its glowing white bottom as it comes down from the sky. I am seventeen and I and a friend are on our way to Senior Play practice. I am driving. We don't make it there because that few minutes was really an hour and a half. My parents' car is still parked along the road with my friend inside. He can't or won't talk. Now I'm afraid for him. The disk follows us to school and shows itself to everyone. Two teachers and a couple dozen kids at "play practice" watch it and they say the stupidest things. They think it's a power buildup on the power line but it's not anywhere near a power line. It's in the middle of the valley about a hundred feet off the ground. They still think it's a power line overload even after it came so close to us that it was as big as a football at three hundred yards or so. They're stupid and cowardly. It zoomed out of sight up the valley with a whistling sound. They all walked inside like zombies. Except for me. I still have the deep scars on both legs where nobody can see them unless you are looking for them. My legs haven't worked right ever since then. I was seventeen and they thought they owned me. Nobody owns people. Not even the gods, who don't exist anyway. When I sit they fall asleep.

Running from dogs. So many dogs. Mean people hollering at me. Sidewalk not safe. Riding new birthday present, a second-hand, 24-inch boy's bike. Age nine again. Running from dog. Slapped in the face. Big, nasty kid hates me. Riding bike the other way. Wake up on couch. Don't remember. Head hurts real bad. Go to doctor. Go to movies. I'm nine today. Throwing up in movie theater. Everything spinning. My birthday today. My bike. I like my bike. Can't remember. Can't go to bathroom right. Can't go to bathroom right for five years. Five years is forever when you're a scared boy who can't poop right. Why can't I have a door on my bedroom like everybody else? Why don't you shut your bedroom door when you change clothes. When you close it part way and I have to ask you something, don't you realize you were naked from the waist up because I saw you in your mirror and you wonder why I scurried downstairs. Why are there so many lesbians in this town? YOU PEOPLE ARE FREAKS. Running from bullies. Running from cars. Running from German Americans, running from Irish Americans, running from Scottish Americans, running from Slovak Americans Running from the meanest people in America. Running from them. Running from everybody. Running from you. Running from all of you.

Editor's Note 5-5-14: So, you lurking, cowardly snoops, how did you like that? Did that amuse you? Did that titillate your senses? That's right, this is not an excerpt from any book. This is an accurate, true, genuine recollection of a real boy's real Appalachian life. Unfortunately. Ever day of my life I've wondered what it would be like to not have to face another day. For me, the best thing about life is that one day it will end. After 12 years, 9 books, 10 blogs with nearly 1400 posts and 162 videos, I've had to come to conclusion that the human race on Earth is not worth saving.

Christmas Future

I don't spend too much time on wishful thinking anymore. I'm usually too busy trying to make it through another day to worry about some day in the distant future. But, once in a while, I sit down someplace with a fresh cup of coffee and think about next Christmas. It never hurts to look forward to something, as long as you let it be what it is whenever it gets here.

Boston Marathon Bombing: Hate Crime Is Terrorism

No one ever lives so long that they've seen and heard it all. But I wish I had. I'm already so "sick and tired" of blogging that I swore the other day that I'd rather go fishing in the pouring rain than post another word. But I have to speak out, once again, against the hateful violence that has the entire world in its deadly grip.

Violence against America and the killing of innocent Americans in their own homeland is not only terrorism, it's an act of war. I just hope that our "fearless" leaders have a secret plan to implement for these "new rules of engagement" because their public posture sure suggests to us and to the rest of the world that attacking America with bombs at the finish line of one of our most famous and cherished sporting events is just another crime.

It's time to take the gloves off and go to war. We didn't start it but we need to finish it. Once and for all.

Author's Note 4-16-13: When I wrote this blog post and linked it to the BBC story, President Obama had not yet used the word "terrorism". The BBC, like me, wasn't sure if this was caution or a refusal to take immediate, strong action. Like the New York Times online stories, BBC News stories "morph" into different stories than what they were originally, often without any mention that new information was now available. Well, this is my last link to any news story about world events. When they change, my posts suddenly look out-of-date and out-of-touch when they originally weren't. But that's just planet Earth at work and earthling business-as-usual.  Hiding the lies (and the truth) behind the masks.

The Lure of Bright Lights

Little Green Man from Mars is NOT "Out of Print"

Two days ago I mentioned in my "Dear Diary" post that if you don't keep reminding people that you're still alive and that your books are still in print, the public will forget you. Here's a very disturbing case-in-point.

The paperback version of my sixth science fiction novel, Little Green Man from Mars, disappeared again from Amazon.com. Two days ago, in fact. The same day I wrote the "Dear Diary" post. Right afterward. Um hum, you got it. Spooky as hell and not one bit amusing and not one bit "normal". The Kindle ebook is still available but not the paperback. This latest paperback edition has been for sale at Amazon since October 2012 and now it's gone missing again. I repeat. Again.

When will this sick, twisted, malicious game with this novel ever end? When I questioned Amazon about this, they gave me the usual , "it's not us, it's your publisher" routine. When I questioned my publisher, I got the usual "we'll get back to you" routine. When they finally do get back to me (and it'll take them forever) I'll get the usual "it's not us, it's Amazon" routine. OK, people, enough is enough.

You don't get to dick with me anymore because I'm no longer available to be dicked with just because a bunch of creepy pussies and chickenshit cowards are afraid to read (or sell) some of my best fiction. Hard science fiction that reads like mainstream and containing some fine, new concepts about life and the universe that'll give this jaded world the "kick in the head" it so desperately needs.

So, the hell with Amazon. And, if Lulu's part of a big lie, they'd better come clean. You know, there's more to the book world than what Amazon.com tries to feed you. Unless you're among the dark-souled dimwits who just die to be spoon fed more vampire crap. If you're smart you'll ignore the filth Amazon tries to peddle and it bothers me immensely that any "Adult Romances" or "adult fiction" of any kind share the same pages with my books at Amazon. If my books were rated for movies or television, they'd be rated somewhere between PG-13 and TV-14 and nothing more "adult" than that. Amazon.com has very few scruples when it comes to selling stuff. But I do. That's why I'm telling you how it is with my books.

That's right. You can still get Little Green Man from Mars in paperback from Lulu.com and my guess is that you always will. And, hey, guess what? It's a lot cheaper at Lulu and I still make a little money off it, more money from Lulu, in fact, than I do at Amazon on paperbacks. And they're cheaper at Lulu.com! You got the concept. Buy my paperbacks from Lulu and everybody wins. Everybody except Amazon. But, so what, huh?

Post Update 4-9-13: Today, April 9, 2013, I noticed that the latest paperback edition Little Green Man from Mars is back at Amazon.com. I don't trust Amazon or Lulu at all anymore. Let's see how long it takes for this book or any other work of fiction by Michael Casher or Jonco Bugos to suddenly disappear, like they were never there. I know who you people are and what you're up to and who you work for. Nothing ever changes on planet Earth because earthlings love to lie and they're absolutely terrified of the truth. And most of you are as hostile as animals toward anything and anyone different, despite all your deceptive posturing about diversity. If you read something that isn't in line with your beliefs you hate it and you hate the author as well. But most of you love the dark side of life for its "decadently delicious" sensual titillation. It's enough to make me want to withdraw from the human race. Why don't you try the enlightened side of life for a change before you die? You just might wake up. Or grow up. What a shame. This world could have been as close to paradise as any of us will ever get. Too bad nobody but me and, hopefully, a few others, gave a damn. One thing for sure, once I get off this planet, I wouldn't come back here to take a shit.

Busy Work

Click on Pic

Today I wanted to embed this nifty art slideshow from Picasa on two of my blogs so I did that awhile. I put it on the footer area of my Thinck Tank blog and the Think-A-Holic Lounge blog here at Blogger. Then I poured another mug of coffee and added another page to michaelcasher.com called Art Slideshow.

The blog footers have an 800-pixel-wide show and michaelcasher.com has a 600-pixel-wide show (the 800-wide won't fit there). My digital paintings look best on a dark background. So they do.

When I think about writing yet another book that will just sit in another box on the floor I start to pitch and reel. Then I sit down at the PC instead of at the Canon word processor. They're at two different desks in my tiny writing room.

Then I just drink coffee and hide. While I'm hiding, I like to fool around with art and keep busy. It sure beats the pants off running naked through the back yard and screaming, "Why me? Why me?" So it does.

Sun Shower

It doesn't happen when you're looking for it and that's the beauty of a sun shower. The sun shining through a rain shower, or a rain shower passing through a sunny day. No matter how you look at it, it's always a gift, one that opens itself. And if there's a rainbow up above, that's the bow on the package. If you do happen to catch a rainbow there's no need to look for a pot of gold at the end of it because you'll never find one. The real treasure is what you see.

Teaming Up for Battle

I've never considered having an "alter-ego-ectomy" although having a dynamic alter ego can be a bit trying at times. Especially when said alter ego vacillates between your polar opposite and a near-perfect reflection of you. Backwards, of course, at all times, just like a real looking-glass image.

Therefore, it came as no surprise to me when I got pulled in both directions again after writing and publishing my ninth book, The Truth Is a Lone Assassin. What the worldly and otherworldly forces don't seem to accept is the fact that Jonco Bugos and I are inseparable. Plus the almost proven inevitability that every time we get pulled in opposite directions, one of us invariably spits out another book.   

My Great Big Secret Message From Earth

How's that for persistence? That's right, four years ago today I stopped drinking alcoholic beverages. Do I feel any better? Not really. I'm 61, look 71 and feel 81 and that has nothing to do with alcohol. Is that personal enough for you? Am I sharing or what?

As a matter of fact, not drinking alcohol for four years showed me just how unimportant alcohol is. What alcohol does best is give you a false sense of whatever it is you thought you weren't getting. Happiness, euphoria, importance, love, affection, glory, warmth, success. Who needs a false sense of something when you can have the real thing by working for it or towards it? 

They say alcohol makes you lose your inhibitions. Well, a lot of inhibitions are kept at bay for very good reasons and if alcohol brings them out then my advice to you is to leave alcohol alone altogether. My experience has shown that when you imbibe alcohol you become somebody you're not and that's almost opposite from what the drinking world tells you. Why wouldn't they tell you a lie? They sell you your alcohol.

The real you is who you are when you are alone with just your thoughts. And you certainly don't need alcohol, or any other drug, to take you there. If being yourself is who you really are, without having your thoughts altered by substances or adjusted by others, then you've already arrived at your destination. Nurture that personality and watch it grow.

What The Gods Considered Fair Game

Eye Candy

I did 30 "digital paintings" in the past 26 days. Maybe I'd better quit while I'm ahead. On the other hand, when life hands you lemons and you turn them into lemonade — or a great big lemon drop — it sure beats the pants off writing books that just sit in boxes on the floor.

Once Upon a Time in the East...

...it was great to be alive.

Moving Heads

I decided to update this post from yesterday to today just so I could add this updated professional pic of me, which I took earlier today. No, I'm not looking down my nose at you. My webcam was sitting on top of the CPU and I was sitting down in a chair. So I was.

Now, as for the video, don't ask me why I made it or why I posted it here. Then I won't have to come up with a reason and then I won't have to tell you what it is. OK, that takes care of that.

But, when I don't tell you why I made this video or why I posted it here, don't get the big idea that I'm hiding some great big secret from you or anything like that. That's why I posted this new pic of me. So I could be up front about how I look today, February 25th, 2013.

As for the video again, I'm not sure why I made it or why I posted it here. Hell, after 61 years, I'm allowed to not know something. So I am.

Moving Heads

Moonlighting

This is another digital painting from the part of me that was always there, behind the part of me that was tagged and labeled and maneuvered through life by others and otherworldly forces. I like this part of me the best. This is also the part of me that writes and clowns around and who still thinks the world can be a better place for all of us, if we're willing to do the work to make that happen. Well, that's my little "mini lecture". It goes with the territory.

Me, Myself and I

When I turned fifty I realized I had to do something different with my life. I couldn't multi-task worth a damn, I can't dance and I could carry an elephant better than I can carry a tune. I'm 61 now and, like Harry Callahan told Lt. Briggs in the movie, Magnum Force, "A man's got to know his limitations." So, there it is.

Aurora Solaris

The Truth Is Up and Running

After two years of writing and many, many set backs — including the loss of 30 pages that had to be rewritten from memory and several health issues on the home front — The Truth Is a Lone Assassin is finally a completed novella. This book is my second excursion into "literary science fiction" and my ninth written work. I published this book earlier today and it's available in trade paperback at Lulu.com. 

In a day or two the Kindle Edition will be "Live" at Amazon.com and then I'll post the promotional video for it. The paperback will be available at Amazon.com sometime in mid-March 2013. The 4-6 week delay is nothing more than the time it takes for any book to travel through regular distribution channels from The Lulu Marketplace. I will not make this book available at Barnes & Noble.com unless there is a demand for it there. My first novella, Blind Fool Running, is still languishing at B&N and that is unfortunate for everyone.

After a short break I'll probably (I'm not sure yet) go back to writing my tenth book and my seventh science fiction thriller, the one I began way back in March 2009 and then had to put on "hold" because of surgical and hospital emergencies for both me and my elderly mother. My tenth book is entitled "The IIIrd Option" and it's a hard science fiction story sculptured around several controversial metaphysical themes, including shadow life masquerading as real life and false human beings who populate planet Earth and many other worlds in The Milky Way Galaxy. It will be the most violent novel I've written so far. And there's a reason for that. The completion date for this thriller is open because I've scarcely begun writing it again. Post Updated 2-8-13 for Kindle Edition availability

Winter Pissing Contest

Of course I didn't post photos on the Internet of me or anybody else "taking a leak". Only a sick, degraded fool would do that. But I did use a low-life disgusting hyperbole to involve you in some Appalachian winter humor. For reasons I've been unable to fathom most of the world is head-over-heels fascinated at the very idea of men peeing. I think that somehow defines what we've become as a species. You follow? But, hey, it's not too late to fix that. Cultivating a clean mind is a lot easier than you think. One more thing. If you don't like the fact that I "caught you with your pants down" (another below-the-belt hyperbole), keep the damn things up.

Click on Picture for "Pissing Contest" Results

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The "Unsilent Minority"

I've nothing to hide about being a gun owner and I want to be up front about the fact that I do own legal firearms. My small collection of simple firearms is for hunting, target shooting and, to a lesser degree, protection. They were all legally purchased from FFL dealers in regular, retail shopping outlets in the late, great 20th Century. I'm not a gun lover. I'm a gun owner.

No, this isn't me. This is one of The "Unsilent Minority".

I'm one of the millions of Americans who own simple, non-military, legal firearms and who never talk about them in public and who are never scared — not for one moment — that somebody will come to our homes and take our firearms away from us. We don't think about that because we're confident that that will never happen in this country for many, many reasons, including the fact that as long as our nation has millions of sane, quiet, cool-headed citizens with traditional firearms in their homes, no foreign country will ever invade us and vanquish us. Not without one hell of a fight.

We're "The Silent Majority" and we're America's backup army. Let's hope they never need us but we'll be ready if they do. In the meantime, we'll legally hunt for wild food, break clay pigeons, plink tin cans and punch holes in paper targets for recreation. And keep our firearms quietly and securely out of sight. And the biggest thing about the right to bear arms is that those of us who take advantage of that right feel very privileged to have it. The gun owners in the "Unsilent Minority", as I like to call them because they're so vocal and often disturbingly animated, don't represent American gun owners at all. They only think they do.

So, we might not dash into the Second Amendment fray and make fools out of ourselves by waving guns around for the cameras, like the "Unsilent Minority", and holler about freedom and rights because we're already secure in that knowledge. We guarantee the right to bear arms by being good citizens who are smart enough to know that keeping a cool head is the best way to own guns and the only way to secure the freedom we're privileged to have. We're the "Silent Majority". We're the ones who keep our heads while others about us are losing theirs. (This post was updated on 1-25-13)

A Head Banging Experience

Don't tell anyone but during the month of December I rewrote the 30 pages that went missing last fall from my second novella, The Truth Is a Lone Assassin. That's right. You got it. Jonco Bugos now has two literary novellas under his belt. The Truth Is a Lone Assassin is no Blind Fool Running but it was never intended to be a clone or a sequel or, heaven forbid, a competitor.

But it's a bit of a shocker, if you can allow yourself to absorb and enjoy the important expository nature of the narrative which is, by the way, periodically relieved by the ongoing story line, a rather compelling tale about a man who makes the most startling discovery anyone could ever make. I finished writing this novella on January 1, 2013. Now I'm finishing up the "building" of the the book for paperback publishing.

I designed the cover myself — just like I did for all my books — and I just finished writing the description for the back cover. I also made a new promotional video for this novella, replacing the old video, but I will not air it until the Kindle Edition is "Live" in the Amazon Kindle Store. Superstitious? You bet I am because I know the real truth about superstition. Did I make copies? You bet I did. I have Kindle and paperback backup copies coming outta my ears.

Right now I'm in the process of doing what no writer should ever, ever have to do. I'm doing the sixth "read/edit" of the entire manuscript. Poor Appalachian hick writers like me do all our own work and wear all the publishing hats we have to in order to get the job done. The writer hat is the only one that really fits me but I wear them all. No one else is going to do it for me.

I plan to publish this ninth book in paperback before the end of this month (January 2013) if everything goes right. Then I'll publish the Kindle Edition, which is a digital manuscript of the exact same text, formatted for the Kindle reader and the Kindle apps for Android, Blackberry, iPhone, iPod, iPod Touch, Mac, PC and Windows Phone. And anything else Amazon comes up with for the mobile market.

Wish me luck. I'll need it. I don't think my head can take any more keyboard abuse. Thanks for your time.