Puff puff give, my brother! Actually I think that particular post was the product of a slightly-drunken philosophical mood, rather than reefer madness. But anywho yeah I agree, baseball can definitely be a simple escape that forces you to kick back and smell the roses. And beer definitely helps turn down the volume of the "real world" (especially if it's Green Flash's "Le Freak" Belgian IPA).  And yeah, the more I get into it, the more I realize just how much there is to baseball... truly more than meets the eye. It's like you can go as deep into it as you want and still learn something new every day.

Now this might be going a little deep, but I've often imagined that in a perfect world, we would use our time to explore space and engage in sporting events.

Oh, and I've been thinking about how cool it would be if they had "alternative" baseball commentary- sorta like Mystery Science Theater 3000 but for baseball instead of bad movies... maybe have like 1 guy who knows everything about baseball who could be the resident stats expert, and a couple of other guys who know the game well enough to make the commentating hilarious. I'd pay (a little) to watch that. Somebody tell me if something like this already exists.

Tom: So I figured out (I think) that I like to get completely wasted, not because its fun, but because I have a gaping hole in the middle of me. Things bother me badly, sometimes they're things that happen in the world, things I see, things I only hear or read about, sometimes they're things that are done or said to me, things that are done or said to others... it all accumulates and makes me sad and crazy until I want to drink so much I forget my own name.

God: Come here, my child.

Tom: Um, what?

God: Come to me. Let me embrace you.

Tom: Excuse me? I thought you said that you weren't my personal advice columnist or shoulder to cry on...?

God: Not unless you allow me to be. Come to me, my child. Be with me and let me hold you. Let yourself see that I am always with you and that I love you, that I love you with an infinite, unconditional love. Let me rain down gifts of healing, forgiveness, grace, mercy, love, redemption, and peace upon you. I want to do it, and you deserve it.

Tom: (sob) I'll try.

Conversations with Satan


Tom: Hey.

Satan: Hey.

Tom: It's been a while.

Satan: I know. What do you want?

Tom: Kendra and I got into a fight again. I wound up walking for a long time.

Satan: Were you drinking?

Tom: No. I had some drinks though.

Satan: Before or after you fought?

Tom: After. Look, why are you asking me that?

Satan: Because you've told me that you have bad fights when you've both been drinking.

Tom: But in that case the problem would be that we're drinking, not that we're fighting. We cut back on our drinking in order to get at the root cause of our fights. If I'd have gotten drunk first, I would have started the story with that information.

Satan: Okay. I guess you can continue. But you know I'm already bored.

Tom: So anyways, we had a fight and I took a walk to cool down. I was pretty mad and wound up walking all of the way out to the harbor. I took B Street and followed it until it ended at the cruise ship terminal. Along the way I bought a small bottle of Kessler's whiskey. I had consumed about half of it by the time I reached the water.

Satan: But the cruise ship terminal... that must have been annoying.

Tom: Yeah. It was strange to watch tourists who looked more or less exactly like each other, like the very definition of average Americans. I truly understood the appeal that retreating to a warmer climate in winter had for them. I understood why they pay to visit this city. I sympathized with them.

Satan: Okay, then what happened? Come on, spill the beans. When did you get drunk and shameless, you fucking pig?

Tom: I found an isolated bench in front of a Navy building, right across the street from the U.S.S. Midway and the docks for those harbor cruise ships. I leisurely finished my whiskey and Perrier as I watched tourists file up and down Harbor Drive. When I had to pee I walked over to a Portapotty that was miraculously unlocked and not disgusting. I used it three times before I took the bus back home.

Satan: Well shit piggy, it sounds like you owned it.

Tom: You're goddamn right I did.

Satan: Did you go home and make up with Kendra?

Tom: You know it.

Satan: Alright, now I'm really bored. I wanted to hear about you failing, and that story totally went in the opposite direction. I feel cheated.

Tom: Look, you understand why I've been talking to what I think is God, right?

Satan: Of course I do. I'm you.

Tom: I know that. But I realized that the goal of this blog, or this incarnation of it at least, is to function as a journal for my cognitive development, my attempt to understand reality and learn to fucking deal with it.

Satan: Well, do whatever the fuck you want. I'm just saying, we've had some productive years.

Tom: Hahahaha! You little bitch!

Satan: Look, I'm busy. Can I go now?

Tom: You know, I don't really even have a place for the concept of a "devil" in my personal cosmology...

Satan: Good night!

Mentally Unsound


Tom: I think I'm a bit nuts.

God: You are.

Tom: It runs in my family. You don't judge me for it though.

God: I told you, you've got to throw out any notion of God as an omnipotent cop who lives in the clouds. If that's how you conceive of God, that's what God will be to you.

Tom: That's part of my disease, I think. I have ups and downs. The downs can last a long time. My writing suffers. I go nuts. I believe that I should strive to do any serious work with an open mind and heart. But sometimes the mind eats itself and this just doesn't seem possible. Are you saying that it's not my fault when I can't produce anything of which I feel proud? That when I cant' write, I should just wait it out?

God: I can tell you that mentally difficult times are not your fault. But you're a human, and you're going to make cause and effect associations no matter what state your mind is in. It's a way for your human brain to make sense of the world, but it doesn't give you the whole picture. Sometimes, like when your brain is ill and torturing itself, it can even makes things worse.

Tom: What do I do?

God: You might trying reminding yourself that the human brain truly is finite. You don't have to accept that (I know you won't), but try to think of it like getting tired after you run: your body has physical limits, your mind has cognitive limits.

Tom: But... someone always has to pay.

God: What?

Tom: Someone has to be shamed or ridiculed for my shitty day. It's only fair.

God: Oh lordy...

Tom: Lordy? Isn't that you? Did you just take your own name in vain?

God: Look, didn't I just tell you that you've got to... hey wait, are you fucking with me?

Tom: Yes.

My Cat Murdered a Mouse


Tom: So how do you explain that one?

God: Explain what?

Tom: My cat Nacho, whom I love, caught a mouse outside today. When I let him in this morning, he had it in his mouth. We got him out of the house before he released it. He then took it downstairs into the yard and stomped it, bit it, flung it in the air, and finally ate most of it. Its bloody remains are still out there.

God: And?

Tom: And what?

God: What part of that do you want me to explain? Your cat was probably hungry. Or maybe he just saw something moving and went after it. They tend to do that, you know.

Tom: But why the suffering? What did you allow that mouse to feel pain?

God: That is the nature of this world. Pain and death are part of it.

Tom: But I too am of this world. Why can't I accept pain and suffering?

God: I don't know.

Tom: What?

God: I don't know. Not at the moment. I only know as much as you know at any given moment.

Tom: Then what good are you?

God: Listen, I'm not some anthropomorphic oracle that you can dial up any time you need encouragement or an explanation. I am the sum of all things your mind can and cannot comprehend, I am infinity, I... well, you get the point. Words can't explain it.

Tom: But... I don't think you're indifferent.

God: Of course not. I am everything. The gentle, loving force that melts away your fears, the very essence of grace and kindness, hope and redemption...

Tom: But, curiously, I must seek you out. That's why everyone from Christians to AA's suggest that each person must develop their own personal relationship with God. For an individual consciousness, anything else would cause mental stress.

God: Precisely. You have to figure it out for yourself. But don't worry: you aren't gazing into an abyss. When you truly seek God, you are imagining the realization of the highest, most noble dreams of humanity: peace, abundance, harmony. But as you can see in the world around you, one must be okay with sadness, one must know death.

Tom: So even though I don't consider myself a follower of any religion, it's okay for me to imagine an afterlife where peaceful eternity never gets boring, you never run out of things to learn or love, and that little mouse is up there playing around with its mouse friends?

God: I don't see why not.

Tom: Even if I don't always believe in it?

God: Sounds fine to me.

Tom: Sweet!

Moar Conversations With God:


Tom: So I was thinking about my motivation for turning my attention to you.

God: Go on.

Tom: I’m not sure how wise it is to address the being, Satan, who represents evil.

God: Do you mean that literally?

Tom: Partly, yes. Perhaps just by discoursing with the idea of something that represents bad things, I tend to focus on negative things. Maybe if I focused on something different, I’d be happier. See the world in a different light.

God: But you also have a sneaking suspicion.

Tom: That whatever supernatural entity I write to, be it God, Satan, or the spirit of Abraham Lincoln, it’s really just me?

God: Precisely. And there is some truth in the idea the concentrating your thoughts in any negative direction can influence your unconscious worldview and consequently, your waking worldview.

Tom: So what do I do?

God: Do what you have been doing. You’re discoursing with yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Tom: Okay.

Conversations with God


Tom: So, I’ve decided to swap one supernatural muse for another.

God: How do you know I really am God?

Tom: Well, I don’t. How about I just call you "god?"

God: You blasphemous fucker!

Tom: Whoa, God cusses?

God: Wait a minute, you used a capital “G” there. You really do think you're talking to God.

Tom: But... it was a mistake, I... Damn. Whoever you are, you’re good.

God: Yes, I am.

Little Tools and Their Musical Vomit

Tom: This is gonna be an easy one.

Satan: Shoot.

Tom: You know that band that does those freecreditreport.com commercials?

Satan: The Victorious Secrets? Hell yeah, they're some of my favorite minions at the moment. I fucking love those guys. We try on khakis together, give each other testicular papercuts, buy roofie-Jaeger shots for girls in clubs, scorn people who don't dress like us, go to John Mayer concerts... Then, at the end of every night, they all strip down and take turns sucking off my rancid, scaly megacock.

Tom: Well, what should one expect from a band that does jingles for a website owned by the subsidiary of a credit bureau that's been involved in two lawsuits, one of which was brought by the Federal Trade Commission, for deceptive marketing practices? In fact, I think the band itself is just another deceptive marketing practice: it sounds like they're making music to sell you something, but they're really taking a poisonous shit right into your ears. If you, Satan, are the very thing we call evil, and these guys are working for you, then we can rightly call them and their music evil, amirite?

Satan: Sure. Call it whatever you want. But just look at them. See how much respect they get. They make money with their music. So go. Spew your vitriole. Write songs that move you which no one else will hear.

Tom: If it's a choice between that and snorkeling your satancock, you know what I'm going to say.

Satan: Booga booga booga, I'm Tom and I have scruples that keep me poor.

Tom: Blah blah blah, I'm the devil and I suck.

Satan: Shut up.

Tom: No you.