a conservative manifesto

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[read this one first (and scroll up to the top if you have to) if you wanna know what provoked me to write the following--because i've just about had enough of this kinda fucking bullshit.]

Depends on what you mean by “conservative,” Scott (and yeah, not only have you brought me outta retirement with this post, you’ve even got me upper-casing–which means i totally expect you to properly paragraph this shit as quid pro quo).

If, by “conservative,” you mean “Republican” in its current definition, then no, i’m not a conservative.

If, on the other hand, you’re by chance alluding to the classic conservative principles (which the modern Republican party long ago abandoned) of limited government and limited spending, then yeah, count me among that number.

And you wanna know why, Scott? It’s an interesting question–over the years, I’ve been accused by my liberal friends of being cheap, stingy and non-progressive, but the truth is much simpler than that.

Bottom line: I’m a conservative because I fucking hate WASTE–because, see, I know that, for every dollar pumped into the federal government, at least 75 cents of said hard-earned dollar is wasted before it ever gets to its intended target.

And why is this, you might ask? Well, i’ll tell you why (actually, i’ll tell your readers why, because, smart boy that you are, Scott, i know you already know): because when it’s not your money–when you don’t have a dog in the fight–you don’t give a rat’s ass how efficiently the money’s spent, because you know that when Fannie Mae/Freddie Mac, or [insert name of federal sinkhole here] goes down the tubes, it won’t bite you in the ass–the dumbass public won’t connect the dots, and you’ll still be re-elected and go on to fuck up another day.

It’s shit like this that drives me crazy, Scott–because unlike Barney Frank and Chris Dodd and Nancy Pelosi–among many others of both parties who should’ve been de-elected for their egregious sins, and most unjustly were not–I work damned hard for my money.

AND I HATE TO SEE IT WASTED.

That’s why i–among many tens (maybe even hundreds) of millions of other hard-working americans–you know, the ones you so love to condescendingly sneer at–am a conservative. You get that, Scott?

And by the way, fuck your kind offer of amnesty; while i may have demonstrated any number of drunken character flaws in my previous comments to this fine blog, fear of the big bad wolf was never chief among them–feel free to do your worst.

[what can i say--fucker still has the power to get to me]

sober update: just so nobody misunderstands, it was a similar post over at billinexile that inspired me to start guttermorality in the first place--and while he may piss me off from time to time, i hold scott and his blog in high regard and i'm glad he does what he does.

the trouble with vincent

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sometimes when i have absolutely nothing new to say, i go back through my saved drafts just to see if some drunken diatribe i had the good sense to not let see the light of day back then might all of a sudden make sense to publish now.

99 times outta 100, the answer's not only no, but hell no--but tonight this one seemed like a fitting bookend to my previous post, so it's going in, goddammit.

* * * * *

so i'm listening to one of auntie vera's podcasts, and he closes, as always, with a song that ties into the day's show--today, it was don mclean's 'vincent.' having heard to this song a million times, my first instinct was to click over to his next show but then i thought, what the hell--it's been awhile.

so i listen--not as background noise on the radio while i'm doing something else, but really listen--and i'm struck for maybe the first time by what an incredibly poignant, well-crafted song this is. i start to sing the familiar words but by the end i have to stop, because--what the fuck--i'm crying, and i have no idea why.

of course, since i never learned how to cry, as soon as i realize i'm doing it, it's over and the wall's back up.

i can't tell you how much i envy all you assholes with honest access to your emotions--with me, they've always gotta sneak in through some unguarded back door, and they never stick around long.

because you can't make your heart feel something it won't

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and also because

(1) it came up on shuffle tonight at just the precise point of drunkenness necessary to trigger the following sixteen-year-old memory; and

(2) fuck economics--tonight mkf's in a storytelling mood.

* * * * *

so i'm sitting in my car behind gold coast, lighting another cigarette, checking out the parking lot, wondering if i'll have to actually get out and go in to find love tonight--when all of a sudden he's there at my window, this gorgeous eurasian guy--cocking his head, smiling brightly at me and asking, "wanna fuck?"

well, hell yeah i do--and we do, and it's good.

afterwards, we lay in each others' arms and talk, and i find to my surprise that in addition to being merely gorgeous, this guy--let's call him 'r'--is also smart and accomplished and funny and sweet, and we apparently vibe at the same frequency in lots of areas.

he impresses me--he's not only a practicing attorney, he's also a working actor. he shows me his reel, and i watch him perform in any number of tv shows i've watched over the years.

he makes me laugh--he explains his unusual name by telling me how his german grandmother named him after her favorite nazi field marshal, but the priest refused to baptize her grandchild until she changed the "o" to a "u."

he makes me cry--he tells me about the fifteen years he spent with the guy he met in his freshman year at usc--the guy who died last year.

he drives me crazy--he tells me about fritz, the abusive asshole he's been seeing for the last six months whose shitty treatment finally drove him into my random arms this particular night.

damn, could this be the one?

i remember pulling him close and telling him, "i could fall for you, you know," and meaning it--and i can just as clearly remember him smiling and saying, "don't mess it up by doing that."

did i listen? hell, would you have?

i could go into all the drama of the ensuing six months, but why bother? suffice it to say that when he finally called me and said, "i'm sorry, mkf--i'm staying with fritz," i bought a quart of vodka on my way home and then drank, smoked, cried and listened to the song that triggered this post on an endless loop until the sun came up.



thanks again, r, for adding another brick to my wall.

[and yeah, i know--had r actually loved me back, i'd have most likely run screaming in the opposite direction; this self-knowledge doesn't make the memory any less bittersweet, trust me.]

another economics lesson

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i actually agonized a little over this one--i mean, is it better to post something that's likely to bore most of my readers, or post nothing at all? and then i remembered i write this blog for my own amusement, which answered the question.

for what it's worth, the following is a modified excerpt from a recent (i.e., 20 minutes ago) email to my friend and frequent commenter noblesavage regarding his contempt for my beloved gold standard [and yeah, we actually back-and-forth about shit like this].

if you happen to be one of the few who not only read all the way to the end of this post but actually get it, then good for you.



there's only two kinds of money, rob: (1) money backed by a fixed, finite, rare and tangible commodity, such as gold or silver; and (2) fiat money (i.e., money which is backed by nothing other than its issuing government's dubious guarantee of value).

most governments start out with the former, and end up with the latter.

see, they start out with the former because they have no choice--they're new, and people are willing to accept their money only if it's backed by something real, like gold.

but there's a funny thing about governments, rob: once established, they always wants to grow, grow, grow--and growth takes more money.

problem is, a government only has two ways to get more real money: (1) taking it from its own citizens via taxation; and/or (2) taking it from other countries by force (i.e., war or colonization). of course, there's just so far any government can go with either one.

which is why, to feed their insatiable appetites for expansion, most governments eventually say fuck it, drop the gold standard and declare that their currency is worth whatever they say it's worth.

and my god, rob, once they've freed themselves from the annoying requirement of backing their currency with tangible assets like gold, amazing new vistas open--hell, now they can pretty much print as much money as they fucking want, and who's to stop them?

[of course, if you try this at home they'll throw you in jail for a thousand years, but for some reason when a government does it, it's ok--splain me that, will you, rob?]

and once a government finally takes this step, what inevitably happens next, as night follows day? why, inflation, of course--i.e., more money in circulation chasing the same amount of goods means that it'll take more money to buy said goods.

it happens slowly (hell, our overlords aren't stupid--if a cup of coffee went from a nickel to two dollars overnight it would freak people out, but somehow it's ok when it happens over fifty years).

until, as a consequence of this slow madness, something really bad happens, the government needs lots of money fast, and the printing presses shift into high gear.

then all of a sudden you find yourself needing a wheelbarrow of your once-stable currency to buy a loaf of bread.

* * * * *

what i've just described has happened to every fiat currency that's ever existed on the face of the earth, and as much as you don't want to believe it, it's now happening to ours. tell me, rob--why do you think we're somehow magically exempt from the laws of nature?

damn, i'd almost succeeded in blocking this one out

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[it was probably the back-and-forth with noblesavage in my previous post that prompted my subconscious to cough up this particular mental hairball tonight--and as always, alcohol helped.]


so i'm over at his place for, like, the third or fourth time. unusual in my world to see anybody more than twice, but he's just so goddam beautiful--skin taut, smooth and that perfect shade of rosy-brown, and his hair--no matter how many times i run my hands through it, it always settles back into model-quality tousled perfection.

and the sex? that's good, too--so good, in fact, that on that third, or fourth (whatever--trust me, there won't be a fifth) night, i make a sufficient mess of both him and myself that a mere towel-off ain't gonna do; we have to jump in the shower.

he gets out first, tosses me a towel and then i get out, glance up--and freeze in horror.

you know how you get used to your naked reflection in your own mirror at home, and learn to reflexively present yourself to your best advantage whenever you're in front of it so that you're always at least content with the way you look?

well lemme tell ya, all those self-serving delusions go out the window when you look up and suddenly find yourself in a strange, new fluorescent-lighted bathroom whose corner-mounted mirrors give you a totally new and unwelcome perspective on your advancing middle age.

"please god," you say to yourself, "tell me that decrepit old stranger over there isn't actually me...please?"

but since one of mkf's few good qualities is his staunch refusal to delude himself about shit--as hard as it is to do, i stand there under the glow of the merciless blue-white light, turn left and right in front of these hostile, alien mirrors and absorb the blow of this unexpected new reality as best i can.

holy shit, it's happened--it's over; i'm fuckin' old.

after a few minutes, he calls out, "what are you doing in there?" i snap out of it, drop my towel, walk out to join him. he pulls me into his arms and i ask him, incredulously, "you really wanna put your arms around me?"

he laughs and pulls me closer.

[for what it's worth, this particular incident happened almost ten years ago; only thing that's really changed since then is, i make it a point to not look at myself in strange mirrors anymore--you'd probably do well to do the same.]

why? maybe just because i never post shit like this

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[the fonts are all fucked up in this post--god, i hate blogger sometimes]

so i met my colleagues for dinner tonight in the break room as usual, and john showed up on this casual friday in a trendy striped t-shirt which looked so great on him that i was moved to say, "oh my god, you look so 'tommy kirk circa 1962'!" (a compliment he not only got, but was inordinately pleased by).

which established the topic for tonight's dinner conversation: who were your formative childhood crushes?

it was a subject i hadn't thought about for years, but once the question was asked, they came back to me almost instantly, each and every one.

and so, without further ado, allow me to present for your delectation, commentary and ridicule, the boys that made me squirmy way back before my balls had even dropped:

1. rick nelson


my first crush--i first became aware of him when i was maybe four or five, and would thereafter sit each week glued to the television, completely oblivious to ozzie, harriet and brother david, coming alive only when ricky graced the screen.

tell me--has a more beautiful, more talented boy ever fuckin' lived? (and don't even start with the zac efron, because i'll have to hurt you.)

2. billy gray


while he couldn't hold a candle to ricky, bud from father knows best still managed to give me that fluttery, squishy feeling in my four-year-old kishkas that i didn't understand but so looked forward to each and every week.

and, for that matter, so did

3. bobby diamond


premise of the show: lonely single rancher adopts troubled teenage boy--i mean, what's not to love?

4. tony dow

leave it to beaver was another of the favored shows of my youth (although mostly in reruns), and i didn't care if it was the young wally who turned up when the show came on each week


or the grown-up one

either way, i was mush.

5. don grady


what can i say--i loved me some robby.


ok, enough tv--let's move on to the big screen.

6. james macarthur


one of my beloved grandmother's all-time favorite movies was spencer's mountain, and as much as i loved henry fonda and maureen o'hara, and no matter how many times i sat through this movie with her, i could never tear my seven-year-old eyes away from the luscious clayboy long enough to appreciate them.

7. tommy kirk


i can't remember which disney movie i saw tommy in first, but it doesn't really matter--from that first frame of film, i knew he was mine.


and last in our parade of objects of my youthful lust, but far from least,



yeah, so i was once in love with a cartoon character. eat me--i was seven.

* * * * *

so there you have it: the full panoply of my prepubescent obsessions. enjoy, or not.

whatever--to close this post we're gonna go full-circle, back to where it all began:



so, tell me--who were yours?

because i am nothing if not a giver

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i've rearranged the furniture a little--added a sidebar on the left in order to make it easier for my legions of readers to find everything i have to say on any given topic with one click.

please--don't all eleven of you thank me at once.

the whole torture thing

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People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.

george orwell

as i sit here and watch the torture debate rage back and forth among people who have not the slightest clue as to what they're talking about, three questions seem to keep coming up:

1. what, exactly, constitutes torture;

2. under what circumstances, if any, is torture ever morally justified; and

3. is it ever even effective?

and if you think i'm even gonna try to answer these questions in this post, you're dead wrong, because when it comes to this subject, i have no idea what i'm talking about either--but unlike everybody else, i'm at least willing to admit it.

and that's my point: fuck the politicians, the public and the half-ass opinions they rode in on--effective, efficient intelligence-gathering is best left to the experts, and that's where this matter should've stayed.

see, every nation has two sides: (1) the high-minded face it puts forth to the world; and (2) the dark underside that actually gets shit done. and it's generally understood--by every nation but us, apparently--that that's the way it must be, and the less talked-about, the better.

am i saying i "condone" torture? no. what i'm saying is, as a soft, sheltered american civilian, i haven't clue one as to what it really takes to keep us safe in our beds each night--and neither do you. as such, i give about as much credibility to someone who says they'd never under any circumstances condone torture as i do to someone who makes the same claim about abortion. because, seriously, folks--it's a rough, tough world out there, and if you really think omelettes get made without breaking a few eggs, then you need to wake up and smell the coffee.

then, you might ask, am i saying our intelligence services should be allowed carte blanche in terms of how they operate? again, no--there should be oversight, but it should be managed discreetly and at the highest levels of government, and not be made a political football to be kicked about in the public arena as is being currently done.

having said all that--and putting aside for the moment the above three questions--i'll now give you my opinion on this mess:

1. the bush administration was wrong. i believe the cia was probably pushed into waterboarding those guys by a bush administration so desperate to tie al qaeda to iraq that they'd take any link they could get by any means, no matter how faulty it might turn out to be later. and i'll further bet the cia knew at the time "garbage in, garbage out," but couldn't get anybody in power at the time to listen.

2. the obama administration is wrong. i further believe that a dangerously naive new president came into office believing his own campaign bullshit, and, ignoring the fundamental truths i outlined above, piously and mindlessly turned on his (and our) intelligence watchdogs--who, i'm gratified to see, then apparently bit him in the ass and clued him in as to what's really up (what makes me think this? simple: read this--oh, and while you're at it, this).

3. nancy pelosi is an idiot. i'd have respected her more (fine--detested her less) had she had the cojones to forego the craven ass-covering and just say, "yeah, i signed off on the waterboarding because i thought the safety of the country was at stake. judgment call--sue me."

bottom line: as we fall on our collective knees, wailing and rending our garments over laughably minor crap like abu ghraib, guantanamo and a little waterboarding in a futile plea to win the world's forgiveness--not understanding that such appeasement is always perceived, by enemies and friends alike, as weakness--i watch the middle east solidify in its hatred and contempt for the west, north korea starve its people in order to feed its million-man army, russia rattle its newly-sharpened sabers, israel prepare to decimate iran, and the taliban overrun nuclear-armed pakistan.

and me? i dunno whether to laugh, cry or move to australia.

happy day, ma

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love,

your baby

sober update: see? i'm not always a mean drunk.

roy, my joy boy

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i was 19, between high school and college, working as an assistant manager in a chain pizza restaurant in northwest houston [don't ask why--doesn't matter now].

four nights outta five, i ended up closing--miserable work, but i did it for almost a year--and usually at least two of those nights each week, roy was the one who closed with me.

lemme tell you about roy: 17-year-old part-timer--sweet kid, tight little body, smashed-up nose from too much football, loved me to death.

and every night we closed together--and i mean every fuckin' night--when we were done he'd challenge me to a wrestle.

and i'd always say "ok," and we'd move the tables and chairs off the freshly-vacuumed carpet and go at it.

and i'm talkin' serious and sweaty all-out wrestling--i was bigger and stronger, but he was quicker and wirier. i was no athlete and had no idea what i was doing, but i went all-out anyway, and the chances of one of us pinning the other on any given night were pretty much 50/50.

either way, one of us would always end up on top, tense bodies grinding against each other, face-to-face, dripping sweat, and that's the way we would remain.

until i said--because it was always me--"that's it, roy--time to go."

at which point we'd release, get up, move the tables back, lock up and head out to my car.

and then i'd drive him home while he hummed along to whatever was on the radio, drop him off at his house and head home myself.

it was maybe fifteen years later when i suddenly sat up from a deep sleep one night with the realization that, holy shit, i so coulda had him.

that, my friends, is how clueless and shut-down i was back then.

the whole hate crimes thing

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[in the comments section of my previous post, reader judi asked me for an explanation of the hate crimes legislation which, having slam-dunked its way through our house of representatives, is currently in the process of being rubber-stamped through the senate towards its inevitable obama signage-into-law.

the following is my answer to her question.]


basically, judi, it goes like this: for the past 233 years in america, you fucked somebody up, you did time.

under this bill? let's say you fuck somebody up because they're gay (or a member of any number of other protected minorities covered by said bill), you're gonna do time plus several extra years because, since your crime was motivated by hate, you're obviously an extra-bad person and therefore deserving of far more punishment than had you beat the guy up merely because he dissed your girlfriend or spilled a drink on you or something else perfectly reasonable like that.

but what if it's not so clear-cut? what if you maintain you fucked him up for reasons totally unrelated to his being gay? well, in the good old days, it wouldn't matter why you did it; all the court would care about is if you did it or not.

but not anymore, judi. in this brave new post-"hate crimes" world, the mere fact of your crime won't matter nearly so much as WHY you did the crime--never mind that the object of your rage would still be a puddle of bloody goo on the sidewalk either way, the law will now tell us that, if the victim happens to find himself in a class of citizen protected by this new hate-crimes statute, then he's far more injured--and thus, you're far more guilty--than had he not been so protected.

but that's ok, because homophobes are worse than bad, and they need an extra-special incentive like a "hate crimes" law to keep them from beating up on poor, hapless faggots, right?

thing that kills me is, the folks arguing this position are usually the same ones who can reliably be counted upon to scornfully laugh at the "death penalty as deterrent" folks.

[imagine the following scenario:

billy bob: "hey bobby joe, let's grab our baseball bats and go out and fuck us up some faggots, ok?"

bobby joe: "well, billy bob, as much as i love to fuck me up some faggots, that new extra-added "hate crimes" enhancement on top of the ordinary ol' assault-and-battery makes me think twice, so maybe we better not."

because that's the way it'll work, right?

yeah, right.]

of course, being as smart as i know you are, judi, i'm sure you will immediately see the other problem with this new order of things.

because if you're anything like me, you might believe that the objective, material and provable evidence of what you actually DID should be what matters in a court of law, rather than the subjective supposition of the thoughts which were presumably in your head AS you did what you did.

but in the end, no worries--the thought police will sort it all out for us and all will be well, right?

yeah, right.

* * * * *

had you asked almost any fag in america, judi, they'd have told you this "hate crimes" law is basically the greatest thing since sliced bread, since it's gonna save us all from homophobic hate and all.

but you? you had to ask me.

[next: the problem with creating protected classes in america--and boy, do i have a few things to say about that]

and i'll bet when it passed, his mama stood up and cheered

two months ago, this 16-year-old kid was dragged, handcuffed, outta his house and thrown into lock-up on suspicion of making a threat from his home computer. since then, he's been held virtually incommunicado at a juvie detention center far from his home, his future murky and uncertain.

his mother claims that her son--conservative, flag-waving, church-going and home-schooled--had never been in trouble, there was no evidence to support the arresting officers' claim recovered from their home, and that someone must've hacked the kid's ip address and made the threats in his name.

is the kid guilty of the charge? who knows--maybe, maybe not.

point is, in this case it doesn't really matter, because the feds aren't interested in any defense he might offer, nor are they required to be; hell, they can hold this kid in a kafkaesque limbo--no charges, no communication with the outside, no lawyers, no hearing, no arraignment, no defense--forever if they want.

"but this is america," i hear you say, "land of habeas corpus and rule of law--how could this be?"

simple: the patriot act makes it so.

see, the "threat" in question was apparently a bomb threat, thus making this a potential act of terror--and thus giving the feds, via said patriot act, virtual unchecked, unquestioned power over this american citizen's life.

kid's mother is mystified, wailing and wondering what happened to due process in america.

this story makes me chuckle darkly to myself for two reasons:

first, because at the same time the obama administration is falling all over itself trying to close guantanamo, free many of its prisoners and downgrade middle-eastern "terrorists" to mere "extremists," it's now using the patriot act (among other things) to target conservative "terrorists" in the heartland of america; and

second, because i'm sure that, as long as the previous administration was in power and the patriot act seemed only to apply to towelheads, liberal librarians and similar other pinko troublemakers, most conservatives (such as the mother in question here) were perfectly fine with it.

see what happens when you pass dangerous, poorly-thought-out, emotionally-charged legislation and then the tables turn?

[and yeah, of course there's a message here; let this be a cautionary tale for all my friends out there who so passionately favor the hate-crimes legislation currently making its way through congress--think for a minute what might happen when the other side once again gains power (because it'll happen--it always does), and starts using that thought-police bullshit against you.]

a word about my (and, for that matter, your) musical tastes

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it happened again today, only this time at work--guy grabs my ipod off my desk (because i'd forgotten to hide it), scrolls through my songs as i inwardly cringe, awaiting the inevitable; finally looks up at me incredulously and says, "where the hell do you even find this shit?"

this would be the point at which i'd usually make some lame apologetic excuse for my idiosyncratic tastes like i've been doing all my life.

but not today.

today, hungover and ornery, i snatch the ipod outta his hand and snarl, "each and every one of those songs is there for a reason, and they're reasons you wouldn't understand if you lived a thousand goddam years. now get outta here and let me get some work done."

surprised, he retreats--and i have my next blogpost.

because you know what? i've pretty much had it with people who mindlessly slam the musical tastes of other people without having the slightest clue as to what the fuck they're talking about.

what none of 'em realize (and what you probably don't realize either) is that music is as much a drug in its own way as is alcohol or pot or meth or crack: to the degree a particular combination of sounds hits your endorphin receptors just right, you like it; to the degree it doesn't, you don't--it's that fucking simple.

and it's pretty much non-negotiable--i mean, you can try, for the sake of your standing amongst your peers, to get into whatever music they're into, but the bottom line is, you like what you like, and that's pretty much it.

[case in point: i can't even begin to tell you how much more easily the first 17 years of my life woulda gone had i been able to get excited about metal--or for the last 17, dance music--but that's another post for another day.]

i realized this eternal truth about music early on--back when i was a lonely kid in high school, i spent countless hours locked up alone in my room, headphones on, chain-smoking and transported to another world by the music that moved me then. different songs, individually or in combination, would bring on different moods; more often than not i'd get caught up in one particular song and listen to it over and over and over.

these two drugs--nicotine and music--became linked so strongly in my psyche that when i finally quit smoking fifteen years ago, i found i had no choice but to quit music as well--and i mean all music.

why? because as soon as a song came up that i liked, i'd reflexively reach for a cigarette, just like i'd always done in the past.

it took me eight long years to break that trigger and actually be able to listen to music again without feeling the irresistible urge to light up.

alcohol helped.

[now guess what happens when i hear a song i like.]