Dear Mole: A Shrug of the Shoulders


The image above is the famous scene from Dr. Strangelove wherein Slim Pickens gleefully rides an atomic bomb to his demise in his enthusiasm to complete an ill-advised nuclear strike against the Soviet Union.

To be honest, Mole, the Cold War was already well-in effect by the time I was born into this world, but the overblown celebrations at the demise of the USSR failed to contain an ounce of prognostication. For instance: where did a good chunk of the Soviet arsenal go? These weapons were not destroyed so much as clandestinely redistributed.

I don’t give a rat’s ass about Putin. This doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t break for the people of Ukraine, it simply means that for someone as sociopathic, narcissistic and militaristic as that little Keebler Elf, only the most extreme measures will have any potential effect. What might constitute such a measure?

Here’s a thought: Recently, Vlad the Insecure indicated his intention to attend this year’s G-20 summit. Biden, though I understand his outrage, on an international stage opined that Putin should NOT be allowed to attend. This summit does not occur in Russia or Belarus or any other potentially problematic nation. So, my question is why do world leaders insist on overcomplicating everything? The G20 should embrace him with open arms, on neutral territory and then, I don’t know — arrest him? Kill him? Seems to me like this would be a golden opportunity, but our hands, I’m afraid, are too tied by “international norms”. There’s no other answer. He has to be deposed or eliminated.

But I didn’t come here to discuss international politics. I am pinpointing Putin (or Trump, or Kim Jong On, or Bolsonaro, or Hitler, or Mussolini, or Mao, or even Caligula, for that matter) in the hopes that I can impress upon you how OUR fear of him is his strength and keeping us on our toes is his M.O. He has no human empathy. He is a sociopath, like all the others I just named. His allies across the globe are dwindling faster than my bank account. NOW is the time to grow a pair, international community of “peace loving nations” and stop being so frightened about potential responses. We either behave like civilized beings and come to each other’s aid in the interest of civilization and human decency, two things that are rapidly going out of style, or we brace ourselves for the horrors to come that are more unimaginable than anything you can envision.

But here’s the real question: is this all just naive idealism? Are we even the type of animal that is capable of such large-scale evolution and acceptance? I, for one, am completely convinced that we are not.

While this may sound hopelessly bleak to others, it is my biggest panacea. Drop your sense of importance: it is unreal. Accept yourself as a temporary spark of life that was lucky enough to experience the phenomenal world for as long as you were, and THEN, accept yourself as the temporary, mortal expression of an eternal larger consciousness of which you are part, but the “you” part of it will be gone — memories, loved ones and all — at the moment of your death, never to return.

You don’t want to live forever. Trust me. That would be the ultimate curse.

Know why everyone on earth is so obsessed with the fact that The Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire smacked Chris Rock at the Oscars the other night? Because it’s tabloid, and frivolous, and ultimately meaningless. This is what matters to people, not their own mortality or quality life. (and CERTAINLY not social justice and equity and democracy).

We’ve been through this shit since the dawn of humanity. But now our weapons are far more destructive, apocalyptic even. THAT’s what ‘peace loving” Americans actually consider progress.

See ya’ in Hell,


Dear Mole: Laying Low

Dropping out of the societal Tarantella is so much easier than I would have thought. All one has to do is spend a few months refraining from public expression and voila! Just like that, I have achieved the near-total obscurity so few seem to believe possible in this age of insecure high-tech self-promotion.

Sometimes– rarely, mind you — I miss hearing from some of those once-familiar voices, but then I remember that communication is a two-way street and that I have nothing to contribute to such exchanges.

Conversely, Jesse and I seem to understand each other better every day now that I’ve adapted so fully to speechless interactions. We communicate through grunts, wheezes and nuzzles, and that’s sufficient.

I contemplated making this post a series of grunts, wheezes and nuzzles to be more illustrative of my current lifestyle, but I don’t think that would have made for a very sensible transmission.



The last time we talked like this, Bob Saget was still alive, and nobody cared. Now he’s dead and everyone is singing his praises. The moral? There are some fates worse than death and being Bob Saget might just be one of ’em.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie:



Dear Mole: Illogical Logic

Hello, Old Friend.

The mountain air is invigorating, the wildlife gives Jesse plenty of critters to chase, and I took my first trip to Burger Boy last week when my niece and her boyfriend came through town. A top notch burger, as expected, but the fries left something to be desired.

There was an episode of the original Star Trek series wherein Spock took charge as commanding officer after Kirk disappeared on some unknown planet inhabited by an aggressive and bloodthirsty man in a silly monster suit creature. As CO, it now falls upon Spock to decide which crew members to beam down to the planet in search of The Cap’n. Of course, he approaches the problem with what he deems to be “pure logic”, yet time and again, those unnamed crewmen lose their lives due to Spock’s inability to factor emotion into his decisions. You see, since the creature itself was potentially guided by emotion and his human shipmates unquestionably so, failure to factor in the possible emotion-driven reactions of all involved wound up killing quite a few very temporary Enterprise denizens whose names you won’t even find on IMDB.

I talk a really good game with the logical, Stoical nonsense, but like anyone and everyone who ever has paid lip-service to this dubious ideal, I’m full of shit. In fact, what is the common impetus for the intellectual “endeavors” of history’s Stoics, logicians, Zen masters, and stone-faced semi-statues? That’s right: an emotional distaste for uncomfortable emotions. By claiming that I don’t experience such emotions or even that they affect me to a lesser degree than they do most people, I am ironically admitting that at some point in the past, I found my own human emotions to be so intense, not to mention anathema to my implausible worldview, that they had to be eradicated (impossible). In this sense, all those years sitting on my ass in front of a shrine of pewter Buddha statues actually represented an emotional outburst, not a pragmatic training of my mind. What’s the difference between the calmness of the “enlightened” mind of the Dalai Lama, for instance, and the defeated stillness of Al Bundy? Very little. One of them actually believes he’s doing something important while the other believes quite the opposite, but the end result is more similar than any of us would like to admit.

On a completely different note, I got a remote job transcribing recorded interviews for insurance companies, which is the same exact occupation I held 30 years ago, but without the commute. And as you can imagine, it turns out that “wasting” a year and a half of my life composing the utterly ridiculous shit show that is Notes From The Avalon served as indispensable preparation for this particular occupation.

It’s also a Stoic’s dream job.

And now, for no logical reason whatsoever, here’s Kage and Jaybels utterly slaying the Beatles:



Dear Mole: Media Is Not In Our DNA

I officially “moved in” to my new place on March 28. At the time, I figured that at worst, I had about 3 days of being beholden to my antiquated DVD collection before the DirecTV installer showed up on the first of April.

He never showed up. As soon as the 9 to 5 window had expired, I called DirecTV and was informed that the driver “couldn’t find” my place but apparently hadn’t bothered to call me for directions. So I heard myself do something of which I didn’t think myself capable: I told them to go fuck themselves.

I spent the next 3 weeks essentially TV-free. Sure, once in a while I would throw on an episode of the Trailer Park Boys or Bob’s Burgers to watch while I ate dinner, but I was pretty much left to my own devices when it came to entertaining myself.

Last weekend, I picked up a Roku TV and now I have Hulu and Amazon Prime and all sorts of shit I never had before. Problem solved.

But was it really a problem that deserved a solution?

My point is that despite what I would have predicted, the psychological effect of a sudden pulling of the TV plug after years of constant consumption really wasn’t all that significant. My brain simply looked elsewhere for occupation. There’s plenty of wildlife up here, not to mention foliage the likes of which I’ve never seen before. Oh, and one hell of a great local cannabis dispensary within half a mile of my home.

We feel beholden to media consumption because we’re told that we are by the very media that we consume.

Old movies have something of the taste of the familiarity of an old friend. We know the dialogue inside and out and there’s no chance of being unpleasantly surprised by the outcome. But of course, old friends are better than old movies for the simple fact that they’re not static. Surprises are assured. And even when those surprises are unpleasant or contrary to the image of that friend we’d cultivated in our minds, they still contribute to the vitality of life while re-watching old films does quite the opposite. That’s not to say that I won’t re-watch my favorites many more times before I slip off this mortal coil — it’s just to say that when I’m engaged in such an activity, it has about the same effect on my life as a good nap.

But one good thing came of my 3 weeks of nothing but DVD fare on my TV: Letterkenny introduced me to yet another kick-ass band called The Tune-Yards. Check ’em out:

Oh yeah, if you haven’t yet watched The Goldbergs, do so immediately. Thanks, Hulu!



Dear Mole: Trailer Trash

Dear Mole,

Where were we again? Oh, right — I sold my car, they raised my rent, ain’t got no job, oh woe is Mudge!

Hey, if you’re going to publicize your troubles online like you’re writing a bad country and western song, you gotta own it, right?

Speaking of country and western songs, I must once again paraphrase the late Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr (who, in turn, was famously paraphrased by the late Neil Peart): plus ça change plus c’est la même chose.

That single-wide trailer up there is my new home. Jesse’s, too. My dad bought it for me and it’s situated in the mountains about 10 miles outside of Albuquerque. That white shit on the ground is snow because Cedar Crest, NM is 6,500 feet above sea level. The trailer park looks like a campground and my place is all the way at the end with a rock wall encircling the back yard that overlooks the Sandia and Manzano Mountains.

And I’ve just enough to spare to buy myself a shitty used car so’s I can journey into Albuquerque when I need to forage for groceries and, um…*cough*…supplies.

For the time being, I won’t be inviting Bubbles to move into a shed in the yard with his cats nor will I let Ricky sleep in his car in the driveway. Leahy and Randy are watching.

So I’ve nearly achieved my dream of becoming a mountain hermit. And this is but a scant mile away from my new mountain hermitage:

Fucking Burger Boy.

Entropy, Cohesion, Repeat ad infinitum,


Dear Mole: Bon Anniversaire!

Whether we employ philosophy, humor or barbaric yawps of self-righteous indignation, it’s all just noise. Distraction. A source of temporary comfort, perhaps, but pragmatically impotent. That’s just fine with me. In fact, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you know of a better way to pass the time amidst this vast American Confederacy of Dunces, I’m all ears.

Covid has ensured that Thanksgiving is a wash this year, which is also just fine with me.

So here’s a little Christmas cheer instead:

Fa La La La La,


Dear Mole: An Adorable Kitten

Congrats on the new gig.

It sounds as if your recent health scare may have opened new perspectives for you, and that’s good. It also has you ruminating on your own mortality, naturally.

Have you ever wondered what would happen if you got locked into one oppressive perspective indefinitely?

Can you imagine someone that fears survival considerably more than he fears death?

Rhetorical queries, of course, designed to give some idea of the state of dull anhedonia in which I currently reside.

I don’t wish to start any new chapters. I don’t deign to imagine that my life has any purpose or that I have any legacy to fulfill. I’m not particularly sad or upset or desperate – just terminally jaded and absolutely disinterested in the pointless perpetual peregrinations of my own species. I can’t imagine starting a new career or a new romance or even a new hobby. Those are things in which people with a zest for life or a sense or purpose engage.

In fact, if I do manage to survive for another month or two, which I probably will, I shall have no choice but to embark upon a new chapter called homelessness. Somehow I don’t find myself very worried about this. Quoth the Retard: “It is what it is.”

I don’t talk to people anymore because I’ve almost forgotten how. Perhaps losing my ability to communicate completely can constitute some sort of a goal. Everyone’s gotta have a goal, right?

Hey, look, here’s a cute kitty:



Dear Mole: How’re Ya Now?


How’re ya now?


Not so bad.

While you’ve been productively prolific in the dispensation of the written word, I’ve been watching TV.

Since Suzanne alerted me to the existence of a show called Letterkenny the other dayee, staring at the tube has once again become my veritable raison d’etre.

I predict that watching these 2 clips is all it will take for it to become your new favorite thing, too:

Even though I have nothing of substance to say anymore, you still let me spew it here on your site, Mole, and that’s what I appreciates abouts you.

That’s all I’ve got this month. See you in October.

Pitter Patter,


America’s Hitler 2: Electric Boogaloo

Mole’s passionate excoriation of our retard-in-chief should need no further explanation or context, but when one breaks out the Hitler comparisons, there are still many Americans who would cry “foul!” And no, he wasn’t trying to compare our current situation in the U.S. with the full-fledged Third Reich and its sprawling international complex of death camps. He was trying to warn you about how it all starts.

To that end, here are the facts:

  • Prior to usurping the presidency, Donald Trump was a slumlord, a proudly public racist and a fraud. Remember when the current king of crying “harassment!” spent an entire year harassing President Obama with that racist birth certificate bullshit? Of course, you do. Those of you who do not hail from the East Coast: Google Trump’s public statements (and full-page newspaper ad buy) regarding the Central Park Five after they were exonerated by DNA evidence. Better yet, read the recent book published by his niece, Mary, then get back to me and try to defend his status as a human being, let alone a president.
  • 175,000 Covid-19 fatalities and counting – it’ll all go away like a miracle!
  • On John McCain: “I like people who weren’t captured.” On the late John Lewis: “He didn’t come to my inauguration. Nobody has done more for Black Americans than I have. He should have come.” On Q-Anon: “I’ve heard these are people that love our country.
  • Russia’s dictator elevated Trump to the presidency, not the American voters. Period. Still unsure what to think about this because Mueller was a little too “polite” in the wording of his findings? Then take a look at the 1,000 page report issued this week from a Republican-led Senate committee.
  • Trump threw our entire intelligence community under the bus on an international stage and sided instead with…you guessed it, PUTIN.
  • Babies in cages.
  • All of our former alliances across the globe have been squandered in favor of courting dictators. And, ahem – here’s a direct quote from Orangina: “Kim Jong-Un is the head of the country – and he’s the strong head, don’t let anyone think any different. He speaks and his people sit up in attention. I want my people to do the same.”
  • A bald-faced attempt to rig the upcoming election by rigging it himself, screaming that it’s rigged before it even happens, knee-capping the postal service to suppress the vote and threatening to send armed goons to polling places to intimidate brown people. This is happening RIGHT NOW. Oh, and nobody’s done a goddamn thing about Russia yet. Not a thing.
  • Speaking of Russia, they put bounties on our troops to encourage Taliban members to kill them. Our “law and order” (translation: FASCIST) president refuses to address this with his puppet master because he would rather our soldiers DIE than offend his man crush in the Kremlin.
  • William Barr publicly and deliberately mischaracterized the findings of the Mueller report, then proceeded to fire (or attempt to fire) every U.S. attorney working on cases involving Trump or his criminal associates. Trump’s big fat lap dog also choreographed the tear-gassing of peaceful protestors using the military to facilitate a bullshit photo op.
  • “There were very fine people on both sides.” Charlottesville, 2017.
  • When directly questioned about Putin’s brutality to his own people (most recently on the poisoning of Russia’s most prominent dissident), Trump’s go-to answer is “we’re not very innocent, either”. Very true, Asshole – and you’ve done more than anyone to ensure that’s a fitting motto for the United States.
  • None of the above matters one iota to approximately 40% of the American citizenry. That means that 4 out of 10 people I encounter on a daily basis are cowardly, racist authoritarian sycophants. I, for one, would rather die than live in such a selfish, fucked up society. If that sounds like an overreaction, then I demand that you stop quoting Patrick Henry immediately.

Throughout my life, I’ve often pondered the mass insanity of the German populace in the early 1930’s. The most common excuse heard from “decent” Germans after the war was that they “didn’t know it would be so bad” or that “it was just the way things were”. Sorry, Assholes, but that doesn’t cut the mustard for me. I currently view Trumpists in the exact same way, even those who share my last name. I will not accept “we didn’t know” because the facts are screaming in their faces. They just REFUSE to see it. For that, I detest each and every one of them. Not a very enlightened view, I know, but it’s how I feel. I cannot take “the high road” since anything short of pure venom falls on willfully deaf ears in 21st Century America. This is my home and they have destroyed it and I will never forgive anyone who had a part in this.

God bless America.

Dear Mole: Filthy Rich


Big news! I am $84.15 wealthier than I was just five minutes ago.

In order to pocket that money, I had to delete The Desert Curmudgeon from the internet. That’s as it should be. I think the handful of lackluster posts I composed right out of the gate made it clear that I really didn’t give a rat’s ass about starting up a new blog.

Regardless, here’s hoping somebody picks up the slack and finishes what I started with The StarLost.

On to today’s question: where do you see yourself in 77 days?

Swimming Pools, Movie Stars,