August 13, 2021
Idiosyncrasies: The Happy Birthday Song

3. That’s me, Here I am: I’m the birthday girl.

2. I told the person that I think I’m this way from growing up in a large family. Before everybody moved off and started creating their own sub-units of family, we functioned like a unit for a time: and because there were a lot of people, it was always someone’s birthday. It’s like that Seinfeld episode, or if you’ve ever actually worked in the hell of an office environment like I have like that where the office is literally singing happy birthday or orientation to someone every week. Like the dysfunctional family’s strategy for family member retention. Birthday cake and ice cream every week. Singing that damn happy birthday song every week, Stevie Wonder version cause I’ve got a black family.

1. I told someone recently that I guess that was my idiosyncrasy: Remembering people’s birthdays. And they thought that was funny, but I’m serious. I talk to you once and maybe never again, but if you’ve told me your birthday, good chances are that I’ll remember your birthday for the rest of my life. Even if I don’t talk to you anymore, even if I ever hated you I’ll say, Oh, it’s February 2, I wonder what Frank is doing for his birthday today? If I know what day or month it is that is. I’ve never been good with days of the week, or months of the year, or years, really: time; I thought I’d be turning 39 this year; but turns out I lost track and made myself 38 for like 2 years and surprise I’ll be 40. But I’ll remember your birthday. I’m long gone, but I’ll still remember the party every week.

Happy Birthday.


The Unwitting Memoirist

July 31, 2021
*E Pluribus Unum: Out of many, One

Do not put your hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. You shall not follow a crowd to do evil;

Exodus 23:1-2

One of the very first things that happened right before I surrendered to God was that I stopped listening to people. I had quit my job; the money was running out, I was facing my first eviction but I didn’t want another job. Who would believe in a miracle with me?

When I think back to this time, I often think about Martin Luther, a monk and theologian who in the 16th century experienced a spiritual crisis brought on by the total corruption of the Catholic Church. Simony was rampant, a practice in which the Church “sold” repentance, and the papacy was bloated with land and money. In times like this when it seemed that society had gone too far, how could you trust the majority?

When I’d gone to people who claimed to believe in God, they never mentioned God but worldly advice. And I grew more agitated because I already knew what they would say—the way they’d been saying it my whole life, and I was afraid because I didn’t want to be alone with what I knew I had to do even though I’d been all my life.

And, well, you know the rest of the story. The 12 spies that God sent to scout Canaan returned with a bad report that spread fear through the Israelites and caused them to rebel against God’s plan for them. All but 2 of the spies. Caleb and Joshua out of the congregation implored that their faith be in the protection of God and not in the fear of the Canaanites. But the majority believed the false report over God and refused to enter the Promised Land; the Israelites called for a return to (slavery in) Egypt and the appointment of their own leader; and the stoning of Caleb and Joshua. Their anger punished them with 40 years of wandering in the wilderness because they could not overcome their fear, while Caleb alone inherited the Promised Land.

With the power of all that is Right in you, the world will fall around you, as the Catholic Church and the unity of medieval Christendom had begun collapsing—collapsed when Martin Luther posted his critiques or what came to be known as the 95 Theses on the Castle Church door, Wittenberg Germany in 1517.

I laughed with them about it all on the telephone the other day, recounting the afraid advice they’d given me way back, it seems, so long ago. They were stressed out, they said, always stressed—something always wrong. And I knew that to be me, still stuck in the world, wandering in the wilderness had I of listened.

Acts 5:29

But Peter and the other apostles answered and said: “We ought to obey God rather than men. The God of our fathers raised up Jesus whom you murdered by hanging on a tree.”

*e pluribus unum is the motto of the United States


The Unwitting Memoirist

July 28, 2021
Man Calling Libraries to Masturbate on Supreme Court Case

I mean, I’ve called the library many times throughout my life … inquiring if they had a book, an article … trying to get my own book stocked; but, I swear, my hands were nowhere near my private area when I made these calls.

It seems as if an unidentified man has been calling libraries across these United States to ask that a Wikipedia entry for a Supreme Court case be read to him. I don’t have a computer, he says; and especially in this climate you’d not only fall for it, but praise it. Good for you, you’d say. Technology is coming to be the downfall of us, you’d opine shaking your head, closing your shawl tighter around your shoulders. You think about Satan and wonder, OK, now where were we? Oh, yes, This nice young man who would like to ‘write it out by hand’, until you start to read and he begins panting and shouting: “Oh yeah, give it to me. Give me that exculpatory evidence. Spank those prosecutors!”*

It turns out that this guy has been getting off to a landmark Supreme Court case that, well, gets people off. It’s called Brady v. Maryland ; and it comes from a 1963 decision that declares that if prosecution has any evidence that might exonerate you, they must give it up to get you off. That’s right. The government must turn over any (exculpatory) material to defense counsel that might exonerate a criminal defendant, as was the case with John Brady who, along with Charles Boblit, participated in a robbery in 1958 that resulted in the death of an acquaintance. Though Brady stated throughout his trial that Boblit had actually committed the murder, and prosecutors had a written statement from Boblit saying as much, a Maryland jury found 25-year-old Brady guilty of first-degree murder. Prosecutors never turned over the statement to Brady’s defense team, and Brady was sentenced to death. Some people only start developing an interest in libraries when they’re facing death prison time or the bar. Sigh.

Brady challenged the conviction, and his sentence was reduced to life in prison because here in America we have the right to a fair criminal trial aka Due Process under the 14th Amendment. So if you’re ever facing criminal charges for allegedly being a low-life, just know that you have the right to request a “Brady disclosure”. This is America dammit, a country founded on laws protecting us against the direct vote of the mass stupidity of our peers, and the vast overreach of a corrupt government: It’s OK to get a little excited. Happy July. 🧨


The Unwitting Memoirist

P.S. See also “Brady Cops”, and “Brady list”

P.P.S. It’s also been speculated that this guy was the same guy calling libraries to ask that John Grisham novel titles be read aloud to him. Perhaps The Rainmaker or The Firm?

There’s a whole Reddit thread on this.

*quoted from Joe Patrice. “Man Calling Libraries And Masturbating To A Supreme Court Opinion.” Above the Law, 2021. Web.

July 25, 2021
The god of Momentum

If I’m gonna be a tad bit worldly here, I’m gonna say that if I didn’t believe in God, there is nothing that I would revere or respect more than something I call the god of Momentum.

I’ve had roommates for most of my life; and looking back, I can’t see how that actually happened, but I remember at one point contemplating a smoking roommate. Would I want a roommate who smoked? I didn’t actually care, and I wanted to be cool like that. The problem was, that I’d been living long enough to imagine the possibility of ok’ing a smoking roommate, under the condition that it be done out of doors, only for them to agree then proceed to smoke:

-Right outside my window.
-Like a chimney, at all hours of the night, so now I’m scared in my room to hear the opening and closing of the front door at 2, 3, 4AM, all hours of the day.
-Crack, weed or crystal meth or, what? Vaping. You said no smoking, this is vaping; this is a vape.
-Right in front of the neighbors’ door or window, and now we’ve got complaining neighbors.

Then I’d proceed to erase my whole Craigslist ad and put in large screaming letters


I once had an ex roommate friend who found out her roommate was shooting up heroin for finding spoons and needles throughout the apartment. See, I said; this wouldn’t have happened if you asked for tidy roommates only. I told her.

Even when I lived crazy, before God for most of my life, I always had a limit—a natural respect for going too far. I’d say, no, I wouldn’t do a 3some or anything because then what? What’s after that? I’d think, OK, this guy’s hitting on me for sex but then what? What’s after that? Even then as an outta control smoker myself, I had a proper respect for what I knew I couldn’t control. The next level of out of control lying just in wait.

Sometimes you gotta put things in place just to have the parameter there. Not necessarily because you’re “for it” per se, but because of momentum. Human nature is unique not for its ability to reason, but for its ability to deny its own evil and call that reason. You get the ball rollin’ on your guilt, for women, blacks whites or whatever, and suddenly you’ve created an angry Ego Monster that you cannot criticize or say no to. A little toleration for homosexuality becomes full-on Sodom, stealing children, the world a great big vagine and penis pounding into your head, swapped and cut off and switched by mad, weird science. A little censoring and now you’re running, sprinting from the barreling weight behind you of bone-crushing ‘cancel culture’ and the flattening of your God-given First Amendment rights to free speech. You put a little mask on in January 2020 and suddenly you can’t breathe but you still can’t take it off in July 2021 and now the kids, it never stops this momentum, until it crushes you. Give ’em an inch … as the saying goes.

So it was just easier to say that I didn’t want a roommate who smoked even though I didn’t care even though I guess I did. It was much easier than trying to outthink a million possibilities I had no idea about or control over because I’m not God, and that could always find a way to detour around my wobbly-kneed indecision and inability to be honest and firm from the outset, because that’s the devil.

SMOKING OK, BUT MAKE SURE YOU GO OUT OF THE HOUSE 256 PACES TAKE A RIGHT THEN A LEFT INTO THE WOODS. AND THEN SMOKE. (oh s**t no, what if they smoke in the woods then toss the lit butt and the whole woods goes on fire then they tell the fire department it was because of my smoking rules???!)

You just gotta say no most times. Because contrary to popular belief it’s actually much easier than saying a yes that requires another yes and then another and another, until now you can’t walk it back because you’ve got the ball rollin …


The Unwitting Memoirist

July 17, 2021
Paying For It

Awhile back, I read a really disgusting but interesting book called Paying for It by Chester Brown, a graphic novel about the author’s experience as a “professional john”. And if you don’t know what being a professional john entails, here’s a rough outline:

Wake up,
Order some p***y
Go to sleep. Repeat Mon-Sun. It’s a graphic novel, so in case you need some graphics to go with it.

What’s cool about the book though, if I can remember, is the discussion about things like criminalization and decriminalization, and the origins of romantic Love with the Troubadours and how, really, Romantic Love all ends with a book of a “professional john” talking in bed to a prostitute about the history of Romantic Love. Unreasonable expectations. Brown at the time was a john in Canada, which allowed interesting interpretations of prostitution: for example, “in-call” prostitution where you go to her place wasn’t allowed, but “out-call”, where she comes to your place or hotel was, or something like that.

I remember going on the Reeperbahn for the first time in Hamburg Germany’s red-light district, and being utterly shocked. Behind a kind of cordoned off area in a narrow alleyway were a group of women with fanny packs and “moon boots” quietly yet openly soliciting men for sex. My ex-boyfriend who was German told me it was legal. They pay taxes, he told me. They pay taxes! I screamed, as if nothing drove the point home more in my American mind or made me more shocked that prostitutes paid taxes.

What I think I’m roughly getting at here I think is how a society, like America, is paying for it, right. We’re now paying getting paid to get screwed. What I notice about a lot of godless countries and societies, there is a centralized parent-like government playing God and so falsifying and demeaning that society or country. Socialism, communism, if you will. In North Korea men spend the day drinking, gambling smoking and playing table games, while the women are heads of households, working all day while still being expected to look like women in skirts and dresses, performing the work of a man, while the man gets the praise. In places like Germany and Canada, governments become also false gods, moral arbiters, ironically demoralizing society with the acceptance of abnormality such as selling sex because, really, they’re just spiritually bankrupt johns as well whose bottom line is to pimp you out too. And as America ramps up to another round of free money for Americans to depend on, while they regulate the attack of God and Christianity and the legality of homosexuality and acceptance of blame and cancel culture and “sex” work, our society collapses in Sodom and liberalism that doesn’t work for the governing of a society, and we’re paying for it. Because the thing is, that you can’t regulate God and the wrong thing. The thing is that prostitution is dangerous exactly because it’s wrong. That’s the natural laissez-faire regulation for prevention. For Paying For It.


The Unwitting Memoirist

P.S. To listen to my latest Informally God podcast episode about “Sex Work”, click here!

Paying For It by Chester Brown book cover

July 16, 2021
Chasing Racism: A Tale of Two Karens

Picture it, Sicily Jersey 2021, a Nigerian woman haunts a white woman with the ghost of her own whiteness all around a Victoria’s Secret. The white woman is spontaneously combusting—it’s like Blair Witch, we don’t know how she got here, the camera just switched on to her screaming, crying, not to be recorded, then a flawless faint in the checkout line while the Nigerian woman continues to record her, zapping her strength. Perhaps the Coltan used to power cell phones mined in the African Congo is the white woman’s kryptonite.

We see the white woman swipe at the camera at one point, reversing the camera angle, the Nigerian woman suddenly running backward while still managing to record the white woman like some weird hillbilly tornado storm chaser. But the Nigerian woman insists someone call security because a woman has “tried” to attack her continuously, while chasing the very self-same woman all over a woman’s lingerie store because the Nigerian woman insists that she just came for some free panties. She proceeds to explain her behavior by pulling out and showing us a free panties coupon from Victoria’s Secret. As-salamu alaykum she says to a passer-by. Call security the Nigerian black woman says, call the police, the white woman does, so that when he shows up the white woman can scream cry in the poor man’s face, while the Nigerian cusses him out for his whiteness and some perceived imaginary scenario in only her mind where he would definitely be already arresting her if she were … the Nigerian black woman cussing out a police and camera phone harassing another woman around a lingerie store? Yeah, you would’ve arrested me if I was the aggressor, she says as an aggressor. As she walks away from the police to continue recording the white woman across the way at the entrance who suddenly begins wigging out again at being recorded again.

This is the tale of two Karens: a behaviorally impaired white woman who, it turns out, is studying to be a preschool teacher; and an equally nutty disrespectful and antagonizing Nigerian “strong black woman” who has since raised some 30-odd thousand dollars on GoFundMe for, apparently, looking high and low for racism, and then pulling an: a like, oh my god when she didn’t find it. In short, (Nigerian) scamming.

Listen, man, a (white) male caller says on a radio show as he’s asked to comment on the situation; I been married for over 20 years and mostly all women are Karens. I’d venture to take it a step further to say that all the world’s currently a Karen. It really is viral.


The Unwitting Memoirist

July 11, 2021
All is Spirit and Part of Me

A GREATER lover none can be,
And all is spirit and part of me.
I am sway of the rolling hills,
And breath from the great wide plains ;
I am born of a thousand storms,
And grey with the rushing rains ;
I have stood with the age-long rocks,
And flowered with the meadow sweet ;
I have fought with the wind-worn firs,
And bent with the ripening wheat ;
I have watched with the solemn clouds,
And dreamt with the moorland pools ;
I have raced with the water’s whirl,
And lain where their anger cools ;
I have hovered as strong-winged bird,
And swooped as I saw my prey ;
I have risen with cold grey dawn,
And flamed in the dying day ;
For all is spirit and part of me,
And greater lover none can be.

The Year’s at the Spring: An Anthology of Recent Poetry, 1920

colorful spirit of all things and people combined


The Unwitting Memoirist

P.S. Read the book here at Internet Archive.

July 4, 2021
Rainbow Jimmies on My Ice Cream Please, Mister

How must it feel to have pent up years and years what you do to conflate with who you are, to come out finally as gay and realize that nobody cares what you do in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Mom and dad, guess what? I’m heterosexual; this means, mom and dad that I am attracted to men and those of the opposite sex … and sometimes have sex with them.

I’m not really sure what the fight is about. You got beat up because you admitted to stuffing your sausage into s**t holes and now you want justice. Or you got looked at nastily because you were holding hands and making googly eyes at another woman who wasn’t a man. Let me tell you something, I once told a popular classmate that I saw her cheating on her test and the whole middle school turned on me and I still had to go to school the next day. I wasn’t even homosexual.

You want the opportunity to show your fake love that produces nothing in the way of creation, and I’m pissed that I can’t even look at an innocent rainbow anymore without seeing some sort of sicko sexual innuendo. Rainbows!

Hear me now and hear me good, your parents were freaks and that’s why you turned out to be: you’d better call 911 and tell ’em about that. Those Goodridge Supreme Court landmark lesbians from Massachusetts where I’m from aren’t even together anymore, and there is nobody that I fear more than Mayor Lori black Lightfoot of murderous Chicago. She’s a lesbo with a receding hairline, dark-ringed eyes too far apart and she runs press and town hall meetings by calling everyone a racist, getting up all in people’s personal space and wearing capes that read “The Rona Destroyer.”

Call the cops, call the Supreme Court, we’ve got some serious issues going on in this country besides what you do with your nasty smelly genitalia with all its flaps and folds and nooks and crannies. We’ve already got rules and laws against people with generally douchey behavior. We don’t need any ‘special’ rules. You’ve come all the way out the closet to tell your dirty little secret only to find there’s nobody in the bedroom but you. Now go back in there and put on some damn underwear. It’s the 4th of July; we’ve got to celebrate our freedom from immorality.


The Unwitting Memoirist, A Christian

June 26, 2021
Roosevelt Island

I used to love to go to Roosevelt Island when I lived in New York City. It was free, to wait in line with the tourists and board the little red box floating on a cable in the sky. Across the East River, and onto Roosevelt Island.

I had an acquaintance who called to tell me that she’d be in New York for the day. I had no stable place to stay but my employer who I lived with told me I could bring her over. I declined and went out to meet her in the driving rain. All day it rained, so I took her to Roosevelt Island.

I look back and I can see her wondering eyes. Standing in line with the tourists with all her luggage to board a little red box floating in the sky. Across the East River, and onto Roosevelt Island. Where we landed and stayed in the landing area because it was raining. It seemed perfectly normal. Her happy eyes, and poncho. Her luggage. I look back and it was weird of me. Why would I do that? To help her back up with her luggage, to wait in line with the tourists and board, with sadness, a trip across the river away from my happiness that I wanted to share, on Roosevelt Island.


The Unwitting Memoirist

P.S. For more stories From the Unwitting Memoirist, click here

June 2, 2021
The Nigger of the Narcissus: by Joseph Conrad

As I currently watch video after video of blacks non blacks and non American blacks alike mastermind hate crime hoaxes through the rolling verdant hills of these great United States, I think about The Nigger of the ‘Narcissus’, a novella written in 1897 by Polish-British novelist Joseph Conrad.

It’s so apropos: Call yourself a ‘nigger’ using white face, or hire some big black burly Nigerians to beat you up in the name of whitey like racially ambiguous Jussie Smollett, and you’ve got the recipe for a huge sailing ship that Conrad once sailed as a merchant marine, named the Narcissus.

The story is based on a black sailor who Conrad once knew—in the novella, he’s a black West Indian sailor named James Wait. In this novella, Conrad masterfully centers a white crew around this black sailor, who through exaggerated claims of sickness and dying to avoid work, manages to get waited on hand and foot, ultimately creating a division on the ship between Wait’s supporters and detractors. The Narcissus, the ship of course, is the anger of the grand ego, tossed and turned about on choppy attention-grabbing waters. It’s damn near a mutiny all over Wait.

In the end, well, I won’t spoil it for you—it’s not good for Wait. Ah, what the hell, he ends up dying because it turns out that he was actually much sicker than he feigned not to be.

It’s worth noting that at the time this novella was written, Dodd, Mead and Company were reluctant to publish it, not because of the offensiveness of the word “nigger” or anything but because the publishers believed that a book about a black man wouldn’t sell!


(a note from the author; The Nigger of the Narcissus: Doubleday, 1914)

From that evening when James Wait joined the ship—late for the muster of the crew—to the moment when he left us in the open sea, shrouded in sailcloth, through the open port, I had much to do with him. He was in my watch. A negro in a British forecastle is a lonely being. He has no chums. Yet James Wait, afraid of death and making her his accomplice was an impostor of some character—mastering our compassion, scornful of our sentimentalism, triumphing over our suspicions.

But in the book he is nothing; he is merely the centre of the ship’s collective psychology and the pivot of the action. Yet he, who in the family circle and amongst my friends is familiarly referred to as the Nigger, remains very precious to me. For the book written round him is not the sort of thing that can be attempted more than once in a life-time. It is the book by which, not as a novelist perhaps, but as an artist striving for the utmost sincerity of expression, I am willing to stand or fall. Its pages are the tribute of my unalterable and profound affection for the ships, the seamen, the winds and the great sea—the moulders of my youth, the companions of the best years of my life.





The Unwitting Memoirist

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