We’re In An Undeclared War With Russian Mobsters Who Bought The GOP.

Byron Callisto, March 24, 2017 

Welcome to the future.

Nuke Putin.

Google Bikes! Just for you, Max.

Byron Callisto, March 23, 2017 

Sky would love this

Max, March 12, 2017 


Byron Callisto,  

Post Reality.

Byron Callisto, March 9, 2017 

The Purpose Of Consciousness.

Byron Callisto, March 5, 2017 

The crassier stretched across the sky in perspective as they drew closer, and now only the massive concrete cube of the minehead was visible beyond it. Abbot’s leg was sending massive arcing signals that he consciously forced his brain to ignore, because, he reflected amidst the flood of pain, his conscious mind could better interpret the overarching danger posed by contact with angry Scotsmen. That, he thought, was the purpose of consciousness; to correctly prioritize Scotsmen and lesser threats. A primary Darwinian truth, conferring a successful genetic variance on the survivors. The train of thought made him laugh out loud, which brought a disapproving look from Joe. Still, Abbot thought it an enlightening concept, worthy of further consideration.

From WW by Byron Cornell Bellamy

“To correctly prioritize Scotsmen and lesser threats.”

Have you heard

Byron Callisto, March 3, 2017 

about this new band The Murder Merchants?

Awesome! I love that song Brink Of Love!

It almost sounds like Missy Io! Well, no one could be that good. But still!


Byron Callisto, February 24, 2017 

So I’m going to shoot a short film on the 11th with a few friends. Here’s the draft script.

Cascade: Early thirties but looks older; he’s spiritually exhausted from his day job, which is cheap small-town murder for hire. He’s killed hundreds over the last ten years, but he’s starting to have bad dreams and is overmedicating with dangerous new designed drugs. He’s a man of few words, descending into his own abyss.

Simone: Mid-thirties, attractive and conscious of it, a sharp strategic thinker with no moral compass whatsoever. She recruited Cascade when he was a warehouse worker at the fireplace store she inherited from her dad, along with the central valley’s #1 cut-rate down-and-dirty wholesale hitman business. She easily charms Cascade; they’ve never slept together, but he’s never been able to resist her until his recent decline began.

Dart: The new Young Gun, brought in by Simone because Cascade’s balking at a full family execution and seems to be breaking down. His drug choices keep him clear-headed and disconnected, and his girlfriend rules his soul. He’s read everything. A nerd, a gamer, a psychopath, an excellent killer. Happy.

Lacey: Sweet, smart, crazy and very cruel childhood-abuse victim who loves to watch Dart make human margaritas. She doesn’t kill, but she thrills to the show. Her mind is a million places at once, but it always comes together the same way: bloodily. She lives in her own graphic novel, and sticks to the dangerous edge of modern pharmacology.

Murder. Each pulse brings a new color and a half-seen image of P.O.V. ultraviolence — people running, people being shot, people being stabbed and beaten, people pleading — Cascade’s gloved hand holding a gun or knife entering the frame occasionally, along with quick shots of Cascade’s face in the bathroom mirror — businessmen, secretaries, clerks, bartenders. Cascade kills small people.
The images speed to a blur –

Two black cats, DEIRDRE and LELAND, watch as —

CASCADE wakes up and opens his eyes to look into the smiling eyes of LACEY lying in bed next to him on her side.
LACEY: He’s having a terrible nightmare.
She smiles at Cascade, ever so sweetly.
LACEY: Hullo.
CASCADE: Who are you?
She doesn’t answer for a beat.
LACEY: I’m Laaaaaaa-ceeeeeeeey.
CASCADE: I don’t know you.
LACEY: Caaaasss-caaaaaaaadian.

Off-camera — DART speaks

DART (O.S.): Such a cool name.

read more…


Max, February 22, 2017 

She just ties it all up in a nice neat bow there doesn’t she?

Why I Hate President Trump

Max, February 17, 2017 

My only quibble would be with the first sentence. The rest is a beautiful summary of the atrocity that has befallen us.

For the record, I don’t hate Donald Trump the person. I hate Donald Trump the president.

I wish I didn’t. But I do. Here’s why:

He’s a pathological liar, according to Republican Ted Cruz.

He’s a fake, a fraud, and a con-man, according to Republican Mitt Romney.

He convinced 81 percent of white evangelical Christian voters to throw Jesus under the bus to vote for a man who bragged about grabbing women “by the pussy.”

He fired the acting Attorney General in a Monday Night Massacre because she determined that the president’s executive order on immigration was constitutionally indefensible.

He’s created an environment in which a southern white man can shut down a northeastern white woman while she’s reading from the floor of the Senate the cautionary words of a heroic southern black woman about a southern white man, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions, who was deemed too racist to be a federal judge in 1986.

He disrespects duly-appointed, Senate-confirmed federal magistrates: “so-called judges.”

He’s offended our friends and allies, treating the Mexican and Australian governments in much the same way he’s treated John McCain and Megyn Kelly and a disabled reporter and Hillary Clinton and Ted Cruz and the Gold Star Khan Family and Jeb Bush and Marco Rubio and Rosie O’Donnell.

He hasn’t, as far as we know, paid federal income taxes in years, bragging that it’s smart on his part — meaning it’s dumb on our part to do so, thereby undermining citizen investment in shared governance. Nor has he released federal tax returns, as other presidential candidates have for the last 40 years.

His wife in New York City, his weekly trips to Mar-a-Lago, and his gallivanting children are costing us a fortune.

He’s sloppy with national security. Proof: Michael Flynn.

He’s given us a Secretary of Education who was born into and married into a billionaire family, has never attended a public school or taught in a public school, never taken out a student loan or applied for a Pell Grant, or even much supported our public schools.

He nominated a labor secretary (now withdrawn) who took advantage of an undocumented worker, pays his fast-food employees a shitty wage, and wants to replace humans with robots because they don’t take vacation days.

He’s put together an administration of the wealthy, by the wealthy, and for the wealthy.

He’s not kept his campaign promise to release documents and even hold a press conference to prove that the third Mrs. Trump never worked in the US illegally. (We know she lied about having a college degree and — knowingly or not — plagiarized part of Michelle Obama’s DNC speech.)

He said he’d negotiate lower drug prices from pharmaceutical companies. Now he says he won’t — but will give big pharma tax breaks and lift certain regulations on their industry.

He turned the nomination of a Supreme Court justice into the finale of a prime-time reality-show.

He knows little about the history of the United States, about our constitutional system, or about our institutions of government.

He has left millions of Americans who acquired health insurance via the ACA worried sick that this great benefit will be stripped from them.

His closest advisers have added to the chaos of the first weeks of the new administration: Kellyanne Conway and her universe of “alternative facts” — like the Bowling Green Massacre; Steve Bannon, who wants to play war with our military; Stephen Miller, who yells at the American people that the president’s views “will not be questioned!”; and Sean Spicer, period.

He uses Twitter to harangue and berate and demean individuals and journalists and companies that question his infallibility.

He’s rattled and incoherent, unfit and unqualified and unstable.

He uses fear and anxiety to bring out the worst impulses that lurk just beneath the surface to pimp for votes and deepen the crevasse between his America and the rest of us.

He has not drained the swamp, as he promised. It’s deeper. It’s wider. It’s even more dangerous.

The Russians. The Russians. The Russians.

Conservative Republicans would have crucified our former philosopher-president, Barack Obama, for behavior that even resembled that of our schoolyard bully president, Donald Trump. Where is their outrage now? President Turmp is not making America great again. He’s making America ugly again. But Republicans, who created this president in their laboratory of anger and resentment, will use President Trump as long as he’ll sign his John Hancock to their legislation.

He’s my tenth president. I’ve appreciated or admired something about all of them. Until now.


—Rodney Wilson teaches political science.


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