Crazy Talk

People in North America should learn a thing or two from the French, who, when pushed around by the rulers … well, they just quit fucking working.

“He who is hated by the people as a wolf is by the dogs: he is the free spirit, the enemy of fetters, the non-worshipper, the dweller in the woods.” ~ Nietzsche (Thus Spoke Zarathustra)


Here I am in “the land of the free,” trapped in a psychiatric ward with no rights to sign myself out: committed due to something I may have said over the telephone while the police were banging on my door and flashing their lights through my windows.


In Hocus Pocus, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr., he has the protagonist write a book from inside a prison by writing on any piece of scrap paper he can get his paws on. There are pencils and scrap paper here, so I will continue with my mysterious scribblings. I had been discharged on the 15th only to be dragged back to the hospital on the 17th. I had just enough time to pay rent, fines, and bills, throw away stale food, purchase new food, and do my laundry. Now I am back in a psychiatric ward, this time at Jersey Shore in Neptune rather than Barnabas Behavioral Health in Toms River.

My tenacity is helping me cope with being at the mercy of The Powers That Be. While there are several novels on the wing, I am more content to scribble my own “philosophical autobiography” during the “down time.” Rather than becoming overwhelmed with this current situation with my neighbors continually calling 9-1-1 on me, I will immediately search for a place to live in Monmouth County upon my release. I want to find a place away from major highways, away from so much traffic, away from all the shopping centers. I don’t even have to be close to a library as I have lost interest in the Internet, and the books I am drawn to are not to be found in public libraries. I will focus on the small but obscure collection I have: Schopenhauer, Cioran, H.P Lovecraft, and Thomas Ligotti. As soon as I am discharged I will track down a copy of Roland Topor’s The Tenant so as to read it while I am experiencing a similar reality in my day to day existence.

I’ve been “targeted” for a continuation of my “psychiatric treatment.” Welcome to the New World order, Levin’s This Perfect Day with its enforced medications and coercion into “treatment centers.” One survival issue at a time: presently, I am in diaspora mode, nomad mode. Last time I was placed in a psychiatric ward, back in December, a hypermanic dude suggested I write a cosmic horror novel about the medical-industrial-prison complex. I figure I can just write what actually happened in everyday life. That should be horror enough, considering what happens to those of us who resist the status quo, those of us who are living protests in the flesh against systematic stupidity and the idiotic norms of mass-industrial society.

How the story will unfold is a mystery to me as I do not know what I am going to do until I do it. Neither can I predict events beyond my control such as global weather patterns and the world economy. Be ready. While I had some fun boozing it up, jamming to music, and creating crazy comedy routines and political diatribes on my recorder, being dragged to the mental hospital three times in the past three months is not helping me move out of that trap. I will have to walk on eggshells and abstain from alcohol for several months in order to transport my notebooks and what not to storage before handing in my keys. I will not stay in an apartment complex where I feel I am under constant surveillance. I am sure that certain neighbors want to see me leave anyway.

Even were I to become ultra-quiet in order to fit into the oppressively silent building, I never really cared for living off of route 70 down in Brick anyway. The people in the area are kind enough, for sure, but the environment is spiritually bankrupt besides a few parks. It’s not anybody’s fault, not even my fault, but public life is quite thin and vacuous in this area. I am evidently not too content here as I spent at least 10 days in psychiatric detention in December, another 17 days in the first part of February, then after being out for only two and a half days, right back in psychiatric detention for further observation. Psychiatric Police State?

When I finally get released again, I certainly will not experience a sense of freedom, but will most definitely feel the open-air prison ambiance of this Culture-of-Make-Believe. I will type up this pig shit that I am scribbling now. Why? To have it on public record for my brothers and sisters who are also caught in the web of our surveillance society. To be resistance.

Observe how this unfolds. I want to write about how I actually feel, not about how the zoo-keepers want me to feel. How are we supposed to get to the bottom of what really ails us if we just parrot “positive psychology” and the mantra of “powerlessness” and “addiction”? These crises will lead me to the conclusion that I have to start over somewhere else, this time with the awareness that we are expected to roll over and play dead. As long as I am dependent upon government assistance for sustenance and shelter, I will have to put a leash on the wilderness within.

Shall one watch what one writes and talks about in a psychiatric ward? If we conceal and censor our deepest thoughts and feelings, doesn’t this amount to suppression and role playing? Why are our true feelings systematically silenced? Why are we encouraged to repress our “negative” thoughts? Why does the mental health industry enforce conformity and discourage revolt against the status quo? What is going on with the mental health industry today? Why are psychiatrists and mental health “associates” given so much authority when it comes to such sensitive and personal areas such as one’s own philosophy of life?

How few professionals have actually read Robert Pirsig’s Lila? Of course this society starts to appear very creepy when one experiences these realities first hand! Pirsig had suggested that if you want to change society, save the police and psychiatrists for last. The best way to handle cops and shrinks is to avoid them. Sometimes we cannot avoid them. Sometimes we draw attention to ourselves with our “erratic” behavior. Most of the time, the largest nail gets hit with the hammer. By now I should have learned that my behavior becomes unpredictable when I am intoxicated. On this I have no choice but to agree with the psychiatrists (and even the police). Before I can do anything about how the environment is being abused, I have to seriously consider how I am abusing my own animal body first.

I sure do enjoy listening to music and singing while drinking, but this ritual of escape is bringing too much unwanted attention to me. It may be that time in my life to calm down … a little maturing is necessary or else I am going to end up perpetually institutionalized. Only humor can save me now. When asked, “What will prevent me from returning to the psychiatric hospital?” I answer, “the collapse of civilization.”

Hardy harr harr.

Before turning in my keys this time, I want to see about storing my notebooks, the big clunker desktop computer, a couple chairs, inflatable mattress, kitchen supplies, and some books … Last time I moved in 2012 out of Freehold Barrio with a broken leg, I abandoned everything, and while living at this current residence, I finally got my hands on my notebooks from 1987 to the present, minus the twenty or so I left out West. There are 164 volumes, and I am not quite prepared to destroy them even though they are filled with tons of pig shit. When I moved to Brick, I was looking for a place close to my aging mother, a place I could store my notebooks, go through them, and type up a string of excerpts. I have accomplished that goal (see Mad Manifestos 1 & 2). I will not be transformed into a twelve-step robot. I can put a cork in the bottle while remaining an extremist nonconformist.

This is not the first time I have been corralled from one section of the zoo to another. Next time, I will want to avoid garden apartment complexes. There has to be something out there where I will feel free to sing in the shower and while cleaning the dishes, somewhere close to woods and away from highways. If I have to, I will take a taxi to the grocery store twice a month.


The current medical-industrial complex we live in today is the one envisioned by Raegan and Thatcher. It has been given more authority due to the escalation of murderous rampages by people deemed to have serious emotional and mental disorders.

I am reading Chuck Pahalnuick’s Fight Club on a psychiatric wing of a hospital. Funny?

“I never returned to the doctor. I never chewed valarian root. This was freedom. Losing all hope was freedom.”

“This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time.”

“Sometimes you wake up and have to ask where you are.”

“Deliver me from Swedish furniture.
Deliver me from clever art.
May I never be content.
May I never be complete.”

“Maybe self-improvement isn’t the answer. Maybe self-destruction is the answer.”

“I shouldn’t just abandon money and property and knowledge. This isn’t just a weekend retreat. I should run from self-improvement, and I should be running toward disaster.”


Without rental assistance, I would not be able to afford an apartment. It is clear that, when inebriated, I am a difficult individual to live with or near. As long as I live in close proximity of other people, I really do have to calm down – this means I have to abstain from alcoholic oblivion since this makes me vulnerable to arrest or psychiatric detention. It also puts my rental assistance at risk!

I am not exactly free to just do whatever the hell I feel like doing. No shit. I get it.

Somewhere along the journey of life I have developed the capacity for dealing with uncertainty, crisis, and the unknown.

“Nothing is static. Everything is falling apart.”

Life has proven to be one crisis after another. Police round up the denizens of the industrialized world for erratic behavior, disturbing the peace, disorderly conduct, wandering aimlessy, and even babbling incoherently. Perhaps they have found it easier to dump folks of all ages at the emergency room for psychiatric evaluation. This is the New World Order. It is what it is. People, be ready. Don’t say Mikey didn’t give you all the heads up. We’re all on the Indian Reservation now. We’re all in the Taker Prison, the Open Air Zoo. Bizarroland. Science-fiction. Cosmic Horror.

People can dial 9-1-1 just because they think someone is “acting weird.” One 20 year old kid is in here for asking someone for a cigarette. He still hasn’t gotten a cigarette.

“It’s Project Mayhem that’s going to save the world. A cultural ice age. A prematurely induced dark age. Project Mayhem will force humanity to go dormant or into remission long enough for the Earth to recover.”

“You justify anarchy. You figure it out.”

“This was the goal of Project Mayhem: the complete and right-away destruction of civilization.”


“One thing I’ll have to learn before the destruction of civilization is how to look at the stars and tell where I’m going.”

“We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we’ll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won’t. And we’re just learning this fact,” Tyler said. “So don’t fuck with us.”


The chicana is singing again this morning. The staff harasses her to be quiet. Other inmates/patients harass her to be quiet. I encourage her politely. She too is being suffocated by rules and social norms. My sister visited me and told me she also has been writing diaries for many years, and that she is considering burning them all because nobody can understand anyone else. Who are these diaries for but ourselves? Who can understand us the way we understand ourselves? Who can love us the way we love ourselves? I have also considered burning mine as well. Then I will be that much more liberated!

If you find yourself trapped by TV broadcast signals, and you wonder why these signals are occupying your mental sphere rather than inner-directed contemplation, swiflty remove yourself from the unwanted media transmissions if possible, grab a pen and paper, and find the Voice within.

Are you hearing any voices?

Better still, walk outdoors, if possible. I have no advice for those who find themselves in such impossible situations where they are literally encaged. Then you have to reach deep within.

Today I will be discharged. I am choosing to take bus routes rather than wait for my mother as I want to experience independence. The sun has unexpectedly burst through the clouds, and I look forward to smoking tobacco while I wait for the Brick bus in Asbury Park. I will enjoy the walk from the hospital to the Asbury Park bus station.


The most significant behavioral change I can strive for at this juncture of my life is to cease imbibing alcohol. This is a time I really have to stay focused.

The reason: I don’t want to be institutionalized. I don’t want to lose rental assistance and be corralled into some group home or outpatient “day” program.

Besides the pressure of having to turn in the keys to the apartment in Brick by the end of March, I am also dealing with the stress of discovering that my “message board” at, which was overflowing with subversive and radical ideas, has been efficiently destroyed. Somehow the URL address has been redirected! Ouch. Talk about rolling with the punches. At least I had transferred the autobiographical “manifesto” to That will have to serve as a place for me to vent. It’s a shame. Now there is no trace of the Gort Busters phenomenon left on the Internet. That little message board was unique, even if only a handful of individuals participated. Now it is gone.

Rolling with the punches.

While going over the past month’s events, I notice that on both nights I had created a disturbance with music, I had spent the day with the same unattainable woman. Just an observation: sexual frustration? Longing for intimacy? Unmet primitive needs? Maybe I am better off not pursuing unrequited romatic love. There is a definite pattern.

Isn’t this what used to set me off in Freehold back in 2004 with N?

Isn’t this what set me off back in Matawan with S in 2006-7?

What about when I was going off the emotional deep end as far back as 1995 with FS?

Definite pattern: Longing for emotional intimacy when there is nothing but the Abyss staring back.

Meanwhile, while the mood stablizer was only $4 at the Wall Mart, the prescription to help me avoid alcohol would have been $93, so I only filled the one for four dollars.

My neighbors hate to hear me having fun
Whenever they hear me too happy
They dial 9-1-1

Then the police drag me to the psychiatric ward
Where they prescribe me medication that I can’t afford
I get so mad, I stop thanking the Lord!

I did replace the digital voice recorder so I can get some of my recordings from the computer to the little recorder before putting the big clunker into storage for a rest. I will continue my “oral (audio) project” and name it “Notes From The Abyss.”

Instead of starting Mad Manifesto 3, I will just place what would have been chapters as posts on the front page at – CRAZY TRUTH.


Run, Mikey, run!


My government relief funds were short by almost two hundred dollars this month. Holy shit. When I called to inquire about it, I was informed that the Department of Education is garnishing the funds for a past due student loan. I had received a Bachelors of Science Degree (Honors) back in 2002. I had stopped making payments as far back in 2005 when I kind of “gave up on finding a career that would justify that kind of serious studying.”

They finally caught up with me, with a vengeance. Damn, if I had just given them $50 per month, I could have been well on my way to paying it off. Now they are just taking it at such bug chunks. Ouch. Damn, Big Brother is playing hardball now. I can only pray the youth will bumrush the White House! Gather all around the young ones. They will make us strong.

It’s beggar’s day!

I can’t let all these “psychological punches” get me up against the ropes. My knee-jerk response to stress and setbacks and disappointments is to tie one on, but since I do not want to risk being stuck in a hospital while trying to relocate (or at least save notebooks and computer from being tossed in the dumpster), I have to stay focused. I’ll treat myself to some carrot juice and walk around in the dark while talking myself through all this.

I count my blessings. At the moment of typing this, I have no broken limbs. At least I am able to walk. My brain still functions. I am still able to interact with a diverse range of personalities. My mother is still alive and kicking and in my corner stronger than ever. I have finally reached a point where I am not frustrated being into obscure thinkers and writers. I would have thought that the underhanded attack on my message board would do me great psychological harm, but we had said all we needed to say, and I was pretty much just working on my philosophical autobiography anyway. I have contacted the few people who might notice it missing just to clarify that I did not self-destroy that haven for deep thinking.

Deep breaths. I may have to employ some of the strategies I have fallen back on during other trials and tribulations. As I detach from the cures offered by the mental health industry and its “positive thinking,” I will embrace a darker worldview with courage. Just leaving an apartment is an exercise in detachment, a coming around full circle, a time to reflect on how fast the river is flowing. Even as I laugh in the bathtub, I am still relieved to be moving on. I knew my stay in Brick would be temporary. All in all, I have interacted with some very friendly people down here. It amazes me how so many people can remain so level-headed in the midst of so much traffic, concrete, and pointless redundancy.

“When you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.”

What are we? What is the true nature of our lives?

“I’m bruised and battered by the storm. My mind is broken and forlorn.”

“I’m haunted by the ghosts in my machine.”

In January 2013, I took this apartment only to keep from losing rental assistance. There is a limit to how long one can go without a residence, and I had left the place in Freehold in September. I had to move in someplace, and this was close to The Mother, my first and last friend in this realm. Unlike Schopenhauer, who did not speak to his mother for the last 25 years of her life, I am still ridiculously attached to the emotional support my mother gives me. I do my best to be there for her as well. She may very well be the only thing keeping me in the state of New Jersey, keeping me from leaving the United States altogether …

My goal now is to remain out of institutions.

Remember, I was relieved to get out of Matawan in 2007. I was relieved to leave Ocean Grove in 2008. The journey to Seattle was traumatizing. I experienced great joy leaving Federal Way, Washington in 2010. There was so much trouble for me in Asbury Park that I left there like a bat out of Hell in 2011. Remember how I left that cockroach infested place in Freehold Barrio with a broken leg, abandoning my Tama drum kit in the basement in 2012?

Hell. Why is it that, wherever I reside, I seem to draw attention to myself? Is there nowhere for me to hide? Maybe someone out there around Farmingdale has a little shack on a horsefarm I can rent. I’m not above shoveling horseshit as I wipe my ass with the Bachelors Degree in Computer Science.

And a hardy fucking harr harr.


“There is much fear that lies at the origin of civilization.”

“There is much fear that lies at the bottom of becoming a civilized adult.”

“Modern people no longer hear their own primal voice.”

I want to follow my bliss. The zoo-keepers would have me picked up by a van five days per week and shuffled off to an outpatient treatment center where I can sit down, shut up, and twiddle my thumbs as I get bombarded with the same old denigrating and humiliating drivel that passes for healthcare throughout the nation: conformity to the status quo or at least the intentions to appear to want to conform to the idiotic norms of mass industrialized society, which seems to be running out of steam fast, or at least heading full steam ahead over the cliff. Big Mother Iceberg – straight ahead!


“Whatever is left of the repressed unconscious is trying to penetrate into consciousness in the here and now present moment!”

“There is a constant bombardment of lies and distortions from the representatives of civilization. They put an incredible amount of energy (and money) into controlling people’s ideas.”

It takes inner resolve and courage to go against civilization. My living animal body, our living animal bodies, may be a living protest against the social apparatus which presumes to be in control. This is deep thinking, an activity I have been engaged in since I was a child. I practice deep thinking in my everyday life, and do not turn away from my own subversive ideas. There are plenty of opportunities in our everyday lives to question and refuse humiliating and debilitating authority.

Maybe reading Roland Topor’s horror novel, The Tenant, will help me pinpoint just what it is about this apartment, as well as other places I have resided in, that gives me the creeps. Will it help me to articulate what it is that exactly ails me? I just happen to have received a used copy of The Tenant in the mail today … uncanny.


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