You’re a very weird person, Yossarian


“I was never looking to be Yossarian, I didn’t become Yossarian, I just was Yossarian.”

I said to my dad. But my dad wasn’t there. It was his Veterans’s grave marker and a photo of him and his airplane ✈️ in WWII.

I didn’t put up photos of him getting nuked at Alamogordo with his black lens, one mile across the desert 🌵 from a one kiloton atomic shell 🐚 that killed him and everyone in his unit from cancer or Leukemia within the next 5-30 years. No photos from Korea either.

I once held what appeared to be someone’s vertebrae and a shinbone in my bare hands during the war. I don’t remember how they got there, but it was out in the desert. Like Yossarian. That moment had a fatalistic, Camus-like feeling to it. It was precisely then, that I became unstuck in time.

The desert is limitless and eternal and makes everything seem of epic importance and rather at the same time of puny irrelevance.

I never listened, I never paid attention, I never followed orders… OK, I tried to. It just didn’t work for me. I could never stay awake either. I had no military bearing whatever the f@&k that means. I didn’t belong in the military, but every military needs someone like me.

As George Clinton once said: “I ran through hell without getting hot, I went to Vietnam 🇻🇳 without getting shot.”

I’m lucky 🍀. I can’t die. Soldiers in Iraq 🇮🇶 would ask me to ride in their truck (pronounced HMMVW) because I was so lucky. I walked into and out of several minefields in Bosnia without a scratch. I even found a minefield in Iraq near the Iranian 🇮🇷 border. I can’t die because of the ‘Botendaddy No Glory Theory’ I can risk everything and never be harmed because I would have glory and that, my dear readers is cosmically impossible.

Someone questioned the other day whether I was really a Veteran, online of course. I didn’t answer. I served in two Wars and for many now forgotten years and she was right: I’m not a Veteran and I never will be. Veterans are honorable, grizzled, heroic. I’m not honorable, I’m not grizzled or I wouldn’t shave my visage or run 🏃 10k’s and I’m not heroic, I just have unrealistic optimism. I don’t think anything bad can ever actually happen… until it does.

Existential art shot

My father died when I was 12. I always wonder where he went. Not in a real sense, but in an existential sense. In times of trouble I would ask: ‘where are you?’ Crazy people like me need that guidance, but I just had to make it up as I went along. Maybe you do too.

He deserved better. He was loyal and he got nuked for it. I learned enough wisdom from him for a lifetime, But I just couldn’t make use of it.

I got stuck at an airfield near Al-Kut for three days during an endless sandstorm. I lived on a concrete pad next to a T-wall. I spent the time reading 📖 James Fenimore Cooper’s The 🦌 Deerslayer. I was born in Cooperstown, by the way.

I guess I’m a bad guy. It’s Jerry Lewis Syndrome. That’s when everyone else likes something but you actively hate it. I hated Jerry Lewis. I thought he was non-funny like Lucille Ball. But everyone else said he was funny 😂. I hate Brussels Sprouts and people tell me that they taste good. The taste like 💩.

‘What would your friends say?.’ ‘I don’t have any.’ Answered Yossarian.

My readers are wonderful, beautiful sensitive people, they love fashion, running 🏃 , cooking 🍳 mountain climbing but I am absolutely certain that they have no idea at all what this post is about and that’s really OK.

Peace be the Botendaddy


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