The Eternal War Of Struggle & Violence On Harrison’s Farm: Part 1
Sometimes, they win.
Sometimes, I win.
But the eternal war continues, always.
I didn’t completely understand all the ramifications of what it is to be a homeowner when I bought Harrison’s Farm. I was a dumb city guy moving to the country. My entire life some sort of authority was a phone call away to be the middleman between all of my casa’s little problems and me.
If Air Force One fell from the sky and smashed through the roof of my top floor apartment, it wasn’t my problem. A phone call with some persuasive words later and everything would be resolved. Plus I could probably get on CNN and make very stupid jokes into the camera before getting cut off and hauled away. Everyone wins.
But for that kind of security, you have to pay an assload of money every month to be an economic slave in a cheap urban box. You have to live amongst insane people. You can’t scream at the top of your lungs at three in the morning when you lose the Super Bowl game in Madden. Not without the fucking police showing up. And let me tell you from personal experience, the men in blue generally don’t understand the emotional highs and lows of digital football.
City life had also completely lost its charm for me. In my youth, I got off on the hell rising wild energy of the night. It called me like the jungle calls the tiger.
From humorously working my way into college parties as a kid to being a player in the epicenter of the bullshit factory. I wanted action. I wanted spiritual, chemical, intellectual, personal, all of the above highs. I wanted righteous violence. I wanted victories over evil in the streets. I wanted to see it all.
I was a wild dangerous misunderstood Indian in an unnamed unrecognized unspoken of tribe of fellow members of this faith comprised of all colors and kinds. Wandering the streets wired on whatever popular kick of the moment to conquer anything and everything in our vantage.
I got mine and a little more in my 20s.
But after a decade of chasing the night, I had watched my generation lose its fucking mind. Right in front of my eyes, night by night, right there on the streets. I watched my tribe devoured by terrified lunacy. I watched people sexually exploit the young and then try to make their careers on how “rape culture” is bad. I watched people use their genitalia as business cards and then scream about sexual discrimination. I watched people unjustly use the ugliest slurs in society as introductions in their resumes. I watched sanity and the ability to produce disappear. I watched the people screaming and accusing the loudest in church about sin were the ones who were committing all of the sins. I watched my generation decide to destroy itself.
LAST NIGHT WAS WILD
As I was approaching 30, that joyous revelation combined with becoming conscious of how evil taxes and politics are in large American cities. I decided I didn’t want any part of it. It really was all just an unproductive but beautifully fun destructive waste of time.
I realized unless you’re beautiful or you’re already wealthy, there really isn’t much economic opportunity to advance beyond where you came from in these places. They're also rife with corruption and con artists who are a plague on the true disadvantaged. Which if you have an IQ larger than your shoe size enabling you to see these things tends to make one completely mental over time. Leading to countless lost lives wasted on chemical delusion and cognitive dissonance.
Ask yourself, why is there no homeless or graffiti or garbage in wealthy neighborhoods in large American cities? Let me know what you come up with in the comments. This is something I struggle with every day and want insight on.
From my experience, modern American cities are just crabs in a bucket mental asylum plantations.
How does one achieve what only 27% of people aged 25–34 accomplish?
After spending a tremendous amount of time reading about real estate investment and economic trends in my region. I became completely obsessed. I had to buy a farm. I had a buy a farm now. This is the one thing in my entire life I could not fuck around on. I had to own property yesterday and holy fuck, it’s today. God help anyone or anything who stood in my way because I am a force of fucking unrelenting emotionless nature on this. I’m a rarely serious teddy bear in real life. Tell me a funny story and I will be putty in your hands. But on this one thing in my entire life, it felt like God touched me and I was going through any and every brick wall head first to make this happen.
Unfortunately, my economic and work history were something of a joke to all professional people. It seemed that way because once they looked at it, they seemed to have a smirk in their eyes forever afterward when they looked at me. Like they had just seen something hilarious and unbelievable.
Fortunately, the American economic system is largely a complete scam and if you are studious enough, there’s a legal way to beat everything. Hear me now as someone who is probably on the spectrum and spends the majority of their time reading about stuff like this. There is a backdoor to everything and most of the time, it’s legal.
In a rather comical series of events that will probably be the subject of future material. I found myself with keys to a beautiful farm out in the woods.
Green Acres is the place to be! Farm living is the life for me!
Going from a completely hectic nightly city scene where the streets were alive and constantly moving at all hours. Where sirens and danger permeated your every sense. To complete silence and serenity boggled my mind in a way I can only describe as deprogramming from brainwashing. For weeks, I could not sleep without sirens and helicopters. I still heard a lot of gunshots but none of them were being fired in anger. Just harmless gun enthusiasts and hunters enjoying their hobbies. It was positively uncomfortable with this much peace and quiet. The only threat of home invasion I faced was when baby deer would wander into my yard to get at my apple trees. At least that’s what I thought at first…
When I dealt with people in the rural cities, I avoided eye contact initially thinking they would take it as aggression. That was my operating software in the big cities. I was very uncomfortable that people I encountered in stores and shops strewn throughout the woods seemed genuinely interested in their customers and wanted to conversate with them. There was a weird camaraderie out here that was completely foreign to me.
The first thing I noticed in my new digs was the local hardware store has a ladies’ night on Thursday… It sounds ridiculous until you go and see those ladies throw down on cases of Wild Turkey.
Also, it didn’t take long to notice that virtually every male from walking age to pensioner age was wearing some form of camouflage on their body. I am not exaggerating. Every male out here in the rural parts of the country seem to wear some variation of a camo hat, camo pants, camo shirt, or just some form of camouflage on them. The outwardly seemingly crazier ones seem to be covered head to toe in it.
Are they preparing for some intense war no one sent me the memo about? Or is this some deep poetic message about how Rural, America has been completely forgotten by the rest of the country and the camouflage is expressing their inner-torment of being invisible in society?
I want to make it very clear that all of these men are incredibly nice and seemingly straight up honorable people. I want to make that clear not just because it is true but because I wish to wake up without bloody deer heads strewn all over my property. Even the craziest looking ones are pleasant if you accidentally bump into them at the local grocery store. But as a naive outsider, you can’t help feeling all of these men wearing camouflage as a fashion statement out here are preparing for something…
I think that point was intensified to its peak in my mind at my little rural town’s Christmas Parade. I watched about 200 kids in the local schools’ military program stroll by in perfect military formation all rocking M-14 military assault rifles. And I’m not some candy ass liberal, I know what an M-14 is. 7.62mm assault rifle that entered service in the 1950s as the successor to the M-1 Garand. One of the most bad ass military assault rifles ever made. But I have never seen 200 kids in perfect precision marching down the main street of an American town all wielding this classic American assault rifle before.
That was a unique thought-provoking sight for a bohemian urbanite such as myself. Don’t worry Santa Claus. If Chinese paratroopers invade this Christmas Parade, Mrs. Johnson’s freshman class is loaded with Full Metal Jackets and will dispel this red menace in short order.
Don’t fuck with us, Kim Jung-Un. 15-year old Wendy Chavez from Rural, America can disassemble and reassemble assault rifles blindfolded. And she has a cap for that fat Best Korean ass bulls-eyed at 1,000 yards if you decide to flex.
But this visual did give weight to the Japanese assertion before World War Two that the United States will never be militarily invaded because there would be a rifle behind every blade of grass. And after that parade, I can’t say they’re wrong. Mrs. Johnson’s freshman class looked like Red Dawn in live action right before my eyes.
For the record, I wholeheartedly support arming and military training for the children of the rural areas of America that have been most fucked over by economic shenanigans.
It can only lead to positive things.
Harrison Made It.
In this alien rural landscape deep in the trees. Surrounded by camouflague clad men and assault rifle armed children. Secluded from everyone except those looking for it was Harrison’s Farm. A beautiful large property with fruit trees, grazing grass, and thick woods right off the waters of the Pacific. Surrounded by a large fence with a huge metal gate as the only way in and out on a hidden hard to find road. Baby deer and baby ducks would come up to greet you when you arrived because they were too young to be scared. An oasis of calm in a world of madness. Harrison’s Farm was where you could scream righteous anger at God when she decided to fuck you over in the fourth quarter of Madden at 3 AM.
This was my new home.