C. Raymond Martin

C. Raymond Martin

Aspiring script/book/graphic novel writer and avid NFL fan. Likes rainy days and walks on the beach but my biggest turn on? Honesty.

How does it work?
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published about a year ago
    All Your Heroes Are Dead

    All Your Heroes Are Dead

    "Man, in his arrogance, thinks himself a great work. Worthy of the interposition of a deity..."
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published 2 years ago
    The Price of Toxic Masculinity

    The Price of Toxic Masculinity

    So recently, Gillette released an ad criticising negative behaviour exhibited by men and most of the internet proceeded to lose its collective shit. I'm sure a lot of people saw straight through it for what it was; a business making a corny attempt at pandering to social issues of the time whilst hawking their product (Hello? Pepsi?) but its underlying message is simply too hard to ignore. Essentially, the ad calls on men to be better, to call out toxic behaviour like bullying and sexism, and that's something I can get on board with. However, there are those who see this as a weakness. Reflection and self-improvement are profound transitional periods and are traits of strong, intelligent people. Having empathy for others is not a weakness. Excising bitterness and resentment is not a weakness but the removal of weakness.
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published 2 years ago
    There Is No Great Replacement

    There Is No Great Replacement

    Alright. So, this will be my third piece (second concerning a conspiracy theory) and honestly, this one feels like I'm putting my own head in a noose, like I'm about to catch all kinds of shit for this one—and yet I'm compelled to continue. So, let's do this. Let's nip this in the bud. Let's talk about "white genocide."
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published 2 years ago
    Them Furious Days

    Them Furious Days

    At 3:39 AM of November 28, 2018, Harry Leslie Smith died. He was 95.He spent his twilight years in turning to writing and championing public services such as the NHS to see that the generations of his children and his grandchildren wouldn't live in the same squalid conditions that he had. Harry was born in 1923, so coming of age into the Great Depression, he has spoken at length of the horrors of pauper's pits and workhouses, horrors that would befall his own family. He started his first job at the age of 10, delivering coal. Harry referred to British life at this point a "barbarous time."
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published 2 years ago
    Bill Hicks Is Not Alex Jones

    Bill Hicks Is Not Alex Jones

    I'm a big fan of Bill Hicks. I have read two of his biographies, sat through three documentaries, and watched his specials so many times to the point that I can recite chunks of his material—usually in unwelcome social situations. His message of challenging mediocrity wherever it lies is something that resonates with me, even now. So I know Hicks had something of a penchant for conspiracy theories, particularly regarding the assassination of JFK and the Waco siege, though there's another theory that hits close to home and this one involves the man himself.Now, I don't buy into a lot of conspiracy theories, this one included. I've given some theories a chance and found most don't stand up to scrutiny. I've dismissed most as being absurd and left its believers to their own devices in the darkest corners of the internet. Believe what you want to believe, I say. But this theory pisses me off a little bit and it's a theory that believes that Hicks faked his cancer diagnosis, "died," and reinvented himself as Alex Jones. Chew on that for a second.
  • C. Raymond Martin
    Published 2 years ago
    The Monolith

    The Monolith

    As far back as memory will afford me, I know only two things; the Monolith and that I am compelled to climb it. A tower of cold black obsidian-like night bereft of pale moonlight. Spanning acres, puncturing the grey rain clouds above and emerging from dark, vast waters below. Waters that ebbed and crashed and roared with shocks of white sea spray defining each wave and ever-rising with incessant downpour. The Monolith is both my port in a storm and a prison. My mausoleum.