Ken Socrates: Insane

By Gorman Moloko

Along with the small, boorish readership of The Ken Socrates Blog, we here at the KSWNO have been witness, in recent weeks, to the slow, painful mental deterioration of it's author by staggeringly bizarre and awkwardly painful increments. Each entry published by the former reasonably well respected (if never respectable) journalistic rogue, who remains the figurehead of this very website and the institution it represents, seems to be even stranger and more pathetic than the previous as we appear to be in the process of watching a human mind diassemble into jagged fragments before our very eyes.

As you all know, Ken has been spending the past few months at his Northeast Compound in Hooksett, New Hamphire, purportedly in retreat from a world gone mad as he writes his long dreaded thirteenth novel and ponders his role in the future of this organization and, dare we say, the human race as a whole.

Of course, spending that much time alone behind closed doors is never great for the psyche as many of us well know. My own self-induced seclusion during the famous Babylon 5 marathon of '02 is well documented in my novella, The Vorlons Live Under My Bed. With Ken, the isolation induced dementia seems to be no measure of degrees worse. He has apparently closed his doors to all visitors, including various security personell and staff members. Communication with us here at the office is near negligible, consisting of the odd memo scribbled on a scrap of toilet paper or a ragged page torn out of a Power Rangers coloring book. The last one read as follows.

A Poem For Andrew

I watched you in Class,
Kicking Rob Lowe's ass.
In Pretty In Pink,
You didn't at all stink.
In Less Than Zero,
You were my hero.

Then there was Bernie's.
Then there was Bernie's.

Lately, his published writings are just as disjointed, incomprehensible and garbled. The topics seem chosen at random, disconnected and tangential, as one might expect from a mind gone horribly askew. Examples abound.

In The Horror, Ken describes his deepening agoraphobia, depression and the accompanying, sick fascination with modern European Horror Films, likely for their undoubted willingness to show full frontal nudity along with gargantuan quantities of gore.


Not long after that, we see an angry diatribe in The Idiot Parade, where he seems to portray himself as being above much of the everyday moronic bumblings of the common peasants of the world, all the while wallowing in the same bitterness and frustration that makes them so pitiful to we, the intellectual elite who know better.


Hunted By Freaks continues the downward spiral as we see paranoia taking a firm, vice-like hold on the man's already fragile mind. He's convinced something or someone is out to get him and he trusts no one. Lack of sleep, drug abuse and a diet of cold canned goods are pushing him ever closer to the edge.


Then there's this one, entitled Crabs & Lobsters, which we freely invite all of our readers to attempt to garner even the barest crumb of sense from. Good luck.


Most recently, in Plastered, Ken gives us an even more graphic portrayal of his plight as he reveals his own role in the recent nationally reported violent altercation at a children's plaster painting venue during which five people were seriously injured, one of whom still remains in a coma.