Velma Valento/Helen Grayle

In part two we find Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, in his offices in Georgetown...


I had a hunch the size of the fleshy appendage between Julia Child's withers that Ryan wasn't being frank. You don't drink, chase skirt, or torture the son's of Allah with a man for 25 years without knowing something about him. Ryan is a Company man and for him lying is as instinctual as an afternoon wank. Picking up the remote I surfed over to MSNBC for a different perspective. An ad for male enhancement was on. My Celtic DNA means I'm short but thick. The only time I ever hit bottom is with the bar girls in Bangkok. These ads play to the average man's deepest insecurity. If a broad wants big let her find a John Shaft. Otherwise, shut yo mawf.
Abu Garcia! - the most dangerous cell operating outside Mosul today. These bastards make Bin Laden's pawns look like frat boys at a Homecoming toga party. I pressed "talk" on the desk's land line and asked Takiyah to step inside my office.
Takiyah's size 44 double D breasts walked through the door with the rest of her bringing up the rear. "Sweetheart, book a business class seat on the next available commercial flight to Springfield, Missorah," I said without looking away from the plasma tv. "And please forward the 'Abu Garcia' file as an attachment to my personal email addy. I'll read it on the flight out." As she turned away I thought to myself, 'Poor broad, she'll be kicking those puppies around the shower in just a few short years'. MSNBC was confirming that it was Abu Garcia terrorists inside the Bass Pro Shop complex.
I sat there surfing between MSNBC and CNN trying to figure out those people in the Middle East. Any religion that denigrates and treats women the way Islam does needs to be brought into the 21st century. Their hypocrisy is only a symptom of a deeper, darker misogyny that permeates their patriarchy. Here in the West we worship the female form, not try to keep it covered. Islamic feminism calls for women to equally share in the Jihad. The women want explosives with nails strapped under their O Abaya's. What a fucked-up culture! However you feel about W's Crusade, you can't argue they didn't cause it. It may take twenty years but sooner or later our side will prevail.
The cell phone inside my jacket buzzed. I knew it was Carolyn calling to apologize for her behavior this morning.
"Hi, hon," I schmoozed. "Everything okay?"
"Nicky, its all over the tv! I'm scared..."
"Carolyn, you're safe where you are. Take a Xanax and turn-off the news stations."
"Nicky, about this morning..."
"Honey, its perfectly okay. We are entitled to our moods."
"I hate myself sometimes, darling, for being such a bitch."
Carolyn's insecurity has never endeared her to me. My golf trophies on the mantle require less maintenance.
"Listen, babe, Ryan's people need me in on this and I have to fly out to Springfield. I'm going to miss the St. Patrick's dance at the Knight's of Columbus. You'll have to tell Father Fumagalli I won't be able to MC tonight."
I knew what she was thinking. Yes, I had promised we'd attend the dance. She had bought a new little black dress, to hang amongst the other little black dresses in the armoire. "Shock and Awe" is Carolyn's social function plan of attack. With a figure like hers the tailored designer outfits cling to her like the hide on a cypress swamp panther. What I don't understand is how less than a square yard of material costs $500. Anticipating her reaction to my absence tonight I went on the offensive..."Carolyn, the Spring Fling at the country club is just around the corner. We'll knock 'em dead next month."
"Oh yes, Nicky, its just..." her voice trailed off. "Okay, honey, will you promise you'll call me when you get to Springfield?"
"Yes, baby, I'll ring as soon as we hit the tarmac. Bye now."
"I love you, Nicky," she whispered.
"I know you do, honey, thank you." As I closed my cell over I realized I'll have to replace her with a younger woman in another year or two.
"Nick, I arranged your flight for 1 pm out of Ronald Reagan," Takiyah called from reception. "You'll have connections in Atlanta. And Detroit. And at O'Hare. You'll arrive shortly after 6 pm in Springfield."
It's only a 90 minute flight out of D.C. fer Christ's sake," I hollered.
"Nick, I have no control over the airlines."
"I know sweetheart, thank you for reminding me," I shot back.
"You know, Nick, your passive aggressive approach to anything that doesn't go your way is not endearing to any of us," Takiyah responded indignantly.
"Yeah, right...I know, I know," I said sheepishly. She was correct of course. Sarcasm in the hands of the wrong person is never acceptable.

To be continued...

Anyone get the license number of that truck?

(911): "Dispatch. What is your emergency?"

(man's voice): "I...I need...I need help!"

(911): "Yes, sir. What is your emergency?"

(Man): "Oh...my arse...my arse..."

(911): "Sir, I'm having trouble understanding you. You are wimpering, sir."

(Man): "Oh god, it hurts...please help me...I...I've been violated!"

(911): "Sir, what is your location?"

(Man): "I'm on Main Street."

(911): "Sir, are you injured? Please describe your injuries."

(Man): "My arse is sore!"

(911): "Sir, are you bleeding?"

(Man): "I don't know...I think so...I'm not sure!"

(911): "Sir I am preparing to send help. Sir can you describe your attacker?"

(Man): "There were a lot of them..."

(911): "Sir, can you describe them? Were they black or white?"

(Man): "Mostly white, I guess...oh god this hurts...please make it stop..."

(911): "Sir, yes, what were they wearing?"

(Man): "They had on suits and ties, some in wescots...for the love of god..."

(911): "Sir, did they say anything? Did they speak to you?"

(Man): "I heard...that is I think they said...'We got your sub-prime right here!'"

(911): "Yes, sir, I see. Sir, I am dispatching Congress to your location. 535 trained professionals will help you."

(Man): "Oh god! Please, forget I called. Nevermind. Forget it. I can't take another reaming. Please, just forget it!"

(911): "I'm sorry, sir, I can't do that. Once you report a crime has been committed action must be taken."

(911): "Sir...are you there sir?..(to Supervisor: 'He hung up')"

Satirical prophecy

"I don’t have to tell you things are bad, everybody knows things are bad: It’s a depression! Everybody’s out of work, or scared of losing their job; the dollar buys a nickel’s worth; banks are going bust; shop-keepers keep a gun under the counter; punks are running wild in the street; nobody anywhere seems to know what to do and there’s no end to it! We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat. We sit watching our TVs whilst some local newscaster tells us that “today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes” as if that’s the way it’s supposed to be! We know things are bad, worse than bad: they’re crazy! It’s like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don’t go out anymore! We sit in the house and slowly the world we’re living in is getting smaller and all we say is “please, at least leave us alone in our living-rooms - let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won’t say anything! Just leave us alone!” Well I’m not going to leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don’t want you to protest, I don’t want you to riot, I don’t want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn’t know what to tell you to write, I don’t know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street – all I know is that first you’ve got to get mad! You’ve got to say “I’m a human being goddammit! My life has value!” So, I want you to get up now, I want all of you to get up out of your chairs! I want you to get up right now, and go to the window, open it, and stick your head out and yell “I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!"

Paddy Chayefsky, "Network", 1976

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Following his latest prestidigitation of derring-do by hanging upside down bat-like a full two meters above the ground for sixty hours, self promoter/illusionist/and all around wanker David Blaine has announced his intention to defy civil authorities and wander the streets of Detroit's Harper Avenue area for 24 hours. Blaine, the idol of 12-year old boys who randomly describe him as "wicked cool", says despite warnings from Detroit police he will roam the 'hood unarmed and without body armour. "We don't even go there", Sergeant Kummo Vincetti of the Detroit Metropolitan Police stated. "It's a war zone and unless you be buyin' rock or sellin' yo ass you have no bidness bein' there". A spokesman for Blaine says they are recruiting a film crew to follow Blaine but so far no one has applied for the positions of camera person or sound engineer. Blaine, who is in training to practice urinating and defecating in alleys and doorways feels he can safely survive the mean streets by using his infectious smile to ward off gang bangers. His special will air sometime next spring on FOX if a production crew can be found.
In other news, the current Congress is working feverishly to complete the Socialisation of the entire financial system begun by the Bush administration. In 1989 as the Berlin Wall came crashing down those of us at Uni struggled to keep our heads up. Our denial included statements such as, "Marxism did not fail the Soviet people. The Soviet people failed Marxism." Apparently laissez faire Capitalism has failed the American people and the American people are going to pay for the excesses of its promoters. They get golden parachutes. The rest of us get golden showers. Trickle down, indeed. Another French expression comes to mind when I watch CNN interview the heads of AIG, Lehman Bros., et al - "Mdme. Guillotine". Bring your yarn and needles down to the Battery for the party. Those of you in the front rows dig out the plastic sheets you used in the '80's for a Gallagher performance to protect your clothes.

A rat always knows when he's in with weasels

Having rural roots my experiences and knowledge of domestic and feral creatures is extensive. Husbandry is as American as genocide and slavery. Folk hero Daniel Boone  - frontiersman, Indian fighter and sociopath - enjoyed digging wolf cubs out of their dens each spring and skinning them alive for sport. Serial killers Jeffery Dahmer and Ted Bundy had childhood histories of animal cruelty.
The myth of the bucolic family farm has been replaced with the realities of Agribusiness and huge factory farms. The milk and eggs, the beef and pork, or the chicken in the local shops all come from these corporate giants. I enjoy hearing marketing slogans such as "free range" and "organically grown". Happy and healthy. Minimising the slaughtering and butchering process eases the consumer's conscience.
Working on a kill-floor many years ago, I helped process two hundred hogs a day shipped in a tractor trailer from the Corn Belt. Old boars mostly; their use as breeding stock over. This fresh pork went to the City. The stench of feces, blood, and entrails filled our nostrils for 12 hours a day. Some workers drank, some used cannabis, some used both to de-sensitise from the unpleasantness of death that surrounded us. Violence was an everyday occurrence. Knife fights were common. The psychological strain of being around death everyday is not what modern human beings have been socialised into.
I have killed animals. I have killed to eat. Killed to buy drugs and alcohol. Killed to buy petrol for the car. I struggle with the guilt and shame I carry concerning my complicity in the fur trade. I attempt to block the memories of the clubbing to death of wild animals for their pelts. Blocking does no good. The images are here scarring my psyche. I never enjoyed killing any animal and I think that is what separates me from the aforementioned Boone's, Dahmer's, and Bundy's.
I filed an application at the local SPCA the other day. I am looking for a canine companion. The process involves a background check into my financial status, my residence appropriateness, and calling my cat's vet to find out if I bring her in regularly for check-ups. I was at the SPCA facility during lunch time. One of the workers was on her way out to pick up KFC takeaway.
"Bon appetit," I smiled to myself as I went out the door, "Enjoy those humanely raised and processed poultry sections".

Your mission Mr. Phelps, should you chose to accept it....

Meeting recently at a popular local coffee house, Regular Beans/Regular BM's, my monthly bookclub de-constructed Dr. Seuss' "The Cat In the Hat", our book-of-the-month selection. The discussion became heated as several Revisionists attempted to present this post-modern children's classic as an examination of Neo-Freudian psychoanalytic theory. I interjected in my best Strother Martin impression that I considered the Cat to be 'one mean som-a-bitch'. Sitting there I was reminded of what Melville is rumoured to have slurred when asked about "Moby Dick". 'Hell of a fish tale!', he had hiccupped as he staggered back to his cubicle at the Patent Office.

Having not read Freud since the summer between grades 4 and 5 , when "Interpretation of Dreams" was on the mandatory summer reading list, I was loathe to join the debate. Come to think of it I was in my Latent Stage at that time and may have been out skateboarding or playing ball that summer of 1967. (That was not me in the back row of the balcony of the cinema having a wank at the image of Raquel Welch in a fur bikini in the film, One Million Years BC) If I had read "Dreams" I don't remember. It occurs to me now the genius of Freud lay in his recognition of the "unconscious".

Viennese woman began to come to his home with various unexplained physical ailments. Paralysis being the most common. Under hypnosis these women told of the incestuous abuse they had experienced from their fathers, brothers, uncles. Freud's initial reaction was disgust and disbelief. He could not wrap his Victorian morality around what his patients were telling him. Even today, incest remains one of those dirty little family secrets. The damage it has caused untold millions of adults who live with the unresolved conflicts sexual abuse causes is monumental. This trauma colours and taints relationships. No child who has experienced being victimized by a relative lives as an healthy adult without proper mental health care.

The idea of the "unconscious" is Freud's greatest contribution. It is perhaps one of the greatest concepts to emerge from the 19th century. A professor of mine had a favourite exercise for lecture on this topic. He would place his hand in his trouser's pocket and rattle what was there. He would ask, "What's in my hand?" We students would call out answers. He would shake his head and withdraw his keys. He would then ask, "Where are my keys now?" Again, we would say various innane things and he would smile and say "They are in my un-pocket". Like cyberspace, the unconscious exists but we can't see it or touch it. It dictates what we do, what we think. What we aren't conscious of about ourselves; our actions and reactions, is what causes us so much distress.

My bookclub's selection for next month is Maurice Sendak's, "Where The Wild Things Are". I've enough anger of my own these days I really don't need to read about someone elses. I may skip the next get together.

Freedom is the privilege to starve beneath the Brooklyn Bridge

Aside from Law enforcement the lowest form of employment is working as a temp. Like a cop no one wants a temp around until they need you. And when you show up at your assignment you're treated as if you've just landed at Kalaupapa. Full-timers believe you're taking bread from them, supervisors recoil at the thought of training yet another person who may or may not show up for the next shift, management struggles with mountains of paperwork. Temps even disdain one another; the competition is fierce at the job site as workers vie for attention and recognition. The only thing worse than working is looking for work. Temp agencies know this and go to great lengths to get workers in their data banks.
Temp agents are skillful liars. They promise potential employees incentives such as health insurance, choice of assignments, and performance bonuses. The health insurance they offer is expensive and covers almost nothing. Your choice of assignments generally implies, "Take this position or we won't be calling again, evah". Performance bonuses get eaten up in taxes. If you have been collecting state employment benefits for being out of work you can lose those benefits if you are released from an assignment. The temp agency simply tells the state employment office you were sacked. Maybe being a cop is a step above being a temp. At least as a cop one can legitimately chase someone down, beat them, and steal their drugs and cash.
Job sites vary. Depending on your skills and education you have a choice of light production, office work, or labourer. All for a dollar above the minimum wage. With three university degrees I was assigned to light production, second shift. The temp agency assured me that this was a "temp to hire position". When I inquired about permanent full-time employment I was told the company has no plans to hire new workers. Not that I want to work for this faceless multi-national, natural resource wasting corporation. The only pride I take in my work is the knowledge I have that everything in life is temporary.
Things could be worse for me on the employment front. I could be harvesting produce in unsanitary working conditions spreading e coli and salmonella. I could be teaching in the public school system suburban white middle class children whose sole ambitions in life are to be inner-city African American hip-hop "artists". Or, perhaps I could take the civil service exam for law enforcement officer. "Here's your car, your pepper spray, and your firearm, Officer Bill. Now go out there and make the criminal justice system work for you."

The Thirteenth Floor

Formally a frequent traveler I always stayed at the same low-rent hotel on Desolation Row. It is about a dozen steps from the airport. I always booked the same room. The 13th floor has a 24-hour party going on. Mostly musician types attend playing out their latest dramas in front of one another; seeking acceptance for their insecurities, coming and going at the speed of light. The register at the front desk is full of pseudonyms and esoteric signatures. No one wants anyone on the outside to know they attend the party. The only thing genuine about the guests is their inability to reflect one another's moods.
A supporting cast in this theatre of the absurd features a range of performers whose credits read like a Who's Who of the DSM IV-TR. The best of the lot have achieved their accolades not for their supporting roles but as antagonists and anti-heroes. Sincerity is measured out with an eyedropper. Roles are exchanged, credits confused, everyone talks at once. There is a great deal of noise but not a sound is heard. A Pantomime occurs within scripted text. A circle in Dante's taxonomy would closely resemble the party on the 13th floor.
Nothing of consequence ever happens. Stream of consciousness flows much like the Sirocco winds from across the Sahara. Each cast member has their role to play and if someone's line is stepped on the group collectively descends on the usurper and they are denounced. To be expelled from the party is a great shame for a performer. The party goes on, often in whispers. Love, Hate, Death, Avarice, Gluttony go unchecked. The play is over but the performances never cease. The Playbill promises around the clock action.
I won't be traveling to Desolation Row any time soon. I have a few cans of soup, cigarettes, a lighter, a rubber sheet, and a pail to vomit in to. With the dawn comes a new day bright with the promise of a thousand tomorrows; each unique but with a memory of what might have been.