Monday, August 25, 2025
Online Dating Site Profile
I enjoy women who can banter and parry in conversation. A woman who can trade burns without feeling criticisied. A dry wit and a drier martini are a perfect combination. I am interested in women over forty and will not respond to anyone who is younger. Do not send pictures of your pets. I have pets, I know what a dog or a cat looks like. I am not interested in women who are separated. I've been down that road and will not travel it again. Single, divorced, or widowed only please. Pls no Christians. I am an Agnostic and am not interested in your guilt or your salvation. I enjoy Paegans and Wicca types. If you ride a motorcycle, have lots of tattoes, or like others who do I am not interested. I do not enjoy Nascar, Monster trucks, halter tops, or Daisy Dukes. Beer is for people who's objective is too be intoxicated. Drama queens pls look elsewhere. If you like country music I will not call you. If you like long walks along the beach, watching sunsets, do that with your dog. If you drive a car that is red, I am not interested. Don't tell me you like camping. No one over the age of 40 enjoys sleeping on the ground. If you have never lived outside your home town pls do not respond. If you don't know who the B52's, The Ramones, Iggy Pop, Morphine, or Patti Smith are then we have nothing in common musically. If you can get around the City using the subway you score points. If you read Cosmo you lose points. If your toys are larger than I am it is not issue as long as you know how to use them safely. Being rushed by Emergency services to hospital with a phallus lodged in my bleeding rectum is not the perfect ending to a romantic evening. I am not interested in fathering children. I have taken measures to assure that never happens. If you hunt, sport shoot, or own firearms I recognise your Constitutional rights however I can honestly say you're an accident waiting to happen. If you are having correspondence with incarcerated felons I am not interested in meeting you. If you watch Jerry, Maury, or Montel I am apt to wonder why you aren't working, taking a class, or otherwise being productive.
Ten Years Gone
Pole vaulting off the futon after a restful night's sleep I waddled to the bathroom this morning. On returning I tuned tele to the local news to catch the weather forecast and traffic notices. I seldom pay attention to the middle-aged, greying patriarch and the bubblely twenty-something blond who are the co-anchors of Clear Channel, Anywhere, USA. Their banter however this morning hit me hard. A local double-murder being reported made me sit up and take notice. A 27 year-old man had walked into the local Sheriff's office and confessed to shooting, dismembering, and disposing of his parents in the family's septic tank.
I was reminded of my most recent sesssion with my tdoc. In that session I waltzed around my homocidal fantasies. Prefacing my remarks I explained how, as a primate, I am entitled to my homocidal flights of fancy. Rationalising is one of my strengths. My adeptness knows no limits. Being careful to couch all remarks so as to not alarm the tdoc I explained how when I am angry I return to the trauma I experienced 10 yrs years ago. Wishing to avenge the violence and injustices perpetrated upon me I told the tdoc I wanted the fuckers dead.
After assuring me that any chart notations concerning my fantasies would be minimal and that she is not going to report me to the authorities as a person of interest, my tdoc began to explain the research Marcia Linehan and her associates conducted with victims of trauma, including Holocaust survivors. The researchers had asked themselves, "Why is it that some persons get beyond a trauma and go on to live productive lives while others get 'stuck' and do not grow." The answer, Linehan reported, was what she called "Rational Acceptance". Trauma victims who recognise that there are injustices forced upon human beings sometimes have no resolution but life goes on. Healthy surviviors don't forgive and forget, they move on.
The murderer of his parents had experienced a severe trauma years earlier. It is being reported that family members said he had been involved in a pub fight some years ago and had been beaten so badly he had nearly died. They reported he "never got over it". I can't help but wonder if he had sought mental health services and why this tragedy had to occur when it was so easily preventable.
I am still intellectualising the Linehan concepts. When ready I will accept graciously and gratefully the notion that I am not a "bad" person and that I can and will put the past where it belongs. Time to move on.
I was reminded of my most recent sesssion with my tdoc. In that session I waltzed around my homocidal fantasies. Prefacing my remarks I explained how, as a primate, I am entitled to my homocidal flights of fancy. Rationalising is one of my strengths. My adeptness knows no limits. Being careful to couch all remarks so as to not alarm the tdoc I explained how when I am angry I return to the trauma I experienced 10 yrs years ago. Wishing to avenge the violence and injustices perpetrated upon me I told the tdoc I wanted the fuckers dead.
After assuring me that any chart notations concerning my fantasies would be minimal and that she is not going to report me to the authorities as a person of interest, my tdoc began to explain the research Marcia Linehan and her associates conducted with victims of trauma, including Holocaust survivors. The researchers had asked themselves, "Why is it that some persons get beyond a trauma and go on to live productive lives while others get 'stuck' and do not grow." The answer, Linehan reported, was what she called "Rational Acceptance". Trauma victims who recognise that there are injustices forced upon human beings sometimes have no resolution but life goes on. Healthy surviviors don't forgive and forget, they move on.
The murderer of his parents had experienced a severe trauma years earlier. It is being reported that family members said he had been involved in a pub fight some years ago and had been beaten so badly he had nearly died. They reported he "never got over it". I can't help but wonder if he had sought mental health services and why this tragedy had to occur when it was so easily preventable.
I am still intellectualising the Linehan concepts. When ready I will accept graciously and gratefully the notion that I am not a "bad" person and that I can and will put the past where it belongs. Time to move on.
July 25
On this date in history, 1965, Bob Dylan went electric
Artist:
Bob Dylan
Album:
Highway 61 Revisited
When you're lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Eastertime too
and your gravity fails and negativity don't pull you through
Don't put on any airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there and they really make a mess out of you
Now if you see Saint Annie please tell her thanks a lot
I cannot move, my fingers are all in a knot
I don't have the strength to get up and take another shot
and my best friend my doctor won't even say what it is I've got
Sweet Melinda, the peasants call her the goddess of gloom
She speaks good English and she invites you up into her room
and you're so kind and careful not to go to her too soon
and she takes your voice and leaves you howling at the moon
Up on housing project hill it's either fortune or fame
You must pick one or the other though neither of them are to be what they claim
If you're lookin to get silly you better go back to from where you came
because the cops don't need you and man they expect the same
Now all the authorities they just stand around and boast
how they blackmailed the sergeant at arms into leaving his post
and picking up Angel who just arrived here from the coast
who looked so fine at first but left looking just like a ghost
Now I started out on burgandy but soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they'd stand behind me when the game got rough
but the joke was on me there was nobody even there to bluff
I'm going back to New York City I do believe I've had enough
Artist:
Bob Dylan
Album:
Highway 61 Revisited
When you're lost in the rain in Juarez and it's Eastertime too
and your gravity fails and negativity don't pull you through
Don't put on any airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They got some hungry women there and they really make a mess out of you
Now if you see Saint Annie please tell her thanks a lot
I cannot move, my fingers are all in a knot
I don't have the strength to get up and take another shot
and my best friend my doctor won't even say what it is I've got
Sweet Melinda, the peasants call her the goddess of gloom
She speaks good English and she invites you up into her room
and you're so kind and careful not to go to her too soon
and she takes your voice and leaves you howling at the moon
Up on housing project hill it's either fortune or fame
You must pick one or the other though neither of them are to be what they claim
If you're lookin to get silly you better go back to from where you came
because the cops don't need you and man they expect the same
Now all the authorities they just stand around and boast
how they blackmailed the sergeant at arms into leaving his post
and picking up Angel who just arrived here from the coast
who looked so fine at first but left looking just like a ghost
Now I started out on burgandy but soon hit the harder stuff
Everybody said they'd stand behind me when the game got rough
but the joke was on me there was nobody even there to bluff
I'm going back to New York City I do believe I've had enough
Brotberuf
Unwinding from the psychic foetal position I have been in recently I am reminded of Kafka's observation concerning rejection : "Anyone who cannot come to terms with his life while he is alive needs one hand to ward off a little his despair over his fate... but with his other hand he can note down what he sees among the ruins." I am keyboarding using my right hand this morning.
My employers are demanding of our production teams higher quotas for each shift. There is a great demand world-wide for the widgets we produce. Management had previously eliminated one entire production line and now realises they can't meet customer demand with the remaining lines. Hence, workers are being pushed to their limits physically and mentally. Morale is low. Rumours circulate about the operation moving overseas because of cheaper labour costs.
I operate the machine that is the linchpin of the production line for a particular in-demand widget. It is the policy of management that this machine be run 24-hours a day a minimum of 6 days a week. No preventative maintenance is performed on any machine in the plant. Management's policy is until a machine fails it is to remain online. Try driving your automobile without regular oil changes and see how long the engine lasts.
The machine I operate began to fail. It was 3 weeks before enough emails were exchanged between the Techs, the Engineers and Management until any maintenance was performed. The loss in production was for one entire shift while adjustments were made. The machine is still not functioning properly. The plant has three such machines. One that is on the production line, one that they took out of the warehouse to rob for parts, and one held in reserve in the warehouse in case the first unit needs replacing. I asked around among persons I felt were trustworthy about who I could approach with an idea I was working on. My question to my peers was, "Who can I go to with an idea who is honourable and will credit me if I suggest it?" The answer I got was,"Do not go to your Supervisors or a Tech because they will steal your idea and present it as their own. We know from experience this is what happens." I was told to go to one specific Engineer who is honest and honourable. I asked this man if I could speak to him the following day for five minutes. He was very cordial with me and we arranged to meet.
I pitched my idea to the Engineer, explained the reasoning behind it and told him that production could be doubled if the third machine was pulled from the warehouse and fabricated into a self-contained mobile unit where it could be wheeled onto any production line or set-up immediately in place if the primary unit should fail. I humbly confessed to him I was not an engineer or an expert in production. I did however explain to him my thoughts on how to build the mobile unit. The man listened intently to me keeping direct eye contact. The man is obviously extremely intelligent and I could not read him. He did not smile, did not frown, did not interrupt. His eyes were directly on mine the entire time. I finished my pitch and he said he would take it to the Boss. That was it. I thanked him, shook his hand and he walked away.
That night I shared with a bloke I trust my idea. He looked away for a moment, looked back at me and asked, "Why don't They think of these things?" I replied sardonically, "I think its because they've been here too long and no one wants to make waves. Things like this have to come from nobody's like me because we have nothing to lose". He agreed.
My employers are demanding of our production teams higher quotas for each shift. There is a great demand world-wide for the widgets we produce. Management had previously eliminated one entire production line and now realises they can't meet customer demand with the remaining lines. Hence, workers are being pushed to their limits physically and mentally. Morale is low. Rumours circulate about the operation moving overseas because of cheaper labour costs.
I operate the machine that is the linchpin of the production line for a particular in-demand widget. It is the policy of management that this machine be run 24-hours a day a minimum of 6 days a week. No preventative maintenance is performed on any machine in the plant. Management's policy is until a machine fails it is to remain online. Try driving your automobile without regular oil changes and see how long the engine lasts.
The machine I operate began to fail. It was 3 weeks before enough emails were exchanged between the Techs, the Engineers and Management until any maintenance was performed. The loss in production was for one entire shift while adjustments were made. The machine is still not functioning properly. The plant has three such machines. One that is on the production line, one that they took out of the warehouse to rob for parts, and one held in reserve in the warehouse in case the first unit needs replacing. I asked around among persons I felt were trustworthy about who I could approach with an idea I was working on. My question to my peers was, "Who can I go to with an idea who is honourable and will credit me if I suggest it?" The answer I got was,"Do not go to your Supervisors or a Tech because they will steal your idea and present it as their own. We know from experience this is what happens." I was told to go to one specific Engineer who is honest and honourable. I asked this man if I could speak to him the following day for five minutes. He was very cordial with me and we arranged to meet.
I pitched my idea to the Engineer, explained the reasoning behind it and told him that production could be doubled if the third machine was pulled from the warehouse and fabricated into a self-contained mobile unit where it could be wheeled onto any production line or set-up immediately in place if the primary unit should fail. I humbly confessed to him I was not an engineer or an expert in production. I did however explain to him my thoughts on how to build the mobile unit. The man listened intently to me keeping direct eye contact. The man is obviously extremely intelligent and I could not read him. He did not smile, did not frown, did not interrupt. His eyes were directly on mine the entire time. I finished my pitch and he said he would take it to the Boss. That was it. I thanked him, shook his hand and he walked away.
That night I shared with a bloke I trust my idea. He looked away for a moment, looked back at me and asked, "Why don't They think of these things?" I replied sardonically, "I think its because they've been here too long and no one wants to make waves. Things like this have to come from nobody's like me because we have nothing to lose". He agreed.
12 August, 30 BCE
A gentle breeze blowing in from the northwest caused a ripple on the silt-filled waters of the Delta. To the east the rising smoke from her lover's burning ships blended with the low hanging clouds. Cleo's swarthy hand draped over the port side of the barge was indistinguishable from the coffee coloured water. The Queen of Kings rested on the Persian rug that years before had been her introduction to the Roman world. Pillows made of the finest silks from the East propped her up. On her right sat a lidded reed basket of figs, their sickly sweet perfume mingled with the musky odor of death.
On shore Marc waved to her, his bronze breast plate lay at his feet of little use to him now. Weak from his wounds, Marc's voice no more than a whisper, he called to her. She could not hear him. Or she chose not to hear him. Either way, he was of no use to her now. Alone now except for the Eunuch at the helm they sailed south, away from Alexandria. At the age of 30, Cleo feeling her zenith had waned, her fate she reflected had been sealed. Her mood of despair was not a stranger to her. Many times she had faced ruin only to rebound with cunning and guile. Her intrigues and manipulations had allowed her to survive. She had no regrets. She felt no remorse. Satisfied that she had faced life's challenges she lifted the lid of the basket and reached inside.
She did not feel the first strike from the vipers. The second strike higher on her arm caused her to wince. She withdrew her arm from the basket and examined the four pin sized marks. Her royal blood oozed from the wounds. She marvelled at the colour and was reminded of the tapestries hanging in the Temple of Isis. Cleo lay back on her pillows, smiling. Drifting down her river she was home.
On shore Marc waved to her, his bronze breast plate lay at his feet of little use to him now. Weak from his wounds, Marc's voice no more than a whisper, he called to her. She could not hear him. Or she chose not to hear him. Either way, he was of no use to her now. Alone now except for the Eunuch at the helm they sailed south, away from Alexandria. At the age of 30, Cleo feeling her zenith had waned, her fate she reflected had been sealed. Her mood of despair was not a stranger to her. Many times she had faced ruin only to rebound with cunning and guile. Her intrigues and manipulations had allowed her to survive. She had no regrets. She felt no remorse. Satisfied that she had faced life's challenges she lifted the lid of the basket and reached inside.
She did not feel the first strike from the vipers. The second strike higher on her arm caused her to wince. She withdrew her arm from the basket and examined the four pin sized marks. Her royal blood oozed from the wounds. She marvelled at the colour and was reminded of the tapestries hanging in the Temple of Isis. Cleo lay back on her pillows, smiling. Drifting down her river she was home.
The Bob
I am not a praying man yet when the King of King's banner in its royal colour purple is back lighted at a show I become emotional. Bob Dylan is one of the few performing Christians I admire. My admiration is shown each time I purchase a ticket to a show, buy a CD, or listen to a scratchy LP on the turntable at home. When Bob and the band close the show with a prayer for the audience they give back to me their respect and thanks. For that and more I am grateful.
For me Bob Dylan remains an enigma. His music and writing disturbs my comfort zone. I recently described him to an acquaintance as, "A very curious man". He continues to shake me up and I like that.
Dylan's metaphysics and his Apocalyptic world view I do not share. The magnificient imagery he has created concerning his beliefs (for the most part gone unheard and unread by Secularists) rivals that of Milton and Donne. His concept of modern Evil is a Classical viewpoint. Dylan's struggles with evil in his writings gets mixed up with the Christian mythology that is the foundation of the Fundamentalist movement. Two working principles on the nature of everyday human evil I use are, one, ignoring it will generally protect one from its influences; and two, the nature of human evil is in of itself extremely weak and brainless. Dylan wants us to fight it within ourselves and against the Force he sees that surrounds us. Whether he sees himself as the standard bearer in this fight I do not know. I like to believe that like his friend, the late Allen Ginsberg, Dylan puts it out there and respects people enough to allow them to make up their own minds.
From the grey Stetson atop his head to the shine on his highly polished pointed ebony boots Bob is the consummate showman. His onstage personae I find endearing. He stands at his little synth, dances a little shuffle, blows the har-moan-i-ca, and in a sing-song phraseology recites his lyrics. After fifty years of performing in front of audiences Bob continues to do exactly what he wants. I for one am grateful that what he wants to give his audience is what I too want. I want to be entertained. I want to be lost in the imagery he creates with his lyrics. I want to be transformed by the sound the band creates. I forget the nostalgia, I forget the politics, I forget the zealotry. For two hours at each show I am unnerved by a man who lives to entertain. What the hell else can he do? Sail?
Although I am not a praying man, when His eye below the crown on the purple banner looks out over the crowd I for a few moments become aware I may be being watched. My comfort zone has been disturbed. Its not very often I allow myself the pleasure of this experience.
For me Bob Dylan remains an enigma. His music and writing disturbs my comfort zone. I recently described him to an acquaintance as, "A very curious man". He continues to shake me up and I like that.
Dylan's metaphysics and his Apocalyptic world view I do not share. The magnificient imagery he has created concerning his beliefs (for the most part gone unheard and unread by Secularists) rivals that of Milton and Donne. His concept of modern Evil is a Classical viewpoint. Dylan's struggles with evil in his writings gets mixed up with the Christian mythology that is the foundation of the Fundamentalist movement. Two working principles on the nature of everyday human evil I use are, one, ignoring it will generally protect one from its influences; and two, the nature of human evil is in of itself extremely weak and brainless. Dylan wants us to fight it within ourselves and against the Force he sees that surrounds us. Whether he sees himself as the standard bearer in this fight I do not know. I like to believe that like his friend, the late Allen Ginsberg, Dylan puts it out there and respects people enough to allow them to make up their own minds.
From the grey Stetson atop his head to the shine on his highly polished pointed ebony boots Bob is the consummate showman. His onstage personae I find endearing. He stands at his little synth, dances a little shuffle, blows the har-moan-i-ca, and in a sing-song phraseology recites his lyrics. After fifty years of performing in front of audiences Bob continues to do exactly what he wants. I for one am grateful that what he wants to give his audience is what I too want. I want to be entertained. I want to be lost in the imagery he creates with his lyrics. I want to be transformed by the sound the band creates. I forget the nostalgia, I forget the politics, I forget the zealotry. For two hours at each show I am unnerved by a man who lives to entertain. What the hell else can he do? Sail?
Although I am not a praying man, when His eye below the crown on the purple banner looks out over the crowd I for a few moments become aware I may be being watched. My comfort zone has been disturbed. Its not very often I allow myself the pleasure of this experience.
Excuse my dust
"Okay, so like there was this woman, K? And she was soooooooo funny!!!! She would like, write really cool poems about stuff. K? Like stuff about Life and guys and stuff. K? And she was like, all political and stuff, K? She wrote at a time when nobody ever talked about sex or stuff, K? This was before TV and CD's and stuff like that. Oh My God she was sooooo cool! She was from the City and like I am from Long Island so I sooooo know where she was coming from. She really speaks to me in her poems. I mean like, her stuff about guys is soooo true, K? She said that guys are like, well they'll tell you stuff, and like she warns you not to believe them. I can sooo relate to her! She also wrote about death a lot, too, K? I mean, she talked about suicide and stuff like it was an okay thing. Sometimes, like when I'm sad I think about that stuff, too, so I can relate to her, K? I mean, I don't think about it all the time but I get sad, I guess everybody does, right? So, like in her poems she also talks about being a Woman and how hard it is because like, guys are always putting you down and stuff. It really makes me mad when guys do that! And she is like, telling you guys to stop doing that! I checked online about her and she had an abortion! I mean, oh my god, like I was late once and I thought I was preggers and I thought about it, too, K? But, she was like preggers before Planned Parenthood and stuff so it was like illegal what she did, K? I mean can you imagine? Her biggest problem was that she drank a lot, k? She would get all sloppy drunk and stuff and people would be like, please don't be that way. She would drink with the guys at lunch, K? They used to meet at this restaurant in a hotel in the City and they would sit around and make fun of people. My friends and I do that, too. Oh my god! We laugh so hard sometimes! She wrote plays, too! Can you imagine writing a play? I can't altho sometimes I think I could so like be an actress in Hollywood. And that is where she went when she left the city. She got in trouble for being political because in those days if you were political people didn't like you. Its not like today where a woman can say stuff, you know, like Hillary, and people listen to you. So, she couldn't get a job for awhile after she got in trouble. And her husband killed himself, K? So sad! Anyway, that's all I have for today. I hope you check her out. She was way cool."
Everyone hates a tourist
The small Upstate community I was abruptly thrust into forty years ago as a teen hasn't changed all that much. Part of the New Military Tract it was originally settled by former soldiers who had served in the Revolutionary War. A few are still there and can be found clutching their muskets, ready in a moments notice to defend their property and their families against tyranny. They generally gather each Saturday at the God and Run Club to drill, eat barbecue, and drink vast quantities of American lager. Its comforting to know that I am safe with these Patriots, ever vigilant, on duty. Flags are flown, period pieces of artillery boom loudly, the acrid odor of Cordite excites the crowds. The words "freedom" and "liberty" are overheard frequently. A sense of unity exists among the proud white faces in the crowd. They are all Americans and no one will tread on them.
Driving towards "town" my companion and I were met by a roadblock at the village limits coordinated by Homeland Security. Passports at the ready we had become used to such inconveniences. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance and the young man and woman manning the barricade were friendly and courteous. They rolled back the razor wire and we drove through knowing that these young people would keep anyone not American out. Suspicious of all outsiders, towns folk willingly allow the next generation pay for their protection. The village itself is clean and well kept. Streets are lined with new trees, the ancient elms and maples gone now from disease. Homes with well kept front gardens vary in architectural style from Greek Revival to Federal to Victorian.
I hadn't been back in quite awhile. Yet, comfortingly enough nothing had changed. Our first stop would be the local pub, or tavern, as its known. I parked and we crossed the main street to the pub. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Drinking alcohol in the dark is a uniquely American practice. No one who is depressed needs to be reminded that there may be a glimmer of hope for them. In the dark they can sip their pints and bemoan their miseries safe in the knowledge that among the shadows lurks Death and they are ready at a moments notice for it. Stepping up to the mahogany bar I ordered a diet cola for myself and a club soda for my companion. I looked around and I recognised several of the faces at the bar. They had been there the last time I had visited. I recalled that they, with few exceptions, were seated at the same bar stools. A familiar face approached us. He extended his hand and asked if I was who I am. I shook his hand and introduced my companion. He said he was disappointed in himself for not contacting me, "When you lost your mother". I looked at him and replied, "Why thank you but mum is not lost. She's in an urn in da's closet where he can keep an eye on her." The old friend shrugged. We chatted about this and that and after several awkward pauses brought about because we no longer have anything in common I mentioned we must be getting back on the road. We said our goodbyes and lied to one another about keeping in touch. My companion and I walked out into the brilliant sunlight.
Motoring back out of the village we stopped again at the road block. They chequed the boot to make sure we weren't smuggling out any citizens and sent us on our way. Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again.
Driving towards "town" my companion and I were met by a roadblock at the village limits coordinated by Homeland Security. Passports at the ready we had become used to such inconveniences. The price of freedom is eternal vigilance and the young man and woman manning the barricade were friendly and courteous. They rolled back the razor wire and we drove through knowing that these young people would keep anyone not American out. Suspicious of all outsiders, towns folk willingly allow the next generation pay for their protection. The village itself is clean and well kept. Streets are lined with new trees, the ancient elms and maples gone now from disease. Homes with well kept front gardens vary in architectural style from Greek Revival to Federal to Victorian.
I hadn't been back in quite awhile. Yet, comfortingly enough nothing had changed. Our first stop would be the local pub, or tavern, as its known. I parked and we crossed the main street to the pub. It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. Drinking alcohol in the dark is a uniquely American practice. No one who is depressed needs to be reminded that there may be a glimmer of hope for them. In the dark they can sip their pints and bemoan their miseries safe in the knowledge that among the shadows lurks Death and they are ready at a moments notice for it. Stepping up to the mahogany bar I ordered a diet cola for myself and a club soda for my companion. I looked around and I recognised several of the faces at the bar. They had been there the last time I had visited. I recalled that they, with few exceptions, were seated at the same bar stools. A familiar face approached us. He extended his hand and asked if I was who I am. I shook his hand and introduced my companion. He said he was disappointed in himself for not contacting me, "When you lost your mother". I looked at him and replied, "Why thank you but mum is not lost. She's in an urn in da's closet where he can keep an eye on her." The old friend shrugged. We chatted about this and that and after several awkward pauses brought about because we no longer have anything in common I mentioned we must be getting back on the road. We said our goodbyes and lied to one another about keeping in touch. My companion and I walked out into the brilliant sunlight.
Motoring back out of the village we stopped again at the road block. They chequed the boot to make sure we weren't smuggling out any citizens and sent us on our way. Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again.
Standin' on your momma's porch you told me it would last forever
When I am feeling particularly patriotic I visit local shops that promote all items for a dollar. You know these shops as "American General", "The Dollar Store", or sundry other names where one can get some retail therapy to fight the blahs. Where else can one purchase a genuine replica of the American flag made from Egyptian cotton and sewn in South Korea? As a low income consumer I can do my part to bolster our sagging economy by shopping for items I don't need but must have. Wandering around inside the shops one quickly discovers that these places are where all the shit in the world goes to die. I picked up a real find just yesterday when rummaging through a pile of overstocks of autobiographies and grabbed the only copy of Sarah Palin's self-titled tome, "What It Means to Be A Feminist". A dollar well spent.
When I leave one of these shops I do experience pangs of guilt. That dollar I spent on a pair of needle-nose pliers made in Mainland China might have been better spent. For the same dollar I could have purchased a lottery ticket and supported my state's continuing efforts to enable the gambling addiction of all classes of citizens. Or, that dollar might have been donated to a not-for-profit charity whose top-heavy, over paid administrative staff of socially conscious Prada wearing, Lexus driving individualists toil thanklessly to make their world a better place. Those pliers I bought for a dollar might have instead been spent at a fast food restaurant staffed by employees who have been hired to fulfill the requirements of the State's welfare-to-work program. So few dollars and so many choices.
Walking through the neighbourhoods of this small city for my daily exercise I pass home after home whose owner's mortgages have been foreclosed. Lovely homes whose backyards don't have children playing in them. Homes that just last spring had gardens of annuals planted all about. Homes whose garages and driveways are empty. Homes without curtains and drapes. Gardens unmowed and walks untrimmed. Walking downtown the shop fronts are empty. The underclass and the disenfranchised rummage through rubbish cans searching for deposit bottles and cans or bits of unsoiled food. I am reminded of Dicken's journal of his tour of America and his disappointment at finding similar circumstances. The Banks are open - at least for another day it appears.
I would support a candidate who proposes bailing me out of my debt. My student loans and my car payment along with my credit card debt. My responsibility to my creditors I take very seriously and I meet my obligations each month. Its too bad they don't act the same way.
When I leave one of these shops I do experience pangs of guilt. That dollar I spent on a pair of needle-nose pliers made in Mainland China might have been better spent. For the same dollar I could have purchased a lottery ticket and supported my state's continuing efforts to enable the gambling addiction of all classes of citizens. Or, that dollar might have been donated to a not-for-profit charity whose top-heavy, over paid administrative staff of socially conscious Prada wearing, Lexus driving individualists toil thanklessly to make their world a better place. Those pliers I bought for a dollar might have instead been spent at a fast food restaurant staffed by employees who have been hired to fulfill the requirements of the State's welfare-to-work program. So few dollars and so many choices.
Walking through the neighbourhoods of this small city for my daily exercise I pass home after home whose owner's mortgages have been foreclosed. Lovely homes whose backyards don't have children playing in them. Homes that just last spring had gardens of annuals planted all about. Homes whose garages and driveways are empty. Homes without curtains and drapes. Gardens unmowed and walks untrimmed. Walking downtown the shop fronts are empty. The underclass and the disenfranchised rummage through rubbish cans searching for deposit bottles and cans or bits of unsoiled food. I am reminded of Dicken's journal of his tour of America and his disappointment at finding similar circumstances. The Banks are open - at least for another day it appears.
I would support a candidate who proposes bailing me out of my debt. My student loans and my car payment along with my credit card debt. My responsibility to my creditors I take very seriously and I meet my obligations each month. Its too bad they don't act the same way.
Online dating redeux
About me: I am randomly described by co-workers and acquaintances as "loathsome", "repulsive", and "reptilian". After my last relapse a co-worker used the adjective "odoriferous" because during my last "run" I neglected my hygiene for a fortnight. My most recent rehab (my sixth) is my last. I promise. No more crack, no more Jack, no going back.
My first marriage didn't last because we were much too young. My second wife came out after 7 months of what I thought was a pretty good relationship. I was just too in love to see the mullet, the flannel shirts, the fanny pack worn in front and her purchase of a pick-up truck as signs she might be gay. Don't get me wrong - I like the Rainbow people. 'Hope I'm not being politically incorrect here. I'm just being honest. My third wife wandered off the trail in the Adirondacks. She was never found. The private detective her parents hired to find her said I was involved but he just didn't like me.
I am glad the judge has garnished my salary for the back child support I owe. I am still able to put a little aside for an apartment of my own. The Men's shelter where I am staying doesn't provide any privacy. I am eligible for subsidised housing in 2009.
On our first date I would like to introduce you to my Home group, "The Sister's of Satan". I will take you to an undisclosed location where we will don black robes, light candles and stand around a Pentagram and summon our Master forth. After the vigil the goat will be lead into the circle and ... well, you'll just have to see for yourself. After the Mass I will take you to a cemetery where we can read gravestones by moonlight. If we "click" perhaps we can break into a Catholic church, have some sacramental wine and desecrate the alter by making passionate love on it.
Or, we could meet for coffee in a public place because hey, you know, you never know who you'll meet on the Internet and I have a need to feel safe when meeting a stranger.
My initital online profile did not draw many dates (see the first posting to this site from July). The women who I communicated with appeared uninterested in me. A reoccurring theme in what women on these sites are looking for in a man, a date, a partner is HONESTY and a SENSE of HUMOUR. Wow! Who knew? Honesty is so important to these women that they will colour their hair, wear contacts, use mascara and make-up, only submit head shots, post professionally taken pics, post a pic of a model and claim it is of them, not post a pic. The sites themselves carefully choose who they want to represent in the pool of available women and post those pics. These of course are extremely attractive women who, through an accident of birth, are blessed with the features we men find most attractive. Or, perhaps should I suggest what this culture tells we men we must be attracted to. And the women, who have learned to use their looks to be successful in life - to get the right jobs, land the right first husband (or so they thought), and generally benefit socially in a myriad of ways from their appearances - are looking for HONESTY. I realise at this juncture that what I am suggesting is misogynistic. As an undergrad I minored in Women's Studies so perhaps calling me a misogynist might be going a bit too far...
What I have attempted in posting the fictional "profiles" on dating sites was merely a psychological and social exercise to see what responses I would receive if I were "honest" and/or had "a sense of humour". I drew no hypothesis and I have no conclusions. What I do understand from reading the profiles of people on these sites is: there are a great many women and men "out there" who are searching for someone who only exists in their own private world. Shallowness is not gender specific. Neither is Denial.
My first marriage didn't last because we were much too young. My second wife came out after 7 months of what I thought was a pretty good relationship. I was just too in love to see the mullet, the flannel shirts, the fanny pack worn in front and her purchase of a pick-up truck as signs she might be gay. Don't get me wrong - I like the Rainbow people. 'Hope I'm not being politically incorrect here. I'm just being honest. My third wife wandered off the trail in the Adirondacks. She was never found. The private detective her parents hired to find her said I was involved but he just didn't like me.
I am glad the judge has garnished my salary for the back child support I owe. I am still able to put a little aside for an apartment of my own. The Men's shelter where I am staying doesn't provide any privacy. I am eligible for subsidised housing in 2009.
On our first date I would like to introduce you to my Home group, "The Sister's of Satan". I will take you to an undisclosed location where we will don black robes, light candles and stand around a Pentagram and summon our Master forth. After the vigil the goat will be lead into the circle and ... well, you'll just have to see for yourself. After the Mass I will take you to a cemetery where we can read gravestones by moonlight. If we "click" perhaps we can break into a Catholic church, have some sacramental wine and desecrate the alter by making passionate love on it.
Or, we could meet for coffee in a public place because hey, you know, you never know who you'll meet on the Internet and I have a need to feel safe when meeting a stranger.
My initital online profile did not draw many dates (see the first posting to this site from July). The women who I communicated with appeared uninterested in me. A reoccurring theme in what women on these sites are looking for in a man, a date, a partner is HONESTY and a SENSE of HUMOUR. Wow! Who knew? Honesty is so important to these women that they will colour their hair, wear contacts, use mascara and make-up, only submit head shots, post professionally taken pics, post a pic of a model and claim it is of them, not post a pic. The sites themselves carefully choose who they want to represent in the pool of available women and post those pics. These of course are extremely attractive women who, through an accident of birth, are blessed with the features we men find most attractive. Or, perhaps should I suggest what this culture tells we men we must be attracted to. And the women, who have learned to use their looks to be successful in life - to get the right jobs, land the right first husband (or so they thought), and generally benefit socially in a myriad of ways from their appearances - are looking for HONESTY. I realise at this juncture that what I am suggesting is misogynistic. As an undergrad I minored in Women's Studies so perhaps calling me a misogynist might be going a bit too far...
What I have attempted in posting the fictional "profiles" on dating sites was merely a psychological and social exercise to see what responses I would receive if I were "honest" and/or had "a sense of humour". I drew no hypothesis and I have no conclusions. What I do understand from reading the profiles of people on these sites is: there are a great many women and men "out there" who are searching for someone who only exists in their own private world. Shallowness is not gender specific. Neither is Denial.
Miss Ruth Wonderly/Miss LeBlanc/Bridgid O'Shaughnessy
There I was balls deep in my Administrative Assistant when I heard the phone ring. "Christ", I gasped, "Of all times for the god damn phone to..." Dropping her nail file she reached for the receiver. I marvelled at her ability to multi-task and made a mental note to give her a raise. I drove into her like a Toyota Land Cruiser through a deep ravine on the savannah. My fingers grasped her ample buttocks leaving indentations in the firm flesh. A white light flashed inside my brain, my knees began to buckle and from far away I heard Takiyah's voice...
"Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla's office, how may I help you?" Silence. "Yes, Lieutenant? Well, sir, I expect him any moment...he's just coming now, sir...yes, thank you, sir." She pressed mute and turned slightly, watching me pulling up my trousers. "Nick, its Lieutenant Ryan on line one. Nick? Nick, did you hear what I said?"
My mind wasn't on work this morning. Carolyn had awoken me with a cup of steaming hot joe and with her mouth firmly around my shame she had brought me off so suddenly I hadn't had time to warn her of the impending consequence of her warm, wet wake-up call. She was annoyed. She expects a shoulder tap and if she doesn't get it she thinks she's got a green light. For all her good-naturedness Carolyn remains reluctant to be nourished with andro-protein. Her east coast WASP roots the most likely reason for her bulimic like response to fellatio.
"Ryan? What the hell does that bastard want at 9 o'clock in morning?"
"He says its urgent, Nick," she continued, arranging her skirt at the same time.
"Takiyah, call those payroll people and tell them I have authorised a raise for you."
"A raise? Nick, didn't you just give me a raise?" she smirked.
"Hey, boundaries there girlfriend. Without boundaries we are lost as a society...oh hell, never mind. I'll take the call in my office."
"Yes sir, Boss," she smiled warmly.
I don't know what I'd do without her I thought..."Oh, send Carolyn some flowers, you know what she likes..." Walking into the office and closing the door behind me I prepared to hear my best friend's voice.
"Ryan, don't tell me you're cancelling lunch! Its St. Paddy's Day fer Christ's sake! What's up?"
"Nicky, turn on CNN. The live feed they're posting isn't pleasant."
From his inflection I knew immediately that the news was bad. Was it ever good?
I watched the aerial camera shots from the Time-Warner owned helicopter appear on the plasma screen.
"Nick...brace yourself...its Abu Garcia...they've overtaken the Bass Pro Shops operation in Missouri. Nick, they've got hostages...among them are members of the Bass Pro Tour, in town for a promotional tournament."
"Jebus! Is it ever gonna stop, Ryan? I mean, we can't let these bastards get away with this crap..."
"Nicky, it gets worse...they...they've got Roland Martin in that building."
The chill up my spine was like the feeling you get when you check online to see your 401k is worth a quarter of what it was the day before. "Martin? I thought he was at Sam Rayburn for the season? What the fuck is going on, Ryan?"
To be continued...
"Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla's office, how may I help you?" Silence. "Yes, Lieutenant? Well, sir, I expect him any moment...he's just coming now, sir...yes, thank you, sir." She pressed mute and turned slightly, watching me pulling up my trousers. "Nick, its Lieutenant Ryan on line one. Nick? Nick, did you hear what I said?"
My mind wasn't on work this morning. Carolyn had awoken me with a cup of steaming hot joe and with her mouth firmly around my shame she had brought me off so suddenly I hadn't had time to warn her of the impending consequence of her warm, wet wake-up call. She was annoyed. She expects a shoulder tap and if she doesn't get it she thinks she's got a green light. For all her good-naturedness Carolyn remains reluctant to be nourished with andro-protein. Her east coast WASP roots the most likely reason for her bulimic like response to fellatio.
"Ryan? What the hell does that bastard want at 9 o'clock in morning?"
"He says its urgent, Nick," she continued, arranging her skirt at the same time.
"Takiyah, call those payroll people and tell them I have authorised a raise for you."
"A raise? Nick, didn't you just give me a raise?" she smirked.
"Hey, boundaries there girlfriend. Without boundaries we are lost as a society...oh hell, never mind. I'll take the call in my office."
"Yes sir, Boss," she smiled warmly.
I don't know what I'd do without her I thought..."Oh, send Carolyn some flowers, you know what she likes..." Walking into the office and closing the door behind me I prepared to hear my best friend's voice.
"Ryan, don't tell me you're cancelling lunch! Its St. Paddy's Day fer Christ's sake! What's up?"
"Nicky, turn on CNN. The live feed they're posting isn't pleasant."
From his inflection I knew immediately that the news was bad. Was it ever good?
I watched the aerial camera shots from the Time-Warner owned helicopter appear on the plasma screen.
"Nick...brace yourself...its Abu Garcia...they've overtaken the Bass Pro Shops operation in Missouri. Nick, they've got hostages...among them are members of the Bass Pro Tour, in town for a promotional tournament."
"Jebus! Is it ever gonna stop, Ryan? I mean, we can't let these bastards get away with this crap..."
"Nicky, it gets worse...they...they've got Roland Martin in that building."
The chill up my spine was like the feeling you get when you check online to see your 401k is worth a quarter of what it was the day before. "Martin? I thought he was at Sam Rayburn for the season? What the fuck is going on, Ryan?"
To be continued...
Mood: Indigo
Melancholia Jones, my oldest friend and first love, had come to visit for the Duration. She arrived at the garden gate unannounced and laden with baggage. The cab driver grumbled as he unloaded the boot cursing after dropping a carton of phonograph records on the footpath and beat a quick retreat. “I'll be back,” he threatened menacingly. I gathered up Mel's belongings and brought them into the house placing them in the guest room; and leaving her to arrange her things I quietly withdrew.
Walking into the kitchen I began to prepare tea. I carefully selected a particularly thin piece of sole from among the mismatched pairs of boots and trainers on the pantry shelf. The leather on the lonesome boot had become so thin as to be almost transparent; perfect for soup. As the sole simmered I wandered out to the garden and topped some greens from among the veg, grabbed the rock that serves as a doorstop and returned to the kitchen. Washing the greens I began to whistle, something I was unaware I was doing until Mel reappeared and reminded me that while she was staying in the house there'll be no whistling, humming, or other harmonic displays of contentment. She added that the drumming of fingers or any type of percussion was to be avoided. I love Mel for her no nonsense approach to all things domestic. I dropped the stone into the pot, placed the greens in cheesecloth and tied a string about the sachet. The flavourful greens would be reused again and again in the coming weeks. I made a note to myself to prepare Wish sandwiches for our stone/sole picnic.
Mel watched as I busied myself about the kitchen. She is not one for conversation; something I find simultaneously endearing and annoying. Unlike me, Mel prefers the sound of silence. I am a chatterbox while she prefers to listen patiently offering only the occasional non-verbal affirmation. A Rogerian, Mel is in her element when my conversation fills the awkward silences formed between rekindled lovers.
Mel's collection of Marcel Marceau recordings is the envy of many collectors of obscure mime memorabilia. I asked her to spin his Greatest Hits album from 1966 on the turntable reminding her that the first time we had made love to the record was the first time we had climaxed together. I imagined her smiling at the memory as she buried her head into my right shoulder and we danced, soaking up the ambiance. The polished hardwood floors in the living room unencumbered by furniture that had long since been used as fuel reflected our promenade. As we moved about the room I was reminded that Mel's reoccurring unannounced and impromptu visits are always welcome. The more things change the more they remain the same.
On my way to a meeting the other afternoon I passed a matched pair of Haflinger ponies in harness and drawing a black Escalade. The Amish driver, not more than 18, stared straight ahead. I was tempted to stop him and buy some heroin but thought better of it. Amish heroin is too often stepped-on with sawdust gleaned from barn raising's. Forty-seven years ago an unknown Jewish kid from Hibbing, Minnesota penned, “The Times They Are A-Changin'”. These days he hawks the New Testament at tent revivals dressed like Bob Wills. On tele the other morning I watched as the president of the United States visiting Buckingham Palace give the Queen a high five. The English, for all their tolerance in all things social and political, continue to bemoan America's inability to identify irony. Separated by a common language the void remains unbreeched.
As Mel and I floated across the floor I could feel my anxiety begin to deepen. When the record ended we broke apart; I bowed to her, she curtsied in return. Leading Mel into the kitchen I reached beneath the sink and drew out a bottle of red I had been saving for a special occasion. This particular vintage was from a local vineyard near Wrath, high above Seneca Lake on Route 414. The fruit is crushed under the bare feet of angry Mennonite women who are forbidden by Church Elders from visiting the Women's Hall of Fame in nearby Seneca Falls. Unscrewing the top and filling the glasses I then opened the 'fridge and reached for the cheese plate. Mel enjoys cheese with my whine and I was eager to please her. The cheese was a New Yawk Sharp, processed and aged in Vermont and made from Yanquee cow's juice milked in New Hampshire. Because the Northeast dairy cooperative is headquartered in the City the manufacturers are allowed to label it as “New Yawk Sharp”. New Yawk Extra Sharp is difficult to get these days because the BHT injected into the cows flattens their affect to such an extent they have become dull and listless.
“You're trying too hard,” Mel whispered.
“How's that?” I stared, incredulous to her suggestion.
“You needn't seduce me,“ She said lustfully. “I am always behind you whether you are aware of me or not. I will never leave you.” A lover's promise: Never intended to be kept but spoken with the sincerity of an incumbent senator campaigning for re-election.
“I need to suffer,” I protested. “Without suffering there is no Art. Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf all led lives of desperation and pain.”
“They were mad, Bill.” Mel countered. “Rumi reminds us that all Art is the Beloveds attempt to reflect the image of man through man. You aren't mad. Your suffering is situational and a product of forces outside your control. What you can control are your perceptions if you have the will to use...”
“Why are you here, Mel?” I interrupted. Demanding to know and perhaps being a li'l too aggressive. Knowing full well this defense mechanism was inappropriate to the situation.
“Bill.” She sat smiling from across the table and sipping the 5% acetic acid solution I had poured for us. “I'm here because you summoned me. I'm here because until you give it over you won't...”
“Mel, as a Muse you must know that without you I can't continue,” I blathered.
Mel stood and lit the candle on the table. Turning slowly, she crossed the tiled floor and stood next to where I sat. Reaching out and brushing the hair from my forehead she leaned forward and kissed my eyes. First the left and then the right lid with a touch so lite I wondered if her rich, full lips had made contact. She motioned for me to prepare to allow her to sit on my lap and I obliged. Resting lightly on my thighs she laid her head on my chest. Our breathing in sync we sat there comforted in knowing that the bond we share is timeless. I gathered her into my arms and carried her to my bed.
The morning sun shining through the window warmed my face and I awoke. I reached over to cheque for Mel but she wasn't there. I lay there and listened to hear her in the bathroom but heard nothing. She had gone as suddenly as she had arrived. I arose from the bed and walked to the turntable. I put on the Greatest Hits record she had left behind. I stood there in the silence and planned my day.
Walking into the kitchen I began to prepare tea. I carefully selected a particularly thin piece of sole from among the mismatched pairs of boots and trainers on the pantry shelf. The leather on the lonesome boot had become so thin as to be almost transparent; perfect for soup. As the sole simmered I wandered out to the garden and topped some greens from among the veg, grabbed the rock that serves as a doorstop and returned to the kitchen. Washing the greens I began to whistle, something I was unaware I was doing until Mel reappeared and reminded me that while she was staying in the house there'll be no whistling, humming, or other harmonic displays of contentment. She added that the drumming of fingers or any type of percussion was to be avoided. I love Mel for her no nonsense approach to all things domestic. I dropped the stone into the pot, placed the greens in cheesecloth and tied a string about the sachet. The flavourful greens would be reused again and again in the coming weeks. I made a note to myself to prepare Wish sandwiches for our stone/sole picnic.
Mel watched as I busied myself about the kitchen. She is not one for conversation; something I find simultaneously endearing and annoying. Unlike me, Mel prefers the sound of silence. I am a chatterbox while she prefers to listen patiently offering only the occasional non-verbal affirmation. A Rogerian, Mel is in her element when my conversation fills the awkward silences formed between rekindled lovers.
Mel's collection of Marcel Marceau recordings is the envy of many collectors of obscure mime memorabilia. I asked her to spin his Greatest Hits album from 1966 on the turntable reminding her that the first time we had made love to the record was the first time we had climaxed together. I imagined her smiling at the memory as she buried her head into my right shoulder and we danced, soaking up the ambiance. The polished hardwood floors in the living room unencumbered by furniture that had long since been used as fuel reflected our promenade. As we moved about the room I was reminded that Mel's reoccurring unannounced and impromptu visits are always welcome. The more things change the more they remain the same.
On my way to a meeting the other afternoon I passed a matched pair of Haflinger ponies in harness and drawing a black Escalade. The Amish driver, not more than 18, stared straight ahead. I was tempted to stop him and buy some heroin but thought better of it. Amish heroin is too often stepped-on with sawdust gleaned from barn raising's. Forty-seven years ago an unknown Jewish kid from Hibbing, Minnesota penned, “The Times They Are A-Changin'”. These days he hawks the New Testament at tent revivals dressed like Bob Wills. On tele the other morning I watched as the president of the United States visiting Buckingham Palace give the Queen a high five. The English, for all their tolerance in all things social and political, continue to bemoan America's inability to identify irony. Separated by a common language the void remains unbreeched.
As Mel and I floated across the floor I could feel my anxiety begin to deepen. When the record ended we broke apart; I bowed to her, she curtsied in return. Leading Mel into the kitchen I reached beneath the sink and drew out a bottle of red I had been saving for a special occasion. This particular vintage was from a local vineyard near Wrath, high above Seneca Lake on Route 414. The fruit is crushed under the bare feet of angry Mennonite women who are forbidden by Church Elders from visiting the Women's Hall of Fame in nearby Seneca Falls. Unscrewing the top and filling the glasses I then opened the 'fridge and reached for the cheese plate. Mel enjoys cheese with my whine and I was eager to please her. The cheese was a New Yawk Sharp, processed and aged in Vermont and made from Yanquee cow's juice milked in New Hampshire. Because the Northeast dairy cooperative is headquartered in the City the manufacturers are allowed to label it as “New Yawk Sharp”. New Yawk Extra Sharp is difficult to get these days because the BHT injected into the cows flattens their affect to such an extent they have become dull and listless.
“You're trying too hard,” Mel whispered.
“How's that?” I stared, incredulous to her suggestion.
“You needn't seduce me,“ She said lustfully. “I am always behind you whether you are aware of me or not. I will never leave you.” A lover's promise: Never intended to be kept but spoken with the sincerity of an incumbent senator campaigning for re-election.
“I need to suffer,” I protested. “Without suffering there is no Art. Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf all led lives of desperation and pain.”
“They were mad, Bill.” Mel countered. “Rumi reminds us that all Art is the Beloveds attempt to reflect the image of man through man. You aren't mad. Your suffering is situational and a product of forces outside your control. What you can control are your perceptions if you have the will to use...”
“Why are you here, Mel?” I interrupted. Demanding to know and perhaps being a li'l too aggressive. Knowing full well this defense mechanism was inappropriate to the situation.
“Bill.” She sat smiling from across the table and sipping the 5% acetic acid solution I had poured for us. “I'm here because you summoned me. I'm here because until you give it over you won't...”
“Mel, as a Muse you must know that without you I can't continue,” I blathered.
Mel stood and lit the candle on the table. Turning slowly, she crossed the tiled floor and stood next to where I sat. Reaching out and brushing the hair from my forehead she leaned forward and kissed my eyes. First the left and then the right lid with a touch so lite I wondered if her rich, full lips had made contact. She motioned for me to prepare to allow her to sit on my lap and I obliged. Resting lightly on my thighs she laid her head on my chest. Our breathing in sync we sat there comforted in knowing that the bond we share is timeless. I gathered her into my arms and carried her to my bed.
The morning sun shining through the window warmed my face and I awoke. I reached over to cheque for Mel but she wasn't there. I lay there and listened to hear her in the bathroom but heard nothing. She had gone as suddenly as she had arrived. I arose from the bed and walked to the turntable. I put on the Greatest Hits record she had left behind. I stood there in the silence and planned my day.
The Penny Whistle Blower
May 4 2009
NYS Dept. of Labor
P.O. Box 15131
Albany NY 12212-5131
Dear Sir or Madame:
This correspondence is in response to your determination of denial of benefits dated 4/30/09.
Why do you refer to yourselves as The Department of “Labor”? It is apparent your interests remain solely with employers. Labor has no voice or representation within your agency. Your letter indicates that your fact finding consists of statements made by YAP Inc. Your determination is based on what YAP Inc. has told you. No one from your agency has contacted me or shown interest in the circumstances of my coerced and bullied resignation. No one in your department is aware of the hostile work environment at Seneca Co. YAP lead by regional director Casey Lane who routinely threatens and makes false allegations against employees. No one in your department is aware that Seneca Co. YAP nearly lost its contract with Seneca County DSS because of Mr. Lane's mis-management and lack of professionalism. No one in your agency has checked the statistical turn-over rate of employees at Seneca County YAP is possibly the highest of any Seneca County employer. No one in your agency is aware of the breaches in security concerning confidential information concerning juvenile sexual offenders released into the community through the Office of Child and Family Services who has contracted with Seneca County YAP. No one in your agency appears to be aware of the security breaches of confidential information of Seneca County YAP clients. No one in your office apparently is aware of the poor judgment used by senior management concerning hiring of Staff that is not qualified to work in the field of human services and with adolescents.
The fact remains that YAP INC lied to your agency when they originally stated they were unaware of why I am not employed with them. Their lie has now changed to benefit their interests and yours. In the real world if a lie is told all subsequent statements are suspect. In your agency perjury by employers is acceptable.
I am withdrawing my request for a fair hearing to ask for benefits. It would not be a fair it would be a circus and you people would be the clowns. Do your “impartial” adjudicators arrive at hearings in tiny taxpayer funded vehicles exiting one at a time by the dozens to put out employer/employee fires with pails of shredded paper? As an accredited human service professional it is my recommendation that you use your taxpayer funded health benefits to visit a proctologist and schedule an emergency headorectomy. I have taken exception to the rude, accusatory and punitive language used by you in your correspondence. Perhaps I will take my concerns about YAP Inc. to the NYS Attorney General's office as well as to the Office of Child and Family Services, Seneca County DSS, and the Seneca County District Attorney's Office. Perhaps they will be interested concerning missing/pilfered confidential information about juvenile sexual offenders and suspected irregularities in billing practices used by YAP INC.
Sincerely,
Bill
NYS Dept. of Labor
P.O. Box 15131
Albany NY 12212-5131
Dear Sir or Madame:
This correspondence is in response to your determination of denial of benefits dated 4/30/09.
Why do you refer to yourselves as The Department of “Labor”? It is apparent your interests remain solely with employers. Labor has no voice or representation within your agency. Your letter indicates that your fact finding consists of statements made by YAP Inc. Your determination is based on what YAP Inc. has told you. No one from your agency has contacted me or shown interest in the circumstances of my coerced and bullied resignation. No one in your department is aware of the hostile work environment at Seneca Co. YAP lead by regional director Casey Lane who routinely threatens and makes false allegations against employees. No one in your department is aware that Seneca Co. YAP nearly lost its contract with Seneca County DSS because of Mr. Lane's mis-management and lack of professionalism. No one in your agency has checked the statistical turn-over rate of employees at Seneca County YAP is possibly the highest of any Seneca County employer. No one in your agency is aware of the breaches in security concerning confidential information concerning juvenile sexual offenders released into the community through the Office of Child and Family Services who has contracted with Seneca County YAP. No one in your agency appears to be aware of the security breaches of confidential information of Seneca County YAP clients. No one in your office apparently is aware of the poor judgment used by senior management concerning hiring of Staff that is not qualified to work in the field of human services and with adolescents.
The fact remains that YAP INC lied to your agency when they originally stated they were unaware of why I am not employed with them. Their lie has now changed to benefit their interests and yours. In the real world if a lie is told all subsequent statements are suspect. In your agency perjury by employers is acceptable.
I am withdrawing my request for a fair hearing to ask for benefits. It would not be a fair it would be a circus and you people would be the clowns. Do your “impartial” adjudicators arrive at hearings in tiny taxpayer funded vehicles exiting one at a time by the dozens to put out employer/employee fires with pails of shredded paper? As an accredited human service professional it is my recommendation that you use your taxpayer funded health benefits to visit a proctologist and schedule an emergency headorectomy. I have taken exception to the rude, accusatory and punitive language used by you in your correspondence. Perhaps I will take my concerns about YAP Inc. to the NYS Attorney General's office as well as to the Office of Child and Family Services, Seneca County DSS, and the Seneca County District Attorney's Office. Perhaps they will be interested concerning missing/pilfered confidential information about juvenile sexual offenders and suspected irregularities in billing practices used by YAP INC.
Sincerely,
Bill
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