Cogbehaviour

2012-01-15T11:45:00.000-05:00

Sonnet

Where comes this bond we hold so dear?
The welds of the heart's forge makes;
From sparks to flame the mind's coke sears.
Burning passion, time like water slakes.
The bellow's breath blows balmy breeze
To make the hearth's coals cherry red.
They bring the beloved to their knees.
And then to the wedding bed.
But gold bands smelted in Love's heat
Tempered mettle does impute:
Shaped iron shackles and chains greet.
Steeling vows now in refute.
   Judge not a marriage nor what's at its core.
   As you know not what happens behind closed doors.

2012-01-06T15:51:00.000-05:00

Allegory

Palha had been watching the man for some months. She had smelled his fresh scar tissue in mid-September and sensed he had been severely wounded. The man's timed visits to the spring for fresh water were predictable. Like clock work he would appear and when he didn't she would come looking for him. If the swaybacked old bay was tied out Palha knew the man was in his lodge. He had seen her twice during the fall on the edge of the conifer forest the village bordered. She showed no fear in acknowledging he had seen her. Nature had provided her with the keen sense of knowing her prey's weaknesses.
It was January now. The Human Beings knew it as the Full Wolf Moon. The time when the pack would stalk the edges of the village looking for an opportunity to pick off a stray dog or perhaps a lame pony that may have broken away from its tether. For Pahla and her litter from last season it was known simply as the period of cold and hunger. The period after the fall hunting season for caribou, who had moved out of the wolve's territory, and the wolves' breeding season to come. A time of leanness in both body and spirit.
Winter had come early to the region. Pahla was concerned she might lose her pack to the ravages of weather and famine. Her last litter - she was old now and would not come into heat again - and while not her last winter it was close to the end for her. There would be no one to care for her in the end times she knew were coming. To die alone from disease or starvation was an unpleasant thought and she tried to push the thought away. She had chased off the beta male that had bred her about the time she had first seen the man return from his journey. The man had left scraps of food for her; a sign he hoped would keep him in her thoughts. Pahla was suspicious of the Human Beings. She knew them only for their cruelty to one another: their bickering, their wars, their steel traps and snares set to capture her kind. Suspicious of his motives Pahla waited until the man was in his lodge before she gathered up the food he had left. It wasn't much as he was poor and she did not share with the pack. His generosity was unlike what she had witnessed among Human Beings. He did not speak which was unlike his kind. He was deliberate in action and deed.
The man was alone. There was no mate nor had there been for many seasons. In his loneliness and despair he had tried to end his life. Opening the veins in his arms from the wrists to just below the hollow of his elbow the blood had flowed like a spring torrent. It was just by chance that the man's sister had discovered his pale, limp near death form. He had been stitched up by the women and eventually returned to his lodge. The ugly fresh scars a reminder of his lack of judgement. Forever destined now to wear long sleeved shirts the man carried the memory of his time of despair and emptiness in his heart as well as on his arms. Next time, should the mood strike him, he had promised himself he would do a better job of it.
Human Beings and wolves are social animals. Both travel in groups. Sometimes playing but always on the prowl for game to satisfy the blood lust. Wolves hunt for food. Human beings hunt for sport. Both are territorial. A threat to one of their kind is a threat to the pack. The man, by feeding Pahla , had disrupted the natural order.
The man's staring at Pahla as she came to drink was not a concern to her. On occasion she would stare back and he would look away in embarrassment. He could not keep his eyes off her. Her lovliness was something he had not experienced in his life. He'd seen many wolves but not one such as she. It was as if he was not staring at her form but at something ethereal. Something beyond words. Something mystical. He did not wish to possess her as other men had tried. He wanted only to nurture her; to join her in a journey with what time was left for them. He would no longer be alone if she were beside him. He was aware this dream could not come to pass as wolves and men are not meant to travel the same path. Just the same, he grew more generous in the scraps of food he left for her.
The time had come for the pack to break up. There was not enough game in their territory for Pahla and her brood. She would survive till spring but the others needed to move on. She chased the pack off one by one. Biting at their heels, nipping at their flanks until they loped off to find lives of their own. Alone now, she was free to pursue her life and travel her path.
The man stopped coming to the spring for water. He continued to leave scraps for the she-wolf always in the same place but never near the spring. She accepted them grudgingly. They would never approach one another if seen. Pahla was free to roam her territory. The man was urged to move away from the village by his family. Pahla and the man would never see one another again.

Haikus

2009-12-03T14:01:00.005-05:00

Dark Zendo shadow
An oak branch reaches outward
Scraping the window

A silent watcher
Raven spies the wolves kill
The circle of life

Flour water yeast rises
Winter wheat remains dormant
Today I eat bread

Gnarled stiff digits
Count the rings on the tree stump
None escape aging

Back garden lies still
Spring bulbs awaken slowly
Unbroken promise

A full moon tonight
Winter clouds obscure the view
A rare blue moon month

Falling drops of rain
Collecting in the eave trough
Racing out the spout

A selfless life is
The bee working the hive comb
Next generation lives

Resignation is
Learning not to want what is
Unlearning what is

Elusive dream state
Winter"s white Spring's green
Both colours of hope

Drunken monk staggers
Full moon highlights the footpath
Bed awaits his snore

Haiku writer sits
Nature is indifferent
His needs are simple

English Kelpie

2009-10-09T12:11:00.004-04:00

A Sheffield lass who knew too much
Driven from her home
Chatted freely with me.
I learned her name and heard her pain;
There was nothing I could do.

It is said we don't fall in love
Rather we rise to meet Love's challenge.
Love is a choice
To accept or decline
When it comes our way.

The ammunition we have on ourselves
Is much more lethal by our own hand.
Validation is a curious notion
When coming from across an ocean
The more we get the more we need.

A Dales' lass who saw too much
Driven from her home
Chatted freely with me.
I learned her name and saw her pain.
She touched my scars and said goodbye.

For Carrie Fisher with deep appreciation and abiding empathy

2009-08-30T15:27:00.004-04:00

A desert place between the seas
In a valley watered from the south.
The air the texture of a Van Gogh canvas.
The canyon hills again on fire:
A land of make believe.

There floats a mind unsettled,
a spirit unharnessed, roaming pensive
From a trauma often spoken.
An endless struggle of creativity and apathy.

High mood; low mood fade to black
What Pole today will she tread?
Leap out of or stay in bed;
Attempting to be brave through sometimes overwhelming dread.

In my eyes I see a woman of substance.
With my ears I hear a woman speak of strength.
In my mind my touch can feel her power;
Bitter-sweet the taste of her lips.

Erudite and exclusive is not her essence.
Earthy, she walks alone among the stars.
Never struggling to be who she is -
Steeling the courage to be her all.

The daffodils of Spring returned in Victorian tradition.
The Summer's roses complete with thorns.
Mum was the word for Autumn's proposal.
Winter's holly berries so pretty yet fatal.

The bloom is off the Flower Children yet she remains everlasting.

"Volunteers of America"

2009-08-20T14:15:00.003-04:00

Animal Farm

I am an early riser. This is most likely a result of my early conditioning with rural roots and a strong work ethic. As I lay in bed I could sense a storm brewing. I arose and moved to the kitchen. Lighting a candle I rolled a Harry Rag; the first of far too many that make these long summer days tolerable. Flashes of light outside the windows confirmed my suspicions that indeed an intense thunderstorm was imminent. Exiting the house I stood on the foot path of the back garden as lightning strikes all around me flashed and sounded. I was not afraid. It is foolish for a man to defy Nature - a lesson I had learned as a youth on the lakes and in the woods of this region. But the electrical energy in the air of a summer storm I find invigorating. I began to reflect on the events of the past few weeks and I could not help but see the humour in my circumstances.
I have been very hungry. Its the kind of hunger a man feels when he sees others feeding at the banquet table but he has to wait and is told to bus the table and take the scraps back to the kitchen to share amongst the Staff. My hunger directed me to City Hall where I had been told they had slices of American pie for enterprising individuals. I had arrived at City Hall with my plate, fork and tea towel only to be told there was no slice for me. They were very polite and took the opportunity to explain to me that only invited members of the party were entitled to the pie the State had given them. I asked them how does one get an invitation to join the party and again they were quite cordial explaining that party attendance was limited to those who are Caucasian Christian Capitalists. I walked away grateful to them for being so honest and polite in their demeanor. Still hungry and now disappointed I couldn't get any slice of the pie for myself I returned home.
Opening the garden gate I was greeted by a small white envelop on the foot path. There was a note from my father and enclosed was a cheque. My father had heard about my dire straits and wanted to help. I slipped the cheque into my trouser's pocket and reversed my heading and walked back to town. I entered the bank the cheque was written on and waited in queue to be allowed to approach the hallowed alter that serves as a barrier to separate people from their money. The Associate granted me permission to approach and I slid my father's cheque towards her through the slot under the bars of her cage. She asked me if I had an account with the bank and I replied that indeed I do. She began to enter information into her computer and discovered my accounts with her employer were in arrears. She said she could not give me my father's money but she would be more than happy to take his money and put it towards the debt I had with my delinquent accounts. I thanked her for trying to help me to pay down my debts but explained that I would like to have the cheque back. I walked out of the bank with my father's cheque grateful to the Associate and to the bank's policies for being so careful who they give other people's money to. I walked across the street to the bank where I have other accounts.
There was no queue in this branch and an Associate welcomed me to her window. A very pretty young woman no more than 21 years old, with a smile as bright as linen bed sheets set to dry on a back garden line examined the cheque and explained that she could not cash it. She suggested I deposit the cheque into one of my accounts and a portion of it will be available the following day with the remainder available in 5 days. I thanked her for being so careful with other people's money and explained I was hungry and needed to get food. She said she understood this but there was nothing she could do. I filled out a deposit slip for the full amount and slid it over the counter towards her. I said to the Associate, “You are an Associate and are very low in the hierarchy of this institution. But you are going to get an earful. The Federal Treasury has printed hundreds of Billions of dollars to give to your employers and many, many other banks. These banks have taken this money and have refused to tell anyone what they are doing with it. This money is your grand children's debt. A guy walks in and needs some money to buy food and you won't give it to him. Where is the humanity in your employer's policies?”
The Associate smiled and replied, “Yes, Sir.”
I paused realising that I was venting to the wrong person. I apologised to this unfortunate young person who was only trying to get through her minimum wage day. I thanked her after apologising and left the bank. I grew concerned that someone would report me to the authorities as a trouble maker. “Oh well” I sighed out loud. “I'll just use more tobacco to curb my appetite. I will eat tomorrow. Maybe.”
Arriving home the dog and cat were there to welcome me. Its comforting to come home to living things who don't care what I look like, what kind of car I don't use, or that I am not working. They love me for me; and of course they love me because I buy food for them. What they give me in companionship and loyalty is priceless.
Putting fresh batteries into the radio I tuned in to get a report on which way the wind was blowing that day. A recently recorded speech from a University professor was amusing and lightened my mood. The speaker's Marxist rhetoric gave me pause to reflect. The speaker concluded by remarking that the Fascists running these small towns and small cities around America encourage the populace to have dope and alcohol to keep them anesthetized and subdued. The speaker mentioned that the State allows gambling in the form of Lotteries to give the underclass a glimmer of hope that somehow they'll pick the magic numbers that will take them away, however briefly, from their dismal existence. The professor spoke of how the unwritten conspiracy between the State, the pharmaceutical companies, and the psychiatric community is keeping the mental health population tranquil. The speaker suggested that as long as the populace is anesthetized they will not figure out how they are deliberately being cheated; rise up and build Guillotines to lop off the heads of their oppressors. I chuckled at the speaker's hyperbole and as the speech ended I switched stations.
Michigan's native son, Bob Seger, was singing...
“I awoke last night to the sound of thunder
'How far off?' I sat and wondered.
I started humming a tune from 1962.
Ain't it funny how the night moves?
When you just don't seem to have that much to lose?
With Autumn closing in.”
Concluding the time was right for a bit of street theatre I developed a plan to draw attention to myself and the rest of the disenfranchised left behind by the new Socialism.
Two weeks earlier a half dozen smartly dressed men in black trousers and blazers over white shirts had gathered on the foot path at the busiest intersection in town. They wore scarlet red sashes. I watched and listened as they performed their rehearsed drill and chanted that marriage was to be only between a man and a woman. They displayed a large cross and several posh signs. I was embarrassed for them but the large crowd that had gathered apparently was in complete agreement with their philosophy. I will give them their props for organisation and deployment. I wondered who put them up to it - the insurance industry, the Fundamentalists, or perhaps Yahweh had spoken directly to them from behind a burning bush. It was an ideal location for a demonstration and I at the time had made a note for future reference.
I collected the necessary materials for my "demonstration": lawn chair, some loose coinage, hand-penned cardboard sign, OSHA approved safety glasses, passport for ID purposes, ACLU attorney's mobile number.
I placed my lawn chair on the parkway, the grassy strip between the foot path and the street. I took my seat, placed my safety glasses on my face and reached for my sign leaning it against my legs facing the street. Earlier I had printed in large florescent letters, "I BET YOU CAN'T HIT ME WITH A QUARTER!".
I waited patiently for the money for begin rolling in. I quickly learned I might have worn more padding as those coins hurling at me by some Brett Farve wannabes carry a sting.
Business was brisk for a short time. Frat boy types circled the block several times for opportunities to "score". The circus evidently was in town. I was in my glory until the first police car arrived.
The city official who drove up in his cruiser requested I, "Move along". I ignored his request knowing I was not violating any statutes. I did not speak or pay him any mind.
Now if there is one thing the type "A" personality that cops possess can not tolerate is being ignored. They are in charge and any threat to their authority will be met with rudeness and hostility. I braced myself for the backlash.
I'm a big guy - at least in stature. At a hundred kilos its not easy to move my person. Back-up for the primary responding officer quickly arrived. I was told to rise, was cuffed and led to a waiting unit. I did not resist and I did not speak. I have read enough Thoreau to know civil disobedience only is effective if one remains passive. I had been in enough demonstrations in the early '70's and later against W's Crusade, to know not to carry so much as a nail file should it be considered a concealed weapon. To make a long story longer...
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.
I knew I could be held in lock-up for up to 48 hours if not arraigned and bonded out. My attorney could get me out on a writ before then. I was prepared to sit and wait. I was hungry and I secretly crave institutional food.
An ADA had happened to be at the lock-up on another case and had called her boss about my detention. Her boss I later discovered had been in a secret meeting with other Upstate DA's who are trying to fuck the Cayuga Nation out o f the Supreme Court upheld treaty with the State of New York and the Cayuga Nation to a nice bit of ground often referred to as "Cayuga County". The DA's last year violated the treaty and seized 18,000 cartons of cigarettes from a vendor. Those cigarettes where on the street by 11:00 pm that night. We had bought some out of the trunk of a car to keep to remember the event. The ADA explained to the police they should release me. On my way out I flirted a bit with her and she smiled the coy smile women give when they are flattered by the attentions of an attractive male.
This is the new Socialism for the New America. The banking establishment has been given hundreds of billions of dollars and won't say what they're doing with it. Local law enforcement is seizing property of another race and prohibiting that race from exercising their traditional rights. Smartly dressed men protest the right of couples of any gender to marry and receive benefits only rights heterosexual couples are allowed. And a guy sits quietly on a street corner and humiliates himself in order to buy food. Is this the new Socialism or is this National Socialism?
"Gotta revolution'!" ?

The Sisters of Satan

2009-06-17T09:12:00.002-04:00

The Talmud suggests that Satan will appear in the guise of a beautiful woman. Misogyny ruled early Judaic interpretation of the law. Christian fundamentalists in keeping with Old and New Testament literal mistranslations of text encourages women to be subservient to males. In the Muslim religion similar views are preserved. The belief that Satan walks the Earth stalking human beings is widely held. How did this occur? What is in the post modern human psyche that allows the idea that a Supernatural being has set his sights on us? Ready to destroy us and our families.
Ten thousand years ago as humans began to form into larger social groups in a cooperative arrangement to house, clothe and feed themselves any threat to the group was seen as coming from without. Domestic animals had to be controlled by fencing and tethering lest they destroy the crops and famine would result. The most destructive animal was the goat. A goat or goats can strip an orchard, a crop, a vineyard in a matter of hours. Later, the idea of a mythological being appeared resembling the goat replete with cloven hooves and horns who could be blamed for the all ills of mankind. From the earliest writings this being was responsible for famine, fever, and misfortune. Today it is easy to see the progression of the myth of Satan through literature. Perhaps the most epic fictional account of the Fall can be seen in Milton's “Paradise Lost”. Through this piece of fiction the idea of Satan as an actual entity was promoted. Through the use of fear persons could easily be controlled. These concepts are used today in some religious organisations.
In the UK an entire subculture has erupted concerning satanic rituals. There are rumours of cults of secret satanic organisations wrecking havoc on society. Not much of it is based in fact. The British, determined to take naughty behaviours to the next level are like children with a new toy. It is the same with their fascination with pseudo-sexual deviance. Being naughty is the Brits way of rebelling. It is for the most part harmless activity as long as no one is injured physically or psychologically. British Social service agencies have investigated fully the rumours of organised satanic cults and have found them to be without any basis in reality. Paganism has swept Britain and given her early history the interest is understandable. It’s a relatively crowded small island and any form of individuality one can afford to partake in is certainly acceptable.
Satan is now firmly established as a non-fictional character based on a culture's need to find a reason to hate what it doesn't understand. Hate is a wasted emotion. It accomplishes nothing positive and creates an atmosphere of fear. Ignorance is hates handmaiden. It is through ignorance that the myth of Satan and his minions doing his bidding has invaded popular culture.
Human evil is a reality. The planned genocide of the Native peoples of the Americas is an example of human evil. The rise of Fascism and Totalitarian regimes in the twentieth century and the wholesale slaughter of millions of persons is a product of human evil. The genocides in South East Asia and in Africa are certainly manifestations of human evil. Slavery was a product of human evil. It is far easier for the human psyche to blame an outside force for man's inhumanity to man than to blame ourselves. The list is far too extensive for this article. Suffice to say let mankind take responsibility for its actions and stop blaming a mythological being.
Ignorance is the refusal to learn. Stupidity is the inability to learn.
When people read my profile they automatically relate “Satan” as something to be avoided. It is by no accident that the first sentence of my profile reads,
A style of film arose in America prior to, during, and after WWII. French film critics who were unable to view American films during the Occupation were flooded after the Liberation with all things American. They coined the phrase “Noir” or later “Film Noir” for the stylised American films that used German Expressionist art direction and camera techniques, often snappy dialog, and a plot line that more often than not pitted a single man against forces that were out to destroy him. Joining the protagonist in the storyline was usually a very specific kind of woman. French critics recognised this female as “La femme fatale”. Many actresses built their careers on playing this type of character. The competition for la femme fatale roles was fierce because these roles were so well developed by writers and deliciously evil. These are the characters that I fondly call “The Sisters of Satan”. They are my literary allusion of the Noir style la femme fatale. I coined this phrase some years ago. Their personalities are for the most part what modern psychologists would diagnosis as sociopaths. The rich film history of the film noir style with it’s over the top storyline, dialog, and superb photography I personally find fascinating. Yes the la femme fatale caricature is misogynistic. But not anymore so than the ditsy ingenue, the Ian Fleming female heavy, or any production where weak women are portrayed as less than complete persons. The Noir la femme fatale was an extremely strong albeit sick individual. It is that contrary persona which entertains me and stimulates my intellectual interests.
“I am an initiate of tIts he Sisters of Satan.” Nearly all the postings that have appeared in this blog have dealt with the reoccurring theme of denial. Denial is the unconscious motivation of the femme fatale. there between the lines of many of the stories, both the fiction and non-fiction I create. Denial is one of the psychological issues facing each of us today. We are an anxious, frightened and potentially violent species. We need to look at ourselves and this culture and decide what we want our future is to be. We can not afford to allow zealots, charlatans, and warmongers to continue to make the policies that have so far cost the lives of tens of thousands of human beings. Each of us is responsible for the current war. Our children have returned from the Mideast with severe psychological issues including PTSD because of policies based on lies. Soldiers are committing suicide at an unacceptable rate. Thousands of Muslims have died from the bombs dropped by American pilots flying American planes. A modern country was returned to rubble and a civil war was allowed because of the lies perpetrated upon us by men and women whose ability to lead remains suspect and whose actions if not criminal may at least be viewed as morally reprehensible.
It is no coincidence Muslim fundamentalists refer to America as “The Great Satan”. I was ashamed to be an American after the bombing began. It has taken me 7 years to gain the courage (because I was afraid before the regime change) to say what I wanted to say. We have emerged from a very dark time. Our economy is in ruins, social services are strained to their limits, and people are losing their jobs, their pensions, and their homes.
The anti-intellectual mindset that has been America needs to be changed.
I am being told to stop writing from comments I have received. The Bill Of Rights tells me I can say and publish whatever I want without fear of censorship. If you don't like what I write, don't subscribe. When ignorant, uneducated citizens and those who encourage them start trying to push academically trained, educated professionals around we get together and hire attorney's who hire investigators who look into the lives of people who want to censor others. This is called the adversarial process. The plaintiff becomes the target while their case is reduced to secondary importance. The ACLU loves to defend writers and our right to express ourselves. Only a judge can prevent a writer from creating with a gag order. Unless they assassinate the creator like someone did that unfortunate MD last month because he had the courage to save the lives of women whose pregnancies would have killed them. A writer is not responsible for how the reader interprets his work. A writer can not be responsible if a reader has the inability to identify allusion, metaphor, hyperbole, or satire. A writer's responsibility is not to the reader. It is the reader's responsibility to have the intellectual capacity to comprehend the intent of what is being read.
It is my hope that all who read my work find within it that I am a deeply empathetic, caring person who has never physically harmed anyone. I do not promote violence unless as hyperbole. If someone feels threatened by my words it is their problem. I lead my professional life in service to persons in need of understanding. My motivation in my writing is to entertain, provide information, and provoke dialog.
If you don't like it don't read it.

"How Things Are Made"

2009-06-09T10:13:00.001-04:00

Before there was a Starbucks on every block of both sides of the streets of the City. Before there was that odd little Dunkin Donuts man with the mustache shuffling across his bedroom floor at 4 am “to make the donuts”. Before America decided that caffeine was a legitimate stimulant with which to increase one's anxiety to levels heretofore unknown outside hospital mental health wards there was Tim Horton's.
Tim Horton was a hockey player in the early days of the NHL. He was killed, tragically, in a plane crash. When rescuers came upon the fuselage of the DHC-3 Otter airplane in the wilderness that is much of Canada all that could be identified of him were his testicles. Wolverines had ravaged the corpses of the crash victims. More about this later.
A Tim Horton's franchise is now being created at the rate one every eight minutes. It is the fastest growing enterprise in North America. In the States a Tim Horton's restaurant is also a Canadian embassy where citizens can obtain tourist information and find respite. Tim Horton's has the finest coffee and donuts in the world. There are several reasons why Tim Horton products far surpass its competitors.
The grease Tim Horton's uses to fry the donuts and used in the pastries and pies is a byproduct of the fur industry. The annual harp seal harvest creates an unlimited supply of fresh blubber. After a pup seal is clubbed it is dragged by its rear flippers to waiting skinners. With assembly line precession the skin is removed; the carcass is processed into sled dog food, and the pelts are stretched inside out. While on the fleshing boards workers quickly scrape the fat off and send it down the line to be rendered. The fat is placed in large vats and heated at high temperature to turn the solid fat into liquid. The meat that came off the skin with the fat does not liquefy. It remains solid and is sold to vendors who have concession stands at curling clubs and hockey arenas. “Seal on a stick” is very popular in Canada and is similar to the corn dog sold in the States. The now liquid fat is pumped into tanker transports and shipped to a central warehouse for distribution to franchises.
The coffee at Tim Horton's is a special brew. The beans used are from both South America and Africa. What makes the blend superior as compared to Horton's competitors is what is done to the beans before they are ground. Canadian Agribusiness subsidised by the ministries of Agriculture and Natural Resources owns and operates huge factory farms where pregnant cow moose are husbanded. The moose are kept in stanchions and their urine is collected in a gutter. The urine is pumped into tanks and the imported coffee beans are then dumped in to marinade. After a time the beans are removed, roasted and ground. This helps to explain why Canada has the lowest birth rate among third world nations.
Tim Horton was an iconic Canadian sports figure. His prowess on the ice can be attributed to the high testosterone levels recorded at his regular medicals. Horton's testicles were much larger than the average male. Forensic experts were able to determine it was indeed Horton when they examined the recovered parts of the wolverine ravaged remains from the crash site. Horton's testicles were declared by a unanimous vote of Parliament as a national treasure to be preserved and are on display at the Natural History Museum in Ottawa. "Tim Bits" are large cylindrical deep fried dough balls the exact dimensions of Mr. Horton's.
Next time you're in a Horton's you may hear a patron say, “Please double-cup that.” This phrase is self-explanatory. You may also hear a recording of a gravelly baritone voiced man in a sing/speak manner recite dour lyrics over the restaurant's speakers. Do not be alarmed by this. It is most likely Canada's poet laureate Leonard Cohen. Sit back and relax! Enjoy your coffee and Tim Bits.

"Call me Ishmael""

2009-06-04T10:11:00.003-04:00

Several evenings ago- never mind exactly when, having no money in my pockets I decided to walk down to where the unemployed people gather under the bridge that supports the highway out of this city. Musicians of all types with their instruments improvised a variety of tunes. Bottles of unknown liquid with high potency passed amongst the crowd. A never ending communal pipe of cannabis circulated. I hadn't gone to party on this night. It was my intention to begin to network, a phrase that has come to mean using strangers and using the friends of strangers to gain leads in the hope of finding work. From what I had read on MSN everyone, everywhere is using each other. Not being one to buck a social trend albeit about 5,000 years old, I began to introduce myself around.
The calm and peaceful ambiance was interrupted when someone from a passing auto on the highway above tossed an empty can of beer out the window. All eyes were on the can as it floated towards us. As the can hit the ground seven people dove for it. The nickel deposit being the reward for some lucky person. A struggle ensued and many epithets were heard. Several observers with mobiles in hand were prepared to call emergency services should violence break out. I wondered to myself how, if one is unemployed, one can afford to have a mobile. This thought quickly passed as I was distracted by a lone figure leaning against the abutment. Curious, I walked over to the person in the shadows. It was not until I was within spitting distance of the figure that I heard, “Long time no see, Bill.” The voice was familiar but I could not place it. The North London inflection was distinct but I couldn't put a face to the voice. Below us, the partiers had dumped a large box of books on the community fire and the fresh fuel highlighted the surrounding area.
I looked into the face of the stranger. The patented toothy grin was instantly recognisable. “Raymond Douglas!” I laughed. “Yes, it has been a long time.”
I reached into my pocket and brought out my cigarette case. “Fag, Raymond Douglas?” I offered with a smirk. Raymond Douglas reached for one of my Harry Rags.
“Thanks, mate.” Raymond Douglas reached out and lit my smoke and then his. “How long since you worked, Bill” he asked.
“Months.” I replied. Its getting rough. “It's not like the UK where a bloke who isn't working isn't stigmatised.” Here, if you don't work you don't exist.”
“Yeah. I spend six months here and six months in London because of tax,” Raymond Douglas laughed. “What happened at the last situation?”
“Policy infraction,” I sighed. “They have a zero tolerance policy concerning violence. I wrote, 'This machine kills Fascists' above my monitor. The Director had stopped by my cubicle and I got the sack.”
Laughing, Raymond Douglas quipped, “No one likes a plagiarist!”
I chuckled at his self-deprecating humour and retorted, “Everything produced since 1877 has now been sampled. I think I heard Edison's “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in a 50 cent cut. There's plenty of work for Solicitors.”
“They think they know us because of what we publish,“ I complained. “Most of them over there couldn't find a metaphor in a sack of mad cats.”
Raymond Douglas laughed out loud. “They're burning books for light and comfort. In another time that would be a red flag. Today there's too much rubbish. Too many bad books, too much bad music, too many bad films.”
“Its unfortunate its come to this,” I sighed. “What did Bob say about creating something?”
“Bob did it right. He got in on the publishing rights angle straight off. Not like me. Bob hasn't much use for us Brits. Can't say as I blame him. He's got his resentments. I have mine. How about you?”
Raymond Douglas drew hard on the fag and stared down at me. I felt a little overwhelmed. The man had given me so much over the years. My gratitude I could not express adequately and I figured he'd heard it all before.
I thought for a moment and stammered, “Raymond Douglas, I think that in years to come, long after we are all dead and buried people will know you and David as two of the most unique and original artists of the latter Twentieth century. Its cold comfort I know - about the money and all - but you know the true originals are never recognised in their life times. Bloody Hell! I sound like an arse kisser but you asked me and I answered you honestly.” I smiled at him and wanted so much to hear his approval.
“Bill, thank you. I've been around long enough to suss if I'm being stroked. So what you gonna do? You gonna give the people what they want?” He asked with sincerity and genuine concern.
“Hey!” I chuckled. “That would make a great title for a posting. Mind if I use it?”
“Go ahead. I got it from Barnum,” he laughed.
“You that old, Raymond Douglas?” I grinned.
“Some days, yeah,” he winked.
“I wonder who he got it from?” I chuckled.
“Hard to say, mate. I imagine he fucked some innocent wanker out of it.”
“Raymond Douglas, I have to get back and find people to use. It was great seeing you and I'll keep listening,” I promised. “G'night.”
“G'night, Bill. I'm off myself to the studio.”
The smile in his voice made me glad I had come to the underpass on this particular night. I walked back towards the crowd a little richer, not financially but emotionally and intellectually. It was time to find a ship and go a-whalin'.

"Even educated fleas do it"

2009-06-02T10:57:00.000-04:00

Dear NPR,

I never thought I'd be writing a letter to your Forum, er, um... I mean “All Things Considered” about a recent “driveway moment”.
After a day at the shore my date and I made the hour long commute back to her home. Our first date, we had agreed that a day at the beach would allow us an opportunity to explore our mutual interests and learn more about one another. The weather cooperated just as had been forecast. Just the right mix of sun and clouds kept the air temperature in the high seventies. When the sun was too strong we simply ran into the surf and swam until the periodic billowy clouds provided shade and cooled down the sand. We had a wonderful picnic lunch and fresh lemonade.
I can only speak for myself but I didn't want this date to end too soon because it was all so perfect. My date looked adorable with her slightly pinkish tinge. Her hair a bit disheveled I watched as she brushed out the tangles. I knew as we walked to the car I could easily fall hard for her. The leisurely drive back with afternoon NPR broadcasts allowed my date and I to discuss current events and topical cultural features you folks so lovingly prepare each and every day. As I turned onto her street a most fascinating piece began.
One of your reporters was speaking to Isabella Rossellini about a project she is involved with. We learned Ms. Rossellini is the narrator of a cable television program about the love lives of insects and other creatures. Her sultry Anglo-Mediterranean voice described in great detail how insects and other creatures procreate. My date and I listened in fascination as she vividly described acts that can only be termed “erotic”.
I became aware that my breathing had become a bit shallower. I had become aroused not just by my date sitting next to me, the natural perfume of the beach and sun and surf in her hair and on her skin, but by Ms. Rossellini’s narrative. I sat there in the car wondering if my date was feeling the way I was. As the piece ended and a promo for an upcoming pledge drive came on I made my move. I slowly and deliberately reached across the console and around the stick shift and placed my hand on the inside of her thigh. I turned to look at her to see what reaction I would receive when she reached out with her left hand and cupped it behind my head and drew my face towards hers. Our mouths met and we kissed gently. We broke apart but kept our gaze. Again we kissed one another but this time with more ardor. She took my hand and placed it on her breast. I slipped it inside her pale blue sleeveless blouse and with my index finger traced her aureole several times before finding and gently pinching her erect nipple. To my surprise my date reached over and with a deftness so defining unzipped my fly. I popped out like a spring in a Looney Tunes featurette. I moved from my date's mouth to her neck as she massaged the crown of my penis. We sighed at the same time with the realization that we had passed the point of no return.
I reached inside her Capri pants and to my delight found her well lubricated. With my finger on her button I swirled my middle digit and she writhed and twisted in her seat. We massaged one another to climax in the minutes that followed.
I needed to share with you our “driveway moment”. Thank you, NPR. Thank you, Ms. Rossellini. We are making a joint donation to our local affiliate. We have discussed since that moment our future together. We jokingly talk about naming any issue of our love for one another after one of you.

Names withheld by request

Passive-Aggressive no more

2009-06-01T11:16:00.003-04:00

Exciting new advancements in technology are allowing employers the ability to modify employee behaviours in several cost saving ways. Honeywell, the innovative force behind the new technology has developed an ankle strap that can be worn by employees which will allow Central Control to monitor an employee 24 hours a day. While in the work place employee production levels can be checked with the stroke of a keyboard. An employee who spends an excessive amount of time in the toilet, around the water cooler, or surfing the world wide web will be disciplined with a “mild” electronic impulse designed to correct the inappropriate behaviour immediately. No longer will it be necessary for management to verbally reprimand an employee. The time saving measures are designed to further distance labour from management thus eliminating the co-mingling of inferiors with their superiors. Honeywell is expected to introduce its new product at the 2010 TechnoExpo in Las Vegas.
With 24-hour monitoring employers will know where an employee is at all times. A GPS chip in the ankle strap can trace an employee from the time they leave the production floor, office, or job site. The GPS technology will register where the employee goes after work and how long they remain in any given location.
A chemical sensor in the ankle strap can detect illicit substance use and nicotine use as well as monitor the blood alcohol level of the wearer. Honeywell remains strongly committed to insuring employees do not alter their mood in ways that will hinder future job performance. Another sensor will monitor employee eating habits. Employees who do not follow corporate nutritional standards will receive an electronic impulse that will induce vomiting. The sensor will also measure and monitor an employee's BMI. Honeywell believes a healthy employee is a productive employee.
A minute microphone on the strap will record all employee conversations 24-hours a day. An employee who is critical of his employer or a co-worker will face immediate dismissal. Employees who are involved in political or religious activities deemed subversive by their employer will also be dismissed. Honeywell believes that Corporate Internationale's commitment to fighting any threat to its existence will welcome this new innovation.
Honeywell has hinted the ankle strap is a precursor to future technological innovations. Working with behavioural psychologists and neuroscientists Honeywell is expected to complete a feasibility study of sub-cranial implants to replace the costly ankle strap by 2015.

"All the faulty pointed people in the perfect pointed steeple"

2009-05-29T11:30:00.006-04:00

During the Reagan years the euphemism “revenue enhancement” entered the lexicon to describe ways new taxes could be created to help pay for services necessary to keep government solvent. Twenty-five years later as local and state governments scramble to pay for services once funded by the Federal government one sector of society remains tax exempt. While “sin taxes” are periodically increased on alcohol, gambling, and tobacco there remains no tax on the property and income generated by religious organisations. It is time legislatures look at the potential for increasing revenues by creating a “self-righteous” tax.
For too long self-described “Christians” have been flexing their beliefs and values on persons who may disagree with them. These Christians have been getting a free ride by erecting churches and meeting houses and not paying any taxes on the land or buildings. At the same time they remain property tax exempt they also are not paying an “ether tax” on the prayers they generate. The ether is owned by the American people as described in current legislation. Persons who pray should have to pay for this privilege. A “Rapture” tax may also be included in these new revenue enhancement tools. The “Rapture” tax would be applied each time a Christian leader and his followers set a date for the occurrence and after it fails to manifest they will have to tithe ten percent of their Church's income to their local government. Should the Rapture occur all the property owned by those gathered up by it will be seized by the government and sold in the open market place.
The “self-righteous” tax will also include all actions deemed to be hypocritical by the legislature. With Jesus in their hearts each time a Christian has an adulterous relationship, strikes a child, or criticizes another person they will have to declare this on their annual tax return. Also, the display of a fish on an automobile will be licensed by a state's DMV.
A special tax on Gospel music will be included in the revenue enhancement package. Each time some wanna be cross-over singer who sang in their church's choir adds an annoying and unnecessary tremolo to a lyric they will have to pay a tax.
The perceived identification of the image of Jesus in snack foods, stains, or the grain of wood will be taxed.
Angels will be identified as legal aliens and will require a Green card. A tax on all of their activities will be enforced. Should an angel fail to pay their “good deeds” tax they will be striped of their legal alien status and sent back to where they came from.
Persons who condemn abortion and endorse Capital punishment will be taxed. There will appear on their annual tax return a cheque box asking if they believe abortion is an affront to God. They will be asked if they believe the death penalty is God's will.
As social services continue to struggle to keep up with the growing demand of disenfranchised individuals and families revenue enhancement through the creation of tax parity among citizens seems appropriate. Its time legislatures at all levels of government recognise there is an untapped resource available. Let's examine the “self-righteous” tax as a viable revenue source.

Does the noise in my head bother you?

2009-05-28T09:28:00.002-04:00

In the days before radio and long before tele became an essential piece of functional furniture in dysfunctional homes there was Vaudeville and there was Burlesque. While Vaudeville featured acts that were socially acceptable for mixed gender audiences it was Burlesque that was the for the most part the domain of men. Burlesque houses featured strippers, comedians, and male and female impersonators. The Burlesque house was a place where men could be titillated and teased.
The organisation behind the entertainment consisted of the house owner, his staff of stage hands, the booking agent, the entertainer's agent and at the bottom of this pyramid was the entertainer. Agents back then like today would get a percentage paid to them by their clients. Agents gained a reputation based on their ability to get an act work. A good agent could sell any act to a booking agent. It is said that one such agent in New York had an act from Europe that he was certain would pack houses up and down the East Coast. His pitch it is said went something like this:

Agent: “Saul, I got an act for you you can't say “No” to.”

Booking Agent: “What is it Mortie?”

Agent: “Saul, it’s a family act from Europe. They brought down the house everywhere they appeared before coming here to New York.”

Booking Agent: “Go on tell me more.”

Agent: “Saul, there is the father and mother, a son and a daughter.”

Booking Agent: “We got those here, Mortie. What do they do?”

Agent: “Well, it’s a little complicated but I'll try to explain what they tell me. The father, a very distinguished gentleman enters stage left wearing a tuxedo. He sits down in a Bentwood chair stage center and pulls out his putz and starts to pleasure himself. His wife enters stage right and kneels down in front of her husband and takes his putz in her mouth. He stands up while she's doing this and he takes off his coat, his shirt and his undershirt. He's bare chested standing there while his wife has his putz in her mouth. He leans forward and grabs her skirts and pulls them up over her head exposing her bare toches. A teenage boy comes out from stage left, who is the couple's son. The son drops his pants and mounts his mother's toches and begins to give it to her while she's got his father's putz in her mouth. The father is cheering on his son and looks to stage right and signals for the forth member of the troupe to come out. A teenage girl comes out on stage and takes off all her clothes in front of her brother and father and mother. She squats down on the stage and makes right there while her brother is buggering his mother and the mother has the father's putz in her mouth. The girl picks up what she made and walks over to her father and smears the drek all over her father's bare chest. She rubs the make on herself and then gets behind her brother and grabbing his head she rubs it all over her naked drek covered body. The curtain comes down and the audience, I'm told, goes mad and demands an encore.”

Booking Agent: “Jesus, Mortie! I have never heard of anything like that in my life! What the Hell kind of act is that? What do they call they call themselves?”

Agent: “The Aristocrats.”

Deviant Social Behaviours

2009-05-11T09:06:00.003-04:00

Stuff to do this summer while waiting for the job market to improve*

1.) Carve the image of politicians into urinal cakes and distribute in public restrooms.
2.) Go to a dollar store, randomly pick up items and in a loud voice inquire, “How much is this?”
3.) Visit your local Walmart and defecate in the men's dressing room.
4.) Visit the drive-up speaker at a Burger King and order a Whopper. Request extra udder with that.
5.) On the hottest day of the summer season dig out your winter gear – Pac boots, snow pants, parka, mittens and wool cap. Walk around town asking folks, “Hot enuff fer ya?”
6.) Call your veterinarian and explain to him/her that your cat refuses to use its litter box and will only do its business in your gold open toed 5 inch stiletto heel sling backs. Ask him or her what can be done about this.
7.) At a four way intersection do not proceed thru the green light. While the drivers behind you honk in frustration wait until the light goes to red. When the light goes to green do not move. At the last minute before the light changes from yellow to red drive on.
8.) Find a busy pharmacy and while in the queue ask in a loud voice, “Is this the queue for the free Oxycontin?”
9.) Visit the market's fresh seafood section. Request a pound of fresh raw shrimp. Place the shrimp in your trolley and as you move up and down the aisles shopping strategically put a shrimp at the back of the shelves behind the jars, tins, and boxes of products. Return several days later and complain of the odor.
10.)In an email to all your contacts announce henceforth you will only respond if referred to as “The Dude”. Act annoyed if co-workers, friends and family address you by your Christian name.
11.) Visit the produce section of the market on a busy day and make statements such as, “Those melons appear to be firm.” Ask fellow shoppers, “Do you think this cucumber/summer squash/banana will satisfy my partner's appetite?”
12.) Visit the local Family Video. Ask the clerk where the kiddie porn section is.
13.) While out and about approach strangers and ask, “What if the Hokey-Pokey IS what its all about?”
14.) Buy several dozen condoms. Visit the local Catholic church after daily morning mass and moving across the pews insert a wrapped condom into each hymnal.
15.) At the light on an arterial signal the driver of the baby shit yellow coloured car next to you to roll down their window. Ask how much the dealer paid them to drive that car off his lot.
16.) Go online and find the times and locations of local Alcoholic Anonymous meetings. Arrive an hour early. Leave a couple of full beers at the entrance.
17.) Visit a singles club on a Saturday night. Approach an eager looking woman and compliment her on her appearance. Make small talk. Look down at her shoes and then into her eyes. Say, “Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?”
18.) Visit a pet store and release all of the animals from their cages and pens.
19.) Visit a different pet store and explain to the clerk you are having friends over for the holiday weekend. Inquire how much puppies are by the pound and ask if you can have them dressed.
20.) Rent a clown costume; apply a grease paint clown face. Stand at an intersection with a cardboard sign that reads, “Will drop pants for food.”
21.) At property tax time purchase a package of KY Jelly. Carefully open the package and remove the tube. Open the packaging completely and on the inside of the box make out a cheque for the full amount of tax owed. Present to the Assessor. Be sure to include on the memo line what the cheque is for.
22.) Dress in gnarly trash boots, black trousers, studded belt, black tee shirt with a pentagram. Apply eye shadow, mascara and black lipstick. Attend a Fundamentalist Christian Sunday service.
23.) Drive to the airport with an empty suitcase. Park. Enter the main building and proceed to the lounge area. Place the suitcase next to a chair. Leave.
24.) Over several summer evenings collect moths in a fruit jar. On the day of the premiere of a Hollywood Summer blockbuster at the cinema purchase a ticket. At the climax of the film release the moths. They will immediately fly towards the projector light and cloud the screen.
25.) The Highway Department routinely lays cables across the road to count the number of vehicles. Front tires hit the cable indicating one “ding” and the rear tires pass over indicating a second “ding” in the counter box. The number of “dings” is then divided by two to achieve an accurate accounting of cars using the road. Approach the cables with your car. Drive over with your front tires. Move forward until your rear wheels are near the cables but have not crossed them. Get out of your car, using the jack from the boot raise up the rear of the car and push it forward off the jack with the rear wheels missing the cables. Highway engineers will scratch their heads wondering why they repeatedly come up with an odd number in their calculations.
26.)Visit a Walmart Super Centre at 3 am. In the garden centre select a long handled shovel and a pick ax and place in trolley. Move on to sporting goods and select a 6 D cell Mag lite. In house wares select a shank of clothesline and a roll of duct tape. Place items on conveyor belt. If cashier speaks to you stare vacantly and do not respond. Pay with cash.
27.)Post a homage to Swift on your blog site. Title it “The Ultimate Act of Selfishness”. Your sardonic wit will be misinterpreted. Remind yourself that "if you can't please everybody you might as well please yourself”.

*For entertainment purposes only. This disclaimer includes no responsibility to pop psychology enthusiasts who have neither the education or experience concerning mental health issues to make a diagnosis based on what appears on a blog site.

The Ulimate Act of Selfishness

2009-05-08T16:05:00.001-04:00

Suicide. The word sends heads shaking. Loved ones experience guilt and ask themselves and one another what they may have done to prevent it. Mental Health workers question their techniques and perhaps in a brief moment of clarity examine their motives. Emergency services rush to the scene to pilfer the contents of the pockets, steal the jewelery, and case the home of the deceased. There's a mess to be cleaned up and that is the responsibility of the family. There are the archaic rituals of funeral and burial where family and friends gather and look sheepishly at one another with nothing to say but, “Ain't that a shame” or the obligatory, “I'm sorry for your loss”. Neighbors bring a dish to pass and all fill up on food for comfort and to fill the void inside themselves. And the cost! Death is extremely expensive and without insurance it is left to the family to cover the costs. And one's enemies in life - how they will secretly gloat and feel a degree of satisfaction in outliving you, their nemesis.
Its a dirty business, suicide is. But like life it really is inconsequential. Suicide is simply nature's way of weeding out the weak, the infirm, the mentally ill. If a human being isn't productive it is their obligation to make way for those who are. Human beings are merely a commodity: Bought and sold in a market place much more sophisticated than any auction block in Charleston or New Orleans. Jefferson wrote that human beings are born with inalienable rights including the “purfuit of happineff” (Jefferson's lisp appeared regularly in his writings). He never said they have the right to be happy. He said they have the right to pursue happiness. Happiness is an ideal left to those naive dreamers who haven't struggled with the overwhelming sense of failure and utter despair that clouds the mind of a depressive. A depressed person doesn't desire happiness we only contemplate the senselessness of life.
I think of Hardy's characters Tess and Jude. Unable to rise in station in class conscious Victorian England they were doomed from birth. They died as they had lived – anonymously. For all of their goodness they had been used and discarded by a culture indifferent to genuine virtue. “Jude the Obscure” has remained my favourite British Romantic tome. It is the saddest novel ever written in the English language. Read it if you dare. Then read “Tess of the d'Urbervilles” for good measure. If you aren't toweling the doors and windows and turning on the gas there's something wrong with you.
I am reminded of Jack London's pseudo-autobiography “Martin Eden”. A novel that is highly underrated in Academia because London's Naturalism has no social or political significance in the post-industrial global economy. Martin Eden's suicide is brilliantly described and deserves special attention for those considering the act by drowning.
The act of dying is fairly easy. Its much easier to die than to live with the anguish of despair. Life is difficult in the best of circumstances add clinical depression and it becomes unbearable. Planning one's demise takes careful consideration.
Firearms are easily obtainable but extremely traumatic to the spirit. Those who are considerate of others will recognise that someone has to clean up the mess that is left behind. Overdose can be gentle but yet again unless one is considerate and understanding in wearing an adult incontinence undergarment one will soil themselves and the sheets and mattress and it is embarrassing to be found this way as well as unpleasant for others. There is hanging but one risks traumatizing innocents who come across the strange fruit. Carbon monoxide poisoning is always an option and the rosy red glow to one's complexion is aesthetically pleasing until several hours latter when the skin will turn black and is extremely unpleasant to view. Finding a tall building and going over the edge is an option but should one hit a pedestrian or land in a no parking zone it would be unfortunate and may result in a ticket. And yet again the messiness is a factor to consider. Jumping in front of a bus or a train will surely do the trick but the trauma inflicted on the drivers and inconvenience to passengers is quite unfair. If you're determined to die you owe it to others to be as considerate as possible. And you need to remember that who ever finds you is going to steal your money and jewelry before the meat wagon arrives. So if you want that wedding band, engagement ring, or Rolex watch to go to a loved one be sure to make arrangements beforehand to see they get it. Also, if you have pets you will need to make arrangements for them before you die. They have served you faithfully and deserve good homes. They will forget you about 5 hours after they arrive in their new home. Don't despair about this. Their brains don't consider much more than getting food, water, and sniffing other animal's behinds. I believe this is in Maslow's hierarchy of needs for domestic animals.
Potential suicides may find it informative that Mental Health and Forensic experts will surmise your mental state by which method you have chosen to end your life so a note is not necessary. These rules are not hard and fast but with a little background information they will know your reason for dying. Men generally use a firearm placed in the mouth, eye, or temple. They are determined to make it fatal. It is the way of a man to make sure a job is done right. Women who use firearms generally shoot themselves in the chest signifying a broken heart and preserve their vanity which is projected in their faces. An acquaintance of mine, a nurse, used one of her husband's fillet knives and inserted it beneath her rib cage and up into her heart. With a quick twist she was gone. This was a metaphor of her despair over his adulterous relationships. My former fiance before successfully killing herself by hanging tried something similar with a knife blade too short to reach her internal organs. Overdoses with medication usually entail intent but leave room for that last minute 911 call. Wannabes will often use medications inadequately. There is a phenomena known as “Death by cop” which entails approaching an armed officer or officers with a weapon with the intent of being shot down. Happens often these days. Sometimes a police officer or officers will shoot someone and place a “throw down” weapon near the body and declare a death by cop suicide. Either way takes the responsibility off the individual and the cops don't mind.
I had a client whose older brother had committed suicide with a small caliber rifle. The client's parents the following Christmas holiday gave the same firearm to him as his present. Years later they confessed in therapy they couldn't understand Jimmy's substance abuse issues.
There are online sites and organisations dedicated to meeting the needs of the suicidal. The ancient order the Hemlock Society has very informative literature available. These dedicated individuals promote suicide but strangely they themselves remain alive to keep the website running and the mailing list up to date.
The Department of Offence who brought you the War on the Muslim Peoples or W's Crusade as some refer to it, is concerned about the high incidence of suicide among military personnel. Apparently the wholesale slaughter of tens of thousands of men, women, and children and returning a modern nation to the stone age has tweaked the conscience of some soldiers. A few malcontents within the military killing themselves really isn't an issue for Americans who are more concerned about falling real estate values and a bearish stock market.
John Wayne never worried about all the Japs and Indians he killed. Of course John Wayne never actually served in the military so perhaps the analogy is inappropriate. Wayne simply slowly killed himself with cigarettes over his life time and died of lung cancer. This is of course years after his character “The Quiet Man” raped Maureen O'Hara's character in the John Ford classic film. A cultural icon man's man such as John Wayne had no truck with candy asses who might be clinically depressed.
Conspiracy enthusiasts like to speculate about actress Marilyn Monroe's death. Murder, accident or suicide? While the papers reported she was found in the nude they didn't report that her bladder and bowels had emptied and soiled the sheets and seeped into the mattress. That vomit had filled her mouth and spilled out onto the pillows. Andy Warhol didn't consider a silkscreen of Marilyn on her death bed. Marilyn was aging quickly. Her skin, breasts and buttocks sagging her box office appeal was over. Several failed marriages, one to a brute of a man, a professional athlete who beat her regularly; another to an impotent intellectual who belittled her at every opportunity. Marilyn had to die young to preserve her iconic image as a sex goddess. Suicide. A tragic example of what this culture does to women who dare to age.
Act III scene 1. The Soliloquy. You know the words as you've heard them a thousand times. What does our prince conclude? He takes his frustration due to anger from the injustices he has experienced out on sweet, dear Ophelia. He tells her he loved her not. He denies her her sexuality, the essence of her humanness. He seals her fate with his misplaced hatred. There is nothing noble in Prince Hamlet; obsessed with revenge he alienates all of those who are close to him. Hamlet's tongue is sharper than his bodkin and with it he cuts and slashes his way through the remainder of the play. Had Hamlet access to Prozac what a different character he might have been.
Despite the hype there is no Romance in suicide. The sun will rise again tomorrow whether one chooses to witness its appearance or not. While the darkest hour is just before dawn, waiting for the grey to slowly fade and be replaced by the golden rays that warm the Earth and nourish all of Life please have the courtesy to settle your affairs. Make arrangements with a funeral home and pay in advance the cost of disposing of your remains. Clean your house or apartment – you don't want anyone thinking you lived like a slob. Foster out your pets. You don't want them gnawing on you if your remains aren't found immediately and they run out of food. Pay your debts – at least pay the cable bill as they are first to put your estate in collection. Pull the hard drive out of your computer and take a hammer to it. You don't want anyone looking at all the naughty stuff you said and did while online. Wear an adult incontinence undergarment or cut holes in a rubbish bag, place your legs in the holes and tie around your waist. Return any books or videos to the Public Library or Blockbuster as someone might be waiting for something you have. Notify the Post Office to stop delivery to your current address. Sort your recyclables. Do all the laundry. Don't leave dirty dishes in the sink. Scrub the bath and the toilet. Cancel the utilities. Turn off your mobile. Unplug the clock radio so it doesn't buzz until a neighbor breaks the door down in annoyed frustration over the noise. If you're a bloke get rid of all the porn in the house – you don't want your mum or sisters finding that stuff. If you're a lass get rid of those toys. No one wants their final image of you to be what you might have been doing with that twelve inch double dildo. There is no reason your death should be anything but orderly. Let your loved ones know you cared enough about them to make their mourning easier. Remember: Once you're gone never, ever again will it be all about you.

Public Speaking 101

2009-05-06T11:20:00.002-04:00

PRESENTATION to a closed meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous and ALANON
Skaneateles NY
April 13 2009

Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen. My name is Bill and I am here tonight to tell you about ALANON.

To break the ice I'll begin with an old joke. Don't stop me if you've heard this one. Paddy the Irishman had finished drinking at his local and closed the pub. He stumbled out to his Mini and got out on the lane way. Paddy got the old Mini into 4th gear and is motoring down the lane way when he sees what appears to be a large tree in the road. Paddy swerved to the left and as he did so another tree appeared so Paddy swerved to the right. “Mother of Christ” Paddy says, “What in the name of the Blessed Virgin is happening?” Paddy is tearing down the lane, slaloming from the left to right and back again. He flies past the Garda at 100 km who is hiding in his car in the hedgerow and the Garda peels out after Paddy with his lights flashing and his siren blaring. He watches as Paddy continues to swerve from side to side and gets on Paddy's arse so Paddy will notice him. Paddy stops in the center of the lane. The Garda walks up to Paddy's window and says, “Paddy, what the hell are ya doin' drivin' like a maniac down the lane way?”
Paddy tells the Garda about the trees in the road. The Garda looks at Paddy, looks at the Mini's rear view mirror and looks back at Paddy and says, “Fer Christ's sake, Paddy! That was yer air freshener!”

It’s all about perception.

I'd like to tell you about myself. I am a reformed alcohol abuser. I developed an allergy to alcohol many years ago. The last few times I drank I broke out in handcuffs and to avoid this unpleasant side-affect I stopped drinking.

Several years ago I was encouraged to find another occupation. Having a gift for empathy I began to take classes offered at a local junior college. Simultaneous to this I began to take the training offered by OASAS in substance abuse. My interest in substance abuse was at the time a direct result of my studies in clinical psychology. I achieved my CASACT and a degree in Human Services. I went on to Uni to gain my Bachelor's degree in Psychology. Having achieved these goals I then had to find a way to pay for them.

I have worked at several area facilities.

I accepted a position at a local substance abuse facility and became a case manager. I was fortunate because my peers, my program manager and program director were very professional. I liked my work and where I worked.

One afternoon, my program manager took me aside and asked me, “What the hell is going on? Johnny came to me and said you told him you were going to put him in prison.”
News to me.
I explained that Johnny had a lot of potential but his behaviours lately indicated that a relapse was imminent and that would mean that the 7-10 bid in State he was facing seemed likely. I explained I had been doing everything I could to help him avoid that.
The Program Manager said to me two things: “Ultimately it’s his recovery - his sobriety is his, he owns it. You have to find a way to separate what you want for a client and what they want for themselves.”
This piece of wisdom was something I could intellectualise but had not as of yet accepted in my heart. I knew that I needed to find a way to understand and accept that My will i.e. control issues were not always in the best interest of the clients I serve.

I went online and searched for a program that might help me better understand my relationship to my clients. That program was ALANON.

The issue of control is a large piece of the mindset of persons who are attracted to the field of Recovery as well as the major issue of the loved ones of alcohol abusers. Whether one chooses to use “Co-dependent”, “Enabler”, or the idiom “Control Freak” they are all the same behaviours. Too often persons who are attracted to the field of Recovery are unconsciously motivated by the mis-belief that because they are in recovery/sober they know what others need. They may have a great deal of empathy, don't get me wrong. Unfortunately their empathy is a result of mis-guided perceptions of themselves.

The psychology behind the control freak is interesting to note. Someone who needs to control is someone who is terrified that they will be found to be vulnerable. A person who needs to be in charge, who can not back off is a person who's greatest fear is of being found out to be merely human - this fear dominates their behaviours and their relationships with others.

It is thru ALANON that I learned that the behaviours of alcohol abusers belong to them. I learned that the manipulation, the denial, the compulsion to drink; all behaviours of the alcohol abuser, aren't within my power to control. I have learned that what I can control is how I present myself. I can control what I say and what I do.

It is thru ALANON I have been able to examine my family dynamic and understand my parent's behaviours and my sibling's behaviours. I understand that alcoholism is a family disease and whether drinking or not the learned behaviours associated with alcohol abuse in my family have been handed down for several generations. It is said that alcoholism is a hereditary disease. It is important to note here that the entire human genome has been mapped and there is no known genetic marker to indicate a biological inheritance. Having said that I will reiterate what I pointed out earlier – nearly all human behaviours are learned behaviours and if you look at your family of origin honestly and without prejudice you will come to understand that your behaviours are the sum total of your experiences and those experiences began when you arrived home from hospital.

The interpersonal relationships between the enabler and the alcohol abuser are unhealthy relationships. The enabler manipulates and attempts to control the drinker and in return the drinker manipulates and attempts to control the enabler. Around and around they go, sometimes for years. It’s interesting to note that often when the drinker gets sober and remains in the program the enabler leaves the relationship and finds another drinker. Sometimes if both partners are drinkers and they join a program their relationship ends because they have discovered their relationship was based solely on behaviours related to using. They discover they have nothing in common.

ALANON has given me more in the past three years than I could ever hope to return. In our one hour sessions we share the experience, hope, and strength with one another that allows us to live richer and more fulfilling lives regardless of what the alcohol abuser is doing. That one hour meeting is not a bitch-fest where we discuss the alcohol abuser(s) in our lives. The program is about the individual ALANON member. It’s a selfish program sometimes. It is not that we don't care about the drunk or drunks in our lives. It is about us learning to respect the individual to find their own way. By attending meetings and reading the literature we are re-enforced and keep an even keel in bad seas. We have learned that nagging, cajoling, and manipulating the user only makes the user more resistant to begin the process of wanting to examine their behaviours. Individuals grow at their own rate. It is a fundamental human right to be allowed to find one's path in life without interference from persons whose motives may be suspect. There was only ever one good one and they hung Him on a tree.

I began this evening with Paddy and how he perceived that there were trees blocking the lane way. It took a Garda to point out Paddy's mis-perception.

ALANON has taught me that my perceptions about myself, the clients I have served, and those close to me have been skewed by my fears that I might be found out to be only human. It is a humbling experience to be accepted for my flaws as well as my strengths. The rooms of ALANON have given me this.

Thank you and good night.

The Penny Whistle Blower

2009-05-05T10:13:00.002-04:00

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

“Well it’s a problem, sir, but it can’t be bent”

2009-04-17T11:55:00.001-04:00

“Cartels. Drug Lords. Clandestine operations. Automatic weapons.” Language used by the media that is intended to alarm, inflame, and outrage the public. The underlying racism is obvious. As long as immigrants were harvesting America's produce, landscaping or cleaning homes, and performing the sundry other manual labour tasks that other Americans were unwilling to do, everything was okay. With the “economic downturn” (a euphemism for high unemployment and tight credit) these hardworking, decent, proud people have been targeted by politicians eager to find a scapegoat for their failed policies.
Images of Federal agents dressed in body armor and carrying firearms flash on the screen. Bales of cash are shown. The monies spent on law enforcement are in the billions of dollars. Substance abuse should not be a criminal justice issue; it is a mental health issue.
The Volstead Act of 1919 which ushered in Prohibition created several socially significant realities. It doubled the alcohol consuming public. Saloons, which had been the domain of males became Speakeasies where both sexes could mingle and imbibe. Organized crime grew and later, the anti-hero Gangster glamorized in Warner Bros. films, created a new genre of art. Federal law enforcement gained new prominence in the Treasury Agent and Revenue Agent. Corruption was rampant.
My 93 year old father often tells the following account of the corruption during this era. It had always been his father's dream to buy and operate a hotel. He and his wife had found an opportunity in Atlantic City, New Jersey. They moved their growing family from Philadelphia to Atlantic City and setup their new business. The hotel my grandfather purchased was modest by today's standards but it was economically viable. My father says that his mum oversaw the domestic side of the operation while my grandfather ran the bar and restaurant. One afternoon two men came into the bar and asked to speak to the owner. They sat at a table with my grandfather and explained to him that they were Treasury agents and that while my grandfather was selling a bit of whiskey and beer, which was a violation of the Volstead Act, it needn't be an issue as long as he paid them five dollars a week. They said someone would come by each week and collect the “tax”. A new word entered the lexicon - “shakedown”. My grandfather agreed to meet their request because without the sale of alcohol he couldn't stay in business. Several weeks went by and one day the Treasury agents returned. They sat down with my grandfather and said that it appeared his operation was a success and that they felt the “tax” he was paying was too low and that it would need to be increased. My grandfather agreed to their demands although he was angry about the situation. Time went by and each week my grandfather paid his “tax” to the man who showed up regularly to collect it. One afternoon the agents came to see my grandfather. They told him that from what they could see his hotel was a very successful business and they saw no reason why he shouldn't be paying a higher rate each week. This enraged my grandfather and he threw the agents out of the bar. Two days later the Atlantic City Police raided my grandfather's hotel and in a scene reminiscent of a Movietone News reel smashed every bottle, glass, table and chair, and everything else that could be broken in the bar. They slashed the linen and mattresses, broke out the windows, and smashed the furniture in the rooms. My grandfather's dream was gone. His livelihood was gone. His spirit was crushed. The incident caused him to become severely depressed and it changed him in a way that only a trauma such as this changes a person.
The Volstead Act was a catastrophic legislative and social failure. Many people will always want a way to alter their mood. Studies suggest about seven percent of any population in any culture develop a dependence and become chronic abusers of substances. Many persons “experiment” or try substances in their youth. The majority of these persons grow out of this when they begin families. The need to alter one's mood is the number one reason people use substances on a regular basis. Use and misuse is not a moral issue. These persons are not weak. They are not criminals. They have a compulsion driven by psychological issues they are either unable to identify or unwilling to look at.
The money spent on the criminal justice system only creates jobs and opportunities to prey on users/dealers for those working in the system. Treatment is the most cost effective means of addressing the issue of substance abuse. Building and maintaining prisons; and incarcerating users do not address the issue. There are just as much alcohol and drugs in prisons as on the outside. The majority of them coming in by prison officials.
Some argue that legalizing substances is a solution to the problem. This usually comes from a user who thinks that if drugs are legal then he can use them without fear of retaliation or social stigma. “Put a tax on it” they say believing this somehow legitimizes use. Often the issue of personal freedom arises. With freedom comes a sense of personal and social responsibility. The loss in productivity because of use is an issue for employers.
A complicated issue such as substance abuse is made even more complicated when there is so much money being made by both sides of the issue. Law enforcement, up to their necks in corruption and awash in tax money for salaries, equipment, and operating costs would be out of business if that tax money was diverted towards treatment. It is not in the best economic interest of the criminal justice system to turn it over to the mental health system.
The mainstream media can't sell advertising time by exposing the rampant corruption and failed policies of the criminal justice system concerning drug and alcohol abuse. The drama and excitement of drug raids and race baiting is in their best interest. The media looks at the supply and never at the demand. Who in the media would commit professional suicide by exposing the denial?

Mood: Indigo

2009-04-08T14:40:00.003-04:00

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.

Ellen Brent Harland

2008-10-11T04:37:00.016-04:00

Episode four of Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...

"Southie," I heard myself murmur. I must have been dreaming. The turbulence from the warm air rising off the Blue Ridge caused the aircraft to tremor like a Manhattan debutante losing her virginity after the ball at the Waldorf-Astoria. "The ball after the ball," is what Carolyn and her girlfriend's call it. 'Southie!' After thirty years the phrase still makes my skin crawl. I left Dorchester Bay when I was 17. I never went back. Enrolling at Columbia, I spent nearly 5 years trying to lose my accent and the stench from Boston harbor. To this day there are two things I won't eat: seafood or pussy. The smell of either a reminder of the Friday mackerel dinners mother prepared. By the time I had taken my GRE's and been admitted to John Jay I was for all appearances New York born and bred. Waiting tables in Manhattan while completing my education I had looked only to the future. The idea of America is the endless opportunities it provides for those who find a need to re-invent themselves. We can no longer keep moving west when the soil gives out. The New Jerusalem is social mobility through economic gain and that is simply a combination of will and luck. I had both. 'Southie,' I thought, 'Why would I dream of that? It's been years...'
My anus clenched like it will at the urologists when he snaps that latex glove on his wrist and asks you to lean forward on the exam table. The plane jolted violently. My hands instinctively grabbed the arm rests. 'White Knuckle Club,' I thought. I have never gotten used to air travel. I had considered taking one of Carolyn's benzos before take-off but I needed to keep my edge on for when I arrived in Springfield.
I heard the flight attendant, Siobhan, somewhere behind me. Appearing next to me, her lovely put-on smile on her full, crimson Celtic lips she calmly placed a business card between my pale fingers and moved forward. Printed on the face of the cream-colored card was "Executive Conference Center, Hartsfield-Jackson, Atlanta GA". I turned the card over and in a women's pen was written, "Sojourners Rm.-2:30". I slipped the card into the pocket of my open collared Izod shirt.
In his second term Clinton had gutted the payrolls of both the Bureau and the Agency. "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" meant new hirings went to Gays and Lesbians and minorities for what few new positions were available due to attrition. I didn't own a J.D; I was active in the fledgling American Catholic Church - there was no upward mobility available for me at the Bureau. It was time for me to get out. I had my twenty years in. I was still relatively young. I would become an independent contractor. With Lt. Sean Ryan, USMC as my liaison between the Agency and the Pentagon I could find work. There was always someone, somewhere who needed to be eliminated - "for God and Country".
Touching down in Atlanta I gathered up my Notebook and my briefcase, reached in the overhead for my bag and de-planed. Inside concourse T I boarded the shuttle and was whisked to the Atrium and the ECC. I found the Sojourners Room and knocked gently.
'No answer'. I placed my hand on the door handle and let myself in. I noticed a small 'fridge and helped myself to a LaBatt Blue. There was a knock and Siobhan entered, locking the door behind her. I moved towards her not losing my gaze into her eyes as we met, mouths open our tongues colliding. I withdrew slightly and nuzzled her neck as she gently bit my ear. "No marks, lad," she whispered. I pushed her towards the door, she allowing me to lead as if we were slow dancing. She struggled with the belt holding up my trousers and simultaneously unbuttoned them. Pushing down my zipper my trousers dropped unceremoniously to the floor. I lifted the skirt that was part of her Attendant's uniform and pushed her briefs aside. I paused and lifted my fingers to my mouth, wet them and reached down to moisten her vulva. She moaned and pulled me even closer. Standing now on her tip-toes she grabbed for my rigid cock and rubbed its head on her outer labia, guiding me into her at the same time. My instinct was to thrust immediately into her but I knowingly hesitated while she removed her hand. I moved inside her keeping my strokes short. I didn't want to interrupt the intense pleasure we both were feeling. She grabbed my exposed bottom and pulled me into her farther. I ground myself against her mons and I could feel her starting to climax as she got wetter and wetter. My cock swelled and I felt the rush of ejaculate move through my urethra and out the meatus. She came at the same time, sighing heavily as I grunted my satisfaction. We remained united for a moment breaking away after a pleasant, lingering kiss. I reached down and pulled up my trousers as she adjusted her knickers and pulled down her skirt. I stood there looking at her...
"What is it, love?" she asked in her oh-so-sensuous Irish brogue.
"Its just...I...erm," I stammered looking for the words...
"What? You gonna tell me you love me like some school boy might?" she laughed.
"Erm...ah...nooooo," I chuckled back.
"What is it, lad?"
"Um...Cath or Prot," I blurted out.
Laughing again she replied, "Da is Church of England. Mum is Catholic. They make it work. I am a Protalic. Any other questions?" all the while smiling broadly.
"A what?" I asked. Needing her to repeat what she had said as if I hadn't heard her.
"A Protalic, love. You never heard that word?"
"No." I said. The noun now embeded in my consciousness.
"Love, its been grand. You were grand but although the bank appreciates the deposit I'm afraid if I don't clean miself up there's gonna be a run on it and I'll catch a rash."
"I need to catch my connection," I said unemotionally.
"Goodbye and good luck, O'Tyme," she smiled. "Take care."
"You too, hon," I grinned as I grabbed my luggage and headed to the door.
As I closed the door over I said to myself, 'Protalic. I will never forget that word for as long as I live.'

Joyce Harwood

2008-10-09T19:02:00.007-04:00

In installment three of the series, Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla...

Mustafa Khan Trol looked at the dial on his Rolex. With the precision of an obsessive compulsive who has washed his hands for the 60th time in an hour he and his 11 comrades had commandeered the entire Bass Pro Shop complex in Springfield, MO without a shot being fired. The only resistance they had encountered was the fat rent-a-cop guard at the main entrance who succumbed without fanfare to Ali's pilfered fillet knife across his jugular. They watched mesmerised as the 'pig' in his death throes, legs spasming, heart still beating, spewed blood a metre into the air from the gaping wound to his throat. The terrorists had corralled the employees and guests into the food court separating the men from the women. There were no windows for the enemy to come through. The entrances and exits had been wired with explosives. The complex secure, they were safe - for the moment.
By striking at the heart of America's heritage of fresh water sport angling the goal was simple: Create chaos, panic and terror amongst the greater Midwest population. If America knows she is vulnerable in a small city nestled in the Ozarks she will know she is vulnerable anywhere. Hit "The Great Satan" where its festering, filthy, foul-mouthed father's of whores spend their dollars - on fishing supplies, was the plan. If 9/11 was a wake-up call for America, Springfield they hoped would be its nightmare morning commute through mid-town traffic. "Give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach a man to fish and he spends all of his time in the cellar working on his hobby and neglecting his hygiene" or so the witticism goes. The plan was flawless. Before they were dead, all of the world would know about Abu Garcia and its St. Patrick's Day attack in Springfield, Missourah, USA. "Allahu Akbar!"
Arriving at Ronald Reagan Airport, Nick O'Tyme showed his ID to the chief officer of Homeland Security. The officer instantly recognized O'Tyme's clearance level and ushered him personally to the boarding gate. While the masses stood on queue with their belts and shoes in hand Nick O'Tyme, Urbane Guerrilla, was hustled past the metal detectors and x-ray booth to the awaiting American Airlines flight to Springfield, MO on a Boeing 777.
The buxom flight attendant leaned towards O'Tyme's lap and clicked his safety belt for him lingering a bit too long with her ample cleavage inches from his weathered, chisled broad cheekbones.
"Excuse me," he flirted, "I see your name is Siobhan, do have you a little Irish in you?"
"On March 17th, sir, everyone is Irish," her lilting, patented Belfast-raised brogue evident.
"Let me rephrase that," he smiled, "Would you like a little Irish in you?," he stared, looking into the emerald portals to her soul.
Smiling professionally, she glanced at the holstered Glock hanging freely from its cowhide shoulder harness. 'Loaded and ready to go,' she thought to herself. 'If he were to discharge that weapon prematurely all would be lost.'
The captain's voice over the plane's intercom interrupted their verbal foreplay..."Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm your captain, Jack 'the Hook' McLeod. Happy St. Paddy's day to all and welcome to American Airlines flight 6 - oh - 9 to Atlanta's Hartsfield airport. Our trip will be approximately 90 minutes door-to-door. Enjoy your flight and Erin Go Braugh!"
'What a tool,' O'Tyme thought. A meaningless phrase in any language let alone Gaelic. Opening his lap top he went to his personal addy and clicked the attachment with the Abu Garcia file. His focus now was on studying the non-enemy, paraphrasing the President's malaprop. Somewhere in the file was a clue to what makes a man a terrorist.
Mustafa Khan Trol was born in Dearborn, Michigan on Mawlid, or the day of birth of the Prophet, in 1980. His father, a Twelver Shi'a entrepeneur traveled extensively throughout the Middle East on business. Mustafa's mother also Shi'a, remained in the family's modest home in Dearborn raising his sister and keeping house. Mustafa accompanied his father regularly on trips overseas as a youth. He had learned Arabic as well as Farsi. His fluency allowed him to read and speak extensively about fundamentalist Islamic causes. His sympathies leaned towards al Qaeda and at Uni he had made acquaintance with similar thinking Semetic young men. Although on the international watch lists he moved freely within the States, communicating with his comrades via stolen mobiles and email. In an age of instant access communication there was no need to travel abroad even if he were able. Mustafa's contempt for the West, especially Americans was palatable. For him, Satan was not a literary metaphor for the ills of Mankind. Satan for him was as real as the early spring Sun rising higher each day across heaven and Allah's abobe.
O'Tyme closed his Notebook and stared straight ahead. His job was clear: he was hired to kill Mustafa Khan Trol by any means at his disposal. If innocent people were injured or killed in the process it would be an unfortunate necessity. 'This was not Waco and that dyke Janet Reno was not giving the orders,' he knew from Ryan's briefing. O'Tyme closed his eyes and concentrated on the face of his opponent. Like a mongoose stalking a cobra he would strike so quickly Mustafa wouldn't have time to react.

To be continued...

Velma Valento/Helen Grayle

2008-10-08T17:05:00.010-04:00

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...

Miss Ruth Wonderly/Miss LeBlanc/Bridgid O'Shaughnessy

2008-10-07T13:15:00.005-04:00

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...

Online dating redeux

2008-10-03T04:24:00.013-04:00

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.

Anyone get the license number of that truck?

2008-09-29T11:57:00.004-04:00

(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

2008-09-28T08:55:00.003-04:00

"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.

2008-09-24T10:47:00.004-04:00

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.

Standin' on your momma's porch you told me it would last forever

2008-09-20T00:08:00.004-04:00

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.

"Damn it, Jim! I'm a doctor not an escalator!"

2008-09-12T08:22:00.003-04:00

With the passing of the Labour Day weekend the Summer party season has come to an end. I mourn the end of the season of gathering with family and friends outdoors and am not looking forward to the approaching Winter weather. We do have the holidays to look forward to, however. Each year our scattered family gathers at Christmas and gets re-acquainted. We usually begin by emotionally and psychologically abusing one another and then move on and have pie. I love tradition.
This past Summer season I attended one outdoor party that had not one but two bonfires. One campfire was for the tobacco users who shared stories and anecdotes about not being able to smoke anywhere but their cars (with the windows rolled up of course). The second bonfire was exclusively for the non-tobacco users. The conversation around this campfire centered around saving the planet and how the tobacco users were polluting the air others use. The wisps of smoke swirled around the non-users and they breathed in the visable vapours of the burning wood. Complaints about the tobacco user's could be heard as tobacco smoke wafted in their direction.
With tobacco use on the sharp decline the Health industry is now focusing on over-weight persons. Americans always need to find a group to focus their anger on. Our leaders have created wars on poverty, racism, drugs, tobacco, and now obesity. Along with a war against the Muslim peoples, the Department of Offense along with the Surgeon General are particularly interested in fat, tobacco using Muslims who might be plotting a terrorist act. Citizens are reminded if you see such a person take a photo of them using your mobile and contact authorities.
Since the 1970's Americans have become more aware of environmental issues. Socially conscious individuals are all doing their part to save the planet. People are drinking bottled water because they feel the water from their taps is unsafe. Of course the bottled water they purchase came from a tap from somewhere. And that plastic bottle they are drinking from is a petroleum product and will end up in a landfill with a half-life of forever. The personal computers and mobiles environmentally conscious persons are using to send around emails reminding one another to be conscious of recycling their rubbish also ends up in landfills where the heavy metals used in their construction leach into the water supply. People are eating more "organic foods" these days. If anything contains carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen it is organic. The idea that pesticide laden foods in the shops and markets are going to shorten a human beings life is unfounded. "Organic foods" are a marketing ploy. No agribusiness person (farmers) uses more herbicides or pesticides than necessary. They are extremely expensive and if you know farmers you know what a cheap bunch of bastards they are. The cost of commercial fertilizers made from petroleum is on the rise. Food prices are soaring. This is all part of the conspiracy to make overweight people thin.
A mate of mine restores 17th century paintings. It is painstakingly slow work. Her approach to her work is, "If it ain't Baroque, don't fix it".

Everyone hates a tourist

2008-09-02T09:01:00.003-04:00

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.

Excuse my dust

2008-08-27T12:11:00.006-04:00

"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."

The Bob

2008-08-22T10:43:00.008-04:00

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.

A rat always knows when he's in with weasels

2008-08-13T09:36:00.004-04:00

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".

12 August, 30 BCE

2008-08-10T09:01:00.004-04:00

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.

Brotberuf

2008-08-03T08:48:00.001-04:00

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.

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

2008-07-29T12:33:00.000-04:00

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.

In search of the miraculous

2008-07-27T20:45:00.000-04:00

Without googling the exact New Testament citation I believe it was in Paul's second letter to the Thespians where he warned that homosexuality may lead to a uni major in the Theatre Arts. When I told that joke to some acquantances on a recent Saturday night I was met with silence. The crowd was a group of Christians. They were not offended by the obvious homophobic slight; it was the fact I parodied Scripture that caused them to be uncomfortable. Among the many intolerences that Christians hold is the belief that Scripture is the word of God and no one steps on Scripture. Yahweh, if you are online and chequeing blogs please be distracted for the moment.
My Saturday nights are reserved for Al Anon. In Al Anon I have found codependent souls like myself who are attempting to find a way out of the hell of living with alcoholics and substance abusers. We try, little by little, to understand ourselves. We use the 12 Steps adopted from Alcoholics Anonymous as a basis for direction. And therein lies the rub for me. As an Agnostic I struggle with the majority of persons in my group who are Christians. I have become a pirriah. While they speak openly about Jesus Christ I counter with proven effective psycho-therapy coping mechanisms. I am ignored. "My higher power is my Lord, Jesus Christ." And heads nod in agreement. I am tempted to wear a "Sister's of Satan" tee shirt to a meeting. If they can have Jesus why can't I have the Sisters?
I do not have a higher power. I am looking. Originally, I was going to use Logic and Reason as my higher power but I concluded there are limits to these concepts. I looked at Naturalism as an option. But Nature is a cruel mistress. Cold. Unforgiving. Existentialism appeals to me but ultimately it leads to apathy. I need a Figurehead not a hood ornament. Krishnamurti was a brillant man yet I couldn't wrap my feeble mind around some of his teachings. I think I will return to Taoism, something I discovered at 16. Lao Tsu made sense to my adolescent mind and has allowed me peace. The only thing constant is change.

July 25

2008-07-27T15:51:00.000-04:00

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

Ten Years Gone

2008-07-27T15:50:00.000-04:00

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.

Freedom is the privilage to starve beneath the Brooklyn Bridge

2008-07-27T15:49:00.000-04:00

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 competion is fierce at the jobsite 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 skillfull 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

2008-07-27T15:47:00.000-04:00

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 actor 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-R. 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 unchequed. 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.

Online Dating Site Profile

2008-07-27T15:41:00.000-04:00

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.