Economy of Words

Note: Shortly after I posted a badly scanned image of the cover to Claire Fraude's Sweatshop of Love ( a couple of posts ago) - I was contacted by the editor of an internationaly acclaimed and long running journal of literary criticism. It seems that "Claire Fraude" is in fact the nom de plume of a very famous contemporary American author who would rather not have her Harlequin past revealed to her millions of current readers-as they are largely comprised of Born Again Evangelical Christians.
No one has been able to locate a copy of this book, explained the harried editor, and now there was no time for anyone to read it before deadline .
Did I have a copy? Yes.
Could I write a brief, very simple review of it? Just a summary? Uh huh. Yes.
In two hours? Sure.

So I emailed this:

Sweatshop of Seduction by Claire Fraude aka xxxxxxx x xxxxxx

A review by Allan xxxxxx:

I hate Fraude's Sweatshop. The author is a puddinghead.

-- -- -- -- ---- -- -- -- -- ---

A few minutes later I get this email:

" ... simply giving an opinion followed by an ad hominem attack does not meet the standards of xxx xxx xxxxx...blah, blah... "

----------------------

What a dick. I write two measly sentences and he can't even bother to read them. If he had, he'd have known that I was writing about a book and not about 'hominem,' who I understand to be a "rap" singer of some sort. And it's clearly not an ad for anything.

I don't know how that guy got his job. He doesn't even seem to know the basics.

I think simply calling the author Puddinghead and being done with it is not such a bad form of literary review. Economy of words, you know.
Economy of words is a way of describing the technique of using fewer words to make your statement- you could also look at it as a ratio of words:concepts. Let us say that you communicate one concept every 10 words or so... at first thought this may seem an economical usage of words, however 10:1 is a riot of waste and a flagrant display of literary excess.
A truly thrifty writer should strive for a ratio of 3:1 or even 1:1.

An example of a 1:1 word/concept ratio in literary criticism would be:
"I hate Fraude's Sweatshop "
Broken down thusly:
I- introduces the concept of self -the writer.
hate- describes one specific powerful subjective emotion.
Fraude's- identifies the author of the book in question.
Sweatshop- in this example the entire title of the book in question is Sweatshop of Seduction but since that appears in the article's title, it is referred to here simply as 'Sweatshop'- cleverly shaving two superflous words from the sentence, which would otherwise have an W/C ratio of 3:2

Less is not only more, but it is also better.

Patrick

I get a bleeding rash everytime I hear some hypocrite sounding off about "values" ,"family values", "mainstream values" etc.
As a result, my entire body is covered in oozing, pustulent blisters-but my conscience is clean.
I'm kidding.
I'm not covered in bloody boils and I'm constantly tormented by my past mis-deeds, but at least I don't go around pretending to be some great arbiter of morality and values.
While well-publicized examples like former "Morality Czar" William Bennett (an inveterate whore-mongering gambling-impaired alcoholic) immediately come to mind when discussing hypocrites, there are smaller , everyday examples that really get my hives in bloom.

Like Patrick.

Patrick is a stinking twenty-something 'pseudo/neo-hippy' that used to annoy the hell out of me at the old comic shop. Patrick will never have a job, but he's got at least two children by two different women.
I recently ran into Mom #2 at market and innocently asked about Patrick. Ooops! She got red and let loose a vile stream of invective about him. She kicked his ass out because he wouldn't get a job or help with the kid (she has two jobs).

Patrick says working for other people is moral and spiritual prostitution. There may be some truth to that, but when heard from the mouth of someone who mooches off of a single working mother, those words lose all meaning.
Patrick complains about not having any food to eat -offer him a slice of pizza and he'll aggressively criticize you for eating pepperoni.
Patrick doesn't honor his debts- if you ask him to pay you back he starts with a lecture on materialism.
Patrick is one of those unwashed pseudo-liberals that has nothing to offer, yet insists that we should all share.

He smells like patchouli oil and dirty feet. One day his odor was so bad that I sprayed him with air freshener -he started ranting about the ozone layer. Dude, try a roll-on.

According to Patrick, our water supply is so polluted that bathing makes you dirtier. So does soap.
He convinces good-hearted women that he's a delicate flower who needs nurturing and love.
This seems to work, over and over again, which is a real fucking shame because a tapeworm would make a better life-partner than Patrick.

I imagine it's only a matter of time until someone kills Patrick.

W.W.J.D.?

I thought this was a joke at first but I'm not so sure... I mean, if it was a joke , it would at least make sense- read the the excerpt below. Does that make any sense? I don't even know what the last sentence means-I think it's just a random assortment of words.

Below are the Jesus Girls. This was the best photo on the whole site, which says a lot about how
hot the JG site is. The JG mission is apparently to stop men from masturbating by encouraging women to stop having sex. And gossiping.

At least I think that's what the message is- I get the part about words and hurt (reading these words make my head hurt) - but the rest- ?

I don't know what JC Hisself would think of this ditzy trio- undoubtedly he was accustomed to more hirstute , natural and *ahem* fragrant women. Such was the fashion at the time.

JC was a thinking sort of guy, kinda philosophical and all- how would he feel about boning an airhead bleach-blonde who thinks that gossip carries the same moral gravity as other sins - such as murder?
Wait.
"Let's think about it."
Doesn't Catholicism distinguish between "one sin worse than another?"
Is gossip even a sin?

Why Would Jesus Date

Great. Just what every Savior needs- a surgically enhanced girlfriend with an IQ of 64 who never ever puts out and asks you for money all the time?

Woo. hoo.

Check their website if you don't believe me about the money part-

God does not distinguish one sin worse than

another. Let's think about itÂ…

How far is too far when I hurt others with my words?
How far is too far when I gossip about another?
How far is too far when I judge others?

There is not one among us who can say they have not struggled in one or more of these areas, all of which, God addresses in his word in addition to sexual sin

.


So God pretty much exists solely to worry about what a bunch of bubblehead fluffer wannabe's say about each other? And "in addition to sexual sin."
What?
I think it's okay with Jesus for girls to diddle themselves, it's just guys He has a problem with- but I think the JG miss the point.
I don't think He really cares what guys do to themselves in private- He just doesn't want to watch it on a DVD.
I can dig that. JC is a guy and guys like to watch girlie vids.
Unless He's gay.

Just Wondering

Let me emphasize the point I made in the preceding post.

This is the kind of question women call me with and expect me to answer:

"What exactly is the role of Alka-Seltzer in the sexual act?"

It's mentioned in a magazine called Redbook, which I thought was some sort of Maoist propaganda rag but is actually a soft-core porn mag for chicks.

I thought about this for a minute - I think I know what it's not used for, I ventured.
I was wrong.

The thing is they come in a package that looks like a condom...so yeah...I guess. Maybe.
Remember the baking soda volcano experiment in grade school? That's sorta what I'm imagining.
Not so great of a visual, really.

Dirty Minds

There is an accepted bit of anecdotal science that states an average human male has a thought of a sexual nature every seven seconds.
This isn't true.
It isn't even science.
It's total bullshit, is what.

That's like , oh, 8 1/2 thoughts per minute (TPM). How many human males can cogitate at that rate?
That many? Really?
Let's eliminate the schizophrenics, manics and other psychotic types from our count.
Not so many now, eh?
Who knows?
It's impossible to tell because we don't yet have a way to monitor and measure specific detailed thoughts- well, actually, we do- but by the time I convinced you of this it would be too late.

If such thoughts could be measured, I am certain that on an average it would be women who spend more time lost in carnal musings than do men. A whole lot more.

I'd wager my cats on this, so sure am I.

If I'm wrong, I'll shave my head every day for a year.

If I'm correct, well let's see...the proof is in the pudding, as they say.

Oh, Great

I'm packing up the last of my microphones when the hippie kid asks me a question- it's one I hear a lot.

"So, how'd you learn how to do that?"

"Oh, you know, mostly from playing in bands and just experimenting- I took some classes, but that was in the 80's- a lot of the tech has changed since then..."

"No, not how'd you learn to record- how'd you learn to turn off your aura?"
His girlfriend moves close to him, clutching his arm and looking at me.
Waiting for my answer.

I don't even come close to understanding the question.

"My aura? I guess I just unplug it."

"Even an unplugged guitar produces sound."

I wait for him to add "Grasshopper" to the end of that observation.
He doesn't, so I don't punch him in his hairy face. I wind a cable around my arm and loop the ends together. This is a good cable, I think. If I ever decide to hang myself it will certainly be with a microphone cable.

Any cable that is good for hanging is also good for lynching, I note, looking at the cute hippies.

"See that?" asks girl, looking at me.

"What?"

"You blinked."

"I what?"

They look at each other. They are having some sort of conversation I can't hear.

"You aren't here. I mean, you are , but you aren't. Most of you is somewhere else."

This is exactly the kind of bullshit mumbo-jumbo that my cat and various other animals tell me in my dreams. It's kinda fun in dreamland but in real-life I'm busy and I wish that the Cabbage Patchouli Kids would skip the bullshit and just say something that makes sense. I was having fun until boy mentioned my aura.

Girl puts one hand on my arm, the other she keeps on boy.

"You are dying."

My Sunday School

Usually when I record a band I mix in a different room than the one the musicians play in -but today I sat in the studio room while they played. It was just a couple, a guy and a girl taking turns playing guitar and hand drum- I've recorded dozens such acts, some really good, some not good - but there was something different about these two. They are both good players and singers, but there's more to it than that.
As soon as I they started playing it became clear just how much in love they are. I know that sounds cheesy, but it wasn't ...it was ...weird. Good. Very large.
Not like some mushy Hallmark sentiment card, but a deep spiritual connection so powerful that even the most jaded cynic can't help noticing that there is really something happening besides the music- something that cannot be recorded- and it can only be experienced first-hand. Maybe that's why I decided to sit in the studio today- not really sure.

After a sound check my comments to the musicians are usually something like:

"That guitar sounds nice" or "can you turn down?"

Today I heard them play one song.

My comment?

I looked at them and said:

"I have been looking for that my entire life."

I think they both knew what I meant, and that my remark had nothing at all to do with the song they had just played or the recording in progress.

It was a good session.

A Word From Our Publisher

Hello.

My name is Pissy and I am a chimpanzee. I'm sitting in a room with 999,999 other chimpanzees. It's really loud. We've been here a long time . It seems like a million years.
I'm glad we've got all these typewriters to play with.

I know that you probably expect one of us to eventually recreate the works of Shakespeare - you know , according to the Infinite Monkey Theorem. Surely you've heard of it.

That theorem is bullshit and any half-witted chimp can explain why.

First- I am not a monkey. I am an ape - a Great Ape -just like you. For our excercise this point is moot; I mention it here as a matter of personal indignation. I curse Wikipedia for posting a photograph of a chimp and referring to it as a "monkey", but hey- that's what happens when you let the apes loose on the typewriters.

Second- you get other things when you let the apes loose on the keys. Mostly you get a lot of seriously fucked-up typewriters. We jump them, thrash them, bash 'em, eat, sleep and shit on them- we even fuck on them, alone and in groups. Sounds familar, eh?
We break things.
I don't care if you do have an infinite number of typewriters- we will find an even more infinite number of ways to ruin them.
As I said, we are a lot alike, you and I.
Oh yeah. Right.
Go ahead.
Say it.

"Pissy, there's no such thing as a more infinite number."

So what? You're gonna argue about it with a chimp?
That makes you the dumb one in my randomly typed book.

Anyway, back to the problems with our manuscripts-
Not only will those infinite apes not produce the works of the Bard, they will also not produce a single chimp who is proficient in the art of typewriter repair.
So- even if my comrades would just settle the hell down and type, they'd destroy the damn machines before they got through the first ream of onionskin.
Which leads us to-

Third- where's all the infinite paper coming from? You bastards have cut down all the trees where I'm from- the last time I got a postcard from home it had a picture of a goddamn slurry pit on it, fer chrissakes.
If you idiots hadn't mulched my damn jungle I'd be home right now instead of typing this.
I'm quite bitter about it, really.
If you were here I'd hurl my feces at you. (You as a species)
It's only fair- you guys are diiirrrtttyyy.

But I don't blame you personally, so let's all just get along, OK?

Thanks for allowing me to introduce myself and vent a little. I look forward to further discussion at some random, inevitable date.

Yours Truly,
Pissy the Chimp

p.s. "The air pollution is-a fucking up my eyes" - that's what he says in the song, ya know- not 'fogging' as claimed. (Clever bloke, for an ape)

Short Notice

I will be guest-hosting this week's Locals Only broadcast on FallenTown's best indy FM station, WRIR 97.3.
Tomorrow!
Locals Only features the finest in our local and regional musical talent every Saturday, 5-7 pm EST.
Tune in on-line HERE.
I will be playing a bit of music featuring myself- here's your chance to hear me play guitar, bass, drums, keyboards and sing my original compositions* - I'll also be playing a lot of great local bands that I've recorded live at the station over the last year. In short, I'll be showing off on-air for two hours.
I get to spend two hours playing myself and my friends on the radio- maybe even a guest interview if I can get someone on short notice.
Hell, I'll interview myself. I think this is pretty cool. I hope you do too.

* lucky you

Soapbox #2567

Our little indy station just signed a contract with the Department of Homeland Security.
We've been working on this for months- total hush-hush- but now it's official.
We are now a contractor to the DHS -just like Halliburton, except we actually help people, not kill them.

I'm serious.

Not a single corporate radio station in Fallentown was willing to provide the resources ( one live human ) needed to ensure that the Emergency Broadcast System had immediate response capability in case of disaster or emergency- during the last couple floods/hurricanes we had here-(2003,2004) FEMA was unable to contact a live DJ at any of the "Big" stations since none of them have live DJ's- (NOTE: almost all modern FM radio is piped in from Corporate HQ's in California or NY or somewhere else)
We, on the other hand, have live persons on-air 24/7.

None of the "Big" stations would touch this contract because- get this- if there were to be an actual emergency, those stations would be obligated to dedicate themselves to informing the public as to the current local situation. This means that there can be no commercials broadcast during a declared State of Emergency. The Big stations cannot take that chance- if there's a tornado, flood, earthquake, or nuclear attack they aren't gonna let it interfere with their ad revenue. We don't play commercials -ever- so this is no problem for us.

So the DHS came to us, the plucky little leftists and misfits who refused to be quiet and go away .

Hey, if there's a local emergency, then by Godzilla you oughta be able to turn to the local radio to get the news you need- where's the potable water and ice? Clinics? What roads are out? Who has power? Where can I get food? Medicine?

In 2004 no one could answer those questions. The Clear Channel stations don't have locals humans running the broadcast- and they won't - because it's not profitable to do so. I remember being trapped on one side of the river, trying to find a bridge to cross in order to get home and turning on the radio for help. I heard car commercials, beer ads and a Two- for-Tuesday of Creed songs. I'd almost rather drown than listen to Creed- and I almost did because I had no way of knowing that all the roads home were washed out.

Nobody on the radio mentioned this, but they did tell me about a great 1/2 price tanning salon offer before the rising water shorted out my car's electrical system.

So the next time the shit hits the fan, it'll be local volunteers staying on-air, doing it because someone has to - and the Giant Corporate Media Gloms don't care if you live or die -only if they sell their ad space.

If you don't have a community radio station in your neighborhood, start one today.

Bush: Rasputin Not to Die, Resign

PRESIDENT PRAISES MAD MONK:
"I LOOK INTO HIS EYES AND SEE A GOOD MAN"



WASHINGTON (AP)- U.S. President George W. Bush staunchly defended White House Special Advisor Grigori Rasputin on Thursday, delivering a passionately incoherent speech during a press briefing held on the bank of the Potomac River. The riverside setting was a powerfully symbolic gesture; the podium mere yards from the scene of the latest in a series of attempts on Mr. Rasputin's life, seven in the last ten days alone. No assailant has been apprehended in any of the attacks, although Bush daughters Jenna and Barbara have reportedly been unofficialy questioned by the Secret Service.
Calls to the Secret Service were not returned.

" 'Razzy' here," said Bush, using one of his trademark 'folksy' nicknames, " has been real good at his job of leak stopping. I've known him since before I was born and I can look into his eyes and see a good man. My wife , you know, she likes a good man too" continued the President, pointing at himself and making a strange face, " and she thinks Razzy is 'the best'. That's high praise. "

Mr. Rasputin, 138, was initially brought to Washington to help the Bush administration stem a growing flood of media leaks. Despite early praise for the Russian monk's success in stopping "media bleeding", he has been facing increased media criticism since earlier this month, when several widely-read left-wing bloggers published a series of email correspondence between Mr. Rasputin and a White House insider using the name "Alexandra."

The widely-published letters are largely sexual in nature and have yet to be proven authentic, but a newly discovered cache seems to suggest policy connections with First Lady Laura Bush and Sec of State Condeleeza Rice.

According to investigative journalist/blogger Upton Sinclair, the emails show that the current war in Iraq was largely based on a series of post-coital "fantasy" conversations between Mr. Rasputin, Ms. Rice and "Alexandra", which Sinclair claims is a blanket pseudonym for Laura, Jenna and the younger Barbara Bush. The latest emails to surface purportedly refer to the vaguely defined plan for an Iraqi occupation as "Operation Afterglow", but what details- if any- are contained have yet to be announced or confirmed.

Mr. Sinclair had some angry words concerning the spreading rumors during an appearance on Canadian television this past Wednesday.
"That Russian nutjob is [having sexual intercourse with] the whole family harem and the President is too stupid to even notice. I bet he gives the guy a medal for [ expletive] his whole family", said Mr. Sinclair during an interview on the CBC's Terance and Phillip Show.

Mr. Bush closed his remarks Thursday by announcing plans to award Rasputin a special Skopsty Medal of Freedom and Purity. He then departed to a GOP fundraiser where Mr. Rasputin was scheduled to baptize infants for $5,000 per child.

Saying the Wrong Thing

Years ago (2000) I got arrested for a little bit of marijuana. I was placed on probation and sent to drug counseling groups. At the time I was a badge-carrying Federal Agent (Dept. of Commerce, but it sounds cool) and was working 65 hours a week, which made it difficult to attend the requisite number of Narcotics Anonymous meetings. My probation officer allowed me to attend the much more common Alcoholics Anonymous meeting instead- these would be counted towards my "recovery goal."
I didn't tell my officer that my serious problem was with alcohol, not pot, and it was only dumb luck that I wasn't arrested for drunken driving instead of drug possession.
She suggested that I "get a few beers" if I started having pot cravings. I was also prescribed Valium and Zoloft by a State Shrink, which my real doctor changed to Xanax because "it's safer". (After my probation was over Doc told me to go ahead and smoke a little- he's no fool)

So... in order to quit pot, I should drink more alcohol and start taking pills? This sounded crazy to me, but I knew better than to mention it to my officer. I went to my very first Narco Anon meeting the next day.

There were about twenty shaky individuals gathered in a dank church basement. I could tell from their ashen skin and Auschwitz physiques that most of the attendees were crackheads and/or junkies. I hadn't done cocaine or heroin for many years by this point, but I'll always be able to ID a junkie or cokehead on sight. This is a self-preservation skill that should not be underestimated.
They are to be avoided- even if you love them, avoid them until they get clean- but suddenly I was surrounded by them.
This sucked.
There was a sour smell of death and filthy crotch in the room.
Drugwhore smell.

Some guy that was probably 40 but looked 60 introduced himself. He was an addict and had been clean for a million years. He showed us his poker chips.
Pretty fucking unimpressive.
I wondered if they used poker chips at Gambling Anonymous meetings, but knew better than to ask.

He asked the group to introduce themselves.

And they did.

Oh my, such dull and tragic tales. Of course you stole from your family, of course you got HIV from fucking for crack, of course you lost everything until you found Jesus- blah-the-fuck-blah.
Booorrinnng....*yawn*
Who'd you kill?
Your infant was still-born because you poisoned it with heroin?
Lost a hand to gangrene?
Of course you did- that's what happens.
How's your liver, Lemonhead?
Not so good, I'm guessing.
Six months to live? Goddamn, but you've got one hell of an optimistic doctor- I'd give you six weeks, tops.

So it was my turn to introduce myself and tell a horror story. At this point in my life it'd been years since I did any hard drugs- I didn't "get help" or find Jesus or any of that - I simply stopped snorting coke and sniffing smack. For me this was easy- so easy that I wasn't prepared for how hard it would be to quit the booze- but that's another story...

Hi, I'm Allan and I'm a marijuana addict...it occurs to me that saying "I'm here for less than one gram of pot that I didn't even know was in my car" was not the kind of story I was supposed to tell, so I ad-libbed a bit...actually I just flat-out lied. My story:

I living with my wife, her elderly mother and our three beautiful
kids - I had a good job, the future was bright- but I had a secret
marijuana habit. One night , I thought the family was attending a church
function -drugs had led me away from Christ at this point, of
course, so i did not go. I was so consumed by marijuana that I would rather smoke joints than pray with my family. ( OOOooo, goes the room)
Well, they came home early and I had to quickly hide my pipe under the sofa
and run for the breathmints. (A note on meetings: just mentioning "breathmints" will cause a loud murmur of "uh
huhs" and "that's right"- it's like a secret addict in-joke or something )
Later that night, the smoldering pipe caught the sofa on fire and the blaze
killed my entire family. I was too stoned to help. I don't remember any of the
details- must've been the dope.

The whole group was almost in tears by the time I finished. One emaciated woman told me that she had heard about me on the news and prayed for me every night. Another addict asked me if I missed my family. Of course I missed them, but with Jesus' help I will see them again.
Amen!
Big Group Hug and Serenity Prayer!
I was afraid that I was going to get lice from this Group Hug, but crabs are better than five years in prison, which was my suspended sentence.

I do not mean to make light of the millions who have been helped in groups like this- but for me it doesn't work. I see the whole process as a game that they want you to play - all the rules are very clear and as long as you remain patient and stay on script, you'll be fine. Whatever you do, NEVER be honest to anyone in authority about how you feel- this was my experience. It's not like that for everyone - I hope.

One Honest Hippie guy made the mistake of telling the truth. He was also in for a minor pot bust and couldn't understand why the State deemed a three-joint a week habit to be the moral, legal and ethical equivalent of two-bundle-a-day crack usage.
After all, he said, there's vast amounts of hard data proving that weed is not nearly as harmful as other, legal drugs like booze and cigarettes. It's just a flower that grows wild. It doesn't make you violent or crazy and it shouldn't even be illegal in the first place...AND ( HE LOOKS STRAIGHT AT ME ) it sure as hell doesn't get you so high you can't tell THAT YOUR HOUSE IS BURNING DOWN!

He knows I'm lying. I know he's right. Of course he is.

Of course he also just "resisted treatment" , which will violate one's probation. He was removed from the class in much the same way as a mis-behaving child is removed from tour in the Wonka factory, never to be seen again.

Me? I hate the drugs portion of our legal system but I know it'll fuck you around if you don't play right, so I did. I limited my drug abuse to State-supplied Vodka (in Virginia, the State runs the Liqour stores) and prescription pills and I stayed clear of pot for 18 months.

I gained twenty pounds. I became even more angry, depressed and withdrawn than normal. My blood pressure became alarmingly high. I develope an unexplained neuropathy in my left arm that made it impossible to play guitar- or even tie my shoes and after losing my Fed job (Bush Cut) I was managing a fucking retail shoe store for chrissakes- in short , my life had hit bottom.

My Probation Officer would tell me how great I was doing at our monthly meetings- yay, no dope in my urine! I'd get drunk alone and cry every night, but I kept that to myself. Yeah, I was doing great. Sure did me good to stay away from that horrible marijuana, even if I had to drink myself half to death to do it.
If I felt blue, there was always a new pill to try. I felt Blue a lot during this period. Like Picasso,I was.

But I got through it. I never once told the truth at a meeting or to my Probation Officer.
If I had , I'd be buried in a convict's grave next to Honest Hippie Guy.

There's no moral. That's just the way it is.

CIA Report #2 -Chad

The following passage is from something so old and recycled that I'm no longer sure who or what spurred it's creation or what hell-hole countries I'm referring to. It's Probably U.S. involvement in Central America and Iraq- the 1991 war- or the brewing trouble from Fundamentalist crazies in Saudi Arabia, Afghanistan,Pakistan and the Phillipines etc... it really doesn't matter. This is how it's always been and this is how it always will be.

Back-stabbings and betrayals are becoming common-place in this network, one I once feared would remain hidden, deadly and invincible. Dissenters are returning from various forms of exile , raising their voices in a call for democracy and liberty, but the nation is so fractious that civil disobedience is repressed, the people live in and are devoured by fear and anger - the shadow of civil war hangs over us all like a national scimitar of Damocles.
This is true here and it's true there.

There's never any shortage of strife, and much of it receives very little media attention here in the States. It's pretty much left to the individual to try to sort it all out on their own- a daunting task considering just how often bullshit and propaganda is presented as fact.

This is surprising, but I have found that our Central Intelligence Agency has a site that supplies exactly the kind of dull, dry and statistical information one needs to understand the real reasons things happen. It's amazing how often the simply-presented and easy to understand data conflicts with the reasoning as presented by the leaders of various warring nations and their critics and supporters.

For instance the CIA's own site clearly indicates that the current Iraq-and soon to include Iran-war is, in fact all about oil and the ownership and transportation thereof. They didn't even bother to pretend otherwise. Not one single Mainstream "journalist" seems to have noticed that, but I did.


Forget the rhetoric, the fighting is always about religion and resources, with religion often providing a rationale for the pillaging of the infidel's resources. In the last thousand years this excuse has worked for Crusaders,Vikings, Moors and Conquistadors, just to list a few- you name 'em, they were saving the savages and heathens all the way to the bank.

Let's check out Chad for example. From the CIA Factbook:

Chad, part of France's African holdings until 1960, endured three decades of civil warfare as well as invasions by Libya before a semblance of peace was finally restored in 1990. The government eventually drafted a democratic constitution, and held flawed presidential elections in 1996 and 2001. In 1998, a rebellion broke out in northern Chad, which sporadically flares up despite several peace agreements between the government and the rebels. In 2005 new rebel groups emerged in western Sudan and have made probing attacks into eastern Chad. Power remains in the hands of an ethnic minority. In June 2005, President Idriss DEBY held a referendum successfully removing constitutional term limits.

Even if you had never heard of Chad before , you now know some key facts regarding the country, but not nearly enough to have an emotional response.

You know:
-Chad is a former French Colony. Other former French holdings include Viet Nam, Algeria and New Orleans, so this fact bodes poorly for Chad.

- Chad "...endured three decades of civil warfare as well as invasions by Libya before a semblance of peace was finally restored in 1990. "
Things have sucked in Chad since the French left. Fighting is not unusual in Chad. The rebels who recently attacked the capital city of N'Djamena are the ones from western Sudan, BTW.

-"Power remains in the hands of an ethnic minority. " This is almost always a sign of a dictatorial/totalitarian regime. Think Iraq.

-"In June 2005, President Idriss DEBY held a referendum successfully removing constitutional term limits." This allows Mr. DEBY to remain in office longer than his nation's Constitution allows. This is another sign of a dictatorship- and something that my fellow Americans should be very wary of in the days leading up to 2008.

Another reason you should be glad you don't live in Chad-

"Chad's primarily agricultural economy will continue to be boosted by major foreign direct investment projects in the oil sector that began in 2000."

There it is again. Plain as day.
Oil.
Oil and a sham democracy held together by foreign corporate interests.
How unusual.

Who is investing in Chad?
"A consortium led by two US companies has been investing $3.7 billion to develop oil reserves - estimated at 1 billion barrels - in southern Chad."

What U.S. companies could they be talking about? Hmmm...

Guess who?

Right the first time!

"U.S.-based Halliburton to
provide construction services for the ExxonMobil-led oil
export project."

So Exxon and Halliburton are taking the money they are making on the Iraq war and the artificially inflated price of gasoline and using it to invest in Chad. Wonder-fucking-ful.
A "downside" to this investment - rebellion and genocide
can be really bad for business.

In the next year or two expect U.S. politicians to finally become more vocal about the Darfur genocides- they will make squawking sounds about the suffering people and tell you that we are only interested in humanitarian goals, but what they will mean is: "we gotta protect the oil."

Two things to consider:
- $3.7 Billion dollars is really not very much for Exxon/Halliburton.
They'll need to spend a lot more than that before they can sell the U.S. military down the river AGAIN. Besides, if you haven't noticed, our Armed Forces seem to have their hands quite full right now...

- This is France's baby. They send arms and advisors to the government but claim to be uninvolved in the fighting. They've been all but blind to Darfur for fear of antagonizing Sudan.They have soldiers in Chad to protect the French Nationals who live there, but not enough to protect the Chadeans themselves, nor the Sudanese refugees flooding the eastern border.

A proposal:
France has a large youth demographic that wants jobs and isn't above using violence to get them.
Exxon and Halliburton have lots of extra money but need a new private army , as the one they purchased from the White House seems to be breaking down.
Why don't they hire the French kids, arm them and send them over to protect Chad's new oil industry? --er--it's new refugees, I mean.

Yeah , I know. That's crazy talk.

Why hire the French when we've got all these Mexicans who'll work for one-tenth the price?

My Old Room

This was my bedroom for a year when I lived with my grandparents in a small Virginia town. It was so small that I had to pull my legs onto the bed in order to open the dresser. I learned how to play guitar in this tiny cell. And it was a cell- that little town was a prison to me.

The big fun thing for the locals to do on weekend nights was to drive to the 7-11 store on one end of town, turn around in the parking lot and drive to the 7-11 on the other end of town, turn around...you get the idea. The girl who lived across the street used to burn two tanks of gas a night and never leave the town limits- pretty impressive considering the town is less than five miles across.
Even in 1984 this wasn't cheap to do.
They still do this, but now the rednecks listen to rap music instead of Southern rock and they wear FUBU gear and pants twenty sizes too large instead of Harley t-shirts and wallets with chains. It's really funny watching white hillbillies imitate the black people they see in music videos.

Another popular thing to do in 1984 was to get pregnant and drop out of High School. This happened to a lot of girls - 10% of the graduating class , I think.
Fifteen years later the town suffered an epidemic of vandalism- tires slashed, windows broken- schools and churches, mostly. The culprits were the adolescent children of my former drop-out classmates. No surprise there.
Most of them are now in prison, the military or a military prison- also predictible.

I had better things to do. I traded my Atari for an electric guitar and made friends with the freaks that no one else got along with. We formed a band. I also became an expert beer drinker.

I was usually drinking Black Label beer in my friend's basement- his mom let us get wasted , hell, she used to get drunk with us. Sometimes I drank Black Label with another friend in his backyard. His mom also let us drink. She let me smoke pot in the house, which was weird because her son didn't hardly touch it.

I had some good friends, but every once in a while I just couldn't stand it anymore and I'd hitchhike 100 miles north to the Baltimore area just so I could get laid and score drugs. I missed a lot of school days as a result but never really got in trouble. Tehnically, I was running away from home, but I was staying with a former 'foster' family during these excursions and called to let my grandfolks know I was OK and stuff.
I don't think you could do that these days.
If I was a parent I'd never put up with the shit I got away with as a teen. My kids would hate me.

Anyway, the room is empty now. It's hard to believe that I ever lived in it.

Hop In!

I wish I could afford to have a Mid-Life Crisis.
I'd purchase a convertible sportser, a 20 year old girlfriend named 'Brandi' or 'Candi', a bad toupee and a bottle of boner pills.

Nah. I'm not a dater of Brandies- but the car would be nice. Especially on a fine country Sunday.

My Twin rented this MG for the weekend but he's not having a MLC- he just understands that tooling around the Virginia countryside in a classic convertible is a truly cool thing to do.
(That's me - he tries to pretend he's not bald- I embrace my baldness)

I'm glad my Twin isn't having a Mid-Life Crisis as we happen to be the same age. He's doing pretty well these days, which makes me happy. I'm encouraging him to take good care of himself as I may one day need to harvest him for replacement organs- a kidney or liver most likely.

I'd settle for a car transplant. Here are our respective rides. Guess which one is mine?

People sometimes ask me why I have so much duct tape on my car.
I tell them it's purely cosmetic; that I just like the way it flaps in the breeze. Most people believe this.
It's easier than explaining that the tape is the only thing holding my car together.

Happily, my old beater-mobile made it home fine and I was able to see the Twin and the Granny. The Granny had a pacemaker put in last week and it really seems to be doing her a lot of good- she's 89 so we were scared for her, but the operation went just dandy so I can now talk about it without fear of jinx. My Granny even has a cat now - "Maddy". She has never had a cat as long as I've been alive. I think it's a great thing for her. Just don't tell her that I caught it drinking from the toilet!



My Granny also found a large collection of papers from my Senior year of H.S.- Cool Stuff- fliers from my first band's first gigs; report cards ( I was an Honor Student? Damn. I totally forgot that. It was revoked due to excess absenteeism anyway...) and tons of Dungeons and Dragons material- after looking at these painstakingly detailed fantasy worlds that I created it doesn't surpise me that I became a blogger geek. Man, I put a lot of work into those dungeons.

But the best thing Granny found was a collection of letters from my H.S. girlfriend. Oh my.
She was a a great writer and artist and , well, she was just plain great. I ruined that relationship, but I was 16. Give me a break.

(I have never forgiven myself for it, but I should. Slappped by Repressed Memory. Ow!)

Back in 1983 we didn't have email, myspace.com, webcams, IM , text messages or anything so we wrote each other dirty letters instead. She illustrated hers. Very detailed drawings of what she had planned for me- with descriptive text just in case the drawings weren't enough.
They were.
(And no. I'm not sharing)

I think today's kids are missing something with all this virtual/cyber/e-whatever nonsense.
There's just something special about a handwritten letter from a long-lost lover , and you can't feel that vibe from a monitor; can't get it from an email or IM.

I doubt I'll ever save an email for 23 years. On purpose anyway.

I'm not ashamed to admit that reading her letters - twenty-three years later- still turns me on. She was two years older than I and knew some tricks...wheew! Glad those letters got saved- otherwise I'd think I imagined the whole thing.


I'd forgotten all about those letters. My grandmother has reunited me with my collection of pornographic correspondence. I'm glad she didn't read them- her heart doesn't need the shock!

I love my Granny everyday- but I especially love her today, Easter Sunday, 2006.

Sounds Good In Mono

One of my prize possessions is a monophonic LP album of the Kinks' Village Green Preservation Society.
I am two years older than this album.

Recorded in 1968, it's is full of sweet-sounding songs that are really quite mean -almost cruel in their honesty.

"Do You Remember Walter" is one of those songs . It's about a long-lost friend:

Walter, you are just an echo of a world I knew so long ago
If you saw me now you wouldn't even know my name.
I bet you're fat and married and you're always home in bed by half-past eight.
And if I talked about the old times you'd get bored and you'll have nothing more to say.
Yes people often change, but memories of people can remain.
-Ray Davies

But this isn't about that song(I just happened to be listening to it) since my friends all seem to be pretty much the same. At a picnic today I saw a few old mates I'd not seen for years- they mostly seem fine, although I think some of the men are pregnant.

The goal of the party was raise to money for an old friend who had some bad luck. I have mixed feelings about that- yeah, we should all help each other and all- but her problems seem fairly minor compared to those of others that I know, and none of them had a party to help with the rent.

But I didn't know the story before I went. All I knew is that we were asked to bring food. I can do that. Let me show you some pictures of food , after which I will tell you a a sad/funny story.

First the food.
When doing potluck always start with something cheap, such as beans or potatoes as the base for your dish. Avoid using expensive or endangered ingredients such as antelope or zebra.
I was in a hurry so I purchased a few cans of 'energy drink' with the urgent command to "Rush!"printed on them.
Ok already- I'm moving as fast as I can!
I really should just stick to coffee



I put the beans next to the drinks in hope that the fizzy speed would exhort the beans to somehow cook themselves. They didn't.
I still had to soak the fuckers in water overnight.
"Rush!" my ass. Lazy goddamn beans.

I noticed with alarm that someone had inserted a packet of "Ham" seasoning into the pinto beans package.
Mmmm...salt, monosodium glutamate, salt again, maltodextrin, sugar, more salt, jowl extract and salt.
If you ever find a packet like this in your dry goods, discard it forthwith. Place it inside a sealed cannister so that wild animals will not poison themselves. Use real meat or go vegan, but never use jowl extract.

Anyway, in the morning I boiled my beans, the bulk of which I have set aside for purpose of burritos. The rest I combined with some unbleached rice and polska kielbasa and got this:

I was going to make an elaborate post with step-by-step instructions, but I quickly found that cooking and photography don't mix- for example, it is very difficult to photograph oneself demonstrating the proper technique for chopping onions.

With a little practice you should be able to neatly dice a medium onion -from the skin-on state- in less than 60 seconds-under 30 being best. This is really easy to learn. I'm not kidding. Bring a camera over and I'll show you. Bring food.

Proper knife handling is a crucial element in cooking. Knives are sharp and should be treated with respect.
I learned how to cook from a psychotic chef who said he'd stab me if I ever cut myself in his kitchen. I think he meant it, so I learned to tuck those fingertips in.

Once you've got the onion thing down, everything else just falls into place. Don't fall into the recipe trap (unless you are baking-that needs recipes) - just work with whatever you have handy. Trust yourself.
Unless you store your household cleansers in your spice cabinet it's unlikely you'll create anything lethal. Inedible, maybe-but not lethal. Take chances.
Anyway, I'll save all that for my food blog.

I promised a story.

Let me tell you why my friend is so in debt. For most people this might seem a bit extreme , but for my friend this is quite normal:

Hi! (Big hugs)

Heard you had some bad luck.

Yeah. See my scar? ( 12 inches on the calf)

Yikes! What happened?

I was going to see this guy and I had on the high heels and I was drunk and fell down. Broke my leg in two places. Couldn't walk or work for two months.

Oh. Geez, that hadda hurt.

Yeah. The next day it was all swollen and bleeding and I could barely walk.

Huh? The next day? You didn't go to the ER that night?

No, I spent the night at his place and didn't go to the hospital till later- that's why it got so fucked up. I hurt it worse while I was screwing him, I think.

Wait. Let me clear this up. You broke your leg -bone shattered- and still fucked this guy? And he was OK with that? Didn't he offer to drive you to the ER? You didn't notice that there was a bone poking out of your leg?

No. He never even called me again. And it didn't break the skin until later.


I love my friend, I really do- but to me this a story of fucking-up, pure and simple fucking-up- no tragedy worthy of charity. I'm not really sure what to think.
Nothing good, that's for sure.
I think it's not very gallant of a guy to fuck a girl with a freshly broken leg, but it was her leg and she was into it too. Eeehhhh...

Best not to think about it.

Apple Polly Gee

Oh boy. I feel like a total schmuck.
I had to update this because I feel really bad.

An old pal asked me to read a "fan fiction" novel he wrote based the Red Dwarf TV show. Ok.
The book is awful.
I don't know much about Red Dwarf but I ran a comic shop for eight years so I'm somewhat of an expert in matters of awful fan fiction.

So I vented some long-standing grudge here earlier- he won't read this- while I tried to decide how to kindly lie to him about his book-which is almost unreadable.
He kinda screwed me when I wrote a 100-page story for him years ago- but I should get over that and try to find something helpful to say.
Anything.

So he calls me.

His wife has left him and taken the kids. He's living in Newark with his mom and all his money is gone. His life is a total ruin and the last thing he needs to hear is my asshole remarks about his crappy book. But it's just a phone and it's his life and there's nothing I can do to help. I have no advice worth giving- all I can do is listen. He really misses his kids. It's painful to hear.
Bummer.
I knew she was gonna screw him, but what can you say? I don't know.



Tomorrow a group of my friends is having a BBQ/Keg party w/ bands and stuff. It should be a lot of fun but it's for a sad cause. It's a fundraiser for an old friend who has found herself homeless.
She used to own a house- now she has nothing. It's a long story and it's not mine to tell, but she has a history of bad luck and/or fucking up. Only once have I reminded an ex- felon that an illegal gun -that unregistered .45 right there on the dresser for example- is an automatic five -year 'vacation'.

My homeless pal was that ex- felon. Bad luck. Poor judgement. Trouble.

Still, she's a good person- she just hates herself and insists on ruining her life despite her ability to do good things. It's really sad and there's nothing to be done about it.
A party might raise the rent money for her, but nothing can change her except herself.
We've tried. I've tried. Failed.
So we have a party instead.

Hey! Snap out of it- you'll see a lot of friends you never get to see anymore. Weren't you just whining about never seeing your friends?
You depress the hell out of me sometimes.

Go have fun and stop being such an asshole.

Fundamentalists Will Destroy The World

"We are already at war"

Place yer bets- I'm giving 5 to 1 that we (openly) attack Iran before the November elections. Why are we going to do that? Because Bush and Khamenei are cut from the same bloody cloth.
Bush wants another war so he can remain in power- and Khamenei wishes us to attack him so that he too can remain in power.

Have you noticed that the current BushCo rhetoric about Iran is exactly what was said about Iraq?

Wolf!

Omigod! Iran might have nukes! How do we deal with that? By threatening them with nukes. Brilliant.

Wolf!

The conflict will give both men an excuse to abolish whatever Civil Rights the citizens of their respective countries currently enjoy. Dissent? None of that.
Clampdown, oh yeah!
Sorry, no elections this time around- we're at war , ya see? I knew you'd understand.

Wolf!

It'll rally the violent Conservative Fundamentalists that are the power base of both men.

Different prophets, same Neanderthal mentality.

My God can whip your God.
Bring it on, infidel.

Wolf!

Militarily, economically, politically - anyway you look at it , a US/Iran war will be bad for everyone who isn't a war-profiteering religious terrorist. Nothing good will result. Not one thing.

Too bad for the rest of us that war-profiteering religious terrorists are in charge of both nations.

They want this war, they need this war- it gives meaning to their violent superstition- the Invisible Cloud Being will come down to Earth and sort out the Bad Guys and take the Good Guys up to HolyCloud, Paradise or wherever.

Wrong.

There are no Good Guys in this new Holy War, just Bad Guys and victims.

Jesus would shit flaming halos if He saw what you fuckers are doing in His name.

I'm not sure what Mohammed's reaction to all this religious war-mongering would be , but I'm giving 20 to 1 that it wouldn't involve carbombs and assassinations.

Wolf!

Proving It

Another simple truth exposed.
Duh!
I'll explain later.

The Other Looking Glass

Unless you are a winged insect you probably don't think of a window as a barrier - I mean, it's transparent and (usually) easily opened or smashed- not presenting much of an obstacle to the determined person.

You can observe the world through glass- some things might affect you- oh look, it's snowing!- but more than likely you'll just see objects passing you by, oblivious to both you and whatever you may think of them.
Maybe a child will see you watching and wave to you.
Pull the curtains shut.

For years this has been the nature of my once-human interaction with the world.

There's a pane of glass between myself and everyone else- there's so much I could say to you that this glass could never translate- the meanings would diffract into chaos like light through a cracked prism- an asymmetrical kaleidoscope of stammers, half-starts and frustration at words that are just not enough.
Not always. Not now. Not ever.
The words didn't work the first time, nor the second or third, so why should I believe them enough to repeat them ever again?
I can chew them, taste them, spit them out, but I can't say them.

So I sputter at this, this Window, and I hate it because when I try to touch it, all I feel is cold glass. Look- there's now a smudged fingerprint to remind me that once again I have failed to make any connection with the world -and with the people I want so much to be a part of.

Surely I am not so empty that I have nothing to offer? This is a real fear of mine- that I just don't have anything anyone would want- and it hurts all the more because I see what people are willing to settle for and I know I am better than that. I know this-I am told of my goodness by others- yet I'm unable to convince myself that any of what they say is true. They are just being nice.
They mean well, but it's hard for them.
I'm not easy to be around when I get like this, and I'm always like this.

Even when I'm working at the station, there's still this glass between me and the people I'm with- there's a clear wall between me and the performers- I can hear every sound they make - the microphones send it directly into my headphones- but there is little communication beyond "ooh, nice guitar" and the timeworn warning, " 1,2,3-Rolling!"

If you talk directly to me in the studio, I cannot hear you- I've got my isolation headphones on (that's what they are called- isolation 'phones). You will have to speak into a microphone. It will convert your voice into electricity and route it to my iso-phones , which will change it back into words. With any luck I'll understand what you said.
Almost all my communications- with everyone, about everything- follow a similar path. These very words are an example. Will you understand?
With luck, perhaps you will.

The song is over, the players pack and go home- I'm stuck cleaning up the studio.

Hey, here's my card- call me if you'd like to jam some time. Let me know if you know anyone who needs a guitarist I can play lots of different instruments- or call me if you need a demo or some live work done...but they never do. I don't blame them. If I can hear the desperation in my voice, I know that they can too. Who wants to be around some sad lonely guy?
I know I don't, but I don't have much choice.

Sometimes, rarely, one of my friends asks me to jam with them. This feels like a "mercy fuck". They don't have the time or energy to actually be in a functional band with me- they have their own things-their own bands, families, children, careers they don't hate- all things I don't have-
but I guess they get tired of seeing me moping around, semi-visible on the sideline, wishing I was more than a backstage button-pusher.

They feel sorry for me and I hate myself for that.

I know they mean well, but for me music is love, and love is an all or nothing thing.
Being in love for two hours every third Thursday is worse than being alone.
Alone.
Watching through the glass.
Trying to transmit an idea from Point A to Point A without losing it all in transformation is nearly impossible, yet I feel compelled to push it further- let's try for Point B and hope for the best.
Or point see.

I can see the point through this glass.
I know I can't touch it, but I try anyway.

I think I must be afraid of everything except failure, so I keep reaching, stretching...

It's cold, hard and flat. It always is.

It's just another fingerprint on the glass.

No Parking

Parking violations are taken very seriously here.

Our DCP -Dept. of Criminal Parking- will not only give you a ticket, they a will drop a telephone pole on the front of your car and knock down a tree to keep you from backing out.
It takes only three DCP officers to force down a large tree- such as seen above. They do this by hand, without using any tools whatsoever. It's a terror to behold- especially when it's your vehicle involved. I don't know where they find these guys, maybe they breed them in a super-mutant factory just for DCP duty. I've wondered why they don't use these bruisers for something other than civic-minded wholesale destruction but I'm too scared to say anything anymore. Less trouble that way.



Nobody seems to know if the DCP even have the right to use such drastic measures to enforce what was- until the creation of the DCP last summer- a minor forty dollar fine , payable by mail.
Nowadays you don't mail in your ticket anymore- they come and drop a a tree on your wheels and then you pay the fine- the fine usually consisting of your wallet, jewelry, home electronics or whatever else you may have to barter with. This can get very unpleasant.

Personally, I'm too cowardly to ask questions of people who can knock over trees with their hands, so I just park where I'm told. Less trouble that way.

A few weeks after the Dept. started smashing cars with trees I asked a co-worker if he didn't think that maybe the whole DCP affair was a bit 'over-the-top' and perhaps not even neccesary at all? It's just a few parked cars isn't it? Hardly worth destroying entire neighborhoods over .
He just just grunted something about paying his fair share of taxes and how he didn't want someone parking on his block that didn't. They could park in my space if I loved them that much. Fair enough. I didn't argue with him.

That afternoon I found that someone had smashed in my driver's window and stolen my radio. On my windshield they spray-painted the word "TRAITOR" in bright red letters. There was a brand-new 'No Parking' sign standing next to my brutalized Honda. The cement around it's base was still fresh.
I also had a parking ticket. I was to pay a fine of one hundred dollars- on the reverse side was printed a 10% off coupon from a nearby automobile glass shop.

I admit this all seemed a bit suspicious, but who could I complain to? It's easier just to park where they tell me to. Less trouble that way.

Besides, I saved 10% !

Warning Signs

NEW YORK, MONDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1938


We can learn a lot from these headlines. Let's start in the middle, with the one about Martians.
That was to be the focus of this rant- to use the War of the Worlds debacle as an example of just how willing people are to believe almost anything- as long as it's on ( insert media here), but I wasn't ready for that next headline. To the right . We'll get back to it.

As you know, that radio broadcast caused a national panic. Ha Ha! Isn't it funny to think that people would actually believe a bunch of horse- hooey about "Gas Attacks From Mars"- who would fall for that?

That was what I thought back in 2002 -when I first heard Bush mention Iraq in the same breath as WMD and 9/11. Surely nobody would take such blatant bullshit seriously- I mean, the Iraqis are gonna do what?
Build a giant balsawood glider, fill it with nasty stuff and fly it halfway across the globe to the USA? Hilarious!
Excuse me? You aren't kidding?
Remember - most of Iraq was a 'no-fly' zone at the time and had the most closely scrutinized airspace in the world. You couldn't fly a fucking kite in Iraq without lighting up a dozen radar screens and we're supposed to believe that they're getting ready to send unmanned planes across the world?
I was hated in the office for pointing this out.
9/11!
Really, there's no way a Scud missile can rea...
9/11!
Honestly, it's even on the CIA's site ( it was at the time-it really was)- Iraq is a secular dictatorship and is considered "hostile" to al-Queda and similar Islamic terror organizations. If we attack, we'll just create more terrorists.
9/11!
But North Korea...
9/11! 9/11! 9/11!



I never believed this war was just and was never afraid to say so. I had many arguments at home and work during the pre-war days- I was crazy- how dare I question the President, why don't I move to Afghanistan etc--one patriot actually yelled at me at a stoplight because I did NOT have a flag decal on my car. Crazy times.

But no one wants to believe that a President could betray America, no matter how obvious it is.
And it is obvious.
It has been all along.

Back to the newspaper-

To the right , there's a chilling headline about "Ousted Jews" fleeing to Poland. There's a horrifying mention of "Camps Maintained By Distribution Committee". Less than eleven months later, Hitler invaded Poland, bringing the camps with him. We know the rest.

It's strange that millions of Americans were willing to believe in phony Martians, yet were oblivious or uncaring to real death camps and the looming Nazi Menace. Hell, a number of Americans were getting rich dealing with the new German regime.


How did the 1938 American feel about the German camps? Did anyone imagine what was to come? The nation had just been brought to it's knees by a freeking radio broadcast- who would have thought we'd be dropping atomic bombs inside of seven years time?

In 1938 "Arbeit Macht Frei" lacked the meaning it carries today.

People haven't changed much since then. I'd like to think that history could serve as some form of warning ( I'm pretty sure this is not an original idea) but it never seems to get noticed by the right people. Our Glorious Leader is well known for his arrogant incuriousity toward things historical. Appallingly, it's exactly this fake "home-style" disdain for intellectualism that endeared Glorious Leader to the rubes that voted for him.

Sadly, all that history seems to do is remind us that we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again. The human evil changes name and form , but it's part of our energy- it can't be destroyed. Sometimes, like in Sept. 1939 or Sept. 2001, or (unknown date to come) , it cannot even be contained. It has to be beaten, hurled kicking and screaming back into void- until the next time.
There is always a next time.

Now that I think about it, it's probably a good thing that most people lack any sense of history- it helps them to be happy.

I suggest Zoloft and an iPod with lots of happy songs on it. Download some illegal Mp3s if you need to feel like a rebel.
And think about puppies. Puppies don't get depressed by history.

A Pause

Anything I say right now is likely to be wrong.

Back To Nothing

I made a work-related trip to the Federal Reserve today. I used to work for the Fed Gov a million years ago and went to the Reserve every once in a while - I remember it mainly for the awesome cafeteria- if you had a Federal badge you could get a decent meal for less than two bucks- even in 1999 that was cheap. Almost any badge would get you into the main building .

That has all changed. All traffic into the building must now pass through a number of security checkpoints:


I wasn't really very surprised to find that we've outsourced the security of our Federal Buildings to the North Koreans - after all,those guys can man the hell out of a checkpoint- but it did lead to some language difficulties and general confusion once I got into the building itself. There was a long line- something I'd never seen there. It took me a while to get in.

When I finally got to the desk where they check your ID against the scheduled guest list I found that the guard in charge of checking IDs was talking on the phone as she gave cards a very cursory glance. Thank you sir.

Then she says something incredible. Mind you, this at a security point inside the fortified basement of a Federal Bank and she's having a loud phone conversation- she says:

"That would be the bomb* if you could do that, girl! "

(* bomb is American slang. I think it means "something good")

Then-in case I missed it the first time- she repeats it:

"That would be so the bomb!"

There's a half-dozen armed guards in this room and one of them just said "bomb" twice in ten seconds. I seem to be the only one who notices this.

I wonder what would happen if I walked in, talking on a cellphone, saying "that would be the bomb" ?

I bet I'd be arrested.

Unless I was dark-skinned. In that case I'd probably be shot and killed.

Anyway, I finally made it inside the Fed and into our firm's office. It's much swankier than the building I work in . The receptionist is really friendly and likes to flirt, which is nice. I had some impure thoughts and they helped divert me from the tedium of my work. I will edit them out of this narrative.



Too bad she's married. I can tell she likes me. Women like to watch me perform simple, repetitive tasks. I don't know why, but it is true.
I'm OK with that.
Perhaps one day one will domesticate me. That would be OK too.

I'm getting sick of my present bachelor pad. I've long ago given up on housekeeping- about the best I do is remove the winter plywood and replace it with the more 'springtimier' opaque plastic. (My apartment is on the bottom left)


Above is my home's "winter" look. Don't be put off by the exterior. It's actually much nicer inside than you'd think.
(Below)
I used to work a lot of overtime and was almost never home, so I decided to make a few extra bucks by renting my apartment out as a holiday timeshare. Don't tell my landlord!

See how nice my guests left it? I kept their security deposit anyway.

A Knock On The Door

This picture tells a thousand stories and every one of them will break your heart.

Does Anyone Else See This As Madness?

There's a storm coming

One former defense official said the military planning was premised on a belief that "a sustained bombing campaign in Iran will humiliate the religious leadership and lead the public to rise up and overthrow the government," The New Yorker pointed out.
link

This might be true. Another war of lies may cause the public to rise up and throw their incompetent and religiously insane leaders out of office. This is a lot likelier to happen in America than in Iran.

Bombing Iran will just further polarize the Muslim world against the USA and give Iran's leaders a great excuse to clamp down even harder on dissent and civil rights - I mean if it's OK for the US to torture and kidnap because we are at war , what happens in places where it's already OK to torture and kidnap when they go to war?

If Nukes get used- and the option is open- all bets are off.
The very idea of using nuclear weapons -no matter what the reason, no matter what the target- is so Total Bugshit Insane that I'm almost certain that Bush will do it.

Watch out. If we start hearing any serious discussion of Impeachment, we may finally see those mushroom clouds that pathological liar Condeleeza Rice warned us about so long ago.

She forgot to mention that we'd be the ones responsible.

Nuclear weapons.
No shit.

Is BushCo so addicted to power that they'd destroy everything rather than relinquish control?

Yes. They would.
And they will try, no doubt about it.

I hear a calliope approaching...

Flat Earthers Piss Me Off

Note: This is my first-ever blogpost, republished here as filler.

Remember when the world was widely considered to be flat? I bet you don't. That's because a bunch of egg-head scientists and left-wing public school teachers have sold you on the lie that the world is round. Perhaps you've been shown a "globe" to help convince you of this falsehood.

Don't fall for this trick. What you are being shown is merely a ball.
Prove this to yourself-proceed to your nearest "globe" and kick it in the same manner you'd kick a soccer ball. Better yet, hit it with a baseball bat. It reacts like a ball, doesn't it? (Unless you've got one of those fancy-schmancy wooden "globes", in which case you'd better drag your intellectually elitist ass out of your ivory tower and head to the ER to get a cast on your newly-damaged foot).
In case you haven't noticed, the world is a goddamn cube.It's exactly 6 1/2' by 6 1/2'.
I know this because I measured it using a 3"x5" post-it note. It took a while.
Since I got paid for doing that I,must be a "professional".
Everyone knows you can always trust a professional to fix or solve yer problems (my so- called therapist being the exception). Wrong! They all suck and are useless for anything except billing you.
Those glowing sticks in the sky? Those are aren't called "stars", and yes , you've been lied to about more than just those.
That's not the sky- it's the ceiling. Reach for the acoustic tile, not for the stars.
On a positive note, space-travel is easier now than ever. Every single goddamned day I travel to another planet (also square) and bring coffee back to Earth. Somedays I go to a really big square planet full of glassy-eyed humanoids. Some people try to tell me these are called "meetings" , but I know them for what they really are-Alien Abductions.

Right down to the anal probe. If you haven't noticed this, you need another trip to Planet Coffee. Is it five o'clock yet?

Stormy Woman

A long time ago I played in a band with a woman whose emotional condition could wreak havoc on electrical systems and electronic devices of all sort. This is not such a good trait for a player of electric music to possess, but by the time I figured that out it was too late. I was in love.

I think of her because I recently found a tape she made for me of some bands we played in. It's 19 years old, dated 11/1987.
I haven't seen her in at least ten years.
Lots of stuff on that tape...

I played lead guitar in most of those projects and I used to employ a great number of stomp boxes and foot-pedal effects in order to get really bizarre sounds- but they would often malfunction at the worst times- I'd lose all sound during a solo , or , worse, my amplifier would just blast feedback at an unholy volume and drown out whatever else happened to be in the room with it, such as the rest of the band. Really bad for gigs.

Sometimes this continued even after unplugging the amp.

She didn't always have a negative effect on the equipment, at times my guitar did tricks around her- stuff it would never do in her absence- there was a certain ethereal tone- more of a place than a sound, as if I was hearing something from a great distance, something urgent and immediate, yet wholly discrete from all things tangible. It was like closing your eyes at night and listening to the stars -and finding them very loud indeed.

Something else would take take control of my fingers at these moments. I was only along for the ride. Part of the audience. Ecstatic.
My guitar would start speaking in tongues.

It's a feeling I once took for granted but now recognize as rare and precious.

I didn't know that this woman was responsible for these sounds until after we started sleeping together. The sexual tension had been building for months and she had just broken up with her boyfriend (who was my ex-drummer-complicated-whew!) and we found ourselves together. We both knew what was going to happen- it was, if you'll pardon me, electric.

I opened my eyes after that first, exquisitely anticipated kiss - oh, that was one for the ages, it really was- and found that her apartment had gone dark. We made our own light and didn't care.

The next morning I found that all four lamps in her tiny flat had burned out. I hate spending our beer money on lightbulbs, that's what I thought at the time. It didn't strike me as odd that they were all blown- shit happens, right?

That afternoon -or one very much like it- my amp would not make a sound. No light, no hum
nothing. I took the damned thing nearly to pieces looking for a blown tube or a frayed cord, a fuse, something.
I ran a signal from her amp to my speakers and the speakers worked fine- the electronics however, would not power up at all.

She came home and found me quite upset with all this. Pacing and fuming- why the hell won't it work?
Nevermind all that right now, she said. Be with me.

Later , my amp worked great. I didn't think twice. Part of the audience.

We never really dated, but we did argue. I think it was the booze and drugs, as we got along famously most of the time, but we sure had some screaming drag-outs. I'm glad we spent our time at her place, because during every fight a different appliance would die.

If we fought about work (we both worked in the same restaraunt) something in her kitchen would catch fire- a toaster, coffee grinder or clock- didn't matter.
Something had to burn.
Burn so bad that even sex couldn't fix it.

When we fought about music my guitar rig would refuse to behave. It never exploded or caught fire but it sure sounded like it was going to.
Guitar bio-feedback with an angry whammy.
Awful. Scary.

I'd not thought about her for a long time, but suddenly I've got this tape. I thought it long-lost, but it was with me the whole time. I suppose part of me will be with her forever, though I'd almost forgotten her. I think I really loved her then, witha passion so intense it was nearly blinding , at least to memory's eye, but it's hard for me to believe that I did. I'm not sure I'm still capable of that feeling.
My recall is poor. I don't know now what I was feeling then, but I know it's all in the music.
The music on this tape.

I'm afraid to listen to this tape, yet I know that I will.

My Shame Is Legion

Hey Kids! There's a new blog that's open to everyone and it's right here . The idea is to shame yourself and/or others in a public forum while hiding behind a veil of anonymity. How original!
You can log in as : legion1000
Password: shameful

I don't know if this will catch on, but if it does it's only a matter of time until someone buggers it up - how long this will take has yet to be determined.

It's total anarchy- can it work?
Probably not, but we'll see...

Label Machine

Here is handy test to help you figure out where you stand regarding Moral Politics. It will provide you with many labels with which you can affix to yourself if desired. My blog-pal Susanne sent me this link - she took it and under U.S. Political Party she got the result:

"No Match." I am in awe of that, for that is indeed the perfect answer! Kudos for that!

I gave anathemic answers to every question and got this:

Your Score

Your scored 7 on the Moral Order axis and -6 on the Moral Rules axis.

Matches

The following items best match your score:

1. System: Conservatism
2. Variation: Extreme Conservatism
3. Ideologies: Fundamentalism, PaleoConservatism, Conservative NeoLiberalism
4. US Parties: Republican Party
5. Presidents: George W. Bush (90.12%)
6. 2004 Election Candidates: George W. Bush (90.12%), John Kerry (52.40%), Ralph Nader (34.75%)

Statistics

Of the 175777 people who took the test:

1. 0.1% had the same score as you.
2. 83.9% were above you on the chart.
3. 4.2% were below you on the chart.
4. 0.8% were to your right on the chart.
5. 98.4% were to your left on the chart.

---------------------------------------------
My real answers told me I was a socialist but I already knew that. Except I hate socialism. Sort of. Sometimes.

Actually, at heart I'm an anarchist but no matter how I answered the bloody thing I couldn't get it to produce the label I wanted.

This proves that it's impossible to define yourself with internet tests.

Who knew?

Walk The Plank

This man should be strung-up from a lamp post with a sign around his broken neck reading: "Child Molester".
All men like him should suffer the same fate.

Yeah, I know there's a lot of 'gray area' in Death Penalty issues, but if you are 55 years old and are actively trying to corrupt and seduce 14-year olds, then it's really not a stretch (in my mind anyway) to conclude that, given the circumstance and opportunity, that there is NOTHING that you wouldn't do- up to and including murder. This is a man with no conscience or moral grounding whatsoever and as such, he is an intolerable threat to our teetering society.

Wait, you say. Isn't the death penalty a little harsh for his crime?

No, goddamn it, it is not. As I said, this man- and those like him- have already crossed the moral point of no return. I'd wager my last dime that he's molested kids before and given the chance he'll do it again. I don't think he should be given that chance.

So off with this fuckwad's head.

Keep the guilliotine sharp for Tom DeLay. Any man who would sell out America and our Constitution in order to make easy money is just as bad as a serial molester or even a killer. His entire career is a catalogue of self-serving amorality- bribes, thefts, lies and paid favors - all at the expense of this Nation. During his decades-long crime spree he kept shouting about what a great Christian he was- I'm not much of a Jesus guy, but I'm pretty sure that JC never encouraged his followers to aggressively boast and brag about how "faithful" they are- yet Jesus gets invoked every single day by people whose business is trafficking in evil.

"I am so Humble! No one is as Humble as I am! I am the Humblest! And Virtuous too! I'm way Virtuous!"
Asswipers, all of them.

And there's thousands, if not millions more people just like them.

Rape a child, betray your own country- how much lower can you get? Why wait until they get caught killing someone?
Why should they be given a second chance?
Is Earth so underpopulated that we need these incorrigible menaces amongst us?

I used to feel differently about this, but no longer. Some acts are just so wrong , that once they've been committed , the offender has, in my view, abandoned any hope of Redemption and should be executed in a public and painful manner once convicted by the court.

Hand me the axe if you ain't got the balls to do it.