Addictive Personality
19.03.09
Guy told me I had an ‘addictive personality’.
"The reason you always tossing shit into your mouth, is because you've got an addictive personality," he said.
“Addictive personality? What’s that? Like, ‘charisma’?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “That’s ‘magnetic personality'. You got addictive personality, the kind where you lean toward all kinds of addictions. What can you not live without?” he asked. "What do you just gotta have?"
Made me think. Air. Water. Food. Place to stay. People to talk to. Art. Told him that.
No, he said. He said he was talking about cigarettes, and coffee, and booze, and women, and drugs, and coffee, and red meat, and coke and Pepsi, and Coffee, and tv, and computers, and video games, and certain wines, and things like that, and as he named them off, I was thinking, tick-tock, tick-tock, ‘yeaaaaaaah…’
“Do you mean,” I asked, “like, the first time I ever tried fry bread, I looked up and asked, ‘You can get me more of this, can’t you?’”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
-end
.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Holy Shit, Fritz
18.03.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Am I the only one who has questions about this Fritzl guy in Austria who kept his daughter in a cellar for 24 years and fathered her seven children, and kept everything a secret until….?
Ok. You’ve heard about it, right? A story so bizarre, it caught the world’s attention. The Associated Press story provided one sentence explaining Fritzl’s wife Rosemarie thinking three of the children ‘brought upstairs’ had ‘apparently believed they had been abandoned.’
The kids are now all grown, the daughter, the principle witness for the prosecution, is 42.
The story was riveting, but geeez, they left some major gaps.
Do you have any questions about this story, or do you care what sick twisted shit happens in Austria? I don’t either, but I’ve got a couple of questions.
1. What was going on with Mrs. Fritzl that she was clueless for 24 years? Did she ever ask, ‘Josef, why…?
2. Who was doing all the cooking, for instance? And where was all that food going?
I’m going to cut it off at four questions. Oh, but there’d be a lot of questions. Somebody’s already on the book, and the movie, no doubt. No. Wait. I’ve got another one. Who did the deliveries?
???
My God.
I mean, the wife has GOT TO BE an accomplice, or completely 100% daft, too.
Whole family is locked away, again. None of ‘em are on the loose.
.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Am I the only one who has questions about this Fritzl guy in Austria who kept his daughter in a cellar for 24 years and fathered her seven children, and kept everything a secret until….?
Ok. You’ve heard about it, right? A story so bizarre, it caught the world’s attention. The Associated Press story provided one sentence explaining Fritzl’s wife Rosemarie thinking three of the children ‘brought upstairs’ had ‘apparently believed they had been abandoned.’
The kids are now all grown, the daughter, the principle witness for the prosecution, is 42.
The story was riveting, but geeez, they left some major gaps.
Do you have any questions about this story, or do you care what sick twisted shit happens in Austria? I don’t either, but I’ve got a couple of questions.
1. What was going on with Mrs. Fritzl that she was clueless for 24 years? Did she ever ask, ‘Josef, why…?
2. Who was doing all the cooking, for instance? And where was all that food going?
I’m going to cut it off at four questions. Oh, but there’d be a lot of questions. Somebody’s already on the book, and the movie, no doubt. No. Wait. I’ve got another one. Who did the deliveries?
???
My God.
I mean, the wife has GOT TO BE an accomplice, or completely 100% daft, too.
Whole family is locked away, again. None of ‘em are on the loose.
.
Multi-tasking At The Wheel
Multi-Tasking At The Wheel
17.03.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand – You might be thinking this is probably some story about being run off the road on your motorbike, into the jungle, by some half-alert, semi-conscious Thai driver, cruising leisurely along ten mph under the speed limit, attuned only to his cell phone conversation, never looking into the rear-view mirror, drifting, drifting, drifting over into the bike lane as a passing attempt is made, and off you go into the jungle.
You may know of some early returns on multi-tasking research. If you’re doing more than one thing at a time, your capacity to produce top performance efficiency in each of those efforts is diminished. In other words, half-assed.
Does that mean you can’t read a magazine and have a smoke while on the toilet? I don’t know for sure. Can a person intake, digest, and eliminate all at the same time? It’s different than peyote, and also unlike feverish illness or drug-induced state when you puke and eliminate at the same time.
‘Had it comin’ out both ends,’ we would tell someone close, indicating the severity of our discomfort and approach to death. Sure, that’s multi-tasking, technically speaking. It’s your body’s way of…multi-tasking, while you’re doing something else.
And all the time you’ve got to keep that heart going and monitor things like blood sugar level and potassium and brain chemistry and respiration and blood pressure and that mosquito on the back of your upper arm and the cars backed up on the exit ramp and your speed and the radio, glance at the mirror and take note of whatever else is bouncing around in your head.
Now, that’s multi-tasking. We do it all the time, and yet, people talk about it like it was something special; “IIIIIIIIIIIII can do many things at once…half-assed.”
It’s a skill, like coming home and running into the house, tossing the keys on the couch, unloading whatever it was in your hands, answering the call, going to the fridge, let the cat out, shower, change, grab your gear, head out the door, take a few steps, turn around, go back for your water, leave the house, go back in and hunt for the keys.
Ever do anything remotely like that?
Ever go from the car, back to the house, three times?
Study said you start forgetting shit at 27. From there on, it’s downhill, even if you’re doing the mental gymnastics.
Yeah, you peak out at 27, study said.
Damn.
Well, I can do ONE thing at a time, half-assed, really good. So, there.
-end
17.03.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand – You might be thinking this is probably some story about being run off the road on your motorbike, into the jungle, by some half-alert, semi-conscious Thai driver, cruising leisurely along ten mph under the speed limit, attuned only to his cell phone conversation, never looking into the rear-view mirror, drifting, drifting, drifting over into the bike lane as a passing attempt is made, and off you go into the jungle.
You may know of some early returns on multi-tasking research. If you’re doing more than one thing at a time, your capacity to produce top performance efficiency in each of those efforts is diminished. In other words, half-assed.
Does that mean you can’t read a magazine and have a smoke while on the toilet? I don’t know for sure. Can a person intake, digest, and eliminate all at the same time? It’s different than peyote, and also unlike feverish illness or drug-induced state when you puke and eliminate at the same time.
‘Had it comin’ out both ends,’ we would tell someone close, indicating the severity of our discomfort and approach to death. Sure, that’s multi-tasking, technically speaking. It’s your body’s way of…multi-tasking, while you’re doing something else.
And all the time you’ve got to keep that heart going and monitor things like blood sugar level and potassium and brain chemistry and respiration and blood pressure and that mosquito on the back of your upper arm and the cars backed up on the exit ramp and your speed and the radio, glance at the mirror and take note of whatever else is bouncing around in your head.
Now, that’s multi-tasking. We do it all the time, and yet, people talk about it like it was something special; “IIIIIIIIIIIII can do many things at once…half-assed.”
It’s a skill, like coming home and running into the house, tossing the keys on the couch, unloading whatever it was in your hands, answering the call, going to the fridge, let the cat out, shower, change, grab your gear, head out the door, take a few steps, turn around, go back for your water, leave the house, go back in and hunt for the keys.
Ever do anything remotely like that?
Ever go from the car, back to the house, three times?
Study said you start forgetting shit at 27. From there on, it’s downhill, even if you’re doing the mental gymnastics.
Yeah, you peak out at 27, study said.
Damn.
Well, I can do ONE thing at a time, half-assed, really good. So, there.
-end
Big Fight In Newsroom
Big Fight In Newsroom
18.03.09
BENTON, MO - Oh shit, you guys should’ve been here. BIGGGG fucking fight in the newsroom. Between a reporter and the copy editor. You could hear them way outside. Everything came to a standstill.
The editor ran two stories with two inaccurate leads, technically. The reporter stuck to her guns, the one who covered that satellite coming down and striking the cat, screaming at the editor, “HIS FUCKING NAME WAS SNIFFLES!”
The editor, who always has the final say, no matter what, ran the first story as, ‘Sniffle Memorial on Monday’ 9.03.09, with the obituaries, which irritated the hell out of the repor…can I say her name?...Marianne, who thought it should have run as local news.
Then, on 14.03.09 he ran a follow-up story as, ‘Hensley Home Closed Following Sniffle Hit’, which REALLY pissed her off, because she wasn’t completed settled from the first time, and she let everyone know.
“First you chop the hell out of my Sniffles hit story, ran it as an obituary, and now this misleading title, twice.”
“Did you just say Sniffle shit?” asked the editor.
She was spouting about journalistic integrity, and the editor, can I say his name?...the editor, crusty old cynical bastard that he is, said it didn’t sound right. “Read it both ways,” he said. “With the ‘S’, and without it. I’ve been doing headlines a long time, Sweetheart, and I’m telling you what works and what doesn’t.”
She erupted, “I’M NOT YOUR SWEETHEART. MY NAME IS MARIANNE, AND THE FUCKING CAT’S NAME WAS SNIFFLES!”
Glover responded with, “And I’m Sergeant Fucking Preston, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Fucking Police. Take a hike, Sniffles.”
Awwww shit, why’d he say that? I mean, he could have said practically anything else, but they’d been working together long enough for him to know just how to get under her skin. She didn’t even know who Sergeant Preston was.
Well, one thing led to another, and before you knew, the authorities were called in. Yeah. No shit. They had to break it up. Someone downstairs dialed up 911 and said a murder was about to take place. Six cops showed up. They had the call on tape. All the calls are on tape.
No. Nothing changed. Vic sent her back out to talk to Mrs. Hensley…she’s in a nursing home now…and down to the animal shelter to investigate the killing of those 117 cats. Lethal injection. They used to just bash their heads in, saying it saved time, until people got wind of it. Animal rights people are in a hysteria about not trying to find them homes. Off’d ‘em right after they caught ‘em.
They cremate. Then the remains go to the community garden. People over there said they’d take all the ashes for their tomato plants.
-end
.
18.03.09
BENTON, MO - Oh shit, you guys should’ve been here. BIGGGG fucking fight in the newsroom. Between a reporter and the copy editor. You could hear them way outside. Everything came to a standstill.
The editor ran two stories with two inaccurate leads, technically. The reporter stuck to her guns, the one who covered that satellite coming down and striking the cat, screaming at the editor, “HIS FUCKING NAME WAS SNIFFLES!”
The editor, who always has the final say, no matter what, ran the first story as, ‘Sniffle Memorial on Monday’ 9.03.09, with the obituaries, which irritated the hell out of the repor…can I say her name?...Marianne, who thought it should have run as local news.
Then, on 14.03.09 he ran a follow-up story as, ‘Hensley Home Closed Following Sniffle Hit’, which REALLY pissed her off, because she wasn’t completed settled from the first time, and she let everyone know.
“First you chop the hell out of my Sniffles hit story, ran it as an obituary, and now this misleading title, twice.”
“Did you just say Sniffle shit?” asked the editor.
She was spouting about journalistic integrity, and the editor, can I say his name?...the editor, crusty old cynical bastard that he is, said it didn’t sound right. “Read it both ways,” he said. “With the ‘S’, and without it. I’ve been doing headlines a long time, Sweetheart, and I’m telling you what works and what doesn’t.”
She erupted, “I’M NOT YOUR SWEETHEART. MY NAME IS MARIANNE, AND THE FUCKING CAT’S NAME WAS SNIFFLES!”
Glover responded with, “And I’m Sergeant Fucking Preston, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Fucking Police. Take a hike, Sniffles.”
Awwww shit, why’d he say that? I mean, he could have said practically anything else, but they’d been working together long enough for him to know just how to get under her skin. She didn’t even know who Sergeant Preston was.
Well, one thing led to another, and before you knew, the authorities were called in. Yeah. No shit. They had to break it up. Someone downstairs dialed up 911 and said a murder was about to take place. Six cops showed up. They had the call on tape. All the calls are on tape.
No. Nothing changed. Vic sent her back out to talk to Mrs. Hensley…she’s in a nursing home now…and down to the animal shelter to investigate the killing of those 117 cats. Lethal injection. They used to just bash their heads in, saying it saved time, until people got wind of it. Animal rights people are in a hysteria about not trying to find them homes. Off’d ‘em right after they caught ‘em.
They cremate. Then the remains go to the community garden. People over there said they’d take all the ashes for their tomato plants.
-end
.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Your Inner Voice
16.03.09
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Like, just the other day, this lizard that stays out here, not the Gecko, the Gecko’s that little shit. No, not an Iguana…that other one. This one’s about the size of a freight train locomotive, relatively speaking. Ask Blanco. Blanco knows. Blanco saw him. Took a picture of him, saying, ‘Take a look at the SIZE of this thing.’
Japanese made a bunch of movies with ‘em. A Kimodo dragon.
Stays up under the eaves and behind the door. First time I saw him, I thought, ‘Awwwwwwwwww, shit. I’ve got THIS THING livin’ close by?’ But he’s cool, lives off smaller things, not humans, and he sounds off every night, sometimes two three times.
He’s got to hit that, ‘Geck-o’ sound at least nine times for it to be good luck, otherwise, eight or less, keep a heads up for that big black scorpion that’s going to be crawling along your bathroom floor tomorrow morning.
That’s different from your inner voice. This was more like a warning from the outside, that lizard. An omen. An omen about the scorpion.
Your inner voice is where if you don’t listen to it, you mess up. It’s inevitable.
Mine comes across as a voice inside my head, like a ticker tape, always running, and occasionally punching out a message, chunga chunga chunga chunga chunga, wham wham wham, like last year when I was digging in that compost pile, and this voice come across, saying, ‘You better be careful digging around in there, Nigga.’
Now, that has to be granddad’s voice, who’d be talking to me like that. It’s not my voice, nor God’s or anybody else’s that I recognize. Growing up, it was like a second name, a nickname. Sisters had the same nickname at home.*
And sure enough, one more coconut shell scoop and there’s a fucking snake. Working his way deeper into the pile. Someone said, “It’s a cobra!” and we proceeded to uncover it and hack it to death. Me and those two Thai guys, and Stan. And wouldn’t ya know it, there’s a nest.
Little tiny-ass baby cobra, looks like a worm, no, it’s the same color momma, same style as momma, turning, frowning, coiling, little shit trying to make a strike before we hacked it to death, too. Never seen anything like it.
Anyway, whew!
That was an instance where JUST before I dug into the pile with the coconut, that inner voice popped up. Let me think of another one.
Easy. The ‘Nam. On the way out to the helicopter for an urgent, hot mission, I didn’t have a feeling, it came through as a thought, a voice, a voice that said, “You gonna get hit on this mission, Nigga.”
I told the crew chief, “I’m gonna get hit on this mission.”
He said, “You’re crazy. Get in.”
That’s inner voice. That’s different than the ‘Sub-Mind’ the old folks used to talk about, as in, “I ain’t got him on my sub-mind.”
Sub-mind is different than inner voice.
Heyyyyyy. That lizard sounded off just now. No shit. Just now. Thirteen times. I like the way he winds it up with a chuckle. I cannot find him. He won’t show.
Inner voice, inner voice. Back to the topic.
You know, that would happen in the classroom, too…go off on a fucking tangent, and loop way the hell back around and overshoot the runway, depend on the students to remind me where was I, where were we?
This inner voice business can happen anywhere, any time. Like in a bar, when you look over and see…trouble. With a capital ‘T’. That’s what it is. That’s what it always is. Man, Woman, Biker, don’t matter. You’re right to listen to that inner voice that says, ‘Pay your tab. Go home.’
But what the hell, after three, four, five drinks, heyyyyyy, she can’t be THAT much of a problem.
Later, you’ll be saying, “I shoulda listened to my inner voice.”
You talk about a ‘chance encounter’ that turns out to be a house, two kids, and a ten-year marriage, maybe in a trailer court and out to the track on weekends. No telling where that road might go. ‘Tell me, John Deal. How did you two meet?’
“Zinnabar, wudnit, Honey?”
“Whatzat, John Deal?”
“Guy here wunza know where we met.”
“Zinnabar.”
Maybe a prison stretch.
Well, that’s that inner voice talking to you, Shit-For-Brains, and you TOTALLY ignored it.
It’s like when your parents, your grandparents, the troop leader, the coach, the teacher, your sister, the principal, the cop, the lawyer, the judge, the probation officer, the supervisor, were all trying to tell you something, and you knew more than they did.
You were the guy in the huddle who always knew what play we should run, last seconds clicking off the clock, and the quarterback looked over at you and said, “SHUTTHEFUCKUP!”
I’m not talking to you, the reader, follow? I’m talking about the dumbfuck in the trailer court who did the prison stretch, the guy who never once listened to his inner voice.
‘Hey guys. Let’s drink a couple quarts of whiskey and go get some tattoos!’
Inner voice was in the ‘off’ mode. Inoperable. Will be back on line…soon. Our tech team is working on it.
You know what I’m saying about inner voice, right? Everybody has got one. Some call it a conscience, but that’s not it. A conscience is what you get AFTER you’ve done some shit. A shrink might call it a superego, but that misses the boat, too. Don’t it?
No. Your inner voice is more like your grandpa. More like you saying, “Hey, watch this!” and your inner voice is saying, “Ah ah ah. IwouldntdothatifIwasyou.’
-end
*most often we heard the less personalized, ‘You Niggas,’ appertaining to the siblings as a collective. Then one day at Hannah Park, while on the…uh…what the fuck do you call it?...dangerous as hell for a kid…carnival merry go round big iron piece of clanging shit that hung on chains around a big cast iron pipe…somebody tell me...it had thick wooden seats and you could sit on it or stand on it…what the fuck did they call that thing?...it could swing back and knock your teeth out, give you a concussion.
You had to run up on the shit and jump onboard when it swung forward against the pole, and the big kids would pump it and get it going and slam it around, and you could mash the helllll out of your fingers if you didn’t listen to your inner voice that said, ‘Wait. Wait until the big kids get off it.’
Anyway, my sisters and I were riding…they had alllllll kinds of dangerous shit in that park, come to think of it. I got my left ear severed over there and ran home in a bloody scream, that alerted all the neighbors, chased by my screaming sisters, and got it stitched back on. That was Harold Hensley on the swingset.
Inner voice said, ‘HEY! WATCH OUT!’ a micro-second before I got hit.
Where the…
We were on the…not a maypole…that was ANOTHER dangerous iron piece of shit.
My sisters and I were riding this…playground TOY…and there were four or five REALLY BLACK kids from somewhere, summer park, maybe our cousins, can’t remember, but they was calling each other ‘Nigga’ in front of WHITE PEOPLE!
We ran home and told our parents. They explained the reason those kids used ‘Nigga’ outside the home, was because they was niggas.
I never quite understood fully at the time, and the social complexity surrounding the term didn’t become clearly evident until much later.
KHUK KHAK, Thailand - Like, just the other day, this lizard that stays out here, not the Gecko, the Gecko’s that little shit. No, not an Iguana…that other one. This one’s about the size of a freight train locomotive, relatively speaking. Ask Blanco. Blanco knows. Blanco saw him. Took a picture of him, saying, ‘Take a look at the SIZE of this thing.’
Japanese made a bunch of movies with ‘em. A Kimodo dragon.
Stays up under the eaves and behind the door. First time I saw him, I thought, ‘Awwwwwwwwww, shit. I’ve got THIS THING livin’ close by?’ But he’s cool, lives off smaller things, not humans, and he sounds off every night, sometimes two three times.
He’s got to hit that, ‘Geck-o’ sound at least nine times for it to be good luck, otherwise, eight or less, keep a heads up for that big black scorpion that’s going to be crawling along your bathroom floor tomorrow morning.
That’s different from your inner voice. This was more like a warning from the outside, that lizard. An omen. An omen about the scorpion.
Your inner voice is where if you don’t listen to it, you mess up. It’s inevitable.
Mine comes across as a voice inside my head, like a ticker tape, always running, and occasionally punching out a message, chunga chunga chunga chunga chunga, wham wham wham, like last year when I was digging in that compost pile, and this voice come across, saying, ‘You better be careful digging around in there, Nigga.’
Now, that has to be granddad’s voice, who’d be talking to me like that. It’s not my voice, nor God’s or anybody else’s that I recognize. Growing up, it was like a second name, a nickname. Sisters had the same nickname at home.*
And sure enough, one more coconut shell scoop and there’s a fucking snake. Working his way deeper into the pile. Someone said, “It’s a cobra!” and we proceeded to uncover it and hack it to death. Me and those two Thai guys, and Stan. And wouldn’t ya know it, there’s a nest.
Little tiny-ass baby cobra, looks like a worm, no, it’s the same color momma, same style as momma, turning, frowning, coiling, little shit trying to make a strike before we hacked it to death, too. Never seen anything like it.
Anyway, whew!
That was an instance where JUST before I dug into the pile with the coconut, that inner voice popped up. Let me think of another one.
Easy. The ‘Nam. On the way out to the helicopter for an urgent, hot mission, I didn’t have a feeling, it came through as a thought, a voice, a voice that said, “You gonna get hit on this mission, Nigga.”
I told the crew chief, “I’m gonna get hit on this mission.”
He said, “You’re crazy. Get in.”
That’s inner voice. That’s different than the ‘Sub-Mind’ the old folks used to talk about, as in, “I ain’t got him on my sub-mind.”
Sub-mind is different than inner voice.
Heyyyyyy. That lizard sounded off just now. No shit. Just now. Thirteen times. I like the way he winds it up with a chuckle. I cannot find him. He won’t show.
Inner voice, inner voice. Back to the topic.
You know, that would happen in the classroom, too…go off on a fucking tangent, and loop way the hell back around and overshoot the runway, depend on the students to remind me where was I, where were we?
This inner voice business can happen anywhere, any time. Like in a bar, when you look over and see…trouble. With a capital ‘T’. That’s what it is. That’s what it always is. Man, Woman, Biker, don’t matter. You’re right to listen to that inner voice that says, ‘Pay your tab. Go home.’
But what the hell, after three, four, five drinks, heyyyyyy, she can’t be THAT much of a problem.
Later, you’ll be saying, “I shoulda listened to my inner voice.”
You talk about a ‘chance encounter’ that turns out to be a house, two kids, and a ten-year marriage, maybe in a trailer court and out to the track on weekends. No telling where that road might go. ‘Tell me, John Deal. How did you two meet?’
“Zinnabar, wudnit, Honey?”
“Whatzat, John Deal?”
“Guy here wunza know where we met.”
“Zinnabar.”
Maybe a prison stretch.
Well, that’s that inner voice talking to you, Shit-For-Brains, and you TOTALLY ignored it.
It’s like when your parents, your grandparents, the troop leader, the coach, the teacher, your sister, the principal, the cop, the lawyer, the judge, the probation officer, the supervisor, were all trying to tell you something, and you knew more than they did.
You were the guy in the huddle who always knew what play we should run, last seconds clicking off the clock, and the quarterback looked over at you and said, “SHUTTHEFUCKUP!”
I’m not talking to you, the reader, follow? I’m talking about the dumbfuck in the trailer court who did the prison stretch, the guy who never once listened to his inner voice.
‘Hey guys. Let’s drink a couple quarts of whiskey and go get some tattoos!’
Inner voice was in the ‘off’ mode. Inoperable. Will be back on line…soon. Our tech team is working on it.
You know what I’m saying about inner voice, right? Everybody has got one. Some call it a conscience, but that’s not it. A conscience is what you get AFTER you’ve done some shit. A shrink might call it a superego, but that misses the boat, too. Don’t it?
No. Your inner voice is more like your grandpa. More like you saying, “Hey, watch this!” and your inner voice is saying, “Ah ah ah. IwouldntdothatifIwasyou.’
-end
*most often we heard the less personalized, ‘You Niggas,’ appertaining to the siblings as a collective. Then one day at Hannah Park, while on the…uh…what the fuck do you call it?...dangerous as hell for a kid…carnival merry go round big iron piece of clanging shit that hung on chains around a big cast iron pipe…somebody tell me...it had thick wooden seats and you could sit on it or stand on it…what the fuck did they call that thing?...it could swing back and knock your teeth out, give you a concussion.
You had to run up on the shit and jump onboard when it swung forward against the pole, and the big kids would pump it and get it going and slam it around, and you could mash the helllll out of your fingers if you didn’t listen to your inner voice that said, ‘Wait. Wait until the big kids get off it.’
Anyway, my sisters and I were riding…they had alllllll kinds of dangerous shit in that park, come to think of it. I got my left ear severed over there and ran home in a bloody scream, that alerted all the neighbors, chased by my screaming sisters, and got it stitched back on. That was Harold Hensley on the swingset.
Inner voice said, ‘HEY! WATCH OUT!’ a micro-second before I got hit.
Where the…
We were on the…not a maypole…that was ANOTHER dangerous iron piece of shit.
My sisters and I were riding this…playground TOY…and there were four or five REALLY BLACK kids from somewhere, summer park, maybe our cousins, can’t remember, but they was calling each other ‘Nigga’ in front of WHITE PEOPLE!
We ran home and told our parents. They explained the reason those kids used ‘Nigga’ outside the home, was because they was niggas.
I never quite understood fully at the time, and the social complexity surrounding the term didn’t become clearly evident until much later.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Hensley Home Closed Following Sniffle Hit
14.03.09
Benton, MO - Authorities here closed the home of Mrs. Esther Hensley after investigating the recent satellite strike of one of her cats, Sniffles. Investigators at the scene, upon entry into the Hensley home, discovered 117 cats the widow had been keeping as pets.
"It was bizarre, only thing I can say," said chief detective Richard Troutman. "She had cat skin lampshades, cat skin couch covers, cat skin whattayacallem...beer holders..you name it."
Mrs. Hensley, who was living alone since her husband's death three years ago in the widely publicized 'Mormon Hot Air Balloon Mishap' while tending his birdfeeder, was taken for local in-treatment psychiatric evaluation and arrangementsplaced in assisted-living conditions by complex out-of-state relatives.
As she was being taken away, Mrs. Hensley said, "But I don't want to leave here. This is my home. They wouldn't go away, so I fed them, the same as the reporters."
Ever since Bell Labs Spybird GY China 118 crashed into the Hensley back yard, striking and burying Sniffles, the Hensley residence has been in continual upheaval.
The scene was the focus of local police, firemen, and reporters, then government and NASA officials, then national media, scientists, and academics, then finally, local social services agency representatives.
A neighbor, Mrs. Eldon Thurman, said, "There's been a commotion over there before. First the balloon thing, and now this. Eldon was out fixing the electronic fence and saw it hit. Cat never had a chance, he said."
A scientist involved in the project, who spoke upon the condition of anonymity, said the satellite 'should have mostly burned up upon re-entry, and should never have come close to striking this hemisphere, or this unfortunate cat.'
Officials at the Office of Space Reconnaissance said, 'We cannot comment on the sensitive mission of Spybird GY China 118 or the incident, except to say it marked the occurrence of a re-entry package.'
Mrs. Hensley's cats were secured by several personnel and volunteers of the local animal shelter after ten hours of chase the county had never before witnessed, where the cats were later euthanized for their own welfare.
Officials cordoned off the Hensley and adjacent homes during the removal of the 7-ton satellite. When lifted from the hole with the flattened Sniffles atop the payload, NASA officals asked, "How did that cat survive re-entry?"
-end
.
Benton, MO - Authorities here closed the home of Mrs. Esther Hensley after investigating the recent satellite strike of one of her cats, Sniffles. Investigators at the scene, upon entry into the Hensley home, discovered 117 cats the widow had been keeping as pets.
"It was bizarre, only thing I can say," said chief detective Richard Troutman. "She had cat skin lampshades, cat skin couch covers, cat skin whattayacallem...beer holders..you name it."
Mrs. Hensley, who was living alone since her husband's death three years ago in the widely publicized 'Mormon Hot Air Balloon Mishap' while tending his birdfeeder, was taken for local in-treatment psychiatric evaluation and arrangementsplaced in assisted-living conditions by complex out-of-state relatives.
As she was being taken away, Mrs. Hensley said, "But I don't want to leave here. This is my home. They wouldn't go away, so I fed them, the same as the reporters."
Ever since Bell Labs Spybird GY China 118 crashed into the Hensley back yard, striking and burying Sniffles, the Hensley residence has been in continual upheaval.
The scene was the focus of local police, firemen, and reporters, then government and NASA officials, then national media, scientists, and academics, then finally, local social services agency representatives.
A neighbor, Mrs. Eldon Thurman, said, "There's been a commotion over there before. First the balloon thing, and now this. Eldon was out fixing the electronic fence and saw it hit. Cat never had a chance, he said."
A scientist involved in the project, who spoke upon the condition of anonymity, said the satellite 'should have mostly burned up upon re-entry, and should never have come close to striking this hemisphere, or this unfortunate cat.'
Officials at the Office of Space Reconnaissance said, 'We cannot comment on the sensitive mission of Spybird GY China 118 or the incident, except to say it marked the occurrence of a re-entry package.'
Mrs. Hensley's cats were secured by several personnel and volunteers of the local animal shelter after ten hours of chase the county had never before witnessed, where the cats were later euthanized for their own welfare.
Officials cordoned off the Hensley and adjacent homes during the removal of the 7-ton satellite. When lifted from the hole with the flattened Sniffles atop the payload, NASA officals asked, "How did that cat survive re-entry?"
-end
.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Man Up
Man Up
12.03.09
Khuk Khak, Thailand – Well, if you did the shit, then MAN UP to the shit. That’s what the guy said, and I’ve thought it myself on occasion.
It occurred to me as I was out there in the garden, unearthing some enormous slug larvae, bigger than your thumb, destined to become one of those huge beautiful Thai butterflies had it not been for my intervention in their gestation, deep down in the year-old compost pile, being right where they needed to be, semi-dry, moldy, humid, doing what they do.
‘I just fucked them up,’ I thought, watching them squirm in the sunlight.
I could give you some particulars. Already have. ‘Genuine Fuck Up’. That’s what they used to say. Many times in employment situations, I heard statements beginning with, ‘ How in…the…HELL does somebody…?’
I’d be cringing, looking down at the floor, feeling small, sweating, heart racing, slope-shouldered, stooped. I had it coming. You know I did.
Like the tow truck stint and that lady’s transmission. And the bridge incident with the telescoping micro-wave antenna on the mobile unit. And the circus fire back in the ‘60s. And that ATM thing just here a few months back. That’s small potatoes, man, small potatoes. Ha.
Ok, give you an example; I don’t know if you heard about the O-rings. Yeah, THOSE O-rings. You might have read about it, or seen it on the news. They ended up calling the thing ‘The Shuttle Disaster’ on the local news, like it was some kind of biiiiig deal.
External fuel tank, they said. Well? What’s that prove?
And then there was that piece of Styrofoam, and two strikes and you’re out, with those guys.
The Styrofoam. Yeah. That piece that came off during launch and knocked off the tiles. Burned up on re-entry.
Suuure. There were a LOT of questions. Me, too. Like, ‘How in the hell does a piece of Styrofoam…? Are we talking the same thing here? Styrofoam, right? The shit around a tv set when it comes from the plant. Same shit. Ok, how does this shit knock off a tile? You tell me. A lot of finger-pointing going on.
And, what about the glue those guys was using on the tiles, huh? I saw some shit on tv that’s 100%, can pull a locomotive. Why don’t they get some of that?...instead of some kind of bullshit glue at $15,000 a tube that can’t stand a Styrofoam hit. C’mon, now.
As you can see, and that’s just two questions, it wasn’t just ONE person’s fault. But what the hell, you take your licks in life, move on, as they say, and go on to the next job.
Well, I didn’t mean to go off like that, but, you know, there’s always two sides to every story, and sometimes more.
But I can man up. I accept the responsibility for the shit that was my responsibility…mr. O-ring man.
The Chicago gas pipe explosion. That was a good one.
Too long a story, but I can man up to it. I wasn’t the guy on the backhoe, but I was supposed to be telling him where to dig.
And then there was that thing in Vietnam, where uh…do you want to hear this?
Ok. Tet of ’68. Big deal for the embassy there. I failed to pass along an important memo, long story short. Forest Gump kind of a thing.
What do I mean? What I mean is, you know, fate. Stuff goes into one pile, other stuff goes into another pile…the shit that can wait.
Like email replies an’ shit. Some of the shit can wait a day, two, three, maybe a couple weeks, and most certainly until tomorrow morning.
“THIS SHIT CAN’T WAIT!” they kept screaming, like the whole fucking communist offensive was my fucking fault.
But I can man up to the shit. Huh? No. I wasn’t working for the embassy, but I was working for the government…for the country. I was there to help ‘em get that thing turned around. It’s kind of a sore spot because of all the accusations over the years.
And then there w…huh? Working for the government? Yes. I was in the army.
Yeah. After that they made me a heliclopter medic and sent me up north.
Copter. That’s what I said. ‘Helicopter’. That’ what I said.
Anyway, you told me to go on. But I didn’t want to take this story to Vietnam.
Then there was that time, a short stint, with bridge inspection and the ferry…man, I tell you what, I’ve been blamed for a lot of shit. I can man up to that shit. It was my fault, ok? It was my…fucking…fault.
Ok? Ok? They already reamed my ass for it. Can we move on?
There was stuff that went under the radar that later, when it surfaced, like Daschle just lately, caused immediate termination. It wasn’t falsified evidence, because at the time, it wasn’t evidence. So how could it be falsified? Besides that, it was never submitted. So, there. Big fucking legal headache.
There’s all kind of shit, my friend. Alllllll kind of shit. I was the guy ‘behind’, but more accurately, ‘before’ a lot of shit came down, that you only hear about on ‘the Rest of the Story.’
You know something? This shit was all coincidental when you look back on it, like, shit happened at a critical point where if you’d done one thing and not something else, it wouldn’t have happened. Zigged when you should have zagged. Know what I mean?
Went to sleep instead of watching the monitors, signed off instead of really inspecting the shit, went to 7/11 instead of monitoring the valves, tossed it into this stack instead of that one. Simple shit. Simple every day shit.
Give you one more example, then I’m gonna cut this shit off. Member the time when that sub went down and they never discovered the cause, nukes on board? And that oil rig fire? Make that two.
You know, like ancestral memories, one leads me to another.
They wanted me to do time for that shit, not just another ass-reaming. Cost the company billions. Major setbacks. After asking me if I knew what I was, the guy spelled out, ‘Genuine Fuck Up’, that time, in a Texas accent, which makes it stand out.
-end
.
12.03.09
Khuk Khak, Thailand – Well, if you did the shit, then MAN UP to the shit. That’s what the guy said, and I’ve thought it myself on occasion.
It occurred to me as I was out there in the garden, unearthing some enormous slug larvae, bigger than your thumb, destined to become one of those huge beautiful Thai butterflies had it not been for my intervention in their gestation, deep down in the year-old compost pile, being right where they needed to be, semi-dry, moldy, humid, doing what they do.
‘I just fucked them up,’ I thought, watching them squirm in the sunlight.
I could give you some particulars. Already have. ‘Genuine Fuck Up’. That’s what they used to say. Many times in employment situations, I heard statements beginning with, ‘ How in…the…HELL does somebody…?’
I’d be cringing, looking down at the floor, feeling small, sweating, heart racing, slope-shouldered, stooped. I had it coming. You know I did.
Like the tow truck stint and that lady’s transmission. And the bridge incident with the telescoping micro-wave antenna on the mobile unit. And the circus fire back in the ‘60s. And that ATM thing just here a few months back. That’s small potatoes, man, small potatoes. Ha.
Ok, give you an example; I don’t know if you heard about the O-rings. Yeah, THOSE O-rings. You might have read about it, or seen it on the news. They ended up calling the thing ‘The Shuttle Disaster’ on the local news, like it was some kind of biiiiig deal.
External fuel tank, they said. Well? What’s that prove?
And then there was that piece of Styrofoam, and two strikes and you’re out, with those guys.
The Styrofoam. Yeah. That piece that came off during launch and knocked off the tiles. Burned up on re-entry.
Suuure. There were a LOT of questions. Me, too. Like, ‘How in the hell does a piece of Styrofoam…? Are we talking the same thing here? Styrofoam, right? The shit around a tv set when it comes from the plant. Same shit. Ok, how does this shit knock off a tile? You tell me. A lot of finger-pointing going on.
And, what about the glue those guys was using on the tiles, huh? I saw some shit on tv that’s 100%, can pull a locomotive. Why don’t they get some of that?...instead of some kind of bullshit glue at $15,000 a tube that can’t stand a Styrofoam hit. C’mon, now.
As you can see, and that’s just two questions, it wasn’t just ONE person’s fault. But what the hell, you take your licks in life, move on, as they say, and go on to the next job.
Well, I didn’t mean to go off like that, but, you know, there’s always two sides to every story, and sometimes more.
But I can man up. I accept the responsibility for the shit that was my responsibility…mr. O-ring man.
The Chicago gas pipe explosion. That was a good one.
Too long a story, but I can man up to it. I wasn’t the guy on the backhoe, but I was supposed to be telling him where to dig.
And then there was that thing in Vietnam, where uh…do you want to hear this?
Ok. Tet of ’68. Big deal for the embassy there. I failed to pass along an important memo, long story short. Forest Gump kind of a thing.
What do I mean? What I mean is, you know, fate. Stuff goes into one pile, other stuff goes into another pile…the shit that can wait.
Like email replies an’ shit. Some of the shit can wait a day, two, three, maybe a couple weeks, and most certainly until tomorrow morning.
“THIS SHIT CAN’T WAIT!” they kept screaming, like the whole fucking communist offensive was my fucking fault.
But I can man up to the shit. Huh? No. I wasn’t working for the embassy, but I was working for the government…for the country. I was there to help ‘em get that thing turned around. It’s kind of a sore spot because of all the accusations over the years.
And then there w…huh? Working for the government? Yes. I was in the army.
Yeah. After that they made me a heliclopter medic and sent me up north.
Copter. That’s what I said. ‘Helicopter’. That’ what I said.
Anyway, you told me to go on. But I didn’t want to take this story to Vietnam.
Then there was that time, a short stint, with bridge inspection and the ferry…man, I tell you what, I’ve been blamed for a lot of shit. I can man up to that shit. It was my fault, ok? It was my…fucking…fault.
Ok? Ok? They already reamed my ass for it. Can we move on?
There was stuff that went under the radar that later, when it surfaced, like Daschle just lately, caused immediate termination. It wasn’t falsified evidence, because at the time, it wasn’t evidence. So how could it be falsified? Besides that, it was never submitted. So, there. Big fucking legal headache.
There’s all kind of shit, my friend. Alllllll kind of shit. I was the guy ‘behind’, but more accurately, ‘before’ a lot of shit came down, that you only hear about on ‘the Rest of the Story.’
You know something? This shit was all coincidental when you look back on it, like, shit happened at a critical point where if you’d done one thing and not something else, it wouldn’t have happened. Zigged when you should have zagged. Know what I mean?
Went to sleep instead of watching the monitors, signed off instead of really inspecting the shit, went to 7/11 instead of monitoring the valves, tossed it into this stack instead of that one. Simple shit. Simple every day shit.
Give you one more example, then I’m gonna cut this shit off. Member the time when that sub went down and they never discovered the cause, nukes on board? And that oil rig fire? Make that two.
You know, like ancestral memories, one leads me to another.
They wanted me to do time for that shit, not just another ass-reaming. Cost the company billions. Major setbacks. After asking me if I knew what I was, the guy spelled out, ‘Genuine Fuck Up’, that time, in a Texas accent, which makes it stand out.
-end
.
Up For Promotion
12.03.09
Khuk Khak, Thailand – Are you up for a promotion? How can you say anything but ‘Yes, and, No’?
Manny used to talk a lot about promotion. “To go anywhere, you’ve got to have the right promotion,” he used to say. You gotta have the right kind of promotion, and you’ve gotta have the right kind of discipline.
You need a good manager, a good trainer, and good promotion. You can be good, but without promotion, nobody knows your name. You won’t get any venues.
Or you can be not so good, average, but really out there, insofar as promotion goes. Household name. Everybody knows you. Everybody knows you’re a loser. There are a lot of half-assed, no-talent, no-skill, no-idea wannabes across a broad variety of professions where a person can make it entirely on promotion. Remember the Monkeys?
Can sing, can’t dance, can’t play their instrument, can’t legislate, can’t calculate, can’t account, can’t do squat, but they ran away with the awards, the T shirt sales, and your retirement account.
A person could always promote themselves, rather than turn it over to a pro. Like Ali, who was a pro, however, both in the ring, and at self-promotion. Farrakhan and Jesse Jackson tried it in the pulpit and political arena, but were heavier on style than substance, and some contemporary radio personalities have cashed in on tooting their own horn behind some kind of divisive, hateful, bottom-of-the trough bombast, charading as insightful political analysis.*
But you can’t say they haven’t been successful at promotion.
That’s from the Do-It-Yourself Home Self-promotion Kit which wouldn’t work for most any aspiring egomaniac, who would, along with you and me, be best advised to turn it over to a professional.
That is if you actually want the promotion, a public recognition beyond the ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ T-shirt,** or something as mundane as bragging around the barbeque about the potency of your rose garden.
Most of us could relish the spotlight of a rock star, at least for a little while, maybe longer, or wave foolishly in the background of a post-game television interview, sating an inexplicable desire to have ourselves ‘out there’ for public consumption, akin to Joe the Plumber, your public persona, or something like that.
Few would shun the spotlight or camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…(Your Name Here)…Person Of The Year!”, except when the press boomerangs or you’ve committed some sort of heinous deed, and you ask, ‘Why’d they have to run my picture with that shit…on the front page?’
And your friends say, ‘ Hey, Bro. I saw you on the news the other night when they were transferring you. You have to wear those leg chains in the courtroom?’
No. We don’t want that kind of promotion. That kind of exposure is what we in the business call, ‘bad press.’ You see what happened to whatzisname, the Ginger Bread Man, Genger-Bradmon. He needed an agent, a promoter, and an attorney who wasn’t asleep.
When is gets that bad, then you’ve got to hire another pro to handle damage control, so that’s why it’s good to have a press agent, a political advisor, and work from official written statements, a script, rather than spit out some kind of off-the-cuff shit that can swamp your canoe.
For instance, look at the number of public figures who should have let a pro handle their public statements instead of talking to reporters on their doorsteps in a jogging suit. Big mistake. Bad promotion. A good rule of thumb is not to talk to reporters or cameras that show up on your doorstep. Have somebody say, ‘An official statement will be issued through his attorney.’
Even if they’re there to catch your reaction to the Nobel Prize committee’s decision, or give you that check from Microsoft. Fuck ‘em. Slip it under the door. Tell them to fuck off. Tell ‘em to make a fucking appointment. Same same the king. Same same the Pope. Promote your OWN damn self interest. Just got to use the right words.
And like any words, once they’re out, they’re out, and you can’t take them back unless you have to eat them, so it’s best to not just toss ‘em around any old kind of way.
Ever think, ‘Geeeez, I wish I hadn’t said that shit.’?
Especially, to a woman, or maybe your former boss.
It’s forgivable. It’s like lying under torture, oath, or a stack of bibles. If the information is given under duress, it’s reputable value is diminished, and likely inadmissible. In other words, they shouldn’t hold your words against you.
“But you sa…”
“Never mind what I said.”
Yeah, and for instance, I’ve said many things in writing, right here in fact, that I would be shamed to read aloud before my friends the Dalai Lama, Jesus, the critical academic circle, a group of donors, and many of you. It isn’t street or locker room talk or just G.I. Joe talk between George and Vic. It’s just…isn’t that the way they talk in congress?*** Isn’t that the way they talk in the movies? I seen movies. I seen movies where they talk like that.
-end
*what was it, cowboys and Indians through the 50s and 60s, Dr. Marcus Welby and hospital shows throughout the 70s, then cops and more cops through the 80s, 90s, up until now, live-cam cops, and now we’ve got political bullshit my-opinion-is-right scream-fests round the clock? How wonderful. Does it get any better than what it is right now?
** reminds me. I’m getting a bunch of t-shirts made up that say, ‘I’m Friends With Vic Glover On Facebook’, with my picture. Should sell a ton.
***do you think the language of those British motorcycle guys is rubbing the fuck off on me, Mate?
.
Khuk Khak, Thailand – Are you up for a promotion? How can you say anything but ‘Yes, and, No’?
Manny used to talk a lot about promotion. “To go anywhere, you’ve got to have the right promotion,” he used to say. You gotta have the right kind of promotion, and you’ve gotta have the right kind of discipline.
You need a good manager, a good trainer, and good promotion. You can be good, but without promotion, nobody knows your name. You won’t get any venues.
Or you can be not so good, average, but really out there, insofar as promotion goes. Household name. Everybody knows you. Everybody knows you’re a loser. There are a lot of half-assed, no-talent, no-skill, no-idea wannabes across a broad variety of professions where a person can make it entirely on promotion. Remember the Monkeys?
Can sing, can’t dance, can’t play their instrument, can’t legislate, can’t calculate, can’t account, can’t do squat, but they ran away with the awards, the T shirt sales, and your retirement account.
A person could always promote themselves, rather than turn it over to a pro. Like Ali, who was a pro, however, both in the ring, and at self-promotion. Farrakhan and Jesse Jackson tried it in the pulpit and political arena, but were heavier on style than substance, and some contemporary radio personalities have cashed in on tooting their own horn behind some kind of divisive, hateful, bottom-of-the trough bombast, charading as insightful political analysis.*
But you can’t say they haven’t been successful at promotion.
That’s from the Do-It-Yourself Home Self-promotion Kit which wouldn’t work for most any aspiring egomaniac, who would, along with you and me, be best advised to turn it over to a professional.
That is if you actually want the promotion, a public recognition beyond the ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ T-shirt,** or something as mundane as bragging around the barbeque about the potency of your rose garden.
Most of us could relish the spotlight of a rock star, at least for a little while, maybe longer, or wave foolishly in the background of a post-game television interview, sating an inexplicable desire to have ourselves ‘out there’ for public consumption, akin to Joe the Plumber, your public persona, or something like that.
Few would shun the spotlight or camera. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…(Your Name Here)…Person Of The Year!”, except when the press boomerangs or you’ve committed some sort of heinous deed, and you ask, ‘Why’d they have to run my picture with that shit…on the front page?’
And your friends say, ‘ Hey, Bro. I saw you on the news the other night when they were transferring you. You have to wear those leg chains in the courtroom?’
No. We don’t want that kind of promotion. That kind of exposure is what we in the business call, ‘bad press.’ You see what happened to whatzisname, the Ginger Bread Man, Genger-Bradmon. He needed an agent, a promoter, and an attorney who wasn’t asleep.
When is gets that bad, then you’ve got to hire another pro to handle damage control, so that’s why it’s good to have a press agent, a political advisor, and work from official written statements, a script, rather than spit out some kind of off-the-cuff shit that can swamp your canoe.
For instance, look at the number of public figures who should have let a pro handle their public statements instead of talking to reporters on their doorsteps in a jogging suit. Big mistake. Bad promotion. A good rule of thumb is not to talk to reporters or cameras that show up on your doorstep. Have somebody say, ‘An official statement will be issued through his attorney.’
Even if they’re there to catch your reaction to the Nobel Prize committee’s decision, or give you that check from Microsoft. Fuck ‘em. Slip it under the door. Tell them to fuck off. Tell ‘em to make a fucking appointment. Same same the king. Same same the Pope. Promote your OWN damn self interest. Just got to use the right words.
And like any words, once they’re out, they’re out, and you can’t take them back unless you have to eat them, so it’s best to not just toss ‘em around any old kind of way.
Ever think, ‘Geeeez, I wish I hadn’t said that shit.’?
Especially, to a woman, or maybe your former boss.
It’s forgivable. It’s like lying under torture, oath, or a stack of bibles. If the information is given under duress, it’s reputable value is diminished, and likely inadmissible. In other words, they shouldn’t hold your words against you.
“But you sa…”
“Never mind what I said.”
Yeah, and for instance, I’ve said many things in writing, right here in fact, that I would be shamed to read aloud before my friends the Dalai Lama, Jesus, the critical academic circle, a group of donors, and many of you. It isn’t street or locker room talk or just G.I. Joe talk between George and Vic. It’s just…isn’t that the way they talk in congress?*** Isn’t that the way they talk in the movies? I seen movies. I seen movies where they talk like that.
-end
*what was it, cowboys and Indians through the 50s and 60s, Dr. Marcus Welby and hospital shows throughout the 70s, then cops and more cops through the 80s, 90s, up until now, live-cam cops, and now we’ve got political bullshit my-opinion-is-right scream-fests round the clock? How wonderful. Does it get any better than what it is right now?
** reminds me. I’m getting a bunch of t-shirts made up that say, ‘I’m Friends With Vic Glover On Facebook’, with my picture. Should sell a ton.
***do you think the language of those British motorcycle guys is rubbing the fuck off on me, Mate?
.
Monday, March 09, 2009
If I Coulda Woulda Shoulda
09.03.09
Khuk Khak, Thailand - Now see, in an instance like that, the title is the idea. Then somehow write a story that...sort of...weaves its way into making sense of the title.
If I had listened to Manny, I coulda...
I coulda been a speechwrit...I AM a speechwriter.* I coulda been a
traveling salesman.
All that material on shit falling from the sky? Some of you responded. Maybe it was too much, but some of the story, much of the story, in fact, was true. In-depth reporting. I just wanted to give Rick Larsen the exposure he so desperately needed, and for you to hear him refer to a spy satellite as a 'spook bird'.
Been trying to keep this writing thing going full-time, along with the stand-up act, English lessons, and landscaping, and just last week, the first two patients in two years requiring the assistance of the emergency roadside medical outpatient service.
They got clipped by a truck, two guys on a motorbike, one guy kissed the pavement, the other got banged up. All those people standing around, nobody had a bottle of water, a towel, or a t-shirt.
Back's not broken, neck's not broken, first thing, get 'em to the side of the road, right? No. First thing, stop the fucking traffic. Move 'em, stop the bleeding. Now, some of you may say, don't move 'em, and yesssss, generally, yeah, don't move 'em...go get a stretcher board. But in this case, it was a spontaneous on-the-spot call.
Anyway, those guys, dazed and bleeding, seemed appreciative of the care, while a crowd of about fifty JUST STOOD THERE.
Now, think for a minute, if that was you laying there in the road, which would you prefer; looking up at a cluster of people watching you bleed to death? Orrrrrr, having someone rush up with the apparent intention of coming to your aid, kneel down and compassionately tell you you're bleeding to death?
BIGGGGG difference, right?
Yeah, well anyway, I got asked to serve in the capacity of a priest, not by those two guys, but someone else, and I thought, 'What?', and this person wanted advice and to make a confession, and since they asked, I said, 'You want me to do whaat?'
So, there's another first-in-life experiences, asked to be a priest. Cool, huh?
So when I return to S. Dakota, or people ask, which of course, I will be itching for them to do, I can tell them I was a priest. About three maybe four minutes, five tops, I was a priest.
Job interview, resume'; 'I worked as a priest once.'
I can tell Father Paul this summer! Oh Christ, that will SURELY bait the old man. I can take off with that, bullshit and be vague, and just tease the hell out of him. I can see his eyes, now, behind those thick, hazy lenses.
Father Paul is one of our oldest dancers, hunka brother to Beatrice Weasel Bear, our matriarch, to keep it short.
Well ok. Hunka (Hoon-kah) is taking a person ceremonially and publicly as your relative, to keep it short.
I coulda been a priest, but I got in with the 'bad crowd' and didn't listen to Manny.
Ok, so let's talk about you for awhile. You do that life timeline? Don't lie. Not yet? Ok. It's worthwhile, at least for me it was, and I did it only after suggesting it to you. It's interesting to look at when you lay it out, the peaks and valleys, the significant people in your life. Go head, Diane. Do it.
I see many of you have loads of friends on Facebook. That's cool. What I noticed after connecting with people I haven't heard from for a long time, is there is a reason you haven't heard from them.
Things kind of drift back to...what would you call it?...homeostasis.
'Well...drop by if you're ever in the area.'
Apart from all that, just writing to try to strike a chord or nerve or funnybone with you, or connect with you on some kind of topic to get you to respond or let me know you're out there on the other end of what otherwise is a one-way conversation. Sometimes I'm talking to the walls, sometimes I'm talking to you.
-end
*I wrote Uncle Joe's speech. And I helped bro Tom with some bold talking points...and no, it wasn't a disaster. I don't know what you heard. It was a convincing argument, a convincing case. The PEOPLE just weren't ready for it yet, a timing thing. I don't know what you heard. It didn't make us look bad. I thought it was good.
But when he finished, all them Indians were just sitting there, looking HARD, evaluative, like, 'Did I just hear what I just heard?'
ps - Oh, yes. Sorry about your names in the 'to:' field, as opposed to bcc, as some of you may prefer. What can I say? Slipped.
.
Khuk Khak, Thailand - Now see, in an instance like that, the title is the idea. Then somehow write a story that...sort of...weaves its way into making sense of the title.
If I had listened to Manny, I coulda...
I coulda been a speechwrit...I AM a speechwriter.* I coulda been a
traveling salesman.
All that material on shit falling from the sky? Some of you responded. Maybe it was too much, but some of the story, much of the story, in fact, was true. In-depth reporting. I just wanted to give Rick Larsen the exposure he so desperately needed, and for you to hear him refer to a spy satellite as a 'spook bird'.
Been trying to keep this writing thing going full-time, along with the stand-up act, English lessons, and landscaping, and just last week, the first two patients in two years requiring the assistance of the emergency roadside medical outpatient service.
They got clipped by a truck, two guys on a motorbike, one guy kissed the pavement, the other got banged up. All those people standing around, nobody had a bottle of water, a towel, or a t-shirt.
Back's not broken, neck's not broken, first thing, get 'em to the side of the road, right? No. First thing, stop the fucking traffic. Move 'em, stop the bleeding. Now, some of you may say, don't move 'em, and yesssss, generally, yeah, don't move 'em...go get a stretcher board. But in this case, it was a spontaneous on-the-spot call.
Anyway, those guys, dazed and bleeding, seemed appreciative of the care, while a crowd of about fifty JUST STOOD THERE.
Now, think for a minute, if that was you laying there in the road, which would you prefer; looking up at a cluster of people watching you bleed to death? Orrrrrr, having someone rush up with the apparent intention of coming to your aid, kneel down and compassionately tell you you're bleeding to death?
BIGGGGG difference, right?
Yeah, well anyway, I got asked to serve in the capacity of a priest, not by those two guys, but someone else, and I thought, 'What?', and this person wanted advice and to make a confession, and since they asked, I said, 'You want me to do whaat?'
So, there's another first-in-life experiences, asked to be a priest. Cool, huh?
So when I return to S. Dakota, or people ask, which of course, I will be itching for them to do, I can tell them I was a priest. About three maybe four minutes, five tops, I was a priest.
Job interview, resume'; 'I worked as a priest once.'
I can tell Father Paul this summer! Oh Christ, that will SURELY bait the old man. I can take off with that, bullshit and be vague, and just tease the hell out of him. I can see his eyes, now, behind those thick, hazy lenses.
Father Paul is one of our oldest dancers, hunka brother to Beatrice Weasel Bear, our matriarch, to keep it short.
Well ok. Hunka (Hoon-kah) is taking a person ceremonially and publicly as your relative, to keep it short.
I coulda been a priest, but I got in with the 'bad crowd' and didn't listen to Manny.
Ok, so let's talk about you for awhile. You do that life timeline? Don't lie. Not yet? Ok. It's worthwhile, at least for me it was, and I did it only after suggesting it to you. It's interesting to look at when you lay it out, the peaks and valleys, the significant people in your life. Go head, Diane. Do it.
I see many of you have loads of friends on Facebook. That's cool. What I noticed after connecting with people I haven't heard from for a long time, is there is a reason you haven't heard from them.
Things kind of drift back to...what would you call it?...homeostasis.
'Well...drop by if you're ever in the area.'
Apart from all that, just writing to try to strike a chord or nerve or funnybone with you, or connect with you on some kind of topic to get you to respond or let me know you're out there on the other end of what otherwise is a one-way conversation. Sometimes I'm talking to the walls, sometimes I'm talking to you.
-end
*I wrote Uncle Joe's speech. And I helped bro Tom with some bold talking points...and no, it wasn't a disaster. I don't know what you heard. It was a convincing argument, a convincing case. The PEOPLE just weren't ready for it yet, a timing thing. I don't know what you heard. It didn't make us look bad. I thought it was good.
But when he finished, all them Indians were just sitting there, looking HARD, evaluative, like, 'Did I just hear what I just heard?'
ps - Oh, yes. Sorry about your names in the 'to:' field, as opposed to bcc, as some of you may prefer. What can I say? Slipped.
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Sunday, March 08, 2009
Sniffle Memorial on Monday
09.03.09
Branston, MO - Memorial services will be held on Monday, March 9 for Sniffles, cat of seventeen years of Mrs. Esther Hensley. A reception will follow at the Hensley home.
Sniffles, a grey Persian, was recently struck and buried by a very large shiny object falling from the sky, according to 911 transcripts and sheriff's reports. Officials from NASA who commented on the condition of anonymity said the incident was a 'regrettable' instance of 'a package reaching a terminal state of orbital decay.'
Friends are asked to bring cat food in lieu of flowers.
.
Branston, MO - Memorial services will be held on Monday, March 9 for Sniffles, cat of seventeen years of Mrs. Esther Hensley. A reception will follow at the Hensley home.
Sniffles, a grey Persian, was recently struck and buried by a very large shiny object falling from the sky, according to 911 transcripts and sheriff's reports. Officials from NASA who commented on the condition of anonymity said the incident was a 'regrettable' instance of 'a package reaching a terminal state of orbital decay.'
Friends are asked to bring cat food in lieu of flowers.
.
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