Pleasuring Grounds

May 31st, 2011

Pleasuring grounds

~ Is it a park, or is it a place to kiss this country goodbye?

That’s what the national parks are really called – PLEASURING GROUNDS – and that is what they were set up for, pleasure, places for American’s to “pleasure”.  OK, so YOU don’t believe me.  Look it up, look up the bill’s that established Yellowstone and Yosemite and Devil’s Tower and probably even Mt. Rainier and Crater Lake.  They are places for pleasure, parks for pleasure; they were all created when there were just Park Rangers and not Park Police.

Of course the parks have changed now.  It makes me sad.  They allow (maybe even encourage) weapons in the parks now, rifles, pistols for the big game (or games).  It is “shoot-em-up” now, or parks are now just corridors and safe places for concealing guns, transporting guns, firing them if you just pull the trigger.

But dancing, that’s different.  Dancing or moving ones body in the wrong way isn’t right in America’s “wide open places” anymore.  Nothing is wide-open.  If the way you walk, or shuck, or jive, or jigsaw, or jump or swim (like the backstroke) it is more like the hully-gully and like Joseph McCarthy said then, “It is Un-American, communist, fascist, and capitalist too.”  That’s why we have nuclear weapons, to stop people that want to “move” dead in their tracks!

Well, Saturday they didn’t nuke the Jefferson Memorial to stop the dancers, but they came close.  I haven’t seen a body slam like this since I last watched judo on television.   In reality it looks like the Park Police were dancing the Swing, but lost control and sent their “partners” flying (or flying to the floor).

Actually I am SO wrong.  The people of America, the citizens are not “partners” with the police anymore; not with scenes like this.  Above their heads there is a message in the memorial advocating resistance to any and all TYRANNY (“I have sworn upon the alter of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man.” – words inside the interior at the Jefferson Memorial, Washington DC).  They are the words of Jefferson, his instructions and his warning.

I was watching Judy Holliday in Born Yesterday, just the other day.  Her every move looks like dancing.  But more importantly (perhaps) are the scenes in the Jefferson Memorial and the dialogue about speech and freedom.  America isn’t like it was in 1950 (especially not the movies).

There was still hope then, corruption and greed sure, but hope that America and Americans could and would “turn it around” (oops – that IS dancing, and soon YOU will be under arrest).

I’m beginning to feel like I’m watching film clips from Italy in the 1920’s, the March to Rome and the black shirt veterans roaming the countryside and cities using their wartime skills when they learned to murder and kill.  True story.  These were the WW I (when Italy was on “our” side) terrorists that were trained by the army to do unspeakable things to the enemy and then the people of Italy became their enemy too, or number two.

The point is that these people in uniform provoked people, then threw them to the ground and beat them; sometimes people ended up missing, or dead.  Of course the Black Shirts thought they were the “good guys”, maintaining law and order, upholding the law.  Thomas Jefferson would have called it what it was, tyranny.  He may have not been a perfect man, maybe doesn’t deserve a memorial, maybe it is his Masonic roots and slaves that should be remembered – and those that wished to dance on his grave that might be remembered too.  But he was right about TYRANNY; the cops should have looked up, instead of throwing people down.

So STAY out of Miami.  They do the Hully Gully there too.  Maybe everyone in America should do the twist and the hully gully and the fly and the Wah-Watusi and maybe even create a Conga-line, it would be fun, and it might even SAVE AMERICA if enough people put their dancing shoes on.

Try dancing at an airport, twist a little when the TSA begins to grope you.  Dance at the entry point to any park, you know you can’t dance after you get in.  Dance at DWI check-points, maybe do the frug, before they frisk you.  If you boat in a park, don’t sink, you may have to do the swim.

And then when you’re arrested (and you will be ARRESTED), you can do the Jailhouse Rock at the jail.  Oh shucks, I can really see why they arrest people for dancing.  It could become a movement!  It could start a REVOLUTION, round and round – how subversive!

So find a partner, find a chair.  Square dance, or hip-hop – do the swing (before you swing for real).  Buy a pair of blue-suede shoes, and get ready for the rest of what (the tyrants) plan to do to you, at least you’ll always have your dancing shoes.

As I suggested yesterday, when the music stops – it’s over.

[“Pleasuring Grounds” Post written on May 31, 2011 @ 06:41  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Winter in America

May 29th, 2011

Winter in America

~ Or is it more American Pie?

I just found out that Gil Scott-Heron is dead.  I’ve posted links several times to his “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised“.  He was a man my age, and a person reflective of my times.  He will be missed.

Functionally the draft ended in America at the end of 1971, in November or December.  With that news it was clear that the end of the Vietnam War could not be far behind.  Actually it was another three years (and a little more) before the war was totally over.  April and May of 1975.  The U.S. lost, was booted out, the last troops left hanging from the skids of retreating gunships.  That is why out of (nearly) 800 U.S. military bases in 63 countries the United States does not have any military bases in Vietnam (the bases we built there were lost, taken over by “the enemy”, became permanent casualties of war).

The 3 (plus) years from 1971 (and Don McLean’s American Pie) until 1975 were the last years that America ever moved from war to peace.  The Vietnam War was the last war that America would ever see “end“.  In Vietnam there has been 35 years of peace.  America has not been nearly as lucky.

Somehow there is a real lesson in this.  Maybe it is a graphic lesson about the price of peace.  Take a nation, beat it, berate it, divide it and pummel it with bombs and napalm and cannon fire and mortar and artillery fire; rape many of the inhabitants, turn many of the rest into military whores, massacre civilians; pour chemicals and defoliants on all the forests, create terror in the countryside and cities, blow up people with countless bombs.  Support an “ally” that does this for ten long years and then take over and “just do it” for twenty long years more; the Vietnam War from 1945 to 1975; 30 years of that crazy Asian war, and then one day it was finally over.  Peace came to the nation that was for so long abused and betrayed.   Wasn’t World War II about ending the conquests and colonialism by European powers (like the French) and not just by the Japanese?

So, it is getting dry in China, and not just in Albuquerque.  The levees here are dry, and so too the levees in China.  Blame the MRGCD, blame karma; put the blame on capitalism or on the cost of greed (and selfishness) and on the endless wars.

Blame the drought on man’s war with nature, on man’s efforts to channelize all the rivers and to try to channelize all the rain from all the skies.  It’s raining in Oregon, and the north, and the Pacific Northwest.  All the storms go north now, while in Albuquerque we bake.  We make corn tortillas, expensive now because of ethanol, and still the price of gas goes up and the price of rain – of too much rain in one place and not enough rain in others.  The balance of nature has been upset, and guess what, “We did it!”, (not God), it was “science and technology” – the “wonderful” works of man.

A good lady from Fukashima had this to say, click here.  She apologized for what has happened (her government of course never would), she said she would have lived her life differently had she only known.  She has regrets.  We all should have regrets right now; regardless of the generation, it is too late to start over.

America does not have the guts to pay the price of peace (that Vietnam did).  We expect every other nation to be the battlefield (not us).  We are willing to let China and the Chinese thirst, while we waste water, create waste water and slowly waste our lives destroying each other for a little personal monetary gain.  “This will be the day that “I” die.”

Memorial Day is a day of memory, for those that died in civil war and those that didn’t.  My brother, Kenneth Clayton, died on Memorial Day (May 31st).  Perhaps the day was to make a point about not forgetting, about paying attention and remembering, about remembering “who you are, and what you should represent.”  Maybe the day is now more about vacationing and shopping.  For me it is about a river.  The place in (or by) the Truckee River where my brother died and that I walked, and the river banks on which I walked searching for a brother who was lost and a body that was lost in the river and maybe was found (or never found).  I should offer you the autopsy here, (but I won’t just yet, it is not pleasant reading).

Everything changes.  The map linked above shows that they have built an off-ramp down the slope to the water, and a new bridge (not the last Interstate 80 bridge that he flew over).  The off-ramp probably replicates his trajectory (to the water) (in his car), it seems that someone else (too) remembers.  I guess it makes it easier for me (now) to go there to lay the flowers.  Was it an accident, or was it murder – I guess I may never really know.

There is enough in life and death to haunt everyone.  There is so much we do not know, may never know, or know and are afraid to tell.  America is made up of a million or more “dirty little secrets”, things that if they were revealed would “change everything”, or at least change how most Americans see everything, or what they believe about everything.  If only the silent majority (the dead) could rise up and speak, express their wishes, talk to us as we sleep.  We are the ones asleep, now aren’t we?  Aren’t we the ones that walk around as if we were “the living dead”, zombies even, half-humans with no place to go?  Is it so hard to be a real human, and really care?

It was cold that day going down the highway.  It was cold too, in the car.  It was the last snowfall of the season.  There was a hurry, there was ice.  The roadway was not properly designed.  It was winter in America that day – there.  And 44 years later it is still winter in America, even if to you it looks like spring. 

[“Winter in America” Post written on May 30, 2011 @ 01:03  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Law Enforcement

May 25th, 2011

~ Today they are not knocking on my door, but 16 of them (or so) were waiting just outside.

The day began today when my wife looked out one of our windows and said, “There are a bunch of big, rough looking, men outside,” and “what do you think they want?”

Don’t get me wrong, I like my neighborhood.  As neighbors we know each other, watch out for each other, watch each others homes.  It’s like “Neighborhood Watch”, but better; it’s better because it is NOT neighborhood watch, no blue signs with that big “seeing eye” that looks like homeland security.  We have had our spate with Blackwater, just said “no” to their troops.  A couple of all black security cars still hang around, hoping for business, for a contract on or from the kids.

Their “service” was too creepy.  Their “service” cost too much; it was like a protection racket gone really bad, the actual company was under indictment in California (for fraud).  The web is good at defeating the bad guys in their games.  The local police are nice enough, or nice enough to me.  They watch the neighborhood and the neighborhood watches them like “community policing” should work.  Bad cops can go be killers someplace else; we don’t need the beatings.  The pay is OK if you behave yourself, and there really is a future and the retirement package is good too.

And too the movies hire movie cops – security.  They hire rent-a-cops and real cops who do overtime.  Someone has to protect the generators and those so very expensive cameras and lights.  There is little action.  The police just usually wave.  All the neighbors just ignore them or wave back.

A former superintendent of state prisons lives across the street, or down the street, or something.  I watch his house and he watches mine.  He knows the drill.  The best that there are trained him.  He made friends with those inside.  It was his job, and they got along and “talked” because “they” wanted out.  He does other things now.

Then there are the flights of Ospreys overhead, a police helicopter or two, the news choppers too.  A safer neighborhood you couldn’t ask for.  There are so many people, groups, CIA agents and security watching everybody watching everybody that it is a wonder if anyone knows who is watching who.  Sure, sometimes there are attacks on cars; a stereo or wedding present is stolen.  Some people don’t know why cars come with a trunk.  Sometimes too con artists knock on the doors, offer work that doesn’t work, or a job that doesn’t pay.

I wrote a week ago about the film people going bad filming breaking bad or close encounters or in plain sight or something.  They left their generators on too long, untested and without proper permits they are too dirty.  The law will catch up with them in time.

So I looked out, saw the crowd, thought it might be another shooting (with film, not guns, or not real guns of course, or real guns with no proper ammunition – meaning shooting blanks like Hollywood often does).  There are enough weapons behind neighbors doors to equip a small-time army.  Nobody has to say, “Keep off the grass.”  Even the joggers keep to the streets.  But that is because the sidewalks are in such (often) bad repair and the streets are so squeaky clean and clear that every jogger gets noticed (and not run down).

The park people did the flower planting yesterday.  Lately the park has been a ruin.  They went to change the main, a 3/4 inch pipe was to become a 1/2 inch one to save water in this desert place.  The job has taken more than four months, lots of digging.  One planter has been a constant ruin, an endless big hole, a series of pipes and wires to nowhere.  It is city work; it’s the city (parks and recreation) that doesn’t always seem to get the work right.  But when they do, it’s good.

So the “rough guys” were running back and forth across the street from the park to my front walkway, the starting point to my house.  There was a congregation, at least one woman among all these men.  They were standing over my water meter.  Looking down.  Looking like they were about to film an entire drought and then maybe put the blame on me.  Parks is fine, but who needs all this recreation?  Everybody may love a crowd, but on ones doorstep it isn’t always so fine.

“May I help you,” an older voice said.  “May I help YOU,” I said.  We looked at each other a moment; three guys ran across the street, eight others waited.  “That’s my water meter,” I said; implying clearly that the Water Works people usually read the meter just using one (person) and now it is even easier as they use remote control (meaning electronic signal communication).

“Oh,” the older man said, “we are just measuring the distance from here to the park.”  We are doing law enforcement training.  We are having a class on accident and crime scene investigations, learning how to measure distances and draw a map of the scene.  This corner is perfect, it’s not just a square, streets and roads everywhere.  Don’t quote me.

He offered me a web address for his organization, promised to keep off my grass.  Everyone was smiling now, and measuring, and writing down numbers and taping down tape measures that stretched along and across all the streets.  The distance to the park sign was measured, the offset to the sun dial was next.  The width of each sidewalk was noted.  Neighbors watched from along and across the street.  One finally walked over and inquired about what was happening and was so glad that the seven or eight police cars (scattered and hidden) were not really about me.

I guess I talked for what seemed like an hour.  One guy was from the Florida panhandle, near the Corexit, but missed it.  The other trainer was from Jamestown, New York.  They travel the country doing this thing.  It isn’t exactly training surveyors or for surveying, but the use of tapes and measures gets the point across.  It’s like using metes and bounds, but a little better.  There are better ways to do all of this, but they don’t pay me, so I just smiled and stayed happy.  It was nice meeting a new friend and watching the neighborhood continue to bloom.

I mentioned that I had made a drawing of the park for a drinking fountain project a few neighbors had in mind.  The project involved a trash can too.  The city (P&R Dept.) had taken away our old one and left a $6.25 silver one in its place.  It was ugly, dented, and shined too brightly in the sun.  We (the near neighbors) had paid for the park in the beginning, the trash can, everything – so the least the city could do was replace it.  That started a six month war, the WAR for Oxnard Park (or something).  It is an interesting story.  Before it gets lost, I should post the whole thing here.

I guess “the test” is over.  All the law enforcement people had the morning to get their measurements in order.  The afternoon was to do the drawing.  Four hours, freehand.  This type of exercise makes one think, which is very good.  So I guess (meaning I think) my map can be posted now, and it will not ruin the exercise.  It is pretty exact (meaning accurate).  Meaning everything is to scale.

The names are not filled in, so an explanation appears below.  But here is:

A MAP OF OXNARD PARK, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO

North is at the top.  A sense of scale can be realized by the fact that the round planters (in yellow) are from 10 – 15 feet across.  The three small blue basins in the middle is the drinking fountain that the neighbors offered to pay for, but that we never got.  The basin furthest south is a low one that would have offered fresh water to thirsty dogs.

The light green areas are grass, the brown ovals are the trunks of trees, two are cottonwoods; the southern most two are Siberian Elms.  The walkways are cement, originally washed pebbles.  The long yellow lines at the north and to the east are the curb cuts that we DID get put in (in 2009), to make the park legal and accessible for those using wheelchairs among us; but they are also good for skateboarders and roller skaters and infants in baby carriages and for kids with rolling push-cars and like toys.  I ride my bicycle to and through the park now (when the coast is clear).

The red box is the control box with the wires for the remote controlled water system that often doesn’t work.  The blue dot to the south is the 85 year old telephone pole that is just a light pole for the light that lights up the south end of the park.

The two red squares are the pylons that a month ago we finally got removed.  They were not a part of the original park plan as they made the first wheelchair ramp in Albuquerque for “accessibility”, inaccessible.  The distance between the wood poles was too narrow.  They are gone now so this ramp is finally accessible after about 37 years.

Just north of (and next to) the pylons is the trash can that we finally got.  It took like sixteen letters, a wedding, death, and funeral, a city council resoulution and four months, fifty emails, and the coming of hell and high water to make it happen.  Some of us are willing to work harder than others.

The little yellow square is the original Oxnard Park sundial location.  The “dial” was too sharp, so now it’s gone.  A plaque has taken its place giving credit to the Oxnard Family who brought the park to the neighborhood and also flying to Albuquerque circa 1928.  The original Oxnard Field was the TAT airport, now near the Albuquerque Sunport.

North of the sundial (pedestal), on the grass, is the pole and the Oxnard Park sign.  A month ago we got a new second sign with Albuquerque Park Rules.  The old sign was old and worn out, had old rules that needed to be replaced.  Replacing the sign took two years and two months.  Who says this city is slow?

The blue box on the left side (west side) of the park is the water meter.  I have the record of several months of usage.  The change in pipe diameter is good.  Grey water watering at Oxnard Park is out of the question, the park is too small and the distances to grey water are too great.

Getting the measure of any park is good.  Knowing a little history about ones local park is also good.  Parks do need water.  Which brings us to the drinking fountain; but that’s another story.  I guess the law enforcement people brought their own bottled water.

[“Law Enforcement” Post written on May 26, 2011 @ 04:51  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Computer Savvy

May 24th, 2011

~ Some days feel worse than all the news, and maybe that fact feels better.

I used to use Juno email.  In time I learned to hate it as it was my dial-up access to the web.  They never changed their graphics; it was “same-old”, “same-old” all the time.  Now when I google “hating Juno” it is about a movie, not a real company at all.  So much for being “first”; it is so easy to get complacent, just make money, but when it comes to history you just blow it.

So yes I have an apple, after so many long years with a pc.  Actually I got sucked into buying a lot of pc’s over the years; it was a company and technology that failed us.  I recall the guy, “Bill Windows”, and his unique idea about computers based on gates.

The gates of course did not work too well, they opened and closed – sure.  But they kept the user from moving around in the computer freely, there was always another “bill”, and in time all the bill paying became really boring.  Life with bill was boring.

The most boring part was being stuck with the same old graphics.  It started with that gates icon that said constantly, “pay me.”  Google has shown us that a company can have one name and graphics changes that are new.  In the old days there was often a new image.  The idea was to communicate the idea that the company itself had changed.  It was like hope, everyone wanted it.

Microsoft as a company is like the ultimate disaster meme.  It has no place in history.  It has made more enemies than compaq, and all for the same reason.  Customers yell out, nobody listens.

So here I am with my apple.  Less than two years and there’s a chunk out of it already.  Those wonderful new icons are getting old.  They line up like characters in a dicken’s play, or in a 1920’s silent movie.  They seem old, because they are old.  They are from yesterday, when in fact the whole world has moved on.

Given that I am talking about a computer, you would think that there would be a daily option of a new download to “spruce up” the graphics on the icons.  For most daily would be too much, once a month or once a quarter would be nice.  There is a lot of talent out there willing to work for almost free, “garage band” could be “grunge band” complete with deaths heads and tattoos.   I wouldn’t ‘like’ it, but someone else probably would.  I don’t like the gee-TAR the way it is now.  I would settle for an ostrich, or an emu – both (to me) would be more relevant.

So I guess that if I stop posting it will be the icons, the graphic images, that made me do it.  It will be that I got so bored looking at the old images, like the old images on TV, that I just turned the computer off one day, never again to turn it on.  It’s like an old book with an old cover; you know that there are the same old memories and ways of seeing things and expressing things hidden inside.  In the old days it might have made it.  Today (maybe) it doesn’t.

The biggest lie that bill gates told you was that the computers could be “updated” (by you), made to be newer and relevant.  He lied.  Everyone now knows you just buy a new one, only gates and jobs decide when, and how far, and what you see when you fire up your screen and “start to stop”.

My wife has an I-Pod.  Like the model “T” all it came in was black.  Now (six months later) it comes in a million colors; something they could have done years before.  Our reaction?  “Colors suck.”  Apple sucks even more.  We have bought our last computers.  I really hope the I-Pod and I-Mac and Sony vaio last, they look like lower case realities to me; they’re not flexible, really not connected in a world that’s supposed to be about “connectivity”.

Every “big new thing” is supposed to last forever.  The big things don’t.  Steamships carrying passengers across the Atlantic, the excitement of learning Morse code (and getting a merit badge for it) or owning a transistor radio and listening to it night and day – all these things are old hat now, like even most men’s hats.

Computers and cell phones are headed for the dust bin of history.  It looks like it will happen sooner, today.  Bigger things will happen, exciting things, things that are newer, fresher and not just based on man’s need for greed.  There is a whole generation (or two) out there that can’t imagine that steven jobs or bill gates were ever young.  They were born old men, born hunched over and with warts and failing eyesight and failing health.  That’s why their products were/are so bad; it’s obvious – garbage in and garbage out.  New guys and gals, young, will offer us a vision of the future, fun and fancy or simple things.  Computers are so retro, such a “boomer” and “my childhood” thing.

I guess some things happened in the news today.  I guess I missed it.  I stopped to smell the flowers (some of which are old, and some of which are new).

[“Computer Savvy” Post written on May 25, 2011 @ 03:57  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Saying goodbye to Bin Laden

May 23rd, 2011

~ And it’s not just Bin Laden and “the boys” that I’m talking about.

Ok, maybe it’s good bye to Bush, to Dick Cheney and the gang.  They’ve died, or at least to me they’ve died.  Add the story of the Arab Uprising, the Bhopal Disaster, the disaster (last year and continuing) in the Gulf – the Gulf war and all those problems too.  There are so many memes, stories, false plots and outcomes, that cause the problems that “we” all seem to face.  The point is that no one seems to listen, so why should I?

I was always a “news junky”, have been one from an early age.  I knew it when hula hoops were happening, when happenings were happening, when the Beatles first came to town.  You’ve read the posts about my past, and to much of “my past” is also yours.  How can a million people see and feel the same thing about so many things when life itself is so diverse?  Turn that number into ten million, a hundred million maybe and “there’s a problem, Houston”.  It’s something more than “getting an education”.  It’s more about just being totally controlled.

Sid Cutter died yesterday, or really the day before.  He was like a neighbor, lived across the street in the “Cutter home”, the family was Cutter Aviation (an airport thing, a flying service for those who don’t fly with the help of TSA).  He started the balloon thing in Albuquerque, had to do with hot air and cold nights or hot nights and heavy breathing or maybe it was just the exhaust or exhaustion from too much flying high when one was far too young to have all that money.  It’s a familiar meme.

Actually I never really met Sid, that I can recall or can remember clearly.  We passed, I’m sure.  I passed by his “other” house fairly often before he passed away.  You see he was divorced.  He had a life and a family, then moved on to another one.  News stories are always so sketchy.  From real life one can learn so much more, fill in the details, get a sense of who one was and what really happened.  Anyway one looks at it, it is sad.  Will I miss him?  Yes, I like balloons, big orbs of hot air against the pale blue skies, it’s Monday, a blue monday, perhaps.  Perhaps there are no capital letters left; they are in short supply, who needs them?

I think I know all six grand-children personally.  They have been more a part of my life than Sid himself ever was.  Do I know them well?  Not well enough, they were neighbors, or like neighbors, and I was busy following Bin Laden (the meme), watching pictures of the Gulf or Gulf War, looking away to Iraq or Afghanistan in the years when I was no longer there, or just there in absentia, which means not being there at all.  It’s like the life of Sid, of Bin Laden, of Obama or Bush or perhaps myself.  Being always elsewhere.  Then one runs out of time.

There is (of course) an order of magnitude in the difference of wealth and fame and power between those “others” and me.  I have a blog, perhaps they don’t; would I trade it for the world, or for a moment lived in their lives?  I think not.  I think not because I’m basically very happy.  You would not know that from my posts.  My posts are about Obama, Osama, Hillary and other worried men (and woman) who are worrisome and have brought their worries home to me.  They entered through a ‘break-in”, like some insidious home invasion from an “insider” that I should have never let in – even if they were only in the newspaper, on the radio, or visible on the tube (the TV).

I guess I would have little or nothing to worry about if I didn’t borrow something from the media, a problem, a worry about a catastrophe, an inundation, tornado or a flood.  They don’t happen here, and the ones that do you know nothing about, they are not a “story”, they don’t rank up there as a meme, as something worth talking about or telling.  In Albuquerque, or in Carson City, or in Kabul (when I was there), all the stories were just the stories of my life; that’s all, that’s is ALL there was.  And maybe that is the way it should be.

I don’t need homeland security to tell me how bad America has gotten.  They don’t exist unless I fly, or take a train maybe, or travel where I shouldn’t travel anymore.  The “meme” begs me to travel, another meme says I shouldn’t.  I can stay home and stay happy; I can turn both messages to off.   I’ve turned the TV off, the newspaper off, cancelled the New Yorker.  Next to go is Dwell.  The radio went off for an hour or two this morning, no more “news hour” on NPR, no talk show talking about things totally irrelevant to me.  Those other people have “drives”, ambitions, a desire to live up to some distorted meme; not me, dare I say it again (Sam), I’m happy.  Maybe no need for even a last goodbye, or a drink.

I suspect that the disconnect is getting legion.  I may be first, I never seem to be alone.  In fact, after awhile I become aware of so many who were first like me that I guess it was like with hula hoops, there really was a crowd.  But this time it’s different.  The messages are so loud and shrill all anyone hears is, “turn it off!”.  It would be embarrassing to be the last one with the radio still on, blaring about “the news” or blasting music or some stupidity about the weather, “it’s raining today” – yes, I did look outside.

So I guess that four-letter words (the bad kind) will be in short supply, references too to things less than virgin births.  It may be a reach on Qala Bist for topics, the famed, defamed, and famous have taken so much of our time.  Maybe there will be some getting back to Afghanistan, “the way it was” and should be.  Maybe I’ll revisit the Backlund Farm.  Maybe I’ll have you over for dinner or something, or show you around my yard.  I have lots of pictures of parades I haven’t posted, a band or two, a float that is really just a decorated car.  Simple stuff, not Broadway or Pasadena or Disneyland or Macy’s – just everyday people, like me, like all of us.

Is there a life, a world, a daily struggle without politics, rack and fear and ruin?  I think so.  Who needs marching in the streets (anymore), uprisings greater than getting out of bed?

So have a nice day, a beautiful day; today and all the days of your past and future are the only days you’ll ever have.  Live them wisely, with no regrets.  I hear my side-yard calling.  I have a trellis to build, the wisteria is growing and would like a little help.  Best wishes Sid, I think it may all turn out OK, after all.  Here’s hoping.

[“Saying goodbye to Bin Laden” Post written on May 23, 2011 @ 18:39  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Nuclear Spring, Arab Winter

May 21st, 2011

~ It’s not just “religion” that gets it wrong.

Deconstructing the memes is both fun and funny.  Science teaches us that in the northern hemisphere “Winter” (not “Spring”) begins in December, the time when all the “Arab revolutions” actually began.  That’s politics for you, it tests and teases the brain by seeing if with one simple slogan, one meme like “Arab Spring” you will quickly forget everything you really know (even) about the seasons.

There was no ‘fresh air’ there, no spring like triviality and fun.  There was not a simple abandonment of cares, a tumult of flowers, a “peace be with you” wish from everyone, about everything.  No, the reality was (and is) an Arab Winter, the frozen lock on ammunition and guns, the death watch of darkness, the warnings from prophets of doom that sound like the winds of blizzards as yet unleashed.  By their lies you will know them; they will seek to change even the seasons in our minds; they know only winter, and discontent.

On March 11 – 20/11 it really was almost spring.  Although they denied it at the time, from day one it was nuclear.  The news focused on the Tsunami, the “great wave” that seemed capable of drowning the whole world, or at least Japan.  They are still trying to say that it was the water, not the shaking of the earth that set the atoms in motion.  “It WAS the water,” that shut everything down, the water that made the noise, it was the water that was like the Johnstown flood.  It was the water that broke the dreams of all science nuclear.  There is no ‘peaceful’ use of the atom, meaning of the man-made atom bomb.

Science is like the Titanic.  It’s designed to “get you there”.  The real ship was the latest “scientific wonder”, so true, but we don’t think of the ship that way now.  It had the fastest engines, the wireless, the latest in communications, it was “compartmentalized”, electrified, was green with natural gas.  It was the largest ship afloat, a floating palace that moved.  Everyone would eventually want to ride one, a Titanic type boat upon the sea – it was a model, a prototype of the future – here today.  And of course they said, like they always say about science (about the Challenger), “it’s perfect, it’s infallible, it will never sink.

It wasn’t “Nearer Edison to Me,” that they played and sang that night as the not so great ship went down.  In the human heart the attraction to, and belief in, science jumped ships that night for the more than two thousand who were there, on board.  The life stuff of science left, too, for countless millions not there, but elsewhere around the world.  The White Star Line went broke, everywhere people left the water, refused to sail.  It would take a “Great War”, not a “Great Ship” to bring back a belief in science, this time entirely at government expense.  The “business end” of science was dead, had failed.  It was (like politics) now only an investment by the state (and the new religion) of the state.

It wasn’t a “Sputnik Moment” that changed everything in America; first it was the Titanic, then the bomb, Trinity, Nagasaki, Hiroshima – that is when the world ended, when the lights went out in April, when nuclear winter descended in July and August of that year; when everyone thought it should be summer, but it wasn’t, and even now it’s not.

So, we are the “end times” generation, or to be precise “generation or two or three or four”.  Bring your parents, grand-parents, maybe babies.  This time you’re in.  Travel first-class, travel steerage; turn to listen to that “beep-beep-beep” of Sputnik, or watch for the bright light (of the bomb).  There is no rapture waiting, no fast ship across the seas, to Arab Spring in winter; this is planet earth, you’re on it; there is no getting off – even the space station is coming down.  Are you listening?  “SOS”, “beep-beep”, is anyone out there this night; or are we really just all alone, no religion or science or politics to guide us – just the utter madness and emptiness of time and space?

One can be more alone in the middle of a crowd, in the middle of some “great” city than anywhere else on earth.  It’s the feeling, not the sea or desert, that gets you.  It’s that moment that when everything that you thought that matters, now doesn’t.  It’s that final minute, that moment, that brings release.  Call it the rapture if you will, call it the deck chairs on the Titanic, call it the moment all the lights go out as every Fukashima finally fails us like the first Fukashima (it’s a new meme folks) did (as everyone now knows).  It’s like the towers falling, it kind of takes your breath away if you know you will never really rebuild.

At that moment the world stops (briefly), the next second nothing has changed and you move, or move on or move elsewhere.  The only thing that has really changed is you.  The world (and all that’s in it) can never be the same.  Impossibilities become possibilities, the ordinary becomes surreal.  The world moves on with you, not without you.  Nothing will ever be the same.

So big surprise.  Neither science, nor politics will save you.  Believe in them (as core realities) and you certainly are doomed.  Laugh (if you will) at the “May 21st ers”.  Your time will come.  Their plight is that they are really “firsters”, they have had their moment when EVERYTHING seems lost, even faith perhaps, but it is life, not faith that will keep them going – the great adventure with the great unknown.

Call it God, call it magic, call it the universal father, life ever-lasting, the great unknown; or just call it “you”.  You will find out.  If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day or the next day after that.  Then you will be happy, be sorry, be sad or have regrets.  There is a path to “no regrets”.  You have another day of life to find it.  It takes work and effort, not just “good luck” and not just a date; and not just a season – have no doubt.

[“Nuclear Spring, Arab Winter” Post written on May 21, 2011 @ 21:09  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

Rug scam

May 20th, 2011

~ Being “in business” is like being “in politics”; you’re in deep, then the it gets deeper.

Of course there is an “S-word” that should substitute for “it”.  I’ve sworn off swearing in my posts for awhile.  I’ll try not to get so mad.  But you see there was a “rape” in the family history a couple hundred years ago, a relative worked in a Swedish castle, she was a maid.  The “Lord” of the manner (rich ‘tard’) took advantage.  Things really didn’t work out.

Maybe after I finish up with Lasita (Kansas) I’ll get back there; meaning back to Swedish “history”, not Lasita.

There is always a record, a memory, a person or a family or a family member out there who really cares.  There is a paper trail, letters, ads in the newspaper or now Web Sites on the web.  No real search is necessary, one”bumps into” what one needs to know.  One “bumps into” the experiences that one needs to learn what one will need for later, sometimes much later.  You know the drill.

So it was back in 1971 or something.  I was 22 or something more or less, had long hair, was avoiding or dodging the draft; some say (maybe) I was on the run.  I wasn’t.  I just very sincerely didn’t believe in killing anyone in a war.  Them killing me was not the problem; although I would probably have not liked getting shot for refusing the simple order to shoot, to kill, to blow off the head of someone else because I was ordered to by someone else’s “tard” (referring once again to illegitimate birth).  Orders do come from such strange and far-off places.

Of course there was a real price then for refusing induction and refusing to fight in some crazy far-off Asian war.  No good patriotic American organization would hire you, give you a job, or even pay you if you worked.   There was this “draft card” thing.  It was like a legal document to show that you were registered.   If you weren’t, or didn’t have one, you were treated like burned toast, meaning move on to the next one.

There was lots of “toast” in America then, baby-boomers meant an over-population.  The unions feared the power of the glut to bust their unions – the AFL-CIO and Teamsters all supported the war, “make cannon-fodder out of them,” they said, “what could be faster or cheaper,” they asked.

I guess for girls it was different.  Young women were offered possibilities and responsibilities on this back of war.  With half the population (male) in Vietnam or avoiding Vietnam the job scene was easy pickings.  Like black widow spiders, things were better after you offed (or ate) your classmate.  Of course the “Vets” weren’t welcomed back, life was too good while they were gone.

Life was not good for me in 1971, stateside.  Even then food cost money, even if one could find free rent.  The Chronicle (newspaper) was my source for jobs.  There was a section for “temporary” work; might as well headed it “draft dodgers”.  Everyone who showed up for the jobs was always the same – poor, a bit hungry, over-qualified, a certain range of age.  Occasionally, there would be added an over-aged wino, fat and flabby; one living between meals and on the street; always a hero of the last war – the ticker-tape parade didn’t do all that much good.  Killing Japs and Germans wasn’t what VW and Honda were looking for when they got back (to America, looking for a job).

I worked for a ‘newspaper’ distributor a couple of weekends.  They had a paper that was entirely free, and entirely free of content, except advertising.  One had to show up at their office by 6 AM in central San Francisco at their printing plant.  One could take AC Transit or the Muni to get there, or hitchhike or walk.  One could not walk across the bay, walk across water, so it was the AC transit bus or nothing if one lived in Berkeley or Oakland (like I did).  At 50 cents for the bus ride one was down an hours work (meaning pay) before one even started.  You see it was like “piece work” (not peace work), then they deducted social security and taxes, a bit for a lunch; maybe their transportation costs were another dollar.

They had a van.  The guys that got there at 6:02 (AM) were out of luck.  All positions were filled (by then).  The lucky ones got into the van and got to ride, sometimes without a seat, back to the East Bay, to El Cerrito, or Albany perhaps so that the poor who were richer than the poorest could get their weekly news, let’s call it “The Shopper”, you’ve seen these things before.

We worked apartment complexes mostly.  VA housing tracts built for returning vets.  Those from Vietnam didn’t qualify, these were run now by businesses and the city.  Make an application, show a draft card with 4F or proof that you look female and you’re in.  Others need not apply.  The more children, the cheaper the rent; but you will need your discount coupons and ads for food.  That is where I (we) came (come) in.  “Put one on every door,” the crew leader said, “do you understand me,” he asked again, “one apartment, one door, one paper.”

I (of course) did as I was told, one door, one paper.  These people had to be fed.  The other “associates”, “team members” not so much.  They dumped their papers in the dumpster, hid out, smoked a bit of weed and waited.  The van eventually would come back, team leader offered us a handful of chips from McDonald’s, a trip back across the Bay Bridge to Baghdad by the Bay (San Francisco) and a bit of pay, a check for two or three dollars maybe, that couldn’t be cashed until Monday for sure – and then maybe ONLY in San Francisco at the issuing bank (not to make everything an issue).   But everything (then) always was.

So now you know why and how I care so much, and earned so much to get my Social Security, meaning the little that I do get.  I worked for every dime.  I worked hard, even if the working conditions weren’t legal, even if business and businessmen and women took a gander, or a walk from rules and regulations.  You never know who might get hurt.  You never know who will kiss and tell, but as you can tell, it wasn’t working – the truth is everyone was getting “Mr. Ed’ed”, – as if only one end had all the brains.

The nice thing about blogs and blogging is that I can finish this tomorrow.  I mean, the part about the rugs.  Heavy lifting.  Another real scam, another story about another entramanureial enterprise that makes America great.  This one will involve exporters, importers and feature that great American place to stay – Holiday Inn.

I guess if you are reading this, and comparing your (present) life to my (past) situation you might think that America is getting better.   We are a “kinder and gentler” generation now.  There is no more draft, no more newspapers offering flim-flam jobs because there are no more newspapers – the jobs are still there, the employers, those offering that line of work – like Disney and The U.S. Congress.

So hey!  Better?  Like the kids now, take away my social security and it’s like I worked totally for free.  I sure am glad that I didn’t kill anyone to keep this whole scam going.  I just said, “No.”, and “yes you can, too“.

[“Rug scam” Post written on May 20, 2011 @ 19:57  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC] 

Elvis has left the building

May 19th, 2011

~ The difference between life and a film script is the script.

“Script” is, of course, just another name for money.  Script is the motivating force for acting, the design behind set design and the creator of the “arts” (black arts, maybe).  Hollywood, the movie industry, Bollywood and all the others is just about how to convert money into more money – nothing more and nothing less.

Every real person has a “film show” going on about them every day.  Each person is the main character in their own plot; a flight of fancy, a section from ‘real life’, it doesn’t matter – there are no rules really, improvise.  If the plot is boring or too slow, speed it up, write new lines, bring new characters on stage.  “On stage,” it’s like Shakespeare on stage, as if the whole world were a stage.

The point I made at first was one set was set-up based on money, the other locations and cast of characters is real.  To the extent that one lets money make one “do things”, one is a paid professional and everyone knows where that goes, a road to ruin (or Rikers), or just a bad reputation in a world where all that really counts is being good.

All this would be nicely academic if it weren’t for the fact that I was up late last night breathing diesel exhaust by the drum full, and since I did not get much sleep because I could not breathe and the hum of the diesel engines powering the generators didn’t help a lot either.  It’s why they have wind and solar, so you don’t have to be up all night with carbon fumes and carbon emissions belching into the air and swirling around in the stillness of the wind waiting for the hurricane to begin, and that brings us to the bright-lights of hell, as well.

You guessed it.  It does kinda sound like a movie, TV maybe, maybe something to do with an emigrant maid “on the run”, to stay alive.  Oh!  You’re talking “witness protection” now.  Like real life, like maybe the Strauss-Kahn hitmen are right outside and need bright lights to tell their story, or find their quarry, or to root out all the sitting ducks, or quail, with their noise.  But it is the gas, gasoline, the diesel that seeps through the windows and the walls and makes everyone confess or at least get dressed.  It’s “day for night” you see.  What does it take for Hollywood to, “see in the dark?”

So yes.  Small “y”, small “e” and “s”.  They do film In Plain Sight in my neighborhood.  Let me be plain, I wish they didn’t.  The series is nothing to lose sleep over.  Nobody should have to lose sleep from these diesel-green guys who’s entire act is predicated on the “die” part.  It’s GPS – Global Power Services that lights these people up at night, a bunch of generators scattered everywhere, big black wires on the ground, cop-cars to keep people off the street and off the wires and secreted in their own homes in their own neighborhoods.

“No, you did not hear a noise,” they might say, “go back to bed,” it’s night out, dangerous, and maybe, “nothing to see here, look away.”

The film industry in Albuquerque has a lot of muscle.  And they use it.  Richardson made the deal with the devils in high hopes of becoming President; starlets on each arm; Kim Bassinger, John Travolta-Revolta, and now we have Mary McCormack even, living just across the street.  The lights don’t keep her kids up, seven bedrooms each with a bath, you would think it was a bed and breakfast or something it’s so large – but when there’s too much noise, just find some new place to sleep, there’s always an extra bedroom – tell them Tom Bodett sent you – you know “the lights are on” thing.

All the generators, all the global power in the world, all the diesel fuel and fumes in Albuquerque all go into creating all this bright light at night.  Times Square on Broadway looks dim by comparison.  It’s a spectacle, it’s light pollution to the nth degree.  They would have never discovered Pluto if this were going on years ago, no summer dark skies anymore; these are lights bright enough to be seen from the space station or the moon, and just for one episode of one “movie”, In Plain Sight – subtle?  YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING!  You couldn’t miss this scene of making money (really Albuquerque, not Seattle) if you were totally blind and had been run over by one of their giant brand new trucks.

This is the way it works.  The neighbors, they get nothing.  They should just be happy about the reputation of Albuquerque being dragged through the mud.  Yes, Sunshine Cleaning was filmed here, too.  You know the dirty movie about “crime scene” cleanup, body bags, the works.  And yes there is also Breaking Bad (not good).  The meth lab scenes were filmed just about across the street, the first episode with the tree WAS filmed across the street.  Watch it again and you might find my own front door.   Oh, that’s right.  I don’t watch television.  Why should I?  Every scene is shot in front of me as if it were real life.

So how are we doing with all this filming, in a good neighborhood going bad?  These “dream makers” prefer filming nightmares, at nighttime, after dark.  That way their blood will not run cold, the necks stay warm, the fangs go in so easily.  They started with what may be the worst movie ever made anywhere, Elvis Has Left the Building (2005).  The cars sped up and then the movie was released and real estate prices started to go down.  Wild Hogs (by Disney) had Mr. Travolta himself belching bad air from his “chopper” across the park and the neighbors lawns, my lawn and lungs included.  He gets paid.  I don’t.  He smiles for the camera.  I just get “pissed”.
“Take the fangs out now, John, Mary, Kim,” I might say “please” just to please you.

But you know.  I could really just use the sleep.  There are OTHER neighborhoods that you can destroy.  Go back to Tinseltown and Hollywood and get it up with Arnold and his Schwarzenegger.  Elvis HAS left the building.  Maybe it’s time that you do too.  Go Home!  We don’t want you.  We want our world, and our old, good neighborhood, back.  Sunlight in the morning?  That’s light, good enough for me.

[“Elvis has left the building” Post written on May 20, 2011 @ 01:47  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

The new Queen of Portugal & Greece

May 18th, 2011

~ The look of the new world order is beginning to look a bit different.

Such a great part of America has always been its ability to believe in fairy tales, and in fairy tales that come true.  This fact (or fantasy) gave rise to Disneyland, to Horatio Alger stories, to the dream of the ‘American dream’ itself.

What red-blooded American kid has not dreamed of being the ‘richest man in the world’, the ‘President’, a ‘Princess’ or maybe even the Queen (of England and of France), even if the crazy red-Queen in the world of Wonderland would do.  As a nation, America is obsessed with the idea of power.  And the ‘will to power’ is rooted in an insecurity so unimaginable that it is difficult to behold.

The fact is that the powerful are beholden.  There is a responsibility to responsible power that goes far beyond the idea of ‘greed’.  This fact has been ignored along the way, of today.  We are in an age of infants playing at being kings and queens and presidents, of people shorn of their childhood (quite literally) and as a result ‘grew up’ too soon.  To say these people are “not ready” to lead or even learn is an understatement, and a reality with which the rest of us have to live each day.  The decisions regarding national and world affairs, commerce and the economy, are made by blithering baboons that taint and tarnish the reputation of even the least intelligent monkey.

So you get the idea that Dominique Strauss-Kahn is not my favorite person.  You’re right.  My favorite person right now is the Sofitel Hotel maid from Guinea, a small poor nation in Africa, north of Liberia and Sierra Leone.   Maybe her story is (or should be) a little like The Mouse That Roared.  She could be the fearless leader that improved the lot of her duchy and toppled the power of both Europe and France – we know that both have it coming.  Putting an end to colonialism has so far to go.

It was you, not me, that first thought of the IMF, the colonial fund for the colonization of the world and ‘lesser’ powers that are really powerless to resist.  The latest acquisition of the IMF was Portugal, a year ago it was Greece.  The IMF “owns” these nations now, DSK made it happen; Tsk, Tsk, (in French: D’sk-D’sk).  In Greece the IMF policies have taken the country down; led to rack and ruin.  Can the plight of Portugal be far behind as it is left behind to exist as if it were the living dead?

So here’s the plan for “trickle down”, wealth redistribution, a helping hand to get a few poorer nations restarted.  The plan revolves around the maid from Guinea and the money in the IMF.  The plan also involves making “fairy tales come true” and the “American dream come true” for an African immigrant.  And since “thinking big” is such a big part of America now, this woman should think big, and get the biggest brightest lawyer and law firm in New York (if not the world) and file a lawsuit against Dominque Strauss-Kahn and his companions for $1 Trillion dollars flat.

If $1 Trillion doesn’t make it the biggest lawsuit ever, she should sue for two (trillion dollars).  If that isn’t enough to rebuild Guinea, Portugal and Greece she should go for $1 trillion each, meaning for each country.  See the theory is that she has had enough of New York and its wet dreams, and of all those ruled by wealth and power.  She will want to leave, to go home after it’s all over.  You know, like DSK himself tried to do.  Do your dirt overseas, then go home to the pristinity of France where life is like so much “milk and honey” and the world is “latine“, not latin, and lovers are “European” not “African”, anchor-women and journalists, not maids.

Anyway, any “good” journalist would look up the IMF agreement with DSK and find the paragraphs that prevented “conflict of interest” and all those “silly little things” that made the private trip to New York (that DSK says he made) for a “side-deal” not a legal deal at all.  That means (of course) that Dominique (the flying nun) was really on IMF business afterall, which gets us back to the deep-pockets for the really cool one trillion dollars, US dollars, cold hard cash (until of course the new inflation takes it all away).

If a 200 to 300 billion dollar attorney fees doesn’t illicit some real interest then Wall Street lawyers aren’t what they used to be.  Win this one and one could be richer than both Paulsen and Bernanke put together (but only barely).  It might cost a few billion to make documents appear and disappear, to make witnesses do the same; that is the price of law (and order) and the criminal justice thing.  It works for the rich; it can work to make the poor the rich and the rich a whole lot poorer.  Why not go “all the way” in taking Strauss-Kahn down.  He knows the drill.  He’s lucky he isn’t in the common garden at Rikers Island where he could really watch things grow and get a taste of his own medicine.  The tabloids tell the truth so graphically, about what Dominique (the bastard from hell) did to this poor hard-working girl from Africa; although she could have been from anywhere, to DSK it didn’t matter.

No, for he and his family to lose everything, for the IMF that employed him to lose EVERYTHING would be a small price to pay for the irrevocable loss that she has suffered.  An example must be made of an entity as large as the IMF.  There needs to be a precedent at law.  Corporate employees and officers must be held to account or the whole social contract is off, kaputs, retired, expired, gone, vamoosed, sayonara, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye.  Oh, I forgot one – AUVOIR!

You see, that is the point.  The point of the social contract is the right NOT to be raped, sexually assaulted, in public.  And yes, Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton too; oral sex is SEX, is assault, and you “DID IT” with that girl Monica and America has never been the same since your stupid ass statement of denial.  Bill, you dirty lying sod, you made America (and the world) what it is today.  No wonder we have “the enabler” as America’s Secretary of State!

I have suggested a time or two that the next election is not worth having.  Obama and the Clintons on one side, Bush and Schwarzenegger on the other – each party has its hosts, great names to invite to a dinner – keep your bedrooms clear; your guests will need them for the waitresses and the maids and the party girls that give a thousand dollars just to be “seen” with the famous and the rich; and to “feel” their bodies beside them.  Politics is really such a terribly, consistently, sordid affair.

Hey America; hey France!  This is your world, your nation.  It is what YOU make it.  It’s your choice now.  If you ‘like’ what you’ve been seeing, reading, then you haven’t seen anything yet.  I guarantee you that before it’s over you will be so sick of the excess, the brutality, the brazenness of behavior and the graphic depictions thereof that you will get on your very knees to pray to a God that now (maybe) you don’t even believe in for an intervention that will cause real change.  Do you think I’m joking?  I assure you, I AM not.

If I were a lawyer, a law firm, a person who was wise, I would settle out of court today, worst case – tomorrow.  I would write a check for a trillion or even two trillion dollars too.  I would nominate the maid from Guiana (not “French Guiana” anymore) to be President of Guiana, and Queen of Portugal and Greece.  She, not the IMF, can bring those countries back.  Yes she can!  And for all of us, everywhere, it will be (finally) a dream come true.

[“The new Queen of Portugal & Greece” Post written on May 18, 2011 @ 21:34  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

More “freebies”.

May 17th, 2011

More “freebies”.

~ A “little” rape is like being a little pregnant, or a little corrupt; it goes right to the core.

So now we can add to the list of “little” rapists the Greek god himself, Mr. Bodybuilder, the pumping iron guy that has been pumping his maid – Arnold Schwarzenegger, governor, “Gubernator” of California (now retired).  He’s a Republican, his wife was a democrat, he’s a politician, she’s a politician and he is one of the USA! great leaders that come from the sewer bin of history.  And is the reason why Marie Shriver is so mad is that Arnold’s pumping got results?

And now (too) we have another brave and courageous woman from France who is not afraid to engage in a little “kiss and tell”.  She was also on the Strauss-Kahn hit list, “hit on me and we will just call it baiser, he might have said; which does technically mean “kiss” in French, but now has a ruder and “more modern” French spin on it; makes sense, the word does rhyme with “lay”.  So if you order “French fries with ketchup”, do you really know what you’re asking for with all the “new” French nuances?  It’s a game in France to use words to strip life from meaning.

So the Governator story is like ten years old (it took Marie nine years to find out, which now you know who doesn’t write the checks out in that family).  The French consort goes back nine years too, which means that once a decade there appears in France one both brave and honest woman.  Was the last one really Joan of Arc?  Why don’t all those fashion models speak up, and the long-suffering housewives?  Don’t the French know that a maid is to do the dishes (not the guy), that a “lover” is just another name for “loser” when one’s married.  He’s just looking for a freebie, and that means that he is cheap.  To consent makes you cheaper.

I could point out (or is it “put out”) that maybe the “housing crisis” in America has to do with the falling prices of homes, which has to do with all the “home-wreckers” out there.  America (too) is on the cheap.   Can you get a new mortgage, a second mortgage on a marriage?  Just take out a new “loan”?  Can you just “refinance” the thing after you’ve made a “little” mistake?  “Hey woman,” is what every philanderer might say, “don’t you like the color of my cash?”  Which gets back to the sordid issue of cheap sex and free money.  When they wanted all those bailouts, I think I told you so.

America (as a modern society) sexualizes and monetizes everything.  The two go hand in hand.  Very few of us are really victims.  Who really marries for “love” without an eye open for the money (“good provider” is the bullshit story).  Every “good provider” has an ego, a roving eye, knows why the “good woman” married him, “that was the deal.”  In honesty, why talk about the need for an “open marriage” when everyone had their eyes wide open when they got married.  But this reality does not ever justify rape.

There is no murder (with a gun) that could not have been prevented if the trigger had been pulled “a little less”.  The point is that “YES!” guns do cause murders.  Most people don’t have the strength or stamina to choke the life out of someone.  Knives, as a weapon, are so over rated unless they are plunged into the back.  Only terrorists use bombs, either on the ground or from the air.  On some things we must be clear.  “Head shots” are not an accident, not a mistake; they are a cause for worry – “play around”, “mess around”, mess up a life, a family – send morality itself to an early grave.  The “preachers” won’t tell you – so why should I?  Who will listen?

The sickest moment in America was when a group of Yale University frat boys, the next crop of America’s “best and brightest” (President Bushes “kin”) rose up and chanted, “No means yes, yes means anal.”   This behavior is both a reflection of, and the foundations for, an American culture of rape.  Once one first accepts the perspective that it is OK to rape women, the raping of entire countries cannot be far behind.  I give you the “Bush rape” of Iraq and Afghanistan, the “Obama gang bang of both”, the “Sexual assault on Libya” (which looks like male on male).  There are many definitions of “the man”.

I might apologize for my language.  I don’t think I have said anything that you don’t already know.  Most of us live with a lot of denial, in a world that lives on denial.  All this should change.

We seem to choose leaders that are like us, that are reflections of us, that live out the values in secrecy that we desire to live out ourselves.  We sense the inner corruption, the depravity and the decadence – we vote for it and choose it because we are not really fooled.   We want hypocrisy in our lives, and when we vote.  That’s why I don’t vote, don’t campaign.  I like to keep it real.  The guys in the news are not my kind of men.

If an honest man or woman can’t be cheated, why is it so hard to find one, then or now?  One would think that being honest is so simple, to say few words and mean them, to never a ‘borrower or lender’ be, to not depend on muscle to power up your fame (or frame).

A “little” honesty always makes life a little simpler.  A lot of honesty goes a long way to doing good.  I’m not interested in freebies.  or “free bees” (with, or without the “birds”).  I’ll work it through my own way, I guess (therefore) I’ll never be in the news.  That’s fine.  I have no need for a little rape, or “date rape”, or rape of an entire household or hotel or international bank (even).

Aren’t you happy?  I’ve said my peace.

[“More “freebies” Post written on May 17, 2011 @ 19:39  ZLT / GMT / Zulu / UTC]

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