Category Archives: Washington

Zoology Students, Zingers & Pick Ups: Sidewalks of America

revenge-nebulous
Revenge of the Nebulous
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Sweet is the revenge that lies low for a quarter, just to halve the impact and doubleth thy forgiveness one fair apple to the next. Then we can talk of oranges, the P.I. and the azimuth of the infamous cirling return, where even the unlearned know a straight line when they see it...

...yes, when they know it, touch it, smudge it, recycle it, mix it, integrate it, nix it, bury it, junk it, kink it, mash it, describe it, lick it, hunt it, nick it, favor it, spoil it, suck it, trash it, pool it, race it, fake it, bend it, skirt it, agitate it, arm it, highlight it, track it, sack it, flatten it, extrapolate it, measure it, seed it, keep it, check it, click it, whack it, pop it, finger it, poke it, register it, forget it, erase it, seduce it, increase it, grab it, market it, nuke it, appeal it, loop it, win it, clear it, educate it, irrigate it, irritate it, masticate it, sweat it, drag it, report it, support it, post it, float it, flavor it, torque it, jack it, pack it, surprise it, smote it, stab it, crack it pull it, push it, smack it, suggest it, sink it, disarm it, flag it, rip it, emasculate it, rewrite it, tighten it, choke it, read it, slap it, cut it, slice it, nose it, lose it, wipe it, kick it, steal it, inflate it, climb it, hold it, rhyme it, blow it, soil it, give it, charm it, choose it, hack it, wing it, wag it, squeeze it, eat it, work it, confuse it, compute it, type it, stereotype it, punch it, forsake it, repeal it, threaten it, reject it, trust it, hose it, wreck it, portray it, smash it, betray it, emphasize it, peg it, chuck it, supersize it, navigate it, inhabit it, feminize it, pirate it, save it, swallow it, juice it, hook it, shelve it, salvage it, handicap it, buck it, book it, articulate it, swear it, love it, color it, marry it, flip it, seize it, raise it, break it, police it, kill it, mark it, rule it, school it, fool it, outsource it, voice it, match it, hang it, swing it, fuck it, verify it... so that we each get a taste of the good life.

And we understand that we have no need of extenuating concrete or abstract nouns, when we know all the action resides with the verbs no matter what nouns exist, or don't exist. The most common metalanguage to name this concept is nominalization.

At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You’re outnumbered buddy, and this ain’t China…
That brings us nappily to the "n" word. In a process called juncture loss, the "n" has wandered back and forth between the indefinite article and words beginning with vowels over the history of the English language, where for example what was once a nuncle is now an uncle. The Oxford English Dictionary gives such examples as smot hym on the hede with a nege tool from 1448 for smote him on the head with an edge tool, as well as a nox for an ox and a napple for an apple. Sometimes the change has been permanent. For example, a newt was once an ewt (earlier euft and eft), and in the other direction, a napron (meaning a little tablecloth, related to the word napkin) became an apron, and a naddre became an adder. The initial "n" in orange was also dropped through juncture loss, but this happened before the word was borrowed into English. Props to Wikipedia for juicing the jam I was having on toast with Richard Nix, the pirate flag and number twenty-two...

Okay, dude, say I, “Let’s hope she doesn’t become so bright she thinks she’s an artist…”
With a beating heart ancient cold to starry eyed zoology students, weather-crunched cracks in the sidewalks of America, and all this dead language I still must bury, I suppose this concrete noun is as good a dump as any. This writer has nothing but the utmost respect, and can boldly admit to hoisting a torch for well-placed zingers and pickups of nearly every load I can carry, although I'd be hard pressed to name one outside the '84 Chevy Scottsdale monster block, all-black & chrome short bed Mauler I steered up and down the I-95 corridor for about six years until its transmission finally cringed out, needing an obscene over-priced overhaul for such a shiny truck, bleeding me dry. Voices in my head now school me in strange German accents, "You've only got yourself to blame." Laughter, my response, laughter borrowed from another era, another purse I used to have. Nice touch—that personal Airplay technology, my own 18K track streaming like magic through high-woof Pioneer speakers scattered about Die Librahausen on InkFlower Hill. I am indeed never alone. And just in the nick of saints everywhere, into my depraved decaying eardrums the secret programmer comes, this time as Rotersand, and I have nothing but instant amusement for that lyric—You've only got yourself to blame—but I don't dally to dissent. "That wonderful machine was programmed to fail," I retort. A mere 78K on the odometer, never went four-wheeling. Never clocked her out. Junker, whore on lemons. Loved her while she clawed my road, my straight-away road like an iced-out black-lipped steampunk, DRI and Motorhead slamming naked eardrums and tapedeck against the walls of the leather cab like homeboy sailors about to trade life for a watery grave, but I ain't sentimental about static scrap metal that refuses to scream down the naked road, that won't buck the screaming naked wind, that won't deliver the screaming male naked, the same naked, naked as he came in, ink optional, and now it's high naked time for her to meet her maker—the spirit of the whale, naked. Sentimental. I could be, but I ain't. I'm no seized up gearhead. Get the drift?

  • Nothing is a very important aspect of our concept of something, anything, everything, and the lines of demarcation which separate us all, bring us together, ignore us in the end, so don't fear, just don't neglect to trace one's own importance back to nothing. Have a good day, Robert.
  • I think this could have been more strategically written, "Good thing Regan turned out cute, or Ita would be in BIG TROUBLE right now..." At least then you would have only one woman in the family aiming for your head next time they pick up a Louisville Slugger. You're outnumbered buddy, and this ain't China...
  • You say when you read stories about how some children are not going to be very bright adults, you think, "that's less adults my daughter will have to compete against and it brings a smile to my face." Okay, dude, say I, "Let's hope she doesn't become so bright she thinks she's an artist..."

Soup's boiling on the glasstop. Slice, then dice the leftover roast into rosy chucks, making a tomato-vegetable based brew, with lots of juice, always lots of juice. I can't seem to drum this "lots of juice" meme into the wife's head. She's clearly no cook, will tell you that herself in an English Fog, nearly completely illiterate in the kitchen even as she's about to reach retirement age. Lots of juice. That's why they call it soup, silly. Best part of the soup, if it's done right, I tell her. That's what my Pops always said, and I've lived long enough to realize how right he was about that one thing, at least. Yes dear, that's cabbage. And potatoes, peas, corn, carrots, okra, green beans, onions, oregano, black pepper, and a little red to curl your toes. Carrots? Oh come on, baby, it'll put hair on your chest, as the Pops used to tease my sister when we were growing up. Illiterate. What can I say? She's not really a literal bean counter, only a metaphorical one, a bean counter more comfortable shoveling numbers and slinging hash about whether her company, Always & Forever, is currently still in the red or in budgetary black. She'll be home soon. I'm surprising her. Always love to catch her off guard. Love is that way. Always spotting the cracks in the sidewalk. The potholes in the street of any relationship requires everyone to lend a skill, apply the requisite pitch, and mix in some jolly good cement.

We dig animals here, too.

GT

To Learn The Science Of Naming In Today's World Is Vicious

art-science
Art and Science
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I saw the seven words, then it finally registered with all the synchronicity of a lighted odometer turning over from all nines to all zeroes. This was it! The riddle had been solved! In ill-considered black and white here before me, written three days earlier, on my mother’s 48th birthday was the culminating stroke of this freaky name-change operation thing I had charted for months with soft sell handshakes and strange grimaces to any new person who happened to meet me.

And I took the name Gabriel Thy...

The Howell House was clean and active, even upscale I suppose one could say, secure and nearly two-thirds geriatric. My mother lived four floors above me up on the sixth floor of the 18-story building. She was on staff as the senior citizens coordinator and bookkeeper, and I occasionally helped her out with some of the more confined and colorful patrons doing odd chores for them. I was anxious to tell her of my discovery, although I could hardly expect her to understand the impact this fresh twig of myth and reality would have on me, Richard, the eldest of her seven children. It was her birthday and we were to have dinner together. I was bursting with excitement but I was understandably challenged by a mother's sense of her own naming rights—to bring the gift of reason to the dinner table that night.

How would my family, particularly my mother react to this news, a most suspicious tale ringing with tremendous religious overtones, or as others might prefer, smacking of superstitious or worse, some kind of dangerous demonic affiliations? Of course many people have changed their names with no other purposes other than enhancing one’s business, hiding an ethnicity, blending in, or sheer simplicity in mind.
As it was written on the page, the name—Gabriel Thy—was not given but was taken. This seemingly minor detail concerned me for a quite a while, not in a truly bothersome way, but as a nuisance, like a flapping scarecrow in a field of errors. Having taken this name was it no longer a gift? But when someone gives you a nickel, don’t you take it and perhaps slip it into your own pocket? Such were the subtleties of bible and literary scholarship, and so it was with my own problematic gestures.

I was thoroughly bewildered. The name was certainly an odd one, a very special one. I liked it, approved of it, but without a doubt it certainly had a very pretentious ring to it. I was not at all certain I in good faith could take it. And what would I do with it? The cornpone religiosity, the in-your-face God-component of the now prophetic name-change operation, self-fulfilling and otherwise, was obvious to me. But I was sure others would laugh me right off the sidewalk. What about those who already knew me as RSN—a right interesting vintage acronym already, particularly when pronounced Risen or risin as in...Christ is risen! How would my family, particularly my mother react to this news, a most suspicious tale ringing with tremendous religious overtones, or as others might prefer, smacking of superstitious or worse, some kind of dangerous demonic affiliations? Of course many people have changed their names with no other purposes other than enhancing one's business, hiding an ethnicity, blending in, or sheer simplicity in mind.

Having finished with ecclesiastical literature, about this time I had also finished reading, was presently reading, or would very soon be reading the herded vapors of Gide, Camus, Sartre, Kierkegaard, Miller, Darwin, Kerouac, Nietzsche, Castaneda, and Douglas R. Hofstadter, author of Gödel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal Golden Braid, A Metaphorical Fugue on Minds and Machines in the Spirit of Lewis Carroll, the latter, a landmark ransom for me, among others. But I would not wholly give up the ghost. I clung to every shred of hope massaging my investigations that God would clear me for landing his understanding, that each and every one of the moderns were wrong in their denial of deity, dead wrong in their intemperance in disparaging the creative power from without, even as they worshipped the creative power within whether it be DNA or environmental advantages. Time and time again I found the writers complaining not against Christ but rather against the wretched incarnations of the church, its scavengerlike methods poisoning their minds against all of the burlier forms of theology and the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jesus of Nazareth. Still I persisted just as I persist today.

And by no stretch of time or imagination was this an easy task to discharge, seeing as I knew almost no women at the time and had little coin with which to persuade others that this was on the level, was no prank, no plot to appear artistic and sublime, nor merely a passing fancy. Yes neighbor, I was feeling tragically symbolic, alone but for the voice of God resounding in my head, just as intricately wrought analysis of my daily experiences had led me to belief.
I don’t remember my mother’s initial reactions to my telling the tale of the harbinger bringing forth her son a new name. Not then, not there. She in all likelihood, since I don’t specifically remember her response, sighed and said something along the lines of, “That’s interesting, son,” while thinking to herself that this was just a passing artistic phase or something or another and to follow form she’d share no words either of encouragement or of any personal horror. She’d always thought of herself as somewhat of a mystic, but was not easily persuaded that any such thing would rub off onto her children. So I use the words "not then, not there" simply because there was no mindjarring quarrel I recall from that Sunday night, and shortly thereafter, speaking both epistemologically and chronologically, things begin to shift into place with great importance.

The name was mine to take. That much was had been chanced upon, had been written, had arrived in a happy circumstance. There was no doubt in my mind that this was living theatre, that I had been given an emblazoned word of prophecy in Corpus Christi, and it was fulfilled here in Atlanta because I had stayed the course. But I also intuited that there were certain terms involved, certain measures and quotas to be filled, certain spiritual hoops to be jumped through in order to discern whether or not this was this real McCoy. Because it was my understanding that I’d come to this earth through the wondrous body of a woman, was named by that same woman, had bullishly married and was now irreparably separated from another woman once twice my age, it was preserved in my mind and reinforced by circular logic that if this name change was truly from God, my doubts could only be dispelled if endorsed by a woman. And by no stretch of time or imagination was this an easy task to discharge, seeing as I knew almost no women at the time and had little coin with which to persuade others that this was on the level, was no prank, no plot to appear artistic and sublime, nor merely a passing fancy. Yes neighbor, I was feeling tragically symbolic, alone but for the voice of God resounding in my head, just as intricately wrought analysis of my daily experiences had led me to belief.

I was working three hours a day downtown delivering pizzas and sandwiches on foot to the downtown Atlanta highrise luncheon crowd. I saw many faces and shared a quick grin or a few words of friendly chat, but my social importance was next to nothing. When I had a few dollars to spare I’d occasionally dip into a rather eclectic pub down Peachtree Street a few blocks from the Howell House for a pitcher of cheap suds, but knew only a few guys, the bar maid, and maybe one woman superficially at best. The happy hour crowd was always buzzing with a spattering of high profile cultural scooters including the nucleus I later grew to appreciate individually as an art curator, a couple of attorneys, an old hippie or two, a librarian, a couple of salesmen, a science fiction aficionado, a banker, a copywriter, an amateur actress, a faux cubist painter, a few struggling musicians, a chess champion, and a CDC technician.

The nihilistic era of the rude nickname had arrived in spades, the new epithet of the unsung, pacing the steamy streets and charlatanic nightclubs with the vengeance of a caged wolf, with little respect for anything, hardly sparing themselves. Visceral yearnings in youth were reshaping a new generation’s perspective on love and hatred, and the mad rush for mostly vulgar monikers had already begun in earnest.
This circle of soon to be regulars was still small at the time of the White Crow writing. All of them knew me as Richard, slightly weird and chalked up with an armload of library books. Keep in mind of course that when I introduced myself to someone, that was the last mention of a name-change operation, the line was dead until the next stranger was introduced. I didn’t go around like some enfilading riflemouth spraying people with some nonsense line in search of attention. In fact I was often quite self-conscious when introducing myself. Within a few days (three, four, five?) however I was to meet a young woman four or five years older than me named Kathleen Baker, a woman whose more delicate features were overshadowed by the liberal contours of her body. She weighed over 300 pounds, sang classical music with the voice of a monk, and immediately seemed to enjoy the nimble dispatches my wit invested among the afternoon mélange. Thinking again as I write this, perhaps I hadn’t told my mother of the Gabriel Thy transmogrification after all, not then that night of her birthday, for whatever reasons I now forget, because with each ascendant memory, in fact, as I am thinking about this concentratedly for the first time in many years, it seems that Kathleen Baker’s were the very first ears to hear the entire mess of fish from beginning to end, sans of course, the still confidential part about needing a woman to validate the transition (part of the test is to not publicly reveal all the details but to allow the truth to unfold according to God’s will and not mine), and that she energetically embraced the novelty of what she was hearing and resolved at that very first meeting to call me Gabriel, Gabriel Thy, enough said. And so in that unorchestrated off the cuff fashion this woman became the first person to know me only as Gabriel Thy, not Richard Nix.

Yes, that was it. She listened to my poem and she approved. Mother would learn only later, and now I recall another event which I shall get to shortly. That afternoon at the Stein tavern I did however note my apprehension at appearing far too pretentious for these cynical hobbyhorse times by dubbing myself Gabriel Thy. I was a nothing, a fledgling writer, a seeker after an illusive and much debated truth, caught within the mechanical web of all breeds and conjugation of fact and fantasy, and yet despite my busy faith and rote exhilaration, I could not call myself a christian because quite frankly I couldn't fathom exactly what the word meant anymore, if indeed I ever did. There were so many conflicting versions of the title that I just preferred to leave it alone, to let the scavengers pick the bones clean if need be.

Little did I know at the time that even as I in all seriousness was changing my name thousands of others were performing a similar operation. The nihilistic era of the rude nickname had arrived in spades, the new epithet of the unsung, pacing the steamy streets and charlatanic nightclubs with the vengeance of a caged wolf, with little respect for anything, hardly sparing themselves. Visceral yearnings in youth were reshaping a new generation’s perspective on love and hatred, and the mad rush for mostly vulgar monikers had already begun in earnest.

Names like Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious became the norming curve for acceptance into this thriving cult of nothingness. My own name mutation, void of applause or record deals, shock value or normalcy, was a serious matter, referencing everything I earnestly believed about the nature and signature of the Creator, flagging for all to observe, his will for me and mankind. To understand this name would take time for me as I experienced what surely would be a new direction in destiny. The easy part was over. Onto the Directed Path of God’s dotted line I was willing to sign, but where, and how?

My anxiety with these problematic questions did not evaporate with the introduction to Kathleen. I still begged in my spirit for more validation.

Efforts Of Comportment In Linguistic Scholarship

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Palin Supporters
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The mainstream media keeps trying to make Sarah Palin irrelevant and within the NYC-Washington Corridor she is exactly that. But the highbrow mainstream media might want to put down their lattes and New York Times and embrace the concept that Palin is still relevant. Her words and endorsements will matter in the 2014 Midterms. And beyond? Who knows.

—David Brody | The Brody File

My friend with the Mexican mustache, savvy art collector and former Mike Gravel campaign strategist, José Rodriguez, could not contain his glee that he had gotten another whiff of the Sarah Palin meme, and so rushed right in to let me know how beneficial to the nation she would be should she stretch her wings to fly right at the old bastards who are in cahoots in destroying the economical sustainability of this nation in the long run, just one of their many political sins, "Cruz Palin 2016! Please help make the GOP irrelevant."

I had to capitalize and punctuate his words to meet the standards of this punk rock blog. You must understand, I have always been a grammar Nazi, having fought at least two underqualified English teachers in junior and senior highschool right straight to the revolt of the class when they tried unsuccessfully to assert their ignorance over what I knew to be true. I would walk away with a F in Comportment and a visit to the principal's office on my final day of Eighth Grade with an A in scholarship. That story I tell elsewhere, so I'll just flash my hall pass to get on with this one. So. Later, in the Tenth Grade, I refused to reread Huck Finn as I had read that book silly a dozen times as a grade schooler on summer break on my own, instead cutting up in class, clown and resident know it all, but was woefully prepared for the more sophisticated written essays of the highschool finals, so to my surprise I turned in an empty page. Still, Miss Harris, whose fiancée, was just starting out on the PGA tour, and who had only come to Glynn Academy as a sub after Christmas holidays to replace the beautiful young but tough Mrs. Mayhew who took a leave of absence to have the baby she'd been carrying long before the first September bell of the school year 1970-71. Mrs. Mayhew was also my first Negro teacher. I liked her. She was deliberate, adjudicated, serious, temporate, friendly, charming, but when analyzed as a complete package suggesting woman in charge who knew her place she was as tough as nails, as I said.

Did I mention I later ran for Senior Class President at another school from which I in two years would graduate, on the platform to bring a junk food canteen to campus? An idea that has become the contemporary norm but is now frowned upon just like it was back then at the front of the caloric revolution, an idea of freedom of choice, of brief respite, of the mouth-watering zest that sometimes is just a little bit more satisfying and attention-grabbing than the traditional wares of zealotry...
At the end of the first quarter of fifth period Mayhew English, we got our report cards. I was pleased I had received an A in Scholarship, but was stunned when I saw a B in Effort. I also received an A in Comportment, but it was the B in effort which startled me, as rumors soon circulated that I had received the only A in that fifth period class, and that she had only given out four A's across the five classes of sophomore English that she taught that semester at Glynn Academy, located in Brunswick GA, Glynn County along the famous "marshes of Glynn" made memorable by some romantic long-bearded mid-19th century minor poet named Sidney Lanier, for whom the nearby grade school where my youngest brother, John, now also a painter but always a woeful student, was attending.

I recall the class had mostly been rote memorization at that point, no essays, just spelling and a rehash of grammar studies we were forced to memorize year after since since we were first taken from group tables and put into individual desks like the big kids we would become.

Yo Rodriguez. Palin's not running for anything, but Cruz will take a bite out of that left-wing biscuit of you'rn...or put another way, I'm sure he'll step right up to announce without a drop of insincerity, "I'll be your Huckleberry. Seems I recall a chief strategist, a mutual friend of ours I'll just call Paul, declaring on the same night he announced he was considering a run on the Green ticket for Governor of New York state as we were all sweating over dinner at the 14th Street Busboy's & Poets in the summer of '08, that destroying the Democratic Party was at hand, and favorable. What a tangled web...and what strong, large memories some of us have. While yes, some just have large mammaries. And others, not that it matters on the golf course have neither."

Funny, as a ballplayer, I was often diagnosed as an over-achiever, capable of great moments, and of carrying a lackluster team far beyond its means only to crash at the last moment. Second place, not third, or last, or in the middle but second place was the recurring theme of my competitive life. Second most econonomic cab driver after just a few weeks on the job. Second most productive and accurate surveyor after being given my shot at party chief with my own crew. Race through dominating the regular season only to lose in the playoff finals to a team we'd slammed by large margins several times already. This was my luck, my meme, my path to the stars. Never quite the top dog, always stuck in the doghouse at number two, and I don't like the way that sounds.

Glynn Academy, 1970
Glynn Academy, 1970
However, after turning in a blank sheet of paper in response to twelve analytical questions, no multiple choice here, sitting in the same desk in the same classroom where I had achieved a rare A only to get a B in effort, you could have knocked me over with a feather when a few days after that school year had ended, and the final report cards were mailed, and I opened that envelope with great trepidation, I discovered to my amusement that Miss Harris had capitulated to my commanding spirit,and had given me straight A's across the board, including the course final. Deportment, Effort, Scholarship. All A's.

If Mrs. Mayhem's intuition had presaged the Miss Harris teacher-student debacle, the Miss Harris scourge would presage the coming generations, although let's face it, student punks were a dime a dozen at least since the times of the Greeks. Did I mention I later ran for Senior Class President at another school from which I in two years would graduate, on the platform to bring a junk food canteen to campus? An idea that has become the contemporary norm but is now frowned upon just like it was back then at the front of the caloric revolution, an idea of freedom of choice, of brief respite, of the mouth-watering zest that sometimes is just a little bit more satisfying and attention-grabbing than the traditional wares of zealotry, an idea I also picked up at Glynn Academy, an historical school founded in 1788, had sported the first "rest area" I had ever seen (although I'm sure large urban highschools in other warped regions of the country were even back then in the very first year of forced integration in the south), an entirely different breed of failure and excess freedom running rampart apart from my own small town observations, aptitude, and media-crunching misapplications. But as I learned somewhere in the finer thills of Huckleberry Finn via the aristocratic airs of the cinematic flair that a tuberculosis sickened Doc Holliday, who hailed from Valdosta GA we should not forget, one should first write about what one knows as long as you include lots of links because the following generations will know nothing about any history that preceded them until it affects them more than a poorly formed sentence from the gangrened mouth of their hanging judge.

The world is a very strange place. Not unlike the movie Tombstone.

Anvil

Anvil Booker was no guarantee, 
        Nimrod's son, wide awake, my generation,
     not what you wanted, not now not here
coy, once upon a time nickels and dimes
one way or another one of these days out of time
Mrs. Brown's lovely daughter, 
broke paperback writer,
only a pawn in their game, swallows peppermint twist
open all night, parade of the horribles, 
     Nadine Brown put 'em on the glass 
like old fashioned love songs
           "My brain is hanging upside down, neat neat neat"
a few observations, sunspot backyard garden party
forsaken fragments of fresh flesh must of got lost
met privately with their lawyers, guns, and money
fortunate son sitting to my right in submission,
no sanctuary, superstition, surrender,
none but the brave, 
nobody's diary.

                         Mrs. Robinson snatches Mr. Tambourine Man, 
and the one they called Mr. Integrity. Ooh la la. Each other's bad company,
girl gone wild, night moves, sultans of swing, mother and child reunion
only the good die young in Oliver's army, 
Mother's little helper not faking it, 
         one man's a gang, one headlight.
One tin soldier on the sea of Galilee,
Arial Sharon still in his coma after seven 
years of plenty, on the road again,
one way out, not a trillion dollar golf game
                 peace minus one, pay you back with interest
one step into the light, one of us, Obama's presidential rag
people who died, peeling back the foreskin of liberty
for the piano man Pee-ro Juan Valdez Sam Quixote
parasite host, pump it up, it's a political world.

                           Private Idaho went M.I.A.
planet earth 1988, police story pretty vacant, 
plastic bag, picture this, get a grip on yourself
perpetual personality, the pied piper,
please push no more, the power genocide
gunpoint affection, this year's prophet
get back, get down, get ready, get up, 
golden shower of hits, going going gone
get your body beat, get off, harvest 
          halfway to crazy said Avil,
the happiest days of our lives,
hate to say I told you so
growing up the children
of dust, groom's still waiting.

         The church of the holy spook, 
cigarettes and citizenship
packed into an old blue chevy van,
made it to oh Atlanta and back then died
after that singular trip from Corpus Christi,
sold it back to the same gypsies I paid on eggshell. 

Elvis is everywhere, a field of opportunity
Eli's coming, eminent domain, embryo dead, Elvis on velvet,
fire on the mountain, flowers on the wall, civil war
face to face, remarks Eve, of destruction, Ezra's Cantos
fake friends fading fast, long as I can see the light
pipes Anvil, looking for a leader lost in America,
a brutal planet, every picture tells a story,
every grain of sand fighting in the streets,
Cleveland rocks, Detroit City falls,
drops into the night, city baby
attacked by rats coast to coast
cold professional, common people
coal miner's daughter, glory days
               claw at idiot wind,
as somebody screamed give peace a chance,
others bellowed they would go down fighting,
same fate, no regulation, no legislation
prepared the goon squad, the goody two shoes
troops of tomorrow, red shirted radicals,
the queen of the silver dollar,
rabbit fighter, punk rock girl, the righteous ones,
or the green shirts of the green green grass of home
                    for the grinder, the grey seal.

Richard hung himself,
the rhythm of the rain was 
a major contributor. Famous last words,
return to sender. Over my head. Pablo Picasso
never had to paint it black, use magnum force,
just his lyin' eyes, mandolin wind, 
and maybe I was a golf ball, 
quips Anvil, adding

                Massachusetts was his favorite nation,
miles from nowhere when you live in sweet home Alabama
especially when the Medicine Jar 
still owned Maybelle's guitar. 
    Now it has always been mate, 
spawn and die (probably of mind games)
so the show must go on,
but things smell a bit fishy,
Shirley, should I stay or should I go?
The silver dollar forger is a Shi'ite punk,
Master Jack, you know Sister digs the sharpies;
Modern Romans haven't a clue, have no momentum
again miles from nowhere when Michael rows 
the boat ashore itchin' for action,
the memory of Mesopotamia not lost
in the air that I breathe
the age of consent
blindhammer in bikini 
red between the lines
or the defenders of the faith, 
deep one perfect morning
because the night principals 
of the death & resurrection show,
        are dedicated followers of fashion
                          moving in stereo,
ignoring my back pages no matter who you are
as the age of quarrel plus outsider sacks 
our comfortable lives. Anvil 
with his never say never 
lonely teardrop Mike Twigger ax
admires the question.

Why are you so paranoid, they accuse. Anvil's quick
to point to territorial pissings, then indigestion.

[ 2013, Lovettsville ]

With Every Breath You Take, So This Song Has No Title

If I had a hammer,
I'd nail your silent face
to the flapper girl's chest
like a yellow corsage, and tear it down;
turn on your receiver, Tupelo Honey
to love him is to know him, tiny dancer,
the boxer, Polly, she's a rainbow zombie
lost in a whiter shade of pale, tangled up in blue
now that I have a reason to believe a change
is gonna come when I paint my masterpiece
as I turn, turn, turn, turning Japanese
rogue children go bang, divine service,
don't pass me by, don't stop,
do you know what I mean,
do it again, cover me...

like a hurricane, blowing old time rock and roll,
too late for a handshake, I roll over Beethoven,
thunder struck, roll over and over, doing the stray cat strut
to your ritual noise. Yeah. You really got a hold on me.
Yakety Yak. No more heroes. You cannot walk here,
sky pilot, paper plane, ancient name. You remind
me of Snoopy versus the Red Baron, but she's
not on the menu, spotlight, look, she's a phone sex girl
a pleasure victim, til the wheels fall off, a thrasher
positively 4th Street, toys in the attic,
too far gone, a telephone operator,
said so the daily news,
cry baby cry, a dirty birdie,
a dirty punk, chemicals and circuitry
diplomatic immunity, Uncle Albert, Admiral Halsey,
dust in the wind, driftwood, the undefeated, the voice,
don't let me be misunderstood, don't call me white,
the cover of the Rolling Stone, uncertain times under attack.

You ain't seen nothing yet,
keep on smilin' homesick again
the hunger within, the human highway
for what it's worth, friend or foe, fake friends
famous last words with no particular place to go,
first time I ever saw your face, fingernails
running up that hill riding the storm out,
ringing them bells breathless for my brown-eyed girl 
give it all girl in the war feeling stronger every day,
you may call me the breeze, but I can't stop
the world dancing with myself, God wrote,
looking for you...record collector,
just like Jim Morrison did.

Thank you for the music, nothing is true,
I get around, I speak American, now you will pay
gimme gimme gimme, glory days, play my game
I walk the line, not what you wanted, I shall be free No. 10,
I'll meet you in Poland, my Blakean year, I won't back down,
If you want to sing out, sing out, rise above, Walt Whitman
won't mind, but if you leave me now, Jim Dandy
In the sweet bye and bye like the early Roman kings
it's not the spotlight, it's the end of the world
as we know it. Kansas City. Is there anybody out there
the night they drove Old Dixie down, just one fix,
just my imagination, keeps getting better,
just what I needed, remember I was vapor
respectable, reelin' in the years
with or without reason...

with every breath you take, so this song has no title.

—Gabriel Thy | Sunday, October 12, 2013

Help Desk Commando

samplex

Help, I can't login! What am I doing wrong?

mouse

Okay, we believe you. Meanwhile, we have been swamped holding hands, dodging insults, and writing long personal notes to members of every walk who are struggling to register or to log-in, or to get to the homepage after logging in, or haven't gotten a password, or they've got three, or they get an error message, or can't get into the Members Area, or have forgotten their passwords or they use the wrong passwords in the wrong forms, or they are senior members who like pens and paper, or they are concerned about privacy, or who can't distinguish between language describing an online account and that of a chapter membership...

You know who you are. That's no reflection on you. It could be a computer problem, a browser incompatibility problem, or a knowledge problem. Life is not all plug and play, even if the manual tells you it is. Just to show you we care About your well-being, we'll share a few pointers with you.

So let's see if we can't construct a page that speaks to that small portion of you (about one in fifteen) who are having the problems. This is not your usual website, because the SAMPLEX is not your usual hangout. We strive to be an organization of caring, exemplary folks who desire to do our best by others, by our community, by our nation, and by the awesome power of nature itself.

Part 1. So, let's get down to business, shall we?

  • Click REGISTER from main menu bar on the homepage.
  • Fill out form, including the username of your choice, your real names, and your email address, the address where you will receive a system-generated password or choose your own password. Solve the Recaptcha, if applicable. Click register button at the bottom. If successful...wait for email to arrive. Could take a few minutes, Could take up to 48 hours, depending on when you register. Have patience, please!
  • If you receive an email with a system-generated password announcing you have been approved, you can then use the MEMBERS LOGIN tab whenever you visit the site.
  • Click MEMBERS LOGIN tab found on the main menu bar on homepage.
  • You will be taken to your personal Profile page. Scroll down halfway or so. Change your password to something you can remember, type it twice, make it at least medium complexity, and remember to click the blue UPDATE USER button at the bottom when you are finished. We understand that for a few of you, this part of the form is missing for some still unresolved reason. If this is the case for you, please use the PASSWORD RECOVERY tab on the main menu bar. You will be sent an email with a link to take you to a form to choose your own password.
  • But back at the Personal Profile page. Look up at the black bar at the top of that page. Pull down the SAMPLEX tab to click VISIT SITE tab.
  • This should take you back to the homepage. At that point you are free to visit the Members Area.
  • You SHOULD ALWAYS be logged in to your account to actually access the Members Area, AND you must use the pair of second tier credentials issued you in orientation or at a members meeting to view the links.

Part 2. I followed those directions, but I still can't log in!

Yes, we hear you loud and clear. You are one of the three percent of the original ten percenters who are still having login problems, even after we walked you through the entire process. But have no fear. We empathize. There are always more reasons why something doesn't work for most of us, and it's not always our fault or your fault. It COULD be somebody else's fault! Imagine that!

  • The problem could be a server hiccup, or a network slowdown. Take a deep breath. Try again.
  • Or you might just need to start by trashing your cookies, flushing your cache, and restarting your machine. If you leave your machine powered on for weeks at a time, turn it off, and unplug, yes, unplug it for ten minutes to allow any static build-up to dissipate. Plug it back in. Turn on your computer. Try your browser. Still no cigar? Try another browser.
  • Perhaps the browser you normally use is just not well-suited for our system. It happens. MSIE 7 is a frequent culprit on modern systems, particularly our WordPress engine. But others can choke occasionally as well. Try another browser. Try Chrome, or Firefox, or Safari on the Mac. Each has been known to help others login where another browser did not, depending on which platform and version of OS you have configured.

info_alertIf you have completed all these steps, and you still cannot log-in successfully, write us again, and we'll discuss what, if anything, we can do to help. But you MUST describe your problem and the actions you have taken precisely, or there is little we can do to help you because we will be as confused as you are in pinpointing exactly where you are in the process.

Thanks, and good luck! We want everybody to be able to sign on, but we recognize that even the friendliest technology can hamper any of us with limitations every once in a while. Don't sweat it!

Part 3: Accessing The Member's Area

To access the Members Area, log into the site as usual, then hit the SAMPLEX link at the menu bar from the Personal Profile page to get back to the homepage where you will click the Members Area link on the main menu bar. A members page will be returned, but you must have the universal 2nd-tier credentials (a separate username and password that are different from your site login credentials) to access them. This 2nd-tier credential should be given to you at your orientation, or at members meetings on the 2nd Monday of each month. Please do not ask the Network Administrator to give you these credentials, as that defeats a certain level of security we must depend upon, since we in this department have no way of verifying your membership.

There is another way to access the Members Area without logging into the site, but we prefer members not exploit that path. All users should be logged in before accessing the Members Area.

That's it! Happy SAMPLEX vapor trails!

Addendum: FAQ

Question: Why must I sweat through two logins just to get to the Members Area?

info_alertAnswer: We have this two-tier login system because we have an Open Registration at this time. This means anybody can register as a user of our website, but since we do not wish to share our private chapter information with non-members we currently have a second tier login to protect the Members Area documents. If you do not know your Members Area login credentials, please contact the Membership Director, Peta McMillen. She can confirm to the network administrator that you are a member in good standing, or issue you the Members Area username and password herself.


Question: I can't get into the Members Area. When I click on Members Area, I am taken to a page that asks me for just a password, no username.

info_alertAnswer: Yes, this might happen, depending on how you arrive at the Members Area pages. Just type one or the other of the two second-tier credentials you have been given for accessing the two pages of the Members Area. Only one of them will work, but we will occasionally switch the password on that particular form, so try one, then the other, and you should get in without problem. However, you will still need to type in your Members Area username and password one more time to access the document links.


Question: We have a family membership. I am presently awaiting the up to 48 hours to have my registration processed. Must my wife also register and log in or else have hers or the family membership terminated?

info_alertAnswer: This online registration at present has little to do with your membership in the SAMPLEX other than confirming the identity of our online users for security reasons. Online membership registration exists solely for the purposes of the website, and is free of charge. Chapter membership for the purposes of conservationist principles and all the fun that follows incurs annual membership fees to support our facilities, including this website. There are no terminations of Chapter memberships for failure to sign-up to the website at this time! Just please list your the membership on your profile page once you register. Good luck!


Question: I am having trouble with the Slide Out Contact Form. It won't send my mail. What am I doing wrong?

info_alertAnswer: There is a bug in the code that we have no been able to squash. However, we have found that if you quit your browser completely, then reboot it, the form will work again. We apologize for this inconvenience, and will continue due diligence to help make the LCCIWLA web site better as we continue to grow.

Gabriel Thy
IT Development Team
blue-mail

The Quartermaster Controversy

quartermaster
The Quartermaster
samplex

So my pal Joey Higgins invites me to stay at his house in Boynton Beach, FL. We do a demolition-construction job for this guy who has no permits. We get our first check before I've opened a bank account. So I sign it over to Joey.

He takes off for the weekend...goes shooting on the other coast. I watch the house. Feed the dogs. Feed the fish. Brush the pool. When he returns, he doesn't give me my money from my check. Next week no money. Then he wants me out. I say okay, give me my money so I can pay for my greyhound reservation back to DC. He says he paid the bills. All $262.12 of my money to run his house. My laptop and two external hard drives are not sucking that much electricity. Plus there was no discussion of expenses. At least give me the opportunity to offer. Don't just steal my money. Plus what about the food I bought that he ate... saying that doesn't help out the house... so he doesn't want to give me my money from my check. I start earning money for 3d art done for Tom Howell's steam punk comic. So Joey lends me the car keys to go get beer. Then reports the car stolen. i spend a weekend in jail. Then have to walk the streets of Boynton Beach till my reservation date with Greyhound comes up. Money comes in from Tom Howell and Ashby and Seamus to answer my distress call. I spend last weekend in Miami. A $5.00 tri-rail to Miami, $12.99 a night at the Miami Beach hostel. a bed, jaccuzzi, bar, and bath. Refreshed I get to the Greyhound Station in Fort Lauderdale and arrive in DC. Quite an adventure. All in all. But Joey Higgins in no rasta mustafa. All of those at Dupont [Circle] back in the day who warned me of this wannabe were right. just another wannabe. Thanks all for your friendship.

"You DO seem to have quartermaster issues, Roland..." I wrote three or four entries below this description of one Roland Currie, a six foot six giant of a man and virtual reality graphics expert with whom I have been acquainted for about twenty years, although our relationship was nearly entirely accidental or second hand, a byproduct of a mutual friend, Tom Howell, or Howellnymns as I like to refer to him in print.

However, I also got an "F" in Deportment that quarter, and upon my wish was sent to the principal's office on the last day on school that year since I thought it might be fun. It was, and a bit painful, also, but fun just the same. An experience, a gas, a gag, a goof. You see, I was a straight A student, and I learned to rebel early against feckless authority...
Robin Slusher, a pretty girl from the North Country I presumed, poked me gently, "Gabriel Thy—what are quartermaster issues?"

"In Roland's case, roommate and landlord struggles...go figure, I use a single world to replace several, and then have to explain the stretched single-word metaphor to the public thus defeating my original intent," I obediently supply.

"Hahaha-go figure! I retired from the Navy and we use that word often but never in that particular way—I was just curious. Just googled it; you used it in an "Army" way. Navy uses it differently. I was institutionalized; sorry.

"No problem, but as you well know, words are authentically extended from their original usage quite frequently..." I responded, with a sigh of relief that this wordslinging tete a tete was over, adding one more round for good measure, "Roland's been on both sides of this enterprise. He knows what I'm talking about even if some of the rest of you do not. And that is not a slam on any of you. You may just not be aware of the entire scenario as I framed it. But I too, am saddened that Roland is having troubles. I was hoping good things for him in Florida."

But no. Somebody else was pricked by the word I had used to describe a condition I knew Roland was now facing again as some kind of karmic swarm.

His best friend DC "Max" Hughes rushed into the area where words only have subtlety it appears if they are perceived and experienced that way by the "official" lexiconographers. He copies and pastes the following:

Quartermaster

Quartermaster is one of two different military occupations.

In land armies, especially US units, a quartermaster is either an individual soldier or a unit who specializes in distributing supplies and provisions to troops. The senior unit, post or base supply officer is customarily referred to as "the quartermaster". Often the quartermaster serves as the S-4 in US Army, US Marine Corps units and NATO units.

The function of the U.S. Army Quartermaster Corps is to provide the following support to the Army:
—general supply (except for ammunition and medical supplies)
—Mortuary Affairs (formerly graves registration)
—subsistence (food service)
—petroleum & water
—field services
—aerial delivery (parachute packing, air item maintenance, heavy and light equipment parachute drop, rigging and sling loading.)
—shower, laundry, fabric/light textile repair
—material and distribution management

"Well, thanks, that was very thorough. In the Navy, a quartermaster deals with navigation—that's why it confused me," offers Slusher.

I have no choice but to respond to this jolt of authoritarianism, "What's your point, Hughes? Rock & Roll hardly translates to fucking, but there it is, fucking you, fucking me, fucking Elvis...muster your thoughts if you have a point to make. I certainly am capable of defining quartermaster as stated in the military protocols (or Wiki), but I used the word as a metaphor for this material fiasco that Roland seems to find himself struggling against from the opposite side now, not so long after a fiasco involving another in which he held the controls. Uh, the simple notion of managing one's quarters, supplies, and provisions is one of man's most basic transactions.

"Got a stick? Poke me. I'm done."

But true to his nature Max wasn't done, "Quartermasters, counterintuitively, do not handle quarters; lodging/housing."

To get to the point the customer service rep said, “The invoice says returns are SUBJECT to restocking fees. ‘Subject to’ means you WILL get restocking fees”. I said no it means I “MAY” get restocking fees and that she didn’t get to decide the meaning of words; that the meaning of “subject to” had already been defined. So….I didn’t have to pay.
Are you kidding me, I thought. So, true to my own nature, I continued to beat the dead horse just to see how much snot would spray across this language cop boondoggle he seemed genuinely certain I needed in order to improve my writing and not appear to be the fool, "Is Roland Currie not complaining about lost provisions? Shower, laundry? Do puns not exist in your splendid mind? As I wrote earlier, in Roland's case, his roommate and landlord struggles cover a lot of ground...go figure, I use a single world to replace several, and then have to explain the stretched single-word metaphor to the public thus defeating my original intent. Last time I was a scout quartermaster, I was in control of issuing Army issue cots and sleeping bags, cooking pots & utensils, et cetera to my fellow scouts. Max, you just don't get it, do you man? This discussion reminds me of when I was in the eighth grade. English class. We had to write a short story. I wrote a sports story, a baseball story. I used the word carom, as in the high fly ball caromed off the left field wall. Teacher marked my usage wrong, saying it was not a word, a made up word. I told her it was most certainly a word. I had heard it all my sports-conscious life. In baseball, in basketball, even in golf. She wanted proof. I pulled the dictionary, found the word, showed her, and the entire class, and she still denied me the word because the example the text gave was "as in the game of billiards." She was very young, and a very pretty slender red-head who, as I learned later from my mother who worked for the US Navy, dated a lieutenant stationed there at Glynco Naval Air Station. But she was stubborn, and so was I. Needless to say, I rebelled, and soon owned one fifth of that class as a five or six of my friends and I sat in the back of the class and played a game I'd invented in the 4th grade, the rest of the year, goofing off and making each our "A" in English despite her best efforts to restrain or punish us. However, I also got an "F" in Deportment that quarter, and upon my wish was sent to the principal's office on the last day on school that year since I thought it might be fun. It was, and a bit painful, also, but fun just the same. An experience, a gas, a gag, a goof. You see, I was a straight A student, and I learned to rebel early against feckless authority, and you sir, seem to have completely lost your good sense in arguing this point with me. Guess, I can add this exchange to my memory banks. Oops, banks hold money, and an exchange is where Obama plans to send me to purchase overpriced insurance. I fear this analysis in writing from one's own nostrils will never end."

Robin was beginning to feel the weight of the argument upon her own quarters, "I'm sorry I mentioned it. It was a genuine question—not intended to start a fuss. Hey—Dave Howard got fired because people didn't understand the meaning of the word 'niggardly'...that's even worse than an "F" in Deportment!"

"Robin, just because you might have refrained from mentioning it doesn't mean Max would have taken the same tact..."

Tom Howell was always a deft and absolute genius conversationalist, but was never much of a writer. Not that I didn't think he couldn't write a fine sentence when the muse shed her grace. Quite the contrary. He held his own on the page, but he seemed reluctant to go large, and he might have known that he did tend to write commonly at certain times when the task required a more spectacular presentation. I always sense he must have had some history to overcome before he could become a competent and confidant writer.
Roland was not amused apparently by the way his thread had dissipated into another topic, as he still continued to argue with his old friend who have done him wrong. So he wrote a humorous line of clarification he think I needed. "Roland did not have a landlord. Roland was invited to crash at a "friend's" house."

"And now you are going to start up another ruckus, Roland? Those words were used loosely to describe what is generally speaking a housing situation. Okay, I am indeed done. This is stupid." My words again.

"Ok, since we've totally hijacked this post anyway.....your Wittgensein quote reminded me of when I had to return some wood flooring to Lumber Liquidators. I was unsure of the square footage of my house and the salesperson said just order a lot and return any extra. So, I did and they try to charge me $100s in restocking fees. To get to the point the customer service rep said, "The invoice says returns are SUBJECT to restocking fees. 'Subject to' means you WILL get restocking fees". I said no it means I "MAY" get restocking fees and that she didn't get to decide the meaning of words; that the meaning of "subject to" had already been defined. So....I didn't have to pay." Slusher was finished.

But Tom was just knocking the dirt off his brown shoe act, and injected, "I was invited to crash at Gabriel Thy's house and stayed on for what seemed like years. I gave him the benefit of my wisdom during many a Black Label fest, proving in a double-blind test that Black Label was NOT a premium beer and "Life was NOT a submarine." Gabriel will be forever in my debt."

"LOL. Based only on the unassailable notion that life is a bowl of cherries. But what about iLife?" ask I, feeling the pull of nostalgia, as Tom was the only person in this discussion with whom I had actually spent any amount of sweat, sanctimony, and satisfaction. Or put another way, spent time shackled to the same ditch with half a notion of what it meant to be chasing and still defining that spectacular pursuit of happiness we learned about as kids and young scouts, he in mostly rural SW Virginia, and I, in mostly rural SE Georgia..."

But Tom and I had only recently become reconnected after a fifteen year exile during which we only heard from each other once or twice. I had turned my back on that early DC crowd for the most part, turning inside, to a nearly agoraphobic state, as my social life went from zero to nothing.
"Gabriel has a penchant for coining his own words, someday I hope he'll be able to bank on it," remarks Tom.

"There has been so such coining here today. iLife is a Mac term," I respond, thinking he may have imagined I just did it again.

"Life is a sandwich, the more bread...no, no, wait Submarine is a sandwich! I prefer 2nd Life anyway," he pretends he's extending the game. But I've had enough. Tom came late to the party, again. Wait a minute, he's usually early. An entire day early...

"How are you old man? Doing great things I presume..."

"I'm in a Writers Group here and learning to make eBooks with InDesign 6. Future plans are for enhanced eBooks," he replies, ending the mystery as to why he recently wanted to bury the political hatchet he and I had been swinging the past few months on rare occasions. Scorned for my politics by nearly all the old crowd of woeful leftists from the old days, most had just ignored me altogether. But Tom and I had only recently become reconnected after a fifteen year exile during which we only heard from each other once or twice. I had turned my back on that early DC crowd for the most part, turning inside, to a nearly agoraphobic state, as my social life went from zero to nothing.

The Internet, and later, my splash into the not so fine art painting mud pit changed things for the better. I began to venture out again, but that social season only lasted for another three years until the 2008 financial collapse and subsequent election of Barack Obama to the US presidency changed my path again. Only recently had Tom finally come aboard this network. And after a few battles with each our unmovable arguments, aren't they all, he was tired of stultifying politics and wanted to talk writing which I thought was a strange move for him, not the political rot, but his interest in discussing this craft you are now reading. Makes sense now. Tom Howell was always a deft and near genius conversationalist, but was never much of a writer. Not that I didn't think he couldn't write a fine sentence when the muse shed her grace. Quite the contrary. He held his own on the page, but he seemed reluctant to go large, and he might have known that he did tend to write commonly at certain times when the task required a more spectacular presentation. I always sense he must have had some history to overcome before he could become a competent and confidant writer. I understand that Tom, too, has renegotiated his survival strategies, moving his psychic investigation and motion picture experiments back to the Smokey Mountain railroad town of his beginnings, Roanoke, VA. We salute you, Thomas Jefferson Howell, as you pace along the hardy roads of old picturesque Virginia in becoming a man of letters in some small gratitude to your namesake, perhaps of note only to a few tar & feathered friends, but in the end, as you once echoed the trope from a Dollhouse easy chair—Gabriel, when we die we die alone.

My nephew Dylan and his wife Jennifer named their firstborn son Jefferson, who is a precocious sunny blonde lad now about four, and to this day he answers to Jefferson, when he answers at all.

A Few Choice Words On The Climate Change Hoax

As solar activity drops to high risk century low,
puzzling buzzing scientists—who've for past few decades
or so—insisted planet barely missed flaming new ice age,
all the rage in the Eighties, now had dutifully traded crazy moon
white snow boots for trendy new blue swamp goloshes
as they prepped the weak and the weary for pernicious
man-made global warming trends, projected
death of civilization, unprotected
men of calculation, sober cool thinkers
fighting like cats in the Captain's Tower,
having replaced Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot
competitively, at least two generations ago
with bursting advent of the whimpering class...

unless we stopped all modern activity,
removed it to a more needy neighborhood,
redistributed the wealth, heavy environmental taxation,
daring energy industry transfers nation to nation,
dumping energy back into the glittering soil,
boasting certain good intentions whipped
unintended consequences every time,
so peace could again perfect its reign
upon contemporary balance.

But this slick idea was modified when numbers
secretly fudged melted into gosh darn goo of scandal
from burning lights of world-wide media exposure,
and strange humiliating coincidences,
major players like Al Gore and The Hague
sensing jubilant masses lampooning laughter
even as Big Al the Grand Wizard slinked away
from his own imperial carbon footprint,

only to pop up again in news to sell his failing network
to Al-Jazeera. By that time powers had changed the name
of green movement from Man-made Global warming
to Man-Assisted Global Climate Change.

Shall we say more?

Yep. Cosmological scientists fooled again. Who
do you believe now, a gaggle of government-funded white coats
with pocket calculators fighting over grant money
and other tax subsidies or your own self-serving
senses when you step out the front door
every morning? Certainty is nothing
unless nothing is certainty.

In this age of Internet,
gonzo TV and one's own dilly
dallying daily devotions, everything
he needs to consider his puny effect
in challenging the cosmos, the gifted wing,
more than a few paltry molecules at a time,
man pockets like a broken rhyme.

Isn't that why a few cozy Parisians
rounded up decades of thought,
added some of their own,
codifying existentialism
the 1940s, until a few others
shuttered Sartre's approach for chaos theory,
hamming up for the 1970s, brokering game theory
to police chance, pushing the unified field lovers
back onto existentialism's pearly-gated scientist
hunkered down among his graphs and chunks
of ice, the Yukon Valley Dolls, analyzing
a bucket of balls, which then burst off-camera
his pus-filled cyst, stunning a moth
with some butterfly cough.

I'm merely a journeyman, mind you, but I can smell
ink, the rank differences in accumulative error
between humanity's penchant for gross
speculation and visceral control
while also being limited
by his obvious lack
of precision in husbanding
dormant or active volcanoes,
residual tsunamis, bitter storms,
topical flooding, global wind patterns,
colliding rocks aimed at a rotting nuclear plant
near you and various unsavory activities of our sun,
that ultimate troublemaker, all circulating
about this planet long before we began
questioning its wobble.

The Steaming Liquidity & Uber Legend of Shifty Bruce Almighty!

man
The Man Without A Plan
samplex

Son, did I ever tell you about the time I felt presence of God Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, as we zipped along the busy highway of twisted pairs and optical glass where stranded men roam, and there, the codes and standards and bromides of silvery asps greeted the punishing ace of diamonds whose face was instantly melted by the exploding heat of WORD, did I? Scholars will say it happened on July 14, 2013. Politicians will say it never happened that way at all.

But Facebook, the galloping ghost of the last few reckoning things still measurable by those in charge, was taking notes. In our cautionary appropriateness, we had long learned that if one's particular secrets could kill, they probably would. At least, we learned they should. Men and women and children alike challenged each other for the power to take down another with a few words or less. Beneath the global surface stability fostering form, the human brick, the muscle and the stick, cosmic wallpaper was peeling into colorful ribbons of functionary excellence with each utterance. Women had become like spikes, crooked in their own justifying eyes, resilient to the past death, as raw orange skies hurrying away to whom no one knows, began to buckle and crack. I saw brimstone rocks hurled, piling up against powerless flesh also peeling away, as screams of the unborn torn from the crucifix suddenly were silenced against loud witnessing flashes, confusion the only pie still remaining, invisible signs of Asche zu Asche we knew had made us strong now lay broken into pieces. Here we recall the "straining at gnats" remains of that big rock record:

Bruce to Mike. "Man you love some stupid media! You're one of the very few I know who wants this punkass narc aquitted. I won't waste time asking why? Did you [watch] NBC Nightly News Wednesday night? West VA life expectancy for men is the same as in Gambia. 64 years only. X VA gets 17 more years Mikie! You got no mortgage—you can leave. Then you slowly start to hate minorities a little less each year! An environment of love with a new diet can change a lot for you. Maybe you were never at peace? I recall a much more happier Mikie that wasn't very politically concerned. That Mikie couldn't be fooled into not enjoying life everyday! Was it all only foolish youth? Are you now the joyless sensible man you were always waiting to be or is this a life turn best backed out of? Slightly curious as to the real answer?"

Bruce was on a roll, and he expected to sop up.

"The gene pool around here needs a little chlorine. For some of us, the brains we had went to our head, for others, getting ahead would be the first to go..." thought Gabriel.
"You're wrong about me on so many levels that it's pathetic, Bruce. Did you know NBC edited the audio of the Zimmerman calls to make him sound racist? That's documented. I have many black friends here Bruce. Bet you didnt know that did u? I love people of all races..and I hate people of all races. I mow a ladies yard that's black...did you know Booker T. Washington grew up not 5 miles from me? You judge me cause I come at FB with another point of view that lamestream and liberals will never hear because of propaganda and controlled conflict talking point media...I enjoy life every day to the fullest..I am very much alive...just because I choose to look deeper into the truths behind the stories and see the bigger picture and connect the sordid dots and refuse to hide my head in the sand...I guess that in your eyes [all that] makes me foolish? Joyless? Hahaha, good luck. I am at peace knowing God is firmly in control and allows things to happen for a reason...Obama and co. are using this case to divide and conquer thru race and also to promote his anti-gun measures. Because I choose to be awake is a problem for you I guess. Well as Alice Cooper so poignantly says in an early song...you can always turn me off! Hahahaha..."

obey
The Counterfeiters
But Mike was having none of it. "PS, there aren't many natural food options here but I try as best i can to get organic etc...another eugenicist great idea to have country folks especially eat their GMOs so they can be overweight and sterilized (check into that goodie via GMO)...fluoridate the water, spray the skies with lovely chemtrails and keep us sedated with their slow flicker rate media and video games. Also, all the Fukushima radiation spreading thru the USA food supply...Haha you believe ANYTHING NBC says?..its all approved by your Bilderberg group talking points ...why shouldnt you? So yes, West Virginians along with all the USA have a low life expectancy...it's YOU that needs to wake the fuck up my friend..even with all the bad shit I am AWARE of, I stay positive and fight for liberty for all races...what if all the people that get divided by race woke up and saw the real enemy of the people..that's my mission..to create a critical mass of people of all races that are awake to the NWO's plans..."

If he ever was, and the Eighties are long gone, Mike Twigger is nobody's wilting violet, as Bruce's insulting characterization seemed to imply, as the counterfeiter will often do. To pine for the days of old when Bruce was still the reigning local rockstar in our favorite local band several decades ago and we were all punk standarounds vying for our own dreams of beauty and truth and breakaway elegance slushed in alcohol for public consumption and perishable solitude in private, was a stretch none of us could muscle into place, no matter how the knotted strands of time loosened with the frailties of memory. For some of us the brains we had went to our head, for others, getting ahead would be the first to go...

So Twigger continues his snap, "I actually would love to gtfo of the USSA entirely, but the globalist bankster cartel is everywhere....except Iceland, Switzerland, and a couple others, oh yeah, the two they haven't installed Rothschild banks in yet—Syria and North Korea...my advice is to start with The Obama Deception; the 2nd one is coming out soon and take off the weed colored glasses when u watch it. And by the way, what's your definition of stupid media?

"Speaking of joy, Bruce, I trust you enjoyed patronizing me, as much as I enjoyed defending myself from your slander and innuendo, since I know how much you love to blast anything that displeases you, and from my own observations that is quite a pay load over the years..."

Then I was pulled into this mess in the name of old friendships and wounded foes, cracked wills and compound woes...

…peace out rocker, life is greater and more terrible than all of us rolled together into a clump of Indiana clay glued together with donkey piss and ripe for distribution to the masses. It just is, and none of us are.”
"Of course, since I'm just a punk ass cracka in Northern Virginia I barely know a grasshopper from a bullfrog, but if I had a son, he would look just like Trayvon because I just love me some [fill in appropriate genetic material here] woman, and Obama had no business sticking his nose into this case and remaining silent about all the murders in Chicago, AND all the nationally unreported attacks on whitey by black youths that HAVE ALREADY been going on around this country marauding in the NAME OF TRAYVON." There are no permanent enemies in this world and few permanent friends, I added quietly to myself.

"Thanks Gabriel!...I know Bruce is comfortable with his own limited vision of the world! LOL."

But Bruce was not finished. Not this Bruce. Not now. Not ever. Not until his own last breath on this happy but doomed planet his own songs depict. I saw no limits on Bruce Hellington's vision.

"Maybe but I am not as miserable as either of you are by a longshot. That in of itself regardless of the means is worth a great deal more to me than any political awarenesses you guys seem so happy about having."

"Mister Hellington, you sling words like happiness and misery around as if they are personal weapons and we don't know who you are, as if any of that has anything to do with the topics I or Mike or you choose to discuss on Facebook, with our respective families, or merely amongst two or three gathered. Guess you found that "real" Jesus you were looking for..."

After all, in the packed heat of a few minutes he had called us miserable, then happy, without a measure of service to his own creative and political skin on bone the band 9353 had exhibited for so many years, and we, among its biggest fans. Without missing a beat, marching to my own undaunted beat, I write, "And Bruce, if I'm so damned miserable, then I certainly don't need you adding to it...peace out rocker, life is greater and more terrible than all of us rolled together into a clump of Indiana clay and donkey piss ripe for distribution to the masses. It just is, and none of us are."

But Mike wasn't finished. He was filled with the spirit and drew forth his sword of sarcasm, and had another go at the reign of a fallen king whose own art is the spilling of misery, "Yes, I can see clearly now. I am soooo miserable! Wow, if it wasnt for your clear unclouded insight Bruce i might have been lost...thank goodness for your preconceptions. Now i must renounce all these political posts and come back into the fold of ignorant bliss. Ahhh, I feel so much better already!"

"Either way I am still very grateful to be nothing like the two of you are stuck being today. Because you're obviously enviable in your joy of life. I wonder how long it will be and which one of you goes first? I won't read what you have to say but you can still feel good I hope for typing it. Peace to the miserable," offers the satisfied prince probably breaking out a move to Barbra Streisand's Doing The Reactionary.

"It's about informing the public for a critical mass against the evil fucks that are behind it...so there is a purpose to it...or did you miss that whole thing...and i guess you disregard the other 40% of my posts that have nothing at all to do with politics..."

keyboardThere was not a lot of fun in having to sustain this conversation long enough to bang out some semblance of closure, so I engaged the throttle with the hope that the arch antagonist would find something to bleed, and we could end this sparring non-sense. "No sir, I have never demanded or even defended the notion that people emulate me, foster me, or be enviable of me, but it seems you have quite a talent for projection, he who himself prides a honed skill for vile outrage...and is proving it once again by hijacking this thread with a string of ad hominems aimed at two adjuncts who don't fit the preferred profile of his own historied, and esoteric genius. Having turned toxic towards me a while back now, the Wrath of Bruce is not my burden. As for which of us three will "go first' I am quite sure it is me since I'm nearly 60 years old, thus having a number of good times already under my belt on both of you, and as you are obviously so keen to announce, carry more weight than the two of you put together the last time I calculated. Is that REALLY where you are standing these days, Mister? I have no doubt that you enjoy every moment of your life, and that you are going to live forever, or at least a day, a day, and a half day longer than I will, so rejoice, man rejoice, you have inspired the heavens. And hey, Bully Boy, that's right, don't read what I write, but who among us can't imagine I will know once you do. Go write one of your "miserable" songs, I mean "joie de livre" songs for the population, as you lead us to believe that you possess or exhibit the "joy of life" more than either Mike Twigger or Gabriel Thy do, and for holier than thou reasons to boot. Fact is you don't know what drives us, and how much and to whom we give back and for what duration and at what personal cost to ourselves. Some of us give and are not photographed with every bundle of giving. To be seen by men...but I applaud YOUR street work nevertheless. It is good-hearted. And I know you are honest with the buck. So why don't you just mind the Father's business without stepping into a situation of which you know so little and slinging crap as if you know it so well..."

Given that the Trayvon Martin case had nothing to do with stand your ground, as a legal premise, despite the Left's dubious intentions to make it that in challenging the Florida law. It was a self-defense versus manslaughter case from the very beginning." I wrote, responding to another comment on the thread that had lingered without clarifying resistance. Then I attached a video with Thin Lizzy or actually Phil Lynott's solo release of Ode To A Black Man.

His memory or at least, his faithfulness to it are tragically failing him, but as soon as this thread was over, he was on the phone with another mutual friend telling him how he, Bruce, had drilled me, Gabriel, a new one, or something to that effect, and he wanted this friend to join him in badmouthing me.
Bruce fancies himself a man who speaks truth to power, and I'm not here to doubt it because his next parlay could only make me grin as he fiercely foraged his stockade for even more predictable clichés to hurl. "The wrath of Bruce? Like such things exist or you could care? At least we don't have to hear a bunch of whining from you two haters today! I know you're both very pleased with it. Very Nice. You should have been a more serious artist Gabriel just like Mikie should have been a real guitarist. Art can do many things for your life if you do not come on board with the clock running and a list of demands from the community that must be met or else. You could have meant it instead. You could have given us something other than sour nonstop poly rhetoric in the last chapter of your life. I fully understand why there is probably no way you can't hate me no matter how hard you'll never try not to. The thing about it is I am still the same Bruce now as I always was despite your Jesus assumptions. It is the two of you who had the political personality shift, not me. Very nice Gabriel after one visit in my home ever in your entire life and you are now an authority on me. I remember why you came there now. You knew a piece of the puzzle was waiting to be explained as common knowledge when you asked me "why does DC hate me so much"? I had no problem answering you. The answer was known city wide for years. It's because you pulled out your dick on the stairway at the Boogins party at 12th and P st in 1983 and proceeded to piss on Bess Powell's legs forcing Rene Farkass to beat you up and throw you out. Oddly you called him the next day acting like the two of you were still good friends or something. That's just one factor as to why DC never liked you very much. Whether you regard yourself as an artist or a real estate man or just a pervert with a video camera trying to get people "Sued", I sense your largest anger comes from a sense of entitlement unfulfilled given your original assumed potential as some southern colonial coulda man. Now you should take it easy old bully put that inner Curly in check. You ain't got long to live and I really don't want to get personal here with you but I am about to and you won't like it fat boy not one bit when I get warmed up here. Mikie consider the life Gabriel has and consider it fair warning. Forgive me Mikie if you've been raped by a black man recently. I had no idea? It all now makes perfect sense."

Bruce apparently was pulling out all the stops even though each of the three of us already were quite comfortable squabbling among the stops, so Mike lays it all out for onlookers to gawk, if that was their game, emotionalites to emote as they so pleased, info gatherers to gather and info planters to plant, declaring that life was good, and he was fine once more despite the details of past flash in the pan soreness, "Molested by a black YMCA counselor years ago..lol but I have worked thru that pretty much fine and have forgiven him and myself to the point of where if I saw him i wouldnt even let it interfere with saying hi....and has no bearing whatsoever on things i feel/post sociopolitically. and my "shift" has taken place gradually as I learn about the NWO (hidden dynasties) and learn Gods plan in the Word. And uh..I still am a "real" guitarist...I play every day...but it's cathartic to let it out what u feel Bruce..better out than in...the more honest we are with each other the more we can build a solid foundation on which to fight the real enemies of the people...they want us divided...but really I think that's its petty to try and make character assassinations via experiences to make up for being bested by facts and knowledge of all sides concerning the original topic... I know it seems you are inadequate to discuss these things without knowing the whole story..but don't be defensive about it and lash out in a personal way...again..it's petty...better to inform yourself at the very least to get on equal debate footing on the issues...instead of your already formed "opinions" not necessarily based on facts and historical documentations..."

"PS. Thin Lizzy rules!" thunders Mike the Twigger.

"I love you guys!" transitions Bruce Hellington the Almighty.

"Wait a damn minute. You stole my line," bark I, the Gabriel Thy, adding "There are facts, Bruce. And then there are the William S. Burroughs cut-ups. Your last assessment of that smattering of GT trivia most definitely falls into the latter camp. I won't be callous enough to sort it all out for you since you seem just as capable of mustering a set of facts as anyone belonging to your "political persuasion". Interesting reading, though. Feel free to talk smack all day long against my name. That's what it's there for (by popular demand)..."


Tuesday, September 3...

death-cult
Death Cult by Gabriel Thy
"Thanks Mike for the thread. I'd tried to find it a while back and gave up during a bout with scroll fatigue. Fact is, Bruce is not unaware of what's going on in the world. Why he suddenly has shifted from the ultra paranoid rantings about what a mutual friend whom we shall call Shelley had told him concerning top secret government facilities and missile silos and EMPs, et cetera, amply fertilizing his own keen suspicious mind of all things outside himself is puzzling, but I suspect it's just a manifestation of his role as self-annointed HIGH PRIEST in the scene defending his turf, dumping on us probably things he's been told himself. Who knows, or cares, anymore. 9353 songs are not exactly Pat Boone sings the classics...so this display of psychological muscle is just as dour as anything we publish (although I hear this latest CD is something altogether different, go figure). Since he's off playing rock star again, something's he earned, and we are not dropping everything to jump in his honor, he must attack. His memory or at least, his faithfulness to it are tragically failing him, but as soon as this thread was over, he was on the phone with another mutual friend telling him how he, Bruce, had drilled me, Gabriel, a new one, or something to that effect, and he wanted this friend to join him in badmouthing me. Andy said he just couldn't do that. So, I'm not impressed with Bruce Almighty's grip on all that much anymore. Who's the hater in this sandbox? His type of spirit rules the Left now, but the really ugly thing is that Bruce was pushing similar if not the same cautions about Big Brother on me back in the Bush years. Now he's calling the two of us haters. What a stinking hypocrite, or maybe he's just, uh, progressive!"

During The Patriot's Calm

The police, bless their constabulary hearts,
are not hunkered down in classic cars to protect you,
only to clean up forensically, forbiddingly, financially,
and why would they, marked like soldiers
by a cool persistent hatred they face
as in Europe with the no go zones ruled by caliphate shrill,
instilling fear, impregnating this spree, the next wave,
the chosen nightlife of any who would be thugs
thorns, and punks, as if any of these activities

save, or

actually improve their crippling lives,
beyond that adrenalin whiff of cheap thrill,
roving contraband and stolen moments of danger,
their own smart little taste of war,
finger food, foot powder semaphore
pacifists and gangstas alike

share like crude needles of rude joy, the underground life
embracing each decoy, as this jealous age decays into another
a half-life, a quarter-life, one painful stretch at a time.