Tag Archives: money

The Quartermaster Controversy

quartermaster
The Quartermaster
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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.

Money For The Poets

kerouac-cassidy
Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy
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DECADES OF PUBLIC and private funding have created a large frumpy professional class for the production and reception of new poetry comprising legions of teachers, graduate students, editors, publishers, and administrators. Poets? Based mostly in universities, these groups have gradually become the primary audience for contemporary verse. Consequently, the energy of American poetry, which was once directed outward, is now increasingly focused inward, but I guess it's been this way for a long time. Me? Think I'll pull, push, exhort, pry, torque, haul ass my own weight outside the grinding gears of establishment bureauocracy poesy. Hence this website and its demands on atomic clearance, where animated bias is the pungent cream of festivities. Click. Click. 404 error. File not found on this server. Click. Click. Damn, this is what I hate about linking to outside tiddly winkers. Link expirations. Here today, gone tomorrow. I had linked to a page touting a national poetry month special called Show Me The Money. It was a good read, but now the link is dead, and I should remove it to keep my SEO score respectable. This is the primary reason I link to Wikipedia pages. They may not be the most thorough or even the most factual presentations of a given subject, but one can link to them and count on their continued existence. At least until their self-funding dries up. Money, money, money...

Read it all.

Taking A Charge In A Zero Sum Moment

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Scale To Talent
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Originally published on May 29, 1996

Hey Ben—your note has me dialing for symptoms and just the right synonyms to match your own interesting English sentences spinning doughnuts around my memory, into the read-only memes that keep us satisfied in being outselves. Thanks for writing back in English because I have no German except in my pop's heritage. You wrote:

Caught up in words as they are. "Work" means "making money" and free-time is meant to be for recreation. In Germany, in the mid-eighties, when unemployment was a popular discussion, one heard of the "human right to work". This was twisty. I wonder why people need someone to tell them what to work, although they need some money I anticipate. Well I'd welcome NO WORK...

Yes, Ben (he says, like Peter Sellers as Chauncey Gardener to the old dying billionaire). My wife's mother recently lectured her on the topic. With this common interpretation sharp on her peacewhittling tongue, she was of course probing with ages rich mother-in-law cynicism MY own twisted unAmerican state of NO WORK. Meanwhile, I acknowledge that I appear to jealous acquaintences quite blessed among men for lack of a regimented work burden, or entitlement, depending one one's perspective. My wife has been convinced finally that I am best kept at home in the privacy of my whirling mind and Dollhouse, near her cold indifferent fingers but warm toasty heart. I admit I feel rather insecure anywhere else, and tend to drink myself into an explosive reproach to the bickering myths of strataculture every time I step out into the bustling city of lights, armed with little but the urgency for escape from any number of circulating yet dreaded theories of nightlife which haunt me because I am nothing without MY WORK, as sluggish and apparently unilluminating as it is to most who claim to know from whence arrives my artistic impulse.

Opinions are always made about money. Even the most discrimating poor among us, myself included, gaze upon it and are corrupted with envy and linguistic violence and strident motives to obtain it, or else are saddled with an indifference that leads us into bitter arguments swapped for obsessive compulsive choices as wretched and concrete and ugly as a proper sum of money ever was.
I keep busy making sure I have a contortionist's name for myself, or else in the minds of my severest critics, I keep busy shining names and nuances behind barstools and bushel baskets of cloudy arguments where lightning strikes swiftly and severely against the surface of old arguments whose welcome is long gone. With only slight exaggerations, I work every waking moment. My wife complains that I don't know how to relax, partially true, rest is sleep, al else is work, if you will, to meet my strategies for survival. Fuzzy well-intentioned logic like educated guesswork and informed interpolation, however, is the grace the unequipped will never face, and for their ignorance they will probably perish with their lessening winds. My dreamstates are work, are tools, are kids in the sandbox and I embrace them just as voyeurs do when at the movies, peering into someone else's dreams and ideological documentation.

But back to the idea of work and money. My wife pays nearly all the bills. This is true. She feels the burden of her job, of course, but she brags about what it brings her in prestige and buying power of argument and freedom when dealing with the host of projects at our command, basic insecurities about the future notwithstanding. If I bring in a dollar, I give it to somebody else, usually her, or to the computer industry. I am an accomplice within the digital revolution, a footsoldier, an enlisted tattooed man, OCS candidate, a homefront evangelizer as I stare past the garbage, glass shards, dilapidated structures, and confusion from my Dollhouse perch which serves me well enough as fresh air and culture, such as they are in Nero's regime.

Surrounded by mediocrity and prejudice, great practitioners of liberal slander refuse to intuit my disguise as the very one they tout in their own philosophies. My sockets burn sometimes with urgency to fly somewhere, anywhere else where I can explode past the loose meaning of contemporary friendship into the netherland of a more pure synchronicity of duty, loyalty, purpose, and comprehension.

In other news, this rainy season is driving all the yard bugs inward, ants and cockroaches multiplying themselves and immigrating to my turf as if they "owned the joint". Fighting against the corruption of the material is the only fight worth dying for, but dying is a losing cause. I hate dying.

WORK IS ENERGY. Money is a contaminating conversion and byproduct, safe only in proper prospective, because money corrupts everyone who surrenders to it. Opinions are always made about money. Even the most discrimating poor among us, myself included, gaze upon it and are corrupted with envy and linguistic violence and strident motives to obtain it, or else are saddled with an indifference that leads us into bitter arguments swapped for obsessive compulsive choices as wretched and concrete and ugly as a proper sum of money ever was.

My love she speaks like silence. Without ideals or violence.
She doesn't have to say she's faithful. Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
Bob Dylan

Pure work frees man from the analysis of money. Am I a hypocrite for pointing this out? Am I a hypocrite because I love to spend money? Am I a hypocrite because I have argued, successfully it seems, to remain at home, supported by a woman who is hardly Artist or fraud, simply to allow the chips to fall where they may? Am I a hypocrite because I am aging, ugly or fat, conspiring to destroy faith in humanity's surge to crawl up from the tidal mud known as the Anti-Hip instead of being that dazzling, thin, strategically well-placed well-pocketed and quasibeautifully hip? The trickle down economies of Art and Finance are not dissimilar; as Ezra Pound's crackling contentions about art, economics, and war, and William Gaddis in his terrific novel—The Recognitions—have revealed.

The few who know the ropes either play them to bizarre lengths or avoid them with the meanest of miseries. The rest of us argue ourselves straight into a double-edged niche, and so it becomes us, our sentence for which parole is repeatedly denied, despite any makeshift theories to the contrary, we or some other highly paid or dollar dead genius devises for us in the meantime.
You have postulated Ben, that "people get occupied in a way, they forget to handle NO WORK. You know that, I suggest, but do you also know that contemplation, the force of passivity, I mean not producing, maybe on a journey? Oh, yes, you are a gardener too. Many people have to work, to ease their artificial bad conscience."

I understand what you are saying. If I say to somebody "I am a writer." Or a painter, or a traveler, or a flute player, am I less so because no muscle has called me up on the telephone to offer me a job or a contract? Am I any less a gardener if no one has offered to snap a polaroid of my roses or send me on an all-expense paid holiday to the Alpines to discuss breeding techniques. Does it matter whether I eat poorly like the beast I resemble, or whether I eat in eloquent gusto like a fancy fat French chef buttering his own bread in Paris? The human right to work and the human right to be hip are not too far apart on the GT scale of impossible tasks hustling among so many and so stupid a population always electromagnetic & naked in the catbird seat, but ever so snobbishly none the wiser...

But we, despite our best attempts to avoid or embrace symptoms bunkered down in unappealing ratios of human production and consumption, drunk from the fountain of fair green idealism, we too succumb to the same pitfalls in one flavor or another as any other poke even as we like to feel superior and just a bit more enlightened in comparison. We struggle against struggle not knowing how to slip the knot that binds us.

Basically Ben, I feel most people desire everything they think they can handle. Most of us don't know when to start OR stop the false lures of desire outside the domain of self-interest. The few who know the ropes either play them to bizarre lengths or avoid them with the meanest of miseries. The rest of us argue ourselves straight into a double-edged niche, and so it becomes us, our sentence for which parole is repeatedly denied, despite any makeshift theories to the contrary, we or some other highly paid or dollar dead genius devises for us in the meantime.

But it's been my experience to observe that poverty-stepping revolutionaries are not content with merely doing next to nothing, or running some small underground bookstore which suits them for a few seasons. Soon enough they want capitalism to give them more than they have managed to accumulate. Invariably they clamor for more money or more free time as if freedom of choice requires a zero sum cure using social algebra and a bad attitude. My guess is that like Mother Nature, it's not often you can cheat Father Capitalism.

GT

P.S. “It is impossible for capitalism to survive, primarily because the system of capitalism needs some blood to suck. Capitalism used to be like an eagle, but now it's more like a vulture. It used to be strong enough to go and suck anybody's blood whether they were strong or not. But now it has become more cowardly, like the vulture, and it can only suck the blood of the helpless. As the nations of the world free themselves, the capitalism has less victims, less to suck, and it becomes weaker and weaker. It's only a matter of time in my opinion before it will collapse completely.”

—Malcolm X

Mother On The Streets Of Chicago

chicagoforget
Chicago Gal
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Date: Fri Sep 17, 1999 1:47:57 PM

Hey baby—I just called Mother to discuss offering my help in her move to Chicago, but her phone has "been temporarily disconnected" in a sad continuation of old habits. No email now either I'd presume. But hopefully she'll get reconnected here soon. I shudder to think of her traipsing up to Chicago all by herself without a clue of where to live, or how she'll unload her trailer, if things don't get stolen first. I think I need to take a pro-active approach to this, her move, and do what I can to help her out. But to migrate with near empty pockets to Chicago in January is asinine.

Meanwhile, there is news from the Dave & Jen front, just the highlights as the Hurricane Floyd to their credit is not really their concern. It should have already passed through on Thursday with minor charms.

We were not able to come to a satisfactory resolution with the Berkshire corporations, and have opted to MOVE THE PARTY. Their terms and conditions were much too restrictive, and the party would have either been a total disaster, or it would have been halted early by the babysitters they were going to send.

NEW LOCATION: Same place we had the three-year party. The Strand Cafe, 105 E Lombard street in downtown Baltimore City.

Hhat does this do to our hotel arrangements??? I guess Dave will now be forced to relax his "if you don't show up" policy of blacklisting for life. I mean, this is really a major screwup. On the other hand, I guess we can either drive home, or drive back up to Timonium to our $110 Holiday Inn room after the party. But there's no pint in that so I suggest we cancel our room...

GT

Every Four Years A String Of Would Be Presidents

nightport
Shop Steward
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Date: Wed Mar 6, 1996 4:09:33 PM America/New_York

...stimulate the economy, flush the media with money and boxcover mythologies, and expect us to deny something's not quite right with this picture. The waste of tearjerked capital over the fight for ideas is enough to clear the nostrils. But to those who come to expect these juggernaut cash hits every four years with this patriotic blood & cash flinging contest, while a joke to millions and a militant and righteous duty to millions more, the process is absolutely vital to Media's economic persona and the length and strength of its self-serving pursestrings and panache among the governed.

Having risen now to the same powers of mirroring the level of big business, as the Church once held over feudal Europe, and with Ross Perot in '92 and Steve Forbes this time around pumping so much of his stash into those same industries the Media will have developed a taste for this level of spending and will dig in to keep the game at this level of trade in the future and what does that spell? I don't think it is relief.

Nothing when compared to need is discharged into the New Enterprise Zones for Urban or Human Renewal as the actors in the gentleman suits keep promising new ways and new means every four years while delivering themselves like clockwork rolled in festive dollar bills at a jet's pace for an obligatory plaque onto a hallway wall somewhere, while thousands more are perverted daily. Yet the ravages of a country still too uncivilized to help itself out of its own gutters when there is plenty of good reason so do so, and plenty more not to delay, continue unabated, and we dare rejoice.

Actually, I like the election process. While still flawed, it beats the competition.

Have they made the queen a taxpaying pauper yet? The American presidential process? It makes me feel—in some flowing black and white 1940s ripening years pox Americana way—truly American in a period of my life when sometimes very little else does, despite what I wrote in the paragraphs above.

The attacks on freedoms and speeches, canned images, and radical philosophies, lifelong experiments, existentialist liabilities and the gamut of ownership theories practiced and reviled, all in the name of freedom are numbing and yet our cities and towns, villages and highways, headjukes and shrines are crime infested pestilences. No longer free to walk the streets outside one's own shelter is one without accusation, or violation. Snapping turtles and foxtrotters line the sidewalks of cities in despair. This is indeed an America with a rich and harried past, and it's catching up to yet another generation of babbling believe-it-or-nots. Nothing is changing. Science of observation is the interpolating ether of our age and is busy simply unmasking the obvious. Time to move on.

Shop Steward? Impressive! Ballbreaking or nervekilling. Sounds like you're taking on the latter effect. I have an old highschool pal at the GE plant in Jacksonville, FL who's in a similar role. Last I heard from him, the major issue among many was GE thinking of killing 150 jobs by closing forever the north Florida plant. He, of course, was fighting for the jobs. Said he was coming to Washington, but I never heard from him if or when he was here.
Space, yeah, you described precisely the bio-electrical pain I suffer. Plus I have that tingling down into the elbows & fingers on both arms in daily nearly fulltime direct current. Psychostress and repetitive stress syndrome, along the lines of carpo-tunnel have me under arrest. Totally unrelated but accumulative are my feet and leg muscle cramping limitations. It's a wonder I am still kicking around, but I am putting best hope forward that this is a busy body spring and summer. Log-in time plus time wellspent reconditioning whatever's left of my body. Some good food, not too much, a light alcohol season, miles of smiles from BABY, and I figure I'll fall back to winter again a little better off than I am right now, and expect that while fate continually aims to choke my aptitude for resurfacing the future with my own stale image, I'll get enough done to please the chef.

My ailments I suppose are dangerous, but what kind of man am I but to continue pushing in the directions in which I push? Give it all up? I love being busy, but I really dig the accomplishing of a job well-done. That's where my artistic career is life-threatening. Give what all up? To live what kind of life, THEN?

That HMO pulled-near-randomly-off-a-list-doctor I went to last fall just laughed at me, or perhaps with me, who knows or whatever, but THAT was the end of it. Guess I gave him the impression I already had all the answers, and well, of course I knew why & more the reasons I hurt, knew also many perfunctory near-cures, but a neurotic like myself lives in devoted ruin a tragic guest of this state. And so how many choices do I really have? And what would I be giving up to try one, or even a few of them?

Shop Steward? Impressive! Ballbreaking or nervekilling. Sounds like you're taking on the latter effect. I have an old highschool pal at the GE plant in Jacksonville, FL who's in a similar role. Last I heard from him, the major issue among many was GE thinking of killing 150 jobs by closing forever the north Florida plant. He, of course, was fighting for the jobs. Said he was coming to Washington, but I never heard from him if or when he was here.

I downloaded last year's AL & NL stats offline somewhere but I haven't studied the calculus to form my own team projection yet, but I might put that on my shortlist of plans for this weekend. Get juiced as field general again, check out who's available. Money's tight right now, especially as tax day approaches, so coughing up to Prodigy is a major decision. We always owe Uncle Sam BIG. She always handles it near deadline. I simply sign my name. The joys of bookkeeping are hers, so I gave that task up years ago.

We've spent a lot of money recently (actually two different friends have lent her money which she is paying back at a steep monthly short term) on another Macintosh, a Performa 525, (last November) and she just jacked it up to 36 Megabytes of RAM (three weeks ago). Although she's already okayed the $200 to suit up IF THAT'S WHAT I WANT TO DO, I am aware of the pinch. Her motto is, "Baby, you know I can't deny you anything."

A swell perspective, but sometimes I still think she needs a psychological or biophysical kickstart to really bring a zest for living back into her world. We admittedly inhabit and by nature maintain different pleasure zones, however clumsily, and so one or the other of us is always to some mood altering degree, and against our notions of goodwill, psycho-gritting along the edges of the other's nerves. Too much of this and life seems gray and petty. Achieving a level of zestful giving is definitely a renewal energy.

This may be the finest thing my wife loves in me while recognizing it is also my fatal flaw. And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.
I LOVE Sue like none other and in my sorry state I should be quite content, but then a person like me is NEVER content, not even for an instant longer than it takes to think of something, someplace, someone else I'd rather be, or in a fit of traditionalism, be with, or finally, be against. And yet to prove I am truly a liar, I will readily suggest that I am par five happy, and except for the persnicketyness and general nitpicking paranoia my will to live insists I wear out in public like a bad leisure suit joke, I would ask for nothing but the next line of genius to flow from Sue to me and in turn from me to her. I guess I still can't explain the level, or perhaps species of co-dependency we practice but we both abide by it. It's not altogether healthy for either of us to live with each other somewhat crippled by our innate differences, or in a bitter reality bite admit that we are simply unwilling to change or mimic in roleplaying the rich complexities we would seek in each other rather than settle for what's here right now, point blank, boring apples, but then we know this arrangement is buckets better than the chaos of the chattering masses who would tear us apart by thinking themselves one or the other of our saviors, insulters, or both.

Organizations of all stripe are quick on the mark to stomp in with some gospel. Friends and family of every tradition might find fault, as we ourselves find fault, but at least we are willing to stand clean against those who don't even have a clue what it's all about. Our knot is all about the committment to friendship. In places where I usually hear the flaunting of the word love I usually also find a passive absence of true friendship. Lots of feigning and folly, but little substance to plant in the ground to await the grace and immediacy of claims bound to a fuller replenishment than the passing romance of what passes for love in this culture.

And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.
We in our sometimes buffooning example fill that void, noting that true friendship exhales love, and suffers love its egotisms, its frailties. Erotic passion is intuitively another gig. Rarely do the two coexist in a lengthy run. The fictional Gomez and Morticia Addams may be the first to riot in both lanes I can think of, but there are probably many examples in an educated psyche of the best of both worlds. Sure, as a kid I often dreamed that I had risen to this level of living but frankly I must rest pat on this mediocre hand as the one that will take me through to the full of its season.

I haven't completely given up on Eros. I simply resort to the tricks of the exceptional or the unexceptional flipside, the unstable. I invent or create new worlds where I plan and imagine, where I am able to explore the whims of erotica through the visceral angst Sartre repeatedly dubbed Genet as possessing, and in fact I approach any fascinating study with this free reign with my wife as co-conspirator because she listens to me in my madness, and finds it all very enchanting if not somewhat redundant after all these years. This may be the finest thing my wife loves in me while recognizing it is also my fatal flaw. And from my position as solitary nuthouser, unworthy of my own links to brilliance as she whittles away at the Always & Forever office earning enough mud to get us through the clay years, I fling her own dirty laundry out to public reckoning as if I were Henry Miller, or made of grainier stuff.

Meanwhile, back to the chores. Do let me know when somebody takes the lead in getting Nuthouse 96 under way.

Fats