Sunday, October 19, 2014


   American use of the term "czar" to describe the point person on politico-social issues began on February 4, 1974. Rarely can we be so precise in tracing the etymology of a word coining. It was on that day that comic strip auteur Gary Trudeau referred to the appointment by Richard Nixon of William Simon as "Energy Czar." Let me make this perfectly clear. A cartoonist--and a damned funny one--birthed an expression that we still use to this day. The only difference between then and now is that many people today erroneously believe the word is of recent origin.
   The issue comes up, of course, because of the appointment of Ron Klain to the role of coordinator of the Obama Administration's efforts to control the infectious disease known as ebola. Perhaps you have heard of it. Klain's role will be to advise and serve as the central coordinating body, reporting to the President (rather than to Congress), who in turn, it is presumed, will be responsible to the people of the United States. It's simple crisis management. Every CEO needs an extra layer of bureaucracy between himself and the populace, even when that layer has no authority whatsoever. 
   But we in this country succeed like the winners we are when it comes to ignoring facts when a good scare is what we really want. Consider The Hill, a Washington-based journal of reaction:
Some presidents, including Barack Obama, have created czars without statutory authority backing those positions. The lack of statutory grounding means that czars exercise authority vested in other officials, which creates legal and extra-legal complications. Not to mention the absence of accountability czars have to Congress or the public because they are presidential creations and not confirmed by the Senate. Presidents have anointed czars as presidential “advisers”, thus attempting to shield these officials from testifying on the Hill, even while some of them have exercised substantial policy, spending, and regulatory powers.

   That's a point, I suppose. It's also a point that no U.S. voter elected any person who ever served in the Central Intelligence Agency (with the exception of George H.W. Bush) and yet that unelected organization did not resist the temptation to both create and implement executive strategy while we as an alleged electorate still turn out in strange droves to vote in more people who beyond all doubt will continue to do what American politicians have always done: either more or less than we should let them get away with. 
   But what about the charge that the czar (or czarina, one gathers) presents an extra layer of bureaucracy? Is that a bad thing? 
   Some level of what we call bureaucracy is essential to the functioning of any social organization comprised of three or more people. The decisive factor turns on whether the bureaucracy serves the consumers of the services or whether it serves to insulate and protect the person above the bureaucracy from the people beneath it. Let's look at a common example of a simple bureaucracy. A man loses his credit card and wishes to prevent unauthorized charges from taking place. He locates the telephone number of the card issuer. He enters a telephonic contingency maze. He is immediately met with the information that the bureaucracy has changed recently and to please listen carefully, as the call may be recorded. If the man prefers to communicate in English, he must press 1. Once this is accomplished, he hears that if he wishes to activate his missing credit card, he should press 1 again. This does not apply to him, so he continues to listen. If his card has been stolen, he is to press 2. This alert concerns him because, while the card is definitely out of his possession, he has no reason to believe someone stole it. His finger hovers over the 2 button, but his indecision allows the next message to play. If his card has been lost or destroyed, he should press 3. Sighing in relief that he exercised proper patience, he presses 3. After an ominous delay, a similar electronic voice demands that in the event that his card was destroyed, please press 1. If his card was lost, he should press 2. He presses 2. If he knows his card number, the recording advises, press 1. If he does not know his card number, he must press 2. Having committed the number to memory, along with other strange minutiae, he presses 1 and is then prompted to enter the card number followed by the pound sign. If he does not know what a pound sign is, he should press the hashtag key. If he does not know what that is, he must press the little tic tac toe button. Recognizing the sarcasm of the recording, he presses the appropriate button and receives the information that his card has been invalidated and that a new card with a new number will arrive in his mailbox with two weeks. He is further admonished to hang up because the bureaucracy has completed its task and to please have a very nice day.
   However impersonable this approach may feel, one must admit it is efficient for both the consumer and the credit card organization. That is because both parties stayed with the script. No one ad libbed and no one required something that the other party was unprepared to produce.
    Now let us consider a bureaucratic encounter where someone makes the decision to deviate from the script. It should be noted from the outset that this deviation may be reasonable or unreasonable, the value judgment typically being the purview of the people protected by the bureaucracy.
   I was standing in line at a Wells Fargo bank. I had business that I wished to transact with a teller. Any teller would do, I reckoned, and so I went in the general line. This felt appropriate since the different tellers did not appear to have their own independent lines of access. When my turn came, I approached a teller who sat placidly behind a sign that said BRENDA. I greeted her with a smile and said that I wished to cash a check drawn on the Wells Fargo bank. I had already made one mistake, as you no doubt realize. The account on which the funds were to be drawn belonged to the account holder. Wells Fargo was simply the bureaucratic layer between me and that man's money.
   BRENDA looked at the check with the level of interest a biology teacher brings to doing the ten thousandth autopsy on the ten thousandth dead frog for the ten thousandth time. "You have an account with Wells Fargo."
   While the words BRENDA spoke did not quite properly form a question, as you will no doubt observe by the punctuation indicator, I was familiar with this particular bureaucracy and in fact had been expecting it. I informed her that I was not. No, definitely not. Not indeed. Not at all. Never had been. Never would be. No, ma'am. Not I. Not me. Not this man. Heck no.
   BRENDA then said that she would appreciate it if I would show her two forms of photographic identification. Actually, what she said was, "I'll need two picture IDs, sir." I do not suppose that the reader will need me to mention that BRENDA leaned heavily on that last word, almost as if she were grinding it into the center of a deserted highway in an attempt to inflict agony onto the ancient concrete.
    I presented BRENDA with my valid driver's license. 
   She glanced at my license. Tossing it on top of the check I had also presented her, she responded that she need two picture IDs. 
   I admitted I had only the one. Were there any exceptions to the Two-Picture rule?
   There were, she admitted, moving into the contingency portion of her mental script. If I were a Wells Fargo account holder myself, for instance, then I could cash this very same check by presenting more than zero and less than two photographic identifications. 
   Oh! I said with naive optimism. And how many photo ID's would be required of me to secure the honor of becoming a Wells Fargo account holder? 
  Just one photo and one other form of ID, she replied, the latter not needing to have my pretty picture on it. 
   I explained that if one photo ID was good enough to get an account which would only require one photo ID to cash a check, we could skip the step of opening an account for me and move directly into the process of cashing the check. I further explained that since my own identification was clearly not the true issue at play, it might be assumed that the friendly Wells Fargo people were trying to coerce account "membership" by making the process of cashing a check arduous unless such a bonding had been formed. 
   She was not persuaded. I told her I wanted to speak to her manager. She invited me to have a seat while the manager was located. I told her I was going to stay right where I was so as to coerce the haste of the bank manager coming to my assistance. "Are you refusing to move? asked BRENDA.
   "I am refusing to move," I said.
   The manager came. She cashed the check. I mucked with the bureaucracy and lived to fight another day. 
    If the customer can therefore be successful when he or she improvises against the betterment of the bureaucracy, what happens, then, when the bureaucracy deviates from the script? 
   The actual result is often what you and I mean when we speak of "customer service." Here is a common example from everyday life. A woman walks into a Wal-Mart carrying a vacuum cleaner that she purchased there. The machine works just fine, as far as she knows. Her issue is that the same day she bought this very vacuum, her girlfriend bought one too and they only need the one. The women flipped a coin and our customer lost. She walks into the store pushing the machine. The "greeter" does not see her. Had the greeter observed her, he would likely have asked to see the woman's receipt, upon which he would have marked some written coding. This did not happen. This particular woman did not save her receipt anyway, so it doesn't actually matter. She waits in line at the area of the store called CUSTOMER SERVICE, a sign that implies this is the only place in the block store that provides the stuff. The clerk calls the woman and she wheels the vacuum over to the desk. "No receipt? You don't have no receipt? Oh, I don't think we can help you without a receipt. Edna, can we help this woman? She got no receipt? Huh? No? No, I'm sorry, lady, but you got no receipt so we cannot help you today. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
   Another employee steps out of the restroom just in time to recognize the customer. The restroom person works as a cashier and is was she who rang up the purchase. The customer also recognizes the cashier and without a word being exchanged between the two, the cashier whispers something to the customer service person. The service individual smiles as the cashier walks around the desk and wheels the vacuum back behind the counter. The service person rings up some numbers, opens the cash drawer and counts out the money to the customer. Yay! Satisfaction is mine, sayeth the Lord!
   It is tempting to believe that there used to be a time in this country when customer service of this sort was widespread. That belief is mostly the result of selective nostalgia. We have always required a number of deviants in our social organizations, deviants who have retained in their memories and who display in their practices that they recall the stated purpose of the bureaucracy: to provide efficient service. Sometimes we call these people whistleblowers. Sometimes we say they are gadflies. I always consider them as the only thinking people in the organization. That guy with the funny haircut leaning against the wall paging through a comic book. That girl with the strange tattoo, eyeglasses and a ponytail. That old man with the illegal smile. That crazy lady talking to herself on aisle seven. Our future, I hope, lies with those weirdos rather than with the automatons, the conformists and the nihilists. 


Tuesday, October 14, 2014


   The most interesting conversations sometimes wind their way across the tropes of human consciousness, landing at last--if ever--far from where the conversants might have earlier anticipated. 
   As those of you who write for a living recognize for yourselves, making a decent livelihood in this business does not happen for everyone who works at it. Some of you will go for a long time, batting the literary ball out of the stadium at every swing, only to find that the great cosmic umpire drags out his hideous blue pencil and undermines the project you approached with more confidence than all the others--and usually just at the precise moment when you could least endure the rejection. Yet you quite properly take solace in your successes. Some of you will no doubt wonder what it feels like to receive a royalty check, or an advance against future royalties. (Answer: It feels fantastic.) But I'd bet that most of the writers reading this will land somewhere in between, batting (to continue the metaphor, what with World Series fever in the air) approximately .333 in a good season. As a result of this Louisville Slugger Median, you may find it necessary, or at least helpful, to secure simultaneous employment in a capacity other than your preferred and chosen field as Scribe to the Great and Gloriously Unwashed Masses. 
   It is in that latter condition that I may like as not be reached most days. By most days I mean a day such as today. This very day in which we labor, friends and neighbor. (I hope you'll pardon that unfortunate rhyme. It was more or less accidental, although not without purpose. You see, I was making a sales call this afternoon when I found myself speaking in rhyme, inadvertently wowing the potential client, himself something of a salesperson, indeed, a far better one than am I.)
   Wait, wait, wait. Did I just let loose with a parenthetical admission to being in sales? 
   I did. Granted, that is not a complete job description. To salvage what is left of my diminishing hubris, I should share with you that my partner  (the long suffering roommate, Lisa Ann) and I make websites. The damned things won't jump up and sell themselves, now will they? Most assuredly not. So we have to beat the bushes and grab the tiger tails, shake, shimmy, do the pony like bony maronie and roll on our back 'cause we like it like that, just to get people to shut up long enough to pretend to consider listening to all the millions of reasons why he or she or they should do us the honor of allowing us to build him, her or them a website. 
   In any event, I was speaking to a very rapt listener, a polite and conscientious fellow named Paul. At the outset, he inquired after my health and general condition, to which I replied (as I so often do), "Sitting on a rainbow." The reason I use this response with such regularity is that (a) I have come to think of it as my own personal little conversational monogram, and (b) the sad truth is often far from what one might expect from someone saying "sitting on a rainbow," and so my secret hope is that people will intuit the irony and do me a favor by cheering me up. I am routinely disappointed in the reaction. And yet--
   This man Paul admitted that he could not recall receiving that response any time recently. I reminded him of the old Frank Sinatra song from which that line had come and he laughed as did I and the conversation was off and trotting. Within a very few minutes, I became self-conscious of the fact that I was answering all his many questions as if I were composing verse on the spot. Of course, now that I mention this, I can't remember even a solitary example to prove the point, but why would I make it up? Please just take my word, thunderbird, that the rhymes I uttered were bread and buttered far superior to the ones contained within this refrain. 
   As a result of my sudden lapse into rhythm and rhyme, Paul grew ever more intrigued and invited me to send him an invoice, one which he may respond to favorably at his leisure. This is an individual from whom I did not expect so much as the courtesy of name recognition. Yet, to be fair to him, he recognized my phone number or has saved it by my name. Either way, my previous contacts with him apparently failed to alienate him. To be even more fair, I found Paul to be quite the charming fellow and told him as much. This sort of candor and gushing is, I guarantee you, not my typical approach. But something about him brought out a cleverness in me. I feel confident that this is what people mean when they talk about inspiration. 
   Much later in the day, I encountered from within myself a far different and more unsavory type of inspiration. I will try to be kind on my description of the behavior of the pusillanimous pederast whose guile and treachery were matched only by the crookedness of her wretched soul. This fiend, whose name I will not speak, called my number and when I answered "Thank you for calling ROI, this is Phil, how may I help you," snarled into the phone (like the prehistoric reptilian gila monster that she spiritually resembles) with the tongue-twitching hiss, "Who is this?"
   I smiled and repeated my greeting. She inhaled through her mouth (a crevice which I suspect is framed by dental stalactites and stalagmites aplenty) and hissed, "What is this charge doing on my credit card?!?"
    The shrill shrew had forgotten ordering the website, had indeed forgotten that we had completed the website in record time and received high praise from her thirty days earlier, just as she had forgotten that we had taken pity on her abominable soul and had allowed her to make payment arrangements with us so that she could benefit from having a website which she--at the outset, at least--had not yet made complete compensation for, if you'll pardon my ending a clause with a preposition. She had forgotten many things in this interim, civility and propriety among those items and her unabashed shamelessness in the magnitude of her harsh and rude behavior took me somewhat aback. I stammered for a moment and handed the phone to Lisa Ann.
   One does well to watch the P's, Q's and other elements of style when dealing with Lisa Ann. But this rancid pterodactyl (capable of changing genus as well as species in a single paragraph) on our phone was not to be consoled. She breathed a fiery hatred with every frigid heartbeat and soon Lisa simply looked at me with a look that said, "Will you please bring me a glass of apple cider so that I may drown this wench in something bitter?" 
    I grabbed the phone, listened to this amoeba-brained degenerate (still changing lifeforms with each instant) and at last shouted, "Look, chicken head! The last psycho who threatened me woke up with his ankles welded together, so watch your mouth, toots!" 
   I ended up giving back half her money. 
   But I was and remain moderately pleased with my exhortation, just as I am self-satisfied with my earlier and much more humane conversation with that Paul fellow. Both were the result of what I call inspiration--this emotional spike of lightning that shoots through you, leaving you, at least for a little while, smarter and more clever than when you began.
    The final round of this kind of inspiration happened just a few minutes after my encounter with the aforementioned seven-headed triple uvula'd toad woman. I was just walking out of the convenience store with a soda and some hyper-processed snacks, when a guy about my own age smiled a painful and tired smile at me and asked if I could help him out. Coming right on the heels of the previous quarrel, my emotional wiring was not predisposed to be receptive to panhandling. Yet there was something in that man's eyes--something I probably imagined, but even a mirage is based on some interpretation of reality--that cut through all the layers of scales and hatred I'd amassed over the lifetime/two hours/whatever and I found myself asking this man to talk to me about himself. He may have thought I was nuts and he may have been correct. Doesn't matter. We stood there outside that store, sharing stupid experiences and laughing--not some kind of calculated emotional maneuvering but a very genuine and magical kind of truth--while people passed us as if we were invisible. He hugged me somewhat gently. I gave him a bit a financial assistance. I got in the vehicle and he waved as I drove off. 
   Inspiration lies face up on the plate in front of us. It suffers no garnish. It recoils at the suggestion. Here's hoping your version of inspiration tastes every bit as good.

Monday, October 6, 2014


In January 1970 the U.S. unemployment rate was 3.9%. In September 2014, it was 5.9%.

One hundred dollars in 1970 had the buying power of $603 in 2014.

In October 1976, a gallon of unleaded gasoline sold for .63 per gallon. A guy came out and pumped it for you. In October 2014, that same gallon cost 3.48. Self service rules.

In 1976 the nonfarm federal minimum wage was $2.20. Today the federal minimum wage is $7.25.

In 1970, 203 million people called the United States home. In 2014, the number was 310 million.

The 1969 Pontiac Firebird Transam cost $4,300. Today Pontiacs are not manufactured at all. 

The average height for a man in 1960 was five feet eight inches. Today that same man is five foot nine. For that extra inch of tallness, today's average man weighs 27 pounds more than he did in 1960. 

The percentage of the U.S. population in 1970 who could boast of having earned a Bachelor's Degree was ten percent. In 2014, the percentage was closer to twenty percent.

More than forty percent of all Americans read neither a book of fiction nor nonfiction in the last twelve months.

In 2014 there are 32 NFL franchise teams. After the merger of the AFL and NFL in 1970, there were 26 teams. 

Saturday, October 4, 2014


   The easiest course of action is to reject all religion. Being as that is the easiest path, I have chosen to take a different tact. Just as I used to loathe the arrogance of fundamentalist Christians who claimed everyone who exhibited tendencies they themselves were repressing (homosexuality, free love, a desire for a liberal arts education, etc) were bound to go to hell, so have I evolved to the point where cocky atheists such as Ron Reagan and Bill Maher irritate me to madness. "God is just Santa Claus for grown-ups," asserted someone, smug in his imbecility. How quaint. How glib. Oh, to be a cocksure asswipe now that Autumn has arrived. 
   Granted, the more fundamentalist of religious practitioners make rejection of God a tempting worldview. But just as it is stupid to assume that the Timothy McVeighs of the world represent the true nature of Christianity, so is it bewildering for others to conclude that the Islamic State of Levant represents the purist form of Islam. In the world I claim my part of, intolerance of any sort is the real enemy. 
   I like to select my own personal religious persuasion based on the merits. I'll pick Judaism. I've always felt persecuted by the rest of society and no other group has experienced such a lingering hatred as have the Jews. Therefore, if I'm going to embrace any particular religion, that'll be the one for me.
   Judaism traces its heritage to the covenant God made with Abraham and his lineage — that God would make them a sacred people and give them a holy land. The primary figures of Israelite culture include the patriarchs Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the prophet Moses, who received God's law at Mt. Sinai. Judaism is a tradition grounded in the religious, ethical, and social laws as they are articulated in the Torah — the first five books of the Hebrew Bible.
  In 63 B. C., the Romans conquered Jerusalem, center of the Jewish homeland. First, the Romans persecuted Christians, charging them with being heretics.The Romans allowed the Jews to practice their religion freely, but such tolerance did not last. The Romans ordered the Jews to worship Roman gods. Jews resisted, but division among Jews followed, one side insisting on orthodoxy, the other side (including Jesus) arguing that Jews must be willing to adapt. After the death of Christ, his followers renounced Judaism and established Christianity. You can thank me for the history lesson later.

 Having been expelled from Palestine in 72 A.D., the Jews settled in North Africa, Spain, and eastern and western Europe. For the Jewish people, life outside of Palestine was called the Diaspora. At the start of each Jewish New Year, Jews in the Diaspora would toast one another and promise, "Next year in Jerusalem." But by the fourth century, Constantine the Great declare Christianity the state religion of the Roman Empire. Soon enough, the Christians began persecuting the Jews, referring to them as "Christ killers," based on the idea that it had been the Jews who had demanded that Pilate proceed with the execution. St. Augustine declared Jews to be the descendants of Cain. In the twelfth century, a blood libel began due to the erroneous belief that a Jew had murdered a Christian to use his blood to make matzo balls. In the fourteenth century, the Jews took the heat for the bubonic plague. In the sixteenth century, Martin Luther, leader of the Protestant Reformation, demanded that Jewish synagogues be set on fire. 
   While the Nazis certainly did not launch anti-semitism, they were the most accomplished at institutionalizing its brutality and barbarism. 
   It used to drive me crazy when my supposedly enlightened parents would make a remark about "jewing somebody down" on the price paid for an item. I doubt either of them had met a Jewish person until they were approaching their eighties.
   When we look at the inhumane acts committed by adherents of different religions, the Christians and the Muslims have it all over the Jews.
  • On August 5, 2012, white supremacist Wade Michael Page used a semiautomatic weapon to murder six people during an attack on a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin. Page’s connection to the white supremacist movement was well-documented: he had been a member of the neo-Nazi rock bands End Empathy and Definite Hate.
  • On July 27, 2008, Christian Right sympathizer Jim David Adkisson walked into the Knoxville Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville, Tennessee during a children’s play and began shooting people at random. Two were killed, while seven others were injured but survived. Adkisson said he was motivated by a hatred of liberals, Democrats and gays, and he considered neocon Bernard Goldberg’s book, 100 People Who Are Screwing Up America, his political manifesto.
  • One Christian Right terrorist with ties to the Army of God was Paul Jennings Hill, who was executed by lethal injection on Sept. 3, 2003 for the murders of abortion doctor John Britton and his bodyguard James Barrett. Hill shot both of them in cold blood and expressed no remorse whatsoever; he insisted he was doing’s God’s work and has been exalted as a martyr by the Army of God.
  • February 26, 1993, six people died in the World Trade Center bombing.
  • December 24, 1994, The Armed Islamic Group of Algiers hijacked an Air France plane. Seven people died.
  • More than 3,000 died on September 11, 2001. You might have read about this.
   I'm not suggesting that acts of terrorism by Jews have never happened. They certainly have. But if one is to compare the scope of idiotic attacks on settlers on the West Bank against the Holocaust, I have to tell you the Jews come out looking pretty good.
   So before you rush out to buy tickets to the next Bill Maher festival, you might want to consider the possibility that you cannot judge a religion by its adherents. I certainly wouldn't want people to judge my agnosticism based on the snide comments of certain stand-up comedians.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Written by Lisa Ann Goodrich Klein Terzo etc.

So, I was talking to my husband the other day and I said, “RUDOLPH! What the hell is going on around here??!!!”

He had the audacity to ask me who Rudolph was, since his name was Henry.

So I said, “HENRY, what the hell is going on around here and where is Rudolph???”

He had the audacity to say he didn’t know.

So I said, “DON’T you think it’s time you found out?”

Well HE DID no such thing.

He called up some relative person and her husband and asked them over for a visit.

So THEY came over and I served them delicious Tastee Kakes from my science oven.

THEY were ungrateful. And they asked why I kept putting TIN FOIL in the science oven.

Well, I told them that Rudolph SAID that is proper protocol when sissies come over with designer bags and whiskey!


THEY said they didn’t know who Rudolph was!

So I said, “DON’T you THINK YOU should find out??? Gawd you people are STUPID!”

Soo..then the female sissy had to use the powder room that I recently redesigned thanks to the helpful real people on my very expensive television that I got at the flea market last week. SHE thought it was WISE to flush a FEMININE product down my perfectly clean toilet which I cleaned with a product I obtained from the neighbor who is not nuts. And, well then the shit hit the fan. Being that the POWDER room is upstairs over top of my beautiful beige and light blue living room, the toilet crashed through the ceiling, crushing the faux-banana-frond fan I had installed to save power on my power and water bill.

SHE said she was sorry.

I said she was indeed sorry and should put her underwear back on and mop up the floor while I contacted Amy’s List for a RELIABLE plumber.

Henry drank the whiskey.

Meanwhile, the male sissy was in the back-yard peeing on my neatly trimmed hedges because he obviously couldn’t use the powder room and he didn’t know we had a custom out-house with catalogs. My dog (the resin replica Boston Terrier I got from a sale at the garden store so I didn’t have to take care of a real dog) looked on in amusement. He didn’t understand the disrobing.

Henry admired the male sissy’s tramp stamp.

I told the boy to find his underwear.

During ALL OF THIS NONSENSE...I was on hold with Amy’s List. My computer wasn’t working as I had left it at a shop I had found at Amy’s List, so I had to use the telephone. I used Henry’s because he had more minutes than I did and he didn’t really mind because he is just dumb.

Henry was STILL drinking the whiskey.

SO ANYWAY...if you people could please stop interrupting me I will TRY to finish this. Sheesh.

So ya….I got a plumber list from Amy’s list and wrote it down in my steno pad. I always keep steno pads because they have lines in the middle so I can make two lists if I need to. AND so, I called one of the bastards up and told him about the fan and the shit.

He asked if I had whiskey.

I told him that I would ask Henry, but I did have traveler’s checks left over from 1985.

He showed up.

Plumbers from Amy’s List have to wear name badges on their shirts so you know they’re plumbers and not piano tuners.

When the doorbell chimed, (a tune I personally wrote, by the way) I opened the door to greet a snappy young man with the required name badge.

I walked him into the house and gathered the Henry and sissies around, pointed to the man’s shirt badge and said THIS…..DAMN YOU. IS RUDOLPH!

Really, his badge said Rudy….but he had told me at a trade show last week that his full name was Rudolph.
Rudolph, the world's best dressed plumber.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

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Tuesday, September 23, 2014


   Having been born in 1958, I was a kid in the 1960s, a youngster in the 1970s, and a bit of a grown-up in the 1980s. As with many of my kin and friends, I identified with several of the popular and noteworthy people of the day. Likewise, I reacted against certain other famous folks. This sort of internalizing of certain values and rejection of others befalls most generations, I'm sure. Often enough, vast civilizations such as the one we call the United States of America witness significant shifting in the nature of that system's heroes and villains. To my father--born in 1920--the important political people were Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy, along with Ohio's Governor Rhodes. In the entertainment realm, my Dad loved what was then called Country & Western music, digging as he did Ernest Tubb, Bob Wills, Hank Williams, Patsy Cline and Buck Owens, among others. In sports, baseball began and ended his fascination. The Big Red Machine--the Cincinnati Reds under Sparky Anderson's reign--was, for him, the only game in town. Regarding big business, he didn't trust millionaires much, although he admitted to idolizing Henry Ford for helping to build much of the middle class. Ford Motor Company commercials blared from the portable radio my father played while shaving in the mornings. My own joy of singing in the early daybreak hours stems from listening to Dad wail along with Hank Snow's "I'm Moving On," making up lyrics as he went, one sample of which sounded like "You should have seen old Rudolph quiver when they slapped him in the face with a reindeer liver. I'm moving on. . . " Both my parents loved absurdities, but Dad in particular embraced them. He would remove the characters from songs and insert my name or mom's, putting us in some fairly ridiculous scenarios. "He stood six foot six and weighed forty-five pounds/With a scruff of yellow hair he'd make the rounds/Big Phil/Big bad Phil. . . " I was only about five years old at the time.
   For the first few years of my life, my heroes mirrored those of my father. The best present anyone could get me in those days would have been either a record or a book. I burned through albums by many of the aforementioned singers and scalded my eyes with the adventures of writers such as Jack London, L. Frank Baum, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson and Daniel Defoe.
   Toward the end of the 1960s, my interests took a permanent detour. While I still loved the songs of those hillbilly millionaires, I also found myself singing and slapping my hands on arm chairs to the likes of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Bob Dylan, The Stooges, and other edgy types. I also discovered jazz and could not get enough of the strange sounds of Ornette Coleman, Charles Mingus, and Thelonious Monk. All of these people shared with the Country & Western performers a condition of being outside of society. Their work may have been understood, but not by just any old body, and that--along with what I considered to be their musical adventurousness--is what I loved about them. 
   The early days of my politics shared that outsider status. From the daily newspapers I would clip articles about Malcolm X, Martin Luther King, Jerry Rubin, John Sinclair, Abbie Hoffman and the Berrigan brothers. Some of the 1960s greatest minds were attached to something then strange and exciting to me--namely women. Among the second wave feminists, Gloria Steinem and Simone de Beauvoir were to me equally gorgeous. On a less lascivious level, I loved reading articles and books by Kate Millett, Betty Friedan, and Alice Rossi. As my social attitudes were entering an alignment, my manner of speaking, dressing and acting took on similarities with the people the television media had decided were agitators, weirdos, and radicals. My hair grew a bit longer, my wardrobe took on a calculated casualness, a la bleached-out bell-bottom bluejeans, bright colorless shirts and the occasional beaded choker. At the same time I started employing certain words with very antagonist intentions: "The administration," "the system," "the establishment," "the fuzz." This was not entirely due to psychological programming from television, radio and seventh grade social studies class. I thought hard about what I was doing and often took unfair amounts of criticisms from my friends and classmates. 
   My heroes from those days united around a kind of morality. What I mean is that those people had made the moral and conscious decisions to be anti-war, pro civil rights, anti-materialistic, pro-measured life, anti-imperialistic, pro choice. They were not reading rules about how to think and feel out of some nonexistent book on political correctness. What they did was to take the lessons learned from writers such as John Steinbeck, Carson McCullers, Ursula LeGuin, Leigh Brackett, Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Richard Wright, from television shows such as "The Twilight Zone," "Outer Limits," and "Star Trek," from movies such as The Blackboard Jungle, The Agitator, Breathless, The 400 Blows and Blow Up--and concluded that then-contemporary society was intellectually and spiritually bankrupt. 
   The way I moved across this madly spinning orb reflected those absorbed values. 
   I knew very few people who shared my feelings. But I believed in my soul that if I kept looking and living long enough, I would find the people with whom I was psychologically linked.
   The college I attended supplied those people. 
   We'll talk more about that, as well as what is actually most disturbing about the people we are encouraged to idolize nowadays next time out. Until then, remember to attend the church of your choice. Or not.


Sunday, September 21, 2014


   The name of the game is be hit and hit back.
                                           --Warren Zevon

   To make the claim that one certain song is better than all the other songs feels absurd. A given tune can hold tremendous importance at a given time, yet be forgotten entirely during a different moment. To argue that The Kite Runner or The Great Gatsby or even Ocean's Apart reigns over all other literature flirts with folly. Within the world of the written word, what can a concept such as "the best" even indicate? Would it be remotely possible to select one painting by Picasso and declare that to be the supreme creation of our age? For that matter, by what standards could be taken for granted that Picasso was the ultimate master?
   Even in the world of sports, winning a Super Bowl, or an NBA Championship, or a World Series says (almost) nothing about the long-term survival of that team's status.
   One thing, however, stands firm and tall against any dispute: The greatest boxer in all of history was Muhammad Ali. He would tell you so himself. Indeed, he has done so many, many times. And he told the truth. 
   Two out of three men who beat Ali have found their names dissolved from the public memory. Who today remembers Larry Holmes, much less Leon Spinks? And the only reason people still recall Joe Frazier (who defeated Ali in 1971) is because our champ--The People's Champ--came back and beat the man--twice. The same holds true for Ken Norton, a fighter more celebrated for having lost to Muhammad than for having beaten him. Yes, the people Ali defeated linger in the memory better than those few who defeated him. Sonny Liston, Floyd Patterson, Cleveland Williams, Jerry Quarry, Oscar Bonavena--these men went down hard, their legends in place because they had the honor of being destroyed by Muhammad Ali.
   Several good movies have trotted out attempts at replicating this man's glory. For my money, two of the better one's are A.K.A. Cassius Clay (1970) and The Trials of Muhammad Ali (2013). Both films draw upon inspiring footage to tell most of the visual tale. Both are sure to emphasize the champ's ability to self-promote. Both utilize the social context of the Nation of Islam, civil rights and the Vietnam War for societal context. Yet of the two, it is the more recent that you should see, assuming you can only make time for one of them. A.K.A., though completed and released prior to the United States Supreme Court decision which overturned his conviction for draft evasion, nevertheless feels somewhat light and airy compared to the more hard-hitting Trials presentation. A.K.A., directed by Jim Jacobs and narrated by Richard Kiley, tries to avoid offending its audience by overstepping its ground on the issue of the issues that led to Clay/Ali being stripped of his championship title. Those issues, of course, were black nationalism and declaring himself a conscientious objector. 
   Trials pulls no punches in this regard. Director Bill Siegel begins the movie with a speech by the amazingly pretentious talk show host David Susskind calling Ali out as a coward and a fraud. Ali was no such thing and by the end of the movie, even the skeptics will know it. 

Friday, September 19, 2014


   I began with the idea that the topic of this article would be police brutality in the state of California. I even did quite a bit of research to that end.* However, something I care for even less than police abuse of power flashed its laser beams across our landscape while the piece was in process. Ray Rice got caught coldcocking his future wife in an elevator. 
   Let me be clear: I know shit about sports. Furthermore, I care shit about sports. However, I do know something about getting punched out, just as I happen to be passingly familiar with media obsessions. So when the TMZ video showing the brutal knockout aired over and over, I admit I did experience an initial sense of wonder as to the employment consequences for Rice. And, like you, I felt a visceral wave of disgust. In fact, I was rocked by two waves: First, I wanted to replay the scene in that elevator so that I could step between Rice and his beloved, an admittedly insane act of hubris on my part. Second, I wanted to scream at the salivating public that the primary reason why this scene has resonated like a 9.0 killer earthquake is a shared territory of responsibility. 

   Football is a land acquisition game. It is, at its core, a timed war with tremendous and complex rules matched in their complexity only by the amount of adoration bestowed upon the participants by the rest of us. The games are surrounded by sexually provocative displays of enthusiasm, corporate sponsorship, uniforms, patriotism, casualties, media coverage and endless repetition of the battles, none of which ever ultimately settle anything. And, like war, the game allows many people to get their kicks vicariously through their heroes. 
   I doubt that in our collective lifetimes we as humans will force ourselves to evolve to the point where we reject violence against others. Certainly we believe that we are horrified when we watch a stronger person abuse a weaker one. But that horror manifests in a very situational manner. When GI's slaughtered hundreds at My Lai during the war against Vietnam, most of us screamed in agony. When the CIA set up rendition centers during the Iraq War to facilitate the torture of prisoners, we responded with the emotional revulsion of the St. Vitus dance. But every Sunday between September and January, we continued to sing the "Star-Spangled Banner" and salute the warlike behavior of Giants, Red Skins, Bengals, Packers and Raiders (the reason the Arizona Cardinals never win the Super Bowl has a lot to do with the fragility of their name, I suspect). 
   Kids from working class families have very little chance of escaping the bleak nature of their economic realities. Sports and other forms of entertainment remain an attractive alternative to vertical social mobility. Become a warrior and you might just make it out of the jungle. But how? Well, you need to bulk up, learn the skills of the killer, embrace the temporary spoils of war, gain some local sponsorships and you too may be the next Raven spectacular. 
   But don't make the mistake of believing that the mass of the American people will be comfortable with you carrying your learned behavior over into the realm of your personal life. Just because those mind-altering steroids that helped you gain a hundred pounds of pure muscle served you well on the battlefield does not mean that you get to beat up people in your personal life. Oh, hell no! Even though your brain has been paralyzed for the benefit of the NFL owners, that does not absolve you of a certain social responsibility. Nope. You have to take all that leftover energy and channel it into breast cancer awareness programs instead. Never mind that the fans in attendance at your games get drunk and beat each other up because they want to be just like you. Any time you feel yourself thinking about hitting your kid or slapping your wife, just pretend you're a California police officer, or something of similar responsibility. Hey, you're a role model to millions of kids. Behave yourself, pal. 
   Right. That'll happen thanks to the NFL's "peace initiatives." Stay tuned.

*What follows is an extremely partial list, one preempted by the Ray Rice story.
Michael Zinzun: Permanently blinded in one eye by police in 1986, he was awarded $3.84million in damages.
Rodney King: In 1991, four LAPD officers beat the hell out of this man--on camera. Charged locally, the four cops were acquitted. King won a civil suit of $3.8 million. Officers Stacey Koon and Laurence Powell were convicted in federal court. 
Wayne Calvin Byrd II: Along with four other associates, he was beaten and arrested by the LAPD's CRASH unit in West Los Angeles. Several Pacific Division officers were found guilty of various civil rights violations, including false imprisonment. All charges against the four victims were eventually dropped. 
Javier Ovando: This man was shot and paralyzed by two LAPD officers. The same officers planted a gun on their victim to make it appear he had shot first. In the largest police settlement in Los Angeles history, Ovando was awarded $15 million in damages.
Delphine Allen: The so-called Oakland Riders,a group of presumably rogue police officers, systematically brutalized people on their beat. $11 million was awarded in damages.
Donovan Jackson: This sixteen-year-old was repeatedly assaulted by an Inglewood cop named Jeremy Morse.

Monday, September 1, 2014


   The expression "community service" leads to visions of forced cleaning of city parks as repayment to the town for breaking a minor law, such as punching a photographer. Sometimes the term takes on a different connotation. Sometimes it means chasing away drug dealers, painting over graffiti, or teaching local kids to read. 
   A certain for-profit university in our local midst here in Phoenix takes that phrase to mean massive expansion.
   This For Profit University began in 1949, never amounting to much when it was run by the Southern Baptists. Then in 2004, the school found itself acquired by a group of businessmen. Over the last decade, the for-profit private Christian university has built an arena, a bowling alley, a promenade, an aquatics center, a food court and a whole bunch of dormitories and parking lots. Enrollment has soared, in large part because of FPU's aggressive campaign to compete with the public universities in the state and region. Their enrollment has hit 59,000 students, many of them online. 
   Times have changed and the For Profit University has evolved with those times. The old way held that the money brought into an educational system through academics, research and athletics recycled itself back into the community that supported that system. The new way, which For Profit spearheads, is to say that the profit from educational, research and athletic endeavors goes back to the shareholders. Those men and women, of course, are expected to reinvest their profits into the community, create jobs, keep the parks clean, scrub the toilets, and all manner of community service. They are job creators, these guys are, and woe unto those who do not get the picture.
   I must admit, I was one of those who failed to see the revelatory light of the FPU masterplan. What I thought--and you will no doubt find this quite naive--was that the school was going to expand itself over an area of our neighborhood, displace a whole lot of people, and pocket the profits. Clearly, my thinking on this matter was out of date.
   I attended a community meeting just last evening, as I write this, a meeting that addressed what is called a Planned Unit Development. If you are unfamiliar, a PUD is a way of rezoning communities so that businesses do not have to rely on antiquated means of takeover such as imminent domain. A PUD allows companies to petition the city for permission to expand into areas they hope to acquire. All this effort requires high-priced attorneys and it was just such a group who moderated last night's standing room only gathering of concerned citizens.
   I had hoped the turnout would be hearty. I had spent the better part of the previous day doing TV news interviews to promote the event. The response surprised me. We had better than 250 local residents and a smattering of co-opted individuals in attendance. 
   The head attorney lead the conversation and set the rules. Rule one: After the initial presentation, a question and answer period would take place. The moderator would call on people to ask questions and that would be the only time people in the audience would be allowed to speak. Rule two: There would be no discussion of buying properties. 
   I didn't care much for either of those rules. But that was way back last evening, before the glory of FPU had lightened mine eyes.
   As I mentioned, the head lawyer moderated, but he was not the only Esq. in attendance. There was an attorney charged with relocations, another who handled community reach out, and another still who dealt with something called entitlement zoning.
   The Q and A was interesting. The school announced they had no plans to widen any streets due to increased traffic. One person inquired about feral cats and abandoned dogs that had been left behind. Another inquired about the Christian students throwing beer cans into the streets. Another pair mentioned that they were unhappy with the religious intolerance toward Muslims and Buddhists. And one person, who claimed to be a former student in the Master's Program, declared his love for the school, especially because "This is the only school that requires a research paper based on a verse from the Bible."
   For the most part, the crowd was antagonistic. People complained about old trees being cut down and old people being evicted. The lawyers explained that those people were quite mistaken. Any problems with speeding through residential neighborhoods should be turned over to the police and they certainly did not endorse religious bigotry.
   Toward the end of the presentation the moderator announced that they had no plans to acquire the community where I live. I was told that the recent media exposure had been a determining factor. 

Wednesday, August 20, 2014


   Forty years ago this week, as I write this, Richard Milhous Nixon resigned the United States Presidency. As best I can recall, that was the last positive thing to happen in this country. 
   In 1969, the Cuyahoga River caught fire again. Today the drinking water in Toledo will make you sick. Here's a nice list of all the contaminants about which the Environmental Protection Agency (authorized into law under Nixon) acknowledges have existed in our collective drinking water: EPA List of Contaminants. 
    In October 1973, Israel and an Arab coalition fought each other in what became known as the Yom Kippur War. Today, in August 2014, we find Israel at war against Palestine in what is being called Operation Protective Edge.
    These days the Israelis bomb the Gaza region with impunity. Isil/Isis has established an Islamic State in the desert, murdering thousands in the name of a nonexistent religion. Protesters march in the rain in Missouri to call attention to yet another suspicious police shooting of a black teenager. Robin Williams killed himself last week. The state of Arizona threatens to elect a new governor so vile that he or she will make Jan Brewer look good by comparison. 
   Two days ago the rain in Phoenix flooded the Skunk River, causing a fat stream of mud to cover the Interstate Highway. 
   People still do not get along. Other people delight in exploiting the ignorance. 
   I don't know why any of these things happen. I do know that I found myself foaming rage at what happened to a journalist named James Foley. 
  I do know that The Who were the greatest rock and roll band of all time. 
  And I also know that I'm looking forward to the original "Batman" TV series being released on DVD this November.
   I liked the way Lawrence O'Donnell brought critical thinking to an analysis he did on air tonight about an article written in The New York Times.
   My favorite stringed instrument is a dulcimer. 
   I can eat pizza at any time of the day or night.
   But when it comes to the species of humans and why we do what we do, I have no answers at all. Sometimes I think we escape into intellectualism as a way of dealing with visceral reactions, just as too often we "go with our guts" rather than use our brains. 
   I often escape into the past, something of a blend of the visceral and the intellectual. That kind of blend is often code for delusional, but it also has its up side. For instance, I can tell you about several hundred movies made before I was born. I can write for years about songs by black singers listened to by white teenagers on pathetic little radios late at night even though it happened a lot of years before I even existed. I am happy to sit down with you and discuss Philip Roth or Adrienne Rich any time you like. In short, I know my share of cultural history. I know how it feels to be an American, walking this land at night, fearing far less than I should, growing fascinated with the sounds coming from inside cars or from behind store windows or within people's houses. I don't know any other country nearly as well as I do this one. The people here remain strange to me much of the time, but that only draws me closer to the ones I love. 
   To help my girlfriend get to sleep, I take her hand and play with her fingers. What I do is I use her thumb and index finger and make them into singers doing a duet or harmony. Tonight the index finger was singing lead and the thumb was handling backing vocals. "I roller skate I ride my bike don't drive no car," sang the finger as the thumb went "Doe dee doe doe dee doo." "Don't go too fast but I go pretty far."
   Clearly, knowing one's history is important. 
   Face it: people are going to disappoint you. There's nothing we can do to stop it. What we can do is to defy them, to ward off the blows, as it were, through being as conscientiously silly as possible. 
   I work like a madman all day long. Phone calls, websites, letters, chores, you name it. Somewhere along the line I picked up the ability, the need, the compulsion to be periodically ridiculous without warning either to others or to myself. Sometimes I will open the front door and shout, "That coffee is poison, you fool!" even though I see no one drinking java, laced or otherwise. When our dogs appear bored, I will stop what I am doing to tell them story jokes. Most mornings I sing Beach Boy songs on my way down the staircase. I have been known to call the local non-emergency police number just to let the people there know that everything here is just fine. I enjoy doing magic tricks for extremely old people who have no idea who I am or why I am there. I have taught one of our parrots the words to "Surfin' Bird." 
   Again, I haven't any answers. 
   But I do know how to annoy the people who think they do. My goal is to comfort the anxious and pester the content. Or as Cesar Cruz said it (better), I try to be like Art in that I "comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." Before Cruz it was Finley Dunne who said that the purpose of a newspaper was to "Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable," although everyone from Claire Boothe Luce to Mother Jones claimed to have coined that expression. 
   That remains my advice to you. Keep them laughing. Believe me when I say I hate it that so many great talents are checking out. Eventually no famous people I can respect will be left. They'll have either offed themselves or been gunned down by others and all that will remain is just you and me. Well, hell, I like you just fine, but I might get on your nerves, what with all my foolishness. Let me know. I can try to hold myself back. But the future lies ahead can make even a clown miserable. So have a little sympathy, will ya?

Tuesday, August 19, 2014


   I was in a good mood when I wrote this. I remain in one. Also, please don't anyone try to make this about them. It's a total fabrication. Honest. Besides, I wrote it in 2009.

   Now and in only an instant no one hides my socks, no one suspects my broken promises and splintered potential and no one walks me to a well of guilt for his aches and toil. 
   Yet I am not alone. My tormentor looks a lot like me, only taller, fatter, and with a laugh like rotting meat. How long I must endure is answered as I watch him glow, his eyes empty as ancient tombs, his heart a mummified fist, and his long, swaying arms free and full of youth: “More,” he sings, and I submit.
   It is cold.
   My grief swaddles me to sleep again while things I don't understand bark out shattered voices and wear raisin faces—They see and hear nothing but my own fleeting footsteps. Only my Tormentor smells my panic. To him it is precious.
   So I return each morning to the sanctified sanity of survival, taking caution to be safe, digging spurs into my potential, and folding my socks into their drawer. All this activity unleashes resilience so that upon my nocturnal return, my Tormentor will face a fit and worthy supplicant. I stay fit so my Tormentor does not tire of me. 
   How can a man long dead write these words? “They are only the squandered hieroglyphics of your soul that has died,” says Mr. T. “Your health and sobriety are a joy to me, that I may help you recall lost moments, fire you along neurotransmitters, and cheer you on to rages that are your due. And when you cry, ‘Enough!’ I will have only started, just as I have not yet begun.” 
   And so as you prepare to draw your blinds and hazard one last scan at your day, remember that is me you hear crawling along the twilight, empty, gawking, and thirsting for anything but what I have earned. This is my fate. (My Tormentor takes me by the hand. If I resist, he drags me by the heels.) Crawling along the twilight among paranoid coyotes and vampire stars blinking themselves to sleep, I forget the cause of my shame, a certain sign of madness. Overhead the Anointed One claps his hands and from his arms fly tattoos, one a vulture and one a bluebird. They defile my path and peck at my sweat in the dust. Pisser.
   I write for the noise of morning, a steady building cacophony, that my Tormentor may retire. But the nights grow long, as does his self-contained shadow. My fear is his appetizer, my nightmare the dessert.
   I crawl along the twilight, dodging demons, boxing with their silhouettes and hiding from their laughter. It is cold.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014


   Back in my youth, a kid named Mikey lived just two doors down the street. Everyone said what a cute kid this Mikey was. Little head full of red hair, kind of a button nose, black marble eyes, and the kind of voice all we five-year-olds struggled with in those days. Mikey Burnette--for that was his name--did possess what I suppose you could call a cuteness that went somewhat beyond that of the rest of us. I don't remember anyone being bothered by that. Face it. The kid was a charmer.
   Mikey Burnette didn't talk all that much, so when he did spill out a story, the rest of us shut our holes and listened up because the kid lived what you might be inclined to call a fascinating life. "Fascinating," in the Mr. Spock sense of the word, meaning highly unusual and most intriguing.
   One afternoon Mikey and I were hiding from the world, sitting in a treehouse out in the woods, one several of us nine-year-old hoodlums had built as a kind of fortress of solitude. Anyway, Mikey puts down his Spiderman comic book and says to me, "Mersh, I ever tell you about the time I found a brand new tennis ball right outside your house?"
   He had not told me this and I admitted as much.
   I cannot vouch for the truthfulness of this story. What I can assure you is that in the four years I knew the kid, I never once caught him in a lie. Here is what he told me that day.
   He'd been five and was busying himself the way a five-year-old with working parents and a bit of free time might do: just wandering around the neighborhood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his head dropped down so he can discover things in the cracks in sidewalks, or pick up a discarded baseball card, or maybe even find something of real value. On the sidewalk that ran in front of our house on Grant Street, Mikey came upon a brand new, fresh from the vacuum-sealed can Wilson tennis ball. What a ridiculous thing to come across, he said to himself in his interior five-year-old squeaky voice.
   Being the kid he was, Mikey looked around to see if any potential owner was fast approaching, preparing to screech out an adult-style warning like "Hey, kid! You leave that goddamned ball alone, y'hear? I put that ball there this morning and if I had wanted you to steal it, I'd have called your parents on the telephone! Now scram!"
   As no such warning was forthcoming, Mikey secured the neon green tennis ball inside his pants pockets and took it home.
   Mikey had his own bedroom and inside his bedroom sat a dresser and upon the dresser rested a Cincinnati Reds souvenir ashtray. For no particular reason, Mikey sat his new possession into the concave side of the ashtray. He stepped back to take an admiring look. He recognized right away that something was just not quite right. "It needs a face," he said aloud. One Magic Marker and a few strokes of the pen later, the neon green tennis ball bore its new smiley face. This time when Mikey stepped back to look, he offered the ball a smile in return.
   In a few short months, Mikey started first grade. The thrill of discovery never left the kid, however. Each day as he would toddle from his bedroom, down the hall and into the street, he would pause at the bedroom door and say, "See ya later, Mr. Tennis Ball!"
   A couple years go by, as years will do, and every school day Mikey would take a moment at his bedroom door to say goodbye to his friend the tennis ball. He never mentioned whether he said hello upon returning home, but in my own mind, he was just as cordial entering as he was leaving. 
   As he was making his way from his bedroom to begin his very first day of third grade, Mikey resumed his routine with what one might think of as a superstitious habitualization, just as some baseball players will tap their bats on home plate or bless themselves. Mikey told the ball to have a nice day and just as he was closing the door behind him, he heard a voice speak. "You, too, dumbo. Good luck to ya."
   As he was recounting this story, Mikey admitted he had been nervous about going to school. He figured the jitters were just getting the best of him. He also considered the possibility that he was going nuts.
   The first day of third grade turned out to be not so bad as all that and when Mikey came home and threw his books on his bed he had already forgotten all about the strange voice from that morning. As he was removing his shoes and socks, he did not even bother to look around the room. He just tossed the footwear into the usual corner and was getting ready to enjoy a fine afternoon nap when he again heard the voice say, "Hey, dumbo! Those dawgs of yours stink like a dead gorilla. Christ! Ain't ya got no foot powder?"
   Mikey sat bolt upright on the bed. That voice had not come from his mother. She was at work. It wasn't dad. He hadn't come home yet, either. And Mikey didn't have any brothers or sisters. He was pretty sure his folks hadn't taken in any boarders. Deep down, he told me, he knew that had been Mr. Tennis Ball talking to him. 
   He looked over at the dresser. His eyes moved up to the ashtray. He stood and looked across the room at the tennis ball.
   "What?" said the ball. "You think you're the only one with a voice box? You got an adenoids problem, dumbo? Ya talk like a goil."
   "My name is Mikey."
   "Mikey, Schnikey. Who gives a damn? Look, junior, I've been sitting here patiently waiting for you to use your limited imagination and have you come up with something for us to do? Ya ever think what it's like for me all day while you're off staring at the back of your teacher's legs? Naw, wha'd do you care? Freakin pervo."
   "Well, what would you like to do?"
   The tennis ball groaned. "I don't wanna go bowling, that's one thing. Look, dumbo. I'm a tennis ball. I wanna go play tennis. Tell your old man to take us down to the courts and we'll kill a couple hours."
   When Mikey's dad came home from the office, Mikey was dressed in his own tennis shirt and shorts. Mr. Tennis Ball was in his front right pocket. 
   His dad said he was kind of tired but what the hey? They could play a set or two, why not?
   Mikey felt Mr. Tennis Ball vibrate with happiness.
   At the tennis courts, Mikey stood at his own baseline, took Mr. Tennis Ball from his pocket, and gave it a soft swat across the net. His father, knowing the limitations his son had in playing against a much larger and experienced man, gently batted the ball back across the net. Mikey caught the ball in one hand, turned his back to his father and examined the ball.
   In a coarse yet low voice, the tennis ball said, "This is great. I've been waiting my whole life for this. Keep it going, okay?"
   Mikey turned around and swatted the ball back across the net.
   Unfortunately for Mr. Tennis Ball, at that exact moment, two college girls in short tennis shorts giggled their way onto the court next to Mikey and his father. Being the kind of man he was, Mikey's father sucked in his gut, puffed out his chest and whacked the tennis ball back across the net as hard as he could, sticking it firmly into the chain link fence behind Mikey.
   The kid shot his dad a look of alarm, then stepped back to retrieve the ball.
   "What da hell was dat? Who your old man think he is, Roger Federer?"
    "Dad, take it easy, okay?"
   "Just hit the ball, Mikey."
   Mikey gave the ball an easy swat across the net. Mikey's dad returned the play by striking down on the ball, giving it a nasty spin. The ball dropped just on Mikey's side of the net, spun weirdly, and hopped over onto the adjacent court. One of the two girls reached down just as the ball rolled over to her feet. 
   She looked at the smiley face drawn on the ball. "Isn't this just adorable, Cindy? Look!"
   The Cindy person galloped around the net and stared. "That's funny! Lecherous, but funny."
   Mikey ran over to the girls, knowing he needed to get there before his father did.
   "Hi. That's our ball. Can I have it, please?"
   "Aren't you just an adorable little boy?" said the girl not named Cindy, as she handed him the ball. Mikey smiled and looked at the ball. The formerly friendly eyes were pinched into a sneer and the mouth was sticking out its tongue. Mikey dropped the ball into his pocket, but before he walked two steps, the ball flew out and rolled back over to the girls. The one not named Cindy reached down, looked at the ball and said, "Did you draw this?"
   Mikey swallowed hard. "Yeah. Sort of."
   The girl kept turning the ball over and over in her hands.
   Mikey's dad yelled, "Hey, that's okay, ladies. You can keep that one. Mike! We've got other balls. Let's play!"
   "But, dad--"
   Mikey turned his back on the women and walked back to the family car. His dad apologized for his son's bad manners and the two guys drove home in silence. 
   Mr friend told me he never saw that ball again, but he did encounter the two girls a few weeks later. He had been out on the court, playing against the wall, when the two young ladies had come walking by. The one not named Cindy said to the one named Cindy, "Cindy! There's that kid! The one with--"
   They ran away as fast as their suntanned ankles would carry them.
   I mention this story because Lisa Ann, the long suffering roommate, has a habit of drawing smiley faces on my big toes. 
   One never knows what the consequences of such a thing may be.


Friday, August 1, 2014


     Does your school proclaim itself to be a for-profit Christian learning center, offering the benefits of a private education at the cost of a state university? If so, you have cockroach vomit on your trousers.

Does your post-secondary institution buy up low cost housing to raze said properties into dustbin parking lots to accommodate the artificial growth of its main campus? If so, zombies have visited your family and planted radioactive pods where their brains used to be.

Is something called Sports Management the central thrust of your college or university's educational program? Has it brought in the same people to use as camera shills as those who bought sports facilities with city tax dollars they themselves did not have to pay, not so very long ago? If so, your brain may not be the boss.

Are the members of your school's board of directors all former CEOs and marketing directors of fake kindergarten daycares and pseudo-colleges that merely train students for culinary careers at Burger King and Dairy Queen, while they themselves recline at the Biltmore's finest venues? If so, then you are being punked.

Is purple actually anyone's favorite color? 

Do you truly desire to mix biology with religion?

Ever wonder why those enrollees walk up and down the ghetto streets, knocking on the residents' doors to see if they need anything, when what they're actually doing is softening the blow?

Have you ever attempted to have a meaningful conversation with a graduate of a propaganda mill, a guy or gal who blends their faith of poverty and meekness with self-enrichment at the expense of the majority? Mouth-breathers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your spittle!

Is it true that your university plans to employ its own police department because they anticipate rowdy behavior from the secular members of the population they bring in to buy up tickets to concerts by washed up dinosaur groups like Journey and the Beach Boys? Who stole my Daisy Air Rifle?

This message has been brought to you by an opponent of progress, one who prefers the meme:
The future lies ahead--and what to do about them!

Wednesday, July 30, 2014


   Once upon a time, not so very long ago in the overall scheme of things, there lived a teenage chicken who called herself Beatrice. All the other chickens in the henhouse referred to her as Gloria, but Beatrice was the only name she used when remarking upon herself. Around the farm, Beatrice was consider a good chicken, one who laid her eggs without much grumbling and one who cleaned up after herself without being prodded.
   The owner of the farm within which the henhouse resided was one Wilma Hackett. Despite her name, Farmer Hackett had the reputation for being a progressive farmer and it was not unusual for her to allow her best-behaved free range hens to take occasional unsupervised field trips. Now Wilma Hackett thought herself quite enlightened with such a policy, and indeed it did result in a considerable gaiety to the surface expressions of the chickens who lived there. However, on occasion a defiant chicken would fail to return to the henhouse before the curfew fell. When that happened, Farmer Hackett forgot all about being progressive and instead sent her hired hands out to bring the delinquent chicken home--dead or alive.
   Shortly after the once upon a time began, Beatrice accepted a day pass from a hired hand named Rudy. Wilma Hackett rarely if ever bothered with this type of assignment herself. She felt that delegation was the key to authority.
    "Where ya headed, Gloria?" Rudy asked with an air of indifference.
   "We shall see," answered Beatrice. Those three words were among this chicken's very favorites and so saying them she sauntered down the lane that led in and out of the Hackett Farm. She passed the rusty old mailbox next to the red tube on a stick that the paperboy filled with unreadable newspapers. An enormous oak tree made a gentle bow as Beatrice halted and started, her neck bobbing to the rhythm of the song within her head. She did not know the name of the song, although she often had heard the melody coming from Wilma Hackett's transistor radio. 
    A mere two miles down Orchard Trail, Beatrice came upon an old sign tacked to a fencepost beside a short road that appeared to lead to another farm. Beatrice clucked with delight at the prospects of meeting some new friends. Perhaps these chickens, she thought, might call her Beatrice instead of Gloria. She had no particular objection to the name Gloria. In fact, it had a lovely ring to it. The problem was that her own name was Beatrice and it seemed strange to her that the belligerent chickens with which she resided could not get that fact through their pointy little heads.
   "We shall see," Beatrice said to herself.
   Now Beatrice was quite an intelligent chicken, as chickens go, and while she did have the psychological wherewithal to hum a tune inside her mind, she had never developed the ability to read. Had young Beatrice been blessed with that power, she might have changed her mind about approaching the new plantation in search of friendship. But that was not the way this particular day was to go. So she halted and started her merry way beyond the sign that said "Cruelty Chicken Factory," down the dusty and brief road until she came within earshot of what was the unmistakable sound of many hens clucking away for all they were worth.
    "We shall see! We shall see!" chimed in Beatrice, for although she was indeed intelligent, as chickens go, those were the only human words she had learned to make. She felt her wings flutter in the breeze and allowed herself a bit of vanity, knowing the sunlight reflecting from her stark white feathers made people stand up and take notice.
   Yet the delight in her breast soon diminished.
   The closer she came, the worse things looked.
   Cage after cage after cage sat crammed next to one another, stacked so high and wide and deep that it was as if a giant ocean had opened up and poured out tin wire crosses. Inside each cage squatted a young chicken, each one looking considerably younger than Beatrice, herself just a teenager. The hens could not turn around, they could not stand up, they could not tilt their heads from one side to the other. In Beatrice's sudden fit of horror she inadvertently cackled at the wonder of how these poor birds could so much as relieve themselves. 
   When she cackled, it was as if every chicken on this factory farm had suddenly gone mute. From their jagged heads the eyes of the caged birds sought out the source of the strange sound. What Beatrice did not know was that none of these animals had ever made such a sound, not once in their lives. A cackle is a sound reserved for chickens who have known freedom. None of them had ever heard, much less seen, a free bird in all their very short lives.
   The silence did not last long. Soon the hens were back to clucking and whistling, having just that quickly forgotten all about the sight and sound of Beatrice. Our teenage chicken cocked her head in wonder. Because she had been raised as a free range chicken, Beatrice had never before encountered stupid chickens. Oh, she had encountered many different types of chickens: belligerent chickens, homely chickens, fussy chickens, smartypants chickens, and once in a while she had even observed defiant chickens. Those were the ones who sooner rather than later found their necks stretched across Wilma Hackett's chopping block. But never in her life had Beatrice ever considered the possibility that there might be such a thing as a stupid chicken. For just an instant she allowed herself to feel a wee bit smug, a wee bit superior. Then that feeling fled. She began to recall hearing Rudy the farm hand talking to some of the other men and women about something he called a Chicken Factory. Rudy said that a few years back he had worked in such a place. He had gone on to say that in such places the owners would allow the flocks to inter breed, to eat one another's dung, and worst of all, the owners would give the birds shots of something called hormones. Beatrice did not know what that word meant, but the way Rudy had described it, these hormone shots made very young hens grow up fast and become very docile. Again, Beatrice did not know the meaning of the word docile, but she suspected it might mean that these birds were simply stupid. She shuddered at the magnitude of the sight before her.
   As Beatrice strained to see if there were actually an end to the rows and rows of caged chickens, her concentration--which was quite good, as chickens go--was broken by the sound of a mechanical motor. The sound reminded her of sounds she had heard while listening to Wilma Hackett's television set. But this was much louder. The roar was so loud that all the other chickens whistled and shrieked as best they could. Beatrice felt a shriek welling up inside her too, but she had the presence of mind to stifle herself. 
   Tilting her head skyward, she observed a large silver crane with a series of hooks attached to the end. The crane lowered the hooks down onto a tall stack of cages and in mere seconds many of those cages--Beatrice was smart, as chickens go, but she could not count beyond three--pulled away from the others and were roughly placed onto something she was fairly certain was called a conveyor belt. Once released from the crane, the cages were carried by the belt into some type of big barn. No lights shined inside the barn so Beatrice could not see what happened. But she did see the huge crane swing back around for more cages. She stood watching this activity for several minutes, feeling kind of confused about what was going on. She felt the words "We shall see" about to form in her throat but she held them back. 
    From inside the darkness of the barn arose a flash of light. The flash flickered out as quickly as it had come. But it had lasted long enough for Beatrice to see what was going on.
    In that instant of flashing light, she saw exactly what was happening to those chickens.
   She turned on her claws and ran. She couldn't run very fast because every time she reached what felt like a good speed she would lose her balance and fall on her face. So she halted and started, halted and started, puffing in her chest, pushing herself forward with her wings, yet not being quite able to fly. 
   In the distance she could see the end of what had earlier seemed like a very short road. She could just make out the back of that old sign tacked to the fence. She could feel a sense of safety welcoming her mere seconds away. Then she heard a human male shout, "Harvey! Hey, Harvey! We got one of 'em gettin away from us!" 
   She fell forward and landed smack on her beak. 
   "Aw, she ain't gettin away from nobody, Earl. Watch this!"
   Beatrice had exceptional hearing, for a chicken, and as she lay face down on that dusty road, she heard the swish of a hatchet fly very close over her backside. A second later she looked up and saw the tool sticking out of the ground just inches from her. 
   That was all it took. Beatrice picked herself up, spun around toward the two men who were staring at her and, with as much coordination as she could muster, walked toward them. 
   Wilma Hackett watched a lot of cartoons on her television set. Her very favorite, Beatrice knew, was something called Popeye the Sailor. This Popeye character had a saying he liked to use, and those same words filled Beatrice's mind like big city neon. "Dat's all I can stands, an I can't stands no more!"
   Beatrice did not quite know what those words meant, but she intuited that they possessed some sort of onomatopoeiac resonance, and the force of them filling her head gave her tremendous audacity. 
   The two mouth-breathing men appeared to be typical farm hands, simply there to do a job and not much looking for trouble. Well, Beatrice thought, trouble had found them anyway. "We shall see," she bellowed. "We shall see!"
   Hearing the teenage chicken talk just as plain as a summer day, the two farm hands, Harvey and Earl, stepped back away from the oncoming hen. "Hey now, little lady. You don't need to get sore," one of them said.
   "Naw," added the other one. "Tweren't nothin' personal, ya see."
   "See? We shall see!" screamed Beatrice as she found the flight in her wings and soared over to the men's feet.
   Most chickens can peck when they are riled. Beatrice had never really felt the need until now. Later she would consider that she had made up for lost time. Before she was finished with Harvey and Earl, she had pecked their feet and legs bloody. One of the men had fallen over backwards, so Beatrice gave that guy a few choice pecks on his arms and chest for good measure. The other man ran away, leaving a series of thin blood trails behind him. He hollered something about calling the police. 
    Our suddenly brave young chicken turned to make her escape, but the horror of the earlier sight had stayed with her. She knew that if she didn't do something about it right now, her dreams would be cluttered with images of murder. (If you don't think chickens dream, then you've never watched one sleep. They do the rapid eye movement thing even more often than your average human.) 
   Beatrice halted and started her way over to the first endless row of cages. Beginning with the very first cage on the bottom of all the mountains of piles of cages, she slipped her beak inside the latch, hooked the door open, and motioned for the frightened bird inside to come on out. Rather than wait for the tiny chicken to make its escape, Beatrice moved on to the next cage and opened that one's door as well, on and on, and within a few minutes she had opened more than three cage doors. (Whenever the number was four or five or twenty-two thousand or anything more than three, Beatrice just referred to it as more than three.) When after a very long time she had completely unlocked and freed all the chickens on the first endless row of cages, she turned to admire her accomplishment. Yet her pride hit the dirty field when she saw that not one of the freed animals had ventured out of the opened cages. Each of them just stood there, scrunched over, staring straight ahead, unwilling to advance.
   Beatrice wanted to scream at them all, to tell the stupid chickens that they were free, what was wrong with them, why didn't they run away? But those words would not come and somehow "We shall see" felt a bit inadequate to the situation. 
   With her heart and head hanging low, young Beatrice left the Cruelty Chicken Factory. She halted and started without much sense of purpose down the brief road, turned back down Orchard Trail and returned to Wilma Hackett's property. 
   She stepped around Rudy who was still leaning where he had been when she had last seen him. 
   "Back kinda early, ain't ya, Gloria?"
   She turned and shouted, "The name's Beatrice, you dumb Okie!"
   Rudy stared for an instant, then placed his thumb inside his mouth and hurried away like a child running from a spanking.
   Beatrice never laid another egg after that day. She also never accepted another day pass. Instead, she took her time rolling out to nibble at the seed the men threw her and the other chickens. After a time, Beatrice grew blump. In most cases that meant that Wilma Hackett would send one of her men out to slaughter the chicken for food. But nobody ever laid a hand on Beatrice. And no one, not one person or even one chicken, ever again called her Gloria.