Back From The Edge

Back From The Edge
by Ensley Hill
08/29/2011, 8:20 PM #

Sometimes not knowing what the future holds is a bit of luck in itself. If I had known just over 4 months ago that diabetes, a heart attack, and a blod clot would have taken off both of my legs just below the knees and almost cost me my life, I would have been much more despondent and much less cheerful and optimistic than I now am.

When the doctor told me that in his opinion saving my legs would be impossible and that he was at present trying to save my life. "Let's do it, then," I replied; what else was there to say? It certainly wasn't welcome news, by any stretch but really, at that point I was pretty depressed, and in pain, and I was thinking, "What difference does it make, my life is over anyhow." For the first few weeks many people, including me, had doubts about whether I would live, and at that point I didn't even really care.

For the first 3 weeks or so I was receiving a shot of morphine every 3 hours and sometimes arguing for more. I had never experienced such pain nor for so long. The drgs caused occasional halicinations and weird dreams. But shortly thereafter my body kicked in and fought back, beginning to become actively involved in the healing process in a way I could feel and appreciate and the care and medicine added to that to greatly slacken the frequency and severity of the pain and speed up the healing and stregthening process. My mood and comfort dramaticly improved and I was quickly advanced to rehab in Halifax and trained to become proficient with the wheelchair, to the point where I now live alone in my new wheelchair-accessible place in privacy and confidence although the medical and home care people still check on me to monitor my general health and transitional progress.

Some friends, relatives, and health care professionals have made serveral comments throughout my healing and readjustment process about my courage, and good spirits and attitudes, etc, and I certainly appreciate the compliments, but really I was just accepting what I could not change, trying to keep the suffering and dispair to myself as much as possible, and then when the pain abated, little by little, and my healing and strength improved, I was really in good spirit and feeling upbeat, realizing my luck in being alive, relatively healthy and able to enjoy my life and life independently with few discomforts apart from havinf no legs and being confined to a wheechair. I have a decent place to live, an electric wheelchair and a hi-speed internet connection. I sometimes tell people that most times now I don't feel handicapped, I feel privileged. So many people in the world, even healthy people, are not nearly so lucky or so comfortable.

And now that I've finished making homemade bread and homemade soup and am settled at the computer here to whine and dine, indulge me a bit further while I count my blessings. Thank my lucky stars that I live in a fabulous country, Canada, with an awesome universal healthcare program filled throughout with professional, compasionate people from the abulance attendants (paramedics) to the doctors annd nurses, to the interns and student nurses. These wonderful people were amazingly helpful patient and supportive throughout my 4+ months in the hospital. I think that a civilized society is measured by its treatment and respect for all its citizens and that Canada is the champion by leaps and bounds. I realized the cash-crunch problem and the need to pay for the social net and administer it prudently and efficiently but our system is 2 notches above great and I hope we can save it and keep it sustainable.

Of equal importance and relevance to me, is the value, loyalty, and compassion of my friends and family. I had lots of visitors throughout my stay and they continue to do so even now. This is also true of my online, specifically Fray, friends, whose emotional and material support was so unexpected and heartwarming that it actually brought me to tears, and I'm not one easily moved to tears (a weakness prrhaps, I'm not bragging about it). I could say more about those Fray friends but they wish to keep the matter private and I respect their wishes. My family ans lifelong friends continuously exceeded my high opinions of them and were a bastion of strong support. I am exceedingly blessed in the quality of my friends and family, beyond anything I can verbally express. They were my tower of power in times of trouble. I have better friends and family than I deserve. I feel sorry for those who don't.

So, as for me, I am doing well and feeling fine. I'm a stronger and more grateful man than that guy who went to the hospital in an ambulance some 4 months ago. I hope all is well with you and yours.

An Elegant Argument, Simplified.
by skitch
03/19/2010, 3:17 AM #

Perhaps some of you have trouble following the subtle (read "torturous and convoluted") arguments of the more colorful members of our zany cast of characters. I've asked my good friend Dave Goldberg (Rube Goldberg's half-Jewish half-brother) to diagram a sample argument to help clarify things. I'm not entirely certain he was the right guy to ask...


Passing Jew (A) casts shadow on photovoltaic cell (B) interrupting current to electromagnet (C) holding ironic weight (D). Weight falls on seesaw (E) flinging can of paint (F) onto dreaming bird (G), startling her awake and causing her to drop fecal matter (H) on picture of Jerzy Kosinski (I). Picture topples and falls on scissors (J) cutting string allowing pin (K) to pop balloon (L). Alarmed by the sudden noise, cuddly little lamb (M) runs away, pulling crossbow trigger (N) and firing bolt into copyright notice. Copyright symbol (O) is dislodged and falls on painted bird who (finally fed up with the serial indignities) flies to new perch on dynamite plunger (P) where she begins loudly scolding all passersby. Plunger is pushed down by her weight causing explosion that collapses twin towers (Q).

Quick!! To the Thumbpuppet Mobile.

Quick!! To the Thumbpuppet Mobile.
by Schmutzie
06/20/2009, 3:45 PM #

The Greatest Generation

The Greatest Generation
by skitch
05/11/2009, 10:34 PM #

"Drink your water, Bob." My voice is playfully stern, but I'm smiling at the incongruity of ordering this man around.

Bob grins back at me, and, trite as it sounds, his eyes have an honest-to-god twinkle. His grin is wide and inviting. You know the old joke about finding someone's picture in the dictionary? Bob's picture is right there next to "affable". We have to remind him to drink his water because he's collapsed twice now while on vacation: once in Maui, once in Tahoe. Dehydration. The second collapse required a day of hospitalization.

His doctor had admonished him the last time. "You let yourself get too dehydrated, Bob. It'll kill you if you're not careful."

But we still have to remind him or he just won't remember. He can't conceive of his body ever failing him. In his mind he's still 25 years old. The open-mouthed grin is an imp's smile, brimming with the promise of mischief. The teeth are mostly his and somewhat worse for nearly 90 years of wear, but the grin is a contagious one anyway, sculpting his eyes into a permanent, knowing wink. Bob has a way about him that makes you believe you're sharing a joke, a secret, that you're conspiring with him in a perfectly-executed prank moments from its denouement. His ears and eyebrows are both large and bushy (I'm reliably informed by my daughter that these are sure signs of great age). His hair is that rich snowy white I hope my own gray hair will turn out to be when I'm pushing a century rather than the gunmetal gray presently infiltrating my temples and sideburns. His shoulders are stooped now, his spine curved, and the top of his head barely reaches my chin. But he has the easy confident air of a man a good foot taller. His gait is slow but resolute, shaped by the hip replacement without which he wouldn't be able to walk at all. And though his step is slow I sometimes think he could easily outwalk me if challenged. If he stays hydrated, that is. We keep checking in with him to make sure he stays on top of it.

Lieutenant Robert Lucas, Naval Aviator, runs preflight on his F4U Corsair. He can't conceive of his training or his reflexes ever failing him. But even so, he and all his squadron mates take the maintenance of their aircraft very seriously. Nothing wrong with a reality-based foundation to back up your youthful sense of invulnerability. Lt. Lucas is a young man with close-cropped black hair. He and his buddies are all swagger and attitude, part of the most powerful war machine ever assembled in the history of warfare. There's something both thrilling and sobering about that idea that keeps Lucas hovering somewhere between pride and humility. It's a necessary mindset when you're about the business of saving the world.

Today he's flying a routine CAP, or Combat Air Patrol. Again. Although he has accumulated hundreds of hours of flight time running support and escort missions, he has yet to actually see a Zero, or any other enemy aircraft for that matter. For now, his exec has signaled the go sign. "Mount up!"

"Drink up, Bob!" I have to speak loudly. His wits are as sharp as ever but sometimes he looks a little befuddled because he couldn't follow the last few minutes of conversation. It's not that he couldn't understand it, it's just that he couldn't hear it. Sometimes he'll contribute an idea to the ongoing discussion that has already been brought up. If you aren't paying attention this might leave you with a mistaken impression about his frailty and his command of his faculties.

We're strolling through the afternoon heat in Palm Springs. Triple digit temperatures, "but it's a dry heat!" The very infrastructure here resonates with the ghosts of Bob's generation: Bob Hope Drive, Gene Autry Trail, Dinah Shore Drive. And for all that he never actually lived here, except in passing, Bob's personal knowledge base is chock full of local trivia. But that seems to be the case wherever he is. This man has accumulated two lifetime's worth of knowledge and he can seemingly tap it at will. He's even more animated than usual and his excitement is evident. He's assumed the role of host and entertainer for the trip, channeling his heroes. "Sinatra used to eat in this restaurant every weekend; he and Ava Gardner used to shoot out streetlights and store windows just for the hell of it. Liberace lived just up the way here. He had a swimming pool shaped like a piano. Not here, mind you, but in Vegas... Eisenhower went missing from here for a whole day once. They say that's when he was whisked off to make first contact with the aliens. Can you imagine?" He chuckles at the absurdity of aliens palavering with the president in the desert. "I wonder what their golf handicap was?"

In my mind's eye I can see him 40, 50 years younger in a dinner jacket, holding a scotch and a cigarette in one hand and punctuating his conversation with the other. He reminds me of Dino, but without the undercurrent of narcissistic entitlement. He still has a scotch every night (the finer the better, though that's not a requirement). It occurs to me that I've no idea whether he ever smoked. He almost certainly did. Everyone of his generation did. Growing up in that time, a time of historic economic and global instability, they had to grow up faster and embrace their self determination much sooner than their parents did.

Flying a CAP role means your flight has a great deal of tactical flexibility within the assigned objective area. The young men of Lt. Lucas' flight are no different than any other unit marshaled for a martial purpose. That means they're hungry to engage something. Anything. They have to resist the urge to linger on that side of their objective area closest to active combat operations. Predictability is considered a bad thing in time of war and your really top-notch enemies rarely oblige. They dutifully patrol the entirety of their assigned area.

CAP can be mind-numbingly boring, with long periods of rote activity only occasionally punctuated by short bursts of excitement when something out of the ordinary occurs, an unidentified contact, a mechanical malfunction, whatever. Today is no different. There's not even that hoped-for "something out of the ordinary" to break the monotony. Lucas' flight consumes their alloted fuel and mission time and wheels about to return home.

If he's going to save the world, it won't be today.

The world needs more men like Bob. He makes friends with a facility I might envy if I weren't a direct beneficiary. He looks for areas of common interest and rarely has trouble finding some because his own interests are so broad. What can a man his age possibly have in common with a 14 year-old kid? And yet he and my son are fast friends, walking together every morning when we're visiting and emailing one another when we're back home. I treasure the exposure to wisdom and responsibility that his friendship with my son represents. I hope it mitigates the contempt for the elderly that seems to afflict so many kids my son's age. Hell, that afflicts so many kids my age.

He never talks about the war. I only know a scrap of his story because my son interviewed him for the Veterans History Project. I'm going to make it my mission to find out more about his personal history. Somehow I feel that remembrance is the least I owe him.

His has been called the Greatest Generation. Knowing him, I can easily believe it.

skitch

A Beautiful Woman

A Beautiful Woman
by TheBell
05/08/2009, 9:41 AM #

In Memory of My Mother (1/2/1928 – 5/5/2009) on this First Mother’s Day without Her

When we were arranging for my mother’s funeral, one of the decisions we needed to make was whether to have an open or closed casket. There were arguments for both options. We knew people would want to see mother again, especially if they had not seen her recently, and it would help provide closure for them. On the other hand, my mother was always a private person, who could be more than a little self-conscious about her appearance.

However, my father was adamant that it be open and one thing factored above all others into his decision. “I want people to see her,” he told my sister and me, “because your mother was a beautiful woman.”

And, of course, my father was absolutely right.

It caused me to think about exactly what made my mother beautiful. She was obviously physically beautiful. I doubt most people who saw her walking down the street would have guessed her to be in her eighties. The problem with physical beauty alone, however, is that individual tastes vary so greatly.

The old saw runs that a man does not fall in love with a woman because she is beautiful; rather she becomes beautiful because he has fallen in love with her. This sentiment is sweet in its way but also somewhat condescending to both the man and woman involved. My father did not mean that my mother was beautiful to him alone but to the world. He was not expressing a subjective opinion but stating an objective fact.

Psychologists did an interesting study once in which they superimposed the image of one human face on top of another and then another and another. Over time, the features of all the different faces tended to smooth out and create an average, “normal” human face. Surprisingly, the psychologists found that most people viewing the composite face found it more beautiful than most/all of the individual faces making it up. The more faces added to the composite, regardless of their relative attractiveness, the more beautiful the composite became.

From this, I suppose we can deduce everyone has some beauty in them but that also seems trite when compared to what my father was saying. He was not calling my mother a “little beautiful” or “sort of beautiful.” Instead, he was saying she was breathtakingly, souldrenchingly beautiful. So the question remains as to the source of her beauty.

The novelist Thomas Wolfe once remarked, “There is no sight on earth more beautiful than that of a woman cooking dinner for someone she loves.” I think he begins to capture my mother’s unique beauty with this observation. The point here is not some outdated ideal of feminine domesticity but the act of selfless love involved. Some of my earliest memories of my mother are her fixing dinner for our family, so that a meal would be on the table when my father got home from his job.


My mother took enormous pride in her home and her family. In many ways, she defined herself by them. She always worked hard to keep our home clean and attractive, a characteristic she inherited from her own mother. However, she tried to go beyond this and imbue it with her own flair and sense of style, a gift she passed on in great measure to my sister.

My mother took pride in her home as she took pride in her own appearance. But just as she was never vain about the former, so it was always more important that family and guests be comfortable in her home than impressed by it. This is one aspect of a beautiful woman – she can make the barest hovel seem like a palace but also make the most grandiose yet sterile palace seem warm and inviting. My mother could do this because my mother was a beautiful woman.

She was never ostentatious or addicted to the style of the moment. Her tastes were classic and plain. She preferred pewter to silver and beige to gold. However, she always admired and cherished quality, care, and craftsmanship in anything she owned.

I think she understood people were like that as well. Ornamentation and frills bought by wealth were mere facades that could rust and tarnish and peel away but real quality in a person or a thing remained and improved with age instead of diminishing from it. She wanted her children and her grandchildren to be people of quality.

There was one big difference in my mother’s approach to her home versus her family. She was never entirely satisfied with her house, constantly changing, rearranging, and improving it. With her children and grandchildren, however, she was always content with them just the way we were.

She was a mother, so she set rules and standards. She could ask us, “You’re not going out dressed like that, are you?” Yet if we were wise enough to go back upstairs and change our outfit to her approval, she would then tell us with absolute sincerity, “You’ll be the best-looking one there” – not because she believed she was perfect and infallible but because she believed we were wonderful.

Perhaps this came from her own experience. My mother was an only child, raised principally by a single parent, her mother, my grandmother. They were not rich and other aspects of her childhood were less than ideal. Yet rather than succumb to these shortcomings, she chose to rise above them because my mother was a beautiful woman.

If she had lacked money, she would make up for it with a strong sense of self-worth and personal style. If she had ever felt afraid or unloved, she would be the strong rock for her family, sheltering them from the world’s woes and evils.

My mother loved Christmas above all other holidays. She did everything to make Christmas as magical as possible, especially for the children in the family. The sociologist Robert Lynd once said, “Were I a philosopher, I should write a treatise arguing that Christmas Day in the company of children is one of the rare occasions during which adults become entirely alive.” My mother was no reader of philosophy but she would understand this premise implicitly because my mother was a beautiful woman.


My mother was one of the best listeners I have ever known. You could tell her about your victories or your defeats, your hopes or your fears. You could speak seriously or excitedly or just plain nonsense to her – she would simply smile and you knew that you were loved but, what was more, you knew that someone believed in you absolutely. She could do that because my mother was a beautiful woman.

Another beautiful woman, named Alice Foote MacDougall, wrote the following words in 1928, the year of my mother’s birth. They might well have served as a creed for her life.

“It is . . . to my children [that] I owe my very being. In attempting to fulfill my duty to them as a mother, I met the challenge of their helplessness, their innocence, their dependence. Despising cowardice in others, I wished to prove myself no coward. Believing in the good, the gentle, the beautiful things of life, I addressed myself to the sweet duty of keeping these attributes for my children’s sake and my own. And in striving to provide a living for them, I found success in creating a life for myself beyond my wildest dreams.”

True beauty, it seems, does not sit in the window of a high tower, admired by adoring crowds below. Like love, it reaches it highest fulfillment when it comes down to Earth and walks among us. It is like that composite photograph, with the beauty of the individual adding to the greater beauty of the whole.

My mother walked among us for eighty-one years. We have said goodbye to
her Earthly body but we know she can never be really gone from us. So much of her heart remains behind because she gave it so freely to others; most of all to my father, who loved her and whom she loved for over fifty-three years. But their love did not end with her death nor will it end entirely with his. For true love, like true beauty, transcends the grave and abides by the strength of those inner qualities my mother so admired.

In his Essay on Beauty, Ralph Waldo Emerson declares, “Beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. Every natural action is beautiful. Every decent act is heroic and causes both the place and the bystanders around its occurrence to shine.” My mother shone for eight decades and she still shines within the hearts to which she gave so abundantly and unreservedly of her own.

My father was absolutely right. My mother was . . . my mother is a beautiful woman. The greatest proof of that is the way I and countless others during her lifetime were ourselves made more beautiful by having known her, and having loved her, and having been loved by her.

Let your beauty sleep now, mother. Let it rest until all the shadows pass away that obscure our vision of it. Let it slumber until each of us are ready, in our own time, to see it fully again. For now we see it as though through a glass darkly or in a mirror dimly . . . but then, once more face to face. Until then, Rest in Peace.

Frog Fever

Frog Fever
by catnapping
05/02/2009, 10:35 AM #

For four months every four years, our dad, like every other Airman in the 9th SRW, was rotated to Kadena in Okinawa. In 1966, Dad's rotation coincided with summer vacation. He'd been to Okinawa a couple a times already, fixing problems...whatever. But this was different. This was four whole months - in a row.
The Summer of 66 ended with a tally of 4 plaster casts; 102 stitches; 2 concussions; 4 visits from the Air Police (APs); 3 from the base ambulance. And at least 12 trips to the Base Hospital's emergency room.

What could I title these visits? Magic Stick v. Bees; Kid v. Barbed Wire; 2 Kids v. Skateboard and Innocent Bystander; Kid v. Tree; Other Kid v. Tree; Kid v. Neighbor's Fence; Kid v. Not-a-Rattlesnake-After all; Kid v. Bike...every week a new crisis, a new versus.

The Skateboard Incident certainly might have been the most exciting for the neighborhood. It left two of my brothers in casts, and the lady next door in an arm sling. Dwayne, whose left foot was already in a heavy bandage protecting 54 stitches (still a family record), broke his right foot. And Patrick, who had already broken his right arm riding his bike into the Gorgone's fence, now had an additional 2 broken fingers on that hand, and had to be fitted with a brand new cast. From all accounts this was Mrs. Brittany's first time getting knocked on her ass that year.

But I think my first anecdote should start before then - with our first visit from the Air Police (APs). An introduction of sorts. The Beale Air Force Base’s Discovery of Our Family. It isn't really a full story on its own...which I guess would make it more of a chapter, more like something that could have been written with a spectacular sort of climax, but in real life ended more with a tired, oh hell, let's just go back to bed.

At this point, we'd only been to the ER twice, and neither visit had resulted in stitches. It was still early June. I'd wiped out on my bike, and Patrick had been stung by several bees defending their home from the Magic Stick that must have poked their hive. He was just in the area. They must have thought he did it.

So how to start...where exactly does it start?

Base Housing at Beale was parked in the foothills of the Sierras. I could write 'nestled,' but it's not as though the interface was anything but abrupt.

We lived at the edge of Wildness. Our street defined the boundary between Imagined Perils and Obsessive Order. Our front yard was a perfect 4-cornered patch of weed-free, greenish bermuda grass, bordered on 3 sides with flawless strips of gleaming concrete. And our backyard was an exotic cosm of cliffs, caves, and condors. Abandoned mines and mountain lions. Rattlesnakes, blue-bellied lizards, golden eagles, and golden grasses of wild oat. As far as the eye could see, one hill rolled into another...all the way to Nevada.

Apart and together, my brothers and I spend our days exploring. Supplied with jars of frozen water, peanut butter sandwiches, and readied coffee cans, we ventured farther and deeper into the foothills, often leaving at daybreak, not to be seen again till suppertime.

These daily treks usually resulted in the relocation of captured reptiles - sleeping lizards mostly, warmed in our palms, calmed by the nearly constant stroking of their smooth bellies. Snakes were common, too - my favorites, actually. I'd bring them home curled around my neck. Most of these critters were released at the back door. It was strictly verboten to bring anything from the field indoors that wasn't first trapped in a jar, a can, or a box. This included all manner of reptiles, amphibians and bugs. And in case I forget to tell you later - shoebox lids mean absolutely nothing to snakes.

Now this isn't to say that no free reptiles made it into the house. Some just found their way in. Mrs. Gorgone had to call the APs once when she found a rattler curled up in her dryer. And who's to say how many lizards made it past the border guard in pockets and sleeves, forgotten by accident or by design. Certainly, there were several loose in our rooms. We offered them sanctuary in our sock drawers. And many times we'd set them to sun and sleep on the windowsill for as long as they wanted.

It was always a mystery to us how they found their way into the central heating-and-air system or into Mom's bedroom. Her startled shrieks in the background were as normal to us as the TV or radio. At this point in time, there was already one snake and one (or more) lizards unaccounted for. The lizard count was always a point of contention. With each sighting the neck colours were described differently, but then temperature changes could account for that. So no one really knew. It could be just one fella or as many as half a dozen.

It was universally accepted, though, that there was only the (one) Loose Snake. The one who got out of his shoebox. He was 41 inches long. We'd measured him in the field before we'd even brought him home. And we figured he was probably bigger than that by now, what with all the loose food living in our house.
So.

Patrick and the Night of the 30 Frogs.

Not all of our pocket pets were lizards. Patrick had a thing for frogs. In the spring he and I would look for frog eggs, and bring them home to hatch…and more often than that, we’d bring home tadpoles in our water jars. We'd watch them morph into frogs, and then take them to the creek just down the hill from our house.

During the summer Patrick was never without a frog in his pocket, and while the rest of us were petting lizards, he was hand-feeding bugs to his frogs. While our coffee cans held lizards or small snakes, his almost always held something his frogs might like to eat.

I'm not sure what Patrick was thinking that evening in early June, but unbeknownst to us, he came to supper with a 3-pound coffee can filled to the brim with little frogs.

He set it next to his chair, and went to wash his hands. When supper was over, he set the can up on his chair. But then he forgot about it. And none of us gave it any notice. I mean, there were 3-pound cans were everywhere in our house. Even Mom used them. She had a forest of avocado saplings growing in coffee cans lined up against the patio door.

Fast forward past a routine summer evening of dishes, TV, bickering, baths, and pajamas to around 2am. The house would have been pretty quiet. The mammals, at any rate, would have been sleeping.

It must have been the frogs that woke me. Or maybe it was my cat, Mr. Magoo, poised on the edge of the bed, quivering. I rolled over, and there on the floor were two little frogs next to my bed and another in the doorway. needeep.

I slipped out of bed, and they quieted. That's when I heard the others...in the distance. I poked my head into the hallway to find 4 more. And as I stepped out, the frogs in my room started to ribbit again, while these frogs in the hallway stopped.

4 more were on the stairs...and just like the ones in the bedroom and in the hall proper, they stopped and started as I tread past them.

I got down the stairs and found frogs everywhere: on the couch; on the TV; on the dining room chairs...on Mom's dining room table!

Patrick’s coffee can lay on the floor next to his chair, the lid opened enough to make a sort of lean-to roof. The can was empty. I grabbed the two frogs on the table first, and then as I reached for the one on Pat's chair, it jumped away. I tried to grab him mid-air and missed, knocking over the chair and dropping the can.

That noise apparently woke our dog, because she started barking from the safety of Dwayne's room. But of course, that woke Mom. "Shut up, Cinders!"

But then once Cinders stopped barking, Mom could hear the frogs...and Pat, sotto voce, "oh shit."

It wasn't exactly a thundering stampede...more like a windy wooosh, as the entire household made its way to join me down in the living-dining area. Lights came on as hands passed switches on the walls. First the bedrooms, then the hall. And now the entire first floor. A Roman candle on the edge of Base Housing.

Mom told us all to grab an empty can. But there were no empty cans. So Hugh and Dwayne grabbed Pat’s bug cans, and emptied them on the front porch. (Ya know, looking back, that might have been a little noisy.) And in their hurry to get back in and catch frogs, they forgot to close the door.

Mostly it's hard to recall with total accuracy just what went down. Someone bumped into the floor lamp next to Mom's reading chair, and when it crashed to the floor, its glass bowl and light bulb all broke. (That might have been noisy too, since the doors were open.) Also, Hugh knocked against a picture frame and broke the glass out of it. And I remember dishes crashing in the kitchen, but I can’t think who might have been out there. Everyone had to run out to the porch and put on our boots so we wouldn't cut our feet, and Mom made us lock Cinders up in one of the bedrooms with Mr. Magoo.

There were shrieks, yelling, laughing, scolding from Mom. Mayhem and Chaos. And of course, Cinders spent half the time upstairs freaking out over the noise we were making.

There were still more than a couple a dozen frogs jumping around loose when the doorbell rang. We all looked over to see an AP standing in the open doorway, pistol on his hip, like a real cop. Mom went over to answer. She was in her baggy green calico pajamas. But I think it was her hair that the Airman spent most of his time trying not to look at. Mom always slept with her hair entirely in pincurls – dozens of tight little spirals of hair about an inch in diameter, anchored to her skull with two crossed bobby pins apiece. After an hour of reaching and ducking under and behind chairs, tables, and cupboards, some of her curls had loosened. Maybe 20 or so...a little bit, so that the bobby pins were swinging out and bumping back, every time she moved her head.

Parked in our driveway was a dark blue Dodge pickup, standard-issue vehicle for the Air Police. The driver was still behind the wheel, probably the ranking Airman - which would have made him what, an E-4? The Airman in our doorway was an E-2. At the time, I would have seen him as a grown up, but looking back, he can't have been more than 18 years old.

I'm trying to imagine what he must have thought looking past mom's swinging bobby pins. Every light in the house on; both the front and back doors wide open; the floor glittering with broken glass and broken dishes; dining chairs on the dining table; dining chairs on the couch; the coffee table up-ended; mom's leafy avocado trees - all on their sides, pushed up against the patio door; the TV pushed up against the stairs...every piece of furniture so obviously cattywhompus; and the bunch of us standing motionless in pajamas and rainboots, each holding a shiny, green MJB coffee can.

One of the frogs ribbited, and another jumped past the AP as he cleared his throat, and asked no one in particular, " Is, uh, everything okay here?"

Mom answered. "We're okay. My son brought home some frogs, and they got loose."

"How many frogs?"

Mom looked at Patrick, "How many frogs?"

Patrick looked at the Airman’s pistol, " I dunno. A lot."

The Airman looked at Mom, "How many have you recaptured?"

And we all pretty much answered at the same time, "2, 3, 2, 1, 3.” Almost an hour, and all we'd captured was 11 frogs.

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till morning to find the rest, or find some quieter way to get it done.” He tried to deepen his voice. Mom wasn't impressed.
“We’re not going to get any sleep with these frogs ribbiting.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but you’re disturbing the peace. I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down.”

“Fine.”

He made one sharp nod of his head, “Thank you, Ma’am. Good night.”

“Good night.” And she shut the door.

Dwayne and I swept up the glass, and the two youngest turned back out the lights. Mom let the dog out to tinkle, and once she was done, everyone went back to bed. This time with our doors shut.

Everyone stayed home the next day. And no. There was no frog hunt. We spent most of the day righting the furniture, and buffing the scratches out of Mom’s hardwood floors. For the next week, we’d see the occasional frog, hear the odd ribbit. We figure most of them either found their own way out, or ran into the Loose Snake.

A Moment

A Moment
by artandsoul
03/05/2009, 7:37 AM #

Edith walked slowly through the automatic sliding door of Publix, making sure to put her cane down firmly with every step of her left foot. She focused on this new three step walking because she had been warned, in not-so-pleasant terms, what disaster awaited should she misstep and fall on her newly installed hip.

Dizzy for a moment from the slap of the humid air and the brightness of the sun, Edith stopped and took a deep breath. Charlie maneuvered the cart around her still form, and paused by her side.

“You okay?” He spoke softly, trying to be patient. He’d been doing the shopping for over a year, and he enjoyed his solitary traipsing up and down the aisles. Charlie thought about how his character was still being built as he wrestled with impatience these days, now that Edith had to exercise that plastic and metal contraption in her hip.

“I’m fine,” Edith breathed. “It just took my breath away, this heat did.”

Edith’s voice was low and rumbly, Charlie has always liked that. Her voice softened his irritation, just as it has done for the last fifty-six years of married life.

“Here, hang on to the side of the cart, I’ll go slow,” Charlie offered.

“No, no, I have to work with this cane. I have to get the hang of it,” Edith said. “You go on to the car, I’ll get there.”

Charlie moved carefully across the lane of traffic, looking both ways and making sure the lunchtime crowds in sedans, college students in sports cars, and moms in SUVs saw him and his cart as he inched toward the silver Buick parked in the first handicapped spot outside the exit. If the drivers slowed down for him, he reasoned, then they’d sure see Edith coming along behind.

Charlie got the groceries loaded into the trunk and shut the lid. He checked on Edith making her way across the parking lot, then he moved toward the driver’s door to get in and get the air conditioning going before helping Edith with her door.

As he glanced back at Edith, things seemed to move fast and slow at the same time.

Shuffling her way to the car, Edith caught her foot on the concrete barrier, swayed gently and then fell to the ground like a tree chopped at the root. Charlie flt the thump in his chest as her body hit the ground, as if something great had struck him in the sternum. Horror wiped his mind blank, and for a split second he froze in place. Next thing he knew he was kneeling next to Edith, looking into her face and touching her softly on the arm, searching for signs of breathing.

“Edith, Edith,” breathlessly Charlie called to her as if she were far away. “Edith, are you alright?” He felt a lump forming in his throat and tear prick his eyelids.

“Oh Lord, Charlie, oh Lord,” was all Edith could say.

Once she caught her breath, Edith strained to get up but nothing seemed to work. The veins and tendons drew taut from neck to shoulder as she lifted her head. Her feet came off the ground two or three inches as, with great exertion, she tried to upright herself. She couldn’t think. All she could do was flex muscles, any muscles, trying to make something work. Heat radiated off the black asphalt and tiny sharp edges of rock and stone bit into the flesh of her lower back where it pressed onto the pavement. Embarrassment pushed her blood pressure higher and Edith felt her bladder release. An even warmer wetness now seeped up her back.

“Oh my God, Charlie, get me up,” Edith pleaded. Tears dripped down the outsides of her eyes, into her ears.

“Yes, yes, of course, just lie here for a minute and make sure you’re okay first.” Charlie felt adrenaline pound into his head.

“Excuse me, sir, may I help?” a soft voice came out of nowhere.

“I’m fine. We’re fine,” Charlie snapped, not knowing who was talking, unable to see the young woman offering to help.

Yvonne Lee was on her way to pick up cabbages and carrots to take to work at the Rice Bowl, a Vietnamese restaurant where she worked as a chef. Her heart had leapt into her throat when she saw Eidth fall, and she had immediately rushed over to assist.

At the same time, Greg Nettles came up behind Charlie. Having parked his car, he was on his way into Publix for beer and chips. Greg had also seen Edith fall, and made a beeline toward the couple struggling on the ground.

Knowing he should be grateful for their help, Charlie just felt anger rising in his throat, replacing the sad lump with rage.

“We’re FINE!” he nearly yelled. “We’re just fine, I can do this myself.” Impotence fueled the short, fiery fit of pique and then left Charlie limp.

“Of course you are,” said Yvonne softly. Then to Edith, “Here, rest your head for a moment, ma’am,” and she gently placed her neatly folded apron under Edith’s head.

Greg squatted on the other side of Edith’s head and looked kindly into her eyes. “We’ll have you up and in the car in no time, ma’am, no need to worry.”

Edith closed her eyes.

Charlie felt the lump and the tears again. Sorrow threatened to overwhelm him. Can’t I even take care of my own wife? He moaned to himself, but he nodded at the strangers, and held Edith’s right hand.

Greg looked at Yvonne and they nodded to each other. Some kind of telepathy brought instant recognition to them, a sense of what was needed. Each gently placed a hand under Edith’s shoulders, cradling her neck and head.

“Okay, sir, you gently guide her up to standing and we’ll follow,” Greg said with tender firmness. As if on cue the three of them floated Edith to a standing position.

With her can rigidly held in her hand, Edith commanded her body to stay erect. Waves of pain in her hip, her back and her elbows nearly threatened to blot her out. She felt nausea rising from her gut with humiliation right behind. She took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“Thank you,” she said simply and quietly.

Being closest to the car, Yvonne opened the passenger door and Charlie slowly turned Edith around and guided her into the seat. Lovingly he lifted her feet and swung them into the car. He positioned the cane along the seat next to her, and carefully pulled the seatbelt across her lap, inserting the metal tip into the buckle by the console.

He cautiously withdrew from the car, and shut the door, turning to thank the strangers who had come to his aid.

They were gone.

Charlie scanned the parking lot, the entrance to Publix. Nothing. He looked down. The woman had taken her apron. Nothing remained of that moment, except a small dark puddle on the shimmering black asphalt. Soon it, too, would evaporate.

artandsoul

Stimulus

Stimulus
by Schmutzie
02/25/2009, 3:46 PM #

I posted this earlier, but pulled it because I felt like I paid too much attention to Bobby Jindal. I've reconsidered, and decided that I paid about the right attention to that twit. He's considered the fresh new voice of 47% of the voting population, which means about 47% of the population are idiots. I should have added Palin, Steele, and Huckabee to my list of up-and-comers who make the future look very bleak for the Republican party. An outfit that casts out a guy like Crist, and embraces yappers like these people clearly does not understand the zeitgeist concept..


Went to Grant Park on November 4th, and I don't think it's a stretch at all to say I witnessed history. Temps were in the mid-50s, which in and of itself was, frankly, bizarre. I think everyone there was optimistic that Barack had a good chance at victory, but the optimism was guarded. It was very edgy for the first couple of hours, due largely to all of the media predictions about swing states being critical and hotly contested. It was entirely possible in the minds of a sizable percentage of those 200,000 people, that Barack Obama might lose to John McCain.

Then, the damnedest thing happened. Pennsylvania went to Obama a lot earlier than most people in the park (and in the country, I suspect) expected. The looks on people's faces began to take on that weird "Is this shit really happening?" sort of appearance. It was a palpable shift. The buzz in Grant Park started right then. We all knew, it was going to be at the very least, a close election. You could feel it. I saw people literally hopping up and down, their hands clenched into fists. Not fists on anger or violence of course, more of the "don't know what else to do with my hands" expression of expectation. Hope.

Then, Ohio went for Obama, and that place went friggin' nuts. Bedlam. Never seen or felt anything like that before in my life. An enormous adrenaline dump. Everyone in Grant Park who'd been following the election numbers closely knew right then and there. Barack Obama is going to win. A glance at the board, some simple California calculation, and it became clear. People began screaming. Crying and laughing simultaneously. People were slapping perfect strangers on the back. We had to wait for the polls in Cal to close, and their 55 electoral votes to be cast but that was a foregone conclusion. A formality. No way Obama loses California. Bottom line from that night is that Barack Obama kicked John McCain's ass in the swing states, and that's why he's our president. Middle America, working class America, the center, call it whatever the fuck you want...their voices were heard on November 4th. Obama took the middle.

When President-elect Obama gave his acceptance speech that night, I think it left some people feeling a bit let down. Not me. I wasn't expecting the rock star speech. He didn't need to give a rock star speech. He gave a speech that spoke of hope, change, the challenge ahead, and the need to get to work. Just the speech he should have given I thought.

While Louisiana Governor Piyush "Bobby" Jindal may disagree, I think the speech President Barack Hussein Obama gave to Congress last night was more of the same. Hope, change, challenge, let's get to work, we can do this thing.

Just what we need to hear. Certainly not one of his rock star speeches, but boy can that cat string together coherent sentences. What a refreshing change to have a president I can listen to, and admire. Just the right man for the job at hand.

Jindal's complaints about the stimulus package, including increased funding/extensions of unemployment benefits for the people of Louisiana, are more than "counter-intuitive", they're just plain stupid. Not too sure what planet Jindal is living on, but I'd suggest that bringing up the government's massive failure in the wake of Katrina was also a bit of a misstep on his part, maybe more than just a bit of one. Part of what I wrote about the day after Grant Park dealt with the mountain of shit that the Bush administration left for the new administration to clean up. Jindal does understand that it was his party, the Republican party, who controlled the Executive Branch for the last 8 years, and who blundered on such a catastrophic level, doesn't he? What part of "change election" does Jindal not understand?

Whatever, screw Bobby Jindal. If he's one of the up-and-comers in the Republican party, that party has problems.

I have to say, that between Grant Park and the inauguration, some things occurred that had me feeling a bit tentative, a little less hopey. Blago and Burris, Richardson, Daschle, Reid and Durbin (cough morons cough)....it almost seemed like Obama wasn't going to get out of the gate.

But, then I watched that cabinet parade out last night, and it occurred to me that this is a formidable bunch of large-brained individuals. This could be a good team. And then I heard the dude say...."Madam Speaker, the President of the United States!" ...and I watched a young, articulate, energetic man from Chicago take the podium, and deliver what I think is one of his best speeches ever.

Hope, change, challenge, work to be done, we can do this thing. Let's get busy.

We elected the right guy. For me, it's just now sinking in.

Auld Fraye

Auld Fraye
by skitch
02/10/2009, 9:51 AM #

Stephen Kitterich sighed and pushed back exhaustedly from the workbench in his dimly lit quarters. As he climbed to his feet, he snuffed the oil lamp augmenting the anemic light that filtered through the tiny window in the wall high above. "I shall hie me to the Towne Square that I might peruse the Poste," he thought to himself. He stepped into the crisp morning air and made his way up the cobbled street, avoiding pools and piles of unidentifiable material, and waving merrily to screaming children as they pranced around him.

The Poste derived its name from a dilapidated wooden post in the center of the square to which was affixed a slab of slate covered in turn by rough-hewn boards. Every square inch of board was encrusted with multiple layers of fraying parchment. Townsfolk were encouraged to publish their thoughts and hold public discourse on the Poste. Kitterich eagerly surveyed the topmost layers looking for something new and interesting.

On the Mythe of the Diaspora
Post'd by SunGod
Know ye that it is Oft-Claimed, by those Weak of Mind, that the
Historie of the Diaspora is Writ in Stone and that the Poore Israelites
were driven in their Hundreds of Thousandes from Home and Hearth!
I have it on Unimpeachable Authority that such numbers are False
and Laugh-able! Who amonst thee, having spent even the Tiniest
Fraction of Tyme and Effort to seek the Truth, truly Believeth that
Israelites congregated in such Vast Numbers in That Place and at
That Tyme? These Townes were not Paris! These Townes were not
Lundun! Were the True Numbers one Tenth, nay, e'en one Hundredth
of these 'maginary sums, 'twould still Beggar Belief! The Truth is a
Mighty Voice sweeping all before it into the Sea. A Hue and Cry builds,
as surely as I Write these Words, that will Compel the Stone to be Re-Writ!
Nostradamus prophesied a Tyme of Flame and Retribution. Only the Blind
and Foolish can doubt that that Tyme is 'pon us! I am but a Simple Messenger!

Hark! Nostradumbass!
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Begone, foul Jack-knave! The Grande High Inquisitor wrote thee a Missive!
He Requesteth the return of his Rack!

Re: Hark! Nostradumbass!
Post'd by SunGod
Jack-knave, am I? Well thou'rt naught but a Worth-less Jackanapes!
Belyttle the good people of the Inquisitione at thy peril! Hast consider'd
that the Spanish Inquisitione mightn't be the Reason'd Response of a people
Unfairly Deceiv'd and made Victim of Fraude? Could'st not Expect such a
reaction when Reasonable Persons are thus beset?

Nobody expecteth the Spanish Inquisitione!
Post'd by WorthlessJackanapes
(I merely saith!)

When Reasonable Persons are beset?
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Thy hapless readers know well the meaning of "beset". Nay, thy unrepentant
preoccupation with the Jewe marks thee rather as one besotted. Have thee
naught of greater worth to occupy thy time than the trivial exchange of a
dullard's mad ravings 'pon the Poste? Methinks thou stealeth thy Master's
time by thy constant dalliance here.

Re: When Reasonable Persons are beset?
Post'd by SunGod
Mark me well, 'twas the Jewe caused the collapse of the Walls of Jericho
and myriad are the accounts describing their celebration and merriment
'pon its destruction! As for my Master, know thou that I have none! My time
is mine own and I've the luxury of plenty of it. I had the Foresight to adopt
the Moderne Carroting process for creating the Felt I useth to
Block out Hats for my Clientele!

Kitterich stepped back, shaking his head. "'Od's bodkin. Is there nothing new?"

Movement in his peripheral vision made him turn slightly. He watched as an anonymous, asexual figure wrapped from head to toe in shapeless, unremarkable cloth crept furtively up to the Poste, rummaged through the flyers for a moment, held a new parchment against the surface, and finally pounded a tack through it to hold it in place. Turning to leave, the figure spied Kitterich and nodded a self-conscious greeting before scampering away. Kitterich moved closer to locate the new message.

"Hmm, Post'd by MuttonStew... Alack, methinks the imp was bent 'pon new-hatch'd mischief!" Kitterich checked beneath the newest addition and followed the thread of overlapping parchments back to the first one posted. "Behold! An essay by TheKnell!"

On the Suppression of Savages in the Newe World!
Post'd by TheKnell
Storys of the Newe World arrive nigh Monthly as the Great Ships-of-the-Line
ply the King's Business 'cross the Briny Deep. 'Mongst these storys come tales
of Fearsome Savag'ry and Epic Struggle, tales of Brave Men striving 'gainst the
Darkness with the Enlightenment of Our Great Age. Tales to Enflame Pride in
Empire a'growing! And yet: also do These Tales give me Pause. For hear we also
tales of Red-Men, tales of The Other. And the Storys these Tales tell bring me
Disquiet. By all accounts these Red-Men, these Others, are much like Thee and
Me 'pon the surface but Fierce of Aspect and Unrestrain'd of Behaviour. Are we
to Believe such accounts? Similar tales Told in Years Past have been told to
Enflame more than Pride. Tales of the Moor, of the Jew, of the Turk. Tales of
Hatred and Intolerance. Likeways do these tales of the Savages of the Newe
World tell of Bloody Retribution, of the Prosecution of King's Justice by Blade
and Cross. Are not all Persons belov'd of God and entitled, as are We All, to His Grace?

Kitterich found himself nodding in agreement. "Surely TheKnell hath a pen of purest silver! For though I care not always for his words, yet ne'er do I regret having read them!" Scanning down the overlapped parchments, Kitterich sampled a few of TheKnell's respondents.

The Savages of the Newe World are but Soul-less heathen!
Post'd by FistOfGod
'Tis passing strange that thou Takest up the Defence of the Heathen. By mine
Own Lights I Opine that the Lord without doubt hath Bidden his Children take
up His work and Excise the Blyght of Unbelief where'ere 'tis found. Thy God
and Mine wouldst of a surety Call for the Utter Destruction of any who Walketh
Not with Him! Wherefore wouldst thou think elsewise?

"Hark, I hear the cry of a Loon." Kitterich continued to follow the trail of parchment started by TheKnell.

Newe World?
Post'd by Diemacchus
Fool! Court Jester! None have discovered aught of a "Newe World"! For if they
had tried, they would Surely have fallen to their Doom! That many have returned
Safely from So-Called voyages to the "Newe World" is surely proof that it Cannot
exist, for 'tis obvious that none may Venture beyond the Edge of This One. What
are we to make of the Many Poor Souls who have NOT returned? They are the
Truth that puts the Lie to any sorte of "Newe World"!

Cretin!
Post'd by AgeOfEnlightenment
Tell me, wise Diemacchus, hast thou determin'd how many Angels may fit 'pon
the Pointe of a Needle? Thou rouseth my Spleen, and I Laugh myself Loudly
into Stitches! Prithee tell me how 'tis possible that thou believeth still in the Earth's
flat-ness when the Truth of its form is writ Plain within the pages of the Principia Wykipaedia?

Fie 'pon the Principia!
Post'd by Diemacchus
Art thou not aware of the agenda of its authors? Lyars and Scoundrels all, and
their Words amount to Lyttle more than the Excreta of the Taurus!

Sighing, Kitterich stepped back once more to reflect upon what he had read. As before, when the area around the Poste appeared empty, another unidentifiable figure crept out of the shadows and furtively attached a new message to the Poste. Tired of reading but newly curious, Kitterich stepped forward once more to examine the latest offering.

On the Role of the Jewe
Post'd by Alarum
Thou'rt without doubt Well and Truly acquainted with the scurr'lous Moneychanger
bequeath'd to our Moderne Tyme by Ancient Jewry. The Jewe is a Mean and
Selfish wretch and all Persons of Goode Character must needs Oppose the
Semite lest he succeed in Seizing the Reins of Free Trade! Why, did'st knowe
that the Jewe alone controls One Parte in Seven of all gold and silver? That a
Shadowed and Omnipresent hand ensures that thou pay'st a Third Tithe, to King,
to Church, and to the Jewe?

"God's teeth! We art beset by lackwits and buffoons!" Energized now, Kitterich
spun about and made his way back to his quarters, mentally composing his next
contribution to the Poste. Arriving home, he removed the tray from his home
GutenBook Pro and began sorting through his type drawer. Working quickly now,
he began to lay leaden characters into the tray, his mind reversing the mirrored
glyphs as he went:

Anciente Fraye
Post'd by skitterich
Septimus Kitchabus sighed and pushed back exhaustedly from the workbench
in his dimly lit quarters...

Da Machine

Da Machine
by Schmutzie
12/17/2008, 12:22 PM #

As I read yet another reference to "the machine" in Chicago politics yesterday, and a half-assed attempt to connect Rod Blagojevich's scandal with business as usual in Chicago, I was tempted to tell the poster that he obviously has no clue what he's talking about, but I refrained because there's really no reasoning with people who argue for fun, especially the self-righteous kind of person who argues for fun.

The post itself was uncharacteristically brief for this particular poster, simply a link and an off-the-cuff remark about "loving Chicago politics." A clear tip-off that there is no substance to an argument is brevity and poor follow-up.

I understand some people have a burning need to be seen as clever, and feel a need to have an opinion on any hot topic, but seriously, if you don't have an informed opinion....maybe just shut the fuck up until you educate yourself. When it was pointed out that Springfield is where the Illinois governor's mansion is, the poster opined (out of his ass) that the way to get to Springfield is through the Democratic party in Chicago, and "the machine."

Our previous (corrupt, and now in jail) governor George Ryan is a Republican. I already posted something about this piece of human excrement, so I won't go back into that. Ryan served as Illinois governor between 1999-2003.
Former governor Jim Thompson also a Republican, served for 14 (1977-1991), the longest term in Illinois history. Thompson and Richard J Daley, the man behind "Da Machine" were enemies.

Jim Thompson has been both Chairman and CEO of Chicago legal giant Winston & Strawn, and was the driving force behind the firm's decision to comp $10million in legal fees defending the despicable George Ryan.

Dan Webb, the enormously talented and highly respected prosecutor turned defense attorney was lead counsel, and that was at the direction of Jim Thompson. Thompson is also a director and head of the Audit Committee for Hollinger International, Conrad Black's little enterprise, now under investigation by the SEC. I always considered Thompson to be the kind of corrupt politician who is smart enough to keep the real dirt at arm's length, but my sources tell me that he did have some peculiar tastes in late night companionship.

In the last 31 years, Illinois has had 18 years of Republican governor. So much for the argument that to get to Sprinfield you need to be cozy with Chicago Dems.

Jim Edgar, a Democrat, was the gov between Thompson and Ryan (1991-1999). Edgar is seen across the state as a real straight shooter, and has a career untainted by any scandal (outisde of the goofy decision to declare an L Ron Hubbard Day)...or connection to "the Chicago Democratic Machine." Edgar sparred regularly with Richie The Corrupt Daley over the issue of bringing a casino to Navy Pier. Richie The Corrupt (John Kass calls him Mayor Shortshanks, which I absolutely love) wanted that casino so badly he could taste it, but governor Edgar wouldn't play along.

Another example of Springfield having a mind all its own, and another 8 years of Springfield not being cozy with Chicago City Hall...go figure.

Incidentally, speaking of Springfield, that's the home district of Dick Durbin, our senior Senator.

Which brings me to Blago, and "the Chicago machine."

Blago's connection to Chicago's City Council is through his father-in-law, Richard Mell. They hate each other. The Chicago "machine" is not behind the corruption charges now facing Blago. Apparently living in Ravenswood is enough for the uninformed types around here to simply toss Blago into the Chicago hopper, but that's just a lazy man's attempt to sound clever. Rod Blagojevich doesn't enjoy, nor has he enjoyed, the support from the Democratic party in Chicago, or Cook County for quite some time now, so that pretty much buries the Springfield/Chicago machine connection for good. It's a myth.

Pat Fitzgerald has been investigating Blago for over 2 years. The initial investigation centered around a few players, namely Tony Rezko, Stuart Levine and Rod Blagojevich, who were trying to shake down Illinois hospitals, and the contractors involved in expansion plans for those hospitals. These hospitals were located in places like Crystal Lake, a far northwest suburb, and Naperville out in the southwest. Neither of those examples fall under the influence of Chicago's City Council, or Cook County's Board.(since neither are in Cook County) There are numerous other examples, but I think you get the idea.

Springfield corruption is totally seperate from Chicago corruption.

When this Blago scandal broke, and I posted about it that morning, I immediately suspected Tony Rezko pointed Fitz in the right direction in hopes of lessening his upcoming sentence. I still think that.

Rod Blagojevich's corruption charges can be traced to one thing. Greed. Blago's approval rating in Illinois was at 13% BEFORE his eBay auction for Obama's vacant Senate seat, and now hovers around 7% which is astonishing in and of itself. The reason Blago was making this wild-assed cash grab is because he knows (or knew) that come 2010, he's out of a job. You've probably heard the word "radioactive" connected with Blago in the last week or so. Very true, and it has been for some time. Hell, even Blago knew he was being watched by the feds. Everybody knew. My late cat Ralph knew.

And that's why I'd be absolutely stunned if any of these taped conversations involving Rahm Emanuel turn up any pay-to-play offers from Rahm. Rahm is smarter than the average cat. Rahm knew that Blago controlled the appointment, and so it only stood to reason that Rahm would contact Blago's office with Obama's preferred choice of replacement. Same with anyone else interested in the job, including Jan Schakowsky, Tammy Duckworth, Jesse Jackson Jr, and others.

Now, a word about the Chicago "machine."

Back in the day, Richard J Daley was Mayor of Chicago, and also had a push-button control over the Cook County Board. That's a lot of control, and that's when the term Da Machine was coined. That's when Da Machine was operating smoothly, and it's a period well documented in books by both Mike Royko and Len O'Connor.It simply refers to the City of Chicago operating like a well oiled machine. A push-nutton operation run by Richard J Daley, The Boss. That's when we called Chicago "The City That Works." Ahhh, those were the days.

Control of the Cook County Board is not a luxury enjoyed by Richard M Daley, just ask Todd Stroger. Also note, that David Orr, Michael Bilandic, Jane Byrne, Harold Washington, and Eugene Sawyer all served as Chicago Mayor between Daley's. (Also note that the Cook County Democratic Party did not support Richie Shortshanks in his bid for Cook County State's Attorney in the late 80s, for which he's never forgiven them.)

When people try to act like they know about Chicago, they invariably invoke Da Machine.

Da Machine died in December 1976. (the "Da" part of Da Machine is a tongue-in-cheek homage to the way the old man pronounced the word "the"....duh.) We don't all talk like dat here,....know what I'm sayin'?

What is in place now in Chicago, "the machine", is a very strong LOCAL Democratic party, but it isn't in the same universe as Da Machine. If you don't believe me, just read about how our side-streets are still covered in snow this morning (a mistake that cost Bilandic the Mayor's job back in '79), a mistake The Boss would never have made.

I'm not suggesting there isn't wheeling and dealing that goes on at 121 N. LaSalle. There certainly is, and I could write 10,000 words on that subject. But this idea that corrupt Chicago politicians, and some sort of version of Da Machine is at the root of Blago's troubles is utter nonsense. If there is a machine in Chicago, its a strong Dem influence that attempts to run the city, not the entire state, nor the US Senate, nor the White House, and it ain't nuthin' like the old man's Machine. (which incidentally did not put JFK in the White House either.)

That Blago has had contact with certain area politicians is unsurprising. You may include Richie Shortshanks as one of those politicians, and the common link, John Harris, may prove fatal for Richie the Corrupt. Harris was Richie's budget director, and presently Chicago's finances are a shambles (something that never would have happened under The Boss.) However, implying that Daley's efforts to get state money for Chicago, and Blago's efforts to get flush before he gets unemployed, are in some way connected,.. is fantasy.

Springfield is not Chicago. Springfield has had its own problems recently, with corruption tainting both Republican governor Ryan, and Dem governor Blago. Chicago has its own problems and corruption. It's the difference between state government and city government.Two different entities. Chicago "machine" politics is all about getting things done here, and splitting up the left over money among friends. It's about patronage hiring.

There may be a Chicago influence in the careers in both of these scumbags, but in a state like Illinois, that is absolutely inevitable. There's 5 or 6 million people jammed into about 4% of the state's area. As I told someone else here, Illinois without Chicago is Nebraska.

I understand how Chicago politics work, and I understand how Illinois politics work. They may be similar in some regards, but the same can be said of politics in general, and in every state. Politics is horse trading, and deal making. What Blago is accused of (and what Ryan is in prison for) is pure stupid greed, and has nothing to do with a machine (there's a reason they call it a machine ya know?), or the long since mothballed... Da Machine.

Those days are gone, the days of Da Machine, but I've eften thought of how The Boss would have liked the US Attorney representing the Northern District of Illinois.

If there were typical 21st Century Chicago politics at work behind the filling of Obama's seat, nobody would have been calling anybody, they'd have just talked it over at Tavern on Rush and done the deal. (and maybe Fitz would have bugged the booth)

If The Boss was still alive, if Da Machine was still functioning, and was somehow involved in all of this, ....you'd have never heard a word.

---

You will also find this essay at Schmutzie's blog, Out of the Loop.

Hope is a four-letter word.

Hope is a four-letter word.
by Sawbones
11/12/2008, 2:11 PM #

Yeah, I know, you're over it. The word is used-up, tired, utterly spent from constant use by Hopey McChangeypants (sorry but I can't remember who I stole that one from) and his army of brainwashed drones. Empty slogans and sugar-coated platitudes don't substitute for policies and experience, you say, and you have a mighty good point there. The waters are getting choppy, the skies overhead are darkening, and the gods of thunder seem intent on making good on their ever-louder threats. Any rational sailor would tie down everything not already bolted and just ride it out - only a fool would unfurl all sails and plow ahead into this thing.

But there's the problem: we are not rational people. I like to tell the man in the mirror that he's a level-headed, reasonable guy who makes his decisions based on cool logic rather than emotion or instinct. In my more honest moments, I admit that I'm really the guy who carries an extra needle with him when he prepares to do a spinal tap (the superstition being that if you have it, you won't need it), won't ever use the word "quiet" to describe work for fear of changing that condition, and has ruled out several children's names for future use based solely on experiences that have forever linked those names to horrible diseases. I've had years of training to think scientifically and rationally, and my rational mind recognizes the disconnect, but that doesn't stop me or most of my colleagues from collecting our own idiosyncratic arrays of totems and superstitions. Most are harmless, a few are not, but it will only change when humans' fundamental nature changes - not anytime soon.

I've got to be honest, it's not just Obama or the election that has me thinking about the tension between hope and reason, but it does seem like a useful moment to extrapolate to a national level what each of us does every day. The act of stepping out your front door is an expression of hope, the idea that today has something to offer that yesterday didn't. Getting into an elevator or an airplane is a statement of tremendous optimism; you're saying that you trust the workmanship of a man or woman you've never met to protect you from the unfortunate interaction of heights, gravity and hard surfaces beneath. We invest our money because we have hope that there will be a tomorrow when it will be needed (it is telling that spend-it-all-now materialism is most prevalent in those parts of our culture where hope is most difficult to find). In fact, our entire financial system is at its heart a faith-based enterprise, with the economy of the United States (and by ramification, that of the rest of the world) depending on the hope that the U.S. will have the ability and willingness to honor its debts. Our very home in what is now known as the Western Hemisphere was "discovered" by men who sailed ships, based on science and reasoning leavened with a heavy dash of faith, into areas of the map where cartographers had previously just drawn dragons or sea serpents.

If we are all currently groping our way around the sea-serpent areas of the map, I may be a little further out to the edge than most. In seven months I will be moving back to a city that three years ago was underwater. We have bought a house there in New Orleans on the hope/faith/prayer (and the assurance of our realtor) that our house in St. Louis will sell. Hell, my whole career is predicated upon the hope that our healthcare system stays intact long enough to pay off my loans (down to $163,000 now, due to be paid off in 2033) and those of my wife. My entire damn life is predicated upon taking chances; some of those are calculated risks (the house, the career), while others (the move to NOLA) are irrational throws of the dice based on the belief that the consequences of misplaced hope are less than the second-guessing after passing on the chance to do the right thing.

Lying next to my wife last night as she was drifting off to sleep, I had my hand on her ever-expanding preggerbelly when I felt a thump that shook my hand and opened her eyes. If there is a more exuberantly irrational choice than bringing a child into a world that appears to be so utterly fucked, I don't know what it is. And while I need to start working on curtailing my usage of "fuck" and other four-letter words, "hope" is not one of those. I see no need to apologize to myself or to the cynics who see hope as an illness, a ready punchline, or just another four-letter word emptied of its meaning. It meant something yesterday, it means something today, and it always will. And as little as you may want to admit it, your world depends on it as well.

Royko rolls over and smiles

Royko rolls over and smiles
by Schmutzie
10/18/2008, 8:36 AM #

When Rupert Murdoch bought the Chicago Sun-Times in 1984, Mike Royko, my hero, switched teams. He hated Murdoch, and said that "No self respecting fish would be wrapped in a Murdoch paper." Over 25 years ago, Mike had pegged Murdoch for exactly what he turned out to be; a guy not interested in quality journalism, but rather political power.


After a decade and a half at the Sun-Times, the paper generally considered to be the liberal Democratic rag in town, Mike walked out the door.....and in the door of the Chicago Tribune.

The Trib has always been the choice of the Republicans in Chicago, yes we have some of those. When Royko joined the paper, and began running his columns 4 days a week, it seemed odd at first. It was like watching Ernie Banks play first base for the White Sox.

When Belushi took the role of Ernie Souchak in Continental Divide, it was clear to anyone living here that he was playing Royko. I thought the movie was okay, as feel-good fish-out-of-water love stories go, but I found it a bit of a stretch to pair him with Blair Brown. No offense to Royko, but he looked a lot like Capt. Merrill Steubing, and Blair Brown looked like..well, Blair Brown.

Royko didn't think Belushi was the right choice of actors to play him, even though they were friends. Royko thought perhaps Redford or Selleck would have been better choices. I still say they should have picked Gavin McCloud.

Anyway, whenever election time rolled around, I always tuned in to NBC Channel 5 in Chicago, because they'd always get Royko to do commentary as the votes would start rolling in.

One of my favorite election night moments was in April 1983, when Royko and Dick Kay (local news dweeb) began arguing about exit polls and election night forecasts. Kay (real name Dick Snodgrass) was getting ready to announce that NBC was going to project Harold Washington as the new mayor, with ...whatever....60% of the votes counted (or so.)

Royko, who had been urging people to lie whenever asked by pollsters how they were going to vote, and also to lie to exit pollsters, suggested that Kay and NBC were being premature.

His question to Dick Kay, and one that I find myself continuously asking on election nights, ..."Why are you projecting the winner? We're counting votes. We'll have an answer in 2 hours. What's the rush?"

And Kay said something like....homina homina homina....


1983 had seen a very racially charged campaign waged by Republican Bernie Epton, whose campaign slogan was "Vote for Epton: Before it's too late." I'm not kidding.

You think Obama's facing racism? He's got nothing on what Washington faced 25 years ago. In the Dem primary, Washington had won with 37% of the vote, to incumbent mayor Jane Byrne's 33%, and 30% for a newcomer named Richard M. Daley. Washington took something like 99.999932% of the black vote, while Byrne and Daley split the white vote. Very racial election, maybe the most racial election I've ever seen, including the Dem primary.


Republican Epton was seen as a guy who stood no chance against the vaunted "Chicago Democratic Machine." Royko knew better, and on election night, he proved it again.

Washington won with 51.7% of the vote to Epton's 47%. Epton won 81% of Chicago's white vote, and 3% of Chicago's black vote, which meant that the Democratic community organizers, who'd registered 100,000 new voters, had made the difference and swung the election to Harold Washington. I'm often tempted to bring this up when fray know-nothings talk about Obama being the hand-chosen pick of the "Chicago Democratic Machine", but I think I'd rather let people wallow in that ignorance, than point out with pride that Chicago is as racist as any other big city.

The Chicago Democratic Machine died in December 1976. It's still a Dem city of course, but there is no resemblance to The Machine that the old man built, which was covered extensively in Royko's Boss.

And the Tribune is still Chicago's Republican paper.

And, the Chicago Tribune has endorsed Democrat Barack Obama for president. It's the first time in history that the Trib has endorsed a Democrat.

I was telling friends early in the Dem primaries that one regret I have is that Mike Royko didn't live long enough to see what we all saw. I would have loved to have been able to read Mike's take on the heavyweight match-up between Senator Clinton and Senator Obama.

I'm regretting Mike's absence again. He should have lived long enough to see the 2008 election, and he should have lived long enough to see the Tribune, the paper to which he'd fled rather than toil for Murdoch, endorse their very first Democrat for president.

On Class Warfare.

On Class Warfare.
by Isonomist
10/09/2008, 8:35 AM #

Recently a friend sent me an email called "questions," asking things like: What if things were switched around, What if the Obamas had paraded five children across the stage, following the debate,including a three month-old infant and an unwed, pregnant teenage daughter?

What if John McCain was a former president of the Harvard Law Review? What if Barack Obama finished fifth from the bottom of his college graduating class? What if McCain had only married once, and Obama was divorced? What if Obama had met his second wife in a bar and had a long affair while he was still married? What if Michelle Obama was the wife who not only became addicted to pain killers but also acquired them illegally through her charitable organization?

The email goes on to ascribe the narrow gap between the two candidates to racism. But this is not just about racism, this is and has for a long time been a class war deliberately incited by the Republicans since the days of Reagan. , Joe Patterson, the founder of the NY Daily News, once wrote that “class feeling is always antagonistic to the interest of the whole people.” You would think that was a principle on which the United States was founded. We like to believe there are not such differences here, we're all supposed to be equal.


But what we see, and what is clear from the last 3 elections, if not the last 30 years of politics, is certain Republicans deliberately and strategically manipulating public opinion against the educated, against the "elites" who have been successful in life while holding liberal values, who are willing to do the right thing and pay more taxes to help their fellow Americans, against those who think the government should be responsible to the needs of its electorate. It's not something you see in real conservatives. This is the strategy of a certain type of Republican. That strategy has won elections, but has caused a rift in this country that we can’t shake, that’s tearing us apart, weakening our military, and killing our economy.

Pitting race against race among the lower classes is an old story, a convenient way for the upper classes in the South to keep both groups divided and conquered after the Civil War. Pitting North against South has ruled national politics as long as some of us can remember. Pitting the working class against the “elites” and (I love this term) “limousine liberals” and all the other epithets they use to distance their opponents from “real” Americans has worked very well for these particular Republicans, and we are paying the price for it every day. Unfortunately, it’s exactly those working class folks who buy into this divisive mentality who are paying the most for it. And how many Democrats buy into this themselves, disparaging the working class and the South for “not getting it,” then seeming surprised when that plays right into the hands of those Republicans machinating a deeper, wider gap among the people they seek to rule. Many learned and wise conservatives have distanced themselves from the Republican political machine for this reason: they see what it's doing to America, and they don't like it either.

I don’t have a solution for it, except to call it what it is, to speak up against it, and to stop letting the post-Reagan Republicans frame these arguments, like the tactic of accusing Democrats of inciting a class war just because Obama wants to roll back taxes for the very rich, back to Reagan-era levels. That's not class war. But Sarah Palin's smear strategy is. Hearing people call out "kill him" and "terrorist" and "treason" during her speeches, bragging about her ignorance and lack of education; putting down those who have attended good schools (on a scholarship for godsakes), painting Obama as an elite, and now a Mystery Man, glorifying her isolationism; it's as if she has never thought out the consequences of what she says. Even if the shouters are Republican plants, this is blatant incitement to crime. It's no wonder McCain won't say these things to Obama's face.

Knowing now that the RNC speech she gave was written by a Bush speechwriter before anyone even knew she'd be picked, and then tailored to match her background, crafted to build class warfare in the service of Republican politics, you have to ask yourself: who is the real Sarah Palin?

Fray Bash - The Pusher

Fray Bash - The Pusher
by skitch
10/06/2008, 10:47 AM #

Keifus shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, wishing for the hundredth time he hadn't had that fourth glass of wine. Particularly on top of the unknown amount of beer he'd imbibed losing straight sets of beer pong to switters. How that guy could even stand straight after so much recreational consumption, let alone throw straight, was truly a mystery for the ages. The pressure on his bladder has been growing steadily for a good half hour. And so, again for the hundredth time, he glances anxiously across the room where Kazillions and Kent Lansville are continuing to fortify their blockade of the restroom entrance, now heaving a frayed old couch they'd rustled up from a back room somewhere onto the mountain of detritus blocking the door.

"Fuck this, time for plan B." Keifus hops off the stool, resolved to find another restroom somewhere while he can still walk without crossing his legs. A good-looking but nondescript man in his mid 30's with the physique of an accomplished gourmand and a dark beard just threatening to turn gray, he makes for the back of the ballroom where he'd previously noticed a dimly-lit hallway leading into the bowels of the building.

To get into the hallway he's forced to step gingerly through a small army of inflatable sex dolls wearing "NObama in '08" and "McCain/Palin: Mavericks on a Mission" t-shirts. The name tag on the nearest reads "Hi, My Name Is: sickofliberaldefeatocrats". Keifus notes a few other names as he threads his way through the weird and vaguely unsettling display: theghostofarnut, thumbelina, dumdumdems, Lilliputin, ohforgodssake. He breathes an audible sigh of relief upon emerging unscathed from the bizarre gauntlet.

Safely in the hallway he nods to artandsoul and Pace who are both grinning widely as they watch NickD struggling to get his shirt off over his head. Nick's muffled grumbling sounds something like: "who the hell ever heard of strip craps, anyway?". "Regards," says Pace, returning the nod with a wink and pantomiming something about the pair of dice she's holding. Artandsoul giggles and the two women strike their best innocent poses before dissolving into laughter.

Continuing his quest, Keifus plunges into a maze of seedy corridors, turning randomly at each unmarked intersection. It's a few minutes before he realizes he can no longer hear the rhythmic thumping of whatever speed-metal rockabilly synthpop neofusion selection Max and the other self-appointed DJs have managed to agree on. He turns slowly trying to orient himself when his attention is caught by muffled voices down the corridor. Curious, he approaches an anemic puddle of light spilling from a cracked-open doorway and nudges the door open with his toe.

Inside, a single lightbulb is swinging crazily back and forth, causing the shadows of the room's occupants to dance around like a scene from a bad noir thriller from the 40s. Since he can detect no breeze to explain why the light is moving, Keifus concludes it must be doing so for the dramatic effect. Two figures are leaning over a small table with their backs to the door: an elegantly dressed woman in a backless red gown and an olive-skinned man with unkempt black hair. The woman's hand is on the man's neck as the pair scrutinize whatever is on the table before them.

Keifus does a classic double-take and rubs his eyes to convince himself that the woman is Dawn Coyote and the man is Woolley.

"C'mon, Woollyebugger, you know you want to!" Dawn's voice is soothing and persuasive.

"No... no, I can't!" Woolley's voice is simultaneously defiant and uncertain. As his eyes adjust to the unhinged lighting Keifus realizes that Dawn's hand isn't resting lightly on Woolley's neck as he'd first assumed but that she in fact has a firm grip and is applying no little pressure to steer Woolley's head toward the table.

"It's only scary the first time, honestly." Dawn is cooing now, trying to keep Woolley calm.

"I don't want to, let me go, dammit!"

"Just try it this one time, what could it hurt?"

Woolley has begun struggling in earnest, now. "Get off me, woman! I'm not interested in your shit!" He jerks his shoulders to break her grip and rolls out from under her hand. His voice rises as he turns to run. "It was just a joke, bitch!" He shoulders past Keifus in the doorway and flees from the room, glancing over his shoulder to see if he's being pursued. Keifus watches his retreating back with bemusement.

Keifus clears his throat, uncertain what to say about what he'd just seen. "Hey, I know you can always get the best shit... I'll take some of that..."

"Aw, hell, Keif, you don't need this". Dawn steps aside to reveal an open MacBook instead of... Keifus wasn't really sure what he'd expected to see there. He moves closer to read the text at the top of the open browser window: "The New Agenda - a new non-partisan group for women’s rights"

Dawn is grinning now. "Have you seen Jack Dallas around?"

It was a strange and dorky night

It was a strange and dorky night
by skitch
08/25/2008, 8:01 AM #

BOTF: Bulwer-Lytton On The Fray


Foreword
In which the author expounds on his inspiration

This post is dedicated to Arch, who reminded me about Bulwer-Lytton, although it's not like I had actually forgotten about it, because after all, I've certainly followed it in years past and there's usually a blurb in one of the news sites I read whenever the winners are chosen, even though it's not really news on the order of, say, Obama's running mate or oil prices dropping, and I almost certainly would have returned, swallow-like, to that Capistrano of the written word, but to be fair it wasn't exactly on my mind very much until he mentioned it either.

The Meat of the Matter
In which the author exposes his intent

Its head bobbing from side-to-side to improve depth perception by providing multiple distinct points of view to its primitive brain, a brain nonetheless more advanced than the brains of most of its contemporaries as is often the case with creatures that have made game-changing adaptive leaps like our "more feathery than leathery" protagonist, Archaeopteryx eyed the grub with the mixed expression of disgust and disdain that it reserved for those Darwin-challenged blunderers that predictably scamper right when they should veer left and pinned it to the ground, like a modern-day entomologist mounting a particularly fine specimen of eisenia foetida, with its beak-like snout.

"You won't get where you need to be that way, moron," yelled Jack at the "Obama in '08"-plastered green Prius that cut him off turning left from the center lane of the old DFW turnpike accessor as he was driving down to the "Smarter by Design" daycare to pick up his grandkids who, come to think of it, each had more sense in their right pinky than the most "well-educated" liberal democrat with his America-hating ways had in his entire body.

"Look what we have here," thought Dawn as she adjusted her black teddy -- the one that chafed her even as it gave her a killer figure -- and sharpened the filleting knife with the scrotum-shrinking intensity of the "Abandon Ship" klaxon that left the S.S. Michigan Sea unmanned during a nasty November squall, "a patron of the tarts caught without his posse and with his hatred of women showing...".

Ignored by the ignorant and obviously oblivious bystanders standing by, the three men from Nairobi "high-fived" one another over their latest accomplishment, secure in the absolute knowledge that their command of circa-1950s entertainment trivia and tertiary protein substructures whose underlying primary structures display little or no sequence homology, not to mention higher mathematics and poetry, made them stand out from the hoi polloi.

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents -- except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a cold gust of wind which swept in from the bay (for it is in Baltimore that our scene lies), lowering the mean temperature of the day, and definitively putting paid to the myth that the earth is really getting warmer every year.

The colorful and controversial prophet perching proudly on the soapbox looked for all the world like an ancient Greek philosopher (or perhaps a rhetorician or astronomer, or maybe even a librarian or poet) as he railed against the willful stupidity of the oblivious and apathetic masses who, despite their aforementioned stupidity, are nevertheless ideal sermon targets, but who ultimately couldn't see the Mossad conspirators lurking behind the Bushes.

Nancy glanced nervously around the House chamber wondering if people had forgotten about the poetry reading today, even though it was Thursday and the poetry reading was every Thursday, even accounting for those occasions it was also on Saturday, wondering whether she should go call someone to make sure they were coming, and fervently praying there would be no repeat of the time she put everybody to sleep while reading poetry penned under one of her noms de plume, assuming anybody showed up of course.

Laurie sipped her Kool-Aid and pondered the latest personal affront perpetrated by her arch-nemesis (well, not her archest of arch-nemeses but rather her arch-nemesis du jour), wondering not for the first time whether this particular arch-nemesis could be really real or perhaps a clever automaton created by her archest of arch-nemeses for the purpose of getting her goat even though she couldn't really remember the last time her goat was really gotten, but none of that was really important now as she watched her cursor circling ever closer to the submit button and wondered: would she finally throw propriety and caution to the winds and click it this time?

The orator's words rang forth with the clarity of a bell, and also, perhaps not so positively, the prolonged sustain of an undamped bell, one nestled in a little enclosed valley where sound waves are easily reflected and focused back on their listener for a tonal experience that goes on an on for just a smidge too long, which isn't necessarily a bad thing because, after all, just have a gander at this sentence for God's sake.

An unheralded scion of Zeus, agog, descended from the summit of Olympus to challenge the cleverness of the evanescent disciples of the gods dwelling in the bosom of Gaia, and though these ephemera, upon excogitation, were renowned for their vexatiousness -- witness the nettlesome and hubristic Sisyphus, who rendered mortals immortal for a time, a dire affront to his Olympian brethren, or the bathycolpian wanton who seduced his sire and bore his half-siblings -- this innominate brother to Ares and Athena, to Apollo and Artemis, resolved to forge an equitable tournament, but neglected to consider the capricious and covetous nature of his kind, and so despite herculean (perhaps even sisyphean) effort became suffused with nepenthean denial, and triumphed with supernal ease.

Who nose what sick scents first caused the duke to notice the pungent odor -- call it pure instinct -- but really this particular aroma was quite a smelly feat, achieving a high rank of funk per fume, and though he nosed about searching from whence the bouquet arose (perhaps it was the rhino's pen at the zoo, or maybe the ol' factory), his failure to sniff it out leaves me with this nascent thought: though I tried hard to elicit at least a fray grunt, chances are no pun in ten did... just my two scents.

"Move your ass, Sancho," Ellen bellowed as she strapped on her greaves and tightened her gorget, wondering what unbeatable foes the new day would bring, like those guys in that one cabal of bullies that always picked on the poor and downtrodden, the huddled masses yearning to post freely, or that other clique that liked to pile on hapless underdogs who made the mistake of displaying even the slightest sign of weakness, finally stopping to watch herself in the mirror as she drew her sword and voiced her battle cry: "can't we all just get along?"

Irked by the mind-numbing uniformity of his supplicants' latest offerings, and seized by a fit of pique, the supreme monarch (well, perhaps supreme is too strong a word, especially given the rather backwater nature of the realm), intent upon stirring things up a bit, commented on the dearth of quality entertainment and thought to himself, for the umpteenth time, "I gots to get me some new subjects!"

Her biting humor had even more of an edge to it than usual these days as she nursed the unexpected wounds suffered at the hands of her erstwhile allies, friendly fire if you will, though when these friends showed their true colors she saw red, which in turn made her more blue, I mean, who does that to one of their own?

"Equality before the law," concluded the speaker, slapping the podium to punctuate the final point in this, her latest denunciation of the arbitrary rule of tyrants, and leaning back to observe the reaction in the people assembled there, who, by the depth and quality of their attention and their ensuing enthusiastic applause, acknowledged her the fairest of them all.

Reading the fact- and logic-challenged screed before him, Dave couldn't suppress the grin that spread across his face as he began typing out his response, marveling how frequently these idiots flew onto his radar screen (it wasn't like he went looking for them, they just kept falling in his lap [well, OK, maybe he looked for them a little because, really, it's must-watch TV]), and mixing his metaphors in his excitement.

"I... I don't..." [runs upstairs, lips quivering with emotion, bosom heaving with passion over the author's use of the word "bathycolpian" because, really, that's a hell of a word if you think about the etymology of it, and the tragedy represented by perfectly good words disappearing from the language for lack of use, and throws herself on the bed, sobbing]

"My search for clarity and understanding is an ongoing one, much like the long journey through renaissance, science, and industry that characterizes our species' continuing struggle for enlightenment, because really success is just that part of the Venn diagram where the problem space overlaps the solution space; the trick is to frame both in such a way that you can even draw a circle around them, something we humans continue to aspire to no matter how many times we may have fallen short", Keith wrote.