Thursday, August 29, 2013


I live with a man. Okay, now that you’ve all recovered, picked your jaws up off the floor, told the cat, and went “well! I never!” I have to say this: I love this man whole-heartedly, completely without reason and would die for him, Truthfully. He has had a terrible life; living among a population of truly dysfunctional people and having had a pretty toxic childhood myself, this says much. His childhood and personal life have been absolute hell. JC is from west Texas and has a wonderful drawl and a colorful way of speech. He’s not the type to go out of his way to tell knee-slappers, or shaggy-dog stories, but in a non-calculated way, he places his comments perfectly, leaving me breathless with laughter. He can tell stories so prosaically and honestly, the depth of realization of the tragedy doesn't really impact until later. I mourn for hours at times.

Mama is good balm for the soul and she loves the affection. She wouldn't be here if it weren't for JC.

He never finished grade school; according to him, he can barely read. He learned to read by reading the Bible, which he knows Chapter and Verse. JC is almost Old Testament in the depth and breadth of his knowledge. He is righteous, but not judgmental and steadfast. At times, I feel he is too generous, but he must do what he feels is right. He is good and wants to help people who hurt and really need it and he is protective, but prudent. He has moral limits he will not cross. He thinks he is not “smart, but has common sense, because he doesn’t read well.” He is one of the smartest men I have ever met. He has been with me through everything; my having to be Baker Acted, my many trips to the hospital and has listened to me whine about all the weirdness from my PD-essential tremor symptoms. His is a courage found rarely and I cherish it.

 Our poor grocery store; an endless series of delights and japeries for me. I keep being warned that I will end up on You Tube for one of my idiocies, by the store employees, who are terrific in personality and customer service skills. Jim, of the Pink Pumpkin saga has taken his awesome to the front, to help with bagging, and managing the cashiers. It suits him; along with awesome, he is unflappable and unbelievably kind and generous, as everyone there is. I consider it my 2nd home. It was the first store I went to with a food voucher, no ID when I was place in the homeless shelter by Homeless Recovery.The Manager, understanding immediately, my situation, honored that voucher, so I could eat that weekend. It was the day after Thanksgiving, 2010 and all the official agencies were closed. Josh Hamilton is still there. They are my friends; no. They are family. Which means I pick on them at every chance I get. I was totally unaware that chickens had paws. I guess I slept through Biology or Chicken Anatomy at school that day, whatever. 

JC holding the chicken paws. The best part of this was getting him to smile. He has a beautiful smile. It was 10 am on a Saturday morning and we were waiting to have some prescriptions filled. It's dead quiet in the store, except for me holleriing, "SMILE, SMILE, SMILE, HA HA. COME ON. DON'T BE SUCH A WOODEN INDIAN! LOOK AT ME! HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE LATEST FORM OF URBAN VIOLENCE? DRIVE-BY VIOLA SOLOS! BLAH BLAH BLAH" No one else is in the store and it's pretty quiet, all anyone can hear is my cheerful blathering, trying to get this man to smile. Behind me, I can hear the Pharmacy department cracking up. Finally, he smiles and I quick, take a picture. Otherwise, this picture would have had all the charm of death row.

I am liberal. I am so liberal, I am an anarchist. I read and understood at a post-Graduate English level at the age of 15. I am righteous and mercurial. I want to help. He and I work so well together and watch the folks here and decide who might need a hand up. Plus, we have a bunch of fun.

This day started as many others do, with the hopes, speculations and trepidations of a Bus Ride. Ah yes, First, the inevitable 1 minute equals 7 years. This means that JC must leave the house around August 9, 1872. I hope he set the alarm early enough. So, off he goes. I sleep on and miss Garfield’s assassination and the turn of the Century, the 20th.

JC comes in around 10:30 on August 9, on 2012; he must have taken the wormhole home, and plops down. I’m doing something different. Pounding madly on the keyboard as if possessed, typing drivel or doing my latest form of side-splitting cyber vandalism; it’s all pretty much the same thing.

What do you make of this?” JC asks… and he proceeds to tell me about the ride home. Some cat got on the bus and pointed at JC’s shoes. Just plain lace-ups, kind of like running shoes, only black. The dude mentioned “shoes” and looked at JC. JC looked around the bus; the riders looked at him. JC looked at the dude. The dude looked back at the shoes and mumbled “shoes” again. JC shrugged and said, “Okay.” The guy proceeded to get down on the floor and pick each one up and one, by one, rub his face all over the bottoms. “What in hell? Do I have shit on them?” JC asked, but no one answered. Guy gets up and sits down.

EW M G! It wasn't this creepy, but since it happened to JC, it's happened to several other men on the HARTline bus. I'm pretty open-minded, but this is a bit much, particularly since this jerk wasn't even asking for consent; he was just helping himself. I would love to have seen it, just for a laugh. But, yikes!

Of course, JC can’t wait to get home and tell me about this squirrel. We sort of have a running competition about who runs into the biggest loon on the bus. So far, JC’s got me beat. No one’s asked to smell my purse or underarms yet. If someone asks to smell my panties, it’ll be the last thing that person ever asks in existence, or non-.

We proceed to go sit on the front porch and watch the stupid world of Nebraska Avenue go by. Here comes Jo-Jo (either “Jo-Jo, the Ho” or “Jo-Jo The Dog-Faced Girl, if I’m feeling particularly ugly that day.) She is being led by one of the newer denizens of the homeless shelter. The homeless shelter is an amalgam or payors, felons and people sent there from the state. Jo-Ho gets an SSDI check. She had a stroke, most likely due to her excessive drinking which has not abated since. Anyway, she is being “led” by a newbie, a woman. Usually it’s a man. Jo-Jo has all the grace and charm of a 58-year old cheerleader who pissed herself 40 years ago after being dragged face-down through a gravel-pit. She has the voice, face and outfit to prove it.

Look, Jo-Jo has a new “helper” JD says to me nonchalantly. I kind of glance over that way. I get a dim impression, my eyes being kind enough to allow seeing 2 little blobs; one wavering, the other helping the other on the sidewalk to the liquor store.
JC continues on, “You know for someone so feeble and ill, there is certainly nothing wrong with the hinge in her elbow…” This is all said placidly, with the nonchalance of “nice day out. Do you want eggs?”

We are both together in a tiny apartment now, and his healths is not good, so I'm never going to be that wife who writes to Ann Landers as I once saw in the paper. Her husband had died, and she was so sorry for bitching about his snoring, not picking up after himself, and on and on. I felt so terribly bad for the woman, because even though she had not loved her husband, she had not told him, nor showed him, even in the smallest of ways. Due to the fact that we would lose our SSDI, we live in “sin.” I'm sure Rick Scott, GOP family values guy, being the asshole Republican Satan Governor of the State of Florida is just hopping mad over this. Fuck him, although he probably has some indescribable man-ware and can do himself. Anyway, as JC well knows, it is my mission to make him experience happiness, or miserable trying.

Our fair Governor, Rick Scott. Florida GOP, friend to Satanists everywhere. I believe that this is the finest Paint job I have ever achieved, and it took a whole 2 seconds, with no do-overs. Revel in the stupidity.

When we lived at the Homeless shelter, JC had all sorts of sayings. Mr. Pimp My Ride was always talking about how he “worked for a living,” and wasn't a lazy slacker like JC and I were. Well, this idiot was working under the table and getting paid daily and it couldn't have been much of a job, because Mr. PMR was not quite as bright as a sack of hammers. I'm fairly sure he was illiterate, and he spent most of his time drinking and smoking crack. He babbled something at JC and I when were in the kitchen and wanted us to look at something, I told him that due to my cataract in my left eye, I was unable to see it. Mike, aka Mr. Pimp pipes up, “Ooh, I've had about 37 o' dem.” Then he, apropos of nothing, starts talking about “cyclostopy” and wondered to JC, “is that the one where they take the balls off, too?” JC was washing the dishes, didn't turn a hair, he said, “No, that's the one where they sew up your mouth and stop the bullshit.” I had to leave the kitchen.

They say one picture tells a thousand words. This one pretty much writes the whole novel. Who in the name of all that is holy or unholy wraps tinfoil around his spokes? The only time this is acceptable is one is 11 or maybe 12 years of age. He used to get him some bungee cords and tie his boom box to his handlebars. Stylin' man. I don't want to give the impression that he was just a fool; he was mean and dangerous and his weapon of choice was a knife. He was rather impaired about what or who should be stabbed. He stabbed cars, trash cans, but seldom people. I guess his folks didn't read "Why Little Johnny Can't Stab." His brother lived there, also. They both had a younger brother who was a regular guy and would occasionally have to bail one of them out of jail and I remember him saying in an exasperated tone, "Why in the Hell can't you and Benny just get it together?" Never gonna happen; people like that will never even try to get out of that life.

The following week, Mike tried to sell us a DVD. It was like “Big Butts” are something. JC just looked at him and said “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mike launches into this story about how he'd originally bought the thing, and then lent it to someone else. It was then stolen from that person and sold to another person in the house. Mike found out about it, and bought it back from that person, and then wanted to sell it to JC “to earn a profit.” As if. After hearing this, JC, nodded his head and said “I think you're an Astronaut.” Mike says, “How you figure?” JC said, “All that space between your eyes.” I ran down the hall, cackling like a hyena.

JC tried to get me back and make me laugh. He forgets that I've spent a lifetime on stages holding in the ha-ha. Besides, I was pissed because the bed was it's usual mess. As if. I'm about as domestic as a panther.

I always laugh, when he starts recounting these stories, because of the “demonstration.” I look over to see the frantic motion of right elbow going up and down 90 degrees from chair arm to mouth. That's his Jo-Jo imitation. The motion says it all. “Nothing wrong with her smoking elbow either.” Motion repeated on left side. I fall out of chair. How many ways do I love this man? This is just one of them.

Sunday, August 25, 2013


I'm not even going to try and put lipstick on this pig; from Techdirt comes this article, “Creating Chilling Effects on Speech is aFeature, Not A Bug, Of the Surveillance State.” Regarding Free Speech and written by Mike Masnick. As a tech article, it starts out with the usual blah-blah, but this caught my eye, “implicit in our assumption is that these “costs” are things that are negatives of the program (kinda like a bug.) Others would point out that for those in power, that's not so much a cost as a benefit. It's not a bug, or an unintended consequence, but a “feature.” By the way, an update or a patch is also a bug, just not one that spies on you, in most cases. Or maybe it does.

Yeah, I get that, in 2 ways. Calling something by another name makes it something else. Not. A bug is a bug. But, hey, if it's Microsoft? Microsoft is nothing but a HUGE bug patch, along with JAVA, ORACLE and all the other half-assed software companies that are raking in big bucks for shitty software. I am not bitching; I have a cottage industry going in fixing crap you never got right in the first damn place!

"When email isn't enough for us to get our nosy little mitts on your information," would be 
truth in advertising.

The author then goes on to write about the “chilling” affect this has been on free speech, not just as a consequence, but as a motive. Even Peggy Noonan, describing a conversation with longtime civil liberties advocate Nat Hentoff, writes that “the inevitable end of surveillance is self-censorship.” Well, since I've been in a homeless shelter and mixed it up with different sorts, I tend to NOT self-censorship; a lifetime of it, pretty much fucked up my personal life. As long as I don't foment treason, I can say any damn well thing I want, under the 1st Amendment, and so can you, if you're a U. S. citizen.
Also, at TechDirt, the July 11th 2013 headline was regarding the “Latest Leak Shows Microsoft Handed the NSA and FBI Unencrypted Access to Outlook, SkyDrive and Skype. Even though I hardly think Microsoft has the warm fuzzies for the ABC agencies, we're talking about Microsoft. I truly believe they don't their ass from a hole in the ground. IBM worries me, as they made a deal with the Nazis in the early 40s that hardly anyone talks about. And yeah, I've worked for them both and know the chicanery they are capable of. Remember too, that I hunted down rogue servers at IBM, back when no one thought it was a big deal. This was in 1997. When I worked for Verizon, I didn't have that type of job, but we did have computers up on the towers on 9/11, and they were still transmitting signals for weeks, until their batteries finally died. Shivery stuff.

Anyway, if were being told it's not a “bug” but a “feature” how fucking stupid do the NSA, FBI think we are? Wait, don't answer that. We gave up it all up with a stroke of a signature in 2001, when Bush, Jr., signed the Patriot Act. Obama re-signed and expanded on some things the government can do, with no warrants, no knock, no nothing. President Obama is our first technically savvy president and understands the ramifications over time of what this all means. We put up with Joseph P. McCarthy's nonsense, list-waving, his 238 or 149 names, whatever, of known members of the American Communist Party. Until Joseph Welch chastised during the first of the televised Army-McCarthy hearings. Senator McCarthy and his lists and career went poof!

People who say, “I don't care who listens to me, I have nothing to hide,” are full of shit and let me tell you why. 99% of them have nothing the NSA, the FBI, or the CIA cares to hear, but that is not the point. We, as Citizens of the United States have and inalienable right to privacy. If an outside government agency wishes to breach that privacy, they MUST produce a warrant. It doesn't matter if it regards coming into your home, reading your mail, email, searching your car, requesting certain documents and wiretapping your phone. Interestingly enough, 5 amendments come into play here, the 1st, 3rd, 4th (especially for wire-tapping) 9th and the 14th amendments. I am not even going to get into Habeas corpus, which is sort of a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

So, in actuality, these things trump stupidities like the Patriot Act, at least in my book, and here is where the fun comes in. Get yourself a batch of Facebook friends, preferably some from Russia, Kazakhstan, or Tajikistan and the Middle East. Chat back and forth and then exchange jokes and stuff. Misspell lots of your words and talk about your dogs, pets and hobbies. For instance, mention that great WIRE-HAIRED TERROR that your mom bought you. Swap recipes. The ones for bombe glaceé, or bombe Alaska might just perk up some ears.

That thing can won't be around long enough to explode. It looks delicious!

Talking in pig latin, or maybe esperanto is probably good. I don't think the NSA has any algorithms for that yet. Better yet, before posting on FB run your text through several translators. It works like that stupid game “Telegraph,” where a bunch of kids would sit in a circle and someone would pick a phrase and whisper it to his/her nieghbor. So, we have this sentence that I started out with in English and ran through several different languages before going back to English:

Kid 1: The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. – English
Kid 2: قفز الثعلب البني السريع فوق الكلب الكسول – Arabic
Kid 3: Le quick brown fox saute par dessus le chien paresseux – French
Kid 4: wyqfz ạltẖʿlb ạlbny ạlsryʿ fwq ạlklb ạlkswl – Georgian
Kid 5: wyqfz ALTHʿポンドạlbnyạlsryʿFWQạlklbạlksw – Chinese (simplified)
Kid 6: wyqfz ALTH ʿ பவுண்டுகள் ạlbnyạlsry ʿ FWQạlklbạlkswl – Tamil
Kid 7: wyqfz alth ʿ ポンド ạlbnyạlsry ʿ FWQạlklbạlkswl – Czech
Kid 8: wyqfz alth ʿポンドạlbnyạlsryʿFWQạlklbạlkswl – Norwegian
Kid 9” wyqfz alth ʿ ポンド ạlbnyạlsry ʿ FWQạlklbạlkswl – German
Kid 10: wyqfz alth ạlbnyạlsry ʿ ʿ ポンド FWQạlklbạlkswl – English


This is very much like the crap that Bing comes up with. I like making up my own stories.

As always, my undying gratitude and love to Mr. Brockway at

And that is how you play “Telegraph.” This would be great and send the NSA haring off into all kinds of directions, and wondering what sort of nefarious things are going on. I plan on doing this, as I already know I'm on all sorts of lists, ala Joseph P. McCarthy dating back to my father's non-escapade, when 2 of his employees somehow managed to smuggle out 2 personnel carriers and then sold them to the Saudis, back when they weren't our friends. So, we got to put up with the FBI showing up at all kinds of hours, replete with sunglasses at night. My dad used to pick me up after school; it was my senior year, and then we'd spend hours aimlessly driving around, not even bothering trying to rid ourselves of the remoras in our wake. I joined the American Socialist party in the 80s. President Reagan was in office, so not looking very kindly upon anti-capitalists, I'm sure I went in the barrel for that.

Tampa has one of the largest presences outside of D. C. because of MacDill Airforce Base. That Base was the center for the prosecution and direction of the Iraq War in 2003. I guess this is Eric Holder; all FBI agents look alike to me.

Anyway, we have inalienable rights, per the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and those are being abrogated and this is a fearful thing because, when one right is stepped on, then 2 are stepped on. When we get to Writ of Habeas corpus, which I fear has already been violated, we're toast. We've lost and we have nothing to protect us then. No matter. I have no one, other than JC, and he understands this very clearly. He also knows that I will not let this happen, if at all humanly possible. We need to wake up, get over the bullshit. People breastfeeding in public, so what? People get outraged about stupid temporal things, but this is hard because it feels like an abstract idea. It isn't.

It's very real, and it's what I call a chromatic failure, because it's at every level of the government and then some. Corporations try to tell people how to vote. That is none of their goddamned business. In one of my Triberr groups, I heard about a Chief who won't share a poster's blog if they don't agree with the opinion. That's fucking censorship and wrong. In closing, we must look to ourselves and not just to what is going on outside. A free society means that all can air their opinions, peculiar or antithetical to ours they may be. That's what liberty is about.

Sunday, August 18, 2013


I can kill you whenever I please, but not today.” This is the last line of one of the series of the fictional Jack Colquitt adventures, written under the nom de plume, Raul Bloodworth, also known variously, as the “Smoking Man,” “Cigaret Man,” and “Cancer Man,” delivered so very dispassionately, as he makes the decision to not kill one of the “Lone Gunmen,” Frohike, who has some dirt in the form of a cheap magazine article about the Smoking Man, in the “X-Files,” a superb television series that has become a cult classic.

Great show, stories and cast.

I had never seen the show ever, until last year on Hulu+ and then I pretty much binge-watched it. This one episode ranks among the best in terms of showcasing a character, who up until then has been portrayed as something purely evil, or is he?. He and Deep Throat, seem to be in the right places to pass information, or disinformation along that will keep Agent Mulder and occasionally, Agent Scully from being exposed of possessing as much knowledge as they do. The 2 graying men, also lead the agents up blind alleys and plant false clues to ameliorate the suspicions of their own higher ups, from J. Edgar Hoover to whoever is sitting in the President's chair. They play a dangerous game.

               CSM                                                                Deep Throat

As the Mr. Fix-It for any and every unfortunate political development; CSM as the Smoking man is referred to, he begins reminiscing over the course his life has taken and how he never really was able to become what he wanted to do, which was write. His dispassionate observations show him to be responsible for the deaths of JFK because of the Bay of Pigs. He is tapped by the Army in setting up Lee Harvey Oswald, in a scene straight out of "Apocalypse Now," superbly done. "Have you ever seen myself or this gentleman?..." Oswald, determined not to be the patsy, runs out of the theater and ends up shooting and killing a policeman, near Dealey Plaza; his only “real” crime. Jack Ruby and the aftermath of Oswald's arrest are never mentioned during the show's episode.

I was 7, when this happened. My father came home from work; it was a Friday and everything closed. The day of the funeral, my family and my uncle the Mad Scientist (Nuclear Physicist) and his family came over. We all cried.

When Martin Luther King, Jr. begins his call for the distribution of wealth - CSM does the honors because he still respects the man, but cannot support the idea of communism. This is in reference to his own father who was an ardent pro-Trotskyite, who ironically was assassinated on August 20, in 1940 in Mexico City, the day CSM was born only to be executed later in the US for treason – CSM has such a twisted code of honor, but this is oddly fitting; almost chivalrous.

1968 was a horrible year. 4 months after MLK's assassination,  RFK would be assassinated less than 10 miles from where I lived.  That past March had seen the disastrous TET offensive and proved that Robert McNamara and General Westmoreland had lied to the American public for years about the Viet Nam War. The casualties there were horrific. My father had always been calling them "assholes," and told me why, we should never have been there in the first damned place. Daddy was starting to hate his job; he provided logistics for the 37th largest corporation in the world, in weapons manufacturing. Why the FBI never showed up, I'll never... oh, that's right they did, but years later, for something else. Muhammad Ali was the only person telling the truth it seemed. Can you say radical much at our house?

Later, during the televised memorial, a eulogy is given for MLK, by RFK, who first says, “I understand this pain. I lost a member of my family, who was killed by a white man,” referring to James Earl Ray, who again, is never mentioned in this episode. RFK, who would die by the assassin, Sirhan Sirhan less than 4 months later, quotes Aeschylus: “Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awesome grace of God.”

The scene with RFK begins at 19:26 and it is poignant and chilling. The man who most certainly is responsible for MLK's death and presumable JFK's is well-read, and not necessarily untouched by what he's read. But the life is grinding him down.

CSM recites the passage along with him; the scene fades away on a single taradiddle, a symbol of the death of Robert Fitzgerald Kennedy. As MLK's eulogy was being televised, CSM is working on his latest Jack Colquitt adventure. He is a reluctant assassin; a tool, but once in, it's hard to get out. In reading the critics views and the other takes, some see CSM as a purely evil character, but it's not that simple and the portrayal of CSM is enigmatic enough to empathize with his assertion that he's “not a killer.” It is a powerful scene, and it only deepens the enigma that is CSM.

We see other wet ops and dirty tricks through CSM's eyes and the eyes of his compatriot, Deep Throat. Although played with dark humor and seeming contradictory behavior on the part of CSM, I prefer to see him as more of a tragic figure. One who does his masters' bidding, but would have rather tried to find more sophisticated means of trying to subvert MLK's agenda than killing him. When he is unable to convince his superiors, who are leftovers from the second World War, he takes it upon himself to do the deed. J. Edgar Hoover and the Chief of Staff come up with horrible ideas to slur King's integrity. CSM, loses complete composure and patience and tell them they are all unworthy and takes it upon himself to stop MLK. 

Once decided, he is told will be remembered by the President, CSM states “I work very hard to keep anyone from knowing my name.” He doesn't want to go down in history for his shameful acts, but he at least has the decency and intelligence to not besmirch MLK's reputation with white women and dirty tricks. During a speech by King, who utters, “That we as a people, will get to the promised land, my eyes have seen the coming of the promised land...” a gunshot rings out. It's terrible resonance echoes over the years.

The denoument comes when CSM and Deep Throat reminisce over a critically wounded E.T., that has crashed landed. According to U.N. Resolution 1013, any nation harboring an alien life form is responsible for it's extermination. CSM and Deep Throat argue about who is really the assassin and who will really make history, as it won't be them; no one knows their names. Deep Throat taunts CSM, telling him, “you're a killer, you're a dangerous man.” CSM defends himself saying, “I'm not a killer. I'm not the one who made the decisions.” This echoes back to the Nuremberg trials and how so many defenses of War Criminals began, “I did what I was told to do,” is so old and bad and wrong and CSM knows this. Even as he says this, it's a dispirited defense, as he looks down at the ground.

Who knows what they look like? I hear all of this about the greys and the big ones and there's a family of them that trample through my bedroom about once a week, but only when SETI@home, if offline. They look nothing like this, and I think they're ghost aliens. As long as they don't look like and have the personality of that bastard from the 1979 movie, "Alien," I'm cool.

They agree to flip a coin to decide who will kill the E.T. CSM wins the bet and Deep Throat readies himself to kill the creature. CSM no longer wants this responsibility and certainly does not want to exterminate an alien life form. He is increasingly becoming fed up, jaded, sick and feeling that his life has been ill-spent. Any idealism or patriotism has long been ground up by the lies and deceits that the government and his superiors have foisted upon him. CSM stands watching as Deep Throat walks into the chamber where the E. T. is on life support and conscious. It looks up at him, seemingly uncomprehendingly, as Deep Throat pulls the trigger and kills the creature.

CSM's one last out, he feels, is to have his work published. As he returns home to his crummy little apartment and picks up his mail, he walks over to his manual typewriter and opens his desk drawer, prepared to throw his most recent rejection letter in with the others, he stops and opens it. His story has been accepted and in his excitement, he calls the publisher who raves over his “Jack Colquitt adventure,” and says he want to publish it. CSM readily agrees, and the publisher explains that he may have to change a few things, “here and there,” after he finds out that CSM has no agent. CSM excitedly agrees and promptly writes a letter of resignation, to whatever agency he works for. He's just about to take out a cigaret, but instead, he crumples up the package and throws it away.

Another "rendering" of aliens in an episode "Jose Chung's From Outer Space." Roki and Lord Kinbote, all delivered with straight faces by the cast, which included Jesse Ventura and Alex Trebek. It did point out the fallacious nature of viewpoints and how we are easily swayed. 

Later, he goes to the newsstand and starts reading his article. He is dismayed to find that the publisher changed his ending and it ruined his whole story. The newsstand owner admonishes him, saying “Are you going to buy that?” CSM buys the magazine and a pack of Morley cigarets. He wanders off and sits down next to a homeless guy who has scored a box of half-eaten chocolates and gives this soliloquy:
"Life is like a box of chocolates. A cheap, thoughtless, perfunctory gift that nobody ever asks for. Unreturnable because all you get back is another box of chocolates. So you're stuck with this undefinable whipped mint crap that you mindlessly wolf down when there's nothing else left to eat. Sure, once in a while there's a peanut butter cup or an English toffee. But they're gone too fast and the taste is.. . fleeting. So, you end up with nothing but broken bits filled with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts. And if you're desperate enough to eat those, all you got left is an empty box filled with useless brown paper wrappers."

The Lone Gunmen, who in spite of their borderline-Asperger Geekoid behavior, are terrifyingly gifted in all things spook-related. 

He takes back his resignation and stays with his Alphabet Agency, whoever they are. We never really know. He reminisces up to the point when Agent Scully joins the FBI, and then slips back to reality. The Lone Gunmen, knowing their place has been wire-tapped, and knowing that Frohike is most likely the target, have freaked out for the course of the episode, but we never really hear that, as they had deployed their own cloaking device. When they un-cloak, Frohike, says, “Look, it was just a dumb magazine article...” And CSM utters, “I can kill you whenever I damn please, but not today.” He dismantles his sniper rifle and walks away.

I've been thinking about this episode for several weeks, not because there are conspiracy nuts, theorists and all of that. I for one am skeptical and the "Musings of a Cigaret Man, is largely a work fiction. Sometimes, though it is hard to know where lines end and the truth really does begin. I've lived through all of the events depicted and remember them clearly. It's still hard for me to believe the Oswald acted on his own. James Earl Ray I know little about, except that he was a race-baiter and believe that is more clear-cut. I come from a family that has been involved with security-clearance technology and as Scully would say, “we have our own peculiar notions” sometimes. 

There comes a point there things begin to slip into say, martial law, and then totalitarianism. Here in the United States, the Patriot Act was signed in 2001, and then extended under President Obama, as the PATRIOT Sunsets Extension Act of 2011. This includes roving wiretaps, continued surveillance of ”lone wolves,” along with the existing definition of “domestic terrorism,” as opposed to the plain, old imported kind, I guess. Business records can be searched, library records must be surrendered. Understand, warrants or subpoenas are not necessary for this kind of snooping.

The cry of “I have nothing to hide,” is not the point. We are rapidly approaching the event horizon of defying the “Writ of habeas corpus,” or just plain “Habeas corpus.” This is a fundamental right, and it is everyone's right and is immutable. It means that a detainee can seek relief from unlawful imprisonment. It is our most basic right. Forget Church, forget State, forget separation of the 2, forget the 2nd Amendment. If this, most basic of rights is violated and I truly suspect it has been, then we are no longer a democracy, or a republic. We are living under tyranny. But a special kind of tyranny, because, this is not one person; this is chromatic; up and down the spectrum. It takes the cooperation and the willingness of corporations, managers, people who are willing to look the other way. Edward Snowden is just a start. Think about it and think hard for your children's future. This doesn't happen overnight; it takes years, but I fear we are here. All the Teanderthals, the Liberals, Libertarians, Sectarians, Independents and everyone who sell their PLATFORM and not their morality and ideals share this mess. We should be voting our consciences, not platforms.

Not scary, just sad. Master to something he can never rid himself of.

But our friends like CSM, Deep Throat and Agents Scully and Mulder show us something. There is a grain of truth to all of this. The State exists to ensure the existence of the State. They were all pawns and at his deepest level, CSM knew this, more than anyone. That is what makes him such a compelling character. He's like Gollum; tragic.

I want to thank and congratulate William B. Davis for his fine work on X-Files and all of the wonderful cast and writers of the show. Mr. Davis truly brought CSM to life as we are all enigmatic and at heart, tragic in some way. Thank you.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013


Somehow, JC and I have managed to become social butterflies without ever leaving the house. Of late, since JC took his bad fall, his classmates have naturally, been quite concerned, and were calling him to see how he was doing. Well, as time went on, and his recovery was being prolonged, they began asking if they could visit. Naturally, I said, “Of course! Invite them over! They're always welcome!” Understand that this is a class rather like group therapy for people who have committed crimes, and the classes are part of the terms of their parole. And yes, rather than making everyone read between the lines, or insult people's intelligence, JC is a felon. JC is also the only man who has ever treated me with the kindness compassion and unconditional love that we all deserve. He is my rock and so steadfast and loyal, in a world where that means nothing. I know of no finer man and I trust him with my life and I love him unreservedly. I am the luckiest woman alive.

The only reason I am not, and 90% of the population with no arrest records is this: we never got caught. Everything looks worse on paper, and I long ago discovered that people with “pasts” and records are much more trustworthy, than the so-called normal, run-of-the-mill populace.

Because of the nature of the stigma applied to people who have been imprisoned, committed for mental illness and have been homeless (I really, really need to get myself arrested to get that golden trifecta, just kidding) I have gone out of my way to let them know they are welcome here. Because what's past is past and this is now. If people are going to look down on us because of what we've been through, either through stupid choices, mistakes, or bad luck, that's THEIR problem, not mine. I will hold out my hand to anyone and try to help and comfort, until I am given good reason to doubt their sincerity and their honesty. I am no less of a person for having been homeless and then, Baker Acted for mental illness. I would go so far as to say I am stronger for it and it allows me to be that much kinder to those who have REAL problems. But I am one mean mutherfuckin' bitch, as they say here on Nebraska, if you cross me, or hurt others. But, I digress.

My life was nothing at all like it is now. In 2003, I had everything, or so I thought (well, except for the asshole of a husband, Bill Nunnally, who reads this.) Never, ever think that this cannot happen to you.

So, JC's class buddies (who I think he thought didn't care, because he says he's just an old man and no fun and blah blah blah) have been coming to visit and see JC, who is glad for their company. One young man, Aron* is a viola player and also plays guitar and bass guitar. He's been bringing over his instruments and we've been looking at ways to improve his playing. Aron's friend, *James and his girlfriend, *Camille, came along one afternoon and while Aron and I looked at his guitars that day, she and James and JC were talking about sports, or whatever. I can't remember.

Nice-looking dog; not as nice as the guitars Aron brought over and played.

JC starts talking about Mr. Cantrell's hunting dog. Back when JC lived in Texas, he and this friend used to go 'coon hunting. I think JC just went along for the entertainment value. Mr. Cantrell had 2 or 3 old hound dogs at the time and he bought this beagle, who he was just bragging all about. “She's the best; she can find 'coons here, there, everywhere.” That sort of thing. The way JC tells it is hilarious; I started thinking she was looking for the Scarlet Pimpernel. Anyway, one fine Saturday, after 3 weeks of bragging on this hunter, Mr. Cantrell and JC, load up their dogs and go 'coon huntin'. The beagle had never been out with Mr. Cantrell's dogs before.

They opened the back of the truck and the dogs took off. JC had some old mongrels that pretended to hunt; they'd go about 1/2 mile and sleep in the underbrush. Never caught a damned thing. But, Mr. Cantrell''s dogs are baying and the 2 men go haring after these dogs. They get caught up with them, and these dogs are baying at nothing. And the beagle isn't there with them, she's like 3 miles ahead, hollering. So, off they go, chasing the beagle. This happens about 4 or 5 times, and Mr. Cantrell and JC are like, “the hell with this; we're plumb wore out.” The other dogs had been long gone and were in the back of the truck asleep, when a weary Mr. Cantrell and JC returned. Off in the distance, they could hear the beagle baying.

This could be kind of a "Where's Waldo" thing. I couldn't find anything else, so this is just a random picture. I wanted to post this before 2020. So, where's Mr. Cantrell's hunter?

She's just gonna have to find her own way home.” She never did and is either still huntin' 'coons, or been taken in by some other family, or maybe several families. When JC was done telling this story, which always makes me laugh, to James, Aron and Camille, I had had noticed that Camille was becoming increasingly restive and kept going into our bathroom. I kind of figured she was going through my stuff, but didn't really worry about it. This poor girl has mental problems and was molested by her stepfather and she's really a sad little person. She has horrendous physical problems with Type I Diabetes and people aren't patient with her. It's not a question of her being a thief or anything; she doesn't understand what is appropriate and what is not and I get that. I think she's a nice person and when I talk to her one on one, she's attentive and listens and is honestly trying to do the right thing; she's another long, long heartbreaking story.

Sad, but a sweetheart. Worth the effort, but people don't want to take the time.

So, just as they're getting ready to leave, Camille says to me, “Do you have any perfume I might, like use? I don't have any. Just a spritz.” So, I knew she'd been looking in my cabinets; I have some dollar store knock-off j-lo, that is 1/3 full. For some reason, known only to him, which he has yet been able to explain (not that he needs to; it only adds to the hilarity) JC rears up out of the blue and blurts, “Perfume? That'll make you smell like a whore!” And, ohsweetjesus that went right over her head. She just giggled and said, "I want to smell nice for my fiance, James!" JC had this look of absolute horror on his face. The kind of horror you see at the old Saturday matinees, when the kid is just about to get eaten/trampled/gouged to death by mutant ants/chinchillas/swamp monsters. JC had the look of horror on his face like that guy on the "X-Files" opening credit, whose face melts during the theme song. It was marvelous to behold. 

Well, I couldn't find the melting guy, but I found this, and this is pretty darn close to how JC looked after he blarted out his comment viz a viz perfume and whores.

He looked at me. I had nuttin' just blank. My face looked like Gort from "The Day the Earth Stood Still," lacking only the cyclops eye, that radiated death, because? My mind was a total blank; fried circuits everywhere. I didn't think “Gee, does JC think I smell like a whore?” or “Gee, how would JC know what whores smell like?” I rebooted my brain and thought some completely unrelated bullshit thought about a job I was doing, “Damn, I sure hope I got that system loaded before that old skinflint leaves town. I want my money” I opened my mouth and said, “Camille, wait right here.” I got the 2/3 empty j-lo bottle and gave it to her. She was delighted.

I was looking kinda like this, except for the laser beam coming out of my one eye. Right about then, my CPU did a memory dump and I'm lucky I didn't display a blue screen of death or one of those hexadecimal errors. Boolean logic is positively emotional compared to me.

It got funnier that night when JC said, “By the look on your face, I thought you were gonna say, “y'all are fixin' to have to leave now. Ima gonna beat the shit out of him for calling me a whore. Unless acourse, that is, you'd like to stay around and watch.” I said, “you weren't calling me a whore.” He said, “my other wives would have jumped right on that shit and I'd hear about it for the rest of my life.” I said, “I can do that; why ruin your fun?” We both went off in a gale of laughter again, at 4:30 am. The poor man next door got up and went to work, muttering something about “Goddamned retirees...”

*Aron, James, and Camille are all aliases, I would never use any of our friend's names without permission.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013


I've been editing my previous material from “Homeless Chronicles in Tampa,” not entirely to my satisfaction. But, I am also writing some other essays on Composers and their times and how their music affected me, in between all the sleeping I've been doing. As Andi-Roo and I once tee-hee'd over “the elevensies,” in the Hobbit, I told her that I also did “twelvies, onesies, right on until sleepsies.” And there is a powerful lot of it from the medicine I am taking, although, my tremors are so mild and a bout with them is so short, it no longer taxes me. Doc Burke explained that this would pass and it seems to be working. Besides, all this napping takes a lot out of ya.

Cats will sleep up to 20 hours a day. I bet there are days I beat them.

Anyway, I got all caught up in “Breaking Bad,” first, because it is an excellent show, and the fact that it was conceived by Vince Gilligan. He did wondrous things on “X-Files,” and the awesome acting, the complexities, are almost a Shakespearean Tragedy, if not a Greek one, that overarch the show. It is at times, damned hilarious, but I couldn't figure out why the underbelly drug culture has so fascinated me. Until it hit me; the research for this show is astounding, and as this clip will show you, the Tweakers are some kinda wack. Yo, bitch. They are here arguing about some dumbass game, it sounds like Call of Duty, the Zombie pack and are very passionate about it. The pitch, the gestures, the lingo, is perfect. Pitch-perfect. And I know this how? From my days spent in the homeless shelter. Something of that sort was going on all the time.

It's almost as brainless as the "What if Spartacus had a Piper Cub?" question on the old Satusday Night Live

At the homeless shelter, along with the 24-hour beer, bong and knife party, in the men's house, I also observed many people stabbing at inanimate objects; cars, trash cans, doors, especially if they couldn't steal them. It's as if they never read their “Why Little Johnny Can't Stab” book when they were in 'banger school. The other thing about that clip? They are arguing things that can never be proven, and they beat those points to death until something else comes along. When I was homeless, everyone was an “expert” in something. When I finally got my old computer and set it up, a roommate asked why I wasn't on the internet. I explained that I had no ethernet card. She says, “Well, I'm an expert, because I know how to get rid of that Trojan thingy in Outlook. All you have to do is download it.” I asked, in my asshat way, "Download what? The Trojan? Outlook? What." She says, "No, silly. The ethernet card thingy." Just then, I pretended to have a seizure (there were lots of seizures going on at the homeless shelter, some of them not real) or that I had to pee, or the roof was on fire. Whatever, I got the hell out of Dodge.

Ah yes, the old PEBCAK error. Stands for Problem Exists Between Chair and Keyboard. JC would say she's an astronaut, because of all the space between her eyes. I almost fell off the porch when he said that to her.

I don't even know where to start. First off, anyone who uses Outlook deserves all the mayhem, worms, and Trojans that horrible piece of software is prone to. So, I was relating this whole story to a friend of mine who'd been in prison for tax evasion. He says to me, “That's great! Download an ethernet card, AND dinner. It'll save time.” This is why I don't have to make shit up. Happy Tuesday!

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

#ROW80 – Wednesday Check In – A Sort of a Word Count? Why Does the U.S. Health System Suck SO Bad?

Well, this is a first for me, in a while. An actual check in, where I actually put some actual words down for my actual edit. And excruciating it was. However, I am rather pleased by the result. Never having edited my own work, I thought I would be harder on myself. This means that I will loathe these edits later on, wondering what on God's Earth I was thinking. But, baby steps and all that happy crappy.

So, I've managed to edit about 700 words. Now, when we talk about “edit,” are we talking about leaving words in the paragraph, or taking them out? Does that count, or should I be subtracting those, because if that is the case, I've really managed to edit about -1459 words, and I don't think that's so good. And what about this “changing” thing. “Words?” or entire “Paragraphs?” If it's just words, you have a sum total of more or less. “Paragraphs” are stupid for counting, because we're not really editing them. Or are we? See? Can you tell I've never done this before? I'm totally scoobying this? Help? This shit is really hard. I think I'll stick with words, because I had more of those after I gouged out great chunks of drivel about the pinochle game with the ex-felons. . . Oh wait, I didn't. That's in the next chapter. Is that a teaser? Ha ha, color me Oops!

I look nothing like this, with the exception of the eyes. My left eye is crazier...

Anyway, I have found that dealing with the Health Care System in the United States, is everything way wrong with the U.S. in a microcosm. No body knows how to do their job. Meaningless CYA letters are mailed to and fro, unasked for in most cases and the letters themselves are written by that room full of monkeys that type Shakespeare for a hobby. Then, the Supplemental Insurance Companies run the letters through the HIBACHI AUTO TRANSLATOR that has been in use for decades by horrible Asian Spy Martial-Arts rip-off movies like so:

Holy shit! Is this a movie about kickboxing riot cops versus Cthulhu? Because if it is, then I think we should all, as a species, chip in together and get Indonesia a nice giant box of chocolates or something as a thank you. But if it's not, then I call dibs on that shit right now and you all are witnesses. 


Today, I found out it takes 15 departments to dispatch drivers to pick up one person after a doctor appointment. After having carefully followed the rules since March 1, when I received this Blight on the Planet called Supplemental Insurance/Medicare, it was made very clear to me to NEVER deviate from the process. I am so hard-wired I make Boolean logic look wild and crazy! I do process and I do it hard. I am all about process. I grew up in chaos and loathe it.

That being the case, today, after my shrink appointment, which went a big long (we're discussing psycho-therapy, or PsychoBabble Rap) I quickly nipped over to the Chinese joint and ordered JC and me some Chinese food. I got back to my doc's office, called for my ride to pick me up, which is THE PROCESS. THEY DON'T COME UNTIL YOU CALL! The lady at my Supplemental insurance said, okay, we'll have them dispatched. THAT IS THE PROCESS. THEY DON'T COME UNTIL YOU CALL! Except for today. Offices closed. Lights are coming on; my food is growing cold. I'm bewildered. I called my Supplemental Suckage group and got put on hold with their after-hours group.

I finally get an agent from Neptune; the customer service was as bad as you would expect, but not earth-shakingly bad, nor profoundly bad, as what happens to poor Buck in “Numb3rs, Season 5, Episode 11, “Arrow in Time,” which I love to talk about endlessly because this scene, approximately 8 minutes from the show's end, is played out in a church, with FBI agent Don, calmly explaining to a furious, heart broken, grieving and frightened 19-year old that he has to do 250 years in prison. All of this is played with the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt's piece “Requiem to Benjamin Britten,” for Strings and Bells. The music itself, is nothing more than a cascading scale of notes of several octaves, but pure and simple; clean, yet I found it sinister. I've played the piece and it's one of the few times I've heard music on a Television show that was not an original composition, set as “mood music.” It's chilling, tragic, unbelievably dark, and the last note is as of Hell itself. It is one of the most powerful things I've heard and seen together. The show's composer made an excellent call on that. The start is when Charlie and his father talk about Maxwell's Demon, at 7:40 from the end of the show.

I embedded the code from You Tube, so that hopefully Ms. Alberta Ross can see and hear this; I finally found it on You Tube. But it's a powerful statement and his Buck's end is final and tragic. The music, again, from Arvo Part, an Estonian composer who wrote mainly choral and canonical works wrote this for Bells and Strings. It is simple in construction, but so powerful. 

Well, nothing that dire happened today, but my food was cold and that was 2 3/4 digressions. By the time I got home, I was no longer in high dudgeon and just worn out. Neurological problems just tire you and the drugs don't help. Actually, with this new medicine for my tremors, Primidone, I cannot seem to muster up more than a medium-tall dudgeon. When I start counting my dudgeons in inches, then we're going to have to do something else. I haven't had any sightings of the dead, or sprouted any extra appendages yet, nor have I levitated. One can hope. At least I'm starting to actually edit, produce words, sentences, paragraphs with some coherence. 

I guess I didn't answer the question about why the health care system here is so horrid. It just is and will get worse, I fear. On to more important things, like Lion Drome.

*My thanks to Mr. Robert Brockway over at He has put up with me and my antics patiently and is a prince, as well as an awesome, awesome writer. Check him out. I laughed all over again reading this article. My 2nd favorite article of his is this one: 
2 words: Executive Lion: "Wonder if I ate my briefcase?"