Beyond the C by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Beyond the C
(The Little Houseboat)
By
Edward Drobinski
Copyright © 2021 by Edward Drobinski.
All rights reserved.
Easter Tuesday - The Year of the Second Resurgence ......................... 1
National Sugar Cookie Day - The Year of the Gripe Echo ..................... 4
Labor Day – The Year of the Knee .......................................... 20
Halloween – The Year of Mata Hari ......................................... 28
National Everything You Think is Wrong Day - The Year of the Knee ......... 32
National Cheese Lover’s Eating Day – The Year After the Year of the “I Like
Ike” Pins ................................................................. 35
April Fool’s Day – The Year of the Noxious Weirdo Purge ................... 47
Bodhi Day PM – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan ............. 71
National Endangered Species Day – The Year of the OPEC Cartel ............. 76
Memorial (Decoration) Day – The Year of the Little Bush ................... 84
National Beans ‘N Franks Day – The Year of the Big Blackout ............... 87
Labor Day – The Year of the Knee .......................................... 96
Flag Day – The Year of the Knee .......................................... 111
National Science Appreciation Day – The Year of the Chinese Floods ....... 130
April Fool’s Day – The Year of “All in the Family” ....................... 155
Anyday - The Year of the Knee ............................................ 160
Feast of Tiny Tom – The Year of the 14 ................................... 165
Good Friday – The Year of the Uninvited .................................. 167
New Year’s Day – The Year of the New Ideas ............................... 171
National Nutty Fudge Day – The Year of the Knee .......................... 179
Veteran’s Day – The Year of the Knee ..................................... 205
Thanksgiving Day – The Year of the Little Bush ........................... 207
Washington’s Birthday – The Year of The Turner Diaries ................... 215
National Cocoa Day – The Year of the Worm Virus .......................... 218
Christmas Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo ............................... 231
National Ear Muff Day – The Year of the Knee ............................. 249
National Save Your Photos Day – The Year of the Knee ..................... 262
Cinco de Mayo – The Year of the Gripe Echo ............................... 262
Bodhi Day AM – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan ............ 280
Halloween – The Year of the Politically Correct Requirement .............. 300
Saint Valentine’s Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo ....................... 337
Dia de los Muertos - The Year of the Knee ................................ 344
Independence Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo ............................ 352
Easter Sunday – The Year of the Annunciation ............................. 359
National Blueberry Pie Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo .................. 384
Saint Patrick’s Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo ......................... 417
Columbus Day – The Year of the Knee ...................................... 461
International Lazy Day - The Year of La Navidad .......................... 471
Bloomsday, National Cherry Tarts Day, and National Picnic Day – The Year of
the Monterey Music Festival .............................................. 475
Bastille Day – The Year of National Criminal Reform Legislation .......... 478
Easter Sunday – The Year of the Commencement ............................. 499
Christmas Day – The Year of Franz Liszt .................................. 504
Independence Day – The Year of the Gripe Echo ............................ 511
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Easter Tuesday - The Year of the Second Resurgence Easter Island – Easter Tuesday – April 19th - Tuesday Afternoon – The Year of the Second Resurgence Upon seeing Easter Island for the first time, Cyrus instinctively thought; “Shore. The best shore! She’ll be there.”
He put into port.
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Beyond the C
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“Destination” by Steve Kilbey, Peter Koppes, Marty Wilson-Piper, and Richard Ploog; property of the author under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
Beyond the C
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Shoreline and “Row Jimmy” by Garcia and Hunter; property of the author, the latter under both the
“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
National Sugar Cookie Day - The Year of the Gripe Echo
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Rolling – National Sugar Cookie Day - Wednesday - July 8th – The Year of the Gripe Echo - At Sea
“In a bright sea
Is the place to trip.
Getting’ so stoned
you think you’re gonna flip.
Don’t be afraid if you’re all alone.
That’s how you come in.
That’s how you gonna go.
EV – REE – BOD – EEE.”
Cyrus’ had a panoramic view from his little houseboat.
The water was as still as a Monet painting. The only sound came from the soothing, sun-driven put-put at the stern. Movement was
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as slow and natural as that of a Kemp’s Ridley Turtle hatchling.
It was as it should be.
Cy had no sense of time or the urgency it dictates. Fishes leaped and splashed to get a better look What he could see of the beaches seemed “shelly.” Small bits of shells were mixed in with the sand from the high tide line to the surf's edge. Above that, the sand looked soft and white.
The “natural” beaches were not groomed. Whatever washed in stayed there; seaweed, sea grass, shells, and bits of this and that. At times it could be a bit fragranced, but that comes and goes in the drying sun.
The waters were shallow and calm; though rarely clear; as the waves break against sand bars. If the wind is still, it is lake calm. Each day at the beach is a bit different.
Cy knew that it was best to be very careful around the passes.
There are some strong currents in those areas prone to rip tides, and the waves hit at odd angles.
On calm days, Cy stood on deck with his back to the surf. There isn't the kind of undertow you get on Atlantic beaches. But, one is remiss to turn his back when the waves are rolling.
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From the moment Cy had stepped aboard “Tranquility on the Sea”
he was taken by its timeless charm. And with just a hop, skip, and a jump to the beach, there was also always plenty to do close by.
There was peace, quiet, and tranquility to be had inside, where an outside noise was muted more seditiously than Fakebook could mute a conservative US influencer. When there, Cy relaxed in the beautifully furnished house that is quintessential cottage chic but without the cliché. From the bead board ceilings to the gorgeous reclaimed wood floors throughout; excepting the master bedroom, which is carpeted in a soothing, off-white, shade of sand; to the custom light and plumbing fixtures, to the antique shell prints and charming window treatments in the main living area and artfully furnished rooms throughout, the house casually exuded quality without being pretentious in any way.
The whitewashed kitchen was a dream with a mobile center island and quartz countertops. A drawer contained a brochure which must have been left by the scullery’s artisan. Produced by your
“Friends at the Broken Borders” (FABB), it indicated that for your kind consideration, here were some of their most popular white and cream quartz colors with which one could customize their replaced, re-modeled, and/or relegated spaces. It
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efficiently went on to say that if and when referencing, to please make note of the semi-parenthesized number: 1) Oceana - Soothing and coastal like an elegant seashell, Oceana evokes the feeling of a pebble-filled beach with soft creams and taupes dappled together with light pearl colored hues.
2) Aura - Evoke calm with Aura’s large scale, continuous movement. Warm hues gently meld into cool tones, creating an atmospheric shift across its surface.
3) Shangri-La - Mythical and mysterious, reminiscent of a utopian paradise, Shangri-La’s vibrant garnet gem tones and elegant onyx inspired pattern merge harmoniously for an experience that’s full of celestial wonder.
4) Chantilly – Like fine lace, Chantilly is a modern classic with feathery charcoal veins set against a crisp white background.
5) Soho - Sophisticated and cool. Inspired by one of lower Manhattan’s trendiest neighborhoods and the fashion for which it’s known, Soho features a smoky white base with striking pewter and brown veining.
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6) Monterey - Taking inspiration from California’s breathtaking central coast, Monterey’s soft grey base is anchored by darker grey veining and contrasting white wispy marbling, offering uncommon depth and substance.
7) Mercer - An elevated sophisticated richness. Mercer delivers the perfect pairing of warm neutral hues and bold earthy accents to deliver a cool, elegant style that complements any design palette.
8) Royale Blanc - Crisp and classic for the ultimate clean, modern look. A timeless beauty, Royale Blanc evokes flawlessness and luxury.
9) Transtoidy Abnegations - A distinctly modern classic beauty.
The purest crisp white marble with a feathery contrasting charcoal vein, Transtoidy Abnegations voices a timeless classic Tuscan appeal; reportedly a source of conflict when ensconced in bath.
10) Classic Statue – Subtle, wispy veining is complemented by distinct contrasting darker veined undertones within a stone white background and high gloss sheen.
11) Bianco Canvas - Bianco Canvas creates a backdrop of crisp whites layered with a subtle, warm texture. Soft greys help add depth and richness to create a captivating style.
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12) Aurora Snow - The result of brilliant white softened by cool hues of grey is a timeless beauty. Aurora Snow delightfully masters the balance between color and texture.
Grey countertops add an industrial touch to any space. Whether you’re looking for something that looks like natural stone or a design that resembles concrete, you’re sure to find a grey quartz pattern that strikes your fancy.
13) Uptown Grey - A sublimely cool grey echoed with soft wispy white marbling, Uptown Grey delivers the perfect balance between traditional and modern.
14) Metropolitan - Inspired by the look of concrete, Metropolitan brings together elegant neutral grays and warm earthy undertones to create a unique, industrial classic.
15) Pewter - Tailored tones of stone are livened up by the effortless specks of onyx throughout. Pewter proves itself as a well-appointed surface in any design space.
16) Aramis - Bold and welcoming. The warm undertones in the deep grey of Aramis offer a sense of relaxed elegance while the striking slate tones provide depth.
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17) Leaden - Strong greys are mellowed by a natural texture. The rich hues and subtle texture of Leaden create an accessible style without compromising on character.
18) Storm - Like a wisp of wind, a trace of white weaves throughout the cool, deep hues of Storm's grey base.
19) Smoke - Bold elegance. Smoke merges neutral greys and sepia undertones with soft pearl and onyx movements for a look that’s eye catching and enticing.
In the Coke woke lees of the early 21st century, the written mission of a progressive organization like FABB not only seeks profit maximization. We prioritize the promotion of inclusion, choice, and freedom. In that regard, black countertops are a practical and popular choice for both homes and commercial spaces. Black is a natural camouflage to scratches and stains, and it is especially good for homes with small children that are prone to spills and “accidents.” In addition, black quartz works well in heavily trafficked areas.
Last but certainly not least, here, for your consideration are some of our most popular black quartz patterns: 20) Silhouette - A boldness that feels vintage and sophisticated. Silhouette’s rich, sable base is anchored by clean white marbling for a dramatic, yet grounding effect.
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21) Black Coral - Rich black hues are softened by the presence of cooling greys. Black Coral evokes a dignified and bold stance that uniquely appeals to many color palettes.
Quartz is a great material for homes and commercial spaces because of its durability, sustainability, and beauty. We pride ourselves on creating products that provide surfaces for life’s most important moments. Whether you’re preparing a Thanksgiving meal in your home or getting ready for a first date, quartz exists to provide the surfaces you need to make those moments resonate.
Not that it was Cy’s most whopping of personal deals, but more as a small point of an order, the like of which once permeated US Congress, especially given the length with which the quartzites are permitted to go on, Cy tried to interject that he had not been given any opportunity to customize his countertops or mobile island, for that matter. They were completely inherited, “and, if one had to know, seemed somewhere between Oceana and Mercer; numbers 1 and 7; though that call could have been aided by a ‘free’ sample color come-on which ........... “
Before he could more fully describe this particular which, the soul-less voice designed to soothe over-rode his petty effrontery. It’s pop-up informed him that FABB was either no longer in existence or that it did not recognize Cy as a
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legitimately registered griper. As this intended mutual communication was entirely prompted by an unrequired, home-grown-citizen’s, attempted clarification of a level of murk minority, it’s rejection was welcomed. In regained benign disinterest Cy was again completely tranquil. Whether he was at 1, 7, or a composite of them mattered not to him; but perhaps to someone for whom he had yet to acquire any acquired taste.
There was a stainless steel, old farmhouse styled sink. One might do well to customize the meaning of that. It was outfitted with everything needed to make everything from “quick and easy”
to gourmet meals and holiday feasts. There was a gas grill outside the stern door for all barbeque dinners.
The master bedroom suite had a king sized bed and bath with a claw foot soaking tub and large pedestal sink. A second bedroom had an inflatable bed and shared a half bath with guests sequestered in the living room, doors on two sides. There was a convenient laundry room off the hall with front loading washer and dryer if anyone needed to do any washing.
At this point, it is worth mentioning that to equate an abode’s accoutrements with the trip is like equating the territory with the map. More or less.
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The house was stocked with a wide assortment of books; books; some of which Cyrus remembered as having lost. “The Catcher in the Rye,” “Infinite Jest,” “Bleak House,” “Jude the Obscure,”
“The Velveteen Rabbit,” and “Malone Dies” were back where they once were; on mahogany wall-to-wall and floor-to-ceiling shelves surrounding a fireplace. The hardcovers were interspersed with the soft. Their shelved perches were shared with a tiny US stamp and coin collection, which ostensibly specialized in Mercury Dimes, to the detriment of philatelic commemoratives priced out-of-the-market or the semi-presidential series which started with the half cent Franklin. The pile of comics alone was sufficient to keep anyone busy if the weather was less than perfect.
Internet access was available and highly recommended for those with a pre-existing addiction and monitor, preferably hi-def and Trump yuge. There was also a DVD player, accompanied by a discography oddly familiar to Cy.
Highly un-documentable, thereby also undocumented sources allege that there was a working radio; one which looks like the deep blue plastic one with the big knobs Cy’s mother used to use to hear the Spike Jones’ coterie, Arthur Godfrey’s “Howaya, howaya”
Miami welcoming pitch, as well as the relaxing drone of talk shows wherein the conversants were actually in the same room.
Regarding the radio, the rumor mongerers were accurate. Believe
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this at your own yellow peril. We wish to be perfectly clear in the Nixonian Fakebook sense that there is no guaranty proffered beyond that correctly or not inferred from seeming acceptance coupled with a reticence to openly oppose, and attendantly reflective of nothing; certainly not gold or even the gilted melt-down. The suggestion was that if a radio is ear paramount in one’s world of sand as a granular material composed of finely divided rock and mineral particles, defined by size, being finer than gravel and coarser than silt; disrespective and snotty to the devotees of pure sand which can also refer to a textural class and sized existence, you best bring one yourself. .
For outdoor activities there were water toys; a flurry of beach balls, plenty of beach pails and shovels, two boogaloo boards, three Chinese fungo bats capable of smacking that sucker further out of the park than Sammy Sosa at his most steroid-assisted, two sulking and uncooperative frisbees, several balls of other sort, two disconnected hula hoops, and a grounded kite. There was also a shuffleboard set in the closet by the front door and the deck was the perfect venue for a fun game that everyone can enjoy.
This house was the ninth house to be built at sea and for its first five years was solely used by the original owners as a vacation house. Thus the house was still in virtual mint
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condition, and was appointed with the owners high quality tastes in mind. The name, “Tranquility on the Sea,” reflects the tranquil feeling the owners always had when staying in their remote house.
The sea has beckoned and entranced for ages. It's been a powerful, inevitable presence from its ancient beginnings to the present day. It’s a character, a God, a setting for exploration, an image touching all that is human, a metaphor for the unseen world beyond the senses.
The sea is often allegorical, filled with fantastic mythical beings and carrying pointed moral statements. Sea poems, too, are often seen as allegory, whether or not intended to be solely as such. They seem naturally suited to a rather raucous dirge, as those concerned with the metaphorical passage from one world to the next as well as with any actual languid voyage across the calm waters.
The vast natural power of the shifting sea; whether at rest or in its furious torrential motion state of gobbing regurgitation, and the ever present danger to men who venture across it keep the lines between life and death, languid or on point, always visible. In Alfred, Lord Tennyson's “Crossing the Bar,” the nautical term “crossing the bar;” sailing over the sandbar at
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the entrance to any harbor, or setting out to sea; could either stand in for dying or embarking on a new adventure through “the boundless deep.” The last two stanzas follow. Everyone chooses their own interpretation.
"Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;
For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my love face to face When I have crossed the bar."
All hype be silenced. Cy lounged in his on deck chair savoring the sweet, sweet fragrances which wafted up from the still water which was at the lower end or below the commencement of the brine 3.5 scale; no precise calculation currently permitted or desired in his comfortable, reclining posture. The aroma was the hybrid child of a briney liaison with a gentle updraft produced by the slow put-put of the houseboat’s default engine setting, and seemed especially pleasant to Cy in his hidden recollections of his early days of balmy winds off the peninsula bay; as reflected in Phoebe’s ring reaching at the carousel. “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” part of “The Catcher in the Rye;” you know, when Holden gets all kinds of misty and all while Phoebe keeps perilously leaning off her bobbing, wooden horse in reaching for the ring, to tell you the truth.
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You see, Phoebe was younger than Holden. She does not yet know that the ring is a hologram. Holden doesn’t have the heart to tell her; and so he got into the music and was warmly glad to watch her excitedly reach. When the ride ended, Phoebe bounded off the carousel and leaped into Holden’s arms, suddenly ready.
Holden said; “You almost got it that time!”
Phoebe replied; “I require no patronization. I’ve been at the fair as long as you.”
“That is a denouement.”
“No, silly; an early affirmation!”
Cy’s senses seemed to hook into the beat, as the leaping Arowana made its presence known near the ship bow’s rudder; temporarily distracting him from his recollection of the book; but ultimately fortifying it.
“It’s only Balkanism, but I like it.” - Unattributed -
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The Sea and “Beyond the Sea” by Jack Lawrence; property of the author, the latter under both the
“fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
Labor Day – The Year of the Knee
Radio Broadcast - Madame Hatter - WMARS – Labor Day –
Monday – September 7th – The Year of the Knee - Yuck Off
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On the willful radio set at WMARS 2020 FM, the crackling, poor reception was only exceeded by the inevitably lulling, dulcet tones to be evoked by the calm, invisible, and carefree Madame Hatter’s weekly pronouncements. Though none but the few technicians at the scene could see it, the broadcast booth was occupied by a hooded figure which suggested a femininity in the most simple of past and present tenses. Sitting with head down, the shrouded figure shuffled desk papers as the intro song played.
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Sea and sky and “Suicide is Painless” by Johnny Mandel and Michael B Altman; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
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In an unhurried, possibly measured monotone, “she” spoke.
“And I can take or leave it if I please.
It’s one of those obvious days.
Diversity is.
Singularity was.
Yes? You’ve noticed?
I’ve got one of these.
You’ve got one of those.
That’s all there is to it, Tyro.
To all others; yuck off.
In today’s news. Thirteen have been shot, and five are dead after a party broke out at south-side Chicago shooting. As yet unidentified suspects began partying after the shooting at about 4:41 AM. The Chicago Police Department said that the ‘victims,’
who range in age from 20 to 44, were taken to nearby hospitals and morgues. ‘There is no reason for the community to fear. This was a private, personal event, with no ties to domestic terrorism.’
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To Chicago; yuck off.
My apologies to each of the decapitated Charlie HeebDough gripes. But yuck off.
To the American Military-Industrial Complex (AMIC), who rule the world by a meretricious military and economic force, while claiming they're doing it for the good of the others; yuck off for your own good, but stand by.
To BLM, refreshed with super-sized TV’s and Nike Air Force 1
CK’s; yuck off.
To antifa, who seek independence from their parental landlords of 3-4 decades and relevance through an accompanied stroll near the modern urban ghetto; yuck off.
To the Russians, who pretend they are up to AMIC standards, but are somehow not just the same as a striving American; yuck off.
Your tank conked out, and is smoking contraband at your parade.
To the Israelis, who continue to take ‘advantage’ of the 1948 UN
edict granting them barren, un-regulated land, previously and periodically occupied by a few nomads in the contraband trade; yuck ‘em all. Don’t be their proxies and let the other Arab
‘nations’ directly return to their long term torture of the Palestinians.
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To the Palestinians, who are heavily Saudi subsidized to remain near someone else, at least try to understand that no one wants you, and if that’s some sort of problem for you; yuck off somewhere.
To the Muslims, whose primary export commodity is dumb, fundamentalist jihadists intending to ‘escape’ the headless atrocity they have spent all of recorded history creating; yuck off your own head.
To the Germans, who for legal and age reasons want us to believe that none of them had anything to do with the Third Reich, while they still righteously support libtard forbidden nationalism on rogue allowing, ‘influencing social’ mediums; yuck off with the posture ruse and openly re-claim your homeland.
To the French, who were all too happy to collaborate with the old Nazis when the opportunity presented itself and are all too happy to collaborate with the ‘new’ Q-tip headed, MSM Pravda supported Nazis; yuck off. Your irrelevance is merely funny.
To those who don’t say yuck off; yuck off.
To the Catholic Church, who supports intolerance, suppression, and oppression of homos and other weirdo, popular, perverts currently blessed through professorial pedophilia; yuck off with the mixed messages. The altar boys have eaten cheese. Duh?
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To the critics of the Royal Family’s legitimate concern with the UK tourism implications of having a little monkey running around Buckingham Palace; yuck off.
To the sensitive entitled snowflakes of the Millennial Family who think it's not enough to get their own food and private room in their beleaguered parent’s house while they borrow money in pursuit of their sixth doctorate; yuck off and take your boring lectures with you.
To the Americans who don't understand irony; so pleased to make your acquaintance.
To the foreign lepers who disdain the ‘fascistic’ US borders which promote domestic health; yuck off and die where you were born.
To the domestic lepers who disdain the ‘fascistic’ US borders which provide for a domestic health they apparently do not possess, but rather promote the ‘comforting’ proximity of more
‘kindred’ lepers than make any ‘imposing’ personal effort to get clean; yuck off to Cuba, China, or North Korea.
We know that you'd like to kill us and one day one of us will be gone for one hundred years. We are stupid, vulgar, disrespectful, and thereby incapable of understanding and
‘acceding’ to your lofty ideals. But if and when you do kill us,
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as we suspect you will, you will regret it for reasons you will never determine. We, in turn, will take much solace in merely being away from you; our only problem rather minor; being that of finding another alternative source of revolting humor.
To all those who would wheel their discount chairs to the town square without the aid of charged batteries, just to see the details of how it is destined to play out, it is not your fault.
You are His people, and you will inherit His earth. ..........
Probably.
To the anybody’s and nobody’s sufficiently consequential or inconsequential to have been omitted from the previous; yuck off; no one will notice your particular shade of gray or care to know the correct term for it.
Now we must part, we to ‘die’ and you to ‘live.’ We'll leave you to think about who has gotten the better deal.
It brings on many changes.”
Halloween – The Year of Mata Hari
Halloween – Wednesday – October 31st – Kingsland, NJ -
The Year of Mata Hari
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“Darkness at Noon” is a novel by the Hungarian-born British novelist Arthur Koestler, first published in 1940. His best-known work tells the tale of Rubashov, a Bolshevik revolutionary who is cast out, imprisoned and tried for treason by the Soviet government he'd helped create.
“Darkness at Noon” stands as an unequaled fictional portrayal of the nightmare politics of our time. Its hero is an aging revolutionary, imprisoned and psychologically tortured by the Party to which he has dedicated his life. As the pressure to confess preposterous crimes increases, he relives a career that embodies the terrible ironies and human betrayals of a totalitarian movement masking itself as an instrument of deliverance. Almost unbearably vivid in its depiction of one man's solitary agony, it asks questions about ends and means that have relevance not only for the past but for the perilous present.
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Woman bleeding and “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” by Bob Dylan; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
“From the fools’ gold mouthpiece ................... “
National Everything You Think is Wrong Day - The Year of the Knee
Mein Greipf - Griping in the Street – National Everything You Think is Wrong Day - Sunday - March 15th
– The Year of the Knee
“Callin' out around the world
Are you ready for a brand new beat Warm weather's here and the time is right For griping in the street
They're griping in Chicago
Griping in the street
Down in New Orleans
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Griping in the street
In New York City
Griping in the street
All we need are issues, sweet issues There'll be issues everywhere
There'll be swingin' and swayin' and topics playing Griping in the street
Oh it doesn't matter what you wear Just as long as you don’t care
So come on now; every gripe grab some sticks There’s still un-broken glass around for kicks There'll be griping
Griping in the street
They're griping in the street
Griping in the street
It's an invitation across the nation A chance for gripes to meet
There'll be smashing, singing and lead sticks swinging Griping in the street
Philadelphia, P.A.
Griping in the street
Baltimore and D.C. now
Griping in the street
Can't forget the Motor City
Griping in the street
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Ted Wheeler’s Stumptown
Griping in the street
In Raindrop City
Griping in the street
All we need is griping, sweet griping There'll be demolition everywhere
There'll be smashin', swayin' and lead sticks swinging And griping in the street
Oh, it doesn't matter what you wear Just as long as you don’t care
So come on, every gripe stick a pig Everywhere around the gig
They're griping
They're griping in the street
Griping in the street
Way down in L.A., every day
They're griping in the street
Let's get our big strong long
Get on time
They're griping in the street
Across the ocean blue, me and you
We're griping in the street.”
“Hey, all you super cool gripes out there. This is your ace DJ
of the day; Randy Rainbow. And that was Martha and the Vandals
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numero uno hit; ‘Griping in the street.’ After a cold weather hiatus, it’s back on top, no double entendre intended. Tee hee.
Please excusemoi. So get out there and gripe; gripe.”
National Cheese Lover’s Eating Day – The Year After the Year of the “I Like Ike” Pins
National Cheese Lover’s Eating Day – Tuesday – January 20th – The Year After the Year of the “I Like Ike” Pins One of Cy’s earliest memories was of the late afternoon when his Uncle Chesty exploded the television. Despite the lack of injuries, it was a precursor of inept terrorism, and was actually much bigger of a deal at the time than it would have been in the bombarded 21st century. Comparisons are problematic, not only because this would be impossible to do now utilizing state-of-the-art equipment.
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Chesty was crouched at the back of the four legged floor model when Cy entered the room. Cy heard a faint noise much like that one usually doesn’t detect when a particularly vociferous lightbulb blows and then saw a spiraling urn of thick black smoke playing on top of the TV. As it dissipated Uncle Chesty rose with a blackened face; his white bulged eyes saying something like; “Oh boy. Am I still alive?”
Having had the advantage of being a tyke who had already read a few books, he sensed that this was one of those tragic Hamletian times not designed for conversation. An internal monologue, often incorrectly referred to as an internal dialogue by the math deficient majority, was strongly suggested. So, he left the room, dived on the bed, put his face tightly in the pillow to muffle the sound, and proceeded to laugh his little ass off.
You might think his clandestine display of mirth inappropriate, inconsiderate or something else in that vein considered politically incorrect in these enlightened times. In fairness
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you might consider the fact that Cy had sufficient grace to leave the room before confining his vulgar display to the audience of one well-used pillow and found it absolutely impossible to keep a straight face when someone “accidentally”
did something obviously stupid; such as this. At that age, he still preferred the antics of “The Three Stooges” over that of
“The Marx Brothers.”
If you find that explanation to be unsatisfactory, you might prefer reading one of the “democratically” written anti-Trump books. You’ll find many titles to choose from, and they all seek to provide you with your required degree of comfort by saying the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over, ad infinitum.
You might also or otherwise consider the writer or little Cy to be one of many of those feigning a chuckle-chuckle, sophisticated position, disdainful, uncaring, and oblivious to the joys one obtains from television. Not at all. MSNBC’s “The ReidOut with Joy Reid” has been a consistent source of personal enjoyment for the writer, if not little Cy. The episode during which she pontificated upon how Trump colluded with Hurricane Florence remains a personal favorite.
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If sufficiently cursed to be one of the deprived Millennials, you might not know that in the early days of television they spent most of their time “on the blink,” generating interference OJ would have paid Johnny Cochrane millions to run behind. When a bit more operative they often rolled like the waves in a pre-regurgitating drunkard’s ceiling, or found some other way of being simplistically uncooperative.
If you already knew that, don’t bother to read the previous paragraph. If you already did, little Cy’s most sincere of condolences proffered. This dispassionate, logical eruditions destined to be referred to by its five readers as a rant, is still probably under the auspices of the Amazon free preview. If you choose to bail now, it’s between you and Beelzebub; and I have reason to believe that Jeff doesn’t give a yuge wet one one way or the other.
Cy’s young mind was unfortunately already sufficiently tarnished with the cynical thought that it was an insidious indication of a conspiracy that even when blessed with the addition of the $1.99 plus tax accuracy provided by “rabbit ears,” the television reception always just happened to be contrary when the well-loved, common, and popular humor of “I Love Lucy” and
“The Honeymooners” were supposed to be on. Please compare and contrast that with the fact that all systems were always “go”
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whenever “Ozzie and Harriet” displayed the joys and psychologically healthy aspects of the wildly proliferating Levittowns; including but not limited to the enhanced greenery above the septic tanks in the increasingly automobile dependent, suburbanizing USA. The fix was in; but as far as anyone knows, Arthur Godfrey only made it to radio; presenting a regionally based, cynics might say ridiculously biased, glorification of warm, Hurricane Florida; perhaps a pre-cursor to Alabama’s state wide worship of the Crimson Tide. ....... In an attempt to be fair and/or bitchy, one cannot help but wonder if there was any TV reception at all in the Birmingham of those days. Just sayin’
the obvious. No offense to backwater rubes intended.
On another non-conspiratorial, non-colluding, obvious basis, it seemed that there was only one form of advertising. “You will feel better; your pain will go away; you will become popular and cool; you will become a millionaire; and you will be uncontrollably attractive to the opposite sex, if you just buy our product.” At that age Cy still felt fine; was in no discomfort, never mind pain; didn’t want to participate in any gross popularity contests; had no concept of money other than the roll sold for a few cents at the five and dime; and his only conceptual thoughts of females was a wonder why the silly creatures wore dresses. They seemed to impose so many types of
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problems while taking a seat and virtually prevented one from playing for the Yankees. A bit later, a school generated question surfaced. Why did they always have to sit on the other side of the room?
Some things never change; including the infinite life of unanswered questions.
However, those of you Plato and Socrates challenged unfortunates, might also require being further informed about ancient times. TV’s retailed for upwards of $1,000 in those days, while people like Cy’s father was making about $40 per week before taxes. The fact that most people didn’t have them encouraged one’s long lost “friends” to reacquaint themselves with one in possession in the comfort of the possessor’s living room without prior announcement and with an expectation of being served a “happy meal.” The friendless ones often huddled by the
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retail store windows where one was playing, no matter the weather. The sporting events required no audio; and indeed are still often marred by it.
Cy’s little family only had a TV because two of his Dad’s brothers were cops assigned to the Supply-Evidence Room. They would often have items for sale well below retail. Ado, short for Adolph, the oldest, passed this one along for a mere smile accompanied by the future expectation of a favor.
It’s difficult to pinpoint the date at which these types of understandings and conjectural reveries first manifested in Cy.
They may well not have been there at age five. The writer doesn’t know and could care less. But, Cy can reasonably assure you that at the time his sense of humor was not prompted by any sort of cruel disregard. It was much more particular. What was going on in his young mind in “The Year After the Year of the ‘I Like Ike’ Pins” was that the smoke had cleared and it seemed most likely that “The Year of the Fall” Hiroshima was not going to replay in current Bayonne, NJ. He wasn’t about to be the only kid on his block to miss having personal access to an electronic device which chose to crackle like an inarticulate creature sparked by lightning. Chesty looked like the negative of a Juggalo with about as many interesting things to say; and Cy’s
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Dad was soon going to provide some action unavailable on TV when he implied the kicking of Chesty’s dumb ass.
You might recall the allusion near the beginning of the prior paragraph to “cruel disregard” and forgive someone for it as it seems likely that this life sustaining attribute came much later in the costume of Jesuit college induced “benign neglect.” Yeah, we all know how the cloistered purveyors of young or new ideas succeeded in blaming dead Sartre for their not-so-clandestine excursions into perversions.
Chesty was Cy’s Mom’s only brother; and Cy’s Dad did not like him one little bit. Neither did Mom, but for other reasons. Dad wasn’t much of a talker unless you asked him the mechanics of how to do something. He probably particularly disliked that Chesty was a talkative bachelor who told everyone that he was good at everything; that “leap of faith” covering that which is not possible for an insect with plucked wings.
In “The Year After the Year of the “I Like Ike” Pins,” it was that Chesty knew how to fix TV sets, the income from which he used to supplement that of his full time job at the dirty and dangerous General Dynamics Paint Manufacturing plant down on the slippery bricks of Third Street.
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Chesty was constantly telling the old jokes people just stare at or politely excuse themselves from.
“You hear about the ‘Million Dollar Movie’?”
Obligatory and sullen “No” ignored.
“Times are so tough it’s down to one hundred thousand.”
Bada boom boom.
One might suggest that he wasn’t a bad guy at all, if you could be Christian and somehow find somewhere within yourself the degree of socially acceptable patience prompted by miscalculated, overly prolonged solitude which allows one to tolerate relentless, laugh solicitous blabbing and braggadocio.
In Chesty’s defense, he never tried to lean on anybody or otherwise throw his weight around; his 5’4” chubby and baby fat frame a possible detriment to that sort of activity notwithstanding.
Mom still truly resented her brother and wanted to see his ass kicked by anyone because he was mommy’s favored boy in her otherwise overlooked family of three insignificant girls. Dad wasn’t thrilled with Chesty because of the way he ran his mouth in such an un-manly, dit-dit-dit manner. Cy didn’t have any opinion to speak of as he was less than five years old, didn’t
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see him all that much, and the few times that he did, tended to focus on the top of his head. At age thirty-five he was missing about thirty-five percent of what belonged up there; the rest combed back in a loose gray-white flounce portending the un-gelled coming of Dr. Zorba. On popular later TV, he resembled a prematurely ageing, short version of Archie Bunker.
Dad came out of another room and quickly sized up the situation.
He solemnly walked to the back of the TV and Chesty in prematurely unacceptable blackface. He saw the internal meltdown of his TV, and concluded that his TV was now dead, and that Chesty had killed it. In later years Dad would tell Cy that it was a distinct possibility that his brother Ado had given him a stinker he had obtained for “a song” in order to extract a favor. But that was not of any relevance at the time. So, Chesty was standing there looking stupid, and thinking that he had just messed up big time.
To put it in other words; Chesty was standing there silent, stupefied and black-faced. Dad was 5’11’, just a tad short of the time’s big man mantra of “He’s a six footer!,” and he had donned that controlled angry thing, and Cy was watching hoping that the unexplainable giggles didn’t kick in again before Dad drew blood. Mom was in another room, lying on her stomach, pretending some sort of discomfort, probably in order that the
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Princess not have to be bothered with the bullshit of the day, though maintaining a good view of it through the open door.
As mentioned, Cy didn’t care very much about the TV, and assumed that Dad would go get another one anyway,for whatever that was worth. In those days, even though the scientists had been investigating television possibilities since the 1890’s, they had not yet come up with a viable product; much like their contributions to US autos. There were thirteen channels available on the knob, five of which actually had some broadcasting behind them, and none of which ever came in clearly for more than two consecutive days.
So, little Cy, not as a result of the decade away cynicism reinforced by Bob Dylan, had stopped paying much attention to it and after a brief dilletantish dalliance went back to his books, cards, and sports games. Besides, even if a miracle happened and the damn thing consistently did what it was supposed to, there were still no shows with cartoons, rock music, or entertaining Donald Trump shenanigans.
Those old TV’s were a disappointing pain; at least those supplied by a light fingered uncle cop. They were full of some kind of tubes, maybe fifty, and the malfunction of any one of them would make the TV stop working. Dad would bring Cy with him
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to the electronics store on Broadway, a few blocks away. He’d bring the tubes which he thought might not be working and test them in a machine at the front of the store. After locating the right receptacle he’d plug them in. If they lit up they were okay. If not they had to be replaced. Even at that age Cy immediately figured that it was in the interest of the store owner to have nothing work, necessitating a replacement purchase. This thought was confirmed after Dad had purchased some, installed them and the TV still didn’t work. This was Cy’s earliest exposure to an easily rigged, entrepreneurial, capitalist approach to the demand-supply curve.
Firmly, but in an even tone Dad told Uncle Chesty to leave. Dad never hit anyone first. He’d get right in your face and hoped that you’d flinch or make some movement he could conveniently interpret having scared the victim. You know, just like the cop game without the beating. Dad had the benefit of having had two older brothers in the racket. But dejected Chesty just left as instructed; black face and all. Dad seemed disappointed and I started laughing again.
Dad angrily said; “What’s so funny?”
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Trying to deflect, I said; “Uncle Chesty’s black face. He’s going to walk home looking like that.” That seemed to be okay with Dad and he just shrugged, as if to say; “Big deal.”
Footnote. At this time it seems eminently fair, and despite that impediment, it seems incumbent upon me to point out that the uninvited annotator has chosen to make the reader aware that the remainder of this book seems to be consistent with that which may be logically interpreted as having been written or merely typed by a writer-typist with a complete disinterest in the corpus, insofar as that may be conveyed in words. The writer-typist has assured me that this was not the case, but according to learned critics in possession of unverified credentials and a marked lack of originality, the presumed writer-typist is, like other plebian essayists, in no position to accurately assess any such matters; that perception much akin to the sulphur which requires an un-definably provocative strike of sorts to flame, in the absence of the metaphorically, well-intentioned subterfuge provided electronically by an electric fireplace.
April Fool’s Day – The Year of the Noxious Weirdo Purge April Fool’s Day – Thursday – April 1st – The Year of the Noxious Weirdo Purge
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Cy’s dad was a cold-eyed hatchet-faced man, as lean as a rake and as hard as an inept manager of a loan office. His neat, ruddy face always looked as if it has been mowed within the hour. He wore a rumpled Nuck-type flannel shirt and there was a permanent crease opposite each elbow, which he bent to affect Italianette hand emphasis whenever required to speak. He had the stubby, still fingers of a man with a slow brain and perpetually looked ready for a fight, which was perversely amusing, as anytime he had been put to it, he found some practical reason to back off unceremoniously.
At age six, his mom was thirty or so, small and delicately put together, but despite that she looked quite durable, like most Depression era kids. She wore a pale blue house dress and it might have looked well on her had it been recently washed and put through the washing machine’s rolling pins. As is, it looked merely utilitarian. She walked as if she was floating on the pep-pills the doctors distributed for weight loss/appetite control in those days. Her hair was the mid length result of a permanent, a tad longer than the then current fashion of pageboy tresses curled in at the bottom. Her eyes were slate-gray, and had almost no expression when they looked at Cy. She came over near him and smiled with her mouth showing that she had little sharp predatory teeth, as white as ignored canine manure and as
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shiny as un-assed porcelain. They glistened between her thin, painted, and too taut lips. Her face lacked whatever color could not be provided by her cosmetic cheek powder pad. Suffice to conclude with the minimalist observation that she didn't look too healthy.
This was the backdrop of the day little Cy was first encouraged/instructed to abandon his books. His mom had taught him how to read and write pre-pre-school, though there were no such things in the days when parents didn’t abdicate responsibility for their kids to the governmental institutions as soon as they possibly could. They would hold hands and skip down 30th Street to the town’s public library, where Cy would use his very own well-stamped card to check out as many books as he could carry. He had even made light work of the complications provided by the Dewey decimal system.
Mom never checked out a book. She didn’t even have a library card. One almost has to conclude that apparently her motivation was that she took great pleasure in advertising that a male member of her family was capable of reading, unlike her relatives and associates. The myriad of possible motivations subservient to the deed, Cy was enthralled with his books.
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An only child, his books were a joy, only rivalled by his interest in baseball, as shown on TV, and as “re-enacted” in numerous, commercially available board games. The books on the subject invariably evoked a better time when the real diamond stars walked the fields in the bygone years Cy would never get to see.
How high and far could Babe Ruth hit ‘em? Did he really swing from his heels? There were no films and pictures were scant.
Well on the way to a pre-Hall-of-Fame, exemplary career as a Red Sox pitcher, why did he agree to chuck it in favor of hitting home runs for the Yankees, an art, which in 1921, was considered
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as freakishly unnecessary as a starry night, during Van Gogh’s lifetime.
And Tyrus Raymond Cobb; the irascible, supposedly hated speedster with spikes of razors, who in 1936 received the most votes of any player on the inaugural Baseball Hall of Fame ballot, receiving 222 out of a possible 226 votes; 98.2%, to Ruth’s 215; 95.1%. His many lifetime records were never expected to be broken, though thanks to the expansions of the number of teams and season length, only the .366 batting average endures.
Cy had read that Ty held his bat with his hands apart, seeking to scientifically place the pitch in the part of the field which was most poorly defended; bringing them together only to bash one “to keep them honest.” Ty upset the power devotees Ruth brought into existence. In later years asked of his power deficiency he said that hitting home runs wasn’t difficult, if that was all one wanted to do. He then proceeded to hit five during the day’s double-header. He further endeared himself to baseball pundits. When asked to assess Ruth, he did in the context of his own era, kindly saying; “He doesn’t run too bad for a fat man.”
Preceding Ruth, and overlapping some with a younger Ty Cobb was Honus Wagner; the first baseball player to have earned the word
“superstar,” before that word was invented and subsequently soon
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overused. Unlike outfielders Ruth and Cobb, “The Flying Dutchman” was a shortstop, the most important and difficult to play fielding position, who played 21 seasons in Major League Baseball from 1897 to 1917, almost entirely for the Pittsburgh Pirates of the National League. During the early twentieth century the NL was considered more talented and better balanced than Cobb’s “newcomer” American League. Wagner won eight batting titles, a National League record that remains unbroken to this day. He also led the league in slugging six times and stolen bases five times. Wagner finished at .329 and Cobb himself, in possibly the only complement he ever offered, called Wagner
"maybe the greatest star ever to take the diamond." With no inter-league play in their time, they met only once in the 1909
World Series. Pittsburgh won in seven games, and Wagner outplayed Cobb by a wide margin. Honus batted .333 to Ty’s .231; stole 6 bases without being thrown out versus 2 and 1; and drove in 7 runs to Ty’s credible 6.
In one story of that series, the first time Cobb got on first base, he yelled out to Wagner; “Hey Krauthead! I’m coming down on the next pitch.” He did, and he was greeted by Wagner’s glove holding the ball and slamming him in the mouth with it, opening a gash. Ty was out in more ways than one.
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Following is a picture of the three of them together. Ruth is in the center and Cobb is at the right, showing his unique batting grip. Wagner is on the left, affecting a lefty’s stance for the benefit of the photographer, as he was a righty.
Christy Mathewson, nicknamed "Big Six" and "Matty" was a right handed pitcher, who played 17 seasons with the New York Giants, winning 373 regular season games and inventing the “fadeaway,”
now called the screwball. He was among the most dominant pitchers in baseball history, and still ranks in the all-time
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top 10 in several key pitching categories, including wins, shutouts, and Earned Run Average.
He led the Giants to victory in the 1905 World Series by pitching three shutouts. At the game’s start he’d gloriously walk to the mound from where he had been warming up behind the outfield fence with his jacket draped across his shoulder. Given his abilities, it was quite a show. Mathewson never pitched on Sundays, owing to his Christian beliefs. Mathewson was highly regarded in the baseball world during his lifetime. As he was a clean-cut, intellectual collegiate, his rise to fame brought a better name to the typical ballplayer, who usually spent his time gambling, boozing, or womanizing. His was the “first face of baseball.”
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Mathewson served in the United States Army's Chemical Warfare Service in World War I, and was accidentally exposed to chemical weapons during training. His respiratory system was weakened from the exposure, causing him to contract tuberculosis, from which he died in Saranac Lake, New York in 1925 at age 45.
Walter Johnson played his entire 21 year baseball career in Major League Baseball as a right handed pitcher for the Washington Senators from 1907 to 1927. Often thought of as the greatest pitcher in baseball history, Johnson established several pitching records, some of which remain unbroken nine decades after he retired from baseball. He remains by far the all-time career leader in shutouts with 110, second in wins with 417, despite having spent the bulk of his career with a second division team and losing 65 games when his team failed to score one run, and fourth in complete games with 531. He held the career record in strikeouts for nearly 56 years, with 3,508, from the end of his career in 1927 until the 1983 season, when three players; Steve Carlton, Nolan Ryan and Gaylord Perry; finally passed the mark. Johnson was the only player in the 3,000 strikeout club until Bob Gibson recorded his 3,000th strikeout on July 17, 1974. Johnson led the league in strikeouts a Major League record 12 times; one more than current strikeout leader Nolan Ryan; including a record eight straight seasons.He
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is the only pitcher in major league history to record over 400
wins and strike out over 3,500 batters.
In 1936, Johnson, A/K/A “Barney” and “The Big Train,” was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame as one of its first five inaugural members. His gentle nature was legendary, and to this day he is held up as an example of good sportsmanship, while his name has become synonymous with friendly competition.
How long can one go on? There were others no one will ever see.
Just a bit.
Nap Lajoie – Dwarfed by Cobb only.
John McGraw – Great early player and maybe the greatest manager.
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Tris Speaker - .345 lifetime and played center field like a fifth infielder.
Cy Young – Most wins ever.
Grover Cleveland Alexander – “Ole Pete.”
“Shoeless” Joe Jackson
Cap Anson
Smoky Joe Wood – “I tell you this, mister. No one throws harder than Smoky Joe Wood.” – Walter Johnson Eddie Collins
Lou Gehrig
Wee Willie Keeler
Charles (Old Hoss) Radbourn
George Sisler
Rogers Hornsby
Roger Bresnahan
Dan Brouthers
Ed Delahanty
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Hugh Duffy
Hugh Jennings
King Kelly
Wilbert Robinson
Jesse Burkett
Frank Chance
Jack Chesbro
Johnny Evers
Joe McGinnity
Eddie Plank
Joe Tinker
Rube Waddell
Ed Walsh
Mickey Cochrane
Frankie Frisch
Lefty Grove
Carl Hubbell
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Herb Pennock
Pie Traynor
Mordecai (Three Finger) Brown
Charlie Gehringer
Kid Nichols
Jimmie Foxx
Mel Ott
Harry Heilmann
Paul Waner
Chief Bender
Dizzy Dean
Al Simmons
Bill Dickey
Rabbit Maranville
Bill Terry
Frank (Home Run) Baker
Joe DiMaggio
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Gabby Hartnett
Ted Lyons
Dazzy Vance
Joe Cronin
Hank Greenberg
(Wahoo) Sam Crawford
Zack Wheat
Max Carey
Billy Hamilton
Bob Feller
Edd Roush
Sam Rice
Eppa Rixey
Luke Appling
Red Faber
Burleigh Grimes
Miller Huggins
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Tim Keefe
Heinie Manush
John Montgomery Ward
Pud Galvin
Casey Stengel
Red Ruffing
Lloyd Waner
Kiki Cuyler
Goose Goslin
(Ducky) Joe Medwick
Stan Coveleski
Waite Hoyt
Lou Boudreau
Earle Combs
Chick Hafey
Harry Hooper
Rube Marquard
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Lefty Gomez
Ross Youngs
Mickey Welch
Jim Bottomley
Sam Thompson
Earl Averill
Billy Herman
Ralph Kiner
Amos Rusie
Joe Sewell
Addie Joss
Hack Wilson
Chuck Klein
Lefty O’Doul
Johnny Mize
Enos Slaughter
Arky Vaughan
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Bobby Doerr
Ernie Lombardi
Leo Durocher
Phil Rizzuto
Biddy McPhee
Deacon White
In a sense, this is so Millennial anathema. A Boomer, Cy thought that he had missed out on the best things that ever happened, while Millennials seem to think that through their failed attempts at elimination of the past, the “expertise” provided by their proliferation of college degrees would surely provide a better future for all. “The best is yet to come” plays well to fans of Oz’ credentialed Scarecrows.
A studious study of the US Democrat demographic indicated that the single largest categories of Dem voters were city based illegal aliens, Dominion created ghosts, and the dearly departed. Dismissing that as the propaganda disdained by the lock step main street media and social platforms, Dem voters are headlined by a Millennial contingent, which consists of gender confused forty year olds, who spend more time blogging about being in their third “major” relationship than they spent
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experiencing the claimed events, while living with their beleaguered and “fascist” mommies and daddies. Their first two or three college degrees economically consistent with a career in pizza delivery, they contemplate getting another one in a Sociology updated through the study and inclusion of “Criminal Race Theory,” the mathematic statistical properties gone with the northern wind.
But, in reality, all good things end someday, anyway. It is not usually obvious, as the deleterious movements come in increments, each segment easy to dismiss as a minor and perhaps attractive aberration, like Cy’s quick, six-year-old acceptance of his father’s suggestion of actually playing real baseball. It was not until the field experiences coupled with his dad’s insistence upon practice, practice, practice had overwhelmed his fair weather reading regimen that Cy saw that things come in packages. The grocery bag with Crispy Crème donuts peeking out of its top always has some yellowing spinach which has existed beyond its suggested shelf life hidden at the base.
Still, little Cy considered it more or less okay that he was on the field of play. He took to the game, being out in the sun was nice, and the wind off the bay was ........ the wind off the bay; its practice requirements providing proficiency at the expense of rapt wonder. “So, this is how one does it.” It was
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not until many years later, after his dad’s demise, when his mother told him that dad had said he intended to “toughen him up” through the sports experience that Cy had any serious, irrelevantly-too-late second thoughts on the matter.
He still had the off season and rain days to read. That lasted until age nine. Though school only literarily capable of providing the reading of “Dick and Jane” books, the early grammar school gym classes required an indoctrination into the world of basketball. Cy thought that it was a stupid game, someone must have designed only for the benefit of ridiculously tall, stupid geeks with arms which had to be curled to avoid the knuckle headed abrasions attendant to dragging on a concrete floor.
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Nonetheless, Cy’s dad used this as an excuse to harangue him about playing basketball seriously.
The want to die is not always the want not to live, but sometimes is the want to live somewhere softer; where the tall grass lulls a body to sleep; where everything promises to stay alive.
An appropriate response was called for, but not delivered.
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Cy was too young to know the appropriate response to a harangue.
Besides, he thought that if it ever reached a serious point, that the mother who previously so fancied his reading would step in and tell dad to back off. But she didn’t bother paying any attention in this case, despite her established propensity to manage all aspects of her husband’s life.
On one wan Saturday afternoon when Cy was nine years old, Dad added a new line to his repertoire saying; “You’ll be seeing the same people you play baseball with.”
For some unknown reason Cy never understood, he capitulated that day, and it was off to the serious races; an end to books. Like his baseball pursuits, Cy was soon deluged with games to play, constant practice, and the viewing of other games. The fun he had once derived from baseball as well as the drudgery he expected from basketball merged into something like a miserable,
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repetitious, perennial job with no vacation, time off, or pay.
He also soon found out that his Dad had outrageously lied about the basketball people being the same as the baseball people. The accuracy rate was approximately 5%.
In an attempt to find a middle ground Cy proposed cutting back on the constant practice, stating that he didn’t mind playing which was a stretch, but didn’t want to spend all his time at the gym. Dad as prepared with; “So, you’d rather look like an asshole?”
Surprised and unprepared, Cy said; “No,” and he was back on square one. Many years later and after his father’s death, he was on the general subject while talking to his mother. She said that Dad had told her that the purpose of all this as to toughen him up. Cy refrained from saying that he thought the purpose of all this was to give Dad an excuse to get away from her; an indirect subterfuge “necessitated” by the need for “child development.” Instead he relayed the “So, you’d rather look like an asshole?” tale. Mom laughed and said; “I’d have told him that yes, I’d rather look like an asshole.” On occasion she could be quite insightful.
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Fourth Street and “Positively Fourth Street” by Bob Dylan; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
“Why don’t you just come out once and scream it?”
Bodhi Day PM – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan
Bodhi Day PM – Wednesday - December 8th – The Backward Year of the Ziggin and the Zaggan
Patti Smith Interview on MSNBC’s “Rachel Maddow Show”
“’Just Kids’ won the National Book Award; and we have its author, Patti Smith, here with us tonight. Patti, we thought you’d be too cool to speak with us.”
“In principle, I commend your astute, learned observation. Much too cool. But, this was arranged by my avaricious agent and your producers, who agreed to pay me for this noxious episode. So let’s see if we can feign amicability for a few minutes, and slog through this media event.”
“You’re precious, Patti. Can you never be the consummate artist?”
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“No, sayest the radiated multitudes. I confess a personal sadness in someone as yet indeterminate’s regard, in that my aim was always to be a cue-carded TV interviewer.”
“You’re being overly kind.”
“Yes. But some part of me has an attraction to the ease with which TV interviewers dispatch their duties, some actually retaining some semblance of relevance; present company excepted.
........ Please forgive me. I am compelled to climb your desk.”
“Whoops. Careful, Patti. That first step can be tricky.”
“Whooooo. Made it. ............ Good evening, folks. I’m Patti Smith, and for your entertainment, tonight we have Rachel Maddow as our guest. Please forgive the results of my inattention to
....... whatever, and tell us exactly what it is that makes you worthy of a spot here. ............ Rachel? It’ll probably be a while before they get you the required cue card. So, in the meantime, perhaps you’d like to try winging it.”
“I’m the first openly lesbian anchor to host a major prime time news program in the United States.”
“You’re a lesbian? An open lesbian? I’m amazed!”
“You might have gleaned something from my appearance.”
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“No. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that the classifications are so ‘Nineties-Oprah-Daytime-Gender’ show.
Kind of book-of-the-month. Wouldn’t you say?”
“A bit like that book-of-the-year agenda, I suppose.”
“Please tell our fans some suggested improvements.”
“Culture evacuation and automatic current inclusion would do nicely.”
“Let me return to the guest’s chair. Ooooops. Okay. Contrary to popular beliefs its trickier getting back down than it is going up.”
“You sure you’re okay there?”
“Nothing a well-placed tourniquet couldn’t handle. But, backing up a step, this was why it took me so long to write ‘Just Kids.’
I finally just did it, so that I could keep my promise to Robert some time before I died. At the time our goal was to drop out, escape; while now lefty goals have switched and are more about inclusion; a time induced disconnect.”
“We are not free until everyone is.”
“Maybe; maybe not. Maybe the concept itself is a trap. However, total inclusion is not achievable. Dropping out is; the art of
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the possible. Many of us absolutely and righteously refuse to be limited by a requirement to dwell at the lowest common denominator imposed by the total mass retain.”
“Without total inclusion, conflict is a given.”
“If you would kindly direct me to just one ten minute period which was not marred by conflict, I might assign the fantasy some degree of probability.”
“Because it never happened is no assurance that it never will.”
“And the cow might jump over the moon. However, if you bet on it and she takes the leap, you will undoubtedly wind up broke with a lame cow.”
“And then there are the popularity considerations.”
“I’m not one to be concerned with Nielsen ratings and Fakebook likes. It’s so ........... disgustingly and pathetically needy.”
“So, with no regard for indications of approval, you manage to produce a book which reaches the heights of literary sales and approval. Amazing!”
“Yes. It’s quite magical. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I agree that it’s a contradiction, the magical aspect yet to be determined.”
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“As I previously said, I put off writing ‘Just Kids’ until age made it compelling to do so. Everything else I’ve written contains a strong element of playful flights of fancy. This was ploddingly literal. No fun, an obligation.”
“Like a public commitment to the lowest common denominator registered by the total mass retain.”
“Do you work hard at being obtuse? ‘Just Kids’ emanated from a private commitment to Robert Mapplethorpe. That the private commitment was converted into a public format was dictated by your popular Millennial exclusion of privacy. I find it highly understandable that your books containing the ‘new’ clinical details and concurrent thoughts about sex acts are popular. I eagerly await the next ‘breakthrough’ when some writer details the ritualized ablutions of a Monday AM toilet trip. ‘Plop, plop, fizz, fizz; oh what a relief it is.’ Perhaps Philip Roth will seize upon the opportunity. ........ Do you have any idea of whether or not he is still with us?”
“Those with a financial interest in the Roth brand would have one believe so. I don’t know. Personally, I am more interested in the ladies who most strenuously object.”
"Once again, I didn't write it to be cathartic. I wrote it because Robert asked me to. ...... Our relationship was such
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that I knew what he would want and the quality of what he deserved. So that was my agenda for writing that book. I wrote it to fulfil my vow to him, which was on his deathbed. In finishing, I did feel that I'd fulfilled my promise. That is all."
The screen blinked on and off blue for ten seconds. It then settled into a video of Patti singing “Summer Cannibals” on the Letterman Show in the Year of the Lizard Tongue. When done, the camera focussed on Rachel Maddow in her elevated interviewer’s seat alongside the “lower,” empty guest chair.
National Endangered Species Day – The Year of the OPEC
Cartel
National Endangered Species Day – Monday – May 21st –
The Year of the OPEC Cartel - Tucumcari, New Mexico A Pale-Man-With-No-Name rode out of the desert into the isolated coal mining town of Tucumcari in Quay County, New Mexico during the American Old West of the Seventies.
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Three swarthy men with heads wrapped in diapers followed him into “Pete’s Saloon” on Main Street. They badgered him for money and drinks in a threatening way, as if he owed it to them, which the Pale Man didn’t seem to notice.
The swarthy diaper headed trio; Barack Obummer, Louis Farrakant, and Ruhollow Khomeini; now carrying a book of child pornography, then followed him to the barbershop, where they directly challenged him, each brandishing a dull strap razor. Now annoyed
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with the badgering, the Pale Man pulled his gun, shot, and he killed all three with little effort.
While he was near and untethering his now tethered white horse, Lucky, at the trough in front of “Pete’s Saloon,” Town Councilwoman Callie Tranvers deliberately bumped into the Pale man right on Main Street. “She” knocked his cigar from his mouth, and loudly insulted him, saying, among other things, that he will never be “woke.” He dragged her by her arm into the livery stable and slapped her silly, stopping only when she showed how much she was enjoying his performance with the lewdest, leering smile she was capable of concocting.
Another man was watching from the secrecy of the hayloft one flight up and also smiled; he to no one in particular. That night in his hotel room, the Pale Man dreamed of a man being brutally whipped. The dream morphed into a memory flashback in which a federal marshal is whipped to death in front of a Tucumcari hotel by the outlaws Duke Wayne and the Koch brothers Fred and Charles, as Tucumcari’s citizens watched in silence.
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The next day, Quay County’s Sheriff approached the Pale Man and offered him the job previously held by the men he killed; defending the town from Wayne and the Koch’s, who will soon be released from prison after they were falsely convicted on trumped up charges of having stolen the “Goose Who Lays the Golden Eggs,” despite no evidence presented by the diaper trio of egg or goose possession.
The “Pale Man” declined, and in desperation, the town government, propelled by Councilwoman Callie Tranvers, offered him anything he wanted in return. Upon hearing this, the “Pale Man” accepted the job and took full advantage of the deal. He appointed a downtrodden and facially disfigured dwarf named Ted Wheeler as both Sheriff and Mayor. He provided a Native American and his children with supplies when the shopkeeper refused to serve them; then kicked the shopkeeper’s butt. He got a new saddle and boots, and under the threat of pale fire, forced
“Pete’s Saloon” to serve free drinks to everyone who could pay for them and comport themselves appropriately. He ordered the owners of “Hotel Fakebook,” a reference to their thoughts on the Bible, and their guests to vacate the premises, leaving him as its sole occupant. The owners, Mark Zucker, and his “wife”
Prissy Chan, were furious, along with many other town residents, but were not about to openly defy city hall.
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Callie Tranvers, Prissy Chan, and several aging, effeminate men alleged to having been high placed operatives of the radically inclusionary movement, “Bum Lies Matter,” conspired to do away with the “Pale Man.” Callie had sex with him in his room, before she slipped out when she thought that he as asleep. When the others entered, they unknowingly beat a dummy in the bed. From the porch overhang the “Pale Man” tossed a stick of dynamite into the room, which wrecked the hotel, and then proceeded to put some bullets in his attackers, just to be 100% sure.
He dragged Prissy Chan, kicking and screaming, into her bedroom, and while questioning her about what had happened to Wayne and the Koch Brothers, he is told that they were set up and former Sheriff Regan cannot rest in peace because the town threw him in an unmarked grave.
Now in realization of being on shaky ground, the “Pale Man”
tried to form a company of volunteers to defend the town. He quickly realized that none of them are competent enough to handle the job. He ordered that every building in town be painted blood red. Then, without explanation, he mounted his white horse, Lucky, and rode out of town. On the way, he painted over the town “Entering Tucumcari” sign with a single word;
"Hell."
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Meanwhile, outside of town, now free John Wayne and the Koch brothers ambushed a party of travelers to steal their horses and guns, leaving them like migrants on foot, nowhere near home. The
“Pale Man” locates the gun and horse thieves and under the undetected cover supplied by a grove of centuries old, giant saguaro cacti with attendant undergrowth bombarded them with precision dynamite flings and rifle fire, intending to demonstrate the arsenal available rather than hit them, hoping they’d just turn back. Through firing only when his position was in the middle area between town and the Wayne-Koch Gang, the “Pale Man” made the gang believe the townspeople were responsible. Returning to Tucumcari-Hell, the “Pale Man”
inspected the preparations; the entire town painted red, armed men on rooftops, picnic tables laden with food and drink, and a big "Welcome Home Boys" banner overhead. Then he remounted Lucky and departed again.
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The Gang was not sure what they’d run into. Things could have markedly changed while they were gone with prevailing opinion flipping back to their side. But, after they were shot at, their most likely scenario was that they were being opposed by the Diaper Trio and some of their collaborationists.
When the Wayne-Koch Gang arrived, they easily overcame the inept resistance of the townspeople, many of whom ran out of town as soon as they saw the Gang coming. They shot dead the coal mine owner who they believed had helped frame them along with “Hotel Fakebook” owner, Mark Zucker. By nightfall, the terrified citizens were huddled in “Pete’s Saloon” as the Wayne-Koch Gang threatened them with impending financial ruin through bullhorns
“confiscated” from “Bum Lies Matter” (BLM) operative zealots.
“Worship us, or you will pay through the nose for essentials and be saddled by Bums.”
Things began to get crazy, making it impossible to determine whose side anyone was on, or if they were acting or not-acting out of a belief, a mistake, and/or a disinterest in the details in mere search of action. Rasheed, a de-horned BLM activist with doubts, went outside, and was caught by a whip around the throat wielded by the “Reverend” Al Sharpsuit, a low end entrepreneur who partnered to buy the local town subsidized bath house, and now also the free, unchecked holder of a donation seeking BLM
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franchise. Rasheed got whipped to death as everyone listened.
The Wayne-Koch Group threw a rope around “Reverend” Al's neck and he is left to hang from the lowest branch on any off Hell’s trees. ......... Al was short.
As Wayne continued to investigate, the “Pale Man” appeared, disarmed him, and shot him down. The Koch brothers tried to ambush the stranger with shotguns, but the facially disfigured dwarf named Ted Wheeler, who the “Pale Man” had appointed as both Sheriff and Mayor, bluffed them away with an unexploded, dud stick of dynamite he had retrieved from the remains of the Fakebook Hotel.
Things quiet for a few hours, the following day the townspeople cleaned up and Prissy Chan prepared to leave town. The “Pale Man” also departed. Just out of town, the “Entering Tucumcari”
sign now in place of “Hell,” he found Wheeler finishing a new grave marker at the cemetery. "I never did know your name,"
Wheeler said. "Yes, you do," the “Pale Man” replied. As he and Lucky rode past the bewildered Wheeler to vanish into the undulating heat waves of the desert, the writing on the new grave marker is shown: "Marshal Ron Regan – Rest in Peace."
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Memorial (Decoration) Day – The Year of the Little Bush Memorial (Decoration) Day – Monday – May 30th – The Year of the Little Bush – Corrales, New Mexico As Cy and Daisy, his two-year-old Dalmatian companion, neared the next easily circumvented gate, he saw Maureen on the southern ditch path which parallels the Bosque without the cachet, with her little Vosssy in tow. The Bosque is an area bordering the Rio Grande River which has been left as natural as possible; a home for the wild animals including the fearsome coyotes, who are actually petrified of humans and seek to avoid the interlopers at all costs, except when nursing their young.
For their part, the majority of the interlopers walk on the safe and well-tended bordering paths where no respectable coyote would dare be seen, while bending any willing ear with tales of their fashionably wild Bosque experiences.
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It was the first time Cy had seen Maureen exactly there and he considered it to be some sort of an omen. It was, as when he walked over to greet her he saw that she was upset and may have been crying. Cy insightfully said; “Hi, what’s wrong?”
“Cody died this morning.”
Cy knew that Cody, a cute and silly pug mix, had been sick and had not wanted to walk for more than a month. So, Maureen had time to prepare, but the finality must have been devastating. He went through the same thing with his dachshund, Willy. When Willy showed signs of slowing down, Cy would say; “I know that you’re going to die someday. But that’s not today. So enjoy,”
which didn’t make the finale any better. To Maureen he said;
“I’m so sorry. He was a special dog.”
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She repeated, with emphasis on the special word; “He was a special dog.” It looked as if she was ready to again burst into tears, something she had always refused to do in public. Cy put his hand on her shoulder and she violently pulled away. He hoped that she didn’t think he was being sarcastic, especially considering the subject matter. Cy didn’t know what to say or do. He’d like to have known what others respond to “My dog died,” after they say “I’m sorry.” But, he’d also have liked her to know that he wasn’t making light of the matter. Later in the day he decided to get her a sympathy card and wrote a lot of nice things on it and signed it “Daisy.” For now Cy and Daisy just walked quietly with Maureen and Vossy the half mile to her car and said “Goodbye.” He watched the car leave remembering the days when Maureen would roll down a back window, and Cody would excitedly crane his head around with his tongue hanging out.
Cy may have inadvertently confused Daisy, as they now were walking in the direction of home and she did him a real favor in continuing on, rather than doubling back to the Bosque, as he felt drained.
A few snowflakes fall as they got back to the small wooded area bordering the development, undoubtedly in memory of Cody. The sky was still gray and threatening and Cy was very cold and
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couldn’t feel his fingertips or toes, so he was glad that he and Daisy were so close to home.
National Beans ‘N Franks Day – The Year of the Big Blackout
National Beans ‘N Franks Day – Wednesday - July 13th –
The Year of the Big Blackout - Manhattan During the 1977 NYC blackout, a Strauss Store had its metal curtain ripped down by looters, doors smashed, and merchandise stolen. This is not particularly newsworthy, vis-à-vis all the other stores with the same experience. However, what was not yet standard was what the white owner said. “I’m never re-opening in this third world nation you call New York. It was bad enough having to deal with the petty pilferage and the cash driven burglaries. But, this is complete bullshit. The cretins took
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advantage of the city at its weakest, a modus operandi they know well. And not one arrest. This city looks the other way for a certain ‘class’ of arsonist, vandal, thief, and armed felon. And truth be told, we all know exactly who they are, but it is considered legally incendiary to say it. I’ll re-open in a state which provides me with an equal opportunity.”
New York City may be known as the city that never sleeps, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t go dark.
The New York City blackout of 1977 was an electricity blackout that affected most of New York City on July 13–14, 1977. Unlike other blackouts that have affected the region, namely the Northeast blackouts of 1965 and 2003, the 1977 blackout was confined to New York City and its immediate surrounding areas.
Also, in contrast to the 1965 and 2003 blackouts, the 1977
blackout resulted in citywide looting and other acts of criminal activity, including arson.
The events leading up to the blackout began at 8:37 PM EDT on Wednesday, July 13, with a lightning strike at Buchanan South, a substation on the Hudson River, tripping two circuit breakers.
Technical deprivation combined with human error prevented the breakers from reclosing and allowing power to flow again.
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A second lightning strike caused the loss of two 345 kV
transmission lines, subsequent reclose of only one of the lines, and the loss of power from a 900MW nuclear plant at Indian Point. As a result of the strikes, two other major transmission lines became loaded over their normal limits. Per procedure, Consolidated Edison, the power provider for New York City and some of Westchester County, tried to bring a fast-start generation station online at 8:45 PM EDT; however, no one was manning the station, and the remote start failed.
At 8:55 PM there was another lightning strike at the Sprain Brook substation in Yonkers, which took out two additional critical transmission lines. As before, only one of the lines was automatically returned to service. This outage of lines from the substation caused the remaining lines to exceed the long-term operating limits of their capacity. After this last failure, Con Edison had to manually reduce the loading on another local generator at their East River facility, due to problems at the plant. This made an already dire situation even worse.
At 9:14 PM New York Power Pool Operators in Guilderland called for Con Edison operators to "shed load." In response, Con Ed operators initiated first a 5% system-wide voltage reduction and then an 8% reduction. These steps had to be completed
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sequentially and took many minutes. These steps were done in accordance with Con Edison's use of the words "shed load" while the Power Pool operators had in mind opening feeders to immediately drop about 1500 MW of load, not reduce voltage to reduce load a few hundred MW.
At 9:19 PM, the final major interconnection to Upstate New York at Leeds substation tripped due to thermal overload which caused the 345kV conductors to sag excessively into an unidentified object. This trip caused the 138 kV links with Long Island to overload, and a major interconnection with the New Jersey Public Service Electric and Gas Company (PSEG) began to load even higher than previously reported.
At 9:22 PM, Long Island Lighting Company opened its 345 kV
interconnection to Con Edison to reduce power that was flowing through its system and overloading 138 kV submarine cables between Long Island and Connecticut. While Long Island operators were securing permission from the Power Pool operators to open their 345 kV tie to New York City, phase shifters between New York City and New Jersey were being adjusted to correct heavy flows, and this reduced the loading on the 115 kV cables. The Long Island operators did not notice the drop in 115 kV cable loadings and went ahead with opening their 345 kV tie to New York City.
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At 9:24 PM the Con Edison operator tried and failed to manually shed load by dropping customers. Five minutes later, at 9:29 PM
the Goethals-Linden 230 kV interconnection with New Jersey tripped, and the Con Edison system automatically began to isolate itself from the outside world through the action of protective devices that remove overloaded lines, transformers, and cables from service.
Con Edison could not generate enough power within the city, and the three power lines that supplemented the city's power were overtaxed. Just after 9:27 PM, the biggest generator in New York City, the 990 MW Ravenswood Generating Unit No. 3 (also known as
"Big Allis"), shut down and with it went all of New York City.
By 9:36 PM, the entire Con Edison power system shut down, almost exactly an hour after the first lightning strike. By 10:26 PM, operators started a restoration procedure. Power was not fully restored until late the following day.
The blackout occurred when the city was facing a severe financial crisis and its residents were terrified by the Son of Sam murders. The nation as a whole, especially New York City, was suffering from a protracted economic downturn, and commentators have contrasted the event with the good-natured
"Where Were You When the Lights Went Out?" atmosphere of 1965.
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Some pointed to the financial crisis as a root cause of the disorder; others noted the hot July weather, as the East Coast was in the middle of a brutal heat wave. Still others pointed out that the 1977 blackout came after businesses had closed and their owners had gone home, while in 1965 the blackout occurred during the day and many merchants were still at their properties. However, the 1977 looters continued their illegal activities into the daylight hours of the next day, with police apparently instructed to watch or ignore.
Looting and vandalism were widespread in New York City, hitting 31 different neighborhoods. Possibly the hardest hit were Crown Heights, where 75 stores on a five-block stretch were looted and damaged, and Bushwick, where arson was rampant, with some 25
fires still burning the next morning. At one point, two blocks of Broadway in Brooklyn, which separates Bushwick from Bedford-Stuyvesant, were on fire. Thirty-five blocks of Broadway were destroyed: 134 stores looted, 45 of them also set ablaze.
Thieves stole 50 new Pontiacs from a Bronx car dealership. In Brooklyn, youths were seen backing up cars to stores, tying ropes around the stores' grates, and using their cars to pull the grates away, then looting the stores. There were 550 police officers injured in the mayhem, while no looters were arrested.
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Mayor Abe Beame spoke during the blackout about what citizens were up against during the blackout and what the costs would be.
“We've seen our citizens subjected to violence, vandalism, theft, and discomfort. The Blackout has threatened our safety and has seriously impacted our economy. We've been needlessly subjected to a night of terror in many communities that have been wantonly looted and burned. The costs when finally tallied will be enormous.”
During New York's 2003 blackout, The New York Times ran a description of the blackout of 1977, stating; “La Guardia and Kennedy airports were closed down for about eight hours, automobile tunnels were closed because of a lack of ventilation, and 4,000 people had to be evacuated from the subway system. Con Ed called the shutdown an ‘act of God,’ enraging Mayor Beame, who charged that the utility was guilty of ‘gross negligence.’
In all, 1,616 stores were damaged in looting and rioting and a total of 1,037 fires were responded to, including 14 multiple-alarm fires. A congressional study estimated that the cost of damages amounted to a little over $300 million, equivalent to $2.29 billion in 2020.”
In addition to the massive looting and violence that had accompanied it, there were also 21 homicides. In one, Dominick Ciscone, a Brooklyn teenager and aspiring mobster, was shot in
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the neighborhood of Carroll Gardens while in the company of some friends. He died at the scene. Police investigated several people with whom he had ongoing disputes, but never identified any suspects. In 1997, they received tips from individuals who did not identify themselves, but whom they believed genuinely might know who committed the crime; they did not respond to requests to identify themselves. The killing remains unsolved.
It was not until the next morning that power began being restored to those areas affected. Around 7 AM on July 14, a section of Queens became the first area to get power back, followed shortly afterward by Lenox Hill, Manhattan; the neighboring Yorkville area on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, though, was one of the last areas to get power back that Thursday evening. By 1:45 PM, service was restored to half of Con Edison's customers, mostly in Staten Island and Queens. It was not until 10:39 PM on July 14 that the entire city's power was back online.
There is a popular story that during the blackout numerous looters stole DJ equipment from electronics stores, and this helped spark the hip hop genre. Two early DJs, DJ Disco Wiz and Curtis Fisher, made the suggestion in a recorded interview.
Curtis later expanded on the story, saying that when the power went out, he and Wiz were playing records, running their
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equipment from an outlet in a park. At first they thought the outage was local and caused by something they had done, but realized when they heard stores closing that it was citywide and took advantage of the community's vulnerability to steal a mixing board from a local business. "I went right to the place where I bought my first set of DJ equipment, and I went and got me a mixer out of there."
The operating entities in New York fully investigated the blackout, its related causes, and the operator actions. They implemented significant changes, which are still in effect today, to guard against a similar occurrence. Despite these safeguards, there was a blackout in August 2003, although this was caused by a power system failure as far away as Eastlake, Ohio.
On July 13, 2019, on the 42nd anniversary of the event, a Con Edison blackout occurred, affecting 73,000 people on Manhattan's West Side. Sometimes, someone exhibits a bit of a sense of humor.
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Labor Day – The Year of the Knee
Labor Day – Monday - September 7th – The Year of the Knee - Puget Sound
On the radio came carefree Madame Hatter’s pronouncements. The broadcast booth was occupied by a hooded figure which suggested a femininity in the most simple of past and present tenses. “And you can take or leave it if you please,” ended the “Suicide is Painless” musical intro. In an unhurried, possibly measured monotone, Madame Hatter once again deigned to speak.
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“Do not bother.
Do not vote.
It doesn’t matter.
The black Muslim thug assisted fix is in.
You are being overrun; replaced.
You are paying for it and will continue to.
Justice 2020-21. If you make a black, a Muslim, or their US
collaborationists feel uneasy, you face ten years for a seditious federal hate crime. January 6. It is a conveniently compelling ‘reason’ to totally disarm you.
Justice 2020-21. If a black or a Muslim kills you, it is your fault. Your ancestors taught them how, and their ‘religion’
rewards them for it. March 22-23. It is a compelling ‘reason’ to totally disarm you.
That you never contacted these interlopers, nor did you ever want to engage other species, does not matter.
To try to publicly communicate with the non-collaborative members of your species is a prescription for legal charges or shut-down.
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Their appropriation of the entire world is near complete, and you cannot stop their long-planned-anti-white-Christian agenda.
If you choose to stay, the best thing to do is to say nothing and just wait for the day they come for you. On that inevitable day, take a few of them to Paradise with you. Jesus approves and welcomes all true believers. Moe copied this part, thereby getting one thing right. I only wish someone would have told Larry and Curly.
If you choose to go, it is fine.
You stop the non-white-predators from griping by taking a knee You start them by taking a long one.
They don’t understand differential calculus.
You don’t need them. It is they who need you. Not your problem.
Float your boat. Let the lepers drown.
Turn your deaf ear to their pitiful cries.
Know that they would yours.
You made the lifeboats.
They are only for you to use.
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Half-gilled fish best not leap at night.
My grandfather was part of Antifa in the 1940s. Back then it was headed by Joe McCarthy. Some called it the US Army, and the members didn't live with their mommies and daddies.
The best thing about being an Antifa protestor is that you never have to take time off work to go to a protest.
Antifa doesn’t like the desert as the heat is oppressive.
The difference between my grandpa and a millennial antifa is the number of commie fascists killed. These millennials are as lazy as they are stupid.
Antifa claims to be about fighting fascism. But, if you use the wrong pronoun, they morph into armed grammar Nazis.
Only anti-faxers and anti-totalitarians will get this. Email!
Use email. Use only encrypted e-mail.
I don't understand why Antifa behaves the way they do, or for that matter, what exactly they have against the Football Association.
It is not your concern.
Antifa is only here to be your Bozo.
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Antifa does not exist; ask any libtard.
You have been dissed.
Discarded.
Discharged.
Dissociated.
Dismissed.
Dissheveled.
Dissatisfied.
Dissimilarized.
Distinguished.
Distincted.
Distasted.
Distracted.
Distressed.
Distrusted.
Disproportioned.
Disposed.
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Disorganized.
Disoriented.
Disinclined.
Disinfested.
Disinherited.
Disinformed.
Disintegrated.
Disintoxicated.
Disgruntled.
Disgraced.
Disheartened.
Disillusioned.
Disaffiliated.
Disaggregated.
Disambiguated.
Disappointed.
Disapprobated.
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Disarranged.
Disarticulated.
Disciplined.
Discontented.
Disconcerted.
Discombobulated.
Discouraged.
Disembarked.
Discriminated.
Disentangled.
Disenfranchised.
Disenchanted.
Disciplined.
Disaccharidased.
Disaggregated.
Disappeared.
Discolored.
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Discographicalized.
Disburdened.
Disestablished.
Disencumbered.
Disengaged.
Discursived.
Disdained.
Discreted.
Discourteoused.
Disconnected.
Disinherited.
Disingenuoused.
Disinhibited.
Dismantled.
Disinvested.
Disjointed.
Disharmonized.
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Disoriented.
Disparaged.
Dispensed.
Dispensated.
Distinguished.
Discretionarily advised.
Disproportioned.
Dissimilarized.
Dissimilated.
Discipleshipped.
Discharged.
Disbursed.
Disassembled.
Disappeared.
Disadvantaged.
Disagreed.
Disequilibriated.
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Disentangled.
Disengaged.
Disconfirmed.
Discomforted.
Discourtesied.
Discrepancied.
Disinterred.
Disinflated.
Disinfected.
Disinfested.
Disincentivized.
Disjuncted.
Dismantled.
Dislodged.
Disfigured.
Distributed.
Displaced.
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Distilled.
Disentangled.
Discovered.
Discrepantized.
Discothequed.
Disbranched.
Discernmened.
Disabled.
Dissolute.
Disturbed.
Distracted.
Disarmamed.
Dislocated.
Displeased.
Disaffected.
Disentangled.
Distrustful.
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Dispensable.
Dispositive.
Dissentient.
Dissymmetric.
Disremembered.
Dissyllableized.
Disunioned.
Disbarred.
Disbelieved.
Disarrayed.
Disarranged.
Disannulled.
Disclosed.
Discussed.
Disgust.
Disastrous.
Dispersion.
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Dishwasher.
Dissipated.
Dissected.
Distillery.
Dispatched.
Dispensary.
Discrepant.
Disputable.
Disulfoton.
Dishabille.
Dissoluble.
Discarnate.
Dissertation.
Discovery.
Discourse.
Disparity.
Dissident.
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Dissipated.
Disparage.
Distemper.
Disfigure.
Disbursal.
Disinvited.
Disemploy.
Dispeople.
Dispelled.
Dismayed.
Dismasted.
Dismount.
Discount.
Disproven.
District.
Distance.
Disposal.
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Disguised.
Dispense.
Disease.
Disclaim.
Dissuade.
Dishware.
Disinter.
Displode.
Dismal.
Distended.
Disobeys.
Display.
Dispute.
Dislike.
Disrupt.
Distort.
Disband.
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Distaff.
Disseat.
Dish.
Disbud.
Dissert.
Dispel.
Discontinued.
Dis-rejoice.
Dis-woke.
Dissolved.
Dystopianized.
This is entirely ancillary.
It doesn’t matter in the least, unless you foolishly think that it does.”
Flag Day – The Year of the Knee
Flag Day – Sunday – June 14th – The Year of the Knee -
American Redoubt
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In Idaho's northernmost legislative district, traditional Republican Party politics has been pulled farther to the right in recent years with the rise of the Tea Party.
But now a new element is pushing the party farther still; the arrival of conservative Christian "preppers" fleeing more populated states, who see the region as a "Redoubt;" a place to settle and defend themselves when the rest of the country goes bad.
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The "American Redoubt" push, which targets Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and eastern Washington and Oregon for a "political migration" movement, was declared by survivalist author and blogger James Wesley Rawles. On his "survivalblog" website he writes, "I'm inviting people with the same outlook to move to the Redoubt States, to effect a demographic solidification.
We're already a majority here. I'd just like to see an even stronger majority." Unlike the contemporary lefties, he does not see “majority” as a dirty word to be ashamed of.
How many have moved to the area as part of the push is uncertain. Longtime Bonners Ferry businessman and former Mayor Preston Dukes said he's only encountered about 3,000. But he notes that Boundary County, with its dramatic river and mountain scenery, has a population of 55,000; "and that doesn’t include cats, dogs, and Smartmatic-Dominion produced ghosts."
With most locals too busy trying to make a living and raise their families to get involved in politics, Dukes said, "You can really look big in understatement, which in the current Libtard Police State, is the most savvy and productive course of action."
Two years ago, two ultraconservative state legislators were elected from the district: Representatives Barbara Bainbridge,
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Republican-Blanchard, and Kale Driscoll, Republican-Ponderay.
Now, longtime Senator Shari Bonner, Republican-Sandpoint; the state's longest serving senator and the newly named co-chair of the legislature's powerful joint budget committee, is being challenged hard from the right in the primary.
A blogger in the Palouse area, Barton Gabbard, who calls himself
"The Bard of the American Redoubt," wrote a scathing indictment of Bonner in December on his "Charles Carroll Society" website, which touts the slogan, "Liberty minded traditionalists migrating to conservative Redoubts."
Gabbard slammed Bonner as a "liberal authoritarian progressive"
and accused her of "gun grabbing" and wanting to "tax more so she can spend more on her socialist, pro Critical Race Theory, pro minority union allies working and politically indoctrinating in our governmental schools."
Bonner is a Republican who's known as fiscally conservative but calculatingly pragmatic. She has made her mark as a supporter of schools and rural needs unique to her area, and she has been elected ten times. In her day job, she is executive director of Associated Logging Contractors. She formerly worked for the Sandpoint Chamber of Commerce.
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Among the first comments on the Carroll Society article was one from a "Thomas Jefferson," who wrote, "How the heck did she get elected in the Redoubt? Crazy! Thanks for the local North Idaho posting."
Gabbard urged, "We must get a patriot man or woman to run against this authoritarian progressive. We must support that person with money and time."
Not long after his piece, an anonymous "Retire Shari Bonner"
website appeared, making similar accusations and suggesting that Bonner is actually a Democrat masquerading as a Republican. Her primary opponent, Glenn Lyons of Priest River, links prominently to the site from his campaign website.
Avoiding branding, Lyons said he's not part of the American Redoubt movement, whatever that is. He's a retired plant manager and military officer who's lived in Priest River for nearly 23
years. "I'm a conservative constitutional Republican, and my opponent is not," he said.
Lyons, who is making his first run for public office, said he
"never even thought about it till recently." Asked why not, he said he was prompted by "the pitiful loser direction in which the country and region are going and what I have found out about how my opponent has been voting."
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Lyons said he has lots of issues, but there are three he's pushed the hardest; opposition to black favoritism; “My family was never slave owners and even if they had been, I’d say to get over it already. It’s been one hundred fifty years of crime and excuses. Enough is enough. They seem to think that all white lives have just sailed through the turbulent waters unimpeded with a warm breeze at their backs. Ha. Their lost-in-the-past, unproven, and unprovable diatribes are main stream media permitted and encouraged; conspiracy theories, concocted to elicit sympathy from ignorant suckers, with a goal of the darkies and their traitorous benefactors seizing undeserved money and power. That’s all. If anyone deserves reparations, it’s the families of the underpaid servicemen who died in overseas wars, as well as those who survived the PTSD inducing activities. Not the ‘wise ass,’ draft dodging, jail loading, long term recipients of public welfare programs,” opposition to the “insidious insertion” of federal funds with liberal strings attached being part of Idaho's overall state spending; as it is in all 50 states, due to federal funds for things like highways, school lunches and Medicaid; and his opposition to a child support enforcement bill that once prompted a special session of the Legislature. The governor called that session after a handful of House conservatives killed the bill in committee, threatening the state's entire child support enforcement system
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by rejecting federal standards for dealing with cases that cross international borders; in other words; dumped illegal alien children. With Bonner’s full support, in the special session, the bill passed.
"It's a terrible law," Lyons said at a recent candidate forum in Priest River. He questioned whether the measure, adopted by every state, could allow someone overseas who "knows a name and says they have a child" to victimize American servicemen with false claims. "They can use this against our military," he said.
Adrian Welles, the first term state representative from the district, helped lead opposition to the bill, raising questions of international encroachment on state sovereignty.
Welles, who arrived in the area from Ohio 18 years prior became active in politics three years ago, said she's met "a ton" of new arrivals, "probably 500 or 600," seeking safety in the region. She said they've come from California, Minnesota, Oklahoma, New York, New Jersey, Illinois, North Carolina, parts of Oregon and Washington, Michigan; all over.
"They literally picked up their stuff and left," she said. "A lot of them just felt drawn here. They literally just felt drawn here. God lays it on people's hearts to do things."
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Dukes, a Republican and 65-year resident of Bonners Ferry, said he has noticed a new group in the past five years that's "kind of a very right-wing and active group. I don't mean traditional conservatives. I mean more of the traditional John Birch Society, fear-mongering kind of concern that the worst that government can provide is just behind the rock."
Four years ago, the new group took over the local GOP central committee, Dukes said. "The locals had a wake up call. Two years ago, the central committee was taken back by the traditional Republicans."
Local GOP central committees also have swung to the right in Bonner and Kootenai counties in recent years, pushing out more mainstream Republicans, and they have not swung back.
Don Bradway, who lives just north of Coeur d'Alene, arrived almost five years ago "from what I call the occupied zone, which is California." He said he came seeking a safe place and "like-minded people."
"I make no bones about the fact I'm a conservative Christian and I like being around other people who think the way I do. There is nothing wrong with ordained ethnocentricity," he said.
Bradway, who is retired, estimated he's met easily 100 other new arrivals who followed the same path, including many from
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California. He's active in local politics, as are many, and was elected to the Kootenai County Republican Central Committee.
"I know there are a goodly number of folks who are able to retire, or are self-employed, or come up here and try to find a job," he said. He said California is "swirling around the drain of liberty."
Bradway is convinced that a looming disaster, whether it's a major earthquake or a financial collapse, will turn America's cities into "just a mass of chaos," with rioting and anarchy. "I know people who've said, 'I'm looking for something that's defensible, if the teeming hordes come surging out of New York City and LA,'” Bradway said.
Rawles, on his survival blog, writes, "Designating some states as a Redoubt is nothing more than a logical, peaceful, defensive reaction to an approaching threat."
Dukes, who's in the real estate and insurance business, said he has had clients in recent years ask about property that's
"defensible."
"There's quite a few new folks in the area, and that's great,"
Bonner said.
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She said newcomers have been telling her she's not conservative enough.
"They believe I want to grow government; that I'm a liberal.
Maybe they don't like me personally, either," she said. "I believe I'm a traditional Republican. I'm fiscally conservative.
I believe less government is usually better, but I'm also a pragmatist, and I believe that there is a proper role of government; a system of common schools, safe roads, infrastructure like sewer, water, family aid, and now Internet.
There's an expectation that things like that are done by our government. I guess because I say 'yes' occasionally, that goes against their script," she said.
Welles, in her first term, has firmly established herself as a member of a group of House conservatives who tend to vote no; even voting against routine, federally funded, appropriation bills that keep the state functioning.
This year, two candidates are running for the Legislature in District 1 as Democrats who have taken conservative, Tea Party positions. They haven't been endorsed by local Democrats, who didn't get their own candidate filings submitted in time to challenge them. As a result, Stephen Howlett, a school lunch contractor from Bonners Ferry, is running as a write-in against
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one of them. Howlett, who ran the successful local Democratic presidential caucus that saw a big turnout for Bernie Sanders, said his opponent is "a known John Birch believer running as a Democrat."
Howlett said the other candidates who are running as Democrats are "out of the ultra-right groups that are up here. .......
It's kind of convoluted."
Bonner's accomplishments over her long legislative career range from major and long-sought road improvements in her district; from the Sandpoint Bypass to realigning a highway intersection in the far north where semi-trucks have crashed onto an elementary school playground; to expanding state higher education programs to small communities like Sandpoint and Bonners Ferry.
This year, as co-chair of the joint budget committee, she was able to necessarily partner with Lucas McCarthy, Republican-Coeur d'Alene, who had been pushing for a four year computer science degree program through North Idaho College and the University of Idaho that students could earn without leaving Coeur d'Alene.
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"It wasn't in the governor's budget, and it wasn't on the table at all," Bonner said. "Being in the co-chair post, I was able to make sure it got done."
Dukes said, "It would be an almost unheard of act to throw out the single most powerful legislator that these communities have ever had in history, who is finally in a position to literally direct resources for the community's greatest needs. Yet, it ill and should be done."
Simon Ledgie, the other first-term state representative from the region, arrived in the area 14 years ago. He said he came from
"south of Boise," then clarified that he meant the San Francisco Bay Area. "We weren't happy there and wanted some land," he said. "So we visited once and moved up the next year."
Ledgie, who like Welles is unopposed in Tuesday's GOP primary, said he's heard of real estate brokers reaching out to people who want to relocate to the American Redoubt. An online "Redoubt Realty" service offers to refer people to real estate agents in the state they're eyeing. Another website, based in North Idaho, offers "News for the American Redoubt."
Ledgie said he has no problem with the idea. “If they want to move to a certain area because they think they'll be more comfortable there, that’s their right. Everyone does it."
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Welles said; "Some of it's to come to a safer spot to raise their kids. There are a lot of areas in the country where there's a ton of crime. They feel safe here. They feel that they are with like-minded people."
She said, "I agree with them. It's up to every individual, what they're called and led to do. I tell them what it's like out here."
Rawles, in his writings, calls on those who migrate to become self-sufficient, to home school their kids, and to bring plenty of guns, just in case. Dukes said that blends in with the culture of the area, where guns have long been ubiquitous and home schooling is common, particularly among groups like the Mennonite community.
Debbie Curtis, who owns the Blanchard Mercantile in the tiny township where Welles lives, is a friend of Welles' who's watched with interest as the once detached local resident got fired up about politics. Welles has now abandoned her work as an aquatic biologist, which originally brought her and her husband to the area, to devote full-time attention to her part-time legislative post.
Curtis, who said people in Blanchard are just fine with their unpaved streets and rural lifestyle, has long been the local
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election precinct judge and used to urge an apathetic Welles to vote. Now, no urging is needed.
"She's a little spitfire," Curtis said. "She's stirred up some pots. That's for sure.”
Welles has said; “Let’s make no mistake about this. There is no guarantee that the system as we know it will survive in the entirety of the United States. But, if it does collapse, it will not be because of its supposed inherent economic weaknesses, but because of the despondency, cowardice, and the opportunism of the bourgeoisie that fails to defend it resolutely against its enemies. And it will only collapse in Redoubt over my and the rest of our brave patriots’ dead bodies. ......... Load up on guns. Bring your friends. ........ Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
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Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
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Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
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Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
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Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello.
Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. ........ "
Beyond the C
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Main stream media christened “far-right activist,” Ammon Bundy is running for governor of Idaho despite being legally banned from the Idaho statehouse.
“He’s prepping a run for Idaho governor, to the dismay of the Idaho Republican Party, which really does not want that affiliation,” said The Washington Post reporter Tanya Baumstein.
On this week’s episode of The Washington Post podcast, hosts Assawin Subseseng and Neva Sommer talked to Baumstein about Bundy’s attempts to grow a far-right movement in the American Northwest.
In Bundy’s latest move, he’s preparing for a gubernatorial bid that has experts on the region fearing chaos from his supporters. But in a twist, Bundy can’t legally enter the state Capitol.
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“It’s related to the last time he broke into the Capitol with a group of people, kind of a foreshadowing of the January sixth Capitol attack in Washington,” Baumstein said. “But right now, he’s not legally allowed to enter the building that he would preside over.”
Leveraging his family ties to right-wing extremists across the West, Bundy has built a movement called “People’s Rights” that often deploys its supporters to protest outside of even minor officials’ houses across the region.
“It’s built so that it can mobilize for whatever grievance it has, be that masking or harassing judges involved in Ammon Bundy’s various criminal cases,” Baumstein said.
Elsewhere on the episode, a tape of Bundy stated that the official government report claiming that the US Park Police didn’t clear protesters outside the White House; and how its claims that the Trump administration didn’t act just to set up a Presidential photo-op have been ignored in the main stream media. He further stated that libtard sanctioned BLM “protests,”
rioting, and looting make the January 6th Capitol “siege” seem like a peacefully quiet sixties sit-in, and that the libtard political operatives are using every tool at their disposal to unfairly persecute any non-libtard there or nearby.
Beyond the C
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National Science Appreciation Day – The Year of the Chinese Floods
National Science Appreciation Day – Saturday – February 28th – The Year of the Chinese Floods - The Island of Lost Souls
The Island of Lost Souls
Shipwrecked traveler Edward Parker is rescued by a freighter delivering animals to an isolated South Seas island owned by Dr.
Moreau. After Parker fights with the freighter's drunken captain for his mistreating M'ling, an odd-looking passenger with some bestial features, the captain tosses Parker overboard into Mr.
Montgomery's boat, bound for Moreau's island.
When Parker arrives at the island, Moreau welcomes Parker to his home and introduces him to Lota, an attractive, but somewhat odd, scantily clad young woman who seems fearful and withdrawn.
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When the two hear screams coming from a locked room, which Lota calls "The House of Pain," Parker investigates. He sees Moreau and assistant, Montgomery, operating on a man-like creature without anesthetic. Convinced that Moreau is engaged in sadistic vivisection, Parker tries to leave, only to encounter brutish-looking humanoids resembling apes, felines, swine, and other beasts emerging from the jungle. Moreau appears, cracks his whip, and orders the one known as the “Sayer of the Law,” a hairy wolf-like man, to recite the rules against violence; “The Law.” Afterward, the strange "men" disperse.
Back in the main house, the doctor tries to assuage Parker by explaining his scientific work, that he had started experimenting in London many years before, accelerating the evolution of plants. He then progressed to animals, trying to transform them into humans through "plastic surgery, blood transfusions, gland extracts, and ray baths.” When a dog hybrid escaped from his laboratory it so horrified people that he was forced to leave England.
He confides to Parker that Lota is the sole female on the island, but hides that she was derived from a panther. Later he privately expresses his excitement to Montgomery that Lota is showing real human emotions in her attraction to Parker. So he can keep observing this process, Moreau ensures that Parker
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cannot leave by destroying the only available boat, placing blame for this on his beast-men.
As Parker spends time with Lota, she falls in love with him.
Eventually the two kiss, but Parker is then stricken with guilt, since he still loves his fiancée, Ruth Thomas. As Lota hugs him, Parker feels pain then examines her fingernails, which are reverting to animal-like claws. In a fit of rage, he storms into the office of Dr. Moreau to confront him over his criminal behavior in creating Lota. Dr. Moreau calmly explains that Lota is his most perfect creation, and he wanted to see if she was capable of falling in love with a man and bearing human-like children. Parker violently knocks Moreau to the ground, and demands to leave the island. When Moreau realizes Lota is beginning to revert to her panther origin, he first despairs, believing that he has failed; until he notices Lota weeping, showing human emotion. His hopes are raised and he screams that he will "burn out" the remaining animal in her in the House of Pain.
Meanwhile, the American consul at Apia in Samoa, Parker's original destination, learns about Parker's location from the cowed freighter captain. Fiancée Ruth Thomas persuades Captain Donahue to take her to Moreau's island. She is reunited with Parker, but Moreau persuades them that it is too dangerous in
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the dark to return to Donahue's ship through the beast-inhabited jungle. They reluctantly agree to stay the night. The apelike Ouran, one of Moreau's creations, tries to break into Ruth's room. It is implied that this may have been arranged by Moreau, curious if his beast-men can successfully mate with humans.
Fortunately, she wakes up and screams for help, and Ouran is driven off. Donahue then offers to try to reach the ship and fetch his crew. Moreau, seeing him depart, dispatches Ouran to strangle him.
This has an unforeseen effect, however. The beast-men no longer feel bound by Moreau's Laws, as he has himself broken one of them. Reverting to their animalistic nature, they set their huts ablaze and defy Moreau, who tries to regain control, but to no avail. In desperation, he demands of them, "What is the Law?"
Their response is, "Law no more!" The beast-men drag the doctor into his House of Pain, where they bind him, screaming, to the operating table and dismember him with his own surgical knives.
With help from the disaffected Montgomery, Parker and Ruth make their escape. Parker insists they take Lota along. When Lota sees Ouran following, she waits in ambush. In the ensuing struggle, both are killed. The others escape by boat as the island goes up in flames, presumably destroying Moreau's work and eradicating the beast-men.
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Frankenstein
Captain Walton's introductory narrative.
Walton is a failed writer who sets out to explore the North Pole in hopes of expanding scientific knowledge. During the voyage, the crew spots a dog sled driven by a gigantic figure. A few hours later, the crew rescues a nearly frozen and emaciated man named Victor Frankenstein. Frankenstein has been in pursuit of the gigantic man observed by Walton's crew. Frankenstein starts to recover from his exertion; he sees in Walton the same obsession that has destroyed him and recounts a story of his life's miseries to Walton as a warning.
Victor Frankenstein's narrative.
Victor begins by telling of his childhood. Born in Naples, Italy, into a wealthy Genevan family, Victor and his younger brothers, Ernest and William, are sons of Alphonse Frankenstein and the former Caroline Beaufort. From a young age, Victor has a strong desire to understand the world. He is obsessed with studying theories of alchemists, though when he is older he realizes that such theories are considerably outdated. When Victor is five years old, his parents adopt Elizabeth Lavenza, the orphaned daughter of an expropriated Italian nobleman, whom
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Victor later marries. Victor's parents later take in another child, Justine Moritz, who becomes William's nanny.
Weeks before he leaves for the University of Ingolstadt in Germany, his mother dies of scarlet fever and Victor buries himself in his experiments to deal with the grief. At the university, he excels at chemistry and other sciences, soon developing a secret technique to impart life to non-living matter. He undertakes the creation of a humanoid, but due to the difficulty in replicating the minute parts of the human body, Victor makes the Creature tall, about 8 feet in height, and proportionally large. Despite Victor's selecting its features to be beautiful, upon animation the Creature is instead hideous, with watery white eyes and yellow-brown skin that barely conceals the muscles and blood vessels underneath. Repulsed by his work, Victor flees. While wandering the streets the next day, he meets his childhood friend, Henry Clerval, and takes Henry back to his apartment, fearful of Henry's reaction if he sees the monster. However, when Victor returns to his laboratory, the creature is gone.
Victor falls ill from the experience and is nursed back to health by Henry. After a four month recovery, he receives a letter from his father notifying him of the murder of his brother William. Upon arriving in Geneva, Victor sees the
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creature near the crime scene and becomes convinced that his creation is responsible. Justine Moritz, William's nanny, is convicted of the crime after William's locket, which contained a miniature portrait of Caroline, is found in her pocket. Victor knows that no one will believe him if he tries to clear Justine's name, and she is hanged. Ravaged by grief and guilt, Victor retreats into the mountains. While he hikes through Mont Blanc's Mer de Glace, he is suddenly approached by the creature, who pleads for Victor to hear his tale.
The creature's narrative.
Intelligent and articulate, the creature relates his first days of life, living alone in the wilderness. He found that people were afraid of and hated him due to his appearance, which led him to fear and hide from them. While living in an abandoned structure connected to a cottage, he grew fond of the poor family living there and discreetly collected firewood for them, cleared snow away from their path, and performed other tasks to help them. Secretly living next to the cottage for months, the creature learned to speak by listening to them and taught himself to read after discovering a lost satchel of books in the woods. When he saw his reflection in a pool, he realized his appearance was hideous, and it horrified him as much as it horrified normal humans. As he continued to learn of the
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family's plight, he grew increasingly attached to them, and eventually he approached the family in hopes of becoming their friend, entering the house while only the blind father was present. The two conversed, but on the return of the others, the rest of them were frightened. The blind man's son attacked him and the creature fled the house. The next day, the family left their home out of fear that he would return. The creature was enraged by the way he was treated and gave up hope of ever being accepted by humans. Although he hated his creator for abandoning him, he decided to travel to Geneva to find him because he believed that Victor was the only person with a responsibility to help him. On the journey, he rescued a child who had fallen into a river, but her father, believing that the creature intended to harm them, shot him in the shoulder. The creature then swore revenge against humankind. He travelled to Geneva using details from Victor's journal, murdered William, and framed Justine for the crime.
The creature demands that Victor create a female companion like himself. He argues that as a living being, he has a right to happiness. The creature promises that he and his mate will vanish into the South American wilderness, never to reappear, if Victor grants his request. Should Victor refuse, the creature threatens to kill Victor's remaining friends and loved ones and
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not stop until he completely ruins him. Fearing for his family, Victor reluctantly agrees. The creature says he will watch over Victor's progress.
Victor Frankenstein's narrative resumes.
Clerval accompanies Victor to England, but they separate, at Victor's insistence, at Perth, Scotland. Victor suspects that the creature is following him. Working on the female creature on the Orkney Islands, he is plagued by premonitions of disaster.
He fears that the female will hate the creature or become more evil than he is. Even more worrying to him is the idea that creating the second creature might lead to the breeding of a race that could plague mankind. He tears apart the unfinished female creature after he sees the creature, which had indeed followed Victor, watching through a window. The creature immediately bursts through the door to confront Victor and tries to threaten him into working again, but Victor is convinced that since the creature is evil, his mate would be evil as well, and that the pair would threaten all of humanity by giving rise to a new race just like them. The creature leaves, but gives a final threat saying; "I will be with you on your wedding night."
Victor interprets this as a threat upon his life, believing that the creature will kill him after he finally becomes happy.
Victor sails out to sea to dispose of his instruments, falls
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asleep in the boat, is unable to return to shore because of changes in the winds, and ends up being blown to the Irish coast. When Victor lands in Ireland, he is arrested for Clerval's murder, as the creature had strangled Clerval to death and left the corpse to be found where his creator had arrived.
Victor suffers another mental breakdown and wakes to find himself in prison. However, he is shown to be innocent, and after being released, he returns home with his father, who has restored to Elizabeth some of her father's fortune.
In Geneva, Victor is about to marry Elizabeth and prepares to fight the creature to the death, arming himself with pistols and a dagger. The night following their wedding, Victor asks Elizabeth to stay in her room while he looks for "the fiend.”
While Victor searches the house and grounds, the creature strangles Elizabeth to death. From the window, Victor sees the creature, who tauntingly points at Elizabeth's corpse. Victor tries to shoot him, but the creature escapes. Victor's father, weakened by age and by the death of Elizabeth, dies a few days later. Seeking revenge, Victor pursues the creature through Europe, then north into Russia, with his adversary staying ahead of him every step of the way. Eventually, the chase leads to the Arctic Ocean and then on towards the North Pole, and Victor reaches a point where he is within a mile of the creature, but
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he collapses from exhaustion and hypothermia before he can find his quarry, allowing the Creature to escape. Eventually the ice around Victor's sledge breaks apart, and the resultant ice floe comes within range of Walton's ship.
Captain Walton's conclusion.
At the end of Victor's narrative, Captain Walton resumes telling the story. A few days after the creature vanishes, the ship becomes trapped in pack ice, and several crewmen die in the cold before the rest of Walton's crew insist on returning south once it is freed. Upon hearing the crew's demands, Victor is angered and, despite his condition, gives a powerful speech to them. He reminds them of why they chose to join the expedition and that it is hardship and danger, not comfort, that defines a glorious undertaking such as theirs. He urges them to be men, not cowards. However, although the speech makes an impression on the crew, it is not enough to change their minds and when the ship is freed, Walton regretfully decides to return South. Victor, even though he is in a very weak condition, states that he will go on by himself. He is adamant that the creature must die.
Victor dies shortly thereafter, telling Walton, in his last words, to seek "happiness in tranquility and avoid ambition."
Walton discovers the creature on his ship, mourning over
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Victor's body. The creature tells Walton that Victor's death has not brought him peace; rather, his crimes have made him even more miserable than Victor ever was. The creature vows to kill himself so that no one else will ever know of his existence and Walton watches as the creature drifts away on an ice raft, never to be seen again.
Frankenstein in film later and alternatively.
Frankenstein begins with Edward Van Sloan stepping from behind a curtain to break the fourth wall and deliver a brief caution to the audience.
“How do you do? Mr. Carl Laemmle feels it would be a little unkind to present this picture without just a word of friendly warning. We are about to unfold the story of Frankenstein, a man of science who sought to create a man after his own image without reckoning upon God. It is one of the strangest tales ever told. It deals with the two great mysteries of creation; life and death. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. So, if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now's your chance to uh, well, ........ we warned you.”
In a village of the Bavarian Alps, Henry Frankenstein and his assistant Fritz, a hunchback, piece together a human body. Some
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of the parts are from freshly buried bodies, and some from the bodies of recently hanged criminals. In a laboratory he's built inside a watchtower, Henry desires to create a human, giving this body life through electrical devices. He still needs a brain for his creation. At a nearby school, Henry's former teacher Dr. Waldman shows his class the brain of an average human being and the corrupted brain of a criminal for comparison. Henry sends Fritz to steal the healthy brain from Waldman's class. Fritz accidentally damages it, and so brings Henry the corrupted brain.
Henry's fiancée Elizabeth speaks with their friend Victor about the scientist's peculiar actions and his seclusion. Elizabeth and Victor ask Waldman for help understanding Henry's behavior, and Waldman reveals he is aware Henry wishes to create life.
Concerned for Henry, they arrive at the lab just as he makes his final preparations, the lifeless body on an operating table. As a storm rages, Henry invites Elizabeth and the others to watch.
Henry and Fritz raise the operating table toward an opening at the top of the tower. The creature and Henry's equipment are exposed to the lightning storm and empowered, bringing the creature to life.
Frankenstein's monster, despite its grotesque form, seems to be an innocent, childlike creation, albeit with a metal bar through
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and protruding from his head to conduct electricity. Henry welcomes it into his laboratory and asks it to sit, which it does. He opens up the roof, causing the monster to reach out towards the sunlight. Fritz enters with a flaming torch, which frightens the monster. Its fright is mistaken by Henry and Waldman for an attempt to attack them, and it is chained in the dungeon, where Fritz antagonizes it with a torch. Hearing Fritz shriek in the dungeon, Henry and Waldman run down, finding that the monster has strangled and hanged Fritz. The monster lunges at the two but they lock the monster inside. Realizing the monster must be destroyed, Henry prepares an injection of a powerful drug and the two conspire to release the monster and inject it as it attacks. When the door is unlocked the monster lunges at Henry as Waldman injects the drug into the monster's back. The monster falls to the floor unconscious.
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Henry collapses from exhaustion, and Elizabeth and Henry's father take him home. Henry is worried about the monster, but Waldman reassures him that he will destroy it. While Henry is at home, recovered and preparing for his wedding, Waldman examines the monster. As he prepares to vivisect it, the monster strangles him. It escapes from the tower and wanders through the landscape, encountering a farmer's young daughter, Maria. She asks him to play a game with her in which they toss flowers onto a lake. The monster enjoys the game, but when they run out of flowers he throws Maria into the lake, where she disappears beneath the surface. The monster runs away.
With preparations for the wedding completed, Henry is happy with Elizabeth. They are to marry as soon as Waldman arrives. Victor rushes in, saying that Waldman has been found strangled. Henry suspects the monster. The monster enters Elizabeth's room, causing her to scream. When the searchers arrive, they find Elizabeth unconscious. The monster has escaped.
Maria's father arrives, carrying his drowned daughter's body. He says she was murdered, and the villagers form a search party to capture the monster. During the search, Henry is attacked by the monster. The monster knocks Henry unconscious and carries him to an old mill. The peasants hear his cries and find the monster has climbed to the top, dragging Henry with him. The monster
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hurls the scientist to the ground. His fall is broken by the vanes of the windmill, saving his life. Some of the villagers bring him home while the rest of the mob set the windmill ablaze, with the monster trapped inside.
At Castle Frankenstein, Henry's father celebrates the wedding of his recovered son with a toast to a future grandchild.
The Bride of Frankenstein
On a stormy night, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Lord Byron praise Mary Shelley for her story of Frankenstein and his Monster. She reminds them that her intention for writing the novel was to impart a moral lesson, the consequences of a mortal man who tries to play God. Mary says she has more of the story to tell.
The scene shifts to the end of the 1931 Frankenstein film, placed in the year of 1899.
Villagers gathered around the burning windmill cheer the apparent death of the monster. Hans, the father of the girl the creature drowned in the previous film, wants to see the monster's bones. He falls into a flooded pit underneath the mill, where the monster, having survived the fire strangles him.
Hauling himself from the pit, the monster casts Hans' wife to her death. He next encounters Minnie, who flees in terror.
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The body of Henry Frankenstein, who is thought to have died at the windmill, is returned to his fiancée Elizabeth at his ancestral castle home. Minnie arrives to sound the alarm about the monster, but her warning goes unheeded. Elizabeth, seeing Henry move, realizes he is still alive. Nursed back to health by Elizabeth, Henry has renounced his creation, but still believes he may be destined to unlock the secret of life and immortality.
A hysterical Elizabeth cries that she foresees death.
Henry visits the lab of his former mentor Doctor Septimus Pretorius, where Pretorius shows Henry several homunculi he has created. Pretorius wishes to work with Henry to create a mate for the monster, with the proposed venture involving Pretorius growing an artificial brain while Henry gathers parts for the mate.
The monster saves a young shepherdess from drowning. Her screams upon seeing him alert two hunters, who shoot and injure the monster. The hunters raise a mob that sets out in pursuit.
Captured and trussed to a pole, the monster is hauled to a dungeon and chained. Left alone, he breaks his chains, overpowers the guards, and escapes into the woods.
That night, following the sound of a violin playing "Ave Maria,"
the monster encounters an old blind hermit who thanks God for
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sending him a friend. He teaches the monster words like "friend"
and "good" and shares a meal with him. Two lost hunters stumble upon the cottage and recognize the monster. He attacks them and accidentally burns down the cottage as the hunters lead the hermit away.
Taking refuge from another angry mob in a crypt, the monster spies Pretorius and his cronies Karl and Ludwig breaking open a grave. The henchmen depart as Pretorius stays to enjoy a light supper. The monster approaches Pretorius and learns that Pretorius plans to create a mate for him.
Henry and Elizabeth, now married, are visited by Pretorius. When Henry expresses his refusal to assist with Pretorius' plans, Pretorius calls in the monster, who demands Henry's help. Henry again refuses, and Pretorius orders the monster out, secretly signaling him to kidnap Elizabeth. Pretorius guarantees her safe return upon Henry's participation. Henry returns to his tower laboratory where, despite himself, he grows excited over his work. After being assured of Elizabeth's safety, Henry completes the bride's body.
A storm rages as final preparations are made to bring the bride to life. Her bandage wrapped body is raised through the roof, where electricity is harnessed from lightning to animate her.
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Henry and Pretorius lower her and, after realizing their success in bringing her to life, remove her bandages and help her to stand.
The monster comes down the steps after killing Karl on the rooftop and sees his mate. The excited monster reaches out to her and asks: "Friend?" The bride, screaming, rejects him. The dejected monster observes; "She hate me! Like others." As Elizabeth races to Henry's side, the monster, though actually relieved by the rejection of his ugly intended mate, finds it expedient to rampage through the laboratory. When Pretorius warns that the monster's actions are about to destroy them all, the monster pauses and tells Henry and Elizabeth: "Go! You live!
Go!" To Pretorius and the bride, he says: "You stay. We belong dead." While Henry and Elizabeth flee, the monster looks at the bride, sheds a tear, and pulls a lever to trigger the laboratory and tower's destruction.
The Son of Frankenstein
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Baron Wolf von Frankenstein, son of Henry Frankenstein, relocates his wife Elsa and their young son Peter to the family castle. Wolf wants to redeem his father's reputation but finds this will be more difficult than he thought after he encounters hostility from the villagers, who resent him for the destruction his father's monster wreaked years ago. Wolf's only other friend is the local police Inspector Krogh, who wears an artificial arm after his real arm was ripped out in a childhood encounter with the monster. While investigating his father's castle, Wolf meets Ygor, a demented blacksmith who survived being hanged for grave-robbing and has a deformed neck as a result. Wolf finds the monster's comatose body in the crypt where his grandfather and father were buried; his father's sarcophagus bears the phrase
"Heinrich von Frankenstein: Maker of Monsters" written in chalk.
He decides to revive the monster to prove his father was correct and to restore honor to his family. Wolf uses a torch to scratch out the word "Monsters" on the casket and write "Men" beneath it.
The monster is revived but it only responds to Ygor's commands and commits a series of murders, the victims of which were jurors at Ygor's trial. Wolf discovers this and confronts, shoots, and apparently kills Ygor. The monster abducts Wolf's son as revenge but cannot bring himself to kill the child. Krogh
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and Wolf pursue the monster to a nearby laboratory, where a struggle during which the monster tears out Krogh's false arm ensues. Wolf swings on a rope and knocks the monster into a pit of molten sulfur beneath the laboratory, saving his son. Wolf leaves the keys to Frankenstein's castle to the villagers, who turn out to cheer the Frankenstein family as they leave by train.
The Ghost of Frankenstein
The residents of the village of Frankenstein feel they are under a curse and blame all their troubles on Frankenstein's monster.
The Mayor allows them to destroy Frankenstein's castle. Ygor finds the monster released from his sulfuric tomb by the explosions. The exposure to the sulfur weakened yet preserved the monster. Ygor and the monster flee the castle, and the monster is struck by a bolt of lightning. Ygor decides to find Ludwig, the second son of Henry Frankenstein, to help the monster regain his strength. Ludwig Frankenstein is a doctor who, along with his assistants Dr. Kettering and Dr. Theodore Bohmer, has a successful practice in Visaria. Bohmer was formerly Ludwig's teacher but is now his envious assistant. Ygor and the monster arrive in Vasaria, where the monster befriends a young girl, Cloestine Hussman. The monster carries her onto a roof to retrieve her ball, killing two villagers who attempt to
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intervene. After Cloestine asks the monster to bring her back down, the monster returns the girl to her father Herr Hussman and is immediately captured by police. The town prosecutor, Erik Ernst, comes to Ludwig and asks him to examine the giant they have captured. Ygor then visits Ludwig and informs him that the giant is the monster. Ygor implores Ludwig to heal the monster's body and brain. Ludwig refuses, but Ygor threatens to reveal Ludwig's ancestry to the villagers.
At the police station, the monster is restrained with chains as a hearing is conducted to investigate the murder of the villagers. When Ludwig denies recognizing the monster, it breaks free in a fit of rage, and is led away by Ygor. Elsa, Ludwig's daughter, finds the Frankenstein journals and learns the story of the monster. She sees Ygor and the monster in the window, and after breaking into Ludwig's laboratory, the monster kills Dr.
Kettering. The monster grabs Elsa, but Ludwig is able to subdue him with knockout gas. Ludwig is examining the monster when it awakens and tries to kill him. Ludwig tranquilizes the monster and then tries to enlist Bohmer's aid in dissecting him. Bohmer refuses, claiming it would be murder. While studying his family's journals, Ludwig is visited by the ghost of his father Henry Frankenstein. The spirit implores him to supply the monster with a good brain. Ludwig calls in Bohmer and Ygor and
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tells them that he plans to put Dr. Kettering's brain into the monster's skull. Ygor protests and asks Ludwig to use his brain, but Ludwig refuses because of Ygor's sinister nature. Elsa begs Ludwig to stop his experiments, but he chooses to operate on the monster as soon as possible. Ygor tells Bohmer that he should not be subordinate to Ludwig. Ygor promises to help the disgraced doctor if he agrees to put Ygor's brain into the monster.
The police soon arrive at Ludwig's house, searching for the monster. They find the secret room, but Ygor and the monster have fled. The monster abducts Cloestine from her home and returns with her in his arms to Ludwig's chateau. The monster conveys his desire for her brain to be placed in his head.
Cloestine does not want to lose her brain, and the monster reluctantly gives her to Elsa. Ludwig then performs the surgery, not knowing that Bohmer has replaced Kettering's brain with Ygor's. In the village, Herr Hussman rouses his neighbors by telling them his daughter has been captured by the monster and that Ludwig is harboring it. Ludwig shows the monster to Erik, but when the monster rises, Ludwig is shocked to hear that it has Ygor's voice. The villagers storm the chateau and the Ygor-Monster decides to have Bohmer fill the house with gas to kill them. Ludwig tries to stop him, but the Ygor-Monster repels the
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attack and mortally wounds Ludwig. The Ygor-Monster suddenly goes blind. The wounded Ludwig explains that the blindness is a result of the incompatibility between the blood types of Ygor and the monster. Feeling betrayed, the Ygor-Monster then throws Bohmer onto the apparatus, electrocuting him, and inadvertently sets fire to the chateau. The Ygor-Monster becomes trapped in the burning chateau while Erik and Elsa escape, walking out into the sunrise.
I Was a Teenage Frankenstein
Professor Frankenstein, a guest lecturer from England, talks Dr.
Karlton into becoming an unwilling accomplice in his secret plan to actually assemble a human being from the parts of different cadavers. After recovering a body from a catastrophic automobile wreck, Professor Frankenstein takes the body to his laboratory/morgue, where he keeps spare parts of human beings in various drawers. The professor also enlists the aid of Margaret as his secretary, to keep all callers away from the laboratory.
Margaret, becoming suspicious of what is going on, decides to investigate and goes down to the morgue. She is panic stricken by the monster, which has been activated following the grafting of a new leg and arm. She dares not tell the professor about her feelings and keeps silent for the present. On a couple of
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occasions, the professor takes discarded human body parts and feeds them to an alligator concealed in a hidden chamber.
One night, the monster leaves the laboratory. He peers into a girl's apartment. The girl becomes hysterical and starts screaming; in his attempt to silence her, he kills her in panic and flees. The next morning, the hunt for the murderer is on.
Margaret, angry at the professor, tells him that she knows that the monster is responsible for the murder. The professor, taking no chances, has the monster kill her and feeds her remains to the alligator. Dr. Karlton, sent out of town, knows nothing about this.
The professor accompanies the monster to a lover's lane, where he kills a teenage boy in order to obtain his face. The boy's face is successfully grafted onto the monster. Professor Frankenstein tells Dr. Karlton of his plans to dismember his creation and ship him in various boxes to England and then return there to put him together again. When they strap the monster down again, he becomes suspicious and tears loose, to throw Professor Frankenstein into the alligator pit, while Dr.
Karlton runs for help.
When Dr. Karlton arrives with the police, the monster, maddened with fright, backs into the electrical dial board. Contact with
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the iron wrist bands electrocutes him and he falls to the ground, dead. Karlton tells the police that he will never forget the way the monster's face looked after the accident.
April Fool’s Day – The Year of “All in the Family”
Return of the Native – Bayonne, NJ - April Fool’s Day –
April 1st - Thursday Afternoon – The Year of “All in the Family”
Cyrus had called ahead. A month prior he had removed his essential stuff from his folks’ apartment when he moved in with Mona. Now re-settled, he wanted to get the peripherals he had hastily left behind.
The call was a courtesy as well as a practicality, as Cy wanted to be assured entry. His mother had adamantly forbidden the move, and they had not spoken since. As always, his father supported whatever the moms said or did, regardless; and he just might have been instructed to have the entry lock changed; rendering Cy’s retained key ineffective in this venue.
The call had been a tiresome task. Cy’s father answered on the fourth ring, and while they had exchanged cursory greetings,
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before Cy could finish stating his reason for the call, dad interrupted him to say; “I’ll get your mudder,” the sound of the plastic phone clanging against something which produced a hollow, but ear troubling sound of a discordant bell, likely cracked.
“The Return of the Native” by Thomas Hardy; modified public domain.
The moms opened with; “You’ve come to your senses and changed your mind.”
“Yes and no. I’ve come to my senses, but my mind has yet to signal the need for an ‘upgrade’ or even a battery recharge.”
“You have yet to pay this month’s rent.”
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“In the absence of a written agreement, the lease term is presumed to reflect the payment term; in this case monthly. You can use the security deposit for the last payment. Or should I say overpayment?”
Cyrus was not sure whether he was amused or annoyed. His mudder had instituted his monthly lease payment as soon as he had gotten his first big boy job. That unrecorded sub-lease had been calculated at 25% of his gross, which presumably happened to coincide with the payment required on the primary lease. Since that day, Cy had changed jobs twice, which resulted in a tripling of his gross. The burgeoning demand for financial service worker-specialists had elevated his initial, light green stained, cinder block basement view of a tiny, though elongated window too high to provide visibility sans a ladder in Bayonne, to a second floor corner desk in Manhattan. The floor to ceiling, sometimes washed windows, provided him with a panoramic view of 39th Street to his left, and Broadway to his right. The benefits of having an unscrupulous, hungry agent cannot be overstated. He kept that a secret, the job changes that is, from the moms for fear of up-scaled adjustments for food catering, laundry services, shoe shining, and common area maintenance. The whole thing was kind of instinctively promising as well as
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detail pathetic; while simultaneously the simplicity of Cy’s family supplied norm.
“ ........................... “
“If its okay, I’d just like to come over to get the stuff I left.”
“You know, I checked with Father Francis. This can still be annulled, since you didn’t know that she was cray when you married her.”
“We’re not married.”
“Don’t talk blasphemy to your mother.”
The substance of the conversation degenerated from there; Cy hearing some background noise which was likely his father mumbling something which “intimated” his lack of free will.
Cy looked under his old bed. It was where he had stored his comic, stamp, and coin collections. He found only a path in the dust, as if something had been dragged through it.
“What did you do with my stuff?”
Mom said; “Nothing.”
“My collections are not here.”
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“You must have taken them with you.”
“No. You sold them or made him do it,” showing a right thumb which had briefly protruded from his fist, toward his father.
Dad said; “That’s your mudder,” with as much menace as he could conjure.
“You keep reminding me. I wish that you wouldn’t insist upon rubbing it in. It comes off as an oversell.”
“Don’t talk to your mudder like that.”
“I’m talking to you. ........ So, I figure you pawned off the stamps and coins to that McCoy geek on Eighth Street. But, where did you unload the comics? ‘Atomic’ over on Hiroshi Street?
You’d have gotten a better price at ‘Doogie’s’ on McArthur Park Place.”
“Your mudder told you you took the stuff with you.” Dad raised his open right hand above his head, not likely trying to indicate a “hi” sign.
Finding no reason to further pursue the dead end sign, Cy said;
“Okay, fine. The Series E-Bonds. Gramma bought them for me when I reached twenty-one. I’d like them now.”
Mom said; “The money was spent on you.”
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“That’s gone too? I think I have a lawsuit.”
“I’ve already checked with a lawyer. We’re under no obligation if we can show that the money was spent for your benefit, and we can.”
Cy left with no goodbyes offered to his mudder or fodder. With the faintest of clicks he closed the front door behind him; glad that at least he was no longer paying their rent.
Anyday - The Year of the Knee
MSM Pravda – Anyday - The Year of the Knee - How I Learned to Ignore the Net and Live in Arrogantly Blissful Ignorance
As if the advent of cable television didn’t prompt sufficient air space needing to be filled with “news” articles which previously would not have made it to your local and freely distributed “Alibi,” the Net, as effectively represented by MSM
Pravda, has added insult to injury by growing that inane space as exponentially as a Trump era virus expert’s mathematically
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based model of the expected recipients and expected to be expired recipients of the latest version of the ChinaBat Flu.
In more colloquial terms, one news unworthy item leads to an endless procession of more derivative, news unworthy items. This process could be cute, if it was the least bit interesting; me personally willing to settle for a stream, semi-intentionally semi-funny. On top of that, each media hound who has attached themselves or their bot to one of your on-line avatars gets all snippy, snarky, and stuff if you show no knowledge of the most recent, spiffy installment or three.
A series for your consideration;
1) Patrick Ewing, a black, former New York Knick basketballer of some note and size, announced that a Madison Square Garden security person had once insisted upon seeing his ID.
2) Long time film director and ostensible activist, Spike Lee followed that by demanding an apology from Madison Square Garden Productions (MSGP) management and personnel.
3) MSGP management profusely apologized, making certain to include the internal attorney approved boilerplate which stated;
“We here at MSGP and affiliates have always had zero tolerance for racism of any sort, and are fully committed to providing a woke working environment, yadda yadda. This security guard has
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been suspended without pay, pending further investigation. We cannot adequately convey our sorrow to our black brothers in the community. We will do better.”
4) Patrick Ewing was compelled to amplify upon his first post.
“Hey, I wasn’t talking racism. I was really just glad that for an instant, my un-wanted fame was gone, and here I joyfully was, being treated like every other privately happy weinie.”
5) Motor City14 BLM franchisee partner in hock, Tanya Al-Zawahiri, was quoted by the Detroit Free Press as having said;
“Mr. Ewing is displaying his disgusting white privilege in black format. ‘Karen’ does not understand how the rest of us are subjected to the mentally debilitating, racist, public indignities continually heaped upon black people by cops and Walmart ‘greeters’ who demand your receipt while waving through all the whites. While ‘the rule of law’ is waved by the right wing bigots, it is the selective enforcement which denies equality.”
6) Walmart “Community Vice President,” Ronald “Kwame” McCracken tweeted; “While we here at Walmart management have been fully
‘woke’ before the term was popularized, and committed to serving our minority customers as well as we serve our majority, we also recognize the sensitivity required to make our friends of color
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feel safely at home when they visit our locations. It is only out of a painfully realistic necessity we wish soon gone that our greeters are trained to check for the visible presence of a sales receipt, not the color of the departing patron. The
‘profiling,’ if any and if you will, pertains to the prominence of the proof of payment. Keeping this in your open hand or at the top of your lead bag will ensure only a desultory “Have a good day’ mumble to our valued customers. It must be pointed out that it is in the interest of the community that we take steps to discourage pilferage, as the costs associated with theft must be passed along to our customers, the burden the greatest on those of limited means. Walmart is for the people.”
Subsequent comments; 7) – 13,768) have been omitted; both as a consideration for our well informed readers as well as the prohibitive costs associated with non-existent-print-on-demand runs.
Cy took to playing free on-line games. Some are challenging, and if you don’t mind the lack of state-of-the-art graphics, can be fun. In one called “Lootem” the object is for the looter to break in and get as much stuff out as he can before something falls on his head and crushes him. The creator tried to be politically correct, even to a ridiculous extreme, by making the looter white. But still, somebody must have bitched, as the site
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took down the game. Fun gone, Cy decided to try to read
“Criminal Race Theory: Math is Racist.” The federal government recommended it for kids, and it sounded like an attempt at comedy.
“Yay!” Cy thought. Before he could get to the book, the free game site came up with a new one; “Jihad Bomber.” The object is for the Diaper-head to throw bombs at groups of Jews; disintegrating or dismembering as many as possible while the Hitler led progressive libtards prevent the Jews from defending themselves or striking back. The game gets more competitive after the Jews poison Hitler’s progressive libtards.
These low end game developers are so creative. One can only wonder where they get their ideas. ....... Staying off MSM
Pravda must help.
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Feast of Tiny Tom – The Year of the 14
Feast of Tiny Tom – Tuesday – January 20th – Washington
– The Year of the 14
“We hate you 14.
Oh yes we do.
We don’t hate anyone
As much as you.
When you are near us;
P U.
Oh 14, we hate you.”
Sung and written by YT
He was a very thin 14 man, no more than rib defined, and would almost weigh as much as a butcher's thumb. He had tight glaring eyes that wanted to look intelligent, which succeeded in looking
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as intelligent as a weasel caught in the headlights. He possessed ears which made Dumbo appear to be acoustically challenged. He wore a double-breasted dark gray suit that was too wide in the shoulders and had much too much lapel. Over this was an Irish tweed coat with some badly worn spots. A lot of tie bulged out and was rainspotted above his crossed lapels. He said that hustled desegregation would result in his innocent children having to grow up in a dangerous, racial jungle with tensions having built so high that it was going to explode at some point.
This earned him a not insignificant portion of the vote.
Ostensibly seeking to capitalize on his fortuitous gaffe, he became best known for saying and saying; “Integration is defined as that brief, turbulent period between when the first 14 moves into an area and the last YT moves out.”
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Good Friday – The Year of the Uninvited Easter Island – Good Friday – March 24th - The Year of the Uninvited
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Conquistador Cortez and “Cortez the Killer” by Neil Young; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
New Year’s Day – The Year of the New Ideas New Year’s Day – Saturday – January 1st – Corrales Bosque – The Year of the New Ideas
“Wild, piercing, frigid winds seemed to come from all directions, carrying dust, dead plants and old garbage. The gray winter sky is not threatening, but rather seemed calmly triumphant and doesn’t feel compelled to show off. Tree skeletons were swaying as best they could, but huge broken branches were already covering the ground at the trunks. The drought was well into its second year.
Daisy and Cy did the usual, though it was an unusual day as they made the trip without any petty annoyances. The eavesdropping nuisances and loose attack dogs must have decided to stay home and sleep a while longer. When they got to the elevation of the levee path Cy took his customary glance at the river. He could make out its flowing texture, but the Bosque and the Rio Grande didn’t have any color, unless one considers shades of gray an adequate substitute.
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Maureen’s red Toyota was the only car in the parking area. She had a pattern of showing up on the most miserable days, perhaps finding that the best chance of not being bothered when outside.
Cy saw her about half a mile away on the levee path by the drain field. She saw him and walked in the other direction. Stupidly and eagerly, Cy didn’t pay any attention to the obvious omen, body language and hint, as he was over anxious to see her. Cy led Daisy in her direction, despite balking and protestations.
Maureeen had her back to him and the binoculars to her eyes in the frigid wind. When he got next to her, she looked very annoyed that he was there. She didn’t look well; pale, puffy face and skinny. Cy thought that they had such a good time a week prior that he was shocked and worried. He said; “Are you okay?”
She tersely said; “I’m fine.”
Cy should have found some reason, like Daisy’s preference, to keep moving and do so himself, but he just had to say some spacey thing about the speed of time and its reverse gear. She said; “You know I don’t feel the same way about you.”
The words made him feel as if his insides had dropped out, but he didn’t advertise it and faux bravely said; “It’s gone too
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far. Throw any kind of water on me you’d like. I’ll just convert it to something else before it hits me.”
She gave him one of her “Ooh, you” looks and then they proceeded to chat about various nonsense like the liner notes on a 1960’s CD collection, favorite songs and singers and their horrible childhoods, though she is much more evasive on the latter subject, today. When they got back to her car Cy said; “Maureen, you’re wilder than I am.”
As she got into the driver’s seat and was closing the door she almost pleadingly said; “I just want to come here to watch the birds and be left alone. Go back to her.”
“I never left her. ..... Physically. It’s just financial and a function of age.”
“I know a good psychiatrist. I’ve already spoken of this with him.”
“Thanks for the referral. But, I already have a full plate of people in need of detailed explanations.”
“I don’t feel the same way about you.”
“You have yet to see my wonders.”
“I wish you would take this seriously.”
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“Okay. You took a poll of your nut associates and found a general incoherence, tending toward veiled reservations. And I’m supposed to dispel them, or suffer the consequences; clandestine romance through researched public dialoguery.”
“You have an odd way of phrasing things. ........ Not necessarily inaccurate though.”
“I was hoping to find your funny bone.”
“I don’t want to think about all this.”
“Neither do I. I can come up with a few other options.”
“You’re really not listening to me at all.”
“Wrong. I can recite this entire conversation from memory. Want to see?”
“No. It’s not a matter of the precise words. It’s a matter of their meaning, taking into account the shorthand required for everyday conversation.”
“A heavy, heavy day.”
“Yes. ........ I too prefer ‘light and airy,’ but some just are.”
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“Okay. So, you don’t want to see me anymore. I suppose that is entirely within your control, and you don’t need my agreement.
.......... You know, this is part of your standard flip-flopping repertoire. You come to see me to tell me that you don’t want to see me. The protest is one which seems to consistently emanate from a cracked libertinous belle.”
“You’re pushing your luck, geezer.”
“No. Though I am not adverse to the concept, I have no luck to push. ..... My fault. I guess I expected more from you; kind of childish after years of expecting and accepting less and less from Mona.”
“Your usually hidden hopeful optimism is your most attractive feature. That it consistently fails when confronted with any semblance of reality is cute in youth, but absurd in codgerhood.”
She backed out of the parking space and drove uncharacteristically fast down bumpy Romero Road. Cy thought she was crying. He watched her car kicking up dust until it was out of sight, not knowing that this would be the last time that he’d see her. “Godspeed” seemed the appropriate song of the day.
Beyond the C
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Beyond the C
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Beyond the C
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Vampire and “Godspeed” by Patti Smith; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.
National Nutty Fudge Day – The Year of the Knee National Nutty Fudge Day – Tuesday – May 12th – The Year of the Knee – World Wide Web
A Synopsis of Social Media Permitted Discourse
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