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Monday, December 06, 2010

Being Cute is NOT Awareness

This weekend, many folks on Facebook asked their fellows to change their avatars to reflect some of their favorite cartoon characters from their childhood. The point was one of those "raising awareness" things where people tie a ribbon or wear a button to "raise awareness" of something that probably was actually staring them in their faces anyway.

Now do not get me wrong, I understand the reasoning for this.  And anything effective that would get people to stop this this madness I would greatly support.  But here the operative word is effective. Subbing your picture for that of Penelope Pitstop may not be one.

But maybe showing EXACTLY what child abuse looks like might.

The young girl seen in the picture is young Evie Gamble, all of 23 months.  According to KFOR-TV in Oklahoma City, this is what might have happened:

ENID, OK - An Oklahoma teen is arrested after confessing to severely beating a child. We first showed you graphic pictures of the little girl's injuries last week as police were searching for the person responsible. Tuesday authorities called several people back in for questioning and got a confession.

"The first step was finding out that yes she's going to be ok, and she's going to make a full recovery," Amanda Gamble said.

Twenty year old Gamble says she is taking things one step at a time after she found her 23 month old daughter, Evie, severely bruised and beaten nearly a week ago. She says she left the toddler with her boyfriend and a 17 year old babysitter. She says she did not check on the little girl until the next morning and found her daughter's head swollen and bruised.

"I backed up, and I started crying. I said 'Evie what happened?' and she pointed to her head and said 'Evie got owies,' and then she hugged me and then she said, 'Momma, are you ok?'" Gamble said.

Tuesday afternoon Enid police arrested the 17 year old sitter after calling several people back in for questioning. They say at first she told a couple of stories that did not add up before admitting she was the one who abused the little girl.

"She actually got mad at the kid because the kid wouldn't stay in bed," Enid Police Sgt. Dustin Albright said. "She was following the kid back through the kitchen and pushed her with both hands and caused her to fall face-first into the kitchen tile."

It is a story the babysitter's mother does not believe. She claims her daughter was threatened and made it up out of fear. She says her daughter just turned 17 and just became a mother herself five months ago.

"I think she's covering up for somebody," Carol Tunis said. "I really do not believe she put all those bruises on that baby."

It is a cover-up to some, but a tough realization for little Evie's mother.

"Be careful who you leave your kids with," she said. "Be careful who you trust.",0,6954183.story

The tragedy of what happened to Evie is that this happens every day.  But maybe a bigger tragedy is the that Evie will live with those scars for the rest of her life.  Others won't.

A 4-year-old boy in Mesa, AZ poops in his pants.  The the boyfriend of the mom takes a strap to him.  Hard.  Too hard. Jorge Busso now faces murder one charges.  In Charleston, SC, 3 teenagers thought it would be great sport to hang an 18-month-old child in a closet and beat him. Louis Wright will live.  The kids and the mom were charged.

Dee Gilley of Rochester, NY is arrested for what many black parents call discipline: beating a kid with a belt AND an extension cord. This happened to Gilley's 9-year-old stepchild.

Shall I go on?

Once in awhile, there are convictions: Paul Johnson of Knoxville, TN will be in jail for life for killing an 18-month old boy. However in most cases, if there is a conviction, actions that would be considered torture by Amnesty International are ignored.

What is not needed is a trip down Saturday Morning Memory Lane.  What IS needed is to look the problem straight in the eye and deal with it.  And soon....a child is being beaten in this country right now.

Saturday, November 06, 2010

Compromise, my ass....

Ed Schultz and Rev Al on our compromisin' prez..

Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Insanity of America

Last night, Keith Olbermann hit his usuall Special Comment home run, offering in startling 20-minute detail about the Tea Bag express that is about to run over this country like a 18-wheeler going at 100mph with no brakes.....downhill.

Before you vote on Tuesday, listen to this fully.  Then I have a few words to say to you...

Yes we have the power to do more than that.  And it is that power that I fear more than anything in this election.  Because for people like Angle and Paul and the other teabaggers to invade our Capitol it will take the knowing participation of voters.  Olbermann comes closer to anyone in putting the responsibility squarely on where it belongs...not just those who stay home and not vote, but those who go out and do so.

The Mason-Dixon poll on this weekend before the End of America shows Sharron Angle AHEAD of  Harry Reid by at least 4 points. The Bluegrass Poll in KY shows Paul with a commanding lead over his opponent. and Stephen Broden....then man who said that armed revolution was on the within striking distance of his opponent. If that's not bad enough, the woman whose ignorance and past loopy statements have been comedy gold for the likes of Bill Maher, Christine O'Donnell.....a woman who was supposed to be crushed by her opponent Chris now within striking distance of said opponent.

If these and other loons win on Tuesday, the fault will not be with Fox News, or Glenn Beck, or the persuasive powers of Sarah Palin, or the avalanche of money that has been bestowed upon the bagger candidates.  The fault will lie solely on an electorate in each state who refuses to check facts or listen anything that even pretends to offer reason.  Like the Germans in the 30's, this disaster will happen with the willing participation of citizens who actually agree with this shit.

And because of this, we MUST hold voters in these states accountable for their votes. Their punishment must be of shunning.  If Nevada and Arizona and other states do not realize what they have done, they should be shunned until they do.

Mr. Olbermann, as always, is a master of language, but sometimes the words must come from the source. As the community of America seems hellbound to be, as the character he portays says, an "insult to the world," here is Spencer Tracy, from the classic 60's film "Inherit the Wind," able assisted by Mssrs. Elliot Reid, Dick York,Fredrick March, and Harry Morgan.  The words said nearly 50 years ago are haunting and damning in their prophetic nature....

May God have mercy of these United States.

Friday, October 29, 2010

A Saucer of Loniness by Theodore Sturgeon

A Saucer Of Loneliness

by Theodore Sturgeon

If she's dead, I thought, I'll never find her in this white flood of moonlight on the white sea, with the surf seething in and over the pale, pale sand like a great shampoo. Almost always, suicides who stab themselves or shoot themselves in the heart carefully bare their chests; the same strange impulse generally makes the sea-suicide go naked.

A little earlier, I thought, or later, and there would be shadows for the dunes and the breathing toss of the foam. Now the only real shadow is mine, a tiny thing just under me, but black enough to feed the blackness of the shadow of a blimp.

A little earlier, I thought, and I might have seen her plodding up the silver shore, seeking a place lonely enough to die in. A little later and my legs would rebel against this shuffling trot through sand, the maddening sand that could not hold and would not help a hurrying man.

My legs did give way then and I knelt suddenly, sobbing -- not for her; not yet -- just for air. There was such a rush about me: wing, and tangled spray, and colors upon colors and shades of colors that were not colors at all but shifts of white and silver. If light like that were sound, it would sound like the sea on sand, and if my ears were eyes, they would see such a light.

I crouched there, gasping in the swirl of it, and a flood struck me, shallow and swift, turning up and outward like flower petals where it touched my knees, then soaking me to the waist in its bubble and crash. I pressed my knuckles to my eyes so they would open again. The sea on my lips with the taste of tears and the whole white night shouted and wept aloud.

And there she was.

Her white shoulders were a taller curve in the sloping foam. She must have sensed me -- perhaps I yelled -- for she turned and saw me kneeling there. She put her fists to her temples and her face twisted, and she uttered a piercing wail of despair and fury, and then plunged seaward and sank.

I kicked off my shoes and ran into the breakers, shouting, hunting, grasping at flashes of white that turned to sea-salt and coldness in my fingers. I plunged right past her, and her body struck my side as a wave whipped my face and tumbled both of us. I gasped in solid water, opened my eyes beneath the surface and saw a greenish-white distorted moon hurtle as I spun. Then there was sucking sand under my feet again and my left hand was tangled in her hair.

The receding wave towed her away and for a moment she streamed out from my hand like steam from a whistle. In that moment I was sure she was dead, but as she settled to the sand, she fought and scrambled to her feet.

She hit my ear, wet, hard, and a huge, pointed pain lanced into my head. She pulled, she lunged away from me, and all the while my hand was caught in her hair. I couldn't have freed her if I had wanted to. She spun to me with the next wave, battered and clawed at me, and we went into deeper water.

"Don't...don't...I can't swim!" I shouted, so she clawed me again.

"Leave me alone," she shrieked. "Oh, dear God, why can't you leave" (said her fingernails) "me..." (said her snapping teeth) "alone!" (said her small, hard first).

So by her hair I pulled her head down tight to her white shoulder; and with the edge of my free hand I hit her neck twice. She floated again, and I brought her ashore.

I carried her to where a dune was between us and the sea's broad, noisy tongue, and the wind was above us somewhere. But the light was as bright. I rubbed her wrists and stroked her face and said, "It's all right," and, "There!" and some names I used to have for a dream I had long, long before I ever heard of her.

She lay still on her back with the breath hissing between her teeth, with her lips in a smile which her twisted-tight, wrinkle-sealed eyes made not a smile but a torture. She was well and conscious for many moments and still her breath hissed and her closed eyes twisted.

"Why couldn't you leave me alone?" she asked at last. She opened her eyes and looked at me. She had so much misery that there was no room for fear. She shut her eyes again and said, "You know who I am."

"I know," I said.

She began to cry.

I waited, and when she stopped crying, there were shadows among the dunes. A long time.

She said, "You don't know who I am. Nobody knows who I am."

I said, "It was in all the papers."

"That!" She opened her eyes slowly and her gaze traveled over my face, my shoulders, stopped at my mouth, touched my eyes for the briefest second. She curled her lips and turned away her head. "Nobody knows who I am."

I waited for her to move or speak, and finally I said, "Tell me."

"Who are you?" she asked, with her head still turned away.

"Someone who..."


"Not now, " I said. "Later, maybe."

She sat up suddenly and tried to hide herself. "Where are my clothes?"

"I didn't see them."

"Oh," she said. "I remember. I put them down and kicked sand over them, just where a dune would come and smooth them over, hide them as if they never were...I hate sand. I wanted to drown in the sand, but it wouldn't let me...You mustn't look at me!" she shouted. "I hate to have you looking at me!" She threw her head from side to side, seeking. "I can't stay here like this! What can I do? Where can I go?"

"Here," I said.

She let me help her up and then snatched her hand away, half turned from me. "Don't touch me. Get away from me."

"Here," I said again, and walked down the dune where it curved in the moonlight, tipped back into the wind and down and became not dune but beach. "Here," I pointed behind the dune.

At last she followed me. She peered over the dune where it was chest-high, and again where it was knee-high. "Back there?"

She nodded.

"I didn't see them."

"So dark..." She stepped over the low dune and into the aching black of those moon-shadows. She moved away cautiously, feeling tenderly with her feet, back to where the dune was higher. She sank down into the blackness and disappeared there. I sat on the sand in the light. "Stay away from me," she spat.

I rose and stepped back. Invisible in the shadows, she breathed, "Don't go away. " I waited, then saw her hand press out of the clean-cut shadows. "There," she said, "over there. In the dark. Just be a...stay away from me a -- voice."

I did as she asked, and sat in the shadows perhaps six feet from her.

She told me about it. Not the way it was in the papers.

She was perhaps seventeen when it happened. She was in Central Park, in New York. It was too warm for such an early spring day, and the hammered brown slops had a dusting of green of precisely the consistency of that morning's hoarfrost on the rocks. But the frost was gone and the grass was brave and tempted some hundreds of pairs of feet from the asphalt and concrete to tread on it.

Hers were among them. The sprouting soil was a surprise to her feet, as the air was to her lungs. Her feet ceased to be shoes as she walked, her body was consciously more than clothes. It was the only kind of day which in itself can make a city-bred person raise his eyes. She did.

For a moment she felt separated from the life she lived, in which there was no fragrance, no silence, in which nothing ever quite fit nor was quite filled. In that moment the ordered disapproval of the buildings around the pallid park could not reach her; for two, three clean breaths it no longer mattered that the whole wide world really belongs to images projected on a screen; to gently groomed goddesses
in these steel-and-glass towers; that it belonged, in short, always, always to someone else.

So she raised her eyes, and there above her was the saucer. It was beautiful. It was golden, with a dusty finish like that of an unripe Concord grape. It made a faint sound, a chord composed of two tones and a blunted hiss like the wind in tall wheat. It was darting about like a swallow, soaring and dropping. It circled and dropped and hovered like a fish, shimmering. It was like all these living things, but with that beauty it had all the loveliness of things turned and burnished, measured, machined, and metrical.

At first she felt no astonishment, for this was so different from anything she had ever seen before that it had to be a trick of the eye, a false evaluation of size and speed and distance that in a moment would resolve itself into a sun-flash on an airplane or the lingering glare of a welding arc.

She looked away from it and abruptly realized that many other people saw it -- saw something -- too. People all around her had stopped moving and speaking and were craning upward. Around her was a glove of silent astonishment, and outside it, she was aware of the life-noise of the city, the hard breathing giant who never inhales.

She looked up again, and at last began to realize how large and how far away the saucer was. No: rather, how small and how very near it was. It was just the size of the largest circle she might make with her two hands, and it floated not quite eighteen inches over her head.

Fear came then. She drew back and raised a forearm, but the saucer simply hung there. She bent far sideways, twisted away, leaped forward, looked back and upward to see if she had escaped it. At first she couldn't see it; then as she looked up and up, there it was, close and gleaming, quivering and crooning, right over her head.

She bit her tongue.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a man cross himself. He did that because he saw me standing here with a halo over my head, she thought. And that was the greatest single thing that had ever happened to her. No one had ever looked at her and made a respectful gesture before, not once, not ever. Through terror, through panic and wonderment, the comfort of that thought nestled into her, to wait to be taken out and looked at again in lonely times.

The terror was uppermost now, however. She backed away, staring upward, stepping a ludicrous cakewalk. She should have collided with people. There were plenty of people there, gaping and craning, but she reached none. She spun around and discovered to her horror that she was the center of a pointing, pressing crowd. Its mosaic of eyes all bulged, and its inner circle braced its many legs to press back and away from her.

The saucer's gentle note deepened. It tilted, dropped an inch or so. Someone screamed, and the crowd broke away from her in all directions, milled about, and settled again in a new dynamic balance, a much larger ring, as more and more people raced to thicken it against the efforts of the inner circle to escape.

The saucer hummed and tilted, tilted....

She opened her mouth to scream, fell to her knees, and the saucer struck. It dropped against her forehead and clung there. It seemed almost to lift her. She came erect on her knees, made on effort to raise her hands against it, and then her arms stiffened down and back, her hands not reaching the ground. For perhaps a second and a half the saucer held her rigid, and then it passed a single ecstatic quiver to her body and dropped it. She plumped to the ground, the backs of her thighs heavy and painful on her heels and ankles.

The saucer dropped beside her, rolled once in a small circle, once just around its edge, and lay still. It lay still and dull and metallic, different and dead.

Hazily, she lay and gazed at the gray-shrouded blue of the good spring sky, and hazily she heard whistles.

And some tardy screams.

And a great stupid voice bellowing, "Give her air!" which made everyone press closer.

Then there wasn't so much sky because of the blue-clad bulk with its metal buttons and its leatherette notebook. "Okay, okay, what's happened here stand back fo’ gods sake."

And the widening ripples of observation, interpretation and comment: "It knocked her down." "Some guy knocked her down." "He knocked her down." "Some guy knocked her down and --" "Right in broad daylight this guy..." "The park's gettin’ to be..." onward and outward, the adulteration of fact until it was lost altogether because excitement is so much more important.

Somebody with a harder shoulder than the rest bullying close, a notebook here, too, a witnessing eye over it, ready to change "...a beautiful brunet..." to "an attractive brunet" for the afternoon editions, because "attractive" is as dowdy as any woman is allowed to get if she is a victim in the news.

The glittering shield and the florid face bending close: "You hurt bad, sister?" And the echoes, back and back through the crowd, "Hurt bad, hurt bad, badly injured, he beat the hell out of her, broad daylight..."

And still another man, slim and purposeful, tan gaberdine, cleft chin and beard-shadow: "Flyin' saucer, hm? Okay officer, I'll take over here."

"And who the hell might you be, takin' over?"

The flash of a brown leather wallet, a face so close behind that its chin was pressed into the gaverdine shoulder. The face said, awed; "FBI" and that rippled outward too. The policeman nodded -- the entire policeman nodded in one single bobbing genuflection.

"Get some help and clear this area," said the gaberdine.

"Yes, sir!" said the policeman.

"FBI, FBI" the crowd murmured, and there was more sky to look at above her. She sat up and there was glory in her face. "The saucer talked to me," she sang.

"You shut up, " said the gaberdine. "You'll have lots of chance to talk later."

"Yeah, sister," said the policeman. "My god, this mob could be full of Communists."

"You shut up, too," said the gaberdine.

Someone in the crowd told someone else a Communist beat up this girl, while someone else was saying she got beat up because she was a Communist.

She started to rise, but solicitous hands forced her down again. There were thirty police there by that time.

"I can walk," she said.

"Now, you just take it easy," they told her.

They put a stretcher down beside her and lifted her onto it and covered her with a big blanket.

"I can walk," she said as they carried her through the crowd.

A woman went white and turned away moaning, "Oh, my God, how awful!"

A small man with round eyes stared and stared at her and licked and licked his lips.

The ambulance. They slid her in. The gaberdine was already there.

A white-coated man with very clean hands: "How did it happen, miss?"

"No questions," said the gaberdine. "Security."

The hospital.

She said, "I got to get back to work."

"Take your clothes off," they told her.

She had a bedroom to herself then for the first time in her life. Whenever the door opened, she could see a policeman outside. It opened very often to admit the kind of civilians who were very polite to military people, and the kind of military people who were even more polite to certain civilians. She did not know what they all did nor what they wanted. Every single day they asked her four million five hundred thousand questions. Apparently they never talked to each other, because each of them asked her the same questions over and over.

"What is your name?"

"How old are you?"

"What year were you born?"

"What is your name?"

Sometimes they would push her down strange paths with their strange questions.

"Now, your uncle. Married a woman from Middle Europe did he? Where
in Middle Europe?"

"What clubs or fraternal organizations did you belong to? Ah! Now, about that Rinkeydinks gang on Sixty-third street. Who was really behind it?"

But over and over again, "What did you mean when you said the saucer
talked to you?"

And she would say, "It talked to me."

And they would say, "And it said --"

And she would shake her head.

There would be a lot of shouting ones, and then a lot of kind ones. No one had ever been so kind to her before, but she soon learned that no one was being kind to her. They were just getting her to relax, to think of other things, so they could suddenly shoot that question at her. "What do you mean it talked to you?"

Pretty soon it was just like Mom's or school or anyplace, and she used to sit with her mouth closed and let them yell. Once they sat her on a hard chair for hours and hours with a light in her eyes and let her get thirsty. Home, there was a transom over the bedroom door and Mom used to leave the kitchen light glaring through it all night, every night, so she wouldn't get the horrors. So the light didn't
bother her at all.

They took her out of the hospital and put her in jail. Some ways it was good. The food. The bed was all right, too. Through the window she could see lots of women exercising in the yard. It was explained to her that they all had much harder beds.

"You are a very important young lady, you know."

That was nice at first, but as usual, it turned out they didn't mean her at all. They kept working on her. Once they brought the saucer in to her. It was inside a big wooden crate with a padlock, and a steel box inside that with a Yale lock. It only weighed a couple of pounds, the saucer, but by the time they got it packed, it took two men to carry it and four men with guns to watch them.

They made her act out the whole thing just the way it happened, with some soldiers holding the saucer over her head. It wasn't the same. They'd cut a lot of shapes and pieces out of the saucer, and besides, it was that dead gray color. They asked her if she knew anything about that, and for once, she told them.

"It's empty now," she said.

The only one she would ever talk to was a little man with a fat belly who said to her the first time he was alone with her, "Listen, I think the way they've been treating you stinks. Now, get this: I have a job to do. My job is to find out why you won't tell what the saucer said. I don't want to know what it said and I'll never ask you. I don't even want you to tell me. Let's just find out why you're keeping it a secret."

Find out why she turned out to be hours of just talking about having pneumonia and the flower pot she made in second grade that Mom threw down the fire escape and getting left back in school and the dream about holding a wineglass in both hands and peeping over it at some man.

And one day she told him why she wouldn't say about the saucer, just the way it came to her: "Because it was talking to me, and it's nobody else's business."

She even told him about the man crossing himself that day. It was the only other thing she had of her own.

He was nice. He was the one who warned her about the trial. "I have no business saying this, but they're going to give you the full dress treatment. Judge and jury and all. You just say what you want to say, no less and no more, hear? And don't let 'em get your goat. You have a right to own something."

He got up and swore and left.

First a man came and talked to her for a long time about how maybe this Earth would be attacked from outer space by beings much stronger and cleverer than we were, and maybe she had the key to a defense. So she owed it to the whole world. And then even if Earth wasn't attacked, just think of what an advantage she might give this country over its enemies. Then he shook her finger in her face and said that what she was doing amounted to working for the enemies of her country. And he turned out to be the man defending her at the trial.

The jury found her guilty of contempt of court, and the judge recited a long list of penalties he could give her. He gave her one of them and suspended it. They put her back in jail for a few more days, and one fine day they turned her loose.

That was wonderful at first. She got a job in a restaurant, and a furnished room. She had been in the papers so much that Mom didn't want her back home. Mom was drunk most of the time and sometimes used to tear up the whole neighborhood, but all the same she had very special ideas about being respectable, and being in the papers all the time for spying was not her idea of being decent. So she put her maiden name on the mailbox downstairs and told her daughter not to live there anymore.

At the restaurant she met a man who asked her for a date. The first time. She spent every cent she had on a red handbag to go with her red shoes. They weren't the same shade, but anyway, they were both red. They went to the movies, and afterward he didn't try to kiss her or anything; he just tried to find out what the flying saucer told her. She didn't say anything. She went home and cried all night.

Then some men sat in a booth talking and they shut up and glared at her every time she came past. They spoke to her boss, and he came and told her that they were electronics engineers working for the government and they were afraid to talk shop while she was around --wasn't she some sort of spy or something? So she got fired.

Once she saw her name on a jukebox. She put in a nickel and punched the number, and the record was all about "the flyin' saucer came down one day, and taught her a brand-new way to play, and what it was I will not say, but she took me out of this world." And while she was listening to it, someone in the juke joint recognized her and called her by name. Four of them followed her home and she had to block the door shut.

Sometimes she'd be all right for months on end, and then someone would ask for a date. Three times out of five, she and the date were followed. Once the man she was with arrested the man who was tailing them. Twice the man who was tailing them arrested the man she was with. Five times out of five, the date would try to find out about the saucer. Sometimes she would go out with someone and pretend it was a real date, but she wasn't very good at it.

So she moved to the shore and got a job cleaning at night in offices and stores. There weren't many to clean, but that just meant there weren't many people to remember her face from the papers. Like clockwork, every eighteen months, some feature writer would drag it all out again in a magazine or a Sunday supplement; and every time anyone saw a headlight on a mountain or a light on a weather balloon, it had to be a flying saucer, and there had to be some tired quip about the saucer wanting to tell secrets. Then for two or three weeks she'd stay off the streets in the daytime.

Once she thought she had it whipped. People didn't want her, so she began reading. The novels were all right for a while until she found out that most of them were like the movies -- all about the pretty ones who really own the world. So she learned things -- animals, trees. A lousy little chipmunk caught in a wire fence hit her. The animals didn't want her. The trees didn't care.

Then she hit on the idea of the bottles. She got all the bottles she could and wrote on papers which she corked into the bottles. She'd tramp miles up and down the beaches and throw the bottles out as far as she could. She knew that if the right person found one, it would give that person the only thing in the world that would help. Those bottles kept her going for three solid years. Everyone's got to have a secret little something he does.

And at last the time came when it was no use anymore. You can go on trying to help someone who maybe exists; but soon you can't pretend there's such a person anymore. And that's it. The end.

"Are you cold?" I asked when she was through telling me.

The surf was quieter and the shadows longer.

"No," she answered from the shadows. Suddenly she said, "Did you think I was mad at you because you saw me without my clothes?"

"Why wouldn't you be?"

“You know, I don't care? I wouldn't have wanted...wanted you to see
me even in a ball gown or overalls. You can't cover up my carcass. It
shows; it's there whatever. I just didn't want you to see me. At all."

"Me, or anyone?"

She hesitated. "You."

I got up and stretched and walked a little, thinking, "Didn't the FBI try to stop you throwing those bottles?"

"Oh, sure. They spent I don't know how much taxpayers' money gathering 'em up. They still make a spot check every once in awhile. They're getting tired of it, though. All the writing in the bottles is the same." She laughed. I didn't know she could.

"What's funny?"

"All of 'em -- judges, jailers, jukeboxes -- people. Do you know it wouldn't have saved me a minute's trouble if I'd told 'em the whole thing at the very beginning?"


"No. They wouldn't have believed me. What they wanted was a new weapon. Super-science from a super-race, to slap the hell out of the super-race if they ever got a chance, or out of our own if they don't. All those brains," she breathes, with more wonder than scorn, "all that brass. They think 'super-race' and it comes out 'super-science'. Don't they ever imagine a super-race has super-feelings, too -- super-laughter, maybe, or super-hunger?" She paused. "Isn't it time you asked me what the saucer said?"

"I'll tell you," I blurted.

"There is in certain living souls
a quality of loneliness unspeakable,
so great it must be shared
as company is shared by lesser beings.
Such a loneliness is mine; so know by this
that in immensity
there is one lonelier than you."

"Dear Jesus," she said devoutly, and began to weep. "And how is it addressed?"

"To the loneliest one..."

"How did you know?" she whispered.

"It's what you put in the bottles, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said. "Whenever it gets to be too much, that no one cares, that no one ever throw a bottle into the sea, and out goes a part of your own loneliness. You sit and think of someone finding it...learning for the first time that the worst there is can be understood."

The moon was setting and the surf was hushed. We looked up and out to the stars. She said, "We don't know what loneliness is like. People thought the saucer was a saucer, but it wasn't. It was a bottle with a message inside. It had a bigger ocean to cross -- all of space -- and not much chance of finding anybody. Loneliness? We don't know loneliness."

When I could, I asked her why she had tried to kill herself.

"I've had it good," she said, "with what the saucer told me. I wanted back. I was bad enough to be helped; I had to know I was good enough to help. No one wants me? Fine. But don't tell me no one, anywhere, wants my help. I can't stand that."

I took a deep breath. "I found one of your bottles two years ago. I've been looking for you ever since. Tide charts, current tables, maps and...wandering. I heard some talk about you and the bottles hereabouts. Someone told me you'd quit doing it, you'd taken to wandering the dunes at night. I knew why. I ran all the way."

I needed another breath now. "I got a club foot. I think right, but the words don't come out of my mouth the way they're inside my head. I have this nose. I never had a woman. Nobody ever wanted to hire me to work where they'd have to look at me. You're beautiful," I said. "You're beautiful."

She said nothing, but it was as if a light came from her, more light and far less shadow than ever the practiced moon could cast. Among the many things it meant was that even to loneliness there is an end, for those who are lonely enough, long enough.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Rachel Maddow: The Assassination od Dr. Tiller

On May 31, 2009, abortion provider Dr. George Tiller was shot in the head by Scott Roeder. Tiller was at his Wichita, Kansas church when he was attacked.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Life Stinks

A filthy rich businessman bets a corporate rival that he can live on the streets of L.A. without the comforts of home or money, which proves to be tougher than he thought.

Monday, September 20, 2010

First they came.....again

First the came for the tabooists...
Then for the fetishsists........
Then for the BDSM people...
Then for ageists....
Then the pornographers and the sex workers...
Then for the transsexuals and the cross dressers...
Then for the masturbators...
Then for the gays and the bis and the lesbians...
Then for the polyamorists and the cohabitors...

But I didn't speak up...
Because these people were criminals
Or immoral
or unnatural
or headed to hell in some way.

We're normal Americans.
We love our family and pets and friends
only in the societally accecptable manner.
Maybe we do kiss in public..
And maybe we do engage in coitus occasionally...

But we're moral Christians.
We go to chruch and watch Fox News.
We uphold theold standard.

But one day, because my spouse's dress was too short.
And my daughter show a bit of cleavage..
Or maybe I found a Judd Apatow movie too funny.
Or maybe we kissed once to much in the checkout line..
The came after us.


History does repeat itself.
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Friday, September 10, 2010

9/11: Howard Stern

Here is an edited version of Howard Stern's program on September 11th, 2001.

Saturday, September 04, 2010

In order to form a more sanitized society.

From this morning's C|Net:

Some who are at a loose end will find it odd to wake up to a Labor Day weekend and discover that the Adult Section on Craigslist has been removed and that the link to it on the site's home page has been replaced with a black bar reading "censored."

Craigslist has long been the whipping boy for attorneys general seeking to control prostitution within their purview and perhaps also seeking to win the favor of certain members of their constituencies.

However, why the section should suddenly have been removed in such a dramatic way (the censorship is only active in the U.S.) is unclear.

The section was originally entitled Erotic Services. Its name was changed to reflect a new discipline, as, under pressure from attorneys general, Craigslist declared it would manually screen every ad in its newly named Adult Services section.

It is arguable whether the content of this new section truly changed. Some would say it was adult business as usual.

Read more:

So, once again, it seems that the roving band of nomadic keepers of our morals, who I have not so lovingly portrayed as the "Prude Patrol," have struck another blow for keeping the Internet safe from the tiny tots and those whose thought processes would be violated by any frank discussion the American Family ASSociation would say, "s-x."


Ever since I discovered the Internet in the early 90's, I have been amazed at how free it was.  It has helped shaped my sexuality so that I am erudite pervert you see before you.  I have been equally amazed at the vigor that many pressure groups like Donald Wildmon's AFA (whose antics I have lovingly chronicled on my various blogs over the years), and the most recent PornHarms, not to mention harpies such as Gail Dines and here Westboro-esque group Stop Porn Culture

These people and groups, along with a unlinked network of individuals, who remind me of Esmarelda, the O-lan Jones character from Edward Scissorhands, who sees Satan in just about everything, and lives as a recluse, surrounded by pictures of Jesus, candles, and rosaries. Give Esme an HP desktop and a Road Runner account and she'd be perfect for this.

Now no one is saying that we should start offering, say, Hustler to 8 year-olds (though from what I have seen at the library, the little boogers are pretty able to find it on their own).  But I am finding it increasingly difficult to talk honestly like adults, with adults, about adult things.

Every morning I go to facebook or Yahoo Pulse in fear that a friend of mine had been sucked into the vortex because someone clicked on the "abuse" link. Their crime: being a little bit (or in some cases a lot) more honest about sex than this country's castrated society will allow.

This, of course, is being done under the excuse of protecting the children. If that's the case, they're doing a piss-poor job of it. For instance, the Kaiser Family Foundation, in a study, found that, though there had been a slight decline, 47% of kids grade 9th thru 12 have had some sexual intercourse.  It's worse, considering that, according to a separate CBS news poll,. 78% of parents didn't think their darling 13-17 year-olds were doing it. Beyond denial.

But we are talking about adults, here , are we.  And some of us are tired of being treated like a five year old. You may not want to hear it, but some of us fuck. Many of us come. We have penises and vaginae, breasts and buttocks, and they are just as much a part of us as our noses. eyes, and legs. And we who are grown-up would like to talk about it like grown ups.

Some of us are also very spiritual.  Christian, as a matter of fact...not the Xianity that as been hijacked by hucksters and itinerant ex-morning show jocks, but a true follwer of Him. And if the KJV IS the inspired word of the Lord, then he is, too, a perveyor of porn, for the Song of Solomon is as erotic as anything Anais Nin ever put down.

The problem is that the vermin that scour the net, seeking the filth they say they abhor (and if they did, they would not be seeking it out, now would they), are highly organized, in some cases very sophisticated, and have lots of pull.  Lots. Let's face it...advertisers and social networks trying to link to major corporations do not want the "stigma" of sex.  Ask California Gubernatorial candidate...and former e-bay CEO Meg Whitman.

And what is really maddening is that we who ARE pleasure-positive, we who are grown-ups, we who Do love SEX seem to be powerless.  Or we seem to want to just blow it off  because it is negative energy or some bullshit like that. even as they aim the bulldozers to push you into the ocean.

It is time that the adults start fighting back.  We have to tell the facebooks and twitters that it's WE who power this boat (just ask Friendster and Multiply, whose sex purges have left them floundering as shadows of their former selves...and myspace, who's getting close).  Tell the advertisers that we will only support those who support us.  And remind them that there are more of us than there are of them.

Also, you should support sites like Our Porn, Ourselves, a resource from sex blogger Violet Blue that, according to the site, "aims to create an alternative and constructive conversation on the use of pornography by women, and in turn offer balance to the anti-porn feminist agenda."  OPO had a page on facebook which was removed for content violations, though there was no nudity on the page. Soon after, PornHarms gloated about it removal on ITS facebook page.

We must start having the courage to ask those who run for public office to support policies that are non-erotophobic in nature (keeping abortion legal and supporting true marriage equality are simple ones, but beyond that, equality for polyamorists, legalizing sex work, and a realistic connection between sexuality and teenagers). What we may really need is what is developing in Australia. The Australian Sex Party, or ASP is a political organization dedicated to responsible sex-positivity.

The true bottom line is that the sex positive must no longer be docile.  We must speak up or be muzzled.  We must stand up and be counted. We must be aggressive. For if we are not, we will be forced to exist in a soulless, sexless, sanitized world where everything is forced underground and all of us must live lies.

You know.  The good old days.

Monday, August 23, 2010

Katrina Coverage: WDSU

A compilation of footage from Hurricane Katrina. Also included in the segment, how the storm affected various staff members.

Wednesday, August 04, 2010

The Reaction to the end of Prop 8

Michael Savage, first......who calls the judge to struck down P8 as "Little Caesar," and "outs" the judge:

This is Chad Griffin, one of the P8 Plantiffs....

Ted Olsen, who was pretty much responsible for GWB to be President, was the lawyer who helped OVERTURN P8.

It has been one big day.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Wildmon Dumps On the Depot

Today's recommendation: SHOP AT HOME DEPOT!  SHOP TIL YOU DROP!

Yes friends, it is tme that we all get out washers, driers, hammers, ladders, nails, screws here.  It is our duty as AMERICANS to lose ourselves in the massive jungle that is THE HOME DEPOT. 

Ah yes, the orange apron is your friend.

And why I am promoting a company that many of you probably cannot stand.  Because and old friend hates HOME DEPOT too.

Yes, my sick and twisted freakazoids, DONALD "NO-NECK" WILDMON IS BOYCOTTING HOME DEPOT!

So here we go...

Uh.....the flags that were menetion, I could not figure out what the website is.  It would have been helpful.  I mean I don't want out kids going to, and I trust HD doesn't either.  Or was it something like and you just think that anything positive about non-hets was a sex site.
Dear Donald,
For several years, The Home Depot has given its financial and corporate support to open displays of homosexual activism on main streets in America's towns. And, it says it will continue to do so!

"At the end of the day here, we're not going to...forbid our associates to be involved in these pride festivals in any way." - Stephen Holmes, company spokesman. (Note: The associates participating in these parades were clearly doing so as representatives of the company.)
Rejecting several requests by AFA to remain neutral in the culture war, The Home Depot has chosen to sponsor and participate in numerous gay pride parades and festivals. Most grievous is The Home Depot's deliberately exposing small children to lascivious displays of sexual conduct by homosexuals and cross-dressers, which are a common occurrence at these events.
The goal of every homosexual organization supported by The Home Depot is to get homosexual marriage legalized. BoycottTheHomeDepot provides just a glimpse of how broad its support for the homosexual movement is. The Home Depot says it is committed to furthering the homosexual agenda.

"The bottom line is, it (remaining neutral) just runs counter to our inclusive culture...and that's where we stand." - Stephen Holmes, company spokesman.

See it for yourself. Photos at, taken during recent homosexual events sponsored by The Home Depot, show:

*Children being encouraged to visit gay sex websites. (!!!!)

*Employees using company property to push gay marriage. (!!!!!!!)

Oh, you mean those banners supporting DIVERSITY?? Hate to break it ya ol' bean, but gays do occasionally need to get wood, hammer, and nails.  Building bondage crosses yourself is much more economical.

*The Home Depot employees riding and marching in homosexual parades.

Orchard Supply probably did not have anyone marching in "homosexual" parades.  Their stores are almost empty all the time.  COINSIDINK??? I DON'T THINK SO!

TAKE ACTION(!!!!!!!!)

1. Sign the Boycott Pledge at
2. Call your local store manager. Let him know that you will not be shopping in his store until the company stops supporting the homosexual agenda.
3. Print the paper petition and distribute it at Sunday School and church.
4. Extremely important! Post this alert to your facebook page (link above) and encourage others to join the boycott!
It is very important that you forward this alert to your friends and family members.

By the way, the letter was signed by Donny dear's spawn, Tim. Here he shows his appendage?
Read in to THAT if you will.

Seriously, the Wildmons and the AFA have made large corporations shake in their boots with their boasts that they can marshall millions of sheep to keep them from buying your services.  In an economy like this, it is very powerful.  They have laid low companies like Pepsico, NBC, and Ford. Someone needs to say IT STOPS HERE.

The AFA has already scared HD to hiding their corporate contact numbers on the Home Depot website, but wouldn't ya know it, our friends at WhackjobNetDaily......errr WorldNetDaily have supplied us with info:

Home Depot's corporate office at (770) 433-8211 or (800) 430-3376, fax: (770) 384-2356. You can also e-mail them at Since they are probably getting a LOT of negative feedback, I am sure they would welcome POSITIVE feedback about their committment to diversity.

Also, as I said, shop at your local Home Depot.  I know some of you hate big box corporate stores, but there is a bigger issue here: whether you let a well-organized group of religeous zealots continue to promote hatred, bigotry, and ignorance.

Or in terms of stopping these bastards, let them know: "WE can do it, YOU can help!"

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Video Village 6.16.10

Well, lets start our little video presentation with this morning's Fox and Fiends....errrr....Friends.

Newtie was on with the gang talking about Obama's oil slick speech yesterday when the discussion turned...heavenward?

Disengenuous, eh  Blondie?

Well, considering that this so-called CHRISTIAN country ranks 11th in church-going, maybe we should not admonish our President when he does call on God to save the heathens of the South (but that's another story..)

Now Glenn Beck referred to Obama's kids not too long ago, and the next day apologized.  One wonder's of the newly married El Rushbo will do the same thing after this....

Well after this......

...and this....

...and other things, don't bet on it.

Now, does anyone here listen to the War Room with Quinn and Rose? Ever heard of these guys?  Will here is the Quinn of the pair, first name Jim, airing out the sheets yesterday....

Question Jim: What IS American culture?

Yesterday on AC360, Anderson Cooper spoke with Kevin Costner abouthis whiz-bang machine Kev says would solve the oil problem in the Gulf.  We'd love to post it for you, but we can, because CNN won't let us.  Somehow they'll let Crooks&Liars do it but not us.

Here's the link. though: Fuck you, CNN.

Well, here is last night's WPITH from Countdown that airs on MSNBC, who DOES allow you to not only put thier video on your blog, but also gives you a TRANSCRIPT  too!  Yay Microsoft and GE (wait...what am i SAYING??)

Finally, I should post more of these.  James Thurber was an amazing man.  The fact that Keith Olbermann now ends his Friday program with a Thurber missives makes me like both of them even more.

Please leave something in the collection tray if you like this.


Friday, June 11, 2010

Does this scare you?

Yesterday (6.10.10), I posted this video on Twitter and Facebook.  I wanted to repost it here.

Now if for any second you think this is just a small bunch of crazies just making noise, look at what they have already done:

Arizona Hispanics flee state in droves before new immigration law S.B. 1070 takes effect in July

BY Meena Hartenstein


Hasta la vista! Reports are swirling that Hispanics in Arizona are fleeing the state before a controversial new immigration law goes into effect July 29.

The law, which has sparked a heated national debate, requires police officers to conduct routine traffic stops or other checks to ask people about their immigration status if there is "reasonable suspicion" they're in the country illegally.

Though precise numbers are not yet available, early anecdotal reports from local schools, businesses and residents indicate that Hispanics could be leaving in droves to avoid the law's impact, USA Today reported Wednesday.

Superintendent Jeffrey Smith of the Balsz Elementary School District, which is 75% Hispanic, said 70 students were pulled out of school following the law's passage April 23 and that parents said it was the reason they were leaving.

Read more:

It is already having the desired effect.  You see, we're not talking about Canadians or Europeans who might be in AZ illegally (about a quarter of a million Canadians alone are in this country undocumented).  They want to get rid of the Hispanics.
The fear of a Brown planet in 2010 seems to have eclipsed the fear of a Black planet in the late 1900's. 
Minorities now make up a fifth of Utah's population
Utah continued to become more ethnically and racially diverse last year, according to Census Bureau estimates released Thursday, and Latinos grew to account for 12 percent of the population.

The state's share of white, non-Latino residents slipped to 81 percent in 2009, down from 85 percent in 2000. So minorities made up nearly a fifth of Utah's population last year -- and a quarter of Salt Lake County's.

These latest minority estimates -- perhaps conservative, a leading state demographer says -- show a state continuing to look more like the nation of immigrants in which it rests, and where, in coming decades, a minority-majority population will recast how Americans define "minority."

Already the United States this year is, for the first time, experiencing more minority than white majority births, and Utah is about two generations behind but catching up, University of Utah demographer Pam Perlich said. The only way to stop the trend, she predicted, is to throw the state into a lasting economic slide.

But fear of Mexicans is just the tip of the iceberg.  White, middle-aged, born-agains are seeing their entire world go up in flames.

Radio stations they've listened to for ages now are in Spanish or Asian languages.  The local KFC may now be a El Pollo Loco.  Gays are not only marrying, but those unions seem to be outlasting straight ones.

People in their 60's are looking and acting younger.  Every sexual more seems to have been accpeted as normal except incest and bestiality, and they seem to be next.  Sweet songs of love have been supplanted with hard-edged tunes about fellatio and mastrubation.

America is no longer feared.  More laughed at than anything else.  Christianity seems to be losing out to Islam, Buddism, and even Scientology. Nothing is as people think it's supposed to be.

And on top of that.......on top of all that.......this great country is being run of.....them.

One of.......THEM.

Is it any wonder why, despite one of the most organized efforts to drive someone off the airwaves I have seen since the Smothers Brothers in the mid 1960's, Glenn Beck continues to to attract more than 2.3 million people.  And his advertisers are not the usual bunch either.  Gold coin sellers preaching that the only currecy that will be allowed after The New Troubles will be gold.  Survival food distributors.  The type of clients usually found on small market, ultra-rightest, the-illuminati-are-coming-to-get-you tak shows.

And it's more than that.  Beck's 9/12 movement has become, indeed, a politcal machine.  A machine that is beyond the control of the traditional GOP or even the Tea Party's queen bee, Sarah Palin.  It is the baggers who control THEM, not the other way around.

And they seem to be ready to die for their cause.  And kill.

A few weeks ago, this happened near El Paso:

The President has been strangly quiet about this.  The reasons for that I'll let you assume for yourselves.  The one question that can be asked here is....are there people in the United States, right now, who wish to conduct war on Mexico?

And it does not stop there.  We're not able to post it directly, but yesterday, Beck pained a grim picture of what he sees is what is coming this summer:

He has been painting this picture for months.  Ramping up prepare...prepare.  As if he is hoping for a civil war in America.

We might very well be on that path.  Add the video posted at the beginning of this blog with last Tuesday's election where we saw the ascension of one Sharron Angle, the woman who want's Harry Reid's job:

And all it would take is one event to set it all off.  I'll let you imagine what that event might entail.

But the teabaggers, in Arizona and elsewhere, are waiting for the signal to go.

Waiting impatiently.