I've taken a room at Stratego's, Oakapalloka's most famous scion. Here he snaps my picture as I study graphs of the Bush Recovery, and monitor a Chinese space flight.
It's a beautiful house on the corner, a block from 'uptown'. This is one of those few very large houses from a century ago that weren't sectioned into apartments. When winter comes Stratego moves his media-room back upstairs somewhere, usually to a room he hasn't tried for years. This one was last discovered in 1977.
My room will have only two monitors on the world. But, he says, at least it has a nice south light for the plants.
I sent hate-mail to an English-speaking Jihadist last night. Wow, the internet is amazing. I think I deleted the lines where I threatened to kill him, because I thought that might be illegal. But I left in the part about nailing his dick to the barn floor and setting the barn on fire (leaving him with a knife). So this morning I woke up and kind of freaked.
Then guess what? Yahoo returned the email, and I was so relieved. Then, two hours later I had a beer and sent it again.
I was all over the net last night, lecturing people. It makes me sick, even now.
Do you want to know how late I was up? I was up so late I actually sent some apologies. I was up so late, in other words, I started cleaning up after myself. That is late. Someone in the Micronesia wrote back "are you serious?"
Reach out and touch someone. It's almost impossible to exaggerate how fing amazing the internet is. When it gets late , you just cross over the time zones is all. Pick on somebody in the Phillipeans. Engage with a Jihadist in England. Mouth off and sign your name, Psmith. The only problem is that I can't direct my signal into my own home town. Oakapallokans are oblivious to the internet, to their credit.
What a waste of time.
Then guess what? Yahoo returned the email, and I was so relieved. Then, two hours later I had a beer and sent it again.
I was all over the net last night, lecturing people. It makes me sick, even now.
Do you want to know how late I was up? I was up so late I actually sent some apologies. I was up so late, in other words, I started cleaning up after myself. That is late. Someone in the Micronesia wrote back "are you serious?"
Reach out and touch someone. It's almost impossible to exaggerate how fing amazing the internet is. When it gets late , you just cross over the time zones is all. Pick on somebody in the Phillipeans. Engage with a Jihadist in England. Mouth off and sign your name, Psmith. The only problem is that I can't direct my signal into my own home town. Oakapallokans are oblivious to the internet, to their credit.
What a waste of time.
sheyah, jinxon
Lunkhead is hilarious.
I've been mapping his mental decline over the last month, since he got on the internet. Now he's got some cyber-sweetie. An ether doll. An Imaginary.
During a online chat last night I suggested that maybe 'she' was a 'he'.
Now, you might think it's impossible to tell over chat when someone is having a panic attack. haha, not so, my friend, not so. He sent me her picture three times in thirty seconds to make sure I wouldn't miss it.
It's nice having a pal you can be unapologetically cruel to. I don't know. It sort of keeps me going. In this respect, Lunk has been my one and only for years. It's like love... except it's hate. (but no. It's not hate. I do love the guy).
Moreover, he's gone out and bought a web cam, having no idea how female that is. Or gay. Sheesh. He's the first guy who ever invited me to see his web-cam. Coincidentally, the olive-skinned Portuguese girl sent an invitation at the same time. I chose hers. She wanted me to see she'd stopped dying her hair. Then I chose his. He had all of his 15 kids wave hello. That was nice of course.
Then he starts quoting my friend Mark to me, about how liberating it is to give up blogging. I say, I know I have a problem, and that gives me the credentials to recognize you have a problem now.
He kept typing "sheyah". Every time I became slightly hypocritical it was: sheyah, Jackson.
I said even if she is female, 10 to 1 she's a communist. He said, well yeah, she is. Haha. Of course. She's from Eugene Oregon.
I said I might write her and introduce myself. I don't know what he thought I would say, that's so bad. I don't have anything to blackmail him, except maybe that I'm one of his friends. Then, wow. The Lunk was threatening to kill me and my family too. (Make a note of that).
Ok, I won't write her, stop blubbering, I type.
I'm thinking in a few weeks he'll be such a mess I can go down there and take over.
Maybe this is what I need to get off line. Kind of like, the crazier he gets, the loftier my spirit.
___
And did I mention he has 11 days off from work. hahaha. It's like he's falling into a crater.
I've been mapping his mental decline over the last month, since he got on the internet. Now he's got some cyber-sweetie. An ether doll. An Imaginary.
During a online chat last night I suggested that maybe 'she' was a 'he'.
Now, you might think it's impossible to tell over chat when someone is having a panic attack. haha, not so, my friend, not so. He sent me her picture three times in thirty seconds to make sure I wouldn't miss it.
It's nice having a pal you can be unapologetically cruel to. I don't know. It sort of keeps me going. In this respect, Lunk has been my one and only for years. It's like love... except it's hate. (but no. It's not hate. I do love the guy).
Moreover, he's gone out and bought a web cam, having no idea how female that is. Or gay. Sheesh. He's the first guy who ever invited me to see his web-cam. Coincidentally, the olive-skinned Portuguese girl sent an invitation at the same time. I chose hers. She wanted me to see she'd stopped dying her hair. Then I chose his. He had all of his 15 kids wave hello. That was nice of course.
Then he starts quoting my friend Mark to me, about how liberating it is to give up blogging. I say, I know I have a problem, and that gives me the credentials to recognize you have a problem now.
He kept typing "sheyah". Every time I became slightly hypocritical it was: sheyah, Jackson.
I said even if she is female, 10 to 1 she's a communist. He said, well yeah, she is. Haha. Of course. She's from Eugene Oregon.
I said I might write her and introduce myself. I don't know what he thought I would say, that's so bad. I don't have anything to blackmail him, except maybe that I'm one of his friends. Then, wow. The Lunk was threatening to kill me and my family too. (Make a note of that).
Ok, I won't write her, stop blubbering, I type.
I'm thinking in a few weeks he'll be such a mess I can go down there and take over.
Maybe this is what I need to get off line. Kind of like, the crazier he gets, the loftier my spirit.
___
And did I mention he has 11 days off from work. hahaha. It's like he's falling into a crater.
Possibly The Last Straw
Mom has scheduled us for a family portrait this week. It's a great step for her, gathering her nerve after all these years. I remember the last time Mom attempted this, 38 years ago. She still cringes when she recalls the rebellion.
It was after Sunday school and church in November of 1965.
My two older brothers and my dad were learning what a ray of unwelcome, loving sunshine my mom could be, at wildly inappropriate times like when they all wanted to sleep in. Myself, I was still a little bit sweet at that age. I might have even gotten up before her. In fact, I may have woke her up and dragged her out of bed in those days. (I couldn’t make the oatmeal myself, you know.) I was an Early-Riser, a let's get on with the fun boy.
Maybe that’s why people hated me. Hell, I was so cute it was probably my fault she was so insufferably euphoric all the time.
No, really. I was almost Hollywood adorable at the time.
___
This day was a day of rage. Every Sunday was, for years to come, but this day of the portrait was practically revolutionary in scope.
Sunday school, church, and then what?!!
Dad switched sides that fateful day.
Mom’s rosy disposition had produced this sneering, resentful and even hateful rebellion from D and J, and that surely convinced him about Original Sin and the sheer devilishness of his children. And so he became the angry enforcer of Mom’s will on Sunday mornings, for years to come, and he bossed us into our Sunday best and, for ever after, was willing to order us to smile too.
____
There were many botched photos. David and Jerry were livid and scowling, and then I started to bawl. We’d been there an hour (it seemed to me but I didn’t have a watch) and my fascination with the tripod lights, the camera, and the white screens was over. I remember my sweater getting itchy at my neck because of my tears rolling down there.
I probably knew that if I cried, and stopped, everyone would love me for stopping.
I just wanted to cause a hic-cough in this insane family’s bickering, see? That's it.
And when the photographer presented me with a white rubber ducky I stopped crying, and everyone including my brothers were cooing at me because they were so damn relieved I’d stopped making noise.
The lights flashed again and everyone of us was smiling broadly that time. Me with my eyes wet.
The portrait has been on the mantle for years, of course. It was an achievement.
_________
A year later my angry, red-headed cherry-bomb sister was born. The significance of her birth ---to me---was that Mom might try to make us sit for a portrait again.
But Jane’s personality quickly developed into a sort of pre-stamped, ultimate rebellion to my mother’s happy idealism. It was like she arrived with all our spoiled personalities wrapped into one.
Jane was vain and loved to be photographed, but not with us. I don't blame her.
(Speaking of her vanity, she made a clumsy attempt to steal a dress she liked when she was three years old, grabbing it from a hanger and running out of the Carousel gift shop, the idiot. Like Mom wouldn’t catch her---, ha! ---and where was she going to run, anyway? Geez, Jane, you were only two foot tall. )
______
We’re all going to kick again this week, I know.
It will be amusing looking into Jerry and David’s rolling and rebellious eyes, the day of the portrait when Mom makes everyone get up early and put on a suit.
I’m going to be so well behaved. That’ll settle it , who’s the good kid.
It was after Sunday school and church in November of 1965.
My two older brothers and my dad were learning what a ray of unwelcome, loving sunshine my mom could be, at wildly inappropriate times like when they all wanted to sleep in. Myself, I was still a little bit sweet at that age. I might have even gotten up before her. In fact, I may have woke her up and dragged her out of bed in those days. (I couldn’t make the oatmeal myself, you know.) I was an Early-Riser, a let's get on with the fun boy.
Maybe that’s why people hated me. Hell, I was so cute it was probably my fault she was so insufferably euphoric all the time.
No, really. I was almost Hollywood adorable at the time.
___
This day was a day of rage. Every Sunday was, for years to come, but this day of the portrait was practically revolutionary in scope.
Sunday school, church, and then what?!!
Dad switched sides that fateful day.
Mom’s rosy disposition had produced this sneering, resentful and even hateful rebellion from D and J, and that surely convinced him about Original Sin and the sheer devilishness of his children. And so he became the angry enforcer of Mom’s will on Sunday mornings, for years to come, and he bossed us into our Sunday best and, for ever after, was willing to order us to smile too.
____
There were many botched photos. David and Jerry were livid and scowling, and then I started to bawl. We’d been there an hour (it seemed to me but I didn’t have a watch) and my fascination with the tripod lights, the camera, and the white screens was over. I remember my sweater getting itchy at my neck because of my tears rolling down there.
I probably knew that if I cried, and stopped, everyone would love me for stopping.
I just wanted to cause a hic-cough in this insane family’s bickering, see? That's it.
And when the photographer presented me with a white rubber ducky I stopped crying, and everyone including my brothers were cooing at me because they were so damn relieved I’d stopped making noise.
The lights flashed again and everyone of us was smiling broadly that time. Me with my eyes wet.
The portrait has been on the mantle for years, of course. It was an achievement.
_________
A year later my angry, red-headed cherry-bomb sister was born. The significance of her birth ---to me---was that Mom might try to make us sit for a portrait again.
But Jane’s personality quickly developed into a sort of pre-stamped, ultimate rebellion to my mother’s happy idealism. It was like she arrived with all our spoiled personalities wrapped into one.
Jane was vain and loved to be photographed, but not with us. I don't blame her.
(Speaking of her vanity, she made a clumsy attempt to steal a dress she liked when she was three years old, grabbing it from a hanger and running out of the Carousel gift shop, the idiot. Like Mom wouldn’t catch her---, ha! ---and where was she going to run, anyway? Geez, Jane, you were only two foot tall. )
______
We’re all going to kick again this week, I know.
It will be amusing looking into Jerry and David’s rolling and rebellious eyes, the day of the portrait when Mom makes everyone get up early and put on a suit.
I’m going to be so well behaved. That’ll settle it , who’s the good kid.
The Enemy
Please don't call these fucks at Trafalgar Square 'anti-war'. And don't ask me to credit the kids for being naive. They're listening to the speeches from the Muslim Alliance (or whatever it's called). They're adjusting their morals to fit that world view which abides suicide bombers.
How can people be so off their beam nowadays? This is no 'loyal opposition' here. "Young men go crazy because of Bush" and blow themselves up (murdering women and children), but didn't Bush and Blair drive them crazy?
Yes, we've driven these young men crazy! Poor young men (who, having a successful revolution, set up Islamic-fascist states like the Taliban and in Iran).
No, it's Bush and Blair with the fangs and the blood on their chins. And London's mayor says Bush is the most dangerous man in the world.
The speakers here love to repeat that, and thank god, it's true. I'm very happy our American president is in charge of WMD's.
_____
Like the 'anti-war' protests on the mall in Washington D.C., you get the feeling here reminiscient of the German Bund rallies at Madison Square Garden during the 30's. A few pacifists are on stage here, true,--- old anti-nuke activists,--- but the crowd is driven to a cheering frenzy by the Islamists. As if they represent a liberation movement!
These folks are clearly not anti-war.
I know it's a bad sign, intellectually, when you can't even begin to sympathize with your opponents' view-point. But that's in a democracy, when both sides are trying to appeal to the middle.
But in war, you recognize your enemy. You recognize the enemy of civilization.
Or, you share the stage with them and become the enemy yourselves.
___
I find it very interesting, once I've gotten over my own urge to kill: these speakers who are still socially acceptable before Western audiences will often deny that Jihadists were responsible for 911 in the first place.
That is heartening. It shows, at least, that they think the attack on the towers was wrong.
A year or two ago, there was a 'but yet...'
Now, their speeches have changed. There's no denial.
Our pro-Israeli policies (that is, pro-democracy policies) are so egregious that young people go insane. And Bush Bush Boosh! is responsible.
____
It appears that the expected 1968 style 'days of rage' are a wash out, though. This morning's bombings in Turkey against the British (after bombings earlier this week against synagogues) have shamed most of the expected protester away. A blogger compared the turn-out to the number of protesters against the Augusta National country club for not admitting women. That's an exaggeration, but so are CNN's assertions that there were 'tens of thousands', apparently.
Common sense is going to prevail, surely. I worry sometimes myself, since I think the Left is under the hypnosis of rock and roll and hip hop. After all, it's hard to imagine how anyone who is deeply humanitarian can protest this war after those mass-graves were discovered. (All they can say is, why not go up against the other tyrants too...but you know they'd buck if we did. And what's wrong with starting at square one?)
Tonight my mom worried that she isn't a nice person anymore. She feels she ought to be anti-war, but knows she can't be now.
I hope our faddish British and American peace-nicks are coming to the same conclusion. Because it's pretty damn obvious that 'anti war' actually means 'anti-western' and pro-fascist "liberation".
How can people be so off their beam nowadays? This is no 'loyal opposition' here. "Young men go crazy because of Bush" and blow themselves up (murdering women and children), but didn't Bush and Blair drive them crazy?
Yes, we've driven these young men crazy! Poor young men (who, having a successful revolution, set up Islamic-fascist states like the Taliban and in Iran).
No, it's Bush and Blair with the fangs and the blood on their chins. And London's mayor says Bush is the most dangerous man in the world.
The speakers here love to repeat that, and thank god, it's true. I'm very happy our American president is in charge of WMD's.
_____
Like the 'anti-war' protests on the mall in Washington D.C., you get the feeling here reminiscient of the German Bund rallies at Madison Square Garden during the 30's. A few pacifists are on stage here, true,--- old anti-nuke activists,--- but the crowd is driven to a cheering frenzy by the Islamists. As if they represent a liberation movement!
These folks are clearly not anti-war.
I know it's a bad sign, intellectually, when you can't even begin to sympathize with your opponents' view-point. But that's in a democracy, when both sides are trying to appeal to the middle.
But in war, you recognize your enemy. You recognize the enemy of civilization.
Or, you share the stage with them and become the enemy yourselves.
___
I find it very interesting, once I've gotten over my own urge to kill: these speakers who are still socially acceptable before Western audiences will often deny that Jihadists were responsible for 911 in the first place.
That is heartening. It shows, at least, that they think the attack on the towers was wrong.
A year or two ago, there was a 'but yet...'
Now, their speeches have changed. There's no denial.
Our pro-Israeli policies (that is, pro-democracy policies) are so egregious that young people go insane. And Bush Bush Boosh! is responsible.
____
It appears that the expected 1968 style 'days of rage' are a wash out, though. This morning's bombings in Turkey against the British (after bombings earlier this week against synagogues) have shamed most of the expected protester away. A blogger compared the turn-out to the number of protesters against the Augusta National country club for not admitting women. That's an exaggeration, but so are CNN's assertions that there were 'tens of thousands', apparently.
Common sense is going to prevail, surely. I worry sometimes myself, since I think the Left is under the hypnosis of rock and roll and hip hop. After all, it's hard to imagine how anyone who is deeply humanitarian can protest this war after those mass-graves were discovered. (All they can say is, why not go up against the other tyrants too...but you know they'd buck if we did. And what's wrong with starting at square one?)
Tonight my mom worried that she isn't a nice person anymore. She feels she ought to be anti-war, but knows she can't be now.
I hope our faddish British and American peace-nicks are coming to the same conclusion. Because it's pretty damn obvious that 'anti war' actually means 'anti-western' and pro-fascist "liberation".
Mark And Elly Update
Mark comments below:
"Still around, guys! We're enjoying married life and calling each other "wife" and "husband." It it starting not to sound so strange to our ears. "Mrs. Morris," when referring to Elly, however, still sounds a bit weird.
"The amazing thing about not blogging: the longer you go without it, the less importance you place on it. I may never blog again, but I still drop by old sites occasionally.
"Elly and I, or as I like to say now, the wife and I, may be moving soon. I'll keep you informed, John."
"Still around, guys! We're enjoying married life and calling each other "wife" and "husband." It it starting not to sound so strange to our ears. "Mrs. Morris," when referring to Elly, however, still sounds a bit weird.
"The amazing thing about not blogging: the longer you go without it, the less importance you place on it. I may never blog again, but I still drop by old sites occasionally.
"Elly and I, or as I like to say now, the wife and I, may be moving soon. I'll keep you informed, John."
Up To Town
I guess I won’t be moving into the apartments above the old Mercy Clinic downtown. It sounded right for me, living above The Batman pharmacy and the Peanut Pub, but the kid who owns the pub said the ex-cons are about as thick as the cockroaches. The cons tried to break in here three times this month, so far. The cops are called so often, all the officers have a key to the security doors.
“Rent is weekly. It’s like that, ha-ha, you know?”
Does that include cable?
“Ha-ha.” Friendly kid. It was just him and me at 4 in the afternoon. He asked if I would join his new ‘beer club’ to sample all his 40 dark beer and micro-beer specialties.
That reminds me of my two-beer lunches when I worked at Barnes And Noble. I’d come in the same time everyday and the waiters would remove the paper table covering (it was a theme restaurant…the idea was that you could crayon while you waited, I guess. I didn’t like paper tablecloths.)
First name basis with all the waiters and waitresses. They served me a different, obscure brand of beer everyday and apparently kept records.
Then one day I come in with a co-worker and find my name on a plaque, over the bar. I’d ‘won’. Sampled every damn beer on the menu. Wow.
So I don’t join ‘beer clubs’. (Never did. That at Garfield's was an ambush.)
And it looks like I won’t be moving in either. Too bad.
Long day away from my media annex, which Mom has stopped calling the Sewing Room. I did a lot of walking around downtown, looking in the shop windows to check my reflection. Say, I don’t look half as bad as I should. Nice posture, and more color in my face then you’d expect from an alcoholic, pill-addicted recluse.
All the usual characters on the square. Cops walking their bikes on the sidewalk. “Hellooo, Mr. Jackson. I heard you were back in town. How are you? Living with your folks now?”
“Just visiting for a few months. Maybe a year!”
The Christmas decorations are up on the light poles. The same that made me so happy when I was ten but they’re looking a bit shabby, singed by traffic exhaust. Starting at dawn, December 26th, they all come down.
Christmas music already, playing from the megaphone shaped speakers on the bandstand.
I walked to Shrago’s. Rang the bell to set Leon, the German shepherd, into a frenzy. Shrago opened up and as usual Leon barked at my crotch. RAR!RARRARRRAAR!! Lord Jesus, take my hand.
“Leon, it’s me!”
Five minutes later I say hello to Shrago too. As usual, he’s in his captain’s chair before the bank of monitors, and he’s enjoying a wooden bowl of rice and beans. With chopsticks, no less.
I’m here to announce that I’m ready to rent a room.
“What? No inheritance yet?”
We spend about an hour upstairs. One room is being remodeled. I like this. The thing is, I want an Internet connection, and cable of course. But it isn’t wired yet.
“I can have it done by thanksgiving. I suppose that’s when you want to move in?”
Yeah. And just until January, I say. That’s when Mom abandons the house for Mr. Toad’s.
And I won’t be here all the time. I just want a retreat and to give Mom a break. I’ll pay extra for breakfast lunch and dinner by the way.
It’ll be great. I can use the weight room. There will be lots of visitors, so I can leech off Shrago’s popularity. Maybe sleep with one of his cast-off divorces that come and go...
“Rent is weekly. It’s like that, ha-ha, you know?”
Does that include cable?
“Ha-ha.” Friendly kid. It was just him and me at 4 in the afternoon. He asked if I would join his new ‘beer club’ to sample all his 40 dark beer and micro-beer specialties.
That reminds me of my two-beer lunches when I worked at Barnes And Noble. I’d come in the same time everyday and the waiters would remove the paper table covering (it was a theme restaurant…the idea was that you could crayon while you waited, I guess. I didn’t like paper tablecloths.)
First name basis with all the waiters and waitresses. They served me a different, obscure brand of beer everyday and apparently kept records.
Then one day I come in with a co-worker and find my name on a plaque, over the bar. I’d ‘won’. Sampled every damn beer on the menu. Wow.
So I don’t join ‘beer clubs’. (Never did. That at Garfield's was an ambush.)
And it looks like I won’t be moving in either. Too bad.
Long day away from my media annex, which Mom has stopped calling the Sewing Room. I did a lot of walking around downtown, looking in the shop windows to check my reflection. Say, I don’t look half as bad as I should. Nice posture, and more color in my face then you’d expect from an alcoholic, pill-addicted recluse.
All the usual characters on the square. Cops walking their bikes on the sidewalk. “Hellooo, Mr. Jackson. I heard you were back in town. How are you? Living with your folks now?”
“Just visiting for a few months. Maybe a year!”
The Christmas decorations are up on the light poles. The same that made me so happy when I was ten but they’re looking a bit shabby, singed by traffic exhaust. Starting at dawn, December 26th, they all come down.
Christmas music already, playing from the megaphone shaped speakers on the bandstand.
I walked to Shrago’s. Rang the bell to set Leon, the German shepherd, into a frenzy. Shrago opened up and as usual Leon barked at my crotch. RAR!RARRARRRAAR!! Lord Jesus, take my hand.
“Leon, it’s me!”
Five minutes later I say hello to Shrago too. As usual, he’s in his captain’s chair before the bank of monitors, and he’s enjoying a wooden bowl of rice and beans. With chopsticks, no less.
I’m here to announce that I’m ready to rent a room.
“What? No inheritance yet?”
We spend about an hour upstairs. One room is being remodeled. I like this. The thing is, I want an Internet connection, and cable of course. But it isn’t wired yet.
“I can have it done by thanksgiving. I suppose that’s when you want to move in?”
Yeah. And just until January, I say. That’s when Mom abandons the house for Mr. Toad’s.
And I won’t be here all the time. I just want a retreat and to give Mom a break. I’ll pay extra for breakfast lunch and dinner by the way.
It’ll be great. I can use the weight room. There will be lots of visitors, so I can leech off Shrago’s popularity. Maybe sleep with one of his cast-off divorces that come and go...
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