Blissy's Song - 6 (September 15) by Feather Touch
First, like total thanks to A&E for their rocking eve of the fourteenth. Those who put the bop in the bopshebop. We gotta get out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do, and maybe a revival of the original Brooklyn sounds is just the ticket. At the moment, the entire leadership suite is playing to Lawrence Welk and Jessica Fletcher. The kids, meantime, are wigged beyond never-never land on a rage against the floor, once known as dancing. "Chapel of Love." " The Leader of the Pack." Some brilliant sound editing. "Honey Honey."
A very Jewish story. First, some legitimately great music that stands well, indeed. A frustrating creative outpouring, because some were so good and most were utter hacks. I've already mentioned somewhere back along the trail that I worked for a larger radio station, and, as an eager beaver, that I volunteered, being as how I was continuity director, to sample all record sent to the station. This was over the summer of 1966, in Bangor. No matter what the label, the songs submitted were all perfectly terrible. We never played anything that wasn't hot-shotted through by "Billboard." For very good reason. In other words, a few great tunes, and piles of mediocrity and doing-it-for-the-money dreck that would bury an Amish barn. The second Jewish factor is that the artists got nothing and bosses rode in personal jets. Very Jewish, and what they mean by socialism, once you enter the world of shalom.
One comment which was repeated by what we soldiers call the brass is that New York will rebuild simply because there is so much talent there. Now I happen to be someone who knows a thing or two about the big T, and I'm here to ask, Talent for What? I'll answer it by saying talent for the quick deal and smokin' profit. Their mistakes and miscalculation are not only the stuff of modern urban legend, they represent a mortal threat compounding itself for years.
From this self-same group of New York talent came a notion that people would pay ten thousand dollars for a transceiver, and ten dollars a minute for a dial tone. Why it was interesting to anybody that this system worked anywhere on the globe is truly a mystery of the universe. Even though these telephones only worked in open areas, the pull of talking on the telephone from the outback of Australia or the wastes of Greenland was hyped to such an extent that the fiasco launched eighty-three satellites before going broke. It never came within a million miles of anything. Neither did Webvan and hundreds of others. In the end, any talent seems to be for tripping at the goal line for a touchback. Or maybe it wasn't talent, but arrogance. Gee, another subject on which I wrote the book.
There is a good line in a new movie. "Hardball." It goes, "Half of getting ahead is simply showing up, and I'm blown away by your ability to show up." Young white guy talking to black kids on his ball team. Wish I'd written it. Story of my life, in a way; trying to center a few kids like that. It leaves one knowing what he's talking about, and, otherwise, is the subject for another book.
Did I mistake Dublin for Belfast? Guess so. Same kind of bomb, though. Same reason for dropping it. While I'm at patching up errors and omissions, I forgot to say that in the replacement for the twin towers, by royal edict, not a single square foot of drywall is to be used.
"Guys geared too high for anybody's good." That's from the preview for a Fifties biker movie. Fabulous writing, like "What's in your wallet?" from the current series of excellent bank card commercials.
Laden is geared so high I wonder if he is, in fact, Israeli. An agent of Jewry to trick and goad gufus land into offing the Muslims. Remember the one that was pretty common awhile ago, Keep it simple, stupid?
I figure this as a seven and three-eights percent possibility, and ask this rhetorical question: If your house had in it a nest of brown scorpions, with approximately a one in twelve chance of one biting you, would you tear out a wall to get rid of the nest? You might not want to wait until you get to Starbuck's before you contemplate that one.
David posted Chapter 5 with his usual lightning speed. If nothing else, I am the most spoiled writer who ever practiced. No deadlines, no censorship, no re-writes, no tours or signings, no paper, no ink, no postage, no rejection slips. I have just described the writer's nirvana, and the reality of no money is not even a blip on the radar, because most published writers make next to nothing and have to do a lot of paperwork on what they do make.
No sex in that last one; even the cute-ish monk threatened no loss of panties or underpants with a twenty-inch waists. The times, they are a-changing.
Fire fighters pumped so much water into the Pentagon there is danger of loosing electrical power. We do seem to have a firmly established set of precedents which demand that we compound and amplify every pound of damage inflicted by an enemy with ten pounds of self-inflicted damage. Just another form of leveraging a deal, I guess. (Where are those talented New Yorkers when we need them?)
I never went to the war college, and so perhaps I'm not qualified to comment, but I do find myself wondering if there is a tactical or strategic game plan that indicates we can beat Laden by drowning him in our tears, or suffocating him with hot air. Is he on the cable so a thousand photo ops will drive him insane? If they don't, them and the press conferences, maybe twisty ribbons will cause him to blither out.
Me? I laugh at all the hot and cold running crap. There's justice for a combat veteran in seeing cowards weep, blubber, and wring their hands. Like Jews. Their lawyers love to free defendants on technicalities related to what they call the fruit of the poisoned tree. How does it taste to you? To me, it's laughing gas. Because of the probable outcome, not the pure gas of Di, but funny enough, for all of that. I mean if a society goes around imbuing its intelligence agencies with the modes, methods and mores of flower power, the outcome has to be either delightful entertainment or absolute tragedy. Me? I look on the light side.
There's the lady in her bathing suit running down her dock and jumping into her pond, again. The story of her pill does not seem to improve with re-telling. Oh, a futuristic presentation on Discovery Channel tomorrow. It's called "Neanderthal."
A reader sent along a Nostrodamus scribble about silver phoenixes bringing down the twin brothers of oppression, which shall bring on the apocalypse. The old buzzard got the year exactly right, wouldn't you just know it? I answered that Liberals don't need to worry about sharing credit for the apocalypse with anyone.
The government is negotiating with Pakistan over issues to do with co-operation and flyover rights, so maybe it'll be a quickie. A first round k.o., or, in the racing vernacular, "Laden" by six lengths at the wire. But issues actually are probably on the table, so brash irony might be out of place. Luckily, I write under the guise of being a humorist, you know, court fool, so I don't have to curb my appetite for the absurd. It's part and parcel of my day job. I mean here they are with crawlers giving blood numbers, when the system was, duh'uh, overloaded from day one. And that's The History Channel and A&E. I mention it because we must be aware, alert and responsive to survive. Feel-good boxes and rote game playing will not do the trick, and wouldn't even if the role-playing felt good.
TV Land is treating us to a Brady Bunch marathon. Pretty easy to source our present situation when one spends five minutes gazing at the vapidity and pointlessness of banal, bookless lives coping with inch-high mountains and tempests in a little dolly's teacup. One reason for Home Depot is the millions of houses that need to be renovated after the Jews had sold us the trendy décor of the Brady decade, and two decades around it. Unfortunately, the mediocrity of the children produced by millions of households in the Sherwood Swartz era left us vulnerable to just about everything, so, when Rosanne launches a cunt grab after singing the anthem, and Pat walks for the cameras in a preposterous flag costume, others free-associate our weakness of character and lack of dignity with mass ignorance and calculate the resulting equation until it equals a pig ready for a healthy sticking. (And that's how they all became The Brady Lunch. Simple as bing pig food.)
Jesse Jackson hasn't put in a major appearance, so far. If his staff can't find a black issue relevant to this mess, and get him some camera time, heads are going to roll. Doesn't take a Nostrodamus to figure that out. If he's true to his legacy, he'll be somewhere deep in Muslim territory before long, persisting in agendized negotiations until someone yells, We're rolling! Run Jesse, run.
I honestly do try to find something positive in all this. One leader worthy of even attention, much less respect. So far, zero at the bone. Lazy bottom feeders more in love with their own personas and silver screen imagery than anything useful. It would not seem an auspicious time to replace the top one thousand leaders in the country, but they got us where we are, and we can't survive any more of them.
A question. If, tomorrow, they blow New York's tunnels, then maybe a few of their pilots hire Cessnas and drop wire over major transformer farms, when would we finally segregate young Arabs with thick accents the way we did the Japanese at the beginning of WW II. Does it make any difference that the Japanese performed no acts of sabotage during those intense times? Does two plus two equal four? I wonder, in this brave new world, if a bunch of sullen Arabs got on a plane tomorrow, would they be required to sit in the rear of the craft? In both the OJ case and the Rodney King case, as well as numerous other cases, including the chad mania of the recent election, there was a zero factor for common sense. Now I'm no common-sense fanatics, don't get me wrong. There's no common sense to gravity. People on the bottom of the world should fall off. That's common sense. No common sense about getting to the moon. Many gyrations are necessary. But, by the same token, can we live entirely without any trace of it?
Common sense calls for a massive hydrogen bomb strike against the Muslim world, and absolutely nothing else. Fifty bombs. If we don't act with common sense they'll blow up tunnels, power plants, switch farms – and that's all they need to do to kill every single last one of us, slowly, with full knowledge by all but the retarded and insane that death is on its way and survival is not an option. In all probability it is a choice of going out with a show far more spectacular than the Laden group was able to mount, or withering away like a sick pig drowning in a deep ditch. Winter is coming, folks. That water will be cold.
Here I go blaming the Jews for everything, and Tony Blair is reassuring his tribe of goofballs that hard evidence will be obtained before blah, blah. Will Big Ben, booming crooked notes as it rolls, or tolls, as the case may be, its way into the Thames be enough evidence, Tony? What if there are no fingerprints? When the Brits get mickey-mouse, it's time to start making your bequests. If they're incapable of learning from their repeated hammerings of the last hundred years, and more, and the Muslims are capable of learning how devastating the Jewish master is, who is likely to win?
It's weird to be writing non-fiction, again. And I was just crowing to a reader the other day about how fabulous it was to be a novelist, god over dozens of characters and hundreds of scenes. It is the most outrageously pleasurable activity imaginable, and one, to repeat myself, I wouldn't trade for, literally, a billion or ten billion. Where once I thanked Jewry for bringing civilization to an end so I'd leave a handsome young corpse at the end of everything, I'm having second thoughts, because now I'm back to journalism, commentary and editorializing. Not a line of dialogue in twenty pages and my characters like a row of stripped bass on ice in a cooler. I hope the market re-opens before their eyes fog and their gills start going gray.
Maybe I can suggest something useful. How about we lay off "Amazing Grace" for the duration. Amazing Disgrace would be closer to the truth. You gamble and bloat and waste and gloat, there is always the chance some left out folk are going to be offended and haul you by the hair of the head off the hill. Truck with the frothy, noisy, slimy Jew and it becomes what the Brits call a dead-cert. By the way, did Rosanne ever apologize for grabbing her huge cunt after singing the anthem, or did she tell us to stuff it? The wise slave knows his master, so things like this become important.
One thing I wanted to mention is that I'm lifting any copyright on not only "Blissy's Song," but "Creative Camp," as well. Bowdlerize them, if you choose, and reprint them any way you wish. From my mail I know my readership is very high. I'd mention that reader response is not one point less than one hundred percent positive, except that when I brag about myself I can turn it off, and when other start bragging, that becomes impolite. Please do not write, but share. Edit it, distribute it, and when you have an organization, then write. I know how good I am, because I know how much work it took. Let's leave it at that. Again, I know you're out there, so to speak. I can only knock some sense into you with a light, plastic keyboard. The rest is up to you. You're in publishing, publish; you're in academia, political or the arts, get a fucking move on. I want full title and control, with a rubberstamp congress who serves, with their mouths shut. If you think I'm kidding, bucko, look around before you drown in the coffee.
At no time in history has any civilization had the choice of a leader who has posted over a thousand pages of current, informed and relevant writing. Modify the sex, or take it out. I don't know how long David will keep posting alternative writings, so get on the stick. Hey, if you/re rich, send Nifty fifty thousand dollars. Many of their stories give us long looks into life as it was meant to be, proofs being the bonobo and Masai, plus, pedophiles have played numerous essential roles all through the advancement of mankind. Now we are cast to play another, based on the love and support a Carthaginian soldier felt for and gave to his senior. Let's do it brilliantly, as we have so often done it before.
One thing I should do is introduce myself. "Creative Camp" has autobiographical data and family stuff, aplenty, but it's over eight hundred pages, by print measurement standards, so it's understandable you might not have just knocked it off. My name is Tom Emerson. I can key myself to American history most efficiently by acknowledging that I am the great great grandson of Ralph Waldo Emerson, and, because he was called papa by my great grandfather, Henry David Thoreau. Never fear, I look identical to Mr. Emerson, though, truth to tell, my guess is there was considerable hanky panky going on at certain times and in certain places. I was born into the greatest, and certainly the most secret of all American fortunes, but was bred in suburban New York. Nine of my first cousins graduated from Harvard, as well as dozens and even hundreds of ancestors. Our family records pre-date those of the university, because theirs were burned in the Revolution. The foundation of my education is reading over three hundred English novels aloud to my Gran. This was in her very late nineties. She had probably read a minimum of ten thousand books in her life. It was massively educating. On the other hand, I once spent three years driving a bus in South Central. You're going to have to look far and wide for a prince that knows his people better than I know you lot, as my English cousins would say.
For more, read my Feather Touch series. Enough autobiographical material there to serve as an outline. I chose the name because I hoped my stories would tickle the reader. My works are "Jimmy and Frogger," "The Flyyy," "Dennis the...," "Ropeyarn," as well as "Creative Camp," which is something like 1,300 kilobytes, and where we are now, in a novel which has transubstantiated itself into a series of diary entries and essays. The original edition of "The Flyyy" was replaced with a condensed version. If you would like the original, e-mail me and I'll send it if possible. I have no objections to, and even appreciate useful mail, but, as I've said several times on previous pages, I'm amply aware of how good I am and don't need to be reminded.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
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