Blissy's Song -- 19 (Incomplete.) by Feather Touch
Nothing should be inferred from the use of media personalities.
Chapt. 19
"Well," Bobby half gulped to himself, "first time for everything." He'd dressed himself to kill and the mirror said he hadn't missed. The extra inch off the bottom of the black tee changed the naughty into the nasty, the hint into the wanton invitation of a slut. He damn well had to admit it. He would stop. The mirror proved that. Pretty darn long legs sheer up to the hem of tight, black shorts. Then a whole lot of white boy, eight inches or more, before the top half of the monochrome packaging. The tee was way big and fell loose at Bobby's left shoulder, exposing what the eleven year old felt pretty sure was a tantalizing come on, and never mind the antiquated Fifties movie poster sweater girl. Hell, maybe he was cute enough that a certain style or look wasn't important and looking like a moll who'd ridden with one biker too many wouldn't make much difference, one way or the other. Cute Bobby Brady, freckles, boyish, not so much a dreamy waif as muscley athlete, but still kind of slim and girlish, for all of that.
"I'm all there is left," was Bobby Brady's second coherent thought. He wasn't being vein, meant it generically. "I" was kids, overall. Tuesday night, as a reward for completing the excavation a full day ahead of a schedule that didn't actually exist, Steve had taken each and all and spread them willy-nilly around the Plunkett like so much bird seed. Bobby had ended up in the clutches of a very friendly, smart, cute seven year old. Even as a swimming buddy little Jeffy was exotic, and their whispering hours together had reinforced his embryonic notions of what it was that older males saw in young boys. Mr. Brady had guided the young couple off to their semi-private reverie in preparation for the coming Saturday morning, and the kiddo's launching of himself into the world of hitch hiking. The lesson had been more than temporal. Contrasting how Jeffy wriggled ardently to his first deliberate touching with what was showing on the new television, already notably degraded in a single month, was more a spiritual awakening. A mutuality and intensity of excitement and expression that transcended entertainment, and a total back and forth with the child receiving every hallowed touch with the same fervor with which it was administered and returning like sin with more than equal pleasure. Television just wasn't up to it and one couldn't spend all their time reading, especially on a Saturday morning.
Wednesday night, Thursday night and Friday night. Celibacy. Cindy in with Pete and Kelly for the night, sneaking back in every morning so she'd be able to kiss him awake and tease him very gently about what a good boy he was being and how exciting it was going to be when he had an adventure to tell her on Saturday night. In a mild sort of way she felt she was being discriminated against, but Steve had explained several times that what was acceptably dangerous for a young male would be inappropriate for a nine-year-old girl. In her heart she knew he was right, and finally acquiesced when Steve started to get Brady. Maybe next year.
God, this new house was so weird and so cool. Imagine climbing out of your bedroom through a hatch in the ceiling, then crawling ten feet to another hatch, which led down to a hallway, which wound itself eventually to the main bathroom with its tiny tin shower. This Bobby ignored. The New Brady policy on bathing had cut out showers almost entirely, and was down to quick sponge baths from time to time. America's obsession with household spic and span was not only ludicrous, but an expensive environmental disaster. Pounds of detergents where ounces were needed. Mass addiction to long hot showers at colossal cost. Classic liberalism; hug a tree, rinse and repeat. Not for the New Bradys. Neat and clean, but not glowing and sparkling. The difference was about two thousand dollars a year, and uncounted hours of wasted time. So it was a lick and a promise for Bobby, and he rattled down to the great room which took up half the first floor and couldn't help reminding one of a mountain cabin with kitchen and one end and a sprawl of rustic furniture surrounding an oversize trestle table, already gaining a moss of books and magazines.
Carol actually was barefoot, singing the McDonald's theme while she pranced around the grill. It was pretty funny, and the thought of a New Brady even setting foot near a golden arch was preposterous. Closer to their thinking would have been that it might be worth the loss of American culture, so long as the fast-food misery was among the casualties. Steve and Gregg had talked about it and felt that there was a splinter chance the country could survive September with the loss of various mega marts and their vast need for daily cash, emerging a whole lot more local and mom and pop. Critical mass. That was the crux of everything. New to history. Above it, was a wonderland, below it, lingering death for one and all. The critical mass for big boxes was truckloads of fresh cash, seven days a week. One bad one could suck the razor margins out of ten good ones. And closing them? They'd prided themselves on a scorched earth policy, Listen to the downtown merchants cry (a reprise on the howling Boston merchants of "Alabama" fame, well, Sherman did for them and guess who's here to do to and for today's raiders), and their collapse would leave yard sales about it when it came to finding household necessities. Malls were merely a ditto. Vast fixed expenses, huge minimum volume just to keep the raindrops from falling on the head. Insanity under the best of circumstances, and now playing their rightful role as ground zero for any who hate opulence and excess, however hypocritical and irrational their hatred. It was highly probable America's end would come choking on merch that couldn't be funneled through the collapsed bubble of catastrophic overindulgence. Confiscate them and convert them into regional helpage centers, as the only surviving embodiment of socialism. Run them conservatively, and relax, because however imperfect, you have the best that can be devised. Even a Porsche won't drive you to the moon. Grow fucking up
Bobby got a chorus of whistles for his costume selection. "I better call nine-one-one now, put them on the alert." He said it half in jest, half hoping the boy wouldn't be cited as an attractive nuisance, but realizing that might be part of the thrill if it did happen.
The overall and underlying paradigm was addiction control. Theory to be tested was whether loosely programmed wild excess could blunt the need of chronic excess which defined compulsive behavior. Or would it trigger it; act as a catalyst and the banana peel at the edge of the whirlpool? No better time to find out. All art had been run through, all technology had been run through. Mankind better find some new interest, or it was going to get hairy as all hell, everywhere. A new bonobo film had played recently. Third generation research attributed the peaceful behavior of this sub-species of chimp to ample forage on the forest floor, making eating a communal rather than an isolated activity. The adult/child vector was omitted, but has been covered in its own right. After all, how much was there to say about happy chimps? Peaceful, boring; it would be a hell of a climate for a novelist, life without conflict and resolution. Of course, Steve mused, if one had the skill perhaps he could put the reader at great risk, and thereby imbue his audience with enough motivation to plow on. Not that he was a novelist, not that he was a writer, at all, but architecture -- for whom? And the New Brady life. There had to be a theme there. Keep a careful eye on everyone, and see what developed. Meantime, experiment. If nothing else, the vast slop of the recent age, Beverly DeJulio as "Handy Ma'am," for example, was indicative of bathwater so festering it would be worth the loss of a baby or two to get rid of it. There was a certain puckishness to be found in the land of absolutes; no apparent options, no apparent future, weren't these de facto permits to play fast and loose even if premised on the notion of doing something, even if it was wrong? For example, if we repeat Bosnia, shoot from behind the wall, kill thousands, lose none, won't we at least engender a hatred of our cowards that will inspire new attacks and liven up a future that now appears nothing but a bleak morass of politically correct popular socialism?
Not for the Bradys. If Rumsfeld wanted to say exactly the same thing over and over and over again, well, they'd just turn him off. Mostly Jews had made much of a living off the tube, so no one would be hurt if the Bradys did not buy the wondrous products offered or participate in the rituals that were promoted. It's not that they were better than anyone else, it's that everyone else pretty much stank to high heaven, so bumping and grinding along the low road would not, in the new era, be prejudicial. It might even be fun, and thank goodness, in these bleakest of bleak times, that's what we're here for.
How much does a thumb weight? How much does a car weigh? Wouldn't it equal out to about as many ounces for the former to tons of the latter? It may be common sense to drop hydrogen bombs on Arabs, but there is no common sense involved in watching an ounce or two of bone, tendon, and thin, pink skin bring a Buick to a standstill. Bobby was impressed, too. Neato. First time, and screech. Black must suit him. Strange, because there was not more Jewish concept than glamour, and here it was working for a little goy boy. Bobby didn't question it in depth, bigger fish to fry at the moment. He went to the door of the deep blue car and pulled on the handle.
The passenger door on the coupe swung open. Not trying to be especially charming or precocious, Bobby nevertheless blew across the top of his right thumb like Clint Eastwood blowing smoke from the barrel of his pistol. Let the rest of the world watch the ceaseless parade of Semites on television, if they enjoyed this prequel, well, fair enough, but Bobby? he was going for a ride.
Seating himself in a bucket seat colored to match the exterior of the thirty-thousand dollar car, Bobby said, "You shouldn't have hit me so hard, look, I'm all black and blue."
"Sorry," the driver responded, "I guess the situation was all thumbs."
Lame for lame. They were obviously well matched in the wit department. Looking at each other, they felt it might go deeper. The driver's name was Panda, and, since his real name was Roger Paulson, he must have been something of a cutie to keep a name like `Panda' to age nineteen. Certainly his looks had nothing to do with it. Soft, round and cuddly, he was not. Rather rangy and a bit craggy. Rough complexion under jet black hair, all offsetting brown eyes to melt right away for.
"I know you're a Brady," Panda said, "I've seen you guys twice. I used to think you were a little retro to be real, but if you keep on keeping on you'll be getting it right, soon enough."
That pleased Bobby no end. Music was going to dominate as time went on; no school, and they weren't allowed to read more than six hours a day. Where there was one fan, there would be others.
"Thanks," the boy said. "Do you play?"
"Acoustic guitar. I'm still at the metronome stage. But hey, only a thousand hours to go; why, I'll be picking melodies any year now."
"Yeah," Bobby said, "but then when you can do it, you can do it like breathing, for fifty years. That's what we're going to be doing, basics. We're on the lamb from school, so we won't be able to perform in public until society crunches down a little, then we can start playing dives."
"Sounds like a plan," Panda commented. "Where you going?"
"Well," Bobby said, "not exactly anywhere. My dad said we'd be better off, since we spend so much time together, we're sort of rebuilding and house, it would be good to hang out with strangers once in awhile, so he gave me a hundred dollars and suggested I invite someone to dinner, or to play videos; whatever."
"I've got a lot of money, too," Panda said. "My sister gave it to me. She's a star. Well, sort of. She's in the commercial for this place that makes your debt go away. Well, sort of. The blond girl on her bed with her dad, then the little brother comes in, well the blond girl is Meggy, my kid sister. The kid's another actor, we don't have a brother, and that's not our dad, either."
Bobby explained about his brother's friend Kelly, and Panda had met his friend, Kelly, while making the rounds with Meggy. He'd been cast in an acne ad, when he was sixteen, played a boy who didn't want to have his picture taken. Bobby remembered the bit and Panda explained he'd paid his sister's way through dance and drama with his checks, so now she was repaying him.
"I'm glad you stopped," Bobby said after they'd ridden a few minutes in comfortable silence. "Me, too," the older male replied.
"You wanna see if I can sneak you into a club?" Panda asked.
"Sure," Bobby said. He explained about his father's theory on addiction, and common sense told both boys it might be a good value added feature of their morning together if they tempted fate, at least to begin with, in a manner that was merely illegal and immoral. Toes in the water.
"You wanna sit beside me," Panda whispered as the found a both at the rear of the cool, quiet establishment. The bartender had broken two glasses within fifteen seconds of the duo entering his establishment, confirming Panda's theory that Bobby was freaking something else and it would be nice to sit beside him.
"Okay," Bobby replied, slipping into the booth first so his big friend could hide him at least a little bit. So far, so good.
"What do you want?" Panda asked as the bartender approached.
"A bullfrog's brain," Bobby said.
"Make mine a hamster's hiny," the teen whispered in response, ever so glad he'd stopped. When the proprietor arrived, the couple decided on martinis, and, on their arrival, toasted the official vacuum created by obsessive compulsive strut disorders deep in common psychology. Hut, two, three, four, up and down the airport floor. It was good to giggle, it was good to be alive, and it was more fabulous than fabulous to be a boy. How nice we have two to tweeze and dissect.
"Where were you going when you picked me up?" Bobby asked. Panda choked on his drink and turned red. "Sorry," Bobby said.
"No," Panda said, "it's okay. It's just real hard to explain. I mean, I want to tell you, but it's kinda embarrassing. I mean, you know, you've got a kid sister, too, right?"
"Technically, a step sister," Bobby affirmed, "but we're buds, so she's my sister, big time. Jan, that's the middle one, and, who'd have ever thunk it, Marsha. She used to be... hell, we all used to be, but, yeah, sisters. Times three."
"And..." Panda prompted.
"Well," Bobby mused, "I guess they're okay, you know. I mean eleven year old boys aren't meant..."
"Yeah," Panda broke in, "but do you ever have to like buy stuff for them?"
"You're kidding, aren't you?" Bobby asked.
"If you insist," Panda answered.
"I'm sorry," the boy said, "no. I mean, I don't think so. Christmas and stuff, yeah, but I don't think that's what you mean."
"I mean like clothes."
"No," Bobby breathed, "but it's a hell of an idea. I've got a lot to learn. What are you going to buy?"
"Yeah?" the mature teen responded, "well how great an idea is this. Meggy wants me to buy her, you know, not an overcoat or a hat or anything. Get the idea?"
"Why does she want you to buy that stuff?" Bobby queried.
"It's embarrassing, Bobby," the boy whispered.
"Like really personal?" Bobby came back, his voice dropping to a whisper to match the low husk of his companion.
"You've got to promise not to tell," the older conspirator said softly.
"No way," Bobby whispered back, "Cindy and I are buds to the bone, in fact, we kind of all, you know, share, plus Kelly and Cliff, but I won't, you know, blab or anything."
[ I'm going to post this now, incomplete, as Hurricane Iris is just offshore and the mighty have to flutter back to earth and batten down the hatches. Probably be awhile before my next post. Looks like Dangriga may be the second disaster point after New York. This is why they call it life. ]
Homeland Security Agency. Sounds like a cross between the ground-nut scheme and Big Face Wilson's Fourteen Points. If I can think of something more un-American before I post this chapter, I'll tell you.
Sunday Morning Oct. 7. Nobody's doing any better. I think the death of dithering may lack literary merit. I guess this is just since I'm just coming down from publishing something like a hundred-fifty-thousand words in less than a month. Robert Reich's camera face. He's led us where we are, so why the continued worship? They re-opened the Golden Gate. Why did they close it? Had the jitters, eh? Aw, wuzza-wuzza, dat's a gwood wittle bwaby, you've got so many fine Jews running everything, just follow, follow, follow. And child, the fifty-third emmy's are on tonight. Think of all the gigantic articulated faces you'll be seeing. Huge white teeth, just like my mom's. This is your life, and I can't help hoping you're really into cinder block totality, because that's the bottom line of socialism.
Blue in Charlotte. Blue seats at the race track. Uh-oh. My guess is each empty seat represents a family just a wee bit overextended on the old plastic. I can't see how a ten or twelve crash race can be more engaging than a few chapters in a good book, but then I write good books and don't race all that much so my perspective may not be all it might be.
The secret of Nostrodamus is simplicity itself. He wrote thousands of pages. You can attribute anything to Nostrodamus because in order to disprove a passage, a scholar would have to read the entire works. Sounds like a job for a Jew.
Complex autos, gear lube, antifreeze.
Victor Mature playing an army officer.
Bonobo
Iridium is back in the news, determined to make itself the whipping boy if the century, it would appear. Get this, just get this. Real time connectivity, voice and data from every flight. Don't you just tingle? Hmm. Forty thousand flights a day, five thousand airborne at any given time. Of course, to be responsive every channel would have to be monitored by human ears. Five thousand channels, times three shifts a day. Sounds like one for the International Brotherhood of Clock Watchers and Paperclip Benders.
What Iridium should be used for is subsidized broadband in designated semi rural areas to lighten the load on urban areas. Motherfucking period.
Rumsfeld and the sheik. The sheik sitting so all can see the fine roundness of his belly, Rumsfeld standing suddenly looking so grown-up and impressive he might be an actual steward, not just a rank and file taxi driver. He's standing while a round, brown Arab is sitting. And you're going to follow him where?
As an army journalist I covered many awards presentations. Let's see if I remember how it goes over lo, these thirty years.
Pvt. Emerson is awarded the distinguished service medal for an exceptional demonstration of initiative and courage under severely adverse conditions. While serving with the battalion information office, this soldier found his unit under elemental attack, to wit, winds of sixty miles and hour, temperature, minus ten degrees Fahrenheit, and with local visibility reduced to long periods of zero due to capacious amounts of dust and blowing dirt. Undaunted by this seeming adversity, Emerson not only reconnoitered until he found a unit-designated sanitary facility, but was able to set stakes and string and by dint of long and arduous hours of committed activity, lead a number of officers and other ranks to the relief point.
It is recommended Private, Grade E1, Emerson be promoted to the grade of Privets, E2.
Signed
A.B. Surd
Capt. Arty
Commanding
Hey, I fired Expert on the M-16, too.
Actually, since I was in the real army, I should confess I boloed. And I was squad leader, to boot. Think how happy that drill sergeant was. He yelled and screamed, danced a jig and all but died of a heart attack. Bolo is no score, the name pretty well says it all. It makes one a dud to have boloed. And of course, it's the army, dauntless outfit, no excuses, no explanations. You've read the books, you've seen the movies. It didn't matter to Sgt. Serabian, or on single man jack on the planet that the last six targets on my firing lane happened to be totally obscured by the mist, that the farthest of these targets had the relative size of a stamp, while the closest was about the size of a playing card, no sergeant, no sir, no excuses. I was a dud another time. More exciting. The grenade throw. The recruit and the bomb. The story hardly needs embellishment or the hype of a master's touch, nor would a tangent delving into the lacey world of the absurd add much. All the drama was in that concrete cubicle with it large and deliberate drain.
A full recounting of the events of that November afternoon in 1966 begins in a prosaic enough way. Reveille, like so many mornings before. Shouting, formations, inspections, looking for someone to salute, because it's new and fun and we're getting pretty good at it.
Not in the army, of course, but some people have things in their lives they become attached to. It could be a pet, a romantic partner, or just a favorite recipe for brownies. The point is, everyone has something, and, in the army, these somethings are usually boiled down to photos, letters or perhaps an incidental keepsake. I was no exception. Yes, I had a watch. It wasn't a three hundred dollar watch, mind you, this is '66, but it wasn't exactly a hundred dollar watch, either.
Now for a nostalgic diversion. The Spiedel "Twist-O-Flex." They used to advertise on television. Anyway, my very nice, but not opulent, watch had a "Twist-O-Flex" bracelet. Now for some reason known only to the deities that make the sainted angels known as gods, I am unable to wear my watch on my left wrist, though I'm right handed. I've tried for weeks, and can't get used to it. Ergo, I wear my watch on my right wrist, so, when I cocked back to throw the hand grenade, I felt my watch slide down my hand. I knew if I John Wayned my grenade, my watch was going with it.
Many things went through my mind in this split second. The chance of the US Army letting me retrieve my watch, should it have survived, was zero. The bomb I was holding seemed small, indeed, I could hold it in my hand. The walls of the bunker seemed substantial, maybe three feet of reinforced concrete likely built by the corpse of engineers. In short, there did seem an option that might, given a little Yankee luck, work.
Well, let me just tell you. I threw like a girl. Flipped that `tater. The grenade landed about twenty feet past the wall, I caught the watch on my fingers as it flew off, and the guy who was sort of a prancing god, come to earth, started screaming Short Round like he was throwing his best Sipowicz hump to a ten year old gypsy. Then things got real army. Flutter, sputter, cackle, crow. A really tremendous explosion created a momentary lull, then it was back in the hen house. Hundreds of words were said, much ado about everything, and the only thing that never happened during the extended hoopla and fandango was no one ever asked me Why. I should add that I want on to sore the highest in fucking everything in basic, fired expert, topped the p.t. test, and aced the grenade throw. The kind of Mesopotamian assholeism illustrated by these stories is the reason I was able to serve with hundreds of guys and never meet one who wanted to stay in the mixed up mess called the army for ten seconds past their enlistment. I've got other stories, the week I got court-martialed four times, for example, but I'll save them in case we get bogged down in depressing minutia and need our spirits lifted. Suffice it to say, for now, that I ended my military career as a Pvt. E1, with dozens of articles in the Fort Wolters paper, hundreds in "The Armored Sentinel," at Ft. Hood, and an unknown number in "Stars and Stripes" because it didn't make it the DMZ, so I never knew if they printed my submissions, or not. (Anything about the 501st Arty Battalion, LZ Sharon, Quang Tri, Dong Ha, summer and fall of 1968, would probably be mine. (Copy or art.))
I've been reviewing my comments on UNICEF, and need to add something. I've mentioned it before in passing, but it is such an absolute symbol of contemporary liberalism it needs a rehash. This is the Big Brothers program, run under the United Way organization. I applied when I moved back to the states from Mexico.
T start with how it should have gone, I should have called the number and gotten a recording. The recording should have listed the minimum qualifications for consideration by the program, and, especially in Los Angeles, the fact that you had to have lived there at least four years as a basic requirement. Instead, I got a live person who asked me to fill out a form and attend a meeting. I went to an elegant suite, filled out a two page pre application, and some short time later, attended a meeting. There were about a dozen guys there, résumé clowns, one and all, and if any of them had showed up on my doorstep, I would have hidden behind my mother's skirts. They were fat, they were bald, they were humorless, gentle jesus, they were brokers, and all they were reminded me, again, of Larry McMurtry's description of a character sharing a cab ride into Los Angeles with two "stone-silent" businessmen.
Anyway, it turned out that in the greater metro area of Los Angeles and Los Angeles County, with nearly twenty million people, two-hundred-fifty Big Brother couples existed. The waiting list was said to be thirteen thousand boys, for non of whom I was deemed fit.
UNICEF, Big Brothers. Like the guy in the car polish ad, What a bunch of bull. Very much like your god and your democracy, come to think of it.
Already stories of unions and mobs at ground zero. I thought it would be a couple of months, but I think I deserve a little slack. In a country where the secretary of defense stands, while brown kings loll, it's going to be hard to call the shots with precision and accuracy. You'll have to work with me here.
I try to avoid stress and personal problems to enhance focus and productivity. In spite of my best efforts, a distraction has arisen. I have three mature cats, about three years old. In late May, one of the females presented me with two black kittens. These are now almost cats, and what they've been up to is teaching the old guard to play. It's not impossible to type with five large, healthy animals crashing around the place after each other, but it's no walk in the park, either. It does make me glad they are such clean and outrageously beautiful animals, and they sure are cute when they're asleep.
I do have to tell another cat story. In my early days as a fancier, I had three, long since gone to the snake the boys found across the street. Anyhow, I used to cue their dinner with a loud whispered "Fish." After I'd done that for a few weeks, I waited until the house was full, which means about six or eight kids. We'd be sitting watching the Cartoon Channel, and, without warning, I'd hiss "Fish." The three cats lived under my bed, and they'd all hit their heads at exactly the same instant, then come flying out from under. It was a close parallel to the school-room scene in "The Gods Must Be Crazy." Very funny. Mercifully, this was five years ago, and all the kids are grown and moved on to jobs and jail. They have not been replaced, because they can't be.
The lie in Chapter 14 is about letters. Truth to tell? I have not received a single letter on this story, and only one on C-Camp. This is only interesting because my first stories brought a daily deluge, some readers writing as much as four times. It became a major distraction and also a bit of a puzzle. I've read thousands of books and not only have I never had the slightest inclination to write a fan letter, I don't think I'd have anything to say to even John D. MacDonald or Larry McMurtry on a four-hour flight, other than a quick thanks and handshake, if it seemed appropriate. John O'Hara might be another story, when I think of it, and if we both got about half in the bag I might be tempted to plumb him on his feelings at being a virtuoso at the most fiendish of arts. In other words, grovel. Of course, I don't particularly like his novels, and that would probably slip out, since I feature myself master of the long ball. So much for groveling. Anyway, it's been a stunning rookie year, with events feeding genius like oxygen feeds a vat of molten steel. An epic shower of sparks spanning well over a thousand pages, with much of a full-blown novel produced at the speed of daily paper. Literary ping-pong. with more than enough fireworks to shell shock an entire nation. Get over it, and drop me a line.
I've never dealt with writer's block nor been able to understand the concept or issue or whatever it is. I can't imagine sitting down to write, if you didn't have something to say. Wouldn't it be like swinging a racquet with no ball? At the same time, there comes a point when you have said it all. You can't think of anything more to say, simply because there is0n't anything. You are in mortal danger because of Semites and Semitic influences. You must profile this class, and either kill or deport it. If you don't, you will die as surely as a candle in the wind.
I'm thinking of moving to Guatemala. Maybe it's the seven year itch. My income is twenty-two thousand a year, net. In Guatemala I could live in a palacio of sorts. Maybe have a nice horse. Become a bit of a gentlemen, instead of some beatific Christ-like person who helps the needy with seventy percent of his income. I have learned better. The best way to help, is to consume. Buy quality products made by reputable companies through conventional channels. My first venture here was setting out over two hundred fifty truck-tire lobster traps. This took about forty-five days. Not only an investment of over thirty thousand dollars, but twelve hours on a short day of my own time and effort. And it returned nothing for anyone involved, though undoubtedly the traps, themselves, are making a pretty penny for someone. The experience is the total dichotomy of working in the third world. A crew of five to seven, who were brilliant, as long as I was simply there, went amok the second I was not there, and failed at everything under every circumstance. As UNICEF is flawed, as the big brothers organization is flawed, so is liberalism, and, inescapably, democracy. It is a system that can only survive under opulent conditions and if stimulated frequently by brilliant inventors and entrepreneurs. Your only hope for survival is an American monarch for twenty-five years to do the dirty work, then restoration to your rightful place under the English crown. My family took this from you in the person of William Emerson, facilitator, extraordinaire of the Revolution. It is my duty to make good this error in judgment, and I have done so, fully and fairly on these pages. I have presented my work unheralded and un-hyped to the common American citizen for his or her consideration. I have included the world in all discussions. Churchill wrote more than I have, but they're books on a shelf. This is another kind of literature, perhaps more of the heart, mind and soul than of accurate history or grand schemes gone by.
You know you're at the brink, your current leaders have been before you incessantly. It's time to think down where the brain lives because any light at the end of the sewer is either way funky or the eyes of an oncoming rat.
Well, I'll put Guatemala on a back burner for a few days. Maybe run a book exchange for wayward hippies on the border with a minor in digital photography. In the meantime, I think I've painted the Bradys as I would have them. Adoring life rather than loving it. Less is more. Lessons that are simply the only ones out there.
I do leave with reluctance. My second novel was meant to occupy me through the fall, and I was going to spend December writing David some boy-band one offs, because these seem to be Nifty's specialty. It's ironic, because the main secret to being an artist is to be ruthlessly methodical. Planning the work and working the plan. Ending up three months ahead of one's self, after nine months, is a freak out. As you can tell from my army sketches, I never blame myself for anything, so I'll flog my tired old silly horse one more time by pointing out that it's you that have put a wrinkle in my railway. Your fault. Then, now, and always.
Finally, it's up to you to distribute this work. Best way I can think of is with a graffiti assault, writing, very neatly, Read Feather Touch on Nifty, in traditional places for graffiti. There's a bit of symbolism in urging your fellow Americans to stay out of the sewer, while standing at the friendly end of the pipe, but forgo that. Just write a short, neat massage all over town. Repeat. If you can think of a better way, be my guest. The point is, it's up to you. Pedophiles make up a significant percentage of society, and have repeatedly played crucial roles, behind the scenes. In many ways we have to be different if we are going to survive, and outspoken pervs is just one of them.
Posted by Thomas@btl.net
xxx