Last Laugh CLII

Last Laugh CLII August 9

Bill,

Yes, you are precisely right about the stem cell research malarkey that our politicians have stirred up in order to keep their constituents from having a moment to focus on some important issues; for example, why do we continue to bomb and starve Iraqi children, and why do we send troops to interfere in Balkan disputes but ignore the never-ending massacres in Rwanda and Berundi and other colored quagmires. Better we should give our citizens more important things to study-- none of this could be as critical as a "patients' bill of rights" (another neatly misleading slogan deliberately designed by those whom we have given power over us to keep the pot roiled.) Removing and discarding a cell the day alter it was fertilized is no different from clipping one's finger nails or blowing one's nose, but suddenly all the American sinners are benevolent and outraged at the idea of "morning after contraceptives." Coonass Catholics cock-fighting every Saturday night. The guy who threw the woman's little dog into freeway traffic is probably violently opposed to stem cell research. You speak the truth about Republicans and Democrats. They tout their superficial differences when in reality they are all cut from the same cloth.

People are upset today with what they see as a loss of values. It appears to them that the family is disintegrating, disappearing as an institution, and that immorality is rampant among them. Everyday the newspaper is filled with stories of disgusting things, inhuman things that humans are doing to each other. Kids are shooting up their schools, poiticians are commiting crimes of purgery in efforts to disguise their infidelities, child molestation and pornography are common, public parks are infested with homosexual predators, drive-by shootings are resulting in innocent deaths and maimings, women drown their children. Thievery, burglary, murder, rape, torture, molestation, genocide and Oh what is the world coming to. Most often it is thought that these are trends and that man is for some reason becoming more sadistic and immoral. Political parties, feeling the voters despair, incorporate into their platforms and rhetoric solutions to these trends: they will spend more money on social programs and hire more cops and build more prisons and get tougher on crime and on and on. But, are these trends real? Is man really changing into an uglier being? Or are we as a species exactly as we have always been, the cruelest and least noble of all the animals? One's despair sinks into despondence quite quickly upon realizing that we are trapped in our genetic hell, as amoebae in a puddle, devouring each other mindlessly in an amoral primordial soup of lustfull drives. We speak often of freedom as if it is some other-worldly ambrosia never tasted by mortals, seen only through the prisms of illusions, because it is. We are genetically bound to be bound to each other, as are ants in a colony. Our division of labor we consider more sophisticated but we confuse that with independence when in fact we are ants. We are not proud as lions nor noble like the great arctic beasts. We are colonists unable to survive alone. We are as the ants and the bees and the cells of the jelly fish. We use our evolutionary prowess to create more powerful weapons and more intricate means of deception. The males of our species strive for economic and political power so that they might spread their seed more widely and the females encourage this behavior. This is evolutionary perfection which will surely lead us to complete dominion over the earth someday. Such then will be the legacy. But, if humans survive much longer, there will come the day when the only non-human animals left on earth will be those domesticated by us to serve as our food, and the germs and insects. War is our way and always has been, our false borders cannot repel the spears from hungry hordes as we ourselves reach across them to shoot and bomb in futile attempts to stem the oncoming rush of our depraved kin. I can think of no purpose for it all.

My across-the-street neighbor is a "good guy" to all who know him. He brings all his neighbors vegetables from his garden and he works one day a week as a volunteer for some humane organization, donating his time to help the needy. I walk to the street mornings at 5 o'clock to get the paper and often run in to him heading off on his daily walk and when that happens he likes to engage me in politics. One morning as we talked in the dark he spotted an armadillo rooting around in a neighbors yard and hurriedly retrieved a .22 rifle from his house. He moved close to the blind critter and shot twice then walked back over by me to watch as the animal belatedly leapt several times and flopped and writhed in the yard. Bill hooted several times with great glee and said "he'll die in a while," then took off for his exercise so that he will stay healthy and free of aches and pains. I have sat smoking on my patio in the wee morning hours and watched this strange creature with a broken tail approach within two feet of me, sniffing around but never seeing my stillness. Once I found him hunched on the top stair of my pool, cold and wet and still, and I lifted him into some shrubbery and watched from a distance until he got back his circulation and moseyed on. I was a bit agitated that he dug such holes in my yard but was not as discommoded as I am by fireants, say. But Bill is a "good man," just as were his ancestors 500,000 years ago, those whose genes he shares and whose behavior he is bound to emulate.

I listen a lot to local talk radio and the subject this day was stem cell research. There was some controversy over a tv program the night before wherein some woman was giving her reasons for government funding of the research. Each caller sounded genuinely upset at what the woman had said and some were vehement. Then some guy called in and said "Hey, I saw that show last night and that woman looked hot!" Ah, Louisiana.

But what can we say of the abberations? The George Washingtons, the Thomas Jeffersons and Aquinases. What then of Einstein and Bill Blackolive? What of those folks who labor in discomfort all their lives to ease the miseries of others in the backwoods of the Transvaal or the mudslidden foothills of the Andes, in squalor holding up before the cameras a beautiful three year old Mestizo girl to help plead for your donation of only $25 per month that will provide her with shoes and food and education and United Way administrators take out their 90% cut first. Fat Sally Strouthers begging you to give up just a pork chop a week to supply the multitude while she collects her fleeting fee. Our history is used up--there is nothing left to say, so we turn our minds and our pens to uprooting the myths and Thomas Jefferson fucked his slave. George is suspect now, too, so we must take his name off the elementary schools in New Orleans because those kids have slave backgrounds and no hero at all is better than some suspect hero, at least if you want to learn readin' and math and stuff like that.

Well, I hope your mother is getting along well.

I think I have now posted on texasgang.com all the material that I have from you. I retyped Emeryville and uploaded it and Two Tales lately. I have run off some copies of the way they appear on the web site and am sending them along for you to mark up for corrections. I have spent many, many hours poring through these pages correcting typos and every time I go over them I find more errors. It is tedious and maybe you can find things I continue to overlook. Also I need you to mark them up with comments as to layout and format. When I typed Emeryville, for example, I did it all in one document without indicating new chapters coming from latest Last Laugh editions. It would be easy for me to do that now, though, if you prefer. Also, I completely reworked the home page of the site using a different format so that Geof should now be able to call it up.

I am now feeling great. After the second epidural injection they started me on some kind of anti-seizure medicine which they had determined eliminates nerve pain and I now am pain free. The only cure of course is surgery, but I see no need to consider that at this time. Vicki's doctor stopped her treatments because of the profound side effects she was experiencing. He did lab tests and found that the virus is now undetectable so he wants her to do two more months of the treatments. So, I suppose two months is the blink of an eye. We had taken our house off the market when hit with these health problems, but it looks as though we are getting back in order and will be calling the realtor soon.

I have spoken of my friend, Barry. He is rightfiilly proud of his oldest son who is at Tulane now on football scholarship. When Jimmy started high school, Barry paid a body-builder to take him over and the results are astounding. Barry of course didn't know at the time that average-size Jimmy was going to grow to six foot five but the kid is now a marvel, a monster. Barry often sits at the Patio Bar and boasts to the other customers and he is very proud. Last week Vicki found Tulane's website and located the profiles of all their athletes. So she pulled up Jimmy's and it gave all his information; his high school statistics, the awards he won, etc. only it had a profile picture of a black lineman. I got Vicki to print me out a copy and took it to the Patio and passed it around.

Well, thanks for the letters even when I was not up to replying during this period. Must go now and package up your documents. The briefcase won't fit in the package so I will bring it next time.

Jackson


AFTER THE ATTACKS



As Secretary of State Colin Powell watches, President Bush responds to a reporter's question in the Rose Garden Monday. Bush announced an executive order for a freeze on assets of suspected Islamic terrorist grouips and individuals. He also warned banks around the world not to continue their relations with terrorists.



Had W already one breakdown? In the Bunker? What do they have him on now?



(This from Harry Brown while running as the Libertarian candidate in 2000 presidential race:)

The First Day in Office

On my first day in office, by Executive Order I will:

• Pardon everyone who has been convicted on a federal, non-violent drucharge, order the immediate release of those in prison, reunite them with their families, and restore all their civil rights.
• Pardon everyone who has been convicted on any federal gun control charge, order the immediate release of those in prison, and restore all their civil rights.
• Pardon everyone who has been convicted of a lederal tax­evasion charge, order the immediate release of those in prison, and restore all their civil rights.
• Pardon everyone else who has been convicted of a victimless federal crime, order the immediate release of those in prison, and restore all their civil rights.

I will make it clear to federal law enforcement agents and prosecutors that we want the violent critninals off the streets. No U.S. Attorney should waste his time or the taxpayers' money prosecuting people who haven't intruded on anyone's person or property. Every member of the federal criminal justice system should understand that prison space is only for criminals who have hurt someone.
Since the Constitution lists no violent crimes (except for piracy), there will be a great deal of empty prison space after the pardons. So we can speed up the elimination of the federal debt by selling federal prisons to state governments that may need the facilities.
There are other steps I can taae on the first day in office:

• I will announce a policy to penalize, dismiss, or even prosecute any federal employee who violates the Bill of Rights by treating you as guilty until proven innocent, by searching or seizing your property without due process of law, by treating you as a servant, or in any other way violating your rights as a sovereign American citizen.
• I will immediately order that no federal asset forfeiture can occur if the property's owner hasn't been convicted by full due process - and I will initiate steps to make restitution to anyone whose property has been impounded, frozen, or seized by the federal government without being convicted by due process. Over 80% of such seizures occur when no one has even been charged with a crime.
• As Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces, I will immediatly remove all American troops from foreign soil. Europe and Asia can pay for their own defense, and they can risk their own lives in their eternal squabbles. This will save billions of dollars a year in taxes, but - more important - it will make sure your sons and daughters will never fight in someone else's war.
• As Commander in Chief I will remove all Americari troops from under the command of the United Nations or any other foreign organization.
• As President I will make sure the executive branch stops harassing smokers, tobacoo companies, successful computer companies, gun owners, gun manufacturers, alternative medicine suppliers, religious groups (whether respected or labeled as "cults"), investment companies, health-care providers, businessmen, and anyone else who is conducting his affairs peaceably.
• I will end federal affirmative action, federal quotas, set asides, preferential treatments, and other discriminatory practices of the federal government. Any previous President could have done this with a stroke of the pen. Do you wonder why none of them did?

And then I will break for lunch.

There's More...

After lunch, I will begin the process of removing from the Federal Register the thousands and thousands of regulations and executive orders inserted there by previous Presidents. In most cases these regulations give federal employees powers for which there is no constitutional authority.
I will call Office Depot and order a carload of pens - to use in vetoing Congressional bills that violate the Constitution or that spend more money than necessary for the constitutional functions of government.

Bill,

Since attending your reading for the ULA gang up here, I've been catching up on LL via the TexasGang web site. LL was always a staple in my household, but I remember having mixed feelings the first time I read one of the editions around the time I was 17. Now that I'm older, I've found that I appreciate it more.

First off, I thought the ULA reading up here went well for you individually. Other than Jack, who I understand was excellent, I thought most of the others were unsuited for the public eye. I do appreciate their goals, however.

Reading Geof's letters really brought back memories. The first time I remember meeting Geof was on a trip out to the ranch with my dad and Kelly when I must have been around 10 or 12 years old. Several years later, a fierce basketball rivalry was formed between the oldsters (comprised of Kelly, my dad, Mike and perhaps even Bix a few times) and the youngsters (Jessica, Geof and myself). I, too, found your old letters fascinating, and would love to see more. I saw some parallels between your relationship with Mike and my relationship with Gabe, who is three-and-a-half years younger than I am. In some ways, I think coming of age in today's society is perhaps even more challenging than it was in the sixties. Although we have many more options today, society seems to be a little less forgiving than how I perceive it to have been back then. I'd be interested to hear your opinion on this topic.

I'm disappointed in the police state that is taking over Port Aransas. I've always had the dream of being able to go back there when I'm older, but reading the police blotter each week makes me pessimistic. I don't see how it's possible that more people on the island think all dogs must be on leashes than those who do not. And I just read in last week's South Jetty that the city manager makes somewhere close to lOOK a year in salary. The President of the United States only makes about $250K a year. How is this justified?

I was interested to see a mention of Guns, Germs and Steel in one of your recent LL editions. I read it a few months ago and came away wondering how much longer our country will be a world, superpower. I'm in the middle of The Meaning of It All by Richard Feynman. Although I'm not too keen on science, I'm impressed with his ability to explain the topic as relevant to the rest of our lives, and I'm finding it a good read. I'd be interested to know your take on whether one can be a mix of scientist and artist simultaneously and be successful on one or both; or if one has to devote his/her entire energy to only one in order to be successful at it. By successful, I mean having a deep enough understanding of your pursuit and of your own limitations to bring something worthwhile to the table.

Well, I guess that's about all I've got for now. Keep up the good work.

Shade




From New York to
Port Aransas, stories unfold


By Mary Judson
South Jetty Editor
The headlines, stories and pictures that have appeared in print and on television since terrorists attacked America on Tuesday, Sept.11, will provide permanent records of the anguish, fear, grief, patriotism and pride felt by Americans. Everyone has a story, whether they were in Manhattan or Washington, D.C. and saw the terrible tragedy unfold, they knew someone involved, or they wear the same uniform as those who have come to the rescue.
Shade Vaughn, 24, a former resident of Port Aransas whose parents, Steve and Nancy Vaughn still live here, watched the drama unfold from his uptown Manhattan office.
Vaughn, who works for a public relations firm about 70 blocks from the World Trade Center, was walking to work that morning shortly after the first tower was struck.
"I looked over at the twin towers, which you can easily see from anywhere in Manhattan, and one floor had smoke pouring out. I thought it was a really bad fire," Vaughn said in a telephone interview on Friday, Sept.14.
When he arrived at his office, his coworkers "were huddled around TV sets and that's when the plane hit the second tower. We all stood there shocked and watched it unfold on TV from that point," Vaughn said.
"Even before we heard the news of the attack on the Pentagon, we all feared something worse than what we were seeing might be ahead in New York. We were frightened about where Manhattan would fit in. I don't think any of us was worried about our building being in danger -- but it's close to the city court building, which is an important building. What if that's bombed?" Vaughn said.
On that fateful Tuesday, Vaughn said,
"Everyone in uptown Manhattan was out on the streets wandering in a daze - they were shocked and confused. It wasn't crazy. Nobody was running around with their hands up in the air. Now everyone seems to have more an attitude of 'What can I do to help?', 'How are you?', 'Can I assist you?' All everyone wants to do is pitch in and help."
Three days after the attack, Vaughn's most vivid memory is of his walk home at about 2:30 that afternoon.
"I had my Walkman® radio on and was listening to radio DJs talk about it. I was misty-eyed, not walking particularly fast and looking around at everyone who was so stunned and trying to make sense of everything. The only overwhelming thing I remember is that I didn't know what to feel. Everyone seemed to feel the same thing - they didn't know where to go, what to say, what to feel."
Now, Vaughn says, "It's impossible to concentrate on work or think about it. Everything we were doing for clients is thrown out the window. We can't go to the media and pitch stories for clients because there's only one story. It's not business as usual and won't be for many, many weeks."
Vaughn said he had been sleeping with his windows open, and when it rained Thursday night (Sept. 13), "every time I heard it thunder, I thought it was an explosion."

As the horror of the attacks takes its place in the memories of Americans, Shade Vaughn says he feels "shocked and emotionally drained." He's worried about what's going to happen in next few months and where New York will fit in.

"New York is a place that would be attacked by terrorists in future. I haven't thought about what this means for me and what I plan to do," he said.
It's a sentiment shared by most Americans, wherever they may live.



I had misplaced Jackson's letter with the Harry Brown projection, and for LL CLI Shade's letter came barely too late, and CLI is served better in brevity anyway. Steve had said I was getting a letter from his son Shade, that since the New york read Shade is following Last Laugh on the web, that particularly has Shade been enjoying letters from Geoffrey.

R,D. Hatch III had missed Botello's letter in LL #CL because, said Hatch, he does not like reading letters in Last Laugh, and had not known the letter ending LL #CL was from our old amigo Botello. I presented Richard's attitude as example to Shade, complaints and compliments come from people about different parts or same parts unpredictably, during the years of Last Laugh, that most folks like the letters' contributions, and Geof's is probably the most popular, with Ann's in there close. Jackson's in there now. But I wrote Shade back too quickly and forgot to send the couple of opinions he requested.

The Meaning of it All by Richard Feynman, I had not heard of nor had I heard of the author. Though nothing is new about somebody's being both scientist and artist. Truth is beautiful, I reminded Shade via postcard.

To talk about the other topic, how much harder is it on somebody coming of age in the U.S. today, than in previous generations, that is not a question easy to answer. The 1950s were ghastly, for some of us. And, inclusive of everything, outlawry et al, the U.S. has fabric of lies, myth, superstition, in its foundation. Yesterday came Joe Smith's zine ORTHOPHOBE, containing a good piece on Emerson, a nice guy who could write how he disapproved of slavery, and writing was the extent of his crusade. The well dressed man associated with the well dressed. The well dressed owned slaves, did so the U.S. presidents. These past couple of centuries the lies have heaped, and the past couple of decades the lies are running so cultural that last week there was something on television about it, which I missed, too busy in the house in Aransas though I caught something about the weeping fisherman who had rescued Little Elian from the sea is not a fisherman. Bix had missed the thing too, though had heard things about it and was little amused the weeping fisherman is not a fisherman and was angry with information nobody had been talking about the big lies, the corporate greedy distructive stuff. Personally, I find the little lies equally interesting, or more intriguing when there is not the greed/fear factor, yet pathology in the little shit. The little shit is crazier. The weeping fisherman was a plumber or carpenter and no fisherman. First impression in a sensible media would be how he was after the passionate surrogate mother of Little Elian, I forget her name now. Perhaps the weeping fisherman was unemployed, there he was during the FBI raid in the night, as to suggest this fellow had no need to punch into the workaday anywhere, just hanging out with the passionate young lady's family. Truth beats fiction. How can the U.S. media get so twisted to miss a lovely scoop. I do not know if maybe any of the tabloids ungnarled from national schizoprenia on that one, went for any real life where the money then was, but this is examplary, how stupendously out of touch by now. BY time of Shade's generation, of Little Elian and stem cell fuss, the very politics are gone too insane to serve anybody well in any direction. Patholigical tabloids do not make money they ought to be able to see.

Summer into September and recent rains, I have run Medicine again on the spaces of beach where humans are scarce, round the connect of Mustang and Padre. On overcast cooler day I did get out of the truck to yell him away from the front tires, such be his impulse, warm up by snapping tires.

We are about to stay nights again but the past couple of weeks get broken up because Mike 0live takes Lyla in for examinations and I must watch our father, who now must be watched like a two year old. September 10 such a cool day for Medicine he does not want to stop jogging, does not care how far behind the truck he gets, If I get a few hundred yards ahead and stop he will not come to truck but goes rest in the tide. I judge he could trot along fifty miles in no strain, though I have forgotten canine statistics. Without the sun on his thin pitbull coat he hardly pants.

The sea is medicinal. I put on bathing suit in sake of law and order and go in it too. Very good it is on my dandruff. Is wine more poetic with the sea than ale or rum in chemistry or tradition? Damn, I just sit in truck and turn on the classical music to admire the big friendly Gulf and Medicine is barking to run more. He had a little sprain, past several days, and does not feel it now.

September 11 I had returned from bicycling Meadicine through the boat harbor and turned on NPR to get the classical music to sweep my room and the living room as I do in the routine here, and I got no music, hearing that "America" is under attack. Next I worked out and then lay upon my latest cheapo air mattress (last one Medicine scratched was $20, this one is $14, slave labor from Walmarts). Toward noon I was dozing and got up and sat in living room where Bob lay on his couch sedated, turned on the remarkable TV visuals. In a while the media went to rehashing the material they did have, and I felt it should be interesting seeing Jim see it. Jim did not care to get from his bed. Hey, Jim! America is under attack! Hey, Jim, they got the Pentagon! Jim, they got the world Trade Center too! Wonder what they'll get next, Jim! Oh, well, nothing to get out of bed for, Jim! Might as well stay in bed, you're safe for a while, Jim!

Neither brother wanted to open eyes for America under attack on TV> Lucky for him Jim still had several cans of Red Dog in fridge I had brought him and when I had hollered enough at him who slept in his shoes from his brother John's having taken him to the VA pill prescriber the day before (Have you been hearing any voices lately. UH.), he got up and stood up, bent for pants twisted at ankles, lifted pants that he depart bedroom, cross kitchen to beer in fridge, pants return to ankles he has frige open and a beer in his other hand, cool can of Red Dog in a hot morning. The fridge closes on its own. Beer, and pants, and his eyes about closed, Pants Falling Down Man reaches the living room, an end of his own couch less disheveled leastways, accepts this nearly flat end of it. Must get beer can opened. Cobwebbed eyes do not focus on the box. Jim is more interesting than television. Well, the airplane hits the second tower. Look, Jim, the visuals, the visuals! Jim cannot bear to open eyes at the box. Sitting on less upheaved cushions of his grubby couch. Jim drinks, squints, looks rather at the bottom of the box. I have naturally woke Bob, who does not care to open eyes or sit up or anything.

September 15 in 2001, B.E. is 85. Bonnie who is 58 tomorrow had planned to fly here today, but the airlines are too scrambled, and she plans her visit for next weekend. I sit on deck under oak canopy viewing corner of Jacoby and North McCampbell redneck traffic in the afternoon, and plenty of it always. A sheriff car is unsure where to go coming this way on N. McCampbell, turns up Jacoby and less than half a mile turns again for N.McCampbell. Useless louts. Few minutes earlier I had thought to take my bottle off my table and put it by my leg. I may as well be paranoid in the land of paranoid fiction, that I look like something in a car-chase program on TV, but let me say in these trailer outskirts this cinder block split-level house is the class. My old parents are citizens.

The ant stir up has interrupted my insomniac NPR~ music appreciation. I am not getting to doze off as much, hearing these uncountable shocked citizens calling in. Ah, they count because they held human potential and they breed. Yes, they are hollow who saw tanks smash a house with children in it, and recognised not murder. Recognised not burning of innocents in Panama. In Iraq. First was I surprised how surprised were the ants. But the generation after them is driven into more consciousness.

I was thinking the more informed callers must be getting screened. The third night, the NPR guy took on a couple more thoughtful callers when I was awake, and fended them off in pattern to suggest he had instruction. 0ne of these - and if I am confusing two young women so what - she was 18 years old and had little information, said people have to be angry about something, like maybe we sell their enemies arms who then kill them with these arms. The NPR guy said well what would you do with say Hitler, wouldn't you want to get him first? Yet she was not intimidated, said this is not the same. I wonder what could the NPR guy have reached for if she had said U.S. corporations helped arm Hitler. He could have wiggled that is not the point, meantime he was already wiggling just a tad by peace callers, a few by this third night. And on the line with him at this point was Daniel Schorr, whom I have regarded a fuddyduddy mainly, but who was talking about the strong peace element. Hurrah for Dan Schorr, but third night NPR was still more into war. Evil men have attacked God's Sleeping Giant.

In the United States of North America before she was attacked, ignorance was unto itself. On the shelf. Those who like it chose it.

Maybe with all this cash Lyla is laying on me in her reasons, I'll buy the immediate family members all Swiss Army Knives for Xmas. Damn, I hate to shop. Lyla had actually made it upstairs, telling me to be quiet up here during her nap - their sleeping room the Gallery is right under this Deck. Next I was back downstairs letting barking Medicine back inside to get out of this late mosquito swarm. I had been to Walmarts and Lyla asked had I got a watch.

Yeah, I got one for $7.

Oh, son!

Hell, Walmarts and other corporations got these wage-slave factories in other countries!

What?

Thank God for slaves! At least we got slaves!

Well, now, I don't think we should have slaves.

I have been too interrupted to provide the Dear Reader with clear details. Mike Olive said people don't like the U.S. "because we are bigger1n they are." That set my mood poorer and Bix called about Jackson has Dr. Steve trash talking on the front page of TexasGang.com, as if Dr. Steve were Texas Gang. This is in the morning before I've had opportunity to get to my workout to get needed endorphins. Just back from dogwalk and my old injury hurts and my newer the strained right buttock has not repaired that well yet either, in fact not very much since New york, and my nerves are firing. Lyla has said I need to get hold of self before the government locks me up and how would I like it if the terrorists killed Madrea. This from pattern of my coming off hour of dogwalk in pain and sitting thus and turning on C-SPAN to hear the morning call-in show, of crippled minds, and this time something caused me to grumble aloud about something or other. Calmly I have Bix read me this wrecked front page of TexasGang.com done by giant worker and old friend our Jackson Jones, who likes this Dr. Steve, an old friend of his someway, not of us. I had been sending a few postcards to strangers in magazines, strictly cavalier, hardly being a magazine reader but to get the name around a little more, with only TexasGang.com on the postcards. Now, I fear, not only was I wasting postcards and my time but here this blathering drunk is giving TexasGang.com a bad name, turning people off and away. Over phone Bix does this monotone of what the Literate Stranger gets shoved in his or her face before any chance to see anything else at TexasGang.com. What are we girls let's go kill them for killing our rich people at WTC. Something like that but a full page I have not yet seen, and Dr. Steve overwrites like I have never before had to see, see his "disclaimer" printed in LL page 1925, a whisky drunk shooting speed. I theorize it is his tone that amuses Jackson, or, perhaps as he is Jackson's friend he is funnier in person. Dr. Steve does not have substance, to sport about the deaths of thousands in the name of the Texas Gang.

It is like I am trying to read this poem and here is this guy jumping on one leg jacking off.

I like that, chuckles Bill. I'll email Jones that.

Yeh, and tell'im I'd smack the fucker were he in arm's length though not I nor anybody would ever bother to hunt him down.

Mike and Bonnie Olive do not normally read Last Laugh, and not to go into why they might not, but I grant when I get obsessive over a point, and beat on it, certain minds get rattled. Bonnie and Mike have been less interested in the world. They have tried writing "commercial" screen scripts and been put off, especially Bonnie, when I say I hate to read this stuff, yet they push it at me. Bonnie is down here again, and we were getting along OK till I said something about the FBI, and she has met this FBI jerk who "was there" at both Ruby Ridge and Waco and he she says is competent and honest. I said well OK but he is schizoid, for you do not smash a house with a tank that has kids in it. Yes, the image I use, but, amazingly, Bonnie, rearing to become very upset again, said she had never seen this on TV. Can she be so busy, I do not know. I told her I have not hallucinated this. I didn't say you did, she said. Then another of my violent fixations is the more than half a million Iraqi kids who have died slowly since Desert Storm and that bullshit blockade. And Mike not grasping why anger at the U.S. asked me again about my "sources," as to all these dead 1raqi kids. I chanced then to recall indeed in LL is this Geofrey had sent from the BBC, a careful article perhaps as Britian is the only European country now behind the U.S. on this cold blooded blockade which has more really to do with oil. Well, Mike, I said. I have something from the BBC, would that do? He answered, heading into his pile of library books of pulp fiction, the fastest reader alive: I'd have to see it.




9/11/2001

Dear Bill,

I do love Last Laugh even if I don't always make the time to respond. Yeh, I get some big news through the Olive grapevine, as you supposed, but in terms of really having a sense of what's going on in Texas, I basically depend on Last Laugh. Bon and I will exchange emails, occasional phonecalls, but she is always so busy, hardly time to delve into even slightest nuance. I heard about Lyla's hospitalization, even managed a phonecall. Mike was there. Lyla sounded so hearty; so lucid. I do get to feeling distant over here. Somehow I was surprised at how very much still in this world she sounded, brought home to me more what a loss it will be when she does go. I hear Jess has been to Texas a couple times, calls a lot, the good caretaker. While I guess with Daddy Bill the battle is already mostly given up if he is no longer taking food. Ah, it makes me sad. Wondering did I manage to connect with Daddy Bill in significant way up 'till now. I never found large focus for conversation with him, but he has been a good grandfather to me, always jovial when I visit. I guess while Mike, the prodigal son, has come home these last few years to be with the ailing grandparents, I have now become the distant one. The lifestyle here behooves me, but it is a sacrifice. I rationaiize. I have trouble taking it in when I hear that Lyla is in the hospital. I worry over logisitics, how could I swing going home were there a funeral, when I have to be at school. Finally, to call Lyla, to hear her Lylaness, made my heart ache. I want her to live forever, wonder can I find resolution with the process of life and death, when I am so physically removed from it. It's an ache I can't look in the face constantly, must put it aside, let myself get swept up in the daily drama of my working and domestic life. Last Laugh can leave me melancholy at times, too, but I always find much inspiration in it. By abandoning any pursuit of a career in writing for the more profitable, less gut checking teaching life I've delved into here. And mostly giving up reading (manage maybe four or five books a year now) to pursue my Japanese studies, I do get inklings that I'm neglecting a part of myself that I'd been nurturing throughout most of my twenties, but I quickly rationalize it by saying I can't do it all. You have ofien returned in Last Laugh to the idea that the working, civilized world can suck us in and kill our awareness of what is really going on. I do work within a system of restraints here. Don't wear a tie, but do keep clean shaven. I present a fairly studied image in the school environment, push at people's perception only in allowable terms. Is this not the case in most work environments. How many people really practice no distinction between their public and private lives? For the students, just seeing me riding speedily behind their school bus on my way home is enough catalyst to eend their minds racing, to confound their image of what a teacher is. Or in class, if I say that I enjoy thunderstorms, they flnd that radical, exciting. No need to confront them with the image of a long haired, twenty-something me, living in Santa Cruz, working at a bagel shop, ingesting the most powerful mind altering substances I can get ahold of. Am now living with Akiko, who is so open to paradigms she could scarcely have imagined before meeting me, so unjudgemental. She, who came up in the same environment as my students, prompting me to wonder might they be equally open to alternate realities given the space and time to ingest them. Already Akiko has met Bon, in her underwear walking around the house the first night we arrived in LA, a pair of used underwear in her hand as she walks to the washing machine, a memory Akiko remembers clearly. She met Jessica and her girl gang in San Francisco, everyone speaking candidly about sex, lesbianism, mistaken identity in bathrooms. She met Kelly Olive, just in off the plane and searching Jessica's apartment frantically for something with which to fashion a pipe, piece of foil, aluminum can, having been sober since leaving Texas and wanting a toke. She met Kelly Evans, spaced and ranting about whatever his current obsession was at that time. She met Joe, mountain man living in his den, high up in the redwood forests outside Santa Cruz, running over the logs and stones barefoot, a constant grin on his face. All these people and experiences she was able to take in and accept. She loved Joe, thought Kelly Olive very funny, friendly, Jess admirable. She and Bon liked each other at once. I want to bring her home at Christmas, meet the rest of the Olives. I would love for her to meet Lyla, for Lyla to meet her. English overwhelms her if it comes in rushes, if a group of native speakers are all speaking at normal speed, without her ears in mind, but she picks up things, is a good judge of character, was able to see through Joe's unusual exterior, for example, and realize what a kind, thoughtful man he is. With Bon, after seeing her walking around in her underwear, she soon understood she could relax with her, could be her self, need not worry over social convention, whereas with Woody she immediately felt wary about confronting something he said, even when a couple of his observations about Japan did not jive with her opinion. Still, she liked him, he her, just she didn't have that instant relaxed feeling. Her parents came to visit us in the apartment we ve shared since August and I took out some photo albums and there were a couple of the Aransas House, of all the uncles together, you shirtless in the back of the room. They smiled, did not comment. Another picture, of you and Bayless in Texas Gang T-Shirts, looking very big, prompted Akiko's younger sister, who now lives in Germany, most hippy of the bunch, to say, "Ippai." They look full. Guess referring to your mass. Anyway, reading L.L. makes me feel that I have not lost touch with other parts of myself. It reads so fluidly for me, is so familiar. It has value for me and I'm happy you contmue to charge on.

Interesting latest letter with a full page of description of your injuries and current workout routine. I do wonder at why you can barely do 30 pushups anymore. Your gluteal injury sounds like a long, slow healing process, your shoulder too. You say your left deltoid is bigger. My left trapezius has always been bigger than my right, though my right deltoid is a bit stronger. Bodies are not symmetricaL I have also been having trouble with pull-ups lately. Pull-ups have been my standby, was up to twenty to twenty-five at a go when fresh, but now the pain is too great. I can do chin-ups, with the fingers towards my face, hands relatively close together, but the fingers outward, wide grip pull-ups cause a terrible pain under my right arm, between the shoulder and the lat. My new apartment with Akiko is closer to school so I have taken to biking to school everyday. If I push hard, it takes 30 minutes each way. Good to get regular, daily dose of aerobic.

Reading An Anthropologist on Mars now by Oliver Sacks. Five case studies on people with different anomalies from Thurette's Syndrome to Color Blindness. Really interesting. He also wrote Awakening, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, others. You familiar with him?

Am curious to hear Shade wrote you a letter. Will you put it in Last Laugh? Glad to hear he is intellectual, has taken an interest in you. I am curious about him; have never really had discussion with him since he was a kid. What's his scene in New York like?

Gotta eat some lunch. Am on my lunch break now.

Thanks for the Last Laugh and letter. Am really missing the family lately. love,
Geof

PS ON THE ENVELOPE:
Bill,
Tried to send this the day before the terrorist bombing in New Youk but it was returned to me so am sending it again. Saw second WTC building get smashed and both towers fall on live TV. Be curious to hear your impressions. I will write on Japanese perspective in next letter.
Geof




Mike 0live is proposing that people put $2O into a pot for a bet on who is next in our circle of oldest friends to die. Nancy Vaughn thinks this insensitive but Mike postulates it should be beneficial for whomever selected, for the subject then ought to improve habits. Mike says all gentlemen could agree to pay up when they lose on death of a subject, or, as he thinks better, have the pot of twenties already in a bank collecting interest. Mike was telling me Steve Vaughn offers that Tiddle is maybe next, who while he releases tension drinks a lot of vodka every night, but Mike is now thinking maybe Rodney, who peddles his bike very much and rarely drinks and has a house overflowing with heaps of garbage, and who lost his career in pharmacy because of his craving for opiates, same while he has not nerve to seek opiates elsewhere, who has repressed tension and secret thoughts, who regardless his bicycling has had one stroke and bypass operation already. I answered Mike I had not exactly thought about this, and am not a gambling man, but as I think on it, it is sounding like possibly not a bad idea. Maybe I can think of somebody and toss in $20. I don't know, it is a hard one to call.

Possibly, 01d Dave in New Mexico, who has a disorientating malady the M.D.s call "shrinking brain syndrome."

Dave, brother of our late Rattlesnake Dan, had re. LLe been visiting me in New Mexico and driving to the Coastal Bend and up and down with some money he had then, and he was a little fuzzy at times, in his plan to get with a couple of shrinks he knew to help him get SSI for an exotic brain virus he had contacted in the tropics, Guatamala, in his study of the ancient Mayans. At Port Aransas he fell off a bicycle, and he left a broken car on property of the Angler Courts, which angered the property owner, Dave's blood brother he once defended and provided escape for and took a beating for in New Mexico, Tiddle Caylor. Not to bring up past life, let me say Tiddle's all time movie hero was James Dean in GIANT, before the poor bastard gets property. Tiddle's mother used to tell him never let these roudy sorts get away with anything.

Tiddle does not have fine clarity in the daytime these days, big gut sweating as he trims pepper plants, and the jungle is reclaiming. Dave purchased an old truck one block over named RUST NEVER SLEEPS and got back to New Mexico and wife Sherry and when Tiddle heard he has shrinking brain syndrome Tiddle said: Good.

Bix has been supposed to write about his and Hatch's drive out to New Mexico this past year to see Dave and Sherry and their three adult daughters, but has not got to it. 1t is a good story, about Hatch, too. Dave is a kind of guy who reads old newspapers, and I've been sending Last Laugh and Saunder's clippings and a batch of newspaper articles on drugs or Mexico or Columbia and so forth which John Brundrett has clipped out for me. Being that Dave has become more fragmented and less physically coordinated, I have advised he get a source for LSD. Now he is getting his SSI and living in a house for the incapacitated in Taos. We have all experienced LSD, primarily recreationally actually, but I remained the apostle. Psychedelics are of man's affecting his destiny. Any purer psychedelics has its personal offering, and the plant peyote is in my experience choice. But, for bodily regathering, LSD, these micrograms of the high of flight or fight, impossible to detect in drug testing, as it is gone through the wet of one's palms even if one does not piss, in an hour, sets off body and mind on its own. This is the catalyst to give the calmer Olympic athlete prowess. I guess, hard to say, they have not realised inside all the governmental panic how simple this greatest performance enhancing drug. Or should we not be otherwise seeing the tenth athlete, runner, polo player or what not on the field, get introspective or creative or forget what is in schedule? The tenth guy?

Camping with Rattlesnake Dan McConchie in a snowstorm in 1967, I had fun using a hatchet keeping the fire going all night. I would take a breather, admire a myriad of multi colored snowflakes down a shaft. A hippie on LSD, what else is there. There would be Dan in air over set-uptree limbs, smash whith his boots. Coordinate, boots in air equally. One just about has to be a hippie to know. Switch to fast motion or slow. I am born with some ambidextrous tendency, camped out much and frequently did use a hatchet in left arm three or four strokes to ease the right arm, but in one snow storm I was equally good with either arm, and still am. I can today use the hatchet in my left hand easily as in my right. My left arm was that good the "sober" morning after, or was it somewhere in the next day, whatever.

I am trying to do my part for old Dave.

LSD molded my youthful muscles, but I need to get some more. It does not tend to come through middle aged hippie circles since crack. I know it is around, but for example decent marijuana requires a lot of cash. Coke and smack go to the mob. This is where the money is.

Ecstacy is OK, and crank is back, whatever, September 17 my birthday of 1940 my killer dog and I look at the Gulf of Mexico and dusk, fishing people couple hundred yards down beach are gathering to go home. Wine merges with the Gulf. In my rear view mirror I study this odd erosion on the outside of some of my teeth, more in lower teeth, more jaw teeth. I am a man, ancient. I have strong yellow teeth. This erosion is not black cavities, but mysteriously a cleaner erosion. What to do here. Can my strong yellow teeth in their weird erosion last me one hundred years more? 100 years further. Ah, the math is not bad. Too, I might encounter a right herb.

Oh, yes, Dear Reader, crank is the most quickly damaging, let me say that. Cheap, very interesting what by now shall it do to the mob. But, ecstacy is OK, for the healthier child who drinks plenty water.

Trust me.

Cabernet Sauvignon mixes with the warm Gulf toward high noon. Sam Dixon's brother Roger re. LL who was directing the international project of studying Dark Matter said to me over at my New Mexico neighbor Sam's: The further out with Hubble scientists are studying, physics as we know physics are working for us less. Sam even said to me his brother wonders can the Grays be coming through the tunnels, "worm holes."

Blackolive: We might ought to be much the image of God. When I say cabernet sauvignon mixes with the Gulf, it surely does.

This very small sand crab high noon is pulling this quarter skin of avacado toward its hole, where it cannot fit. What might this mean?

When yesterday and my birthday I pulled out of the Brownrats (yes, a true brown rat eats cinamon roles on their table, rat, larger than mouse), I saw Tiddle up Brundrett Street collecting and wheelbarrowing pepper plant cuttings in the heat, shirt off, big gut, drinks vodka every night, the jungle reclaiming, the jungle is reclaiming the old Brundrett house and the Angler Courts and in-between, john Brundrett's home, consisting of once two Angler cottages hurricane blown over decades back, Tiddle let his good buddy John who can do anything upright them and fix them into his home, back of which is the biggest grove of pepper plants sheltering racoons.

I pointed the truck for the beach and fun, before the famous killer dog lay down on his part of the seat. What should be our repartee with the talented funny man while Medicine and I pass on. But Tiddle turned his back, directing his wheelbarrow up his driveway. I shouted clearly in high school style, one speaks the phrase twice, I believe Tiddle firstly had done this then Mike and others of us took it up, like to be heard inside much chatter: Sweat is good! Sweat is good!

In my mirror, I watched him turn at me cross, acting that he had not got my context I guess.

September 18 I had concluded to only do 25 minutes of 6 sets of 20 alternating arms 50 lb. dumbbell presses, other words in a set ten repetitions per arthritic shoulder. But then I did do a quickie non-stop 3 sets curls bent over off the chest - an odder one I got into a decade back, I curl easier off the chest, but people are different. Then I went into the surf and churned a bit, bit of upper triceps and latissimus dorsi. I am a poor swimmer but can keep afloat. Being I had in fact this time done the dumbbell presses easier than anytime since getting my nifty fifty pounders more than a half year ago, I excused my mind for another bottle of wine, piled things to hit the island highway for Port Aransas, cabernet sauvignon by Vendange of California, 1.5 litter of 12.5%. I am calling this medium quality, because though it is cheap as decent beer the bottle does have a cork in it. what do I know, from working class and I had too much mind for toil and I observed both homemade wine and homemade beer are good as expensive stuff that workers in the United States do not get, because they have to sit at their box and be sold Budweiser and crap, leaves them no time to make their own if they plan for any six hours sleep. Me, I have been too scurried to live somewhere long enough to learn how to make my own, outlaw. That any aborigines before conquest ever had to spend even a quarter of their time getting food is propaganda of conquerers with their priests. I resound in the chatter. Man, we just got a lot of room on this beach this day.



The morning of September 11, 2001 hosted four long range Boeing aircraft fueled for cross-continental flight hijacked by Islamic terrorists. Two were flown into New York's World Trade Center twin towers, eventually collapsing both 110-story mammoth edifices and killing on the order of 10,000 civilians, plus ancillary damage. Impacts were 200,000+ lbs at a speed of 300-350 mph. (30,000+ lbs of Jet A1 aviation kerosene were in each plane, with an energy content above 42.8 megajoules/kg compared to 15.0 MJ/kg for TNT, noting that issues such as flame speed, detonation velocity rates... distinguish between fuels and explosives.) One hijacked plane took out a wedge of the Pentagon, awarding our potbellied military undeserved promotion opportunities. The fourth plane crashed into a Pennsylvania field after its passengers invested the price of freedom.

DO YOU THINK IT IS OVER? Political theatre demands a second hit encore. The first hit was a clean punch; the second will be ignominy. Washington capons are counterattacking with words. It will never stop.

Media onslaught was immediate. Calls for closure and healing oozed from talking heads as smoke billowed into Manhattan skies. We endured 24-hour bleating across 100 TV channels. President George the Second whined about the "walking through the valley of death." Not a single call for rebuilding the towers (higher than Petronas Towers!) was heard. America rallied as one and stuck its collective thumb up its butt. A bully stomped into the grade school playground. We were shaken down for our lunch money and ran home crying. Alas, both Mom and Dad have to work full time supporting their family against the jackbooted State compassion of income redistribution. Nobody was home.

Is America nothing but little girls? Have a good cry, buy a new dress, and eat some chocolate. Put makeup over black eyes. Learn to live within an abusive relationship. Seek counseling.

Our leaders do not care if we are killed, even by the offhand tens of thousands. We the people don't mean squat to them (except on election days - and those are negotiable). They prefer intimate relations with Arabs and their money. American leaders in government and business are the Arabs (the Bush family triumphantly visiting after a minor contretemps in Kuwait to sign private oil agreements), or so they thought.

World Trade Center towers weren't merely filled with "we the people." Royalty occupied penthouse suites. There were sons and daughters of moneyed and powerfiil hereditary elite, high-ranking military officers, politicians and their street enforcers in those buildings. The most expensive real estate on the planet is dog meat. Terrorists destroyed property of kings and killed people who matter: the loved ones of the people who control this country and some of those people themselves.

Parade ground officers in the Pentagon met their mortalities. Billion-dollar insurance companies are into it for fat trillion-dollar liabilities. True monarchs of America are displeased and frightened. It is a good start.

Had Islam pursued the IRS, BATF, or Hyannisport, the bloody swagger might have made Page 3. Detached effete elite who own and run America would have stood up and blustered, called for justice, and swept it all under the rug with a few arrests and kangaroo court trials. This isn't World War II seeking to grab IG Farben's patents with a camouflage show of social conscience. This time, THEY got hit.

These guys DO have big brass balls. They own and control the civilized world with an iron hand. Martyr-loving imbecile Islam faces a sworn enemy of unlimited power capable of wreaking inconceivable reprisal without a fleeting thought of remorse. Top management deals destruction and even death on a daily basis, and has no trouble sleeping soundly at night. The folks in unlisted clubs are merciless and cruel and vengeful and capable of levels of rage that crush whole nations as grist. You challenge the elite within chivalrous ethics of conflict. You do not kill their children. You do not expunge their real estate. You do not bum their bank accounts. They are not looking for prisoners.

History is definitive. You do not attempt regicide unless you can make it stick. Islam is dead. Do the little people in elected public office have the balls to follow demands of their owners? Ask instead, "do they have the balls to disobey?" Japanese sought a death stroke against America on December 7, 1941. By mid-1945, General Curtis LeMay had roasted every Japanese city save a handful reserved for denouement (and the temple city of Kyoto, ruled off limits). The Japanese sustained an enthusiastic appetite for conflict that could have been sustained by a monotonically decreasing populace for 40 years. Demonstrations at Hiroshima and Nagasaki provided an attitude adjustrnent. Dr. Steve bets Islam is open to discussion after we gift the object of our displeasure with thermonuclear vitrification of each and all of its cities.

"Civis Romanus sum!" "I am a citizen of Rome!" was not an idle boast. Harm a single Roman citizen and lose your country to Rome's Legions. There will be honorable rules of conflict or we will crush our enemies and move on - or we will fail as men and be destroyed by our betters. Counsel that, girly men.

Dr. Steve



When I finally saw Dr. Steve?s latest page at TexasGang.com, which Bix had printed out for me over in Fulton, I became sorry to have given great Jackson a hard time, via one of my pack of notes, for here Dr. Steve is less drunken blather than trying for I suppose some kind of dry wit. I am just no good listening to anything, alway need to view the page. Bix says Jack says his computer did it not him.

I come in from Aransas Pass and Jim is unsocial till seeing I have an 18 pack of Red Dog for him. Before one sip he tells me of drinking their cousin's Xmas gift. By the front doorway back of the room's two couches is this short, third couch, hardly used though directly faces TV just far back. It has held since Xmas several wrapped gifts for some cousins who were expected to have visited and did not or if did then Bob forgot. One gift was a 1.5 litter bottle of CAWARRA SHIRAS, cabernet of 1999 13 percent, cost around $9 said Bob. Jim says Robert was upset he got it while he and son Bobby were out on their property up the mainland, shooting doves. now cheerfully before uno sip, repititious , pops first metallic brew, Jim be talking, I said, Robert, this is not a felony, this is a misdemeanor.

Lyla is healing and starting to walk and pick up the trailer trash on our road. She is ever again prompting up B.E. It begins to look to me he may make Xmas. ATTACK ON AMERICA has not registered with him at this time.

Right after LL #CLI, I had taken more pleasant attitude, had paused I might be "a dangerous looking guy on a bicycle with a killer dog", but am not truly "ragged." Only that I wear sleeveless old ragged shirts in summer. AItually, i look great. Ann Seaman had mocked she does not know why I can't pull in some "rich beautiful intellectual woman between ages 30 and 40," but I know why really. I am of course too severe and most intellectual well-heeled georgeous women are intimidated, of which too there are few in Port Aransas, just off the scared mainland anyway, and hell, more scared than Aransas Pass, that is redneck, and rednecks are fearless. Culture is a funny thing. Redneck women think I use big words and don't like country music. Maybe in Denmark, Italy, but I'll not go abroad with Medicine Dog. And not much to be done for it, too.

Culture is a funny thing. After ATTACK ON AMERICA~ I lean back on previous analysis: In the land of lies and pretense, schizoprenia had long gone normal. Citizens pretend schizoprenia is not normal in the United States of North America. A11 this flag waving about shock, the reality has long been U.S. consumers are fearing the apocalyptic. Perhaps this has been muchly since citizens cheered our government for A-bombing the japanese civilians. Any strain of common sense pointed out the Japanese had already been crushed. They were cut off and starving and fire bombed and terrified. Gore Vidal in his latest VANITY FAIR article brings it up, the Japanese government before the A-bombing had been attempting to surrender. I am taken to have lately heard a quote from Churchill, something about sometimes truth has to be sheltered in a coating of lies....Wha? ralk about some drunk twists.

However, slavery of human beings was as great a denial in hell. This is how the U.S. and its presidents began. Washington and Jefferson owned the bodies of human beings. After the emancipation, consciously or unconsciously while very strongly, mixing of races was discouraged by our rulers. Rulers fear for their ruled to think. To even question myth of Washington and Jefferson. People will in time mix, but in the United States of North America the nudging fear from top on down clear into comic books and movies ruled in the twentieth century. See, IT IS A MAD MAD MAD MAD WORLD; comedy in early sixties before hippie upheaval, what a poor turn done to the couple black actors, sad. Very sad, I just happen to catch that one the other night as I have seldom seen movies and Bonnie had this one I had wanted to see because I like Jonathan Winters. But how interesting, historically, socialogically, la de da.

It was simpler for U.S. presidents to give candy and keep a drumming God loves us best.

The dimmest dumbshit human in the United States of North America genetically knows, ever how deeply within, this is some kind of glass house.

Some years, I've been hearing about women in Afghanistan, who were professional people under the Soviets. In their present government they are veiled, repressed, abused. That is that government's weak link. This will fall , within the U.S. government's deeper, bloodier waters.

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