|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:)
• 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:
By Mary Judson
South Jetty EditorThe 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.
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,
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.