April 22, 2014

The Undead Walks Again

It turns out my domain suspension issue wasn't due to torrents of spam (which remain an issue, comments are suspended until I figure out a fix). I was unaware of this new ICANN protocol requiring verification when renewing one's domain. Lunar Pages has my Velociman email address, which they use for billing, but had sent the verification notice to an AT&T email address I haven't used for 7 years.

So, now that's fixed I suppose I should blog something.

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February 20, 2014

On The Road (Again)

Every post-progressive I've ever known (and by post-progressive, I mean the after-1945 crowd, not the original Marxist progressives who believed the fascist, racist Woodrow Wilson and Margaret Sanger and such were harbinging a new world order of clean humans who would successfully eliminate us of the contaminated negroes, and retards, and other lower orders by dent of abortion, euthanasia, and sterilization. I mean the post-progressives. The Liberals, the fellow-travellers. The accommodationists. The anti-anti-communists. The Beats, the beatniks, the hippies and Yippies, the unilateral disarmorers, the nuclear freezers, the Slavic slaves. I mean these people) seems to consider Jack Kerouac to be some saint, some lodestone, some Jesus. His Beat Generation begat the whole anti-establishment world that has polluted us for three generations.

That's bullshit. Most of these poseurs have never even read Kerouac. He is their God, yet they know not his Word.

Kerouac was not the bubbling volcanic eruption of a world-changing revolution. He was merely a post-war drunk, who understood he could not fit into the next world. He was Frederick Exley. The entire Beat Generation was merely a mockery of the Lost Generation. The writers and poseurs who lived the large life in Paris in the 20's, debasing themselves with liquor and whores whilst they wrote of the rot of Western Civilization. Kerouac wasn't commiserating. He was calling them out.

Yet he is the Godhead of Alternative Life. The Garden of Eden upon our post-progressive world has evolved.

Bullshit. Kerouac wasn't railing against the World, or his distaste for the Mad Men avatar of commercialism. He was railing against himself. He understood he did not fit in. He did not find a future in that hobgoblin world of American exceptionalism. But he always laid the blame upon himself. His friends and colleagues (the Ginsbergs, the Krassners, the Cassadys, the untalented scum) merely glommed upon him. Never have so many with so few talents argued against the capitalist West, while pocketing so many filthy coins. That alone is a tragedy worthy of a book.

Old Kerouac was first and foremost a drunkard and a rather lazy bastard. That is all, and I can relate to it. He was, to his last days, a devout Catholic, and a devotee of binge drinking. I can relate to that, too.

I think Kerouac enjoyed the attention lavished upon him until he died. I doubt he ever found it true. I ain't ever been idolized for tripe work, so I can't say.

Anyway, I wish the Left would find another Jesus. Their current one would no doubt spit upon them.

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February 13, 2014

Happy Valentine's Day, Sir

Tomorrow is the 30th anniversary of the Senator's demise by myocardial infarction. Ye olde heart attack, which I have experienced first hand, and don't wish upon anyone. It's always ironic and a bit forsakening when I see all the hearts on valentines this day of the year. Almost as if I were being mocked. But that certainly isn't true. That's just the dumb creditation of the wounded.

I believe over the years I have portrayed my father as a bit of an angrist. A mean fellow, wont to cruelty. This is not so. Beleaguered? Yes. Overwhelmed by five children? Possibly. He could be a bit of the curt asshole. But he was chewing a mighty cud. That's a lot of responsibility.

I actually remember most the great guffaws of laughter, the ability to find humor in the quotidian, the great driving desire that we learn, learn, learn. The expositions on the human condition. The bear hugs. The playing gorilla. He was a fucking fearsome gorilla. He was a great, awesome, larger than life father.

For a man with a 16 hour a day law practice and a 5 hour a day drinking habit he always found the time to be The Old Man. That is toil. I tried to be a better dad, in certain ways. Not sure I did, and I can't make that call anyway. We all fall short.

I miss the Senator. Wish I could give him some damned poetry tomorrow. I actually have something written. I'm going to read it aloud to the winds. If he's as almighty as he told me he was he'll hear it. That's good enough for me.

And that's the true irony: I see all these Valentine hearts, and they are wonderful. My dad had a heart almost big enough for the world, but far too big for him.

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February 12, 2014

The Naked Ape

As a fatalist I am rather remiss in my physician visits. I generally attend when I have no choice. This is bad habit, indeed, but I am a creature of bad habits.

I mention this because I had begun to exhibit a crupulescent growth upon the back of my hand. Said growth not reaching an escrescent state, and mercifully subsiding at times, but also ebbing and flowing upon a tidal force known only to itself. It had, terribly, become a Thing.

I treated this thing like any oddity: massive amounts of bandages and triple antibiotic creams. It would go away, I imported. It would wither and die I said, perforce.

I have the Sinew of Achilles, the Oomph of Ajax. I am the goddamighty offspring of Homer. Nothing happens to Me. My body is blessed. Sez I.

Well, until it ain't. This curse of Zeus would not go away. I finally went to the dermatologist, convinced I had some manner of basal cell carcinoma, or something. Wild Squamous Cells! A disease bolting from my hand to my armpit to my gizzards, like a John Carpenter nightmare. Nay! I Sez. My second Sez. I ain't going out that way.

It turned out to be a "wartish growth" according to my doc. She jammed several cc's of procaine in my hand and commenced to slice it off. Not just skin deep. Oh, Lordy no. She proceeded to dig deep, below the epidermis, below the subcutaneous stuff, down to the very magma of my body. And indeed I was rewarded with a tiny volcano. My wrist were Herculaneum.

Anyway, it's always good to have those squamousy things attended to. She also did me a huge and froze some dozen things offen my face. A few age spots, a bump, and several microscopic things she could only see with her jeweler's loupe. $220. Sidebar transaction. Screw Obamacare. The future is concierge services, and I shall look like Paul Newman again in a few days.

Also: stay out of the sun. Do not spend your youth lolling about in speedboats off the Georgia coast, succumbed to alcohol and maryjane. You're just going to end up enduring the woodburning kit down the road. And we all want to look like Paul Newman. Except the ladies. They want to look like Robert Redford.

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February 11, 2014

Dogs and Thieves

I don't put too much truck into a canine that likes me. Most seem to. But, then, we've bred them to the bit over the millennia, so my self-congratulation goes only so far.

Having said that, at least I know when I approach a dog if he is a good boy or a dangerous beast. A dog who don't like you will have the decency of advertising that fact. Therefore even a dangerous, mean dog is, in his own way, a good boy. If he doesn't like your sorry ass he will let you know he intends to bite your sorry ass. It might be your posture, it might be your odor, it might be the vibe you exude that translates into "shithead" to him. Fair enough.

We more advanced creatures eschew such courtesies. We are lesser, weaker beasts. We don't telegraph the goddam bite, and we often employ other beasts to do our biting for us.

We weren't bred to be the loyal pup. We were bred as survivors. Now, we can become good creatures, but it takes hard, hard work. Most of us have mastered that hard, hard work by fifth grade or so. Our parents, our teachers, our mentors have taught us, and we have mastered the hard, hard work of being a giver, a carer, a nurturer, a lover.

I reckon it takes a human twelve years to learn what a dog learns in six months.

Some of us never learn, of course. I find it easy to point the finger at politicians, but let us cast a wider, more appropriate net. Say, bureaucratic functioning entities. The bureaucratic functioning entity wags his tail, rubs agin you, slavers his love upon your leg. Insists, entreats, that you love him. And as you caress the dog's head you are impelled, as a person who unknowingly committed the hard, hard work, to rub that viper's nod.

It never ends well. When a politico or his minions begin the speaking in tongues of compassion, and sharing, and love, I reach for my wallet and knife. It ain't ordinate, and I find the spectacle of a human who can't even rise to the level of a bad dog risible. They intend to steal from you, of course. By any means available. Theft is the Bitcoin of the Realm of the kleptocracy formerly known as our government. The Federal Register is merely a compendium of the acting orders. Whatever the thief forgets is addressed by executive fiat.

A bitch will put her runt down. A compassionate human will put a fatally flawed dog down. It isn't fun, but it's compassionate. I cast a very jaundiced eye upon the greater DC area, and perceive crippled souls. Runt dogs. Sometimes it's time to do the humane thing, and let the healthy puppies live.

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January 30, 2014

The Court Requires Its Jesters

Much ballyhooing from the right over the hatred and racist projection from MSNBC of late. From Baldwin to Bashir to Harris-Perry to unknown tweeters, the cable station has been on a roll. And I understand the vituperation from conservatives for unwarranted claims of racism.

Having poked my nose under a sideshow tent or two, however, I don't give it much stock. There is no such thing as what we knew in our childhood as News, anymore, anyway. It is show business. It is a roped-off arena of slightly-rancid lard, populated by soulless grapplers; an argle-bargle of nose-biters, nut-pinchers, titty-twisters, hair-pullers, eye-gougers, ear-pullers, nostril-rippers, anus-jammers, and face-spitters. It is what credentialed Ivy-Leaguers perform upon each other in lieu of fisticuffs or pile-drivers.

It is Harvard and Oxbridge on the Mid-South Wrestling Circuit, circa 1953. It is Ed Schultz as Leroy McGuirk. Alec Baldwin as Killer Kowalski. It's show business with a well-choreographed script, and to see it as anything else is to be, well, the duped. Only they call it the target market these days.

I do not resent MSNBC any more than I favor Fox News. The script is writ, the players know their lines. MSNBC is the current Bad Boy, the guy who clips you from behind with a chair, who thumbs your eye, who farts in your face when you're pinned. Fox is the perennial Pauline, forever tied to the railroad tracks, crying foul. CNN? They're the fucking untrustworthy Gypsy, not essential to the plot. Comic relief. Just don't leave your babies unattended around them. Those Roma will steal them and raise them as pickpockets and grifters. That is CNN's entire contribution to the scenario.

I don't believe I have ever been completely, emotionally invested in anything I have seen on film or television since I saw fifty fearsome black savages chasing Jock Mahoney's Tarzan through Darkest Africa when I was six. It was terrifying at the time. Cannibalism had been intimated. I eventually realized Tarzan always escapes, and I had been played. I was the mark. Think of it that way.

So the court needs its jesters. The script is wrote out, the actors are in place. What the indolent elite need is an audience. What they crave is an audience. Without an audience they are mere simulacrums of themselves. Shadow boxers and dilettantes.

Don't give it to them. Any of them. I know faux outrage when I see it, and I know a cheap shot to the groin when I see it. Don't buy into this jester's performance. Punch will always beat Judy, Judy will always beat Punch. They just want your nickel beforehand. It's choreography. It's Esther Williams swimming in the amniotic fluid of our slack-jawed credulity.

Keep your nickel, and cast a jaundiced eye. I watch the news for the same reason I on rare occasion sample a bit of pornography: to experience the state-of-the-art, as dispassionately as I can muster. It always disappoints, of course, but that in itself is a victory. Both media deploy beautiful smiles and pert nipples, after all. Only the credentials and wage scales vary.

Just remember: you are the mark, and Tarzan always gets away. Everything else is fraud and smoke and mirrors. And, of course, that damned nickel they covet. Keep your nickel, and read Pravda if you want anything approaching the truth.

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January 29, 2014

An Odor of Contempt

I'm not sure why reading William Faulkner makes me ponder the freakish Gantry that is Barack Obama, but there it is, and it's my cross to bear. Perhaps it's the layers of perversion, or the unwilling suspension of disbelief. But when I am absorbed in Billy I keep coming back to the carnival barker in the capital.

Here's a thing: The Hamlet. Faulkner's first novel in the Snopes trilogy. Now, it has the usual Faulknerian tropes: an idiot manchild, sexual congress with barnyard animals, disgusting usurious white trash. Fair enough. That's what I paid for.

But it also has Eula. A girl, as Faulkner said, who must have passed puberty as a foetus. At 8 years of age she looked 14, at 14 she looked a woman of 30. Pure unfiltered fecundity, and not a clue as to what she was. Boys lined up on her father's fence rails for years just to glimpse her. Her own teacher would smell her desk seat after classes. And she oblivious to it all, uninterested in sex, or boys, or the natural order of things. Just ready to jab a fellow in the jaw for trying to paw her. Kick his ass. Not because she thought it was wrong, because she was completely oblivious to it all. It was just a pain in her ass. Not retarded, just disinterested.

This turn of events got me to thinking of the body politick, the moribund but fecund underbelly of the American populace. Our soft spot. Our fragrant Must Have. We are Eula Varner. Not retarded, not idiot manchildren (the idiot manchild was a Snopes) but disinterested. As a caucus oblivious to what is done to us. We simply take the pawing, and the wolf whistles, and the boys hanging on the fence post beating each other senseless because they have no other outlet for their primal urges. We are oblivious that as a nation we are ample of bosom and long of thigh, that we exude crude pheremones that drive Takers wild.

Our current public servant extreme is not disinterested, however. Not he. He is the teacher, the professor, who sniffs that goddamned seat after hours, who cradles his cheek in the warmth that just escaped his grasp. He covets, and he lusts, without ration or reason, for the ample bosom, the long, unblemished thigh. The boys beating themselves senseless at the fence rail are his minions, or cohorts, too. They crave the delicious, unspoiled peach as well.

I decline to spoil a plot, but there are only so many sharp elbows a fecund inattentive thing can throw before she finds herself in a damned dark alley, so to speak. Being disinterested in a royal rogering doesn't mean it ain't gonna happen. The question is do you fight it or embrace it in resignation.

We body politick are, collectively, a fucking sexy thing. Ripe for the taking. We reek those peculiar political pheromones that make the progressive come turgid. Wealth, opportunity, assets are aphrodisiacs to these fence railing bastards. They don't crave the assets, however. They crave the control. Like rapers, who can't get an erection without a sock in somebody's mouth. Your assets are certainly evocative, but they aren't worth having without a fucking sock in your mouth.

We are Eula Varner. Dumb, innocent, exuding that strangest of amalgams, a fecundity of wealth. These boys will have it allowed. Like a Nazi or Soviet soldier on a Polish peasant we will be fucked. With no malice aforethought on their part. We just are what we are. And we will remember the contempt long after the deed.

Wish I were joking. Sho now.

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December 24, 2013

Yuletide

For some reason Beethoven's symphonies are the ultimate Christmas music for me. I hope everyone has a safe and happy Christmas. Bury a hatchet. Mend a fence. Milk a goat. Count your blessings. Remind yourself you are blessed.


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August 26, 2013

Hit That Ball, Claudell!

My daughters are 25 and 20. The most magnificent creatures God has ever gifted the Earth with. Neither is named Claudelle. Although, when my wife was pregnant, I was emphatic, both times, that she be named Claudelle. Why? Well, hellfire. I am a Kimberleigh, for crying out loud. I figured if a girl could handle the name Claudelle she could conquer the world. It's perfect white trash cracker. The antithesis of the growing Caitlaiyn and Joshua movements. I wanted to give my beautiful children white trash names. Toughen the glove leather, so to speak.

It gets deeper, and uglier. There was a baseball player for the Braves at the time. Claudell Washington. This Negro could hit, field, and run. He was what we called OUR n****r. I would sometimes cop off work and catch an afternoon game, and the black women would be in the crowd: Hit that ball, Claudell! Very inspiring. He was The Man.

It gets darker still. Erskine Caldwell, of Tobacco Road fame, wrote a novel called Claudelle Inglishe. About a poor girl who had the temerity to get raped by her boss, and therefore had her face slashed by the bosses' wife. I believe I own the only extant copy of that depraved novel. But it's kind of what I do.

So: no daughters named Claudelle, no current Major League Baseball players named Claudell, we just seem to be in a world of hurt here.

I'm moving to Texas. Perhaps I'll buy a dog. Smart money on the naming would be, I don't know, Claudell. I hope he can field grounders.

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August 6, 2013

A Brief Essay on Sports

The Senator used to refer to his favorite people in two terms: Cobbtown Sports, and Dirt Road Sports. They were not entirely mutually exclusive, but nearly so.

The Cobbtown Sport was a friend, a pal, who was a great running buddy, a bit of a swell, and a stand up guy. Someone who (generally) always had your back. Someone of your social status, and likely imbibing habits. One could expect a Cobbtown Sport to bail you out of a nefarious small-town Georgia jail, given his connections, just as you could reciprocate with him. No one ever lost eyeballs in those days, and the local policia were generally pleased with the graft/bail. I've had two such experiences with Cobbtown Sports in Georgia hoosegows.

The genesis of the term is a puzzlement. There is indeed a small town in middle Georgia called Cobbtown, and I've seen newspaper accounts of a semi-pro baseball team there in the '20's and '30's named the Cobbtown Sports. But this is chicken and egg territory. I presume no knowledge of the actual hatching of the term.

A Dirt Road Sport, now, that is more complicated. That creature can be male or female. Usually female. But an example of a male Dirt Road Sport is a guy you like to run with, drink with, possibly/always whore with, that wasn't quite up to Cobbtown standards. Or social status. But a good guy who (generally) had your back. But perhaps unbathed at times, and reeking of cheap pipe tobacco.

The female Dirt Road Sport Girl was a breed quite apart. A good girl, or marginally good girl, who would let you circle the 1940's bases like Ted Fucking Williams. A somewhat rare, and therefore coveted beast. And do not tell me all girls did that too back then. That simply isn't true.

Case in point: after two weeks of marriage the Senator had to go to his new in-laws and demand of them "What the Hell is going on here? She's been locked in the bedroom for two weeks!" Now, as the fourth of five children I am certainly glad they worked out the issues, but caveat: doesn't make my mother a Dirt Road Sport.

Generalizations are like generals: overblown and often wrong. But if you have to have a crude working knowledge of friendship and sex, and who your time is well spent with, the binary Cobbtown Sport/Dirt Road Sport is a good rule of thumb. And be careful with that thumb.

Here endeth the only sex education my father gave me, through observation. With no control group. No null hypothesis. Still the plumb line of my soul.

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