Post something you've written....

[WillParkinson]

Something to make us laugh or make us smile or make us think. Just something you've put thought and heart into.

Mine:

TURN THE PAGE
By Will

Our lives they read like a book
Chances taken or forsook
Page by page they drift on
But once they're turned they are gone.

We can't turn back, not you or me
and are only left with memory.
A chance was offered but you turned away
You figured there'd be another day

The books pages number so very few
How they read is up to you
How long it will be no one knows
Before the cover starts to close.

When your book draws near it's final page
Will your heart be filled with rage
Will you rant and rave and shake your fist
Over chances taken and chances missed...

[wildhorses]

1. the scorekeeper

funny
how the sun plays
tag with the moon
and keeps the score
by the lines
on my face...

[rbnyc]

2. Sunlight

Sunlight


-3.


Sunlight. Just a plain beam. The window is dusty and greasy at the same time. The rays penetrate. They do their bright physics on the counter top. Crumbs seam clean. It all seams cleaner when the sun is in the kitchen.

Her hands are small. The big screwdriver makes her feel six, though she understands, masters the simple thing she is doing. She removes four tiny screws. She replaces the battery in a worn echo pedal.

The microwave clock says zero. There's not much time. She looks at her watch, the dishes, papers on the table. Time is running ahead of her. It's time to get ready for work.

Ivy drops what she is doing.



-2.



On the other side of the subway the sun is so much lower. Going to work at 5:30 P.M. makes it seem like the sun is in Brooklyn only, at least in the winter. Summer will bring fingers of sun onto the bar and give it that Brooklyn kitchen feeling. Maybe that will be a relief. Maybe that will bring back her enthusiasm for 10th Street Tavern. She is now, nonplussed.

Ivy hates poetry. Hate is a strong word. Is it? What's the use in hating poetry?

There's always someone writing poetry--a busboy or a customer--always writing on something uncustomary, though paper's as plentiful as ice. As they can interrupt themselves to make every twentieth word resplendent, they can interrupt her. She's scraping wax off the bar, she's making things un- sticky, but no, there's the busboy, scrawny, x-junky, made her sick of New York before she even got here. Of course! He's written it on a napkin. Oh, there are just poems. poems everywhere!

"Do you have a minute? This won't take five minutes. Just a second. Do you have a second?"

She says, "Wal--"

Wallace says, "I couldn't get this out of my mind. The words were just flooding. I had to stop. Do you mind? Can I share this with you? Okay. Sunlight--"

"Wallace!" She has stunned him. "Can I tell you something? When you read your poetry to me it feels like you're taking a pint of blood. I don't want to discourage you from writing, just don't share it with me. This is my job. This isn't workshop. I can't explain it any better than that."

"Fine."

The air is dominated by the essence of fried food, a humidity of 100% pure canola oil. She lights a cigarette and is half-surprised not to set the air aflame. Martin, the cook, leans over the service bar, winks and touches one nostril.

"No thank you," she tells him.

She sees he has an empty coffee mug and bends into the cooler for a corona. He hands her the mug and she fills it with beer, below the level of the bar. She chucks the bottle in with the recycling and he retreats.

At booth 33 Wallace is reading his poem to the new waitress. Ivy glares at them while slicing limes. Her jaw hurts. She notices she is grinding her teeth. She exhales. She turns a lime on the cutting board. As she cuts, an ash falls from her cigarette.

"F**k,"she says with the cigarette in her mouth. She looks down at the ash and lime. She looks up and her reflection is there in the window, cigarette hanging, the skin is dark under her eyes. She looks like a drug addict. She looks like she lives in a cellar and eats nothing but cheese curls and snack cakes. She is holding her breath again.

"Ivy!"

"What."

"The kitchen wants beer."



-1.



She has terrible dreams, and yearns for more. She sleeps as late as possible, willing herself back on the scene--to change the ending, to turn and face what pursues. A heroin of this sleepy frontier, she is less eager to involve herself with what is exterior, such as dishes. What are other examples? Laundry. Bathing. Wiping her ass very carefully after a particularly liquid expulsion. This is a harsh characterization of her. This is unforgiving.



0.



There were these honeysuckle bushes, when she was little. They grew against the brick side of a giant alcove which housed the concrete stairs of her apartment building. Honeysuckle leaves have a subtle thickness; they suggest texture without really possessing it and so feel like magic between the thumb and forefinger. Close against the brick wall, little dirt-floor caverns were made by the backside of this row of bushes. It was dark in there. Of course, it was always cool. It was utterly isolated and her favorite place to be. It was calm and there was no possibility that she would be seen.

Later, in High School, she wrote a poem about this place, how there was a patch of violets in this sunless cavity, and how she didn't understand what made them grow, how they turned their heads to an imperceptible sun and grew as though they were in all the light.

That poem won her The Laurel Crown, and title of Poet Laureate for the entire region, which is not just one district, but a whole cluster of districts in Northwestern Illinois.

This made her viable as an applicant to a small liberal arts college that had a particular admissions agenda--to recruit students who will win prestigious awards for Creative Writing.

She'd been very busy having sex in high school and would not have graduated if not for her early acceptance into this celebrated college. She was failing every class, and had failed so many classes in previous years that she didn't have one credit to spare. She needed to pass every class in order to commence.

She went to school on Senior Ditch Day. She went to each class and told each teacher, "I am failing your class because I have not attended and I have not done the work. I did not participate, so I did not learn what was taught. Still, I have a chance to get out of here and go someplace that's better for me--where I will either succeed or fail. Tell me what I have to do, that I can do, that will make you feel good about giving me a D, otherwise I will have to call my admissions counselor and say that I'm sorry I cannot accept your invitation to attend classes in the fall; I have failed high school; I will get my GED and remain a grocery bagger here in Rolling Meadows, Illinois."

Her first year of college, she won the Seymour Prize for her short story, "This is Narcissism in the Present Tense." Her second year, she won the same prize for "More Myths about Me."

She won prizes like these so regularly that it was understood, all others were competing for Second Place. She wore this easily, for she was completely arrogant.

No one can truly escape forgiveness, so why be afraid to say she was a lazy, arrogant, narcissistic sex addict with bad hygiene and a low tolerance for reality--and may still be to this day?



1.



She wakes up with an itchy pain in her lips, like her mouth has fallen asleep. They must be blue. It was a nightmare. She remembers what a friend had disclosed to her-- his fear of a phantom woman with a toothed vagina. Ivy met this woman in her nightmare, tried to enjoy her and was bitten on the mouth. True horror. She feels she may have been wrong to, in her dream, climb through that basement window and crawl upon that naked Spanish woman on the cool concrete floor. Worse, she fears the bite may cause an aversion to behavior like this in future dreams.



2.



Sunday night's side work is the worst. It's because there's no business and plenty of time--plenty of time to pull eight cases of loose bottles out of the reach-in, and invent ways to liberate from its bottom a week's depth of coagulated milk and cranberry juice, scooping it with a rocks glass, soaking it into c-fold towels, as the beer warms and one's ass protrudes. She looks like she's just legs and an ass, like one of those lawn decorations of the fat, quaint woman pulling weeds in her garden.

"Excuse me." A man's voice.

She withdraws from the cooler and turns with a smile which truly says, "You're the reason I am here."

"I hear this place has the best margaritas." He smiles. His hair is thin and showing a lot of scalp. His shoulders are very relaxed. He is possessed of a stillness--he must have been seated for several minutes before saying "excuse me."

"I make the best margaritas," she says.

I make the best margaritas, she thinks. What the hell does that mean? Between me and a syphilitic gorilla, I make the best margaritas. In a world where every other bartender is dripping puss, I make the best margaritas.

"I'm glad." He takes off his glasses and sets them on the bar.

"Let me tell you how you like them," she says. Pause. Smile. "Straight up, very cold, light salt, top shelf."

"That'll work."

She's liberal with the ice as she prepares the drink, but withholds every sliver as she pours. A fog of citrus descends in a tornado pattern in the chilled martini glass.

She tries not to mind the forest of warming bottles that surround her behind the bar, and chooses a task that does not require her to dive headfirst into a tank of slop, pointing her adequate bottom at the face of her paying customer. She polishes the bottles on the call shelf. A splash of well gin on a bar towel makes them practically stellar. She's the Martha Stewart of tasteful bartending.

Martin appears at the service bar, so she goes to him.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

"No, but I will be later."

"I got nice salmon tonight. I save for you."

"Thank you, baby." She smiles. "Did you ask Wallace if he's hungry?"

"I don't care if he is," Martin grumbles. "You look tired. Tired?"

"Maybe." She knows that maybe is a ridiculous answer. She is either tired or she isn't. Can't she assess herself?

Martin sniffs abruptly and puts his hand on his breast pocket. He raises his eyebrows.

"Maybe later," she says.

"Okay, maybe later on. We will be so bored tonight." Martin goes back to the kitchen.

"You do that?" asks the margarita drinker.

"What?" Ivy wets her towel with Crystal Palace and takes down the XO for a shine.

The margarita man puts his hand on his breast pocket, sniffs and points toward the kitchen with his eyes.

"Not really." Ivy knows that not really is another ridiculous answer.

"Not as a general rule," she says and this is worse.

"Well," he begins. Now he turns his head toward the door. She thinks that he's given up on her. "Does that mean, sometimes?" He's chewing a stir stick, head still turned.

Ivy leans toward him. She waits for him to face her. "I don't know what that means," she says. "I think I'm going insane."

"That's not a problem," he smiles. He sips his drink. "I mean don't be alarmed. Really, that's a good first step."

"A first step toward what?" she asks him. The beer is an ever-warming obstacle course behind the bar. She will continue cleaning the cooler in a few minutes, she decides, feeling that she is an ass on sticks one way or the other.

"I bet it drove you nuts," he says, "when you were a kid and everyone told you that you're problem is that you think too much."

"You're right." She's not surprised. It's an easy thing to guess.

"You thought, what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Is that some kind of advice? Am I supposed to think less?"

"I did think all those things. But, somehow I took their advice anyway."

"Most people think less than when they were children. Especially in their twenties," he winks.

"I'm in my thirties."

"Oh, well then." He pushes his empty glass toward her. "I'll take another one like this."

"Still," he continues, "you have a nasty monologue going on in your head. Don't ask how I can tell. It's what the self- help people call stinkin' thinkin' and there's something to it. Your problem isn't that you think too much, it's that you think too much crap--no offense. Take fruits and vegetables, for instance. As long as they're not contaminated with some horrible industrial toxins, you can eat as much as you want. You really can't eat too many fruits and vegetables. But you can certainly eat too much crap."

She just stares at him. She thinks what he says is true. She doesn't wonder what gave her away because she thinks it's obvious that she's not quite right.

"You're mean to yourself, inside your head--that's what I'm saying. I am being very presumptuous," he tells her. "But what's the risk in being presumptuous? I could be wrong, that's all."

"I agree with you." She presents his second margarita. "So," she tries to sound appealing, "tell me more about me."

"No," he says, modestly. "You tell me something about me."

"You're 46. You're a Pisces. You weigh 185 lbs. You have never been married, but you have been engaged. You're bisexual. You're parents are divorced. You live far away from the rest of your family. You love the arts, but you don't work in the arts. You work in a field that you consider to be relatively benign, which provides you with means without encroaching on your real life, your private life. You're probably a writer. You have an unfinished screenplay under your bed."

"Well, it's a stage play. It's in my bottom dresser drawer. I weigh 180 lbs and my parents never divorced, but my mother passed away." He sips. "The rest is true."

"Really," Ivy smiles. "A stage play?"

He nods.

"I love the theatre," she says. "That's why I never go."

He laughs. "That's a good one." He looks far away and his voice falls, "That's very good." He drifts.



3.



Ivy takes her shoes off in the hall. She wears white socks to work. Someone once told her that white socks don't get as stinky as dark socks. This made no sense to her, but she's worn white socks to work ever since.

There is so much to do now. She has to get her key into the door. She has to open the door. She has to take off her coat, hang up her bag, feed the cats. She has to pee, check the voice mail. All of this burdens her, eats time and stands between Ivy and her loves--the window seat, her guitar, her ashtray, lighter and her cigarettes.

The metal gate is pulled down over the entrance to the bodega across the street. There is the squawk of a garbage truck down the street, the faded howl of speeding cars displacing air along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, and rustling of her troublemaker cats in the kitchen. The room is smokey, dim and cool. She exhales.

Her fingers are like perfect teenage gymnasts. They stretch, contort, hold, flip and land square on the neck of her guitar. How can you expect it of little children, yet they love the strength, the power, the control. They make it look so easy. They have squeezed and tightened and pushed on effort until it is an invisible thing. All that's left is music.

She plays until the sun comes up.



©1999 R. Bouchard

[rbnyc]

40. It SEEMS I don't know how to spell!

Crap! Too late to edit!

[swag]

3. Electronically Transmitted Voyeuristic Images via the Global Internet (Aut

Electronically Transmitted Voyeuristic Images via the Global Internet (Autumn 1995)

Abstract

Graphic images on the Internet are discussed in general terms. Popularity of images oriented toward prurience is related to predominance of males on Internet. Internet discussion area dedicated to voyeuristic images is introduced and discussed.

One set of electronically encoded still photographic voyeuristic images is presented and discussed. Visual characteristics and contents of the images are examined.


Introduction

Graphic images account for an increasing proportion of transmission traffic on the global packet-switched computer network known popularly as the Internet. The transmission of still photographs via World Wide Web, Usenet, email, and other means, though it will likely be eventually eclipsed in terms of byte-count by Internet Packet Video, Internet Radio, and other bandwidth intensive applications, promises to continue its upward trend for the foreseeable future.

Content of electronically transmitted photographic images (ETPI) varies widely. Images range from representations of the subatomic to satellite photos of comet fragments smashing into Jupiter, from the microscopic to the telescopic. Baby pictures and birthday party shots can be found quickly in the same Web session that locates autopsy photographs and video captures of coprophagous events.

Most anything that can be visually represented can be reproduced in a popular digital format using consumer-grade computer hardware and software. Scanners and video-capture devices work easily with image editing software to create compact computer files that can be reproduced infinitely and sent around the world in minutes. Several warehouses of images exist at academic, governmental, independent, and commercial Internet sites around the world. Terrabytes of indexed image files can be accessed via such tools as Internet File Transfer Protocol (FTP), Usenet "news readers" (such as TIN), Internet "Gopher" servers, and, of course,

World Wide Web browsers such as Netscape, Mosaic, Minuet, Omniweb, and even Lynx.

Given that 80 percent of Internet "users" are male (Mirsky, 1995), that many males find visual stimulus an important aid in autoerotic activity (Gilbert, 1974) , and that, as one noted authority has pointed out, "99 percent of guys masturbate, and the other one percent are liars" (May, 1976), it is not surprising that a good deal of ETPI is dedicated to pornography. A proliferation of World Wide Web pages and Usenet "newsgroups," asynchronous discussion areas globally accessible via Internet, are dedicated to the transmission of digitally encoded photographic images whose contents may be described as geared toward the prurient mindset.

Though many of these newsgroups, such as "alt.binaries.pictures.nude.celebrities" and "alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.pornstars" focus on the reproduction of images available from other sources (and, therefore, often violate copyright laws), other newsgroups have been created for the dissemination of original images with putative erotic appeal.

This paper attempts a qualitative discussion of the visual characteristics and content of one set ETPIs culled from the Usenet newsgroup "alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.voyeurism" (ABPEV) in July of 1995. ETPIs which were posted to ABPEV, but which were not the result of actual or staged instances of voyeurism, were disregarded in the selection of images for this report. Images, for example, which were simply advertisements for phone-sex services or which were video-captures of sexual encounters obtained by non-voyeuristic methods were disregarded. The set of images selected for discussion was chosen for its combination of puerile, prurient, and voyeuristic qualities.


Voyeuristic ETPI: PEEP_IDX.JPG (women's public restroom)
Filename: PEEP_IDX.JPG.

Specifications: JPEG (Joint Photographic Experts Group standard) format graphics file; 1.4 megabytes, 24-Bit color, 800 pixels high, 600 pixels wide, 96 dots per inch resolution.

Uuencoded File PEEP_IDX.JPG was posted to ABPEV anonymously, using an "anonymous service" net server in Finland to hide identity of poster. Encoded file was located using the TIN newsreader via the author's public unix access provider. File was saved to the author's "News" directory on provider system, then uudecoded using a simple command sequence within the newsreader. Post processed files were deleted.

Uudecoding yielded JPEG graphic image file under discussion. File was downloaded July 26, 1995 to the author's Intel-based computer's hard drive using Fosberg's standard implementation of Zmodem, US West home telephone connection, and AT&T Paradyne 14.4 Kbps faxmodem. Average characters per second (CPS) transmitted during download registered at 1,621.

PEEP_IDX.JPG was first viewed using trial copy of CSHOW image viewer. Greater resolution and color authenticity were obtained by viewing file with commercially registered image editors Fauve Matisse and Corel Photopaint.

File contains six rectangular color images arranged in two columns against black background. Centered below each square color panel is white lettering in a sans serif typeface spelling out JPEG filenames (MS-DOS name-spacing conventions) for each panel. PEEP_IDX.JPG appears to be an "index file," or a file compiling the individually labeled images into one file. Each image in the image file under discussion may have been available on ABPEV for separate download and higher resolution viewing.

Top left, right middle, and right bottom images depicts a view of a camera (possibly video) with wide-angle lens (possibly fiber optic, possibly fish-eye) positioned approximately three inches above toilet-seat level and approximately 10 to 20 inches to the right(from the camera's perspective) of the right edge of the toilet-seat. Lens perspective is unclear in the remaining panels, though lens does seem to be on toilet-side of the restroom, given lack of toilet on the far wall of the depicted restroom.

Depicted restroom may be the same in all panels. No toilet-stall is evident in any of the panels. Distance of wall from toilet, lack of decoration of restroom, shininess of floor, and shape of toilet and toilet seat are all consistent with that of an institutional restroom designed to accommodate one person at a time. What appears to be a steel door covered in dark institutional paint appears in the left portion of the top left and middle right image panels. Author speculates that restroom may be a well-maintained public restroom in a restaurant or fast food establishment.

Top left panel is labeled "peeptom1.jpg." Peeptom1.jpg depicts bare buttocks and thighs of Caucasian female squatting over toilet. Dark colored trousers or leggings are bunched below knees of subject. Upper garment of subject is light-colored. Subject's anal cleft and lower public region are visible. It is unclear whether subject is descending to toilet seat, rising from toilet seat, or in suspended squat (as favored by some patrons of public restrooms without Sani-seat dispensers) above seat. Size of fleshy buttocks and thighs is exaggerated by distortion of wide-angle lens.

Top right panel is labeled "peeptom3.jpg." Peeptom3.jpg depicts pubic area and thighs and hands of Caucasian female standing upright, presumably facing toilet. Right hand of subject presses wad of toilet paper into public region in apparent gesture of post-mictural hygiene. Left hand rests on subject's left thigh. Wristwatch is visible on subject's left wrist.

Middle left panel is labeled "peeptom4.jpg." Peeptom4.jpg depicts upper thighs, pubic region, waste, and left hand of Caucasian female who is facing camera lens. Light colored trousers, possibly white jeans, are bunched around subject's knees. Subject's shirt or blouse is light in color. Subject's left buttock appears to rest on toilet seat. Subject's right buttock is raised in the air, presumably to allow access of subject's right hand to anal region to administer post bowel movement hygiene ("wiping").

Middle right panel is labeled "peeptom5.jpg." Peeptom5.jpg depicts bare buttocks and thighs of Caucasian female squatting over toilet. Dark colored trousers or leggings are bunched below knees of subject. Upper garment of subject is dark-colored. Subject's anal cleft is clearly visible. Subject may be descending to or rising from toilet seat, or even in suspended squat above seat. Marked similarities to "peeptom1.jpg" are noted.

Bottom left panel is labeled "peeptom6.jpg." Panel depicts public area and thighs of Caucasian female facing toilet and camera lens. Subject is wearing light colored long-sleeve knit sweater, white panties slung above the knees, and trousers bunched below the thighs. Subject's right hand is visible above groin area. Toilet paper trails down between thighs from hand, where subject presumably administers post-mictural hygiene. Subject's left hand is not visible but is possibly placed, for balance, on wall above camera lens.

Bottom right panel is labeled "peeptom7.jpg." Panel depicts subject sitting on toilet, right arm obscuring anal cleft and hand reaching between toilet seat and buttocks. Subject is presumably administering post bowel movement hygiene with toilet paper. Subject wears dark colored sweater or blouse, dark colored trousers bunched below knees. Handbag or umbrella handle is visible in background of panel.


Conclusion

The ETPIs which constitute PEEP_IDX.JPG show evidence of having been obtained by voyeuristic means. Quality of images, lens distortion, placement of camera relative to subjects, actions of subjects, setting, verisimilitude of poses and actions depicted, and placement of ETPIs on ABPEV tend to indicate that the images were obtained and disseminated without knowledge or consent of the human subjects. The author speculates that a video-camera was used in conjunction with a fiber-optic lens, a home computer with a video-frame capture device, and image-editing software to produce the images.

Though neither sexual arousal nor onanistic event ensued the author's examination of these ETPIs, it would be beyond the author's ken to claim the images to be devoid of erotic content, given the wide array of sexual and autosexual tastes available on the planet, and expressed in the discussion areas of the Internet.

Likewise, the ethical aspects of voyeurism, invasion of privacy, dissemination of such images, and use of such images for purposes either puerile or prurient- these aspects are beyond the scope of the current discussion.

[WillParkinson]

5. Er....um.....

"Middle left panel is labeled "peeptom4.jpg." Peeptom4.jpg depicts upper thighs, pubic region, waste, and left hand of Caucasian female who is facing camera lens."

Waste? Ew.

[swag]

6. The golden age of the Internets.

Excuse bad editing.

Obviously it should have been "waist."

Thanks for calling me on that. That was a widely read piece. Maybe, given the contect, everyone thought that I did actually mean "waste."

Now I'm embarrassed (sad to say that the Internet Wayback Machine does not allow edits). But optimistic for the future.

[LynzM]

4. A couple poems from high school...

Untitled #1

Help I'm
Get me out of here
and
can't do this but
yet never
give in
give up
try too hard
not hard enough
three quarters close
and one half wrong
everything is shambled
and I feel like I'm giving up the fight
too soon
I must be stronger
than this or else how
I got this far
is impossible
never win
never perfect but
confused and
making faces for people
to imagine
I am strong
I am fine
I don't need you
but please
help me.


Untitled #2

I'm on stage in front of everyone's expectations,
Playing the girl they want to see.
She's confident, she has her life together,
She knows what she wants and how to get it.
(I'm not her, I'm her inner shadow.)
Sometimes I feel a little of the light,
I know what that confidence is, what it feels like.
Usually I play it, spend half my life inside
of the character that's supposed to be me.
How do you live up to yourself? I'm in the
audience too, waiting to see what I'll do.
If you all stopped watching me,
Who would I be?

[Callalily]

7. Here's a piece

that I wrote last March.

The Other F Word

Feminism unfortunately has become the other "F" word. Years ago it was synonymous with woman fighting for equal rights. The word may be outdated; the movement certainly is not! What we need now is more female to female mentoring. Today’s women need to learn from the past. Many are too young to even realize the decrimation experienced years ago. The idea of not having birth control readily available, going to college, or even playing sports is unfathomable for these younger women. Yes, these younger women enjoy the gains the feminist movement has worked for, but yet condemn feminism.

There are serious pieces of legislature here in Wisconsin that clearly undermines women’s rights. One deals with birth control prescriptions. Senate Bill 21 will allow pharmacists the right to deny prescriptions based on THEIR moral or religious objections. You may say, "so what, go to a different pharmacy". Absolutely not – on two counts. One, how can our government give that kind of power to a pharmacist, deciding what is right or what is wrong, denying woman a personal choice. Two, there are many rural communities here with one pharmacy. That would force woman to travel many miles to fill a prescription – truly unfair again!

Another is AB67 which gives a health care provider the right to withhold information. Example. If a pregnant woman receives an ultrasound and there are abnormalities, the health care provider can withhold that information if that provider feels the information may result in the woman seeking an abortion, which the health care provider opposes. Why would a woman even bother to seek tests, knowing that true results could be withheld? And why is our government being allowed to put religious activism into our healthcare system.

Yet another piece of legislature would repeal the Family Planning Waiver, which would deny 15 to 17 year old girls from gaining access to birth control, cancer screening and treatment for sexually transmitted diseases. This program currently prevents approximately 24,000 unintended pregnancies, something each side of the pro-choice, pro-life is seeking, and certainly cannot find objectionable.

Women’s rights, particularly reproductive rights, are being slowly and systematically eroded. Are we just standing by letting this happen, quietly, under the radar? I fear that answer is yes.

Today's feminists should be credited as being watchdogs, not confrontational or complaining. Feminists are working in areas that infringe on personal freedoms from the Patriot Act to legalizing gay marriage, to prevent violence again women. Yes, there are women out there who are still feminists, even if the word is now unpopular, because the cause – the purpose is not!

[Politically_Wrong]

37. Well done!

:applause:

[auntAgonist]

8. mine

Reason

Snow falls, silently, quickly, I see so many dreams. The snowflake, crystal, Melts as it lands The grass no longer green. From high above the journey is long spinning, tumbling, reaching the ground The temperature falls, the snowflake stays Covering the fields and brightening the land. Engulfing the valleys in stillness And so are we, tumbling from above Entering the world in a blanket of love. Like the snowflake we too have our season, Why are we here? There must be a reason To Beautify, stay for a while, and fade.......

aA

[LaraMN]

9. Letter to NBC affiliate circa 1985.

Stupid old chanel 6,
i am dieing to tell you how mutch i hate you! you just make me wan'a punch you for only one reason but i have exactly 20. i hate football and i hate you! because i like punky brewster and you cancelled it. and i wanted to see i dream of jeanie and you cancelled it to. at least channel 8 doesn't cancell. I am 8 years old i should now. I am never going to watch your chanell again! and tell my whole class about what you have done and there sighning this note to! don't do that! for years i've been waiting to get back at you now i have! yours stupidly,
Lara Cxxxxxx

There was also a picture of me "crying" included. my mom photocopied it all and saved it for me. I also wrote when they cancelled scooby doo, penned a biting letter to president reagan in first grade, and submitted a couple of petitions to my elementary school principal pertaining to "not having to listen to old music" in music class, and "the lunchroom ladies are digging our food out of the garbage and feeding it to the kindergarteners." No lie.

[swag]

12. Thanks for posting what is now a new favorite.

[LaraMN]

13. No Prob. I'm full of goodies.

I was a wierd-ass kid.

[ghostsofgiants]

14. You're my new hero

[LaraMN]

15. Yesssss! Can I be a SUPERhero?

[ghostsofgiants]

17. What would your super power be?

Also: I'm not too sure about that cape. Might want to try a different colour. Black maybe.

[LaraMN]

18. hmmm... A peel-away face.

If that can be considered a super power. :bounce:

[ghostsofgiants]

23. Dunno if it's a super power...

But it's creepy as hell. Have you ever watched Carnivàle? There's a scene where Justin hallucinates that he peels away his face to reveal Ben's face. :scared:

[LaraMN]

24. I Freaking LOVED Carnivale! It was my favorite show.

Everything I love goes away.
:nopity:

[ghostsofgiants]

26. Me too, dammit!

I was royally pissed when I found out that HBO cancelled it. Bastards.

[LaraMN]

28. There's nothing like watching a cliffhanger that just haaaaangs forever.

I need closure. I really do.:cry:

[ghostsofgiants]

32. No kidding

Season three promised to be fucking epic.

[Hugin]

16. Quite the activist...

But, did it have any impact?

[LaraMN]

21. Sadly , no.

Big Brother's Been smackin' me down, ever since.

[johnnie]

10. Here is an old one of mine:

Why?
Because.

[RagingInMiami]

11. Au Revoir, Mon Ami (Good-bye, my friend)

I remember New Orleans, the first time around
I was underage and you allowed me to drink freely
And for that I respected you dearly.
Those oversize beers. That carefree spirit. Just what an 18-year-old needed.

I remember my uncle wrestling a female stripper in a Bourbon Street bar
As a transvestite ring announcer played guitar
And the man next to me smoked a smelly cigar.
I was under your spell, for that scene never seemed bizarre.

I remember the jazz and the blues and that voodoo vibe, the way you had that jovial jive

I remember New Orleans, the second time around. Mardi Gras, purple beads, flashing boobs, endless booze.
That girl with the rose tattoo.
Five days and nights of drunken debauchery, derelict duties and depraved deeds.

I remember confusing Cajun with Creole and consuming crawfish in the Quarter,
And kissing a girl named Katrina in a crowded club called Cat’s Meow
Katrina, I told her, your name is so sexy
Corona, she told me, my glass is so empty

I remember the jazz and the blues and that voodoo vibe, the way you had that jovial jive

I remember New Orleans, the third time around. New Years Eve. Sugar Bowl.
Canes. Gators. Brawls on Bourbon.
Sweet Superdome. Innocence unscathed.
The horrors to come, years away.

Hurricanes routed, we got rowdy
Hurricane cocktails, fueled the party
The night was spent, boasting on Bourbon.
Canes in the house, don’t even try it

I remember the jazz and the blues and that voodoo vibe, the way you had that jovial jive

I remember New Orleans, the fourth time around, a five-day stop on a road trip home.
I was alone and free to roam.
I played chess with a man named Hal on Canal, the street that drowned living up to its name.
I drank a hurricane in the August rain, still thinking that Katrina was a sexy name.

Beignets at Café du Monde, muffelata’s from Central Grocery and shrimp po’ boys from The Alibi.
It was hard to say good-bye, but my money was running dry, and my time was passing by.


I remember the jazz and the blues and that voodoo vibe, the way you had that jovial jive

I remember Katrina when she was just a flirting storm, teasing our coast like a virgin whore.
I remember inviting her inside, and how she pushed me aside, removing that mask and revealing that bitch inside.

I remember Katrina headed for your coast, I am woman, hear me roar
Show me this city of legend lore.
No longer the virgin whore, but a hardcore witch out for war.

I remember Katrina barreling into the bayou, lashing at you as she swept right by you
Lacerating your levees and liquidating your streets, littering your homes with lifeless limbs

I remember how they left you to die as Nero ate cake and fiddled with his fly.
As you clung to your roofs, water neck high, telling the world you were still alive.

I remember your cries, your demands for help
Please get us out of here, it’s a living hell
And I remember the crime was broadcast live around the world
La mort à Nouvelle-orléans. Una tristezza

I remember the jazz and the blues and that voodoo vibe, the way you had that jovial jive

And I thought of the people I met the year before, that sultry summer of 2004.
The hustlers, the jokers, the street performers, the musicians, the artists, the waiters, the bartenders
This community of incorrigible, creative characters.
This collection of Cajuns and Creoles and color
That was not afraid to cry out and say

Be free, be yourself, and to hell with everybody else

And I remember realizing how much of you they must despise, which is why they turned a blind eye
Leaving you to your demise

And I remember how they said they’re going to rebuild you, bigger and better than ever
And I knew that meant richer and whiter forever

And I was left mourning. Too angry to respect your death with a jazzy New Orleans-style funeral procession.
There would be no more dancing on Decatur.

[XNASA]

19. Because She Does

I met you last night
In a green summer's dream
It could have been almost anywhere

You flew your kite
Above a time frozen stream
I asked the sky why you flew it there

It's because
Because she always does
It's because
Because she always does

-----

An old set of lyrics. I got a bunch of them.

[rbnyc]

22. I really like that.

More?

[XNASA]

25. Thanks. Here's one more.

She's falling
Down
Fields of emotion
Drifting over devotion

Never sure
Of what's right

Transparent wrapper
Called trust
Scattered
And turned to dust

Now there's nothing
Left to say

----

Another set of old lyrics.

[rbnyc]

29. Lyrics of mine:

bread pudding



open your mouth.
i'll fall on your teeth.
i'll fall on your teeth.
i'll fall on your teeth.



run why don't you
like there's anyone
who wants to follow
when you go there.



just a baby with a big one.
just a baby with a big one.
and when we do, you say don't look at me.


*******


decomposition



the boys are all flowers caught fire at a glance.
everything i lick turns to dust.
i've got decomposition touch. so what.



******



damage control



if you try to rescue that child, she may say, why are you bothering?
you can't drag a dead dog on a leash.
what, do you love me or something?
you may even be ashamed and then you know that you are her.
I don't blame you if you don't take it from me.
i know i treated you like a whore.
but aren't you glad for that special perspective?
the deeper one end, the richer the other.
i loved you then, and i love you now, better.
if i could see you i would set you up.


******



the letters



count all the times he told her.
count all the ways he said he.
count every letter in the word.



on saturday
he's coming.
ask her.
she saw the letters.



on saturday
he's coming.
ask her, she saw
she saw
she saw the letters.
the letters.



count all the times he told her.
count all the ways he said he.
count every letter in the word.

[RandomKoolzip]

33. Some lyrics I wrote for my last band:

Actually, I co-wrote them with fellow DUer SouthoftheBorderPaul (I wrote the lines you like :evilgrin:)

It's actually a pretty fair description of the Bush twins, come to think of it....however, they weren't the subjects I had in mind when I wrote the words.

Judy in Bloom
© 2002 ASCAP


Courtney swears that she’s the life of the party
Her brittle bones snap
Lifting Bacardi
Up to her tender trap

Sister Judy wears a shirt that says Princeton
Big sister tending bar
While Judy rails on like Simon Bolivar
Toasting the black man over Pinot Noir
Corn chips and caviar

September ‘til June
She’s Judy in Bloom
Well spoken and groomed
The toast of her parent’s living room

Last semester back in Jersey is over
She made all C’s and D’s
Econ and Bio
Intro to Japanese

After finals she is teeming with good cheer
She made a three point oh
Out goes the keg beer she switches to Merlot
Hundred and ten pound social dynamo
She wants everyone to know

September ‘til June
She’s Judy in Bloom
Well spoken and groomed
The toast of her parent’s living room

Meanwhile back at home
Judy sits and works the phone
Coordinating social calls
Organizing charity balls

Planning to go overseas
She wants to scale the Pyrenees
After all she’s been through the worst
The freshman curse
But now she’s got the world tucked in her purse

September ‘til June
She’s Judy in Bloom
Well spoken and groomed
The toast of her parent’s living room

September ‘til June
She’s Judy in Bloom
Well spoken and groomed
And all of her flaws forgiven
None too soon
The toast of her parents living room

[XNASA]

34. Songs about girls.

Why do we torture ourselves so?

Here's song that's not about girls. It's was written along with a couple of childhood friends of mine, who still remain friends to this day. It more or less just a bunch of snippets of what our lives were like growing up. I post this for you RKZ, cause you'll appreciate the Move references.

----

I use a 2 X 4 for a surfboard
My first car was a green '63 Ford
Those summer nights by the pipe were really cool

We sat around and drank ale from a clear bottle
'S.M.D.O.T. and find out' was our motto
We got high on the Tram Conductor Blues

Cause we're sons
Sons of the beach
East of Midlothian
Onward to Blue Island
Cause we're sons
Sons of the beach
Heaven I'm gonna bet
Is next to the Calumet

My friend's dad was an alcoholic
I missed a whole bunch of school 'cause I got sick
Yeah things can get pretty tough, what are you gonna do.

We still find time for guinness 'cause we love it
We get in trouble sometimes now, but what of it
We hear a message from the country, man, we gotta move.

Cause we're sons......

-----

A dollar to the first person who can figure out what 'S.M.D.O.T.' is an acronym for.

[RandomKoolzip]

35. The girls I wrote about were symbols of unearned wealth and

elitist privelige. There's no love in my song, just venom.

SMDOT?

"State Municipal Data Offender Target?"

[XNASA]

36. Check your PM.

[ScreamingMeemie]

20. Untitled....

I used to be able to dwell outside of myself…even while consciously inhabiting my own body. I could remove myself in such a way that my skin felt like an onion peel around my spirit. “Were the events happening around me actually real?” Did I truly, really exist? Did my mother’s life really intertwine around mine, or was she living in another story?

I could use this ability to disengage myself from the upsetting events of my life. I used it when my grandpa died, and my parents didn’t tell me until we had crossed the state line into Wisconsin for his funeral. When the reality that we weren’t taking a vacation came crashing down. I used it when my dear friend Marcus killed himself two days before high school prom. Instead of prom, I attended a wake that year. I used it to see myself through the four and a half months I was engaged to a mad man. It was the painkiller I chose to erase the throb of a crease in my head from his ‘75 Firebird’s door frame. In labor, it helped a frightened 19 year old girl deliver another girl into a life of what is only known now.

Just when was it that I lost this ability? Was it when he placed the ring upon my finger making me his and erasing all that it was I thought I could be? Was it the birth of a son so frail I gave up all to defend his right to exist from those who would assault his respiratory system and ease him away from me? Or was it yesterday? When I picked up my high school yearbook and looked at the old “daily faces”-the faces you see daily and don’t care about really until twenty years later? Was it in realizing that this woman is not the woman she intended to be?

[leftofthedial]

27. everything I post

is something I've written

[no name no slogan]

30. Song lyrics from ten years ago

Call In Well
-------------

I'd love to see the world tonight somewhere I've never been before
I'd love to see the stars tonight standing at your door

I'd need to feel the sun today shining on my face
I want to leave it all behind I need to leave this place

So kiss me for today and don't you cry for me tomorrow
There is no other way for you to hide yourself from sorrow
The days are so uncertain because time will never tell
The world ain't on my side today—
I think I'll call in well

We were just so young and oh so little did we know
That marriages in heaven end as divorces down in Reno
We're lovers by convenience we're friends by necessity
Some day you will discover that you're no one you're just like me

So kiss me for today and don't you cry for me tomorrow
There is no other way for you to hide yourself from sorrow
The days are so depressing because time will never tell
The world ain't on my side today—
I think I'll call in well

So kiss me for today and don't you cry for me tomorrow
There is no other way for you to hide yourself from sorrow
The days are so uncertain because time will never tell
The world ain't on my side today—
I think I'll call in well

© 1996 AllThinksK Music. All Rights Reserved.

Get the MP3 of this song (4.6 mb)

[RandomKoolzip]

31. From last night:

RKZ's Great Obscure Band of the Week: The Wildweeds

From the website

:
"Let me hip you to something that Wildweeds fans already know. All of the Weeds could sing, but three of them-Al Anderson, Ray Zeiner, and Bobby Dudek-could WAIL. Anderson, the lead guitarist and chief songwriter, idolized Ray Charles and evolved a style mixing full-throated gospel shouting with a sometimes smoother approach, a la Percy Mayfield. Zeiner's vocals were rougher, tortured and more urgent-the perfect foil for his Hammond B-3; think Otis Redding on "These Arms Of Mine." Bassist Dudek, blinded at an early age, was a pop evangelist--always ON, always pleading, like Jackie Wilson at fever pitch. The group was completed by Martin "Skip" Yakaitis, the onstage MC/percussionist who lent wry humor to the proceedings, and drummer Andy Lepak, with a sweet. high voice.

Clearly, all this was miles away from Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger, the reigning "tastes" of the day, and even the Weeds couldn't ignore the prevailing pop sensibility entirely. They mixed masterfully-played Hendrix and Beatles covers into live sets that were often mind-bendingly eclectic. But in the studio, when the group joined forces with producer Doc Cavalier (after he inked them to Chicago's Chess label under its Cadet subsidiary), it was a different story, When "No Good To Cry", a searing mix of jazz-inverted guitar chords, thumping bass and swirling Hammond organ topped off by Anderson's white-hot vocal, hit the airwaves in 1967--the year of the Summer Of Love-it was clear that, like Memphians Alex Chilton and Chips Moman with "The Letter" and Detroit's Mitch Ryder with "Sock It To Me, Baby". The Wildweeds and Cavalier had conjured a performance so soulful it transcended genre and race, in the process giving the Eastern U.S. an AM radio smash for the ages."

The WIldweeds were Al Anderson's band before he joined NRBQ (a great, great fucking band worth about ten threads of their own!), but they were more than just a footnote in NRBQ's history. They had a style tand a presence that was so individual, so vital, so life-affirmingly on, that just about everyone I play their tunes for jumps up and goes, "WHO IS THIS?!?"

They played probably the most soulful music to ever come out of Connecticut. The Wildweeds' best songs, "No Good to Cry," and "Someday Morning," remind me of driving around in a beat-up old Volvo with my dad, who knew them personally, spouting off about how incredible they were....here was a band fronted by a white dude who looked like Fatty Arbuckle but sounded like Otis Redding, with a blind guy on bass (!!!) who could also sing his honky ass off. They were all in their teens, but already they sounded like they'd grown up playing juke joints in Memphis or New Orleans. Legendary stuff.

If Al Anderson had gotten a record deal at the right time and place, he would be mentioned in the same breath as Van Morrison: as possibly the finest white soul singer ever birthed.

Collectors of rare 60's rock have treasured the Wildweeds' singles for years, and finally there's a CD out of most of the important stuff (They put out a country-rock album on Vanguard in 69-I have it, it sucks, frankly). You owe it to yourself to hear what I'm all in a lather about....

Here's a video (!!!!!!) of them playing their "psychedelic" song, "I'm Dreaming," from 1968. Bob Dudek, the blind guy, sings lead. It's not all that representative of their best work (which was in more of a Box Tops vein; the Box Tops even covered "No Good to Cry"), but it's still an amazing piece of footage and a smokin' tune in its own right:

http://www.wildweeds.net/movie /

http://www.wildweeds.net/bio.html
Enjoy.

[Dukkha]

38. a couple song lyrics

The Wretched Victim

I hide in darkness exiled
Haunted by your memories
Holding onto promises
Lost in my time of pain
I’ve made my bed of nails
And sleep alone every night
As the spirits laugh to me inside
Yet you’re still dissatisfied

I live with blindness piercing
Echoes of your distant voice
The weight of waiting for tomorrow
Waiting untill this goes away
I chose my bleak substance
And frighten the ones close to me
As the visions leave me petrified
Yet you’re still dissatisfied

No one hears the cries of sorrow
No one hears the tragedy
Left to die the curtain falls
My existence in you rots away
I curse the hour that brought you to me
An image of what I can’t have
The wretched victim I’ve become
I hope you’re now glad

Withered from eternal mourning
Bleeding in the faceless night
Living the lies and cruelty
Your absence burns inside me
I’ll learn to live without the comfort
Won’t beg for one last encore
The wretched victim I’ve become
But I don’t need you anymore

I don’t need you anymore


Dreaming Out Loud

Give up the life where you felt you were dead
Unflourished egos being drawn from my head
This smoky room has laid dormant too long
A reassurance that I just can't go wrong

A heartbeat tremors from the touch of your hand
The sudden movement that I did not have planned
Fearless is my stare while I'm caught in your eye
A rushing chill from the sound of your sigh

Turn out the silence that holds everything back
No inhibitions while you slowly attack
Just trip and glide while we make the lights dance
We found the moment here to take a new chance

Carnal desires keep us spinning around
Thrown off your guard where we fell to the ground
A whispered plea puts my head in a cloud
You make me feel like I'm dreaming out loud

Gave up the life where I felt I was dead
Finding redemption at the foot of my bed
Embrace the fire In the passion and pain
We reach a level where there's so much to gain

No rhyme or reason how you've stolen my heart
The world's ending couldn't tear us apart
Lovelorn senses pulled you out of the crowd
You make me feel like I'm dreaming out loud

[johnnie]

39. Pissing Spit lyrics

She asked me Not to live up to her dreams
It's just a foolish game People play
I said that's just fine It's a derision of our minds
I didn't want to ruin it anyway

A sordid reflection Of a future gone astray
It echoes with a disenchanted smile.
The dagger of truth pierces unforgiving hearts
And bleeds upon the battlefields of time

And you'll feel the hunger Of the solitude that sleeps inside your soul
And you'll hear the laughter As you stand and face your sanity alone


I stay awake And defend my right to stay
Somewhere in the night it waits for me
Tender is the kiss Of my self induced Judas
I'll embrace the final fight and be free

The silence of your words Are often seldom heard
Regenerating scars of yesterday
Don't be misled By the voices in your head
They tell you of the debts you have to pay

And I'll feel the hunger Of the solitude that sleeps inside my soul
And I'll hear the laughter As I stand and face my sanity alone

And when this chapter ends And I'm pissing spit again
And the anger beats my love into the dirt
I know that you'll be standing right along with me
You understand that nothing really hurts


And we'll feel the hunger Of the solitude that sleeps inside our soul
And we'll hear the laughter As we stand and face our sanity alone

[stlsaxman]

41. Here are 3

This is the first poem i ever wrote at 9 years old:

Sell me some stock
and I'll give you a dime.
But it's not worth the trouble-
it's not worth the time.
And Love will soon prove
that the lemon's a lime-
GET MOVING!
GET MOVING!
... and the old man gets sent to a home.

This one is from page 69 in my lyric book from 1997 and it's titled

69

goes
awanderin around the bend
over those tippy toe eyes
that help me see in Youvision
you vision me like a
whipper snapper callin
toothaches off the island
fannin granny hill grinnin
getting on a gin rickshaw
wrapping bulbs in tissue paper
gahzunthiet
glass splinters everywhere
sprinkled lightly on
dry white toast
mmmmm...
juicy too
baby she had plenty
give every everything
that afternoon leanin on the porch
moist black bread with
cold salted butter
i stood there wondering
what this wide wide world
had in storage bins for us
early light seems to say
any weather vane'll tell'ya


Finally one from my last band The Blastoids called

THEY GOT A JOB by The Blastoids

don't talk back to your teevee set
the corporate sponsors are listening
they know who you are from the internet
as offer a city that's glistening
and don't ever doubt for a minute
they know what's good for you
does it make you feel secure
make you feel secure
when Archer Daniels Midland says
we grow enough food to feed the world

never take for granted what they shove in your face
and don't get sick unless you're able to pay
cause the health care industry has congress in it's pocket
you trust a politician who can't pronounce so-cial sec-ur-i-ty

he's got a job and you don't
he'll eat tonight and you won't

we sail around the world in front of teevee sets
seeing all sorts of people living life without regrets
and our brains will burn from things that haven't even happened yet
then we close our eyes.... and we close our minds....

They got a job and we don't
they'll eat tonight and we won't

a battle at the dinner table; daddy is drunk
out of work and hopeless in a desperate funk
momma weeps into her hands wondering what she ever thunk
as the television drones on with it's commercials in the corner

[Left Is Write]

42. Sure. Why not.

Just for shits and giggles, a "Christmas" story I wrote in December of 2003.


BELLA BUSTY

All I wanted was a Bella Busty doll with her Solar Lexus sports car. That’s all I wanted. That one toy. Was that asking so much? I have a seven-year-old daughter who put that on her Christmas list. In August. It was clear her heart was set on it, and of course I didn’t want her to be disappointed! I wanted to see her eyes light up on Christmas morning when Bella Busty was smiling back at Penelope from her stocking. I wanted a precious snapshot for the family album to remember the moment by. It didn’t seem such an awful thing.

Of course, I should have shopped earlier. That part was my fault. Well, it was mostly my fault anyway. I was busy cooking and baking and freezing and preparing for Thanksgiving, and then there was that little bout with the flu and my husband’s business trip to Acapulco, and time just got away from me. Before I knew it, it was two days before Christmas and I hadn’t secured a Bella Busty yet.

With a small sense of foreboding, I drove out to Toy Giant late that evening, hoping that most of the other intrepid shoppers had finished, or at least given up, and gone home.

In that, I was sorely disappointed.

Toy Giant was so full of last-minute gift buyers that I had to park in the distant auxiliary lot and take the shuttle. This itself was a source of great discomfort – we were crammed into the shuttle like fat red and green sardines decked out for the holidays. The shoppers on either side of me reeked of booze and body odor. The driver bore a close resemblance to Frank N. Furter, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the front door of Toy Giant with my sanity intact. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer, we finally screeched to a halt at the main entrance. All of us sardines were jettisoned off the shuttle, knocking each other down like Christmas-print dominoes.

I stood up, brushed myself off, and looked up warily at Toy Giant, looming large above me with its menacing multi-colored neon sign and the automatic doors ready to swallow any unsuspecting innocent browser. I gathered what remained of my pluck and courage and breezed through those doors, my head held high.

As I entered, my head may have been high, but my stomach fell and my heart sank. I was barely able to stifle an audible gasp at the furious mass of moving flesh that was the collective clientele of the biggest toy store in the city. It felt otherworldly to me, as if I were watching the bizarre rituals of an alien species. I shook my head in disbelief.

“Oh, isn’t it marvelous?” squealed a voice beside me. I turned to see a rosy-cheeked, white-haired grandmotherly woman standing next to me in a red sweatshirt decorated with appliquéd Christmas trees and felt Santas. She clasped her hands together excitedly. She continued gushing. “The shoppers are so festive! The mood so spirited! And the snow! It’s freshly fallen, a powdery soft blanket to caress the landscape and muffle the outdoor sounds to a Christmassy lullaby…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I cut her off crossly. I’d become irretrievably irascible since boarding the Rocky Horror shuttle bus. “Blanket, caress, blah blah blah. What I want to know is, where are the Bella Busty dolls?”

Mrs. Holiday Cheer turned to me, her eyes narrowing. Her picture postcard blathering apparently forgotten, she hissed at me, “Bella Busty? I’m here for a Bella Busty!” With a sudden move shocking for a woman of her age, she shoved me aside and began making her way through the throng like a broken field runner.

Assuming she knew where she was going, I followed in the path she cut, weaving my way in and out of a sea of faces and limbs, all clamoring for something special.

And then I saw it.

A display table festooned with Pepto Bismol pink streamers and surrounded by glitter balls proclaimed the presence of Bella Busty and her many accessories. A huge poster of Bella Busty’s smiling plastic face and her vacant blue eyes hung behind the table. As I rounded the corner to the table I saw Mrs. Holiday Cheer and her ridiculous red sweatshirt pounding her way through the crowd squeezed around the display. I could see the tip tops of dozens of glassine boxes, and my heart lifted a little. From where I stood, there were plenty of Bella Busty dolls left. I only hoped there would be plenty of her Solar Lexus sports cars too.

Now I do have to say here that I’m a nice person. Really. I’m polite to a fault. I abide by the rules. I’m careful and considerate.

But I had to have that Bella Busty. Penelope and her one wish, you know. It’s all she wanted.

As I neared the table, some strange and powerful feelings overtook me, creating a strong and foreign desire to annihilate my perceived competition and shove those squawking, pawing animals aside like knocking over so many bowling pins in one smooth move.

Just as I reached the display, I saw that the glassine boxes weren’t all full of Bella Busty dolls at all! Most of them contained Bella Busty’s vapid-faced, plastic-haired boyfriend, Luke Lusty. Who wanted a Luke Lusty? He wasn’t on Penelope’s list! As my sharp eye cast a glance along the row of boxes, I spied one single Bella Busty doll, her ever-present smile seeming to mock me as she sat just out of the reach of my grasp. While I watched in horror, the liver spotted arm of Mrs. Holiday Cheer reached out and snatched the box off the table, followed by a disturbing cackle of glee at her prize.

I do have principles. No. Really. I do. But from somewhere within me, that uncontrolled dark urge bubbled up again and I was powerless to stop it. That was my Bella Busty! Mine! Before I was fully consciously aware of what was happening, my hand seized upon the box and tore it from the hands of Mrs. Holiday Cheer. She shrieked and snarled, her fingers clawing the air to get to me as I turned and tried to snake through the crowd to get away. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a great shadow flying at me from above before being knocked to the ground by an angry, spitting senior citizen. She tried to wrestle the Bella Busty out of my arms, but I held on, shoving the box inside my coat and rolling over on top of it. If she hadn’t insisted on slamming my head onto the linoleum floor, I wouldn’t even be here. I would be home, watching the joy and wonderment on Penelope’s face as she discovered that smirking doll in her stocking.

And, yes, Dr. Carter, I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll mend my ways. I’ll shop online from now on.

Do you think the bandages will come off before New Year’s Eve?

[TN al]

43. Mine...

As the day came to an end he finally decided that the time was right to do his laundry. He had put it off the entire weekend because it would mean going to a part of the house where he rarely went. Where his children knew that he rarely went. Where they could
violate the house rules with impunity.

Violating the rules wasn't the bad part, he thought as he made his way downstairs. The bad part was that they cared so little about his rules that they left the remains of their misdeeds behind. They
cared so little that they would make a half-hearted attempt at concealing the used dishes under a couch or behind the TV knowing it would easily be detected and they would be summoned to correct their failings. After being called they would invariably make some pleading remark about how the perpetrator was one of their brothers and that they had no knowledge of nor hand in the creation of what they would admit was an abomination to the rules of the house. They would then stand, waiting to be dismissed, or even worse, dismiss
themselves until some show would have to be made of a temper being lost and children's belongings being damaged in the loss before they would make an effort to set things aright by straightening after
themselves. The dishes would be removed to the kitchen sink for the interminable wait to be washed, and the floor would be vacuumed and the children would again disappear to their fantasy world of video games.

This time, however it looked ok on the way to the washer and he remarked as much to himself. The second roadblock to getting his laundry done was in place though. The lid to the washer was down which indicated that someone had done a load and not moved it to the
dryer when it had finished. The routine here was straightforward. Open the dryer to make sure it was empty then open the washer to transfer the clothes. The dryer proved to be empty but the washer was a different story. It was filled to the top with a wide array of towels and blankets. Just the sort of load that would take a double amount of time to dry while his own freshly washed clothes sat in the washer waiting their turn in the dryer.

Something was amiss with this load though. As he moved the towels from washer to dryer they felt a little stiff as if the soap had not been rinsed completely from them. He immediately shot a glance at the load capacity dial and saw that one of his children had washed a large load in the small load setting.

This was just not enough to summon his children over. He would just move the clothes into the dryer and dry them as if he hadn't noticed the stiffness. Perhaps the dryer would dry out the excess soap and no point needed to be made. He continued with the transfer until, near the end, he saw something in the washer basin that gave him pause.

It was small and dark and still. But the stillness was wrong. This was something that should have been moving, that should have been trying to avoid his stare. That should have been yearning for
escape on its own. He saw in the bottom of the washer basin, a dead mouse.

Slowly he extended an arm toward the mouse's tail and holding it between thumb and forefinger extracted it from the washer. It too, was wet and the wetness added to the incongruity of its death. He pondered on the dead mouse as he held it at eye level. Other than
the stillness there seemed nothing wrong with the mouse. No outward sign of trauma, only the water running down and dripping from the lifeless nose and front paws. He quickly decided that the mouse had
drowned within the confines of the washer but how had it gotten into the washer. He noticed the mouse after unwrapping a blanket from the washer so he surmised that the mouse had been hiding within the blanket when it had been thrown into the washer.

He still held the mouse at eye level by the tail when his thoughts turned to the last moments of the mouse. Had he thought himself safe by remaining in the blanket when it had moved? Was he feeling secure when the lid was closed? When did he first notice the water rising and what was his reaction to it? There hadn't been a lot of water in the cycle because of the children's neglectfully leaving the size dial on a small load so why hadn't he been able to get to the surface? Perhaps he was so ensconced in the blanket that he was unable to remove himself from it after he realized the water would continue to rise. Perhaps he had worked himself free but that the churning of the agitator prevented him from maintaining the water surface. He smiled to himself and thought, "At least I own something that works well if the agitator did this." But no, he decided that most likely the mouse had been unable to extricate himself from the blanket and been trapped beneath the surface of the water when he drowned.

He touched the body with his other forefinger. Some more water came off of the mouse and onto his finger. Everything looked like it would still work. That the legs could still run, that the ears could
still hear, that the eyes could still see and yet because of a few minutes without oxygen the mouse was reduced to this lifelessness. He wondered what had happened as the mouse died. Did it give up at some point or did it remain fighting for breath until the very end. Had it been in pain? He thought that it would hurt to drown but he didn't know for sure. The mouse knew, of course, but not the man.

[Merrick]

44. Satirical Opinion Piece

from my website:

I Would’ve Fucked This Whole Hurricane Relief Thing Up Too – That’s Why I Voted For The Guy!
By: John Q. American

Hey, what’s the story with Bush taking so much flack for this whole hurricane fiasco? So his administration made mistakes, what’s the big deal? After all, if I were President I definitely would’ve fucked it up at least as bad, so I can relate with the guy 100% - which is why I voted for him in the first place! I don’t want no smooth talking mister know-it-all in the White House, and that includes slick Willies who know what to do about hurricanes!

Seriously, if I were in charge of the country and a disaster as big as Katrina went down I wouldn’t know what to do from my uncle Charlie. Bush was photographed strumming a guitar while New Orleans flooded? Shit, I wouldn’t have even managed that. I’d probably be locked in the water closet tossing my biscuits. It’s what I do whenever the wife gets pregnant, so I can sure bet its what I’d do if a major city was destroyed under my watch as Commander In Chief.

You think flying around, looking down at the disaster area from Air Force One isn’t accomplishing anything? Well, you’re probably right, but that’s probably all I’d be able to think of, which I think is great. I’d probably have the pilot circle around the city a few times while I peered out the window thinking, “Yep, looks pretty fucked up down there,” then go straight home, and if some journalist criticized me for it I’d say, “Well what the hell do you want me to do about it? I didn’t go to no fancy hurricane relief academy, in fact I just got my GED last year!” And that’s still much less than what the President did because he thought of landing and doing some photo opportunities on the ground which, at the very least, might’ve raised some spirits by making people think somebody was actually doing something.

Another thing people are making a stink over is how a lot of what went cattywonkers down there was the fault of some ignoramus ex-stable boy Bush hired to head this FEMA thing only cause they were buddies. Whooptie-doo. When you score big you gotta kick down to your pals or they won’t be your friends no more, and let me tell you, I got some pretty messed up friends. I figure by the time I filled the bigger posts like Secretary of State with guys I know competent enough to hold down a job shoveling horse manure, I’d be down to my retarded brother-in-law Randy for this FEMA gig, and he literally eats his own shit.

What got my goat the worst though over this whole thing was how people started criticizing the man for cracking a few jokes while he was taking a tour of the devastation. Man, I hate when people get all high and mighty over crap like that. What, like we should all be depressed twenty-four hours a day whenever something bad happens? It’s like when the space shuttle exploded over our neck of the woods a few years back and the missus got her knickers in a twist over me dangling some chicken guts over the clothesline for a gag. Hmmm… I wonder if Laura makes George make his own peanut butter, mayonnaise and roast beef sandwiches when he’s wry? Boy do I love that guy.

http://www.newsmutiny.com/pages/Opinion/BushDefense.htm

[fleabert]

45. "something you've written"

I couldn't resist. I am snarky today.