Tag Archive | truth is obvious

Gary Webb, An American Hero

2012WEBBNine years ago, December 10, 2004, respected and award-winning investigative journalist Gary Webb was murdered by a conspiracy of an apathetic citizenry, corporate malfeasance and government corruption.  The Sacramento County coroner, Robert Lyons, publically, if hastily, characterized the gunshot wounds in Gary Webb’s head three times before finally ruling the double-gunshot wound to Webb’s face a “suicide,” noting the use of a .38 caliber revolver, the presence of a suicide note and Webb’s close friend and ex-wife, Sue Bell, claiming that Gary, “had been depressed about being unable to obtain employment from another major newspaper for some time.” The San Jose Mercury News, on orders from “on high,” had terminated Gary Webb’s career progression after they claimed they had discovered errors in trivial matters of fact in his career-capping exposé, “A Dark Alliance” (ADA).

The truth, as Sue Bell explains it, is quite clear.  From her perspective, Gary was subject to bouts of clinical depression since his ADA story had caused so much criticism and derision to come his way from unexpected sources.  Many great communicators of the written word have been known to suffer from schizoaffective disorders (depression being the most “popular”), but Webb had also had several motorcycle accidents in the months leading up to his eventual suicide at age 49.  Perhaps not coincidently, Webb ended his life on the same day, albeit seven years prior, he had resigned from the San Jose Mercury News – December 10, 1997 – approximately one year and a thousand lonely nights after his employer had published his career-capping exposé.

Suggesting that “bouts of clinical depression” can be caused in adulthood by a career-related trauma involving the written word, alone, appears insufficient to me.  As a person who suffers from bouts of chronic depression as well as post-traumatic stress related to childhood trauma, I can assure the gentle reader that any problems with mental illness Gary Webb had related to his ADA story would have had their genesis long before Webb even made his career choice of, “Journalist,” assuming his illness was not caused by his treatments for situational depression.  And, in fact, there were reports of Webb being difficult to work with at times and subject to the kind of bursts of anger that often characterize chronic depression in males.  People who suffer from mental illness can spend their whole lives looking outside themselves for “reasons” why they are often irritable, sad or cynical.  I think it is fairly easy to see that if a thoughtful person, like Gary Webb, observes the government of their homeland falling completely apart while a flock of “vultures,” in this case rogue elements within the Central Intelligence Agency, can be observed picking at the dying body of governmental order, such disturbing ideas might be used to rationalize or justify a personal distempered condition.  But even Webb would have said, “facts are facts”; if all I can see in my life are reasons to be sad or irritable while the world continues to spin, happily if haphazardly, on its axis, the origins of my problem are beyond obvious.

In my experience, I am my own worst enemy.  I tend to hide from myself the most obvious of facts.  If I have had a problem with my environment, I could never solve your part in my problem.  I know this because I have tried, desperately, to do precisely that.  We, together, have to accomplish solving our conjoined problem, while I continue to address my problems and you continue to address your’s.  If we cannot engage with one another in solving our shared problems, for whatever reason, I must fully accept that fact or I will be consumed in a battle that cannot be won.  This is what is ugly and heartbreaking about any mental illness and depression is no exception: I cannot engage with any of my peers because I cannot even begin to engage with myself for whom and what I am.  More simply put, if my problem with you is that you are an idiotic Pollyanna or some other classification of being of an unacceptable order, we have only war and conflict to look forward to.  If I choose war, I need to get busy engaging you as an enemy or I will suffer defeat.  If I choose peace, I need to fit myself into a being who can engage you in a constructive process.  Note that we might still be enemies at war, by your choice, but my goal as a peaceful participant is to wear you down with minimal cost to myself and my resources, but also giving consideration to you and your resources because my own goal is to, at some point, engage you constructively as a partner.

I have not yet read ADA cover-to-cover, but it is available for free, here.  If you love books or want to help Gary’s kids, buy a hardcopy here.  As a person who has studied Communication and rhetoric at a graduate level, what I have read of ADA betrays none of the characteristics of the writings of a self-pitying, brainstorming, manic or depressive character void of clear thinking.  Gary Webb’s ADA, while categorized as, “fiction,” is far from that genre.  In fact, and characteristic of good journalism, Webb pulls a lot of punches that in retrospect should have been fully landed to the jaw of the global power structure.  Note that we should no longer waste our time landing blows to the proxies of the global power structure like the CIA, DNI, Homeland Security, Congress, the Courts or the Executive.  In fact, the governments of every sovereign nation are mere pawns of global power.  Vast concentrations of economic wealth positioned at or near the natural resources we rely on for the energy to perform modern labor is where we will find true global power.  When these power structures are engineered to serve the interests of life on planet Earth, as well as the creation and preservation of functional, constructive human interaction, the governments operating beneath these global power structures will eventually come to heel.

Admittedly the ideas Gary Webb presented in ADA are horrific – a secret, clandestine agency within a federal representative government (e.g., the CIA) exists and is profiting handsomely from sowing misery and murder among its constituent pariahs and social outcasts, using those profits to conduct foreign policies not officially sanctioned, or sanctionable, by the federal representative government in question.  Note that “horrific” is not unprecedented and, in fact, this despicable behavior happens all the time, now and in the past, in non-representative governments all over the world.  That Webb accurately identified and characterized an on-going illegal, immoral and unethical governmental activity is beyond question; that Gary Webb was ruthlessly punished by his society and peers for the sin of speaking the truth to power is a matter of records both public and private.  But three takeaway questions Gary Webb left us unanswered in ADA are: 1) Does governing humans have to become such an ugly, forbidding process?  2) Did we have representative government in the United States of America, c. 1987?  And, 3) What about now, c. 2012?

Clearly the cognitive dissonance and timing of the ideas presented in ADA, in tandem with their impact on persons more socially and politically powerful than Gary Webb, were allowed to end Webb’s life.  Whether that death was a suicide or an assassination is no longer a high priority issue of concern to the collective citizens of the United States.  We, as citizens, have questions we still need to answer and consequences we still need to sort through even eight long years later.  The families of the dead should be left to grieve in peace with an eye toward reconciliation and healing; as just another apathetic member of a society of turd merchants that have allowed Presidents, public servants and citizens to be murdered in cold blood without consequence, sometimes by the score, it is the least I can do not to dubiously pry open a wound so deep and so profound.

What happened to Gary Webb on December 10, 2004, was every bit as horrific to him, his friends and his family as what he wrote about in ADA, to say nothing of investigative journalism as an occupation.   In my personal experience, any “score settling” that needs to take place in order to preserve notions of simple human decency will naturally occur as society comes to accept the truth about itself and its identity.  When an entity as massive and slow as a society moves in your individual direction with ill intent, there is little one can do but be crushed.  The alienation and isolation of such a position, alone, can be quite vicious; that it also ends with a series of slow, bone-crushing crunches as a life deemed worthless is pressed out of existence makes the matter unworthy of concern for justice or just punishment.  As one sows, so shall they reap, for themselves as well as their families, unless society, itself, intervenes.

On this sad and tragic anniversary of the death of American Hero Gary Webb, let us remember the individuals and their families and hold them in our hearts.  Let us intervene that we might one day find a way to detach the heroic from the tragic, making the heroic commonplace and worthy of the representative democracy our Founding Fathers had intended for us in the Fall of 1789.

Deer Jesus Epistle: Thanksgiving Day

I thought it might be nice to write something for this week, and I tried – I really did – but Facebook locked up on me before I could finish it, trashing the whole bloody clipboard and all of my material just disappeared.  So unless you are Michael Nesmith and have some special deal worked out with Zuckerberg, I would compose any weighty tomes offline and then upload.  Kind of a, “no red wine with fish,” rule for frequent Facebookers.

Speaking of which, there will be no “loaves and fishes” type miracles between now and December 21.  I and the Staff went over this detail fairly early on in the planning process and we decided, based on what happened the first time, there would be no point to it.  So, yes, there was a loaf of bread and three fishes and we fed a crowd of about 2,000.  That part was true.  The problem was that there was a crowd of 6,000 starving Palestinians who had given up the previous night’s meal because they heard what we were going to do and got all excited and fasted.  That’s what people do in the Middle East when they get excited – they fast.  So, contrary to Catholic reports of this being a “successful” miracle, it actually pissed off about two-thirds of everybody who showed up.  Fasting makes people so cranky.

So my Staff said, “never again.”  And with all the kids and baby carriages nowadays, people are going to steal – and you know they will – so it doesn’t matter if you prepare a proper miracle, it’s just never going to be enough.  People are hungry.  Starving.  They think it’s for booze, or food, or sex, or drugs, but none of that is true.  Anyone who’s ever come off a long bender, lost a lot of weight, ended a polyamorous relationship with two or more bisexual nymphomaniacs, or fried on mushrooms in a crowded college dorm at night after rolling in a field of sticky weeds — they will tell you, “life is very hard to adjust to without adding challenges.”  As a person who knows a lot of people who at one time drank, drugged, ate and screwed their way into what they thought was heaven, I can tell you to save your money, keep your empty baby carriages at home, the whole event will be seen on cable.  Yes, we’re talking to HBO.  Unless Roy Jones, Jr. tries to make another comeback the night of the 21st, the End of the World, Part One, is coming.  The people at HBO warned me that the Jones fight could happen, so my Staff is working with Roy’s publicists to make sure it doesn’t – probably going to cost me a couple weddings or a half dozen annulments, but don’t worry.  We are going to make December 21st, 2012, happen for a lot of people.  Not everybody wants to leave home in December anyway – it’s too damn cold.

We’ll do our best to have a nice lineup, maybe some Dylan, Joan Baez for sure – if they’re still getting along – Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young – whoever’s left over by then – we’ll have them over for some coffee, maybe some nice Baklava, talk about what really happened in the 1960’s and where we screwed it up.  So, yeah, Judy Collins has already turned us down.

That’s always a nice way to start a confessional program – talking about the mistakes we’ve made.  Jerry Springer doesn’t do that, notice?  Some of my Staff talked to Jerry’s people so, unlike some HBO programs, this one won’t have any midgets, dwarves, little people, swords, naked women or fancy dresses.  Maybe we can give a little on the naked women, but it has to be tasteful – maybe the waist-up, or something – because HBO wants to make money.  I just worry that it will end up like backstage of a Jimi Hendrix concert.  I asked the man upstairs if we could raise the dead before the End of the World, Part One, because I wanted Jimi to play the Star Spangled Banner or Purple Haze or All Along the Watchtower, but He said, “no.”

When the man upstairs says, “no,” you really don’t have a lot of wiggle room to negotiate.  I tried once.  I still have the scars.  Take it from me.  Don’t improvise.  Do what makes you happy and don’t start talking about what’s wrong with other people’s neighborhoods or you could end up nailed to a tree or something.  I thought the white jackass was a nice touch, kind of cutesy, kind of a slam – and He warned me – but then, before you know it, some fasting Palestinians got a hold of me and they let a camel thief go rather than the first Jewish rabbi-comedian to ever mix religion, magic tricks and some juggling into the same act.   A lot of people don’t know that about me, but I juggled on the side at bar mitzvahs to make ends meet when the carpentry stuff got slow, usually in the Spring.  It’s come in handy on Sundays when all those prayers start backing up and we get short-handed.

All of this to say, be grateful for your family and friends today.  The End of the World, Part One is coming, it is real – we’ve put down a deposit – so it’s just a matter of getting the people who want to be a part of it in the flow and usually – somewhere near the first or second run-through – a theme starts to come up like popcorn.  Someone in the group, or one of my Staff catches it, and before you know it, we have a show that everybody likes and wants to be a part of.  We can start with the Winter solstice, but that’s really kind of lame and this should be extra-ordinary.  With Andy Williams gone and Tony’s voice not what it used to be, it’s just not the same.  Somebody remembered Claudine Longet, but, with all that snow and skiing – the Penn State thing – I just didn’t want to go there.  But I’ve seen some of the storyboards and met with some of the lighting guys, I’ve got to say we’re in for a real treat this holiday season.  All the drama, all the excitement, all the butterflies, all the anticipation – and then, a pearl left with the crowd to ponder just in time for Christmas Eve.

I’ll try to come back online as time permits and the planning for a theme starts to reveal itself, but I’ve been kind of busy with ObamaCare and all the disappointment – and the tears…there have been a lot of tears.  On both sides.  It’s what happens when you let your criminals retire to live in Preston instead of Corcoran,  but I’ll leave you with that as a cliffhanger and get back to tie it off before we get too close to the final go-live date.

Happy Thanksgiving, God Bless you and your’s – have a lovely day.  If you’re reading this, you’ve earned it!

My Summer Vacation

Summer Vacation Among the Towers

I wish I had a good excuse for not writing much this past Summer.  I did notice a slight spike in trips to my blog for September 11, which I appreciate, but I am having trouble writing about much of anything anymore.  I find nausea to be my friend and constant companion.

When David Crosby, formerly of The Buffalo Springfield, burst onto the stage at Monterey Pop and announced that JFK had been assassinated as the result of a criminal conspiracy, the year was 1967, nearly four years and a million dreams after that dreadfully fateful day in November, 1963. 

It was Spring, 2007 before I was able to personally shake the hand of, and offer my heartfelt gratitude to, Professor Steven Jones in the Salt Lake City Airport for his service to our country, the former United States of America – roughly six and a half years after 9/11/2001.  It has been nine years and a million nightmares since 9/11/2001 and the only accountable parties presented for public consumption have been nineteen Arab Muslims with box cutters.

The bastards have beaten us down once again.

Frankly I have grown tired of writing and chit-chatting about social injustice and the wars that defile the very unsung heroes who have fought and died in them for all these years.  War is a racket, true, but the game is played on a court that is owned and operated by a global elite who dislike being held accountable or having a lot of attention paid to their activities.  The existence of these individuals has been a finger in the eye of social democracy from the beginning and until there is an appetite for what must be done to rid ourselves of this scourge I feel I am shouting down a bottomless pit.  A strange and peculiar combination of psychopathy and heart must exist in an individual with the stones to walk up to a Dick Cheney or a Karl Rove and simply dispense justice quickly and cleanly.  Not that these individuals are anything but stand-ins for the real culprits, the real monsters, behind this fascist takeover of planet Earth; my point is simply to suggest that peculiarity serves to tag any individual who might be thinking of acting along lines outside the recommended public agenda or proscribed discourse. 

Jon Stewart’s timely, and unwelcome, interjection of 9/11 Truth into a mix of Tea Partiers and other racist misanthropes reminds me of the hold corporations have over our media and the power inherent in the agenda setting function that media always serves.

As I pen this weighty tome, “My Trip to al Qaeda,” blasts my sensibilities in high definition along with Lawrence Wright’s passionate, if unilateral, acceptance of the storyline that Osama bin Laden and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed were behind the felling of the twin towers of the WTC on 9/11/2001.  With all due respect to Mr. Stewart, Mr. Wright and the respect I have for their showmanship, no Arab fundamentalist could have planted the explosive demolition charges necessary and evidently used to drop those towers at near free-fall speed.  Gentle reader, such a feat as felling those towers in less than 15 seconds is not physically possible without months of unfettered access to the superstructure of those towers, nor without the foreknowledge of a sizable cabal with a large economic stake in the outcome of such a catastrophe.  The problem with so much of the truth – the roundness of our very planet being an example of one such truth – is that it is so beyond our ability to believe or conceive of its possibility.  It can take centuries for human beings to swallow such truths as, “the world is not flat, but round,” and, in the meantime, a great deal of money can be made by those of us who are less delusional than our fellows.

None of this is to suggest that all is well in the realm of fundamentalist religions of any stripe.  To the contrary, the piety of Islam and the forgetfulness of the New Testament Christians of the importance of justice combine to form a combustible mixture that well-moneyed powers have been using for centuries to keep us at each other’s throats while selling armaments to both sides.  Power can never be trusted to act justly on anyone’s behalf, and absolute power cannot be permitted to represent any consortium anywhere on this planet.  The price of an apathetic response to absolute, or near-absolute, power is death.  The price of confrontation may also be death, but such a death could inspire further resistance to what every man, woman and child knows in their heart to be true: freedom rings, everything else feels like the resonance outside of a tin horn.

What we must do next is decide whether we will live or if we will die.  Death is easy and comes to pass regardless of what we demand our life be made of.  Life, on the other hand, is a choice to join with all the vitality of the universe and take all the steps necessary to preserve, protect and defend what we know represents the best of our humanity.  We must extinguish the Death Cult that has ruled this planet for far too long and we must replace it with a consortium of leaders who choose life and believe in the equality of our fellows under an umbrella of social justice once and for all time.

The Barbershop Diaries, Volume I, Issue 19: To Those Unfortunate Few Who Have Been Left Behind

 

Don't Be Like Rick...Don't Get Left Behind

Don't Be Like Rick...Don't Get Left Behind

Apparently the Governor of the State of Texas, Rick Perry – a man rumored by the Austin Street in 2002 to have been interrupted, en flagrante delicto, with another man by his wife, has the supernatural ability to foretell the future.  Governor Perry is using his new-found powers, perhaps granted to him in a “mumblefest” with Reverend John Hagee, to force the cancellation of a meeting that would have demonstrated, perhaps beyond a reasonable doubt, that Cameron Todd Willingham was executed unjustly, unfairly and irresponsibly by the State of Texas during Governor Perry’s watch in 2004.

But Governor Rick Perry sports an excellent haircut and should receive some mention here at the ‘diaries.

So glad to see Governor Perry using his psychic abilities only for the Good.  Maybe he can do a travelling psychic duet with clairvoyant John Edwards – I’d love to see John Edwards “ping” all over the stage because of all the decent, innocent people Rick Perry and the GOP have sent to their untimely deaths in the last 20 years.

The murder of Cameron Todd Willingham by the State of Texas has recently been brought to the fore by a  Baltimore-based arson expert, Craig Beyler, who was hired to render an opinion by Austin attorney Samuel E. Bassett and the Texas Forensic Science Commission that, as of a week ago, he headed.  Beyler exudes credibility as does attorney Bassett, but neither of these two characteristics have anything to do with Governor Perry’s preternatural capacity for fortune telling nor for his capacity to sport an attractive coiff…so they had to go, “bah-bye.”

CNN also reports that two previous expert reports, presumably financed during Willingham’s appeals process, also determined that the deaths of Willingham’s children were not due to arson, but Beyler’s report, the most recent and the one wilting Perry’s coiff, was the first one commissioned by the State of Texas.

Let us pause for a moment of reasonable doubt.

Nine of the top fire investigators in the United States have all concluded that there was no evidence of arson in the fire Willingham was convicted on intentionally setting and which caused his children to perish.

From the death gurney, Willingham cursed his wife – a woman he had been accused of physically abusing, attempting to render an obscene gesture to her even as the paralytic drugs were being administered that would later cause his death.

What sometimes happens to women caught in a web of domestic abuse – and, yes, they fit a profile just as their abusers do – is that they will turn to stronger, more powerful males to seek for help in dealing with a situation that is often, and increasingly,  lethal to one or both parties.  Police officers – the single male versions of which fit a psychological profile, too – love to be of service to damsels in distress.  This affect does not serve male police officers well as they are statistically incapable of sustaining long term relationships or avoiding the trap of alcoholism or drug addiction throughout their careers in law enforcement.  If you know a retired police officer who seems pleasant and kind, give him or her a random hug because they could probably use one.

Back to reasonable doubt.

If you are a Texas-born male of the stubborn variety, a man who has managed through sheer grit and determination to survive the kind of childhood that has a high probability of breeding a domestic abuser, and you happen to think your marriage to a physically attractive female is due to anything other than dumb luck, you are a complete imbecile.  Texas has a habit of both breeding them and executing them with needles. 

If you are a Texas-born male police officer who thinks he does the right thing by tampering with evidence or unduly influencing a legal investigation because you feel “sorry” for the wife of a complete imbecile –  or worse, because she blows you in your cruiser on one of your many breaks in exchange for paying closer attention to her tendency to pick up men by their penises and beat herself to death with them – you deserve to discover that there is not enough alcohol or enough of any drug in the world to soothe your aching conscience.  Run, do not walk, out of law enforcement, and consider yourself fortunate for having had the chance to serve relatively honorably.  If you continue to decorate your rut with lumber and “collars,” you will become the Thing you hated the most and sought a career in law enforcement to eliminate.

If you are the Governor of a State like Texas – that can mean only one person at this point in history – who not only willfully allows this kind of nonsense to continue unabated, but is actually righteous about passing this steaming pile of crap on to the next unfortunate occupant of your lowly place in public service: you deserve to be outed for your hypocrisy, your complete lack of honesty, your deviant behavior and your abject, bellicose failure as a human being.

Yes, if it will make those unfortunate Baptists and Evangelicals who are subliminally enraged by the fact that they are still, at this late date, waiting to be “raptured” feel better, I am your Jesus for today.  I am passing judgment upon ya’all — or, “ye,” if you prefer.  I reckon I can have the whole job done in about a day hence my original promo, “Day of Judgment.”  Come one, come all.  Tickets are going fast.  Come see whose behavior was worse than your’s and who still got to live a pretty nice life, anyway.

By way of addendum, I think that it is important to mention the fact that being condemned to burn in a Hell of your own creation is no excuse for treating absolutely everyone in your path like they are the cool places only you get to walk on on your way to meet with your beloved Lucifer.  Nor is it any excuse for befouling the planet on which you were born like it is some kind of glorified privy where you can hide your liquor as well as lighten your personal burden after eating what no one should digest, or swallowing what should never have been consumed.  This is your Today-Jesus talking here and I am commanding you to wake the Hell up, already!

In one last ditch attempt at saving all of your putrid, lurid Protestant souls, I am commanding you to shave off all of your hair and live every waking moment that remains in complete and utter gratitude for every tiny, seemingly insignificant kindness you get to see or experience.  If you fail in this regard, I shall smote ye and all of your Amway downline with month after month of poor economic performance, vicious cross-line infilitration by your fellow churchgoers and numerous and sundrie infections of both bladder and yeast.  A Kaiser roll unto your many houses say I!

Thus spake Zarathrustra,  a man whose hair looks nothing like Rick Perry’s nor whose jawbone comes anywhere near Rick Perry’s ass.

Barbershop Diaries, Volume I, Issue 18: Nazi Germany Ain’t Motown

Motown Comin' to yo' town

Motown Comin' to yo' town

“You tell me lies that should be obvious to me
I’m in so much love with ya’ baby that I don’ wanna see
If the truth makes love last longer
Why do lies
make my love stronger?

Ain’t that peculiar?” 

 — Marvin Gaye

I loved Marvin Gaye’s music…probably the most redeeming aspect of the phenomenon that was to become Barry Gordy.  No more raw, nor unfiltered, nor uncensored, account of the illness of addiction has ever been broadcast in the popular media before or since the days when Marvin Gaye’s lyrics punctuated the creeping fascism of the 1960’s and 70’s.

When I heard of Marvin Gaye’s death as an adult, it hit me as hard as the death of Louis Armstrong when I was seven or eight.  That Gaye had died under circumstances so common in the lives of addicts and so reminiscent of untreated addiction only made his death seem more tragic.  When Louis Armstrong died, the pain came from the sudden and shocking revelation that someone had lied to me about death, about the fact that it wouldn’t hurt, about the fact that the German Nazi lady down the street and her opinion of Satchmo as, “just another nigger,” wouldn’t shatter my illusions about love and how its purity would prove victorious in the fight to save the human race from itself.

Marvin Gaye spoke the truth; everyone else was feeding me lies and wishful thinking.

The popular media is no longer in the business of broadcasting the truth and has not been for some time – not without an unhealthy, untruthful and widely publicized counterpoint that sounds more like an echo from 1930’s Germany than 1960’s America.  In 1960’s America I could name my yellow Labrador, “Satchmo,” as a reflection of what I and my mother considered to be a statement of unconditional love.  My collision with 1930’s Germany, however, meant that Satchmo would drink the leftover antifreeze the Nazi Lady left outside like a bowl of water, shit himself nearly to death on her prized patio, before wandering off someplace lonely to die a wretching, miserable death.  Satchmo loved me unconditionally; Nazi Lady loved me with a number of conditions related to my performance.  Those conditions were easily met by me most of the time, but I did have a number of assets in my favor over which I had little or no control.  Condition one, I was a cute-looking kid.  Condition two, I could eat breakfast, lunch and dinner faster than any of her children even if she blended it up and fed them through a straw.  Condition three, I was smarter, for my age, than either of her two sons.  Condition four, I naively saw her as a source of love and nurturing that I could not obtain from within my own home.  This last condition, of course, changed as I began to experience the full range of emotions and behaviors that the women in my world who were raised during the Nazi occupation tended to exhibit.

Nazi Lady stole from her tenants.

That she had tenants was certainly one in the plus column for her that complimented her husband as a Midwestern American, government civilian employee with a Depression-era learned neurotic compulsion to scrimp and save that would make the Indian on a wooden nickel scream and cry for mercy.  What kept Nazi Lady around, however, in spite of their obvious age difference, was a shitload of life insurance, a fact she had no problem revealing to my mentally ill, though not entirely permanently out to lunch, mother.  I guess the fact that my mother didn’t seem entirely engaged with reality meant that she could use my mother’s attention as a confessional.

Nazi Lady always covered her bases and was an absolute clean freak.

Everything had to be in its place at all times, reflecting a homey-ness and sense of welcome that was vacuously absent for said home’s occupants.  If Nazi Lady wasn’t pleading and coercing her children to eat faster, work harder or jump higher, she was chasing them out of the house so that she wouldn’t have to follow behind them and clean up the evidence that people actually lived there.  Everyone got a free pass on the first visit, of course, since they were visitors.  After visit one, however, you needed to respect the placement and display of precious objects Nazi Lady had taken great pains to steal from her tenants.  No, that’s not entirely accurate.  Nazi Lady stole from her neighbors and relatives, too, but only things like towels and dishware – things that could not be readily identified.

Nazi Lady liked fattening up small animals that she could then feed to her son’s pet King snakes.

Nazi Lady felt that it was critically important to teach her sons the truth about nature and the natural world.  She had no problem turning us loose in her backyard with our BB guns to protect her many fruit trees from marauding birds.  In one case, a family of sparrows had the misfortune of building a nest in what they must have thought was a piece of vacation real estate.  We did our job murdering the parents with sublime efficiency.  Nazi Lady did her job rescuing the chicks and feeding them oodles of noodles until they either died or became bloated and fat.  The one remaining chick was given his last meal before she gathered us around and dropped the too-fat-to-fly sparrow chick into the hutch that held the King snakes.  “You see, Bubby?  This is what happens when you don’t move fast enough!”  The snake swallowed the bloated little fruit-eating thief head first quite quickly.  I thought it was pretty cool at the time, watching those dirty little birdy feet walking down the throat of the hungry black and white snake.

Nazi Lady didn’t like fair fights.

As soon as my mother made the unfortunate mistake of informing her sons that all was not well with their mother, that perhaps Nazi Germany had taken its toll on the judgment of a neighbor who might otherwise be deserving of respect, Nazi Lady brought forward the truth about my mother.  My mother was an alcoholic.  My mother drank too much.  My mother was a liar.  And she told these facts to the loving eight year old son of said criminal, perhaps so that I might dissuade my mother from opening her lying mouth to anyone else in the neighborhood.  Of course Nazi Lady was essentially correct in her assessments as was my mother, but my mother was ahead of her by at least a dozen shock treatments and medical incarcerations, so the truth coming from my mother’s mouth had a very interesting way of sounding like pure babbling horseshit.  Could Nazi Lady actually be correct about my Mom?  The thought enraged me so much I couldn’t contain my ire. 

I kicked a hole in our screen door at home.

I later lived in sin with the daughter of another Nazi Lady for nine years and never married her lying, two-faced, emotionally-disturbed ass.

I laughed in the face of said daughter when it became clear that her lying, corpulent ass was finally catching up to her, that everything she touched was actually dead or near dying.  She laughed right back since she was able to fuck her way into keeping the house we had bought together.

So I moved to Texas, to the original scene of some imaginary crime, and have made a point of getting in the face of every Nazi-loving, fascist, brain-dead pig I could corner and let them know just how fucked up their thinking and behavior has been, will always be, it’s hopeless, put a gun in your mouth and pull the mother-fucking trigger and put us all out of your misery – you Nazi-loving, Fox-News-watching, flag-waving piece of human waste. 

But I’m not bitter.   I love the ignorant masses.  There are so many of them and so many to choose from.  I love hearing the marbles spin and spill in and out of their ears. 

Here we sit, in Texas, on a death-watch, guns at the ready, waiting to see which one of us is going to pull the trigger first and declare the competition finished and over with.

Maybe I’m crazy, but I thought we won the Second World War.  I thought the Nazi’s ate cyanide pills to escape the indignity of having their neck’s rung from their skulls…I thought the Nazis were bad, evil people who killed Jews just for the sport of it…I thought the Jews were the victims of the world…I thought Christians were supposed to love Jews no matter what….

Ain’t that peculiar?