The Sweet Tragic Fate Of The Pontificating Princess: An Occupational Hazard>Act 10

Of the many prisoners here on Devil’s Island, perhaps the most craziest & tragic outside of the dearly departed Va-Va-Voom & the thankful execution of Old Black Devil, is the Pontificating Princess, yet she wasn’t always this crazy. I say tragic, primarily because she has been taken so much advantage of by, not only the Fraternal Goon Twins, but tortured endlessly by Groggleman & the great Satan herself, Old Black Devil.

The Pontificating Princess came to Devil’s Island several years ago as a result of a double & grisly murder plot she hatched with Perky Pauline (whom was never charged), who in her brief time here on Devil’s Island, was a very cantankerous & whip-smart inmate.

Not much is known about Perky Pauline’s peril that brought her here, other than the swirling rumors that Groggleman was entertaining Old Black Devil several drunken moonlit nights ago & brought in for her dancing pleasure, Perky Pauline, who once Old Black Devil saw was more beautiful and caught the alluring eye of Groggleman, Old Black Devil threw a hissy fit & stomped out of their executive bedroom. Groggleman then promptly arrested Perky Pauline for indecent exposure, so the story goes.

As to what brought the Pontificating Princess to Devil’s Island, was the real-life crime murder of her screwball, yet loving & faithful husband Albino Joe T. Eskimo, who to this day the Pontificating Princess blames for making her crazy, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Having spent several years here, the Pontificating Princess had two of her life sentences commuted. She however, is still serving at least seven other life sentences. For her good behavior she had shown she was awarded exclusive custody & caretaking privileges of the Fraternal Goon Twins, whom she nurtured and cared for, as if they were her own flesh & blood.
Everything was fine as wine, until one day when Old Black Devil decided to swipe (Dis) Gracie Goon away from the Pontificating Princess & mold her into the image of Old Black Devil Jr. It wasn’t long after that when Greg Goon was snatched from her loving arms one day while feeding him by the fat & evil Groggleman, whose intentions were to also mold the young Greg Goon into the image of Groggleman Jr.

And so, the Pontificating Princess became so depressed that she attempted suicide several times within a period of 24 hours. It was Groggleman who found her hanging from a self-made noose around her neck & had her committed to the prison’s insane asylum, located in the back of the prison infirmary.

Everyone in the prison considered her to be a basket-case and avoided her. Broadcast Betty headlined the prison radio news program with mostly ugly & unfounded rumors about the Pontificating Princess’ crazy lifestyle. No one ever came to visit her except for myself & Perky Pauline. After the Pontificating Princess was released and was re-brainwashed into prison lifestyle, both Perky Pauline & I started hanging out with her.

One afternoon during a prison-yard smoke break, Perky Pauline pulled the Pontificating Princess aside and said, “Listen girlfriend, we gotta get out of this joint. Ain’t doin’ either of us any good bein’ here.” I just nodded & smiled. But the Pontificating Princess although as tough as nails had a tender & petrified side to her & didn’t want to make a prison-break for fear it would damage her sparkling good behavior record while serving time on Devil’s Island. And then one day, the Pontificating Princess was transferred to a different cell; mine.

From here, I had a clear picture of the entire scene. We had our usual tussles & scrapes, but the most ironic part of sharing a cell with her was every night before she would roll over and face the wall in order to fall asleep, she would shout across the cell to me, “Alright, whatever you say crazy-man!”

Months passed until one morning when Perky Pauline entered our cell by picking the lock with a bobbypin, carrying a couple of laundry sacks & said to the Pontificating Princess, “C’mon girlfriend! Wake up! We got serious business to attend to!”

The Pontificating Princess half-asleep rolled over and shouted back to her, “Be quiet crazy-man! I need my beauty rest,” thinking it was me, until Perky Pauline jerked her out of bed & made her pack up all of her belongings before my very eyes and said very stern to the Pontificating Princess, “C’mon, girlfriend! We gotta blow this pop-stand now!”

So as quick as they could run, both of them flew past me & made their escape. Somehow or another, Perky Pauline used her best assets to get past the prison guards. The Pontificating Princess never did make it past the gates however, as the laundry sack kept her weighed down & off they carted her, back to the prison’s insane asylum, where she’s been locked up ever since.
Late in the night, you can still hear the Pontificating Princess still sceaming & crying like a wild animal every night the same thing over & over; "I never should have listened to Perky Pauline! Where are you crazy-man! Come get me out of here," and so on and so forth, which only goes to show; no one can ever really escape Devil’s Island!

Oh, How We Really Need That Gas & Oil!

As I was driving down the street on Tuesday morning (yesterday), heading toward work, fashionably late, I might add, I passed the two gas stations on the corner I always pass by, a Marathon & the other a Shell & then I noticed something odd; both had the same prices for gasoline, $2.35! $2.35! One might think that if you were competing for a potential customer, you’d change your gas prices just a touch or offer free stuff to bring them in by the butt-load.

In all honesty, however, have you noticed how much gas prices have jumped lately in the last few days for those of you who live in major metropolitan area? Only four days ago (Sunday) I paid $2.19 per gallon. Four days ago and just like out of nowhere, wham! Boom! Slam! The price skyrockets like scalped tickets to a Chicago Cubs World Series game!

Now I realize that’s pretty high for some of you other folks who live elsewhere, but here in the Chicago-land area, it’s about the average. But as I have driven throughout the city and the surrounding suburbs, I’ve noticed the difference slightly. It runs pretty evenly from $2.23-$2.60 per gallon, but you know what the funniest part of all this is? People are just accepting it at face value without so much as a gripe or complaint.

When this first start occurring over the past several months, everyone from Joe Citizen to United States Congressmen were up in arms at what they called price-gouging. Some years ago, whenever I traveled to San Francisco or Los Angeles, I always notice the gasoline prices were higher than $3, yet this was back in the 1990s & it seemed acceptable then, but why not now?

If you ask me, I think it’s a God-damned crime against America & its citizens. What this price-gouging does in the long run is pinch us most where it hurts, straight in the wallet or pocketbook. It may seem like nothing shelling out a few more cents here or there, but it adds up throughout the year to spending a couple hundred more than you planned to ever spend on gasoline.

This oil industry seems to thrive & hang onto every single solitary word our honest president and his pet terrorists, I mean his cabinet members & the Washington-DC based federal organizations like say the FBI say, like for example a terrorist threat is upon us yet again; did the threat of terrorism ever go away?

Have you noticed that whenever there is a terrorist alert or a possible terrorist threat that the first thing to go up is gasoline prices? It’s all done for our purpose they tell us, as they continue to siphon our hard-earned dollars away from us, while trying to scare us into thinking that without warning, oil & gas will become as scarce as two-dollar bills.

And speaking of terrorist alerts, have you noticed that the color-coded terrorist alert chart seems to have vanished in thin air? It is funny what an election will do to people if you scare them enough, but I’m rambling.

The traders on Wall Street sure know how to put a scare & a spin into the stableness of the economy when it comes to rising gas prices; they just panic about the future & sell it off washing their hands clean of the situation, thereby making the rest of us feeling paranoid.

So what should we be doing to counter this situation? Fight back! Make gasoline stations feel the hurt back & boycott your favorite station for a while; go elsewhere to get your gasoline, look for cheaper prices. Believe me, there are lots of cheaper places to find gas at. Avoid gas stations that are near interstates however, as they tend to gouge the prices silly.

You can also abandon your car & take public transportation or ride your bike to work. Or walk to work if you’re close enough. But if you’re like most folks, and almost absolutely have to drive to work, here are four tips you might be able to use, in order to save on using gasoline:

1: Empty your trunk. A trunk laden down with too many items will add up on the weight of your car, thereby giving you greater risk of losing gasoline at a much quicker pace. It sounds trivial and miniscule, but believe me the more you throw in your trunk, the more gasoline your car loses.

2: Don’t play the radio or your cassette/CD player everyday. Let it breathe a bit.

3: Roll down your windows & turn off the air conditioner. It’s kind of nice when you’re driving & you get to hear the beauty of sound that surrounds you.

4: Carpool. You can either advertise at work by posting a sign on your bulletin boards or post it on the website, www.craigslist.org. Who knows? You might make a couple of new friends!

If you come across other ideas, let me know & email them to me at the email address posted in my profile. Together as a community we can send these gas-gouging bastards packing!

Congratulations! We Made It! And How Do You Like That! It's The First Day Of Summer!

Ah, it's the first day of summer. Unofficially or as that old unwritten law goes, it begins with Memorial Day and ends on Labor Day. Like many of us, we spend our days in the tenements of an ever-present stagnant summer, with sticky fingers walking down melting tar roads, with nearby overcrowded mosquito ponds multiplying by the second. Only a few weeks ago locally where I live, a West Nile virus alert was issued. Ah, the times they are a-changing!

During the summer months, I almost always leave the car parked in a lot on the weekend mainly ride the commuter trains, El trains, walk within a reasonable distance, take local transit or ride my bike (when it’s working properly).

Most summers, the commuter trains are full of rambunctious youthful giggling girls, who bandy about with twisting donut shop stories with so many “like” and “goes” words inserted in them.

Then there are those young boys wearing Burger King paper-crowns, with strapped roller blades that hit each other across the knees and slap each other on their backs, making farting sounds with their underarm pits and screaming at the girls, such classic lines like, “Your voice is as annoying as a weasel meeting a moose.”

These are the kind of kids that wear death metal tee shirts, tan chino pants and brown cutoff shorts and always walk past garage sales with useless trinkets like Jesus bendable dolls, “Kiss me, I’m on welfare” cookout aprons, toys with missing parts, stained clothes, dog-eared novels and overpriced melted records with 30-plus deep grooved scratches.

Inside the middles of summer, whole gangs of young hoodlums creep about inside auto graveyards at dusk and before dawn each and every night, Junker trucks and cars of every make, model and color with smashed windshields, crumpled fenders, loads of tires, oily engines, ripped up seats, shattered windows and flattened frames, making future plans to rob the rich and spread the wealth amongst themselves.

Of course, there are the predominately colorful neighborhood festivals with gay and campy themes that permeate the land, like “KKK (Gotta) Love Jones Festival” and “Smoke Marijuana With Other Brilliant Dope Heads Daze” (sic). Then, there is the usual fare of art shows, morning songbirds up at 3:30 a.m., swimming pools full of kids and mothers with revealing bikinis, and carnivals and circuses.


Oh, the joy of remembering in my own youth, eating ice cream everyday and riding my bicycle and taking those daily dips into the city fountains. Summer holidays with gigantic fireworks displays. Catching lightning bugs and keeping them in a mason jar until you set them free the next night. Butterflies! The coolness of early summer mornings & late summer evenings. The marriage of ants and picnics, which go together like apple pie a la mode. The smell of morning green grass. Sweet corn. Lying on a hilltop and watching the clouds roll away.

Drinking an entire six-pack of beer with the porch lights out. Running through sprinklers with your clothes on. Old men walking their dogs their wives. Sons and daughters necking in movie theaters and parked cars with the windows all steamed-up. Short-lived romances. Catching up with old friends. Saying goodbye to loved ones.

Late night card games with new friends, accompanied with laughter and kissing hazy moonbeams with sweat dripped from foreheads wiped off by fingers and napkins and rags. Blazing car headlights and burnt out charcoal parties several hours old, yet the fumes still linger in the air. Car window breezes and late evening fogs in forests and marshes.

Goofy family vacations to theme parks and traditional American favorites in states like South Dakota, Iowa, Indiana and Wisconsin. Of course, then there is always the great idea by parents for a splendid summer vacation by sending their children away to overnight camp, giving children the fright of their lives, wishing and longing to come home and promising to be good.

Fishing and visiting museums with Dad. Band concerts and listening to top song hits on the radio late at night. Walking to the corner store for bread and butter and cookies and spending time just talking for hours with Mom on the couch.

Yes, dear readers, these are just some of the many memories within my soul that live onward. Enjoy your summer!!!

Words From The Mishegas Master: Frankly Speaking>Act 1 (For Mykel Board)

Alright, dear readers I’ll admit it; I’m different. Herein lies the difference, however; I’ve known this about myself for many, many, many years already. And it seems to me that others who seem to know me, really don’t know me at all & are shocked to find this sort of thing out, which makes me ask the following question; where in God’s name have all of them been for all of this time, in another galaxy?

It’s been kind of obvious…well, at least apparently that women seem to notice this about me far faster than men do and are more open and willing to acknowledge it. What gives anyway? Why is it that women notice faster than men? Well, going on this theory & it’s only an assumption, most women I’ve dated in the past (with the exception of Isabel, Jenny & Maggie) always have found something wrong with me, but not in the wrong sense of the word.

I think they all meant to imply “normal,” but what is normal supposed to mean anyway? Does it mean to fit one’s self into a narrow straightjacket category as prescribed by someone doing the judging, influenced by their elders (parents & family) and peers (friends)?

That’s the trouble with people in general they rely too heavily on what someone else says. With another person’s influence, the game changes dramatically. This is especially true when it comes to typing to strangers on the Internet. People on the Internet, particularly in chat-rooms, almost always feel they know something about everyone else in that same chat-room, just by typing to them.

Oh! But there is such a difference between typing to people online, on the telephone, even if you have exchanged photographs, as opposed to talking one-on-one to an individual in person.

One person who stood out from a chat-room crowd that I used to stop into frequently & usually gave me verbal black-eyes on a daily basis was none other than Rudi Russky from Columbus Ohio. Rudi meant well I’m sure (NOT), but there were many, many, many times when we knocked heads, primarily when she insisted she was trying to tell me what I was doing wrong or seemed oddball-like in nature, when I knew what felt right to me.

Rudi tried her hardest to get me to see situations her way and frankly, it was always her way or no way! Furthermore, her way of thinking was always correct she told me, while my way of thinking was always abnormal.


Well, I think you might have guessed it by now, but you might as well really understand why I’m in the current groove I’m in now & loving every moment of it. I’m an oddball, but so what? My natural oddness makes me stand out from the crowd and anyway who wants to be one of several thousand sheep in a herd with no direction, when you can be a masked man with a beautiful companion by your side, exploring the still and yet undiscovered prairie?

(by the way for an interesting & hilarious written perspective on me, go out to your favorite local music store, Borders or little independent shops & pick up the current issue #266 of Maximum Rock-n-Roll & read Mykel Board’s column, “Mykel Board Sez You’re Wrong”--I go by the name of “Sid” in this column. Also check out Mykel’s website: www.mykelboard.com & be sure to tell him the Mishegas Master sent you!)

The Numbers Manipulation Game Strategy: An Occupational Hazard>Act 9

Among the many scandals plaguing Devil’s Island, perhaps one of the biggest one known to a quarter of the prison population until now, is the infamous “numbers game,” run by Groggleman.

A select few including yours truly, are well aware of the numbers game. The numbers game works like this: a pool of prisoners bet on each other to how long one will outlast the other via varying torture methods. Groggleman has been running this numbers game for nearly a year & a half, almost exactly the time he was awarded the prestigious & truly coveted award, “Prison Boss Of The Year.” Then, Groggleman instructs Josie Peppermint to work the numbers among her group of prisoners she supervises. It’s just that simple!

Last week, after the sudden & unpredictable execution of Va-Va-Voom, who some claim was executed in order to keep quiet about the numbers game, a rather harried Josie Peppermint suddenly came up to a group of us & told us to meet with her in her office in two minutes flat.

So those of us who were picked reported to her office. The doors that were connected to her office were all shut, locked & barred, while the windows were all shuttered. Josie Peppermint looked pale & stoic. Almost zombie-like with an edge of strange calmness to her appearance. Those of us who had gathered inside knew right away something was terribly wrong.

“Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have decided to take you four out of our group on a temporary basis. We expect you as numbers runners to be pulling your weight around here and you four simply aren’t doing that,” said the anal retentive Josie Peppermint firmly.

Little Mama, Twitchy, Flood-Pants Fred & I were dumb-founded. We all knew something was going down & beyond what Josie Peppermint was ordered to tell us. Where did Josie Peppermint get off telling all of us that we were no longer good enough for her, Groggleman & the stupid numbers game?

As it turns out, Josie Peppermint’s top soldier is none other than Johnny Vegas, the golden boy for Groggleman’s numbers manipulation game. I say manipulation because that’s exactly what Johnny Vegas does, is give Groggleman truly false numbers & figures; day after day, week after eek, month after month & perhaps year after year if it comes to that. And Groggleman accepts it at face value without checking his totals. It’s as if he’s signed a secret “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell No Questions Asked” pact with Johnny Vegas.

And as for the campaign between those of us who have been given bigger amounts of names to work with, as opposed to smaller amounts to work with; well of course! Those with fewer names will pull in higher percentages!

Do we all look that stupid to you Josie Peppermint? Are we all some kind of patsy for you, Groggleman? Is that why Miz Lou was moved to another section of the prison for pointing out flaws in the numbers game? Is that also why Atom-Bomb Amy was executed nearly three weeks ago because she was about to blow the whistle on your secret & illegal numbers game to the upper prison brass, Groggleman???

I’m sure that the rest of the prisoners inside the system would really like to know more about this numbers game that you play with our group, Groggleman & Josie Peppermint; it’s the least you can do!

Memoirs Of A Vertical Transport Engineer At Chandler’s

This past June 8th marks 21 years ago that I left my then-last odd job before re-entering college & the remarkable journey I would be making. It was 1984 when I resigned my position as an elevator operator at Chandler’s Used Textbook store in Evanston, Illinois for summer school at Western Illinois University in Macomb, Illinois.

For one and a half years, it was my job to move people up and down from the first floor, all the way to the fourth floor & down below to the basement, even pesky children, teenagers & old ladies who had no sense about themselves & lean hard on the elevator bell & then expect a nice friendly face to greet them.

It was October, 1982 when I accepted the position at Chandler’s. I thought it would be interesting to hold down a job of a dying field, similar to newsboys, boys & girls that delivered newspapers like me (before the advent of adults with cars taking over) & milkmen.

My main job was to transfer people from floor to floor, your typical mundane boring job, but I didn’t think it was so boring. For me, it was a chance to meet people, talk to fellow employees and to make new friends.

During my second month there, late November, a week before Thanksgiving, I had just come back from a Homecoming Weekend at Lincoln College, in Lincoln, Illinois, where I formerly attended school. I say formerly, because I had been academically suspended for poor grades, a running theme for me back in the 1980s.

It was & would turn out to be my second-to-last time to visit Lincoln College, at least visiting people I might have a remote chance of knowing. I had spent the weekend with friends and of course, I got wasted silly & smoked a couple of joints to boot!

When I returned home late Sunday night via Amtrak train & went into work the next day, the marijuana effects were still with me, as I kept missing my target. The fact of the matter was that running an elevator seems like a piece of cake, but when I first started doing it, it wasn’t all that easy.

You had to level the elevator to the floor it as evenly as possible. Management felt that since it was first month there, they decided not take discipline against me for missing the mark. If only they knew!

Chandler’s itself was incorporated in 1895 and closed its doors in 1995, I believe. Ah, progress, I suppose, but back to the story. The L-shaped building became that way because of the lack of funds it had reached during the start of The Depression in 1929.

And then there were the coal tunnels that I used to walk through beneath the bookstore itself. There was this little red door down below in the bookstore blocked off, usually by an overstuffed bookshelf that one could walk through and find one’s way back through the empty storeroom beneath the front of the store. I used to store my bike in the storage space.

It was a well-known used textbook as well as used bookstore back then. That’s where I bought most of my Beatles, poetry & Kerouac books. It thrived heavily with its office supplies as well as its stamps & coins on the third floor & the sportswear department that also sold Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Brownie & Girl Scout uniforms on the second floor.

The first floor was where all the office supplies were sold, as well as the engraving & wedding invitations services were run. The fifth floor was Chandler’s warehouse, an overstuffed floor full of boxes, paper & other things, good enough to start a nice fire within seconds with a can of gasoline & a single matchstick.

Chandler’s always charged double for their all of their office supplies because back in the day, there was very little competition nor were there places like Staples, OfficeMax or Office Depot.

When I still lived with my parents back in the 1980s in Morton Grove, Illinois, I used to pedal my three-speed bicycle to work every day, taking me up to 45 minutes to get there. The rest of time, mainly during the winter months, I rode the bus.

Out of all the ironies from riding back & forth from work, I used to pass on my way home every day a lavender home on the corners of Church Street & Florence Avenue in Evanston. During some time of that home’s occupancy, R & B singer Patti Drew lived there.

I loved the way that house looked! It was built in 1891, originally as a farmhouse, as most of the land in that part of town was still farm country. It would be, another 18 years, however in February, 2002 when I would move into the basement apartment of that house, living there for a total of two and a half years.


Of the many memories I have of working at Chandlers, I’d like to share three of my favorites with you, dear readers.

Six weeks prior to my arrival there, a young upstart actor named John Malkovich quit his job there. Management said he was a smart ass & would never amount to much. One of the older employees there showed me a shelf Malkovich had built. I decided to touch it for good luck. Apparently some of his talent from that shelf rubbed off on me.

I had my lion’s share of free time while waiting for people to transport, so I wrote a lot, mostly poetry & song lyrics. I wrote many poems, including perhaps the best & well-known of the bunch in that time period called Talkin’ John Kennedy Assassination Celebrations Blues.

I had written it based on the fact that a new holiday was created in the fall of 1983, called Sweetest Day. Sweetest Day as many of you know is just another excuse to buy useless gifts, expensive flowers & fattening candy & mostly greetings cards for your sweetie.

I had been looking for an alternative holiday to write about & to celebrate & it struck me that the 30th anniversary of Kennedy’s assassination was coming up. So, being heavily into punk music at that time, I wrote the lyrics with a punk-feel to them. Later, when I attended Western Illinois University regularly I was taking a music class that required us to submit a song & actually perform it in front of our class (I’ll blog more someday about this song).

And finally, one night while transporting the owners of Chandler’s, the Johnsons (Morton, Patricia, Morton’s mother, Morton’s sons Bruce & Eric to the main floor of the building, one of the men farted! No one said a word after that happened & I did my best to keep from cracking up! The entire elevator reeked & when I reached the first floor & let them all out & waited for them to leave the building, only then did I let go a huge roar of laughter!!!

The Execution Of Va-Va-Voom: An Occupational Hazard>Act 8

Late this morning, most of the prisoners, including myself, on Devil’s Island learned the tragic fate of the unexpected execution of Va-Va-Voom. There are a lot of sad faces around here for certain, as Va-Va-Voom was one of the most beloved prisoners here at Devil’s Island.

In a previous Devil’s Island I spoke of how myself & Va-Va-Voom met. In today’s act, I will speak of reaction here on Devil’s Island, for the most part. There was no movement from within in his cell, until this morning when the fat & evil Groggleman came into his space and removed all of Va-Va-Voom’s personal belongings and boxed them up, presumably to be sent to his next of kin.

By all accounts, Va-Va-Voom who was up for parole with less than two weeks to go, was apparently denied once again by Groggleman & instead slated him for lethal injection, which came to Va-Va-Voom fast, swiftly & peaceful at approximately 10:32 am central daylight savings time.

Many of the prisoners here on Devil’s Island are shocked & horrified to learn the news of his execution. Johnny Vegas was quoted as saying, “Say it isn’t so.” Josie Peppermint, when cornered by myself & Johnny Vegas asking her about Va-Va-Voom’s absence, refused to divulge further information to us, until she was 100 percent certain Va-Va-Voom was executed.

Congenial Collette, usually a pretty happy woman all-around, was saddened by the news of his execution & was seen sobbing uncontrollably in her prisoner cell. Even Loud-Mouthed Lucy has gone silent from all of the shock of the news of his demise, a true rarity indeed.

It is a well-known fact here on Devil’s Island that Groggleman never did like Va-Va-Voom all that much anyway. You see, Groggleman took many opportunities to humiliate & belittle him in front of much of the prison population, just as he has done with myself, many times.

During a morning prison yard smoke break, Carrot-Top Cutie informed me that there will be more executions coming throughout the lower level of the prison system, sooner rather than later.

Even Knee-Jerk Jack was surprised upon hearing the news of Va-Va-Voom’s execution, asking him if I knew anything, but I told him I really didn’t, but in reality knew more than I cared to reveal to him.

I know most of the prisoners here on Devil’s Island feel that this world will be a lonelier place without Va-Va-Voom without his great abundance & joy here on Devil's Island, but do know he is in a better place now.

So I offer up this simple remembrance for Va-Va-Voom: We should remind ourselves that we are only here once in this world & to always keep our thoughts happy regarding Va-Va-Voom, for they will travel to him wherever his soul does ultimately peacefully rest.

Flag-Waving Is For Sissies!

As it turns out, today’s day in history is Flag Day, June 14th, the commemoration of honoring one of our nation’s national symbols, namely the American flag. It officially became established in 1916, when President Woodrow Wilson declared by national proclamation, that each June 14th would be designated as Flag Day.

I felt it would be appropriate to run this, an older opinion piece of mine, written in early 1990, during my senior year at Columbia College in Chicago, just five months before I graduated with a degree in print journalism.

Perhaps it’s not one of my greater opinion pieces I’ve ever written, but for those of you who have read & enjoyed my written work thus far, prepare yourself for a rare glimpse of what my writing looked like back in the day before I became a professional journalist in 1991 and entered into a field that I dearly loved & eventually burned out from in the late 1990s.

Not much seems to have changed in terms of the flag-burning issue, including the last name of the President of the United States. What follows this opinion piece is a list of tips & rules on how to treat Old Glory, courtesy of both the Kansas City Star & the website, www.usscouts.org.

This past week in Washington, D.C., the Bill Of Rights remained intact, due to a failure of passage of a proposed constitutional amendment that prohibited American flag burning. President George Bush who tried desperately to get this amendment passed, played hard on the emotions of the American people, and nearly succeeded too.

The blame doesn't go entirely to Bush, but to the mass media and politicians as well. The media that in their respective mediums, presented the American public with different viewpoints of flag burning, pro and con and the effects it would have on others.

Television out of all the mediums appeared to be the most biased in their approach to this very subject. On screens across the nation, one could see images of veterans’ groups marching in full uniform, speaking out for the protection of the flag and cries of anger expressed by clean-cut individuals who believed that the flag was a sacred object.

On the other hand, television also showed radicals dressed up in ripped army clothes, decorated with peace symbols, saying it was perfectly all right to burn the flag.

Given the viewing choice, it would seem that most people are turned off by radicals, keeping in mind that certain images are burned into peoples' minds at a young age, therefore a disrespectful person, certainly wouldn't be positive, again insuring a victory for all war veterans.
Politicians took advantage of it, by using the flag as their welcome mat of false images. Like Bush, most of them cried foul and shame, playing on the emotions of their constituents in their home districts, just to win votes in the next election, when most of them couldn't really care less.
Other factors to consider here are things like politicians who use the American flag on plastic garbage bags that are given out to voters and American flags that are pinned onto a coat. Are these tactics any better than flag burning?

Whether one is pro-American or anti-American, all should take into consideration both sides of the flag burning issue. Does flag burning constitute an amendment verses minimal damaging incidents to the flag? Both are interesting to consider.


The U.S. Code presents the rules about displaying Old Glory, including:

The flag should not be dipped to any person or thing. The flag should never be displayed with the union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.

The flag should never touch anything beneath it. The flag should never be carried flat or horizontally, but always aloft and free. The flag should never be used as wearing apparel, bedding, or drapery. It should never be festooned, drawn back, nor up, in folds, but always allowed to fall free.

Bunting of blue, white, and red, always arranged with the blue above, the white in the middle, and the red below, should be used for covering a speaker’s desk, draping the front of the platform, and for decoration in general.

The flag should never have placed upon it, nor on any part of it, nor attached to it any mark, insignia, letter, word, figure, design, picture, or drawing of any nature. It should not be embroidered on such articles as cushions or handkerchiefs and the like, printed or otherwise impressed on paper napkins or boxes or anything that is designed for temporary use and discard.

No part of the flag should ever be used as a costume or athletic uniform. However, a flag patch may be affixed to the uniform of military personnel, firemen, policemen, and members of patriotic organizations.

The Guilt Trip Began In Eden And Disappeared In Los Angeles

I am justice,
A little one-sided,
Ashamed to be part of the system
from Nobody’s Heart (For Julie Harris) by Rod McKuen

Hatred & sorrowfulness has a way of creeping up inside the belly of your deepest valleys and darkest closets of your imagination, so much so, that when push comes to shove, denial of your past life actions seems safer to part with, rather than owning up to the truth and dismissing your curiosities of old as being naïve, foolish and stupid.

For businessmen who have nothing to lose, except their own livelihoods, apologies are always in order. And whether they have been a racist, a Nazi, a child molester or some of form of anti-human factor, we easily forgive them and say, “oh yes, but of course,” bowing down to their “politically-correct sorrows,” when I know damn well, that all they want is your business, support or vote.

If they were so damn sorry, why did they get involved to begin with? It’s all a game, a ploy, a trick, a human mousetrap of the “feel sorry for me; buy my products please,” syntax.

Sorry means nothing anymore. It’s an over-used word or phrase. We say sorry way too much these days, from Congressmen to lawyers to pop stars, right down to the ordinary average Joes like you & me. “I’m so sorry such-and-such action happened. I promise it will never occur again, flap the guiltless men’s & women’s jaws, tongues & teeth. The promise twinkles in their pupils whilst they dab a handkerchief or Kleenex to their moist eyes.

How can one apologize for events that occurred 50 or 150 years ago? What are the descendants expecting, restitution? Stuff happens for a reason & we learn from our mistakes, simple as that.

It’s almost as idiotic as raising the dead & scraping DNA samples from what’s left of their remains just so the authorities can find new evidence & hang the guilt on someone new. Saying sorry is almost a crime these days, you know? Everybody says those magic words therefore, it must be right when someone in public eye says; “It’s the right thing to do.”

Now, believe it or not, I’ve seen it over and over again, from businessmen to politicians to self-appointed holy rollers. And we just eat it up. If they are worthy then they will prove so by doing their job with the greatest of ease.

If on the other hand though they fail miserably, then yes of course, they deserve to hang in the gallows of public scrutiny and disdain. They are what we create.

And we create and destroy so very simply. Wishy-washy attitude is a thing of the past! Crime does not pay! The weed of crime bears bitter fruit! Do the crime? Pay it back! With life humility, it’s the least of their worries, comparatively so, when you think about it.

It’s all the damage they have to repair for a lifetime that is their monkey.

Hoboing Through Indiana-American Yarnprose1

I slept last night underneath a bridge in the country, trying to run away from my misgivings and misfortunes I’d uncovered since coming to this shabby town and this cruddy old state. The worst of it was, I had to face up to it, to who I was, what I had done and the one I had hurt.

I thought about her intensely. The one person who I’d met and fell head-over-heels in love with. Shoot! I didn’t mean it. I thought she said it was okay. Apparently it wasn’t and it caused a lot of bad blood between us.

I wanted to run. Run real bad. I started out as a hero in this state and I ended up as a goat. I never started to drink until this past evening. That cheap strawberry wine tasted so good, much like that cheap strawberry wine I discovered back in my college days, always laughing heartily every time I had hit my head on the door, leading inside my dorm room.

Over and over again, perhaps at least 1,000 times, the scene played over in my mind like a needle stuck in a grooved record. I kept seeing her face. And of course, she continually blamed herself, even though the responsibility was ours together.

Earlier in the day, we went for a walk in the park, the same place the coppers found that floating corpse in the river and with the silly photograph blaring loudly on the front of the local morning daily. She reassured me that she would get the problem taken care of, but refused to let me tag along, because she didn’t want me to see that “other” side of her personality, the often sullen and spooky shadow of her interior.

I never did forget the jumbled words she spat at me over and over again in monotone, “You hurt me. What can I say? I’m pissed!”

I saw my own reflection in the moonlight along the riverbed. My clothes slightly soiled and my backpack was full of written memories from the writings I conceived earlier in the year. I saw the gleam of the Soo Line railroad engine flash its warning light and blasted its horn loudly and proudly, as if to acknowledge my presence. I started to run, managing to catch one of the rungs of a graffitied boxcar, flinging myself inside the cold, empty crawlspace on wheels.

“Dear diary,” I wrote, “Boy did I mess up shit this time. Not only did I give the gift of life to the person I really love, but at the wrong time and the wrong place and what do I end up doing? I run away! I’ve never done that before. Do you think anyone will understand my actions?” I pondered my thoughts for a moment or two and continued writing. “Me, the one who preached righteously about morals and then I screwed up royally.”

Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard Joni Mitchell singing 1970s songs. I drifted in and out of sleep, to earlier moments of happiness and other creature comforts. The open boxcar screeched and scratched endlessly against the rustic sky, which by this time, had turned to hangman black. I tumbled about, as I felt the entire train shake and clatter further and further away from that horrid little midwestern town.

Where was I to go? What was I to do? Would I be welcomed into a strange town again like I was the last time? I was scared. Truly and honestly scared. Just like the place I had lived before. I felt like a refugee. A godforsaken hobo of a man, stuck with all of his priceless belongings that didn’t amount to much if that crucial moment came crashing down unexpectedly, so I took a few swigs of the sweet wine and eased up a bit.

I was far enough away from everybody now. Far enough, where I could sing, laugh and cry all in one fell swoop. Quakers. Weirdoes. UUs. Evil people. One-Horse Towns. Hog Farms. Holsteins. The Ku Klux Klan. College Students. Snobs. Ministers. Churchgoers. Mennonites. One-Eyed Cats. Movers and Shakers. Songs and bands I’d never heard of. New poems I had written all rolled up into one solid ball of messy entanglements that I had yet to classify or put my fingers on.

Why had I befriended these freaks? These people? Written about them or become influenced by them? And sometimes, sometimes I actually became them for short fleeting moments! How strange!

It felt lonely and downright depressing to hit rock bottom and to then have to pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. That truly was the scary part. A part of the reality check that I more or less had to face up to. In other words, the eventual look of the picture frame that for some reason, I had continually put off until I had painted myself into a corner and could barely move, let alone breathe.

But in a way, I liked that. My whole time in this state had been an adventure and in the end, it didn’t amount to squat. Not all the tears, the threats nor the weather could change my mind, except of course, for the people whom I befriended along the way.

I knew in the long run, I was right. Did it matter anymore? Yes! Only to those who cared enough to call me friend. Did my nine months here serve a purpose for me, I thought, lying back on the floor on the cold boxcar.

Indiana, the state where the buffalo and cattle once roamed endlessly. Where slaves had a place to hide. And where Abraham Lincoln was considered a traitor by people whose minds had all the energetic mentality of a worm being swallowed by a carp. Indiana. The state where I once came as an alien. Lived like a gypsy. Fled in terror like a refugee with no homeland.

“Yes,” I thought to myself, as I drifted off into a deepening slumber, “It’s time to go home.”

The Botox Frankenstein Archival Interview Series>#6 Old Skull, 1990

Old Skull, a Madison, Wisconsin pre-teen punk band, performed an energetic and hilarious set in February, 1990 at the Lounge Ax in Chicago. It was before their set that I talked with brothers JP Toulon {guitarist and lead vocalist, age 10}, Jamie Toulon {bassist, sheet metal/sign-slapper, age 9} and Jessie-Collins Davis {drummer, age 10}. JP and Jamie's parents Vern and Mary sat in as interpreters and buffers when questions for Old Skull were either too difficult for them to understand or when they became unruly. Interview copyright 1990/2005 ©

CB: How did Old Skull form?

JPT: Well, one day we were up on Mars skating in some crater and these Martians came up to us who were skating with us and they told us we should go down to Earth and form a punk band and call it Old Skull and so, that's what we did...

JCD:...They were kinda weird, 'coz they said first you should call it Old Radio, then Broken Window, then Old Skull, then they changed their minds some more and made it Old Skull, so then we came down here.

CB: And what year was this?

JCD: This was in 1811 or something like that...

JPT: Yeah, in the 1800s or something.

CB: At what age did you start playing your instruments that you currently play and how did you arrive at those decisions?

JT: I started playing bass last year. I don't know why I started playing it, 'coz we needed one.

JCD: I started playing drums 'coz, of a shop. My real dad, he died, but before he died, this was five years ago, there was this one drum set in this window of this store in this one place in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, you know and I wanted it real bad and then he got it for me and brought it to my house. That's how I started playing that instrument, 'coz I always did like them. I play a little bass too, but not in the band.

JPT: I did it because of my dad. My dad's in a band called World Gone Mad. They're getting a record contract with Restless, just like us.

CB: How do your parents feel about your music?

JPT: They think it's cool.

JCD: My dad isn't crazy about the music. I don't think anybody can be crazy about the music. The worst thing my dad doesn't like about it, is driving me places and loading up...

JPT...Same thing with my dad, especially in that cold car of ours.

CB: I was wondering about your first recording titled Get Outta School, you've got songs like "Let's Go Kill That Man," "Homeless," "Jesus Died On The Cross" and "AIDS." You really seem to care about what's going on in the world or at least are very well-informed on the issues that shape America currently. I’m duly impressed. I'm curious to know what your personal feelings are on the homeless problem, politics, pollution, religion and AIDS.

JCD: Well, I wrote "Jesus Died On The Cross." For one thing, I was looking for a song; it's nothing against it, nothing really for it. It's just something about he died, you know? And pollution is dumb. I don't see why people make nuclear bombs and put them in the water and kill whales.

CB: Who do each of you consider to be your major musical influences?

JPT: I like lots of music, like industrial, Skinny Puppy, Missing Foundation, then I like rap, Ice Tee, NWA, 2-Live Crew. I like lots of punk.

JT: I'm kind of the only one in the band that listens to heavy metal, but that's what I like to listen to; I don't care what they think.

JCD: The only kind of metal I like is speed metal, like Metallica and I don't listen too much. I like Paula Abdul, she's pretty fine too!

(At this point, JPT, JT, JCD, their parents and CB all roar with laughter). I've been listening to a lot of NWA and Rob Base. I like Black Flag. Oh yeah, one other thing...Have you heard of Sheila E.? She's a drummer. She's not only one of my idols; she's another lady I like that's pretty fine.

CB: Do you guys have any gimmicks? Not too long ago, I saw you on 'A Current Affair' whipping hot dogs at a reporter...

JPT: Oh yeah, reporters always get pegged with those (At this interval, JPT, JCD, JP and CB all roar with laughter). Jamie threw the hot dog at the reporter.

CB: Is Old Skull more of a novelty act like the Chipmunks, a youthful act like Musical Youth, The DeFranco Family, New Kids On The Block, Donny & Marie or Menudo or more of a grown-up act like the Dead Kennedys or The Descendants?

JPT: We're just a regular act, you know? We don't try to put on anything special...

JCD: We don't try to meet women and sing "ho, ho, ho like the New Kids [On The Block] or anything. We do pretty much what we want to do, [verses] sound like Santa Claus...

CB: Yes, but in that sense, I know you're little kids. It might appear to some people that you look and sound like a novelty and you'll out-grow it and go into a regular stage of life...

JPT: We’ve been here for three years and my dad in his mind says, "It's gonna end now" and then we end up on a TV show. Sometimes it dies down, (gives example of situation), like someone just called up and said, "Hey, do you want to do a show and so-and-so?" And my dad's like, "Well, I don't know, let me call up the other parents, it's cool with us."

CB: How do you manage to record and tour, while going to school?

JPT: We don't, we don't, we don't. We never miss school.

CB: JP, I understand you have a lead role, along with Sarah Bernhardt [co-star] in a yet untitled Hemsdale film production this coming summer. How did you get the role?

JPT: Well, we we're playing in Los Angeles this [past] summer and somebody [a woman] came up to my mom and said, "Well, we're doing this picture and we think your son is really great. And my mother was like, "Fuck you! You're lying, that's a big crock of crap." I guess they said they were going to call my mom and they called, we found out it was for real.

CB: Where is this being filmed?

JPT: Arizona, in Los Angeles [California], maybe St. Louis [Missouri] or Gary [Indiana].

CB: Do you cater to the yuppie clubs or the punk clubs?

JPT: The punk clubs, man 'coz the yuppies need to go! (He leans into the tape recorder and yells) Die Yuppie Scum!

CB: What do you all want to be when you grow up?

JPT: A musician, an actor and football player.

JCD: I don't know, it's kind of hard making your decision when you're 10 years old.

JPT: [Referring to his brother, Jamie] My brother wants to be a nerd; he doesn't have to work hard at that...

JT: I don't know, a fireman...

CB: Is that a hard question?

JT: Yes, I don't know what I want to be, good [answers] or bad can be right.

CB: Is there anything any of you ever wanted to say in an interview, but were never asked?

JPT: Oh yeah, there is something, why did they elect George Bush (Sr)? That's the question I have to ask you.

CB: Well, there's a lot of foolish people out there...

JPT: They should have elected Jesse Jackson.

JCD: Oh, I know [proceeding to tell a joke], why don't they allow dogs in the White House?

JP:'Coz they'll pee on the [sic] bushes and chase the [sic] quayles. (At this point, everybody in the room bursts into laughter).

CB: Anything else?

JPT: Tiffany can kiss our ass.

http://www.splendidezine.com/departments/guilty/guilty12003.html

http://themelesswonder.com/oldskull.htm

Amercan Yarnprose

The Woodsman & The Sturdy Black Oak AKA Nine Muses Of Error In Underconstructualism

In the great erosion came the great error. The great erection of frumality filled with greed, wealth & critischism. It wasn’t the first time the woodsman had attempted to take a whack at the old sturdy black oak. He expressed great exuberance in his work & it showed, as he whistled the ninth chorus of the Clever Clogs Waltz in E Minor.

The exogamy had passed him, slowly, but painfully. He knew the consequences of the path he had chosen, but decided to press onward, knowing full well that the experience he had gained or lost would serve him handily in the new exploration he was about to embark upon.

The hour was fast approaching. The woodsman took a might swing…BANG! Expansion had arrived. New ideas followed swiftly like an overflowing vat of gin. Harmonious joy spread like morning dew on the leaves, as all of the creatures from the forest poked their heads out to see what all the great commotion was about.

The sturdy black oak that once stood before him now etched a new path toward extinction. The exocardia that once befuddled him now befriended him like a long lost relative. At last, the woodsman could chop easily once more.

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Old Black Crow And Yonegi AKA My Wife Is The Universe Caw! Caw! Caw! Caw!


Old Black Crow had seen enough everywhere he flew; destruction, depression & damnation. Cities large & small, contributing unknowingly to the downfall that was already in place.

Years ago, when no one cared about preservation in the land of plenty, Yonegi appeared on a bright & clear sunny day & forever changed the landscape that we live upon. Raping & pillaging natural resources was nothing new to Yonegi. He had been doing it for most of his life.

Yonegi’s idealism was simple; it’s there, so use it, if you don’t then it will simply go to waste.

Once Yonegi began to reproduce, there was no stopping him. Yonegi & Old Black Crow never did see eye to eye, as once Yonegi tried to murder Old Black Crow by draining the river where Old Black Crow drank from & by poisoning the crops that Old Black Crow ate from, crops, which Yonegi believed belonged to him & the rest of the nation.

It led to fights & meaningless squabbles over rights & properties & created instability, hatred & frustration, which lead to wars, diseases and ultimately death, which made Yonegi very very proud.

The Early Days Of Devil’s Island: An Occupational Hazard>Act 7

One in five prisoners attempted suicide & succeeded every three days during Old Black Devil’s two-year regime>Devil’s Island factoid

A strange yet powerful stench seems to permeate the air in and around Devil’s Island lately. Some say the namesake of Devil’s Island is back to pay a friendly visit, while still others say it’s payback time for her untimely demise.

In the early days of Friendly Island, it was quiet. Things around Friendly Island ran smoothly. There were no complaints. Everyone was friendly with each other. There were no such emotions as anger and hostility. It was considered illegal to harbor such feelings.

Then one day when no one expected it, a rather grey, dreary, dark & black thick fog rolled across Friendly Island and out of the thickness, stepped Groggleman and a great-horned she-devil, whom most referred to as Old Black Devil.

The attitudes on Friendly Island changed forever from the day forward. For a time afterwards, Va-Va-Voom’s mood changed from rainbow bright to haunted forest green.

Friendly Island slowly began to change, from an island where happiness & joy were abundant, to its current name Devil’s Island where chaos, anger & hostility ruled the roost solidly for the next two years.

Together as a team in more ways than one, Groggleman & Old Black Devil shaped the policies & rules that would dramatically decrease the prisoner ratio on Devil’s Island. Not only did Devil’s Island see an overnight increase, as high as 80 percent in the number of prisoner suicides, but attempted and successful prison escapes too.

Greg & Gracie Goon were instructed by both Groggleman & Old Black Devil to intimidate, harass, threaten & embarrass, and in some cases follow & wiretap specific prisoners & their cells.

Executions were talked about more frequently. Prisoner abuse was out of control. The more Old Black Devil applied pressure, Groggleman followed suit, as did upper prison brass.

It was beginning to look a lot like Hades-On-Earth, as far as the prison population was concerned and not many could stomach this new self-imposed and self-styled Marshall Law taking effect on the prisoners.

Pep Talk From The Mishegas Master

I am reminded nearly a week ago, of a scene in the Disney film Bambi when the young male deer (Bambi) loses his mother after being shot to death by MAN, the greatest of all dangers to the animals in the forest, as I lost my good friend Bard, who has guided me over the past 12 months to better & more positive outlets.

Bard would say to me that I did all of the work on my own, but because of him, I pulled myself out of debt, out of circles filled with hate, death & destruction, sometimes still those remnants I can feel & still forced to embrace just so I can understand what is happening & what it feels like.

These past 12 months have been a major upheaval for me. I saw myself go from being a suppressed poet/writer to freeing myself on many levels, as well as making significant changes in directions, career outlooks & lifestyle.

One year ago, I was living in a hellhole apartment that flooded every two weeks, with a landlady who was as mishegas as mishegas gets. I was slinging along with a vocals/piano teacher who was desperately trying to undermine me, complete with outrageous fabricated stories & later, back-stabbing techniques, thinking to get rid of me as a student because I was TOO MUCH for her, but most of all, I freed myself as a performer from beneath the clutches of a control freak who couldn’t put the kibosh on my rising spirit.

There are folks in this world who would like nothing more than to destroy other people’s spirits, for whatever reason, perhaps something they cannot have themselves, so in order to bring someone down who is enjoying their happiness, do their greatest harm in trying to restrain, murder, rape or smash any possibility of someone else achieving it.

I call that either ignorance or jealousy. How ignorant can someone be if their idealism doesn’t mesh with others, others they consider either as friends or student & try their hardest to smash their positiveness? Ignorance immediately becomes jealousy & boy do they know it!

If someone achieves a new level of happiness, why put a damper on it? Why not celebrate in their joy & happiness? Surely whatever losses that dot their lives will be overcome, if not immediately, then perhaps in the distant future.

Thankfully, I leave behind three of these naysayer-types who tried to destroy me. I guess what I am trying to say is, if you have troubles reaching your goals, find someone to help guide you toward the right direction that is most positive for you like I did. Don’t listen to people who try their hardest to drag you away or drain you down to nothingness. Stick to your guns, live up to your goals and don’t let them slip away. Above all, keep on smiling!

Robble Robble

When you are young and growing up as a kid, you tend to be hooked on certain symbolic icons of your youth, as a way to link up with your childhood years later on as an adult. I was hooked on Batman & Robin, Roger Ramjet, Quisp & Quake, Superman and Ronald McDonald. Yet, out of all these character-advertising symbols, Ronald McDonald had the most impact on in those young years.

When you are a young kid, you have no agendas. There are no important issues to tackle or deadlines. Primarily you are just thinking about what’s on television, what’s for dinner, how much homework you get from your teacher, does that kid from next door have to make fun of you all of the time and whether or not you have what it takes to be cool.

Around age eight, I started collected things. Ma and I refer to this action as accumulation now. I was the ever lovin’ packrat and I only learned from the best, my ma, of course. I collected everything, from rubber bands to political memorabilia to the latest craze of the day at the tender age of 11½ in 1973, McDonaldland Lids. These lids featured the popular McDonaldland characters of the day like Grimace, Hamburgler, Captain Crook, Mayor MacCheese and of course, Ronald McDonald himself.

Somewhere in the piles of my multi-decked landfills, there’s a letter that I received from the president I believe of McDonald’s, whom I had written and told him how many lids I had, 55 at that time and how much I liked the food at McDonald’s. That number grew to a few hundred by the time the promotion ended. Additionally in the letter I received back from him, I was told that had far more than the amount his daughter had. As an added bonus, the envelope contained $5 in McDonald’s gift certificates. Back then, $5 could stretch a lot further than by today’s standards, for a fin then, is like four bits now, which does not last so long anymore. The days of penny gumballs and 10 cent phone calls and newspapers all faded, but I am rambling here, where was I?

Oh yeah, so around the age of 13, I felt it was high time to go and visit the man himself and pay homage to the king. Accompanied by thy younger brother Benjy, off we walked down the street to the local McDonald’s to see our idol Ronald McDonald.

And of course there is a line snaking around the restaurant and a fruit stand nearby, so off we snake with them, eventually getting closer and closer and closer, until we are practically right next to him. Right about then, I happen to turn my head, when I spy something strange beneath Ronald’s golden carriage made to look like a throne. It is then that we discover, much to our horror and dismay, that this man who serenades all children from around the world and endorses delicious (well, we thought so at the time) fast food with a smile, is nothing more that a smoking fiend and a bum-lush rainbowed clown.

It is sad, but true, for as we are waiting for him to return, we notice a six-pack of Schlitz beer beneath his throne and sadly, we see him taking a few drags off a cigarette the size of a number two pencil. It is our turn next and when we talk to him and say “Hi,” we get a mimeographed signature color picture of him, and we notice that he has tobacco breath.

Not very encouraging to a little kid, even back then, before today’s advent of Ronald looking like a happy go lucky pied piper saint, leading children of all colors down a brainwashed path of unrealistic images and how good food tastes at McDonald’s, such as a cheese and bacon burger, which is so healthy and tasty too. Oh, thy dear clown-faced man, I can feel you, but you cannot touch me. Tears crest around thy eyes. Yee have lost thou forever.

Ah, but I see it all so clear now, visions of thy sweet-faced iconic clown, you’re like a fine brewed enticing aroma and yet, the lambs remain with you, as you lead them down the hill toward the gates of hell. Mothers weep and the children howl with great gasping glee. Your great crime against all of humanity not withstanding, is never enough time to put you where you belong,

We sing it proudly and strong, “Ronald McDonald thrown into the slammer. We can feel you, but you cannot touch us. A whole village is wailing, a safe system is failing, Ronald McDonald thrown back into the slammer, back where you belong, back where you should be.” Ah, the wishes of two young boys now all grown up. Such a mad, mad world, such a mad, mad pity to dethrone your own city of boys and girls who believed in you for so very long and you do more harm than we do wrong. Ah, mad, mad, world, mad, mad world.

Son Of The Magic Soap Man

A couple of years ago while making my usual amount of industrial research telephone calls in my leads pile at work for the state of Wisconsin, I came across one lead, that for one reason or another, I actually knew. I was excited, thrilled & quite happy to say the least, when I had the chance to connect with part of my past, that being Dr. Bronner Soaps. Without saying too much about Dr. Bronner (it's better to go to his website to see what I'm referring to), I called the lead & received an answering machine, which is about 70 percent of my work, answering machines.

Still, I left a message on his answering machine, thinking not to be called back, because that too, is about what happens 99 percent of the time. So, while getting ready to leave for the weekend & putting together my various piles of good calls, disconnects & wrong numbers, my phone rang. It was Ralph Bronner, son of the late Dr. Bronner, the man who produced the famous soaps.

Work policy dictates that we are supposed to be on the phone with a lead not more than 5 minutes tops. By the time I got off the phone, it was nearly an hour later! I loved listening to Ralph's stories about his father & about his travels as well. One of the things Ralph asked me was how many people were in my group at work & I told him, because he said he would send me a case of hemp shampoo. Sure enough, two weeks later, at my apartment, I received a case of hemp shampoo which I passed out to my co-workers who were more than happy to have it. Some of them even knew of Dr. Bronner's Soaps as well.

As it turned out, the actual soap factory was based in California, not Wisconsin. It just tuned out that Ralph, the vice-president of the company, lives in Wisconsin & that in my company's California state industrial guide, Dr. Bronner's Soaps factory is already listed.

In the weeks that followed, my supervisor accused me of smoking the hemp shampoo every time I misplaced paperwork. About a month later, I received a card from Ralph with a $50 bill inside, that in essence thanked me & told me to take a friend to dinner! I was flabbergasted. The next time I spoke to Ralph, was Mother's Day, when he invited me to his 167th birthday party he was having in June. Unfortunately, I was unable to go. Yet, I continued giving out the shampoo to people who not only knew about Dr. Bronner to people with bewildered looks on their faces, as if I was some freak who was giving them crack whiskey or something.

I've kept in touch with Ralph over the past few years, mostly by phone, but I digress slightly. Tomorrow, Ralph Bronner turns 169 years old & that's where I'm headed, to his 169th birthday party in Newburg, Wisconsin. It'll be a good time for sure & a fun way to spend a Sunday. And at long last, I will get to meet the wonderful son of soap genius.

Below this, is a parody I wrote a few years ago based on the Alfred Noyes poem, The Highwayman, with musical adaptation provided by the late Phil Ochs, who was a great fan of Noyes.

I've also left behind the website for Dr. Bronner Soaps. As always, enjoy!

The Magic Soap Man

The phone remained silent, it was late Friday afternoon
Had been gathering my data for a paperwork monsoon
When the phone rang, a voice came rambling over, it was Ralph Bronner
The son of the man who cleansed the pole that had once slipped right through my hands
And so my story began

I was a lad of zero when I first discovered soap
I ate it, I drank it, and I rubbed with it
Until I learned to grope
Soap became my friend whence upon
A fate I grew into

As I boycotted it at age 12 for still reasons unclear
Kids at school sniffed at me and started to disappear
Oh, alone I found myself, but myself I would always be
A friend when no one cared about
Stinking flesh like me

Oh, my teenage years rolled around, rolled forward like a spray of steam,
I kept on denying myself things I had always dreamed
Well at age 18, I stood up and I did rebel,
Away went the corduroys and collars, and out popped the jeans & the tees
And I told my parents to go straight to hell

At age 20, I stood so alone in Chicago town
Didn't know a friend from a foe, didn't know my way around
Whence I peered into a window of a health food store and what should I see should have not been there, but a dream I dreamt so long ago
So long ago, had now become starkly bare

On a dusty shelf it stood
Stood out so alone, a different bar of soap
With a wrapper of crazy writings, psalms, poetry and fables that I had not known
Oh, this writing, yes this writing, oh yes this writing
Took me back to where I had not known

So I went inside, bought this bar & took it home, well the funniest phenomena followed & tickled my funny bone
As I showered, I felt so much like a promiscuous canin terrier that had been pinched real hard by a whole army of fire-red ants
When all at once I got a tingly sensation
That felt like I had bitten off a York Peppermint Patty inside my pants

Well, that was 21 years ago and so much like yesterday it seems
The golden rule of cleanliness has become my mantra theme
I use powders, sprays, deodorants, and drugs
To make my appearance more insatiable
And to attract all the girls who will give me more than just hugs

To think I owe it all to Dr. Bronner, the man, his wrappers & his magic soap
Gave me reason to believe one can have happiness without exchanging hope
And now when I take a shower the soap keeps bubbling as I rub
Yes, the soap keeps bubbling, keeps bubbling
Yes, the soap keeps bubbling up through the whole bathtub

http://www.drbronner.com/

The Botox Frankenstein Archival Interview Series>#5 Dirk Dirksen, 1989

Editor's Note: In 1986, almost immediately after charges of "selling pornographic material to a minor" were lodged against then lead singer Jello Biafra of the Dead Kennedys, Dirk Dirksen a friend of Biafra's knew something had to be done, so he and a few others started the No More Censorship Defense Fund. In 1987, Biafra was cleared of the charges, yet they felt the need to carry on what they started. Speaking with Dirksen in December, 1989, I found out what NMCDF was up to at that point. During my conversation with Dirksen, I found him as an in-depth individual and quite mind-boggling to say the least! Interview copyright 1989/2005 ©

CB-Charles Bernstein
DD-Dirk Dirksen

CB: How did No More Censorship start up?

DD: Well, once the charges were brought up against Biafra and the naming of the four other individuals as co-defendants, it became apparent that the folks that were being charged, that they didn't have the money to defend themselves and we felt that a miscarriage of justice would occur if they didn't have proper representation, therefore a number of us who had been associated either as producers, artists or such with the music scene, felt it necessary to give a hand to those people and that's how it came about. It started on June 3, 1986.

CB: Was the original intent of NMC begun, as a sort of watchdog group...

DD: ...to assist the five defendants, mounting the defense. Since that time, because of the fact of the tremendous amount of questions and mail we have received, on first amendment issues around the country, we've just basically have kept going as a voluntary organization that disseminates and tracks of concern to the first amendment.

CB: Who does NMC serve in terms of artists, smaller bands, etc?

DD: Somebody phones or writes, whether it's a high school student doing a term paper, a state archive or college archive saying, do you have any information on this or that trial, this or that first amendment issue that went on in Minneapolis for instance, wherever. Then we check our archives and send them the material they request. We've taped appearances by spokespersons on both sides on either side of the issue, so there's audio/video documentation availiable.There's a certain amount of advocacy on saying this is what the first amendment says, stand up for those rights.

CB: Do you also monitor groups, such as Back In Control (A United States organization that allegedly brainwashes the minds of young children, particularly teenagers)?

DD: Monitor, I guess could be the word, we're more of a clearinghouse, because we're treating that more of actions that would hinder a person's access to information or a and obviously we have a strong conviction that the founding fathers got it correct when they wrote the first amendment and therefore, as a democracy in its second 200 years of operation should stick to that. Anything that interferes with that is something that we all should be aware of, that even though we may not agree with the individuals' particular thought pattern, that if we want to hold our own thought patterns to be free from prosecution, then we've got to protect the other guys, even though it may be totally ad horn to our own viewpoint. Much of the rap music, much of the rock music, in opera or country & western music, I find offensive, but I don't want to see it cut out. I just don't buy it, I just don't surround myself.

CB: If somebody came to NMC for help, how would the process begin?

DD: Well, by virtue of the fact, hi I'm so and so, I've just been busted over this particular statute or I've had this happen to me at my school or I've had this happen to me at my record label or I've had this happen to me when I went to buy this particular record or this piece of artwork, then we would try to figure out either what the intent of the statute was when it was written by trying to hook that person up with a civil liberties or first amendment attorney in that area who might be able to suggest who might be a good legal resource in their own particular area, whether that is referring them to a chapter of the ACLU in their state or their city, we would try to find similar prosecutions to their case that might give them leads as to how to defend themselves, law libraries to give them access to, where other first amendment archives are in their area, so they could educate themselves to it. In other words, we don't have financial resources because it's all volunteers.

How would you definitively define censorship?

DD: Censorship is the denial or oppression of someone's right to express themselves in whatever way they want to, verbally, visually. Now, censorship can occur like government agencies with the force of law put behind it, that's the most common or the one we fear the most because it is the individual faced by the majesty in power of the state. But censorship can occur on a one-to-one basis, where somebody by might says, "I'll put you in the mud if you say that." That's censorship.

CB: How can people educate themselves on censorship?

DD: By keeping their ears and eyes open to as many thoughts as possible. Now if someone is advocating the abuse of others, whether that is women, other men, children...anyone that advocates that in their songs, that's someone who is vile and you should reject them. If on the other hand, they're using metaphors, it's if they misuse the metaphor, then the message is lost. If you are a sincere person and want to improve the world, if you start throwing too many metaphors into a piece of work, it may come back to haunt you and destroy. But let history be the judge, let the individual be the judge. Let's not go putting stamps or stickers on because they become ridiculous. It was proven in the Biafra case.

For information, write to: Alternative Tentacles Legal Defense Fund, P.O. Box 419092 San Francisco, CA 94141

For information on Dirk Dirksen: http://www.outspokenideas.com

The Executioner’s Face Is Always Well-Hidden: An Occupational Hazard>Act 6

On the bottom floor or level of Devil’s Island where many don’t venture to, other than perhaps to eat in the prison meal-room, ironically and perhaps a little too coincidental, many of the foreign & minority prisoners are housed, where regular rodent & pest infestations occur almost weekly. It’s the poorer section of the prison system. Having been locked down there in solitary confinement myself two years ago by Groggleman, I can say for certain that it’s not a place I would ever choose to be.

This choice seemingly fits upper prison brass motto in which some groups of people are better hidden than heard. Kind of prejudice if you ask me, but this is their prison, not mine.

Although pointed out many times previously by international organizations allowed viewing of prison conditions, top prison brass refuses to change or readjust prison conditions. In any event, top prison brass's biggest gripe against these organizations suggestions, is that it would take too much money to refurbish or build new prison wings. Besides, their money is invested in their stately homes, vehicles and other real estate property.

To ease overcrowding lately, they have begun to execute innocent prisoners wrongly accused of crimes they didn’t commit. Most recently we as a community mourned the loss of Sarah Hurrah, always a happy-go-lucky type, always smiling, always cheerful. Her crime against humanity, you ask? Absolutely nothing, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She behaved like a model citizen, yet fell through the cracks and no one bothered to check records until it was too late. Rumor has it that the next two prisoners likely to be executed are Roger Dogma & The Minister Of Sinister.

But of all the prisoners housed in the lower level, the two most flighty are none other than El Noir & Knee-Jerk-Jack. Although El Noir a great criminal in his own right with a rap sheet as long as the Mississippi River, his sole purpose for breaking into Devil’s Island was to rescue & aid his faithful friend & companion, Knee-Jerk Jack.

Knee-Jerk-Jack, leader of the notorious Bloody Vulture Gang was brought to Devil’s Island a little over three and a half years ago, after being convicted for attempted murder & aggravated kidnapping. Not only would any other prison facility hold him, but he truly is the only known “real” law-breaking prisoner of Devil’s Island.

Due to an bizarre accident years ago while El Noir was robbing a television repair shop, when running out the door, he tripped & fell, sending him headfirst into a runny oily residue on the shop floor, that was soaked into his skin like a sponge he acquired strange, yet magical powers that enabled him to move quickly in and out of rooms, faster than any man or woman on the face of Earth, unlock any security system without a key or code & the grand master power of being able to mentally camouflage himself amongst the prisoners, guards, captains & other prisoner personnel.

El Noir, who is as bright as they come, always had difficulties with Old Black Devil herself, who also had an uncanny ability to sense the presence of El Noir & instructed by all in command to harass him at any cost possible at any time. And so it came to past that that anywhere El Noir traveled within the prison system & the prison sensors were set off by his presence, he was taunted, teased, berated, intimidated & threatened wherever personnel felt he was.

Such is the way of life on Devil’s Island. El Noir to this day, remains in hiding for fear of being executed and rumor has it, that he is devising a way to get past the sensors, while Knee-Jerk-Jack impatiently waits to be sprung.

Checkmate!

I lean over to taste the fruit of tomorrow that I want so much but would rather let it rot in the opportunistic ritualistic timeframe just as happy couples are giggling over coffee and conversation at Starbucks.

I pretend that I am sad, but realize in the world in which I must live, I must also create, spawn and die. The fates, which I hold in my fingertips often, freeze me out from the reality of the locomotive timetable that huffs and puffs its way down the train tracks of veins, nerves and molecules.

In becoming the man that I am, I have chosen to live a semi-righteous path filled with shadows, skeletons, bones and crafted words pouring like flames from a rooftop in the wee hours of night. The need becomes a hunger and the hunger becomes a lust and the lust becomes a pain and the pain becomes a desire and the desire becomes a love, a love which I have no cure for, almost like slaughtered caresses dripping the finalities high and dry.

I think of those quiet boyhood moments which are more or less gone, gone in the way of the milkman and the young newspaper delivery boy I once was. My new age strikes a resemblance to a scared child facing his first time alone and away from his parents. Details are sketchy and sometimes I think I don’t want to remember those times, as they are too painful to recall and too embarrassing to speak of.

A long time ago, I went rolling down the street talking to myself and sipping wine, hoping I would be noticed, but alas, I was a poor muttering bum in the nostalgic alleyways of the gone and forgotten. So many of us this time of year. How pathetic it seems and yet it is all true. Never a home for us. Perpetually roaming the streets and alleys in our minds hoping to find a heart and a little tender love.

Well. I guess what is said is true. I don’t say much here. I just watch and observe the madness all around me. Madness in the hall. Madness in the toilet. Madness in the closet. Madness in my bedroom. Madness on the telephone. Madness in America. The list goes on and on, but you get the picture.

My birth, a symbol of the furtive state of humankind, discriminatory chooses to protest against women, children, spacemen, Indians, cripples, coffee mugs, pills, poems, songs, pencils, records, teabags, newspapers scattered and piled high like corned beef on rye, sports, snobs, dust, fat cells, breathless teenagers, Christmas, Easter, St. Pat’s Day, fireworks, soldiers, politicians, Texas, Georgia, Alabama, Arkansas, Kentucky, Oklahoma, and above all, Indiana, world capital of the lunatic bible-thumping Quaker-crunching, KKK- stumping, and basketball worship humping lowlife.

I once knew a man so deep he was drowned. Sex was his savior. He wanted it so bad; he could taste its fingertips in his mouth. No faith, no glory tells your sad, sad story.

Checkmate!

Death Comes In Threes AKA The Third Time’s The Charm

Sometimes the strangest vibes will come sliding across my brain like a melody out of place & remind me of incidents long ago and nearly forgotten. Kind of like my nine months, a pregnancy almost, spent in Indiana. It was mid-summer 1994, one of the hottest summers I had ever lived through, following on the heels of the coldest & snowiest winter season in Fountain County, Indiana.

Having never lived in a rural area other than two college towns in Illinois, both Macomb (Western Illinois University) & Lincoln (Lincoln College), or visited friends who lived in small towns throughout the United States, I never did get used to rural driving, especially during bad weather.

During my brief stint of living in both Attica & West Lafayette, Indiana I thought I’d never make it out alive. It almost happened too, not once or twice, but three times I felt like it was “the end” for me.

The first time came during the early winter of 1994, when I was close to leaving my managing editor position at the Fountain County Neighbor in Attica. Too many head-butts with the publisher didn’t exactly go over too well in my mind. What can I say though, I thought I was doing right & of course it turned out I wasn’t “good enough” for them. Oh well, what was a guy to do, anyway?

Driving to Crawfordsville, the closest & semi-biggest city outside of Lafayette, always took me 90 minutes or so to complete. One afternoon, I decided to take a curvy dirt road that I had driven a few times before. There was a bit of snow on the ground, as well as some on the road and so I thought I could cut my time in half if I took this road down.

It was one of those roads that were cut through the middle of a forest, beautiful trees surrounded each side of the road, though with the snow upon them, made them appear even prettier to the naked eye.

It was in the middle of the shortcut that I had to stop suddenly & that’s when all of my troubles began. My car, which back then, was a 1992 red Geo Prism with a little over 40 thousand miles on it, from all the distance traveling I was doing, going back & forth from Indiana to Illinois and then up to Wisconsin to visit my then-girlfriend and her baby boy and then back again.

A little rabbit had crossed my path & rather than hit & kill it outright, I decided I would try to swerve & avoid hitting it. Big mistake! Once I did that, my car started sliding across the road & then left the road. It kept on sliding until it finally came to rest against a tree on a river embankment. The river itself was only 10 feet away.

I didn’t have any way of communicating to the world I was in trouble, so when I settled down after screaming that I was going to die; I backed the car up until I was back up on the curvy dirt road. It was at that moment that I saw that rabbit hopping along the road. I decided that next time I had to do that, I wasn’t going to play Mr. Nice Guy anymore. Thankfully, there was no physical damage to my car.

The second time death & I crossed paths, was in mid-March, when a major ice storm had dropped a bucket-loads & bucket-loads of sleet & rain & ice and made Highway 52 to Highway 28 from Lafayette to Attica extremely dangerous to drive.

Nonetheless, I thought it would be easy, because after all when I attended college at WIU in Macomb, Illinois, in the mid-1980s, I had ridden my bike downhill on College St. during an ice storm in the Spring of 1985, so driving a car would be a piece of cake. Ah, what wisdom & knowledge I thought I had, as I turned the corner between a silo and a farm field.

Before I knew it, I was flying at 55 miles an hour (or what felt more like 200 miles an hour) at full force like Santa Claus’ sleigh across the midnight sky and landed in a cornfield.

The third time I had met death was the real thing. I had just left a job interview in Indianapolis, Indiana, when I making a right hand turn. An 18-wheeler was doing the same thing same time & didn’t bother to look where it was going. Sure enough a few moments later I heard the crushing of twisted metal & breaking glass only to realize that I was getting crushed by the truck.

I must have passed out because the next thing I knew, I saw a big white room & with hundreds of angels wearing baseball caps and smoking pipes, showing me home movies of my life up to that summer in Indiana.

The weirdest characteristic wasn’t so much their pipe-smoking, but it was the way they showed those films. As soon as they opened their eyes, the movies would appear & then subsequently be screened. When I awoke, the truck driver although ornery, came over to see if I was alright.

As a state trooper rolled up & surveyed the damage, neither of us was issued tickets. We exchanged addresses, insurance company information and went on our separate ways. It is interesting to note that death cycles do come in threes. What it said for me in 1994 says a lot more to me than now than ever before.

The Times They Are A-Changin'-Memorial Day, 2005

While lying in bed this morning, I was listening to the CBS radio network news & I heard CBS radio reporter David Cohen (of New Orleans, Louisiana & brother of my rebbe Menachem aka Marc Cohen) mention the fact that Memorial Day is no longer what it once was. It's a good observation, but then again, that's not a fact I didn't already know.

Rather, it has become a time for barbecues, work around the home & just not honoring the war dead. What's more important anyway, honoring a bunch of dead corpses that fought for wars we as citizens didn't ask for or barbecuing dead animal flesh that no one asked the animals if they wanted to be killed to begin with?

So, in light of that, I'd like to present an old diary journal entry of mine that I wrote 11 years ago when I still lived in the armpit of America, that great old state, Indiana. I too, will be enjoying this weekend off, not so much grilling, but setting up a new computer & getting ready for what I am about to embark upon a great new journey into the stratosphere. Enjoy & I will catch up with all of you dear readers next Tuesday!

Redneck Fever 19.94 A.M.

Friends and pals go home from their neighbors celebrating with beers and cookouts and Hell! Shit! Fuck! It’s not even Memorial Day yet! But I can tell you that stupid dumbfuck mentality is coming around again.

Drink ‘til you drop, in some cases, dead. Act like a jerk. Fight. Argue over something frivolous and you may hurt yourself or get yourself killed. I guess it doesn’t really matter where you live.

Man!


This country has definitely gone downhill. This is America?


The mentality has gone from city to suburban lifestyle.

Drunken rowdiness.

Wave your flag.
Drink your beer.

Spit on the graves of the war dead by taking a day off that turns into a story at the office the next day how you grilled your ass and nearly puked your guts out from eating all that greasy food that you shouldn’t have had to begin with.

Think I’ll just stick to drinking tea, eating burritos and listening to Rush Limbaugh!


Now, that’s how a true American male lives his life.

The Botox Frankenstein Archival Interview Series>#4, Poison Idea, 1989

Editor's Note: The following telephone conversation with Portland, Oregon-based Poison Idea (a quartet) took place in late December, 1989. Their album Ian McKinye, due to the nature of the cover was subsequently censored in England. I found Poison Idea straight-forward and cool. As opposed to my main publication, Cops Hate Poetry, This conversation focuses on the album cover and covers specific details. This conversation was originally done for Variety when I was an intern there, but remained unpublished until now. Interview copyrighted 1989/2005 ©

CB-Charles Bernstein
PC-Pig Champion (Tom Roberts)

CB: How and when was the band formed?

PC: The band was formed in late 1980.

CB: What was the logic behind Ian McKinye (album cover)?

PC: The album cover was to sum up our feelings of hardcore, which has gotten to be straight-edge. The guy who started the movement, a guy by the name of Ian McKinye. Basically his message is don't drink, don't smoke, don't have illicit sex, be a vegetarian, do as I say and how I do. We don't think that's the best way for rock and roll to be. It's too 80s, it's too Reaganish. It's rather convenient that this Ian McKinye guy's conservative philosophy came on line just as Reagan came in. Ian McKinye is a guy who started a hardcore band in Washington, D.C. called Minor Threat. He still lives in Washington, D.C. We don't have anything personally against him; it's more against his ideology. He doesn't like the album, he's upset. It hurt his feelings.

CB: What kind of response has the album received?

PC: Critically, it's gotten rave reviews all over the world; it's considered a real good record for what it is.

CB: Yes, but what about the black tape covering certain parts of the cover?

PC: Oh yeah, it was going to be fully uncensored. It was going to be just as it appears, no black spots, but all the record manufactures in England where the record was made, they wouldn't touch it, they wouldn't print it as it was. I automatically assumed we couldn't do it over here.

CB: What about other instances of censorship?

PC: Our "Kings Of Punk" album band's logo carved in the singer's stomach, that I heard of having cardboard ribbon being wrapped around it...covered up the middle part. On this same album, the lyric sheet on that, the manufacturer over in England didn't like some of the questionable language on there about different people's sex preferences, they censored that. We couldn't have the sheet in there, that was left-wing censorship, as a matter of fact, very left-wing censorship! They didn't want to offend anybody of any sex persuasion, although I don't know why. We took some pornography catalogues and diced up some of the lettering to look like across Jerry's chest (the front man) it said anal shafting, I had a picture of me and across my face it said dog-fucker and we had one across the old bass player and it said these boys are really hung, one of them can even suck his own dick. I mean, these were quotes taken out of a pornography catalogue and they were pasted over us, but the people in England seemed sensitized by all of that and thought we were going to offend gays and lesbians.

http://homepages.nyu.edu/~cch223/usa/poisonidea_main.html

A Letter To Babyshoes>Part 2...Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!

So Babyshoes, it was because of your anger that spurred me off into several different directions. A month after the initial performance of the Ronald Wilson Reagan game, I presented it again.

This time however, the crowd was a bit more receptive and not afraid to show their feelings for fear of being scorned by the likes of uptight prudes who choose to behave like robots because that’s what behavior modifiers tell them to do.

I remembered long & hard the emails we shot at each other, especially after the fact you had threatened me with “your wrath,” f I wrote any poems about your new girlfriend, who was married anyway, which turned out to be an empty promise, designed to scare me, but had the opposite affect.

The experience energized me! Your emails were becoming more & more outrageous trying to explain to me everything I did wrong, just as I explained to you what was going on, your inconsistencies, etc., etc. Basically, if you’re going to abide by the rules, Babyshoes, you should follow them, not bend tem to fit your agenda. Hell! I saw you do that so many times previously too!

After a long absence from reading with APP, I decided to try a comeback & sent you a piece I wanted to read. You emailed me back with a roaring response, oh something like, “Nope. Can’t do it.” What can I say? It was a parody on the death of Yasser Arafat. Parody is parody, but since when did you become so politically correct?

Then, when I arrived at Caribou in mid-November of last year (2004), you cornered me & asked me outside what did I mean I my email I had sent to you & if I was planning on re-meriting myself with you. Re-meriting? Who died and made you dictator?

Oh, yeah. Where was I? Since last September, I’ve been studying throat-singing, started acting in films & commercials, including an appearance on the History Channel’s Conspiracy program which aired this past March (2005), in which I played a UFO witness & in fact, tonight, I am headed off to a film premiere of one of the films I was in, in which I played a bartender. Oh, and did I tell you I started learning how to tap-dance too?

So what exactly did you mean by being productive in an email a few months ago? Tell me, what have you done lately that’s considered productive? Oh yeah, I remember hearing that you left the bookstore finally, after years of griping, complaining & being harassed & you got a new reading space at a Borders in Schaumburg. Didn’t have much of a choice after your gig was shuttered at your store, now did you?

Well, congratulations, anyway! I even heard that at the new APP gig’s inaugural session, that you wouldn’t let John O’Brien read his signature piece, Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago” poem. What were you thinking when you didn’t let John do that? After all, he is a founding member of the APP. Are you afraid of losing potential Borders customers…oops, I mean APP readers? Well a heartfelt congratulations to you, Babyshoes!

You know something, Babyshoes? That reminds me of that great Nazi propaganda film, you know the one I mean, the one where the Nazis portray the concentration camp Tersienstadt to the international Red Cross & the entire world for that matter that they aren’t mistreating their prisoners. It’s not the same exact thin, but the idealism & the concept is there.

Congratulations for shoving out a good poet for the sake of trying to impress someone! Is that not also showcasing? I think so. Maybe you can re-title it “The Babyshoes Blues Show!” Maybe dress up in a brown shirt, brown pants, steel toe boots, a little army cap & a small black cat-o-nine-tails whip everywhere you travel! Show them who’s in charge! Show them who’s boss!

Most importantly, Babyshoes, I wanted to thank you for that night in June last year when you behaved so irrationally. It got me to thinking how much better of a person I became because of your irrational fears.

I hope to return the favor sometime.

Sincerely,

Charlie

A Letter To Babyshoes>Part 1...Why? Why? Why?

Dear Babyshoes,

It’s been nearly one year, June 5th to be exact since I rocked your world, causing our friendship to go south & freed my soul at long last. It by no means was meant to happen that way, but because you chose to behave the way you did, it seemed there was no other way.

When Ronald Wilson Reagan died, what more could there be a suitable way to express thoughts through a performance, by playing a game called “Pin The Quote In Reagan’s Mouth,” who was deemed a saint by many members of the GOP and mass media combined on the day of his funeral?

When it was my turn to perform at the Arlington Poetry Project open mic & I announced my game, you just went apeshit, particularly when you saw the two customers inside the Caribou Coffee place shoot me a dirty look and stomped out afterwards. No one else walked out & no one else chose to stop playing the game either, which indicated to me that everything else was alight, but to you, it wasn’t as I watched you smoke three cigarettes in 15, a personal high, I bet!

Interestingly enough, your reaction was the same of a manager I once had at Barnes & Noble, where you also worked at the time, who did everything they could to please the customers just so they would stay on or around. I guess you failed to notice that the management on duty that night at Caribou didn’t seem to have a problem with it. It was only you, you, you.

Alas, you chose to blame me & use me as a scapegoat for all of your own floundering troubles. Your anger reared its ugly & filthy mouth afterwards as you followed me out the door & to my parked car after the gig. I am grateful that Pam Jascot was there to step between us, as you attempted to pick a fight with me.

I decided not to stick around afterwards & for good reason. I was even more astonished to find out that not only did you expect me to show up at Ritzy’s, that semi-decent restaurant we always go to after our gigs for dinner & blab for hours afterwards, but you even came back to the “scene of the crime” looking for me. What in God’s name did you have in mind when you came looking for me? To hurt me?

I went home that night, shook-up from your method acting, drove home, stopped along the way at a ToGo, bought a large turkey submarine sandwich & sat outside in midnight sun beneath the stars, while watching the thunderstorm roll inward.

In hindsight, maybe I should have not called you at work that day, you sounded so depressed, so I thought I could cheer you up, by sharing some good news I had received earlier in the day, that of my poem, “Babyshoes Blues” being published online.

It’s easy to see how your misguided anger was placed on me. You told me you couldn’t trust me anymore based on that poem. The mere fact that I made a poem out of your private affair bothered you so much didn’t it? I thought that this poem didn’t bother you; I mean that’s what you told me earlier anyway. I guess you lied to me.

But anyway Babyshoes, what do you think poetry is anyway? It’s based on feelings, experiences and innermost thoughts. Did you really think you had exclusivity rights on a subject matter that you were privately telling others about anyway? So why as a wordsmith should I have held back? Why, as a poet, should I have censored myself like I’ve done so many times before? This time I chose not to & it was published because it WAS & it STILL IS a good poem.

So, what happened, Babyshoes? Did you lose it that night? Did you take all of your lousy frustrations out on me? Did you realize what I performed was not only a blessing in disguise for me, but for others? Why didn’t you question the six other people who played the game? Why didn’t you question management that night? Why didn’t you chase those two people who stomped out of the café that night & ask them why they felt it was wrong? Why did you turn so tightly conservative that night? Why? Why? Why?

Coming Tomorrow- A Letter To Babyshoes Part Two>What I’ve Been Up To Since last year…