“If tyranny and oppression come to this land, it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy.”
“It is a universal truth that the loss of liberty at home is to be charged to the provisions against danger, real or pretended, from abroad.”
“No nation could preserve its freedom in the midst of continual warfare.”
“The executive has no right, in any case, to decide the question, whether there is or is not cause for declaring war.”
“War should only be declared by the authority of the people, whose toils and treasures are to support its burdens, instead of the government which is to reap its fruits.”
“Each generation should be made to bear the burden of its own wars, instead of carrying them on, at the expense of other generations.”
- James Madison: Father of the Constitution of the United States of America
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Friday, August 31, 2007
Putin's Bare Chest is a Display of Power Best Kept Secret
by Michael Gove (UK)
Of all the menacing gestures associated with the newly assertive Russia, from annexing the Arctic to restarting nuclear bomber runs, none seems to have discomfited the rest of the world quite as much as President Putin being photographed bare-chested, with his perfect pecs on proud display. It was quite the most audacious demonstration of political self-confidence from any Russian leader since the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Whatever else Vlad may have learnt in the KGB, he certainly absorbed everything one needs to know about psychological warfare. How many of the politicians charged with our safekeeping do you estimate would emerge enhanced if their torsos were laid out for all to see on a summer fishing trip? Does Des Browne have a perfect six-pack? Would we all feel a little better about our place in the world if Dick Cheney’s treasure chest was on proud display?
What Vlad’s tactical strip has revealed, apart from the lifetime benefits of Spetsnaz training, is the continuing role that nudity plays in male power relations. We’re used to discussion of how little, or much, women should safely display in a variety of circumstances. Any number of fashion experts, for example, will advise that when tempted to dress revealingly it’s necessary to choose between showing off either legs or décolletage.
Attempting to do both at the same time is like smoking while eating foie gras – either might be thought sophisticated – do them together and you look like a Ukrainian actress holidaying for the first time in St-Tropez.
But while there are all sorts of rules, and seasonally updated tips, on how much women dare to
bare, with the rival merits of halternecks and exposed midriffs regularly rehearsed, the question of how men should manage the exposure of their own flesh, and what can be read into these displays, is rarely given the close study it deserves.
As Putin’s careful release of the pictures of his own taut form demonstrate, the deployment of male nudity is, above all, a power play. On one level Vlad is showing us all that he’s a remarkably fit man for his age (54) and that, unlike in the decadent West, Russia’s leaders remain the physical embodiment of their nation’s vigour – classical champions in the manner of those Roman emperors who would renew their mandate to rule on the battlefield or even in the gladiatorial ring. His bare-chested peacockery is, in that respect, in line with the broader cult of Putin as his nation’s silverback – the leader of the band.
And while it’s becoming rarer, the assertion of prime physical vigour through summertime displays of shirtless masculinity has been a trick in several leaders’ repertoires. From Mussolini, to Jack and Bobby Kennedy, baring your torso for a publicity shot was just another way of demonstrating a break from the failed and flabby Old Gang and the arrival of New Hope.
But tactical exposure of holiday flesh is a way of asserting power which is certainly not restricted to the political sphere. For a particular class of man – think of pictures of Gianni Agnelli, say, or Aristotle Onassis, or even Michael Winner, letting it all hang out above deck has often been accompanied by the wearing of briefs so small that they look like sparrows that have crashed into the Matterhorn. These men present themselves to the world with an apparently unembarrassed delight in how much there is to see. And in so doing they appear to subvert one of the rules about what it is that the wealthy really cherish – discretion, privacy and protection.
What, of course, they are really doing is reminding the rest of us how little they need to care for our approval, how liberated they are from bourgeois notions of propriety, how unrelated to their physical appearance is their considerable power of attraction. For them, daring to bare so much is just another assertion of how much, in every sense, they’ve got. And the knowledge that male nudity is linked to power, the more you’ve got, the more you are liberated to show, is now, I think, inherent in how we conduct ourselves.
And it’s not just related to wealth. The insouciance of a particular type of millionaire has its analogue in the breezy, what’s-it-to-you, shirtlessness of any man who is, in effect, making a declaration of machismo when he should, ostensibly, be relaxing. Baring your torso on holiday, whether in Ayia Napa or on the deck of your yacht, means setting aside the expected norms of modesty and thus, in its way, involves you staking a claim to attention, and occupying more space than if you were clothed. It is an act of assertion, a waving of the coxcomb. And, whatever the socio-economic background of the bare-chested male, his shedding of a protective layer, whether it’s Fred Perry or John Smedley, involves an implied challenge to other men – haven’t you got what I’ve got; what are you hiding behind?
Regular readers of this column will know that I am hiding something. I’m hiding 20-odd years of Ginsters abuse behind my comfortably baggy polo shirt. So perhaps my approach to holiday fashion is framed by my accumulated experience of holiday indulgence. But looking again at those chilling photos of Putin, his ice-cold eyes masked by shades but his torso on open display, I couldn’t help but feel my prejudices being reinforced. The region from a man’s waist to his neck should be like the nuclear deterrent – everyone knows it’s there, it’s often glimpsed slipping into the water, but its exact condition must always remain a mystery.
Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath
Of all the menacing gestures associated with the newly assertive Russia, from annexing the Arctic to restarting nuclear bomber runs, none seems to have discomfited the rest of the world quite as much as President Putin being photographed bare-chested, with his perfect pecs on proud display. It was quite the most audacious demonstration of political self-confidence from any Russian leader since the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Whatever else Vlad may have learnt in the KGB, he certainly absorbed everything one needs to know about psychological warfare. How many of the politicians charged with our safekeeping do you estimate would emerge enhanced if their torsos were laid out for all to see on a summer fishing trip? Does Des Browne have a perfect six-pack? Would we all feel a little better about our place in the world if Dick Cheney’s treasure chest was on proud display?
What Vlad’s tactical strip has revealed, apart from the lifetime benefits of Spetsnaz training, is the continuing role that nudity plays in male power relations. We’re used to discussion of how little, or much, women should safely display in a variety of circumstances. Any number of fashion experts, for example, will advise that when tempted to dress revealingly it’s necessary to choose between showing off either legs or décolletage.
Attempting to do both at the same time is like smoking while eating foie gras – either might be thought sophisticated – do them together and you look like a Ukrainian actress holidaying for the first time in St-Tropez.
But while there are all sorts of rules, and seasonally updated tips, on how much women dare to
bare, with the rival merits of halternecks and exposed midriffs regularly rehearsed, the question of how men should manage the exposure of their own flesh, and what can be read into these displays, is rarely given the close study it deserves.
As Putin’s careful release of the pictures of his own taut form demonstrate, the deployment of male nudity is, above all, a power play. On one level Vlad is showing us all that he’s a remarkably fit man for his age (54) and that, unlike in the decadent West, Russia’s leaders remain the physical embodiment of their nation’s vigour – classical champions in the manner of those Roman emperors who would renew their mandate to rule on the battlefield or even in the gladiatorial ring. His bare-chested peacockery is, in that respect, in line with the broader cult of Putin as his nation’s silverback – the leader of the band.
And while it’s becoming rarer, the assertion of prime physical vigour through summertime displays of shirtless masculinity has been a trick in several leaders’ repertoires. From Mussolini, to Jack and Bobby Kennedy, baring your torso for a publicity shot was just another way of demonstrating a break from the failed and flabby Old Gang and the arrival of New Hope.
But tactical exposure of holiday flesh is a way of asserting power which is certainly not restricted to the political sphere. For a particular class of man – think of pictures of Gianni Agnelli, say, or Aristotle Onassis, or even Michael Winner, letting it all hang out above deck has often been accompanied by the wearing of briefs so small that they look like sparrows that have crashed into the Matterhorn. These men present themselves to the world with an apparently unembarrassed delight in how much there is to see. And in so doing they appear to subvert one of the rules about what it is that the wealthy really cherish – discretion, privacy and protection.
What, of course, they are really doing is reminding the rest of us how little they need to care for our approval, how liberated they are from bourgeois notions of propriety, how unrelated to their physical appearance is their considerable power of attraction. For them, daring to bare so much is just another assertion of how much, in every sense, they’ve got. And the knowledge that male nudity is linked to power, the more you’ve got, the more you are liberated to show, is now, I think, inherent in how we conduct ourselves.
And it’s not just related to wealth. The insouciance of a particular type of millionaire has its analogue in the breezy, what’s-it-to-you, shirtlessness of any man who is, in effect, making a declaration of machismo when he should, ostensibly, be relaxing. Baring your torso on holiday, whether in Ayia Napa or on the deck of your yacht, means setting aside the expected norms of modesty and thus, in its way, involves you staking a claim to attention, and occupying more space than if you were clothed. It is an act of assertion, a waving of the coxcomb. And, whatever the socio-economic background of the bare-chested male, his shedding of a protective layer, whether it’s Fred Perry or John Smedley, involves an implied challenge to other men – haven’t you got what I’ve got; what are you hiding behind?
Regular readers of this column will know that I am hiding something. I’m hiding 20-odd years of Ginsters abuse behind my comfortably baggy polo shirt. So perhaps my approach to holiday fashion is framed by my accumulated experience of holiday indulgence. But looking again at those chilling photos of Putin, his ice-cold eyes masked by shades but his torso on open display, I couldn’t help but feel my prejudices being reinforced. The region from a man’s waist to his neck should be like the nuclear deterrent – everyone knows it’s there, it’s often glimpsed slipping into the water, but its exact condition must always remain a mystery.
Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath
Monday, August 20, 2007
Bad Memories Tied to DNA
By Benjamin Lester
ScienceNOW Daily News
30 July 2007
People haunted by traumatic memories could be missing a few amino acids, say researchers. A new study links a deletion in a neurotransmitter receptor gene to a marked increase in an individual's ability to remember emotionally charged events. The finding represents the first gene shown to play a role in emotional memory and could have implications for anxiety and other psychiatric disorders.
For more than 10 years, neuroscientists have known that our brains' emotional memory circuits are linked to the neurotransmitter norepinephrine. Higher levels of this hormone, released as part of the fight-or-flight response, can increase a person's ability to recall emotional events. Because the clarity of emotional memories varies from person to person, a team of European and African researchers set out to determine whether a common deletion in a specific norepinephrine receptor gene called ADRA2B might be responsible.
The researchers recruited nearly 450 Swiss volunteers, as well as about 200 refugees of the Rwandan civil war. The Swiss volunteers were shown photos varying in tone from cuddly puppies to accident scenes. They were asked to rate the photos as emotionally positive, negative, or neutral and give the strength of the emotion. Ten minutes later, the researchers asked the volunteers to write descriptions of the photos. The two groups had equal success describing neutral photos, but for emotionally charged photos, the deletion carriers wrote descriptions judged "successful" 34% more of the time than did noncarriers, the team reports online 29 July in Nature Neuroscience.
The Rwandan refugees responded similarly. When rated on the degree to which they recalled the traumatic events of their country's civil war and genocide, the deletion carriers scored more than 50% higher than did noncarriers on the test.
The findings make sense, says Dennis Charney, a psychiatrist at Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York City. ADRA2B shuts off norepinephrine release when levels of the hormone rise, he explains, so people with a mutated, impaired gene would be expected to have higher norepinephrine levels and thus better recall of emotional events.
However, Charney notes that having a crystal-clear emotional memory may be as much a curse as a blessing. Emotional memories are evolutionarily vital because they help avoid repeats of dangerous situations--"you want to remember where that tiger was," he says--but if the memory of a traumatic event is too strong, it can begin to intrude into everyday life and cause problems such as post-traumatic stress disorder.
ScienceNOW Daily News
30 July 2007
People haunted by traumatic memories could be missing a few amino acids, say researchers. A new study links a deletion in a neurotransmitter receptor gene to a marked increase in an individual's ability to remember emotionally charged events. The finding represents the first gene shown to play a role in emotional memory and could have implications for anxiety and other psychiatric disorders.
For more than 10 years, neuroscientists have known that our brains' emotional memory circuits are linked to the neurotransmitter norepinephrine. Higher levels of this hormone, released as part of the fight-or-flight response, can increase a person's ability to recall emotional events. Because the clarity of emotional memories varies from person to person, a team of European and African researchers set out to determine whether a common deletion in a specific norepinephrine receptor gene called ADRA2B might be responsible.
The researchers recruited nearly 450 Swiss volunteers, as well as about 200 refugees of the Rwandan civil war. The Swiss volunteers were shown photos varying in tone from cuddly puppies to accident scenes. They were asked to rate the photos as emotionally positive, negative, or neutral and give the strength of the emotion. Ten minutes later, the researchers asked the volunteers to write descriptions of the photos. The two groups had equal success describing neutral photos, but for emotionally charged photos, the deletion carriers wrote descriptions judged "successful" 34% more of the time than did noncarriers, the team reports online 29 July in Nature Neuroscience.
The Rwandan refugees responded similarly. When rated on the degree to which they recalled the traumatic events of their country's civil war and genocide, the deletion carriers scored more than 50% higher than did noncarriers on the test.
The findings make sense, says Dennis Charney, a psychiatrist at Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York City. ADRA2B shuts off norepinephrine release when levels of the hormone rise, he explains, so people with a mutated, impaired gene would be expected to have higher norepinephrine levels and thus better recall of emotional events.
However, Charney notes that having a crystal-clear emotional memory may be as much a curse as a blessing. Emotional memories are evolutionarily vital because they help avoid repeats of dangerous situations--"you want to remember where that tiger was," he says--but if the memory of a traumatic event is too strong, it can begin to intrude into everyday life and cause problems such as post-traumatic stress disorder.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Going to Court over Fiction (NY Times)
The New York Times, June 15, 2007
Cloaking one’s identity while writing — to hide, in other words, in order to reveal — is an old literary tradition. Mary Ann Evans used the gender-crossing pseudonym George Eliot to publish “Adam Bede” in 1859, when female authors still struggled to be taken seriously. Charlotte Bronte released “Jane Eyre” in 1847 under the name Currer Bell.
What, then, of the complex case of JT Leroy, the pseudonymous writer with the titillating past, a supposed child of a truck-stop prostitute who rocketed to fame in 2000 with the publication of “Sarah,” a novel of poverty and sexual abuse set among the grease-stained highway rest stops of West Virginia?
Mr. Leroy seemed at first to be a hot commodity in today’s biography-obsessed literary world, a gifted writer with a grotesquely compelling story that only enhanced the value of the work. After years of celebrity that included friendships with Winona Ryder and Madonna, articles in The New York Times and Vanity Fair, and many other gaudy trappings of early 21st century fame, JT Leroy was revealed to be the name not of a writer — in fact, not even of a person — but of the fictive alter ego of Laura Albert, a mother and otherwise obscure young novelist from Brooklyn Heights.
This intricate game of hide-and-seek with its interlocking issues of identity, fame, money and the healing power of art has now leapt from the media to what is arguably the culture’s second most obsessive arena: the courts. A film production company has sued Ms. Albert for fraud, saying that a contract signed with JT Leroy to make a feature film of “Sarah” should be null and void, for the simple reason that JT Leroy does not exist.
At its heart, the case revolves around the contract, signed by Antidote International Films Inc. (producer of, among other movies, “Laurel Canyon” and “Thirteen”) and Ms. Albert’s company, Underdogs Inc., to option the film rights to “Sarah” in 2003. Underdogs was paid $15,000 under the contract, which was renewed, at the same rate of $15,000, for each of the next two years. Antidote is suing for its money back.
Along with tales of commerce, the jury was treated yesterday to a bit of culture: A lawyer for the defendant referred in his opening remarks to the O. Henry story “The Last Leaf” moments after the plaintiff’s lawyer played a recording of Terry Gross interviewing someone posing as JT Leroy on NPR’s “Fresh Air.” The trial, in Federal District Court in Manhattan, promises to be an Escher-like convergence of the movies, literature and journalism with references to sex in truck stops thrown in and a documentary filmmaker, considering a project on the case, sitting quietly in back.
Gregory Curtner, a lawyer for Antidote, opened the trial by painting a broad picture of JT Leroy’s supposed rise from Appalachian misery to stardom. The son of a truck-stop prostitute, the jury learned, JT Leroy (according to the stories concocted on his behalf) would sit in parked cars or at a diner while his mother turned tricks. He himself eventually turned to prostitution and, after finally picking up a pen to describe his ordeal, tried to peddle his early works to agents, publishers and the like by sending faxes from gas station bathrooms.
It was this hardscrabble “life” that caught the attention of a director, Steven Shainberg, who wanted to work with Antidote and blend elements of JT Leroy’s biography into the narrative of “Sarah” in what Mr. Curtner called a film about “how art could emerge from a ruined childhood.” The trouble was there was no ruined childhood from which art could actually emerge.
Or at least not one that belonged to the imaginary JT Leroy. Ms. Albert’s lawyer, Eric Weinstein, began his own remarks with the memorably understated line, “Laura is a complicated person.” He said she was physically and sexually abused as a child. He said she was institutionalized in psychiatric wards and in a group home as a ward of the state. He said she was in therapy for 13 years with a psychiatrist whom she spoke to by telephone while posing as a teenage boy named Jeremy, an embryonic version of JT Leroy.
By the time the psychiatrist advised her to write, the persona of the teenage boy had become engrained as Ms. Albert’s alter ego, what Mr. Weinstein called her “bridge to the world.” Ms. Albert herself, in conversations before the trial, called JT “her respirator,” an unreal, though entirely necessary, entity that allowed her to breathe.
As movie people say, the “inciting incident” of the lawsuit came with the publication in late 2005 of an article in New York magazine that questioned JT Leroy’s identity. The Times followed with an article in February that identified Ms. Albert as the true author of “Sarah.”
The producers at Antidote were stunned; they were also worried that the commercial prospects of their project might crumble. As Mr. Curtner put it: “The whole autobiographical back story aura that made this so attractive was a sham.”
Mr. Weinstein told the jury that the contract with Antidote was for a book, not a back story, and that the film company could have made the movie no matter who wrote the novel. He then went on to suggest that the project was in freefall (a bad screenplay) and that Antidote had used the excuse of disputed authorship as an escape hatch.
It was at this point that the sort of lemonade-from-literary-lemons notion that can exist only in Hollywood was introduced. Mr. Weinstein said the director, Mr. Shainberg, decided he would now make a new film, something in the vein of “Adaptation” or “Being John Malkovich,” a “meta-film” that mixed the novel with the lives of its real and purported authors in a project touted in-house as “Sarah Plus.”
But that required obtaining the rights to Ms. Albert’s story — a story of such apparent darkness that she herself had required a literary dopplegänger to tell it.
She refused to grant the rights. “And that,” Mr. Weinstein said, “is why we find ourselves here.”
Cloaking one’s identity while writing — to hide, in other words, in order to reveal — is an old literary tradition. Mary Ann Evans used the gender-crossing pseudonym George Eliot to publish “Adam Bede” in 1859, when female authors still struggled to be taken seriously. Charlotte Bronte released “Jane Eyre” in 1847 under the name Currer Bell.
What, then, of the complex case of JT Leroy, the pseudonymous writer with the titillating past, a supposed child of a truck-stop prostitute who rocketed to fame in 2000 with the publication of “Sarah,” a novel of poverty and sexual abuse set among the grease-stained highway rest stops of West Virginia?
Mr. Leroy seemed at first to be a hot commodity in today’s biography-obsessed literary world, a gifted writer with a grotesquely compelling story that only enhanced the value of the work. After years of celebrity that included friendships with Winona Ryder and Madonna, articles in The New York Times and Vanity Fair, and many other gaudy trappings of early 21st century fame, JT Leroy was revealed to be the name not of a writer — in fact, not even of a person — but of the fictive alter ego of Laura Albert, a mother and otherwise obscure young novelist from Brooklyn Heights.
This intricate game of hide-and-seek with its interlocking issues of identity, fame, money and the healing power of art has now leapt from the media to what is arguably the culture’s second most obsessive arena: the courts. A film production company has sued Ms. Albert for fraud, saying that a contract signed with JT Leroy to make a feature film of “Sarah” should be null and void, for the simple reason that JT Leroy does not exist.
At its heart, the case revolves around the contract, signed by Antidote International Films Inc. (producer of, among other movies, “Laurel Canyon” and “Thirteen”) and Ms. Albert’s company, Underdogs Inc., to option the film rights to “Sarah” in 2003. Underdogs was paid $15,000 under the contract, which was renewed, at the same rate of $15,000, for each of the next two years. Antidote is suing for its money back.
Along with tales of commerce, the jury was treated yesterday to a bit of culture: A lawyer for the defendant referred in his opening remarks to the O. Henry story “The Last Leaf” moments after the plaintiff’s lawyer played a recording of Terry Gross interviewing someone posing as JT Leroy on NPR’s “Fresh Air.” The trial, in Federal District Court in Manhattan, promises to be an Escher-like convergence of the movies, literature and journalism with references to sex in truck stops thrown in and a documentary filmmaker, considering a project on the case, sitting quietly in back.
Gregory Curtner, a lawyer for Antidote, opened the trial by painting a broad picture of JT Leroy’s supposed rise from Appalachian misery to stardom. The son of a truck-stop prostitute, the jury learned, JT Leroy (according to the stories concocted on his behalf) would sit in parked cars or at a diner while his mother turned tricks. He himself eventually turned to prostitution and, after finally picking up a pen to describe his ordeal, tried to peddle his early works to agents, publishers and the like by sending faxes from gas station bathrooms.
It was this hardscrabble “life” that caught the attention of a director, Steven Shainberg, who wanted to work with Antidote and blend elements of JT Leroy’s biography into the narrative of “Sarah” in what Mr. Curtner called a film about “how art could emerge from a ruined childhood.” The trouble was there was no ruined childhood from which art could actually emerge.
Or at least not one that belonged to the imaginary JT Leroy. Ms. Albert’s lawyer, Eric Weinstein, began his own remarks with the memorably understated line, “Laura is a complicated person.” He said she was physically and sexually abused as a child. He said she was institutionalized in psychiatric wards and in a group home as a ward of the state. He said she was in therapy for 13 years with a psychiatrist whom she spoke to by telephone while posing as a teenage boy named Jeremy, an embryonic version of JT Leroy.
By the time the psychiatrist advised her to write, the persona of the teenage boy had become engrained as Ms. Albert’s alter ego, what Mr. Weinstein called her “bridge to the world.” Ms. Albert herself, in conversations before the trial, called JT “her respirator,” an unreal, though entirely necessary, entity that allowed her to breathe.
As movie people say, the “inciting incident” of the lawsuit came with the publication in late 2005 of an article in New York magazine that questioned JT Leroy’s identity. The Times followed with an article in February that identified Ms. Albert as the true author of “Sarah.”
The producers at Antidote were stunned; they were also worried that the commercial prospects of their project might crumble. As Mr. Curtner put it: “The whole autobiographical back story aura that made this so attractive was a sham.”
Mr. Weinstein told the jury that the contract with Antidote was for a book, not a back story, and that the film company could have made the movie no matter who wrote the novel. He then went on to suggest that the project was in freefall (a bad screenplay) and that Antidote had used the excuse of disputed authorship as an escape hatch.
It was at this point that the sort of lemonade-from-literary-lemons notion that can exist only in Hollywood was introduced. Mr. Weinstein said the director, Mr. Shainberg, decided he would now make a new film, something in the vein of “Adaptation” or “Being John Malkovich,” a “meta-film” that mixed the novel with the lives of its real and purported authors in a project touted in-house as “Sarah Plus.”
But that required obtaining the rights to Ms. Albert’s story — a story of such apparent darkness that she herself had required a literary dopplegänger to tell it.
She refused to grant the rights. “And that,” Mr. Weinstein said, “is why we find ourselves here.”
Friday, June 8, 2007
Writers Imagination and National Security
Reposted from: http://www.writerswrite.com/wblog.php?wblog=531071
Science Fiction Writers Help Out Homeland Security Department
USA Today reports that the U.S. Department of Homeland Security is turning to science fiction writers to help avoid future terrorist attacks. Why turn to writers? The government says it need s people with wild imaginations.
"We spend our entire careers living in the future," says author Arlan Andrews, one of a handful of writers the government brought to Washington this month to attend a Homeland Security conference on science and technology. Those responsible for keeping the nation safe from devastating attacks realize that in addition to border agents, police and airport screeners, they "need people to think of crazy ideas," Andrews says. The writers make up a group called Sigma, which Andrews put together 15 years ago to advise government officials. The last time the group gathered was in the late 1990s, when members met with government scientists to discuss what a post-nuclear age might look like, says group member Greg Bear. He has written 30 sci-fi books, including the best seller Darwin's Radio. *****
Although some sci-fi writers' futuristic ideas might sound crazy now, scientists know that they often have what seems to be an uncanny ability to see into the future. "Fifty years ago, science-fiction writers told us about flying cars and a wireless handheld communicator," says Christopher Kelly, spokesman for Homeland Security's Science and Technology division. "Although flying cars haven't evolved, cellphones today are a way of life. We need to look everywhere for ideas, and science-fiction writers clearly inform the debate." Bear says the writers offer powerful imaginations that can conjure up not only possible methods of attack, but also ideas about how governments and individuals will respond and what kinds of high-tech tools could prevent attacks. The group's motto is "Science Fiction in the National Interest." To join the group, Andrews says, you have to have at least one technical doctorate degree. "We're well-qualified nuts," says Jerry Pournelle, co-author of the best sellers Footfall and Lucifer's Hammer and dozens of other books. Authors who are thinking out of the box in the name of national security also include Greg Bear, Sage Walker and Larry Niven. We've read their work and know the kinds of amazing things they can dream up. And we are very glad that they are all law-abiding citizens.
Science Fiction Writers Help Out Homeland Security Department
USA Today reports that the U.S. Department of Homeland Security is turning to science fiction writers to help avoid future terrorist attacks. Why turn to writers? The government says it need s people with wild imaginations.
"We spend our entire careers living in the future," says author Arlan Andrews, one of a handful of writers the government brought to Washington this month to attend a Homeland Security conference on science and technology. Those responsible for keeping the nation safe from devastating attacks realize that in addition to border agents, police and airport screeners, they "need people to think of crazy ideas," Andrews says. The writers make up a group called Sigma, which Andrews put together 15 years ago to advise government officials. The last time the group gathered was in the late 1990s, when members met with government scientists to discuss what a post-nuclear age might look like, says group member Greg Bear. He has written 30 sci-fi books, including the best seller Darwin's Radio. *****
Although some sci-fi writers' futuristic ideas might sound crazy now, scientists know that they often have what seems to be an uncanny ability to see into the future. "Fifty years ago, science-fiction writers told us about flying cars and a wireless handheld communicator," says Christopher Kelly, spokesman for Homeland Security's Science and Technology division. "Although flying cars haven't evolved, cellphones today are a way of life. We need to look everywhere for ideas, and science-fiction writers clearly inform the debate." Bear says the writers offer powerful imaginations that can conjure up not only possible methods of attack, but also ideas about how governments and individuals will respond and what kinds of high-tech tools could prevent attacks. The group's motto is "Science Fiction in the National Interest." To join the group, Andrews says, you have to have at least one technical doctorate degree. "We're well-qualified nuts," says Jerry Pournelle, co-author of the best sellers Footfall and Lucifer's Hammer and dozens of other books. Authors who are thinking out of the box in the name of national security also include Greg Bear, Sage Walker and Larry Niven. We've read their work and know the kinds of amazing things they can dream up. And we are very glad that they are all law-abiding citizens.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Reprinted from:
http://throughthescarydoor.blogspot.com/2007/05/all-fun-of-stasi.html
Without Permission.
All the fun of the Stasi
Stasi scent-tracking methods are being used to keep a check on selected protesters planning to demonstrate at next month's G8 summit.
Scent traces collected directly from everything from people's palm sweat to their vests and cigarette lighters have been made available to investigators so that sniffer dogs can detect potentially violent protesters, federal prosecutors confirmed yesterday following reports in the German media."Potentially violent"... What a turn of phrase.
The revelations have immediately led to comparisons with the methods of the former East Germany's secret police, the Stasi, who habitually collected the scents of dissidents to identify suspects at a later date. It was thought that such chilling espionage techniques had been consigned to history.But the news that similar methods are to be deployed at the upcoming summit in a democratic Germany has further angered activists already fuming over the construction of a 7.5-mile barbed-wire fence around the venue, at Heiligendamm on the Baltic coast."[This is] another step away from a democratic state of law towards a preventive security state," said Petra Pau, a member of the opposition Left party. "A state that adopts the methods of the East German Stasi robs itself of every legitimacy."Which is a good sign, that Left Party MPs are using their position to be tribunes of the movement. Having said that, I can imagine the responding slurs about the party's connections to the GDR.I treasure these two factlets though:
A 68-year-old atomic energy protester from Hamburg, identified by police as a possible danger to the G8 summit, reported how investigators knocked on his door at 8am and demanded scent samples from him.The man said he was made to hold metal pipes in his hands - as palms give off an immediate scent - which were then sealed and marked with his name before being taken away.But, worse than that:
The number of car burnings in Berlin has risen considerably over the past fortnight as tension rises, as have incidences of anti-G8 graffiti. Honestly, what is the world coming to?
http://throughthescarydoor.blogspot.com/2007/05/all-fun-of-stasi.html
Without Permission.
All the fun of the Stasi
Stasi scent-tracking methods are being used to keep a check on selected protesters planning to demonstrate at next month's G8 summit.
Scent traces collected directly from everything from people's palm sweat to their vests and cigarette lighters have been made available to investigators so that sniffer dogs can detect potentially violent protesters, federal prosecutors confirmed yesterday following reports in the German media."Potentially violent"... What a turn of phrase.
The revelations have immediately led to comparisons with the methods of the former East Germany's secret police, the Stasi, who habitually collected the scents of dissidents to identify suspects at a later date. It was thought that such chilling espionage techniques had been consigned to history.But the news that similar methods are to be deployed at the upcoming summit in a democratic Germany has further angered activists already fuming over the construction of a 7.5-mile barbed-wire fence around the venue, at Heiligendamm on the Baltic coast."[This is] another step away from a democratic state of law towards a preventive security state," said Petra Pau, a member of the opposition Left party. "A state that adopts the methods of the East German Stasi robs itself of every legitimacy."Which is a good sign, that Left Party MPs are using their position to be tribunes of the movement. Having said that, I can imagine the responding slurs about the party's connections to the GDR.I treasure these two factlets though:
A 68-year-old atomic energy protester from Hamburg, identified by police as a possible danger to the G8 summit, reported how investigators knocked on his door at 8am and demanded scent samples from him.The man said he was made to hold metal pipes in his hands - as palms give off an immediate scent - which were then sealed and marked with his name before being taken away.But, worse than that:
The number of car burnings in Berlin has risen considerably over the past fortnight as tension rises, as have incidences of anti-G8 graffiti. Honestly, what is the world coming to?
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Drunken Misbehavior Award
"FIRST PLACE"
Too much "who hit John?" for breakfast.
A patients open mouth, and misplaced trust.
A high speed drill, "on the move"
"ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."
WE HAVE A WINNER!
I ran into this guy who used to be a dentist, but his license had been revoked three times. The last time, for life. This was back in the early eighties, when I worked at an "alternative to jail" program for the county, of San Diego.
It was, and is still, a program designed to free up jail space at the county jail for more serious offenders. Like people minding their own business, but are found to be in possession of an "illegal smile."
This was accomplished by decriminalizing people charged with California penal code 647-f. (public intoxication) So that they could be "handled" in a cheaper, non-custody type setting and manner. Back in the early eighties when I worked there, this approach was saving the county something like five million a year.
The program was designed to decriminalize "drunk in public" charges when a person was judged to be "under the influence" by the local gendarmes. "If" the person was not exhibiting hostile or threatening behavior. (While the police officer was still present.)
And promised to stay at the unlocked facility for a four hour period. And actually did so. (Until the officer drove out of the parking lot.)
Which someone had figured would result in most people achieving a sober state. Or near enough to it that you could set them afoot in the hard side of town and they would most likely be O.K. Stay the four hours and there was; "No fine. No record. No charge."
I was "team leader" for over two years. My shift ran from 11 p.m. at night, until 7 a.m. in the morning. During which time, the San Diego Police , San Diego County Sheriffs Department, and surrounding city police agencies brought me the 80 to 120 drunkest people that they could find on any given night.
Over a year and a half of that two years as team leader, I had no team. Even though state law mandated that at least three people must be on each shift, bare minimum, to deal with that many "impaired" individuals. They couldn't get anyone to work that shift but me. To this day, I can't imagine why. I loved it!
Every night was like a cross between Barney Miller and Fort Apache.
Downtown winos.
Beach bums.
Paddy wagons full of sailors, on their first leave in months.
Freshly minted Marines. Usually in groups of four to six, on their first "off the leash" departure from their gunny's loving wet nursing since enlisting.
Women, both young and old. From every economic station in life. Crying uncontrollably from the realization of how far they had fallen from their lofty perch above the masses, as a result of their first experimentation with jello shots.
Other women, mildly bemused at the entire spectacle, and their place within it.
All promised verbally, and affirmed that promise in writing, to stay four hours. By doing so, the police officer didn't file a formal charge. Which meant that there was no "record" of arrest. No listing of the incident on any enforcement data base of it as a "criminal matter."
If an individual refused to promise by word and signature that they would stay the prescribed period of time, then the police officer would place the cuffs back on the wrists, and the "stuck on stupid" individual back in the cruiser. And then `it was off to; "The prize behind door number three!" that Monty Hall had tried his best to talk you out of trading your; "All expense paid trip and no cost freeload" at some vacation spot that wasn't "exactly what you wanted." For; "Your very own Pig in a poke!" (Or, in this case, "drunken pigheaded persona in the local pokey!")
So almost all that were brought to me gladly, and quickly promised to stay the four hours.
About 12 percent of these people were straight up lying.
Especially the; half of a squad of: First time downtown/in full uniform/ just spent over a hundred and thirty dollars on a custom K-bar with a 7 inch, razor sharp blade/we all got arrested at a local tittie bar when I complained about the hostess reaching for my cock with one hand, while she reached for my wallet with the other one/you're out of your ever lovin' desk pushin', "sign here" mind if you think that this here group of Marines is gonna take orders from some long haired, hippie lookin' guy, who had better unlock that filing cabinet behind him and give us back our razor sharp K-bars back right now before we just climb over that desk and take them keys/Marines.
The percentage of these types from within the Marine population was something like 20 percent.
Fortunately, among the regular winos, which I affectionately named "the wrecking crew" were several former grab it and growl type individuals; A"seventh special forces" ;An "Airborne Ranger,"; A couple run of the mill Airborne types like myself. and one ex "seal team eleven" member named James Lee. Who while past his prime, had also been Archie Moore's favorite sparring partner.
Most of the "regulars" had gone from disinterest in me as a person, to tolerating, to ambivalence, to liking somewhat, to actually showing signs of genuine affection for my totally ignorant of their reality ass.
Because they percieved that I saw past the camoflauge that they threw up between themselves and most of the world. That kept most people from seeing that for the most part, they are honorable people. Bound and determined that they are going to live life on their terms. Come hell of high water.
As I learned more, I became less of a "rule twit." You know, holding the company line when it was stupid, and or wrong. Like; "Never let anyone in the facility who hasn't been brought there by a police officer, and signed in by him."
I got tired of seeing 20 or 30 men and women a night huddled outside using the building for a wind break on cold damp winter nights. With officer after officer walking by without responding to their request to be signed in.
Using my considerable power within the organization, (of being the only one crazy enough to actually work the graveyard shift) I began to flaunt the breaking of this rule.
This resulted in a letter being sent from the program director to me. Warning me of "serious consequences," if I didn't start exhibiting the baser qualities of a souless rat bastard.
(This letter to me, hand delivered by someone else, came from a man, I use that term loosely in this instance, that almost wet himself every infrequent time he actually had to show up in person. Inside the actual building where the program he "directs" takes place.
I called his secratary, and said I can drop off the keys today and will if you think I'm gonna look out huge plate glass windows all night at people freezing their ass off for no fucking reason at all.
It didn't cost a penny more to let them in. I told her to "get back to me with how it was gonna be."
About half an hour later she called me back, laughing and said "He won't be sending you anymore letters. He's scared to death of the target population that he is supposed to be helping,, and you go to work there each night like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time.
So he's straight up terrified of you. When his "letter" which was his attempt to get you to "jump through his "administrative hoop" ellicited a snarl from you instead, he told me to offer you a raise" He was all agitated and said "He can't quit. Who's going to work the night shift?" She told me it won't be much, but ask for more in about 60 days. And keep asking for mor after that every four months. You'll get it."
When the wrecking crew saw that I didn't value my check enough to aid and abet the county program's insensitivity to their vulnerabilty to health problems during cold and wet weather.
I was officially judge to be a; "human being, and not a poverty pimp" which was their designated term of ultimate disgust that was reserved for those that they felt profited from their misery. It is the little things in life that really count.
But James Lee took a shine to me when he won a five dollar bet with his brother, with the wager being; "He (me) won't last a week." This said by his brother after I narrowly ducked a folding metal chair that wasn't meant for me per se, but was more on target to do me damage, than the intended victim. James bet on me when I went over to the chair, picked it up, walked over to the guy who threw it and held it out to him. He didn't reach for it, but would alternate between looking at the chair and then at me.
I finally said to him; "I won't make your day any harder if you'll do the same for mine. Deal?"
He thought about it for a second. Looked at me one more time, and smiled. Then he said OK. He took the chair and sat in it. He became over the next few weeks my informal, back channel conduit to a society just as complex and nuanced as any you can name. I just refer to them as the regulars, or the wrecking crew.
And James was at the top of this particular food chain. And when ever a half squad of freshly minted Marines or any other dedicated malcontent threatened the tranquility of their nightly access to warmth and shelter, they were quickly disabused of such notions before it became so stupid the police had to become re involved. Although not always.
There were a few Marines, God Bless 'em, that have gained a healthier respect for old long haired hippie looking/"sign here"/pencil pushing/got their 7 inch razor sharp custom made hundred and thirty dollar K-bar knives in the filing cabinet/type individuals. And the flotsam and jetsam made up of our societies dispossessed that love them. Being a former 82nd Airborne, long haired hippie looking type made this learning experience a little easier for them to bear as well.
About one third were regulars. The local "wrecking crew" that were up and waiting in front of the liquor store before it opened at six. These folks for the most part were the basic elemental building blocks of every blues and hard luck song or story you ever heard or read.
Mostly harmless. Usually good natured. And for whatever reason, steadfastly determined to complete their slow motion deconstruction of self with an air of indifference.
Yes, it's a palpable air of indifference. To their present state, their situation, and their slightly modernized Chaplinesque attire. If "casual disarray" ever makes the fashion leap back up on to the New York, Paris and Rome runways, these wags and wagettes will be the power brokers of the "layered" look. Soothing colors like; "muscatel green" and "mad dog maroon" with extra large pockets for fifths of wine. Look! It doubles as a blanket!
Another third were "periodic problem drinkers. You might see them on a regular or semi-regular basis for a time and then, poof! They'd be gone from the mix. Out of the loop. On hiatus, sabbatical. Possibly due to something or someones intervention.. Family, friends, the court, or common sense.
The last third were the "one hit wonders." Victims of circumstance. Wrong place at the wrong time.
Their "Dog ma" got run over their "Kar ma" on this one night, types.
Everybody sat around tables in a large common area. Mostly drinking coffee and smoking, But if gravity wasn't your buddy at the moment, we had these green plastic lined, foam filled mattresses stacked to the ceiling. Just grab one throw it down and surf the linoleum until your time was up.
Because this wasn't a lock up facility, there was no segregation of the men from the women.
Which led to so many "Kodak moments" without a camera I could cry.
As an example, I have seen more than one woman's hair set ablaze by the weaving flames of multiple stick matches, zippos and other undetermined accellerants in the cluches of near blind drunk men "intent on Chivalry." (as Van Morrisson so eloquently said about entirely different men, in his song, "Tupelo Honey")
When you see a ball of flame moving accross the room like some indoor equivalent of a St. Elmos fire, meteorlogical phemomena on parade, but you know better, then you can count on it being a platoon of inebriates bum rushing some gal to let her know that "Chivalry isn't dead. Just dead drunk enough to believe that they have the whole "pitching woo" flame game thing down to a science.
But when there are seperate heat sources, in a large enough number of drunken hands, in a cramped enough space, the thermal dynamics of the beast, in conjunction with the almost complete loss of hand eye coordination within 20 feet of this about to go south endeavor, can end up blazing its own trail, where it will. Especially if the girl is sporting some highly teased, laquer coated into place, conflagouration in waiting hairstyle.
I have actually quickly grabbed and thrown a girl down to the ground, then furiously beat her around the head and shoulders with my jacket to knock down the flames, and been thanked sincerely for giving her the "rough treatment." Truly, I've been blessed.
But now, on to the matter at hand. One of the people that I met while leading my team of me into nightly forays with the dispossessed, and those that actually seemed to be possessed. was a dentist that had lost his license to practice for life.
Because while drunk, he passed out while drilling inside this guys mouth! Oh yeah! I was intrigued immediately. (If not sooner.) This two year period of constant strange doings coincided with me doing my post graduate work at the highly exclusive, routinely abusive School of Hard Knocks. In the extremely competitive field of "staying alive and in mostly one piece."
(My dissertation was on understanding the underlying principals and protocols that operate while in a discombobulated state. I titled it; "Malfunction Junction. What's your Compunction?)"
Anyway, Doctor Mortimer, which really is his name, was a regular. He used to see me putting pen to paper routinely, and read a few of my rhyme stories. At one point, he asked me to "put his madness to rhyme" I bullshit you not.
I explain to him that there is no way that I am going to be able to even come up with anything within the city limits of accurate, as pertains to his behavior, unless he is willing to suffer my questions, and answer them honestly. Then there is a chance, of getting a word picture that he might recognize aspects of himself within. He agreed to undergo my verbal scrutinizing of his persona.
So I began to worked him over vigorously with the; who, what, when, where, and
ALWAYS why. (what's up with that "sometimes" stuff?)
Asking him things like; "How did you keep your patients from catching on to the fact that you were higher than the price of silver, when the Hunt brothers tried to corner the futures market?"
His way around that little fly in his 100 proof ointment was to hire a receptionist that was open to aiding him in his deceptive charade. "IF" he paid her three times the going rate that an average gum chewing, nail filing, hickey on the neck, teenager was likely to be paid. ("IF" they quit chewing gum, filing their nails and, "showcasing the silver dollar sized blood bruises that straddled their jugular vein by wearing a blouse with a collar.)
When asked by a patient, who was there to have some mouth mechanics performed by the drunkified doctor, and had noticed that doctor Mortimer was looking like he was far from being at the top of his game, if the; "doc was alright?" All this "Little Miss can't be wrong" (with thanks, and apologies to the musical group "The spin doctors" for this spun doctor's spin meister's spiel") had to do to earn this extra swag was feign a look of dedicated (to the proposition) concern for her boss, lean forward, as if in confidence, and say; "Doctor Mortimer has the flu."
Well, right there, I knew that I had the title of this sad and venal vingette.
My next question was of course; And this worked?"
To which former doctor Mortimer replied; "For a while. Until it didn't. " Which was his way of saying; "Until I do something like pass out, while operating my high tech, variable speed dental drill in its mega rpm "getting busy mode " in some poor guy's mouth." (Talk about a Kodak moment. Yikes!)
DR. MORTIMER HAS THE FLU.
A DRUNK DENTIST. WHO LOST HIS LICENSE TO PRACTICE THREE TIMES.
(The last time for life.)
His office
opens up at nine.
By ten o'clock,
there is a line
of patients pained,
and feeling blue.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
He comes wheezing in
at ten o' five.
Scarcley looking
half alive.
Extractions!
Impactions!
Await his veiw.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
This fact has been
explained to all.
Who walk on in,
or place a call.
His secratary
pleads his case.
She tries to spare him
the disgrace,.
NEVER mentioning
what is true.
Doctor Mortimer...
(has had a few!)
He whispers;
"Hold them here awhile."
To his patients he turns.
Offering up a smile.
So full of suffering.
So devoid of guile.
They're just amazed
at how well he's bearing up,
against his viral trial.
Then: "Send the first one."
He commands.
As he tries to still
his shaking hands.
The patient enters
right on cue.
And says: "Hey Doc.
I here you have the flu."
"Uhhh, just a touch."
The Doc informs.
His insides,
like a can of worms.
"This time I think
that just a cleaning will do.
Excuse me a moment.
Won't you?"
Once behind
his office door,
where he feels safe,
he begins to pour.
Then doubles his double,
just because.
Never reflecting
on the things he does,
just to make it
through the day.
In seconds,
the bottle is put away.
Do you know that
the flu is gone,
when he returns.
He laughs!
He jokes.
His being yearns,
to make this patient realize,
that Doctor Mortimer is authorized,
to work miracles north and south,
INSIDE ANYBODIES MOUTH!
Well.
Halfway through
this dialogue deep.
Doctor Mortimer
began to weep.
I pray the Lord
his soul to keep.
With drill in mouth,
he fell asleep.
Too much "who hit John?" for breakfast.
A patients open mouth, and misplaced trust.
A high speed drill, "on the move"
"ding, ding, ding, ding, ding."
WE HAVE A WINNER!
I ran into this guy who used to be a dentist, but his license had been revoked three times. The last time, for life. This was back in the early eighties, when I worked at an "alternative to jail" program for the county, of San Diego.
It was, and is still, a program designed to free up jail space at the county jail for more serious offenders. Like people minding their own business, but are found to be in possession of an "illegal smile."
This was accomplished by decriminalizing people charged with California penal code 647-f. (public intoxication) So that they could be "handled" in a cheaper, non-custody type setting and manner. Back in the early eighties when I worked there, this approach was saving the county something like five million a year.
The program was designed to decriminalize "drunk in public" charges when a person was judged to be "under the influence" by the local gendarmes. "If" the person was not exhibiting hostile or threatening behavior. (While the police officer was still present.)
And promised to stay at the unlocked facility for a four hour period. And actually did so. (Until the officer drove out of the parking lot.)
Which someone had figured would result in most people achieving a sober state. Or near enough to it that you could set them afoot in the hard side of town and they would most likely be O.K. Stay the four hours and there was; "No fine. No record. No charge."
I was "team leader" for over two years. My shift ran from 11 p.m. at night, until 7 a.m. in the morning. During which time, the San Diego Police , San Diego County Sheriffs Department, and surrounding city police agencies brought me the 80 to 120 drunkest people that they could find on any given night.
Over a year and a half of that two years as team leader, I had no team. Even though state law mandated that at least three people must be on each shift, bare minimum, to deal with that many "impaired" individuals. They couldn't get anyone to work that shift but me. To this day, I can't imagine why. I loved it!
Every night was like a cross between Barney Miller and Fort Apache.
Downtown winos.
Beach bums.
Paddy wagons full of sailors, on their first leave in months.
Freshly minted Marines. Usually in groups of four to six, on their first "off the leash" departure from their gunny's loving wet nursing since enlisting.
Women, both young and old. From every economic station in life. Crying uncontrollably from the realization of how far they had fallen from their lofty perch above the masses, as a result of their first experimentation with jello shots.
Other women, mildly bemused at the entire spectacle, and their place within it.
All promised verbally, and affirmed that promise in writing, to stay four hours. By doing so, the police officer didn't file a formal charge. Which meant that there was no "record" of arrest. No listing of the incident on any enforcement data base of it as a "criminal matter."
If an individual refused to promise by word and signature that they would stay the prescribed period of time, then the police officer would place the cuffs back on the wrists, and the "stuck on stupid" individual back in the cruiser. And then `it was off to; "The prize behind door number three!" that Monty Hall had tried his best to talk you out of trading your; "All expense paid trip and no cost freeload" at some vacation spot that wasn't "exactly what you wanted." For; "Your very own Pig in a poke!" (Or, in this case, "drunken pigheaded persona in the local pokey!")
So almost all that were brought to me gladly, and quickly promised to stay the four hours.
About 12 percent of these people were straight up lying.
Especially the; half of a squad of: First time downtown/in full uniform/ just spent over a hundred and thirty dollars on a custom K-bar with a 7 inch, razor sharp blade/we all got arrested at a local tittie bar when I complained about the hostess reaching for my cock with one hand, while she reached for my wallet with the other one/you're out of your ever lovin' desk pushin', "sign here" mind if you think that this here group of Marines is gonna take orders from some long haired, hippie lookin' guy, who had better unlock that filing cabinet behind him and give us back our razor sharp K-bars back right now before we just climb over that desk and take them keys/Marines.
The percentage of these types from within the Marine population was something like 20 percent.
Fortunately, among the regular winos, which I affectionately named "the wrecking crew" were several former grab it and growl type individuals; A"seventh special forces" ;An "Airborne Ranger,"; A couple run of the mill Airborne types like myself. and one ex "seal team eleven" member named James Lee. Who while past his prime, had also been Archie Moore's favorite sparring partner.
Most of the "regulars" had gone from disinterest in me as a person, to tolerating, to ambivalence, to liking somewhat, to actually showing signs of genuine affection for my totally ignorant of their reality ass.
Because they percieved that I saw past the camoflauge that they threw up between themselves and most of the world. That kept most people from seeing that for the most part, they are honorable people. Bound and determined that they are going to live life on their terms. Come hell of high water.
As I learned more, I became less of a "rule twit." You know, holding the company line when it was stupid, and or wrong. Like; "Never let anyone in the facility who hasn't been brought there by a police officer, and signed in by him."
I got tired of seeing 20 or 30 men and women a night huddled outside using the building for a wind break on cold damp winter nights. With officer after officer walking by without responding to their request to be signed in.
Using my considerable power within the organization, (of being the only one crazy enough to actually work the graveyard shift) I began to flaunt the breaking of this rule.
This resulted in a letter being sent from the program director to me. Warning me of "serious consequences," if I didn't start exhibiting the baser qualities of a souless rat bastard.
(This letter to me, hand delivered by someone else, came from a man, I use that term loosely in this instance, that almost wet himself every infrequent time he actually had to show up in person. Inside the actual building where the program he "directs" takes place.
I called his secratary, and said I can drop off the keys today and will if you think I'm gonna look out huge plate glass windows all night at people freezing their ass off for no fucking reason at all.
It didn't cost a penny more to let them in. I told her to "get back to me with how it was gonna be."
About half an hour later she called me back, laughing and said "He won't be sending you anymore letters. He's scared to death of the target population that he is supposed to be helping,, and you go to work there each night like a kid going to Disneyland for the first time.
So he's straight up terrified of you. When his "letter" which was his attempt to get you to "jump through his "administrative hoop" ellicited a snarl from you instead, he told me to offer you a raise" He was all agitated and said "He can't quit. Who's going to work the night shift?" She told me it won't be much, but ask for more in about 60 days. And keep asking for mor after that every four months. You'll get it."
When the wrecking crew saw that I didn't value my check enough to aid and abet the county program's insensitivity to their vulnerabilty to health problems during cold and wet weather.
I was officially judge to be a; "human being, and not a poverty pimp" which was their designated term of ultimate disgust that was reserved for those that they felt profited from their misery. It is the little things in life that really count.
But James Lee took a shine to me when he won a five dollar bet with his brother, with the wager being; "He (me) won't last a week." This said by his brother after I narrowly ducked a folding metal chair that wasn't meant for me per se, but was more on target to do me damage, than the intended victim. James bet on me when I went over to the chair, picked it up, walked over to the guy who threw it and held it out to him. He didn't reach for it, but would alternate between looking at the chair and then at me.
I finally said to him; "I won't make your day any harder if you'll do the same for mine. Deal?"
He thought about it for a second. Looked at me one more time, and smiled. Then he said OK. He took the chair and sat in it. He became over the next few weeks my informal, back channel conduit to a society just as complex and nuanced as any you can name. I just refer to them as the regulars, or the wrecking crew.
And James was at the top of this particular food chain. And when ever a half squad of freshly minted Marines or any other dedicated malcontent threatened the tranquility of their nightly access to warmth and shelter, they were quickly disabused of such notions before it became so stupid the police had to become re involved. Although not always.
There were a few Marines, God Bless 'em, that have gained a healthier respect for old long haired hippie looking/"sign here"/pencil pushing/got their 7 inch razor sharp custom made hundred and thirty dollar K-bar knives in the filing cabinet/type individuals. And the flotsam and jetsam made up of our societies dispossessed that love them. Being a former 82nd Airborne, long haired hippie looking type made this learning experience a little easier for them to bear as well.
About one third were regulars. The local "wrecking crew" that were up and waiting in front of the liquor store before it opened at six. These folks for the most part were the basic elemental building blocks of every blues and hard luck song or story you ever heard or read.
Mostly harmless. Usually good natured. And for whatever reason, steadfastly determined to complete their slow motion deconstruction of self with an air of indifference.
Yes, it's a palpable air of indifference. To their present state, their situation, and their slightly modernized Chaplinesque attire. If "casual disarray" ever makes the fashion leap back up on to the New York, Paris and Rome runways, these wags and wagettes will be the power brokers of the "layered" look. Soothing colors like; "muscatel green" and "mad dog maroon" with extra large pockets for fifths of wine. Look! It doubles as a blanket!
Another third were "periodic problem drinkers. You might see them on a regular or semi-regular basis for a time and then, poof! They'd be gone from the mix. Out of the loop. On hiatus, sabbatical. Possibly due to something or someones intervention.. Family, friends, the court, or common sense.
The last third were the "one hit wonders." Victims of circumstance. Wrong place at the wrong time.
Their "Dog ma" got run over their "Kar ma" on this one night, types.
Everybody sat around tables in a large common area. Mostly drinking coffee and smoking, But if gravity wasn't your buddy at the moment, we had these green plastic lined, foam filled mattresses stacked to the ceiling. Just grab one throw it down and surf the linoleum until your time was up.
Because this wasn't a lock up facility, there was no segregation of the men from the women.
Which led to so many "Kodak moments" without a camera I could cry.
As an example, I have seen more than one woman's hair set ablaze by the weaving flames of multiple stick matches, zippos and other undetermined accellerants in the cluches of near blind drunk men "intent on Chivalry." (as Van Morrisson so eloquently said about entirely different men, in his song, "Tupelo Honey")
When you see a ball of flame moving accross the room like some indoor equivalent of a St. Elmos fire, meteorlogical phemomena on parade, but you know better, then you can count on it being a platoon of inebriates bum rushing some gal to let her know that "Chivalry isn't dead. Just dead drunk enough to believe that they have the whole "pitching woo" flame game thing down to a science.
But when there are seperate heat sources, in a large enough number of drunken hands, in a cramped enough space, the thermal dynamics of the beast, in conjunction with the almost complete loss of hand eye coordination within 20 feet of this about to go south endeavor, can end up blazing its own trail, where it will. Especially if the girl is sporting some highly teased, laquer coated into place, conflagouration in waiting hairstyle.
I have actually quickly grabbed and thrown a girl down to the ground, then furiously beat her around the head and shoulders with my jacket to knock down the flames, and been thanked sincerely for giving her the "rough treatment." Truly, I've been blessed.
But now, on to the matter at hand. One of the people that I met while leading my team of me into nightly forays with the dispossessed, and those that actually seemed to be possessed. was a dentist that had lost his license to practice for life.
Because while drunk, he passed out while drilling inside this guys mouth! Oh yeah! I was intrigued immediately. (If not sooner.) This two year period of constant strange doings coincided with me doing my post graduate work at the highly exclusive, routinely abusive School of Hard Knocks. In the extremely competitive field of "staying alive and in mostly one piece."
(My dissertation was on understanding the underlying principals and protocols that operate while in a discombobulated state. I titled it; "Malfunction Junction. What's your Compunction?)"
Anyway, Doctor Mortimer, which really is his name, was a regular. He used to see me putting pen to paper routinely, and read a few of my rhyme stories. At one point, he asked me to "put his madness to rhyme" I bullshit you not.
I explain to him that there is no way that I am going to be able to even come up with anything within the city limits of accurate, as pertains to his behavior, unless he is willing to suffer my questions, and answer them honestly. Then there is a chance, of getting a word picture that he might recognize aspects of himself within. He agreed to undergo my verbal scrutinizing of his persona.
So I began to worked him over vigorously with the; who, what, when, where, and
ALWAYS why. (what's up with that "sometimes" stuff?)
Asking him things like; "How did you keep your patients from catching on to the fact that you were higher than the price of silver, when the Hunt brothers tried to corner the futures market?"
His way around that little fly in his 100 proof ointment was to hire a receptionist that was open to aiding him in his deceptive charade. "IF" he paid her three times the going rate that an average gum chewing, nail filing, hickey on the neck, teenager was likely to be paid. ("IF" they quit chewing gum, filing their nails and, "showcasing the silver dollar sized blood bruises that straddled their jugular vein by wearing a blouse with a collar.)
When asked by a patient, who was there to have some mouth mechanics performed by the drunkified doctor, and had noticed that doctor Mortimer was looking like he was far from being at the top of his game, if the; "doc was alright?" All this "Little Miss can't be wrong" (with thanks, and apologies to the musical group "The spin doctors" for this spun doctor's spin meister's spiel") had to do to earn this extra swag was feign a look of dedicated (to the proposition) concern for her boss, lean forward, as if in confidence, and say; "Doctor Mortimer has the flu."
Well, right there, I knew that I had the title of this sad and venal vingette.
My next question was of course; And this worked?"
To which former doctor Mortimer replied; "For a while. Until it didn't. " Which was his way of saying; "Until I do something like pass out, while operating my high tech, variable speed dental drill in its mega rpm "getting busy mode " in some poor guy's mouth." (Talk about a Kodak moment. Yikes!)
DR. MORTIMER HAS THE FLU.
A DRUNK DENTIST. WHO LOST HIS LICENSE TO PRACTICE THREE TIMES.
(The last time for life.)
His office
opens up at nine.
By ten o'clock,
there is a line
of patients pained,
and feeling blue.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
He comes wheezing in
at ten o' five.
Scarcley looking
half alive.
Extractions!
Impactions!
Await his veiw.
But Doctor Mortimer
has the flu.
This fact has been
explained to all.
Who walk on in,
or place a call.
His secratary
pleads his case.
She tries to spare him
the disgrace,.
NEVER mentioning
what is true.
Doctor Mortimer...
(has had a few!)
He whispers;
"Hold them here awhile."
To his patients he turns.
Offering up a smile.
So full of suffering.
So devoid of guile.
They're just amazed
at how well he's bearing up,
against his viral trial.
Then: "Send the first one."
He commands.
As he tries to still
his shaking hands.
The patient enters
right on cue.
And says: "Hey Doc.
I here you have the flu."
"Uhhh, just a touch."
The Doc informs.
His insides,
like a can of worms.
"This time I think
that just a cleaning will do.
Excuse me a moment.
Won't you?"
Once behind
his office door,
where he feels safe,
he begins to pour.
Then doubles his double,
just because.
Never reflecting
on the things he does,
just to make it
through the day.
In seconds,
the bottle is put away.
Do you know that
the flu is gone,
when he returns.
He laughs!
He jokes.
His being yearns,
to make this patient realize,
that Doctor Mortimer is authorized,
to work miracles north and south,
INSIDE ANYBODIES MOUTH!
Well.
Halfway through
this dialogue deep.
Doctor Mortimer
began to weep.
I pray the Lord
his soul to keep.
With drill in mouth,
he fell asleep.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Contest Sample No. 3
by V. B. Monchego, Jr.
The grumpy man has tripped on a crack and the crows in the trees are laughing at him. His hand is bleeding. His new trousers are torn at the knee. The grumpy man is alone on the sidewalk in the middle of a gated community at dusk. The neighbors watch the man through their shutters. The grumpy man stands and punches a mailbox. Ten blocks later, the man is spread eagle at the rear of a police cruiser. He has forgotten to bring identification. He was just going for a walk.
Contest Sample No. 2
by V.B. Monchego, Jr.
The grumpy man is unhappy, always, even on weekends when he is not required to labour as a government-paid provocateur. When the grumpy man prematurely flips a perfectly round pancake and it breaks into battery pieces, the frying pan sails through the kitchen window, randomly striking a Witness spreading the hopeful word of Jehovah. This action assures the grumpy man a place in eternal hellfire. On the other hand, Jesus will greet the Witness in 23 earth years at the Pearly Gates. Jesus will give the Witness a monogrammed cardigan which the Witness will wear in Heaven, causing unspoken envy among the other angels.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Contest Sample No. 1
MORNING: The grumpy man stands at his toilet. He has a headache and his vision is blurred. His penis hole is gummed up and two irregular streams miss the bowl entirely before he can cut off the flow. He knows his wife Faye will call him a slob. He will be misunderstood again. The piss on the floor is not the result of poor aim and male insolence. In a fit, he grabs a washcloth and begins to mop the floor. Behind the toilet, he finds a stump of cigar. He is not a smoker. Now he is really mad.
Announcing the Grumpy Man Flash Fiction Contest
This contest is still coming together so check back for more information. The basic rules and guidelines are:
1. Short fiction or prose poem with 500 words or less.
2. Your short piece should feature a grumpy man.
3. Heck, why not. Or a grumpy woman.
4. Contest ends July 31, 2007 when the sun goes down over the westerly most point of Canada.
5. Winners will be announced in early August 2007.
6. There will be prize money (at least enough to buy some kind of meat, liquor, and a pack of Tiparillos) and a traveling trophy.
7. Email submissions to rowan.mayhewphd@gmail.com for postings.
8. Check this site weekly for postings and leave comments. All entries will be posted unless they are so remarkably offensive that the cyber police pay me a midnight visit.
9. Examples to be posted soon.
Thanks and live heartily.
1. Short fiction or prose poem with 500 words or less.
2. Your short piece should feature a grumpy man.
3. Heck, why not. Or a grumpy woman.
4. Contest ends July 31, 2007 when the sun goes down over the westerly most point of Canada.
5. Winners will be announced in early August 2007.
6. There will be prize money (at least enough to buy some kind of meat, liquor, and a pack of Tiparillos) and a traveling trophy.
7. Email submissions to rowan.mayhewphd@gmail.com for postings.
8. Check this site weekly for postings and leave comments. All entries will be posted unless they are so remarkably offensive that the cyber police pay me a midnight visit.
9. Examples to be posted soon.
Thanks and live heartily.
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