Gut Feelings

29 December 2020

It is most apt that a correspondent referred to Mr Fauci’s declarations, when describing his shifting criteria for his seeming epidemiological contradictions, as “talking out his ass.”  Fauci averred that some of the significant tools in his diagnostic kit were his “gut feelings.” It occurs to me that the expressions are linked.  What else could be the most audible and tangible expression of our gut feelings, other than flatulence?

correspondent Zovvio Quicogyf responds:
A most logical even if hilarious conclusion!
Zov is too kind, though she is correct on both counts.
I’m now curious about what else she’s right.
I should probably look into these:

Halestorm–A Novel of the American Revolution – Kindle edition by Akers, Becky. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Abducting Arnold–A Novel of the American Revolution – Kindle edition by Akers, Becky. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

These comments are sponsored by The Confederate Mint (purveyors of metallic securities in gold, silver, copper, and lead).  For sample sheets of Metallic Certificates (total face value One Tenth Silver Dollar) send One Silver Dime plus a self-addressed stamped envelope; or Four United States Legal Tender Federal Reserve “Dollars” in scrip, check, or money order, to Greigh Area Associates, c/o Gene Greigh //  401 Rio Concho Drive, #105;  San Angelo, Texas;  76903

Nannie

from Strangler Sproose, forthcoming

Duc Montaine fell asleep in the tree.  When he woke up, he was the tree.  His family thought he was dead, so they tried to kill him, but by then it was too late.  But that’s not how this story begins.  It begins long before Duc was even born.  After the collapse of the United States and the suicide of the British Commonwealths, the North American Union was forged between the anvil of Chinese Foreclosure and the hammer of their Orbital Ballistic Program.  Three generations later President Christopher Fu Hsing launched the American Seed Foundation.

After centuries in interstellar darkness, Nannie Fleet Three entered its destination cluster and began casting about for planets to seed.  Fleet Three still maintained tenuous radio contact with sister fleets, sent off in disparate directions from Mother Earth toward other likely star clusters.  The different fleets couldn’t help each other; they were light years too distant, but the planners at American Seed opined that additional information would always be useful to the descendants, at least, of their precious cargo.  Many Nannies were lost to interstellar accidents – rogue meteoroid strikes, bursts of radiant energy from variable stars, mechanical failure.  Their frozen cargo died, never quickening.

After decades of investigation, Nannie Three B began her approach to her chosen world.  Its name, Missouri, had been preselected for her by the master programmers of the Foundation, so as not to duplicate the names of other possible habitable worlds in her cluster.  The naming of other things, and indeed, of her children, was to be determined by a random number generator.  Bearing in mind that there is no such thing as a “random number generator,” Nannie’s program was to be seeded by observed celestial phenomena, the time of selection, ambient temperature and atmospheric pressure, wind velocity, and other factors programmed for appropriate “randomness.”  It worked well enough.

Because the master programmers of the ASF wished to preserve and disseminate American culture, the naming of locations and the first children was to be influenced by certain American novelists, whose significance were given various weights depending on the biases of the programmers themselves, and their relevance to the selected world name.  As a consequence of the Missouri bias, the first generation of children included Beccie Thatjer, Nigger Djim, Ree Dollie, Hamilton Felics, Talja al Ghul, Huc Finn, and Uaioming Gnott.

Still cradling her babies in their high-temperature superconducting polymer cells, Nannie floated down on a pillar of fire.

The slumbering sedge patiently awaited the stir that might signal the delivery of breakfast, and, if she were lucky, an especially delicious feral flyer.  Somehow, this morning, the sun seemed fuller, deeper, more vibrant, and sweet — until it was too much, as if lightning had struck the ground.  As the fire touched her fronds, ionic pulses raced along her dendritic tendrils and she withered in anguish, sucking moisture back into her root ball before it could be lost to the heat.  As the invader settled into its throne of flame, her upper vegetation reduced to ash and vapor, she retreated to the safety of her sub-apical cortex, but the mud was too tight, and the pain seared into her core as the wet hissed out of her pores and she died as Nannie touched down.

As Nannie settled to earth, plumes of steam rose about her, expunging the alien sky, obscuring the newly won sun, and shrouding the scorched ground. 

Verbal Easements

22 January 2017

Drunk chicks can call each other cunts and sluts and bitches all night long and never a tender feeling gets hurt. Don’t you dare, you brute, or you’ll never lay a filthy paw on her silky drawers again!

The brothers can call each other coon and spook and jigaboo all afternoon, it’s all in good fun. Now let Jackie Chan show up, smile broadly, and ask, “What up, muh nigga?” and by golly do the hijinks ensue!

Whether it’s athletes in the locker room, or cops on the beat, or nurses on the nightshift, every cadre develops its grips and shiboleths that say “It’s okeh. I’m one of you guys. I’m allowed to talk this way.”

With GIs, it’s “chickenhawk.” As offensive as it is to watch civilian politicians on TV drone on about America’s great sacrifices overseas, it is almost worse to see non-vets and non-GIs wearing camo-print leisurewear as their way of “supporting the troops.” However, just as a paraplegic can be educated about baseball, so too can folks outside the military family speak knowledgeably about foreign policy and use of force and the tragedy versus atrocity of collateral damage. That’s not what bugs me. In its proper pejorative sense, “chickenhawks” generally lack coherent arguments, personal experience, or years of scholarship to back up their cant. They seem far too often to be proponents of, “Let’s you and him fight.”

So, while I have no respect for chickenhawks, not every non-vet, non-GI proponent of war (involving someone else’s kid) is necessarily a chickenhawk. But just about anyone I hear in the street, on the job, or in a bar saying “We oughta just go over there and kick Ahmed’s (or Ivan’s or Fritz’ or Jose’s) ass and take his oil (or vodka or schnapps or tequila.)” probably IS.

So, unless you’re a vet yourself, or still in uniform (casual salute), don’t let me hear you saying “chickenhawk” about an otherwise anonymous war booster unless you can do it in an original or amusing fashion.

You’re on our turf here, and we’re sensitive about that shit.

SSgt Gene, USAF

Chameleon Boy, Saturn Girl, Phantom Girl, Colossal Boy, Gigi Cusimano, Cosmic Boy, Triplicate Girl (all depicted by Steve Lightle), Shvaugn Erin, and Jan (Element Lad) Arrah (both depicted by Colleen Doran & Al Gordon), are all properties of Detective Comics and Warner Communications.  Their images are reproduced by Piracy Press for purposes of analysis and scholarship.  If anything, their use here constitutes free advertisement for DC‘s properties at the considerable expense of Piracy Press and Greigh Area Associates.

Stories are selected with the greatest of discrimination, but even numbered issues of Daring Love are specifically edited with the prurient interests of atavistic fanboys in mind.  Reader discretion is advised.

Best in Show

21 November 2020

As an avid amateur actor, I have developed two things.  A hatred of stage make-up and an affinity for tribal traditions.  My “tribe” in this case is obviously the “dress up and make believe” crowd, and by extension, the professionals.  As a consequence, even though I never had a “dog in that fight” I enjoyed reflecting on the Oscars and the Emmys and the Tonys as they were handed out.  Of course, I never took any of it “seriously” because it is, by design, trivial fun.  However, as leftie zealots took the opportunity to hijack the events to bang their own drums, the show lost some luster.

By the time Sonny Corleomo picked up his Emmy, I was completely unimpressed.  It had devolved into an obvious insiders’ club generations ago, so I no longer nursed any illusions.  When the motion picture academy declined to give Ronald Reagan a lifetime achievement award, I thought that it was no oversight, just proper benign neglect.  While I have enormous respect for Ronald Reagan (as an ACTOR) I realize that his greatest artistic achievements took place on the small screen.  From guest appearances on Wagon Train and hosting Death Valley Days, to his magnum opus as “The President,” he touched millions of viewers with his skill, his poise, his humor, and his presence.  An award from the television industry would not have surprised me except for the obvious fact that most in the entertainment biz are spiteful commie twits.  Republicans aren’t much better, but at least they give superior lip-service to freedom.  When the Emmys declined to so honor such a fitting recipient, they surrendered the remains of their tattered credibility.

Which is why Sonny’s Emmy didn’t bother or surprise me. 
Actually, come to think of it, it’s kind of cool. Once again Sonny’s “accomplishments” eclipse Fredo’s fumbling attempts.

update 201226: My “conservative” friends, whom I often tease as leftie sympathizers, have as hard a time picturing me hanging out with other amateur actors, as “community players” have understanding my toleration of the “extreme” views of Evil Orange President. I don’t blame either group. I am an outlier almost everywhere I go. But as an actor… Well, it’s a good thing I’m so talented. Otherwise, this cadre of (generally) the leftiest, paisliest, patchouliest bunch of spiritual statists you could ever dread to encounter, wouldn’t have put up with my anarcho-materialist blasphemies.

Caged Rats

2 November 2020  

Caged rats were used in studies to determine the efficacy and appeal of cocaine to a captive audience.  Subjects were confined and given a choice between instant gratification, or food, water, and isolation.  They tended to hit that cocaine bar until they died of exhaustion, dehydration, and/or starvation.  This “proved” (to some minds) that cocaine is much more powerful than food or water.

But these tests were conducted in rat prison, and not in rat skate park or rat retirement village or rat discotheque.  The rats’ choices were too severely constrained to give meaningful results about what a mind might choose given a variety of options.  The results don’t reveal anything meaningful about cocaine, but much about despair and loneliness.  It’s kinda like trying to divine the sexual preferences of young men by studying prisoners.  Somehow, NONE of them seem to select benign, wholesome, or enriching relationships of respect and mutual regard, but tend instead to confine their acts to celibacy, masturbation, or random rape in the showers. 

So what’s killing those rats, then, if it’s not cocaine?  They’re not choosing cocaine over food, fellowship, and freedom.  They’re choosing palliation over purposelessness.  Am I one of those rats?  Not quite.  I haven’t been captured and caged, per se.  My “isolation” is mainly voluntary.  I found it preferable to the prospect of eight hours of uninterrupted vertical waterboarding.  Unfortunately, and probably too late, I find that I do miss many of the social aspects of the job, in spite of the many much more annoying social and logistical aspects of any job.  I miss the good parts of the job as much as I miss the fellowship of my church (whether that’s my golf club, or my political party, or my local library, or amateur theatre, or even supernatural cult rituals.)  Many of the social and cultural phenomena that help to transform existence into living are now missing.

Dull Disclosure

2 December 2020

correspondent JP asks: Hey, is your name pronounced “Jean Grey®“?
Are you an X-Man and just not telling us?

That is the correct pronunciation, and while Stan and Jack tagged their issue “Jean” in 1963, my creators tagged me with “Gene” in 1956. Is it a happy coincidence? Not as much as I’d like. There ARE red pigments in my hair, but my telekinesis remains undeveloped, and my entrance into a room does NOT excite adolescent boys (nor adolescent middle-aged men who ride in wheelchairs).

featured graphic,
Jean (“Marvel Girl®”) Grey
Created by Stan Lee and Jack Kirby
claimed de jure by Das MausenKorp®