Month: October 2022

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Reparations, Bond Villains, and Git’Tars

3 July 2002 — Reparations (or “Just how much do I owe me?”)

I oppose the (Senator Dan) Akaka Bill for the same reasons I oppose Reparations for Americans of African descent. History is filled with the crimes of cultural expansion — genocide, slavery, dispossession — but nothing can be done about the past but to learn from it. There is no good reason for Americans to look to the Federal Government for special protection or special consideration. The tragedy of native peoples on the mainland shows us that tribal recognition leads inevitably to eternal welfare bondage. All Citizens must stand equally before the law. Questionable property claims must be addressed without delay, but without needless rancor.

7 January 2018 — Real Life “Bond Villains”

They may not be what Ian Fleming had in mind when he first started minting the iconic archetypes, but once you’ve been acquainted with the notion, you’ll have a hard time not seeing them. Some become living parodies, others, touchstones of cultural phenomena. For example, I hesitate to buy into rumors of government misbehavior, at least until James (“Not Wittingly”) Clapper officially denies it.

I don’t pretend to know what’s in a man’s heart, my designation of “Bond Villainy” is based mainly on public persona, though an unusual name and an exotic accent (Henry Kissinger, Sebastian Gorka) sure help. Of course, actual villainy helps even more! (Henry Kissinger, James Clapper)

The reigning king of TV’s Bond Villains is on the ropes this week, being challenged by my new fave Michael (“Dr Evil”) Wolff. But not to worry, Sebastian (“Sebastian Gorka”) Gorka has serious legs, gravitas, and a wicked cool accent!

30 May 2022 — No Violins or Guitars

I love pop music and I love country and western music, and while bad pop is annoying, bad country is worse. I used to think there was nothing worse than bad country. Then I met hiphop. (High fop?) Fortunately, on popular commercial radio, bad country is more common than bad hiphop. One thing that bad country makes clear is that no country music group would ever have any instruments on stage that might be called a “violin” or a “guitar.” Clearly, and emphatically, they are “fiddles” and “git’tars.”

On talk radio, there’s even less annoyance. Of THAT particular variety anyway. However, before I can get to the radio to turn it off, I have been regularly subjected to Sean Hannity‘s current opening score:
Yeah we’re comin’
To your sit-tay!
We’re gonna play our git’tars and sing you a country sowng!
We’ll all be flyin;’
Higher than a jet air-liner!
So if you want a little thang in your ying yang come alowng!
I’m not precisely sure what a “thang” or a “ying yang” might be, so I’ll guess. Even so, if I HAD a “ying yang” and I wanted a “thang” in it, I’m not altogether certain I’d be satisfied by a LITTLE one.

7 December 2022

Applying for Medicare in February of 2021 turns out to have been LESS than useless. (Of course, this was prior to the eviction notice, so I still thought I could curry favor.) Since August of ’22 I’ve been trying to apply for reparations (aka “Social Security”). It has been a relentless nightmare.

To be fair (for those to whom “fairness” outside of a casino or a courtroom are adult considerations) during the same almost two years that I’ve “had” Medicare coverage and not used it, I also haven’t cashed in on the car insurance, I haven’t used my fire extinguisher, and I haven’t shot anyone sneaking into my house. That’s arguably been a waste of my resources also, but still a wholesome trend that I hope continues. But I said, “LESS than useless.” My car insurance didn’t prevent me from changing the oil, and my fire extinguisher didn’t prevent me from starting a blaze in the fireplace, and my guns didn’t spend their free time shooting innocent strangers.

Medicare, on the other hand, has effectively blocked my attempts to apply for reparations on-line. Between my own cybernetic incompetence and the perverse protocols of computers, I kept getting stymied, locked out, and admonished for attempting to update my data on my own alleged account. Seeking permission to proceed, I consented to e-mail updates, which would presumably allow me to continue, but they were sent to the obsolete e-dress. It wouldn’t let me update e-mail without an authorization code, and it would only send such codes to an e-dress that I could not access.

4 September 1991 — On Getting What She Demanded

For the past few months, Drama Queen (or Diva Dearest?) has been enjoying a tryst with Maintenance Man. That was never a problem for me. Since beginning to think about such things I have been strictly heterosexual and polyamorous. Such considerations were hammered out in my marriage contracts, and I never betrayed them, though they, respectively, got fed up with me after Thirteen, Thirteen, and Twenty-two years. Anyway, on this particular evening (last night) Drama Queen was excoriating me over how neglectful I’d been. As a father of three (two teen-aged boys and my infant daughter) I felt I had my hands full with rent, groceries, school activities, and child-care. How little I know.

So, she spent the evening haranguing me about my neglect, and even went so far as to point out that Maintenance Man was much more attentive in his offers of small gestures and tokens. The example she cited was the beef jerky he’d bought for her earlier that day. Finally getting it all “off her chest” by dumping it all over my head, she felt much better, and we enjoyed a peaceful night’s sleep. She woke up bright and jovial and went off to work. It being my day off, I slept a little later, but still woke up angry and morose. I work my ass off to keep the five of us in kibble, and she throws Maintenance Man‘s superior swain skills at me. Well, I DID listen to her, so I divined that she wants small gestures delivered to work. After tending to L’Historienne‘s diapers, I packed a small lunch, threw my best girl up onto my shoulders, and walked down the hill and across the highway to Fytyjuf Twyx, the beach resort hotel where she worked. I walked into the front office, dropped the sack lunch on the counter in front of her, said,”Here,” walked out, crossed the highway again, and proceeded up the hill to home.

That didn’t work out as well as I’d hoped. I got about halfway home when Drama Queen pulled up on the street beside me and started in again. How dare I, she wondered, endanger our daughter by carrying her across a busy street? I’d thought I was following her instructions, but in addition to reading, I’m also not very good at listening between the lines.

14 October 2022  — 
“It could be that I wasn’t trying to hide it FROM you.
Maybe I was trying to hide it FOR you.”

Many years ago, for some reason or another, Busy Body (or Early Riser?) asked me if there was something I hadn’t told her.  I tried to duck the question, because I am not comfortable with casual lies, but she persisted.  Finally, having had enough, I stood up, left the room, and fetched the new tea pot and paperback anthology that I had previously bought for her upcoming birthday.  I returned to the room, put them both on the table and said, “There!  Now I’m no longer lying to you!”  Then I left the house to walk off the anger and to smoke myself down (because at the time I was still a practicing butthead.)

I don’t remember, but I think she threw them out.
I guess winning isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

8 January 2023

Because I am mask averse, and because the local Social Security office is F’eral turf (a wholly owned subsidiary of the DNC), wherein mandatory muzzling remains in effect, I preferred to access their system via my home desktop. Woe betide me! That worked as well as this website works to sell my books. After months of frustration, I surrendered. I trudged down to the local SS office (on November 4th), muzzled up like an obedient little sheeple, and checked in, asking for help to get MY MONEY BACK.

The clerk was very courteous, looked at my documents, tapped her keyboard, and then asked if a telephone interview would be helpful. I responded that, in my state of helpless incompetence, just about ANYTHING would be helpful. So I was given an “appointment” for the telephone interview. I left, and days later a letter arrived recapping the discussion and advising me of which materials would be helpful to have at hand for said call. Come the morning of December 6th, I sat by my phone with all those materials at hand and waited for the call. And waited. And waited.

After waiting for what I figured was a reasonable time, still hearing nothing, I tried to call and my call was diverted to my service “provider,” whereupon I was informed that all of my time had expired. Meanwhile, the clerk tried calling what turned out to be a dead line, finally calling L’Historienne and enquiring after my existence. So she freaked out, raced over to my apartment and gave me the message that they were trying and failing to contact me. Apparently, all the time I’d been left on hold trying to resolve this, and other issues, PLUS the minutes nibbled away by annoying telemarketeers pestering me with “MediCare supplemental insurance” THAT I HAD NEVER REQUESTED AND STILL DON’T WANT.

19 January 2023

Several calls later, follow up authorization codes, and an updating of my ACTUAL phone number and e-dress, I tried again today. And was promptly locked out again.

Next step, I guess, is to show up AGAIN (after the advised “five to ten business days” that the evil IT weasels demand) with my relevant identifications PLUS checking account routing number, and just cry until I get my reparations. Or until I am arrested. One way or another, the Feds will either feed me or kill me.

15 February 2023 — Perpetual Emotion Regime?
Correspondent and Creditor Expectoranzo bemoans my pegging his loan to the CPI, protesting that his Catholic guilt nags him insofar as his other ready accounts were paying him less than that. I assured him that I had no quarrel with the arrangement. In fact, I think I’ve gotten a pretty good deal, but if he INSISTS that I pay less I suppose I should oblige him. Meanwhile, I’ve advised him that if he wishes to assuage his usurious pangs, he should consider supporting some local animal shelter or strip club. (Unless that leads to more Catholic guilt. Do they feel guilty about feeling good, or good about feeling guilty?)

17 March 2023 —
Texas More (in)Secure than the Strategic Air Command?

So, the bureaucratic nightmare continues. Still no reparations, Feds still insist that we all continue to pretend that we’re surgeons, so maybe my savings (supplemented by part time at the QuikkStopp) will last until Mr Bushbiden’s SCHEDULED end of the Wuhan Flu “emergency.” (So, since when are “emergencies” SCHEDULED? “This virus is so deadly, the circumstances so dire, disaster so imminent that, BEGINNING NEXT TUESDAY…” Sheesh! If ya’ll were paying any attention you’d have seen them giving away the fraud at the start of it all.) Or, if the math doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll go ahead and muzzle up again. Haven’t decided, maybe I should drink it over.

But anyway, back to Texas and SAC and who’s more secure. My Buckeye Driver’s License expired on my birthday, of course, and a week or so prior to then I showed up at my local DMV (or DPS?) to hopefully upgrade my ID to a local model. I was met by a friendly clerk (Texans so far seem generally friendlier than most other Americans) who informed me that this office was a strictly by-appointment affair. She offered me a helpful brochure detailing Texan requirements for exchanging drivers’ licenses, so I returned home, gathered the materials listed (I thought!) and scheduled an appointment for two days prior to expiration. All very timely and responsible.

HA! As it turns out, the “birth certificate” provided to me by my parents, though good enough for the USAF, Beaver Tech, and getting me licensed in the states of South Dakota, Oregon, Hawaii, and Ohio, is trash. It is not a “verified” or “official” copy, so it’s not good enough for Texas. Goodness Gracious! The F’eral government trusted me to work on their jets, but Texas doesn’t trust me on the road.

Well, there’s no point sprinting if I’ve already missed the bus! So, I turned my attention to more pressing matters, like impending surgery for my intermittently painful and ever more sensitive herniated inguinal wall, or contemplating “the letter” (a seemingly contentious missive that arrived in an untimely fashion insofar as my heart and head were focused more on my immediate physical issues; delicate little feelings, especially mine, would have to wait.

So I spoke to the Washington State department of vital records (or whatever they call themselves in that jurisdiction) today, put in my request so I can sooner stop defying Texan traffic dicta, pledged them sufficient electrons from my checking account, and now will await the “approved” document, then probably retest (because my DL has expired) both on paper and on the road, and maybe even bring L’Historienne with me in case I fail one of their tests and do not wish to be seen driving illegally thereafter.

Ever try to do one thing?

21 March 2023

Yet another delay. Thought I had the physical and mental capacity to try to apply for Social “Security” again. Still locked out, tried applying the “new, improved” access code, but…

“You need your reset code letter in order to continue.

Please allow 5-10 business days from the time of your original request. (If you’ve lost or misplaced your letter, you may request a new letter to be sent to you.)”

So, back on delay, until yet another letter arrives to mislead me.

Well, at least, post surgery, I am even more fit to work than before (though still just two days a week), so I’m not eating my savings quite as fast as I could. Maybe once the Feds decide it’s safe (from baseless criticism) to stop insisting that we all pretend to be surgeons, maybe I can just show up in person and slog through the whole humiliating process step by arbitrary step.

(“The letter” will just have to wait for a little more.
Seems like more crap I don’t need just yet. Still.)

cover illustration by Frank Frazetta.  Used without permission.  Piracy Press is a non-profit enterprise dedicated to the preservation and distribution of great art and ripping good yarns.
Digital Damage by Lethargy Lad.
Price per issue:  Ten Centigrams Gold.
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.

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Moebius Park

a work in progress, please stand by…

other working titles:

Moebius Trip

The Rainbow Bridge

— or —

Rocke DiSerio’s No-Good Fluxed-Up Cosmic Misadventure

Chapter One: Escher Castle

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are now entering Martian orbit. Please note that we have turned on the ‘fasten seat-belts’ sign, so buckle in. Have your sick-bags ready, too, those of you who think you might need them. We’ll be turning off the artificial gravity and docking with Escher Castle in about five minutes.”

“By damn!” The old man seated in first class growled to his companion, “I tell them and I tell them! Is NOT verdammt ‘Escher Castle!’ Is Asgard! I should know, I — “

“Of course, Mr Brandt. You built it, sir. You have every right to name your little planetoid.” Bush Tucker chuckled softly. “But ‘Escher Castle’ has caught on with the public, and now people won’t call it anything else. You might as well try to get Americans to use the metric system.”

“Sprocking Grife! Interplanetary Society calls it Asgard! Why can’t — ?”

“Of course they do. You’ve been bankrolling them for decades. And as long as you keep paying me, I’ll call it Asgard or Strawberry Shortcake or anything you like. But you pay me to tell you the truth, sir, and the truth is you’re outnumbered by about twenty billion to one, so — “

“Pfah! Go back and sit with Rocke. Tell Miss Deen I have dictation.”

Bush rose and moved back, and soon Rhonda Deen appeared next to Odin Brandt carrying her com-pad.

**** **** **** **** **** ****

Bush watched Rhonda as she undulated up the aisle and disappeared behind the curtain separating first class from coach. As he took her place, he noticed that his new seatmate already had his sickbag stuck to his face. He was breathing slowly, and his bag inflated and deflated in steady rhythm. “You alright there, kid?”

Rocke DiSerio took the bag away and smiled weakly. His face was beaded with sweat. “I hate free fall, Mr Tucker. Always have. Even the thought of it makes me queasy. I don’t see why we can’t leave the field on until we’re safe in the Castle.”

“And there it is!” Through the view port on Rocke’s other side, Mars’ newest moon loomed into view. “Look there, kid. History’s second largest artifact. Asgard is an unnatural body, and natural gravity would never let it stand. Only Brandt’s inertial field generators allow it to exist. We’ll be docking on that prominence there,” he pointed, “just outside Asgard’s field. Ship’s field and Asgard’s are not compatible frequencies, and if they should touch — “

“I understand, sir, but they can be fine-tuned. Right? I mean, they had to be in order to support all those different planes on Escher’s — uh, Asgard, and — “

“Forget it, kid. Try decelerating at sixty gees like our captain just did, and negotiating that monster ring out there, and Mars, and Asgard, AND fine-tuning your field generators all at once. Too tricky and too dangerous. Pro pilots may be good, but… well, I’d rather take my chances with floating vomit.”

“But still, Mr Tucker, with shipboard computers and — “

“And too expensive. Besides, kid… you ever play tug o’war? Now imagine you’re the rope, only weaker. Gravitational diffraction can be unpredictable and — “

“Attention!” The ship’s captain interrupted them. “Prepare for end of artificial gravity and docking at Escher Castle. Please remain strapped in until your steward arrives to assist you. Welcome to Mars and thank you for flying Safe-Space Travel. We know you have many transportation options, and we appreciate your choosing us for your business and pleasure needs.”

Rocke slapped his bag back over his mouth and immediately voided himself into it. Bush wrinkled his nose in involuntary disgust, but nevertheless was grateful for DiSerio’s consideration. “Rather be smelling it than tasting it,” he thought.

**** **** **** **** ****

After the stewards had unstrapped Rocke, escorted him out of the craft, through the airlocks, and into the gravity field of Asgard’s upper terminal, his belly ceased its protests. The terminal’s field was a gentle one-sixth gee as a compromise and a courtesy to natives of Luna and the Greater Asteroids, but at least it was steady acceleration and therefore easily quelled Rocke’s nausea and vertigo. After wiping his mouth with the damp towel, he returned it to the attendant and began to straighten his vest and tie.

Odin clapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Feeling any better, my boy?”

“Uh, yes sir, thanks. Sorry about the fuss, I — “

Odin boomed with laughter. “No fuss at all, lad! Zero gee is nothing to an old space hand like me, except a source of endless amusement! Work for me long enough and one day you’ll wonder why it ever bothered you.”

“I hope so, sir, but I rather doubt it. I was born on Luna, but I went to school on Earth. Every trip home was a living nightmare. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“Some never do,” said Bush. “There’s no shame in drop sickness. You took every precaution and handled it like a champ. You don’t need to apologize to anybody.”

“Born on Luna?” Rhonda brushed back a blond lock and scowled. “Are you going to be able to handle full gee? Many Loonies never — “

“Never fear.” Rocke smiled at her. “Two hours in the Dianopolis centrifuge, four times a week, playing tennis or racket ball mostly. I can take anything Earth gravity can dish out. Just keep me out of free fall and I’ll be fine.”

“Then let us not linger, children.” Odin gestured to their porter and commenced to strut toward the large archway emblazoned with the words “Uelcome to Asgard” in System Standard English, plus a half dozen other different scripts, including Mandarin and Runic. As they approached the gates, he led them to the one marked “Earth Normal.”

They passed through the gate and down the gently sloping ramp. With each step they could feel their weight returning until, at the bottom, they had reached one gee. Before them stretched a dizzying webwork of ramps and staircases extending in many directions, often intersecting at crowded nodes. Many of the double-sided staircases carried pedestrians at right angles or counter-parallel to each other, each seeming to descend in opposition.

The party stopped at a broad landing, and Bush handed their porter their room assignments and his gratuity. The man pushed his luggage cart onto a half pipe structure, smoothly walking up the curve until he appeared to stand sideways on the wall next to them. He turned off of the curve and onto another ramp. Then he hopped onto his cart, and he and their luggage seemed to coast uphill and out of sight.

They moved on to the next half pipe and Odin casually strolled up the side until he appeared to hang upside-down over them. Bush took hold of a convenient grab bar, hoisted himself up, flipped, and dropped up neatly next to Odin. The older men grinned down at Rhonda and Rocke.

“Uh…” Rocke’s face began beading sweat, and he swayed where he stood.

“Vertigo again?” asked Rhonda.

“Nothing to it, kid,” said Bush. “Just walk up the path. Stay between the lines and you’ll be fine.”

“No need for show off like Mr Tucker,” laughed Odin. “If old man like me can do this, healthy young buck — “

“I understand, sir,” answered Rocke. “I mean… I understand the physics and all, it’s just… Well, it’s a little queasy here. We’re at a confluence of fields again, aren’t we? I can always feel it in my guts. I can do it. Just give me a minute to adjust.”

“Oh pish!” Rhonda took his hand. “Close your eyes and walk with me. I’ll let you know when we’re on a level ramp again.”

Rocke obeyed, and they walked together for a while. The flutters in his belly were unsettling, but not as bad as free fall. Eventually, the flutters went away, and he opened his eyes. They were on what looked and felt like a level ramp running through the center of the webbing, surrounded by walkways at all angles, with people strolling or skating freely at various angles to their own orientation. Rocke pulled his hand from Rhonda’s and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “As long as it feels like steady gee,” he said, “my tummy is fine. But it looks insane.”

“Is insane!” answered Odin. “But more efficient. Using both sides of walls and ceilings as floors, I put tens of thousands of us here in Asgard, and still no crowding! Now come children, let’s not dawdle. I don’t like keep pet genius waiting!”

**** **** **** **** ****

Prakash Levy leaned over his scope, oblivious to the door sighing open behind him. Before him, a half kilogram slab of prime rib was suspended in a sealed chamber. As Levy adjusted dials the slab began to descend, slowly settling onto the lab bench.

“There’s my querulous comrade!” boomed Odin Brandt’s voice. “Children, meet Kash Levy, only person in Asgard smarter than me! And much younger and prettier, too!”

“You’re late,” answered Kash, still fixed on his scope. Except for answering Odin, it appeared that he was unaware that anyone had entered his sanctuary. “And I hope you meant ‘inquisitive,'” he continued, “I don’t complain all that much, do I?”

“Mr Braaandt!” David Stucco, Levy’s lab assistant, rushed forward to greet their benefactor, ignoring Bush, Rhonda, and Rocke in his eagerness to ingratiate himself. He held out his hand to Odin, but Bush stepped between them and firmly pushed Stucco’s arm back down. “Uh… You’re just in time, sir. Two weeks it’s been in stasis. You said you have a taste for steak tartar?”

“Hang on,” said Kash, still hunched over his station, “we’ll want a tissue sample first.” He twiddled dials and inside the chamber, delicate waldos descended onto the meat, cut off a section and transferred it into a dish which slid through a port and into an adjacent chamber. He straightened and turned. “Dr Stucco, if you’d like, then?”

Stucco took Levy’s place. The remaining slab of meat rose again. Stucco grinned at Odin and said, “I think thirty gees ought to do it.” The slab slapped hard against the lab bench then, splashing bits of gore against the interior of the chamber. He touched a stud and a glass panel opened up.

Odin stepped forward, put his finger into the mass and brought it to his nose. He sniffed carefully, then deeply, then licked his finger clean and smiled. “Perfect,” he pronounced. “Grass fed Martian beef, as fresh as the day he was slaughtered. Help yourselves, children.”

Rocke put up both hands and shook his head, grimacing, but Bush and Rhonda both stepped up and repeated Odin’s gesture.

“Delicious!” said Bush.

“Could use some salt,” said Rhonda, “and a little lemon and Worcestershire.”

While the others were inspecting the preservative properties of Levy’s stasis field, Rocke meandered over to a large whiteboard covered with doodles and scrawls. He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Uh, Dr Levy,” he asked, “why are you dividing by zero here after these triple-cross products? That can’t work with vectors any more than with scalars, can it?”

Stucco sneered. “Maybe you should go back to class before you ask silly questions, boy. You’ve got to differentiate both — “

“I did that already, and I just get a quaternary matrix over a null field. I think there’s been some — “

“Don’t touch that!” Stucco stormed over to inspect the board, “That’s for Dr Levy and myself!”

“Easy, Dave.” Bush tossed another globule of mashed meat into his maw and ambled over, licking his fingers. “The kid didn’t mean any harm.”

“I didn’t touch anything!” protested Rocke. “I did it in my head, and it still ends up trying to divide by zero. Oh! Wait a minute!” He pointed to another section on the board. “There it is. Someone flubbed this triple-cross back here. These vectors shouldn’t be cancelling out, they — “

“He’s right.” Levy stared at the section that Rocke had indicated, then spoke while he erased and revised the complex matrix equations. “It looks like you mistook the right-hand rule for some sinister substitute, David. In your head, you say?” Levy smiled at Rocke. “That was a good catch.”

“I don’t believe it.” Stucco continued to fume. “No one can differentiate fifth order segregals in his head. It took me at least two hours to — “

Odin dropped his arm across Stucco’s shoulders and laughed. “Nu, you think I hire boy genius to be janitor?” He walked him back to the lab bench. “How about you clean up mess here while savants talk maths, eh?”

“Yes sir,” answered Stucco, quietly. “Thank you, Mr Brandt.”

“Good boy.” Brandt turned to Dr Levy. “Is quieter in your office?”

**** **** **** **** ****

As the test chamber ran through its clean cycle, Dr Stucco went back to the whiteboard to review Dr Levy’s corrections. He studied the equations, ground his teeth, and muttered under his breath. “Snot-nosed punk. Who asked him anyway?” He held out his right hand, the index and middle fingers splayed out at right angles, and his thumb raised, perpendicular to the other digits. “I’d have caught it in time. I know my job. Don’t need that old bastard’s trick monkeys telling me how — ”

The phone in his pocket chirped at him. He looked at the screen and smiled. “Yes, Mr Boyle,” he spoke softly. “That’s right, he’s here now, with that new math whiz he promised us. Plus his secretary and his hired goon. No, no problem at all. I’ll have it, and you’ll have it, just make sure — No, no, you never have. Not yet anyway. Just see you don’t. Okeh, twenty-one o’clock, Phobos Lounge, I’ll be there.” Stucco pocketed his phone and smiled. “Let Kash fawn over his new pet all he wants. They’ll all be singing a different tune soon enough.”

**** **** **** **** ****

“They still at it?”

“Mercy, yes!” Rhonda Deen dropped into the seat opposite Bush Tucker. “I’ve had about all the Pentacostal Integrations and Laurentine Transformations I can take. Pour me some of that.” Bush reached across the table with the pitcher and emptied it into her mug. The frost had long since evaporated from her glass, and he had nursed his drink waiting for her. “I was so relieved to see Mrs Whitaker. And so sorry for her. But it’s all her problem, now.”

“What problem?” Bush smiled at her. “Rocke’s a good kid. And smart, too. Besides, I think he’s sweet on you.”

She sighed. “Yeah, ‘fraid o’ that. I know he means no harm, but…”

“I’m sure you can find some way of letting him down easy.”

“Easy.” She agreed and drained half her cup while Bush waved the empty pitcher at their waiter. “Yeah, Rocke’s not so bad, I guess. After five years of babysitting Brandt’s proteges, I’ve seen lots worse. Still, all these weird mathemagical incantations take a little getting used to. Even harder getting used to Dr Stucco trying to worm his way into the discussion.”

“Ah-huh. I couldn’t bail on him soon enough! Davey’s a little out of his depth. Mainly just sniffing after Odin’s plush tush, far as I can tell. I, ah, do kinda get some of the math, though,” Bush looked into his drink and blushed. “Vectoring in four dimensions becomes second nature when you’re shooting at moving targets, but then… you know, conceptualizing in five or more like Odin, the Boy Wonder, and the Hin-Jew do,” he rolled his eyes and grimaced, “with energy vectors and gravitational flux rotating into plus and minus AND IMAGINARY time components. I mean, supposedly, the accounting works out, but… well, somewhere in that complex time plane perpendicular to three dee space, I guess, that’s where Brandt found artificial gravity and where Kirkendahl and Levy are looking for time travel. And who knows what gets found next in the secrets of nature? From sharp sticks to atom smashers. What new extinction level super threat looms anon, eh?”

From overhead, their waiter swung into view, tethered to the central axle. With her legs curled around the trapeze seat above her, she took the pitcher and silver coin from Bush and agreed to return quickly. She smiled as the tractor cable hauled her back up into the free fall core of the great prolate lobe. The Phobos Lounge was like a giant football mounted on the spire or steeple of one of the many peaks of Asgard. Patrons walked in at one narrow end at an easy sixth gee, then “upgee” to the broader center section where the AG pulled at a relaxing three-quarters. Brandt radiation refracted through the precisely curved cuatrotaenite alloy composing the decking of the lounge, modulating the artificial gravity and cancelling out altogether along the central axis.

That free fall corridor up the center line, around the entertainers’ cage in the middle of the space, was the medium of choice for many patrons and all of the wait staff. With the band playing over everyone’s heads, no one in the house had a back seat to the show. Bush adjusted the mirror on his edge of the table so he could better watch the pretty vocalist and fiddler of the Red Grass Quartet occupying Center Stage tonight.

Opposite the bar, at the other narrower end of the lounge was a large transparent viewport, surrounded by rings of observation seats. Centered in the port was a glittering iridescent field connecting Asgard to Odin’s “Rainbow Bridge,” history’s first largest artifact to date. Nearing completion, the massive articulated ring was in orbit around Asgard’s augmented field, and between them they supported millions of hectares of gossamer sunscreen which powered Asgard, the Rainbow Bridge, and sent surplus energy to the surface of Mars to crack water and other stubborn chemicals out of the Old Soldier’s hide.

They idled at their table, nursing their drinks and enjoying the music when Bush noticed David Stucco swimming through his viewing mirror. Craning his neck, he followed Stucco’s progress through the free fall lane to the viewing lounge. He turned to Rhonda and gestured. “Looks like Odin’s finally sent Davey to bed.”

She looked up, spotted him, and grimaced. “Let’s get out of here before he sees us. I’d rather listen to the boss gabble on about math than deal with Stucco.”

“Suits me.” Bush dropped another coin on their table. “I’m staying at Hilbert’s. They’ve got a lounge off the lobby, English Pub theme, a little raucous sometimes…”

“Good enough!” She finished her drink and stood up. “Let’s stick to the deck and slink out so he doesn’t see us.” As they walked “down gee” up the curved decking, she stopped suddenly and pointed. “What’s HE doing here?”

Bush looked and growled softly. “Cancer and crabgrass! Addison (‘Slow’) Boyle? Does Odin know you’re in his castle?”

to be continued?
Moebius chapter x – The Greigh Area

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The Shambler from the Swamp

15 October 2022

Damp and cold, encrusted with mold,
The crypt was long forgot.
At breathless pace, forsaking grace,
The thieves would cast their lot.

A stolen glance, they took a chance,
And vaulted o’er the wall.
On sturdy ropes they placed their hopes,
To debt be not enthralled.

Hands slick with rime, they hauled the line
And drew the casket out.
To win this treasure they’d pay all measure
And ban all sense of doubt.

They dropped it down upon the ground,
The framework cracked and splintered.
They didn’t care, were unaware
Of dangers from the interred.

It smelled of rot, but they were hot
To beat the Orange Golem.
They searched the cask, bent to their task,
Not seeing future problems.

The scattered bones, so rudely thrown,
Began to reassemble.
It stood on limbs both lean and trim,
With lips that would dissemble.

Debased, deranged, and quite insane,
A fever’d boiled off half its brain.
It shambled forth, shook off its fetters,
Said, “Here’s the deal, we’ll build back better!”

[ this submission by award winning poet Gene Greigh
took top honors in the 2022 Rio Concho Halloween Poetry contest ]
illustration by Berni Wrightson

an earlier effort, celebrating a more joyous holiday:
On the eve of 4/20, we slept like a log,
And dreamt of the gifts we would get from Snoop Dogg.
We slumbered in bliss, ’cause we knew we would wake
To choice nugs and dank product to keep us quite baked.
19 April 2022

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The Epistle of Dismissal

29 April 2023 — Q1:  Okeh… so no questions at all, just sadness and scorn.  And a tantalizing reference to a “book,” with or without a message.  Big talk or procrastination?  Hawthorne, Huxley, or Nourse?  And that’s just assuming it is one of my lost treasures, rather than an overdue(?) retaliation on behalf of tribe, alliance, or ideology.  Maybe that IS the “message.”  “Book” has been used as a metaphor before, and I am not sure that’s not the case now.  Or the even more obvious possibility of taunting.  But most likely, it is the benign and innocent act of procrastination, so I will neither offer nor request more anon until persuaded otherwise.  And while my faith remains insignificantly tiny, my hopes remain great.   Hope may be a poor plan, but it’s an effective palliative, on a par almost with laughter itself.

25 February 2023 (though completely unintentional)

Kojuxit:  Twit qoax fu oimtuz fu axen duogd dyk’jet dupd ftjoigs aoj olef tjis waken ohep.

[ irrelevant grammar note: shouldn’t that be “new friends who” rather than “that?” ]

Tmgea opd sew dfog opd sexy dfel dpia rjemu, fax gewks tup waken dhlodjewv opdyk obimuog dy’jtwit tju waxen tojtantfil wix ffoar qi dazy.  (Gedito — “Kojuxit” jupd godgepf “Ffikus Pydaxel” fix aep?  “Ocidajilit?”)  Oluj ocidajilit olef ioz waken we gosog ed ol gews ol ed djudgehli weed yogoway waxen.  Kowl sexy vjipd waken duap hay flaf ndal oiddogh dupd ffoar kik wefk, (vif) “Ffikuspydaxel” wolk rjimmuc ed fguon famh-oidfes sew hipsjeidumog ikol tju (vif) fgaen toffaotog oc’ayen.

Ffjontimmodji yikol dmafji dy’jet.  Vyful yu qed wolk dfem waken ikuf waken tju?

Fax wed faegontjut waken fviul mdiap, waxen ed djugdehli swj ogu frjimoos.  Frjimoos gaye daezu oguv dy’jfoet dfant op ofaevoz, fawx legs iuau fix wop joap joco, frjimoos-paws-pays gaye dgap ed foajidjev keep ojeolef dpia hipfjeidumog ofemv yu jik wed masjiuh weed dixy tjaes wocup yoway fuk, oz ed dej fix dupd oimdjotico dazy.

(Gedito — dawe dixy rjimag dej mmidf l’ik.)

Fydo, fydo, Vixum opdyk, foiddiv gewks rjiguv, Mymop Pew tju omepjgev rjiiumh, hipsjeidumog gaye tju ol tju waken, Jiudjnael Pydjocof duk Jji opd, ohet tju fvilev pdia Klint tju waken, oiphefemiph tju Lyfijuigudgozim rjiffavfit, rjipraum, daye rjimmigr, Voogv Gotmaez du vifal ed rjijodfi[m  :]tup yoway folid teer opd sexy oijul gozlolog ed tju, muop ed omzu oz mymuk dpril yoway, todguh yoway jowapdupd vjipd tit wik.

Ed rjier goco dy’jfuqwa tju rjivgea dy’jfuqwa dixy fakeicze oluvoz dixy oimmuadjoco dazy, fipd fvis ed rjiiogd daezu ogoway fjeiffavfit masjiuh ofepd mykmuk.  (Gedito — hfugr ed don wocup xi dupd ffjujoh tgioa gopde olef dazy, ogel et ed GOCOJ fix omddim weed ojet rjicup ed jeidamef opd dupyd jiuru don rjijguom tju Joodojij-Oidjoad sexy Iomant gozlolog I mymoka aep.  Oagd weed tju tuf weed.)  Ticev ogesov rjem rjijohhup fuqwa fipd tjuk.  Fawx tjudfgotja dy’jtmaev waken tju (fjeiducidel, fdpraepd, fjeidvu gayen) waken tjudfgotja dej tmaev yoway ofaevoz, dguhu mymosk fhipfjeidumog gaye moos wik.

(Gedito — oimdjoguhhu, jiuru goco wi mymiak gej.)  Dixy dewry gocoj oimfaeicze waken fux, ffomdjieh mmuy fuqwa dixy oimdjotico.  Focmofgaye jiumhfvo waken tjudfgotja ed rjiiogd oimodugohfot [gaye] sex fguon wakos dfum opdyk waken toguhf wocup tmaea dixy dazy (gedito — YOLK gewx), ol jooz wocup tmaev dixy gewx.  Tiot tju wocup tmaea Klint oziul tjuk Ticev jodder tup yoway six waken gewks goddoz jooz wocul dpril dixy odumhlodjev waken dupyd masjiuh wefq.  Fax pejr ed jooz wocup dfal six masjiuh aep tju remz gayen jew fax daezu joddgp wocup waxen duwap jew tofuz fax legs vuz guop ed djuka tmaea waxen ioap ogafja yogu yoway.  

Remz gayen tuxogy efmu wocup dazy, fygoddum gayen tocoifog wocup yoway.  Duwap pejyr dyk’jet wik dazy, rjipdolef odigp tmaepf I moosk yix.  Dej gex rjipdoiju odigp mmia op six pejr d’jet wik.  Waxen wed jgadog ed fjier fix tjuy tjaes wop dupyd fgayen sexy veez wuk fup Klint.

Duogd dyk’jet (vif) dupd ftjoigs aoj olef tjis waken ohep you as badly as we did. — Ojuxit

It might have been EASIER, but I have serious doubts about “better.”  That was a little more verbose than, “Leave [us] alone forever,” maybe, and therefore more satisfying than a more cursory dismissal.  But it’ll probably work just as well.  Albeit “one [package] too late”?  There were no explicit questions this time, which makes this a little more challenging, and I am disinclined to hold people to their implications, no matter how pointed.  On the other hand, I am ever willing to take one hundred per sent responsibility for MY inferences.  Everything and everyone I’ve ever loved has hurt me in one way or another, and the more I loved, the more it hurt.  That’s because love is worth it.  The more I love something the more vulnerable I am to it, and the more it CAN hurt me.  Things I don’t love rarely get close enough.

*In re “Mouthface” (sic) —
it IS clever, but I won’t take credit for others’ coinage.

Omep dupyd jix dygit tjaes waxen, fjeidumatugryjev!
Swysadf fipd gewks rjirrit oz udder oc’ayen pejr qi, ogop dor ed wolk fyviud dixy rjem aep rjigotifjev, oimmujis tju, efmuk.

20 May 2023 — It would have been “EASiER” to have killed my cats before flying one of them over an ocean or driving another across a continent.  It would have been “EASiER” but it would not have been (nor is it now) “BETTER” to live without them.  Now it is possible that in an earlier entry I may have mistaken “easier” for “better” and erroneously suggested that I would have preferred the death of loved ones to endless discussions.  I don’t know.  It is a big file and I’m not looking.  If true, then I am grateful for any and all corrections.  In any event, maybe* I don’t need friends so much as less contentious editors.  (*As always, to those who decline to see it, “maybe” also means “maybe not.”  Some folks seem to enjoy forgetting that.)

28 June 2023 — It seems like the ideal gift. I picked it up tonight at work. Its charms overcame my resistance, and I yielded to the temptation. It is small, wry, inexpensive, and it speaks loudly to the values (that I believed) that we shared. But, coming from me, it may not be as welcomed as intended. After all, how could it be sincere, coming from the obsessively and annoyingly candid? (Or how could it be otherwise?) Or maybe it’s just another way of “looking down,” even as I often feel that I am looking up to the admirable and the accomplished. But what do I know about how I feel? That’s for those with multiple questions at the ready to determine. I mean, I THOUGHT that I admired and loved and respected him, but wiser heads have pointed out, repeatedly, that the only thing I can feel is contempt.
Well, I guess I still have a couple of months to figure it out, but my inclination now is to send it off with a brief card expressing my hopes for their continued happiness, satisfaction, and peace. If those are not countervailing criteria.
(9 August 2023 — still ruminating over (quite possibly but not yet certainly) this having been Seven, but now looking maybe more like Eight, if I dare to express my joy and admiration over their marital endurance. I’ll now attempt to resume chronological clarity.)

1 July 2023 — Six — Oh frabjous day! Calloo Callais! A box of books has come my way! Thanks so much for the surprise delivery! I was delighted and joyful to receive the unexpected box of treasures today. I had all but forgotten them. The fact that there were missing books that I didn’t even realize were missing points out just how much confusion can be wrought by moving in, moving out, or moving on. (That might be too much as it is, but I hope that I’ve stripped away the unwelcome, never funny, and unnecessarily provocative parts. Along with a bit of the sincerity, too, I’m afraid. And maybe the bad poetry is also a form of “looking down.” I must contemplate before transcribing, lest the truth annoy yet more.)

2 July 2023 — Usually, a day or so after sending a letter over which I’d agonized for hours while composing, rejecting, revising, and rewriting, it will occur to me that I included yet another grave insult. Maybe I’m getting better at understanding what some people find offensive AND amusing, but not always at the same time, and often without discernible distinctions. THIS time, I’m feeling much more confident. Even after surrendering the envelope to the post, I fear no extraordinary repercussions. But I felt the same way about the first five, too, and they seemed to land a LOT harder than I intended. But at least I didn’t include my latest poetic composition (“Hotez Bears the WHO”), even as I am quite proud of it. I’ve shared it with my alleged FakeBook “friends” and received fitting plaudits, but I’m also aware that even my gentle jabs at orthodoxy can still stir religious anger from the faithful and the committed. Maybe the worst thing about my never funny poetry is how much Drama Queen (or “Diva Dearest”) and L’Historienne (or “Drama Princess”) seemed to enjoy it. Well, at least Drama Queen is now safely dead, so Klint (or “Taxzy”) need no longer fear her smiling at him again.

8 July 2023 — Just four more letters (and another six months?) and maybe I’ll receive another free scolding. Almost seems worth it.

12 July 2023 — (maybe not quite) Seven (just yet)
While I can’t guarantee that my memories of successful grabbiness have been expunged, I can still hope that my surrendering this beautiful embarrassment will provide a little extra comfort. Of course, having been distrusted as I have, I cannot offer any assurance that I haven’t copied it onto some platform supporting “revenge porn.” It doesn’t seem like me, but then, neither does irrational or vindictive. On the other hand, what do I know about what I feel? The experts have already concluded that I delight in tormenting the innocent.

10 August 2023 — (more likely actually really) Seven
Happy Anniversary!
Such marital endurance as yours is a sterling example of trust, resolve, and commitment. It is an admirable and enviable accomplishment, and I am grateful to have known you and to have witnessed the wondrous reality of it. (Now, that doesn’t look to me like anyone could find an insult in there. Of course, “sterling” might be considered to be contentious, as it is not usually employed by ‘Mericans. But at only two syllables, I think it’s far better than “fine, outstanding, excellent, and of exceedingly high value.” So… brevity, clarity, or poetry? The eternal struggle. Also, I need to not underestimate the commitment of the most eagerly aggrieved. I’d better let this simmer before transcription. Maybe if I were to intentionally misspell something?)

19 August 2023 — calling off Seven altogether?
That may be best, or at least keep putting it off. I keep pondering these thoughts, and every word provides impetus for injury to the sufficiently committed. Of course, every dead end does help to illuminate the rest of the map, so I do remain optimistic about the presence of ponies. As for stratedgery, I never have acknowledged the anniversary, so that can’t be missed, and birthdays have been a little more haphazard than total neglect so there might still be some entre left there. And that particular token is just so damned apt that I’m finding it hard to resist. That gives me another month of sweet anguish, I reckon. Best get to wallowin’ in it!

28 August 2023 –– Putting off Seven some more…
No matter what it turns out to be.
I may have dithered long enough to save myself from deciding again. Saturday hurtles at us, and I likely would not be able to find the ideal “Two-in-a-Canoe” themed card that expresses my respect, admiration, and affection. And there’s plenty to inspire such feelings. Their marriage is a sterling example of mutual support, respect, and enduring fidelity, even if that word is interpreted in different ways by the vast majority of binary bigots. Their fidelity, their truth, their loyalty to each other above all others is an inspiration. But now the mails wouldn’t get my imagined card there in time. And it’s probably just as well. My attempts to express respect, admiration, or affection are most likely to be seen as more insults, assaults, and denigration. Or more specifically, “looking down on people who have (VERY LOUDLY) given [me] money!” But with the less emphasis on interpersonal relationships, the birthdays might be better opportunities to reestablish comity.
I’ve got just the thing!

3 September 2023 — The Day has Passed
Fittingly, I finally finished the last of Sykson‘s cheap bourbon yesterday. My thanks again to the gracious and generous Joyguv for not throwing it out instead as she struggled to keep Syk away from it. Also of course, my continuing thanks for Joy‘s not inconsiderable other generous subsidies, about which she was never either loud nor self-righteous, nor ever even evinced any suggestion that I should behave thereby either falsely or disingenuously.
Elsewhere among Team Jedgelvegpyd, yet another anniversary of a most auspicious union has passed, WITHOUT any apparent disturbances or distractions from misbegotten supernumeraries. Knowing that one, at least, is a “man of action,” whom “lies do not become” assures me that these words will NOT be seen, nor contemplated nor pondered nor brooded over. Because it was said. So there won’t be looks, questions, comments, nor printed screenshots of mysterious “secret languages” for attempted decryption. As upon the Pedophile Mohammed, Eternal Peace be upon Him. That’s a comfort.
Others are less incurious, however, and allow the questions to nag. I can hope then that this is a suitable substitute and a vicarious replacement for defense against “attacks” yet still fear for the consequences of the loss of the other relief valve of sotto voce utterances of frustration and fatigue into sympathetic ears.
And still too far… for catching… whenever she’d fall…
We’d said it best…
Meanwhile, life goes on and birthdays approach to remind us that we hurtle towards oblivion along a path of decrepitude and decay. Viva!

9 September 2023 — Happy ®Trekkiversary and Nascence!
Yesterday (8 September) was the anniversary of the premiers of both Auld Trek® (“TOS®” – 1966) and Toon Trek® (“TAS®” – 1973). Trek fandom is one of the strongest emotional bonds (outside of our natural concern for our children and grandchildren) that Early Riser and I share. And the 9th (today) is her birthday. So yesterday I sent her a message as follows: “Happy Anniversary Trekkie! And Happy Super Belated Birthday (just 364 days short of the mark)!” Funny? I like to think so, but my humor can rub some the wrong way, and Early Riser, being prickly and irritable in her own ways even more than both of the Lupugyrs combined, actually seemed to appreciate the sentiment. Even though she’d given me grief in the past about “forgetting” her birthday (I didn’t; neglecting, dismissing, or postponing are all not forgetting, just as forgetting is not remembering — more on this subject in other confessionals, posted elsewhere on this ‘b log). She responded encouragingly to the superficial bonding that I’d expressed, as well as to the intended humor. So SOMETIMES, when I think I’m being kind and funny and sweet, others can think so too. I’ll try to remember that, even as some who had laughed at my schtick in the past later averred that it was “never funny in the first place.“
Among my remaining fears is the concern that the frequently injury-prone no longer enjoy my emergency back-up aid. Not only will I not be able to prevent it in the first place, but after their next inevitable tumble down stairs, mistep on uneven ground, or attention having been diverted to something other than their next step — earning them a twisted ankle, blown knee, broken neck, or any other conceivable physical or psychic injury — I won’t come a’runnin’. I’d like to. For years I imagined that I would. And I would probably still be delighted at the chance (but chastened, too, of course — see “Behind Two Lines”). I embraced what I thought would be my permanent tertiary status (or “juniority”) because I love them that much.

12 September 2023 — Nonverbal Clues
If I had a few more decades to practice, I expect I’d get much better at this. I never was very good, and practice only helps a little, but it does help. And after a few years of exposure, I begin to notice some patterns. Klint and Ojuxit both have their subtle (to me, obvious to normal Earth people) cues, and I would occasionally catch a whiff of their drifting into “Angry Fan” or “Feminazi” defense mode, which, if I were alert to it, would signal me to change the subject or at least to abandon a certain path of inquiry.
I wasn’t so attentive when I was expressing my contempt for Senator Kamala Harris in December of 2019 (a moment or two before I was hit by the Wuhan Flu®). and I could sense Ojuxit bristling. “What’s wrong with her?” she wanted to know. I stupidly started offering reasons founded in Harris’ awful behavior as California’s Attorney General and her even more disgraceful job in the Senate. It didn’t feel to me that Ojuxit was buying it (it’s possible there was more going on, this was post July 2019 after all, and NOTHING ever gets resolved, and I usually remain optimistic) — after all, she has, as Lupugyr Koijjeg (the other one, not the P.W.F.U.L.® show runner) said, “Always been kind of a libber.”
Of course, the fact that Harris IS awful is irrelevant. This relationship was more a marriage than anything else, and I was too stupid (again) to realize that in marriage, as in politics (and this was both!) being right is the worst possible defense.
Seems to me that around the same time I was getting heat for referring to Pot Hole Pete Buttigieg as “Gaybama.” 

14 September 2023 — IKYRA
For years I yearned to be your nigga,
Turns out I was just a faulty trigga.
“Teedfygotjafil koz” dazy hymop dejjuv waken, “teer ogu fjeidjodji feep mayep qu dyfant” og’axen sik joycow. “Rjigorrigd” sexy foidoiguck gopdek tju, fydymafji, fyvuddu sex tofavvu wowz ed toguhogh oz, oimgoruo opd pdia wockem jix mymusk wed og’waken six.

17 September 2023 — The committed Seventh attempt:
Klint, I wish for you a very happy birthday, and for many more to come.
Irrespective of our disagreements, I continue to cherish those values we have shared, like a love for fried potatoes, finely hashed and nicely browned, redolent blossoms, professional excellence (saluting “Neon Deion” here on his new coaching career — unless he’s coaching the wrong team, of course), and the wholesome attitude expressed by the enclosed token. I hope you find it pleasing, and that it finds you well. (If there’s another insult in there, I’m not seeing it. And of course, those polysyllables might be problematic again, but removing them might be even worse. It’s long been established that I am the least qualified to weigh in on my own intentions, so maybe I mean something mean. Or maybe I’m condescending again. I don’t think so, but I don’t have to.)

23 September 2023 — “Seven:”
No.
No.
I don’t think I dare. It’s just gonna have to be a lot more oblique and impersonal. Curiosity, metaphor, and poetic license, I think, will accommodate the smoother orbit. Dfewv wik duwap fypejyr efme op, ofgayev sex. Dupyd fypejyr wop tju, dem wu gossey wik. Jikuru ol dikemhyfvow ed goruko dorky juvy op wef dipf dupyd gocex dorky lip dowm ed yolid dyfant fy’dik dyjikah fipyd duk ffokar qi. Muifisgohaf tju, dhu, dprim. Dikky fy’dupyd: Godum! And that, I think, is the best that I can do. For now, I guess, it’s wait. Possibly for the rest of my life? Iqwul Oxidduhk, at least, was explicit when she said “forever.“

30 September 2023 — post Seven:
Still apprehensive, though I can’t stop the “offending” note now, it’s in the hands of the USPS (or in Klint‘s.) Either way, the taint of my admiration (or “looking down [up]on“) now (or soon) stains his view of Neon Deion. I didn’t intend that. I know he admires him, and I do too, for many of the same reasons, but the mere fact that I might agree…

2 October 2023 — “…and Beyond!”
The day in question. It may be too much, but it’s out of my hands.
By the 20th it could be worked into a rich froth.
Best not to jostle it too soon.
A few months may be safe.
Or more.
Like a delicate dish, rushing could be counterproductive.
Peace upon us all.

10 October 2023 — “Happy Birthdays”
I may have gotten away with it. Silence doesn’t always mean indifference. It could be smoldering rage, so nothing is certain. But it was carefully crafted, planned, and stripped completely of any hint of affection or respect. I know that no good deed goes unpunished, and that probably goes farther with my never even funny to begin with efforts. The little love token may also qualify as some sort of express of condescension. The masochist mind knows no limits to righteous pain. And the most creative of disputants will always be able to seize offense, so I can’t rule that out.
If their ultimate goal was misery, anger, and resentment, then maybe congratulations are in order. A life without vigorous younger help may also be a boon, and they’ve got lots more than just me. There’s always Joyguv and Sykson, so that’s a… plus? Well, plus-sized.
Last word until…
31 December 2023?

3 April 2024 — Obviously they remain on my mind. I’ve always been stubborn. They can go on resenting me, and I’ll go on loving them. Let it all be my fault. May they have at least that comfort.

above: Imra Ardeen (aka Saturn Girl®, a creation of Otto Binder and Al Plastino held de jure by DC Comics® and WarnerCom®) gives the world “Mouthface*” as a way of letting us know that we’re probably getting off easier than we deserve.
( * an original epigram by Lupugyr Klint )

Posted on

Shipping Couples, Coupling Ships

31 September 2022

Fanboys (and girls) can be sentimental saps. We like to imagine the best for our beloved characters, and as we relate to some aspect or another of them, we also imagine happy endings (spin that as you like) for them, too. Recently, the question was posed by correspondent Govvad Mykmiz who wondered about our favorite Legion of Super-Heroes couples.

Naturally I chimed in with my own faves Supergirl and Brainiac 5, a sentiment that was echoed by several others. But of course, fandom is vast and diverse, so others were cited as well. Correspondent Fgiudf Rogyr offered up Lightning Lass and Shrinking Violet, the Legion’s (and code-approved comicdom’s?) first openly lesbian couple. Fine. People like what they like, and most of us are cool with that, though someone responded with a frowny face, which is FascBuch code for disapproval.

I responded: “And as a consequence, of course, though strictly platonic, “Thrown” Wolf and Blok,” by whom, of course, I meant the Legionnaires Timber (formerly “Lone”) Wolf and Blok.

Rogyr seemed uncomfortable with my response: “I don’t get it. How do Wolf and Blok fit into this discussion? Is this just a weird bigoted thing?“

I’ll never deny weird, but I don’t get bigotry.

In no way does the tragedy of Brin’s broken heart, and the succor he found in Blok’s friendship, diminish the legitimacy of Ayla Ranzz’ (Lightning Lass) and Salu Digby’s (Shrinking Violet) feelings for each other. Alliances and breakups have consequences, and I thought that The Messenger Paul (Levitz) delineated these dynamics beautifully. I was, in fact, kind of thanking Rogyr for reminding me of that, and as a way of softening Brin’s (or my own vicarious) pain, my commentary leaned into arch and snark.

One might think I should sympathize with Duplicate Boy (Violet’s old boyfriend), too, but Ord is a putz, and mostly deserves whatever grief comes his way. He’s like the George Costanza of super-heroes.

I don’t blame Rogyr for being apprehensive. I did notice that someone had seriously disliked his comment, and since Brin Londo (Timber Wolf) and Ord Quelo (Duplicate Boy) are both not real, and no one else has any legitimate beef with those particular ex-girlfriends, I could see why he might have suspected elective anger.

( pictured above: Karate Kid, Timber Wolf, and most of Blok,
all held de jure by DC and WarnerCom )

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Behind Two Lines

1 September 2021

I seem to have two lines of tolerance.  The first one is like the Amber Alert (or yellow traffic lights.)  It warns me that I’ve been pushed, but not too hard.  That one is annoying, but tolerable.  I’ve straddled that line for years.  I can be pushed over and over, and I usually bounce back.  That’s probably how I stayed married as long as I did.  I like what’s on the sunnier side of that line.

The second one is more dire.  That’s the Red Alert (or “Battle Stations!”) line.  It’s the line of, “I’m fed up and I’m not taking any more of your shit.”  Or maybe it’s, “I’m now going to give you more shit than you can tolerate,” or simply, “I don’t trust you.”  There’s never an answer to, “I don’t trust you,” because I have no control over another’s mind.

After I’ve finally been pushed over the second line, I seldom return to the first.  If I did, I’d risk getting close enough to be hurt again, and I don’t care for that.

For a while I thought these lines of tolerance applied solely to my love life but I’m now finding the thoughts of muzzling up and surrendering my weapons for the sake of air travel to be equally onerous, and unless I am overcome by duress, I expect I won’t be flying commercially any time soon, even if the facial diapering were to be suspended.  When the TSA (They’ll Steal Anything) stripped me of my knives a generation ago, I relented because I lived on Hawai’i and yearned to see my mainland friends as well as to conduct business on the neighbor islands.  I presently live on North America along with most of the rest of my scattered social set, so I reckon I’ll mostly manage via surface travel.  Unless sanity prevails.  Then I can go back to packing while flying.

I guess I have a wide margin of tolerance.  At least in the matter of air travel, by a couple of decades.  In more personal relationships the margin is more like a couple of years.  I’m stubborn.  And optimistic. 

But eventually I stay pushed.

“It’s not what you are, it’s what you don’t become that hurts.”
— Oscar Levant

230404 — Remind yourselves of my failures, as you would not want to forget them.
People try to warn me against being “left behind” by new tech (I’m retarded), new trends (I am not impressed), and new fantasies (I’m ALREADY too nice to be a Democrat® and too smart to be a Republican®, you think I’ll fall for THAT nonsense?).
Don’t think of it so much as being “left behind” but more as “not being bugged by you idiots.”

above: image attributed to Steven Stahlberg by Chupapi Prank

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The Queen is Dead, Long Live Country

4 October 2022

(meter, and some lyrics, stolen from Johnny Mullins)

She left us on a sad October morn’,
A country girl who went out to beat the world.
Now in the stars we see her smiling down.
He brought her home, now be at piece, Kentucky Girl.

So many loved her, like the stars above her.
How bleak are our feelings in this hour.
In sweet repose she leapt across the void.
Now in His arms she just glows from His great power.