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.
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