To kick off ‘Indigenous Day’ lets start with were the word ‘Indian’ came from. Not from some lost mariner who thought he was in India.
In 1492 India was called Hindustan. Columbus, an Italian, in his pidgin Espanol, described them as ‘Ninos los in dias’ Dias meaning god in Spanish. Ninos is children. What he called them were ‘Children of god” And THAT is what Indian means.
It was not until the 18th century when Americans, who to this day, are not known for their linguistic expertise, misconstrued the word to ‘Indians’
Also, for the record, Indians dislike the term ‘Native Americans’. As much as it’s been polluted and desecrated, who’d want to be associated with it?
this is an excerpt from my novel, ‘From The Jungle’. Somebody asked me what’s my bitch with the Dalai Lama? It wouldn’t fit in one reply so I’m posting it here.
Or worse, look at Tibet under the Dalai Lama, the most treacherous, murderous, disgustingly brutal theocracy in history. Closed to the outside world for centuries, this theocracy turned Tibet into a feudal chamber of horrors. With a sparse population in a harsh and barren environment that hardly produced enough as it was, a hierarchy of sixty thousand lamas, monks, and novices in thousands of monasteries, backed by their selected warlords, ruled Tibet by unthinkable tortures and abject terror, taxing every grain of support out of a thoroughly beaten peasantry kept in a perpetual Dark Age.
During the 1930’s and 40’s, the Dalai Lama’s entourage and predecessors were so ingratiating to Third-Reich materialism you could not tell them apart. Thinking Tibet held an anthropological explanation, Hitler, with the high lama’s blessing, had several diplomatic missions scouring the country in search of mystical or genetic justification for his right-extremist perversion of Arian superiority. So influential was the Nazi regime that the Dalai Lama’s top foreign advisor and personal confidant at the time reported directly to headquarters in Berlin – a skeleton recently let out of the closet after release of, Seven Years In Tibet, a controversial movie on the subject.
Because of some glazy-eyed image of Shangri-la, I, like most Westerners, thought this Dalai Lama was some kind of reincarnated saint who the evil Communists forced into exile. In truth, as the Chinese marched into Lahasa, the capitol of Tibet, the peasants cheered them as liberators. Unfortunately, those poor, ignorant, battered but gentle peasant souls realized too late that they only exchanged one tyranny for another.
In the meantime, Dalai didn’t dilly as he and his cronies sneaked out of the country, and, like common thieves, stole what remained of the national treasury. By their own laws of karmic justice, however, they squandered it all through a fiasco of swindles and bad investments.
I had the opportunity to confront Dalai and his delegates with these accusations. Their response was, verbatim: “Yes, there were some excesses committed by the lamas, …but if the Chinese would to give to us back our country, … we would not to do that again.”
How sad to see that clown in his brightly colored orange and red robe, and the deceived dreamers that treat him with reverence as he sits mockingly unrepentant, being showered with donations while so many true Tibetans struggle in dire need of a little generosity.
No humor is lost, however, on this staunch, ultra-conservative Tibetan taking Western liberals to the cleaners. The obvious is there for anyone who cares to look. Where are all the new monasteries located? Typical of his Porsche-and-Mercedes congregation, from Santa Barbara to Vermont, all upscale enclaves of naive, jet set, yuppie wealth – the comparatively same aristocratic social stratum he pandered to back home. Like Jed Clampet, this guy went from the mountains of Tibet to the Hills of Beverly. You’ll never see the Dalai Do-Right give a talk in Harlem, Watts, Haiti, Rwanda. As all leaders of mega-buck theology, he has nothing but contempt for the poor.
The greater shame is, although Tibet’s mongrel form of what is called ‘Tantric’ Buddhism is as close to Gautama Buddha’s original teaching as I am to born-again Christianity, it is still a representative extension of a greater philosophy and spiritual insight that offers the human psyche a balanced alternative to the constrictions of Western religious dogma. And to have it so corrupted by this group of theological perverts is a crime of cosmic proportion (the same could be said for the likes of Stair, Peters, Falwell, Robertson, John II, or Graham II, and the way they malign the teachings of Jesus).
Were I the Dalai and his minions I would dedicate the remainder of my days to praying that there was no such thing as reincarnation, for there are not enough lifetimes left in eternity to repay their karmic debt to the six million blindly devoted peasant followers whom after centuries of brutal isolation, they stranded spiritually naked, physically defenseless, and morally abandoned to the genocidal tyranny of Chinese aggression.
This is my 911 article from a segment I used to do for Radio New York International’s, ‘The Johnny Lightening Show’, From The Jungle with j guevara. I was living in the jungle at the time, and i’d send in my weekly segment. This article drew quite a response for a little-known call-in talk show. That was 10 years ago.
911
Though I moved to the jungle of Costa Rica to disassociate myself from man’s insanity, this incredibly ridiculous act of unimaginable madness is inescapable. Who could not be distraught over the torment the families of so many innocent victims must be going through? Again, elitist games have collapsed, and again it is the common that pays most dearly. And while they lie buried under steel and glass, children orphaned, and lives destroyed, the incompetent, pompous politicos and their mogul masters who should be lying under that rubble are shuttled off to underground bunkers and surrounded by armed protection. Although it was Corporate America, not Democratic Republic America that was attacked, they will use this tragedy in Machiavellian tradition to whittle away at your freedom in return for security. And Americans will thank them as the founding fathers’ words fall on deaf ears: “He who sacrifices freedom for security deserves neither.”
Take stock all you gofer politicians who manipulate patriotism through our loved ones’ death. Should freedom of information reveal fifty years from now that like Pearl Harbor you knew of this atrocity beforehand, and your inaction was calculated to connive Americans into a protracted war to bolster the faltering Bush dynasty, …no sweat. Like us, the next generation will only shrug their shoulders and fall for the same old trick. Pull my finger.
If there is anything bright to come of this, no longer do those towers of unmitigated corporate greed overshadow the Statue of Liberty. If only we could make that symbolism a reality.
Some have had the lucidity to ask, ‘Where was god?’ Yet who has had the perception to see that god was co-piloting those four planes – Allah Akbar! National day of prayer? I have but one prayer:
Yo god. You best not exist
For someday should we meet
You will be the one
Whose day of repentance hath come
Then maybe like a witch’s cast this god-spell insanity will be broken and humanity will finally take responsibility for its own existence. I cannot imagine any deity that would not finally breathe a sigh of relief.
As for finger pointing, need I say which finger to use? And where to point it? If the FBI was not conducting warfare on downtrodden Indian reservations, sniping mothers, gassing women and children, searching for some lecherous congressman’s licentious paramour, and disarming law abiding citizens, they’d have had the manpower to intercept and diffuse the bastards they are really paid to protect us from. If the INS gave half the attention to investigating Middle East student visas as they do to hassling grape pickers, they just might have noticed a peculiar ethnic increase in flight training schools. If the CIA spent as much time pursuing intelligence as they do coca groves, they’d know what’s going on under and up their nose. If airlines considered the human factor above protecting the ‘corporate bottom line’ they would have had professionally trained security rather than cost-effective, minimum wage rent-a-wannabes. And if some fanatics happen to get through, why is the lavatory door more secure than the entrance to the cockpit? What forethought – even though I’m being highjacked I can still piss in privacy.
If you had let the Russians have at ‘em there wouldn’t be a Taliban, Afghanistan would not have become the hellhole it is, and Bush/Reagan made billionaire O’shame of bin Laden would not be a threat. And knock off the bovine manure, this whole thing has Saddam Hussein’s middle fingerprint all over it. So when you’re done with the Afghanis, finish what you started in Iraq. Then Qaddafi, then Arafat, then Hezballah, Hamas, Shining Path, Tamil Eelam, Sikh assassins, Kashmiri factions, Ayatollah Too-Many, right-wing death squads, left-wing kidnappers, state supported terrorism, radical fundamentalist from clinic bombers and doctor murderers to cowboy gay bashers, KKK, neo-Nazi, talk-radio hate mongers and theocratic militias of pseudo patriots who insult the meaning of liberty. Bring them to justice? Right! In a body bag. Get the job done. Our patience is none. We have had enough!
With the forty billion dollars miraculously found for this cause, I could buy the minds and hearts of every extremist on this planet and their sorry nations with change to spare. Regardless, in the name of decency may every American swear out of respect and remembrance for those thousands of innocent lives needlessly sacrificed, if anybody pilfers one dollar of that money may their hand be cut off, … at the neck
As for this act of terror, it will go down in history as the most incredibly miscalculated action ever perpetrated on behalf of a cause. What did they hope to accomplish? Fear? They have strengthened our courage. Division? They have brought a nation together like never before. Dissension? Americans have now put their differences on detention (except, of course, the Christian-right who historically have never hesitated to step on others’ pain to leverage their agenda). If the perpetrators were merely delivering a message of hate, mission accomplished.
Now comes reply.
Unless the world’s last remaining superpower is a eunuch, I shudder to think what this sleeping giant is about to unleash. You scum sucking, stewardess throat cutting, cowardly bastards, conceived by your mothers from snake semen have canceled your ticket to ride; your right to exist amongst humankind is revoked. May whatever deranged deity you worship have mercy on your despicable souls, for you will find none in the hearts of any American or other civilized member of the human race.
And once all the macho-strut, tough enough, Rambo, make-my-day, jingoistic rhetoric is done; when passions subside and vengeance once again shows itself to be the hollow satisfaction that it always is; when Gandhi’s warning finally rings true that ‘an eye for an eye and in time the whole world is blind’, may we put down our clubs, sit around a warm fire and once and for all come to a conclusion over just exactly how we are going to divvy the waterhole. Where do you want your precious pissing ground to be? Where do you want to praise your pathetic excuse of a deity, preserve your useless stupidity under the guise of tradition, and practice your ridiculous, oppressive mores you call culture? Then draw a line of reasonable boundary; dare pity the first bastard that crosses it.
(Note how everything mentioned in the article came true… except the solution)
It started as a social conscious movement
A few kids with a loose screw
Been goin’ on since Neanderthal
Not like it was somethin’ new
They grew long hair, needed a bath
Not to mention a shave
With all those drugs no need to fret
They’d be in an early grave
But their numbers kept right on growing
And the next thing you know
Our leaders decided to throw a war
And they said ‘Hell no, we won’t go’
Why, the nerve of these impudent, spoiled brats
Not since the dawn of man
Has a generation refused to defend their country
In some place – what was it called? – Oh right, …Vietnam
The VFW screamed unpatriotic
Objection filled every Legion hall
‘We didn’t like it either, son, but’ja gotta answer
When your country calls’
Preachers harangued from the pulpit
Politicians didn’t know what to do
From Kent State, Birmingham, seven in Chicago
Okie Muskogee, too
These freaks talked of making love, not war
Mocked what was held most dear
And if you wanna draft someone
They said, ‘go draught beer’
Then there was that loud, gawd-awful music
And that stupid ‘…Peace a Chance’ song
By the time they got to Woodstock
They were a half a million strong
This just wasn’t goin’ down as planned
Then these hippies went too far.
‘Hey Establishment, you want a war’ they cried,
‘We’ll give you one in your own back yard’
How much youth need be sacrificed
On your altar of economic greed…
While laid to waste more noble goals
Like a few billion mouths to feed…
Someone needed to wake up these dreamin’
Rabble rousin’, pot head, psychedelic freaks
But the war went on over a decade long
Looking back, who was really asleep…
It wasn’t only war they challenged
They questioned all authority
Especially mainstream’s Holy Grail
Rule of the moral majority
They protested corporate privilege
To pollute without repent
And challenged military/industrial corruption
Pilfering every penny spent…
They had a lot of flaky ideas on
Health care
Military
Education
Equal rights
Politics
Welfare
Democracy
With all the ills ‘twas incomprehensible
How we could call ourselves free
It had to happen, what did you expect…
You take an entire generation
Raise ‘em in a warm home, feed and clothes
Give ‘em the best education
Then tell ‘em to go on a suicidal mission
In some disputed, forsaken, corrupt, unheard of nation far away
After they’ve read Rousseau, Plato, Descartes, and Tennyson’s ’Charge of the Light Brigade’
Wasn’t that what it was all about…
To blame a hippie is to deny your due
If you didn’t want them to use their brains
You should have kept them dumb as you
Then one day they went away
Reality had finally set in
Whew! That was a rough one
Hope we never go through that again
You kinda knew all along it couldn’t go on
Soon they’d have enough
Quickly as it came it went
Like their Magic Dragon, Puff
Twenty years later all’s waned
No one much cares
You even threw a war and their children volunteered
To rescue a bunch of billionaires
Go ahead snicker with snob content
You’ve earned your fun
But as you pass on, my friend
I wouldn’t be so sure you won
Granted, they thought they could move the immovable
Victims of self-delusional pride
But like Murphy in Ken Kesey’s ‘…Cuckoo’s Nest’
At least they tried
If you think hippie was long hair, loud music, dope, sandals, funny clothes, a fad in time
Again you’ve missed the point old man
‘Cause it is,
…was
…And always has been
…In truth, a state of mind
Confident, assured you’ve rescued status quo
You may go…
Quietly…
Bow graciously…
But only a fool would believe you’ve heard the last of hippie
And their idealistic legacy
With holiday season once again upon us, it is high time someone spoke out, and once and for all put this insanity in its true perspective.
Ho Ho Humbug
I hate holiday season, all the trimmings, and the greedy consumerism that goes along with it. I’d rather see a tree growing in the forest than dying a decorated death indoors.
Most northern cultures start holiday season with a harvest festival. In the States it’s called Thanks Giving. The Pilgrims’ first harvest feast, which they shared with the natives who taught them what to hunt, fish, and grow. If not for this pagan benevolence these castaway, witch burnin’, psalm singers wouldn’t have made it to New Year. However, why these holy rollers didn’t invite the heathens to the 2nd Thanks Giving is not mentioned in school. And for good reason.
Although Thanks Giving is marked by the gorging of gastronomical delight, barely does your intestinal tract have time to recover before Christmas, another gulping, gut gorge, is upon us. For the weight watchers with a seasonal guilt complex, allow me to relieve your neurosis: go ahead and stuff yourselves; it’s not what you eat between Thanks Giving and Christmas, but what you eat between Christmas and Thanks Giving that counts.
From earliest caveman the winter solstice we call Christmas has marked the heralding of anew, rejuvenation, birth, life reborn. So, if Jesus needs a day of birth, you couldn’t have picked a better one. However, let’s not give plagiarism more than it’s due.
Some claim it’s good to have a season that reminds us to treat each other with Peace, Love, and Understanding. I claim it is no relief, and is, in fact, the problem. Not able to spread such saintlyness evenly over twelve-months, we use it up in a matter of days. Instead of cramming this highhanded goodness into a few cold days in December, try stretching out Be Cool, Get Along, and Give Everyone Some Space over an entire year. Then we’d have cause to carol ‘Joy To The World’, ‘Peace On Earth, ‘Good Will Toward Women’
Though religious revelry is wasted, it is nothing compared to the subliminal sham traditional Christmas music and stories have made of this most sacred pagan fest. Should any of us commit half the crimes that some overweight bozo in a red suit does, we’d be looking at 7-to-10 in a federal pen.
Starting with disturbing the peace just as mom in her kerchief and I in my cap settle down to a long winter’s nap, this inebriated idiot who should be picked up for DUI along with his team of equally high-flying ten-point buck, lands on the roof, which is really not strong enough to support the weight of a bunch of goofy reindeer pulling a sleigh. And you can tell by their names – Happy, Sneezy, Dopey, Grumpy, Doc, Sleepy – that they’re maxed out of their minds on drugs.
As if disturbing the peace, driving under the influence, and parking in a no-sleigh zone are not enough, this arrogant scoundrel compounds his crimes with Breaking and Entering. He comes down the chimney with a bang, gets soot all over the living room, finishes off all your cookies and milk, leaves the refrigerator door open, fills his belly with a bowl full of jelly, and then lights his pipe… not even concerned that he’s in a smoke-free home.
Just as the owner is coming downstairs to catch this criminal, in typical uncouth defiance he sticks his finger up his nose and up the chimney he rose. Then his accomplices, those hot rod reindeer waiting with the get-away vehicle, dash away, dash away, dash away all.
This is what parents read to their children the night before Christmas? This is the character you wish to portray as a role model?
Christmas music fares no better. Listen to the sad but endearing song of the most famous reindeer of all. Yes, Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer. Born with Nosetelia Rosaluminous, a rare genetic affliction, this proud and noble fleet-footed creature of the forest carried himself with dignity as he burdened the laughing and name calling from all of the other reindeer, who never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games. What message is this sending to our youth? Although Santa and Ms. Clause could see what was happening out the window of their North Pole estate, still, they did nothing to stop it.
But, this story stoops worse. Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say, “Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?”
I know exactly what I would have said: “No buck skin way, fat man! If you and your glee shouting reindeer think I’ll bail you out, you got another think coming.”
But you gotta hand it to Rudolph. You’re a better reindeer than I am, Gunga Din. With no malice or forethought, Rudolph hitched himself to that sleigh, and at the risk of his life got the team through the gale of that blinding, dangerous fog, and back home safe and sound on that momentous night. And children everywhere learned that… although you make fun of the differently-abled, they’ll gladly help you out in a pinch, so don’t worry ‘bout it. The terrible end of this tale, however, is that to this day, they still never let poor Rudolph join in any reindeer games.
Though the lessons of Rudolph lack social grace, they’re not life threatening. What is life threatening are the actions of another malcontent role model, Frosty ‘the anarchist’ Snowman. No matter how much we instill in our children to look both ways before crossing the street, obey traffic signals, and respect police officers, this unflavored Popsicle can undo in three minutes what took years to get through your child’s thick skull.
While little kiddies chase him, Frosty, with no regard for rules of pedestrian safety, runs through the village bopping everyone with a broomstick in his hand. Running here and there all around the square, taunting impressionable little children to catch him if they can. He runs all through the streets of town right past the traffic cop, where he only pauses a moment when the officer hollers, “STOP!” It’s deplorable!
Though not as deplorable as other lessons developing minds are exposed to through what we proudly hail as traditional Christmas music. Beyond their maturity, children are confronted with the influence of homosexual lyrics such as, ‘Don we now our gay apparel’. Then are musically asked to, ‘Deck their balls with halls of holly’. Each can handle this in their own way, but for me, ‘Mess with me or mine, fella, and you’ll be singin’ fa-la-la-la-la on the moon’.
Songs of infidelity are also no help where a son accidentally witnesses his mother in an adulterous act. Fortunately, I never saw my mommy kissing Santa Clause. Why I’d a goosed him with his own reindeer’s antlers right back up that chimney so fast.
There is a ray of hope in this madness. One voice spoke out against the waste and hypocrisy that has turned this joyous occasion into a nightmare. One man had the courage to stand and challenge the awesome power of the multinational toy and game conglomerate, only to be demonized, mocked, and cursed throughout all civilized land. Scrooge! Yes, Ebenezer Scrooge! The only one who warned us that when you have mouths to feed, a roof to provide, and clothes to buy, especially with the added burden of Tiny Tim, a handicapped child, you should not be wasting precious time and hard-earned money on wanton frivolity.
To demonstrate, Scrooge bought Tiny Tim a ukulele. We all know what became of that. Tiny Tim grew up to record ‘Tip Toe Through The Tulips’ in his nauseating falsetto voice that irritated everyone except Johnny Carson.
But, if Thanksgiving doesn’t give you the gout, and Christmas doesn’t break you financially, you can finish the gauntlet on New Year’s Eve where you get plastered, then splattered all over the highway. So, if you want to make sure some good comes of all this, don’t forget to fill out your organ donor’s card.
The following response is an open letter to Dr. Laura, written by a US man. It’s highly informative, not to mention laugh your ass off.
Dear Dr. Laura:
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God’s Law. I have learned a great deal from your show, and try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination … End of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.
1. Leviticus 25:44 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of Menstrual uncleanliness – Lev.15: 19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord – Lev.1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6. A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination, Lev. 11:10, it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don’t agree. Can you settle this? Are there ‘degrees’ of abomination?
7. Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle-room here?
8. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
9. I know from Lev. 11:6-8 that touching the skin of a dead pig makes me unclean, but may I still play football if I wear gloves?
10. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev.19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also
tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev.24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family
affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)I know you have studied these things extensively and thus enjoy considerable expertise in such matters, so I’m confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God’s word is eternal and unchanging.
Your adoring fan.
James M. Kauffman, Ed.D. Professor Emeritus,
Dept. Of Curriculum, Instruction, and Special Education
University of Virginia
PS (It would be a damn shame if we couldn’t own a Canadian)
Square Deal Dan, The Workin’ Man’s Friend. That’s what his friends called him. I really miss the ol’ dude, but Memorial Day being his birthday, I’m reminded of him every year around Indy 500 time. A lot of guys, I’m sure, can relate to a ’square deal’ in their lives. Here’s my eulogy for him.
He bought me my first glove
Though my hand was ten sizes too small
Then took me in the yard
And pitched me my first baseball.
It was a mighty slider, a hundred miles an hour
…it hit me in the face
But in his typical encouragement he said
“Son, you’ll never make first base”
He tried to teach me boxing
But his hands were just too fast
“If you live to be a hundred,” he warned
“You’ll never kick my ass”
With my busted nose and swollen lip
Wasn’t much I could say
Never did learn to box
Still can’t to this day.
He loved to sprint, so we’d get down
Never could beat him out of the hole
Probably ’cause with no starting gun
Only he was allowed to say, ‘GO!’
Couldn’t beat him at horseshoes either
Just couldn’t make a ringer.
And I was ten years old before I learned
Not to pull his finger
At body and fender he was a craftsman
The last of a dying breed
Being his apprentice, I got to sand all the cars
‘Til my hands would bleed
One day he said I was old enough to smoke
But don’t tell your brother.
How open-minded, I thought, then lit up
And he went and told my mother
And if I got in trouble
I could count on him to understand
“Too damn bad,” he’d say
“Now take it like a man”
Never did take to sports or cars
My hand never fit wrench or glove
But in my heart I always knew
That’s how he expressed his love
Here’s to you Dad
I’ll never forget
Right to my livin’ end
To me you’ll always be Square Deal Dan
…The workingman’s friend
Years by, he never failed to remind me, “I wrote the goddamn book you live by.” I agreed, never doubted, but I never failed to remind him, “Yeah dad, but I’m the one that got it published.” Cheers
I agree, the world’s absolutely correct when they complain about the only remaining super power. Citizens of the world unite! Surely, there’s another nation to lead this planet. Although, historically we’d be hard pressed to find a more benevolent society to take us into the future (Here I’m referring to the American people, not their fiat government or their out of control multi-nationals). Therefor, I’ve prepared a list of likely candidates for your perusal.
Time For A Change
Germany?
It’ll be a while before all in favor say ‘heil!’ France?
From Waterloo to Dien Bien Phu, whine is about all they can do Italy?
They’ve already shown what they can do, from Caesar to Pope no thank you Switzerland?
I can’t yodel so I’ll never be Swiss, and I can’t eat chocolate for breakfast. Holland?
I like their tulips and their windmills are all right. But I gotta pull my finger out of that dyke. Wooden shoes give me blisters, Dutch cuisine’s no delight, and my bum gets sore all day on a bike. Sweden?
Let’s hear it for Scandinavians, outdoors, skiing and hiking. The same lovely people with the heart of a Viking. Though once fearless sailors, I’ll have to pass. Beat Columbus by 500 years, but the natives kicked their ass Russia?
Stalin-grad is not someone with a degree, at least not in history. They were doing ok before that Marx/Lenin yoke, but it just didn’t work, so they went broke India?
Right! A jolly good sort. For openers they’d make ‘begging’ an Olympic sport Israel?
Yeah right! Then the whole world could be miserable Greece?
Alexander was great, but no more, they’re still drinking Retsina wine made from gymnasium floor Poland?
You’ve got to be joking. Romania?
Ahhh, in my crystal ball I see, Balalaika music, crying violins, …and your daughters all betrothed to a gypsy. Nepal?
Good choice, ‘cept the royal family’s dead ‘cause the King’s kid shot ‘em all in the head Egypt?
How Pharaoh away from reality can you get?
All African nations put ‘em in one lump, an entire continent in a permanent slump.
Tibet?
See Egypt Iran?
Okay if not for their ayatollah too-many Afghanistan?
See Iran Pakistan?
See Afghanistan
As for the rest of Islam surely no one would fuss if they stamped on your money ‘In Allah We Trust’. Pray five times a day, cut off your right hand, stone a woman for adultery, but not the man.
China?
That act wouldn’t go three seconds on the Falun Gong show. Japan?
Domo arigato Mr Roboto Korea?
North you got Kim Sung’s son Jung who I can’t give a go, but in the south you gotta love a country with a capitol named Soul. Yet, the entire peninsula north and south would, have us all eating kimchee and burning our mouth Spain?
They had to hire an Italian to show ‘em the way. If South America is an example, hey Spain, have a nice day Puerto Rico?
Sure, the whole world could shoot craps, while they ran around stealing hubcaps Brazil?
How could you go wrong? And it’ll give ‘em something to do when the Amazon is gone. Though you may think that you shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree, Brazilians agree, so long as it’s no taller than your knee. Argentina?
Madres de los Desaparecidos (Mothers of the disappeared ones) still hold vigil every day. So as for Argentina, no Falkland way Chile?
Not yet. The name gave me shivers even before Pinochet Peru?
I have an Inca-ling their through Cuba?
They’re not doing so well. Maybe when they get rid of Fidel Mexico?
Okay, ‘cept the first thing they’d do is all move to L.A.
There once was a Cherokee Nation that knew where it was at. Paid no taxes, women did all the work, how in the hell could you improve on that? But the Pilgrims thought them unchristian, uncivilized and had bad aroma, so the ones they didn’t kill, had to walk to Oklahoma.
Indonesia?
Ask the East Timorese, that’ll cure your amnesia. Australia?
Didn’t someone once warn us to ‘Let Australia sleep’? Besides the only reason an Aussie would awake is to ‘ave another piss, mate England?
Now we’re talkin’ class. They still think sun never sets on their ass Canada?
There’s a good bet, but they can’t even handle Quebec.
There are a hundred others I could disqualify with a rhyme, but lets cut to the quick and save us some time.
You’re sick and tired of damn yanks, and you think someone could better lead the ranks?
As far as I’m concerned
I got a good feelin’
If anyone can do a better job
…It’s gotta be
…New Zealand
[Now that I’ve ticked off every other nation
I just discovered Kiwi’s have strict immigration
And since all have now denied my visa application
I must live out my days in traveler’s frustration
Me and my big mouth oration]
Bro
Having a knack at raising money – for other people – I got ‘volunteered’ to be on the local Big Brothers of America board of directors – ‘Managing Director, fund raising’. Although I consented, I refused to bend to their persistent pestering to take on a ‘Little’, as the organization affectedly calls them. I had no desire to deal with some lost, unfortunate juvenile, with a life already out-of-luck before his teens. Hey, it’s a tough world.
The ‘Pizza Festival’ netted $600, but the 1st annual Big Brothers’ golf tournament promised to do better. To give it more legitimacy the committee felt the ‘Littles’ should take part. The problem was the ‘Littles’ were too little. “How ‘bout adding a putting contest?” I suggested. End of problem.
The morning of the tournament, Pat called. Pat, the most cunning, underhanded sneakiest woman I’ve ever known, had one goal in life: get me to accept a ‘Little’. She was relentless, though I had to admit, no one was better at pairing ‘Bigs’ and ‘Littles’. She could pick a perfect match at a hundred yards, in the dark, connive you into that match, and have you thinking it was your own decision.
Knowing that, I should have been on high alert. But it was early Sunday morning, bad hangover; she caught me off guard. A ‘Little’ needed a ride, she said, and it was on my way; could I please pick him up in time for the contest? No problem, I thought. I thought wrong.
It was pouring rain. I barely tooted the horn when out came this skinny little whelp dodging puddles with the agility of a first-string half-back, leaping toys and hedge like a track star. I leaned over and cracked the door. He jumped in dripping wet, water running down his stringy blond hair, over his youthful face of pre-puberty innocence, past a wide smile full of teeth, and onto my new $200 leather seat covers. Not an auspicious beginning.
With barely a ‘howdy’ he laid into a machine gun chatter with enough details to stymie a mainframe. In fewer minutes than his age – eleven – I knew his whole life story. Twice! Steve didn’t just worm his way into your heart; he jack-hammered his way in.
When we reached the golf course the rain had stopped, clouds parted, and Pat was waving for us to hurry, the putting contest was about to begin.
About twenty ‘Littles’ prepared for the elimination rounds. Some were shorter than the putter, so they’d be out soon. At least they got to compete, which was the whole idea, right? The ‘Littles’ thought otherwise. To them, this was the PGA.
Round by round the mini-midgets were eliminated. Some groaned, other moaned, a few threw a fit. The adults tried to calm them with admonitions about being good sports. I was no help quoting Vince Lombardi: “Show me a good loser, and I’ll show you a loser.”
It wasn’t long before it became obvious whom it would come down to. Steve was definitely a front-runner. He had a steady hand, good concentration, coordination, and a nice smooth stroke for his age. Steve was a natural athlete; lack of confidence was his only setback.
The other contender was a wise ass, too big for his age and his britches; a dough ball, a foot taller and two feet wider than his peers, who’d go through life thinking ‘clever’ is the same as ‘intelligent’. He was sharp, he knew it, and didn’t hesitate to use it. Every round he’d bully his way to go first. He understood psychology. Unfortunately for him, so did I.
As expected, it boiled down to Big Butt and Steve. Before final round, they took a break. Steve had already resigned himself to second-place. He was satisfied with that. The kid had two years on him; Steve didn’t think he stood a chance. I took him off to the side and gave him a crash course in Psych 101.
“Look, the trick is to go first,” I said. “Whoever goes first has no pressure. Even if it takes 10 putts, number two still has to beat that. Therefore, number two is under pressure. That’s how he’s winning; he’s not that good. He’s counting on you beating yourself. He’s gone first every round. Stand up to him and demand he let somebody else go first for a change.”
Steve gazed up at me with his wide smile and the most incredible gleam in his bright blue eyes; a look I will never forget. It was as though in his mind I was the smartest, most all-knowing person he would ever meet. I was Apollo, Zeus, and Thor all rolled into one. For that brief moment, I actually thought I could command lightning, wind and thunder. It felt good, of course, until it dawned on me what a heavy burden that is. Like I said, I’m nobody’s big brother, and I sure as hell was not interested in the role of God.
The final round was ready to begin. Big Butt muscled his way to the green ready to take his putt.
I stood watching. Steve was nervous, a little scared, he was on his own. He started to back away, then glanced over at me watching to see what he would do. He’d resigned himself back to second-place.
Ashamed he had to let me down, his sad face begged me to understand.
For once, I wished I was God; maybe then I could forgive him.
Instead, I looked up at the sky and shook my head in disappointment. That was all Steve needed to see. The next thing I heard was this little guy’s voice trying to sound strong, exerting his rights against all odds for the first time in the real world.
“Wait! I think I should go first. I’m younger, he’s older. He’s gone first every time.”
“What difference does it make?” Big Butt shouted.
“Good,” said Steve, crowding his way to the green, and nudging his opponent aside, “since it doesn’t make any difference to you, I’ll just go ahead and go first.”
Calm, cool, steady, deep breath, eyes glued to the ball, putter squared to the cup, heels locked, knees slightly bent, back straight, just as he’d seen on television.
Butt had a ‘Big’ somewhere in the crowd; I’d already scoped him out, casually made my way over, and stood with arms folded next to him. With both of us focused on the action, I leaned toward him slightly and said out of the corner of my mouth, “Five bucks he wins.”
‘Big’ looked at me, rolled his eyes, laughed, and said, “Make it ten.”
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, contact, follow through, the ball rolled over the green straight for the cup. A thirty-foot putt-in-one by an eleven-year-old was too good to believe …so I didn’t. Nevertheless, it got pretty darn close. Five feet, still not an easy putt. Steve squared off to do it again.
One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, contact, follow through, and again the ball rolled over the green straight for the cup. Only this time there was no doubt where it was gonna end up. It was headin’ for home. It hit the cup slightly off-center and started to drop after it circled the edge a time or two. Centrifugal force took over, however, and the ball made an exit stage right.
There it sat, less than a blade of grass away from the cup looking as sad as the sigh from the crowd. I tried with everything I had to call forth my power to command the wind. Forget lightning and thunder, one small breeze was all it would take. Just this one time, and I promised never to ask again. Apollo, Zeus, and Thor all turned a deaf ear.
Without ceremony, Steve didn’t even bother to square up; a light tap put it in. He then slung that putter over his shoulder, strutted off the green right past his opponent, and without a pause looked dead up at him, and said, “Next.”
At last count, it was 16 and the ball was nowhere near the cup. The putting contest was over, but in frustrated determination, the poor kid had turned it into a contest with himself. It was difficult not to feel pity, for that is one contest you can never win.
Steve picked up his trophy, I picked up my ten, and we headed back for home. He sat silently holding his prize. We were both too proud to talk. After awhile, Steve turned towards me, smiled, and said, “You know, this trophy belongs to both of us, Bro.”
What a word, I thought. ‘Bro.’ Just by the tone he used, the feeling he expressed when he said it, it defined a relationship between two men like no other. The word has had special meaning to me ever since. I’m not your dad, I’m not your brother, I’m not even your friend. I’m your Bro.
It’s been nineteen years since that day, and Steve still calls me Bro. …and no, I did not split the ten.
Epilogue
What became of Steve?
Somehow, I ended up with legal custody and helped him get through his later teen-years. As difficult as that was, I never would have imagined that skinny-ass, beanpole, nail-biting, pimple face would grow up to become a ‘Ford Agency’ high-fashion model traveling the world first-class on their dime, making around $3000. a day. And, between dates he conducts seminars for top CEO’s on… ‘Confidence Building’.
Excerpt from: The Twain Shall Meet. Happy Demise Day, Mark Twain
We woke Mark up with only ten minutes overtime. Connie had him close his eyes while she guided him to the deck. The whole trip; open your eyes, SURPRISE!!! Yeahhhhh! Up with the music.
Mark didn’t know what to think, other than we’d lost our minds.
Puzzled, dazed, he looked nervously around at the balloons and decorations, the bubbling Jacuzzi, candles and all, and then asked us what was going on.
“It’s a party, Mark, a Jacuzzi party …in your honor.”
He stiffened a bit and shot a glance at the sign, but relaxed when he saw it wasn’t there.
“In my honor? May I enquire as to the occasion?”
“Happy Demise Day,” we cheered, holding our Baileys up for a toast.
“Demise Day?”
“Right, it’s the Diamond Jubilee of the day of your demise. Speech, speech…” I turned down the music.
I thought for a minute there that I would go on record as the one who put Mark Twain at a loss for words. Never happen. He stood erect, cleared his throat, and began:
“’tis an honor to be called to such a special occasion, this Diamond Jubilee …more so since I am the one it is honoring. It has seemed eons since that first celebration of my demise, though I did not attend that one, consciously that is, I am sure there was a sizable few who felt they had cause for celebration, and welcomed the opportunity with enthusiasm. After three-quarters of a century, many would think that I might be slowing down. Let me assure them, as far as my demising goes, I have not yet begun.”
‘Here, here …Cheers!’ Then we downed what was left of the Baileys.
After Mark changed into his red hula trunks, we all slipped slowly into the ol’ Jacuzzi… ‘Ahhhhhhh’. Mark gave it a double ‘Ahhhhhhh’. An eight-person Jacuzzi with only three people leaves a lot of room without having to wait your turn to try all the different combinations of jets to body parts.
Mark seemed in his element, finding the shoulder blade-lower back-calves-foot coordinated pulsating jet position, in less time then it takes a moray to nestle into a crevice.
I popped the champagne, and poured. No matter what changes women may make, on down to turning all men into submissive eunuchs, cork-popping will always be the man’s job.
“Ahhh yes, champagne,” Mark said after a sip. “I should have known. Finally, I have found a perfection that has not changed, or has needed to. The one thing the French got right. A toast: To that little monkish monsignor who first uttered, ‘My lord, I am drinking stars’.”
We ate and drank, and drank and ate, while effervescent bubbles from air jets and fizz from champagne turned us into jellyfish. We even got Mark to do one of his stories, the one about the man bending over with the ram lining up to charge him. Connie confirmed that he didn’t miss a word; it was exactly as she’d read numerous times.
After fritters and before oysters, we presented Mark with High Eagle’s dream catcher – a pentagonal frame woven with various homespun threads in several desert sunset colors, and decorated in beads, shells, and hawk feathers – an ingenious Hopi invention that filters out bad dreams but captures the good ones.
A tricky thing to do, important too, ’cause if the dream catcher maker screws up, you could get in an incubus amount of trouble. Never fear, when it comes to dream catcher making, High Eagle knows his business.
We reassured Mark that High Eagle, a fifteenth generation hippie Hopi shaman of the corn clan, protector of the eastern light and guided by the healing flute vibrations of the Kachina Kokopelli, was rated as one of the top dream catcher makers in the country, twice on the cover of Dream Catcher Magazine, chairman of Shamanist International, and proprietor of Shaman r’ us head shop.
We brought out the key lime pie with candles and sang ‘Happy Demise day to youuuu…’ Demise day being the opposite of birthday, Mark made a wish and lit the candles, but wouldn’t tell us what he wished, after which I gave him the greeting card I’d made.
He admired the abstract design, said something about it being a fitting depiction of my mind – a left-handed compliment, to be sure – and read aloud…
To the laziest man I ever knew,
Who after 75 years of rest…
Gets up and yawns,
looks out and says,
“…think I’ll take a vacation from death.”
“My utmost compliments on your verse, particularly the way it so directly fits the person of subject. I have always been lazy, I was born lazy. From the beginning of my sojourn in this world there has been a persistent vacancy in me where industry ought to be. I see no reason why my state of demise should change that.”
“Reid,” Mark said as though he had something he wanted to bring up, but was not sure how to begin. “I do not wish to diminish the significance of this celebration, nor would I wish to impinge on any aspect of its good time, but would I be wrong in pointing out that the year 1910 subtracted from 1986 would leave us with an extra year to this jubilee?”
Damn! I was hoping nobody noticed.
“Well’p, you know Mark,” I said with a slow drawl that he could relate to, “I thought about that, kicked it around my calculator several times. Even tried changing year one to year zero, but that cantankerous calculator would not cooperate to my satisfaction. So I resorted to a technique I’ve recently learned from a dear friend.” I paused to demonstrate another technique I’d also learned from that same dear friend.
“And what, if I may ask, might that be?”
I forced myself to extricate from a most comfortable position, turned to my dear friend, and replied, “Never let truth get in the way of a good story, never let facts get in the way of a good laugh, and never let dates get in the way of a good cause for celebration.”
He gave me a knowing grin, and let it go at that.
All say, “How hard it is that we have to die”– a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.” MT
Judging by the PM’s I’ve been getting lately, it appears a lot of people are thinking about a more nomadic lifestyle. With the economy in the toilet and heading for the sewer and jobs disappearing faster than the family farm, it’s little wonder why a feeling of desperation has many thinking, ‘I gotta get the hell outta here’. But where? If my experience of over three decades as an incurable peregrinator can be of any help, I submit what I’ve learned so far.
Lonely Planet Grind
I needed to find untouched culture
A place to calm the mind
Where I could experience our past
The heart of humanity, the roots of mankind
Where could I find such space…
Where does this experience reside…
With nowhere to turn I bought the latest edition of
‘Lonely Planet Guide’
I thought the beaches of Bolivia
Would be nice to see
Too late,
They’ve been overrun by Chile
Lonely Planet said Titicaca
Machu Picchu is best
You and 3,000,000 others a year
On this spiritual quest.
In Sri Lanka, said Lonely Planet
Buddha’s tooth is persevered in Kandy
You may even spot the vanishing Tamil tiger
That sounded just dandy
But the guidebook failed to mention
A very important thing
Tamil tigers are the ones
Who actually do the hunting
Another must was Thai’s Royal Palace,
The world’s largest reclining emerald Buddha,
Exotic temple dancers in colorful sarong
And All-Nite Live U-See Stage Many Girlie Girlie Make Sex
In Bangkok’s sleazy Patpong
Lonely Planet raved Bali’s Kula Beach
Waves ranked surf first rate
I also learned the local dialect like,
G’day’, and ‘ave another piss, mate’.
Himal, Mount Everest Base Camp
The end of the planet
With hot showers, on time stock quotes
And micro-linkup Internet
Srinagar, Kashmir, hey, maybe I could buy a cheap sweater
But Islamic separatists and Hindu factions said I could do better
There’s always China, I thought,
Ancient past,
Ornate shrines,
Wisdom of the Tao
But the Cultural Revolution sledge hammered
And replaced it with
The Teachings of Mao
The South Pacific, Bali Hai is calling
That sounded like fun
Nope, missionaries changed all that
Where are cannibals when you need ‘em…
Tibet, Lhasa, Dalai Lama, Potola
the guide insisted was a must
But ya gotta wait three months to get a visa to ride
…in a typical-tourist, tinted-window, air-conditioned tour bus
The Mediterranean, Greek Islands in summer
Now that sounded like the place to be
By the time I got there Bohemians lined the beaches
Selling Indian jewelry
Remember primitive Bora-Bora
It’s now a Lifestyles Of The Rich and Shameless resort
Some people should have to pass a test
Before being issued a passport
Surely Greenland’s untouched arctic beauty
Thule’s gotta be the place for me
Wrong again…
The Inuit either had tuberculosis or were dying of dysentery.
Alaska fared no better
I explored its wilderness to find
100,000 caribou trying to figure out
How to get around a pipeline
Venice, gondolas, cathedrals, canals
I don’t know what I was thinking
That place has so many visitors a year
The whole city is slowly sinking
Well how ’bout the rainforests of Costa Rica
The sound of a mating Macaw…
But that was hard to hear
Over an un-muffled chainsaw
The guidebook said there was an Amazon tribe
That lived worlds apart
When I found that tribe they wanted to know
If I’d accepted Jesus into my heart
From Timbuktu to Tierra del Fuego
Is there no serenity…
Even Kalahari bushmen are hawking tiger teeth
And illicit ivory
A perfect guidebook should be written with flair
Tell the reader there’s a paradise
But don’t dare tell ‘em where
It’s enough to know it exists
Let that challenge your true grit
Half the fun in any pursuit
Is the adventure in how you find it
I followed Lonely Planet’s directions, did exactly as told
How stupid can you get when it said clearly on the cover
‘…Over 10,000,000 copies sold!’
Epilog:
The Lonely Planet Guide is still a good reference if you follow this suggestion…
Read what it has to say about your destination
Then head in the opposite direction…
It’s the looniest ship I ever sailed
What’d I expect to find
Once I pulled anchor
Left firm shore behind…
Sailing the ocean is scary
Which is why ‘Offshore’ has been defined:
Out of:
(a) Sight of land
(b) Your mind
Especially with no compass, charts or sextant
One prop had a broken screw
And, to make matters worse, could one imagine
This ship had no crew
It did have many strange gizmos
Plus the damnedest contraptions
And who in maritime ever heard
Of a ship with two captains…
It’s easy to fantasize
Though hard to keep afloat
In spite of romantic visions
It’s not the ‘Love Boat’
Her ballast was not enough
To keep her right adrift
So when she took a starboard wave
She had a mean port list
In shallow straight she’s treacherous
Doesn’t handle with ease
You’d do better maneuvering
The Exxon Valdez
In a storm, I’d damn the torpedoes
Throttle full speed ahead
But the other captain demanded
Another course instead
I explained to this Captain Bligh
We’re headin’ for disaster
There’s never been a ship
That can serve two masters
But we both had equal experience
When it came to this sea
So we couldn’t agree
What makes you El Capitàn
Ahead of me…
However, the more we’d navigate
The more we’d cooperate
And appreciate
Aye, aye, mate
In certain storms, I found
The other captain usually knew
The best way to get around
By the same token
I’m the one best at fixing
Anything that’s broken
I’m also program director
For games, contests and more
I always win, never lose,
…’cause I also keep the score
The other captain is gifted in the galley
Which any fool could see
When I make raviolis
It’s gourmet Chef Boyardee
It took some time to figure
What each of us knows
Although we’re still working it out
And stepping on each others toes
We both find it difficult
A source of constant frustration
To come to a conclusion
What exactly is our destination…
To me it sounded terrific
Why not sail the South Pacific…
But the other captain insists on knowing
Which islands in specific…
We do agree however,
No difference near or far
S’long as we lay on deck at night
And count each falling star
There’re still plenty of storms to maneuver
No weather’s always fair
And this ship keeps me busy
In constant need of repair
Aye, it’s hard work, but worth it
So when my tour of duty was done
I had to admit rough times
Were far outweighed by fun
I know I’m probably out of my mind
But I re-enlisted for a permanent trip
On this rickety old boat
Someone aptly named
The HMS ‘Relation’ ship
Q: Doctor, I’ve heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life. Is this true?
A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that’s it… don’t waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that’s like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.
Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?
A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable products.
Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?
A: No, not at all. Wine is made from fruit. Brandy is distilled wine, which means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way. Beer is also made out of grain. Bottoms up!
Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?
A: Well, if you have a body and you have fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.
Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?
A: Can’t think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain…Good!
Q: Aren’t fried foods bad for you?
A: YOU’RE NOT LISTENING!!! ….. Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they’re permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?
Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?
A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should
only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.
Q: Is chocolate bad for me? A: Are you crazy? HELLO Cocoa beans ! Another vegetable!!! It’s the best feel-good food around!
Q: Is swimming good for your figure?
A: If swimming is good for your figure, explain whales to me.
Q: Is getting in-shape important for my lifestyle?
A: Hey! ’Round’ is a shape!
Well, I hope this has cleared up any misconceptions you may have had about food and diets.
‘Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving
safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in
sideways – Chardonnay in one hand – chocolate in the other – body
thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming ‘WOO HOO, What a
Ride’
1. The Japanese eat very little fat
and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.
2. The Mexicans eat a lot of fat
and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.
3. The Chinese drink very little red wine
and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.
4. The Italians drink a lot of red wine
and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.
5. The Germans drink a lot of beers and eat lots of sausages and fats and
Today is Mardi Gras, a party not always celebrated in literature. Both Tennessee Williams and William Faulkner, each of them once resident in New Orleans, hated what they saw as organized and desperate gaiety. But a twenty-three-year-old Samuel Clemens loved every minute, mask and madame of it, declaring that “an American has not seen the United States until he has seen Mardi-Gras in New Orleans.” Clemens made the St. Louis-New Orleans trip a handful of times while an apprentice pilot; the comment above comes from his March 9, 1859 letter to his sister, written the day after docking in New Orleans and literally bumping into the fun:
I posted off up town yesterday morning as soon as the boat landed, in blissful ignorance of the great day. At the corner of Good-Children and Tchoupitoulas streets, I beheld an apparition! — and my first impulse was to dodge behind a lamp-post. It was a woman—a hay-stack of curtain calico, ten feet high—sweeping majestically down the middle of the street…. Next I saw a girl of eighteen, mounted on a fine horse, and dressed as a Spanish Cavalier, with long rapier, flowing curls, blue-satin doublet and half-breeches…. And then I saw a hundred men, women and children in fine, fancy, splendid, ugly, coarse, ridiculous, grotesque, laughable costumes, and the truth flashed upon me—“This is Mardi-Gras!”
“Mardi-Gras,” an illustration from the first edition of Life on the Mississippi
Clemens spends the day wide-eyed, rapt by “…giants, Indians, nigger minstrels, monks, priests, clowns … the ‘free-and-easy’ women [with] costumes and actions very trying to modest eyes.” And then came the night, with the Mystic Krewe of Comus in torchlight procession:
…Then followed tall, grotesque maskers representing some ancient game … then the Queen of the Fairies, with a winged troop of beauties … then the King & Queen of the Genii, I suppose (eight or ten feet high) …followed by a couple of infinitesimal dwarfs … then figures whose bodies were vast drums, trumpets, clarinets, fiddles … followed by others whose bodies were pitchers, punch-bowls, goblets … then gigantic chickens, turkeys, bears, & other beasts and birds—then a big Christmas tree, followed by Santa Claus, with fur cap, short pipe, &c., and surrounded by a great basket filled with toys—and then—well I don’t remember half….
Being a left-brain rather than a right-brain process, according to Author/Philosopher/Physician Leonard Shlain, literary progress may not be beneficial, as the following timeline demonstrates. (Read closely ladies, it’s an eye opener)
3,000,000 – 2,900,000 years ago
Hominids differentiate away from other primates by becoming meat-eaters instead of vegetarians.
Extended childhood’s of hominid babies require prolonged attention from hominid mothers.
Males of the species predominately engage in hunting and killing.
Females primarily engage in nurturing and gathering.
Hominids become the first species of social predators in which the females do not participate in hunting and killing.
200,000 – 90,000 years ago
Language develops.
Homo Sapiens differentiate away from hominids.
Language requires complete rewiring of human brains.
Over 90% of language modules placed in the left hemisphere of right handed humans who comprise 92% of the population.
Split Brain phenomenon becomes highly exaggerated only in humans.
Most hunting and killing strategies placed in left hemisphere.
Most nurturing and gathering strategies placed in the right side.
40,000 – 10,000 years ago
Homosapiens organize into highly effective hunter/gatherer societies.
Division of labor between sexes diverges more than in any other species.
Males hunt and females nurture.
Each sex develops predominate modes of perception and survival strategies to deal with the exigencies of life.
Left hemispheric specialization leads to an increased appreciation of time.
Humans become first animals to realize they will personally die.
Awareness of death leads to formation of supernatural beliefs.
Societies in which hunting is a more reliable source of protein than gathering elevate hunting gods over vegetative goddesses.
Societies in which gathering is a more reliable source of protein than hunting elevate vegetative goddesses over hunting gods.
In general, hunter/gatherer tribes worship a mixture of both spirits.
10,000 – 5,000 years ago
Agriculture discovered/ Domestication of animals discovered.
Crops need to be tended / flocks need to be nurtured.
Female survival strategy of gathering and nurturing supersedes male hunting killing one.
All early agrarian peoples begin to pray to an Earth Goddess responsible for the bountifulness of the land and fertility of the herds.
She awakens the land in springtime and metaphorically resurrects Her weaker, smaller dead son/lover.
5,000 – 3,000 years ago
Writing invented.
Left hemispheric modes of perception, the hunting/killing side, reinforced.
Literacy depends on linear, sequential, abstract and reductionist ways of thinking – the same as hunting and killing.
Early forms of cuneiform and hieroglyphics difficult to master.
Less than 2% literate.
Scribes become priests and new religions emerge in which the god begins to supersede the goddess.
45,000 – 3,000 years ago
Alphabet invented.
Extremely easy to use.
Near universal literacy possible.
Semites – Canaanites, Phoenicians, and Israelites – become first peoples to become substantially literate.
First alphabetic book is the Hebrew bible.
Goddess harshly rejected from Israelite belief system.
God loses His image.
To know Him, a worshipper must read what He wrote.
Images of any kind proscribed in first culture to worship written words.
3,000 – 2,500 years ago
Greeks become the second literate culture.
While not rejecting images, they suppress women’s rights.
Athens and Sparta were two societies that shared the same language, gods, and culture and were in close proximity.
Women had few rights in Athens: Women wielded considerable power in Sparta.
Athenians glorified the written word: Spartan cared little about literacy.
Socrates disdained writing and wrote nothing down. He held egalitarian views.
Plato wrote extensively of what Socrates said. Not as generous toward women as Socrates.
Aristotle represents Greek passage from an oral society to a literate one. He taught that women were an inferior subspecies of man.
2,500 years ago
Buddha becomes enlightened in India.
Buddha, though literate, writes nothing down.
Teaches love, equality, kindness, and compassion.
His words are canonized in an alphabetic book 500 years later.
Book purports to show the Buddha had negative opinions about women, sexuality, and birth.
Taoism and Confucianism arise in China.
Taoism embodies feminine values: no attempt to control others, promotes Mother Nature as a guide.
Confucianism touts masculine values: structures patriarchal society, touts Father Culture.
Two systems of belief coexist in relative equilibrium until the Chinese invent the printing press in 923 AD Literacy rates soar.
Women’s foot binding begins in 970 AD and becomes a common practice.
Taoism transmutes into a hierarchy with sacred texts and temple priests.
Taoist priests expected to be celibate Women’s rights plummet.
In nearby Asian cultures that do not embrace literacy, women’s rights remain high.
2,000 – 1,500 years ago
Roman Empire achieves near universal alphabetic literacy rates due to the stability of Pax Romana, tutors from Greece, papyrus from Egypt and an easy to use Greek and Latin alphabet.
New religion emerges based on the sayings of a gentle prophet named Jesus.
His oral teachings embody feminine values of Free Will, love, compassion, non-violence, and equality.
Jesus writes nothing down.
Women play prominent role in new religion.
Paul commits to writing what he interprets to be the meaning of the Christ event.
Subsequent Gospel writers detail Christ’s crucifixion, death and resurrection.
Creed that evolves increasingly emphasizes masculine values of obedience, suffering, pain, death, and hierarchy.
Alphabetic text becomes canonized in 367 AD Women banned from baptizing or conducting sacraments.
Ordered to back of the church and ejected from the choir.
Christians destroy Roman images.
1,500 – 1,000 years ago
Rome falls to barbarian invasions.
Literacy lost in secular society.
Dark Ages begin.
When stage of history re-illuminated in the 10th century, women enjoy high status.
Age suffused with love of Mary.
People know her through her image not her written words.
Women mystics revered.
Women Cathars and Waldensians baptize.
Abbesses lead major monasteries.
Chivalric code instructs men to honor and protect women.
Courtly love becomes all the fashion.
Cathedrals dedicated to Notre Dame.
Religious art flourishes.
Few outside the Church can read and write.
1000 – 1453
High Middle Ages characterized by a renewed interest in literacy.
Masculine values begin to reassert dominance over feminine ones.
Renaissance begins. Cult of the individual encourages male artists, male thinkers, and macho themes in art.
1454 -1820
Gutenberg’s printing press makes available alphabet literacy to the masses.
Books become affordable.
Literacy rates soar in those countries affected by the printing press.
Tremendous surge in science, art, philosophy, logic, and imperialism.
Women’s rights suffer decline.
Women mystics now called witches.
1517 – 1820
Protestant Reformation breaks out fueled by many who can now read scripture.
Protestants demand the repudiation of the veneration of Mary, the destruction of images.
Protestant movement becomes very patriarchal.
Ferocious religious wars break out fought over minor doctrinal disputes.
Torture and burning at the stake become commonplace.
Hunter/killer values in steep ascendance only in those countries impacted by rapidly rising alphabetic literacy rates.
1465 – 1820
After the Bible, the next best selling book is the Witch’s Hammer; a how-to book for the rooting out, torture, and burning of witches.
Witch craze breaks out only in those countries impacted by the printing press.
Germany, Switzerland, France, and England have severe witch-hunts. All boast steadily rising literacy rates.
Russia, Norway, Iceland, and the Islamic countries bordering Europe do not experience witch-hunts. The printing press has a negligible impact on these societies.
Estimates range that between 100,000 women to the millions were murdered during the witch-hunts.
There is no parallel in any other culture in the world in which the men of the culture suffered a psychosis so extreme that they believed that their wise women were so dangerous that they had to be eliminated.
1820 – 1900
Invention of photography and the discovery of the electromagnetic field combine to bring about the return of the image.
Photography does for images what the printing press had accomplished for written words: it made reproduction of images inexpensive, easy, and ubiquitous.
Right hemisphere called upon to decipher images more than the left.
Egalitarianism becomes a motif in philosophy.
Protestantism softens its stance toward women.
Mary declared born of Immaculate Conception by the Church elevating her status.
Nietzsche declares “god is dead.”
Suffragette movement coalesces in 1848.
1900 – 1950
Photography and electromagnetism combine to introduce many new technologies of information transfer.
Telegraph, radio, film, and telephone reconfigure the world.
Communists demand redistribution of wealth.
Capitalists demand less government interference.
Natives restless, servants surly; everywhere paternalism is in retreat.
Women receive the vote in 1920 in the U.S. and 1936 in England.
Russia, an oral society recently becomes literate in the 19th century.
Great burst of male creativity.
Outbreak of religious intolerance against the Jews.
Russian Communism repeats all the madness of Europe’s first brush with alphabet literacy.
Hitler, armed with a microphone and radio, hypnotizes Germany, one of the most literate countries of the world.
Mother Russia, an oral society, is bedeviled by literacy.
Germany, the Fatherland, becomes susceptible to madness by oral technology.
1950 – 2000
Popularity of television explodes after the end of WWII.
Television requires different mode of perception than reading.
Iconic information begins to supersede text information.
Image of the atomic bomb blast and earth beamed back from space change the consciousness of the world more than any written books.
Society begins to elevate feminine values of childcare, welfare, healthcare, and concern for the environment.
Feminist movement of the 60s occurs in the first television generation.
World wars abate among the literate countries affected by television image.
Invention of personal computer greatly changes the way people interact. Graphic icons increasingly replace text commands.
Internet and WorldWideWeb based on feminine images of nets and webs. Iconic Revolution begins.
Everywhere alphabets come into usage religions based on sacred alphabetic books come into being.
These all share certain characteristics.
Women banned from conducting religious ceremonies.
Goddesses declared abominations.
Representative art in the form of images declared “idolatry.”
On the various writers’ forums where we struggling unsung congregate, occasionally you happen upon a story that touches you in a special way. This is just such a story by Rain Ray. So, I’d like to share it here with my friends.
The Unforgettable Stranger
Have you ever passed a woman on the street that was so stunningly beautiful you wanted to politely stop her and tell her–no hidden agenda, no subtle hustle, just letting her know her beauty was noticed?
She was like seeing a breathtaking painting in an art gallery: I didn’t need to own or possess her beauty. I was just taken by her. I found it difficult not to stare. She chose a seat on the bus where no one could sit between us. I smiled and said hi, and in the friendliest tone she returned the hello. I married a beautiful woman, so I seldom found myself intimidated around nice looking women, but this strange, attractive, young woman actually caused me to be a little nervous. After our brief exchange, I thought that would be the end of the stranger-says-hello-to-stranger encounter, and began reading the newspaper I had just bought.
“Do you read a lot?” she asked with a smile.
“Only if it’s news about the end of the world,” I said with a grin. She laughed. Even her laughter was magnetic; with its lightness and sincerity.
She paused, and then said, “Did you know there are bacteria on the lime they squeeze into your drink? I love living life on the edge.” She intentionally made the remark in an overly serious tone that really struck me funny.
It was as if we were old friends. I couldn’t believe the ease with which we were talking. We both laughed at the same things. I was surprised at how relaxed we had both become in such a short amount of time. I was happily married, but I loved the way my heart felt, talking with this amazingly beautiful young woman.
Finally, I asked her, “Are you a model?” After I asked the question, I wanted to take it back.
She looked at me with her entrancing eyes, then in an obvious and playful way she replied with a sly grin, “That’s so ironic, I was about to ask you the same thing.” It was perfect timing, and we caught ourselves laughing, again.
Then she said something that truly surprised me. “Would you think me too forward if I asked you to share a cup of coffee with me? I know this nice outside cafe a few blocks from here, and I have a little time before I leave for the airport. I thought you were so friendly, and we hit it off…I wondered…if..”
Without thinking of anything else, I blurted out “I’d love to.”
I wasn’t trying to pick her up, but she was fascinating, and I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to hear her laugh more, talk more, feel this odd feeling just a little longer. We sat outside on this beautiful morning, and talked almost non-stop. There were no awkward moments. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, or pressured in any way . We were two total strangers who, for whatever reason, hit it off, and seized the moment. It was unforgettable, and I think she felt the same way. The time flew by. We had talked about a little of everything, then she looked at her watch.
“It’s time. I can’t believe we had so much fun, and were so relaxed doing it. And, you didn’t try once to hit on me,” she laughed out loud as she slid her chair back.
“And finally, I didn’t have to fend a woman off for a simple conversation,” I said, smiling.
There life had put us; for a second, I felt a twinge of sadness. I realized how rare such encounters were. I looked at her once more; we stood, she picked up her purse and prepared to leave. My God, she was striking, I thought to myself.
“Well, I guess I won’t ever see you again, but I just want to tell you what a pleasure it’s been meeting you. You take care, and never, ever change that magnetic personality,” I said as she moved toward me.
Without warning, she laid her purse back on the table, wrapped her arms around me and gave me the sweetest, most heartfelt hug. She then tenderly kissed my cheek. I was caught off guard. She picked up her purse…looked me in the eyes…leaned close to my ear, and whispered.
“Good-bye, Dad, you were everything I’ve dreamed you would be.”
She then hurried to a waiting cab; I stood motionless as my mind raced through summers past…
In 1986, the year of Halley’s comet, Reid, on his regular pre-dawn Key West beach stroll, stumbles across and elderly gentleman who verifiably proves to be the Mark Twain, white suit and all. Apparently, news of Twain’s demise, even after 75 years, has again been greatly exaggerated. Losing the wager they make, Reid lives up to his part of the bargain by providing Twain with room and board for the next 30 days.
Curious to see what has occurred since his last departure in 1910, Reid sets out to bring Twain up to date from political correctness to modern inventions with a whirlwind tour of live blues, a nude bar, an Indian reservation, past fields of Latino migrants, Epcot, Disneyworld and a return flight. All building toward an awe inspired packed audience to witness Twain’s final performance of commentary on today’s human condition in his typical wit, humor and wisdom
I’m not so sure j guevara hasn’t actually met Samuel Clemons, aka Mark Twain. Twain’s dialogue especially in his performance near the end of the book is realistic. I found The Twain Shall Meet, entertaining, humorous and a delightful read.
This is the first book I have read by author j guevara. I eagerly await his next book. J has that special something that few authors have. It is a special gift that you are either born with or not. Guevara was born with it. The characters are life-like and likable. The plot is interesting and has a message to it. The Twain Shall Meet is the type of book that compels you to reread. Well done Mr. j guevara!
I found this on http://www.whoiswaltlong.com , and thought it worthy to share, since many of us have a similar problem simply because as we get older our perspectives, perceptions, truths, and general beliefs change, making it difficult to maintain our ideals. So with Walt’s permission…
I am neither Republican nor Democrat, conservative nor liberal – and definitely not Libertarian, Socialist or Communist.
I have to reject all the labels that are thrown around so carelessly, because sooner or later, I’m asked to betray the best interests of society.
Republican? No, rampant pomposity and narrowness of vision have always left me cold.
Democrat? Ha! Only 2 people can determine a product’s worth – the owner and the person who is willing to pay for it.
Conservative? Even conservatives don’t like conservatives, and too often the goal is to “conserve” the status quo.
Liberal? All things being equal, all things are not equal.
Libertarian? They had me at freedom…and lost me with their national platform that is the definition of anarchy.
Altruistic? Possibly…but in fairness, I would have to answer “possibly” to all the above.
It seems as though I’m always in category 3:”None of the above.”
My greatest concern is that while the country is angrily choosing op sides, the truth will be trampled and forgotten as an insignificant footnote.
It would seem that now, more than ever, we need to find a “common ground” where individualism and compassion can co-exist.
A free eBook copy of…The Twain Shall Meet. I thought it was a nice present to give everyone for their new Kindle/Nook/Sony eReader Santa brought ‘em.
Your present will be waiting for you all day, but remember my day starts 12-hrs ahead of EST, so you should be able to find it by noon on Christmas Eve.
Happy Holiday season to all. Your friend KAWFEEE-Klaus — trying to get ol’ bah humbug j in the spirit
Most times I didn’t believe it myself. I even questioned if jungle solitude had adversely affected my mind. When I counted the missing beers and the misplaced rum, however, and looked at the mess that was left after every session, I knew I’d been blessed by Nature’s best. My Jungle friends, that gang of monkeys with their toucan and python I call the Motley Crew, are just that, and a rare breed they are. Not since Man has climbed down from the trees has a man been more privileged to share the wit and insight of those still so close to the source. They have shown me the meaning of ‘lesser’ intelligence, and if there is a missing link, it must be you and I.
Many will say I had an illusion, for nothing in the jungle speaks to man, it’s just animals, birds, bugs, and trees. I understand their query, though no longer share their doubt. The defining line here is truth, which is unique in everyone who cares to see. Thus, the truth that abides in you is what makes you different from the truth that abides in me. Defined truth, however, the one we readily share, is but an agreed reality, which makes reality nothing more than a collective hunch. Therefore, truth is not important in the question of, ‘To be or not to be’. For in truth what you will find is that only… Imagination, shall set you free.
This easy to do, long time to get ready, Chinese dish is a guaranteed hit that’ll make you look like a Tao master, wiser than Confucius.
One whole duck – Cornish hens or chicken also works (or is it ‘woks’?). I don’t skin it, but I do trim off some of the excess fat and the Pope’s nose.
Small bottle of sake
A few cloves of chopped garlic
Chopped onion scallions
A few pieces of star anis
Put it all in a plastic cooking bag – make sure it doesn’t leak – and marinate in the fridge for about two hours or three days, turning it every time you think about it.
When ready, take four wooden chopsticks and form a tic-tac-toe with them in your wok. Place the duck on the chopsticks and pour the sake over, into, and under. Cover (your wok should have come with a cover) and steam for about an hour.
Then take the duck with sticks out, clean the wok, put a piece of aluminum foil in the bottom and place a palm of brown sugar and a heaping palm of black tea on it. Put the duck with sticks back into the wok, cover, and turn on the heat as high as you can. Although you keep the lid on tight, you’re going to have some smoke escaping, so you’ll need a ventilation fan running the whole time. This will be cause for concern from your neighbors, so it might also be a good idea to call the fire department beforehand and tell them it’s a false alarm.
Smoke it ‘til there’s no more smoke trying to escape, about 20 minutes to a half hour. The duck will turn a chocolate brown, and the taste will be dynamite. Uncle Ben’s wild rice mix, and sautéed Brussels sprouts go great with this dinner, and if you’re making it for just the two of you, there should be plenty left over for the firemen, who even knowing it’s a false alarm, will respond anyway once word spreads about your delicious Tea Smoked Duck
Even pale, cold and drenched to the bone, in his wet, salty, once white suit, and his unkempt crop of white hair, he could have passed for Colonel Sanders. Bythe unweatherd look of the dinghy, he couldn’t have been adrift for long before the tide washed him ashore. Face wasn’t weathered, lips weren’t parched. As I lifted him out, he coughed seawater, so I laid him face down and pushed with both hands on his back. Cough got stronger, pulse was good. He was coming around.
As I rolled him over, he was conscious enough to motion that he wanted to sit up. Just then that first rush of incoming tide rolled over the sand, so I helped him to higher ground. He couldn’t have weighed much over one-forty, wasn’t tall or agile; certainly not in his prime. I guessed he was in his seventies.
I took the bottle of Perrier out of my pouch, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to him. As he gulped it down I suggested he sit here and rest while I go call an ambulance.
He grabbed my arm, not a tight grip, but firm enough to make his point. “That will not be necessary. I will be fine. Please,” he insisted.
Dehydrated and maybe suffering from who knows what, he needed help, professional help; or at least a quick look by someone better qualified than a nightly beach bum who couldn’t pass a Scouts’ badge in first aid. But he was insistent, even in his diminished condition, so I went along.
Normally, I wouldn’t have been on the beach at this hour. Usually I took my stroll after dusk; but this was the year of Halley’s comet, and Key West was the best location in the continental U.S. to view this septuagenarian event. Hence, as expected, Galileo wannabes from every state in the Union were scattered along the beach, adjusting their galactic magnifying glasses as if they were calibrating for the Mauna Kea Observatory.
Until this phenomenon passed, I resigned myself to predawn walks, after the sky gazers had shut down. And again the beach was mine, all mine; that time with my mind when I get to play with my brain – my favorite pastime.
Greeting’s y’all, welcome to the launch of my blogs and site. History in the making (I hope). Stick around or check back, will have something new everyday, if all goes as planned.
j guevara (that's small 'j', small 'g')
musician/storyteller/soul food chef.
Global citizen, incurable peregrinator
Have pen - Will travel.
Last known address, 24n82w
