Wicked Stepsister
John P David
Bob Sloan <rls...@mindspring.com> wrote in message
news:3BBCD0A8...@mindspring.com...
> John P David wrote:
>
> > You see how it never does to doubt the sincerity of my word?
>
> Nah. You're a constant, chronic liar.
So you keep shrieking and squeaking to yourself, my dear Wicked Stepsister,
louder and louder with your fingers in your ears. It seems to be working
for you, baby, so just keep it up. Also put a blindfold over your eyes so
that you don't have to see what remains right in front of you: A New York
Times journalist who loves the shit out of what I write--whether it's truth
or fiction. So, take your pick, my dear, whichever you like.
As for me, I can only be flattered by your incredulity, for reasons which
need not even be stated, and yet it does go a long way toward exposing the
hump of your enmity, also for reasons which need no explanation to any with
the least modicum of psychoanalytical savvy -- that leaves you out, ACD. ;-)
It's all over Redneck. My vindication is upon you, once again, and soon it
will loom so large that for all your hue and cry, not even Geeko and Blank
Noggin will be fooled by it, anymore.
Although I do at times regret the way you backed out of that Showdown in
Dallas, considering what a pleasure it would have been to smash the face of
all your mythologizing about me, up close and personal, to make you deny
every shred of this slander you so rabidly and continuously slaver, as the
idea is brought crashing down on you that ya can't make yourself some expert
on the things of another man's life, in things that did not concern your
life, but his. Even so, considering the degree of decrepitude of the both of
us, it was a fool's venture before as it would be all the more now, landing
the both of us in the fucking hospital at the very least. So you were wise
to decline such a stupid suggestion on my part. I don't fault you in the
least. Indeed only a moral coward, afraid of what others might think, would
be fool enough to accept such a challenge, just as I was a worse fool to
tender it in the first place.
I prefer beating the shit out of you in this way; it's nowhere near as
dangerous and messy, and childish, and barbaric, and stupid and ignorant.
Indeed, take a tip: any of these others who would be pleased to rally to
the support of the idea of two old bastards like you and me going to the
mat; any person such as that is of such a sadistic and despicable state of
beastly, hate-motivated ignorance that indeed, the last damned thing on
earth any wise or moral, hip and cool person would *ever* do is to pander to
the sensibilities of animals like that.
Here's why: Usenet is a place that throws a person into contact with the
sort of people that in real space and real time, one would never, according
to taste and choice, and general disposition receive as company into their
own real lives: and up till now, seeing the way you keep acting, that's
*you*, Redneck. You would never be in my company, not in this life, not in
the next unless I'm sent to hell -- and thus you know that the likes of you
can only ever be content, not to be in my life, but only in my audience.
Too bad, but it's all your own fault because a nice person like me is a pure
insult to a bad person like you; and it's always been so. See *Billy Budd*.
I have a scent for your kind of sadistic ugliness, there Mr. Taggart, I can
smell it coming all the way across the deck.
So you see that there is always going to be some sick puppy like you hanging
around places like this, some fucking Oedipally unresolved little boy who is
always externalizing his Kill the Father complex against every male figure
to come and challenge his sense of self accomplishment. Of course, that
'challenge' is all in your own head. It has much to do with whatever
perversion had driven you to enlist in the Navy at 17? Well, you got
something to prove. But whatever it is, you are not permitted to do it by
me.
You make this pretence of being in a position to judge the veracity of my
experiences, and yet we discover that fully two years *after* I had
organized the first Anti-War demonstration in my home town back in '64 you
were yet to be in the Navy for three years more before your discharge. You
say you're five years my junior. Okay Junior, that puts you in the Navy at
17.
At five years my junior, you don't know the first thing about it, Redneck.
You were too young to have any part of the ethos I was coming from, and that
is why it is all so incredible to you. Your carefully constructed
self-image is all a bunch of pretense built out of second hand gleanings of
scattered data. You search the web to create a persona for yourself, this
mythos of Bob Sloan you want to come into being to compete with the real
facts of real experience in a cat like me -- but it won't wash. Anybody can
see it from the way you handle your selection of times and events, because
that's all it is, the way you "recount" it, just names of fucking
organizations and dates, specific dates, that I wouldn't remember if you
paid me. Fuck! I even forgot who the hell David Dellinger was, getting him
mixed up with my old editor, till you had to search the web to find out how
bad my memory can, at times, be -- but you didn't know who D. Dellinger was
until you searched, whereas I remembered as soon as you jogged my memory.
Sure, now that you mention David Dellinger, I remember, for who could forget
the Chicago . . . Seven? Eight? Who the fuck cares. It was Abby and Jerry
Rubin, and was it Huey Newton, that black guy they tied and gagged?
Kunstler was the lawyer. But all this was way before your time, Squirt.
Even so, that first march I organized (it could have been early '65) is a
matter public record, it's in the files of the FBI and in the news-film of
that town's archives, should they still exist with full screen shots of me
and my old lady, and those fucking card carrying Commies that were marching
with us -- little did I know till after the demonstration, when we went over
for dinner with some of them at their leader's house. I'm sitting there
eating from this plate of egg-plant and liver with leeks and lentils they'd
served us, and I'm looking for some way to get my plate down under the
coffee table to feed it to the dog, when my eyes light on these fucking
copies of U.S.S.R. magazine. What the fuck? Well, hell, I didn't need
those to convince me of who these people were -- that eggplant with leeks,
liver and lentils was enough: it all just smelled like Lenin to me. I'd
never been treated to such a totally sort of Un-American looking plate of
comestibles in my born days.
After I moved to Minneapolis, the guy who recruited me, the one who had
handed me the chairmanship of the committee up north, who was also the guy
whose pals were these Commies, well, he's this Catholic Worker anarchist
character, a total, full-time activist, three years my senior who was always
in direct correspondence with Dorothy Day, the founder of that outfit in New
York. From the first he had assured me that he was no way a Red, and yet
every time I turned around, like at these parties being thrown by SDS (they
were just a front for the Young Socialist Alliance arm of the Socialist
Worker's Party, and anybody that couldn't see that was blind as a goddam bat
slapped, knock-eyed catcher for the Minneapolis Millers. They were the
Trots, and they were a fucking bunch of authoritarian, totalitarian
sonsofbitches if I ever saw the like, the way they'd run those meetings.
They called themselves "socialist" but they were just as Red as Gus Hall and
his outfit up in Cherry, Minnesota.
And that is no shit. Gus Hall, then Chairman of the U.S. Communist Party,
lived just a couple hundred miles away from us there in Duluth, in a town on
the *red* Iron Range, by the name of *Cherry*, and God strike me deader
than red if I lie.
Seamus--this guy who recruited me--was always introducing me to people like
this one lunchbox carrying "worker" who would always be trying to put the
hustle on us (my wife and I) to "take a deeper interest" not just in the
Peace Movement itself, but in the larger fight for social justice, to join
him and his friends in seeking a cure for the underlying sickness of a
society that wages unjust wars in the first place. By this time, I'd seen
about enough of these fucking Trots and Reds at the organizational end of
things. When I'd left Duluth, I'd also left my chairmanship behind and I
didn't want another one, even though Seamus was always trying to push me
into getting into the organizational structure in Minneapolis.
This fucking Seamus -- his real name was "Jim" -- but he had all these Irish
hangups connected with the romance of the IRA and people like Seamus Heaney,
so for the purposes of revolutionary work, everyone knew him as "Seamus".
He was totally the archetype of an Old Left subversive with not a shred of
cool beat culture about him. He was not cool, he was serious. He'd been
86'd from the seminary at St. Thomas, according to him, because he'd been
caught red-handed performing a Black Mass in the dormitory: that was his
story.
Seamus had a sort of effeminate personal carriage about himself, even though
he was a large, bulky fellow with a remarkably round head and face
surmounted by a shade of dirty-blonde (albeit clean) hair which was very
thin, oily and already, at 23, notably receding back from his forehead, add
the thick-lensed pair of wire-rimmed glasses, that black trench-coat and the
fucking Tyrolean hat, the 6 foot, one inch frame, and you've got one highly
imposing human being on your hands, when he's got you backed against the
wall at a party trying to press you into some new form of subversive
intrigue hatching in the depths behind those squinty, beady pale blue eyes.
My best friend and brother-in-law, Jim, who was always known as just "Jim"
did not like, and did not trust Seamus, and he never lost an opportunity to
try and bring me up short about him. Jim was certain that this Catholic
Worker stuff was just the nice white "anarchistic" icing on some totally
crimson cherry cake within this guy. For one thing, he never showed his face
in that above-mentioned demonstration. The sonofabitch, it later turned out
was hanging around in some vestibule of a building down from this VFW in
front of which we were filing up and down with our signs on account of a
speech being given within by General Maxwell Taylor.
I was supposedly the "Chairman" of this "Northern Minnesota Committee to End
the War in Viet Nam" but Seamus was doing all the real organizing since I
was not watching out for shit like Gen. Maxwell Taylor coming to town. I'd
be the last one to know about a goddam thing like that. Seamus told me
about it, said I should round up some people, get some signs silk-screened,
and so that's what I did. The guy who did the signs was Arlie, the printer
who was mutual pals with Phil Davenport, the San Francisco folk-singer who
was here at UMD on a scholarship to study Opera in the music department.
That's how I met Arlie who was an old socialist from way back, being a
printer and all. Printers were working men who could read, so naturally
among the first things that coming to hand for a printer to read will be
some socialist tract for which they'd be setting the type. Printers have
always been a bunch of Reds from way back. Common knowledge, doncha know.
By the time Phil headed back to SF, and I'd transferred down to the main
campus in Minneapolis (student body of 25,000) I was getting into a deeper
kind of revolution that was not political but spiritual; so I was going to
Zen meditation classes and studying Yoga, taking lots of courses in
Buddhism, and keeping my anti-war commitment on a completely personal and
merely sometime social level. While I'd pretty much lost interest in the
protests, I still went to the parties *after* the protests, being invited to
show with a guitar for the entertainment of the troops. The fucking marches
themselves were a Goddam terminal bore, for the most part, and they could
get ugly, as the one I'd helped organize in Duluth was no walk in the park.
Those veterans we were there to greet did not in the least find our
visitation into their domain welcome, and there was a hell of a lot of
shouting with the wives of these guys yelling at my old lady stuff like,
"Did you give your cherry to the Party, Honey?"
Highly unpleasant. Sure it was fun afterward to watch the film on the news
at ten, but the experience itself was *embarrassing*. You got all these
people walking around you and staring, and you got these Red cadres in the
queue, coming up behind you going, "Don't look at them. March! Eyes ahead.
Keep going. Sing.
"We ain't gonna study war no more,
Ain't gonna study war no more,
Ain't gonna study. . . "
That was about it, too. Most of the chief organizers were funk-outs. Down
by the fucking Riverside. Last damn song on earth you catch me singing of
my own accord. So, I found my niche as an entertainer of the troops at the
post-protest parties. As time went along, I got into acid, and the further
I got into that, the more all these activists and Trots and Reds and
Feminists (there were just a few starting to come into being) started to
look about as *square* to me as the people they opposed. And why? Because
*hate* formed such a large part of their motives, and if it wasn't that,
then mix in a bit of exhibitionism, along with a whole passel of
*trendiness*, the latter being the squarest, the most false thing of all.
I knew that my personal commitment for peace was solid, and further, that
ultimately my 'protest' and/or 'demonstration' was going to have to happen
at the personal level right down at the draft board on the day of my
physical. All the marching around in front of the Federal Building would be
nothing compared to Guerilla theatre performance of my own personal visit,
when the day came, as soon it did, that my S-2 status had been changed to
1-A. Preparing my head for that was all the anti-war activism that
ultimately made sense in terms of the necessary. It was all a personal
decision on every man's part, a thing he had to come to alone, with no help
from the troops.
People try to pass my "gay act" off as some puny matter, or worse something
just too plainly dishonorable for words. They don't stop to think of the
alternatives which were three: 1. Prison 2. Ex-patriation 3. Going
Underground. A friend of mine chose the latter because he was *afraid* to
do the 'gay act', afraid for a sense of shame, of what it would do to his
reputation, afraid for his sense of pride as a man. So, he did what he must
to drop out of sight, got fake I.D., burned his past and got busy with a
paranoid state of existence that made him miserable for many years to come
of life on the run.
In jail, and prison, I met guys who actually *chose* the prison alternative.
I had a lot of admiration for those guys, but often times, as it worked out,
short of the Army itself, you couldn't find a worse place for a draft
resister to hang his hat for one or two years than in that hell made of
man's hate. I'll never forget . . . no, I will forget about it. That was
not the right place for a draft resister to wind up.
I thought my pal's compunctions about doing the 'gay act' were a lack of
commitment. He was still looking forward to some sort of ordinary existence
in the Straight (i.e. "square" according to the parlance of the times)
World, after all this was over. His commitment was not total. For me,
doing the gay act was difficult not so much for the shame involved, although
that can not be dismissed, but for the fact of the 'act' itself: you had to
be ready to *act*; you had a part to play and you damn well better be ready
to make it a command performance. You are gonna have to fool those fools.
You had to put your head into a place where the act of fooling that War
Machine, of using it's own discriminatory regulations against it, of getting
hold of it by its Achilles heel and squeezing till the fucking thing
squeals -- that is what you had to pump yourself up to.
You knew there'd be ugliness. You knew damned well how much homosexuality
is reviled, why nothing in this culture at that time, or in the largest bulk
of it to this day is more despised. And you would have to walk in the shoes
of an element of society more detested than any other. But, that made it a
good thing to do. It was not just 'good' it was outrageous and
flamboyant -- but baby! Are you ready? Can you pass that Acid Test? Can
you be like Christ and take upon yourself the sins of the whole homosexual
world, stand there and stare into the eyes of the very guys whose macho
pride demands of them that *you* the gay actor be treated as the lowest
thing on earth? Can you face those eyes?
Never mind all that. Can you even so much as step out, away from the line;
can you walk a different walk from every man before and behind? Can you do
something of your own, all on your own, all alone, so that it's just you
against the whole force of the enemy?
Most people cannot understand it because you had to get high, you had to get
loaded, you had smoke enough grass and drop enough acid to get your head
into the place where your ego was dead enough to stand the ego pain that was
coming in that confrontation.
Something else was beginning to come clear in the flux of it all: your life
as a square human being was over. That "shame" we've been talking about is
*square*, and why? Because it has everything to do with what *other people*
think about you. You are square if you care about that. All by yourself,
in a world alone, a thing like that can't matter, hell it can't even exist.
Only in relation to other people does such a concern gain any reality, and
so it is not real.
On acid, you soon see how irrelevant other people really can be, what
illusions and hallucinations other people may be, what ghosts flitting
through your life other people are -- and that is a hard thing to be faced
with to see how people can lose their reality, and moreover their relevance
to the ultimate reality that is yours to face in life: your death. Life is
good for nothing except that it is the boot camp university you go through
in order to learn how to die. When you die, you die alone with no one to
help you through. When you die every other person on earth becomes
irrelevant. And that irrelevancy extends to the person that you are, the
person you must see as the final irrelevancy.
This you see on acid, but you see it in terms of *another* which is not you,
not other people, but another being that is being revealed to you on your
trip. That being can become so intimidatingly present, so insistently
apparent to your senses that I can only compare Him/She/It to Seamus
O'Cathaein sweetly crowding you to the wall at a Post-Protest party.
One time, my pal Stephen (not his real name) and I took a high dose of acid,
an amount I will not reveal since I have no interest in getting into a
pissing contest with some of you old heads about what constitutes a really
large hit. Suffice it to say that it was more than either of us had ever
taken or ever would take again, thereafter. When it came on, a new thing
happened; we could no longer make any sense of what the other guy was
saying, if indeed what he was saying did have any sense. Talking, trying to
maintain a grip on reality by logical thought processes had become so
counter-productive that the very attempt to do it was putting us on a
bummer. Obviously, to maintain this "grip on reality" was itself the wrong
thing to be doing, since by taking acid, the whole idea is forsake the
square reality for what the acid is in you to reveal. The whole idea is to
see reality break down and dissolve, and if it will, reveal itself for what
it *really* is.
We parted company. He went into the dining and stretched out on a cushion
in there; I did the same thing in the living room. Now I was there to face
the acid alone. I opted to pull myself into the "lotus" position, to just
sit and let my mind be free to be open to whatever it was that this chemical
was capable to produce with it. Easier said than done. There is a demon
that haunts every acid trip, the monster of fear, the creature of doubt.
Not only was it no longer possible to talk to another in this state, but you
couldn't so much as talk to yourself, or i.e. keep any control over your
thoughts. The doubts just came, absurd thoughts like, "Have I breathed,
lately?" There is no worse thought, nothing that can more completely go
against the grain of the acid, of the whole psychedelic experience because
it takes you out of mind and into the body. Before you know it you are
hyper-ventilating, your heart rate increases; you think you might croak from
a heart-attack.
I got up from the floor and went in to have a look at Stephen in there
beyond the curtain of bamboo and beads. He was flat down on his back with
his eyes closed till he heard me speak. "How's it goin' in there, man."
He opened his eyes. "Whoa. Really rushing."
"Yeah, me too." Not really. I was really *freaking*.
"It's like a roller coaster."
"Wow. Well, what say we smoke a joint?" Simple things like that we
apparently could still talk about, so long as it was just instrumental stuff
like that.
"A joint?" He stared at me, incredulous. "Now?" He watched me shrug. "On
top of this?"
"Maybe it would mellow things out."
He shrugged. "Okay." He got up, we went into the living room together. It
was an efficiency apartment. There was a set of double doors across from
the dining room and kitchenette, which hid a Murphy bed. Behind those doors
was a combination closet and dressing room. I pointed to the open door
leading within. "Let's go sit in there where we can have it completely dark
if we like."
"Why?"
"I don't like to close my eyes; freaks me out. But if we sit in there, and
just leave the door ajar, it might be a way to sort of ease into it."
"I don't get it. This is getting weird again."
"No, man. I'm saying like, I'm fucking afraid to close my eyes."
He shook his head. "Why?"
"I don't want to freak out. What if I see something spooky coming after me?
What if I get dizzy. I hate being dizzy."
He laughed. "All right." He had already sat down on the big plush blue rug,
so now he stood up. "You wanna just sit on the floor in there?"
I tossed him a big orange cushion. "Yeah. I'll get the grass."
Once we were comfortably seated within the dressing room, with some Ali
Akbar Khan on the stereo, the pungent fumes of a jasmine joss stick filling
the air of the close quarters, we started passing a joint. After just a few
hits, I looked across at Stephen and said, "Man. This is making me mellow."
He received the joint. "That's good."
"I mean, wow."
"Yeah?"
"It's like, okay, you smoke a joint to get hip to the subtle points of
whatever you're doing, fucking, digging art, listening to music, playing it
. . . "
"Yeah?"
"Same with acid. The pot is turning us on to the acid, man!"
He nodded in consideration of that, smiled a little. "And vice-versa."
When we'd finished the joint, I took my cushion and set it against the wall
going into the bathroom, closed that door. Stephen sat just down from me,
leaning his back against the oak dresser. I reached for the open door to
the living room. "I'll close this so there's just a little light coming
in."
"Knock yourself out."
By now, I was really, really, really feeling good. The good feelings from
my body were of total well-being, just that good old acid feeling you get
after all the initial freaking out is done, or like you get from just a
minor, mellow dose, down around 250 micromilligrams. It was that feeling
amplified quite a few times. I leaned back against the wall and just looked
over toward the crack of light coming through the door which was ajar by a
little better than an inch.
I was just looking at that crack of light, then looking away from it into
the darkness. "Man!"
"What?"
"I'm getting all these red and green dots?"
"Where?"
"In the dark. Look in the dark." He turned to look deeper into the
dressing room.
"Yeah. I see what you mean."
"Could be the rods and cones of our retinas that we're looking at."
"Who knows?"
"Wow!"
"What now?"
"Look at that crack in the door. Can you see that?"
He was silent. I waited as I watched, entranced.
"Yeah. It's like it's . . . undulating."
"No shit. It's beautiful."
"Wow."
"But, man! It's like it's really happening, like the edge of that door is
just disintegrating."
"I know."
I stuck out my foot and pushed the door a little so it swung open a foot
wide. "Holy balls!"
Stephen laughed. "Shit! Do it again."
I leaned over and got my hand under the door to give it a pull till it was
closed all the way. "Wow, that red and green shit is just swimming in
swarms in the dark."
"Fuckin' A."
I gave the door another push with my foot. It opened, and opened, and
opened."
"It looks like a fucking Chinese fan, man."
"Yeah. Or, like spreading a deck of cards. It's just fucking . . ." I
came to my feet, and came to my feet, and came to my feet. "Holy Jesus!" I
walked to the door, and walked to the door, ten times or more, and walked
through the door, a thousand times; I came pouring into the living room, I
came shuffling in as ten thousand Jacks of Diamonds, and I threw out my
arms to spin around to see my million arms spreading like rainbow feathered
wings . . .
And that was a good trip. I only regret that coming down from it was an
intentional decision; something I chose to do for fear that we might get
"too high". I don't think I've ever suffered such a stupid thought as that
at any other time in my life -- beyond answering a post from Redneck, that
is; if that gives any idea of how "stupid" *stupid* can get.
--
Uncle John long_go...@nobodyfeelsanypain.com
John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
On-Line Novel, *Amador Green*, MP3's and Usenet Archive
"I'll give you a slap, and when you're slapped, you'll take it and like it!"
--Humphrey Bogart as "Sam Spade" to Peter Lorre in the *Maltese Falcon*
Blanche Nonken
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and
wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote, and wrote,
but still didn't say a single coherent fucking thing. But this time I
used a *lot* more commas than he did. So there.
brew ziggins
Don't believe his lies.
--
bruce higgins ~ lbh2 at cornell dot edu ~ http://tigermtn.dev.cornell.edu
"Everything I'm going to tell you tonight is true...
Except the part about the banana sticking to the wall."
- Spalding Gray -
Robert McClelland
says...
The Newsranger service that I use shows the size of each post. Most of the posts have a 1.5K, a 3.1K or something along those lines beside them. But Jerv's posts always have a "holy crap this is huge" beside it.
Bob Sloan
others life has been more than witnessing the achievements of others,
then claiming to have "been there and done that" as well.
477 lines of argument, additional lies and tortured prose don't change
that.
You still have to live in and with that tangled, rationalizing dishonest
place that is your mind.
John P David
brew ziggins <EllBeeA...@cornell.edu> wrote in message
news:EllBeeAitchTwo-...@tigermtn.dev.cornell.edu...
Or which is to say, translated into words more readily sensible to the
understanding . . .
"Nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah."
Tone is everything, Ziggie, so henceforth when you are posting your snotty,
slandering PC twit-twaddle of little PC twat-water word puddles, WHEN you
are blowing these bubbles void of any truth in your soup at least have the
decency, after you get all that Gerber's strained carrots wiped off your
chin and fingers, to type the "Nyah-nyah smiley" so that we get the gist of
what you are really saying. Here is the way you make it, little fella . . .
"Nyah-nyah-nyah! :0~ (A bulb-nosed clown with his tongue stuck out.)"
Getting to the meat of the matter . . .
Even so, that first march I supposedly "organized" (it could have been early
'65) is a matter public record, it's in the files of the FBI and in the
newsfilm of that town's archives, should they still exist, with full screen
shots of me in my fucking Bobbie Dylan haircut, and my old lady in her Vidal
Sassoon hairdo, and those fucking card carrying Commies that were marching
with us -- little did I know till after the demonstration, when we went over
for dinner with some of them at their leader's house. I'm sitting there
eating from this plate of egg-plant and liver with leeks and lentils they'd
served us, and I'm looking for some way to get my plate down under the
coffee table to feed it to the dog, when my eyes light on these fucking
copies of U.S.S.R. magazine. What the fuck? Well, hell, I didn't need
those to convince me of who these people were -- that eggplant with leeks,
liver and lentils was enough: it all just smelled like Lenin to me. I'd
never been treated to such a totally sort of Un-American looking plate of
comestibles in my born days.
After I moved to Minneapolis, the guy who recruited me, the one who had
handed me the chairmanship of the committee up north, who was also the guy
whose pals were these Commies, well, he's this Catholic Worker anarchist
character, a total, full-time activist, three years my senior who was always
in direct correspondence with Dorthy Day, the founder of that outfit in New
the thick-lensed pair of wire-rimmed glasses, that black trenchcoat and the
fucking tyrolean hat, the 6 foot, one inch frame, and you've got one highly
imposing human being on your hands, when he's got you backed against the
wall at a party trying to press you into some new form of subversive
intrigue hatching in the depths behind those squinty, beady pale blue eyes.
My best friend and brother-in-law, Jim, who was always known as just "Jim"
did not like, and did not trust Seamus, and he never lost an opportunity to
try and bring me up short about him. Jim was certain that this Catholic
Worker stuff was just the nice white "anarchistic" icing on some totally
crimson cherry cake within this guy. For one thing, he never showed his face
in that above-mentioned demonstration. The sonofabitch, it later turned out
was hanging around in some vestibule of a building down frm this VFW in
front of which we were filing up and down with our signs on account of a
speech being given within by General Maxwell Taylor.
I was supposedly the "Chairman" of this "Northern Minnesota Commitee to End
commitment. He was still lookiing forward to some sort of ordinary existence
"Why?"
"I mean, wow."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah?"
"Knock yourself out."
"What?"
"Where?"
"Who knows?"
"Wow!"
"What now?"
"Wow."
"I know."
"Fuckin' A."
"It looks like a fucking chinese fan, man."
John P David
> You're a liar . . .
A liar is a person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
statements about others, most especially when that liar has absolutely no
possible access to the information, as it might apply to the facts of
another man's life. You lie, with an air of utter caprice, you say anything
you like to suit your twisted envious face, Redneck when you state a thing
as fact in spite of knowing that you don't have the facts. You don't have
them. You can't have them, and yet you pretend that you do. That is a lie.
So, in this we see how you lie, how your lie is proven; how you prove it by
calling me a "liar" in lieu of even one little fact to support your claim.
Your worst lie is in the way you point to honest mistakes to which I readily
admit any time they appear because of the fact that I do love the truth, but
you are a liar, a real liar, a fat and ugly swine of a liar, who is so used
to lying around in the mud and slime with your fellow swine, that you
naturally assume other men are as fully, totally and utterly filthy with
mendacity as yourself. You are such a dyed in the wool liar from way back
that the possibility that another sort of man might always earnestly be
telling and seeking the truth cannot occur to you. In your mind all men are
as sucked down into the muck by their lies as you are. You've never even
bothered to try telling the truth, so you don't even know it can be done.
You got it all wrong, Rednuts, Mr. Taggart, Master at Arms, nasty, cruel,
hate-filled sadist, you do not know that some of us are good, moral, kind
light and truth-loving people. This light and truth, kindness and goodness
is what you hate because it so contrasts with your darkness to expose it for
the evil it is. Your enmity tells the tale on you Redneck, your cruelty
reveals you. You can't hide the filth of your slimy green-blooded motives
from anyone not so filthied by that same green muck that you roll in, but
you surely have your company in other self-deceived little piggies.
---
"Why?"
"I mean, wow."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah?"
"Knock yourself out."
"What?"
"Where?"
"Who knows?"
"Wow!"
"What now?"
"Wow."
"I know."
"Fuckin' A."
"It looks like a fucking chinese fan, man."
brew ziggins
<snipped, and gladly so>
Get a job, chump.
John P David
brew ziggins <EllBeeA...@cornell.edu> wrote in message
news:EllBeeAitchTwo-...@tigermtn.dev.cornell.edu...
>
> <snipped, and gladly so>
>
> Get a job, chump.
Sure thing, Sweet Stuff: All you have to do is pucker up and Blow.
jimC
removed, and everything after the first comma is excised. The barest
hint of a dithyramb emerges.
When I was in high school, I thought Bob Denver's bad Beat poetry recitations
on "The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis" were the coolest thing on TV. Cooler even
than Ernie Kovacs. I also had a bit of a thing for Zelda, played by Sheila
James. Boy, was that misdirected!
I almost have it, but not quite. With a little work, I am sure I can make
this guy into a Ginsberg, that bane of Paris Panties-Afire or whatever his
name was. Can one ever be sure a poster is gone for good?
jimC
John P David writes:
> A person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
> statements about others. An air of utter caprice. Them. Them.
>
> We see how you lie. Is in the way you point to honest mistakes to which I readily
> admit any time they appear because of the fact that I do love the truth.
> A dyed in the wool liar from way back that the possibility that another sort of man
> might always earnestly be telling and seeking the truth cannot occur to you.
> All men are as sucked down into the muck by their lies as you are.
> Bothered to try telling the truth.
>
> All wrong. Truth. The tale on you Redneck. The filth of your slimy
> green-blooded motives from anyone not so filthied by that same green muck
> that you roll in.
> ---
>
> Soon see how irrelevant other people really can be.
> For nothing except that it is the boot camp university you go through
> in order to learn how to die. You die alone with no one to
> help you through. Every other person on earth becomes
> irrelevant. Extends to the person that you are.
>
> On acid. Become so intimidatingly present apparent to your senses that
> I can only compare Him/She/It to Seamus O'Cathaein sweetly crowding you
> to the wall at a Post-Protest party.
[etc.]
Bob Sloan
>
> Bob Sloan <rls...@mindspring.com> wrote in message
> news:3BBDD717...@mindspring.com...
> > You're a liar . . .
>
> A liar is a person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
> statements
No need to read the following 164 lines. "Completely unsubstantiable
statements" is your stock in trade, Jerkis.
You _are_ a liar, a weak and inept one at that.
--
http://rlsloan.netbasix.com/
Stories, poetry, "Notes From the Top of the Hill,"
and some funny stuff.
Listen to MP3 "notes" at
http://www.morehead-st.edu/units/wmky/
TWO NEW AUDIO TAPES AVAILABLE...
Email for details
---AND BUY AMERICAN!!!--
--Uh, if you're an American, that is--
Blanche Nonken
> You lie, with an air of utter caprice,
Hey Bob, could you do something about the emissions on your Caprice?
They seem to have Jervis all inflamed or something.
John P David
> John P David wrote:
> >
> > Bob Sloan <rls...@mindspring.com> wrote in message
> > news:3BBDD717...@mindspring.com...
> > > You're a liar . . .
> >
> > A liar is a person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
> > statements
>
> No need to read the following 164 lines. "Completely unsubstantiable
> statements" is your stock in trade, Jerkis.
>
> You _are_ a liar, a weak and inept one at that.
I told you Redneck: if I let you get into that phone booth -- or call it a
"modem", if ya have to -- you can't be performing any more of your
preversions in there, lest I should have to blow your head off,
cybernetically speaking.
But it is the Cola Cola Company, not me that you are going to have to answer
to in the end, Redbutt. I'm talking about God, Jesus, Brahma, Krishna and
the Buddhas who are witness to the following fact: You are the liar, and
anyone willfully deluded enough to believe your lies is a worse liar and
bigger babboon than you.
These are my last words to you, previous to your Satori. Get thee to a
nunnery Wicked Stepsister, and meditate on this: "What is the sound of a
Big Shot published author and former critic for the New York Times singing
the praises of Big Daddio?" That is your ego-breaking Koan, Redface. Get
on with it.
--
Sgt. Bat Jervis Guano
Snorky the Inept
> >
> > A liar is a person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
> > statements
>
> No need to read the following 164 lines. "Completely unsubstantiable
> statements" is your stock in trade, Jerkis.
>
> You _are_ a liar, a weak and inept one at that.
HEY! WATCH IT!
You insult ineptitude by associating it with him. I, for one, am offended
by your derogation of the adjective.
--
-Snorky the Inept
DEAD FREAKS UNITE
Who are you? Where are you?
How are you?
Bob Sloan
...161 words in fourteen lines, without making any sense at all.
Ho hum.
Bob Sloan
Ain't my caprice. I got a Dodge truck, you fascist wench.
Bob Sloan
> > > > You're a liar . . .
> > >
> > > A liar is a person who goes about making completely unsubstantiable
> > > statements
> >
> > No need to read the following 164 lines. "Completely unsubstantiable
> > statements" is your stock in trade, Jerkis.
> >
> > You _are_ a liar, a weak and inept one at that.
>
> HEY! WATCH IT!
>
> You insult ineptitude by associating it with him. I, for one, am offended
> by your derogation of the adjective.
Sorry. I do apologize to the inept who read the above and took offense
to it.
(Worth noting: the inept are far more gracious than the Association of
Complete and Utter Ignoramuses, who sent me a nastygram over some not or
other I wrote to/about Jerkis.)
Snorky the Inept
> >
> > HEY! WATCH IT!
> >
> > You insult ineptitude by associating it with him. I, for one, am
offended
> > by your derogation of the adjective.
>
> Sorry. I do apologize to the inept who read the above and took offense
> to it.
Apology accepted. Remember, the inept are not malicious,
just...uhm...well...inept.
> (Worth noting: the inept are far more gracious than the Association of
> Complete and Utter Ignoramuses, who sent me a nastygram over some not or
> other I wrote to/about Jerkis.)
Thenk yew.
*bows dexterously*
Blanche Nonken
> Blanche Nonken wrote:
> >
> > "John P David" <dadd...@yahoo.com> wrote:
> >
> > > You lie, with an air of utter caprice,
> >
> > Hey Bob, could you do something about the emissions on your Caprice?
> > They seem to have Jervis all inflamed or something.
>
> Ain't my caprice. I got a Dodge truck, you fascist wench.
That's metric socket wench to you, you pinko socialist wob.
Blanche Nonken
> These are my last words to you, previous to your Satori. Get thee to a
> nunnery Wicked Stepsister, and meditate on this: "What is the sound of a
> Big Shot published author and former critic for the New York Times singing
> the praises of Big Daddio?" That is your ego-breaking Koan, Redface. Get
> on with it.
> --
No, really. You must be Chester Anderson, pretending to be Laszlo
Scott. You've got the stupid poet routine down flat. I bet you even
got those moldy suede boots.
MICHAEL JAHN
days ago I stumbled over a post, "My Triumph," by JP Davis, and wrote this
(the paragraph to follow is in response to his paragraph, below it) ...
Mine:
"Wow. You made me flash back to 1968. I have to go lay down. What incredible
writing. I couldn't decide if you were Hunter Thompson, John Sinclair ...
although he's gone mainstream of late, I hear ... Ed Sanders, or the ghost
of Allen Ginsberg. "
His:
"I can't express that numbness, the knowledge of how war took an entire
generation and threw it into chaos, just interrupted everything we had
planned for our lives. I'm still in shock of that sudden violence, that
steel door slamming, that grabbing hand that came to take my freedom and
crush it, to throw it on the ground and step on it, to grind it in the dirt
while millions of foolish-minded people supported that senseless thing being
done to us. I am still far too bitter with them, and still too numb knowing
yet how little they cared and I cannot weep."
I said what I said and I meant it. There seems to be some confusion about my
praise of his writing. I'm not really sure who JP Davis is, and I can't keep
track of the various email handles he uses ("Daddio" is one). But this man
is very talented, and he needs to be published somewhere. That paragraph is
excellent, and some of the other bits in the "My Triumph" post are stunning.
He writes with an anger and a humor, the two together, that make for really
good literature. He comes up with some very clever phrases and wonderful
contrasting images. And he's got a hell of a tale to tell, his travels
through the sixties.
I'm not saying that every word he writes is golden, and now I'm going to put
on my editor hat. He needs to lose the mysogynistic shit ... the Kotex
comments and all that, because they're tasteless and for a practical reason
... most editors are women. And some of the drug humor is really dated. In
short, he needs a good editor. We all do.
I don't have enough power in the publishing world to do him much good, but I
will recommend him to a couple of people and see if anything happens. It's
really tough getting published in the mainstream book world. It's tough for
me, it's tough for anyone. Two years ago I was signing books at New York Is
Book Country, the mammoth autumnal book festival on Fifth Avenue. They put
me at a table between Robert Parker and Mary Higgins Clark. Parker had 500
people lined up to see him. Mary must have 5000. I had half a dozen, and
three of them were family members. But what the hell, I write a book a year
and get to see my rantings put on library shelves. I get to take my Calvin
and Hobbes childhood and mold it into something useful. Writing is fun.
Down below someone calls Davis "a chronic, constant liar."
I don;t think he made anything up. It rings far too true. But if he did, who
give's a rat's ass? He's a writer, and a damned good one. Words are what we
do.
Michael Jahn
--Edgar Award-winning author of some 50 books
--One-time NY Times folk and rock critic and acquaintance of a number of
rock legends who are long-since deceased (in fact, nearly all of them)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Read MURDER ON THE WATERFRONT, now in stores from St. Martin's Press.
Visit MICHAEL JAHN'S NEW YORK for updates on the city that never sleeps and
all the Bill Donovan Mysteries at http://home.att.net/~medj/
John P David <dadd...@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:9pjr7f$kc$1...@newsreader.mailgate.org...
John P David
MICHAEL JAHN <me...@worldnet.att.net> wrote in message
news:0pPw7.57031$3d2.2...@bgtnsc06-news.ops.worldnet.att.net...
>
> I'm not saying that every word he writes is golden, and now I'm going to
put
> on my editor hat. He needs to lose the mysogynistic shit ... the Kotex
> comments and all that, because they're tasteless and for a practical
reason
> ... most editors are women. And some of the drug humor is really dated. In
> short, he needs a good editor. We all do.
Yeah, that dated drug humor is definitely a problem. Okay, Mike, tell you
what; soon as I get hold of some new drugs--just a little super mellow
peyote or a glass of absinthe will do--the drug humor update will be like a
done deal, right? No problem.
Now, I don't know which one of these silly little tattlers might have put
that bug in your ear about my alleged "misogynistic" views, or whether you
simply arrived at that opinion on your own. In any case, I state my case
very clearly in "My Triumph", there's nothing I love more than my *hate* for
feminists -- not for real women. I love real women. But I don't give a
flat flapping sat on fart how many goddam broads they got working as editors
out there, if those silly split-tails are going to act as censors instead of
professional, objective editors then them dames is like, totally in the
wrong business, and you know it.
I don't kow-tow to that shit, man, never have and never will, and on the day
I do, every bit of juice I have as a writer will dry up -- and that you
surely ought to know. Whoever does decide to publish me, whenever, if ever
that happens, that editor will keep his or her fucking nose out of the
content of what I write and restrict themselves to grammar and punctuation.
That's final and decided. I've had my experience with the pressures of
people trying to force me to go the chicken-shit route, when I had to stand
by watching my content bowdlerized and cut to shreds, writing for that
newspaper out west and I hated waking up in the morning to see what that
does to a man's integrity and his former love of writing. Oh, that was
fucked. That was so dead. I'd throw my computer in the trash and go to a
career as an auto mechanic, at least being able to wake up in the morning
knowing that my work was honest.
>
> I don't have enough power in the publishing world to do him much good, but
I
> will recommend him to a couple of people and see if anything happens.
Hey man. Worse things have happened. Look at the World Trade Center and
the Pentagon. I'm totally pulling for you on this effort, as you know.
> It's
> really tough getting published in the mainstream book world. It's tough
for
> me, it's tough for anyone. Two years ago I was signing books at New York
Is
> Book Country, the mammoth autumnal book festival on Fifth Avenue. They put
> me at a table between Robert Parker and Mary Higgins Clark. Parker had 500
> people lined up to see him. Mary must have 5000. I had half a dozen, and
> three of them were family members. But what the hell, I write a book a
year
> and get to see my rantings put on library shelves. I get to take my Calvin
> and Hobbes childhood and mold it into something useful. Writing is fun.
>
> Down below someone calls Davis "a chronic, constant liar."
>
> I don't think he made anything up. It rings far too true.
It just goes to prove the old adage: "Truth is stranger than fiction."
Indeed, if it was my imagination I had to rely on for all this stuff, I'd
have to agree that I must be one "talented" sonofabitch. ;-)
> But if he did, who
> give's a rat's ass? He's a writer, and a damned good one. Words are what
we
> do.
Listen to that the rest of you envy-bitten bastards Ignore it, go ahead --
it'll do you no good. Time you got started sucking up to Daddio now, people,
or you'll really be kicking yourselves in six months time when *Amador
Green* is at the top of the Best Seller list, and here all along, you coulda
had it for free by one easy visit to . . .
--
Uncle John long_go...@nobodyfeelsanypain.com
John's Joint:: http://jpdavid.freewebspace.com/
On-Line Novel, *Amador Green*, MP3's and Usenet Archive
> Michael Jahn