A Small Favor

It seemed as if the palace had always housed the Atrius Building Commission, the company of clerks and estate agents who authored and notarized nearly every construction of any note in the Empire. It had stood for two hundred and fifty years, since the reign of the Emperor Strahallin II, a plain-fronted and austere hall on a minor but respectable plaza in the capital city of Carthax. Energetic and ambitious middle-class lads and ladies worked there, as well as complacent middle-aged ones like Decumus Scotti. No one could imagine a world without the Commission, least of all Scotti. To be accurate, he could not imagine a world without himself in the Commission.

“Lord Atrius is perfectly aware of your contributions,” said the managing clerk, closing the shutter that demarcated Scotti’s office behind him. “But you know that things have been difficult.”

“Yes,” said Scotti, stiffly.

“Lord Vallius’ men have been giving us a lot of competition lately, and we must be more efficient if we are to survive. Unfortunately, that means releasing some of our historically best but presently underachieving senior clerks.”

“I understand. Can’t be helped.”

“I’m glad that you understand,” smiled the managing clerk, smiling thinly and withdrawing. “Please have your room cleared immediately.”

Scotti began the task of organizing all his work to pass on to his successor. It would probably be young Imbrallius who would take most of it on, which was as it should be, he considered philosophically. The lad knew how to find business. Scotti wondered idly what the fellow would do with the contracts for the new statue of Almalexia for which the Temple of the One had applied. Probably invent a clerical error, blame it on his old predecessor Decumus Scotti, and require an additional cost to rectify.

“I have correspondence for Decumus Scotti of the Atrius Building Commission.”

Scotti looked up. A fat-faced courier had entered his office and was thrusting forth a sealed scroll. He handed the boy a gold piece, and opened it up. By the poor penmanship, atrocious spelling and grammar, and overall unprofessional tone, it was manifestly evident who the writer was. Tertius Jurus, a fellow clerk some years before, who had left the Commission after being accused of unethical business practices.

Dear Sckotti,

I emagine you alway wondered what happened to me, and the last plase you would have expected to find me is out in the woods. But thats exactly where I am. Ha ha. If your’e smart and want to make lot of extra gold for Lord Atrius (and yourself, ha ha), youll come down to Vallinwood too. If you have’nt or have been following the politics hear lately, you may or may not know that ther’s bin a war between the Skyrelmi and there neighbors over the past two years. Things have only just calm down, and ther’s a lot that needs to be rebuilt.

Now Ive got more business than I can handel, but I need somone with some clout, someone representing a respected agencie to get the quill in the ink. That somone is you, my fiend. Come & meat me at the M’ther Paskos Tavern in Falinnesti, Vallinwood. Ill be here 2 weeks and you wont be sorrie.

– Jurus

P.S.: Bring a wagenload of timber if you can.

“What do you have there, Scotti?” asked a voice.

Scotti started. It was Imbrallius, his damnably handsome face peeking through the shutters, smiling in that way that melted the hearts of the stingiest of patrons and the roughest of stonemasons. Scotti shoved the letter in his jacket pocket.

“Personal correspondence,” he sniffed. “I’ll be cleared up here in a just a moment.”

“I don’t want to hurry you,” said Imbrallius, grabbing a few sheets of blank contracts from Scotti’s desk. “I’ve just gone through a stack, and the junior scribes hands are all cramping up, so I thought you wouldn’t miss a few.”

The lad vanished. Scotti retrieved the letter and read it again. He thought about his life, something he rarely did. It seemed a sea of gray with a black insurmountable wall looming. There was only one narrow passage he could see in that wall. Quickly, before he had a moment to reconsider it, he grabbed a dozen of the blank contracts with the shimmering gold leaf ATRIUS BUILDING COMMISSION BY APPOINTMENT OF HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY and hid them in the satchel with his personal effects.

The next day he began his adventure with a giddy lack of hesitation. He arranged for a seat in a caravan bound for Valenwood, the single escorted conveyance to the southeast leaving Carthax that week. He had scarcely hours to pack, but he remembered to purchase a wagonload of timber.

“It will be extra gold to pay for a horse to pull that,” frowned the convoy head.

“So I anticipated,” smiled Scotti with his best Imbrallius grin.

Ten wagons in all set off that afternoon through the familiar Thendran countryside. Past fields of wildflowers, gently rolling woodlands, friendly hamlets. The clop of the horses’ hooves against the sound stone road reminded Scotti that the Atrius Building Commission constructed it. Five of the eighteen necessary contracts for its completion were drafted by his own hand.

“Very smart of you to bring that wood along,” said a gray-whiskered dwarf next to him on his wagon. “You must be in Commerce.”

“Of a sort,” said Scotti, in a way he hoped was mysterious, before introducing himself: “Decumus Scotti.”

“Gryf Mallon,” said the dwarf. “I’m a poet, actually a translator of elder Oth’i literature. I was researching some newly discovered tracts of the Mnoriad Pley Bar two years ago when the war broke out and I had to leave. You are no doubt familiar with the Mnoriad, if you’re aware of the Green Pact.”

Scotti thought the dwarf might be speaking perfect gibberish, but he nodded his head.

“Naturally, I don’t pretend that the Mnoriad is as renowned as the Tol Ayleidion, or as ancient as the Dansir Gol, but I think it has a remarkable significance to understanding the nature of the merelithic Skyrelmi mind. The origin of the green elven aversion to cutting their own wood or eating any plant material at all, yet paradoxically their willingness to import plantstuff from other cultures, I feel can be linked to a passage in the Mnoriad,” Mallon shuffled through some of his papers, searching for the appropriate text.

To Scotti’s vast relief, the carriage soon stopped to camp for the night. They were high on a bluff over a gray stream, and before them was the great valley of Valenwood. Only the cry of seabirds declared the presence of the ocean to the bay to the west: here the timber was so tall and wide, twisting around itself like an impossible knot begun eons ago, to be impenetrable. A few more modest trees, only fifty feet to the lowest branches, stood on the cliff at the edge of camp. The sight was so alien to Scotti and he found himself so anxious about the proposition of entering the wilderness that he could not imagine sleeping.

Fortunately, Mallon had supposed he had found another academic with a passion for the riddles of ancient cultures. Long into the night, he recited Baraan verse in the original and in his own translation, sobbing and bellowing and whispering wherever appropriate. Gradually, Scotti began to feel drowsy, but a sudden crack of wood snapping made him sit straight up.

“What was that?”

Mallon smiled: “I like it too. ‘Convocation in the malignity of the moonless speculum, a dance of fire –’”

“There are some enormous birds up in the trees moving around,” whispered Scotti, pointing in the direction of the dark shapes above.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Mallon, irritated with his audience. “Now listen to how the poet characterizes Hermaeus-Mora’s invocation in the eighteenth stanza of the fourth book.”

The dark shapes in the trees were some of them perched like birds, others slithered like snakes, and still others stood up straight like men. As Mallon recited his verse, Scotti watched the figures softly leap from branch to branch, half-gliding across impossible distances for anything without wings. They gathered in groups and then reorganized until they had spread to every tree around the camp. Suddenly they plummeted from the heights.

“Mother’s mercy!” cried Scotti. “They’re falling like rain!”

“Probably seed pods,” Mallon shrugged, not turning around. “Some of the trees have remarkable –”

The camp erupted into chaos. Fires burst out in the wagons, the horses wailed from mortal blows, casks of wine, fresh water, and liquor gushed their contents to the ground. A nimble shadow dashed past Scotti and Mallon, gathering sacks of grain and gold with impossible agility and grace. Scotti had only one glance at it, lit up by a sudden nearby burst of flame. It was a sleek creature with pointed ears, wide yellow eyes, mottled pied fur and a tail like a whip.

“Werewolf,” he whimpered, shrinking back.

“Cathay-raht,” groaned Mallon. “Much worse. Khajiit cousins or some such thing, come to plunder.”

“Are you sure?”

As quickly as they struck, the creatures retreated, diving off the bluff before the battlemage and knight, the caravan’s escorts, had fully opened their eyes. Mallon and Scotti ran to the precipice and saw a hundred feet below the tiny figures dash out of the water, shake themselves, and disappear into the wood.

“Werewolves aren’t acrobats like that,” said Mallon. “They were definitely Cathay-raht. Bastard thieves. Thank Stendarr they didn’t realize the value of my notebooks. It wasn’t a complete loss.”

The Tale of the Master Thief

“The problem with thieves today,” said Lledos, “is the lack of technique. I know there’s no honor among thieves, and there never was, but there used to be some pride, some skill, some basic creativity. It really makes those of us with a sense of history despair.”

Imalyn sneered, slamming down his flagon of khof (1) violently on the rough-hewn table. “Lledos, what do you want us to say? You ask us ‘What do you do when you see a guard?’ and I say, ‘Stab the fecher (2) in the back.’ What d’you prefer? We challenge ‘em to a game of dice?”

“So much ambition, so little education,” said Lledos with a sigh. “My dear friends, we aren’t mugging some Thendrian tourist fresh off the ferry. The Cobblers Guildhall may not sound intimidating but tonight, when the dues collection is housed there before being sent to the bank, the security’s going to be tighter than a peleth’s ass (3). You can’t just stab at every back you encounter and expect to make it into the vaults.”

“Why don’t you explain specifically what you’d like us to do?” asked Galsiah calmly, trying to keep the tone of the group down. Most locals at the Plot and Plaster cornerclub (4) in Por Thoras knew enough not to listen in, but she knew better than to take any chances.

“The common thief,” said Lledos, pouring himself more khof and warming to his subject, “sticks his dagger in his opponent’s back. This may slay the target, but more often gives him time to scream and drenches the attacker with blood. Not good. Now a good throat-slashing, properly executed, can both slay and silence a guard and leave the thief relatively bloodfree. And after all, after the robbery, we don’t want people seeing a bunch of blood-soaked butchers running through the streets. Even in Por Thoras, that’s likely to warrant suspicion.

“If you can catch your victim lying down asleep or resting, you are in an excellent position. You place one hand over the mouth with your thumb under the chin, then you use your other hand to slit the throat, and quickly turn the head to one side so the body bleeds out away from you. There is a risk here of becoming blood stained if you don’t move the head quickly enough. If you’re unsure, strangle the victim first to avoid the blood that tends to spurt out in three foot jets when someone is stabbed while alive.

“A very good friend of mine, a thief in Mel Nethra whose name I won’t mention, swears by the strangle-and-slash technique. Simply put, you grab your victim’s throat from behind and while throttling him, you batter his face against the opposite wall. When the victim is thus rendered unconscious, you slash his throat while still holding him from behind, and the risk of staining one’s clothes with blood is practically nonexistent.

“The classic technique, which requires less grappling than my friend’s variation, is to place one hand over the victim’s mouth, and then saw through the throat in three or four stroke rather like playing a violin. It requires little effort, and while there’s quite a bit of blood, it all jets forward away from you.

“There’s no reason when one knows one is going to be slitting some throats not to take some precautions and bring some extra equipment. The best neck-hackers I know generally carry a bit of wadded cloth on the aft-side of their knives to keep blood from getting on their cuffs. It’s impractical for this sort of assignment, but when you’re only anticipating one or two victims, nothing beats throwing a sack over the targets head, drawing the string tight, and then supplying the killing blow or blows.”

Imalyn laughed loudly, “Can I see a demonstration sometime?”

“Very soon,” said Lledos. “If Galsiah has done her job.”

Galsiah brought out the map of the guildhouse, freshly stolen, and they began to detail out the strategy.

The last several hours had been a whirlwind to all. In less than a day, the three had met, formulated a plan, bought or stolen the necessary ingredients, and were about to execute it. Not one of the three were sure whether confidence or stupidity were driving the other two, but the fates were aligned. The guildhouse was going to be robbed.

When the sun set, Lledos, Galsiah, and Imalyn approached the Cobblers Guildhouse on the east end of town. Galsiah used her cachous (5) of stoneflower (6) to mask their scent from the guard wolves as the three passed over the parapets. She also acted as lead scout, and Lledos was impressed. For someone of relative inexperience, she knew her way through shadows.

Lledos’ expertise was demonstrated a dozen times, and the guards were of such a diverse variety, he was able to demonstrate all the means of silent assassination he had developed over the years.

Imalyn opened the vault in his unique and systematic method. As the tumblers fell beneath his fingers, he softly sang an old dirty tavern song about the Ninety-Nine Loves of Benvolio. He said it helped him focus and organize difficult combinations. Within seconds, the vault was open and the gold was in hand.

They left the guildhouse an hour after they entered. No alarm had been raised, the gold was gone, and corpses lay pooling blood on the stone floors within.

“Well done, my friends, well done. You learned well.” Lledos said as he poured the gold pieces into the specially designed compartments in his tunic’s sleeves, where they held fast with no jingling or unusual bulges. “We’ll meet back at the Plot and Plaster tomorrow morning and split up the bounty.”

The group parted ways. The only person who knew the most covert route through the city’s sewer system, Lledos, slipped in through a duct and vanished below. Galsiah threw on her shawl, muddied her face to resemble an old fortune-teller, and headed north. Imalyn headed east into the park, trusting his unnatural senses to keep him away from the citywatch.

Now I teach them the greatest lesson of all, thought Lledos as he sloshed through the labyrinthine tunnels of sludge. His steed was waiting where he left it at the city gates, making a laconic lunch of the chokeweed shrub to which it had been leashed.

On the road to Mel Dorath, he thought of Galsiah and Imalyn. Perhaps they had been caught and brought in for questioning already. It was a pity he couldn’t see them undergoing interrogation. Who would break under pressure first? Imalyn was certainly the tougher of the two, but Galsiah doubtless had hidden reserves. It was merely intellectual curiousity: they thought his name was Lledos and he was meeting them at the Plot and Plaster. The authorities wouldn’t therefore be looking for a shadow elf named Sathis celebrating his wealth miles and miles away in Mel Dorath.

As he prodded his mount forward and the sun began rising, Sathis pictured Galsiah and Imalyn not undergoing interrogation, but sleeping the good deep sleep of the wicked, dreaming of how they would spend their share of the gold. Both would wake up early and rush to the Plot and Plaster. He could see them now, Imalyn laughing and carrying on, Galsiah hushing him to avoid bringing undue attention. They would take a couple flagons of khof, perhaps order a meal — a big one — and wait. Hours would pass, and so would their moods. The chain of reactions that every betrayed person exhibits: nervousness, doubt, bewilderment, anger.

The sun was fully risen when Sathis reached the stables of his house on the outskirts of Mel Dorath. He reigned in his horse and filled its feed. The rest of the stalls were empty. It wouldn’t be until that afternoon when his servants returned from the Feast of Seven Eyes. They were good people, and he treated them well, but from past experience he knew that servants talked. If they began to connect his absences with thefts in other cities, it was only a matter of time before they would go to the authorities or blackmail him. After all, they were human. It was best in the long run to give them a week off with pay whenever he was out of town on business.

He slipped the gold into the vault in his study, and went upstairs. The schedule had been tight, but Sathis had given himself a few hours to rest before his household returned. His own bed was wonderfully soft and warm compared to the dreadful mattress he had to use at the canton in Por Thoras.

Sathis woke up some time later from a nightmare. For a second after he opened his eyes, he thought he could still hear Imalyn’s voice nearby, singing The Ninety-Nine Loves of Benvolio. He lay still in his bed, waiting, but there was no sound except the usual creaks and groans of his old house. Afternoon sunlight came through his bedroom window in ribbons, catching dust. He closed his eyes.

The song returned, and Sathis heard the vault door in his study swing open. The smell of stoneflower filled his nose and he opened his eyes. Only a little of the afternoon sunlight could pierce the inside of the burlap sack.

A strong, feminine hand clamped over the mouth and a thumb jabbed under his chin. Just as his throat opened and his head was shoved to the side, he heard Galsiah in her typical calm voice, “Thank you for the lesson, Sathis.”

* * *

Notes:

1.  Khof is a type of ale.

2.  An insult of the lowest common denominator.

3.  A beast of burden commonly used by the peasant class in Mel’Cendia.

4.  A cornerclub is similar to a tavern, except that most figures of ill-repute such as thieves and assassins can usually be found within.

5.  Roughly one glass vial’s worth.  In real world terms, an amount no larger than a heap of sugar that can be placed on the flat of your thumb.

6.  Stoneflower is both a perfume and a powerful narcotic (if used in high doses).

The Tale of Edas and the Circle

In the Beginning, there was the Circle. They dwelt in the Silver City, and they were alone in the fastness.

And the world hung in the void, dark and still; drakes slept in its cold heart. And the Circle set forth their hands, and spake the Words of Making, and raised up the land from the waters, and they hung the firmament above. And there they set the sun, and light shone for the first time on the world. And the Circle threw open the gates of the City.

And the Circle strove and spake again, and brought forth the trees and the herbs of the world, and they made all the beasts that swam or flew or crept upon the world. They made the races of Andurin, first the gnomes, then the dwarves, then the elves, then the halflings and finally that of Men, and set aside bountiful lands for them to dwell in. And first among these new men was their king, one Edas. And the Circle went unto him, and said, “All this land and every thing beneath it are yours; you and your subjects are to serve as stewards. You may enter freely through the gates of our City as you will, and you may drink from the Fountain that is found there. Know that the waters of the Fountain are life, and whosoever drinks from that Fountain shall not die. But you must swear fealty to us, and whenever we call you to service, you must heed our call. And you and all men must stay within the lands we have given you.”

And Edas swore fealty to the Circle, and all of those that were on the world also swore fealty to the Circle, and there was great gladness, for there was no toil or pain in those days. And Edas took as his queen Vaush, and she bore him two children, a son Cydren, and a daughter, Larenna.

And the Circle charged the drakes with guarding the gates of the City, and with watching the ends of the world, and the secret places in the earth. But the greatest of the drakes had overheard the Circle making the world, and thus they learned the Words of Making, and they grew prideful and covetous. And these drakes were nine in number, and their hearts were poisoned with jealousy of the Circle. And these wyrms were named the Nhar’thim.

And the Nhar’thim sought to corrupt the work that the Circle had done, and so the wyrms went in secret into the world, and they went among many of their drake brethren, and said unto them, “Lo, do we not also know the Words of Making; why should we not be rulers over all the races?” And such was the cunning of the Nhar’thim that the drakes that heard these words agreed, and in their pride swore that they would no longer serve the Circle.

And the Nhar’thim stole into the City and went before many of the celestial spirits, those who are called the Eledar, and said unto them, “Look how the Circle favor these creatures called Men over you, even though you have dwelt in the City since before the making of the world.” And the serpents said these words, and many Eledar were filled with great pride, and they too declared that they would renounce the Circle.

Now Cydren, son of Edas, and Larenna, daughter of Vaush, had grown to adulthood. And they were wild in their hearts, and they enjoyed wandering throughout the lands of Men. And sometimes they strayed beyond the lands of Men, despite the commands of their father and the Circle. And when Edas heard of their straying, he grew wrathful, for well he remembered the Circle’s words. But he doted upon his children, and soon he came to indulge their every wish, allowing them to stray as far from the lands of Men as they willed.

And it came one day that Larenna and Cydren had strayed beyond the lands of Men, and in that place there came upon them the Nhar’thim. Now in those days, all of the drakes had scales that glittered and shone in the sun, and Larenna and Cydren were greatly amazed to see such a wondrous sight. And the Nhar’thim spake to them with great guile, and said unto them, “Would you not lie with each as man and wife? Would you not wear your parents’ crowns, and dwell in their chambers? And would you not rule over all the races?” And Cydren and Larenna agreed that they would want these things to come to pass. And the Nhar’thim said unto them, “Return to the lands of Men, and speak to your father, and tell him to heed not the clarion of the Circle. For if he should heed the call, surely he shall be destroyed” And Larenna and Cydren did this, and their father was sore afraid.

And there came one day war to the Silver City, and at the Nhar’thim’s bidding many in the ranks of the Eledar rose up and took fiery arms against the Circle. And many of the drakes rose up as well.

And the Circle sounded the clarion, calling the armies of Men to battle. But the men answered not, but rather hid in their houses, and shook with fear. And Edas was wracked with terror, but he rose not. And the clarion sounded again, and again no man stirred forth, although the sounds of terrible battle could be heard even in the lands of Men. And the clarion sounded a third time, but still no man went forth to heed the call.

And in the great battle, the Nhar’thim were brought low, and their army was trampled beneath the Knights of the Circle. And so the Nhar’thim were defeated and thrown into the Abyss. And those among the Eledar that had rebelled were also thrown into the Abyss, and stripped of all radiance. And all evil drakes were forced from service to the Circle, and destined to ever after creep upon the earth. They lost their gleaming scales, and were made to lust without satience after precious metals and stones.

And the Circle were wrathful at the disobedience of Edas and of all Men, and the Circle closed all of the gates into the City save one; the only way for men to enter through this gate was to die. And at this gate stood a great and loyal drake, which was charged with testing the worth of each petitioner. Those unworthy were turned away, and not allowed to drink from the Fountain.

And the Circle turned their heads from Cydren and Larenna, and they were made lowly, and forced to walk the lands of Andurin until the end of all time. And their spawn, and the spawn of their spawn, were monsters.

And Edas wept with shame and sorrow.

* * *

If this seemed familiar to you, it should.  I wrote this a few months ago but recently decided that the piece could use one or two minor revisions.  This should do for the moment, or until I get the urge to rewrite again.  –S.

SCOTUS and Smut

The Supreme Court has agreed to hear a case challenging the validity of the 2003 “PROTECT Act” that Congress passed in order to reinforce and expand federal controls on child porn after the Court struck down a 1996 federal law that brought about Ashcroft v. Free Speech Coalition (2002). The PROTECT Act is separate from the law struck down last week by a federal judge in Philadelphia, involving a federal law that solely targets Internet distribution of sexually explicit materials in order to protect children with access to computers and other online devices.

The case is United States v. Williams (06-694).

View the certiorari petition here and the reply brief here.

What does this mean as far as the LGBT community is concerned, you ask? Plenty.

2257 Regulations

As part of its legislative mandate, the PROTECT Act directs the U.S. attorney general to enforce regulations that govern the creation and reproduction of online pornography. Section 2257 of Title 18 of the United States Code took effect on 23 June 2005. The statute requires producers of sexually explicit material to attain proof of age for every model they shoot, and keep those records on hand. Federal inspectors may — at any time — launch inspections of these records and prosecute any infraction.

While the statute seemingly excluded from these record-keeping requirements anyone who is involved in activity “which does not involve hiring, contracting for, managing, or otherwise arranging for, the participation of the performers depicted,” the Department of Justice defined an entirely new class of producers known as “secondary producers.” According to the DOJ, a secondary producer is anyone who “publishes, reproduces, or reissues” explicit material.

If you have risque photographs on your Manhunt profile, you’re a secondary producer. If you have sexy pics on your personal blog, you fall within that category. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a butt shot, a cartoon or full frontal nudity. The government doesn’t care; they just want to be able to sanitize the Internet in the name of morality. While only one case has been brought to trial in light of the foregoing, it’s clear that the statutes have had a chilling effect on free speech. Even if no actual humans were involved, a new law is being codified into 2257A which will eventually ban depictions of simulated sex.

Remember that in all instances, one must think of the children.

Autumn

You sleep on our bed
with breath that is
low. In and out.
Listen to the sound,
I hear our souls
wrestling for peace.

Autumn has set. Dead leaves
drop from the ends of branches
and flutter lazily
to the earth.

My balance is shaken now
with the winds of a season
and their echo rattles
like a storm of chestnuts
raining, falling
on rusted tin rooftops.

If you lost that look
you gave me which
you thought I didn’t see,
we will never see spring

as acorns
tumble and fall
onto the hard ground
and green morphs to brown
but before red or gold.

Why McDonald’s Scares Me

And not just because of the Big Macs — which by the way, I haven’t had in over two years.

No, the reason why McDonald’s isn’t high on my list of cultural icons is because of its main rep, Ronald McDonald.  I know I’m not the only one who finds him creepy.

Thanks to T for this little tidbit of food culture that I’ve been missing out on.

Identity

I’m having trouble with the last three stanzas of this piece. Comments are appreciated.

* * *

I am the first drag of marijuana
rolled through a coke can
flag waving bright star
in my pale golden sun.
I am the lunatic banging his head on the wall
for the hundredth time that hour,
the homespun knitted scarf
Michael still wears over his shoulder,
a rusty pipe organ playing during a picture show,
velvet painting of Elvis bought at a county fair

a disease identified by its initials,
the moment in winter right before flowers bloom
invention and device
scientific calculation
prescription for Ritalin
energy and synergy and a cosmic connection –
the true ressurrection

greasy bag of French fries pushed down your mouth in a rush

it’s too much

I am printed, packaged, stamped, opened,
used, thrown out, recycled and mailed again
spit out my summary, credit history, credentials,
social security, welfare receipts, taxes,
bank account references
take my mug shot, blue prints,
plans, lists and my frustrations
have the marginal value of my life displayed

He went through life
and all I got was this lousy t shirt
and I exist only for you,
and I resist only for you,
and I protest and am very distressed
and I can’t get dressed cause I just don’t know what to wear.

I am yellow cat love songs
Johnny Mathis sung silly sad jingles
French perfume cheap jewelry yard sale
tweetie bird high hat red stockings
tap dancer filled butterfly egg yolk
fake leather leisure suit silver plated dinnerware
hard candy red light green light
salty air underwear
mother may I stop

I am proximity and boundaries and borders,
boxes sections and totals divisible by two;
I am spreadsheet, put in a formula,
calculate my worth, my girth and
represent my figures in a fraction

no reaction

I am you and me
and all and one and three hundred and none
and none and nobody and it all
goes over again and again

and the pain never stops,
the cycle never stops and
you never hear me and you always
and I should have and we couldn’t
and it doesn’t really matter, now does it?

And when will it stop
this endless cycle of carpe fucking diem.

Shooting From The Hip

Maybe Mr. McCain should rename his campaign “The Speechless Express”.

Reporter: “Should U.S. taxpayer money go to places like Africa to fund contraception to prevent AIDS?”

McCain: “I haven’t thought about it. Before I give you an answer, let me think about. Let me think about it a little bit because I never got a question about it before. I don’t know if I would use taxpayers’ money for it.”

Q: “What about grants for sex education in the United States? Should they include instructions about using contraceptives? Or should it be Bush’s policy, which is just abstinence?”

A: (Long pause) “Ahhh. I think I support the president’s policy.”

Q: “So no contraception, no counseling on contraception. Just abstinence. Do you think contraceptives help stop the spread of HIV?”

A: (Long pause) “You’ve stumped me.” — excerpt from an exchange between reporters and Senator McCain in Iowa today as reported in the New York Times

Is it possible that McCain has inherited Reagan’s senility? Should he win the 2008 presidential election, he’d be 72 years old. They say that it’s all downhill after 65.

Independent thought sure requires a lot of calories. Someone get the good Senator a protein shake!

Election 2008: Professor Crybaby

Twelve years ago, this was the most powerful man in America.

Widely credited with uniting the disparate wings of the Republican party, Newt Gingrich engineered the Republican takeover of Congress in the 1994 midterm elections and caused an electoral realignment the likes of which have not been seen since, effectively ending a half-century’s worth of Democratic dominance. The November 2006 elections may have come close but not to the degree that occurred back then.

Although he was not the primary author of the Contract with America, Mr. Gingrich is closely identified with it and its implementation during the 104th Congress. Astute readers will note the similarity between the Contract and Nancy Pelosi’s 100-Hour Plan which closely parallels certain legislative proposals set forth in the Contract within the parameters of the Democratic Party.

Isn’t it amazing that yet another Republican has bitten the dust and proved that he’s just as human as the rest of us mere mortals?

”There are times that I have fallen short of my own standards. There’s certainly times when I’ve fallen short of God’s standards….The president of the United States got in trouble for committing a felony in front of a sitting federal judge. ‘I drew a line in my mind that said, ‘Even though I run the risk of being deeply embarrassed, and even though at a purely personal level I am not rendering judgment on another human being, as a leader of the government trying to uphold the rule of law, I have no choice except to move forward and say that you cannot accept…perjury in your highest officials.” — in an interview quoted in the New York Times on 9 March 2007

Frailty, thy name is whining. Gotta love how Newty tries to play the self-righteous card while wearing a paper bag over his head.

The word on the street is that Republican-identified voters have nothing good to say about the current crop of candidates. If Newty plans on being a white knight from on high, it’ll be an interesting campaign season.

Next: Hillary Rodham Clinton

Election 2008: Mr. Meddler

 

Fifth in a series of previews regarding the U.S. presidential elections in 2008.

Previous posts can be seen here, here, here and here.

What will history say about Ralph Nader (a/k/a Mr. Meddler)?  Will he be seen as a consumer advocate, socio-political activist and a supporter of the common man?  Or will his legacy be that of a political hack past his prime, known more for divisiveness than comity?

As recently as two weeks ago, Mr. Meddler mentioned in passing that he might consider yet another run for the White House in 2008. It’s as if his antics in 2000 and 2004 weren’t bad enough. I wouldn’t have a problem with Mr. Meddler’s entrance into the race if it weren’t for the fact that he’s running as a protest candidate with no real solutions except to highlight the shortcomings of the eventual nominee.

The irony is that the American public, as knowledgeable as we like to think of ourselves when it comes to the people who run for elective office, aren’t nearly as informed. In fact, we have a tendency to reduce things to the lowest common denominator. If you think I’m exaggerating, then please come up with an alternate explanation as to why a multi-party system has never taken root in this country before. The last time there was a three-way presidential election that might actually have mattered, the third party candidate received no electoral votes despite having won 18.9% of the popular vote. Perhaps Nader has some value after all. He provides a valuable public service in order to shock us out of our collective ennui. Or maybe I’ve drunk too much Kool-Aid and need a reality check.

My fear is that whomever the Democratic nominee turns out to be, he or she will end up waging a dual-pronged battle between the Republicans and Mr. Meddler.

Why, oh why can’t I get that Dionne Warwick song out of my head?

Next: Newt Gingrich