Good morning Boys and Girls.

Some time in the middle of the night, I realized I'd jerked a bit in my sleep and caused the cat to go flying off my lap. I'd fallen asleep in the recliner, an extremely common thing for me to do, and Roadie, the three year old Calico, new to the house anyway, had been unceremoniously tossed by my little spasm.

I felt awful; almost bad enough to get up to see if she was okay.

I fell back asleep.

Later, Bladdy the Bladder woke me again and I went to make him happy and then made my way into my office, where Roadie had decided my office chair would be a fine place to snooze away the rest of the night. This was a problem and mini-moral dilemma for me as I'd just decided that I too needed use of the chair, and I'm much bigger.

I stood there for at least half a second of consternation before deciding. I gently lifted Roadie up onto the pillow that sits to the left of my computer desk on top of my synthesizer case that's there for her use. She woke to the same extent I had when I'd dumped her earlier in the night, and happily, she went back to sleep in a matter of seconds. Surely she'd be more comfortable there, I told myself, to mask my guilt for disturbing her sleep a second time.

I checked email, tmail and the blog for correspondences, of which there were only a couple, then read a couple of blogs, got annoyed after reading one in particular, commented on it and found myself sitting here letting an idea crystalize that had come from reading what I'd just read; an instant post fairly mushrooming into being.

It was brilliant. It came to me in waves of prose; writing themselves onto and into the memory section of my synapses. The whole of the piece took complete form within a maximum of thirty seconds.

"This will be great!" I thought gleefully, letting little nuances form, while opening my word processing program to begin, what I knew would be, a relatively brief transcription process. Brief, because, as I said, by then, everything was done except for the getting the thing from one form of memory to another, my fingers and the keyboard acting in tandem as router and cable.

Then a yawn...

A good half-hour after I’d planned on leaving, I finally started out the back of the building. Just as the afternoon autumn sun hit my face, I heard a loud metal against metal crash off to my right.

Identifying the car took me no more than a fraction of a second. It was Steve Abala’s unmistakable rusted-out blue two-door Impala. The primer-black hood eliminated any doubt.

It was crashed into the parking attendant's booth at the near end of the student parking lot. He’d hit it hard. The first thing that went through my mind was that Steve had just killed the parking attendant, whom everyone in the school, including teachers, called “the ParkNarc.” The aluminum-sided booth was partially folded over, looking like a person bending at the waist. I dropped my books and ran toward the booth thirty yards away.

Steve’s forehead was up against the cracked windshield of his car, the steering wheel was broken and he was bleeding. I looked into the booth and saw, to my relief, that it was empty - a very lucky thing. Just then the ParkNarc; a huge long-haired ponytailed guy named Jerry whom - thankfully - I hadn’t had to deal with yet since I hadn’t started driving, came running out of the school from a faculty-only door opposite the booth.

Together we tried to open the driver’s door of Steve’s car. This was impossible because it was jammed against the metal gate, also bent in half, that was the source of Jerry’s power among the students who drove to school. Jerry told me to run into the school and tell the principal what had happened. The passenger side door was also blocked by the bent gate.

Ours was a very large school and I was on the far side of the building from the administration office, probably a good three or four hundred yards away. I ran as hard as I could. Upon arriving, I found myself out of breath and had to take a few seconds before I could speak clearly. I told the secretary, who was just getting ready to go home herself, about what had happened. This had little effect except to annoy her.

“Mr. Parks has left the campus for the day. Shall I call the police?” She asked me. She asked me? Yes.

“Um... I guess so. What would you usually do?” I asked her.

“Usually we don’t have students driving into buildings. You said this is Steve Abala?”

“Yes. He’s hurt. He smashed his face into the windshield. He’s all bloody.”

She shook her head in disgust. If there was even a smidge of sympathy or empathy hidden in that face of hers, I didn’t see it. “Great. More drama from the music department. Fine. I’ll call. And who are you?”

I told her.

I stood there for another minute, not sure whether I was expected to stay to watch her make the call, or whether I should go back to the "accident scene.” After another few uncomfortable seconds I made my decision and, with Miss whatever-her-name was, still not having picked up the phone, as though she’d have to sit down and get all comfy and settled into her usual position before she could think about making the call, I left the office and ran back.

Jerry and a half-dozen students who’d gathered were making an effort to push the car back from the the little building. Jerry was shouting out orders. I lent my weight to the job. There was little exposed pushing room because the destroyed parking booth was in the way. It was tricky getting purchase on the car.

Nothing. We couldn’t budge it. Certainly the car was still in gear. There was Steve, either unconscious or dead, his face mashed into the windshield, his marching band jacket spattered with blood on the bench seat next to him. Both doors were trapped by the gate he’d bent into a “C”.

I should explain. This gate was located on the parking lot side of the little building by a car length. This allowed people pulling into the lot to pull up to little booth for inspection before entering the lot. The gate, at least twenty feet long, crossed the two lanes leading into and out of the parking lot.

I’d never seen one designed exactly this way before, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen one since. When a car approached to enter the lot, ParkNarc Jerry would verify the the pass, then, if you were a girl, he'd make some suggestive remark about your breasts, while if you were a boy, he’d threaten to beat the shit out of you if you ever crossed him, which you may just have by simply by looking at him; he’d decide later.

From what I’d heard, these were the ONLY two options - after which, if the intimidation went as expected and everything else checked out, he’d open the gate. Now, actually, it was a single gate that spun like an excruciatingly slow, two-bladed propeller, 90 degrees from a single axle rising out of the asphalt between the two lanes. To make matters even sillier, the gate opened counter clockwise. This meant that whether you were coming or going, you couldn’t pull right up to the gate and wait for it to open, but instead, had to be back far enough to allow the thing to open around the front of your car.

It was as though the thing had been designed for cars in England where people drove on the other side of the road. There were instructive white lines on the pavement that, assuming you stayed behind them, allowed enough room for the gate to open. However, visitors leaving the school during regular hours, or anyone who didn’t know the system, or anyone who didn’t see the lines, would often pull up too far, meaning the gate couldn’t open until they backed up. This, of course, created an instant traffic jam if someone else pulled up behind them.

This system created power for the ParkNarc, who seemed to relish the authority and opportunities to scream at people caused by the absurd setup.

Why the motor wasn’t simply reversed I never understood, but I think it fell into the “it’s always been that way” category, because every year during orientation, the subject of parking would be introduced by the principal who would use the opportunity to introduce ParkNarc Jerry, who would then take over the microphone to explain the way things were going to go if you were someone who planned on driving a car to school.

All I could figure was that Steve hit the middle of the gate going at a clip and turning left. He took the think out, bent it around his car and then crashed, now with the gate wrapped around his car, headlong into the booth.

All this stuff was going through my head as we tried to figure out how to extricate Steve. I saw, finally, that he was moving around a little. He wasn’t dead. He turned his head and looked at me, and he didn’t look pleased. Now, I realize he was jammed in his car with his head still partially wedged up against the glass, and he was hurt, but I got the distinct impression that he gave me a dirty look. This, even through all the other stuff he was dealing with at that exact moment.

A few minutes later we heard sirens and finally, a police car pulled up. Thirty seconds after that and an ambulance came speeding up the long drive from the street, and then finally, a tow truck, which is definitely what the situation called for.

Less than five minutes later, Steve was on his way to the hospital and his car was being lifted by the tow truck to be taken to whereever it was that rusted out Impalas went to die.

This is from the story I'm working on right now:

.....................................

One neat thing about the few months I traveled to Mr. Ziedler's church on Thursday afternoons for organ lessons was that every week we drove by the, now long defunct, Detroit Playboy Club. Being around eleven at the time, and already having stumbled upon more than a few Playboy Magazines in Kelly’s Woods near one of the many forts maintained by the older kids, I knew a thing or two about the sort of thing I was absolutely sure went on in such a place, and even briefly being in the general proximity of the building on such a regular basis, with it’s neon bunny logo and bright red lettering announcing it’s whereabouts to the world, gave me a giddy thrill I looked forward to each week.

Imagine my delight upon learning that my Dad’s Dad, for a few years, was actually a card carrying member (or more properly said, a "key" carrying member) of this den of sin! This went hand in hand with one of the other discoveries I'd made about him just a few months earlier, when my Father showed me, for reasons I’ve yet to figure out, a draftsman’s triangle that my Grandfather had owned before the War when he he did design work for Bulldog Electric. It was made of some sort of early clear plastic, and even then, close to forty years ago, it was yellowing with age.

He'd evidently used the point of a compass, though this was an assumption on my part. No matter what implement he'd chosen for his work, he'd used it along with the talent God gave him to thrill his as yet unborn grandson. He'd etched three beautiful nude women into its surface. Naked women! My Grandpa!

This was huge.

Posed to look as though they were part of the triangle’s original design; they were simply gorgeous! They appeared so casual and comfortable with their nudity; they were "naturalists," I decided. The idea was shocking to me on a bunch of levels.

The carvings were so incredibly detailed, even the aureoles around the nipples had texture and depth. Their skin looked smooth and flawless (and, as it happens, perfectly clear if a tad jaundiced) and their faces each had wonderful variations of that "come hither" look that proved they were "real women" to me. I knew from the photographs in the Playboy Magazines that this was the sort of look women got on their faces when they were naked.

Somehow though, to my dismay, all three of the women were shown in angles that precluded seeing the area between their legs. This was a disappointment. However, rather than looking as though they were deliberately covering up, they looked as though they’d ever so slightly, and certainly accidentally, turned away before Grandpa snapped the mental picture that became the original his hands traced so expertly.

If only they were as alive as they looked to me then, they could have turned back! I was sure they'd have wanted to.

According to my Grandfather, when I finally got up the nerve to ask him about the Playboy Club years later; probably no more than a couple of years before he died; it was just a nice restaurant.

The menu was interesting, he said. Everything on it was a dollar. Want a steak? A dollar. A potato? Another dollar. He told me he’d given up his membership after the night his dinner had included rolls, a salad, coffee and desert and had ended costing him eight dollars. He also told me that there was absolutely no nudity in the Playboy Club; that the waitresses simply wore the traditional bunny outfits with the puffy tails.

He said it was just a classy place to eat.

I was devastated.

................................

Be good to everyone.

Good evening Boys and Girls.

Until further notice all snow in the Western part of Michigan shall be required to obtain a permit to fall.

Any snow having fallen without this required permit must immediately cease and desist from laying in any publicly used area and must immediately remove itself to a portion of the landscape unused by humans during the Winter. Only then, with proof of having removed itself, will snow be allowed to apply for and pay in advance for permit #206.3, which may, or may not be issued in a timely fashion. In the event the permit application is denied, the permit fee shall be forfeited.

There are many sections of land that have been set aside and designated by this same act as "permit free zones" where any existing snow, as well as any additional snow with future plans to drop from the sky, may fall freely without filing for, and securing said permit.

These areas include all lake surfaces, parklands (except for paved motorways within park properties,) all farmland, forests, private drives leading to any home valued at more than $500,000.00, and any dormant land adjacent to any residense as long as the sidewalks and drives of the residenses in question are left snow free. Ski areas of all types are permit-free areas as are golf courses, athletic fields and Walmart parking lots.

School District offices may be snowed upon with abandon persuant to Ammendment A. of the Act by virtue of the ratification of the language contained therein by a virtually unanimous voice vote by the area's elementary school student population.

Dog runs on public lands are to remain snow free, but private runs may be deemed either snow-free zones, or permit-free areas. These determinations may be made by either the dog(s) itself/themselves who frequent(s) such runs or, in the case of Cocker Spaniels, Poodles, and other especially stupid dogs, by their owners.

Any snow falling on the parking lots of Churches, Funeral Homes, Hospitals and other facilites used by people in distress is subject to immediate erradication at the whim of any human being whatsoever, and may be plowed, shoveled or melted without so much as a by-your-leave or a lah-de-dah from anyone else on the planet. Further, no sympathy for the removed snow will be tolerated.

If you are snow and feel you need further information to more properly respond to this notification,

-tough shit.

Be good to everyone.

Thanks to the jongleur for putting a link to this article on his blog.

The noble cause of war in Iraq. Funny how our "liberal media" keeps missing these stories:

Future of Iraq: The spoils of war

 How the West will make a killing on Iraqi oil riches
 By Danny Fortson, Andrew Murray-Watson and Tim Webb
 Published: 07 January 2007

 Iraq's massive oil reserves, the third-largest in the world, are about to be thrown open for large-scale exploitation by Western oil companies under a controversial law which is expected to come before the Iraqi parliament within days.

 The US government has been involved in drawing up the law, a draft of which has been seen by The Independent on Sunday. It would give big oil companies such as BP, Shell and Exxon 30-year contracts to extract Iraqi crude and allow the first large-scale operation of foreign oil interests in the country since the industry was nationalised in 1972.

The huge potential prizes for Western firms will give ammunition to critics who say the Iraq war was fought for oil. They point to statements such as one from Vice-President Dick Cheney, who said in 1999, while he was still chief executive of the oil services company Halliburton, that the world would need an additional 50 million barrels of oil a day by 2010. "So where is the oil going to come from?... The Middle East, with two-thirds of the world's oil and the lowest cost, is still where the prize ultimately lies," he said.

Oil industry executives and analysts say the law, which would permit Western companies to pocket up to three-quarters of profits in the early years, is the only way to get Iraq's oil industry back on its feet after years of sanctions, war and loss of expertise. But it will operate through "production-sharing agreements" (or PSAs) which are highly unusual in the Middle East, where the oil industry in Saudi Arabia and Iran, the world's two largest producers, is state controlled.

Opponents say Iraq, where oil accounts for 95 per cent of the economy, is being forced to surrender an unacceptable degree of sovereignty.

Proposing the parliamentary motion for war in 2003, Tony Blair denied the "false claim" that "we want to seize" Iraq's oil revenues. He said the money should be put into a trust fund, run by the UN, for the Iraqis, but the idea came to nothing. The same year Colin Powell, then Secretary of State, said: "It cost a great deal of money to prosecute this war. But the oil of the Iraqi people belongs to the Iraqi people; it is their wealth, it will be used for their benefit. So we did not do it for oil."

Supporters say the provision allowing oil companies to take up to 75 per cent of the profits will last until they have recouped initial drilling costs. After that, they would collect about 20 per cent of all profits, according to industry sources in Iraq. But that is twice the industry average for such deals.

Greg Muttitt, a researcher for Platform, a human rights and environmental group which monitors the oil industry, said Iraq was being asked to pay an enormous price over the next 30 years for its present instability. "They would lose out massively," he said, "because they don't have the capacity at the moment to strike a good deal."

Iraq's Deputy Prime Minister, Barham Salih, who chairs the country's oil committee, is expected to unveil the legislation as early as today. "It is a redrawing of the whole Iraqi oil industry [to] a modern standard," said Khaled Salih, spokesman for the Kurdish Regional Government, a party to the negotiations. The Iraqi government hopes to have the law on the books by March.

Several major oil companies are said to have sent teams into the country in recent months to lobby for deals ahead of the law, though the big names are considered unlikely to invest until the violence in Iraq abates.

James Paul, executive director at the Global Policy Forum, the international government watchdog, said: "It is not an exaggeration to say that the overwhelming majority of the population would be opposed to this. To do it anyway, with minimal discussion within the [Iraqi] parliament is really just pouring more oil on the fire."

Vince Cable, the Liberal Democrat Treasury spokesman and a former chief economist at Shell, said it was crucial that any deal would guarantee funds for rebuilding Iraq. "It is absolutely vital that the revenue from the oil industry goes into Iraqi development and is seen to do so," he said. "Although it does make sense to collaborate with foreign investors, it is very important the terms are seen to be fair."

Good morning Boys and Girls.

I just recevied an email from my trusty "joke source" that, if looked at it in a certain way, explains my feelings about the U.S. involvement in Iraq.

..................................

A cocky young Department of Agriculture Representative stopped at a farm and talked with the farmer there. "I need to inspect your farm," he told the farmer.

"Uh huh." The old Farmer listened quietly during the lengthy explanation from the young man as to why this inspection was needed and why the government's right to carry out the search was in the interest of all parties.

After listening for some minutes, the Farmer said. "I see. Well, do what you need to do, but you'd better make sure you don't go in that field behind me, over there." He flipped his thumb backwards over his shoulder toward a fence.

The Agriculture representative said, "See this card? I have the authority of the U.S. Government with me."

The farmer nodded. "I understand that. You have the right to go anywhere you like, but I'm telling you, don't go in that field."

"I am allowed to go wherever I wish on agricultural land," said the young man, smug now, asserting his authority.

So the old farmer shrugged and went about his chores.

Later, of course, he heard loud screams, and saw the Department of Ag. Rep in the forbidden field running for his life toward the fence; the farmer's prize bull, madder than a nest full of hornets, was charging, snorting, viciously thrusting his horns forward - and gaining on the poor guy with every step.

The youngster screamed. "HELP! HELP!... WHAT CAN I DO!!!?

The old farmer turned from the pen where he'd been spreading feed for the chickens. He put down the feed sack, stood up, and while stretching his back, called out, "Show him your card!"

....................................



Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls!

(Our setting is a forgotten supply closet in the bowels of the White House, pretty close to the entrance of that secret tunnel JFK used to sneak out to see women all the time. The closet isn't tiny, and over the years, these three men had met here many times and have therefore taken it upon themselves to make the place as comfortable as possible amid the boxes of junk memorabilia, cleaning supplies from as far back as the early twentieth century plus lots of other once important things. Boxes lining one wall contain thousands of spools of unused, and now, perhaps never to be used, recording tape for some of the old reel-to-reel recorders used by more than one of the upstairs occupants over the years to capture conversations in which they were involved.

For over six years now they've used this room for their no-less-frequently-than-m onthly meetings. Early on, they managed to find and drag in here three fairly comfortable chairs. They looked to be from the era of the Eisenhower administration, but one of the three men, who'd worked for Eisenhower's re-election campaign in '56 - his introductory foray into presidential politics - had said he didn't remember them as having been used in the White House then. No matter, they were just chairs.

An old steam trunk Teddy Roosevelt had used to move some of his personal belongings in, but had for some reason left behind, became their coffee table.

One of the men, we'll call him "Man #1," is pouring coffee from a old fashioned thermos into three little styrofoam cups as we join them...)

Man #2: "For Chris'sake, can't you get us some better cups? I hate drinkin' outta them little things. It's like drinkin' punch at a five-year-old's birthday party.

Man #1: "Yeah, yeah... (he's finished pouring now and hands each of them a cup, then picks up his own and sits back down on his chair and relaxes, placing his feet on the top of the steam trunk.) How about you bring the coffee from now on."

Man #3 - the oldest by far: "The coffee's fine. Gentleman, what do you propose we do about this speech? Somehow we need this to fly."

Man #1: "Right," he says sarcastically. "This isn't going to fly no matter what we have him say. I think we're just going to have to ride out the shit-storm, and let him take whatever they throw at him."

Man #2: "I'm not sure he'll be able to." (Brow furrowed, he shook his head slowly. "That fucking Woodward. Why did he have to release the tape of Jerry Ford trashing this war? That was cold."

Man #3: "Oh simmer down. That didn't matter one little bit and you know it. No one with any brains has supported the war except us, and our reasons are, you have to admit, a little self-serving."

Man #1: "This is old news. What do we do now?" He picks up a white waxed bag. "Doughnut?" After taking one himself, he passes the treats around. They each take a cruller. It's silent for a minute or so as they sit thinking except for the sound of chewing...

Man #2: - talking through a final mouthful of crispy glazed fried dough, sits up suddenly "I just had an idea!" he grabs a napkin out of the bag and dabs at his chin and cleans his fingers. He swallows, clears his throat. "How much is in the pool account right this minute?"

Man #3 opens a briefcase and takes out a plain folder. He extracts a few sheets of paper and looks at the bottom most figure on the last page: "Six hundred million. Forty percent in Hallibuton with the rest divided up between the fourteen other contractors."

Man #2: "Okay." He sits for a minute longer. "Here's what we do... First we sell Halliburton short about two months out. Then we start feeding George with some of the stuff we've been keeping from him... and we do it NOW. We tell him that if he wants to make the speech play, he's got to give the left a bone. During the speech he announces that he's become privy to some really bad stuff; that he's gonna' start a serious probe into Halliburton. Then WE make sure it really happens. We make him suspend all payments to them... Put 'em in the shit-house."

Man #1: "Hey wait a min..."

Man #2: Interrupts, waving him off and continuing "Meanwhile, WE decide who he should move the contracts to and we start buying up their stock pronto. Maybe even leverage the cash! Buy on margin."

Man #1: "Suspend their payments? Holy shit! Could he do it?"

Man #2: "If we give him some of the stuff we have? Yes-in-deedee. He'd do it in a heartbeat. Hell, he'd have to!"

Man #1: "Cheney will go ape-shit!" They all laugh heartily... "The asshole."

Man #2: "So we make GW look like he's doing the right thing - hell, he WOULD be doing the right thing - we make a boatload on the devaluation of their stock, and we manipulate who he turns to for... for "assistance.""

Man #3: "Let's see..." He's mentally calculating. "If Halliburton dropped, say... 25% in two months and we'd sold short, reinvested in whoever we steer GW to, and buy on margin as you suggested, and their stock RISES the same 25% Halliburton drops... We could make..." He too sits up straight as the figure takes shape in his head. "The timing will be critical, but assuming things go right at all? -three billion. Easy. EASY! Maybe four or five... and in just sixty days."

Man #1: "And in the process George is throwing a bone to the whiners? That's too perfect. I love it."

Man #2: "That's not bad. What did we start with in this fund? Twenty grand each?" He leans forward to shake the hands of the the other two men. "We said we could make this eight years work for us. Here's to war!"

Men #'s 1 and 3: "To War!"

Meanwhile, in another abandoned closet down and around a couple of halls from where these men talk, a man sits checking the sound levels on an ancient RCA mono reel-to-reel tape recorder he'd found sitting atop a long line of boxes full of blank tapes that seemed to work just fine in the old machine.

Just a janitor, he'd been looking for some floor cleaner he knew he'd seen in one closet or another down here at some point, and he'd stumbled into a cozy little room with three chairs and a steam-trunk set up for use as a coffee table. Interestingly, the room smelled like coffee! People had used the room recently. This was definately odd, he decided.

Curious, he'd gone to radio shack and purchsed some wire and a little voice activated microphone. He'd had to buy an old fashioned jack too as the new sort wouldn't work in the old recorder. He simply spliced the wire between the mike cord and the jack.

Over the course of the next week or so, during breaks, he'd taken the time to run fifty feet of wire through some old and now unused heating ducts, just like like he'd seen done in a couple of movies. The room he was in with his old recorder was only about thirty feet away from the one the three men were in, but to walk between the two, you had to go over two hundred and fifty feet around old hallways.

With that accomplished, he'd simply placed the little mike on top of the boxes of blank tapes. He opened only one of the boxes and taken a few tapes. On the slowest speed each tape could record almost three hours of conversation. If the machine shut off after ten seconds of silence as it was supposed to, he didn't think he'd have to change the tapes very often.

Today he'd come down to see if the machine had been activated recently. To his surprise; why look! -it was running now!. It sure wasn't the latest in high-teck wizardry, but the thing was working. Oh Lordy, was it ever working.

He smiled thinking of his exceptionally secure, if modest, government pension. Now, he correctly suspected, no matter what he decided to do with the information he was listening to, it was bound to be augmented most handsomely.

Be good to everyone.

My Dad was born January 3rd, 1938.

Today would be his birthday.

I miss him.