Exceptional

Watching the documentary "Primary" about Kennedy and Humphrey in 1960; and distraught to tears by the absence of leadership in America and around the world (aren't we all). 

Clearly leaders like John Kennedy - good looking, witty, intellectual, athletic - aren't so very rare as to be so seldom (almost never) found. Exceptionalism abounds in this country and others. 

The insurmountable obstacle is - mediocrity (by definition) greatly out-numbers exceptionalism. And mediocrity so fiercely guards its position of power and authority as to instinctively recognize its greatest threat is any and all things superior to the mediocre. 

Mediocrity so thoroughly fears and hates the exceptional - for its very survival, it has to stifle, smother, and snuff it out wherever and whenever possible. These are the facts and they are obvious. They are self-evident and true by the very definition and meanings of the words "mediocre" and "exceptional." 

As a green eager youth, I applied for a job as a waiter at a nice little Italian restaurant. The owners sons were management types, and one of 'em interviewed me. "Where do you expect to be in five years?" he asked. (Wot the fock, I'm applying for a minimum wage job here, shit face.) So I says "I reckon...if promoted on my ability, I'll be the manager here."

Geez, idiot-boy aint got sense enuf but to ask stupid questions he got out of some "how to interview job applicants" book. What a maroon. And like my years in the US of Air Force. "Our mission is to fly and fight, and don't you forget it." No dip shit, your mission isn't to fight wars, it's to keep the peace. If yall weren't run by fokking combat pilots who only know how to war, you'd understand that. 

But in the Air Force, only combat pilots are promoted to command positions, so how the fuck would they ever know any better. You get promoted based on "combat kills" not on who gots the best ideas of how to do things the best way. Is how it is.

And the really cool thing is - there's little or nothing we can do about it. In a democracy, the fucking stupid identify with their own kind - Ronald Reagan, W Bush, Donnie Trump. In America "anybody" can be president. That is, any fucking idiot who the majority of other fucking idiots can relate to. As Chris (shithead) Matthews oft said "who would you rather have a beer with?" Well, obviously a moron like W Bush, not a bright academic-type like Al Gore. 

Wot the fock? We choose leaders cuz we wanna swill beer with 'em? How focking stupid could Chris Matthews be? (Again, if you've ever watched him on tv, that too is self-evident.) And now our nation selected the leader via a bunch of stupid cunts squealing "lock her up" like squealing "sieg heil" at Nuremberg rallies.

And the fucking fools don't even know any better cuz most of 'em got no fucking idea what Nuremberg is. Schools don't teach that shit, and them fuck heads wouldn't get it, even if someone tried to teach 'em. They's born stupid and raised ignorant. Shit, they's Republicans or Tories, or whatever the fuck corporate executives recruit to shill their products for 'em. And to keep the fuckin' filthy rich aristocrats in charge of everything with a fucking moron puppet as a mouthpiece to entertain the masses.

And no matter how hard you try - you can never outnumber the mediocre. To paraphrase Ma Gump "stupid is...and stupid does."

Racism and Equality

Whenever we divide ourselves along racial lines like "whites" and "minorities" we affirm that race defines who we are. People who do that - are racists. They define themselves and everyone else by skin color. And not in an objective or abstract way. To them - white is evil, black is good. Their problem with America is based on slavery and Article 1 of the Constitution.

But not really. My granddaughter says her friends want to raise hell when they're young because "you can't do that when you grow up." I corrected her - they want to raise hell - because they're too dumb to know any better. They've no clue of how to wisely spend their time. The rest is simply rationalizating, an excuse for their ignorance.

Same for racists - it isn't that people were enslaved and counted as "three-fifths" human. It's that they don't understand what that means. The Constitution of 1787 excluded Native Americans completely. Black activists hate that America counted them as only three-fifths "human" but fail to recognize that Indians were counted as "zero" human. How racist can you get?

Native Americans were given "human" status by Act of Congress in 1928. Prior to that, they were largely exterminated via genocide and/or exiled at gun-point to harsh concentration camps called "reservations." Now that'd be something for "activists" to bitch about. 

And if you say "we only care about our own people" then I'd say you got a lot in common with White Supremacists.

The other "elephant in the room" is slavery. Consider - why didn't European ships pick up white slaves from Europe before coming to America to process and harvest sugar in the Caribbean or cotton and tobacco in the South? Cuz - the only people selling slaves were black Africans - who were selling their conquered enemies. And like it or not, that's a fact.

Alex Haley's movie "Roots" depicts white slavers as being so clever and skillful that they could go to the largely unknown and unexplored (by Europeans) continent of Africa, and entrap black Africans who knew their own land better than anyone. And that actually happened - rarely. The vast majority of black African slaves were captured and sold by other black Africans. Y'see truth can be more cruel than fiction but it's good to know anyway. 

It doesn't make it right, and it doesn't excuse anyone from their part in the evils of slavery. Just this - don't blame white Europeans for slavery anymore than you blame black African slave traders - the guilt is equal. 

So why aren't we demanding "reparation" be paid to black Americans by the African nations who sold slaves in the eighteenth century? Well, cuz that'd be stupid. All those folks are long dead for hundreds of years now. So...why the fuck are we keeping this hatred alive? Cuz just like slavery two hundred years ago - it makes money. 

A very clever (and lazy-ass way) to get what others got is to shame them into thinking they they got theirs illegally and thus owe you part of their ill-gotten gains (beats workin'). But not really. Beggars and whores give up their self-worth for whatever they get in return.

So let me tell you what equality is. It's in your head. If you want to be equal - be equal. Don't try to talk it or write it. Don't try to buy it or even demand it. Just do it. And then forever put it to bed and forget about it. And I don't need no "ethnic" dolls to play with. I see Stokely Carmichael - and he looks just like me.

Soundless Voices

Everyone wants to believe their voice matters, that their existence matters. When I was four years old, my cousins were visiting - was Easter or something. I had a sore on my knee and Grandma wrapped it up with a poultice. 

But the kids were all playing laughing running in the front yard in warm spring sunshine, and then everyone ran to the backyard. I was the youngest and couldn't run, couldn't keep up, so I got left behind.

Some years later, sitting at the big folding table at Uncle Orrie's house, in the big open room at the end of the hall, the play room just for the kids. My older cousins talking about life and Bob Dylan and what it all means. Us younger kids sitting there listening, imagining someday we'd be like that - have opinions that matter, and others would listen to us and learn the meanings of life.

Like Baby Face Nelson or Dillinger, gangsters from the Depression - is something just to get your name in the papers so that people know who you are. Doesn't even matter if it's good or bad; just that you're known, so you're not a nobody. Not a wallflower at school, or in life. Someone who doesn't count, whose existence has no meaning. Dylan says "let's go see that guy" at some club in the Village "I hear he's got something to say." 

That's what matters, and what makes us matter, or so we think. So we've been schooled to believe - our worth is measured by what others think of us. So we desperately want them to hear us, to be charmed by our amazing wit and brilliant insight. Not only that, all our being, our existenz, has been an effort to see and do it all. To experience and learn it all, like Hegel, and to tell others. Not just so they know the right path to follow, but so they know who pointed the way.

John Kennedy dies and the whole nation mourns cuz he was an important man, a great man. Other folks die and no one cares or even notices. Their life was meaningless, a nothingness. And they're well-aware of it. At 16, 17, or even younger, they know their life doesn't matter and never will. And try to self-destruct that what God made so comically and tragically pathetic.Thousands die in wars that are won by the great men like Eisenhower, who maybe never fired a shot at the enemy in his whole life. Some people count and others don't.

And today in the here and now - nobody posts on Twitter or Facebook anonymously. Cuz how'd you know if thousands or millions of people saw that clever remark or brilliant insight. We might say something so profound - it influences 8 billion other people (per Sartre's ripple effect ). Which is like the whole point, of talking anyway. 

Listening 

another day in the march toward death
I rage this silent war
with all the vanishing traces of my being.
in the ceaseless stomp of the soundless parade
and the sounding celebration of the disappearing crowd.
it is too clear.  
it is too sharp.
the silence screams the loudest scream of all.
the silence tolls the muteness of it all.
the quiet clarifies the shape
to be.
to obfuscate,
obdurate in high-sounding phrases
of a scaling of Olympus 
to abjure the decision,
to procrastinate the sentence,
to confiscate the word
to be.
I do not hear them.
to be dead.  
no, do not say that.
to be blind amid the struggle to be insensate of pain:
inanimate surrender to the obsequies,
the daily eulogies that pass for common speech,
the sittings and the watchings not to feel.
to be removed...
feet first, go slowly,
not to run, not to touch;
hear sounds, see acts, feel moods
and never make them,
never make them,
make them objects 
make objections.
make a sound 
like a whisper in a cave.

Favorite Books

Wull, my own, of course. But wot happen was this - was demobbing from military service in Italy - what most folks (including base commander) thought was a multi-year vacation in Alpine ski resort. 

So with nothing to do & no one to do it with, I got books from local library, wot were awful - Snopes Trilogy by Billy Faulkner - wot sucks shit, big time. So...had no recourse but to start writing my own books.

Mine was a sci-fi thriller metaphor: young officer meets enchanting young green-skinned girl on far away planet (was largely autobiographical). And as the planet is being warred upon by evil Earth military, the officer manages to expose this to world-wide TV media who (unfortunately) are in cahoots with military-industrial complex (basically a true story). 

But young green girl say "not to worry." As she... (debutante-like) "becoming" or (Heideggrer-like) "physis" ...real powerful priestess of her tribe (real perty too) she'll soon be able to place her thoughts into the minds of all 'em half-wit earthlings. Unfortunately, that part's fiction, or not.  Anyway, was a nice idea. And subsequent books were actually published and not bad 'tall, in my opinion. 

Dangerous

The girl reading a magazine from the rack. Headphones on, listening to music, oblivious to the world except who’s doing what in Teen Star Magazine. Imagining herself in their world, their lives, to have it made at such a young age, anything everything you’d ever want. Where she is, where she lives, in her mind. A secret life she shares with them, more real than real life. And nobody knows but her.

Late afternoon, warm winter sun fading into cold wind. No one in the store, just the bright fluorescent lights, the girl and the clerk behind the counter. Watching the clock wondering if he shouldn’t do some clean-up or stock the shelves. Or just look at the pretty girl reading the magazine. Little angel, sex kitten who wandered into his realm. Something to look at, think about. Her narrow shoulders under slinky sweater, sweet young ass in tight blue jeans.

Wanting to go over before she leaves and never see her again. Go over and say hi, ask her what her name is. Maybe bump into her by mistake. Make contact, feel her being, her universe, become a part of it. But she’d laugh at him. Not on the outside, but inside to herself, she’d be laughing. Lowly store clerk, middle-aged pudgy going bald, working for minimum wage. Not even morning shift where you could pretend you’re the manager and nobody’d know the difference. But at least you can watch her. Your lucky day, such a hot young girl lingering in your store, right here in front of you.

A huge black man comes through the glass door, pulls a ski mask down over his face, gun in hand. “Gimme the cash” he says through clenched teeth. The clerk opens the register, scoops the bills out onto the counter. Not even time to be afraid, just do what you’re told. “And the stuff underneath.” The clerk shudders, voice hurting his ears. Imagining these are the last words he’ll ever hear. Lifts the drawer, grabs up the big bills and checks, puts them with the rest. The black man pushes them into a pile, stuffing bills into his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the clerk in front of him. The girl has her back to them, doesn’t even notice, lost in her own dreams of what could be.

The big man grabs up the last of the bills. Now to get out. The whole thing less than a minute, and nobody knows anything. It all happens so fast. Slick smooth perfect except for a couple of cops coming in to get some hot coffee. He turns, they look up, eyes meeting at the same instant. They reach for their guns. “Don’t” he says loudly. The girl looks around, awakening from daydreams, what’s going on. He grabs her, puts the gun to her neck. Glances back at the store clerk. “Don’t be a hero” he warns.

The clerk has to decide. They keep a gun below the register. He could save the girl, save the store’s money, or die trying. But the black man is so big, so huge. You might shoot him and just make him mad. Why is he so big, it isn’t fair. This one chance in life, and it’s no good. Cower behind the counter, watching and not do anything. The cops standing like statues, waiting for the big man to make a move. The whole thing, all fucked up. Grab some cash and go, but these guys gotta show up for their coffee break. How could that happen.

The big man’s heartbeat pumping in his ears. The lights, the store, like a blur. Then it clears. He’s in charge, everyone waiting on him. “Throw me the keys” he tells the clerk. “What?” “The store keys, throw ‘em to me.” The clerk reaches in his pocket, feels the outline of metal keys on a ring, tosses them to the black man. He takes the girl, pushes past the cops to the glass door, using her as a shield. They can’t shoot, can’t do anything, just watch. He locks the door, then runs for his car, parked along the far side of the store, engine running. The girl so light he hardly notices.

Behind the wheel and driving away, find some traffic, not be the only vehicle on the quiet streets. The clerk’ll have another set of keys, the cops’ll be on the radio. Or no…they’d run out the back way. Maybe in the squad car already, looking for him. Gotta find traffic to hide in. Or ditch the car, go on foot. But the girl…shoulda left her in the parking lot, but didn’t. She could give ‘em a description of the car if you did that. Maybe get the license plate. They could trace the car back to him, borrowed from a friend, and he’d tell ‘em who he loaned it to. What else could he do. But now what.

Whadda y’do. What, what. Have to think. The girl. “Shut up!” he yells. She’s shaking whimpering like a little puppy, doesn’t even know it. Scared to death he’s gonna kill her, or worse. She doesn’t know what to do. You’re supposed to talk to them, when you’re kidnapped or taken hostage. Make them think you’re human like them. Not just some object to be disposed of. She heard that on tv or someplace. Talk to them, but what do you say. They didn’t tell you that.

Just talk, say whatever’s in your head. “You gonna kill me” she asks. Too loudly, voice trembling, not the right thing to say. Don’t wanna give him any ideas. He looks at the girl, small, pretty thing, somebody’s child. What’s she doing in that store, all alone. Why her. What are you supposed to say to her. Whatever comes to mind. “I oughtta rip your clothes off, fuck you to death.” No…that didn’t come out right.

The girl shudders, her mind categorizing. They’re talking, that’s good, but not going right. It has to connect. “I guess…if you’re going to kill me anyway…then it doesn’t matter; whatever else, y’know.” But it’s funny, tragic, and so terribly funny. You save your self, all this time. Say no, push the boys away. Saving yourself…just to be raped by some monster. These crazy variables, unplanned for, unaccounted.

He looks at her. So tiny, trembling, trying not to. He checks the mirror, no flashing lights. Eases into traffic. What did she say. “I’m not gonna hurt you” he tells her absently. “You promise.” “Huh? Yeah, sure.” That’s better, she thinks. The monster’s almost human. You can talk to it, but there’s nothing to say. “I’ve…never had sex, before” she says. What the fuck, why’d she tell him that. Shit. Dumb thing to say.

“Huh?” he glances over at her, still focusing on the road, looking for the cops. “How old are you?” “Fifteen.” “Nah…” he shakes his head, she doesn’t look that old, more like a kid. “Yeah” she says “I’m small-boned.” That sounds stupid. Something you’d say to your aunt you haven’t seen in a long time, and she asks you your age.

“I’m not” he says. Obviously, big hulking monster. “Back…where I’m from, fifteen year old girls be dropping out babies like flies.” Dumb thing to say, ‘like flies’ sounds like you’re ignorant, stupid.

“Where you from” she asks. “Here…around here.” Born here, grew up here, and now come back to die. Doesn’t make any sense. He pulls onto a side street, seedy decrepit buildings, boarded up, broken out windows. The wind blowing through everything. “Hey, don’t be asking me that stuff. I don’t want you…knowing about me. Okay?” “Sure. I didn’t mean anything.” Pulls the car into an alley, parks between a couple of old buildings. Finds a back door, kicks it open, dragging the girl with him.

Down a flight of narrow steps, basement apartment, abandoned like everything else. Whoever lived here took off with the cold weather. Took what they could carry and got out. He switches on a light, haven’t even shut off the electricity yet. Probably find a new tenant at the end of the month. That’s how it is. Everybody’s gotta live some place. Ratty furniture, foul smelling, you barely notice when you’re running from the cops. He sees the girl, the look on her face, horrified.

“I’m sorry, about this” he says. “I just gotta, think. Figure things out.” “It’s okay. Just… the smell.” She looks around the room, should sit down, try to make things seem at ease. But where can you sit, in this filth. “Don’t…try to run” he tells her “okay?” “I won’t.” “I just gotta think.”

She sits down on the torn up sofa, leaning forward, not wanting to lean her back against it. The big man drops down beside her, his huge bulk almost bouncing her off. Awkward, to be so big, not like other people. Pulls the ski mask off, beads of sweat underneath. His face and head even more frightening without the mask. A giant with its great large mouth, flattened nose, bulging red eyes full of terror. The girl shudders, wants to scream, run, get away from here, from him. Her teeth chattering with fear.

“Wh-wha-what’re you gonna do” she asks. “I dunno...wasn’t ‘sposed t’happpen like this.” He’s calming down, broken almost, back here in this slummy hovel. What can he do. How do you hide when everybody knows who you are. Big hulking monster, check the files for a physical description, his name on top. The girl can feel it too, like when you’re done running. Everything was moving so fast, adrenaline pumping, senses alert. Then you stop, you’re here, and you know you’ve lost. Hurts to look at him. A monster of a man, defeated, crushed into little pieces.

His huge body sagging the weary couch down to the floor. Him sitting there, leaning forward, staring at the floor. She reaches her hand out to his. “It’s okay” she says. “No, no, it isn’t. Look around, look at this…filth, garbage. This is me, this is what I am.” “It doesn’t have to be.” “Whatta you know.” He squeezes the girl’s hand. Too hard, could crush it with his huge meaty grip. “Ow!” She pulls away. But he didn’t mean anything, just the fear anger panic. “I’m sorry.”

Wringing his hands, like sorry sums up everything. Everything he ever did, ever was. Sorry for ever existing. “It’s okay. Just don’t…give up.” He looks at her. Pretty little kid, got no idea of what it’s like here, the real world. She wouldn’t last five minutes. Shakes his head. Thoughts rattling around, how every step in his whole life had led him to...here and now. And it pours out of him, as if to find some meaning to it. Or just to waste time, til it's over; like a last testament or words on a grave stone. Just so someone would know.

“By the time I was your age, had a rap sheet…a mile long. The baddest bad ass on the street. Never thought I’d…live long enough to worry about it.” “How old are you?” “What, huh? Oh, I dunno, thirty…seven, I guess.” ‘He’s old' she thinks. Close to her parent’s age, but they have jobs, a home, family. And this guy, this place, how, why does it come to this. So awful.

His breath is labored, panting. Oughtta be thinking about how to get outta here. But it’s no use, there’s no way out. Easier to just talk to the girl, lose yourself in meaningless words about nothing. Killing what little time there’s left. It’s up to her, if they’re going to make it. “You can still…be anything you want to” she tells him. “There’s time, plenty of time, to be…whatever.” “Yeah. Thing is, I’m no good. Got no schooling, y’know. Can’t hardly read or write. Can’t hold a job. Never...a good one anyway. Shit, who cares. Fuck it, huh? Fuck all of it.”

He looks around, the sleazy dirty room, and it’s all clear to him. “I’m a criminal. A fucking lousy con. And that’s it.” “You’re not…a bad person” she says. He turns toward her. “Look at me. What do you see?” She looks into his eyes. “You’re big, really big. And, kinda scary…at first. But you could be something. Something good. You could. I know it.”

“You’re a nice kid. But you don’t know shit.” “Oh yeah. Well, this isn’t…what you want. Is it? It’s not what I want. What’re we doing here?” “I wish…I wish, everything was so easy. Like you say. Snap yer fingers. Just like that.” Thoughts running through his head. Something about Alice in Wonderland or Dorothy or something. Click your heals, close your eyes. And you’re…here. Back home. Come back home to die.

“So let’s just go” she says. “Get outta here. Just leave.” The big man takes a deep breath, tries to relax, not worry about it. “When it gets dark, I’ll drop you off somewhere. And then…make my way, I guess.” “No! Unh-uh, you won’t. You’re gonna…get in a shoot out with the cops. And they’ll kill you. That’s what’s gonna happen.” He doesn’t say anything, makes her even more upset. “You think it’s like a game. You give up and they shoot you, and the game’s over.”

Surprises him, how she can put it into words, the ideas spinning around in his head. Like reading his thoughts, but they’re all spelled out when she says it, not jumbled up bits and pieces like it is to him. “So what’s your idea” he asks.

“We can go to my house.” “Where’s that?” “A little town up north.” He doesn’t follow that. “I’m not from here.” “Then whatta you doing here?” “We’re visiting my aunt…for Christmas, y’know.”

Yeah, Christmas time. People do that, go…visit somebody, relatives, or whatever. He’s seen that in movies on tv, but never paid any attention to it. Never did it, so it doesn’t mean anything. Something other people do. Like everything else, a part of life he’ll never know, never understand except by its absence. Things other people do. People who have money, friends, relatives; and Christmas means something besides its cold outside, or they serve a special meal in the jail or prison. Hurtful, like everything else.

So what, no time to think about it now. Oughtta make these last few moments count, be worth something. “What’s your name, kid?” “Huh?” She hesitates. “Um…it’s Ginger, okay. But I hate that name.” “So whatta they call you?” “Gin, or Ginny; that’s what I tell people.” “That’s nice” he says “I like it.” “What about you? What’s your name?” “Me? I’m Ben.” The girl wonders why he’d tell her that. But better to not reason everything out. “Is that what your friends call you?”

He laughs at that. “Don’t have any. People I know, just use you, for whatever.” Then he’s serious again, down in the dumps. “I’ll tell you something…makes me so mad, I can’t stand it.” Clenches his fists, like getting ready to kill something, makes her nervous. “The guards…staff at the jail, the prison, they call me…King Kong. Like I’m some kinda fucking ape, or something. And I can’t, do anything about it.” “How come?” “One time” he says “when I didn’t know better, a guy called me that. I punched him, hard, in the face. And they beat me, over and over and over. Oh well, hospital ward aint bad. Just, takes a while to heal, is all.”

The girl thinks about it. Great big man, could break you in half if you make him mad. And yet, he’s helpless as a little kid, when they got him behind bars. Like a rat in a cage. Funny, strange, being so big and strong doesn’t really mean anything. “Is it…okay, if I call you Bennie?” Makes him smile.

“What?” she asks. “My momma used to call me that…a long time ago.” “Where is she now, your mother?” He looks at her face, so smooth, clean, beautiful young kid. “You don’t wanna be asking that stuff. Just…make you feel sad, is all.”

Looks up at the windows, getting dark out. “Time to get going.” “Where” she asks. “I dunno…your house, I guess. If that’s what you want.” The girl smiles, it’s gonna work out, everything be okay. Like the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders, you can finally relax, breathe easy. The big man gets up, takes her hand. Then the door bursts open, three angry young men with guns. “We just want the girl, that’s all.” The big man reaches for his gun, they shoot, and he goes down. They grab the girl and take off.

Hours later, the big man face down on the floor in a pool of blood. It was quiet, blank, peaceful almost. Something starts screaming in his head, yelling for him to get up, get up get up! He can’t. The blood dried, sticking to the floor. Eyes won’t open. Forces himself up onto hands and knees, feels the blood leaking out again. Rubs his eyes, makes his way to the kitchen sink, splashes water on his face. Trying to focus. There was a girl here. Ginny…that’s her name. He has to find her, get to her, find the guys who took her. Looks at his watch, it’s late. His heart racing, hoping there’s still time.

Finds a flimsy towel, rips it in half, ties it around his head. But it’s hard to move, dizzy, legs weak, unsteady. It doesn’t matter, he’s gotta find her. Outside the air is cold on his face. That’s good, helps bring you around. Lightheaded, but it doesn’t matter, just makes you more dangerous. Down the street a few blocks, turn up the alleyway. Steps lead down to dirt and debris below. He pounds on the door and they let him in. An all-night bar of sorts, hole in the ground for the dregs and leftovers. Old fat man behind the bar. Hokie Shavers, a fixture in these parts for as long as anyone can remember. The big man staggers in, a wounded bear looking for something to kill.

“Whatta you hear” he growls. “Heard you was dead.” Old man looks him in the eye, shows no fear. “I need answers” says Ben “don’t have time to fuck around.” Big crazy giant, bloody towel around his head. The little old fat man, drying whiskey glasses with a bar towel. Sets the glasses down, leans forward against the bar. Hands reaching for the sawed-off double barrel. Ben comes around behind the bar. Sees the shotgun leveled at his waist. Means nothing to him.

“You owe me” he says “I saved your boy’s ass, back in slam, dozen times or more.” “Yeah…you’re right. I owe you. But I aint fixin t’die just to pay you back.” The words mean nothing, just wasting time, and the big man’s in a hurry. “Where’s the girl, who took her. If you know…you better tell me.” Old man has to decide. If he talks, they’ll find him and kill him. That’s a given. But if he doesn’t, the big man’ll break him in half, right here and now. He raises the shotgun, finger on the trigger. The big man doesn’t care. “If you gonna kill me, get it over with.” He walks forward slowly. Reaches the old man and takes the shotgun from his hands.

“I’m a dead man” says the old guy. “Whatta you mean; whatta you talkin about?” “Who you think…runs this place; everything around here, huh?” Ben looks at the man’s face; weary with age, fear in his eyes. Then it comes to him. “Jack Tucker.” The boss man, crime lord, his fingers in every dirty deal that goes on around here. Everybody knows that, but Ben can’t piece it together. “What’s he got to do with it?” “Money” says the old man. “Pretty little white girl, fetch a lot of money…if that’s what you’re selling.” Yeah…selling kids for money. That’d be Boss Tucker all right. “Where is he.” His voice is thick, tough, mean, like an animal.

Old guy looks at the clock up on the wall. It’s late, very late. “Might be…at one of his clubs yet, I dunno.” “Take me there.” “Now hold on. That’s insane. You can’t, you can’t do that. What’s wrong with you?” “I’m gonna find that girl. And kill anybody gets in my way.” Ben looks into the man’s eyes, and the guy knows he means it. His wrinkled old hands trembling, knees weak, shuffling through the back room, up the steps. Maybe just drop the guy off, and get out, nobody’ll know. They’ll kill him, and that’ll be that.

Get in his old car, parked in the alley, been sitting there forever. It’s cold, hard to start. The old man shivering against the cold. Should be inside on a night like this. Inside where it’s warm, have another drink and a smoke. Let your mind go blank until you’re tired, ready for bed. Not out here in this wicked cold, wind howling, so dark you can’t even see. A person could die out here.

The big man behind the wheel, revs the engine to get the car running good. “Where to” he asks. The old man giving directions, yeah…you wanna go to hell, I’ll take you. Not far, nobody else on the streets this time of night. A string of clubs, bars, liquor stores, on both sides of the street. The better part of the seedy part of town. A lot of money spent here, night after night where the people go who got no place else to go.

“Which one” he asks. “In the middle, the big fancy one” says the old guy. Park the car down the street, engine running. Check the trunk for tools. Flashlight, tire iron, jack, shotgun shells, hunting knife. Old man’s a survivor, gotta hand it to him.

Walking down the street quickly, the old guy trying to keep up. All these buildings, old brick painted over, three four five stories high. Offices back in the day when business was downtown. Now just bars and strip clubs, storage space, ratty apartments for the workers here. Down the alley, around back, rickety wooden steps leading up to an apartment. Get up to the roof from there. And across the roofs, look out over the edge down to the street, see where you’re at. It all looks the same up here. Cold, dark, windy.

Up the metal ladder attached to the side of the big building, fire escape. So cold your hands almost stick to the metal. The roof of the big fancy building, carpeted, clean. They use this in the summer, warm weather. Barbecue, drink beer up here. Bring girls up here from the clubs and bars down below. Must be nice. A rooftop doorway in the corner. Steel door, locked, bolted, no way in. Shoulda guessed that. Fat Jack would have everything locked, sealed up tighter’n a drum. Even the cops couldn’t get in. Back down the metal ladder, sees the old man just making his way up to the roof.

“It’s no good, all locked up.” “Coulda told yah that, if you’d a waited.” “Now what? How we get in?” “Can’t. Might as well go. Come back in the morning.” Old guy’s outta breath, cold, scared to death, not where you wanna be in the middle of the night. Ben ignores him. Looks for another way. Halfway down, back windows on one of the buildings, facing the alley. Dark, dirty, like they never been opened for ages. Got bars on the windows. Takes the solid steel bar of the old-fashioned tire jack, pries against the old soft brick. Sturdy, doesn’t budge. Leans all weight into it, all his muscle, and the bars pop loose from the brick of the building.

Inside full of boxes, dust, chairs, barstools, everything you might’ve had use for once, and don’t even know it’s still up here. Dark hallway, faint glow of an exit sign somewhere down below. He follows it, down to the first floor. Strip club. In the basement, dressing rooms for the girls, and for paying customers. A big room for storing case after case of whiskey and beer, glasses, bar supplies. Door on the other end leads to the fancy building, the night club. Through there, up the steps, another steel door bolted shut. Ben wedges the tire iron into the gap of the door. Pries against it ‘til the tire iron bends double. No use, the door set in concrete, impassible.

Finally the old man comes waddling up behind him. “It’s no use” he says, shaking his head. “Knock. Knock on the door. Wake somebody up.” “Aint nobody gonna be answering this door. Not this time a night.” “Do it.” Old man doesn’t have a choice, pounding on the door, trying to think up something to say. Pounding with his fist, and heart pounding in his chest. No way for an old man to die. Finally a light comes on, voice says whatta y’want. “Gotta see Jack.” “Go ‘way.” “It’s me, Hokie. Hokie Shavers, gotta see Jack. Right now!”

Door opens up a crack. Ben rips it open, grabs the big man on the other side. Gun at his head. “Jack Tucker here?” “Yeah…upstairs. In his room.” “You got keys.” “On the ring. In the door. One key, opens all the doors.” Ben slugs him with the gun. Grabs the key ring. Upstairs, down the hall, faint flicker of light from one of the rooms. Inside, the big fat man on a big soft bed. Velvet sheets, couple of pretty girls on either side of him, caressing, stroking. A movie on the big tv screen.

The fat man sees Ben, bolts upright, reaching for a gun. “Don’t do it!” he yells. Fat man slumps back down on the bed. “Ben King…thought you were dead.” “Yeah, and you gonna join me. Where’s the girl?” Tucker sizes the man up. Big mistake to assume those punks had killed him. Shoulda made sure. Too late now, but he’s just a big dumb con. Three time loser though, and that makes him dangerous. Lifers do crazy things. “That girl…cost me a lot a money, Ben. Maybe…we can make a deal.”

Ben moves toward the bed. The two naked girls scramble for cover. He sticks the gun in the man’s cheek. “Where is she!” “Next room, on the bed. Okay? Take her. Take the girl, and then get outta here.” A door leading to a room behind this one. Ben kicks it down, sees her on the bed, half-naked, hands and feet tied to the corners. Takes the knife and cuts her loose. She grabs him, hugs him tight, saying thank you, thank you, over and over. He puts his coat over her, big old coat like a tent. Lifts her up and goes back out the doorway.

The old man’s just coming into the room, double barrel in his hands. Fat Jack sees the old man, the gun. “Shoot him, shoot him, c’mon!” The old man doesn’t budge. Fat man runs toward him, grabs for the gun, and it goes off. The girls screaming, blood and guts everywhere. Ben steps over the body, nods at the old man. “Thanks.” “Go on, get outta here” he says. “I’ll make sure nobody follows.”

Ben takes the girl, out to the street, the car. Warm now, with the engine still running. “We gotta go to the cops” she says. “What? I can’t.” “I gotta tell ‘em. Big Jack Tucker kidnapped me…and you came and got me out.” “They’ll never believe you.” “Have to. My word against his. And he’s not gonna say anything, right.”

Driving away in the nice warm car. Little blonde girl wrapped up in the great big coat, staring straight ahead. “What did they do to you…back there” he asks. “You don’t wanna ask that” she says. “Let’s just get outta here.”

A Funny Thing Happened...

I'll tell you a racist joke, and you tell me if it's funny or not. 

When I'se a yoot, full of salt, vinegar and idealism the whole "reason to be" was to end the Vietnam War. We all of us millions and millions of kids dressed in costumes recognizable a mile away - colorfully patched jeans, tie-dyed shirts, and coats bought dirt cheap from Army/Navy stores, and long (as you can grow it) scraggly hair. 

Our symbol was the "peace" sign. Our motto "fuck the war." We smoked marijuana peace pipes from dusk til dawn, then filled 'er up again. Was a great big party we thought would never end. And it was the greatest movement in the history of America. The entire country was caught up in it, regardless of which side you were on. It was all anyone talked about - the tv shows, the news, the music, everywhere. And it went on like that for years. It was our way of life.

But when the war ended around '75 or so, our "reason to be" ended as well. The sad fact is, we no longer had "any" reason to be. And the entire Hippie movement that'd shut down the "New York state thruway" and brought down a President, was over. Not with a bang but a whimper. We scattered to the winds like dried petals of discarded flowers.

So here's the joke. For those whose entire existence is defined by race, what happens when race is no longer defined?

How to Read (part 3)

Reading my three books, I'm slacked by a slog. Then it hits me, like a whap from above. You lazy-ass piece of shit, 'stead of sloppy-reading what others has wrote, you could be writing yer own ferkin novels. To wit (t'wit fer Republicans): living yer own short life 'stead of aping others. 

Tho I must admit, I'se taken back to days of yesteryear (no, not the intro to Lone Ranger from when I'se a kid) but to when I'd argue with dummies on MySpace (Lord of the Unpublished Book or some such shit) 'bout they being no rules to write. Okay, maybe they is some. 

Or even an argument with my sister (as a continuance of same with my late father). So I was at State Prison ...no, that's another time. Okay, was boy's reform school (lovely horse-ranch place) where my goddaughter Rita & mum visiting their brother/son, and as it's a locked-in setting fer bad boys, lovely lil teenybopper Rita wearing yoga pants fer all the boys t'harden they fortitude, I guess.

Anyway, y'caint smoke on campus so I drives out to spring blooming sunshiny corn field dirt road to light up cigarette and call my sis who live down 'Sippi way. And as we speak of life, she says she always wanted to be a police detective. Solve mysteries, lock up villains, make streets safe fer decent folk. An' I tells her - easy 'nuff - just write stories or books with yersef as the clever detective/hero. But she resists - doesn't know how - to write like yer 'sposed to. 

Whereupon I start to scream cuss and abuse - who the fock say what e're way you does it isn't the "right way" that everbuddy else too stupid to know til you show 'em? Then again, like I say, I'm in a slog here. My three books has stalled a bit. Slowed to a crawl, that is. So, p'raps we should look under the hood. 

Think of it like eating, like nourishment. Like you's all day down in the coal mine in How Green Was My Valley an' finally drags yer ass home t'evening where mum say "I hired a French chef t'prepares yah dainty lil delights scattered about yer porcelain white plates...or...I got big bowls a hot beef stew. Take yer pick. 

Y'see? Nourishment taint 'bout how the ferkin food look, is 'bout what it do. Fill yer gut would be the operative concept here. So let's go o'er the rules, such as they are. Books are wot y'eat when yahs hungry - not a taste testing competition fer Connie's sewers. Okay then.

Rule one - do hit taste good? Cuz y'aint gonna eat the shit if tastes like shit. (Correlative) don't gotta be no fancy-ass frills arranged like a Caravaggio canvas. Gimme the fokkin stew, Ma, I'se hungry. 

Rule two - is filling? Like, how much this shit I gotta eat fer I feel like I dun et sumpin? Like I said - in a slog here - tha's why I'se writin' 'stead a readin'. A wise old... Fuck it, I once said: reading something writ, better be the best thing you could be doing right now...otherwise the author fokkin wasted yer time. So tha's rule one...two...ever goddamn rule they is.

But.......how can the author be so boldly God-like t'know that reading they writing is the one most important thing you could be doing with your time? Hah, see rule...whatev. If taint that, don't fokkin write. I kin waste my time watchin' the tv or fixin' up the house or million other thangs. Wastin' time aint a problem. Is "not wastin' time" wot we gotta figure on. Y'see?

Anyway, just picked up Thomas Chatterton Williams' book Self-Portrait in Black and White. And is tasty.

PS - that Anderson feller can write t'hell outta the spoken word, caint he?

Leadership & Crisis Management

Prior planning prevents piss poor performance, per US Army. But...most peoples don' wanna be leaders - they let other folk do that for 'em. Wot make fer all sorta scheiss. But consider those who seek leadership roles. 

Three come to mind - school superintendent, Gov Cuomo and Donnie Trump. I'se already said Cuomo makes Trump look stupid (and Trump does too). But dig deeper.

Why TF would Donnie seek THE leadership role? To wit (t'wit fer Republicans) why the fock would Trump want to be Pres of US and leader of free world? Wull, he don' wanna be leader of world - made that clear from git go. An' I 'spect his randyness (quoting idiot-boy Chris Matthews) t'be Pres was (likely) wot Trump thot would be a big money-maker for him; and ego stroking commensurate with his unlimited neediness. 

Cuz obviously the amazing fool never thot he'd be any Moses-type leader who could actually guide people to a better life fer all. His itty-bitty brain don't go that deep. Like askin' Teddy Kennedy why he wants t'be Pres. "Uhm......duh....I dunno." But Shirley, every fool who seeks leadership has tooken that to consideration, no? Yah fockin' moron - the concept is - guide everbuddy to better life fer everbuddy. If'n y'don' git that, y'ahs too fockin' stupid to lead, or want to. Okay?

Fer example, as new kid in Nebraska school (I'se from Georgia, but we moved) when I'se 12 or so, I'd never played baskyball. But as kindly German-Cathlic kids let me play wid 'em, I knowed Tim was by far best player in school. So when he thowed ball t'me (cuz he's quadrupled teamed) I looked 'round...an' thowed it right back to him. An' he takes one...two...three steps (through recess-time gym with couple hunnert kids runnin' screamin' like kids do) and through all that kiddie madness, he finger-rolled ball into basket.

Contrast to high school - every "small group" of three-four kids (the far-king teachers was always wantin' us to work in small groups to promote...what, dog shit? I dunno). Anyway, I was never in small group where I didn't have to be the leader, cuz nobody else could or wanted to.

And (kinda what teachers wanted - but wanted someone else to do the work for them) I'd try my goddamnest to get every ferkin butthead to participate & contribute to the group effort. Kinda like "so, Bobby, whatcha think?" "Duh...I dunno." An' when the ten minutes up & teacher want feedback, I report fer group "Bobby thinks we oughtta..." Much to amusement of classmates who know Bobby never say jackshit 'bout nuthin' concerning school work. 

And so, we got school cancelled for...forever, or at least for who knows when. And we got kids studying at home while they books are safely locked away inside school lockers what they can't now or never get to. Okay, I can adjust. And I can quote too "prior planning prevents piss poor performance." If'n y'wanna lead, taint 'bout the prestige of bein' homecoming queen - is about fokking leading when folk has t'have somebuddy in charge of wot the fock we's gonna' do. Got it? (Or as Donnie J puts it "that's not my job.")

Meaning of Life

Ask any teenager in America - what's the meaning of life - and they'll tell you. "To be entertained...duh...I never asked to be born, so whoever fukketh my mom owes me a lifetime of leisure and entertainment." About that time y'get the whap upside the head and "guess agin' dipshit."

Trubble is, most of us never get past that. We see the guy with the fancy house, motorcycle, pool, RV, and "gee, he's got it made, wish I was that lucky." Like Mike Wilbon's wink & nod to Hugh Hefner - man, he gets to fuck every slut who'll get naked for pics - must be the greatest man since Epstein. 

And y'has t'wonder at this here advanced theoretical logic what's been imprinted on every American baby brain - entertainment of self. Kinda like "gotta hurry home from work to catch the NBA game...or Super Bowl, Premier League, or what the fuck. The trick is - don't ever get the anxiety/depression of what the fok kinda life I got that's sucks so bad all I gotta look forward to is some clown bouncing a ball on the floor. Gotterdam, tha's really depressing. Make fer all sorta self-loathing. Like pissin' all over a person's time on planet, or short little life.

Lee Rourke finds this shit boring. To be fair, he never grew up in Yemen, and I didn't neither (though I did mention that idea on page 3 of my book I done wrote years afore I ever met Lee at Appomattox) (okay, wasn't Appomattox, but has a nice ring to it, no?) 

Yay verily did I leave Nebraski fer California in search of gold and young girls willing... (sorry Wilbon, didn't mean t'pick on you). I guess that's why geese migrate (Gertrude & Heathcliff) "why the hottest girl goose always gotta fly so damn fast?" 

But you don't gotta read half-way through Ben Myers book t'get Dulcie to explain things. I'll give you a quick short story what tell all.