Osmoses (A Tale Told Only Once) Part 1

Some folks sport military garb, signifying being a Marine, or Army Ranger, or Seal, kind of a cape for courage, who are far from their courage. As well as others who sport a monkish cloak, or clergy collar, for Godliness, who are the very reverse of that inside? I usually do not write a prologue for my short stories, or for that matter, novelettes or novels, but this very prologue is the reason you should read this story and carefully weigh up its contents, you may discover the potency within is far more valuable than the title suggests. That is to say, the subject here treated is not as foolish as the title promised. Yes, it is written in a lightheartedness, but there is marrow in the bone to be discover and once discovered you must guard it with eyes of a devoted dog. To the dog the marrow is more delicious than the meat. For marrow is the perfect food invented by nature. This is a dreaded mystery, concerning religion and private life. Moreover, the manner of its writing and content are plain and boorish, laughable, playful, and always concealing. Some invisible courage, some over confidence, incredible contempt for what men struggle against. That is the reason you must open this story and carefully and not be deterred by what might look like nonsense, nor look at the literal meanings, but be like Plato infers in his "Republic", look for that marrow bone!
Analogue
There was a man in the land of Uz, a perfect and upright man, one that feared God, and of substance, and God boasted of this man. And there was a day the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan was among them. And the devil told God, that yes Job feared him, but should he take the hedge about him away, he would curse him after he got through with Job. And so God gave Job over to Satan with one limitation, not to kill him, otherwise to do with him for a short while, as he pleased, and Satan took away all his substance, all he valued the most, and Job was miserable but he knew God did not forsake him. And Job unaware of this meeting, was steadfast through all the destruction Satan threw at him. Yes there was difficulties job never expected, but had he not taken a closer look at who was the door-keeper, and the shadow of the devil with his big sharp nose and long thin black beard he was so famous for, he might have thought what everyone told him, he had a mark of some sin upon him, but he knew he didn't, he knew he was already weighed and balanced. His neighbor's, sons and wife cursed his bad luck. He even told his wife, "Can you not see the devil, he is right behind you, following you like a serpent in heat"; thus, she in heart, abandoned him. Many times the devil thought Job had reached his end, and thought he had let his failing senses catch the words and roars in his ear of those around him. Job knew, God did not cast any evil thing, so it must be something else, someone else, some hidden counsel that might have taken place, who's to say, I mean when God asked Job "Do you know what's in my storehouses," and Job said "No" well God simply put the brakes on there, said "Then you don't know everything do you wise guy?" Of course I'm stretching it a tinge. Well, in the long run, Job lived 140-years, and was given a double portion of substance after the secret game was over between the devil and God, a double portion from what he had lost that is, for his resoluteness, his devotion, and forever after it became one of the most told tails ever told. Job of course is only one book out of the Old Testament, we can go to the story of Cain and Abel, and it turns out quite different, a little envy on behalf of Cain because God chose Abele's offering more satisfying. Matter of fact we can even look at Noah's grandson Canaan, who was inflicted by Satan and got Noah to drink until he was drunk on his rump, and whooped it up bare flesh and all! So these stories are worth remembering when reading "Osmoses" and perhaps we might somewhere along the line as the question: why does God take the good and leave the bad? My best guess is, to prevent the good from going bad, and hoping the bad in time will turn out to being good.
If you find yourself asking the question, why the protagonist did what he did, when he could have avoided the chaos, it was once said by an old wise man, "Duty is like a man's shadow." And if you ask why the elder brother did what he did, Wassermann, along with his siblings, the answer may be: hot wind is like the devil's breath.
Osmoses
...
Botis the Imp
1
It started off as a gradual unconscious process of assimilating, or absorption. As Wendell Wormwood awoke one evening from a nightmare, to find out, it was a real live demon espousing himself, like a sponge into his flesh, -sitting on his chest-as if it was in the process of demonic possession. The conjecture was to Wendell, that the demonic rapscallion, was in the process of a middle state, or phase of osmosis of his operation. Wendell continued to lay on his back as the terrifying creature sat on his chest, Wendell feeling the weight to be liken to a hundred pound sack of potatoes, and being no more the size of a bulky imp, resembling that of a miniature triceratops. The nose much smaller than his horn like ears, but widely spaced above his lips. Wendell lifted his head some as to see the creature more restored, he had a beer-belly as they say, brown and flabby, with pointed ears, as mentioned, like hooters, with chicken-like legs and hawk-like feet, and he was trying to slide himself completely in through Mr. Wormwood's pours, like sweat coming out. And his tail was long with a little shrub at its end, a pitifully thin looking lariat, in comparison. As he moved to center himself better, his tail got caught on a spring under the mattress and he tried like a: cow, sow, or hog stuck in barbwire trying to wiggle it free, and that was when Wendell woke up, and there before his eyes, lo and behold, was the netherworld creature called Botis, doing mêlée.
"What in tarnation is going on?" yelped Wendell, eyes bigger than a car's headlights. He was in the path of amalgamation of course.
It was no nightmare, alias, it was reality.
His bedroom was rather small, too small to roll about in, so Wendell tried to pull, and push the demon out, by hanging over the side edge of the bed. Then sitting upright the invader pushed deeper beyond his forearm into Wendell's ribs, and it vanished. Wendell's eyes, seeing this, turned crimson. No one in the house could hear him beating on the chest of the demon to make him stop, or if they could, no one came to the rescue, for his screams were quite mortified, loud, yet who would dare?
He was still tired and contemplative of if this was a dream or reality.
"What malarkey is this," he exclaimed to the creature, looking straight into his stout ugly face that showed a mouth wider than his forehead, with a goatee that dripped from the edge of his bottom lip to the end of his neck, which ended up laying on his chest.
It was most difficult to turn right or left in his present condition, which normally he slept on his sides, nonetheless he found himself rocking and rolling to which he fell onto his left side, after several tries, accomplishing it with a triumphal thump, shutting his eyes as he did from the horrid face of the demon that nettled him, yet still the demon struggled with his tail and you could see on his face a faint dull ache, with a cynical looking demeanor, evidently he had never encountered such a trial.
"Oh Lucifer," cried the imp emphatically, but only a figure of expression for he did not want the attention of Lucifer, lest he be boiled alive for his ineffectuality, and slipup, "what a grueling job you've given me." Such was his work day, and throughout the night. It was better, he had told himself, on many occasions: 'It's better than the actual business in the warehouses of Tartarus, counting black sheep, day in and day out' which they called the new comers. Although his present job-earthbound-was constant traveling or worrying about if the subject was going to wake up, for seldom did they.
Lo, all of a sudden, Botis felt a slight itching on his belly-button; slowly he let go of his left arm firmly attached to Wendell's shoulder, and as soon as he did, Wendell pushed the demon back nearly all the way out of him, which caused an impediment for the ungodly creature (there was no discourse or dialog between the two, and to be frank that tail was causing the imp to lose his repartee, likewise, Mr. Wormwood's wits where coming to its end, both now struggling without thinking). Quickly Botis identified the exact spot of the itch, and scratched it with his long talons, as thick and long as an owl's, and a cool and relief shiver run though him, and then he mumbled in a gibberish tone, "This getting one's tail caught in a bedspring makes a person look stupid," contemplating his comrades controversy should they find out in Tartarus, which they'd never see as a mishap, rather a screw-up, -for eventually he'd have to go back to make out his report, or better yet, his account, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story... (While everyone would be chewing on a good portion of fried cow guts. He knew this for a fact for they had century after century accustomed themselves to it, they said it was good for the memory, so the total health of the demon race of earthly spies, consisted in eating this cuisine and gulping it down like ducks do water was ideal for their health they believed... this was also said to disinfect their horrible breath! They also ate this until their bellies were tight, and their navel would pop out, agreeable for the long journey ahead. Then after picking their teeth with a pig's trotter, and their chatter was all complete, and the dice put away and the stock of cards hidden in some dry place, they'd go to work again.) anyhow, as I was saying, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story, that is to say, his encounter over and over to each and every one, to one another of his pals, his chums, his comrades in arms, whom would gossip like demon more often do, than not, and like: pile lie upon lie, invention upon invention, propaganda upon propaganda, like demon do until it is so unreal he'd become the pun and the laughing stock of Tartarus! While each one of his pals, and chums and comrades, would tell of their triumphs, 'I'd be sacked on the spot,' he told himself, 'if only I didn't have to scratch my bellybutton, who can tell?' But say what you will, thought Botis, what is done is done, he needed to remedy the situation, and do it quickly.
Then Wendell aimed with his right fist at the imp's chest, and knocked the demon from end-to-end of the bed like a boomerang, falling eventually onto the floor, and one hand still on the end railing of the bed, hanging on for whatever reasons, surely not for dear life! His tail being released with a sudden jerk, and shredded from the pull and thrust of the tumbling over the end-edge of the bed.
'What a trying upset,' mumbled Botis, as if his pride was badly wounded, his composure and face in dismay.
The clock read it was half-past three o'clock. Thus he figured it was still early enough to quietly move on from Wendell's house, and should anyone ask, who would be the wiser.
So Botis, quietly leaped from his loss, leaped from the balustrade of the bed like a Bagdad thief in the night, with stammering lips, a sneer at Wendell, through the dim tears that bathed his face for such a screw-up Wendell could not see this of course, and all the better for Bois, save, by and by, he'd have something to boast; consequently, he seized the brimming windowsill with a cantankerous look, raised his strength up into the air with outstretched arms and then looked down as if towards Hell itself, bellowed with Machiavellian-eyes: "To you, ye gods hidden beneath the earth," expressing his surprise cunning at his escape, leaping into the broad moonlight. The weather piercingly warm, yet feeling somewhat fresh and active, trying to put on a pleasant look to his face as not to look suspicious to his employer, or one of those Secret Service Demon and Women (agents of the netherworld) of Tartarus, should he bump into one, such as the Viper Queen, as she was known, and Bit Bertha, both Machiavellian-demon-ness', otherwise known as the quadrilateral-sisters, whom were always looking for emoluments, for them to look the other way, lest they make a nasty report on him. Nay, what then? (it was game time, and I'll tell you what games they played if they got bored, Bit Bertha and Viper Queen, they played the old Tartarus games called: 'Slash and cut', or 'duck your head' or 'who's got the fatter arse' or 'catch and eat the brown beetle' or 'whip the sow,' or 'fork the toad' or 'who can spit thicker' or 'shooting feathered darts at cats and rat and dogs and hogs. And then they'd stretch and sleep)
It struck the family members at the Wormwood home, that it had been quiet, too quiet in Wendell's room too long, as they had previously been conversing to one another for some time on if they should or should not become more aware of what was going on in his room, having been standing by his doorway, and previously pacing the hallway alongside the bedroom, much aware of some kind of commotion had taken place, although they were there when it was taking place also. They unconsciously exchanged glances... and one member asked loudly for Wendell to answer: "Is it safe to come in?" There was no answer, no reply, Wendell had fallen back to sleep, and the family members dare not open the door, err, they could wait until morning and let Wendell tell the story, as they had drummed up to support.
Ah, it all was rather justification of their own phenomenal cowardice; all pretentious, it was an impediment of their character, where they had relied on Wendell for safekeeping, as they had always told one another, as well as for his monetary support "... we're in good hands with Wendell." Therefore to their amorous whispers, Wendell was left to his own, had been left to his own. All had the same obsession, all the same cynical smile, an expressible something or other, that appeared to be like a trial, something too trying to try, and so no one tried anything, and of course doing nothing, is doing something, which is allowing whatever took place to take place. And so they would wait for the results come morning, for the better or worse.
At the Kitchen Table
2
Come Morning, Wendell looked about the kitchen table, among his three family members-a tinge impudent, and risqué, they all stopped what they were doing, bent their heads a shade-akin to know what took place, but shy to ask, they all looked to be a bit fatigued to Wendell, acting as if wanting to scatter themselves but Wendell seized the opportunity to exchange a few confidential words with them at which point, they unbolted themselves, and asked him to join them, their humanity more centered on commercial than the heroic story, the very one that took place but a few hours ago in the wee hours of the night with the demonic creature and his victory over him, and once told, they all felt relieved, saying in unison, "Ah, a nightmare, of course!" Now unrepentant of their cowardice idiosyncrasies they had displayed to one another, now thrown to the wind, laughed at as if it was a finely woven tale of dark linen, with a change in conversations to idiotic hearty maledictions, to oblige one another's choice in their decision not to have disturb Wendell during his trying nightmare. And now they applauded one another of their own independence, as if they had done Wendell some great service. For is it not true, in such cases there always remains in the conscience some of those dishonesties we pour into ourselves. It gives a better after-taste for one who is selling unwholesome liquor.
Someone even made a joke of it, as if to throw a pun at Wendell's immigration, "Next time the demon will know better, to kill the lion before he skins him!"
Said one voice to another: "My dear sister Woolycat, fill this up until it spills over, if you please." They all were drinking wine as red as a cardinal's cap, at the table. Wendell noticed a fly had just drank out of his older brother's glass, Wassermann, nonetheless it bothered him little, he simply shooed the fly away like a beggar who had stolen a coin from his pocket, and in one gulp the wine was gone.
Aforementioned Wendell, with all earnestness, said he: "Spiders do not spin webs for a single fly, or do they?" (A rhetorical question, more a wistful statement) They twisted their body's some, one to another, gave each other faint glances, perhaps not grasping exactly what he meant by that, or perhaps they knew and were in contemplation over it. For had Wendell not been successful, they would have had to turn over a lot of stones to find the snake.
And there Wendell stood, in the anteroom in repast, discerning: there was more honor in cleaning a stable clean, than warning them; for surely the imp was close by, and if he decided to come back as often they did, he would assuredly look and most likely find a new stockpile of flesh to store himself in. All said, Wendell, simply gave a nod with his head right to left, mumbled as he left the house (belief so sorely needed was not found, their caustic humor wounded him deeply... ): said he: "To those cowards who can't swim, no river is shallow enough" showing repugnance towards the group as he went out the front door, down the wooden steps, and on to work on an empty stomach, holding pent-up feelings of lassitude. In return, all the group gave back to Wendell was an air of bantering pity, a voice saying, "Ah, he is too sensitive!"
Now walking down the street, Wendell inhaled the odor of the flowers in the nearby gardens, leaning his head on his shoulder with a look of sweet nothings. Their breath was no longer defused around him. And his soul was bathed in a wave of infinite triumph, as he stopped to read the newspapers which lay close beside him on an old man's newsstand. The old man Epistemon did not take the liberty of interrupting Mr. Wormwood, as to purchase the paper. Wendell noticed his embarrassment, and took out some change to purchase the paper. With a mixture of respect and dryness, the proprietor took the coins, in exchange. Wendell had always thought himself to be a prohibitionist, for country and family before anything, even if one must set up an embargo, but now he was ruling that out, there was residue of pessimism, especially for the likes of his domestic life.

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Osmoses (A Tale Told Only Once) Part 1

Some folks sport military garb, signifying being a Marine, or Army Ranger, or Seal, kind of a cape for courage, who are far from their courage. As well as others who sport a monkish cloak, or clergy collar, for Godliness, who are the very reverse of that inside? I usually do not write a prologue for my short stories, or for that matter, novelettes or novels, but this very prologue is the reason you should read this story and carefully weigh up its contents, you may discover the potency within is far more valuable than the title suggests. That is to say, the subject here treated is not as foolish as the title promised. Yes, it is written in a lightheartedness, but there is marrow in the bone to be discover and once discovered you must guard it with eyes of a devoted dog. To the dog the marrow is more delicious than the meat. For marrow is the perfect food invented by nature. This is a dreaded mystery, concerning religion and private life. Moreover, the manner of its writing and content are plain and boorish, laughable, playful, and always concealing. Some invisible courage, some over confidence, incredible contempt for what men struggle against. That is the reason you must open this story and carefully and not be deterred by what might look like nonsense, nor look at the literal meanings, but be like Plato infers in his "Republic", look for that marrow bone!
Analogue
There was a man in the land of Uz, a perfect and upright man, one that feared God, and of substance, and God boasted of this man. And there was a day the sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan was among them. And the devil told God, that yes Job feared him, but should he take the hedge about him away, he would curse him after he got through with Job. And so God gave Job over to Satan with one limitation, not to kill him, otherwise to do with him for a short while, as he pleased, and Satan took away all his substance, all he valued the most, and Job was miserable but he knew God did not forsake him. And Job unaware of this meeting, was steadfast through all the destruction Satan threw at him. Yes there was difficulties job never expected, but had he not taken a closer look at who was the door-keeper, and the shadow of the devil with his big sharp nose and long thin black beard he was so famous for, he might have thought what everyone told him, he had a mark of some sin upon him, but he knew he didn't, he knew he was already weighed and balanced. His neighbor's, sons and wife cursed his bad luck. He even told his wife, "Can you not see the devil, he is right behind you, following you like a serpent in heat"; thus, she in heart, abandoned him. Many times the devil thought Job had reached his end, and thought he had let his failing senses catch the words and roars in his ear of those around him. Job knew, God did not cast any evil thing, so it must be something else, someone else, some hidden counsel that might have taken place, who's to say, I mean when God asked Job "Do you know what's in my storehouses," and Job said "No" well God simply put the brakes on there, said "Then you don't know everything do you wise guy?" Of course I'm stretching it a tinge. Well, in the long run, Job lived 140-years, and was given a double portion of substance after the secret game was over between the devil and God, a double portion from what he had lost that is, for his resoluteness, his devotion, and forever after it became one of the most told tails ever told. Job of course is only one book out of the Old Testament, we can go to the story of Cain and Abel, and it turns out quite different, a little envy on behalf of Cain because God chose Abele's offering more satisfying. Matter of fact we can even look at Noah's grandson Canaan, who was inflicted by Satan and got Noah to drink until he was drunk on his rump, and whooped it up bare flesh and all! So these stories are worth remembering when reading "Osmoses" and perhaps we might somewhere along the line as the question: why does God take the good and leave the bad? My best guess is, to prevent the good from going bad, and hoping the bad in time will turn out to being good.
If you find yourself asking the question, why the protagonist did what he did, when he could have avoided the chaos, it was once said by an old wise man, "Duty is like a man's shadow." And if you ask why the elder brother did what he did, Wassermann, along with his siblings, the answer may be: hot wind is like the devil's breath.
Osmoses
...
Botis the Imp
1
It started off as a gradual unconscious process of assimilating, or absorption. As Wendell Wormwood awoke one evening from a nightmare, to find out, it was a real live demon espousing himself, like a sponge into his flesh, -sitting on his chest-as if it was in the process of demonic possession. The conjecture was to Wendell, that the demonic rapscallion, was in the process of a middle state, or phase of osmosis of his operation. Wendell continued to lay on his back as the terrifying creature sat on his chest, Wendell feeling the weight to be liken to a hundred pound sack of potatoes, and being no more the size of a bulky imp, resembling that of a miniature triceratops. The nose much smaller than his horn like ears, but widely spaced above his lips. Wendell lifted his head some as to see the creature more restored, he had a beer-belly as they say, brown and flabby, with pointed ears, as mentioned, like hooters, with chicken-like legs and hawk-like feet, and he was trying to slide himself completely in through Mr. Wormwood's pours, like sweat coming out. And his tail was long with a little shrub at its end, a pitifully thin looking lariat, in comparison. As he moved to center himself better, his tail got caught on a spring under the mattress and he tried like a: cow, sow, or hog stuck in barbwire trying to wiggle it free, and that was when Wendell woke up, and there before his eyes, lo and behold, was the netherworld creature called Botis, doing mêlée.
"What in tarnation is going on?" yelped Wendell, eyes bigger than a car's headlights. He was in the path of amalgamation of course.
It was no nightmare, alias, it was reality.
His bedroom was rather small, too small to roll about in, so Wendell tried to pull, and push the demon out, by hanging over the side edge of the bed. Then sitting upright the invader pushed deeper beyond his forearm into Wendell's ribs, and it vanished. Wendell's eyes, seeing this, turned crimson. No one in the house could hear him beating on the chest of the demon to make him stop, or if they could, no one came to the rescue, for his screams were quite mortified, loud, yet who would dare?
He was still tired and contemplative of if this was a dream or reality.
"What malarkey is this," he exclaimed to the creature, looking straight into his stout ugly face that showed a mouth wider than his forehead, with a goatee that dripped from the edge of his bottom lip to the end of his neck, which ended up laying on his chest.
It was most difficult to turn right or left in his present condition, which normally he slept on his sides, nonetheless he found himself rocking and rolling to which he fell onto his left side, after several tries, accomplishing it with a triumphal thump, shutting his eyes as he did from the horrid face of the demon that nettled him, yet still the demon struggled with his tail and you could see on his face a faint dull ache, with a cynical looking demeanor, evidently he had never encountered such a trial.
"Oh Lucifer," cried the imp emphatically, but only a figure of expression for he did not want the attention of Lucifer, lest he be boiled alive for his ineffectuality, and slipup, "what a grueling job you've given me." Such was his work day, and throughout the night. It was better, he had told himself, on many occasions: 'It's better than the actual business in the warehouses of Tartarus, counting black sheep, day in and day out' which they called the new comers. Although his present job-earthbound-was constant traveling or worrying about if the subject was going to wake up, for seldom did they.
Lo, all of a sudden, Botis felt a slight itching on his belly-button; slowly he let go of his left arm firmly attached to Wendell's shoulder, and as soon as he did, Wendell pushed the demon back nearly all the way out of him, which caused an impediment for the ungodly creature (there was no discourse or dialog between the two, and to be frank that tail was causing the imp to lose his repartee, likewise, Mr. Wormwood's wits where coming to its end, both now struggling without thinking). Quickly Botis identified the exact spot of the itch, and scratched it with his long talons, as thick and long as an owl's, and a cool and relief shiver run though him, and then he mumbled in a gibberish tone, "This getting one's tail caught in a bedspring makes a person look stupid," contemplating his comrades controversy should they find out in Tartarus, which they'd never see as a mishap, rather a screw-up, -for eventually he'd have to go back to make out his report, or better yet, his account, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story... (While everyone would be chewing on a good portion of fried cow guts. He knew this for a fact for they had century after century accustomed themselves to it, they said it was good for the memory, so the total health of the demon race of earthly spies, consisted in eating this cuisine and gulping it down like ducks do water was ideal for their health they believed... this was also said to disinfect their horrible breath! They also ate this until their bellies were tight, and their navel would pop out, agreeable for the long journey ahead. Then after picking their teeth with a pig's trotter, and their chatter was all complete, and the dice put away and the stock of cards hidden in some dry place, they'd go to work again.) anyhow, as I was saying, while sitting down around the breakfast table telling his story, that is to say, his encounter over and over to each and every one, to one another of his pals, his chums, his comrades in arms, whom would gossip like demon more often do, than not, and like: pile lie upon lie, invention upon invention, propaganda upon propaganda, like demon do until it is so unreal he'd become the pun and the laughing stock of Tartarus! While each one of his pals, and chums and comrades, would tell of their triumphs, 'I'd be sacked on the spot,' he told himself, 'if only I didn't have to scratch my bellybutton, who can tell?' But say what you will, thought Botis, what is done is done, he needed to remedy the situation, and do it quickly.
Then Wendell aimed with his right fist at the imp's chest, and knocked the demon from end-to-end of the bed like a boomerang, falling eventually onto the floor, and one hand still on the end railing of the bed, hanging on for whatever reasons, surely not for dear life! His tail being released with a sudden jerk, and shredded from the pull and thrust of the tumbling over the end-edge of the bed.
'What a trying upset,' mumbled Botis, as if his pride was badly wounded, his composure and face in dismay.
The clock read it was half-past three o'clock. Thus he figured it was still early enough to quietly move on from Wendell's house, and should anyone ask, who would be the wiser.
So Botis, quietly leaped from his loss, leaped from the balustrade of the bed like a Bagdad thief in the night, with stammering lips, a sneer at Wendell, through the dim tears that bathed his face for such a screw-up Wendell could not see this of course, and all the better for Bois, save, by and by, he'd have something to boast; consequently, he seized the brimming windowsill with a cantankerous look, raised his strength up into the air with outstretched arms and then looked down as if towards Hell itself, bellowed with Machiavellian-eyes: "To you, ye gods hidden beneath the earth," expressing his surprise cunning at his escape, leaping into the broad moonlight. The weather piercingly warm, yet feeling somewhat fresh and active, trying to put on a pleasant look to his face as not to look suspicious to his employer, or one of those Secret Service Demon and Women (agents of the netherworld) of Tartarus, should he bump into one, such as the Viper Queen, as she was known, and Bit Bertha, both Machiavellian-demon-ness', otherwise known as the quadrilateral-sisters, whom were always looking for emoluments, for them to look the other way, lest they make a nasty report on him. Nay, what then? (it was game time, and I'll tell you what games they played if they got bored, Bit Bertha and Viper Queen, they played the old Tartarus games called: 'Slash and cut', or 'duck your head' or 'who's got the fatter arse' or 'catch and eat the brown beetle' or 'whip the sow,' or 'fork the toad' or 'who can spit thicker' or 'shooting feathered darts at cats and rat and dogs and hogs. And then they'd stretch and sleep)
It struck the family members at the Wormwood home, that it had been quiet, too quiet in Wendell's room too long, as they had previously been conversing to one another for some time on if they should or should not become more aware of what was going on in his room, having been standing by his doorway, and previously pacing the hallway alongside the bedroom, much aware of some kind of commotion had taken place, although they were there when it was taking place also. They unconsciously exchanged glances... and one member asked loudly for Wendell to answer: "Is it safe to come in?" There was no answer, no reply, Wendell had fallen back to sleep, and the family members dare not open the door, err, they could wait until morning and let Wendell tell the story, as they had drummed up to support.
Ah, it all was rather justification of their own phenomenal cowardice; all pretentious, it was an impediment of their character, where they had relied on Wendell for safekeeping, as they had always told one another, as well as for his monetary support "... we're in good hands with Wendell." Therefore to their amorous whispers, Wendell was left to his own, had been left to his own. All had the same obsession, all the same cynical smile, an expressible something or other, that appeared to be like a trial, something too trying to try, and so no one tried anything, and of course doing nothing, is doing something, which is allowing whatever took place to take place. And so they would wait for the results come morning, for the better or worse.
At the Kitchen Table
2
Come Morning, Wendell looked about the kitchen table, among his three family members-a tinge impudent, and risqué, they all stopped what they were doing, bent their heads a shade-akin to know what took place, but shy to ask, they all looked to be a bit fatigued to Wendell, acting as if wanting to scatter themselves but Wendell seized the opportunity to exchange a few confidential words with them at which point, they unbolted themselves, and asked him to join them, their humanity more centered on commercial than the heroic story, the very one that took place but a few hours ago in the wee hours of the night with the demonic creature and his victory over him, and once told, they all felt relieved, saying in unison, "Ah, a nightmare, of course!" Now unrepentant of their cowardice idiosyncrasies they had displayed to one another, now thrown to the wind, laughed at as if it was a finely woven tale of dark linen, with a change in conversations to idiotic hearty maledictions, to oblige one another's choice in their decision not to have disturb Wendell during his trying nightmare. And now they applauded one another of their own independence, as if they had done Wendell some great service. For is it not true, in such cases there always remains in the conscience some of those dishonesties we pour into ourselves. It gives a better after-taste for one who is selling unwholesome liquor.
Someone even made a joke of it, as if to throw a pun at Wendell's immigration, "Next time the demon will know better, to kill the lion before he skins him!"
Said one voice to another: "My dear sister Woolycat, fill this up until it spills over, if you please." They all were drinking wine as red as a cardinal's cap, at the table. Wendell noticed a fly had just drank out of his older brother's glass, Wassermann, nonetheless it bothered him little, he simply shooed the fly away like a beggar who had stolen a coin from his pocket, and in one gulp the wine was gone.
Aforementioned Wendell, with all earnestness, said he: "Spiders do not spin webs for a single fly, or do they?" (A rhetorical question, more a wistful statement) They twisted their body's some, one to another, gave each other faint glances, perhaps not grasping exactly what he meant by that, or perhaps they knew and were in contemplation over it. For had Wendell not been successful, they would have had to turn over a lot of stones to find the snake.
And there Wendell stood, in the anteroom in repast, discerning: there was more honor in cleaning a stable clean, than warning them; for surely the imp was close by, and if he decided to come back as often they did, he would assuredly look and most likely find a new stockpile of flesh to store himself in. All said, Wendell, simply gave a nod with his head right to left, mumbled as he left the house (belief so sorely needed was not found, their caustic humor wounded him deeply... ): said he: "To those cowards who can't swim, no river is shallow enough" showing repugnance towards the group as he went out the front door, down the wooden steps, and on to work on an empty stomach, holding pent-up feelings of lassitude. In return, all the group gave back to Wendell was an air of bantering pity, a voice saying, "Ah, he is too sensitive!"
Now walking down the street, Wendell inhaled the odor of the flowers in the nearby gardens, leaning his head on his shoulder with a look of sweet nothings. Their breath was no longer defused around him. And his soul was bathed in a wave of infinite triumph, as he stopped to read the newspapers which lay close beside him on an old man's newsstand. The old man Epistemon did not take the liberty of interrupting Mr. Wormwood, as to purchase the paper. Wendell noticed his embarrassment, and took out some change to purchase the paper. With a mixture of respect and dryness, the proprietor took the coins, in exchange. Wendell had always thought himself to be a prohibitionist, for country and family before anything, even if one must set up an embargo, but now he was ruling that out, there was residue of pessimism, especially for the likes of his domestic life.

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The Way It Was

I was just looking at things today and comparing them to the way they were when I was young. One of the things I have a strong memory of was the time a friend of mine was telling me he read in a magazine there was going to be pay television. I almost split my sides laughing as did everyone else he told this to. In those days there was a television in most homes, but this had just occurred a few years before. The idea of pay television sounded so ridiculous to everyone, no one took it seriously. Can you imagine what people would have thought about pay radio? Radio had been free for almost 60 years by then and nobody at that time would have believed some people today pay for radio broadcasts from companies like XM Radio.
Another thing they would have never believed is the prejudice against smoking today by most of the population. People back then had no idea cigarettes caused cancer, even though the cigarette companies already knew this. Cigarettes were readily affordable and cost about 25 cents per pack and if someone wanted to save money they would buy a pouch of tobacco with cigarette paper and roll their own for only 10 cents. We were encouraged to smoke and when I was in the army many times we would be given free cigarettes by charitable organizations. You weren't supposed to smoke if you were under 18 years old, but we all did. I remember one time when I was 16 years old I was sitting on a hill in a park and a plain clothes cop saw me smoking and ran after me and I took off running down the hill and over several fences. The poor guy was far too heavy and almost collapsed, before he gave up the chase.
When I was about 20 years old I bought a new Chevrolet Impala. It was the top of the Chevrolet line at that time. It had a V8 engine and a two speed automatic transmission. The only power accessory it had was power steering. It also came with a radio and the optional defroster for the rear window. My how things have changed. Today cars come with everything including lane warning devices, backup cameras and radios with ten speakers. There are even power windows on some of the cheapest models. Some of the new Chrysler Corporation cars now have nine speed transmissions. My Impala only had a passing gear that went out after 55 miles per hour. The horse power of the engines were overestimated in the old days and it is not measured the same way today. The Impala claimed to have 170 horses, which might be about 130 today if you were lucky.
We had no Internet of course, because we had no computers. The way one got their news was from the radio, the newspapers or from Movietone News which was played with films at the movies. Some of the newspapers came out three times a day. In school sometimes you were asked to bring in a newspaper to be used in the lower grades to help kids read. The paper of choice with the teachers was the New York Times. Many of the newspapers from that day are gone. In New York City you have papers like the Journal American and the Herald Tribune, two famous papers no one from that time would have believed would go out of business.
When I was a tot the iceman used to come around using a wagon pulled by horses. Most people didn't have refrigerators and had to have ice delivered for their iceboxes. The poor guy might have to carry a 20 cent block of ice up several stories and it was heavy. He would put a burlap bag on his shoulder, grab the ice with tongs and hoist it up there. There were other wagons pulled by horses which also used to come around. There was the rag man who might give you a few cents for a bundle of rags and the vegetable man who would sell veggies off his wagon. Wagons are a thing of the past, but they were colorful. I always wondered where these people kept their horses.
If you were caught committing a crime it made the newspapers, even if it was what one might call a petty crime today. Everyone in your neighborhood knew what you did and the relatives of these criminals were humiliated. People would avoid you. Today no one seems to care anymore.
One of the biggest disgraces happened when a man moved in with a woman and they weren't married. Today most people think nothing of this anymore. Morals were a lot different then. I remember a movie being condemned by the Catholic Church because someone in it used the word virgin to describe a woman. There was no nudity in movies and it took them a long time before they even would show a twin bed in a bedroom. They usually only showed single beds. I know this sounds silly by today's standards, but people didn't think the same about things then. Pinup photos were considered pornography, so artists would draw pictures of pinups. This was considered art under the law.
When kids got in a fight in school it was one on one, not one against seven or eight. My uncle used to tell me to never let anyone push me around and if they tried I should punch them in the nose and they would leave me alone after that. If you did this today you would get suspended, even if you were the one being bullied.
Things have really changed. Sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Many kids can no longer write in the cursive. I think this is from too much texting. Handwriting is becoming a lost art. I also think a lot of the abbreviations used in texting will become part of the English language and someone born today might not recognize some words and phrases from the past, because they will be replaced by people saying things like LOL (Laugh out loud). For what it is worth my opinion is many of the movies have gone too far in depicting sex, many times it doesn't even fit into the story. Maybe it is time to rethink about some of the old values.

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How To Learn Calligraphy In Record Time

Many people admire the beauty of calligraphy and enjoy doing calligraphy, and it is no wonder why they do.
Calligraphy is a wonderful outlet for artistic expression and also a deeply satisfying personal skill.
But...
One common remark is "That calligraphy piece is so beautiful, but I'll never be able to learn it."
That can't be further from the truth.
Calligraphy is simple, fun and easy to learn if you know the exact steps to take.
This article will teach you how to learn calligraphy by just following this simple, proven 5-step method.
But First, Which Calligraphy Hand Should You Learn?
Before we start, you have to first decide the calligraphy hand that you want to learn.
There are many calligraphy hands: Spencerian, Copperplate, Italic, Gothic etc. and each has it distinctive style and characteristics.
However, it is strongly recommended that you start out with the Italic Hand, because:

1. It is very versatile - it can be adapted for a more contemporary modern look, or written in a more classic style.
2. It has dynamic, rhythmic strokes
3. Can be used for almost any occasion - addressing envelopes, wedding invitations, cards to friends, creating art pieces, etc.
4. It is easy to learn, unlike other styles such as Copperplate or Spencerian.
5. It is highly engaging and learning Italic calligraphy brings medititative pleasure

These are the reason why many people around the world have chosen to learn italic calligraphy, and you will find this article exceptionally useful if you want to know how to learn Italic Calligraphy.
However, that being said, you should choose a hand (style) which you like or wish to learn.
If you decide to learn Italic Calligraphy, the following 5 simple and proven steps will be particularly useful in showing you how to learn calligraphy.
Here are are 5 proven and effective steps that you can take to learn calligraphy quickly and easily.
Step #1: Gather Your Supplies
Before you start with anything, the first thing you've gotta do is to gather your supplies.
The supplies needed to write or learn calligraphy are simple and inexpensive. This is a list of recommended supplies:
1. Calligraphy pen (broad-edge nib)
2. Paper
3. Pencil
4. Ruler
5. Eraser
Step #2: How To Hold Your Pen
With your supplies in hand, it's time to move on to step #2.
Once you have the right tools, you can start practicing how to hold your calligraphy pen correctly. You should ensure that it is always held with the nibs point away from your body, upwards and slightly left. Keep it at a 45-degree angle constantly.
Once in awhile, you may realise that you have the pen slightly a little to stay comfortable, and the angle is no longer at 45 degrees.
That should be fine, as long as it does not go past the 35-degree mark. However, the optimal angle is still 45 degrees.
If you want to create a thick line, you will need to use the wider part of the pen, do the opposite to create a thinner line. You should be able to do this by holding your pen firmly in a 45-degree angle:
You must remember this point because if you do not get this right you will NEVER be able to write beautiful calligraphy (no I'm not exaggerating).
Step #3: Letter Formation
After learning how to hold your pen and understand how to wield it, you are ready to move on to forming the calligraphy alphabet!
Also, always pay attention to your pen angle - always keep it at 35-45 degrees to get the most desirable effect.
Also, it would help to have model examples (exemplars) of how letters should be formed.
Find an exemplar, then copy and trace the letters shown in that exemplar for practice. You will see yourself improving fast.
It is also recommended that you create your own calligraphy rules when learning how to form the letters.
They keep your letter size consistent and even - bid goodbye to uneven, chaotic calligraphy!
Practice rules generally consist of 4 lines - the ascender line, waist line (or x line), base line (or writing line) and the descender line.
These lines are typically separated by a distance equivalent to 5 widths of the pen nib that you are using.
When you learn calligraphy and practice your letters, calligraphy guidelines ensure that your letters are of a consistent size. You will find that they are a great deal of help in your practice.
Step #4: Keep On Practicing!
If you want to learn calligraphy, you've got to practice.
There is no way round that; there is no shortcut that takes practice out of the equation. However, if you follow these 5 steps and practice accordingly, you'll be able to create your very own calligraphy masterpieces in no time at all.
There are 3 important things to note in this step:

1. Always pay attention to the way you are holding the pen. This way, you'll always get the thicks and the thins of each letter right. Make sure that you are holding it firmly with the nib to a 45-degree angle and let the pen do its magic.
2. Don't stop in-between strokes. When you make a stroke, finish it all at one go. For example, don't make a long "l" by joining a few shorter strokes.
3. Take it slow. Thinking of "writing" calligraphy as "drawing" instead will help you a lot in your learning calligraphy. 'Draw' each stroke and focus on drawing a perfect stroke. You will be amazed at how this small paradigm shift makes a huge difference in your calligraphy.

Step #5: Correcting Your Errors and Perfecting Your Craft
You've got your basics, you know how to form letters, and you're practicing hard.
Can you now create beautiful calligraphy pieces or crafts worthy of being gifts?
Possible, but probably not yet.
You need to get to the last step - which is learning to detect and correct the errors in your calligraphy.
This is the part where you learn to become an independent calligraphy who is perfectly capable of coaching himself. You know exactly what a beautiful calligraphy piece is like and how to create it yourself.
In the course of learning calligraphy, you will make mistakes. How fast you are going to learn calligraphy will depend on how fast you can detect these mistakes. Many beginners waste lots of time and effort practicing without knowing that they are doing it wrongly.
So if you want to save time and spare yourself all that unnecessary frustration, it is very important that you are able (or have someone help you) to identify your mistakes early so that these mistakes do not turn into habits in the future.
Avoiding an error is so much easier than unlearning it once it has become a habit, so make sure that you detect and correct those errors early.
There are many types of errors that you can make in calligraphy and there are always the common few that beginners make. One example would be the arches of "m" or "n" being too rounded.
Summary
To recap, here are the 5 steps:
Step #1: Gather your supplies
Step #2: Learn how to hold your pen
Step #3: Learn how to form letters
Step #4: Keep on practicing!
Step #5: Correcting your errors and perfecting your craft
Now that you know the 5 proven steps to take and how to learn calligraphy in the comfort of your own home... All that's left to do is to practice, practice and practice!
Before you know it, you will be able to write beautiful calligraphy.
Knowing how to learn calligraphy is not all that difficult at all!

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Sounds and Fury: A Brief History of Fireworks and Pyrotechnics

We're accustomed to commemorating national holidays and ringing in each New Year with big, impressive fireworks shows. But have you ever wondered how this dangerous, artistic light show came to be?
The most primitive form of pyrotechnics emerged as early as 200 B.C. in China. People there discovered a natural firecracker in bamboo, which explodes with a loud bang when heated. A technology much closer to our modern devices didn't come about until the seventh century A.D., when Chinese alchemists accidentally created gunpowder by mixing sulfur, charcoal, and saltpeter. When people stuffed this mixture into a bamboo shoot, then tossed the shoot onto fire, it produced a bang and a flash. Voila: fireworks were born.
Over the next few centuries, the Chinese refined this crude new technology, stuffing explosives into paper tubes, making bombs out of gunpowder, and even developing the first basic rockets. These were mainly used against enemies in battle, but were slowly incorporated into celebrations of military victories and religious ceremonies. A profession developed around this technology, with early pyrotechnicians developing more elaborate shows and techniques.
As different cultures started synthesizing their own gunpowder, pyrotechnic devices started to spring up around the world. In medieval England, pyrotechnicians were dubbed "firemasters," and developed light shows for public entertainment. By the time of the Renaissance, schools existed across Europe to teach aspiring fireworks artists their craft.
Europeans brought their technology and techniques with them when they ventured to the New World. There's evidence of a display in Jamestown, Virginia, in the early 1600s, among other records of colonial pyromania. After America broke away from Great Britain in 1776, firework displays took place all year long to commemorate the young nation's independence.
It wasn't until 1830 that Italians used new combinations of metals to create the kind of multicolored blasts we're familiar with today. Firework clubs, associations, festivals and competitions started occurring around the world, with participants dazzling audiences with rockets, waterfalls, Catherine Wheels and other innovative devices and techniques.
But it wasn't all fun and games. With a spate of amateurs setting off rockets and firecrackers, regulation couldn't be far behind. Concerned U.S. citizens in the 1890s formed the Society for the Suppression of Unnecessary Noise, targeting pyrotechnicians and their "peace-disturbing" devices. This set a precedent for the tight regulations on explosive devices that exist today.
We've come a long way since the days of bamboo shoots and gunpowder. In 2014, a display in Dubai broke the Guinness World Record for largest fireworks show. Over 500,000 devices were set off along a 58-mile stretch of coastline to ring in the New Year, creating a massive, breathtaking show that incorporated many of Dubai's landmarks.

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Why Accountability Does Not Work

Accountability isn't really something most people voluntarily sign up for. Thinking about it will make us cringe a little and make us feel like children being berated for not turning in our homework. But if we are really honest with ourselves, there is at least one area in our life where we need some serious accountability. Accountability helps us to follow through on our commitments and it also gives us integrity. People who are held accountable are more trustworthy and more self-aware. They are the people who actively pursue self-improvement and growth in their lives.
Accountability involves conflict
There is probably only a very small amount of people who run toward conflict. The rest of us do our best to stay away from it. With accountability, a person kind of has to get in the middle of conflict. If someone isn't following through on their commitments it might be hard to pull them aside and remind them that at the end of each week they have to submit a certain report. It's even harder for a person to hold someone of authority accountable for their commitments.
Accountability requires discipline
Let's be realistic... are we really going to hold ourselves accountable consistently? Probably not. Think of how many times you decided not to go to the gym because you forgot your ear buds at home. Or how about that time you said you were going to wake up 30 minutes early every day to help you get a jump start on the day. How long did that last? Accountability is much easier when you have other people holding you accountable.
Accountability hurts our pride
It's hard to admit to other people, and even our self that we were wrong or that we let someone down or that we didn't follow through with our promises. It just seems easier to lie than admit we didn't follow through with our commitment.
For some people, accountability is more about staying away from guilt and shame. So, instead of understanding the importance of following through to reach their goals, they are acting out of fear.
How to make accountability work
The best way to make accountability work is to 1) acknowledge that a lot of personal growth comes out of accountability and 2) have a circle of influence who will actually hold you accountable.
Each person should have the goal of personal growth and becoming a better person. This can involve reading more, creating to-do lists to make them more productive, or having someone to hold them accountable. Everyone has a circle of influence. We may not call it that, but it is the people around us who are close to us and who we trust have influence in our lives. A great circle of influence wants to see you grow and succeed. They want what is best for you. They are the people who hold you accountable.
One of the greatest benefits small business owners receive from coaching is the accountability. It's easy to make a plan, and you may even make a few dents in it for a week or two, but after a few weeks you may start making small excuses to not follow through. Those small excuses will eventually become big excuses if you are not being held accountable. Small business owners who have a coach are more determined to follow through on their commitments because they have someone who cares about their growth and success and will actually hold them accountable.

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Understanding Numerology

Numerology can be best, and most simply explained as the study of numbers. But the simplicity ends there. To the occultist, numbers reflect more than quantity and are indicative of the nature of the cosmic plan of the universe. The letters of the Latin alphabet have a numeric value which can be deciphered to reveal relative cosmic vibrations. Chinese and Arabic civilizations have their forms of numerology as well.
The added numbers of a date of birth when related to the numeric value of the letters in a name can illustrate some arcane interrelations that can be deciphered by an experienced practitioner. The number produced by an individual's date of birth and numeric equivalent of their name can illustrate details about character, life direction, motivations and talents.
Expert numerologists can use these numbers to make predictions as well as decide on the best moment to embark on an adventure, when to marry (and if you and your finance's numbers work well together) and how many kids would be the perfect number for you.
Many people turn to numerology to provide guidance in their lives. Not only can understanding the numbers in your name and birth date tell you more about who you are, but it can help you understand who you are truly meant to be. This knowledge can give you the confidence you need to undertake new challenges or to pursue your dreams. You can think of it a bit like a road map for your life. By giving you a direction to follow, numerology can help you reach your ultimate destination.
How Did All This Begin?
Numerology as a study began many years ago around the same time the Greeks were working on their numerical system and making astounding progress in the field of mathematics. Pythagoras, who most of us remember from grade schools mathematics, is widely considered the father of numerology. However, evidence of numerology preceding the Greeks is out there, namely in elements of the Hebrew culture. Other historical evidence also points to even earlier use of this practice in China and other Eastern cultures.
Does Numerology Actually Work?
This is a question that is best decided by the individual. It is obvious that numbers rule our lives, but to what extent is still inconclusive. However, the fact that civilizations separated by space and time all came up with same idea is a fascinating point. Proof of numerology or that all humans think the same way? You decide.

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Priming a Model For a Life Cast

Life casting is all about working with a live model. Be it casting hands, feet, face, torso or the entire body, having a primed and amenable model is an essential asset that a life caster just cannot do without.
Therefore, unlike clay modeling or plaster casting, where the lifeless 'model' is yours to do with as you wish, life casting requires you to properly prepare and instruct the model to avoid any complications or disturbances later on.
Following are a few pointers on the same:
Pre-preparation - You are jeopardizing your own interests if you schedule to meet the model for the first time on the day of the life casting itself. It is advisable to meet a day or two earlier and discuss your requirements and expectations in detail. Gently walk the model through the life casting procedure and clear any doubts. Discuss the pose and what the model requires to feel comfortable. Instruct male models to shave their facial and body hair to avoid painful tangles later.
Clothing - Inform the model about the kind of clothing they should wear for the modeling session. Old and comfortable clothes are always preferable as they can be discarded in case of accidental drips. In case a body part that is normally clothed is being cast (like torso or breasts), you should advise the model to avoid wearing tight-fitted clothes for at least an hour prior to the life casting session. Else indentations are likely to show up in the final cast.
Release agent - While mold making materials like alginate are completely safe, you still need apply an appropriate release agent to prevent messy tangles in the hair. Baby oil or lotion will work well for fine body hair. Eyebrows, eyelashes and other protruding hair need to be protected with petroleum jelly or conditioner. This will allow the mold to come off easily without pulling the hair. It is advisable to cover the head with a bald cap or shower/swim cap even if the face is not being cast. In case the head or pubic area is being cast uncovered, a hair release should be applied from the tip of every hair to the root before combing them carefully into place. The Vaseline or release agent can be easily washed off later.
Comfort - The model will have to stay in the selected pose for at least 45 minutes to an hour. So ensure that he or she feels totally comfortable right from the start. Arrange suitable props to support the pose - like leaning on a ladder for a standing pose. Ensure that the model is breathing normally at all times to avoid dizzying spells or nausea. You can allow the model to bring music, snacks or a companion along, as long as they don't distract the work. Else, keep the model engaged with small talk while you carry out your mold making tasks.
In sum, prep and prime the model properly for a comfortable and successful life cast.

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Rachel Dolezal: My Take!

I woke up yesterday morning and started my usual routine of scanning the iPad for stories to post on the Cactus News Facebook page. A half an hour into it, I came across a story about the president of the NAACP Spokane, Washington chapter was possibly being a white person posing as a black person, her name is Rachel Dolezal. I clicked the link to a short CNN video showing the clip of an interview with Dozenal by a local station, seemingly on the street. The reporter started asking her a series of questions that centered on the picture of an African American man and she said was her father, then a few questions if her parents were in fact, white. The final question was more direct, "Are you African American?" This query resulted in her walking away from the camera.
As the day went on, I decided to some research and I started to learn a back story. I usually don't pursue stories of media "got you," moments, this story was different. I read about her accomplishments in causes and her extensive service and contributions to the African American community. The national president of the NAACP response was that race is not criterion for heading up any chapter of the NAACP. This was telling me that they were looking at the body of her works and her contribution to the community and not her alleged racial identity issues.
As I research, the story becomes more complex and convoluted.
Ms. Dolezal possibly posing as a black person, in my mind, slowly becomes a back-story, an unfolding drama that is seemingly rooted in an estranged relationship with her family. Questions do arise in my mind about why the supposed biological parents and her adopted brother decided to come forward about Rachel so publicly. What compelled to out their daughter with paperwork to the likes of CNN?
There were also issues around her recently reporting hate crimes. The complexity grows.
The Backlash:
The responses from readers and commenters on the situation have been mixed, from support of her efforts and contributions, to strong suspicion, questioning why she would give up white privilege to pose as a black woman. Some feel that she cheated because she avoided the suffrage of being an actual African American woman. Others, including members of the NAACP are seeing it as a serious betrayal that should be followed up with some kind of retribution.
Dolezal might be facing some serious scrutiny surrounding issues like listing herself as African American, and other ethnicities in an application for a Spokane police ombudsman commission.
As this story unfolds, it remains to be seen whether Dolezal's body of work and contributions overshadows her alleged rouse and whatever was the catalysts of the transformation is addressed. The facts remains that she worked within the community, marched in protests and it seems that most people were oblivious to her supposed alternate identity. Is there a such thing as trans-racial, similar with race as it is with transgender and a person's gender? Can a person who identifies with another race start the transformation? Will the ultimate narrative transcend race? Is Dolezal delusional? Time will tell as this story progresses.

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A Neighborhood Escapade

It was a weekend midafternoon in the very middle of summer. Big Bopper, also called Ace whose real name was Jerry S., six-foot six, 200-pounds, dumber than a blind-duck, never worked a day in his life, or if he did, it was on special occasions, a young man of twenty-five although goodhearted, was sitting on the wooden steps in front of Roger and Ronny's house, parallel Cayuga Street, right across the street from my home, at 186 Cayuga; I'm Chick Evens, fifteen years old. Roger two years my senior, and the neighborhood charmer with his good looks, and all, and Ronny his brother my age, and buddy. Roger's house was a four apartment complex, kind of ramshackle. Stretching outward in the back was the railroad yard, and Structural Steel Company. With the trees and lighter foliage, it was scarcely distinguishable from each other except in height and coloring, the steel company was more noticeable. Roger had just sold me his WWII, Army Jacket, that had on the back of it "I'm Just a Lonely Boy," signifying the popular song of the day, a young national musician, Rock and Roll singer called Paul Anka (whom I'd see in person, in a nightclub casino, and actually bump into while in Las Vegas, in the 1980s, vacationing with my mother), for a trade of my bronze plated battle-axe, had put it into his house and with his elbows propped on his knees with Big Bopper, also called Ace alongside him, Ronnie, me, Doug standing by one of the porch 4 x 4 beams, whom was Roger's age, my brother Gunner, Mouse, both reckless with their roadsters, Larry L., the boxer, who was called Lou, Steve L., who was called Reno, he was the fat man of the neighborhood (which had a nickname coined by the police: Donkeyland) and a few of the neighborhood girls, like Nancy M, Jackie, and Jennie: Nancy was going out with Dave, whom was my brother's age, two years older than I, but he was at home working on his 1940 Fort, and Jackie, had dated me a year prior, now a free agent Jennie's sister, and Jennie was dating Lou, who was twenty at the time. All us gazing out at the street, and at Lorimar's and Mrs. Stanley's house, side by side, right across the street, and Lorimar came out, gazing at us gazing, and wondering what was on our minds, and joined us; his father was a chef, and in years yet to come he'd be a top chef like his father. So here we all were gazing at the asphalt street trying to figure out, how we were going to get drunk that night, and nobody had a dime, it was 1962.
Sam his girlfriend Nancy, a different Nancy, Don Brandt and his sister, they all came by, and said hello, and went about their ways.
Cayuga Street was two blocks long, at one end was Mississippi Street that went from the neighborhood all the way down to the downtown area of St. Paul that bordered the Mississippi River. On the other side of Cayuga Street, was Oakland Cemetery that ran a good length of Jackson Street, where we drank at night if we couldn't find another location, although we used the Church steps off Jackson Street, by Sycamore, across the street was the Jew's Store- where we also drank quite a lot in those days. Other than that we found-Bill and I-garages to drink in. Or for that matter, we drank in someone's car in what was called the 'Turnaround' or 'Turnabout,' an empty lot next to my grandfather's garage, the garage was on a plateau, and the house on an embankment next to it. Old grandpa never said too much, and he slept those summers on the porch, and surely he heard a lot, but could not speak English well, being a immigrate from Russia, 1916, and had fought in WWI, for the Americans in France, thus acquiring his citizenship.
So here we were without a dime, and Roger was thinking. And Gunner (his real name being Mike), he had run away from home that summer, kind of runaway, it was more like a two week runaway-vacation, he was seventeen and was fighting for the rights to stay out until Midnight instead of ten-o'clock. He'd sneak back home when mother was working, she worked at Swift's Meatpacking, as a meatpacker, and he'd steal grandpa's beer, give it to the boys in the neighborhood, and grandpa, who had kind of a stale taste for me, blamed me for the missing beer. Not sure why Mike fought for the late hours, he snuck out the attic window anyhow and stayed out till God only know when, and he'd creep back in, tell me to hush up, and not tell ma, and I never did. Of course, we all lived with my grandfather, and he worked up until he was 80th -year, so he was gone all the time too. Anyhow, Gunner would come home, take can goods and then rush off and sleep in the vacant cars at night, after the neighborhood guys got in trouble with supplying him with a bed at their homes for a week. Oh, and he did get his late hours, after starving a few days, and losing a few pounds.
As I was saying, or about to say, Roger was thinking on how to get the booze. And Jerry, or Ace, was the only one old enough to buy. So we had to butter him up some, and he could be a hard sell now and then. I mean he was wise to us, and flourished in his free drinking spree those many years by going to the Liquor Store for us, and when he bought for us, believe it or not he got the lion share of the product, wine beer or whatever. As years passed of course, that went downhill when a few of the other boys could buy, like Jack T., and Tom T., brothers, they were part of the gang, but not part of this escapade. Actually there were some twenty-two in all that I can recall belonging one-way or another to the Neighborhood gang. And Big Bopper always complained on his increasingly many visits to the Liquor Store, that he was being questioned by the owner if he was selling to minors. But we didn't care, we wanted our booze. By his own account, this was his only permanent job in those early years of my youth. He had shelter and food from his mother, and his father had a good paying job as the Chief of the Fire Station in St. Paul, and as I've said, he got his booze from us tax free.
Well, as Roger was thinking, the Big Bopper said he was hungry, so for a half hour he resigned himself to becoming a permanent pest, and was going to go home and eat. What could one do with such a person? Roger knew should he go home, we lost our booze-ticket, and we all knew after he ate obviously would run off to some bar and mooch drinks off someone else. And to get him out of that bar would take a lot more inducement. You couldn't be sorry for him, just alert to his cleverness. So Doug advised Roger to go with him, and get his false teeth that he left at home, and bring them back here, and Roger would get him a few sandwiches out of his house, when no one was looking. Oh yes, I should mention, the sandwiches were mentioned first, and then came the false teeth, simply a smokescreen to evade us, his gums were so hard he actually didn't need them teeth.
So Roger drove him home, he got his teeth, and transplanted them in his mouth, thus, his cheeks were no longer sunken in. And he came back to take up his old friendships with the boys, and once again we in general could rely on the help of our bosom buddy.
But the booze, how were we going to find some way to get the beer or whatever: wine, whiskey, any kind of alcohol would do, although I preferred beer. And all Rogers' ideas, efforts hitherto had miscarried. We had nothing to sell, not even copper to sell, sometimes in the night we'd jump over the junkyard fence, feed the police dog who watched the yard a steak bone, a bribe to be quiet, and he obeyed, and we take some copper, and the next day we'd sell it back to them, and hence, we had our money for drinking, but we had no copper, or car batteries or hubcaps to sell this late afternoon. Everyone gaped at everyone else, as if we were all prodigal, reckless and careless for not having an idea. And Ace was just a big child who stood waiting to be fed his bottle of booze, and in the back of his mind, he knew, and we knew what he was thinking: escape! Yes, escape from us because he was feeling the pain of sobriety, and we were sure he didn't care if he had to, he would, inflict his pain onto us, and find his own waterhole. For such reasons we kept an eye on him, as if he was our golden goose. He was just not laying any golden eggs, he seldom had money, and if he did, he'd never tell, his money was for his personal booze, and ours was for his collective booze drinking. In that sense, he was the cleverest of all small business-men.
Then Roger came up with a plan. This is what he said, although it was a microscope chance, we take it, it was: do or die:
"At nine o'clock, there's a train coming," he said, as I shrank a bit when he said it feeling I had an idea what was coming next, or what he was about to say: so, he assured one and all, this business would be a success, and everyone seemed to know about this escapade he was about to mention, in that it wasn't new, it was just he knew the timing for some reason or another, than anyone else: "those who do not want to be in on this, just say no and go!" he commented. And Lorimar and Ronnie and I were now retrospectively uncertain, everyone thought us peculiar, and I confined myself to giving in, Lorimar and Ronnie left, but it would be the first time and the last for me, -as I look back it was random and half hazard 'okay,' I said, as my memory brings back that split second decision, not wanting to be sent to Redwing's boys reformatory, or Boys Town, for delinquents. It was a Federal Offence.
"We can break the seals off the train, it will have a stopover right in back of our house here at nine o'clock, and we have only about twenty-minutes to do the job because it will leave and be headed for Chicago, and usually one of the cars will be filled up with cases of beer, but I can't promise that!" Said Roger.
I was breathing quickly under these thoughts.
"Those who do not carry any cases of beer, don't drink," he ventured to say. All the same I felt upset. With that thought in hand of having no other way to get any beer, I agreed. It was no big thing to the guys if I stepped out, and went home, they'd just have more to drink, for Roger or the boys barely acknowledged me one way or the other, and would simply give me an absent smile, greet me goodbye with a wave from the street, as often I would not participate with their shenanigans; treat me as if I was a passing acquaintance, but Gunner was different, they kind of expected him to go along.
At last the train came, someone pulled out a wire cutters from his pocket, and jumped up on a edge of the boxcar, and cut the Federal Seal off, what was attached to the door, opened up the door-matter of fact, there was no need for anyone to enter the boxcar since the cases of beer were so tightly packed an inch away from the door-all one needed to do was reach and pull, we took twenty-five cases of beer, it was so dark an evening so hot a summer, not a watchman cared to check a thing, so it was overshadowed so much as that the high wall of cases behind the cases we took, we could have emptied them out too, but no one wanted to press their luck, and time was of principle.
Well, we didn't need Ace that night of course, and he was the laziest of all of us, and he only took two cases of beer, and was too scared to make a double trip to the boxcar, yet out of consideration we let him drink all he wanted to which perhaps was three cases himself. We stockpiled the cases of beer in two locations. We were all good friends, and never stole from one another, but when it came to drinking, it wasn't stealing, and we all had enormous drinking habits, so we all kept an eye on the two garages we kept the beer in for our night drinking. Although no one wanted to stir up matters, and no matters got stirred up over the drinking of the twenty-five cases that I know of, and some of that beer got drank in the cemetery, and the girls had their share, and it didn't last but the long weekend, and after the last bottle was drank, which was a trivial affair, and it's hardly worth mentioning, we sold the twenty-five cases of empty bottles on the following Monday, and bought two cases of can beer. The Big Bopper was a tinge embarrassed to bring in so many cases, but we did odder things for a drink. And that my friends was one hell of a weekend.
In Memory of the following neighborhood fellows who have passed on: Jerry Spiegelberg (Big Bopper), Kathy Spiegelberg, Steve Ludberg, Sid Moeller, Bill K., David, Roger L., Lorimar and Brian Yankcavick, Jerry and Jim Hino, and Allen Juneau, Don G. and Mike M.
No: 1086/6-18-2015

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Book Review: Only Time Will Tell (The Clifton Chronicles)

Jeffrey Archer is one of the Big Three authors who not just entertained but also inspired an entire generation of writers. This is the complete review of the 2012 version of his book, Only Time Will Tell, the first of the Clifton Chronicles.
Synopsis:
Harry is a young and extremely gifted boy born in the impoverished Clifton family. However, thanks to the hardwork and never say die attitude of his mother and a wise old man who takes him under his fold, he is thrust among men who are not his equals. Little does he know that the people who he thinks are of a higher class than him have something common with him.
What ties almost everyone in the novel is a deep, dark secret that rears itself at the most inopportune moment, making life for everyone involved an adventure that beckons the avid reader closer.
Review:
Archer is undoubtedly the master of storytelling, and the way he weaves his script through one of the most interesting character lineups is nothing short of amazing. This is one of the few books where the readers will find it difficult to point out who the main character is.
Readers looking for an introduction to the good ole times are in for a treat. The book is set between the first and second world war, and Archer succeeds in creating a pathway for the imaginative mind to visit the times of gold, brass and character.
At first read, the book does seem to be channeling the poor-meet-rich-boy-in-school, but as the story progresses, the master strokes of Archer take the story to a whole new level, and brings us to the long awaited Archerverse that brings together character, past and fortune.
Even the greatest Archer fan will have to admit that the story line is not one of the greatest, and even becomes probable at the end of the day, but what saves the book is the one master stroke that brings all critics to their knees.
This is a quintessential page-turner, with nary a boring moment. With such layered characters pitted against each other in such an intensely written book, not a single paragraph is out of digressive.
Verdict:
The first part of the Clifton Chronicles is a definite must buy for Archer fans, as well as those looking to dive into a rich storyline, well thought of characters and a story deeply embedded in the myriad colors that make up humanity.

Rating: Three Stars.

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Sexual Oppression and Why Many Great Rock Stars Are So "Feminine"

Haven't we all wondered about it at some stage or another... Why are rock stars so feminine? What is it about them that forces them to dress in girly clothes, wear more makeup than your teenaged sister and pamper themselves with lotions and beauty creams like any wealthy woman would... And still, women are falling over themselves to have a chance at one night with one of them. These men are sexual magnets, and yet, there is hardly any obvious sign of masculinity... And that, dear people, is a sign of fear of masculinity and masculine sexuality that is rampant in our culture.
Rock stars NEED to exude sexual energy to become huge. That is what women need in order to go crazy over the rockers, and that, in turn makes a rock band (as opposed to metal band) big, but since masculine sexuality is linked to aggression, dominance and power, our society does not approve of such form of sexuality and they are forced to reel it in, hide it, and control it. Rock n' roll is about shameless sexuality, but our society only allows the display of feminine sexuality, and a lot of straight men do display a lot of feminine qualities (Steven Tyler, for instance, is a great example) but a whole lot of others are as masculine as they come, and these men are required to pack it in and keep it packed away at all times, or else. Other musical genres are not nearly as dependent on the display of sexuality as rock is, this includes heavy metal and other, more romantic musical genres, that mostly avoid the topic of sexuality.
Women congratulate men who are not afraid to show their "feminine side" but compared to showing one's true masculinity, it's a walk in the park. Femininity in all of its forms is well celebrated and supported by the society, while masculinity is seen as the enemy of everything virtuous.
Huge male stars are almost without exception particularly non-threatening to women. Prince, Michael Jackson, Freddie Mercury as a few obvious examples. If you want to bring in sexual elements into your art, you need to be either a female, feminine or particularly pro-female to do it. The mere suggestion that men would have the right to promote or idealize male sexuality, male dominance, and masculine virtues will probably churn your stomach - and that is a certain tell-tell sign of gender bias, too. Non-musicians can become massively big without the display of sexuality because their craft doesn't require it, like actors, who can display masculinity for as long as they hide and obstruct their sexuality, that would be far too threatening to the female audience. The fear of rape has taken epidemic forms, yet, women all over the world are missing the rush of masculine dominance, whilst also being guilted into shutting all thoughts of that kind out of their minds, out of loyalty to the fellow female.
Masculine sexuality doesn't mean rampant sexual violence, but that is the way it is treated by and large. Women who fear masculine sexual dominance should keep well away from these men - and clearly, if it is so easy to see that these men need to hide their sexuality, it should be easy for women to identify these men, too. The way I see it, the requirement of obstruction of dominant male sexuality is simply something that men are forced to do so that sensitive female folk would not get too uncomfortable around them in a polite society. I feel that is far, far too much to ask in return for the slight discomfort of a fraction of women, and also sexist towards modern, capable women to think that they would be too frail and incompetent to deal with the mere existence of masculine, dominant men.
As it is, the non-threatening rock star type is the "come and get it if you want it" type - clearly, something to salivate over, but at the same time, the earth-shaking, soul-shivering, smoldering type of masculine dominance: "Give me the eye and I will ravish you" -type is rocking to the tune of: "No worries, no fear, I have got no cock nor balls, no desire I must conquer, I am here just for the music."
What to do about it? I don't know. I am simply sad it exists. I like my men hot under the collar, I like them taking over. I am sick and tired handling out permission slips for a man to touch me a certain way - the way it feels I must do... Sick of begging for men to simply give into their desires and let me enjoy my femininity. I do not fear their fire, I crave it, and here they are, politely putting it out for me so my sensitive feminine mind wouldn't get too scared or needlessly offended.

Riina Rinkineva, better known by the name Sebastyne, is an entertainment blogger for the new era with an old school flair. She shows genuine understanding of human nature, true talent of an individual and confidently lays down the elements that make stars stars on her blog at

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China And The South China Sea

China is very busy building islands in the South China Sea. I have been reading some interesting articles on why they are doing this. At first glance it looks like they are trying to assert territorial claims in the region and what better way than to build an island, then you can say it is your land. There is no doubt this is one way to do that, but some say there is something else going on. They claim the Chinese government may feel it is losing the support of too many of its citizens, so it wants to drum up nationalistic feeling by taking on countries like Japan, Vietnam and others. It is felt the people will rally behind their own country and this is why China is being so vocal in its defense of the premise of the area around certain islands is theirs and certain parts of the sea belong to China. It is known China has a history of some of its citizens wanting a more democratic government. This was evidenced by the uprising which spilled over into Tiananmen Square in 1989. Martial law was ordered at the time to put these uprising down. There are still a lot of Chinese citizens who are not happy with their government, but I have to admit this is true in many countries and even our own has its detractors.
The Chinese want to protect their claim so they need to have some sort of force available to deter those who are trying to assert their claims and who also want to travel into the waters claimed by the Chinese while not adhering to the rules the Chinese have set up, such as notifying them when you want to travel there. The problem is countries feel if you do this, you are admitting the Chinese claim is valid. The area China is claiming is so vast its fighter planes cannot carry enough fuel for any extended presence over the area. Even their most modern fighter the J-11D can only stay over the area for a short time. The Chinese have several options to combat this. The first one which comes to mind is their aircraft carrier. In 2012 the Chinese commissioned the Liaoning. They had purchased four aircraft carriers in 1985 so they could study them with the intent of building their own. They purchased one from Australia, the Melbourne and three from the former Soviet Union. They were the Minsk, Kiev and Varyag. Two were old and had been retired but the Varyag was partially built.
They poured everything they learned into creating a new carrier, but it was not built from scratch. The Varyag was stripped and rebuilt to Chinese specifications and this is the ship which became the Liaoning. The Chinese could station this ship and its planes in the middle of the disputed area and use the planes to warn off any intruders or those who do not comply with Chinese rules. One of the problems with doing this is the United States routinely goes through this area to assert its right to travel in international waters. Would the Chinese be risking a war with the United States if they place their carrier there? There is another choice. They could place planes on the islands. This would mean they would need full landing strips and maintenance facilities for the planes. This might not yet be practical since the islands are under construction, but might be a viable choice in the future. Ships could be used instead of planes, but if they are they may be too slow to get to other ships which are traveling through the area.
There is still another choice here. The Russians have offered to sell the Chinese their new SU-35 fighters. The Chinese have a long history of buying only a few Russian and Soviet planes and copying them. This does not make the Russians happy. They do all the design work and the Chinese reap all the benefits. It sort of reminds me of what happened to us when we developed the atom and hydrogen bombs. It wasn't very long before the Soviets stole our secrets and built their own. Originally the Russians wanted the Chinese to guarantee a purchase of 48 of these planes before they would sell them to China. Lately the Russians have become a little more desperate and have cut the minimum purchase to 24 planes. The negotiations have been going on for a few years. The Chinese want the SU-35 because it has a longer range and advanced electronics making it more suitable for the task of patrolling the area claimed by China. I find it interesting the plane which is made by Sukhoi is names the SU-35 and was meant to counter the F-35. This seems more than a coincidence. Unfortunately for us many experts claim the SU-35 is superior to our F-35, being more maneuverable, faster in level flight and faster in climbing. When the Russians sold the SU-27 to the Chinese they immediately went about copying it and as a matter of fact the new Chinese J-11D has its roots in the SU-27. The Chinese feel the SU-35 is more than a match for not only the American F-35 but also the Indian SU-30MKO and T-50 aircraft. There is no doubt the Russians still build some incredible planes. The SU-35 is being refitted by the Russians to make it even more formidable under Russia's fifth generation program the T-50 PAK-FA. It is not clear if the planes which may be sold to China will have these improvements.
Will all this be enough for China to ultimately enforce what it believes is its rights in the area? I would not be too sure about that. The neighboring countries which also assert rights or at least feel the area is international waters have a long history of just not sitting back and being victims. Vietnam feels China is conducting oil exploration in their coastal waters. There are several groups of islands in the South China Sea. The Paracel Islands are occupied by China, but are claimed by Taiwan and Vietnam. The Pratas Islands are also known as the Dongsha Islands. They are claimed by China, but controlled by Taiwan. Pratas Island is the largest island in the South China Sea. The Scarborough Shoal has many names. It is also known as the Democracy Reef, Huangyan Island, Bajo de Masinloc and Panatag Shoal. It is claimed by China, Taiwan and the Philippines. Spratly Islands lie between Brunei, China, Malaysia, the Philippines, Taiwan and Vietnam. They are composed of more than 750 reefs, islets, atolls, cays and islands. Forty-five of these reefs and islands and other areas contain structures and these structures are occupied by the military from China, Taiwan, Vietnam the Philippines and Malaysia. Brunei also has a claim but not an occupying force.
It would be easy for a conflict to break out in this area and add to this the animosity between China and Taiwan which the Chinese feel is part of their country and you can see what a tinderbox the area is.

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A Neighborhood Escapade Brawl at Bram's

A Neighborhood Escapade
I shall now inform our readers of an event which had brought a brawl into the Mouse Trap, that is the neighborhood bar called 'Bram's' back around 1972. I had come fresh out of the war in Vietnam, Larry the boxer, Jennie now his wife, Karin, John L's wife to be, we were all sitting in a bar booth when it took place. You must keep in mind, this is simply one of many brawls that took place back then in that corner bar. I was perhaps twenty-five years old at the time. Larry being several years my senior, and Jennie a year older than me, and Karin a year younger than me, and John, my age.
John L., whom I had went to California with, prior to going into the Army, in 1967-thereabouts-came through the front door of the tavern, who drank a lot at the time, and had a few other bad habits, like Johnny Cash in his younger day, if you get the drift, whom he and I ended up in Las Vegas, in '67, for less than 24-hours, thereabouts, I had to pull, I mean hug and pull like a mule driver, him out of the casino, lest he be brought up for charges by the casino officer who asked "Is he on some dope? Its life in prison for that kind of fellow here!" I said, "No officer, he's just a happy go lucky sort of fella who won some money, and we had a long drive from Southern California and we're headed back to Minnesota, he's bushed out tired." The officer looks at his winnings still sitting in the one-arm-bandit's mouth, and says, "Sure, all fifteen-cents of his winnings, get him out of here before I call the real police." So need I bear out his reputation anymore for back in those late 1960s, it was irrefutable!
Well the early 1970s were not much different, John came through the door like gangbusters at Bram's, a hooting and hollering as if he was back in Las Vegas at that same casino and won that same fifteen-cents, thinking he won $1400-dollars, as if he won anything, he was as if on a chariot race, and behind him was a good many Hell's Outcast, a notorious Minnesota motorcycle gang, and he looked like Lee Marvin in "The Man who Shot Liberty Valance," riding sideways drunk on his horse shooting up the town. When something like this happens, it is wise not to take anything for granted, and this night John and his companions were drunker than a skunk, he was over-positive, obstinate, and egotistic. Not unusual for a drunk, any drunk. Although I was a little more reserved in my drinking behavior, but I was a drunk nonetheless, myself. We all handle drinking, a little differently, when we get a little too much. Other than that, John was a great fellow, the life of the party you might say, and he could be the death of it too. And he would back you up if need be. He was a man also with more than one string to his elbow, if you know what I mean, but mum lest I reveal too much.
As for myself, patience, a blow delayed is not a blow lost.
Their dress, their manners all announced that they were looking to cause trouble. John wild-eyed, red faced, cockeyed drunk, all restless, with perhaps several of the gang members if not more, all in the same disorder-
The barkeep, held a disturbed countenance. It might be judged some powerful notion had had them come here. Larry, Jennie, myself, and Karin viewed them with increasing curiosity. As did Big Bopper, and Don G., and Gunner, and Rick G., were at the bar, as did the barkeep now startled by their full appearance, and in general surprise, said with impatience, "Leave, I've just alerted the police of your presence, they'll be here in the next ten- minutes."
"We just came to drink," said John, in a slurred and hoarse voice.
"You're already wasted," said the barkeep, to John "get out of here!"
Larry and I, and the two gals were flatted by their rudeness and manners, John came towards our booth, perhaps fifteen-feet away, leaned his arm on a chair, picking it up, threw it at me, I blocked it with my forearm, gave him a grin. And then all around us, bottles started flying, and chairs, and tables were turned over, glasses broke, glasses flying. With a toss of her head, Karin apologized for John's actions, the chair could have hit her right in the face, had I not blocked it, and had I simply ducked. But I knew that, and endured a bruised forearm for a week.
"He doesn't know what he's doing," said Karin. Which was of course obvious, or was she wrong?
The reader may ask, what kind of friend was this John with such an atmosphere, in this case, towards me. Well I can describe him, he was my age, a little heftier, perhaps more charming, more wild when drinking, more daring when drunk, I was more serious, more earmarked in my drinking, back in those days than John, and a neighborhood hooligan with a more tempered character in that I didn't fight unless burdened to having to fight and then it was all or nothing, and perhaps at that moment he remembered I had beaten up his cousin-which was all or nothing, who tried to rape a girl, and he ended up in the hospital, and his mother blamed me for excessive force in stopping the rape in progress. Well, enough said on that, be that as it may, it was a long time ago, and that fellow I met in 1985, still cursed me for that beating, never mentioning his own tragedy in the makings, and him using excessive force over the girl, whom we shall call, Sandy, her rape that was stopped, and her parents called me up, thanking me for stopping it. I do hope the Lord overlooks that incident and a few more, but we are all guilty of such unreasonable arrogant circumstances, at one time or another.
But as I was about to say, this is exactly, how the boys, now men of Donkeyland reacted. John then stumbled over to our booth, to greet us, saying, "Woops, I thought you were someone else... !" And that might be true of this matter, perhaps I looked like diablo, and he threw the chair thinking this, but I doubt it, yet Karin was concerned. And I never held a grudge. Once John and I were in a small town in California, and we were down with money, only having enough for a cheap hotel room, where thereafter, having only $1.35 cents left, my car's motor blew a piston, and we had to parked it behind some gas station, and I told John I wanted to buy a quart bottle of beer, and cheese crackers, and he said, "You're local, that is all we have!" And I countered with, "Then let's get drunk," and John said, "Two people can't get drunk on one quart of beer, you take it, and I'll eat some of the crackers, also, save a dime for the phone please!" So you see, John was on one side of him was a fine friend, on the other, local like me, but in a different more wild way; I think I was more calm on matters, he jumped the gun more often than not. And I do not want to go on with this, it is another story already written in a book called "Men with Torrent Women," as is the story of my dear friend, "Jerry Hino," whom went to Omaha, Nebraska, back in 1967 with me, and his wife Betty came a hunting for him, and brought him back home, I lived with Jerry for six-weeks thereafter, trying to get a job and back on my feet, Jerry now has passed on. Anyhow let me go on with the original story.
The door of the tavern was left open and a number of police dashed into the room, others were outside checking cars for John, he was the number one enemy for the police this evening, and they were creating a dragnet all around the bar and across the Jackson Street Bridge. Larry and I, along with Jennie and Karin, we all kind of grabbed John, took advantage of the tumult in the bar, advanced to the backdoor, saw a taxi, flagged him down, jumped into the backseat, Larry up in the front, and I told the driver to get moving, beat-feet: but just then a policeman stopped us, told me to roll down the window, and I pushed John to the floor, kept my foot on his back, and Karin told him to be quiet, "Have any of you seen John L?" asked the policeman.
"Yaw," I said, he's in the back getting into one of those cars," we were now on the side of the bar. He gestured to an officer friend rapidly to check the other cars leaving the bar's parking lot, and turned his full attention in that direction, and we zoom off making our escape. And to my understanding, the police lost all trace of John at the bar and thereabouts, of those obscure streets.

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