20 Albums

Another feckin* meme? What is it too February for all you people? (yea, I said it: you people...what?) Do they just sit around and mull, stew, and contra-fabulate, until they come up with some other twist-list to foist on the rest of us who are just too Februtarded to resist participating? OK. ok. I'll do it.

This fuck-you goes out to Catherine at Seventh Notebook. But it's a fuck-you between friends, so don't think you can just pop over there and—willy nilly—fuck-you her, and get away with it. Like I can. Because...like, I'm her friend. Yah. Since way back... back... to the Laughingsky daze, yah. So, like, there.

Twenty albums that scraped a hole in my soul...
(this dates a person better than a birth certificate)

Chicago VII
Chicago

Around the World
Three Dog Night

Get Your Wings
Aerosmith

Frampton Comes Alive
Peter Frampton

Rumors
Fleetwood Mac

Led Zeppelin
Led Zeppelin

The Best of the Doobies
The Doobie Brothers

Boston
Boston

The Yes Album
Yes

Crisis What Crisis?
Supertramp

The Last Waltz
The Band

Their Greatest Hits (71-75)
The Eagles

I Robot
Alan Parsons Project

Abraxas
Santana

Fragile
Yes

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)
Eurythmics

Delicate Sound of Thunder
Pink Floyd

Yourself or Someone Like You
Matchbox 20

Tigerlily
Natalie Merchant

In Sides
Orbital

Can you be happy with the movies, and the ads, and the clothes in the stores, and the doctors, and the eyes as you walk down the street all telling you there is something wrong with you? No. You cannot be happy. Because, you poor darling baby, you believe them. — Katherine Dunn (Portland novellist, journalist, & radio personality)

*a Davecatism I borrowed; for-because this post already had nuff too much fuck in it.

Happy V.D.

Phredd's Pengwynne

This rendering was created in a slightly different manner. My paramour, Pam, provided twenty photos and I turned them into this. Interested? Provide links to at least 20, no more than 40, pictures (veachglines@gmail.com) and I'll make one for you.

Fredd's Penguin
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009


I realized what death was...I...would end completely. And the real tragedy was that all the wonders I'd seen and smelt and felt would die with me. I couldn't bear it. And from that moment to this I've struggled to record as much of it as I can. — Katherine Dunn, from In Her Own Words

Hapse Knot

Photobucket
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009


I have been a believer in the magic of language since, at a very early age, I discovered that some words got me into trouble and others got me out. — Katherine Dunn

3d attempt


Entering the range of 1980's scrambled cable-porn signals (you know you did).

ghost in da bloggzing-machina


This is my second attempt to upload my latest digital rendering. (Whaa?) After blogger hated my first try so much it gave me a 404-razberry, I reduced the size and it gave me this. Makes me recall FAX machines and printers running low on ink. But as I usually capitalize on 'goofs'...(and try to turn them into goofinade), I offer this. Mostly because with digital, one can no longer count on the camera/camera operator/photodeveloper messing up a print in a real good, what-an-amazing mistake, way. It's comforting to know it's still possible.

But I think everybody should write. I think those people with stories who don't write should be stomped on. — Katherine Dunn (Portland author)

A Meme for February

Thanks to Irb at Click... Click... Click... BANG!!! for this, Use only one word meme. I send it to no one, I like to challenge my own brain (but feel free):

1. Where is your cell phone? - off

2. Your significant other? - amazing

3. Your hair? - disappearing

4. Your mother? - septuagenarian

5. Your father? - cremated

6. Your favorite thing? - fellatio

7. Your dream last night? - odd

8. Your favorite drink? - ICBM

9. Your dream/goal? - Gallery

10. What Room are you in? - Bed

11. Your hobby? - film-watching

12. Your fear? - 2012

13. Where do you want to be in 6 years? - alive

14. Where were you last night? - Fringe

15. Something you are not? - wealthy

16. Breakfast? - rarely

17. Wish list item? - Smart-car

18. Where you grew up? - Midwest

19. Last thing you ate? - Fritter

20. What are you wearing? - orange

21. Your TV? - 1080p

22. Your pets? - feline

23. Friends? - strange

24. Your life? - uncomplicated

25. Your mood? - up-beat

26. Missing someone? - Gus

27. Your car? - nonexistent

28. Something you’re not wearing? - jewelry

29. Your favorite store? - Powell's

30. Your favorite color? - #20

31. When is the last time you laughed? - Lunch

32. Last time you cried? - #26

33. Who will resend this? - meme-lovers

34. One place that I go to over and over? - sleep

35. One person who emails me regularly: - dv81too

36. Favorite place to eat: - Y

37. One place I would like to go right now? - camping

38. One person I think will respond: - #33

39. One TV show I watch all the time: - Stewart

War Story (that's not a real war story)

A couple people remarked about my 6 Dec post (in which a song lyric rejuvenated some withered neurons in the 1990-stacks of my turning-greyer matter). They said they liked, ‘The part with the murder’s statement...it made me want to know more...how come you don’t talk much, about stuff from when you were an Agent?’

True—I don’t routinely share ‘war stories’ because they usually fail to contain a key interest-bearing element (beginning, middle, or ending) and leave the reader hanging. There’s only so much to glean from a completely non-fiction story. Eventually the “what happened then” question receives the “damned if I know” answer.

However, in this rare 15-watt interest (from people who decline to post comments) I offer a slender slice of the true:

On an overcast Saturday Georgia morning my beeper vibrated at me to call the Military Police Desk. “Mister Glines, you’re the Duty Agent today, right?”
“Yes Sergeant, whachya got?”
“Female soldier. Here at the station. Just walked in. Said she wanted to report being raped. I asked her where it happened—so I could send a patrol out to protect the crime scene—she said it happened last year in South Carolina. I... uhmm, immediately called you.”
“Have her escorted to my office by a female patrol officer or investigator. I’ll call you once I know more. Thanks.”

* * * * * * * * * *
“Hello, I’m Special Agent Veach Glines.” I stepped close and shook the dry hand of the woman in her late twenties wearing clean jeans and a white logo jersey under a Members Only jacket. Her dark hair and fingernails appeared well groomed (one small barrette, a couple of rings, not a nail-biter). She was wearing a small amount of makeup (empty ear piercing holes); eyes didn’t appear to be red—good eye contact with me—no notable smells (of alcohol or poor hygiene).
“I’m Sergeant Wanda Pseudonym.”
“Please, call me Veach. Is it OK to call you Wanda?” I asked as I escorted her from the lobby to my office where I had her take a seat and then excused myself to talk to the patrol officer who brought her over, as well as get a soda. I offered to bring her one too. She accepted.
“Diet, if you have it.”

I got three sodas. I gave one to the patrol officer who I positioned in a nearby office (with the door open and her MP radio off). I explained, “No one else is here today, so I need you to be able to hear this entire interview; when I’m done with her statement, you’ll sign it as a witness.”

I didn’t tell the MP the most important reason she was seated where she could see and hear my office was—if it ever became necessary—she could testify that I didn’t sexually assault this woman. Anyone reporting a year-old personal assault crime was a massive question mark in my mind.

I gave a diet soda to Wanda, got all her identifying details, and asked her to tell her complaint non-stop, from beginning to end. I explained that I’d take notes and ask questions later—once she was completely done—to fill any needed details.

What follows is her statement and my follow-on questions. I’ve deleted the completely unneeded portions (like what she ate, why she was in the hospital, etc.) and altered all identifying features:

I, SGT Wanda Pseudonym, am assigned at Fort Realwet, North Carolina, but I’m now, currently, stationed here for temporary training. This morning, I was eating at the mess hall when SFC Bull passed by my table. Until then, I had forgotten—I’ve heard it called repressed memory—but as soon as I saw SFC Bull, I remembered that he raped me last summer. At that time, I was in the hospital at Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina where he was on staff. I don’t know why he is here, now. Over the weeks that I was there in South Carolina, he and I talked and got friendly, mostly when we were outside together in the smoking area. One Sunday, he asked me if I wanted to come to his room and watch a movie. I decided because he was a Sergeant First Class that I could trust him and agreed. Once we got to his room, however, he began touching me and kissing me and trying to take my shirt off. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. He got me down on his bed, and, you know those padded leather straps that hospitals have to restrain violent patients? Well he started to buckle my wrist down to his bed with one of those, but I twisted away, and made it to the door, but couldn’t get the door open. He then grabbed me from behind and threw me back on the bed and used the weight of his body to hold me down while he strapped down my wrists. Then he took off my pants, lifted up my top, touched me all over, and had sex with me vaginally until he came. After, he unstrapped me, and while I got dressed, he told me not to tell anyone because he would deny it. He said, ‘I’ll say you came to my room voluntarily and had consensual sex with me. Everyone will think you’re a slut. Just keep your mouth shut.’ I went back to my hospital room and went to sleep. I eventually forgot all about it until this morning when I saw him, and then I went to the MP station.
Q: What time of day was it when you entered SFC Bull’s room?
A: After lunchtime, in the afternoon.
Q: Did you ever have consensual sex or any form of consensual fondling with SFC Bull, either that day or any other day?
A: No. Never.
Q: Were you ever in his room at any other time, before or after that day, for any reason?
A: No.
Q: Did you talk to him as a member of the staff after that day?
A: I don’t think so, but I don’t recall. Maybe I did. But if so, it was small talk. I don’t know.
Q: Did you scream, or yell loudly, before he began to force you to have sex?
A: No.
Q: Why?
A: I was afraid he would get violent and figured that if I yelled, he’d punch me.
Q: You said you made it to the door once, why couldn’t you get it open?
A: I grabbed the handle and pulled, but it felt like there was someone outside holding the doorknob, so the door just pulled out of my hands and then SFC Bull grabbed me again.
Q: Did you ever see, or hear, someone else outside in the hallway?
A: No. I assumed someone was out there because the door was pulled out of my hands.
Q: Did you tell anyone about this, then or now?
A: No. My husband knows, now, because I told him this morning. But that’s all.
Q: Can you describe anything specific about SFC Bull, like a normally-hidden tattoo, which would support your allegation?
A: Yes. His penis bends, in a very extreme way, to the left.
Q: Are you saying that when he is erect it points away from his body to his left?
A: Not just erect. After he got off me it wasn’t hard and it was really bent to the left.///end of statement///

About half-way through SGT Pseudonym’s statement, I had the MP call another patrol to locate, detain, and transport SFC Bull to my office. Once I finished with SGT Pseudonym I had the MP take her back to her car and began with SFC Bull.

He was clearly shocked and honestly did not know why he had been arrested. I advised him of his rights for the offense of rape. He waived his rights and profusely continued to deny ever knowing or engaging in any sexual contact with SGT Wanda Pseudonym. I talked with him for a little over an hour. Eventually, SFC Bull invoked his rights, refused to talk any more, and declined to provide a written statement (which didn't matter; all his statement would have contained was: 'I don't know anyone by that name and I didn't rape anyone'). But, during our initial conversation, this important verbal exchange occurred:

Q: You act extremely nervous, sergeant. You can hardly sit still. Why? What’s up?
A: I...you are accusing me of rape, sir. I’m upset. I never. Shit why does this shit always happen to me? I would never force a woman to have sex with me, man, I get as much as I want all the time. I’m not...that’s just not me man. No fuckin way.
Q: What if I told you there was one simple means for you to absolutely prove you are telling the truth?
A: What way? I’ll do it for sure. What way? Anything.
Q: Let me take a picture of your penis.
A: Huh? What are you talkin about?
Q: I need you to agree to let me photograph your genitals, sergeant. Consent in writing. And if you don’t match her description... well, then we’re done here.
A: OK. No problem. I mean, it’s kinda embarrassing but I’ll do it.
Q: Oh, one more thing, Sarge, you said ‘why does this shit always happen’ just a minute ago; what did you mean by that?
A: Ahhhh, yeah... nothin, well..., Shit. I assume you can look it up anyway; I was involved with the police ahhh... before... for somethin else I never fuckin did.
Q: What kind of something?
A: I’d rather not say.

Since I didn’t want him to revoke his permission to the photograph, I left to get the camera and run a background check (something I normally would have done much later).

* * * * * * * * * *
I took a picture of SFC Bull’s penis. It looked like it had been slammed in a car door. If he stood at a urinal and pissed—without pointing and aiming himself straight—he'd miss the porcelain and soak the person standing to his left.

* * * * * * * * * *
The background check revealed a sexual assault victim’s complaint from three years previous. This is a portion of the victim's statement, which I had faxed to me from Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina:

...and SFC Bull entered the bathroom behind me. I told him to leave me alone, but he was drunk and all putting his hands inside my underwear and bra. I pushed him away and tried to leave the bathroom but I couldn’t. Someone from the party was holding the bathroom doorknob on the other side, making it so I couldn't pull the door open. I banged on the door but the music was really loud and noone could have heard. SFC Bull then grabbed me and pushed me back against the sink, but I kneed him, hard, in the crotch. He stopped and bent over—and I opened the door. No one was on the other side at that point and I left the party and...

* * * * * * * * * *
Epilogue That's NOT An Epilogue: I charged SFC Bull with rape and released him to his Commander. The Staff Judge Advocates office began Court Martial proceedings. The case was reassigned to someone else in the office for completion.

About nine months later, I saw SFC Bull accompanied by a defense lawyer and learned he had just taken a polygraph examination. I learned SFC Bull passed his lie detector test. The examiner told me SFC Bull admitted to having consensual sex with SGT Pseudonym, and stated he hadn’t admitted it, previously, because he knew he'd get in trouble for having consensual sex with a hospital patient (the coincidental door-holding information from Fort Kindahumid, South Carolina, was never brought up by the polygraph examiner).

* * * * * * * * * *
SGT Pseudonym was scheduled to be re-interviewed. I offered my assistance. This is the pertinent excerpt from her second statement:

...because I was having difficulty with my marriage at that time. Things were going really bad with my husband and me fighting. When I saw SFC Bull in the mess hall, I remembered having sex with him, and I thought about—even though it wasn’t rape—it was against regulations for him to have sex with me, so I decided to tell my husband that I just remembered about being raped. I figured he would feel all sorry for me. And, well, it worked. He did. He treated me different. But, unfortunately, my husband got all mad and made me tell the police. I didn’t want to—and told him I didn’t want to go through all that. But, he insisted and I knew I’d have to either lie, and say I was raped to the police, or tell my husband that I was lieing to him just to make him feel sorry for me. So, I lied to you and said I was raped.
Q: In your story, you explained details about resisting, including that someone was outside the door, holding the doorknob. Can you explain that?
A: That never happened. I made it up.
Q: Based on what?
A: You asked me to describe what I did to resist. I told you I tried to fight him off and got to the door but then I realized I couldn’t say it was locked; because I was inside, right? And you would have wondered why I didn’t just turn the knob and run out...so I decided to say the door was being held from the outside. At the time of our interview, I figured it was a good way to say...to explain...why I couldn’t get out of his room.
Q: What about the rest of the details? Did you fabricate all of it?
A: Not really. He really had those restraints, it’s just that we used them for fun—you know. I agreed to go to his room to have sex, so all the parts about struggling and saying, ‘no, stop’ that part was all made up. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it to go this far. Are you going to have to tell my husband?///end of statement///
* * * * * * * * * *
Real Epilogue: SGT Pseudonym was not punished for the many tens of thousands of dollars of unneeded investigation costs, nor for attempting—and almost succeeding—to send a (relatively) innocent person to prison. SGT Bull was non-judicially punished; receiving a fine for about four hundred dollars for ‘Engaging in intimate contact with a patient’ and for ‘Mis-appropriation of government property’ (a pair of medical restraints).

I don't know: if her husband ever learned the truth. I can't explain: the 'coincidence' with the door being held from the outside. I do know: this was the strangest rape allegation I helped investigate.

Perhaps the strongest evidence that women have as broad and deep a capacity for physical aggression as men is anecdotal, and—as with men—this capacity has expressed itself in acts from the brave to the brutal, the selfless to the senseless. — Katherine Dunn, author of Geek Love