Lions and Fires and Fairs, Oh My

(five postcards from summer to you)

- Oh My
The people who run the 36-hole disc golf/picnic area/swimming hole/fishing pond/campground/music venue in the countryside, northwest of Portland, have more than a dozen guard peacocks roaming their grounds. I collected this one—for you—at the beginning of the Summer during a disc golf outing.

This (almost-extinct) type of Mom-n-Pop business leaves a handful of money in a bucket on their porch under a hand-scrawled list of prices, instructing you to: make your own change. Of the many signs in both English and Spanish, one was in Spanish only. I asked my paramour to translate it and she replied, "It warns about the penalties for catching fish and not paying for them."

Oh my Mom-n-Pop...there's a reason you're goin extinct.

- LionsI will not beat them in a dimly lit cave, I will not beat them crowded on a rock, I will not beat them if depraved, I will not beat them even to shock.

The chiaroscuro quality from my camera phone, rendered what would have been a mundane snapshot of sea lions in a cave worthy of presentation.

- The Fair
I captured a rare public display of the popular-in-a-previous-century, African-American headdress, being worn by a bald member of the Caucasoid race. In other words: a bald red neck cracker wearing a blue doo-rag. Because he also wore a white t-shirt with torn-off sleeves exposing racist tattoos, and four of his friends and family members were wearing at least one item of camouflaged clothing, I feel confident about my classification.

Please note: This is not an accidentally blurry photograph. I took this after four hours at the state fair err... really it was the Oregon Brewers Festival...and successfully captured what my eyes were seeing at that time.

- Fires
We went to Crater Lake and it was as snapshot-pretty as you'd expect (*oohh aahhh so bluuue*). As we were leaving the National Park surrounding the lake, a rather vaguely written portable electronic sign along the side of the highway flashed: FOST FIRE BX MM 39/44 H138. No mention of a closed road. So, about fifty miles later (with the smell of smoke gradually increasing) we were slowed by traffic cones when the two-lanes narrowed to one in several spots because of an adjacent fire.

Taking a picture of a forest fire—as one drives passed it, in a car—is something most people, in the US, don't get to do (I know in some countries, like Australia, it's more commonplace).

- Non-conformity rocks!
On a beach with a half-mile of smooth gray, varying from torso- to Lima-bean-sized, (stacked over twenty feet deep) I fell in love with a white palm-sized skipping stone.

Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored. — Abraham Lincoln

In defense of . . .

Profiling. It's something every police officer does; all the time, every day.  Every effective police officer becomes an efficient profiler.   But, the definition of profiling has been twisted-into and confused-with that of:  prejudicial behavior (by lawyers and their ilk) making it necessary for those efficient members of law enforcement to add to their repertoire:  perjurer (which "adds insult to injury," compounding the negativity).  Profiling was (and still is) the best way to get the job done, it's just that now, police officers need to lie in court when they do it.

Black-marketing is an economic crime, which is enforced by US military law enforcement officials in some oversea locations.  Twenty years ago, I worked as a Military Police black market investigator in South Korea.

At that time, the 27" Sony Trinitron television was one of the more highly black-marketed items.  It could be purchased by US soldiers for about $550.00 in on-post stores but was available in South Korean stores for approximately $950.00 (because the South Korean government considered high-end Japanese electronics 'luxury items').

If Private Dingleberry wanted to make some extra money, he could buy a Trinitron and sell it to Mister Kim for $750.  Mr Kim saved $200, so he was happy.   PVT Dingleberry made $200 in an afternoon, so he was happy.   But the South Korean government lost $400 in taxes.  Put simply: black-market enforcement was, and still is—tax enforcement.

A black-market investigator accomplishes the same thing as a highway patrol speed-enforcement officer. You can't (and aren't intended to) catch all; but, by occasionally catching a few (and by maintaining a visible presence) others will slow down out of fear of being caught.  Or—in the case of black-marketing—the government won't lose as much, in luxury taxes, if soldiers fear being caught.

So.   Put yourself in my 1989 shoes.   How do you catch someone who is legitimately allowed to purchase items but is not permitted to sell them to Koreans?

Go to the store and follow every person who buys an item that is wanted on the black-market until they either:  carry it into their house/barracks, or deliver it to a Korean?

— or —

Conduct research to determine what type of person is normally targeted by the Korean black-marketeers.  And then identify a "profile" of the typical person who becomes involved with black-marketeers.

As you may suspect, it was waaay beyond futile to attempt to follow every purchaser of every item found on the black-market.  And...no matter what...conducting month upon month of daily surveillance in stores is chrysanthemum-on-a-pogostick-amazingly-boring.  The solution was (yes, you guessed it) profiling.

I learned:

Black-marketeers, logically, targeted young risk-taker-type soldiers who wanted more money than they earned.  That turned out to be: (84% of the time) 18-25 year old male Privates, Corporals, and Sergeants; (14% of the time) Korean wives; and (2% of the time) someone who did not fit the profile.

$500 (in late-1980s dollars) was almost a full months pay for a Private; about half months pay for a Corporal; but less than a weeks pay for an Lieutenant or a Captain.

Many officers could afford (and were permitted to own) their own car.  Privates and Sergeants took taxis.

It became possible for me to identify a persons pay-grade...even when they were not in uniform...just by looking at their demeanor, their tattoos, their clothing, (especially shoes and shirts) their haircut, and their friends.   It normally took less than ten seconds.

I could watch a person purchasing an item (say a Korean-made, Samsung VCR, because it wasn't just Trinitrons) and, in under a minute, I could identify if he was going to become a black-marketer.

Some of the indicators I watched for were:

Purchase speed - A black-marketer, sent to purchase a specific item, didn't "shop".  He just went to the counter and said he wanted to buy a model 1099SD Samsung VCR.

Reference material - Since a black-marketer was sent to buy a specific item, he may have written it down or refer to a piece of paper in a Korean's handwriting...very distinct.

Payment type - Black-marketing soldiers were, many times, fronted the cash to make the purchases by the Korean black-marketeers, and - if so - that cash was, normally, all twenties.  However, most soldiers made routine "honest" purchases with a check or credit card.

I still ended up following the occasional person who "fit the profile," but didn't sell the item to a Black-marketeer.  But, mostly, the people I chose to follow would attempt to sell the item to a Korean.  Once they attempted to sell (or sold) the item(s), I'd arrest the soldier, and seize the item, and identify the Korean(s), if possible.

THE RUB:  When asked by a defense attorney, "Mister Glines, when and how did you identify my client as a person engaged in the illegal transfer of duty free goods to a foreign national?"  I had to lie.  Always.

"Sir, I was conducting surveillance on Saturday, the 13th of November, at 1930 hours, on a known Korean black-marketeer, whom I only know by a nickname:  "Donkey."  I noticed your client arrive near Donkey's location with a delivery truck containing an eight point four cubic foot refrigerator.   The refrigerator box bore only words in English.  Your client was obviously an American soldier.  I identified myself as a Military Police officer and asked your client if he lived here.  At which time, he admitted that he did not. I, then, detained him and seized the refrigerator."

If I told the truth:   "Sir, I watched a 19 year old man, dressed in ripped jeans, a Def Leppard T-shirt, and $10 Converse sneakers—which means he was a Private or, at best, a Corporal—walk directly to the appliance counter of the PX, refer to a scrap of paper, and tell the clerk he wanted a GE Frigidaire model number 8.4ED.  He then pulled a wad of over forty twenty dollar bills out of his front pocket to pay for it, which I knew was over a month-and-a-half pay, for him.  So, I followed him to the PX warehouse where he loaded it on a delivery truck.   Then I followed him to an off-post location in Seoul where I arrested him before he could unload the truck."

He'd have said:  "What was your probable cause to begin surveillance and subsequently stop and question my client?"

And I'd have had to reply:  "He looked too young and too poor to afford a refrigerator that shits ice cubes and pisses ice water out the front."

The judge would have ruled that I had no probable cause and thrown that case (and every case) out, because appearing too young and too poor are prejudicial words.

The number one reason I left law enforcement, as soon as I was eligible to retire, was:  I was tired of being forced to constantly lie to make my living.

It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations.  They presented him the words:  'And this, too, shall pass away.'  How much it expresses!  How chastening in the hour of pride!  How consoling in the depths of affliction! — Abraham Lincoln

Trailers For Sale or Rent

Being a phrequent-pheckin-philm-o-phile, it will come as no surprise that I want the power to determine (accurately and 100% of the time) whether a philm is going to be good, bad, or ugly—just from viewing its trailer. Please take note, dear all-powerful-genie, and grant me this straightforwardly (with no bizarre side-effects, which habitually befall those who've oft been granted greed-based desires*) thank you.

Too many of the philms I watched this summer (because their trailers successfully accomplished what they were designed for) were phalures. I bemoan the money I spent to see: 9, which is the phirst to mind, because the animation was wonderful, but it was the only good; the script was bad and the plot ugly. Cold Souls was a miserable pile of shite (Paul Giamatti was his usual good, everything else was mambo-ugly). Adam was phorgettably bland with a heaping side of unmemorable. 500 Days of Summer was unphortunately mediocre (since I, usually, love both Joseph G.-L. and Zooey D.). And X-Men Origins: Wolverine was jam-pack phull of banality.

Of course there were those I knew ahead of time were going to only deliver phair-to-middling entertainment, and they lived up to those expectations: Adventureland; Drag Me To Hell; Observe and Report; Land of the Lost and Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Although I don't regret spending the money to see them, I feel slightly guilty recalling my pre-awareness of their empty calories.

Some philms, which may have attracted my phunds (directed-by/acted-in by someone I like, or contained a story/plot-type I normally enjoy) but—because their trailers made me suspect bad-to-ugly—I did not see were: The Time Travelers Wife; Brüno; The Brothers Bloom; Terminator Salvation; Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Angels & Demons; and Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. I still don't regret not seeing these.

There were a few I chose not to see, but suspect were good—alas, their trailers phailed to hook me: Thirst; In the Loop; Tetro; Ponyo; Battle for Terra; and Rudo y Cursi. I will put these on my see-on-dvd list.

And then there were the good few: Inglorious Basterds; Departures; Moon; Is Anybody There?; The Hurt Locker; and the four I mentioned here.

*As In: Mirror mirror on the door, make my dick touch the floor ... and his legs fell off.

These capitalists generally act harmoniously, and in concert, to fleece the people. — Abraham Lincoln (Not referring to the makers of film-trailers, only because films were, as yet, uninvented.)

The World Is Supposed To End Anyway

How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg. — Abraham Lincoln

Certifiably Orbital

That 1 Guy - Mustaches

I'm a slow walker, but I never walk back. — Abraham Lincoln

Hiking Housecats Batman!

Last week, a couple bikers and compatriots-on-the-path complimented me on my hiking cat.  They asked: How do you keep him with you? - and - What does he do when he meets dogs on the trail?

So, here's a brief "how-to" about hiking house-cats.

I've hiked with a cat for seven-and-a-half years.  My first hiking cat, a fox-point Siamese named Gus, hiked for six years—through forest, desert, meadow, and trail—in both Arizona and Utah.  I, briefly, hiked with a black-on-white kitten named Powell before he died of FIP.  And now, Cecil O. Zonkey, a lynx-point Siamese, hikes with me.  We have another cat in my household, an all-gray female named Aggie; she also hikes, (but is reluctant to cover much terrain).

The first step in determining if you can successfully hike with your house-cat is to quantify the amount of attached-to-you he has in him.  A way to measure this (without going on a preliminary hike) is ask, does your cat:

• come when called?
• display interest in what you are doing, especially when it's something new?
• follow you when you walk around the house?
• enjoy human proximity (sleep at your feet / in your chair / your lap)?

The ASPCA has a survey, to place your cat within a nine-category personality matrix, which they call Feline-ality.  This test ranks cat's socialization and energy levels.  I think the top five "most social/most energy" felines may have what it takes to become good hikers.   On the other paw: aloof cats, very lazy cats, or those who are overly timid or easily frightened will become poor-to-terrible hikers.

I think indoor-only, neutered, males who have strongly imprinted on—and are possessive of—their owners, make the best hikers.  Outdoor cats may follow you for a walk, but they are not only dis-inclined to leave "their territory" but will quickly rely on instinctual survival skills, rather than you, in a crisis (which means they will run far away when a dog shows up to your hiking party).

Once you've determined your house-cat has enough attached-to-you in him, you'll need to [1] obtain and compile some specialized hiking gear and [2] find a good location to take your first test-hike (which may mean scouting it out, without your cat, ahead of time).  Obtain these items:

• pet backpack
• bottle of water
• small container of cat food
• hiking staff or walking stick
• brightly colored cat-collar
• large towel
• training "clicker" or whistle
• small flashlight
• optional safety items (map, compass, cellphone, first aid pack, etc.)

Place the towel at the bottom of the backpack. Put the water and food in a pocket of the pack or under the towel.  Insure the cat collar has a break-away snap and your phone number written inside; put it on when you start each hike and take it off when finished—your cat will learn to associate this collar with hiking and know when you're finished by its removal.

The reason you need a hiking staff is not about: balancing on uneven terrain, removing spiderwebs from your path, poking into hollows (for snakes) before your cat does, or having something to waive over your head if you need to appear larger to a predator (all valuable, sound, reasons to have a walking-staff between shoulder and head high).  It's more about appearance.  Walking with a staff signals: hiker.  Your cat will associate your use of it with "hiking-time" and he will quickly learn that a hike—different from a rambling walk or stroll—is reasonably-paced, mostly trail-based, and that navigation is decided by you.

For your first house-cat hike, locate a place with as many of the following as possible:

• dirt or sand trails (cats will naturally stick to a trail, but gravel can hurt paws)
• mostly shady (or pick an overcast day)
• nothing man-made nearby (no cars, tents, campfire pits, etc.)
• no roads with vehicle-traffic within 200 meters (carry your pet in the pack until then)
• a low pedestrian-traffic area (the less other hikers and dogs the better)
• moderate temperature and weather (not raining, not too hot or cold)
• a long, clear, distance of visibility is best (to see other hikers coming)
  

Plan on your first hike being a slow one, of no more than 1/2 mile to 1 mile (but he may surprise you with the energy to hike longer).  Your cat will need to get used to the new smells and sounds, and will need to be corrected (when he heads the wrong direction) by carrying him until he sees the direction you want to walk.

Be attentive to what your cat hears or smells; pick him up and/or put him in the backpack if you: suspect another animal is close, get too near to dwellings or roads, or your cat begins to display a belligerent I-don't-want-to-walk-in-that-direction streak.

Occasionally use the 'clicker' or whistle to get, and maintain, his attention (not to get him to come to you) there may come a time when you lose sight of each other (more-so as trust builds) and then a loud, familiar, noise will tell him where to find you.

The flashlight may never be needed, but it's better to be prepared.  At least once a hike: lay out the towel and teach him that when the towel is down and you're sitting he is not to explore beyond a comfortable distance (25 feet/8 meters or closer, depending on terrain and visibility).  As with anything, the more hikes you take together, the more comfortable/familiar you will become with communicating with each other, and the more challenges you can attempt together.

The answers to the questions from the beginning of this article: He stays with me because he's been trained to follow me on the path.  When dogs approach I pick him up.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. — Abraham Lincoln (President of America 1861-1865)

Kirby Archer: an infamous friend

          Kirby Archer was introduced to me in 1999 when I assumed duties as the SAC of a small CID office, in a US military community in central Germany.  He was a Military Police Sergeant attached-on-orders to my office to investigate drug crimes.  He was an enthusiastic worker and expressed interest in applying for training as an apprentice CID special agent.

          Over the months I associated with him off-duty—occasionally.  Cops tend to befriend other cops.  I knew his lovely, extremely young, pregnant wife.   He commissioned a work of art from me (which sagged over his couch for years and when I offered to stabilize it firmly to the wall, he declined, stating that he liked it that way).  He could be personable and even charismatic at times.

          He had (maybe still has—even in prison?) a weird thing about food.  First, he would never eat anything green.  No green jello.  No green icing on a birthday cake.   No green beer on St. Patty's day.  Second, there was no such thing as "leftovers" in his refrigerator.  Anything not eaten was discarded.  No Tupperware.  He owned no plastic wrap.  Barbecue's at his house meant everyone else took the uneaten food home.

          He appeared overly protective of his wife.  After an a abbreviated evening of live music and drinking, he was bounced out of a club for punching someone in the face.  He claimed the guy fondled his wife's breast as they were elbowing through the crowd.  I didn't see the frottage.  His wife was far-more upset with his overreaction than the titty-graze.

          When I learned Archer could speak Spanish, we subsequently discussed his '95 assignment, as security/interpreter at Guantanamo Bay during the Cuban detainee 'boat people' crisis.  I recall some stories and his claim of making good friends there.   I recall a picture of him posing in uniform in front of a fence and all the small, dirty, smiling faces mugging for the camera behind that fence.   All the disheveled little boys seemed innocuous to their situation.   Archer's smile in that photo was innocuous to his looming future with the 'shoe on the other foot'.

          Soldiers perform their military mission regardless of their sexual-orientation every day, and Archer was no different.  My first indication of his homosexuality was when he told me, in late 2000 or early 2001, that he'd changed his mind about applying to become an agent.   His previous enthusiasm had vanished and the only explanation he provided was an unusually vague, "I just changed my mind."  I learned, much later, that his attitude had changed after he learned about the extensive background investigation which would have to be "passed" before he would be able to become an Agent (homosexual behavior still results in a black X on Top Secret clearances, in the military).

          In 2002: I retired, Archer was transferred from Germany to Oklahoma, and although we fell out of contact, I learned (from his ex-wife) he was divorcing her because he'd decided to live an outwardly homosexual lifestyle.  He was still an active duty MP at that time.

          I compiled the rest of this story from open-sources, pieced together from press clippings mailed to me by a friend of my mothers who lives in Florida and this web of internets.  I've also made a few guesstimates about some of Archer's actions because, although he eventually confessed, there's not one clear rendition of this near-epic ready to be made-for-TV-saga.  Since this extensive sequence of events has not been compiled anywhere else, anyone—including Archer himself—who wants to suggest corrections, please, feel free.

          At some point between 2003 and 2005, I think Archer decided not to reenlist even though he'd attained the rank of Staff Sergeant (E6) and served at least ten years on Active duty.  It's possible he failed to keep his off-duty homosexual behavior away from his chain-of-command and they administratively discharged him.  (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)

          He left his male lover, moved to Arkansas, and re-married a woman whom he dated in high school.  Coincidentally, his second wife had the same name as his first: Michelle.  Although both women birthed several boy-babies, the first was a small, dainty, Philippino and the second was a very-healthy Arkansan.   I suspect, in regards to his affairs of the heart and groin, Archer was "moving with the winds" rather than making any real decisions.

          Archer got a job at the local Wal-Mart and over the next few years worked his way up to Assistant Manager.  He became enamored with some of the clerks and stock-boys who, obviously, took advantage of his willingness to provide them with alcohol and a place to imbibe it.  Alcohol, and drugs, and 17-year-olds...oh my!  Only this was Arkansas.  Where it don't matter if those boys are a-wantin to stem the rose, they're not of age and that'd be Statutory Rape.

          He learned, probably from the boys (but possibly from a local cop he'd have had plenty of time to befriend) about the local grand jury preparing to indite him.  An arrest warrant was on the way.  A plan had to be hatched.  And Archer chose to flee (for he knew what awaited a gay ex-cop kiddie rapist).

          He removed a microwave from off the shelf, filled it with the daily cash-receipts, put it back in its box, and pushed it out to his car when he went off shift.  Good night to all and to all a good night.  (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)

          He turned right toward Florida instead of left toward Arkansan-Michelle and had $92K and a 1.2 cu ft Sanyo microwave to begin his new getaway life.

          Archer arrived in southern Florida where a friend he'd renewed contact with now resided: a 20-year-old man named Zarabozo.  Bozo was a little boy of about eight in 1995 when he was a Cuban detainee at Guantanamo Bay (I think I've seen a picture of him from then).  Archer re-connected with Bozo.  They spoke Spanish together.  They stemmed the rose together.  They fabricated getaway plans together.

          Bozo was now a security guard.  Bozo had a 9mm pistol.  Bozo was infatuated with his childhood friend who was then and is still shit-packed-to-the-gills full of unbelievably tall tales.

          And Archer.  Ex-military.  Ex-cop.  Ex-husband (x3).  Ex-WalMart assistant manager.  Extremely poor decision-making-skill possessing felon-on-the-run (who knew he had it in him?..not me.)  He was now (definitely) carrying a pistol.

          Archer was just smart enough to realize that $92K would not last long (and not one neuron smarter).  He decided he needed to get out of the country and thought if he could get to Cuba he wouldn't be extradited, his dwindling money would stretch for many years, and it was someplace he could fit-in because he spoke the language.  He thought he and Bozo would live there happily ever after.

          Archer hired a deep-sea fishing boat, the Joe Cool, and four crew for $4K cash and told them he needed transport to Bimini Island, Bermuda, where his girlfriend was waiting with his passport.

          His actual plans were to hijack the boat and force them, at gunpoint, to take he and Bozo near the coast of Cuba where they'd disembark in the lifeboat and never be seen by American eyes until the statute of limitations expired on: four counts of kidnapping, one count of grand theft, multiple counts of sexual congress with a minor, several counts of flight to avoid prosecution, and one count of being abysmally stupid in a zone limited to simple dumb asses (which is—actually—only about ten years).  If Archer had succeeded and was currently a resident of Cuba, instead of Pollack USP, he would have been the first person I knew with an Interpol warrant.

          But.  Almost to Bimini, Archer's "plan" shit the bed.

          It probably unfolded OK at first, but then one of the three men being hijacked decided to call Archer's bluff, attempted to jump him and ended up leaking fluid out of a couple of new holes.  With premeditated homicide on the table, Archer—at that point—had nothing additional to lose by shooting the screaming and pleading other three crew members.  I'm certain he knew that and did it rapidly.

          After all four were tossed overboard to be eaten by sharks, Archer and Bozo headed south toward Cuba.  Several hours later (maybe they were unable to navigate) the deep sea fishing boat ran out of gas.

           This is my first dunno—a boat that size, with enough gas to get to Bimini, would have enough to get near Cuba.  Why it didn't is not something I can figure out.  My best guesstimate is: it did have enough gas on board, but when the hijacking began the boat captain hit a cut-off switch to stop fuel from the second gas tank from reaching the engines.  (New information:  I learned from this book: the boat captain only put enough fuel on-board to get to Bimini, in order to travel much faster.)

          Archer and Bozo got in the lifeboat and began to paddle.

          The US Coastguard picked them up the next day—many miles from the empty boat, many miles from The Bahamas, many miles from Cuba, and many miles from Florida . . . but closer to federal penitentiary than the Bozo boys had planned.  (Also learned from same book:  the gulf-stream caused their life raft to float north...away from the Joe Cool and Cuba, faster than they could paddle.  I find this hilarious.  If you tried to make this shit up, it would read as an over-the-top farce.)

          Almost a year of legal fumblings and Archer eventually plead guilty.  I stopped tracking the case at that point, and don't know if Bozo was found guilty or not.

          As is always the case with true stories, there are unknowns: Archer was found with only $2,200 on him in the life raft; where is the rest? — I suspect most of it was spent foolishly in the many months Archer was "on the lamb."

          Why didn't they sink the fishing boat once it ran out of gas? — I would guess panic.

          Why didn't Archer feed Bozo to the sharks (preventing him from confessing)? — maybe love or maybe even Archer had a line he wouldn't cross.

2023 Addendum:  Archer's son, TJ (who was a toddler when I was stationed in Germany) is now an adult.  He provided a YouTube interview-statement detailing the sexual and physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Archer (and others).  Be forewarned!  It's not easy to listen to this man's description of his parent(s) various forms of abuse.  Near the end of the video, TJ describes his inability to feel emotions like anger and sadness.  Which brought to mind the adage:  Sociopaths are born; Psychopaths are created. 

          ...the high crime rate of our society must be due to the pressures that modern conditions put on people, to which many cannot or will not adjust. — Theodore Kaczynski

Snaggletooth

This is a short non-fiction tale about an employee who I'll forever remember as 'snaggletooth'; a nickname I bestowed upon his short-bus-eligible ass.

"It just came out? The rest of your teeth are perfectly fine. Teeth don't just fall out. Did you get smacked in the mouth during a fight?" I asked. (Snaggletooth was a Military Police Investigator employed by me at the CID office, as an undercover drug officer. Although I knew of no "altercations," that just meant he or his supervisor decided not to tell the boss, not that a fight hadn't happened.)

"Nope. It fell out."

"Well you're lucky, the Army dentist will do it for free; for a civilian that'd be real expensive to fix."

"It's no big deal. I wasn't gonna fix it."

"What?"

"You think I should?"

"Yeah. I really think you should."

"I dunno, it's no big deal."

For the next seven months (until I fired him) he never fixed the front of his face. But...I'm getting ahead of myself. The next WTF happened a month later, when Snaggletooth's immediate supervisor, Staff Sergeant Snuffy, rushed into my office:

"Chief, Chief, you have got to hear this." He said as he came around my desk, picked up and dialed my phone, handed me the handset, and said. "Just listen."

The ring-tone was followed by Snaggletooth's voice: Hiya! You've reached Xxx Xxxx's Machine. I'm out arresting bad guys and can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.

So his supervisor had to explain to him what the word 'undercover' meant, and I get a story to tell.

But that was just Snaggletooth's first strike. Several months later SSG Snuffy comes rushing into my office (he seemed to always be in a state of mania).

"Chief, Chief, you have got to see this." He said as he placed a well-worn, 100-page spiral notebook in the center of my blotter. It didn't lay flat because it had been, obviously, folded in half so that it could fit into a pocket. "Before you open it, though, let me explain."

"Is this about...?"

"Snaggletooth. Yea." Snuffy's eyes looked concerned but his voice was holding a giggle back. I suspected this was a prank of some kind and decided to go with it. "For as long as Snaggle's been working for me, I've seen him writin and I just figured—well, everyone did—that it was a diary. I asked him about it a while ago, cause I was concerned he might be puttin classified stuff in there and then might go an leave it layin around for anyone to find. But, he said it wasn't about work. He told me he was just writin in the book to pass the time. The only thing was, nobody on the team had ever seen what he wrote. I asked. They all said he always closed the book when they got close. I found it layin on the table in the break area, today. He musta left it there when he wentta lunch."

He nodded and look-pointed at the notebook (signaling it was time to read what Snagglepuss had written). I opened it at about the middle. Both sides of the pages were filled top-to-bottom, margin-to-margin, with numbers. Handwritten in black ink.

. . . 5982, 5983, 5984, 5985, 5986, 5987, 5988, 5989, 5990, 5991, 5992, 5993, 5994, 5995, 5996, 5997, 5998, 5999, 6000, 6001, 6002, 6003, . . .

I looked at Snuffy to see if this was a prank on me. The concern was still there, the giggle was no longer around. I leafed through the book. About 3/4 of the book was full and the last page was half filled.

. . . 94841, 94842, 94843, 94844, 94845, 94846, 94847, 94848, 94849, 94850, 94851, 94852, 94853, 94854, 94855, 94856, 94857

The front page began with 1. The last page ended with 94,857. Every number was on a line. None that I could see were skipped. I thought about, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," from The Shining. I realized that I had an insane person working as an undercover drug officer.

I talked to Snaggle. He claimed, just like Snuffy said he would, that it was 'just something to pass the time'. I told him it was, in my opinion an abnormal way to pass the time. He asked what I would consider a normal way to pass the time. So...I noted that—since he liked to write—a normal way to pass the time, would be to sketch or write down anything that enters one's head, like a fiction story or maybe a real event that happened to him.

"I ain't got much talent for that kind of stuff, Chief." He replied.

So I suspended him from active case work and sent him to a psychiatrist. Snaggle told me his discussions with the therapist were, "...Mostly boring and a waste of time. He says my writing isn't abnormal, though..." His therapist sternly informed me I was wrong (I think he used inappropriate use of my authority and a bunch of other fluff-words) to have said Snaggle's "list-writing" was abnormal.

After about a month of Snaggle doing only paperwork, I discovered his car had handcuffs hanging from the rear-view-mirror, and an MP brassard in the rear deck. Strike three.

"Chief, I thought it was OK, since I'm on admin-duty, now."

"No Snag, it's not OK. But it will be next week. I'm sending you back to be a real time-y po-leece officer. You can carry those cuffs on yer belt and wear that brassard on yer shoulder and when you just want to pass the time, you can write down all the license plate numbers you see during your shift because that'll be a normal way for an MP who is not undercover to pass the time.

Our society tends to regard as a "sickness" any mode of thought or behavior that is inconvenient for the system, and this is plausible because when an individual doesn't fit into the system it causes pain to the individual as well as problems for the system. Thus the manipulation of an individual to adjust him to the system is seen as a "cure" for a "sickness" and therefore as good. — Theodore Kaczynski

Cycle Three

No, what worries me is that I might in a sense adapt to this environment and come to be comfortable here and not resent it anymore. And I am afraid that as the years go by that I may forget, I may begin to lose my memories of the mountains and the woods and that's what really worries me, that I might lose those memories, and lose that sense of contact with wild nature in general. — Theodore Kaczynski (from his June 1999 interview)

Hike Two

3.1 mile stroll through the forest today with Cecil.

We crossed paths with seven groups of people—three were with their dogs.

The first dogs actually caught up with us from behind. They were running full-out, ahead of their owner, who was sprinting. Cecil had been walking 20 feet behind me on a wide part of Wildwood Trail; I turned and noticed he was looking back the way we came. Then I heard the jingling of dog collars and started to dash back to him. But Cecil began to run toward the dogs, who were fast approaching.

For about a second I thought he confused the dogs with my movement; but as he scrambled up a tree (in two bounds, he was six feet up) I realized he had instinctively realized the proximity and speed of the dogs and realized the nearest climbable tree required him to run ten feet toward them first.

I pulled him off the tree before he got higher than I could reach (and received a couple of belly and chest scratches thankyousirmayIhaveanother). The dogs payed us almost no heed and we returned to hiking after they were no longer audible and his tail was no longer the size of a toilet brush. The other two dog-groups were fellow-hikers and we had time to prepare for their arrival and pick Cecil up (no scratches).

Words like "self-confidence," "self-reliance," "initiative," "enterprise," "optimism," etc., play little role in the liberal and leftist vocabulary. The leftist is anti-individualistic, pro-collectivist. He wants society to solve everyone's problems for them, satisfy everyone's needs for them, take care of them. He is not the sort of person who has an inner sense of confidence in his ability to solve his own problems and satisfy his own needs. The leftist is antagonistic to the concept of competition because, deep inside, he feels like a loser. — Theodore Kaczynski, aka prisoner number 04475–046 (he'd undoubtedly have a "News" show on FOX, if they were permitted to broadcast from the federal supermax in Florence, Colorado)

New Cat (redux)

On the 2nd of July, my kitten, Powell, died of FIP. Although he was only with me for about three weeks, he and I bonded quickly.

A few weeks ago I returned to the humane shelter and allowed a new cat to find me.

His points have the classic gray stripes of a blue Lynx-point Siamese, but he doesn't have the blue eyes, angular head, loud/constant vocalization, or slender body of a Siamese. Instead, he has gray-white (very light blue) eyes, a round head with the higher hip-bone shape of a Tabby. His coat is medium. His paws are largeish for his body-size.

Although the Humane Society said he was about 13 months old, my Vet said his teeth looked like a 8-10 month old kitten. He is currently 8.5 lbs.

We've named him Cecil O. Zonkey. I call him Cease or Zonk.

Cecil came from Cecil the Seasick Sea Serpent, because he was sneezing at the shelter and is still doing so (either a 3-week virus, or allergies). His middle name is Oscar, because he told me that was his name via mental telepathy (or, I picked it up unconsciously - but that's not very interesting). Zonkey was chosen by my paramour, because he has all the positive traits of a Siamese and a Tabby but none of the negative ones.

He has demonstrated:

• The signs of affection he gives are head butts, nose licks, and gentle tooth-touch-on nose/chin/cheek "bites".


• Allows the clipping of nails, the administering of earmiticide, and taking of pills without display of anger or fear (need to work on drinking from a syringe and taking a bath).


• Enthusiastically plays with our other cat.


• Loves to ride in the back window of a car.


• Rides in the carrier with our other cat like a sibling; in the cat backpack with little complaint.
  


• Not boisterous. He has a very quiet vocal range.


• He has worse-than-terrible eyesight (he actually has a visible nystagmus, the constant movement of his eyes from side-to-side).


• Will drink out of a plastic water bottle cap held in my hand (valuable for when he's thirsty and a larger receptacle is not available).


• Doesn't extend his claws or bite when engaging in pseudo-aggressive play behavior.


• Hikes fantastically. He followed/led for 2.5 miles through the forest without a hitch on his first hike.

In order to prevent the feline-failure-to-post-a-feckin-foto enforcement officials from further focusing on me, this is proffered:

Cecil O. Zonkey, 10 months

...we've made imprecise statements and statements that ought to have had all sorts of qualifications and reservations attached to them; and some of our statements may be flatly false. Lack of sufficient information and the need for brevity made it impossible for us to formulate our assertions more precisely or add all the necessary qualifications. And of course in a discussion of this kind one must rely heavily on intuitive judgment, and that can sometimes be wrong. So we don't claim that this article expresses more than a crude approximation to the truth. — Theodore Kaczynski (near the end of his manifesto; a paragraph that negates the previous 230 paragraphs . . . I love the use of his "royal we")

District 9 - Movie Review

District 9 is a humorous, character-based, speculative fiction story, which showcases mankind's racism and socio-economic bigotry by twisting it, so we see ourselves (humans) as the "bad-guys" relative to ugly-bug-aliens (the good guys).

Yes, there is plenty of action and suspense and thrills. Yes, the acting is good, with a clean script, fine editing and great direction. But—more importantly—it is not a re-tread. This is new. This makes you think. This is discussion fodder. Wonderful. Worth the cost of admission, even for humans who are not fans of sf.

Alienation, low self-esteem, depression, hostility, rebellion ... population growth, ideological conflict, political extremism, terrorism, sabotage, anti-government groups ... threaten the very survival of the system. The system will be FORCED to use every practical means of controlling human behavior. — Theodore Kaczynski

Is Complacency in Your Resume?

This was in my e-mail. After reading a few sentences, I knew it met the: 'if it seems too good to be true' criteria. But, the person who forwarded it did not provide a wink and nod. So I wondered, to myself (and now here) how many of the foolish-American-masses actually think/thought it was legitimate?

It's obviously a ploy to get you to send identifying and banking information; but even if one failed to note the Nigerian fingerprints (or whomever it is this month) doesn't the "position" they are "seeking to fill" scream—like the unabomber at his brother—shady criminal enterprise?

I was especially tickled by their stated need for complaisant (sic) people; maybe their spell-check got tangled in their thesaurus—the first doesn't work and the second works too well. The list of character traits at the end made me giggle: even letter-bomb/drug/weapon re-packagers need them some mad people skillz.

This is the complete unaltered ad, except I redacted the g-mail address at the end.

Job Title: Package Handlers
Company: FiftyOne
Job Location: United States
Employee Type: Part-Time/Home-Based
Req'd Education: Not Specified
Req'd Experience: Not Specified
Base Pay: probation period: $1,000/month
Bonus: $20 for each package

Hi. We are "FiftyOne", a transport company that looking for employees. Yes, we need you.

In the first place let us introduce. Our company is providing global e-commerce solutions for existing e-commerce sites. Our company is the unique third-party-managed service that effective connects U.S. brands with international buyers.

International shoppers finally feel welcomed, and buy with the same confidence and certainty they would if the merchant were across town.

While ecommerce growth in the U.S. is leveling off and merchants now compete fiercely for share of wallet, the overseas market is growing dramatically, offering an untapped opportunity for expansion and new revenue. "FiftyOne" makes a window... or even a gateway (like a "Stargate") to that huge market.

Because our business is growing, freights turnover increases along with profits, we need new employees right now! Now that is your chance to set career at rapidly evolving company.

Available vacancies are Package Handlers. Main point of that work is receiving package, repacking it and send it further according to our instructions. That's not a hard work, but we need reliable, complaisant people dependable and stable as a rock.

You will receive 5-7 packages per week.
And you’re need only 2 or 3 vacant hours per day for this work.
You’ll be able to form your own work schedule and receive additional income for your family!

This position requires someone with:
- well developed analytical, communication, and interpersonal skills
- strong operational background and knowledge
- exceptional people skills
- problem solving skills
- top notch communication and writing skills
- drive to be the best

If you are interested, please reply to XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX.

...human nature has in the past put certain limits on the development of societies. People could be pushed only so far and no further. But today this may be changing, because modern technology is developing ways of modifying human beings. — Theodore "Ted" Kaczynski (aka The Unabomber)

when down is up and up is fucked

It is 108º F (42º C) in Portland today—with a humidity level of about 25%. Phoenix, Arizona and Death Valley Junction, California, are maybe a degree hotter (but their humidity levels are 10-15% lower...oh yea, and they have air-conditioning).

The taste for worst-case scenarios reflects the need to master fear of what is felt to be uncontrollable. It also expresses an imaginative complicity with disaster. — Susan Sontag

definitely no jargonistic surjection

Contemporary art, no matter how much it has defined itself by a taste for negation, can still be analyzed as a set of assertions of a formal kind. — Susan Sontag

Fumkin Parts

Kinda drunk in a relatively terrible local brew pub in the city of Newport (yea every city in the entire state has port jammed into it somehow, even Eugeneport). I'm stumble-wondering how the idea of hazelnut beer and hazelnut rum could have sounded attractive, and stumble-deciding on the silver lining: at least I (now) know two things that should never be flavored with hazelnut.

The back hallway has two doors.

-Hops- -Barleys- no other symbols. Which is which? My mind strains. I imagine other drinking establishments (Skippers, Mermaids) and languages (Damen, Herren) but nothing clicks except that the word 'men' is shorter than the word 'women'; that couldn't be it, could it? What-the-fuck were they thinking? A waitress says, in a 187th-time-today tone: you're hops.

Inside, I dry my hands on paper towels from a jack-in-the-box-crank dispenser. Haven't seen one of these in a decade or three.

Two days later—after a wonderful bakery-lunch in Corvallisport—I enter the back hallway and recognize the two bathrooms are marked only with: restroom. I assume this restaurant has chosen to go the unisex/first-available route.

I join a small line and quickly learn there's a hitch in the giddy-up.

One of the doors has an apologetic sign reserving it only for Barleys. (And later, after comparing notes with my paramour, I learn they're both identical inside: one toilet, one sink, nothing else.) Women can use either. Men can only use one.

I can only come up with one reason for this: The women who run this establishment don't want to get man-cooties but believe it's OK for men to get women-cooties - or - think women don't have cooties. I suspect these assumptions are specious, so I'm open for alternatives (because I vividly remember learning at recess that women have cooties and men can get them).


On a more artistic note, this is a wonderful camera mistake. The design is perfectly weighted. The visual movement is dynamic. And it hardly matters that the person standing on a country roadside, twirling a pizza-company placard (miles from any business, let alone that pizza place) was not properly snapshotted.

Photographs alter and enlarge our notions of what is worth looking at and what we have a right to observe. — Susan Sontag

Color Comments on the British Open

          I was highly entertained by Peter Alliss's comments over the last two days of golf-watching. (I know, I know; but it's guilty pleasure #38.)

          Normally a BBC commentator, this past weekend he did some guest commenting, at the British Open, for TNT.

          Who won or lost is unimportant (to me, at least) but these comments of Mr Alliss were golden:

          (In response to another commentator's statement that Peter, 'didn't really understand the situation because he was English, not Scottish'): Hey...I could have gone the whole way, could have changed and had the operation and everything — I just chose not to.

          (Abstrusely pointing out a terrible second-hole score): Four nine three four four three . . . hunh — that used to be my telephone number.

          (A conversation with a US commentator who'd been referring to a player that twitters, then asked Peter, 'You were twittering earlier, too, right?'): I don't twitter — we've only recently just got gas at my house.
To which the US commenter replied, with a chortle: Natural gas?
Peter's retort was a dry: Don't be silly — lamps!

          (Referencing a logo-type design on the sleeve of a young Japanese player): I wish I knew what that said, on his shoulder. David Beckham has tattoos there — but . . . apparently . . . he's satisfied with it . . . there, on the material.

The Criminal Investigator's #1 Rule of Thumb

          If I were to impart one thing about detecting—from my years as a criminal investigator—it is this:   there's always one thing, which proves or disproves a persons guilt or innocence.  And, that one thing needs to always be the lens with which the rest of the investigation is examined through.

          This is not to infer that an investigator doesn't have to collect every item of evidence, interview every possible witness, and always remain impartial.  But, I recall what happened when investigators (and lawyers, and judges) failed to keep the investigation (court proceedings, trial) focused through that one thing; the result was almost always the same: guilty people were not held accountable for their crimes.

          Bad people go free when they (or their lawyers) cause law enforcement to lose focus on the one thing.

          When I explained this #1 Rule of Thumb to my subordinates, I referred to it as the Bloody Socks Rule.  I contend that the OJ Simpson trial would have resulted in a conviction if the prosecution spent a few days showing the jurors what the crime scene looked like and then explained about the socks collected from the floor of OJ's bedroom—which had the blood of OJ, Nicole, and Goldman on them—and then said, "the prosecution rests your honor."   Forget about the Bruno Magli shoes, Kato Kaelin, Mark Furman, and the bloody gloves; the one thing is the socks with three peoples blood on them.

          Any case can be fogged by the "what about..." and "explain the..." but as long as the one thing is kept in the forefront—bad people are caught and put in prison.

          The assassination of President Kennedy is a famous example of an investigation that has been so incredibly inundated in evidence and investigation and re-investigation, that most people believe there was a conspiracy (by some large government organization).

          I know there was no conspiracy.  Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.  Jack Ruby acted alone.   The reason I know is because of two one thing's (one for Oswald and one for Ruby).

          Oswald moved (back) to Dallas Texas in October of 1963 and got a job at the Texas Book Depository.  Over six weeks later (mid-November) the "parade route" of the President's motorcade was published in the Dallas Newspaper, showing it would pass in front of the Book Depository.  Oswald arrived at work the morning of 22 November 1963 with a long item wrapped in newspaper; he told co-workers it was curtain rods.  [Although it's a second thing it is helpful to also know about Oswald's mindset:  that (according to his wife) he tried to assassinate Retired General Edwin Walker with the same rifle in April 1963.   The bullet hit a window frame; fragments injured Walker in the arm.]

          This is Oswald's one thing because when he got the job at the Depository, the route was not yet decided by the Secret Service.

          Ruby always carried a pistol and was a "cop groupie" (cops drank at his strip club for free; Ruby frequently hung around the police station).  The morning of Sunday, 24 November 1963, Ruby got a phone call from one of his employees, asking him to wire her $25.   He took his favorite dog, Sheba, and wired the money a little after 11am.  Then, leaving Sheba in his car, Ruby walked a block to the police station, arriving about four minutes before Oswald was escorted out.

          This is Ruby's one thing.  His timing and the presence of Sheba shows that he was acting on impulse.

          UPDATE:  It was brought to my attention that my 'one thing' rule may apply in the case of the JFK assassination by Oswald, but that it does not work for the subsequent murder of Oswald by Ruby because he provided the above story to explain that he had acted on impulse.  So, I did more reading.

 

          I discovered it's probable Oswald shot his rifle several times but only hit JFK once in the back of the neck.  Then, a Secret Service Agent, riding in the chase vehicle (while trying to turn and point a rifle at the book depository) accidentally shot JFK in the back of the head.  This explains all the cover-ups.

 

          The entire Secret Service chain-of-command acted, coerced, and then helped Ruby (who was terminally ill).  They stopped the Dallas autopsy and later removed all of their own bullet fragments.  These details may have been disclosed to one or more members of the Warren Commission, although - as of 2017 - "almost all" of the Warren Commission Report has been "approved for public release" and none of this is in official documents.

 

          I can understand why senior members of a government might want to classify the ironic but chilling fact surrounding the idea that the 'Secret Service accidentally shot the person they were supposed to protect and then covered up that mistake by having Oswald murdered.'  How far up would that level of a cover-up needed to go?  And - would uncovering that cover-up cause more problems than it would solve?  There's a huge philosophical thought experiment open for discussion!

Most people in this society who aren't actively mad are, at best, reformed or potential lunatics. — Susan Sontag

A lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin

Heard this terrible-funny Bloodhound Gang song for the first time at Karaoke.

I'd already had four and a half shots of Jaegermeister, and I chuckled gargantuanly-huge, I-shouldn't-be-laughin-so-hard, guffaws of glee.

The lyrics:

I was lonelier than Kunta Kinte at a Merle Haggard concert that night I strolled on into Uncle Limpy's Hump Palace lookin for love. It had been a while. In fact, three hundred and sixty-five had come and went since that midnight run haulin hog to Shakey town on I-10. I had picked up this hitchhiker that was sweatin gallons through a pair of Daisy Duke cut-offs and one of those Fruit Of The Loom tank-tops. Well, that night I lost myself to ruby red lips, milky white skin and baby blue eyes. Name was Russell.

Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin
Well I find it's quite a thrill
When she grinds me against her will
Yes a lap dance is so much better when the stripper is cryin

Well, faster than you can say "shallow grave" this pretty little thing come up to me and starts kneadin my balls like hard-boiled eggs in a tube sock. Said her name was Bambi and I said, "Well that's a coincidence darlin, cause I was just thinkin about skinnin you like a deer." Well she smiled, had about as much teeth as a Jack-O-Lantern, and I went on to tell her how I would wear her face like a mask as I do my little kooky dance. And then she told me to shush. I guess she could sense my desperation. Course, it's hard to hide a hard-on when you're dressed like Minnie Pearl.

(chorus)

So, Bambi's goin on about how she can make all my fantasies come true. So I says, "Even this one I have where Jesus Christ is jack-hammerin Mickey Mouse in the doo-doo hole with a lawn dart as Garth Brooks gives birth to somethin resembling a cheddar cheese log with almonds on Santa Claus's tummy-tum?" Well, ten beers, twenty minutes and thirty dollars later I'm parkin the beef bus in tuna town if you know what I mean. Got to nail her back at her trailer. Heh. That rhymes. I have to admit it was even more of a turn-on when I found out she was doin me to buy baby formula.

(chorus)

Day or so had passed when I popped the clutch, gave the tranny a spin and slid on into The Stinky Pinky Gulp N Guzzle Big Rig Snooze-A-Stop. There I was browsin through the latest issue of Throb, when I saw Bambi starin at me from the back of a milk carton. Well, my heart just dropped. So, I decided to do what any good Christian would. You can not imagine how difficult it is to hold a half gallon of moo juice and polish the one-eyed gopher when your doin seventy-five in an eighteen-wheeler. I never thought missing children could be so sexy. Did I say that out loud?

(chorus)

Somewhere in America

The Griffin Family lives in Rhode Island.

South Park is a city in Colorado.

The Simpsons reside in the ubiquitous city of Springfield, in an unknown state (31 states have a city named Springfield).

The Hills live in Texas (for a few more months until their time-slot is taken over by The Griffin's Neighbors. But they could be back; Family Guy has been canceled twice).

Americana is what is depicted.

All of these series let us peek at American crazy-vulgarity, foolishness, idiocy, and teach us how to behave (sometimes by showing us how not to).

The television network FOX (the largest "news" network . . . solely responsible for the new requirement to use quotations around the word news) produces three of the animated series.

South Park is produced by the Cartoon Network.

ABC decided not to pick up King of the Hill after it was canceled.

I don't find it strange that these television programs have lasted for as long as they have. They have quality; script quality. The writing is topical and usually fresh.

I fault some of Family Guy's humor. But just because I don't laugh at one of the types of gags they use, which I refer to as kicking the dead and buried skeleton of a horse (and if you have ever watched an episode, you know what I mean) doesn't mean I don't think much of the (rest of the) writing is funny.

My favorite characters are everyone else's favorites.

There are episodes that stick with me.

I didn't know what the Mormon Church based it's doctrine on — until Stan Marsh told me.

I'm as lazy as Homer (and share his love of doughnuts and beer).

Stewie is guaranteed to make me chuckle and cringe simultaneously.

I'm a liberal-democrat Hank Hill.

How things really are — and always will be — is neither all-evil nor all-good but deficient, inconsistent, inferior. — Susan Sontag

extreme adjective noun

I intend to do everything ... to have one way of evaluating experience: does it cause me pleasure or pain — and I shall be very cautious about rejecting the painful — I shall anticipate pleasure everywhere (and find it, too) for it is everywhere! I shall involve myself wholly ... everything matters! — Susan Sontag

Word To Your Mother

My latest telephone call with ma mère resulted in a notable exchange. It began by me trying to clarify my half-sister Kim's most recent reunion desires:

Me: Well Kim's just trying to herd the family together at holiday-family-time. She's done it in the past and she'll do it in the future. This coming winter she'll have a teenage exchange student in her house and I think she's also interested in us all meeting her.

Her: But she doesn't seem to understand people's situations. My situation. I certainly can't afford it, and my brother is in no health to...

Me: Mom...It's just Kim—your daughter—being who she is. There's no reason to get all bent out of shape...

[Bent out of shape? When was the last time I used that phrase? 1987? How and why—when talking to my mother—do words that have been in long-term storage find their way to my tongue?]

...just because she wants to get her husband, and her husbands family, and you, and me, and your brother, and his family...all of us...all seated around a table for the first time in, er decades—that's no reason to get upset with her.

[when I said er I was thinking... we have never all been around a table. We have never been in a room together. We have never even occupied the same state of the union at one time. And I almost said: 'ever'. I suspect my 70-year-old Mom has never realized that fact. It caused me to add this ramble-rant...after she said:]

Her: I still don't think she gets it. She thinks that her jobs, and husband, and all the things that fill her days are so much more important than the things that I do. My days are full! The things and people in my life are just as important. She does not appreciate any of that. She thinks I can just drop what I'm doing and drive out there.

Me: But I think you are overlooking something. What I think she doesn't appreciate is that we—as a family—do not have what it takes, genetically, to get together. It's both genetic and environmental; but mostly it's genetic: Papa's (my grandfather) mother and father sent him to boarding school and he sent his son (my uncle) to boarding school. To send your child away—to be raised by others—requires an un-attach-ability that most parents don't have. Your grandmother passed it to your father. And, it's clear to me—that you passed it along to your children. Definitely to me. And, just look at Nanett. When was it? How long ago was it?

Her: Ahhmm mid 90's, maybe a dozen years ago?

[In 1995 my sister, Nanett, sued my mother and Kim (the executrix of the estate) because my deceased step-father (whom my mother divorced 6 months before he died) left my mother as sole beneficiary on a 401K...the money was given to my Mom, and Nanett wanted it. Three years of contentious court proceedings resulted in a 'win' for Nanett. Most of the money went to lawyers and court costs. As one would expect, it drove a wedge.]

Me: Mom, I have not exchanged a word with Nanett since then. Fourteen years, and I don't miss her. She and I never really got along, and I—clearly—remember how she was: When I visited, and we'd go out, it would always be: Oh hey, I forgot to cash a check like I intended to this week. Could you get this and I'll get you back next time? Only the next time it would be, I just spent all our money on the new carpeting, do you mind paying for this?
And then she would seem to always need 'a loan' or would ask if I could, 'spare a hundred bucks so she could fix something...like her car' always with the I-wouldn't-ask-but's attached. She divorced us, and I like being divorced from her. And I, obviously, have the genetic un-attach-ability gene because of Bram and Ian. I'm pretty sure I passed it along to them, too.

[Bram (born 1982) and Ian (born 1984) are my sons. I exchanged fluids with their mother for 16 months of the four year time-frame, that exists between the dates on the marriage and divorce certificates that bear our names. She remarried. He adopted. I signed an agreement to not interfere. When Bram and Ian each turned 18 I attempted contact and have made feeble attempts a few times since. Their messages are always clear: we don't want to know you.]

So, the way I see it, we prefer not to associate with our own family members because we genetically have the un-attach-ability gene, which has the lovely side-effect of causing a environment where we never witness our own extended family members relating to each other in any way, and that results in absolutely no extended-family memories to come into existence.

[It's not like I don't know what people without the un-attach-ability gene behave like: I have a friend who tells stories about his Italian-American family that always make me laugh. They fight and hurt each other (both physically and emotionally) every time they get together—and they get together all the time. They absolutely don't have the un-attach-ability gene...but I think one of them is going to eventually get killed because of it. Also, I recall accompanying a college friend to his home, in upstate Wisconsin, occasionally. He had an extended family that cared about each other, and—in his family—each member was honestly concerned about the well-being of each of the other members.]

Her: I don't know if it's genetic, Veach, it's just that Kim doesn't understand.

Me: She can't understand, Mom. She didn't get the un-attach-ability gene. Her Dad's family all liked to get together and reminisce...all the cousins and the brothers. They had family reunions! Don't you remember? If his family had been more cautious and healthier (they're almost all dead of accidents and diseases) Kim would be able to have get-together's with that half of her gene-pool.

I took a trip to see the beautiful things. Change of scenery. Change of heart. . .And they're still there. . .but they won't be there for long. . .that's why I went. To say goodbye. Whenever I travel, it's always to say goodbye. — Susan Sontag (I, etcetera, 1978)

A family's photograph album is generally about the extended family and, often, is all that remains of it. — Susan Sontag