Stuffed stuff from giant microbes, the rest comes from me.
Zeal and sincerity can carry a new religion further than any other missionary except fire and sword. - Mark Twain, Christian Science, 1903-1907
Zeal 4 Real - strip
Stuffed stuff from giant microbes, the rest comes from me.
Zeal and sincerity can carry a new religion further than any other missionary except fire and sword. - Mark Twain, Christian Science, 1903-1907
pareidolia-apophenia
digital rendering by veach glines — 2009
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. — Mark Twain
Spotless Days & What That Means—Redux
- A) a vid-demo of the newest funked-up skratch-laden LP "each-ahh-lader" by DJ Blex.
- B) a very-extremely boring special effects loop (which couldn't get any u-tube play).
- C) a 1sec=1hour 'snapshot' of the solar winds 'dragging' shit away from the sun.
- D) a pic of Eiffel65 looking thru a ziegler head mirror (da-ba-dee da-ba-doo).
Yesterday's 'Sun Times' was nothing compared to todays'.
I mean come-on. Does it get any more better zowie-wowie than this? This is a UV photograph of our dear old ultra-calm and quiet Uncle Sol. No spots...but there are two rather good sized holes (the darker areas at the south pole and above the south pole, closer to the middle). And they may mean something besides cool green photo. But then you'd have to click on the photos and read about the excitement. Nah.
A banker is a fellow who lends you his umbrella when the sun is shining and wants it back the minute it begins to rain. — Mark Twain [1835-1910]
Spotless Days & What That Means
Over at SpaceWeather they explain all about our current 'solar minimum' (relating to the current lack of sunspots, which have been on-the-decrease for the last five years). Last year had the least number of sunspots since 1913. This year may have even less; already 88% of 2009-days have been spotless.Our sun has (approximately) an 11-year cycle of sun-spot activity and 2009 could be a record minimum 'calm' year. The last 'solar minimum' peaked in 1996; the current one began in 2004.
How does this effect us? There are less auroras (except there may be one Thursday/Friday this week in the extreme northern latitudes because of a solar hole). And, the sun is cooler and heats the earth (a fraction) less. Oh, and that photo in the top corner of this post is really very nice—isn't it?—without any pesky spots.
If you're looking for excitement, there isn't any. But, then that's science...not apocalyptic, not miraculous, not even particularly essomenic, just logically informative.
Warm summer sun, shine kindly here. Warm southern wind, blow softly here. Green sod above, lie light, lie light. Good night, dear heart, good night, good night. — Mark Twain
Black and White Stuffed Convention
That's the way with a cat, you know—any cat; they don't give a damn for discipline. And they can't help it, they're made so. But it ain't really insubordination, when you come to look at it right and fair—it's a word that don't apply to a cat. A cat ain't ever anybody's slave or serf or servant, and can't be—it ain't in him to be. And so, he don't have to obey anybody. He is the only creature...that don't have to obey somebody or other...It sets him above the whole ruck, it puts him in a class by himself. He is independent. — Mark Twain, "The Refuge of the Derelicts"
Fourth Dehydrated Hyena
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow. — Mark Twain
Sometimes it is all ahead of you
Cameron from Wampeters, Foma, and Granfalloons poses this (I paraphrase from his last post):I'm thinking about the quote: 'You have your whole life ahead of you,' and the manner in which it is generally offered as advice.
Generally, a person is at a crossroads...there is one option that represents an opportunity which provides some level of security, such as a steady job. Accordingly, there is a second (or third, fourth, etc...) option which represents some level of risk or unsteadiness, such as traveling or pursuing an art of some kind without realistic expectations of lengthy sustainability.
1. At what age, or at what percent of one's life, is one's whole life no longer ahead of one?
2. Indeed, what would a life look like if one were to operate with this concept in mind at all times?
3. What would a life look like if one acted as if one's entire life was perpetually ahead of them?
4. Would they always choose with their heart, ignoring external influences and pressures?
5. Eventually, would the initial secure option (which was, at the time, ignored) arise as one that now speaks to the heart as the better option?
For those who have not read Cameron, a bit of back-story will help understand where he is coming from. Cameron obtained his teacher's certificate a short while ago and has recently moved to Ecuador—from Texas—to teach.
I will 'give a go' at answering his questions:
1. There is a measurable amount of sneer in the tone of this question. Of course, even a man sitting on death row with a red circle on this month's calendar, "has his whole life ahead of him." But, the best answer to this question presupposes the person being asked is aware of the actuarial percentages and how those percentages relate to relative life expectancy. In my case—about 2/3 of my life is gone and 1/3 of my life is ahead of me...unless I die on-or-about 21 Dec 2012 (then, 8/9 of my life is gone and 1/9 of my life is ahead of me).
2. Someone who would be happy and upbeat about today, excited about tomorrow, and not too concerned about yesterday (no matter how bad it may have been). I suspect their 'todays' would be filled with taking chances and risks because there are an unknown amount—or maybe even an infinite number—of 'tomorrows' ahead of them.
3. Saying someone: "acts as if they perpetually have their whole life ahead of them," is describing reckless behavior (e.g. buying on credit with no regard to the ability to pay the bills).
4. I think the phrase: 'living like your entire life is ahead of you' is a synecdoche (thank you Mr. Kaufman) because it is both a label placed on the actions of young adults who do not have any familial or socioeconomic responsibilities, and, an actuarial fact that 20-somethings have only lived a small percentage of their years. But to answer the question—no; familial and socioeconomic responsibilities are rarely avoidable for us humans. Only meth addicts 'always ignore external influences'... oh, and 14-year-olds.
As a tangental note—and I'm not implying anything about Cameron—I have a few gay acquaintances who seem to live a relatively "untethered" lifestyle. Their constant ability and desire to pick-up-and-move seem less about 'relationship/job anchors' and more about possibilities, opportunities, and the desire for new experiences in new places.
5. Ah, regrets . . . if you choose to live life to it's fullest, full-speed-ahead and-damn-the-torpedoes, will—someday—you look back and murmur: hey self, what the fuck were you thinking when you joined the circus, got your entire body tattooed and gave every dollar you earned to an alligator wrangler in Pensacola? Of course you will. That's the lovely part about the human condition: our ability to second-guess ourselves makes us sane. Or, when we fail at it, it makes us dead in Alaska. One or the other.
Post Script: hey Cameron, I thought I was "taking a chance" by pulling stakes and moving from Arizona to Portland on not much more than a whim. Texas to Salinas de Guaranda? I am in awe of you, and my admiration of your 'living life like it's all ahead of you' is vast.
It is the epitome of life. The first half of life consists of the capacity to enjoy without the chance; the last half consists of the chance without the capacity. — Mark Twain (in a letter to Edward Dimmit, July, 19, 1901)
Fear = Survival Mechanism
I am a god-fearing–fearing¹ person. This multi-hyphenated word concisely captures my true feelings about the uncountable mass of tera–terra-idiots. ‘Tera,’ as in: the uncountable quantity of every dead, living, and yet-to-be-conceived bag of H20 and minerals who once crabbed, is crabbing, or will crab about on the planet; and ‘terra-idiots’ are those who: once claimed/now claim/or will claim, to believe in an invisible omniscient-omnipresent-omnipotent entity who created, controls, or will destroy, this ball of H20 and minerals currently crawling through space at 134K mph² (relative to the space of our universe) 486K mph (relative to the Milky Way Galaxy) and 67K mph (relative to Sol).
I believe that those who claim to believe in an invisible-magic-sky-entity have questionable rationality and live a self-deceit-packed life filled with hypocrisy and bigotry³. I point out that, ‘they claim to believe’ because within the uncountable tera–terra-idiot mass, there are many uncountable giga–terra-fools who (once/are/will) claim to believe in a vengeful/loving-being-who-patiently-listens-to-their-every-murmur solely because of societal, familial, political, or cultural pressures....but they never actually believe (they just don’t want to be excommunicated, stoned, banished, disowned, disinherited, shunned, or ostracized).
All belief-systems preach that their followers are clever, altruistic, kind, generous, honest, and noble people. And they all preach to their followers that the other belief-systems are filled with foolish, self-centered, stingy, deceptive and corrupt people. Every religion and church teaches hatred and distrust of others. Even the most open minded and ‘liberal’ religions sell themselves to their parishioners by pointing out the less open minded qualities of other religions.
Being afraid of people who claim to have faith in things that do not exist is merely a good defense mechanism—like being afraid of the insane. The actions of god-fearing and insane people are equally unpredictable, unfettered by common sense, and not grounded in reality.
¹Thanks Davecat.
²I apologize for using mph; but miles are relative to my reality. The kilometer-majority need to multiply by 1.61.
³The god-fearing who actually read this, and take umbrage, need to treat themselves to a hot steaming cup of I don't give a fuck what you say. Leave. Big people are talking.
During many ages there were witches. The Bible said so. The Bible commanded that they should not be allowed to live. Therefore the Church—after eight hundred years—gathered up its halters, thumb-screws, and firebrands, and set about its holy work in earnest. She worked hard at it night and day during nine centuries and imprisoned, tortured, hanged, and burned whole hordes and armies of witches, and washed the Christian world clean with their foul blood. Then it was discovered that there was no such thing as witches, and never had been. One does not know whether to laugh or to cry.....There are no witches. The witch text remains; only the practice has changed. Hell fire is gone, but the text remains. Infant damnation is gone, but the text remains. More than two hundred death penalties are gone from the law books, but the texts that authorized them remain. — Mark Twain, "Bible Teaching and Religious Practice," Europe and Elsewhere (1923)
more:
Create Your Own Gyro-Art
Thanks to zefrank for all the fantastic time-wasting stuff; like this gyro-thingy.
You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus. — Mark Twain
spoof radially
digital rendering by veach st glines — 2009
Exquisite Corpse
The title of the Exquisite Corpse #0048, of which my portion was the last (bottom) 200 pix, is:
Details, rulze, FAQ, history, and past corpses can be found at New Exquisite Corpse.
(My slice was based on the 15pix from the bottom edge of the 3rd slice. And, the JPEG I received was completely black except for a small blurry bit of aqua near the left side and a tiny bit of the bottom edge of the 'space cookie'. Now, I see that it was not completely black, but just greyish and I'm not pleased with the "seam". None-the-less, my first whack at 'corpse-ing' has been informative.)
The Goddess Says | And Cents For | Space Cookies | Crowned Blightcorpse
Details, rulze, FAQ, history, and past corpses can be found at New Exquisite Corpse.
(My slice was based on the 15pix from the bottom edge of the 3rd slice. And, the JPEG I received was completely black except for a small blurry bit of aqua near the left side and a tiny bit of the bottom edge of the 'space cookie'. Now, I see that it was not completely black, but just greyish and I'm not pleased with the "seam". None-the-less, my first whack at 'corpse-ing' has been informative.)
Maxwell's Silver Hammer
As I am still February-ing with my cough and sniffles (and whenthefuck am I going to be able to expunge this flu?). . . and today is the first day of Spring. I am not writing. I am not creating. But I am passing along a chuckle with this animation.
Continuing Nonsense
Sitting in a bookstore restroom, yesterday (the tale begins), my cold-medicine-addled brain is weighing these options:
- Buy one large $50 book, published in the last 6 months, on website design.
- Buy three medium sized used books, the oldest published four years ago, for a collective price of $49 (also all on website building).
- Find a comfy chair and sit here for the next four hours; skim all four books, until I can determine which one(s) are must-own.
The diaper changing station, in front of me, becomes my focus. Clearly, the name Sturdy Station was chosen with a *wink* and a *nudge*. I would have preferred: sTURDy STATION, but that would have been too heavy handed, I guess (the tale ends on the not so funny punchline as I buy three books).
Adopted Word: Essomenic
This obsolete word comes from the late 1700's and means: 'Showing things as they will be in the future.' I would love my next essomenic story to be firmly seated beyond the year 2525.
(with a tip of the tophat to Davecat)
giggle bone is recovering
So I'm lazing around the house, walking between the kitchen and the bedroom, fetching something to drink, (coughing, getting better, but still not good enough) when I overhear this conversation in the family room (the soft sound of filing is audible):
14 yr old: What does that thing do?
His Mom: It files down the calluses on my heels.
14 yr old: Does it hurt?
His Mom: No, it's just for the dead skin.
14 yr old: Whyzit called a Ped Egg?
His Mom: Probably cause pedafile was already taken. *giggle*
14 yr old: Your jokes aren't very funny.
His Mom: I kinda thought that was a good one.
14 yr old: You would. *14 yr old sigh*
I agree with her. It was pretty good for off-the-top-of-the-head funny. I giggle-coughed back to the bedroom. But, 14 yr olds require a solid dose of vulgarity in their funny; if she'd said, 'cause fuckin pedafile was taken,' he might of laughed.
Finally caught me
The flu-cold that has been doggedly chasing me for the last few weeks zagged when I zagged, drove down my troat, kicked the h out of it, and is presently setting up an old fashioned siege engine somewhere near my larynx. I'm pretty sure its planning to take over my lungs. I'm sending in as many chemical, vitamin, and liquid reinforcements as possible—but losing more skirmishes (and even a few major battles) than I'm presently winning at the moment.
When riding the bed solo (yowza, that doesn't read right. Bed-ridden. Being rode by a bed...to riding...whatever) I try to find a silver lining because otherwize I'm just a cranky little bitch in need of his blanky. Here is my cold's silver lining:
Last year at exactly this same time of year I punched myself in the side and broke a rib. (There's a grabber-sentence that won't let go!) If I were to guess, which would be the only way to be exactly sure, I'd say it was one of my right-lower false ribs (meaning one of the ribs on my right side not directly attached to the sternum, and also not a floating rib). I bet during my autopsy the doctor will be able to see a healed break calcification—if he has reason to look there, that is—and if I cough myself to death, well, he'll definitely have a reason to look there, won't he?
Now to the punching-myself part:
Last winter was spent in northern Arizona. Payson, Arizona to be exact, about a 30 minute drive south of (and thousands of feet below) the Mogollon Rim. (Pronounce it any goddamn way you please. . . .but, if you want to fit in with the triple-handful of geriatrics, tweakers, fake-dude-ranchers, and all of their red neighbors who—ever' last one of 'em—honestly adore Palin, and could no more understand why she shouldn't be VP than understand why owning a Dodge Diesel Hemi-V10, while livin' in a trailer and drivin' solely on highways, iz brain-atrophyingly stupid. . . .then you need to pronounce it Muggy-yawn). Payson could get a good snowfall or three every year; but if Payson got a foot, there would maybe be three feet on the Muggy-yawn.
One weekend—when the snow was coming down in huge soft floating flakes, muffling our voices and making the grip-scrunch of our boots and our own breathing, the only loud sounds to reach our eardrums—we drove our 4-cylinder Saab to the top of the Muggy-yawn, to go sledding. It took about 50 minutes to get to the sledding place, because of all the 4-wheel drive SUVs creeping along the plowed highway. Then we donned more protective outerwear, grabbed sleds and. . . .watched people sled.
First thirty seconds: 'Wow. Look at all the kids, there must be over two hundred, having such a great time sledding and playing in the snow.' After a couple minutes: 'At least half these people aren't children, but teenagers and adults....something doesn't fit.' After four minutes: 'Everyone is sliding down the hill THE SAME WAY. All two-hundred people—no matter their age—are all sitting on their: wood & metal sleds, wood toboggans, metal saucers, sheets of plastic, inner tubes, moulded plastic sleds, or sheets of cardboard.
After watching for ten more minutes, I notice a few stupid-teenagers (as if that's not a redundancy) who think they can stand on their sled and ride it snowboard-like down the hill (probably because there are two real snowboarders...both learners...who are, actually, not falling all the time). All wanna-be-snowboard-sledders either quickly end up on their asses, or lose their sled after a few seconds, and try to stay on their feet by running their momentum downhill....and end up on their asses. I tell my paramour's 13-year-old that the best slide (as I recall from my long-ago Midwestern sledding years) was obtained by getting a running start, throwing the sled down, landing on it, and riding it to the bottom. He went to the top of a medium-steep portion, got ready, watched everyone going ahead of him, and then sat down like the rest of them and rode it like a grade-schooler all the way to the bottom.
"Why didn't you try it like I said?"
"Cause...what if I hit someone like that dude just almost did? It'd be my face!"
Not one person is sledding on their belly. Not a single, solitary sole was laying down on their sled and riding face-first down the slope. I watched more. He'd just called attention to another obvious flaw in the Anozirian-way of downhill sledding. Almost all were turning around after their sledding-run and walking straight back up the slope. Acting like they were the only person on the hill, walking straight into sledding traffic, then either jumping out of the way or getting run over...which made for some funny things to watch. It explained why, with the huge expanse of available slope to sled, so many people were waiting at the top. Because they were waiting for a point when there were less people walking in their path.
More people arrive. Now there are 250 people walking up everywhere and anywhere and sledding down in the sitting position. I decide to take the reins (sled rope) and instruct my family to, "watch how real sledding is done." As I put my thick mittens on and strap down my cuffs I say, "What you are about to see is Midwestern high-dive sledding; not like this baby-wading-pool shite. All Arizonans sled like pussies!" Which caused some heads to turn, as I intended; because I hoped others would see my way of doing it and emulate it.
I climbed along the outer edge of the slope, went over to a point where it was steeper and, consequently, much less people sledding (and almost no one trying to walk up). I waited a minute to make sure it was clear, then ran forward five paces, landed on the sled, and began my run with a loud "Whaa!" to call attention to myself.
Half-way down....I'm traveling so fast the snow blasting up from the front of the sled is getting in my eyes, making it hard to see....3/4-way down and I see a mogul coming up that I didn't notice before....7/8-way down I can determine it's a smooth hump about 12-inches in elevation. My brain has a fraction of a second to decide: roll off the sled or take this mini-mogul—that I never noticed until now because every Anozirian sledder who rode down this slope was going so slow they made this bump invisible—with the gusto it deserves? I choose: Gusto....and hit the bump with my arms doing a push-up off the sled at the same time. My entire body is air-born (I learn I was no more than 18" off the ground, it felt like 3-feet). I get another 'Whaa' out before the sled hits the ground and my body hits the sled. My body, no longer positioned on the sled where it was, moved slightly right in-flight and my lower right ribcage landed on the fist I was gripping the sled with. The pain is sharp and immediate. I am now at the bottom of the hill and I slide the sled forward so my chest is not in contact with the sled....and my belt buckle acts like both a scoop and like the skid-brake on a soapbox derby car: filling my jeans with a loaf of snow.
I get a round of applause. I walk off smiling, knowing I either broke a rib or bruised myself real bad....to empty out my pants in private.
After a few days not being able to take a deep breath or sleep on that side, I know it's a broken rib. So I wait 6 weeks for it to heal. Nothing more. No doctors or x-rays or pain meds or wrappings; I just take it easy so it will heal.
TANGENTIAL POST SCRIPT: I was asked, by a few who don't really know me, why—if I have free medical attention for the rest of my life as a retired military member—I didn't go to the nearest military or VA hospital. Yes, it is true I have socialized medicine available to me, as does my paramour (Native Americans have socialized medical benefits at Bureau of Indian Affairs hospitals). And I am a proponent of free medical care if only people used hospitals for real emergency situations only. Unfortunately, our free-county hospitals (just like military and BIA emergency rooms) are chock-a-block full of idiots who have the flu or a minor broken bone or small cut or their baby has a weird rash, or some other non-important shoulda-stayed-home malady, but they all believe the 'wonderful-doctors-have-a-magik-pill-to-make-me-all-better' propaganda and, accordingly, line up for hours to get no real help.
I don't visit doctors or hospitals because, in my rarely-sick experience, they are all over-paid over-esteemed and over-valued. But it is not the medical personnel who are at fault for America's broken health-care system. It is the insurance companies. They run our health care system—and they should not. The fix? Simple. Pass a federal law mandating all insurance companies have a year to become non-profit organizations. All non-profit insurance companies would, then, be required to show where all their monies are allocated. Period. Profiting (as a stockholder or executive of an insurance company) at the expense of other people's health care (by denying claims) is immoral and should be illegal.
When riding the bed solo (yowza, that doesn't read right. Bed-ridden. Being rode by a bed...to riding...whatever) I try to find a silver lining because otherwize I'm just a cranky little bitch in need of his blanky. Here is my cold's silver lining:Last year at exactly this same time of year I punched myself in the side and broke a rib. (There's a grabber-sentence that won't let go!) If I were to guess, which would be the only way to be exactly sure, I'd say it was one of my right-lower false ribs (meaning one of the ribs on my right side not directly attached to the sternum, and also not a floating rib). I bet during my autopsy the doctor will be able to see a healed break calcification—if he has reason to look there, that is—and if I cough myself to death, well, he'll definitely have a reason to look there, won't he?
Now to the punching-myself part:
Last winter was spent in northern Arizona. Payson, Arizona to be exact, about a 30 minute drive south of (and thousands of feet below) the Mogollon Rim. (Pronounce it any goddamn way you please. . . .but, if you want to fit in with the triple-handful of geriatrics, tweakers, fake-dude-ranchers, and all of their red neighbors who—ever' last one of 'em—honestly adore Palin, and could no more understand why she shouldn't be VP than understand why owning a Dodge Diesel Hemi-V10, while livin' in a trailer and drivin' solely on highways, iz brain-atrophyingly stupid. . . .then you need to pronounce it Muggy-yawn). Payson could get a good snowfall or three every year; but if Payson got a foot, there would maybe be three feet on the Muggy-yawn.
One weekend—when the snow was coming down in huge soft floating flakes, muffling our voices and making the grip-scrunch of our boots and our own breathing, the only loud sounds to reach our eardrums—we drove our 4-cylinder Saab to the top of the Muggy-yawn, to go sledding. It took about 50 minutes to get to the sledding place, because of all the 4-wheel drive SUVs creeping along the plowed highway. Then we donned more protective outerwear, grabbed sleds and. . . .watched people sled.
First thirty seconds: 'Wow. Look at all the kids, there must be over two hundred, having such a great time sledding and playing in the snow.' After a couple minutes: 'At least half these people aren't children, but teenagers and adults....something doesn't fit.' After four minutes: 'Everyone is sliding down the hill THE SAME WAY. All two-hundred people—no matter their age—are all sitting on their: wood & metal sleds, wood toboggans, metal saucers, sheets of plastic, inner tubes, moulded plastic sleds, or sheets of cardboard.
After watching for ten more minutes, I notice a few stupid-teenagers (as if that's not a redundancy) who think they can stand on their sled and ride it snowboard-like down the hill (probably because there are two real snowboarders...both learners...who are, actually, not falling all the time). All wanna-be-snowboard-sledders either quickly end up on their asses, or lose their sled after a few seconds, and try to stay on their feet by running their momentum downhill....and end up on their asses. I tell my paramour's 13-year-old that the best slide (as I recall from my long-ago Midwestern sledding years) was obtained by getting a running start, throwing the sled down, landing on it, and riding it to the bottom. He went to the top of a medium-steep portion, got ready, watched everyone going ahead of him, and then sat down like the rest of them and rode it like a grade-schooler all the way to the bottom.
"Why didn't you try it like I said?"
"Cause...what if I hit someone like that dude just almost did? It'd be my face!"
Not one person is sledding on their belly. Not a single, solitary sole was laying down on their sled and riding face-first down the slope. I watched more. He'd just called attention to another obvious flaw in the Anozirian-way of downhill sledding. Almost all were turning around after their sledding-run and walking straight back up the slope. Acting like they were the only person on the hill, walking straight into sledding traffic, then either jumping out of the way or getting run over...which made for some funny things to watch. It explained why, with the huge expanse of available slope to sled, so many people were waiting at the top. Because they were waiting for a point when there were less people walking in their path.More people arrive. Now there are 250 people walking up everywhere and anywhere and sledding down in the sitting position. I decide to take the reins (sled rope) and instruct my family to, "watch how real sledding is done." As I put my thick mittens on and strap down my cuffs I say, "What you are about to see is Midwestern high-dive sledding; not like this baby-wading-pool shite. All Arizonans sled like pussies!" Which caused some heads to turn, as I intended; because I hoped others would see my way of doing it and emulate it.
I climbed along the outer edge of the slope, went over to a point where it was steeper and, consequently, much less people sledding (and almost no one trying to walk up). I waited a minute to make sure it was clear, then ran forward five paces, landed on the sled, and began my run with a loud "Whaa!" to call attention to myself.
Half-way down....I'm traveling so fast the snow blasting up from the front of the sled is getting in my eyes, making it hard to see....3/4-way down and I see a mogul coming up that I didn't notice before....7/8-way down I can determine it's a smooth hump about 12-inches in elevation. My brain has a fraction of a second to decide: roll off the sled or take this mini-mogul—that I never noticed until now because every Anozirian sledder who rode down this slope was going so slow they made this bump invisible—with the gusto it deserves? I choose: Gusto....and hit the bump with my arms doing a push-up off the sled at the same time. My entire body is air-born (I learn I was no more than 18" off the ground, it felt like 3-feet). I get another 'Whaa' out before the sled hits the ground and my body hits the sled. My body, no longer positioned on the sled where it was, moved slightly right in-flight and my lower right ribcage landed on the fist I was gripping the sled with. The pain is sharp and immediate. I am now at the bottom of the hill and I slide the sled forward so my chest is not in contact with the sled....and my belt buckle acts like both a scoop and like the skid-brake on a soapbox derby car: filling my jeans with a loaf of snow.
I get a round of applause. I walk off smiling, knowing I either broke a rib or bruised myself real bad....to empty out my pants in private.
After a few days not being able to take a deep breath or sleep on that side, I know it's a broken rib. So I wait 6 weeks for it to heal. Nothing more. No doctors or x-rays or pain meds or wrappings; I just take it easy so it will heal.
TANGENTIAL POST SCRIPT: I was asked, by a few who don't really know me, why—if I have free medical attention for the rest of my life as a retired military member—I didn't go to the nearest military or VA hospital. Yes, it is true I have socialized medicine available to me, as does my paramour (Native Americans have socialized medical benefits at Bureau of Indian Affairs hospitals). And I am a proponent of free medical care if only people used hospitals for real emergency situations only. Unfortunately, our free-county hospitals (just like military and BIA emergency rooms) are chock-a-block full of idiots who have the flu or a minor broken bone or small cut or their baby has a weird rash, or some other non-important shoulda-stayed-home malady, but they all believe the 'wonderful-doctors-have-a-magik-pill-to-make-me-all-better' propaganda and, accordingly, line up for hours to get no real help.
I don't visit doctors or hospitals because, in my rarely-sick experience, they are all over-paid over-esteemed and over-valued. But it is not the medical personnel who are at fault for America's broken health-care system. It is the insurance companies. They run our health care system—and they should not. The fix? Simple. Pass a federal law mandating all insurance companies have a year to become non-profit organizations. All non-profit insurance companies would, then, be required to show where all their monies are allocated. Period. Profiting (as a stockholder or executive of an insurance company) at the expense of other people's health care (by denying claims) is immoral and should be illegal.
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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.”
“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).
...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...
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).
...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///
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
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...
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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).
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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///
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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
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