Under 30 Dream Writing


“The Bodhisattva Poses With Her Anniversary Pot” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

From Leopold Courting Rose, a book of year long thief letters in an attempt to steal young girl’s heart… It worked.



Okay, you’re lucky. No notes about thighs, eyes, sighs—I shall write to you a confessional. That is my desire for this Tuesday morning, a little over a year gone by since I first held your hand. Always in the library I am on these fall days when I have a greater sense of the life within me. Since childhood I have revered these moments spent in the gray cool morning. As a man I am still overcome by them. They take my breath away. Delve me into dream. Retard me for the betterment of self.
I am the happiest man alive. Now at twenty-nine years I scan the shelves of books with the small part of my brain that seeks to know some other man’s happiness or misery, and this I do for a good long hour to end up cursing the great ones, because I know that good behavior will never get published in a book I write. I hate them, and deliberately misplace their works back on the shelf because they don’t deserve all the attention I give to you in dreams. This makes me happy. Dostoevsky will mingle with Thoreau probably until the next time I arrive at the library to mix things up again. Then I will carry that Russian idiot over to the Hindus, and all the dead philosophers can argue over who is more miserable in their time, and therefore deserving of recognition. The Hindus laugh. The Buddhists snicker. Saint Testicle wears a hair shirt. Good god, they’re all jealous of each other. Petty fools. They’re dead! I have nothing to share with them. I am certainly not going to give you away. No more sacrifice. You are mine, and these skinny legs holding practically double my body weight will prove it. I hoist my pile of books up to the counter, check them out, and take our happiness outside where it belongs on this perfect day. Here in the gray light. Shoulder my backpack, hands thrust into corduroy pockets, and the long walk back kicking the leaves high. I am alive with you. That is all we need to read about.
Two years ago about this time I was being haunted by a dream ghost. You were coming into so many dreams at a time I was out of myself and delusional. Stuck in New York to wallow in my misery, which I did very well, a strange man equipped with the special powers to plan and execute his own demise. I was well aware of all my moves, fully conscious and sane, for I knew all along that I was torturing myself. Oh, but I felt alive. I went on long walks throughout the city. No different from today, except the feeling was different. I could lose myself. With both hands in pockets, I walked through Central Park oblivious to all around me beside the sound of my own breathing and footsteps.
Today is a day like many I lived in New York. Inspirational feelings abound… They take hold, control me, pull me back to the realization that I was “chosen” for this day, so I better make the best of it. Humans share this ability to not take for granted each moment of their lives. The novel won’t amount to much if it be replete with paragraphs about shopping for shoes.
Anyway, I feel then what I feel now. Every move I make I make for the biographers. I live my life as though I am being watched. A one man act, who writes his own plays, and performs on the road. These are the romances I have been writing. I don’t think there is anything wrong with this type of behavior. It’s original for sure. And it gives purpose toward realizing fatherhood, companionship, poetry, self-liberation… Whom do you know, other than yours truly, who would live a whole sober day in this super economy, solely for a meal? Who but village idiot Ron would give up certain lifetime security if it meant losing his ability to dream of you and the impossible requited love on a ten mile walk around New York City? Who besides a fool could claim one of his happiest days penniless with a borrowed cup of coffee, sitting on an Upper West Side stoop dreaming of her? Just dreaming? She didn’t even know him in that way. She barely knew him at all! But he knew about her. All the important things. He knew that if she ever took the plunge with him, he would always use a good olive oil when cooking for her, no matter what the cost. He would over-elaborate in poverty. It’s what poets do. Every man would become a poet for the woman he desired. And the woman would only respect poetry offered. All dealings with security and pension into old age would be mutually respected, after love. But love must come first, and love can only be born of poetry.
So he walked a long day and in the evenings sauntered into any neighborhood book store. His story gave him the strength to seek comfort in the stories of other men, dead and gone, who would never get the chance to know his joy and suffering.
From the stoop on gray days like this I would watch the many girls pass by, think of you, and suddenly see your body down the street on your way to class. Your face on every woman. Your eyes glaring into mine. Eyes so sleepy, wanting a warm boy to curl up with under covers. I thought of you thinking of me on a walk and talk along the lake shore while having conversation with a friend. You wanted me to hear your laughter and listen to your speech, its tone and vibration reaching all the way to Larry’s cold November stoop. These Autumn days I would keep with you. In evening the street lights exaggerated the wet of rain. You dreamed of me in the Chelsea bookstore walking up an escalator to my favorite authors. They were going to write about our life together from now on.
Rose, you are in time a mystery to me. I will not become familiar enough to let you go. I still cannot pronounce your name correctly. This time spent with you has been streams of evenings on Larry’s stoop wondering how perfect the world would be if you would just let me hold your hand.



The Last Anxiety Dream


“Rose Left For Work This Morning With Her Nose in a Better Place” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 11 x 15″

Rose is my wife. Or, I am her husband. They say possession is 9/10 the law, and to anyone looking, it’s obvious that we are close—married to the hilt— bearing all the positive and negative of that attachment vice/virtue the Buddhists claim is soul draining. So, emotionally, we possess each other, for better or worse, like good/bad attachments. We “get it”, and flow fairly well together, through good and bad, in concert with fluctuating hormonal balances—her month, my month, hair loss, hair gain… We have nearly mastered the art of cohabitation, and she, whether realizing it or not, is primed and ready for a sweet nirvana, if she ever desires/not desires its potential awakening.

Me, on the other hand, is an anxious mess. The culprit (if I must ascribe blame. And I must because I am not healed) is culture, and the roles it pressures us into, wittingly or unwittingly. Rose is breadwinner. We eat and stay dry and warm because she maintains acceptable work outside the home. A steady job that pays well enough for me to stay home and keep life about us steady and content. I am literally bread-maker—stay-at-home cook and part-time butler, part-time painter, writer, curator. These are the chores separating me from Rose, for we are both very sensitive, full time spouse and parent, and there should be no comparisons made in these departments. I am an okay cook, decent butler, yet would fail the most basic Emily Post white-glove inspection.

Selective breeding among male Throops carried on fairly well without me for 56,000 years, and then Rose and I came along and upset the stream. Damned it up good and proper, I’d say, for I haven’t gone a day in my adult life without some manner of confusion about my place and role(s) in a society that worships nothing but abstractions—namely, money.

To say I am an anxious person would be a gross understatement. I am more like an outwardly successful squirrel, yet unsatisfied with myself in a world of squirrels that covets and adores a mutual abstraction. Squirrels around me who act like squirrels day after day, accumulating nuts, building impressive nests, braving seasons and storms, but underlying every accomplishment is the pressing desire to accumulate the abstraction that will make the squirrel a new squirrel, refined prince or princess in squirrel kingdom. I am infected with the abstraction also, which makes me a constantly dissatisfied squirrel. Let’s say this abstraction occupying us squirrels practically night and day is the desire to accumulate human manufactured snow-globes. Many generations ago, some wise and economically trained squirrel scribes thought to create a falling leaf money supply to ease and simplify transactions among squirrels of Squirreldom, however knowing the ubiquitous existence of trees, sought a limited, countable base currency to give an abstract value to something that was readily available in Squirreldom—leaves. Leaf banks opened up practically overnight, followed by upstanding squirrels founding colleges and universities, the development of a million acceptable leaf-paying occupations (none of them nut gathering), and finally a culturally devastating, squirrel-separating atomization.

Anyway, I had a dream last night, my last one about money if hope can help it. I was at Donald Trump’s next wedding and the cheapskate expected a gift. 60 dollars is a lot when you can’t make that in a month from painting. Rose’s brother from D.C. was there with his wife telling her in a false admiring, deeply condescending way, that it was “too cool” that I painted—Oh, but I could see the mockery in his eyes and hear it in the tone of his voice. Shamed again! And not for the last time that night. After the gifts were laid out for all and sundry to see, Trump had my gift, a painting, taken out and thrown in the trash. Rose confided to me that she provided a back-up without my knowledge—a Samsung® tablet for the new bride. I was so mad. I stormed out of the tent and went to sleep on a servant’s cot in some nearby dusty garage.

The end.

Faith that my marriage is secure, I intend to reach my end beating to death inside me this false god money. Whenever I have deep doubt, (and that is as often as dinner), I will take that negative energy and with it,  push as hard as I can into a positive dream.  This money god has got all of us squirrels absolutely frazzled. All my nuts aren’t secure, but I know where to find them. I had no faith in gods. I want no faith in money. I’ll play my faith at this marriage and focus my dreams on a persistent present moment. I will continue to write and paint erratically, like a squirrel caught both ways in the road.

Friends, family, and safe acquaintances, please continue to buy the paintings I paint and books that I write. Heck, $50 is “better than a sharp stick in the eye”, as my bodhisattva wife often proclaims. I leave you now with a few paintings by me and a song by someone else.

“The Bodhisattva Poses With Her Anniversary Pot” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

spirit animal

“Is the Squirrel My Spirit Animal Or Am I Just Hyper-Paranoid?” 2015. Acrylic on canvas, 14 x 11″


“In November, 2051, Rose Will Be Out in the Backyard ‘Digging a Goldfish Pond’. Just Wave, and Carry On” 2017. Acrylic on Alexey’s packaging particle board, 12 x 16″

Please look the other way, and just listen….

A Couple Weeks Painting as I Come to Grips With My Limitations at 50


“Cannibal Cornish Hen Fancies Cabbage for Valentine’s” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″


“A Skunk Got Us and the Rats This Morning” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″


“Canada Goose Knows Late Apples are ‘for the Deer’” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″


“Fat Rat Digs a Memory Hole” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 9 x 12″


“If You Study the Intricacies of Mathematics, and Neglect Art, Then You are Probably a Maladjusted Social Animal, But Never Vice-Versa” 2017. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″


“Hamlet, the Old Dog, Tries a New Trick” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″


“I Wonder if All That Money We Spend on Space Just Happens to be a Real Sexy Breakfast” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″


“Holy Mackerel Arrive for the Garum Sacrifice” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 21″


“Chef Newt Has a Tricky Menu Tonight at Salamander’s” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 10 x 13″


“Adding Bone Black Was Probably the Best Thing I Could Do For This Painting” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 18 x 27″


Saturday Morning Love Theme Now!

I Love You More Than Madness More Than Dreams Upon the Sea

“I Love You More Than Madness, More Than Dreams Upon The Sea” 2013. Acrylic on panel board, 64 x 48″

This is an old post and introduction to the book below. Please read it to save the earth from eating itself out of disgust at the human “progressive” trajectory.

From Leopold Courting Rose:

Leopold Courting Rose 2013

Why Love Letters?
Who is Leopold?

Curse this political world! Last month I signed up for a free online course in social psychology hoping it would sedate my inner anxiety fool, and get me thinking about other stuff besides doom and gloom. Over the past ten years or so I have let the wrong people in. Unknowns, rabble-rousers, political cry-babies. So much in my mind not of the family and clan has focused its attention on strangers and their woeful struggles. I deemed myself the silent Sally Struthers’ spokesperson for civil liberties (of others), individualism (of others again), and freedom without war and atrocity (others again and again).
Silly me. I have always been free to speak, individualistic more so than Henry Thoreau, and anti-war with an internal, red hot passion. Seeking it for others? Why? It already exists. Don’t tick off the King in a super economy, and one will be showered with gifts and glory unbeknownst to the Gods and emperors of yesteryear. I can speak or write any blasphemy under the sun as long as I can prove no child molestation. I can walk out this door and keep walking to Utah, provided I keep myself looking a cut above meth abuser. And war? Don’t need it. Don’t have to join up. There are millions of neglected children jonesing for a chance to be loved by anyone, even a sociopath sergeant or general. I am not one of these millions of fools. So why attempt to be their social pastor? Especially if I’m not getting paid for it? Amazing freedom in the western world. But little wisdom. Even though all religions and philosophies swear the latter leads to happiness. Our freedoms are apparent, and they have made us very sick in the mind. Nero, for all the power he possessed on a diminishing empire’s credit, was just an insane freak of nature like a Rupert Murdock or Barack Obama. Not happy. Never secure in love. Yet it seems all the non-political commoners dress up to be like them, and would become them if they won the lottery. The common men who stop to admire a jet ski on display at the mall, and the women who consider purchasing the latest issue of People magazine with a dead Patrick Swayze on the cover. These folks are certainly not happy in their ignorance, which is never bliss, but rather chimera. Also, wrong acceptance of careerism and its habits of middle age has blown our happiness path to smithereens. No wonder so many are plagued with regret and night sweats of bitterness.
So why did the political world move into my brain and push out the wisdom-to-be that I swear was thriving in my younger years? Maybe this course I am taking in psychology will shed light on the social/anti-social animal I have become. Maybe it will speak about first love or second love, the born again feeling that arises when energy is directed at discovery, and bliss becomes everyday reality through the auspices of blind love for another human being. Probably not. Love is never taken seriously at the college level (although every single university affiliate has fallen to its power). Still, I would think it a doctoral track more necessary to happiness that physics or English literature. What else needs to be discovered in order for the “good life” to be realized? John Donne’s snuff habit? Another dimension of reality that we’re told we can never see (perhaps heaven)? What specialization need we focus upon now that cholera can be defeated? Have we in the western nations not enough potable water, clothing, shelter and fuel? I would argue that all we lack is proper distribution of these necessities. And that can be fixed overnight by determined revolutionaries in love. Sack a congress lobbied to corruption with rotten tomatoes and “We are the World” mantras.
I think that this college course will uncover some awful truth about modern humanity. That is this: We eagerly make efforts to go against the grain of the heaven on earth existing before our very eyes. It will show by experiment that humanity has always been subject to groupthink and group censure, from caveman times to the atomic age, and that this was necessary as far as groups go. Geese form a “V” to fly south. People arrange a militia to fight other people who covet their stuff.
But we moderns have made the blunder of taking social conditioning way too far, and have ignored the wonders of love, art, and beauty, which in older times the royal classes gravitated towards in their grateful acceptance of good fortune. Who in Jacksonian Democracy could foresee an Iphone with every volume entitled “me” in its Library of Congress-sized memory reading room? What Japanese noble of the Kamakura Period would not mutilate his own bowel after realizing he forsook his only son’s wisdom education for a shiny red Ford F350?
Unfortunately my free social psychology course will not lecture me that the above modern condition is abnormal psychology chomping on steroids. It will not instruct me on wisdom, nor on how to find it, nurture it, and use it to achieve happiness in this life. No, it is a social boo-boo to voice a strong opinion against the mountain of crap our society drops on us day after day. Normalcy is to be authenticated after 8 years of intense tunnel vision university study before society even allows an educated guess at what might be wrong with it. And then it won’t have credence without publication, which will only come if approved by an editor, himself overeducated to the point of fearing his own vocal opinion without first undergoing five years of proper research and testing.
But love? No degree necessary. And we think we’re very good at it, yes? We have experienced it, studied it, woke up eager to practice it, mainly during the courting stages, when it was as important to life’s mission as finding a career and establishing oneself an accepted player in society. So what happened? Why no mention of love promotion in the press other than hitting the 50th anniversary mark? Awards are many but private to be sure, credentials boxed up in the basement, photographs nonexistent to present-day visitors to the marital abode. Yet it was one of the three or four most significant moments in the life of every human being. It has been relegated as a social taboo to communally recollect and organize hard copies of examples of falling in love. A kind of embarrassment, almost a mild shame that prevents each and every one of us from “yawping” our love out from the rooftops.
I have a hypothesis to share with the social psychologists. By virtue of the 200,000 year old struggle for survival, modern well-fed human beings, who have no immediate threat to their existence, haven’t the slightest idea how to process the ecstasy of courting after the mate has been won. A species-wide denial of poetic joy that practically everyone has experienced pervades.
I would argue that by covering up real memories of courting happiness to the extent that they exist on par with other childhood rites of passage, like losing teeth or leaving the familial nest, we have denied ourselves and loved ones a published account of what could very well be an example of burgeoning wisdom.
So we forget about early love to make room for the tough, grown-up stuff, (ex., career, child rearing, keeping a clean house, grocery shopping, finding hobbies), and no periodic reference to the good ole days can be used to repair broken dreams. Hence dissatisfaction with our wife or husband, the seven-year-itch, and recycled ideas of how great life would be if we could just “get away”.
Separation in the mind, if not actualized, is all too common. And divorce becomes an option, since all reminders of why this girl or guy moved you in the first place, have been buried and lost to time.
I believe we all possess this poetry of love’s beginning. I think it is a course worth deep study, if only to research why its virtue has been lost to all and sundry. I have brought up these old letters and poems from our musty basement on the eve of my wife’s 40th birthday. Lately I have been feeling the overwhelming strain of practicing a repetition of days toward cliché goals. Security, conservatism, wealth, retirement—all notions I would have smirked at when I was in my twenties looking for answers to “why” and “what for?”. Then I started chasing Rose, and during the process, saw opportunities arise and abilities executed that I thought could never be. Not quite feelings of invincibility, but close. More like insight into the power of dreams to encourage positive action with another human being. That is I dreamed of a day, maybe a picnic and a movie, woke up and arranged it, and then experienced it with her. Success! Tenderness. Lovemaking. Sleep. And the promise of more. I already had a five-year-old daughter, and her well-being was much improved day-to-day as I courted Rose. The creativity, optimism, hope, excitement of new love was carried over to the nurturing of my little girl. There was no neglect, nobody pushed aside so abstracts like “job security” or “personal success” could make room.
So why did those feelings of wellness and “all is right with the world” ever fade away?
Now is when Leopold enters the concert arena.
The other night while doing dishes I made Rose laugh out loud as I explained to her my concept of Leopold. He is Bugs Bunny on the cover of this book, and can be found in action on Youtube or Vimeo. I told her that for once in my life (and hers too) I want the world to shower the praise on us that was given to that “wrascally wrabbit” when he was imitating some maestro of the time, real or imaginary. A necessary feeling to pull us out of the repetitive funk we find ourselves locked in. To spend it all on just one night! A suite booked at the Plaza, reservations at Daniel, a private car with driver, black disco dress with sparkles, tickets to the opera at Lincoln Center, where Rose and I conduct music for the worn and weary.
We had this feeling one time not so long ago. Every letter I sent to her was a promise for a night like this. And Rose was all about reciprocation, even if it was not literary. No doubt, we both believed wholeheartedly in each other and had faith in the future. I do not doubt that you, reader, have felt the same many times not too long ago…
So, what is the theory we can test? How do I institute this landmark study that will get the comfortable masses to recapture romantic love without relinquishing the urge to relieve social pressures in their every day lives? That is, how to find wisdom in love again, and save for retirement? Well, for starters, I wrote and edited this book. My private hope is that Leopold spends it all on one night to reinvigorate dreams which he believes were visionary in their wisdom. Of course none of this effort will matter if Rose is not convinced, and vies for austerity because the pay is never enough, keep working. John Lennon was about forty when “Starting Over” was a popular song on the radio. Those lyrics are poetry of what this book is trying to recapture. Also the following, written when I was feeling a little bit Leopold thirteen years ago:

Say, What’s Cooking In Oswego?

A plate of truth and a bottle of blood?
No, no numb skull, far from that!
There used to be fishermen here
but baby perch wiggle tougher
than our men do nowadays.
I think they kept chickens
back in the 1800’s
She already had an egg
and a log on the fire
before cock-a-doodle-do.
Whisk the egg with two fingers of sugar
and a dash of salt
Mix with yesterday’s milk,
pour into flour
then a pan on the fire
Eat with your hand and smell
her dirty apron and stinky toes.

There was one poet here in 1936
He went nuts
Walked up to his old Aunt Beasel
raking leaves into a pile,
and punched her square in the eye.
She kicked his ass of course
right in front of Joe and Mickey
and even their pet rabbit seemed to be laughing.
That was all of him
He took a bus to New York
Got a job washing dishes at Delmonico’s
Got rich, lived rich, died super-rich
with nothing at all.

What’s so wonderful about New York
that ain’t happening here in Oswego?
Well, now that everyone’s a sissy
(Joe was a truck driver
Mickey got a restaurant),
Now that even the cock swaggers down the street
terrifying the plump little bib drippers we’ve become
It’s nice once in a while to forget
about manhood, womanhood,
Aunt Beasel’s hairy mole next to her eye…
It’s good to forget about our legs and arms
and things like where water comes from
Now that we’re self-proclaimed half truths
and walking lies
why not enjoy life to its fullest plate of food?
And what’s cooking in Oswego
is only fitting for what Oswego cooks up.

Our restaurants mix powdered demi-glace,
deep fry their hairy ninety-five cent broilers,
Some chefs I know
should just piss on your plate
One place thinks rigatoni in Italian means
“looks and smells like Great Nana’s big toe”
At least in New York we can still pretend
that all life left is imagination
and get a king’s meal at a fair price
and window shop and make ourselves
smell real good for dinner.

“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Throop
May I take your coats?
Chef Beasel saved a perfect egg for you tonight
You look so good, smell so sweet
Mrs. Throop,
your arms are bare and beautiful,
your neck perfeect
Right this way
Right this way
Right this way

Let this book be a reminder of what I believe makes the best humans in a comfortable world. Spend it all, and let the chips fall.

And thank Keith Richards for reading my books.


Letter To My Daughter About Her Upcoming High School Graduation


“Hi. I Am My Father’s Daughter. NPR Would Call Me a Consumer. I Think If It Does That One More Time, I Will Become a Predator and Eat NPR.” 2016. Acrylic on discarded press-cleaning sheet, 7 x 17″

Here is a letter to you elder daughter, a lá Capricornus. Save it. Store it in the top drawer of your dresser. The gibberish of it now may bring some meaning to your adult future…
It is the first night of February. Some small storm burst has covered the branches with merry snow. I shall type out this graduation message to you now before the spring calls me to do marvelous things with some seeds and soil. I feel the need to bequest more than an electronic toy or some cash in a card on graduation night.
Prophetic warnings are the least a father should offer to his well fed and clothed daughter at this significant rite of passage.
Prophecies need not all be dire. Yet since I’ve used more than half of my allotted 2½ billion heartbeats, and it’s the dead of winter, and, I am typing by kerosene lamp from a wood hut in the woods…
Dire for certain.
In an interview Noam Chomsky once admitted that he did not expect, nor even encourage his children to share a similar world view. I don’t think that is possible considering his fame and misfortune as a world renown humanist. Perhaps by stating publicly their ignorance of his politics, he would prevent future Army Ranger raids on the cribs of his grandchildren. Either way it is wrong thinking. Here is a man alive today who wants to drastically change the public’s perception of the American Empire, yet leave his children “off the hook”.
Geez, if he can’t persuade his own flesh and blood at the dinner table, then how is he going to achieve moral revolution to the millions of minds of a sick society? Doomed to failure, don’t you think, if his own spawn cannot be convinced?
Well, I am no Noam. Sure I have opinions, but most are formed in the gut. My gut persuades me to believe that it is a more reliable reader of our political world than the eyes, ears, and encyclopediac inner wanderings of Noam Chomsky’s well documented gray matter.
Surely there is something to be said about his ignoring the kids. Is Noam any different kind of careerist than the bank vice president? I mean it takes a lot of time out of a person’s day whether he is an astute member of the board or a genius in sneakers. Loans to sign, books to read, lunch to eat, books to write, desk arrangement, office hours, thousand dollar plate fundraisers, speech invitationals, an immoral philosophy to uphold, a moral philosophy to uphold… So much in common when there is not a minute of free time to teach the children. Really, why have kids if there is no intention to pass on a philosophy?
Here is some cheap advice.
Don’t worry about paying your bills. Give what you can to the collectors if their pressure is not too cumbersome, and nobody near and dear to you is in desperate need. Corporate entities are poisonous scum, and should be treated as such. You did not choose the culture and economy of your birthplace. It is difficult to step out of the moving picture and look at what it has done to our families and friends. As a people we are not generous, not sharing or caring. Oftentimes we do good deeds, but only if our own tools and toys have absolute, guaranteed protection.
At present Mother Earth knows I am a despicable bum. And you’re a bum’s daughter. But not because we won’t pay our bills to her fiendish corporate caretaker. We are the bums of want and waste. These are the vices which contribute rapidly to global flora and fauna extinction.
In 1800 Mother Earth was encumbered with a billion human beings burning carbon to heat their huts and cook their food. Suddenly the Northern Europeans perfected industry and its byproduct greed, which scoured the earth tree-clean to fuel its fire.
Now nearly everyone on the planet wants to live at least as high as a 17th century French monarch, with indoor plumbing and personal computers to boot.
Impossible to sustain at the 8 billion over-eaters mark.
We have entitlement issues. Unfortunately too severe to be psychologically managed without an upheaval of society. You and I both wake up expecting eggs, cereal, orange juice, sometimes even an onion bagel. The “radical” historian Howard Zinn likes Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. Sure the U.S. government murders thousands of children a year with its policies of extermination. Likewise, the humble individual mammal, Howard Zinn, via the marketing miracle brought to him by corporate earth filth, feels entitled to take his caffeine fix from the depleted forests of Mother Earth’s tropical latitudes. Is he not just one poisonous vanity expecting his fair share?
So who is the bogeyman? How much damage would Howard Zinnabu, the Kalahari blowdart specialist, do to a corporatized earth? As a boy from Brooklyn Zinn managed to land a job as Air Force bombardier, pulverizing the environment below while poisonous gassing the sky above. All in one idyllic French afternoon of the past he slaughtered human babies, hare babies, badger, boar and blue finch babies, flower babies, insect babies, tree and shrub babies…He bombed his only home and human family, yet did not mourn about it until much later, after addiction to caffeine got him thinking about a conscience. His guilt caught up to him, like it always will to the sensitive ones. But he tried to treat it with a change of heart. He picked out a greater guilty party, and spent the rest of his life protesting his socks off.
The earth and its inhabitants suffer for it.
My big complaint about this type of celebrity vanity preaching morality is that Howard Zinn had two career choices after being an accomplice to mass murder.
Suicide or born again “Earth Avenger.” For his own protection he chose a much safer in-between career. And I bet he always pays his bills on time.
As a young earthling he could kill non-combatant life by pushing a button that dropped a bomb. The order came from distant, corporate chiefs of his national tribe. Next door in Germany innocent villagers were being gassed to death by young men, the latter also ordered to press buttons and pull levers. All this earthen dead because dumb kids did the bidding of conspiring corporate thieves and cowards. Howard Zinn, like millions of other “shoot to kill” veterans, chose a career which he thought entitled to after executing his orders perfectly. In earthen terms, Howard and his warring contemporaries were the beginnings of a new virus infecting the planetary immune system. It procreated exponentially and fed upon its host enormously. You and I are here dear daughter because of elders who believed that the birthright of twentieth century humanity was a long life at any cost, plus a dollar-sixteen for a cup of Dunkin’Donuts coffee.
We are lucky to be alive, but unlucky to have had families that believed a life of chocolate cake and professional sports was a fair trade to make for the end of our world.
The Iroquois were a good thing. They burned carbon and procreated too. They knew that the winter festival began five days after the new moon of Orion. Tonight on a safer earth I’d burst full of pride and joy watching my daughters dance by the firelight.
Please take the quickest steps you can back to the Iroquois structure of society. As often as possible take cover from a corporate world. Just to live a couple days a year with a hundred other earthwise hopefuls might make bearable this hot monkey barn we’re fermenting in now.
So put this letter in your junk drawer. Save it for a later date. You are not ready to look at the world with your father’s critical eye. I need you to be aware though that something is very wrong. Someday you will see things a lot like me, my eager apple. Know that when you do, Dad was trying his darnedest to communicate. There is always a choice. And you will choose poorly most of the time. Threats of starvation and disease for our ancestors brought along huge opportunity for communion. Science and economy have lessened the threats significantly, but destroyed the religions and superstitions which nurtured our communal happiness and well being. There are good reasons why the Seneca willingly traded skins and maize for western beads and tools, yet refused to harness the awesome energy of Niagara to run their own mills.
I think they had souls.
There are known reasons why we fear the car-driving, chicken roasting, baby-making people of our neighborhood. One of them is the cotton gin reformation of society.
We are formatted to become interchangeable parts in a corporate blueprint. A pow-wow lasting for several days would, under the present conditions of an atomized community, amount to no more than an extended block party of endless juice boxes and rum and cokes. No dancing and singing, no conjuring spirits, no room for the storyteller to awaken our wisdom. A lot of loud, drunken babble to make the new year bearable, and then everyone back to work in the morning. A local pow-wow for our serial numbers to get scrubbed and oiled over, that is all. I don’t write this to change you. I write to commune. For our ancestors, starvation was an excellent opportunity to come together. I don’t predict that fortune befalling us anytime soon. Just look around you. There’s food everywhere!
Hard times regulated by nature’s unpredictability was, once upon a time, rich communal nourishment. Everyone laughed, cried, birthed and died together. No such luck nowadays. Not even a religion. The industrial mind survives on the waste products of manufactured culture, which is set by whatever trends the fashion designers at Coke and Pepsi pick this year. The clutter adds up. Hand-me-downs from the plastic goo-gods of industry. The industrial mind cannot help but become a junk yard to the soul.
The human soul is mirror of its society. And all the poor brain can do is compartmentalize this tremendous amount of useless gobbledygoop.
Enough said about the desolation. Middle age is a cleaning up time before the doors open out to the great “What if?” After finishing the attic, I‘ve tackled the basement.
What a mess!
I believe we share an excellent father/daughter relationship as far as modern ones go. Millions in the Western world aren’t so lucky. There lies a generation gap, which is just an industrial age purchasing phenomenon. Dads can’t respect the things daughters want to buy, and vice-versa.
I have long been an arty fool. I think this is why you are fortunate to know me mostly for who I am. I speak for Marie too, and Janie. Actually, it’s quite the anomaly that our nuclear unit lives nearly as care-free as a modern-day eighteen year old. Although we reap the joys of a successful fringe philosophy, the slightest hint of change today could upset the flow in some drastic way. The family is cohabitating in a very fragile state. We are content, for now.
The twentieth century buried the extended family. After decades of experimenting in concrete fall-out shelters, science, funded by industry, created the element fam238. It is highly unstable, radioactive, volatile, explosive even in its most gentle, natural state. Father, mother, children hold it together with thumbtacks, refrigerator magnets, layers of Scotch tape, string, and a gob of Elmer’s glue. Fear of the unknown is its only molecule of stabilization. It can counter the volatility of fam238 for at least a lifetime.
So what happened to the clan village of our dreams? How did it come to be that I am silent with my neighbor as we stand outdoors on a perfect autumn day? All the beauty and tragedy of life internalized, laid to rest in the mind beside the circus insanity of modern communication. Like me daughter, you are condemned to know more about a celebrities’ love life than the haunted and happy dreams of your next door neighbor. That is a manufactured truism for all fam238’s. A huge atomic weight to bear. We pretend not to care, yet since neither I nor my neighbor will challenge each other toward mutual acts of loving kindness, we are doomed to live out the rest of our lives caught whistling despair in the backyard. Avoid copying nuclear family false dreams. They usher in the plague and rely upon medicines anathema to the true family state. Money is a pill. Wealth, status, career… all sugar pills. Kurt Vonnegut believed that the nuclear family, no matter how loving, is too vulnerable to fight back the plague. It’s a dead duck right from the start.
Cheery, eh?
I’m not through yet.

Two Nuclear Families

Here is how your two families have labored over the past several years. It is a social account of mental derangement, beginning with a rough guide of your parents typical weekday…
These daily routines are a spit in the eye to freedom, love, compassion, and overall well-being. They become ever more mucus forming in their predictability. Your mother, Frank, Marie and me are the characters in this chaotic play. The couples in The Bald Soprano are enjoying quite a sane evening by comparison:
Your Mom drives a monster truck east 50 miles to a far away village to teach art to the children of strangers. Frank drives west 50 miles in a more monsterish monster truck to perform stultifying roof labor that shares no common ground with his wife and family in Red Creek. Marie heads east 12 miles in a compact car to manage a department at the college. She will work the best hours of her day copying other people’s meaningless chaos onto recycled paper. All three will exchange labor, creativity, and time for some acceptable amount of money that will seem satisfying enough, to keep them at it week after week, year after year. By the end of the day, three of your parents have traveled a combined 225 miles as part of their illusory contract made with conformity.
My partially sane choice is to stay put, keep house, homeschool Janie, and prepare meals for the family. We have spent incredible amounts of energy for what exactly?
In the human history of the world before the coming of the Industrial Revolution…
No sane mother ever dreamed of giving the best of her time and attention to the imaginative play of another tribe’s children. No sane father preferred to build rooftops on other people’s homes while neglecting the leaky palace ceilings sheltering his progeny. No sane mother ever nurtured a career path sodden with minutia and monotony to imprison her maternal instincts eight hours a day. No sane father desired the heavily lopsided responsibility for education and family management.
Families are not strong if separate the majority of the time. Especially if we do not depend on each other for survival. One spouse supports the other’s distant occupation for the pretended comfort and social status it maintains. The 50% divorce rate in the United States is proof that we do not need each other anymore. Role playing survival games ended early twentieth century. The old marriage contract was made under duress of a very difficult future without the expected help of another. Try turning a field of corn with a spade shovel, and heating a tub of water to brew your tea and wash your under clothes, all in the same afternoon.
Today’s marriage is based on the foundation of good companionship. And no creature of earth need travel twenty-five or a hundred miles a day to support a friendship. In today’s economy, a supermarket chicken is made available to all young couples in love. Unfortunately the status-starved heads of the nuclear family need to eat too. For the next several years they’ll try by hook or crook to convince you that a good job will secure for your future a lifetime of Sunday chickens-in-the-pot.
It will. Yet my gut instinct tells me that the good job chicken only poisons the family, and gobbles up desire like an insatiable fiend.
We modern parents must be very frightened of life. For an artificial, acceptable place in society we have traded the future health, education and overall well being of our children.
A drastic trade in a warming world.
A diabolic trade by the standards of some cultures struggling to nurture tradition. For the sake of industrial fashion, millions of nuclear families with great jobs generate billions of tons of atmospheric CO2. I crave economic disaster will come. It is youth’s cosmic revenge upon these clowns we call responsible parents.
Sustainable poverty for all might set the brakes on doomsday. What do you think?
Stay local. Work to eat and groom yourself. And if you cannot find work, I’ll teach you and a loved one how to plant seeds and cook over a wood fire. Fortunately, at present, you need not survive a stressed out existence. Your few cubic feet of self-responsibility can be a joyful pastime. College will provide for you an artificial extended family. You and your friends will live like royalty in a Palace of Versailles, with few expectations beyond getting good grades and staying alive. Hundreds of young people enjoying their own personal staff of servants. Cooks, maids, butlers, tutors… College is set up in a Feudal society, and students are its lords and ladies. Faculty, staff, administration are the villagers and serfs toiling for your health and prosperity. Enjoy the fantasy while it lasts. This marginal, often very joyful existence will give you a glimpse into the past, when high born people lived well and played together in a stone castle on the hill.
Lucky you. Give these upcoming days of happiness your best face. Take in deep breaths on cool autumn days. Hum a favorite tune on your walk to class. Dream about being someone’s girlfriend at a party on Friday night. Maybe by graduation time, the majority of earthlings will have come to terms with the immense challenges of the future. Denial will gradually give way to realism. Some bright ideas might be born out of the gloom and chaos of tomorrow. Maybe you and some close friends will want to forego a career in massive CO2 production, and commune on a farm. A kind of extension of your extended family vacation. The gang will have to take on new roles, however. There won’t be anymore maids to wipe your girlfriend’s vomit off the toilet seat. Some of you will need to learn how to cook kohlrabi and milk a cow. You would think that the college would offer a course in threshing grain. Maybe make it a physical education requirement. Since that will be a common exercise of the future.

Either Books or Children

The nuclear family is a symptom of the 250 year old disease called “The Industrial Revolution”. Marie and I never asked for the conditions it has set for our lives. Not even close.
We were born onto cold tables in hospitals. There were electronic machines and white-coated strangers surrounding our post-womby cries of fear and discomfort. Thus began the great conditioning.
We all suffer. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, house pets… No one is to blame because everyone is the same. As a father I beg of you to disregard thoughts of getting a good job. It won’t happen anyway, no matter how hard you strain. The competition is too gargantuan and grotesque. Sensitive people make for horrible individual viruses in a pandemic plague of the soul. To acquire a great job means to dedicate your life to something besides people whom you love. The anti-industrialists tell us that “careerism” is the fuel that feeds all the horrors of society. Intelligent bombs are made by sober middle class people with “great” jobs. Your Cousin Tom has a good job torturing ferrets for the military. His house is very big. He travels the earth bimonthly in airplanes, drives an SUV, and eats chocolate by the pound. Compared to you, his carbon footprint is like that of a Sasquatch to an amoeba.
Searching for a good job is another symptom of hyper-individualism, a post Social Darwinism that just reeks stinky of intense loneliness. At what expense will you finally obtain the job of your dreams?
Listening to National Propaganda Radio, I was amazed recently to hear the stories from a sample of college juniors across America. Several mentioned the need for “networking” in order to survive the many challenges ahead. It sounded to me like each interviewee was stating, “I have leprosy, and want to spread this disease among as many people as possible.” Young people talking about networking? Eww. Gross. Shun them. Laugh at them. Point at them. They represent our gated community thugs of the future.
Communities are destroyed by individual self-promotion. It is the beginning of the end when young people are persuaded by their elders to network. How far is that advice from the following I would give to you?
For once in your life wipe an old person’s ass, or kill, skin, cook, and eat a wild animal. My fatherly advice welcomes you into the community. Networking wants you to persuade an old woman to buy its robotic prosthetic arm, and a three-ply role of toilet paper. That afternoon you’ll meet for lunch with a band of other pirate networkers. It’s important to remember their names. Otherwise they might sense that you’ve become an empty nothing too.
Every old person you know has failed. Some artists and clowns pretend immunity by clinging stubbornly to their dreams. They don’t fool me. No one is immune to industry.
Yet you are still the hope of our future. Buy a mule, build a shelter, acquire a manfriend. Initiate a community of hard-working artists and clowns. Share a communal garden, dig a well, fashion useful tools with your hands, and during the cold months boil lots and lots of lye for the renewed art of soap-making.

Now back to the nuclear family…

If later this week China dropped a rain of 2000 lb. bombs on our town and country, then the revival of the extended family would begin immediately. We are poorly prepared.
Once, basic common dreams were shared and nurtured throughout the clan. These are impossible to regain until some long-lasting natural or man-made disaster strikes.
Our relationships are so fragile. The easy life has made us very vulnerable. Not much longer will we rule atop the food chain. Can we even claim title now? What happens when the electricity gets cut? Candlelit trips to an altar might sustain us with the moral courage to fight back. But with what weapons exactly? Don’t look to the family for help. Is anybody capable of teaching you to live with just your wits about you? When the bombs start falling later this afternoon, who will you trust to instruct about the many practical uses in the design of a birch tree? Uncle Fred? Jesus? All those two selfish brats ever nurtured was their vanity.
Who knows the path the moon will take? How can the sourdough be kept alive in February? Will the miller grind the amaranth for a bag of its flour? Where the hell is the miller? What’s a mill? Will a mortar and pestle work? Which is which, anyway? Oh poo, we’re all gonna die!
Just a few generations ago Americans experienced a year of a hundred seasons or more. Today we’ve streamlined them down to four, and barely pay any attention. They are thermostatically controlled climate events, thanks to the acquired knowledge of several generations and millions of deceased peoples. Unfortunately no cell phone towers exist in oblivion. The intelligent dead cannot be reached for repair.
And how is it politically and philosophically that a father/son, mother/daughter can be at confused, moral odds? This should be the only spiritual question of our day, to bring frequent reminder that the nuclear family is very, very sick. “One generation abandons the vessels of another…” This was Thoreau’s individualism and the beginning of the end of man being humbled by nature, yet sustained by the strength of the extended family.
How did it come to be that you and I would have different visions of past, present, and future reality? Opinions sure, but visions? Who can I depend on if not my own father? Why won’t he depend on me? Who have been the mentors and “heroes” of my life thus far? When I was twenty I believed Keith Richards to be the ideal man. Twenty-two, Walt Whitman. Twenty-seven, Henry Miller and Henry Thoreau duking it out in my mind… Modern media communications was indifferent to my drift toward insanity. No one alive came to the rescue. Honoring gifted, specialized (usually dead) strangers became a swift method of disassociation to the living world around me. Bitterness followed, and soon I was matching all the “living dogs” of society up against the exclusive club of “dead lions.” I was comparing myself and all peoples to the champions of art, literature, music, etc. “Aristocrats of the spirit,” as Henry Miller called them. Like distant yogis hanging themselves upside down from a tree. The great, creative masochists of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Yet none of them, Henry Miller especially, strove to regain the instincts we are born with. Trust of the pack. Need for the pack. Put two or three wolves in a zoo, feed them regular meals, house them easily, make them friendly…Their wolfness is destroyed in a generation.
That is how I feel today. We give birth to our babies, feed them with other people’s foods, read to them stories from all over the world, house them in palaces built by specialized strangers, and then say “goodbye and good luck” on their adult journey into nuclear oblivion. Not even a lesson on canning. The internet will take care of that.
No longer do I admire the human symptoms of our disease, no matter how talented and inspired their works of art be. Henry Miller’s father was a tailor in Brooklyn. Not many life survival or reverence tips to share while stitching up the trousers and shirt sleeves of stinky thousandaires. So Henry jumped onto his bike and pedaled around New York City, pretending to be Dostoevsky — Russia’s own version of the urban hangman to the extended family. Makes a great story, but a rotten path to follow while dodging razor sharp Chinese shrapnel.

On a spiritual plane…

Nothing you do now will upset me. I honor your character. You have made me so proud so often, that I grant you lifetime immunity to my criticism. I will be content with whatever life path you take.
If you choose to marry, a lasting mate must warm you in every way. I can see now that you’ll be eager to please, and you are apt to blame unrequited love on some handicap of your own. As I often explain to Marie, love is a verb. How arrogant to say to someone, “I love you.” True love will confidently shout out to the world at large, “You love me so well!” Teach children what you believe their future needs will require. Sounds basic, but near impossible without a large, nurturing familial base. Do your best anyway, and joy happens more often than not.

A knowledgeable note…

The nuclear family is enslaved. We toil on an economic plantation of mind misery and woe. There cannot be freedom without mutual need. What species ever desired individual freedom at the cost of overall clan health? Bears shopping for Cheetos? Wolves up late watching television? Worker bees drowning their sorrows in a mug of mead?
Humanity cannot remain in a position of power for long. Mother Earth won’t allow it. She’s bigger than us. And I think a little bit mad too.
Know your true needs. Status and its faux-security will not bring contentment. You must keep an eye out for strong, like-minded people, and together take the path to paradise. I want my grandchildren to live closer to the bone than I have. It will mean instruction in life-giving subjects. Axe forging, goat milking, seed saving, well digging, grain threshing, bread baking… It will give you great joy and feelings of true freedom knowing that you’ve passed on a knowledge of living. You will be loved, honored, but most of all, needed. At the communal fires stories will be told of the great change that came, and the wisdom of the few who redefined the purpose of the only species to ever claim a purpose.

From a practical perspective…

Sing freedom always, and take pride in all things you create, whether that be a painting, a loaf of bread, a new child, or just a darn good time.

I love you more than a million stars,


Last Serial Installment of “On Rainy Days The Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself”, Pages 324-349


If you buy the book, I promise not to serialize the other 11 stacked on my table.

This last stretch is rated somewhere between PG-13 and R.

I want to write this down while the fear is still fresh.
I live along the windy shores of Lake Ontario. We have nothing of any value to bomb besides a nuclear power plant and my home. It’s dark just before dawn. Moments ago I heard a large plane flying low in the sky. I stepped outside my front door into the frosty air and felt the plane crashing into the power plant. I imagined the split second and the overwhelming power of explosion liquefy my body, my house, my family. We blew into space. We melted into nothing.
Fear is crazy. Being a man unable to defend against an explosion larger than a firecracker is insanity. How can I protect my body? What strength has a single man against the machine that pretends to ask his opinion before taking its revenge upon the world? Nobody has asked me for my yea or nay on the subject of war. Nor have I personally put my representative into a seat in the Federal government. There is no one whom I would want to represent me other than my close, personal friend Pat. Yet he has no intention of running for office.
So I am unrepresented.
Who is?
Dangerous question.
In a nation of 300 million, I would probably be close to the mark to say that about five thousand are represented. If it’s a hundred thousand, it’s still not enough. Even a hundred million counted for is not America—at least not the ideal which the present king and queenies pay such horseshit lip service to.
We have three branches of government. Let us attempt to find one honest soul.
The Executive
No. Every one knows that the President is a spoiled rich kid, playing with toys, and a partisan boobie who can only hire other partisan boobies if he’s not going to be contradicted while telling lies. So the President, his cabinet, and all secretarial and janitorial positions made at the White House are partisan liars, and brutal too if they assist in the murder of a single human being. They will become honest citizens the day the President publicly admits that he is the leader of a mass murdering, profiteering organization of clean-shaven, blood-thirsty baboons.
The Judicial
Appointed by presidents. They get to pick the cases that they want to hear. Almost madness. Doesn’t that say enough? There are nine of them, in addition to an army of secretaries and janitors.
The Legislative
The Senate. Two people to represent a state. There are eighteen million people in my state. If we all ate the exact same dinner last night, I would be satisfied with my representative. Impossible. And he shall be a immoral thief to boot the moment he steps into a car not bought and paid for by his own sweat and struggle.
The House. Opportunistic thieves who don’t dare campaign for the secretarial and janitorial vote. Tend to wait for the local union leader, or big business representative to give a donation.
This is why America is not free. It says that we are free to voice an opinion. But in a life or death situation, which cannot be a more final and necessary situation to voice an opinion, we can speak up, but it won’t do a bit of good, and it might even kill us. If the king and queenies of America want to kill, they most certainly will. We have the freedom to talk and the shackles to stay put, but for the sake of our lives, never raise a threatening finger.
I think the American government acting as a blind, ravenous cancer is going to kill as many civilians as Hitler, Stalin, and the man most responsible for the Armenian genocide. I am certain of this because our President has already used the word “evil” and “crusade” on public television. Wow! Those are pretty strong words! The king and queenies of America are going to kill every single one of us eventually. Of that I am certain too.
It’s bound to happen. If it isn’t America, it will be China. If not China, Jamaica… Nowhere are people free. If America is the freest nation, and it can wreck total destruction upon the weaker nation of its choice, how are we to trust other nations with equally destructive powers, yet leaders who admittedly crack the whip to keep their people down?
My god, I say trust China first. Where do we see their government presently spending billions of dollars dropping bombs on children? A billion people, who will admit that they are subjugated by a minuscule few, and yet I bet that they are more loyal to their repressive government than Mr. Patriotic American waving his fifty dollar plastic flag, simply because the simple Chinaman knows damn well that he is not free. The wise Chinese is lied to, admits he is lied to, and lives his unfree life while regularly filtering truth out of lies. But he knows that alone he cannot defeat a government of nuclear weapons. So why for the life of self and family would he even try?
Same in America. Here is propaganda. Here they hang flags on the front porch, and then sit down on the steps to drink their delicious gourmet coffees. Why organize to fight the monster? It’s gourmet coffee!
The fear we need to save our souls is enemy planes enjoying cruising altitudes in our airspace. We need to be humbled. We need to be bombed daily so that we can feel again. Never have we been so needful of a forced occupation of our lands. Hasn’t happened yet in United States history, although I am sure it would do a great deal of good for American and especially world preservation.
A revolution in America will never come from within. We are a nation of spoiled puppies driving cars to and from our overflowing food bowls. A million people could not rise up against the government its forefathers created. We praise the latter and then ourselves for realizing the success of their experiment. Madness. They made a monster. They nurtured the monster. Guilty from the start, they fed their hideous creation with money pies wrought from slavery. Only white men with property enjoyed personal, ridiculous ideas of freedom. A woman lived and died beside her husband, to be named in the end “His Wife” on her tombstone. There was no freedom then for the majority. Some freedoms today, but even the smallest freedom must be paid for. By blood? No. More money! Today the greatest freedom Americans wish to uphold is the freedom to make money. There is no freedom guaranteed to not make money, hence all men enslaved to a life of not creating their own lives. Hence, hence, NO FREEDOM!
How easy for our leaders to put down a revolt! America has engorged itself way beyond the most imaginative idea of God’s wrath thought up by the typical eighteenth century human brain. There might be a judgment day, but the leaders of nuclear nations are the only ones currently in power to initiate it. In America the President has the nuclear power to prevent any threat of civil war. There is no target too small or too big. A hundred million might organize by telephone. But they’re dead before a manifesto can be written up. More than anything the President fears his own head getting hung on a post. Each night while in bed, he peruses his personal survival itinerary with crackers and tea, tucked snugly beside Mrs. President under a fluffy down comforter. Fellow Americans, how many nuclear warheads does it take to wipe out life in North America? You don’t know? I promise you the general knows. Which general? Pick any one of those mini-satans having brunch with the President this morning. How can we be certain that the two of them have not already constructed a special, secret plan to murder every single one of us?
All of this distrust is brushed off as paranoia. Of course it is! It must be paranoia because there is no day left to debate after the morning of “ouch, my face is melting off my skull…” There can be no proof of it not being paranoia until after everyone is dead.
Ambition is dangerous. There does not exist one world leader who has inwardly freed himself from maniacal ambition. America, in its present, pretend democracy, cannot stray too far away from its idea of the worst evil in the universe. Our President does not meet my standard of manhood. Nor does Prime Minister Gumbai ruling the little known African nation that America nukes tomorrow because Gumbai is evil and the American president wants to go on crusade and kill people.
When a leader starts talking about God, evil, crusade, and bombing missions all in one breath, it’s time for a people to welcome the forceful footprint of another culture onto their lands.
God, would it be that bad for us to lose? How bad was it in France during the German occupation? Was there music? Was there dancing? Was there wine flowing? There weren’t nuclear weapons. That’s some good times, eh? What would be left for the occupation to occupy after a nuclear drop-off? Hitler, a French family, eleven million unfortunate Europeans, and all the people in the world would have disintegrated. It takes a lot less pent-up evil to press a button and annihilate whole populations. It’s impersonal. Which makes such a terror that much more likely. Now that it is easier to kill, it’s easier to kill, understand?
I think that I might be patriotic enough to volunteer my body to the resistance if there ever was an occupation of America. Just for something to do besides “obey and pay,” until I’m dead and even buried in money. Although first I would need to convince myself that after the war this government would be much improved. That is to say, just a touch less embarrassing and hypocritical. Oh yes, and I should expect that all the nation’s top dogs be rounded up and brought to the newly instated World Children’s Court. There they would be tried and convicted by the universal judge which existed before the dinosaurs, and hasn’t left since. All leaders guilty of just one violent crime against any human being would be publicly tickled to death, disemboweled, stuffed, and put on perpetual parade around the earth.
Wow. What are the chances? In such a world, I would become 100% patriotic American.
We, the fearful parents of America, force-feed fear into our children first, before ever stumbling upon the bright realization that fear kills freedom. It’s called wisdom, folks. And it used to be something that grew with age. Right from wrong? The children know it. They always have. All legacy after 1945 is meaningless horseshit. What insane child gives a pisspot about your good deeds, professional acumen, loving demeanor, or whatever lie it is that you pretend all day long while knowing, Jesus Christ, knowing that man’s world is a push button away from extinction? You think little Charlie will ever get anything finished properly when tomorrow his tiny face will be smashed in, and his skull cracked, because you, yes you, only you, you sick, twisted ghoul allowed for this demonocracy to break into your home and take your children, without so much as a murmur of complaint. COWARD! Name all the armaments stockpiled in the United States Armed Forces. Do it now you imbecile, you shit father, you embarrassing human being! I want the exact number and names of every baby killer that you buy with tax money. Do it now! Find out! Do it, you dog! I want the name of the soldier who would walk into my home, by rule of the President… I keep a list now, on my refrigerator. I intend to scribble out each name until the last baby killer is dead and buried. My God why has our power to protect the children vanished? The amount of fear each of us possess in one brain cell, is so tightly wound and compact, that if unraveled, would stretch 600 miles all the way to the White House with a “Please don’t kill me” sign hanging at the end. You are a taker. You do not give what the universe gave to parents of all species. Instinct of self-perpetuation. Here you are at the end of your life leaving the children little notes of death signed by you and your lawyer. Money, a house, maybe a stamp collection for junior and his bride. But never, ever, never, ever never wisdom. Priceless wisdom. The only needful protection to pass on to loved ones.
And now, seated in your cozy house chair, you think that you’re protecting the family. You little piece of nothing. You fearful little pig in space. I am so sick of what you make humanity. Every man loves his child. You want a little chink-face, honky, nigger, dot-head? Is that what you want? You want that I too am as hateful of living as you? Respect one man today and protect your own child’s life. How do you respect man? You give him this hate of yourself as your last expression of divine love.
Meanwhile, acquiesce while your brutal leaders bully ten conventionally armed Arab nations united against us. Play with the kids on the floor that you just washed and waxed while the U.S. Kingdom of Madmen piss off another Chinese nation, or rub the wrong way a volatile despotically armed Russia. I promise there will be nothing to look forward to besides a tiny state-of-the-art nuclear warhead seeking out your child’s left eyeball. Tomorrow Pakistan will have one of those. Our trigger-happy leaders already have a hundred. If just one exists, God’s law of inevitability says it most certainly will get used.
The end of the world?
A sure bet.
We can try to organize and revitalize a nation of strong-backed mothers and fathers. But first one strong man must make a beginning. It would be a miracle coming. Just one man to protect his child. Not God, not nation. One Man! He alone would make a beginning. The miracle is that if and when he made his move, he would actually be supported by enough neighbors to make even a dent of difference. Without the name Mr. WalMart, or Mr. Fordcar, or Mr. Dollar store, it would take more than a miracle to jumpstart a nation of deadbeats tucking their fear in at night. Who would be so foolish to invest time and money in a man who has nothing but a beginning? What if to begin, he hijacks a plane with feather pillows and a loud threat, and flies the plane into a building of nuclear missile engineers? What if that was his beginning? I think it could be a very rational beginning. The irrationality of it all, the miracle transcending rational thought is that there even exists one man left in America to make a beginning.
Progress is so slow.
Geez, maybe it might be smart for America to lead in the fight for a one world nation. It has the power now. Why not use it wisely? Make each nation an equal entity with equal vote. If they don’t like it, nuke them off the map. What is America, Italy, Iraq, Taiwan, besides a constant reminder to humanity that it still has not aspired to human? What is the vision for humanity anyway? Is our evolution to be so slow that we will have run out of time before ever realizing our true potential?
Yes it is. Painfully slow. Retarded. Almost brought to a complete halt.
Look what damage America presently inflicts on the world, and it cannot even get to one man! It bombs an entire nation looking for one man. It bombs from above and is afraid. It bombs undercover of night. It cannot get to the one man. Americans at home are afraid. Yet swear that they felt anger after their buildings burned.
When a man is truly angry and seething with vengeful thoughts, he does not wait for the government to clear a path for his wrath to walk down. A man would leave today for Afghanistan. If I was the father of a daughter who was slain in the World Trade Center collapse, I would see to it myself that anyone connected to her murderers was tortured and burned before my eyes. At least I know I would die trying. Avenging the death of a loved one. I believe Americans have forgotten all of their god-given rights. I know they have forgotten their god. As I write this some families of the dead are suing the government for a bigger compensation check. Consumer cannibalism.
I dare one man to be successful at anger. I dare myself more and more each day.
It is futile. Nothing could be more hopeless and self-destructive.
Just hearing a plane buzz overhead in the sky brings constant reminder to the American man of how small, how little, how tiny, how weak in mind and spirit and heart he is, and always will be until the end, which will be a very bitter story, I’m afraid.

A day later…
There are zombies in the midst. There are slow-walking, groaning cadavers everywhere. The city streets our mobbed with death. The countryside breeds zombies on the farm.
I am almost to the edge. I’ve been running and hiding and running. I know the end is near—for me and the zombies. Still, they follow me day after day, and into some nights. What is the matter with us? We must escape. We have to find safe hiding. The river jungles of the Amazon? A frozen cave at the top of the Mount Marcy?
I live in the central Middle Class Mountains, where the zombies have their strongest hold. I have begun several daily routines over the last fifteen years to disguise my life from them. I’ve finally found one that works, but in the end I must throw my live body to the zombies in order to save my daughters. At night I go out looking for trouble. I feel the need to be different, but it’s like a human siren sounding off, and they rush at me from every angle. I can tear the head off one or two, to give myself a narrow escape. What good is that? Ten more leap into view. All night I run without any place to run to.
I think that I might be alone. Perhaps the zombies have at this moment begun chewing up my friends and family. If I don’t see life exhibiting itself immediately, if in a whole day I cannot differentiate between cold death and a lively action, then I think I might end life myself, before the zombies can take their first nibble of my flesh. So far it’s a narrow escape. But be careful. I might sign my next letter in zombie.

Dear Middle Classes,

In New York City about seven years ago I spent an entire month of autumn nights lying down in my friend Beth’s loft dreaming, hiding out, refusing to come down until I could be coaxed with coffee or food. The safest pattern—with the least possible human interaction. One evening in particular I lay awake flipping through pages of The Wandering Jew when Beth came home with her gay older brother, Sam. She knew I wouldn’t come down from my high bed to socialize, so my true whereabouts were not revealed.
“Where’s Ron?” Sam asked, as if he was wondering about the cat.
“Probably out walking.”
“That guy is weird,” he said. “He has such a strange sense of being.”
“That’s Ron. So, what do you want to get Mom for her birthday?”
For my sake she changed the subject. Then climbed into the loft to get her money, winked at me, and left with her brother to go shopping. Maybe mom got a cookbook or a pretty candle stand. Three years earlier she got a gay son out of the closet. Which was fine provided he didn’t hide in people’s lofts or do peculiar and freakish things like read wisdom books, or walk for the pleasure of walking. No. A few years back she was forced to contend with a new outlook on life. Her son was queer. Not strange. Not weird. In fact he made a lot of money despite his queer condition. He bought furniture for his condo. He bought a stereo, a plane ticket, a wardrobe. He bought the Sunday paper, and actually read most of it too! And he played a very good game of tennis, even for a man with his man-loving desires.
Anyway, their mom loved Sam. After all, he was still her only son. Truly, it didn’t matter what he had sex with as long as he kept quiet about it whenever she brought Dad along for a visit. Not necessary to have frequent reminders that their son was gay. What business was it of theirs? He drove a nice car. He dressed nice. He was a high paid accountant with an established firm in New York—the grayest, most dismal exciting city in the world. Soon she came to think that her son’s life was actually quite exotic, not at all immoral, indecent, or degenerate, like she used to think. She loved her son. So what if he was gay? He was an upstanding member of the community. And he always remembered her birthday on time.
Up in the loft, I lay back on the pillow and let his careless words play over and over again in my mind. I was crushed. I got the impression that everyone thought of me in this light. The village idiot. The eccentric loafer. The poor dreamer. Maybe I had the wrong idea. Maybe I was strange. Maybe I was weird to the point of being judged asylum ready by my peers. I hadn’t a penny to my name. I had a child to support. I was living off the kindness of my friends. I was high over the thought of a free egg breakfast with coffee. I was euphoric and then deeply depressed. I felt free, yet at the same time a prisoner of my own quietness. How long would my welcome last? Was I going too far down?
Then it occurred to me in a flash, thank God, that, like Beth’s mom, I too was being put on. I was part of the problem. I let the gay brother Sam put me on. I recalled that not long ago, Beth brought me over to his apartment to watch one of his gay movies. It starred a man with a thick mustache dressed in a blue and white striped, fuzzy bathrobe, playing with himself. The doorbell rang. A thirty-year-old man pretending to be a fifteen year old paper boy handed the paper to the man. The mustached man asked the boy what he expected for a tip. The boy said that he would very much like to suck on the mustached man’s penis. And then, as expected, the two men acted out their parts while all our children’s dreams and fairy tales burst into flames and died.
Middle class morality. A complaint of Eliza Doolittle’s father. My sole complaint of humanity from up in the loft on those terrifying fall nights, and to this very day. Sam is not alone. We are all liars to the soul. Sam dressed up like his heterosexual good provider Dad. But with all the apparent smart looks of money, he could not disguise his screaming desire to blow the man with the mustache. He was gay, everyone knew that for sure. But only his sister and I knew now that he was a gay pervert. A minor reality, but a huge realization which set me back on the path soon enough. My sanity was saved once again by juxtaposing the secret life of a degenerate dreg from the middle classes with my wide open desire to be in the class of no class.
Liars to the soul.
Liars to each other.
Beth’s poor gay brother Sam. My poor friend Beth. My poor self, barely able to make out the truth wandering around among dreams in clouds behind the transparent jiggling jelly I won’t dare leap into and squeeze myself through. I pretend to try. But I am just another bona fide member of the middle classes. We are the world’s spiritual losers. Count on us to always put a million dollars to good use. I would buy more useless books to read, and perhaps a small lake to read them by. Sam would buy a new and improved video collection—some with actual fifteen year old boys sucking and fucking. One would buy a car, a business, a summer camp… One would put it in the bank. But which one would take the million dollars and blow his nose into it? Who exactly would break this newly acquired fortune down into a million separate dollar bills and side his house with the money pile? Who would roast a marshmallow sandwich over the coals of the bonfire made of a million dollars and some sticks of wood?
Millions, maybe billions of us, so similar, so forever the same. One life of mass similarity. Degenerate dregs. We’ve come to think perversion is freedom. The sensors allow “mother-fa-er” over the radio waves, because freedom sings rap songs about “big black asses.” Rape is the middle class. Race is the middle class. The middle class is ninety percent sad and masturbation, and always a different movie about new and improved ways to murder and rape. The middle class immoral? The middle class degenerate? Sure, the middle class goes poopy and smells its fingers. The middle class flosses and feels clean. It is home for the homeless soul, the helpless, always careful, and cheerfully idiotic. Sure its children are insane, and the parents are children, two times nuts over. Pretending freedom out of a plastic shopping bag. Steel pipes beat against our heads, an order for prescription drugs, and waiting in line without complaint. No complaints. Don’t ever complain! Always wonder what they will think of you. Be polite, mock your neighbor politely behind his back, love until you’re bored of loving, and buy an exercise bike to heat up loins that aren’t used unless walking to and from your parked car.
Here’s a question for you—
How many pairs of shoes does it take to protect the delicate feet of the middle classes? I don’t know how the hell they wear them out without walking! They don’t walk. Nothing ever gets worn out before the next purchase! It’s all about a little bit of more money, isn’t it? Aren’t we dumb like death as soon as we open up our mouths? What do we have to say? What important news is there to relate? Do we even know what it is we are talking about? Who remembers getting through our last conversation? Steel pipes beating our heads into the ground, and we still try to fix our hair with bloody fingers. I cannot stand the moral degeneracy of our no-culture! I’ve spent too much time alone with the precious words of the life-givers. The few who pointed to the light, died, and then left me the legacy of “hate for a change”.
I do not respect any living creature that accepts money. I love those that need it. Love them enough to swing a steel bat against their skulls. We need a good movie. Tonight in the city, there are four or five more gay paper boys getting home from school, laying down on the carpet and blowing their male dogs. Gay is middle class. Not gay is middle class. Black and white can share or not share their cookies in the middle class. The rich and the poor are non-existent in the middle class. Channel seven is the all-class channel. Still, in three seconds exactly, every person in America in front of a television will laugh a careful middle class laugh. Not one middle class cat or dog will laugh until a steel bat splits their master’s skull. And then it’s a wild dog and cat dance of death to the middle class.
City, country, farm, or any life medium which includes the electronic cash register, to never pull an egg out of a chicken’s vent, to believe that two cars are better than one, to get a damn good job, to think about a raise in your check and a rise in your pants while watching the handsome people on the screen, in your own private living room, doing it perfectly together while you and the misses and the kids who are old enough sneak into a room alone and play alone, with yourselves alone, to not rate your holidays “S” for “Sad, middle class audiences only”, to swear you only live once, and make sure there’s never more than two piles of laundry on the floor…
God dammit, I want my rightful place in society! You should see my shoes! I can’t afford another pair. America wants to shove both of these worn-torn things up my ass. I am alone now. Poverty is not glorious when you’re alone, smothered to near death by the middle classes. What do I have to do? Stop at the little store after work in my sharp suit and galoshes to pick up cat food? Is that it? Oh I know my wife hates me. My daughters ridicule me. I know what I look like to a young MAN, before my position in life rallies up to mash his spirit. I am picking up cat food. Oh and when I get home you just see how almost wealthy I can get! I got the newspaper right here, and on my lap there’s my best friend the dog who gets people food overflowing in his silver bowl thank you very much. My socks cost more than Ron Throop’s last seven dinners, and I got twelve more pair clean and folded in the closet.
I make 56 a year, and I live in a house with 2200 square feet of internal weeping space. My buddy at work has three kids and one bathroom. That’s an idiot for you. Hell you’re all idiots! I think I haven’t had an honest conversation since I was eighteen years old. But that didn’t come easy either, even with a joint and six pack of beer. You’re afraid of me and I’m simply terrified of you. I won’t help anyone. I love money, although I pretend to love my wife. Neither of us will move a god damn muscle to make our children proud. They’re in control anyway. My fifteen year old is on the pill and laughs at my hair. She lost her innocence the day I stopped loving her, which was any day I thought about the 56 a year. I like to peek inside the fridge when I’m not hungry. Sometimes I pick up a book just to put it back down. The sun comes up. I don’t see it. And I don’t give a shit about the moon. The whole earth is when I wake up and turn in frantic circles around and around a pretend sun, and I got nothing to show of my existence—not even a real, honest to good, fruit or vegetable I grew and preserved myself.
I got the cat food. I don’t care about the night. Truthfully and honestly I have never in my life wondered out loud. I see the young girls on the TV and I want to do to my wife what I did to the young girls on the TV. But I don’t plan to do it with love because the only thing I love and revere is money and I worship it in ungodly repetition. Every Tuesday and Friday night I walk through the door with a bag of cat food. That’s it, and that’s easy.
I’m tired. I am always so tired. I am going to bed tired and waking up tired. The world is turning closer to Christmas. But sit on the moon and see if you can guess what crap the middle class sets under the tree this year.

I have to keep hate alive. Although I can’t stand for it any longer. I stink of hate. I wallow in it. I acquire more strength from it. Sometimes I get the desire to join the other side or die. To know and understand, but most importantly, believe in quiet, non-eruptive emotions as long as everything seems okay. I pretend to want to be through hating things that were never good enough to love in the first place. I imagine that patience will get me to my essence, eventually, and show me who or what it is I truly am. I always thought hate was a good path to be on for this type of mental excursion. And it is, if you can handle the sometimes fantastic condition hate puts you in. For anyone who has ever hated as well as I do must know it is himself, his lying, sick and dying self, whom he hates the most, the utmost most.
Am I capable of finding love in this deep, blinding darkness? Love of myself, of me, mine? Love of me? I should ask myself this instead… Is hate a negativity that must be avoided in order to love?
No! Absolutely not. Hate is a needful and necessary form of expression. Moreso than ever in the age of monster technology and aggressive fearyourownneighbor-ism. You must first understand that hate is not the opposite of love. It works beside love. For example, one hates to show how much one loves. Don’t get confused. Hate is not racism. Hate is not genocide. Hate is not hunger. Serious problems do not arise because of hate, (besides poverty). No, bad things happen because stupidity brazenly squatted on love’s territory the morning love woke up weak and radiant, and forgetting to defend herself.
Yet stupidity is only partly responsible for what hate gets blamed for. Power is the brains and stupidity is its strong arm. Power protects and perpetuates stupidity. It uses stupidity to get what it wants. The powerful want you to think that hate is the cause of evil. No. Power fooled love into thinking that stupidity was a-okay, even kinda cute, harmless. Then stupidity usurped love’s fertile ground to plant the seeds of evil. Stupidity takes evil for nourishment. Stupidity needs evil to live. Power and stupidity are the reasons for evil. Hate needs God, even if hate wants to open up God with a knife for being such a complete failure to humanity. Why did God fail to maintain a world where hate could protect its love? Hate hates genocide. Hate hates nuclear weapons. Hate hates Hitler, Stalin, American presidents 1 through 79. But what hate hates most is an apathetic, loveless, and hateless America. Hate promised love that it would expose the power behind a stupidity nourished by evil. Too many billions of people have not expressed the hate needed to check power’s seemingly endless rise. There’s too much talk about Jesus’s love, but nothing about his hate. Sure Jesus turned the other cheek. He’d do it again and again, for quite some time too. But then one day he’d have to become a man. People without hate. They call it love. They mean Jesus. Clumps of stupid people. Ignorant cows, chewing, and allowing power the open gate freedom to feed, clothe and shelter stupidity. Contrary to the belief code set by power, hate wants to feed the world. Hate would wash our faces clean of racism. Hate would want to stuff the potential beauty of mankind down the nation’s throat. Hate would demand that a fair God reign in our hearts and in our children’s hearts. Hate would not want to kill, but needs to clearly show power that hate is prepared to die for its cause. This makes hate a very dangerous threat to power’s domains. Hate knows that without hate, humanity can kiss its ass goodbye! Hate knows this hate is a stronger love for mankind. No matter how stupid hate believes most of us are, hate has hope that one man, one woman can believe in a beginning.
It will be a very long winter of hate. I could set myself free and join up in the ranks of the powerful and stupid. I could hire myself out to the action news team and with a smile give nightly accounts of murder and death-by-mishap. No. I prefer my lonely, self-appointed role as hate’s philosopher, prophet, and artist. The people’s living concerns will not be mine. Besides, I hate the people. They do not aspire to my ideal of man: to hate for love to reign. I want freedom for every human being. I desire to persevere with hate. I can hate a man because a badger will never be as stupid as a man. This is the philosopher writing. Obviously we are doomed, but not because a family of squirrels are nestled together tonight in a warm bed of dead leaves… This is the prophet calling out to deaf ears. And I shall paint the whole bloody picture of humanities’ annihilation by power and stupidity! This is the elusive, struggling artist whose life I will give my own life to nurture.
This morning my visiting stepfather tossed me the want-ads. I reached for the front page instead. There was a picture taken at the India-Pakistan border where the routine changing of the guard continues at a time when all life might end. Another awakening. These bearded, colorful men, soldiers dressed in traditional attire, traditionally preparing to eliminate the planet earth, but not one of them thinking that tonight, whether he acts or not, a starving, innocent child will get traditionally stabbed until dead. There was a huge crowd sitting on a hill overlooking the demonstration. Beyond them was a sky stuffed with a hundred gray clouds, heavy, pregnant, and ready to break water. I concentrated on the fantastic changing colors of the sky. I did not think about the impending human doom, nor did I recall the empty feeling doom brings while doing some usual chore like brushing my teeth. No picture came to mind showing what happens to a child’s face after picking up a live grenade. The sky was snow gray and the trees behind the soldiers were going darker green with the setting sun. To hell with human beings I thought. Straight to hell with them. They cannot represent true life any longer. They only get in the way. I saw beauty in the background of a picture fraught with human animals. It was sent over the wire for the world’s editors to print as shock material, yet I saw nothing that they wanted me to see. I saw stark green living, breathing trees. I saw an old, wise sky going to sleep day after day for a billion years, with or without the changing of the guard, the mass of humanity, or myself.
Tonight, in this chilled twilight, while the winter sun sets over my frozen backyard, I have made a very big decision. The sun will continue to rise everyday to the ax-wielding stupidity of mankind. That same sun sets on my small, hopeful intentions, and I know that I am as right as I will ever be. Because I desire to give this piece of my thoughts to you, the invisible reader, I know that I must be a loving human being. I might write angrily and carelessly. That cannot be helped. It is the way my machine works when it is pushed up against a wall. It fights back screaming. And I know the chances are better for victory if you hate your enemy, and aren’t goaded to fight by cowardice and fear, like the typical soldier. I will die first by hate, because it’s good to make the attempt to clear out all that you hate. And then I will die for love. Because after your best shot of hate, that is all there is left.
Philosopher, prophet, artist? Yes. But also father, husband, friend, teacher, student, wanderer, homebody, and divinity. What do I really care what you or posterity thinks? This is my fight. I shall not let my love be bullied by the brutal, careless whims of a stupid mankind. I understand death. I accept it whenever it happens to me. The knowledge of its inevitable finality is responsible for the howl while I write. I am one man who launches hates’ minor attack on the human world. I am also a fool who knows that he must attempt to preserve the reality of the universe, the unmanned part of the universe, all by his lonesome…
Tonight I became an insect watching from a green tree getting darker with the setting sun. I am only a very small thing. But I hold the fight of many unrecognized nations. I represent the non-human world of poets, most women, animals, insects, fish, all trees, all plants, all life that does not line up each new sunrise prepared to kill, without also being damn well ready to eat their kill. I cannot go the rest of my life ignoring stupidity. Even as a lowly insect, I know that I am smarter than all of man’s nations. And I know it would behoove quite a few species that I became just as dangerous as all of man’s nations.

Two thousand-thirty-five years ago Christ was born in the land without snow. He was a dark baby who didn’t wear diapers. Christ was a baby and all babies live peace. Besides hitting his mother when he wanted her to play with him, he was very peaceful. Kings brought the divine child presents, not one of them a small plastic toy phone. A variety of presents, but not one that a child would want to play with. Frankincense and myrrh? Don’t ask. Just receive and smile, smile and receive, and make sure the gifts are big enough not to get lodged in your new savior’s throat.
This Christmas more than one person will drive forty miles to purchase a popular candle holder. When my oldest daughter was very young, she was taught to give nothing besides love and attention, and occasional crayon drawings of devotion. Slowly, gradually, over the past couple years, Santa Claus has left her heart. It is only a matter of time before Christmas makes her deeply and hopelessly frazzled like the rest of us.
This Christmas I am depressed. I am out of the kind of work that writes you a check for the holidays. Joy has left my body. I have no way of knowing if I will ever be able to help support this family financially. And because of the money problem, I start to wonder if I am husband or father, or anything good at all. Money is the sickness of our hearts. It is the sole cause of any depression that exists where no tragedy has occurred. Because of money I did something yesterday that I thought I would never do. I went out peddling my books all over three counties. I took a day to do it. I had to ask my wife to take off from work. I had to borrow a car. It had an American flag attached to the back window, and anyone who knows me at all, knows it would take a miracle to get me to drive about town waving that red, white and blue blasphemy.
I drove it. To every bookstore and library in Central New York. By the end of the day I sold to three stores and involuntarily donated one set to a library. I walked up to the head librarian embracing my precious books. He received me quite cordially. Of course then I expected him to escort me over to the money box and pay me for my efforts. No way. Patiently I waited while he talked about the lack of arts and culture in the Mohawk Valley. “One bookstore,” he complained, “in a county of 250,000. Can you believe it?” Yes I thought, but here, let me put my hand out again, palm up, and hope that you get the hint. Nothing. Instead he stepped into his office and came out grasping the local swap sheet, suggesting that I advertise my books with the used cars. Then he offered me a book signing, but recanted, saying that in the past those only worked well with children’s book authors. Then I imagined that he would prefer to ram the heel of his boot against my skull rather than pay me the paltry sum necessary to justify my existence as a writer. Culture or no culture. I should have killed him on the spot and fished through the petty cash box myself.
Now the thought of peddling my own books was and is a personal nightmare. Total desperation made me do it. Man will succumb to anything when the money is tight enough to almost starve. Except work at a dollar store. No. I won’t do that. So what if an offer has already been made…? No. I will very calmly open up an artery before dehumanizing my existence at a dollar store.
After a day driving in and around Syracuse New York, I discovered the worst hole in all of the world to raise a sane family. You drive around for a full morning in it, penniless, in a borrowed car and see for yourself what an incurably sick and twisted, groaning hell of a city it is. Two of the bookstores on my list of ten were abandoned. Two more sold only pornography. Two were consignment, and the second one of these wouldn’t take my books unless he could get the whole set for fifteen cents.
Yesterday I lived the life of a traveling salesman in America. Except I was selling a product which I made myself. Of course one couldn’t eat my product—strike one. Nor was it something quite like holly leaf wrapping paper sold at a huge profit for charity. Strike two. Encyclopedias might have brought better luck, if I went door-to-door with the volumes I researched,  wrote and published myself. Strike three and out. Actually lying prone in a basement beside a gassed Willy Loman.
A few years ago my chef left the restaurant business to peddle oyster crackers for an upstart company. Up before dawn, he drove his car over two hundred miles every day except Sunday. Boxes of light, airy oyster crackers stacked to the ceiling in the back seat. He peddled throughout a business world that he convinced himself was in sufficient need of better oyster crackers. The best oyster crackers. In fact, over time, he couldn’t understand how restaurants stayed in business without his delicious oyster crackers in stock.
Once he got me to chew them, while he stood at my side waiting for affirmation. Holy God, the ironic, blind arrogance of despair! Every time he said “oyster cracker” I envisioned spiraling rounds of slow-motion bullets bursting out the back of my skull. His behavior was beyond delusional. It was insane, maniacal—an oyster cracker…Jesus Christ! Yet I played along, chewing for his benefit, although at the time I felt like striking him down and stuffing his mouth full of oyster crackers. He wanted to sell them to everyone. He was preaching the Word about oyster crackers. Each book that I wrote and got published, no matter what value its content, was written with the dreams that appear while walking alone at night in fear of death. I collaborated and created with the body which houses my soul. It was all that I had then, and all I have now. For $12.95 I will share its story with you. That’s all the Word I know.
You say sure? As long as it’s told over a bowl of steaming hot seafood chowder? Fine. Just try to ignore the steady stream of bullets drilling holes into my head. Promise me you’ll crush those crackers quickly and take the soup onto your lap. I’m spilling blood.
Why this staunch, masochistic refusal to become equally excited over my own creations? How can man live a whole life never to stand up and lustily sing his own praises? Even if he foolishly sings to some greater power beyond him… It has got to be more stimulating than worshiping oyster crackers, right? I mean, how could my old boss become the apostle of a dry cracker company without having committed suicide yet? Has he not already gone way beyond the point of just considering it? Unless the crackers are laced with enough extra preservatives to fool the rest of us into thinking that he lives, I tell you that he must be dead already. A soul must die each moment an oyster cracker gets believed in.
To tell the truth, I hate my books. I despise them. I hate the product that I wanted to sell yesterday, during a weak moment when I thought my children needed toys for Christmas.
I intend to sing my praises while the rest of mankind watches me bleed. But I won’t be singing for your money. I will sing, but know that I know it’s not what I write into books that makes me praise-worthy. I am 100% man. I am a man. My blood heats up my wonder and desire. I can be squeezed until warm blood spurts out of my pours. But I will continue to sing while bleeding. I believe that every man’s blood is my own blood. And every man should sing the song of watching it flow. I am singing for me and for you, even if I know that you, if given the choice, would choose a low-sodium oyster cracker over the intactness of my blood and its systems. Translated into easy, easy easy…
You suck
my blood.
But would rather have an oyster cracker.

Now tonight I am a hack. This is the end of the book, and the fifth time I promised myself openly in a book to bury the anger in a deep hole and write something beautiful for once. I lied. It is impossible for me to concentrate on the beautiful. I know where I live. These are my own eyes and I cannot play “pretty picture” with them, no matter how perfectly glorious the world would be if I could lie to myself more frequently.
There is a young man named Gangsta Williams being tried tonight for the murder of a seventeen-year-old girl. He shot her in the face and blood poured out. She died while the blood flowed out of her skull. I live forty miles away from the murder scene. I live a million miles away from humanity.
I appreciate your human murder. It is necessary and good for me this evening. It makes me right. It makes me feel good to remember, without much effort, that America is just a smelly hole I drop my garbage into.
Yes of course Gangsta is a piece of human ca-ca. I would like to watch his face clawed apart, eyeball to eyeball, by the mother of the child who was slain. But I was thinking about Germany today. I asked my daughter to imagine what a German Christmas was like. We were thinking of warm strudel and kugen, a hundred mountain villages each with its token butcher and steeple, Heidi and her Grandfather on skies… I thought about the glorious humanity thriving in a German village before Jesus and  the Nazis. Sure it was imaginary, but so was the hydrogen bomb, once. Nothing will ever become something without first imagination, and then belief. The former is a healthy recreation for a childlike mind. But belief is the reckless preservation-in-motion of both angels and devils.
Life in the village was busy and wonderful. It looked best during a heavy snowfall. There was a bakery, a butcher’s block, and wooden toys for sale in every shop window. Now I’ve decided to place Gangsta in the village I dream about. Presently he’s pointing a pistol in the face of one of Hans Friedaflach’s daughters. She’s more astonished than frightened. “Dis koonnnot hopin’ heera.” She’s right. Here comes Hans skiing down the mountain just in time to catch Gangsta before he pulls the trigger. Hans takes a second to survey the scene, then he takes Gangsta by the eyeballs and kills him.
I want to take Gangsta by the eyeballs and kill him too. Don’t you? Won’t you?
Liars! Wasted sperm! Rotten eggs! You allow for it. You let this happen. Now lay back in your easy chair and whistle “live and let live,” while Gangsta plans and executes the murder of your little girl.
Today I picked up my daughter’s book about German Americans. There was a picture of a man who was tarred and feathered for not supporting the war bond drive of 1917. The caption underneath the picture also told about another man who was beaten to death in prison for not wanting to volunteer with the Allied cause, to cross the ocean, to butcher his cousins, aunts, and uncles in Germany. On the page opposite there was a short article about the German internment during World War II. All proof of American criminal behavior that I had no previous knowledge of. In America the lies are hitting us the moment we are born. The truth is more fluff to stuff into our pillow cases. In America truth makes for very comfortable and cozy drool catchers.
I told my daughter that we should start looking at the world as if living in an imaginary time before Bismarck and the Holocaust. In the village of forest fairy tales, fear of God and trembling desires, the bright white nights of lighter living with moonbeams…
1862. Now that’s a year to be alive in Germany! Especially at Christmas, and in the mountains, where the snow falls heavy without a sound, where the cholera and poison gas can’t get in by airplane or autotrain. It’s Christmas, 1862, and tonight is the one night out of the year for all Christians to feel safe and nearly immortal. They are in the safekeeping of their savior Jesus Christ keeping watch over his domains.
The family stands around the piano singing carols. Nobody is faking. All are rosy-cheeked and glad, and actually faithfully believing in their god.
Tonight back home in America, Gangsta William’s got talked about on the TV News. Gangsta was a bad boy. A very bad boy. Yet Gangsta, on his worst day, could not hold a loaded automatic weapon to the anchorman who covered the story from a downtown courtroom.
Gangsta was smiling. The anchorman was serious. Gangsta looked into the camera and snickered. The anchorman kept to the story, looking very grave. I am no longer human because the anchorman did not laugh an uproarious laugh in the face of a man named “Gangsta.” I have ascended into the blue azure beyond human because the anchorman got paid by other human beings to tell the murderer’s story. I am seated beside lord god our savior, I might even suggest the two of us play cards tonight, because I don’t dare look to mankind for any cheering up.
He’ll play. I’m told that if I win, I get to choose how we punish
I won. Lord god our savior let me win I think. So I have decided to push a serrated knife into Gangsta’s belly, and probably his mother and father’s belly too, for the bigger crime of stupidity, which they have obviously committed. Actually, any hurtful crime brought before lord god our savior and myself, from this day forward, is inexcusable, and punishable by a thousand screaming deaths. Who dares to carry stupidity and its murder so pretentiously into our kingdoms?
Tonight, just a few hours before Christmas I realize that a huge mistake has been made. I was accidentally born a human. I don’t know what I was supposed to be, but it was not human. Maybe hyena. I am always laughing in the face of man. Anyway, I have become ferule. I am almost wild. Look at me. I forgo all my human rights and expect to be hunted, tortured, and killed for my meat by midnight. But this smarter, more wild animal already knows that you fearful bedwetters will make a legal season first, to give me a sporting good chance to escape.
I look human. I smell human. I may even act a bit human, sometimes. But I am not human. I am a semi-wild animal. Once, long ago, my pack defended itself to preserve itself. There wasn’t any evil. Only hunger. But that was a time before I was born, a life which I had no control over. Now the pack is not related in any way other than by species. Pack became country soon after the survival instinct became unnecessary. Small packs need not roam, hunt, nor play anymore. Leadership is dead. True leadership. The kind which defends without question the lives of its individual members. My country does not assume responsibility for me, my wife, my daughters, my dog. No pack leader. Hence, Gangsta. His own mother would let him fry. But the state protects him. Gangsta blew the face off of a young girl. He doesn’t know what a man is. So he must die, right now. No questions. No arguments. All life outside of man agrees with me. Gangsta must die immediately. Immediately I tell you. No justice. No court. No humane treatment. The moment the young girl’s face was blown away, a rock should have been picked up by the nearest pack member and used to pound a hole into Gangsta’s head.
Here is the end. I promise. It is time to finish up the hate letters to my fellow man. I have to play Santa tonight.
Listen. Gangsta is evil but the anchorman was serious. He refused to laugh out loud, while silently watching his imagination cut up Gangsta into thirty smaller pieces.
Gangsta. And now I am over the edge. I prefer to make myself wild. There is my mountain cave, a pine forest, bright star lit skies, and a moon to laugh out loud to. I stalk the mountains high above the village, always on the lookout for a sour piece of human flesh.
The end.
Gangsta will go to prison where life is insane, and he will be fed well, with other jolly thieves and rapists. The anchorman will drive home to his children with lots of money for presents and popcorn. He wants the wife to watch him on TV at eleven. She knows his routine. No voice of protest. No video shot of his declaring, “Stop please, I can’t do this anymore.” She already knows, by repetition, that her anchorman husband will not provide one honest opinion. It’s the news. It can lie anytime, but it cannot have an opinion. She knows this. Once there existed the faint hope in her heart that she would watch her husband behead a Gangsta with the point of his fountain pen. No. That hope and pride died together the same night, during his first assignment of a hit and run. He got good at keeping a straight face anytime evil bent him over to shove a truncheon up his ass. Now she waits for sleep. At eleven-thirty she can go to sleep. Though presently she expects to frown the perpetual frown that she’s been frowning behind her sad heart for years. He will say “Gangsta” without laughing an uproarious laugh. He will say, “shooting death,” and then it’s possibly three more decades of heavy sobs into her pillow. He will say, “Gangsta” again, and if her mood doesn’t improve tonight, then surely she’ll be dead by morning. He says “downtown courtroom,” and quite unexpectedly she livens up. Suddenly, she and I, and everyone else who’s feeling a little bit wild these days, are out roaming the earth together again, in packs, tearing the flesh off any beast who stalks our territory with the intent, just the intent, of doing harm to our children. On the third and final “Gangsta,” she bursts out laughing, leaps up from the couch, and in a giggling frenzy, runs into the kitchen, out the back door, around and around the house, and then back into the living room, doubled-over, laughing and laughing while the anchorman scolds her for not being the least bit sensitive to such an important issue. She’s laughing in his face, screaming “coward” and “Gangsta” in between breaths of hysterical laughter.
Now I am laughing.
Tonight began as a German Christmas in my mind. I turned on the TV to see a thing that amused me very much. I laughed an uproarious laugh at the infinity of life which happens every second all around me, and although I did not give one bit of it permission to be so wrong, by it I can recognize the absurdity of a life not lived on my own condition. This life is absurd. I don’t think humanity can survive another minute without becoming ferule. Not here in America anyway. I live here. I should know. Tonight I escaped out the side door, and ran across the street into the woods. I think it might be a good thing to stay here until everyone goes away. Far, far away. But who really knows? Tomorrow I might sneak back into the house expecting dinner, a bed, or maybe just a stomach wrenching laughter at the face of a Gangsta, a TV anchorman, or you. Personally I think humanity should be ousted from the pack. Gangsta doesn’t matter. Neither do you. Not to time. Not to dogs. Never to God. Do you think that I think you’re one to decide, pisseltit?


Serial Installment #16 of “On Rainy Days The Monk Ryokan Feels Sorry For Himself”, Pages 302-323


The eyes inside focus in on three to four chores at a time. I walk into a room and immediately bombard my time as if I not only wanted to kill it, but blow it to smithereens. What truly needs to be finished before the snow falls? In 1800, December moonlight was bright enough reason for father and son to shingle a roof. In 2001 the same moon shines, and so much activity is meaningless because it is unnecessary. No father son team tackling the weather, keeping mom safe for hasty puddings. Plenty of fathers and sons still, but all of them up late, alone somewhere, picking their asses. I wake up to notice the difference between midnight roofing work to keep the snow’s weight from caving in the rafters and killing the family, and the cold, moonlit night when I admit to myself that I am afraid of the dark. I live my life in a trance. I don’t know it until I wake up. And then what do I do? I take out the garbage while thinking about the dirty dishes, the load of laundry, the dust balls, the whining dog.
The brain mellows itself enough to see the tree, but never the leaves. The day it sees the infinite maddening colors of leaves and not the tree, man will have aspired to his first awakening. Finally he will have forgotten that he has a brain.
There are a few crazies out there seeing the leaves today. But you and me? We’ll be content to suck in our guts while standing before the full-length mirror. Okay boys, now let’s curse out the fat jelly below the chin. The hairy stomach, the man-breasts, the flab arms, the heavy neck, the hunchback, the chicken legs. Hate our physiques. Despise and deplore its mental store above. And nobody sit down to eat another cookie before cleaning up that mess in the garage!
After 1930 “neurosis” was the catch word for the American intellectual dwerb. Nowadays it’s neuroschizophrenia. My only life accomplishment which I hope to make manifest in my children is the murder and meticulous clean-up of neuro-schizophrenia.
I am crazy because I want to paint with acrylics and teach my children the art of being alive? Yes. That is fine with me because I will live longer, which means that more cakes will get baked. I will kill time often enough to see the leaves. And why not always remain crazy if they already expect it of me? Unless I am not crazy enough. Then I better watch out, or they will certainly carve me up to fit neatly in some obscure corner of their neuro-schizophrenic scheme. Become a car mechanic or business lawyer, aspire to chefdom, manager, the pitiful CEO, force-fed an artificial, insatiable desire to know more than him or her, be smarter, quicker, wittier, funnier, and get money to afford three shampoos in the tub, and a fifty thousand dollar car that rusts.
Oh no. Not me. I’ll get crazier if I have to. Keep ty-typing away. Tip-tip-tipitit-ding! I’ll walk up to my seventy-year old typewriter, ready to begin my unending string of letters to you, to them, to silent comrades dead or unborn, and I’ll bang-bang at the keys to keep me from banging bullets into you, into them, into nonexistent comrades unborn or dead. I guess perfect sanity was the bright autumn day when this typewriter was handed over to me. Hand-delivered out of a train at the station during a short period in my life when I fell in love with being crazy. A few pennies, a borrowed home, a man! A crazy one, that’s for sure. But a man! Hot-diggedy dog! A man! Poor. Comfortable. Uncomfortable. Crazy. As sane as a bird. Wild and ordinary, with holes in my shoes and a starving heart.
It was all me. I wanted to be crazy. I consciously became callous, cruel, and loopy just to temporarily live the life of an artist. What’s new? Here I am again.
My daughter is in the process of writing a diary for the young girl whose parents died in the World Trade Center attack. She is a born writer who will one day make a difference in her world. I have to wait until the year 2100. Only then will I get the respect of the post-consumers. Isn’t it true, though, that if I was never born there would be no 2100? Does that sound crazy? No? How about this?


Letter to the couple who came for dinner last Saturday

Dear Shannon and Bill,

I want to take this time out in my busy day to write down my thoughts to you both. What I am thinking and what my voice utters are so diametrically opposed to one another, that it’s quite a wonder sometimes how I can get my thoughts to agree with the mouth to say “feed me.”
More than anything I am sorry that I did not mention what mattered to me most last Saturday during our little dinner get-together. Oh I’ve been plagued all week with guilt and self-disgust for not divulging my true personality. At the time I think I was more concerned that you liked me. I did not want to give the impression that I was a social retard, even though I most certainly am. No. What I really wanted to do was pee in your wine glasses. I knew immediately upon your arrival that the night was going to be angst and despair. That we would die or go to sleep. I realized how much I hated myself for not being true to everyone I meet.
Well Shannon, you’re a secretary and Bill is a car salesman. I am a hack writer temporarily unemployed as a line cook, and my wife is your boss at the office. Not one of us is proud to be human.
Civilized? Yes, painfully so. Civilized to the power of googol and speeding faster toward the last straw of civilization. Peeing in your cup was the final hope. At least from this house. Maybe my letter will re-civilize me. Do you think? No, it will only increase the strength of my cowardice. Bill will never see me again. But my wife must co-work beside you, Shannon, everyday to talk about television shows, popular movies, your promiscuous teenage daughters, Bill’s new raise at the job… If I send this letter, she might never speak to me again. But I can’t worry about that. To stand through another torture like last Saturday night would finish me off for good. Absolutely necessary that I nip this in the bud right away.
Did you like the dinner? I cooked for five hours. I prayed that everything went well so we would open up like children do. That’s what the wine was for. But we never open up quite like flowers, do we? More like four green garbage dumpsters and each one of us a child carefully dropping his dog’s bagged shit inside. What was it we talked about for the first five minutes while uncorking our tiny nightmares? The ride over. The damn construction and the detour you had to take. Bill actually seemed to be put out. He didn’t want to come. But he’s supposed to love his wife. And me mine. It isn’t enough that you girls are together five days a week. Bill made you go to his friend’s house last month. He brought along a twelve pack of beer, and had one helluva time. The boys got drunk. The girls talked about curtains, until the husband’s monosyllabic conversation switched to sex. Then even the table got excited and shook for a few seconds. But that was it. Everybody went back inside themselves. Bill wiggled the keys, and before long you were back home tucking the kids in bed while Bill puked up his pizza and beer in the downstairs toilet.
Oh I know Bill hates me. My dinner made him suspect. American men don’t whip up a hollandaise out of nowhere. Before I took your coats I should have mentioned where I thought the night was heading, that I’ve been through this before, that I could only allow two successful destinations for the evening—a hide-and-seek game after dinner, or hopeful talk about revolution, personal and/or nation-wide.
But I was guilty. Caught in the game that we’re all presently losing. I cooked all day. I didn’t draw, paint, or play. I would not dream. I had to impress you. “We have so much good food to eat,” I probably told myself. “I must cook and artfully arrange their dinner. Then they will like me and believe I am alive.”
Wrong! No more. Next time it’s hide-and-seek. Or we can all sit down at the table and draw a picture for our kids. Crayons! Could you imagine? Oh no you can’t. Yours was the last dinner party that this house will ever see. I won’t allow another tragic story about a new bathroom to my table again! Ceramic tile or hardwood? It won’t matter if I have to take a pee. Marie will pull me aside and whisper, ‘Did you pee in the wine again?’ And I’ll give her a playful, guilty look. She will lovingly slap me on the shoulder, and we’ll tell the other couple to run outside now and play, while we do the dishes for the absolute last time!
It has to be this way or more letters. I am not ready to go down such a polite, frustrated and lonesome path. I actually fell asleep last Saturday night forgetting to kiss my wife. I don’t mean kiss her, and then turn out the light either. You know what I mean. God, the heat we can create, but instead give up these nights to fashion and society! Shannon, you remember Bill, the first time, the second time… The time he pressed his body against you and the thrill of your heart, the excitement, the dreaming and hoping was a pleasure/pain that held your fragile belly in a vice. Those were the moments of true security. Not money, not job, not dinner. Hungry for sex, for love, for care of another human being. That’s the hunger for life taking on a new form. We lust for life as children. We live again when our bodies take shape. We call that youth as we grow older and invite another couple over for dinner. Then we think to ourselves what’s gone is gone forever and hell is another Saturday night getting ready to step into our shiny car for a drive over to the home of a couple we will never have the strength to know again how we knew them in the golden days of youth.
Now look at us. Saturday night at the Throop’s! God awful. We could promise that next time we shall meet in the woods out back of your house. There at the path leading in, in the dark… Me with two bottles in a bag and Bill pointing the way to the big rocks where we shall build our fire, pass the wine, and talk and laugh again like we did when we were still near wild and fearful of each other’s sex.
Yes! Next time we can concentrate on getting to know each other again. No hardwood floors. No curtains at K-Mart. The night shall be a romp through the forest of our youthful dreams. I’ll kick your ass Bill if you go near my wife. Shannon looks great! Her cheeks flushed yesterday when she talked to her friends about you. Go for her and I’ll work on mine. We will catch the girls in the dark, stop where we haven’t been in years, build a small fire, and talk about our hopes and dreams. Is it cold? Do you even notice? Hold her hand. I’ll hold hers in mine. I will give her my coat, and I’ll give up these Saturday nights for the rest of my life to live each one in fantastic hope like I did when I was a boy. Like you did before this rotten, hopeless dinner, and the thousand before that… They must end. Most certainly they will happen over and over again in an agonizing sameness, unless we summon the necessary courage to destroy them.
You are both invited next week to search alongside my wife and I for our true hearts. Otherwise, stay out of my life until my wife knows me again how I wanted to be known before the first fainting kiss.

Hello Pat,

Look! A letter! It must feel so good to get mail that doesn’t beg for your money. It must feel like Christmas receiving correspondence addressed to “No-man’s-land, USA.”
I don’t know why I write. No particular reason. My next book will contain many letters; maybe I just want to add your name to the bunch. Years ago I used to write to Tony when life was pretend and Tony was The Pretender. Now I haven’t the desire to get in touch with that fakealot. You, however, are human, and two eyes that will look upon my pile of crap, even if only in brief moments of personal desperation.
The truth being told, I need another human being to fondle my thoughts. Marie hears so much dirt in a day that it’s a wonder she can give me a second look without following it with a violent kick in the crotch. I need to write letters. I’m tired of writing to nobody. I am sick of a world that refuses to write to save itself from spiritual slaughter. We need more letters! Why bother opening the mailbox? Who’s getting a present? It’s junk mail or anthrax, and just the appropriate amount of bills to keep you and your neighbor enslaved for a lifetime. There is not enough open speculation about the expected stability of people’s brains. Look what I see. The whole lot of us walk around like Goofy with his pants down. Our viewers already expect from us the most outrageous acts of stupidity. But to expose our ugly genitals while being so stupid? Pornographic. Demented. Just too much perversion for this poor man to bare.
Speaking of bears… Are there any lumbering by your window in the north country? Is one trying to read over your shoulder right now? Do you think he would agree with my bit about Goofy, if he was dumb enough to read?
Look Pat, they hand out literacy by the millions, but never expect any of us to use it properly. They demand articulation, but really all they want is to hear us say the word, “articulation,” so every one in the room can know each other’s limits, and talk incessantly about the kind of every day drama a squirrel would pee on, if he could sit still for five minutes and take into his tiny squirrel skull such a relentless banter of meaninglessness. Pick your words recklessly mi amigo, and put them into letters. No one is interesting enough for a conversation. I say make a man read what’s on your mind, even if all you ever think about is shit. We all admit that in person we don’t listen to a word the other person says. Don’t bother to say anything. Write it down! Then he is forced to read. Write it all down, even the bowel movements of your everyday life. Wait for the biographers or the staff psychiatrists to write out explanations for you.
This week I plan to write to a couple credit card companies. I want to offer them a rate they can’t refuse. It’s time for the poor man to fight these birds. With power? No! Letters. More letters. Open, angry demanding letters. No pussyfooting, “please can we meet on common ground?” letters. What have we done in the past about our insurmountable debt? We pay the bill. It comes, and we pay it. Now some other naked Goofy searching for his trousers is sending anthrax poison through the mail. I think that he just wants to punish his creditors. Too bad, he thinks, that the mailman, and every other average Joe in Nincompoopville is left wide open to death. Every one is vulnerable because death is inevitable. Who is innocent? It wouldn’t matter because death is never fair. The man sending death-by-mailman might be death itself. But who would believe that unless the President said it was true? Believe in God, in Jesus, but don’t believe in death. Absolutely absurd to think it could come dressed up in man’s clothes. Most of us are certain it will never come at all. Death never hits us until it does. I say there would be no fear if death was obvious and expected. If it was real, like a man, and all at once sat down at every table in America.
Meanwhile, we have all been smeared with the kind of evil the President decries. What are we to do as Americans if, after thorough investigation, these deadly letters are being sent by reindeer from the Seattle Zoo? Or from children who broke into a laboratory a couple months ago, and stole a box with some “neat shit” in it? Or what if it’s a man named Ahmad Pakistan who has been living in Iowa for six years just waiting for his chance to kill people? What difference does it make to God? All humanity over twelve years of age is already plagued with the virus that mistrusts living and ignores death. Even the poor reindeer in the zoo. Like the rest of us, he expects his special dinner on Sunday too. Only death will prevent him from getting it. But who really understands this? It’s getting worse each passing day. All the Goofys want their new, special thing. A Volkswagen Bug, ice skates, salvation… Has anyone considered the nineteen lives lost, the nineteen “evil” lives, in the September 11th drama? You can bet that God has. Who thinks about the 20 million Russian lives lost during WWI? Only some professor trying to make a point. But out of that human tragedy we got better TV. Video biographies of Lenin, Trotsky, and a mad Joseph Stalin, whose deeds made even Hitler think, “Wow, can’t beat that!” What interesting viewing! Today this new world media touts it’s recent 3000 dead statistic as if it just counted jelly beans in a jar, and I’m supposed to be shocked because Tom Brokav got a sheet of death dust in the mail? I say good riddance to the sleeping animals. My dear friend, it’s time to wake up and live, even if for just a very short time. But be careful! Humans everywhere prey on other humans, and if that was an unfair beginning, it’s a justified end. What does it matter that we, as biological phenomena, could live strong, healthy, vibrant lives for two centuries or more? We’re lucky to get in as many years as we do dressed as presidents and pedophiles. Still, it’s a weak life that embraces its father’s legacy of “follow the rules sons and daughters. No matter what the horrors of humanity show you… Always follow the rules!”
Last week I watched a show on TV entitled “Hitler’s Women.” The commercials in between were all about choosing the right financial advisor, or buying the best SUV, and I thought that any Jewish man alive today with a link to the Holocaust possessed divine right to explode a bomb in the building where that film was being broadcast. Was his grandfather humiliated, robbed, beaten, deprived of food and water, and then set on fire so that the owner of the television station, and all the people connected to it, could make a vile living feeding on the murder of eleven million human beings? The people at home, including myself would get their just desserts too. Why not? How could such once unimaginable horror be born again into our imaginations as “before bedtime entertainment?” It’s a fucking shock to the system just to think about that insanity for five minutes.
But we no longer invite ourselves into our true thoughts. Therefore rarely are we shocked, even for five minutes. I don’t think a shock could shock us, not ten thousand volts, or even our own heads cut off and thrown rolling across the street. Does it matter? Shocked or not shocked, three thousand murdered, or a show about bunnies, and yet the commercials still come. The economy grows or slows, the money either comes or goes, children lose their fingers and toes. The commercials still air on time and always on purpose.
Happy Day! So how is the job treating you? Remind me never to get political again. The sad truth is, however, that life and living itself must get politcal if its going to boil down to crying out against the boiling of human beings. Extremist. Dangerous. I’m on the wrong side and at both extremes of the political spectrum. Either way my color is dark and unhappy. I cannot trust a single soul.
My dear Pat, you called last night to tell me once again about your financial predicament. Don’t do that anymore. You are poor, broke, down without a dime, but this does not prevent you from having a pot belly and cable TV. Anyway I don’t care. Not until you join the ranks. Not until you are ready to cast blame. My father called up a few hours ago to ask me for Christmas suggestions. He’s going shopping at the Mall tomorrow. This has got to stop. I am a grown man. On the other side of the world America is bombing children. Bodies are being ripped open, bombs are falling, blood is spurting out of holes shot through human bone and skin, and running into sewage drains. Bombs are raining on the desert and in the street. Everyone on that side of the planet is screaming. What could I possibly want? What do I dare need?
Jesus Christ, is there a sensitive man I can talk to?
My old friend, you are the bottom dreaming of the top. But your top is my bottom, and I don’t know a single soul alive who thinks like me. Now I think I can tell my Dad what I want for Christmas.
I would like some teeth of a murdered Afghan child. I want to wrap them in a handkerchief to lay beneath your granddaughter’s pillow. I want the tooth fairy to hover lightly above the murdered Afghan child who lies inside your grandchild in bed, sleeping and dreaming on her pillow.
And Dad, wouldn’t it be swell if all of America had to run outside tonight screaming in the pouring rain? Wouldn’t it be great to know that by tomorrow the world would have collapsed and all the wrong was gone for good? That too. I want that too.
I don’t know if Border’s has that, or JC Penny, or Kinney shoes. You might have to go to, but by the time you get online the whole world might be dead. And really, who would know or care as long as we preserved in our brains the hopeful thought of shopping today?
This letter has become another one of my anger bombs. Please make this stop. Teach me soon Pat, before I go nuts, the art about not giving a good god damn.

Letter to The Credit Store, Inc.


You don’t know me because I haven’t a face. This morning I want to put one on so whoever you are will know me, and we might become great friends spending lavishly together for the rest of our lives.
Twelve years ago I got a credit card while attending college. Five hundred dollars credit was quite a sum to the boy who had not a penny in his pocket. Nor a job. Nor any intention of ever getting a job. I took it eagerly, (show me any nineteen-year-old without means who would not), and spent every dollar allowed on gas money, cigarettes, chips, soda, and beer all the way to New Orleans and back.
I am sure that then I had every intention of paying my debt. However, a year later, after graduation, I was cooking my meals on a wood stove and trying to stay alive without money. So you can see I was unable to pay the monthly balance. Interest added up by the hour while I ignored every single bill that came to my table. Any heat in winter depended upon my own two hands, so I decided not to make money-making a priority because my infant daughter needed wood on the fire and constant giving moments of loving attention. I am proud to say that for quite some time I was able to chop, stack, and burn my fuel without earning a dime.
Years passed. I lived from check to check, or from week to week without a check. I moved my home over twenty times, and was even homeless a couple Aprils in a row. My initial credit card company finally gave up on me. They sold my account, writing me off as a bad debt. Tax savings for them, and a new human poker chip for an upstart garage company to gamble with.
Fortunately I was in the right frame of mind to not give them the chance to make a profit by me, at least not without my consent. I too wanted a piece of the action. But the new company never sent a penny my way. Only more letters demanding money.
Year after year I was sold to many different companies, probably for some ridiculously low sum, and each company not losing a penny on my bad debt because the IRS was, and is, a WASP mafia-like organization of government worshiping, half people with no self-respect. Then last year I was caught off guard. I answered the phone.
It was your company calling.
You wanted the sum I spent in New Orleans, plus nearly double the principle in interest. I wanted to please my wife. Like the fool I am and shall always be, I agreed to your terms, forgetting that I had every right to hang up the telephone. Guilty about money spent twelve years ago, I was getting older, more set in my ways, and leaning further toward the open arms of the middle classes. I wanted to mow my lawn, eat my meat, drag my bones about the house like a two-week old battery-powered toy, and pay all outstanding debts, eventually. At the time I never thought about who I was paying. Who had begging rights to my money? Was it you? But you were not my initial lenders. You were the parasitic worm of man, the lowest of the low, exceptional human cheater, better than the best thief at tying up and ripping off members of your own species. I realized this the moment I hung up the phone. I was caught. Cornered by middle class conscience, self duress persuaded my player to surrender his piece in the Capitalistic Extortion Guilt Game.
Oh well. The fool and someone else’s money.
I paid the debt with a little extra to spare.
Now I want my extra back.
My last bill says I have a credit balance of $12.02. You can choose not to pay in full. However, there is a minimum charge of $.59 and an annual interest rate of 20.07%. If I am not in receipt of at least the minimum payment by December 21, 2001, there will be a delinquency charge of $35.00 added to your account. If you do not want to be written off as a delinquent by a delinquent, I would suggest sending the money right on time.
I am doing business as “Ron Throop’s Credit Emporium” and your company is my first customer. After reviewing your economic history I regret to inform you that your credit limit is set at $12.02. So no card will be issued.
You will receive a bill each month for as long as you are in debt to me. Your account number is 12345-6789.
Any questions? Call me. You already have every number ever associated with my name.

P.S. This is how I calculate your average daily balance. First I figure a portion of the 55,000 years of pent-up, masochistic silliness, and divide that by the cost of a discount camera, and five pound can of cheap coffee bought on credit at a thrift store. Then I take the beginning balance of a very cheap Christ, Zoroaster, Mohammed, Buddha, five hundred and twenty-two Hindu deities, add an endless slew of new, meaningless purchases, multiply that ending balance by the zero lifetime spent calculating credit and debit, inhale a deep breath of that infinite emptiness, and blow it into a big green plastic bag. I quickly tie up the ends of the bag, walk out into my backyard with a spade and my new big balloon, dig a deep hole, drop the big balloon in, cover the hole, and firmly pack the very cheap dirt down over it. Then I lay the spade on the grass beside my toes, pull my jeans down around my ankles, and piss a hot stream of urine all over your money grave. This gives me the “average daily balance,” and a very powerful sense of lifetime security.

P.P.S. I think I shall charge you an annual fee of $45.00         beginning January 1, 2002.

P.P.P.S. This communication is from a debt collector.

Pleasure doing business with you, you usurious scum of the earth.

Ron Throop

Letter to Mr. Ahmed Kuschbash, an Old Afghan Man Watching His Grandbabies Explode

You don’t know me but I am a citizen of the United States. Your country is being bombed by my country and I don’t care. I’m too worried about getting a job. Anyway, what special prize would I get for wondering about the safety of your family? So you see, I can’t worry. The President said not to worry. He said America is fighting a crusade against evil. To tell the truth I also find my solace in the green flashes and thick, hot smoke choking your insignificant nation. It’s interesting and, I confess, even a bit soothing to my spirit. My television won’t show your son’s intestines hanging out of his barely breathing body. I think that’s because our journalists would chew on a hot sandwich with curly fries rather than tell the truth.
I don’t care because I can’t, not because I would, even if I could. I am an American scum, a coward, a hideabout. This winter I’ll most certainly pay taxes on time to have my road paved next year and your grandchildren blown apart tomorrow. I am not alone. All of my American brethren are sissies and cowards too. As long as the money comes, and the video, and the new car—we will hand money over to the war machine, the evil crusaders, the sick fundamentalist white, black, and blue preachers who run the country now. Thanksgiving is in two weeks and I think we’d eat you dirty people if the President told us too, and ordered his generals to wrap you up in plastic mesh bags like headless Tom Turkeys.
Mr. Kuschbash, I understand that you just turned seventy-nine years old. Congratulations on your long life. Hopefully upon reading this, you still have warm blood in circulation. Or has one of our bombs already speckled your cave walls red? Do you like dying for no cause? Were you retired? No, you could not possibly understand what that word means. You’re still milking one goat and you’ll milk her every morning until a United States soldier fires a bullet through your head for speaking in tongues. You should see how the little old men and women of America sympathize with your present plight! As long as the retirement check comes in the mail, the typical senior citizen does not care a new set of teeth if a troop of soldiers just forced you to swallow your own big toe. Would you care about them if you had shuffleboard, golf, a proud array of cheap pretty things to look at, and lavender-scented sheets to lie down upon? Yes you would. But you’re an ancient religion that Americans cannot for the life of them understand, even though they’ve been given the power of free thought. Americans are spoiled dogs. Loyal pets to the machine. Dedicated in equal proportion to the amount of hamburger chunks tossed to them.
I must admit that I am no better. Yes, I am young and against everything, but I also have my own babies, and do not intend to raise a finger to help you old man. I fear that something bad might befall my family. I fear my government, but not in the same way that you fear it. In this country, a soldier cannot pull a man out of his home and shoot him dead in the street. Not here in America! No, the sneaky rats of our government would have the flag wavers do it to him first. My own neighbors, the mob of men and women who need Afghan children to die so their hearts can glow warm with brotherhood. No, if I show the slightest mark of dissent, their gentle ways, their hearts overflowing with glorious thoughts of brotherhood, will break into my house, rape my wife, call my oldest daughter a sand-nigger loving toad, and surely stone me to death. I see what bombing your country does to them. It fills them with glee. They’re hopping up and down, joyfully waiting for shuffleboard. Every single one of these monsters will remain silent until our government says that the war is over. Translated into the Afghan tongue that means literally “get a good look at your friend’s head today, Mr. Kuschbash, for tomorrow it’s faceless history.”
It is the mob mentality of my neighbors, the living dead, waiting for their chance at shuffleboard and medicated living; they are the guilty ones. God says so. Any real poet says so. Yet both are forced into quiet for fear of their lives. Yes Mr. Kuschbash, it’s true. America would blow it’s own God out of the sky if it stood in the way of their right to shuffleboard. My street’s representative to God has an American flag waving from his porch roof and satellite dish attached to his steeple. He must also appreciate very much the green flashes ripping across a night sky!
I understand that you had nothing to do with crashing jet liners into very tall buildings. But I promise you that I am the only one here who understands that much. The other 279 million plus human idiots know that you had no part, yet the President says you have to die else the price of gasoline and airline tickets will rise by twelve percent. That’s good enough reason for everyone here to want proof that you’re dead.
Dear Mr. Kuschbash, are you still reading? Or did you crawl out of your cave to milk the goat, pump some water, or do whatever poor, luckless chore you must do to survive? I understand. But my President publicly swears that you’re a violent madman. He vows to kill you and everyone. I know and you know that privately, he’s sexually, religiously, and ferociously frustrated. He and everyone else in the world knows that your only utensil is a scratched, aluminum spoon. And no doubt old man, you have the power to pop out our eyeballs and fling them with that spoon.
Finished? Yes of course you are old man! Might as well enjoy what night you have left, do whatever it is you funny-looking ragamuffins do for enjoyment, play a game with a long stick, smile your toothless hopes and dreams for one more night, because tomorrow you’re dead waste!
Anyway, what I want to know is this… What would you do if the American war machine accidentally left behind a B-52 bomber outside your cave? Inside the cockpit you’ll find a little instructional manual written in your language. It contains information needed to fly it, and mechanically unlatch the big hatch in the hull so you can drop pretty yellow bombs and matching colored food parcels on the harmless village of your choice. What would you do with such a gift? Would you follow through with its original, satanic intentions? Not likely. I think instead, you’d set up housekeeping in the plane, divide the food out evenly among your family and friends, and let the goat nibble on the shiny yellow bombs. I would wait for your reply to tell me if my assumption is right, but your head and body will be separate by morning. Oh well.
Here’s a fact about those shiny yellow bombs. Did you know that our stupid, barely literate military pilots name each one before dropping it on your children? Here in America we watch the TV news every night, every single lonely night, just night after night after night, and many more nights to come until the final night comes, about the same time at night when you walk outside to milk your goat. There’s a video of a pilot smiling as he writes “from NYC fire department” across one. They personalize the bombs. It’s funny business to Americans. All of us put a smile on before killing you from thirty thousand feet up in the Afghan sky. Face to face, each one of these baby killers would shit himself in your sandbox if forced to explain his cowardly behavior to you face to face. I know the anger boiling inside your soul. I know that you will want revenge if you survive an attack. I know that if you were a few decades younger, you would become tomorrow’s terrorist, and offer your life up to the nearest demagogue with a semi-feasible plan. An eye for an eye, correct? I would do the same. Who in God’s whole creation would not?
These news videos fill me with dread. But I will forget about you Mr. Kuschbash just minutes after I turn off the television. I promised my daughter creme bruleé for dessert tonight. A moment ago I watched my wife get out of bed, and had not the least bit of difficulty getting aroused by her beauty. The moment she stepped into the shower, three or four more American bombs erased the village on the other side of that mountain. Your village is next Ahmed. I am sorry that no one will be left to buy a bag of your goat’s milk. But as far as I can tell, I am the only one who is sorry in America.
But to be completely honest… If I had only goat’s milk to bake in my custard, and my government began bombing you so that cow’s milk would come back to my kitchen, and the TV news anchor man said, “Don’t worry! We’ll never show you a dead Afghan. Just pretty green flashes and objects exploding on the ground which we’re told were trucks carrying fuel to Afghan tanks. Either that or water jugs being pulled by Afghan mules…” If I could get these conditions to insure a sweet and silky custard, I too would not care a beating heart about you Mr. Kuschbash. That’s the truth. And absolutely universal outside of Afghanistan!
I should be strangled with heaven’s shame for not changing my diet to spare the life of another human being. Ha! ha! But heaven’s dropping death on your side of the world, so it looks like I really don’t have to care a pill for you!
I just got into bed and snuggled up in my sheets to watch my beautiful baby dream. She’s nine months old and fully enjoying her free and happy existence. My wife just stepped into a hot shower and one American bomb just blew your neighbor’s cave up into dust and blood. You heard the screams. Did you think that terrorists lived there? You thought that Omar and his two shy daughters weaved blankets all day to sell at market. Not anymore. America said it will kill anyone with the name Omar. Then it said it will kill anyone who weaves blankets. It’s not a crusade against the evil ones. No. It’s a massacre of the different. It is the hot winds of destruction sent by the foul breath of human nature. The pretending innocents sit down to eat a bowl of custard. They won’t partake in the slaughter of humanity, directly. They just eat dessert and complain a little bit while the Kuschbash population is erased from existence.
The sun is rising in the East where America digs for you a hot smoking tomb Mr. Kuschbash.
I am sorry for you old man. But in this age of distrust and paranoia, I promise to forever remain more sorry for myself.

Good luck!

Ron Throop. An American coward.

Letter of Application to the United States Election Committee From the Rama Party:

Dear sirs and maybe one madam (who wants to be a sir),

Hi, my name is Ron Throop and I am running for the office of President in the year 2004. I am curious to know what preparations I must take in order to get my party on the ticket. Is there a total number of signatures I will need? How many? Any specific clauses (besides the obvious ones) which keep all honest and sincere people from trying to become President? When can I start campaigning? Please send a reply as soon as possible.
I will be fully endorsed by the Ramas. Enclosed please find my party’s official description and mission statement.
Thank you for your time.

Ronald J. Throop

The Rama Party

Under cover of night, Rama brought Lakshmana and Sita with him to his mountain retreat. He wasn’t ready to be king. Scandal would erupt in his father’s palace if Rama accepted power too hastily. He believed that time in exile would help cleanse his spirit and strengthen his resolve. Time and sacrifice he thought would cement the trust of the people.
Rama lived a peaceful existence on the mountain, loved by his perfect bride Sita, and loved and counseled by Lakshmana, his loyal half brother. His days were simple and wonderful until the morning the many-headed, lunatic monster, Ravana, stole Sita from Rama. Then the epic story of the quest for Sita begins. Flying monkeys, wise vultures, voluptuous evil deities dancing a test by temptation, secret worlds within our world, battles being fought, lost and won with bravery and meaningful death—always without smart bombs, machine guns, biological weapons, and land mines to act as a kind of appetizer to the threat of total annihilation which neither Rama nor Ravana could pull out of their immortal stockpile…Those were the days of man. As ancient as India and probably older.
We suggest to anyone who is thinking about joining the party to read The Ramayana to learn more about our hopes and fears, and our wiser solution to the present-day American crisis. We believe that success will come, but only after a total majority reads our story. For time is the maker of all miracles, and time is one thing the Rama Party has in abundance. We desire that each individual American nurture his natural right to dream all day from under a tree in an ancient forest. We believe that American freedom should consist of lying down most of the day dressed in loose, colorful clothing. All ideals, all morals are born out of that perfect hour while reading aloud the tales of Rama and Sita to our loved ones. The whole forest is alive with joy. The wild monkeys leap and laugh high up in the canopy. All days from now on are to be this sleepy and innocent.
In 2004, or 2008, if conditions are ripe (and if Rama is old enough), we will put our representative up for Presidential election.
Rama is dead but Ron Throop is not. In order for him to accept the highest office in government, he must be elected by a 99% majority. At present Ron is our only member. The party doubts very much that America, in its current loathsome condition, could spit forth another man or woman to share with Ron his romantic ideas for the presidency. Although he alone can save the country from disaster, no one has yet been willing to follow his path of thought to find out how. (If you or someone you know is a Lakshmana, please write to our candidate as soon as possible. He needs a sane and strong running mate to help with the hunting and seemingly endless wood chopping).
Rama left his kingdom. If elected President of the United States, Ron Throop promises also to leave. He will go into hiding immediately. He has already made his plans for an arduous climb up an unknown wooded mountain. All decisions of state will be made from a small, modest hut he will build singlehandedly. Aside from signing or vetoing only those bills delivered to him via a trusted messenger, he will do very little in the ways of governing. No sound will be made to the public, nor to the hired representatives of the public who make noise and more noise, with unjust intentions to pollute the public always. Because our candidate refuses to pollute the public, he will have no intercourse with the other two branches of government.
No domestic policy. No foreign policy.
In fact, no man or country is invited to dinner, unless he or it agrees to hike up the mountain alone to meet the President.
We of the Rama Party believe like Thoreau that the state which governs least, governs best. Our new president will not employ a secret service to lock up his retreat in constant surveillance. Once every day he will meet with his cabinet for a walk and talk about the state of the nation. Each member will have a cabin too, and a family there to love and interact with after advising the President. The cabinet will live in cabins, the only appropriate abode for members of all governing bodies.
Throughout his term policy cannot waver, even in the likely event that a rogue nation vows cannibalistic jihad until every last American has been eaten. Ron will keep good to his promise to do nothing.
Assassination attempts are inevitable. The party knows that the killer must be smarter than both the President and his messenger to ever get near enough to murder. Still, any successful assassination would be honored by the party. We hope the killer would choose to remain on the mountain to finish his victim’s term.
Meanwhile the President shall not be concerned over such trifling matters as self preservation. There’s a country to love and look after. How will the common man refrain from paranoia if his own President does not feel safe? Ron will accept the job after receiving 99% of the vote. No need to justify spending the people’s money protecting his skin from the radical wing of the 1%. The job pays too well to care. We strongly believe that a president should expect to die for his country. No one should protect him if he cannot protect himself. Therefore, only warriors need apply. If the President-elect is not prepared to defend the country all by his lonesome, then too bad for the entire country. Rama was an expert bowman. Ron will know how to shoulder his bazooka like a pro.
The job pays well, but our candidate expects no monetary salary. He will live on donations of food and fuel for the length of his term.
Remember, no domestic and foreign policy. All governing consists in the guise of whatever paper reaches his office for signature. No Brownie troops to meet with on Thursday morning. No Chinese Premier to happily shake hands with today and tomorrow threaten with nuclear tough talk.
Ron knows that it’s the world’s children who have their faces blown off in a war. Therefore he will forever be aggressively against it. A Secretary of War will be chosen to keep in touch with the death-wielding generals in times of hostility and unrepairable conflict. In the unlikely chance that war is declared, our President, holding tightly to his bazooka, must be the first to charge the enemy. If a draft becomes necessary, it will call for all propertied, married men, over the age of forty-five, who bought a new car at least once in their lives. Our party knows what is needful to perpetuate god’s animals on earth, and it’s not the miracle of money making money. The money hoarders never make good soldiers. So they get sent down to the front lines first. Ron believes in saving America’s youth for procreation. He knows that all wars yesterday and today are provoked by the rich and powerful. Ron says that the old rich men are too fat and comfortable to ever make a worthwhile country anyway. So each one shall stand behind his President and wait for the call to charge.
Four years of doing absolutely nothing! Letting the country go. The Executive Branch of the United States Government acting like the part time babysitter it should be, and putting on no new masks! The money we could save! The example the President would set! Nothing ever before like it. Not even George Washington. “A New Precedent by Your President!”—That could be our motto. Or we might prefer the following one: “Cloud-hidden Whereabouts Unknown”. Give us a party for our platform and we promise never to show our candidate in the public eye.
In 2004 or 2008, it’s Ron Throop and the Ramas.
If he gets one other vote it might be enough to set America on a winning path.