Thanksgiving Eve, 2007
Hello. Forgive me for having been out of touch, dear reader. Unsaved documents, Manhattan interludes, and life’s contingencies, all those things that make for good reading, have prevented me from blogging. Cut/paste/undo/do/don’t do/do again. Manhattan is, or, perhaps better, represents another world. The people, the subway, the skyscrapers, are so different to the Midwestern experience. A woman from Illinois oogled a gargoyle and exclaimed about not seeing such things in Chicago. Brigitte, my loving mate, and a student of worldliness, is a great cultural translator in terms of how to facilitate sophistication and negotiate civility. She is my existential guide. Also, thank you dear Bonnie Q. for the wonderful mix disc. R.J., Les, as always, shout outs to you and yours. Happy Thanksgiving.
The Story of an Owl
Once upon a time there was a flock of owls that lived in a forest in a small town. At some point in time a coterie of these doves decided to form an intimate, close-knit group that shared their mutual worries, hopes, and dreams. Within this parliament of owls, which is what they liked to call themselves, a certain owl became sick, his name was Oscar.
Now Oscar was a very proud owl. His greatest asset was also his gravest limitation, he always aimed to please, but he had the impossible idea that he could please everyone. Another one of his flaws was thinking himself impervious to infirmity and above any and all predicaments that might befall him. One day, after many years of preying on mice, and priding himself on his good fortune and impeccable health, he developed a pain in his wing. After ignoring it for some time, thinking it was the result of years of ardent mice catching and overzealous night flying, he resigned himself to the fact that it was time to see a veterinarian. The owl doc, like all good practitioners, began going down the list of possible causes, appealing to blood work, urine samples, and ultrasounds for a possible answer. And when these diagnostics failed to reveal a cause, he went to the next level of tests (which all owl insurance companies dread) the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging Test). Upon getting the results, the kindly vet called Oscar into his office and informed him of some worrisome results. They had found some enlarged lymph nodes in his breast and needed to send him to an owl oncologist specialist. He was then told he would need an MRI guided biopsy to see just what was going on in theses pesky nodes.
One week later the vet called Oscar, told him there were malignant cells growing within, and that a P.E.T>/CT scan (you’ll have to look up these acronyms yourself, dear reader) would be needed. The news was not good. When Oscar saw the results that highlighted the world beneath his beautiful, shiny feathers, his gizzard and surrounding organs were lit up like a Christmas tree. In explaining why, the vet told him that the cancerous tumors within him were diffuse, meaning everywhere within his abdominal area. The vet dutifully informed the now saddened and fearful owl that that he would need to begin chemotherapy immediately, and although this has been a long preface, what this tale is really about is the progression of the treatment to date. In fact, it’s about what the owl had to tell his group now, the day after his sixth infusion.
As I said, this owl had the most beautiful, shimmering feathers one could imagine. He was a preening, prideful owl, who loved to strut his stuff, perhaps a bit too much, but what can one say, every owl is different, and this owl loved his look. No mirror ever passed him by, and he always loved what he saw. On a sunny day in late July Oscar underwent his first chemo, and all went fine. After his appointment he flew to the shores of Lake Superior, slept by day, hunted by night, and enjoyed the healthful air and balmy/salubrious breezes of the summer air. Chemo number 1, you see, was not that bad. Oscar rode the night breezes, preened his proud feathers, and snoozed in the shade in blissful peace.
Number 2 was much the same, with the exception that his full-throated who-who was not what it once was, and his lustrous plumage was starting to loosen. Although he was told the effects were cumulative, he scoffed at the idea, knowing that he was different and that he would prove the exception to even the owl doctors’ wisdom. I mean, who, make that who-who, could know more. But Oscar was stubborn, prideful, obstinate and oblivious, undoubtedly the result his failure to de-mythologize his existence at an early age. Infusion number 4 served to contradict this disease of reckless romanticism by refusing to conform to Oscar’s expectations. During the second of the three-week treatments, Oscar’s temperature began to rise. His body began to shake, his bones began to ache, and the sweat poured from his feathers, drenching the straw below his perch and mightily worrying his fellow owls. After making it through a feverish night, Oscar reluctantly called his vet (please excuse my intermittent use of doc and vet) at which point he was ordered to the emergency room and given a 3 hour infusion of antibiotics. The throat was sore, the toes were numb, and the bones ached, but he decided if this was as bad as it got, no problem. Now one of his owlish problems from the beginning was his insistence on carrying on as if he wasn’t sick. Where other sick owls had pared down their activities to accommodate their infirmities, Oscar was adamant on living life as usual. Where he had always been the lead hunter as they tracked down mice and snakes, he saw no reason to change that now. If a guard was needed to alert the flock to hunters, Oscar was the Owl for the job. The trouble was, Oscar’s affliction was of a different mind than Oscar. As his beautiful feathers slowly fell out he could no longer escape the inevitable side effects of the medicine, nor could he give up his alpha-owlish qualities. He lost his speed, stamina and, perhaps most important for an owl, his shrewdness and never failing wisdom.
And so came the fourth chemo. With the exception of the numbness spreading from his wings tips to his talons, he had an easier time of it. True, it was painful for him to achieve his daily constitutionals, and the mangier and mangier look he was displaying were a blow to his owlish pride, the actual fact of a brief respite from the accumulating side-effects were a welcome relief. Number five was next. Make no mistake about it, Oscar was still intent on leading the parliament, while the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak. His throat constricted to the point that his mighty call went from an owlish pride to a dovish coo. His garbled sounds became unintelligible to the other birds and he tried to keep his larkish tears to himself. He could no longer hide the fact that he was a different bird, an ailing owl. He tried to avoid making droppings of any kind to avoid the burning and murmured sympathies of the other owls. Did I mention that Oscar lived in an owl town in southern Michigan by the name of Owl Arbor. Being a town of all owls, they would dress as such, wearing owl capes, owl knickers, and owl finery of every shape and size. One night, Oscar, preparing for an owl extravaganza, had a special velvet cape picked out especially for this grand event, but when he went to put it on his numbed talons made it such that he couldn’t button it. Oscar cried, and he knew that, yes, this was real. He was a different bird.
*********
Madness or genius? The most bizarre tests conducted in the name of scientific inquiry. (By Ian Sample, taken from the “Guardian Weekly” 09/11/07)
One Friday in August 1962, Warren Thomas, director of Lincoln Park Zoo in Oklahoma City, raised his rifle and took aim at Tusko the elephant. With a squeeze of the trigger he scored a direct hit on the animal’s rump, firing a cartridge full of the hallucinogenic drug LSD into the animal’s bloodstream. The dose was 3,000 times what a human might take for recreational purposes, and the results were extraordinary. Tusko charged around and trumpeted loudly for a few minutes before keeling over dead.
The case of Tusko the elephant is among 10 of the most bizarre experiments carried out in the quest for knowledge and reported in New Scientist magazine last week. If there is a fine line between madness and genius, many of those involved firmly crossed it.
In one experiment in the 1960s, 10 soldiers boarded an aircraft for what the believed was a routine training mission from Fort Hunter Liggett air base in California. After climbing to about 5,000 feet the plane suddenly lurched to one side and began to fall. Over the intercom, the pilot announced: “We have an emergency. An engine has stalled and the landing gear is not functioning. I’m going to attempt to ditch in the ocean.” While the soldiers faced almost certain death, a steward handed out insurance forms and asked the men to complete them, explaining it was necessary for the army to be covered if they died. Little did the soldiers know they were completely safe. It was an experiment to find out how extreme stress affects cognitive ability, the forms serving as the test. Once the final soldier had completed his form the pilot said: “Just kidding about that emergency folks!”
One of the most gruesome experiments to make New Scientist’s list was performed by the Soviet surgeon Vladimir Demikhov. In 1954 he unveiled a two-headed dog, created in the lab by grafting the head, shoulders and front legs of a puppy on to the neck of a German Shepherd dog. Journalists brought in to examine the creature noted how milk dribbled from the stump of the puppy’s head when it attempted to lap milk. Occasionally, the two would fight, with the German Shepherd trying to shake the puppy off, and the puppy retaliating by biting back. The unfortunate creation lived for six days.
Several attempts to unravel the mysteries of human behavior also make the list. Clarence Leuba, a psychologist from Yellow Springs, Ohio, set out to discover whether laughing when tickled was a learned or spontaneous reaction, and commandeered his newborn son and later daughter into the study.
Then there was Lawrence LeShan, a researcher from Virginia who in 1942 stood in a room of sleeping boys repeating “my fingernails taste terribly bitter” to see if it broke their nailbiting habit.
In another experiment, a doctor called Stubbins Firth from Philadelphia drank fresh vomit from yellow fever patients to prove it was not a contagious disease. He claimed to be right when he failed to become ill in 1804, but scientists have since shown yellow fever is extremely contagious, but has to be transmitted directly into the bloodstream.
A similarly flawed experiment by Robert Cornish at the University of California in the 1930s tried to bring dead animals back to life by tilting them up and down on a seesaw. The few that did stir back to life momentarily after death were severely brain damaged.
Predictably, sex also features. When investigating the sexual arousal of male turkeys, researchers at Penn State University were impressed to see that the birds would attempt to mate with lookalike dummies. Piece by piece they removed parts of the dummy and found that the males were still highly aroused when presented with a head on a stick.
November 21, 2007
November 7, 2007
Berbalangs
The little island of Cagayan Sulu lies at the southern end of the Philippine group. In the center of the island is a small village inhabited by a people called the Berbalangs. The Cagayans live in great fear of them. The Berbalangs are ghouls, and must eat flesh occasionally or they will die. They have a very distinctive look in that the pupils of their eyes are not round, but rather oval with narrow slits, like those of a cat. They dig up graves and eat the entrails of corpses; but in Cagayan the supply is limited, so when they feel the craving for a feed of human flesh they go away into the grass, and, having carefully hidden their bodies, hold their breath and fall into a trance. Their astral bodies are then liberated. They fly away, and entering a house make their way into the body of one of the occupants and feed on his entrails. The Berbalangs may be heard coming, as they make a moaning noise which is loud at a distance and dies away to a feeble moan as they approach. When they are near you the sound of their wings may be heard and the flashing lights of their eyes can be seen like dancing fire-flies in the dark. Should you be the happy possessor of a cocoa-nut pearl you are safe, but otherwise the only way to beat them off is to cut at them with a kris, the blade of which has been rubbed with the juice of a lime.
If you see the lights and hear the moaning in front of you, wheel suddenly round and make a cut in the opposite direction. Berbalangs always go by contraries and are never where they appear to be. The cocoa-nut pearl, a stone like an opal sometimes found in the cocoa-nut, is the only really efficacious charm against their attacks; and it is only of value to the finder, as its magic powers cease when it is given away. When the finder dies the pearl loses its luster and becomes dead.”
If you see the lights and hear the moaning in front of you, wheel suddenly round and make a cut in the opposite direction. Berbalangs always go by contraries and are never where they appear to be. The cocoa-nut pearl, a stone like an opal sometimes found in the cocoa-nut, is the only really efficacious charm against their attacks; and it is only of value to the finder, as its magic powers cease when it is given away. When the finder dies the pearl loses its luster and becomes dead.”
November 6, 2007
Stories From Camp Kitsch (cont.)
In the summer of 1991, a blistering hot season, Nicole Merryweather and Ward Stakel happened to be flying to Los Angeles on the same plane. They were neither friends, nor had they ever met, and so they had nothing to say to each other. They were, however, seated together, and while the 757 passed over the western prairies, over small heartland towns and bone dry red-dust fields, they sat in leather recliners, where the velvet headrests and temperature controlled seats made them oblivious to the choking drought below them.
It was that intensely un-seasonal heat that caused the downdraft that spilled Ward's martini on Nicole's lap. This spill in turn led to a discussion of who they were and where they had come from. They talked about growing up in Detroit, living in the shadow of monolithic steel and auto factories, experiencing the harsh winters and scorching summers of the upper mid-west: frigid, fierce winters when the world takes on an icy slick glare, when one is heavily swaddled in gortex and fur under iron gray skies, in the damp cold of southeast Michigan, in the brittle starkness of sub-zero sunlit days; stifling summers with occasional rain, when the grasses turn from green to orange and the pollinated particulate poisons the air. They agreed that a person who had not lived in the city could never understand the experience. In short, they felt a kind of geographical solidarity; they found that they lived close to one another. Out of this idle chit-chat Nicole learned that Stakel was a private investigator for Northwest Airlines, and was sometimes away from his office for weeks on end.
But this might never have occurred. Had Stakel's wife been with them, as she usually was on these trips, they would never have talked at length. Nicole would not have liked Stakel's wife. True, she was attractive, ambitious, and self assertive; but she was also gullible and remarkably lacking in enthusiasm--at least when it came to Stakel. Stakel's modest demeanor bothered his wife. Although she jealously tracked him in his work, she also found it worthwhile to entertain certain illusions about her artistic skills, financial status, and cultural sophistication. She played the patroness to questionable "artistes" of unlimited aspiration and mediocre ability. Thanks to a portfolio of stable utilities, Millicent, a name she insisted on in every situation, was financially self sufficient enough to keep her own apartment. It was on paper only that she retained the title of Mrs. Ward Stakel.
Fortunately, Stakel had a knack for remaining oblivious to factors beyond his control; a man who treated disappointment as one would a cold or a rash, as something viral and objective rather than as something experienced personally. His unflagging optimism and belief in moral rectitude suited him well for the role he would play in Nicole's story. Stakel's romantic character, tempered by his shrewd sense of humor made him uncannily successful in most of his endeavors. His abiding passion for justice was a moral compass that seemed to drive, as much as govern, his actions. An ironclad faith in the possibility of "Good" and "Right" shaped his identity in terms of character and action. He was a throwback of sorts. His singular gift was his ability to romanticize the experience of others while refusing to mythologize his own existence.
As the hours passed they opened up to one another in that wistful, blue stratosphere, Nicole turned to a lonely memory of her father’s death; a subject that touched upon issues that concerned Stakel most: matters of moral consequence and retribution, and of what happened to Nicole's father twenty long years before.
For a time, years in fact, Nicole had forgotten how to think about her father as a living breathing person; but in pouring out her story, in reconstructing his image in her memory, she exposed a filial bond, a blood covenant that had always been there. For whatever reasons, her mind was on him that cloudless day, in the air, above the earth. She resurrected her father's sense of care, and in doing so made Stakel see him as she saw him, which only further revived her deep affection for him. "I have kept a journal of what I remember about my father, and what I might attribute to him, things that might have been. The praise and blame I attach to my state in life lies heavy on ghostly shoulders; for better or for worse," she told him. "This diary is my strongest bower in my darkest hours." When Stakel expressed an interest in seeing the log, Nicole agreed that someday he should read it--if it were ever finished.
Upon landing, Stakel found the nearest concourse, ordered a double Glen Livet and decided it was best to leave the past alone. But he couldn't get Nicole's story out of his head. Three months later, after much soul searching, and constant pressure from his wife to forget about it, Stakel left a message on Merryweather's answering machine asking if he could help her discover the truth about what happened, if that was indeed possible.
Straining against the straps, Nicole reached out to her father, trying to pull his head out of the bloody water slowly pooling around his half-submerged face. She could almost touch him. Over and over she tried, even knowing that it was too late, he would never live again. Knowing what she could do no longer mattered. Not anymore. One last, futile surge freed her shoulder. Cradling his bloody face in her soft hands she gently sat him upright, allowing his head to roll back onto the headrest. Its crimson ice-mask cracked like an enormous oozing blister. His eyes went from marble to flame, an orange-yellow pus mist, sickly-sweet and hot, sprayed her face. His mouth, its broken teeth and black gums in death-yawn, produced a grayish brown tongue; which slowly protruded into a position to say something; but instead licked her eyes and nose. Blackish red clots of blood clung to her face in the wash of the obscene tongue. Nicole began to cry hysterically as she struggled with the door handle. "You're next, you cunting mother whore," the face in the car window howled. "Except first I'm going to fuck you, everywhere, and you don't want to fuck with me...ever..."
Nicole sat bolt upright, her face buried in the sanctuary of the soaked pillow. Nightmare tears and sweats were familiar to her. "...Daddy, you're drowning", she repeated, the reality trace of her excess dream trailing off in clumsy words. Shaking convulsively, she turned on her safe side in fetal security.
Nicole could feel the sweat cool to a goose chill as she prayed that this time the dream would be forgotten, knowing too that the next would seem as awful in its brand-new-way as the last one. At least she had not puked. This had happened only twice before, but it was something new, and she feared this awful symptom signaled the psychosomatic possibilities of her nightmare.
She stared at the naked 200 watt bulb as if it were a source of rescue from her lifelong torment: trying once again to understand the dream, and trying to forget it, to make it go away forever.
The scratch of the cat on the screen jolted her out of her meditative paranoia into full blown fright. She crept naked across the Pakistani runner to let the cat in--but nothing was there. She tried to go back to sleep, even knowing the dream always forecast a new bout of insomniac nights.
One week after this dream Nicole returned Stakel's call. "Ward Stakel," she said. Millicent answered.
"Is that Ms. Merryweather?" I've got a message here, from Ward Stakel."
"May I speak to him?"
"He's on another line right now, but he said that he's sorry, but he is no longer interested in your case. He’s very busy and has no time right now to take on any new commitments."
"Tell him I have to speak with him, it's urgent."
"I can't, I'm afraid he left explicit instructions that I not interrupt him. He was quite clear on this."
"Don't interrupt him! He called me."
"I'm sorry but those are his instructions."
"Please. I have to talk to him."
"Goodbye."
"Who was that," Stakel asked from his office as Millicent hung up.
"Oh, just another phone solicitor. They're so persistent. You've got to be firm with them. That's the secret. It's the only way to discourage them. They've got to be taught the perils of invading one's privacy," she said, putting down her fingernail file.
"Do they call often when you're here?"
"No, actually it's a recent thing," she said guardedly. The telephone rang again. Stakel waved her off. "It could be another salesman. I'd better answer it."
"I want to speak with private investigator Ward Stakel."
"Mr. Gray, Yes. I am in the process of having your deposition transcribed. Could we set up a time to go over it?"
"Stakel? Can you talk?"
"Of course. I've got all the relevant information at my Queen City office. Let's meet there. I understand. How about on the 22nd at 10 o'clock? Fine. I'll look forward to seeing you then. Goodbye."
"I'm surprised it wasn't another phone solicitor, Ward."
"I'm glad it wasn't. I've been interested in Gray's case for a while. He's being black-mailed by a former boyfriend who is threatening to expose his exotic sexual dalliances to his obsessively jealous wife. Are you enjoying your tea this afternoon, dear? Earl Gray, again."
It was that intensely un-seasonal heat that caused the downdraft that spilled Ward's martini on Nicole's lap. This spill in turn led to a discussion of who they were and where they had come from. They talked about growing up in Detroit, living in the shadow of monolithic steel and auto factories, experiencing the harsh winters and scorching summers of the upper mid-west: frigid, fierce winters when the world takes on an icy slick glare, when one is heavily swaddled in gortex and fur under iron gray skies, in the damp cold of southeast Michigan, in the brittle starkness of sub-zero sunlit days; stifling summers with occasional rain, when the grasses turn from green to orange and the pollinated particulate poisons the air. They agreed that a person who had not lived in the city could never understand the experience. In short, they felt a kind of geographical solidarity; they found that they lived close to one another. Out of this idle chit-chat Nicole learned that Stakel was a private investigator for Northwest Airlines, and was sometimes away from his office for weeks on end.
But this might never have occurred. Had Stakel's wife been with them, as she usually was on these trips, they would never have talked at length. Nicole would not have liked Stakel's wife. True, she was attractive, ambitious, and self assertive; but she was also gullible and remarkably lacking in enthusiasm--at least when it came to Stakel. Stakel's modest demeanor bothered his wife. Although she jealously tracked him in his work, she also found it worthwhile to entertain certain illusions about her artistic skills, financial status, and cultural sophistication. She played the patroness to questionable "artistes" of unlimited aspiration and mediocre ability. Thanks to a portfolio of stable utilities, Millicent, a name she insisted on in every situation, was financially self sufficient enough to keep her own apartment. It was on paper only that she retained the title of Mrs. Ward Stakel.
Fortunately, Stakel had a knack for remaining oblivious to factors beyond his control; a man who treated disappointment as one would a cold or a rash, as something viral and objective rather than as something experienced personally. His unflagging optimism and belief in moral rectitude suited him well for the role he would play in Nicole's story. Stakel's romantic character, tempered by his shrewd sense of humor made him uncannily successful in most of his endeavors. His abiding passion for justice was a moral compass that seemed to drive, as much as govern, his actions. An ironclad faith in the possibility of "Good" and "Right" shaped his identity in terms of character and action. He was a throwback of sorts. His singular gift was his ability to romanticize the experience of others while refusing to mythologize his own existence.
As the hours passed they opened up to one another in that wistful, blue stratosphere, Nicole turned to a lonely memory of her father’s death; a subject that touched upon issues that concerned Stakel most: matters of moral consequence and retribution, and of what happened to Nicole's father twenty long years before.
For a time, years in fact, Nicole had forgotten how to think about her father as a living breathing person; but in pouring out her story, in reconstructing his image in her memory, she exposed a filial bond, a blood covenant that had always been there. For whatever reasons, her mind was on him that cloudless day, in the air, above the earth. She resurrected her father's sense of care, and in doing so made Stakel see him as she saw him, which only further revived her deep affection for him. "I have kept a journal of what I remember about my father, and what I might attribute to him, things that might have been. The praise and blame I attach to my state in life lies heavy on ghostly shoulders; for better or for worse," she told him. "This diary is my strongest bower in my darkest hours." When Stakel expressed an interest in seeing the log, Nicole agreed that someday he should read it--if it were ever finished.
Upon landing, Stakel found the nearest concourse, ordered a double Glen Livet and decided it was best to leave the past alone. But he couldn't get Nicole's story out of his head. Three months later, after much soul searching, and constant pressure from his wife to forget about it, Stakel left a message on Merryweather's answering machine asking if he could help her discover the truth about what happened, if that was indeed possible.
Straining against the straps, Nicole reached out to her father, trying to pull his head out of the bloody water slowly pooling around his half-submerged face. She could almost touch him. Over and over she tried, even knowing that it was too late, he would never live again. Knowing what she could do no longer mattered. Not anymore. One last, futile surge freed her shoulder. Cradling his bloody face in her soft hands she gently sat him upright, allowing his head to roll back onto the headrest. Its crimson ice-mask cracked like an enormous oozing blister. His eyes went from marble to flame, an orange-yellow pus mist, sickly-sweet and hot, sprayed her face. His mouth, its broken teeth and black gums in death-yawn, produced a grayish brown tongue; which slowly protruded into a position to say something; but instead licked her eyes and nose. Blackish red clots of blood clung to her face in the wash of the obscene tongue. Nicole began to cry hysterically as she struggled with the door handle. "You're next, you cunting mother whore," the face in the car window howled. "Except first I'm going to fuck you, everywhere, and you don't want to fuck with me...ever..."
Nicole sat bolt upright, her face buried in the sanctuary of the soaked pillow. Nightmare tears and sweats were familiar to her. "...Daddy, you're drowning", she repeated, the reality trace of her excess dream trailing off in clumsy words. Shaking convulsively, she turned on her safe side in fetal security.
Nicole could feel the sweat cool to a goose chill as she prayed that this time the dream would be forgotten, knowing too that the next would seem as awful in its brand-new-way as the last one. At least she had not puked. This had happened only twice before, but it was something new, and she feared this awful symptom signaled the psychosomatic possibilities of her nightmare.
She stared at the naked 200 watt bulb as if it were a source of rescue from her lifelong torment: trying once again to understand the dream, and trying to forget it, to make it go away forever.
The scratch of the cat on the screen jolted her out of her meditative paranoia into full blown fright. She crept naked across the Pakistani runner to let the cat in--but nothing was there. She tried to go back to sleep, even knowing the dream always forecast a new bout of insomniac nights.
One week after this dream Nicole returned Stakel's call. "Ward Stakel," she said. Millicent answered.
"Is that Ms. Merryweather?" I've got a message here, from Ward Stakel."
"May I speak to him?"
"He's on another line right now, but he said that he's sorry, but he is no longer interested in your case. He’s very busy and has no time right now to take on any new commitments."
"Tell him I have to speak with him, it's urgent."
"I can't, I'm afraid he left explicit instructions that I not interrupt him. He was quite clear on this."
"Don't interrupt him! He called me."
"I'm sorry but those are his instructions."
"Please. I have to talk to him."
"Goodbye."
"Who was that," Stakel asked from his office as Millicent hung up.
"Oh, just another phone solicitor. They're so persistent. You've got to be firm with them. That's the secret. It's the only way to discourage them. They've got to be taught the perils of invading one's privacy," she said, putting down her fingernail file.
"Do they call often when you're here?"
"No, actually it's a recent thing," she said guardedly. The telephone rang again. Stakel waved her off. "It could be another salesman. I'd better answer it."
"I want to speak with private investigator Ward Stakel."
"Mr. Gray, Yes. I am in the process of having your deposition transcribed. Could we set up a time to go over it?"
"Stakel? Can you talk?"
"Of course. I've got all the relevant information at my Queen City office. Let's meet there. I understand. How about on the 22nd at 10 o'clock? Fine. I'll look forward to seeing you then. Goodbye."
"I'm surprised it wasn't another phone solicitor, Ward."
"I'm glad it wasn't. I've been interested in Gray's case for a while. He's being black-mailed by a former boyfriend who is threatening to expose his exotic sexual dalliances to his obsessively jealous wife. Are you enjoying your tea this afternoon, dear? Earl Gray, again."
November 5, 2007
Stories From Camp Kitsch (cont.)
Although it was hardly noticed at the time by reviewers, on July 18, 1990, a two-volume work was published in Milwaukee, the manuscript had been written in prison during the previous year and a half by Zeke Pluto. “Anarchies of Reason” and “Anxiety of Contentment” set out the Plutonic Signifier’s philosophy.
It was evident from a close reading of the work that Pluto had strong pretensions to entrenching a major religious movement, and that he considered the world as a whole to be in danger of forever corrupting itself. There were, he argued in the book, twin perils threatening the fabric of humanity: one was souless, and unchecked technological growth, the other, "rampant utilitarianism." It was his experience in foster care, the military, and the prison system, that had taught him the truth about the goal of the New World Order's conspiracy: to rid the world of "altruistic collectivism" by means of political coercion, ideological domination and spiritual corruption.
The rubric, New World Order," hitherto an umbrella term referring to the economically affluent nations defined as the First World, took on, in Pluto's theory, a new meaning, one that within a decade was to capture the minds of millions worldwide. For Pluto, "altruistic collectivism" was synonymous with "virtue." By contrast, "New World Order Conspiracy" was synonymous with "moral corruption." Pluto's appeal is to individual, Edenic innocence and vulnerability. Considering the "inherent invidiousness" of the New World Orders' ideological project, Pluto wrote, "how can the unfortunate victims be blamed?" The politics of the mass consumer culture conspiracy are such that its proponents are akin to precision automatons, instruments of "dialectical perfidy, their ideological apparatuses distortions of truth.” According to Pluto, “modern life itself is a calculated device, an epistemological and ontological trap. The bourgeois worker and global under-class are the victims, not the beneficiaries, of technological progress.”
In "Anxiety of Contentment" Pluto represented himself as a man who had experienced, and would forever resist, not only the depersonalization of progress but the destruction of the ethic of communal obligation, and, by extension, the integrity of life on earth. The threat, as he perceived it, concerned the degradation of moral self-autonomy, and an attempt to deliberately obliterate that integrity. He told his readers:
"The ideological functionary bides his time,insidiously categorizing, quantifying and appropriating the unsuspecting target's ontological center with his pernicious and pychosocial machinations, indoctrinating through a dogma of false consciousness and thus alienating the subject from the bosom of the natural world. The New world Order ideologue marshals every resource available to undermine the foundations of core selfhood. Systematically, he blurs the distinction between ego and machine, striving to sever the ties between self and language. Technology, misused, is responsible for weapons both inert and organic that present the most dangerous and immediate threat to mankind. Only through an unremitting and thorough rejection of technological meliorism can we avoid the apocalypse."
In “Anarchies of Reason” Pluto outlined his mission: he would expose and then annihilate the looming threat posed by the rise of technology. Pluto not only warned his readers of what he considered the imminent danger to mankind; he also explained his role in combating those dangers. His message was apocalyptic: "Should schizophrenic technology, aided by consumer ideology, triumph over being, Pluto wrote, "its inexorable movement will be the funeral march of mankind, and this planet will follow its orbit through the ether, without any human life on its surface, as it did millions of years ago. And so I believe today that my conduct is in accordance with the will of the unnamed and prime mover. In smiting down the technologies of materialism I am defending the Lord's creation."
By 1992, Zeke Pluto's attraction reflected his cult propagandists' political skill in creating a hero out of the common man. A glorification achieved by painting him as the innocent victim of a soulless society. Pluto did not impress all observers.
Theologically, Plato's dogma was predicated on those gaps that comprise the contradiction between faith and disbelief. His ministry was an attempt to reconcile this paradox. According to Pluto, yes, the Bible tells us that "God is our refuge and strength, / a very present help in trouble (Psalms 46:1), but it should also be understood that if you talk to God you are praying; if God talks to you, you have schizophrenia. It was upon this ambiguity, this theosophical schizophrenia that invariably mediated the God/believer paradigm, that Pluto established the core of his doctrine. Schizophrenia, in fact, came to define Pluto's ideas on how one should live. That the "New World Order," a post cold-war euphemism for the “Ancien Regime”, would associate this sensibility with silent minorities and the fanatic fringe is typical of pre-genocidal propaganda historically.
The left colored him as a racist ethnocentric while the right saw him as an immoral Jeremiah born of anarchistic revolutionary forces. So it was easy for conservative talking-heads, like Howie Boekrusch, and liberal byte-spinners, like McCarthy Magwitch, to condemn Pluto's ideas according to their self-tailored political agendas. In one famous tract, Boekrusch (pronounced Buckrush) compared Pluto's cult members to the Hutu minority, who, in Rwanda in 1994, butchered 800,000 of the Tutsi majority. The colonial construction of this bloody rift was never mentioned. In a similar fashion, Magwitch had excoriated Pluto on theoretical grounds, claiming that the totalitarian bent of his group should be less influenced by Stalin and Mao than Marx and Trotsky. The charge was that Pluto had abandoned all things socialistic and even democratic, applying violence as a means of internal allegiance in the same way that dictators resorted to terror as an instrument of domestic policy. Both views held some truth.
It was evident from a close reading of the work that Pluto had strong pretensions to entrenching a major religious movement, and that he considered the world as a whole to be in danger of forever corrupting itself. There were, he argued in the book, twin perils threatening the fabric of humanity: one was souless, and unchecked technological growth, the other, "rampant utilitarianism." It was his experience in foster care, the military, and the prison system, that had taught him the truth about the goal of the New World Order's conspiracy: to rid the world of "altruistic collectivism" by means of political coercion, ideological domination and spiritual corruption.
The rubric, New World Order," hitherto an umbrella term referring to the economically affluent nations defined as the First World, took on, in Pluto's theory, a new meaning, one that within a decade was to capture the minds of millions worldwide. For Pluto, "altruistic collectivism" was synonymous with "virtue." By contrast, "New World Order Conspiracy" was synonymous with "moral corruption." Pluto's appeal is to individual, Edenic innocence and vulnerability. Considering the "inherent invidiousness" of the New World Orders' ideological project, Pluto wrote, "how can the unfortunate victims be blamed?" The politics of the mass consumer culture conspiracy are such that its proponents are akin to precision automatons, instruments of "dialectical perfidy, their ideological apparatuses distortions of truth.” According to Pluto, “modern life itself is a calculated device, an epistemological and ontological trap. The bourgeois worker and global under-class are the victims, not the beneficiaries, of technological progress.”
In "Anxiety of Contentment" Pluto represented himself as a man who had experienced, and would forever resist, not only the depersonalization of progress but the destruction of the ethic of communal obligation, and, by extension, the integrity of life on earth. The threat, as he perceived it, concerned the degradation of moral self-autonomy, and an attempt to deliberately obliterate that integrity. He told his readers:
"The ideological functionary bides his time,insidiously categorizing, quantifying and appropriating the unsuspecting target's ontological center with his pernicious and pychosocial machinations, indoctrinating through a dogma of false consciousness and thus alienating the subject from the bosom of the natural world. The New world Order ideologue marshals every resource available to undermine the foundations of core selfhood. Systematically, he blurs the distinction between ego and machine, striving to sever the ties between self and language. Technology, misused, is responsible for weapons both inert and organic that present the most dangerous and immediate threat to mankind. Only through an unremitting and thorough rejection of technological meliorism can we avoid the apocalypse."
In “Anarchies of Reason” Pluto outlined his mission: he would expose and then annihilate the looming threat posed by the rise of technology. Pluto not only warned his readers of what he considered the imminent danger to mankind; he also explained his role in combating those dangers. His message was apocalyptic: "Should schizophrenic technology, aided by consumer ideology, triumph over being, Pluto wrote, "its inexorable movement will be the funeral march of mankind, and this planet will follow its orbit through the ether, without any human life on its surface, as it did millions of years ago. And so I believe today that my conduct is in accordance with the will of the unnamed and prime mover. In smiting down the technologies of materialism I am defending the Lord's creation."
By 1992, Zeke Pluto's attraction reflected his cult propagandists' political skill in creating a hero out of the common man. A glorification achieved by painting him as the innocent victim of a soulless society. Pluto did not impress all observers.
Theologically, Plato's dogma was predicated on those gaps that comprise the contradiction between faith and disbelief. His ministry was an attempt to reconcile this paradox. According to Pluto, yes, the Bible tells us that "God is our refuge and strength, / a very present help in trouble (Psalms 46:1), but it should also be understood that if you talk to God you are praying; if God talks to you, you have schizophrenia. It was upon this ambiguity, this theosophical schizophrenia that invariably mediated the God/believer paradigm, that Pluto established the core of his doctrine. Schizophrenia, in fact, came to define Pluto's ideas on how one should live. That the "New World Order," a post cold-war euphemism for the “Ancien Regime”, would associate this sensibility with silent minorities and the fanatic fringe is typical of pre-genocidal propaganda historically.
The left colored him as a racist ethnocentric while the right saw him as an immoral Jeremiah born of anarchistic revolutionary forces. So it was easy for conservative talking-heads, like Howie Boekrusch, and liberal byte-spinners, like McCarthy Magwitch, to condemn Pluto's ideas according to their self-tailored political agendas. In one famous tract, Boekrusch (pronounced Buckrush) compared Pluto's cult members to the Hutu minority, who, in Rwanda in 1994, butchered 800,000 of the Tutsi majority. The colonial construction of this bloody rift was never mentioned. In a similar fashion, Magwitch had excoriated Pluto on theoretical grounds, claiming that the totalitarian bent of his group should be less influenced by Stalin and Mao than Marx and Trotsky. The charge was that Pluto had abandoned all things socialistic and even democratic, applying violence as a means of internal allegiance in the same way that dictators resorted to terror as an instrument of domestic policy. Both views held some truth.
November 2, 2007
Toasted Snow
11/02/07
“The discontented child cries for toasted snow.”
-- Arab Proverb
It’s Friday. Sometimes you just don’t know what to write. In about 21/2 hours FUBAR plays Happy Hour. I’ve tried to come up with a list where I don’t have to sing.
Speaking of lists:
Ate a banana.
Stepped in dog shit.
Drank Yogi tea.
Listened to Jeff Beck.
Flossed.
Cleaned the kitchen light cover.
Read spreads for college football.
Listened to Ravi Shankar.
Picked college games.
Rinsed and gargled with salt and baking soda.
Talked to Brigitte on cell phone..
Practiced songs.
Put an apple (not a potato) in my pocket.
Pondered photo of Everglades.
Looked at the time.
4 o’clock
MEDICAL
NYT 11/02/07 2 Winning Drug Tests, One Expected and One a Surprise
An experimental drug from Vertex Pharmaceuticals helped cure more than 60 percent of patients with a tough-to-treat form of hepatitis C, according to data to be presented at a medical meeting that starts today. The results represented the highest cure rate yet reported for the condition—and the treatment was accomplished in half the usual time….Both developments will need to be followed up by larger trials. But the progree could be important for patients. At least three million Americans are thought to be infected with the hepatitis C virus, and the number of cases of liver cirrhosis and liver cancer caused by the virus is rising. The existing treatment—a combination of two drugs, alpha interferon and ribavirin—can cause debilitating side effects like flu-like symptoms, anemia and depression. The treatment for type 1 hepatitis C, the hard-to-treat form that accounts for 70% of the cases in the United States, takes nearly a year. Vertex’s pill, called telaprevir or VX-950, interferes with a viral enzyme. (See article for more) THE SURPISE: Romark Pharmaceuticals Alinika, also known as nitaoxanide, had previously been tested as a treatment for parasites. The drug's effectiveness against hepatitis C was discovered almost by accident. When tested as a treatment for parasites, the drug showed signs it was countering liver infection. (See article for more)
BIO-DRAMA
1954 was the year the Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation in schools violated the 14th amendment of the Constitution. Roger Bannister would run the first 4 minute mile and Golding and Huxley would give us “Lord of the Flies” and “Doors of Perception.” In Africa, we lived in a house right outside Rabat. There was Mom, Dad, Nancy, myself, a brother Paul, and a new brother Peter. Our house was surrounded by lime orchards and watermelon fields. A Snapdragon garden separated it from the domicile of our Moroccan maid and gardener, Adoush and Abdul. According to the photos, and my mom, I spent most of the time in their company. What I hazily remember is a particular wedding feast I attended. The image is of a sheep being slaughtered. Ahmed, Abdul’s fisherman brother, is squeezing the bile out of its intestines. They would serve later as casings for mutton sausages. Ahmed once brought us an eel that dad cut up in the bathtub. Perhaps this explains my fondness for Unagi. We had a dog, King, that would viciously attack any and all strangers. Once, dad had to dress the wounds of a severely bitten local. I remember the victim’s howls of pain as dad poured rubbing alcohol on King’s fangwork. Although this was probably the most secure time of my life, the political situation was tense. Without checking, I assume we were witnessing the twilight of French colonialism. Technically it was French Morocco, but the de facto ruler was the Sultan, Ben Jousseff. I vividly recall being taken to a nearby railroad tracks to watch the King’s train pass by. Arab horsemen three abreast rode parallel with it and fired their guns into the air. Responding to the cadence of the shots we shouted in unison. “Hail! Ben Jousseff, Hail! Ben Jousseff.” I also see sunny Atlantic beaches, towheaded kid swimmers and flags that signaled shark conditions. I concur with the photos on these events.
“The discontented child cries for toasted snow.”
-- Arab Proverb
It’s Friday. Sometimes you just don’t know what to write. In about 21/2 hours FUBAR plays Happy Hour. I’ve tried to come up with a list where I don’t have to sing.
Speaking of lists:
Ate a banana.
Stepped in dog shit.
Drank Yogi tea.
Listened to Jeff Beck.
Flossed.
Cleaned the kitchen light cover.
Read spreads for college football.
Listened to Ravi Shankar.
Picked college games.
Rinsed and gargled with salt and baking soda.
Talked to Brigitte on cell phone..
Practiced songs.
Put an apple (not a potato) in my pocket.
Pondered photo of Everglades.
Looked at the time.
4 o’clock
MEDICAL
NYT 11/02/07 2 Winning Drug Tests, One Expected and One a Surprise
An experimental drug from Vertex Pharmaceuticals helped cure more than 60 percent of patients with a tough-to-treat form of hepatitis C, according to data to be presented at a medical meeting that starts today. The results represented the highest cure rate yet reported for the condition—and the treatment was accomplished in half the usual time….Both developments will need to be followed up by larger trials. But the progree could be important for patients. At least three million Americans are thought to be infected with the hepatitis C virus, and the number of cases of liver cirrhosis and liver cancer caused by the virus is rising. The existing treatment—a combination of two drugs, alpha interferon and ribavirin—can cause debilitating side effects like flu-like symptoms, anemia and depression. The treatment for type 1 hepatitis C, the hard-to-treat form that accounts for 70% of the cases in the United States, takes nearly a year. Vertex’s pill, called telaprevir or VX-950, interferes with a viral enzyme. (See article for more) THE SURPISE: Romark Pharmaceuticals Alinika, also known as nitaoxanide, had previously been tested as a treatment for parasites. The drug's effectiveness against hepatitis C was discovered almost by accident. When tested as a treatment for parasites, the drug showed signs it was countering liver infection. (See article for more)
BIO-DRAMA
1954 was the year the Supreme Court ruled that racial segregation in schools violated the 14th amendment of the Constitution. Roger Bannister would run the first 4 minute mile and Golding and Huxley would give us “Lord of the Flies” and “Doors of Perception.” In Africa, we lived in a house right outside Rabat. There was Mom, Dad, Nancy, myself, a brother Paul, and a new brother Peter. Our house was surrounded by lime orchards and watermelon fields. A Snapdragon garden separated it from the domicile of our Moroccan maid and gardener, Adoush and Abdul. According to the photos, and my mom, I spent most of the time in their company. What I hazily remember is a particular wedding feast I attended. The image is of a sheep being slaughtered. Ahmed, Abdul’s fisherman brother, is squeezing the bile out of its intestines. They would serve later as casings for mutton sausages. Ahmed once brought us an eel that dad cut up in the bathtub. Perhaps this explains my fondness for Unagi. We had a dog, King, that would viciously attack any and all strangers. Once, dad had to dress the wounds of a severely bitten local. I remember the victim’s howls of pain as dad poured rubbing alcohol on King’s fangwork. Although this was probably the most secure time of my life, the political situation was tense. Without checking, I assume we were witnessing the twilight of French colonialism. Technically it was French Morocco, but the de facto ruler was the Sultan, Ben Jousseff. I vividly recall being taken to a nearby railroad tracks to watch the King’s train pass by. Arab horsemen three abreast rode parallel with it and fired their guns into the air. Responding to the cadence of the shots we shouted in unison. “Hail! Ben Jousseff, Hail! Ben Jousseff.” I also see sunny Atlantic beaches, towheaded kid swimmers and flags that signaled shark conditions. I concur with the photos on these events.
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