TRAILERPARK OF THE GODS

This would be Venus. She was supposed to have arisen from the ocean, born from 'sea foam'.
Where did the foam in the sea come from?
Well, there was this huge fight between this giant guy and his giant father in Heaven and one thing lead to another, and someones giant severed dick ended up in the bay.
Surprised, to say the least, at being parted suddenly from its' owner and dropped into ice-cold water, it squitted and flapped. As would you....thus, 'sea foam': a euphemism for 'jizz and bloody guck frothed up by a giant severed dick flapping and spazzing around in the ocean'.




Little did she realize that she would practically had to lock herself in the friggin' bathroom in order to get five minutes alone. The poor woman was destined to spend the remainder of her days surrounded by extraneous nudes and semi-nudes. Worse, they all suffered terribly from an infestation of flying babies so they spent a lot of time running around and whacking at them with a broom.







One day there was a terrible midair flying baby collision with Venus caught right in the middle.



Her contact lenses fell out and in the ensuing mad scramble they were crushed underfoot.
Due to the lack of qualified optometrists in the Golden Age it was decided that she would be married off to a seeing eye husband.






There were problems from the start.









"You are as pretty as a whole bunch of shiny socket wrenches."



"Um......................ok then."





Time did not improve matters.







"What do I spy wiv my liddo eye? Could it be someones....coochy?

"Yes. For the hundredth time today, its my damn coochy. Would you please go read a book?"








At her wits' end, Venus secretly placed an ad in the Olympian Auto Trader and Personal Classifieds:
"Gorgeous twenty-something female, zaftig, fun loving, kids, not very married, seeks discreet man for sexy fun. You are: hwp, physically attractive, s/ok, d/ok, rs/ok, std/ok, kids/ok, previous felony convictions/ok. You have a passion for the romantic. Must be very open minded and not put off by the possibility of being wet on by flying babies. reply GRE35 463337."






Venus soon realized that she should have filled in some of the 'background information' blanks a little more completely.




"Hey there little fellow, you know what? Your mommy is my aunt! That's right! Her and my father had the same father! ...Well, at least part of the same father. So you're my cousin! Cool, huh?"











Next she tried singles night at the off-leash park.




"Sweetie, go play on the swing, ok? Go on now!"
"Hey mister! Can I pet your dog?"
"Honey, mommy said go play on the swing!"
"Are you going to party with mommy?"
"Honey, now do as mommy said..."
"Are you my new uncle?"
"GO PLAY ON THE SWING NOW."






Before too long the first boyfriend got wind of the second boyfriend.



"I told him to fix the box spring! He was only checking the- Hey! Really! I asked him to fix the-Hey! He was just, he wasn't hiding! Oh my God! He had to go under the bed to fix the box spring! Really! Are you listening to me?"









And the husband got wind of the first boyfriend.



" Ya see? Ya see? The guy didn't even take off his hat!"
"Wow, he sure didn't! Damn! Didnt even take off the hat! Ther it is, right on toppa his head! Yep, theres his hat! Wow. didn't even have time to take the damn hat off. Wow."








Now divorced and destitute, Venus was forced to apply for Welfare. Fortunately the allowance for dependants was quite generous in her case.
A thoroughly depressed Venus started hitting happy hour down at the local country and western bar.


"Come on, honey. lets go back inside now. "
"Shh. whuzzat?"
"Oh come on...Buy momma another Lone Star."
"Aw fuck; a siren. Ya wanna hand me them chickens baby? Daddy's gotta boogie."



All too often her nights ended in the 'Luv-R's Sweet' at the Budget Travel-Inn.

"Wow, you know, this is my favorite room...what a great bed, too..you think this a pillow top? Gee, its nice! I'll bet it's a Sealy. I love those Sealy mattresses, don't you?"

"Um, yeah...you ever....uh...done it on the floor? Because I've, uh, always wanted to do it, you know, on the floor...?"





She tried hanging around the video arcade at the mall under the mistaken assumption that a younger man might be just what the doctor ordered.

"Beep! Beep!"
" Would you please-"
"Beep beep! Hooooonk!"
"Now come on-'
"Beep! HOOONK! Beep!"

It wasn't.




"Iiiiiii'm gonna honk it!"
"Now, no you aren't! Now come on!"
"Yes I am! I'm gonna honk it!
"No, you aren't gonna honk it! Be serious! Give me a kiss."
"Uh oh! Here comes Mr. Hand!"







No matter how many limber-limbed, famous-footed* snipper-whappers she dated.



"Ooooooweeeeeoooowaaaaaaark...Hello! Hello? SOS! This is Ice Station Zebra! Can anybody hear me? Ssssss..."












...just plugging along, all those young, young men, trying and trying...







" Now ok, fine, we're in the treehouse. Now what did you want to show m-"

"MEEP! MEEEEP!"














"See my new puppy? Say hi to the nice lady, Sparky! Sparky says, 'Wow, lady, you sure got a nice pair of ti-"

"Um, ok. thats good."







....until finally she realized that there is such a thing as 'too young'.




Reacting violently and passionately to her plight as is a goddess' wont she flung herself headlong into the DARK SIDE OF PHYSICAL PASSION.






"Oh come on, let me! You know you want it!"
"Ew get OFF me! Come on now!"
"Come on! I wont hurtcha! Lemme blow some big ol' wet farts all over that ass! Fbbbbbbpt! Come on baby! Turn around! Apppppbbbbtt! Thbbbbbbt!'"


Early forays into kink were dissappointing.








Later ventures provoked nothing but dismay.


" Oh my beloved...I have been waiting for you my whole life. You are my everything. My moon. My stars. My..."
"..My foot."
"And I shall name it 'Footy-wooty'."
"Well that's just great. Listen, asshole, I shaved for you, ok? And the face is up this way."


















And she ended up with a really, really, really, really, really bad case of crabs.










Things were getting desparate. What good was it being 'Goddess of Love' if you couldn't find any?


High up on his throne atop Mt. Olympus, the Baby Jesus saw her plight and took pity. He flew down to have a word with her. She chased him off with a broom. He returned in his secret identity as the Holy Infant of Prague which set her mind at ease. (It is difficult to tell one flying baby from another, and even more difficult to keep ones expensive upholstery looking brand new in the midst of a flock of them.)


He sat her down and they had a nice heart to heart.
" Listen, it's like the Whitney Houston song. 'The greatest love of all' is to love yourself first. No, wait; Whitney might not be the best example. Lets use another. Aretha Franklin! All right! R E S P E C T! There we go. Respect! You have to respect yourself."
"Oh sweetheart, I think that was Otis Clay."
"No, Aretha Franklin recorded 'Respect' back in the...wait."
"Are you thinking of Etta James?"
"Aretha Franklin did 'Respect'; now I remember that clearly. 'R E S P E C T, find out what it means to me! I'm sure thats Aretha."
"I get your message, Infant of Prague. It's not worth going through a pair of diapers about."





And Venus took this advice to heart. Using drachmas she would have otherwise spent on cover charges and burning sex lube she started a home hostess business:
'Aphrodite's Arts: fine designer accents for the sensuous home'
She soon became known all over the heavens as the "Queen of the Hot-chkey Tchotchkes"





Her newfound financial independance engendered a newfound self-respect in her heart as well.

"OWGODDAMMITWOWOWOWOW!"
"WELL THATS WHAT YOU GET! 'Pull my finger' is NOT FOREPLAY! Capische?"

Yes, she'd found a whole new attitude when it came to men. No longer was she a plaything, tagging along begging a man for scraps of love and attention. Now she was in charge.





" Heeeeere comes Miss Hand! Uh Oh! Beep! Beeepbeep beeeeeep! Honk honk! Beep beep! Beeeeeep beepbeepbeep!"













And to celebrate, she went out and bought herself a brand new fancy hat.






Money probably better spent on new contact lenses.

Still, life was good now... in the TRAILERPARK OF THE GODS.













I just stuck this here because I liked the picture.



* Oh come on. Tell me you DON'T know that the foot sticking out on the left there is the Stomping Foot of Reknown from the opening sequence of each 'Monty Python' episode. Because it is.

1%

The Yummy Biker and I have quite a collection of EasyRider magazines...not only the pathetic ones from the 'Eighties on, but the oh Jesus, zits and tits, low-rent EasyRiders, starting at issue #2. (Anyone out there have an ish #1 they'd like to part with? Even if its 'Riders UK, let me know in the comments and we'll do the email thing.)

This magazine had its' moments, and some moments were pure class, but it was never cool the way, say, underground comix were cool. EasyRiders was cool the way sleazy sideshow crap is cool...because it was fuck-you tasteless. For the times and the place it was pretty extreme. Sagging boobs, aging snatch, whiskey and beer, quaaludes, sodomy, needle tracks, white trash-sister humping-stuff. All the iron was Ameripean, all the women were nymphomaniacs and all the men were balldragging studs, of course.

Now all this romance existed primarily in the minds of two staffers- Spider, and 'Bandit' aka K. Randall Ball. The two of them also did about half of the writing in the early issues. Yes, Virginia, that includes the letters. (No! No! you mean to tell me that THE LETTERS IN EASYRIDERS WERE FAKED????? I know somebody who got their letter published in WordMonger though! My uncle! When he was in prison! etc.) To be fair, by the late 'Seventies much of the content came from outside submissions. Now, were those writers actual bike people?

Hmm. Are bears catholic? Does the pope shit in the woods?

Anyway, nobody cared. As far as the readership were concerned, this magazine defined THE SCENE. Bike people ate it up whole, without question, like it was candy. Really disgusting shit flavored candy with funky hairs and cockroach parts stuck all in it. Ate. It. Up.
I know I did.
Yep.

Of course, I was 17 and I had NO GODDAMN SENSE.*

We cycle these vintage issues through our throne room reading rack about once every year or so and surprisingly they just get better with age.
In an Ed Wood kind of way.

FROM THE WALLS: NOTES FROM LOCKED DOWN BROTHERS AND SISTERSMOUNT UP, LADIES! For one massive Aryan warrior" I'm 24, 5'9", 170 lbs,. and built to last! Free in three years, and seeking the pale, lusting flesh of an Aryan slam pig. No other forms of inferior scum need reply. Xxxxxxx Xxxx Box 1xx, So. Walpole, MA 02071

TENNESSEE "WHITE" HEADED PECKERWOOD: Slammed down in the blue grass. I'm 37, 5'6", and 175 lbs. of all-beef Tennessee pride. Would like to kick it with some of you fine "white" soft-tails. Steve "Hardluck" Wallace, #xxxxxx-ek, Dorm 1xxx Eastern Kentucky Corr. Complex, Box xxx, West Liberty, KY xxxxx

ITTY-BITTY-TITTY-LOVER down in a gator country prison, looking for a sweet or sour slut for life. I'm 38, 6'1", 250 lbs., have tats and operating Pan. Due out in '94. Write: Dennis "McNasty" McCarthy, xxxxxx-xx hamilton Corr. Institution, P.O. Box xxxx, Vasper, FL xxxxx

Now I wonder if any of these gentlemen ever found what they were looking for via the medium of these ads. Certainly the prospect of being somebody's' slam pig would rouse the tender feelings in any womans' soul.

MIRACULOUS MUTHA TELLS ALL!
Soup Kitchen
Listen up, bitch, because I've ben thinkin' about it, and I've got some plans for you and me. First, I want to give you an enema with a whole can of Campbell's Beef Chunky Style soup. Second, I want you to squat over my face and wrap your purple tongue around the scabs on my rock-hard crank. Third, when I'm about to blast a nut down your throat, I want to spread the crack of your flea-infested ass and have ya let loose with the Chunky Beef while screamin' at the top of your lungs "I've lost my baby! I've lost my baby!"
So what's the deal, bitch? Is is a date or what?
Wargasm
Walpole, Mass.

Hark; the iniminable literary voice of the notorious K. Randall Ball aka 'Bandit'.
Despite my best efforts, I could not convince Wyndham Triffid that Bandits' obvious talents rated him a place on the Triffid vacation reading list, and to this day I feel that was an unfair snub. Any fool can see the sheer magic which seeps from every lax, varicose orifice of Mr. Ball's prose. Well, you can.

INDIAN RITUAL: A SECOND-GENERATION BIKER PLUCKS A NEW FEATHER FOR THE FAMILY BONNET
(intro to article) Ya ever notice how some bros seem to have all the luck when it comes to finding restorable classic scoots? Me, I can't find my own asshole in the dark with both hands and a flashlight, much less hit a jackpot cache like this leg-wettin '47 Chief. But when ya get down to the actual factuals, as my uncle Zeke useta say, luck don't count for squat in this game. Instead, the cats who unearth these spoked gems from America's motor lode owe their "luck" to serious, unrelenting perseverance..." and it continues.

On and on.

Here's a selection of Biker Mama Poetry. The original was illustrated** evocatively with a tender hand, a keen eye and a prosthetic foot by one Clark Calhoun, a man who knows his way around a womans' ass in a pair of cut offs:
THE BITCH ( I swear to you I am not making this up.)
She stands at the walls
and silently smiles.
She's packed a
hundred thousand
miles.
Seen 'em rise
and seen 'em fall,
the Bitch has fuckin' seen it all.
Packed behind some righteous bros,
laid 'em down
and let 'em go.
Polished chrome
throughout the night.
Dared some bitch
to pick a fight.
Ran for beers
and opened cans.
Did it all
to please that man.
Sewed the patches,
cooked his meals.
And dummied up
about the bills.
She loves every
moment living wild,
on the road,
Harley-style.
Jenny

And really, isn't that what its all about?

If I read of, or hear of, another oldschool biker lamenting how 'his bros' have been co-opted by the straight world I will flat fucking vomit. Those dipshits embraced the stereotype. Now they're crying about all the lames. Oh wah, the middle-management castrati are out riding SuperGlides, playing biker with their HOG rockers, wanting to buy some of that oldschool brand of BADASS. Well what the fuck did the fools expect; with all that lame shit out there defining the experience?

Adding further insult to injury, the preceding selections were not from EasyRider magazine proper, but what it became post-Guccione as it tottered along weakly, still dressed in its as-yet-unwashed 1971 bell bottoms: Biker Magazine.

Circa 1993.








* Although even then, I must admit to my credit, I figured it was bullshit. But hand it to 'em; they had the best rank jokes going, plus they showed full frontal.
Why yes, I have been a sick woman for a VERY long time indeed.
**oh how i wish i could get it to print.

you must watch, little alex; you have no choice, you see...

UPDATE: for a specific example, brilliantly written by the lovely and gracious Tim Footman:
http://culturalsnow.blogspot.com/
post of august 8 2006

One afternoon back in 1991 I turned on the television set.

I saw Regis Philbin and Kathy Lee Gifford.

I yanked the plug out of the wall by the cord and didn't turn the television back on for six years.

The Stainless Steel Amazon will confirm this. She was there.
I did not do it for ideological reasons. I didn't do it for parenting reasons. She could watch whatever she wanted to at her friends' homes, there was no restriction at all. And we certainly didn't deprive ourselves of the holy glow of the crt*...we rented LOTS of movies, most of which were light entertaining crap.
But they were crap we chose.

The few times I tried to explain my reasons to people I got some completely uncomprehending looks. And it's really very simple...there is already too much 'average' in the world.

It kind of creeps me out that other people find that opinion so odd. It's like it's unAmerican or something.
"How can you not like television? "
I can not like it because after awhile a steady diet of anything gets old and a steady diet of bland gets old quick. That's how. Fuck, I felt like my brain was being homogenized.

There were contributing factors, of course.

At the time I was extremely angered by the discovery that in order to get any truth about Desert Storm I had to tune in to the Canadian coverage of the war. We were being told NOTHING. What we were being fed was so sanitized that it was wasted time.

I was also fed up to the teeth of having shit pimped at me every 2.5 minutes. Thirty-one years of having shit pimped at me, at that point.

Thirdly I was simply tired of the constant sound of scams and lies. At that time in my life I was face-first in the middle of scams and lies; hell, I knew lots of real people who could do it better! And if they weren't allowed in my house any more, why should this shit be any different?

I've mellowed a lot. Now, if there is something scheduled about Egypt or Iceman or historic events or archaeology, I happily plan to view. I can visit someones' home now and be sociable while the television plays in the background. This did not used to be the case. (I used to pretend to go to the bathroom and then stay in there a long time. People probably thought I had weevils or something.) I can tolerate television without taking its' stupidity quite so personally. For a limited amount of time.

Regis Philbin is still on my shit list, though.






*'VIDEODROME' was a documentary.
shhhh. that's a secret. don't tell ANYONE.

just cut around the bad spots and use lots of dressing

saturday UPDATE: The playboy has bagged 1. the cable guy. I flat busted them and had to pretend I didn't have a clue. Also 2. The woman who rents out the PENTHOUSE APARTMENT has signified that she would in no way be adverse to his attentions.
THATS IN THE FIRST TWO DAYS IN HIS NEW DIGS, FOLKS.



This is inlaw week at Rancho FirstNations, I swear. Today we formally moved the Playboy of the Western World into his new apartment. Actually Mayflowers Movers moved him and he and I and one of his fans got in their way. I felt kinda bad for the guys. There you had an older gentleman with a walker who wants to follow you from room to room and tell you the history of all his belongings as you are trying to manhandle them into a large truck, a buxom redskin marshalling everyone around with no very real clue as to what goes and what stays pointing imperiously at piles of trashbags, and Bubba the elderly hippie queen wafting about shouting 'Willie, come SIT DOWN!' while eyeing the smaller 'objets' at arms length over the top of his half-glasses wistfully.

Then the whole circus moved from the four bedroom house to the one-bedroom-and-kitchenette apartment, where pretty much the same activity commenced but in reverse and on a much smaller scale, resembling the 'stateroom scene' in 'A Night at the Opera.'Yes, we were actually clambering over furniture and getting caught in the legs of the walker; it was - meh; it was pretty much a day in the life; actually. It was awfully close quarters. (One of those movers was smelling SO fine. I wouldn't allow the Yummy Biker out of the house wearing that cologne, thats for sure. Not unescorted.) Gotta hand it to them; despite all the 'help' they got it done in two hours and not one single casualty.

The poor movers had to hustle everything up directly through the center of the place using the passenger elevator. (Of COURSE the freight elevator was down.) The lobby filled with residents all discussing the new fish and taking a nice long look at his swag. Oh, the oxygen machines were pumping overtime! Many a pair of Depends' were filled at the sight of all that Mediterranian brass and Haitiian ironwood going past! And they didn't even see the Man Ray photograph. I did. It was nekkid.

We had barely begun to unpack and already two little widows had come in and introduced themselves. I earned myself a shot in the head for pointing out 'Gee! Looks like you're going to get a lot of play here, huh?" rather loudly. Zotz, right in the head. "Yes and thats EXACTLY what I need!" he rejoined.

Later on we sent out for gyros and baklavas and he got the television hooked up. When I left he was watching a soap opera, full blast, standing in front of the screen peering intently at the action, which at this point in the proceedings consisted of "Oh! Anthony! Oh, oh God, yes! Oh, oh, oh yes, Anthony!" Hell, I left the door open. All the way down to the third floor 'Oh, Anthony! oh darling, yes darling, oh, oh..' rode with me.
Oh yes, the Leopold is in for a shakeup.

...And yes, I inherited all the used vegetables.

Henshin Disabled!? The Hakaida Great Revolt!

Oh yay! Oh hoo-fucking rah! The inlaws are coming over!
At least they called first. They usually don't. Yippee-skippee.
This would be the Yummy Bikers' stepfather and natural mother. Yes, this is the man his mother married and divorced three separate times.
Oh, he is a pip.
He is also a deaf pip. Deaf as a post. So not only is he surly and completely lacking in respect for anything with tits, he shouts 'Huh? What?' all the time. Of course, it is your fault for talking too softly.
They own a Caddilac the size of a small office building that neither of them can figure out how to operate properly. This makes taking long drives with them a special treat...and they always insist on doing all the driving.
My mother in law, who shall hereafter be known as Party Girl, will drag me outside every 20 minutes to sneak a cigarette which she is completely convinced nobody but me realizes she is smoking.
Later we will go to lunch and when the server arives and asks if anyone wants anything to drink everyone will get all tense and uncomfortable and cut their eyes at each other and pretend not to look at her. Whereupon she will either sheepishly deny wanting a drink and then pout and whine for the rest of the meal, or defiantly order a drink...whereupon her husband (who shall hereafter be known as Captain Shithead) will pout and whine for the rest of the meal.
Yay!
YAY!
YAY!

Yes! Oh you BET I feel sorry for myself! Yes! I hate having to socialize with anybody! If God had meant for me to socialize he would have made me a pleasant person who gives a happy chunk of wacky crap.
I don't.
I don't care how R and S are doing. I know S is a bulemic. I know S is a compulsive housekeeper. I know R can't hold a job. I know R and S have a marriage you consider peculiar. Oh my yes, now THERES the pot calling the kettle disfunctional.

Neither do I care about R2 and D. I know you think D is too fat. I know you think D is a lousy mother. I know you think D is a lousy housekeeper. I know you think R2 and D have a lousy marriage (see above) I know you think their kids married beneath them.
I KNOW. I KNOW. I KNOW.


I also know you want to be here just about as much as I want you here.


Thank God, later on I get to go play with my grandson.



UPDATE;
I am now the proud owner of a 1/4 head of cabbage thats turning black and a 1/2 head of lettuce thats turning into liquid, a tomato with a bad spot and 15 pounds of freezer burnt halibut.
Sigh.

the first word in methane is 'me', baby.

A lake of methane was just discovered on Titan; one of Saturns' moons.

In the name of the native Titanians and native peoples everywhere, I hereby christen this lake 'Lake Paul'.



hey wow! did you hear?
A methane lake on Titan is named after my blog!
I am so proud.

goodbye, refries, goodbye

In case you missed it, go here: http://www.hendrixcat.com/
thats her new url, so update your blogroll (do as i say, not as i do...yeah, yeah.)

Well, I have diabetes. Barely, but there ya go.
I don't doubt it for a moment. I was expecting this. The way I've been eating for the last 20 years? Shit, yes.
I do not regret one single moment.
No I don't.

What will I miss most?
Mostly, I will miss not having to worry.

I tell you what, though, I am not going to go around all penitential eating fucking ry-krisps and smacking myself in the head with a board. Food is a celebration and I damn well intend to see that it stays that way.

I'm going to have to learn a whole new repetoire of staple recipes. After all, the ones I have in my head now are what got me to this place! Does anybody have any suggestions for diabetic cookbooks? Particularly with Mexican and Italian recipes? Is there such a thing as a diabetes cookbook put out by a master chef? Jesus, if there is, let me know. I don't care if it's complicated; I can do complicated.

I got myself into this place; I'll damn well get myself out of it.


Because of the heat, I had to take the clippers and shave my poor girldog the other day. Poor wooly sheepie! She has Labrador retriever blood back there in the woodpile someplace so she has an undercoat like felt and a long topcoat to boot. I swear I don't know how one small animal could have so much hair. It was appalling! Now she feels better, though. Looks smaller, too. Lots smaller. And guess what; I'm not done yet. Oh yeah, I'm gonna be her BEST FRIEND.

We are gradually getting the Playboy of the Western World moved in to his new place. Thank God the man was not a packrat. Still, there are a lot of small things that he thought were special, and they are all sitting here in my house now, *sigh* waiting to be boxed up, and eventually donated.
Now goddammit, this is sad. I don't like any of it. Neither does the Yummy Biker. None of it is particularly valuable either, but it's not exactly crap...what it is, mainly, are trinkets he picked up in Greece, or things he saved from when his mothers house caught on fire years ago. Mismatched cups and saucers, figurines, glasses, things like that. I hate boxing it up and then having to lie to him about where the stuff is. But we will.*
Fortunately all his buddies have been given first crack at the large furnishings. Have at, gentlemen! When we finally throw open the doors to the relatives they're going to be rather puzzled by all the empty carpet. I DO hope someone gets shitty with me; I've been spoiling for a fight. Probably won't happen.

Come to think of it, that's a pretty nice statement about the family, isn't it?





*The Yummy Bikers' mother had rather regrettable tastes in her younger years. Her worst judgment, beside marrying the same man three times and a gay man the fourth, was the purchase of the infamous Chicken Dishes. You'd honestly hesitate to put food on them. They're glazed this really odd, mustard-diaper color that's speckled with gnats or pepper or birdshot or something...and smack in the center of each is a huge picture of what can only be described as a gravely psychotic chicken. Each one hefts approximately the same as a boat anchor. She passed them on to us. Gee, thanks. And she always asks about them. "Do you still have those dishes?" and we nod and smile real big. "Well, are you ever gonna use them?" Not even on a dare, honey. We have them stored safely away from young children and the nervous, waiting to be thrown into Bellingham Bay the instant you go to your reward. In fact I may arrange for the hospital to call me. Until then, they're packed away, and we lie.

context

Next in the wildly popular 'Muk In Her Native Habitat' series, we explore the quaint riverside village of Sumas, the place our little Muk calls home.
Welcome to Sumas, everyone!
















...uh, yeah. *Ahem.*


Here is the entirety of the downtown core, this street here, looking north with that 'Welcome to Sumas' sign at my back. Twelve tiny little blocks.
Down at the very end, if you look hard, you can see a faint, faint sort of reddish bar that crosses the street? That's the Canadian border.

















Lets take a drive down Main Street, shall we?
OK!
Now here is your typical city block in the downtown core. Both buildings date from the 1920's, both buildings are standing slap ass vacant. Lets stop the bus! Everyone out for a Kodak moment!

















Here is an abandoned titty bar. This is a huge place, too; it goes waaay back there.















Yes, City Hall is housed in a metal utility building. So is the police station. And yes, you're looking at both of them.















Another abandoned building! Right across the alley not 15 feet from the entrance to the police station, it was understandably not the fun filled, whoopin', hollerin' free for all fightin' old west kinda place its name seems to promise. No, in fact, it was a hangout for recent immigrants from Russia and the Ukraine; all 20 of them. Ride 'em, comrade! The white banner proclaims 'this business for sale-agricultural trades considered'. Yes, that's right. The guy who owns a BAR on an international border crossing wants to trade it for a FARM. I'm not sure what this says about the Sumas economy, but it doesn't seem....good.

















Meet Lone Jack. Jack is alone because Jack has been having some proctological issues recently.
What's in the pan, Jack?
No. Don't tell me.
Want to know why I live here? Because of the people. What kind of people? The type of people who would start an international shipping business, house it in an old burlesque theatre with this morphodite squatting out in front...and leave him there. And name the business the only name possible out of all possible names in the universe.
Ladies and Gentlemen, it is with the greatest of pleasure that I give you....
"Ship Happens"
















Youth community service. Get chipping, you little bastards! Hahahahahaha! This is how we school 'em! Put 'em to work chipping yellow paint off the curbs in the hot sun! Stick 'em right out in front of the police station so we can keep an eye on 'em too! That's right!
When I came by five minutes later, Buckwheat on the left was still in the exact same position, pinin' for the fjords.
















Ten years ago there were 23 empty businesses along the main drag. Today there are still ten, not counting empty single offices.
If any town needed a reason to support business, Sumas IS that town.
This would be the business.
This right here is the BEST MEXICAN FOOD IN THE UNIVERSE. The service is superb, the people are great...
So why not lets' us City Hall moo-rons perpetuate a tacit policy of harassment? Why not look the other way while the local police put roadkill in their doorway and on their employees' cars? Why not have them raided just before every major civic event so they have to close down? After all, it's the only restaurant in town that hires people long term, AND stays open seven days a week. AFTER ALL, THEY'RE MEXICANS!! Why not? WHY NOT I ASK YOU?? WHY DON'T LETS JUST BUG THE FUCK OUTTA THEM UNTIL THEY PACK UP AND MOVE TO ANOTHER TOWN AND LEAVE ONE MORE ABANDONED BUSINESS ON THE MAIN DRAG??? WHY NOT PUT 23 LOCAL PEOPLE OUT OF WORK??? WHY NOT FORFEIT THOSE TAX DOLLARS? HAHAHAAHAAHAAHAAHA!!!! GREAT IDEA!!!!!
















First patron of the day.
This old geezer comes buzzing up at the turn of the lock every morning. They 86'd him for being just generally disgusting about three months ago. What he does now is come in early. He sits in the bar, mumbling, occasionally yelling, pissing himself and bothering the staff until they get some customers; then they cut him off and he wheels away, wearing his knitted toque and his grey wool overcoat, shouting at cars.
















Now lets veer off the main drag and amble through the neiborhood.
On our way out to drop off our biodegradable yard waste we find this National Security spy pole, the silver post at the center of the picture with the little goggles at the top.
I see you!
Of course, they see me, too.
Yeah! See this? It's the fat chick! FUCK YOU GEORGE BUSH! CANADA IS NOT THE ENEMY!
















THIS is the community compost pile. See the sign? That's how you tell. It says 'Compost Pile'. It is for the community. To put compost in. On. Whatever.
















Lush, cool and beautiful.

















Here's a bed and breakfast. Although it's in the center of the neiborhood, it backs on a river, and is at the end of a street which backs on a cornfield. Hell, I'd stay here and I live three blocks away.
















The Sumas River running through the center of town. No deer today, sorry to say. Yes, this is what passes for a river here..that barely visible trickle. Dumbass Washingtonians can't tell a river from a crick.
















Oh crap. A trout jumped and I tried to catch it swimming away but I didn't even get a ripple. Anyway, this is the river. See? Water.
Note that I am standing on a bridge on the main east-west thoroughfare through town at high noon, holding a camera with my ass draped over the guardrail.
Um...
Nah. Make of the preceeding sentence what you will. It just might be true.

















I mean, come on. This is the worst place in town. Of course I live next door to it. But you can't even see it!
Betcha they see me, though.
Oh crap! She's taking a picture! Quick! Hide the illudium q32 space modulator!















This is the entirety of town looking east to west, from city limits sign to city limits sign...or at least the low hill in the background there where the 'City Limit' sign is.
What town? I don' see no steenkin' town.













You see what I mean? As soon as you leave the main business center the place is beautiful. People sit out on their front lawns and have conversations. The kids say 'hi' to you. The dogs wag. Yes, everyone is in your shit, but I'm in their shit too so it evens out.
But to drive through the business center of town, you'd think 'Jesus Christ, keep on going; what a goddamn dump".

I may shoot a copy of this via email to the mayors office.

On second thought, maybe not...

Hmmmmmmmmmm.

ok fine

Here it is. So sit down, keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times while the ride is in operation because....
ITS RANCHO FIRSTNATIONS IN LIVING COLOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The humble abode. This picture was taken from the sidewalk, facing northeast. That peaked roof on the right marks the origional house. Bitty, wasn't it?
I did all the plantings. Yay me! Yes, that is a torchiere lamp on the front porch. I keep forgetting to donate it.

My rural idyll. This is the view from my front porch, facing southeast. The field where I crashed my motorcycle. Left out of frame is Mt. Baker, but the alpenglow was on it and it wouldn't print.
Turning to the southwest, we have this...

ONE YEAR AGO all that was hayfield too. Every single house and rooftop you can see in that picture went up in one years' time. I honestly DO remember when all this was farms. Now, turning full west, we have this...

Remember my nutty neibors with hundreds of cats and the pet semetary? The ones who yell at their apple tree? Here's their place. Trust me; its in there. So are they. Waiting. Watching. Not bathing. The miscreant apple tree pokes up at center-right. Looks innocent. But it's not.


And now, the backyard! WOW! Remain calm!
Here is all the tomatoes I could fit into one picture without sitting down on the tickly grass in my shorts. You will note the raised bed, a necessity for gardening tomatoes here. In one months' time these plants will double in size and be loaded with 'maters. Yummmmmmmm!

Potted stock ready for sale cheap! 100% hippie grown.

My Goonybird. Ya spend a fortune on toys and the kid sits in the wheelbarrow making hooting noises and laughing. I blame his mother.

This is taken standing on tiptoes on my back deck. There is the evil ex-crack shed, now turned to the cause of good, and my picnic awning. Between them in the distance? That line of trees and the mountains? Thats Canada! YAY CANADA! HI ELLE! HI MJ!

bees hate me. tomatoes don't.

The day before yesterday, watering the plants on the front porch, I got nailed in the leg by a wasp. Yesterday, on the motorcycle, I got nailed in the face by a honeybee. Right below the right eye; it felt like a damn rock. I was really lucky that I was a. wearing my goggles, except for the part where the poor bee got stuck under the foam part and scrabbled about a little bit, ew ew ew ew, and b. I am not allergic to stings. Because boy, I tell ya, I'd be in some sad fucking shape by now. This morning the side of my face is swollen up. Attractive! Looks stylin' with my Pekingese haircut too, I must say.

At least the Bumbler beebers are still my buddy *snif*

So I called the Dr's office for the results of my blood tests, and they gave me the old 'well, all we have here is a note in your chart saying to make an appointment to come in' so I'm about ninety percent certainI've got radioactive rat scabies and possum ass rash. Happy mother butt fucking joy joy.
Farewell, beloved refries.
FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

At least I will still have tomatoes.
And damn, do I have tomatoes. This is the beauty of choosing indeterminate plants; you don't get a huge glut all at once; just enough to always have fresh and a few to put up at the end of the day. My saladettes have been giving me a few every evening for the past couple of weeks, and I made a fresca sauce out of them with some olive oil and crushed black olives. Oh my god, food should not taste so good. Well, yes it should, but this was pornographic. I am so going with this variety next year. The tomato flavor is brilliant! It's a solid savory note, rich but not sweet or buttery, or ketchuppy. It has notes of citrus, but is not sour. It is juicy rather than 'meaty', but thick walled with very little gel, and that not sour. The skin is thin enough so that it dissolves readily with blending; so there is no need to blanch and peel whatsoever; and the seeds are small. Tell you what, I believe I have found the perfect sauce tomato, kids. The variety is 'Olpaka'. Write that the fuck down.

Now, my other variety is a beefsteak...*runs outside and pulls a tag* Big Beef. Now the reports are still coming in about its parentage, but what really bothers me is that the seed broker, Seminis, has been bought out by Monfuckingsanto. Monsanto, people. Better living through Frankenfood Monsanto. Seminis carries all the Northern range vegetable stock. Shit! And Big Beef is a hybrid, too, so you can't save the seed because it won't come true. But ANYWAY. That's a rant for another time.

it's hot; I'm grumpy, and i blame the Pre-Raphaelites, goddammit

"When I was a child I spoke as a child I understood as a child I thought as a child; but when I became a man I put away childish things." I Cor. xiii. 11.

Which is fine as far as it goes, save the part about being a man. Well then.

(This one goes out to Arabella! who is a Brit; so don't get all poopy with me ya limey bastards.)
When I was young I was SWOONY over the Pre-Raphaelites.

My God, the opulent colors, the dramatic poses, the ethereal forms and languid gestures! No one was more shocked than I was to discover that these paintings came out of a 'serious' school of art. I had always thought they were book illustrations.
Now that I am a grown woman *ahem* there isn't a one of them I would hang in a main room of my home. I still look at the 'serious school of art' aspect with the same bemusement, though.




William Waterhouse occupies the nadir of the pretty wallpaper-whups, the Pre-Raphaelite movement. I believe he had a keen enough appreciation of business to realize that in the end he needed to create something in keeping with a passing trend that would look nice on a clients' wall. Take poor St. Eulalia* here, dead in the snow with the pigeons picking at her toes. Somehow he manages to make even this decorative. Give the man his due; he was a fantastic artist and technician.










Wacky, zany, loveable madcap commie William Morris actually DID turn out pretty wallpaper. Pretty textiles, pretty furniture, pretty homes and pretty bad fiction, too. Still, good for you, Bill. He stated exactly what his aim was; elevating craft, and by God he did. He may have been a goofturd, he may have been windy and self-important, but he was honest about his calling. Publicly.



There are lots of other artists who gathered under the Pre-Raphaelites' banner, and many of them were quite good at what they did and worthy of a favorable mention. But I, uh, don't know very much about them. And since it's more fun to leave a flaming bag of shit on someone doorstep than it is to sing praises, I present you Holman Hunt.

Holman Hunts' work has an extremely visceral effect on me. It makes me long to travel back in time and beat the living crap out of him with a pitching wedge for being such a SENTITOUS WAD OF PUKE. Remember the kid on the playground that smelled like pee, the tattletale, always trying to kiss girls and wipe boogers on people? I am certain that this describes Holman Hunt as a child.

I can't help it. Everything about his work makes me want to dig him up and set him on fire. His use of color BLOWS. His models are ugly and have a strangely unwashed look to them, many times.
And he uses INDOOR light on OUTDOOR subjects. GOD, this makes me nuts!






This is like bad carnival superimposition. Am I not supposed to notice this? What the fuck? GAAAAAAAH.

Yet stay; and let us focus for a while on his poor grasp of symbolism. Yes, do lets.
Poor grasp indeed; in his hands symbolism is a highly annoyed dogfish that he's frantically trying to club to death with a sock. Remember: Just because you use a lot of symbolism does not automatically mean that you use it well. Let's give it the hamster test, shall we?

Guest hamster: bluto schmuggleware,
a typical hamster on the street
and ENTIRELY WITHOUT ODOR.


Tell me what is going on in this picture.
-Well, its some sheep.
What else?
-It's sheep...outside.
Good....
-Um. Yeah. Sheep.
No no no you dumb hamster! This is a stinging, biting sociopolitical comment on Englands' lack of preparedness and leadership and stuff! Bad hamster! Go back to college!


Gentle reader, I ask you: Should this have ever been painted?

No. No, it should not ever have been painted.
At this moment I cannot think of another single image that annoys me as much as this one.
Lets give it the hamster test!

Now tell me what is happening here.
-It looks like she sat in his lap and got surprised when he popped a wooder.
Victorians never, ever popped wooders. It made Queen Victoria cry.
-No, lookit! He's saying, like 'Hey, come one, it's friendly!' and she's like 'Woo! Wasn't expecting THAT!"
No...
-She looked out the window and saw a UFO?
You Philistine of a hamster; that is CLEARLY a picture of a womans' higher being awakening. She is leaving the embrace of luxury to embrace Salvation! She has realized that she CAN rise above debasement and leave delivingroom!**

And then...there's this. Well?
-She owns a depressing houseplant?
Try again...
-She owns depressing pottery?
No...
-She forgot to take her birth control pills? She forgot to use moisturizer after she exfoliated? She's trying to hear the ocean?
No, no no. NOTHING could be more clear. Obviously she is a woman in the grip of a strange and powerful love...a love so strange and powerful that it cause her to decapitate her recently deceased lover and put his head in that giant urn. And plant basil on top of it.
-...All right. Now you're just fucking with me.

Bluto Exuent.
Good thing too, because here comes a man who really needed a hamster up the ass;
Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
What a prize creep. I can hardly stand to look at this guy...he's begging for an aluminum baseball bat; man, right to the side of the head. Wwwwwwwwhap! Home run! Right over the fence.
First of all, he self-named. Wwwhap! That earned him a freebie.
Notice how people who self-name never choose anything like Paul or Mary? Its always something simpy. Like Dante. Or Moonshadow Warrior or Jas'Mynne.

Today, our Mr. Rossetti would be a sweater humping emo boy with a razrphone and ironic hair. He'd weigh 98 lbs soaking wet and be prone to bronchial aliments. And smoke 'Camel' cigarettes. He would be a vegetarian. He would have a dirty, dogeared copy of Joseph Campbells' 'Hero with a Thousand Faces' and it would be papered with yellow Postits. He would have a rip-roaring case of herpes, genital warts and be a carrier of chlamydia. Every woman he knew would be itching and burning and afraid to go for long car rides.
God I HATE this guy.

This is his wife and model, Elizabeth Siddal; a plain, thin unremarkable woman, yet a perfect tabula rasa for him to scribble all over. He marries her after condescending to live with her socially inferior ass for 11 years, all the while putting the meat to everything female that crossed his line of vision. A few months after he does her this huge favor, she loses a child and commits suicide. But he loves her SO MUCH that he buries a book of his love poetry with her-what a romantic gesture!! Except he gets to thinking about how great this poetry is and how it's his only copy, so he has some friends rob her fucking grave a few months later so he can get it back; the self-centered, craven little prick. What a guy!
This is his picture of his wife.










Ah. Much better. She has lips now. And she's, you know, pretty.

This is a picture of his friends wife, just about everybody's model, and Rossetti's mistress, Jane Morris.




A woman who possesses an undeniably glorious bone structure, not to mention a head of hair you could get lost in. And a decidedly Mediterranean cast to her features.






This is her, whited-up jest a tech, by yours truly. The way he always sees her. Neck and bone structure, hair and lips. What an IMPROVEMENT,, huh?


All his women are the same...mindless, exquisite, room-temperature bodies flapping around the landscape like wet laundry. The very last thing Rossetti wants in his 'idealized' women is anything like a person present.
This is not just wallpaper...
This is icky wallpaper.

And Bluto agrees.

With no detectable aroma whatsoever. Other than cuteness.



**boy, I remember the martyrdom of St. Eulalia a little differently than this...torn with hooks and set afire, wasn't she? maybe they tossed her in a snowbank to put her out or something.
**forgive me; I could not help it. I truly apologize for any permanent damage that may have caused.

ramblin ramblin ramblin

Well, some dumb slut brought her kid in sick to daycare, so now the Goonybird has chickenpox.
Yay!
How in hell do you miss chicken pox? Now, really? Other things, yes. Your kid covered in red spots; see, that I have a problem believing. I think she damn well knew; she just dumped the kid off and split. Luckily the 'Bird was innoculated so he probably won't have a very severe case, but it's noticeable enough so that he can't go back to daycare until he looks presentable; meaning that I will be watching him today and tomorrow. Not a bad gig, considering it means I take my leisure by the lake in a charming neiborhood, watching my polkadotty grandson toddle around the yard shouting 'Don't touch! No no! Don't touch!' at the landscape plantings.
What it also means is that I'm not at my own computer so I don't have access to my secret policemans other files filled with demented shit and so I can't work on the Preraphaelites like ah said I would (with a bag full of lead shot and a mallet).

I went to the doctors last week, complaining that I was sick too often and sleeping too much, and the upshot of the whole thing was I ended up giving six vials of blood and being told that I may be suffereing from a. heavy metals exposure (ZEP RAWKS DUDE! FUCKIN NINE INCH NAILS! RIGHTEOUS! 666!) or b. mature onset diabetes. Using the word' mature' advisedly in my case. And reacting predictably, as a mature adult, I have decided to refuse to call the office for the results and instead load up on burritos like a goddamn tanker taking on heroin at a turkish port of call.

What in hell am I going to do if I am deprived of burritos? No, I mean it. Refries, chiles, mexican food in general; thats what I eat. You eat a sandwich and go out and work in the yard, and one hour later you're back in the house scavenging around in the 'fridge again. You eat a plate of burritos early on and you're good to go for the rest of the damn day, barring frequent rehydration courtesy of the Miller Brewing Co.
See, but what I really AM doing is spending all day in front of the computer chowing down on red hot beef-n-beaners, dipping them right into the jar of hot sauce like the Queen of fricken' England. I should just skip the whole digesting part and glue them right to my ass.

I need more tattoos. Speaking of beer and chili. No, I really do. My yummy biker has a full left sleeve of magnificent work. The artist laid in on freehand with a brush-no template, just following the grain of the skin and the muscles...glorious stuff. Gracious...getting a little warm in here. Huh. Anyway, I feel kinda pale and plain. I want more blackwork. Not tribal and certainly not celtic. I already have one small kanji on my shoulder that looked pretty good twenty years ago but now just looks like a seagull crapped on me. Before my last operation I got a pachuco on my left hand. There is a lot of acreage left to cover. I'm thinking foreign lettering and/or pure design...I'm not one for pictures. I'm the main attraction. Besides, I dont want to be lying in my bed at the nursing home thirty years from now, eating mashed banana and pissing through a tube with a tattoo of fucking Tweety Bird on my tit. You know? Or maybe a little guy with a lawnmower buzzing my snatch. Yeah, that'd be classy.
I have a picture of an indonesian guy with what looks like a continuous prayer circling his entire body..I couldn't tell you the name of the script; only that it depends from a single line and has lots of diacritical marks. Anyway, I don't want to go that extreme, but I like the look of the ornamental calligraphy; and that the words have meaning and the whole combination comprises a third level of design. Ideas? Pictures?

I've taken three separate harvests off my blueberry bushes this year, and theres still a few left for the robins. That comes out to four nice big blueberry pies! They're pretty tasty too. I chose commercial early croppers, but I don't keep them flooded the way the growers do, so the berry is smaller, but the taste is concentrated. Kind of the same principle as lowbush wild blueberries. Up on Mt. Baker right now the lowbush harvest is going on; good fucking luck. Between the people with the cranberry rakes and the sneaky robins in their hundreds you're lucky to find a couple on the ground.
One year the Stainless Steel Amazon and I did a 'bay to Baker' dinner for the Yummy Biker. We went up to Baker and filled a hat full of tiny blueberries (which took about 2 hours), then drove down to Chuckanut Bay and dug scallops and clams, which are so abundant in places that you can toe them out of the sand. We made chowder for dinner that was so nice it had clams just climbing over the sides of the bowls. Blueberry muffins for dessert, and a great day out.

Jumping Out, Mechanical Man Kikaida - 3D movie!!

ladies and gentlemen, turn your attention to these two outstanding women high above you in the center ring!


oh my god. just go here
http://hendrix-cat.blogspot.com/
and read this post. this is just, oh my god. writing? good? oh good gravy MARIE.

and for class? go here
http://marlowefish.blogspot.com/
and read the last few entries to find out how someone deals with a difficult romantic situation with more class and maturity than i've ever had.

blogroll these people now.
do it.
i mean it.
get moving.


really.
don't fuck around with me, now, do like i said.
hey listen, I'm menopausal, I own guns, and my near ancestors ate dog.
Without ketchup.
it was heartbreaking.

you were warned

When I was in grade school I had one good friend, T. She was the only normal kid of a family of four daughters...morbidly obese, allergic to sunlight youngest, ear tubes, rat teeth and hives at the drop of a hat middle sister and profound Downs' Syndrome oldest sister.
Now I was a member of the inagural class year when the 'mainstreaming' movement was all the rage in the public school system. That means that all the 'special' classes were dumped out and everyone got all heaped together in a big pile of brotherly love and understanding.

Ahem.

Anyway, C, the older sister, wasn't a revelation to me. In her own goofy way she was charming, in fact, but I did my best to avoid her. And this reaction is key, here...I was a pretty nice kid. I didn't get rotten until Jr. High. And I am proud to say that I was not one of those weasels who tormented other kids, ever. But C aroused a type of contempt and ire in me, just by her presence, that seemed to be waiting there fully formed for a chance to deploy. I spent a lot of time crying about that. It felt ugly. It didn't make me like her any more, though, or make her my best buddy or include her in my games. I wanted her the fuck off me.

I had plenty of opportunity to see this same reaction played out as a member of the class of 1978. The hippy dippy motives of the mainstreaming movement failed to take into account that 1. children are primitive little beasts who are not fully formed socially or morally, and that 2. children are ferociously heirarchal, and very brutal about establishing that heirarchy, also 3. the teachers already had more than enough on their plates.

So here all these utterly disadvantaged children were, dumped into the dog pit, and they never had a fucking chance. The most unpopular of the unpopular normals now had an underclass to feel superior to at whim. It was beyond brutal, and it went on daily, AND THE TEACHERS SAW NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING. The beatings, the mocking, all the cruelties that kids can heap on each other were heaped doubly on these kids, at whim, universally, and the teachers did nothing. They saw it. It happened right in front of them. I remember this clearly.

Now what kind of a chance does a special ed kid have anyway, dumped into a world that they are not and never will be equipped to participate in? Realistically? None at all. And I stand by that. What kind of a chance does this same kid have when the parents wont even throw them in the bathtub occasionally? Or when they dress them in whatever crap comes to hand because 'they're retarded anyway so they don't care?' And that last really burned me up. It revealed a lot about these parents state of mind when they denied their kids even that amount of humanity. Not to mention camoflage.

Eveyone was going about in this fog of idealism and it ended up being horrific. On the level of Bosch, horrific. Every single day. I don't know whose wonderful idea this was but I'd like to find them and introduce them to the crowbar I carry in my truck.

This is why, when I was pregnant, I gladly submitted to amnioscentesis. And if the result had been positive, I would have terminated.

I wonder how many of the children I went to school with even remember those mainstream kids? Or if they ever think about the shit they did to them? One kid was almost blinded by a huge crowd of boys who took lime off the playing field lines and rubbed it into his eyes. The teachers watched. The playground attendants watched. After the kids were done and had left this boy there on the ground, did they come haul him off to the nurse. Nobody got in trouble for it. I still remember the perpetrators names to this day. But of course they were only kids, right? And they probably have kids of their own now.

When my daughter was still in high school, another special ed kid was ratpacked and nearly choked to death up in Ferndale, near here. These were Jr. High age kids. I asked a girl who witnessed it and she told me calmly that everyone wanted to; so they all waited until after school when everyone was getting off the bus near a secluded area and lured this kid down into it like a dog, with treats. That everyone had hated this girl anyway, because she was gross and inappropriate.

Then there were the daily indignities and torment these kids suffered. I challenge a normal person to put up with that kind of treatment and not come away worse for the experience. But to put someone who never had a chance into that circus? No. They could not keep up in class and so every assignment they were given they failed. They couldn't fathom social things so they had no friends. They never got a joke, never knew the answer, always got the worst playground equipment-if any, and always got ridiculed and physically abused behind closed doors at every opportunity. It was as though the normal kids were in the grip of an uncontrollable compulsion.
I honestly think that they were.

I say that the adults involved felt the same revulsion as the kids did. I say they took a secret schoolyard satisfaction in seeing the gross retard get the shit kicked out of him. There is a part of human nature at work here that needs to be addressed a lot more openly than it has been. Humans shouldn't act like chickens attacking a speck of blood, like pirrahna, like sharks. I say you carry this impulse too far and institutionalize it, and what you end up with is Columbine.

ok, im taking that one down now.

being able to have this forum (as twere) to explore this crap and get feedback to think about is inestimably valuable to me. all of you are rock! y'all have been gracious enough to reply on a subject that is pretty damned difficult and I thank you. i though of everyones responses as i went around this weekend and did my errands in town (bellingham is much more racially diverse than sumas) and i really thought about all of it. i'm started on the way to getting my shit together and not being such a redneck anymore. just because i live in the country now doesn't mean i have to act like it.
muchas smoochas!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!