Date: Tue, 19 Jun 2001 17:36:20 -0500
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: Creative Camp 25

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Creative Camp -- 25
by
Feather Touch


Chapt. 25


       Twenty-five chapters.  Who knew?  I didn't have much idea of
twenty-five pages.  Fortunately, social misbehavior has been cantering
along at a brisk enough pace that half the time it's pretty much watch the
Samsung and type.  For awhile.

       All things being equal, which socialism renders an oxymoron,
Hollywood is about to have its throat cut.  Film and television, right down
through the jugular vein, with perhaps a nick out of that good-old
life-sustaining carotid.

       I don't know what Chauvin saw in whoever it was, Napoleon?, but what
I see in Sir William of Redmond is the man that's going to gill net all
those crummy Jews, and haul them out of home and office. Gut and flay them
and their kith and kin The big cable show has been on the last few days.
What a bunch of bull, to quote the guy in the automotive finish-restorer
ad.  Bandwidth, front end, set top, DSL, Direct TV, C-Band, On-Demand, and
last and absurdly least, HDTV.  In all, more tech than you could fit under
the 405.  For what?  Rosie O'Brooklyn?

       Hollywood, read `em and weep.  Mad Magazine sales are down eighty
percent.  Already mentioned.  Comic book sales, including X-Men and other
pop titles, are down to twenty percent of what they were a year ago.
       You will follow.  Your schmoes, oops, I meant shoes, are hard and
diligent to the path.  I've been searching the Net for remedies which might
prevent my death by laughter when you make your journey's end.  Gentle
Jesus, how you deserve exactly what you're going to get.

       If you remain adamant in treating writers like script-typing
nuisances you will go broke, and, in all probability, wish you were dead if
you don't have the guts to murder yourself for what you've done to your
industry, and your country, with your loathsome Jenny swill and slimy Jerry
gurry.

       Bill Gates, the true and grand Superman, is going to release his
X-Box and cut you to ribbons.  If he likes "grow Pedro," your death will be
quick, if he doesn't, other writers will be more along the line of the
famous piano wire when it comes to finishing you off.

       A case in point is "Atlantis."  Why does the guy have to have a pair
of coffee-table lensware?  Is it some weird tribute to Swifty Lazar?  Don't
you know what ugly is?  Ugly is the giant muffin in "Night Court."  Ugly is
the facial garage of some weird apparatus that makes "Spin City"
unwatchable.  Ugly is every character and every situation in every daytime
drama This material makes our country uglier.  Ricki Lake can make a day
ugly in less than ten seconds.  Imus, in less than five.  And the ugliest
of all?  Well, there are two.  The floor of the Knesset and Time's `Square.

       The latter is classic Jewry.  Obviously, Broadway and 42nd Street
are, ahem, in the neighborhood, so to speak.  So let's take a look.  Now,
first of all, let's be fair.  On a rainy, misty night, or, with millions of
dollars worth of confetti flying, for example, on New Year's Eve, the place
looks good.  But most of the time?  And all the time in daylight?  It looks
like some crazy kid had walked down the streets sticking giant plastic
doodads on the front of this building and that.  Plastic doodads, the size
of barn doors..

       It's so ugly, even the Jews won't show it on television, except as
noted above.  Watch any interview in Time's Square, and the camera angles
are always selected to hide all that dumpster plastic and their hep-cat
squalling.  Of course, the centerpiece of this tacky mess is Nasdaq, and,
truth to tell, it managed to provide some droll moments over the first
months of '01, and every instinct tells me it will provide many more.

       The X-Box is going to slice and dice; chop, pound, salt and grill.
Who in the world is going to watch "Matlock" on WGN, for the one-thousandth
time, when they can play a ripping game of Bingo on their trusty X?  A
small splinter audience, that's who, and one that shrinks by the hour.

       It is a terror now, it will soon be a holocaust.  Film and
television.  An Anglo's come to town: lo, he has a brain.  He is a dozen
Goliaths to your pathetic David, and he knows every trick of sling and
stone.  He will grind you and mash you and crush you and devour you; it has
started, his teeth are at your ankles.  Underneath, there is every chance
he nurtures a fire of hatred of the eel-like Hebrew and his big rubber face
full of clever poison.  A more likely attitude is indifference, which is
the coolest there could be.  I just want to tell you up front, and thus do
my bit in bringing to you the suffering part and parcel of your creed since
the dawn of known mankind's story.

       The journeymen socialists you call writers didn't push through their
strike, did they?  A Jew that turns his back on labor unrest is a scared
Jew.

       Just somebody leave a light on, would ya?  We wouldn't want any nice
Anglo boys to trip on your wreckage.  Oh, bye-bye!  Manners.

       Its good to be back.  I had a funny e-mail from Jerry.  I'm not of a
quick mind and also fail at the salient one-liner.  The zinger, as it was
called awhile ago.  Anyhow, when Jerry alluded to picking my work out the
asparagus bed, I didn't get it for two days.  Not cool, because my Gran
always had a few hundred stalks in her garden.  Six to eight inches long.
Get it?  Laugh, because any hip-ness you find on these pages is a crafted
illusion.

       Interesting idea.  From France.  Put plastic tabs on the road.  When
a vehicle passes over at the correct speed, the tabs create a pleasant
four-note tune.  Too fast, and they produce an irritating buzz.  Just
plastic and asphalt.  Very cool (where there is no snow).  On revision, I
would note that this same effect of a tuned buzz-strip, so to speak, could
be achieved by detents in the pavement, and thus not interfere with
plowing.  And speaking of good ideas, and, incidentally, snow, I would like
to give a nod to the State of Main, by god, for posting attractive generic
signs to guide strangers to business and other facilities that are located
on side roads.  The value of these signs is even more psychological than
practical.  They seem to say someone actually gives a hoot, and are
indicators of intelligent life.  Thanks.

       There's old Kurt on the Samsung.  His son wrote the most
backhandedly devastating indictment of the whole Sixties trip ever penned.
His name is Mark Vonnegut and it's called "The Eden Express."  Read it and
laugh.

       David writes to say he'd not keen on posting "The Penisitos" under
Boy Bands.  I wouldn't mention it, except it's a situation of nearly
perfect equilibrium.  He doesn't want to post essentially similar stories
under different categories, because it would be clodhopperish to do so.  On
the other hand, the writer believes he is not being exposed to the great
mainstream of Nifty and would like to put out a little link.  Of course,
the simple answer would be to separate the last chapter, delete it from
this work, and send it as a one-off.  That's where loyalty kicks in, so you
get Cliff, Baby and the gang.  It causes me a problem because it was
intended to be another novel.  After all, there might be as many as six or
eight kids in Rockin' By Baby.  If I were a judge I'd say let the writer
post with an all caps caution that this individual story appears in one
other place.  Of course, this begs an essential issue, and that is whether
my copy is appropriate for a boy-band audience, in the first place.  I find
myself half-agreeing with this point of view.  Thrill rides are fine and
all, but the million-horsepower engine unleashes itself with a ferocity
that might unsettle Knots Berry Bellies.  The air is thin and way sub-zero
where I cruise, and, while the view is sensational, the climb can be an
enduro.  Beware the fun house.

       Personally, I think readers of an age to read Band stories are
precisely the audience that needs to read me the most if for no other
reason than to improve their reading skills and come to learn that you are
not what you eat, nor what you wear, nor what you dance: you are what you
read, and that is all.

       "Quarterlife Crises."  That's a book and website about the trauma of
the twenty-somethings.  When I was a twenty-nothing 450 of my exact age
group were being killed, every week.  Yet, I understand.  If the teens are
largely unspeakable, the twenties are hardly much better.  Don't worry
guys.  The X-Box is on the way.  You can live in the back of a short cave
and be happy, with one of them.  You don't need big digs and a bigger car,
all you need is this game system and you'll be happy.  No big job to
support living large.  Strictly yesterday's news.  Rather, something
smaller, more stable, and with more free time.

       Your employer will soon maintain a swap library of games and
programs.  Your unions will be empowered to negotiate issues related to
playing time, under otherwise idle-time work circumstances, finally, after
all these years, proving themselves of some value to mankind.

       You've got your Microsoft miracle, what is it, number three?  And
Nifty.  Your future is golden and should make you very happy, especially if
some wise old head reminds you that kings and princes of even a decade ago
did not have anything close to what you will have, though you end up
driving a truck or shop keeping in a mall..

       In five years, this device will utterly change the American
lifestyle as practiced all over the world.  The weeding is going to be
spectacular, and, if we survive the transition, which is a big `if,'
indeed, we will emerge a smaller, cleaner, happier culture.  Why?  Because
all the entertainment you can handle will be accessible in a sleeping bag.
Best of all, once this platform becomes the be-all, end-all, the age of
hype, tinsel, and Moe-The-Schmoe crud will be over, forever.  The door will
be open for a few writers who will render the platform absolutely invisible
and make you happier than you can believe.

       Another chip shot, seeing as were out before the crowds gather.
More socialism.  Employers mandated to provide birth control pills.  How
long until swaddling cloths and caskets?

       There is a fundamental philosophical question involved here.  Is it
the entire objective of society to provide medical care?

        One hundred million people visit the emergency room, every year.
That's one third of the population, each year.  The question is
philosophical, because it goes directly to the animal world, where we look,
in vein, for any species, grand or microscopic, that obsesses over its old,
while neglecting its young.  There's a pretty obvious reason for this, or
there seemed to be until the muddy-slime eels came along.  Now ga-ga granny
and her walker rule the roost.  All brought about by the nature loving,
tree hugging liberals.  Images like this reinforce my opinion that the Jews
are a fundamentally insane race, and, to an astonishing degree, are no more
connected to the human condition than are those bobbing freaks at the
wailing wall.  (At least they are exactly where they belong.)

       Oh!  There I am again.  "Rockin' Instrumentals."  Starts with "Red
Rive Rock."  Then a song called "Sleepwalking" by Santos and Johnny.  And
it's me.  My doppelganger.  The boy, about thirteen, in a light brown knit
shirt, slow-dancing with the girl on the right of the screen.  He looks
exactly like I did at his age.  Even has the same shirt.  The commercial
has been off the air for several months.  Anyhow, hi, young dude.  Keep you
weight down and you'll end up as cute as it gets.  Just don't go spoiling
it all by getting a fat head and then going around telling everyone you're
some kind of prince or something.  You're the most beautiful boy in the
world.  If I could, I'd get you together with the adorably refreshing
grandmother's grandson's dance partner.  That there, bucko, is a pretty
girl.

       Cool!  Alfred Hitchcock marathon next weekend.  Don't ask me why,
but I think that's some of the greatest writing there is.  "Superman," and
"The Lone Ranger," too.  Like Houdini, these writers had to work in a tight
box of formula.  Couldn't do it.  When I moved to Los Angeles, from Mexico,
in 1987, I was just off "The Pirates of Rickety Pier," hot, but I never
even thought of working for an agency or any form of media.  No can do.
So, for this reason, I doubly respect those that toiled out one-hour set
pieces.  In fact, the best of these writers tell a story you can watch
several times a year, simply because they are so forgettable.  "Perry
Mason," "Murder She Wrote," "Matlock" and a dozen more.  I mean you read
me, it's over.  You'll never forget a character or situation, in twenty
years.  For all my braggadocio, I actually view myself as one of the
artists I used to see on CCTV or of Beijing One particular fellow painted
tiny snuff bottles, from the inside, using a small brush with the tip bent
at a right angle.  Another, carved the brown outer layer off eggs, leaving
a superb engraving in the delicate shell.  These artists do not work for
money, they simply display their works in a window somewhere.  Nifty is my
window.  It doesn't cost you a dime and I don't make a dime, but the art,
it lasts forever.

       Larry King presenting an encore of his interview of Linda Tripp.
The Jew in the Chair.  By his own admission the king of talk spends one
hour each day being ministered to in a salon.  He's runner-up schmoe after
Hoffa, Carson and Sinatra.  Come on Larry, you're literate.  Drag out the
old typewriter.  I'll peel you from your toes up, sort of a Mohawk in
reverse, leaving only the yuck at the top of your head.  I wouldn't sit for
Larry.  My opinion is he needs two hours a day in his salon, and I'd hate
to take up his time.  I've only watched him, for more than a few seconds,
once in my life.  When Jay was on.  Anglo-type slowly backstroking circles
around the chair.  At one point The King of Talk actually mentioned
tailfins.  Well, they were talking about cars.  Awhile ago in this book, I
was dissing Jewry for choosing herring over lobster, while listing faults
that seem all but genetic.  I forgot to say that its possible they just
aren't very bright.  Being forty-five years out of date on tailfins is not
very bright.

       Oh, there's someone I want to say hi to.  Former dean of Harvard
Divinity.  Ousted for porn on his campus haaad drive.  Hi, dude, you going
to just sit there?  Whatever, but, in the meantime, here's my humble
offering:

       There was a dean of the yaad,
       Who packed his disc with the haad.
       The admin found out,
       Which led to his rout,
       `Cause freedom's not a line, but a plaid.



       Another quickie.  E.B. White reminds writers to set down everything
they have to say.  Good advice, it's easy to leave something out.  Of
course, in the various projects and concepts sketched herein, a lot is left
out for a variety of reasons, but, by the same token, there's one thing I
want to be sure to include, and that's a reference to the original 38,000
version of "The Flyyy."  Anyone reading this and wanting some fleshing out,
politically speaking, should write and request a copy so as to complete
their collection of moi.  I cut ten thousand words out of the story, as
it's posted now.  Shouldn't have, but there you go.  (I have to acknowledge
a mistake once in awhile, because if I don't that leaves immodesty as my
only imperfection, which is oxymoronic.)

       The History Channel's doing another Kennedy rerun.  Let me put this
very simply.  When Honey Fitz and Old Joe were doing with schmoes and
liquor and Hollywood and such, my ancestors were establishing Bell Labs and
the Burlington Northern.  Go ahead and say So What.  Your death warrant
needs signing, and you'll oblige the clerk by affixing your moniker with
your own ignorant hand.  Again, I refer the reader to the unabridged
version of "The Flyyy."

       My favorite story of "Lottacum," of course I really mean "Camelot,"
is that Old Joe never spoke a single word after Teddy told him about Mary
Jo.  To prove I'm the balanced, fair minded, flexible and honorable prince
that I am, I will give Ted credit for one thing.  For decades he's been
trying to get Naushon into the public trust.  These islands, ranging some
twenty miles south of Woodshole, are as beautiful as it gets on this
planet.  Fantasy-size trees and extensive coastal moorlands.  Private
Property.  Home to more tree hugging, granny-glassed liberals than you can
shake a bra at, but when it comes to popular access to their vast back
yards, it's not no, but hell no.  Ask Ted Kennedy.  They wouldn't even let
him stay over night, because he's a mick.

       All our houses are at one end, and they have scads of acreage and
miles of shorefront, in their own right.  Public access should be allowed
on eighty percent of The Elizabeth Islands.  So let it be written, and so
on.  Of course, when I'm famous the entire chain, Monsod and Hadley's
Harbor to Cuttyhunk, will be parklands because I used to ride Merlin, Zel,
Cadence, Dart and Starfire all the heck over the place, and picnic on the
Weepeckets.  Since we were going on about the Kennedys and royal families
and so on, here's something you can do at home.  Pull out a map of
Massachusetts.  Try to find the Kennedy Compound in Hyannis Port.  If it
looks okay, don't be fooled.  The water is shallow, the bottom is rough and
muddy, and it is most unpleasant place, any time of year, though very
suitable for a liquor merchant.  Now see if you can find Naushon.  Well,
good for you.  Now you know the difference between a real prince and the
watered down kind that the Jews want to sell you.  And having spoken of
pleasant, find Pleasant Bay (just past Chatham).  Now, locate Sipson's
Island and The Narrows.  The house on the mainland bluff belonged to Gran,
and is the second most beautiful property on the cape.  I mention these,
I'm sure trying the patients of pervs from other regions, because millions
and millions of people live in the area.  It is the homeland and breeding
ground of the only prince you've got, so study your geography.

       Watched PBS's presentation on Queen Victoria last night.  I am very,
very anti woman.  A perfect example of the reason why is the total
destruction of the Indian experience with the introduction of English women
into the East India Company culture.  They abused their servants, clattered
and gossiped like the insufferable bitches there were up, down, and
especially in the middle.  (Perfectly exemplified by Hyacinth Bucket it the
British offering titled "Keeping Up Appearances.")  Without them, India
would undoubtedly be a massive world power, very mixed, very rich, very
beautiful, and very happy.  As it is, they suffer the migrations of up to
seventy million people at a time in religious frenzies and their idea of a
Martha Stewart Good Thing is to ride on top of a train.  Can't be much fun.
I think women should be known generically as bessies after Bess Truman, who
had to have been the worst American, next to the Rosenbergs, who ever
lived.

       A quick shot at IBM for false advertising.  The commercial where the
Turkish business group calls the American teen, who relays their massage to
dad and his answer back to them.  The product advertised, instant voice
translation, not only does not exist, it never will in any way close to how
it is portrayed in this advertisement.  All it does is encourage people to
buy bigger, more power hungry computers because even primitive voice
recognition takes enormous processor speed.  The only difference between
what IBM is offering, and the Elixir of Egypt in "Oklahoma!," is the cost,
minus the buzz off the elixir's opium and alcohol.

       What's all this privacy stuff?  Seems very Jewish.  Every person a
bit of a king wringing his or her hands over someone getting ahold of their
personal information.  Aside from obvious fiduciary considerations, what in
earth is the problem.  It seems to me to be a Yiddish variation of Fear
Itself as in The only thing we have to sell you, is fear itself.  Charles
Lindberg said a few Jews added texture to a society but a significant
number resulted in chaos.  This is a perfect example.  Everyone fretting
about privacy, Web sites adding expensive, bandwidth-consuming layers of
nonsense, for what?  Remember Y2K?  As long as you understand that these
non-people will kill you, that's the thing.  That you go willingly to your
death in their jittery upside down world.  I insist on no less for my
subjects.

       Ford's in the news.  Probably on the way out.  They've used their
CAD programs to maximize profits to the extent their transmissions fail if
not perfectly maintained, and they had to buy back eight thousand cars for
total engine failures.  Who would ever buy one, new or used, with so many
other choices?  The irony of the situation is that these stories are on at
three in the morning, and the tire thing is in prime time.  How can anyone
be responsible for a tire which can be under-inflated, overloaded, and
driven at excessive speed on 120-degree pavement?  I say no one can, but
the operator, and would add that it is an oxymoron to mention safety, and
RUVs (Rollover Utility Vehicles), with their lousy brakes, in any context.

       Women at Wal-Mart.  Thirty percent of management versus about fifty
percent at Sears and K-Mart.  I don't like Wal-Mart for the damage it's
done to the classic American town, and would scale it out of existence in
twenty years, but now I see how they got where they are.

       Some NASCAR circuit race in Kentucky was on the other day.  Seventy
thousand fans.  If memory serves, the downfall of Rome and its empire was
caused, as much as by anything, by gladiatorial obsession.  Vaudeville, I
was just thinking earlier today, was much the same thing.  In other words,
a life around the house that is so boring, you will spring for any take-in
available, at almost whatever amount on your credit card.  This comes from
not reading.  If you read, you can get a stack of books from the library,
free, and have the weekend of your life, perhaps even educate your kids a
little, and get to bed at eleven Sunday night, healthier, wealthier and
wiser than your neighbor with his five minute water-cooler story.  It is
flat-out impossible to be lonely with a good book.  And these days you have
Nifty, to boot.  Count yourself lucky, stay home, and get a freaking life.

       .Too much freaking sex.  Those last two chapters, especially.  I
haven't mentioned Emersonia, nor The Projects Party, for hundreds of pages.
This is the only blueprint you're going to get, and though you don't
deserve it, I happen to like typing on Word XP, so you're going to get it
anyway.  For you veterans of these 464 pages, and 185,000 words, trust me.
I don't want to try David's patience any more than I think I can get away
with.  You folk who have joined along the way, well, you can trust me, too.
The engine has been repeatedly demonstrated at one million horsepower (some
readers say more).  Enough to send you straight up, babe.

       Yes, Brad has a secret, and all will be revealed in this chapter, in
spite of not one single letter on the manuscript so far.  Your problem, not
mine.  But for now I'm enjoying a morning work out, so we'll chip a few
more.

       Para medical teams.  These would be task-trained technicians who
would perform a large percentage of routine surgery.  Answer this question.
Who would you rather have do your by-pass, an eighteen year old who had
done several hundred in the preceding months, or a board certified cardiac
surgeon who'd done a dozen or two?  The is a perfect avenue for so-called
troubled kids because the only skill required are reasonable intelligence
and a fine touch.  Who knows what kind of touch a physician has, just
because he or she was able to pass Neurology.  In my major novel, I
describe a culture in which kids sit around the lunchroom crocheting Irish
linen into doilies.  Of course, in Emersonia they're competing for
fifty-million dollars in prize money, but that's then, and this is now.

       Emergency rooms would be, to a large extent, a place you go to die
in comfort.  If you show a legitimate degree of vitality, as an overall
person, heroic methods may be used to save you, but if you're old, sick,
fat or otherwise in bad shape, you will be given comfort care, only.  Not
all the time, there are exceptional circumstances, like Gran, when she
broke her hip at a hundred and two.  Since she was in excellent overall
health, mental and physical, she should be given a chance and her hip
should be pinned.

       Of course, having been married to an RN for five years, and having
numerous relatives in medicine, I realize the populist tripe served up on
"E.R." is not the way it is, but rather a Jewish ideal.  Still, vast
billions of tax money are wasted on extremely low value treatments, which
result in terrible suffering, often for months or years, in a hundred
patients for every one who is cured, in any humane sense of the word.

       Again, is the sole purpose of our national experience to clobber the
diseased and elderly along, to keep premies and coma victims alive, at a
cost, per day, that would put a kid through a year of college?  If you
believe this for a minute of your life, skip the e.r., you're already dead.
(Trouble is, you're killing off the whole species, daddy-o).

       You kind of get the drift, eh?  We must largely eliminate socialism
and use our surplus to refurbish the bleak mess left by our ancestors.
That's all there is to it.  No insurance, no warranties, no unions, no
welfare except the helpage centers.  My cousin, Bing, was killed in Vietnam
shortly after I left the country.  He was the third William Emerson, and,
if anyone is interested, was featured in a piece of leftist trash titled
"Hearts and Minds."  In the Jewish world in which we live, it won an
oscarmajigg.

       Anyhow, the unit of currency in Emersonia is named after him.  The
bing.  It is, irrevocably, the pay for one hour of unskilled or
semi-skilled labor, with semi-skilled defined as any task that can be
learned by the average person in a week.  Punishment for paying or
receiving more than one bing per hour is one-thousand hours of detention.
To hit a few way points, a teacher would make B1.50 to B1.70 and a doctor,
B2.50 to B5.00.  An airline pilot might work up to B2.00.  In this life you
walk into a store with a bing, and come out with a modest bag of food, for
centuries at a time.  That's conservatism.  The real kind.  The kind that
says we will allow you the best of everything, according to what you
produce, but we will not allow you to make pigs of yourselves, ruin the
environment, and run the country to ruin, at this point, it appears,
through diabetes, alone.

       Because of Sir William, there is a tiny light in your tunnel.  As
the X-Box truncates the media, vast resources will become discretionary.
People will live in smaller houses, travel less, save more.  He's pulled
you from the brink once, but can he do it, again?  If I write for him, yes,
if not, no.  Some questions have very simple answers.

       Carpal tunnel has been back in the news, off a Mayo Clinic study
downplaying its existence.  I think the dead must be glad they are that
way, because surely weavers of old, type setters, of old, blacksmiths, of
old, and all farmers, of old, would laugh themselves to death if they could
see how limp wrested we've become.  It's a fad, as well known to true
doctors as a number of others that have appeared all over the world.  They
come, they go.  Asthma, for example.  What's that about?  I drove the
freaking bus in Los Angeles for three years and I never saw anyone have an
asthma attack.  I've never seen one in my life.

       In a way, I feel like a hypocrite writing this.  When my computer
was stuck in Safe Mode for a few days, I didn't write a word because the
screen was so ugly.  Nonetheless, I stick to my guns.  Work is work, I've
done loads of the stuff.  Buy your own keyboard, or whatever, and count
your blessing you're not softening sandy buffalo hide for your brave, with
your teeth.  (Our bunkers at LZ Sharon were located in an arroyo.  No
breeze.  Sixteen degrees north of the equator, in August.  Sandbagging.  If
anyone can come up with a more stringent arena of toil, drop me a line so I
can avoid the place.)

       Marijuana.  This entire novel, as well as everything else I've
posted, was written when I was stoned.  I smoke two very average joints a
day, and have for the last seven years in a row.  Plus, other times in my
life, for years on end, then stopped, for years on end.  The only time I
stopped here was when the price doubled, to a dollar a joint.  Then I quit
for a couple of weeks, not in protest, but simply because on my income it
wasn't worth the price.  I almost laugh out loud when I see a pink cheeked
David Crosby, and a twenty year old practically dying in her shoes because
the junk food industry has bloated her to three hundred pounds.  If you
underpin your social structure with Jewry, this is exactly what you get.
Anyone who gave a shit would outlaw gratuitous food products for at least
ten years.  So let it be written, so let it be done.

       About the most interesting fact in history is that the divorce rate
in Paris dropped from forty percent, to forty divorces, in the first years
of Napoleon.  Suddenly, people had something to think about other than
their relationships.

       As I started to say some hundred or more pages ago, it's time we
tricked this bird up and made her ready for our final letdown and inbound
routing.  It's been nice flying with you, and perhaps there will be time
for a few words at journey's end.  In the meantime, we've been cleared out
of our last holding pattern so I'll get off the intercom and see what
approach control has up their sleeves.  Fare thee well.

       			. . .
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *
       *

       Brad was looking more mischievous as the delightful afternoon wore
on.  Mysterious.  Anticipatory.  Nothing up his sleeve.  His naked arms
stretched so John could see.  No.  It was in his eyes.  With whole other
worlds, yes, but nonetheless distinctively something up; something in the
wind.

       John lay to the eleven year old, and couldn't help whispering,
"What?"
       "You've got to be ready," the boy replied.

       That seemed to lead nowhere.  Who cared?  Let him dwell in his land
of mischief.  Touching his bare chest, fondling him, kissing him, molesting
him, was to die for.  John could do it in a snow bank.  Start a flood, so
what?, there was nothing unnatural about a flood.

       While silence in this young male was a hundred times more lucid than
the prattle of most boys, his actions bent John's mind entirely.  Louder
than his beautiful silence.  Louder.  Oh, god, what's he doing with my
belt, my zipper, and so fast.  Well, he isn't a virgin, after all.  But
still, he's just eleven.  Should he be so sure of what he's after?  Well,
never mind.  Boys will be boys.

       "I want to tell you a story."

       His actions had been so decisive and, jeez, complete, he was due his
words, but if he keeps it up, it better be a short story.  Fortunately,
Brad changed his rhythm, stroking the naked thirty year old's big penis in
a more lingering manner, and using his mouth only to verbalize.

       "This happened to one of Uncle Brad's friends.  He was visiting a
mechanic's shop in a town not far from here.  He hung out there quite
often, and one Saturday morning there were some other customers watching
the mechanics work on their car.  He, his name is Allen Reynolds, had
thrown a case of Bud on the back of his bike, and he offered one to the
man, Kit Anderson, whose car was being worked on.  They chatted and kit
introduced Sandi, his wife, and Samantha, ten, their daughter.

       			. . .

       Kit pretty well had to introduce the little girl.  She was flirting
with the handsome stranger.  Allen chuckled to himself when she pulled her
shirt half way up her tummy and her dad yelled at her not to show her boobs
in public.  The girl obeyed her young father with a grin, and sashayed off
to another part of the shop.  At this point Al, the owner, came in and
introduced Allen.  Kit was glad to find out the visitor was well known, and
when he caught his daughter's eye he managed to give her a quick wink.  An
all-clear.  The child chortled happily in response, and took off after the
shop cat, which she'd been stalking since her arrival..

       The talk went along the usual chillin' over brewskies lines.  Good
routes for Allen's bike.  Prices.  Rain.  Since it was June, how lucky to
have any sun, at all.  Sanki chatted about a series of auctions whose
funeral rows of cars parked on the roadside were a part of rural life.  At
one point the young wife excused herself and Kit whispered to Henry that
she liked to play with herself all the time, and couldn't get enough of it.
Sandi returned and the conversation returned to conventional themes.

       At twelve thirty, Kit invited Allen across the street for a beer.
It was filling out as a very mellow Saturday, and the twenty-five-year-old
biker accepted with a happy smile.

       The bar was known simply as The Corn, though it's sign read: Corn's
All Squeezed.  Half a dozens patrons were seated in the main dining area,
leaving the back of the room free.  That's where Kit guided Henry, picking
up a pair of tank-n-tonics on the way, as well as napkins and a plastic
basket full of chips.  They talked more about bikes and cars, then Kit
changed the tone.  It was subtle but unmistakable.

       "Sammy Song really likes you," he said to the new arrival, three
years his senior.
       "She's cuter than strawberries, hold the pie," he replied, blushing
slightly because the girls young breasts had shown through her T-shirt as
just finger size, and he hadn't meant it that way.
       "She's not normally into crushes and on-the-spot notions," the young
farmer mused.
       "Well, she's a doll," Allen said.  "You're totally lucky, dude."
       "So you're from the Northeast," Kit said, seeming to want to say
more.  He continued after a moment.  "There's a lot of rural country out
your way?"
       "Most of it's that way," Allen explained.  "Even up along the Hudson
you can get lost and die in the woods, practically in sight of Manhattan,
if you could climb a tree."
       "So then, a lot of farming.?"
       "Huge," Allen agreed.
        His new young friend was trying to get somewhere.  The journalist
was somewhat new to interviewing, so decided it was time to order up lunch
and another round.  On top of two beers each, that should do it for both of
them.

       When he returned to the table -- he was a lively type and liked to
bus his own table if the staff didn't mind -- he felt the same feeling he'd
experienced in the artillery unit where he spent his weekend each month.  A
hang-fire.  It can explode instantly, or never.  Creates considerable
tension, especially when one goes to unlock the breech.  Why was this
handsome and impossibly young father licking his lips.  Had he said
something.  And what was all this about farms.  I mean, sure, it was Iowa,
but..

       "So," the young man finally began, jeeze he looked like a boy
himself, "like on the farms, is, there, you know, maybe like a little
different lifestyle than in the city and suburbs, you know, where there are
people around and a girl like Samantha would have a bunch of friends?"

       "I think rural societies, farmers, shepherds, ranchers, all of them
are probably closer, or more distant, as the case may be." the writer
replied, thoughtfully.  "I guess it must intensify things by default, if
for no other reason."  That was as well as Allen could do for the moment.
He really preferred to listen, always assuming he was too young to be a
real journalist.

       Kit smiled and seemed to blush again.  "You said I was lucky, and
you were right.  We happen to be a closer family."

       Allen waited him out.

       "They joke about stuff, you know, Arkansas, you know, How do you
circumcise a Kentucky boy?, kick his sister in the chin.  We're not like
that, you know, creeps.  It's just stuff that happens.  I guess you could
say, if you were of a mind, that we earn it by a fool's amount of hard
work, and pulling the world along behind our tractors."

       "In olden times," Allen said, "they had to be careful."
       "That's it, exactly," the young father said, "I mean think about it.
If everyone just did what they felt like doing, that would be a mess.  Like
the kid in the book."

       Allen was thrilled at the reference, to Dicke's book.  Kit smiled
broadly at the quick look of respect in the biker's eyes.  Maybe
twenty-five wasn't over the hill.

       "Anyhow," the young father continued, "that was then, and this is
now.  Now we have money, lots of it, and genetic profiling, and, well, what
used to be antisocial and dangerous, isn't, anymore."

       "In a way it's ironic," Allen said, a vocational strata to his
logic, "the older timers who worked so hard with so little had to toe to
the straight and narrow, and now, when it's all diesels and
air-conditioning, a wider field is opened.  He almost added "to the plow,"
but he'd already let one berry-size allusion escape, and that was more than
enough.

       "That hits when we go to Sandi's auctions," Kit said.  "But this is
Iowa, so they did live in heaven..."
       "Whatever relationship they had with their angels," Allen broke in,
abusing the first tenant of journalism by finishing off they next guy's
sentence.

       The lunch crowd had dispersed, and Sandi poked her head in to say
she was taking Samantha out to a nearby farm that had some spare kittens.
The girl blew a kiss from behind her mom, it seemed wide enough to cover
two, and was off, in tow.  Kit pulled out a small notebook from his shirt
pocket and lay it on the table.

       "Look, Allen," he said, "I think we're kind of talking about the
same thing; would it be okay if I came and sat beside you?  We can use the
notebook to pretend we're dickering on something."

       Once again, there was an opportunity for the suggestive comment.
Allen let it ride, and moved to the opposite side of the booth, where both
could spot an intruder fifty feet away.  `Intruder'.  The word ricocheted
in Allen's mind, and he wondered if even war could be quite this exciting.
He pulled out his pen.

       "She really likes you," Kit half whispered.  "And Sandi, too.  I
though I knew all the signals, and there were some new ones the moment she
laid eyes on you.  Both of them, in fact."
       "I'm like absolutely, totally flattered, dude," the biker said, "but
I like all three of you, and I wouldn't want to be a..."
       "Fourth wheel?"  This time it was Kit who interrupted.

       The analogy was cute, that was for sure.  Almost diabolically
subtle.  You didn't have to own a Porsche to appreciate the fundamental
validity of the concept.

       "All three of us want to invite you for the weekend," Kit whispered,
as if he were discussing an important deal.
       "Don't get the wrong idea," he added, "we don't just lie around in a
stupor all the time.  We play cards, I read to Sammy Song, mostly sports
bios, Sandi reads her one little girl story and a couple of big girl
stories.  That's a whole hour, seven nights a week.  Then we manage to
one-up even the Brady's, because we jump rope for nineteen minutes, racing
to see who can do the most spins.
       "But," the boyish young dad said, with a trace of wit leaking from
his eyes, "that's pretty much It, in the healthy-family-evening
department."
       "Yes," Allen agreed.  "By the time you're done, you must be ready
for a..."
       "Shower."

       Christ in the Mountains, what was this with finishing each other's
sentences?

       They both giggled so close to fucking children they tripped
themselves into near hysteria, Allen, the more mature, having the presence
of mind to scribble something on the little notepad.

       There was a place in the corn,
       Where friends could chill of a morn'.
       If the conversation broke down
       There was no need to drown,
       But only to talk of the horn.

       When Kit read it his eyes simply blazed.  Thirty seconds.  While
giggling.  It was a display of raw talent that, of and by itself, would
have been key to a lifetime of friendship.  More than.

       "You really are a writer," he whispered out loud.  "Limericks are
the province of the Irish, you must come from the sod."
       "No, English, nothing but, unless you include lords and ladies from
Scotland.  Not always wise in the provinces."
       "You're secret's safe," Kit responded, still shaking a bit and
wiping the tears from his eyes.  The counter girl looked in, but they
hardly needed more to drink and waved her off with a smile.
       "Where were we when we were so crudely interrupted?" Kit asked.
       "It begins with s-h-o-w and ends with..."
	"e-r," Kit added, immediately finding his place in his story, and
thinking he could have just well supplied t-i-m-e as a suffix..
       "Is that what really happens?" the writer quizzed.
       "Most every night from 7:49 to 8:00 p.m."
       "So you start with the jump roping at seven-thirty?"
       "Those are the dues we pay.  Live like machines, take care of
business, twenty-two hours a day.  Tivo from four to six, dinner, never
more than an hour on homework, and that gets us to the reading and the
exercise, or," and here he could not restrain the residual cough of a
giggle, "at least some of the exercise"
       Kit sensed a reluctance in Allen to ask more personal questions.  He
felt comfortable enough with his new friend, to take some exploratory
initiative.

       "It started back just when she turned eight with that ad for the
family cruise ship," the young farmer whispered.  "The one with the little
cruise director girl leading her parents around.  The hula-hoop."
       Allen remembered the ad.  The company allegedly ran parks that were
extremely exciting for virile young males, and he remembered having his
feet swept almost off by a nice boy with pimples.  Regrettably, he'd been
there with his brother, and unable to respond.  Well, he supposed, if you
analyzed it, there was nothing non-carnal about the gyrating pixie in her
dance skins.
       "Sammy-Song recorded that on the Tivo.  Made a loop, all by herself.
That cute kid, swiveling her hips for, I swear, five minutes."
       "I like her mom," Allen said.
       "Dyn-o-mite," Kit agreed, and they high fived.  The actress playing
the mother epitomized the awesome potential of woman as girl, leave out the
fork and trough.  (Even professional dancers get fat if they eat too much.)
       "Anyway," the farmer continued, "Sandi got the biggest kick out of
it.  Thought it was cute..."
       "Because they look like sisters?"

       "She was taller and leggier, being older than the little actress,
but, you've got a point.  Strong resemblance, but then she's a pretty
common looking cutie.
       "It's nice talking to someone who's actually present," Kit added
with a trace of a sigh.  "Sometimes I wonder if I'm raising a freak.  She's
ten now, and she's read a dozen books for every book her teachers have
read.  Since most of them have never read anything off a list, and notes
for them, maybe, that's not saying very much.
       "The other day," Kit went on, "I called her teacher on some school
business, and happened to mention Garrison Keillor [sorry, tall dude, you
didn't make the dictionary].  Clueless.  Never heard of him, and this is
freaking Iowa.  I said Lake Woebegone, and she said the last time she saw
Lake, he seemed fine.  She must have thought I was nuts."

       Elvis came on with "Suspicious Minds."  It fit the mood.  Suspicion
of ignorant union teachers and sterile classes.  The haunting opening of
the song seemed to promise more, then the varying rhythmic themes seemed to
get their act together and set off.  "So with an old friend I know," a new
song starts, comfortable in its business.  Relaxed.  What the young writer
prayed for, every day of his life.  Catch his readers in a trap, don't let
them walk out.  But could he do it, so beautifully, set thrumming passages
marching on, seemingly in disarray, then magically synched, in cadence and
in step?  As the record, the lovely, scratchy record, ended, he suddenly
realized the arrangement was flawed.  Lord, that stupid limerick.  What had
that been all about?  Now was listening to the closing shots of Elvis's
masterpiece, and faulting the ensemble, for, well, using horns.

       "Do you think she's pretty?" Kit was asking.
       "Not like a model," Allen replied, "but yes.  She could almost be a
sister to the girl in the cruse-ship commercial if..."
       "She lost a few pounds.  That's on purpose.  She doesn't want to be
a barrel girl and we don't want a paper doll.  Too much work on a farm,
among other reasons."
       "She's not even half-way..."
       "To that?  Thanks.  She'll be pleased.  We..."
       "Downplay it?  The cutie-pie thing?  I won't..."
       "It goes without saying."

       Both the young males thought this was pretty funny.  Allen was
thrilled with the assumption he would see the girl later and his brown eyes
glowed with anticipation.  Between school, work, and the Guard he hadn't
found time for much pursuit of any kind.  He'd covered abnormal psychology
in various courses, and knew he'd lingered a little longer and scored a
little lower than a committed scholar would have.  His subtle mind nagged
at a possibility of detecting perversion through an algorithm based on
substandard academic scores.  He had a sneaking feeling it might prove
accurate.

       Their most recent comic interlude concluded, the young men resumed
whispering.

       "So Sandi had a talk with her," Kit said, "about the little dancing
redhead.  She told me about it that night."
       "What did she say?" Allen asked.
       "Sammy Song asked Sandi if the girl in the scene ever danced for her
daddy.  Sandi asked her why, and she explained that the girl really seemed
to like her dad, and maybe he'd like to watch her dance in her bathing
suit, with her arms up so he could see her.
       "Sandi said she was sure the girl's dad would love to watch her.
Then she asked why she wanted to know.  Sammy-Song replied that she'd had a
really big dream about dancing for me.  `So she could show me how much she
loved me,' unquote."
       "Girl after my own heart," Allen said.

       Kit blushed, but did not look away in any special manner.

       "Anyway," the boyish dad continued, "she went on to say that she'd
seen Betsy Ferguson, she's a nine year old, showing her new bra to the
younger girls, and she dreamed that's what she was wearing when she danced
for me.  She asked Sandi if that was a bad dream, and Sandi tweaked her
nose and said, `It was a dream, wasn't it?'
       "'That made her giggle,' Sandi said, and then Samantha started
asking questions, which was unusual, because usually she's more the egghead
type; likes to look things up for herself.  How much did I love her, did
she have to be just a little girl, always, did the little girl in the ad
ever get to do things all alone, just her and her dad?
       "I guess I don't have to say by this time Sandi had pretty well
retreated into a daddy's little girl mode, herself, and I counted myself
quite a lucky pops, indeed."
       "Were you inside her?" Allen whispered, picking his permission from
Kit's tone.
       "More than I had ever been.  I swear, I was twice the size, of, you
know, normal."
       "She's gorgeous," Allen whispered.
       "Oh, god, that night, she was all sweaty and totally out of this
world.  I'd cum off in her, and she'd tell me more about my little girl;
how obvious, if unformed her little eight-year-old questions were.  She'd
heard on television that girls in Iraq get married at nine, and asked what
it would be like for a little girl to have a man for a husband.  Sandi
explained the mechanics; that a normal girl was able to be with a normal,
full-grown man, when she was six or seven.  That, of course, was a magic
number with the resident princess, who was all of that and even a little
more.  By the time I'd quizzed Sandi on everything I'd come in her nine
times.  The last time, she screamed, I mean all-out; she's usually very
quiet because of the things she did with her father had to be secret, but
she howled and cried out, then broke down mewing.  From the other side of
the wall we heard Sammy-Song.  `Thanks for telling him about me, Mommy,"
she said.

       "Always a clown, eh?" Allen quipped.
       "You had to have been there," came the retort, with a shy grin.

       "The next week was unbelievable," Kit went on.  "Sandi and I agreed
to wait until the following Saturday night.  First, to be sure it wasn't
just a passing notion with Sammy-Song, but, just as much to be sure,
ourselves.  The torment began as early as Tuesday night.  Sandi wanted to
make her daughter's first time special, so we'd fool around and whisper to
each other for a couple of hours each night, you know, eight to ten, farm
time, then we'd take pills to sleep, only time in our lives, and repeat the
process.  Sammy understood something was in the wind, and laid off
pestering her mom.  Being good about that kind of thing had earned her a
horse when she was seven, so she stuck to the course she knew.

       "Never can tell when there might be a stallion in the offing," Allen
commented, glad he didn't have to dodge possible double entendres, not any
more.

       "The only debate," Kit continued, "was that I wanted Sandi with us,
and she wanted it to be private between the two of us.  She reminded me it
had been very private when she told her twin, Adam, about what her dad was
doing to her, and he'd kissed her and said it was okay, that a lot of girls
on farms did things like that, and then took her camping for a week.  They
were twelve at the time.  She's sure that's when Samantha was conceived.
Their dad was thrilled, whoever's child it was, and the whole family ganged
up on my aunt, and finally she changed her mind and even came to get turned
on listening to Sandi and her twin when Adam was making love to her, which
he began doing very often.

       "Did Adam continue his affair with your wife?" Allen asked.

       "Yes," Kit whispered.  "But they kept being super secretive, that's
why she loves it when I take her really slowly and gently.  We can't get
past the hickey part, but she used to send them as signals to her mom and
her brother.  It was all so deliciously shameful it might have been
English.  You know, Mr. Wick."

       "How did Sandi's dad start with her," Allen asked.
       "He raped her.  Coming home from Riverfest.  She was wearing a
dancing costume.  Pink satin.  Cut really low in front.  And pantyhose and
a garter.  She'd just turned twelve.  He said he wanted to check some
gates, and apparently had come out that morning to open one, so when he
`found' it with Sandi, he had an excuse to check more.  After the third
one, he apologized, and tried to explain to her, but she was scared and
confused.  He had her with him on the front seat of the pickup for over an
hour.  He came inside her twice, and the first time, all over her bare
chest.  He begged her to forgive him, and she sort of spaced it off.
Awhile later, she told Adam, they went on their trip, alone together, she
came back pregnant, Joan, that's my aunt, had no choice, and as soon as she
saw how happy everyone could hardly help being, all the time, like the
Bradys, she threw out the towel and hijacked her daughter and her husband
into the shower, and Adam watched from the door as she placed her little
girl onto her husband.  That was the only time they ever did anything
together.  After that, it was the hickey telegraph that spread the word
that the little girl had been with her dad."

       "When did you meet her?" Allen asked.
       "She'd been dating Adam for about two months.  That's what we call
it.  We were friends, more than, and one day we got stuck under a tree,
rain, for a couple of hours.  She told me and let me feel her belly.  She
was just starting to swell.  She said she wanted to date me, but we had to
wait for a week so we could be sure of our feelings.  She advised me
against falling in love, because she was going to bear either a daughter
and sister, or daughter and niece, and that might be too weird for some
people.

       "That was the first of my super weeks.  Her dad and Adam let me take
her camping, for a week, just like she'd gone on with Adam when he got her
pregnant.  Start of a happy marriage.  Two twelve year olds, and all those
woods.  Now Sandi's twenty-two, Sammy-Song is ten."
       "How does she feel about following in her mom's footsteps>" Allen
asked.
       "She wants two, I mean two children.  No way.  One while she's with
us, the second has to come from her husband and under her own roof.  Sand's
just ready for her second, now."
       "How many are you going to have?"
       "We can afford five, now, and we hope by the time the sixth is here,
we'll be able to afford seven.  We want some normal kids.  Just because we
farm doesn't mean we harvest our whole crop of daughters.  It's not real
complicated, but there is an informal formulae, a first daughter for this,
and the rest, for that, so to speak.  Honor among thieves, a skeptic might
call it."
       "We believe

       			. . .

       "Talent does what it can, genius does what it must."  George Eliot.
Well, that seems like a good place to interrupt, now that things in the
little cafe are cooking along at a goodly rate.  My illustrious ancestor
said When duty whispers lo, thou must, the man replies I can.  He didn't
use `man' as he wrote in obscure English, too close to the Greek and Latin
of his education.  Whatever his synonym for man, I would substitute genius
and dip my hat to Ms. Eliot.  She'd be glad to know her name is on the
spell checker.  And I bring the whole matter up because not only is it
germane to an overall imperative to attack you and drive you, like stupid
sheep, off the lemmingesque route to the cliffs you are now on, but I also
must deal with practical realities, which, to a writer, is getting
published.  Starting out superficially, my present situation is suddenly
fraught with intellectual and philosophical significance.  I have tried to
dwell in the land of the common man.  As I've mentioned numerous times,
this is the reason I chose Nifty.  It is also the reason I live in a very
poor Caribbean city.  It is the reason I drove a bus in Los Angeles.  I
left an S2 deferment with dean's list enhancements to join the army.  I
knew I was a prince at five, and made every effort to live commonly amongst
my subjects and to learn of them, from them.  That I have trained myself
virtually perfectly in my fantasy job, being a prince, may be clearly seen
in my parallel field of endeavor, which is operating the alpha/numeric
keyboard.  This is all well and good you're undoubtedly saying, but what's
the point.  The point is genius does what it must and in this case
criticizes the monarch, himself.  He tells me that I'm nuts for sticking
with Nifty.  More is less.  So much, means no one can find anything.  I
acknowledge I have never received a letter on C-Camp, but remind him this
is what I want.  To write the book just the way I want, with no thought in
the world that anyone will read it.  He says the issue is deeper.  He says
I've been swallowed by the very populism I attack.  I ask him, how so?  He
replies that for all its populistic opportunity, Nifty is, in, fact just
what I claim: arbitrary, regimented, inflexible in a system of laws over a
system of men, sense, and, in the end, another example of a technician
ending up with extraordinary power, like Ellison and hundreds of others, by
the simple expedient of being exactly in the right place at exactly the
right time.  Every passing day reaffirms an absolute truth and that is that
many of these blessed techies are simply not very smart.  I ask him what
makes him so sure of himself and he points out that David adamantly refuses
to post even a single chapter of my work on the mainstream of his site.
Cites technicalities, procedures, policies and formalities.  Makes not the
least distinction between the writer who has submitted a little story or
two, and one who has posted five or six hundred pages; the teen scribble,
versus script that takes a minimum of five hours a page, just to edit and
half-way proof.  That's why I said it's intellectual and philosophical.
Everybody is exactly the same, no one is special, no matter what.  As
precise a definition of one size fits all as it is possible to conceive of.
So, the short message is I'm outta here.  Genius does do what it must, and
it must not support the bedrock of arbitrary socialism that Nifty hides
under a veneer of inclusiveness.  If I'm lucky, neither of the other
principal sites will want to deal with my ranting and raving, and I can use
the bolus of cash that just came my way to head out to Tobacco Caye and see
what our local, and very superior, Temptation Island has to offer.  If you
want Brad's secret, or for one second in reading this now truncated
manuscript thought it wouldn't be all I claimed, e-mail me and I'll send
you an outline.  For my fellow writers I can't help feeling a bit of envy.
David has made you as good as I am, and most of you have done less than
five percent of the work I did.  Populism treats inferior people extremely
well, and surely that must be a wonderful thing.  In fact, in suggesting
that David give me a presence in boy-band land I used the phrase It's way
no issue.  It was ironically correct.  When the dedicated and the casual
become equal, the future is exactly that.  Way, way no issue.

       So, I may see some of you over on other sites.  I guess Ed Bangor
has the right approach, after all.  Submit everything, everywhere.  And
mind you, I'm not complaining, just doing the `must' of genius.  Nifty gave
me a calm and receptive outlet with none of the heavy volume of reader mail
I used to get.  I couldn't have written this massive work without that
tranquility, and also the peace of mind that came from seeing each chapter
posted the day I sent it.  I change horses in mid-stream with reluctance,
but I've got over a thousand hours in the saddle, over half bareback, so
who knows.

       Another factor here is that I've pretty well said what I have to
say.  Undoubtedly thousands of readers have found C-Camp, even though it's
hidden in the sf-fantasy alcove.  The word is out, to the public, in
however flawed a manner.  The short way of summarizing this whole
manuscript is to simply point out that there are 281,000,000 of you, and
one of me.  You live or die by accepting or ignoring the precepts outlined
herein, and you know it.  You are getting your marching orders by way of
child pornography as a symbol of my contempt for the greedy, superficial,
Yiddish nature of your overall lifestyle.  If you die because of the
embarrassing nature of message, you are still dead, and it seems at this
point that's the best outcome.  Weed the garden, one way or the other..
After all, there's a writer named Mutchnik on "Dawson's Creek," and eleven
screenwriters couldn't feed Lara a single line.  What on earth do you have
to live for?  (Okay, besides feeding your gigantic kids.).

       And a final thought for you comedy buffs.  I'm thinking of reprising
those old Hope/Crosby pictures.  My script delineates the life of the
happiest Roman who ever lived.  Full of grace, charm and wit his excitement
with and love of life are greatly enhanced when he is entrusted with the
most special and rewarding of assignments.  He is a builder and the name of
my script is "Road to Massada."  Interestingly, the were a group who
preferred to lose their lives than anything else.  I feel the same way,
only being a king, I prefer to lose your lives than anything else.  In the
meantime, try The Wisdom Channel.  I call it stroke-you-silly television,
which should be right up the alley of Nifty readers and a generation whose
reality is D in its four-letter implementation.

         Charisma is the ability to get people to do things their mothers
told them not to.

       Posted by Thomas@btl.net.

       xxx