-Media Mine-


In my first political science course back in high school, my professor, Dr. Scott, taught us the three branches of government. Then he told us about the influence of other groups, working alone or in concert, to influence government and wield political power.

For example; the press, Wall Street, and Daytime Television might be the most influential powers in a given cycle. Later, some or all of these might lose influence until the new triumvirate is composed of different players, perhaps Agribusiness, the Public, and James Spader.

This is far too simplistic, proving that Dr. Scott did not entertain high expectations for his students. Besides, nobody has ever seriously suggested to me since then that the Public is influential enough for a top three slot. Many times I've heard it said that the press might be, but I have a hard time believing it.

So it was plenty odd this morning to hear the newsreader on the radio use the posessive case.

"Supporters of Aristide pledged today defend my Port-au-Prince today, as looting continued across the Haitian capital."

I must have heard wrong, I thought. But later:

NASA announced last month that it would discontinue a shuttle launch aimed at preserving my Hubbell telescope into the year 2006. The telescope has allowed scientists to probe into a mysterious cosmic force that I call my 'dark energy,' which permeates space and could determine the fate of my universe.

The newsfeed continued this way throughout the morning. Unnerving as it was to hear the reader refer to Edwards and Kerry as "my presidential hopeful bitches," the angry impotence an educated member of the public is supposed to feel in these situations... didn't register.

Too tired to stoke that fire, the formerly concerned citizen failed to muster any righteous political rage. It felt something like the way the man whose testosterone sank to zero described every object and sensation.

It is just so interesting.

Come to think of it, that's also the final line of the man regarding Earth from a spy satallite in Don DeLillo's short story 'Human Moments during World War Three.'

-Charity-


Initially, I was busy. The last hour was mine.
Miraculously, the phone stopped ringing, and the same would-be pro se plaintiff ceased to ask me those questions only practicing lawyers have a chance at answering. This gave me the time I needed to peruse the newly reorganized shelves, and happen upon the Investigator's Little Black Book 3. It is 8 1/2 x 4 inches, which I love. It is a guide to directories in print and electronic for professional sneaks.

It's actually not as sleazy as it sounds, although there is an entry for Nevada Brothels.

Among the gems, consider GuideStar, the site tracking nonprofit organizations.

I used it to look up some of my old projects, to see how much those do-gooders were holding out on me. Sadly, most of them have less now then they did then, which may have something to do with my tenure.

Carnegie Library Finances, 2001 I never worked here, but check out the Carnegie's Library example.

-Liminal Boyfriend-

I am sorry, but it seems the claim I made Monday was off the mark.
I had intended to:

1. change the design
2. possibly change the name
3. scan in writing samples, demonstrating the changes my handwriting has undergone recently
4. learn Spanish
5. write a classified ad offering a radical new service for women undecided about their sexuality. As I understand it, 'Liminal Boyfriend' counsels a lady through dating limbo until she is comfortable with her place on the Kinsey scale.

This has taken longer than I suspected, perhaps because the name 'Belle De Jour' was already taken.

-Let there be no bad blood between us-

All hail the local Jewish Community Center, for hosting the latest blood drive.
All hail keystrokes "o", "l", "p" and "."; adversely affected by the iron test administered to the right ring finger.

lop.lop.lop.

Just a slight twinge.

The actual bloodletting didn't cause any pain. Something went wrong, though. Perhaps the tourniquet was too tight, (it certainly felt like it) or the needle jumped in the removal. "Raise your arm above your head, and apply constant pressure to the cotton."

This I did, but a moment later, one of the interviewers "Have you ever given money or drugs for sex?" brought more glove boxes to the table, glanced my way, and then tapped the pathology assistant. "Atolya." she said, and pointed my way.

My cotton swab was saturated, and now a pair of long, slow, drips blazed twin trails past my elbow. Atolya moved quickly to mop them up, more, I suspect, to preserve the confidence of the volunteers giving or waiting to give blood, than out of any real danger to myself or others. New bandages were brought, and I was given a more thorough wrap than the others waiting in the canteen. Even so, the halos of dried blood and iodine are still visible when I pull back my sleeve. I imagine it looks something like the tattoo that would have denied me the ability to give blood; something to impress the Europeans and American Ex-pats after six month's time in a place that would likewise have denied me the blood giving ability.

lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.lop.

Feels better already.

-Rule-

New rule;

If the human is lying on his stomach, on the floor, and has been doing so for several hours; the cat of the house is not to take advantage of this position and try to lick his hair.

Particularly not when said feline is already in the doghouse for chewing through a second pair of headphones.

Thursday night is going to be big. Huge.

No more hints.

-Cat Man Do-

It must have been part of the second set. Big Mama Sharon cast a second spell, twirling her blue light cylinder in a tight circle over my face. Clap-clap she mouthed, and I did.

Cursed blue-light cylinder.

Famine-strength hunger pangs hit my gut on the ride home. By the time I'd scaled my third floor walk-up, this unfamiliar ill-fed feeling had taken over. The cat turned cartwheels over my feet as I clawed for cheese and crackers. The plastic tore in my hands, and the squares scattered about the floor.

Only cheese. She giggled.

Water takes so long to boil, and the cheese only made a small impression. Slicing jalapeno peppers took my mind off the distressing twinges. When I took the finished pasta off the stove, the pot's plastic handle snapped off in my hand, and the noodles slapped the floor.

Only peppers! She crowed.

It's no good trying to fight the blue-light on half rations. I spread the county voter map (circa 1984) across my card table, and confide my alderman election strategy to the singer/songwriter/comedian.

I think I see something blue on the fire escape.
It's not as hypnotic as Big Mama Sharon, but then, who is?

-Pledge-

I promise not to use the term "huswife."

-Remora-


It's been said that the new hub of Steel town is Oakland, and the port authority seems to agree. That's where I wandered today. Since I didn't notice her sitting behind the pillar, I was able to walk into the overpriced Independent without undergoing a transformation of twitches, and facial tics. Suppressing the bile, an 'at.

Only when I'd reached the counter did she appear - Critter's crony. The Ex's best friend, a young woman who hated me long before Critter and I began the extended quarrel sending us toward the shattering conclusion of frustration and exploding crockery. The woman who made an unfavorable first impression by responding to three friendly inquiries with "eh," "ah," and "hmm," respectively. This smirking she-devil, who spurned every attempt at friendliness, bowed out of every activity if I were to be involved, all for having the temerity to briefly take Critter away from her.

[Or... was it?]

Other than that, I have nothing negative to say about her. Let's call her Larry.

Larry couldn't see me from here, or pretended not to see. It makes little difference. Curious, how much I could see that Larry and I had in common before we'd even exchanged words. We graduated in December, and we still searched for full time work. We are a pair of half-employed Library Scientists counting pennies, but are still helplessly addicted to dropping small bills at public spaces in the afternoon.

Could some sort of reconciliation be in the works?

Hey, this could be an opportunity to find inner peace before taking on the inner circle of the Golden Triangle. Fighting the temptation to order something expensive - thus negotiating from a position of apparent strength - I ordered some small muffin, summoned as much goodwill as could be mustered, and approached.

Larry looked tired. Weeks of partial employment have not been kind to her. She was too drained to offer more than a look of mild annoyance, inexpertly concealed. When asked about her career, she is willing to talk about the job prospects, perhaps because she is under the mistaken assumption that I am not competing for any of the same positions.

Things are more difficult for Larry. The terms of Visa preclude any employment outside of the library. How she must envy a North American's position in the job hunt!

North, South - There is only one place in the world where North and South meet on an equal footing: a soccer field at the mouth of the Amazon in Brazil. The equator cuts right through the middle of Zerao stadium in Amapa, so each team plays one half in the South and the other in the North.

So, Larry... When we come right down to it, it isn't about cafe confections, bad first impressions, or even the girl. I saw you as a shark, but you were just along for the ride - a gulf stream passenger, blinking at me through owl spectacles across an unfathomable divide of mutual privilege and injustice.

-Of All Media-

This article reminded me just how much I've neglected the F.C.C. tribulations of let. Yes, I contributed some energy to a handful of moveon.org petitions, but at the end of the day, this Monk just isn't enough of a joiner, mores the pity.

One television station I receive, clear as a bell - I am not counting America's Store - is the local access channel. Lately it has managed to broadcast some things I find halfway relevant, if not prescient. And they can't take that away from me.

I see what good they want to do. 'Save independent media. Save independent thought!'

But I have so many different causes already. PennCredit keeps calling my folks about the fine I paid, and I'm running out of recourses. The Reverend of the Golden Triangle keeps calling me, and I'm running out of revelations. The Laundromat keeps calling me, as I'm running out of clean clothes.

Not to mention that my plan to get the barbershop quartet back together was roundly mocked. This could have been our year. And what of my idea for the Everyday Art project? My abilities with chopsticks?

Unappreciated.

On the other hand, my sense of smell is returning with a vengeance.

-Services held daily in the litter box-

This is a difficult subject for me. After all, I share my apartment with a cat. I'd go so far as to say that I have participated in numerous "string chasing" games, that I compete with this animal for my food, and even serve as a warm chair; all on a daily basis.

But this is.... This...
This is a level of devotion that disturbs me.

Shiva's Cat Box Shiva's Life of Luxury

In reading Shiva's Life of Luxury, it becomes more and more difficult to figure out who is pulling the strings. Shiva? Heather? Swami Paramahansa Yogananda? Is it wrong to force a religion on an animal? Is it wrong to compare Feline Leukemia to AIDS?

One thing is certain. It is very wrong to type this: =^..^=

If you must live vicariously through your cats, I recommend the Rachel Arieff method.

DSL

Dial-Up

-Promotion-

Out of sorts, and largely through my own efforts, I stopped at a bar. No risk to the mancard, I drank beer last weekend.

But I feel better, despite the impulsive promise made to Dr. M earlier today about freelance work I may not be able to deliver; despite the "Science of Mind" revelation I may not be able to reveal; despite the cheeses impulsively bought; despite the stylish wardrobe that has attracted the interest of a record number of Y chromosomes; despite the bar television spinning endless loops of girl-gone-wild infomercials in which, I have discovered, an ex-girlfriend (the one I did care for) participated; despite doubts of the city in which three motorists have shouted obscenities in as many blocks; despite the billboard that uses "blond" as a feminine noun instead of "blonde"; despite the same bar television now changed to Howard Stern's interview with the 50+ years old porn actress also named Iris - I mean to say, named Iris, the same name as the Malibu Rep giving away rum.

Iris presented me with a survey designed to look like a citation; assuming authorities actually gave citations for 'too serious an expression.' I checked "Malibu and Cranberry," in honor of the Ocean-spray factory I visited in grade school.

A delicious free sample followed. Malibu, you are welcome to this marketing data. Now I feel bad about giving a co-worker mild tsuris about her product-placement-laden appearance on Dr. Phil's Valentine's day show.

-Cafe No No-

Cafe SuSu becomes Jimmy's.

Jimmy's becomes vacant. (see 'Portrait of a lousy economy, volume 3: Jimmy's')

If those lovable scamps couldn't save this place, who could?

-Another Joseph Heller moment brought to you by manned flight-

Before this issue gets too stale for consumption, consider the possibilities of a pilot’s call for mental competency.

"News accounts over the weekend said that the pilot called passengers who did not accept Christ "crazy," but [American Airlines Spokesman] Mr. Wagner said that it was American's understanding that the pilot actually "said something along the line of 'look at all these crazy people who were willing to raise their hands.'"

Crazy Christians, or Crazy pagans, the result is the same. The pilot is telling everyone who didn't raise their hands that they are crazy. Though we can't see the pilot, we know that the pilot is crazy if his or her hands are down. If his or her hands are raised, they are not holding onto the controls.

And that's crazy.

-Pedestrian-

As my automobile's tires are still spinning in wheel-shaped ice depressions, I've been able to save money on gas and throw myself into another project, provided I can get there using public transportation.

Rest assured, the adopt-a-faith debate will continue. But this next endeavor is something I intend to do by day, when I'm not combing the congressional record for the good Doctor, or examining library listings from east of the Rockies.

Can't say much more about this new plan right now, but I've decided to wait until Thursday to begin. Why? Because it requires a local alternative weekly, and I want it to be a fresh one.

And no, it has nothing to do with the personal ads.

-Holy Amicus Curiae Begins-

At See You Next Week

RELIGION: The Final Word

Each has taken the side of a religious organization selected at random from the phonebook.
May the most convincing recent convert win!

-Barrel Roll-

Some time ago, a friend of mine and I had a running joke that surfaced every time the 'Indiana Jones; the Last Crusade' was mentioned in conversation.

For Harrison Ford to reach the Holy Grail, he must pass three challenges. According to the ancient lore on the subject, these are: the breath of God, the name of God, the path of God.

Forget about the second and third.

The breath of God:

I apologize if I am spoiling the film for anyone, but the breath of god is a pair of giant circular saws, hidden until some poor grail-seeker comes in alone, ensuring that none of them will see what happened. One is positioned to sweep out at the neck, the another springs out of the floor at an angle.

Here's the quandary - Ford approaches, mumbling over and over again "the penitent man may pass." This phrase clues him in, just in time, to what he must do - "the penitent man kneels before God - Kneel!"

He drops to his knees and the first blade hisses over his head. And THEN he does a barrel roll to miss the second blade.

That wasn't in the lore.

Piety demands genuflection and tumbling abilities. Don't trust a cleric who can't adequately do both.

-20 Pa.C.S.A. Section 6304-

Survivors' Rights. Black Panthers co-founder Bobby Seale spoke today to a gathering of students at the University. For much of the time he wasn't a particularly striking speaker; for much of the time his speaking voice is a trifle dulled around the edges, trailing off, turning around on a different flow.

The vocal panther within him straightens our spines on two occasions; first, when he is reliving a poignant memory of the past through the archtypical lingo of the sixties. Second, when he talks about co-founder Huey Newton.

Seale tells the story behind the division of labor in the organization, the coin-toss that made him chairman, and Huey the minister of defense. He tells us how he made Huey promise they wouldn't split like Malcom X and Elijah Muhammed. Time and time again, he portrays Huey as a follower, a sidekick. His legal amanuensis.

Without delving too deep into Seale's psyche, I can, without any great authority, hypothesize.

A non-suicidal person can envy death, and so, too, does Seale envy Huey's blaze of glory. Memories that strengthen spines pain him. It hurts to look out upon so many respectful, but uncomprehending young faces, nearly 40 years after his greatest relevance. Not so different from the unhappiness of the surviving members of the Weather Underground, interviewed in a recent film I saw in lieu of the Superbowl. Revolutionaries are difficult to satisfy.

Seale opened his address with this ante-anticlimax:

"Well, it doesn't look like I'll be able to get to Philadelphia tomorrow. Probably have to wait another day here."

This is far better, I suppose, than feigning "Hello, STEEL CITY!" enthusiasm.

Survivors' Rights.

-Indigestible-

You can run [with Pad Thai in your stomach] but you can't [r]hide [the 61C.]

If you chased the Pad Thai with a very acidic coffee, you shouldn't even run. Take a spoon of castor oil, and then consider the pun.

Consider the puns from the candidates, like this from Wesley Clark's Oklahoma victory speech.

"The results are in; We have won... Oklahoma is O.K. by me."
[cheers of pity]

I don't know if I could accept such rampant pun-abuse in a leader.

-Holy Amicus Curiae-

Coming soon, to See You Next Week

A Clash of Cultures..
A Battle of Ideologues..

A Showdown between Two Faiths they Know Nothing about!

RELIGION: The Final Word

KingMob Invisible VS Benedict Monk

KingMob Invisible "In a time of cultural and societal upheaval, I will bring us together as a people united for the common good."

Benedict Monk "As an ex-ascetic and proven eye-candy, I’m confident that I can deliver lapsed Shakers into my congregation."

The Debate Begins
Saturday, February 7th
4:00 P.M.

Each will take the side of a religious organization selected at random from the phonebook. May the most convincing recent convert win!