In the dark. A deep and barren dark. Like none before. The overwhelming feeling is to curl up, steel the jaw and brace. I am fallen into this place. The wave rolls over. I emerge shaken and withered. Seemingly nowhere. No time had passed. A wormhole.
I diligently distribute the impending and carry it in shattered places throughout me. That long ago learned method has passed. Rust and gleaming metal shavings. Floating light that cannot be fixed much less held or invited closer. Now I must tear it all asunder. Or die.
Meditation and healing. Protracted inner walkabouts. Encircling the ever present crater of unseen depth. Squinting across the red and black soot horizon. Swept up. Offered a seat at the edge of falling.
Wish me luck.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Consequence
I am surrounded by liars. Every day liars. Big liars. Small liars. In between sized liars. Afflicted liars who have the know not they are lying. Brazen liars who do.
I am sitting on a rattling C train serenaded by a bad trumpet player who stumbles down the car feebly renditioning “What A Wonderful World”. Indeed. Louis Armstrong is clawing up at the cold ground. I close my eyes and imagine the choral vocalists on the recording also botching behind Max Trumpet and a shiver goes wild through me. I give him/them a dollar. I’m a liar. I should have given him a day job to paraphrase an old one.
The C rickets into the Spring Street station. It is crashing rain above. I wait just inside the concrete entrance and watch the people fight it off. It amuses me to no end. Some bundled proper, most unprepared. The lovely young deb meeting her betrothed somewhere for a seafood feast dashes for cover and assesses the damage, unfolds a phone and calls in a lie before frantically putting it all somehow back together.
Rain suddenly slows to a stream as if a massive ball bearing rolled into heaven’s piping. I walk east and survey the theater. A mixture of garbage, dashed umbrellas and a couple of mismatched shoes. Intrepid servants of small business begin reinstalling modicum. I enter a restaurant and sit at the window table set for four places. No reaction. I am welcome. I see why immediately as a group of blustery suits gargle and bark toward nubile coworkers who will very soon never accept another invitation. I gaze among them and fancy thoughts of collapsing in the middle of the table Peter Sellers style with a knowing “RUN!” wink at the girls a la Errol Flynn. The waiter, a Mexican with a heavy accent asks me something I do not hear and I reply “Yes”. He moves off before I realize I do not know what I asked for. He returns thankfully with only a basket of thick, oil soaked tortilla chips and a small bowl of runny salsa. New York City. Two blocks down I could have wandered into the freshest vine ripe salsa I have ever encountered, but not today.
I begin to suffer along with the girls. The large children are now all three telling the same story in the “Who’s On First?” method. It is not seductive and riotous as the original. One of the girls gets up to powder mid story and I fight hard the urge to clap. I am eating a burrito of undefinable mediocrity. Has a fancy name like Sierra Madre or Bolo Tie or something. Mexican waiter returns in mid chew. “Eez everything ok meester?” Yes, I lie. I am now significantly gathered in my thoughts and no longer entertained by the show. Signal check, arrives, pay, go. Good luck ladies. The banter amongst them will be intense and amusing for a meteoric time. Have fun it with it. You’ve earned it.
I walk east. Cross Broadway and the surroundings become more palatable to me. I feel as a Wampanoag with the air mass from home swarming his senses on the lengthening trek toward the white man. Neon grasps my retinae and I pull the door. Bar doors almost always open out. Aging tobacco resin, dried champagne and living beer yeast guide me to my place. Peace pipe in my breast pocket. With the Bolo Tie restlessly sunk in, I order a drink and sit. Dirty old place. I love every inch of it. The crooked pictures, the gathering dust. Sunlight the mortal enemy. Bartender is a pretty middle aged woman with a sharp wit badge. Her gait spells do not fuck around. I love her temporarily and get on with the next drink. A newspaper faced man at the corner regales her with a chapter from his life’s work and she strokes him. Slowly, over moons. The door bursts and two tragic Midwesterners arrive with a pocket full of mom’s money. Twenty feet of cherry oak and they park behind me like L.A. cops. My future ex wife requires their proof and they put on the incredulity missing her subtlety entirely. They each reach around one of my shoulders and I trample the urge to slam my open palm on the ships plank looking for B-flat. I engorge my throat and lay waste to my drink. Liar. She of maidenstrength hands them back their entitlements a foot away from me and they reshuffle down the bar a step to retrieve them. I will ask her to marry me before I leave.
More door pulling and less pushing and I am surrounded. With my hands down. I speak to my drink in extra sensory terms. I am always melancholy after five or six. I start thinking about time and it does my head in. Einstein, the Phoenicians, Hawking and that crazy rabbit hole. I have to go. I signal my imagined lover and she picks up for my last drink then puts down. Extra sensorily buying it, she smiles a fascinating smile and says “So long”. Her salutation is like a worn well tweed coat in a London gale. I say goodbye and exit through a maze of young bodies set up as a lunatic bowling alley.
The air is fresh now. I walk north. Crosswalks vanquished at regular intervals. I am slowed by a gathering of hatred. An anachronistic minister with a milk crate for feet proudly disseminates the history of nothing. I am fascinated at the breadth of both lie and conviction. Somehow that is truth but my head is too vodka addled to get deeper. I merely smirk at him menacingly. Cut and paste facts swarm over the eggs gathered. It is theater and theater is a lie.
The trees in the square rustle a much needed “Shhhh!!” and I leave to walk amongst them. Squirrels perform Top Gun maneuvers. The trees are so beautiful in this light, I begin to get upset at absolutely everything. For a moment I am Van Gogh. A hearth with no one to sit. The squirrels love the trees but do not know it. Better I think. I am a lobotomized deck hand on her ship now. Her gait warns all comers, yet I am somehow caught in the gentle wake. I fall. The pavement violating the treeline is against my face and I am bleeding surely but unharmed. A couple strolling arm in arm are floating inside a cloud of their own making and the vision of me rips her away. Her parachute opens and she tugs her beau along before he falls through.
“Are you alright?” a small athletic girl asks. I gaze at her virginal beauty and compassion and can only nod. I haven’t the heart to tell her. None of us are. There is no alright. Nothing but truth, blinding and we are all liars dangling in it. I need only a drink and a wet rag. She wants to ask again, or so it seems but jogs lightly off to her life breathing air she believes pure. Belief is truth besieged by truth. I could fall again at this rate. Neon beckons. What a wonderful world.
I am sitting on a rattling C train serenaded by a bad trumpet player who stumbles down the car feebly renditioning “What A Wonderful World”. Indeed. Louis Armstrong is clawing up at the cold ground. I close my eyes and imagine the choral vocalists on the recording also botching behind Max Trumpet and a shiver goes wild through me. I give him/them a dollar. I’m a liar. I should have given him a day job to paraphrase an old one.
The C rickets into the Spring Street station. It is crashing rain above. I wait just inside the concrete entrance and watch the people fight it off. It amuses me to no end. Some bundled proper, most unprepared. The lovely young deb meeting her betrothed somewhere for a seafood feast dashes for cover and assesses the damage, unfolds a phone and calls in a lie before frantically putting it all somehow back together.
Rain suddenly slows to a stream as if a massive ball bearing rolled into heaven’s piping. I walk east and survey the theater. A mixture of garbage, dashed umbrellas and a couple of mismatched shoes. Intrepid servants of small business begin reinstalling modicum. I enter a restaurant and sit at the window table set for four places. No reaction. I am welcome. I see why immediately as a group of blustery suits gargle and bark toward nubile coworkers who will very soon never accept another invitation. I gaze among them and fancy thoughts of collapsing in the middle of the table Peter Sellers style with a knowing “RUN!” wink at the girls a la Errol Flynn. The waiter, a Mexican with a heavy accent asks me something I do not hear and I reply “Yes”. He moves off before I realize I do not know what I asked for. He returns thankfully with only a basket of thick, oil soaked tortilla chips and a small bowl of runny salsa. New York City. Two blocks down I could have wandered into the freshest vine ripe salsa I have ever encountered, but not today.
I begin to suffer along with the girls. The large children are now all three telling the same story in the “Who’s On First?” method. It is not seductive and riotous as the original. One of the girls gets up to powder mid story and I fight hard the urge to clap. I am eating a burrito of undefinable mediocrity. Has a fancy name like Sierra Madre or Bolo Tie or something. Mexican waiter returns in mid chew. “Eez everything ok meester?” Yes, I lie. I am now significantly gathered in my thoughts and no longer entertained by the show. Signal check, arrives, pay, go. Good luck ladies. The banter amongst them will be intense and amusing for a meteoric time. Have fun it with it. You’ve earned it.
I walk east. Cross Broadway and the surroundings become more palatable to me. I feel as a Wampanoag with the air mass from home swarming his senses on the lengthening trek toward the white man. Neon grasps my retinae and I pull the door. Bar doors almost always open out. Aging tobacco resin, dried champagne and living beer yeast guide me to my place. Peace pipe in my breast pocket. With the Bolo Tie restlessly sunk in, I order a drink and sit. Dirty old place. I love every inch of it. The crooked pictures, the gathering dust. Sunlight the mortal enemy. Bartender is a pretty middle aged woman with a sharp wit badge. Her gait spells do not fuck around. I love her temporarily and get on with the next drink. A newspaper faced man at the corner regales her with a chapter from his life’s work and she strokes him. Slowly, over moons. The door bursts and two tragic Midwesterners arrive with a pocket full of mom’s money. Twenty feet of cherry oak and they park behind me like L.A. cops. My future ex wife requires their proof and they put on the incredulity missing her subtlety entirely. They each reach around one of my shoulders and I trample the urge to slam my open palm on the ships plank looking for B-flat. I engorge my throat and lay waste to my drink. Liar. She of maidenstrength hands them back their entitlements a foot away from me and they reshuffle down the bar a step to retrieve them. I will ask her to marry me before I leave.
More door pulling and less pushing and I am surrounded. With my hands down. I speak to my drink in extra sensory terms. I am always melancholy after five or six. I start thinking about time and it does my head in. Einstein, the Phoenicians, Hawking and that crazy rabbit hole. I have to go. I signal my imagined lover and she picks up for my last drink then puts down. Extra sensorily buying it, she smiles a fascinating smile and says “So long”. Her salutation is like a worn well tweed coat in a London gale. I say goodbye and exit through a maze of young bodies set up as a lunatic bowling alley.
The air is fresh now. I walk north. Crosswalks vanquished at regular intervals. I am slowed by a gathering of hatred. An anachronistic minister with a milk crate for feet proudly disseminates the history of nothing. I am fascinated at the breadth of both lie and conviction. Somehow that is truth but my head is too vodka addled to get deeper. I merely smirk at him menacingly. Cut and paste facts swarm over the eggs gathered. It is theater and theater is a lie.
The trees in the square rustle a much needed “Shhhh!!” and I leave to walk amongst them. Squirrels perform Top Gun maneuvers. The trees are so beautiful in this light, I begin to get upset at absolutely everything. For a moment I am Van Gogh. A hearth with no one to sit. The squirrels love the trees but do not know it. Better I think. I am a lobotomized deck hand on her ship now. Her gait warns all comers, yet I am somehow caught in the gentle wake. I fall. The pavement violating the treeline is against my face and I am bleeding surely but unharmed. A couple strolling arm in arm are floating inside a cloud of their own making and the vision of me rips her away. Her parachute opens and she tugs her beau along before he falls through.
“Are you alright?” a small athletic girl asks. I gaze at her virginal beauty and compassion and can only nod. I haven’t the heart to tell her. None of us are. There is no alright. Nothing but truth, blinding and we are all liars dangling in it. I need only a drink and a wet rag. She wants to ask again, or so it seems but jogs lightly off to her life breathing air she believes pure. Belief is truth besieged by truth. I could fall again at this rate. Neon beckons. What a wonderful world.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Homer Meet Fred. Fred, Homer.
When the Bush administration took office initially under a fat, greyblack cloud of vote fraud controversy, their transition to the White House included a total scrapping of a standardized email archiving system. This preservation of executive branch inner correspondence is law and, as of 1993 was extended to include email records. In 1994 President Bill Clinton's administration took it a step further and had a standardized archiving program installed which also had safeguard capabilities to prevent loss of information.
The Bush White House immediately transitioned to Microsoft Outlook and Exchange, which was completely incompatible with the existing archiving and preservation system and moved record keeping squarely into the Flintstone era. The new system kept emails in a "journal", essentially a folder containing Executive Branch emails. Later staffers would pore over the folders, pull out emails and, if they were chosen to be preserved, MANUALLY name them and store them. A lot like the prehistoric beaked creature pounding out the headline on a slab of slate actually. Ludicrous. Worse, journal files were spread across several servers. Add to that no standard naming convention for the emails that were preserved. Keep going? Improper access controls insured that anyone with access to White House servers, had access to the files. And going? No logging system in place. No record of who accessed/named/saved/deleted/tampered with these files. To anyone doing a minor investigative analysis (me), this required by law system of record preservation is clearly light years away from the most basic adequacy. Wilmmaaaaaaaaaa!
Astoundingly, in an era of self-proclaimed heightened security, these Flinstonian Emporers employ a record keeping system that is vastly cratered, fraught with access issues and severely prone to LOSS OF INFORMATION!
DOHHH!
Ready for the numbers? The White House Office of Administration estimates that in the period from 2003-2005, FIVE MILLION emails have been lost. There are gaps of days where everything is gone. 12 Days from Bush, 16 Days from Cheney. ENTIRE stretches of time where ALL emails have been "lost". That's just two years.
Homer and Fred are currently being sued to restore what is already lost by the Citizens for Responsibilty and Ethics in Washington and the National Security Archive.
Mr. Slate and Monty Burns are getting restless. Their stooges are stonewalling and attracting too much attention.
The Bush White House immediately transitioned to Microsoft Outlook and Exchange, which was completely incompatible with the existing archiving and preservation system and moved record keeping squarely into the Flintstone era. The new system kept emails in a "journal", essentially a folder containing Executive Branch emails. Later staffers would pore over the folders, pull out emails and, if they were chosen to be preserved, MANUALLY name them and store them. A lot like the prehistoric beaked creature pounding out the headline on a slab of slate actually. Ludicrous. Worse, journal files were spread across several servers. Add to that no standard naming convention for the emails that were preserved. Keep going? Improper access controls insured that anyone with access to White House servers, had access to the files. And going? No logging system in place. No record of who accessed/named/saved/deleted/tampered with these files. To anyone doing a minor investigative analysis (me), this required by law system of record preservation is clearly light years away from the most basic adequacy. Wilmmaaaaaaaaaa!
Astoundingly, in an era of self-proclaimed heightened security, these Flinstonian Emporers employ a record keeping system that is vastly cratered, fraught with access issues and severely prone to LOSS OF INFORMATION!
DOHHH!
Ready for the numbers? The White House Office of Administration estimates that in the period from 2003-2005, FIVE MILLION emails have been lost. There are gaps of days where everything is gone. 12 Days from Bush, 16 Days from Cheney. ENTIRE stretches of time where ALL emails have been "lost". That's just two years.
Homer and Fred are currently being sued to restore what is already lost by the Citizens for Responsibilty and Ethics in Washington and the National Security Archive.
Mr. Slate and Monty Burns are getting restless. Their stooges are stonewalling and attracting too much attention.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Clothes Make the Woman
Sarah Palin has spent the weekend after the election sorting her clothes. The hockey mom. Going through her stuff to see if she can rustle up tens of thousands of dollars worth of missing clothes.
"Hmmm, is this brand new, and shucks it's gorgeous, Neiman Marcus blazer mine or did I buy this at the Kohl's in Anchorage last year honey?"
In politics, the key is always money. As an old saying goes, if the question is "Why?" the answer is always "Money". In Governor Palin's case, the down-home painted portrait has been chipped away to reveal a canvas of political opportunism and hypocrisy.
The question of 2012 has been rising from the cornfields of "real" America's candidate. Will she run? Is she the future of the Realpublican Party?
I offer the clothes sorting as defining evidence in the case against.
Governor Palin has emphatically denied that she asked for anything more than a Diet Dr. Pepper while being dragged around the McCain mudpit. In logical terms alone, the news that she is home sorting through her clothes suggests otherwise.
-Did the Secret Service pack her bags for her without her prior knowledge? If so, she must have had to answer "Yes" to the security screener while taking off her $1500 shoes at the airport. A convergence of mid level security then surrounding her and going through her carry-on. The looted cosmetics and sachets splayed on the conveyor belt. "How the heck did that get there? Aw, Trig musta grabbed it when we were talkin to that Joe Sixpack fella on 5th Avenue."
-Did Ms. Palin arrive home, throw her bags up on the bed and forget them for 4 days? Surely the regular gal hockey mom does not have assistants unpacking her stuff? So, assume she does.
-Are the missing clothes (roughly 2/3 of the original purchased stash) still folded neatly at the bottom of the steamer trunk, or are they neatly and unnoticeably interspersed with the Wasilla hockey jerseys, Martha Stewart collection blouses and Gubernatorial suits?
According to Sarah's Dad, she is "frantically" going through her stuff. Daddy also tugged at our real American heartstrings when he added that we understand the chaos because, you know, kids lose underwear. We feel your pain.
This entire circus will be, and is being trivialized to the folksy downright silly mantras that are already contained in the story. It will be cast as sexist, unimportant etc etc. It is none of these. This charade is an INDICATOR. We Americans love indicators. We love to discuss people's foibles and especially those that trend toward the downward spiral. Ultimately, that is why it is news.
We are a nation of bright, common sense in a crisis folk. We can surely see the horse has left the barn.
The clothes will never be worn again, much less "found". The Governor will fade slightly to hone her woeful public persona skills and she will return to attempt a populist run at the most powerful position on Earth. This shopping spree and ensuing vaudevillian search for the goods will be a distant memory.
Yet, the seed has been sown. Any onlooker with a rationale can surely see the Emporer has no clothes. This particular candidate for the future and her handlers are busy concocting a story/excuse/blame and not looking for missing property. This political bottle rocket has unwittingly built her own bridge to nowhere.
And my guess is she's pissed she can't get into that helicopter with her new hunting togs.
"Hmmm, is this brand new, and shucks it's gorgeous, Neiman Marcus blazer mine or did I buy this at the Kohl's in Anchorage last year honey?"
In politics, the key is always money. As an old saying goes, if the question is "Why?" the answer is always "Money". In Governor Palin's case, the down-home painted portrait has been chipped away to reveal a canvas of political opportunism and hypocrisy.
The question of 2012 has been rising from the cornfields of "real" America's candidate. Will she run? Is she the future of the Realpublican Party?
I offer the clothes sorting as defining evidence in the case against.
Governor Palin has emphatically denied that she asked for anything more than a Diet Dr. Pepper while being dragged around the McCain mudpit. In logical terms alone, the news that she is home sorting through her clothes suggests otherwise.
-Did the Secret Service pack her bags for her without her prior knowledge? If so, she must have had to answer "Yes" to the security screener while taking off her $1500 shoes at the airport. A convergence of mid level security then surrounding her and going through her carry-on. The looted cosmetics and sachets splayed on the conveyor belt. "How the heck did that get there? Aw, Trig musta grabbed it when we were talkin to that Joe Sixpack fella on 5th Avenue."
-Did Ms. Palin arrive home, throw her bags up on the bed and forget them for 4 days? Surely the regular gal hockey mom does not have assistants unpacking her stuff? So, assume she does.
-Are the missing clothes (roughly 2/3 of the original purchased stash) still folded neatly at the bottom of the steamer trunk, or are they neatly and unnoticeably interspersed with the Wasilla hockey jerseys, Martha Stewart collection blouses and Gubernatorial suits?
According to Sarah's Dad, she is "frantically" going through her stuff. Daddy also tugged at our real American heartstrings when he added that we understand the chaos because, you know, kids lose underwear. We feel your pain.
This entire circus will be, and is being trivialized to the folksy downright silly mantras that are already contained in the story. It will be cast as sexist, unimportant etc etc. It is none of these. This charade is an INDICATOR. We Americans love indicators. We love to discuss people's foibles and especially those that trend toward the downward spiral. Ultimately, that is why it is news.
We are a nation of bright, common sense in a crisis folk. We can surely see the horse has left the barn.
The clothes will never be worn again, much less "found". The Governor will fade slightly to hone her woeful public persona skills and she will return to attempt a populist run at the most powerful position on Earth. This shopping spree and ensuing vaudevillian search for the goods will be a distant memory.
Yet, the seed has been sown. Any onlooker with a rationale can surely see the Emporer has no clothes. This particular candidate for the future and her handlers are busy concocting a story/excuse/blame and not looking for missing property. This political bottle rocket has unwittingly built her own bridge to nowhere.
And my guess is she's pissed she can't get into that helicopter with her new hunting togs.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Michele Bachmann-(R) MN-FOOL
Watch it for yourself:
FOR FOOL OPEN HERE
After witnessing this frightening automaton, I attempted to write her to ask her why she felt the need to ignite a witch hunt in the United States Congress to expose liberals as Anti American. Really.
Her website does not accept comments from anyone living outside her district.
So, for the first time in my life I wrote to the RNC:
"Sirs and Madams, I am writing to express my disgust at the tone of Minnesota Representative's comments to Chris Matthews on October 17th's "Hardball" program. The Republican campaign's disingenuous insistence on fanning divisiveness was strongly evident in Ms Bachmann's performance. Her repetitive mantra suggesting that the other candidate in this race is somehow anti-American, as well as suggesting that this country needs a Congressional witch hunt to expose liberals as anti-American is utterly deplorable and bordering on impeachably irresponsible.
I am writing to you as, conveniently, Ms Bachmann's website is so busy that she cannot accept emails directly to her unless from her district. Yet somehow writing to a national party in a full blown presidential campaign is able to be received. If Ms Bachmann wishes to be heard on the national stage, it would logically follow that she be able to accept comments from the national electorate.
Thank you for your time."
Here is the automated response:
Thank you for contacting the Republican National Committee. We certainly
appreciated your email, and will include your thoughts in our report to
the Chairman. Please do not hesitate to contact us in the future with
any of your thoughts, opinions or observations.
Office of Constituent Services
Republican National Committee
info@gop.com
I will add any further communiques if received.
FOR FOOL OPEN HERE
After witnessing this frightening automaton, I attempted to write her to ask her why she felt the need to ignite a witch hunt in the United States Congress to expose liberals as Anti American. Really.
Her website does not accept comments from anyone living outside her district.
So, for the first time in my life I wrote to the RNC:
"Sirs and Madams, I am writing to express my disgust at the tone of Minnesota Representative's comments to Chris Matthews on October 17th's "Hardball" program. The Republican campaign's disingenuous insistence on fanning divisiveness was strongly evident in Ms Bachmann's performance. Her repetitive mantra suggesting that the other candidate in this race is somehow anti-American, as well as suggesting that this country needs a Congressional witch hunt to expose liberals as anti-American is utterly deplorable and bordering on impeachably irresponsible.
I am writing to you as, conveniently, Ms Bachmann's website is so busy that she cannot accept emails directly to her unless from her district. Yet somehow writing to a national party in a full blown presidential campaign is able to be received. If Ms Bachmann wishes to be heard on the national stage, it would logically follow that she be able to accept comments from the national electorate.
Thank you for your time."
Here is the automated response:
Thank you for contacting the Republican National Committee. We certainly
appreciated your email, and will include your thoughts in our report to
the Chairman. Please do not hesitate to contact us in the future with
any of your thoughts, opinions or observations.
Office of Constituent Services
Republican National Committee
info@gop.com
I will add any further communiques if received.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Hope Against Hope
Since the dawn of the human enaction of structural governing systems, man has subjected fellow man to the perils of the dark heart of power abuse. For every tier, level, check, balance, senate, consensus, etc etc. there has been an appointed man bent on manipulating it toward an end other than for the intended governed.
On September 20th 2008, a government gone wild were soundly thwarted in an effort to disguise this manipulation. Right here in the Good 'Ol USA (tm).
Dick Cheney has been fighting like a wolverine to shape the definition of his office and of his responsibility to the country he claims to protect. His counsel has been attempting to recast the Office of the Vice President as OUTSIDE of the Executive Branch originally created in our crumbling Constitution. By this definition he would not be required to preserve most of his records of his years in the office. Anyone smell something rotten in Denmark?
Article II reads as follows in its opening paragraph:
"The executive Power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America. He shall hold his Office during the Term of four Years, and, together with the Vice President, chosen for the same Term, be elected, as follows:..."
Clearly, unless you are a dark hearted lawyer, our Founding Fathers intended the Executive Branch to consist of a President TOGETHER with a Vice-President.
Thanks to a group of equally wolverine-like citizens called Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington (CREW), this case has made it all the way to the U.S. District Court. On September 20th Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly (a Patriot) ordered Cheney that he must preserve records of his office under the law of the Presidential Records Act.
A victory for the people of the United States.
September 20th should be made a National Holiday. National Citizens Day.
We really do have the power. They really do not want us to have it.
Now the fight begins to see what's in the notebooks...
On September 20th 2008, a government gone wild were soundly thwarted in an effort to disguise this manipulation. Right here in the Good 'Ol USA (tm).
Dick Cheney has been fighting like a wolverine to shape the definition of his office and of his responsibility to the country he claims to protect. His counsel has been attempting to recast the Office of the Vice President as OUTSIDE of the Executive Branch originally created in our crumbling Constitution. By this definition he would not be required to preserve most of his records of his years in the office. Anyone smell something rotten in Denmark?
Article II reads as follows in its opening paragraph:
"The executive Power shall be vested in a President of the United States of America. He shall hold his Office during the Term of four Years, and, together with the Vice President, chosen for the same Term, be elected, as follows:..."
Clearly, unless you are a dark hearted lawyer, our Founding Fathers intended the Executive Branch to consist of a President TOGETHER with a Vice-President.
Thanks to a group of equally wolverine-like citizens called Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington (CREW), this case has made it all the way to the U.S. District Court. On September 20th Judge Colleen Kollar-Kotelly (a Patriot) ordered Cheney that he must preserve records of his office under the law of the Presidential Records Act.
A victory for the people of the United States.
September 20th should be made a National Holiday. National Citizens Day.
We really do have the power. They really do not want us to have it.
Now the fight begins to see what's in the notebooks...
Thursday, March 27, 2008
THE PENTAGRAM "SCREWS UP"
March 27, 2008
Recently, the Pentagon was found to have mistakenly shipped a bunch of nuclear fuse trigger devices to Taiwan instead of the helicopter batteries they had ordered.
My first impulse is entirely conspiratorial. A box marked “Helicopter Batteries. THIS SIDE UP” was packed tightly and loaded onto a B-29. A lifelong Wyoming military colonel filed the bogus paperwork and on the other end, a small group of Taiwanese Intelligence Operatives delivered the “Batteries” to an unmarked warehouse where they were installed and tested as part of Operation Dry Clean Mainland.
My gut tells me this “mistake” was probably intentional.
My brain tells me the facility housing the Pentagon’s shipping stock probably has a few knuckleheads spending way too much time in the bathroom before and after the break truck chugs into the parking lot. Ah-OOOO-Gaaaaa! Ah-OOOO-Gaaaaa!
A filing system of such vast numbers of seemingly and yet intentionally disjointed parts must be daunting to manage. One can only imagine the hardship involved in sorting, pricing and mislabeling such items as the Nuclear Override Patchbay #32245 (labeled as “Humvee T-12 Alternator Relay”) and the Daisy Cutter Targeting Motherboard (labeled as “Sweatshop Time Management Software V 1.2”)
Here, the Nuclear Fuse Triggers sent were for Ballistic Missiles.
Aisle 271, Bin 23, Slot 5.
The Helicopter Batteries are located in Aisle 217, Bin 23, Slot 5.
One can easily see the error.
Take into account also that on the day the mistake was made two forklift operators were out sick, the Order Mis-Picking Supervisor was battling a recurring case of gout and it was Wednesday. Humpday.
The Taiwanese, to their credit, pointed out the error immediately. “These batteries suck!”
On our side, we were obviously really slammed and somewhat annoyed by their sheer lack of appreciation. We kept about our business of shipping and handling for another two full years.
With the Nuclear Triggers sitting on the Returns Desk for so long, a couple of the more ambitious guys decided to take them apart, scrutinize, replicate, reverse engineer and test them. They worked great. Better than the original as would be expected. On a tiny island off of the West coast of Wang-an, a mockup of the total annihilation of the Island of Sodor was conducted. Harold the Helicopter was retrofitted with nuclear tipped missiles and the idyllic home of creepy-faced trains was reduced to a sub-oceanic valley. The Taiwanese You Tubed it all. It went viral. All the while we shipped and handled. Everyone here thought it was some smart assed kid with a Mac Book Pro.
The Chinese were screaming. In Chinese. Being constantly exposed to waitresses aisle chatter in Chinese restaurants, we did not hear a thing. Thought they were just having that laugh at their own Western Hemisphere inside joke of not including a knife in the silverware on the tables. The Chinese threatened the Taiwanese with invasion (yawn) and expressed, through an interpreter, “strong displeasure”. Something akin to fantasizing about Dick Cheney.
On the cusp of a Paris Hilton nipple exposure, the story broke quietly.
Pentagon statements to the press were made. The usual. “Unaware at the highest level”, “Internal investigative matter”, “Completely isolated incident” and any recurrence past, present or future “Categorically implausible”.
In other words: We’re looking into not looking into it.
And where the hell did Sodor go?
Call Langley immediately.
Why the hell won’t this helicopter turn over?
BOOM
Recently, the Pentagon was found to have mistakenly shipped a bunch of nuclear fuse trigger devices to Taiwan instead of the helicopter batteries they had ordered.
My first impulse is entirely conspiratorial. A box marked “Helicopter Batteries. THIS SIDE UP” was packed tightly and loaded onto a B-29. A lifelong Wyoming military colonel filed the bogus paperwork and on the other end, a small group of Taiwanese Intelligence Operatives delivered the “Batteries” to an unmarked warehouse where they were installed and tested as part of Operation Dry Clean Mainland.
My gut tells me this “mistake” was probably intentional.
My brain tells me the facility housing the Pentagon’s shipping stock probably has a few knuckleheads spending way too much time in the bathroom before and after the break truck chugs into the parking lot. Ah-OOOO-Gaaaaa! Ah-OOOO-Gaaaaa!
A filing system of such vast numbers of seemingly and yet intentionally disjointed parts must be daunting to manage. One can only imagine the hardship involved in sorting, pricing and mislabeling such items as the Nuclear Override Patchbay #32245 (labeled as “Humvee T-12 Alternator Relay”) and the Daisy Cutter Targeting Motherboard (labeled as “Sweatshop Time Management Software V 1.2”)
Here, the Nuclear Fuse Triggers sent were for Ballistic Missiles.
Aisle 271, Bin 23, Slot 5.
The Helicopter Batteries are located in Aisle 217, Bin 23, Slot 5.
One can easily see the error.
Take into account also that on the day the mistake was made two forklift operators were out sick, the Order Mis-Picking Supervisor was battling a recurring case of gout and it was Wednesday. Humpday.
The Taiwanese, to their credit, pointed out the error immediately. “These batteries suck!”
On our side, we were obviously really slammed and somewhat annoyed by their sheer lack of appreciation. We kept about our business of shipping and handling for another two full years.
With the Nuclear Triggers sitting on the Returns Desk for so long, a couple of the more ambitious guys decided to take them apart, scrutinize, replicate, reverse engineer and test them. They worked great. Better than the original as would be expected. On a tiny island off of the West coast of Wang-an, a mockup of the total annihilation of the Island of Sodor was conducted. Harold the Helicopter was retrofitted with nuclear tipped missiles and the idyllic home of creepy-faced trains was reduced to a sub-oceanic valley. The Taiwanese You Tubed it all. It went viral. All the while we shipped and handled. Everyone here thought it was some smart assed kid with a Mac Book Pro.
The Chinese were screaming. In Chinese. Being constantly exposed to waitresses aisle chatter in Chinese restaurants, we did not hear a thing. Thought they were just having that laugh at their own Western Hemisphere inside joke of not including a knife in the silverware on the tables. The Chinese threatened the Taiwanese with invasion (yawn) and expressed, through an interpreter, “strong displeasure”. Something akin to fantasizing about Dick Cheney.
On the cusp of a Paris Hilton nipple exposure, the story broke quietly.
Pentagon statements to the press were made. The usual. “Unaware at the highest level”, “Internal investigative matter”, “Completely isolated incident” and any recurrence past, present or future “Categorically implausible”.
In other words: We’re looking into not looking into it.
And where the hell did Sodor go?
Call Langley immediately.
Why the hell won’t this helicopter turn over?
BOOM
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