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Rob Lowe

I hate Rob Lowe. I hate his commercials. I understand what is being done: the selling of him by his agent/PR people. But they ought, really, to send him to acting school. He is the penulimate TV actor who believes that just changing the way you look makes the character real. No change in voice. No change in physical behavior. Just the damn same Rob Lowe as we first meet. And, so, the commercial becomes intolerable. I’d bet Direct TV was strong armed into this commercial, for it does not do them much good to have such a horrid actor portraying an unfinished, high school actor as being of quality and, therefore, knowledge.


Flash fiction in the rough at

At there are several flash fiction pieces, from prompts, that are pretty amazing. Most have a message; a few don’t. The non-message stories are just that: stories. What is so difficult about just telling a story? No preformed lesson attached. As if to say, no propaganda. Nevertheless, the writing and composition of the short-shorts are without doubt superior. Quite enjoyable to read these bits. Breaks in the usual wall, you might say.

It would be nice to trace what the visitors have to say to their friends, et al. But without the interference of NSA and other gov’t organizations, this is not possible. And who would want to pair up with illegal and nefarious groups that would, for no particular reason, turn on you? Or misuse the gathered comments.

On another note, my friend Jimsecor has recovered from yet another drug failure in a bid to find some kind of stabilizing of his mood swings. His manic-depression is quite refractory to treatment, so far. Finding a pyschiatrist that takes Medicare and Medicaid has become difficult; in his town, impossible. I see ethical issues here, covered up by the phrase “opt out of.” As in, Dr. X opts out of Medicare and Medicaid. As if to say, only the affluent are worthy of help. Proving this thesis is easy in Jimsecor’s town: all psychiatrists have moved their offices out to the far west section of the city which is where the affluent live. No one of any worth (affluent prejudice here) lives downtown.

So it is. So it goes.

FBI Nutbags

A really awful comedy–bad acting, bad script, bad directing–and the hacking of Sony Pictures has created an international scene because the immediate response was to blame North Korea and then go about proving it. The FBI found the Webpage of the North Koreans. It was in JAPANESE. For the press, they mistranslated it. It reads, “You are really stupid.” And, so we are, indeed, stupid. Proof?  1. Proved their theory after they had already proved their theory: prejudice. 2. Can’t tell the difference between Japanese and Korean.

As for the  banning here and there, Sony, Hollywood and the rest of America have been had and owned outright. Like a child that breaks his boundaries and the punishment never comes: the parents are owned and raise a spoiled, special, above-it-all child who can get anything he wants–expects to get what he wants. All he needs is a threat. Proof positive? Several showings were accomplished and there were no massive retaliations.

Whoever the hackers were–maybe not even Japanese, though Sony is a Japanese company, have shown us that we are a paranoid, frightened country that will jump at the drop of a hat. That should be enlightening but it’s not.

The idea that we must be attentive to every threat as a terrorist threat is ludicrous. It leads to seeing what’s not there. It leads to the inability to discriminate between things. It leads to lashing out at. . .whatever. It leads to broad generalization It leads to repression and oppression.

Frightened, huddled masses.

Really stupid people.

The Ferguson, MO Police

Can you imagine the hurt hearts and exquisitely painful spirits of the Ferguson Police when players in their beloved St. Louis Saints football team mounted a public TV protest and showing of solidarity with the shooting of an unarmed man in the final wrong-headed exoneration of themselves? How utterly gut wrenching was it to see up close and personal photos of the enraged bulls publicly expressing their pain and sorrow! Mouths open, teeth gnashing. Who the fuck do they think they are? Beyond criticism? Only the ancient Brown Shirts could have shown such nuanced public displays of affection.

What was the final wrong-headed exoneration of the Ferguson, MO police department? The finding, by the Grand Jury, a private gathering of hand-picked über-people, that the shootist, Darren Wilson, was not wrong; that is, there was no reason to take this man to trial for killing a nigger. Yes. That’s right. A nigger. All dem nigs needs to go ‘cuz deys beginin’ t’outnumba de white horde dat bin fer so long top dog. Das right. If ya cain’t win ’em, kill ’em.

Nigger means (implies) subhuman, inhuman. Perhaps it is only coincidence that this word applies to blacks in America and, by association, Africa. Where we all originally came from. It is a fact, though, that the Brits in now-India called the darker skinned denizens of that sub (ie, less than a) continent niggers. Maybe American Indians were red niggers? White niggers are named white trash or trailer trash.

So, what do you call black members of the white police establishment? House niggers. Maltreating their own for personal benefit.

Webster’s Linguistics 101 over.

I use the word to express the social outlook and judgmentalism of the Ferguson Police Dept., not mine. (Caveat.)

What was the first exoneration? Even before the killing itself was made public, the policeman and the police department publicized a defense–a rationalization–of the poor put-upon cop’s overkill of a black guy.

And it took six shots. Six. To bring down a man at fairly close range.

Granted the police today are trained to shoot to kill, a favorite tactic of the military, but when is it they are trained in how to shoot? Where is the evidence that they are skilled with a pistol? Hell!–he still had 2 bulllets to go!

Alright, look, this isn’t as bad as the 22 slugs it took to kill a nig in NYC a few years ago. But, come on, self-defense? In the face of an unarmed man hard to see in the dark, well-lit streets of the city?

Not only did the police kill this nig, they killed a 12-yr old nig. And then. . .then the witness to the first shooting disappears. Murdered? Put into a witness protection program, administered by the same police department that shot and killed his friend? Or just disappeared?

Oh, yeah. I’d feel saddened, too, if people, people all over the country demonstrated against my behavior. How callous of those peons not to have any sympathy for their betters! The paramilitary police force. They have such a tough job conflating keeping the peace with looking for trouble.

So. Okay. What is the next move of the country’s paramilitary in solidarity with the Ferguson Police? They infiltrate the demonstrations with masked men—masked house niggers—who set about destruction and hell raisin’. Masked black men undercover police? Oh, my, yes. It’s happened many times before and been talked about in the press. (Can you say “Seattle”?) This is establishing the need for violence to control violence. Like seeding the clouds for rain by raining silver bullets onto the defenseless gatherings of water vapor. The result? In both cases? Fallout.

Surely this is not another public expression of the face of a police state? A public expression that can be found in the massive round-up of people of a few hundred up to 10,000? Nah.


Notice that pictures of the police controlling a Ferguson inhabitant during protests showed clearly, even in black and white, the involvement of the military. We don’t know if there were any other paramilitary organizations involved in the peace keeping as they blend in, like guerrilla warriors. Take note: the military has been involved in controlling the populace since Nixon. All demonstrations and protestings require the presence of the military. There might be trouble, y’know?

Why? In the past the police were enough. The police did policing, not the military, who are legally banned from doing so (Posse Comitatus). I suppose it’s just a coincidence that the Third Army, the ones who “liberated” Fallujah twice, is stationed in the US to help with, simplistically speaking, policing, crowd control. At least, according to their own military publications.

Wilhelm Reich, in The Mass Psychology of Fascism, writes that the “use of police clubs and pistols to create a semblance of peace can hardly be called ‘a solution to social problems’.”

life erupts at author site

Eduardo Ceervino created mild hysteria in a post that was nothing new, in that his sentiments about the falling apart of the country was old hat; only several of the writers at got uppity and snitty. Wonderful riot! This post, now replaced by the usual blather myth of Thanksgiving, is still available: search for Eduardo or look in the November 2014 archives. This generated a new writer. Only a good thing. Of course, upsetting the apple cart and generating reality and controversy is the best thing that could have happened: thinking writers! Wow! Follow non-PR, non-agented writer comments: exciting!! I laughed and cursed and bothered the piss out of Jimsecor for more. But what more could he say? Get on board! This is great stuff. Thanks to Eduardo for awakening the writers, many of whom write in one form or anther about elements of the sociopolitical situation, fiction.

My good friend Jimsecor got involved. . .somewhat. He loved that Eduardo did this and think, he told me, it was the best thing that’s happened to the blog. However, his posts were not as acerbic and entertaining as they have been with other online writings. Wish they had been, alas. He did get on the stick over Thanksgiving, though. Sooner or later the truth of the matter has got to be made public. Indeed, Indian prejudice is so alive and well it is safe to say it never died. Genocide did not work; could not be accomplished by the holier-than-thou Pilgrim Fathers and their offspring. Indeed, more hatred of Whites was the result. Jimsecor tells me that he lives just up the road from the Haskell Indian Nations University, the first and only college/university for Indians, and the community of Lawrence ignores it. It’s as if them Injuns don’t exist. The gov’t still abuses them. Industry/business abuses them, with the backing of the gov’t. The judicial system puts them lower than Blacks and, therefore, sure losers. In his plethora of Hellecchino stories (satires of an absurdist nature) he deal with Indian problems. If you can’t find it, you can e-mail him; he’ll gladly pass it on. But he tells me they, for the most part, are already here.

Jimsecor’s return to life

It is nice to have a friend like Jimsecor who gives me leeway to write about him and his doings, if you will.

With one leg shorter by 1” post-total hip replacement on the left in 99, Jimsecor asked the surgeon (Hendricks) if the right total hip replacement could be made so his right leg was 1” shorter. Evening himself out, if you will. And perhaps that would be good for his negligent anti-family who maintain he needs drugs to level him out. But Hendricks, the doctor, does not think the legs are of a different length. Ha! Jimsecor will give him something to think about upon follow-up. Loose cotton clothing and standing up; a pair of shoes with no lift on the left.

Hip surgery is gruesome, the way the muscles and ligaments and whatnot–including the bone–must be dislocated and twisted to pop out the femoral had. And Jimsecor is paying dearly. Not only is this the 4th hip surgery, it was accomplished 16 yrs later than the first one. Everyone tells him the pain-problem is age: he’s older now. And cutting through all of the prior scarring and healing and adjesions with the leg immobilized and twisted around, Jimsecor ended up with knee problems similar to those you’d find in a football player. . .and almost constant shin splints. The twisting of the leg but, as he has no fibula, the tenuous tendonous string running from one end of the cut bone to the other was twisted and pulled loose for sure. You can feel the top and bottom ends of the fibular bone and can follow a tenuous internal connection (ligamentous?) between. Both lower legs actually.

Jimsecor cannot remember much, in a contiguous fashion, from the 3-4 days at the hospital due to his up and down depression and the psychotic oxy-10. He can’t much remember Doreen being there, though some mornings he recalls her presence. He lost time–had blackouts–up to a day; and this continued when he was at the rehab facility. He must have been functional during those times, for no one noted anything; Jimsecor just has no memory.

Again at KUMed, he ran a low level temp no one would pay attention to because, well, it was only 98.2 or 98.4–Jimsecor’s normal tempt is 96.8-97.1. Eh bien. This continued at the rehab centre where an astute nurse figured it out and took steps to bring it down. She, herself, turned into a marvellous confidante, missed dearly when she was not on. Danelle. Danelle spent hours talking to Jimsecor about the depression, the oxy-10, the missing times. . .made him feel normal. Danelle has multiple problems as well.

He hallucinated 4 people in his 2-person room at KUMed: a woman between him and the door; a man between him and his real roommate. Later, Tippy, Doreen’s dog, was on the far side of the room yapping and yapping and wouldn’t shut up. Jimsecor yelled at him and it all disappeared. Nightmares abounded.

But Jimsecor kept a sense of humor about things, until it came for asking for a Psychiatric consult, esp in relation to his weaning himself from the horrid Trileptal. The resident, finally grasping what he wanted, said yes. It never happened. This will be brought up at the follow-up at the end of the month.

He says the rehab facility was peopled at least 4 to 1 therapists to nurses (and aids). Most all were wonderful; but there was one nurse who ruined herself by screwing up Jimsecor’s meds–after they’d been straightened out the night before–treating him like an idiot and returning with an unworkable med. Later, she blew into the room, jackboots clicking ominously and demanded Jimsecor’s “orientation” answers. Rude and demanding. Like a bull sgt on the parade ground. He not only gave them to her, but went way overboard in giving her context beyond the moment, like some genealogy history. Then Jimsecor again saw the head nurse and told her he’d not tolerate Shannon again. Several days later, she caused trouble with another patient, just down the hall. No subtlety, no responsiveness, little humanity (empathy/sympathy/caring). She had nice thighs. Megan, Michelle, Melissa, Sara and the aids were wonderful. V and Runeeda, possibly the thinnest women Jimsecor’s ever seen.

Getting home is nice, yes? But not when you cannot pick things up and you cannot organize anything or put much of anything away so’s it’s handy–and it takes so very much energy to get around, to do the simplest thing.

Jimsecor must be ferried about, by friends and other transportation options. Mostly, he is with his walker; today, 13 Sept, he was so sore and so sore from yesterday, that he reverted to his chair. This made life easier. Jimsecor was nice to people. Unlike most people, Jimsecor does not bother me. I tell him to go blow it out is ear. Doreen had to learn to not hover, not ask about every little thing and recognize his independence, some of which might better be called hardheadedness. Both, though, are getting more and more frustrated with living here in different apts, at opposite ends of the bldg. Jimsecor is used to taking the stairs–Kirby does not like the elevator–but that’s not possible.

But he picked up an infection, probably after leaving KUMed. It is being treated with Bactrim–though the chemical name sounds so much more powerful–and this is having good effect. If the disease is “on the surface,” which includes deep enough to see the subcutaneous stitches, there should be no problem. But if it’s deep, as in the hip joint itself, we got another problem to deal with. Jimsecor being kind of paranoid about his body sees the vicious, sharp, electric pain in his groin as a sign of deep, deep trouble. Now, he has a nurse come in to change the bandage. Jimsecor wants her to put on one of those large plastic bandages that will allow him to shower. He likes to shower on his shower seat. But she says no; he should gently dry the steri-strips and reapply the gauze and tape. She’ll check back qod. . .or so.

There is also going to be a medic-alert call button as Jimsecor is a fall risk. He is. And he has a recent fall history, albeit secondary to drug toxicity–not the illegal kind. And. . .he gets help around the house on a Frail Elderly Waiver. Before surgery, 3 hrs/wk; which was just enough. Post-surgery, he’s up to 15 hrs/wk since he can’t go anywhere; people have to take him; he can’t bend over to pick things up; can’t organize his clothes; can’t make his bed, which is no big loss, can’t wash his clothes. Just. . .can’t go anywhere outside on his own. Home Bound. Can we make a song of that? Doreen is not always available, so. . .

Kirby the cat is thrilled to have Jimsecor back; he climbs all over him, rubs against him, expects pets and treats and catnip and “enhanced” food. It is at times like these that “companion animal” truly makes sense. Doreen said that though she was down here feeding and playing with him–her dog, too–Kirby would still wander around looking for the missing Jimsecor. The emptying of the catbox was not done well or often; the cat litter was used up and never refurbished. To shorten the story, the next door neighbor and her family and friends are co-dependent, irresponsible, irrational, advantage-takers who are more interested in themselves than anyone else around them, including their mother, the “heartless fucking bitch.” Jeanne’s got early pneumonia; she had the baby over for a visit. It’s possible she’s ill but, too, it’s possible she’s a drama queen; so many of her children and friends are. The month before Jimsecor left, his elex bill was $48; this month while Jimsecor was gone 3-4 weeks, the bill was $46. Some kind of explanation? The salt in the salt shaker was not congealed as thought but emptied. The freezer was cleared out to hold Jeanne’s son’s frozen pizzas, while Jimsecor’s pop-sickles melted (partially) and a pound of ground beef (73%, so it’s got taste) was partially affected. These people are borderline personality sorts who keep making the same mistakes but expect there to be a different outcome. Life as a lottery ticket, no? You keep playing that lucky number and soon enough you win, right? Social problems abound. Me and Jimsecor completely distanced ourselves from her and them. Once-frozen strawberries spoiled. You know how it goes: Jimsecor’s food is not theirs, no problem.

After several days of pain and the discovery of the infection, Jimsecor found the Bactrim helped considerably; however, he decided to take the day off, as it were, and motor around in his wheelchair. Hand-powered. This has helped. In fact, the lazy bastard is ready to go it again! Easier than the walker. He’s been up on a cane, teetering down the hallway. Lord knows what PT will have him doing next! A trip to Fuzzy’s?! I’ll hold a table.

The most irritating part of Jimsecor’s recovery is his independence. He wants to do so much on his own. . .and then he hurts himself. . .sometimes. Hurts himself by going too far. Anxiety, no?

Jimsecor is not writing much. He is in the dumps over losing the last 10 yrs of his writing to a bent flash drive. Only the connection is gone; the files are undisturbed. But it will cost him $600-1200 to recapture that life. Somewhere, somehow a bank needs to be taken down! I will drive the getaway car. There is no one like Minna vander Pfaltz (MVP) for evasive action.

It is chilling that there is no writers group to help in this area; they are only interested in successful endeavors that make money so they can give more money to the money made. The truly needy, the truly poor writer is left out in the cold. Isn’t the starving artist the ticket to heaven? A starving artist has to produce proof that he’s trying to live off his writing. If it’s not up to a standard, say, 2-3 pieces/mo, then he’s not a writer, just a con man, to be kind.

Jimsecor and I will go to the bank for a long chat in order to get past his no-debt/bad-debt for a $600 loan specifically for this recovery. As Doreen’s name is on his account as dual holder and her credit rating is high, the possibility rises. Jimsecor is not optimistic. It’s difficult not to whine or beg or make unrealistic promises. Right now, Jimsecor’s not writing. A few e-mails. Nothing else. People and machines abuse him every step of the way, he says. Yeah. That’s how it feels, I’m sure. The good side of this is that I, Minna vander Pfaltz, get to use his computer more than I might otherwise.

I suppose that’s up to date.

The Constant Shell Game, Chapter One

The Constant Shell Game


chapter one

where it all begins



Really, it wasn’t very far but why walk when you could ride. Right?

Mr. Stretch Huggins, BS stood, arms akimbo, on the worn floorboards of his little weather-beaten once-white clapboard house at the edge of downtown. He was doing two things at once. So he had to stop walking.

He was looking down the wide, packed-earth street lined with hitching posts and railings haphazardly filled with parked horses before the raised wooden walkways with the occasional lounging cowboy and the occasional strolling woman.

And. He wondered. He wondered about riding down this street he knew so well or walking down this street he knew so well. He wondered about people looking at him and what he’d have to say. Because he had to say something, even if he didn’t want to. He, Stretch Huggins, BS would have to say something to everybody. Fill his and their world with his words. Fill his world with the comfortable cacophony of his verbiage. Else he wouldn’t feel comfortable.

But he could ride. If he wanted. Then he’d only have to tip his hat. Maybe even just touch its brim and not nod because his hand would necessarily be obscuring his vision and he’d not know who it was he was acknowledging.

Before stepping down off his porch, Stretch Huggins, BS looked up at the sky and saw a reason to ride rather than walk. There were clouds up there. They were grayish, too. So that could be seen as ominous. Right? Better to be safe than sorry. He only had one suit clean. The other was at the laundry. Perhaps he’d pick it up on the way home. Then he could turn in this one and have it cleaned later. Say, on his way in or on his way out of town the next time he went in or out of town.

So Stretch Huggins, BS clunked down the four stairs, the third one squeaking as usual, to the dusty front yard and made his way to the old grey mare. He slapped her on the rump in good cowboy fashion. She had already been saddled. Stretch Huggins grasped the horn and the crupper of the saddle, put his left foot into the stirrup and hesitated. The reins were still wrapped around the hitching post. He’d never get anywhere this way.

So Stretch Huggins, BS relinquished his mounting. He loosed the reins and carried them over his docile horse’s head. With them firmly grasped in his left hand, Stretch Huggins once again assumed the mounting position. As he lifted his not inconsiderable weight off the ground, the mare grunted. The girth loosened. The saddle rotated. Stretch Huggins, BS suddenly lay in the dirt.

This would take some time. Luckily he had readied himself early. You could never be sure when a calamity would strike.

Finally, Stretch Huggins, BS climbed aboard his old grey mare and walked her down Main Street, being sure to keep her to the centre of the roadway. Leaving a dust trail behind him here was okay. Leaving a trail of the prevalent roadside fodder on the Governor’s polished pinewood office floor was quite another thing altogether. Yes indeed. Besides. He’d never been called to the Governor’s office before. It wouldn’t do to have shit on his boots if he could help it. Things must be looking up. Yes. It just could be he was finally being recognized for what he was. He served 20 faithful, loyal, unswerving, true years in the territory capitol. Maybe there would be a new suit in this. Dragging shit through the Governor’s house would be a drastic impropriety. A loss of face. To be sure.

Stretch Huggins, BS surveyed the town as he rode down the wide, dusty main street, the clop-clop-clop of his horse’s hooves punctuating the turning of his head. Several women stood outside the milliner’s gossiping. Favorite pastime in this city. Stretch Huggins tipped his hat as propriety dictated he do. No one noticed. The grocer was readying his outside display for the afternoon rush. Just enough interesting foods to entice the shoppers inside where he’d fleece them via impulse buying. Stretch Huggins merely touched the brim of his hat to the successful businessman, who did not notice, if he even saw the pale rider. The First Great Northwestern Territorial Bank was undergoing a facelift. There was a lot of pounding and ripping and shouting. Why were these people always shouting and carrying on so? Couldn’t they just do their job and be done with it? There were not too many customers because of all of this. The boardwalk in front of the Yellow Riverside Hotel was being swept by a young boy. By the bright clarity of the large plate glass window with its etched lettering the boy had obviously just finished washing it. The boy did not look up as Stretch Huggins proceeded on his way to his destination.

Stretch Huggins, BS checked his watch. A stage would be pulling in in about half an hour. He looked up and to the East for the stage’s inevitable plume of smoke. There it was. Right on the horizon where it should be. He slipped his well-used, burnished silver pocket watch back in his vest pocket and continued sedately on his way.

The Governor’s office was just down the street. A Georgian-porticoed house situated by its lonesome between the telegraph/post office and the real estate/register of deeds office. The Governor owned the latter; his dutiful son-in-law was the telegrapher. Stretch Huggins couldn’t remember who was the Postmaster. Not to be wondered a, really, as Stretch Huggins, BS did not receive or send mail. And that was fine with him. He was comfortable and mail was threatening. You could never tell what was inside an envelope. Stretch Huggins, BS only ever used the telegraph for business and that’s why he knew the Governor’s son-in-law, Gerald Herald the telegrapher.

Stretch Huggins, BS halted his horse before the Governor’s mansion. He hesitated before dismounting. He wrapped the old grey mare’s reins loosely over the hitching post. Walking around behind the beast of burden he slapped her on the hiney again. The old grey mare gave Stretch Huggins, BS a Bronx cheer behind his back, virtually the only social criticism a horse could make.

Stretch Huggins, BS stood before the imposing white columns of the Georgian mansion and looked up to the top of the red brick building with its white molding over the nine windows and one very wide door. He looked back down to the bright white steps and decided that it would be best to rid himself of the dust of his journey in the street rather than bespatter the porch. So Stretch Huggins began patting himself down and brushing the accumulated dust from his wine-colored suit. The elbows gleamed in the sunlight. So did his tie tack, a gold-plated thing with an onyx centre. He straightened his tie. He straightened his vest. He made sure the creases of his pants were properly directed down the centre front of his legs. He loosened the sweaty seat of his pants so that he could walk more easily. And so the crease between his cheeks did not display itself.

Then Stretch Huggins, BS mounted the wide white steps of the Governor’s mansion to stand before the massive oaken door with its great brass knocker. His well-manicured fingers grasped the glistening knocker and lightly tap-tap-tapped on its equally glistening plate.

Then Stretch Huggins, BS waited.