because the light is beautiful
A Manhattan court stenographer was fired after reportedly typing: “I hate my job, I hate my job” instead of recording criminal trial dialogue. Daniel Kochanski’s actions apparently also included simply hitting random keys . . . .
“I would prefer not to.”
—”Bartleby, The Scrivener,” Herman Melville
Horp jeem klob torm ahai vortyuoip. Klimoid shui shishl kleet.
“Orglieop norg ardog bannub,” kleuio frad af og klerd. “Dor agk fordelyk agoyu tert-ter.”
“Heamblow ferkmard glorb ahio iou sipl-sipl,” kord og af gleeb tortmla. “Chingalo naturlick roaden marchen bonen.”
Agoober dern-a-ler-den-dern, squeelinlikeapiggin panathema grandeochunder!
Hork! Hork! Gort lork ahiou whoiu hcduwe[yfiq[YIYFIO plert.
Pleebyuoir. Ghjkuiop. Frigih!
‘Cause otherwise, he’s going to have to go through this.
He is so much better off. With the naked stoned hippie woman. In the great ride open.
Once upon a time, there on the deeply sad, old-and-in-the-way mercy-preserve for crippled, doddering, withered, sick, ancient, and/or feeble white people—known round these parts as The Great White—there was a foam-at-the-mouth, projectile-vomiting, glow-in-the-dark racist, who called hisself Uberbah.
Among this man’s many manifest manifold sins, included his inability to inscribe a comment without upchucking either the term “weak tea,” or “hand-waving.”
Well, as it is said, “even a blind pig can find an acorn every once in a while.”
And so, tonight, Uberbah, I bow to you. In all your nightriding, white-hooded, glory.
Because, having heard, and turned round and round in my mind’s hands, like a rubik’s cube of the operative universe, the black man’s speech, in re the serial killers of the NSA, I conclude, but four words.
Itzcoatl Ocampo wanted to kill. So he joined the semper fis.
That’s certainly the place for it. For according to their own death-cult chant, the Marines are serial killers “in the air, on land, and sea.” Monsters who have slaughtered “in every clime and place/where we could take a gun.” Their anthem of utter poisonous filth even ends with the anathema that those who “ever look on Heaven’s scenes/they will find the streets are guarded/by United States Marines.”
But Ocampo was bummed. Because when he got to Iraq, the semper fis made him drive a water truck. He never got an opportunity to go out and bomb and shoot and strafe and slit, like all the other good ol’ boys.
So, when he returned stateside, Ocampo decided to go freelance. As a serial killer. He determined that southern California homeless people would make good targets. For, as he would later explain, such people are a “blight.” And, in killing them, he would be performing a kind of service. Sort of like, back at the semper fi ranch, shooting to shit Iraqis who ventured out after curfew.
As a form of practice, it is said, Ocampo first took a knife to a childhood friend, and the friend’s mother, there in Yorba Linda. Birthplace of Richard Nixon. One of the premier transnational serial killers of our time. Once those two were dead, Ocampo set about stalking homeless men. Ocampo was suspected of serially killing four, before he was caught.
And, once caught, in his various happy yammerings to law-enforcement officials, it became evident that Ocampo was batshit insane. And had been for many years.
Not that the criminal-justice system, in its supreme unwisdom, would be likely to conclude that.
Ocampo’s batshit insanity was certainly stressing his attorneys. One of them, Randall Longwith, began reporting last year that Ocampo “had been behaving erratically and complained that he heard voices. He said Ocampo suffered from tics and headaches.”
“Behaving erratically” is a nice euphemism for killing people.
Then again, if Ocampo had succeeded in serially killing people for the semper fis, he would have been hailed as a hero, showered with medals, and people would have been expected to bow down, genuflect, and kiss his cock and balls, everywhere he went.
On Thanksgiving Day, Ocampo, 25, was found violently ill in his Santa Ana jail cell. He was transported to a local hospital, where he died soon after. It was determined that he had swallowed Ajax. Not a real pleasant way to go.
A spokesmouth for the district attorney’s office, Susan Schroeder, subsequently revealed her own serious mental impairment, expressing anger that Ocampo had done away with himself, as “it really deprives the victims and the people of California of the ability to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms and get justice for the victims of these crimes.”
Look: the guy is dead. It can’t get any worse than that, for him.
But no. This woman is pissed because the state wasn’t allowed “to put Mr. Ocampo to death on our terms.”
Lady: you are one. sick. mother. fucker.
When the state of California put to death Robert Alton Harris, I journeyed out to San Quentin, for a newspaper, to “cover” the people gathered outside the gates. One red-faced, foam-flecked gentleman kept shouting, “kiiiiiiiiill him! Then dig him up, and kiiiiiiill him again!“
Maybe Ms. Schroeder could do that. She could take Ocampo’s corpse, haul it into the death chamber, strap it to a gurney, and shoot death-drugs into its veins. Then, for old time’s sake, she could slap the corpse into an electric chair, and give it a nice fry. Next, prop it up against a wall, and let people fire bullets into it. Finally, the Ocampo corpse could be transported outside, and hung by the neck until it is even more dead. It could be left there, hanging from a tree, for people to throw stones at it, until the birds had devoured it. Then, whatever was left, could be set on fire.
Then maybe Ms. Schroeder might conclude there had occurred sufficient “justice” and “closure.”
Meanwhile, another of Ocampo’s attorneys would like to know how the hey his client was able to accumulate enough Ajax to poison himself to death.
“I’m completely baffled as to how this can happen to a guy who is, if not the most high-profile inmate in jail, one of them,” Michael Molfetta said.
“The temptation by people is to say, ‘Who cares?’” he added. “That is a slippery slope right there because he is presumed innocent.”
“There’s no excuse; this should not have happened,” Molfetta said. “How hard is it to keep poison away from him? The answer is, it isn’t at all, if you cared.”
But nobody cared. For of all the people in all the nation that nobody cares for, prisoners are cared for the least. That’s one of the reasons there are so many of them. Prisoners. Because Americans, as a whole, presume that if you disappear into a jail cell, you belong there, and whatever might happen to you there, you deserve. Doesn’t even matter whether, as with Mr. Ocampo, you had not yet been found guilty. Or, as with Mr. Ocampo, you are batshit insane. Because once you go into the cell, you’re gone. You cease to exist. Your presence is no longer discernible on this planet. And so Americans are free to turn and walk away. Because there’s a Black Friday sale. And if you get in line early enough, you can get a 50-inch flat-screen TV. For but $299.
Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
So far as I can determine, Darth Cheney has always been controlled by Fear.
He grew up—a child—in Caspar, Wyoming. Staring across the endless wastes. Where there was nothing. Nothing at all. Least of all: him. Amidst all this nothingness. Young Darth. He became Afraid. So lonely. So cold. Just . . . so lonely.
And then, his corporeal container, it failed him. Utterly. And early.
In 1978, when Darth was but 37, a massive real-bad heart attack, attempted to carry him away. This he, somehow, survived. Six years later, he had a second heart attack. A third came after four more years. He underwent quadruple bypass surgery at age 47. In late November of 2000, while waiting for the United States Supreme Court to complete its judicial coup, and thereby elevate Darth, and his minion George II, to the vice presidency and presidency, of the United States, respectively, Cheney was hit with a fourth heart attack. A fifth struck in 2010.
In the many meantimes, Cheney underwent coronary artery stenting, urgent coronary balloon angioplasty, the implantation of a cardioverter-defibrillator. Etc., etc., and etc. He also had fitted this and that and the other, and more, pacemakers.
In the spring of 2011, amid desperate and extraordinary attempts to extend his life, he became a man with no pulse.
Basically, Darth Cheney is a roboman. Nature, it tried to carry him off. And many years ago. But technology. It keeps him keepin’ on.
Pigs have feet for a reason. So they can stand, and walk, and run around on them.
So they do not need to be carried by humans.
This is Wrong.
Last night I was watching a film about Levon Helm, and in it he noted that the reason why people in his crew put rings in the noses of their pigs is because otherwise the pigs are apt to use their powerful snuffling abilities to dig massive sinkholes, upend tractors, relocate houses.
This brought to mind one early Sunday morning, some years ago, when I answered a knock at my door to encounter my sleep-tousled and irritated neighbor, who had arrived to inform me that my pig, Eleanor, had just knocked his house off its foundation.
No fence made by the hands of man, or even woman, could contain Eleanor. And apparently she had felt, this morn, the need to go root and rock the neighbor’s house. I think maybe the neighbor had earlier said something rude to her.
These things happen.
That pig in the picture, s/he don’t have no ring in the nose. So that police officer better watch out. His house, I reckon, is likely soon to move.
Below find excerpts from NSA intercepts of recent communications involving various justices to the United States Supreme Court.
John Roberts: Yes, David, be assured: the Plan is proceeding apace. We have firmly defined corporations as persons, thanks to Scalia pulling enormous quantities of effluvia out of the vast cavernous reaches of his capacious anal canal. And last term, in the Voting Rights cases, we succeeded in bashing the Negroes and the Brown Ones off the walls of the Alamo; this term, we are determined to declare definitively that Negroes are, in fact, not persons. Scalia says if “no Negro is a human” was good enough for his hero, Judge Taney, in Dred Scott v. Sandford, it’s good enough for us; and, since we went back to the 19th Century for the “corporations-are-people” decision, there is no reason why we can’t return to that same century for the “Negroes are not people” ruling. As Scalia points out—convincingly—the Founders did not regard The Blacks as human: so why should we? (Nino says Thomas won’t be a problem—he doesn’t consider himself black.) The Negroes-ain’t-persons doctrine will also obviate the birther cases: it won’t matter where Obama was born, once it is determined he is a non-person. He could have been born in Peoria, or even on the grounds of Liberty University; but, if he’s a non-person, he can’t serve. The day is coming, David—believe me—when the White House will be White again. As you know, I have been working for this Negroless day since my days in the Reagan administration. Hewing always to my secret motto: Land o’ cotton uber alles! Soon, David, we shall see again the Real America: the one where White businesses are people, but the Wrong-colored creatures who work for them are not. Next, we shall see about lifting the requirement that such creatures be paid . . . .
Stephen Breyer: Okay. What I need you clerks to do is to find me some cases this term where I can vote so it looks like I’m a liberal. While meanwhile fulfilling, always, my prime directive: fellate business.
Samuel Alito: I am hoping that in one of the 954 cases on the docket this term where we get to sneer at Sandra Day O’Connor and meanwhile march on a road of bones to the complete and total abolition of all abortions in this land, that we can find some “hook,” in which we may rule that the government not only can, but should, install monitoring devices in the reproductive regions of all American women. (Maybe “national security”?) Because, really, the only way to get these animals under control is to track, in real time, what goes in and out of their vaginas. As is well known, the only permitted use of a vagina is to receive a married penis, at the peak time of fertilization, and then to expel a child, some months after fertilization has occurred. Meanwhile, Nino says he is working on the opinion wherein we shall declare that life begins when a man looks at a woman and decides she should have his baby. I’m excited! When that decision comes down, there are already many babies out there, from me!
Sonia Sotomayer: Elena, I asked Ruth about poisoning Scalia, and she says it just won’t work. She says she’s tried several times, at those dinners they have together, to slip damn great doses of poison into his food, but none of them have ever had any effect. It is her opinion that he actually died many years ago—probably from an aorta blow during one of his many uncontrollable fits—and was then replaced by some sort of manufactured RoboJustice, that is impervious to poison. Also, she says nothing really can be done about Clarence telling you, during conference, to “get me some more coffee, bitch”; according to her, “that’s just his way.”
Anthony Kennedy: Roberts was being an ass again, swaggering in here to smirk: “Look, Tony, in this job you can’t just be about pleasing the homos. You got to do that last term; this term you need to take the heat of the health-care cases, re-rigging the thing so it continues to serve our corporate friends, which the knuckledraggers in the stupid tea-hats are just too dumb to get.” I asked him if I could at least write the opinion striking down the contraception-coverage requirement, but he said he’d promised Sam and Scalia that this term they could exercise total control over all cases involving “the holes.”
Elena Kagan: Looks like I may get the decision where we decide that the Fourth Amendment permits cops to seize, without a warrant, people’s cellphones, and roar through all the contents. The ghost of William O. Douglas came around to start screaming at me again last night: see about doubling down on my downer prescriptions.
Clarence Thomas: The porn the clerks got for me last term was for shit. I need good hard continuous action this year; how the hell else am I going to stay awake in this damn job? Also, thank “The Cleaner” for stuffing in the Jimmy Hoffa landfill that Post reporter who was planning to break the story that the reason why I never ask questions during oral argument is because of the earbuds implanted in both my earholes, broadcasting non-stop dirty talk from Vicki, Vixen, and Juggs. Oh—and find out if that reporter, before he disappeared, told anybody in his family about me. If so, The Cleaner says there’s room for them in the landfill.
Ruth Bader Ginsburg: Just waiting to find out what part of my body will need to be removed and/or replaced this term. Meanwhile, watched the last episode of that Breaking Bad show. Regarded wistfully the part where the machine-gun mounted in the car cut down all the bad boys. Oh well. A girl can dream . . . .
Antonin Scalia: I am the Lord thy God. Thou shalt have no other gods before me. Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. And I, the Lord, said unto Roberts, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them.
Sometimes, when one encounters a headline, it is best to just ruminate upon it, for a time, before clicking through.
Such was True, yesterday, when I came across the headline “New Freedom Woman Urinates On Neighbor’s Couch.”
This, to me—it was nothing but fascinating.
What, I wondered, is a “New Freedom Woman?”
Is she, perhaps, part of some new movement, in which urinating on the couches of neighbors is considered a “new freedom”?
Then, when I clicked on the thing, I in the first paragraphs discovered that “New Freedom” is the name of a town in Pennsylvania.
In re the power of naming, I nodded: yes, of course, one would have to expect, that a town named “New Freedom,” would feature such events as neighbors showing up to urinate on your couch.
But then I got deeper into the thing, and realized it was all just another Stupid Drink Trick.
An intoxicated woman urinated on a New Freedom man’s couch Saturday night as he was waiting for police to arrive and remove her from his home, charging documents state.
Kimberly Ann Crosier-Crowley, 55, of the first block of John Randolph Drive, New Freedom, faces charges of trespass, criminal mischief, disorderly conduct, public drunkenness and loitering and prowling at night, documents state.
Southern Regional Police said that at 11:25 p.m., Jon Pizzurro, who lives nearby Crosier-Crowley on John Randolph Drive, called them to say she was intoxicated and would not leave his home.
“While waiting for police to arrive, the woman [Crosier-Crowley] then urinated on his couch in his living room,” documents state.
When police arrived, Crosier-Crowley ran away. Police caught up to a stumbling, pants-less Crosier-Crowley and asked her how much she had had to drink, to which she answered, “nothing,” documents state.
As officers tried to handcuff her, she resisted, and said she wanted to go home. When they asked her name, she said, “I think my name is Kim Crowley,” documents state.
Officers said they could smell a strong odor of alcohol coming from Crosier-Crowley, documents state.
Police then talked with Crosier-Crowley’s husband, Jeff Crowley, who said his wife had been drinking alcohol inside their home and then walked outside.
Jeff Crowley let police inside their home, where they could see “many opened containers of beer throughout the kitchen,” documents state.
Police asked him if his wife had any medical conditions.
“He stated that she was just an alcoholic,” documents state.
Here in criminal-law world, about 85% of the cases that come our way are, in one form or another, some sort of Stupid Drunk Trick.
There exists also the legion of Stupid Drunk Tricks that I have engaged in, in my own life.
See? Sometimes it’s best, to just rest in the headline.
With the wanton, willing, fiery and fierce New Freedom Women. Spraying urine across the couches of the land. As some sort of Statement.
35 years ago today, at about the same time, 5 o’clock, I acquitted a man.
I have since realized I made a mistake.
He was guilty.
I did my own investigation.
He’s married with three children.
He is living in peace.
How many others could I have acquitted? Even guilty?
Deciding what is true and what isn’t
now seems to me a lack of modesty.
In their place?
And that goes for everyone I judged.
Given their lives, I would steal.
I’d kill, I’d lie.
Of course I would.
because I wasn’t in their shoes,
—Krzysztof Kieślowski, Red
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away. Until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder. And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther . . . . And one fine morning—
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
There seems to be a lot of hair-on-fire these days about “jobs.” The burning often concerns the notion that there aren’t enough of them.
Small wonder. Jobs are silly. In the history of humans, they’ve only recently been around. And now—as is true of similar nonsense like cities and money—they’re going the way of the dodo. Good riddance.
However, for people who have only ever lived in job-world, and who cannot think outside the box of job-world, here’s a little tip. If you want real job security, go into the judiciary.
Yesterday I was reading the appellate reports, and came upon a case where the defendant contends, among other things, that the judge who presided over his case had lost all his marbles. Due to bad age and bad chemicals, he had transformed into a dingbat. Judge, thy name was dementia.
However, this judge had served many years, jibbered and jabbered in the remote far-eastern rural hellhole section of that deafening banjo-picking abomination known as Riverside County, and was protected for far too long by his fellow system-dwellers, who did want to embarrass the fossil by publicly decrying him as a being no more qualified to hear cases than a gila monster.
And so he babbled on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
In the course of this defendant’s appeal, many affidavits were filed by attorneys who had appeared before the wingding. An excerpt from one:
Judge Metheny came off the bench, following an evidentiary objection by me, assumed a three-point stance on the floor in the open courtroom, ordered me to get down on the floor opposite him, and threatened to knock me all the way out into the parking lot. When I declined to “assume the position,” the judge then got up and insisted I accompany him to the parking lot so he could knock me around. He had, I believe, imagined he was back at Nebraska State where he was a star football player in the ’40s or thereabouts. That was one of his common regressions . . . .
A three-judge panel of the Ninth US Circuit Court Of Appeals ruled 2-1 last week that such behavior seemed perfectly normal to them.
The dissenting judge began his opinion with these words: “The majority holds that a judge suffering from dementia may sentence a man to death. I disagree.”
But what this dissenter says doesn’t matter. He is the Loser.
The winners are all those who secure employment as a judge. ‘Cause, once up there on the bench, you can serenely spin the propellor on your beanie, and for eons. Secure in the knowledge that you’ll continue to draw the paycheck, week after week, month after month, year after year. Till you go a-molderin’ into the grave. And you can send people to the death house, too, in the meantime.
And so now the United States has determined that it is Vital and Necessary to establish and enforce tight and binding international Rules for the use of drones.
President Barack Obama, who vastly expanded U.S. drone strikes against terrorism suspects overseas under the cloak of secrecy, is now openly seeking to influence global guidelines for their use as China and other countries pursue their own drone programs.
The United States was the first to use unmanned air-craft fitted with missiles to kill militant suspects in the years after the September 11, 2001, attacks on New York and Washington.
But other countries are catching up. China’s interest in unmanned aerial vehicles was displayed in November at an air show. According to state-run newspaper Global Times, China had considered conducting its first drone strike to kill a suspect in the 2011 murder of 13 Chinese sailors, but authorities decided they wanted the man alive so they could put him on trial.
“People say what’s going to happen when the Chinese and the Russians get this technology? The president is well aware of those concerns and wants to set the standard for the international community on these tools,” said Tommy Vietor, until earlier this month a White House spokesman.
As U.S. ground wars end—over in Iraq, drawing to a close in Afghanistan—surgical counterterrorism targeting has become “the new normal,” Vietor said.
Amid a debate within the U.S. government, it is not yet clear what new standards governing targeted killings and drone strikes the White House will develop for U.S. operations or propose for global rules of the road.
Obama’s new position is not without irony. The White House kept details of drone operations—which remain largely classified—out of public view for years when the U.S. monopoly was airtight.
This is typical. One need only consider very recent history. Such as when the United States enjoyed a monopoly, or near-monopoly, in nuclear weapons, at which time it felt no need to establish any nuke rules at all.
And, indeed, that nation’s premier serial killers—a.k.a. “generals”—wished, and fervently urged, at various times, that there be nuke-rain-down-on-thee in Japan, the Soviet Union, Korea, China, Vietnam . . . even the freaking Moon.
They got their way, did the serial killers, in Japan. But never after. Nor, in their thereafter everafter lust to later nuke-rain the Soviet Union (multiple times), Cuba, Afghanistan, etc., and on to the present day: Iran. Always, one of more civilians, tethered to the ball of sanity, have blocked them in their way.
Useful news, for those who perceive Reality through that glass-darkly straw in which the boys in the serial-killer blues forever get their way.
Anyway. Once humans not interned in the dirt-patch known as “the United States” began possessing nuclear weapons, suddenly a Great Flap swept across the American land, and it became at once Right and Meet that many and myriad Rules be established, to prevent non-’Mericans from getting themselfs a nuke, or, worse, Wrongly using one.
This is why, these days, every time you look at the news, there is something about Iran or North Korea. Something where some American is leaping and shrieking and running around with his or her hair on fire. Because some humans in these countries—Iran or North Korea—may be thinking about getting theyselves a nuke. And the US, sitting on more nukes than Midas has gold, and still the only country ever to use one to wantonly and needlessly and insanely incinerate hundreds of thousands of people, says This Cannot Be.
Decree of the US being: “I got mine. None, is yours.”
Now, I guess, we must gird our loins to eternally recur through this same sort of nonsense with drones.
(this one writ by our Alexa)
Sometime late Thursday night, 26-year-old Sean Collier was assassinated, allegedly by two terrorists who lived among us.
In so many other ways, they lived in different universes.
Sean Collier wasn’t using his time on this earth plotting death and destruction. And he wasn’t living his life as a coward.
Sean Collier was going to help keep the peace. That was his goal, his dream. He was going to “protect and serve.”
That phrase has somehow become a cliche over the years, a punch line.
But it’s what cops do; it’s what Sean Collier was going to dedicate his life to doing.
Vaya con Dias, mi hermano, con mi más sincero agradecimiento, respeto y amor. Tu ido demasiado pronto.
Gone too soon.
San Jose is a renowned scum-pit. An endless expanse of smog, sand, strip malls. Of humans heaving with rage, impotently driving their fists into the steering wheel, progress stalled amid thousands of other idling internally-combusting humans, moving no more furthur than they.
Those who wonder why extraterrestrials do not simply straight-forward approach human beings, need only consider San Jose.
San Jose marks the southernmost stretch of Silicon Valley. That ant-like conclave established when the pocket-protected variant of human concluded that lies and ignorance and madness should no longer be confined to podiums and pulpits, to printed treesheets and undulating airborne frequencies, to foam-flecked froot-loops shouting at buildings. But instead should at all times be instantly available to all, all over the planet, through one vast interweb, whereby anyone, anywhere, at any time, could consult a Reality where, say, it is Known that when Lindsay Lohan is sentenced to community service in a morgue, this is a tip-off that she is an MK-ULTRA-like sex/drug slave embroiled in Call to Chaos rites, cruelly captive of a Freemasonic conspiracy involving those demonic US intelligence agents who also owned and controlled Marilyn Monroe and directed “Manchurian Candidate” Sirhan Sirhan.
The Valley and all its interwebbing works the brainchild of one William Shockley. A deeply disturbed human who, once he had successfully dumped silicon into the human brainpan, flapped madly across the land howling that he had Looked at a Gene, and thereby concluded that black people are congenitally dumber than two fence-posts.
This sort of “thinking” for many decades informed the law-enforcement philosophy of badged and gunned humans in the San Jose region. A philosophy which involved beating with big sticks any black or otherwise melanin-infused human who Happened To Be There.
Today I see that this philosophy has migrated up the valley of silica to San Mateo County. Where it has been determined that land so poisoned with toxins it is forbidden to build residences there, shall house the new “San Mateo County Replacement Jail Project.” And thus, there, caged humans shall reside, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, week after week, month after month, year after year, stewing in their fellow humans’ left-behind poisoned juices.
Last week the aptly named Chemical Way was cleaned of decades of toxic chemical residue, according to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department.
The site of the proposed new jail was so permeated by volatile organic compounds that the Department of Toxic Substances Control declared the land too hazardous for residential use. Unfortunately, it is still too hazardous to meet residential toxicity standards. The county cleaned it to commercial-level standards, which are lower, presuming that people don’t regularly sleep or eat or spend as much time in commercial settings. But the jail will have people eating and sleeping on site —24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
If the jail site isn’t safe for residential use, where most people aren’t home 24 hours a day, it certainly isn’t safe for the people who will be locked inside for months or years at a time.
Perhaps for that reason, the county failed to include a Human Health Risk Assessment, which is used to measure people’s likely exposure to toxic chemicals and whether that level of exposure is safe. Should we infer that the county doesn’t believe jails are residential, or just that the potential health risks to prisoners are not important enough to fully assess?
But you know: it’s all alright. Because these aren’t real humans. These are humans with melanin.
Black people make up 24 percent of San Mateo’s jail population even though they represent only 3 percent of the county’s population. Similarly, Latinos constitute 35 percent of the jail population but only 26 percent of the county’s.
It is time, I think, for some musical accompaniment. A number that not only explains why extraterrestrials do not straight-forward approach human beings. But also why there is some debate, out there in space, about maybe just erasing the place, to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
“They were doing renovations to extend the basement cafeteria. A bunch of Turkish workers were digging. They got a little surprise.”
Excavation work had torn up part of the sidewalk. Arkady joined the onlookers on the precarious edge, where klieg lamps aimed an incandescent light at a power shovel in a hole two stories deep and about twenty meters square.
In the hole an organized crew of men in coveralls and hard hats worked on the ground and up on scaffolding with picks and trowels, plastic bags, surgical masks and latex gloves. One man dislodged what looked like a brown ball, which he placed in a canvas bucket that he lowered by rope to the ground. He returned to his trowel and painstakingly freed a rib cage with arms attached. As Arkady’s eyes adjusted he saw that one entire face of the excavation was layered with human remains outlined by the snow, a cross section of soil with skulls for stones and femurs for sticks. Some were clothed, some weren’t. The smell was of sweet compost.
The canvas bucket was passed fire brigade style across the pit and pulled by rope up to a tent where other shadowy bodies were laid out on tables. The colonel went from tent to tent and barked at the men sorting bones to work faster.
Sergeant Gleb said, “They want all the bodies out by morning. They don’t want people to see.”
“How many so far?”
“It’s a mass grave, who can say?”
“From the clothes, they say the forties or fifties. Holes in the back of the head. In the basement of the Supreme Court yet. March you right downstairs and boom! That’s how they used to do it. That was some court.”
Gleb asked, “What if the grave runs under the entire court?”
“That’s always the problem, isn’t it? Once you start digging, when to stop?”
—Martin Cruz Smith, Stalin’s Ghost
The term “concealed carry,” it has developed a whole new meaning, now that a woman has been found to have lugged around a loaded revolver stuffed up her vagina.
In the course of the ensuing traffic stop, it was discovered that both women had rap sheets longer than god, and that one had an active warrant out for her arrest.
Meanwhile, drug dogs deployed, and sniffing round these two women, were going absolutely batshit.
It was decided to transport the two women to the local pokey.
“On the way there, one of them tells the officer she has a hypodermic needle in her shoe, and they remove that,” Pontotoc County District Attorney Chris Ross said. “The other one said she had to go to the bathroom.”
“The other one”—a.k.a. Ms. Harris—was, it was discovered during booking, harboring “something strange” within her corporeal container.
“The officer observed the handle of a revolver sticking out from inside her body,” Ross said.
Court records state it was a “wooden and metal item sticking out from her vagina area.”
A further search brought forth “[b]ags of drugs  secreted in Harris’s rectum.”
Crystal meth, drug paraphernalia, a pistol and a loaded clip of bullets were found inside the vehicle.
During the ride to jail, Harris “stated several times that she needed to go to the bathroom,” said police.
Officer Kathy Unbewust conducted a strip search of Harris, despite the latter’s objections.
Unbewust said that she observed a wooden and metal item sticking out from her vaginal area. The concealed weapon contained “three live rounds inside and one spent shell.”
“It would seem to be a very dangerous place to carry a loaded firearm,” Ross said. “If it goes off it’s only going one place.”
As might have been predicted—with something like 100% accuracy—Harris is a methamphetamine person.
For, not only does meth convince a person that it is Absolutely Imperative to completely dismantle one’s car at 3:00 in the morning, so too does it command that ramming objects strange and unnatural up the glory hole is nothing but Right and Meet.
Oklahoma has previously been identified on this blog as the veritable vortex of the emerging national penchant for brewing methamphetamine in the aisles of the local WalMart.
Now, apparently, Oklahoma is also on the absolute cutting edge of The Need to squirrel away vast quantities of meth, accompanied by firearms, up the holy of holies.
As has been here heretofore observed, the Oklahoma state motto is currently Labor Omnia Vincit— or, “Labor Conquers All Things.” I believe—I say again—it is time to change that motto. To something like E Pluribus Dumbfuck. Or, “Meth Labs R Us.”
It is in the nature of a “job” that sometimes They want you to do things you’d rather not do.
I try to avoid doing things I’d rather not do. Which is why I have never been known for making money.
Now, going to court is one of those things I’d rather not do. Because it involves watching police officers testify as if they feared they’d be struck by lightning if they told the truth, prosecutors strutting around like they’re wearing swastika armbands, and judges leaping up from behind the bench to fawningly kneel to grovelingly offer their genitals, their brains, and their lips, to the prosecutors and the police.
There are enough nightmares in this world, without willingly offering oneself up to spectacles like that.
Recently one lawyer wanted me to go to a court where I would be subjected to a prosecutor who I swear has the number 666 carved into his forehead, and a police officer who has already “transferred” from two different local departments when his superiors wearied of the fact that his fingers would burst into flame if he even once inscribed an accurate police report.
I sent the lawyer the video clip below. Informing him that my sinuses were acting up. And that if he asked me—for whatever amount of money—to sit there and endure those swine, there was no doubt whatsoever that I would be compelled, there in the courtroom, to loudly and repeatedly emit the same sort of sounds as possessed Felix Unger.
I didn’t have to go.
The Americans, noted Puritans, tend to regard Sweden as a hotbed of sexual libertines, who run utterly wild at all times, ceaselessly plunging in and out of each other’s orifi, with total abandon, and no restraint.
So shocked, probably, shall these Americans be, that the Swedes appear to have drawn at least one line, in matters sexual.
For in that nation, now, a 37-year-old woman faces criminal prosecution, simply because she seems to prefer sex with skeletons.
This, apparently, constitutes the crime of “violating the peace of the dead.”
The prosecutor could not explain how the woman had managed to collect almost an entire skeleton, but explained that the human remains had been used in an “unethical” way.
“In the confidential section of the investigation we have material which indicates she used them in sexual situations,” the prosecutor told the TT news agency.
The woman is believed to have used the human bones for sexual gratification. The evidence that the prosecution presented to the press on Tuesday included two CDs labelled “My necrophilia” and “My first experience.”
Katarina Öberg, head of the centre of Andrology and Sexual Medicine at Karolinska University Hospital in Stockholm, admitted this was the first time she had heard of such a case in Sweden.
“During my ten years I have never had a patient with necrophilia,” she said. “Although, I guess it is not really something that one confesses to having.”
The woman has pled not guilty, and maintains she did nothing wrong. She admits to collecting bones, but says she accumulates the dry stuff “out of a historical and archaeological interest.”
And it’s not like she was keeping it a secret.
She had reportedly bragged to some nearby children about keeping knives and dead people in her apartment.
She is also willing to share her bones, having peddled a few over the intertubes.
According to the prosecution, the woman has also sold skulls over the internet.
The latest transaction was between the woman and a person in Uppsala, eastern Sweden. The buyer had allegedly stocked up on three skulls and a spine.
She has reportedly posted to an intertubes forum:
“I want my man like he is, whether he is dead or alive. He allows me to find sexual happiness on the side.”
You know, this is pretty broad-minded. A lot of people, they can be pretty picky about their lovers. This woman, she doesn’t even require that her partner be alive.
And they want to put her in jail.
What is this world coming to.
One Thanksgiving I spent in jail. I was young, and therefore brash and rash, and so thought myself immortal, impervious. Didn’t think then, there in stir, about doing serious prison time, which is what I was facing. Just had to wait for the holiday weekend to pass, I figured, then the lawyer could tease the bail down to a Sane level. Which is what happened. The serious grinding over the prison time, that came later.
Thanksgiving was my third or fourth day in the place. I occupied alone a single-cell, which I belatedly learned was supposed to be a sort of punishment. I could smoke in there—can’t do that no more, in the jails in this state—and I could think and plan and wonder and reflect. There were tolerable volumes from the jail library with which I could pass the time. Nobody bothered me. I could talk to the folks—though yes I couldn’t see them—in the cells on either side of me. But I could choose not to, too.
This was 25 years or so ago, when they still fed you decently in the jails around here. And so on Thanksgiving they shoved through the bars a fair approximation of a traditional American Thanksgiving repast: turkey, mashed potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce, yams, etc. I ate all of it. Yams I hadn’t much eaten before, and I haven’t eaten them since. But I had already discovered, there a monkey confined to a cage, that I’d eat just about anything the keepers slid my way. You do tend to get hungry, in every way, when your life is caged.
After Thanksgiving dinner the screws punched a video into the TV/VCR combo that sat on a low metal table rolled about on casters in the hall outside the cells occupied by we “serious felons.” I absolutely could not believe it: the film was The Black Stallion, one of my favorite movies, a tone poem completely about freedom, but one that I figured these cynical magpies in the “serious felon” row would hoot down and away, dismissing it as a “children’s flick.” How wrong I was. They, as it developed, had been on this row much longer than I; they had seen this film several times before, and they valued it. They got it as only people who don’t have it could get it.
Because it was Thanksgiving, that night we got a double feature. The second film was a ninja thing. As soon as it was punched in, we heard a groan from the guy in the cell to the far right.
“What bullshit,” he groused in his gravelly voice. “This is the one with the guy who takes more bullets and lives than even the guy in Scarface. What bullshit.”
And it was true. The ninja hero at one point was riddled with what looked like 20 or 30 bullets, mostly to the head and chest . . . but still, he kept on coming. As this nonsense approached its zenith, the guy in the cell at the far right kept muttering variations on “bullshit” and “check out this shit” and “no way.”
My unseen jailbird companion to my left at one point whispered to me: “That dude at the end, the reason why he’s pissed at this stupid shit: he’s in here on murder. He knows what it takes to kill a person. And it ain’t much.”
Several years later I spent Thanksgiving at Denny’s. I didn’t have to be there; I could have been other places, with other people. But Denny’s is where that Thanksgiving I chose to be. Even at the time, I knew that my Thanksgiving in Denny’s was worse than the Thanksgiving I’d spent in jail. Because then, in jail, somebody else had locked me up. But in dining at Denny’s, I had entered a jail of my own making.
Usually, these days, I don’t associate Thanksgiving with jail. But in 2010 it came back at me. Because the day before Thanksgiving, there in 2010, a jury out of Texas decided that Tom DeLay, former majority leader of the United States House of Representatives, had committed enough crimes to stash him away in a cage for the rest of his life.
Back in the day, miscreants had cool nicknames.
Pretty Boy Floyd. Baby Face Nelson. Legs Diamond. Machine Gun Kelly. Ma Barker. Mad Dog Coll. Dutch Schultz.
And so now we have this pitiful sadsack, picked up today by the government boys, known by the name John Doe Duffel Bag.
This is the most singularly unexciting moniker I have ever heard. He might as well be called Boredom Bill. Yawny Yanni. Somnambulent Sam.
When he goes into the big house, he is going to have to be placed in solitary. Because all the other prisoners will laugh at him. John Doe Duffel Bag. That is beyond pathetic. The other inmates: he will have to do all of their laundry, iron their shirts, shine their shoes.
So it is best that he just stays in his own good hole, hiding his face in shame.
John Doe Duffel Bag. There is simply no hope for such a fellow. No will ever write a song, make a film, about John Doe Duffel Bag. ‘Cept maybe a cartoon.