Derpology 101 (Standard Text Rates Apply)

I reckon this Rock is toted. This has always been for my child. It is a diary, of sorts, but the impetus came from a desire to discuss something besides what I was going through in my court case with my co-workers. Over the years, I have developed several meaningful relationships with others in my chosen line… namely trade worker. I am decidedly a journeyman in five separate trades, but there were three I was good at before I knew what a journeyman was.


The sound of that title, Journeyman, was intimidating enough where I simply took the word of anyone who had that status in my mind. There was no standardized test to determine the level of competence of a skilled worker per se. Now, after five years of fighting about it, my understanding of Family Law, particularly the UCCJEA, makes me a journeyman attorney… PRO SE >OR< Pro PER. In Family Law, the practice of which is not only much more demanding than criminal, civil, or contract law but is, by it’s very nature, the domain of self representation. Traditionally and increasingly the domain of intention when it comes to a parent’s right to influence their progeny… properly stated as the pursuit of hapiness (Capital Letters Implied).

Anyway. That’s saying something. Qualified in my own mind to practice the one aspect of law that should be entirely the domain of the parent barring any interference with the basic rights of the child. This is a right that is not in the Constitution… the Root of the Freedom Tree… the Rebel Fonzie in every teenager that ever courted a Pinky Tuscadero.


Ayyyy. (Thumbs Up)

Just my opinion. Just the strongest opinion I have. 

Don’t be a Potsie… meaning in Hippie don’t be a square.

Pro Se / Pro Per – Meaning in Latin that I represent myself. Something I have done in pursuit of my daughter’s rights long enough to know for certain what lengths a local government will go to to subvert the authority of a parent in an effort to divert the capital of a collective. A collective of free people who have allowed this mechanism to exist. Not by turning their heads while it happened, but by refusing to look when it hit close to home. When it happened in their lives to them… as opposed to just on the news or in Bang Ladesh. In the hills or the plains or whatever they got over there in Bang Ladesh.


“Uh, Q… Who is Bang Ladesh?”


“Why Jacq… are you not familiar with the Bang L’Desh SeVeN?”


Is it in Latin?


No, silly. It’s in the Hills of UjerkiStan. Near the Source of the Panziass River.


So. In Africa then?


No, you idiot. Nebraska.



And like that, so you know. I was crazy before you met me. I was your father before I met you. This has always been FOR you, Little One, but now it is about you. It was for you and in honor of my companions in this and many similar battles for the lives of children across the surface of the planet and woven into the fabric of time. A serious issue to be represented in the life of your offspring, forget the legality of it and for just a second consider how brutal it must be; almost by definition. I have ‘flipped the script’ so many times since we saw each other that this is our perpetual stock of Dream Tokens. The story I will now encode for your eyes only is embedded so deeply in these ripples of caring that only now, after eighteen months of Olympic Caliber Script Flipping, can I begin to remind you of the nature of our particular beast.


Our story has gone from personal horror to intellectual property. I have only half the formula. The other half was given to the infamous (and now immortal) Dr. Merde in a dimension known as Derp. Don’t ask me. Not my department. My jorb has been to process my half of teh Rock and make it into something we can all work with. Something more profound than the sum of it’s parts. Something akin to inspiration on tap. A distillation of these three stories… nothing more, nothing less.


What started as a way to keep track of a story that interrupted the flow of a very busy and hard hitting SKILLED TRADE (Stone Masonry) became a gateway to an international internet forum where it stayed in a technological limbo of sorts. It gelled until it gesticulated. Morphed until it masticated. Simply because it became a numerical expression based on the mathematical equation that ‘A picture is worth a thousand words.’ My heavy handed construction buddies were as familiar with the footnotes to the story as they were with the 45 minutes break time in an 8 hour work day. Who has time to talk about this type of shit AND run to the Roach Coach PLUS Suck down a Mountain Dew? See what I’m saying?


For my devoted companions, their interest in ‘the story so far’ simply couldn’t be overshadowed by ‘what are we going to DO after lunch? Who’s getting overtime today? How about this weekend? Did we get enough done (SEE: Humanly Possible) to keep our job AND how long will THAT be true?’ See what I mean? Easier to say – ‘If you are into it, go to ReeferBabies and you can see a factual account of the five provincial questions.’


If you have questions, ask… but there are no easy answers in this NON FICTION story when it comes to documentation. There is no Legal Fiction, but this is the Quarry I have had to mine for the building blocks of a spectacular fiction approximately six months AFTER starting the BLOG to tell a TRUE Tale… A SIMPLE, factual account that could at once benefit my co-workers and help myself get past the years of neglect imposed on my child that is indeed nauseating the more you know about it and the more you know about the child this whole concoction spins around… My Little Angel.


Always for her, but always talking around the issue. Encoding the truth, not concealing it. Making it an entertaining fiction for a teenager that is by definition troubled… Geographically challenged… Spiritually Isolated. And Yadda Yadda. Who gives a shit if Captain Jacques (excuse me COLONEL PuckRainer – RET.) enjoys the story(?) It is intended to supplant a story NO friend of mine would condone if they knew the depth of disparity it contains. Thus the attempt to introduce the Horse as the significant character it deserves to be with the creation of the Man O War Thread before the October Ban… The Critters Forum being remarkably unused at the time (as was the Writer’s Room in September) was the object of the first FLAME WAR… where the Pinhead Commander gets his stripes… where our story learns to crawl, Baby Girl. Where I want you to begin to feel comfortable not being bored or scared by a story based on the times in between.


You know what I mean and that is enough.


It always has been and now it must be.


Sleep Well Princess and Thank.You.For.Playing.


Come again and often.


The first one is ALWAYS free.

That’s Just.You,Being.Me.




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Punish The Monkey

“… and they came back at us with Baiting and FLAME.”






Punish The Monkey (Mark Knopfler) 2007

They’re driving long nails into coffins
You’ve been having sleepless nights
You’ve gone as quiet as a church mouse
and checking on your rights
The boss has hung you out to dry
And it looks as though
punish the monkey
and let the organ grinder go

You’ve been talking to a lawyer
Are you gonna pretend
that you and your employer
are still the best of friends?
Somebody’s going to take the fall
There’s your quid pro quo
Punish the monkey
and let the organ grinder go

Here comes a policeman
He won’t be sidetracked
He’s asking about a smoking gun
He’s after the facts

It’s a quiet life from here on in
You’ve dropped your poison cup
The telephone is ringing
But you’re not picking up
Time’s up, Sell out Flunkey
And everybody knows
they’ll punish the monkey
and let the organ grinder go


Punish The Monkey (PPV I)


“I am proud that in the latest war, in the defense of freedom, I was privileged to associate with the fighting men of Scotland and of this great Empire. In those days differences, natural differences based upon nationalism, were forgotten in our common devotion to the one great cause. The Allied crosses now standing in such tragic profusion throughout the world may differ in color or design but, wherever they are found, they are identical in their proof that free men will always die for freedom – but will go to war for no other purpose.”

-IKE (10-3-1946)


In the Beginning, There Was DINK. 

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Plagierize This POST

>OR<  Fixing a Whole Where The BoB(s) Get In


I never give you my pillow – I only send you my invitation

And in the middle of negotiations – I Break Down


Go ahead and give it to me.

Break Down, Honey – Take me through the night



Because the night belongs to lovers

because the night

belongs to us


(To the tune of Tiny Dancer )


I’m a Mo0se with Tiny Antlers

Hey, Grasshopper, goin’ my way?

Cover me with parabellum

I had a Flame War yesterday


I’m taking my time for a number of things

That weren’t important yesterday

And I still go


Teh Ides of Starch Revisited -//-QFC->

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This Day In HerStory (V.I)


PapaGeorge only slipped one time.

When he recognized you.


You never slipped and you covered his ass as well as could be expected.



Because PG never slipped again, I loved him.


I always loved you, Jack.


When I say ‘I am letting you off the hook.’ I believe you will understand that I am not in any way concealing a threat. By mentioning the curse that has just entered the lives of the complicit players, I hope you understand further that I occupy dreams… I have been secluded inside these dreams for about eighteen months. Because of this, my consciousness occupies many spaces… fills many voids – if that has the imagery you need to understand this next part.

My spirit has sat beside you and known that you knew I was there. I have heard your laugh… although I couldn’t place it in a crowded theater. If I heard it in the airport, it would be ‘eerily familiar.’ I see BoB(s) everywhere I go… you DO too. My child is surrounded by these spirits and our planet is choked by them. Know, then, that this ‘curse’ is a very real thing. That the world is more choked by curses than perhaps anything else that clouds peoples minds with chaos. There are those who can be forgiven and those who cannot but it is NeVeR our jorb to do the forgiving.

A curse becomes an entity; in case you are perfectly unclear of the nature of this beast which I command reluctantly. It is NOT judgment – it is temperance and equilibrium. While I do not pretend to understand it, it is something I have seen all my life. Since I was about seven years old. Like my name is a marketable commodity alone, it is the valuable insight into the nature of these MASSIVE issues we are ALL going to face VERY SOON that is the main focus of my desire to communicate. Our world, Jacques, is not only crowded with these spirits and these curses’ it is also populated (albeit thinly) by people who see these thing MUCH better than I DO.

It has never been my intention to make a friend.

I have too many as it is. They are the ones you let stab you and you know that as well as I do. The game we have been dancing around is older than lamplight and you know that, too. When I casually mention that PapaG slipped and you caught it – you know the exact moment in time I am speaking of and you might even be able to find the thread as well (if not as quickly) as I can. When I connect that moment in time, whether you have the capacity to recall or not, I am resurrectiong a TRUTH that we definitely share. This is our ‘baseline.’ for our future interactions; should you deem them to be as titillating as I feel they could be.

Mentioning this curse, reluctantly issued, is the other side of this curve – our interaction curve. When we established our baseline – (the Dog) I told you in very plain English that it would not matter in the least if you were playing the BoB(s) – I don’t remember if I specifically mentioned ‘running the stable’ but I believe it is implicit that if you were the top BOB it would tickle me no end. It would ALSO confirm what I thought when Papa’s Shill was showing…

Acknowledging this simple fact would make our curve one entirely comprised of REAL. Any fiction that falls inside that curve has now been separated from our reality in the following fashion. When these OTHERs… the F.O.B. (like that one?) go to sleep the next time they DO – they will not have whatever karmic safety net has allowed them to survive this long. Even if the world ends in 36 months or less (reference to population decimation) these poor sons of bitches – these human culls – will feel the level of grief they have imposed on me plus whatever kind of math God does.

I can say nothing about the Karma they have held at bay, but in my experience the ones who are physically, mentally OR spiritually capable of ‘taking what they give out’ in the one example I afford (because I can handle a lot of punishment) usually benefit from the experience even as our relationship suffers. I know this, unfortunately, because 6.5 out of 10 times I have to watch even more suffering than I endured at the hand of those thus cursed. It is a horrible burden… I would VERY MUCH prefer that people DO NOT tread on me.

Thus the reference to the commitment to abstain from physical violence when I was a youngster. I thought I was bad ass. No three guys ever even touched me and there were A LOT of fights. Then (at age nineteen) I met a 17 year old kid who won the Miami Beach Kick Boxing championship when he was 15. They had to change the rule to give him the trophy because he had lied to qualify. Supposed to be 16. Point being, I have met plenty of folks who transcend a ‘membrane of trust’ by being enough like me to allow me to turn my back on them. Sleep in the same room. Honor and respect their wishes and etc. etc. etc. You were there some time ago.

In a cyber way; not in a gay way. I did have fun. I stopped wondering if you were ‘playing for the other team’ when you sent me your photo… not because I thought it was you and/or your family (fucking touching if it was / standard operating procedure if you are shilling an ancient ruse) but because it was the gesture that made me trust you despite a survival instinct that is primal in nature. Despite being a vessel for temperance. Despite being the unwilling custodian of an extremely hungry curse

 You GAVE me (unsolicited) an image YOU considered PRIVATE… I had already published the image you considered personal when YOU published it at Colbert in response to the demand that you show a picture or GTFO – I saw it as a test; a Red Herring, if you will. As my own worst enemy and best critic, nobody hates it more than I when I fail. The very idea that I could break a bond like that one, even in ‘the heat of battle’ or the absence of trust or the isolation of an internet connection… not gonna happen. You wouldn’t have honored me that way if you didn’t like me enough to give me a test like that to pass and nobody who exhibits the intellegence you DO would take the steps we did WITHOUT this test. (That’s a PERIOD, by the way.)

Me telling you I wouldn’t care if you ran the stable was 100 times more subtle than the moment in time I am connecting it to. As I say, I have no guarantee – couldn’t and wouldn’t want to verify. Alls I wants t’DO is insure that YOU understand that there is a very real thing in the lives on these posters that will deteriorate their happiness. There is absolutely nothing I can do to prevent that. I can and I must assure you that you will feel it in your own life, through whatever connections you have that I DON’T know (the baseline) as ‘channeled’ (for lack of a better word) through the connections that are mutual. The virtual connections we have ushered one another through.

The effects are what they are, when they happen… just ripples… but you should know about them legitimately because there may very well be things that will make you say Hmmm. Even before the (I believe) inevitable end game that is the perpetually larger issue which the befuddled rabble consistently ignore; I believe, by design. In other words, I don’t believe stupid people can be guilty – only deliberate ones. This beast does not approach the MOTIVATION, it attacks the INTENTION. You and the dog are perfectly safe – except for what connections only you can know and I wouldn’t want to know. Not on my life… literally. I HATE when it happens. Hate it. I hate the internal struggle of retribution. I am the FIRST one to surrender unto the J I M… if you follow my meaning.

I will take a nap… I got two hours twice since Friday. Dreamed about the dog that died in July last time… I was glad to see her, but I woke up crying thinking ‘at least it’s not crying about my daughter again.’


Talking about a baseline and a curve should represent adequately that there is a vessel which holds our trust and that vessel is as full as I am. I am full enough to discontinue this connection, if that is your desire, but I am in no position to make any important decisions about the last 400 posts and the enormous traffic that Flame War generated. It disgusts me to see them attack me like that again.


It disgusts you inside our fiction… it satisfies you that we were so successful in my reality.


Therein lies the rub.

The Crux of the Biscuit.

The Nature of the Beast.


I certainly may have caused my own demise – multiple times – and most recently with the last 400 posts… I could have been failing some test. Woo Hoo. Wouldn’t that be cool. I LOVE thinking that there is a team of shills somewhere that has been scratching their heads for months. You and me are square as they come, Brother Man… In my book, you and me and the dog had a great ride… an epic battle… a terrible dream…


While I cannot make a determination right now, I am relatively certain as I go get a bottle (been holding off two days – can you believe it?) that when I wake up I will wish I was dead. I will be happy when I go to the forum and find out that I pushed the right buttons to make FiSH do the ONE OR THE OTHER dance for the last time. If I can still post, I cannot imagine what besides HATE and the remaining sixty videos I would post. Any enthusiasm I had for the cooperation program went out the window with the 400 posts… I had to DO that before I would allow myself to get any more ahead on what I was doing.


And like that.


Just sayin’ – thanks for all the fish!



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The Flaming(0) Blend… Fairfax Revisited.


I ran a small coffee shop when I was eighteen years old. Just about the time I would have graduated from HIGH SCHOOL, if I wasn’t more into the former than the latter. I certainly didn’t start out managing the coffee shop. I fell into it. Falling into it was one of those funny things I won’t soon forget. A circumstance typical to any teenager making their way on their own… three steps forward, two steps back.


I had walked past that coffee shop twice a day for almost a year on my way to catch the bus to the convalescent home where I worked the first job that wasn’t delivering newspapers or mowing lawns for friends of the family to supplement my allowance. I was seventeen when I washed the pots. As much as I loved my job scrubbing grease and mopping floors, it had never occurred to me that I could work somewhere I liked to hang out. Before I ever bussed my first plate at that little cafe’, it was a home away from home for me. It was an alternate living room for a young man who rarely found the time to sit still in his own.


I had a dozen friends that were in that place from open to close. Either working or getting a cuppa. The coffee they served was a house blend… proprietary… but a five part combo with French and Sumatra as the base. They called it the Flamingo Blend (the proprietor was from Miami originally) and I was hooked on the smell before I took my first sip. I was in excellent company. There was what I came to understand was a ‘customer base.’ Similar to a fan base for a rock star in that there were people patronizing that establishment before the current proprietor bought it. Folks who were there for the coffee itself, the nostalgia and the atmosphere and they wouldn’t let the owner fuck it up if he wanted to. All my boss did was change the name and lock the recipe back in the safe.


That was damn good Joe, it was. You could smoke in California then, and that is where I learned how. There were sixteen layers of nicotine staining the ceiling. We tried to paint it once… that was a joke with no punchline. Add to that, the place was basically a three-plex with two storefronts under a loft. The landlord was an electrician who had owned the place for forty years and just collected the rent from the coffee shop and the little deli and tried to keep a level head if we didn’t close exactly on time. We never did. Close on time, that is; but we always tried to ‘keep it down’ when Fred was home.


We were kids. It was our house. The proprietor depended on the type of night shift business our young blood brought in and he divided our shifts in such a way as to combine certain demographics with the personalities that were selling his coffee and deserts. The after dinner crowd on a Friday or Saturday, for example, got the Hyper Intelligent – super tall blond girl. The Alcoholics Anonymous crowd got the smart-ass short girl. She was a knock out; but she could handle those cynical bastards. She was my competition (at first) for not only tips but the development of my own fan base. My own reliable source of revenue (tips) based on a cycle of ‘What can I get you? – There you go – That’ll be $2.50, (Big Smile).’


I am sure that the boss asked me if I would work for him because I was a new face that complemented the existing clientele as opposed to another face representing a similar demographic. I remember very well when he asked me if I wanted a job. I remember the shift I filled in, although I don’t remember if it was a Tuesday or a Thursday when he hired me. The same way I learned to work around Fred the Electrician’s schedule when I was running the Shop (as we called it), as a customer I had learned to never expect to see the boss in there after the dinner hour. He was an old timer who hung out and talked shit all day then grabbed the till on his way out before the evening shift started at 5:30.


Like clockwork, that guy. Probably the first codger I ever knew.


When he came in that evening to dismiss the fellow whom I replaced, he was more like Clockwork Orange.


I never saw an arrogant young man come so close to shitting himself and crying for his momma so quickly. I never liked the guy, myself, but I didn’t know him as anything but the guy who sold me my coffee so I could rent a space and scribble in my notebook. Try to get laid. I knew he was an asshole… I found out he was a thief when the boss tore him down one side and up the other like it weren’t no thing. It had all the classics: Complete Surprise, Over the Top Volume, Threats of Murderous Violence Upon the Next Encounter.


By the time the new asshole was torn and the rapscallion cast out the back door on his ass, everybody in the joint knew how much he stole, how he stole it, what he spent it on, how long he had to pay it back and what would happen if he didn’t. We all lost track of the ‘I’M SORRY – DON’T KILL ME’s’ after about thirty. I almost felt bad for the little fucker accept that it was merely a verbal assault with a little aggressive assistance. You know… making sure the guy didn’t let the door hit him where the Good Lord split him. I remember well how silent it was when the back door slammed and my future boss walked back through the kitchen and past the Gaggia that was the heart of that piece of property.


He was wiping his hands off on the front of his shirt in a ‘good riddance’ manner with a shit eating grin on his face. I had been expecting a scowl – at least a furrowed brow. Evidently, he had been waiting awhile to do that and he was going to sleep better now that it was done. I came to find out he had been waiting for me to be in the house when he did it so he could deliver a powerful line that forever cemented that scene in my mind.


You could have heard a pin drop. All eyes on the boss, he comes out of the kitchen looking at me and I swear I thought I was next.


I wasn’t gonna let him holler at me and if he tried to tell me I knew something about the stolen money I was gonna deck him before he finished the sentence. Turns out he knew that, too. He wanted me to know that the till was his. No pussy footing around, this is a business and it’s MY business. He was a dramatic man. He had made the point well. I was looking him in the face from my preferred table by the counter (closest to the Java Machine) and, confident he had my attention, he surveyed the faces of the hushed house.


It was pretty crowded, as I recall, so it was probably a Thursday…


When his gaze settled on me after a clockwise looksie, his grin turned into the kind of scowl I would have expected from someone who didn’t thoroughly enjoy the verbal bashing he had just delivered. He looked me dead in the eye, pointed at me and said for all to hear “You want a job?”


Like he was asking me if I wanted to be verbally abused like that last guy.


Like if I said anything but ‘Yessir’ he’d kick my ass.


Hell Yeah. I nodded.


“Good. She’ll show you how to lock up, I’ll see you tomorrow.”


I was trained in an hour, locked the door around one in the morning and hurried into work at 6:30 to be a pot washer. I juggled both jobs for a short time, but I never went in the front door of that place the same way again.

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One More Time With A Feeling


So many options, so few choices. It’s not what happens, it’s how you deal with it. You have to burn to shine. What comes around keeps coming around until you find yourself on the other side pushing it around your damn self. This has been a place for me to kill time. A limbo, maybe… but more or less a solitary confinement. Maybe I committed myself. Maybe there was a trial and sentencing and I just don’t recall. At any rate, it’s Yard Time, now. General Population, here I come.


I toted the Rock that built this prison, and whether I change the spelling or add the DERP Sea fiction or not; I am stuck here and I wouldn’t wish it on my enemy, as they say. It is no longer my place to remain isolated. That spell is cast. That die is thrown. Silence is no longer the sentence. What will be the probation? Sixteen years ago, I committed to a journey that landed me here. It has been the reason I have compelled myself to perform… it is now the primary reason I get up and get in line. I don’t want or need yard time. I could care less about the General Population. I have a cellmate now where before I had only a sentence.


For so long, I have been talking to myself. Scratching on the walls to keep track of the days. Had I managed to scratch my way to daylight, I wouldn’t find my freedom rewarding. I couldn’t leave my cellie behind. Sixteen years ago today… she committed to her own isolation. She joined us here on the planet… committed to the same constant struggles we all DO when we get here. Today she commits to me, her father as the only way to her own personal freedom to choose. I wouldn’t wish it on her worst enemy. A sixteen year old girl should be starting her walk toward freedom… she should be familiar with the smell of the world. This girl, bless her soul, is growing feathers where there should already be wings.


There are a thousand fictions to explore, ten thousand lies. Children cannot lie. Not until they learn to talk. Then they learn to tell the stories that will become their memories. They weave the memories that will become their own dreams and these dreams will morph into the fiction on which they build their lives as adults. For my child, my Little Love Girl, this fiction is a sentence; the sentence has the same flip side that every fiction does. This Sentence is at once a term of imprisonment and a single construction of words that can end the incarceration of Choice… make my daughter’s choices a matter of the freedom to choose:


Random over Chaos // Truth Over Fiction


The Irony being that Truth will always be stranger than Fiction; the more difficult Stone to Quarry. As obscure and random as these pages may seem and will definitely become, the realities they allude to will remain far more outrageous than these relatively pleasant diversions.


There is the sentence that is a Judgment.


There is the Sentence that is the Key to Freedom.


A larger and more significant Reality that can only be shared – never hoarded or hidden.


There is the realization that a sentence must follow certain rules, regardless of the context or the meaning of the word. A mathematical equation is a sentence. Nowhere is the connotation more obvious than describing a wave or a process to a scientist; and in their own way the sentences exchanged by scientists define the only inescapable realities we deal with as human beings.


Biological sentences. Metaphysical sentences. Chemical sentences.


These words are mine, but they do not belong to me. For too long now I have searched for the one I need to share these words with to offer some chance at freedom for the Angel I helped create. I have done everything in my power to save my child from these sentences… there are still so many she isn’t ready to endure. There are so many sentences that belong to topics that are no longer relevant; other than to address that they have gone unsaid. Until the sun shines again on a day that is new, we shall trade these sentences across the void of her dreams because the truth is a wider gap to bridge. I will share this fiction because there is too much truth to break down into simple sentences any more.


Too much personal reality to make the correlations entertaining any more.


Sometimes I will talk to YOU, sometimes to myself… but always I will be talking to her.


I may build a case, I may build a story… always I will construct an escape.


There are those who would say that the Cathedral and the Prison are built the same way and serve the same purpose. I am prone to argue, but I am not a Devil’s Advocate for the sake of hearing my voice or even for the noble purpose of providing a counterpoint perspective. I can see that either institution affects the life of the individual thus committed. I have no desire to remove CHOICE from my own life, but there is no more honorable reason to commit to an arduous task or a dangerous path than the parental instinct to provide for one’s offspring. Today is the day that I begin to focus on the numbers and not the sentences. The time line and not the history. The Story and not the Chapters.


The formula that not only got us here, my daughter and I; but the rest of the country that finds itself debating the determinations of the law making apparatus over the course of the last forty odd years when the debate should revolve around the Rule of Law which is broken – if it can ever be said to have been fully functional in the first place. The more complete your understanding of American History, the more likely you are to feel as I do; that the Rule of Law has never been applied to serve any but the lawmaker.


The reasons my daughter and I are isolated from one another are the same reasons the Country and Liberty have never met. Failure to understand sentences – failure to exercise Judgement.


The citizen and the lawmaker have always been at odds. The meaning has always struggled against the sentence. The Truth will always struggle against The Lie. It’s the Yin and the Yang of the friction of our daily lives. It would seem today that my daughter must struggle against either her father or the Truth, but struggle she must, at age sixteen, against realities that will affect her own personal future as surely as these next few years will make or break our American Union. Is it my fault that I care more about her than my country? Is it my fault that I see too many connections to cover with non fiction?


Those are rhetorical questions. Without the appropriate data they cannot be answered at all and given the information there is only ever one answer. Mine. Maybe as a citizen that point can be the subject of debate, but as a father, not so much… I remain convinced that without the ability to be involved with my offspring in a meaningful way there is no liberty in my life and no future in hers. By definition, to me, there is no more America. If those ideals existed within my lifetime, my unnerring desire to support them has been forcibly driven from me along with any desire to fight for anything other than my daughters’s understanding of her own past.

The rhetoric that we do not negotiate with terrorists fails to consider that California is a functional confederacy within this union. A year and a half ago, I gave them one more chance to follow the rules, a little over a month ago they told me to go fuck myself. Again.


I am talking to the state when I write my motions and briefs and declarations. I have learned a lot about the laws and the process by engaging in it for over five years now. I am talking to my daughter when I publish here. More so in the future than I have since learning to Blog in August of 2009… I have been trying to combine both of these realities into a meaningful and ironic fiction within a completely different arena – The Daily Show Flame Forum. I am forced to be proud of my successes on all three of these fronts, but the only front that offers even the outside chance of resolution is the fiction. The Kid and the Court will offer yet another fresh round of hypocrisy and obfuscation, considerably more entertaining for me and less significant to either my daughter’s future or my own ability to draw effective conclusions between our story and the one we are telling as a Nation. My story and the one we have developed to yet another exciting conclusion within an online chat forum.

Therefor, the fiction must reach a satisfactory conclusion according to the formulas of drama and irony and theater, lest I lose what grip I still have on reality before it rejoins my daughter and I in our fairy tale dreams of Bicycles and Big Dogs.

 ITT is written somewhere. If not, it should be.

I’m the grown one. I’m the daddy.


I have to be able to walk away from something.

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Sell The Food For Kids


Jack and I have spent many lifetimes working these things out. We had the foresight this time around to separate our lives by boundaries I am not convinced have been there before. Countries not at war, for example. Or perhaps a kind of peace that doesn’t entail a lifelong battle to insure. The kind of domestic bliss that allows a man to understand even just the technology that we share to bind us, to say nothing of the philosophies this technology has allowed us share. Instantly. As if in a dream. One might almost say that Jack and I access a dozen common memories without having ever laid eyes on each other. I see this as having accomplished greater things as Jesus is given credit for having accomplished.

I see no reason at all not to take the word of whom ever feels compelled to translate His words or some greater invocation of even some Higher Words attributed to His Heavenly Papa. The Man, Water to Wine Guy – said we would do greater things. Don’t fuck with the Jesus and I won’t push back out of reflex and fuck with yours. Me and Jesus… we go way back. I used to date his sister. I haven’t been a Jew again since. That’s just a fact. My cross to bear. Fuck you.

To salve the wound, the whole “I know Jesus and he told me to tell you to kiss his ass” concept which I was stupid enough to go for when it swept through Spain a few hundred years later… I think that may have been where he and I disagreed. Basically, the day we met. The Metropolitan Museum of Modern Aztec Art in Tenochtitlan. I had no idea that’s what it was, but I damn sure knew what accelerant was. He tried to explain to me that Jesus said the two should not be introduced and I explained to him that I knew better. I don’t believe he even saw me that time because of the Flames reflecting off of my breast plate.

It took many more lifetimes than that one to determine that Jack was right all along. Jesus doesn’t like burning art any more than he likes gold bars. It is, has been and always will be a crying shame but no less true than when Jesus broke my arm in the middle of the fucking market. Fucking fuck. I remember it like it was yesterday. I liked his sister, I had money and they didn’t… I was gonna, well. Never mind. You think Jesus pissed of the Romans and the Pharisees? Bub. Mother fucker cracked some heads. Long story short, I learned some powerful lessons in manners long before Jesus taught the masses shit.

I strongly believe to this day that his momma taught him respect. All that boy’s dad ever taught him was how to bang nails and how to throw his right directly from his solar plexus. It has never occurred to me in this lifetime to wonder which of the two skills is more valuable. Frankly, I don’t see the benefit of learning one without the other. I could be the Fool. Lord knows it’s been my part to play many times in the past.

Jack and I have laid eyes on one another too many times to count in the course of learning these lessons we have been sharing across the boundary-less tubes of the interwebs for almost a year now. It’s a wonderful thing that he and I do not feel the need to defend our families from one another this time around. Even better that we are only family in the Bodhisattva of it all. NO strange blood ties that require our interaction with one another in times of joy or crises. Our interdependence is built entirely upon interaction and has been manged publicly within these forums. Here, he is the Mo0se, and the TRUTH is you should concern yourself with the hooves and not the potential for swarming masses. His is the more potent and reasonable perspective by far.

Even though I know that, I have been watching this man like the child hiding in the corner of a Temple I have deliberately invaded with the intention of pillaging. I will destroy the disciples and have my way with the Priestess. I will absolutely be turning artifacts into currency. I am an American. I present a threat BECAUSE of these boundaries of Reality that have allowed us to use these crazy wires to address fundamentally opposing views. We are bold cartographers of a territory that has gone uncharted for two decades. Not for the sake of one another, but in pursuit of a story that is much older than we could ever share or comprehend. We found ourselves floundering on this DERP SEA mid voyage. No crew, no destination, an ethereal vessel at best. You can hide, or you can watch. You can do both, things being what they are…

This child will turn out to be the real danger and I will let him live as I have a thousand times before. As he has done for me because genocide is a rough and tumble endeavor with no real survivors. No real enemies or allies. No real beginning or end until we learned to split the atom and destroy entire species through the simple act of neglecting to notice them from the cab of our bulldozers. Failing to see the smokestack through the lightning. Not giving a shit about our own children’s children and shitting all over our own generation of shit covered children… no matter where you live, the whole world is melting down it’s artifacts for gold and saying “we gotta eat” instead of feed the children.

Sell the kids for food.

Times are hard, amigos… they didn’t get that way over night and they won’t change at all as long as we are afraid of the things bumping in the night even as we enjoy the fruits of some tremendous labors. No one said this was going to be easy. No one said it was going to be easy back to when the Old Man handed the keys to the Kid and said “Let me know how it works out with those NimRods.”

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