Unconnected Notes

1) Oswald left the TSBD through the front exit. ref?

2) Play about a traditional stalker and his traditional victim. Sub-plot about a female stalker and her male victim.

3) Website — ancestory

4) Woodstock Pond

5) The Match.com Murders

6) Jesus Among The Trillionaires

7) Antarctica!  Antarctica!

8) SF novel about us contacting an alien civilization that is far less advanced than ours.

9) The Strike Against The World!

10) The Holy Fools

11) Message Kit

12) Orientation

13) Working Title 1 — jovial detective


Big Jokes

Madonna is performing for the SB half-time: lip-syncing, leg spraying, and hip popping.  American eyes will explode when Madge’s foam rubber new body suit is rolled to her company’s 18-wheeler every night after it’s scrubbed.

I’m watching the Everybody Is An Asshole Show.  Most people know it as Southland.  In case you don’t know, Southland is a uniformed cop show on TNT.  Yes, the actors are former models, studly men and beautiful women with guns strapped to their sexy hips and handcuffs hanging from their belts promising long sado-masochistic nights.  The only problem: the characters call each other assholes.  Incessantly.  I hope they stop soon.

Newt Gingrich just wants a place in history.  So give him a closet at the Smithsonian.

Sad Daze Jan 26, 2012

Looking forward to my pension check for January — $126.  The money should hit my bank  on Jan 31, 2013.  My SS check hits the account a little harder.  I am thankful.  Life is never fatal.  Now I can walk the Tall down my street.  Who knows me?  It takes time to know anyone.

My slice of the cheese cake may pitiful, but not dangerous.  My values are incorruptible; I eat off the land, other peoples land mostly.  Books and laptop occupy my life whenever the weed garden soup I slurp almost daily allows me to hold the book up to my face.

In my pocket I have a map that spots treasure — people still hunt for a killing.  In Warwickshire, England. lives a very old man who long ago forgot his name.  Climb a rope into his attic and buried beneath  a mountain of soggy magazines, e. g., scores of Wet Mamas Magazine, Shotgun Wedding Mishaps, et. al. is a well-preserved letter sent by William Shakespeare to his wife, Anne Hathaway. Here’s a great quote from the missive: “The pith and pinch of my stinky  feet?”

Shakespeare currently lives in a masssive, ornate church in Spotting Cloth.  His partner  is Cloog the Saxon, presumptive inventor of the wheel.



What happened yesterday and this morning are best buried with the daily dead.  Blues singer Etta James age 73 died within the last few days.  Yes, she could sing wail-woman style with a touch of banshee and born-agins melting in the fires of almighty hell.  Who appreciates screaming more than Satan?

Wallow not in spite and anger!  You might end up with a rash.

I keep the journal because every day is different and I need to record and count them.  Plot them insde a cloud with text written on the outer wall of the cloud.  Another rebellion is brewing in heaven the cloud burped in the a few of the older angels.  They are massing, camping among the stars.

The Daily Dope — Don Davis Service for gas cap and windshield wipers.  Still needed a new headlamp and some dents ironed out so I went over to Dan Davis Body and the boss told me  they were forbidden to pull back the foreskin of the front fender to expose the headlamp.  So I must find a shop performs auto brists.

Stay too close to these funny people and your brain disintegrates into a pile of  radioactive ashes.  Nothing can grow there for 10,000 years.


Random Research

Cui bono (“To whose benefit?”, literally “as a benefit to whom?”, a double dative construction), also rendered as Cui prodest, is a Latin adage that is used either to suggest a hidden motive or to indicate that the party responsible for something may not be who it appears at first to be.

Commonly the phrase is used to suggest that the person or people guilty of committing a crime may be found among those who have something to gain, chiefly with an eye toward financial gain. The party that benefits may not always be obvious or may have successfully diverted attention to a scapegoat, for example.

The Roman orator and statesman Marcus Tullius Cicero, in his speech Pro Roscio Amerino,[1] section 84, attributed the expression cui bono to the Roman consul and censor Lucius Cassius Longinus Ravilla:

L. Cassius ille quem populus Romanus verissimum et sapientissimum iudicem putabat identidem in causis quaerere solebat ‘cui bono’ fuisset.The famous Lucius Cassius, whom the Roman people used to regard as a very honest and wise judge, was in the habit of asking, time and again, ‘To whose benefit?’

Another example of Cicero using “cui bono” is in his defence of Milo, in the Pro Milone. He even makes a reference to Cassius: “let that maxim of Cassius apply”.[2]

Show Mercy

Henry VIII marries his fifth wife in tonight’s episode.  She is a long skein of light tweed named Katherine Howard.  Her feet are huge; toes long and thick enough to flatten Akron, Ohio: a city that needs flattening.

A Katherine Howard stood in the back of my life in my version of Akron (OH).   In 1967 I shared this life with the following people who I would name except I fear them lobbing lawsuits at me, but Katherine stalked me.  She showed up quite unexpectedly in the old stone student union of Hiram College, home of the Bookends.  Tight, tight ski pants dug into the skin of her sturdy legs and noble rump.  Her breasts were airplane wings – blow a straight wind across them and she would lift off the ground, a few inches at least.  She didn’t belong here.  She was out-of-context.  I stared at her for a bit; like I said she was out-of-context.  When my brain finally placed her, I looked back me Hiram friends, clad in denim and suede.  They eyed her through the darkness of the room and could see (it was in her their eyes, especially from the eyes of Tim, the folk singer).  The polyester, the acrylic, the remaining shreds of  plastic — the Hiramites knew the girl from Akron was uncool.  “They call the wind Pariah”.

Of course, I about-faced and returned to Tim and the others.  Cowardice is comforting, at first.  The agony and the head spinning comes later along with the attempts to run the Old Clock backwards.  After a while one realizes that nothing good ever comes from following one’s friends.


The idiot is so stupid that when he dies, he won’t even know he’s dead.

Freelance Dollars

Preparation: Have plenty of breakfast.  Shoo everyone out the door.  If you are alone, throw a pillow out the door.  Set your music and temperature.  Lock pets in your closet.  You need absolute silence to prevent novel notions to escape the room.

Flip on your computer.  Listen to the grunch of the rolling hard drive, the jingles lasting the length of a thumb.

If you believe you will need a pencil, pick one off the  floor and sharpen it.  Grab a tablet of yellow legal paper while you are at it.

If you foretell a pen in your future, steal one off a friend’s desk or shirt pocket.  Expose the point.

Paper, computer, writing tools and your teeny, tiny brain… you are ready to write!

Write about what?  Oh, just look around you: hummingbirds and chicken hawks, roses and condoms, diamonds and broken teeth.  So much to touch, smell, feel, stick up your butt.  Bring a vast appetite to life — a spoon the size a drained out lake with the dead fish on the lake floor and the dead children drowned in the lake by their parents over the years.  Terrible!  The horror haunts me and makes my cock stand on end.

Sit down, Writer!  Scribe!  I ain’t done you yet.  Grab that bowl, no, the clean one.  I’m gonna pour it full of whiskey make you dead of cancer in an hour.  Chug a Jug, Slug.  Now you’re ready.  Just remember what I just told you and you’ll be ten steps of everybody else.