Fuck every "Vietnam Veteran" (excepting the Vietnamese)

The injection of “Vietnam Veterans” into the presidential political year hype is just crap.  Henceforth, anyone who identifies him or herself as a “Vietnam Veteran” ( or with any similar group equatable with a subset of such, such as “Swift Boat” or “Tunnel  Rat” or “Last Drafted” veterans, etc.) publicly earns my instant disdain.  Hell, I’m a veteran myself but with all this “Vietnam”-like sign-hanging going about I feel the need to distance myself by qualifying my role as a “non-Vietnam veteran”.  Why can’t all who merit just refer to themselves as “veterans”  and, if they  wish, concern themselves with “veteran affairs” of the whole and securing “veteran benefits” for all?  I’m half tempted to start a group called “Veterans against ‘Vietnam Veterans’”  heh.  Except I think I’d earn the mistaken wrath of the only true Vietnam Veterans—the North and South Vietnamese who fought as soldiers.  Hell, if the North Vietnamese had invaded the United States and lost its war, I’d be truly offended if they went around calling themselves “U.S. Veterans” or “U.S. War Veterans”.  Fuck you.  You lost.  Don’t you dare call yourself a “U.S. Veteran” or we’ll come over and kick your ass again in your own country and make you a "Vietnam Veteran" as, by rights, you’ve always been.  If you win a war, there’s an understandable temptation to drape yourself, cloak yourself in the symbolic booty and terminology of the defeated country/force.  Hence, Wellington, after kicking Napoleon’s ass, was observed to assume some of the peculiarly megalomaniac qualities vis-à-vis behavior and decorum of Napoleon himself.    And some African warriors were renowned for eating the hearts of their dead enemy in a quest to embody their demonstrated bravery and heroics.  Soldiers tend to play giddily at being the enemy they've just defeated.  But if you lose the war, dammit, let go.   Vietnam, as a conflict, was lost.  And it was a stupid conflict, all told.  If anything, the “Vietnam Veterans” ought to refer to themselves, if they’ve the need for special partitioning and can’t just buy into being a 'plain old vet’, as “Stupid Conflict Veterans”.  Not to imply that they were stupid or less than honorable in their conduct, but merely that the conflict, if it were to be considered as a class of firework, would be a ‘dud’ : mal-conceived, and/or mal-constructed and/or mal-executed by the manufacturer (fucked-up politicians).

It appears that the world loves a good rabble-rouser.  The anonymous xanga bloggers* who write FriendswoodGossip are certainly stirring things up in Friendswood TX according to a Galveston County Daily News article  ("Somewhere, on July 24, someone sat down at a computer and started a blog. Somewhere in Friendswood, someone logged on and gasped....")   The news, the school district, the police, and even a psychologist have been dragged into it.  Does Pres. Bush know that a beloved high school in his home state is under attack by Xanga terrorists?!  I've even heard that the FriendswoodGossip bloggers have weapons of mass destruction stockpiled in their basement.   Quick, Delta Force, storm the NY Xanga offices and seize the Xanga servers!

    * It's my theory that there is a group of conspiring bloggers behind the gossip. I'm also hedging that they are even defaming themselves in order to avoid suspicion.

Salvage a weekend when it rains and rains and rains.

How?

Bowie: 'turn and face the strain.'

Ebola? No!

Just running 5 miles in dreamland (aka --yesterday-- as nightmareland) without my 'legs' under me but on heart and soul alone.  Limp repetitive feet extending only half-intelligently forward.   Rubber knees yearning only to double-down upon the pavement.   Crazy sadistic hallucinations of growing old, growing old.  Collapse.  Into a pile.  And sleep.

How the hell could anyone ever imagine to create a name like 'Rumpelstiltskin'?! heh

But sleep I did not.  Unlike he, in this life I've yet a love to love, and less than loving is a loss gone beyond woe..

So thank you, Crumpledplatformmembrane, but no.

After running, I stumbled toward a complex of buildings used by groundskeepers as one of four work centers.  This one had an outdoor picnic table  in the middle and I decided to regroup there, enjoy a beer, and attempt to gather enough inspiration to write.

But all I did was manange was scrutinize the grounds.  Two surprises found:

A tomato garden.  I picked the reddest one and ate it.  mm-mm good.

... I entered the rest room intending only to use the urinal.  Walking into the restroom was a little spooky since it was all dark and I needed to find and flip on the light. Having done so, I noticed two stalls in addition to the urinals, and though I didn't intend to use them, I said out loud to hopefully nobody present: "I'm just going to have a look in here to make sure there are no dead bodies hanging out."  And I laughed out loud when I found this 'leisure reading' amidst the land of the dead.

It’s lazy-hazy, icky-sticky, and buggy-muggy-ish here in Dreamland on a weirdly summer-like day.  I just ran 5 + miles, most of that in a highly-humidifying and unrefreshingly light drizzle.  Strangely, while running, I fantasized about a food item—which is something I barely rarely do whether running or not.  I wanted a huge watermelon!  But not just any watermelon.  This watermelon was filled with only the golden peanut butter creamy of an untold number of gregarious Reese’s cups.  And my fantasy was to slice the watermelon in half and gleefully devour the mouth-moldable ever-scrumptious innards with a spoon.  I’m thankful to hallucinate just so while running.  It means that the heat is finally getting to me.  And that means that summer is finally here.   The significance of which is that the ‘weather year’ is back to being a more nearly normal year.  And it isn’t, after all, the end of the world.

Last night, I was going to post but, by the Newly Updated List, calculated that about 50 to 60,000 xangans were posting per hour.  I felt like 1/60,000^th of something.  That’s much too small.  Currently, by similar calculation, only about 10,000 xangans are posting per hour.  1/10,000^th of something feels so, so much better.

In the time that it takes you to read this post, someone in the U.S. will die of heart failure.  Wait…wait…I can’t do that to that someone.  * aborted before projected time lapses*  *bailing out*  *leaving post  undone*

I’m notforprophet and I do not approve this non-message.

Has anyone else noticed that so-called 'Communist' China's official English internet news portal, China View (Xinhua), is always prominent as a featurer in Google News stories?  And if you have noticed and have taken the time to peruse China View, have you also taken notice of the almost flawless, unrelenting objectivity of the news that's presented?  That's right: no communist propaganda, no apparent slanting toward the 'party line'. They present just about the same matter-of-fact news that you'll find in your favorite hometown newspaper.

But what's more interesting is the insight into life in China that China View portrays (a sample):

• 
  

  TV sets will be installed in 3,000 taxis in Beijing within this year, and next year the number will reach 10,000. In related news, passengers now can watch TV on 2,160 buses in Beijing and the number will reach 4,000 by the end of this year.

  
  
• 
  

  World Theatre of Dogs   Founded in Uzbekistan, the World Theatre of Dogs is composed of forty people and forty dogs, who perform side by side in a rendition of the fairy tale Cinderella. RMB 80, 100, 200, 300. Tickets at 6590 3399, 6590 3737.   7.30pm. Beijing Exhibition Theatre (6835 4455)

  
  
• 
  

  Every Thu, Sun    Nogabe, Beijing's great Afro-beat band plays twice weekly at the CD Jazz Cafe on Sunday and Thursdays at Goose and Duck. Get an earful of Madagascarian madness. Free.

  
  
• 
  

  Every Tue   Musical Tuesdays,  In a change from their usual hip hop and other miscellanea, Lush brings in DJs and bands playing rock and jazz to keep the mix fresh. Free.  9pm. Lush (8286 3566)

  
  
• 
  

  To protect young people and society at large from HIV/AIDS and teenage pregnancy, sex education classes in Guangzhou, a city in south China, will be given to children as early as kindergarten.

  
  
• 
  

  Baby, Mummy Loves You!  A relaxing concert for pregnant woman and their unborn babies. According to research, listening to classical or relaxing music before birth is good for a baby's development. Dai De, a piano teacher at the Xinghai Conservatory, will play Bach's 'Ave Maria', Debussy's 'Moonlight', Mendelssohn's 'Song of Spring', as well as a selection of folk songs, including 'The Last Rose of Summer' and 'Sweet Home.' Treat the newest member of your family to his or her very first concert! RMB 60, 80, 100.  8pm, Chamber Hall, Xinghai Concert Hall (8735 2222 ext 886, ext 312 for English) (Guangzhou)

  
  
• 
  

  Phat Black Pussy Cat   DJ Teng Boon spins R&B with funky soul all night at Phat Black Pussy Cat. Just pray that the toons are sharper than the event name.
  8pm, California Club (5383 2328)  (Shanghai)

  
  
• 
  

  Ladies' Night   Girls frolic on the dancefloor while swilling (or just spilling) free margaritas, with feminine-friendly '80s dance tunes all night long. Still big with the fellas too, for some reason.  Zapata's (6474 6629) (Shanghai)
  

  I thought China was still some sort of ideologically hyper-repressive state.  wtf is going on?!

The hardest time for me to run is during, just before, or on the edge of a thunderstorm.

It is not the fear factor—lightning emboldens, empowers, excites me.

It is not the threat of wet—I love to drip, splatter, soak, splash in the fury of activity.

It is not the charged, moist air—but to pant harder is a measure of loving devotion.

It is not the whip of winds—the thrash of a seething tempest only serves more to impel.

It is not  added weight of sogginess—for what you take on, you can take off.

It is not even the instantaneous bubble of drawn enclosure that descends—for the heart may soar when public connectedness ends.

Rather, it’s the matter that a thunderstorm nearly always puts me in a mood to make mad, passionate, nearly-surreal surrendering love.  I’d rather deluge-love than cloudburst-run.

Yet I ran today during a thunderstorm.  Again.

omg, this is the FUNNIEST comment I've ever received, um, no, not at notforprophet, but over yonder...

I just got a bloody nose while doing absolutely nothing.  Whoever is playing with a voodoo doll that looks like me—stop it!

God updated.

We all appreciate security, right?  Wrong!  Yesterday, two police forces imposed ‘additional security’ around an Italian street festival (Feast of the Assumption) with an early closing of Dreamland (Lake View Cemetery) at both gates.  Dreamland is my running refuge and it is supposed to be open until dusk—but last night I was turned away.  My one word response: suckurity.

secret thought: Xanga is a cannibal.  And it’s eating you for dinner.

It's a beautiful weather day and I'm going to a baseball game this afternoon and, hopefully, for a few hours, leave all worries aside.

heh: somebody made the following offer on my 'God' blog:

little does turd know that 'that is thyself.'

…the more you give, the more I get

the more I get, the more I need

the more I need, the more I give

the more I give, the more you get

the more you get, the more you need

the more you need, the more you give…

“This is a certain event,” said Professor McGuire. “It's a matter of how
we cope with it, not whether or not it's going to happen… The U.S. government must be aware of the threat but I am sure they are not taking it seriously.
         —Why America's Coast Could Be Toast

What? Another terrorist attack?    No-o-o-o-o..

“It sounds like the plot of a fanciful Hollywood disaster movie. A dangerous volcano in the Canary Islands erupts, sends a giant tsunami travelling faster than a jet aircraft into the major population centres of America's east coast, killing tens of millions and wiping out New York and Washington DC.”

• At least 20 years separates each eruption. The Cumbre Vieja ('Old Summit') volcano last erupted in 1949 and its western flank is highly unstable. It could literally split apart next time the volcano erupts.
  
• Monitoring might provide 2 weeks of warning of eruption.
  
• Evacuation must be based upon a forecast of an eruption—but no forecasts are currently possible due to insufficient monitoring.
  
• The danger cannot be eliminated by engineering: estimate it would take 35 million years (seems excessive, I think 25 million would be enough) to excavate the volcano.
  
• After seven to ten hours, a giant wave would be swamping the Caribbean and crashing into the eastern seaboards of South and North America.
  
• Throw in Boston and Miami along with New York and DC.
  
• The mountainous wave would be 300 ft. tall and traveling at 500mph - as fast as a jetliner.
  
• The water would sweep up to 20 miles inland, destroying everything in its path.

Of course, my buddy Mike told me about this very same threat years ago.  But he's 'just' a machinist—what could he possibly have known (know) ?

I hereby declare my un-Miranda rights: whatever I say here cannot be used against me in a court of anything at all.  Not even a in a hand/tennis/basket ball court, nor during a court jester’s brawl.  So to all you federales: (gringo says) go home.  I’m loose (foot upon foot) and bound to roam.  If I want to say “fuck the president (whoever she may be)”, I’ll snivel “quiver!”  If I pronounce this blog “the best terrorist site on the internet”, let the web spiders index and grandma shiver when I up-pop on key inflammatory index words. 

What a silly story:  Teens Share Secrets Online: Parents Can’t Eavesdrop On Xanga

Ah! So xanga’s non-eavesdroppable—very clever technology this is.  Let’s tweak this headline a bit:

Terrorists Share Secrets Online: the Government Can’t Eavesdrop On Xanga

(na-na-na-na-na-na-*covers ears* 0kayyy-i-don’t wanna hear that)

Pro Anorexia on Xanga and Elsewhere: Or, How to Be Anorexic

At first, I thought this (titled above) was a silly story, too. But then I dug a little into the bodyxanga and found multiple ana (anorexia) blogrings filled with blogging anas.  I’ve never taken blogrings seriously, but so many of these bloggers appear totally obsessed—it’s practically frightening.  Are there any antagonizing anti-anorexia blogrings? Can you imagine a malicious flamer going around the rings of anas and lambasting them all as fat asses and bloat balls?

Btw, the best ever analysis of anorexia I ever encountered:

Addiction to Perfection by Marion Woodman

      Why does life so often seem both

                promising and desolate

                      in the same breath?

This is a ‘proof-of-concept’ poem to support my claim to spontaneity.  No preconceptions, just wordflow, unreworked, two minutes (sips of coffee between lines).

Not autobiographical, probably not revealing of any inner libidinal urges, more nearly just a mind-tap into some darkly erotic scenario being played out somewhere in the world. ‘Fess up—I’ve hacked into your fetishistic stream, haven’t I?

how pretty-undies your favorite pose,

how unerotically I’m swayed

laying dormant in the tub

as filthy-drunk as any knave.

but, oh, your tantalizing toes

will do it every time:

up, dripping, naked, and on the floor

sucking sweetly upon thine.

Brilliant? Clever?
I am neither one.
I merely run and run and carry no gun.
30 miles since last Friday.

With my eyes closed and sitting in cemetery sunlight, I feel rather well this moment. Thank you for a) always, b) sometimes, c) never asking—depending on who you are.

The past is befuddled, the present’s a’jumble, the future is looking quite bejeweled. I’m a time stumbler but it’s not a drunken walk. I drink the wine, but it is the wine that is drunk, not I.

There is a bastion of love and tranquility just yonder. That ‘yonder’ is not geographical or temporal, but visionary. Can you see what I see? And what I, of your vision? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

Okay, time to get serious and watch the bobblehead weeds dance in the wind. I have a more beautiful question—lots of more beautiful questions.

In this sojourn of life, is it not better to have a companion than to go it alone?

Is it not preferable to sit on the beach drinking daiquiris with an intimate while watching the sunset than to be a mighty barbarian general-king, solitary and out front of the troops, as you lead  the fateful way on an intrepid journey down a fabled highway to the imminent world-shaking sack of (a) Rome?  Ah, the glory!

But, oh, the love.

just to lay alive in the cemetery sun

on ground, shoulders and head bent back

against  an obelisk of hot black marble

(like a salamander sunning on a rock)

accepting the drunken incoming solarization as truth

justice and the american

never-way of nothing ever

(it’s gone in but a blink of the eye) -

i dream of all the undreamt

but realize for myself

that the only possible undream ever

is never making love to you.

~a part of yesterday~

Paint is no more than its pigment: colored dirt.

In my heyday, I could paint 40 feet up at the very last rung of a ladder while simultaneously swinging two 4-inch brushes, slapping and knocking out boards with ferociously speedy abandon, all the while bracing myself by only pressing my thighs against the outer ladder frame.  I felt like a 'dirt conductor' of a great pigment orchestra back then.  But it was hard on the brushes: they wore out before their time.

What the hell is a 'heyday' anyway?  Such notions seem well beyond re-comprehension,  though maybe it's just my mood.  Today, I'd rather wander into a certain little farming community, find a barn, and have a hayday...with a friend.