Archive for June of 2006

June 27, 2006
Our Founding Moonbat

(Crossposted at the Daily Kos.)

It has been said that his journalism is "unfair" and "vicious" and "takes a back seat to everyone, including Jayson Blair, in terms of ethics", that it "might well have been the best fiction written in the English language", that "every dip of his pen stung like a horned snake", and that he was "loose cannon" whose "ninety-proof prose" incited the "rabble". His lifelong political enemy called him "the great incendiary" and a master of the puppets, deplored his "obstinacy and inflexible disposition", and also accused him of "defalcation" (a quaint expression for embezzlement). It's been said that "like most men contending solely for a principle he was distinctly a 'trouble-maker.'" And finally, the authorities declared that his "offenses are of too flagitious a nature to admit of any other consideration but that of condign punishment."

I know what you're thinking, these are probably more fulminations about a lefty blogger from some MSM pundits; probably David Brooks or Lee Siegel, considering the florid language, but maybe it's David Broder or Maureen Dowd or Richard Cohen. And who's the blogger? Well it must be Kos, of course, or maybe now they're picking on another member of the "blogger A-list".

In fact, the object of all that contempt was an agitator, pundit and political organizer; a delegate to the Continental Congress; a signer of the Declaration of Independence; and a Governor of Massachusetts: Samuel Adams. Among the Founding Fathers, none of whom was a slouch when it came to patriotic passion, Adams was undoubtedly the most radical, uncompromising and inflammatory. If he were alive today, he would surely be a flaming lefty blogger, probably one of the "A-List", with a large following; but the MSM would be calling him a Kingpin, rabid and venomous, vituperative, thuggish and fascist; and the wingnuts would be calling him an unhinged moonbat.

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June 14, 2006
Seen on a T-shirt

"I used to fuck people like you in prison."

Holy shit!

June 09, 2006
A numerological analysis of my busted knee

A few weeks ago I went to Munich for a weekend to visit my friend Jenny-Marie, her daughter Cosima, her brother Daniel and her mother Petra. This was just after I got the MR images of my injured knee and it looked like my tendon transplant for the ruptured ACL was torn, the worst case scenario, so I was a little worried. Not to mention hobbling around Munich on crutches all weekend long.

So that Sunday morning I got to talking with Petra, who I was really getting to know for the first time that weekend, telling her about my life in general, and where all Jenny and I had been around town until 4 AM or so, me limping about all night. Eventually Petra asked me my birthdate, took the numbers down and started doing the math for a numerological divination about me, something that Jenny already mentioned she might be inclined to do. Apparently, this involves computing the digit sum of the numbers in my birthdate, with some quirks and complications, ending up with a number that I "own" and is known to have mystical properties that tell me all about myself. After working out the arithmetic, Petra looked up at me with a bit of wonder. My number is 33, she said, the highest Master Number, meaning that I am a Master Teacher, with mastery over the community, who cares for and teaches others in the community with wisdom and devotion. She was rather impressed. And I thought, well hell yes, the highest Master Number, mastery over the community, that's me all right.

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June 07, 2006
Knock-Kneed, Part 2

(... continued from Part 1.)



One evening in early February in the hotel where I often lived during the week at the time (still working on my project in Hannover), I called up a woman I had been seeing for a while, long enough that it was starting to Get Serious. And dear gawd, I was head over heels, hardly able to think straight, but she had been iffy about the relationship the entire time, always leaving me guessing about where I stood. So we spoke on the phone for a good while, sharing our thoughts and troubles as people will do, and then about two or three hours into this conversation she announced that she wasn't ready and couldn't go on any further and would be breaking it off with me, right then and there, a decision that apparently came to her on a whim while we were talking. I sure as hell must have said something wrong.



And that settled it for me. I needed to let out my aggressions, wanted to beat the crap out of the punching bag, but I had already used up my two trial workouts at the boxing school, so if I wanted to go again I had to join. But it wasn't just that -- I knew then that this was a calling, it was something that I must do.

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June 06, 2006
Knock-Kneed, Part 1

My friend Michael had been coming around every once in a while during the winter, the two of us daddies re-living our days of bachelor decadence whenever we could get a "night off". So between watching pornos and debating about the existence of an immortal soul, he would occasionally get up and start shadow boxing. Jab, jab, jab; block, duck; jab, hook, uppercut, body shot; "you've gotta do this," he panted to me out of the midst of a combination, "this is geil!" And then he'd go into his own variation on the Ali shuffle. Michael had been going to a boxing school for a while and he couldn't quit raving about it. "You've gotta know what this feels like, there's nothing else like it," he puffed, jab jab jabbing and shuffling, "one hour of training and you've gotta give it everything you've got, your T-shirt is soaked and the room stinks of everybody's sweat," shuffle, body shot, uppercut, "you use up every bit of your strength, and when it's over you've got an endorphine high that lasts you the rest of the night, there's nothing geiler in the world!"

All of my life I had thought of boxing as the stupidest sport anyone could imagine. Two people hitting each other in the head until one of them is unconscious, I would have been hard-pressed to come up with anything that seemed more ridiculous. I thought about Butch Coolidge finding out from Esmeralda Villalobos that he'd killed his opponent in the ring while I watched Michael put on his preposterous spectacle, trying to project all the contempt I could muster. "Come on, get up," he said, "let me show you some of the stuff we do." "No fuckin' way," I answered without moving, "I'll just watch." "Just try it," he insisted, "you gotta understand, this is like being re-born, it's a revelation, it's enlightenment! Look, just stand in front of me and hold your hands up, we use punch mitts for this in training but I'll just hit your open palms. This is called a pyramid; I start with one jab, then two, and work my way up to five, and then back down to one. Come on, I'll show you, and then you do it." And so I relented; there was no stopping him, resistance was futile. I stood up and took his punches in my hand; jab; jab, jab; jab, jab, jab; jab, jab, jab, jab; jab, jab, jab, jab, jab; "and now I count back down to one"; jab, jab, jab, jab; jab, jab, jab; jab, jab; JAB! "Now you try it," he said, holding up his open palms, and so feeling like a fool I started punching -- jab; jab, jab; jab, jab, jab ...

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June 02, 2006
The Blog is Back

The last word on this blog was that I was back from my trip to Italy in early October and outa my mind. Anyone checking in since then would have had to conclude that I've been outa my fuckin' mind throughout all of the last nine months or so, which would probably be about right, I guess. But that's no reason not to keep blogging, is it?

At any rate, the blog has returned. Let's see how well I can keep it up this time around.

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