THE NAKED MOLE RAT CHRONICLES:
Hi, my name is Gail. I am a worker and I have been asked to show you around the burrow. Workers like me are smaller than the other naked mole rats in the community, like the Queen and the soldiers. That is a good thing, I think. It helps us get around and through all of the tunnels. Although all of us can run forward and backward equally fast and our skins are loose enough we can almost turn around in them, it is a bit easier for us to move about the smallest of the tunnels than it is for the bigger soldiers and the Queen, may she reign forever.
First a word about us workers. We work almost all the time, except when we eat or sleep or use the toilet. Although each of us can do whatever any other one can, some of us specialize. For example, when we dig a tunnel one of us, of course, is in front doing the actual digging. Behind the digger are one or more sweepers sweeping the refuse back to the last of us in the line who sweeps it out of burrow altogether where it forms a volcano like mound about five inches high. That’s what I like doing best, volcanoing and I am pretty good at it.
Some of the others are good at other things. Take Old George, he is one of the oldest citizens in the burrow. He is so old he remembers the Queen before the current Queen, my mom, may she reign long and prosper and may she be not as irritable as usual. He sometimes tells the younger workers stories about the Dark Times after the prior queen died and the other females fought often to the death throughout the tunnels until one emerged victorious, Old Horror, Glabix XI calls her, my mom, Eleven’s too, may her reign be fruitful.
Anyway, in addition to telling stories and being old and all, Old George is a tool-maker. He finds and shapes bits of wood that the workers doing the digging can use to make it easier and faster. With or without tools we workers can build a super tunnel over a mile long in three months. A super tunnel is one that two of us can walk side by side of pass each other going in opposite directions. These super tunnels connect the important places in the burrow.
Well, here we are at one of those important places, the Restroom or Loo.
1938, November 12: The “Jewish Question.”
‘I have received a letter written on the Führer’s orders requesting that the Jewish question be now, once and for all, coordinated and solved one way or another… I should not want to leave any doubt, gentlemen, as to the aim of today’s meeting. We have not come together merely to talk again, but to make decisions, and I implore competent agencies to take all measures for the elimination of the Jew from the German economy, and to submit them to me.’
Goering’s statement followed the infamous Kristallnacht. Also, shortly after the Kristallnacht Martin Sasse, bishop of the Thuringian Evangelical Church and leading member of the German Christians movement, published a compendium of Martin Luther’s writings ; Sasse “applauded the burning of the synagogues” and the coincidence of the day, writing in the introduction, “On 10 November 1938, on Luther’s birthday, the synagogues are burning in Germany.” The German people, he urged, ought to heed these words “of the greatest anti-Semite of his time, the warner of his people against the Jews.” Diarmaid MacCulloch argued that Luther’s 1543 pamphlet On the Jews and Their Lies was a “blueprint” for the Kristallnacht.
One of the few public demonstrations of opposition to Kristallnacht was led by, William Cooper, an Aboriginal Australian whose people also had experienced racial based extermination attempts by a Germanic people, who along with a delegation of the Australian Aboriginal League marched through Melbourne to the German Consulate to deliver a petition which condemned the “cruel persecution of the Jewish people by the Nazi government of Germany.” German officials refused to take the document.
However, lest we forget and thereby minimize the true evil of right-wing hate, in addition to the Jewish Holocaust, Gypsies were often killed on sight, especially by the Einsatzgruppen [mobile killing units] on the Eastern Front. The total number of victims has been variously estimated at between 220,000 to 1,500,000; even the lowest number would make the Porajmos (Gypsy genocide) one of the largest mass murders in history. Homosexuals were hunted down like vermin and over 12 million Poles simply were slaughtered to make room for the planned expansion of the German race.
TODAY’S NEWS FROM THAILAND:
1. Airport Fracas:
A few days ago an official of Thailand’s Customs Department set off the security alarm as he passed through the security machine at the BKK airport. A security officer asked to pat down official before passing further into the airport. The official objected, pointed to his name tag, slammed both hands against the security officers ears rupturing one of his eardrums and walked off. It was all caught on tape by a security camera and received significant play on the local news.
A Customs Department spokesman said it is investigating the incident but did not think it was a big enough deal to remove the investigation out of local hands.
Thailand in now experiencing national soul-searching about how far, if at all, they have come from feudalism.
2. Prime Minister Princess Lucky Girl tours the military:
In keeping a campaign pledge to get to know them better, the Prime Minister has begun a series of lunches with leaders of the various branches of the nations armed forces, who were instrumental in executing the coup that removed her brother, the exiled, fugitive ex-Prime Minister Thaksin the Terrible.
3. Thailand’s “Sufficiency” economy:
On December 23,1999, His Majesty the King of Thailand announced his goal of a sufficiency economy for Thailand. The country’s political leaders ignored him on this just as they did on flood control, rural development and the need to protect the Monarchy from criticism. They do however claim undying loyalty to the Royalty Family.
It sort of resembles those in the US who express unabashed reverence for those in military service, even to the point putting on huge displays in their honor, while often opposing almost every program intended to provide those same servicemen and women, health care for war related injuries, job retraining and education, family assistance and just about anything else that would actually help those who put their lives on the line for the rest of us a little more than hollow hypocritical celebrations.
POOKIE’S ADVENTURES IN THAILAND:
I have little to report about my activities here. I am still planning to leave on the 24th of the month to return to the US. I arrive in LA for a day or two, then go to Sacramento. This is different from yesterday when SWAC wrote to tell me that I should not go to Sacramento because Dick in whose house she and Hayden lives (he actually lives in another house) did not want me to stay the month. This morning she emailed me that I should go to Sacramento so that she could return to Thailand to sell her condominium. Tomorrow I am sure it will change again.
I have begun transferring these “This and that…” emails into a new blog. It takes a lot of time to do so. In my next issue of “This and that…” I will explain all about it.
Although I still go to the health club six days a week, I now only swim for my workouts. Since I had my most recent lingering illness, I have found myself too exhausted for extensive gym exercises.
PAPA JOES TALES AND FABLES:
MOPEY JOE’S MEMORIES:
On the Edge: Stories about the Creation and Early Years of California’s Monumental Coastal Protection Program.
In the Beginning: an oft told story (continued).
The tall skinny apparition led me through the columns into the sparsely furnished lobby of the newly completed building where several large easels were set up in some sort of an ad hoc exhibition. My guide introduced himself as John Olmsted. I was later to learn that he was a descendent of “The” Olmsted, the high school dropout from Connecticut who became a journalist and in the latter stages of the Nineteenth Century parlayed his journalistic abilities and his political connections to win the competition to design NY’s Central Park becoming thereby one of the most successful landscape designers of his generation.
John stood me before easels and proceeded to explain to me all about something he called an “Ecological Staircase,” and about the “Pygmy Forest.” Now, at that time, I was vaguely familiar with the word “Ecological” at least enough to know it had something to do with nature, but what it had to do with staircases had me mystified and curious. To explain it, he had a large chart set up on one of the easels. The best I could make out was that logically it had something to do with “The Pygmy Forest,” and that John was going to connect it all up for me.
John then pointed to a photograph of what appeared to me to be one of the ugliest plants I had ever seen. Had it grown in my garden, I would have pulled it out by its roots hoping I acted quickly enough to prevent it infecting the rest of the place. To John however, the sight of it seemed to have instilled in him an almost religious ecstasy.
He enthusiastically explained that the stunted monstrosity was a full-grown tree. My excitement at that revelation was muted.
Unperturbed by my lack of response, John continued with his presentation.
It seems the ground around a place called “Jughandle Creek” located somewhere along the coast in Mendocino, a county lying about 100 miles north of San Francisco, according to John had, over the eons, risen and fallen beneath ocean and each time it rose the incessant waves carved out a ledge. About five or so times this happened sculpting the land to appear, to the imaginative obsessive, as a giant staircase, hence the Staircase to which Ecological was appended. It was all beginning to make sense.
John explained that the ground on the top of each step (for some reason that I have forgotten), became packed as hard as cement. Over the years the soil settling on top of that cement became more and more hostile to just about any living thing except for flesh-eating plants, these benighted trees and marijuana.
Apparently, the roots of the trees could not push through the cement-like hard-pan causing the stunted growth of these three-foot high monstrosities. “Natural Bonsai,” John crooned. They did not look like any bonsai I ever saw, but hell, who was I to argue with the crazed hippie descendent of “The” Olmsted.
The looming tragedy that prompted John’s hysteria and resulted in the exhibit and the selection of me as a potential acolyte, was a developer’s plans to build a motel right in the center of the first step of John’s beloved Ecological Staircase, thereby ruining it for future generations of, I assumed, people like John, as well putting the existence of the nearby forest of stunted trees at risk.
While I thought that any trees that could thrive in that soil was a match for any developer, I nevertheless heard myself say those eternally fateful (and often regretted) words, “That’s awful, I used to be a practicing attorney, what can I do to help.”
(To be continued)
JOEY’S MYSTERY NOVEL:
RED STAR: Chapter, Don’t Piss Off Meg (continued):
Meg had not spent the greater part of her non-working, waking hours taking innumerable high performance driving courses for no reason. It was her hobby. So, she calling upon that expertise, quickly manipulated brake and steering wheel to regain control of her vehicle, even on the crumbling unstable verge along the unbarricaded edge of the cliff and soon found herself behind her attacker. She speeded up, drove to the outside close to the cliff-face and began to pass him. As she came abreast of the other driver, she could see him glance at her and hunch over the steering wheel. She guessed he intended to try to drive her against the escarpment that rose up alongside the road. Before he could act, she floored her cruiser’s accelerator to speed up. As the nose of her vehicle edged pant his, she sharply pulled of her steering wheel, turning her wheels so it appeared the nose of her car would cross in front of his bumper and crash into him, forcing him toward the cliff edge. It was a bluff as she almost immediately righted the car again. As she expected her bluff worked. He panicked, swung he steering wheel hard to the right to try to avoid contact, broke into and uncontrolled skid and tumbled over the cliff edge and onto the rocks below.
Meg slowed to a stop then backed up to where the other car left the road. She carefully parked on the shoulder, put on her blinking emergency lights, calmly report the accident on her two-way. Then she got out opened the trunk, took out some emergency flares and reflectors and laid them out for about twenty feet along the edge of the road where the other car had gone over.
She then for the first time looked over the edge down to the tangled hunk of metal far below wondering why it had not burst in flame and muttered “Fuck you, asshole,” and slowly began the climb down the precipice to the wreckage.
By the time she arrived she could hear the sirens of the police cars and ambulances from Pacifica to the north and Half Moon Bay to the south as they converged at the crash site.
The gas tank had ruptured. Escaping gasoline dripped onto the rocks and ran off into the surf a little way below. She was thankful it had not ignited.
The driver’s door had sprung open from the impact and the driver appeared still alive. She gingerly extracted him and both dragged and carried him far enough from the wreck to be sake from any explosion.
He was in bad shape. He was bleeding from a nasty head room and both his legs and one of his arms appeared to be broken. She figured several ribs also had his lungs had been punctured since he was spitting up blood. He did not look to her as though he would make it until the medical team arrived.
He was conscious though. She knelt leaned in close to him and said, “I will try to help keep you alive until the emergency team get’s here, but first tell me who sent you?”
His pain wracked eyes hardened and he responded in a whisper through the blood, “Go to hell you fucking Dyke.”
“Wrong answer cock-sucker.”
She grabbed him by his shirt, dragged him back to the wreck and threw him back in, took out a plain zippo lighter, stepped back a few steps, flicked on the flame and tossed it into a puddle of the leaked gasoline. She quickly retreated a safe distance and the gas flamed up and upon reaching the tank exploded.
She stood for a moment watching the flames devour the automobile then looked up. The emergency vehicles had arrived and the first of the medics were beginning their descent. She turned and began to climb to meet them.
(to be continued)
What “Occupy” is all about and what it really wants:
Please see the blog: http://papajoestales.wordpress.com/
What passes for political discourse in modern America:
“Obama and his radical homosexual mafia plan to sodomize the world and make such perversion seem as wholesome as apple pie and vanilla ice cream. In reality, such perversion cannot be printed in a family publication or broadcast on any FCC regulated TV or radio stations.”
Summit Ministries founder David Noebel attacking the Obama administration for pushing back against attempts to criminalize and persecute gays and lesbians abroad.
“The very rich on today’s Wall Street are now so rich that they buy their own social infrastructure. They hire private security, they live on gated mansions on islands and other tax havens, and most notably, they buy their own justice and their own government. But citizens of the stateless archipelago where people like Schwarzman live spend millions a year lobbying and donating to political campaigns so that they can jump the line. They don’t need to make sure the government is fulfilling its customer-service obligations, because they buy special access to the government, and get the special service and the metaphorical comped bottle of VIP-room Crystal afforded to select customers.”
Matt Taibii, Rolling Stone