ROVING REPORTER RANTS

ROVING REPORTER RANTS

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THE DUTY OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS PEOPLE

Saturday, September 7, 2013

THE FIRST DUTY OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS OWN PEOPLE …………………………………………………………………………THE STUDY OF JURISPRUDENCE, THE MORALITY OF LAW ………………………………………………………………………………………….GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!!………………………………………………………….DEAR LORD, HELP US KEEP THEM SOUND!

           THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER 
                          BEFORE IT HAPPENS.
DUE PROCESS OF LAW – THE ONLY
PROTECTION IN QUESTIONABLE TIMES
__________________________________

                   ____________________  

          Now, you can say what you like about my father.
          (Just don`t say it in front of me).
          
           I didn`t always like him, and he certainly didn`t always care for me, but if a leader is someone who keeps his people safe, then  he was a leader. And there`s not too much
you can say against that now, is there?

IMAGINED SCENARIO:        If our fourteen families know we`re untouchable, but we suspect a 32nd cousin we`ve never met – if we know this distant cousin might be dragged off into the night, tortured and murdered some time before dawn…
        Well, how safe do we really feel?

        The only element in our lives that protects us… and that
protects us without fail: it is the DUE PROCESS OF THE
LAW.
         We can make fun of lawyers all we like, and God knows we like to… and I like to, too… But I have been a lawyer,
and only after practising and at the same time making fun
of the practice…. only after a considerable time
appearing in Criminal Court and keeping my stupid violent friends, and my crazy associates.. and myself out of jail…
         And also, only after protecting various helpless people – helpless because (eg: she loved her husband utterly… helpless because he was enslaved to his wife unmercifully… after protecting such people by arguing for their situations… only then…
        Only then did I realize… this was no joke!
         The criminal defence lawyer is a hero, or ought to be.              We should not make fun of him or her… this person, if he is doing his job, this person is working
THE THIN EDGE OF THE WEDGE… on your behalf.
          And if we pay him/her plenty, good! A defence attorney
who is not lazy, careless, and suffering from some
variety of “moral turpetude”… this person is your last, your penultimate, defence against a government that has degenerated into arrogant and insolent brutality.

           Now I have always been a physically strong
individual. I have defended bike gangs and stupid
brutes of all persuasion… and I have gotten most of them
off with light sentences… if I felt that was what they deserved…
            I usually believe jail, incarceration behind steel bars, is such a medieval torture that we don`t
need to inflict this stupidity upon our civilization.
            BUT…. the last line of defence…. the ULTIMATE
defence we as a people have is… a DECENT judge
who is not afraid to rule with kindness.
           
            REAL STRENGTH IS KINDNESS; TRUE STRENGTH
IS NOT BRUTALITY, BUT DEFENCE AGAINST BRUTALITY
 
           
             That applies to all legal workers, too – a decent cop,
a decent defence lawyer…and… PLEASE tell me there are some decent prosecutors…. I`m sure there are some. I just
can`t remember  any… all the ones I have known have been
in such a breathless, gasping hurry to move up the monkey ladder of success…
             To get promoted!.. To get a bigger wage and  more public accolades in  newspapers… This can`t be true of them all! 
             Please tell me there are some decent, fair, non- sycophantic prosecutors!
           But judges, judges I am not so worried about…(unless the judge is in thrall to some dark force). Most judges are decent guys, however misguided some decisions
end up being… most of these people actually attempt justice.
         I have met some fools, but I have met mostly decent judges… And I have encountered some judges
who are approaching sainthood.

        So what is the ISSUE here?  The issue is – we seem to
be degenerating into FASCIST times.

        A lawyer I used to know and respect was Edwin A. Goodman, lead partner in Goodman and Goodman,Barristers and Solicitors, Toronto. He was almost family.
        I asked Eddie, “How do you do it?” (Because the guy seemed brilliant to me) ” What is the most important thing?
How is it –  the way you hone in so quickly? How do you decide – immediately – exactly what to argue, in order to win a case?”
        Eddie said: ” You`ve go to look at the situation and
study it, and read all the circumstances… and when you know you`ve covered it, you`ve got to stand back… you`ve got to  almost intuit – then choose THE ISSUE… Then that`s what you work with…that`s what you argue…when you know what the case is really about.”
         The other guys I knew well…because I was fortunate enough to work in their office…I knew  some of the lawyers in Davis, Webb and Holindrake, Brampton. I used to enjoy those guys, a fine bunch of fellas they were. And Tom
Dunn was one of them, and Ron Webb was another. Tom
Dunn is now a judge, and Ron Webb deserves to be sitting
somewhere close to the right hand of God, if he`s still alive,
which I hope he is.
          I`m not going to identify the other guys, because I have some discretion, but let me say, there wasn`t a dud in the house.
         Hollindrake was swearing an affidavit for me one time.
I said, “Yes. I swear that`s my signature.”
          The experienced, strong-willed and mostly truthful man
looked piercingly  into my eyes through his glasses and
said: “You are swearing to the truth of the statement…
not just as to your signature.”
           It was not a pleasant moment for me. I looked a bit of a fool. Of course, he was right. He was stating the obvious.
But it was a principle, in my hurry, I`d forgotten. I was swearing to the truth of my statement. This is not an
empty idea.
            

          Now how do I judge a lawyer? By competence first, yes. But not by how many victories he`s had in Court…. (Although victories don`t hurt if you`re keeping people out of jail, people who deserve to be free).  I judge a lawyer by
how decent a person he is, and how decent he is to others…
not just in Court. And whether he`s competent to help me.
            I stopped doing family law because of all the
endless opportunities that exist there to screw a whole family over… I`m not always a good person… And when I`m working
for an attractive wife against a monstrous husband…. there are too many opportunities… to act out my evil nature..  I`m not that much of a shit, but, boy, I wanted to be. 
            Cross-examining some poor dildo of a husband –
who  has been a fool, but perhaps he has also been
manipulated by his wife…. if the guy has worked for his family for five years – I can`t cross-examine him properly.
It`s too easy to screw him. And I won`t do it!
             And it`s too easy to screw the wife, also.
            
             It`s primarily family law – husbands with shotguns,
shooting lawyers – it is this situation that necessitated
metal detectors at the entrance to the Courts in Toronto.
Real estate, Criminal Law, no problem. But I will
not practice family law. It is important to know your limitations.

I once asked Ron Webb…. we were before the OMB
(Ontario Municipal Board). I was his assistant attorney.
There were many millions at stake… It was a licensing
 matter. And I couldn`t catch his technique. I was merely
trying to learn and I thought there must be some clever devices involved.
            How was he being so persuasive? HOW was he
doing it? He was winning the case, and I didn`t know what
EDGE   he was using, what technique… what angle…
            After he won the case, I asked him. I know this might
sound naive, but it`s not. I asked him how did he do it? How did he win this case and so many others? Why did people keep hiring him for huge fees?
          He said:” It`s simple. I just go into Court and I OUT-HONEST everyone else. I use honesty.
That`s my trick. That`s my secret. It never fails.”

             All I can say, when I think of that answer, is: “WOW!”
          
              That is not the answer I expected to get from a top-earning Canadian attorney. But he wasn`t kidding. He was not lying to me.  I watched him in action closely many times. I was right beside him and I saw no sign of falsehood.
           This honesty approach –  he meant it!   He did courtroom law that way.  And he was  a winner!!! Big time,
a winner!

            Now the purpose of the article. An ISSUE has come up.  The ISSUE IS – certain individuals in North America have
been given the “authority” to order the deaths of other individuals,without a trial and without due process – is this legal?
             Several people have asked me this question. To be
honest, a LOT of people have asked me this question.
(And who am I? I`m just a former decent man lawyer…
with a criminal record, which I ought to get expunged…)
           I`m a good lawyer who discovered he is a great rhythm guitar player. But people still ask me questions
such as this. And I take the role seriously. It is my duty to do so. In some respects, in this instance, I am the court of last resort.

                 The simple, correct and unimpeachable answer to the above question is this:

LEGAL STATEMENT:          ” In no circumstances, even under a situation of war or alleged war, may one man order the death of another man without proper trial and due process under the law.”   
         (In this instance, “man” includes and also means, “woman” or “person”)                      END OF STATEMENT
                 
            This is the principal a democracy is founded upon. We are not living under a King. We are living under the Rule of Law.
                 There is just no legal way to do it, and never can
be any legal way to do it: to give an innocent person the power of life and death over another innocent person.
                 Any man who orders the death of another man without due process… such a man is guilty of  and
ought to be be tried and found guilty of murder. 
                  There is no statutory limitation for murder.

                 This answer will not please my fascist friends
or my biker clients.
                  But “Dem`s da facts, Jojo!”

                   Such a power, if it existed, would negate
every basic principle that a democracy is founded upon.
                    Such a power can never be ratified by law.
                     Such a power is always impeachable.

                     If you want to know my background. I`m a student of Constitutional law. I was lucky enough to
study three years with Dr. Lederman, Queens University,
Ontario.
                      The only prize I ever received, informally
or formally, was a prize for essays and lectures in the study of the Sociology of Law —  they didn`t have a proper name
for this study at that time.
                     I prefer to call this study: JURISPRUDENCE.
The study of THE MORALITY OF LAW.

                     And… brothers and sisters in law school,
and you, comrads, who have passed the Bar…
encourage your sons and daughters, your legal lovers
and friends – encourage them to study this subject
which is still undefined.

                   And in so doing, let us say: 
         
                   “GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!”  
  

                    Lord, help us make them sound.                  
      
                                                             
                                  * * * * * * * *

                         
.
                    
               

Friday, September 6, 2013

L`ETRANGER, THE STRANGER, THE OUTSIDER —– THE OBSERVER WHO WATCHES FROM THE EDGES OF SOCIETY -THE ARTIST, THE LEADER ……………………………………………………………………………………………..VAN GOGH SENDS HIS EAR TO THE WOMAN HE LOVES FROM A DISTANCE

Some years back, I was studying “L`Etranger” by Camus,
which is: `The stranger`, “The Outsider”…

      The man standing  outside the restaurant windows in the large  city – Paris, Toronto, New York, London – he might be
highly intelligence, but he does not partake of the affluence
of society; he`s not included in the good times or good food; he`s not invited to  cocktail parties,couples groups in fine restaurants.  He is totally excluded for one reason most of all: he is an observer.
         The only consolation L`Etranger has for all this rejection and ostracizing – he knows that most fine artists
live lives as solitaries. Oh yes, they may be in the
midst of a family, or they may not. But one thing is sure –
they are alone. They are alone now, and they have always been alone. Even when they are in a bar attempting to
talk to others, or at the funeral of a loved one,
the artist might be acutely observing the scene;
but he is detatched, an outsider – he is The Stranger.
           There are too many examples of this “healthy sickness” – too many examples to count: Van Gogh,
why didn`t he have sex with the prostitute? Why did he
send his ear to her? 
           Because he was too detached?   Likely so…
Detached, yes, alienated, apart from… observing…
He saw her closely; he saw her so completely
that he loved her in a way she had never been
loved… 
          She may not have known this… (What do
any of us know about the people around us?) 
But she likely sensed it – she may not have sensed
his love; she might have thought it was lust… but she
certainly sensed his attention.
         He was detached. He saw her every colour, uncertainty
and frown. He probably never took her hand, or
shared a coffee with her. But he loved her in a way
that no one ever had…
         
        Although, if you look at it from the woman`s
point of view. I am sure she would have rather had sex with the man instead of being observed so closely… even if he
looked at her with utter love, what good was that to her?
She might have thought…  She was busy.  She had
a child perhaps and cats to take care of.
         I`m sure she would have preferred to take the man`s
hand… but to endure his disconcerting stare?
         Who among us want to be observed so closely?
Most of us have our little guilts and paranoias…
who has the gift of repose?
          Sometimes the artist.  And sometimes not.
         
           Van Gogh likely would have preferred to take
her hand, also, or to pat her rump. But it was not to
be. He was too much the outsider, too much
the stranger…
        If he had been able to hold her hand, he would
not have had to send her his ear.
        Of the few women I can think of at the moment –
none of them would be more likely
to spend time with me, if I sent them
my ear.
        What do you think, my lady? If I sent you my ear,
would that patch up the differences between us?
Would that make everything all right.
         Or would I be taking another trip
up the hill into a locked unit?

          Close attention makes people uncomfortable.
They have their own lives to lead, and they do not
need some maniac perched like a jackdaw on the back
of the chair next to them… closely watching
the expressions on your face.

        But most true artists are exactly that: painters
and writers have been primarily that – observers…. 
Maniacs,madmen, excluded outlaws and pariahs
they are the watchers no groups are comfortable with…

      And so the artists are found looking in
through the glass  into the restaurant from the cold sidewalk…

Shivering in a wet raincoat with two dollars and forty cents
in your pocket… if you go to a cheap restaurant, you
can just about buy a coffee.

And when you go home, you can eat your oil paints
instead of bread.

*

               I remember years ago I walked into a room where my old man was sitting. I said to him, talking about Camus.

       “This guy says that there`s nothing but time
which destroys all things…. absurdity…
and death.”I said to him.

        My dad jumped up out of his chair and shouted:

        “WHY DOESN`T HE JUST KILL HIMSELF, THEN?”

         His face got red, and he was making
those strangling motions with his hands that meant
“He doesn`t have to bother!  I`ll kill him himself,
save the idiot the trouble!  Then he doesn`t
have to worry about philosophy…. he`ll be too
busy on the ground trying to find his teeth!”
            “All my life I`ve been running lumber camps!
120 men going to bed each night with very few distractions..
Do you think ANYBODY wanted to rise early in the dark at 5:00AM in the WINTER… do you think anybody wanted to get up? No, we would have preferred to sleep in and get drunk as soon as we woke up…. just to get a little  rest…just to take a deep breath….
        “Then  when we had a little time … Do you think we`d want to talk about philosophy then??”
             “I guess not,” I said…. I was quieter when I was twenty….
             “No!” my father continued, “The`d want a woman
or a steak… or maybe just to talk to their kids!

“THE ONLY PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION IS  SUICIDE.”
Camus

             “They might not want to spend their day off thinking
about that!”
            “No!  But too many of them  did end up killing themselves or defeating themselves… anyway.Maybe they
asked the one philosophical question; maybe they didn`t”
             My father sat in the chair next to me, said:
             “Listen to me: 

“THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS PEOPLE!”    

He went into another room and shut the door.


                                    *

            When I was a young man I thought my father
 didn`t know anything…. He didn`t know
about the street….thieves and knives, judo 
and utter alienation. The observing eye, watching
at the outskirts of society.
            Madness lies that  way, partner.

             That`s what I thought, that my old man
didn`t know much.Later I realized he was dealing with other sharks,than I was. Mine had knives.  His were smiling men whose teeth were well hidden.  Smooth invaders would take your house, then smile and wave goodbye when all your possessions were gone
             Each person`s life creates different necessities.
        
              THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER
               BEFORE IT HAPPENS.

         

                  

Saturday, August 31, 2013

LITTER CRITTERS! BIG KITTEN IN THE BUSH AND PUBLIC SERVANT WITH ATTITUDE!

There I was, sitting against a great round stone, my feet extended before me in the grass… relaxed as anyone has any right to be…staring at the sky… dreaming…
listening to bits of birdsong, pure liquid notes…
           
              I feel asleep… It was six AM at the
edge of the woods in northern Ontario, and I`m happy
to say the flies were dead. at least, most of them… Though
I am told no human being is farther than 13 feet from a spider most of the days of their life…. there`s always a spider just four yards away….
          Whether this is true or not I have no idea.          

           


           Now I`m asleep. And I`m dreaming of something pleasant and I felt something  thick tugging at my pants…  a sweet dream,
no problems – clear sailing in all directions…. Then
something sharp nips me in my ankle.
            I wake up mad with the sun in my eyes.
I cant`t see a damn thing, except…I can feel…
 sharp pins and needles in my ankle…something`s nipping at my jeans!
            I sit up, bend forward like I`m doing yoga,  open my eyes, and try to let them clear. 
         Two minutes pass. Something is staring right back at me into my eyes from two inches away. It has the most pale  eyes I`ve ever seen…
            I don`t know whether to kill it, pet it… or laugh.
My first impulse is to scream… or throw the evil white-eyed
little beastie right into Lake Temagami… right now with
the wind up and the  waves white-capping in late August.
The little critter is pretty playful…. My black lab friend, Eric, who lives with me is panting in my right ear  beside me. He is watching the little demon with me, just as
I am.. His tail is thumping in the sand.

            I ask Eric, “Can this guy eat meat?”
`           Eric says: “Woof!”  
            The  pale-eyed tiny demon bites my nose.
This answers the question about the meat. The little
beast is a meat eater, all right!
            The question now is: “Can the not so little kitten digest meat, after it bites it?”
             I taste blood in my mouth.I want to kill the nasty little thing, but I don`t.




              There`s a chilly wind that blows right across the the length of the lake, even before  freeze up happens.  And there`s nothing pleasant about that wind – especially if you
are paddling a canoe…
              You have to pull  the canoe up on shore… if you have no rope, I find it`s best to lay a rock gently inside
 the boat. Then lie under the damn thing, or sit under a tall white pine  and wait for the storm to pass.

              No point being in a hurry in a time like that…

              I have one bit of advice about  Bush Survival.
And I can make all the advice I`ve every heard about
not dying in the bush, I can make it simple. It all
can be reduced to one Rule.
               The Rule can be reduced to one sentence
about how to survive in the wilderness… everything else
follows from this one Rule:  “NEVER HURRY IN THE BUSH!”
               Those of you who have spent a couple of months in the bush, on the water alone – you`ll know EXACTLY what I`m talking about.
            

   “It`s bloody when you`re born
and bloody when you die,
and sometimes bloody in between.”
         
        I looked deeply into the eyes of the large
kitten. It`s quiet for a second appears to be happy. It
tries to bite my nose. It scratches my right hand.
I throw her in the air and let her land (safely) on

a tree.
          From a distance I look more closely at her.
Even at a distance, she hisses at me. What a little
demon!
          Rewarding bad behaviour, I put some milk
in a bowl. She sticks her head in the milk
and makes rude sucking noises…. I get it. I get
it. I understand.
         I put some  milk in an eye-dropper
and slip it to her – the glass tube
into her mouth… this is the idea. She starts sucking 
hard and happily…
         I say, “OOooo, you`re such a little sweetie.
She stops sucking and hisses at me…
This is one tough  kitty.

        
         There is something wrong with this situation.
The kitten`s big, big enough to eat solid food.
I cook some hamburger meat for her/him. She
won`t touch it. She sniffs at it, leaves  it.
Like she didn`t know what it is. The damn
cat looks about ten weeks old. Her eyes
are open and she is robust enough to be
unpleasant and nasty most of the time.
          I know nothing about cat litters
except I`ve seen a few…unwillingly.
The litter critters are cute, I have to say
that… but then again, all babies are
beautiful… even  young snakes,
I suppose…  (if anyone has pics of young
snakes, send them to me and I won`t 
post them! Ha! Ha!)
                                                                                        

          I call the humane society
and I say, “I think I`ve got a sick cat.  She won`t
eat meat… and she scratches the shit out of me.”
         The woman on the phone says: “Not eating meat is a bad sign….. scratching the shit out of you is a good
sign.”
         “Easy for you to say! What kind of a woman
are you?  Are you sure you should be
answering the phone in a public office?” I ask.
         She laughs and laughs… takes a deep breath
and says, “You`re an idiot.” Then she hangs up.


           I call her  right back.She insists I take the cat to a vet
before she sees it. I make fun of her for that
attitude.
           I present the  problem to the woman on the phone one more time  about the cat scratching the shit out of me
and hissing every time I move…
         She says: “Maybe you`d better bring that nasty kitten in to the office here, after all… After talking to you for three minutes, I think I want to adopt it.”

       Now I`m out of milk and birds are staring at
the little bit of hamburger I have left, which I`ve
cooked on an open fire outside.                                        
       There are a bunch of ravens in the white pine 
above me.  They are gurgling and hooting
and looking at the scrambling little meal which is
the kitten  on my head.
       They`d eat me, too, if I was dead.. But I`m, not and they
know I`m not,,, Pale eyed cat hissing at my bleeding twitching nose is just about beak size for the flying crowd above me.
             They`re up there in the branches wondering if I`m going to  eat her first.That`s not going to happen.
             But peace has not been declared  yet.
The damn thing`s under my shirt into my armpit now.
I want to go back to sleep… but that`s impossible
               People talk about finding peace and quiet in the
wilderness…but the wilderness is not always peaceful. Right now it is anything but quiet. The damn thing bites my armpit.
I sit up and shout.
            
             I pick the  critter up and 
by the back of the neck and flick the tip of my third finger against its nose. It (she?) hisses at me. I toss it gently
against the bark of the tree and it just hangs there, not moving…. The heavy cawing from above starts again…
            “Shut up!” I tell everybody. Nobody shuts
up…. The damn birds are really making a racket now.
I don`t like them. They don`t like me. That`s just the way
it`s going to be.
             I am getting to like the little tooth and
nail demon, though.She`s a fearless little thing. She doesn`t budge an inch, staring up at the big birds. I thinks she
wants to attack one of them. Her little nub of a tail is starting to twitch…as if she wants to crawl up the trunk towards them.
 It looks like she`s stalking them!

              Wait a minute!  What the hell is that?  She doesn`t
have a tail!
               Ah, shit!
                How did this happen?
                 Where`s mommy?

                  This is no domestic cat. 

                    No wonder she doesn`t eat meat. She`s
probably just three weeks old. This is a baby bobcat!
She`s hungry!  That`s why she keeps nipping at me…
and making teeny growling sounds… AWWW!  She`s
beautiful. And she`s not happy.  She`s getting desperate.
She`s sucking at the tip of my index finger.
                    I have to get her some more milk. I stand up,
move out from under the shelter of the white pines.
My head is soaked in a rain shower… I slip her under my
shirt and try to hold her to me with my elbow….No problem.
She`s holding on to me, too. I feel about fifteen little pins and needles piercing my left side. Damn!
                   I flip the canoe right way up and slip it into the water. I kneel inside the light little boat… knees right on the 
 fiberglass bottom, I can pick the canoe up with four fingers…
That`s how light it is.
                   I put the orange life preserver under my
right knee. I put my scarf in the neck of the life jacket
and I lay the kitten in the hole,and cover her with what once was an expensive scarf.  She hisses at me. 
                  I start to paddle across the stormy open water…. It`s about half a mile across the lake. I`m more or less keeping to the same direction as the wind blows us about…I paddle across towards the old log camp where I know
there`s some more milk concentrate.
                 In about twenty minutes I can feed the sweet
little demon… After she`s eaten, maybe both of us can get some sleep.
                 No one`s talking.  There`s just the water sounds
and the wind.


                                                          

                              
         


Thursday, August 29, 2013

IF YOU DON`T OFFEND SOMEBODY, YOU CAN`T TAKE A STEP!

Years ago a friend came to ask me a question.
He was studying Buddha`s philosophy and he was taking it seriously…So he asked me, “How can I live and not
kill sentient beings.”
      We were living in a small village and we had street
sweepers, who passed by at six A.M.  I said, “You know
those guys who sweet our streets each early morning?”
      “Yes,” he said.
       ” Every time they sweep a broom across a sidewalk,
thousands of organisms are killed.  You can`t live, you
can`t take a step without killing something…Without killing
sentient beings, you cannot take a step.”

        Thinking back on this discussion, it feels like I was
quoting the beginning of the Bhagavad Gita
when the god gives Arjuna advice….

So…  this is exactly what I was talking to myself about… what concerns me….
I do not want you to suddenly see a
nasty, ugly…. truly offensive passage from me –
one that`s like a kick in the pants…

That`s not my game or my idea,,,,   ,,,I don`t have
a game! Or an idea! But some pretty ugly moments
can emerge on the virgin page
             
               
           
                   I do not want to hurt your
feelings…. with some sudden eruption…   By being…
 the prick that I often am.

             I`m hoping you have your bad moments, too,
yourself – like when you step on a nail… or
your cousin convinces you to take the wrong
medication anally… or….
           Or… anything! 
            Perhaps you will be understanding….

            You know those beautiful look-outs you
see when you are driving along a highway….
say, in Pennsylvania …. after turning a corner
and rising up above a cliff….?
           And you pull over off the highway…  and…
you look at the magnificent view…. well,
you don`t need some fool to kick you in the face
right then…!  Is that right? Is that correct?

           The problem is… humour is based on exactly such surprises.
           It`s annoying…And when it`s really ugly and a shock, it`s funny!
            
           Still…  I don`t want
to bore you like some noon-day preacher.
I really hate those guys!
         They are duplicitous fools! And one thing
I don`t want to be is duplicitous —-
         Being a fool doesn`t worry me so much…
No fools, no fun!

          I suppose there is no answer to this dilemma,
except more careful editing.  That`s what I`ll try to do.
         

 



         
        
           





Wednesday, August 28, 2013

MAN LOSES TESTICLES (BY ACCIDENT) TALK SHOW HOST STARTS TO LAUGH…. …………….plus GRADING ARTICLES LIKE EGGS, TYPING STORIES LIKE MOVIES….to protect the DELICATE, HUNGOVER, SENSITIVE AND INNOCENT

STORY TYPES:A    =  Sensitive

B     =   Dirty nasty, blues singer, political prick

C     =   sADIST and Masocist,  S&M  Adept… Joy in
             Pain….  Sex and Power

X     =     TWISTED FREAK

I get letters to this effect: “I read one of your stories and you are a sweet back-woods mystic type. Today I read you
and it`s all about perversions and violence.  SEX, VIOLENCE, AND SPIRITUAL MATTERS.  WHAT THE
HELL AM I GOING TO GET, DAY BY DAY??!!!?”

      Well, to answer I must say, “WHO KNOWS?”   
       I am of the following opinion: to write well you must write
with no repressions or inhibition whatsoever…. I guess the editing comes later.  But I`s rather not edit out spontaneous
bursts…. just want to edit out the boring stuff…
       So let`s try this grading system.

      I am not some kind of sick split-personality type,
but I am a different type (if we can type it)…There are
many people within me.  We all share the same soul, more or less.  And what`s important to me, each of us knows what the
other person is doing. (Otherwise I`m psychotic… which in psychological parlance means, “fucked”!)
       If you study a  Tibetan  Spiritual Text, you might
be surprised that many personalities in one person
is considered normal, by at least one writer. I defer to his
greater wisdom, and I won`t worry about my situation.

       All these types are real!
       To quote Walt Whitman: “Do I contradict myself? Very
well, I contradict myself!  I am large. I contain multitudes!”

I do have a problem here, however. I don`t want to
offend you people who are interested enough to read some of these words for whatever reason.  You`re the only friends I have….pretty much… 
       I`m more or less a hermit, after all.
Also, quite apart from friendship, and respect for one`s
people, there is the matter of advertising revenue.
       I`ve already been told that I`m too much of a twisted freak to advertise on Google.
       So here`s what I propose to do:    Attempt to divide up
articles into 3 types.   (A) stories are the type told by the sensitive mystic, poet and spiritual guy, ballad singer; (B)type stories are by the dirty, nasty blues player, the criminal defence attorney, the pissed-off political prick; (C)stories done by the S&M afficionado, the expert in whips, crops, canes, chains, sadistic twists, apologies and humiliation…Inc. In other words, stories by the TWISTED
FREAK GOOGLE objects to.
          There is also the religious maniac who wants to pillage and burn and brand “SHAME” into the foreheads of
those church fools and lackeys, thieves and con-men, and
 evil manipulative greedy condescending FAT FRUITS (no
offence to our gay cousins)
who have twisted our religious history out of all recognition…
so we can`t find our native path, our heritage way to redemption.
            No, why should our priests and ministers show us
the way to redemption, when the GUILT-FORGIVENESS COMPLEX pays so much better!!!!!!!!!!!!   
           These supposedly sexless eunichs who told us
when to pay for forgiveness, should we just forgive them or should we make them pay?
            There`s a bit of my Victorian grandmother in me,
and I think we should endorse public lashings…
It`s cheap and it provides relief to  most of the population.
       Whew! My goodness!  My God!  Even I can`t shut him up, and he`s in me!… albeit a very half-sane and heated part of my psyche. Let`s call his articles Type X.  And I`ll mark the story at the top, in case you want to avoid the whole damn thing, as I do.  

       

including me…

        I seem to have lost the thread RE:  PERSONALITY GRADING JUST LIKE EGGS for my stories.

        I don`t know whether this downloaded video works . 
It`s about a guy who loses his testicles by accident.He`s on a talk show… and when the host hears his voice he starts to laugh!!!!             Funny!        Say no more!
        This is my first try at putting video in a blog… but if you can play it – the video above – it`s one of the funniest scenes I have seen in a long time.
        I highly recommend it.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A STREET PERSON —— MEETING FRIENDLY KILLERS

I always thought – if you really wanted to study a society
civilization, culture, it would be fair and best if
you were five people – each of you living in a different
socio-economic milieu…
        If you could be five people, 
you could live at five different economic  levels at once, then you
could  study society… with some justice, and no worries about prejudice towards certain ways of life.
        Why would you want to do this?
        Freedom is the goal in its many shapes sizes and morphs…  If you experience being rich, you realize it`s not the goal you thought it was – you don`t have to have it. Being loaded financially has it`s disadvantages, believe it or not.
You become dissociated from the other people. It`s goal – big houses with large yards, this ends up in isolation and exclusion – injecting codein into your groin, like Howard Hughes.
              Though, honestly, riches have an up side, too.
DUH!  But we all know wealth is desireable… Being rich
you learn what you are missing….
             Bob Dylan`s line: “Helpless like a rich man`s child.”
That line makes the point for me.


        So I decided to live as a street person and see
how that felt… I`ve been fairly broke recently, so
pretending I have no money is not going to be a
stretch.
        Anyway, I got a phone call from a guy called,
“Sideways” Bobby. He said he`d found my notebook.
         “Hey, that`s great, where`d you find it?”
         “Sherbourne Street and Queen…. There`s a park
there.  Do you know the park?”
         “Yes,” I said.
         “It was sittin` on a park bench right beside the phone booth.”
         “Well, anyway, that`s great.. How can I meet you?”
         “In the book it says reward,” Sideways said.
         “For sure! How about twenty bucks?”
         ” If it was a normal notebook, that`d be about right.
But there`s stories in it… I read three of them. They`re pretty damn good.  I`m sure you can sell the one about
the woman whipping the guy in the balls as he`s
giving her head…!  Everyone liked that one! It`s gotta be
worth money!  Did you make that up, or is it a true story?
 he asks.
          “It`s a true story,” I say.
          “Yeah, it`d be kind of hard to make something like
that up!   I felt like I was right there with ya.  Blew my load
more than once over that scene, I can tell you.”
           “Well, that`s the idea,” I say. “I want my stories
to inspire someone to do something.”
            “Well, you sure inspired me all right… and about
five other fellas in my  extended family were jerking off, too.
… up and down the hall.  The book`s a hit!”
            “I should meet you.  You sound like a good guy…
              “Yeah, come on down.”
               What should I bring when I come, booze-wise?”
I ask him.
             “Start with 24 beer, and then we`ll wing it….
              I was about to hang up and he said, “Oh, yeah
  and a bottle of rye.”
              “No problem,” I said 
               About an hour later I was driving downtown
with a couple of hundred dollars, a case of beer and
a bottle of rye.

              I met Sideways Bobby and he did walk
a little funny… sorta like he has at a prep school dance
and he was avoiding everybody, skirting round the
outside of the room… trying to avoid any grade sixers
girls who might ask him to dance… He seemed like a devoted wallflower…and then  add a little lemon and a  twist of paranoia.
              Bobby skulked into his own doorway, “Landlord
hates me,” he mumbled back towards me…. At that moment
I noticed a large shiny knife in his right suit jacket
pocket… which seemed to have been re-inforced
somehow….
              “Ahhh…. Can I ask you something?”
               “Shhhhhh!  Wait until we`re inside!”””

                We went inside… and then there were
three of us – the new guy, a great big indian fella,
who looked as if he`d prefer to cut our throats
with a razor, rather than talk to us… He didn`t say
a word, but he brought us three glasses… set them 
emphatically in front of the couch Sideways Bobby and I were
sitting on.
         The couch was the only item of furniture in the
whole room….. the room wasn`t large,  about twenty by twenty,  but still….
         Bobby jerked his thumb off towards where the
large six foot six,  first nations person was standing.
Clearly he looked homicidal.
          I poured about four inches of whiskey into each
of the e ounce glasses….The Indian topped us up.
so our glasses were full —- of (oh, oh) ditch-fighting Canadian rye whiskey.

          When I go out on the town these days, which is rare,
I worry more about   creating a horrible scene, playing
a hilarious prank… or scaring the piss out of
a room of diners…
          Sometimes, if I really have drunk too much rye
and I`ve had no water chasers, and I`ve eaten nothing in the
last couple of days … I have a tendency to
climb church towers and ring the bells
and call out to the town, with my arms outstretched
in an embracing posture … calling the whole fucking
town forth to WORSHIP!
           Well, I`ve spend some timee in various locked
units….and it wouldn`t happen except for the
sense of humour I have when I drink…. snake-kicking
Canadian Rye Whiskey—– it`ll get you off your reservation even if you ain`t supposed to be on one… ha! ha!

      We all have our own private resevations that we`ll be arrested if we step off…  Mine is rye whiskey.

       Now all three of us are sitting on the couch –  it`s a four seater,  so the three of us can just bearely fit…
       Sideways has wolfed his first six ounces of rye… then he gets up, stumbles across the room… walks   smack into the wall which looks like real plaster and pisses himself….
       Now he`s on the floor and talking to someone who is not
in the room.
       And so at this moment it`s just me and the big Indian on the couch.I notice he has a straight razor about for inches from his wrist on the arm of the couch.
        He`s six feet six insches tall;  he`s bigger around than
an oil drum!  He doesn`t NEED a fucking razor!
       Neither of us should drink another drop of  more rye
Canadian Rye…. There are 10-15 ounces left in the 40 ouncer.
      “You had any breakfast?”  I ask him
      “This is breakfast,” he says
      “Me too,” I answer.
        We both start to laugh… This guy`s OK.  He`s
just as crazy and paranoid as I am…. And he`s been locked
up, I can tell…. He`s wary, but at the moment he doesn`t
give a fuck  about any cops or insane addicts, crazed mad-jealous husbands (“horn mad” as they used to say in England)… neither do I… No one`s coming at us now,
I`m happy to say.
         I attempt to use my cell.  Shane grabs my wrist
and has the razor to my throat. I could have dodged it
but I`ve accepted Shane as not being a total
loon.  
          He gives his head a shake, says, “Sorry. Thought
you were a parole officer…”
           I laugh….”Not me!”I say, “And I can prove it…
Got my record back where I live… but now… too drunk to drive…Im trying to order more rye.  That OK?”
           “Yes, sir!”  he waves  both his arms at me
in some kind of a back-bush salute.

            We sit back down. I wave him over.  We put our heads together; ” Look, we can`t be insane and drink any more rye together.  How we going to do it?
             “I tell you when you`re losing it,” he says.
             “And if you are losing it?” I ask.
             “Then you`re fucked!”

             I`m liking this guy more and more….
             “No problem…. only the deal is we put our
weapons in that corner drawer.”
             He squints at me… says, “Weapons?”
And he grins.
             This guy is smart.  He`s just playing a role – the big
dumb guy (with very fast hands, I noticed). He`s not
dumb.  He`s bright, bright, bright…”
             “You bugger,” I say, looking him in the eye. “When did you know?”
             “Looking at you, I assumed… You were too confident
in a strange situation… nonchalant. I know you`re a writer,
but still… I scare the piss out of most people… Most people leave in a hurry.  Here you are buying me rye… You had to be armed,” he says.
             “You first,” I say. He stands up and blots out the sun
and puts his gleaming straight razor in the corner drawer.
I stand up and extract a one pound lead sap from under my
left arm. I put it in the drawer.
           “This could crack a skull…” he says.
            “I hope so!” I laugh. Then say,  “Depends how you use it.”


    







Saturday, September 7, 2013

THE FIRST DUTY OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS OWN PEOPLE …………………………………………………………………………THE STUDY OF JURISPRUDENCE, THE MORALITY OF LAW ………………………………………………………………………………………….GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!!………………………………………………………….DEAR LORD, HELP US KEEP THEM SOUND!

           THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER 
                          BEFORE IT HAPPENS.
DUE PROCESS OF LAW – THE ONLY
PROTECTION IN QUESTIONABLE TIMES
__________________________________

                   ____________________  

          Now, you can say what you like about my father.
          (Just don`t say it in front of me).
          
           I didn`t always like him, and he certainly didn`t always care for me, but if a leader is someone who keeps his people safe, then  he was a leader. And there`s not too much
you can say against that now, is there?

IMAGINED SCENARIO:        If our fourteen families know we`re untouchable, but we suspect a 32nd cousin we`ve never met – if we know this distant cousin might be dragged off into the night, tortured and murdered some time before dawn…
        Well, how safe do we really feel?

        The only element in our lives that protects us… and that
protects us without fail: it is the DUE PROCESS OF THE
LAW.
         We can make fun of lawyers all we like, and God knows we like to… and I like to, too… But I have been a lawyer,
and only after practising and at the same time making fun
of the practice…. only after a considerable time
appearing in Criminal Court and keeping my stupid violent friends, and my crazy associates.. and myself out of jail…
         And also, only after protecting various helpless people – helpless because (eg: she loved her husband utterly… helpless because he was enslaved to his wife unmercifully… after protecting such people by arguing for their situations… only then…
        Only then did I realize… this was no joke!
         The criminal defence lawyer is a hero, or ought to be.              We should not make fun of him or her… this person, if he is doing his job, this person is working
THE THIN EDGE OF THE WEDGE… on your behalf.
          And if we pay him/her plenty, good! A defence attorney
who is not lazy, careless, and suffering from some
variety of “moral turpetude”… this person is your last, your penultimate, defence against a government that has degenerated into arrogant and insolent brutality.

           Now I have always been a physically strong
individual. I have defended bike gangs and stupid
brutes of all persuasion… and I have gotten most of them
off with light sentences… if I felt that was what they deserved…
            I usually believe jail, incarceration behind steel bars, is such a medieval torture that we don`t
need to inflict this stupidity upon our civilization.
            BUT…. the last line of defence…. the ULTIMATE
defence we as a people have is… a DECENT judge
who is not afraid to rule with kindness.
           
            REAL STRENGTH IS KINDNESS; TRUE STRENGTH
IS NOT BRUTALITY, BUT DEFENCE AGAINST BRUTALITY
 
           
             That applies to all legal workers, too – a decent cop,
a decent defence lawyer…and… PLEASE tell me there are some decent prosecutors…. I`m sure there are some. I just
can`t remember  any… all the ones I have known have been
in such a breathless, gasping hurry to move up the monkey ladder of success…
             To get promoted!.. To get a bigger wage and  more public accolades in  newspapers… This can`t be true of them all! 
             Please tell me there are some decent, fair, non- sycophantic prosecutors!
           But judges, judges I am not so worried about…(unless the judge is in thrall to some dark force). Most judges are decent guys, however misguided some decisions
end up being… most of these people actually attempt justice.
         I have met some fools, but I have met mostly decent judges… And I have encountered some judges
who are approaching sainthood.

        So what is the ISSUE here?  The issue is – we seem to
be degenerating into FASCIST times.

        A lawyer I used to know and respect was Edwin A. Goodman, lead partner in Goodman and Goodman,Barristers and Solicitors, Toronto. He was almost family.
        I asked Eddie, “How do you do it?” (Because the guy seemed brilliant to me) ” What is the most important thing?
How is it –  the way you hone in so quickly? How do you decide – immediately – exactly what to argue, in order to win a case?”
        Eddie said: ” You`ve go to look at the situation and
study it, and read all the circumstances… and when you know you`ve covered it, you`ve got to stand back… you`ve got to  almost intuit – then choose THE ISSUE… Then that`s what you work with…that`s what you argue…when you know what the case is really about.”
         The other guys I knew well…because I was fortunate enough to work in their office…I knew  some of the lawyers in Davis, Webb and Holindrake, Brampton. I used to enjoy those guys, a fine bunch of fellas they were. And Tom
Dunn was one of them, and Ron Webb was another. Tom
Dunn is now a judge, and Ron Webb deserves to be sitting
somewhere close to the right hand of God, if he`s still alive,
which I hope he is.
          I`m not going to identify the other guys, because I have some discretion, but let me say, there wasn`t a dud in the house.
         Hollindrake was swearing an affidavit for me one time.
I said, “Yes. I swear that`s my signature.”
          The experienced, strong-willed and mostly truthful man
looked piercingly  into my eyes through his glasses and
said: “You are swearing to the truth of the statement…
not just as to your signature.”
           It was not a pleasant moment for me. I looked a bit of a fool. Of course, he was right. He was stating the obvious.
But it was a principle, in my hurry, I`d forgotten. I was swearing to the truth of my statement. This is not an
empty idea.
            

          Now how do I judge a lawyer? By competence first, yes. But not by how many victories he`s had in Court…. (Although victories don`t hurt if you`re keeping people out of jail, people who deserve to be free).  I judge a lawyer by
how decent a person he is, and how decent he is to others…
not just in Court. And whether he`s competent to help me.
            I stopped doing family law because of all the
endless opportunities that exist there to screw a whole family over… I`m not always a good person… And when I`m working
for an attractive wife against a monstrous husband…. there are too many opportunities… to act out my evil nature..  I`m not that much of a shit, but, boy, I wanted to be. 
            Cross-examining some poor dildo of a husband –
who  has been a fool, but perhaps he has also been
manipulated by his wife…. if the guy has worked for his family for five years – I can`t cross-examine him properly.
It`s too easy to screw him. And I won`t do it!
             And it`s too easy to screw the wife, also.
            
             It`s primarily family law – husbands with shotguns,
shooting lawyers – it is this situation that necessitated
metal detectors at the entrance to the Courts in Toronto.
Real estate, Criminal Law, no problem. But I will
not practice family law. It is important to know your limitations.

I once asked Ron Webb…. we were before the OMB
(Ontario Municipal Board). I was his assistant attorney.
There were many millions at stake… It was a licensing
 matter. And I couldn`t catch his technique. I was merely
trying to learn and I thought there must be some clever devices involved.
            How was he being so persuasive? HOW was he
doing it? He was winning the case, and I didn`t know what
EDGE   he was using, what technique… what angle…
            After he won the case, I asked him. I know this might
sound naive, but it`s not. I asked him how did he do it? How did he win this case and so many others? Why did people keep hiring him for huge fees?
          He said:” It`s simple. I just go into Court and I OUT-HONEST everyone else. I use honesty.
That`s my trick. That`s my secret. It never fails.”

             All I can say, when I think of that answer, is: “WOW!”
          
              That is not the answer I expected to get from a top-earning Canadian attorney. But he wasn`t kidding. He was not lying to me.  I watched him in action closely many times. I was right beside him and I saw no sign of falsehood.
           This honesty approach –  he meant it!   He did courtroom law that way.  And he was  a winner!!! Big time,
a winner!

            Now the purpose of the article. An ISSUE has come up.  The ISSUE IS – certain individuals in North America have
been given the “authority” to order the deaths of other individuals,without a trial and without due process – is this legal?
             Several people have asked me this question. To be
honest, a LOT of people have asked me this question.
(And who am I? I`m just a former decent man lawyer…
with a criminal record, which I ought to get expunged…)
           I`m a good lawyer who discovered he is a great rhythm guitar player. But people still ask me questions
such as this. And I take the role seriously. It is my duty to do so. In some respects, in this instance, I am the court of last resort.

                 The simple, correct and unimpeachable answer to the above question is this:

LEGAL STATEMENT:          ” In no circumstances, even under a situation of war or alleged war, may one man order the death of another man without proper trial and due process under the law.”   
         (In this instance, “man” includes and also means, “woman” or “person”)                      END OF STATEMENT
                 
            This is the principal a democracy is founded upon. We are not living under a King. We are living under the Rule of Law.
                 There is just no legal way to do it, and never can
be any legal way to do it: to give an innocent person the power of life and death over another innocent person.
                 Any man who orders the death of another man without due process… such a man is guilty of  and
ought to be be tried and found guilty of murder. 
                  There is no statutory limitation for murder.

                 This answer will not please my fascist friends
or my biker clients.
                  But “Dem`s da facts, Jojo!”

                   Such a power, if it existed, would negate
every basic principle that a democracy is founded upon.
                    Such a power can never be ratified by law.
                     Such a power is always impeachable.

                     If you want to know my background. I`m a student of Constitutional law. I was lucky enough to
study three years with Dr. Lederman, Queens University,
Ontario.
                      The only prize I ever received, informally
or formally, was a prize for essays and lectures in the study of the Sociology of Law —  they didn`t have a proper name
for this study at that time.
                     I prefer to call this study: JURISPRUDENCE.
The study of THE MORALITY OF LAW.

                     And… brothers and sisters in law school,
and you, comrads, who have passed the Bar…
encourage your sons and daughters, your legal lovers
and friends – encourage them to study this subject
which is still undefined.

                   And in so doing, let us say: 
         
                   “GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!”  
  

                    Lord, help us make them sound.                  
      
                                                             
                                  * * * * * * * *

                         
.
                    
               

Friday, September 6, 2013

L`ETRANGER, THE STRANGER, THE OUTSIDER —– THE OBSERVER WHO WATCHES FROM THE EDGES OF SOCIETY -THE ARTIST, THE LEADER ……………………………………………………………………………………………..VAN GOGH SENDS HIS EAR TO THE WOMAN HE LOVES FROM A DISTANCE

Some years back, I was studying “L`Etranger” by Camus,
which is: `The stranger`, “The Outsider”…

      The man standing  outside the restaurant windows in the large  city – Paris, Toronto, New York, London – he might be
highly intelligence, but he does not partake of the affluence
of society; he`s not included in the good times or good food; he`s not invited to  cocktail parties,couples groups in fine restaurants.  He is totally excluded for one reason most of all: he is an observer.
         The only consolation L`Etranger has for all this rejection and ostracizing – he knows that most fine artists
live lives as solitaries. Oh yes, they may be in the
midst of a family, or they may not. But one thing is sure –
they are alone. They are alone now, and they have always been alone. Even when they are in a bar attempting to
talk to others, or at the funeral of a loved one,
the artist might be acutely observing the scene;
but he is detatched, an outsider – he is The Stranger.
           There are too many examples of this “healthy sickness” – too many examples to count: Van Gogh,
why didn`t he have sex with the prostitute? Why did he
send his ear to her? 
           Because he was too detached?   Likely so…
Detached, yes, alienated, apart from… observing…
He saw her closely; he saw her so completely
that he loved her in a way she had never been
loved… 
          She may not have known this… (What do
any of us know about the people around us?) 
But she likely sensed it – she may not have sensed
his love; she might have thought it was lust… but she
certainly sensed his attention.
         He was detached. He saw her every colour, uncertainty
and frown. He probably never took her hand, or
shared a coffee with her. But he loved her in a way
that no one ever had…
         
        Although, if you look at it from the woman`s
point of view. I am sure she would have rather had sex with the man instead of being observed so closely… even if he
looked at her with utter love, what good was that to her?
She might have thought…  She was busy.  She had
a child perhaps and cats to take care of.
         I`m sure she would have preferred to take the man`s
hand… but to endure his disconcerting stare?
         Who among us want to be observed so closely?
Most of us have our little guilts and paranoias…
who has the gift of repose?
          Sometimes the artist.  And sometimes not.
         
           Van Gogh likely would have preferred to take
her hand, also, or to pat her rump. But it was not to
be. He was too much the outsider, too much
the stranger…
        If he had been able to hold her hand, he would
not have had to send her his ear.
        Of the few women I can think of at the moment –
none of them would be more likely
to spend time with me, if I sent them
my ear.
        What do you think, my lady? If I sent you my ear,
would that patch up the differences between us?
Would that make everything all right.
         Or would I be taking another trip
up the hill into a locked unit?

          Close attention makes people uncomfortable.
They have their own lives to lead, and they do not
need some maniac perched like a jackdaw on the back
of the chair next to them… closely watching
the expressions on your face.

        But most true artists are exactly that: painters
and writers have been primarily that – observers…. 
Maniacs,madmen, excluded outlaws and pariahs
they are the watchers no groups are comfortable with…

      And so the artists are found looking in
through the glass  into the restaurant from the cold sidewalk…

Shivering in a wet raincoat with two dollars and forty cents
in your pocket… if you go to a cheap restaurant, you
can just about buy a coffee.

And when you go home, you can eat your oil paints
instead of bread.

*

               I remember years ago I walked into a room where my old man was sitting. I said to him, talking about Camus.

       “This guy says that there`s nothing but time
which destroys all things…. absurdity…
and death.”I said to him.

        My dad jumped up out of his chair and shouted:

        “WHY DOESN`T HE JUST KILL HIMSELF, THEN?”

         His face got red, and he was making
those strangling motions with his hands that meant
“He doesn`t have to bother!  I`ll kill him himself,
save the idiot the trouble!  Then he doesn`t
have to worry about philosophy…. he`ll be too
busy on the ground trying to find his teeth!”
            “All my life I`ve been running lumber camps!
120 men going to bed each night with very few distractions..
Do you think ANYBODY wanted to rise early in the dark at 5:00AM in the WINTER… do you think anybody wanted to get up? No, we would have preferred to sleep in and get drunk as soon as we woke up…. just to get a little  rest…just to take a deep breath….
        “Then  when we had a little time … Do you think we`d want to talk about philosophy then??”
             “I guess not,” I said…. I was quieter when I was twenty….
             “No!” my father continued, “The`d want a woman
or a steak… or maybe just to talk to their kids!

“THE ONLY PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION IS  SUICIDE.”
Camus

             “They might not want to spend their day off thinking
about that!”
            “No!  But too many of them  did end up killing themselves or defeating themselves… anyway.Maybe they
asked the one philosophical question; maybe they didn`t”
             My father sat in the chair next to me, said:
             “Listen to me: 

“THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS PEOPLE!”    

He went into another room and shut the door.


                                    *

            When I was a young man I thought my father
 didn`t know anything…. He didn`t know
about the street….thieves and knives, judo 
and utter alienation. The observing eye, watching
at the outskirts of society.
            Madness lies that  way, partner.

             That`s what I thought, that my old man
didn`t know much.Later I realized he was dealing with other sharks,than I was. Mine had knives.  His were smiling men whose teeth were well hidden.  Smooth invaders would take your house, then smile and wave goodbye when all your possessions were gone
             Each person`s life creates different necessities.
        
              THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER
               BEFORE IT HAPPENS.

         

                  

Saturday, August 31, 2013

LITTER CRITTERS! BIG KITTEN IN THE BUSH AND PUBLIC SERVANT WITH ATTITUDE!

There I was, sitting against a great round stone, my feet extended before me in the grass… relaxed as anyone has any right to be…staring at the sky… dreaming…
listening to bits of birdsong, pure liquid notes…
           
              I feel asleep… It was six AM at the
edge of the woods in northern Ontario, and I`m happy
to say the flies were dead. at least, most of them… Though
I am told no human being is farther than 13 feet from a spider most of the days of their life…. there`s always a spider just four yards away….
          Whether this is true or not I have no idea.          

           


           Now I`m asleep. And I`m dreaming of something pleasant and I felt something  thick tugging at my pants…  a sweet dream,
no problems – clear sailing in all directions…. Then
something sharp nips me in my ankle.
            I wake up mad with the sun in my eyes.
I cant`t see a damn thing, except…I can feel…
 sharp pins and needles in my ankle…something`s nipping at my jeans!
            I sit up, bend forward like I`m doing yoga,  open my eyes, and try to let them clear. 
         Two minutes pass. Something is staring right back at me into my eyes from two inches away. It has the most pale  eyes I`ve ever seen…
            I don`t know whether to kill it, pet it… or laugh.
My first impulse is to scream… or throw the evil white-eyed
little beastie right into Lake Temagami… right now with
the wind up and the  waves white-capping in late August.
The little critter is pretty playful…. My black lab friend, Eric, who lives with me is panting in my right ear  beside me. He is watching the little demon with me, just as
I am.. His tail is thumping in the sand.

            I ask Eric, “Can this guy eat meat?”
`           Eric says: “Woof!”  
            The  pale-eyed tiny demon bites my nose.
This answers the question about the meat. The little
beast is a meat eater, all right!
            The question now is: “Can the not so little kitten digest meat, after it bites it?”
             I taste blood in my mouth.I want to kill the nasty little thing, but I don`t.




              There`s a chilly wind that blows right across the the length of the lake, even before  freeze up happens.  And there`s nothing pleasant about that wind – especially if you
are paddling a canoe…
              You have to pull  the canoe up on shore… if you have no rope, I find it`s best to lay a rock gently inside
 the boat. Then lie under the damn thing, or sit under a tall white pine  and wait for the storm to pass.

              No point being in a hurry in a time like that…

              I have one bit of advice about  Bush Survival.
And I can make all the advice I`ve every heard about
not dying in the bush, I can make it simple. It all
can be reduced to one Rule.
               The Rule can be reduced to one sentence
about how to survive in the wilderness… everything else
follows from this one Rule:  “NEVER HURRY IN THE BUSH!”
               Those of you who have spent a couple of months in the bush, on the water alone – you`ll know EXACTLY what I`m talking about.
            

   “It`s bloody when you`re born
and bloody when you die,
and sometimes bloody in between.”
         
        I looked deeply into the eyes of the large
kitten. It`s quiet for a second appears to be happy. It
tries to bite my nose. It scratches my right hand.
I throw her in the air and let her land (safely) on

a tree.
          From a distance I look more closely at her.
Even at a distance, she hisses at me. What a little
demon!
          Rewarding bad behaviour, I put some milk
in a bowl. She sticks her head in the milk
and makes rude sucking noises…. I get it. I get
it. I understand.
         I put some  milk in an eye-dropper
and slip it to her – the glass tube
into her mouth… this is the idea. She starts sucking 
hard and happily…
         I say, “OOooo, you`re such a little sweetie.
She stops sucking and hisses at me…
This is one tough  kitty.

        
         There is something wrong with this situation.
The kitten`s big, big enough to eat solid food.
I cook some hamburger meat for her/him. She
won`t touch it. She sniffs at it, leaves  it.
Like she didn`t know what it is. The damn
cat looks about ten weeks old. Her eyes
are open and she is robust enough to be
unpleasant and nasty most of the time.
          I know nothing about cat litters
except I`ve seen a few…unwillingly.
The litter critters are cute, I have to say
that… but then again, all babies are
beautiful… even  young snakes,
I suppose…  (if anyone has pics of young
snakes, send them to me and I won`t 
post them! Ha! Ha!)
                                                                                        

          I call the humane society
and I say, “I think I`ve got a sick cat.  She won`t
eat meat… and she scratches the shit out of me.”
         The woman on the phone says: “Not eating meat is a bad sign….. scratching the shit out of you is a good
sign.”
         “Easy for you to say! What kind of a woman
are you?  Are you sure you should be
answering the phone in a public office?” I ask.
         She laughs and laughs… takes a deep breath
and says, “You`re an idiot.” Then she hangs up.


           I call her  right back.She insists I take the cat to a vet
before she sees it. I make fun of her for that
attitude.
           I present the  problem to the woman on the phone one more time  about the cat scratching the shit out of me
and hissing every time I move…
         She says: “Maybe you`d better bring that nasty kitten in to the office here, after all… After talking to you for three minutes, I think I want to adopt it.”

       Now I`m out of milk and birds are staring at
the little bit of hamburger I have left, which I`ve
cooked on an open fire outside.                                        
       There are a bunch of ravens in the white pine 
above me.  They are gurgling and hooting
and looking at the scrambling little meal which is
the kitten  on my head.
       They`d eat me, too, if I was dead.. But I`m, not and they
know I`m not,,, Pale eyed cat hissing at my bleeding twitching nose is just about beak size for the flying crowd above me.
             They`re up there in the branches wondering if I`m going to  eat her first.That`s not going to happen.
             But peace has not been declared  yet.
The damn thing`s under my shirt into my armpit now.
I want to go back to sleep… but that`s impossible
               People talk about finding peace and quiet in the
wilderness…but the wilderness is not always peaceful. Right now it is anything but quiet. The damn thing bites my armpit.
I sit up and shout.
            
             I pick the  critter up and 
by the back of the neck and flick the tip of my third finger against its nose. It (she?) hisses at me. I toss it gently
against the bark of the tree and it just hangs there, not moving…. The heavy cawing from above starts again…
            “Shut up!” I tell everybody. Nobody shuts
up…. The damn birds are really making a racket now.
I don`t like them. They don`t like me. That`s just the way
it`s going to be.
             I am getting to like the little tooth and
nail demon, though.She`s a fearless little thing. She doesn`t budge an inch, staring up at the big birds. I thinks she
wants to attack one of them. Her little nub of a tail is starting to twitch…as if she wants to crawl up the trunk towards them.
 It looks like she`s stalking them!

              Wait a minute!  What the hell is that?  She doesn`t
have a tail!
               Ah, shit!
                How did this happen?
                 Where`s mommy?

                  This is no domestic cat. 

                    No wonder she doesn`t eat meat. She`s
probably just three weeks old. This is a baby bobcat!
She`s hungry!  That`s why she keeps nipping at me…
and making teeny growling sounds… AWWW!  She`s
beautiful. And she`s not happy.  She`s getting desperate.
She`s sucking at the tip of my index finger.
                    I have to get her some more milk. I stand up,
move out from under the shelter of the white pines.
My head is soaked in a rain shower… I slip her under my
shirt and try to hold her to me with my elbow….No problem.
She`s holding on to me, too. I feel about fifteen little pins and needles piercing my left side. Damn!
                   I flip the canoe right way up and slip it into the water. I kneel inside the light little boat… knees right on the 
 fiberglass bottom, I can pick the canoe up with four fingers…
That`s how light it is.
                   I put the orange life preserver under my
right knee. I put my scarf in the neck of the life jacket
and I lay the kitten in the hole,and cover her with what once was an expensive scarf.  She hisses at me. 
                  I start to paddle across the stormy open water…. It`s about half a mile across the lake. I`m more or less keeping to the same direction as the wind blows us about…I paddle across towards the old log camp where I know
there`s some more milk concentrate.
                 In about twenty minutes I can feed the sweet
little demon… After she`s eaten, maybe both of us can get some sleep.
                 No one`s talking.  There`s just the water sounds
and the wind.


                                                          

                              
         


Thursday, August 29, 2013

IF YOU DON`T OFFEND SOMEBODY, YOU CAN`T TAKE A STEP!

Years ago a friend came to ask me a question.
He was studying Buddha`s philosophy and he was taking it seriously…So he asked me, “How can I live and not
kill sentient beings.”
      We were living in a small village and we had street
sweepers, who passed by at six A.M.  I said, “You know
those guys who sweet our streets each early morning?”
      “Yes,” he said.
       ” Every time they sweep a broom across a sidewalk,
thousands of organisms are killed.  You can`t live, you
can`t take a step without killing something…Without killing
sentient beings, you cannot take a step.”

        Thinking back on this discussion, it feels like I was
quoting the beginning of the Bhagavad Gita
when the god gives Arjuna advice….

So…  this is exactly what I was talking to myself about… what concerns me….
I do not want you to suddenly see a
nasty, ugly…. truly offensive passage from me –
one that`s like a kick in the pants…

That`s not my game or my idea,,,,   ,,,I don`t have
a game! Or an idea! But some pretty ugly moments
can emerge on the virgin page
             
               
           
                   I do not want to hurt your
feelings…. with some sudden eruption…   By being…
 the prick that I often am.

             I`m hoping you have your bad moments, too,
yourself – like when you step on a nail… or
your cousin convinces you to take the wrong
medication anally… or….
           Or… anything! 
            Perhaps you will be understanding….

            You know those beautiful look-outs you
see when you are driving along a highway….
say, in Pennsylvania …. after turning a corner
and rising up above a cliff….?
           And you pull over off the highway…  and…
you look at the magnificent view…. well,
you don`t need some fool to kick you in the face
right then…!  Is that right? Is that correct?

           The problem is… humour is based on exactly such surprises.
           It`s annoying…And when it`s really ugly and a shock, it`s funny!
            
           Still…  I don`t want
to bore you like some noon-day preacher.
I really hate those guys!
         They are duplicitous fools! And one thing
I don`t want to be is duplicitous —-
         Being a fool doesn`t worry me so much…
No fools, no fun!

          I suppose there is no answer to this dilemma,
except more careful editing.  That`s what I`ll try to do.
         

 



         
        
           





Wednesday, August 28, 2013

MAN LOSES TESTICLES (BY ACCIDENT) TALK SHOW HOST STARTS TO LAUGH…. …………….plus GRADING ARTICLES LIKE EGGS, TYPING STORIES LIKE MOVIES….to protect the DELICATE, HUNGOVER, SENSITIVE AND INNOCENT

STORY TYPES:A    =  Sensitive

B     =   Dirty nasty, blues singer, political prick

C     =   sADIST and Masocist,  S&M  Adept… Joy in
             Pain….  Sex and Power

X     =     TWISTED FREAK

I get letters to this effect: “I read one of your stories and you are a sweet back-woods mystic type. Today I read you
and it`s all about perversions and violence.  SEX, VIOLENCE, AND SPIRITUAL MATTERS.  WHAT THE
HELL AM I GOING TO GET, DAY BY DAY??!!!?”

      Well, to answer I must say, “WHO KNOWS?”   
       I am of the following opinion: to write well you must write
with no repressions or inhibition whatsoever…. I guess the editing comes later.  But I`s rather not edit out spontaneous
bursts…. just want to edit out the boring stuff…
       So let`s try this grading system.

      I am not some kind of sick split-personality type,
but I am a different type (if we can type it)…There are
many people within me.  We all share the same soul, more or less.  And what`s important to me, each of us knows what the
other person is doing. (Otherwise I`m psychotic… which in psychological parlance means, “fucked”!)
       If you study a  Tibetan  Spiritual Text, you might
be surprised that many personalities in one person
is considered normal, by at least one writer. I defer to his
greater wisdom, and I won`t worry about my situation.

       All these types are real!
       To quote Walt Whitman: “Do I contradict myself? Very
well, I contradict myself!  I am large. I contain multitudes!”

I do have a problem here, however. I don`t want to
offend you people who are interested enough to read some of these words for whatever reason.  You`re the only friends I have….pretty much… 
       I`m more or less a hermit, after all.
Also, quite apart from friendship, and respect for one`s
people, there is the matter of advertising revenue.
       I`ve already been told that I`m too much of a twisted freak to advertise on Google.
       So here`s what I propose to do:    Attempt to divide up
articles into 3 types.   (A) stories are the type told by the sensitive mystic, poet and spiritual guy, ballad singer; (B)type stories are by the dirty, nasty blues player, the criminal defence attorney, the pissed-off political prick; (C)stories done by the S&M afficionado, the expert in whips, crops, canes, chains, sadistic twists, apologies and humiliation…Inc. In other words, stories by the TWISTED
FREAK GOOGLE objects to.
          There is also the religious maniac who wants to pillage and burn and brand “SHAME” into the foreheads of
those church fools and lackeys, thieves and con-men, and
 evil manipulative greedy condescending FAT FRUITS (no
offence to our gay cousins)
who have twisted our religious history out of all recognition…
so we can`t find our native path, our heritage way to redemption.
            No, why should our priests and ministers show us
the way to redemption, when the GUILT-FORGIVENESS COMPLEX pays so much better!!!!!!!!!!!!   
           These supposedly sexless eunichs who told us
when to pay for forgiveness, should we just forgive them or should we make them pay?
            There`s a bit of my Victorian grandmother in me,
and I think we should endorse public lashings…
It`s cheap and it provides relief to  most of the population.
       Whew! My goodness!  My God!  Even I can`t shut him up, and he`s in me!… albeit a very half-sane and heated part of my psyche. Let`s call his articles Type X.  And I`ll mark the story at the top, in case you want to avoid the whole damn thing, as I do.  

       

including me…

        I seem to have lost the thread RE:  PERSONALITY GRADING JUST LIKE EGGS for my stories.

        I don`t know whether this downloaded video works . 
It`s about a guy who loses his testicles by accident.He`s on a talk show… and when the host hears his voice he starts to laugh!!!!             Funny!        Say no more!
        This is my first try at putting video in a blog… but if you can play it – the video above – it`s one of the funniest scenes I have seen in a long time.
        I highly recommend it.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A STREET PERSON —— MEETING FRIENDLY KILLERS

I always thought – if you really wanted to study a society
civilization, culture, it would be fair and best if
you were five people – each of you living in a different
socio-economic milieu…
        If you could be five people, 
you could live at five different economic  levels at once, then you
could  study society… with some justice, and no worries about prejudice towards certain ways of life.
        Why would you want to do this?
        Freedom is the goal in its many shapes sizes and morphs…  If you experience being rich, you realize it`s not the goal you thought it was – you don`t have to have it. Being loaded financially has it`s disadvantages, believe it or not.
You become dissociated from the other people. It`s goal – big houses with large yards, this ends up in isolation and exclusion – injecting codein into your groin, like Howard Hughes.
              Though, honestly, riches have an up side, too.
DUH!  But we all know wealth is desireable… Being rich
you learn what you are missing….
             Bob Dylan`s line: “Helpless like a rich man`s child.”
That line makes the point for me.


        So I decided to live as a street person and see
how that felt… I`ve been fairly broke recently, so
pretending I have no money is not going to be a
stretch.
        Anyway, I got a phone call from a guy called,
“Sideways” Bobby. He said he`d found my notebook.
         “Hey, that`s great, where`d you find it?”
         “Sherbourne Street and Queen…. There`s a park
there.  Do you know the park?”
         “Yes,” I said.
         “It was sittin` on a park bench right beside the phone booth.”
         “Well, anyway, that`s great.. How can I meet you?”
         “In the book it says reward,” Sideways said.
         “For sure! How about twenty bucks?”
         ” If it was a normal notebook, that`d be about right.
But there`s stories in it… I read three of them. They`re pretty damn good.  I`m sure you can sell the one about
the woman whipping the guy in the balls as he`s
giving her head…!  Everyone liked that one! It`s gotta be
worth money!  Did you make that up, or is it a true story?
 he asks.
          “It`s a true story,” I say.
          “Yeah, it`d be kind of hard to make something like
that up!   I felt like I was right there with ya.  Blew my load
more than once over that scene, I can tell you.”
           “Well, that`s the idea,” I say. “I want my stories
to inspire someone to do something.”
            “Well, you sure inspired me all right… and about
five other fellas in my  extended family were jerking off, too.
… up and down the hall.  The book`s a hit!”
            “I should meet you.  You sound like a good guy…
              “Yeah, come on down.”
               What should I bring when I come, booze-wise?”
I ask him.
             “Start with 24 beer, and then we`ll wing it….
              I was about to hang up and he said, “Oh, yeah
  and a bottle of rye.”
              “No problem,” I said 
               About an hour later I was driving downtown
with a couple of hundred dollars, a case of beer and
a bottle of rye.

              I met Sideways Bobby and he did walk
a little funny… sorta like he has at a prep school dance
and he was avoiding everybody, skirting round the
outside of the room… trying to avoid any grade sixers
girls who might ask him to dance… He seemed like a devoted wallflower…and then  add a little lemon and a  twist of paranoia.
              Bobby skulked into his own doorway, “Landlord
hates me,” he mumbled back towards me…. At that moment
I noticed a large shiny knife in his right suit jacket
pocket… which seemed to have been re-inforced
somehow….
              “Ahhh…. Can I ask you something?”
               “Shhhhhh!  Wait until we`re inside!”””

                We went inside… and then there were
three of us – the new guy, a great big indian fella,
who looked as if he`d prefer to cut our throats
with a razor, rather than talk to us… He didn`t say
a word, but he brought us three glasses… set them 
emphatically in front of the couch Sideways Bobby and I were
sitting on.
         The couch was the only item of furniture in the
whole room….. the room wasn`t large,  about twenty by twenty,  but still….
         Bobby jerked his thumb off towards where the
large six foot six,  first nations person was standing.
Clearly he looked homicidal.
          I poured about four inches of whiskey into each
of the e ounce glasses….The Indian topped us up.
so our glasses were full —- of (oh, oh) ditch-fighting Canadian rye whiskey.

          When I go out on the town these days, which is rare,
I worry more about   creating a horrible scene, playing
a hilarious prank… or scaring the piss out of
a room of diners…
          Sometimes, if I really have drunk too much rye
and I`ve had no water chasers, and I`ve eaten nothing in the
last couple of days … I have a tendency to
climb church towers and ring the bells
and call out to the town, with my arms outstretched
in an embracing posture … calling the whole fucking
town forth to WORSHIP!
           Well, I`ve spend some timee in various locked
units….and it wouldn`t happen except for the
sense of humour I have when I drink…. snake-kicking
Canadian Rye Whiskey—– it`ll get you off your reservation even if you ain`t supposed to be on one… ha! ha!

      We all have our own private resevations that we`ll be arrested if we step off…  Mine is rye whiskey.

       Now all three of us are sitting on the couch –  it`s a four seater,  so the three of us can just bearely fit…
       Sideways has wolfed his first six ounces of rye… then he gets up, stumbles across the room… walks   smack into the wall which looks like real plaster and pisses himself….
       Now he`s on the floor and talking to someone who is not
in the room.
       And so at this moment it`s just me and the big Indian on the couch.I notice he has a straight razor about for inches from his wrist on the arm of the couch.
        He`s six feet six insches tall;  he`s bigger around than
an oil drum!  He doesn`t NEED a fucking razor!
       Neither of us should drink another drop of  more rye
Canadian Rye…. There are 10-15 ounces left in the 40 ouncer.
      “You had any breakfast?”  I ask him
      “This is breakfast,” he says
      “Me too,” I answer.
        We both start to laugh… This guy`s OK.  He`s
just as crazy and paranoid as I am…. And he`s been locked
up, I can tell…. He`s wary, but at the moment he doesn`t
give a fuck  about any cops or insane addicts, crazed mad-jealous husbands (“horn mad” as they used to say in England)… neither do I… No one`s coming at us now,
I`m happy to say.
         I attempt to use my cell.  Shane grabs my wrist
and has the razor to my throat. I could have dodged it
but I`ve accepted Shane as not being a total
loon.  
          He gives his head a shake, says, “Sorry. Thought
you were a parole officer…”
           I laugh….”Not me!”I say, “And I can prove it…
Got my record back where I live… but now… too drunk to drive…Im trying to order more rye.  That OK?”
           “Yes, sir!”  he waves  both his arms at me
in some kind of a back-bush salute.

            We sit back down. I wave him over.  We put our heads together; ” Look, we can`t be insane and drink any more rye together.  How we going to do it?
             “I tell you when you`re losing it,” he says.
             “And if you are losing it?” I ask.
             “Then you`re fucked!”

             I`m liking this guy more and more….
             “No problem…. only the deal is we put our
weapons in that corner drawer.”
             He squints at me… says, “Weapons?”
And he grins.
             This guy is smart.  He`s just playing a role – the big
dumb guy (with very fast hands, I noticed). He`s not
dumb.  He`s bright, bright, bright…”
             “You bugger,” I say, looking him in the eye. “When did you know?”
             “Looking at you, I assumed… You were too confident
in a strange situation… nonchalant. I know you`re a writer,
but still… I scare the piss out of most people… Most people leave in a hurry.  Here you are buying me rye… You had to be armed,” he says.
             “You first,” I say. He stands up and blots out the sun
and puts his gleaming straight razor in the corner drawer.
I stand up and extract a one pound lead sap from under my
left arm. I put it in the drawer.
           “This could crack a skull…” he says.
            “I hope so!” I laugh. Then say,  “Depends how you use it.”


    







Saturday, September 7, 2013

THE FIRST DUTY OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS OWN PEOPLE …………………………………………………………………………THE STUDY OF JURISPRUDENCE, THE MORALITY OF LAW ………………………………………………………………………………………….GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!!………………………………………………………….DEAR LORD, HELP US KEEP THEM SOUND!

           THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER 
                          BEFORE IT HAPPENS.
DUE PROCESS OF LAW – THE ONLY
PROTECTION IN QUESTIONABLE TIMES
__________________________________

                   ____________________  

          Now, you can say what you like about my father.
          (Just don`t say it in front of me).
          
           I didn`t always like him, and he certainly didn`t always care for me, but if a leader is someone who keeps his people safe, then  he was a leader. And there`s not too much
you can say against that now, is there?

IMAGINED SCENARIO:        If our fourteen families know we`re untouchable, but we suspect a 32nd cousin we`ve never met – if we know this distant cousin might be dragged off into the night, tortured and murdered some time before dawn…
        Well, how safe do we really feel?

        The only element in our lives that protects us… and that
protects us without fail: it is the DUE PROCESS OF THE
LAW.
         We can make fun of lawyers all we like, and God knows we like to… and I like to, too… But I have been a lawyer,
and only after practising and at the same time making fun
of the practice…. only after a considerable time
appearing in Criminal Court and keeping my stupid violent friends, and my crazy associates.. and myself out of jail…
         And also, only after protecting various helpless people – helpless because (eg: she loved her husband utterly… helpless because he was enslaved to his wife unmercifully… after protecting such people by arguing for their situations… only then…
        Only then did I realize… this was no joke!
         The criminal defence lawyer is a hero, or ought to be.              We should not make fun of him or her… this person, if he is doing his job, this person is working
THE THIN EDGE OF THE WEDGE… on your behalf.
          And if we pay him/her plenty, good! A defence attorney
who is not lazy, careless, and suffering from some
variety of “moral turpetude”… this person is your last, your penultimate, defence against a government that has degenerated into arrogant and insolent brutality.

           Now I have always been a physically strong
individual. I have defended bike gangs and stupid
brutes of all persuasion… and I have gotten most of them
off with light sentences… if I felt that was what they deserved…
            I usually believe jail, incarceration behind steel bars, is such a medieval torture that we don`t
need to inflict this stupidity upon our civilization.
            BUT…. the last line of defence…. the ULTIMATE
defence we as a people have is… a DECENT judge
who is not afraid to rule with kindness.
           
            REAL STRENGTH IS KINDNESS; TRUE STRENGTH
IS NOT BRUTALITY, BUT DEFENCE AGAINST BRUTALITY
 
           
             That applies to all legal workers, too – a decent cop,
a decent defence lawyer…and… PLEASE tell me there are some decent prosecutors…. I`m sure there are some. I just
can`t remember  any… all the ones I have known have been
in such a breathless, gasping hurry to move up the monkey ladder of success…
             To get promoted!.. To get a bigger wage and  more public accolades in  newspapers… This can`t be true of them all! 
             Please tell me there are some decent, fair, non- sycophantic prosecutors!
           But judges, judges I am not so worried about…(unless the judge is in thrall to some dark force). Most judges are decent guys, however misguided some decisions
end up being… most of these people actually attempt justice.
         I have met some fools, but I have met mostly decent judges… And I have encountered some judges
who are approaching sainthood.

        So what is the ISSUE here?  The issue is – we seem to
be degenerating into FASCIST times.

        A lawyer I used to know and respect was Edwin A. Goodman, lead partner in Goodman and Goodman,Barristers and Solicitors, Toronto. He was almost family.
        I asked Eddie, “How do you do it?” (Because the guy seemed brilliant to me) ” What is the most important thing?
How is it –  the way you hone in so quickly? How do you decide – immediately – exactly what to argue, in order to win a case?”
        Eddie said: ” You`ve go to look at the situation and
study it, and read all the circumstances… and when you know you`ve covered it, you`ve got to stand back… you`ve got to  almost intuit – then choose THE ISSUE… Then that`s what you work with…that`s what you argue…when you know what the case is really about.”
         The other guys I knew well…because I was fortunate enough to work in their office…I knew  some of the lawyers in Davis, Webb and Holindrake, Brampton. I used to enjoy those guys, a fine bunch of fellas they were. And Tom
Dunn was one of them, and Ron Webb was another. Tom
Dunn is now a judge, and Ron Webb deserves to be sitting
somewhere close to the right hand of God, if he`s still alive,
which I hope he is.
          I`m not going to identify the other guys, because I have some discretion, but let me say, there wasn`t a dud in the house.
         Hollindrake was swearing an affidavit for me one time.
I said, “Yes. I swear that`s my signature.”
          The experienced, strong-willed and mostly truthful man
looked piercingly  into my eyes through his glasses and
said: “You are swearing to the truth of the statement…
not just as to your signature.”
           It was not a pleasant moment for me. I looked a bit of a fool. Of course, he was right. He was stating the obvious.
But it was a principle, in my hurry, I`d forgotten. I was swearing to the truth of my statement. This is not an
empty idea.
            

          Now how do I judge a lawyer? By competence first, yes. But not by how many victories he`s had in Court…. (Although victories don`t hurt if you`re keeping people out of jail, people who deserve to be free).  I judge a lawyer by
how decent a person he is, and how decent he is to others…
not just in Court. And whether he`s competent to help me.
            I stopped doing family law because of all the
endless opportunities that exist there to screw a whole family over… I`m not always a good person… And when I`m working
for an attractive wife against a monstrous husband…. there are too many opportunities… to act out my evil nature..  I`m not that much of a shit, but, boy, I wanted to be. 
            Cross-examining some poor dildo of a husband –
who  has been a fool, but perhaps he has also been
manipulated by his wife…. if the guy has worked for his family for five years – I can`t cross-examine him properly.
It`s too easy to screw him. And I won`t do it!
             And it`s too easy to screw the wife, also.
            
             It`s primarily family law – husbands with shotguns,
shooting lawyers – it is this situation that necessitated
metal detectors at the entrance to the Courts in Toronto.
Real estate, Criminal Law, no problem. But I will
not practice family law. It is important to know your limitations.

I once asked Ron Webb…. we were before the OMB
(Ontario Municipal Board). I was his assistant attorney.
There were many millions at stake… It was a licensing
 matter. And I couldn`t catch his technique. I was merely
trying to learn and I thought there must be some clever devices involved.
            How was he being so persuasive? HOW was he
doing it? He was winning the case, and I didn`t know what
EDGE   he was using, what technique… what angle…
            After he won the case, I asked him. I know this might
sound naive, but it`s not. I asked him how did he do it? How did he win this case and so many others? Why did people keep hiring him for huge fees?
          He said:” It`s simple. I just go into Court and I OUT-HONEST everyone else. I use honesty.
That`s my trick. That`s my secret. It never fails.”

             All I can say, when I think of that answer, is: “WOW!”
          
              That is not the answer I expected to get from a top-earning Canadian attorney. But he wasn`t kidding. He was not lying to me.  I watched him in action closely many times. I was right beside him and I saw no sign of falsehood.
           This honesty approach –  he meant it!   He did courtroom law that way.  And he was  a winner!!! Big time,
a winner!

            Now the purpose of the article. An ISSUE has come up.  The ISSUE IS – certain individuals in North America have
been given the “authority” to order the deaths of other individuals,without a trial and without due process – is this legal?
             Several people have asked me this question. To be
honest, a LOT of people have asked me this question.
(And who am I? I`m just a former decent man lawyer…
with a criminal record, which I ought to get expunged…)
           I`m a good lawyer who discovered he is a great rhythm guitar player. But people still ask me questions
such as this. And I take the role seriously. It is my duty to do so. In some respects, in this instance, I am the court of last resort.

                 The simple, correct and unimpeachable answer to the above question is this:

LEGAL STATEMENT:          ” In no circumstances, even under a situation of war or alleged war, may one man order the death of another man without proper trial and due process under the law.”   
         (In this instance, “man” includes and also means, “woman” or “person”)                      END OF STATEMENT
                 
            This is the principal a democracy is founded upon. We are not living under a King. We are living under the Rule of Law.
                 There is just no legal way to do it, and never can
be any legal way to do it: to give an innocent person the power of life and death over another innocent person.
                 Any man who orders the death of another man without due process… such a man is guilty of  and
ought to be be tried and found guilty of murder. 
                  There is no statutory limitation for murder.

                 This answer will not please my fascist friends
or my biker clients.
                  But “Dem`s da facts, Jojo!”

                   Such a power, if it existed, would negate
every basic principle that a democracy is founded upon.
                    Such a power can never be ratified by law.
                     Such a power is always impeachable.

                     If you want to know my background. I`m a student of Constitutional law. I was lucky enough to
study three years with Dr. Lederman, Queens University,
Ontario.
                      The only prize I ever received, informally
or formally, was a prize for essays and lectures in the study of the Sociology of Law —  they didn`t have a proper name
for this study at that time.
                     I prefer to call this study: JURISPRUDENCE.
The study of THE MORALITY OF LAW.

                     And… brothers and sisters in law school,
and you, comrads, who have passed the Bar…
encourage your sons and daughters, your legal lovers
and friends – encourage them to study this subject
which is still undefined.

                   And in so doing, let us say: 
         
                   “GOD BLESS THE AMERICAS!”  
  

                    Lord, help us make them sound.                  
      
                                                             
                                  * * * * * * * *

                         
.
                    
               

Friday, September 6, 2013

L`ETRANGER, THE STRANGER, THE OUTSIDER —– THE OBSERVER WHO WATCHES FROM THE EDGES OF SOCIETY -THE ARTIST, THE LEADER ……………………………………………………………………………………………..VAN GOGH SENDS HIS EAR TO THE WOMAN HE LOVES FROM A DISTANCE

Some years back, I was studying “L`Etranger” by Camus,
which is: `The stranger`, “The Outsider”…

      The man standing  outside the restaurant windows in the large  city – Paris, Toronto, New York, London – he might be
highly intelligence, but he does not partake of the affluence
of society; he`s not included in the good times or good food; he`s not invited to  cocktail parties,couples groups in fine restaurants.  He is totally excluded for one reason most of all: he is an observer.
         The only consolation L`Etranger has for all this rejection and ostracizing – he knows that most fine artists
live lives as solitaries. Oh yes, they may be in the
midst of a family, or they may not. But one thing is sure –
they are alone. They are alone now, and they have always been alone. Even when they are in a bar attempting to
talk to others, or at the funeral of a loved one,
the artist might be acutely observing the scene;
but he is detatched, an outsider – he is The Stranger.
           There are too many examples of this “healthy sickness” – too many examples to count: Van Gogh,
why didn`t he have sex with the prostitute? Why did he
send his ear to her? 
           Because he was too detached?   Likely so…
Detached, yes, alienated, apart from… observing…
He saw her closely; he saw her so completely
that he loved her in a way she had never been
loved… 
          She may not have known this… (What do
any of us know about the people around us?) 
But she likely sensed it – she may not have sensed
his love; she might have thought it was lust… but she
certainly sensed his attention.
         He was detached. He saw her every colour, uncertainty
and frown. He probably never took her hand, or
shared a coffee with her. But he loved her in a way
that no one ever had…
         
        Although, if you look at it from the woman`s
point of view. I am sure she would have rather had sex with the man instead of being observed so closely… even if he
looked at her with utter love, what good was that to her?
She might have thought…  She was busy.  She had
a child perhaps and cats to take care of.
         I`m sure she would have preferred to take the man`s
hand… but to endure his disconcerting stare?
         Who among us want to be observed so closely?
Most of us have our little guilts and paranoias…
who has the gift of repose?
          Sometimes the artist.  And sometimes not.
         
           Van Gogh likely would have preferred to take
her hand, also, or to pat her rump. But it was not to
be. He was too much the outsider, too much
the stranger…
        If he had been able to hold her hand, he would
not have had to send her his ear.
        Of the few women I can think of at the moment –
none of them would be more likely
to spend time with me, if I sent them
my ear.
        What do you think, my lady? If I sent you my ear,
would that patch up the differences between us?
Would that make everything all right.
         Or would I be taking another trip
up the hill into a locked unit?

          Close attention makes people uncomfortable.
They have their own lives to lead, and they do not
need some maniac perched like a jackdaw on the back
of the chair next to them… closely watching
the expressions on your face.

        But most true artists are exactly that: painters
and writers have been primarily that – observers…. 
Maniacs,madmen, excluded outlaws and pariahs
they are the watchers no groups are comfortable with…

      And so the artists are found looking in
through the glass  into the restaurant from the cold sidewalk…

Shivering in a wet raincoat with two dollars and forty cents
in your pocket… if you go to a cheap restaurant, you
can just about buy a coffee.

And when you go home, you can eat your oil paints
instead of bread.

*

               I remember years ago I walked into a room where my old man was sitting. I said to him, talking about Camus.

       “This guy says that there`s nothing but time
which destroys all things…. absurdity…
and death.”I said to him.

        My dad jumped up out of his chair and shouted:

        “WHY DOESN`T HE JUST KILL HIMSELF, THEN?”

         His face got red, and he was making
those strangling motions with his hands that meant
“He doesn`t have to bother!  I`ll kill him himself,
save the idiot the trouble!  Then he doesn`t
have to worry about philosophy…. he`ll be too
busy on the ground trying to find his teeth!”
            “All my life I`ve been running lumber camps!
120 men going to bed each night with very few distractions..
Do you think ANYBODY wanted to rise early in the dark at 5:00AM in the WINTER… do you think anybody wanted to get up? No, we would have preferred to sleep in and get drunk as soon as we woke up…. just to get a little  rest…just to take a deep breath….
        “Then  when we had a little time … Do you think we`d want to talk about philosophy then??”
             “I guess not,” I said…. I was quieter when I was twenty….
             “No!” my father continued, “The`d want a woman
or a steak… or maybe just to talk to their kids!

“THE ONLY PHILOSOPHICAL QUESTION IS  SUICIDE.”
Camus

             “They might not want to spend their day off thinking
about that!”
            “No!  But too many of them  did end up killing themselves or defeating themselves… anyway.Maybe they
asked the one philosophical question; maybe they didn`t”
             My father sat in the chair next to me, said:
             “Listen to me: 

“THE MOST IMPORTANT JOB OF A LEADER IS TO CURB THE NATURAL SUICIDAL TENDENCIES OF HIS PEOPLE!”    

He went into another room and shut the door.


                                    *

            When I was a young man I thought my father
 didn`t know anything…. He didn`t know
about the street….thieves and knives, judo 
and utter alienation. The observing eye, watching
at the outskirts of society.
            Madness lies that  way, partner.

             That`s what I thought, that my old man
didn`t know much.Later I realized he was dealing with other sharks,than I was. Mine had knives.  His were smiling men whose teeth were well hidden.  Smooth invaders would take your house, then smile and wave goodbye when all your possessions were gone
             Each person`s life creates different necessities.
        
              THE IDEA IS TO STOP THE DISASTER
               BEFORE IT HAPPENS.

         

                  

Saturday, August 31, 2013

LITTER CRITTERS! BIG KITTEN IN THE BUSH AND PUBLIC SERVANT WITH ATTITUDE!

There I was, sitting against a great round stone, my feet extended before me in the grass… relaxed as anyone has any right to be…staring at the sky… dreaming…
listening to bits of birdsong, pure liquid notes…
           
              I feel asleep… It was six AM at the
edge of the woods in northern Ontario, and I`m happy
to say the flies were dead. at least, most of them… Though
I am told no human being is farther than 13 feet from a spider most of the days of their life…. there`s always a spider just four yards away….
          Whether this is true or not I have no idea.          

           


           Now I`m asleep. And I`m dreaming of something pleasant and I felt something  thick tugging at my pants…  a sweet dream,
no problems – clear sailing in all directions…. Then
something sharp nips me in my ankle.
            I wake up mad with the sun in my eyes.
I cant`t see a damn thing, except…I can feel…
 sharp pins and needles in my ankle…something`s nipping at my jeans!
            I sit up, bend forward like I`m doing yoga,  open my eyes, and try to let them clear. 
         Two minutes pass. Something is staring right back at me into my eyes from two inches away. It has the most pale  eyes I`ve ever seen…
            I don`t know whether to kill it, pet it… or laugh.
My first impulse is to scream… or throw the evil white-eyed
little beastie right into Lake Temagami… right now with
the wind up and the  waves white-capping in late August.
The little critter is pretty playful…. My black lab friend, Eric, who lives with me is panting in my right ear  beside me. He is watching the little demon with me, just as
I am.. His tail is thumping in the sand.

            I ask Eric, “Can this guy eat meat?”
`           Eric says: “Woof!”  
            The  pale-eyed tiny demon bites my nose.
This answers the question about the meat. The little
beast is a meat eater, all right!
            The question now is: “Can the not so little kitten digest meat, after it bites it?”
             I taste blood in my mouth.I want to kill the nasty little thing, but I don`t.




              There`s a chilly wind that blows right across the the length of the lake, even before  freeze up happens.  And there`s nothing pleasant about that wind – especially if you
are paddling a canoe…
              You have to pull  the canoe up on shore… if you have no rope, I find it`s best to lay a rock gently inside
 the boat. Then lie under the damn thing, or sit under a tall white pine  and wait for the storm to pass.

              No point being in a hurry in a time like that…

              I have one bit of advice about  Bush Survival.
And I can make all the advice I`ve every heard about
not dying in the bush, I can make it simple. It all
can be reduced to one Rule.
               The Rule can be reduced to one sentence
about how to survive in the wilderness… everything else
follows from this one Rule:  “NEVER HURRY IN THE BUSH!”
               Those of you who have spent a couple of months in the bush, on the water alone – you`ll know EXACTLY what I`m talking about.
            

   “It`s bloody when you`re born
and bloody when you die,
and sometimes bloody in between.”
         
        I looked deeply into the eyes of the large
kitten. It`s quiet for a second appears to be happy. It
tries to bite my nose. It scratches my right hand.
I throw her in the air and let her land (safely) on

a tree.
          From a distance I look more closely at her.
Even at a distance, she hisses at me. What a little
demon!
          Rewarding bad behaviour, I put some milk
in a bowl. She sticks her head in the milk
and makes rude sucking noises…. I get it. I get
it. I understand.
         I put some  milk in an eye-dropper
and slip it to her – the glass tube
into her mouth… this is the idea. She starts sucking 
hard and happily…
         I say, “OOooo, you`re such a little sweetie.
She stops sucking and hisses at me…
This is one tough  kitty.

        
         There is something wrong with this situation.
The kitten`s big, big enough to eat solid food.
I cook some hamburger meat for her/him. She
won`t touch it. She sniffs at it, leaves  it.
Like she didn`t know what it is. The damn
cat looks about ten weeks old. Her eyes
are open and she is robust enough to be
unpleasant and nasty most of the time.
          I know nothing about cat litters
except I`ve seen a few…unwillingly.
The litter critters are cute, I have to say
that… but then again, all babies are
beautiful… even  young snakes,
I suppose…  (if anyone has pics of young
snakes, send them to me and I won`t 
post them! Ha! Ha!)
                                                                                        

          I call the humane society
and I say, “I think I`ve got a sick cat.  She won`t
eat meat… and she scratches the shit out of me.”
         The woman on the phone says: “Not eating meat is a bad sign….. scratching the shit out of you is a good
sign.”
         “Easy for you to say! What kind of a woman
are you?  Are you sure you should be
answering the phone in a public office?” I ask.
         She laughs and laughs… takes a deep breath
and says, “You`re an idiot.” Then she hangs up.


           I call her  right back.She insists I take the cat to a vet
before she sees it. I make fun of her for that
attitude.
           I present the  problem to the woman on the phone one more time  about the cat scratching the shit out of me
and hissing every time I move…
         She says: “Maybe you`d better bring that nasty kitten in to the office here, after all… After talking to you for three minutes, I think I want to adopt it.”

       Now I`m out of milk and birds are staring at
the little bit of hamburger I have left, which I`ve
cooked on an open fire outside.                                        
       There are a bunch of ravens in the white pine 
above me.  They are gurgling and hooting
and looking at the scrambling little meal which is
the kitten  on my head.
       They`d eat me, too, if I was dead.. But I`m, not and they
know I`m not,,, Pale eyed cat hissing at my bleeding twitching nose is just about beak size for the flying crowd above me.
             They`re up there in the branches wondering if I`m going to  eat her first.That`s not going to happen.
             But peace has not been declared  yet.
The damn thing`s under my shirt into my armpit now.
I want to go back to sleep… but that`s impossible
               People talk about finding peace and quiet in the
wilderness…but the wilderness is not always peaceful. Right now it is anything but quiet. The damn thing bites my armpit.
I sit up and shout.
            
             I pick the  critter up and 
by the back of the neck and flick the tip of my third finger against its nose. It (she?) hisses at me. I toss it gently
against the bark of the tree and it just hangs there, not moving…. The heavy cawing from above starts again…
            “Shut up!” I tell everybody. Nobody shuts
up…. The damn birds are really making a racket now.
I don`t like them. They don`t like me. That`s just the way
it`s going to be.
             I am getting to like the little tooth and
nail demon, though.She`s a fearless little thing. She doesn`t budge an inch, staring up at the big birds. I thinks she
wants to attack one of them. Her little nub of a tail is starting to twitch…as if she wants to crawl up the trunk towards them.
 It looks like she`s stalking them!

              Wait a minute!  What the hell is that?  She doesn`t
have a tail!
               Ah, shit!
                How did this happen?
                 Where`s mommy?

                  This is no domestic cat. 

                    No wonder she doesn`t eat meat. She`s
probably just three weeks old. This is a baby bobcat!
She`s hungry!  That`s why she keeps nipping at me…
and making teeny growling sounds… AWWW!  She`s
beautiful. And she`s not happy.  She`s getting desperate.
She`s sucking at the tip of my index finger.
                    I have to get her some more milk. I stand up,
move out from under the shelter of the white pines.
My head is soaked in a rain shower… I slip her under my
shirt and try to hold her to me with my elbow….No problem.
She`s holding on to me, too. I feel about fifteen little pins and needles piercing my left side. Damn!
                   I flip the canoe right way up and slip it into the water. I kneel inside the light little boat… knees right on the 
 fiberglass bottom, I can pick the canoe up with four fingers…
That`s how light it is.
                   I put the orange life preserver under my
right knee. I put my scarf in the neck of the life jacket
and I lay the kitten in the hole,and cover her with what once was an expensive scarf.  She hisses at me. 
                  I start to paddle across the stormy open water…. It`s about half a mile across the lake. I`m more or less keeping to the same direction as the wind blows us about…I paddle across towards the old log camp where I know
there`s some more milk concentrate.
                 In about twenty minutes I can feed the sweet
little demon… After she`s eaten, maybe both of us can get some sleep.
                 No one`s talking.  There`s just the water sounds
and the wind.


                                                          

                              
         


Thursday, August 29, 2013

IF YOU DON`T OFFEND SOMEBODY, YOU CAN`T TAKE A STEP!

Years ago a friend came to ask me a question.
He was studying Buddha`s philosophy and he was taking it seriously…So he asked me, “How can I live and not
kill sentient beings.”
      We were living in a small village and we had street
sweepers, who passed by at six A.M.  I said, “You know
those guys who sweet our streets each early morning?”
      “Yes,” he said.
       ” Every time they sweep a broom across a sidewalk,
thousands of organisms are killed.  You can`t live, you
can`t take a step without killing something…Without killing
sentient beings, you cannot take a step.”

        Thinking back on this discussion, it feels like I was
quoting the beginning of the Bhagavad Gita
when the god gives Arjuna advice….

So…  this is exactly what I was talking to myself about… what concerns me….
I do not want you to suddenly see a
nasty, ugly…. truly offensive passage from me –
one that`s like a kick in the pants…

That`s not my game or my idea,,,,   ,,,I don`t have
a game! Or an idea! But some pretty ugly moments
can emerge on the virgin page
             
               
           
                   I do not want to hurt your
feelings…. with some sudden eruption…   By being…
 the prick that I often am.

             I`m hoping you have your bad moments, too,
yourself – like when you step on a nail… or
your cousin convinces you to take the wrong
medication anally… or….
           Or… anything! 
            Perhaps you will be understanding….

            You know those beautiful look-outs you
see when you are driving along a highway….
say, in Pennsylvania …. after turning a corner
and rising up above a cliff….?
           And you pull over off the highway…  and…
you look at the magnificent view…. well,
you don`t need some fool to kick you in the face
right then…!  Is that right? Is that correct?

           The problem is… humour is based on exactly such surprises.
           It`s annoying…And when it`s really ugly and a shock, it`s funny!
            
           Still…  I don`t want
to bore you like some noon-day preacher.
I really hate those guys!
         They are duplicitous fools! And one thing
I don`t want to be is duplicitous —-
         Being a fool doesn`t worry me so much…
No fools, no fun!

          I suppose there is no answer to this dilemma,
except more careful editing.  That`s what I`ll try to do.
         

 



         
        
           





Wednesday, August 28, 2013

MAN LOSES TESTICLES (BY ACCIDENT) TALK SHOW HOST STARTS TO LAUGH…. …………….plus GRADING ARTICLES LIKE EGGS, TYPING STORIES LIKE MOVIES….to protect the DELICATE, HUNGOVER, SENSITIVE AND INNOCENT

STORY TYPES:A    =  Sensitive

B     =   Dirty nasty, blues singer, political prick

C     =   sADIST and Masocist,  S&M  Adept… Joy in
             Pain….  Sex and Power

X     =     TWISTED FREAK

I get letters to this effect: “I read one of your stories and you are a sweet back-woods mystic type. Today I read you
and it`s all about perversions and violence.  SEX, VIOLENCE, AND SPIRITUAL MATTERS.  WHAT THE
HELL AM I GOING TO GET, DAY BY DAY??!!!?”

      Well, to answer I must say, “WHO KNOWS?”   
       I am of the following opinion: to write well you must write
with no repressions or inhibition whatsoever…. I guess the editing comes later.  But I`s rather not edit out spontaneous
bursts…. just want to edit out the boring stuff…
       So let`s try this grading system.

      I am not some kind of sick split-personality type,
but I am a different type (if we can type it)…There are
many people within me.  We all share the same soul, more or less.  And what`s important to me, each of us knows what the
other person is doing. (Otherwise I`m psychotic… which in psychological parlance means, “fucked”!)
       If you study a  Tibetan  Spiritual Text, you might
be surprised that many personalities in one person
is considered normal, by at least one writer. I defer to his
greater wisdom, and I won`t worry about my situation.

       All these types are real!
       To quote Walt Whitman: “Do I contradict myself? Very
well, I contradict myself!  I am large. I contain multitudes!”

I do have a problem here, however. I don`t want to
offend you people who are interested enough to read some of these words for whatever reason.  You`re the only friends I have….pretty much… 
       I`m more or less a hermit, after all.
Also, quite apart from friendship, and respect for one`s
people, there is the matter of advertising revenue.
       I`ve already been told that I`m too much of a twisted freak to advertise on Google.
       So here`s what I propose to do:    Attempt to divide up
articles into 3 types.   (A) stories are the type told by the sensitive mystic, poet and spiritual guy, ballad singer; (B)type stories are by the dirty, nasty blues player, the criminal defence attorney, the pissed-off political prick; (C)stories done by the S&M afficionado, the expert in whips, crops, canes, chains, sadistic twists, apologies and humiliation…Inc. In other words, stories by the TWISTED
FREAK GOOGLE objects to.
          There is also the religious maniac who wants to pillage and burn and brand “SHAME” into the foreheads of
those church fools and lackeys, thieves and con-men, and
 evil manipulative greedy condescending FAT FRUITS (no
offence to our gay cousins)
who have twisted our religious history out of all recognition…
so we can`t find our native path, our heritage way to redemption.
            No, why should our priests and ministers show us
the way to redemption, when the GUILT-FORGIVENESS COMPLEX pays so much better!!!!!!!!!!!!   
           These supposedly sexless eunichs who told us
when to pay for forgiveness, should we just forgive them or should we make them pay?
            There`s a bit of my Victorian grandmother in me,
and I think we should endorse public lashings…
It`s cheap and it provides relief to  most of the population.
       Whew! My goodness!  My God!  Even I can`t shut him up, and he`s in me!… albeit a very half-sane and heated part of my psyche. Let`s call his articles Type X.  And I`ll mark the story at the top, in case you want to avoid the whole damn thing, as I do.  

       

including me…

        I seem to have lost the thread RE:  PERSONALITY GRADING JUST LIKE EGGS for my stories.

        I don`t know whether this downloaded video works . 
It`s about a guy who loses his testicles by accident.He`s on a talk show… and when the host hears his voice he starts to laugh!!!!             Funny!        Say no more!
        This is my first try at putting video in a blog… but if you can play it – the video above – it`s one of the funniest scenes I have seen in a long time.
        I highly recommend it.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A STREET PERSON —— MEETING FRIENDLY KILLERS

I always thought – if you really wanted to study a society
civilization, culture, it would be fair and best if
you were five people – each of you living in a different
socio-economic milieu…
        If you could be five people, 
you could live at five different economic  levels at once, then you
could  study society… with some justice, and no worries about prejudice towards certain ways of life.
        Why would you want to do this?
        Freedom is the goal in its many shapes sizes and morphs…  If you experience being rich, you realize it`s not the goal you thought it was – you don`t have to have it. Being loaded financially has it`s disadvantages, believe it or not.
You become dissociated from the other people. It`s goal – big houses with large yards, this ends up in isolation and exclusion – injecting codein into your groin, like Howard Hughes.
              Though, honestly, riches have an up side, too.
DUH!  But we all know wealth is desireable… Being rich
you learn what you are missing….
             Bob Dylan`s line: “Helpless like a rich man`s child.”
That line makes the point for me.


        So I decided to live as a street person and see
how that felt… I`ve been fairly broke recently, so
pretending I have no money is not going to be a
stretch.
        Anyway, I got a phone call from a guy called,
“Sideways” Bobby. He said he`d found my notebook.
         “Hey, that`s great, where`d you find it?”
         “Sherbourne Street and Queen…. There`s a park
there.  Do you know the park?”
         “Yes,” I said.
         “It was sittin` on a park bench right beside the phone booth.”
         “Well, anyway, that`s great.. How can I meet you?”
         “In the book it says reward,” Sideways said.
         “For sure! How about twenty bucks?”
         ” If it was a normal notebook, that`d be about right.
But there`s stories in it… I read three of them. They`re pretty damn good.  I`m sure you can sell the one about
the woman whipping the guy in the balls as he`s
giving her head…!  Everyone liked that one! It`s gotta be
worth money!  Did you make that up, or is it a true story?
 he asks.
          “It`s a true story,” I say.
          “Yeah, it`d be kind of hard to make something like
that up!   I felt like I was right there with ya.  Blew my load
more than once over that scene, I can tell you.”
           “Well, that`s the idea,” I say. “I want my stories
to inspire someone to do something.”
            “Well, you sure inspired me all right… and about
five other fellas in my  extended family were jerking off, too.
… up and down the hall.  The book`s a hit!”
            “I should meet you.  You sound like a good guy…
              “Yeah, come on down.”
               What should I bring when I come, booze-wise?”
I ask him.
             “Start with 24 beer, and then we`ll wing it….
              I was about to hang up and he said, “Oh, yeah
  and a bottle of rye.”
              “No problem,” I said 
               About an hour later I was driving downtown
with a couple of hundred dollars, a case of beer and
a bottle of rye.

              I met Sideways Bobby and he did walk
a little funny… sorta like he has at a prep school dance
and he was avoiding everybody, skirting round the
outside of the room… trying to avoid any grade sixers
girls who might ask him to dance… He seemed like a devoted wallflower…and then  add a little lemon and a  twist of paranoia.
              Bobby skulked into his own doorway, “Landlord
hates me,” he mumbled back towards me…. At that moment
I noticed a large shiny knife in his right suit jacket
pocket… which seemed to have been re-inforced
somehow….
              “Ahhh…. Can I ask you something?”
               “Shhhhhh!  Wait until we`re inside!”””

                We went inside… and then there were
three of us – the new guy, a great big indian fella,
who looked as if he`d prefer to cut our throats
with a razor, rather than talk to us… He didn`t say
a word, but he brought us three glasses… set them 
emphatically in front of the couch Sideways Bobby and I were
sitting on.
         The couch was the only item of furniture in the
whole room….. the room wasn`t large,  about twenty by twenty,  but still….
         Bobby jerked his thumb off towards where the
large six foot six,  first nations person was standing.
Clearly he looked homicidal.
          I poured about four inches of whiskey into each
of the e ounce glasses….The Indian topped us up.
so our glasses were full —- of (oh, oh) ditch-fighting Canadian rye whiskey.

          When I go out on the town these days, which is rare,
I worry more about   creating a horrible scene, playing
a hilarious prank… or scaring the piss out of
a room of diners…
          Sometimes, if I really have drunk too much rye
and I`ve had no water chasers, and I`ve eaten nothing in the
last couple of days … I have a tendency to
climb church towers and ring the bells
and call out to the town, with my arms outstretched
in an embracing posture … calling the whole fucking
town forth to WORSHIP!
           Well, I`ve spend some timee in various locked
units….and it wouldn`t happen except for the
sense of humour I have when I drink…. snake-kicking
Canadian Rye Whiskey—– it`ll get you off your reservation even if you ain`t supposed to be on one… ha! ha!

      We all have our own private resevations that we`ll be arrested if we step off…  Mine is rye whiskey.

       Now all three of us are sitting on the couch –  it`s a four seater,  so the three of us can just bearely fit…
       Sideways has wolfed his first six ounces of rye… then he gets up, stumbles across the room… walks   smack into the wall which looks like real plaster and pisses himself….
       Now he`s on the floor and talking to someone who is not
in the room.
       And so at this moment it`s just me and the big Indian on the couch.I notice he has a straight razor about for inches from his wrist on the arm of the couch.
        He`s six feet six insches tall;  he`s bigger around than
an oil drum!  He doesn`t NEED a fucking razor!
       Neither of us should drink another drop of  more rye
Canadian Rye…. There are 10-15 ounces left in the 40 ouncer.
      “You had any breakfast?”  I ask him
      “This is breakfast,” he says
      “Me too,” I answer.
        We both start to laugh… This guy`s OK.  He`s
just as crazy and paranoid as I am…. And he`s been locked
up, I can tell…. He`s wary, but at the moment he doesn`t
give a fuck  about any cops or insane addicts, crazed mad-jealous husbands (“horn mad” as they used to say in England)… neither do I… No one`s coming at us now,
I`m happy to say.
         I attempt to use my cell.  Shane grabs my wrist
and has the razor to my throat. I could have dodged it
but I`ve accepted Shane as not being a total
loon.  
          He gives his head a shake, says, “Sorry. Thought
you were a parole officer…”
           I laugh….”Not me!”I say, “And I can prove it…
Got my record back where I live… but now… too drunk to drive…Im trying to order more rye.  That OK?”
           “Yes, sir!”  he waves  both his arms at me
in some kind of a back-bush salute.

            We sit back down. I wave him over.  We put our heads together; ” Look, we can`t be insane and drink any more rye together.  How we going to do it?
             “I tell you when you`re losing it,” he says.
             “And if you are losing it?” I ask.
             “Then you`re fucked!”

             I`m liking this guy more and more….
             “No problem…. only the deal is we put our
weapons in that corner drawer.”
             He squints at me… says, “Weapons?”
And he grins.
             This guy is smart.  He`s just playing a role – the big
dumb guy (with very fast hands, I noticed). He`s not
dumb.  He`s bright, bright, bright…”
             “You bugger,” I say, looking him in the eye. “When did you know?”
             “Looking at you, I assumed… You were too confident
in a strange situation… nonchalant. I know you`re a writer,
but still… I scare the piss out of most people… Most people leave in a hurry.  Here you are buying me rye… You had to be armed,” he says.
             “You first,” I say. He stands up and blots out the sun
and puts his gleaming straight razor in the corner drawer.
I stand up and extract a one pound lead sap from under my
left arm. I put it in the drawer.
           “This could crack a skull…” he says.
            “I hope so!” I laugh. Then say,  “Depends how you use it.”