No, Im not kidding.... really". " I'm Him!"

Hi this is Texino. We will get to that man's difficulty in a minute.  First, let me ask you a personal question.  Is it just me, or sometimes when you see the name "Jesus Christ" does it just make you feel a little sick?  Now I can see some people peeling off from my gymnasium to do a bit of window shopping as we stroll along having this little talk.  That's OK they'll be back.  The Jesus thing has naught to do with the nice boy from Bethlehem Him Self.  No, it's just about the smug way that the wrong crowd has taken a concept which was supposed to light the world with a simple message that could see you through the most complex of situations and twisted it to their own sleazy advantage.  That sleazy advantage would be the vacuous world of politics where nothing is sacred except power, and now every tag a long piece of garbage out in the world is tacking "Christian" on as a modifier for what ever scam is hot for the week.  Christian debt relief, Christian mortgage and Christian credit at usurious rates.  Is nothing sacred?  Apparently not folks.  Hell, I get emails all the time telling me about these great gospel concerts and then the same people send me clumsy coded messages about the dangers of Senators Clinton and Obama along with just about any other hate filled bullshit the Christian right can be wrong about.  You think that Jesus fellow let Himself get tortured to death for the likes of that?  Well yeah, I guess he did, but the idea was to rise above it, not set one's self up as a fat bottomed child molester in a silk suit and a gold car.  By now you should be hip to the fact that today's graphic represents the "Historical Jesus" far better than the Aryan who posses for the Bible Story books in the Dr.'s office.  "Big honey blond guy, officer!" "Last seen with two Hitler Youth and a lamb."  Yeah, check it out.  Jesus was a Jew and most likely some sort of Darky and He got his modern looks from Gay painters working for highly corrupt Popes.  In other words, everything your so-called christian "Hates" Gay people, Catholics, "inferior races" and what have you are exactly the mix that gave them the Idol of their cult.  I don't know about the rest of you folks on the Iron Curtain Commission of Solid Iron Irony, but I think it's time to get the brasso back out and  "Put On The Shine One More Time"  Yeah I know we just did the big deal for Steve Fossett but I'd say the Late Rev Falwell and the Kicking Rev. Robertson deserve a double dose of Ironic Iron.  I'm Looking at December 25th.  Seems about right.

TT

Dead men talking

Hi Sam Marly here.  Maybe you have inferred that we have a lot of truck with the dead here at The Inside Out Bodega and News Stop.  Well, I guess you are right, since we are a registered transit point along the main line of lost souls.  It's something that Texino set up in aid of moving his Zombie pals around without having to deal with the customs hassles that developed after the tragedy that no one talks about.  You know the one where we just sort of lost our civil rights over night, shortly after losing our voting rights over the course of a week or so.  Oh well what the... So yeah, if you go to our big back room (the one which doesn't seem possible but is, due to spatial distortion) you may run into any number of dead folk in transit.  I believe I have mentioned that my cousin, Reggae Bob, spends quite a bit of time in there, eating cheese sandwiches and giving out words of Island wisdom which sound suspiciously like the sayings of Popeye The Sailor. i.e. "I and I am what I and I am to be." sounds a lot like Popeye's " I am what I am" when you break it down.  Bob watches cartoons like every day is Saturday.  We have other regulars too.  Here's a shot of Ira Louvin of the "Louvin Bothers" goofing around in Hell.  Ira says that there is a highway through the earth that allows the dead, or anyone else who has the time, to visit places like Australia and China, or any place with caves really, without having to go by the highly dangerous means of air or sea travel. I should point out that the dead don't fly because pressurized cabins render them visible and therefore unwelcome.  As far as a sea cruise goes?  Well if the ship sinks, a dead person has little chance of being picked up from a piece of floating wreckage and a big chance of being buried at sea should he be discovered napping in a deck chair. (Literally dead to the world)  So all things considered "The Underworld Freeway is The Way!"   Now whether Ira is actually in Hell or just at a roadside attraction in the vicinity is not clear, however; given the pasteboard Devil and the fact Ira's sporting a clean white suit, I'd say he's at the Wall Drug/South of The Border  version of Hades.

  Please don't misunderstand.  We don't kid about death here and we don't ask a lot of obvious and embarrassing questions of our guests.  After all, my job is selling news papers, magazines and dangerous drugs to whoever travels across the  temporal zone to this alley and then negotiates his or her way toward the light at The Inside Out Side Bodega.  You might notice that I'm not mentioning your Aunt Harriet or Platoons of soldiers  and other obvious dead, but we just don't get a lot of those people.  Why?

Oh I guess their souls are not lost or otherwise in question and they just go and sit quietly like that bunch of people in the play "Our town"  I'm sure you read it or acted it out, so you get the idea.  No the dead folk who come by here, well they don't really want to be dead.  There is nothing for them to do in the great hear-after because they had too much exposure in the "there before" so they just keep going around to the old haunts, so to speak, and show up in joints like this one when the continuum is all out of whack and recharge for a day or so before heading out again on these tours of ghostly good will.   Te celebrated dead don't want too much really, they just want to be remembered for a decent amount of time.  It is just one of those insecurities that will come when your name gets tied to fame, plus there are no living agents for dead performers.  They come they go.  They have their own little "inside" jokes and they look pretty damn good, excepting Texino's Zombies who look like Zombies but they are clean and fairly well dressed.  Texino's into a lot of weird shit.  I don't even know where he is other than I heard he was going to Canada to aid the police in their inquiries.  Hey I got to go, Rush Limbaugh and Scooter Libby just showed up with a couple of "Twinks"  They're going to want poppers.  Like Sunday night in Baltimore is the best time to buy that kind of shit. (not)  Oh well, I got cases of that stuff over in the 4 1/2 dimension.  I'll have to get it myself.  The last time I sent Bob he found a case a silly string and tried to huff a can and got it all in his hair.  You may not even notice this, but Ziggy Marley of the Trench Town Marleys has been borrowing bob to do gigs and the people are too blissed out to get it. Speaking of which,  Bob Weir of The Grateful Dead has been snooping around buying up glandular extracts by the pound.  I guess he's going to try the same thing with Garcia.  Thing is Jerry never comes around.  Hell David Crosby comes around and he's not even dead.  Go figure.  Rush and Scooter are pissed off; can't get their limo to come down the alley.  Pretty much just Chevrolets can drive down here, or what ever else I want to let through.  Don't forget there is a Bodega going on outside.  It's a Texino thing.

 

The Big Sky

Well hi kids, hi ya hi ya!  It's O'l Texino back from a trip to the proving grounds of The whole American Way.  The Frontier.  Actually the frontier was considered pinched off and sewed up in the latter part of the 19th century, but I saw some signs of it as late as 1978 when traveling through Laramie WY. I spied a couple of cowboys hitching south in a golden afternoon; Each one with his saddle and bed roll and not a movie camera in sight.  That was cool.  I would have made a good cowboy.  I'm lonesome.

So what was I up to way out west?  Well, I was looking for Steve Fossett.  Or I should say Millionaire Steve Fossett.  At any rate, I was there in my official capacity as President of The Irony Club to certify the fact that "Millionaire" Steve who risked himself on many counted and documented occasions in order to set records just to set them, had succumbed to a common general aviation accident of the sort that happens with far greater frequency than the propeller head hobbyist would want a guy to believe.  (these are the same bunch who commonly say " a good landing is one you walk away from")  The general Aviation Fly-boys go in for pithy sayings with macho under currents and are famous for their ability to shift blame away from their cranky little kites to the skills or lack of same by the drivers.   So the common thought is Millionaire Steve is working on his Skeleton costume some place in the high desert and he gets the Ironic Emblem for 2007!

I had a little time on my hands between gigs so I highed over to "Tombstone" and did two weeks of law enforcement for the hell of it.  You know?  Gun fighting with outlaws.  I got 18 notches in the old 6 gun.  You all remember how Marshall Dillon used to start off Gun Smoke?

He would shoot a guy and then look real sorry? Well, when I nail an outlaw, I like grab a fist and cock my leg like people do when they score a hockey goal and say Yessssss!  Other wise, I'm stock lonesome.

Sam Marley

Hello. from the lowest point in the darkest part of Darktown.  A down hill alley; a cave with two exits but very good drainage.  We need the drain because, well, because it's wet down here, and dark too and nobody wants to do business in some stinking dark alley with little runs of night soil gurgling in the gutters.  As I said, we have good drainage and actually since an alley is not a cave, more than enough exits if you're good at ladders and stand pipes.  Me?  Oh, I come and I go as I need to.  It's my little spot of the world you see.  Sam's News Hut and Inverted Bodega-Sam Marley at your service.   Marley of The Delaware Marleys.  That's a picture of my 4th cousin Bob.  He lived in Delaware for a bit and worked for GM.  He used to go around telling people the the BMW motor car was named for his band, Bob Marley and the Wailers, but of course it wasn't.  I didn't hang with cousin Bob too much because he was set on being some sort of marijuana music messiah while I was more into dealing expensive drugs and periodicals to big shots from NYC and DC.  This meant one of us was headed for the tropics and the other for East Coast.  We shook hands and settled for Jamaica and Baltimore which is close enough what with the Metro-liner and Jet Planes.  I'd  say we have done OK too.

Bob's a tad better off in that he doesn't have to work any more.  Bob's dead?  Is not!  He's right here in the shop having a cheese sandwich and an RC-cola.  How can he, or anyone for that matter, be inside an inverted bodega?  Oh, I see you don't understand the basic business of The Magic . Well then, I had best explain it to you so we can get along.  I always try to do that anyway, so here goes.

You probably think that you are a petty smart piece of gingerbread, right?  I mean you are neither a mouse brain nor a cheese head, so you might even have a pretty solid idea about what life is all about.  I bet you keep it close to your under vest too and only think about it under the spells.  Am I right?  The spell times, you know;  Deep at night by the fire; In the false Summer dawn where stars melt in the dew;  Winter's gray days when soundless snow sticks in a matrix of dead grass. In other words, the times you are least likely to be in church and more likely to be loaded.  Well, if you recognize times like those as more than just time in flight, you will understand that magic is the stuff that forms the fabric of whatever life you choose to wear.  It also covers practical things too, like electricity and the sound barrier.  Given all that, It should not be so hard to believe that my open air news stand, bodega and recreational pharmacopia/dispensary is actually as large on the inside as it needs to be at any given time.   I got the idea from Dr. Who, and they used it for years on the BBC and PBS, both highly respected magical production outfits, so I figure I'm pretty well set up for a place to hide my secret life as well as the odd dead cousin or anyone else. Alright?  Good.

I'm not really sure how I come to be talking here, but in my long life I have learned not to question every little thing and also that people are often interested in hearing stories about unusual happenings and stuff.  I know plenty of those because hardly any time passes around here before some amusing event comes to pass.  Perhaps I'll be back

The Double Trey -The Triple Duce-The new Forty?

Oh hi there.  It's Texino hiding in a hotel at Callao, Peru down South America way.  How I come to be holed up in a hostile hostelry where the day to day seems to revolve around draping one's self in a flag, donning the silliest hat you can find, and marching off into the mountains  chomping a big chaw of coca, is a story for a different day.  Suffice to say here I am on the eve of my 60th year on the planet trying to make some sense of that pressing matter.

Now, if you are anything like me, and you must share some ideas or you would not be reading this, you probably thought you would never get as old as you are now.  That may be 30, 40, 50, 55, 60 or even higher.  Still those numbers are the milestones we tend to mark

as varying degrees of  age.  Of course you have 21 and 18 and 16 but those tend toward fun things like driving the car and buying the spirits and people rarely if ever say "God, 21 years, where did the time go?"   I  must say, however; that since not one of the male members on my father's side ever lived out his 50s, I honestly did not think I would make this date either and therefore, did not make any plans what so ever.  Looking back, I have had some nice birthdays and some normal birthdays. No really bad birthdays because I don't think much of holidays anyway so I don't put a lot of stock in making a huge deal over stuff like that.  I like giving presents to people for no particular reason other than they might enjoy the gift.  It's hard to buy me things anyway because my tastes run high.  I mean, I'd like a porsche automobile or a cruising sailboat.  I really have no trouble excepting the fact, I'll never get this stuff for my birthday.  I am a bit more concerned, however over my lack of getting anything published in book form or gaining further respect as a musician.  Of the two, the writing does seem to be the one where I might possibly gear up some success.  The trouble there is, owing to the discovery that the root of my melancholy has to do with Parkinson's Disease, the feel good medicine I am taking is, bit by bit, forcing the spontaneous entertainment that can be "Texino" back into the tin can that is Tommy.  What to do?  I just don't know at the moment.  Besides, I'm busy thinking about some stuff.  Like what?  Well, like the people who I love.  Some of them have been around for pretty much the whole ride.  Some of these people I love, I have not seen in years and years; maybe since we were little kids who grew into teenagers and went away to different schools.  But they were the first people outside of my family circle who I had feelings for and when we swore blood oaths of friendship forever, I believed them with all my heart.  There are others who for one reason or other couldn't make the trip. I mean they died.  I suppose Mother and Father could, in theory, still be around, but I told you no one in Dad's family lived to be 60 and though Mother's people were long lived, Mother herself ended up being forty forever.  I missed the old folks who brought me up and educated me away from school so much, that in the years after they had passed, I would work the sums of their ages wishing them back until, well if Granny were alive now, she would be 126 and that is just a little far fetched even for me.   Then in the last 10 years or so, those twin sharpshooters, Cancer and Heart disease have started sniping away at my generation and a couple of exotic diseases have drifted through the ranks like chemical warfare.  I guess life's like that.  "That" being analogous to just about any sort well known life ending situation.  I have also heard that "Life is what you make it" as well as "The Golden Years are Hell"  I got a great deal of this information hanging around in the back of ambulances chatting with older patients of and on over the past 30 years or so and I met some wonderful folks indeed.  If I learned anything at all there it was this.  Age is a sneaky bastard who will just  roar up on you like an express train.  (If you know what an express train is you are probably already old.)  Don't believe me?  Well just look back at those mile stone birthdays I listed.  See how many have come and gone and how quickly the time between has flown.  It just keeps getting faster too.  Why?  I just don't know.   

Well, as you can see by today's graphic, I'm being watched Los Indios de Fedoras and they have me pined down at he Hotel Columbus.  Guess that will be my birthday HQ.  If you find yourself in the neighborhood drop on by.  Knock three times and give the pass word.  The pass word is, "Swordfish."  Love you?  Yeah I mean it.

usurious- ursine? 9/18? I can't bear it!

Oh hi, it is Texino.  Do I have less than perfect credit? Well, I guess I do since I have no SS# or job.  Therefore, I was not surprised to get this offer for a "Second Chance" unsecured-Master Card from some bank in that, Nevada of the East, Delaware.  I say Nevada, because there seem to be very few rules at work in "The First, but not the smallest state.  How do I know Delaware is not the smallest state?  Well for that tip, a big Texino Thanks goes out to Ms. Mary Emerson, a very close relation of mine who, on four separate occasions between 1958 and '60, sang this lyric during a succession of automobile trips: "Poor Little Rhode Island, Smallest of The 48." "Providence one day, stole my heart away." and that was, as they say, all she wrote. Even though Rhode Island is a well known "Mob" State, we are talking about Delaware here which is mobbed up in a completely different manner altogether, in that, for some reason or other, all sorts of shady business goes on there daily and no one seems to give a tinker's damn about it.  Let's talk about the First Bank of Delaware and their "innovative solutions."  OK? Fine.  Now we have old Texino here and let's say the kid is broke and needs "Credit"  You must have credit, right?  Everyone says so.  Used to be you could not pay by check without a credit card and DL for ID.  That's changed, but it's only because they can see if you have a history of bouncing checks and some places have a machine that treats your check like a debit card and yanks the dough right out of the account and gives you the check back.  Still, lots off people love to use credit cards like money and do not realize that it is really hard to pay them off.  In fact, if you have found it difficult to pay your credit card bills, the companies will make it almost impossible for you to do so by invoking small print clauses which let them run the interest up to like 33%, so you will end up paying them a few hundred bucks a month for ever.  People, being basically honest, do this.  Banks being legally dishonest, encourage it by trying to make you feel like dirt and when you are feeling good and dirty, they will come at you with something like this "second chance" card.  Let's have a look at this baby.  A gold Master Card. BFD.  Gold card means nothing.  OK. Now the interest rate is right at 20% so right off, 5 cents on every dollar you charge is going to be paid in interest before your balance drops and that is only if you pay the balance every month.  You won't because if you had the money to use a credit card the way it is supposed to be used, you would not be getting this offer. It even says on the ad, "If you have good credit, this may not be the best card for you" and what that means is, because you have bad credit,  you are going to be punished and the bank, assuming that you are a dummy, plans on getting away with it and here's how.  They charge a $99.00 setup fee, an $88.00 fee for something else, plus a $120.00 annual fee for which they kindly charge you $10 a month.  So, you are going to go into this credit contract by paying the bank around $300 to have a credit card with a $300 limit of which $261.40 will show up as charges the first month and since we assume you were broke to start with–––well you see where I'm going.  You get the offer, think Oh boy, a little break!  But no!  A big trap!  I'm calling usury which is fucking illegal, yet, for some reason it is legal here.  This is no different that the "vig" you pay a loan shark, and if you need a better explanation, google "pay day loans" which are pretty much modeled on loan sharking as practiced by Rocky Balboa in the movie Rocky.   Now to me usury sounds quite a lot like "usury" and anything ursine would be to do with your bear-like creature and we all know that any terror we ascribe to the bear is not misplaced.  What prey-tell, does September the 18 have to do with anything?  Oh that.  Well anyone, like me for instance, who follows the internet conspiracy topics, looking for material should be aware that for quite sometime the forces of good have been at work dismantling the evil creature from Jeckyll Island or as the semi-sane among us like to call it, The Federal Reserve Banking System and today is the day bar none 100% positive that we will be switching over to the much nicer treasury banking system and, check this out!  Due to the hassles involved with records and stuff, the folks in charge have decided to just wipe the slate clean and cancel ALL of your debt!

That's right.  Your mortgage, credit cards , student loans- every last little thing.  Now is that nice or what?  New banks!  New money!  It's all set.  I've been reading about this for months now and todays' the day; no fooling and you can set your clock by it.  Me?  Well I live in Panama, so I don't think I get any beans from this.  The rest of you coyotes, have a blast and when the check comes just smile and walk out.  Your money's no good here.  I mean really. No good.   According to experts like Patrick H. Bellringer (Yup it stands for Henry) of fourwinds10.com the new treasury banks will be open for business today.  Of course, when Pat says President Bush is really a shape shifting lizard, he means literally a reptile who can appear in different forms.  Hmmm, maybe that's a bad example.  OK, Pat says that we are not really fighting a war in Iraq.  You see, Spacemen in star ships have placed them where all the normal stars would be (the star ships) and they are just making you think we are fighting a war.  In reality all the troops are taken up into these space ships and well–– you need to google Mr. Bellringer and get his take on the world situation.  He is quite positive you see.  I guess I need to go to the bank.  You all be good and don't spent it all in one place, OK?  Fine.

TT                           

Texino, is the moon flat, and could you explain creation for us as well?

 Sure thing kids! The Moon? Flat? As a pancake! That's right, and so is the earth. In fact both are coin shaped and have highly similar magnetic properties that repel one another just enough to keep them hanging up in space. The fact that these bodies are artifacts means that they are artificially made which gives perfect credence to the idea that "God" made them. I know that this information will be very difficult for geocentric science folk to take in, so I'll just leave it for you to chew on with this caveat. If you want to accept any divinity in the creation of your universe, this is where you will end up. Otherwise, you are just bacteria clinging to a rock in the cold darkness.  How's about that?   Earth and Moon as giant bill boards starting to make a bit more sense?  Thought that they might.  So, what's on the back, you ask?  Lots of towers and complex machinery if you must know.  How does it go?  Atomic power is the answer to that.  Aren't we worried about some kind of 3-mile Island thing?  Short answer, no.  The planetary geologists will tell you the Earth is a sphere surrounding a molten core as hot as the sun or something.  Naw! It's just Nuclear Fission in the big reactor. God?  The Generational Optimum Development outfit who goes around populating areas in a space time continuum for who knows what reason.  Probably why people build terrariums and aquariums or keep exotic rabbits.  None of this stuff flies in the face of conventional science or anything,  you know?  I mean other than our earth and moon being rocks as opposed to being big artifacts.  And like I said, if you except the role of the artificer then you can have your God and your science too. You know the idea of a somewhat flat or convex earth has been around forever and doesn't preclude the existence of anything.  Even people who go into space just see the disk of the Earth with part of it always in shadow.  Now geo science would have you believe that it gets dark at night because the place on the earth where you stand has turned it's back on the sun and actually does it for the better part of 12 hours.  OK?  Well when scientists send probes to actual planetary rocks like Mars and Venus, the temperature at these "terminator points" where dark and light meet will vary by hundreds of degrees while here on earth it just cools down a bit; exactly as it would if the moon were moving around the one face of the earth as a second hand moves on the face of a clock.  Of course in this case, the moon's shadow would be a pie shape with the pointed part in the center of the clock face and the wide part moving slowly causing darkness to fall but not taking any part of the world away from the sun's radiational cone, as doing so would freeze every thing solid in a matter of minutes.  Oh horse feathers! You say. Fine.  Just remember that your learned ancestors a very few times removed had no difficulty believing this theory, and it is only on the word of the cold calculating anti artificers that todays belief lies.  Horse Feathers, you might say.  But there is solid horse sense in the belief that people similar to ourselves but with a different ideological bent, brought this physical universe into existence.  Certainly something to think about with your ice cream and cake.*

*Now the question: Do I believe this, or am I just making up a plausible sounding science fiction or maybe even the basis for a cult where the leader and his loyal few, become really rich both socially and financially?  Donations for my good works...etc  Now that's scary.  

Making Good Money-Internet

I received a curious email today from a Mr. Davis who writes that I may be surprised that he is in touch, but I have been recomended to him as a man who can be trusted, and therefore should not be alarmed by the fact that he would like me to work a little business deal with him for the tune of $52,500,000. I must say that's quite a bit of money even for me.  What's the deal?  Well Mr. D. is a government functionary, though he does not say whose government, but never the less the clever fellow has hit upon a fool proof scheme of sorts.  Here it is.  Davis ordered some "construction supplies" for "The Government" and in a masterful stroke of genius he "over billed" the companies involved the sum of !!!!!!! You guessed it 52.5 Mil. ANNNNNNND!!!!! They Paid It!  Boy do I like it when the little guy gets the brass ring!  Well almost gets, would be more the case, and here's why.  Davis just can't get the money, however; he can get the money if I get involved in some way and don't betray him.  I'm going to quote Mr. Davis: I have sent you this email not without fears as to what the consequences might be, if you choose to betray me, I have a lovely family and this is an occasion to provide them with new opportunities, do not betray my confidence.  I expect you keep my offer private whatever your decision. Do not betray me. I await your response.  I guess I've sort of slipped up here, hell I may as well have said the guy's email is davis_sampson@myway.com. I swear to God, I must have lost nearly 2-300 million bucks this year alone because I won some lottery I don't remember entering and couldn't pay the special "fees" involved or make bribe payments or whatever.  I am certainly worth a lot on paper and that is for sure!  I mean with my lottery winnings and inheritances plus "standing in" as next of kin for countless civil engineers who, with their entire families die in these Nigerian car wrecks and plane crashes leaving several millions behind.  Those things add up.  So, if I've blown it for Mr. Davis Sampson of The Government of some place that will be $52 and one half million dollars short come this 09/30, God knows I'm sorry!
 

A bit O Bathroom Humor w/Babs

I used to wonder what "heat lightning" was. Then I looked it up, and they told me it was just lightning flashes from actual storms far away reflecting on clouds near by.  I didn't really believe it til I got radar on this computer.  I mean now I can turn on The Weather Underground website and if I hit the right button I can see the storms with their little knife like arrows prowling around like a bunch of delinquents.  If I don't happen to have the computer on right at the moment, one of my early warning poodles will hear the thunder long before me and 80 lb of dog in your lap will get your attention if nothing else.  So with dogs in my lap and computers running, I'm starting to sound like Irma Bombeck or something.  Well, I'm not her, unless, of course, she, being dead, has over taken me somehow.  I wonder what Martha Stewart's up to today?  I doubt if she sleeps very late.  How do I know? Well, I know a great deal about "Marty" and I know she sleeps in a single bed in the converted attic of her country place where a servant might once have slept.   The lady is all about entertaining but that doesn't include "The bedroom." We are, after all, not living in France!  No I doubt if M. bestows her sweet favors on some lucky dinner guest and that's why we are not privy to well, The Privy, or the Sleeping Chamber.  I was thinking about asking Martha to accompany me on an ocean voyage aboard The Yacht Pelican's Pouch. Just the two of us watch and watch as we sailed down the well worn longitude to the Antilles.  I know that Marty would bring all the right gear and show up for her watch a tad early in a bulky fisherman's sweater with a steaming cup clutched  securely in place and make sure she had the course and all that.  I also know that she would also be happily snug in a quarter berth reading in the special golden light that only lives in a sailboat duing the evening hours.  A quarter berth is a snug little spot toward the rear of the boat that you enter feet first and just your head and shoulders poke out.  You might not even notice it if no one was in there.  Now, I'm quite aware that more than a few do not share my attraction for Miss Martha Stewart of Connecticut, US.  In fact, many have expressed an interest in the oddly proportioned singer and actress, Ms. Barbara Streisand of NYC, NY and say she is "The Kind."  Well other than professing a like of ice cream during he early years, Babs has always struck me as wacko.   Kind of an intelligent Cher. Or maybe just a Jewish one.  It's very possible that Cher may be the better actress plus, as far as I am aware, she has never resorted to the weirdness of a Laura Nyro song to get on the pop charts.  Away with all that and avast!  I want to talk about some serious trouble in the rest room.  While I am not one to dwell on the matters of what a person does "off stage", at the same time, I can deal with it. It would seem, however, that while my gal pal Martha has issues there to some extent, your buddy Babs is a total fruitcake on the subject!  What do you mean Texino?  Been snooping around the ladies' again you naughty fellow?  Short answer?  No, however; I did read in the yellow press that Ms Streisand pitched a MAJOR fit up there in NYC during the filming of some movie where she was the producer, director and co-star (right- Babs don't co-anything) She pitched this fit because, get this, When she used the toilet in her trailer/motor home on the location, she had to turn around in order to flush it, thereby  facing the possibility of Seeing what she might have left in the bowl. Excuse me!  I mean aren't you supposed to take a passing interest in what you pass?  It can sort of tip you off to some deadly diseases you know.  Don't mean you need to become too fascinated with the stuff or anything, but come on, let's be a grown up.  Anyway,  never a slave to irony, Ms. Streisand who, BTW, was playing a Shrink in the film got her way and a bigger trailer, and life goes on don't cha know. I'm not certain what Martha may have pulled during her recent imprisonment, but since she could not hire out someone to go for her, I guess she just had to deal with it.  As far as dealing with it, think of the money that could have been saved if Barbara would have used the porta-potty!  That way her "Stuff" would have fallen in with that of the commoner and she might have even learned a small lesson; something you should try to do every day anyway.

Der Bingle

Hi it is Texino and I am trying to write something, anything, but I am not having much luck because  Bing Crosby is on the TV close by. "Bing" is starring in a film that requires him too use his considerable vocal talents, however; rather than camping it up with the noxious Bob "Going to live to be 100 years old" Hope who at this juncture may still be in The UK boxing beneath the name "Packy West," Bing is pitting himself against different musical genre some which he can handle i.e. sappy ballads, pop tunes of the day and whistling interludes and some which he cannot; specifically singing Jazz with Louis Armstrong who, in the 1930s was Commander in Chief of Negro Music.  We get Crosby sing/saying "Come on Mr. Trumpet Man!" Armstrong plays some trumpet riffs to which Bing has a very stiff and white person answer that sort of goes "Bom boom  bombom boom bom bom" To which Mr. Trumpet Man replies "Zat zoot re bap be bop bop a re bop." Remember, I am not watching this movie, but I have a queasy feeling that as Bing is singing "Now you've heard that Trumpet Man..." he is dancing around waving his index finger up in the air.  You know what I mean.  I still don't know the name of this film but I'm thinking it is one of those vehicle movies where a studio puts a lot of well known people in support of the star. Like Louis Armstrong and I'm certain I heard Shirley Temple in there and the Harmonicats as well. Now it's over.  I'm still at a loss, so I'll just talk about what a dick Bing Crosby was.  Was he a jerk?  Hard to say since we did not hang out. Turns out, he was probably pretty decent for a big star.  I think that Bing was pretty complex and like a lot of successful men of his time just did not make a good dad.  I mean not only was Bing a famous singer and actor, but due to his vision in the recording industry, we got magnetic tape recorders and video tape and all kinds of cool stuff.  In other words he worked hard to improve his business.  Something else.  He may not have been able to keep up with Armstrong as a Jazzbo but they were good friends and evidently they both smoked a lot of pot starting back when it was legal and advocated it's decriminalization.  Bing was a big Republican, but not stupid.  Remember seeing him on those Orange Juice commercials back in the late 60s?  Minute Made?  He was big into that business too. Not stupid.  He had a bunch of kids from two marriages.  Boys and girls.  The first bunch had four brothers who tried to make it in show biz.  You probably remember one of them, Gary.  He was a cop on Adam-12, an old TV show about cops and sometimes he played a character on Dragnet.  Usually a jerk.  The other three?  Can't say except for two blew their heads off with shot guns, one more brother died of the coroner wouldn't say what and Gary died from smoking too many cigarettes soon after writing a book about what a shit his dad was.  The book really hurt Bing's image as a family man, but Bing was good and dead by that time.  I'd venture the book had more to do with the fact that the boys got a small amount from a trust set up by their mom who died in 1948 and Bing, seeing that they were disinclined to "work" in the real world set it up so they could not get any inheritance from him until they were in their 80s (none made it)  That "Der Bingle" thing?  Well, Crosby couldn't speak German, but he could act it, and that's what he did overseas during the war.  He would entertain the troops and then he would read propaganda over the radio to the German guys.  I think the Jerry's liked his singing too, so maybe he won that war.  He was a decent actor when you think about it.  Look at him in those Father O'Malley flicks.  What a slick priest!  Goes round extorting money from mean rich men and making choir boys out of hoodlums.  Got to admit, he was smooth.  Could have been all the pot. Well the movie is over and all I got was this dumb rap about Bing Crosby that's not even funny or that informative. Oh yeah, Bing was friends with Les Paul and gave him his first tape recorder; Lester put that to good use that is for sure.  Now don't sit here ruining your eyes reading my nonsense. You all go out and have an ice cream or something.

tt.

Summer's over you say?

It's best not to listen to anyone these days.  That is, unless you enjoy being stung with a toothache-like nostalgia; likely to abscess  your brain, kill your heart, strike you blind and make your dog forget you.  For if you listen the least little bit, this may be the matter.  Summer is over.  Oh large charge Texino, it happens once a year every year and has done so since time was O'clock.  Yeah, I know, but down in the jungle where the coconut grows, save for a bit more rain come November, it's always summer .  The average is 88 or something.  That's great in Poor February when you drop ship in Baltimore and fly home via San Juan.  Man, every-time I do that, all I have to do step outside between planes get slammed by El Tropico and I'm smiling for the six months I'm on the hill. Yeah it's great, until some radio poet starts in on the sweet finality of a season's end; some place where they happen like a clock, and I get thinking because I have not always been a  monkey man.  No I have not.  In fact, I can cast a memory quite a distance in aid of catching up, and I easily remember how cool nights could sneak up on August and put the chill on my summer heart.  Sure, that stuff happened to me.  Tentative hands in June,  fireworks by the 4th, and then you could live and die in 60 days; The shelf life of a Summer Love.  Good fun, a few disagreements, some bad choices but no horrible memories. Then in September, the wind would back around, blowing one more year off my page and rattling the halyards of 200 odd boats waiting to be cradled in the yard or sailed away to a different season. A season not so innocent as True Summer. Something any Skipper would notice in the eyes of  would be shipmates lurking the docks.   You have seen them before, they come in on the one ferry, just as the other leaves with those you will not see again.  A sad piece of irony? Maybe, but then it was time to sail East for South and Summer the Winter in the islands.  The years pass and things settle the way they do.  That doesn't mean some old habit won't present itself as a argument against what you have become.  It doesn't hurt to kick the tires of these old memories either, you don't have to buy them to try them.  OK?  Fine

TT

Gimme a "K"

Karma.  Now there's a word we use pretty often here at the labs. It's like a cosmic credit score in that it is supposed to determine your worth in past and present lives with an eye for how you might fare in a future incarnation.  You can also score points in the good and bad aspects of Karma and then blame it for failure or fortune.  Actually, people tend talk about their own good Karma and someone else's bad.  I mean you don't often hear a person say "I sure have bad Karma." No, he/she will more than likely shell out a self effacing, "Shucks, must be good Karma or something." On the other hand, someone might say, President Clinton has bad Karma and that would fit because the poor man is always getting into hot water.  In my opinion President Bush has no Karma , so in his case the saying "You only live once" would be probably be appropriate.  The Karmic system also works well for those who have issues with current trends in the Old Time Religion.  I mean it's fine to point out the rewards of  having Good Karma, but if should one start referring to one's self as "Christ Like" that person might find himself the object of one of those "Spanish Inquiries" where the person ends up skinned alive.  I'm sorry, but that bunch have some pretty

uncharitable intentions toward anyone who can't conceive the beauty of a theocracy. 

I'm talking this trash because I am trying to steer clear of an ongoing miracle.  It involves some very nice people who want to believe it miraculous that a person was able to stage a remarkable recovery from a medical problem.  OK.  Now since it is permissible for anyone to think what he or she wants, it should also be OK to consider that God may well have intended to rub this fellow out and purveyors of cold logic stole him back.  Could happen.  Of course there are many many ways to view this and it still comes out a split decision, Miraculous Event vs Beating the Reaper.  Religion has been around a long time often playing to worse odds, so it's a foolish person who discounts it outright.  What's it got to do with me?  Well I did something to help here, and I want to believe I did it because I have the power to recognize a situation where I can make a positive impact, just do it and leave.  That action may well employ the teachings of various faiths, but putting what you have learned to work and being a theological pawn are not the same.  In this case, I think I'll take the Karmic points and go home Bob.  Let another contestant try for the Showcase.

You can't Roller Skate in a Buffalo Herd

Actually, I think that should read, "Herd of Buffalo."  It doesn't matter too much because the real title here is, "Don't ever try to have a serious or emotionally charged conversation via email."  You may know this already. I should know this already as well, yet I did it anyway.  Today.  A little while ago.  Now you would think that as a guy who is used to editing; i.e. these blogs are usually 4 or 5 times larger than what finally escapes, I would not send off a foolish "Well if that's how you feel, then..." ultimatum, but I did.  In fact, I read it three times and felt pretty smug about my position as the yellow " your message has been sent bar" flashed on the "gmail" screen. ( suggest that be changed to "your fate is now sealed.") In fact, I felt so satisfied that I had said and done the right things, I went back and reread the email which had caused my "Take that!" response.  I guess in my self righteous state of self rightness, I had missed the part where the person with whom I had become disagreeable, was, at that moment, en-route to my house in aid of putting things in order. OK? Not fine. Because why?  Well for one thing, I had no idea whether X had read my "clever" response and for two, I was in my underwear. I don't know about you folks, but I rarely set out to conquer an issue in paisley boxers and a "wife beater." Face it.  In general, if you are thusly clad, negotiations have been completed and you are on you way to make, well,  "romance."  So, you might ask, "Hey Texino, why not get dressed?"  Good point. But, wait!  This X was probably too sophisticated to either berate or kill a person in his skivvies, plus if the Cops were to see a fellow hightailing it down the path in a singlet and colorful shorts, they might take me for a runner out for a jog and not the fool I was fast proving myself to be.  Well, as it turned out, no friendships bit the dust.  OK? Fine, for now, but I need to remember that this email is like a gun in that once you fire it, you can't bring the bullet back, and it is not like a gun in that, you will hit your intended target 100% of the time.  I guess when something is just like something and, at the same time, not like it at all, it deserves your total attention.  I really am glad I got that thing fixed.  Now, let's make some money.

Hey! You ever wonder about Martha Stewart?  You know?  She knows everything about anything, right?  Well how about sex?  Bet you never thought about that did you?  Well that's why I'm the Texino around here, so don't let it bring you down.  Now, I figure if Marty were to put out (?) a sex manual it would just fly off the shelves. And, check this out: She's done "Time" so she most likely has something to tell everyone, if you Steely Dan fans get my drift. No point in skating around the subject, I always say.  I'm certain I have her email address here at the lab.  "What about that big lecture about being email nice?" you ask.  Well that's for friends, this is straight (?) business. Totally different thing; people stepping on other peoples heads and all kinds of sport.  Watch this space.

Testing, testing. "Is it rolling Bob?"

Ok, I had to go get some brain tests.  Ever had one?  Two?  Maybe three?

Well that's what I did today and now I'm writing this goddamn blog which I think  two people read.  Well that's OK, because they are good people; Ms Moon and that guy from Tally Hassle, and as long as one person reads it, even if it's just me, I'll write it.  Why?  Well believe it or not, when I hire on, I'm as loyal as Old Dog Trey. You can take that to the bank.  Good as gold.  Solid as a rock.

A real Boy Scout. Now you are probably saying, "Hey Texino didn't you used to be pill head and take all your friend's drugs?" Well yes, that is true, plus I've done some other bad things in my life.  So you could ask? "Hey Texino, think you are going to Hell?" and I might glibly answer, "Where do you think I've been the last seven years?" and while your thinking that over, let me tell you something. I've been checking it out and according to my figures, I've been trying to kill myself since 1966.   Now you have to say "Hold up bud, that's 40 odd years, so you must be the worst shot since Elmer Fudd."

OK, we may be running aground on a simile here, but the fact remains that during that time I have been a commercial fisherman, a fighting soldier, a high steel painter, a firefighter and a drug addict. All of these professions are ones where people routinely die and I know this to be true as I have seen it happen in every single one.  Sure all I wanted to do was be a normal man with a family, but that one didn't fly, so I chose musician but I wasn't good enough to make it count for much so I went to "work" at a series of dangerous jobs and after all that time I finally managed to come closer to dying than ever before and maybe I did die because, as I implied above, I seem to have been in Hell. OK? Fine, but wait!  Just the other day one of the doctor's (Hell's full of them) sent me to someone else who was a doctor and this one said that it might be possible that I was in hell by mistake and I could take some tests and find out and while I was at it, why not try these anti Hell pills and see if you don't cool down?  Well this may seem odd to you living beings, but I seem to be less hell-bound than before. "Prove it you say?"  OK,

check this out. Today I was laid up in an MRI machine with my head in a cage.  MRI is a big pipe runs through a donut and being stuck down in there is something many people cannot deal with.  Well while I was inside, and as usual, I was thinking of eternal damnation. In fact, I was pretending that I was in a coffin and was destined to stay there forever with this noise that the MRI makes as my only company; it's really loud btw. Well that ought to scare a person, right?  Being stuck down a tube for eternity with you head immobilized while devils banged on it with big hammers.  Get the picture?  Well after a few minutes of trying to scare myself, I started to pick up a rhythm in the noise, a beat if you will.  Now once you got a beat you got some music because music is just sounds of different pitch , broken down into fractional parts of a beat.  You like that definition?  I did, so I started singing with the beat.  I imagine the people in the control room wondered what in Hell I was up to.  I want to leave you with that thought.  Just as I dearly want to be free of this troubling condition I have floundering in for the last seven and one half years.  Since I intend to continue with this writing, I'll let you now what happens.

T

What is Bluegrass Anyway

This is Texino. Sometimes I post to a List-serve at the University of Kentucky that is meant to be entirely devoted to bluegrass music. I title my posts "Looking through the F Holes." Every year about now a discussion flares up in regard to the International Bluegrass Music Association or IBMA because they hold a convention in September where awards are given for best this and that. Well the balloting is presently underway and things are heating up to the point where people can not agree what bluegrass music is. The following is a bit I wrote in an effort to explain what bluegrass is or might be.  I'm putting it here because I am too lazy to write another article today and also because there are a couple of people who drop by this blog who are into music.  I quote myself:  Some people have asked how I can see from "The F Holes"? Good question. The answer is, I'm inside of a big bass fiddle*. That's right. A German model from 1939 with a trap door in the back. Instruments can be used as hiding places both in real life as well as metaphorically.
Today, I sense a bit of panic within the community because people who love and live Bluegrass are suddenly hard pressed to define it. Well, as we all learned in our youth, the answer to any question is ,"Look it up." My dictionary says Bluegrass is: " a kind of country music influenced by jazz and blues and characterized by virtuosic playing of banjos and guitars and high-pitched, close-harmony vocals." Another definition is "... grown for fodder." While the first definition would satisfy most people , I believe the second might serve our group better. Why? Because one use of the word fodder means food, another is to feed and still another one is an excess of the expendable, i.e. "cannon fodder. Although I like to think we use our fodder as grist for the mill of discussion, others may seize a clump and fire it off in defense of a position and some people just eat as much as they can but can never get enough. Then we have this. A long time friend and some time band mate tells a humorous story which ends with a man saying "David, Bluegrass is a hard, driving music." Through the years when one of us might be a bit off track, the other could just drop that line out of the blue and all would be better. It got to the point where almost anything, from angry words to hurt feelings or even an awful showing on stage, could be set aside by someone striking mock serious and quoting that old saw. Didn't even have to have a Dave present; just the words would do it. The music has that power.
So there, Bluegrass is a hard, driving music that you can live, eat and use as a weapon. The IBMA shindig? Well that's like the flu season, or a Texino broadcast; you know it's coming, but you can't really judge how deadly it was until it's over. My advice ? Sea por favor tranquil mis amigos and smile when you see a big German Bass.

*note  I don't know if this instrument is real or as a French person might say, " de de la tête"

It does exist in a story I have where the "double bass" is used to hide a small child or move other things around wartime Europe, and I have been inside and all through the instrument in such detail, I might as well have made the thing in real life.

Texino

texino@gmail.com

www.bozotexino.com

Do I Voo Doo?

I was disipointed recently because an essay I had been asked to submit in support of a broarder piece was cut out altogether. I did feel compelled to send a letter to the editor letting him know that, as a Latino, I was insulted and would have my satisfaction even if I had to use Voo Doo to get it. In fact, I included a photo of a Root Doctor and a Zombie.(That is the Zombie right there folks)  I think I made it clear that my retribution was more symbolic than anything else and he could easily escape with a simple, " Im sorry," however; I do have a copy of a book written by this fellow and, therefore, have all the connection I need to reach him using the old ways. Rather than Zombify him, however;  I am more likely to have my Root Doctor cause a brief tummy ache where the only relief would come from the release of gas in the form noisy "farts."  These would be unique in that they would sound out various effects such as a trumpet doing a horses whinny or the deep tones of an Ocean liner's steam whistle. Imagine being at a formal dinner when, suddenly, the familiar oboe that heralds the dawn in Rossini's Overture emanates from beneath the table or perhaps an embarrassed man striding through a lobby trailing the sound of song birds in his wake. Of course such flatulence would be rendered odorless so as not to detract from sound quality.  We have the power to act, right here in the jungle. I don't know what I'll do because I'm still pretty sore about this and must not act out of haste. These things do take timing and a slip up might land me in hot water.  I think I better send the story to Ms. Moon just to be sure it doesn't really suck.  On the other hand, if I do get in trouble for using Voo Doo, I'm going to say "I did it for kicks, Man." or "To get my name in the paper."

The Last Sunday

I have a friend who is a Mom.  Well, lets say Momma because it's bigger and Mommy just doesn't fit.  My friend is not a Big Momma and she will never pick up that appellation because a big momma is a southern thing that is very easily understood, and one look at my friend Mary would settle the big momma question then and there.  No I have a feeling that, even should she acquire 50 grandchildren, she will still be Momma.  OK?  Fine, because we are talking about something else entirely.  I've known Mary for a long time, too long maybe, because we don't see one another as often as we once did.  I wouldn't say our friendship is stale, it's more on the level the box being pretty full, that is to say, from writing a million words, we know a bit much about what is in the other's mind and face to face contact brings little in the way of "What's new?"  See what I mean? Good, because we're still not to the point.  The point is the children.  Mary would not be much of a Momma without some of those and she has four.  We  call them Jim, June, Lilac and Lacy.

Mary would call them something else but I'm protecting innocents here.  Actually, there was another woman/child who desperately needed a Momma and Mary took her in until she could stand up and walk out.  I don't recall any eye blinking in the decision either, she just did it. It needed doing..  Mary, Mother, Mary Momma.  OK?  Fine because we are getting close to the point. When I first met Mary, it was to aid her with a computer matter, She seemed happy that someone would take the time and for my part I was happy to help.   A friend of a friend.  The friend was a girl and Mary was a girl too and I just like girls.  My hero;  The legendary piano man Big Al Williams had a bell mounted on his instrument and was famous for ringing it then yelling, " Calling all girls! Lets have a high ball!"  I like women that much if not more, so if a female needs a hand Texino is bound to respond favorably and fast.  Well computers got fixed and Mary and I soon discovered that we both took reading and writing  to a serious level and seemed to able appreciate each other in the comfortable manner that allows those of opposite sex but similar passions to fall in step and keep marching to that tune without messing with romance.    So we wrote and we read what we had written and when we didn't have any thing to read we talked about life which for Mary centered on her job as Momma.  When we met, Jim was grown and out and about. June was at home but close to college and Lilac and Lacy were just cute little girls in the elementary grades.  Well as hard as Mary was at living her life and being a good wife and mother, she still maintained the Momma persona by going to the school house and assisting with this class or that one.  We know she wanted to make sure things were getting done the correct way, and God knows how much momma she let loose to the masses.   Perhaps God does know, but the numbers are beyond me.  I know they were enough to put the yoke on Mary for she's a small gal. Small in stature maybe, but strong in her belief  that while mothers get a break Momma is always there and aware.  It seemed the girls were always in school.  If there were vacations, Momma never took them  and after years of reading the words of Mary's week,  I began to notice Sunday.  Yeah Sunday was the day when things seemed bad; the day when a costume needed sewing or a forgotten science  project would surface and poster board, tempera paints and construction paper would meld along with the proper tables  and rumble off just in time to make the grade.  Also Sunday could bring on  the symptoms of "Duck Fever"  a 24 hour illness that followed the Mary family into 3 different homes.  I always felt that Duck Fever resulted from someone missing a dose of Momma during the previous week and the lack of it would manifest during the the Sunday preschool countdown.  If the disease was confirmed, then the victim would remain at home wrapped in a comforter known as The Duck and receive Momma Ju Ju for the balance of the day and be fine by morning.  Duck Fever withstanding, I can't remember any of the kids from Jim though Lacy ever getting really sick and there is a pretty fair space of time covered.  Yup, Sundays were tough on my pal, but in these 12 or so years, she never missed one.  When you think about that, well its hard to think about. Because outside of being a Momma there were serious Mother and Wife things to deal with.  People died, or went away mad; old wounds would open and close at will because too much self healing magic had been lent the Momma bank, and those debts always default at the worst time.  I've watched my pal go through a month of Sundays 144 times and though she may have stalked each sabbath with a black cloud looking to find a crack in her even temper, it never happened or at least the word didn't reach us here at the know it all center.  OK?  Well it better be because, by my clock the youngest of the kids, the one left, baring a case of Duck Fever, will be stepping off  to college monday morning.   The Sundays?  It might take a while to see they are just a day before monday, maybe a bit heavy with memory but that will level out over time.  Kids grow and then they have to move around a little and sometimes they even go away, however; the children in this story wont do that; cant do it because  Momma wouldn't allow no sorry-ass separation.  It's a Southern thing you see, but it could happen anywhere.

Mary's kids are all good people.  I know they love their Momma and their Poppa as well.  Do they  know how lucky they are to have been cared for in such a special way?  And do they know how every fiber of their mother's heart and soul has stretched to hold them steady when things get bumpy?  I hope so because, there is simply no better definition of true love, and I am happy to point it out.

I might be different

I am not myself right now.  Well as Texino, I am not really myself, but this is different.  I don't know if it has to do with laser shots to the brain or a sudden compulsion to study the Dorian mode, but I do know these items are not found in the day planner of your average almost 60 year old man.  I've done a little checking and, no you won't find them.  Oh yeah, there is this other thing.  Lately, I have been stopping my car a little bit into the cross walk when I pause at a red light.  Well, I did it again yesterday, except there was a red car already there and I hit it.  Not hard mind you, but the fellow driving the red car noticed and he got out to talk.  There was no damage and the man was very nice about it.  He could have said something mean, but he didn't.  We were both transporting French Poodles, and that may have helped.  On the other hand, he could have been riding a motor bike and the story would have ended differently.  Well it did end there and fortunately, nothing was said in regard to my age.  Like "maybe it's time to call it a day gramps."  Or "The light doesn't get any redder in St Johns Provence, daddy-o"  Oh yeah, I was not high on reefer or booze.  I felt badly to the maximum and decided to go see my doctor and ask a question.  For some reason I started crying when when the Doctor came to examine me.  He was concerned as Texinos just don't do that unless they are happy.  He sent me to have  test for a brain bleeding event.  Since it wasn't, they said Texino you could just be losing your marbles few at a time, so its time for us to count them.  So if you happen to spot some loose cats eyes or steelies  rolling around in the, gutter please pick them up and put them in  safe spot until I can get someone over to get them.  Thanks.  

While I am writing about crazy, I might as well confess the possibility of a new ghost.  I've written about the drag-leg ghost before-the one almost scared my hair white, back in 1963.

Well this morning I went to to finish up this post and there were a lot of Es at the end of the last sentence because I had gone to sleep typing and my finger had rested on the key.

I erased all of the E letters and looked at what I had put down and it made some sense, so I went and hit the spell check.  Now the spell check busted me for trying to make a compound word of too +Lorraine.  OK?  Well not fine because I did not write "Lorraine" anywhere in the post and if I had it would have been totally out of context.  In fact, the only Lorraine I know is the lady who sold me poodles.  I did, however, have a  next door neighbor by that name, but she died many years ago.  Funny thing is, when she was dying she said she hoped to live long enough to smell my jasmine in bloom once more.  She did and then died.  She was very warm and gracious woman and I miss her.  Sometimes when I am out in the night airs, I will pick up the sent of Ligustram.  Lorraine had a hedge of it and the smell was strong.  After she died, her husband tore it up.  Then he moved away.  He is about 90 and he didn't have any trouble finding a new babe either.  John's a real good dancer and the gals left by from those dancing days, will go Boffo for a man who is smooth.  I miss Loraine a lot,  for she was ever so nice.  Thing is, John never had a service for her.  He just burnt her up and the paper said "service at a later date."  So poor Lorraine is on my mind especially when I catch the smell of Ligustram where there isn't any, or whenever my Jasmine comes out  Now today, I find her name mysteriously hanging around my word processor and would like to know if she is here for a visit or I just wrote it while drifting.  I put a few questions to the computer and when I come back from the eye doctor I'll see if she was here.  I think you night want the answers too.  As the Bard once had Hamlet say;  "There are more things in heaven and earth, Texino, than are dreamt of in your philosophy"

The Motherless Baby Home

Hi.  Today I received an odd email from a gentleman in Africa.  This fellow, who we will call Mike, wrote to tell me about the unfortunate death of a Mr. Finklestein.  He then went on the say that Finklestein, who had no kin, had left some 15.5 million bucks in the bank where Mike works and, if no one claimed it, the money would revert to the bank's general fund. Well that's the news from Africa. NOT!  No way, because Mike has chosen me to pose as Finklestein's heir and for this little charade, I will get 40% of the money and Mike and "his partner" get 40% and the "other 10%" will be donated to the Motherless Baby Home. You say "err Texino 40 + 40 + 10 is not 100" Yeah, I noticed that as well, but I was more taken with the idea of a motherless baby to worry about that "new math" stuff.  I mean, Mike doesn't say "orphaned children" he says "Motherless Baby" and I say that's a neat trick.

Of course, we have all gotten these letters and they are part of the well known 419 or "Nigerian Scam"   Now I do not see how anyone, even a motherless baby, could fall for this.  Someone must, however, because I see no slacking in these appeals.   How do they do it?  Well, they ask for all your banking data and, if you give that up, they will simply take all your money out of the bank.  If, say, you start a separate account for your cut, you will be asked for what seems like trivial amounts needed to get a document stamp or power of attorney.  Then everything will be set up but at the last minute someone will need $1000 bucks for someone will require hush money.  People fall for this?  It would seem so.  I guess it plays upon greed and once you put a little money in, it's hard to convince yourself that you are a complete idiot.  Powerful psychology is at work too.  If, like me, you read these letters for laughs  you will notice that the author uses a mixture of big words and poor grammar and you may easily assume you are dealing with a fool.  Not necessarily. It seems that quite a few people feel that they will outsmart the con.  Try that and you could be the big loser.  When I was active on the web site "Quatloos" (a respected clearing house for Tax related scams, but others are discussed as well) I helped investigate a fellow from Canada called Jim Norman.  Jim had started this "Project" where women working for him would use all sorts of bogus paper to convince investors that Jim's "Espavo" foundation had this portfolio worth 77 million bucks but it was tied up by the world court and world bank due to some 9/11/01 deal.

Anyway Jim needed these piddling amounts of money to pry it lose and in exchange for say a 2k loan, he would issue a promissory note to pay back the money in two weeks at something like 700% interest.  Well that's a lot of dough for 2 grand and people signed up big time.  Of course Norman never paid a dime and still hasn't.  Interesting point though; in going over some purloined emails from a mole in the organization, it would seem that Norman himself had been taken in by one of these scams and seemed to believe he was going to hit it very big.  When last I checked, Jim was still at it but with more of a new age angle. Some place on his web site Jimnorman.com or something close, he claims to have tested at some incredible score which shows him to be near super human.  Thing is, the "score sheet" he posts is obviously

a "charge sheet" from a dentist visit which shows billing codes in the left margin and corresponding items to the right.  Of course Jim says these are "chemical values" and some arcane dental products may seem to bear this out, but things like "motrin" and the paper the dentist uses to check that your crown is the right hight are dead give a ways.  To anyone who has worked around medicine or looked at a discharge bill from the ER or Dr.'s office, the issue of a billing code for every single possible thing that can be charged is no secret.  Never the less, Jim the con just goes ballistic if questioned.  A google search would likely show some of this stuff.  Yet even with this huge amount of negative evidence, people have recently given money to the Norman scheme. Some have been highly paid professionals who can laugh off a couple of grand for the outside chance that this might be real.  What doesn't come to lite that often are seniors who have bet their retirement savings.  Why the hell would they do that?

The next time you go round a lottery sales location, please notice who is buying the weekly dream.  It's likely to be the elderly.  You might say, "Damn that person is 80, what the hell would they do with 50 million?  Well, the sad thing about our society is a lot of us "don't make it" and it is scary to be on a fixed income and have to worry about the cost of medicine and being taxed out of your home, or the stigma of being "broke".  It is an entirely different American Dream that motivates these folks.  How would I know? Well being Texino, I just know stuff. Meanwhile Mike and Jim and Barrister Princewell and all manner of other happy schemers are out there looking to nail your last dollar.  Oh yeah, the Motherless Baby Home.  What really caught my eye there was the reminder of an old blues tune; the type they call a moan, that tells us. "Motherless children have a hard time when their mother is dead."  As I grow older, the song makes far more sense than the overstated title did back in the day when I had little to lose.   Purposeful bring down here?  No, not really.  I see something, get an idea for one thing and then maybe something else comes out.  It's just a thing.  Keep your eyes open, porcupines abound.

Friendly Staff forced to punt

Howdy, Texino here.  After reading a recent entry where Ms. Moon, in conflict with an optical shop, takes the subject of rude staff to the word woodshed for a thrashing, I thought about some recent contacts with my own care givers.  By thrilling coincidence, my latest go round was also driven by a visit to an optical center.  In fact, I was looking for new glasses myself.  Life seems to seek these little parallels, doesn't it? That or we are just plodding the same boring road copping each others riffs.

Oh well, it is crazy thinking like that which propels me into this story.  Lets start right here with a statement of fact.  I have Glaucoma, a disease of the eye that causes the ambient pressure inside the eyeball to rise.  For the most part, it is asymptotic and if not diagnosed and treated it will rob your sight. Now even though I know this and I know the treatment, I became non compliant-meaning I stopped taking the medicine and quit getting my pressure monitored. How come?  Well let's just say a little voice in my head said it was OK.  Of course that was craziness at work. I know that now, you know it and the folks at the eye place know it too.  There lies the nut of the problem.  The eye people treat me like I am an idiot, at least the ones who know about my madness do, while the ones who don't know are often brusk to the point of rudeness because I often cannot follow their instructions.  I don't like going there one iota, however; I had to go there recently because my progressive bifocal lenses were driving me, well I guess I can say "crazy" and you will get the point.  Now before they would hand over different glasses, I had to go through an exam.  The person who gave the first part was "clued in" and seemed to feel the proper approach  to employ when dealing with the insane was to reassure me that the machines would not hurt me.  Now, I'm sure you all have had this done to you before, right?  I mean the color blind test and the how many dots test and so on and it's all about looking into some device and trying see something.  Hardly intimidating even to the most feeble minded among us.  I mean it's like looking into a telescope; something you may not do every day (or night) but hardly a threat.  Oh well, I don't think they cover giving eye tests to madmen in optical assistant school.  They may, however, go over some geriatric issues and I think this lady was improvising along that route.  Next we have the eye doctor, a very nice man for an Android.  I swear this man is programed to perform  complex fiddling of various machinery, All the while speaking some eyeball jive in a sing-song voice and answering "Yes, of course." in response anything you might say. Usually harmless and very predictable, so I was quite taken aback when he suddenly dismissed his robotic persona and said, "Hmmm, something serious here, Ill be setting up an appointment for you with the eye surgeon," then walked out.  As I was led to the desk where "all business must be concluded before leaving", I heard the doc's voice singing its song to the next patient.  Too weird in that by finding some new event beyond their ken, the whole complex shut down on me and went into reset mode for the next patient.  Well true to their word, they sent me to The Eye Surgeon.  Still, I find the lack of a real explanation or consultation or discussion about which eye surgeon; the stuff that happens when normal people need to be referred for advanced treatment, I find it, well, missing and am left with the feeling I should have brought a parent or what ever the equivalent for a 59  year old child would be.  Oh, by the way, I got my new glasses with no argument at all from what is usually the most contentious sector of the staff.  Now in case you think I am imagining being treated like an idiot,  I offer you this;

When I went to my appointment at the eye surgery complex, my initial exam was done by a woman who obviously did not suffer fools gladly.   "Do you know why you are here?" She demanded. I said that I did. She then fixed me with the look usually reserved for inspecting some questionable item on one's dinner plate and said, "Well, why don't you tell me what you think you are here for?"  I wanted to put her eye out.  Being a disabled person can cause great frustration. Even more so when you know that your disability is partly due to mental illness and it is not a secret.  A touch of the old lunacy may even do you a favor in the studio or at your desk, but when you go outside of the nest you have to be very careful of how you act or what you have to say , for the part of the world that responds in direct reaction to you is seldom understanding and rarely, if ever, charmed by your antics.  The folks in this story helped me retain a great deal of my sight and though I am very grateful, I must admit, that in my minds eye, things don't make for such a happy picture.  How can I be so selfish; so self centered?  Well that is just the way we crazy people are.  Please take my word for this and don't try it at home.

Texino

Don't call me Tex

Panama

The next time you need help, call a ...

  Do you remember that bumper sticker? "If you hate the cops..." Then it tells you to call whomever it is that has a beef with law enforcement.  Used to be that the police were at least on the side of the solid citizen and they spent some time offering assistance to that bunch.  If you were counter culture, it was best to just keep moving outside of their personal space. Now the police are undergoing some disturbing changes.  How do I know this?  Well not too long ago, I was doing some lecturing at a college, a community college, where they had included an actual Law Enforcement Academy in the curriculum of study.  Now in my comings and goings it was common to see the student police practicing various types of field training outside of the classroom environment.

It was not long before several things struck me as odd.  First it was the uniform or I should say uniforms.  The students, or "recruits" as they prefer, attended class in a uniform of khaki shirt and trousers and shiny black shoes. For physical training, they donned olive drab combat fatigue pants, combat boots, a bright red t-shirt, and would form up in military fashion complete with a Guidon (a small pennant on a stick) Then they would march off to the exercise area in parade fashion or else that odd double shuffle popular with South African troops and Black College Marching Bands.  Of course you can't march without timing and since they did not have a brass band, they relied on tried and true cadence call and response rhymes.  After rigorous exercise the trainees hit the showers and would appear in either the classroom Khaki or else ominous black battle dress called BDUs.  BDUs meant serious training like kicking in doors and shooting shotguns plus all manner of urban warfare.  All this stuff was done with a deadly serious attitude and reminded me very much of my army training except even more combat oriented and the combat seemed directed to a population rather than an "enemy"  As my time continued, I began to notice the recruits becoming not only more paramilitary in attitude and dress, they also to a man, though not a woman, started shaving their heads in an exaggerated version of the high and tight or "white wall" haircuts favored by elite units of The Armed Forces.  Before long the "Basic Law Enforcement" class started applying military base procedure to the whole campus by raising and lowering the Flag at certain times and even attempting a retreat each afternoon.  A retreat is when the Flag is lowered while a bugle plays and on a military reservation certain rules are followed.  Well a college is not Fort Bragg and traffic will not come to a halt nor will persons afoot stop and face in the direction of the main post flag and salute it till it's down.  I can tell you this did not go over well with the jr. cops and they even attempted to stop traffic by posting class members in bright orange vests right in the roadway.  Well that idea was scotched by admin and the cops were allowed to take their flag hijinks over to the "Fire Grounds" where they maintained a shooting range and had pretend battles in the "burn buildings" used for training Firefighters.  Trouble ensued with the firemen and some embryonic coppers got their pants dirty.  This episode caused me to investigate and in interviewing the police cadets I discovered the disturbing prevalence of an us vs them mentality ingrained to the point where I, as an instructor from outside the law enforcement section was not treated with the respect I would as a rule get from clean cut and well disciplined students.  This bothered me greatly, not because I'm some martinet, no what troubled me was with all the emphasis that the Law Enforcement Community places on "respect for the badge=respect for The Law" it was obvious that the new "Police" are being programed to by-pass respect for the "solid citizen" and this can be seen in countless episodes where the cops have terrorized, and I do not use the term lightly, yes terrorized innocent families in their own homes because someone made a mistake. Even, if no mistake is made then what has happened to the presumption of innocence?  More and more the police approach every arrest as a tactical exercise.  Heavy boots at 4 AM. Your door explodes inward and like as not some noise making pyrotechnic is set off.  Masked men made bigger by black Darth Vader armor burst into your home screaming the vilest obscenities for you to get on the floor and are held there with a gun to your head while your home is literally torn to pieces in search of ANYTHING incriminating; even if your offense is over due parking fines.  If you want to use that old saw, "law breakers get what they deserve" you better get it through your thick head the "The Patriot Act" in defense of the "Homeland" makes you a criminal by thought, action, dress, association and just about anything else someone wants AND you are guilty as charged from the get go.  An article in the Roanoke, VA Times stresses this very point reporting how cars going to a Bluegrass event were being stopped by federal park police and searched under the auspices of The Patriot Act.  An editor for the paper was threatened with arrest under the sam "Law" for trying to photograph an incident from a safe distance.  This stuff is happening.  I am the last one to envolve myself in some nutty conspiracy but, goddamn it, this stuff is happening and the police are being trained to do it.  The cops stop you, don't even think of telling them you know your rights because,  you don't.  The next time you need a cop?  I'd advise calling a lawyer first.

The little search engine that could....

A couple of things if I may ask and add.  OK? Fine.  First let me inform you that should your fortunes change in some way, the chance of this news reaching you by email is nil.  This not to say that a faraway friend can't give you news in advance of a card or call. i.e. "The baby looks exactly like you!"  Whether this is good  or bad news is left to the recipient to ponder.  Still it is only part of keeping your bases covered. To that end, when someone tells me that he or she is expecting a critical email or even go so far as to say it is a life or death issue, I will wager it is a ploy to get me to repair their computer ahead of someone else's.    Why would somebody expect me to fall for this?  I suppose that people become used to emails ability to let them plot a conversation while seeming to be spontaneous chit chat.  People forget that email is nothing but an electronic letter that, unlike the traditional variety, is very easy manipulate or edit to their advantage up until the moment it is sent.  So anyone who allows that such a missive is of world altering importance, is just plain crazy.  No matter how often you exchange email with a person, you must always complete your business or "thread" with a telephone call or face to face meeting

Lets think about email some more.  The fact that you probably get several varieties daily is telling in that for most spam is generated by something you did, or even something an acquaintance did and in doing it let your address loose because they ccd their entire mailing list while forwarding their latest lawyer joke or vicious political lie. i.e. Senator Obama is a space alien terror jockey bent on destroying our land of perfection because all liberals hate freedom.  Hey folks, I'm just reporting the news.  Anyhow, the cc option on your buddies email header is there for anyone who wants some email addresses.  So spammers my know that you are interested in a product your friend told you about  and they release your address by selling it to other spammers and you keep getting spam forever.  Well that's a fact Jack and a bitter pill Jill, but there's  a fix Dick and you can look it up, Chuck.  Ah! there is the rub.  Look it up.  Where do you do that?  Da da da da! Blow a bugle for Google!  What a wonderful fountain of stuff!  It's like having a smarter brother or big Sis right there with you.  Unsure of an idea or fact? Need a picture of an eyeball?  Just plunk the magic twanger and the goods are there.  How can something so good be free?  How can it be so damn nice?  Well like most thinks that taste good, there is a bad side to this.  The best way to see it is to get a Gmail account.  It's free but you do need an invite.  I can fix that for you.  OK, here is what you get.  A web mail account which is  bit like Hotmail or Yahoo except, it is very easy to use and comes with 2 GB of storage. That is 2,000 MB and considering a 40 MB hard drive used to go for about $1000 bucks 15 years ago you will see that tech has gotten real big and real cheap very very fast.

OK the point of the Google 2GB mail account is, you need not erase a thing because you could put about a billion words in 2GB and you will not write that much in your life. So Google has all your mail.  Fine, now is when things get goofy.  If you have Gmail, go a head and start writing a letter.  You will notice that Google has little text adds off to the right margin.  You hardly even notice them, however; if you do you might be surprised to see that as you write, the adds change content to mirror what you are saying.  Type "fucking" and some clickable text on that subject will show up.  Type boat, plane, diesel engine or happy birthday Mom and the clickable adds will keep right with you.  Scary?  Well yeah.  If you know anything about software, make that Hell Yeah!  Because even though Google says they don't keep the information on file or share it.  They could.  Google is now a big and very rich corporation.  They trade stock.  Just take a minute to and think about some other big outfits who do that.  They may have screwed you over; you know sent their tech support where folks don't understand you.  They speak English in that they are able to read a script, but they don't understand the nuances that would make them really helpful.  They may have screwed you or someone you know by taking his, her or your job and making it vanish.  They may have bankrupted the retirement fund of someone you know. (one reason why you might see old guys working as bag boys over at the market) They may have jacked your credit cards up to loan shark rates so you will just keep paying the "vig" for ever and can't touch the principal without re mortgaging your home. Banks mortgage homes as well as issue credit cards.  So you see, a big corporation is very apt to do something really harmful just to benefit the bottom line for it's investors.  While you can be an investor your self, the corporation is interested in people with great big piles of wealth and those are the people it will serve. Not you, Sue.  Oh yeah, it is just business. I'm not trying to start a scare, I'm just saying if I can start with a comment about simple electronic messages and build to a climax where a search engine might have a complete profile of what you write plus copies of what you have written, it will be well to take note, for as a corporation will blindly serve the bottom line a corporate computer will gladly take aim on whomever is chosen and spit a bothersome line of data in the direction desired.  Now that would be a serious email indeed.   Texino

Texino wrote this right off the top of his head and, other than spell check, did not use sneaky email editing.