She Fell in Love. Can’t be help responsible!

Back in 1974,  I was a kid,   only 18 years and probably was witness in some way to a date rape.   It sure felt like it because as I was leaving out the dorm that night,  guys were pulling a train on a teen girl and some guy asked me if I wanted to have ‘some.’   I said, “no.”   And besides,  the choice of words haunts me too as well as the whimpering that went along with her disorientation.

I was so naive but a part of my soul has been tortured to this very day.   If I knew then what I know now,   I might have gone postal because I cannot imagine a crime worse than that.     You see,   she was drunk and whimpering.   Damnit.   That really pisses me off.  No girl asks for ‘it.’   Not for that.

 

But date rape characterizations are nothing new and for the longest time just generally accepted.   In the movie ‘Animal House’  the guy was contemplating having sex with a passed out underage girl.    Did she ask for it?  NO! Does it happen?   Hell ya!   Is it any wonder so many women want to spread the pain around.

Going a few years into my adult life,   I had a girl friend and she was given a roofie.    The net effect according to her,  was she never felt the same about anything!    Date-raped by her boss at the mall.   She and I went through hell afterwards and my anger @ jerkoffs intensifies.    My girlfriend was only pieces of ceramic,   like Humpty-Dumpty,  those pieces can’t always be fixed.

I suffer too,  knowing that seedy men with seditious desires lay in wait,   like Jack The Ripper or the Boston Strangler.   In these instances the pain is far worse than death.    It is a slow blood-letting of one’s spirit and sense of control.    We had great times and every once in awhile we would talk.

From her bosses abuse of her,  of us really,   she went on a self-destructive binge with an older guy who was a criminal.   Arrested for a crack ball and spending time in prison,   he seemed to like finding young victims.   Her sister said he liked to read magazines like ‘Barely Legal’ and ’18’.      Yeah one of those!    One day her sister gave me a journal she had written and she had talked to her sister about the parasite she was with and how she missed me and my steady decisions and what would I do in a particular situation.   She said I am the guy that returns the shopping cart.    For awhile I was miffed by that but then got the gist of what she was trying to express.     She also got a disease from this miscreant,   Herpes!

(She fell in love in the first place)))

For some reason these words tick me off.    An otherwise innocent girl and not perfect by any  means,   paid the price for both of you and you both should be ashamed.     And I harbor guilt for not being able to protect her from the smarmy underbelly of the beast that lurks with a touch of wind and a wiff of illicit drugs.

If her mom had not been a prostitute and subjected her to so much,   she might have been able to cry on her shoulders.    She could have  told her Mom what he said and did  and your Mom would turn away.   Flushed with anger and disappointment,  words she heard once upon a time. Now reverberating like a song that plays over and over on a music box.   The ballerina fell suddenly and her porcelain dreams laid like a million shards of what ifs.

So let’s examine some of the dubious comments made by men and boys and mostly they are one and the same.     Your high school heroes and high society icons flickered as capriciously as the stories of high school football players and date rapes.   The bottom-line being the reputation of the boys and a girl who was allegedly asking for it.    She was collateral damage in the game of cat and mouse.

He gave you wine or drugs and told you it was okay.    He promised you everything to dance in the sheets and tomorrow he denies that he even knew you or the things you said,  you couldn’t have meant,  if you did say them….

Their friends and influences probably had mixed emotions about the destruction,   from the boss to the drug abusing narcissist whose real romance is a synthetic cesspool of misery.   Both now share in a common malady with excuses and no care for the damage they were doing.

What once was a fairy tale happiness transmogrified into a hellish world of missed chances.   Where lightning does strike over and over again(in the same place) and the pain still flows,  if even now to more or less a trickle.     In the video above  Boy Meets Girl they dance and sing with a love that we all want and yet finally,  even they play a requiem to a love gone strange.     To me,   as I worked in the media in Tampa,   the song was a fresh time.   A promise.   Together with Paula Abdul’s ‘Straight up’,  it seemed life had spectacular promise,  even after a lost preemie and the mother who ran off for a decade and a half with our daughter.

But life has second chances even if those chances require some modifications to retrofit them to make them work.    I do remember what my daughter said about her 16th birthday and how much she loved me.   That that was her best birthday ever.   This after being lost to me from her early post natal days to about fifteen years later.    Still,   I would NOT change things too much because what if we never rediscovered that and that is why the blog about ‘Ten Years a Single Mother’  and her kids love for her touches my heart.   Kids get the connections and their love is pure if they are loved.

The theme of this entire post is what are we going to do.    Rather than just complain about the pain,  how can we fix a thing?   You,   I and many others have lived on both sides of the track and nothing……  nothing gets fixed by complaining.    We need to put people first because a warm place and a hot dinner matters.

To the abuse of women,  children and the vulnerable,   you and I can change the world.    I have a few things going now.    One is to get Emotional Support Animals and Service Pets for people who need them.    Let’s teach men and society in general how to treat a lady and your kids.    We need to focus on identifying potential abuse and treat the family not a case number but take care of it as a village.  With compassion.    No tolerance policies does not heal a family.    Making rules is what politicians do.   Why do we punish people like Aileen Wuornos the way we do?   Why not find out where at-risk people are and help?   That gives us all a better chance of surviving the obstacles in life.

From murderers to offenders of all kinds,   punishment is the easy part,   preventing tragedies can happen and should happen.    That takes  more than a Breathalyzer and seeing if you can walk a straight line.    How much better will this world be with solutions and not grandstanding politicians and other nabobs using the moment for  personal gain.

Education is the key to everything.   Not just laws but helping people be better people.    Not projecting how good we are,  but how good we can all be,  if we just try.   Ghettos are going nowhere and neither are the homeless,  the drug users and other kinds of abusers.   Let’s get this done and stop maligning others.    The old speck and the log thing.

 

 

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My Cat likes Barry Manilow.

My cat Baby was reading her Red-letter Bible and she paused and put her bookmark in.   She gave me one of those strange looks that cats often do on the third Tuesday of each month.   All I know was she laid down her headset and looked me straight in the eyes.    I looked away because you have no idea how patronizing she can be and the last thing I wanted was a protracted battle.

The air was rife with tension as I eased out of my chair and looked for a way out.  I knew it’s was bad when she took off her reading glasses,  as if saying, “look what you made me do?”    I noticed out of the corner of my eye the mailman approaching our door.   And it was a good omen as he had her favorite Barry Manilow CD in his hands.   She had been waiting for quite some time for her CD and I knew she would be entertained for hours,  so evidently I got a reprieve.

At times I could mollify her by faking that I liked BM.   Of course I would never allude to Barry as BM in her presence and thank God I am not going to let her know that I wrote this book.   And neither should you.  I am going to have to insist on this for the sake of keeping the peace.

In Baby’s matriculations she had the opportunity to go to a concert at the Old Veteran’s Stadium and I had to convince her not to take her big hand with the #1 sign on it.   It seemed that anytime she wanted to go out,  she had to take that darn sign.     Anyhow, the other cats would tell me how she would gush over his songs and especially ‘I Write The Songs’.

Well one day I couldn’t take it any longer and I knew this kind of obsessive behavior was a precursor to drug problems and it seems she spent some time in rehab,  getting off of catnip.   Sometimes she would just drool and have that glassy look in her eyes.    And those eyes were dilated like 16oz Dixie Cups in a whirlwind and her purring almost sounded like a Gregorian chant.   Therefore it was imperative that the two didn’t mix.   It would have been a volatile combination and thankfully I diverted her attention as a roll of toilet paper rolled across the floor and it’s tail ran out just before it could get to the old antique fireplace.   The gods were evidently pleased as the sound of BM was drowned out by the nascient hum of Uriah Heep.

Uriah_Heep_Loud_Proud_and_Heavy_Album_Cover

Those were heady days and the ability to quickly adapt benefited me more than you can imagine.   I tried to keep the peace and atmosphere relatively blissful and without the cadence of stomping paws and her arching back swaying to the sound of his voice.   Too many days it was a delicate balance between happiness and over-indulgence and knowing how to temper the acrimonious vibes that seem to come with more and more regularity.

One can say that I was facilitating her obsessions to the point of decadent disregard or simply being obsequious and fake as all get out.   Adversity can be the mother of invention and at least her subscription to Mother Jones had run out.   I am amazed that she let that lapse but maybe our frequent blowups over their depictions of George 43 Bush had convinced her of the conflict that it caused.    She contended that he was actually an alien but I finally convinced her it was the water.  Don’t ask,  don’t spell.   That is what I always say and it has worked for me.

MS

These days as I sit in my Martha Stewart rocking chair and slobbering liberally,   I know she has my back.   For all her eccentricities she has a good side,  though god knows,   I couldn’t find them except when it came to catnaps and five toe discounts at our local PetSmart.    She always likes to cajole the pets behind the glass and laugh at their dirty litter and she looked down on them for the most part.   Til she met Jake from State Farm.

Anyway,  that is the story of BM,   headsets and the heady aroma of ginger wafting from her litter box.   Life was relatively manageable and even a rainy day had it’s silver lining.   Either that,  or the Mercury from the Tuna Fish that Charlie of Starkist forgot to take out.   I guess she took that to McDonalds,  ostensibly to poison Ronald McDonald or Country Joe McDonald.   I know you feel me.   I wish I did.   Or least understand the circumlocutions of the mad and delirious.

So now you know the rest of the story.   I just made that up,  Paul Harvey said something else.  wink.

pythag1

P.S.   Don’t try this with your cat.  I am an expert.

Sniping at Veterans. Media’s Left-wing agenda?

This has been talked about largely in military circles about collateral damage and the use of snipers.    But is this really about the victims of stray shots and the indiscriminate nature of explosives?

Inherent in war is the very real eventuality of innocent deaths.   Also inherent is the racist comments by veterans staring death in the eyes.    In a moment where it is kill or be killed.   Who here has been presented with the ultimatum of this kind?

So what this may boil down to is a snap judgement on the fly.  Whether to shoot or potentially  be shot.    You have teens and 20s giving themselves up for slaughter in many cases and when they do react, even in firefights,  there is the very real risk of hurting the innocent.

And remember,  fighting personnel are guns and boots on the ground or personnel in Base Towers directing air traffic in sorties, whose aim is incapacitating enemy strong holds.    The terrorists combatants become entrenched in the local communities as cover,  is mainly glossed over.   Risk losing someone because a dangerous criminal is cohabiting with innocent people or just walk away to fight another day?

I am a veteran but I was a Weather Forecaster and Observer.    The closest I got to a gun battle was my Atari or Nintendo.    In the long run my work could have implications on whether a battle is to ensue or sorties will fly.

Almost invariably fighting and support personnel do not want to die.   We do not want to lose our lives needlessly or take the life of an innocent.    To assume that is criminally-minded and speaks to me of hating the military because you do not like war.   Memo:   Veterans do not like war either.   Service members are the one’s with their butts on the line,  not the DOD and not the Pentagon.

During the Vietnam War Era,  there was a song called,  “Billy Don’t be a hero,  don’t be a fool with your life”.   When in the song,  his young girlfriend got the letter,  she just through it away.     Before anyone thinks they know what this is about,   join the military and go through the stress of service life.   Not just in war either but in the sense of a kid who fights loyally and from time to time is involved in something potentially wrong.

There are so many innocents in wars and this includes mainly young people with swords, knives and guns.   Talk to a parent who suffered this greatest tragedy or the politicians who engage our troops.  Talk to the Asian/Muslim who were in the way,  while cowards behead innocent lives for effect.

Muslims killingWHO IS RIGHT

WHO IS RIGHT tREX

Wooden Monuments.

 

 

 

babel_fullMountain

 

 

I am building a tower and it will be built upon by the hands of time.    It will be finessed and  the etchings carved into marbleized histories,  remnants left for consideration.   A bored scholar will scribe his articulations on paper and artists upon the heart  sometimes with words and other times shades of different colors.

H110--56722-Hieroglyphics

 

Our passions darken as our own freedom gives us license.   To establish who we are and why we should matter.

Quotation-George-Bernard-Shaw-living-life-death-long-satisfaction-reason-dreams-Meetville-Quotes-51930Daddy

 

The dimming lights provide sanctuary  for secrets held within,  while the new trees bear the same old fruit.   Replacing antiquity with green limbs envious.    Accounts will be altered,  values distorted like a warped window or a cracked mirror.    Only tiny shards indiscernible will collect dust.   The hammering thoughts of preservation are to no avail.  The ebb and flow of matter reconstitutes itself.    Aware of nothing but it’s new place,  neither the checkered foster homes of neglected souls or the random insects in their constabularies.    New kings and queens arise,  like heaving opportunists secure in that moment only.

antinter_mirror

Willingness gives way to wood,  brick and dust and from these new houses are made.   New conflicts arise and the sentient drama of conflicting self wills lay about and scattered by Zephyrs and Foehn.    Tears drip from random placements like lost toys of our youth,  neither material or a ether  just an unnoticed stroke of a pen and a purchase.

The final revolution spins to a stop and the cul-de-sac of expectancy gives way to a somber recollection.   Momentary gratitude and an appointment looming,  breaks the shadow of what once was and will never be again.

wheellpassing

 

Code Blue Goodbye – Building a Mystery

Spencer LakeDon

The careworn strings of the Golden Harp

pinged and softly uttered silent tunes.

While a man hacked in his own second hand smoke

his ruddy fingers stained with history

pushed aside his last beer.

 

The whir of the fans and the stale fog of ale

covered the bar in a misty layer of melancholic dew.

Their problems lurked like angry trolls at a feast

and the bridge that creaked and moaned with

never a  holiday, sighed at the slow approach

of another broken man.

bar

 

The man with his plans nears the crossing

and the clocks chime in a foreboding resonance.

wearily warning as the bell struck decisively.

His watch seemed to have shrunk and the once supple

arms now wilted and wrinkled,  protest implacably.

 

Assented to a journey to a place he did not want to go.

The cold Coliseum stood hauntingly bare.

 

In the eyes of someone who knew him less,

they may suppose a lot of things about him

and his well-traveled highway

but death is a period in a long paragraph

filled with memorials soon enough forgotten.

 

As he entered the bridge the troll grunted

and the vapors collected in the sky

and swallowed that passing man.

bridge

Pretty girl

girl2

Don